3.4k | Explicit | DeanCas
A 14.12 coda, in which Cas resorts to drastic measures to try and convince Dean not to throw himself into the ocean. Inspired by these tweets.
Dean gets as far as the corridor between Donatello’s room and the nurse’s station before Cas catches up with him. The harsh light buzzing overhead would make anyone else look like shit, but somehow it just makes Cas look more righteous. It gilds the edges of his hair. Catches on the few grays at his temples. A fluorescent halo that somehow softens his edges and makes him dangerous and electric all at once.
Here, looking at Dean like he can’t decide whether to save him or smite him, Dean’s years-suppressed desire to reach out and touch increases tenfold.
Dean’s so tired, so scared, so close to losing his nerve over all of this that he has to close his eyes against the sight of him. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. There’s a reason he’d made Sam promise not to say anything to Cas about his plan, after all. He can’t afford to get shaky, and the fact is, Cas just looking at him? Here, now, like this? Dean feels about as steady as a house of cards on a fault line.
When he speaks, his voice gives him away. Comes out rough. Tectonic plates grinding together.
“C'mon, man, we already–”
“No,” Cas cuts him off, and he’s louder than he should be in the middle of the hospital wing of a nursing home this late at night. “We didn’t.”
A passing nurse glances over at his raised voice, eyeing them both suspiciously before returning their attention to the clipboard in their hands. Cas grits his teeth. Tenses his jaw so hard the muscles twitch. Dean tracks the motion on autopilot. Squeezes his own hands into fists in something that he tells himself is irritation, but is really more like self restraint.
Hold it together, he thinks. Pictures the freezer door in his mind with Michael trapped on the other side. Hinges straining. You’ve got a job to do.
“Yeah, well. Whatever,” he shrugs. Faux-casual. “We’re not talking about it here. So–whoa, hey–”
The rest of Dean’s sentence cuts off as he’s shoved backward, and before he’s fully processed what’s happening, Cas has manhandled him through a nearby door and into the cramped space of a supply closet. His flailing hand hits the metal shelving as he stumbles inside, and a box of nitrile gloves slides from its stack. It hits the floor with a heavy thwack as Cas slams the door, sealing them in silence. Dean had barely noticed the sounds of the building around them while they were outside, but now that they’ve been cut off he’s starkly aware of the absence.
The heavy quiet of the tiny room makes him uncomfortably aware of his own harsh breath. His racing pulse. Cas’ eyes are sharp as he stares Dean down.
“We’re talking about this,” Cas bites out, moving closer than he really needs to. Dean backs up until he’s effectively boxed in against the rear shelf, the toes of Cas’ boots bumping into his own. Dean wants him closer. Needs him a half a country away. “Now.”
