New fic: Levamentum
Apr. 1st, 2010 12:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eretriaI'm so new to this fandom that I don't even have an icon yet. I blame murron and gabby_silang for everything
Title: Levamentum
Author:eretria
Fandom Supernatural
Set after season 5's: “The song remains the same”
Dean and Castiel. Can be read as gen or pre-slash
Summary: "What the hell does he know about angels with long distance, time-jumping, Winchester-caused burn-out syndrome?"
Disclaimer: No profit gained or wanted. This is a present.
Happy birthday,murron.
Dean realises that he has never seen Castiel sleep before tonight. And that’s a resounding dissonance to see, because Cas shouldn't have to sleep. Shouldn't be unconscious. Dean looks at the dark russet stain marring the white pillows under Castiel’s cheek and suppresses a shiver. Castiel shouldn’t bleed.
He also realises that he has never seen the angel without his coat, never mind without shoes or socks. The bare ankles look absurdly fragile.
The sudden freak-out is belated, thanks to his earlier preoccupation with saving his parents from Anna, but forceful. Castiel had bled and angels, as far as Dean knows, don’t bleed unless something is really, drastically wrong. Here comes what he had pushed back, half a day ago in the now, that Cas had said the time-travelling would weaken him, but Dean hadn’t believed him. Cas had done it anyway. Done it like a good soldier and then collapsed.
Dean’s hand clenches into a fist, his knuckles cracking. Stupid. He’s not sure whom he means. Because Cas should have learned to say no by now, but hasn't. He bled. Dean swears he can still smell it. Ozone and copper, angel and human, the line has blurred. Blood, blood on a ragged cough, blood that means internal damage. Dean’s stomach roils; his scalp prickles. Cas should have healed himself. Should have bounced back. Dean had thought he would, back in the past. That it would only take a day and Cas would be back.
"Tough for a nerdy little guy with wings." The sentence comes back to haunt him, because he has no idea how tough Castiel really is. How much can he take before it’s too much? All Dean knows is that Cas isn’t supposed to be here like this. He's not supposed to be weak. He's not supposed to be so damn fragile. Not supposed to suffer because Dean and Sam have been selfish.
Dean pushes up and paces the room. He reaches for the bottle Sam hadn't touched again after that initial shot, before he went to get them food. Food. Dean uncorks the bourbon bottle with a reassuring, wet-hollow plop and takes a long swig. This would be better with food in his stomach, would slow the rush and make the hangover easier, but damn him if he cares. The alcohol burns going down, settling in his stomach like warm acid. His fingers curl around the bottle and he picks at the label until an edge slips underneath his fingernails and breaks the skin. The pain is sharp and grounding and Dean puts the bottle back on the table. A police car goes by outside, the siren a whining crescendo under the window, that to Dean, belongs to motels like rats do to dumpsters. He walks to the window, moves the curtain and sees the lights flash down the road, soon lost to the grey drizzle and the lights on the next intersection.
He lets go of the curtain and turns around when a bedspring creaks. Cas is curled in on himself, bare feet folding against his ass, undershirt rucked up, bare arms clutching himself, a picture of misery. Dean and Sam had stripped off Cas’s coat, suit jacket, tie and shirt earlier before they let the unresponsive body of the angel sink back to the bed. Farther up on the mattress than how they first dropped him, so Cas can rest instead of cramp up in the middle of the night.
Dean turns back and pulls the curtain closed out of habit, then steps away from the window to drag the chair from under it and drop it next to the bed. The bed that should be his, but he resigns himself to sleeping in the chair. Let Sam have the other bed. And Cas his. He owes him at least that. Even though Cas shouldn’t be unconscious or asleep in the first place.
Castiel shivers and Dean reaches for the grey, worn-out comforter half-hidden under the bedspread to cover him the same way he has Sammy hundreds of times.
The motel isn't bad. All right, the colours are an eyesore, but the floor is carpeted (no stains) and the sheets are clean. He's glad they chose to pay a little more tonight, to reward themselves for the day. It comes in handy now. Cas deserves to sleep it off in a decent bed, not in a roach-infested dump. The back of his hand brushes Castiel's face as he tucks the sheet up and... whoa. He snatches his hand back, because, ow. Castiel still shivers under the blankets and Dean inches closer, letting his hand hover over what’s visible of the angel's face. Heat greets him. Hotter than a regular fever, hot enough to burn the flesh of his fingers right down to the bone, and, man, that can't be good for Jimmy. He wonders if Castiel will burn, too, or if it's vice-versa, the angel setting Jimmy's body on fire.
His first instinct is to get wet rags, something to make the fever drop, but he stops before he has even risen from the chair. What the hell does he know about angels with long distance, time-jumping, Winchester-caused burn-out syndrome? Cas could be dying or healing, and the first thought grabs Dean’s neck with icy fingers and won’t let go. Dean’s not going to find out which option it is unless he wakes him and he’s not sure what that’d do to Cas. He knows what it’ll do to his vessel, though.
"Damned if you do, damned if you don’t."
The shivering gets worse. Even under the sheet, the comforter, and the bedspread, Castiel still seems to be freezing. Dean hates himself for what he does next, but he’s sure Castiel’s vessel will not survive the building heat with the blankets piled on top of him. He pulls the blankets back again. Heat greets him. Any other person’s face would be sweaty, with his hair matted wet to his skull; Cas’ skin is dry and he still looks pale, lips chapped, a trickle of blood remaining under his nose and along his cheek. Dean’s necklace – the amulet Castiel claims will help him find God – rests against Castiel’s collarbone.
It’s that necklace that suddenly draws Dean’s attention. He inches closer, out of curiosity and concern, and, damn it, it’s his after all, he needs to see if Mr Quest-for-the-Holy-Grail has taken care of it like he told him to.
It appears to have changed colour, no longer silver but a vague red. Dean’s close now, close enough to smell the mixture of musk and rain and wind that is all Castiel, heated, almost foreign in its familiarity. He takes in Castiel’s features, trying to distinguish between Jimmy and Cas and can’t. Both of them are in danger, both of them burn, shake, no – convulse - and Dean's heart stops for a long moment before it starts to beat against his ribcage like a ferocious animal. Convulsions. Castiel’s face contorts in pain. Panic claws at Dean’s mind, wild, unleashed. Damn it, damn it, he needs help, he can’t do this alone, can’t save a fucking angel and where the hell is that father Cas always talks about? Where is God when Cas really needs him?
Cas begins to thrash wildly, knocking over the lamp on the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor and plunging the room into semi-darkness. Dean reaches out, disregarding his own safety, and climbs on the bed, catching Castiel’s flailing arms, pinning his legs – so damn thin, has he always been this gaunt? - feels him buck against the sudden restraint. Cas does all of it silently, not a groan, not a sound, and it kills Dean, eats at his already crumbling walls. It would be easier if Cas would scream. Screaming, Dean can handle. Silence he can’t. Just the hissing of Castiel’s breath between clenched teeth is audible. Dean holds him down with all his might, expecting superhuman strength but getting nothing but tensed muscles that are decidedly human.
The fit eases when a car drives by, light slipping underneath the heavy curtains, bright and clear, gone too soon.
Dean lets go of Castiel with a shaky exhalation, patting the suddenly limp arms. He watches Castiel’s chest rise and fall for a good minute, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks at his hands. No burns. No pain. He frowns, flexes them, skin over bone, stretching but not hurting, reaches out again to check – but Cas is still burning up.
The amulet glows faintly in the semi-darkness.
Time crawls to a stop. Calm floods Deans veins. He realises, suddenly, that there is no need to fear the heat coming off Castiel’s skin. It’s not hurting Jimmy, either. It can’t hurt Jimmy, because Dean knows with the clarity of a spring morning that Jimmy is no longer. Jimmy’s soul is at peace, no longer trapped between worlds, waiting to return to a body it would never inhabit again. There's only Cas now, no longer in a vessel but in his own body. Not mortal, but closer to it than he ever has been before. The fever isn’t burning him. It’s forging a bond between angel and human shell, soldering together the pieces, cell by cell. Slowly and with infinite care.
There is something bigger at work here, bigger than Dean understands or even wants to comprehend. This isn’t the heavenly host. The angels aren’t suddenly welcoming the latest rogue angel back into their midst. This is older. Kinder. Powerful enough to make Dean sit still, not investigate and raise hell to find out what’s going on. Whatever’s happening here is helping Cas. That's all that matters right now. His furiously slamming heart slows, his limbs relax. It’s like a hot chocolate offered after a cold winter’s day, like being wrapped up in blankets and cradled close, comfort and safety. When his gaze seeks Castiel’s face, he sees the angel smiling, so content, so trusting, that it breaks Dean open and mends him in the next heartbeat. For glorious, endless moments, he feels at peace with himself.
Dean can’t say how long he sits next to Cas, just watching as the shivering stops and his muscles relax, the lines around Castiel’s eyes easing at last. Those bare feet look cold suddenly and once again Dean reaches for the comforter, pulling it up just enough to cover Castiel’s legs, then higher when Cas makes a low sound in his throat that sounds appreciative. Out of instinct, Dean gets up to get some water, because he has done this before too. He knows what Sam would need, knows what he would need, and Cas… Cas needs, too.
His thoughts are confirmed when he returns to the bed with a pitcher and a glass of water and Cas stares at him from bleary eyes, confused and groggy.
"Dean?" Voice gruff.
"Here." Dean sets the pitcher on the nightstand, pushes the glass of water at Cas, more forceful than necessary because he doesn’t want Cas to see it shaking in his hands. "Drink. You’ll need it."
"I don’t require—"
"Trust me on this one, buddy."
He reaches out when Cas attempts to grab the glass and misses, splattering water all over his chest, steadies the back of Castiel's neck and guides the glass to his chapped lips. The hair under his left hand is sweaty.
Cas downs it like a man dying of thirst and Dean refills it without even waiting for the plea in the angel’s eyes. Five glasses, six. Castiel’s lips shine moist when he finally finishes.
"If you wet the bed tonight, I’ll hurt you," Dean says and a flicker of a smile ghosts over Castiel’s face. Castiel’s. Not Jimmy’s.
"What happened?" Castiel asks.
"I have no idea." Dean shakes his head. "You tell me."
"I heard a voice," Castiel begins, then trails off. "Did you talk to me?"
Another shake of his head. "Not me."
Dean shivers, staring at the necklace resting on Castiel’ chest. It takes him a few seconds to clear his mind. "How did you get back here? How did you find us?"
Castiel looks at the amulet around his neck. "I think it wanted to get back to you as much as I did."
"Dean Winchester, Homing Beacon." Dean gives a short bark of laughter. "That’s a first."
"You should have it back," Castiel says and tries to sit up enough to remove the necklace.
Dean stops his hand midway. "Keep it."
"I had assumed—"
"Assume differently," Dean says. "Keep it." He pushes Castiel back into the pillows.
His hand ghosts past the amulet and this time he does yelp. It’s not Castiel’s skin; that is warm and soft as any human’s under Dean’s fingertips. When he pulls his hand back, the vague outline of the amulet has burned itself into the back of Dean’s hand. Castiel’s skin is unblemished.
The angel – no, Castiel - smiles.
Fin
Diligent, most lovely and helpful beta-readers:gabby_silang, auburnnothenna, blue_adagio. Thank you!
murron and gabby_silang for everythingTitle: Levamentum
Author:
eretriaFandom Supernatural
Set after season 5's: “The song remains the same”
Dean and Castiel. Can be read as gen or pre-slash
Summary: "What the hell does he know about angels with long distance, time-jumping, Winchester-caused burn-out syndrome?"
Disclaimer: No profit gained or wanted. This is a present.
Happy birthday,
murron.Dean realises that he has never seen Castiel sleep before tonight. And that’s a resounding dissonance to see, because Cas shouldn't have to sleep. Shouldn't be unconscious. Dean looks at the dark russet stain marring the white pillows under Castiel’s cheek and suppresses a shiver. Castiel shouldn’t bleed.
He also realises that he has never seen the angel without his coat, never mind without shoes or socks. The bare ankles look absurdly fragile.
The sudden freak-out is belated, thanks to his earlier preoccupation with saving his parents from Anna, but forceful. Castiel had bled and angels, as far as Dean knows, don’t bleed unless something is really, drastically wrong. Here comes what he had pushed back, half a day ago in the now, that Cas had said the time-travelling would weaken him, but Dean hadn’t believed him. Cas had done it anyway. Done it like a good soldier and then collapsed.
Dean’s hand clenches into a fist, his knuckles cracking. Stupid. He’s not sure whom he means. Because Cas should have learned to say no by now, but hasn't. He bled. Dean swears he can still smell it. Ozone and copper, angel and human, the line has blurred. Blood, blood on a ragged cough, blood that means internal damage. Dean’s stomach roils; his scalp prickles. Cas should have healed himself. Should have bounced back. Dean had thought he would, back in the past. That it would only take a day and Cas would be back.
"Tough for a nerdy little guy with wings." The sentence comes back to haunt him, because he has no idea how tough Castiel really is. How much can he take before it’s too much? All Dean knows is that Cas isn’t supposed to be here like this. He's not supposed to be weak. He's not supposed to be so damn fragile. Not supposed to suffer because Dean and Sam have been selfish.
Dean pushes up and paces the room. He reaches for the bottle Sam hadn't touched again after that initial shot, before he went to get them food. Food. Dean uncorks the bourbon bottle with a reassuring, wet-hollow plop and takes a long swig. This would be better with food in his stomach, would slow the rush and make the hangover easier, but damn him if he cares. The alcohol burns going down, settling in his stomach like warm acid. His fingers curl around the bottle and he picks at the label until an edge slips underneath his fingernails and breaks the skin. The pain is sharp and grounding and Dean puts the bottle back on the table. A police car goes by outside, the siren a whining crescendo under the window, that to Dean, belongs to motels like rats do to dumpsters. He walks to the window, moves the curtain and sees the lights flash down the road, soon lost to the grey drizzle and the lights on the next intersection.
He lets go of the curtain and turns around when a bedspring creaks. Cas is curled in on himself, bare feet folding against his ass, undershirt rucked up, bare arms clutching himself, a picture of misery. Dean and Sam had stripped off Cas’s coat, suit jacket, tie and shirt earlier before they let the unresponsive body of the angel sink back to the bed. Farther up on the mattress than how they first dropped him, so Cas can rest instead of cramp up in the middle of the night.
Dean turns back and pulls the curtain closed out of habit, then steps away from the window to drag the chair from under it and drop it next to the bed. The bed that should be his, but he resigns himself to sleeping in the chair. Let Sam have the other bed. And Cas his. He owes him at least that. Even though Cas shouldn’t be unconscious or asleep in the first place.
Castiel shivers and Dean reaches for the grey, worn-out comforter half-hidden under the bedspread to cover him the same way he has Sammy hundreds of times.
The motel isn't bad. All right, the colours are an eyesore, but the floor is carpeted (no stains) and the sheets are clean. He's glad they chose to pay a little more tonight, to reward themselves for the day. It comes in handy now. Cas deserves to sleep it off in a decent bed, not in a roach-infested dump. The back of his hand brushes Castiel's face as he tucks the sheet up and... whoa. He snatches his hand back, because, ow. Castiel still shivers under the blankets and Dean inches closer, letting his hand hover over what’s visible of the angel's face. Heat greets him. Hotter than a regular fever, hot enough to burn the flesh of his fingers right down to the bone, and, man, that can't be good for Jimmy. He wonders if Castiel will burn, too, or if it's vice-versa, the angel setting Jimmy's body on fire.
His first instinct is to get wet rags, something to make the fever drop, but he stops before he has even risen from the chair. What the hell does he know about angels with long distance, time-jumping, Winchester-caused burn-out syndrome? Cas could be dying or healing, and the first thought grabs Dean’s neck with icy fingers and won’t let go. Dean’s not going to find out which option it is unless he wakes him and he’s not sure what that’d do to Cas. He knows what it’ll do to his vessel, though.
"Damned if you do, damned if you don’t."
The shivering gets worse. Even under the sheet, the comforter, and the bedspread, Castiel still seems to be freezing. Dean hates himself for what he does next, but he’s sure Castiel’s vessel will not survive the building heat with the blankets piled on top of him. He pulls the blankets back again. Heat greets him. Any other person’s face would be sweaty, with his hair matted wet to his skull; Cas’ skin is dry and he still looks pale, lips chapped, a trickle of blood remaining under his nose and along his cheek. Dean’s necklace – the amulet Castiel claims will help him find God – rests against Castiel’s collarbone.
It’s that necklace that suddenly draws Dean’s attention. He inches closer, out of curiosity and concern, and, damn it, it’s his after all, he needs to see if Mr Quest-for-the-Holy-Grail has taken care of it like he told him to.
It appears to have changed colour, no longer silver but a vague red. Dean’s close now, close enough to smell the mixture of musk and rain and wind that is all Castiel, heated, almost foreign in its familiarity. He takes in Castiel’s features, trying to distinguish between Jimmy and Cas and can’t. Both of them are in danger, both of them burn, shake, no – convulse - and Dean's heart stops for a long moment before it starts to beat against his ribcage like a ferocious animal. Convulsions. Castiel’s face contorts in pain. Panic claws at Dean’s mind, wild, unleashed. Damn it, damn it, he needs help, he can’t do this alone, can’t save a fucking angel and where the hell is that father Cas always talks about? Where is God when Cas really needs him?
Cas begins to thrash wildly, knocking over the lamp on the nightstand, sending it crashing to the floor and plunging the room into semi-darkness. Dean reaches out, disregarding his own safety, and climbs on the bed, catching Castiel’s flailing arms, pinning his legs – so damn thin, has he always been this gaunt? - feels him buck against the sudden restraint. Cas does all of it silently, not a groan, not a sound, and it kills Dean, eats at his already crumbling walls. It would be easier if Cas would scream. Screaming, Dean can handle. Silence he can’t. Just the hissing of Castiel’s breath between clenched teeth is audible. Dean holds him down with all his might, expecting superhuman strength but getting nothing but tensed muscles that are decidedly human.
The fit eases when a car drives by, light slipping underneath the heavy curtains, bright and clear, gone too soon.
Dean lets go of Castiel with a shaky exhalation, patting the suddenly limp arms. He watches Castiel’s chest rise and fall for a good minute, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks at his hands. No burns. No pain. He frowns, flexes them, skin over bone, stretching but not hurting, reaches out again to check – but Cas is still burning up.
The amulet glows faintly in the semi-darkness.
Time crawls to a stop. Calm floods Deans veins. He realises, suddenly, that there is no need to fear the heat coming off Castiel’s skin. It’s not hurting Jimmy, either. It can’t hurt Jimmy, because Dean knows with the clarity of a spring morning that Jimmy is no longer. Jimmy’s soul is at peace, no longer trapped between worlds, waiting to return to a body it would never inhabit again. There's only Cas now, no longer in a vessel but in his own body. Not mortal, but closer to it than he ever has been before. The fever isn’t burning him. It’s forging a bond between angel and human shell, soldering together the pieces, cell by cell. Slowly and with infinite care.
There is something bigger at work here, bigger than Dean understands or even wants to comprehend. This isn’t the heavenly host. The angels aren’t suddenly welcoming the latest rogue angel back into their midst. This is older. Kinder. Powerful enough to make Dean sit still, not investigate and raise hell to find out what’s going on. Whatever’s happening here is helping Cas. That's all that matters right now. His furiously slamming heart slows, his limbs relax. It’s like a hot chocolate offered after a cold winter’s day, like being wrapped up in blankets and cradled close, comfort and safety. When his gaze seeks Castiel’s face, he sees the angel smiling, so content, so trusting, that it breaks Dean open and mends him in the next heartbeat. For glorious, endless moments, he feels at peace with himself.
Dean can’t say how long he sits next to Cas, just watching as the shivering stops and his muscles relax, the lines around Castiel’s eyes easing at last. Those bare feet look cold suddenly and once again Dean reaches for the comforter, pulling it up just enough to cover Castiel’s legs, then higher when Cas makes a low sound in his throat that sounds appreciative. Out of instinct, Dean gets up to get some water, because he has done this before too. He knows what Sam would need, knows what he would need, and Cas… Cas needs, too.
His thoughts are confirmed when he returns to the bed with a pitcher and a glass of water and Cas stares at him from bleary eyes, confused and groggy.
"Dean?" Voice gruff.
"Here." Dean sets the pitcher on the nightstand, pushes the glass of water at Cas, more forceful than necessary because he doesn’t want Cas to see it shaking in his hands. "Drink. You’ll need it."
"I don’t require—"
"Trust me on this one, buddy."
He reaches out when Cas attempts to grab the glass and misses, splattering water all over his chest, steadies the back of Castiel's neck and guides the glass to his chapped lips. The hair under his left hand is sweaty.
Cas downs it like a man dying of thirst and Dean refills it without even waiting for the plea in the angel’s eyes. Five glasses, six. Castiel’s lips shine moist when he finally finishes.
"If you wet the bed tonight, I’ll hurt you," Dean says and a flicker of a smile ghosts over Castiel’s face. Castiel’s. Not Jimmy’s.
"What happened?" Castiel asks.
"I have no idea." Dean shakes his head. "You tell me."
"I heard a voice," Castiel begins, then trails off. "Did you talk to me?"
Another shake of his head. "Not me."
Dean shivers, staring at the necklace resting on Castiel’ chest. It takes him a few seconds to clear his mind. "How did you get back here? How did you find us?"
Castiel looks at the amulet around his neck. "I think it wanted to get back to you as much as I did."
"Dean Winchester, Homing Beacon." Dean gives a short bark of laughter. "That’s a first."
"You should have it back," Castiel says and tries to sit up enough to remove the necklace.
Dean stops his hand midway. "Keep it."
"I had assumed—"
"Assume differently," Dean says. "Keep it." He pushes Castiel back into the pillows.
His hand ghosts past the amulet and this time he does yelp. It’s not Castiel’s skin; that is warm and soft as any human’s under Dean’s fingertips. When he pulls his hand back, the vague outline of the amulet has burned itself into the back of Dean’s hand. Castiel’s skin is unblemished.
The angel – no, Castiel - smiles.
Fin
Diligent, most lovely and helpful beta-readers:
gabby_silang, auburnnothenna, blue_adagio. Thank you!