Hello ducklings!
So this is my first fic ever, and it starts off kind of bloody and weird (sorry!). I will do my best to post on a regular-ish basis, but school has just started so no promises.
Dean's face is contorted in agony but he refuses to cry out, instead choosing to bite through his own bottom lip until it bleeds. The savage roars of the Hellhounds are all he can hear, and not even the fact that he will surely die makes him sadder than the fact that these roars, of all things, will be the last things he'll hear on this earth. The hellhounds are raking his sides and chest with those invisible, razor-sharp claws, and he twists back and forth as much as he could to try and escape, but still he refuses to cry out. Of course, he can't move very much due to the demon standing on his wrists. She's already trapped his legs under an overturned desk.
It was his own fault, really. He and Sammy found a lead on a case in the small town of West Purpose, Nebraska. It was standard stuff, a couple murders, family members acting weird. Sam and Dean figured it to be a low-level demon or two, and went to talk to the sheriff about the recent crimes, playing their standard FBI roles. Sam suddenly came down with a weird case of food poisoning or something, so Dean headed into the sheriff's office alone. The sheriff was a beautiful woman, even in her uniform: all curves, tanned skin, wavy black hair, and gleaming white teeth. Dean put the moves on her, and she slammed and locked the door, then threw herself on him and glued her mouth to his. Dean was enjoying himself immensely…until she pulled away for air…and her eyes turned black. Dean tried to fight her grip, but she just laughed. She threw him on the ground and shoved the heavy wooden sheriff's desk on top of his legs, shattering the bones. Then she whispered in his ear, "This is for Ruby," and opened the window to let her pets in.
The Hellhounds are still ripping ruts in his body when the door to the sheriff's office flies open. Castiel appears in the doorway, his ice blue eyes filled with the kind of anger that is the size of a glacier, and just as cold. The woman barely has time to open her mouth before Castiel slams his hand on her forehead and exorcises her, sending the Hellhounds with her. Only when that is done can Castiel look at Dean, the man he betrayed Heaven for, and the sight makes his eyes widen in shock and despair. Even connected to Heaven, there is no way Castiel can heal those kinds of injuries. He squats, takes Dean's bloody hand and presses it to his forehead, only to hear a broken voice stutter, "C-C-Cas...I…I-I'm—" Dean is forced to break off as a coughing fit wracks his frame and blood spurts from his mouth onto his chin and ravaged chest.
Cas lays his hand on Dean's forehead and gently lowers his head to the floor. "Do not speak. Dean, these injuries are beyond my ability to heal," he says, with his trademark low growl. "I'm sorry."
"S-Some angel you ar—" Dean's attempt at a joke is once again interrupted by a bloody cough.
"Just close your eyes," Cas tells him, hand still on Dean's forehead.
"No," Dean replies hoarsely, "I'm dying with my eyes open. I want to see this goddam world."
"Dean, close your eyes. I will not ask again," Cas's serious tone is accompanied by a subtle undertone of a threat.
"Fuck you, Cas…fine. Just…please…make it stop hurting." Dean complies with Castiel's command as the angel obliges his whispered request, laying a faintly glowing, cool hand on Dean's shredded, crimson chest. Dean sucks in a shuddering breath as the all-encompassing pain vanishes, replaced by a soft, warm glow. Slowly, it grows brighter, and Dean begins to smell basil and lavender as the glow envelops him completely.
What feels like a lifetime later, Dean opens his eyes to that same bright white glow he experienced before he died. Squinting, he sits up, only to realize that he's not floating in the clouds or some weird touchy-feely crap like that, but lying in a park next to a kids' playground. What the hell is this, he thinks to himself as he stands up and stretches. "Holy crap!" Dean exclaims aloud, when the usual wave of stiffness and a bit of pain (picked up from years of hard living) doesn't come. An idea comes to him, and he rolls up the sleeves of his beat-up green shirt—wait, since when is he wearing a shirt that isn't torn into little tiny shreds by Hellhound claws?—to look at his arms and hands.
"Oh my God," Dean whispers to himself, staring at the flawless condition of his skin. Gone are the scars from years of drunken fighting, carelessness, and, of course, hunting. The scar on his right palm from juggling knives when he was fifteen? Gone. The cigarette burn on his left forearm from a bar fight three years ago? Gone. The scar on his left pinky from the time a skinwalker nearly tore it off? Gone. A goofy grin breaks across Dean's face. "Man, I'm hot!" he calls out…to no one. Suddenly, it strikes him: why does it matter if he is renewed and unblemished again if no hot girls can see him? Well, goddammit, he thinks to himself, a scowl suddenly scrunching his features.
Dean wished he had a can to kick around or something, but, of course, the park was completely and utterly litter-free. It was like they had gotten rid of all the earthly impurities they could think of. Suddenly, a thought struck him. He pulled down the sleeve of his shirt—yep, the handprint scar that Castiel had left on Dean was still there. Well, thought Dean, I guess they only got rid of the earthly scars, not the heavenly one. Weird.
Dean decides to explore a little. He walks away from the empty playground, towards a—oh god, is that a freaking meadow? It is the afterlife, after all, Dean supposes, but a meadow? That is just too cliché for words. Regardless, Dean walks toward the expanse of green, dotted here and there by patches of real, honest-to-god wildflowers. Dean has to suppress his gag reflex as he looks at the picturesque view. This is just…too much, Dean thinks to himself. Nevertheless, he lies down in the long, soft grass next to a patch of purple flowers and looks up at the sky.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean yelps and scrambles to his feet, fists raised in a boxer's stance, before realizing that it's Cas standing before him. Dean lets out a big sigh and flops back down on the grass, saying, "Jesus, Cas, don't do that to me."
"I am sorry for scaring you," the angel replies in his usual deadpan tone.
"You-you didn't scare me, Cas, just startled me is all," Dean replies defensively, knowing full well that Cas had scared him.
"There's a difference?" the angel asks blankly, head tilted just a little to the side.
Dean sighs, knowing he has been caught. "Just shut up, Cas, and tell me where I am."
"How can I shut up and tell you where you are at the same time?" the angel asks infuriatingly.
Dean growls, "Just tell me where the hell I am, Castiel. I'm dead, right? But this definitely is not hell."
"That is correct," says the angel, in his low voice.
"Well, would you mind telling me where I am, then?" Dean asks sarcastically, beginning to get frustrated.
"No, I would not mind at all." Dean rolls his eyes when, as usual, Castiel fails to pick up on his sarcasm. "You are in heaven."
Eeps! It's up! No going back now...please tell me what you thought! Cheers!
