There’s no water left in the barricade, so the pills leave a sour taste on his tongue.
Cas’ throat is scratchy from the bitter coating of drugs, but that doesn’t stop him from trailing his lips up the sides of a young woman’s neck. His vision – well, that’s always impaired pretty quickly. He can barely make out the panting figure beneath him, can barely feel the scratching at his back, or the hand in his hair. His skin is already numbing, but that doesn’t stop him from driving into the girl so fast she’ll be sore in the morning. It’s one of the few instances where there’s only one woman in the room – but she isn’t enough, and when Cas feels that familiar clenching around him, he pulls out and stands, letting her be.
She doesn’t ask where he’s going – by this time, she probably knows better. Tension is his body’s driving force, the cause for the bile Cas ejects into the sink. He’d finished with his last joint hours ago, and the rolled bits of end paper left on the rug were taunting him with an escape he couldn’t have – a release he’d been trying to achieve for hours. The cabinet, however, is Cas’ next go-to for when he’s in dire need of more ‘medicine’. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the glass shelves, shaky hands sorting through bottle after bottle of much-needed narcotics.
“Dammit.” Not a single pill. Not a single one – not even crushed. The powder’s gone, the pipe’s missing, the joints are finished, the woman’s useless – and thoughts of Dean Winchester and who he used to be are drowning him.
“Of course.” Cas is chuckling, but the sound is hollow, and as it ricochets off of the walls and pierces through him, he reaches for the only narcotic he has left – whiskey.
The amber liquid burns, but he keeps forcing it down. Dean taught him that.
Keep it down Cas, cause’ you’re gonna’ need it.
Cas is dressing with vibrating limbs, his vision still an intoxicating blend of stars and colors. Dressing while under the influence, however, has become a necessary skill. And as Cas steps out onto the grounds, passing through the small gathering of men and women still alive, he just remembers that the playground isn’t far from here.
The playground is his new heaven.
Warm skin brushing against cool metal, Cas’ fingers run up along the tire swing’s supports. This is his home, his life – his drug.
With wobbly legs, the man hoists himself up with his whiskey-free hand onto the scratchy black tar, his face contorting with the bliss of the wind’s light pressure. Against his cheeks, it’s the ultimate high – a wind tunnel of colors, of stars – a myriad of everything and anything Cas could possibly imagine.
It takes only a few seconds for Cas to hear the whisper in his ear, to feel the fingers on his face and the lips at his neck. Cas’ legs keep pumping though, faster and harder to make the whispers more tangible so that they’re easier to make out.
I’m here, Cas.
It feels like flying, because his voice is so rough – and that makes it all the more believable.
I’ve got you.
The whiskey bottle clatters to the ground as Cas pushes on, pumping his legs with deliberate force as his eyes focus on the misty figure in front of him.
“Dean?”
Stupid son of a bitch.
Dean’s laughing. Cas breathes in, the sound so joyous, so melodic that he wants to record it. It’s a laugh he hasn’t heard in over a year.
Who else would it be?
“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas answers honestly, and he feels the light weight of Dean’s lips press against his.
You aren’t doing so hot, are you?
The swinging man glances down, to where Dean is gesturing, and sees the bottle of whiskey. Dean’s fingers then trail up his arm, and Cas can feel every single mark of his needle stinging from the touch.
I need you, you know. So take care of yourself, yeah?
Dean’s here, Castiel thinks, and he cares. Dean’s here and he cares.
“I’ll do my best,” he promises, wanting to please the man he fell for, wanting to cherish the keeper of his heart for just another few precious moments. “But please,” And he’s begging now, his throat constricting, his words turning into mumbles, “Don’t – don’t leave again – I can’t –”
I’m right here, you nerd angel.
Cas is choking, the pools of moisture in his eyes glimmering like diamonds in the ocean. “I know, Dean. I – I know.”
And the hunter’s smile – it’s worth everything, worth the world, because Dean’s here, and he cares. He’s happy.
Cas’ legs keep on pumping, refusing to stop until his vision goes black and his body gives out.
At the exact moment Cas hits the ground, and not a second before, Dean finally moves out from behind the trees, face set like stone and eyes devoid of feeling – except, maybe, for that spark of grief as his arms haul the limp figure to his chest, set on walking them both back to camp.
“Sweet dreams, Cas.”
—-dedicated to the-little-shipper
2楼2013-03-31 02:57
2楼2013-03-31 02:57
