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spn fic: in quiet
Title: in quiet
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,400
Summary: Dean looks up at him. They're close enough to kiss, close enough that Dean would just need to tip his head up and lean in.
Notes: Secondary 11x02 coda, because I have no self-control. Spoilers for the 11x03 extended promo. For![[personal profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/1150150-98729/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
loversantiquities.
[AO3]
in quiet
By midnight, Sam is yawning and nodding into his laptop. He looks exhausted, heavy-eyed and white around the mouth. The cup of coffee cooling at his elbow is his fourth, maybe his fifth.
"Why don't you hit the sack," Dean offers. A dull headache is thrumming behind his eyes. "I mean, this is --" he waves his hand at all the junk on the table "-- we got nothing."
Sam opens his mouth, but whatever he plans to say gets sliced in half with another yawn. Sighing, he leans his elbows on the table and rubs the space between his eyebrows with his thumbs. "Yeah, all right. We can get an early start tomorrow."
"On what? We don't even know what we're looking for."
"The last time we stayed at Rufus' place, I found a box of Bobby's papers in the basement. It was pretty out there, like Mesopotamian folklore translated from Cuneiform, but --"
"Rufus' -- You wanna go to Montana?" Dean asks, because he's too tired to deal with the rest of that sentence. Whitefish is a two-day haul in good weather, and the weather is pretty much always lousy north of Great Falls. "Tomorrow?"
"No," Sam says, pulling a face. "I stashed it in a storage lock-up in Kearney. I've been meaning to move it here, but I never remember it when we're up that way."
"So Bobby translated Gilgamesh from the original, and you --"
"No, nothing like that." Sam yawns again, then stands and runs a hand through his hair. "It's pre-Biblical chaos magic. Like --"
"Chaos," Cas mutters. It's the first thing he's said since Sam mentioned that his curse was getting worse. "That... could be a profitable line of inquiry."
"Really?"
Cas shrugs a little, the blanket wrapped around him hitching up on one side. "For a value of profitable. The chances of you finding any human-written text relevant to the Darkness is well below a billionth of a percent."
Sam blinks at him. "Thanks, Cas."
"You asked," Cas says, shrugging again.
Sam shuffles out of the library. He takes his laptop and a couple of books, but he leaves his half-finished coffee on the table. The heater kicks on, warm air pushing through the vent above Dean's head with a soft whistle. It doesn't really help; the ancient boiler in the basement isn't a match for the bunker's size. Cas coughs, low and deep, curling in on himself as something wet rattles in his chest.
"Hey," Dean says, snapping his laptop closed. He's been staring at the same blank google page for at least a half an hour. "Maybe you oughta call it a night."
"Angels don't sleep."
"Yeah, well, no one ever said you guys were bright. Sleeping is easily my third favorite thing to do." Dean stands and stretches, wincing a little when his shoulder pops, then walks over to Cas. The grayish cast to his face makes something ache inside Dean's chest. "C'mon. Stretch out for a couple hours. I know that chair ain't comfortable."
Cas studies him for a moment, his bloodshot eyes narrowed. Eventually, he nods. "Okay."
"Okay." Dean crouches between Cas' legs and fumbles with the chain on his handcuffs, following it down to where it's fastened to the floor. It jangles softly, and Dean says, "Sorry," for what feels like the hundredth time. He hates this, but they didn't have too many alternatives. They're down to less than a handful of holy oil. "I'm not --"
"I don't want to hurt you."
Dean looks up at him. They're close enough to kiss, close enough that Dean would just need to tip his head up and lean in. They've done it before, maybe half a dozen times. On a few bad apocalypse nights, and once right after Cas came back from purgatory. Again when Cas was human, and again after Dean killed Cain.
Instead, he presses his mouth to Cas' temple and brushes his hand through Cas' hair. Cas smells like sweat. He's shivering, but he's also giving off heat like a furnace. Dean is terrified that he's going to die, terrified like he's staring down the barrel of a gun. A rough, anxious fist is squeezing everything inside his throat.
"C'mon," he says again, patting Cas' knee as he pushes to his feet. "I'm getting tired just looking at you."
They shuffle out of the library together, Dean hovering at Cas' shoulder and Cas' chain dragging across the hardwood floor like something out of a horror movie. He's seems steady on his feet, but he moves slowly. Under the blanket, his shoulders are slumped. The heater kicks on again, humming low. In the hallway, Cas hesitates outside Dean's door.
"I," he starts, clearing his throat. "I -- um."
He doesn't want to be alone. "Hey -- yeah. That's cool. We can bunk together. If -- you know."
"I don't want to disturb you. I doubt you've slept well these last few days."
Dean snorts under his breath. He's so exhausted he can feel it in the soles of his feet, but there's no way he's sleeping tonight, not without a fistful of Nytol and a solid punch to the head. "I'm good. It's not like you snore."
Cas toes off his shoes, but he has trouble with his tie. Dean doesn't know if it's his own exhaustion, or something to do with the curse, or just the handcuffs making him clumsy; he gets the knot undone, but he just leaves it hanging there, the thin end caught in his collar and the fat end fluttering against his chest. Dean tugs it away and tosses it on the dresser.
"What about your coat?" he asks, digging in his pocket for the handcuff keys. "You might be more comfortable without it."
"I need the warmth," Cas says quietly. The bed creaks a little as he sits. After a moment, he sighs and rattles his chain. "You should secure this to something."
Anger slithers into Dean's gut like a snake; the next time he sees Rowena, he's stabbing her in the throat. "No way. You're good like that."
"Dean, I --"
"No." Dean unlocks the chain and lets it rattle to the floor. "You're not going to hurt me. Those cuffs are putting the squeeze on your mojo."
"I'm still stronger than you."
"Quit bragging and lie down."
The bed creaks again. Cas settles on his side, his blanket hiding everything but the top of his head. Dean unlaces his boots and tosses them toward the dresser, grunting under his breath as his feet start to ache. Behind him, Cas is breathing slow and even. Dean peels off his long-sleeve, then slots himself against Cas' back. The blanket is scratchy and smells strongly of mothballs. Cas makes a sad, soft noise and rolls over. He noses at Dean's jaw a little before tucking his face into the curve of Dean's neck.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Dean breathes into his hair. "Don't you apologize to me. Not after all the crap I did to you the other day."
"You weren't yourself."
Dean hadn't been himself. He'd still felt Cas' cheek shatter under his fist. He'd still had Cas' blood under his fingernails when he woke up the next morning. "Well, you ain't yourself right now."
"That's what frightens me. I could --"
"Shhhh," Dean says, his arm around Cas' waist and his mouth too close to Cas' cheek. "We'll figure this out. We'll get you fixed up."
"And if you can't?"
"Then you'll fight it out." Anxiety hammers and twists in Dean's chest; he clears his throat and forces his voice steady. "You swallowed a shitload of leviathan once and lived. I think you can take one little curse."
"Dean," Cas murmurs.
Dean shivers, something liquid and bright shifting under his skin. Cas nudges closer, his foot bumping Dean's shin. His cheek and jaw are stubble-rough against Dean's neck. Dean kisses the swell of his cheek and the fever-pink shell of his ear. Then he leans back enough to dig the key out of his pocket. The handcuffs unlock with a short, rusty sound.
"Dean, you --"
"I'm cold," Dean says, worming his hands underneath Cas' blanket. I want your arms around me. I'm tired of feeling like half a person. He closes his eyes. "C'mon. You ain't gonna hurt me."
Cas is silent for a long moment. Then he slides his arm around Dean's waist and exhales against Dean's jaw.
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,400
Summary: Dean looks up at him. They're close enough to kiss, close enough that Dean would just need to tip his head up and lean in.
Notes: Secondary 11x02 coda, because I have no self-control. Spoilers for the 11x03 extended promo. For
[AO3]
By midnight, Sam is yawning and nodding into his laptop. He looks exhausted, heavy-eyed and white around the mouth. The cup of coffee cooling at his elbow is his fourth, maybe his fifth.
"Why don't you hit the sack," Dean offers. A dull headache is thrumming behind his eyes. "I mean, this is --" he waves his hand at all the junk on the table "-- we got nothing."
Sam opens his mouth, but whatever he plans to say gets sliced in half with another yawn. Sighing, he leans his elbows on the table and rubs the space between his eyebrows with his thumbs. "Yeah, all right. We can get an early start tomorrow."
"On what? We don't even know what we're looking for."
"The last time we stayed at Rufus' place, I found a box of Bobby's papers in the basement. It was pretty out there, like Mesopotamian folklore translated from Cuneiform, but --"
"Rufus' -- You wanna go to Montana?" Dean asks, because he's too tired to deal with the rest of that sentence. Whitefish is a two-day haul in good weather, and the weather is pretty much always lousy north of Great Falls. "Tomorrow?"
"No," Sam says, pulling a face. "I stashed it in a storage lock-up in Kearney. I've been meaning to move it here, but I never remember it when we're up that way."
"So Bobby translated Gilgamesh from the original, and you --"
"No, nothing like that." Sam yawns again, then stands and runs a hand through his hair. "It's pre-Biblical chaos magic. Like --"
"Chaos," Cas mutters. It's the first thing he's said since Sam mentioned that his curse was getting worse. "That... could be a profitable line of inquiry."
"Really?"
Cas shrugs a little, the blanket wrapped around him hitching up on one side. "For a value of profitable. The chances of you finding any human-written text relevant to the Darkness is well below a billionth of a percent."
Sam blinks at him. "Thanks, Cas."
"You asked," Cas says, shrugging again.
Sam shuffles out of the library. He takes his laptop and a couple of books, but he leaves his half-finished coffee on the table. The heater kicks on, warm air pushing through the vent above Dean's head with a soft whistle. It doesn't really help; the ancient boiler in the basement isn't a match for the bunker's size. Cas coughs, low and deep, curling in on himself as something wet rattles in his chest.
"Hey," Dean says, snapping his laptop closed. He's been staring at the same blank google page for at least a half an hour. "Maybe you oughta call it a night."
"Angels don't sleep."
"Yeah, well, no one ever said you guys were bright. Sleeping is easily my third favorite thing to do." Dean stands and stretches, wincing a little when his shoulder pops, then walks over to Cas. The grayish cast to his face makes something ache inside Dean's chest. "C'mon. Stretch out for a couple hours. I know that chair ain't comfortable."
Cas studies him for a moment, his bloodshot eyes narrowed. Eventually, he nods. "Okay."
"Okay." Dean crouches between Cas' legs and fumbles with the chain on his handcuffs, following it down to where it's fastened to the floor. It jangles softly, and Dean says, "Sorry," for what feels like the hundredth time. He hates this, but they didn't have too many alternatives. They're down to less than a handful of holy oil. "I'm not --"
"I don't want to hurt you."
Dean looks up at him. They're close enough to kiss, close enough that Dean would just need to tip his head up and lean in. They've done it before, maybe half a dozen times. On a few bad apocalypse nights, and once right after Cas came back from purgatory. Again when Cas was human, and again after Dean killed Cain.
Instead, he presses his mouth to Cas' temple and brushes his hand through Cas' hair. Cas smells like sweat. He's shivering, but he's also giving off heat like a furnace. Dean is terrified that he's going to die, terrified like he's staring down the barrel of a gun. A rough, anxious fist is squeezing everything inside his throat.
"C'mon," he says again, patting Cas' knee as he pushes to his feet. "I'm getting tired just looking at you."
They shuffle out of the library together, Dean hovering at Cas' shoulder and Cas' chain dragging across the hardwood floor like something out of a horror movie. He's seems steady on his feet, but he moves slowly. Under the blanket, his shoulders are slumped. The heater kicks on again, humming low. In the hallway, Cas hesitates outside Dean's door.
"I," he starts, clearing his throat. "I -- um."
He doesn't want to be alone. "Hey -- yeah. That's cool. We can bunk together. If -- you know."
"I don't want to disturb you. I doubt you've slept well these last few days."
Dean snorts under his breath. He's so exhausted he can feel it in the soles of his feet, but there's no way he's sleeping tonight, not without a fistful of Nytol and a solid punch to the head. "I'm good. It's not like you snore."
Cas toes off his shoes, but he has trouble with his tie. Dean doesn't know if it's his own exhaustion, or something to do with the curse, or just the handcuffs making him clumsy; he gets the knot undone, but he just leaves it hanging there, the thin end caught in his collar and the fat end fluttering against his chest. Dean tugs it away and tosses it on the dresser.
"What about your coat?" he asks, digging in his pocket for the handcuff keys. "You might be more comfortable without it."
"I need the warmth," Cas says quietly. The bed creaks a little as he sits. After a moment, he sighs and rattles his chain. "You should secure this to something."
Anger slithers into Dean's gut like a snake; the next time he sees Rowena, he's stabbing her in the throat. "No way. You're good like that."
"Dean, I --"
"No." Dean unlocks the chain and lets it rattle to the floor. "You're not going to hurt me. Those cuffs are putting the squeeze on your mojo."
"I'm still stronger than you."
"Quit bragging and lie down."
The bed creaks again. Cas settles on his side, his blanket hiding everything but the top of his head. Dean unlaces his boots and tosses them toward the dresser, grunting under his breath as his feet start to ache. Behind him, Cas is breathing slow and even. Dean peels off his long-sleeve, then slots himself against Cas' back. The blanket is scratchy and smells strongly of mothballs. Cas makes a sad, soft noise and rolls over. He noses at Dean's jaw a little before tucking his face into the curve of Dean's neck.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Dean breathes into his hair. "Don't you apologize to me. Not after all the crap I did to you the other day."
"You weren't yourself."
Dean hadn't been himself. He'd still felt Cas' cheek shatter under his fist. He'd still had Cas' blood under his fingernails when he woke up the next morning. "Well, you ain't yourself right now."
"That's what frightens me. I could --"
"Shhhh," Dean says, his arm around Cas' waist and his mouth too close to Cas' cheek. "We'll figure this out. We'll get you fixed up."
"And if you can't?"
"Then you'll fight it out." Anxiety hammers and twists in Dean's chest; he clears his throat and forces his voice steady. "You swallowed a shitload of leviathan once and lived. I think you can take one little curse."
"Dean," Cas murmurs.
Dean shivers, something liquid and bright shifting under his skin. Cas nudges closer, his foot bumping Dean's shin. His cheek and jaw are stubble-rough against Dean's neck. Dean kisses the swell of his cheek and the fever-pink shell of his ear. Then he leans back enough to dig the key out of his pocket. The handcuffs unlock with a short, rusty sound.
"Dean, you --"
"I'm cold," Dean says, worming his hands underneath Cas' blanket. I want your arms around me. I'm tired of feeling like half a person. He closes his eyes. "C'mon. You ain't gonna hurt me."
Cas is silent for a long moment. Then he slides his arm around Dean's waist and exhales against Dean's jaw.