oh man, I wrote a fic.
Apr. 16th, 2011 11:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shichiloaf The world is clearly coming to an end.
Title: Feels Good, Man
Rating: R for drug use
Word Count: 864
Characters/Pairings: 2014!Cas with a side of Dean
Spoilers/Warnings: 5.04. Drug use.
Summary: And then Dean is talking and Cas doesn’t understand, can’t think through the pain. He catches concussion and broken and goddammit, Cas, and decides that’s all that’s important anyway.
Comments: Okay so. Bear with my headcanon, which is that Dean smokes pot every once in a while (he picked it up from John), just not around Sam because Sam thinks it smells like ass. It’s kind of implied that he’s done stuff before, so I’m running with that. I also feel like pretty much everyone at Camp Chitaqua is hitting something some time, so… Also I have no idea if there are drugs that do all of this shit. Pretend it was something real cut with something else that's real. Or something. And typos and shiz are my bad. 8'D
ALSO DON’T SHUN MEEE I haven't written fic since '08.
Cas isn't sure when he stopped caring about his vessel - his body, now. He guesses it might be somewhere around the time when it really, truly sinks in that his brothers and sisters had left him, and the first night Dean offers him some foul smelling something rolled up in brown paper, promising him a few hours of peace and calm. It'll help you relax, he says, trust me, Cas. The painful emptiness he feels where his grace used to be is tolerable that night.
It isn't long after that before he's accepting anything handed to him by anyone without so much as a thought as to what it is or what it could do to him. All it takes is a feels real good, man or a hey, I found this in that hospital last week, shit'll knock you on your ass so quick and it's already gone. It's his body now, he thinks, the first thing in his nearly infinite existence that he's free to do with as he pleases, and he's going to do just that. One of the perks of being… Whatever he is now, he reasons.
He's mildly curious the first time his coughs turn wet with mucus, pretends not to feel it when taking a deep breath creates a dull ache in his chest. He rolls his eyes and gropes his way back to his cabin in a stupor when Dean asks about it or casts a questioning glance his way during the tactical assemblies he's sure he's only invited to out of pity, or some sense of obligation on Dean's part. (Even so, he can't bring himself to refuse. Always, anything for Dean.)
He has a harder time ignoring the indignation that curls in his gut at Dean's raised eyebrows, at the judgement he often sees plain on his friend's face. Hypocrite, he thinks. It's free will, what he's doing to himself. And wasn't that what they had given up everything for? Isn't that what led them all here?
So when he's offered a nondescript pill he's never seen before, he accepts it and pops it into his mouth without even blinking, chasing it down with whatever is in the nearest bottle.
He's unsure what to make of the feeling half an hour later, lying alone in his cabin. He's stretched out face up on his mattress, fingernails grazing the muddy wooden floor. He closes his eyes, or maybe he's opening them, and then he finds himself transfixed, staring at the colours and shapes playing across the ceiling, wondering if this might be what he's heard Dean refer to as "tripping balls". That's the last coherent thought he remembers having before he's flooded with sensation, everything he was promised and more.
The sense of euphoria overwhelms him; He's never felt this content, this at ease. He runs the back of his hands across the torn and dirty mattress, nuzzles his cheek into the rough nylon covering wishing it were warm, alive. His head feels fuzzy and light and suddenly he's seized by the desire to be outside or with people, anywhere but his dingy cabin. He's vaguely aware of pulling himself up, stumbling and falling into the door. He pushes it open and staggers outside, grasping for the railing along the stairs. He tells himself he doesn't know where he's going, but if he's honest, he knows his feet will carry him in the direction of Dean's cabin.
He can't see straight, and the tingling warmth that has been slowly spreading throughout his body settles in his fingers and toes. Touching the banister sends a shock through his arm and he jerks back, loses his balance and topples headfirst down the stairs. His foot catches on a step and the last thing he remembers is a sick cracking sound and pain shooting up his leg, and then darkness as his head smashes into the dirt.
He comes to on his dingy mattress, he knows without opening his eyes. He thinks for a moment that maybe he hadn't moved at all, that maybe he'd just imagined his fall. His eyes crack open and when they adjust to the light creeping in through the tattered curtains, he can see Dean, perched on a folding chair beside the bed, mouth set in a hard line. Cas thinks he looks tired. His eyes don't want to focus, and he tries haul himself up, hissing in pain when the action jostles his foot. Not imagined, then. He gasps and lets his head fall back onto the rolled up jacket he'd been passed out on.
And then Dean is talking and Cas doesn't understand, can't think through the pain. He catches concussion and broken and goddammit, Cas, and decides that's all that's important anyway. The last thing he sees before unconsciousness claims him again is Dean scrubbing a hand across his mouth, eyes tinged with what can only be regret.
Cas spends the next four months laid up and popping painkillers and it isn't hard to convince himself it was worth it.
Title: Feels Good, Man
Rating: R for drug use
Word Count: 864
Characters/Pairings: 2014!Cas with a side of Dean
Spoilers/Warnings: 5.04. Drug use.
Summary: And then Dean is talking and Cas doesn’t understand, can’t think through the pain. He catches concussion and broken and goddammit, Cas, and decides that’s all that’s important anyway.
Comments: Okay so. Bear with my headcanon, which is that Dean smokes pot every once in a while (he picked it up from John), just not around Sam because Sam thinks it smells like ass. It’s kind of implied that he’s done stuff before, so I’m running with that. I also feel like pretty much everyone at Camp Chitaqua is hitting something some time, so… Also I have no idea if there are drugs that do all of this shit. Pretend it was something real cut with something else that's real. Or something. And typos and shiz are my bad. 8'D
ALSO DON’T SHUN MEEE I haven't written fic since '08.
Cas isn't sure when he stopped caring about his vessel - his body, now. He guesses it might be somewhere around the time when it really, truly sinks in that his brothers and sisters had left him, and the first night Dean offers him some foul smelling something rolled up in brown paper, promising him a few hours of peace and calm. It'll help you relax, he says, trust me, Cas. The painful emptiness he feels where his grace used to be is tolerable that night.
It isn't long after that before he's accepting anything handed to him by anyone without so much as a thought as to what it is or what it could do to him. All it takes is a feels real good, man or a hey, I found this in that hospital last week, shit'll knock you on your ass so quick and it's already gone. It's his body now, he thinks, the first thing in his nearly infinite existence that he's free to do with as he pleases, and he's going to do just that. One of the perks of being… Whatever he is now, he reasons.
He's mildly curious the first time his coughs turn wet with mucus, pretends not to feel it when taking a deep breath creates a dull ache in his chest. He rolls his eyes and gropes his way back to his cabin in a stupor when Dean asks about it or casts a questioning glance his way during the tactical assemblies he's sure he's only invited to out of pity, or some sense of obligation on Dean's part. (Even so, he can't bring himself to refuse. Always, anything for Dean.)
He has a harder time ignoring the indignation that curls in his gut at Dean's raised eyebrows, at the judgement he often sees plain on his friend's face. Hypocrite, he thinks. It's free will, what he's doing to himself. And wasn't that what they had given up everything for? Isn't that what led them all here?
So when he's offered a nondescript pill he's never seen before, he accepts it and pops it into his mouth without even blinking, chasing it down with whatever is in the nearest bottle.
He's unsure what to make of the feeling half an hour later, lying alone in his cabin. He's stretched out face up on his mattress, fingernails grazing the muddy wooden floor. He closes his eyes, or maybe he's opening them, and then he finds himself transfixed, staring at the colours and shapes playing across the ceiling, wondering if this might be what he's heard Dean refer to as "tripping balls". That's the last coherent thought he remembers having before he's flooded with sensation, everything he was promised and more.
The sense of euphoria overwhelms him; He's never felt this content, this at ease. He runs the back of his hands across the torn and dirty mattress, nuzzles his cheek into the rough nylon covering wishing it were warm, alive. His head feels fuzzy and light and suddenly he's seized by the desire to be outside or with people, anywhere but his dingy cabin. He's vaguely aware of pulling himself up, stumbling and falling into the door. He pushes it open and staggers outside, grasping for the railing along the stairs. He tells himself he doesn't know where he's going, but if he's honest, he knows his feet will carry him in the direction of Dean's cabin.
He can't see straight, and the tingling warmth that has been slowly spreading throughout his body settles in his fingers and toes. Touching the banister sends a shock through his arm and he jerks back, loses his balance and topples headfirst down the stairs. His foot catches on a step and the last thing he remembers is a sick cracking sound and pain shooting up his leg, and then darkness as his head smashes into the dirt.
He comes to on his dingy mattress, he knows without opening his eyes. He thinks for a moment that maybe he hadn't moved at all, that maybe he'd just imagined his fall. His eyes crack open and when they adjust to the light creeping in through the tattered curtains, he can see Dean, perched on a folding chair beside the bed, mouth set in a hard line. Cas thinks he looks tired. His eyes don't want to focus, and he tries haul himself up, hissing in pain when the action jostles his foot. Not imagined, then. He gasps and lets his head fall back onto the rolled up jacket he'd been passed out on.
And then Dean is talking and Cas doesn't understand, can't think through the pain. He catches concussion and broken and goddammit, Cas, and decides that's all that's important anyway. The last thing he sees before unconsciousness claims him again is Dean scrubbing a hand across his mouth, eyes tinged with what can only be regret.
Cas spends the next four months laid up and popping painkillers and it isn't hard to convince himself it was worth it.
