Hello to you all. Here's a new story to wet your palates, so to speak. Angst, somewhat Destiel-ish, hurt/comfort, the works. So enjoy the madness. Wondering about the name of the title? Check it out on Google Translate. The title's in Latin, though it's not that hard to figure out.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its plotlines, or its characters.
Fides in Deum
"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean called, grinning cheekily as he poured more cold water on his brother's head. "Time to get your lazy ass out of bed!"
"Dammit, Dean!" Sam grumbled, rolling over to show his prize bitchface to Dean. "I was getting up!"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dude, you were snoring like a freaking chainsaw. There was no way in hell that you were going to get up anytime soon."
Sam got out of the bed slowly, shoving Dean out of the way like the little bitch Dean knew his little brother was. The younger hunter shook his head vigorously, trying to rid his long locks of the offending water. He looked like a wet dog shaking himself down like that. Dean smirked at his brother. Sam glanced up, shooting Dean a sour glare before stalking into the crappy motel bathroom, muttering about how Dean was going to be the one to clean the sheets this time.
"Don't take too long, princess!" Dean shouted through the door as he shoved clothes into his duffel.
"Shut up, Dean!" came Sam's annoyed reply as the shower turned on.
Dean chuckled and returned to packing, mentally noting all of the items that he laid out on the bed. When it came to weapons and artifacts, Dean was the one who was always checking and double-checking.
Machete, freshly cleaned of vampire blood? Check.
Syringes full of all the dead man's blood they could possibly need till next year? Check.
That rusty chainsaw that Sam insisted was useful in decapitating vamps? Check.
.45 caliber pistol? Yep.
Sawed off shotgun? Checkeroo.
Silver and salt rounds, along with that one bullet that Dean kept that had been shot at his arm when Sam had been possessed? Check.
Holy water and Bible? Check.
The Colt? Hell, yes.
Ammo for the Colt? Yep.
Ruby's knife? Check.
Trench coat? Che-
"Wait a damn second," Dean growled. He looked at the tan coat that was folded neatly in his hands, ready to be tucked away in the back of the Impala. "Why the hell are you here?"
Castiel?
Cas?
The trench coat was in the trunk; Dean could've sworn to it. It was folded in the right corner deep in the back of the Impala. It was. It always had been. The only time Dean had taken it out was that time when Bobby had gotten shot in the head and had gone into a coma. It had stayed in the trunk since then.
Castiel?
"Dean? Are you alive over there?"
Dean's head shot up, and he hasitly shoved the trench coat into his duffel. He turned to Sam. His younger brother's hair was still damp, but at least the Gigantor was fully clothed this time. "Yeah, I'm alive. Don't get your hopes up that I'll kick the bucket anytime soon, Samsquatch," Dean quipped, running his hand through his hair to hide his obvious distress.
"Sure," Sam snorted. "You were nearly comatose, you were so still. Like a statue."
"Well, Sammy, I am the most artistic piece you will ever see," Dean replied, striking an overexaggerated hero pose. He grinned winningly at Sam. "What did I tell you? A masterpiece!"
Sam nodded absently as he turned away, muttering under his breath about 'idiot would be lost without me' and 'not even caring about the damned case we're going to.' He hastily scooped up all of his strewn-about clothes and half-folded them before stacking them inside his duffle bag. The pistol under the pillow went with him in the car, but definitely not in the back of his pants like last time. Sam knew what things could go wrong if he sat the wrong way. "C'mon, Dean. I'll check us out," Sam informed his brother, who was absently running one finger up and down the flat side of the machete's blade. "Dean!"
"Oh. Yeah," Dean muttered, hastily storing the weapon and shouldering his duffle. "I'll pack the Impala." He stalked out of the motel room, slamming the door as he went. "Jackass," he growled while striding to the '67 Chevy Impala and unlocking the trunk. He lifted the shiny black metal door and threw his duffel in. Once the bag was situated in the back of the car, Dean reached into it and pulled out the carefully folded lump of tan fabric.
Unwashed. Unmended.
Definitely not unworn.
Blood and that sickening black goo was dried in small places on the coat. Dean gingerly prodded at the stains, remembering every single surface of that trench coat, no matter how much the fabric was destroyed by the trademark of the Leviathans. They were reminders of what Castiel had done.
And what Dean hadn't done.
Reminders of an angel gone south because the Righteous Man he'd raised from Perdition had not stepped in to help his friend through the biggest civil war ever in existence.
Reminders of the biggest mistake a Winchester had ever made.
"Dammit, Cas," Dean growled, clenching his fists around the coat that was familiar in every way possible. "Why the hell did you go?"
Castiel?
A prayer was the best way to reach an angel, with the exception, of course, of cell phones. But what could you do to call a messenger of God that had taken a swan dive into a public water supply while chock-full of the worst things in existence?
Dean carefully put the trenchcoat back into the corner of the trunk and closed the back of the car with a gentle but puposeful slam. He walked around the perimeter of the Impala and leaned against the hood of the classic car, craning his neck to make sure that Sam was occupied with the apparently illiterate desk clerk of the motel. Then Dean whipped out his cell phone and dialed a number that he knew by heart. He raised the phone to his ear.
You have reached the voicemail of- I don't get it. Wh-why do you want me to say my name?
"Hey, Cas. I don't know if you're ever going to get this, but I know that I did teach you how to listen to your voicemail. And I know that you always return calls. So...call me back when you get the chance. Hopefully soon. Yeah. Bye." He flipped the phone shut and glanced up at Sam, who was stalking out of the motel's office; his brother's face was obviously pissed.
As the younger Winchester approached, Dean hopped into the driver's seat, enjoying the familiar creaks and squeaks of the Impala. As Sam loped over to the car and swung into his permanent post in the passenger's side, he immediately began ranting angrily. "Seriously, I swear that the people of the Midwest are getting stupider and stupider. That idiot back there probably would've walked in and fed himself to that nest of vampires we just wiped out."
"Yeah," Dean chuckled, as happy as he was able to be now that he'd gotten that Cas thing off his chest. He started the car, smiling blissfully as the combined sounds of the purr of his baby's engine and blaring AC/DC entered his ears. "That's more like it!" he laughed as he cranked up the volume.
"Oh, God," Sam groaned as he pulled out the earplugs he'd gotten a few years ago and plugged them into his ears, pulling out a book.
"Hell, yes!" Dean yelled, belting out the song as they pulled out of the backwoods Iowa town and hit the interstate.
But inside, he knew that he could never escape the coat that was folded in the trunk of the car that tried to speed away from the past he'd abandoned.
"It's too dark out. I don't like the feeling of this...the black is too silent."
"Well, it is nighttime."
"Are you sure this is the right part of the forest?"
"Yes, Sam."
"Wanna bet?"
"Dammit, Sam, I've been doing this my whole damn life! Cut me a break!"
"Too scared to take the bet?"
"No, I just- Wait."
Sam crept past his brother, who had stopped stock still in the middle of his retort. Both of them were holding flare guns, but only Dean was wielding a flamethrower as well. Both of them knew that wendigos were tricky bastards to kill, so it didn't hurt to be prepared.
Dean raised a hand and caught Sam's shoulder. When the younger hunter's head shot around to aim a glare, Dean raised a finger to his own lips, shaking his head and pointing to the trees to their right. Hiding over there, he mouthed, praying that Sam would understand. For emphasis, though, he motioned to the right, but then signed the quick signal for following. Sam nodded, and Dean began to creep through the underbrush towards the cave he had spotted further into the forest.
The wendigo must have smelled them or something, because it emerged from its cave, slower than what was the norm for such creatures. It growled, swiping its claws at the underbrush just in front of them. Sam, who was closest to the monster, tried to scramble back as quickly as he could in order to get a shot in with the flare gun that he held. However, the wendigo let out a bloodcurdling sound and swiped down again with its oversized talons. Dean had to stifle a shout of horror as Sam fell to the ground with a bloody series of deep slashes that ran from his face all the way down to his stomach. The slashes were oozing blood in copious amounts; Dean's heart broke at the sight of his motionless brother.
He raised his flamethrower; it was time to roast this son of a bitch and then help Sam. But the monster loped easily towards him with inhuman speed and knocked the weapon out of Dean's hand contemptuously. It growled and descended on him; Dean retched at the smell of rotten meat on the wendigo's breath. The creature raised one supersized, clawed hand and was about to bring it down into Dean's chest when a high ringing sound punctured the rustling darkness of the forest.
Eyes- shut your eyes!
The voice in Dean's head might've been instinct. It might have been something else. But regardless of what the hell had just warned him, Dean decided to screw his eyes shut and hope for the best.
Good thing, too.
A burning light exploded from some unknown source, burning with the force of a million stars at close range. It was so bright, Dean knew that he would've had his eyes burnt out if they'd been open. He hadn't ever seen a light like this, but it soon faded. There were still stars blinking behind Dean's eyelids as he hesitantly cracked them open. His eyes flew wide once he took in the sight that awaited him in the forest that he'd closed his eyes on.
The wendigo was dead. All that was left of the bastard were ashes- burning ashes that smoldered with a light that seemed unnatural. Dean looked over at where Sam lay, and he could not believe what he saw.
Sam was alive. He was sitting up, rubbing his eyes like a five-year-old that had just woken up from a long car ride. All that was left of the wounds that had surely killed Sam Winchester was a single scar that ran from the top of Sam's left eyebrow to a few inches below the eye. "What the hell...?" Sam asked his brother. "I was...dead, wasn't I?"
"Were you?" Dean replied, equally dumbfounded.
Sam stood up shakily and glared down at the pile of ashes that was the wendigo. "Serves you right, you son of a bitch," he spat. He turned away, brushing grass off of his pants. "Let's go. Pick up the flamethrower and meet me at the car." He stalked away, leaving an extremely confused Dean in his wake.
He picked up the flamethrower from next to the wendigo ashes and looked around the quiet forest. It was still pitch black, but the full moon above shed a filtered light down on the unnaturally smoldering, dusty remains.
He didn't see the figure that flitted through the trees and stopped just yards away, staring directly at Dean. The hunter looked up as a branch cracked, though. He saw nothing but a flash of shiny black-brown; a glint of bright blue. Maybe- was that a tie?
But then the figure was gone, and Dean was alone in the middle of the forest with a flamethrower in his hand.
Castiel?
Seven hours later, Dean checked his phone at a rest stop. He nearly choked on his burger.
One Missed Call
New Voicemail From: Cas
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