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@yellowhorde
Someone asked me why I don’t reblog.
I do, just not on this one. This account is for my art and fanfiction.
If you’re interested in seeing what I reblog, feel free to visit
@because-i-like-what-i-like
Mostly Supernatural stuff (Dean/Castiel) of course, but sometimes other stuff.
I don’t really like drawing flowers, but I do seem to have a fondness for Chinese Lanterns. Probably because they don’t have so many petals.
I know there are supposed to be all these tiny veins, but, honestly, I couldn’t be bothered.
Goodbye, Delta
I went to the second bedroom to check on the ferrets.
Delta passed away sometime in the night. It was not unexpected; she'd been sick for a long time now. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.
My poor, sweetest girl. I will miss you and your perfect pink nose.
Retribution Chapter 13/? WIP SPN
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 Dean/Castiel, pre-slash Category: Angst. Hurt/Comfort Rating: R Warnings: Violence, Torture, Forced Obedience, Castiel Whump, Coercion, Psychological Abuse, Forced Nudity, Non-Graphic Sexual Assault Title: Retribution Author: yellowhorde Note: This story takes place sometime after Season 5 Episode 10 - Abandon All Hope
Sam returns with supplies, only to discover the full extent of what happened in Maine. As fresh wounds are forced into the open, Dean struggles to keep moving forward while Castiel finally begins to break beneath the weight of everything he's endured.
A blue-gray glow spilled from the television perched on the dresser beside the bathroom door, stretching long shadows across the wood-paneled walls. The WCSH Channel 6 evening anchor faced the audience, camera perfect and sincere.
“…and state officials are urging residents to stay off the ice on Sebago Lake this week. The unseasonable warmth has created highly unstable conditions, so please, leave the ice shanties packed away until next winter. Turning now to high school basketball tournament coverage in Bangor…”
The television speaker crackled loudly and white lines of static rolled across the screen.
Dean, slouched in the chair Sam had placed between the two beds earlier, tipped the bourbon bottle back for another swallow, welcoming the warmth as it spread through his body. The last thing he needed was another drink, but Sammy had been gone for over an hour now and he was desperate to take the edge off.
Beside him, the mattress creaked, followed by a sharp, guttural sound, half-gasp, half sob. Dean set the bottle on the makeshift nightstand and twisted around in the chair
Cas’s eyes were open, but they were glazed and unfocused, the blue light of the television reflecting in them.
“…a thriller of a game today as the Cheverus Stags took home the regional title, beating out…”
Castiel’s chest heaved, his breathing shallow and rapid. His eyes rolled wildly as if tracking movement in the room.
“Dean?” Castiel’s voice was slurred, his name coming out thick, barely recognizable. He tried to push up from the mattress, but his limbs shook uncontrollably and he cried out as his back shifted.
“Whoa, whoa! Cas, stay down.” Dean leaned over him, hands hovering but hesitant to touch. After a moment he reached out and pressed the back of his hand against Cas’s forehead, much the same way he had done to Sam when he was little.
“Jesus Christ, Cas, you’re burning up.”
Cas frowned up at him, confused, as if he didn’t recognize him. His fingers spasmed against the comforter, bunching the fabric into white-knuckled fists as he pulled away.
“Focus on my voice, Cas,” Dean commanded. He reached out, his bandaged hand clumsily brushing a stray lock of hair away from Cas’s sweat-damp forehead.
Cas stared at him blankly. “Dean?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe,” he murmured, “Raphael’s gone. It’s just us.”
Cas began trembling under Dean’s touch.
“Dean…” The fear faded from his eyes.
Dean slid his palm around to the back of Cas’s neck, his thumb tracing the base of the angel’s skull. He could feel the frantic, fluttering pulse jumping under the damp, heated skin.
“Breathe with me, Cas,” Dean urged, his voice a low, steady anchor. “In and out. Just like that.”
He matched his breathing to Cas's, slowing it deliberately. His other hand settled on Cas's shoulder, holding him steady so he wouldn't aggravate the stitches.
Cas’s eyes remained fixed on Dean’s, his pupils wide and dark. He wasn’t speaking, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gradually slowed, the raw panic in his gaze replaced by a hollow, glassy exhaustion.
“That’s it,” Dean whispered, his face so close he could feel the heat radiating off Cas’s feverish skin. “You’re doing great.”
“…expecting a major shift by tomorrow night, with a massive Nor’easter moving up the coast, bringing hurricane-force winds and heavy accumulation to Cumberland County…”
Dean’s entire world narrowed down to the few inches of space between him and Cas. Dean kept his hand anchored firmly at the nape of Cas’s neck, his fingers brushing the short hairs there in a slow, grounding rhythm.
Cas’s body went rigid, a low, thin whistle of air escaping his clenched teeth. But he remained where he was, riding out the pain with his eyes locked onto Dean’s chest, watching its steady rise and fall.
Dean moved his hand down to cover one of Cas’s white-knuckled fists, prying the angel’s fingers away from the scratchy bedspread and lacing their fingers together. He squeezed and held on.
Cas’s eyelids began to droop. His breathing slowed, becoming heavy as his head slumped against the pillow. He let out a low moan, his head rolling restlessly. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His fingers, still laced with Dean’s, tightened in a sudden, spasmodic grip before going limp again.
“That fever isn't going to go down on its own,” Dean muttered, pulling away. “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere.”
Cas huffed weakly, “Where would I go?”
“Funny guy,” Dean muttered, making his way to the bathroom, biting his bottom lip to suppress a relieved smile.
He flicked on the light in the bathroom. Just big enough for two people if one of them was willing to perch on the toilet. It was clean though, and there was no sign of mold or mildew, which made it better than some of the dives they’d stayed at, small or not
A folded washcloth hung from the metal rack above the toilet. Dean grabbed it and shook it out. He ran it under the faucet until it was saturated. After wringing it out, he headed back to Cas, folding the cloth as he went.
After a moment’s hesitation, he climbed onto the bed, the mattress giving beneath his weight. Cas’s eyes opened blearily and he gave a small inquisitory hum as Dean settled against the low wood of the headboard beside him.
The headboard dug into his back. Reaching down, Dean yanked the pillow free from the folded-down comforter and shoved it between his back and the wood paneling. Finally braced against the wall, he slid his arms around Cas and carefully pulled the angel into his lap. He settled Cas’s weight against his chest, being careful to keep his hands away from the bandages.
Cas came willingly enough, but gave a sharp cry as he shifted.
“Cas?”
But Cas only curled tightly into himself, pulling his arms over his face, fingers fisting in his rumpled hair.
“Hey, hey. Don’t curl up on me like that,” Dean kept his voice soft, “Talk to me, Cas. What’s wrong?”
Cas’s shoulders began to shake against his chest, his breathing coming in ragged, uneven jerks. Dean wrapped his arm around Cas's shoulders as a muffled sob escaped him.
Cas was crying.
“Hey now,” Dean said, pressing his cheek awkwardly to the top of Cas’s head. “Hey.”
He didn’t know what to say. Nothing he could say would change a damned thing.
“Shh…” Dean wrapped his arms around his friend, pulling him close until Cas lowered his arms and pressed his heated, tear-streaked face into his chest.
“I—” Cas’s voice was low, muffled. “It… hurts… Inside.”
Dean’s heart plummeted in his chest. His fingers tightened against Cas’s shoulders before he forced them to loosen.
Cas's shoulders shook violently beneath Dean's arm.
“Cas?”
Castiel covered his eyes with one hand for a moment as if to force himself back under control. The effort only seemed to make things worse. Another broken sob escaped him.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
Dean had never heard him sound so defeated.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. Sincerely.
Cas shook his head, face still hidden. “Not your fault.”
On the TV, Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News began speaking.
“On the broadcast tonight, Feeling the Heat. The head of Toyota gets grilled, apologizes and takes responsibility but is that enough? Littleton again. A school shooting three miles from Columbine rocks a community that’s been there before. This time the story has a hero. Flunking Out. A high school tired of poor performance fires the entire staff…
With an irritated grunt, Dean reached blindly for the remote on the nightstand and clicked the television off. The screen went black and the sudden silence seemed very loud.
He turned his attention back to the angel in his arms and cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Do you… uh… I mean.” He paused, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “Wanna talk about it?”
One of Cas’s hands slid up to blindly fist into the fabric of Dean’s flannel shirt.
“No.”
Dean nodded, ashamed of how relieved he felt at Cas’s firm reply. “Okay.”
He ran his hand up and down Cas’s upper arm absently as he stared out the window next to the television. The dark glass acted like a mirror against the night, reflecting an image of him cradling Cas against his chest. The sight made something twist uncomfortably in his chest and he looked away.
Suddenly remembering the washcloth still clutched in his hand, Dean gently pressed a finger under Cas's chin and tipped his face up. Blue eyes met his for a long moment before Cas dropped his gaze. Dean wiped the tears from his flushed cheeks with one damp corner of the cloth, then slid it to the nape of his neck.
Cas let out a long, shuddering sigh as the cold hit the base of his skull, his tense muscles finally loosening as his head sank heavily into Dean’s shoulder. His fractured breathing eventually settled into a deep, heavy rhythm. The desperate grip he had on Dean’s flannel shirt slowly uncurled, his fingers going entirely slack as his arms dropped limply into his lap.
“That's it,” Dean whispered, his fingers tracing a slow, rhythmic pattern against the angel’s temple. “The worst is over. Just sleep, Cas.”
For a while, Dean closed his eyes and tried to let his mind drift without thought, without worries. He didn’t have much success, though. He was keenly aware of the cabin’s silence, Cas’s body curled up beside him, and the slow crawl of time. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and shifted against the pillow, trying to find a more comfortable position.
He rotated his left hand to check the time, tilting his wrist so that the wall light glinted off the watch face.
“Damn it, Sam,” he muttered. “It doesn’t take two hours to grab dinner and make a simple supply run. Where the hell are you?”
In his arms, Castiel shifted, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips. Dean tightened his grip instinctively, pulling the angel closer against his chest. He rested his chin lightly on top of Cas’s messy dark hair. The heat radiating off Cas was alarming. Reaching up, he brushed away a few damp strands of hair glued to Cas’s forehead.
Exhaustion dragged at his eyelids but Dean didn’t want to sleep. He needed to stay sharp, to listen for the returning roar of the Impala's engine. But the warmth of Cas’s body against his, combined with the cabin’s silence, pulled at him relentlessly.
Dean’s eyes drifted shut.
Sometime later, he jerked awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. He blinked rapidly, disoriented. He looked down at Cas, his breathing slow and heavy with sleep, his face tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck.
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to ground himself. The phone screen was painfully bright when he checked for messages from Sam. Nothing.
If Sam wasn't back in fifteen minutes, Dean decided, he was going to call him and ream him out for making him worry.
A sound caught Dean’s attention, and he unconsciously held his breath to listen. Moments later a slow, relieved grin spread across his face as the low, familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine vibrated through the cabin walls before the car even pulled into the gravel drive. The deep purr of the V8 loosened the tight knot in his chest.
“Well, about damned time.”
Moving with exaggerated care, Dean extracted himself from the angel. Cas made a small unconscious sound of protest as he pulled away before settling deeper into blankets tucked around him.
Outside, the headlights swept across the windows, casting momentary light over the dark wood paneling before the engine cut out. The driver’s side door slammed, then he heard the heavy crunch of boots on gravel rapidly approaching the door of the cabin. The screen door creaked open, a key rattled in the lock, and there was Sam, cheeks bright from the cold and carrying several plastic grocery bags.
“What the hell took you so long?” Dean demanded, pitching his voice low as he closed the distance between him and his brother. “You were gone forever.”
“Hardly,” Sam scoffed, stepping inside and locking the door behind him.
“Well, a long time, at any rate.”
Sam sighed. Dean knew he would have liked to argue, but he looked just about as tired as Dean felt. His eyes flicked anxiously between Dean and the sleeping angel on the bed.
Dean snatched two of the heaviest bags from Sam's hands without waiting for an invitation. By the time he reached the kitchen counter, he was already rifling through them.
“There was a line at the register.” Sam shed his heavy flannel jacket and hung it on the back of a wooden chair.
“Oh, yeah?” Dean muttered, pulling out a loaf of bread and a jar of mustard. “Must have been one hell of a line.”
Sam rolled his eyes, dropping the remaining bags onto the table with a thud. He rubbed his hands together to chase away the chill of the evening air.
Dean pulled a carton of eggs from one bag and set it on the counter. Then he peered deeper into the second. “Wait. Is that pie?”
Sam managed a small, tired smile. “They had apple. Don't say I never do anything for you.”
“Awesome.”
“The girl at the checkout counter said a massive storm system is expected to come rolling in late tomorrow night,” Sam explained, unpacking his own bag and setting the items on the table. “She warned me that if we're staying out here in the woods, we need to stock up.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Dean said, sliding the carton of eggs into the mini fridge.
“Seriously, the place was a madhouse,” Sam added, shaking his head as he neatly lined up the canned goods on the counter. “The shelves were almost completely stripped. People were grabbing bread, milk, batteries. You’d think it was the end of the world.”
“Or the Apocalypse,” Dean quipped.
Sam huffed. “Yeah, or something like that.” He held up a 4-pack of pudding cups. “I barely managed to snag these before some guy in a camo jacket took the last of them.”
Dean stared down at the pudding cups that Sam had just set on the counter, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
“Pudding cups?” Dean asked incredulously, “Since when do we stock up on snack packs? And since when do you buy chocolate anything?”
“They’re for Cas,” Sam said mildly, putting the canned soup into the cupboard over the microwave. “For when he wakes up.”
Dean blinked, looking from the pudding back to his brother. “Sam, he’s an angel of the Lord. Angels don’t eat.”
“He’s human right now, Dean,” Sam reminded him gently, turning around to lean against the counter. “Or, well, mostly human. I guess.”
Dean opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He looked toward the bed at the back of the cabin where Castiel was currently dead to the world, bundled in a blanket. Something in his chest eased despite himself.
Dean scowled.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if he eats my pie, grace or no grace, I’m throwing him out into the blizzard.”
“Well, he won't touch the pie,” Sam stuffed all of the empty plastic bags into a single bag and hanging that back on a cabinet knob for later use as trash bags.
With the groceries finally sorted and the kitchen cleared, the heavy silence of the isolated cabin settled back over them. Dean stepped over to the bed, glancing down at the angel’s flushed face.
“How is he?” Sam asked, quietly.
“He’s got a fever,” Dean replied, pressing the back of his hand against Cas’s forehead. His jaw clenched as he gauged the heat radiating from the angel’s skin.
He didn't need a thermometer. Too many nights in places just like this had taught him how to judge a fever by touch because everyday ordinary things like thermometers weren’t always available. Nights that had taught him the difference between a typical childhood fever and the dangerous, shivering heat that meant he needed to stay awake all night cool-bathing his little brother in a motel tub.
He ran his tongue against the inside of his cheek, his brow furrowed into a deep, calculating pinch as he looked up at Sam.
“I’d say it’s about a hundred and two,” Dean said, his voice flat and certain.
“Right,” Sam let out a quiet breath. “It’s probably an inflammatory response.”
He grabbed a bottle of acetaminophen from the counter and tossed it in Dean’s direction. Dean caught it and set it down on the nightstand next to the bourbon and TV remote.
All of life’s little necessities.
“We’ll have to wait until Cas is awake enough to swallow,” Sam murmured. “For now, all we can really do is try to keep the fever down.”
Dean nodded, his eyes locked on the rhythmic, heavy rise and fall of Cas’s chest.
Nothing to do but sit around and wait, he thought bitterly. Story of my life.
Sighing, Dean stepped away from the bed, his boots making a faint scuff on the floorboards as he crossed the narrow gap to the kitchen table. He opened one of the cupboards, peeking inside. Seeing nothing encouraging, he scanned the items Sam had stacked neatly on the counter.
His brow furrowed slightly as he eyed the cans of chili and boxes of protein bars. He let out a quiet, dissatisfied grunt.
“You got anything decent to eat among all this survivalist crap?” Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at Sam. “Because I'm starving. And I’m not really in the mood for chalky peanut butter bars right now.”
Sam looked up from the counter, a tired but slightly amused smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. He wiped his hands on his thighs.
“I left the diner food in the car,” Sam said softly, nodding toward the front door. “I wanted to get the medical stuff and the water inside first so we could get Cas stable. There's a bag of burgers and fries sitting on the passenger seat of the Impala.”
Dean’s face immediately brightened, the hard, tense lines around his mouth relaxing for the first time all evening. He pointed a finger at his brother. “See? Why didn't you lead with that?”
Sam gave a quiet, exasperated huff of laughter and leaned his hips back against the edge of the kitchen counter, crossing his long arms over his chest.
“Because, Dean, some of us actually prioritize medical emergencies over a double cheeseburger,” he murmured, his voice laced with familiar sarcasm. He cut a brief look over at the bed where Cas lay. “I figured making sure Cas hadn’t bled out was a little higher on the to-do list.”
“And you would be right to think so,” Dean agreed, smiling.
“Dude, go grab the bags before everything freezes solid.” Sam paused, then added almost apologetically, “I think the fries are already cold, though.”
Dean let out a groan of disappointment as he moved toward the door. He slipped out into the cold, silent night, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he hurried to the Impala.
The familiar smell of greasy diner food hit him the moment he opened the passenger-side door.
“Sammy, you’re a lifesaver.” Dean all but moaned, snatching up the heavy, crinkling bag sitting on the vinyl seat. Dark grease spots were already blooming across the bottom of the paper.
The smell alone made his stomach tighten. He walked back to the covered porch and into the warmth of the cabin, the grease-stained paper bag held tight against his ribs as if to muffle his stomach’s insistent growls. He set the sack down on the newly cleared table, right next to Sam’s laptop. It was such a regular fixture that he didn’t even question its presence. Because, of course, it was on the table.
“Alright,” Dean muttered, tearing the top of the bag open. He reached inside and pulled out two foil-wrapped burgers, followed by a large container of fries.
He tossed one of the burgers toward Sam, who caught it easily with one hand.
Dean pulled a single fry from the cardboard container, his brow furrowing as his fingers registered the complete lack of heat. He bit into it, chewed slowly, and his face instantly fell into a look of pure disgust.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean muttered, tossing the half-eaten fry back into the box with an annoyed flick of his wrist. He looked up at Sam feeling genuine betrayal. “They’re ruined.”
“I told you they were cold before you went out there, Dean.”
He grabbed his foil-wrapped burger, grumbling, “Next time, the food comes inside first.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“At least these are still warm,” Dean said, taking a seat in the chair facing the beds. He pulled the burger’s wrapper open and groaned appreciatively as the fragrance wafted up. “Oh, God, it smells like actual food, too. Not that rabbit crap you usually get.”
Sam rolled his eyes as he sat down across from him, leaning his elbows on the table. He unwrapped his burger but didn't take a bite right away. Instead, his eyes drifted past Dean's shoulder, looking over at Cas, who remained completely still on the closest bed under the dull glare of the wall sconce.
“We’ll need to get some fluids into him when he wakes up,” he said quietly, “With a fever that high, he’ll dehydrate fast.”
Dean swallowed, and nodded grimly. “Yeah. I'll force-feed him the water myself if I have to.” He gestured vaguely towards the table between them. “Now, Eat your food, Sammy. Before it gets cold.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Smart ass.” Dean bit his bottom lip to suppress a smile. Then glanced over at Cas and his smile dimmed.
For the next few moments, the only sounds in the cabin were the rustle of waxed paper as the brothers finished unwrapping their burgers, laying them flat on the table like makeshift plates, and tucked in.
Dean hunched over his plate, elbows flared out on the table, eating with an intense, almost feral focus. His stomach was a hollow, cramping knot, made worse by all the bourbon he’d drunk. He tore into the burger with large bites, chewing quickly and swallowing hard. There was grease on his chin and a smear of sauce on his thumb, but he didn’t stop to wipe it with one of the crumpled paper napkins. He just swiped the back of his hand across his mouth in one rough motion, his eyes never leaving his food.
Swallowing the last bite, Dean crumpled the now-empty wrapper into a tight ball and dropped it onto the table. He reached out for the plastic cup on the table in front of him. The ice cubes inside clattered loudly against the walls of the cup as he tore off the plastic lid. He tossed it down beside the crumpled wrapper and lifted the cup to his lips, taking a long drink, his throat working in heavy, rhythmic swallows.
He set the plastic cup down with a hard, deliberate clunk and let out a satisfied sigh.
Moments later, his hand disappeared back into the takeout bag in search of a second burger.
Sam cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He set his water bottle down with a soft thud. “Dean.”
Dean didn't look up as he unwrapped the burger. “Don’t worry, there’s still one left for you.”
“This isn’t about food,” Sam said quietly.
Dean glanced at his brother. Froze when he saw how intently Sam was watching him from across the table, his own half-eaten burger sitting abandoned on its flattened foil.
Sam leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his eyes fixed on his brother.
“We need to talk about Cas.”
“What about him?” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of burger.
“Well, those bruises for starters.”
A muscle jumped in Dean’s jaw. He swallowed hard and felt a dull, aching pain right behind his breastbone. “He’s fine.”
Sam let out a sharp, incredulous scoff and gave a slow shake of the head. “Fine, Dean? How in hell is he fine?”
Dean’s thumb dug into the soft bread of his burger, crushing it.
“Sammy, please.” His voice dropped into a quiet, exhausted register that surprised even himself. He looked away from his brother, staring down at the scarred wood of the table. “Let it go.”
“Dean… I can't.” Sam said softly.
“Yeah, you can,” Dean muttered, his voice tight as he raised his eyes to glare at his brother. “You just drop it. It's not that hard, Sam.”
“I look at him,” Sam gestured vaguely toward the bed, “and I see evidence of... of a violation that we aren't equipped for.”
Dean stared at Sam, his chest tightening as that spike of anger evaporated, replaced by a cold, leaden weight. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.
A violation.
The word hung in the air between them. Dean’s eyes locked once more onto the scarred wood of the table, his mind violently rejecting the images that word conjured. Not just a physical wound. But an assault. Intimate, brutal. A desecration. Dean couldn't stop hearing the word.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said, but the anger was gone from his voice. It was just a plea now, low and ragged.
Dean gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. He didn't want to think about it because thinking about it meant admitting they couldn't shoot it, stab it, or exorcise it away.
He stood up so fast his wooden chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. Sitting still suddenly felt impossible. He needed to move. Needed to do something, anything.
“Dean—”
“I know!” Dean snarled. “I know what Raphael did. I was there, remember?”
“And Raphael. That son of a bitch made sure to tell me exactly what he did before he cleared out.” He stepped closer to Sam, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. “He wanted me to know. He—” Dean’s voice cracked. “He bragged about it, Sammy.”
“So don't talk to me about what we aren't equipped for,” Dean said, his chest heaving. “I know exactly how hurt he is. And I'm the one who has to look at him and remember that I couldn't stop it.”
“Dean... if you knew, why didn't you say anything?”
Dean let out a harsh, humorless breath through his nose and looked away. He shoved his trembling hands deep into his jean’s pockets, wishing he could shove the conversation away just as easily.
“And say what, Sam?” Dean asked, his voice rough and weary. He started pacing the narrow length of the kitchen, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
He stopped, his back to Sam as he stared out the kitchen window into the night.
“I guess I didn't say anything because keeping my mouth shut was the only way to keep moving forward,” Dean admitted. “If I talk about it... if I stop moving long enough to look at what happened, I don't know how to keep going.”
Dean spun around to face Sam, who was now standing, and his words tore out of him, raw and reckless.
“And now that you know, what do you want to do about it, Sam? Huh?” Dean demanded, taking two quick steps toward the table. “You want us to go hunt down an Archangel? You want to track down a literal force of nature that can obliterate us with the snap of his fingers?”
He gestured wildly toward the cabin walls.
“No, of course not,” Sam said quietly, “But, Dean—”
“But what?” Dean snapped, shaking his head, jaw so tight it hurt. “We are entirely out of our league. We’ve been out of our league since the angels showed up, and right now, all we can do is try to keep the angel on our side breathing.”
“There's nothing we can do to Raphael,” Dean said, his voice flat. He looked past Sam, eyes stinging, throat tight, and stared blindly at the kitchen wall. “And we can’t fix what he did to Cas.”
Sam reached out and gripped both of Dean’s shoulders, gave him a small shake. Dean tried to break away, but Sam held him tight.
“Listen to me. I don’t want to hunt an Archangel, Dean. I want—no, I need—to know how we can keep Cas alive when the grace that keeps him together seems to be bleeding out.”
“Dean, I don’t even know if we can do this,” Sam said, his voice frantic, hushed. “If Cas’s grace is gone, is he... is he susceptible to everything now? Internal bleeding, infection?”
Dean didn't answer. He just watched Sam, his own chest tightening as Dean heard his deepest unspoken fears reflected back at him in his brother’s words.
“And then there’s the rest of it,” Sam pressed on, looking directly at Dean. “How do we even help him process what Raphael did? Dean, he’s never been human like this before. He’s never had to deal with something like this. Hell, I don’t even know if he knows how.”
“We don't,” Dean said, his voice flat and hard. He stared directly into Sam’s eyes, forcing his own panic down. “We keep him alive. We keep him fed, we keep him warm, and we don't let him out of our sight. If he wants to talk, he’ll talk. If not,” Dean shrugged, “well, that’s up to him.”
“He’s still an angel, Sam,” Dean said, his voice rough. “But right now? He’s just a guy who’s been dragged through the meat grinder. We treat him like family. We do what we always do. We fix what we can and we carry the rest.”
Dean didn't wait for a response. He turned his back on Sam, effectively ending the conversation, and walked over to the small kitchen counter to pick up his flashlight.
“It’s getting late and Cas should be waking up soon,” Dean said, as he checked the casing of the light. He didn't look back at his brother, but he heard the heavy, slow movement of Sam shifting his weight behind him. “Get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.”
He heard Sam linger for a second, the silence heavy between them, before the quiet thud of Sam’s boots signaled he was finally heading toward the bathroom.
Dean let out a slow breath through his nose once he heard the bathroom door close, followed by first the sound of the lock being engaged, then the shower running. The tight knot in his chest didn't loosen. He pulled his gun from his waistband, setting it quietly on the scarred wood of the table next to the remains of their dinner.
The chair between the two beds creaked as he sat down heavily. Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Closing his eyes only made the images behind them sharper: Castiel kneeling before him in that house, cupping his face in both hands. Resting his forehead against Dean’s. And insisting that he would be fine, even though Dean could see he didn't believe it.
Dean pressed his palms hard against his eyes until static patterns bloomed across his vision. It didn’t help.
He was so tired his bones ached, but the thought of sleeping—of letting his guard down while Cas was defenseless—felt like an impossibility.
It was going to be a long night.
TO BE CONTINUED…
This is as good as it’s going to get. Time to move on.
I want to practice dramatic lighting using color. And this was my first attempt. Mistakes were made and that’s okay because I’m looking for progress, not perfection.
I need a little help
Hey, are there any Catholics here?
OK in a story I’m writing, I need Sam to break in and steal a holy relic for... reasons.
Google said: The Main Altar (Where the Relic Is) The white-clothed table right in the center of the Sanctuary is the Main Altar. The Hiding Spot: The relic is not sitting out on top. It is physically built into the structure of that stone table itself.
How accurate is this?
I mean, I don’t need it to be 100% and I am not above making shit up. I mean, obviously, but we’re just pretending that this church - and it is a real church in New Hampshire - actually has a holy relic, specifically the bone of a saint or something similar
So, they’re saying that the white cloth table right in the center is where they would have this thing. Okay. Fine. But what sort of security systems would churches have? Could I have him pick the lock? This takes place in 2010, if that's relevant.
And is it likely that a priest might stay on the ground late into the night to perform some sort of novena or something, which would delay Sam’s being able to get in and get the relic?
The area was just hit by a fictionalized version of a real storm that hit in February 2010 that left hundreds of thousands of people without power and maybe that caused complications for parishioners (is that the word). I don’t know. I don’t know anything about Novenas except that apparently, they’re special prayer events? maybe for someone who is sick or maybe on behalf of the community as a whole? I don’t know.
As I said, I am not above making shit up, but I do like to have things as realistic as I possibly can
EDIT: I think I figured it out. This community has been hit with a fictionalized version of the massive snowstorm that hit between February 25 - 27, 2010. Apparently there were several areas in New Hampshire that were without power for up to a week. That would mean that the church wouldn’t have security cameras and all that and if they DID have a battery back up, it probably wouldn’t last more than three days and I can work around that. So Sam’s gonna go in, pretend to pray, and he’s waiting for the church to close so he can snatch the relic. But the priest and the community are having some sort of novena so he’s hiding out in a confessional for hours waiting for everyone to just go home so he can get this relic. That seems plausible to me.
My sister and I just watched Zorro - the 1975 version starring Alain Delon - on Tubi.
My favorite line of the movie is near the end when Zorro confronts Colonel Huerta after he killed Brother Francisco and says “It’s easy to kill saints, Colonel. Let’s see how you do against a sinner.”
Now, my question is this: If Castiel were Zorro, who would Dean be (other than his love interest, of course)?
I think I’d like to read a Zorro retelling with these two, not gonna lie.
Unfortunately, I have too many ideas and no time/desire/ability to handle more than one project at a time.
Guys! GUYS! I just finished reading Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits over on AO3 and holy shit! I know this is a fairly old fanfiction, but I had never gotten around to reading it, mainly because it is LONG. And I wasn't sure if I could commit.
Holy hell that was spectacular! Dean and Castiel are my OTP forever and ever amen! But I also LOVE historical dramas. And this was fucking epic. AAAAAAAAH! This was the best thing I have EVER read and that includes published works. I am not even lying. This story has consumed my SOUL!
I know I don't often reblog on this particular account, but this story deserves it! And, well, it's fanfiction... so it kinda fits? Yeah.
I think that I will start leaving fic recommendations here when I come across something that makes me flail helplessly. And utterly consumes me. The kind of fic you are still thinking about days/weeks/months/YEARS later.
Because no one else in my family or friend group reads/writes fanfiction or is into fandom of any kind really so I don't have anywhere else to share my fangirl glee with.
I also found this fan video for the story. Also amazing!
You guys, we are blessed as a fandom to have so many talented people! So many amazing writers, artists, video editors and GIF makers! Thought provoking memes and character studies! I love this fandom SO SO MUCH! You guys are amazing, each and every one of you!
And I'm not leaving out those who watch, read, listen, engage and enjoy! You matter too!
Retribution Chapter 12/? WIP SPN
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 Dean/Castiel, pre-slash Category: Angst. Hurt/Comfort Rating: R Warnings: Violence, Torture, Forced Obedience, Castiel Whump, Coercion, Psychological Abuse, Forced Nudity, Non-Graphic Sexual Assault Title: Retribution Author: yellowhorde Note: This story takes place sometime after Season 5 Episode 10 - Abandon All Hope
Sam and Dean struggle to stabilize Castiel’s devastating injuries in the cramped isolation of a winter cabin while exhaustion, fear, and unspoken truths threaten to crack the fragile control holding them all together.
Dean didn’t want to admit it, but the wounds on Castiel’s back looked even worse than they had the first time he had seen them, and he hadn’t even thought that was possible.
Under the combined midday light filtering in through the windows and the overhead wall fixture directly above the headboard, the lacerations crisscrossing Cas’s shoulder blades were impossibly vivid in shades of bright red and deep crimson. They looked deeper, more jagged, and heartbreakingly severe.
Carefully, Dean laid his hand on the angel’s shoulder, feeling the fine tremors that ran ceaselessly through the tense muscles. Cas’s face was turned to one side, eyes pinched closed, his breathing tight and shuddering. Perspiration beaded at his temples and hairline.
“How are you doing, buddy?”
One blue eye cracked open, rolled to meet him. Cas released a huffing breath and croaked, “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. And Dean knew it. But he was being one hell of a trooper. He doubted he would have been able to lie so still as Sam first soaked, then removed, the strips of cloth packed into the deeper wounds. All without the aid of painkillers.
“How about you?” Dean directed the question to Sam, who had just dropped the last of the bloody strips into a small trash can on the floor by his feet that Dean had gotten earlier from the bathroom.
For a long moment Sam stared fixedly at the devastation that was Cas’s back, as if refusing to make eye contact with him. That wasn’t like Sam at all and a tiny red flag started waving frantically in Dean’s mind. If Sam was losing his nerve, they were screwed. He couldn’t do this without him.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah,” Sam sighed and his shoulders, bunched up toward his ears, relaxed marginally. He let out a shaky exhalation through his mouth.
“You good, man?”
Sam’s eyes flicked to Dean’s face, then away. “I don’t know, Dean.” He sighed again. “I mean, look at all this,” he gestured vaguely toward Cas’s back.
He turned to look at Dean, his voice dropping into a tense, desperate whisper. “This is… it’s really bad. And completely out of our depth. Castiel needs to be in an emergency room, not here in a cabin the size of a postage stamp undergoing meatball surgery.”
“Sam—”
“No,” Sam talked right over him, his hands flailing in frustration. “I mean it, Dean. Look at this,” he gestured toward one particularly nasty cut. “You can literally see exposed bone. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just pull the skin over, sew it shut, and hope for the best.”
His voice rose from a harsh, panicked whisper, cracking and spiking in volume as his frustration boiled over.
Dean cut a quick glance at Cas, then stepped hurriedly around the bed. He caught his brother’s shoulder with his good hand, gave it a squeeze and shake. “Keep it down,” he hissed, cutting his eyes meaningfully to the angel.
He tilted his head and caught Sam’s gaze. And held it. His injured hand came up and he jabbed a finger toward Sam’s face. “We cannot take Cas to a hospital and you know it.” The words came out sounding harsher than he meant them to. He pressed his lips into a tight, thin line, inhaled, then exhaled sharply.
Without breaking eye contact, Dean dropped his voice low, keeping it steady. “I know it's a mess, Sammy, God, believe me, I do, and I know it looks freaking impossible.” He slid his hand from Sam’s shoulder to the back of his neck, pulling him down until their foreheads nearly touched. “But we’re all he’s got left.”
At that, the tension drained completely out of Sam’s shoulders. Nodding slowly, he let out a long exhalation that shuddered through his entire chest.
“I’m not asking for a miracle,” Dean continued quietly, “I’m just asking you to do your best.”
Sam cleared his throat roughly. “I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sam managed a strained smile as he straightened. “Grab the bourbon. And I need a fresh pack of sterile gauze from the duffel.”
“Alright.”
Dean went to the duffle bag, rummaged around for a few moments, then, grabbing the bourbon bottle from the kitchenette table, returned to Sam’s side. He squeezed behind Sam’s chair, which was set between the two beds, and stacked the square sterile packs of gauze within easy reach on top of the make-shift nightstand. Besides that, he placed a capped hypodermic and a small, clear vial with an orange cap. It was less than half full and had a stark pharmaceutical label reading Ketamine HCl.
Dean turned and pressed the sweat-beaded bottle of bourbon into his brother’s hand. “Bottom’s up.”
Sam accepted the bottle gratefully, but his attention drifted to the vial on the nightstand. “Ketamine?”
“Yeah,” Dean muttered over his shoulder, making his way around the bed and back to Cas’s side. “We’re lucky we got any sort of heavy-duty painkillers at all. But stitching him up is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. And he’s been through enough, already.”
Sam didn’t argue, he just stared at the dark amber liquor in the depths of the bottle. After a moment, he brought the bottle to his lips, tipped his head back and took two massive gulps, his Adam’s apple working convulsively as he did.
“Wow,” Sam gasped out, “that’s potent.”
“Damn right, you lightweight,” Dean chortled. “Don’t go drinking too much, we don’t need you going ass over teakettle.”
“Not a problem,” Sam wiped his lips with the back of one hand before setting the bottle down with a heavy thud on the table beside the gauze. He reached for both the syringe and vial, holding the latter close to peer at the tiny print.
“Dean, these instructions are for pets and livestock. How much am I supposed to use?”
Dean’s expression was blank for a moment. “Best guess?”
“Yeah, but if I don’t use enough, he’ll wake up screaming while I’m stitching him up,” Sam countered in exasperation. “And if I use too much, I could stop his heart.”
Dean muttered a curse under his breath.
“You’re the college genius,” he finally snapped. “Figure it out.”
Sam held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, don’t blow a gasket.” He peered closer at the vial, his brows knitting as he presumably worked out some mental math.
Dean returned his attention to Cas, leaving his brother to his calculations. The angel was white-faced with blood-loss and trembling. He gripped his shoulder, gave it a gentle shake.
“Hey, Cas.”
The blue eyes, cloudy with pain, were slow to open.
“Sam’s going to stitch up your back now. Not gonna lie, it’s probably gonna hurt something fierce.”
The eyes closed again in weary resignation and Dean hastily continued, “We got some stuff that might help with the pain, though. If Sam can work out the proper dosing. Okay?”
Dean felt some of the tension leave Cas’s shoulder as he gave an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.
“Great,” Dean sighed. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
Dean glanced toward the window at the back of the cabin. Sunlight, filtered through the lacey curtains, slanted across the floor, making the pine glow mellowly.
“I think I got this figured out,” Sam finally muttered.
Dean watched as Sam popped off the plastic protective cap on the vial, then wiped the rubber stopper with a small alcohol pad. The smell was sharp and sudden against the backdrop of dried blood. There was a click as the needle cap was removed.
Sam drew the ketamine carefully into the syringe, tapping out a few tiny air bubbles before turning back toward the bed. Then he leaned forward and pressed the needle against Cas’s outer thigh.
Dean looked away. He didn’t care much for needles so he turned his attention back to his friend.
Cas’s eyes were open now and he met Dean’s gaze steadily.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” Dean said reassuringly.
Cas slid his hand across the comforter, fingers twitching weakly as he reached for Dean. Without hesitation, Dean leaned forward in his chair and caught Cas’s hand, wrapping his own calloused palm around the jittering fingers.
He squeezed hard, and leaned closer to Cas’s ear, keeping his voice low and steady. “I gotcha, Cas. Right here. Hold on to me.”
Cas made a soft sound of pain in his throat, his fingers convulsing, then Dean heard Sam say, “That should do it. We just have to wait for it to kick in. Won’t take long.”
Dean loosely interlaced his fingers with Cas’s and gave a small squeeze when the angel frowned as if puzzled, shaking his head as if to clear it.
“Dean—”
Dean caught the raw, silent panic in Cas’s eyes and it twisted his stomach. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping low and soothing. “I've got you. Just let go. Let the medicine do its work.”
The angel’s eyes grew heavy-lidded, began to roll back, and lost focus. “I—No…”
Dean spoke into the shell of Cas’s ear, his breath puffing warm between them. “You’re safe. Sammy’s gonna patch you up, and I’m not letting go of your hand. Hear me? I’m right here.”
Cas's fingers twitched then went limp. His breathing slowed then evened out, his eyes becoming vacant.
Dean let out a slow breath through his teeth, keeping his voice a soft, steady rumble. “That's it. Just sleep, man. We've got the watch.”
After a few moments, Dean lifted his head and looked across the bed, locking eyes with Sam. He gave a single, slow nod. “He’s under. Let's get this over with.”
***
“That's as good as I can get it," Sam said, his voice a low, rough rasp in the quiet room. "The rest is up to Cas.”
Outside the cabin's western windows, the mellow midday brightness had waned and been replaced with the cold blue wash of twilight. The only real illumination left inside the cabin came from the electric wall fixture above the headboard, casting a yellow cone of light over the bed, and the sodium-yellow glow from the kitchenette’s overhead lights.
Sam sat upright with a groan and rolled his shoulders. His hands were blood-stained and when he wiped his sweating forehead with one sleeve, he left a faint smear of drying blood just under his hairline.
Dean shifted his body weight from Cas’s shoulders; he was stiff from two hours of pinning him down. Ketamine was a dissociative anesthetic, not a paralytic, and although Cas’s mind hadn’t registered the pain of Sam’s suturing needle piercing his flesh, his body sure as hell had.
His fingers were bruised and throbbing as he gently uncurled them from Cas's hand. He clenched and flexed them gingerly. As promised, he had never stopped holding the angel’s hand, but damn, he had one hell of a grip.
“You did good, Sammy,” Dean said, watching as his brother carefully smeared a thick, protective layer of petroleum jelly over the stitches and the seared white brand marks.
Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. We’ve still got a long way to go.”
Working quickly and methodically, Sam laid down a wide, overlapping matrix of square gauze pads, covering every stitched and blistered inch of skin.
He then anchored the edges firmly to the uninjured skin of Cas’s flanks and shoulders with long strips of medical tape, sealing the ruined landscape of his back beneath a flat protective layer.
“Could you help me roll him over?”
Dean straightened with a groan. “Yeah. Gimme a second.”
Nodding, Sam reached across Cas’s prone body to grip his far shoulder and hip. “Ready?” he asked after a moment, then, on his quiet count, they carefully rolled the angel onto his side, Sam pulling Cas toward him, and Dean bracing his uninjured hand against Cas’s chest to help guide the turn.
As Cas was rotated onto his side, the front of his body came under the yellow glare of the wall light over the headboard. The artificial light washed out all color from Cas’s pale skin, making the dark purple bruises, puncture wounds, and thumbprints horrifyingly vivid. Lower down, the light caught the wet gloss of the raw lacerations around his wrists.
All this on top of the heavy, copper stench of blood mixing with the chemical tang of the isopropyl alcohol pushed Dean’s stomach past the breaking point.
Thick saliva flooded his mouth and Dean swallowed hard, pressing one fisted hand against his lips.
Sam turned his own shocked eyes to him. Saw the sudden pallor of his skin. The beads of sweat that dotted his brow.
“You okay?”
Clearing his throat roughly, Dean hurriedly walked around the bed and snatched up the plastic liner of the trash can practically overflowing with bloodied paper towels. His hands were suddenly shaking and he balled his fist around the plastic handles.
“Fine,” he said thickly, not looking at his brother. “I’m just… uh, gonna take out the trash. Back in a minute.”
Without another word, he turned on his heels, strode across the small cabin, boots loud on the floorboards. He fumbled with the deadbolt then threw the front door open, pushed open the screen door and plunged out into the biting night air, letting the door click shut behind him.
The freezing winter wind hit Dean’s face like a physical slap, stealing his breath with its intensity. He coughed, a low, rasping sound deep in his throat. And when that had passed, his first heaving gasp felt like swallowing crushed glass, causing him to cough some more.
Heaving for breath, he stumbled off the low porch, dropping the plastic trash bag into the snow. He glanced toward the Impala sitting quietly on the gravel drive in front of the cabin, its body and windows completely opaque with a solid sheet of frost.
His stomach roiled, more urgently this time, and he veered away from the car, forcing his unsteady footsteps toward the dark line of the dense woods instead. He wouldn't risk puking anywhere near or on his baby. Worse, the Impala sat directly in the line of sight of the cabin's front window; if he got sick out in the open yard, Sam might look out and see it.
As he made his way toward the privacy of the shadows, the snow crunched under his boots with a high-pitched creak-crunch that sounded like crushing dry Styrofoam. The short distance to the tree line felt a mile long as he staggered forward, overcorrecting his balance with wide, unsteady steps.
When he finally reached the edge of the woods, he leaned his right hand heavily against the rough, freezing bark of a tall pine tree, clenched his eyes shut, and retched into the snow. He curled forward helplessly, gasping, then retched again. And again. When his stomach was empty, he stood there, head down, body trembling, breathing ragged.
He stood on the edge of the Maine wilderness as the blue twilight dissolved completely into black night. He was shivering violently now, but the cold air helped clear his head.
His shoulder slumped against the tree, his body sagging as a sudden, crushing weight pressed down on Dean’s chest. The back of his eyes prickled with heat, his throat tightening. Something ugly inside was clawing to get out, but he forced it back, forced it down. He didn’t let the tears that burned his eyes fall, but his shoulders began to heave in violent, uncontrollable jerks.
He couldn’t stop them.
Small, strangled sounds escaped his mouth, choked and full of grief and fury, puffing into the freezing air before dissolving into the dark.
When his hands finally stopped shaking and the tightness in his chest subsided into a dull ache, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and turned back toward the cabin. He felt heavy, emptied out, and so goddamned tired.
His face wrinkled in disgust and he smacked his lips at the sour bile taste in his mouth. He scanned the ground around him and, seeing that the snow was pristine and free of any tracks, reached down and scooped up a handful of snow. He stuffed it into his mouth, chewed. The iciness of it set his teeth instantly on edge and he quickly spat it out. Scooping up another fresh handful, he scrubbed it briskly over his mouth, cheeks and chin.
“Jesus," he gasped, spitting a fragment of ice from his lip. “That'll wake you up.”
He dropped the melting snow to the ground, shoulders shuddering, and wiped the back of his flannel sleeve across his face to dry it. His abraded skin pulsed with a deep, stinging heat, but the dizzying fog of the bourbon was gone, and he felt better, more clear-headed.
Something caught Dean’s attention, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. This was followed almost immediately by the sharp tick-tick-tick of dry twigs snapping in the heavy winter silence.
Instinctively, Dean whipped around, his hand automatically dropping toward a weapon that he didn’t have on him. Every muscle in his body tightened for action despite the bone-weary exhaustion. “Who’s out there?” He called gruffly, as if expecting someone to step out from behind a tree and introduce themselves.
Holding his breath, he scanned the darkness at the edge of the tree line, eyeing the shadows with distrust.
Then, just a few feet away, a flash of light caught his attention—two tiny gold beads glittering right at the edge of the dark brush.
“What the—”
With a start, Dean realized they were eyes. Two small, glinting eyes staring back at him from the dark, glowing bright and low to the ground.
In the faint, ambient yellow light reflecting off the frost-covered Impala, the silhouette of a red fox materialized from the brush. It stood perfectly still, its small paws light against the frozen crust of the snow, its nose twitching eagerly, no doubt catching the heavy scent of the blood-soaked scraps in the trash bag Dean had dropped near the porch.
Its breath puffed in tiny clouds as its eyes flickered between him and the bundle by the front porch. It didn't look afraid; it just looked hungry, a wild, quiet survivor matching Dean's stare in the freezing dark.
The sudden adrenaline spike which had scorched through Dean’s system instantly vaporized whatever was left of the vertigo. He was now on high alert, both mind and body sharp and ready for action. But the fact that a tiny, native scavenger had managed to make him, a hunter, freeze—had made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird—ignited a sudden, defensive flare of anger in his chest. He felt exposed, raw from the emotional crack he’d just barely sealed shut, and the animal’s unblinking stare felt less like a natural reaction and more like a challenge.
He didn’t want to be watched. Not by Sam, and for damn sure not by some mangy fox.
Dean made a sudden, aggressive step forward. His heavy boot thumped through the snow crust with a loud thud that sounded ridiculously loud in the quiet of the woods. He shook a clenched fist at the animal, his lips twisting into a sharp, feral snarl.
"Get the hell out of here," he growled.
The sudden movement broke the fox's stare. In a fraction of a second, the glinting eyes vanished as the animal turned and melted into the dense undergrowth, its furred paws making nothing more than a faint, whispering rustle against the snow drifts as it fled into the blackness of the trees.
Dean stood alone at the edge of the tree line, his chest heaving, his breath clouding thick and fast around his face. The aggressive outburst left him feeling empty, the fleeting heat of his anger cooling instantly against the biting Maine wind. He stood frozen in the snow, his right hand still half-raised, watching the black space where the animal had been only seconds before.
He took a slow, freezing breath and let his arm drop heavily to his side. He had overreacted. He’d just aggressively driven off a wild animal whose only crime had been being hungry and curious.
He realized that he was wound tighter than a snare drum, paranoid and exhausted. And the fact that he’d let a ten-pound fox get under his skin that easily was proof that he was running on fumes and frayed nerves.
“Jesus, Winchester, get a grip.”
Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he wiped his mouth again with his hand. The wind ruffled invisible fingers through his hair, tugged suggestively at his clothes. With a sigh, he plunged his hands into his pant pockets and, turning his back on the dark woods, walked back toward the cabin.
As he moved, Dean forced his shoulders to square. He walked back across the yard towards the porch and the warmth beyond. Through the frosted glass of the front window, the yellow light within the cabin was just a dim, fragile square of gold holding back the dark.
Dean stood on the porch and shook his sleeve back to look at his watch. He’d been outside a lot longer than he had intended. Sam was probably wondering what he had been up to. And he didn’t really want to have to explain. Taking a deep breath, he schooled his features into what he hoped was a steady, unreadable mask.
But who was he kidding? Dean thought, hand on the screen door handle. Sammy could read him like a book. He might not always call him out if he thought something was wrong, but he’d know something was up all the same
Sometimes it was like the kid was psychic.
Dean pushed the heavy door open and the cabin’s interior heat caressed his frozen face like a blessing.
He stepped over the threshold, closing the cold winter night out behind him.
The main room was completely silent. And empty, save for Cas lying on the bed, a blue blanket pulled up around his shoulders.
For a moment panic clutched at Dean’s heart, but then he realized that the bathroom door was closed. Bright yellow light sliced out from the gap beneath the threshold. It cut a clean geometric line through the shadows of the back room, catching the tiny glints of dust drifting through the cold air.
Beyond the door he heard the muffled splash of water from the sink, signaling that Sam was washing his hands.
Reassured that all was well, he crossed to the bed, his boots making dull, heavy thuds on the floorboards, and stood over the angel.
Castiel’s dark hair was rumpled, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. As Dean bent closer and examined his face, he realized that Cas looked utterly hollowed out. The massive blood loss had drained every trace of warmth from his skin and the skin beneath his lashes was as dark as the bruise on his cheek.
Cas was still deeply under, his head resting against a pillowcase almost as pale as he was. His breath was slow, even.
Without thinking, Dean brushed his knuckles lightly across Cas’s uninjured cheek, and felt something pull tight in his chest.
The door to the bathroom suddenly opened. Dean jerked his hand back and clasped it behind his back, whirling to face Sam. An odd feeling of guilt wrenched his stomach, like he’d been caught doing something he had no right to do.
“Hey,” Sam said by way of greeting as he made his way past Dean to the chair he had placed between the two beds. He settled into the chair with a sigh, planting his elbows on his knees, hunching his long frame.
Dean settled beside him on the one remaining bed, unconsciously mirroring his brother’s posture. He noticed the trash can was lined with a fresh bag and halfway filled with sodden paper towels
“How’s he doing?”
Sam glanced over at him; his face was lined with an exhaustion that seemed to go bone deep.
“I washed and bandaged his wrists,” he said quietly. “And I did the best I could with the neck punctures.” He shuddered. “Nasty piece of work.”
Dean silently agreed.
“I didn’t want to risk airway compression so I didn’t wrap them with gauze. I just… covered them with petroleum jelly to keep out dirt and sweat.”
Dean nodded slowly, taking it all in.
“Gave him a sponge bath, you know,” Sam jerked his chin toward the half-full trash can, “to wipe off some of the mud, blood, and sweat.”
Dean stilled at the hesitant tone in Sam’s voice. His guts twisted uneasily but he kept his voice casual, “Yeah, well, he probably needed it.” He paused as if to consider something, “Hell, I probably do, too.”
“Dean—” Sam glanced at him, broke off, his brows furrowed. Then he tried again. “Some of those bruises… I—”
“You did a good job, Sammy,” Dean said, talking over him. “Never doubted you for a second.”
He turned his head and looked Sam straight in the eye. “How about you grab us something to eat? I’m starving.”
Sam stared back at him for a moment, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. He sighed and shook his head.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, pushing himself up from the chair, his knees cracking loudly. “I could do with a little something myself.”
“Good man,” Dean kept his voice light. “And while you’re out, don’t forget the pie. After the last few days, I deserve some pie.”
Sam huffed a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, you do. I should also pick up a few more medical supplies while I’m out. We’re going to need a lot more bandages… and paper towels.”
“You do that.”
Sam walked across the room to the kitchenette table and grabbed his coat which was hanging on the back of one of the chairs. His hands dug into his pockets, then he turned and held up Dean’s phone and gave it a gentle toss in his direction. Dean caught it easily in the air. He flipped it open and saw that its battery was now fully charged. He smiled warmly at his brother.
“Call me if his breathing changes,” Sam said, then he turned and was out the door, flicking the kitchen light off as he left.
Dean didn’t say a word as the front door clicked shut. After a few moments he heard the Impala’s engine roar into life, then listened as it grew softer and quieter with distance.
Now that he was alone, he leaned his elbows on his knees, fixed his eyes on the floorboards, and let his head drop into his hands. And let his grief settle in the darkened room.
TO BE CONTINUED
We had a tornado warning this evening so as per hospital policy, I returned to the EVS break room in the basement to wait until we received the all clear.
I grabbed random markers from the baggies in my purse and started coloring in a drawing I did earlier. I will probably never finish this, but it did help pass the time.
If Dean Winchester were hit with a curse or a spell and turned into a cat, what kind of cat would he be?
I think he would be an orange tabby cat. Kind of like my dearly departed Rupert.
I’ve only gotten four hours of sleep, but I woke up thinking how long would it take Castiel to figure out it was Dean? And what sort of antics with the two of them get up to?
Are there any existing fanfics for this?
Don’t mind me… I’m sleep deprived.
As good as it’s going to get
Love the Angel, Hate the Steak
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 Category: Humor/Domestic/Slice of Life Rating: G Warnings: None Title: Love the Angel, Hate the Steak Author: yellowhorde Note: This story was written for @thedrabblecollective May 2026 challenge. Day 01 – Ruin
Castiel set the plate down with a triumphant, two-handed flourish.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s dinner,” Cas replied, beaming with pride. “Steak. Well-done.”
Dean stared down at the hockey puck. This steak was ruined. What a sacrilege. He wanted to beg forgiveness from the cow for what Cas had done to it.
“You could always eat a salad,” Sam covered his mouth, hiding a grin, but his eyes danced merrily.
Dean kicked him under the table, but that only caused him to release a muffled, high-pitched snort.
“Looks great, Cas,” Dean picked up his utensils. “Please, pass the ketchup.”
THE END
A/N: I know it's late. But I desperately needed a mental palette cleanser after working on my WIP.
Retribution Chapter 11/? WIP SPN
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 Dean/Castiel, pre-slash Category: Angst. Hurt/Comfort Rating: R Warnings: Violence, Torture, Forced Obedience, Castiel Whump, Coercion, Psychological Abuse, Forced Nudity, Non-Graphic Sexual Assault, Aftermath of Sexual Assault, and Trauma, Lots of Blood Title: Retribution Author: yellowhorde Note: This story takes place sometime after Season 5 Episode 10 - Abandon All Hope
Dean and Sam finally reach the safety of a secluded cabin in Maine, but safety doesn’t mean peace. While Sam patches up Dean’s injuries, the full weight of what happened in that house begins to settle over both of them. And across the room, Castiel still hasn’t woken up.
Content Warning: Graphic injuries, torture aftermath, medical treatment/stitching, blood, emotional trauma, and references to restraint/torture.
Dean surfaced as the Impala’s engine died, drifting in that heavy space between sleep and wakefulness. His whole body like it was trying to pull free of a tar pit intent on dragging him under.
When the circuits finally cleared, he jolted awake, neck stiff and head swimming. For a disoriented second, the bright late-morning sunlight slanting through the windshield blinded him. He lifted a hand to block the glare, squinting and blinking as the world snapped back into focus: the dashboard of the Impala, the smell of old coffee and vinyl. Safety. Home.
"Welcome back," Sam said quietly, pulling the keys from the ignition. He looked worn out, eyes red rimmed.
“Where—" Dean croaked dryly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Where are we?”
"About two miles outside of Freeport.”
Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, wincing as something in his shoulder twinged. "How long was I out?"
"About an hour. But you looked like you really needed it." Sam jerked his chin in the direction of a large white clapboard cottage with a screened-in front porch. “I’m gonna get us checked in. Stay here.”
Dean gave a noncommittal grunt. Sam climbed out, cold air rushing in before the door shut with a heavy clunk. Dean watched for a moment as his brother plunged his hands into his pockets, tucked his chin into his collar against the cold, and walked briskly toward the house, which, Dean assumed, doubled as the owner's residence.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he groaned.
As the sounds of Sam’s boots on the gravel roundabout faded, Dean stretched and winced as he tried to work the kinks out of his neck and back.
Cas.
The breath froze in his lungs.
Dean twisted his torso to look into the back seat. The sun, cutting through the side windows, cast bright, sharp patches of light across the dark upholstery. In that harsh light, Cas, bundled into that dirty comforter, looked even worse than he had at the house. His skin was pale and waxy, almost translucent. The contrast of the blood at his throat and dark bruise on his cheek was jarring.
“Cas, hey,” Dean kept his voice soft and low as he reached for the angel’s hand. It had slipped over the edge of the seat, dangling limply, knuckles brushing the carpet of the footwell. “Wake up, buddy.”
Dean pressed his index and middle finger lightly into the inside of the angel’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. It jumped under his fingers, fast and fluttery.
Cas’s brow knitted briefly. He let out a soft mumble of confusion. His eyes slitted open for a moment, unfocused, then rolled upward before his lids closed again, his face smoothing into a mask of empty exhaustion.
“Cas?” Alarm tightened Dean’s voice. He gripped the angel’s shoulder and gave it an urgent shake. “Come on. Stay with me.”
Cas’s upper torso rocked limply under the pressure of Dean’s hand, like so much deadweight. His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. Dean closed his eyes as panic tightened in his chest. The Impala was silent but for Cas’s labored, shallow breathing.
Relief flooded him when he finally heard the crunch of gravel, signaling his brother’s return. As soon as Sam slid into the driver’s seat, Dean turned from the backseat. “He’s not looking so good, Sam.”
Sam craned his head, glancing at the angel in the backseat. He frowned, the muscles in his jaw rippling. “Yeah.” Without another word, he cranked the key in the ignition. The Impala roared to life.
A tense silence filled the Impala as Sam maneuvered the car along a gravel road that cut deeper into the trees. They passed a number of cabins until they finally reached their destination, a small, neat clapboard cabin with a covered porch. The number 17 hanging over the door was made from black matte aluminum. Beyond the building were trees, trees, and more trees on top of that.
Sam pulled the Impala right up to the front of the cabin and killed the engine. For a few moments, the only sound was Cas’s breathing and the ticking of the engine as it cooled.
“Cozy,” Dean muttered as he opened the passenger door and climbed out into the frigid air.
“Private,” Sam countered, slamming his door and meeting Dean’s eyes over the top of the Impala. “Cash only. No questions asked. Just what you asked for.”
“Here,” Sam held up a key with a faded forest green tag attached. The number of the cabin was stamped in gold. The key gave a sharp jingle as he tossed it across the hood. Dean caught it easily in his good hand. “Get the med kit from the trunk and grab the door. I’ll get Cas.”
“On it.”
Dean popped the trunk, grabbed the duffle bag with the medical kit in it, then slipped the strap over his shoulder. The thing was fully stocked and heavy and the nylon webbing immediately dug into his shoulder. The weight of the duffle’s contents forced him to lean slightly to one side as he slammed the trunk’s lid and pivoted toward the porch.
The trees crowded close around the cabin, dark against the freshly fallen snow. The wind whistled around Dean’s ears but other than that and the crunch of his boots on the gravel, there was total silence. It would get spooky as hell once the sun went down.
Hell, it was spooky now.
His boots rang hollowly on the wooden porch and Dean stamped his feet on the doormat, knocking the snow off. He opened the green-framed storm door, slid the key into the lock. It gave easily. But when he tried the knob, nothing happened.
Frowning, Dean glanced over his shoulder. Sam was coming up behind him, Cas cradled in his arms, still practically swaddled in that nasty comforter. The angel suddenly looked very small, held securely against his brother’s frame.
He twisted the knob again, harder this time, and gave the door a frustrated shove. The door swung open. He pushed the door open until it hit the wall, then stepped back, holding the screen door open so Sam could get inside.
Grunting his thanks, Sam turned his body and stepped over the threshold with a sideways crab step, keeping Cas’s legs from banging into the doorframe.
Once his brother and best friend were safely inside the cabin, Dean looked back over his shoulder, scanning the trees. Seeing nothing, he stepped inside, pulling the storm door closed behind him. He kicked the main door shut with his heel and reached out, flicking the thumb turn with a practiced motion. It gave a satisfying shh-clack.
Though it was almost noon, the interior of the cabin was dimmer than Dean would’ve expected, filtered and gray. Probably because of all the damned trees, he thought dryly. Glancing around the doorway, he found a switch plate and flicked the toggle. Instantly a ceiling-mounted light fixture lit up, filling the small cabin with light that seemed harsh and very yellow against all of the dark wood paneling on the walls.
“Okay,” Dean rubbed his hands together briskly. “Let’s get some heat going in this place.”
He stepped across the tiny kitchenette, dropping the duffle bag onto the small table. A small thermostat was mounted on the wood paneling beyond. He pushed the system button until it switched from OFF to HEAT, then tapped the touch pad until the digital heat display flashed 75.
There was a five-second beat of silence before a soft internal click emitted from the wall unit. A moment later a muffled whoosh signaled that the burners had caught.
Almost immediately, the scent of burned leaves began to drift into the room. It was that sharp, organic smell of a heater waking up after a long period of disuse. Dean used to love that smell when he was young. It reminded him of October blue skies, leaves crunching under his feet and hotdogs over a camp fire.
Pleased with himself, Dean turned and moved toward the ‘bedroom’ section of the cabin. He gave a grunt of surprise as he nearly barreled into Sam. His brother’s face was pinched and a little pale. The knuckles of his fingers around the wadded-up comforter were white.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” But Dean thought he already knew what was wrong. And he couldn’t blame him one little bit.
“This thing,” Sam practically hissed, “is filthy. I’m getting rid of it before it stinks up the whole place.”
Dean held out his arms and took the ruined comforter from him, the weight of it heavy and damp. “I got it, Sammy.” He angled his head toward the crumpled cloth, took a hesitant sniff, and recoiled in disgust. “Yeah, it is a bit ripe.”
“That’s one way to describe it.” Sam muttered, turning to the kitchenette sink, presumably to wash his hands.
Shrugging, Dean unlocked the door and made his way onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind him. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the comforter. The only thing he did know was that there was no way in hell he was putting it back inside the Impala. If they were lucky the reek in the back seat would evaporate before the turn of the next century.
Maybe.
The comforter had come in handy and had definitely saved both his and Cas’s life, but it was time to say goodbye.
He glanced around the clearing and out toward the trees, his eyes searching the shadows. Then he noticed an old-fashioned charcoal grill. Worst-case scenario, they could burn it, giving the wretched thing a hero’s send off. Couldn’t possibly smell worse than burning corpses.
Wishing for his coat, Dean made his way to the grill and unceremoniously dumped the comforter in a pile at its base. “I’ll take care of you later,” he vowed, then hurried back to the cabin, breath pluming in the bright, frigid air.
When he was safely inside, he found Sam, head bowed and leaning against the kitchenette’s counter. His hands were cupped over his face with his thumbs tucked under his chin.
“You okay?” he asked, hurrying over and placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Sam raised his head; clasped his fingers together by his chin and exhaled slowly. Without his hands masking his face, the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw were obvious. He looked worn out. Older somehow.
For a split second, Dean thought he saw a flash of pure, unadulterated fear in his brother’s eyes. Then it was gone and Sam looked hollow and haunted.
“Dean—" Sam’s voice was hoarse and his eyes clenched closed as if in pain.
“Talk to me, Sammy,” Dean urged, giving his shoulder the smallest shake.
With a small, unsteady breath, Sam’s eyes opened and met his, as if searching for some kind of explanation.
“Those wounds…” Sam began then stumbled to a halt. He dragged his hands up his face and through his hair, glancing back toward the figure lying motionless on one of the beds. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Dean dropped his gaze, nodded his head. “Yeah,” he managed, throat tight. “Me either.”
“And Raphael inflicted them.”
“Yes.” Dean’s voice was low and hard.
Looking at his brother, seeing his own horror reflected in Sam’s eyes, Dean’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a grim line. The worst part was knowing who had put those marks there.
“I – I don’t know if we can fix this, Dean.” Sam whispered. “I don’t even know how…”
Dean dropped his hand, and offered a weary, but determined grin. “We’re gonna do the best we can. Just like we always do. You with me?”
Inhaling shakily, Sam nodded, his mouth settling into a hard, flat line. “Let’s do this.”
Dean fetched a couple of clean towels from the bathroom and laid one across the kitchen table, the other on the back of a chair. Then, while Sam began methodically laying out their medical supplies, he hunted through the kitchenette’s cabinets until he found a large pot. He examined its insides for dust, then, satisfied that it was clean enough, filled it with water and set it on one of the burners of the hot plate to boil.
Another search turned up a fairly deep bowl, probably used for soup. He brought it to the tabletop triage area. He dropped black nylon thread and needles into the bowl then covered them with isopropyl alcohol to soak.
The small cabin was beginning to heat up nicely by the time the water was boiling. Sam turned the hot pot off to let the water cool, then stepped over to the sink, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. Using the lemon-scented dish soap left by the owners or previous renters, he scrubbed his hands and fingernails vigorously. He pulled several sheets of paper towels from the suspended roll and dried his hands.
"Sit down," Sam commanded, pointing a finger at Dean.
Dean didn't argue. He dropped into a wooden chair by the small table. His left hand was throbbing in earnest now, and it was hurting quite badly, though he tried not to show it.
With a trace of a smile, Sam produced a bottle of bourbon as if by magic. He twisted off the cap and set the bottle down on the table in front of him. Dean eyed it appreciatively, if somewhat cautiously.
“A little early, isn’t it?” he said, with a lopsided grin.
“Sun’s up over the yardarm somewhere,” Sam pulled one of the other chairs closer and sat down beside Dean. “Drink up.”
Dean brought the bottle to his lips, tipped back his head and took several long swallows. They burned down his throat like hot coals, landing heavily in his stomach. In moments, heat radiated outward, spreading glorious warmth through his body. The tension in his shoulders eased and his jaw unclenched.
“Hoo.” Dean gave a gasping laugh. “That hits the spot.”
He tipped the bottle toward Sam in silent invitation. Sam only held up his hands with a rueful smile and shook his head. “Maybe later.”
Sam pushed up from the table and retrieved a bowl from one of the cupboards. Dean watched him quietly, taking another long swallow of bourbon. Sam turned on the sink’s faucet and held one hand under the stream, presumably waiting for the water to warm. This took quite a bit longer than Dean would have thought. The cabin might be heating up, but apparently the pipes weren’t.
After an eternity, Sam returned to the table with the bowl of water and a handful of paper towels. He took his seat and held out his hand, expectantly.
“Give me your hand, Dean.”
“Man,” Dean groaned, and set the bottle on the table reluctantly. “Maybe we should check on Cas, first.”
Sam didn’t even glance in Cas’s direction. He simply stared at Dean, his hand outstretched, palm up, waiting.
"Cas is fine, Dean. Or as fine as he can be at this point," Sam said, firmly. “But I’m going to need your help treating him. And I don’t want you bleeding all over the place.”
Dean held the wrapped hand up, palm out so Sam could see and stiffly wiggled his fingers. It was a jerky, forced movement and it hurt like a son of a bitch, but he schooled his expression into a tight, lopsided smirk and managed to force a dismissive laugh that fooled no one, not even himself.
"See? Working fine, Sammy. Still got all five. It’s just a scratch.”
“If you want to help Cas, you need to be able to use your fingers—all of them.” Sam countered, his eyes flicking to the blood staining the makeshift wrap. “Give me your hand. Now.”
Sam’s tone left no room for argument.
“Fine, Nurse Nightingale,” Dean muttered, sliding his injured hand across the table, palm up.
Sam simply rolled his eyes. “Good of you to see reason.”
Sam gripped Dean’s wrist gently but firmly with his left hand, pressing his thumb down on the outer edge of the palm to keep it flat. Crumpling a paper towel with his right hand, he dipped it into the water, gave it a brief squeeze, then began working the warm water over the blood-stiffened fabric wrapped around Dean’s hand.
“Unless you want to lose another layer of skin when I pull this off, we need to let it soak, Dean.” Sam squeezed more water onto his hand, letting it pool in his palm. “The blood has basically glued the shirt to your flesh.”
Now there was a mental image, Dean thought sourly.
“This might sting a bit,” Sam said, reaching for the scissors.
“It’s just water, how’s it gonna—”
Dean broke off with a sharp, hissing inhalation as the warm water soaked through to the raw skin under the cloth. He tried to snatch his hand away, but Sam’s grip kept him tethered to the spot.
“The hell did you do?”
“It’s just water, Dean,” Sam scoffed. “Take it easy. Breathe.”
“Take it easy, my ass,” Dean grumbled and took another pull of bourbon. “And what do you mean, breathe? Dude, I am breathing. See me breathing?” He inflated his lungs with exaggerated care and released it in a whoosh.
“You’re a regular yoga instructor.” Sam didn’t even look up at Dean’s dramatic display of lung capacity. He kept his eyes on the task at hand. He reached for the bandage scissors and slid the blade between the wet cotton and the skin of Dean’s wrist. Working carefully, he snipped at the fabric until the strips of cotton loosened.
"Almost there." Sam put the scissors down and, using his fingers, slowly peeled the saturated cloth back to expose the wound.
An acrid smell emanated from the wound, and Sam pulled back, hand over his mouth, horrified.
“Jesus Christ, Dean. What did you do?”
Dean felt the color drain from his face as the last of the wet cotton was peeled away to reveal the grayish, charred edges of the incision. He had never seen his own skin look like it had been seared on a grill. When the smell of his own scorched flesh hit him, a sudden wave of nausea clawed up his throat. He fought it down grimly.
“I did what I had to do,” he said simply.
His grip on the bourbon tightened until his knuckles turned white.
He had known deep down that the wound would be bad, but this…
“Can—" Dean’s voice was weak and wobbling. He cleared his throat roughly and tried again. “Can you fix it, Sammy?”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the egregious wound on Dean’s hand, then back to his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but Sam met his gaze, eyes shimmering but steady.
“Dean… I can’t… I can’t keep patching you up forever if you keep treating yourself like you’re disposable.”
Something in Dean’s throat tightened and he nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that.”
“But I’ll do my best, I promise.”
“That’s all I can ask of you,” Dean whispered, closing his eyes against the sudden burn of tears.
He felt Sam’s eyes on him, not just his hand, but the way he was breathing, the way he was refusing to meet Sam’s eyes.
He steeled himself for questions, for accusations. For the angry words that so often punctuated their conversations these last few years.
But they never came.
Instead, he felt Sam’s thumb brush almost imperceptibly against the side of his wrist. A brotherly gesture. Comforting.
"This is deep," Sam said, his voice low and devoid of the judgment Dean had been bracing for. “You’re gonna need more bourbon.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
This earned a scoff and an eyeroll from Sam.
"Hand flat, Dean," Sam commanded, his thumb applying just enough pressure to keep the palm from cupping.
Dean’s fingers twitched, wanting to curl into a defensive fist, but he did as instructed.
Dean watched through a haze of bourbon as Sam made his preparations and set a fresh bowl of warm, soapy water on the table instead of the bottle of rubbing alcohol he’d been dreading. He braced for the sting anyway, his lips pressing into a thin line when Sam dipped a clean paper towel into the water.
“You’re gonna have to be still for this part,” Sam said, leaning in close, his focus narrowing down to the blackened edges of the skin. “I have to clear the dead tissue, or it won't take the stitches.”
Dean gripped the edge of the table with his good hand, his knuckles turning white. “Just… do it, Sammy.”
The snip, snip of the surgical scissors made Dean’s skin crawl. He didn't look at his hand. He couldn't. It felt bad enough as it was without watching his brother cut away… pieces.
The cabin was small, just one cramped room where the smell of booze vied with the metallic tang of blood. From his chair at the table, Dean had a direct line of sight to the bed where his friend lay. Cas hadn't moved once since Sam had deposited him there. Not a twitch of a finger, not a shift of his head.
He looked at the way Cas was sprawled, completely vulnerable, stripped of his dignity and his strength, and felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the bourbon.
Sam’s scissors snicked through another piece of dead tissue, and Dean felt a warm trail of fresh blood run down his wrist. He didn't flinch. Across the cabin Cas lay motionless on the bed, a map of Raphael’s cruelty carved into his back.
Sam worked in silence for what felt like a long time, trimming away the dead, charred skin, dabbing away blood. Then, without looking up from Dean’s hand, Sam murmured, "You got Cas out, Dean. That’s what matters. You got to him in time."
You were never going to make it in time.
Raphael’s words echoed in Dean’s mind and guilt twisted in his guts because he hadn’t made it in time. Not really.
Still, he recognized the peace offering. A quiet acknowledgement that whatever Dean had to reach into—whatever part of his past he’d had to touch to save their friend—Sam was going to let it stay in the dark.
And Dean loved him for that.
He took another long pull of bourbon, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the needle now tugging through his palm.
"I’m not gonna ask," Sam added, his voice a ghost of a whisper. He tied off a knot and finally looked up. "I’m just glad you’re both back."
Dean tipped the bottle in weary acknowledgement.
"That’s one stitch down," Sam murmured, returning his focus to Dean’s wound. He looped the thread and pulled it taut, and Dean felt that sickening tugging sensation as the two sides of his palm were drawn back together.
The needle tugged through Dean’s palm yet again, and he sucked air through his teeth. The bourbon was doing its best, but its best was not good enough.
Sam’s eyes drifted up then, narrowing as they caught the light on Dean’s face. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he kept the needle moving steadily but gestured vaguely with his chin. “What happened to your nose?”
“What?” Dean blinked, the question catching him off guard. He shifted uncomfortably, his good hand coming up to gingerly hover near the bridge of his nose before he thought better of it.
“I didn't get a good look at it yesterday with everything going on. It’s still pretty swollen. Blondie bloodied your nose?”
“It’s fine,” Dean grunted.
“The hell it is. I didn’t think that guy had managed to clock you.” Sam shrugged like it was no big deal. “But I guess I was wrong.”
Dean let out a short, huffing breath that turned into a wince. “Not him. Well, yes. Kinda. But I got, uh, popped again later. By Cas.”
Sam’s hand paused in mid-stitch, his voice incredulous. “Cas hit you?”
“It was more of a glancing blow,” Dean muttered, looking away from Sam’s searching gaze.
He remembered Cas’s clenched fist, his arms swinging in blind, frantic arcs, and the absolute terror in those blank, unseeing eyes.
“And he didn’t mean to do it.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just watched Dean, his eyes searching the bruises on Dean’s face with quiet intensity.
“I know he didn’t,” Sam said finally. He turned his focus back to the needle, his movements more deliberate now.
Dean didn't say anything. He couldn't tell Sam that the punch hadn’t hurt half as much as the look of panic on Cas’s face or those silent tears.
“We’ll fix the nose once this is closed,” Sam murmured, dropping the subject as he saw Dean’s grip tighten on the bourbon. “I’m almost through.”
Once the last stitch was tied off, Sam grabbed a half empty tube of Vaseline. He popped the top and squeezed a generous bead of clear jelly onto the heel of Dean’s hand, carefully smearing it over the stitches with the ball of his thumb.
Dean flinched back involuntarily, but Sam’s large hand wrapped around his wrist and pinned it to the table.
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“Dean, stop.” Sam muttered, “You’re gonna pull a stitch.”
Dean glared at his brother, but it held no heat. “Your bedside manner sucks.”
"Sorry I didn't have time to warm your slippers.” Sam snapped the lid closed, set the tube aside and grabbed a chemical ice pack. “Next time, I'll bring some lavender oil and a heating pad."
“That’d be nice.”
“Yeah, well, not gonna happen. Here. This’ll help with the swelling.” Sam tossed a chemical ice pack his way.
Dean caught it one-handed, gave it a tight squeeze to break the seal, then shook it vigorously for a few seconds to activate it. When Sam handed him a handful of paper towels, he clumsily wrapped them around the pack and applied it gingerly to his nose.
Silence settled over the cabin as Sam made short work of bandaging his palm using a figure-eight wrap around Dean’s palm and wrist to keep the dressing from slipping. In no time at all, Dean’s injured hand was bound in a thick, white cocoon of gauze. He had to admit that he was impressed by how easy Sam made it look, though God knows there had been plenty of opportunities for him to practice.
He pressed the pack against his nose, and sighed quietly. The sharp, stinging pain had been replaced by a deep ache that was now fading into a comfortable numbness.
Sam pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and took the bowl to the kitchenette’s sink. He dumped the water then went through the whole process of filling it with fresh, warm water. Apparently it didn’t take as long the second time because Sam was back in his seat in no time. That fact cheered Dean immensely. He was sore, tired, and he wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a few hours of shuteye.
Later, he promised himself. First things first.
He watched through booze-heavy eyes as Sam scooted closer to his side, gently reaching for his other arm.
Sam’s fingers were careful as he pushed back the sleeve of Dean’s flannel shirt. The sight of his wrists made Dean’s jaw tighten again. The skin was raw and weeping, the heavy hemp rope had chewed through the top layers of his skin during his struggle to escape that damned chair. In the electric light of the cabin, the welts looked like angry red bracelets.
“These are deep, Dean,” Sam said, his voice low and almost clinical. Dean knew this tone – Sam was trying to hide his worry. And failing miserably. He began to squeeze water over the raw skin, the warm liquid stinging as it washed away the grit and fibers of the rope.
Dean hissed, his boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards. “It’s fine, Sammy. Leave it.”
“It’s not fine,” Sam snapped. “This is an infection waiting to happen.”
Once the wounds were cleaned to Sam’s satisfaction, he patted Dean’s wrist dry with yet another paper towel, then dabbed Vaseline onto the rope burns. Then he began work on the other wrist.
“You must have been pulling against those bindings for a long time,” Sam said, wrapping the second wrist in a thin, breathable layer of gauze. “What were they doing to you while Cas was on the rack?”
The ice pack was starting to numb his nose, but it did nothing to quiet the sounds that now echoed in Dean’s head. His good hand spasmed, the ice pack crinkling loudly in the quiet room.
Instead of answering Sam’s question, Dean dropped his head and stared at the old pine planks of the floor. Bile burned up his throat, but he swallowed it down with a grimace. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened in that house. Not now. Maybe not ever. The things he had heard. And seen. And felt.
He closed his eyes, but it only blocked out the cabin. The cacophony in his mind roared even louder.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was sharp with concern.
“Doesn't matter,” Dean grunted at last. He raised his head and stared into his brother’s eyes. Willing him to drop it, to just drop it already. “I got loose. That’s all that matters.”
The silence that followed was brittle, the air in the cabin vibrating with the unspoken weight of everything they weren’t saying. Sam’s gaze searched Dean’s face. Dean stared back at him, eyes unwavering, jaw clenched.
Sam looked away first. He let out a sharp, exhaled breath, his shoulders dropping as he conceded the ground.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice thick with a mix of frustration and resignation. “But I’m right here. If you… if you need to talk.”
Dean sat frozen in the chair, the ice pack dripping condensation down his wrist, and didn’t say a word.
Sam stood up slowly. Without another word, he dragged one of the chairs to the bed where Castiel lay. The screech of wood against the floorboards was incredibly loud. He then returned and, carefully gathering the corners of the towel containing their medical supplies, carried the whole bundle over to the bedside. He laid the towel and the supplies on the small wooden table that acted as a nightstand, the white terrycloth stark against the dark, aged pine.
“You coming?” Sam asked without turning around, his voice low as he leaned over the bed.
Dean set the ice pack on the table and sighed heavily. He wanted to look away, to unsee the damage that had been inflicted upon his friend. But he owed it to Cas to watch. He owed it to him to stay present for every agonizing second of the repair.
It was the least he could do.
TO BE CONTINUED…
I am really enjoying using acrylic markers. Still need a lot of practice (specifically with using colors), but practice makes progress.
I was going to post this when I got home from work on Thursday (technically Friday since I get home after midnight) but I was so tired I was falling asleep behind the wheel of my car.
I was terrified and praying to God, “Please let me get home without falling asleep and getting into an accident” and yet I still could barely keep my eyes open.
I was so grateful when I got home safe. I just sat on the loveseat and *crashed*
Drawing Practice
Does it suck? Yes. But although I messed up A LOT on this, the only way I can get better using acrylic markers is to actually, you know, USE THEM.
LOL
I really should have taken a photo of it BEFORE I added color. sigh Oh well, doesn’t matter. I’m not working on my drawing skills - though practice is ALWAYS helpful - but on getting comfortable using color.
At any rate, I have an idea for a story that I just don’t have the time - or inclination - to work on at this moment. So I did some drawing that was… idea adjacent.
There are probably 101 SPN (or more- MUCH MORE) fanfics in which Castiel is cursed/hit with a spell that transforms him into a child. I have only the VAGUES idea and no time to indulge because I can’t work on two writing projects at once.
I’m just not that coordinated.