Cas was the Alp Mountain Range.
His ribs stuck out harshly. The divots between them were shadowed valleys deep enough for anyone to get lost in.
He was the Orion constellation.
No- forget the single constellation- he was the whole damn Milky Way. On the darkest nights he was the band of bright pinpricks lighting up the sky, guiding Dean home.
He was the Amazon River.
He was a conundrum, a backwards flowing river on a planet where water only moved south.
He was the Battleship Galactica.
He moved as sure of himself as a futuristic warship, and he was filled with all the hope for and faith in humanity as possible. He could never be confused for a cylon because he was so undeniably human now.
He was the Polynesian Isles.
Across the ocean of his skin, scars were a myriad of islands. Each important to who he was, but no single one defining him- not even the wings on his back.
Dean was drowning in it all.
He lay on the autopsy table like a corpse. Pale and motionless, the harsh fluorescent lighting cast shadows across his naked body, highlighting his blue and purple bruising and his bones. They stuck out. His skeleton seemed exposed. It was like a survival tactic. In order to minimize flesh wounds, his body minimized his flesh.
Perhaps the worst part of it all was his face. His hair was matted down close to his skull, and his cheekbones, which were typically prominent due to his strong bone structure, looked like weapons. The skin was drawn so tight over them, Dean worried he would cut his own face from the inside. Then again, Dean was approaching hysterical with his anxiety over the situation.
Forget twenty years of military and combat training and forget five years of police detective work and three total years of undercover work. Forget that his Dad taught him to shoot when he was barely six years old, putting a gun in his hand at seven and telling him to guard Sammy in case Alistair or the Novak-Miltons decided to hurt them in retaliation for John's work. Forget it all. None of his special training told him how to shut off his heart. He was not trained in how to be an emotionless robot like Cas was. He couldn't just 'check out' like Cas was.
It was a goddamn miracle Dean was able to love Cas at all, and now the little shit was about to die? No freaking way. This was just the story of his life, wasn't it? He finally finds his equal, someone just as if not more screwed up than him, and then he almost loses them?
So maybe it went against every logic and all of his training, but he couldn't help it. This was Cas. His Cas, who was not responding to him, and the longer he talked and tried to explain himself and didn't get any response the more he got freaked out. He wasn't used to this cold, distant Cas. His Cas was such a fantastic listener. Dean barely had to try and struggle through communicating anything. Cas usually just got him.
For the half hour that Dean rambled, hoping to snap him out of his trance, not a single muscle spasmed. Not a single blink of the eyeball, or deliberate movement. His hands shook, but it was involuntary. His eyes were glazed over, and Dean couldn't even tell if it was because he was thinking about things deeply or if he was mentally deranged. His breathing was carefully measured; four beats in, eight beats out. It never changed or wavered.
Until, that is, his whole body suddenly came to life, and he turned and basically told Dean to shut up. And promptly went back into his coma. Which only served to infuriate Dean. So obviously, he didn't shut up, and started to talk louder. Which was of course when Cas decided to fucking self mutilate.
Suddenly he was sitting up, blood dripping from the limp right hand that he was cradling to his chest. He shook his head lightly, and sweat dripped from his raven hair. Dean watched it travel down his back- his back, which he could now see since the skinny little fucker had escaped his bonds by breaking his own bird-bone-like wrist. What. The. Fuck.
Which was basically what he tried to say, but of course, the shock of seeing one's gay lover break their own wrist after laying on an autopsy table like a corpse for the better part of an hour does things to one's communication skills. But then Cas was all, "I'm the baddest bad ass you've ever seen, Dean, and you're just a giant panicky pussy who can't defend himself." Or… something like that. And Dean could just not let that stand. Not only was it not true, but if Cas thought he was going to be the only one putting his life on the line here he had another thing coming.
So after he shocked both of their pants right off- not that they were wearing any anyway, just boxers at the moment- and called him a 'fucking psycho', and Cas released him from his bonds, he was satisfied. Cas may be a mafia trained smug bastard, but he had met his match in Dean. Dean was determined to prove it.
Cas's plan- for lack of a better phrase- sucked balls. But since Dean couldn't think of anything better it would have to do. The scalpel was cold in his hand, and he turned it over and over nervously.
When they had maybe a minute or two left, and Cas had still not told him his secret, Dean knew the time for words was over. He had said his piece and done as much as he could. Cas knew Dean loved him. Now he needed to know Dean forgave him. Whatever his secret was, however terrible it could be, he forgave him. He tried to convey this with his eyes, but he was never very good at this romantic bullshit. It was more likely that they were just staring at each other like idiots for no reason at all. But even if that was the case, if this was the last free moment he got with Castiel, he needed to make it worth something.
He needed to savor it and savor the perpetual five o'clock shadow blanketing his jaw like dark snow and the midnight blue slivers of his irises surrounding his drug blown pupils. He needed to savor the small bruise, just behind the ear, that he knew for a fact was put there by none of the goons, but by him. Maybe being possessive was wrong, but Dean was glad that not all the bruises on Cas's body were there from mal-intent, and at least one had come with a bit of pleasure. He heard the boots approaching. And then the Devil himself walked in through that door.
Dean couldn't help it. The mans eyes were black. Completely black. Like a dog, or a cat, or a snake, or a hamster, or the fucking Devil. Honestly, how was he supposed to react? Like fucking Mr. Comatose over there? Maybe he screamed like a tween in a horror movie, and maybe he started panicking and hyperventilating, and maybe he made some very un-manly like noises, but hey- they were about to be eaten by a maniac with black eyes.
Cas was as cool as a cucumber. If this was a Batman movie, Cas would be the stoic, deep-voiced creature of the night, while Dean was beginning to resemble a particularly pathetic and stupidly thrill-seeking version of Gwen Stacey or Lois Lane. He wasn't even a Robin. He mentally slapped himself. Shit, Alistair had been talking, though it was probably some ego-maniacal monologue of how smart and undefeatable he was. He should have been paying attention. There was no question Alistair was playing the role of the Joker. Horrific facial mutilation and all.
Realizing this, Dean managed to calm himself down. In The Dark Knight, Batman was able to kill the Joker once and for all… though his love interest did kick off after professing her love for Harvey… maybe this had been a bad metaphor for the situation. In any case, he tuned in just in time for Alistair to say,
"...Sound good? Alrighty. Gag him, please." And then the bulky suit was tying a rag around Cas's head while he lay limp. Dean began to sweat. He'd assumed Cas would tell him when they were gonna act, but how would he do that with no way of communication?
"So, back when Cas was my secretary- oh, sorry, my politically correct Personal Assistant- I used him as I was instructed. As my 'politically correct Personal Pincushion'. For years I told him, 'If you want this to be over, pick up that knife'. That was all he needed to do. Just… pick it up. And then use it, as I used it on him. He needed to use it with passion, with artistry, with… gusto. He lasted, oh, two years, out of the three I had. But that third year, I cracked him." Alistair beams with pride, positively glowing and bragging like a parent whose son just got into an Ivy League.
"He tortured so many-"
"That's not news to me. Get to the 'big shocker' part already." Dean interrupted.
"My, my. Impatient are we? Well, its nothing that bad, I would say. In fact, to me, it's quite a good thing. But see, to you, the man who sees him on this big pedestal of 'reformed', this secret is actually quite devastating. You think that because he feels guilt now for what he's done, he should be forgiven. You think that since he acts cut up about it- pun intended- now, he felt bad about it then. Well, I'm here to tell you that you're precious Cas liked it. He got off that steel table, took up the knife, and cut into people like it was fucking Christmas in July. He tortured souls, and he liked it." Alistair moved to sit over by Cas, who seemed to sigh and accept his fate. He blinked lethargically up at Alistair.
"So Cas. Look at him, and see how horrified he is. You disgust him." Alistair grabbed Cas roughly by the chin and forced him to look at Dean. Dean carefully schooled his face into one of neutrality. Maybe he couldn't fool Castiel, but he was damn sure he would never give Alistair the satisfaction of knowing for sure that it had disturbed him. Which it totally hadn't. Nope. No sir. Dean Winchester was a fucking professional, and he could act that way. Alistair began trailing a wicked looking five inch serrated knife along Cas's side.
"So, whats next on the agenda? Oh yes, secret number two. Well, personally, I think this one's a little less climactic, but if it ticks it sticks. Cas, I don't know if you were aware of this, but you are quite enamored with this here officer of the law. So enamored, I would even dare to say you're secret is that you are in lo- ggghchhg-" Suddenly Alistair choked on his own blood. Cas was sitting up, arm extended, and scalpel buried deeply into his carotid artery. This enraged Alistair, and he plunged the knife into Castiel. Cas grunted in pain, and then lunged for a tool from the table between him and Dean. Taking advantage of Alistair howling in pain and the goons moment of confusion, Dean leapt up and threw the scalpel into the nearest goon, taking him down. He then quickly stole the gun from the first goon and shot wildly at the second one, taking him down as well.
A few feet away, Cas was struggling with the much larger Alistair as he tried to stop him. Cas seemed to have a large set of surgical steel pliers in his hand, and was trying to... remove the scalpel? As Dean assessed the situation he saw one goon on the ground clutching his manhood and the other recovering enough to lunge at Cas, who rather impressively and precisely kicked backwards at him. Dean was momentarily awestruck with how high Cas could kick, showing of some truly amazing flexibility and strength- the kind that only came from secretly being a ninja or a pro ballerina. Then Dean's brain caught up with the situation, and he quickly took aim, shooting each of the goons in the back of the knee, shattering them, as they rolled on the ground in pain.
Next he took aim at Alistair, but Cas was in the way. His much smaller frame was certainly not as strong as the bulkier man. Cas was growling like a feral animal, baring his teeth, while Alistair laughed and gurgled and coughed. He was dead either way, but he was clearly determined to take them with him. Soon the blood loss would be enough and would weaken him, but for now, he was fighting them tooth and nail. Alistair's eyes were rolling back, revealing some of the white tissue left. It was very disturbing.
"Cas! Turn him! I can't get a clear shot!" Dean croaked loudly. Cas just snarled and kept struggling with Alistair.
"Cas! Dammit!" Dean stumbled around the table for a better shot, but Alistair shoved the surgical table in his way, tripping him. It was enough of a distraction though, because Cas finally got the upper hand and ripped the scalpel out of Alistair's neck. Blood gushed out of it, and Alistair screamed and gurgled. Cas lunged, tackling Alistair. Like an animal, he tore out the neck of his prey, blood spraying across him. His chest heaved, his eyes darted wildly.
"Cas…?" Dean whispered into the suddenly quiet room. No response.
"Castiel?" Dean said louder, while crawling over to him. This time Cas's head shot up, and he hissed at Dean, crouching protectively over his kill. Dean froze. He put down the gun and shoved it away.
"Cas? I'm not gonna hurt you, babe. I just wanna get out of here, okay?" Dean kept his voice even and soft, like he was talking to a wild and scared animal. Cas started to advance growling at Dean.
"Cas? Cherry Pie? Babe? Castiel?" Dean got more and more panicked. This was not Cas. This was Silence.
"I need you to come back, man. I need you! We need to get out of here! I need you, Cas! I fucking love you!" Cas froze, inches from Dean's splayed form laying on the ground. There was a brief staring contest and then Cas put his head down on Dean's chest and breathed deeply. He sighed and then looked back up. Awareness re-entered his eyes and tears began to take the place of the insanity. He collapsed on top of Dean, body shaking harshly, tremors racking his whole frame. His eyes squeezed shut and then he began to sob in earnest.
Despite being slightly freaked out, Dean knew Cas had to be way more affected by all this. His love needed him to be there right now, and so Dean sat up, shifted Cas to hold him bridal style and lifted him off the ground. He cradled Cas's head to his neck, and Cas clung like a koala bear. He kept trembling until after Dean had gotten them out of the building and to the highway. Huffing and puffing, Dean followed it until he saw a cop car. He summoned up the last vestiges of his energy and sprinted towards it. It saw them and pulled over. They were saved.