MMoM Day 19: Second Chance Saloon, SPN
May. 28th, 2009 11:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceTitle: Second Chance Saloon
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An angel, a demon and a hunter walk into a bar...
Notes: In my head, this is part of the same 'verse as Last Chance Motel, although set earlier.
So, an angel, a demon and a hunter walk into a bar. And if Dean was hearing this anywhere else he'd think it was the set up for a joke, but nobody's laughing, not this time. Not when Hell's at their heels, they're losing ground every fucking day, and Cas--
Dean's knuckles are white as he presses against the dark wood of the bar, beer stains and burn marks under his fingers.
"Here--"
Ellen slides a bottle across the bar and Dean nods his thanks, not even bothering to see what kind it is before he drinks it. It's cold and it's wet and it's alcoholic, and that's pretty much ticking every fucking box for Dean right now.
"What happened?"
Because, out of everyone in the room, only Sam can get away with asking. Even if he has to already know, even if it's blatantly fucking obvious that they came back without him.
"The lead was wrong." Anna's voice is quiet, careful. "He wasn't there."
"Plenty of others were, though," Ruby adds, moving to Sam's side. She's favouring her right leg and Dean thinks that at least some of the blood on her clothes is actually hers. A lot more of it would have been if Anna hadn't been with them, sharp and deadly and fucking glorious in her righteousness as she burned the demons from their hosts.
She'd been covered in blood, and she'd been beautiful. But she hadn't been Cas.
Dean drains the last of the beer, dull thud ringing through the air as the empty bottle hits the bar. Sam is looking at him, concern and worry, like he's afraid Dean's going to crack, going to fucking snap like a band that's been pulled too tight. He's kinda scared to tell Sammy that he may be right. That he's running on fumes and fear and anger and, sooner or later, one of them's got to give.
"You should get some rest," Ellen says, hand reaching out to rest on his arm, not caring that the leather's still tacky with blood, that she's staining her fingers red.
"Yeah." Dean's voice is rough and he wishes he could blame it on the alcohol. Wishes he could blame it on anything but the fact that he's too fucking tired.
So he'll go upstairs and lie on a bed that's too big and stare at the ceiling, cracked and chipped and peeling paint, like it's a fucking metaphor for the whole goddamn world right now. And he can't crack dumb-ass jokes about the fucking feather pillows, and he can't wrap his hand around his cock and jerk off. He can't. Because Cas isn't there to not laugh at the first one, to roll his eyes at Dean's humour and stop him from telling further jokes with soft kisses. And he isn't there to watch the second one, to follow the trail of Dean's fingers over his cock until he replaces Dean's hand with his own, grip hard and hot and perfect.
He's not even a step from the bar when the wards go off, bright and loud and screaming that something's coming, and it's coming fast.
They're all on their feet, even Sam, who can still barely put weight on his busted leg. Because if something's coming at them here, then it's not leaving in any way apart from in pieces. All on their feet, weapons drawn and fingers clenched and fucking ready. And Dean wants it, needs it. Because a dozen demons in a warehouse, with his name carved all over them, wasn't enough. It's never going to be enough, so bring it the fuck on.
Except Anna's not moving, not doing anything apart from resting a hand on Dean's arm and smiling. And the question's on Dean's lips, ready to ask what the fuck she has to smile about, when the bulb above him shatters, tiny shards of glass raining down and it's so bright Dean can't do anything but close his eyes against the glare.
They're there when he opens his eyes. Michael, standing in the door with Cas in his arms, looking small and pale and far too still for Dean's liking. And Dean thinks his legs should be moving but he can't seem to make them. Can't do anything until he feels Anna's hand on his back, and then he's moving, closing the distance between them.
Cas is pale, too pale, and Michael's holding him like he's more delicate than an angel should be, more delicate than Cas ever has been before.
"What--"
But the words choke in Dean's throat. He wants to know, but he doesn't. Wants to know because he's sure what his imagination is coming up with has to be worse, and he doesn't, just in case it's not. But Michael answers him anyway.
"Lilith is powerful, and Alastair wasn't the only demon who's an expert at what he does."
Cas shifts in Michael's grip, soft noise that Dean refuses to think of as a whimper coming from his throat. Michael glances around the room, and Dean knows everyone's eyes are on them, can feel them staring, listening. Michael's gaze stops somewhere over Dean's shoulder, and he's not sure if Michael's looking at Ellen or Bobby, thinks maybe it's both.
"I'll strengthen your wards when I come back."
And Dean's about to ask where the fuck Michael thinks he's going and how he'd better hand Cas over right the fuck now but they're not in the bar any more. Wood and tables and that stain near the door that Dean's just not sure about fade into wallpaper that's seen better days and the room Dean's claimed for his own.
Michael lays Cas on the bed, careful and sure, brushing a hand lightly through Cas's hair before he stands.
Dean thinks he should say thank you, but it seems so fucking inadequate for what Michael's just done. Because Dean may still believe that most of the angels he's met are soulless dicks, but Michael brought Cas back to him, did something that Dean's been doing nothing but failing at for months.
"Dean," and Michael's voice is soft, softer than it's ever been before when he's spoken to Dean, with his Winchesters and Seals and Why don't you just do what you're told?. "You couldn't have walked where they were holding him."
Michael's hand is warm on Dean's shoulder, even through three layers. And part of Dean wants to laugh that Michael, fucking Michael, is trying to make him feel better.
"Dean, understand that even though I still don't particularly like you and have no idea what Castiel sees in you, I'm telling you the truth when I say there's no guilt on your side. You couldn't."
Because they were holding him in Hell. Dean hears the words without Michael ever saying them. And if Dean had actually eaten anything in the past day, then it would be on the floor right now. As it is, he can feel the beer threatening to make a reappearance.
"Did they--"
Fuck, Dean doesn't know how to ask this. Because of course they did. Because it's Hell and that's what they do. They take you and break you and burn you and remake you into something dark and rank and inhuman. And Dean can still feel the blade in his fingers, can still feel the parting of flesh under his hands, can still remember how good it was.
But Michael just looks at Cas and smiles, soft and almost proud. "He's still Castiel, Dean. His light shone, even in the deepest darkness, and--" He hesitates, long seconds passing before he meets Dean's gaze. "And the name that carried him through it all was yours."
"Thank you." Voice quieter this time, Dean's eyes flicking to Cas. Cas, alive and whole and fucking there. Because Michael went where Dean couldn't. Because Michael went into Hell.
"He's my brother," Michael says, like it explains everything.
Dean's mind supplies an image of Sam, cold and quiet and still, and a dark night at a crossroads, and thinks maybe it does.
"Now, I believe I promised Ellen I would strengthen the wards."
And then he's gone, leaving Dean and Cas. Dean pulls off his jacket and throws it in the corner before he drags the old chair from the wall next to the bed and sits next to Cas.
Oh god, Cas.
He rests his hand lightly on Cas's, warmth and want and plain fucking relief crashing down on him, because Cas is here and he's real. Crashes down on him because Cas is alive, and everything else can be worried about in the morning.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An angel, a demon and a hunter walk into a bar...
Notes: In my head, this is part of the same 'verse as Last Chance Motel, although set earlier.
So, an angel, a demon and a hunter walk into a bar. And if Dean was hearing this anywhere else he'd think it was the set up for a joke, but nobody's laughing, not this time. Not when Hell's at their heels, they're losing ground every fucking day, and Cas--
Dean's knuckles are white as he presses against the dark wood of the bar, beer stains and burn marks under his fingers.
"Here--"
Ellen slides a bottle across the bar and Dean nods his thanks, not even bothering to see what kind it is before he drinks it. It's cold and it's wet and it's alcoholic, and that's pretty much ticking every fucking box for Dean right now.
"What happened?"
Because, out of everyone in the room, only Sam can get away with asking. Even if he has to already know, even if it's blatantly fucking obvious that they came back without him.
"The lead was wrong." Anna's voice is quiet, careful. "He wasn't there."
"Plenty of others were, though," Ruby adds, moving to Sam's side. She's favouring her right leg and Dean thinks that at least some of the blood on her clothes is actually hers. A lot more of it would have been if Anna hadn't been with them, sharp and deadly and fucking glorious in her righteousness as she burned the demons from their hosts.
She'd been covered in blood, and she'd been beautiful. But she hadn't been Cas.
Dean drains the last of the beer, dull thud ringing through the air as the empty bottle hits the bar. Sam is looking at him, concern and worry, like he's afraid Dean's going to crack, going to fucking snap like a band that's been pulled too tight. He's kinda scared to tell Sammy that he may be right. That he's running on fumes and fear and anger and, sooner or later, one of them's got to give.
"You should get some rest," Ellen says, hand reaching out to rest on his arm, not caring that the leather's still tacky with blood, that she's staining her fingers red.
"Yeah." Dean's voice is rough and he wishes he could blame it on the alcohol. Wishes he could blame it on anything but the fact that he's too fucking tired.
So he'll go upstairs and lie on a bed that's too big and stare at the ceiling, cracked and chipped and peeling paint, like it's a fucking metaphor for the whole goddamn world right now. And he can't crack dumb-ass jokes about the fucking feather pillows, and he can't wrap his hand around his cock and jerk off. He can't. Because Cas isn't there to not laugh at the first one, to roll his eyes at Dean's humour and stop him from telling further jokes with soft kisses. And he isn't there to watch the second one, to follow the trail of Dean's fingers over his cock until he replaces Dean's hand with his own, grip hard and hot and perfect.
He's not even a step from the bar when the wards go off, bright and loud and screaming that something's coming, and it's coming fast.
They're all on their feet, even Sam, who can still barely put weight on his busted leg. Because if something's coming at them here, then it's not leaving in any way apart from in pieces. All on their feet, weapons drawn and fingers clenched and fucking ready. And Dean wants it, needs it. Because a dozen demons in a warehouse, with his name carved all over them, wasn't enough. It's never going to be enough, so bring it the fuck on.
Except Anna's not moving, not doing anything apart from resting a hand on Dean's arm and smiling. And the question's on Dean's lips, ready to ask what the fuck she has to smile about, when the bulb above him shatters, tiny shards of glass raining down and it's so bright Dean can't do anything but close his eyes against the glare.
They're there when he opens his eyes. Michael, standing in the door with Cas in his arms, looking small and pale and far too still for Dean's liking. And Dean thinks his legs should be moving but he can't seem to make them. Can't do anything until he feels Anna's hand on his back, and then he's moving, closing the distance between them.
Cas is pale, too pale, and Michael's holding him like he's more delicate than an angel should be, more delicate than Cas ever has been before.
"What--"
But the words choke in Dean's throat. He wants to know, but he doesn't. Wants to know because he's sure what his imagination is coming up with has to be worse, and he doesn't, just in case it's not. But Michael answers him anyway.
"Lilith is powerful, and Alastair wasn't the only demon who's an expert at what he does."
Cas shifts in Michael's grip, soft noise that Dean refuses to think of as a whimper coming from his throat. Michael glances around the room, and Dean knows everyone's eyes are on them, can feel them staring, listening. Michael's gaze stops somewhere over Dean's shoulder, and he's not sure if Michael's looking at Ellen or Bobby, thinks maybe it's both.
"I'll strengthen your wards when I come back."
And Dean's about to ask where the fuck Michael thinks he's going and how he'd better hand Cas over right the fuck now but they're not in the bar any more. Wood and tables and that stain near the door that Dean's just not sure about fade into wallpaper that's seen better days and the room Dean's claimed for his own.
Michael lays Cas on the bed, careful and sure, brushing a hand lightly through Cas's hair before he stands.
Dean thinks he should say thank you, but it seems so fucking inadequate for what Michael's just done. Because Dean may still believe that most of the angels he's met are soulless dicks, but Michael brought Cas back to him, did something that Dean's been doing nothing but failing at for months.
"Dean," and Michael's voice is soft, softer than it's ever been before when he's spoken to Dean, with his Winchesters and Seals and Why don't you just do what you're told?. "You couldn't have walked where they were holding him."
Michael's hand is warm on Dean's shoulder, even through three layers. And part of Dean wants to laugh that Michael, fucking Michael, is trying to make him feel better.
"Dean, understand that even though I still don't particularly like you and have no idea what Castiel sees in you, I'm telling you the truth when I say there's no guilt on your side. You couldn't."
Because they were holding him in Hell. Dean hears the words without Michael ever saying them. And if Dean had actually eaten anything in the past day, then it would be on the floor right now. As it is, he can feel the beer threatening to make a reappearance.
"Did they--"
Fuck, Dean doesn't know how to ask this. Because of course they did. Because it's Hell and that's what they do. They take you and break you and burn you and remake you into something dark and rank and inhuman. And Dean can still feel the blade in his fingers, can still feel the parting of flesh under his hands, can still remember how good it was.
But Michael just looks at Cas and smiles, soft and almost proud. "He's still Castiel, Dean. His light shone, even in the deepest darkness, and--" He hesitates, long seconds passing before he meets Dean's gaze. "And the name that carried him through it all was yours."
"Thank you." Voice quieter this time, Dean's eyes flicking to Cas. Cas, alive and whole and fucking there. Because Michael went where Dean couldn't. Because Michael went into Hell.
"He's my brother," Michael says, like it explains everything.
Dean's mind supplies an image of Sam, cold and quiet and still, and a dark night at a crossroads, and thinks maybe it does.
"Now, I believe I promised Ellen I would strengthen the wards."
And then he's gone, leaving Dean and Cas. Dean pulls off his jacket and throws it in the corner before he drags the old chair from the wall next to the bed and sits next to Cas.
Oh god, Cas.
He rests his hand lightly on Cas's, warmth and want and plain fucking relief crashing down on him, because Cas is here and he's real. Crashes down on him because Cas is alive, and everything else can be worried about in the morning.
