A/N: This piece really shouldn't have taken this long, but I, being the incredibly intelligent person that I am, decided to take on another WIP, as if I didn't have enough, and am now being eaten alive. :P
My apologies. Anyways, please lemme know whatcha think. ^^
It's times like these that remind you that you've only met Cas two ago- even though it feels like you've known him forever. The two of you were having a fine time, enjoying the finest grease laden delicacies from the nearest 24 hour diner and joking over the discrepancies between books and their film adaptations when suddenly everything turned and he stormed out. You're not even sure what it is that set him off, but you do know that you're now sitting in the booth alone- and he's out there wandering in the dark on some abandoned, creepy-ass highway, and you feel like you're going to be sick.
So you drop some cash on the counter, grab your jacket, and get in the Impala. For as mellow as Cas likes to play at, you have started to notice that he is actually really temperamental. Though he never makes big scenes, or changes much outwardly- the smallest thing can make him withdraw and it drives you insane trying to navigate this minefield of topics when it feels like you are so much further along than petty arguments. You roll down the windows and call out his name to the endless fields that look like the edge of the world in the darkness.
As you cruise down the two lane stretch of road, ignoring the occasional passerby that honks angrily at your pace, you find yourself actually getting more and more pissed at his reaction. So maybe you step on a few toes now and then- if he would just stay to talk it out like a normal person instead of closing up and pushing you away- you might just get somewhere. The more you think about it, the faster you start driving, the tighter you grip the wheel, the louder you turn up the music.
And when you finally find him, white knuckled grip, stereo blasting, speedometer reading 85 mph, you pull over onto the shoulder and thrash at tour seatbelt. When you storm through the cloud of dust obscuring him from view, thinking about all the profanities you're gonna spit, all the accusations that you're gonna make, a righteous fury build up in your chest. You see the silhouette of his figure and your fists clench and shake with rage. You step into his personal space, shove at his shoulders, yell at him, shake a fist in his face- and he flinches.
You're suddenly aware of just how terrified he looks, how small he's shrunk, and everything clicks in your mind. If you thought you felt sick before- it was nothing compared to this. All at once you deflate and turn all the negative energy inwards. You hate yourself for making him look like this, you hate that you can see the tracks of fresh tears- ones that you caused, and when you reach out to comfort him and he stumbles over himself trying to back away, you fall to your knees in revulsion.
He back up a few more paces before falling back onto the weeds between the crops and the road. He tries to light up with shaking hands, but tosses the lighter out into the street in frustration when he can't hold the flame still. Not knowing what to do with yourself you slowly drag yourself into a standing position and then go after it. When you find it, cracked and dirty, just off the road, you test it out a few times to make sure it works, staring into the glow of the fire and trying to swallow past the lump in your throat.
You take a few deep breaths- the first few coming out raspy- before turning and walking towards him, slow and careful. You stop at arm's length and crouch, clicking the flame to life and offering it out. He looks at you warily, wiping at his eyes, before leaning forward, cigarette still pressed between his lips, and inhales once the tip hits the fire. He pulls away as soon as the cherry glow can maintain itself and takes a few long drags, shoulders loosening slightly with each breath. You wait patiently, testing for the right moments, and when you feel it's appropriate you scoot closer, inch by inch, trading you steps for his breaths. And when you are close enough to touch, you sit and wait some more.
You don't say anything- don't apologize, don't make promises. You just sit with him, and when you feel his head hit your shoulder you wait a second or two before laying yours down on top.