Dean doesn't feel the pavement scrape his knees when he hits the ground next to Cas. The angel is spread eagle on the side of the road. He's pale and still, terrifyingly so, and his body is framed by a pair of gigantic wings imprinted in ash on the pavement, and slowly being erased by the falling rain. Dean knows what that means, he's been around enough fucking douchebag angels to know what that means, but his brain won't process the information because—No, god fucking damn it, no, no way that Cas is—.
"Cas," his voice comes out as a desperate strangled rasp that he barely even recognizes. He reaches out to touch Cas' throat, checking for a pulse: there's nothing. Do angels have a heartbeat? Do they even need one? Shit. Dean's mind races, going back to all the times that Cas has invaded his personal space, trying to remember whether or not Cas had been breathing: did he need oxygen? Was that a thing that angels needed? Because Cas' chest, it isn't moving. There are no vitals, and Dean's eyes are drawn back to the wings marks. He shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge them, or what they mean.
Instead, he cradles Cas' face—his skin if wet from the rain and cool to the touch; despite being struck by fucking lightening five fucking minutes ago. Cas' head lolls in Dean's hands, his perpetual stubble rough on his fingers. But Dean, he tries to hold him steady, tries to will life back into his body. Stranger things have happened…though, in his experience, this approach has never yet worked…not on his mother or his father, not on Jo or Ellen, not on anyone he's ever been stupid enough to care about…
"Cas, come on man," he whispers, fiercely, "Can you hear me? Cas, hey, Cas, come on, wake up, come on." There's still no sign of life. Dean shakes him slightly, brushes his thumbs against Cas' cheekbones (though what the hell that's supposed to do, not even Dean knows) but he refuses to lose contact, "Damn it, Cas."
"Dean—" Sam comes up behind him. His tone is soft and way too understanding, and Dean doesn't turn to acknowledge his brother; he can't stand to see Sam's expression because he knows, without looking, that Sam has his grief stricken puppy eyes on, and there is no fucking way that Dean can deal with that right now.
So he focuses on Cas instead, keeping one hand on his jaw and ghosting the other over his coat, his torso. He can't be gone—he just can't be: not now, not like this, not dropped dead on the side of a fucking highway in fucking North Carolina. There's not a wound from an angel blade, there's no sign of injury except for the blood on Cas' temple, and the scorched wing marks…but Cas can't—he comes back—every fucking time, he's a fucking angel a goddamn ball of celestial whatever light and shit—so he can't just be dead for real, forever.
"Dean," Sam tries again.
Dean turns his face up to the falling rain, biting his lip, trying not to cry, because he knows. He's not so out of touch with reality that he can't recognize what's in front of his damn face, though he wishes he could. He breathes out, heavy, resigned, and shakes his head.
"Damn it, Cas," he feels the burning behind his eyes, and struggles to push it away, but it's not working. He bows his head, closer to Cas' unmoving torso. Sam comes up and places his hand on Dean's shoulder, steadying him.
Dean sighs, he's pretty sure that a tear or two have leaked out, but at least with the storm you can't tell what's rain and what's not. He presses his forehead to Cas' just for a second, he supposes as a goodbye because he's not sure what else to do, and he rubs his finger slow along Cas' jaw and squeezes his shoulder with his other hand, about to pull back because they can't stay here like this—they have to move—It's in that moment—when Dean exhales and begins to step away, struggles to let go—that Cas' eyes snap open and he sucks in a breath like he's been drowning.
"Holy crap!" Sam shouts and yanks his hand away from Dean's shoulder, jumping back in surprise. If the situation were less dire, Dean would be teasing the hell out of him for that reaction. Instead, Dean redoubles his grip on Cas shoulder (maybe to keep him from vanishing? Maybe to reassure himself that Cas just came back from the dead…again?), and watches as the angel's eyes dart around in unmistakable panic. He looks totally disoriented and mildly demented. Most worrisome of all? He's screaming, but his voice is rough and hushed like he's been shouting for years, and his vocal chords have been rubbed raw from it; he's barely got a voice at all to give sound to whatever pain he's clearly in.
"Cas, hey, Cas, look at me!" Dean tries to force him to focus. The hunter has barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief that Cas is alive (thank fucking god) before he's trying to figure out what the hell has happened to him—in all seriousness, he will take this problem over the alternative. Sam comes over, squats down beside them, and reaches out to help stabilize Cas, but Cas flinches violently away from the touch, like it burns. Sam looks concerned and freaked simultaneously. Dean grabs Cas' shoulder more firmly to hold him still, but Cas screams again—soundless and sharp—still with that wide eyed expression of fear. Dean realizes that the wetness on his fingers is not just rain; it's blood. Fuck. Cas looks like he might pass out.
"Sam, get the car," he barks. Sam catches on almost immediately.
"Shit," he says as he runs back across the highway.
Dean returns to Cas, muttering comforting nonsense and trying to get him to calm down because Dean isn't sure that the angel even knows who he is—"Cas, hey, it's okay," it's so fucking not, but Cas is breathing and blinking and presumably has a pulse and he feels warmer, so whether he needed those things before or not, he's fucking doing them now, and that's something at least—the wider implications of what those things mean is food for later thought. Dean needs to triage this, "Cas, do you know what happened? " Cas is still lying prone, but the muscles under Dean's hands are taught and rigid—if he had the strength, Dean's pretty sure the angel would bolt. Cas can't seem to calm down. Dean recognizes the terrified expression in his eyes, like a wild animal caught in a snare and badly hurt; he can't tell which way is up or down and everything is a potential danger. When Dean attempts to move Cas into a sitting position, he flinches, hard, and then winces and groans, muttering gibberish that Dean can't understand.
"Cas, hey! Look at me, look at me, Cas," he uses his hand to force Cas' eyes to meet his own, trying to ignore the fact that his very touch seems to be causing Cas more pain, "It's me, okay? It's Dean," that seems to at least catch Cas' attention, like he recognizes the word. His eyes stop their roving and lock onto Dean's face—thank fuck for that. He brushes his hand against Cas' cheek, through his hair, in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Judging by Cas' sharp recoil, he seriously misses the mark, but the angel is still staring at Dean's face, so there's that, "You know who I am, right?" Cas doesn't respond verbally, but he does raise a shaking arm and latch a hand onto Dean's shoulder, right over the handprint that's seared into Dean's skin. It seems like it's costing Cas a monumental effort to do even that, but if that's not the most telling answer to the question he could give...Dean feels a shiver when Cas fingers overlay the mark, even through the layers of clothing that separate skin from skin. He doesn't think that Cas has touched the brand since he pulled Dean from the Pit. He shakes his head, but is unbelievably thankful because he had, for the barest moment, been terrified that it was Jimmy or something; that Cas had completely lost his memory or his mind. They can deal with this later, whatever this is, provided that the two biggest priorities are taken care of: Cas is alive, and he's Cas—he knows Dean.
"That's right," he agrees, and, though it seems like it's difficult for Cas to maintain his grip, he does so with a fervent intensity, like Dean is his one tether to the earth, and maybe he is, "I'm not gonna hurt you, Cas, okay? We're gonna get you patched up, but we gotta move you, all right?"
Sam pulls up and jumps out of the Impala.
"Come on, help me get him up. You're driving."
They slowly lift Cas to his feet. He is unsteady and keeps simultaneously leaning into the boys and then cringing away, shuddering in pain, and shouting garbled words.
"Enochian," Sam mutters.
"What?!" Dean questions sharply.
Sam half shrugs, "He's speaking in Enochian."
"So!?"
"So, we're lucky he's not at full mojo or we'd have no eyes and perforated ear drums."
"Yeah, we should hit the lotto," Dean snaps sarcastically, while Cas either prays or curses in fucking Aramaic or whatever. Dean glares at Sam for potentially turning Cas into a fucking study in angel injuries, and Sam looks appropriately. Dean kind of wants to punch him anyway as an outlet for the feelings of stress, terror, and impotence in the face of Cas' injuries.
They settle Cas into the back seat with his head lying on Dean's lap. He's started shivering, his eyes are tight closed.
Sam puts it in drive and stares pointedly, worriedly, at Dean in the rear-view mirror: "What the fuck do we do?" is written clearly on his features.
Dean glances down at Cas, pale, sweating, in severe pain.
"Should we take him to a hospital?" Sam asks, raised brows, clearly indicating the severity of the situation.
Dean shakes his head, "Get us to the nearest motel."
"Dean, he might need serious help." Hospitals are a dangerous game; both of the Winchesters know that, have always known that—since their dad patched up Dean's first broken arm in an empty parking lot outside of Omaha. "They might take you boys away," John had said, cautioning his son to keep quiet while he set the bone (and Dean had). Hospitals for supernatural injuries are for extreme circumstances only—this is a desperate situation, but they have no idea what the damage is here. At the very least, Cas has been struck by lightning and spent a couple minutes dead on the side of the road—that's a best case scenario—the boys are smooth talkers, they could maybe explain that if they needed to, but—Dean stares at Cas' contorted face—he's clearly physically messed up, and, on top of that, he could have a severe case of angel small pox, for all they know. Dean is aware that Sam is thinking all the same things. If Cas needs a hospital, they'll take him. If that means saving his life, there's no question, but they need to try to find out what's going on—doctors are a last resort.
"Let's just figure this out first," Dean doesn't have another, better, idea right now. The number one priority is to get Cas out of the open and patch him up as best they can, then, hopefully, get him to explain the situation. Though—Dean tries to wipe away the sweat and rain from Cas' brow with a spare cloth lying in the backseat—it doesn't seem like Cas will be able to offer any type of explanation any time soon.
Sam clenches his jaw, and nods sharply. They're in collusion on this one. He his hits the gas, and they peel away from the scorched remnants of wings on the highway.
Dean spends the drive making calming noises at Cas, who is incoherent and clearly pained, while Sam guns it like a demon out of hell, casting pointed looks at Dean and Cas as he does so.
They hit the first motel after twenty minutes of Cas shaking and shivering, Dean humming "Hey Jude" and staring at Cas with a fierce mama bear protectiveness, and Sam shooting up a silent prayer to the universe or Cas' absent father. Sam runs into the lobby and returns ten minutes later with the key to room 629. He grabs the pack of medic supplies that they keep in the trunk and together the brothers help Cas, carefully and slowly, from his position in the back seat and into the room. Dean keeps alternating between watching Cas like he's afraid that he's gonna drop dead again, and looking around to make sure no one is following them. If push came to shove, they could play it like Cas is wasted and they're the good friends preventing drunk driving. Regardless, Dean is happy to lock the door behind them.
They get Cas onto the bed. His eyes are unfocused, he's slumped over. Dean hasn't seen him this messed up since he traveled back from the 1970s.
"He's in shock," Sam observes, as Cas continues to quiver and sway.
"Ya think?" Dean snaps, "Make yourself useful, and set up some wards, Sammy." Sam, to his credit, immediately goes to salt the windows and doors, throw up an Enochian blood sigil or two, and lay out the hex bags—cover all their bases just to be sure.
With that taken care of, Dean can focus on cataloguing Cas' external injuries. He strips off the water-logged trenchcoat, noting the puncture mark on Cas' left shoulder—that's the source of the blood on Dean's fingers and the red stain on Cas' shirt. Dean's best guess would be that the cut is from glass on the side of the road, it'll be easy enough to stich up. The only other blood is coming from the scrape on Cas' temple, probably from where he fell to the ground. That's the simple stuff, it's superficial: Dean's seen worse, hell they've all had worse, but the level of shock and the way Cas keeps flinching means that something else is wrong. Of course it wouldn't be that easy, why have anything be simple or okay. The more worrying thing is that there are splotches of something on Cas' back, leaking into his shirt, and Dean doesn't think that it's rainwater or gasoline. The leaking fluid means one thing to him: Burns. Fuck.
"Cas," he tries gruff and gentle, attempting to sound calm while inside, he's not gonna lie, he's basically freaking out, "I'm gonna have to touch you, okay?"
Cas mutters something incoherent; Dean is going to have to take that as assent, because there's no other way to do this. He pulls out his knife, "Just try to hold still," he says, slicing through the button down, moving slowly, and being as careful as he can not to hurt Cas any more than is necessary, but that that doesn't stop Cas from screaming out in agony when Dean pulls the fabric away. Sam finishes the protective mojo and turns just in time to see Cas' back revealed—
"Holy shit," he breathes.
"Fuck, Cas," Dean hisses in sympathy and mounting rage, internally vowing to rip apart whatever motherfucking douchebag did this.
Cas' back is a mess. It's raw and flayed and fucking blistered to hell. The injuries go all the way down his arms and line his entire back except for a small space at the very base of his spine.
Sam's tilts his head, his face all screwed up with sympathy and some confusion, "Do those look kinda like—?"
"Fucking feathers," Dean finishes because they do. Cas' back is covered in third degree burns, that's certain, but it looks almost like he's gotten a skin graft already, all the ridges and divots and angry red marks make it seems like he's been branded with wings—his own extended, incinerated wings, and how fucking messed up is that? Dean would lay money that the burns would match the ash marks on the highway perfectly. It appears that whoever put them there wanted them to hurt and wanted them to stick. Sadistic bastard. The wounds trail down his arms, lessoning in severity as they move away from his shoulders, so that his forearms and the backs of his hands are layered in feather shaped blisters. Dean swears he is going to shove an angel blade straight through the skull of whatever dickhead did this; the anger boils hot and heady in his veins.
"So the wings on the highway—" Sam trails off, while Dean glares at the exposed flesh.
"We're gonna need some supplies," Dean says, ignoring the implications of Sam's statement.
"Yeah," Sam agrees because they do. The boys pretty regularly deal with bullets, stab wounds, cuts, electrocution, punctures, impalement, scratches, poison, dislodged joints, broken bones, sprained muscles bruises, freakin bites—burns, though, burns not so much. Fire is a tool of their trade—it's also how their mother died—so they have always had a healthy respect for it, and subsequently a marked lack of burns (unless you count hell, and the boys don't, because hell is really its own separate entity, and, if you want to get into the type of injuries that they've acquired and inflicted in the Pit, Dean would have to write a multi-volume encyclopedia).
"You take it," Dean directs, because he can't leave Cas, not like this. Sam nods in understanding, and Dean is so fucking grateful that Sam gets that he needs to stay with Cas. Cas is his family, his friend (maybe the only real one that Dean has ever had outside of his brother), and the angel is about as close to importance as Sammy in Dean's life as anyone has ever gotten, but in a different way that Dean's never looked at too closely. Cas dragged Dean's ass out of hell, he rebelled against fucking heaven for him, he goddamn died three times for Dean, ditched his family, and- Death would probably lecture Dean for having an inflated sense of self-importance on this one—was fucking fighting a civil war for him (yeah, Dean knows that it's for the whole world and humanity and Cas' siblings and all that shit, but Cas wouldn't be in this position if Dean hadn't dragged him through the trenches of the apocalypse resistance in the first place). Cas is Sam's friend, too, but it's always been different between the righteous man and the angel who raised him from perdition and Sam, attentive and intuitive, gets and respects Dean's unwillingness to leave his side, maybe even understand the impetus behind it better than his brother. Dean will take Sam's quick acquiescence, whatever it means, because he doesn't want to think about how imperative it is to him that Cas pulls through this, and why.
"Give 'em the old puppy eyes," Dean offers, trying to lighten the mood.
Sam gives him a smile, in response to the force levity, but sobers quickly before heading out, "I'll be back soon."
Dean nods. He has to do what he can for Cas while he waits for the pain meds, anti-biotics, gauze, and all that.
"I'm sorry, Cas," he says to the facedown figure on the bed, not entirely sure that he can even hear him at this point, "but this is gonna hurt."
Dean bites his own lip, and pours whiskey over the cut on Cas' shoulder. Cas screams, and Dean feels the sound like a knife in his own gullet. When he starts to stitch the wound with dental floss, Cas, thankfully, passes out.
AN:
Welcome to chapter two. I do hope that you enjoyed. I've currently got the rest of this fic outlined and it should be about twenty or so chapters, so I hope that you'll stick around for the whole thing. Thanks for taking the time to read this! I would love to hear your feedback.