Fic: Dream
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: FRC, for mild language
Characters: Dean, Castiel
Setting: Season four; blanket spoilers
Summary: Castiel attempts to discuss strategy while Dean is tired.
13. Dream
There are a lot of words, and sometimes it's hard to get Castiel to slow down. The guy chronically forgets that Dean doesn't actually know the sounds that go with the words, yet, and just rattles on and on and on. Which is… not really his fault, because what Castiel does very, very, very well is look Dean directly in the face, so it's not like Dean can't read what he's saying. He just forgets to look, sometimes.
The sound of everything is so distracting.
It's a wonder that other people manage to get anything done at all, what with all the hearing they must be doing all the time. Castiel is probably saying a lot of ugly words, like "demon" and "Apocalypse" and "God has a job for you, so suck it up, you whiny little bitch." But they all sound so amazing, the way the syllables play catch with each other, sometimes coming in great big runs and other times with dramatic pauses in between.
There's a pulse to the words, like the way that the Impala turns underneath his boots when they're going down the highway fast and free, tha-thum tha-thum tha-thum. Except that Castiel's words are sharper on his bones than the Impala's idle, and he's got all these different sounds and Dean finally maybe understands why people make the ridiculous expressions they make when they talk, because the 'oh' letter is an open and round kind of sound.
"Dean."
And that--that might be Dean's favorite word, ever. Dean. The way it sounds. The way it belongs to him, like he's got some kind of special license on that one syllable. The way his mother must have said it a thousand times just like this, and he can finally hear it. Dean.
"Dean. Are you listening to me?"
It would be factually true to say yes, emphatically yes, he is listening. However, it wouldn't be true to the intent of Castiel's question, so he shakes his head and taps his fingers together, No--sorry. Can you repeat that?
"You are distractable this evening." Castiel leans a little bit toward Dean, all earnestness with the pull of concern at the corners of his mouth. He studies Dean's face for an uncomfortably long moment, then stands. "You haven't been sleeping well. Rest. You will sleep soundly tonight."
No, wait, Dean signs. The words trip off his fingers, already reaching to stop him. Wait. You don't have to-- Just-- Just talk to me.
Again Castiel tilts his head, this time to the side in confusion. He asks, "What would you like me to say?"
Sometimes, when he's lying in bed at night, he tries to imagine what Sam sounds like. Or his dad. His dad always had crisp words, both with his mouth and his hands. Sam used to say Dad 'barked' his orders. He wonders, too, what barking sounds like, and the engine of the Impala, and music. What does Metallica sound like over the heartbeat-rhythm of the bass?
He tries to imagine it, and all he hears is Castiel. The words go careening through his head like cars skidding on the ice, crashing and reverberating, piling up like a god damned gorgeous mess.
Dean answers, Say anything.
Rating: FRC, for mild language
Characters: Dean, Castiel
Setting: Season four; blanket spoilers
Summary: Castiel attempts to discuss strategy while Dean is tired.
13. Dream
There are a lot of words, and sometimes it's hard to get Castiel to slow down. The guy chronically forgets that Dean doesn't actually know the sounds that go with the words, yet, and just rattles on and on and on. Which is… not really his fault, because what Castiel does very, very, very well is look Dean directly in the face, so it's not like Dean can't read what he's saying. He just forgets to look, sometimes.
The sound of everything is so distracting.
It's a wonder that other people manage to get anything done at all, what with all the hearing they must be doing all the time. Castiel is probably saying a lot of ugly words, like "demon" and "Apocalypse" and "God has a job for you, so suck it up, you whiny little bitch." But they all sound so amazing, the way the syllables play catch with each other, sometimes coming in great big runs and other times with dramatic pauses in between.
There's a pulse to the words, like the way that the Impala turns underneath his boots when they're going down the highway fast and free, tha-thum tha-thum tha-thum. Except that Castiel's words are sharper on his bones than the Impala's idle, and he's got all these different sounds and Dean finally maybe understands why people make the ridiculous expressions they make when they talk, because the 'oh' letter is an open and round kind of sound.
"Dean."
And that--that might be Dean's favorite word, ever. Dean. The way it sounds. The way it belongs to him, like he's got some kind of special license on that one syllable. The way his mother must have said it a thousand times just like this, and he can finally hear it. Dean.
"Dean. Are you listening to me?"
It would be factually true to say yes, emphatically yes, he is listening. However, it wouldn't be true to the intent of Castiel's question, so he shakes his head and taps his fingers together, No--sorry. Can you repeat that?
"You are distractable this evening." Castiel leans a little bit toward Dean, all earnestness with the pull of concern at the corners of his mouth. He studies Dean's face for an uncomfortably long moment, then stands. "You haven't been sleeping well. Rest. You will sleep soundly tonight."
No, wait, Dean signs. The words trip off his fingers, already reaching to stop him. Wait. You don't have to-- Just-- Just talk to me.
Again Castiel tilts his head, this time to the side in confusion. He asks, "What would you like me to say?"
Sometimes, when he's lying in bed at night, he tries to imagine what Sam sounds like. Or his dad. His dad always had crisp words, both with his mouth and his hands. Sam used to say Dad 'barked' his orders. He wonders, too, what barking sounds like, and the engine of the Impala, and music. What does Metallica sound like over the heartbeat-rhythm of the bass?
He tries to imagine it, and all he hears is Castiel. The words go careening through his head like cars skidding on the ice, crashing and reverberating, piling up like a god damned gorgeous mess.
Dean answers, Say anything.