Destiel Oneshots

Day Dreaming {Destiel}

Day 5 of suptober
~soldier AU~

August 27th 1944, Dijon France

The pain.

Burning, searing, mixing with the adrenaline that had taken over his body.

The pain.

A blaring of bullets around him, the screaming of soldiers, all barely audible over the hammering of his ears.

The pain.

He couldn't stand. He couldn't breath. Fuck.

The pain.

A scream immediately ripped through his throat, as a nurse shifted his bloody leg, the skin shredded, torn apart from the back fire of a bomb. "Cut it off!" Dean screamed not caring that they were in the midst of a battle, only able to focus on the pain. The pain. He couldn't breathe, no matter how many times he gasped. "Fuckin cut itg off."

Cas was at his side, probably speaking recurrence trying to calm Dean, though there was no calming him.

"Dean breathe."

He could only shake his head in response, eyes squeezing shut in attempt to stop everything. His hamemring heart, the ringing of bullets, the scremaing, the mud agaisnt his back, the pain "Just fuckin cut it off."

It was stabbing, burning, angushing, it was like nothing he'd felt before, controlling his whole mind. Every thought that passed. He needed it over, in anyway possible.

The nurse shifted his leg again, another scream tearing through his throat. "FUCK."

"Dean it's okay," he could feel Cas's gloved hand pressed to his sweaty cheek, though it brought no comfort as his eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritting. "They have morphine, it's okay."

"Dean it will be okay."

"Breathe."

~

When Dean's eyes fluttered open he was no longer met with the dark night sky, but instead the tent ceiling above, the fabric illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. He could feel the ache even without shifting. Taking over every inch of his body despite only his right leg receiving any damage front the bombs backfire. He'd been lucky he wasn't any closer.

He didn't feel lucky.

"Dean," He let out a low grown, mind still foggy from the morphine.

Slowly Dean sat up, his head turning at the sound of his name, and to Cas, who sat at his bedside. The other's face illuminated in a soft glow from the candle, making his expression, which Dean could only assume was concern, clear. 

Dean held the oher's gaze for only a second before he looked back down the bed, his legs both covered by a thin sheet. It didn't matter he didn't need to look. He'd seen enough bodies to know the way his skin would blister, the burn marks overlapped by scars, a mess of flesh and muscle. He didn't need to look.

He didn't want to.

Dean's gaze stayed there for another moment before turning back to the other.

"How are you feeling?" Cas asked softly.

"Shitty." The smallest smile tugged at Cas's lips. "Really fuckin' shitty."

Cas glanced to the right, to the path that traveled through the center of the tent, created by sheets. It gave them a bit of privacy, similar sheets hanging on either side of Dean's end in a makeshift wall. No one else seemed to be awake, no other glow of candles, no other soft whispers.