[Fic] The Devil Drives {PG, Cas/Dean}
Aug. 8th, 2012 04:34 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ukefied
Disclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,113
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings.
Character/Pairings: Castiel/Dean (skirts the line between pre-slash & slash, depending on where you draw it :)
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo, “dystopia.” Title from the Murder By Death song.
Summary: 2014!verse/Croatoan ‘verse. Dean and Cas make a supply run. It doesn’t go smoothly.
“The Devil Drives”
By Mina Lightstar
Sometimes, Cas forgets he is only human. Two years in the mortal coil and he still marvels at being short of breath, being sore, being scared.
He’s out of ammo. No time to reload. The Croat’s coming up on his left. Cas barely manages an uppercut with the butt of his rifle. It works, but there’s another one. And another one, and—
He’s startled when bloodied fingers grab his jacket. It’s Dean, making a break for it and hauling him roughly along. Cas follows, trailing the Righteous Man through the maze Plattsmouth’s industrial zone. Dean used to joke that he wished the Croats were more like zombies in movies — that the Croats were too fast.
Dean doesn’t joke much these days.
Cas isn’t sure how far they run, but they lose the horde. They slip into an old small business and shut themselves in. Grateful for the chance to regroup, Cas leans back against the wall. He lets himself slide down into an ungraceful heap on the floor.
“I thought,” he pants, “that Niles said this part of town was deserted?”
“Niles is a fucking idiot,” Dean rages, pacing back and forth across the old office. His left hand is clenching and unclenching; Cas can tell he wants to punch something. Someone. He isn’t, only because he doesn’t want to attract attention. “If he was any kind of fucking scout he would have seen this coming a mile away!”
“Dean,” Cas calls gently, reaching out. “Come away from the windows.”
He does, marching over to the old elevator doors and dropping like a puppet cut from its strings. His rifle clatters to the floor. Dean buries his face in his hands. Curled in on himself, he’s the very picture of hopelessness. It makes Cas’s heart ache.
“Dean,” he says again, softly. “Do you have a plan?”
Dean chokes out a sob behind his hands. Cas pretends not to notice. “Plan?” he croaks, sounding overwhelmed. It quickly gives way to anger, though. “No, I left my fucking plan eight streets back. It’s lying on the ground, bleeding out with Jenna and Scott — and Niles, the worst fucking scout I’ve ever sent ahead.” His voice breaks near the end. He raises his head then, green eyes shimmering against his filthy face. Thanks to his soiled hands, blood’s been added to the dirt and grime. “Fucking stupid,” he rants, but this is directed at himself. “Why did I send him ahead? Idiot!” He punctuates this by cracking his head back against the doors.
“Think, Dean,” Cas advises. “Look how organized the Croats were. There must be a demon here corralling them. So we can retreat, regroup, and then try again.”
Dean looks down his nose at him. Cas doesn’t have a word for the expression; it makes his stomach sink. “Try again,” he repeats, voice clipped. “Knowing this horde has a demon in charge of them?” His fingers grip his thighs, bunching up his jeans. “This was bad enough. Now you want me to bring a party back here, when the demon knows we want to raid it?” He shakes his head. “Fuck, Cas, they’ve probably trashed any supplies here already, to stop us from getting them.”
“Then we’ll have to confirm it ourselves,” Cas decides. “See if there’s anything left — and if so, grab whatever the two of us can and get out. Supplies are scarce as it is,” he reminds Dean.
“You think I don’t know that?!” Dean looks down at his hands. “Cas, I got — I got a camp full of starving people. Some of ‘em are sick — stupid things penicillin would fix but we don’t fucking have any. Couple of the women are pregnant. No abortions even if they wanted ‘em.”
“Dean,” Cas ventures.
“Babies, Cas,” Dean sobs, punching the floor. “There’re gonna be babies born into this hellhole and what am I supposed to do?” He punches the floor again; Cas winces at the crack. “Who put me in charge, anyway? What the hell do I know about being president? If they think their chances are better following the Devil’s brother around…” he trails off, looking defeated. Cas watches a tear clear a path through the dirt on his cheek. “Well,” Dean finishes. “The evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
It’s surreal. Cas watches his friend and charge weep openly on the floor of a deserted software company. Of all the places for Dean Winchester to come apart at the seams, Cas would have bet “in the middle of a mission” wasn’t on the list.
This isn’t the time or the place for a breakdown. It’s also not where Dean Winchester gives up — not if Cas has anything to say about it.
He slides across the floor, dragging his gun with him. First he takes Dean’s hand, inspecting it for broken fingers. They’re all fine, just bruised. He cups Dean’s face with his own filthy hands and kisses him, tasting sweat and tears and dirt and despair. When he pulls away Cas thinks, fuck the Croats, and tucks Dean against his chest. He gives them a moment, resting his cheek on Dean’s head and listening to his ragged exhalations slow down.
The minutes tick by. Cas waits them out, keeping an eye and ear open for any action outside. Nothing. If only the supply run had gone as well. “Here’s what I think,” he murmurs into Dean’s hair. “I think a lesser man would have run from the responsibility. I think a lesser man’s camp would have collapsed two years ago. I think a lesser man would not have commanded respect and necessary deference. I think a lesser man would have led his followers to death, rather than survival.
“I think you,” his fingers graze Dean’s cheek, “are a greater man. I think you only see the friends who fall, and you overlook the ones you save. I think people follow you because your tenacity inspires them.” Cas allows himself a faint smile. “If the Devil’s brother can stand and fight after what he’s lost, so can they.”
“And you?” Dean asks, voice hoarse. “Are those reasons why you follow me?”
“I don’t follow you,” Cas corrects him. “I go with you.”
Cas knows he’s gotten through when Dean clams up, emotional display over and done with. He doesn’t get a thank-you or a reciprocal pep-talk, but Dean’s hand finds his knee and squeezes once, reassuring. This time, Cas smiles a real smile. “So then…?”
Dean unfolds himself and stands up with renewed determination. “We’ve got work to do.”
~End.
ukefiedDisclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,113
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings.
Character/Pairings: Castiel/Dean (skirts the line between pre-slash & slash, depending on where you draw it :)
Notes: For
hc_bingo, “dystopia.” Title from the Murder By Death song.Summary: 2014!verse/Croatoan ‘verse. Dean and Cas make a supply run. It doesn’t go smoothly.
“The Devil Drives”
By Mina Lightstar
Sometimes, Cas forgets he is only human. Two years in the mortal coil and he still marvels at being short of breath, being sore, being scared.
He’s out of ammo. No time to reload. The Croat’s coming up on his left. Cas barely manages an uppercut with the butt of his rifle. It works, but there’s another one. And another one, and—
He’s startled when bloodied fingers grab his jacket. It’s Dean, making a break for it and hauling him roughly along. Cas follows, trailing the Righteous Man through the maze Plattsmouth’s industrial zone. Dean used to joke that he wished the Croats were more like zombies in movies — that the Croats were too fast.
Dean doesn’t joke much these days.
Cas isn’t sure how far they run, but they lose the horde. They slip into an old small business and shut themselves in. Grateful for the chance to regroup, Cas leans back against the wall. He lets himself slide down into an ungraceful heap on the floor.
“I thought,” he pants, “that Niles said this part of town was deserted?”
“Niles is a fucking idiot,” Dean rages, pacing back and forth across the old office. His left hand is clenching and unclenching; Cas can tell he wants to punch something. Someone. He isn’t, only because he doesn’t want to attract attention. “If he was any kind of fucking scout he would have seen this coming a mile away!”
“Dean,” Cas calls gently, reaching out. “Come away from the windows.”
He does, marching over to the old elevator doors and dropping like a puppet cut from its strings. His rifle clatters to the floor. Dean buries his face in his hands. Curled in on himself, he’s the very picture of hopelessness. It makes Cas’s heart ache.
“Dean,” he says again, softly. “Do you have a plan?”
Dean chokes out a sob behind his hands. Cas pretends not to notice. “Plan?” he croaks, sounding overwhelmed. It quickly gives way to anger, though. “No, I left my fucking plan eight streets back. It’s lying on the ground, bleeding out with Jenna and Scott — and Niles, the worst fucking scout I’ve ever sent ahead.” His voice breaks near the end. He raises his head then, green eyes shimmering against his filthy face. Thanks to his soiled hands, blood’s been added to the dirt and grime. “Fucking stupid,” he rants, but this is directed at himself. “Why did I send him ahead? Idiot!” He punctuates this by cracking his head back against the doors.
“Think, Dean,” Cas advises. “Look how organized the Croats were. There must be a demon here corralling them. So we can retreat, regroup, and then try again.”
Dean looks down his nose at him. Cas doesn’t have a word for the expression; it makes his stomach sink. “Try again,” he repeats, voice clipped. “Knowing this horde has a demon in charge of them?” His fingers grip his thighs, bunching up his jeans. “This was bad enough. Now you want me to bring a party back here, when the demon knows we want to raid it?” He shakes his head. “Fuck, Cas, they’ve probably trashed any supplies here already, to stop us from getting them.”
“Then we’ll have to confirm it ourselves,” Cas decides. “See if there’s anything left — and if so, grab whatever the two of us can and get out. Supplies are scarce as it is,” he reminds Dean.
“You think I don’t know that?!” Dean looks down at his hands. “Cas, I got — I got a camp full of starving people. Some of ‘em are sick — stupid things penicillin would fix but we don’t fucking have any. Couple of the women are pregnant. No abortions even if they wanted ‘em.”
“Dean,” Cas ventures.
“Babies, Cas,” Dean sobs, punching the floor. “There’re gonna be babies born into this hellhole and what am I supposed to do?” He punches the floor again; Cas winces at the crack. “Who put me in charge, anyway? What the hell do I know about being president? If they think their chances are better following the Devil’s brother around…” he trails off, looking defeated. Cas watches a tear clear a path through the dirt on his cheek. “Well,” Dean finishes. “The evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
It’s surreal. Cas watches his friend and charge weep openly on the floor of a deserted software company. Of all the places for Dean Winchester to come apart at the seams, Cas would have bet “in the middle of a mission” wasn’t on the list.
This isn’t the time or the place for a breakdown. It’s also not where Dean Winchester gives up — not if Cas has anything to say about it.
He slides across the floor, dragging his gun with him. First he takes Dean’s hand, inspecting it for broken fingers. They’re all fine, just bruised. He cups Dean’s face with his own filthy hands and kisses him, tasting sweat and tears and dirt and despair. When he pulls away Cas thinks, fuck the Croats, and tucks Dean against his chest. He gives them a moment, resting his cheek on Dean’s head and listening to his ragged exhalations slow down.
The minutes tick by. Cas waits them out, keeping an eye and ear open for any action outside. Nothing. If only the supply run had gone as well. “Here’s what I think,” he murmurs into Dean’s hair. “I think a lesser man would have run from the responsibility. I think a lesser man’s camp would have collapsed two years ago. I think a lesser man would not have commanded respect and necessary deference. I think a lesser man would have led his followers to death, rather than survival.
“I think you,” his fingers graze Dean’s cheek, “are a greater man. I think you only see the friends who fall, and you overlook the ones you save. I think people follow you because your tenacity inspires them.” Cas allows himself a faint smile. “If the Devil’s brother can stand and fight after what he’s lost, so can they.”
“And you?” Dean asks, voice hoarse. “Are those reasons why you follow me?”
“I don’t follow you,” Cas corrects him. “I go with you.”
Cas knows he’s gotten through when Dean clams up, emotional display over and done with. He doesn’t get a thank-you or a reciprocal pep-talk, but Dean’s hand finds his knee and squeezes once, reassuring. This time, Cas smiles a real smile. “So then…?”
Dean unfolds himself and stands up with renewed determination. “We’ve got work to do.”
~End.
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