Fic: Yearn
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: FRT, for language
Characters: Dean, Cas
Setting: 5.04, The End; 5.21, Two Minutes to Midnight
Summary: Cas is becoming more human every day.
25. Yearn
Cas is the only person who actually calls Dean, so he's pretty confident that it's Cas when the phone vibrates past the obligatory buzz for text notification. It's a relief; they haven't seen Cas since that fancy work carving the banishing sigil into his stomach. Dean flips the phone open even though he doesn't recognize the number on the caller ID and makes an 'mmm' noise of acknowledgement.
Nothing comes across.
Dean gives it a beat, then snaps his fingers near the receiver a few times. Maybe Cas didn't hear him the first time. Dean can't really judge how loud or quiet he's being with these things. But still there's nothing coming through the phone--at least nothing Dean can hear.
He passes it off to Sam with a shrug. It's not unprecedented for random calls to come through. For a while when they were on the run from Henrickson, Dean was using a prepaid phone that was one digit off some Toys-R-Us customer service line in Idaho. Misdials happened three or four times a week until they finally ditched it. Of course, back then he didn't have a reason to ever answer phone calls.
Didn't have anyone to worry about, either.
"Hello?" Sam asks. His forehead folds in confusion. "Wait, Cas?"
Well, fuck. Of course the bastard's fine. All that worrying for nothing.
Bobby tips his head toward the kitchen and wheels out of the room. There might be sandwiches in the future. Dean is absolutely in favor of sandwiches. Hopefully Cas will drop in without portents of certain doom, and they can enjoy a nice lunch for once. Actually, maybe he can ask Cas to grab some beer on his way in.
Sam is clearly waiting for Cas to finish speaking so he can get a word in. Dean unfolds his arms to say, Ask him where the hell he is. And tell him to bring beer.
Sam rolls his eyes and holds a hand out telling him to wait his turn. "No, man, Dean's here. He's fine. We think maybe Michael took Adam instead, we're not really sure, but Dean's still here and all himself. He's--"
There's another abrupt pause as Cas says something. Sam hands the phone over.
"He wants to talk to you."
Dean accepts it and holds it up to his ear, clearly his throat firmly this time to indicate that he's there. Cas doesn't say anything, though, just waits and maybe listens to Dean's breathing like a creeper or something, which Dean doesn't know how to deal with because he can't say anything reassuring or whatever to fill the space. Not over the phone, anyway. He could text, but he'd have to hang up.
He waits for longer than he should, probably, which only proves how Sam and Cas and Bobby are all conspiring to turn him into a giant sap. He hopes Cas will man up and actually say something, because he kinda missed the guy and was maybe a little bit worried when he didn't come around and stopped taking calls. But he doesn't, so Dean hands the phone back to Sam with another shrug. He isn't saying anything.
One of Sam's eyebrows twitch. His face works like it's trying to fall back into that big, squishy, sympathetic expression he used to use on victims' families. He takes the phone from Dean and signs--doesn't say--that he'll take the phone call outside on the porch.
Dean doesn't know what to make of that. He's deaf; it's not like he can eavesdrop on their conversation or anything. But whatever. He stomps into the kitchen and Bobby isn't even making sandwiches, just sitting there with a cup of coffee in his lap flipping through a magazine. So Dean pulls out the sandwich fixings and a couple of plates and gets started, 'cause lunch sure as hell doesn't make itself.
It gets under his skin, though, the way Sam paces the length of the porch while he's talking to Cas, and occasionally shoots glances in at Dean.
The future Zachariah showed him was fucked up.
Dean did read Slaughterhouse-Five. He knows time travel doesn't work that way. Hell, he's lived the whole self-fulfilling prophecy thing twice now, with his parents, and wasn't that just a mess from start to finish? So he knows it wasn't a real future, and Zachariah made it up to prove a point.
It was still fucked up, though. Croats taking over the cities, Lucifer wearing Sam's skin, the way he sent all those people to their deaths as a diversion. And around all of it, the way Cas looked in his loose-fitting clothes and his sunken, dilated eyes, fallen and hollowed out because of Dean. Because of what he did and asked Cas to do.
Dean still thinks sometimes about the way Cas's fingers had moved: long and fluid and beautiful when he spelled out 'insouciant,' and how it was the most terrible thing Dean had ever seen.
He staggers into the bathroom and locks the door behind himself, turns the shower tap on full bore. He stands there, in the middle of the bathroom, feeling like a bundle of nerves all wound up, wanting to touch everything--pick it up, move it, clean it, fix it, break it--all at once, wanting to do something, and not doing anything only because he doesn't know where to start.
You fucker, he says, to God, or maybe just to himself. You fucker, you selfish fucking bastard.
He refrains from punching the wall, but only because Sam would hear it and come to check up on him, like he always does. And he doesn't want to talk to Sam.
He's got a list of demands, in his head, for when he says yes to Michael. Keep everyone safe. Make sure they go someplace better when it's over. Give Cas his wings back and let him go back home. It doesn't mean anything, now, because Michael's taken Adam as a vessel and he doesn't need Dean anymore. But he would if he could; he'd go back to the green room, and Sam's sympathetic eyes be damned, he'd say yes to Michael right there.
Yes, you bastards, take me.
He'd tell Michael to drag Cas back to Heaven, kicking and screaming if he had to. Just make sure he gets home. It's just bad luck that he had to drag Dean out of the Pit, just chance. Dean is a bad influence. He whittled and carved away at Castiel's resolve for months and months, and how was Cas supposed to know that he'd raised a dishonest, manipulative bastard for a Righteous Man? He can't be blamed for that; it wasn't his fault. Cas doesn't deserve any of this.
A sheet of paper slides underneath the door, in a neat press of words that isn't Bobby's scratch or Sam's college scrawl. Dean doesn't bend to pick it up, he can read it from here:
Dean.
He splashes his face with cool water from the sink, to collect himself. Then he turns off the shower and opens the door.
Cas is standing there. Rumpled, worn. Still wearing the trench coat, even though it has wrinkles and stains on it, now, and desperately needs a wash. He looks sad.
He raises his hands to sign something, Dean, I'm-- but Dean stops him. He grabs Castiel's wrists and holds on, bottling up all those words because he can't bear to read them off Cas's fingers or on his lips, not when he knows what it should sound like.
Don't, Dean mouths, Please.
Castiel's expression is sorrowful. He's always been too open, even in his grief, too easy to read. Dean doesn't want to see him be sorry about this, can't bear to see Cas be apologetic when it's all Dean's fault to begin with. It's too damn much, after everything.
C'mon, he says, letting go of Castiel's hands and pulling him toward the stairs. I've gotta readjust the brake alignment, she's pulling a little to the left. Come have a beer with me.
They watch Star Wars because it's something they can do without talking to each other. But after the movie, Dean turns off the tv and the living room is dark, and it's just them sitting next to each other on the couch with the light from Bobby's porchlight bleeding in through the curtains.
Dean takes a shaky breath and raises his hands. In the dark Castiel might not even be able to see. But he does, because it's Cas's hands--warm, uncalloused--that grab Dean's and stop him from saying anything this time.
"I'm glad you're still here," Cas says.
His movements are graceful. His hands form the words with natural confidence: not too fast, but fast enough, and more defined in the dark where it's harder for Dean to catch all the movements. Castiel watches Dean and signs to him as though this were just like any other conversation they've ever had, as if this weren't new and terrifying.
The Dean of 2014, that fake future that Zachariah dreamt up, said that he'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat if given the chance. The Cas of 2014 got high and had sex and followed Dean around obeying all his orders and marched out to his own death.
The Cas of here and now watches Dean with an intense expression, and, when he doesn't say anything, repeats, "I'm glad you're still you."
Dean isn't. He isn't.
Rating: FRT, for language
Characters: Dean, Cas
Setting: 5.04, The End; 5.21, Two Minutes to Midnight
Summary: Cas is becoming more human every day.
25. Yearn
Cas is the only person who actually calls Dean, so he's pretty confident that it's Cas when the phone vibrates past the obligatory buzz for text notification. It's a relief; they haven't seen Cas since that fancy work carving the banishing sigil into his stomach. Dean flips the phone open even though he doesn't recognize the number on the caller ID and makes an 'mmm' noise of acknowledgement.
Nothing comes across.
Dean gives it a beat, then snaps his fingers near the receiver a few times. Maybe Cas didn't hear him the first time. Dean can't really judge how loud or quiet he's being with these things. But still there's nothing coming through the phone--at least nothing Dean can hear.
He passes it off to Sam with a shrug. It's not unprecedented for random calls to come through. For a while when they were on the run from Henrickson, Dean was using a prepaid phone that was one digit off some Toys-R-Us customer service line in Idaho. Misdials happened three or four times a week until they finally ditched it. Of course, back then he didn't have a reason to ever answer phone calls.
Didn't have anyone to worry about, either.
"Hello?" Sam asks. His forehead folds in confusion. "Wait, Cas?"
Well, fuck. Of course the bastard's fine. All that worrying for nothing.
Bobby tips his head toward the kitchen and wheels out of the room. There might be sandwiches in the future. Dean is absolutely in favor of sandwiches. Hopefully Cas will drop in without portents of certain doom, and they can enjoy a nice lunch for once. Actually, maybe he can ask Cas to grab some beer on his way in.
Sam is clearly waiting for Cas to finish speaking so he can get a word in. Dean unfolds his arms to say, Ask him where the hell he is. And tell him to bring beer.
Sam rolls his eyes and holds a hand out telling him to wait his turn. "No, man, Dean's here. He's fine. We think maybe Michael took Adam instead, we're not really sure, but Dean's still here and all himself. He's--"
There's another abrupt pause as Cas says something. Sam hands the phone over.
"He wants to talk to you."
Dean accepts it and holds it up to his ear, clearly his throat firmly this time to indicate that he's there. Cas doesn't say anything, though, just waits and maybe listens to Dean's breathing like a creeper or something, which Dean doesn't know how to deal with because he can't say anything reassuring or whatever to fill the space. Not over the phone, anyway. He could text, but he'd have to hang up.
He waits for longer than he should, probably, which only proves how Sam and Cas and Bobby are all conspiring to turn him into a giant sap. He hopes Cas will man up and actually say something, because he kinda missed the guy and was maybe a little bit worried when he didn't come around and stopped taking calls. But he doesn't, so Dean hands the phone back to Sam with another shrug. He isn't saying anything.
One of Sam's eyebrows twitch. His face works like it's trying to fall back into that big, squishy, sympathetic expression he used to use on victims' families. He takes the phone from Dean and signs--doesn't say--that he'll take the phone call outside on the porch.
Dean doesn't know what to make of that. He's deaf; it's not like he can eavesdrop on their conversation or anything. But whatever. He stomps into the kitchen and Bobby isn't even making sandwiches, just sitting there with a cup of coffee in his lap flipping through a magazine. So Dean pulls out the sandwich fixings and a couple of plates and gets started, 'cause lunch sure as hell doesn't make itself.
It gets under his skin, though, the way Sam paces the length of the porch while he's talking to Cas, and occasionally shoots glances in at Dean.
The future Zachariah showed him was fucked up.
Dean did read Slaughterhouse-Five. He knows time travel doesn't work that way. Hell, he's lived the whole self-fulfilling prophecy thing twice now, with his parents, and wasn't that just a mess from start to finish? So he knows it wasn't a real future, and Zachariah made it up to prove a point.
It was still fucked up, though. Croats taking over the cities, Lucifer wearing Sam's skin, the way he sent all those people to their deaths as a diversion. And around all of it, the way Cas looked in his loose-fitting clothes and his sunken, dilated eyes, fallen and hollowed out because of Dean. Because of what he did and asked Cas to do.
Dean still thinks sometimes about the way Cas's fingers had moved: long and fluid and beautiful when he spelled out 'insouciant,' and how it was the most terrible thing Dean had ever seen.
He staggers into the bathroom and locks the door behind himself, turns the shower tap on full bore. He stands there, in the middle of the bathroom, feeling like a bundle of nerves all wound up, wanting to touch everything--pick it up, move it, clean it, fix it, break it--all at once, wanting to do something, and not doing anything only because he doesn't know where to start.
You fucker, he says, to God, or maybe just to himself. You fucker, you selfish fucking bastard.
He refrains from punching the wall, but only because Sam would hear it and come to check up on him, like he always does. And he doesn't want to talk to Sam.
He's got a list of demands, in his head, for when he says yes to Michael. Keep everyone safe. Make sure they go someplace better when it's over. Give Cas his wings back and let him go back home. It doesn't mean anything, now, because Michael's taken Adam as a vessel and he doesn't need Dean anymore. But he would if he could; he'd go back to the green room, and Sam's sympathetic eyes be damned, he'd say yes to Michael right there.
Yes, you bastards, take me.
He'd tell Michael to drag Cas back to Heaven, kicking and screaming if he had to. Just make sure he gets home. It's just bad luck that he had to drag Dean out of the Pit, just chance. Dean is a bad influence. He whittled and carved away at Castiel's resolve for months and months, and how was Cas supposed to know that he'd raised a dishonest, manipulative bastard for a Righteous Man? He can't be blamed for that; it wasn't his fault. Cas doesn't deserve any of this.
A sheet of paper slides underneath the door, in a neat press of words that isn't Bobby's scratch or Sam's college scrawl. Dean doesn't bend to pick it up, he can read it from here:
Dean.
He splashes his face with cool water from the sink, to collect himself. Then he turns off the shower and opens the door.
Cas is standing there. Rumpled, worn. Still wearing the trench coat, even though it has wrinkles and stains on it, now, and desperately needs a wash. He looks sad.
He raises his hands to sign something, Dean, I'm-- but Dean stops him. He grabs Castiel's wrists and holds on, bottling up all those words because he can't bear to read them off Cas's fingers or on his lips, not when he knows what it should sound like.
Don't, Dean mouths, Please.
Castiel's expression is sorrowful. He's always been too open, even in his grief, too easy to read. Dean doesn't want to see him be sorry about this, can't bear to see Cas be apologetic when it's all Dean's fault to begin with. It's too damn much, after everything.
C'mon, he says, letting go of Castiel's hands and pulling him toward the stairs. I've gotta readjust the brake alignment, she's pulling a little to the left. Come have a beer with me.
They watch Star Wars because it's something they can do without talking to each other. But after the movie, Dean turns off the tv and the living room is dark, and it's just them sitting next to each other on the couch with the light from Bobby's porchlight bleeding in through the curtains.
Dean takes a shaky breath and raises his hands. In the dark Castiel might not even be able to see. But he does, because it's Cas's hands--warm, uncalloused--that grab Dean's and stop him from saying anything this time.
"I'm glad you're still here," Cas says.
His movements are graceful. His hands form the words with natural confidence: not too fast, but fast enough, and more defined in the dark where it's harder for Dean to catch all the movements. Castiel watches Dean and signs to him as though this were just like any other conversation they've ever had, as if this weren't new and terrifying.
The Dean of 2014, that fake future that Zachariah dreamt up, said that he'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat if given the chance. The Cas of 2014 got high and had sex and followed Dean around obeying all his orders and marched out to his own death.
The Cas of here and now watches Dean with an intense expression, and, when he doesn't say anything, repeats, "I'm glad you're still you."
Dean isn't. He isn't.