pinkandyellow | (no subject)

Mechanical.

When the Doctor left, she'd been shut down. Spent days, weeks, sobbing and immobile and useless, confined to her room. This was... different. Emptiness. She carried on, blankly, with no emotion behind her actions. For a week, she had no real, original thought. She woke up. Took a shower. Cleaned. Went to work. Ignored her coworkers. Went home. That's it. Talked to no one. Turned off her phone, turned off her T.V. She existed, the end.

There was no funeral- there was no body, no record of his existence. Nobody even knew him. She hadn't been able to get a hold of Dean and Sam. Well, that was a lie. She hadn't bothered to try. Didn't even think about it. Never even occurred to her to tell them. She would, eventually. Besides them, only her family knew him, and she shut them out. Ignored the pounding on her door, ignored Pete's voice, and Jackie's voice.

At night, there was pain. She'd lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Trying not to think, but failing. At night, the world was empty, and she had no distraction from it all. And she remembered everything. The good memories, the bad ones, short but passionate, she remembered, and it hurt. Every single day for a week.

Except, today was Sunday.

She woke up. He wouldn't want this. She couldn't... she couldn't give up like this. She couldn't tear down what he'd done like this.

Today was Sunday.

Today, she needed to feel.

Today, she went to the beach.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Not a dream. He hoped it wasn't a dream. He had a week wiped from his memory and he really hoped this wasn't the beginning of some weird torture where they gave him the one thing he wanted and then took it away. If they took her away from him again he was going to be very upset with them. She felt real though so he had a little faith that this was completely legitimate.

His arm stayed firmly wrapped around her from behind. His free hand slid down her thigh. His lips continued to move down her neck to her shoulder. Maybe he was just checking to make sure she was real? Either way he did not want to let her go or move away.

She was real. She was positive she was real. Or, as positive as any person could really be about their own existence. And he seemed rather real, himself, thank God.

And she was so unbearably glad he didn't let go. She didn't want him to. She really didn't want him to. Whether it was kissing, or holding, or just... flopping down somewhere and existing, as long as he was there, she didn't care. This, though... this was a very, very good idea. She tilted her head to the side, let it fall back against his shoulder. An arm came up, curling to slide into his hair, brush along the back of his neck and hold tight.

Maybe it was a bit redundant to point out the fact that he was alive, but... he was alive. She might break down, or explode, or laugh, or cry, or... or something. Damn, she loved him.

Don't break down and cry. Castiel knew about happy tears, but he didn't always know when they were happening or when something warranted happy tears. He'd get the hang of that, but until then do not break down because he will not have a clue what to do.

Her hand in his hair was very nice. Gone was the aching and cold. It was replaced by a rush of warmth provided by her body pressed against his.

What a great welcome home present. Unwrapped and enjoyed--multiple times.