Fic: Life Lessons (Oneshot)
Characters: Dean, Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You’ve been taught a lot of things in your life.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Kinks: 2nd person PoV
A/N: I’ve been itching to write in 2nd person for some reason lately. So I gave in. I know it’s a PoV that you either like or loathe, but I am enamored by it.
When you were three years old, your father taught you how to shave. He wiped the shaving cream into your cheeks with gentle precision and gave you a razor with no blade. You stood on the counter next to him and looked at your reflections in the mirror, mimicking his movements as you scraped away the foam in long straight lines. When you were finished, he praised you for a job well done and carried you down the stairs over his shoulder.
When you were seven, your father taught you how to load a gun. How to tuck it into your shoulder so it wouldn’t leave a bruise and to squeeze the trigger, not pull. The gun bucked anyway, making you stumble, making you miss.
At ten your uncle showed you how to throw a curveball. It was overcast that day, but you burned anyway, the sun bringing out every freckle on your nose.
You killed your first monster when you were twelve. Your father showed you how to salt and burn the remains, and your hand was shaking so bad that it took eight tries before the lighter caught. When you were twelve you tasted beer for the first time.
The next year, Rebecca Shaw taught you how to kiss with tongue. It was wet and strange and it made your stomach tie itself in knots, to know that another person was sharing your breath. Four days later you decided it felt weird but the way she held your hand the whole time was nice.
When you were fifteen, and you felt the scratch of stubble on your jaw, you taught yourself how to shave for real. You cut yourself and bled into the collar of your shirt. Your father never noticed.
When you were seventeen years old, Tiffany Miller had sex with you. She pushed you down into the backseat of her mother’s car and climbed on top, guiding you inside with a gasp. She rolled her hips in slow languid circles while you held on to her sides, knowing you should be doing something but for the life of you not knowing what. It felt like your skin was too loose and too tight all at once. You didn’t come, but you held her close after she finished all the same.
When you were twenty-one your brother showed you how to stand up to your father. The concept was so drastic and foreign that it never occurred to you to pay attention.
At twenty-four a girl taught you that love isn’t unconditional. Sometimes love makes you bare your heart, and all you have to show for it is a hole in your chest. After that, you stopped taking love so seriously.
When you were twenty-seven your father taught you how to give your life away. It was the last thing he ever taught you. And when you think about it, it was only thing someone taught you that was easier than it looked.
Someone taught you how to ride a bike and bait a hook and speak in Latin. How to track a werewolf and drive a car and clean a gun. How to bandage a wound and make scraped knees feel better and the right way to eat a slice of pizza.
No one ever taught you this.
No one taught you about angels and the men they live in and how a single person could make you feel so small. No one ever told you that rebellion was a hunger so contagious that it could infect light itself and make it crumble. No one told you how to watch him fall from grace, how to teach him how to be human.
But you learn.
You teach him how to do laundry and tie a Windsor knot. You teach him how to check tire pressure and sharpen a knife, and the difference between apple crumble and French apple pie. You show him how to get free drinks and play Rock, Paper, Scissors, and read an atlas.
You know when he’s quiet because he enjoys the silence and when he’s trapped inside his head. You know what foods have become his favorites and what songs make him sad and which side of the bed he sleeps on.
You memorize his sleeping patterns. Your body wakes you up when it realizes he’s not in bed anymore. When he’s at the window and gazing at the moon. You learn the difference between tossing and turning, and nightmares where he’s falling falling falling down.
You know how to hold him close while he thrashes and murmur in his ear until he remembers where he is and slumps against you, exhausted. You know how to tell him stories until he opens up and smiles. You know when to take his hand and which knuckle makes his eyelids flutter when you brush over it with your thumb.
You’ve been taught a lot of things in your life. But you do alright all by yourself.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You’ve been taught a lot of things in your life.
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Kinks: 2nd person PoV
A/N: I’ve been itching to write in 2nd person for some reason lately. So I gave in. I know it’s a PoV that you either like or loathe, but I am enamored by it.
When you were three years old, your father taught you how to shave. He wiped the shaving cream into your cheeks with gentle precision and gave you a razor with no blade. You stood on the counter next to him and looked at your reflections in the mirror, mimicking his movements as you scraped away the foam in long straight lines. When you were finished, he praised you for a job well done and carried you down the stairs over his shoulder.
When you were seven, your father taught you how to load a gun. How to tuck it into your shoulder so it wouldn’t leave a bruise and to squeeze the trigger, not pull. The gun bucked anyway, making you stumble, making you miss.
At ten your uncle showed you how to throw a curveball. It was overcast that day, but you burned anyway, the sun bringing out every freckle on your nose.
You killed your first monster when you were twelve. Your father showed you how to salt and burn the remains, and your hand was shaking so bad that it took eight tries before the lighter caught. When you were twelve you tasted beer for the first time.
The next year, Rebecca Shaw taught you how to kiss with tongue. It was wet and strange and it made your stomach tie itself in knots, to know that another person was sharing your breath. Four days later you decided it felt weird but the way she held your hand the whole time was nice.
When you were fifteen, and you felt the scratch of stubble on your jaw, you taught yourself how to shave for real. You cut yourself and bled into the collar of your shirt. Your father never noticed.
When you were seventeen years old, Tiffany Miller had sex with you. She pushed you down into the backseat of her mother’s car and climbed on top, guiding you inside with a gasp. She rolled her hips in slow languid circles while you held on to her sides, knowing you should be doing something but for the life of you not knowing what. It felt like your skin was too loose and too tight all at once. You didn’t come, but you held her close after she finished all the same.
When you were twenty-one your brother showed you how to stand up to your father. The concept was so drastic and foreign that it never occurred to you to pay attention.
At twenty-four a girl taught you that love isn’t unconditional. Sometimes love makes you bare your heart, and all you have to show for it is a hole in your chest. After that, you stopped taking love so seriously.
When you were twenty-seven your father taught you how to give your life away. It was the last thing he ever taught you. And when you think about it, it was only thing someone taught you that was easier than it looked.
Someone taught you how to ride a bike and bait a hook and speak in Latin. How to track a werewolf and drive a car and clean a gun. How to bandage a wound and make scraped knees feel better and the right way to eat a slice of pizza.
No one ever taught you this.
No one taught you about angels and the men they live in and how a single person could make you feel so small. No one ever told you that rebellion was a hunger so contagious that it could infect light itself and make it crumble. No one told you how to watch him fall from grace, how to teach him how to be human.
But you learn.
You teach him how to do laundry and tie a Windsor knot. You teach him how to check tire pressure and sharpen a knife, and the difference between apple crumble and French apple pie. You show him how to get free drinks and play Rock, Paper, Scissors, and read an atlas.
You know when he’s quiet because he enjoys the silence and when he’s trapped inside his head. You know what foods have become his favorites and what songs make him sad and which side of the bed he sleeps on.
You memorize his sleeping patterns. Your body wakes you up when it realizes he’s not in bed anymore. When he’s at the window and gazing at the moon. You learn the difference between tossing and turning, and nightmares where he’s falling falling falling down.
You know how to hold him close while he thrashes and murmur in his ear until he remembers where he is and slumps against you, exhausted. You know how to tell him stories until he opens up and smiles. You know when to take his hand and which knuckle makes his eyelids flutter when you brush over it with your thumb.
You’ve been taught a lot of things in your life. But you do alright all by yourself.