[SPN] Crossroads State 5/12
Mar. 12th, 2012 06:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Dean dreams that Cas is an angel with wings made of fireworks and lightning that rain soundless sparks and take over the whole sky. He wakes up momentarily confused about why an angel is texting him to invite him to breakfast, but then he gets his head back into the real world and remembers it's just his weird nerdy new best friend and the dream was probably a combination of too much food and beer and Cas holding a roman candle and smiling like Dean had just shown him the secret of fire, or atomic bombs.
He jerks off in the shower like he always does and studiously ignores any blue eyes that want to worm their way into his mind, like he always (for the past two months, anyway) does. He kicks a drooling hungover Ash off the couch and frowns at Sam's empty bedroom. Ruby seems okay, definitely hot, at least in that tortured-artist way Sam tends to go for, but showing up shitfaced after the party was already over didn't win her any points with him, and Cas was weird about her. But Cas is weird about a lot of things.
If he thinks about it, it doesn't really make a lot of sense that they're friends. Cas has more in common with Sam than he does with Dean, the big genius brain and all the education, eating broccoli on purpose, liking Paul Simon for fuck's sake. He was almost afraid when Sam and Cas started having tea parties at the library or whatever and lending each other books that Cas would realize he's been hanging out with the wrong brother, but it hasn't happened.
When he first met Cas, his dick said 'go get 'em, tiger,' but you can't exactly have a one-night stand at eight in the morning with someone your idiot dog-in-law has just maimed, and then he had to go and actually like the guy. And by the time he halfway figured out what the hell exactly to do with that and nearly fucking kissed him goodbye, Cas came back from Chicago in his new boyfriend's t-shirt. Just Dean's luck.
It's probably just as well, because he would have fucked everything up spectacularly and he really, really hates the idea of a Cas-less existence. That doesn't stop his mouth from going dry when Cas answers the door shirtless and barefoot with wet hair, and it doesn't make it not kind of suck that he can't lick away a stray drop of water that's running down Cas's neck, but he can deal with it. Knowing Cas is off-limits makes it a lot easier, not that Dean's going to be BFFs with Balthazar anytime soon, but they've got what they've got and what they've got is good. He eventually got over wanting Lisa (or the idea of Lisa) and he'll get over this too.
So they do this weirdly domestic breakfast thing and make each other laugh and Dean helps Cas haul some boxes down from the attic, which is hot and dusty and a complete bitch to get in and out of and Cas ends up with cobwebs in his hair that Dean picks away without even thinking about it. Cas gives him a funny look and Dean says 'cobwebs' and Cas says a hilariously solemn thank-you.
"You want help or anything?" Dean asks, because Cas is staring at the boxes like they might all explode.
"No, thank you, Dean. I can manage."
That sounds like his cue to go, but he's damn curious about what's in the boxes. They've got a bunch of crossed out writing on them from being re-used, 'kitchen' and 'living room' and 'office' and 'Gabe's stuff' in different handwritings, but the current labels only say 'Box 1' and so on. "'Cause I don't mind. All I'm doing today is a buttload of dishes and that can so wait."
"No." Cas says it sharply and it stings.
It also kind of pisses Dean off a little, maybe more at the fact that Cas's tone actually hurts his feelings than the tone itself, so he's an ass right back. "Damn, sorry I asked," he snaps. "I'll see you later." He dusts off his knees and leaves the house without looking back.
The whole thing puts him in a shitty mood the rest of the day. It doesn't help that Sam, who came home while he was out, sleeps until four in the afternoon and doesn't help with a damn bit of the remaining party clean-up and is just a damn joy to be around when he finally does get up, eyes all bloodshot and acting like Dean's the one being a dick.
Which, okay, maybe he is, but so is Sam, who asks him what crawled up his ass and died and they yell at each other and it ends when Sam gets a phone call and is perfectly pleasant and happy to talk to whoever's on the other end, and then right back to bitch mode when he hangs up and says he's going out.
"Another all-night bender with Ruby?" And yeah, that's a dick thing to say, not to mention hypocritical because Dean has not even an inch of room to talk about all-night benders or questionable choices of people to have them with.
"We're going to the movies, not that it's any of your business."
After the door slams behind Sam, Dean throws a plate at the wall and feels so much like murdering something by the time he's swept up all the broken pieces that he almost does the same thing to his phone when it starts ringing with Cas's name on the screen, but he answers it.
Cas doesn't even say hello, just a quiet, "Dean, I'd like to apologize for this morning."
And all the fight kind of goes out of him, along with a rough sigh. "Don't worry about it. I was being an ass."
"In response to my...assing."
Dean finds himself laughing and wanting to... something. Hug the shit out of the guy and pick daisies and say let's never fight again. Or something. "It's okay, seriously." He's trying to figure out a way to ask if he can come over without sounding tooth-rottingly girly or admit that if he stays here, he'll probably just drink a lot and break more stuff or sit there watching the clock till Sam comes back, but then Cas saves his ass and just invites him. He grabs a random bunch of beers and half a pie and tries not to run there.
Cas has changed his shirt but he's still got the jeans on, and the shoes he put on to climb into the attic are sitting by the coffee table with socks stuffed into them. His hair is more of a mess even than it usually is and his eyes are a little puffy so Dean thinks he's maybe been asleep. There's some godawful folk music coming out of the stereo at a low volume but then the anonymous whiny dude finishes whining and Gram Parsons comes on.
"Hey," Dean says.
Cas cuts off the stereo just before it gets to the line about 'I've got the sun to see your blue eyes' and maybe that's just as well because Dean's not really prepared for cinematic soundtrack moments that are pretty much the universe just fucking with him. "Thank you for coming."
"It's okay, man. I'm good if you are. We don't have to hug and cry or anything."
Cas smiles and takes the Miller Lite box that doesn't actually contain any Miller Lite and hands Dean two bottles back. He takes the rest to the kitchen and comes back with two forks. Dean doesn't ask about the pile of what looks like photo albums that Cas moves off the couch so they can sit down, but when they've had a few bites of pie straight out of the tin, he waves his hand at them and says, "These were what I needed out of the attic. My sister wants them."
"Anna?" Dean asks with a pang of guilt. He still feels pretty bad for how disappointed she looked when he told her he'd already checked her car over when he replaced the axle and it didn't need anything else, and was pretty much totally impersonal and polite. He's never talked about it with Cas.
"Yes. They're family photos. I wasn't certain how I would react to seeing them."
Dean can be a dumbass sometimes, by all accounts, but he can read between the lines there. "I didn't exactly grow up with a white picket fence either, so believe me, I get it."
Cas opens one of the albums and Dean almost laughs because there's literally a white picket fence behind three children dolled up in their Sunday best and squinting into the sun, a little girl in a big fluffy dress between two boys holding her hands, one taller and wearing a shit-eating grin, and a smaller boy looking deadly serious that Dean knows is Cas even before he's told. The girl is Anna, of course, and shit-eater is Gabriel. Almost all the pictures are like that, posed and formal, like nobody ever thought to snap a few shots at a birthday party or on Christmas morning. Some of them have an imposing man, always in a suit, who Cas says is his father. "My mother died just after Anna was born. I don't remember her."
The swallow of beer Dean's just taken goes down painfully. "I was four. There was a fire. I don't remember a lot."
And that's how it goes, trading a fact for a fact while Cas turns pages. Cas's father being a hardass about school and Dean's moving them around whenever there was a better job to chase or he'd grifted one too many people. Cas getting bullied at school and Dean being the one doing the bullying. Gabriel getting kicked out of the house for various offenses until he finally just left, Dean making sure Sam got lunches and dinners and school supplies while Dad disappeared for days at a time. Shitty holidays on both sides, Anna always guilty about the mother she never knew and Sam putting some mythical nonexistent John-and-Mary on a pedestal. Gabriel working three jobs in law school and taking Anna in when she ran away, Dean hustling pool to pay rent, fishing trips with Bobby.
There's a gap in the pictures between Cas as a gawky teenager and the next album that starts with Gabriel's law school graduation and bachelor party and wedding. First bachelor party, Cas specifies as he flips away the page with a stripper licking Gabriel's ear, but only the one wedding. These pictures are different, more real, just random moments instead of posed portraits. Anna in front of a weird sculpture with a blue ribbon and a big smile, Cas and some guy in front of the Eiffel Tower. And Cas not smiling at all as he holds up his PhD for the camera while Anna and Gabriel beam on either side of him. His father didn't show up for the ceremony, he says, or his dissertation defense. Sam's high school graduation had a similar absence.
Dean is drunk by the time the last back cover closes, which means Cas is even more drunk. He slings an arm around Cas's shoulders and says, "Man, we got issues."
Cas laughs, muffled against Dean's shirt. Whatever he says before he falls asleep or passes out is too mumbled for Dean to make out. Kissing the top of Cas's head just seems like the thing to do, and he doesn't try to stay awake.
When he does wake up, he's alone on the couch and covered with an afghan that looks like somebody's grandma made it in the 70s, all zigzags of brown and green and itchy yarn that's too warm for July even in air conditioning, and it's getting light outside. Something in his chest feels like it's been scrubbed out with steel wool, but not in a bad way. So much for not hugging and crying, he thinks when he runs back over the night. Well, he didn't cry. Probably. There's a wet spot under his face on the sofa cushion but he's pretty sure it's drool. Hopefully that didn't happen until after Cas got up; hopefully the morning wood didn't either. Hopefully he didn't say anything stupid that he's not remembering.
There's a glass of water on the coffee table that looks like it's been there for a while, air bubbles collected against the sides. There's a note, too, stuck to the edge of the coaster (a fucking coaster), Cas's weirdly historical-looking handwriting completely out of place on the yellow post-it.
Dean,
I did not want to wake you. I sent a message to Sam so he would know where you were. Please help yourself to anything you may need.
Castiel
That it's like a tiny little square letter makes him smile. Cas probably writes letters, probably with a fountain pen or something, wax seals and the whole nine. He could see it, he thinks as he sticks the note in his back pocket.
The water doesn't do anything for the nasty taste in his mouth, and the closet-sized downstairs bathroom is okay for taking a piss, but the medicine cabinet has nothing in it besides a first-aid kit. He's never had any reason to be in the upstairs bathroom, and it's actually nothing like he expects. Going into rooms in people's houses when they don't expect them to be seen is a little like reading their diary. And while it's exactly as clean as he thought it would be, it's also surprisingly huge, old black and white tile and a clawfoot tub with the shower curtain hardware suspended from the ceiling. The magazine basket contains a bunch of stuff with long German titles and articles in several languages, and a half-finished New York Times crossword from last week.
He really tries not to snoop too much, but there's no cabinet behind the mirror so he has to open a couple of drawers in the vanity before he finds the toothpaste he's looking for, and one's got an unopened box of condoms in between the extra razor blades and the band-aids. He shuts that one quickly.
It's been a pretty long time since he's used toothpaste and his finger instead of a real toothbrush, and it's never before not been followed by a walk of hell-yeah-I-just-got-laid (because there is no such thing as a walk of shame in Dean's book, except for that one time in Baltimore that he does not talk about, ever). It's been years, actually, since there was anything he wanted to stick around for long enough not to just go deal with his morning breath at home.
Cas is asleep with the door open, one bare leg flung out over the covers and his boxer briefs riding up to show the pale edge of a farmer's tan from running. He's sprawled over the bed like he's used to having it to himself and he's wearing that fucking Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and okay, it's creepy as hell to just keep standing here.
It's already 6:30 and he should really be at the garage by 7 for the pre-work oil change early birds, but Mondays on holiday weekends never have much going on early anywhere he's ever worked, so although he should just give Cas a poke and say thanks and bye, Dean shakes his shoulder gently and waits to be sleepily blinked at and says, "Hey. You want breakfast?"
He's pretty sure he fucks up the tea, because there's like eight hundred kinds in the cabinet and absolutely none of it is just a damn normal teabag, but Cas doesn't complain, just smiles at him over the top of the 'world's greatest teacher' mug that Dean thought it would be funny to use.
And if this were the morning after anything else he'd stuck around for, they'd be making out in front of the stove, but this is just Cas with a mean case of bedhead and wearing his damn boyfriend's t-shirt, and it occurs to Dean to feel a sense of vague injustice (well, fairly specific injustice), but he can't really because it just is what it is and Cas isn't looking at him like anything weird's gone down and is so careful spreading scrambled eggs on each bite of toast like the integrity of the fabric of the whole universe might hang on it, and fuck it, whatever it is, he'll take it.
Next: Part 6
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Dean dreams that Cas is an angel with wings made of fireworks and lightning that rain soundless sparks and take over the whole sky. He wakes up momentarily confused about why an angel is texting him to invite him to breakfast, but then he gets his head back into the real world and remembers it's just his weird nerdy new best friend and the dream was probably a combination of too much food and beer and Cas holding a roman candle and smiling like Dean had just shown him the secret of fire, or atomic bombs.
He jerks off in the shower like he always does and studiously ignores any blue eyes that want to worm their way into his mind, like he always (for the past two months, anyway) does. He kicks a drooling hungover Ash off the couch and frowns at Sam's empty bedroom. Ruby seems okay, definitely hot, at least in that tortured-artist way Sam tends to go for, but showing up shitfaced after the party was already over didn't win her any points with him, and Cas was weird about her. But Cas is weird about a lot of things.
If he thinks about it, it doesn't really make a lot of sense that they're friends. Cas has more in common with Sam than he does with Dean, the big genius brain and all the education, eating broccoli on purpose, liking Paul Simon for fuck's sake. He was almost afraid when Sam and Cas started having tea parties at the library or whatever and lending each other books that Cas would realize he's been hanging out with the wrong brother, but it hasn't happened.
When he first met Cas, his dick said 'go get 'em, tiger,' but you can't exactly have a one-night stand at eight in the morning with someone your idiot dog-in-law has just maimed, and then he had to go and actually like the guy. And by the time he halfway figured out what the hell exactly to do with that and nearly fucking kissed him goodbye, Cas came back from Chicago in his new boyfriend's t-shirt. Just Dean's luck.
It's probably just as well, because he would have fucked everything up spectacularly and he really, really hates the idea of a Cas-less existence. That doesn't stop his mouth from going dry when Cas answers the door shirtless and barefoot with wet hair, and it doesn't make it not kind of suck that he can't lick away a stray drop of water that's running down Cas's neck, but he can deal with it. Knowing Cas is off-limits makes it a lot easier, not that Dean's going to be BFFs with Balthazar anytime soon, but they've got what they've got and what they've got is good. He eventually got over wanting Lisa (or the idea of Lisa) and he'll get over this too.
So they do this weirdly domestic breakfast thing and make each other laugh and Dean helps Cas haul some boxes down from the attic, which is hot and dusty and a complete bitch to get in and out of and Cas ends up with cobwebs in his hair that Dean picks away without even thinking about it. Cas gives him a funny look and Dean says 'cobwebs' and Cas says a hilariously solemn thank-you.
"You want help or anything?" Dean asks, because Cas is staring at the boxes like they might all explode.
"No, thank you, Dean. I can manage."
That sounds like his cue to go, but he's damn curious about what's in the boxes. They've got a bunch of crossed out writing on them from being re-used, 'kitchen' and 'living room' and 'office' and 'Gabe's stuff' in different handwritings, but the current labels only say 'Box 1' and so on. "'Cause I don't mind. All I'm doing today is a buttload of dishes and that can so wait."
"No." Cas says it sharply and it stings.
It also kind of pisses Dean off a little, maybe more at the fact that Cas's tone actually hurts his feelings than the tone itself, so he's an ass right back. "Damn, sorry I asked," he snaps. "I'll see you later." He dusts off his knees and leaves the house without looking back.
The whole thing puts him in a shitty mood the rest of the day. It doesn't help that Sam, who came home while he was out, sleeps until four in the afternoon and doesn't help with a damn bit of the remaining party clean-up and is just a damn joy to be around when he finally does get up, eyes all bloodshot and acting like Dean's the one being a dick.
Which, okay, maybe he is, but so is Sam, who asks him what crawled up his ass and died and they yell at each other and it ends when Sam gets a phone call and is perfectly pleasant and happy to talk to whoever's on the other end, and then right back to bitch mode when he hangs up and says he's going out.
"Another all-night bender with Ruby?" And yeah, that's a dick thing to say, not to mention hypocritical because Dean has not even an inch of room to talk about all-night benders or questionable choices of people to have them with.
"We're going to the movies, not that it's any of your business."
After the door slams behind Sam, Dean throws a plate at the wall and feels so much like murdering something by the time he's swept up all the broken pieces that he almost does the same thing to his phone when it starts ringing with Cas's name on the screen, but he answers it.
Cas doesn't even say hello, just a quiet, "Dean, I'd like to apologize for this morning."
And all the fight kind of goes out of him, along with a rough sigh. "Don't worry about it. I was being an ass."
"In response to my...assing."
Dean finds himself laughing and wanting to... something. Hug the shit out of the guy and pick daisies and say let's never fight again. Or something. "It's okay, seriously." He's trying to figure out a way to ask if he can come over without sounding tooth-rottingly girly or admit that if he stays here, he'll probably just drink a lot and break more stuff or sit there watching the clock till Sam comes back, but then Cas saves his ass and just invites him. He grabs a random bunch of beers and half a pie and tries not to run there.
Cas has changed his shirt but he's still got the jeans on, and the shoes he put on to climb into the attic are sitting by the coffee table with socks stuffed into them. His hair is more of a mess even than it usually is and his eyes are a little puffy so Dean thinks he's maybe been asleep. There's some godawful folk music coming out of the stereo at a low volume but then the anonymous whiny dude finishes whining and Gram Parsons comes on.
"Hey," Dean says.
Cas cuts off the stereo just before it gets to the line about 'I've got the sun to see your blue eyes' and maybe that's just as well because Dean's not really prepared for cinematic soundtrack moments that are pretty much the universe just fucking with him. "Thank you for coming."
"It's okay, man. I'm good if you are. We don't have to hug and cry or anything."
Cas smiles and takes the Miller Lite box that doesn't actually contain any Miller Lite and hands Dean two bottles back. He takes the rest to the kitchen and comes back with two forks. Dean doesn't ask about the pile of what looks like photo albums that Cas moves off the couch so they can sit down, but when they've had a few bites of pie straight out of the tin, he waves his hand at them and says, "These were what I needed out of the attic. My sister wants them."
"Anna?" Dean asks with a pang of guilt. He still feels pretty bad for how disappointed she looked when he told her he'd already checked her car over when he replaced the axle and it didn't need anything else, and was pretty much totally impersonal and polite. He's never talked about it with Cas.
"Yes. They're family photos. I wasn't certain how I would react to seeing them."
Dean can be a dumbass sometimes, by all accounts, but he can read between the lines there. "I didn't exactly grow up with a white picket fence either, so believe me, I get it."
Cas opens one of the albums and Dean almost laughs because there's literally a white picket fence behind three children dolled up in their Sunday best and squinting into the sun, a little girl in a big fluffy dress between two boys holding her hands, one taller and wearing a shit-eating grin, and a smaller boy looking deadly serious that Dean knows is Cas even before he's told. The girl is Anna, of course, and shit-eater is Gabriel. Almost all the pictures are like that, posed and formal, like nobody ever thought to snap a few shots at a birthday party or on Christmas morning. Some of them have an imposing man, always in a suit, who Cas says is his father. "My mother died just after Anna was born. I don't remember her."
The swallow of beer Dean's just taken goes down painfully. "I was four. There was a fire. I don't remember a lot."
And that's how it goes, trading a fact for a fact while Cas turns pages. Cas's father being a hardass about school and Dean's moving them around whenever there was a better job to chase or he'd grifted one too many people. Cas getting bullied at school and Dean being the one doing the bullying. Gabriel getting kicked out of the house for various offenses until he finally just left, Dean making sure Sam got lunches and dinners and school supplies while Dad disappeared for days at a time. Shitty holidays on both sides, Anna always guilty about the mother she never knew and Sam putting some mythical nonexistent John-and-Mary on a pedestal. Gabriel working three jobs in law school and taking Anna in when she ran away, Dean hustling pool to pay rent, fishing trips with Bobby.
There's a gap in the pictures between Cas as a gawky teenager and the next album that starts with Gabriel's law school graduation and bachelor party and wedding. First bachelor party, Cas specifies as he flips away the page with a stripper licking Gabriel's ear, but only the one wedding. These pictures are different, more real, just random moments instead of posed portraits. Anna in front of a weird sculpture with a blue ribbon and a big smile, Cas and some guy in front of the Eiffel Tower. And Cas not smiling at all as he holds up his PhD for the camera while Anna and Gabriel beam on either side of him. His father didn't show up for the ceremony, he says, or his dissertation defense. Sam's high school graduation had a similar absence.
Dean is drunk by the time the last back cover closes, which means Cas is even more drunk. He slings an arm around Cas's shoulders and says, "Man, we got issues."
Cas laughs, muffled against Dean's shirt. Whatever he says before he falls asleep or passes out is too mumbled for Dean to make out. Kissing the top of Cas's head just seems like the thing to do, and he doesn't try to stay awake.
When he does wake up, he's alone on the couch and covered with an afghan that looks like somebody's grandma made it in the 70s, all zigzags of brown and green and itchy yarn that's too warm for July even in air conditioning, and it's getting light outside. Something in his chest feels like it's been scrubbed out with steel wool, but not in a bad way. So much for not hugging and crying, he thinks when he runs back over the night. Well, he didn't cry. Probably. There's a wet spot under his face on the sofa cushion but he's pretty sure it's drool. Hopefully that didn't happen until after Cas got up; hopefully the morning wood didn't either. Hopefully he didn't say anything stupid that he's not remembering.
There's a glass of water on the coffee table that looks like it's been there for a while, air bubbles collected against the sides. There's a note, too, stuck to the edge of the coaster (a fucking coaster), Cas's weirdly historical-looking handwriting completely out of place on the yellow post-it.
Dean,
I did not want to wake you. I sent a message to Sam so he would know where you were. Please help yourself to anything you may need.
Castiel
That it's like a tiny little square letter makes him smile. Cas probably writes letters, probably with a fountain pen or something, wax seals and the whole nine. He could see it, he thinks as he sticks the note in his back pocket.
The water doesn't do anything for the nasty taste in his mouth, and the closet-sized downstairs bathroom is okay for taking a piss, but the medicine cabinet has nothing in it besides a first-aid kit. He's never had any reason to be in the upstairs bathroom, and it's actually nothing like he expects. Going into rooms in people's houses when they don't expect them to be seen is a little like reading their diary. And while it's exactly as clean as he thought it would be, it's also surprisingly huge, old black and white tile and a clawfoot tub with the shower curtain hardware suspended from the ceiling. The magazine basket contains a bunch of stuff with long German titles and articles in several languages, and a half-finished New York Times crossword from last week.
He really tries not to snoop too much, but there's no cabinet behind the mirror so he has to open a couple of drawers in the vanity before he finds the toothpaste he's looking for, and one's got an unopened box of condoms in between the extra razor blades and the band-aids. He shuts that one quickly.
It's been a pretty long time since he's used toothpaste and his finger instead of a real toothbrush, and it's never before not been followed by a walk of hell-yeah-I-just-got-laid (because there is no such thing as a walk of shame in Dean's book, except for that one time in Baltimore that he does not talk about, ever). It's been years, actually, since there was anything he wanted to stick around for long enough not to just go deal with his morning breath at home.
Cas is asleep with the door open, one bare leg flung out over the covers and his boxer briefs riding up to show the pale edge of a farmer's tan from running. He's sprawled over the bed like he's used to having it to himself and he's wearing that fucking Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and okay, it's creepy as hell to just keep standing here.
It's already 6:30 and he should really be at the garage by 7 for the pre-work oil change early birds, but Mondays on holiday weekends never have much going on early anywhere he's ever worked, so although he should just give Cas a poke and say thanks and bye, Dean shakes his shoulder gently and waits to be sleepily blinked at and says, "Hey. You want breakfast?"
He's pretty sure he fucks up the tea, because there's like eight hundred kinds in the cabinet and absolutely none of it is just a damn normal teabag, but Cas doesn't complain, just smiles at him over the top of the 'world's greatest teacher' mug that Dean thought it would be funny to use.
And if this were the morning after anything else he'd stuck around for, they'd be making out in front of the stove, but this is just Cas with a mean case of bedhead and wearing his damn boyfriend's t-shirt, and it occurs to Dean to feel a sense of vague injustice (well, fairly specific injustice), but he can't really because it just is what it is and Cas isn't looking at him like anything weird's gone down and is so careful spreading scrambled eggs on each bite of toast like the integrity of the fabric of the whole universe might hang on it, and fuck it, whatever it is, he'll take it.
Next: Part 6
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:53 am (UTC)it just is what it is and Cas isn't looking at him like anything weird's gone down and is so careful spreading scrambled eggs on each bite of toast like the integrity of the fabric of the whole universe might hang on it, and fuck it, whatever it is, he'll take it
-- is perfect prose. Perfection.
Loving this story, especially the pacing. : )
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 02:07 pm (UTC)