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spn ficlet: nonesuch
nonesuch
Cas/Dean | gen | 600 words
Inspired by this photoset.
--
Watching Dean descend is terrifying.
Before Metatron cast him from heaven, Cas had never truly understood what that was like. He'd been afraid during the apocalypse, but that had been an abstract feeling, muted by his inhumanity and buried under a sense of resignation, the futility of fighting against something that had seemed inexorable, inevitable. He'd been afraid again in purgatory -- more for Dean than for himself -- but it had paled beside the weight of his guilt.
This is different, bone-deep and constant; it clamors inside him like a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his grace. He's often suspected he left a piece of himself behind when he pulled Dean from perdition -- only a sliver, but enough. The shadow on Dean's soul lengthens every day, and Cas feels it like a hand around his own throat.
"Cas," Dean says weakly, his eyes slowly regaining focus. Cain's bloodlust seems to roll over him like a wave, ebbing into a hollow sort of exhaustion; his hands shake as he offers Cas his knife.
"It's okay," Cas says. The body at Dean's feet is a shifter's, so that's only partially a lie.
"No, I -- no," Dean starts, but fear creeps underneath Cas' ribs -- fear that Dean will finally break down and ask -- so he gathers Dean close, holding one hand at the back of Dean's neck, letting his thumb brush the dip behind Dean's ear. It's a true measure of Dean's condition that he doesn't bristle, that he doesn't pretend he's not in need of comfort.
One day Dean will ask, and Cas will be forced to see the anger and betrayal on Dean's face when he refuses, when he admits that he isn't strong enough to do what Dean wants. He already killed Dean once. He already killed Dean a thousand times. Naomi's copies had been perfect: some had smiled at Cas and some had cursed at him; some had begged Cas not to do it, and some had promised things Cas had still then been pretending he didn't want.
Naomi's copies had been perfect, but the air around them hadn't hummed, the light of their souls hadn't stolen Cas' breath; standing beside them hadn't felt like something missing slotting into place.
Naomi's copies had been perfect, but none of them had been Dean.
Cas/Dean | gen | 600 words
Inspired by this photoset.
--
Watching Dean descend is terrifying.
Before Metatron cast him from heaven, Cas had never truly understood what that was like. He'd been afraid during the apocalypse, but that had been an abstract feeling, muted by his inhumanity and buried under a sense of resignation, the futility of fighting against something that had seemed inexorable, inevitable. He'd been afraid again in purgatory -- more for Dean than for himself -- but it had paled beside the weight of his guilt.
This is different, bone-deep and constant; it clamors inside him like a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his grace. He's often suspected he left a piece of himself behind when he pulled Dean from perdition -- only a sliver, but enough. The shadow on Dean's soul lengthens every day, and Cas feels it like a hand around his own throat.
"Cas," Dean says weakly, his eyes slowly regaining focus. Cain's bloodlust seems to roll over him like a wave, ebbing into a hollow sort of exhaustion; his hands shake as he offers Cas his knife.
"It's okay," Cas says. The body at Dean's feet is a shifter's, so that's only partially a lie.
"No, I -- no," Dean starts, but fear creeps underneath Cas' ribs -- fear that Dean will finally break down and ask -- so he gathers Dean close, holding one hand at the back of Dean's neck, letting his thumb brush the dip behind Dean's ear. It's a true measure of Dean's condition that he doesn't bristle, that he doesn't pretend he's not in need of comfort.
One day Dean will ask, and Cas will be forced to see the anger and betrayal on Dean's face when he refuses, when he admits that he isn't strong enough to do what Dean wants. He already killed Dean once. He already killed Dean a thousand times. Naomi's copies had been perfect: some had smiled at Cas and some had cursed at him; some had begged Cas not to do it, and some had promised things Cas had still then been pretending he didn't want.
Naomi's copies had been perfect, but the air around them hadn't hummed, the light of their souls hadn't stolen Cas' breath; standing beside them hadn't felt like something missing slotting into place.
Naomi's copies had been perfect, but none of them had been Dean.