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spn fic: all that you need is in your soul
Title: all that you need is in your soul
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,000
Summary: Dean's room is cold.
Notes: Episode tag; spoilers for 10x14.
[AO3]
all that you need is in your soul
Dean's room is cold.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunching as he breathes through the anxious ache in the middle of his chest, the dull pain throbbing up and down his spine. He's exhausted and sore, feels a thousand years old. The Mark's fury and need always bleeds him dry, leaves him as brittle and useless as bleached bones in the desert, nothing but empty spaces and cracked ribs and a skull chewing on a mouthful of sand. His hands shake as he yanks on the laces of his boots.
He fumbles one off, has to pause before he starts on the other one, unable to find the strength. His door whispers open a little, barely more than an inch. He knows it's Cas because he didn't hear footsteps in the hall. Sam has a heavier tread.
"You can come in," he says, his voice rough, full of sharp edges and rust. He doesn't really want Cas to see him like this, with Cain's blood on his hands and under his fingernails, his knuckles swollen and bruised, but he figures Cas has seen worse -- hell, the apocalypse, purgatory. He helped give Dean the demon cure when Dean had been seething with sulfur and rage, a monster ready to kill him and Sam both.
"Dean," Cas starts, soft, but something about his cautious expression digs underneath Dean's skin the wrong way, and he claws through his exhaustion long enough to grunt and wave Cas off.
"I swear to God, if you ask me how I'm feeling --"
"I wasn't going to," Cas says, closing the door. He walks over to the bed, stopping right in front of Dean; his loafers are covered in barn dust, scuffed along one toe. "Do you need anything? I could --"
"Don't," Dean mumbles, leaning away as Cas' fingers bump his cheek.
"Let me help you."
You can't help me, Dean thinks. Not unless you kill me. They should probably just do it now, before Dean truly becomes rabid, while Sam is in the other room and Cas still has plenty of juice, but Dean can't bring himself to ask. He doesn't want to give Cas another burden to bear.
Cas reaches for him again; this time, he's too tired and slow to fight it. He grits his teeth through the icy-hot jolt of grace, steadies his shaking hands by twisting his fingers in the fabric of his jeans. His pain and exhaustion ebb away all at once, but he almost feels worse without it, like he's completely hollow, like everything inside him has been scooped out and scraped away.
"You shouldn't waste it," he says woodenly.
Cas makes a soft noise, just stands there with his hand cradling Dean's jaw. Dean looks up at him, at his bright, blue eyes and the perfect curve of his mouth -- a mouth he has almost kissed so many times. He wants it, and he thinks Cas wants it too, but he's never been able to close the distance, too afraid of dragging Cas down in the mud.
"You should get in bed," Cas says.
"I am in bed."
Cas makes that noise again, a sigh in the back of his throat, dry like the crumble of old leaves. He brushes his hand through Dean's hair, so soft and careful Dean can't help but lean into it a little, then kneels between Dean's legs and tugs on the one boot Dean is still wearing. It's too much; Dean shudders, hunching over until his head is resting on Cas' shoulder, until he's leaning on Cas like he always does, like he always has. All he's done since Cas pulled him out of hell is take.
Cas palms the back of Dean's neck after he sets the boot aside, then dips his head enough to nose at the corner of Dean's jaw. Dean turns his head before he can stop himself, lets their mouths slide together, easy and slow. Cas strokes his thumb behind Dean's ear, and he nudges his tongue along Dean's bottom lip, but then he pulls away, patting Dean's hip as he stands.
"Lie down."
"I don't think I can sleep."
Cas draws his knuckles down the side of Dean's neck. "You can't, or you won't?"
"Both."
"Nightmares?"
Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face. "Something like that." Most people would consider them nightmares, full of blood and bruises and broken bones, but the Mark twists them until they're closer to fantasies.
Cas just stares at him, relentless; it's easier to give in than to argue, so Dean lies down and curls up on his side, hiding his arm under his pillow so the Mark doesn't touch his face. The room falls silent for a moment; he hears a soft rustling behind him, like Cas is taking off his coat, and then the bed creaks and Cas slots in behind him, solid and warm against his back.
"What are you --"
"Shhh," Cas says, sliding his arm underneath Dean's pillow. He wraps his other arm around Dean's waist, presses a slow kiss to the back of Dean's neck. "Go to sleep."
"I told you, I --"
"I can make you."
"No," Dean says, shivering. Cas has already wasted too much of himself today, and getting graced to sleep is never really restful. It's more like being knocked unconscious, just a dark, missing chunk of time that leaves Dean jittery and disoriented when he finally comes around.
Cas sighs, his breath puffing against Dean's skin. "Just rest."
"Yeah, I'll -- you don't have to stay," Dean mumbles, even though he likes it -- the heat of Cas behind him, having Cas' arms around him.
"I will."
"It's okay."
"I want to stay," Cas says. He shifts until their legs are tangled, tucks his hand under Dean's shirt and slides it up Dean's chest. "I want to."
Dean closes his eyes, clears his throat so he can get the words out. "Cas, I --"
"Shhh. Just rest."
Cas presses closer. The Mark is almost quiet, and Dean feels warm for the first time since the arrived at that barn.
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,000
Summary: Dean's room is cold.
Notes: Episode tag; spoilers for 10x14.
[AO3]
Dean's room is cold.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunching as he breathes through the anxious ache in the middle of his chest, the dull pain throbbing up and down his spine. He's exhausted and sore, feels a thousand years old. The Mark's fury and need always bleeds him dry, leaves him as brittle and useless as bleached bones in the desert, nothing but empty spaces and cracked ribs and a skull chewing on a mouthful of sand. His hands shake as he yanks on the laces of his boots.
He fumbles one off, has to pause before he starts on the other one, unable to find the strength. His door whispers open a little, barely more than an inch. He knows it's Cas because he didn't hear footsteps in the hall. Sam has a heavier tread.
"You can come in," he says, his voice rough, full of sharp edges and rust. He doesn't really want Cas to see him like this, with Cain's blood on his hands and under his fingernails, his knuckles swollen and bruised, but he figures Cas has seen worse -- hell, the apocalypse, purgatory. He helped give Dean the demon cure when Dean had been seething with sulfur and rage, a monster ready to kill him and Sam both.
"Dean," Cas starts, soft, but something about his cautious expression digs underneath Dean's skin the wrong way, and he claws through his exhaustion long enough to grunt and wave Cas off.
"I swear to God, if you ask me how I'm feeling --"
"I wasn't going to," Cas says, closing the door. He walks over to the bed, stopping right in front of Dean; his loafers are covered in barn dust, scuffed along one toe. "Do you need anything? I could --"
"Don't," Dean mumbles, leaning away as Cas' fingers bump his cheek.
"Let me help you."
You can't help me, Dean thinks. Not unless you kill me. They should probably just do it now, before Dean truly becomes rabid, while Sam is in the other room and Cas still has plenty of juice, but Dean can't bring himself to ask. He doesn't want to give Cas another burden to bear.
Cas reaches for him again; this time, he's too tired and slow to fight it. He grits his teeth through the icy-hot jolt of grace, steadies his shaking hands by twisting his fingers in the fabric of his jeans. His pain and exhaustion ebb away all at once, but he almost feels worse without it, like he's completely hollow, like everything inside him has been scooped out and scraped away.
"You shouldn't waste it," he says woodenly.
Cas makes a soft noise, just stands there with his hand cradling Dean's jaw. Dean looks up at him, at his bright, blue eyes and the perfect curve of his mouth -- a mouth he has almost kissed so many times. He wants it, and he thinks Cas wants it too, but he's never been able to close the distance, too afraid of dragging Cas down in the mud.
"You should get in bed," Cas says.
"I am in bed."
Cas makes that noise again, a sigh in the back of his throat, dry like the crumble of old leaves. He brushes his hand through Dean's hair, so soft and careful Dean can't help but lean into it a little, then kneels between Dean's legs and tugs on the one boot Dean is still wearing. It's too much; Dean shudders, hunching over until his head is resting on Cas' shoulder, until he's leaning on Cas like he always does, like he always has. All he's done since Cas pulled him out of hell is take.
Cas palms the back of Dean's neck after he sets the boot aside, then dips his head enough to nose at the corner of Dean's jaw. Dean turns his head before he can stop himself, lets their mouths slide together, easy and slow. Cas strokes his thumb behind Dean's ear, and he nudges his tongue along Dean's bottom lip, but then he pulls away, patting Dean's hip as he stands.
"Lie down."
"I don't think I can sleep."
Cas draws his knuckles down the side of Dean's neck. "You can't, or you won't?"
"Both."
"Nightmares?"
Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face. "Something like that." Most people would consider them nightmares, full of blood and bruises and broken bones, but the Mark twists them until they're closer to fantasies.
Cas just stares at him, relentless; it's easier to give in than to argue, so Dean lies down and curls up on his side, hiding his arm under his pillow so the Mark doesn't touch his face. The room falls silent for a moment; he hears a soft rustling behind him, like Cas is taking off his coat, and then the bed creaks and Cas slots in behind him, solid and warm against his back.
"What are you --"
"Shhh," Cas says, sliding his arm underneath Dean's pillow. He wraps his other arm around Dean's waist, presses a slow kiss to the back of Dean's neck. "Go to sleep."
"I told you, I --"
"I can make you."
"No," Dean says, shivering. Cas has already wasted too much of himself today, and getting graced to sleep is never really restful. It's more like being knocked unconscious, just a dark, missing chunk of time that leaves Dean jittery and disoriented when he finally comes around.
Cas sighs, his breath puffing against Dean's skin. "Just rest."
"Yeah, I'll -- you don't have to stay," Dean mumbles, even though he likes it -- the heat of Cas behind him, having Cas' arms around him.
"I will."
"It's okay."
"I want to stay," Cas says. He shifts until their legs are tangled, tucks his hand under Dean's shirt and slides it up Dean's chest. "I want to."
Dean closes his eyes, clears his throat so he can get the words out. "Cas, I --"
"Shhh. Just rest."
Cas presses closer. The Mark is almost quiet, and Dean feels warm for the first time since the arrived at that barn.