Bastogne [Dean/Cas]
I'm going to start moving some of my fics from tumblr over to here, so sorry about the onslaught of fic that's coming your way f-list!
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Title: Bastogne
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Warnings: warfare, mild injury
Length: 920 words
Summary: It's December 1944 in the North of Bastogne, and two men are sharing a foxhole.
Notes: I suppose you could say it's inspired by the Band of Brothers episode of the same name.
North of Bastogne, December 1944
The snow crunches beneath Novak’s boots as he walks through the woods, hands shoved deep in his pockets. There’s the distant sound of gunshot but he can’t see any movement through the fog, the only nearby sounds the crunch of snow beneath his boots and the quiet murmur of men.
He picks up his pace, toes tingling from the cold, and steps over a log that’s covered in snow, before kneeling down next to a foxhole.
“Hey,” he says, pulling up the tarp and slipping beneath it.
“Hey yourself, doc,” Winchester says, shuffling over to make room for him.
Winchester smiles in the darkness, arms crossed over his chest, his rifle propped up next to him.
“How are your feet, Dean?” Novak asks, blowing hot air against his cupped hands, rubbing them over each other.
“Cold,” he says. “Every fucking thing is cold. You know what I’d like right now? Pie. Hot pie. Some hot coffee.”
“A fireplace.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, Cas. A fireplace.”
A comfortable silence falls between them that’s broken only by the muted sounds of gunshots.
“Who’d a thought, huh? It’s nearly Christmas and we’re sitting in a hole in fucking Belgium freezing our asses off,” Dean says, sticking his hands in his armpits.
“What’s Christmas like for you?” Cas asks, leaning towards the warmth that’s radiating from the other man. “Back home.”
Dean shuts his eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he begins to talk. “Go to my little brother’s, spend it with him, his wife. She’s pregnant, you know. Jessica. They live in California. We eat, drink, listen to music, give cheap gifts by the tree.”
“What does your brother do?”
“He’s a good kid,” Dean says, softly. “Studying to become a lawyer. He’ll be great, I know it. Kid’s great at everything he does.”
Dean settles further down into the foxhole, eyes still shut. “Anyway. Cas. What’s Christmas like for you-”
Dean’s voiced is drowned out by the roar of explosions overhead, the earth shaking as they pull back the tarp and watch dark streaks of smoke and fire crash down around them.
“Medic,” someone calls in the distance, and Cas takes a deep breath, Dean slapping him on the back as he climbs out of the foxhole.
It’s a constant obstacle course through the forest, gunshots and yelling, and he tries to locate the voice of the man screaming for help through the shelling overhead.
“Medic!”
Another explosion sends him flying to the ground and he rolls, scrambles across the ground on his front towards the foxhole with Lafitte and Henricksen.
Lafitte’s cradling his arm against his chest, and Henricksen’s trying to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.
“Let me see,” Cas shouts. Henricksen pulls his hand away and Cas grabs a bandage from his pack. It’s not bad, blood trickling down onto his uniform, and they all know he got lucky this time. He pulls a piece of shrapnel out, wraps the bandage around and knots it tight, Lafitte gritting his teeth.
Cas goes to pull out a syrette when Lafitte throws his other arm out, stopping him.
“Don’t need no morphine,” he says, rolling over and grabbing his gun. “Doc, go.”
Cas scrambles out of the foxhole, and onto his stomach as the ground shakes again. A tree nearby crumbles to the ground, and branches fall around him. He puts his hands over his head and lays there with his face against the snow, eyes squeezed shut.
There’s a sudden stillness and the forest appears to grow darker around them. He’s breathing hard against the ground, the snow melting against his clothes. He slowly gets up on his knees and crouches, moving slowly through the thick snow.
“Everyone okay?” Dean asks as Cas jumps into the foxhole, not moving from his position. His teeth are chattering, his skin a stark white.
“Yeah,” Cas manages to get out, bringing his knees up against his chest.
“Thank fuck,” Dean says, and Cas can see his entire body sag with relief.
“Had to fix up Lafitte’s arm, just a bit of shrapnel,” he says.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, relaxing back against the inside of the foxhole.
They sit next to each other in silence, breathing hard as the adrenaline seeps away, leaving Cas feeling slow and tired. He notices Dean’s hands are shaking, a pale white in the darkness.
“Here,” Cas says, taking Dean’s hands in between his. He rubs his own hands alongside them and blows hot air onto them. He continues for a few minutes and then looks up to see Dean smiling at him.
“What?” Cas says, hands stilling.
“Nothing,” Dean says. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this much of a mother hen.”
Cas doesn’t let go of Dean’s hands. “You’re cold.”
Dean smiles at him, soft and slow. “I’m always cold.”
Cas watches as a cloud of cold air passes from between Dean’s lips and then Dean licks them, swallows. Cas finds himself mirroring him, swallowing hard as he leans forward. Dean’s eyelids flutter shut as Cas closes the distance and presses their lips together. It’s slow at first, like kissing ice, and Cas lifts a hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, run his thumb across his skin.
They pull back after a few moments of slow, wet kissing and Dean’s staring at him suprised, a question in his eyes.
“Your lips looked cold,” Cas says, shrugging a little.
Dean grins at him. “Thanks, doc.”
(Link on tumblr)
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Title: Bastogne
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Warnings: warfare, mild injury
Length: 920 words
Summary: It's December 1944 in the North of Bastogne, and two men are sharing a foxhole.
Notes: I suppose you could say it's inspired by the Band of Brothers episode of the same name.
North of Bastogne, December 1944
The snow crunches beneath Novak’s boots as he walks through the woods, hands shoved deep in his pockets. There’s the distant sound of gunshot but he can’t see any movement through the fog, the only nearby sounds the crunch of snow beneath his boots and the quiet murmur of men.
He picks up his pace, toes tingling from the cold, and steps over a log that’s covered in snow, before kneeling down next to a foxhole.
“Hey,” he says, pulling up the tarp and slipping beneath it.
“Hey yourself, doc,” Winchester says, shuffling over to make room for him.
Winchester smiles in the darkness, arms crossed over his chest, his rifle propped up next to him.
“How are your feet, Dean?” Novak asks, blowing hot air against his cupped hands, rubbing them over each other.
“Cold,” he says. “Every fucking thing is cold. You know what I’d like right now? Pie. Hot pie. Some hot coffee.”
“A fireplace.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, Cas. A fireplace.”
A comfortable silence falls between them that’s broken only by the muted sounds of gunshots.
“Who’d a thought, huh? It’s nearly Christmas and we’re sitting in a hole in fucking Belgium freezing our asses off,” Dean says, sticking his hands in his armpits.
“What’s Christmas like for you?” Cas asks, leaning towards the warmth that’s radiating from the other man. “Back home.”
Dean shuts his eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he begins to talk. “Go to my little brother’s, spend it with him, his wife. She’s pregnant, you know. Jessica. They live in California. We eat, drink, listen to music, give cheap gifts by the tree.”
“What does your brother do?”
“He’s a good kid,” Dean says, softly. “Studying to become a lawyer. He’ll be great, I know it. Kid’s great at everything he does.”
Dean settles further down into the foxhole, eyes still shut. “Anyway. Cas. What’s Christmas like for you-”
Dean’s voiced is drowned out by the roar of explosions overhead, the earth shaking as they pull back the tarp and watch dark streaks of smoke and fire crash down around them.
“Medic,” someone calls in the distance, and Cas takes a deep breath, Dean slapping him on the back as he climbs out of the foxhole.
It’s a constant obstacle course through the forest, gunshots and yelling, and he tries to locate the voice of the man screaming for help through the shelling overhead.
“Medic!”
Another explosion sends him flying to the ground and he rolls, scrambles across the ground on his front towards the foxhole with Lafitte and Henricksen.
Lafitte’s cradling his arm against his chest, and Henricksen’s trying to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.
“Let me see,” Cas shouts. Henricksen pulls his hand away and Cas grabs a bandage from his pack. It’s not bad, blood trickling down onto his uniform, and they all know he got lucky this time. He pulls a piece of shrapnel out, wraps the bandage around and knots it tight, Lafitte gritting his teeth.
Cas goes to pull out a syrette when Lafitte throws his other arm out, stopping him.
“Don’t need no morphine,” he says, rolling over and grabbing his gun. “Doc, go.”
Cas scrambles out of the foxhole, and onto his stomach as the ground shakes again. A tree nearby crumbles to the ground, and branches fall around him. He puts his hands over his head and lays there with his face against the snow, eyes squeezed shut.
There’s a sudden stillness and the forest appears to grow darker around them. He’s breathing hard against the ground, the snow melting against his clothes. He slowly gets up on his knees and crouches, moving slowly through the thick snow.
“Everyone okay?” Dean asks as Cas jumps into the foxhole, not moving from his position. His teeth are chattering, his skin a stark white.
“Yeah,” Cas manages to get out, bringing his knees up against his chest.
“Thank fuck,” Dean says, and Cas can see his entire body sag with relief.
“Had to fix up Lafitte’s arm, just a bit of shrapnel,” he says.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, relaxing back against the inside of the foxhole.
They sit next to each other in silence, breathing hard as the adrenaline seeps away, leaving Cas feeling slow and tired. He notices Dean’s hands are shaking, a pale white in the darkness.
“Here,” Cas says, taking Dean’s hands in between his. He rubs his own hands alongside them and blows hot air onto them. He continues for a few minutes and then looks up to see Dean smiling at him.
“What?” Cas says, hands stilling.
“Nothing,” Dean says. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this much of a mother hen.”
Cas doesn’t let go of Dean’s hands. “You’re cold.”
Dean smiles at him, soft and slow. “I’m always cold.”
Cas watches as a cloud of cold air passes from between Dean’s lips and then Dean licks them, swallows. Cas finds himself mirroring him, swallowing hard as he leans forward. Dean’s eyelids flutter shut as Cas closes the distance and presses their lips together. It’s slow at first, like kissing ice, and Cas lifts a hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, run his thumb across his skin.
They pull back after a few moments of slow, wet kissing and Dean’s staring at him suprised, a question in his eyes.
“Your lips looked cold,” Cas says, shrugging a little.
Dean grins at him. “Thanks, doc.”
(Link on tumblr)