Author's Note: Doxy asked for fluff, so this really doesn't count but I just had to include it. The last time I did a fic with these two, her review was: 'I don't know why but I thought one of them was gonna be dead by the end of the fic. I'm glad that's not the case xD'

So I had to do this. I'm sorry, dude, but like I said, it doesn't really count. Think of this as an unrelated craptastic bonus, a crappy little omake, just my sense of humor acting up again.


Kentin lets himself in. He's stopped knocking awhile ago. Tonight he realizes something is off the very instant he steps over the threshold. The house is eerily silent. In place of a genuine ambiance, there is a nothingness lacuna. Demon isn't coming over to greet him. Castiel isn't anywhere to be seen. Everything is wrong and unease palls over Kentin heavily.

"Hello?" he calls out. His reedy voice bounces off the unnatural quiet and a shiver rakes his spine.

He knows he should leave. He wants to leave just to escape this disturbing aura of wrongness. Disobeying ever fiber of his body, Kentin stays and pads through the house. He just can't shake the feeling that something isn't right, that something is immensely amiss. It's an instinctual knowledge in his gut, twitching there wordlessly, making him feel ill.

Or so he thinks.

Kentin doesn't realize what feeling ill is really like until he finds Demon. Walking into the kitchen, he stumbles (and nearly falls) right over the dog, a muzzy mound of black sprawled on his side. Kentin knows he's dead before he even flicks the light on and sees the gaunt, pink-grey tongue lolling out his mouth. Something behind Kentin's eyes clicks as the urge to vomit crawls up his throat.

Shock, in all its gelid enormity, becomes powerful enough to overcome the disgust when Kentin sees that there is another dead thing just a few squares of linoleum away.

Castiel. Facedown, inanimate.

There's no need to check for pulses. Kentin knows what he is looking at is an empty husk, a pile of meat and bone. Two piles of meat and bones, albeit of significantly different structures. He knows this as much as he knows he's alive, standing here to behold the gruesome find.

An indeterminable stretch of time passes before Kentin calls the cops, his fingers shaking as they punch the numbers. His heart is a drum in a tightening slipknot of a chest, but his voice is terrifyingly steady when he reports that yeah, he just found his boyfriend and his boyfriend's dog dead on the floor. Uh-huh, just there. No blood. Nothing's knocked over. No signs of a struggle.

It still has to be the shock keeping him so scarily stable because he should be screaming. Kentin has always been such a wimp, even after military school, much to his own chagrin. He yelps aloud during slasher movies and jumps whenever something creaks behind him. Yet here he is, in the middle of a real horror story and his voice is the sound of a closing door; distinct, controlled, dependable.

He feels distant from all this somehow. Like the hand that's putting the phone back in his pocket isn't really his own. Like he's not really in Castiel's kitchen, but vicariously sightseeing through someone with a twisted imagination. Like this isn't real, hopefully. Even the hope is dim, as though he really doesn't care that much. Because there's no harm to be found in something that isn't real.

But when Kentin meanders a numb step forward and the toe of his shoe touches Castiel's corpse, he doubles over and vomits. The false sense of disassociation shatters as bilious constituents of his stomach splash onto the floor. Questions, most namely how and when and oh god, why race through his head. These accumulate to another puddle of puke on the linoleum.

A tidal wave of dizziness washes over Kentin as he straightens himself. The appalling scene before him blurs and goes black at the edges. His gut does another wretched flip-flop and for a second, he absently realizes he's going to vomit again. But then the ball drops; a bigger realization switches on the proverbial lightbulb over his head.

He isn't just getting sick because he's horrified.

He's getting sick because there's something in the air.

It's a fucking gas leak. Carbon monoxide, or radon or some shit, he's no expert.

What killed Castiel and Demon is starting to kill him too. With this flashing in mind like lightning, Kentin sputters and bolts right out of the house. He pelts down the steps and gulps in untainted air desperately, running blind. He races right into the path of the oncoming cop car that was sent out in response to his call, just arriving. The officer has no time to swerve and runs over Kentin, one wheel sundering his legs from his body.

His muscles squelch like rotten fruit, bones crunching like dry cereal. His organs are reduced to pulpy flapjacks, fingers spasming in a jerky gavotte as his eyes roll up. He's dead before the cop can call for a bus.