Castiel woke up in the pouring rain. In his ears high-pitched bells rang, and the world dipped and spun to his tired eyes. The memory of the crash struck him across the face. His heart stammered and stuttered and banged against his ribcage as he looked over to see Dean, pale and bloody beside him, unconscious. His voice went raw with calling out his name in blind fear. His hands were pale and weak as he tried to shake his shoulder and wake him, touching his face with a rough tenderness that was born from panic. Cold, wet rain smothered his hands and arms and both of their bodies, and as he rubbed blood from Dean's cheek it mixed with the water on his arm and dripped along the length of his elbow.
He fumbled with his seatbelt, groaning in protest as his sore chest was relieved from its pressure. Panting puffs of mist into the cold air pouring in through the shattered windshield, he pushed the door open and leaned sideways against the car, rubbing his face. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. Everything was roaring with damp, hard rain. But Dean – Dean looked… dead. Trembling like a live wire was attached to them, his hands yanked out his cellphone and dialed 911. It rang for a few moments as he pressed it to his ear, drowning out the bells clanging endlessly in his head.
"Hello, this is 911, what is your emergency?"
His voice was scratchy and hoarse from yelling as he rattled off to the operator the address of the street they'd missed. "We were about twenty minutes passed that turn when a tractor trailer almost hit us head-on," Cas rambled, as calmly as he could manage. "My boyfriend was driving. He got us out of the way, but it fell over on the road, and it was dark and rainy, and - and the car hit an oak tree. He has a bad head injury and I'm unsure of the state of the tractor trailer driver. There was no one else."
"And you, sir, what is your condition?"
"I'm fine. I'm ok - he put out his arm and absorbed most of the impact, though, so he took… he took a lot of damage. He's unconscious – he looks dead." Cas felt his voice fill with emotion and cut it off, swallowing it hard until it was like a thing in his throat. It tried to crawl its way up and pour heavy tears from his eyes and push shuddering sobs from his lips. He fought against its tiny hands clawing at his nerves by taking deep, ragged breaths. Droplets pelted his face and hands as he squinted into the night as if that would make the ringing in his ears go away. The rain slid down his shirt and soaked his clothes through and through. He began to shiver violently from the chill.
"An ambulance is dispatched to your location, ma'am; help is on the way."
"… Ma'am?" Cas blurted, the surprise choking down his panic.
"Uh, I'm sorry, sir. I just-"
"It's fine, um… its ok. I did say boyfriend," he conceded wearily, "I've never met a girl with this much gravel in her throat, though."
"You'd be amazed at what changes your body goes through during adrenaline spikes. Can you walk, sir? Can you check the state of the truck driver?"
"Yeah, I can. Let me just check on Dean. My driver."
"Try not to move him until the paramedics arrive, sir - his condition may be worse than it appears to be."
"Of course. I just… I want to see how extensive the damage is." Cas wavered dangerously on jelly legs, but he stumbled around the car to Dean's side, wrenching his door open. He leaned halfway on the seat and slid inside, cradling the phone to his ear as he examined the battered man. "Those damn seatbelts hurt like hell. They did a number on him, too. He's got a thick bruise along his throat from it," he said aloud, hoping to get feedback and not feel so horrifyingly frozen and alone with Dean dying or dead in the car seat beside him. He went to the back seat and popped open his duffel bag, getting out a clean black t-shirt. He went back to Dean and tied it around his forehead, where it was bleeding quite profusely from his slashed brow. Head wounds do that, he told himself, keeping his anxiety at bay.
"Without those seatbelts, you'd be through the windshield, sir. You're lucky to be alive." The gentle male tone on the other end sounded so young, and so ignorant, but Cas was just glad for company inthe dark.
"It wasn't luck. Dean saved me from the worst of it," Cas replied. "I wrapped his head wound. I'm going to go to the truck driver now."
"Good luck, sir. Be careful."
"Thank you. What's your name? You sound so young." Cas asked as he slid out of the car and began to wobble towards the overturned truck a few yards off. He covered ground pretty quickly in his dizzy state. But the kind voice on his phone was keeping him level, keeping the creature of anguish from getting too far up his throat.
"Johnathan, sir. Johnathan Fraden. I'm nineteen."
"Well it's nice to meet you, Johnathan. My name is Castiel. You already know Dean - he's the one sitting slumped against the steering wheel with a t-shirt around his head." Cas lifted his free arm to shield himself from the downpour. "When is this storm supposed to be over, Johnny?"
"The weather channel says soon. Maybe an hour or so."
"Good. I'm soaked through. I don't think, if I live through this, that I'll ever be warm again."
"You will, sir, everything will be all right. These people know their stuff. You and Dean will be just fine, I promise." Cas felt a bitter sadness feeding the creature in him. What was the promise of a child? Why did he feel so helplessly numb, as if Dean was already dead? Where were the flashing lights and news cameras? He shuddered just thinking about it. He was lost without help; they better be fast. If he stopped moving, he'd lose himself entirely to the heavy depression he felt dragging at his arms and legs.
Castiel laughed aloud to banish away the heaviness, glancing back through the whipping weather at the car. Its hood was hardly dented, the fold in the bumper very apparent. Besides its missing mirror it looked fine, which annoyed him for some reason. He still felt awful, though. His laughter only felt sour in his mouth. "I sure hope so. Dean's a better man than I. Without him, I'm nothing again." He whispered, but he was sure it was lost in the roar of rain.
"You're something to me, sir." Cas bit back a sob, rubbing his eyes furiously to get the freezing dampness out of them. There was such a genuine sweetness in Johnathan's tone. It was as if Castiel could see him, sitting at his desk by a glowing computer, in a posh dress shirt and slacks, watching the screen worriedly as he spoke to a faceless victim. Cas went to the windshield of the truck and peered inside. The truck driver was pinned in his cab, one door smashed against the ground and the other too far away for him to reach. His arm was injured, as well as his foot, and miraculously, otherwise he was all right. He babbled nonsensical apologies at Cas, who just bit his tongue and walked away; there would be no forgiveness, and no apologies heard, until Dean was safe again.
He told Johnathan the man was fine, just roughed up a bit, and that's when he heard the sirens. He waved his arms and cried out and in seconds he was flooded with flashing lights and worried shouting. They screeched to a stop by the fallen truck and came running with stretchers and first aid kits full of miracles. He pointed to the Impala, rambling about how he'd tried to wrap Dean's head wound. Half the workers ran to Dean's aid. The other half either began climbing the truck to free the driver there, or swarmed Castiel. He found himself being stripped of his clothes in the back of an ambulance before he could even blink. He lay on a stretcher, being poked and prodded for internal injury, and he clung to the bed, his entire body convulsing with the cold. Out of the rain and into the gurney.
Once they were satisfied all he had was a pressure bruise from the seatbelt across his chest, they sat him up, pushed a hot drink into his hand, and wrapped him in shock blankets. Cas watched them wheel Dean up in a stretcher, cradling his phone to his cheek. Johnathan prattled in his ear as he watched them put his injured roommate into another ambulance. He pressed his phone to his chest. "Can I go with him, please?" He pleaded with the workers, and they waved at him to go. He ran to Dean's ambulance and slid inside just as the doors were shutting.
In a corner seat, wrapped in blankets and otherwise in his damp boxer shorts, he watched them furiously work around Dean to get him hooked up and get his vitals taken. Their medical language was foreign to him. All he could hear was Johnathan in his ear and alarm in the voices of the paramedics and all he could see was the gray of Dean's cheeks in the dim light of the ambulance.