Ziploc (Household Objects, Chapter 1 of ?)
Title: Ziploc (Household Objects, Chapter 1 of ?)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, R overall
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing, angel sex, ridiculous porn titles
Word Count: 2100 (this chapter); ~30,000 total
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange, malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there to help, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: Think I have enough I can start posting this now. Continued under cut.
Notes: This doesn't take place anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Although this story falls loosely under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later. Also, I know damn well Cas said his true form was big as the Chrysler building, but I'm gonna ignore that, or pretend the boy was exaggerating. Lastly the title is from an unfinished Pink Floyd project (don't sweat it, you have to be heavily into the Floyd to recognize it).
Here’s how our story begins: two boys in a hotel room. And a cardboard box full of Ziploc bags.
Bags in bags in bags.
Dean Winchester scowled. No, he glowered. He wished he had some of his buddy Castiel's angel mojo, so he could point his fingers and zap stuff.
Or maybe laser beam eyes! Like a cool giant robot.
But no amount of wishing was going to stop his brother, Sam, from his anal retentive packing routine. Here’s how it went. First Sam would place some small object, like a sample size waxed cinnamon dental floss, or a half-squeezed tube of Crest toothpaste, into a Ziploc bag, and then he would flip it around and carefully press out the air before he sealed the bag. And then he would put that bag inside another bag and repeat the process.
As if the dental floss were poised to spring out and take over Sam's luggage! Dean sneered.
Although given their lifestyle, Dean was forced to admit, it could happen. The floss monster!
Dean was saddened that his mental chastisement was proving (as it always proved) ineffective.
And then Sam ceased packing. And looked up.
Dean dared not hope.
Sam held up an empty cardboard Ziploc box. “I'm out of Ziplocs,” he observed.
“Yeah, I can see that,” sighed Dean.
Sam, still oblivious to Dean's awesome mental powers, grabbed the car keys. Dean's car keys.
“What are you doing, Sammy?”
“Going out to get more bags!” chirped Sam.
“You're not.... You're not done packing yet?” pleaded Dean.
“Just a few more bags. And I'm almost outta floss. And then we can get outta here!” called Sam, who was already halfway out the door.
Dean listened to the door slam, to Sam's retreating footsteps, to the sure sound of Baby firing up and pulling out.
He sat for a time on the threadbare twin bed, looking around the ratty motel room, and contemplating his brother's half packed luggage. He swore they would never get out of this fucking motel room until they were both eligible for social security.
He thought about switching on the television. Local news was always depressing, but maybe he could click around and find a Dr. Sexy, MD rerun somewhere. They always replayed that crap on TNT.
He was rummaging around for the remote control when the angel fell into his lap.
“Cas! Hey!” said Dean, steadying him, joyful to be in the presence of a being who was not obsessed with plastic zipper bags.
“Dean,” said Castiel weakly.
“Hey, you OK?” asked Dean, helping Cas to sit on the bed next to him. He seemed kind of shaky and ill. “Are you sick or something?” Dean asked, his mind touching on some kind of exotic celestial flu.
“I am injured, Dean.” Cas wrapped his arms around himself, seeming to retreat deeply into the trench coat.
“Oh, crap! Well, Sam is gonna be back soon with more dental floss. And plastic bags,” Dean sighed.
“No.... No, it's not that. It's not my vessel.”
“It's not?”
“I have.... I have a broken wing, Dean,” Castiel whispered.
Dean arched an eyebrow, looking but of course not seeing what wasn't visible on Castiel's back, at least not in this plane of existence. The wing was part of the scary true form that made your eyeballs melt from just thinking about it.
“You got a broken wing?” asked Dean. For some reason, he had the urge to go out and get a shoebox. A really big shoebox. And a heating pad.
“Yes, Dean,” said Castiel. His voice had a strange catch to it. He sounded so forlorn.
Dean stifled the smile, wondering if he should call Sammy’s cell and ask him to pick up a heating pad. “You OK to get around and stuff?”
“My vessel is unharmed,” Castiel repeated. “But.... I can't fly. I....” Cas looked up at Dean, eyes red-rimmed. “I might never fly again.” Cas looked down, pushing back on the bed, crossing his legs underneath him, hugging his knees.
“Hey, you'll be fine,” said Dean, patting his friend on the back. “Is there anything we can do? I mean, are you in pain?” He thought about phoning Sam and asking him he needed to buy up every bottle of Ibuprophen in the drug store. Well, it would serve him right for the damn Ziplocs.
“No. I am not in pain. But I am weakened, in this state,” said Cas. “My grace … My 'angel mojo?' It's all going to heal my wing now. To attempt to heal....” Here Cas got droopy again. “It's draining away all my magic. Almost all of it. And I can't fly, so I can’t get around like I usually do. I'm not sure what to do.” Now the eyes were on Dean, two big baby blue pools of concern. Was Cas actually crying?
Dean smiled, suddenly realizing he could deal with this. That was a clear “Sammy has a scraped knee” look if he’d ever seen one. He decided to go all big brother on this angel guy's ass. He leaned over and grabbed a Kleenex from the bedside table. “No worries,” said handing the tissue to Cas, who looked confused. “Blow!” ordered Dean. Castiel obligingly sneezed into the Kleenex.
“You're OK. You just hang with us while you're on the mend. Seriously, this will be great! Sam's been getting on my fucking nerves with everything lately. And it's probably the same for him. It'll be cool. We'll have someone else around to break the tension.”
“Dean.” Dean looked down to see Cas was grabbing his knee, the angel's knuckles white as Sam's Crest toothpaste. “Please don't tell Sam about this!”
“Huh? Why not? We've both had broken bones before.”
“I shouldn't even have told you,” moped the angel. “You don't understand. This is....” Castiel lowered his voice. “This is a great shame,” he whispered.
“What? Aren't you angel guys soldiers?”
“We are soldiers for the Lord,” Castiel nodded solemnly, biting his lip.
“Soldiers get wounded. That's what happens. And it's honorable! So, don't even,” said Dean.
“Don't even...? Don’t even what, Dean?”
“Just concentrate on getting better!” Dean squinted at Castiel, a question forming. “Hey, how did you get hurt, anyway?”
Castiel sat back, looking thoughtful. “I … I don't know,” he finally admitted.
“You hit your head?” asked Dean. “I mean, I assume your true form has a head, right?”
“This is very worrisome, Dean. I don’t remember. I just remember the feeling of falling, and a terrible pain in my wing, and that I needed to land somewhere....”
“Well, you did right, you came here.”
“Dean, you don't understand. I could be in danger! I could put you in danger! Something might be hunting me. And I'm too weak to protect you.” Cas was standing up now, still shaky on his feet. He tossed the tissue down onto the bed. “I shouldn't have come. I'm putting you in harm's way. I'm supposed to be your guardian.”
Dean was up with him, hands on Castiel's shoulders. He reached over and retrieved the Kleenex. “Blow.”
“I already blew!”
“Blow again,” ordered Dean. “All right,” he said, as Castiel once again sniffled into the tissue. “Here's what happened. You just used your bit of last angel juice to zap yourself here....”
“Angel juice?” asked Castiel.
“You did right, you came to your family. We'll take care of you. Decision's been made.”
“But what if-”
“I just said, the decision's been made. Whatever happens, we'll deal.”
Castiel nodded, although he didn't look altogether happy.
“And right now, your job is to keep me from fucking strangling Sammy!” said Dean.
“Why would you do that, Dean?” asked Castiel, who stared at him in horror.
“He packs bags inside of bags!” said Dean, gesturing at Sam's luggage. He grabbed a plastic bag. “Look! Exhibit A! Why do you need two Ziplocs over the dental floss? Is it gonna jump out and strangle you?”
“Ziploc bags … have driven you to murderous intentions?” asked Castiel.
“Oh, and you know something else? You now what else? He whistles in the morning!”
“Um. Yes?” said Castiel. Dean pointed, and Cas heard the sound of a tuneless whistle from outside the room.
The key rattled in the lock and Sam marched in, wielding a paper bag. Bags inside a paper bag, thought Dean.
“Oh, hey Cas!” said Sam.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Cas is gonna be hanging with us today,” said Dean.
“OK. Cool,” said Sam. “I just got a little bit more packing.”
Dean rolled his eyes at Cas. But the angel's presence, to Dean's relief, seemed to facilitate the packing process, at least this morning, and so Sam and Dean and Cas and Sam's many many many creepy plastic bags were soon down the motel stairs to the parking lot.
“Shotgun!” yelled Sam, grabbing the passenger seat.
“Sorry?” asked Castiel.
“You're supposed to yell, 'Shotgun!'” smiled Dean, patting Cas on the shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.”
And so that's how the story begins.
Almost....
There were two of them, sitting on the motel roof.
One was big; the other, even bigger.
The second one was actually causing the motel foundation to crack a little. The owner would find out about this in a few months time, and get stuck with a hefty repair bill.
The bigger one was sitting serenely, fat buddha style, tail neatly wrapped around his chubby, clawed legs.
His friend was more agitated, shifting position, irritably giving his wings a flap.
Fortunately, none of the motel residents could see the pair. Fortunately for the residents, as the two crouching beings were true formed angels, and would have caused the usual eye-melting, eardrum-bleeding, freaking out insanity true formed angels tend to sow.
“We let him go? Castiel?” fretted the flapping one, his feathers fluffing everywhere.
“Them's the orders,” rumbled his friend. Even for an angel he had a terribly deep and rumbly voice. More rumbly still than Darth Vader when he wakes up in the morning.
“Shouldn't we smite him? Smite them all!” The agitated angel was a big fan of smiting.
“He is with the Winchesters,” explained his deep voiced pal. The very end of his tail switched slightly.
“The humans? Wenceslas?” asked the flapper, scratching his beak in confusion.
“Winchesters. Yes. We are not to reveal ourselves to humans yet. And most definitely not to any Winchesters.”
“What's wrong with smiting them? They are tiny. They would make a nice splat. A nice tidy splat. And Castiel is weak. So weak. We could yank his little wings off.”
“We will. In time. My friend.” And the deep voiced angel smiled a very nasty smile. “We will finish what we started. But not yet. Not quite yet.”
“Ugh,” said the (comparatively) littler one.
“What is it?”
“Not used to this body yet. Tight in the shoulders,” complained the beaked one.
“Let’s go.”
And so they took wing, the big one gliding on his six enormous wings like a stately airship. The little one, who was still terrifyingly big, flapped his four wings, flying after him.
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/115256.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, R overall
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing, angel sex, ridiculous porn titles
Word Count: 2100 (this chapter); ~30,000 total
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange, malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there to help, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: Think I have enough I can start posting this now. Continued under cut.
Notes: This doesn't take place anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Although this story falls loosely under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later. Also, I know damn well Cas said his true form was big as the Chrysler building, but I'm gonna ignore that, or pretend the boy was exaggerating. Lastly the title is from an unfinished Pink Floyd project (don't sweat it, you have to be heavily into the Floyd to recognize it).
Here’s how our story begins: two boys in a hotel room. And a cardboard box full of Ziploc bags.
Bags in bags in bags.
Dean Winchester scowled. No, he glowered. He wished he had some of his buddy Castiel's angel mojo, so he could point his fingers and zap stuff.
Or maybe laser beam eyes! Like a cool giant robot.
But no amount of wishing was going to stop his brother, Sam, from his anal retentive packing routine. Here’s how it went. First Sam would place some small object, like a sample size waxed cinnamon dental floss, or a half-squeezed tube of Crest toothpaste, into a Ziploc bag, and then he would flip it around and carefully press out the air before he sealed the bag. And then he would put that bag inside another bag and repeat the process.
As if the dental floss were poised to spring out and take over Sam's luggage! Dean sneered.
Although given their lifestyle, Dean was forced to admit, it could happen. The floss monster!
Dean was saddened that his mental chastisement was proving (as it always proved) ineffective.
And then Sam ceased packing. And looked up.
Dean dared not hope.
Sam held up an empty cardboard Ziploc box. “I'm out of Ziplocs,” he observed.
“Yeah, I can see that,” sighed Dean.
Sam, still oblivious to Dean's awesome mental powers, grabbed the car keys. Dean's car keys.
“What are you doing, Sammy?”
“Going out to get more bags!” chirped Sam.
“You're not.... You're not done packing yet?” pleaded Dean.
“Just a few more bags. And I'm almost outta floss. And then we can get outta here!” called Sam, who was already halfway out the door.
Dean listened to the door slam, to Sam's retreating footsteps, to the sure sound of Baby firing up and pulling out.
He sat for a time on the threadbare twin bed, looking around the ratty motel room, and contemplating his brother's half packed luggage. He swore they would never get out of this fucking motel room until they were both eligible for social security.
He thought about switching on the television. Local news was always depressing, but maybe he could click around and find a Dr. Sexy, MD rerun somewhere. They always replayed that crap on TNT.
He was rummaging around for the remote control when the angel fell into his lap.
“Cas! Hey!” said Dean, steadying him, joyful to be in the presence of a being who was not obsessed with plastic zipper bags.
“Dean,” said Castiel weakly.
“Hey, you OK?” asked Dean, helping Cas to sit on the bed next to him. He seemed kind of shaky and ill. “Are you sick or something?” Dean asked, his mind touching on some kind of exotic celestial flu.
“I am injured, Dean.” Cas wrapped his arms around himself, seeming to retreat deeply into the trench coat.
“Oh, crap! Well, Sam is gonna be back soon with more dental floss. And plastic bags,” Dean sighed.
“No.... No, it's not that. It's not my vessel.”
“It's not?”
“I have.... I have a broken wing, Dean,” Castiel whispered.
Dean arched an eyebrow, looking but of course not seeing what wasn't visible on Castiel's back, at least not in this plane of existence. The wing was part of the scary true form that made your eyeballs melt from just thinking about it.
“You got a broken wing?” asked Dean. For some reason, he had the urge to go out and get a shoebox. A really big shoebox. And a heating pad.
“Yes, Dean,” said Castiel. His voice had a strange catch to it. He sounded so forlorn.
Dean stifled the smile, wondering if he should call Sammy’s cell and ask him to pick up a heating pad. “You OK to get around and stuff?”
“My vessel is unharmed,” Castiel repeated. “But.... I can't fly. I....” Cas looked up at Dean, eyes red-rimmed. “I might never fly again.” Cas looked down, pushing back on the bed, crossing his legs underneath him, hugging his knees.
“Hey, you'll be fine,” said Dean, patting his friend on the back. “Is there anything we can do? I mean, are you in pain?” He thought about phoning Sam and asking him he needed to buy up every bottle of Ibuprophen in the drug store. Well, it would serve him right for the damn Ziplocs.
“No. I am not in pain. But I am weakened, in this state,” said Cas. “My grace … My 'angel mojo?' It's all going to heal my wing now. To attempt to heal....” Here Cas got droopy again. “It's draining away all my magic. Almost all of it. And I can't fly, so I can’t get around like I usually do. I'm not sure what to do.” Now the eyes were on Dean, two big baby blue pools of concern. Was Cas actually crying?
Dean smiled, suddenly realizing he could deal with this. That was a clear “Sammy has a scraped knee” look if he’d ever seen one. He decided to go all big brother on this angel guy's ass. He leaned over and grabbed a Kleenex from the bedside table. “No worries,” said handing the tissue to Cas, who looked confused. “Blow!” ordered Dean. Castiel obligingly sneezed into the Kleenex.
“You're OK. You just hang with us while you're on the mend. Seriously, this will be great! Sam's been getting on my fucking nerves with everything lately. And it's probably the same for him. It'll be cool. We'll have someone else around to break the tension.”
“Dean.” Dean looked down to see Cas was grabbing his knee, the angel's knuckles white as Sam's Crest toothpaste. “Please don't tell Sam about this!”
“Huh? Why not? We've both had broken bones before.”
“I shouldn't even have told you,” moped the angel. “You don't understand. This is....” Castiel lowered his voice. “This is a great shame,” he whispered.
“What? Aren't you angel guys soldiers?”
“We are soldiers for the Lord,” Castiel nodded solemnly, biting his lip.
“Soldiers get wounded. That's what happens. And it's honorable! So, don't even,” said Dean.
“Don't even...? Don’t even what, Dean?”
“Just concentrate on getting better!” Dean squinted at Castiel, a question forming. “Hey, how did you get hurt, anyway?”
Castiel sat back, looking thoughtful. “I … I don't know,” he finally admitted.
“You hit your head?” asked Dean. “I mean, I assume your true form has a head, right?”
“This is very worrisome, Dean. I don’t remember. I just remember the feeling of falling, and a terrible pain in my wing, and that I needed to land somewhere....”
“Well, you did right, you came here.”
“Dean, you don't understand. I could be in danger! I could put you in danger! Something might be hunting me. And I'm too weak to protect you.” Cas was standing up now, still shaky on his feet. He tossed the tissue down onto the bed. “I shouldn't have come. I'm putting you in harm's way. I'm supposed to be your guardian.”
Dean was up with him, hands on Castiel's shoulders. He reached over and retrieved the Kleenex. “Blow.”
“I already blew!”
“Blow again,” ordered Dean. “All right,” he said, as Castiel once again sniffled into the tissue. “Here's what happened. You just used your bit of last angel juice to zap yourself here....”
“Angel juice?” asked Castiel.
“You did right, you came to your family. We'll take care of you. Decision's been made.”
“But what if-”
“I just said, the decision's been made. Whatever happens, we'll deal.”
Castiel nodded, although he didn't look altogether happy.
“And right now, your job is to keep me from fucking strangling Sammy!” said Dean.
“Why would you do that, Dean?” asked Castiel, who stared at him in horror.
“He packs bags inside of bags!” said Dean, gesturing at Sam's luggage. He grabbed a plastic bag. “Look! Exhibit A! Why do you need two Ziplocs over the dental floss? Is it gonna jump out and strangle you?”
“Ziploc bags … have driven you to murderous intentions?” asked Castiel.
“Oh, and you know something else? You now what else? He whistles in the morning!”
“Um. Yes?” said Castiel. Dean pointed, and Cas heard the sound of a tuneless whistle from outside the room.
The key rattled in the lock and Sam marched in, wielding a paper bag. Bags inside a paper bag, thought Dean.
“Oh, hey Cas!” said Sam.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Cas is gonna be hanging with us today,” said Dean.
“OK. Cool,” said Sam. “I just got a little bit more packing.”
Dean rolled his eyes at Cas. But the angel's presence, to Dean's relief, seemed to facilitate the packing process, at least this morning, and so Sam and Dean and Cas and Sam's many many many creepy plastic bags were soon down the motel stairs to the parking lot.
“Shotgun!” yelled Sam, grabbing the passenger seat.
“Sorry?” asked Castiel.
“You're supposed to yell, 'Shotgun!'” smiled Dean, patting Cas on the shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.”
And so that's how the story begins.
Almost....
There were two of them, sitting on the motel roof.
One was big; the other, even bigger.
The second one was actually causing the motel foundation to crack a little. The owner would find out about this in a few months time, and get stuck with a hefty repair bill.
The bigger one was sitting serenely, fat buddha style, tail neatly wrapped around his chubby, clawed legs.
His friend was more agitated, shifting position, irritably giving his wings a flap.
Fortunately, none of the motel residents could see the pair. Fortunately for the residents, as the two crouching beings were true formed angels, and would have caused the usual eye-melting, eardrum-bleeding, freaking out insanity true formed angels tend to sow.
“We let him go? Castiel?” fretted the flapping one, his feathers fluffing everywhere.
“Them's the orders,” rumbled his friend. Even for an angel he had a terribly deep and rumbly voice. More rumbly still than Darth Vader when he wakes up in the morning.
“Shouldn't we smite him? Smite them all!” The agitated angel was a big fan of smiting.
“He is with the Winchesters,” explained his deep voiced pal. The very end of his tail switched slightly.
“The humans? Wenceslas?” asked the flapper, scratching his beak in confusion.
“Winchesters. Yes. We are not to reveal ourselves to humans yet. And most definitely not to any Winchesters.”
“What's wrong with smiting them? They are tiny. They would make a nice splat. A nice tidy splat. And Castiel is weak. So weak. We could yank his little wings off.”
“We will. In time. My friend.” And the deep voiced angel smiled a very nasty smile. “We will finish what we started. But not yet. Not quite yet.”
“Ugh,” said the (comparatively) littler one.
“What is it?”
“Not used to this body yet. Tight in the shoulders,” complained the beaked one.
“Let’s go.”
And so they took wing, the big one gliding on his six enormous wings like a stately airship. The little one, who was still terrifyingly big, flapped his four wings, flying after him.
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/115256.html. Please comment there using OpenID.