movie: speak

Adhd/Executive Dysfunction Gothic

- You are standing in the bathroom. How long has it been? 30 seconds? 20 minutes? You turn the handle slowly and go about your day. Try to forget the time you can’t remember.

- You say something. Someone responds, but you don’t know what they’re talking about. They look at you questioningly. You have no memory of what you just said.

- You think you’re going back your old elementary school, but when you walk in, there’s just two recordings playing on repeat. One says “Not working to full potential. Not working to full potential. Not working to full potential.” The other says “Organization needs improvement. Organization needs improvement”. You have been in this room for years.

- You’re sitting in class. It is interesting. The teacher is good. Suddenly you can’t stop fidgeting. You feel like you’re going to scream, but you make no sound. You need to leave. NOW. Before you smash your desk to pieces.

- You are sad. So so so so so so sad. Wait. You are ok. You are happy. You are angry. You are bored. You are so so so so so so sad. You are happy. It’s been half an hour

- You are exhausted. You can barely lift your head, but your leg keeps bouncing. It’s using energy you don’t have. You don’t know where it’s getting it from.

- You think you’re doing well in a class. There’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind. When’s the last time you did homework? You check your grade. It’s a D.

- Everyday, you think to do the same thing when you get home. It’s been weeks. You still haven’t done it. You wonder if your house is messing with your mind. You think to do something about it, but when you walk throuh your front door, you forget.

- It’s 1:45. You need to get on the bus at 2. You check the clock. 1:45. You check the clock. 1:45. You check the clock. 1:46. You stop checking for a few minutes. You check again. It’s 2:01. The bus is gone.

Imagine Loki looking bemused as people speak different languages in his presence thinking they cannot understand him, though he uses it to his advantage. He says nothing regarding it for ages when one day Thor walks in on Natasha berating Loki in Russian to Bucky, causing Thor to innocently state that Loki knows what they are saying because of Allspeak, leading to a very awkward silence as Loki rises to his feet and gives a cruel grin before he returns insults. 

The lips of the bottle are cold against Dean’s own. He likes it that way—the ice before the bitter taste and heat. His mouth the gateway between tangible and fantasy where he can pinpoint the spaces to untangle and let go.

It’s a game: Drink. Sink deeper into the motel pillows. Drink again.

It should make Dean’s skin feel less real. It should curb the way his eyes feel dry and heavy. Should lull him into a sense of heady nothingness. But Dean’s stomach churns against the liquid and the mattress is too hard.

“God,” he says, his chest struggling under an unseen weight. It isn’t a prayer or a curse. Instead, it’s a word to try and incinerate the nerves already sparking inside him. Finish the job.

But it isn’t God that answers. It’s Cas, standing like a wall. Strong. Fierce. Not like Dean, who tries to turn away from the angel the moment he appears inside the motel room. It’s Dean who can’t even bring himself to act like he’s ok. He only has enough reserves left now to hide. Only has the strength to close his eyes against the light with force.

And he shivers when Cas’s hand falls on the skin of his arm, holding it tightly.

Dean wonders if Cas can feel his blood move beneath his skin. Wonders if Cas sees any life left in the shell of Dean’s body.

“Dean,” Cas says, and it’s worry. It’s pain. It’s recognition that Dean exists, even if the hunter doesn’t want to be real right now.

Dean wants to look at Cas. He knows the angel has always seen him. And he knows Cas’s soul has spoken to him, too. If only the words could translate. Because maybe Cas could say what Dean needs to hear. Could fill up the empty room with words neither of them ever learned. Words like “hope,” and “safe.”

And Cas’s hand waits. Waits for Dean to allow it.

It takes a long time. It’s reluctant. It’s a fist that sprouts from a tight wad, blooming like a reluctant flower to slowly, lightly touch Cas’s skin back with his own. To give the angel the ok.

It’s brief. It’s shaky. It’s enough.

Dean feels Cas’s heat against his back as the angel lays down behind him. And Cas talks through his fingers, saying the things his mouth can’t. He tells stories with their skin, letting his palms run along Dean’s back and chest and arms. Anywhere he can find to spread his heat like balm.

Then it’s the angel’s mouth against his neck, breathing home into Dean’s spine and hair while Cas’s palm rests lightly on Dean’s stomach, skirting under the hunter’s shirt.

And when he finally feels Cas’s mouth on his back, small kisses through the fabric, the hunter wonders at the need for words at all. Because it isn’t desire, it’s worship. It’s Cas telling him he’s glad Dean’s alive. Glad he’s here.

Dean swallows. He flips onto his back, giving Cas further purchase on his skin. But Cas’s hands have stopped, and part of Dean wants to open his eyes. To see if Cas has left him here to the silence. But he can’t bring his eyes to face the emptiness. And as his skin starts to cool in the wait, he suddenly can’t breathe, Dean’s lungs jolting and shaking while he cuts off his own air supply.

Cas, Dean prays. Cas, touch me. Talk to me.

But the hands don’t return. Instead, Dean is startled when he feels a heavy weight on his chest, right against his heart. He can feel through his shirt where Cas’s ear is pushed up against his skin. Can feel Cas’s tiny breaths of admiration as the angel inhales at the sensation of each heart beat.

The burn inside Dean’s stomach starts to subside and his hand makes his way into Cas’s hair, resting his fingers in between patches of it. Neither of them move except to breathe. Dean doesn’t open his eyes. No one speaks.

But Dean can hear Cas anyway, telling him all the things he needs to fill the silence. And suddenly maybe, just maybe, Dean thinks he might know what hope feels like.