“pick it all up and start again” by merriie/eun0iia
547 words, general and implied Castiel/Dean Winchester
He’s awake- alive, he thinks -an indeterminable amount of time after all he saw was light.
Lucifer … I should be dead, he faintly ponders. But everything is … muddled. Foggy. The thought drifts from him as he registers his eyes fluttering open not of his own accord.
He doesn’t dwell on it. More like, he can’t.
His bleary, blurry eyes are fixed on something very dark, which, after a few moments of staring, he determines to be the Impala’s roof. The occasional headlights shining like a searchlight make him come to the conclusion. He must be lying in the back seat. His eyes droop tiredly a few times, the dull ride of the car lulling his body into calm, almost forgetting how he got here in a first place …
He doesn’t feel, hear, can’t move anything for a short time, can’t even move his gaze, until in a split second, every sense comes back to him to painfully greet him.
The first thing his body does is gasp for air sharply, arching him off the leather cushion. He scrabbles at his throat with a shaky hand, sitting up now. His head is light but it feels like the nails are buried deep in his skull again and if he couldn’t think before, he really can’t think right now except the screaming thought that his lungs are on fire from disuse.
He hasn’t had to breathe in years.
He hasn’t had to breathe in years.
Everything is cut off when the Impala screeches to a halt harshly, his head flopping onto the back of the cushion weakly. His hearing is finally coming to its senses now, and now he processes the slamming of car doors and excessive swearing. He screws his eyes shut, leaning farther into the cushion and pulling his knees to his chest and trying to will away the pounding of his head and he’s human his head is hurting because he’s human he’s not dead he should be dead-
A soft hand rests on his shoulder, more gentle than the calloused hands should be used to. He only notices how tense he is when his shoulders sag as he sighs. Dean squeezes his shoulder, giving a relieved, breathy exhale. Moisture prickles threateningly in his eyes.
“Cass … hey buddy,” Dean croons. Dean’s voice is near trembling. Vulnerable. “We … thought we lost you back there.”
He remains silent, but flutters open his eyes. He focuses them on the leather cushion in front of him.
“Cass,” Sam adds in. Treading lightly. “It’s us. You’re safe.” Safe, his mind echoes. We’re never safe anymore.
“Hello,” he rasps out, finally. Accidentally vulnerable.
Dean must know him far too well, because something in the air shifts. Dean gives his shoulder another squeeze, gentler this time. Amazing, he ponders, how such a small gesture can stir so many emotions in him. His heart drops when the touch fades, and he hears faint footsteps growing fainter.
“We should stop at a motel,” Dean’s voice is farther away than before, somewhat hushed.
Before he can stop himself, he calls out, “Home.”
Everything is silent except the cars as they roar by on the rainy highway.
“Yeah … yeah, we can do that, Cass,” Sam stammers.
He sighs. He almost breaks.
A/N: Title from “Medicine” by Daughter.
Please let me know if you want me to continue! I would like to but I just don’t know what to write from here.
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
