[Leaving Bobby's was one of the hardest things that Castiel has ever had to do, but it was clear there was no longer a place there for him, no more room at the inn for another wayward son. If watching the angels, his own brothers and sisters, fight to the death in Heaven was unbearable, then he isn't sure what the word would be to describe this. He still considers them family even if they don't and that will never change
( ... )
[He's sure he imagines it, the sudden appearance of Castiel. He's so certain this is all a figment of his own mind, that he doesn't protest when the angel pulls him up, despite the way his stomach's cramping, the way his bones feel heavy and full of lead. He groans a little, low and under his breath, leans into the comforting heat, the familiar presence because he can't quite remember why he wouldn't.]
I can -. [Dean's voice is croaky all of a sudden, dull and sharp all at the same time, differing along his words as his fingers curl unbidden in the angel's trenchcoat.] I think m'really sick. I don't - I don't want to.
[Whatever it is he doesn't want to do is lost by the way he slumps forward, against Castiel's side, forehead falling to his shoulder. He's still conscious but his breathing's heavy, a little desperate.] Crap.
[The worry written across the angel's borrowed features has never been so prominent. If he can't heal Dean, then he doubts there's any human science that can. He knows that this is wrong, that if the human were in any other state he would be fighting him off rather than hanging from him. But he needs help even if he can't currently offer it, and he isn't willing to walk away and leave him here to suffer alone.]
What do you need, Dean? Tell me what you need. Please. [He doesn't try to hide the cracks in his voice, holds onto Dean with a firm grip so he doesn't let him fall, and he wonders what to do. The Impala will have to wait, there's no time, but he doesn't know where to take him.] What did this? What were you fighting, Dean?
Something big. [Dean's barely keeping it together, forehead still pressed into Castiel's shoulder like a child seeking comfort from someone they care about. He's practically leaning his entire weight on the angel now, limbs still week and movement unco-ordinated.] Really big. Kinda - sss - slimy.
[He holds up his arm where there's a tear in his shirt but the skin underneath it is no longer marked, like it's healed over.] Scratched me. It's dead n-now. Killed it.
Comments 26
Reply
I can -. [Dean's voice is croaky all of a sudden, dull and sharp all at the same time, differing along his words as his fingers curl unbidden in the angel's trenchcoat.] I think m'really sick. I don't - I don't want to.
[Whatever it is he doesn't want to do is lost by the way he slumps forward, against Castiel's side, forehead falling to his shoulder. He's still conscious but his breathing's heavy, a little desperate.] Crap.
Reply
What do you need, Dean? Tell me what you need. Please. [He doesn't try to hide the cracks in his voice, holds onto Dean with a firm grip so he doesn't let him fall, and he wonders what to do. The Impala will have to wait, there's no time, but he doesn't know where to take him.] What did this? What were you fighting, Dean?
Reply
[He holds up his arm where there's a tear in his shirt but the skin underneath it is no longer marked, like it's healed over.] Scratched me. It's dead n-now. Killed it.
Reply
Leave a comment