SPN Fic: Came in from the wilderness
Came in from the wilderness
Dean, Sam, Castiel | PG | 900 words | coda for 7.17
a/n: title from Bob Dylan. Thank you to zatnikatel for looking this over.
Summary: Castiel finds a place Lucifer can't follow.
It’s fourteen days since they left Castiel in the asylum. Dean watches Sam closely, does what he can to make sure they stop a lot for sleep, watches as the shadows under Sam’s eyes lessen. He cuts Sam’s hair for him while Sam squirms and protests the same as he did when he was twelve. There are times when Dean thinks Sam is going to be okay, it’s over, but Sam’s a little too quiet, still doing a little too much staring off into the middle distance for no good reason.
It’ll never be over.
Dean keeps catching Sam shooting him these looks, these little status checks, while Dean tries not to think about how much he craves the burn of whiskey down his throat and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Sam hovering. The nightmares that were bad after Castiel walked into that lake, that grew worse after Bobby was shot, ramped up into more vivid flashes of color and array of images. It’s Cas walking into the lake over and over, Bobby lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machines in a spotlit room with a black void around it, and Sam on the asylum room bed as his body crumbles like ash, a reflection of his crumbling mind.
It’s always a relief to wake up and see Sam whole. Even if Bobby’s still gone. Even if Castiel’s stuck with the devil in his head.
The dream tonight is more pleasant, something he’s dreamt before. He’s sitting in a chair on the dock by a lake, the surface of the water rippling under soft wind, the morning sunlight making it sparkle. The fishing pole in his hand pulls slightly as something teases at it.
“Hello, Dean.”
There’s Cas standing next to Dean’s chair, wearing the hospital-issue scrub pants and t-shirt.
This is a dream, so the fact that Cas can’t be there, that Cas is at that moment enduring Lucifer badgering him in his head while he waits in an asylum, seems moot.
Better not to think about where Cas really is right then.
“Hey,” Dean says, his throat tight. He swallows and then turns his attention back to his fishing line, the thin transparency that slices the air.
When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean glances over at him. He hasn’t moved, his shoulders tense, back straight, hands at his sides. It’s as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself, how to stand, where to be.
This is a dream, so Dean plays along. “Maybe you should relax,” he says. “Grab a chair. Sit down. Sun yourself, you look a little pale.”
Just like that, another canvas chair appears beside Dean’s.
“I wasn’t sure…” Cas begins, making no move towards the chair. He frowns at the water as if it’s confusing in the way some of Dean’s music is or some of the things Dean says are. But it’s just water. “I wasn’t sure if I should be here, if it was okay to be here-“ He draws in a shaky breath.
“Cas, what’re you talking about?” Dean lowers the fishing rod and shifts in his chair to see Castiel better.
“I couldn’t be here unless you were willing. But after everything, I want to be sure-“
“I don’t understand. What do you mean here?” The hairs on Dean’s arms go up, breeze sweeping over him. The dance of sunlight on the water continues as if nothing’s up, nothing has ever happened, anywhere.
“This is the only place where I can’t see or hear him any more,” Castiel says.
“Lucifer?”
“My consciousness, some portion of my grace, is a visitor inside your consciousness. The part of me holding the remains of Sam’s wall and Lucifer’s hallucinations is elsewhere. I can’t sever myself from myself. But if I’m here, I can shut it off for a little while. Mute it, as it were, the way you might turn down the volume on a radio. Only for a short while--I can’t stay too long.”
Dean’s grip tightens around the handle of the fishing rod. “So you’re actually here, in my head? This isn’t a dream?”
“It’s partly your dream.”
“Oh.” There’s a silence. Dean has a feeling like something in the air might pop if he breathes too hard. “What did you mean, you wanted to be sure? Sure of what?”
“That it’s…that it’s okay with you that I’m here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Cas. It’s okay.”
Cas keeps standing there at the edge of the dock, the wind ruffling the hem of his t-shirt, the loose folds of his pants, and his hair. The tension has gone out of his stance, yet he still doesn’t move.
“There’s another seat here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Dean says, and gestures.
Castiel sits, slowly, keeping his back straight.
It’s Dean’s dream, in part at least, so in the next blink Castiel holds a fishing rod in his hands as well. The angel stares down at it, startled. A cooler appears on the dock between them, the lid open, containing bottles of good beer nestled in ice.
“Have some beer, I’ll teach you how to fish.”
Reaching down, Castiel takes one of the beers, then finally leans all the way back into the chair. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, and Dean knows it’s not for the beer or the rod.
“You uh…you can come back when you need to.”
Castiel turns to face Dean across the cooler, beer bottle in his hand. “All right.”
They sit quietly together, listening to the water lap against the dock.
~end
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/419266.html. Feel free to comment at either post.
Dean, Sam, Castiel | PG | 900 words | coda for 7.17
a/n: title from Bob Dylan. Thank you to zatnikatel for looking this over.
Summary: Castiel finds a place Lucifer can't follow.
It’s fourteen days since they left Castiel in the asylum. Dean watches Sam closely, does what he can to make sure they stop a lot for sleep, watches as the shadows under Sam’s eyes lessen. He cuts Sam’s hair for him while Sam squirms and protests the same as he did when he was twelve. There are times when Dean thinks Sam is going to be okay, it’s over, but Sam’s a little too quiet, still doing a little too much staring off into the middle distance for no good reason.
It’ll never be over.
Dean keeps catching Sam shooting him these looks, these little status checks, while Dean tries not to think about how much he craves the burn of whiskey down his throat and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Sam hovering. The nightmares that were bad after Castiel walked into that lake, that grew worse after Bobby was shot, ramped up into more vivid flashes of color and array of images. It’s Cas walking into the lake over and over, Bobby lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machines in a spotlit room with a black void around it, and Sam on the asylum room bed as his body crumbles like ash, a reflection of his crumbling mind.
It’s always a relief to wake up and see Sam whole. Even if Bobby’s still gone. Even if Castiel’s stuck with the devil in his head.
The dream tonight is more pleasant, something he’s dreamt before. He’s sitting in a chair on the dock by a lake, the surface of the water rippling under soft wind, the morning sunlight making it sparkle. The fishing pole in his hand pulls slightly as something teases at it.
“Hello, Dean.”
There’s Cas standing next to Dean’s chair, wearing the hospital-issue scrub pants and t-shirt.
This is a dream, so the fact that Cas can’t be there, that Cas is at that moment enduring Lucifer badgering him in his head while he waits in an asylum, seems moot.
Better not to think about where Cas really is right then.
“Hey,” Dean says, his throat tight. He swallows and then turns his attention back to his fishing line, the thin transparency that slices the air.
When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean glances over at him. He hasn’t moved, his shoulders tense, back straight, hands at his sides. It’s as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself, how to stand, where to be.
This is a dream, so Dean plays along. “Maybe you should relax,” he says. “Grab a chair. Sit down. Sun yourself, you look a little pale.”
Just like that, another canvas chair appears beside Dean’s.
“I wasn’t sure…” Cas begins, making no move towards the chair. He frowns at the water as if it’s confusing in the way some of Dean’s music is or some of the things Dean says are. But it’s just water. “I wasn’t sure if I should be here, if it was okay to be here-“ He draws in a shaky breath.
“Cas, what’re you talking about?” Dean lowers the fishing rod and shifts in his chair to see Castiel better.
“I couldn’t be here unless you were willing. But after everything, I want to be sure-“
“I don’t understand. What do you mean here?” The hairs on Dean’s arms go up, breeze sweeping over him. The dance of sunlight on the water continues as if nothing’s up, nothing has ever happened, anywhere.
“This is the only place where I can’t see or hear him any more,” Castiel says.
“Lucifer?”
“My consciousness, some portion of my grace, is a visitor inside your consciousness. The part of me holding the remains of Sam’s wall and Lucifer’s hallucinations is elsewhere. I can’t sever myself from myself. But if I’m here, I can shut it off for a little while. Mute it, as it were, the way you might turn down the volume on a radio. Only for a short while--I can’t stay too long.”
Dean’s grip tightens around the handle of the fishing rod. “So you’re actually here, in my head? This isn’t a dream?”
“It’s partly your dream.”
“Oh.” There’s a silence. Dean has a feeling like something in the air might pop if he breathes too hard. “What did you mean, you wanted to be sure? Sure of what?”
“That it’s…that it’s okay with you that I’m here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Cas. It’s okay.”
Cas keeps standing there at the edge of the dock, the wind ruffling the hem of his t-shirt, the loose folds of his pants, and his hair. The tension has gone out of his stance, yet he still doesn’t move.
“There’s another seat here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Dean says, and gestures.
Castiel sits, slowly, keeping his back straight.
It’s Dean’s dream, in part at least, so in the next blink Castiel holds a fishing rod in his hands as well. The angel stares down at it, startled. A cooler appears on the dock between them, the lid open, containing bottles of good beer nestled in ice.
“Have some beer, I’ll teach you how to fish.”
Reaching down, Castiel takes one of the beers, then finally leans all the way back into the chair. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, and Dean knows it’s not for the beer or the rod.
“You uh…you can come back when you need to.”
Castiel turns to face Dean across the cooler, beer bottle in his hand. “All right.”
They sit quietly together, listening to the water lap against the dock.
~end
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/419266.html. Feel free to comment at either post.