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[tragidean]

lust [2.3k] (ao3)

One hour. The distance between Fort Morgan and Denver feels like a chasm, like a gaping hole that no matter how hard Dean tries, he’ll never be able to cross, at least not in this shape. Sweating, antsy, with a thirst water can’t quell, with an ache no amount of self-soothing will heal. Every few minutes, he stops his frantic pacing and steps before the bathroom mirror, hands braced against the countertop, hips dangerously close to the sink. Red heats his cheeks—sweat beads at his hairline, soaking the nape of his neck, the collar of his shirt. It’s not a curse, he tries to tell himself. But the thing sitting in his groin tells him otherwise, warming him at his core and offering no reprieve. Sam’ll be back soon. But for the life of him, he can’t remember when Sam originally left the motel with the Impala, or when he said he would be back. Something about a lead on how to kill Lucifer, something that he needed to investigate alone, whatever that means. But Sam left him in a predicament. Sam left him alone, and Castiel won’t answer his calls, won’t even acknowledge the lone prayer he eked out when no one was looking. He’ll know what to do, Dean thinks, wipes his face with a washcloth. Again, for what feels like the tenth time, he begins to pace the shag carpet, walking from the motel door and past the two double beds, to the sink, then back again in a path that would wear a mark in the carpet, if it weren’t older than him to begin with. He checks the beds, the nightstand, the lampshades. The dresser drawers come up empty, and nothing hides under the desk or in any hidden cubby hole. If someone left a hex bag, then it must be in the ceiling, or the carpet, or in the JVC television set sitting atop a small table. It’s not a curse, he tries again, knowing full and well that it’s a lie. He throws his pillow across the room, then Sam’s. Lifts the mattresses, checks to see if there’s any holes in the box springs. He sweats, staining his shirt; his mouth waters; he craves, in a way that his hand won’t satisfy. “Cas,” he says, quiet. Alone and terrified, he stands before the sink, white knuckling the manufactured marble vanity. His hands shake; he breathes, deep and long, letting it out through his nose. “Don’t know what’s up, but I—I got a problem, man.” No reply. In bare feet, Dean stands there, watching his reflection, then bows his head. Praying has never worked, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t ignore it, can’t talk himself out of it. Something’s wrong, and if Castiel can’t cure him, then—

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