april 2021 fic rec
It's Just Coffee Until It's A Promise by sconesandtextingandmurder
Rating: Teen | Words: 3961
Cas is human and Dean is freaking out.
"No matter how late Dean stayed up with his mind and stomach churning, he dragged himself out of bed before anyone else was awake to make coffee. Then he hid in his room, the coffee going cold in his cup, because he was a grown man who was too afraid to find out whether Cas would still make it for him (which he didn’t deserve) or if he wouldn’t (which he couldn’t bear)."
pg-13, 3k, spn verse - s9, 2014
(fallen!cas, angst, bunker fic, happy ending)
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this has been sitting in my drafts since the first week of february and clearly i’m not doing anything with it so whatever, here you go. have some Sad Shit to balance out the cute.
the throbbing behind his right eye starts before he's even fully conscious, which all around isn't a great way to wake up. it's not the worst, granted, but if anyone bothered to ask him, he'd definitely pass. v groans softly, his headache forcing the last wisps of sleep away, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
he pushes himself up slowly, dropping his feet to the cool floor. his head spins, the world pushing down and rising up to meet him seemingly all at once, despite nothing moving at all. his stomach twists, and v swallows reflexively. he can feel the thumping in his head, matching up with the heavy rhythm of the blood still pumping through his veins.
v grits his teeth, glaring through slitted eyes at the floor. anger builds like a fire in his chest, railing against the misery, the injustice of it all. he's just started to figure out what he wants, just found someone to share it with, and this slow, agonizing decay is all there is for him?
he breathes in deeply, barely resisting the cough that seizes his lungs, and releases all that rage. it's unproductive. there's only fighting to survive and being happy with the things he has while he has them. the rest is meaningless, so he breathes it out.
his lungs fight back on the exhale, though. a cough grips him, shaking his rib cage. blood droplets splatter against his hand and his headache stabs like a knife through the head.
moaning weakly, v sinks back down onto the bed. it looks like it's gonna be one of those days, then.
"v." fingertips brush down his spine. slowly, eyes closed against the pain, v rolls onto his other side. those fingers stay against his skin, ribs to chest and ribs again as v moves.
he slits an eye open. kerry is watching him, worry in the pinch of his brows, the tight press of his lips. v extends a hand, brushing his knuckles along kerry's jaw.
"feelin' pretty shit this mornin', ker," v murmurs, closing his eye as his hand falls back to the mattress.
“you just wake up?” kerry asks, skimming his hand up and down v’s side, from hip to ribs. “take your pills yet?”
“nah,” v groans. “prob’ly can’t keep ‘em down anyway.”
“that bad?” kerry asks, voice low. even through his own personal misery, v can hear the grief in his voice. it hurts to hear it, a deep agony in his chest far worse than the headache thumping behind his eyes.
“it’ll pass,” v whispers, determined to ease kerry’s concern. he’d do anything to make this easier for kerry. he’d go back and never kiss him on the balcony of dark matter at all, bear that heartache alone just to spare him the sorrow to come.
a miracle, but in lieu of that, v weakly lifts his arm and grabs kerry’s wrist. it’s all the prompting kerry needs. he scoots across the bed, cradling v in his arms and weaving their legs together. v hides his face in the curve of kerry’s neck, grateful for the dark and warmth.
“okay?” kerry breathes, one palm soothing up and down v’s back.
v nods, tracing his fingertips along the metal embedded in kerry’s skin. “sing to me?”
kerry obliges, breathy and soft, voice cracking. not his best work, but v wouldn’t trade it for the world. held in kerry’s arms, listening to him sing, v slips between sleep and wakefulness, the strange border of reality and the void.
he hasn’t quite dropped into real sleep when kerry’s singing stops, but he’s too close to the edge to protest. kerry must think he’s out, though, because he curls around him protectively, laying kisses over his temple and into his hair.
“you gotta get better, v,” he whispers, something tight and wounded in his voice. “please get better.”
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