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28 February 2010 @ 02:08 pm
February drabble dump, "awwwww" edition  

Adam/Monica, Regrets II (serious)

Sometimes she does regret leaving the city. What right did she have, after all she promised to her family, to go off on her own, leave the homefires and song of the bayou to pursue a platinum-silver high-rise life on the coast? There are times she thinks she's betrayed everyone she ever cared about.

Just for this one man. Just for this one dream.

She calls her Nana on the phone sometimes, and Nana sets her straight. "You listen good," she says, "you got out and you got free, and I tell everyone about you and what you do. Your little brother's applying for college now, do you hear me? College, and that's because of you. You are the dream that we all want to be, so you keep going."

She looks back, then, at Adam reading, looking like a proper English gentleman except for the soda can by his elbow and the ragged tear of his jeans. He feels her gaze, meets her eyes, and waggles his eyebrows like he's got some horribly wicked thought in mind. The whole thing feels domestic, ordinary. Was this worth leaving home for?

She hangs up the phone, and lifts the book out of his hands to place herself in his lap instead. And all her regrets melt away.


Gwen/Ten, can't touch

Torchwood, for Gwen, has always been about touching a world she never could before. Gwen's been that way her whole life. Once she sees something, she wants to know it, own it,. She couldn't take the knowledge that Torchwood gave her and just bury it, go back to the life she had before. Jack saw that. Jack knew that about her. It's why he allowed her in.

But Jack never saw how badly Gwen wanted to touch him. He was too blinded with his own dramas, his own wants and lost desires. Finding his darling Doctor and running off with him. Gwen couldn't get him to turn around and look at her, much less think of her as someone worth touching, being with. The desire destroyed her, turned her to ragged bits day by day until she didn't even recognize herself anymore. That's what Owen was about. That's probably what Rhys ended up being about, at least for a while.

So here, in this man's arms, hearing him murmur her name, she is whole again. His hair shines a glorious chestnut in the darkness, and his body, lithe against her fullness, beats warm life back into her. She's touching the man even Jack couldn't touch. And that is her victory.

Matt/Mohinder, disability

They're getting used to it, day by day. The mess that it made of their lives is nothing, Mohinder tells himself, compared to the people who died when Samuel Sullivan moved the earth. The crater, the memorials, the wall-to-wall coverage that hasn't let up even months later are constant reminders of that. But sometimes, when Matt bumps his chair against the wall or they discover a certain space is no longer wide enough for him to reach, or on those myriad occasions when Mohinder wants to be close to him and all Matt can do is nod with tears in his eyes, then it feels like they're the unluckiest people in the world.

When Matt has the strength, sometimes he pulls them into an illusion. For a few brief minutes, they spend an eternity in a dream world, making love and running and laughing, at last whole of body. But it's all inside his mind, and his mind is all he has now. Sylar made sure of that. His final act of revenge. His final punishment for what Matt did to him.

He couldn't trap Matt in his mind. He didn't have that power. But he made sure Matt's mind was all he had left. Matt will never walk, or squeeze Mohinder's hand, or chase a felon down an alleyway ever again. But he still has his life. That has to be enough. They should count themselves lucky.


Sam, Dean, Castiel, three months later

The first month without Castiel sucked. The second one sucked harder. By the third, Sam was ready to perform a summoning spell to get the angel back. But that was the deal, the agreement they had struck. No apocalypse meant no angels, no divine intervention, no Castiel by their side day in and day out. It was only fair. no, it was more than fair, and it had been a no-brainer, really. Just rewind it all. Only Dean and Sam knowing how much time hadn't passed and who had never walked among them.

It was three months after the apocalypse hadn't started, and Dean was a fucking wreck.

Sam caught him looking up at the sky, talking so quietly he could barely be heard. "Jesus, Cas," he was saying into the darkness. "How am I supposed to feel when you're not here? I forgot about that, I forgot what it was like not to have you there to talk to. I know I managed it before, I should have been able to manage it again, and now you're... you were never here and now I feel like I never was, either."

Sam's eyes misted up. He moved through the darkness. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean wiped his eyes and turned. "Sam. I ... I don't mean that you're not, because... you are, I just..."

Sam smiled. "I miss him too, Dean."

Someday he'd appear again, all ruffled hair and bright eyes. Maybe he'd wear the same vessel. Maybe another. Maybe he wouldn't remember them, maybe he'd be the soldier Dean had first met instead of the man he'd become. It didn't matter. It'd be Castiel, and when he returned they'd start all over again. Together.


Adam/Monica, angels

"Mama used to tell me there were angels that would watch over me while I slept," Monica said. Her face was flushed with fever, and her voice was muffled by the layers of pillows and blankets that surrounded her in a big swirling crepe of cloth. "When I was sick I kinda liked that."

"Angels," Adam said, his mouth twisting in amusement. He placed the full glass of orange juice by the bedside, shook out some cold medicine from the bottle and laid two pills on a napkin close by.

"Always got pissed off that the angels would just sit there and watch me be sick, though," Monica coughed and then went on. "If they were so angelic why didn't they zap me better?"

"Ah yes, the idealist," Adam said with a soft laugh. "Even angels need improving upon."

"They were just angels." Her eyes were closing already. "Now I've got you."


Dean/Castiel, raining

It was raining that night, and the trees sang a constant rush of dripping water and gently ballooning wind, turning each leaf inside out like an unhappy umbrella. When the raindrops reached the patio, they made speckled patterns and stained the stone and then were lost in a great dark stain spreading across like a shadow.

It wasn't often they spent time in a place with a stone patio, or any patio at all. This was unusual. And it seemed kind of a shame that the rain would block their view on this, one of the few nights they'd be there. But there was something numbing, calming about the sound that also gave Dean some comfort. He didn't really like the idea of a clear, brilliant night. That invited a certain mood that he just didn't know if he was capable of anymore.

He was getting good at the brooding. And the feeling burdened. That he was brilliant at. It was just a mater of looking up at the sky at the right angle and heaving a heavy sigh. The angst settled onto him like a cloak, and he could spend the whole night bemoaning his fate if he so chose. God, how he would have hated traveling with himself if this had been a few years ago.

Before everything. Before Hell. Before Castiel. Before he had emerged as some sort of utterly unlikely hero.

As if he needed any further proof that the world was unfair. And that God was dead.

What a fucking sucker he was to finally receive proof of that just as he'd started to really hope it wasn't true.

Yeah, he was thinking of Cas again, and about his quest. It occurred to him at the oddest times. When he had nothing to distract him from the inherent paradox of it all. For Castiel's desire to be fulfilled, it would have to be proven that God was not only alive, but precisely the sort of inconsiderate bastard that would put someone like Dean in charge of saving the whole fucking universe.

The raindrops sounded like laughter now, like a thousand bastard cherubs laughing their dimpled asses off at him. He turned away from the window.

And Cas was there. Naturally.

"Jesus, don't-- no, never mind, I'm not even going to tell you not to. Too late."

Castiel looked at him critically. Dean remembered that wide-eyed frown from the first time they'd met. When Castiel had looked at him as though he were honestly trying to figure him out.

You have no faith.

Yeah. That'd been the first sign that things were about to go completely pear-shaped.

"You look pensive." The master of stating the obvious.

"That's probably because I'm thinking."

"About what?"

Dean scowled at him. "You probably already know. Why aren't you just going into my head and figuring it out?"

The blue eyes wavered. Castiel's lips twitched. "I don't do that without permission."

"Oh. Well. That's considerate of you." Dean scratched the back of his head. "Thanks."

Castiel nodded. His eyes skirted up past Dean's face toward the window, where raindrops scampered along the pane in a hurry to lump together and fall.

"So, aren't you going to ask permission?" Dean said.

Castiel frowned at him again. The I don't get you face. "If you want me to know what you're thinking, you're welcome to tell me," he said.

"You mean you don't want a peek at my secret thoughts?"

"I have seen them before."

"Oh, so you don't ask permission."

"I do now. I didn't before."

"Oh." It was a very weird conversation to have. "So, what, they're not interesting enough to see again?"

"They're not extraordinary," Castiel said simply. Now Dean's feelings really were a little hurt.

He turned back, and they watched the rain for a while together. It didn't seem like a very strenuous activity, but Castiel's brows stayed knotted as though he was pondering a logic problem. Dean kept glancing at him, and every time he looked just a little bit more frustrated.

Finally he broke. "What's wrong with you today? You look like someone stole your lunch money."

"I don't understand that."

"Forget it. What's wrong?"

Castiel's eyes lowered. "I'm not sure. I think this weather is depressing me."

"Can you even get depressed?" Castiel shot him a look, and Dean shrugged. "OK, apparently so. Who knew. You're not the most emotive guy in the world, you know."

"I'm not devoid of emotion."

"Yeah, I know." Dean kicked at the floor, his sneakers squeaking against the wood. "Sometimes it's easy to forget, but... I know."

Castiel fell silent. They kept on watching the rain.

"So why did you come here tonight?" Dean asked. "Something going on?"

"No. I just... I knew where you were. So I came. It seemed preferable to staying where I was."

"You just felt like hanging out."

A brief flicker of eyebrows. "Yes. Yes, I suppose."

"That's OK, then." Dean found his own black mood was lifting. He figured it was worth saying something about. "Glad you did. I wasn't in the mood to be alone."

Castiel looked very, very surprised at this. His jaw opened, but he said nothing. Just stared, then looked away. Returned his gaze to the rain.


Dean/Castiel, feeling pain is better than feeling nothing

Castiel lets Dean get his air. He doesn't move from his spot, bearing quiet witness to Sam's pain, until he hears a crashing of glass outside. Then he's at Dean's side in an instant, horrified, pulling Dean's fist back from the car window he's just smashed and picking glass out of his skin.

"Why did you do that," he says, and he sounds demanding, angry, because that's the only way he knows how to sound. He's not good at comforting, that's been made painfully clear.

"It hurt," Dean says, and he sounds surprised. "Thank God, it hurt."

He's gasping, his eyes are tearing up, and Castiel moves fast, taking off his tie and tying it around Dean's bloodied fist, a makeshift tourniquet. "Dean," he entreats. He needs an answer.

Dean meets his eyes. "I'm not dead," he says. "I can still feel." He winces.

"So you put your hand through a car window?" Castiel's very close to chiding him. "To prove you can still feel?"

"So what if I did?" Dean jerks back his hand, ignores the pain that sends a paleness through his face and makes him sweat. "It's better than nothing. Pain is better than nothing."

He looks so weak, so defeated then, Castiel wishes he could bend reality. Anything to make this moment never have to happen.

He puts a hand on Dean's face. "Can you feel that?" he asks.

Dean winces, but there's no pain in Castiel's touch, just gentle warmth and comfort. "Cas, I don't--"

"Can you feel it?" Insistent voice, solid blue eyes.


"Next time," Castiel says, and it sounds like a warning, "next time, come to me first."

There's a layer of meaning there he doesn't quite fathom, even saying it. But having said it feels like enough for now. Dean nods.

pandapandatini on February 28th, 2010 07:51 pm (UTC)
"Next time," Castiel says, and it sounds like a warning, "next time, come to me first."

There's a layer of meaning there he doesn't quite fathom, even saying it. But having said it feels like enough for now. Dean nods.



*wipes away tear*
Tiptoe39: dean/castiptoe39 on February 28th, 2010 08:13 pm (UTC)
I know, that's sort of my favorite too :-)

oh boys stop needing each other quite so obviously, it's killing me
wickedvirtue on March 3rd, 2010 06:11 pm (UTC)
That last one... DEEEEEEN. Cripes.

These are all lovely. It was a good month!
Tiptoe39: sad samtiptoe39 on March 3rd, 2010 06:14 pm (UTC)
I know rite? (;_;) Poor broken boy. I need a broken!Dean icon.

So glad you enjoyed!