[FIC] The Heart is Hard to Translate for DROPOUT
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: The Heart is Hard to Translate
Author: immortal_lights
Recipient: dropout
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2950
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Season 6 and before.
Summary: In which Dean and Castiel don’t need each other, but find their way back to each other anyway.
Author notes: This fic takes place in a Season 6 AU in which Sam has his soul.
Dean is floating. Nearly his entire body is wrapped in a warmth that slow the movements of his limbs; only his face and the skin of his chest and thighs are exposed to a light chill. His vision is flooded in a fire orange light that eases his mind rather than sets him on edge. It takes a moment to realize that his eyes are closed. When he blinks his eyes open, a surreal blue sky stretches out above him. Backlit by the sun, the clouds are so bright that Dean has to turn his head away. He catches a mouthful of water, but stops himself before he accidentally swallows it. When Dean lifts his chin to his chest, he realizes that he’s drifting along the surface of a lake.
In the distance, a lone figure in a tan trenchcoat stands on a wooden pier. Dean folds his body, bringing his knees to his chest and sinking down in the water. He straightens back up, kicking downward to spear out of the water. Dean doesn’t stop to tread; he starts swimming his way toward the pier, strokes smooth and lazy.
When Dean reaches the pier and stops, Castiel is gazing out over the lake and at the forests that surround it. Dean hoists himself up onto the pier and sits down on the edge, but doesn’t greet Castiel. It doesn’t feel right to speak first.
“This sanctuary that you have created for yourself is beautiful. I wanted to say so the last time I was here, but I did not have time,” Castiel finally says. When Dean glances at Castiel, the lines of his face are soft in a way Dean hasn’t seen in a long time.
“Uh, thanks. I guess,” Dean responds awkwardly, inexplicably uncomfortable. “So, uh, any reason you’re dream walkin’ again?”
“Of course.” Castiel’s face has suddenly shifted, eyebrows knitted and jaw set. “I have come to realize that I have not been focusing on my priorities as much as I should be.”
Dean gives Castiel a look of disbelief. “Your war in Heaven? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of fighting a war down here, too. We need you here.”
“I understand that. But the war in Heaven comes first. You have survived for years on your own and I trust you to continue doing so. Every second spent away from this war is a second wasted.”
Dean’s on his feet now, his face inches away from Castiel’s. He holds his arms tightly to his side in an effort to not to lash out in anger. “Oh yeah? So why are you wasting your time now to talk to me?”
“I figured I at least owed you a goodbye. I don’t know when the war will end and I wanted to let you know before I completely disappeared.”
“Fine. Goodbye,” Dean replies tersely, turning around to face the water.
There is a moment of silence before Castiel speaks up, voice pained and lost, “I hope that one day, you will realize that everything I’ve done has been for you. Goodbye.”
The flutter of wings is barely audible. The anger heavy in his chest drains out of him suddenly and all that’s left is a feeling of unsettlement and exhaustion.
* * *
Dean wakes up to the sound of fingers tapping away at a keyboard. Dean lets himself stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before sitting up and stretching his arms out. Sam looks up at the movement and nods to him.
“Hey, Dean, uh,” Sam greets before hesitating, eyebrows burrowed together in apprehension.
“Ugh, it is too early for that look,” Dean groans. “Just come out with it.”
Dean expects Sam to start bitching at him, but instead Sam gives him a worried look. “Did Castiel visit you in your dreams last night?”
Dean scoffs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“He visited me, too,” Sam admits, leaning back in his chair. “Did he say goodbye?”
“He did,” Dean answers. Dean avoids Sam’s eyes, picking his socks off the floor and tugging them on.
“And?” Sam urges.
“And what? What do you want me to say here, Sammy?” Dean retorted.
“You okay with that? Him leaving?”
“Of course I’m okay with that. He’s a big boy. I’m not his fucking nanny.”
“I don’t even know why I try. You’re impossible.” Sam shakes his head and turns back to the laptop screen. “By the way, Cas left a gift on the nightstand.”
“What-“ Dean stiffens as soon as he catches sight of the nightstand. Placed neatly on top of the nightstand are a trenchcoat and a ring. Dean lets himself rest a hand on the trenchcoat for a moment before picking up the ring and examining the Enochian etched onto the band. Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he sees Sam smirking. Dean roughly stuffs the trenchcoat and ring into a duffel bag by the bed. “So you got a case for us this morning or are you watching porn on that laptop?”
Dean grins triumphantly when Sam gives him an annoyed look. “Actually, I found something an hour from here. Pack up.”
* * *
The woman who opens the door has a deep frown and eyelids that droop, like the effort to keep them open is too much to handle.
“Hello, Mrs. Peterson, we’re from the Center for Disease Control,” Sam says as he holds up his badge, his face open and sympathetic. “Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions? This will only take a moment.”
Mrs. Peterson steps aside wordlessly and motions for them to come in. She closes the door and retreats to the kitchen with Sam and Dean in tow. Judging by the mug of water and cup of sugar out on the counter, Dean infers that she had been in middle of making tea when Sam and Dean rung the doorbell. She resumes the task, opening a cabinet only to close it and open another one. Dean assumes she’s looking for tea bags.
“Uh.” Dean falters, glancing sideways at Sam. Mrs. Peterson continues searching the cabinets for her tea bags.
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Sam asks, stepping forward. Mrs. Peterson nods.
“When did your son fall into a coma?”
“About two weeks ago.” Her voice is so soft that Dean takes a step closer to hear her.
“Can you tell me what happened exactly?” Sam inquires.
“Two week ago, I went into Eric’s room to wake him up for school. He was pale and breathing so shallowly that I thought he was dead.” Mrs. Peterson presses her lips into a hard line and closes her eyes for a moment. “We went to the hospital, but the doctors had no idea what was wrong with him. They also explained to me that this isn’t the first case they’ve had. At least three children have become comatose in the past two months and then died. I had hoped that Eric would be different.”
Sam places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know this is very difficult for you. I swear we will do our best to figure out what’s going on here.”
Before Mrs. Peterson can respond, the phone rings from another room. “Please, excuse me.”
Sam and Dean watch her disappear into the living room. “So, what do you think, Dean?”
“Children suddenly in comas? Either it’s a real problem for the CDC or it’s a shtriga. I’m not sure why it’s feeding so slowly, though. Last shtriga we ran into fed on several kids at once.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely strange, but all other signs point to shtriga.”
Suddenly, Sam and Dean hear something hit the floor in the next room. Dean takes off first, rounding the corner and stopping to see Mrs. Peterson picking up the phone from the floor. “What’s the matter?”
* * *
“Um.” Dean stares down at the morgue table, where a rough wooden replica of Eric’s body lies. “What?”
“Why would a shtriga replace the body of its victim with some replica it made from a tree trunk?”
“Maybe he’s an starving artist and was hoping to shine some limelight on his art.”
“Eric’s mother is in the next room, dude. I don’t know why I ever take you out in public.” Dean flashes Sam his most charming grin.
“Seriously, though. This makes no sense. Maybe we’re not looking at a shtriga after all.” Sam sighs and gives Dean a pointed look.
“Ugh. I know what that look means. Research,” Dean groans.
Sam grins. “Yep.”
Dean smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “If Cas were here, he’d be all wham bam thank you ma’am. He’d find this thing in a second.”
“So why don’t we call him?” Sam suggested.
“Nah. If he doesn’t want us to bother him, then we won’t. We’re not invalids, man. Let’s go.” Dean turns and walks out of the morgue. Sam glances at the fake body once more before following.
* * *
“Dean!” Sam exclaims. A nearby library patron shushes him. He lowers his voice. “What if Eric was never really Eric?””
“Yes, exactly!” Dean pauses. “Wait, what?”
“Look.” Sam turns his laptop around to face Dean. “An aswang replaces its victims with a facsimile made from tree trunks or other plant materials. The aswang does her mojo and makes the knock-off look like a living, breathing person. Just, y’know, in coma. That way, when the fake body dies, there’s no foul play suspected.”
“So, for some reason, the aswang’s mojo stopped working on Eric’s doppleganger before it was buried or cremated,” Dean infers. “Also, aswang? Who names these things?”
“Apparently, the Filipinos.” Sam shrugs. “An aswang can shapeshift into a human, so she probably live in town. They’re usually quiet and elusive, and often have bloodshot eyes from staying up all night to search for food. At night, they usually transform into an animal to feed, usually a dog. There’s nothing concrete about weaknesses, but lore seems to indicate that iron might work.”
“Awesome. Now we just have to find it.”
“Okay, I’ll go talk to Mrs. Peterson again and see if she can point us in the right direction. You break into the realtor’s office and see who moved into town two months ago.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
“Amanda Bell, moved in two and a half months ago, lives in a small house by herself,” Dean recites from memory as they approach Amanda’s house.
“Fits the bill, but so did the last two people we visited. Mrs. Peterson said that a lot of loners move out here. People running from their pasts. She might not be our killer.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Dean jogs up the few steps to the front door and rings the doorbell.
The door opens up a crack and an eye peers out at them. Dean leans in and says, “Amanda Bell?”
“Yeah? Who’s asking?” Amanda challenges.
“CDC. Mind opening the door?”
There’s a long pause, and then the door swings open. Amanda peers up at them, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her glasses barely hide the dark bags under her eyes and the red threaded through her eyes.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about the recent increase in childhood comas?”
Amanda shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about them.”
“Are you sure? Any information you know can help us out.”
“I said I didn’t know anything,” Amanda says, scowling.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, then.” Dean holds his hand out. “It was nice meeting you, Amanda.”
Giving Dean a confused look, she takes Dean’s hand to shake it. She snatches her hand back immediately, yelping in pain.
Dean schools his face into a look of surprise and concern. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No!” Amanda cries, cradling her hand to her chest. “No. I, uh, just have a burn on my finger that’s still sore. Don’t worry about it.”
“If you’re sure. Have a good day, Amanda.” Dean turns around to walk back to the car before Amanda’s even closed the door. Sam follows quietly.
As soon as they’re in the car, Sam flails. “What just happened?”
“I just found us an aswang is what just happened,” Dean says smugly, grinning widely. He lifts his right hand and wiggles his fingers. The ring Castiel gave him sits on his ring finger. “Iron.”
Realization dawns on Sam’s face and he grins back. “Alright, she’s probably on guard right now, so we’ll come back tonight.”
Still grinning, Dean starts the ignition and pulls onto the road.
* * *
“This is the ugliest dog I have ever seen in my life,” Dean announces as they carry the dead aswang into the woods and drop the body into the shallow hole they dug up. Sam starts pouring lighter fluid onto the body and patting himself down in search of a lighter. “Can you get me a lighter from the trunk?”
Dean jogs back to the car and rummages through the duffle bags for a lighter. Dean stills when he comes across the trenchcoat.
“Dean?” Sam calls out.
Dean unfreezes and sets the trenchcoat aside, continuing his search for the lighter. When he finds it, he tosses the lighter to Sam with a “Heads up!”
Dean grabs the crumpled trenchcoat and smoothes out the creases and wrinkles, folding it neatly. He opens the door to the backseat and places the trenchcoat on the seat before jogging back toward Sam and the burning body.
* * *
“I am very tired.” Dean’s head jerks up at the voice and he swings around just in time to catch Castiel under the arms. Dean’s panic spikes as he notices that Castiel’s dress shirt is shredded and soaked in blood.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dean shuffles Castiel to the bed and lays him out. “You’re okay, Cas. You’re okay.”
Dean gives up hope of salvaging Castiel’s shirt and tears it away from Castiel’s body easily. Underneath, Castiel’s chest and sides are littered with cuts, some of which are barely scratches and others that are inches long and so deep that Dean’s afraid that they reach the bone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath, dropping to his knees to rummage through one of the bags next to the bed for a first aid kit. Dean stops fretting when a hand lands on his shoulder and he looks up sharply. Castiel’s eyes are clouded with pain, but there is a kind smile on his face.
“If I wanted someone to attend to my wounds, I would have asked a member of my brethren. There is nothing that you can do to help me heal faster. I came here for the company.”
Dean pauses in uncertainly, but the firm hand on his shoulder convinces him to put the bag down. He gently tugs Castiel’s body up the bed until his head is resting on a pillow and tries not to wince at the hisses that escape Castiel’s lips.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Dean says with a wry smile and desperate eyes as he settles down next to Castiel with his legs crossed.
“It has been like trying to breathe with no lungs,” Castiel deadpans.
Dean lets out a surprised snort of laughter. “Sarcasm? Looks like someone finally got a sense of humor. What will you do next? Pull a prank on me?”
“No, I will leave the pranks to you.” Castiel promises. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Kicking ass and taking names. You know, that ring you gave me came in real handy. Thanks for that.”
“I’m glad you found it useful.” Castiel pauses, a look of concern passing over his face. “I feel I must confess my motives for giving you that ring. The Enochian on the ring bound your soul to me and allowed me to sense when you were injured or dying.”
“What?” In the tangle of emotions that rises up inside Dean, it’s easiest to latch onto anger. “I’ve been hunting for more than twenty years, Cas. I don’t need you to save me. I am not some damsel in distress.”
“Dean, I know that more than anyone,” Castiel counters, holding Dean’s gaze. He stretches his arm out to grip Dean’s knee, wincing at the way the movement pulls at his wounds. “I have watched you and your brother take on the devil himself and succeed. I do not need to protect you, but I want to.”
The anger dissipates easily, leaving Dean with a strange sense of both unworthiness and relief. He looks away from Castiel, running his thumb over the grooves on the ring. “What happened to you?”
“I-” Castiel hesitates, turning his face away from Dean as if he were ashamed. “An angel who I thought believed in my cause informed me that Raphael had taken you hostage. I fear I acted irrationally. I charged into a trap without thinking it through and I paid the price.”
“Well, that pretty much makes you an honorary Winchester,” Dean quips.
“Then I am honored.” Castiel says honestly, smiling genuinely. “Oh, I forgot. I took your ring. I apologize for not asking you in the first place, but it helped me remember what I was fighting for.”
Castiel starts twisting the ring off his finger. Dean wants to say, I don’t deserve you. He wants to say, I like it when you smile. He wants to say, I want to protect you, too.
Instead Dean covers Castiel’s hands with his own to still Castiel’s fumbling fingers and says, “You can keep it.”
Title: The Heart is Hard to Translate
Author: immortal_lights
Recipient: dropout
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2950
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Season 6 and before.
Summary: In which Dean and Castiel don’t need each other, but find their way back to each other anyway.
Author notes: This fic takes place in a Season 6 AU in which Sam has his soul.
Dean is floating. Nearly his entire body is wrapped in a warmth that slow the movements of his limbs; only his face and the skin of his chest and thighs are exposed to a light chill. His vision is flooded in a fire orange light that eases his mind rather than sets him on edge. It takes a moment to realize that his eyes are closed. When he blinks his eyes open, a surreal blue sky stretches out above him. Backlit by the sun, the clouds are so bright that Dean has to turn his head away. He catches a mouthful of water, but stops himself before he accidentally swallows it. When Dean lifts his chin to his chest, he realizes that he’s drifting along the surface of a lake.
In the distance, a lone figure in a tan trenchcoat stands on a wooden pier. Dean folds his body, bringing his knees to his chest and sinking down in the water. He straightens back up, kicking downward to spear out of the water. Dean doesn’t stop to tread; he starts swimming his way toward the pier, strokes smooth and lazy.
When Dean reaches the pier and stops, Castiel is gazing out over the lake and at the forests that surround it. Dean hoists himself up onto the pier and sits down on the edge, but doesn’t greet Castiel. It doesn’t feel right to speak first.
“This sanctuary that you have created for yourself is beautiful. I wanted to say so the last time I was here, but I did not have time,” Castiel finally says. When Dean glances at Castiel, the lines of his face are soft in a way Dean hasn’t seen in a long time.
“Uh, thanks. I guess,” Dean responds awkwardly, inexplicably uncomfortable. “So, uh, any reason you’re dream walkin’ again?”
“Of course.” Castiel’s face has suddenly shifted, eyebrows knitted and jaw set. “I have come to realize that I have not been focusing on my priorities as much as I should be.”
Dean gives Castiel a look of disbelief. “Your war in Heaven? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of fighting a war down here, too. We need you here.”
“I understand that. But the war in Heaven comes first. You have survived for years on your own and I trust you to continue doing so. Every second spent away from this war is a second wasted.”
Dean’s on his feet now, his face inches away from Castiel’s. He holds his arms tightly to his side in an effort to not to lash out in anger. “Oh yeah? So why are you wasting your time now to talk to me?”
“I figured I at least owed you a goodbye. I don’t know when the war will end and I wanted to let you know before I completely disappeared.”
“Fine. Goodbye,” Dean replies tersely, turning around to face the water.
There is a moment of silence before Castiel speaks up, voice pained and lost, “I hope that one day, you will realize that everything I’ve done has been for you. Goodbye.”
The flutter of wings is barely audible. The anger heavy in his chest drains out of him suddenly and all that’s left is a feeling of unsettlement and exhaustion.
* * *
Dean wakes up to the sound of fingers tapping away at a keyboard. Dean lets himself stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before sitting up and stretching his arms out. Sam looks up at the movement and nods to him.
“Hey, Dean, uh,” Sam greets before hesitating, eyebrows burrowed together in apprehension.
“Ugh, it is too early for that look,” Dean groans. “Just come out with it.”
Dean expects Sam to start bitching at him, but instead Sam gives him a worried look. “Did Castiel visit you in your dreams last night?”
Dean scoffs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“He visited me, too,” Sam admits, leaning back in his chair. “Did he say goodbye?”
“He did,” Dean answers. Dean avoids Sam’s eyes, picking his socks off the floor and tugging them on.
“And?” Sam urges.
“And what? What do you want me to say here, Sammy?” Dean retorted.
“You okay with that? Him leaving?”
“Of course I’m okay with that. He’s a big boy. I’m not his fucking nanny.”
“I don’t even know why I try. You’re impossible.” Sam shakes his head and turns back to the laptop screen. “By the way, Cas left a gift on the nightstand.”
“What-“ Dean stiffens as soon as he catches sight of the nightstand. Placed neatly on top of the nightstand are a trenchcoat and a ring. Dean lets himself rest a hand on the trenchcoat for a moment before picking up the ring and examining the Enochian etched onto the band. Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he sees Sam smirking. Dean roughly stuffs the trenchcoat and ring into a duffel bag by the bed. “So you got a case for us this morning or are you watching porn on that laptop?”
Dean grins triumphantly when Sam gives him an annoyed look. “Actually, I found something an hour from here. Pack up.”
* * *
The woman who opens the door has a deep frown and eyelids that droop, like the effort to keep them open is too much to handle.
“Hello, Mrs. Peterson, we’re from the Center for Disease Control,” Sam says as he holds up his badge, his face open and sympathetic. “Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions? This will only take a moment.”
Mrs. Peterson steps aside wordlessly and motions for them to come in. She closes the door and retreats to the kitchen with Sam and Dean in tow. Judging by the mug of water and cup of sugar out on the counter, Dean infers that she had been in middle of making tea when Sam and Dean rung the doorbell. She resumes the task, opening a cabinet only to close it and open another one. Dean assumes she’s looking for tea bags.
“Uh.” Dean falters, glancing sideways at Sam. Mrs. Peterson continues searching the cabinets for her tea bags.
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Sam asks, stepping forward. Mrs. Peterson nods.
“When did your son fall into a coma?”
“About two weeks ago.” Her voice is so soft that Dean takes a step closer to hear her.
“Can you tell me what happened exactly?” Sam inquires.
“Two week ago, I went into Eric’s room to wake him up for school. He was pale and breathing so shallowly that I thought he was dead.” Mrs. Peterson presses her lips into a hard line and closes her eyes for a moment. “We went to the hospital, but the doctors had no idea what was wrong with him. They also explained to me that this isn’t the first case they’ve had. At least three children have become comatose in the past two months and then died. I had hoped that Eric would be different.”
Sam places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know this is very difficult for you. I swear we will do our best to figure out what’s going on here.”
Before Mrs. Peterson can respond, the phone rings from another room. “Please, excuse me.”
Sam and Dean watch her disappear into the living room. “So, what do you think, Dean?”
“Children suddenly in comas? Either it’s a real problem for the CDC or it’s a shtriga. I’m not sure why it’s feeding so slowly, though. Last shtriga we ran into fed on several kids at once.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely strange, but all other signs point to shtriga.”
Suddenly, Sam and Dean hear something hit the floor in the next room. Dean takes off first, rounding the corner and stopping to see Mrs. Peterson picking up the phone from the floor. “What’s the matter?”
* * *
“Um.” Dean stares down at the morgue table, where a rough wooden replica of Eric’s body lies. “What?”
“Why would a shtriga replace the body of its victim with some replica it made from a tree trunk?”
“Maybe he’s an starving artist and was hoping to shine some limelight on his art.”
“Eric’s mother is in the next room, dude. I don’t know why I ever take you out in public.” Dean flashes Sam his most charming grin.
“Seriously, though. This makes no sense. Maybe we’re not looking at a shtriga after all.” Sam sighs and gives Dean a pointed look.
“Ugh. I know what that look means. Research,” Dean groans.
Sam grins. “Yep.”
Dean smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “If Cas were here, he’d be all wham bam thank you ma’am. He’d find this thing in a second.”
“So why don’t we call him?” Sam suggested.
“Nah. If he doesn’t want us to bother him, then we won’t. We’re not invalids, man. Let’s go.” Dean turns and walks out of the morgue. Sam glances at the fake body once more before following.
* * *
“Dean!” Sam exclaims. A nearby library patron shushes him. He lowers his voice. “What if Eric was never really Eric?””
“Yes, exactly!” Dean pauses. “Wait, what?”
“Look.” Sam turns his laptop around to face Dean. “An aswang replaces its victims with a facsimile made from tree trunks or other plant materials. The aswang does her mojo and makes the knock-off look like a living, breathing person. Just, y’know, in coma. That way, when the fake body dies, there’s no foul play suspected.”
“So, for some reason, the aswang’s mojo stopped working on Eric’s doppleganger before it was buried or cremated,” Dean infers. “Also, aswang? Who names these things?”
“Apparently, the Filipinos.” Sam shrugs. “An aswang can shapeshift into a human, so she probably live in town. They’re usually quiet and elusive, and often have bloodshot eyes from staying up all night to search for food. At night, they usually transform into an animal to feed, usually a dog. There’s nothing concrete about weaknesses, but lore seems to indicate that iron might work.”
“Awesome. Now we just have to find it.”
“Okay, I’ll go talk to Mrs. Peterson again and see if she can point us in the right direction. You break into the realtor’s office and see who moved into town two months ago.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
“Amanda Bell, moved in two and a half months ago, lives in a small house by herself,” Dean recites from memory as they approach Amanda’s house.
“Fits the bill, but so did the last two people we visited. Mrs. Peterson said that a lot of loners move out here. People running from their pasts. She might not be our killer.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Dean jogs up the few steps to the front door and rings the doorbell.
The door opens up a crack and an eye peers out at them. Dean leans in and says, “Amanda Bell?”
“Yeah? Who’s asking?” Amanda challenges.
“CDC. Mind opening the door?”
There’s a long pause, and then the door swings open. Amanda peers up at them, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her glasses barely hide the dark bags under her eyes and the red threaded through her eyes.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about the recent increase in childhood comas?”
Amanda shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about them.”
“Are you sure? Any information you know can help us out.”
“I said I didn’t know anything,” Amanda says, scowling.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, then.” Dean holds his hand out. “It was nice meeting you, Amanda.”
Giving Dean a confused look, she takes Dean’s hand to shake it. She snatches her hand back immediately, yelping in pain.
Dean schools his face into a look of surprise and concern. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No!” Amanda cries, cradling her hand to her chest. “No. I, uh, just have a burn on my finger that’s still sore. Don’t worry about it.”
“If you’re sure. Have a good day, Amanda.” Dean turns around to walk back to the car before Amanda’s even closed the door. Sam follows quietly.
As soon as they’re in the car, Sam flails. “What just happened?”
“I just found us an aswang is what just happened,” Dean says smugly, grinning widely. He lifts his right hand and wiggles his fingers. The ring Castiel gave him sits on his ring finger. “Iron.”
Realization dawns on Sam’s face and he grins back. “Alright, she’s probably on guard right now, so we’ll come back tonight.”
Still grinning, Dean starts the ignition and pulls onto the road.
* * *
“This is the ugliest dog I have ever seen in my life,” Dean announces as they carry the dead aswang into the woods and drop the body into the shallow hole they dug up. Sam starts pouring lighter fluid onto the body and patting himself down in search of a lighter. “Can you get me a lighter from the trunk?”
Dean jogs back to the car and rummages through the duffle bags for a lighter. Dean stills when he comes across the trenchcoat.
“Dean?” Sam calls out.
Dean unfreezes and sets the trenchcoat aside, continuing his search for the lighter. When he finds it, he tosses the lighter to Sam with a “Heads up!”
Dean grabs the crumpled trenchcoat and smoothes out the creases and wrinkles, folding it neatly. He opens the door to the backseat and places the trenchcoat on the seat before jogging back toward Sam and the burning body.
* * *
“I am very tired.” Dean’s head jerks up at the voice and he swings around just in time to catch Castiel under the arms. Dean’s panic spikes as he notices that Castiel’s dress shirt is shredded and soaked in blood.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dean shuffles Castiel to the bed and lays him out. “You’re okay, Cas. You’re okay.”
Dean gives up hope of salvaging Castiel’s shirt and tears it away from Castiel’s body easily. Underneath, Castiel’s chest and sides are littered with cuts, some of which are barely scratches and others that are inches long and so deep that Dean’s afraid that they reach the bone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath, dropping to his knees to rummage through one of the bags next to the bed for a first aid kit. Dean stops fretting when a hand lands on his shoulder and he looks up sharply. Castiel’s eyes are clouded with pain, but there is a kind smile on his face.
“If I wanted someone to attend to my wounds, I would have asked a member of my brethren. There is nothing that you can do to help me heal faster. I came here for the company.”
Dean pauses in uncertainly, but the firm hand on his shoulder convinces him to put the bag down. He gently tugs Castiel’s body up the bed until his head is resting on a pillow and tries not to wince at the hisses that escape Castiel’s lips.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Dean says with a wry smile and desperate eyes as he settles down next to Castiel with his legs crossed.
“It has been like trying to breathe with no lungs,” Castiel deadpans.
Dean lets out a surprised snort of laughter. “Sarcasm? Looks like someone finally got a sense of humor. What will you do next? Pull a prank on me?”
“No, I will leave the pranks to you.” Castiel promises. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Kicking ass and taking names. You know, that ring you gave me came in real handy. Thanks for that.”
“I’m glad you found it useful.” Castiel pauses, a look of concern passing over his face. “I feel I must confess my motives for giving you that ring. The Enochian on the ring bound your soul to me and allowed me to sense when you were injured or dying.”
“What?” In the tangle of emotions that rises up inside Dean, it’s easiest to latch onto anger. “I’ve been hunting for more than twenty years, Cas. I don’t need you to save me. I am not some damsel in distress.”
“Dean, I know that more than anyone,” Castiel counters, holding Dean’s gaze. He stretches his arm out to grip Dean’s knee, wincing at the way the movement pulls at his wounds. “I have watched you and your brother take on the devil himself and succeed. I do not need to protect you, but I want to.”
The anger dissipates easily, leaving Dean with a strange sense of both unworthiness and relief. He looks away from Castiel, running his thumb over the grooves on the ring. “What happened to you?”
“I-” Castiel hesitates, turning his face away from Dean as if he were ashamed. “An angel who I thought believed in my cause informed me that Raphael had taken you hostage. I fear I acted irrationally. I charged into a trap without thinking it through and I paid the price.”
“Well, that pretty much makes you an honorary Winchester,” Dean quips.
“Then I am honored.” Castiel says honestly, smiling genuinely. “Oh, I forgot. I took your ring. I apologize for not asking you in the first place, but it helped me remember what I was fighting for.”
Castiel starts twisting the ring off his finger. Dean wants to say, I don’t deserve you. He wants to say, I like it when you smile. He wants to say, I want to protect you, too.
Instead Dean covers Castiel’s hands with his own to still Castiel’s fumbling fingers and says, “You can keep it.”