[ He's been shot twice, and he's still yelling about his vehicle. Castiel can't tell if Dean is managing to joke despite his injuries or if he's really that upset about the damage to his car, but it's a moot thing either way. The car is meaningless to Castiel, and now Dean's opinions are meaningless, also. The time for negotiation is long past.
Dean lunges for him, as expected, though the box cutter in his hand is a surprise, and Castiel silently chastises himself for being caught off-guard. He's not the only one to carry multiple weapons, after all; he should've expected this. Still, Dean is injured, and that makes him slower and clumsier than he would be otherwise, with only adrenaline to power him. Shooting him again would be easier, less risk of being injured again himself in Dean's desperate attempt to survive, but Castiel steps forward to meet Dean's lunge instead, kicks at Dean's hand with the knife, to either injure him beyond the ability to use it or force him to drop it, and once he's disarmed again, Castiel brings the butt of the rifle down on the back of Dean's head hard.
When Dean falls and goes still, Castiel looks around and confirms that the attendant is still inside behind the counter, attempting to remain hidden as he looks through the glass. Castiel briefly considers burning the station down. Others would. The loss of life and property would be in the service of God, they would say. But it feels so unnecessary. They have other ways of remaining secret and keeping themselves safe. After holstering his own gun and retrieving Dean's, Castiel drags Dean's unconscious, blood form up onto his shoulder and, after some maneuvering, deposits him in the Lincoln's back seat. After another brief scan of the area, he locates the attendant's car and, with two carefully aimed shots, flattens its back tires as well.
He climbs into the driver's seat, starts the engine, and pulls out from around the side of the bullet-riddled Impala, back onto the pebbled road. It's not until he's on the highway and off the highway that he pulls over again. When Dean wakes up, he'll still be in the backseat of the Lincoln, divested of his pocket knife, his hands and ankles zip-tied. There's a first aid kit in his lap, and Castiel is digging the bullet out of Dean's thigh with a long pair of tweezers.
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Dean lunges for him, as expected, though the box cutter in his hand is a surprise, and Castiel silently chastises himself for being caught off-guard. He's not the only one to carry multiple weapons, after all; he should've expected this. Still, Dean is injured, and that makes him slower and clumsier than he would be otherwise, with only adrenaline to power him. Shooting him again would be easier, less risk of being injured again himself in Dean's desperate attempt to survive, but Castiel steps forward to meet Dean's lunge instead, kicks at Dean's hand with the knife, to either injure him beyond the ability to use it or force him to drop it, and once he's disarmed again, Castiel brings the butt of the rifle down on the back of Dean's head hard.
When Dean falls and goes still, Castiel looks around and confirms that the attendant is still inside behind the counter, attempting to remain hidden as he looks through the glass. Castiel briefly considers burning the station down. Others would. The loss of life and property would be in the service of God, they would say. But it feels so unnecessary. They have other ways of remaining secret and keeping themselves safe. After holstering his own gun and retrieving Dean's, Castiel drags Dean's unconscious, blood form up onto his shoulder and, after some maneuvering, deposits him in the Lincoln's back seat. After another brief scan of the area, he locates the attendant's car and, with two carefully aimed shots, flattens its back tires as well.
He climbs into the driver's seat, starts the engine, and pulls out from around the side of the bullet-riddled Impala, back onto the pebbled road. It's not until he's on the highway and off the highway that he pulls over again. When Dean wakes up, he'll still be in the backseat of the Lincoln, divested of his pocket knife, his hands and ankles zip-tied. There's a first aid kit in his lap, and Castiel is digging the bullet out of Dean's thigh with a long pair of tweezers.
Good morning, sunshine. ]