The Heroes have finished their journeys; with the castle clear and Hyrule hopeful, they're content... until they see the Champions of Old in desperate need of aid. None of them hesitate.
The Calamity never rests, but neither do the Heroes.
aka: Age of Calamity, in the Accursed Heroes AU. What does that entail? Come find out!
READ ON AO3 HERE!
NOTICE: This fic was written by a real life flesh-and-blood human. Use of my work to train AI is prohibited. I hate generative AI and if you use it I hate you too. Got that? Good.
01 .. white feather fletching
A swift blur of white surges between her and the beast. “Not this time!”
Warnings: none, really. implied child neglect?
02 .. seeing red
What the heck is a fish doing on Death Mountain?
Warnings: none
03 .. golden girl
Goddesses above, he's just been saved by a little girl.
Warnings: none
04 .. sandstone
“Don’t you guys ever get sick of gettin’ your tails kicked?!"
Warnings: none
05 .. on the road
Robbie places a hand to a strange machine on the tabletop, flicking up his goggles to stare at Saki. “Now, you are an enigma."
Warnings: none
Added my own little summaries for the love of the game. Eats all these fics
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
A Father's Heart -- broken_cloverFandom: Sly Cooper -- Rating: G -- No Archive Warnings Apply -- Complete -- Sly's wounded and feverish. The Panda King provides unexpected comfort.
Faulty Manufacturing -- inkandpaperqwerty
Fandom: Supernatural -- Rating: G -- No Archive Warnings Apply -- Complete -- Castiel tries to remember something. It's not going well.
Knuckles Goes to the Doctor (Series) or Whumptober 2025 or Year of the Echidna-- Sendatsu
Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog Cinematic Unvierse -- Ratings: G-T -- Warnings Vary -- A beautifully-written Knuckles goes through all sorts of situations. Friends and fiends and families, oh my!
mama can you die from a broken heart -- nevermore evermoreFandom: Fantasy High -- Rating: T -- No Archive Warnings Apply --Complete -- Hallariel Seacaster relapses. Jawbone picks up the pieces.
Mary on a (Mary on a Cross) -- orderly
Fandom: Project Hail Mary, Iron Lung -- Rating: Mature -- Graphic Depictions of Violence -- WIP -- Grace and Rocky find a wounded, delirious, mutated Convict.
Retribution -- yellowhordeFandom: Supernatural -- Rating: E -- Rape/Non-con -- W.I.P. -- Raphael catches up with Castiel and the Winchesters.
The Damage is More Than Physical -- Transformersfan123
Fandom: Ratchet & Clank -- Rating: T -- No Archive Warnings Apply --Complete -- Secret Agent Clank keeps secrets from even himself. Aaand has some PTSD about it.
to feel (your pain) -- BloodyBrokenAngel
Fandom: Supernatural -- Rating: M -- Graphic Depictions of Violence -- Complete -- Castiel pushes himself too hard healing the Winchesters.
And, last and perhaps least, any of these fics tee hee.
"And I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here. Bobby and I have a hunt to run and Sam can't come with us. I'm not praying for a babysitter— just glance at him once or twice."
Castiel shakes his head, torn between fondness and annoyance.
notes: this one is small and silly bc im working on a big secret whump fic in the bg teehee
read on ao3 here!
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
The door creaks open; Castiel strides inside carefully, avoiding the two tripwires in the entryway. "Sam?" He inches into the living room.
"Hi, Cass," a rough voice greets. Even hunched over, hands braced on the desk, Sam stands a significant amount over Castiel. A real moose of a man, Crowley would say. "Did Dean send you?"
"He requested I check on you, yes."
"I don't need a babysitter," Sam groans, shaking his head.
"He was very specific about this not being babysitting," Castiel responds. He watches Sam sway dangerously, tilting his head. "Perhaps you should sit down."
"I'm okay," Sam mumbles lowly, "Just dizzy."
Castiel guides Sam back to the couch with a steady hand; the human complains under his breath, but doesn't pull away. Cass sits him back down gently. "It feels unwise to be spinning in your condition."
Sam's eyes unfocus, considering. "I wasn't spinning."
"You said you were dizzy," Castiel hums. He's not great at the whole comforting-people thing, and without his abilities he can't heal Sam, but he can... supply a blanket. And perhaps heat a can of soup, as Dean had done for him once. "Is that not what happens when humans spin around too much?"
"I mean, yeah," Sam mumbles. He blinks languidly, pursing his lips. "But sometimes when we're sick it just... happens." He tilts his head back against the couch. "Probably a reason. Couldn't tell you what it was."
"Your bodies are so fascinating," Castiel huffs, almost laughing. He pulls a comforter around Sam's shoulders and watches him melt into the warmth. "You make mucus and you overheat. Those are your defense mechanisms."
"Alright, tough guy," Sam mumbles. He's already dozing, words blurring together. "What do Angels do when they get sick?"
"We don't."
He drawls out a hum, brows furrowing. "That's not fair."
Castiel, doing his best human sympathy impression, pats Sam on the head.
...
He is an Angel of the Lord. He has commanded armies, withstood the harshest of tortures, stood in the way of Archangels. He can do anything! He is Castiel!
He will not be thwarted by... by a micro-wave!
Foolish human hot-box. If he had his powers, he could heat the soup with his Grace. It would be faster and probably safer. Instead he is stuck trying to figure out why the micro-wave seems to be quite desperate to explode.
He'd attempted to microwave the whole can (seemed like the logical solution) and had immediately stopped it when it'd begun to spit sparks. He'd spooned it into a bowl and put the bowl in the microwave and it had sparked again. He'd tried one of the bowls Bobby put on the stove. He'd tried taking out the spoon. He'd tried the can again, in case the soup was somehow territorial.
Sam's groggy voice interrupts his latest attempt (which also ended in sparks). "What are you even doing in there?"
"This machine is sentient," Castiel calls back in response, "and it is determined to end its own existence."
"The microwave?" Damningly, frustratedly, Castiel doesn't respond. Sam snorts. "Dude, you're gonna blow up Bobby's house."
"I don't have my abilities." Castiel nudges the machine closed and just brings Sam the soup as-is. "How would I blow up the house?"
"Microwaves. You microwave metal, and they..." Sam gestures. "Kabloom."
Oh.
"Looks like you figured it out?"
Castiel doesn't respond. Sam stares at the bowl for a few long moments before his eyes flick back up to Cass.
"Castiel," he says lowly, pressing his lips tight to supress a smile, "is this cold soup?"
"It is not cold," Castiel responds sharply, "it is... room temperature."
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairings or Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester, Castiel, Raphael
Category: Angst. Hurt/Comfort
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, Violence
Title: Retribution
Author: yellowhorde
Note: This story takes place sometime after Season 5 Episode 10 - Abandon All Hope
Dean and Sam investigate a quiet town, only to be ambushed by human agents of an archangel. Dean is captured, leaving Sam frantic and powerless. Castiel arrives, aware of the trap, and sets out alone to confront Raphael and rescue Dean.
“I’m telling you, Sammy, this was a wild goose chase.” Dean tugged at his tie in barely suppressed agitation as a cold breezed kicked at the hem of his coat. “There hasn’t been a single speck of demonic activity in this whole town. Let alone any sign of the big guy.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Sam sighed, “but we’ve got to check it out anyway. Better safe than sorry.”
“Dude, whatever,” Dean threw up his hands. “Even if we did find Lucifer, what exactly are we gonna do? Hurl insults at him?”
Sam exhaled sharply and glared at Dean.
Dean returned a glare of his own, his shoulders squaring defensively. He wasn’t sitting on this anymore, damn it. This whole setup reeked like a bag of overripe cow manure. And if Sam were thinking clearly, he’d see it, too.
“The Colt sure as hell didn’t work,” Dean went on, shoulders tightening, “And Ruby’s knife is as useless as tits on a boar against an angel.”
He stepped in front of Sam, throwing out an arm to stop him. Sam halted mid-stride, hands on his hips, and glowered down at him. Dean glared right back.
“You know what I think?” He jabbed at Sam’s chest. “Someone’s yanking our chain.”
Sam’s jaw clenched and his jaw muscles rippled.
“I know you lost faith in me,” Sam said, quietly.
Dean opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off.
“And God knows I’ve lost faith in myself. But what else can we do, Dean? You got any leads? Any bright ideas? Because if you do, I’d love to hear them.”
Dean’s eyes flicked away, jaw tightening.
Sam scrubbed a hand through his too-long hair, exhaling sharply as he visibly pulled himself together.
Instantly, Dean regretted taking his anger out on his brother. Their last confrontation with Lucifer in Carthage had been a bust. And Ellen and Jo had paid the price. And for what? Lucifer still walked the earth and the Apocalypse kept chugging along. They’d bled for this, dammit, and now they were back to square one with no clue what to do next.
Sam’s voice softened but stayed tight. “We haven’t seen hide or hair of that bastard in weeks, Dean. Maybe this is a wild goose chase, but it sure as hell beats sitting around doing nothing.”
“It’s dangerous,” Dean argued. “For all we know, Lucifer’s laying in wait for you. You said yourself his current vessel wasn’t looking so hot, that he’s falling apart at the seams. Maybe it’s time -”
Dean cut off abruptly. A spike of awareness shot through him. His spine stiffened, fingers curling at his sides as his gaze darted across the street. The skin on the back of his neck prickling. He could feel the weight of some unknown gaze hot on the back of his neck like invisible crosshairs.
Someone – something - was watching them.
“Maybe it’s time we what?” Sam prompted, frowning.
Dean raised a hand.
Sam immediately fell silent, picking up on his brother’s uneasiness. He mirrored Dean’s stance, eyes scanning the street.
Dean’s steps slowed, eyes scanning the empty street, every nerve alert. They were on the outskirts of a quiet residential neighborhood. Rows of brick townhomes with postage-stamp yards. Winter-dead branches scratched at a sky gone the color of tarnished silver. A few parked cars. No people that he could see.
The feeling only worsened.
“Dean,” Sam murmured, jerking his chin to the right. “Over there.”
Dean followed his gaze.
“Shit.”
Two Caucasian men in dark, off-the-rack suits stood on a porch two houses up. Dean had enough experience to recognize bible thumpers when he saw them. Except for hair color, one dark, the other blond, they were almost perfect copies of each other. Same postures. Same smiles.
The old woman the preacher twins were pestering leaned on a walker, her expression thunderous. Dean’s gut tightened, as she jabbed a finger, her words almost inaudible by distance but the angry rise and fall of her tone unmistakable.
Guys are getting their asses handed to them by a blue haired-granny. Good for you, lady.
“Great,” Dean muttered, “Looks like we’re dealing with Jehovah’s Witnesses… or Mormons.”
Still, his stomach knotted tighter as his eyes tracked the men.
As if sharing one mind, both men turned their heads in eerie unison, like two synchronized swimmers. Identical smiles. Identical dimples. Identical everything.
And they stared straight at the brothers.
Dean gut tightened. He knew a ‘gotcha’ moment when he saw it.
He grabbed Sam’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m with you.”
They turned and headed back toward the diner, fast-walking but not running. Their black FBI shoes clicked sharply in the still afternoon.
Dean glanced back over his shoulder. The men had turned their attention back to the old woman, heads tilted, fingers gesturing faintly, as if oblivious to the brothers’ presence.
Repent, sinner, and your soul will be saved.
“Dude, you think they’re working with the angels?” Sam muttered.
Dean’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m not taking chances.”
Their run-in with Zachariah’s mortal flunkies’ a few months had taught him to be wary. Demons he understood. Their motivations straight forward - kill him, drag Sam back to Lucifer. Humans? Now that was a whole different kettle of fish.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Sam murmured.
Grateful that Sam wasn’t arguing, Dean glanced over his shoulder as they turned down a street that led to the business section of town. No signs of pursuit. He would’ve felt foolish, except for the heavy weight in his stomach.
This wasn’t over yet, he told himself.
Dean’s pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Dean, where are you?”
Despite his rising unease, Dean smiled when he heard his friend’s voice. “Hey, Cas, what’s up?”
“Where are you?” The angel repeated, sharper.
“Some town outside of Bangor.”
“Could you be more specific than that?”
“Sure. Orono, Maine. Nothing here, at least nothing that calls for our expertise, if you know what I mean. Just a wild goose chase.”
“You need to leave immediately. I sense a presence in that area.”
“Dude, what are you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
The silence on the other end signaled Cas’s confusion loud and clear.
“What sort of presence?” Dean clarified, voice tightening.
Static whispered on the line—soft at first, then heavier. Dean cupped the phone tighter to his ear, leaned slightly forward. Nothing.
For a long, anxious moment, Dean thought the call had dropped.
Then Cas spoke, slow, deliberate.
“An archangel.”
Dean’s weight shifted back, fingers reaching out and grabbing Sam’s sleeve to get his attention. “Seriously?”
“You need to leave. Now, be—”
Static exploded, drowning Cas out.
“Cas? Cas! You hear me?” Dean cursed as the phone went dead. Call him paranoid, but he didn’t think the problem was his reception. “Shit.”
“Time to get the hell outta Dodge,” Dean muttered, pocketing the phone.
“What did Cas say?” Sam asked, worry creasing his brow.
“He senses angel activity in our area.”
“He can do that?”
“Apparently, yeah,” He lowered his voice, “Archangel.”
He meant to sound nonchalant but couldn’t manage. Having an archangel on your tail was not something he could joke about.
“Which one?” Sam’s gaze flicked down the street.
“Could be any of ‘em. Or all of ‘em, for all I know.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Dean glanced down an alley between an abandoned brick building with its windows boarded up and a small laundry mat with dingy windows in desperate need of a wash. Though the sign on the door said it was open, Dean couldn’t see anyone inside. In the distance he could see the diner they had eaten lunch at and the Impala – black and gleaming under the gray sky - sitting in one of the front parking slots.
Relief loosened his shoulders. The Impala was more than just a car, it was home. Safety.
“Let’s take a shortcut,” Dean said, jerking his thumb toward the alley.
Sam eyed the garbage-strewn alley, frowning. “Sure.”
“Come on,” Dean goaded. “God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.”
“Maybe,” Sam muttered, “but mankind’s contributions might.”
“Yeah, well, you got me there.”
They slipped into the reeking alley, weaving between busted trash bags, spilling forth broken bottles, moldering food, dirty baby diapers. Gross.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gagged. “What a stink.”
Sam scoffed, his expression clearly saying, I told you so.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Dean muttered, covering his nose and focusing on the bright rectangle of daylight at the far end.
One step at a time.
“Dean!”
He spun toward Sam’s voice.
The two men from the old woman’s house burst into the alley, charging toward them, jackets flapping.
“Looks like these mooks want to preach the way of the fist.” Dean’s eyes narrowed at the approaching men.
As if reading his brother’s intention, Sam caught his arm. “Dean, no. They’re human.”
“Doesn’t make them less dangerous.”
“Dean.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’m happy to teach these jerks a new prayer or two.”
“Think we could talk to them?” Sam asked, already bracing.
“Be my guest,” Dean said, “But something tells me they’re not gonna listen.”
“Good point.”
The men were young—no older than Sam by the look of them—but they were soft. Inexperienced. Their attacks were clumsy, desperate. It was obvious that these were not violent men… at least not normally.
The blond lunged wildly, grabbing Dean’s lapels. Dean kneed him in his unprotected gut, doubling him over.
Yep, he thought, without satisfaction, they’re soft all right.
“Don’t hurt them, Sam!” Dean yelled, punching Blondie across the face and sending him staggering into the wall.
“Trying not to!” Sam grunted, delivering a neat one-two to the brunet who barreled into him, slamming him against the bricks hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
Breath rasped. Fists hit flesh. Bodies struck brick with heavy thuds.
Blondie avoided Dean’s next punch - more luck than skill on his part - and landed a glancing blow across his nose. Pain and white stars exploded behind Dean’s watering eyes. His head snapped back, and the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.
Damn it, that hurt.
One hand flew to his nose, the other clawed blindly at the wall to steady himself.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean snarled through his teeth. “That’s it. Play time’s over, dirt bag. You’re going down."
He dodged another wild swing, then from the corner of his eyes, Dean caught a glint of metal.
His instincts screamed – knife – and his body tensed.
But no, instead of a knife, Blondie had produced a silver coaches’ whistle from one of his pockets. He blew a piercing blast that ricocheted off the alley walls.
Dean’s stomach dropped. “Oh, that’s not good.”
Three more shrill blasts. Dean punched Blondie down and ripped the whistle from his hand. The man crumpled to his knees, groaning.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Only one reason to literally blow the whistle: the fucking douchebag had summoned something.
Dean shot Sam a frantic glance, his heart hammering as sharp teeth of panic chewed at his guts.
“Christ, this is gonna get worse before it gets better.”
Dean figured that reinforcement would probably come in the form of an angel - the archangel Cas had tried to warn them about. He threw a glance at his brother, heart flying in his chest.
Sam shoved his own attacker back. “Dean! Run!”
But Dean wouldn’t leave his brother.
The air shifted around them. Crumpled papers shivered into motion, caught on an invisible current. Wings. But not Cas. These sounded sharper, more electric.
The blood drained from his face as the cold finger touched the base of his spine. He had heard these wings before… and knew exactly who they belonged to.
“Sammy!”
He lunged toward Sam, silver whistle clenched in one fist, but the alley filled with an electric pressure. Blue-white arcs of lightning danced through the air, touching off magnesium bright sparks around a dark figure that appeared in the midst of all that crackling energy. The lines of shooting electricity formed into surrealistic wings, sweeping pack in awesome majesty.
A nearby streetlight exploded, raining molten sparks around a dark, solid figure.
Dean’s eyes locked on the figure. There was no mistake.
Dressed like an ordinary working stiff in faded blues and denim, the vessel pulled himself gracefully to his full height and turned familiar large, arrogant eyes toward Dean.
Dean’s lips parted slightly, a shiver running down his spine at the gleam of malicious recognition he saw in those eyes. “Raphael.”
Oh, God.
“I have found you at last, Dean Winchester.”
The archangel’s baritone rumble betrayed an undercurrent of complicated emotions – anger, yes, but also something colder. The dark eyes glittered with an alien light. Unknowable. It was like staring into the eyes a living storm.
Dean’s pulse hammered in his ears. No weapon they possessed could stop an archangel. And they were fresh out of holy oil. If Castiel hadn’t been able to stand against this bastard, what chance did they have?
Raphael’s gaze pinned him in place, sharp as a blade.
Sam edged closer, useless hands raised.
Dean took an involuntary step away from Raphael, his weight shifted sharply backward, fingers spreading unconsciously for balance. His boot skidded on something slick. With a startled shout, he tumbled down hard against the broken concrete floor of the alley, scraping the skin from his palms as he threw them back to break his fall. He slammed onto his tailbone with a crack that rattled his teeth and pain flashed up his spine, drawing a sharp cry from his throat.
“Dean - no, get up! Please!” Sam yelled, voice cracking.
Raphael stared down at him, his lips twisting into a sinister smile that sent sharp daggers of ice into Dean’s heart. Then, after a heartbeat, he knelt, reaching out one hand, his fore and middle fingers extended in an all too familiar gesture.
Move, damn it—move—
Frantically, Dean scrambled backward until his shoulders hit the brick. There was nowhere to run. He threw an arm instinctively out in front of his face.
Raphael advanced, calm as death, kneeling, reaching out with two fingers extended.
“No, don’t!” Sam shouted. He stumbled forward, arms stretching out uselessly.
Dean twisted his head, desperate to avoid contact, to force his body to move, but all he managed was a ragged gasp. His lungs wouldn’t work. His body forgot how to fight.
Fingers pressed against his forehead, cool and dry, the way he imagined a mummy’s might be.
“Don’t you touch him!” Sam screamed but it sounded impossibly distant.
A shiver crawled down Dean’s spine.
Then blinding light detonated behind his eyes, so intense it should have boiled his eyeballs with its sheer, painful intensity.
He thought he screamed.
And then there was nothing.
***
Castiel strode down the alley with single minded purpose. His trench coat flapped behind him as a biting wind blew down the alley, carrying the stench of rotted garbage, the ozone of spent electricity. It burned his nose and throat with its raw intensity, tightened his throat and sent his heart sinking.
He knew this smell, knew what it signified – the passing of an archangel.
The telephone call from Sam had been frantic. The young man had been almost incoherent in his distress.
And the message had sent Castiel’s stomach plunging.
Raphael. Using human messengers, he had been able to track down the Winchesters.
And now he had Dean.
He rapidly closed the distance between him and a disheveled Sam. Loose bit of paper swirled in the wind of his passing. Sam swallowed audibly when Castiel neared him, his Adam’s apple working convulsively. His normally neat suit and coat were rumpled and there was a smear of something thick and greasy on one cheek.
“Sam,” he rumbled, “What happened?”
“We… we were ambushed,” Sam whispered hoarsely. He was shivering uncontrollably despite the warmth of his suit jacket. Shock had a way of doing that. “There were two men. Religious by the looks of them. They, oh God, they-” His eyes clenched closed, his face pinching at the memory.
“Focus. What did they do?”
“They attacked us. It was just a diversion… I know that now, but…” He swallowed hard, shook his head slowly as he opened his eyes. “It worked.”
He stared at Castiel, his eyes pleading silently. “He’s got Dean, Castiel.” Sam’s voice wavered. “Raphael has my brother.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding, struggling against the voice of inexplicable panic in his head. He reached out and placed both of his hands on Sam’s shoulders and applied a gentle force of will. A flood of soothing warmth flowed from his hands and into Sam’s body. After a few moments the trembling ceased, and the pinched expression smoothed away.
“What exactly did he say to you, Sam?” Castiel asked slowly once the other man had visibly calmed. “Do you remember?”
Nodding, Sam cleared his throat. “He, uh, he said that he wants you to meet with him at midnight. Alone.”
“Did he say where?”
“Yeah, uh, the old cemetery on the outskirts of town.” He paused, visibly searching his memory. “By an old mausoleum with a statue of an angel praying.”
Castiel nodded his head, slowly.
“Thank you.” He patted Sam on the shoulder in a clumsy effort to comfort him. Then he turned to go.
“Wait!” He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder, turned his head to stare into his blue eyes. “You can’t go alone.” Sam insisted. “Let me go with you. I can help. Please.”
“No, Sam,” Castiel said softly. “If Raphael wants me to come alone, then I must obey. You’re brother’s life may very well depend on it.”
Sam nodded his head reluctantly. “You know that this is probably a trap, right?”
“I know,” he said quietly, resignation threading through the words. “But there are some snares that cannot be avoided. If I refuse, Dean might die. If I go… perhaps I do. But I will not abandon him.”
He turned and felt Sam’s hand fall away.
“Where are you boys staying?” He asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Some motel on the outskirts of town,” Sam dug into the pocket of his black slacks, pulled out a battered matchbook. He recited the motel’s name and exact address.
“Yes, I know where this is,” Castiel murmured, closing his eyes and envisioning the location in his mind. “What room number?”
“Room 328.”
“Thank you." Castiel turned to go, then paused. He looked over his shoulder, eyes solemn. “I’ll bring back your brother, Sam. He will not remain in Raphael’s hands. I give you my word.
“I know. And be careful, Cas.”
A small smile touched Castiel’s lips despite the tightness in his heart. He raised his hand in acknowledgment of the sentiment. “I’ll do my best.”
He walked purposefully up the alley, never looking back, then, in a rustle of wings, he was gone.
TO BE CONTINUED
A/N: I'm actually really nervous about posting this. Especially since it's a WIP. I'm mainly a drabble writer and this is far outside my comfort zone.
augh my friend got me into this show and its so good. Castiel my beloved. Sam my beloved. Dean my beloved. Ive never met men so consistently capable of making me cry & giving me whumperflies. they r all so gorgeous
All of ur blorbos are gonna Go Through It. Fair warning your blorbos might also die. but there's a non-zero chance they come back! I mean the main 2 have died like 4 or 5 times apiece (not even including Mystery Spot) and im not even halfway thru the show.
theyre gonna get punched and possessed and broken-boned and they are also going to cry and have trust issues and all manner of everything ever. And sick technically! there hasn't been a real sickfic episode yet but there IS an apocalypse and one of the four horsemen IS pestilence, so...
Food, water, sleep, money. A means to travel. A map to a destination, instead of just a location. Bandages for bleeding wounds. The ability to run when the ‘police’ were after them. Had Castiel been less familiar with humans, he would most certainly have been slain or imprisoned by now.
Though… he fears he has done nothing but buy himself time.
He doesn’t know where any of his humans are. The closest place he can think to go is more than a thousand miles away. He cannot make it that far on foot, with his Grace bound and bled as it is. And, even if he did make it, what then? Castiel can’t imagine anyone would welcome him. He has done nothing but put Dean higher on Raphael’s hitlist, and be unable to heal Bobby’s wounds. He had been useless.
A sharp, thin sound escapes him. His sleep has been weak and woven with nightmares. Castiel has curled himself up as tight as possible behind a sickly-smelling dumpster, suffocating in the humidity. His broken ribs and lashed back are nothing short of agony. The black cuffs around his wrists glow gently in the early morning light. His stomach has curled in on itself, too empty to even growl.
He tilts his head back against the brick wall.
Blood and bile accumulate in a puddle at his feet. His head feels impossibly heavy. The only thing that moves him— even slightly— is the knowledge that Raphael follow the moment he notices Castiel’s disappearance. To be found is to be consigned to a fate worse than Hell.
It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t make it to South Dakota, or if they don’t open the doors for him. He will die free on his way, or he will die fast under a Winchester’s blade. It will be mercy.
He is not technically an Angel of Heaven. Sometimes he forgets that.
characters: Dean, Castiel
contains: body horror in a way, cas getting hurt
notes: I finished season 5!! castiel my gd beloved. I need terrible things to happen to him /aff
notes, continued: shorter one for now. Still trying to get the hang of these guys.
read on ao3 here! [tba]
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
Angels don’t usually physically fly places. They warp, or teleport, or ‘appear,’ whatever people wanted to call it. In Heaven, an Angel can do it as they please with little consequence. A warping Angel could be punished if they were doing so in disobedience, of course, but the actual act of warping didn’t hurt them.
Earth is not Heaven. Angels are not made to remain on Earth. Every teleport chips their true form like human pottery, expending parts of themself to propel across the planet. It eats away at their Grace until they can retreat to Heaven and recollect themself.
Castiel cannot retreat to Heaven.
This realization had lead to him attempting to… ration his abilities. To keep himself as powerful as possible for as long as possible. He does not know what happens when an Angel’s Grace burns out, or when their true form shatters, but he is not keen on finding out.
So, instead of teleporting, he had flown.
Which meant using his wings, which meant using his damaged form, which meant—
Castiel hits the ground hard.
He tears through turf, his momentum dragging him forward— one wing lurches, trying to catch him, the other lands awkwardly below him and snaps— he tumbles, agony lancing through him—
—ow.
He rolls to a stop.
For a long moment, Castiel just lays there. The stars stare down at him. His chest burns; he can’t get a full breath in, air knocked out by the fall.
He rolls onto his side, taking weight from his splintered wing. He’s making noises; thin whimpers escaping him on every exhale. He hurts. It fucking hurts. Castiel gasps, choking on a sob.
Well. So much for flying.
…
Dean cleans blood from a well-loved blade, humming along with the alarm clock's radio. He takes a swig, tosses his empty bottle, and turns to get a new one—
—and reaches for his gun instead, aiming at the bundle of feathers on his motel bed.
There's... a bird... on his bed. A giant-ass bird. Dean stares at it down the barrel of a pistol. How the hell did a giant bird get in here? Why the hell did a giant bird get in here.
"I didn't mean to interrupt. I needed a moment to recover."
Dean stares at the pair of wings, folded over what seems to be Castiel. He doesn't lower his gun. There's a handful of giant black feathers resting on the sheets.
"That means don't shoot."
"Just 'cause I call you feathers," Dean starts, pursing his lips.
Castiel shifts, motel mattress creaking. He turns awkwardly to his stomach, right wing hanging limply against the bed. It twitches and Cass' face pinches, hissing. His whole body shudders.
"You can see them?"
"Yeah, I can see 'em, Cass, you've got wings the size of— New freakin' Jersey!" Dean marches over, gesturing. "Y'know, I don't usually spring for feather pillows." He reaches out to poke one—
"Shit!" Castiel jolts, choking. He shoots upright (he's got ear wings, too?!) and hisses, "Don't touch that, Dean."
Dean bites his lips to keep from chuckling. "Sensitive?"
"Broken."
Oh, well, now Dean feels like an asshole. He staggers backward to grab bandages from his bag, chewing his lip. "Didn't know you could break bones."
"I can't, usually." When Dean turns back around, Castiel is staring at him, eyes narrowed. His ear-wings have curled forward to hide most of his face. It's... kind of cute. "I just..." Cass grimaces. "Need a moment."
"Is this one of those... vessel... connection things?" Dean inches closer, gesturing. He sits at the edge of the bed and tries not to jostle too much.
Castiel flexes his wing and winces, taking it in his hands. His wrists, too, have small clusters of feathers on them. Dean can see the break, the bone offset enough to be visible even from a distance. He grimaces in sympathy.
"No," Cass responds, taking Dean's offered bandages. He scowls at the wrap and then at his wing and then at the wrap again before finally starting. "It is not related to my... earlier poor judgement. Ow. This is just a— side effect of being on Earth."
"Uh-huh," Dean mumbles. He's not an expert on bird care, but he's pretty sure that's not what someone's supposed to do with a busted wing. Maybe Angel wings work differently. "I don't think you can... not be on Earth." Dean purses his lips, considering. If Cass can't get back to Heaven to get his mojo back...
For a bunch of people who write about torture for fun, this is like the nicest community ive ever been a part of /silly
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
@.whumpster-dumpster and @.warmblanketwhump are, like, my idols. They were some of the first whump blogs I was into when I was first learning what it was. I've been into whump forever-- I was one of those kids who imagined being locked up and thrown against walls to fall asleep when I was little-- but being here on Tumblr has been super freeing. Yeah, let's put that blorbo through The Horrors.
I don't remember like exactly how I ended up on this side of tumblr?? But I'm here, so. Here's to all the baby whumpers just getting into it, here's to all the whumpers who've been here forever, and here's to everyone in between.
“Dammit, Cass,” Dean huffs, “can't you be even a little human about this?”
(Or: Castiel takes Dean's advice. It doesn't go well.)
characters: dean, castiel, sam is mentioned
contains: cas gets sick. teehee
notes: during sam's hiatus at the start of season 5-- specifically during 05x03/"Free to be You and Me". i havent seen any further than 05x14 so this might be Inaccurate.
read on ao3 here! [tba]
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
Connecting to a vessel is different than simply occupying it; it is difficult work. Castiel usually wouldn't even entertain the idea, but... Dean had asked. Dean had asked him to try, to feel like a human did.
So, Castiel had connected to his vessel. And immediately, Castiel had regretted it.
He comes to a few moments later, laid out on the ground. Castiel shudders against the tile. He feels... hollow, as though his abdomen is caving in on itself. His throat seems to create daggers when he swallows. He is cold. And also hot. And yet he is cold.
His thoughts are slow and fuzzy, coming to him as honey drips from a— he can't think of the word. The honey... spoon... thing. He blinks (his eyes ache like the rest of him does).
He has seen Sam and Dean (and any number of other humans) wounded in various ways. Bones snapped like twigs. Internal organs tearing themselves apart. Skin splitting under blades. But sickness— sickness he is unfamiliar with.
Castiel feels sick.
He's certain he's stationary on the floor, but he feels like he's spinning. The... the food, organ, where food goes, feels as though it is trying to eject instead of absorb. He doesn't... feel... well.
What does he do in this situation? Castiel's not human. He doesn't know how to deal with human things. He needs a human. He needs his human. He needs Dean.
Castiel fumbles in his pockets until he finds his cellular phone.
“Cass?”
“Dean.” Castiel needs something. He reaches for the feeling of Sam and Dean; their locations are usually neon signs to him, impossible-to-miss markers. Castiel misses the markers.
He keens, pressing his forehead into the tile, remembing a moment too late the Enochian sigils hiding them. He can't find them.
“Uh. Cass? Hey, are you, uh...” Dean's voice wavers, his tongue clicking. “...busy?” Castiel doesn't answer. Awkwardly, Dean asks, “Do angels jerk off?”
“I don't know what that means,” Castiel responds roughly, squeezing his eyes shut. He gets an elbow propped beneath him, shaking with the effort. “Where are you?”
Dean rattles off a motel name and room number. “I'm not going anywhere until the sun comes up, though, you hear me?”
Castiel swats the phone closed and warps.
...
Dean startles so hard he ends up on his ass.
Castiel doesn't usually poof into existence the very second he hangs up, and he especially does not appear on the ground, heaving. Fearing the worst, Dean hauls said ass over to the angel's side.
Castiel retches, though nothing escapes him but drool. Dean reaches out to hold up his tie, hissing, “Shit, Cass!”
“Forgive me,” the angel manages, barely more than a whisper. His one supporting arm gives— Thank God Dean was there, or else he would have just eaten shit. “I don't know what's... what's wrong with me.”
Dean pulls Castiel basically into his lap, peeling off his coat to check for injuries. Cass is all but boneless, leaning weakly into Dean’s hold. God, he’s burning. Do angels get fevers? Dean didn’t exactly pay attention to Cass’ usual body temperature. But surely he’d have noticed if he was always warm like this, right?
“Cass, are you… are you sick?”
Castiel shivers miserably in response, leaning forward to bury his head in Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I don’t feel well.”
“I gathered that,” Dean huffs. He smooths a hand over Cass’ hair gently, sighing. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I...” Castiel swallows thickly, a rough whine escaping him. Oh, that's what that noise was. Dean smooths a hand down his back without really thinking about it. “I don't feel well.”
“Or so I've heard.” Dean sighs. He guides Cass upright, nudging him onto the bed. The angel blinks uncomprehendingly. “Alright, feathers. Talk to me. What doesn't feel good?”
“Everything,” Cass responds, incredibly helpfully. He curls forward, eyes narrowing at nothing. “My... insides. The place where you store food.”
“Your stomach,” Dean tells him. Well, that explains Castiel trying to puke his guts up. Dean purses his lips, thinking. Why would an angel be sick?
He thinks about Jimmy Novak, how hungry he'd been when Cass left him. He was an angel, he didn't think about food or water. The guy was probably starving and dehydrated to all hell. That's an easy fix— the real question would then be why Castiel was feeling it.
And, y'know, what was causing the fever. But the fever probably wouldn't kill his vessel— assuming the body could die??— and starvation totally would.
Dean nudges him with a shoulder. “You know how to eat?”
“I can consume,” Castiel mumbles. He squints at Dean like he's trying to figure out what that has to do with anything. “Why?”
“And you're feeling human things,” Dean hums. Castiel nods blearily. Tears gather in his eyes. Not aknowledging them, Dean continues, “I bet you're starving. Thirsty, too.”
Luckily, Dean has just the thing (half a burger from the fast food place on the corner and shitty motel sink water). The cup ends up in Castiel's hand first. The angel, of course, stares at it like he has no idea what it is.
“Drink.”
“It's a drink, yes,” Castiel mumbles. He blinks slowly at it. “Why do I have this?”
“No, drink, like—” Dean sighs, wrapping his hand around Castiel's. “You know how to swallow?” Cass nods at him. Dean helps him guide the cup to his mouth and gestures. “Drink.”
The first sip is tenative; the rest of the water disappears before Dean can warn him to take it slow. Well. At least he's drinking. He passes Castiel the burger and refills the cup.
He takes one (1) bite and stares down at the food like it's grown a second head. Or a first head. Principle of the thing.
“You good?” Dean brings the trash can with him when he comes back over, just in case. Probably a lot easier to throw up when there's food in his stomach.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, mystified. He devours the rest of it, barely stopping to chew. “It's good,” he says through a full mouth. He probably would have eaten the wrapper if Dean hadn't stopped him. “I like it.”
“Good,” Dean chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Feelin' better?”
“Yes.” Cass pauses, immediately folding in on himself. “No. Yes?”
“Well, if you're so sure.” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders even as he snarks, patting his arm. He's shaking. “Easy, buddy. Easy.”
“Dean,” Cass keens, working his jaw, “Something's wrong.” His hands knit into Dean's jacket with a ferocity to rival a demon's. “Dean.”
Dean is very, very thankful that he grabbed the trash can.
...
Castiel dreams.
He hasn't slept before, really. This is new. He sleeps and loses track of what's real and what's not. A distant, logical part of him knows where he is, feels Dean's hand carding through his hair. The rest of him hears Dean's voice tell him he hates him, tells him never to come back.
Or he's hurt, bleeding under archangel blades, tormented by his own devotion. It's not a memory he cares for.
But through it all— phantom pains and nightmares and memories— he knows who he will come back to. Dean cards a hand through his hair. Dean murmurs warmly to him. Dean treats him like something he cares about. Like something worth caring about.
Castiel dreams, and when he wakes, Dean is with him.
...
He's not generally a good cook, but Dean can make a mean can of soup, even in a cheap motel microwave. (He's quietly thankful Sam convinced him to start carrying microwavable things, instead of just eating takeout all the time.) Guy hadn't eaten in a couple months— soup was probably a smarter, safer choice than the burger. Dean's not too keen on figuring out what happens if Castiel or his body got any sicker.
He's been coming and and out of it, damn near delirious. Face impassive, he begs, he begs Dean not to leave him. He tells Dean, pressing his head back to bare his throat, that he would let Dean kill him if he so much as asked. He speaks with such unflinching devotion. He says that he'd never wanted or loved or felt anything at all before meeting Dean. It's the fever talking, definitely. Dean refuses to believe it's anything but.
When it's not the fever talking about Dean, it's about Raphael, about what happened in Heaven. Sharp words about Castiel getting too close to his charges beaten into him. Angels have never been above torture, and apparently especially not to their own. Dean never wants to hear Cass beg again.
It reminds him... of Sam, in a weird way. Little Sammy laid up in a shitty motel with the worst flu Dean had ever seen, asking if Dean would protect him. If Dean would keep the monsters away while Dad was out hunting. And, as the night went on, asking if Dean thought he was a freak. If he was broken.
The microwave beeps. Good— God knows Dean didn't need to be thinking about tiny Sam right now.
He props Cass up against the wall, gently shushing the angels frantic murmuring. “Alright, feathers, let's try and get something lighter in you.”
“Nn-hn,” Castiel responds, grabbing at his hand. He pushes weakly away, mumbling.
“It's alright, Cass, it's me,” Dean hums, smoothing his hand over Cass' hair. He calms at the words, relaxing into Dean's hold. “There you go, bud. I got you soup.”
Castiel blinks at him, eyes unfocused. “S'p,” he says. Dean chuckles.
“Easier to eat than a cheeseburger.”
“Eat?” Cass' voice pitches up into a whine, shaking his head. “No. I'll... th'wup again.”
“That's what the trash can is for, feathers.”
“It feels bad.”
Dean sighs gently, feeding Cass a spoonful (he takes it despite his protests). “I know, buddy. Welcome to humanity.”
“Human'ty,” he mumbles, tilting back against the wall. He takes a small breath, laughing. “Beautiful humanity. You feel and you feel and y'feel...”
“And that's...” Dean swirls the spoon to have something to do with his hands, squinting. “Beautiful?”
Castiel giggles, reaching for the soup. Dean has to stop him from putting his hand into the broth. “You're beautiful.”
Dean feeds him another spoonful to shut him up.
...
Castiel wakes slowly, infinitely less miserable.
“Mornin', sunshine.” Dean's thumb rolls softly across his cheek. His words are flat and amused, but his touch is tender. Castiel leans into it with a sigh. “Wanna tell me what that was all about? Last I checked, you didn't feel any human needs.”
“I connected with my vessel,” Castiel responds, humming. He blinks his eyes open, looking up at his human. “I was trying to… be human. Like you asked me to.”
Dean tilts back incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Castiel almost chases the retreating hand before he can stop himself. “I asked you to?”
“You said,” Castiel sits up, still aching, “and I quote… ‘can’t you even be a little human about this?’”
“That's not... Cass, that's not what I meant.”
“You asked me to be human,” Castiel responds lowly. "I can't do that. But I thought..." He swallows thickly.
“I meant—” Dean scowls. Humans are such strange creatures— they speak so bluntly, and yet Dean can't hold Castiel's gaze. Eyes burning a hole in the distant wall, Dean continues, “I meant, y'know, try some emotion. Dance in the rain. Laugh a little.”
Castiel glances outside. The rain falls in sideways sheets, wind pelting it against the building. “I haven't danced before.”
Dean follows his gaze. “You take everything literally, huh?” He purses his lips in the corner of Castiel's vision. “We don't have to go out there. I wasn't—”
“I want to,” Castiel says, before he can stop himself. He's still grappling with the feeling— want. He stands, swaying, planting a hand on the bedside table. Dean surges up beside him. Callous hands hover with a care that's almost reverent. “I want to... stand... out there.”
“...Alright,” Dean chuckles, cocking a shoulder in a shrug, “why not. Let's go stand in the rain.”
The storm has softened now. Rivulets of rain roll off Castiel's coat. It's beautiful. Warmth bubbles up in his chest, a contrast to the chill of the breeze. Dean watches him with his usual intensity, hostile and hopeful and so fiercely human.
Castiel closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water run down his face.
He loves. Castiel doesn't have a subject, at the moment, but he stands there on the sidewalk and loves. A thin chuckle worms out of his ribs; he looks to Dean, smiling wide enough to hurt. “Is this human enough for you?”
“Dammit, Cass,” Dean huffs, “can't you be even a little human about this?”
(Or: Castiel takes Dean's advice. It doesn't go well.)
characters: dean, castiel, sam is mentioned
contains: cas gets sick. teehee
notes: during sam's hiatus at the start of season 5-- specifically during 05x03/"Free to be You and Me". i havent seen any further than 05x14 so this might be Inaccurate.
read on ao3 here!
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
Connecting to a vessel is different than simply occupying it; it is difficult work. Castiel usually wouldn't even entertain the idea, but... Dean had asked. Dean had asked him to try, to feel like a human did.
So, Castiel had connected to his vessel. And immediately, Castiel had regretted it.
He comes to a few moments later, laid out on the ground. Castiel shudders against the tile. He feels... hollow, as though his abdomen is caving in on itself. His throat seems to create daggers when he swallows. He is cold. And also hot. And yet he is cold.
His thoughts are slow and fuzzy, coming to him as honey drips from a— he can't think of the word. The honey... spoon... thing. He blinks (his eyes ache like the rest of him does).
He has seen Sam and Dean (and any number of other humans) wounded in various ways. Bones snapped like twigs. Internal organs tearing themselves apart. Skin splitting under blades. But sickness— sickness he is unfamiliar with.
Castiel feels sick.
He's certain he's stationary on the floor, but he feels like he's spinning. The... the food, organ, where food goes, feels as though it is trying to eject instead of absorb. He doesn't... feel... well.
What does he do in this situation? Castiel's not human. He doesn't know how to deal with human things. He needs a human. He needs his human. He needs Dean.
Castiel fumbles in his pockets until he finds his cellular phone.
“Cass?”
“Dean.” Castiel needs something. He reaches for the feeling of Sam and Dean; their locations are usually neon signs to him, impossible-to-miss markers. Castiel misses the markers.
He keens, pressing his forehead into the tile, remembing a moment too late the Enochian sigils hiding them. He can't find them.
“Uh. Cass? Hey, are you, uh...” Dean's voice wavers, his tongue clicking. “...busy?” Castiel doesn't answer. Awkwardly, Dean asks, “Do angels jerk off?”
“I don't know what that means,” Castiel responds roughly, squeezing his eyes shut. He gets an elbow propped beneath him, shaking with the effort. “Where are you?”
Dean rattles off a motel name and room number. “I'm not going anywhere until the sun comes up, though, you hear me?”
Castiel swats the phone closed and warps.
...
Dean startles so hard he ends up on his ass.
Castiel doesn't usually poof into existence the very second he hangs up, and he especially does not appear on the ground, heaving. Fearing the worst, Dean hauls said ass over to the angel's side.
Castiel retches, though nothing escapes him but drool. Dean reaches out to hold up his tie, hissing, “Shit, Cass!”
“Forgive me,” the angel manages, barely more than a whisper. His one supporting arm gives— Thank God Dean was there, or else he would have just eaten shit. “I don't know what's... what's wrong with me.”
Dean pulls Castiel basically into his lap, peeling off his coat to check for injuries. Cass is all but boneless, leaning weakly into Dean’s hold. God, he’s burning. Do angels get fevers? Dean didn’t exactly pay attention to Cass’ usual body temperature. But surely he’d have noticed if he was always warm like this, right?
“Cass, are you… are you sick?”
Castiel shivers miserably in response, leaning forward to bury his head in Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I don’t feel well.”
“I gathered that,” Dean huffs. He smooths a hand over Cass’ hair gently, sighing. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I...” Castiel swallows thickly, a rough whine escaping him. Oh, that's what that noise was. Dean smooths a hand down his back without really thinking about it. “I don't feel well.”
“Or so I've heard.” Dean sighs. He guides Cass upright, nudging him onto the bed. The angel blinks uncomprehendingly. “Alright, feathers. Talk to me. What doesn't feel good?”
“Everything,” Cass responds, incredibly helpfully. He curls forward, eyes narrowing at nothing. “My... insides. The place where you store food.”
“Your stomach,” Dean tells him. Well, that explains Castiel trying to puke his guts up. Dean purses his lips, thinking. Why would an angel be sick?
He thinks about Jimmy Novak, how hungry he'd been when Cass left him. He was an angel, he didn't think about food or water. The guy was probably starving and dehydrated to all hell. That's an easy fix— the real question would then be why Castiel was feeling it.
And, y'know, what was causing the fever. But the fever probably wouldn't kill his vessel— assuming the body could die??— and starvation totally would.
Dean nudges him with a shoulder. “You know how to eat?”
“I can consume,” Castiel mumbles. He squints at Dean like he's trying to figure out what that has to do with anything. “Why?”
“And you're feeling human things,” Dean hums. Castiel nods blearily. Tears gather in his eyes. Not aknowledging them, Dean continues, “I bet you're starving. Thirsty, too.”
Luckily, Dean has just the thing (half a burger from the fast food place on the corner and shitty motel sink water). The cup ends up in Castiel's hand first. The angel, of course, stares at it like he has no idea what it is.
“Drink.”
“It's a drink, yes,” Castiel mumbles. He blinks slowly at it. “Why do I have this?”
“No, drink, like—” Dean sighs, wrapping his hand around Castiel's. “You know how to swallow?” Cass nods at him. Dean helps him guide the cup to his mouth and gestures. “Drink.”
The first sip is tenative; the rest of the water disappears before Dean can warn him to take it slow. Well. At least he's drinking. He passes Castiel the burger and refills the cup.
He takes one (1) bite and stares down at the food like it's grown a second head. Or a first head. Principle of the thing.
“You good?” Dean brings the trash can with him when he comes back over, just in case. Probably a lot easier to throw up when there's food in his stomach.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, mystified. He devours the rest of it, barely stopping to chew. “It's good,” he says through a full mouth. He probably would have eaten the wrapper if Dean hadn't stopped him. “I like it.”
“Good,” Dean chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Feelin' better?”
“Yes.” Cass pauses, immediately folding in on himself. “No. Yes?”
“Well, if you're so sure.” Dean wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders even as he snarks, patting his arm. He's shaking. “Easy, buddy. Easy.”
“Dean,” Cass keens, working his jaw, “Something's wrong.” His hands knit into Dean's jacket with a ferocity to rival a demon's. “Dean.”
Dean is very, very thankful that he grabbed the trash can.
...
Castiel dreams.
He hasn't slept before, really. This is new. He sleeps and loses track of what's real and what's not. A distant, logical part of him knows where he is, feels Dean's hand carding through his hair. The rest of him hears Dean's voice tell him he hates him, tells him never to come back.
Or he's hurt, bleeding under archangel blades, tormented by his own devotion. It's not a memory he cares for.
But through it all— phantom pains and nightmares and memories— he knows who he will come back to. Dean cards a hand through his hair. Dean murmurs warmly to him. Dean treats him like something he cares about. Like something worth caring about.
Castiel dreams, and when he wakes, Dean is with him.
...
He's not generally a good cook, but Dean can make a mean can of soup, even in a cheap motel microwave. (He's quietly thankful Sam convinced him to start carrying microwavable things, instead of just eating takeout all the time.) Guy hadn't eaten in a couple months— soup was probably a smarter, safer choice than the burger. Dean's not too keen on figuring out what happens if Castiel or his body got any sicker.
He's been coming and and out of it, damn near delirious. Face impassive, he begs, he begs Dean not to leave him. He tells Dean, pressing his head back to bare his throat, that he would let Dean kill him if he so much as asked. He speaks with such unflinching devotion. He says that he'd never wanted or loved or felt anything at all before meeting Dean. It's the fever talking, definitely. Dean refuses to believe it's anything but.
When it's not the fever talking about Dean, it's about Raphael, about what happened in Heaven. Sharp words about Castiel getting too close to his charges beaten into him. Angels have never been above torture, and apparently especially not to their own. Dean never wants to hear Cass beg again.
It reminds him... of Sam, in a weird way. Little Sammy laid up in a shitty motel with the worst flu Dean had ever seen, asking if Dean would protect him. If Dean would keep the monsters away while Dad was out hunting. And, as the night went on, asking if Dean thought he was a freak. If he was broken.
The microwave beeps. Good— God knows Dean didn't need to be thinking about tiny Sam right now.
He props Cass up against the wall, gently shushing the angels frantic murmuring. “Alright, feathers, let's try and get something lighter in you.”
“Nn-hn,” Castiel responds, grabbing at his hand. He pushes weakly away, mumbling.
“It's alright, Cass, it's me,” Dean hums, smoothing his hand over Cass' hair. He calms at the words, relaxing into Dean's hold. “There you go, bud. I got you soup.”
Castiel blinks at him, eyes unfocused. “S'p,” he says. Dean chuckles.
“Easier to eat than a cheeseburger.”
“Eat?” Cass' voice pitches up into a whine, shaking his head. “No. I'll... th'wup again.”
“That's what the trash can is for, feathers.”
“It feels bad.”
Dean sighs gently, feeding Cass a spoonful (he takes it despite his protests). “I know, buddy. Welcome to humanity.”
“Human'ty,” he mumbles, tilting back against the wall. He takes a small breath, laughing. “Beautiful humanity. You feel and you feel and y'feel...”
“And that's...” Dean swirls the spoon to have something to do with his hands, squinting. “Beautiful?”
Castiel giggles, reaching for the soup. Dean has to stop him from putting his hand into the broth. “You're beautiful.”
Dean feeds him another spoonful to shut him up.
...
Castiel wakes slowly, infinitely less miserable.
“Mornin', sunshine.” Dean's thumb rolls softly across his cheek. His words are flat and amused, but his touch is tender. Castiel leans into it with a sigh. “Wanna tell me what that was all about? Last I checked, you didn't feel any human needs.”
“I connected with my vessel,” Castiel responds, humming. He blinks his eyes open, looking up at his human. “I was trying to… be human. Like you asked me to.”
Dean tilts back incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Castiel almost chases the retreating hand before he can stop himself. “I asked you to?”
“You said,” Castiel sits up, still aching, “and I quote… ‘can’t you even be a little human about this?’”
“That's not... Cass, that's not what I meant.”
“You asked me to be human,” Castiel responds lowly. "I can't do that. But I thought..." He swallows thickly.
“I meant—” Dean scowls. Humans are such strange creatures— they speak so bluntly, and yet Dean can't hold Castiel's gaze. Eyes burning a hole in the distant wall, Dean continues, “I meant, y'know, try some emotion. Dance in the rain. Laugh a little.”
Castiel glances outside. The rain falls in sideways sheets, wind pelting it against the building. “I haven't danced before.”
Dean follows his gaze. “You take everything literally, huh?” He purses his lips in the corner of Castiel's vision. “We don't have to go out there. I wasn't—”
“I want to,” Castiel says, before he can stop himself. He's still grappling with the feeling— want. He stands, swaying, planting a hand on the bedside table. Dean surges up beside him. Callous hands hover with a care that's almost reverent. “I want to... stand... out there.”
“...Alright,” Dean chuckles, cocking a shoulder in a shrug, “why not. Let's go stand in the rain.”
The storm has softened now. Rivulets of rain roll off Castiel's coat. It's beautiful. Warmth bubbles up in his chest, a contrast to the chill of the breeze. Dean watches him with his usual intensity, hostile and hopeful and so fiercely human.
Castiel closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water run down his face.
He loves. Castiel doesn't have a subject, at the moment, but he stands there on the sidewalk and loves. A thin chuckle worms out of his ribs; he looks to Dean, smiling wide enough to hurt. “Is this human enough for you?”
I've been watching a lot of Supernatural lately, and man, those boys are always going through the Horrors. Even when they're not physically wounded, there's a lot of emotional angles going on. Spoilers below !!
Sam and his demon blood is always incredible. Guy who gets nosebleeds when he works too hard, who is trying his best to make good from a terrible thing, who is becoming what he's trying to stop. Augh. And Dean... "If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you" AUGH. AUGH!!!!!
I'm only on like Season 4, but it's so crunchy. Eats.
What if something happened when you were born and everybody decided you were evil before you even knew what evil was? What if you couldn't be saved no matter how hard you tried? What if the people closest to you are just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to become the monster they know you are?
Whumpee takes a thin breath, hissing between their teeth. Blood pools between their fingers even as they try and keep pressure on the wound. "Caretaker... I'm not doing great, am I?"
"You're gonna be fine," Caretaker responds. It sounds like a lie even to their own ears. In the middle of nowhere, no bandages or disinfectant, with the team miles away? What could they do? "You're gonna be okay, alright? Just stay with me."
"Too weak to stand, Caretaker," Whumpee mumbles blearily, "Where the hell would I go?"
