Fic: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty {4}
Title: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty Ch.4 ( Ch.1| Ch.2| Ch.3)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp/vamphunter!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 1,620
“-ll up?”
“Yeah, just...everywhere.”
“It was disgusting.”
“Dude, you didn't go into his mouth to check his teeth.”
“And they are gone?”
“Yeah, they are definitely not there any more.”
Castiel groaned from the place where he lay. The first thing he noticed was that he was mercifully unaware of his surroundings. Everything smelt normal. Damp and plain and a bit like whiskey and old books, but he couldn't smell everything. He couldn't smell blood. And he couldn't hear everything either other than the voices in the room. No pounding of a pulse under the delicate skin of a neck or wrist. He was, in comparison to how he had been the last time he was conscious, deaf. It was beautiful.
“Hey, Father, are you okay?” That was Sam. Castiel cracked open his eyes to a dimly lit room, cluttered with shelves upon shelves of ancient books, and its cracked, spider-web covered ceiling. Sam hovered in front of him, a glass of water in one hand. He slowly offered it to Castiel, who blinked the darkness from his eyes and pushed himself up on his shaky arms.
He had been on a sofa, unchained, with his tattered clothes still clinging to his frame, damp and rank. He took the glass in one hand, his wrists visibly bruised from the shackles, and lifted it to his lips, taking a slow draft. The taste in his mouth sharpened, bitter and horrible, and then dulled when he swallowed with a grimace.
“I am...” Castiel began, not really being able to find the words to explain his current state.
“Human.” Dean finished. Castiel's heart stuttered in his chest, and then flushed relief through his system, melting his muscles from their tense state. He sunk back into the sofa, a small cloud of dust raising up around him, visible in the late morning light streaming through a gap in the curtains.
“You should go home.” Dean said, and leant against a cupboard covered in a pile of ancient-looking books. “Do not go back to Chicago, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“But...”Castiel rubbed at his cheek, feeling the stubble that had grown there, forming a small beard. That had grown fast.
“But nothing. You nearly turned into vamp-chow.”
“Dean.” Sam reprimanded, casting a look over his shoulder at his brother, before turning back to Castiel. “Chicago is dangerous. When a vampire has your scent they don't forget it. Walk back there and you turn yourself into a giant target for their revenge. You got away, and we haven't exactly made ourselves or you popular with that nest.”
“My luggage...” Castiel said, and it was a weak excuse, but it still was one.
“Forget about it, they'll have pawned anything of value and thrown the rest out b' now.” Bobby said, as he wheeled himself in from an adjoining room. Through the wide arcing doorway Father Novak could see a fridge and countertop, and deduced that it must be the kitchen.
A plate was offered to him, piled with sandwiches. At the sight his stomach suddenly appeared incredibly empty, almost cramping with hunger. Human hunger. He gladly took it from Bobby's rough hand and stuffed a sandwich into his mouth, peanut butter smearing over his palate.
“What day is it?” He asked through a mouthful of food, too hungry to bother with the etiquette of emptying his mouth.
“Uhh, Wednesday.” Sam said. Castiel quickly stopped chewing.
“Wednesday?” He repeated through his mouthful, and swallowed thickly, the large mouthful aching as it passed through his tight oesophagus.
“Yeah. You were pretty out of it on the dead man's blood. We spent some days driving.” Sam explained. Dean was still eyeing him from the cupboard.
“Oh...” Castiel replied dumbly. His clothes were in that suitcase. His toiletries were in the bathroom. His towel hung over the back of a chair in the room. His e-reader was locked in the safe in the wardrobe.
“You can shower and take some clothes, and then get back to wherever it is you live.” Dean said, and Bobby made a rough sound of agreement. Castiel's heart sunk and rose at the same time, flopping wierdly in his chest whilst caught between two counter-forces.
“Thank you.” He said, and then tucked back into his sandwhich.
“Your coat is salvageable. It's hanging up in the corridor.” Sam said, and gestured to a white, grubby closed door, beyond which would have to be the entrance hall. Father Novak nodded.
“Um...” He bagan, and all attention was on him. “Look, I want to repay you. You have all been incredibly kind.”
“Don't worry, you have no need to pay us. It's our job to save lives, and you gave us an opportunity to test out a cure, anyway.” Sam said, and in being reminded of that a flush of resentment filled Castiel, but was quickly cast aside.
“Woah Sammy, woah.” Dean said, and cast the first smile Castiel had seen on his face. “Never say no to cash.” He turned to Father Novak. “We would love to accept anything you give to us, Father.”
“Actually, I was going to suggest that I help you.” Castiel said, abandoning his sandwich.
There was an uncomfortable silence. He got the idea that he had said something wrong.
“Father,” Sam began, “I don't think you really know what you're saying.”
“My eyes have been opened.” He replied in a serious tone. Everyone shifted in an awkward manner, looking away. “Let me help. There has to be something I can do. I want to help you. I want to help people.”
“Well you can't.” Dean said sharply. “Father, you're a priest. You don't have what it takes to become a hunter. And you don't want to be a hunter.”
“How do you know?” Castiel asked sternly.
“This lifestyle eats you alive. You have it easy. Get away.”
“I know what I want. I want to help. I want to be a hunter.” Irritation bubbled in the pit of Castiel's stomach. He wasn't a child.
“No you don't.” Dean stood and went to leave into the kitchen, as if to get the last word and end the conversation.
Castiel wasn't an angry man. He wasn't a man of violence. In fact, he was very peaceful and patient. But, ravaged by the after effects of vamprism, beaten, broken, and still soaked through with the fresh memories of inhuman hunger, his snapping jaw, the slick of a second set of teeth, he was at the end of his tether. The glass of water topled and spilt, water splattering over the wood floor. Sandwiches fell on the upholstery of the sofa, crumbs spewing everywhere. Castiel launched himself at Dean, swiftly sidestepping Bobby, and pinned him by handfuls of the front of his jacket against the doorway.
“Listen.” Castiel growled. “I have seen things no one should ever see. I have wanted to rip people from limb to limb. I have swallowed a mixture of who-knows-what and then vomited everything back up. I have been shown the darkness of the world which I truly believed did not exist outside of the Bible. Demons were in people, not in forms, before Friday night.”
With a click something nudged the base of his skull.
“That's a gun.” Sam said, his voice stern and a little cold. “Let go of him.”
Castiel released the handfuls of leather and cloth and backed away, his hands raised. It was only then that it sunk in exactly what he had done. A wave of regret swallowed him, but the irritation was still alight. He continued to stare almost unblinkingly at Dean, who returned his gaze levelly.
“My faith in God has been shaken.” He said gravely. “I don't know if you know just how disheartening that is. I've...everything balances on Him.”
There was a long, long silence. Castiel's heart was sinking deeper and deeper. He slowly deflated, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“Father,” Bobby said, and Castiel flinched. “You don't want this. Take it from people who have been in the business for a long time.”
There was another long silence. Castiel didn't answer. The gun dropped and fell away, the safety clicking back on.
“Go back to your apple-pie life.” Dean muttered, and then turned into the kitchen, stalking towards the fridge to pull out a beer.
*
Castiel quickly showered and pulled on ill-fitting clothes, srubbing his teeth with some toothpaste and his fingers. He checked in the mirror for the gaps at the top of his gums. Luckily he found the flesh sealed and warm. He sighed with relief.
His coat had been bundled into a brown paper bag, his wallet was shoved into the pocket of the jeans he wore. He pulled a few notes from it and tucked them into Bobby's palm before he left. There was a certain aura of discomfort and distrust about them now. Something that made him almost want to leave.
“Where are you headed?” Dean asked, shoving on his boots and tying them with quick efficiency.
“Maryland.” Castiel replied quietly.
“I'll drive you to the bus station.” He stood and adjusted his jacket. “Come on.”
The ride there was long and quiet, a tape in the player, quiet, and humming out a fuzzy Black Sabbath album. They didn't talk. Dean was obviously on the defensive. They arrived at a quiet bus depot in quarter of an hour, and with his bag in hand and enough money to buy a ticket on his debit card Their goodbye was stiff and polite, and then Dean drove away.
He waited on the hard red plastic chairs for three hours, and then started his journey back home.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp/vamphunter!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 1,620
“-ll up?”
“Yeah, just...everywhere.”
“It was disgusting.”
“Dude, you didn't go into his mouth to check his teeth.”
“And they are gone?”
“Yeah, they are definitely not there any more.”
Castiel groaned from the place where he lay. The first thing he noticed was that he was mercifully unaware of his surroundings. Everything smelt normal. Damp and plain and a bit like whiskey and old books, but he couldn't smell everything. He couldn't smell blood. And he couldn't hear everything either other than the voices in the room. No pounding of a pulse under the delicate skin of a neck or wrist. He was, in comparison to how he had been the last time he was conscious, deaf. It was beautiful.
“Hey, Father, are you okay?” That was Sam. Castiel cracked open his eyes to a dimly lit room, cluttered with shelves upon shelves of ancient books, and its cracked, spider-web covered ceiling. Sam hovered in front of him, a glass of water in one hand. He slowly offered it to Castiel, who blinked the darkness from his eyes and pushed himself up on his shaky arms.
He had been on a sofa, unchained, with his tattered clothes still clinging to his frame, damp and rank. He took the glass in one hand, his wrists visibly bruised from the shackles, and lifted it to his lips, taking a slow draft. The taste in his mouth sharpened, bitter and horrible, and then dulled when he swallowed with a grimace.
“I am...” Castiel began, not really being able to find the words to explain his current state.
“Human.” Dean finished. Castiel's heart stuttered in his chest, and then flushed relief through his system, melting his muscles from their tense state. He sunk back into the sofa, a small cloud of dust raising up around him, visible in the late morning light streaming through a gap in the curtains.
“You should go home.” Dean said, and leant against a cupboard covered in a pile of ancient-looking books. “Do not go back to Chicago, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“But...”Castiel rubbed at his cheek, feeling the stubble that had grown there, forming a small beard. That had grown fast.
“But nothing. You nearly turned into vamp-chow.”
“Dean.” Sam reprimanded, casting a look over his shoulder at his brother, before turning back to Castiel. “Chicago is dangerous. When a vampire has your scent they don't forget it. Walk back there and you turn yourself into a giant target for their revenge. You got away, and we haven't exactly made ourselves or you popular with that nest.”
“My luggage...” Castiel said, and it was a weak excuse, but it still was one.
“Forget about it, they'll have pawned anything of value and thrown the rest out b' now.” Bobby said, as he wheeled himself in from an adjoining room. Through the wide arcing doorway Father Novak could see a fridge and countertop, and deduced that it must be the kitchen.
A plate was offered to him, piled with sandwiches. At the sight his stomach suddenly appeared incredibly empty, almost cramping with hunger. Human hunger. He gladly took it from Bobby's rough hand and stuffed a sandwich into his mouth, peanut butter smearing over his palate.
“What day is it?” He asked through a mouthful of food, too hungry to bother with the etiquette of emptying his mouth.
“Uhh, Wednesday.” Sam said. Castiel quickly stopped chewing.
“Wednesday?” He repeated through his mouthful, and swallowed thickly, the large mouthful aching as it passed through his tight oesophagus.
“Yeah. You were pretty out of it on the dead man's blood. We spent some days driving.” Sam explained. Dean was still eyeing him from the cupboard.
“Oh...” Castiel replied dumbly. His clothes were in that suitcase. His toiletries were in the bathroom. His towel hung over the back of a chair in the room. His e-reader was locked in the safe in the wardrobe.
“You can shower and take some clothes, and then get back to wherever it is you live.” Dean said, and Bobby made a rough sound of agreement. Castiel's heart sunk and rose at the same time, flopping wierdly in his chest whilst caught between two counter-forces.
“Thank you.” He said, and then tucked back into his sandwhich.
“Your coat is salvageable. It's hanging up in the corridor.” Sam said, and gestured to a white, grubby closed door, beyond which would have to be the entrance hall. Father Novak nodded.
“Um...” He bagan, and all attention was on him. “Look, I want to repay you. You have all been incredibly kind.”
“Don't worry, you have no need to pay us. It's our job to save lives, and you gave us an opportunity to test out a cure, anyway.” Sam said, and in being reminded of that a flush of resentment filled Castiel, but was quickly cast aside.
“Woah Sammy, woah.” Dean said, and cast the first smile Castiel had seen on his face. “Never say no to cash.” He turned to Father Novak. “We would love to accept anything you give to us, Father.”
“Actually, I was going to suggest that I help you.” Castiel said, abandoning his sandwich.
There was an uncomfortable silence. He got the idea that he had said something wrong.
“Father,” Sam began, “I don't think you really know what you're saying.”
“My eyes have been opened.” He replied in a serious tone. Everyone shifted in an awkward manner, looking away. “Let me help. There has to be something I can do. I want to help you. I want to help people.”
“Well you can't.” Dean said sharply. “Father, you're a priest. You don't have what it takes to become a hunter. And you don't want to be a hunter.”
“How do you know?” Castiel asked sternly.
“This lifestyle eats you alive. You have it easy. Get away.”
“I know what I want. I want to help. I want to be a hunter.” Irritation bubbled in the pit of Castiel's stomach. He wasn't a child.
“No you don't.” Dean stood and went to leave into the kitchen, as if to get the last word and end the conversation.
Castiel wasn't an angry man. He wasn't a man of violence. In fact, he was very peaceful and patient. But, ravaged by the after effects of vamprism, beaten, broken, and still soaked through with the fresh memories of inhuman hunger, his snapping jaw, the slick of a second set of teeth, he was at the end of his tether. The glass of water topled and spilt, water splattering over the wood floor. Sandwiches fell on the upholstery of the sofa, crumbs spewing everywhere. Castiel launched himself at Dean, swiftly sidestepping Bobby, and pinned him by handfuls of the front of his jacket against the doorway.
“Listen.” Castiel growled. “I have seen things no one should ever see. I have wanted to rip people from limb to limb. I have swallowed a mixture of who-knows-what and then vomited everything back up. I have been shown the darkness of the world which I truly believed did not exist outside of the Bible. Demons were in people, not in forms, before Friday night.”
With a click something nudged the base of his skull.
“That's a gun.” Sam said, his voice stern and a little cold. “Let go of him.”
Castiel released the handfuls of leather and cloth and backed away, his hands raised. It was only then that it sunk in exactly what he had done. A wave of regret swallowed him, but the irritation was still alight. He continued to stare almost unblinkingly at Dean, who returned his gaze levelly.
“My faith in God has been shaken.” He said gravely. “I don't know if you know just how disheartening that is. I've...everything balances on Him.”
There was a long, long silence. Castiel's heart was sinking deeper and deeper. He slowly deflated, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“Father,” Bobby said, and Castiel flinched. “You don't want this. Take it from people who have been in the business for a long time.”
There was another long silence. Castiel didn't answer. The gun dropped and fell away, the safety clicking back on.
“Go back to your apple-pie life.” Dean muttered, and then turned into the kitchen, stalking towards the fridge to pull out a beer.
*
Castiel quickly showered and pulled on ill-fitting clothes, srubbing his teeth with some toothpaste and his fingers. He checked in the mirror for the gaps at the top of his gums. Luckily he found the flesh sealed and warm. He sighed with relief.
His coat had been bundled into a brown paper bag, his wallet was shoved into the pocket of the jeans he wore. He pulled a few notes from it and tucked them into Bobby's palm before he left. There was a certain aura of discomfort and distrust about them now. Something that made him almost want to leave.
“Where are you headed?” Dean asked, shoving on his boots and tying them with quick efficiency.
“Maryland.” Castiel replied quietly.
“I'll drive you to the bus station.” He stood and adjusted his jacket. “Come on.”
The ride there was long and quiet, a tape in the player, quiet, and humming out a fuzzy Black Sabbath album. They didn't talk. Dean was obviously on the defensive. They arrived at a quiet bus depot in quarter of an hour, and with his bag in hand and enough money to buy a ticket on his debit card Their goodbye was stiff and polite, and then Dean drove away.
He waited on the hard red plastic chairs for three hours, and then started his journey back home.