Help Me Survive
Characters: Dean (hellinmyeyes), Castiel
Setting: Dean's home
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Blood, mentions of torture, cussing.
The day had not been a good one, something announced by the way the door to the basement slams, shaking the entire house. There is a scowl on Dean's face as he enters the kitchen, blood still coating his hands, and an unexcusable few drops on his shirt. He starts to search the cabinets for alcohol, leaving blood smears on the handles.
Castiel had been in his room. Or, at least, the room that served as his. It has a bed, a dresser for clothes he sometimes manages to change into, a closet to hang his suits and his coat. In living on the planet so long, Castiel has tried his best to adapt. He still feels awkward, stilted, in his conversations with humans, but he doesn't go around in the same outfit all the time anymore. He has a few different coloured ties, in fact. Sometimes he dresses more casually, when he has no business to do, though the concept of 'casual' sometimes escapes him. At the moment, he's going through a phase of dress shirts and bluejeans. Barefoot around the house, converse sneakers outside (they're comfortable and functional).
When he hears Dean slam things around in the kitchen, he gives Rover a scratch behind the ears to sooth his whining, then goes to investigate. "Dean?" he asks, quietly, not wanting to cause an explosion.
Dean pauses, fairly surprised to hear Castiel's voice. He turns his head halfway towards him, frowning, a bottle of vodka in one hand. Normally the angel goes about his day quietly and stays out of the way; they pass each other by, as happens in a shared house, and it is not unknown for Dean to make comments to him, about his clothing choices in particular, but Castiel rarely approaches him.
Castiel glances from Dean to the blood on his hands to the vodka. "You've... had a bad day," he says, dryly, wondering what had happened. "I don't think alcohol is the best way to cope."
"What would you prefer I do, rent a chick flick?" He glares at the angel, slamming the bottle down on the table decisively and sitting down about as hard.
"You could talk. I would listen." He takes a seat across from him at the table, leaning forward on his arms, staring at him unblinkingly. "Something has happened. What is it?"
"I don't need a therapy session, either. I want a drink." He unscrews the cap and takes a swig right from the bottle.
"It won't help. All you'll get is a headache." Which Castiel could get rid of, of course. But there are no lessons learned if Castiel doesn't let Dean make mistakes. These days, drinking is the only thing Castiel feels he can protect Dean from.
"It'll help plenty." For starters, it will get his mind off things. He realizes the blood is causing his fingers to slip on the glass and frowns, setting it down and looking at his hand for a moment, before giving up all attempts at cleanliness and wiping it across his shirt.
He stands, getting a dishcloth from the sink and wetting it, wordlessly wiping blood from Dean's fingers and the bottle. "Take your shirt off." His usual monotone never wavers, and he holds his hand out for Dean's shirt.
"Leave it," Dean mutters, though he does not pull his hand away. Once his hands are clean he puts them on the table, trying to resist the urge to bury his face in them.
"Whose is it?" Castiel absently wipes down the cabinets, praying silently it wasn't another of his brothers. Zachariah, though not one of Castiel's favourites, had been a big loss. Hope grew dimmer every day.
"Demon. One of Lucifer's." Demons always seemed to be the ones that could get under Dean's skin, drive him crazy, angry. He clenches his fists, and it takes him a long moment to relax them.
"Ah." He's never quite sure what to say. On television, he sees couples asking each other how their day at work was. He gets faint flashes of Jimmy doing the same thing, with his wife. Asking his daughter about school. But that doesn't apply here. He leans forward against the counter with a sigh, then rinses the towel off and rings it out. "You should rest."
"Stop your fretting." He scowls a bit, picking up the bottle, though he more plays with it than drinks out of it. "I swear, someone would think you're my wife."
"I do seem to perform most of the housework, it's true," he answers wryly, turning to watch Dean with a faint look of concern. "It was a serious suggestion, however. Sleep would do you more good than the alcohol."
"I'm not tired," Dean responds, though it is an obvious lie and they both know it; he is continually exhausted, and never sleeps well unless he is with Sam. He does not want to go to his brother, not now when his control has obviously frayed, but the idea of his empty bed and the twisted dreams that come with it is not appealing, either.
"Dean..." Castiel says, quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Rest now. You're exhausted, I can feel it. Beyond that, I can see it in your eyes. In your shoulders. You need rest, or you'll drive yourself crazy.
"Staying up a bit later isn't going to kill me." He starts to pull away from the touch, then changes his mind, leaning back in the chair. "What have you been doing all day?"
"What I usually do. Took care of things." He smoothes Dean's hair back, wishing he could comfort him somehow. This boy that had been put in his care by God himself. "Prayed."
"To who?" Dean scoffs, though he does not brush off the hands. It feels good, to have someone touch him like that.
"To whoever's still listening." He keeps stroking his fingers through Dean's hair, hoping to calm him. "I could help you sleep."
"There isn't anybody, Cas. Just Sam. You know that." He shakes his head, frowning. "No, I don't want any of your mojo."
"That doesn't mean I give up hope." Castiel takes his hand away, perching on the edge of the table. "Do you still dream about it?"
"Dream about what?" he asks, glaring and pulling his bottle close, taking a sip.
"You know what I'm talking about." He glances at Dean, crossing his arms over his chest. "I hear you at night, Dean." The newly sentimental part of him -- the part that's grown, the longer he lives on Earth -- wishes to go comfort Dean. To pull him into his arms and kiss his furrowed brow. To make it all better. "I hear the way you scream."
He cannot deny it. He always has known that Castiel could hear him, but hoped that their unspoken rule of silence would hold. "Shut up," he snarls, to remind him of it, drowning himself in swig.
"No -- not this time, Dean. This is troublesome. I'm..." He ducks his head, his arms falling by his sides. "I'm worried about you."
"You've got nothing to worry about. I'm fine." He has to be fine, has to keep going. He cannot afford to break down.
Silently, Castiel pulls Dean's chair back and kneels in front of him, taking his hands and laying his head in his lap. "You need to let me help you, Dean."
It is extremely hard to get angry at someone in such a position as Castiel, head bowed on his knees. He pulls one hand free only to stroke it across the angel's hair, tentatively. "Cas...don't worry..." It hurt to see him like this, in ways Dean could not name.
"I have always worried for you." He's been on Earth too long, he's grown too attached to Dean. He knows that. He's grown... to love, Dean, in his own way. It's a deep, aching feeling that Castiel isn't sure he wants inside him. He knows it would cause him to Fall if there was a Heaven to fall from anymore. But when Dean's fingers touch his hair, he can feel the tension in his shoulders relax, and he closes his eyes with a sigh, leaning into the touch.
"Come on. Be an ass. It's what angels are good for." But his fingers slide into hair, stroking it back with something near fondness. He likes having the angel around, despite himself, even when they do not speak for weeks. It makes him feel less lonely when he is away from Sam, though the comfort is something entirely different than what he has with his brother.
"What good are angels anymore?" he murmurs, taking deep breaths as Dean strokes his hair. "I was supposed to be comforting you, Dean." Though Castiel, as stubborn as Dean is, in his own way, won't admit to wanting the comfort. Needing it, during times like these when he feels so useless.
"You're not a half-bad cook," Dean answers, an extremely weak attempt at a joke. He shrugs a shoulder, looking away though the stroking does not stop. "I don't need comforting. So deal."
"Then rest and I will make you dinner." He lets out a dry laugh, reaching up to take Dean's hand and twine their fingers together. Right now, though, he's not sure he wants to move.
"I'm not hungry." Though maybe it is just really that he does not want the angel to move, either. "How's Rover?" he asks, struggling to find some safe ground.
"It was sunny, we went to the park today. He's learning well. Even if he eats my shoes." He runs his thumb back and forth over the backs of Dean's knuckles, finding comfort in the touch.
Dean shrugs. "Not like you can't fix them." Though he makes a mental note to try and train the pup out of that. Perhaps if he brings him bone, instead.
"It's the principle of the thing, I believe the saying goes." He squeezes Dean's hand lightly, shifting to stand but not moving away just yet. He looks up at Dean, worrying at the circles under his eyes. "You should eat. I could make dinner."
"You don't need to eat, and I said I'm not hungry." His tone is a little irritated this time, but at least he does not reach for the vodka bottle again.
"I'm making you food and you're going to eat it," Castiel says firmly, looking Dean in the eye. "If you can't take care of yourself, I will."
"I can take care of myself just fine," Dean argues, closing off again. He stands in a huff, annoyed with the angel for being so worried and damn motherly and giving him those damn puppy eyes. "I'm going to go change my shirt." With that announcement, he heads for the kitchen door.
Castiel frowns and stands, pushing a hand through his hair with a sigh. Silently, he goes about making dinner for Dean -- something healthy, with vegetables. Samuel cares for Dean in a way no one else could, it's true. But he hasn't been human in almost two years, he forgets what it's like to function, day to day. Samuel goes for days without eating, longer without sleeping. So Castiel takes it upon himself to make sure that Dean gets what he needs.
Dean avoids the kitchen until the smells wafting into the rest of the house cause his stomach to growl, complaining about its recent neglect. He swallows, feeling like it might injure his pride, but makes his way back to the door to look in.
Castiel sets the plate at the kitchen table, along with a glass of water, making sure the appropriate silverwear is there. Then he leaves. He goes back to his own room and stretches out on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort through his thoughts, tangled as they've become.
That makes it easier for Dean, as Castiel probably guessed it would. Once he is sure the angel is gone he helps himself to the meal, even drinking a little of the water before getting himself a beer.
Setting: Dean's home
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Blood, mentions of torture, cussing.
The day had not been a good one, something announced by the way the door to the basement slams, shaking the entire house. There is a scowl on Dean's face as he enters the kitchen, blood still coating his hands, and an unexcusable few drops on his shirt. He starts to search the cabinets for alcohol, leaving blood smears on the handles.
Castiel had been in his room. Or, at least, the room that served as his. It has a bed, a dresser for clothes he sometimes manages to change into, a closet to hang his suits and his coat. In living on the planet so long, Castiel has tried his best to adapt. He still feels awkward, stilted, in his conversations with humans, but he doesn't go around in the same outfit all the time anymore. He has a few different coloured ties, in fact. Sometimes he dresses more casually, when he has no business to do, though the concept of 'casual' sometimes escapes him. At the moment, he's going through a phase of dress shirts and bluejeans. Barefoot around the house, converse sneakers outside (they're comfortable and functional).
When he hears Dean slam things around in the kitchen, he gives Rover a scratch behind the ears to sooth his whining, then goes to investigate. "Dean?" he asks, quietly, not wanting to cause an explosion.
Dean pauses, fairly surprised to hear Castiel's voice. He turns his head halfway towards him, frowning, a bottle of vodka in one hand. Normally the angel goes about his day quietly and stays out of the way; they pass each other by, as happens in a shared house, and it is not unknown for Dean to make comments to him, about his clothing choices in particular, but Castiel rarely approaches him.
Castiel glances from Dean to the blood on his hands to the vodka. "You've... had a bad day," he says, dryly, wondering what had happened. "I don't think alcohol is the best way to cope."
"What would you prefer I do, rent a chick flick?" He glares at the angel, slamming the bottle down on the table decisively and sitting down about as hard.
"You could talk. I would listen." He takes a seat across from him at the table, leaning forward on his arms, staring at him unblinkingly. "Something has happened. What is it?"
"I don't need a therapy session, either. I want a drink." He unscrews the cap and takes a swig right from the bottle.
"It won't help. All you'll get is a headache." Which Castiel could get rid of, of course. But there are no lessons learned if Castiel doesn't let Dean make mistakes. These days, drinking is the only thing Castiel feels he can protect Dean from.
"It'll help plenty." For starters, it will get his mind off things. He realizes the blood is causing his fingers to slip on the glass and frowns, setting it down and looking at his hand for a moment, before giving up all attempts at cleanliness and wiping it across his shirt.
He stands, getting a dishcloth from the sink and wetting it, wordlessly wiping blood from Dean's fingers and the bottle. "Take your shirt off." His usual monotone never wavers, and he holds his hand out for Dean's shirt.
"Leave it," Dean mutters, though he does not pull his hand away. Once his hands are clean he puts them on the table, trying to resist the urge to bury his face in them.
"Whose is it?" Castiel absently wipes down the cabinets, praying silently it wasn't another of his brothers. Zachariah, though not one of Castiel's favourites, had been a big loss. Hope grew dimmer every day.
"Demon. One of Lucifer's." Demons always seemed to be the ones that could get under Dean's skin, drive him crazy, angry. He clenches his fists, and it takes him a long moment to relax them.
"Ah." He's never quite sure what to say. On television, he sees couples asking each other how their day at work was. He gets faint flashes of Jimmy doing the same thing, with his wife. Asking his daughter about school. But that doesn't apply here. He leans forward against the counter with a sigh, then rinses the towel off and rings it out. "You should rest."
"Stop your fretting." He scowls a bit, picking up the bottle, though he more plays with it than drinks out of it. "I swear, someone would think you're my wife."
"I do seem to perform most of the housework, it's true," he answers wryly, turning to watch Dean with a faint look of concern. "It was a serious suggestion, however. Sleep would do you more good than the alcohol."
"I'm not tired," Dean responds, though it is an obvious lie and they both know it; he is continually exhausted, and never sleeps well unless he is with Sam. He does not want to go to his brother, not now when his control has obviously frayed, but the idea of his empty bed and the twisted dreams that come with it is not appealing, either.
"Dean..." Castiel says, quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Rest now. You're exhausted, I can feel it. Beyond that, I can see it in your eyes. In your shoulders. You need rest, or you'll drive yourself crazy.
"Staying up a bit later isn't going to kill me." He starts to pull away from the touch, then changes his mind, leaning back in the chair. "What have you been doing all day?"
"What I usually do. Took care of things." He smoothes Dean's hair back, wishing he could comfort him somehow. This boy that had been put in his care by God himself. "Prayed."
"To who?" Dean scoffs, though he does not brush off the hands. It feels good, to have someone touch him like that.
"To whoever's still listening." He keeps stroking his fingers through Dean's hair, hoping to calm him. "I could help you sleep."
"There isn't anybody, Cas. Just Sam. You know that." He shakes his head, frowning. "No, I don't want any of your mojo."
"That doesn't mean I give up hope." Castiel takes his hand away, perching on the edge of the table. "Do you still dream about it?"
"Dream about what?" he asks, glaring and pulling his bottle close, taking a sip.
"You know what I'm talking about." He glances at Dean, crossing his arms over his chest. "I hear you at night, Dean." The newly sentimental part of him -- the part that's grown, the longer he lives on Earth -- wishes to go comfort Dean. To pull him into his arms and kiss his furrowed brow. To make it all better. "I hear the way you scream."
He cannot deny it. He always has known that Castiel could hear him, but hoped that their unspoken rule of silence would hold. "Shut up," he snarls, to remind him of it, drowning himself in swig.
"No -- not this time, Dean. This is troublesome. I'm..." He ducks his head, his arms falling by his sides. "I'm worried about you."
"You've got nothing to worry about. I'm fine." He has to be fine, has to keep going. He cannot afford to break down.
Silently, Castiel pulls Dean's chair back and kneels in front of him, taking his hands and laying his head in his lap. "You need to let me help you, Dean."
It is extremely hard to get angry at someone in such a position as Castiel, head bowed on his knees. He pulls one hand free only to stroke it across the angel's hair, tentatively. "Cas...don't worry..." It hurt to see him like this, in ways Dean could not name.
"I have always worried for you." He's been on Earth too long, he's grown too attached to Dean. He knows that. He's grown... to love, Dean, in his own way. It's a deep, aching feeling that Castiel isn't sure he wants inside him. He knows it would cause him to Fall if there was a Heaven to fall from anymore. But when Dean's fingers touch his hair, he can feel the tension in his shoulders relax, and he closes his eyes with a sigh, leaning into the touch.
"Come on. Be an ass. It's what angels are good for." But his fingers slide into hair, stroking it back with something near fondness. He likes having the angel around, despite himself, even when they do not speak for weeks. It makes him feel less lonely when he is away from Sam, though the comfort is something entirely different than what he has with his brother.
"What good are angels anymore?" he murmurs, taking deep breaths as Dean strokes his hair. "I was supposed to be comforting you, Dean." Though Castiel, as stubborn as Dean is, in his own way, won't admit to wanting the comfort. Needing it, during times like these when he feels so useless.
"You're not a half-bad cook," Dean answers, an extremely weak attempt at a joke. He shrugs a shoulder, looking away though the stroking does not stop. "I don't need comforting. So deal."
"Then rest and I will make you dinner." He lets out a dry laugh, reaching up to take Dean's hand and twine their fingers together. Right now, though, he's not sure he wants to move.
"I'm not hungry." Though maybe it is just really that he does not want the angel to move, either. "How's Rover?" he asks, struggling to find some safe ground.
"It was sunny, we went to the park today. He's learning well. Even if he eats my shoes." He runs his thumb back and forth over the backs of Dean's knuckles, finding comfort in the touch.
Dean shrugs. "Not like you can't fix them." Though he makes a mental note to try and train the pup out of that. Perhaps if he brings him bone, instead.
"It's the principle of the thing, I believe the saying goes." He squeezes Dean's hand lightly, shifting to stand but not moving away just yet. He looks up at Dean, worrying at the circles under his eyes. "You should eat. I could make dinner."
"You don't need to eat, and I said I'm not hungry." His tone is a little irritated this time, but at least he does not reach for the vodka bottle again.
"I'm making you food and you're going to eat it," Castiel says firmly, looking Dean in the eye. "If you can't take care of yourself, I will."
"I can take care of myself just fine," Dean argues, closing off again. He stands in a huff, annoyed with the angel for being so worried and damn motherly and giving him those damn puppy eyes. "I'm going to go change my shirt." With that announcement, he heads for the kitchen door.
Castiel frowns and stands, pushing a hand through his hair with a sigh. Silently, he goes about making dinner for Dean -- something healthy, with vegetables. Samuel cares for Dean in a way no one else could, it's true. But he hasn't been human in almost two years, he forgets what it's like to function, day to day. Samuel goes for days without eating, longer without sleeping. So Castiel takes it upon himself to make sure that Dean gets what he needs.
Dean avoids the kitchen until the smells wafting into the rest of the house cause his stomach to growl, complaining about its recent neglect. He swallows, feeling like it might injure his pride, but makes his way back to the door to look in.
Castiel sets the plate at the kitchen table, along with a glass of water, making sure the appropriate silverwear is there. Then he leaves. He goes back to his own room and stretches out on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort through his thoughts, tangled as they've become.
That makes it easier for Dean, as Castiel probably guessed it would. Once he is sure the angel is gone he helps himself to the meal, even drinking a little of the water before getting himself a beer.