The alcohol allows Cas to tune out the details of the abortion debate and instead drift on the tone of voice. The moderator has a soft laugh, genuine and genial, conducting a friendly discussion rather than a passionate argument. A baritone man drones on too long and too clinically to be of much interest, but the woman has a low, insistent quality to her voice, as though she's resisting barking orders or insults at her opponent by thin, inward grace. It's familiar. It makes her pleasant to listen to.
Even dozing to the sound of their voices, wasting time until the news comes on, Cas isn't asleep, and he isn't distracted. He's concentrated very hard to focus on nothing in particular. The soft squeak of a boot sole in the snow snaps his attention to the specific.
Under the blanket, his eyes open. There's someone outside.
It might be—the police, or a looter. The latter presents no threat, but the former—the former does. Despite not knowing what identification he's expected to have, he knows he needs something. He lost Jimmy Novak's wallet years ago, before he lost Jimmy's soul. That means he has nothing. Sioux Falls Police Department likely won't take the symbols etched into the insides of his forearms as proof of anything—except perhaps mental instability. No matter what substances he forces into his human body or the bleak moments where he doubts his sense of self, his ability to access an emergency is still solid, honed. A gun against a police officer may not be the best defense but it's the most readily available. Needs must, after all.
He propped the semi-automatic in the corner behind the door when he finished re-building the room and hasn't touched it since then. The handgun he keeps on along the wooden crossbar by the bed. The fire stripped the wall down to its studs in places, creating nooks within the wall; as it separates his room from what used to be the living room, he hasn't bothered to paper over the holes yet. They make for impromptu shelves—for books, for candles, for pictures, but also for the gun.
Silently releasing the safety, he retracts his hand back under the comforter and rests the barrel of the gun on its side along the box spring, aimed towards the doorway. The comforter hides it, for now, in case it is a cop. But at this distance, an inch of plush cotton will do nothing to block a bullet from reaching its intended target. He curls tighter on the bed, poised to move, and waits.
It doesn't take long. Thirty seconds to a minute later—he doesn't count—a figure moves into the doorway. The beam from the headlights picks up glimpses of detail until the figure positions themselves as a silhouette in the doorway: broad shoulders, military style jacket, close-cropped sandy hair. Tall. The right height. The right build and weight.
The right voice.
For one second, everything around him and in him goes quiet for a second, calm and still, as though he's become one of the dust mites suspended in the air. Then Cas closes his eyes, swallows, and releases a long exhale. His grip on the gun relaxes along with the rest of his muscles, body sinking into the box spring.
If it's a dream, he doesn't want to wake up. And if it's a nightmare—Dean returned from the dead to exact . . . what? revenge?—he still doesn't want to wake up. Dean's posture reads gun, and Dean's voice says obey. With everything in him, with a passion Cas didn't know he still possessed, he wants nothing more than to obey right now. To let Dean lay down orders or threats on top of him as though they were extra blankets for warmth.
"Okay."
Through his labored breathing, his voice comes out scratchy, gruff. He lost count of how many days it's been since he last spoke—five? Six? He had enjoyed the habit, the presumed vow of silence. He lets the silence reign now, only his rasping breaths filling the air. In his chest, his heart pounds as though he took amphetamines instead of a third of a bottle of whiskey. But he keeps it pressed towards the bed, curled half on his side, not moving. Just breathing. Waiting. Absorbing. A floating frozen dust mite in the air.
no subject
Even dozing to the sound of their voices, wasting time until the news comes on, Cas isn't asleep, and he isn't distracted. He's concentrated very hard to focus on nothing in particular. The soft squeak of a boot sole in the snow snaps his attention to the specific.
Under the blanket, his eyes open. There's someone outside.
It might be—the police, or a looter. The latter presents no threat, but the former—the former does. Despite not knowing what identification he's expected to have, he knows he needs something. He lost Jimmy Novak's wallet years ago, before he lost Jimmy's soul. That means he has nothing. Sioux Falls Police Department likely won't take the symbols etched into the insides of his forearms as proof of anything—except perhaps mental instability. No matter what substances he forces into his human body or the bleak moments where he doubts his sense of self, his ability to access an emergency is still solid, honed. A gun against a police officer may not be the best defense but it's the most readily available. Needs must, after all.
He propped the semi-automatic in the corner behind the door when he finished re-building the room and hasn't touched it since then. The handgun he keeps on along the wooden crossbar by the bed. The fire stripped the wall down to its studs in places, creating nooks within the wall; as it separates his room from what used to be the living room, he hasn't bothered to paper over the holes yet. They make for impromptu shelves—for books, for candles, for pictures, but also for the gun.
Silently releasing the safety, he retracts his hand back under the comforter and rests the barrel of the gun on its side along the box spring, aimed towards the doorway. The comforter hides it, for now, in case it is a cop. But at this distance, an inch of plush cotton will do nothing to block a bullet from reaching its intended target. He curls tighter on the bed, poised to move, and waits.
It doesn't take long. Thirty seconds to a minute later—he doesn't count—a figure moves into the doorway. The beam from the headlights picks up glimpses of detail until the figure positions themselves as a silhouette in the doorway: broad shoulders, military style jacket, close-cropped sandy hair. Tall. The right height. The right build and weight.
The right voice.
For one second, everything around him and in him goes quiet for a second, calm and still, as though he's become one of the dust mites suspended in the air. Then Cas closes his eyes, swallows, and releases a long exhale. His grip on the gun relaxes along with the rest of his muscles, body sinking into the box spring.
If it's a dream, he doesn't want to wake up. And if it's a nightmare—Dean returned from the dead to exact . . . what? revenge?—he still doesn't want to wake up. Dean's posture reads gun, and Dean's voice says obey. With everything in him, with a passion Cas didn't know he still possessed, he wants nothing more than to obey right now. To let Dean lay down orders or threats on top of him as though they were extra blankets for warmth.
"Okay."
Through his labored breathing, his voice comes out scratchy, gruff. He lost count of how many days it's been since he last spoke—five? Six? He had enjoyed the habit, the presumed vow of silence. He lets the silence reign now, only his rasping breaths filling the air. In his chest, his heart pounds as though he took amphetamines instead of a third of a bottle of whiskey. But he keeps it pressed towards the bed, curled half on his side, not moving. Just breathing. Waiting. Absorbing. A floating frozen dust mite in the air.
Unreal. He doesn't open his eyes.