fic: Remembrance [SPN 5.13 coda]
Title: Remembrance [SPN 5.13 coda]
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 5.13
Word Count: 1,220
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: “Where do you think you’re going?”
Author’s Note: I had to get the episode out of my system. And I thought 5.10 was painful. Finishing up the second half of A Deafening Distance so stay tuned...
When he comes to he sits up so abruptly that Sam yelps and drops the barrel of his handgun.
“Jesus, Cas,” Sam says. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Castiel stares at him, and then around the motel room. “Where’s Dean?”
“Outside,” Sam says nonchalantly, but his shoulders are tense as he picks up the barrel and continues wiping it down. “Probably getting a soda. Or drunk. He didn’t say.”
His large hands deftly reassemble the handgun, his eyes focused solely on the task. Castiel knows that both hunters can do this with their eyes closed, so Sam just doesn’t want to look at him or anybody else. He wants to escape, even if it’s by doing something as mundane as cleaning a gun.
Castiel slides to the edge of the bed and tests the carpet before standing up. And sitting back down because his head throbs and his chest hurts and his body is aching and sore. He bends over, elbows resting on his thighs, and rubs his face, trying to think through the exhaustion of time travel.
“You okay there?” Sam calls out.
“I’m fine,” he lies, and tries again. This time he sways on his feet but doesn’t fall back on the bed. He looks around the motel room again. “Where is my coat?”
“Right here,” Sam says, pointing to the tan trench coat hanging off the back of the other chair. “Dean wanted to make you more comfortable; I told him you probably wouldn’t notice but…” He shrugs and stows the cloth and gun oil away. “You were out the entire day, by the way. We weren’t sure whether to put you in the back or wait for you to wake up. Since you’re up now…”
Castiel allows himself a quirk of a smile while he picks the coat up and pulls it on. He feels vulnerable without it, but it’s not something he’ll ever tell anyone. Well, maybe Dean.
“Thank you,” he says and turns to let himself out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
His hand rests on the cold doorknob. “I’m going to find God.”
“Even after what she said. After everything we went through,” Sam says, and his voice has gone tight with pent-up frustration. “They keep telling us we’re going to say yes, no matter what we do. How do you-how do you keep going?”
Castiel sighs, straightens his shoulders, and sticks his chin out while his eyes flick over to the younger Winchester. “I just do.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no choice.”
Sometimes Castiel wonders how he can carry on like this when there are so few alternatives left in which the Apocalypse doesn’t destroy the earth and both brothers make it out alive. But he knows he’d rather die than lose either brother.
So God it is, until either he or the Winchesters or maybe even the prophet Chuck discovers that elusive alternative.
Outside is brisk and cold, like the Catskill Mountains he visited several weeks ago. He feels it seep through his oddly clean and pressed trench coat, through the suit jacket and the shirt, and into his very physical body, clashing with the fading white-hot grace it houses. Castiel stops a few feet out the door, tilts his head up, and breathes.
He finds Dean across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the Impala. He’s swirling a large can of beer in his hand but he’s looking up at the sky.
Castiel walks up to him instead of flying there, wingtips echoing hollowly with each step. Dean doesn’t look at him, but Castiel notices him tilting his head in the angel’s direction. When he reaches the Impala Dean holds out the can of beer; it’s lukewarm and bitter but he drinks it anyway, his eyes turning to the sky as well.
They pass the can between them until it’s empty, then Dean drops it on the blacktop. Castiel looks down at him; he’s holding his face in his hands and his shoulders are shaking. His grace roils, distressed with the turmoil radiating from the man, and Castiel doesn’t know what to say or do to soothe him. He settles for placing his hand on Dean’s left shoulder, the one - he realizes belatedly - he left his handprint on.
A hoarse voice half-sings, half-sobs a mother’s lullaby.
“Hey Jude…don’t make it bad. Take a sad song…and make it better…remember to let her…into her heart. Then you can start…to make it better…hey Jude, don’t be afraid…you were made to…go out and get her…”
Dean sings and Castiel listens. A few seconds later his voice breaks, and then again, and eventually his voice fades into a rough and raw hum that gets lost in the cold night.
Dean sniffs, and then laughs as he rubs his face. “Crap, I’m crying.”
“It’s fine,” Castiel says.
“Don’t tell Sammy.”
Castiel smiles despite himself. Ever the big brother, hiding himself behind a mask to stay strong for his only family. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder once, and pulls his hand away. “I promise.”
He steps away from the car and her owner, feeling his grace stretch out to carry him away.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Castiel looks back. Dean is watching him, eyes glistening in the orange streetlight. There’s a heaviness in his voice that Castiel hasn’t heard before, and it anchors him to this parking lot.
“I’m going to find God,” he says but he’s walking back to Dean, standing in front of him, looking down at his wet and broken face.
“Why?” There’s a measure of disbelief in Dean’s voice, and it stings him.
“Because I have to try.”
“You still have faith? After all this? And in us?” Dean’s not annoyed, not impatient, not angry.
“Yes.”
It comes out of his mouth easily, but his conviction is sincere, he means everything behind that one word, and so he steps forward, ignoring Dean’s startled, “Personal space, Cas-”
He holds Dean’s face in his hands, feeling him shudder as he leans forward and presses his lips to his forehead. A sigh escapes the man’s lips as he leans forward, hands reaching up to grip his forearms like a lifeline. They breathe together, holding onto each other, the hunter and his angel, the angel and his hunter.
After a long moment Dean says, “Be careful out there, Cas.”
He is reminded very briefly of Sam’s demanding “Where are you going?”
The answer is always no, because they are my friends.
“I’ll be fine,” he says quietly, and tries to pull away but Dean tightens his grip, holding Castiel in place. He looks at the hands and the whitening knuckles, and then at Dean’s face. His eyes are bright, if colorless in the light, and his lip trembles.
“You sure?” he asks, hoarse and suddenly vulnerable in a way Castiel’s never heard him before.
Without thinking he tilts his head and leans forward, pressing his lips softly against Dean’s mouth. It’s hot and dry and electric; Dean sighs, his hands loosening and then falling away.
Castiel pulls back, searching, but Dean’s eyes are closed, his lips parted. He steps back, hands sliding from the man’s face, and says, “Yes. I will be back.”
He turns, his grace spreading out, and pulls himself away from the parking lot into the unknown.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 5.13
Word Count: 1,220
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: “Where do you think you’re going?”
Author’s Note: I had to get the episode out of my system. And I thought 5.10 was painful. Finishing up the second half of A Deafening Distance so stay tuned...
When he comes to he sits up so abruptly that Sam yelps and drops the barrel of his handgun.
“Jesus, Cas,” Sam says. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Castiel stares at him, and then around the motel room. “Where’s Dean?”
“Outside,” Sam says nonchalantly, but his shoulders are tense as he picks up the barrel and continues wiping it down. “Probably getting a soda. Or drunk. He didn’t say.”
His large hands deftly reassemble the handgun, his eyes focused solely on the task. Castiel knows that both hunters can do this with their eyes closed, so Sam just doesn’t want to look at him or anybody else. He wants to escape, even if it’s by doing something as mundane as cleaning a gun.
Castiel slides to the edge of the bed and tests the carpet before standing up. And sitting back down because his head throbs and his chest hurts and his body is aching and sore. He bends over, elbows resting on his thighs, and rubs his face, trying to think through the exhaustion of time travel.
“You okay there?” Sam calls out.
“I’m fine,” he lies, and tries again. This time he sways on his feet but doesn’t fall back on the bed. He looks around the motel room again. “Where is my coat?”
“Right here,” Sam says, pointing to the tan trench coat hanging off the back of the other chair. “Dean wanted to make you more comfortable; I told him you probably wouldn’t notice but…” He shrugs and stows the cloth and gun oil away. “You were out the entire day, by the way. We weren’t sure whether to put you in the back or wait for you to wake up. Since you’re up now…”
Castiel allows himself a quirk of a smile while he picks the coat up and pulls it on. He feels vulnerable without it, but it’s not something he’ll ever tell anyone. Well, maybe Dean.
“Thank you,” he says and turns to let himself out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
His hand rests on the cold doorknob. “I’m going to find God.”
“Even after what she said. After everything we went through,” Sam says, and his voice has gone tight with pent-up frustration. “They keep telling us we’re going to say yes, no matter what we do. How do you-how do you keep going?”
Castiel sighs, straightens his shoulders, and sticks his chin out while his eyes flick over to the younger Winchester. “I just do.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no choice.”
Sometimes Castiel wonders how he can carry on like this when there are so few alternatives left in which the Apocalypse doesn’t destroy the earth and both brothers make it out alive. But he knows he’d rather die than lose either brother.
So God it is, until either he or the Winchesters or maybe even the prophet Chuck discovers that elusive alternative.
Outside is brisk and cold, like the Catskill Mountains he visited several weeks ago. He feels it seep through his oddly clean and pressed trench coat, through the suit jacket and the shirt, and into his very physical body, clashing with the fading white-hot grace it houses. Castiel stops a few feet out the door, tilts his head up, and breathes.
He finds Dean across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the Impala. He’s swirling a large can of beer in his hand but he’s looking up at the sky.
Castiel walks up to him instead of flying there, wingtips echoing hollowly with each step. Dean doesn’t look at him, but Castiel notices him tilting his head in the angel’s direction. When he reaches the Impala Dean holds out the can of beer; it’s lukewarm and bitter but he drinks it anyway, his eyes turning to the sky as well.
They pass the can between them until it’s empty, then Dean drops it on the blacktop. Castiel looks down at him; he’s holding his face in his hands and his shoulders are shaking. His grace roils, distressed with the turmoil radiating from the man, and Castiel doesn’t know what to say or do to soothe him. He settles for placing his hand on Dean’s left shoulder, the one - he realizes belatedly - he left his handprint on.
A hoarse voice half-sings, half-sobs a mother’s lullaby.
“Hey Jude…don’t make it bad. Take a sad song…and make it better…remember to let her…into her heart. Then you can start…to make it better…hey Jude, don’t be afraid…you were made to…go out and get her…”
Dean sings and Castiel listens. A few seconds later his voice breaks, and then again, and eventually his voice fades into a rough and raw hum that gets lost in the cold night.
Dean sniffs, and then laughs as he rubs his face. “Crap, I’m crying.”
“It’s fine,” Castiel says.
“Don’t tell Sammy.”
Castiel smiles despite himself. Ever the big brother, hiding himself behind a mask to stay strong for his only family. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder once, and pulls his hand away. “I promise.”
He steps away from the car and her owner, feeling his grace stretch out to carry him away.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Castiel looks back. Dean is watching him, eyes glistening in the orange streetlight. There’s a heaviness in his voice that Castiel hasn’t heard before, and it anchors him to this parking lot.
“I’m going to find God,” he says but he’s walking back to Dean, standing in front of him, looking down at his wet and broken face.
“Why?” There’s a measure of disbelief in Dean’s voice, and it stings him.
“Because I have to try.”
“You still have faith? After all this? And in us?” Dean’s not annoyed, not impatient, not angry.
“Yes.”
It comes out of his mouth easily, but his conviction is sincere, he means everything behind that one word, and so he steps forward, ignoring Dean’s startled, “Personal space, Cas-”
He holds Dean’s face in his hands, feeling him shudder as he leans forward and presses his lips to his forehead. A sigh escapes the man’s lips as he leans forward, hands reaching up to grip his forearms like a lifeline. They breathe together, holding onto each other, the hunter and his angel, the angel and his hunter.
After a long moment Dean says, “Be careful out there, Cas.”
He is reminded very briefly of Sam’s demanding “Where are you going?”
The answer is always no, because they are my friends.
“I’ll be fine,” he says quietly, and tries to pull away but Dean tightens his grip, holding Castiel in place. He looks at the hands and the whitening knuckles, and then at Dean’s face. His eyes are bright, if colorless in the light, and his lip trembles.
“You sure?” he asks, hoarse and suddenly vulnerable in a way Castiel’s never heard him before.
Without thinking he tilts his head and leans forward, pressing his lips softly against Dean’s mouth. It’s hot and dry and electric; Dean sighs, his hands loosening and then falling away.
Castiel pulls back, searching, but Dean’s eyes are closed, his lips parted. He steps back, hands sliding from the man’s face, and says, “Yes. I will be back.”
He turns, his grace spreading out, and pulls himself away from the parking lot into the unknown.