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spn fic: stars to fill my dreams
Title: stars to fill my dream
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,200
Summary: There is something comforting about allowing himself to feel wronged.
Notes: Episode tag; spoilers for 10x22.
[AO3]
stars to fill my dreams
It's easier to just remain on the floor.
The depth of the bunker and the constant drone of its machinery make it difficult to gauge time without a clock; Cas doesn't know how long he lies there, a chill seeping into his sore shoulders as he stares up at the dusty ceiling. The pain ebbs and flows -- pain he could banish in an instant. He could heal himself with half a thought; instead, he grits his teeth against the throbs and aches of his vessel trying to right itself, the blood siphoning away from his bruises, the tears in his skin slowly knitting smooth.
He knows that he's wallowing. It's a stupid thing to do, stupid and human, and it will achieve nothing, but there is something oddly comforting about it -- about allowing himself to dwell on his sorrow, about allowing himself to feel wronged. Rowena had laughed at the idea of him rejecting heaven, and again when he had confessed his lapses, but the truth is he grows more human every day. His emotions have become a maelstrom his grace can barely contain; sooner or later he will drown in them.
He's not angry at Dean -- not his Dean. The Dean who attacked him had been a creature of Cain's malice, driven by the fury and violence of Cain's curse. Cas understands that all too well; he knows what it's like to be under the thumb of something older and more powerful, to be manipulated into horrific actions like a puppet on a string. He hadn't fought back because he'd feared exacerbating Dean's rage. He'd feared pushing things to a point of no return, to a place where Dean lost himself forever. Right before he brought the angel blade down, something had flickered behind Dean's eyes. It's a slim hope, but Cas can't help but cling to it by his fingernails.
The break in Cas' arm is clean, but it sets with an unsettling susurrus, a noise like tires over wet gravel but also like a fork scraping an empty plate. There's a hint of sulfur in the air, a trace so bare a human nose wouldn't be able to sense it.
Cas' phone buzzes in his pocket; it's Sam reporting that he's about two hours from the bunker. Standing, Cas waves the oily stench of gasoline from the air, digging his grace into the fibers of the floorboards, gathering the molecules and whisking them away. The books are older and more delicate; he'll need to cleanse them one at a time.
+
Cas isn't surprised when he hears footsteps. They take the front staircase slowly, and they pause guiltily at the entrance to the library.
"I just cleaned in here," Cas says without turning around. "If we're going to fight again, I'd prefer it if we went outside."
"Cas," Dean says, and the rough, beaten timbre of his voice slides under Cas' skin like a knife. "Cas, I -- are you, are --"
"I'm healed."
Another pause: Dean's breathing is shallow and uneven, and Cas finally looks at him, setting the book in his hand on the table as he turns around. The color has returned to his face, and while his eyes are haunted they are clearer than they were earlier, brighter. He still has blood on his cheek, a long smear that stretches down toward his jaw.
He takes a few steps toward Cas, then stops, shifting his feet uncertainly. Cas' tie is still crooked and spattered with blood, and Dean clenches his fist at his side as Cas straightens it. Cas readies himself, drawing his grace so close to the surface that it's nearly crackling between his fingers, but Dean is shaking, avoiding Cas' eyes.
"I know apologies are difficult for you," Cas says quietly, "but this might be your worst one yet."
"Cas, I -- I can't, I can't --" Dean clears his throat, works his mouth like the words are choking him "-- there's nothing I -- nothing I do is ever gonna make this right."
"Then why are you here?"
"I came -- I didn't think you'd be here. I came back to get some stuff before I, before --"
"Before you run away?"
Dean deflates a little, his shoulders slumping and the tension draining from his arms, his hands. "Running's the only thing I got left. I can't die, and the Mark ain't going away. All I can do now is --"
"Abandon the people who love you?"
"You'd be better off," Dean mutters. He looks exhausted, completely hollowed out. "Sam'll get himself killed trying to fix this shit, just like Charlie did, and you -- you said, you said you didn't wanna watch me go off the rails."
"I said I didn't want to. I never said I wouldn't."
"Cas, please." Dean's hands are clenched into fists again, and he leans one knuckle-first against the table, taking a deep breath. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth it."
He's standing in front of Cas now, less than a foot away, and Cas thinks -- strangely -- of the first few months after Dean had returned to earth, how Dean had drifted toward him while simultaneously pulling away from him, drawn in by the bond forged between them in hell but unsettled by Cas' power, his obvious inhumanity. Cas had scoffed when Uriel accused him of being compromised, but he realizes now he'd waxed and waned around Dean in the same way, transfixed by the vast sweep of Dean's emotions, by how relentlessly he'd lived and fought and loved, how he'd done those things by choice.
"What I think you're worth is not for you to decide."
Slowly, carefully, Dean reaches for him. He brushes his knuckles up the side of Cas' jaw, then runs his fingers over the cheek that's no longer bruised, the nose he broke earlier, the lip he split. He lingers there no longer than a heartbeat, but Cas can't stop the noise he makes, breathy and soft. This thing between them has always teetered on the edge of a knife, precariously balanced by Dean's fear of vulnerability and Cas' fear of pushing too far and driving Dean away.
Dean draws Cas into a hug, wrapping his arm around Cas' waist, sliding his other hand into Cas' hair. He sifts his fingers through the strands, soft, soft, and he strokes his thumb over the dip behind Cas' ear, his mouth brushing Cas' temple as he mumbles, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over and over. He's crying; Cas can't see it with his face hidden against Dean's neck, but he can feel the tremor in Dean's shoulders, hear the wet catch in his voice. He smells like blood and sweat, and Cas noses in closer, breathing it in, pressing his lips to Dean's skin as Dean's hand runs up his back, pausing solid and warm in the stretch between his shoulders.
When Cas finally tips his head up, Dean doesn't pull away. Instead, he kisses Cas soft and sweet and slow, his hands shaking as he cradles Cas' jaw. The love Cas has carried for years aches with it, thrumming deep beneath Cas' ribs.
"This isn't goodbye," Cas says, his hand at the hollow of Dean's throat.
"I told you, running's the only thing I got left."
"You know I'm just going to follow you."
"Yeah," Dean says, against the corner of Cas' mouth. "I know."
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,200
Summary: There is something comforting about allowing himself to feel wronged.
Notes: Episode tag; spoilers for 10x22.
[AO3]
It's easier to just remain on the floor.
The depth of the bunker and the constant drone of its machinery make it difficult to gauge time without a clock; Cas doesn't know how long he lies there, a chill seeping into his sore shoulders as he stares up at the dusty ceiling. The pain ebbs and flows -- pain he could banish in an instant. He could heal himself with half a thought; instead, he grits his teeth against the throbs and aches of his vessel trying to right itself, the blood siphoning away from his bruises, the tears in his skin slowly knitting smooth.
He knows that he's wallowing. It's a stupid thing to do, stupid and human, and it will achieve nothing, but there is something oddly comforting about it -- about allowing himself to dwell on his sorrow, about allowing himself to feel wronged. Rowena had laughed at the idea of him rejecting heaven, and again when he had confessed his lapses, but the truth is he grows more human every day. His emotions have become a maelstrom his grace can barely contain; sooner or later he will drown in them.
He's not angry at Dean -- not his Dean. The Dean who attacked him had been a creature of Cain's malice, driven by the fury and violence of Cain's curse. Cas understands that all too well; he knows what it's like to be under the thumb of something older and more powerful, to be manipulated into horrific actions like a puppet on a string. He hadn't fought back because he'd feared exacerbating Dean's rage. He'd feared pushing things to a point of no return, to a place where Dean lost himself forever. Right before he brought the angel blade down, something had flickered behind Dean's eyes. It's a slim hope, but Cas can't help but cling to it by his fingernails.
The break in Cas' arm is clean, but it sets with an unsettling susurrus, a noise like tires over wet gravel but also like a fork scraping an empty plate. There's a hint of sulfur in the air, a trace so bare a human nose wouldn't be able to sense it.
Cas' phone buzzes in his pocket; it's Sam reporting that he's about two hours from the bunker. Standing, Cas waves the oily stench of gasoline from the air, digging his grace into the fibers of the floorboards, gathering the molecules and whisking them away. The books are older and more delicate; he'll need to cleanse them one at a time.
+
Cas isn't surprised when he hears footsteps. They take the front staircase slowly, and they pause guiltily at the entrance to the library.
"I just cleaned in here," Cas says without turning around. "If we're going to fight again, I'd prefer it if we went outside."
"Cas," Dean says, and the rough, beaten timbre of his voice slides under Cas' skin like a knife. "Cas, I -- are you, are --"
"I'm healed."
Another pause: Dean's breathing is shallow and uneven, and Cas finally looks at him, setting the book in his hand on the table as he turns around. The color has returned to his face, and while his eyes are haunted they are clearer than they were earlier, brighter. He still has blood on his cheek, a long smear that stretches down toward his jaw.
He takes a few steps toward Cas, then stops, shifting his feet uncertainly. Cas' tie is still crooked and spattered with blood, and Dean clenches his fist at his side as Cas straightens it. Cas readies himself, drawing his grace so close to the surface that it's nearly crackling between his fingers, but Dean is shaking, avoiding Cas' eyes.
"I know apologies are difficult for you," Cas says quietly, "but this might be your worst one yet."
"Cas, I -- I can't, I can't --" Dean clears his throat, works his mouth like the words are choking him "-- there's nothing I -- nothing I do is ever gonna make this right."
"Then why are you here?"
"I came -- I didn't think you'd be here. I came back to get some stuff before I, before --"
"Before you run away?"
Dean deflates a little, his shoulders slumping and the tension draining from his arms, his hands. "Running's the only thing I got left. I can't die, and the Mark ain't going away. All I can do now is --"
"Abandon the people who love you?"
"You'd be better off," Dean mutters. He looks exhausted, completely hollowed out. "Sam'll get himself killed trying to fix this shit, just like Charlie did, and you -- you said, you said you didn't wanna watch me go off the rails."
"I said I didn't want to. I never said I wouldn't."
"Cas, please." Dean's hands are clenched into fists again, and he leans one knuckle-first against the table, taking a deep breath. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth it."
He's standing in front of Cas now, less than a foot away, and Cas thinks -- strangely -- of the first few months after Dean had returned to earth, how Dean had drifted toward him while simultaneously pulling away from him, drawn in by the bond forged between them in hell but unsettled by Cas' power, his obvious inhumanity. Cas had scoffed when Uriel accused him of being compromised, but he realizes now he'd waxed and waned around Dean in the same way, transfixed by the vast sweep of Dean's emotions, by how relentlessly he'd lived and fought and loved, how he'd done those things by choice.
"What I think you're worth is not for you to decide."
Slowly, carefully, Dean reaches for him. He brushes his knuckles up the side of Cas' jaw, then runs his fingers over the cheek that's no longer bruised, the nose he broke earlier, the lip he split. He lingers there no longer than a heartbeat, but Cas can't stop the noise he makes, breathy and soft. This thing between them has always teetered on the edge of a knife, precariously balanced by Dean's fear of vulnerability and Cas' fear of pushing too far and driving Dean away.
Dean draws Cas into a hug, wrapping his arm around Cas' waist, sliding his other hand into Cas' hair. He sifts his fingers through the strands, soft, soft, and he strokes his thumb over the dip behind Cas' ear, his mouth brushing Cas' temple as he mumbles, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over and over. He's crying; Cas can't see it with his face hidden against Dean's neck, but he can feel the tremor in Dean's shoulders, hear the wet catch in his voice. He smells like blood and sweat, and Cas noses in closer, breathing it in, pressing his lips to Dean's skin as Dean's hand runs up his back, pausing solid and warm in the stretch between his shoulders.
When Cas finally tips his head up, Dean doesn't pull away. Instead, he kisses Cas soft and sweet and slow, his hands shaking as he cradles Cas' jaw. The love Cas has carried for years aches with it, thrumming deep beneath Cas' ribs.
"This isn't goodbye," Cas says, his hand at the hollow of Dean's throat.
"I told you, running's the only thing I got left."
"You know I'm just going to follow you."
"Yeah," Dean says, against the corner of Cas' mouth. "I know."