(no subject)
Title: Face On
Author: saeng / wormstash @ tumblr
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: ~1,300
Spoiler Warning: ALL episodes.
Summary: Episode-related fic for 7.22. Dean's POV.
Author’s Note: There's been a lot of reaction to Dean from that last episode. This is just my take on the matter. I realize there are many other opinions, as well.
Dean doesn’t realize just how angry he sounds in the car until Castiel calls him out on it, and it takes a second to hear his snappy yell echo back to him in his head.
He hates it, every shitty thing he’s feeling, because his mind is so muddled with all the crap they’re facing that he no longer notices when his stupid, shaky pretense of control starts slipping anymore. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, as they always are, every time his emotions betray everything he stuffs far away, all those things that he can’t allow crippling his resolve, as if they were packed up into boxes and shoved in a mental closet.
He won’t whine and say prissy things like it isn’t fair, but sometimes the words bubble up like toxin into his thoughts anyway.
Because it isn’t.
It isn’t fair he’ll never know what he wants, because the one time he tried to do things another way, to live like a normal ass person, his fucking baggage followed and ruined any idea of what he’d thought he’d like to have.
And it isn’t fair that he can’t escape this choice he’s made, that he doesn’t know how long his life is going to be defined by following trouble to places where, most of the time, he’s only had sheer dumb luck fixing any of it. This responsibility, this need to magically remedy people’s messes and save lives and play the hero- when all it’s done is bring shitstorms of misfortune in its wake.
And he can’t remember when his dreams stopped being anything other than people dying. From Mom to Ellen to Jo to Bobby, every night for weeks, months. Most mornings he wakes up wishing he was still in Hell, how it’s damn more appealing than anything else, especially when he thinks of what a marvelous domino effect of bullshit being chosen caused.
Which brings him back to this, this moment, and this frustration clawing away at him any time he sees or hears this poor excuse for Cas.
He’d normally default to what he knows best, because it’s so much easier to focus on getting business taken care of with the Leviathans than it is to pry open the little mental box labeled Castiel. But it’s a long drive, and, unfortunately, like everything else, it likes to creep up to the surface and try to pop open on its own. And right now this Castiel might as well have been tearing it open like a Christmas present.
“I don’t fight anymore. I watch the bees.”
Dean doesn’t know how much longer he can stand the carefree tone, the way he talks to Meg like she’s his little confidant in all that is sparkly and shiny in the world. It’d be simple just to say he didn’t know what he expected or wanted when Castiel woke up, but he did. He’s known since the moment he found him alive.
And he doesn’t care if it’s selfish to want it, either. At one time, he was able to accept that Castiel maybe just didn’t understand the weight he’d put on Dean, that he’d given him no choice or say in his own will. But then, there had unexpectedly been a Cas who would put his life on the line for him, who turned for him, who Dean could trust would behave just like he did when someone needed help. Sure, the guy had one or two gutless moments where he couldn’t get his balls together and get shit done, but Dean thought they’d been working to overcome that. An irksome part of Dean had even believed they could stay together, all of them, for a long time. Thought Cas had it in him to be everything Dean needed in a friend.
Of course, it had all gone downhill from there. As it always did in the Winchester family. There was a hallowing moment after Bobby’s death when Dean wondered what would have been left if Sam didn’t survive Lucifer. When there could’ve been no one. Who the fuck could Dean have contacted to repair the shattered man he might have become.
Dean doesn’t like to think of what might have resulted if that route had ever come to pass.
So when Cas didn’t hesitate to fix the thing most important to him, despite every crappy thing that had happened and despite the part of him that knew Cas caused it, a tiny, little shard of himself sitting in that box still believed it was possible for the three of them to be together again.
But he realizes now it was stupid to hope for that. Naïve to hope when Castiel woke up he’d be sane enough to stand next to them once again and take care of the mess he made. And it infuriates him.
They drive through the night and Dean tries desperately not to scowl every time Castiel opens his mouth to spew sugary nonsense at Meg. He realizes Sam notices, because he’s Sam, but Dean blatantly ignores him. He hates that damn Castiel box. He hates being angry. He hates not being able to stop caring.
It’s laughable, but, in Dean’s head, he had pictured the moment Castiel decided to help them beat the Leviathans like tearing down a final wall. As if it were the last of what Dean could selfishly want out of Castiel before letting him be. So he pushes it and pushes it, because he wants it so much, more than he’d ever admit to himself.
Sam would call him a giant dick, maybe, and say something like Dean always expects something. That Dean still saw Castiel pulling him from Hell as the catalyst for all those things he claimed Castiel owed him. But Dean wants to trust that he no longer thinks that way, because he did once, and he wants to prove he doesn’t now. And it’s almost like he can pinpoint that thought as to where all this bitterness stems from. Because each time Sam glances at him in concern, he can’t prove it.
He's sick of his brain's failure to deal with the utter aggravation of being so close to forgiving Cas but not being able to do so. If only Cas could come back and fight with them again. Dean honestly believes he would, and that’s what fucking sucks the most. Because Dean knows Cas. Cas would take that chance to atone for all of it, for indirectly causing Bobby’s death, just like he took the chance to atone for Sam.
Deep down, he knows Cas has always been a lot better than him.
But it won't happen now, not with this shoddy ass version.
So, that night, when the angels attack, and Dean watches as Castiel stands up for them, watches him put blood in a bottle without a complaint, watches him leave, he doesn’t think too hard about him anymore. Tries to remember all the obstacles still in the way.
But he dreams. He dreams that Cas is with them, the way he used to be, dreams Cas tells the Leviathans to fuck off and leave them alone, dreams that they succeed. And when Cas says sorry once more, standing beside him overlooking a lake, Dean feels it all wonderfully disappear, all the anger and bitterness and feigned indifference.
He dreams that he looks at Cas, smiling, and is able to finally say, “it’s okay. Go and be happy now.” But Cas doesn't leave, and Dean knows why, knows he doesn't deserve it, but Castiel gives it to him.
When he wakes up, he curses that stupid, tiny shard and his mindless hope and imagines being in Hell once more.
Because it’s all still there, all those feelings, and he carries them, along with every other box he owns.
---
Author: saeng / wormstash @ tumblr
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: ~1,300
Spoiler Warning: ALL episodes.
Summary: Episode-related fic for 7.22. Dean's POV.
Author’s Note: There's been a lot of reaction to Dean from that last episode. This is just my take on the matter. I realize there are many other opinions, as well.
Dean doesn’t realize just how angry he sounds in the car until Castiel calls him out on it, and it takes a second to hear his snappy yell echo back to him in his head.
He hates it, every shitty thing he’s feeling, because his mind is so muddled with all the crap they’re facing that he no longer notices when his stupid, shaky pretense of control starts slipping anymore. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, as they always are, every time his emotions betray everything he stuffs far away, all those things that he can’t allow crippling his resolve, as if they were packed up into boxes and shoved in a mental closet.
He won’t whine and say prissy things like it isn’t fair, but sometimes the words bubble up like toxin into his thoughts anyway.
Because it isn’t.
It isn’t fair he’ll never know what he wants, because the one time he tried to do things another way, to live like a normal ass person, his fucking baggage followed and ruined any idea of what he’d thought he’d like to have.
And it isn’t fair that he can’t escape this choice he’s made, that he doesn’t know how long his life is going to be defined by following trouble to places where, most of the time, he’s only had sheer dumb luck fixing any of it. This responsibility, this need to magically remedy people’s messes and save lives and play the hero- when all it’s done is bring shitstorms of misfortune in its wake.
And he can’t remember when his dreams stopped being anything other than people dying. From Mom to Ellen to Jo to Bobby, every night for weeks, months. Most mornings he wakes up wishing he was still in Hell, how it’s damn more appealing than anything else, especially when he thinks of what a marvelous domino effect of bullshit being chosen caused.
Which brings him back to this, this moment, and this frustration clawing away at him any time he sees or hears this poor excuse for Cas.
He’d normally default to what he knows best, because it’s so much easier to focus on getting business taken care of with the Leviathans than it is to pry open the little mental box labeled Castiel. But it’s a long drive, and, unfortunately, like everything else, it likes to creep up to the surface and try to pop open on its own. And right now this Castiel might as well have been tearing it open like a Christmas present.
“I don’t fight anymore. I watch the bees.”
Dean doesn’t know how much longer he can stand the carefree tone, the way he talks to Meg like she’s his little confidant in all that is sparkly and shiny in the world. It’d be simple just to say he didn’t know what he expected or wanted when Castiel woke up, but he did. He’s known since the moment he found him alive.
And he doesn’t care if it’s selfish to want it, either. At one time, he was able to accept that Castiel maybe just didn’t understand the weight he’d put on Dean, that he’d given him no choice or say in his own will. But then, there had unexpectedly been a Cas who would put his life on the line for him, who turned for him, who Dean could trust would behave just like he did when someone needed help. Sure, the guy had one or two gutless moments where he couldn’t get his balls together and get shit done, but Dean thought they’d been working to overcome that. An irksome part of Dean had even believed they could stay together, all of them, for a long time. Thought Cas had it in him to be everything Dean needed in a friend.
Of course, it had all gone downhill from there. As it always did in the Winchester family. There was a hallowing moment after Bobby’s death when Dean wondered what would have been left if Sam didn’t survive Lucifer. When there could’ve been no one. Who the fuck could Dean have contacted to repair the shattered man he might have become.
Dean doesn’t like to think of what might have resulted if that route had ever come to pass.
So when Cas didn’t hesitate to fix the thing most important to him, despite every crappy thing that had happened and despite the part of him that knew Cas caused it, a tiny, little shard of himself sitting in that box still believed it was possible for the three of them to be together again.
But he realizes now it was stupid to hope for that. Naïve to hope when Castiel woke up he’d be sane enough to stand next to them once again and take care of the mess he made. And it infuriates him.
They drive through the night and Dean tries desperately not to scowl every time Castiel opens his mouth to spew sugary nonsense at Meg. He realizes Sam notices, because he’s Sam, but Dean blatantly ignores him. He hates that damn Castiel box. He hates being angry. He hates not being able to stop caring.
It’s laughable, but, in Dean’s head, he had pictured the moment Castiel decided to help them beat the Leviathans like tearing down a final wall. As if it were the last of what Dean could selfishly want out of Castiel before letting him be. So he pushes it and pushes it, because he wants it so much, more than he’d ever admit to himself.
Sam would call him a giant dick, maybe, and say something like Dean always expects something. That Dean still saw Castiel pulling him from Hell as the catalyst for all those things he claimed Castiel owed him. But Dean wants to trust that he no longer thinks that way, because he did once, and he wants to prove he doesn’t now. And it’s almost like he can pinpoint that thought as to where all this bitterness stems from. Because each time Sam glances at him in concern, he can’t prove it.
He's sick of his brain's failure to deal with the utter aggravation of being so close to forgiving Cas but not being able to do so. If only Cas could come back and fight with them again. Dean honestly believes he would, and that’s what fucking sucks the most. Because Dean knows Cas. Cas would take that chance to atone for all of it, for indirectly causing Bobby’s death, just like he took the chance to atone for Sam.
Deep down, he knows Cas has always been a lot better than him.
But it won't happen now, not with this shoddy ass version.
So, that night, when the angels attack, and Dean watches as Castiel stands up for them, watches him put blood in a bottle without a complaint, watches him leave, he doesn’t think too hard about him anymore. Tries to remember all the obstacles still in the way.
But he dreams. He dreams that Cas is with them, the way he used to be, dreams Cas tells the Leviathans to fuck off and leave them alone, dreams that they succeed. And when Cas says sorry once more, standing beside him overlooking a lake, Dean feels it all wonderfully disappear, all the anger and bitterness and feigned indifference.
He dreams that he looks at Cas, smiling, and is able to finally say, “it’s okay. Go and be happy now.” But Cas doesn't leave, and Dean knows why, knows he doesn't deserve it, but Castiel gives it to him.
When he wakes up, he curses that stupid, tiny shard and his mindless hope and imagines being in Hell once more.
Because it’s all still there, all those feelings, and he carries them, along with every other box he owns.
---