I feel now as though the orange juice should be something more obscure and amazing, but anniehow got it -- just a reference to drinking OJ after giving blood. Also:
LOOK WOMAN, I HAVE NO TIME TO WRITE FIC, EVEN IF IT IS BASED ON A TOTALLY AWESOME IDEA.
****
As it happens, the whole thing is taken out of Dean's hands. When the latest raiding party comes back in shreds and he knows the infirmary is running out of space, he goes to get Cas and the bed is filled with some other guy ('Brian,' his mind supplies) screaming and bleeding everywhere.
"Crap," says Dean. "Beck --"
"Sam," she answers, curtly, shouldering Dean out of the way. "Help or go."
Becky's lost some of that chipper attitude, Dean thinks, since the world ended.
Cas isn't in his cabin, and half of Cas's wardrobe is spread crumpled and haphazard across the bed, and Dean feels sick.
He finds them in the supply cabin, the lock undone and the door hanging slightly open. "We can't spare much," Sam is saying, "but you should take some of these cans, and hell, a roll of --"
Sam might be a tough guy these days, but there's still a pause before he answers, "You don't know that."
"Fuck you both," says Dean, from the doorway, and they turn their heads -- Sam, crouched by a low shelf with his hand in Cas's bag, and Cas leaning against the wall, dazed and winter pale. Castiel's eyes are too dark, pupils blown and flesh bruised; Sam is the one who flinches.
Dean glares at them both, equal opportunity. "No."
Neither of them respond. After a moment, Sam reaches for a can of beans and adds it to the sad little bag.
"Fuck," says Dean, and then he shakes his head. "Fuck. Fine. Sam, you're gonna have to be in charge for a while."
"Dean." Cas is weary and hopeless; despite that, there is something in the gravel of his voice. It is low and dark and forbidding. It reminds Dean, on a small, shivering level, that under all that fragile humanity Castiel is still a badass.
"No." Sam looks up at him from the floor, low and gangly, brown eyes gone wide. (And Sam is a badass also, but Sam is always and forever Dean's little brother, and fuck that, too.)
"We'll come back," says Dean, evenly, "after we've figured this out."
"Dean," says Cas again, and Dean replies, "Shut the fuck up," and Sam grates, "Then I'm coming."
The statement hangs there in silence, and Sam and Dean stare at each other and Dean shakes his head but he almost relents -- yes, just the three of them, yes, leave all this shit behind -- but then Chuck's hammering at the door, all, "Guys, they're gonna riot in the mess hall, I really really need one of you in there," and Sam is the first to look away.
"Your cue, Sammy. Meet us at the gate in an hour. And Cas, just fucking sit down."
Dean knows who he's supposed to be, in this time and place, when Cas is stoned and lightly swaying; he swallows it back, because this future is supposed to be different. Better.
He's not sure how the vampires are better. But he's gotta have something.
Sam wants them to take one of the trucks, but trucks are valuable and if Dean's gonna go out there, he's gonna do it right. So he reaches into his pocket for the keys that are always -- even now -- there, and he flashes his best grin. He thinks it's only a little ill at the edges.
Sam wants to make a speech or something, too, which is why Dean says, "We'll send you a postcard." Then he claps his brother on the shoulder, and -- all right, there's maybe a hug. A manly hug. "Take care," mutters Dean, and Sam says, "You too."
That's how Dean ends up driving out of Camp Chitaqua in the Impala, on a cool and cloudy day, with an ex-angel drowsing against his shoulder and his brother, ginormous shoulders hunched, getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Just before Dean rounds the dusty curve, Sam waves, and Dean lifts a hand out the window in return.
His baby's steering wheel is smooth and comforting beneath his palms, and the metal-tainted breeze is almost -- almost -- fresh. So he has that, at least.
I am going to hell
LOOK WOMAN, I HAVE NO TIME TO WRITE FIC, EVEN IF IT IS BASED ON A TOTALLY AWESOME IDEA.
****
As it happens, the whole thing is taken out of Dean's hands. When the latest raiding party comes back in shreds and he knows the infirmary is running out of space, he goes to get Cas and the bed is filled with some other guy ('Brian,' his mind supplies) screaming and bleeding everywhere.
"Crap," says Dean. "Beck --"
"Sam," she answers, curtly, shouldering Dean out of the way. "Help or go."
Becky's lost some of that chipper attitude, Dean thinks, since the world ended.
Cas isn't in his cabin, and half of Cas's wardrobe is spread crumpled and haphazard across the bed, and Dean feels sick.
He finds them in the supply cabin, the lock undone and the door hanging slightly open. "We can't spare much," Sam is saying, "but you should take some of these cans, and hell, a roll of --"
"It doesn't matter, Sam," interrupts Castiel, tiredly.
Sam might be a tough guy these days, but there's still a pause before he answers, "You don't know that."
"Fuck you both," says Dean, from the doorway, and they turn their heads -- Sam, crouched by a low shelf with his hand in Cas's bag, and Cas leaning against the wall, dazed and winter pale. Castiel's eyes are too dark, pupils blown and flesh bruised; Sam is the one who flinches.
Dean glares at them both, equal opportunity. "No."
Neither of them respond. After a moment, Sam reaches for a can of beans and adds it to the sad little bag.
"Fuck," says Dean, and then he shakes his head. "Fuck. Fine. Sam, you're gonna have to be in charge for a while."
"Dean." Cas is weary and hopeless; despite that, there is something in the gravel of his voice. It is low and dark and forbidding. It reminds Dean, on a small, shivering level, that under all that fragile humanity Castiel is still a badass.
"No." Sam looks up at him from the floor, low and gangly, brown eyes gone wide. (And Sam is a badass also, but Sam is always and forever Dean's little brother, and fuck that, too.)
"We'll come back," says Dean, evenly, "after we've figured this out."
"Dean," says Cas again, and Dean replies, "Shut the fuck up," and Sam grates, "Then I'm coming."
The statement hangs there in silence, and Sam and Dean stare at each other and Dean shakes his head but he almost relents -- yes, just the three of them, yes, leave all this shit behind -- but then Chuck's hammering at the door, all, "Guys, they're gonna riot in the mess hall, I really really need one of you in there," and Sam is the first to look away.
"Your cue, Sammy. Meet us at the gate in an hour. And Cas, just fucking sit down."
Dean knows who he's supposed to be, in this time and place, when Cas is stoned and lightly swaying; he swallows it back, because this future is supposed to be different. Better.
He's not sure how the vampires are better. But he's gotta have something.
Sam wants them to take one of the trucks, but trucks are valuable and if Dean's gonna go out there, he's gonna do it right. So he reaches into his pocket for the keys that are always -- even now -- there, and he flashes his best grin. He thinks it's only a little ill at the edges.
Sam wants to make a speech or something, too, which is why Dean says, "We'll send you a postcard." Then he claps his brother on the shoulder, and -- all right, there's maybe a hug. A manly hug. "Take care," mutters Dean, and Sam says, "You too."
That's how Dean ends up driving out of Camp Chitaqua in the Impala, on a cool and cloudy day, with an ex-angel drowsing against his shoulder and his brother, ginormous shoulders hunched, getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Just before Dean rounds the dusty curve, Sam waves, and Dean lifts a hand out the window in return.
His baby's steering wheel is smooth and comforting beneath his palms, and the metal-tainted breeze is almost -- almost -- fresh. So he has that, at least.
Dean sets his gaze on the road, and drives.
****
I might be willing to help.