Title: Pray ('Cause Nobody Ever Survives)
Word Count: 500, on the dot.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, (mention of Castiel). Gen.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. If I did, do you really think I'd be using the boys to write fic with?
Warning: This is unbeta-ed. But it should be a-okay to read considering English is my first language and all... Nevertheless, even though I reread it, if someone notices a mistake (typo or other), let me know and I'll fix it.
Summary: --Dean Winchester's never been afraid of anyone, man or monster.-- A brief look into Dean's mindset during his conversation with Castiel at the end of 4x02. No real spoilers.
A/N: I loved the final scenes between Dean and Castiel, so I couldn't help myself. The tension between those two characters is just amazingly well-done and I just wanted to express in words when I saw on the screen.
Dean Winchester's never been afraid of anyone, man or monster.
He wouldn't say the same was true of things.
Events haunted him (smothering heat and black, powdered ash replace memories of gentle kisses on his forehead and bedtime stories and Dean shivers with trepidation when he can't recall the prior).
Possibilities kept him at the edge of his seat (Dean turns to face Sam, thinks he catches a sparkle of gold in his brother's blue-green eyes and his heart skips a beat. Or three).
Even emotions have made him sweat with complete agony (it's the middle of winter, but he can still feel the beads of perspiration drip down his bare back when he stares at a sleeping Cassie and can't understand why the hell he feels like his world's been turned upside when he's with her).
But he'd be damned if he ever let monsters faze him. No vampire's razor fangs or demon's taunting words ever made Dean Winchester's hands tremble over his weapon.
People never intimitated him. He wasn't like Sam; he's never cared what others thought of him. And save of in the presence of his father, Dean's never tried to maintain his inhabitations. Life was too short to mind every impure thought that came into one's head and played upon one's lips.
This angel, though? This Castiel-guy? He was something else.
His voice is soft, but jagged (like hair trimmed too short on the back of one's neck). Dean thinks of Dad, but Castiel lacks the concern and love, buried deep in the fortress of John's heart.
His blue eyes are endless, like oceans with restless waves that pull one under with them. Dean thinks of Mom (she grabs at a three year's old kicking feet and pulls him to her chest, holding him close), but Castiel lacks the warmth of Mary's eyes. His pale eyes are piercing and cold (goosebumps that cover an entire body: head and toe and everything in between, including blistered hand-marked shoulders).
And his hands. Fingers, thick and callused. Potent. Dean's been branded (one handcuff on his soul, the other tied to an unseen wrist) and he swears he feels like there's something around his neck, choking him until he can't breathe, until he acquiesces with a force he can't even name.
This Castiel-guy? He's like nothing Dean's ever known.
Dean remembers Pastor Jim; the sides of his lips turned toward the heavens, patient and understanding, a hand on both boys' backs when he told them the tales of the Old Testament as they ravished a rare home-cooked meal.
Dean remembers how no one really got a good deal in the Old Testament. That God was commanding and never thought twice about pulling one over on the poor suckers whose faiths needed to be tested. Dean recalls floods, and plagues, and expulsions from Paradise.
A God of terror.
(jagged. cold. callused. A debt that an immeasurable amount of stolen credit cards could never repay.)
The fear of God.
They weren't kidding.
+ Title shamelessly stolen from Puscifer's Rev. 22:20.
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