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spn ficlet: uncursed
uncursed
Cas/Dean | PG | ~900 words
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deanhugchester, who asked nicely.
--
Rowena hadn't lied; the Mark is an old curse, but it's just a curse, will come off if someone draws the right sigils, says the right words.
Dean doesn't know where Sam gets the dusty old parchment with the instructions, doesn't know what he paid or traded or gave up. He disappears with Cas for a couple days -- the morning after Dean almost killed them both in a blood-soaked rage -- then comes back white-lipped and exhausted, has dark circles under his eyes, speaks like he's dragging his voice up from the bottom of a well. Cas looks anxious as he grinds celandine with henbane and bird bones, his movements jerky, his mouth pursed like he has something to say but can't find the words, doesn't know where to start.
The last ingredient is the hardest.
"The next time I see any of you," Death says blandly, his gaze lingering too long on Cas as he bleeds into a copper bowl, "I expect to take you to your end."
Cas pours the hoodoo on Dean's arm and Sam recites the spell, and it hurts like fire, hurts like hell all over again, the Mark burning worse than it ever has, everything inside Dean twisting and writhing and dying. He screams himself hoarse, comes close to swallowing his tongue, passes out with the taste of sulfur in his mouth, wakes up to Cas lifting him off the dungeon floor.
"It's over," Cas says quietly. "It's done."
Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't have anything left. He feels scraped raw, open and exposed, hollowed out. He's just an empty shell without the rage, limp and worthless. He gets into bed because Sam and Cas lead him there. He doesn't think he can sleep -- is almost afraid to -- but he drifts off eventually, too drained to fight it.
He wakes up to Cas curled behind him; Cas is holding his arm, stroking his thumb over the place where the Mark used to be. Dean isn't sure he deserves it, but he's grateful for it -- the warmth, the tenderness, the fact that Cas didn't leave him alone -- so grateful he makes a noise in the back of his throat, small and soft and choked.
"Shh," Cas says, his mouth at the back of Dean's neck. "Go back to sleep."
Dean does as he's told. He doesn't dream.
He rolls over at some point in the night; when he wakes up again he's facing Cas, has head tucked under Cas' chin and his hand balled in the front of Cas' shirt. He tries not to move, afraid he'll ruin it, that Cas will pull away if he knows Dean's awake, but Cas shifts closer, kisses his forehead, gently touches his hair.
"You should be sleeping."
"I've been sleeping."
"The spell we worked didn't remove the Mark so much as give you the strength needed to reject it." Cas tugs Dean closer still, tucks his hand under Dean's shirt, holds it at the small of Dean's back. "You may feel weak and tired for a few days. Nauseous. Sore like you've overexerted yourself."
He shifts again, tangling their legs, and Dean closes his eyes.
"You don't have to, to --" Dean clears his throat, unable to say it. He wants this with Cas, wants it desperately, but not if Cas doesn't mean it, not if he's just babysitting because he thinks Dean can't be left alone. "You don't --"
"Do you remember anything you said after the spell took effect?"
"No."
Cas kisses Dean's forehead again, his mouth lingering. "You told me you love me. Right before you fell unconscious."
"Cas --"
"You said you wanted me to know -- you were convinced the cure was killing you."
Dean is silent for a moment; having it all out there is worse than an open wound. Finally, he says, "It's true."
"I know," Cas says simply. "I've always known. But you seemed unwilling to address it, so I never brought it up."
"Cas --"
Cas huffs and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Sleep a little more. You need it."
Dean wakes once to Cas behind him again, his chest a solid warmth against Dean's back, and again to Cas half underneath him, his head on Cas' shoulder and his arm around Cas' waist. The third time, Cas is sitting up beside him; he has his face hidden in Cas' thigh and his hand curled around the back of Cas' knee. Cas is reading a book with one hand, stroking Dean's hair with the other.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Almost like a person."
"Good." Cas leans down, kissing Dean long and easy and slow. "You've been asleep almost three days; you should eat something and let your brother know you're still alive."
"Has he, um -- did he --"
"He's checked on you several times," Cas says, setting the book aside. "He was pleased to see you sleeping soundly. He also said -- and I quote -- 'took you long enough.'"
"Asshole," Dean snorts, wincing as he sits up. He's kind of queasy, and his back and shoulders ache like he lost a fight, and Cas is watching him, his eyes too wide and too blue. "I'm gonna eat, and then we should -- I don't know, talk or something."
"I love you," Cas says, like it's easy. "There's nothing else to discuss."
Cas/Dean | PG | ~900 words
For
--
Rowena hadn't lied; the Mark is an old curse, but it's just a curse, will come off if someone draws the right sigils, says the right words.
Dean doesn't know where Sam gets the dusty old parchment with the instructions, doesn't know what he paid or traded or gave up. He disappears with Cas for a couple days -- the morning after Dean almost killed them both in a blood-soaked rage -- then comes back white-lipped and exhausted, has dark circles under his eyes, speaks like he's dragging his voice up from the bottom of a well. Cas looks anxious as he grinds celandine with henbane and bird bones, his movements jerky, his mouth pursed like he has something to say but can't find the words, doesn't know where to start.
The last ingredient is the hardest.
"The next time I see any of you," Death says blandly, his gaze lingering too long on Cas as he bleeds into a copper bowl, "I expect to take you to your end."
Cas pours the hoodoo on Dean's arm and Sam recites the spell, and it hurts like fire, hurts like hell all over again, the Mark burning worse than it ever has, everything inside Dean twisting and writhing and dying. He screams himself hoarse, comes close to swallowing his tongue, passes out with the taste of sulfur in his mouth, wakes up to Cas lifting him off the dungeon floor.
"It's over," Cas says quietly. "It's done."
Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't have anything left. He feels scraped raw, open and exposed, hollowed out. He's just an empty shell without the rage, limp and worthless. He gets into bed because Sam and Cas lead him there. He doesn't think he can sleep -- is almost afraid to -- but he drifts off eventually, too drained to fight it.
He wakes up to Cas curled behind him; Cas is holding his arm, stroking his thumb over the place where the Mark used to be. Dean isn't sure he deserves it, but he's grateful for it -- the warmth, the tenderness, the fact that Cas didn't leave him alone -- so grateful he makes a noise in the back of his throat, small and soft and choked.
"Shh," Cas says, his mouth at the back of Dean's neck. "Go back to sleep."
Dean does as he's told. He doesn't dream.
He rolls over at some point in the night; when he wakes up again he's facing Cas, has head tucked under Cas' chin and his hand balled in the front of Cas' shirt. He tries not to move, afraid he'll ruin it, that Cas will pull away if he knows Dean's awake, but Cas shifts closer, kisses his forehead, gently touches his hair.
"You should be sleeping."
"I've been sleeping."
"The spell we worked didn't remove the Mark so much as give you the strength needed to reject it." Cas tugs Dean closer still, tucks his hand under Dean's shirt, holds it at the small of Dean's back. "You may feel weak and tired for a few days. Nauseous. Sore like you've overexerted yourself."
He shifts again, tangling their legs, and Dean closes his eyes.
"You don't have to, to --" Dean clears his throat, unable to say it. He wants this with Cas, wants it desperately, but not if Cas doesn't mean it, not if he's just babysitting because he thinks Dean can't be left alone. "You don't --"
"Do you remember anything you said after the spell took effect?"
"No."
Cas kisses Dean's forehead again, his mouth lingering. "You told me you love me. Right before you fell unconscious."
"Cas --"
"You said you wanted me to know -- you were convinced the cure was killing you."
Dean is silent for a moment; having it all out there is worse than an open wound. Finally, he says, "It's true."
"I know," Cas says simply. "I've always known. But you seemed unwilling to address it, so I never brought it up."
"Cas --"
Cas huffs and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Sleep a little more. You need it."
Dean wakes once to Cas behind him again, his chest a solid warmth against Dean's back, and again to Cas half underneath him, his head on Cas' shoulder and his arm around Cas' waist. The third time, Cas is sitting up beside him; he has his face hidden in Cas' thigh and his hand curled around the back of Cas' knee. Cas is reading a book with one hand, stroking Dean's hair with the other.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Almost like a person."
"Good." Cas leans down, kissing Dean long and easy and slow. "You've been asleep almost three days; you should eat something and let your brother know you're still alive."
"Has he, um -- did he --"
"He's checked on you several times," Cas says, setting the book aside. "He was pleased to see you sleeping soundly. He also said -- and I quote -- 'took you long enough.'"
"Asshole," Dean snorts, wincing as he sits up. He's kind of queasy, and his back and shoulders ache like he lost a fight, and Cas is watching him, his eyes too wide and too blue. "I'm gonna eat, and then we should -- I don't know, talk or something."
"I love you," Cas says, like it's easy. "There's nothing else to discuss."