[Fic: Supernatural] "just for me"
Apr. 15th, 2009 01:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rocknloadTitle: just for me
Author: Brittany
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Words: ~900
Author's Notes: I am annoyed that Supernatural has jumped from being that one show I just can't quit to totally engrossing me once again. No matter how corny they get. No matter how much this plot drags on. Goddamnit. You know, I actually feel guilty about the bashing I've done on the characters over the last few months? I honestly, seriously, really do. You know what I am? SICK. I AM SICK.
*
“So if you’re my guardian angel, who’s sitting on my other shoulder?”
Castiel hears his question, and ignores it. “Are you alright?”
Dean hears his question, too, and he doesn’t act any more mature. “Holy shit,” he says. He uses the front his shirt to wipe the blood and brain matter off of his face, and he’s doing that to make a point, because on a good day Dean could marinate in human innards for all it mattered to him. Familiarity breeds contempt, so Castiel has heard, but it’s irrelevant. The Winchesters can hate the familiar all they like and at the end of the day all they have is the blood and grief.
“Sam isn’t here,” Castiel says. It’s not a question, because Castiel doesn’t need to ask—he knows Sam isn’t here just because the hairs on the back of his neck aren’t standing up on their own. The warehouse is empty except for the two of them, and the dead man on the floor is just that: dead. Castiel heard his heart stop beating minutes ago. Two more are unconscious outside, a man and a woman, and their positions by the door make it obvious what a shoddy ambush this was. “You came here alone.”
Dean rolls his eyes—Castiel can’t see his face clearly in the dark, but he’s developing a knack for this sort of thing. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a knack for stating the obvious?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Dean opens his mouth and closes it, frowning. “Okay,” he says. “Wow. That’s new.”
“No, Dean,” Castiel says. “It isn’t.”
Dean scratches the back of his head and crouches down, avoiding any chance of continuing this conversation, and it bothers Castiel that he knows that, too. Dean’s easy to read, and even though his face is blank as he rolls the body over, it’s obvious what he’s thinking. “You know,” he says. “You could’ve exorcized the demon. You could’ve let this poor son of a bitch live.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“Don’t you all have some kinda rule about killing people? Some kinda commandment, maybe? I know you guys like to play hard and fast with the rules but I figured you’d at least try if it wasn’t too much trouble for—”
“Dean. There wasn’t time.”
“—but, hey, sorry, I forgot, you don’t really care about people, do you? I mean, you had a chance, and you—”
“Dean. He was going to kill you.” Castiel narrows his eyes, allowing his carefully neutral expression to slip. He’s almost glaring. “And you were going to let him.”
Dean stands up, keeping his eyes fixed on the body, or maybe he’s just looking the ground. “He said he had something to tell me. He said he had some—he said he’d tell me—I made a judgment call, Cass, okay? You were watching me the whole fucking time, I don’t know why I have to explain this crap to you.”
“If I had been watching you, I would’ve stopped you before you left your room.”
“Yeah, right.” Dean shrugs his shoulders like a petulant child, he turns on his heel and sticks his hands in his pockets and heads for the door. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”
“You should. It’s true.” When Dean doesn’t turn around, Castiel raises his hand and the door slams shut.
Dean does stop, then, and snorts. “Neat trick. Did you lock it?”
“Dean, what did this man tell you?”
“You mean the dead guy?”
“What did he offer you? What did he say that you couldn’t tell your brother?”
“He said he knew…” Dean leans his head back towards the ceiling, sighing loudly. Then he says, “It doesn’t matter, Cass. There aren’t any answers, are there?”
Castiel can’t blame Dean..
He carefully reconstructs the events of this evening in his mind, what happened to Dean while he was away. He imagines Dean lying to his brother, he imagines sneaking out of his motel room, he imagines Dean coming to this desolate set piece in Chuck Shirley’s Winchester Gospels. He pictures Dean’s face as he realizes what he’s known all along, and he remembers what he saw—Dean’s slumped shoulders and empty face. He was beaten before the demon could even land a blow, because he’s right. There are no answers here.
Castiel doesn’t know what he can say. He understands that there’s no point in saying sorry, so he says the next worst thing: “Don’t make the same mistakes as your brother, Dean.”
“Thanks,” Dean says. “Thanks for that. Think you can save your moral of the story speech for another time?”
Dean’s asking permission to leave. Not blatantly, he has too much pride for that, but they both know Castiel has the power to compel him to say, and they both know he wants to. Maybe his uncharacteristic complacency would be jarring, but only if he didn’t seem so exhausted—in the tone of his voice, in his posture, in his eyes before he turned his back.
Castiel waves his hand, and the door swings slowly open. “Dean,” he says. “You know that I am sorry.”
Dean hesitates before he walks out. “Yeah,” he said. “I kinda do.”
*
Author: Brittany
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Words: ~900
Author's Notes: I am annoyed that Supernatural has jumped from being that one show I just can't quit to totally engrossing me once again. No matter how corny they get. No matter how much this plot drags on. Goddamnit. You know, I actually feel guilty about the bashing I've done on the characters over the last few months? I honestly, seriously, really do. You know what I am? SICK. I AM SICK.
*
“So if you’re my guardian angel, who’s sitting on my other shoulder?”
Castiel hears his question, and ignores it. “Are you alright?”
Dean hears his question, too, and he doesn’t act any more mature. “Holy shit,” he says. He uses the front his shirt to wipe the blood and brain matter off of his face, and he’s doing that to make a point, because on a good day Dean could marinate in human innards for all it mattered to him. Familiarity breeds contempt, so Castiel has heard, but it’s irrelevant. The Winchesters can hate the familiar all they like and at the end of the day all they have is the blood and grief.
“Sam isn’t here,” Castiel says. It’s not a question, because Castiel doesn’t need to ask—he knows Sam isn’t here just because the hairs on the back of his neck aren’t standing up on their own. The warehouse is empty except for the two of them, and the dead man on the floor is just that: dead. Castiel heard his heart stop beating minutes ago. Two more are unconscious outside, a man and a woman, and their positions by the door make it obvious what a shoddy ambush this was. “You came here alone.”
Dean rolls his eyes—Castiel can’t see his face clearly in the dark, but he’s developing a knack for this sort of thing. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a knack for stating the obvious?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Dean opens his mouth and closes it, frowning. “Okay,” he says. “Wow. That’s new.”
“No, Dean,” Castiel says. “It isn’t.”
Dean scratches the back of his head and crouches down, avoiding any chance of continuing this conversation, and it bothers Castiel that he knows that, too. Dean’s easy to read, and even though his face is blank as he rolls the body over, it’s obvious what he’s thinking. “You know,” he says. “You could’ve exorcized the demon. You could’ve let this poor son of a bitch live.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“Don’t you all have some kinda rule about killing people? Some kinda commandment, maybe? I know you guys like to play hard and fast with the rules but I figured you’d at least try if it wasn’t too much trouble for—”
“Dean. There wasn’t time.”
“—but, hey, sorry, I forgot, you don’t really care about people, do you? I mean, you had a chance, and you—”
“Dean. He was going to kill you.” Castiel narrows his eyes, allowing his carefully neutral expression to slip. He’s almost glaring. “And you were going to let him.”
Dean stands up, keeping his eyes fixed on the body, or maybe he’s just looking the ground. “He said he had something to tell me. He said he had some—he said he’d tell me—I made a judgment call, Cass, okay? You were watching me the whole fucking time, I don’t know why I have to explain this crap to you.”
“If I had been watching you, I would’ve stopped you before you left your room.”
“Yeah, right.” Dean shrugs his shoulders like a petulant child, he turns on his heel and sticks his hands in his pockets and heads for the door. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”
“You should. It’s true.” When Dean doesn’t turn around, Castiel raises his hand and the door slams shut.
Dean does stop, then, and snorts. “Neat trick. Did you lock it?”
“Dean, what did this man tell you?”
“You mean the dead guy?”
“What did he offer you? What did he say that you couldn’t tell your brother?”
“He said he knew…” Dean leans his head back towards the ceiling, sighing loudly. Then he says, “It doesn’t matter, Cass. There aren’t any answers, are there?”
Castiel can’t blame Dean..
He carefully reconstructs the events of this evening in his mind, what happened to Dean while he was away. He imagines Dean lying to his brother, he imagines sneaking out of his motel room, he imagines Dean coming to this desolate set piece in Chuck Shirley’s Winchester Gospels. He pictures Dean’s face as he realizes what he’s known all along, and he remembers what he saw—Dean’s slumped shoulders and empty face. He was beaten before the demon could even land a blow, because he’s right. There are no answers here.
Castiel doesn’t know what he can say. He understands that there’s no point in saying sorry, so he says the next worst thing: “Don’t make the same mistakes as your brother, Dean.”
“Thanks,” Dean says. “Thanks for that. Think you can save your moral of the story speech for another time?”
Dean’s asking permission to leave. Not blatantly, he has too much pride for that, but they both know Castiel has the power to compel him to say, and they both know he wants to. Maybe his uncharacteristic complacency would be jarring, but only if he didn’t seem so exhausted—in the tone of his voice, in his posture, in his eyes before he turned his back.
Castiel waves his hand, and the door swings slowly open. “Dean,” he says. “You know that I am sorry.”
Dean hesitates before he walks out. “Yeah,” he said. “I kinda do.”
*
