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trinityofoneAnd a final little treat before bed.
Title: Choose Your Own Adventure
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S5
Length: ~600 words
Summary: He has so many ideas now.
Notes: I choose![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aesc and ebrooklynw, who are awesome!
Choose Your Own Adventure
He has so many ideas now. His mind feels ripe with them: plans and notions, things he wants, things he might try to figure out how to do or have. It shocks him, somewhat, that humans aren’t more often paralyzed by this vast array of choice. Waking up every morning with a line of decisions before him: should he get up, be the first to slip from his bed and under the warm stream of the shower? Or should he let Sam have his turn, slide instead deeper beneath the sheets, feel the sweep of the fabric against his skin?
And if he stays in bed, should he wake Dean or let him rest? He could watch him sleep, observe the rising sun as it creeps through the blinds, turning Dean’s dark eyelashes honey-gold with its light. Or he could whisper “Dean” until the man stirred softly against him and opened bright green eyes to the morning.
Then he could say, “I’m glad you’re awake.” (You woke me up, Dean might answer.)
Or he could ask, “Are you hungry? Do you want breakfast?” (You are an angel, could be the reply.)
Or simply, “Good morning, Dean,” might be enough. (Especially if Dean answered, I know how we could make it better.)
And if they did make it better—listening carefully for the sound of the shower shutting off, feeling grateful for the fact that Sam, as Dean would say, is such a girl about his hair—they could stay curled up together afterward, sated and sleepy again, until Sam reemerges muttering about emotional scarring and bleach. Or they could get up, get dressed, take a walk down by the tiny stream that curls behind the motel, touch the slender reeds and watch the water burble over rocks in the sunlight. He could say, “You were right, this was worth saving.” Or he could decide he doesn’t really need to say it, not when it’s right there, on Dean’s face, in the brush of Dean’s fingers against his wrist as their feet push into the dirt scrambling back up the embankment.
They could rest together there, or they could collect Sam and all three of them go to breakfast. At the diner, he could get coffee or he could get tea. He could get sausage or he could get bacon, pancakes or eggs, hash browns or home fries. Whatever he doesn’t get, he can steal bites of off Dean’s plate while Sam rolls his eyes and fails to earn sympathy from their waitress.
After breakfast they can linger or they can press on. If they press on, they could drive for hours without stopping, the car humming beneath them (Dean driving like it’s an extension of his own body), the landscape flickering by outside the windows (rich with detail that can’t be glimpsed from above), the music washing over them (a beat he can feel in his bones). Or he could find Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror and get out of the car when they pull over at some dusty roadside marker. Sam could squint, fascinated, at the worn letters of the plaque erected by the local historical society while Dean works the kinks out of his shoulders and back. And he could stand to the side, watching them both. Wondering whether it was fate that brought them here, to this very point: an invisible hand guiding an endless series of choices.
Or he could not stand aside. He could step closer, personal space be damned, and choose this. This right here.
This.
Title: Choose Your Own Adventure
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S5
Length: ~600 words
Summary: He has so many ideas now.
Notes: I choose
aesc and ebrooklynw, who are awesome!Choose Your Own Adventure
He has so many ideas now. His mind feels ripe with them: plans and notions, things he wants, things he might try to figure out how to do or have. It shocks him, somewhat, that humans aren’t more often paralyzed by this vast array of choice. Waking up every morning with a line of decisions before him: should he get up, be the first to slip from his bed and under the warm stream of the shower? Or should he let Sam have his turn, slide instead deeper beneath the sheets, feel the sweep of the fabric against his skin?
And if he stays in bed, should he wake Dean or let him rest? He could watch him sleep, observe the rising sun as it creeps through the blinds, turning Dean’s dark eyelashes honey-gold with its light. Or he could whisper “Dean” until the man stirred softly against him and opened bright green eyes to the morning.
Then he could say, “I’m glad you’re awake.” (You woke me up, Dean might answer.)
Or he could ask, “Are you hungry? Do you want breakfast?” (You are an angel, could be the reply.)
Or simply, “Good morning, Dean,” might be enough. (Especially if Dean answered, I know how we could make it better.)
And if they did make it better—listening carefully for the sound of the shower shutting off, feeling grateful for the fact that Sam, as Dean would say, is such a girl about his hair—they could stay curled up together afterward, sated and sleepy again, until Sam reemerges muttering about emotional scarring and bleach. Or they could get up, get dressed, take a walk down by the tiny stream that curls behind the motel, touch the slender reeds and watch the water burble over rocks in the sunlight. He could say, “You were right, this was worth saving.” Or he could decide he doesn’t really need to say it, not when it’s right there, on Dean’s face, in the brush of Dean’s fingers against his wrist as their feet push into the dirt scrambling back up the embankment.
They could rest together there, or they could collect Sam and all three of them go to breakfast. At the diner, he could get coffee or he could get tea. He could get sausage or he could get bacon, pancakes or eggs, hash browns or home fries. Whatever he doesn’t get, he can steal bites of off Dean’s plate while Sam rolls his eyes and fails to earn sympathy from their waitress.
After breakfast they can linger or they can press on. If they press on, they could drive for hours without stopping, the car humming beneath them (Dean driving like it’s an extension of his own body), the landscape flickering by outside the windows (rich with detail that can’t be glimpsed from above), the music washing over them (a beat he can feel in his bones). Or he could find Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror and get out of the car when they pull over at some dusty roadside marker. Sam could squint, fascinated, at the worn letters of the plaque erected by the local historical society while Dean works the kinks out of his shoulders and back. And he could stand to the side, watching them both. Wondering whether it was fate that brought them here, to this very point: an invisible hand guiding an endless series of choices.
Or he could not stand aside. He could step closer, personal space be damned, and choose this. This right here.
This.
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