Blood Bandage Tango - for krhlvsdestiel
Title: Blood Bandage Tango
Author: selforan
Recipient: krhlvsdestiel
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Cas, mentions of Sam.
Genre: angst, h/c, fluffy at the end.
Warnings: Vague references to violence.
Rating: PG-13
Prompts Used: Bobby's panic room, Hellhounds.
Word Count: 1,589
Summary: Castiel fixes up Dean, and Dean gets a little more understanding.
It was, of course, the safest place for them to go. The only place for them to go. It was the only safe haven in a world filled with monsters and ghosts and the absolutely paralyzing terror that came with the knowledge that you don’t really know yourself after all.
Dean was bleeding badly from a cut in his forehead, and one that had split the skin of his torso in half like a filet of raw meat. Cas knew, innately knew, that the sharp end of one of Dean’s ribs was poking into his right lung, although Dean would never admit it.
“C’mon Cas,” Dean wheezed, trying to hide how labored his breath was, “Really, I’m fine. That mutt will be long gone if we stay here.”
“That Hellhound punctured your lung, Dean. We cannot leave.”
Cas had mojo’d them in his usual way directly outside of Bobby’s panic room door, something which Dean found himself impressed with. The angel propped Dean up as the hunter rubbed his hand weakly across one of the angel-proofing sigils that adorned the wall, enabling the two men to get inside.
Dean struggled, because he was Dean Winchester, damnit, and he didn’t go down without a fight. Even if giving up meant saving his own life.
It was the point, really. It was just what he did, but deep down inside he knew that he was never going to be any match for the angel carrying him.
Castiel really had a habit of carrying him, didn’t he?
Safe, Dean thought, against his better judgment. Now, there was a word the eldest Winchester didn’t like to think about. Too risky. Still, he caught himself repeating it like a mantra as the angel laid Dean down on the creaky bed. Safe. Cas. Safe.
Dean also didn’t want to think about the hours Sam had been chained up here. Screaming. Hallucinating. So he didn’t. He really didn’t. He just focused instead on the blue eyes flickering in and out of his vision right above him. From somewhere far away, he felt the angel’s hands tentatively move his shirt up above the waistline of his jeans, and he shivered. If he would have been lucid and not in agonizing pain, he would have noticed that his skin prickled and tingled wherever Cas’ skin touched his. Goddamn if he’d ever admit it though.
Again, Winchester.
“I’m going to heal you now, Dean.”
Castiel’s voice was grave.
Dean moaned weakly.
Truly, the angel wasn’t sure if he was even capable of healing anymore, even a minor injury such as this. The angel fought off memories of smiting demons without blinking, of standing on the fields of heaven, dressed in armor shining, his shield poised in front of him…
Where is the warrior now? He pushed the question downward, to a place in his chest he didn’t want to think about, much less feel, and focused on the slow burn of his Grace moving towards his palms.
He rested his palms on the hunter’s chest, keeping the pressure light. Dean’s skin was slick with a thin sheen of sweat, and his breath was becoming even shallower. Cas wasn’t sure how long he could keep the hunter alive if he wasn’t able to heal him. If he could keep him alive at all.
Castiel focused, pressed his eyes shut tight. His grace spread downward, burning through Jimmy’s veins. It flowed out from the center of the angel’s sternum, pulsing as it moved its way down his forearms, spreading outwards from the tips of his fingertips. From there it crept quickly, as cracks do in ice, through the hunter’s muscles, his joints, his bones. It radiated and glowed, Dean glowed, from the inside out, and the tendrils of light wrapped themselves around his ribs, sewing them back into place and sealing his lung.
Dean gasped, his whole body arching upward and eyes flying open.
Castiel tested out the muscles that lay underneath Jimmy’s skin, next to his mouth. They stretched upward, and the angel smiled.
“You will be fine, Dean.”
The hunter sat up, rubbing a hand across his forehead and still feeling the cut and the blood staining his face. He knew from experience, years of it, that head wounds bled a lot but usually weren’t deep enough to cause any serious harm. He couldn’t feel bone, and his arrogance told him he would be fine.
“Cas, uh, my face is still bleeding.”
Silence.
In a jerky motion and out of practice, Cas stripped off his tie. He had probably never taken the damn thing off before. Dean flicked his eyes downwards and noticed that Cas’ hand was shaking, but looked away anyways. It seemed too fragile of a moment to recognize. The angel pressed his tie against the cut on Dean’s forehead, the blue fabric quickly becoming soaked with blood.
Dean would later blame his next words on the blood-loss. No, really, he would.
The real explanation was too scary. And definitely not something he wanted to discuss, then or at any other point in his existence. After it, even.
But the words spilled out anyways between his lips that weren’t pressed tight enough to keep them in.
“Your tie…I think you’re going to have to use your shirt.”
Castiel’s eyes widened, making him look all of five years old and trapped in a grown up body and seeing a spaceship for the first time. Then, they narrowed. Dean pressed on, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the bed.
“Or, ya know…mine. Both. I don’t really care.”
It only took a moment before Castiel had pushed him up into a sitting position against the headboard, and Dean fought with himself to decide if the angel looked pissed, or turned on. His guess was the latter, seeing as how quickly Cas was sitting his lap. He was damn near splayed across him. Dean swallowed.
Neither of them moved, for a very long time. Then, there was the brushing of hands, the brushing of lips. The clashing of teeth and Dean wasn’t sure where he was or what century he was living in. Instead of the usual feelings of thrumming anticipation, of hurdling towards each other and a moment, what Dean got shook him. Shook what soul he had left.
Everything, everything, the angel had ever seen in his millennia on Earth was now filtered through the hunter’s human eyes. Centuries of history, of torture, of learning and science and the helpless knowledge that was contained deep down every time Castiel thought about how he just couldn’t intercede. Dean saw the fall of the library at Alexandria, watched it be torn down by Christian rebels who burned every scroll and spat upon the ground. He felt Castiel’s grave satisfaction, and it made Dean sick and bloomed in his stomach and tightened his jaw. Then, he was standing in the snow, gazing impassively downwards. Smoke, a tiny fire. Twigs. A small Pict child squirming and crying under the hands of a Roman soldier. The soldier’s grunts and Castiel’s anger. The bells of a French monastery being built in Provence, surrounded by fields of swaying lavender. - Castiel felt pride so Dean felt it too.
Dean broke off, broke away, with his eyes wide open. He scrambled back and away from the angel, pushing him away. He didn’t mean to be so rough. He didn’t mean to act so scared.
“The hell was that, Cas?” Dean pressed his palms into his eyes. He didn’t care, was bloody already.
Castiel said nothing, because really, there weren’t any words left.
The angel leaned close, his breath dusting over the stubble on Dean’s cheek. He rested his palms flat against the bed, his whole body angled strangely in a desperate attempt to regain that closeness. The soul closeness, the I-pulled-you-out-of-Hell closeness.
“Dean…”
The hunter stood abruptly, letting the angel catch himself as he nearly fell forward. Dean paced the panic room then, listening to the baying of the Hellhounds not far off. He could smell their bellowing breath, hot on his skin. It was only a matter of time, and time wasn’t on their side. He knew how long those dogs would wait. His throat went dry, but he forced himself to speak.
“No,” he stated simply. “Not now.”
Pressing Castiel’s tie to his forehead then pulling it away, he noticed that the bleeding had mostly stopped. It hadn’t fully, probably wouldn’t for a while, but it was enough. He threw the tie back onto the mattress. Promised himself he’d buy Cas a new one. And Dean made an effort to push his fear where he couldn’t reach it, and pull the angel up by his wrists.
Castiel stood, head tilted slightly upwards to study the hunter’s face.
“When?” he asked simply.
Dean would have kissed the angel if he knew how without being scared. He would have crushed him (as much as he could crush an angel) to his chest. His hands would have grabbed ahold of Cas’ hair and hipbones and forearms and Dean didn’t want to think about what he would see next. But he couldn’t stop himself, and he found himself smiling.
“When you can show me peace.”
Cas’ lips pressed together and tilted upwards right back at Dean.
“I can show you Jerusalem”, he said.
“Sure,” Dean replied, turning away and popping the magazine back into his pistol. Not that he would need it, with an angel as his guard. “Jerusalem works just fine.”
Fin.
Author: selforan
Recipient: krhlvsdestiel
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Cas, mentions of Sam.
Genre: angst, h/c, fluffy at the end.
Warnings: Vague references to violence.
Rating: PG-13
Prompts Used: Bobby's panic room, Hellhounds.
Word Count: 1,589
Summary: Castiel fixes up Dean, and Dean gets a little more understanding.
It was, of course, the safest place for them to go. The only place for them to go. It was the only safe haven in a world filled with monsters and ghosts and the absolutely paralyzing terror that came with the knowledge that you don’t really know yourself after all.
Dean was bleeding badly from a cut in his forehead, and one that had split the skin of his torso in half like a filet of raw meat. Cas knew, innately knew, that the sharp end of one of Dean’s ribs was poking into his right lung, although Dean would never admit it.
“C’mon Cas,” Dean wheezed, trying to hide how labored his breath was, “Really, I’m fine. That mutt will be long gone if we stay here.”
“That Hellhound punctured your lung, Dean. We cannot leave.”
Cas had mojo’d them in his usual way directly outside of Bobby’s panic room door, something which Dean found himself impressed with. The angel propped Dean up as the hunter rubbed his hand weakly across one of the angel-proofing sigils that adorned the wall, enabling the two men to get inside.
Dean struggled, because he was Dean Winchester, damnit, and he didn’t go down without a fight. Even if giving up meant saving his own life.
It was the point, really. It was just what he did, but deep down inside he knew that he was never going to be any match for the angel carrying him.
Castiel really had a habit of carrying him, didn’t he?
Safe, Dean thought, against his better judgment. Now, there was a word the eldest Winchester didn’t like to think about. Too risky. Still, he caught himself repeating it like a mantra as the angel laid Dean down on the creaky bed. Safe. Cas. Safe.
Dean also didn’t want to think about the hours Sam had been chained up here. Screaming. Hallucinating. So he didn’t. He really didn’t. He just focused instead on the blue eyes flickering in and out of his vision right above him. From somewhere far away, he felt the angel’s hands tentatively move his shirt up above the waistline of his jeans, and he shivered. If he would have been lucid and not in agonizing pain, he would have noticed that his skin prickled and tingled wherever Cas’ skin touched his. Goddamn if he’d ever admit it though.
Again, Winchester.
“I’m going to heal you now, Dean.”
Castiel’s voice was grave.
Dean moaned weakly.
Truly, the angel wasn’t sure if he was even capable of healing anymore, even a minor injury such as this. The angel fought off memories of smiting demons without blinking, of standing on the fields of heaven, dressed in armor shining, his shield poised in front of him…
Where is the warrior now? He pushed the question downward, to a place in his chest he didn’t want to think about, much less feel, and focused on the slow burn of his Grace moving towards his palms.
He rested his palms on the hunter’s chest, keeping the pressure light. Dean’s skin was slick with a thin sheen of sweat, and his breath was becoming even shallower. Cas wasn’t sure how long he could keep the hunter alive if he wasn’t able to heal him. If he could keep him alive at all.
Castiel focused, pressed his eyes shut tight. His grace spread downward, burning through Jimmy’s veins. It flowed out from the center of the angel’s sternum, pulsing as it moved its way down his forearms, spreading outwards from the tips of his fingertips. From there it crept quickly, as cracks do in ice, through the hunter’s muscles, his joints, his bones. It radiated and glowed, Dean glowed, from the inside out, and the tendrils of light wrapped themselves around his ribs, sewing them back into place and sealing his lung.
Dean gasped, his whole body arching upward and eyes flying open.
Castiel tested out the muscles that lay underneath Jimmy’s skin, next to his mouth. They stretched upward, and the angel smiled.
“You will be fine, Dean.”
The hunter sat up, rubbing a hand across his forehead and still feeling the cut and the blood staining his face. He knew from experience, years of it, that head wounds bled a lot but usually weren’t deep enough to cause any serious harm. He couldn’t feel bone, and his arrogance told him he would be fine.
“Cas, uh, my face is still bleeding.”
Silence.
In a jerky motion and out of practice, Cas stripped off his tie. He had probably never taken the damn thing off before. Dean flicked his eyes downwards and noticed that Cas’ hand was shaking, but looked away anyways. It seemed too fragile of a moment to recognize. The angel pressed his tie against the cut on Dean’s forehead, the blue fabric quickly becoming soaked with blood.
Dean would later blame his next words on the blood-loss. No, really, he would.
The real explanation was too scary. And definitely not something he wanted to discuss, then or at any other point in his existence. After it, even.
But the words spilled out anyways between his lips that weren’t pressed tight enough to keep them in.
“Your tie…I think you’re going to have to use your shirt.”
Castiel’s eyes widened, making him look all of five years old and trapped in a grown up body and seeing a spaceship for the first time. Then, they narrowed. Dean pressed on, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the bed.
“Or, ya know…mine. Both. I don’t really care.”
It only took a moment before Castiel had pushed him up into a sitting position against the headboard, and Dean fought with himself to decide if the angel looked pissed, or turned on. His guess was the latter, seeing as how quickly Cas was sitting his lap. He was damn near splayed across him. Dean swallowed.
Neither of them moved, for a very long time. Then, there was the brushing of hands, the brushing of lips. The clashing of teeth and Dean wasn’t sure where he was or what century he was living in. Instead of the usual feelings of thrumming anticipation, of hurdling towards each other and a moment, what Dean got shook him. Shook what soul he had left.
Everything, everything, the angel had ever seen in his millennia on Earth was now filtered through the hunter’s human eyes. Centuries of history, of torture, of learning and science and the helpless knowledge that was contained deep down every time Castiel thought about how he just couldn’t intercede. Dean saw the fall of the library at Alexandria, watched it be torn down by Christian rebels who burned every scroll and spat upon the ground. He felt Castiel’s grave satisfaction, and it made Dean sick and bloomed in his stomach and tightened his jaw. Then, he was standing in the snow, gazing impassively downwards. Smoke, a tiny fire. Twigs. A small Pict child squirming and crying under the hands of a Roman soldier. The soldier’s grunts and Castiel’s anger. The bells of a French monastery being built in Provence, surrounded by fields of swaying lavender. - Castiel felt pride so Dean felt it too.
Dean broke off, broke away, with his eyes wide open. He scrambled back and away from the angel, pushing him away. He didn’t mean to be so rough. He didn’t mean to act so scared.
“The hell was that, Cas?” Dean pressed his palms into his eyes. He didn’t care, was bloody already.
Castiel said nothing, because really, there weren’t any words left.
The angel leaned close, his breath dusting over the stubble on Dean’s cheek. He rested his palms flat against the bed, his whole body angled strangely in a desperate attempt to regain that closeness. The soul closeness, the I-pulled-you-out-of-Hell closeness.
“Dean…”
The hunter stood abruptly, letting the angel catch himself as he nearly fell forward. Dean paced the panic room then, listening to the baying of the Hellhounds not far off. He could smell their bellowing breath, hot on his skin. It was only a matter of time, and time wasn’t on their side. He knew how long those dogs would wait. His throat went dry, but he forced himself to speak.
“No,” he stated simply. “Not now.”
Pressing Castiel’s tie to his forehead then pulling it away, he noticed that the bleeding had mostly stopped. It hadn’t fully, probably wouldn’t for a while, but it was enough. He threw the tie back onto the mattress. Promised himself he’d buy Cas a new one. And Dean made an effort to push his fear where he couldn’t reach it, and pull the angel up by his wrists.
Castiel stood, head tilted slightly upwards to study the hunter’s face.
“When?” he asked simply.
Dean would have kissed the angel if he knew how without being scared. He would have crushed him (as much as he could crush an angel) to his chest. His hands would have grabbed ahold of Cas’ hair and hipbones and forearms and Dean didn’t want to think about what he would see next. But he couldn’t stop himself, and he found himself smiling.
“When you can show me peace.”
Cas’ lips pressed together and tilted upwards right back at Dean.
“I can show you Jerusalem”, he said.
“Sure,” Dean replied, turning away and popping the magazine back into his pistol. Not that he would need it, with an angel as his guard. “Jerusalem works just fine.”
Fin.