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Entry tags:
spn fic: requiem
Title: requiem
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~1,400
Summary: "Dean." The light above Cas' head gutters like a candle. "He's dying. He's dying, and he's scared."
Notes: Inspired by the sad gay dads promo for 14x08.
[AO3]
Requiem
Cas' footsteps cut through the white noise in the hallway—the dull whistle-hum of the heater, the low buzz coming from the ancient lights. Dean turns away as Cas walks in and bites the inside of his cheek. He shouldn't have stormed out like that. But Jack started coughing up blood again, and he—he—
"Dean."
Cas' tone sharpens it into a knife. Dean mumbles, "I can't," with tears stinging his eyes. "It's not right, Cas. You know—it—it's not—"
"Not what?" Cas asks, moving closer. "It's not fair?"
Dean bites back an angry noise. Not fair doesn't even cover it. It's fucking bullshit. It's—
"I know that," Cas continues. He sounds one part devastated and two parts furious. "But he needs you."
Dean makes himself breathe. His voice still breaks when he snaps, "To what, Cas? He needs me to what?" He feels useless, helpless. He isn't made for problems he can't shoot or stab or fuck away. "To—to hold his hand while his lungs turn inside out? Sam's got that covered. And you—"
"Dean." The light above Cas' head gutters like a candle. "He's dying. He's dying, and he's scared."
"Yeah," Dean says, because he knows. He fucking knows. Jack's I've had a good life speech was nice to hear, but it was mostly bravado. Dean ought to know: he's been peddling the same kind of crap for years. "Yeah. I—I'll be right there."
+
Dean lasts another forty minutes, sitting slump-shouldered in one of the infirmary's wobbly folding chairs, his hands clenched in his lap, white-knuckled. His boot squeaks; he can't stop bouncing his knee. Jack looks too small for the bed. His face is paler than the sheets.
He starts coughing again, fresh blood flecking his lips, and Dean gets to his feet. He mumbles, "I—dinner," and cocks his head toward the door. He walks out like he can't feel Cas glaring murder at his back.
The pantry is dusty. Dean's hands shake as he grabs two cans of beans and a big thing of diced tomatoes. Chili's easy to make, and it'll use up the leftover ground chuck in the freezer. The other half of the package got turned into hamburgers last week. Dean had showed Jack how to make them—how to season the meat, how to form the patties, how to lay them in the pan without getting burnt by spitting grease.
He ends up hunched over the kitchen counter, gripping their World War II can opener like a vise, sucking in air so he doesn't cry. The feeling burns at the back of his throat, a sour-hot hand clutching underneath his jaw. But if he starts—if he starts—
"Fuck."
Snarling, he shoves everything off the counter: the beans, the tomatoes, the wrinkly onion he found in the back of the fridge. Its papery skin sheds as it rolls across the floor.
This is why he tries not to care about people. If he doesn't care, then it doesn't matter if they get shot in the head or bitten by a werewolf or possessed by a demon at a goddamned funeral. It doesn't matter if they go to Purgatory to get Sam and never come back. If they walk into a river. If they get stabbed by Lucifer right in front of his face. If they catch some freaky angel disease that makes them cough themselves to death—Jesus Christ.
The tomatoes are leaking, making a bloodstain next to his feet.
+
Sam walks into the library with his phone to his ear. He says, "Yeah. Sounds good," before hanging up and parking himself beside the mini-fridge.
"Mom?" Dean asks. He's three shots deep in a bottle of Red Label; his voice sounds like a rough patch of road.
"Yeah," Sam says. He looks tired. They all look tired. "They're heading back now. She—uh. She gave me a message, in case—in case."
Dean nods and pours himself another shot.
+
"Dean?" Jack asks. He doesn't quite open his eyes.
"Yeah, kid. I'm here."
Jack wheezes—a wet, thick noise. Then: "Tell me about Vegas. I never—I never got to go."
"It—um. It's bright. Loud." Dean grits his teeth; his throat feels like it's closing up. "It—you didn't miss much."
+
Dean screwed up in the beginning, with Jack. It wasn't Jack's fault that Cas died, but Dean had been so angry, and so empty, just goddamn hollow inside, like something had reached its hand up into his chest and ripped everything out. And Lucifer—Lucifer had tumbled through the rift, had left Dean standing there with Cas' corpse and a fucking nephilim that kept asking for his dad.
"I could use a cuppa," Rowena says quietly. The shadows under her eyes are the color of an old bruise. "Shall I start you some coffee while I'm at it?"
"No thanks," Dean says, shaking his head. The scotch has nearly worn off, but Dean's finally settled enough that he can sit here and watch Jack sleep without trying to climb the walls. "I'm good."
"Are you?"
Jack snuffles a little. Dean clears his throat before admitting, "No."
Rowena pats his shoulder as she walks by.
+
"No way," Dean snaps. "No fucking way."
"I'm sorry," Cas says, eyes flashing. He's gorgeous when he's angry, always has been, but right now—fuck. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to go home."
That lands like a right hook to the jaw. Dean stares at him for a full thirty seconds before snarling, "Fine, go," and pointing at the door. "Go, if you think those dicks are your family."
"Dean—"
"I mean—" Dean snorts out a noise. "It ain't like Jack says you're his fucking dad or anything."
"Dean." Cas grabs Dean's sleeve, twists his hand in it until it pulls tight across Dean's elbow. "They might be able to help him."
Dean pulls away. "Might? You're gonna go chasing upstairs for a might?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
Dean—he doesn't. "Cas, you—damn it."
After a pause, Cas says, "Dean," and reaches for him again.
He goes for Dean's collar this time, curling his fingers in it, digging his knuckles into the dip of Dean's throat. The kiss comes hard, all teeth. Dean leans into it and bites at Cas' lower lip. He fists his hand in Cas' coat and pushes his tongue into Cas' mouth.
They don't do this much. Dean doesn't dare—he already needs Cas more that he wants to admit. But it's easier sometimes—easier to put his hands in Cas' hair, to mouth at the hinge of Cas jaw, to let himself forget about the bullshit going on. For a little while, he can pretend their lives are normal. That they have enough time. That they ever get to be in the same place for more than two or three days.
Dean ends up shoved against the dresser, a knob digging into his hip. He tugs Cas' shirt out of his slacks and hooks his leg around Cas' thigh. Cas palms Dean's throat. He pulls on Dean's belt and pops the button on Dean's jeans. He presses his hot, wet mouth to the spot below Dean's ear.
It doesn't take long. Dean's nerves are frayed, and they're touching each other too hard, too fast. But for a few minutes, Jack isn't sick. Heaven isn't Heaven. There isn't anything but the two of them—anything but Dean thrusting into Cas' hand, the lights flickering as Cas comes.
+
"You leaving now?" Dean asks.
"Yes."
Dean's gut churns. Every time Cas pals around with angels, he ends up getting hurt. "You think they're gonna help?"
Cas pauses before admitting, "I don't know. Probably not."
"Then why—"
"He's dying, Dean. I have to try."
Another pause. Dean wants to pull Cas closer, kiss him again. Before he can, Cas reaches up and touches his jaw. Then he turns around and walks out of the bedroom.
Dean follows him out into the hall. He says, "Hey. Be careful up there."
"I'll be fine," Cas insists. His mouth is still flushed and red. "You—I don't want Jack to be alone."
Dean's gut churns again. "I'll stay with him. Sam too."
+
Sam catches them in the war room. He says, "I've been looking for you," and runs a hand through his hair. "I might have an idea."
"Yeah?" Dean asks. He figures anything's better than Cas going back to Heaven.
"Lily Sunder."
Except that. "Are you nuts?"
Cas cocks his head to the side. "No. He—it might be worth a try."
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~1,400
Summary: "Dean." The light above Cas' head gutters like a candle. "He's dying. He's dying, and he's scared."
Notes: Inspired by the sad gay dads promo for 14x08.
[AO3]
Cas' footsteps cut through the white noise in the hallway—the dull whistle-hum of the heater, the low buzz coming from the ancient lights. Dean turns away as Cas walks in and bites the inside of his cheek. He shouldn't have stormed out like that. But Jack started coughing up blood again, and he—he—
"Dean."
Cas' tone sharpens it into a knife. Dean mumbles, "I can't," with tears stinging his eyes. "It's not right, Cas. You know—it—it's not—"
"Not what?" Cas asks, moving closer. "It's not fair?"
Dean bites back an angry noise. Not fair doesn't even cover it. It's fucking bullshit. It's—
"I know that," Cas continues. He sounds one part devastated and two parts furious. "But he needs you."
Dean makes himself breathe. His voice still breaks when he snaps, "To what, Cas? He needs me to what?" He feels useless, helpless. He isn't made for problems he can't shoot or stab or fuck away. "To—to hold his hand while his lungs turn inside out? Sam's got that covered. And you—"
"Dean." The light above Cas' head gutters like a candle. "He's dying. He's dying, and he's scared."
"Yeah," Dean says, because he knows. He fucking knows. Jack's I've had a good life speech was nice to hear, but it was mostly bravado. Dean ought to know: he's been peddling the same kind of crap for years. "Yeah. I—I'll be right there."
+
Dean lasts another forty minutes, sitting slump-shouldered in one of the infirmary's wobbly folding chairs, his hands clenched in his lap, white-knuckled. His boot squeaks; he can't stop bouncing his knee. Jack looks too small for the bed. His face is paler than the sheets.
He starts coughing again, fresh blood flecking his lips, and Dean gets to his feet. He mumbles, "I—dinner," and cocks his head toward the door. He walks out like he can't feel Cas glaring murder at his back.
The pantry is dusty. Dean's hands shake as he grabs two cans of beans and a big thing of diced tomatoes. Chili's easy to make, and it'll use up the leftover ground chuck in the freezer. The other half of the package got turned into hamburgers last week. Dean had showed Jack how to make them—how to season the meat, how to form the patties, how to lay them in the pan without getting burnt by spitting grease.
He ends up hunched over the kitchen counter, gripping their World War II can opener like a vise, sucking in air so he doesn't cry. The feeling burns at the back of his throat, a sour-hot hand clutching underneath his jaw. But if he starts—if he starts—
"Fuck."
Snarling, he shoves everything off the counter: the beans, the tomatoes, the wrinkly onion he found in the back of the fridge. Its papery skin sheds as it rolls across the floor.
This is why he tries not to care about people. If he doesn't care, then it doesn't matter if they get shot in the head or bitten by a werewolf or possessed by a demon at a goddamned funeral. It doesn't matter if they go to Purgatory to get Sam and never come back. If they walk into a river. If they get stabbed by Lucifer right in front of his face. If they catch some freaky angel disease that makes them cough themselves to death—Jesus Christ.
The tomatoes are leaking, making a bloodstain next to his feet.
+
Sam walks into the library with his phone to his ear. He says, "Yeah. Sounds good," before hanging up and parking himself beside the mini-fridge.
"Mom?" Dean asks. He's three shots deep in a bottle of Red Label; his voice sounds like a rough patch of road.
"Yeah," Sam says. He looks tired. They all look tired. "They're heading back now. She—uh. She gave me a message, in case—in case."
Dean nods and pours himself another shot.
+
"Dean?" Jack asks. He doesn't quite open his eyes.
"Yeah, kid. I'm here."
Jack wheezes—a wet, thick noise. Then: "Tell me about Vegas. I never—I never got to go."
"It—um. It's bright. Loud." Dean grits his teeth; his throat feels like it's closing up. "It—you didn't miss much."
+
Dean screwed up in the beginning, with Jack. It wasn't Jack's fault that Cas died, but Dean had been so angry, and so empty, just goddamn hollow inside, like something had reached its hand up into his chest and ripped everything out. And Lucifer—Lucifer had tumbled through the rift, had left Dean standing there with Cas' corpse and a fucking nephilim that kept asking for his dad.
"I could use a cuppa," Rowena says quietly. The shadows under her eyes are the color of an old bruise. "Shall I start you some coffee while I'm at it?"
"No thanks," Dean says, shaking his head. The scotch has nearly worn off, but Dean's finally settled enough that he can sit here and watch Jack sleep without trying to climb the walls. "I'm good."
"Are you?"
Jack snuffles a little. Dean clears his throat before admitting, "No."
Rowena pats his shoulder as she walks by.
+
"No way," Dean snaps. "No fucking way."
"I'm sorry," Cas says, eyes flashing. He's gorgeous when he's angry, always has been, but right now—fuck. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to go home."
That lands like a right hook to the jaw. Dean stares at him for a full thirty seconds before snarling, "Fine, go," and pointing at the door. "Go, if you think those dicks are your family."
"Dean—"
"I mean—" Dean snorts out a noise. "It ain't like Jack says you're his fucking dad or anything."
"Dean." Cas grabs Dean's sleeve, twists his hand in it until it pulls tight across Dean's elbow. "They might be able to help him."
Dean pulls away. "Might? You're gonna go chasing upstairs for a might?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
Dean—he doesn't. "Cas, you—damn it."
After a pause, Cas says, "Dean," and reaches for him again.
He goes for Dean's collar this time, curling his fingers in it, digging his knuckles into the dip of Dean's throat. The kiss comes hard, all teeth. Dean leans into it and bites at Cas' lower lip. He fists his hand in Cas' coat and pushes his tongue into Cas' mouth.
They don't do this much. Dean doesn't dare—he already needs Cas more that he wants to admit. But it's easier sometimes—easier to put his hands in Cas' hair, to mouth at the hinge of Cas jaw, to let himself forget about the bullshit going on. For a little while, he can pretend their lives are normal. That they have enough time. That they ever get to be in the same place for more than two or three days.
Dean ends up shoved against the dresser, a knob digging into his hip. He tugs Cas' shirt out of his slacks and hooks his leg around Cas' thigh. Cas palms Dean's throat. He pulls on Dean's belt and pops the button on Dean's jeans. He presses his hot, wet mouth to the spot below Dean's ear.
It doesn't take long. Dean's nerves are frayed, and they're touching each other too hard, too fast. But for a few minutes, Jack isn't sick. Heaven isn't Heaven. There isn't anything but the two of them—anything but Dean thrusting into Cas' hand, the lights flickering as Cas comes.
+
"You leaving now?" Dean asks.
"Yes."
Dean's gut churns. Every time Cas pals around with angels, he ends up getting hurt. "You think they're gonna help?"
Cas pauses before admitting, "I don't know. Probably not."
"Then why—"
"He's dying, Dean. I have to try."
Another pause. Dean wants to pull Cas closer, kiss him again. Before he can, Cas reaches up and touches his jaw. Then he turns around and walks out of the bedroom.
Dean follows him out into the hall. He says, "Hey. Be careful up there."
"I'll be fine," Cas insists. His mouth is still flushed and red. "You—I don't want Jack to be alone."
Dean's gut churns again. "I'll stay with him. Sam too."
+
Sam catches them in the war room. He says, "I've been looking for you," and runs a hand through his hair. "I might have an idea."
"Yeah?" Dean asks. He figures anything's better than Cas going back to Heaven.
"Lily Sunder."
Except that. "Are you nuts?"
Cas cocks his head to the side. "No. He—it might be worth a try."