SPN 7x23 insta mini crack!fic (363 words)
This has no title, and absolutely will not happen in any way in the upcoming season. Contains spoilers of s7 finale.
Title: Whistlin' past the graveyard
Spoilers: 7x23
Warnings: Gore, horror, crack
Castiel sits on a rock, hands working busily. Dean blinks. There's a blade of...something that might be grass, resting across his eyelid. Blinking doesn't dislodge it.
“What happened?”
Castiel doesn’t look up from his work. The needle flashes and the thread is dark and wet.
“You can’t die in Purgatory,” the angel tells him. He shifts the arm resting across his lap, pulls the thread tighter. Until the limb is flush with the portion of the torso propped up against Castiel’s leg.
“Your soul can’t cross over. Not from here. They tore you apart, but…well.” He shifts forward, reaches down, rootles around a bit and comes up with a hand. The fingernails are already blackening.
“What about my soul though?” Dean demands, and Castiel wordlessly points to the plastic bag resting beside him on the dead tree. Its white glow, Dean realizes, is the light source that’s been faintly illuminating the clearing this entire time.
“Cas…” Dean begins, and trails off. Marvels at the way his voice seems to rise from inside his chest, despite the fact that his chest is actually a good five yards away, resting against the angel like so much slaughtered meat.
Because that’s what it is, really.
He watches the former Angel of the Lord re-thread the needle, and carefully begin attaching the hand to the arm. There are fine stitches over the tendons and fingers already, and only faint bloodstains.
“Are you going to save my head for last?” he asks finally, after long minutes of silence have stretched between them. Cas looks up for the first time, seems almost startled when his eyes fall on Dean’s face, resting in the grass. Dean blinks, tries for a wan smile. Maybe the proximity of his soul has left his butchered parts with a certain measure of humanity.
“Uh,” the angel says, and looks away and swallows, eyes shutting briefly. He actually looks faintly ill. Dean marvels.
“I’ll get to it when I get to it,” Castiel says, after a beat or two, and Dean tries to shrug his shoulders but of course he can’t, and has to settle for rolling his eyes.
In the far distance, something howls.
______________________________________
Note: yeah, my brain generated this little scene last night, so there you have it. I love the idea but we won't get to see it, alas.
Bonus: Now with bad art!
Title: Whistlin' past the graveyard
Spoilers: 7x23
Warnings: Gore, horror, crack
Castiel sits on a rock, hands working busily. Dean blinks. There's a blade of...something that might be grass, resting across his eyelid. Blinking doesn't dislodge it.
“What happened?”
Castiel doesn’t look up from his work. The needle flashes and the thread is dark and wet.
“You can’t die in Purgatory,” the angel tells him. He shifts the arm resting across his lap, pulls the thread tighter. Until the limb is flush with the portion of the torso propped up against Castiel’s leg.
“Your soul can’t cross over. Not from here. They tore you apart, but…well.” He shifts forward, reaches down, rootles around a bit and comes up with a hand. The fingernails are already blackening.
“What about my soul though?” Dean demands, and Castiel wordlessly points to the plastic bag resting beside him on the dead tree. Its white glow, Dean realizes, is the light source that’s been faintly illuminating the clearing this entire time.
“Cas…” Dean begins, and trails off. Marvels at the way his voice seems to rise from inside his chest, despite the fact that his chest is actually a good five yards away, resting against the angel like so much slaughtered meat.
Because that’s what it is, really.
He watches the former Angel of the Lord re-thread the needle, and carefully begin attaching the hand to the arm. There are fine stitches over the tendons and fingers already, and only faint bloodstains.
“Are you going to save my head for last?” he asks finally, after long minutes of silence have stretched between them. Cas looks up for the first time, seems almost startled when his eyes fall on Dean’s face, resting in the grass. Dean blinks, tries for a wan smile. Maybe the proximity of his soul has left his butchered parts with a certain measure of humanity.
“Uh,” the angel says, and looks away and swallows, eyes shutting briefly. He actually looks faintly ill. Dean marvels.
“I’ll get to it when I get to it,” Castiel says, after a beat or two, and Dean tries to shrug his shoulders but of course he can’t, and has to settle for rolling his eyes.
In the far distance, something howls.
______________________________________
Note: yeah, my brain generated this little scene last night, so there you have it. I love the idea but we won't get to see it, alas.
Bonus: Now with bad art!