#femslashweekficcontest

Cas startles at the sound of someone coming up the steps to her cabin, and she has to stifle a gasp at the distinctive tromping sound of Deanna’s boots…— she tightens her grip on the translucent orange bottle until her knuckles go white, digs her other hand’s nails at the wooden surface of her workbench. With her breath held, waiting for the sound of her beaded curtain rustling, Cas counts her heartbeats — as much as she can. They fire off in rapid succession; she loses track after too long, but it’s enough solace that the damn thing’s still going, that she can still find it when all her muscles want to melt off her body and a warm haze settled in over everything. What her body wants, it doesn’t get: the boots pace around the porch and each time they try to loosen up, relax a little, Cas’s shoulders end up shivering. Tensing up against her will, against every silent reproach to calm down, Castiel. Something cold jolts through them, and at the same time, something cold shudders up her spine, leaves Cas biting on her lower lip and clenching her eyes shut. She buries her nails in her palm, jams the pill bottle into the flesh as well. Dragging her thumb across the bottle’s cap, trying to count all the ridges on it, she mutters to herself some old Enochian incantations — they trip off her tongue as though she never Fell, as though someone might actually listen. Father, though we are not worthy of Your blessing, bestow it on us, Your children… Grant us the fortitude to see these works through, the grace to see the wicked brought low and Your Name elevated as it should be… Protect us, Father, when we tread in darkness, for we are nothing without You and we cannot protect ourselves — her practiced precision’s so strange in this body, in this state. She can’t even heal herself. Before she hacked them off, Cas couldn't unfold her wings, much less use them for anything. Only shards of her Grace remain, a dusting of it spread throughout her body, just an icy reminder of the angel she isn’t anymore. What business does she have in asking anything? Even if someone could hear, Cas lost her so-called ‘mojo’ because she’s a poor excuse for an angel… She scratches at her bottle’s cap, swallows thickly, bites on her lower lip until she risks drawing blood… The need doesn’t subside. At the corners of her vision, things get too hazy — something that she can hardly afford on a normal day, to say nothing of what everything's leading up to tonight… Not when Deanna needs her on this hunt — needs her active, needs her sharp, needs her always — as much as she does. True, Deanna's said nothing to this effect, but Bobby died early on, even before they. Ellen died in 2012, during the first Croatoan outbreak; Jo followed her just as this past summer was winding down. Gabriel came out of the woodwork and hung around for a while, but his predilection for running away got the better of him, eventually. Last Cas heard, he and Kali have made themselves a new home in the Rigel system. There's nothing that Deanna needs to say — Cas raises her hand up from the table and reaches down the neck of her shirt. She fingers the black cord necklace that she keeps hidden there, turns Deanna's old amulet over and over between her thumb and forefinger, grips onto it so tightly that it hurts her… The charm's so much heavier than it used to be, weighing on Cas's shoulders, dragging her neck forward whenever she wears it, which is all the time… Or maybe there's something wrong with Cas, making her think it such a burden. Something, no doubt, related to the prominent jut of her water-collecting collarbone, or the way her cheekbones have come to strain against the skin of her face, or how she drowns in all her clothes' loose fabric, or the sharp lines and angles that have seemingly settled in everywhere she used to have curves. Or her missing brothers and sisters, the dull ache that twists in her chest just from the thought of them, that throbs and makes her double over, or stop dead in her tracks, no matter what she's doing, shivering from the awareness of how cold the world is without the vibrations of all her siblings' invisible wings, of their Graces reaching out to caress Cas's own. Or all of the above. "All of the above" covers all the symptoms that can't be explained by Croats and orgies. Without regard for whoever's standing outside, Cas cracks open her bottle — gives the little orange pills a weak, fond smile before choking back two of them and tossing the container into her duffel bag. She smirks, instead, at the sounds of her stimulants rattling against the plastic, of the bottle knocking around her knives, her thigh holster, her extra ammunition, her spare containers of salt, her other assorted medications (some mixed up laundry list that Cas has long since lost track of)… It's not that she enjoys the pills or having to take them. Amphetamines could be much better — they could actually take the edge off of things, for one thing. It's just that Cas can't allow herself to fall out of the world — it's imperative that she's aware of everything, and she can't let anything slip by her. Not when one of the "anythings" could kill Deanna before her time. Not Cas and Deanna only have each other. Not when they're going to hunt the Devil, to hopefully put an end to all this madness, save the world (for what little that's worth, anymore). Not when, in all likelihood, Cas is going to die tonight. And besides, Cas tells herself, she's self-medicated for some eighteen months now, since she walked out of a ring of holy fire with neither harm nor trouble. Only one person at Chitaqua doesn't know the extent of it — Deanna's past self — and the only Deanna who'd care… Cas shakes out her black, tangled mess of hair. Zips up her bag like a slap in the face. Takes all of her breaths slowly, deeply, just as she's learned to meditate in the past few years. It might not even be a Deanna, period — she closes her eyes, rubs her lips together and her hands up and down the duffel's strap, runs her tongue over her teeth, tries just to focus. on. her. damned. breathing, and not on the fact that she picked out the wobbly, staccato rhythm that Deanna's bowed legs make — Jane stomps everywhere, too. Risa's tempestuous. She could've just fell into the same pattern. And they both wear the same size boots as Deanna… Cas sighs, takes another deep breath, draws in the scent of her of her teaberry incense, which lingers several hours after she’s extinguished it. And through that stench, she can make out the telltale sweat, and dirt, and gut-rot whiskey smell that only belongs to one person: Deanna. Moments drag by like nails on a chalkboard, and the curtain still doesn’t move — at least, the beads don’t rustle. The boots rock back and forth, make Cas’s porch creak as they do so, but they make no moves to actually enter Cas’s room — and then they go quiet, as though they were never on the porch in the first place. Maybe Deanna’s done the responsible thing and decided to leave. Maybe she doesn’t want to, but maybe she knows it’s better that way. But then— "Fuck it," Deanna whispers, and even before crossing the threshold, she barks, "Cas!" After so long stuck inside Jamie Novak's body, Cas ought to be accustomed to it, to its reactions, but no matter how much time they spend together, it manages to surprise her. Through the haze of hunger, pills, and absinthe, Cas shouldn't feel anything unpleasant, much less the fear that makes her stumble over something as simple as breathing. Her breath hitches in her throat — her heart thunders in her chest, pulse racing, beats firing off faster than Deanna can pick out a Croat and put it out of its misery — Cas's shoulders tense up again until they feel like rocks and her stomach drops as though an anvil's fallen into it, as though it's going to fall right out onto the floor. "Cas…?" Deanna says again, her voice softer, quieter, but no less angry. Just because she's turned down the volume doesn't mean that her words stop burning, crackling in the air around them. "Hey, Cas, I — can we have a second?" Cas shakes her head and bows it. She closes her eyes, purses her lips, holds fast to her bag's shoulder-strap — and Deanna huffs, as petulant as ever. Even without turning around, Cas can see the aggrieved roll of Deanna's eyes, her sneer and the way she folds her arms over her chest — she hears them, next, in every syllable when Deanna says, "okay… you wanna tell me why the fuck not, Feathers?" Cas shakes her head again, but this only makes Deanna groan. "Come on, Cas — if you're gonna shut me the Hell out — I mean, okay, fine, I didn't… Are you okay?" "We are preparing to take the Colt and empty it into Lucifer's face," Cas deadpans, quoting the smarmy, English-accented Crossroads Demon who helped them get the little pistol back, the double agent who might have been the only reason why Deanna and her troops made it back from the mission earlier. "We are operating on intelligence extracted from two demons — one who is only on our side out of some lingering fondness for my absent, continually prodigal brother, and one who ought to consider himself lucky that you killed him when you were finished. And due to the utter lack of good sense in anyone's actions, this is the only plan we have that involves any chance of victory. Do you think that I am okay?" "So I'm taking that as a 'no'…?" "It's nothing, Deanna," Cas snaps. Her sigh comes out in a shudder and she knots her fingers up in her duffel's strap until it hurts, until she's pulling the thing with force enough to make it dig into her skin and leave behind a harsh imprint of its weave. "I'm fine." "Yeah, sure, I mean… obviously, you only look about two seconds from passing out because you're fine." Goddamn it — Deanna would break out sarcasm now, of all times. She's gone so long without it, lost all notes of concern because she lost the mask to hide them under — but now, with the end and their last possible stand looming over them, she has to bring it back — bitch. "Seriously, Cas," she says with a sigh. "I need a minute from you, okay? Need — not want. Not would really, really like. Not am praying for in church like some dumb kid who wants a Barbie and a pony and a Transformer and a race car for Christmas — I. need. a minute. with you." Cas rolls her eyes — unfortunately, it doesn't help her any. Mimicking Deanna's attitude problems never gives Cas the same relief that Deanna's gotten out of it, but now, it does even less. Cas's back feels harder — for a moment, she forgets to breathe and she shudders on her next inhale — and out of nowhere, things fall apart into the memory of slamming into a mattress. Of trying to scuttle back into the corner where the walls meet and whimpering when the bed dipped down, when the box spring creaked as someone crawled after her, stinking like blood and smoke and liquor. Of Deanna's booze-heavy breath snaking up her neck and the way she whispered, come on, Feathers — it's the end, isn't it… I might not make it back tomorrow, you really want our last moments together to be a fight… or you turning me down… you really gonna tell me I can't have my last wish, babe? That's just cold, Cas — that's like North Pole and penguins style cold… On those memories' heels comes the one of choking back her words, Deanna, no, please, because she knew better than to protest — because she was all Deanna had to rely on, because she hadn't convinced Gabriel to stay, because of how much of this was Cas's fault, anyway, for being too spineless when she could've done some good, for Falling and losing any semblance of relevance, for letting Sam out of the panic room and letting him go back to Ruby… And as a heavy hand settles on her shoulder, Cas's entire body tenses — she shivers and her skin crawls as though she's right back there, Deanna's cabin on that night — as though this hand is the one of the ones that gripped onto her flesh until they left bruises, that knew just how to alternated between caresses and force, that pried her apart with mechanical precision — Cas jerks away, doubles over in a fit of coughing as she tries to catch her breath. Causing a fuss won't do anything, but still, Cas snaps at Deanna again, splutters out, do you really think that you can just walk in here and act as thought — Cas pauses, midword. Gapes at Deanna because every other thought disappears. The Deanna who's joined her, who is not her Deanna — the Deanna from 2009. "Oh… hello, Deanna," she manages to say, even though her tongue feels sick and heavy. Cas sighs, wrinkles her nose, can't manage to hold Deanna's gaze (not when Deanna's got her hips cocked out just so and when her green eyes burn with a disgust that's so much like Cas's Deanna, it makes Cas's stomach turn). "Are you… what did you need to discuss?" "Well, I ain't saying anything until you look at me, blue eyes," Deanna huffs, and once Cas turns her gaze back up, Deanna hisses, "Did you know? About Lucifer and Sam and how Lucifer's wearing my brother to the fucking prom?" Cas tongues at her lips and rubs them together, barely makes herself admit that, "…yes. Yes, Deanna, I knew." The scowl digs so deep into Deanna's face — between this and her eyes, she really does look like the future version of her, the one who never smiles and who's so far gone, she wouldn't let anyone save her, if they could — Cas fidgets with the hem of her shirt, catches herself as her gaze drifts away from Deanna's and puts it back in line, swallows thickly and has to plant her feet just so she won't trust them and their instinct to run, head for Chuck's cabin and hide in his closet until it's safe… I would've told you beforehand, if I'd known what other-Deanna was planning. I didn't know about that — I thought you would've stayed here, I would've left you behind if I were in charge of organizing anything, she thinks at past-Deanna, locking her eyes on Deanna's and trusting in their bond, for whatever it's worth, to get the message across. It doesn't: "Well, thanks for the heads up, bitch," Deanna snaps. "Y'know, I thought one person but Chuck around here might still have their fucking head on right, but… hey, I guess not!" "We don't think about it in the same way that you do," Cas insists, twisting her fingers further up in her shirt and trying her best not to start whining. And not to run, which still seems like the best idea. "It isn't malice that kept people from bringing it up — at least, it wasn't with me and I doubt that it was malice with Chuck. We don't even think of them as separate, not much, anymore — that sounded awful." Cas pauses, but Deanna doesn't give her any confirmation of whether or not she agrees with Cas's estimation — and though every fiber of her being tells her to shut up and stay that way, Cas doesn't even pause to look for words. She just starts talking again: "I didn't mean to suggest that Sam is Lucifer, or that they aren't Sam and Lucifer, but Deanna… They've been one entity for over three years. Think about that, about how long it's felt like, for us on the ground — and the Croats came only a few months after Sam said, 'yes,' and with how everything has broken down… "I am sorry, Deanna," she sighs, letting her shoulders slump and letting herself look away, as long as Deanna's not insisting on making eye-contact… "But bringing you on the mission wasn't my decision —" "You still could've told me about Sam, asshole—" "You didn't ask — and even if you had—" "What, you had some orgy to go and officiate? Some bong-load to go crawl into? Or that absinthe? I mean, I at least have an excuse, Cas — I was on fucking lockdown from my future self, okay? But you…" Deanna groans — briefly, she tightens the hug that she has on her chest, and she puts her hands on her hips — a shiver jolts up Cas's spine and she tries not to think about the last time she saw a Deanna in that pose — just a few hours ago, when her Deanna got to torturing the demon she dragged back from the run… And to see it here? To see it now, on a Deanna who is so clearly not Cas's… They both fall silent, and Cas searches Deanna's face for something — anything — some hint of softness, or a spark of life and gentleness underneath the scowl… Deanna looks like her future self. In a few hours, she'll go back home to 2009 — Cas will die, and Deanna will have learned absolutely nothing, and the other Cas — Castiel, the angel Cas used to be — will only end up here again. Nothing can keep them from self-destructing like this — nothing's going to save them. Nothing. Cas opens her mouth, but she hesitates. She keeps her eyes on Deanna. Waits for Deanna to speak up again — all she's ever done is run her mouth at different supernatural powers. What's one fallen angel, compared to all of the demons, all of the monsters, all of the dangerous witches and the law-enforcement officials, all four of the archangels…? And when she looks the way she does? With her back straightened up as though she's had a rod fused to her spine? With that cold fire behind her eyes and her jaw set so rigidly that it might've gotten wired shut? "This is where you're going to ask what happened to me, isn't it?" Cas says, because someone ought to say something, because they don't have long until it's time to move out on the hunt — and, for once, her words manage to make Deanna pause. Blench. Her scowl softens into a bemused frown, and the way she tilts her head mirrors the way that Cas used to do — Cas shakes her head and explains, "I didn't mean anything by that — it's just that… I mean, if you think about it, how many times have you asked me that? …Well. Now-you's asked it more — but you-you… we had two major occurrences of that question cropping up, if I recall…" Deanna huffs — but her heart's not in it. She makes another noise, tries to make it hotter but it doesn't erupt. All it does is simmer. "…well, it's a good question, isn't it?" she mutters, wrinkling her nose and scuffing her foot on the floor — she breaks the pose. Her hands dart to her pockets, all but running to hide in them. Cas only shrugs and scratches at the back of her neck, makes a small, noncommittal noise — she ought to know better than to act so closed off, not when they've so little time together, but her shoulders move without her thinking — and Deanna chuckles. Cas's back loosens up as she glances back to Deanna and finally sees her smiling. It's tiny, and wobbling, but it's there —"I mean, have you looked at yourself lately, Cas? You wanna talk questions, we could just start with the obvious ones… like, where did your tits go?" Cas shrugs again. As she slouches, a lopsided ghost of a smile paints itself onto her face, curls up her lips with an earnestness that kindles something in her chest — something warm, something that tingles and bolsters her confidence enough to say. "It took me some time to adjust to needing to eat. Sleep — that part was rather easy to understand, though I didn't like it much. It was the eating, and… I took my time getting the hang of things, I suppose? The problem came from hunger feeling like my Grace, it — it was a rather serious design flaw in the angel-vessel relationship? Now that I think about it?" Cas pauses; she and Deanna might as well be mirror images of each other, now. Both of them tilt their heads. Cas doesn't have pockets, so she's put her hands around her hips — not on them, but wrapped up in the side-hems of her shirt. She tries to explain herself: "Uh, do the things that humans need to do?" And this makes Deanna laugh. She beams like sunshine, with the grin crinkling up her entire face, straining the edges of her lips. And the sound fills up the room — it hits the warmth in Cas's chest, sparks up a fire — why couldn't this have been the last thing… why do I still have to go and die in God only knows where… Before she quenches her own enthusiasm, Cas tries to turn away — maybe her packing's nearly done, but there's the time. And she has a bit to do, yet. Except that Deanna has to catch her wrist and tug at it — she just has to ask, "Cas… this isn't just an oncoming death thing, so… what is it? Tell me what the Hell's wrong with you." Cas shakes her head, stares intently at the floor. "It's nothing — don't worry about it, anyway. It's something of a long story, and I don't have any amusing ways to phrase it for you." "Don't even give me that crap, Feathers." Deanna's voice is gentle — it brushes up on Cas's ears softer than anything has in a long time, which complements the way that Deanna tightens her grip on Cas's wrist. The way that she yanks Cas's arm as though her life depends on it. "Cas, please. What's wrong? Is future-me planning anything — I… she's going to kill Sam — it's not that, is it? Because you didn't fail, just because she has to kill Sam, you weren't ever supposed to… uh, like you said? You weren't here to perch on our shoulders in the first place, right? So it's not like you really screwed up in any, like… guardian angel sort of way…" Cas blinks at Deanna as she rambles on, blatantly lacking any idea of what the Hell she's talking about, as usual. She twists her wrist around—Deanna's entire hand wraps around it that much tighter. Clings to Cas. She feels the bruises welling up underneath Deanna's fingers — doesn't know how she'd explain them to anyone who ever saw them, much less to her own Deanna… Cas tries to tug her wrist away and Deanna just tugs right back, tugs Cas closer, until they're barely inches apart, and still doesn't manage to shut up about things that she doesn't understand. Only three things could fix this moment: 1. getting the Hell and gone out of her head; 2. the absinthe or the painkillers to make that happens; and 3. a kiss. Cas's hands jolt up to Deanna's collar, twist up in the coarse fabric of her jacket and pull her down until their mouths collide: wet, sloppy, full of gnashing teeth and inexpert fumbling. Cas flicks her tongue across Deanna's teeth just in time to get it bitten on. In turn, she nibbles into Deanna's lips when she turns her head, tries to nudge Cas deeper, tries to suck her tongue back out into the midst of the lip-lock. Cas twists her own face around, pressing harder into Deanna's, trying to find the best way that their lips fit together — she sucks at Deanna's mouth, sucks at whatever oxygen Deanna's got hiding in her until they fall back apart, both of them gasping. The swimming feeling smacks into Cas's head — when she lets Deanna's collar go, she stumbles backward and, if not for the arm Deanna snakes around her waist, Cas is sure that she'd fall. Instead, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. Wraps her arms around Deanna's shoulders and pulls herself up into Deanna's chest — she's warm, and she returns the hug. More than Cas can say for her own Deanna. She rubs her arms all over Cas's lower back, her hips; she explores as though she's trying to parse out when Cas got so thin — and even though she ought to know, Cas can't remember it. Can't explain a thing. For her own part, Cas burrows her face into Deanna's neck, choking back both a whimper and the urge to kiss her again… Cas cranes her neck, balances on her bare toes so she can brush her lips up against Deanna's ear and whisper, "when you get home? Don't say, 'yes' to Michael — don't do it, no matter what happens—" "But Sammy—" "You can save your brother," Cas says. She brushes her fingers over the thin hairs on the back of Deanna's neck, worms her hand up until she gets it properly twisted up Deanna's hair. "Don't lose him — you're already thinking about it, aren't you?" She pauses just long enough for Deanna to nod. And for that, she kisses Deanna's cheek. "Call him. Tell him how you feel — don't let him go off alone. When has that ever worked out for either of you?" Deanna should tell her off right now. Should tell her that she's not their family, she has no idea what she's talking about, she doesn't really understand — but instead she knocks a knuckle under Cas's chin, nudges her until she has to make eye-contact, and she says, "…so what do I do about you? …Not for nothing, Cas? You look… well, actually, you kind of look sick and tired and ready to pass out — but… hippie chick kind of looks good on you, but do — how do I save you?" Cas licks her lips. Steals another kiss from Deanna's and whispers into her mouth, "Just be honest with me. And listen. And if you ever feel like you love me — like you love your Castiel, I mean…" She pauses, glances down at the lack of space between them. She's going to die — but it doesn't have to be that way, not for Castiel, not for the angel she once was. Not if Deanna can stand by her principles. Not if she's as strong as the grip she has on Cas's waist. Not if Castiel has someone, a reason to stay on Earth, to stay strong herself. "If you ever feel like you love her? Tell her, Deanna…" She looks up into Deanna's eyes and sees it: the softness, the glimmer her Deanna used to have. She steals another kiss — gentler than before, and earnest. And for the briefest flash of a moment, she hopes for something better.