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SPN: The Water's Always Near (Castiel)

For svilleficrecs, who requested a fic based on this icon (by rockin_graphix):

Title: The Water's Always Near
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Supernatural
Character: Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: There's little left to fear.
Notes: Spoilers for 5.04

Castiel ignored the tug of the other angels, as he had ignored them for these many months. While the divergence of his path troubled him at times, he had no patience for the hectoring of Zachariah and his followers. They could not touch him anymore, but their words stung him like scorpions, reminded him of his days within the host, the days when he felt sure of purpose, sure of the faith of the ranks behind him.

The tug sharpened, but he resisted, turned his concentration inward, wondering at the strength of it. He wrested at the angels' pull, felt the bond stretch thin, and then he was choking, hands clawing at his throat, thirsting for air, just a breath, just--

He collapsed, his knees giving way, and he pulled great gulps of air into lungs he had never needed before. The gravel was rough on his hands, and beneath the cloth of his trousers, his knees were scraped from the impact.

Cas? Hey, Cas!

Panic. That sound was panic. Dean.

Castiel looked up, and the brothers looked down on him. Dean crouched, held out a hand. Castiel lifted his hands from the ground, turned them up, looked at the redness of them, the bits of stone clinging to his palms.

You okay? What happened to you?

Castiel shook his head, his ears ringing. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Licked his lips, and dared to explain.

"I fell."


Castiel could feel pain, and anger, and loneliness, and loss. He could weep, but after that first night, pleading with the empty heavens, he found pride lodged in his chest like a dragging weight. He could not alter the present, nor traverse the past. He could not strike with any more force than a human, and he had no wings with which to fly.

He could still see beyond, mere haloes of what he had perceived before. Sam made jokes about Plato, while Dean alluded to beer goggles. For the most part, Castiel found the latter more comforting.

While the brothers ferreted out a curse's origins--something about a pineapple and a man named Bob, he gathered--Castiel left the confines of the motel room and trudged to a nearby bar, his shoulders beaten by the gloom of the evening. He laid a couple of bills on the bar, and the woman behind the counter slid over a glass, foam sloshing only slightly against the rim. He raised the glass to his lips, felt his face wrinkle at the bitter comfort of the liquid within.

Another, and another, and another. He did not count.

He laid another bill on the bar, but the bartender placed her hand over his. "I'll get the next one," she said, a smile on her lips.

"Thank you," he replied.

"It's your last," she countered, the smile wavering.

Castiel considered that, cursed how slowly his mind worked as she watched him. She was pretty, he realized. Her hair was tied back, but a strand had escaped, and it brushed against her shoulder. He considered that, as well.

Her hand pressed against his, then lifted. "You're trying to forget something," she observed.

"Perhaps," he said, "you could lend me your assistance."

She laughed at him, but she did not say no.


A/N: Title and summary adapted from Randall Mann's Bernal Hill. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Nov. 2nd, 2009 01:21 am (UTC)
Awwwwww, baby boy! It's gonna be okay! Poor scruffy Castiel. Looking like that, it's a good bet there are plenty of women willing to be his bottle. Very nice. And I dont even remember requesting this! Yay unexpected fic.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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