Ladybug, You're Pathetic
Named after/Inspired by: Ladybug by Breaking Benjamin
Hurt/Comfort/Angst
Rated T for Language
Dean W./Castiel
Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, Gabriel wouldn't be dead, Destiel would be canon, and there would be no need for this because HELL-O you'd be actually watching it?
A/N: Based solely off the 7x21 Promo and my own headcannon. Written before the epi to calm my Destiel angst/panic attack. (I wrote this last Friday)
The whole "I'm Sorry Dean" KILLED me and the BOARD GAME and just EVERYTHING is just *dies*.
I don't normally do "my take" disregarding all my 7x17 ones (I have at least five, some written before, some written after, and I'll get around to posting them eventually)
Inspiried by a Breaking Benjamin song (Ladybug), but not a song fic though I did post the lyrics that really got to me, so you could see where the idea came from. Also a bit OOC, Cass, and not like the one shown in the preview with the "pull my finger" (I wrote this before I saw it).
Beautiful enemy
I'll fix your broken wings
And let you lie here
Until you fly away from me
Something inside of Dean Winchester hurt.
To be honest, everything in him sliced open his soul again and again, until he was nothing but a bleeding, sopping mess who always managed to be put together again (like some friggin' Humpty Dumpty, except without all the king's horses and men), but no, this? This was different. Like the god of agony had reserved a special spot in his soul that only one being on Earth was ever allowed to play with. And play with it he did, for weeks upon months upon years, played with it like the own personal toy it really was, and then one day, that being had a temper-tantrum and he broke his favorite plaything. Now, most would think that set Dean free, but it didn't. Quite the opposite really.
All that did was leave him breathless.
Breathless and drowning and crying and waiting for something that (Dear God) might never come back, and he was all torn apart on the inside, a pile of fucking confetti that some fit-throwing kid had smashed out of his totally-not-a-piñata body. The thing was, he fucking loved that fit-throwing kid with everything that he was – which wasn't much considering he had been ripped to utter oblivion – and when that kid threw up an Amber Alert and ran laughing into a friggin' lake . . . fuck.
All metaphors aside, the part of Dean that hurt above everything else scabbed over pretty frigging fast when he saw his face again.
But the wound got infected, too damn quickly for its own good, and soon everything burned with a fire woven out of fresh rage.
The fuck, Cass, you really think you can get away with leaving me like that?
Oh, oh, but then, then he went fucking batshit, comatose crazy and the fire hardened into ice.
He's really gotta lay off the figures of speech.
Of course, after all that metaphorical nonsense, the universe expected him to sit down and have a chat with the guy, as if they were in some apple pie life that revolved around market sales and the weather.
They didn't talk about the weather.
Or, really, anything at all.
Cass had some fascination with board games now apparently – according to Meg they kept his mind occupied and off the hallucinations – and was currently staring thoughtfully at Sorry! like it was about life or death.
"Your turn," Dean grunted gruffly, hoping to rouse the angel from his eerie concentration. Blue eyes peered into his – dear, God – and a million memories flashed by in an instant and the wound inside Dean was pulsing and oozing and the ice was melting and –
"I already moved my pawn."
"Oh, right."
Another moment of silence.
"Dean."
"Yes, Cass?" And maybe just maybe his head snapped upright a little too fast.
A small smile tugged at the angel's mouth. "Thank you. For – for pretending to forgive me."
The wound oozed some more.
"Come on, Cass. You know I forgive you. I mean, sucking up Sam's crazy like some sacrificial vacuum? That's pretty badass. Definitely cooler than that freaky thing with crack yes in Teletubbies." By that point, Dean knew he was rambling and his comments were far less snarky and pop-culture oriented than they could be, but it wasn't entirely sure if he cared. So he shoved it all down with another sip of his beer.
"I don't deserve forgiveness, Dean –"
"Oh, cut that self-loathing, woe-is-me crap, Cass!" He couldn't tell you why the wound is on fire again, where the ice even went (Completely and utterly vaporized) or why the figures of speech were still continuing their appearance.
"But –"
"No frigging buts! What you did? Yeah, maybe that was a little screwed up. Maybe you got high off all that Levi-a-whatever goo and maybe that's something you'll never live down, but don't say you don't deserve –" He choked a little on his own emotion, all the things he never said jumping like those weird ass Mexican beans in his throat. "The point is, you've made up for that. By saving Sammy, by helping us out now. That' all that matters, Cass."
The angel didn't respond, but everything about his face was just plain broken.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
"Stop it."
"No," Castiel set his jaw tight then, looking away, over Dean's shoulder as if –
Dean leans back in his seat, board game forgotten. "He's not – Lucifer's not –"
"Dean, am I . . . pathetic?"
The wound started to bleed.
"Of course not, Cass. Any nerdy dude with wings that can brain wrestle one Leviathan, let alone hundreds, is kick ass in my book."
And I fucking love you.
But he'd never say it.
"I don't understand," Cass' eyes focused on Dean's again, shrinking the rest of the world down until – - all crammed into two spheres of shiny wonder. (Great, now he's getting poetic.) "Why do you continue to behave as if," the blue shrinks further, "What I did –"
"Don't. Don't finish that sentence."
The wound was a forest fire of pure heat, licking and biting at every last molecule in Dean's body.
"You don't have to lie to me. I know," the angel licked his lips and the fire growled, "You wish that I never came back."
And then, all Dean saw was red.
He was vaguely aware of the sound of plastic and cardboard clattering and splintering all over the floor, of a trench coat collar in his fist, of a lie in his ears and of a face, a face with that motherfuckingblue and –
They were so damn close.
A breath separated them, and Dean was reminded of an alleyway, the scent of metallic blood and redredred and –
"Hey, hey, whoah! Dean? Cass? What's wrong?"
Sam.
"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, stepping as quickly away as possible. He didn't stop to the study the situation, didn't even bother to look up as he snatched his jacket from the back of his chair and makes damn sure to slam the door behind him.
The wound gushed.
And gushed.
And gushed.
Until he was reduced to a bleeding, sopping mess that somehow managed to be put back together again.
What did you say to me
I'm only here to clip your wings
You cut me down to size
I'm only living my life