dashboardlite | 11: [Action] I Want You to Want Me

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11: [Action] I Want You to Want Me

[[ooc; Closed to everyone but Cas and Dean.]]

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair, prodding the coffee table with the toe of his leather biker boot. A small stack of magazines slides haphazardly to one side and off onto the floor with a muffled thump. He doesn't bother to pick them up. He's not in the mood. Something in the man's stomach is writhing, and it's not the Mexican food he'd asked the kitchen for a couple hours ago. It's not even intestinally-related. He knows that feeling - it's slightly nauseating, and it's a good indicator of having the unnecessary urge to be with someone for every waking moment.

It's been a while since Dean's had this feeling, too, so it makes him even more nervous with regard to the fact that aside from his new, angelic roommate, there aren't many others around he could possibly latch onto. Impending loneliness isn't the issue at hand, either.

It's just a need.

Shooting a disgruntled look at the record player in the corner for playing Baby, It's Cold Outside on a loop, Dean turns his green-eyed gaze to the windows outside, and he watches the snow quietly in the dim light of the motel-style room. He'd strung Christmas lights along the walls earlier in an attempt to be festive, and now it only highlights the emptiness of the season when there isn't anyone to share it with.

"Bah, humbug," He grunts, too lazy to ask the closet for liquor and too comfortable where he is. "'Tis the season to be Grinchy."

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Castiel enters the room. Uses the door, even. He is finishing the last of what appears to be a burger, before reaching into a rumpled paper sack and withdrawing another.

"Dean," he says by way of greeting, his mouth partially full as he talks, "thank you for advising me about the dining hall. I was a little surprised to find it would prepare these for me." He chews a moment longer and swallows, and is clearer when he finishes, "They are very satisfying."

At Dean's lack of response he looks closer, and notices something is... off about him.

"You look... discontent," he says, and reaches into the bag again, pulling out another burger and offering it in Dean's direction.

He almost gives himself whiplash yanking his head up as quickly as he does. Door or not, Castiel has the tendency to sneak into whatever room he enters as quietly as humanly (angelically?) possibly. Dean stares at the other for a long moment, eyes flickering between the proffered burger and the other's earnest, eager gaze.

"Discontent?" Dean repeats rather belatedly, distracted, and feels his stomach flip again. There it was. He knows that feeling now, backwards and forwards. The only question is why is it surfacing in the first place? Dean feels like his thoughts are disjointed and the singular train that has every car - including the caboose - is the one that wants Castiel to stay.

No matter what.

"...uh." Dean grabs for his own drink, glancing up to Castiel with a slightly worried expression. "You're not going anywhere soon, are you?" Even as he says the words and knows he needs the company, desperately, Dean can't help but feel a little upset with himself. It's not like him to be this co-dependent.

"You wanna...stay, and...hang out for a little while?"

We're roommates, anyway, He justifies mentally, as if that helped.

Edited 2010-12-16 06:15 (UTC)

Castiel has no other particular plans for the evening, and is certainly not averse to the idea of staying with Dean; he wants to learn this version of him better after all, this Dean he never got to meet back in his own time in their shared reality.

He tilts his head, regarding him for a moment before answering, "Very well."

He sits down in a chair near Dean: convenient, how the room doubled the furniture in it on its own once Castiel accepted Dean's offer to board with him. He pus his hands on his knees and looks at Dean, and if his repose has a note of expectancy in it, well, he's curious what 'hanging out' means, exactly.

"Great! Awesome."

It's like having an out-of-body experience, only he's had those before and they were way different. He can control everything he's doing...and yet he can't. Dean is positive that if he wanted to, he could simply get up, walk over to the bed, and get some well-deserved shut eye.

The problem is, he doesn't want to.

What he wants to do is scoot closer to Castiel in his own chair - he does so - and flash another quirky, disarming smile before ducking his head sheepishly, berating himself. What the Hell are you doing, he probably thinks you're freakin' nuts.

Clearing his throat almost nervously, Dean lifts his gaze again. "...so, uh. How's your...how've things been lately, huh? Good?" This small-talk is starting to sound more and more like an anxious teenager trying to pick up a chick way out of his league.

Castiel notices the decreasing space between them, but it doesn't mean anything in particular to him, so he disregards it. Dean's expressions appear a little strained, but since it appears they are to converse, perhaps he will learn why. He has a lot of patience.

"I have been... well," he answers gravely. "This place is strange, somehow both vast and confining." It hasn't seemed to affect his ability to transport himself with thought, unless he tries to leave this plane. "It has not been unkind, though," - it gave him burgers, after all - "and I have met some of the other residents."

Said residents have been mostly receptive to his presence, albeit largely unnerved, it seems, by the disturbance in the video feeds (so he has gathered) at his arrival. He is still perplexed by that, but can't fault anyone for curiosity; he has been somewhat bored himself, he privately admits.

Belatedly, he remembers that conversations customarily require contribution from both parties involved. "And ...you?" he asks, his voice flat and gravelly.

There are two things that Dean knows for certain: One is that Bert and Ernie are gay. The second is that he himself is most assuredly not gay. So feeling his own body - not exactly against his will, but still against all logical reasoning - inexplicably drawn towards Castiel's is starting to feel awkward and invasive. Then again, Cas has the tendency to appear out of nowhere and right next to him, as they've proven over the past couple of days, so the angel has no qualms about personal space.

Dean suddenly wonders what his future self is like, after Hell. Now that he knows he's coming back, he feels somewhat less terrified about going, but he'll still be there for however long.

Castiel's gravelly voice drags him back to reality (surreality?) and the human tips his head to one side, watching the other speak. The angel's low, serious tone is surprisingly soothing for his frayed nerves. It's nice to know that there's something that stable in this place.

"Me?" Dean pulls his attention away from the permanent stubble Castiel sports to look at him with a little more lucidity. It feels like he's drowning in loneliness and needs - wants...wants all the attention he can get. He wants to bask in it.

"I've been..." He gestures a little absently out to the corner of the room, voice strained. "...better?" It's more of a question than a statement. Even Dean doesn't know quite how he's been. He can't really remember. There was a doctor-event, right? He sang a song with Kurt...he drank a lot. "Better, yeah," Dean decides wearily, shoulders sagging. Maybe it would be better to change the subject.

"You kept looking at my arm," Dean raises his eyebrows, glancing to Castiel again. The angel was staring - Dean notices that he's really good at that, but it doesn't bother him so much. It's the attention he desires. "When we first met," He continues. "Why'd you keep looking at my arm?"

"Better than what?" asks Castiel. Comparative adjectives need antecedents, he's fairly sure.

And, oh.

"When I pulled you from hell," he says, directly meeting Dean's eyes, "I left a mark on you. The shape of my hand, burned into your shoulder where I grasped you. All your other scars were healed when I reknit your flesh, but my own mark is ineradicable." He pauses. "It wasn't until I saw your lack of it here that I understood you would not know me."

A handprint burned into his arm. Dean winces at the thought; it just sounds painful. "Yeah, that'd be why," He mumbles, mostly to himself, brow furrowing a little. Completely disregarding any more inquiries as to his current mental and/or emotional state, Dean swallows hard.

He can't even imagine what Hell will be like. Knowing now that he'll make it out is reassuring, but when he goes back he won't remember a thing, and the fear will still be just as real, and just as strong. And Hell itself...there has to be a reason why demons are always trying to leave The Pit. He doesn't want to know what it is. Not yet.

Dean rubs his left shoulder self-consciously, breaking eye contact. It's hard to stare at Castiel for that long. It's like the angel is looking straight through him and into his soul. He squirms in his chair. "Sorry to disappoint you, then," He fiddles with the silver band around his right ring-finger. "Got all my old scars and I'm...less than spankin' new."

"I am not disappointed, Dean," he says. Not by that, anyway. He does miss the Dean he knows, but understands that this is simply a younger version of him, and he is fascinated. "You are hardly more scarred now than then," he adds, pulling no punches.

Dean's evasion doesn't escape his attention though. "And better than what?" he repeats, still staring even if Dean has broken eye contact.
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What the Hell did that mean? Was he just as bad-off then than he was now? If the future was that bleak, what was the point in coming back at all. Speaking of which, he ought to address that. Looking at himself the way he is now, Dean can't really see why there would be any reason at all to pull an insignificant human soul out of The Pit.

Particularly not him.

Dean makes eye contact again only when the staring has gotten strong enough that he feels it searing his brain. "Better than wha- Oh." Thinking back, he scrolls through their conversation. "I've...I've been better. I've felt better other times than I do now, is all." He shrugs, blinking a few extra times as his gaze settles on the piercing blue eyes watching his every move. Dean squints at Castiel a little.

"...do you always stare like that?"

"Like what?" He's still staring, by the way.

"...I pretty sure you haven't blinked except maybe...like...once, so far."

It would be unsettling if he wasn't so starved for the kind of attention that Castiel was giving him. Just as long as he didn't leave. Dean's sure he might resort to desperate measures. Ones that included barring the door.

Or maybe finding ways to trap angels.

How did that work, anyway?

"Dude, you don't look at anything else but me," Dean points out warily. "Since we met, too."

"Oh."

His brow furrows as he introspects. He honestly hasn't realized. Dean is his self-appointed duty now, even if this is not precisely the Dean he knows best, so it is natural for Cas to watch him, to give him his full attention. But based on Cas' experience, this is Dean's annoyed-but-trying-to-joke-it-off voice.

"If it bothers you, I can attempt to do it less. Or I can go; after all, I do not sleep, and there is yet much exploration of this place I have not done." At that, he half-turns toward the door, and makes to stand up.

His normal desire for 'personal space' is superseded by the tightening of the knot in his belly, and Dean grimaces at the suggestion that Castiel leave. No. No, he can't leave. He can't. The anxious squirming in his stomach might give him a friggin' ulcer if Cas leaves. It's for health reasons. Never mind that Dean hasn't cared about his health in years, particularly not with Hell coming up, but it's a plausible excuse, right?

Plausible enough to convince Castiel to stay?

"No!" Dean blurts loudly, leaning over the armrest of his chair, arm outstretched as if to make a grab for the angel's coat. He retreats quickly to his plush sanctuary, hands folded in his lap, fingers laced, utterly surprised at himself. That was...that was fucking weird.

"...uh. I mean, you...youshouldstayfordrinks." He corrects himself hastily, flashing another nervous smile. "I don't...I don't mind the staring, I'm just not used to it, is all."

Shittiest explanation I've ever come up with.

Dean frees up a hand and waves it back at Castiel's chair, expression tense and desperate. "I'll spike s'more eggnog. And, uh...make a fire. Toast marshmallows?" He's reaching, but it's all he's got, so he sounds very small when he asks, "...Please stay?"

'Cause if you don't I might break the Golden Rule and tie you to your damn chair.

"Are you certain? I could go ask the dining room for more burgers for us, and return with them."

Something about Dean's behavior is strange. Of course, it could be normal for this younger, pre-hell version of him, but he somehow doubts that's the case. And as fond as Dean is of company in small doses (whether he'll admit it or not), he is not generally one to admit it. In Castiel's experience, Dean silently resigns himself to abandonment. The most he'll protest is with sullenness and overloud music.

Castiel does wonder what marshmallows are, though.

A burger would be nice. A burger and some pie. Apple pie. But he could always ask the closet for food if he got desperate enough, and he wants Cas to stay right here. Dean huffs and sigh and rubs the back of his neck, considering his options. Aside from lashing the current company to a La-Z-Boy in an attempt to keep him nearby, there really isn't anything else he wants.

"No," He says quickly, fidgeting in his chair. "Stay. I, uh- I'll get the...the stuff."

'Cause that sounds convincingly not-creepy.

Hesitantly pulling himself to his feet, Dean pads over to the closet door, eyes darting back to Cas to make sure he stays exactly where he is. A moment of waiting was all it took before the marshmallows and extra-festive 'nog appeared, and he set the drinks aside to tear open the top of the plastic bag in his left hand.

"This, my friend," Dean states sagely, with the air of a man who has devoted his life (or a good part of it) to food, "Is a marshmallow." He's assuming Cas is clueless, but it's the air the angel gives off anyway. "It's made of sugar, and air, and it pretty much tastes like Heaven. So we're gonna stick it on...somethin'..." Dean fetches a wire hanger from the closet and bends it into a poker, impaling a marshmallow on one end. "...and hold it over the fire- well...okay, first try a plain one."

In his opinion, uncooked, raw marshmallows aren't nearly as good as the crispy-on-the-outside, gooey-on-the-inside kind, but it's still sugar, and it's still goddamn delicious. Dean shoves a hand in the bag and holds one out to Castiel with a harmless smile.

No one could resist toasting marshmallows.

Edited 2010-12-20 05:49 (UTC)

Castiel raises one eyebrow, in an expression he learned from Dean himself, not that this Dean would ever guess. This behavior is very strange. Perhaps he should stay, to observe and investigate it.

He gives the marshmallow a very dubious look. It doesn't even look like food, really. But Dean's expression is just so earnest, and Cas isn't exactly what one might call a picky eater. So he reaches forward and takes it from Dean's hand, and places it in his own mouth. He chews, face the picture of serious concentration.

Finally he swallows, blinks, and then speaks. "That did not taste of Heaven." And he would know. No that Heaven has a flavor, really, so much as an essence. "It was palatable though,' he concedes.

His gaze follows Dean's to the wire hanger, now unfolded and with an impaled marshmallow on one end. "What are you going to do with that?"

Of course. One should never compare anything to Heaven when offering it to an actual denizen of the goddam- Ah...damn...place. "Yeah, well," Dean pops one in his own mouth, chewing and speaking at the same time, as he is typically wont to do. "Tastes pretty friggin' good to me. 'Scuse me for not knowing what Heaven's flavor is."

Turning on his heel to face the fairly-decent fire they have going, Dean cocks his head over one shoulder to look at Cas. He feels as though he has to keep an eye on him at all times, now. "Roast it," He explains and then crouches, nudging the grate aside to extend the hanger-plus-marshmallow over the top of the flame, holding it there and rotating very, very carefully. His tongue sticks out one side of his mouth in concentration.

It's an art form.

When the marshmallow itself is nicely browned on every side, he pulls it back and swings his arm around to Cas, offering him the fruits of his labors with another quirk of his eyebrow and a tiny smile.

"It's better now. Try this one."

Cas doesn't see how charring the thing will make it taste better, but it wasn't awful before, and after all, humans do cook the flesh of animals before consuming it. Perhaps this is a similar situation.

Before it has a chance to get cold, he reaches out and pulls the marshmallow from the proffered coat hanger. Most of it comes away in his hand, but a fair amount sticks, gooey, on the hanger. He eyes it like it's misbehaved. In the meantime though, he puts the roasted part in his mouth, chewing again.

And... huh. Much better. Better enough that he licks the sticky parts off his fingers, and eyes the miscreant remains on the hanger. Then he leans forward and licks that too, steadying it with one hand on the wire.

"That was far superior," he says.

Dean watches with a bright smile as Castiel meticulously pries the marshmallow from the end of the bent hanger. Resisting the urge to snort in good humor at the other's petulant expression, he opens his mouth to make a snarky remark about giving things second chances and then snaps it shut again, eyes wide. Castiel is...licking the hanger. And his fingers. Clearing his throat and ducking his head awkwardly, Dean exhales an uneasy laugh.

"Toldja so," He remarks, chuckling nervously. Slowly pulling the hanger back, he considers shoving it in the fire to sterilize it before deciding that he doesn't really care. He grabs another marshmallow and skewers it deftly, moving it into the fireplace once more. "You gotta trust me on these things, Cas," Dean says with some fondness, "I know what I'm doing most of the time."

So distracted by his new roommate, Dean doesn't notice that his marshmallow is on fire until he smells something burning. "...oh, shit!" He yanks the thing out of the fireplace and closer to his mouth, blowing out the flames and making a face as he's left with a crispy, blackened husk.

"...gross."

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11: [Action] I Want You to Want Me

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