This whole fill turned into 2.5K so I'll add it to my whump 23 collection on Ao3 once I edit it, but for now have the bit related to today's prompt.
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Merlin tries to think of it as a game. Dress up. Just like when other royalty comes to Camelot dressed in their finest with well-crafted leather tack and embroidered cloaks, so Arthur has to dress up when he visits another kingdom. And just like sometimes visiting princesses like to dress in red or gold as homage to their host (and maybe show off how good they’d look in Camelot’s colors) so too is Arthur partaking in Midden’s fashion sense.
Which so happens to be slaves.
He does his best to ignore the itch, but it’s hard. The collar around his neck was a gift from Midden’s new king, Catmor, and engraved and enameled the way a pendant might be. He was too new a king to have had it commissioned, so it had to have been something from his backers across the sea. Backers that allowed him to sail to the Isles and capture a small kingdom.
His sudden arrival, and vilent taking of a chunk of the ruins of Daobeth, made many rules nervous. Not enough for Uther to come himself, but for him to send his heir at least. A sign of respect, Uther had claimed, to the man sitting in a ruined citadel that had once been the greatest in the Five Kingdoms and had that potential again, despite the dragon-chared stone.
“Don’t upset him,” Uther had told his son. “Do what he wants, for this trip at least.”
And King Catmor had requested small retinues – one representative, two guards, and one slave for serving.
Arthur had apologized as he put it around Merlin’s neck before they came in sight of the new kingdom, Leon and Gwaine looking on as Arthur promised to remove it any chance he could. Merlin had believed him, of course he did, and Arthur had held true to that promise.
It’s just hard tonight.
It’s their third night. Arthur had begged tired the first two, first from their travels, the second from a tour around the city, which had really been excuses for Arthur to hang out in his chambers and remove the collar from Merlin’s neck.
He’d hissed when he saw it the first night, swore the second. There was no mirror for Merlin to look into to see how bad it was, but he could guess the severity by the grimace on Arthur’s face. Merlin told him that it was fine. He’d survive. It was just chaffing.
It wasn’t just chaffing.
From the outside, the enamel made it hard to tell what the collar was made of. Yet Merlin knew exactly what it was from the first click around his neck. Iron. It’d been tempered with some other metal, it wasn’t the cold iron that disrupted magic, but it was pure enough Merlin could feel the effects. Itching where it touched his skin. A strain on his throat, like it was being squeezed and hard to breathe. A hitch in his lungs as the longer he wore it, the harder it became to breathe.
CW/Tw: lady whump, blood, hemorrhage, childbirth, flashback. After this. You might also want to read this. Follow up to this.
So much blood.
Too much blood.
Ryssa was ghost-white, dead-white, her hand suddenly slack.
No no no no no
I dropped the damned ice chips, let them scatter wildly on the floor. I take her hand, too cold, too limp, in mine, squeeze it a little. I turned her head to me wit the other. She looked so distant, almost already gone.
“No no no. No, stay with me, Precious. It’ll be all right, just stay with me. Please.” Stupid words fell out of my mouth, pointless patter.
Somewhere far away I heard a baby cry, that first indrawn breath and release of the new born. My cheeks were wet and I couldn’t see properly, the world was blurred. Time ran backward for a dizzy moment. Oh, look how well you did, my Treasure.
Then her cold hand twitched in mine, barely a squeeze, and i was back. Still here, still alive. Still mine. Reluctantly I let go of her hand, to take the bundle the midwife handled me. So small to do so much damage. Dark haired, grey-blue baby eyes. I cup the neck, feel the silken strands. Don’t get attached, Treasure. You can’t keep him.
They’ve finished packing Precious with bandages and ice, and she looked at me, weak, exhausted, beautiful. Not asking, no, she knew better than that, but her eyes implored.
When was cleaned up, settled on a fresh mattress, and seeming stable, I sat down next to her, putting the baby into her arms. Her smile flashed, sunlight through clouds.
I brushed her cheek with my fingertips, catch a few strands of her pale golden hair in them. “You did so well, Precious. You made a beautiful baby. When you’ve fed it, you can sleep for a while.”
When they slept, after the mess was cleaned away, I felt myself shaking.
When that passed, I went to visit Damon. Maybe he’d let me borrow Evon. I needed a stiff drink, or three, and I needed to hit someone.
Prompt: Field Care 101 ("please don't move", hemorrhage, dread)
Fandom: Naruto (Healing Hands)
Characters: Saiyo / Kazuko (both OC)
Rating: T (language and maybe gore a little?)
Words: 1851 (lol oops)
Notes: This story is part of Healing Hands backdrop stories, if you're following that, it occurs around the next two chapters but won't be featured in the main story. For @cinlat who trusted me to write these two meeting for the first time
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It’s been a week, Saiyo reasoned as she walked through the darkened village. I'm not desperate to go back, I’m considerate. Tenzo wasn’t in a good place the last time I saw him. I just want to make sure that he’s doing okay now. There’s nothing more to it than that.
Saiyo ignored the fact that she’d spent most of her last night with Tenzo passed out in his bed, too drunk to stand up. She’d nurtured the hope that he’d join her at some point. He hadn’t. Saiyo couldn’t tell if Tenzo wasn’t interested in her sexually, or if he was worried about blurring the lines between professional and personal. Sometimes, she thought he let her get close to him because they had a connection. Other times, she thought it was all an act
Unbidden, the memory of Tenzo’s dead weight on her shoulder rose in Saiyo’s mind. She felt the slippery warmth of his blood running between her fingers, heard the wheeze of his final breath.
“No,” Saiyo growled, earning a startled look from a woman on her left. She leveled the stranger with a cold stare until they scurried down a side street. Saiyo blew out a breath. Tenzo hadn’t died; she’d gotten him back in time. He was perfectly fine, just busy. If anything had happened to him, someone would have told the Anbu.
When Saiyo paused outside Tenzo’s apartment, the curtains were drawn. She toyed with her hair, tucking it behind one ear before allowing it to fall over her right eye. Then, she shook her head. Her appearance didn’t matter. Tenzo didn’t care how Saiyo looked either because he wasn’t interested, or because he liked her regardless of how she looked. Drawing a deep breath, Saiyo knocked on the door.
After nearly a minute, Saiyo heard the latches click free on the opposite side. The door opened a sliver. “Why are you hiding—” Saiyo paused, surprised to see green eyes staring back at her. Anger swelled in her stomach. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Sakura huffed out a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I needed to talk to Yamato,” Saiyo growled, almost forgetting to use the man’s codename in her anger. Surely Sakura didn’t know him well enough to use the other. Saiyo tossed her hair from her face with a flip of her head. “It’s none of your business.”
Sakura ran a hand through her hair, then opened the door a fraction wider. “Is it urgent? He’s not really up for visitors at the moment.”
Rage blotted Saiyo’s logic, sparking angry red streaks at the edge of her vision. She squared her hips and shifted the weight onto the balls of her feet in anticipation for a fight. “I’ll let Yamato decide that. Besides, who do you think you are? A lonely little medic looking for some Anbu excitement because you can’t go on missions anymore?”
Sakura’s lips twitched at the insult, but she didn’t rise to the bait. If anything, she grew more calm in the face of Saiyo’s storm. “I’m not ‘some little medic’. I’m head medical consult for all of Anbu—”
“Is he hurt,” Saiyo interrupted, placing one palm against the door to push it open. “If he isn’t injured, Yamato isn’t any of your damn business. Or did you come to take him off duty too? Another fuckting manipulation to get your way.”
Anger poured out of Saiyo, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Sakura might be the medic assigned to Anbu, but that didn’t give her a right to interfere with their lives. She needed to know her place. “Isn’t it bad enough that you put us through all that shit at the hospital? Nobody wants to talk about their feelings. Real shinobi don’t bother with that shit.”
“Oh, you’re clearly mission ready.” Sakura rolled her eyes, then drew a breath to collect herself. “You should go home. Yamato doesn’t need this kind of chaos in his life right now.”
“You don’t get to decide that.” The snarl that rose in Saiyo’s throat would have made even hardened enemies step backward. Sakura didn’t move, even when she shoved the door open to slip into the apartment. Tenzo wasn’t on the couch or the kitchen, so she moved past Sakura’s outstretched arm and deeper into the apartment.
Despite Sakura’s babbled warnings, Saiyo opened the bedroom door. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness inside. Once they did, she blinked and tried to clear the image away. Tenzo lay on the bed, curled on his right side as violent chills shook his body. The smell of old vomit and sweat clung to the room. Droplets stood out on Tenzo’s forehead and darkened the underarms of his t-shirt. He didn’t look toward the door.
“What’s wrong with him,” Saiyo hissed, spinning to face the woman behind her. “What did you do? He needs—”
“A medic?” The smugness in Sakura’s voice was infuriating. “Don’t worry, I have him well in hand.”
Saiyo opened her mouth to argue, but Tenzo cut it short by crying out in pain. She tried not to feel betrayed when Sakura’s name tangled in his throat instead of hers. The pinkette moved toward the bedside while Saiyo backed from the room, bile burning the back of her throat.
—-
The neon lights seemed brighter for the soft buzz of alcohol in Kazuko’s system. He’d drunk just enough to take the edge off another bad day at work. Sakura hadn’t been to work in almost a week, and even if Kazuko wanted to know why, he wasn’t sure who to ask. The patient load wasn’t that difficult without her, but the paperwork had started piling up on his desk. He needed to dedicate one evening this week to catching up on the stack. But, not tonight.
Kazuko filled his lungs with the cool evening air, then exhaled to clear it away. A bite of autumn felt refreshing after the summer’s heat. He’d probably need a jacket soon. Nearby, something clattered to the ground, then a loud hiss split the quiet. Kazuko frowned. There weren’t a lot of strays in Konoha, but it wasn’t unheard of either. He paused by the mouth of the alley and peered into the gloom to make sure everything was okay.
A puddle of blood glistened in the moonlight, pulling Kazuko deeper into the shadow. “Hello,” he called. “Anyone there?”
Someone or something had left a streak of blood along one wall, long lines suggesting that someone had dragged a bloody hand across the stone. He frowned and increased his pace. “If you’re hurt, just stay where you are. I’m a doctor. I can help.”
“Fuckin’ doctors already helped enough,” slurred a voice from beside a trashcan. “Fuck off.”
Frowning, Kazuko sat his bag on the ground and held up his empty hands. “Let me see that you’re alright, and I’ll be on my way.”
The mumbled response was unintelligible. Kazuko took in the scene before him, years of medical training leaping into practice without thought. A puddle of blood spread beneath the girl’s body, pulsing from multiple wounds. Golden eyes were opening and shutting rapidly as she fought to hang on to consciousness. One trembling hand held a needle next to a gaping slash over her stomach. She’d put three crooked stitches in the skin, but it wasn’t enough to hold it closed.
“What’s your name?” Kazuko asked, eyeing the more pressing injury on the girl’s right arm. A jagged cut ran elbow to wrist, bleeding profusely. She hadn’t tried to close it, probably not realizing how quickly she was going into shock. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“She had no right,” the girl murmured, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips smacked together, the scent of alcohol overwhelming when she breathed out a curse. “Bitch.”
Kazuko reached up to loosen the tie around his neck, thankful that he hadn’t gone home to change before getting a drink. He studied the arm wound for a moment, then knelt. Blood soaked through the knee of his pants as he wrapped his tie around the girl’s bicep, a couple of inches above the elbow. Using his free hand, he dug a pen from his bag and positioned it on top before tying the cloth a second time. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“They fucking pulled knives,” the woman mumbled, chin sinking toward her chest as she snorted. “Like chunin stood a chance against Anbu.”
Kazuko secured the device around the woman’s upper arm, frowning. “You’re a shinobi?”
“Obviously., I’m—” The girl hissed and jerked into a sitting position when Kazuko turned the pen and tightened the tourniquet around her arm. “Ow, that fucking hurts.”
Kazuko nodded without talking his eyes away from the wound. The hemorrhage slowed, then stopped. He breathed a sigh of relief before resting a hand on her shoulder. “Yeah, sorry about that. Let’s have a look at this cut on your stomach.”
Dragging some gauze from his bag, Kazuko clipped off the girl’s terrible stitches and pressed the white fabric against the gash. She arched and hissed, but she didn’t pull away. Kazuko held the pressure for several long seconds, then taped it off. He rocked back onto his heels. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
The girl smiled, head cocked to the side as she studied Kazuko from a different angle. “My pride stings a bit if you want to examine that.”
Despite everything, Kazuko managed a chuckle. “I’m going to have to take a rain check, especially since I don’t even know your name.”
“Saiyo,” the woman exhaled and closed her eyes. Kazuko was almost certain that she’d fainted, then she repeated herself. “My name is Saiyo.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Kazuko offered a small bow. “I’m Takeda Kazuko, and we’ve got to get you to the hospital. Then, I can page the Haruno-sen—”
Saiyo grabbed the lapel of Kazuko’s shirt, amusement clearing from her eyes like he’d imagined it. “Not Sakura.”
Kazuko frowned. “Haruno-sensei is a talented medic. She’ll be able to cure your injuries in minutes instead of weeks.”
“I don’t care, I’d rather die than ask for her help.” Saiyo pushed Kazuko away, and shook her head. “Actually I’m feeling much better now, I’ll just be on my way.”
“You’ve lost too—” Kazuko started to warn the woman that she shouldn’t make any sudden movements, when she pushed onto her feet. While her training undoubtedly gave her physical prowess, it couldn’t master everything. Saiyo’s eyes rolled back into her head as she collapsed into Kazuko’s arms. Sighing, he continued. “You’ve lost too much blood to stand up without help. Your blood pressure will drop, then you’ll faint.”
Easing Saiyo to the ground, Kazuko shook his head. He checked her pulse to make sure she was stable enough for him to get help, then lifted the woman into his arms. Kazuko silently cursed his aversion to the gym as he staggered forward two steps; shinobi made this look much easier than it was.
Summary: Castiel ends up on the wrong side of some of the refugees from Apocalypse World
Set at the end of season 13, before Lucifer’s return in the final episode..
* * *
“It's just temporary, Cas,” Sam said for the fifth time.
They had been trying to find enough space for the refugees from Apocalypse World, since none of them were ready to venture out into this world yet. Unfortunately, that meant Castiel would have to give up his room.
He truly didn't mind. He didn't use it for much anyway, and he and Jack could simply share a room temporarily. The Winchesters seemed to feel guilty for asking, particularly Sam, and it was taking a lot to convince his human friends that he had no problem sharing a space with his adoptive son.
“You know what, you can take my room and I'll bunk with Jack,” Sam offered.
“Sam,” Castiel rested a hand on his friend's arm to hold him in place. Sam had insisted on carrying the small box of Castiel's possessions to Jack's room, and looked like he was about to pick it up again to move to his own. “This is fine. You don't need to worry so much, I don't even need one.”
“Of course you do!” Sam shook his head. “Cas, you're part of the family. Of course you deserve your own space.”
Castiel smiled up at his friend. Ever since he had come back it seemed like the Winchesters went out of their way to include him in their family. It was nice. “Be that as it may, I will be perfectly content to share a living space with Jack.”
Sam didn't look convinced so Castiel pressed a little further. “We need a chance to...to 'catch up' anyway.” He wasn't sure that was the right idiom, but the way the younger Winchester nodded seemed to confirm his choice of words.
“All right Cas. Just let me know if you need something, all right? We can work something out if you change your mind.”
Castiel thanked his friend and waited for a few seconds while the tall man made his way out of Jack's room. It wasn't like the angel had much to unpack, just a handful of souvenirs he'd picked up over the last few years. He simply placed the entire box on the top shelf of Jack's closet—perhaps he and Jack could go through the box later and pick a few things out to decorate Jack's room.
The bunker itself was in chaos. There should have been more than enough rooms to house the refugees but it seemed there was a preservation spell of some kind on the lower halls that they hadn't been able to break. As it was, the moment he stepped out of Jack's room he was nearly bowled over by someone with an armful of musty sheets, then someone coming the other way with cushions stolen from a couch from the atrium.
In the end he retreated to the archives. He had been working through some of the missing translations there as a personal project—the old Men of Letters had amassed a vast collection of knowledge, but there were some thing even they couldn't decipher—and it seemed to be a good place to stay out of the way for the time being.
“Hey, that's him!”
Castiel looked up. He had been working through several heavy tomes of general information, but it was more tedious than he'd expected given that the tomes themselves contained disastrous inaccuracies. He would have welcomed the interruption had it been his friends, but it was two of the refugees.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“You're Castiel?” one asked. He was tall, perhaps as tall as Sam, with thinning brown hair that stuck up in the back. “The angel?”
Castiel inclined his head. He had been expecting a confrontation of some kind, even if the Winchesters had assured him they'd explained everything to Bobby and the other leaders of the refugees. “Did you need something?”
“Just wanted to pin you down,” the second one said. He was smaller, his dark eyes fixed on the angel's face with a menacing intensity. “Can't have you crawling around everywhere.”
“Toby,” the first man hissed. “We'd heard you were an angel, but I didn't believe. I'm Anthony.” He walked closer to Castiel, holding his hand out. After a moment's hesitation the angel clasped it, enduring the vigorous handshake that followed.
“Charlie told us what you did,” Toby snapped.
Castiel raised his eyebrows. Charlie? He'd had almost no interaction with the other version of Charlie. “I don't know what you mean.”
“You tortured her,” Toby stomped further into the room to lean on the table across from Castiel. “Her and that British asshole.”
Ah. He'd been afraid of this. “Those were not my actions,” he tried to explain.
“The other you,” Toby interrupted, waving his hand. “Same thing. You're the same person.”
He suppressed a shudder. No...no they were not. His doppelganger had been pitiful, true form twisted by years of torture and indoctrination. It had almost been a mercy kill. “I assure you, we are not.”
“Come on, Toby,” Anthony tried to persuade his friend. “The Winchesters told us, right? He's not like the others, not even like the real ones here.”
The real ones. Castiel fought to keep his discomfort off his face. Perhaps it was time to leave the archive—as one of the few bunker residents who was acclimated to the current state of the world (as much as he could be), perhaps they could use his assistance for a supply run.
“Of course they'd say that,” Toby replied, his sharp voice cutting into Castiel's thoughts. “They've lived with him for years, they're gonna think he's safe. They haven't seen angels the way we have.”
Castiel gently closed the volume he'd been translating, causing the men to jump guiltily as though they'd forgotten his presence. “I can assure you, I mean you no harm. If you'll excuse me, Mary might require my assistance.”
“Wait,” Toby had one hand up. “We came here with a question.”
These men were trying his patience. Castiel folded his arms and stared at them, clearing his throat after a few moments when neither spoke up.
“We just wanted to ask if you could prove it,” Anthony said softly. He'd seemed the kinder of the two at first, like he'd had a real curiosity to meet Castiel, but there was something more menacing in his voice now.
Castiel let out a sigh. “You want me to prove I won't hurt you?” He was already proving that, wasn't he? The fact that they were standing here, unharmed, despite interrupting and provoking him should have been all the proof they need.
Toby held up his other hand, displaying a gleaming circle of silver. Castiel had to fight not to take a step back...they'd found a binding collar.
Binding collars operated on much the same level as the anti-angel cuffs. They blocked an angel's connection to their grace and rendered them essentially mortal. They'd been used in Heaven for training purposes in the beginning, to teach soldiers how to fight without their connection to celestial power. Eventually it had become another punishment; as uncomfortable as being without grace on the physical plane, on the Heavenly plane it was like being deaf and blind at the bottom of the sea.
“Where did you find that?” Castiel demanded. The anti-angel weapons were supposed to be locked away for just such an occasion.
Toby shrugged. “We have our sources. We want you to wear it.”
“Absolutely not,” Castiel growled. He started to push past the men and walk out of the room, but Toby's voice called him back.
“We haven't told anyone else, you know.”
Castiel folded his arms and regarded the little man. “Told them what?”
“That it was you,” Toby retorted. “You tortured Charlie. Hey, maybe the one in our world killed you and took your place? We've got enough people who've lost family to your kind, they'd believe us in a snap.”
“And what would the Winchesters do?” Anthony pressed. “It's your word against ours and there are more of us...and we need them. They wouldn't throw all of us out for one angel, would they?”
Castiel flinched back at the words. No, he had no doubt his friends wouldn't throw him out, but his presence would make their lives much more difficult. He could leave on his own, but then his return would be dependent on the refugees finding another place to live. “What do you want?”
“Just wear it for a little while,” Toby said. He ran a finger across the activation runes and the collar split into two hinged half-circles. “It makes you human, right?”
“It's only fair,” Anthony cut in. “We don't have special powers if you go crazy. It's only fair to level the playing field.”
Castiel wanted to protest that he wouldn't 'go crazy'. He wasn't like that. He'd taken humanity's protection as the core of his very existence. Yet he knew those words wouldn't convince these men. Hesitantly he took the collar out of Toby's hand, stared at it for a few long moments, then fastened it around his neck.
It took effect instantly. He was no long aware of the souls in the bunker and the rotation of the earth, or the hissing static that used to be his connection to the host. His grace retreated deep into his body, leaving him with the strength and power of a mortal human.
He looked from one man to the other. “Is that all?” Castiel fought to keep his voice steady, even though it was difficult to ignore the danger he was now aware of. If they had gotten their hands on a binding collar, what else did they have? The bunker had many dangerous weapons and tools the Men of Letters could use against an angel, and without his grace he was practically defenseless.
“Just one thing,” Anthony said. He reared back and punched Castiel in the face, sending the angel staggering. Castiel stumbled back against the nearest wall, one hand already flying up to cover his injured cheek.
“Well?” Toby demanded.
Anthony was shaking out his hand. “Felt human.”
“Good.” Toby cracked his knuckles. “Might want to keep that a secret, angel,” he added, nodding toward the collar. “Bet you'd like being thrown out even less now.”
* * *
“Cas? What are you wearing?” Jack asked.
It had been six days since the unfortunate encounter with the two refugees. Castiel had been able to hide the collar's presence under his shirt collar, though it was more difficult to hide his growing human needs. It wasn't happening all at once, but with the more time he spent cut off from his grace he would need to eat and sleep like the rest of humanity.
Jack, of course, was the first to notice.
Castiel touched the collar gingerly. The collar's magic meant he couldn't remove it himself, though he could have talked any of his friends through the procedure. Toby and Anthony were checking in on him several times a day, though, and the lingering threat of turning the refugees against the Winchesters was still high.
“I'm regulating my power,” Castiel explained eventually. “I thought it might make the guests from the other world more comfortable to know I have no more power than they do.”
“Oh,” Jack nodded. “I guess it makes sense, but why do you need to do that? You're not like the angels from that world; you're nice.”
Castiel had to smile at the boy's simple words. If it were only that simple, but he'd seen that the men were right. He was regarded with suspicion by most of the refugees, to the point where many rooms of the bunker seemed hostile now. The other Charlie refused to be in the same room as him (he couldn't blame her, of course) and many of her allies were following her lead.
“Hey, kid,” Toby stuck his head into the room. “Can we borrow your dad for a second?”
Jack beamed at the man, though Castiel regarded him with suspicion. Toby and Anthony made a show of being tolerant of Castiel when around the others, but treating him with disdain in private. He knew the threats that would follow, though. If he refused the refugee would wheedle and beg until he could get Castiel alone, when he would take great pleasure in reminding the angel of the hold they had over him.
“I'll be back,” Castiel promised Jack and stood to follow Toby out of the room.
Toby didn't even look back to make sure Castiel was following as he lead the way to a seldom-used office on a lower floor of the bunker. Anthony was waiting there with the usual selection of syringes and empty IV bag.
Castiel couldn't comprehend what they wanted with his blood, but it was growing exhausting to replenish it so frequently. While the collar locked down his powers it had a fail-safe that would allow just enough healing to keep him alive in certain situations—such as blood loss.
“Sleeve up,” Anthony demanded as Toby half-shoved Castiel into a chair.
He hesitated. Surely...surely he had proven himself enough by now? In six days he hadn't given them a moment's concern, and he'd gone along with all their little experiments. The marks in his arms were getting harder to hide, as well as the bruises on the rest of his body.
Toby growled and shoved him against the desk, pinning him in place. “He gave you an order,” he hissed in Castiel's ear as Anthony pushed the angel's sleeve up.
Castiel bit back the cry of pain as the man's hand brushed over the bruises from previous sessions, roughly manipulating Castiel's arm to find his veins.
“Other one,” Anthony complained. Toby released Castiel and sat back, giving the angel a few minutes to comply.
“We can ask Jack, you know,” Toby said darkly. “I'm sure he'd love to help us out with this. His blood wouldn't be as good as yours, of course, so we'd have to take twice as much.
Mutely, Castiel shook his head and rested his other arm on the desk, pulling the sleeve up enough to expose the crook of his elbow. Whatever they were planning...whatever they wanted from his blood...he couldn't let them involve Jack. This was beyond keeping the peace in the bunker. If he failed to cooperate these men could turn the rest of the refugees against his family, and that would mean the Winchesters and Jack would be in the line of fire.
“Was that so hard?” Toby sneered as Anthony finally set the needle. “We should have enough for the sigils soon, then this will all be over.”
Castiel looked up at that, staring between the men in bewilderment. “Sigils?” They'd said they needed to do experiments on his blood. Needed to understand what would work against an angel to arm their comrades.
“Anti-angel magic,” Toby explained. He sat on the edge of the desk to stare down at Castiel with a superior expression. “Something we came up with in our world. We need angel blood for it, of course. We could have just killed you, but that would raise questions.”
“Every angelic being in a one hundred-mile radius will be affected,” Anthony added. “Zaps your grace. I've heard it's like touching an electric fence.”
Castiel swallowed. “What about Jack?”
“Oh, he'll be fine,” Anthony's voice was studiously casual. “If he agrees to wear a collar. Like you.”
No. No, they couldn't do this. It wouldn't stop at the collar. They'd systematically dehumanize Jack until he was worthless in his own eyes. His son didn't deserve that.
He didn't deserve that.
Castiel struck. With his free hand he aimed a blow at Toby's midsection, but without his grace and with blood loss weakening his human form he could do little more than unbalance the man. He pulled his other arm away from Anthony, yanking the IV needle free, and turned to bolt for the door.
“You little bastard!” Anthony roared while Toby tackled him from behind. With his grace fettered it was down to hand-to-hand combat, and while Castiel would normally be able to handle such a fight with ease he'd been severely weakened over the last few days.
Toby had an arm around his throat and hauled him back, the wiry strength in the smaller man's arms like corded steel. Anthony was coming around the desk, hefting a baseball bat he'd been keeping concealed.
“I knew you'd turn on us one day,” Anthony hissed.
Then he swung the bat at Castiel's unprotected side.
* * *
They left him unconscious, beaten and bloodied on the floor. Castiel fought to pull himself to his feet, leaning heavily on a set of filing cabinets against the wall. He wrapped one arm around his chest for support, hissing when two of his broken ribs shifted at the touch.
He could feel his grace trickling through his body, fighting to heal the worst of the damage. But there was so much, and he had so little strength left.
One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. He managed to limp through the bunker, leaning on the wall for support, unaware of the bloody trail he left behind him. He knew he was injured and in need of assistance but couldn't figure out where to look for it. Castiel didn't know where other refugees might be in the bunker, or if any of them were in on Toby and Anthony's plan. He could be met with animosity at any corner, and many of them wouldn't hesitate to finish off a weakened angel.
He settled for Sam's room. It was closer than Dean's, and he knew the others would be more reluctant to disturb the Winchester brothers than Jack.
Though the hunter was gone the door was unlocked, and Castiel settled gratefully on the edge of the bed. He could ask Sam for help when he returned. They could remove the collar, then he would take Jack and go far away from these people until they could work out a more favorable arrangement. The boy had seen so little of the human world.
With a start Castiel realized he was lying down. He must have slipped, surely he meant to sit up to wait for Sam's return.
But the mattress was soft and his body was weak. His head pulsed in time with the beats of his heart, and he could tuck his shaking hands under his coat for warmth.
Had it always been this cold in Sam's room?
Cold...and dark...and silent.
And voices.
“I don't know how he got here, I walked in and he was like this.”
“What the hell's that thing? Around his neck, see?”
Someone was touching him. Turning his head, peeling the collars of his jacket and shirts back. He wanted to protest at the prying hands. Couldn't they just let him be?
“It looks like a binding collar. I thought we locked all of those away?”
“Well, get it off him!”
“I know, Dean!”
Warm hands settled on the cold skin of his neck. Castiel wanted to curl against them but his body seemed too heavy to move. The voice above him spoke something in a different tongue—words he thought he recognized, but it had been so long—and something around his neck broke away.
His grace poured back in with a howl.
Castiel's eyes snapped open as he sucked in a breath, staring up into the worried faces of Sam and Dean. “What...”
“You'd better tell us,” Dean replied. He was trying to look stern, but there was too much worry in his green eyes, and he was already crouched to be at Castiel's eye level and taking one of his cold hands between his own warm palms. “What the hell happened, man?”
Castiel fumbled at his neck with his free hand, finding the open binding collar. He swallowed, unsure of how to explain. Would they ask him to leave? It would be the easiest way to keep everyone safe. He would go, of course, but they had to let him take Jack. They'd have to see Jack wasn't safe, if those men truly intended to set off those anti-angel sigils.
“Cas?” Sam was leaning over him again, one hand on his shoulder. “Someone...who did this, man?”
His grace was already repairing the internal damage the bat and two sets of steel-toed boots had inflicted. He tried to push himself up with a groan, relieved when Sam helped him sit up the rest of the way.
“Cas?” Dean prompted.
Slowly, haltingly, he told the story. The veiled threats. The other refugees' mistrust. His blood, and the anti-angel magic.
“I can leave,” Castiel promised. “I don't mind. I'll take Jack and we'll go somewhere safe.”
“That's crap,” Dean snapped. He pushed away from them and stalked across the room, folding his arms. “If they don't like you being here, they can hit the road.”
“Dean's right,” Sam added. He rested a hand on Castiel's forearm, waiting until the angel turned to face him to add his own thoughts. “I mean, yeah, we want to help those guys. But you and Jack? You're family.”
“But why would you choose one life over so many?” Castiel asked. It didn't make sense. Logistically, they could do so much more good assisting the refugees than harboring one angel and a nephilim.
“Seriously?” Dean rested his hands on his shoulders and let out a laugh. “C'mon, Cas, that's kind of our thing.”
Sam made a face. “To the detriment of the world.”
Dean sent his brother a rude gesture, but walked back over to sit next to Castiel. “Seriously, man. You're one of us. You've gotta know we have your back.”
Castiel looked down at his hands and pushed one sleeve back to watch the bruises and needle scars fade to nothing.
