Title: To Turn the Tables
Word Count: 466
Rating: K
Summary: Castiel wakes from a dream to find that the tables have turned.
Author's Note: I saw this post and wanted to write it down :)
He's sleeping he knows that. The world is warm and safe, his body snuggled tight in a fraying cocoon of flannel. His breathing is slow and even as he dreams peacefully on. There are blue skies and white clouds behind his eyelids, a feeling of flight overtaking him, and he is home. This feeling is so freeing that he is temporarily able to forget that he's tethered here on this green Earth, wings plucked from his back. He curls into himself tighter, pulling the flannel sheets higher up to his chin to escape the memory of his wings being forcibly removed. This is a time for peace, for flying high, not careening to the Earth in a fiery ball.
He lets out a sound in his sleep, a tiny whine as he flips over, the side of his face rubbing against something scratchy and semi-unpleasant. It's almost enough to pull him into wakefulness, but he forces himself back down into sleep, not wishing to face the light of day just yet. He's standing in a verdant pasture now, vibrant flowers of red and gold dotting the field and brushing against the tail of his trench coat. There's a kite, four panels of red, green, yellow, and blue, waving in the wind, string held loosely in the grasp of an old man. A smile pulls up the corners of his lips. He knows this place, finds endless comfort here.
He takes a step forward towards the man, but something isn't right. Each step he takes colors the grass an ugly brown, the once clean cut strands withering and drying out just under his boot heels. He looks up in horror as the world begins to twist in on itself, the colors bleeding together in a horrible mass of blue, green, red, and gold. The tan of his coat leeches into the swirling color, now a muddled brown, that encompasses the man and his kite, warps his form so that he's all flat angles and grotesque features.
He's pulled out of his dream world, eyes snapping open to find a blur of green and dull brown. The shape and colors are almost similar to that of the man in his dream that he lurches into a sitting position, chest heaving in panic. It's only then that his eyes focus in on a familiar face, full lips drawn up into a wicked smile, beer bottle poised just a hair away. "Yeah, see?" Dean says, tipping the bottle towards him as a way of making a point. "It's creepy isn't it?"
"Shut up," he grumbles, giving Dean a mighty glare before snuggling down further on the couch, pulling the brown and white checked blanket over his face. He doesn't have to deal with this. At least, not at the moment.