Commentfic: Slow Dancing 1/5
Prompt: Dean/Castiel - slow dancing. From here.
Words: 1050
Thanks for vichan for the beta.
This is scene 1 of a 5 part ficlet series.
"You're dreaming,"
"You're dreaming," a familiar voice says somewhere behind Castiel. He turns around and the darkness around him parts, melts away until the shape of Dean is sharp, seemingly lit by a spotlight from above. Or maybe there really is a spotlight; a suffusion of light chases away the oppressive darkness all around, revealing them to be in the middle of an empty stage. "Hey, Cas."
"Dean," Castiel says uncertainly. Dreams are the province of humans, of fragile minds with treasured hopes and hidden fears--not angels. "What--"
"Before you ask, I'm not the real Dean Winchester." Dean (or not-Dean) walks towards Castiel and it's all the same--from the slightly bowlegged gait to the put-on swagger to the cocky grin. It's all the same but it's not him. "I'm just a pinch hit you summoned since the real one couldn't make it."
"I don't understand what's going on," Castiel looks around him, unable to even begin to guess why they're standing on a stage in what appears to be a grand opera house. "Why are we here?"
Dean shrugs, and he's standing only a foot away from Castiel now. "Dream worlds, you know? They're wacky. Wouldn't have figured you for a Madame Butterfly kinda guy, but I guess it makes more sense than you at a Metallica concert."
Castiel stares uncomprehendingly at him; even in his dreams, Castiel only understands half of the words that come out of his mouth. "What are we supposed to do here?"
Dean ducks his head a little and gives Castiel a look that's almost coy. "I dunno, Cas. It's your dream. I'm just visiting."
"I don't know," Castiel echoes helplessly, because he doesn't. He has no treasured hopes or hidden fears, not like humans have.
"Liar," Dean says, and it's clear that he knows what Castiel was thinking. "If that were true, I wouldn't be here, now would I? You're be sitting in a dark room, waiting for dawn to come, and conscious if that were true. But it's not anymore."
Castiel stares down at his hands. Hands that used to belong to his vessel, hapless Jimmy Novak, who suffered for his faith and his family in a cosmic war so much bigger than either. Hands that now belong to Castiel, that are part of the flesh that binds him. "I don't know why you're here."
"Well, let's start with the list of things you care about," Dean says and he holds up his fingers to count. "One, finding God. I'm pretty sure I can't help you with that, unless you need my magic underwear that also burns hot when you're close to God." He winks. "Two, me. And look at that, I'm here."
"Of course I--" Castiel shakes his head, not sure what point Dean's trying to get at. "I still do not--"
Dean puts a hand on Castiel's wrist gently, and the sensation is strange, intimate. "It's okay, Cas. Everything's okay here." He tugs Castiel in the direction of a large, red and black sheeted bed that has appeared out of nowhere onstage, and Castiel halts.
"No," Castiel says, a surge of fear running through him, shooting from his heart to every limb like the rush of blood through his body's veins. "No, Dean, that's not--this is not what I--"
Dean stops pulling him, but doesn't let go of his wrist. Instead, he leans close to Castiel, studies his face like the surface of a painting, and brushes his jaw with the knuckles of his free hand with a touch so light that Castiel can barely feel it. To Castiel's chagrin, he shivers beneath the touch anyway. "No. You're not ready for that, are you?"
"I don't know what you're saying," Castiel says, but he thinks this Dean, this false Dean, might be able to put words to the nameless shocks of feeling that burst inside Castiel whenever he visits Dean, whenever he speaks to him.
Dean smiles, and the light behind his eyes is so warm and kind that Castiel allows himself to bask in it, allows himself to relax into it. "This can be whatever you want, Cas. All you have to do is ask."
"I don't know what I want." The words slip out of Castiel's mouth as a curl of misery winds its way up his stomach. Looking at Dean, now, he should know--he should, but he doesn't.
"Oh, Cas," Dean says, and his expression is fond, affectionate. A low hum of music starts playing all around him, a slow waltz, and Castiel glances around in confusion. Dean recaptures Castiel's attention with a firm thumb and forefinger on his chin. "Put your hands on my shoulders."
Castiel doesn't know whether he should resist or follow, but he can't think of a reason to resist--especially not with Dean's intense gaze boring into him--so he obeys. He gingerly rests his palms on Dean's shoulders, and he curls his fingers just slightly.
"Good, now, I'm going to put my hands on your waist." The trenchcoat and suit jacket Castiel was wearing are abruptly gone, leaving Dean's hands to rest comfortably on Castiel's waist through the thin cotton of his dress shirt, "And we're going to sway to the music."
"Why are we doing this?" Castiel asks, his lips suddenly brushing up against Dean's ear, because Dean has drawn him so close that they're nearly pressed flushed up against one another.
"It's called dancing," Dean says, and his voice is low and amused against Castiel's neck. "People do it sometimes."
"Why?" Castiel asks as Dean's thumb begins to move in low circles on his hip. It conjures up a host of feelings that Castiel has no words for.
"When you want to be close to someone," Dean murmurs, his breath warm against Castiel's cheek, "physical closeness can be an expression of emotional closeness."
"I don't--"
"You don't understand," Dean chuckles and takes a step back, hands falling away from Castiel's waist. After a moment, Castiel brings his hands back down to his sides as well, and the sudden lack of warmth--of closeness--is startlingly unpleasant. "I know."
Castiel opens his mouth, but finds himself without words.
"Don't worry, Cas," Dean says, and he puts a palm to Castiel's cheek once more. "You will soon. I promise."
Onto scene 2.
Words: 1050
Thanks for vichan for the beta.
This is scene 1 of a 5 part ficlet series.
"You're dreaming,"
"You're dreaming," a familiar voice says somewhere behind Castiel. He turns around and the darkness around him parts, melts away until the shape of Dean is sharp, seemingly lit by a spotlight from above. Or maybe there really is a spotlight; a suffusion of light chases away the oppressive darkness all around, revealing them to be in the middle of an empty stage. "Hey, Cas."
"Dean," Castiel says uncertainly. Dreams are the province of humans, of fragile minds with treasured hopes and hidden fears--not angels. "What--"
"Before you ask, I'm not the real Dean Winchester." Dean (or not-Dean) walks towards Castiel and it's all the same--from the slightly bowlegged gait to the put-on swagger to the cocky grin. It's all the same but it's not him. "I'm just a pinch hit you summoned since the real one couldn't make it."
"I don't understand what's going on," Castiel looks around him, unable to even begin to guess why they're standing on a stage in what appears to be a grand opera house. "Why are we here?"
Dean shrugs, and he's standing only a foot away from Castiel now. "Dream worlds, you know? They're wacky. Wouldn't have figured you for a Madame Butterfly kinda guy, but I guess it makes more sense than you at a Metallica concert."
Castiel stares uncomprehendingly at him; even in his dreams, Castiel only understands half of the words that come out of his mouth. "What are we supposed to do here?"
Dean ducks his head a little and gives Castiel a look that's almost coy. "I dunno, Cas. It's your dream. I'm just visiting."
"I don't know," Castiel echoes helplessly, because he doesn't. He has no treasured hopes or hidden fears, not like humans have.
"Liar," Dean says, and it's clear that he knows what Castiel was thinking. "If that were true, I wouldn't be here, now would I? You're be sitting in a dark room, waiting for dawn to come, and conscious if that were true. But it's not anymore."
Castiel stares down at his hands. Hands that used to belong to his vessel, hapless Jimmy Novak, who suffered for his faith and his family in a cosmic war so much bigger than either. Hands that now belong to Castiel, that are part of the flesh that binds him. "I don't know why you're here."
"Well, let's start with the list of things you care about," Dean says and he holds up his fingers to count. "One, finding God. I'm pretty sure I can't help you with that, unless you need my magic underwear that also burns hot when you're close to God." He winks. "Two, me. And look at that, I'm here."
"Of course I--" Castiel shakes his head, not sure what point Dean's trying to get at. "I still do not--"
Dean puts a hand on Castiel's wrist gently, and the sensation is strange, intimate. "It's okay, Cas. Everything's okay here." He tugs Castiel in the direction of a large, red and black sheeted bed that has appeared out of nowhere onstage, and Castiel halts.
"No," Castiel says, a surge of fear running through him, shooting from his heart to every limb like the rush of blood through his body's veins. "No, Dean, that's not--this is not what I--"
Dean stops pulling him, but doesn't let go of his wrist. Instead, he leans close to Castiel, studies his face like the surface of a painting, and brushes his jaw with the knuckles of his free hand with a touch so light that Castiel can barely feel it. To Castiel's chagrin, he shivers beneath the touch anyway. "No. You're not ready for that, are you?"
"I don't know what you're saying," Castiel says, but he thinks this Dean, this false Dean, might be able to put words to the nameless shocks of feeling that burst inside Castiel whenever he visits Dean, whenever he speaks to him.
Dean smiles, and the light behind his eyes is so warm and kind that Castiel allows himself to bask in it, allows himself to relax into it. "This can be whatever you want, Cas. All you have to do is ask."
"I don't know what I want." The words slip out of Castiel's mouth as a curl of misery winds its way up his stomach. Looking at Dean, now, he should know--he should, but he doesn't.
"Oh, Cas," Dean says, and his expression is fond, affectionate. A low hum of music starts playing all around him, a slow waltz, and Castiel glances around in confusion. Dean recaptures Castiel's attention with a firm thumb and forefinger on his chin. "Put your hands on my shoulders."
Castiel doesn't know whether he should resist or follow, but he can't think of a reason to resist--especially not with Dean's intense gaze boring into him--so he obeys. He gingerly rests his palms on Dean's shoulders, and he curls his fingers just slightly.
"Good, now, I'm going to put my hands on your waist." The trenchcoat and suit jacket Castiel was wearing are abruptly gone, leaving Dean's hands to rest comfortably on Castiel's waist through the thin cotton of his dress shirt, "And we're going to sway to the music."
"Why are we doing this?" Castiel asks, his lips suddenly brushing up against Dean's ear, because Dean has drawn him so close that they're nearly pressed flushed up against one another.
"It's called dancing," Dean says, and his voice is low and amused against Castiel's neck. "People do it sometimes."
"Why?" Castiel asks as Dean's thumb begins to move in low circles on his hip. It conjures up a host of feelings that Castiel has no words for.
"When you want to be close to someone," Dean murmurs, his breath warm against Castiel's cheek, "physical closeness can be an expression of emotional closeness."
"I don't--"
"You don't understand," Dean chuckles and takes a step back, hands falling away from Castiel's waist. After a moment, Castiel brings his hands back down to his sides as well, and the sudden lack of warmth--of closeness--is startlingly unpleasant. "I know."
Castiel opens his mouth, but finds himself without words.
"Don't worry, Cas," Dean says, and he puts a palm to Castiel's cheek once more. "You will soon. I promise."
Onto scene 2.