janie_tangerine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
janie_tangerine) wrote2010-02-18 12:20 am
janie_tangerine) wrote2010-02-18 12:20 am
fic, Supernatural: Insides Out (f!Castiel, Dean/Castiel implied), PG13
Okay, so this so was not what I should have been doing yesterday but it came out on a whim while I was listening to what is mentioned in the A/N and I figured I'd just go with it. Damn, I should finish stuff I owe instead.
Title: Insides Out
Characters/Pairing: f!Castiel, implied Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG13 to stay very safe
Wordcount: 1067
Spoilers: for 5x04.
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine and the title is Jordan Zevon's. I do not own, sadly for me.
Summary: He takes a breath when he's done and listens to all the voicemails again and again and again and then again all over.
A/N: heavily based on Jordan Zevon's Insides Out. I basically wrote it on a whim whim having that song on. Which is awesome, by the way. Using for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
2x5obsessions #3, an empty room full of sound. Set some year and a half before present!Dean's trip.
At least I've got pictures and memories
Saving your voice on my phone machine
The bits and the pieces of something that almost feels like a dream
A drink, a pill, but still you can't escape reality
When you're turning insides out
Insides Out, Jordan Zevon
--
No one knows that he still has his cellphone.
Dean stopped caring about it the second Castiel couldn’t teleport anymore and since then he hasn’t really needed it. But he hasn’t thrown it away. He still has it, along with the charger. He puts it in charge the rare times they have electricity. Castiel realizes it’d be a lot more practical to just leave it somewhere without worrying about it, but he just can’t throw it away.
Not when on that phone there’s everything he has left of Dean, these days.
These days, Dean barely looks at him; these days, Dean spends time slicing demons in a cabin near enough that Castiel can hear the screams. He never wants to see that, if only because he has already seen it once (when Dean was in Hell) and he really, really doesn’t think he can handle the experience here. When he pulled Dean out, everyone had a chance at redemption; right now, he’s pretty sure no one has. And so he stays away and maybe calls someone for a quickie, because if there’s one thing he learned from Dean is that sex and alcohol work magic, when you need to forget.
(He found out about the drugs on his own. Sometimes he’s sorry that he never got around to appreciate rock n’ roll, from the way Chuck talks about it and the way Dean used to talk about it, it was probably worth appreciating.)
He’s alone now, and he can hear the screams still; he sighs and sits on his mattress, bringing a knee up to his chest. He turns the small phone on, and can’t help the soft hint of a smile that always appears on his lips whenever he sees the background picture. It’s him and Dean, some two months after the whorehouse fiasco, in front of Elvis Presley’s childhood house in Tupelo; they had been there following a lead for the Colt, but Dean had said that since they were there they might go and visit a fucking real sanctuary.
(Castiel hadn’t had an idea of who Elvis Presley was back then; he remembers that Dean spent the whole ride playing his only Elvis tape.)
And then, when they were there, he had stopped some random passer-by and asked them, you mind taking a picture of me and my friend here?, with Castiel’s phone, of course, because Dean would have never let anyone find such a thing on his own. In the picture, Dean is wearing that leather jacket of his that he threw away the day after Detroit and that Castiel keeps among his things (Dean doesn’t know, of course) and is smiling at the camera, open, relaxed, happy; Castiel is wearing his old coat (Jimmy’s old coat) and is looking kind of dumbfounded, like he doesn’t really get what’s going on.
(Sometimes he wishes he was still like that. Ignorance can be such bliss.)
He loved that picture. He still does. He still looks at it even if it hurts. It reminds him that once they had something, even if now it’s lost.
He sighs and presses the menu button, heading straight for the saved voicemails.
Most times, he thinks that having kept them is the most pathetic thing he has done in his entire existence, but he’s glad he has, after all; because they’re everything that’s left of the Dean who used to be his friend and whom Castiel used to love, cherish and want like he had never loved, cherished and wanted anything else.
He presses play and brings the phone to his ear.
Hey Cas, I was just checking in. Still searching for God, huh? Maybe you should try in Graceland. Who knows, maybe he likes Elvis. Give me a call when you get this, okay?
Uh, hi. I guess you’re busy, but it’s not like you don’t have stuff to do. It’s just, I’m at this place and I thought you’d like it, but clearly you aren’t there and when you get this I’ll be gone, so… we’ll do that another time.
Sorry for earlier, I was researching and damned libraries won’t let you keep a phone turned on. If you wanted to tell me something, either call or... well, it’s room 13, Heart of Georgia motel in Riceboro. Drop by if you can?
Cas? Uh, thanks for yesterday evening. Damn, I really passed out on you, didn’t I? I didn’t think you’d drink me under the table like that. Anyway, thanks for bringing the car back, too. I owe you another drink, I guess. Won’t get that smashed next time though.
Listen, I’m in Sioux Falls and I’ve just passed this cinema. They’re showing goddamn It’s A Wonderful Life for freaking Christmas Eve and since you need to start working on that pop culture, if you can, why don’t you call me and we can meet this evening?
Bobby says thanks for that book, by the way, and that you shouldn’t always fly off like that. Oh, and idijit angel. Sorry, just saying what he’s saying.
Cas, the hell? It’s been three weeks and you aren’t answering, what’s going on?
Castiel sighs. What was going on was that he had lost his teleporting ability and that he had left his charger in Dean’s motel room last time, and he had to walk and hitchhike all the way to Bobby’s. The worst thing is that he remembers every single one of the occasions in which Dean left those messages, though well, having the memories isn’t so bad. At least he has something.
He reaches for the Oxycodone bottle on his nightstand and his hands shake as he manages to get a couple out; he swallows them dry and then washes everything with a drink of disgusting warm whiskey that he keeps near his excuse for a bed.
He takes a breath when he's done and listens to all the voicemails again and again and again and then again all over until the battery is half used up, trying to find his Dean (who doesn’t exist anymore, or barely does by now) in there again.
No matter that the other one, the real one, the one whom Castiel calls fearless leader because while he’ll follow him always at least he needs to state that he perfectly understands how fucked up they came to be, is in the other cabin turning insides out.
End.
Title: Insides Out
Characters/Pairing: f!Castiel, implied Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG13 to stay very safe
Wordcount: 1067
Spoilers: for 5x04.
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine and the title is Jordan Zevon's. I do not own, sadly for me.
Summary: He takes a breath when he's done and listens to all the voicemails again and again and again and then again all over.
A/N: heavily based on Jordan Zevon's Insides Out. I basically wrote it on a whim whim having that song on. Which is awesome, by the way. Using for
2x5obsessions #3, an empty room full of sound. Set some year and a half before present!Dean's trip.At least I've got pictures and memories
Saving your voice on my phone machine
The bits and the pieces of something that almost feels like a dream
A drink, a pill, but still you can't escape reality
When you're turning insides out
Insides Out, Jordan Zevon
--
No one knows that he still has his cellphone.
Dean stopped caring about it the second Castiel couldn’t teleport anymore and since then he hasn’t really needed it. But he hasn’t thrown it away. He still has it, along with the charger. He puts it in charge the rare times they have electricity. Castiel realizes it’d be a lot more practical to just leave it somewhere without worrying about it, but he just can’t throw it away.
Not when on that phone there’s everything he has left of Dean, these days.
These days, Dean barely looks at him; these days, Dean spends time slicing demons in a cabin near enough that Castiel can hear the screams. He never wants to see that, if only because he has already seen it once (when Dean was in Hell) and he really, really doesn’t think he can handle the experience here. When he pulled Dean out, everyone had a chance at redemption; right now, he’s pretty sure no one has. And so he stays away and maybe calls someone for a quickie, because if there’s one thing he learned from Dean is that sex and alcohol work magic, when you need to forget.
(He found out about the drugs on his own. Sometimes he’s sorry that he never got around to appreciate rock n’ roll, from the way Chuck talks about it and the way Dean used to talk about it, it was probably worth appreciating.)
He’s alone now, and he can hear the screams still; he sighs and sits on his mattress, bringing a knee up to his chest. He turns the small phone on, and can’t help the soft hint of a smile that always appears on his lips whenever he sees the background picture. It’s him and Dean, some two months after the whorehouse fiasco, in front of Elvis Presley’s childhood house in Tupelo; they had been there following a lead for the Colt, but Dean had said that since they were there they might go and visit a fucking real sanctuary.
(Castiel hadn’t had an idea of who Elvis Presley was back then; he remembers that Dean spent the whole ride playing his only Elvis tape.)
And then, when they were there, he had stopped some random passer-by and asked them, you mind taking a picture of me and my friend here?, with Castiel’s phone, of course, because Dean would have never let anyone find such a thing on his own. In the picture, Dean is wearing that leather jacket of his that he threw away the day after Detroit and that Castiel keeps among his things (Dean doesn’t know, of course) and is smiling at the camera, open, relaxed, happy; Castiel is wearing his old coat (Jimmy’s old coat) and is looking kind of dumbfounded, like he doesn’t really get what’s going on.
(Sometimes he wishes he was still like that. Ignorance can be such bliss.)
He loved that picture. He still does. He still looks at it even if it hurts. It reminds him that once they had something, even if now it’s lost.
He sighs and presses the menu button, heading straight for the saved voicemails.
Most times, he thinks that having kept them is the most pathetic thing he has done in his entire existence, but he’s glad he has, after all; because they’re everything that’s left of the Dean who used to be his friend and whom Castiel used to love, cherish and want like he had never loved, cherished and wanted anything else.
He presses play and brings the phone to his ear.
Hey Cas, I was just checking in. Still searching for God, huh? Maybe you should try in Graceland. Who knows, maybe he likes Elvis. Give me a call when you get this, okay?
Uh, hi. I guess you’re busy, but it’s not like you don’t have stuff to do. It’s just, I’m at this place and I thought you’d like it, but clearly you aren’t there and when you get this I’ll be gone, so… we’ll do that another time.
Sorry for earlier, I was researching and damned libraries won’t let you keep a phone turned on. If you wanted to tell me something, either call or... well, it’s room 13, Heart of Georgia motel in Riceboro. Drop by if you can?
Cas? Uh, thanks for yesterday evening. Damn, I really passed out on you, didn’t I? I didn’t think you’d drink me under the table like that. Anyway, thanks for bringing the car back, too. I owe you another drink, I guess. Won’t get that smashed next time though.
Listen, I’m in Sioux Falls and I’ve just passed this cinema. They’re showing goddamn It’s A Wonderful Life for freaking Christmas Eve and since you need to start working on that pop culture, if you can, why don’t you call me and we can meet this evening?
Bobby says thanks for that book, by the way, and that you shouldn’t always fly off like that. Oh, and idijit angel. Sorry, just saying what he’s saying.
Cas, the hell? It’s been three weeks and you aren’t answering, what’s going on?
Castiel sighs. What was going on was that he had lost his teleporting ability and that he had left his charger in Dean’s motel room last time, and he had to walk and hitchhike all the way to Bobby’s. The worst thing is that he remembers every single one of the occasions in which Dean left those messages, though well, having the memories isn’t so bad. At least he has something.
He reaches for the Oxycodone bottle on his nightstand and his hands shake as he manages to get a couple out; he swallows them dry and then washes everything with a drink of disgusting warm whiskey that he keeps near his excuse for a bed.
He takes a breath when he's done and listens to all the voicemails again and again and again and then again all over until the battery is half used up, trying to find his Dean (who doesn’t exist anymore, or barely does by now) in there again.
No matter that the other one, the real one, the one whom Castiel calls fearless leader because while he’ll follow him always at least he needs to state that he perfectly understands how fucked up they came to be, is in the other cabin turning insides out.
End.
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