RATING: PG-13 gen and/or Dean/Castiel pre-slash
SPOILERS: generic for season 4
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Uriel
WARNINGS: Violence and language
SUMMARY: A night on the edge of a battle, angel whump included.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Set in the month between Heaven & Hell and Family Remains, this fic has been a long time in incubation. First I wrote the beginning. Then the end. Then filled up the middle. My muse is weird that way :-D Second in my Nursery Rimes fic thread (they're only linked by theme, not plot, but if you're interested the other one is Goosie Goosie Gander). Also, I indulged my kink for Castiel's tie :-D Concrit always welcome.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by it's creator Kripke and the CW network, and I am in no way affiliated with them
Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
"Ashes, Ashes"
We all fall down!
Dean was dozing. He was sure of it. Lately even a faithful application of whiskey wasn't putting him to sleep quite as easily as it used to, so he was finding himself spending more and more time lying in bed at night, drifting in a sort of sleepless state with a blank mind and no honest idea in the morning if he had actually slept at all.
Sam said he'd seen him with his eyes open one time when he'd gotten up to take a leak, but when he'd asked him if he was awake he'd gotten no response. Dean didn't remember this, so he said he was working on his Tyler Durden impression. Every time Sam brought up his crappy night habits Dean cracked a joke about Fight Club. How you weren't supposed to talk about it, how pretty soon he'd turn into Brad and bag Angelina; sometimes Sam would just close up, looking at him with that particular bitchy face he reserved for family members, other times he'd quip back about Norton being the real guy and that all he'd bag would be a strung out Helena Bonham Carter. Jerk.
Dean wasn't getting much rest, but at least he wasn't dreaming. He didn't know how long he could keep it up but in the meanwhile he was ok. That was pretty much his stance on this, until one night he saw Castiel standing at the foot of his bed, half his face covered in blood and staring past Dean to something that wasn't there. He didn't look much like the angel he knew, more than anything he resembled a spirit, or a death echo. Dean called him, asked him if he was ok, but Castiel didn't reply, and didn't even look at him. After a moment he simply vanished soundlessly, not even the flutter of feathers Dean could swear was always at the edge of his hearing when the angels were around.
"Dean," Sam's voice called, tiredly.
"Yeah?"
Sam came to sit next to him on his bed, and leaned over to face him. He hadn't been asleep either, researching on his computer.
Dean could see the glow from the monitor over at the table, next to the tiny desk lamp shaped like a flamingo and an opened box of pizza. It wasn't night, it was still early, but he'd lain down hoping to rest a bit. "I must have fallen asleep," he said a little wonderingly. He sat up. "Something's wrong."
"You weren't asleep, Dean, your eyes were open. And you were talking."
Dean shook his head, rubbing his face briskly to wake up all the way. "I was dreaming, I- I saw Castiel. He didn't look so good."
Sam didn't say anything, but was looking at him with a pinched, disapproving frown.
"What."
"So he came to talk to you in a dream. What did he say?"
Dean got up, started pacing to loosen up his muscles and get the blood flowing. "No, nothing. He was just standing there, didn't- didn't really seem to be aware of me. His face... he was hurt. Pretty badly. It was creepy. You know, creepier than the other times he's come strolling in my dreams. It looked almost like an omen." He finally stopped and turned to look at Sam. "Something must have happened. Something bad. We'd better find out. Maybe we should move, I don't think it's safe to stay here anymore." He sat down and started pulling on his boots, but Sam failed to spring into action.
"Dean," he said firmly, "you weren't asleep. I saw you looking at the foot of the bed, I heard you talking. Hell, you answered me not a few minutes ago when I asked you if you wanted some pizza, and you said 'no'. What you are is drunk."
Dean gaped at him for a moment, feeling his face flush despite himself. "So what you're saying is..."
"I don't know how I could be more plain, Dean. You were hallucinating. It happens when you stop sleeping for days at a time and slurp whiskey like it's soda."
Dean was still for another moment, looking at Sam, who in turn was staring unhappily at the bright blue carpet that mimicked tropical lake waters. Yes, he had been drinking and yes, he hadn't been sleeping. But he knew the difference between a dream and a hallucination. Besides: "Are you willing to take that risk, Sam?"
Sam huffed a sigh, then shook his head. They packed up and left inside ten minutes.
oooo
Tracking demonic omens is neither a science nor an art, and yet it is a little of both. Their dad excelled at it and Bobby's no slouch, but even with the best teachers the brothers often mourned the loss of Ash's home-made wire-mess of a laptop. After the Big Motel Escape Castiel was a no-show, which kind of worried Dean for many reasons, including that he was starting to think that Sam wasn't completely wrong on this; they chased their tails for a few days until they picked up the trail of a new job and unofficially gave up.
Which was probably why they found themselves with an angel walking in their room the minute they set down their duffels that night.
"You have to leave," he intoned by way of greeting. He scared the crap out of them for the suddenness, but otherwise Castiel was his usual self: rumpled, cryptic and authoritative. At the most he looked a bit tired. No, not tired. Weary.
"Hey, Castiel, long time no see, and what have you 'been up to, mmmh?" Replied Dean, sitting on a bed and sneaking a well-justified swig from his flask. Damn dramatic angel entrances were going to give him a heart attack one of these days.
Castiel regarded him seriously for a moment. "Fighting," he replied, "which I should be doing right now as well." He turned his gaze on Sam. "Leave as soon as you can. Head south. It is not safe for you here."
"Whoa, whoa, back up a little. Would you mind telling us what is going on? 'Cause we just got here, see, and-"
It was Sam, however, who figured it out and interrupted him. "It's a seal, isn't it? There's one right here and you're about to fight for it."
Castiel tilted his head, never breaking eye-contact. Dean was starting to feel a little left out. "Not exactly. The fight has already broken out. This... is the edge of the battle, you might say. I'm guarding part of the perimeter. I noticed you coming but I couldn't desert my duties. However, you cannot proceed. You must turn back immediately."
"How is the fight going? Are you winning or are you losing this one?"
Castiel's expression didn't shift, but he cut his eyes to the side. "You must leave immediately."
"We could-"
"No." Castiel pinned them each with one of his most intense stares. "It's demons against angels here. It is no place for you. For either of you."
"Fine. But there's children going missing in Scarborough, talk of lights floating in the fields at night... we need to get there before some other kid gets lured away," declared Dean.
Sam nodded. "We still have a job to do. We- we still have one, right? You haven't- Scarborough is still-"
Castiel's face relaxed visibly. "That is outside the perimeter."
"That's great!", enthused Sam, "then we could circle around and still get there! How big is this perimeter? Wait, I'll pull up a map and you can show us..." he pulled out his computer and set it on the table. "Hold on just a sec, the battery died while we were driving..." he dug around his duffle hurriedly, and quickly grabbed the cable and plugged in. Castiel regarded the proceedings with naked curiosity.
"Ok. Here. Come and have a look," Sam beckoned him, and Castiel stepped forward. The moment he passed in front of the TV it blinked to life and started buzzing out static. The socket in the wall where both the TV and the computer were plugged hissed a tiny plume of dark smoke, and Sam had only one second to widen his eyes before lunging for his cable and pulling it out. A spark flew out and zapped his fingers. "Ow." At least the computer was safe.
Dean started chuckling. Sam's pissed face only made him grin wider, but when Castiel looked at him coldly he clapped a hand over his mouth and valiantly tried to muffle it. "We," he gasped, "we have paper maps in the car."
"I'll go fetch one. Don't go away," grumbled Sam, loping out of the room briskly.
Dean and Castiel were left alone. The angel turned to regard him seriously, and Dean's mirth washed out of his body. He fingered his flask in the pocket of his jacket and wondered if Castiel would notice if he'd take another swig. No, scratch that, he'd obviously notice. But would he make a fuss of it? Feeling as though the angel's stare was a challenge, Dean took another swig. It failed to elicit any kind of response. "You're not gonna lecture me on the evils of drink, then?"
Castiel frowned, completely puzzled. "Do you want me to?"
"Me? Nah... besides, I've heard it all before. Sammy'd probably like you to, though."
"Then... that is for Sam to say," Castiel replied, dipping his chin.
Sam came back in, holding the folded map in front of him and lobbing it at Dean.
"I do not have much time," Castiel said, a trifle anxiously.
"Yeah, yeah, we hear you. Here. We've come up this road, we're going there, and right now we're... here." Dean pointed. Castiel stepped forward, then bended at the waist and tilted his head. He considered the map for a long moment, long enough for the brothers to exchange glances and for Sam to mumble that is was to a scale of twenty.
"Like watching from above..." whispered Castiel. "It is very ingenious." He pointed to the same spot that Dean had shown him and traced an ellipse that expanded north north-east. "Avoid this area," he straightened up. "That is all."
The boys exchanged a glance. "What about all the people out there, on your battlefield. Did you evacuate them?"
Castiel looked at the floor. "There were no people on the battlefield."
"Well, that's bull," cut in Dean, earning himself a confused frown from the angel, "it's mostly farmhouses until you hit Scarborough, but there's still gotta be, what? Couple hundred farmers?"
"The demons' strategy was to use local force here. It gave them... expediency," Castiel said in a gravelly, even monotone.
Dean looked at Sam, but Sam looked only at Castiel, nodding his head and working his jaw. "And how many of you?"
"I have to leave," he non-replied, looking at the still-crackling TV. It died down with a whimper.
"Just one more thing. Here. Mark it," huffed Dean, grabbing Castiel by the sleeve and pushing a pen in his left hand.
Castiel considered the pen for a moment and closed his fingers around it like a hilt; but then he opened them again, flipped and hooked the pen with his thumb and curled the fingers under it. He reached out with his whole arm and marked the exact same ellipse on the map, and while he did that the sleeve rode up a bit, exposing his wrist and an ugly purple bruise that encircled it.
Dean, acting on instinct, stopped him with a hand to the forearm before he could pull back again. "What's this?" Without waiting for permission he tugged the coat and the jacket back. More of the mottled bruise became visible. Dean unbuttoned the shirt cuff and finally it was out in the open: a clear imprint of a hand; you could even tell where each finger had dug in.
Castiel frowned at his own wrist as though he had never seen it before, and poked at it like a kid with a stick. Dean fingered the fabric of his other sleeve. A matching bruise peeked from underneath all the layers.
"That looks painful," Sam said sadly.
Castiel looked at him in amazement. "It does?? I didn't realize humans felt pain through their sight."
Sam snorted. "We don't," he explained, sitting down next to Dean to get a better look at the bruises, "but it's an injury and we sympathize."
Castiel considered his wrists again. "I do not feel pain. Not like you do," he said suddenly. He covered the left wrist with his right hand and squeezed for a moment, and when he opened his fingers again the skin underneath was unmarked, as though nothing had touched it. "I did not realize the body had been injured like this," he confessed as he healed the other wrist.
"What happened? Please tell me it takes a whole lot of nasty things to do something like that to something like you," said Dean, with absolutely no hint of pleading in his voice.
"I was... ambushed, you might say. They tried to restrain me but it was poorly planned on their part."
Dean grinned. "You kicked their asses."
"I merely called for backup. As I said, it was poorly planned."
"Hold on... just how hurt were you?"
"I am a heavenly soldier, Dean, I can manage. You need not concern yourself with my well-being," he said with a hint of a smile.
"Castiel, when was this?" Dean asked slowly, looking a little freaked, "was it... four days ago?"
It was Castiel's turn to look baffled. Though with him, it could have just been his curiosity. Sometimes it was difficult to tell. His eyes widened and he straightened back up. "I have stayed too long," he announced, sounding alarmed.
One moment he was facing the brothers, the next he had turned around and blocked a blow from a black-eyed woman. They hadn't heard the door opening but there she was, trying to stick what looked like a white letter opener in Castiel's neck. Sam and Dean jumped up to help but they were flung back through the air before they could even reach the fight. They hit the wall that separated the bathroom from the rest and went clean through it.
Sitting up from the rubble, the brothers tried to find their feet and check on each other at the same time, and were amazed to realize that they were both mostly ok. The 'wall' was little more than cardboard held together with paint. The bathroom wasn't even tiled. They'd been incredibly lucky that the motel wasn't particularly law-abiding.
The fight was going on with vigor in the room proper: Castiel was trying to hold her hand with the small knife away, and to place the heel of his own hand on her forehead, but she kept squirming from under him. He went for a different hold but she was quicker, dropped to her knees and plunged her weapon high in his thigh. With a cry of pain he finally laid his hand against her face and exorcised her. In the throes of angelic purification, the demon leant forward and put all the body's weight on the knife, making it slice all the way down to the knee and then leaving it there.
It was done. The woman, now no longer possessed, fell back to sit on the ground, looking stunned. Castiel, mirroring her expression, looked at the damage he had sustained. Sam and Dean moved into action.
Sam tried to engage the attention of the woman, whose face immediately crumpled as she started to keen with guttural, animalistic sobs. Dean intended to get Castiel to lie down, clamp his hands on the wound to try and keep it closed and to advise the angel not to try and pull the knife out before they could at least get a pressure bandage ready. What did happen was that as soon as he was in range Castiel yelled "No!" and pushed him away by a hand to the face, and exorcised him.
Dean blanked out for the few seconds it took; he found himself sitting on the floor, his backside protesting, and thinking weirdly that it didn't feel like electrocution at all, and I'd know. Castiel had fallen to one knee, holding his injured leg still mostly straight and clearly bracing to grab the knife and yank it out. There was a lot of blood, already it had seeped down the pant leg and was starting to stain the paper-thin carpet.
Sam checked his brother for the second time in nearly as many minutes, and wanted to try and help the angel, but the wiser part of his brain made him stop out of reach. Castiel kept muttering to 'stay away', and though he'd be the first to admit that he hadn't exactly been harmed, Dean wasn't hankering for a second helping either.
"Sam, get the medical kit," he ordered, looking between the angel and the woman, who was pulling at her hair and her clothes and had settled on a low, continuous sob without seemingly pausing for breath.
Castiel grasped the knife with his left hand and grimaced, gasping with pain. With a chocked off scream he let go again, holding his hand up: the palm had turned black with third degree burns. Sam slammed the door to the room shut before Dean could formulate a plan. If Castiel couldn't pull the thing out himself, and if he wouldn't let them try – provided humans even could – they were left with a pretty big impasse.
"Should I- we could summon Ruby," Sam suggested, looking at both angel and former demon host in apprehension.
The woman was the most pro-active of their weird little group: she had found herself a corner of the room, had taken off her low-heeled shoes and was busy hiding her face behind them.
Castiel broke the tension by grabbing the knife with his right hand and yanking it out viciously, almost throwing it away from his body. It clattered to the ground in the middle of the room, and immediately all the blood on it seeped into the carpet, leaving what they could finally see clearly as an ivory dagger looking perfectly clean, albeit resting in a crimson splotch.
The woman saw this and started keening like a banshee. She tried to back further up, but she was already against the wall, and then she started tearing at her hair, completely crazed. Dean and Sam tried to shush her, but she didn't seem aware of them, until Sam grabbed her wrist and she started thrashing in his grip, even louder and more desperate.
Castiel stepped up, leg still bleeding copiously, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She instantly went silent and still, watching him with wide eyes. He guided her up, nodded at Sam to let go, and then looked deeply into her eyes, searching. After a moment he cut his gaze away, and nodded to himself. "You are Forgiven," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on her temple, "may the Mercy of God embrace your soul." He ran his hands from her shoulders to her chin in a gentle caress, and in the space of a breath he pulled her head up and pushed her body down, snapping her neck in two. She was dead instantly, without even realizing it.
Sam yelled "Hey!". Dean's own cry had choked in his throat. Castiel didn't turn to face them. He hugged the body tight to his chest, and bowed his head low, burying his face in her hair. Suddenly she sprung up in flames, no, she was a flame, yellow and white, leaping up from the ground and in the circle of the angel's arms and then, just as abruptly, there was nothing left but a generous dusting of pale ash. The door flew open, and in the flickering light of the lamps they glimpsed the shadows of huge wings on the wall, stirring the air with a strong gush of wind that dispersed the ashes outside.
Then door closed again and it was all over. Castiel didn't move. He didn't even look up.
"You killed her," Dean said, redundantly and still completely stunned.
Castiel raised his head a little, and put his hand on his bloodied thigh. "I did," he said simply.
"But why?" Sam demanded, angrily, "you killed the demon, she was no longer possessed! She was innocent! She didn't mean to harm you, she must have -didn't she suffer enough already?"
"Yes." Finally, with visible effort, he turned to face them. He was frighteningly pale, and the blood was still oozing between his fingers. "She had. I merely showed her Mercy."
"That's you idea of mercy? 'Cause I don't think it means what you think it means," Dean threw back.
"That woman," Castiel said, panting and gritting his teeth, "was used by Lillith's lieutenant. She's the one... who's been finding... and choosing... suitable vessels for her Mistress. Tying up loose ends. Leaving no witnesses. And Lillith's first..." his face twisted in a grimace, and suddenly the blood stopped flowing. He lifted his hand, palm still charred, and the trousers underneath weren't even torn or stained anymore. "... was her own daughter," he finished with a gasp. "Her mind was long gone, and her soul was in torment. Only God's Forgiveness will grant her peace now."
Sam snorted in disbelief, unsure of what to do with himself and twitching with nervous energy, but Dean suddenly just felt tired. Another pointless argument in a long line of pointless arguments sounded... well, pointless. The woman was dead. Castiel was still there. Even a dip in the flask and the inevitable reaction it would get out of Sam at that point sounded like too much work. He sat down on the edge of a bed, heaved a sigh and tried to change the subject.
"So, now what? Are you gonna be ok? 'Cause you don't look too good, Cas."
Castiel stared at his own hands and started to sway slightly. "I am needed on the battlefield," he said a little uncertainly. He looked at the door and took a couple of stumbling steps towards it.
Dean tried to exchange a glance with Sam, but his brother was sulking and wouldn't meet his eye. "Maybe you should just lie down for a few minutes and then go. Can't hurt, can it?"
Castiel tried to straighten his posture but it only made him sway more alarmingly, "I have a duty..." his voice wavered.
"Still, Cas, you lost a lot of blood, and believe me when I say you're more than a little pale: you really should lie down before you go all shut-eye on us."
"We... do not... sleep," the angel replied stubbornly, but Dean had seen that look, when the vision starts to fuzz out and the head starts spinning and you're upright only because you're enough of a mule to will it so, and knew how it was going to end.
Predictably, Castiel's eyes rolled back in his head and he went down in a dead faint.
ooooo
Castiel came to without a start or a flinch or even a sharp breath: he simply opened his eyes and focused immediately on Dean, who was tapping on his cheek. He didn't even give them the satisfaction of asking what had happened, so Dean took matters into his own hands.
"Maybe holy warriors never rest, but they sure drop like little girls when they lose a few pints of blood."
Castiel peered down the length of his body and saw that his feet were resting on a small pile of duffle bags. He was still on the floor, pretty much exactly where he had landed. Sam moved in his line of sight with a first aid kit and a closed off expression.
"We don't sleep. We do, however, rest. And I haven't spilled that much blood, you are exaggerating."
"Well, you're back to missing sarcasm, so I guess you're normal."
Castiel braced his feet on the duffels and pushed them away. Then he sat up with a smooth move that reminded Dean of mummies in old horror movies; only he kept going forward when he should have stopped, and would have folded himself in half if Dean hadn't been right there.
"You should't- yeah, that's why you shouldn't. You really have no clue about setting shop in a human body, do you?" Dean held him up by the shoulders and tried to peer into Cas' eyes, but his head was lolling and he had them closed. He did, however, resist being laid down again and slapped ineffectually at Dean's hands. They compromised by getting the bed behind his back so he could sit up with the support. The thing was so low that his head thumped right back at a ninety degree angle, exposing his neck and his Adam's apple.
Dean looked at him and reminisced on what it felt like to slit a throat, something he had acquired intimate knowledge of. He knew what it would look and feel like to cut high up, near the chin, or down, right above the collar bone; he could even estimate how many cuts he could fit on that neck. Tortured souls, of course, are not real bodies. They don't die, for once. Though Castiel wouldn't die either, if he used a normal knife. Abruptly, like a film hiccupping, he found himself staring into Castiel's blue eyes.
"The dagger wouldn't end me even if it hits something vital," he mumbled, voice even rougher than usual, "it's true danger lies in the rituals it can be used for. And now that it knows my blood I cannot even touch it." He turned his hands palms up in his lap: they still looked completely charred. He tried to clear his throat, but he only sounded worse when he continued, more forcefully: "I suggest you don't touch it either, unless you wish to become bonded to it."
Sam was peering at the dagger from a few feet away, itching to get a closer look. "What is it?"
"Bone," Castiel spat out, and though it really wasn't what Sam had meant, the tone of the reply made him reconsider further prodding.
"Do you... we might have something for burns." Sam finally offered, holding the kit up.
Castiel's gaze skittered around the room, his expression uncertain. "I can heal them," he said, sounding distracted and not at all certain, "I was going to, I just- I need to report first. My Brothers are..." he trailed off, eyes going wide and head tilting to the side. He stayed frozen like that for a long couple of minutes.
Sam wanted to shift, do something, but Dean was still crouching next to the angel and he was staring with such concentration that Sam didn't dare move. Both brothers could feel a change in air pressure, deep behind their eardrums, but strain as they might they couldn't hear anything.
Castiel blinked, slowly, then rolled his head forward, hunching his shoulders and crossing his arms in front of his chest, though he couldn't use his hands, and started to rock slightly back and forth, rhythmically. His lips moved and breath rushed in and out, but no words and no sound came.
Dean thought of Muslims kids on CNN, images from far off countries and deserts, reciting their Koran in huge groups, all bobbing to a different timing like a group ducklings in the water. Sam thought of Charlie back at Stanford, who always wore a kippah and a tallit and would cockily recite a prayer in the public cafeteria before eating anything. It was sad how so many of those enlightened students who screeched against racism and war would give him so much shit over it. They'd sat in the same row in Professor Ludlow's classes. European Philosophy, Greek up to Renaissance.
Castiel bowed his head a little deeper one last time and then sat back, letting his arms hang loose. He looked up at the Winchesters and seemed surprised. "I thought you were anxious to proceed. You have a long journey ahead of you."
"And a longer one behind us. It's night. We stopped."
"It's the edge of a battle. It is hardly a place for rest."
"We'll manage. What about you? What are you going to do?"
Castiel twitched his fingers, unable to clench them and seemingly unaware that he was doing it. "None of my Brothers may be spared to dispatch of the dagger. I'm to stand guard over it until further orders." He seemed a bit pissed.
"Busted your ass for leaving your perch, eh?"
Castiel narrowed his eyes, but kept his usual cool demeanor. "I can fight," he insisted, "I haven't been incapacitated."
"'Course you can. I guess you'll guard us as well, then."
Castiel lost the cold expression and looked at Dean with childish curiosity. "You're staying?"
The mood swings were starting to grate on Dean's nerves. A dip in the flask sounded good right about now, but he restrained himself. "Looks like." He grinned. It didn't reach his eyes.
oooo
Castiel insisted that he didn't need help with his hands, even though he had made no progress towards healing them, and that he could hold vigil on his own.
The brothers tried to keep busy for a while, piling the rubble from the bathroom wall in a corner, putting up salt lines, the usual preparations they made for the night, though the hole in the wall meant using the can and the shower was an exercise in exhibitionism. Normally they wouldn't mind, but between Castiel's presence (not that he showed the smallest interest in that regard) and their own low-simmering bickering, they both cut their nightly routines short.
The hot water and the electricity kept coming like nothing was happening outside, but no one had come to investigate all the noise and the screams from before, which was pretty unsettling. They didn't want to go outside and look for a place to eat, so they made do with what snacks they had on them. Dean even offered a bite to Castiel, but the angel just looked at him for a long time until Dean dropped his hand and looked away.
They were too keyed up to sleep and they knew it. Standing on the edge of a battle like that, even without any evidence of it, especially without any evidence of it, was almost unbearable. Sam was afraid of plugging in his computer and frying it, so he was left without much to do. Dean cleaned and oiled his guns, but that only killed a little under an hour. They discussed the possibility of actually taking the car and trying to drive around the perimeter, but each time they ended up dismissing it. Castiel was silent the whole time, a far-away look in his eyes that made them think that he was somehow following the actions of his Brothers on the field.
Finally, with night advancing and nothing else to do, Dean decided to at least try and doze a bit and approached his bed, still fully clothed and with no intention of changing that. Sam was similarly settled on his own bed, sitting up and squinting at a book Dean knew for sure his brother had already committed to memory. The only problem was that Cas was still sitting propped up at the foot of Dean's bed, head thrown back, and Dean felt awkward at the idea of lying down with his feet near an angel's face. Not to mention that it was probably disrespectful, and that seemed like a touchy subjects with the angels.
He sat on the bed, and then simply laid upside down, feet to the pillows and head near Castiel's. Sam looked up for a moment from his book but didn't comment. Dean turned his head to face the angel and was a little uncomfortable when he realized just how close they were like that, especially when Castiel mirrored his action and turned to look at him with wide blue eyes.
"Your blood doesn't stink," Dean blurted out, brain powers deserting him without mercy. It was true, though: with all the blood Castiel had spilled all over the room (and it was a lot) there was no accompanying metallic smell at all. In fact there was only a faint whiff of ozone, and traces of a sweet smoky undertone. Castiel didn't reply. "It's a good thing, you know," Dean continued, unable to stop babbling, "believe me when I say that spending time in a place that stinks of blood is not fun. So..."
"Thank God for small things?" Sam interjected, nose still in his book but grinning.
"Yeah."
Castiel's eyes softened in what was probably the beginning of a smile, but he didn't say anything.
Dean frowned. "Hey, Cas? You plugged into angel radio or something? Everything all right? Cas?" He reached up a hand and poked the angel with a finger, getting no reaction besides a slow blink. With a chill of unease, Dean sat up and kneeled on the bed, looking down at Castiel and putting both hands on the sides of his face. He felt stone cold, like a marble statue. "Sonofabitch! That can't be normal..."
Dean met Sam's eyes and his brother joined him immediately, slapping his fingers on the angel's neck, checking for a pulse. He shared a worried look with Dean, then hunkered down next to Castiel and gently lifted his head with both hands, meeting his unperturbed gaze. "Castiel? Can you hear us? Hey!" He grabbed his jaw, fingers digging in and shaking him, but Castiel barely frowned. "Dean, I think he's going into shock," Sam stated with some alarm.
"No way, dude... can angels even do that?" Dean slipped down to crouch and put a hand on Castiel's forehead. It did feel clammy.
Sam cautiously grabbed the angel's wrists and showed one palm to Dean: the black, blistered skin had started to crack and bleed sluggishly. It didn't look like it had even started to heal at all. "This body certainly can. Maybe he's hurt – you know, his actual, angel self- and he can't counteract the effects of his injuries..." he jerked his head towards the congealed blood all over the carpet.
"Great. And now what? We can't exactly get him to a hospital and get him a transfusion, can we? Besides, the moment we leave that thing alone," he waved a hand in the general direction of the dagger, "the demons are gonna come and get it back, and then the angels will have our asses. Fried. Jesus!"
"Dean, if we do nothing and he dies... you saw what he did to that woman! What do you think his Brothers would do to us?"
"That is so not the same thing-"
"You can't know for sure-"
Dean slammed a fist against the frame of the bed. "Alright, enough! Look, we can deal with this. We know how to stabilize shock... we'll just have to hope it's enough for him. Once his angel mojo starts working again he'll be alright."
"What if he's not? What if he's hurt too bad?"
"He said the dagger didn't have that much power."
"What if he lied?"
"And why would he do that?"
"Maybe because that's one of those weapons Anna mentioned, and he didn't want us to know. Maybe all that talk about not touching it is all bullshit. We'd be fine. We'd be able to defend ourselves if the angels start jerking us around again, and he didn't want that."
Dean looked down at Castiel, who seemed to be staring at the ceiling, eyes wide and mouth agape. "And maybe he told us the truth! Wanna end up with your hands like that? Because you don't have any angel juice to restore you back up if he didn't lie."
Sam cast a hooded glance at the dagger. "No, but in this case I might have something better," he said quietly.
"Sam- No! Are you insane?? A couple of drops from Yellow Eyes decades ago is not going to shield you from something like that! You're human, as human as me. And neither of us is going to play demon roulette with that knife, and that's the end of that. Let's just... let's stabilize him and... take one thing at a time. Come on." Dean grabbed a fistful of Castiel's collar and his belt, motioning to Sam to help.
Sam hesitated a moment longer, lips pursed and a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he finally relented and hooked Castiel's arm around his shoulder. Together they heaved the angel onto the bed behind him.
Castiel's breath hitched when they laid him down on his back, and he tensed his muscles as though he were going to sit right back up, but he clearly lacked the energy, or perhaps the coordination, because he did not. His lids fell at half-mast, eyes rolling underneath, weirdly similar to those dolls that open and close their eyes automatically when you lay them down or pick them up. "Light's on but nobody's home," quipped Dean. Sam ignored him.
The brothers moved silently and efficiently. Dean took off the shoes, letting them bounce to the floor, and shoved the pillows from the bed under Castiel's stocking-clad feet, elevating them. Sam grabbed the covers off the other bed and laid them on Castiel, mindful of his burnt hands. "We should bind them, at least," he said, holding them up by the wrists.
Dean shrugged and nodded, sneaking a hand under Castiel's collar and checking his temperature. He grimaced. "Hot water bottles would probably be good too. But I'm gonna guess we're fresh out of those."
Sam dug around their first aid kit. They had four rolls of bandages, half a bottle of antiseptic, and an almost squeezed-out tube of ointment. There were two artificial ice packs, and one hot pack, which he tossed to Dean, who in turn ripped it open and placed it under Castiel's neck. Sam held up the bottle and the cream, and Dean pointed at the antiseptic. Sam poured some of the liquid directly on the burns, dabbing at it with some gauze, before passing it to Dean on the other side, who was working on the other hand.
"Well, I guess it's a good thing he can't feel pain, not like 'we' do," Sam considered, examining the blackened skin. Like the blood, the burnt skin didn't smell, but it looked awful. He'd put his money on it being charred down to the bone.
"Not like it'd make any difference. Except for the miraculous healing," Dean replied distractedly. Sam looked at him, thinking Dean was making or about to make one of his preposterously tasteless jokes, but his brother was serious, seemingly just thinking aloud.
"Come again?" Sam egged on.
"This level of burn, it destroys pain receptors. You do this to a hand, they're not going to feel anything after the initial pain. You wanna fuck up a hand and make it hurt the whole time, there's plenty of other things you can do. Skin's sensitive there. If you take a knife and-" Dean looked up, straight at Sam, and visibly clammed up. "Never mind." He said shortly, lowering his eyes and locking his jaw. "Pass the gauze."
"Dean..."
"Don't wrap it up too tight," Dean bit off, focusing on his task.
Sam shook his head and forced himself to drop the matter. Dean hadn't talked much, if at all, since his big revelation, but other stuff clearly needed to be said, and Sam could be patient and wait Dean out. He knew the dam would burst, sooner or later. "I won't," he replied softly, and Dean looked up at him for a moment, expression naked and grateful. They both nodded and bent back to work.
Hands taken care of, they checked the body temperature, finding it still way too low. The hot pack had reddened the skin of the neck, but it was much too small for the purpose. Castiel was still unresponsive, and that more than anything was starting to worry Dean. "Let's pile the ones underneath over as well," he said, tugging at the covers they had left under Castiel's body.
Sam helped him roll the angel over and get the second set of blankets free. "He's not generating enough heat on his own, though, and-" he stopped, leaning forward and putting his ear to Castiel's face. "I think his breathing's slowed down. Dean, the shock's getting worse. We need to warm him up." He looked pointedly at Dean, who took a moment to process. Then he grimaced.
"Whatever," he sighed, taking off his flannel shirt and his belt, but keeping his jeans.
"Look, Dean, you're the one who wants to do this here, I say-"
"Sandwich time!" Dean mock-grinned. "You too, Mr. furnace. If we scooch together we can all fit... and that's kinda the whole point anyway." He flipped the covers back off, and did something he'd actually always wanted to do: he grabbed Castiel's stupid tie by the knot and yanked it off, balled it up, and then threw it on the only, and rather ugly, armchair in the room.
Sam looked at him, mouth agape, until Dean motioned him to get moving. Sam took off his own shirt and his jeans as well, which made Dean snicker. "You'll be sorry when you sweat through them," Sam mumbled, looking at his brother's still clothed legs.
Dean meanwhile started to wrestle Castiel's inert form out of the trench coat and the black jacket at the same time. The shirt underneath was almost blindingly white, despite all the fighting and the blood shed. He took a moment to consider the situation. "I'm not stripping him down to his underwear," he said finally.
"Agreed," Sam said immediately.
They both shared a resigned look and then climbed in the bed, pulling all the covers over them. By lying on their sides, facing each other, they managed to fit with Castiel lying in the middle. Dean worked his arm under the angel's back when he couldn't find anywhere else comfortable to put it, and was mildly amused by Sam's attempts to get his enormous frame comfortable in the limited space. It was also beginning to feel sweltering. Hopefully this would warm Cas right up and they could just... forget about the whole mess.
"I hope this works quickly," Sam said quietly, echoing Dean's thoughts. "We'll have to stay awake anyway, in case we're attacked."
"Of course," Dean scoffed. Like he didn't know that.
oooo
Sometime back, he wasn't sure when, Castiel's temperature had not only reached normal, but had actually gone pleasantly warmer. Dean managed to ignore the way his arm had gone to sleep and how his jeans were sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and was actually dozing happily in the cocoon of blankets and limbs. He shifted his free hand away from the furnace that was his little brother and up to check Castiel's pulse, but when he brushed against the neck he felt the head move. He opened his eyes and found Castiel staring at him from less than an inch away.
"Hello Dean," he whispered in his usual serious tone.
Dean jerked back a little in surprise, conscious of how they were practically breathing the same air they were so close. "Hey," he managed in reply. On the other side of them, Sam slept peacefully on, snoring slightly.
"Dean?" Castiel whispered quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I wish to get up," he said, still quiet and serious.
Of course he did. Dean, slightly embarrassed and hoping Castiel hadn't taken them for two idiots (or perverts, or sinners, or whatever an angel might infer from three grown men cuddling up on one relatively small bed), started the laborious process of disentangling them without jostling Sam. He was worming out his arm (dead weight, completely asleep) when a though occurred to him and he stopped.
"Maybe you shouldn't. Get up."
Castiel looked at him, twisting his face in one of his frowns of befuzzlement.
"You haven't exactly been the best judge on your health tonight, so far. Maybe you should just lie still."
Castiel's eyes wandered around, taking into consideration the bed, the two Winchesters, and finally raising a hand to stare at the bloody bandage covering it. Then he looked back at Dean and told him, earnestly, that he was "fine".
Dean snorted. "You were like three steps away from getting your own personal reaper, Cas. Humans- human bodies like a full night's sleep after something like that."
Castiel considered this, frowning more. "I was not dying, if that is what you're trying to imply. I'm sorry my conditioned alarmed you, but I was never in any danger. I told you, before." He shifted, leaving Dean no choice but to finish rolling out of the bed and sitting on the side. Castiel joined him almost immediately. "I was aware of the situation... I was still keeping guard, but..." He cast a blank stare over his shoulder at Sam, and then his eyes sought out the dagger, finding it untouched on the ground.
Dean's blood ran cold, pinpricks of adrenalin spiking all over his body besides his slowly waking arm. "We were worried, we- we saved your life! Shock is nothing to sneer at... you looked really out of it, and, and if some things were said... we... we kinda panicked, you can't really believe-"
Castiel put one of his hands on Dean's arm, silencing him. Even with all the bandages, he could feel the touch like something different from a plain human one. The pins and needles cleared away immediately, his limb suddenly awake and normal.
"You did not save my life," the angel said gravelly, "but you did ease my recovery." He almost smiled, at least as much as Dean had ever seen him do. "And for that I am grateful. Sometimes when I am injured I... find it difficult to communicate from within the confines of my vessel. I was aware of your emotions, but I did not actually..." He faltered, casting another glance at the dagger.
"So you were pretty out of it," Dean smirked, relief pouring from every conscious part of his brain. Looked like they were going to live to be smited another day, after all.
Castiel nodded; he hesitated, then continued, not looking at him. "Dean. Four days ago... I fear it might have happened again."
"So you did come to me in my dream!" He exclaimed, finally vindicated. Sam snorted behind him, but didn't wake, reminding Dean to keep the volume low.
"No, I... I sent out a call for back up. In the heat of the battle I didn't realize I had sent it quite... that far. You needn't worry though, it won't happen again. You will never be called upon to fight my battles."
Dean snorted. "Yeah, I guess I have enough on my plate as it is, right? Speaking about, since we're sharing, any more specifics about what it is your Boss would like me to be doing?"
Castiel ignored him. He had raised his hands in front of his face, and was staring with such concentration at his bandages that for a moment Dean was afraid he was going to get rid of them by incinerating them.
Dean pulled a face, both for the mental image and because he was pretty much already resigned to the fact that he was not going to get any answer, and was starting to get tired even of asking pointlessly just to be a pain in the ass.
"Come on," he sighed, getting up and tugging the angel along with him, "let's see how 'fine' you are."
Castiel followed him docilely and let himself be parked on one of the two chairs at the table. Dean looked for a pair of scissors in the first aid kit, but he only found tiny, suture ones, so he fished inside his boot by the bed and produced his back-up silver knife. He sterilized it as best as he could with the flame of his lighter, and then set to work. Castiel stared most of the time at the demon's dagger, flickering only a few glances at Dean and what he was doing.
It turned out Castiel was as 'fine' as advertised. His hands had healed, though the skin still looked tender and new. Dean poked at it to test loss of feeling, and Castiel frowned, which was probably as much of a reaction as he was ever going to get.
"Thank you," Castiel said softly, holding up his hands and flexing his fingers oh-so-slowly. That surprised Dean, more because of how much it pleased him to be thanked than by Castiel's politeness, which was nothing new. "I need to get dressed now," the angel continued, almost as if thinking out loud.
He got up and went over to the ugly armchair where the Winchesters had left the excess clothing. It hadn't been folded at all, and it was all creased. Dean hoped it wasn't going to be a problem for Castiel, because he had no desire to go hunt for a steam iron at the moment. But Castiel made no comment. He carefully picked up the black jacket and started to turn it around, straightening it out and looking for the sleeve holes. He was ready to put it on when Dean stopped him.
"Wait, Cas, no. You have to put this on first. It goes under the jacket." He picked up the blue tie, all balled up, and smoothed it out, before handing it back.
Only he couldn't hand it back. Castiel didn't have a free hand, so Dean thought he could just drape it on his shoulder. Then he thought he might as well lay it around his neck. Then he realized that the chances of Castiel knowing how to tie it were zilch, and since he was the one that had pulled it off with such relish, it was only polite that he put it back as it was. Which is why he stepped up, popped the collar of Castiel's shirt and looped the tie in place. He adjusted the lengths and crossed them, when he made the mistake of looking up and directly in Castiel's intent gaze. He faltered. His mind blanked out worse than in those nightmares involving John Winchester's pop quizzes, and he suddenly forgot how to knot a tie on somebody else's neck. He had never had to do it, to tell the truth: that was one thing his dad had taught both him and Sammy.
Making an executive decision, he pulled the tie off again, the fabric's whisper sounding deafening to his ears as it slid away from Castiel's neck; "It's easier..." Dean mumbled, gesturing vaguely while he looped the tie around his own neck and made short work of a sloppy knot. He went up to the hole in the flimsy wall and peered at his reflection in the bathroom's mirror, fussing with it. He could see Castiel, standing right behind him at his shoulder, head tilted quizzically.
Unnerved, Dean quickly loosened the knot enough to pull it off over his head, turned around and put it on Castiel, tightening the noose up. Then he stepped back and regarded his handiwork: it was atrocious, no two ways about it. The tie was hanging all lopsided and creased, and when Castiel looked down at his chest and fingered the strip of blue cloth, Dean actually felt himself flush. Sure, he hated ties and formal clothing, but he hadn't been raised by wolves and he knew how to do this perfectly well, damn it.
Castiel looked at him, making his train of thought peter out and stop. Not for the first time, he wondered if angel powers involved mind-reading, and like every other time he got no answer. Cas, still holding him with his steady gaze, slowly, deliberately tugged at the knot with one hand and slid it down the length of the tie, undoing it. Then he turned to face his own reflection in the bathroom's mirror, adjusted the lengths, and stopped, looking down at his chest.
Dean swallowed on a perfectly dry mouth, and stepped up behind him, reversing their positions from before. He brought his arms around and took hold of the tie, over Castiel's own loose grip, and silently showed him how to do a simple four-in-hand, going slowly so as to make sure he didn't make any more embarrassing mistakes and have to start over again. He was practically chest-to-back with Cas and it felt strange. Maybe it was just his imagination playing on him, but he wondered where the wings were, and if somehow Dean was sensing them, because he was getting the sort of supernatural vibe that a life-time as a hunter had taught him to notice. The hair at the back of his neck was standing up, and he felt a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with cold. They pulled the knot up snug to Castiel's collar together, then Dean tugged it back down gently to where Castiel usually wore it. He met the angel's eyes in the mirror and this time there was a definite smile there.
Now that he had started to help, Dean found himself going along with it: he held the jacket up while Cas put it on, and then the coat, which was looking even worse than usual. That's when he realized that he had gotten the angel back in his clothes before bothering with the shoes. The sight of Castiel, fully dressed but with socked feet, made him choke back a bark of laughter, not wanting to wake Sam who somehow was still sleeping soundly.
Castiel tried to step in them without bending down. Even if he could, there was the matter of the laces, so Dean shook his head, pushed Cas by the shoulders until he sat down on the bed and then knelt in front of him. He took his right foot, shoe and all, and put it on his own knee, where he proceeded to fit it in properly and then tie it up. When he went to do the same for the left, Castiel bent down and copied his movements, slowly and gingerly, tying up his shoe himself.
I taught an angel how to do knots, Dean thought, smirking at how bizarre his life seemed to have always been.
"Rest easily now, Dean," Castiel murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I will take care of things for the rest of the night."
"I'm not-" Dean said, a little startled, not even sure what he was not.
Castiel tilted his head and raised his brows, looking at him with a certain warmth that could have been fondness. "Aren't you?"
Dean opened his eyes: he was still on the bed, Sam taking up most of the space next to him, but there was no angel-barrier between the two of them. He gingerly scooted to the side and sat up. That's when he saw Castiel, sitting at the table, coat and tie and everything in place. The bandages they had put on his hands were gone, and from what little Dean could see his palms seemed healed.
Castiel was staring intently at the dagger on the floor, but when Dean moved he flickered his eyes to him before snapping back to his duty. He looked exactly as he always had: no trace remained of what had happened to him the previous night. Dean looked at Sam, who was stirring too, and passed a hand over his own scratchy stubble. They were both exhausted, and showed it, and Dean found himself wondering just how many times Cas had been injured just hours before coming to see them, always looking calm and collected and unruffled.
Words, from such a long time ago it now seemed, came back to him. Six of my brothers died in the field today... how well had Cas fared in that battle, Dean wondered. He'd been leaning against the counter, something he didn't usually do, did that mean anything?
Sam yawned loudly next to him and sat up, scrubbing a hand hard over his face to wake up. He looked around, at Dean and at Castiel, and then again at the bed and Dean, and then closed his eyes and sank back down with a small groan. If these battles were so hard on angels, who could go from death's doorstep to up and running in a couple of hours, what was going to happen to him and Sam, two ordinary humans, once the demons and the angels decided they wanted them on the battlefield? He had never believed in a happy ending for himself, but now perhaps what he had to do was just accept that it was going to end bloody for all involved.
"He's arrived," Castiel finally said, breaking the stillness.
The brothers jumped up, tensing for a fight. "Who?"
"Reinforcements."
The door opened on it's own and Uriel strode right in. Dean tried not to stare but it was impossible: the angel's legs were covered in blood from the knees down, like he'd been wading through it.
Uriel silently looked at the dagger in it's nestle of cheap carpet and dried blood, ignored both Winchesters and their somewhat lackluster greetings and then zeroed in on Castiel. The two of them sized each other up with a look that wouldn't have been out of place in a boxing ring. All three total light bulbs in the room exploded, much to the annoyance of both humans and angels.
"I'll take it from here," said Uriel, producing a slim wooden box from the inside pocket of his jacket, "you're to join Damiel immediately. If, of course, you are actually fit for duty." He crouched in front of the demon weapon and snatched it quickly, shielding his hand with the white handkerchief from his outer pocket, and stuffed it in the box. Then he turned to look at his Brother.
Castiel dipped his chin. "I've just indulged a full night's rest. I'm fitter than most of our Brothers... you included."
Uriel huffed in annoyance, then grabbed a generous fistful of Castiel's coat and layers and hauled him up none too gently. "Take care not to repeat these foolish actions, Castiel. We need to fight this war and we cannot afford to let our numbers dwindle due to recklessness." He shook the other once, to punctuate his statement, then turned and walked right out of the door, which swung closed behind him.
"Well I'll be... that bastard was concerned," laughed Dean, shaking his head. Sam looked morosely at the closed door. Uriel had treated them like they weren't even there. And the sad part was that it was a definite improvement.
"I have my orders; I should go," said Castiel, not turning to face them.
"Good luck with your future smiting, then." Sam said, letting his judgment on the actions of angels color his tone.
Castiel tilted his head, still not really looking at them. "Thank you for helping out tonight. I will remember it." He walked to the window and drew back the drapes with a sharp flick of his wrist. The sun was beginning to rise and the cold, pale light of the morning inched timidly into the room. "The battlefield has been deserted. You may proceed at your leisure." And then, with the whisper of fluttering feathers, he was gone.
Dean turned to look at Sam. Maybe it hadn't been carefree in a long time, and maybe it wasn't totally genuine, but it was still with a grin that he told his brother: "let's pack up and go. We've still got work to do."
the end
Additional note: Lillith's liutenant? You can see her at the very end of Jus In Bello, holding wee!brunette!Lillith by the hand (why yes, I wrote a fic with a character you only glimpse for five seconds on the show, and made up a background for that character, why do you ask? :-P).