SPN Fic: They plan to pick you clean
*waves* Another Purgatory ficlet because I cannot seem to *stop*. (Note these were all written to image prompts on tumblr, although I haven't been linking back to the images, maybe I should have?)
They plan to pick you clean
Dean, Castiel | 535 words | PG-13 | coda for 7.23
a/n: Title by Metallica. For destina, happy birthday!
Summary: Dean is not going to let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory.
They've been walking without rest, Dean ignoring the ache in his calves and his back and how gritty his eyes feel from needing sleep. The misty air smells faintly of what he's pretty sure is wet fur and hint of the metallic sweetness of blood. He and Cas have managed to keep going through scenarios that remind Dean of the last fifteen minutes of nearly every flippin' horror movie he's ever seen. Cas says they have to keep moving, to stay ahead of those things that rustle in the trees, slither under the dirt, reach out for them, some things that know his name and know Castiel's.
Dean's in the lead, with Cas walking a half step or so behind him. When Dean glances back, Cas has his head turned to watch the forest behind them. When Dean looks up the slope again, his steps falter.
The house rises up before him where nothing but trees stood before. It's a few feet away, small and white with a dark thatched roof and bare branches crawling up its walls.
"Hey, check it out," Dean says, and glances back at Cas again.
Castiel's several yards down the hill, turning slowly, back rigid as he watches the sky. He still flinches sometimes, or slips into the random-ass evasiveness that makes Dean's stomach clench, but not often. Not now, as he watches for whatever those giant winged things are, probably--nothing Dean could identify from any hunt, journal, or book he's ever known. Too ancient for any living hunter to recognize, Cas explained.
A few breaths, a few heartbeats of still silence before Castiel's concentration and focus snaps and he barks out, "Dean!"
It's instinctive, how Dean immediately reacts, spinning around. His machete is only half-drawn from its sheath as the branches wrap tight around his arms, jerking him towards the house. He stumbles.
The wall of the house ripples, heaving inward, as another branch detaches, lashing out to go lighting-quick around his torso. Dean keeps his hand on the grip of the machete, trying to draw the blade free, twisting and struggling. Sam would kick his ass six ways from Sunday, twice, if Dean let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory. The wall continues to bow inward, surface going moist. Another branch slides up his chest, over his shoulder, around his neck.
Familiar hands grip him and Castiel shouts something that might be Enochian. White-red light flickers along the branches as their grip on Dean lessens enough he can yank himself free. Cas shoves Dean away before the branches snap forward again, converging to wrap around Cas's neck. Another one circles his body, pinning his arms. They pull him towards the little house as Cas digs his hospital-issue sneakers into the dirt and tries to gasp out words.
Dean's got the machete free, and brings the blade down through the branches, one after the other. Some dark substance sprays out, staining their clothes, hot where it touches skin. Freed, Cas grips Dean's shoulder--right on the spot where the hand-print scar used to be--and touches two fingers of his other hand to Dean's forehead and the world spins before they're on a high rock overlooking a river tinted a rusty red, the sky a cold silver.
Finally giving way to exhaustion, Dean sinks to his knees, gripping the machete with the blade stained dark. Cas kneels beside him. Together, they rest.
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/421042.html. Feel free to comment at either post.
They plan to pick you clean
Dean, Castiel | 535 words | PG-13 | coda for 7.23
a/n: Title by Metallica. For destina, happy birthday!
Summary: Dean is not going to let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory.
They've been walking without rest, Dean ignoring the ache in his calves and his back and how gritty his eyes feel from needing sleep. The misty air smells faintly of what he's pretty sure is wet fur and hint of the metallic sweetness of blood. He and Cas have managed to keep going through scenarios that remind Dean of the last fifteen minutes of nearly every flippin' horror movie he's ever seen. Cas says they have to keep moving, to stay ahead of those things that rustle in the trees, slither under the dirt, reach out for them, some things that know his name and know Castiel's.
Dean's in the lead, with Cas walking a half step or so behind him. When Dean glances back, Cas has his head turned to watch the forest behind them. When Dean looks up the slope again, his steps falter.
The house rises up before him where nothing but trees stood before. It's a few feet away, small and white with a dark thatched roof and bare branches crawling up its walls.
"Hey, check it out," Dean says, and glances back at Cas again.
Castiel's several yards down the hill, turning slowly, back rigid as he watches the sky. He still flinches sometimes, or slips into the random-ass evasiveness that makes Dean's stomach clench, but not often. Not now, as he watches for whatever those giant winged things are, probably--nothing Dean could identify from any hunt, journal, or book he's ever known. Too ancient for any living hunter to recognize, Cas explained.
A few breaths, a few heartbeats of still silence before Castiel's concentration and focus snaps and he barks out, "Dean!"
It's instinctive, how Dean immediately reacts, spinning around. His machete is only half-drawn from its sheath as the branches wrap tight around his arms, jerking him towards the house. He stumbles.
The wall of the house ripples, heaving inward, as another branch detaches, lashing out to go lighting-quick around his torso. Dean keeps his hand on the grip of the machete, trying to draw the blade free, twisting and struggling. Sam would kick his ass six ways from Sunday, twice, if Dean let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory. The wall continues to bow inward, surface going moist. Another branch slides up his chest, over his shoulder, around his neck.
Familiar hands grip him and Castiel shouts something that might be Enochian. White-red light flickers along the branches as their grip on Dean lessens enough he can yank himself free. Cas shoves Dean away before the branches snap forward again, converging to wrap around Cas's neck. Another one circles his body, pinning his arms. They pull him towards the little house as Cas digs his hospital-issue sneakers into the dirt and tries to gasp out words.
Dean's got the machete free, and brings the blade down through the branches, one after the other. Some dark substance sprays out, staining their clothes, hot where it touches skin. Freed, Cas grips Dean's shoulder--right on the spot where the hand-print scar used to be--and touches two fingers of his other hand to Dean's forehead and the world spins before they're on a high rock overlooking a river tinted a rusty red, the sky a cold silver.
Finally giving way to exhaustion, Dean sinks to his knees, gripping the machete with the blade stained dark. Cas kneels beside him. Together, they rest.
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/421042.html. Feel free to comment at either post.