Slow and Steady

[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.

[yellowhorde]

Ferret Emergency

My A/C doesn’t seem to be working.

I noticed it was a bit warm in the house around 5:30pm. I naturally assumed it was because the sun had gone over to the west side where most of the windows are. I checked the thermostat, which I have set for 75F because I don’t like being cold in the summer. It was reading 81F degrees. I set it lower to 72F in the desperate hope that it would help, but I kinda already figured it wouldn’t… otherwise the thermostat would read 75F NOT 81F.

If it were just me, I wouldn’t care as much. I have suffered through plenty of hot, miserable summers without A/C. BUT~! I have ferrets—two elderly, sickly ferrets who could very well overheat and die in the summer heat.

And we are currently in a Heat Advisory with Heat index values expected to be between 105 to 110F until 10 PM Monday.

Worse, the overnight heat index values are estimated to be between 75 to 80F which will not provide much in the way of relief.

Now, I know to drink plenty of fluids, to stay out of the sun and to keep my window blinds closed to reduce heat gain inside the house. But this isn’t about ME. It’s about protecting my ferrets. I’m not as worried about the cat. I know that sounds horrible, but she may be uncomfortable, but she won’t die from this. The ferrets absolutely could. And WILL if I don’t do something drastic.

I called my twin and explained the situation. She’s had ferrets in the past and knows they are sensitive to heat. I’ll be taking them over to her house later tonight.

I don’t have a backup cage, only the Double Ferret Nation cage in the second bedroom aka the Ferret Room. But I do have large cardboard boxes from Costco. Once upon a time those boxes wouldn’t have kept the ferrets contained, but they are both almost 8 years old and I’m not worried about them successfully escaping. Not even Blue, who was quiet the Houdini in her youth.

[yellowhorde]

Guys, I was driving my twin sister home tonight and we were talking about the shows we’ve been watching. Tonight we watched several episodes of season one from The Pitt.

I asked her why she hadn’t been watching Teen Wolf with me. Because our agreement was I would watch Teen Wolf with her if she watched Supernatural with me.

And do you know what she said?!

She said that she didn’t want to watch Supernatural with me because it sucked.

Guys, I can’t tell you how lucky this bitch is that I had to keep my eyes on the road.

I mean, she’s entitled to her opinions, but still!

How are we even related?

[yellowhorde]

I’m still at the dealership. Honestly, I didn’t expect to be here this long. But, as it turns out, my Spark needed a bit more work than an oil change and tire rotation - the air filter needs to be replaced as does the battery.

So I may be here a lot longer than I thought…

On the plus side? I did finish working on my oil pastel portrait of Misha Collins.

[yellowhorde]

I’m done with the drawing, but I’m nervous about using oil pastels on this - I’m afraid that I’m going to fuck it up…

[yellowhorde]

My twin and I watched Project Hail Mary on the 4th of July because I had seen it popping up on my Tumblr and Instagram feeds. I was curious because the fanart is amazing.

I really liked that movie. And now I’m curious about the other movie? They seem to be writing crossovers about it? I think it’s called Iron Lung? Or is it Bloody Mary? I see both show up in the tags.

The guy is missing an arm and his face is disfigured? And they’re shipping him with Grace?

I do have the book Project Hail Mary on hold from my public library, but there are like 426 people in front of me in line so it will be a long time before I get to read it. Honestly, I’m thinking of buying the e-book from Amazon because I don’t wanna wait that long.

[yellowhorde]

Retribution Chapter 16/? 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 but BEFORE Dark Side of the Moon

As the storm closes in around Cabin 17, Dean can do little more than tend Castiel's wounds and wait for Sam to return. But waiting has never been one of Dean Winchester's strengths. When Castiel reveals a desperate measure he has relied upon for months to stay hidden from Heaven, the two are forced to place an extraordinary amount of trust in one another.

Dean sat alone at the small kitchenette table. Sam’s laptop was closed, a pen and battered notebook nearby. A dark towel was laid out in front of him, covered with the contents of his gun-cleaning kit and the disassembled pieces of his M1911 pistol. Moving with the practiced precision born from years of experience, he doused the tip of the cleaning rod with gun oil, the sharp scent cutting through the lingering smell of cooked bacon. 

He slid a clean cotton patch down the barrel of the gun, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the kitchen windows.  The outside world was blurred by a thick sheet of cascading water.  Overhead, the rain hammered the cabin’s roof, sounding like handfuls of gravel pelting the shingles. 

An old battery-operated AM/FM radio that they’d had for damned well near forever sat on the kitchen counter, playing softly.  Nodding almost imperceptibly along with the music, Dean wiped excess oil from each piece of the gun one by one with a clean, grease-stained t-shirt and began reassembling them with practiced ease. 

As the final, soaring notes of David Gilmour’s guitar solo slowly faded, Dean popped the slide stop into place. The weapon snapped together with a satisfying clack.  He shoved the loaded magazine into the grip, slammed it home with the heel of his hand, and racked the slide once to chamber a round.  

As the song ended, a deep, booming prerecorded announcer's voice, layered over a gritty electric guitar riff, announced the station identification.

“From One City Center to the World… This is the Legendary Rock and Roll Blimp, 102.9 WBLM, Portland. A Town Square Media station.”

“Okay, that was Pink Floyd with 'Comfortably Numb,' here on The Blimp,” came the DJs jovial voice. “And that is exactly how my feet feel after wading through the parking lot to get into the studio. Folks, the rain out there right now is just relentless. It is coming down sideways...”

Flipping on the safety with his thumb, Dean stood and slid the pistol into the waistband of his jeans at his right hip. He smoothed his flannel overshirt over the weapon and began stowing the cleaning supplies into their plastic tote.

“…now let’s crank up the volume to eleven for Dan McCafferty and the boys from Scotland. From 1975, here is some classic Nazareth…”

Thecowbell and drumbeat opening of ‘Hair of the Dog’ began playing and Dean unconsciously bobbed his head in time.  Just when Dan McCafferty started snarling the chorus, a sharp crack of white noise tore through the small speakers, completely drowning out the driving guitar riff.   The radio hissed and sputtered, the blue tuning light flickering weakly as the signal dissolved into static. 

“The hell?” Frowning, Dean reached to adjust the tuning knob, but stopped. 

In the sudden absence of music, a different sound caught his attention over the steady roar of the rain. From the sleeping area, the slow rhythm of Castiel’s breaths abruptly changed.  There was a sharp, gasping intake of air followed by a low groan. He heard the rustling of fabric as though Cas was shifting his legs under the covers, trying and failing to find a position that didn’t hurt. 

Dean dropped the folded oil-stained towel into the tote. The static cleared and the music resumed, but he didn’t bother turning off the radio. Moving quickly, he crossed over to the rumpled bed where his friend lay, his face buried in the pillow.

Castiel’s fingers clawed desperately into the edge of the mattress, his knuckles white. The covers had slipped down to his waist, exposing a fine sheen of fever sweat that glistened over his chest and shoulders.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat.  “Oh, Cas…”

The pristine white gauze and medical tape they'd wrapped around Cas's torso the night before were soaked through with dried blood. They mapped the jagged shapes of the lacerations underneath.  What really caught Dean’s attention were the patches directly over the four brands. The thick cotton there was damp and stained pale yellow. The burns were weeping.

Every time Cas inhaled, the edges of the tape pulled against his skin, the adhesive threatening to peel away from the sweat beading on his lower back.

“Cas,” Dean kept his voice low as he knelt by the bed. 

Castiel’s chest spasmed as a ragged gasp tore past his cracked lips. He didn’t turn his head to look at him, but his grip on the mattress tightened, his nails digging into the fabric. 

“Dean,” Cas wheezed, his voice thick and entirely stripped of its usual deep rumble. He swallowed hard, his shoulders trembling as he tried to hold himself still.  “Something’s…wrong. I don’t… I…”

Dean gently pried Cas’s hand free from its death grip, covered it with his own and gave what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I know. You’re hurting.  Look, Sam’s out getting some heavy-duty stuff right now, man. He’ll be back soon.”

He looked down at the stained bandages, chest tight. “Just lay still. Don’t move.”

“We’re gonna have to change these bandages, Cas,” Dean gently patted the uninjured curve of Cas’s shoulder, feeling the trembling tension in the muscles. “They’re soaked through.”

Cas gave a tight, reluctant nod and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Dean headed quickly to the bathroom, where he grabbed a fresh towel and slung it over his shoulder before returning to the kitchen.  He set the bowl in the sink beneath the faucet, twisted the handle, and waited until the water ran lukewarm. Then he vigorously scrubbed his hands with the dish soap.

Dean gathered the bowl and the rest of the supplies and carried them over to the bed, setting them down carefully on the bedside table.  He draped the towel over the surface and laid out gauze, tape, paper towels, and ointments neatly on top of it.  After tearing off a few sheets of paper towel, he dipped one corner into the warm water, and wrung out the excess.  He looked down at the damp, stained bandages on his friend’s back.

“Alright, buddy,” Dean murmured, his wet hands hovering just over the tape.  “Try to keep still for me, okay?”

When Dean’s fingers caught the edge of the tape and began to pull, Castiel let out a sharp, muffled cry, his spine arching defensively before he forced himself back down. 

“I know, Cas. I know. Just breathe,” Dean muttered under his breath, his own jaw tightening. 

Dean didn’t rush. He worked with painstaking deliberation, peeling back first the tape, then the bandages. He paid attention to Cas’s breathing, pausing when it tightened to drizzle warm water over spots where the cotton had fused to damaged flesh to loosen its grip.  After what felt like a very long time, the dressing finally slid free, exposing the damage.

Swallowing hard, Dean dropped the bloody, discolored bandages into the plastic trash bin on the floor beside the nightstand.  The wounds on his friend’s back weren’t any easier to look at than they had been the night before, but he forced himself to do just that.  He leaned in close, scanning the wounds with sharp focus. 

The four brands seared into Cas’s back were sunken, shallow craters of raw, mottled flesh, each bordered by a heavily swollen ridge of inflamed skin. The indentations were weeping a thin, pale-yellow fluid.  

His fingers gently traced the swollen, bruising edges of the skin around the jagged lacerations that crisscrossed Cas’s shoulders and back.  Most of the stitches were holding well, tight and flush.  The only spot of concern was near the base of the neck. Two of the black sutures had pulled taut, cutting slightly into the raw edges of the wound.  A tiny bead of fresh blood welled up from the stress point.

Dean allowed himself to relax marginally and sent a mental thank you to Sammy for his fine work.  The injuries looked bad, yes, but there were no red streaks. No foul-smelling pus. 

“Good news,” Dean murmured, “is that the stitches are mostly intact. Gotta admit, those burns look bad, but they’re clean. No signs of infection. Now let’s get you greased up and covered.”

Castiel made a confused humming sound, muffled by the pillow.

Grabbing a tube of ointment from the nightstand, Dean popped the lid and squeezed a generous ribbon onto a sterile gauze pad.  He gently dabbed the cool cream over the burned flesh.  Cas flinched from the contact, and Dean pulled back with a whispered, “Sorry ‘bout that. Just… hold steady for a minute.”

Keeping his touch as light as possible, Dean worked the damp pad along the injured skin, applying the ointment liberally.  Once finished, he dropped clean cotton pads over the wounds and anchored them with strips of tape.

“All done with your back,” Dean said, letting out a long breath. “But I still need to check the rest. Go ahead and roll onto your side for me, nice and slow.”

Castiel made a low sound of protest, but obeyed. Moving gingerly, he rolled onto his right side, tucking his knees up slightly to steady himself.  He propped his head against the edge of the pillow with a grimace. 

From the kitchen, the radio crackled loudly, scrambling the broadcast, then cleared.

… and that was ‘Sweet Emotion’ here on The Blimp. Man, if you look outside right now, there ain’t nothing sweet about it. We are getting absolutely dumped on in Portland and right up the coast into Freeport. If you’re just waking up or heading out to work late, the National Weather Service out of Gray has a Flood Watch locked in for Cumberland County through tomorrow morning…

Seeing the way his friend’s body trembled from strain, Dean reached across the narrow divide between the two full sized beds and grabbed both of the pillows from Sam’s neatly made bed. 

“Here, let me help,” Dean said. “We’ll use these to help prop you up a bit.”

He carefully wedged the two extra pillows behind Cas’s back and beneath his flank, propping him securely on his side.  

Dean then took his own pillow and stacked it beneath Cas’s head, lifting him into a more upright, reclined position. The makeshift nest let the angel lean back safely on his side while keeping his injured back away from the mattress.

Cas sank back into the support pillows with a sigh.

Dean allowed his friend to settle himself more comfortably, then held his hand out to Castiel, who watched him intently, his expression wary. 

“I need to check your wounds,” Dean said, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. “Can I take hold of your wrists?”

For a long moment, Cas made no reply.  Finally, he gave a small nod and extended his arms.

Dean unwrapped the gauze from first one wrist, then the other.  Keeping his grip loose, he examined the damage. Deep, ragged troughs of pink flesh circled his wrists where the metal cuffs had stripped away the top layers of skin.  But like the injuries to his back, there was no indication that infection had set in.

Without a word, Dean dipped a fresh paper towel into the cooling water.  His mouth was pressed into a hard line and he focused on keeping his own breathing slow and steady. 

The moment the damp towel touched his wrist, Cas flinched back, almost pulling his arm from Dean’s grasp.  A sharp gasp caught in his throat as he forced himself to relax, voluntarily relinquishing control.  Breathing deeply through his nose, the angel kept his eyes on Dean’s face.

There was something in those eyes Dean couldn’t quite read. Whatever it was, it looked painfully vulnerable. Dean held his breath under the weight of that gaze, but then Cas’s breath trembled and he dropped his eyes and turned his head away.

Watching Cas look away hit Dean like a physical blow. 

He chewed on his bottom lip before pushing the feeling aside. Not a damned thing he could do about it. So he did what he always did. He shoved it down where it couldn't get in his way.

Out of sight, out of mind, and all that bullshit.

Trying to keep his face and body language neutral, Dean dabbed at the injuries, lifting away trapped sweat and a few stubborn white lint strands that had stuck to the clotting wounds. Once the wrists had been cleaned, treated, and rebandaged, he carefully lowered Castiel's hands back onto the bed. Through the entire process, Castiel had kept his head turned away.

Dean gently touched his fingers to either side of Cas’s throat, just below the jawline.  The angel drew in a sharp breath but otherwise did not react. The skin there was hot, the pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips.

“Hey. Look at me a second,” Dean murmured, applying just enough steady, upward pressure to urge Cas to tilt his head back.  “Let me see the marks.  I need to make sure none of those punctures are infected, alright?”

Cas let out a slow breath, and for a moment Dean felt his throat muscles tighten under his fingers. The angel tilted his head farther back, exposing the long line of his neck and holding himself still as a statue save for the tremors running through him.

For a fleeting moment, Cas’s eyes locked onto his, wide and filled with that impossible vulnerability. Then they flicked away again, leaving Dean to wonder if he had actually seen it or only imagined that he had.  

After a few moments, the angel’s breathing settled into a steadier rhythm and Dean’s attention was drawn to the ravaged flesh of his throat. The marks, cruelly visible in the gray light filtering in through the cabin’s windows, were even worse than they had been the day before.  The symmetrical lines of punctures where the barbed prongs had bitten deep into Cas’s neck were each surrounded by a swollen ring of skin that had turned a sickening shade of deep purple. The burned skin where the chain had rested was an angry red and blistering.     

Dean leaned in close, his thumbs lightly anchoring the sides of Cas's neck as he inspected the wounds. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that the punctures were already sealed with thick, dark scabs. Neither the punctures nor the burns showed any signs of fresh oozing or infection, and the surrounding swelling hadn't spread toward his airway.

And those bruises.  Those damned thumbprint bruises.

His hands wanted to shake, but Dean forced them steady, refusing to let the anger make him clumsy. He worked in silence, teeth clenched, his movements quick and sure. He gently steadied Cas’s jaw with one hand, his thumb resting lightly against his chin to keep his own touch steady while he gently cleaned the wounds and applied a thin layer of ointment over the mottled tracks and blisters.

Finally, Dean leaned back and let his hands fall away. “All done, Cas.” He gave a weary smile at the way some of the tension had eased from Cas’s face and posture.

Feeling suddenly tired, Dean tidied the bedside table, rolling up the unused tape and gathering empty plastic wrappers. Scooping up the trash bag containing the soiled, bloody bandages in one hand and the ceramic bowl in the other, he dumped the trash into the garbage can beside the fridge and set the bowl on the counter beside the sink.

Dean washed and put away the bowl, washed his hands once more, then grabbed a fresh bottle of blue Gatorade out of the fridge. He frowned down at it for a moment, considering, then gave a half-shrug. 

He walked back to the bed and settled into the kitchen chair that was still between the two beds.  A quick glance confirmed that he had indeed left the bottle of Advil on the nightstand.  It was getting hard to spot among the accumulating clutter.  Without counting, he dumped the remaining pills into his hand.  Three.  Not a full dose, but better than nothing. For a moment, he considered grabbing the Tylenol but decided against it.  Advil would help with the fever and inflammation.  Two birds, one stone. 

The cap clicked as he twisted it, snapping the plastic seal on the bottle.  He leaned forward in the chair, offering the pills to Castiel.  “Here. It’s not the heavy-duty stuff Sam’s getting, but it’s the last three we’ve got.  Take them. And drink this.”

He held out the Gatorade.

Castiel didn’t reach for the pills.  Instead, he stared at the plastic bottle Dean was offering him with an expression of deep-seated suspicion.

“What is that?”

“It’s Gatorade. It’s got… uh… electrolytes.” Dean sighed as Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Look, just drink it.”

“It’s blue.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, it is. More’s the pity.”

Cas’s gaze shifted to the three pills nestled in Dean’s outstretched hand.  He looked between the two offerings, and when he finally spoke, his tone was laced with bitter frustration. “Dean, none of the pills you or Sam have given me since last night have helped. They’re completely useless.”

“Look, I know it sucks, but it’s the best we have right now,” Dean kept his voice calm and patient as he set the bottle down on the bed within Cas’s reach. “You’re not healing the way you’re used to.  I get it. I do.  But it takes time for human medicine to work, Cas.  We can’t just blink the pain away.  And sometimes you need something a little stronger than what you can pick up over the counter.”

Cas let out a weak, irritated huff through his nose.

“Bobby pulled some strings with an old contact to get us some prescription-strength narcotics,” Dean added earnestly, “and Sam’s gone out to pick ‘em up. He should be back in no time.”

Cas slowly blinked and his fever-bright eyes met Dean’s.  When he spoke, his voice was small. “Will they work? These narcotics?” He spoke the last word carefully, as if it felt foreign in his mouth.

“Oh, they’ll work alright,” Dean muttered with a faint, reassuring smirk. “They’ll probably knock you right on your feathery ass, honestly.  You’ll be floating somewhere out in orbit, sleeping for half the day or so, but they will help. I promise. But,” he added, holding out the pills, “until Sam gets back, I need you to take these and drink some fluids.”   

Cas didn’t argue any further.  He uncapped the bottle and held out his hand to receive the pills.  He glanced between the pills in his palm, then the Gatorade. Sighing, he popped the pills into his mouth, then took a large swig of blue liquid to wash them down. 

His reaction was instant.

Cas froze after swallowing and his face twisted into a grimace of pure distaste. He lowered the bottle and stared up at Dean with a look of absolute betrayal.

“That is…disgusting,” Cas wheezed.  “Why would you want me to drink this?”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He managed a nonchalant shrug. “Some people actually like it.”

Cas looked askance. “Do you?”

“Oh, hell no.  Can’t stand it.” Dean couldn’t suppress a low chuckle.  “I personally prefer red Gatorade. Tastes better. But they didn’t have any when Sam stopped by the store. So,” he shrugged. “Maybe we’ll have better luck next time. Who knows? I think we deserve to catch a break, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Cas capped the bottle and, reaching over carefully, set it as far away from himself as possible.

Dean picked it up and set it on the nightstand.  “I’ll leave this here in case you want any more.”

This earned a derisive snort. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, well, it’s an acquired taste.  Maybe it will grow on you.”

Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Or not.” Dean hauled himself to his feet.  “Try to get some rest, okay?”

***

Dean peered out the kitchen’s window for what felt like the hundredth time and still couldn’t see a damned thing.  Condensation coated the glass, reducing the world beyond to a featureless wash of slate gray. He wiped a clear patch with the heel of his hand, but it made little difference.

He craned his neck, but the wall of white pines at the edge of the clearing was nothing but a washed-out gray.

Water pooled in front of the cabin, submerging the gravel driveway under streams of runoff pushing twigs and debris.

Feeling antsy and unable to put a finger on why, Dean considered making himself another cup of coffee.  But he didn’t need any more caffeine.  He needed… well, he wasn’t sure what he needed, but it sure as hell wasn’t more coffee.

Instead, he prowled to the back of the cabin and peered out that window.  Same result.  Nothing to see, folks.  He didn’t bother to wipe away the condensation this time.  It would just be clouded up again in a few minutes anyway.

He twisted his wrist, the motion pulling back his sleeve so he could check his watch.  It was 10:17am.  The CVS was less than three miles down the road and his brother had left over an hour ago.

“Dammit, Sam, what’s taking you so long?”

Like a caged panther, Dean paced up and down the length of the cabin, glancing fruitlessly out each window he passed.  The radio crackled again as the latest song ended, but Dean didn’t bother adjusting the dial.  It had been staticky all morning, probably because of the rain.  Or maybe it just needed new batteries. 

“You’re listening to the one and only rock and roll Blimp 102.9 WBLM.  And that was ‘Heat of the Moment’ by Asia.” A female DJ announced cheerfully, “Breaking away from the music for a quick traffic alert, folks. The NWS is reminding us that our Flood Watch is still active. We just got a report of deep standing water pooling fast across the Route 1 northbound lanes just outside Freeport. Cars are already hydroplaning, and State Police are urging drivers to get off the highway. If you don't need to be out in this downpour, stay inside.”

The DJ’s traffic report stopped Dean dead in his tracks. Something in his chest tightened.  I’m being ridiculous, he told himself. Sam is fine, dammit.  He’s just taking his sweet time getting back is all. 

“Dean?”

Breathing deeply, Dean tried to settle himself before stepping back to the bedside. He looked down at Castiel, whose bloodshot, bleary eyes met his for a moment before dropping away again. 

The sight of those eyes made his stomach do a slow, sick turn.  How had he not noticed before now? The whites of Castiel’s eyes were a raw, watery pink halo around the vivid blue of his irises. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m here,” Dean said as he knelt by the bedside.  “What do you need?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” Taken aback, Dean shifted his eyes away from Cas’s, which were now locked on him with disconcerting intensity. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve been…” he paused as if searching for the right word, “pacing for a while now.”

Dean scoffed, “I’m bored, Cas.  I need something to do is all.”

Cas shifted slightly in his makeshift nest of pillows, a low, tight sound escaping his throat as the movement pulled against his stitches. He pointed weakly toward the table. 

“The paper…” Castiel pointed to the notebook and pen beside Sam’s laptop.  “I need to,” he broke off with a shake of his head, then continued, “I need you to draw a warding sigil.”

“A what now?”

“A warding sigil,” Cas repeated patiently. “It must be executed with absolute precision in order to work, but my hands…”

Cas slowly extended one hand, palm up, exposing the fresh white wrappings around his wrist. He flexed his fingers and the movement was stiff, uncoordinated.  His fingers trembled violently, continuing even after he curled his hand into a fist. 

“I cannot draw it myself,” Cas said quietly as he let his hand drop heavily back onto the covers. “My hands… they are shaking too much.”

“Right.”

Dean strode quickly over to the small table near the hearth, shoving the tote containing his gun-cleaning supplies to the side and grabbing the notebook and pen.  He flipped to a blank page near the back and uncapped the pen, tossing it carelessly aside. A small clatter told him it had rolled off the table onto the floor. He made a mental note to pick it up later.  Sam was a bit too precious about his favorite pens.

He sat on the side of the bed, pulling his left leg up onto the rumpled bedding, bending his knee to create a flat surface. He balanced the notebook flat his denim-clad knee, pinning the pages open with his left hand.  With the pen poised in his right hand, he leaned forward, his eyes darting between Cas’s face and the paper.

“Okay,” Dean said, fingers locking around the pen as he braced his forearm against his thigh. “Talk to me, Cas. Where do I start?”

Castiel gritted his teeth and breathed deeply through his nose as he propped himself up onto one elbow. He gestured toward the notebook and Dean scooted closer obligingly. 

“Start here,” Cas pressed the pad of his pointer finger at the top of the blank page.  With great deliberation, he traced his fingertip across the paper, mapping the path he needed Dean’s pen to take.

“You must form a primary boundary,” Cas instructed as his finger drifted in a slow, sweeping circle. “An outer ring, completely unbroken.”

“Like your angel banishing sigil?” Dean asked, glancing up.

“Yes, in a way,” Cas conceded.  “Except all of the symbols must remain within the circle.”

Nodding, Dean watched Cas’s finger track across the paper, his eyes cataloging the strange, ancient marks before he brought the black pen down to the page, duplicating the marks.

“Like this?”

Cas smiled at him. “Yes, just like that.”

For the next ten minutes or so, Castiel broke the sigil down into an intricate web of overlapping rings, crescent arcs, and precise angular glyphs.  He traced his finger over the paper again and again, walking Dean through the steps until he had the order memorized. 

“No, Dean,” Cas corrected. “The lower crescent must curve outward, not taper. If the angle is off by even a millimeter, it will not work. Start again.”

Dean’s fingers spasmed around the pen before he ripped the paper out, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it at the trash bin on the floor by the nightstand. It missed and he didn’t care.  The bin was getting full and he was running out of paper… and patience.

Grumbling under his breath, he stabilized the notebook against his knee and started again at the beginning, taking his time until he completed the final sweeping inner arcs exactly as Cas had directed. 

When he was finished, he held it up for Cas to see and awaited the verdict.

Cas stared at the ink marks for a long, silent moment, his eyes taking in every curve and angle.  Finally, the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

“Excellent job, Dean,” Cas said, smiling and nodding his approval.  “This will work. Now… you must paint it over my heart.”

Dean just stared at his friend for several long seconds. 

“Over your heart,” he repeated flatly. He didn’t move an inch, just stared down at the black pen, then finally forcing himself to meet Cas’s earnest eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought we were going to put this on a door or a window… or something.”

Cas’s brow furrowed.  “No, Dean. The sigil needs blood and a pulse to resonate. If it is not painted directly onto my skin, the warding will not take hold.”

“What do you mean by ‘blood’?” Dean asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Do you mean running in your veins or do you mean we’ve got to open a vein?”

“It is a biological veil, Dean,” Cas explained patiently.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Sighing with the first hint of frustration, Cas tried his best to explain. “It means that this sigil cannot be placed on an object, Dean. To shield my presence from other angels, it must be painted over my heart. Using my blood.”

Cas must have seen the confusion on his face, because he wet his lips nervously and tried again, speaking slowly and clearly picking his words carefully so there would be no misunderstandings.

“This is how I have survived these past few months, Dean.  I’m hunted.  I rebelled.  And ever since I chose to stand with you and Sam, my brothers in Heaven have been systematically scouring the earth for my signature.”

Dean frowned. 

“My grace signature,” Cas clarified. When Dean’s brow furrowed deeper, he sighed and added, “Every angel has their own unique signature.”

“You mean like fingerprints?”

Cas bit his lower lip in what looked like a habitual gesture of confusion or uncertainty, though Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen him do it before. 

“I… suppose?”

Dean nodded, pleased with himself. “Okay. And…?”

“And I must reapply this sigil every few days in order to hide my signature from detection.” Cas glanced down at his hand, still fisted on the covers. “Without it, I am a beacon.”

“Meaning?” Dean asked. He had a suspicion of what Cas meant, but he needed to be sure.

“If the angels can find me, then as long as I am with you, they will be able to find you as well.” Cas raised his eyes to meet Dean’s.  “And in my current state, I would not be able to protect either of us.”

“Oh.”

Cas nodded solemnly. “Oh, indeed.”

“Well, shit,” Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair.  “What are we supposed to do now?”

“We reactivate the sigil.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s shoulders slumped. “And how much blood is that gonna take?”

“Before…” Castiel broke off, cleared his throat. Tried again.  “Before, when I possessed my full grace, I would simply cut myself.” His eyes flicked away from Dean, then back. “The wound would heal instantly, so the volume of blood didn’t really matter. But now…”

“But you’re not healing now.”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper.

“Great,” Dean pushed himself off of the bed in a single movement, throwing the notebook onto the nightstand. “Now what are we going to do?”

The bottle of bourbon tipped onto its side but Dean snatched it before it could tumble over the edge. Castiel bit his lower lip again, his gaze trailing to the back window. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Dean settled heavily on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. 

He sat like that for several long moments, then mumbled unhappily, “There’s gotta be something we can do.  A workaround.  Something.”

A new song began playing on the radio.  It ended and was followed by another classic rock anthem.  Then a commercial break. Dean Winter extolling the virtues of Allstate.  Usually, Dean found those ads to be endlessly amusing but now it didn’t even make him crack a smile. 

“Dean.”

“What?” It even sounded grumpy to his own ears. Damn.

“There may be another way.”

“What?” He twisted to stare at the angel lying in the bed beside him.

“There was an old theory that consecrated oil could be used to extend the blood required to sustain certain Enochian wards.”

“What does that mean?”

“Less blood would be required… to activate certain sigils or wards if consecrated oil were used to… make up the volume.”

“Okay, so if we’re gonna stretch this out with consecrated oil,” Dean muttered, almost to himself, “How much blood are we actually talking about?  A tablespoon? A couple of drops?  How much do we need to take?”

Castiel raised his shoulders in a shrug. His friend using that gesture was jarring because Castiel was a freaking angel of the Lord. Wasn’t he supposed to understand the mechanics of the entire universe?

“I do not know,” Cas muttered, clarifying.  Dean didn’t find the words any more reassuring than the gesture. “The ancient texts are… ambiguous at best. But…” He held up a finger, “Depending on the strength of the oil, a few drops should suffice.”

“Should?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know.”

“Dean,” Cas said, exasperated, “It’s a theory.  And one that I have never needed to test, at that.”

Dean bowed his head and simultaneously raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Fair enough.  But what sort of consecrated oil are we talking about?  And, more importantly, do you have any on hand?”

Cas shook his head, lips quirking into what might someday grow up to be a smile. “I don’t, no. But you do.”

“I do?” Dean’s brow knitted in confusion, but after a moment comprehension dawned.  “No, you can’t mean… Are you talking about the Holy Oil?”

“Yes. It is rare, but very powerful.”

“And dangerous!”

“Only if you ignite it.”

“If you say so,” Dean was willing to take Cas’s word on the matter. “But I’m not convinced that this is a good idea.”

Castiel reached out his hand.  Dean caught it between his own and gave it a squeeze, noting how cold the angel’s fingers were.

“Dean, if I am not warded, my brothers can find me.” Cas bit his bottom lip, then stopped almost as if he realized what he was doing. “If they can find me… then Raphael can, too.”

 Dean heard the tremor in his friend’s voice. His hands tightened around Cas’s fingers and he felt those cold fingers squeeze back. 

“Please, Dean. We have no other choice but to try.”

“Fine, you’re right. Let’s do this.”

Dean crossed to the cabin’s front door, where he and Sam’s duffle bags lay off to one side.  Unzipping the heavy nylon, he brushed aside boxes of shotgun shells and rock salt, folded shirts and rolled up jeans.  He found what he was looking for nestled in a side pocket. 

The ancient stone-fired jug was wrapped in a thick flannel shirt, the cream-colored sherpa lining acting like a padded blanket, protecting it from the heavy boxes of ammunition or rough handling. Almost gingerly, Dean unfurled the fabric, exposing the plain jug to the gray light.

He twisted it about, inspecting it to make sure there were no cracks or spills, then brought it back to the bed and set the heavy jug on the night stand between the half empty Gatorade and the bottle of bourbon.

“Alright, Cas,” Dean said, scanning his friend’s wan face.  “I got it. Now what?”

“My blood must be added directly to the oil,” Cas explained quietly. 

“How much blood will we need?” Dean pressed. 

“I don’t know,” Cas snapped in frustration.  “I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shot back, “neither have I. Join the club.  We can get matching t-shirts.”

Huffing out a breath, Dean whirled and returned to their stash of medical supplies on the kitchen counter. Fishing out his pocketknife, he flicked it open and wiped it down with one of the alcohol prep pads, which he then hurled at the trash bin.  It missed the rim by a mile but he was too irritated to grab it and try again. 

He marched back to the bed, knife at the ready.  “Give me your hand.”

Cas searched his face for a moment, then extended his hand. 

“How will we know if this works?” Dean asked, taking hold of Cas’s wrist to hold his hand steady. 

“Trust me, I’ll know.”

“Okay then.” Dean drew the blade across the pad of Cas’s thumb with steady pressure. Cas didn't cry out; he just let out a sharp, hissing exhalation. Blood welled up instantly. 

Before a single drop could fall onto the sheets, Cas folded his thumb inward, pressing it firmly against the side of his forefinger to seal the wound and trap the precious blood. 

Dean snapped the pocketknife closed and dropped it onto the nightstand.  Grabbing the jug, he popped the cork with a sharp tug, and carefully tilted the heavy vessel.  The amber oil pooled in his cupped palm. It was thick, cool, and almost seemed to shimmer.

Once the oil was ready, Dean held his cupped hand directly beneath Cas’s closed fist.

“Alright,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on his own palm.  “Let’s do this.”

Cas unfolded his hand, tilting his palm down, hovering his bleeding thumb over the oil.  Blood trickled, and a drop gathered at the tip of his thumb, grew fat, and dropped into the oil with an almost inaudible plink.

Such a small sound, really, almost drowned out by the drumming of the rain against the roof.

“One…” Dean counted aloud, “two… three…”

He glanced at Cas, who was staring down as if mesmerized by his own dripping blood. 

“Cas?”

No reply. 

The blood continued to flow. Plink… plink… plink…

The oil in his hand began to hiss. Then a sudden small spark of bright, pearlescent blue flashed from within. Heat began radiating from the oil in Dean’s palm, like a sunbaked stone.

“Whoa,” Dean muttered, his muscles tensing as the heat intensified.

“Keep steady, Dean,” Cas warned, his voice tight as he watched the crimson and amber swirl together. “The energy is activating. The heat means that it’s working.”

Dean gritted his teeth, his hand shaking from the power humming inside his palm. “Yeah, well, hurry up before it cooks my hand medium-rare.”

The scents of ozone and myrrh began wafting into the air, filling the cabin with its warm fragrance.  At the same time, the harsh heat of the oil mellowed as the golden fluid transformed into a thick, crimson emulsion that felt like liquid silk against Dean’s skin.

“It’s working,” Castiel breathed.  Grimacing in pain, he pushed himself upright and began swinging his legs around in an uncoordinated effort.

“Don’t do that.” Dean stepped forward, wrapping one arm around Cas’s back to support his weight. “Here, lean on me.”

Cas sagged against him and allowed Dean to help him sit on the edge of the bed. 

“I’ve got you,” Dean muttered, bracing his feet against the floorboards to keep Cas from slumping forward. 

Cas’s head hung low, his chest heaved as if struggling to catch his breath.  When he finally looked up, his face was pale and sweating, his eyes bleary with pain.

“Do it now,” he gasped, “just as I showed you.”

“Alright,” Dean muttered, licking his lips and forcing his own nerves down.  “I promise I won’t screw this up.”

This earned the faintest smile from the angel.  “I know you won’t.”

And still Dean hesitated.  He glanced at Cas’s chest, then up to his face.

“Remember, it goes over my heart,” Cas instructed quietly.

“Over the heart,” Dean nodded, then dipped his index and middle fingers of his left hand into the pool of Holy Oil and angel blood resting in his right palm. It was thick and warm, almost like dipping his fingers into melted wax.

He inhaled slowly, then leaned in close. Again, he hesitated, but with an encouraging nod from his friend, Dean pressed his wet fingers flat against Cas’s chest. 

Cas flinched at his touch and a low groan caught in his throat. His chest heaved under Dean’s fingers.

Dean glanced up into those blue eyes. “You okay?”

Releasing a trembling breath, Castiel placed his hands on the bed on either side of his body to support his weight. He straightened up as best he could, holding himself rigid, presumably to give Dean a steady surface on which to work.

“I’m fine,” Cas rasped. He turned his head away, lips pressed into a thin line, locking his eyes on some distant point over Dean’s shoulder.  But not before Dean noticed that his friend’s cheeks were flushed. 

“Okay,” Dean muttered. “Just… hold still.”

His fingers glided slowly across the too-pale skin, leaving a thick trail of blood and Holy Oil in their wake.  He carefully finger-painted the outer ring, then the overlapping rings, crescent arcs, and angular glyphs, dipping his fingers into the oil every few moments. 

Something had changed. Dean could feel it, but he couldn’t figure out what. As he finished the last glyph, he tilted his head, trying to catch Cas’s eye.

“Cas?”

The angel didn’t answer, just gave a sharp nod. His posture didn’t ease, in fact, if Dean wasn’t mistaken, it was practically screaming for space.

Frowning, Dean gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’m done. Now what?”

Cas started as if waking from a dream.  He glanced at Dean, offering a tremulous smile that fooled no one. Pressing two fingers lightly to the center of the sigil, he murmured a few words in Enochian.  The sigil glowed that soft, pearlescent blue for a moment, then faded away.

Dean blinked, staring at the spot the sigil had been moments before. “Hey, where’d it go?”

“It’s still there,” Cas reassured wearily. “You just can’t see it.”

Dean was impressed despite himself.  The tension in his shoulders eased and he absently wiped his hand clean on his flannel shirt. “Cool. Like invisible ink.”  

Cas didn’t respond. He just stared down at the floorboards.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice was suddenly serious. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, Cas met his gaze and opened his mouth as if to speak.  He hesitated, then said, voice stripped of any inflection, “I… I’m just tired, Dean.”

Dean frowned again.  He knew it was a lie—or rather, that it was only a fraction of the truth.  But he also knew when to stop pushing.  If Cas was locking down, hammering him with questions was only going to make him retreat further into his own head.

“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping back a pace to finally give the angel the physical boundary his body language seemed to be begging for. “Yeah, okay. Do you need any help?”

“No.”

Cas didn’t look at Dean as he said it.  Instead, he clenched his eyes closed and, shifting his position, brought his legs back up onto the bed.  His movements were stiff, uncoordinated, and clearly cost him a massive amount of physical effort. But he finally settled among his nest of pillows, trembling and gasping, and pulled the covers up over his shoulders.

Dean stood frozen and watched his friend, his hands dangling at his side.  He looked down at Cas’s pale, sweat-slicked face, noting how his eyes remained shut, jaw clenched as if shutting him out.

Message received, Dean thought, a heavy ache settling in his chest.

Dean picked up the blood-flecked pocketknife and the bottle of bourbon from the nightstand, turning on his heel to give the angel the distance he was so clearly craving.  He made his way over to the kitchenette table, needing physical space just as much as Cas did.

The legs of the chair scraped softly across the floorboards. Dean sat, facing the beds, and set the bottle of bourbon on the table in front of him. He didn’t bother tracking down a glass, just uncapped the bottle, took a long, burning swallow and let the liquor settle heavily in his gut. 

He rested his elbows on the table; his eyes fixed on the still shape under the comforter.  Outside, the rain showed no signs of letting up, but inside, the cabin had gone quiet save for the classic rock drifting quietly from the radio. 

Dean stayed at the table, the bourbon warming him from the inside out, keeping the distance Cas needed while making damn sure nothing else was going to get close enough to his angel to hurt him.

Led Zeppelin’s ‘Fool in the Rain’ had just started playing when the low rumble of an approaching car engine cut through the steady drone of the rain. Dean’s grip tightened on the neck of the bottle.  He tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the sound through the storm.  It only took a moment to confirm his suspicion.

It wasn’t the Impala.

A few seconds later, two bright beams of light swept across the window glass, throwing long, distorted shadows across the wall paneling before the engine cut out entirely.

There was a quiet click as Dean set the bottle down on the kitchen table.  He stood smoothly, his right hand already dipping under his shirt to wrap around the grip of his gun.  His thumb clicked the safety off. 

Before he could move any closer, heavy, aggressive blows rattled against the front door. 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Dean’s jaw set, and his eyes darted toward the bed where Cas lay huddled under the blankets, completely still.  He stepped around the table, moving as silent as a cat, his gun raised and aimed straight at the center of the door.

TO BE CONTINUED

[yellowhorde]

My oil pastels arrived Thursday after I had already left for work. I was so worried that they would melt being left outside in the heat, but they seem fine.

I got the Sennelier portrait set since I like doing portraits.

This is my first attempt at doing a portrait using oil pastels. I should probably use a larger sketchbook but 5.5 x 8.5 inches is just the right size for me to take with me to work. Oh well.

[yellowhorde]

Stupid question but in later seasons of supernatural, can Sam and Dean tell when a person is actually an angel? Cause I kind of need them to be able to…

[yellowhorde]

Can’t say I like how it turned out, but that’s okay.

[yellowhorde]

Retribution Chapter 15/? 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 but BEFORE Dark Side of the Moon

Bobby calls in a favor while Sam prepares for a trip into town. With desperately needed medication finally within reach and a winter storm closing in, Dean settles in to watch over Castiel.

Dean awoke to the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the feeling of being warm, almost too warm. He felt the solid weight of Castiel curled up against him, sensed the pattern of his too rapid breathing. Groaning softly, he opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he lifted his head from the pillow and peered around him.

The cabin was dark, much darker than it had been only a few hours ago. The only sources of light came from the bathroom light streaming through the partly open bathroom door and the blue-white glow of Sam's laptop.

“What time is it?” Dean croaked, pushing himself up onto one elbow.

“Late,” came Sam’s reply from the kitchen table.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean groused. “But what time is it?”

Sam sighed. “About 3:30 if you really must know.”

Dean gave a noncommittal grunt and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting at his brother. “Sammy, turn on a light. You’re gonna go blind. Staring at a glowing screen in a pitch-black room rots your eyeballs. Mom used to say that about the TV when I was little.”

Sam scoffed, his fingers still tapping away at the keyboard. “That’s just a myth, Dean.”

“Oh, really? Tell that to the headache building right behind my eyes.”

Sam’s fingers stilled. He slowly turned his head and peered at Dean, unruffled. “Your headache is probably from all the bourbon you drank before bed, Dean.”

“Hey. First of all, that was medicinal,” Dean muttered defensively. “Second, it was half a bottle, tops. That?” He pointed at the laptop, “That is a technological assault on my vision.”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes as he turned back to the blue glare of the laptop screen. “Right. Keep telling yourself that. I'm just saying, dehydration causes headaches.”

“Smartass.”

Sam didn’t even look up as his fingers started tapping away at the keyboard. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Gladly,” grumbling under his breath, Dean grabbed his pillow, aggressively flipped it to the cold side, and settled down, pulling the comforter over his shoulder. Shifting his weight in an effort to get more comfortable, Dean noticed Cas was awake beside him, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, and his breath coming tight and fast.

Even in the dim light, Dean could see that Castiel’s face was pale; beads of sweat pooled at his temples and ran down his neck. The long fingers of one hand fisted the bedsheets with white-knuckle intensity.

“You okay?” Dean asked, keeping his voice low so as to not alert Sam prematurely.

Cas’s eyes pinched closed and he bit his bottom lip. He breathed unsteadily for a few moments, then opened his eyes. They were filled with pain and worry.

Cas's blue eyes searched Dean's face in the dark, and he looked uncharacteristically… small.

“No,” he whispered, “I’m not.”

Dean slid a hand out from under the covers and pressed the flat of his knuckles to Cas’s forehead. There was no trace of fever, thank God. His skin was cool and clammy.

Dean let his hand drop, but he didn't pull away entirely, keeping his fingers near Cas’s shoulder. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “How bad is it, Cas? Scale of one to ten. Give it to me straight.”

Cas didn't answer right away. His eyes closed, his forehead creasing as if he were deep in thought. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising to avoid pulling at the tight, inflamed skin of his back. A fine tremor worked its way through his body, a constant, involuntary vibration.

When he finally spoke, his voice was threadbare, stripped of its usual resonance.

“It is... pretty bad, Dean.”

“Pretty bad?” Dean repeated, pulling back a little. “What does ‘pretty bad’ mean, buddy? Five? Eight? Eleven?”

Cas’s brow pinched tightly in the semi-darkness, his blue eyes flashing open with a sudden irritation. He let out a frustrated breath that turned into a grimace.

“I don’t know what that means,” he snapped. “One to ten what, Dean?”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, barely noticing the twinge of pain from his own stitches. “Shit. Of course you don’t know,” he muttered. He thought for a second then offered by way of explanation, “Okay. One is a paper cut. Ten is getting your leg chewed off by wild dogs. Where are we?”

Cas closed his eyes, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle jumped in his cheek. He breathed unsteadily through his nose, his entire body shivering against the mattress.

“I feel the wild dogs, Dean," he whispered miserably, the brief flash of irritation completely draining out of him. “They’re eating me alive.”

A cold knot of panic tightened in Dean's stomach.

"Alright," Dean murmured, his thumb unconsciously brushing against Cas’s shoulder. "Alright.”

Cas closed his eyes and shifted his head on the pillow. His skin, Dean realized with a bolt of fear, was almost the same color as the pillowcase.

“Stay here.” Dean gently pulled his hand back, pulled the covers up around Cas’s shoulders, and slipped out of the bed.

Sam looked up from his laptop when Dean walked over, the dark circles under his eyes matching Dean's own.

“How is he?” Sam asked, his voice low.

“He’s hurting pretty bad.” Dean said bluntly. He rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion threatening to capsize him. "The Tylenol isn’t doing shit.”

Dean scanned the scattering of first-aid supplies on the counter. “Do we have any Ibuprofen left? Anything that could help?”

Glancing over at where Cas lay shivering on the bed, Sam absently chewed at one ragged fingernail. Brightening, he pulled the duffle bag over from its spot on the seat of the nearby chair. He unzipped it and rummaged through its jumbled contents for a moment before pulling out a plastic bottle. He shook it. The contents rattled, loud in the quiet kitchen.

“We have Advil,” Sam said, reading the label. “Two-hundred milligram tablets.” He twisted off the cap and peered inside. “There’s maybe six or seven left.”

“Then we’ll give him four. Give it here," Dean said, holding out his hand.

Sam handed over the bottle, his expression heavy with doubt. “Dean, it might not help.”

“I know that, Sam,” Dean snapped, his voice sharp with suppressed anxiety. He caught a flicker of hurt in his brother’s face and immediately softened, shaking his head. “I know. But right now, it's the only card we've got to play.”

“We can't just leave him like this,” Dean muttered, his thumb tracing the red plastic cap of the Advil. "There's gotta be something else we can do. A 24-hour place further out. A hospital stash we can hit.”

Sam shook his head, exasperated. “Dean, we're in the middle of nowhere. I already checked. The closest 24-hour clinic is two hours away, and they’ll call the cops the second we try to bluff a prescription or pick a lock.”

He leaned back, his chair creaking loudly, and rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“The best we can do is give him the Advil to try and take the edge off,” Sam said quietly. “And then we call Bobby first thing in the morning.”

Dean scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. “And say what? Hey, Bobby, our angel’s broken, you got a magical cure-all in the scrapyard?”

“No,” Sam said, meeting Dean's sharp tone with infuriating calm. “We tell him Cas isn’t healing like he should be. Bobby knows people, Dean. If anyone can find a guy willing to slip us a bottle of real prescription painkillers, it's Bobby.”

“Well, then let’s call him now—”  

“Dean,” Sam spoke over him. “We are not calling Bobby in the middle of the night.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Sam said, as patient as ever. “We can call him in the morning.”

Dean stared at the plastic bottle in his hand. Sam was right, and he hated it.

“Fine,” Dean growled, turning back the bed. “Get some sleep, Sam. I'm going to give Cas these.”

Sam didn't move from the table. But his large frame straightened in surprise. “What about the watch?”

Dean stopped at the head of the bed, the Advil bottle rattling slightly in his fist. He didn't turn around, but kept his eyes fixed on the man huddled under the covers.

“You said yourself there wasn’t anything else we could do tonight. Get some sleep, Sam,” Dean repeated flatly. He turned his head just enough to catch his brother’s eye in the blue-white light of the laptop. His expression left no room for argument. “I’ll stay with Cas.”

With a heavy sigh, Sam nodded and pushed himself up from the table. “Fine. But if he gets worse, you wake me up. I mean it, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

Sam rose and walked to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the blue-white glow of the open laptop.

Dean removed the cap and tipped the bottle, spilling pills into his cupped palm. He set the pill bottle down and picked up the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. Sighing, he sat carefully on the edge of the mattress so that he faced Castiel, the springs groaning softly under his weight. Cas’s eyelids fluttered then he slowly opened his eyes. He glanced up into Dean’s face, then shifted his gaze down to the four small tablets in his palm.

“Relax,” Dean murmured, holding out the water bottle. “It’s just Advil. It’ll help with the pain.” He shrugged imperceptibly, then added glumly, “At least in theory.”

Cas eyed Dean questioningly for a moment, then let out a long, shaky breath. Bracing his right forearm against the mattress, he slowly pushed his torso upward, propping his weight onto his elbow, his mouth set in a grimace, body trembling with effort.

“Easy, I've got you,” Dean murmured, moving in quickly. Holding him steady with one hand, Dean extended his other palm, presenting the four pills.

Without any further hesitation, Cas accepted them. He tipped them into his mouth, his throat working as he swallowed.

Dean immediately pressed the open water bottle to Cas’s lips. “Drink.”

Cas gripped the plastic bottle with his free hand to steady it and took three quick gulps to wash the medication down. A few drops of water spilled over his chin, but Cas wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Dean eased his hands away as Cas carefully settled back onto his side. The moment his cheek hit the pillow, he let out a shuddering exhalation.

Dean set the water bottle down on the nightstand. There was nothing else to do. No salt lines to redraw, no monsters to hunt. Dean let out his own sigh and slipped under the covers. He settled flat on his back, his shoulder barely an inch from Cas.

“Dean?” Cas's voice sounded small and hesitant in the blue-tinted darkness.

“Try to get some rest, Cas,” Dean murmured, rolling onto his side to look at him. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning. Okay?”

Cas didn't argue. He simply nodded and closed his eyes.

As the rain continued to drum softly against the cabin’s roof, Dean finally closed his own eyes and let the heavy weight of exhaustion drag him under.

***

Dean dragged himself up from sleep, the heavy fog of exhaustion lifting reluctantly. The first thing that registered was the steady, rhythmic drumming of rain on the cabin’s roof, the same drowsy, comforting sound that had lulled him to sleep.

The second was the warmth of Cas’s body against his. His friend’s face was still too pale and his features pinched even in sleep, but his breathing was slow and steady.  

Finally, the smell of bacon cooking drifted through the cabin. And not that turkey bacon crap Sam sometimes bought, but the real deal. He inhaled deeply and his stomach grumbled in anticipation.  

It was going to be a good morning.

Smiling, he leaned over and gently kissed Cas’s bare shoulder, then pulled the comforter up to his chin, checking to make sure Sam hadn't seen.

The amber glow of the kitchenette’s overhead light mingled with the dim, watery light filtering in through the windows. Dean sighed at yet another overcast morning, then carefully slid out from under the covers, his bruised ribs protesting loudly as he slipped back into the clothes he had worn the previous day.

Dean stood up, his joints popping, and briefly fought the urge to crawl back into bed. It had been so warm and comfortable beneath the covers with Cas. The cabin's interior felt remarkably chilly by comparison.

He moved toward the kitchenette, regretting every ounce of bourbon he'd consumed the night before. His stomach let out a loud rumble, but the pleasant anticipation was gone, replaced by a spike of sour nausea. Worse, the headache he'd blamed on Sam's laptop the night before had settled squarely behind his eyes.

He paused, bracing a hand against the edge of the kitchenette counter until a brief wave of dizziness passed. Making a disgruntled sound in his throat, Dean shuffled his way to the table, unceremoniously letting himself plop into one of the chairs. The wood creaked loudly under his weight.

Sam was leaning over the electric hot plate plugged into the wall, using a fork to flip strips of bacon in a skillet. He glanced over his shoulder, smiling.  

“Good morning,” he said, keeping his voice low so as to not disturb the sleeping Cas.

Dean grunted his own greeting as he slumped forward, resting his chin in his hands, elbows braced on the table. He watched Sam flip several strips of bacon onto a paper-lined plate on the counter. Beside it sat a chipped ceramic mug. A lazy curl of steam rose from inside, carrying the unmistakable aroma of coffee.

“Where’s my coffee?” he asked indignantly.

Sam turned around from the counter and looked down at him with a flat expression. “I thought you didn’t like instant coffee?”

Dean opened his mouth to argue that bad coffee was still better than no coffee, but before he could say a word, Sam reached into the fridge for a bottle, then grabbed a small plate from the counter.

With a smug smile, Sam set them both down on the table in front of him.

“You’re welcome.”

On the plate sat two slices of plain white toast, golden brown and spread with a glistening layer of melted butter. Next to it, the bottle glowed almost radioactive blue.

Dean stared down at it with a scowl. He hated blue Gatorade. As far as he was concerned, nothing edible in nature was ever blue. Not even blueberries, which were purple, dammit.

“Blue, Sammy? Really?”

“They didn’t have Fruit Punch at the store,” Sam said, completely unfazed by the attitude. “Just drink it.”

He reached into his flannel pocket, pulled out the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, rattled it once, and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the wood, clicking to a stop against the bottle of Gatorade. “And take two of those before your head explodes.”

Grunting his thanks, Dean uncapped the bottle, dumped pills into his palm, and tossed them into his mouth. He grimaced at the bitterness, then washed them down with a long swig of Gatorade.

“Jesus. Sam,” Dean muttered, wiping a stray drop of blue liquid from his chin with the back of his hand. “That stuff’s nasty.” And he wasn’t sure if he was talking about the bitter taste of the acetaminophen or the Gatorade. Probably both.

“Yeah, well, it does what it’s supposed to do,” Sam countered, gesturing to the plate. “Now eat. I’m gonna call Bobby.”

Dean stared down at the toast for a moment and his stomach gave a loud rumble. He closed his eyes, breathing in the mingled aromas of salty butter and toasted bread. Not as good as bacon, but… what is? Buttered toast was neutral. Maybe a bit bland. But safe. Just what the doctor ordered after a night of excess.

Picking up a triangle of toast, Dean took a cautious bite. Though he enjoyed the texture and flavor, each chew produced a deafening crunch inside his throbbing skull, like someone walking through autumn leaves right inside his ears. He took another bite, washing it down with another grimace-inducing gulp of neon-blue.

What the toast lacked in excitement, it more than made up for in comfort. Each bite calmed the unhappy fluttering of his gut.

Across the table, Sam was slumping into a chair, cell phone in hand. He flipped it open, and Dean absently noted that the device looked very small in his brother’s ginormous hands. Sam scrolled quickly through his contacts before hitting the speed dial for the salvage yard.

Dean watched his brother, his brow furrowing as he glanced to the kitchen’s rain-streaked window and the miserable, dark sky beyond. “Hey,” he muttered around a mouthful of bread, pointing the remaining half of his toast at his brother’s phone. “What time is it back in South Dakota? Bobby’s gonna kill you if you wake him up.”

Sam didn’t even look up from the screen; he just held the phone to his ear as the line began to ring. “It’s fine, Dean.” He gave an amused huff. “It’s eight here, which means it’s seven AM there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Now be quiet.”

Sam dropped the phone onto the middle of the table next to Dean’s arm and tapped the speaker icon.

Dean sighed, but held his tongue as the phone rang a third time. A fourth.

Dean glanced over at Sam, saw his own unease reflected in those hazel eyes. Before either of them could speak the line connected. For a moment there was only heavy, raspy breathing, underlined by the faint, metallic squeak of a wheelchair wheel settling into place.

Bobby’s voice barked over the tiny speaker, crackling with pure irritation.

“Someone better be dead.”

Dean didn’t even flinch. He just cracked a faint smirk and mouthed Told you. at Sam, who scoffed, but said nothing.

“Do you idjits ever look at a damned clock?” Bobby’s voice rasped through the static. “It is seven AM. If a ghoul isn’t actively eating your leg off, you call back at noon.”

“No can do, Bobby,” Dean cut in quickly, leaning forward. “We need to ask you for a favor.”

A rustle of heavy fabric, followed by the dull, distinct whump of what could only be one of Bobby’s massive leather-bound books being flipped closed. So, they hadn’t woken the old man after all. Good. It was only a small consolation that he hadn’t been sleeping; with the Apocalypse bearing down on them and Bobby stuck in that chair, none of them had been getting much rest.

“What kind of favor?” Bobby’s gruff voice barked through the phone’s speaker. “Because the last time you asked for a favor, I ended up with a trunk full of cursed taxidermy.”

Dean grinned briefly. That had been a memorable case alright.

“Nothing like that, Bobby,” Dean said reassuringly. “We need your connections.”

“For what?” “Prescription-strength painkillers. And antibiotics, if we can get ‘em.”

“Pain pills?” Bobby’s tone immediately sharpened, the irritation dropping and being replaced by concern. “What did you two yahoos do to yourselves now? I swear to God, Dean, if you’re walking around with another set of broken ribs—”

“It’s not for us, Bobby,” Sam interrupted, cutting off the lecture before it could really start. “It’s for Castiel.”

“So let him use his angel mojo and fix himself.” Bobby muttered.

“That’s the problem. He can’t.” Dean stared down at his half-eaten toast, his throat tightening. He set the crust down on the plate, his eyes dropping to the glowing blue Gatorade bottle as he began giving Bobby the highlight reel, picking his words carefully in order to protect what was left of Cas’s dignity.

“It was Raphael,” Dean’s voice dropped an octave, thick with a mix of exhaustion and suppressed fury. “He tracked us down. Me and Sam. He hurt Cas, Bobby. Hurt him real bad.”

Pressing his lips into a tight line, Dean glanced toward the bed and the rumpled pile of blankets that cocooned the sleeping angel. 

The cabin was silent save for the faint, rhythmic sound of rain tapping against the windows and the distant crackle of South Dakota static.

“An Archangel got hold of him?” On the other end of the line, Bobby swore under his breath. “Is Cas gonna make it?”

Dean shot halfway out of his chair, his knees slamming into the underside of the table with a loud crack that sent his plate rattling.

“Of course he is,” Dean barked, his face flushing hot. He planted both hands on the table, gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. “He’s Cas, Bobby. He's survived worse than this. And I’m not gonna let him die in some crappy cabin.”

Sam shot out a hand, his large palm pressing firmly against Dean’s chest to calm his brother down.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was quiet but firm. He gave Dean a subtle, reassuring nod. “Sit down.”

Dean exhaled a sharp, angry breath through his nose, glaring at Sam for a second before sinking heavily back into his chair. He folded his arms over his chest and looked away, still fuming.

Over the speaker, Bobby let out a heavy sigh. “I'm just asking the hard questions, Dean. I want the angel to pull through as much as you do. Now shut up and let me think.”

The phone line went quiet except for Bobby’s mutterings as he maneuvered around his living room. Dean closed his eyes and followed Bobby’s progress. There came the familiar screech of a rusty cabinet drawer, followed by the solid slam as Bobby shoved it closed. That was followed by the heavy shuffling of old notebooks, maps, and loose papers being tossed across the table. The memories were so clear that he could practically smell the yellow, musty pages.

Looking mildly amused, Sam spoke up. “How you doing, Bobby?”

“Hold your horses, Sam. I’m looking,” Bobby’s muffled voice grunted, away from the receiver. “Now where in hell did I put—”

Over the phone line came the heavy, hollow thud of cardboard followed by the frantic, dry rustle of papers. A second later there was a succession of light, flat slaps against linoleum.

“Son of a—!” Bobby's voice roared through the speaker. “Great. Terrific.” His voice was thick with a bitterness that made both Sam and Dean wince. “I swear, if my legs worked, I'd kick my own ass for keeping this office so cluttered.”

“Hey, Bobby, it’s fine,” Sam said quietly. “Take your time.”

There was a brief silence on Bobby’s end, then a sigh came over the receiver. “There’s an ER doctor out your way. Guy’s name is Bigalow. Frank Bigalow. He had problems with a vengeful spirit at his lake house some five years back. Me and Rufus cleared the house. He patched me up; we called it even. Nice enough guy. Sends me a Christmas card every now and again.”

“Bigalow?” Dean couldn’t quite suppress his amusement. “You mean like the tea?”

Sam frowned at him, shaking his head. “You are unbelievable.”

Dean shrugged, picking up the last triangle of toast and tapping it against the edge of the plate hard enough to dislodge crumbs. “What? I know things. I’m a cultured guy.”

“Dean, you thought Earl Gray was a character from a movie,” Sam countered. “And since when do you know anything about tea?”

“It’s on the shelf at the grocery store, smart guy. Right next to the coffee,” Dean grumbled defensively, taking a large bite of now unappetizingly cold toast.

“If you two bozos are finished discussing the grocery aisle, I got work that needs done. Now pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam and Dean chorused almost sheepishly.

“Now, as I was saying, Bigalow is still licensed in the state of Maine, which is good for you boys. Maine’s got some strict security measures when it comes to prescription narcotics. Which alias will you be using, Sam?”

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing instantly. “Whoa, whoa, hold on. What makes you think Sam is gonna pick it up?”

Silence stretched across the line.

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice held a note of authority. “Is Cas hurt?”

“Yeah,” he barked defensively, leaning over the table.

“Then Sam’s picking it up.”

Sam looked across the table at him. He didn’t say anything, but his expression told Dean that the matter was officially settled.  

“I’ll get the good doctor to call a script into the CVS on Route 1,” Bobby continued. “When you get to the pharmacy counter, tell them you’re picking up a script for ‘Mr. Singer.’ Who you gonna be, Sam?”

When Sam told him, Bobby grunted in acknowledgment.

“That’ll work. The local script won’t raise any eyebrows, but narcotics are different. They’ll check your ID, so make damn sure your fake one matches the name I give Frank. If the name doesn't match or the pharmacist thinks something's off, you’re gonna have a problem.”

“We got it, Bobby,” Sam said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby grunted, then his voice softened for just a fraction. “Just keep your heads down and get your friend patched up.”

“Will do. Bye, Bobby,” Dean said, before Sam reached out to press the end-call button on the phone.

The small screen went dark, and the sudden silence in the kitchenette was filled only by the steady drumming of the rain against the roof. Dean slumped back into his chair, staring down at the empty plate and the half-empty bottle of Gatorade.

Pocketing his phone, Sam pushed himself up from the table. He moved around the small kitchenette in a practiced rhythm—filling a clean mug with water and setting it in the microwave to heat, grabbing the egg carton from the fridge. He cracked a few eggs into a pan, fork clinking softly against the metal as he whisked them together. In only a few minutes he placed two steaming plates of scrambled eggs on the table, a mug of hot instant coffee in front of Dean.

“It’s cold.” Sam said by way of apology, setting a plate of crispy bacon in the center of the table.

Dean grinned. “Doesn’t matter, it’s still bacon,” he said, helping himself to a slice.

“You’re sure you wanna eat that?” Sam asked, sitting down to his own breakfast. “You’re still looking a bit rough.”

“It’s bacon, Sammy.” Dean replied through a mouthful of pig. “It’s healing food.” And snagged two more strips before Sam could protest.

They sat and ate their breakfast, the warm, savory smell of the food cutting through the chill of the cabin. Dean took a grateful sip of coffee, the bitter, hot liquid finally chasing away the lingering taste of the blue Gatorade. He scooped up a forkful of eggs, pacing himself and relieved that the Tylenol was finally beginning to dull the sharp thumping behind his eyes to a distant, manageable ache.

Between mouthfuls of egg, Dean savored the salty, smoky crunch of bacon that the toast had sorely lacked. Sam ate quietly across from him, his eyes occasionally tracking the rain tracing heavy lines down the windowpane.

Once his plate was cleared, Sam pushed his chair back and stood up. He grabbed his dishes and deposited them on the counter next to the sink.

“You gonna finish that?” Dean asked, pointing a finger at the last strip of bacon.

“No,” Sam paused, a dish towel slung over his shoulder as he looked first at the plate, then Dean. “Help yourself.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Dean stuffed the bacon into his mouth, then still chewing, grabbed his dishes and followed Sam to the sink. He washed their dishes under lukewarm tap water and Sam dried and stacked them neatly back into the cupboard.

Every few minutes, Dean’s eyes drifted toward the sleeping area as he listened for any sound of movement or pain from Cas. But he remained still and silent.  

Dishes done, Dean leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, feeling restless. Sam sat at the table, his every-present laptop open before him, a fresh cup of coffee forgotten by his elbow. The steady clack-clack-clack of his fingers on the keyboard filled the kitchenette.

“Whatcha doing?” Dean asked, more from boredom than any real interest.

“Stuff,” Sam replied shortly, without turning from the screen.

“Yeah, I figured that much,” Dean retorted, “but what kinda stuff?”

Before Sam could reply, Dean’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He flipped it open and hit the speaker button.

“Talk to me, Bobby.”

Sam’s fingers froze on the keyboard.

“Alright, I talked to Frank,” Bobby’s voice came through the tiny speaker sounding slightly winded. “He’s on board. There’ll be two prescriptions waiting for you at the CVS on Route 1 – one for Vicodin, the other for Keflex. The doc said it’ll take a little time to clear their automated system, but they should be ready by the time you get there. Remember, they will ask for an ID at the counter because of the Vicodin. Sam, you got that fake ready?”

“Yeah, Bobby. I got it.”

“Good.” Bobby grunted. “And Sam? Don’t linger. Get the pills and get your ass back to the cabin.”

Sam frowned at Dean, who shrugged. “Why? What’s the rush?”

“Have either of you idjits checked the weather forecast?”

Dean blinked, taken completely off guard by the sudden detour.

“It’s raining,” he said, glancing out the window. “No big deal.”

“Well, good thing for you two that I’ve been watching the Weather Channel. There’s a storm system heading your way.”

Dean arched an eyebrow at that, cutting his eyes back toward the window. “How bad is it supposed to get?”

“Nothing serious, just your average winter storm,” Bobby replied. “Mix of freezing rain, maybe some heavy snow. Shouldn’t be a problem if you get your asses moving before the roads turn to ice.”

“Copy that,” Dean smirked, leaning back against the counter.

“And don’t do anything stupid,” Bobby added.

Dean scoffed and Sam gave a snort of laughter. “Why do you gotta say that? Like we’re just itching to juggle chainsaws or something.”

“Because I’ve known you since you were knee-high to hubcap, Dean.” Bobby shot back instantly.

“Come on, Bobby,” Dean said, smiling a little. “You know we Winchester only do what we gotta do.”

Through the speaker, Bobby let out a dry, disbelieving grunt and muttered, “Yeah, a bunch of idjits, the lot of you,” before the line clicked dead.

Chuckling, Dean stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He looked over at his brother, puffed out a breath and adjusted his shirt collar with a completely straight face.

“You heard the man,” he said, pointing at Sam. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Sam closed his laptop and slowly rose to his feet, his expression one of utter disbelief. “Me? Dean, he was talking to you.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he used the plural ‘idjits,’ Sammy, which means you’re at least fifty percent to blame.” Dean shot back, completely unfazed.

“Right,” Sam muttered. He grabbed his heavy canvas jacket off the back of the chair, shoving his arms into the sleeves.

“Just get the pills and get back,” Dean said, his tone becoming serious. “Bobby’s probably right—the weather’s gonna turn fast.”

Sam raised his hand in silent acknowledgment, grabbed the keys off the counter, and moved toward the door. He opened the door, then paused. “I’ll grab us something from that diner on my way back.”

“Good thinking,” Dean said, then paused, brow furrowing as his brain sifted through the inventory of the cabin’s small kitchen. Then a genuine smile broke across his face as a sudden bright realization struck him.

“And we can have that pie you got the other day for dessert.”

Sam let out a quiet huff, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He adjusted his grip on the keys, turning back toward the door.

“Right. Keep an eye on him,” Sam said, suddenly serious. “If his fever spikes again, give him another dose of Tylenol. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

With that, the heavy cabin door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the draft of cold air. Dean listened as the Impala’s engine roared into life then grew quieter with distance before disappearing altogether.

The smile dropped from his face. Sighing heavily, he retreated to the chair still nestled between the two beds to wait. And watch. And hope for the best.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A/N: It’s been a rough couple of weeks, let me tell you.  Shortly after I posted the last chapter I caught a viral infection and it knocked me on my ass.  It sucks to be sick on my ‘staycation’ but I guess it’s better than having to drag myself through my workday feeling miserable.

June 22nd was my wedding anniversary and June 23rd was the anniversary of my husband’s death.  Needless to say, it’s been a physically and emotionally taxing week. 

The good news is that I am on vacation from work so even though I’m not at 100% yet, I was able to finish chapter 15 on time. So, silver lining. Right?

Also, I know this story moves at a much slower pace than a lot of other fanfictions.  I don’t know if its because I usually write short stories and drabbles and genuinely don’t understand pacing… or if that’s just the way I write long stories.  I fret about it occasionally.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I worry about it a lot. Especially with these last few chapters.  But I don’t see that changing any times soon. I guess I’m trying to give you guys a bit of a breather before the shit really hits the fan.

Anyway, thank you all so much for reading.  Your kudos, and especially, your comments make my day. 

[yellowhorde]

I just found out that my sister - my TWIN - has been reading Retribution over on AO3.

*dies*

And my first thought is "Don't tell me that! I don't want to know!"

Because I have family that is reading my fanfiction. FAMILY! That is a completely different thing than internet strangers reading it. AAAHH!!!!

But my second thought? "Bitch, you've been reading and you haven't even left a single comment?!?! HOW DARE YOU!!"

I am conflicted!

[yellowhorde]

As good as it’s going to get. I’m bored with it and it’s time to move on to the next project.

[yellowhorde]

Waters of Life - SPN

Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write Pairings or Characters: Sofie Carlton (From Season 1 Episode 3 - Dead in the Water) Category: General, Writing Challenge Rating: PG Warnings: Death of minor character Title: Waters of Life Author: yellowhorde Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, spnland_writing. Challenge 008 -Water. Write a short fic for the prompt "water". How you interpret this is up to you, as long as your fic has something to do with the prompt and the show.

I had placed second for this back in 2011. And I had completely forgotten to post it to my own LJ.

The lake was Sofie Carlton's life.

She swam in its cool waters, played along its pebbled beach. She had walked every inch of its shores a thousand times. She loved the way the waves lapped the beach. She knew its every mood from crystal placidity and storm swept anger.

She thought she knew all of Lake Manitoc's secrets.

But she was wrong.

Now, terror paralyzed her as she was dragged down into those dark, cool waters. Because some secrets were never forgotten. And the dead were restless.

The lake was Sofie Carlton's life.

But its secrets would be her death.

THE END

[yellowhorde]

Retribution Ch. 14/? 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 but BEFORE Dark Side of the Moon

Dean wakes from a nightmare to find Castiel trapped in one of his own. As the aftermath of Maine continues to haunt them both, old fears, stubborn denials, and painful truths surface in the quiet hours of the night.

Content Note: References to past sexual assault and trauma-related nightmares.

Dean hadn’t intended to fall asleep; it just happened in slow increments. One minute he was sitting, elbows on knees, head in his hands. Then he was resting his torso on the bed, head pillowed on his arms for “just a minute.” And then he was soundly, deeply sleeping.

Dreaming.

Remembering.

Dean heard Cas screaming, the sound echoing off the wooden beams.

Dean didn't think. He just ran. Upstairs. Taking the steps two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs in a blind, frantic panic as he followed a trail of bloody footsteps into darkness.

When he reached the room, the door was open, swinging slightly on its hinges, throwing a rectangle of dim, gray light out into the hallway. Dean skidded to a stop in the doorway, his fisted hands up, ready for a fight.

The room was empty.

The chain hung from the ceiling, swaying in a slow, sickening arc. The cuffs were bloody, but empty. The bed, pushed haphazardly against the wall, was also empty, its mattress blood-soaked and bare.

He spun around, his eyes sweeping the corners, the shadows. The room was empty.

But Cas was still screaming.

The sound hadn't stopped. It was loud, vibrating the walls, a desperate, breathless screech of pure agony. It pressed against Dean's ears. Left no room for thought.

Dean threw himself at the walls, tearing at the wallpaper, dropping to his knees to claw at the floorboards. He screamed Cas's name, but his own voice was swallowed entirely by that endless, echoing shriek. Cas was right there. He had to be right there. The sound was everywhere.

Behind the walls. Under the floor. Above him.

And Dean couldn't find him. Couldn’t reach him.

Couldn’t save him.

***

Dean jerked awake, heart hammering in his ears. Gasping, he tried to push himself upright only to find his hands heavy and numb. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his hands into tight fists then flared his fingers out as wide as possible, once, twice. Again.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed under his breath as pins and needles raced through his fingers and up his arms.

The cabin was dark except for a thin beam of light spilling from the barely open bathroom door. Sam always left the bathroom light on in unfamiliar places. He said it cut down on busted toes and bruised shins.

The sharp blade of light fell across the bed.

Dean's eyes traced the path of the light, the nightmare blurring into the dim, shadowy reality of the room. Cas was right there. He wasn't gone. But as his vision and mind cleared, he became increasingly aware of the creak and groan as the mattress shifted, followed by the small, erratic scratching of fingernails against fabric.

Castiel wasn’t screaming. But he was making tight, choked sounds in the back of his throat and low, frantic whimpers. When his mouth did open, only ragged, half-formed syllables emerged. 

Then Cas began struggling, legs kicking. The angel’s eyes opened, wide and unseeing, then rolled back in blind terror as he fought whatever haunted his sleep. His body twisted against the blanket. Dean heard fabric snapping beneath frantic hands.

The stitches.

Dean knew that if Cas kept throwing his weight around like that, he was going to rip open the lacerations cutting across his back and shoulder blades.

“Stop moving, Cas,” Dean reached out and caught him just below the bandaged wrist.  “You're going to tear out your stitches.”

For a moment, the flesh beneath Dean’s hand went rigid. Then with a choked gasp of terror, the angel yanked his arm back, tearing himself out of Dean's grasp. Cas scrambled backward across the mattress until his back was pressed against the wood-paneled wall.

Panting heavily, his fever-bright eyes scanned the dark room for danger.

For a moment, confusion swirled through Dean but then frustration took over. He’d done it again – grabbed hold of Cas in a moment of disoriented panic. Damn it. He quickly spread his arms wide, fingers splayed. 

“Hey, hey, easy, Cas. Easy.”

The angel stared at him. His breath shuddered, but he made no move or reply.

“You're okay,” Dean soothed.  “Come on, man, don’t wake up Sam.”

Cas gave a single gasp of bitter laughter that sounded alarmingly close to a sob.

Cas slumped, his body caving inward as he dragged his hands up to cover his eyes. His shoulders shook under the force of his shuddering breaths.

“I can still smell him.” His voice was small, fragile.

Dean looked away for a second. Even with the archangel gone, God knew where, he was still tormenting Cas.

The mattress shifted as Dean slid across the bed and closed the distance between them. Cas heard him and lowered his hands from his eyes. His expression was bleak, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Slowly, Dean slid his arm back over Cas’s uninjured side to pull him close. He pressed his hand flat against the back of Cas's neck, his thumb rubbing small, heavy circles against his hairline.

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean whispered, leaning in until his forehead was nearly touching Cas’s temple.  “He's not here, Cas. It's just me and Sam. I've got you.”

Those blue eyes met and held his own, searching for the truth in his words. Wanting desperately to believe.

“Okay,” Cas whispered finally, inhaled shakily, then said again, a little louder.  “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Dean gave him a reassuring squeeze.  “Good.”

From behind him came Sam's sleep-rough voice.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dean snapped, without turning from Cas.  “Go back to sleep.”

There was a rustle of cloth and then the wall light above Sam’s bed clicked on.

Cas flinched against the light, one hand going up to shield his eyes from the sudden glare.

Dean turned his head, frowning. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, his large frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees. The amber light hit the side of his face, emphasizing the shadows under his eyes.

Sam simply stared back at him. There was no judgment in his expression, just a quiet concern that echoed Dean’s own. 

Dean met his brother's gaze for a moment.

Not now. Just back off. Please.

Sam must have seen some of it in his face because he simply gave a single, barely perceptible nod. Sighing quietly, he hauled himself to his feet and headed toward the kitchenette, shooting Dean a reproachful look as he passed.  “It’s after midnight, Dean. You didn’t wake me up.”

Dean blinked.  “Uh… What?”

“For my watch.” Sam clarified, flicking on the kitchen light.  “You didn’t wake me up. Why?”

Dean stared at his brother as he settled at the table and opened his laptop. A hot wave of guilt flared up in his chest, followed quickly by irritation.

“I kinda have my hands full,” Dean muttered, defensively, jerking his head toward Castiel.  “I had it handled, Sammy. I just…” He mentally flailed for a convincing lie but his tired mind was a blank.  “Forgot.”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. He didn't raise his voice, but the word held a note of finality. He leaned his elbows on the table, looking squarely at Dean.  “You were dead to the world, man. Admit it.”

“Shut up.”

“No.” Sam leaned back in his chair.  “Dean, you're running on fumes.”

Dean didn’t look away from his brother, but he’d be damned if he’d admit that he was right.  “Yeah, well,” Dean finally muttered, “Fumes are all we've got right now.”

Sam sighed and turned his attention to the laptop with a muttered, “If you say so.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned back to Cas.  “How you doing? Better?”

Cas glanced away, nodding his head, then as if realizing more was required of him, simply said, “Yes. I’m fine.”

Hearing that phrase come out of Cas’s mouth hit Dean like a physical blow. He recognized the lie for what it was. God knows he used that tactic enough himself.

He leaned down slightly, trying to catch Cas’s eye, but the angel deliberately kept his gaze turned toward the dark corner of the room. Cas gave another small, jerky nod of his head, his shoulders stiffening.

“Yeah, right. And I'm the Queen of England,” Dean muttered.

He could still feel the tremors running under Cas's skin, could still see the way the angel was breathing in shallow, guarded increments to avoid pulling at the stitched lacerations on his back.

“Try again, Cas. And this time, don't give me the company line.”

With a sharp inhalation, Cas shifted, hunching his body forward and pulling away from Dean’s touch, trying to put distance between them. Dean’s hand hovered in the air between them, but then he let it drop away.

“I am fine, Dean,” Cas insisted. His voice tighter this time, but he still wouldn’t look at him.  “Truly. It is... passing.”

Dean let out a long, heavy sigh through his nose, the fight draining out of him all at once.

“Yeah, alright,” Dean muttered, “You're fine. I read you loud and clear.”

Dean shifted his weight to the edge of the mattress and reached for the cluttered top of the small wooden nightstand. His hand passed the bourbon before closing around the bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol Sam had tossed him earlier. The pills rattled inside the bottle as he unscrewed the cap. For a moment he wondered how many he should give Cas, but decided to err on the side of caution.

With a practiced, fluid motion, he tipped the bottle over, shaking two of the heavy-duty pain pills out into the center of his palm. He capped the bottle with a sharp click, set it back down, and picked up a bottle of water.

He turned back to Cas, holding out his open palm with the medication, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes intensely focused on the angel's pale face.

“Fine or not, I want you to take these,” Dean said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.

Cas didn’t reach for Dean’s outstretched hand. He just stared at the two pills; his blue eyes narrowed with an expression of distrust. Swallowing hard, he glanced up into Dean’s eyes, then subtly pressed himself a fraction of an inch away.

“I do not want them,” Cas whispered, quietly defiant.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a flash of pure frustration flickering across his face.  “Cas… Jesus, man. Just take the damn pills.”

“No.” Cas looked up, his gaze finally locking onto Dean’s face. There was a raw, unfiltered vulnerability in his eyes that made Dean freeze.  “When Sam... when he injected me with the chemical...”

“The ketamine?” Dean supplied, confused as to where this was going.

“Yes,” Cas paused, “My mind was…” He trailed off, as if struggling to find the words. He looked down at Dean's open hand again, tongue darting out as if to moisten his lips.

“I could not think,” Cas whispered, his voice filled with naked panic.

Dean’s fingers tightened slightly around the water bottle.

“I could not tell what was happening,” Cas continued, forcing the admission out.  “I couldn’t—”

His eyes pinched closed for a moment as he balled his hands into fists. He brought them down on his thighs in frustration.  “I did not like being unable to… to act.”

Dean stared at him, nonplussed. He knew how the drug theoretically worked. And, from where he had stood, it had done what it was supposed to. Once Sam pressed the plunger, Cas’s eyes had slowly gone vacant before his body went completely limp.

But looking at the genuine terror in Cas's face, Dean realized they had gotten it wrong. The drug hadn’t just numbed the pain; it had made him feel helpless.

“Hey,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, fierce whisper. He closed his fingers over the white tablets, hiding them from Cas’s sight so the angel wouldn't have to look at them anymore.  “Hey, look at me.”

And then Sam cut in from the table. “It's not ketamine.”

Both Dean and Castiel glanced over at the sound of his voice.

Sam was still looking at the laptop, his broad shoulders hunched forward as his fingers rested quietly on the edge of the keyboard. He didn't look up, keeping his focus on the screen to give them whatever illusion of privacy he could manage in the small cabin, but his voice was steady and calm.

“Ketamine is a dissociative anesthetic,” Sam added, finally shifting his eyes to meet Cas’s guarded gaze across the room. “What Dean has in his hand? That’s just Tylenol. It'll help with the fever, but it won't make you feel the same as when taking ketamine.”

Cas didn't answer Sam. Instead, his gaze drifted away from the kitchen nook, tracking back across the mattress until his blue eyes locked onto Dean.

Dean met his gaze squarely.

“He's right, Cas,” Dean said, thankful for Sam’s intervention. He slowly uncurled his fingers, exposing the two tablets in his palm again. “I wouldn't lie to you about this. I promise.”

Cas studied Dean’s face carefully. Finally, he reached out and let his fingers brush against Dean’s palm as he first took the pills then placed them in his mouth.

After a long moment, his mouth twitched into a grimace. His throat clicked as he swallowed hard.

“Yeah, I know. That shit’s bitter,” Dean gave a huff of amusement.  “Next time, wash ‘em down immediately. That way you won’t taste it.”

Moving forward, he slid his left arm carefully under Cas’s neck and shoulders, providing a solid, steady brace so the angel wouldn't have to use his own core muscles and pull his stitches. With his other hand, Dean brought the water bottle to Cas’s lips, tilting it with slow, practiced precision.

“Drink up,” Dean coaxed gently.

Cas tipped his head back against Dean’s forearm, taking two deep, greedy gulps of the cold water. A small trickle escaped the corner of his mouth, and Dean mindfully wiped it away with the ball of his thumb before setting the bottle back onto the nightstand.

Dean turned back and looked at Cas for a long moment. His face was flushed, hectic spots of color burning high on his cheeks. His blue eyes were glassy and heavy lidded.

That small, whispered admission—I can still smell him— echoed in Dean's mind. He knew from personal experience exactly how powerful sensory triggers like scent could be.

“Hang on,” Dean muttered, sliding off the edge of the mattress.

He strode across to the kitchenette, passing Sam, who was industriously pecking away on his laptop’s keyboard. Without a word, he searched the cabinets until he found a clean ceramic mixing bowl.

Carrying the bowl, he turned on his heel and walked to the cabin's tiny bathroom. It clicked softly as he set it on the edge of the porcelain sink. He grabbed two clean washcloths from the rack above the toilet and a small, wrapped bar of basic, unscented soap from the recessed shelf in the shower. The pipes groaned inside the wall when he turned on the tap. Every few seconds he tested the water with his fingers, finally satisfied when it was steaming hot.

The hot water sent up a small cloud of steam as he filled it nearly to the brim. Gathering the washcloths and the soap, he picked up the bowl, steadying it as he walked back into the bedroom.

He set the steaming bowl down onto the nightstand with a soft click, right next to the water bottle. He unwrapped the bar of soap and dropped it and the two folded washcloths beside it.

Cas watched him silently.

“Here,” Dean said gently, helping Cas move to the edge of the bed.  “I thought you might want to,” he paused, suddenly feeling awkward.  “Uh… wash up a bit. If you want.”

Cas stared at him for a moment, then at the bowl of steaming water. His gaze tracked the steam as it twisted and writhed up into the air.

“Thank you.”

He reached out with a trembling hand, picked up one of the washcloths and dipped it into the hot water.

Dean cleared his throat and turned his back quickly.

“I’ll just let you get to it, then.”

Dean made his way back to the table, his footsteps too loud in the silence of the cabin. He pulled out a wooden chair at the table, the legs scraping softly against the floor as he sat down next to his brother.

Sam glanced up at him, a ceramic mug held between his massive hands. A thin wisp of steam curled up from the dark liquid. The overhead light cast sharp shadows along his cheeks, washing his skin with a sickly, yellow tint. Beneath that, the cool, blue-white glare of the laptop screen cut upward from the table, catching the underside of his jaw and highlighting the bruised circles under his eyes.

“You look as tired as I feel,” Dean mumbled.

That earned him a crooked half-smile.  “Gee, thanks.”

Sam took a long pull of coffee before he wordlessly extended the mug across the table.

“Want some?”

Dean looked at the black coffee, then back at his brother. He shook his head once and snorted “Pass. I hate that instant crap.”

“Can’t say I blame you for that,” Sam said, taking another sip, “But it’s all we’ve got. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Wanna bet?”

Sam didn't look away from the screen, but his chest hitched in a heavy sigh.  “I’ll pick some up tomorrow. We’ve got access to a real coffee maker. Would be a shame to not put it to use.”

“Yeah,” Dean slumped back against the wooden slats of the chair, resting his forearms on the table.

They hadn’t cleared away the remnants of last night’s dinner. The crumpled, grease-spotted bag had tipped on its side. A couple of cold, soggy French fries had spilled out onto the tabletop, looking pale and unappetizing. The half-eaten remains of his burger, its bun dried out and stiff, sat discarded on its wax paper.

Dean reached out, idly flicking a cold fry back into the paper bag.

“How's he doing?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face, his palm rasping against the stubble of his jaw. He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted past Sam's shoulder toward the framed landscape hanging on the wall above the fireplace. The faint splash of water in the ceramic bowl carried across the cabin.

Dean opened his mouth and almost said, He’s fine before shutting it again. That wasn’t the truth. Not even remotely close to it. And he was so tired. Too tired to lie.

When he finally spoke, it wasn't to answer the question Sam had really asked.

“He took the Tylenol,” Dean jerked his head in Cas’s direction, “And he's washing up now.”

“He's trying to hide it, but he's running on empty, Sammy.” Dean’s chest tightened as he recalled the fragile, unshielded desperation in Cas's eyes just minutes ago.  “Just like the rest of us.”

Sam set his coffee mug down on the table with a soft clink, the dark liquid sloshing slightly against the ceramic. He turned his face away from the laptop screen and his eyes locked onto his brother.

“How are you doing, Dean?” Sam asked quietly.

“I’m good,” Dean muttered. He forced a nonchalant shrug, refusing to meet Sam's eyes as he stared down at the last remaining French fry on the table. “Just tired, Sammy. Same as you.”

He didn't look up, but he could feel the weight of Sam's stare across the table. Then the sharp, plastic clack of the laptop lid shutting cut through the tiny kitchen. Dean’s eyes darted to his brother, who was now giving him his full, undivided attention.

Dean groaned inwardly.

“Come on, Sam,” he ground out. “I'm not doing this.”

His chair scraped loudly against the floorboards as he pushed back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. It was a defensive posture and he knew it. “Now is not the time for a feelings check-in, damn it. We need to figure out what we're doing next with Cas.”

Sam kept his hazel eyes locked onto Dean with that stubborn patience that made Dean's jaw ache from clenching it so hard.

“You should go back to sleep,” Sam said, his voice low, but steady.

Dean opened his mouth but before the words I’m not tired made it past his lips, Sam was talking over him in a tone of quiet command.

“Go lie down, Dean. I’ve got the watch.”

Dean stared at his brother; his arms still locked stubbornly across his chest. Every muscle in his body was screaming for him to listen, to just walk to the bed, kick off his boots, and let the exhaustion suck him under.

“I told you, I'm good,” he forced his gaze away from Sam, staring down at the grease-stained diner trash between them. “I'm awake now anyway. No point in wasting the hours.”

Sam clamped his hands tightly over his nose and mouth, smothering a frustrated sigh. He scrubbed his hands up his face and through his hair. 

“Go to bed, Dean,” Sam repeated, then quietly added, “Please.”

Dean opened his mouth to shoot back another sharp retort, but the words simply died in his throat. Suddenly the thought of arguing with Sam, of spinning yet another unconvincing lie, was too much to manage.

With a low, defeated sigh, Dean let his crossed arms drop. He pushed his chair back and stood.

“Fine,” Dean said, pushing his chair to the table, “You win. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Sighing again, Dean turned on his heel and crossed to the bed he and Cas had so recently shared. Instead of dropping immediately onto the mattress, he stopped and looked down at the angel, his hands dangling loosely by his thighs. 

Cas was lying on his side, head propped on one of the pillows, his shoulders hunched forward to protect the angry, stitches tracking down his back. The blanket was pooled around his waist and his eyes were closed. His face, though still flushed, finally seemed to have lost some of that rigid, defensive tightness. 

The skin of Cas’s face, neck, chest, and arms was blotchy and flushed an irritated pink from overly vigorous scrubbing. It stood out sharply from the rest of his pallid skin, leaving him looking raw and defenseless. 

On the wooden nightstand right between the two beds, the bowl sat, the water inside murky and no longer throwing up clouds of steam. The two washcloths had been meticulously wrung out and neatly draped over the lip of the bowl to dry. The bar of soap, much diminished, rested on its torn wrapper next to the bourbon bottle.

Grinding his teeth, Dean snatched up the bowl and washcloths from the nightstand, the cooled water sloshing against the sides.  A few drops pattered to the floor, but he ignored them.  He grabbed the bar of soap and marched into the bathroom, shouldering the door open with more force than was necessary. It only just avoided slamming into the wall behind the door.

Hands shaking, Dean hung the damp cloths over the metal towel rack to dry, and set the bar of soap back into the shower recessed shelf. Then he dumped the gray, soapy water down the porcelain drain. The water swirled, funneling together with a chaotic, chattering sound before forming a small whirlpool over the metal drain and gurgling down and out of sight.    

He rinsed the bowl under the tap until the last traces of the soap bubbles were gone. Then set it on the counter. 

Dean didn't rush. The mundane tasks gave him time to clear his head, but his mind stayed firmly anchored to the image of the raw, pink skin on Cas’s body.

He gripped the edges of the counter and stared into the mirror at his reflection. “Get it together, Winchester,” he hissed. “Flying off the handle isn’t going to help.”

Feeling more under control, Dean left the empty bowl sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink and returned to the sleeping area.

When he stopped at the head of the bed, he realized that Cas’s eyes were open. And that he was watching him intently.  His head was tilted up slightly, and his blue eyes—glassy, red rimmed, and wide—were fixed entirely on Dean. He watched him with a heavy, unblinking intensity, tracking Dean's every movement.

It was a little unnerving.

“I didn't mean to wake you up,” Dean said. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, an uncomfortable twist of guilt in his gut as he stared at the, chafed skin on Cas's neck and arms.

Cas didn't even blink. He kept his blue eyes fixed squarely on Dean's face, his posture rigid and unyielding.

“You didn’t.”

Dean ran a rough hand over his stubbled jaw. He looked at the expanse of the mattress between him and the angel, then back to the raw patches on Cas's skin.

“Look,” Dean began, then stopped. He glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who was once again engrossed in whatever he was looking at on his laptop. He lowered his voice and started again, “I can crash with Sam. Sleep in his bed, if you'd prefer.”

He meant it as an out. If Cas needed the space to just exist without being watched, or if having another body pressed into the mattress beside him was too much to handle, Dean was willing to pack it up and take Sam’s bed. It wasn’t as if he were using it right now, anyway.

“You’re not crashing in my bed, Dean.” Sam immediately called from across the room.

Dean’s jaw clenched, his head snapping toward the kitchen in a flash of irritation. He hadn't realized Sam was listening that closely, but the cabin was ridiculously small, and every word carried.

“You drooled all over my pillowcases the last time we had to share a bed,” Sam added, “Stay where you are.”

Dean rolled his eyes, annoyance flaring up in his chest just long enough to mask the exhaustion. “That was one time, Sammy, and it was almost twenty years ago,” he barked back.

“You also steal the blankets,” Sam retorted immediately.

“I do not.”

Sam scoffed loudly.

“Actually,” Cas’s voice was quiet and one side of his lips tipped up in an almost smile. “You do steal the blankets.”

Dean froze, his mouth hanging half-open in indignation. He stared down at the angel, his mouth working as he tried to find a comeback.

“Oh, great. Team up on me, why don't you,” Dean grumbled, his brief spark of irritation fading.  

Silence fell for a moment but before it could become awkward, Cas spoke up, his voice so quiet it barely carried past the edge of the bed.

“You do not need to leave, Dean.”

He didn't look away; he didn’t even blink. He simply held Dean's gaze with a quiet, unshielded honesty.

Dean stared down at him and felt a sudden wave of relief engulf him. He glanced at Sam, then reached out and clicked off the wall light over his brother’s rumpled, unoccupied bed.  He turned back to the bed he had already shared with Cas and released a long breath through his nose.

“Yeah, alright,” Dean said, his voice suddenly rough. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Dean gripped the top edge of the heavy, brocade comforter and pulled it back away from the pillow. Once enough space had been cleared, he turned and settled his weight onto the bed. The mattress springs gave a low, familiar groan under his shifting bulk. 

Sitting there, Dean rested his hands flat on his knees, his shoulders slumping as the last of his defensive energy drained completely out of his body. He didn't look toward the kitchen, he just sat on the edge of the bed, his frame a solid, unyielding presence right in the center of Cas’s field of vision.

After what seemed a long time, Dean toed off his boots, one after the other, each thumping heavily on the wooden floor.  He unbuttoned and removed his shirt, draping it over the back of the kitchen chair Sam had left between the beds. After a moment’s hesitation, his jeans were next. He skimmed them off, folded them with practiced efficiency, and placed them neatly on the seat.

Clad only in his t-shirt and undershorts and moving with deliberate care so he wouldn’t shake the mattress too much, he shifted his weight and crawled into the bed beside Cas.

As Dean slid beneath the covers, the cool cotton sheets a stark contrast against his bare skin, a sudden, hard shiver spasmed through his body. Gooseflesh prickled along his skin, momentarily stealing his breath. 

Keeping his movements small, he settled himself into a comfortable enough position on his back, staring up at the cabin’s ceiling. After a moment, he turned onto his side to face the center of the bed, hyper-aware of how the mattress dipped slightly every time he moved.

A flash of a smile crossed his lips as he realized that Cas was still staring at him intently. He had meant it to be reassuring, but was afraid it came off as more amused.  Still, after a moment, Cas offered a small smile of his own. 

Cas slowly began shifting his position until, bit by bit, he slid under the comforter, the stiff rustling of the fabric loud in the quiet room.  He allowed his body to sink into the mattress right in front of Dean, closing the distance between them until he was tucked close against Dean's chest.

Close enough that Dean could feel the warmth of his body, smell the combined scent of warm, clean skin and fresh snow.

Dean didn't dare move. He kept his arms loose and still on his own side of the covers, his eyes fixed on the blotchy pink skin of Cas's neck where he had used the soap to violently scrub away the ghost of Raphael.

In the dimmed light of the cabin’s sleeping area, the heavy, synchronized rhythm of their breathing began to merge, the heat radiating between their bodies finally driving the chill from the bed.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[yellowhorde]

The actual drawing part is finished the coloring part might be a little tricky. This is a kind of complicated reference for me.

[yellowhorde]

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.