Characters: Dean Winchester with Castiel.
Advisory: Dean’s potty mouth and alcohol abuse.
Spoilers: late Season V
Two tiny fics in response to prompts.
Comment fic: http://elizah-jane.livejournal.com/80572.html?page=5#comments
Prompt: AU of how Dean reacted about Castiel being in the hospital. Dean actually goes and gets Castiel himself. This means seeing Castiel on the hospital bed, in a hospital gown. And there's nothing more adorable and heartbreakingly cute than Castiel in a hospital gown. Therefore, hugs happen.
Warning: Unrepentant smarm.
The plan had been to wire some cash to Cas and he’d check himself out of the hospital, find his way to an airport, figure out how to buy a ticket, go on his first plane ride, land at the airport miles away from Bobby’s, figure out the bus schedules and make his way to the scrap yard.
Dean stood in the doorway of Cas’ hospital room, Impala keys in his pocket and eyes red from the overnight drive.
Cas slept in the middle of a twisted pile of bedding, curled on his side, clutching the edge of a sheet under his cheek. Stitches marred his left eyebrow; he couldn’t even heal a minor cut. It didn’t look like he could even climb out of bed, let alone try to zap his way to Bobby’s.
Cas shifted minutely, nose scrunching in pain. Waking further pulled muscles and he tensed into the spasm making it worse. There was a whisper of a pained keen under his breath.
Dean was beside his bed before he realised that he had moved. “Cas?”
“De--?” Cas rolled onto his back, wincing all the way. He rubbed tiredly at his left eye with the heel of his hand. “Dean?”
“Hey, don’t do that you’ll make it worse.” Dean caught his wrist stopping him from tearing the stitches.
“It hurts,” Cas said with all the whine of an upset five year old. “I don’t… I don’t know this. I don’t like it.”
“It gets better,” Dean said futilely and chewed on his bottom lip.
“Dean? Dean?” Cas blinked up at him. “You’re here? You’re really here. Oh.”
The look on his face was of utter relief.
“Hey,” Dean managed, he’d tried for something cocky but failed. There was a crack about eating the grapes, which he hadn’t actually brought as a traditional gift, hovering on his lips. But Cas wouldn’t get the joke. In the face of Cas’ open, guileless pleasure at his appearance he could only –-
“Damn it,” Dean said and pulled him in close, hands curling around shoulders which were too boney to hold the weight of wings.
“Oh.” A breathy exhalation brushed against Dean’s collar as Cas sagged into him. “Oh. I Fell and I was all alone.”
“You forgot about Team Free Will?” Dean said affectionately to the messy head of hair tucked against his neck. “Idiot.”
Comment fic http://vikki.livejournal.com/363643.html
Prompt: People don't touch Castiel, and he prefers it that way. (Or, the real reason why he paused before taking Sam's hand, and stared each time Anna made physical contact.)
Castiel’s skin hurts. The more tightly bound to his vessel’s body he becomes the more it hurts. From the beginning Jimmy’s so very human way of interacting with the Earth had provided a filter which Castiel had utilised on occasion when attempting to understand his charge and his charge’s perception of a changing world. Ultimately, a physical body is a thing of horror. Five mere senses supply a gamut of conflicting information. Taste and smell, he can largely ignore, and for the large part that which he smells and tastes is vile. Seeing and hearing are most definitely required, however, they are senses which are broadly comparable with an angel’s manner of experiencing the sphere of music and math. Touch, however, is necessary to prevent constant and aggravating and minor damage to his vessel’s body. He can -- or more accurately could -- heal any damage, but to walk requires the sense of touch.
A physical body crawls, reacts, bites, pinches, shivers, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ad infinitum. A simple touch can raise the tiny hairs on his skin, initiate rashes, break capillaries and cause involuntary muscle movement.
Castiel does not like being touched; the subsequent responses are outside his control.
“You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof.”
Castiel suspected that Dean deliberately used colloquial language to annoy him.
Dean swallowed a mouthful of beer and then set the bottle on the bar table between them. “Antsy,” he translated.
“I am not restless or fidgety.” Castiel set his arms deliberately on the plastic table top. He kept his hands clear of the sticky surface.
Dean rolled his eyes (something which Castiel found fascinating but had decided not to attempt at any time) and pushed the second bottle he had purchased at the bar counter into Castiel’s hands. Castiel flinched at the cold, wet-beaded surface.
“Dude, tone it down.”
“What?” Could humans manage their responses to their visceral reactions?
Dean rotated his fingers in a tight circle an inch away from the side of head. Castiel did not understand what the gesture implied.
“Have a drink; relax. I’d say chill, but you’d probably think I wanted you to get cold,” Dean said.
‘Dean can,’ Castiel thought precisely, ‘be taught.’
“This amount of alcohol will not have an effect on my metabolism.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, it was somehow both mocking and questioning. The ‘are you sure, now?’ was as clear as the written word.
The beer was cold on his tongue and bitter-sharp on the back of his throat. The liquid then curled in his stomach. Castiel tipped his head back and swallowed down the entire contents of the bottle. Dean watched wide eyed as Castiel plucked the bottle from his hands and drank.
“Hey!” he said, affronted.
Castiel focused on the sensation in this gut: cold; effervescent and tart. Dean was waving the bar wench over. She slammed down a bottle of amber substance and two small glasses and then stalked away. Dean’s grin could only be described as wolfish as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle. Cas remembered this game – Dean was not going to win.
“Bring it on, sucker.” Dean, apparently, also could read minds.
As they started on the second bottle there was a soundless crack somewhere deep with Castiel’s body and he sagged back against the wooden booth seat.
“Feeling better?” Dean asked. Castiel noted, with some satisfaction, that Dean was sagging to a significantly greater degree.
Castiel clicked his thumb and index finger together, feeling removed from the action. It was an interesting sensation. The lingering scratch of Jimmy’s ill fitting clothes did not aggravate him. The infinitesimal growth of hairs on his pale body did not tickle him.
“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Dean pulled the bottle out of reach.
Castiel crooked his finger, drawing the bottle towards him. Dean clamped his hands around the neck holding it tight as it jerked.
“Release the bottle.”
“Like hell I will. Cas, stop it.” Dean glanced at the disreputable denizens of the tavern. “Jesus, Cas, they’re just people. Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Disreputable denizens of the tavern. And it’s not a tavern it’s a bar.”
“Oh.” He had spoken out loud without realising it. How could that happen? He was by no means omniscient but he was fully focussed on events around him. This was a new experience – amongst so many new experiences.
“Cas? You all right?” Dean reached over and tapped the back of his hand; the sensation of touch was muted. It was just a touch and it could be described as gentle. “Are you in there?”
Cas contemplated Dean in all his Glory. The aurora of light around him was palpable. He could reach out and touch it. Dean’s eyes were remarkably green in the amber light. The wonder of God’s creation was arrayed before him. Basking in the light, Cas smiled.
“Yes, Dean, I am here.”
Alcohol was awesome.