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Entry tags:
spn ficlet: settled
settled
Cas/Dean | gen | 600 words
Notes: obligatory Father's Day kidfic
--
Mary Grace shifts in her sleep, making a soft noise Dean barely hears over the tinkle of her mobile, a collection of stars and moons hand-painted by Garth. His shoulder blocks the flare of the nightlight in a way that cuts the crib in half; the cartoon dinosaurs on Mary Grace's pajamas are green and orange to her shoulder, then muddied by shadows from there down to her feet. Dean just stares at her for a moment, resting his hands on the rail of the crib, watching the perfect sweep of her eyelashes, the tight curl of her hands, the steady rise and fall of her chest.
She's nearly seven months old, but she still seems impossibly tiny. Dean reaches for her, wanting to pat her back or stroke the curve of her cheek, but pulls back before touching her. They had a hard time putting her down tonight; he doesn't want to wake her up now.
"Dean?"
Dean turns around; Cas is yawning in the doorway, his hair everywhere and his bare toes curling in the carpet. He walks over, rubbing at his eyes, then wraps his arms around Dean and noses at Dean's jaw.
"I didn't hear her cry."
"No," Dean mumbles, mostly to the side of Cas' neck. His skin is still sleep-warm, smells like their bed. "I was just -- um."
They haven't found a baby monitor that will work inside the bunker. Sam understands why, something about radio waves and the antique machinery in the war room, but Dean had zoned out the one time he'd tried to explain, more interested in watching Cas fight with a flat-packed crib, complete with incomprehensible IKEA instructions. They'd compensated by putting the nursery right across the hall from their bedroom, but Dean isn't -- he doesn't know.
They don't hunt anymore, not really. Dean did a salt-and-burn in White Mound about two weeks ago -- thirty minutes there, thirty minutes at the grave, thirty minutes back, home before Cas gave Mary Grace her bath -- but for the most part all three of them are out of the game. They run the phones for Krissy's crew, and chase down lore for any other hunter that calls. Two days a week, Cas teaches theology at Cloud County Community College. Hell is closed, Heaven finally got its shit straight, and the bunker is warded nine ways to Sunday. They're safe now. Dean knows they're safe. But some nights, he can't make himself settle.
Mary Grace shifts again, stretching her little legs and flexing her tiny feet. Dean loves her so much he thinks it might kill him.
"Dean." Cas runs his hand up Dean's back, rubbing slow circles between Dean's shoulders. "If I bring you back to bed are you going to get up again in an hour?"
Carefully, Dean brushes his fingers through Mary Grace's hair.
"Probably."
Cas sighs, but there's no real heat behind it. He understands all the things Dean can't say -- that he grew up on the road, that he's never really had anything permanent, that he raised Sam the best he could but wishes he'd done better, wants to do better now. He lets Dean stew for another minute or two, then lifts Mary Grace out of the crib, cradling her head in his hand as he tucks her against his shoulder. "Come on." He slides his other hand over Dean's hip, nudging Dean toward the door. "We'll have a slumber party."
They settle in on their sides with Mary Grace between them, and Dean falls asleep with Cas' hand spread over his hip and Mary Grace's hand curled around his finger.
Cas/Dean | gen | 600 words
Notes: obligatory Father's Day kidfic
--
Mary Grace shifts in her sleep, making a soft noise Dean barely hears over the tinkle of her mobile, a collection of stars and moons hand-painted by Garth. His shoulder blocks the flare of the nightlight in a way that cuts the crib in half; the cartoon dinosaurs on Mary Grace's pajamas are green and orange to her shoulder, then muddied by shadows from there down to her feet. Dean just stares at her for a moment, resting his hands on the rail of the crib, watching the perfect sweep of her eyelashes, the tight curl of her hands, the steady rise and fall of her chest.
She's nearly seven months old, but she still seems impossibly tiny. Dean reaches for her, wanting to pat her back or stroke the curve of her cheek, but pulls back before touching her. They had a hard time putting her down tonight; he doesn't want to wake her up now.
"Dean?"
Dean turns around; Cas is yawning in the doorway, his hair everywhere and his bare toes curling in the carpet. He walks over, rubbing at his eyes, then wraps his arms around Dean and noses at Dean's jaw.
"I didn't hear her cry."
"No," Dean mumbles, mostly to the side of Cas' neck. His skin is still sleep-warm, smells like their bed. "I was just -- um."
They haven't found a baby monitor that will work inside the bunker. Sam understands why, something about radio waves and the antique machinery in the war room, but Dean had zoned out the one time he'd tried to explain, more interested in watching Cas fight with a flat-packed crib, complete with incomprehensible IKEA instructions. They'd compensated by putting the nursery right across the hall from their bedroom, but Dean isn't -- he doesn't know.
They don't hunt anymore, not really. Dean did a salt-and-burn in White Mound about two weeks ago -- thirty minutes there, thirty minutes at the grave, thirty minutes back, home before Cas gave Mary Grace her bath -- but for the most part all three of them are out of the game. They run the phones for Krissy's crew, and chase down lore for any other hunter that calls. Two days a week, Cas teaches theology at Cloud County Community College. Hell is closed, Heaven finally got its shit straight, and the bunker is warded nine ways to Sunday. They're safe now. Dean knows they're safe. But some nights, he can't make himself settle.
Mary Grace shifts again, stretching her little legs and flexing her tiny feet. Dean loves her so much he thinks it might kill him.
"Dean." Cas runs his hand up Dean's back, rubbing slow circles between Dean's shoulders. "If I bring you back to bed are you going to get up again in an hour?"
Carefully, Dean brushes his fingers through Mary Grace's hair.
"Probably."
Cas sighs, but there's no real heat behind it. He understands all the things Dean can't say -- that he grew up on the road, that he's never really had anything permanent, that he raised Sam the best he could but wishes he'd done better, wants to do better now. He lets Dean stew for another minute or two, then lifts Mary Grace out of the crib, cradling her head in his hand as he tucks her against his shoulder. "Come on." He slides his other hand over Dean's hip, nudging Dean toward the door. "We'll have a slumber party."
They settle in on their sides with Mary Grace between them, and Dean falls asleep with Cas' hand spread over his hip and Mary Grace's hand curled around his finger.