foolintherain | join me in the slave au dumpster

join me in the slave au dumpster

[ They were told, all of them, that Dean Winchester could be found at an auto salvage shop in South Dakota, but he isn't there. A whole network of people are scouring the United States for one man, but it's Castiel who finds him. Dean's car, a 1967 Chevy Impala is parked in front of a gas station in Pontiac, Illinois, and Castiel parks his Lincoln Continental behind it.

This is the only gas station for miles. It's a shack on the main highway, surrounded by thick woods. It's ideal, Castiel thinks. This meeting was planned. He was meant to find Dean here. This is God's plan for him, to be the one to find Dean Winchester, here in this remote place.

He pushes open the glass door, and the bell above it jingles. Dean is there at the register, and neither he nor the cashier look up until Castiel calls out to him. ]

Dean Winchester. I need you to come with me.

[ There's no question in Castiel's voice, just a deep, gruff tone of inevitability. He stands straight-backed with a stuff sort of confidence. The suit he wears is a size too large; the trench coat swims on him, practically concealing his hands. His tie is pulled loose. He's been driving for a very long time, but that doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the fact that he's the one who found Dean, that Dean is here, and that he'll be the one to bring Dean home, no matter what Dean has to say about it. This is preordained. Castiel believes that. He'll do whatever it takes to see his mission through. ]

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[ This sudden change in attitude is incredible suspicious, obviously so, and Castiel's eyes narrow as he glances up from Dean's thigh, but his hands don't pause as he unwinds the bandage the rest of the way, exposing the open wound again. ]

That's not my name.

[ He's distracted enough to correct while he thinks about the rest of what Dean's said. Castiel is a soldier, a grunt, not a medic. He knows basic wound care. He knows about disinfecting, stabilizing, reducing bleeding. He already has a bandage around his shoulder beneath his coat, but it's also obvious that he's bled right through it. Dean might be right. Castiel has been shot before, but only once, in the foot. Obviously he survived, though it's one thing to potentially lose a foot and another to potentially bleed out within an hour. ]

You're bluffing.

[ Castiel counters, his hands paused, bandages pressed firmly though distractedly to the bloody hole in Dean's thigh. Castiel's voice is slightly higher now, and there's a slight brightness of fear in his eyes: the first emotion other than frustration and concern that he's shown. He has no reason to believe Dean. Dean is a criminal, not a caregiver, and Dean is trying to kill him. Dean isn't the savior Castiel had thought he was. He's chosen, righteous, but he's only human. He's lying. ]

Sure, I could be.

[ Dean shrugs again, watching Castiel as he dabs at his wounded thigh, taking in his expression, the tenor of his voice, how it changes when the words really sink in. Panic is spiking in Castiel, not just Dean now, which Dean thinks is only fair and fitting. Sure, he's the one hog tied in the backseat and entirely at the mercy of a religious fanatic so the panic is pretty justified in his opinion, but to finally see the flash of fear in his eyes...

Well. That's certainly justice, isn't it.

And, to be entirely fair to Dean - he only tried to kill Castiel when Cas shot at him, peppered his car with bullets, threw a knife at him, and wouldn't let him leave. ]

I'm not, though. I'll just wait here. See what happens. [ Watch it happen. If Castiel is lucky, he'll just fall asleep and that'll be that. ]

Edited 2021-06-22 19:14 (UTC)

[ It's as obvious a trap as ever, still a bid to escape, except now Castiel's life is on the line. He watches Dean, and Dean's smugness at knowing he's been caught. Let Dean help him and risk being killed or refuse and risk dying.

God, help him.

Castiel drops his eyes to Dean's leg, and he doesn't respond. He doesn't get out his knife and cut Dean's hands free, though. He retrieves the tweezers and the first-aid kit, rips open one alcohol packet and then another and wipes the tweezers and Dean's thigh free of blood again. ]

I feel it's important to remind you that the decision to retrieve you wasn't mine. I'm something of... a bee from a hive. If you do decide to kill me, more will follow. There is nowhere you'll be able to hide. If you decide to keep running and killing those who find you, you'll be standing atop a mountain of corpses before long.

[ He holds the tweezers above Dean's thigh but pauses to look up at him, to gauge by Dean's expression how comfortable he is with the idea. Obviously Dean carries a gun and the knowledge of treating bullet wounds along with a very long criminal record. He's not unfamiliar with killing, but perhaps not on the scale Castiel is implying. ]

Edited 2021-06-22 19:26 (UTC)

Bullshit. Everyone makes their own choices. Even you, Cas. You didn't have to come after me. You didn't have to throw a knife, shoot me fulla bullets, kidnap me. Don't give me that crap about being a bee from a hive.

[ Dean doesn't like the idea of killing a bunch of people. He's done it, sure, but they were bad people, people that truly, honestly deserved it. But Dean isn't...really interested in sitting on a corpse mountain made of religious fanatics.

He swallows, glancing away from Castiel for a moment, looks out the window at the forest, studying the tree line, trying not to think about the fact that an entire faction of people is on the hunt for him - some asshole from Lawrence, who's hardly done a good thing in his whole life. ]

Why're you doin' this, man? Why're you all after some jackass from Kansas? [ Since Castiel seems to want to chat before he bleeds out, Dean will just have to oblige, and contemplate the fact that he may just have to cut through a swath of people simply to remain alive. Dean's voice is shaky, like he's trying to keep it together, because he doesn't doubt for a second Castiel is lying - even if Cas dies, more will come.

Why? ]

Edited 2021-06-22 19:46 (UTC)

[ It sounds simple when Dean puts it that way, and for Dean, it must be. He lives alone, operates independently from those closest to him. He doesn't take orders from or work to protect his family, and so his decisions are truly his own. Castiel doesn't have that burden of responsibility. It's something he couldn't possibly understand, and so Castiel doesn't defend himself or try to explain. He listens to Dean's frustration with his head bent, and as he considers his own predicament and the answer to Dean's questions, he presses the tweezers in again, digging for the bullet he'd been so close to retrieving before he was interrupted earlier.

It's not until the bullet is caught and plucked out of the wound in a renewed gush of blood which Castiel is quick to pressed a bandage down on that he answers. ]

I told you earlier. You've been chosen by God for a higher purpose, and I was one of many sent to retrieve you. ...I had expected you to already have been called to that higher cause, but I see now that I was mistaken. You need instruction, still. Guidance. You have no idea what you're capable of.

[ He drops the bullet and tweezers both in the first-aid kit, presses the end of a roll of bandages to Dean's thigh, lifts his leg, begins wrapping while holding the first pad in place. ]

Augh, shit--

[ It hurts, and Dean tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, pain registering on his face and spreading through his veins like fire. It hurts like hell. The wound in his arm doesn't come close to this; that bullet grazed him and while he likely needs stitches, it's got nothing on someone who isn't a medic digging a fucking round out of your leg.

Castiel also has no bedside manner. At all. ]

That doesn't make any sense. What kind of purpose? You want me to be a damn clergyman or something? [ Dean lets Castiel bandage him, watching for inevitable symptoms of exsanguination - pale, clammy skin. Shallow breathing. Dizziness, confusion. ]

I don't wanna be some preacher.

[ Castiel's eyes glance up at Dean at the exclamation, and there's sympathy there, regardless of whether Dean wants it from the man responsible for putting that bullet there. He still doesn't enjoy seeing Dean in pain, but it's better, safer for him to have that bullet removed than allow it to stay lodged in his leg where it might cause further injuries with Dean's every movement. And he will move, Castiel is sure. Dean's far from placid.

Castiel, for his part, is fine. He's not the one having a bullet pried out of his muscle and bone, after all. The pain in his shoulder, even as it radiates up to his neck, is easy to meditate away. His skin is pale, but it's always pale as he doesn't get out much. His breathing is shallow, but that's... Well, it's a stressful situation right now; that's all. If he's sweating, that's all that is, too. He isn't dizzy. He isn't confused.

...Except, of course, because of Dean. He's only know Dean Winchester as a person for less than an hour and already Castiel is infinitely confused by him. Castiel doesn't look anywhere but down as he clips the first-aid kit shut and bundles it under his good arm. He drags Dean back towards the door with him, as if he might be angling his hands to cut the ties, but instead, he zips them with another tie to the metal handle on the inside of the door. ]

It isn't your decision. This is your destiny, as it's written.

[ With that as the only explanation Castiel gives, he climbs into the front seat, grunting a little as his right arm and neck are jostled. He drops the kit in the seat next to him, puts his hands on the wheel, steadies his breathing for a count of four and then twists the key in the ignition and eases the car back onto the road. ]

Is that the plan? Send me to some kind of freaky conversion therapy, change everything about who I am?

[ Maybe his voice is a little higher, a little more shrill because while Dean hates himself, definitely and absolutely, that doesn't mean he wants to be indoctrinated, changed, twisted into some shell of himself.

He looks up, hollow, watching Castiel move, groaning a little as he's moved and tied to the door. His thigh hurts, his arm hurts, he's fucking terrified; he stares hard at the back of Castiel's head, jaw set. ]

I hope that when you pass out and wreck this car, you feel every second of it.

[ Dean's words are as cutting as they are terrified, and Castiel doesn't need to respond to them. He watches the road, focuses on it even as his shoulder burns and his heart throbs loudly. It's not his place to mollify Dean or, as he said, try to change him. Castiel's mission is simply retrieval. If he fails, another will take his place. He's already texted his location and route to the others. If he dies in this car, no matter how close or far from their destination they are, Dean will be found. Castiel will receive praise and prayer for his attempt. As long as Dean doesn't escape the vehicle, it doesn't matter what state either of them are in, physically or mentally. There's no more need for conversation.

Castiel watches the road for another few heartbeats before glancing at Dean in the rearview. He bites the inside of his cheek but still, a moment later, the words meant to assuage Dean come out. ]

Dean... In my lifetime spent in the community, no one has ever been... "converted" into something they didn't want to be. I've had brothers and sisters leave of their own free will. It isn't a prison. We're a family.

[ One Dean is being welcomed into with force, and that irony isn't lost on Castiel. He reaches to explain what he himself doesn't fully understand. ]

You're a special case. I've never met someone like you before, someone prophesied to join us. I'm sure it will be explained to you, to all of us, once you arrive.

[ He looks back at the road, which is a curving, empty dirt road devoid of other traffic. The highway is off in the distance. The woods on either side are a blue-gray mass sliding by the windows, all blurred together. ]

[ Dean is still watching Castiel for tells. He's paler, definitely looks a little clammy, but that could be from stress in general. Dean's put up a nasty fight. Other symptoms, Castiel would be feeling personally, Dean can't know from where he sits. He wasn't bluffing when he said Cas was going to bleed out in less than an hour. Whereas before he was working to negotiate a little, gain a little freedom and trust, well.

Now he's pretty inclined to let him die. ]

I don't want to be part of your family. You're forcing me to be. That's a prison. [ He doesn't bother looking at Castiel in the mirror just stares out of the window and wonders how badly he'd break his arms if he opened the door. ]

...And you don't even know why you're really yanking me around, do you. You have no idea what it is I'm really supposed to do.

[ It's true. Everything Dean is saying is true, and it's exhausting to hear it. Or maybe that's the blood loss. More and more, it seems like Dean wasn't lying. Castiel redoubles his grip on the steering wheel, but his grip isn't as strong as it was. The ache in his shoulder feels warm and not hot. He feels like he's slowing down. Castiel watches the road and follows the neverending curve as he strains to put the words together and to say them with the conviction they deserve. ]

I know you don't believe in God, but this is what God commands. And if He—

[ The curve of the road keeps curving, right into the forest, and Castiel unthinkingly follows it until the car is bouncing through weeds and over stones, and he slams on the brakes as the car goes halfway over a patch of brambles, just barely stopping short in front of a large oak.

Castiel feels fully awake for about thirty seconds before his vision begins to swim. Painfully, awkwardly, he starts shrugging out of his coat while reaching for the first-aid kit. He just needs another bandage on his arm, tighter this time. He can manage it. ]

[ Dean's already arguing before Cas even finishes that first sentence. ]

You don't know what God commands, he's not even real and even if he--watch out--!

[ Dean is shouting as they bump and bounce through underbrush, the car careening to a stop as Castiel slams on the breaks, which is pretty painful for Dean considering he's tethered to the door and all it does is wrench his shoulder, straining his bad arm. ]

What the hell are you doin' -- I told you you were gonna wreck the car! [ Dean glares at him, watching him struggle, heart flopping in his chest because he's presented with the same dilemma he was before, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything about it. ]

You're bleeding out, Cas. If you don't let me help you, you're going to die.

[ Now would be an appropriate time for curse words, if Castiel were given to cursing. Instead he remains tensely silent as Dean reminds him of what he already knows: that this is insanity, and he is wildly, dangerously close to failing his mission. He isn't afraid of dying, Castiel tells himself. He'll be one with the Almighty in Heaven. He's earned that. He's served well. But still his hands shake as he struggles to open the first-aid kit without the ability to work the fingers of his right hand. There's fresh blood dripping down his right wrist as he tries and fails to rip open the last package of gauze. "You're going to die." He's going to die. It isn't supposed to scare him.

Castiel finally presses the whole unopened package of gauze to the wrong spot of his shoulder; there's too much blood soaked through his dress shirt to tell exactly were the hole is anymore, and he can't feel a difference between sharp pain and dull, now. He looks between the seats at Dean, and his thoughts chase each other wildly. Dean wants to help because he's trying to escape. If Dean escapes, Castiel will be killed, and his help will be meaningless. Castiel is afraid. His conviction falters. He doesn't want to die. ]

Alright.

[ With heavy, clumsy movements, he drags the passenger's seat forward and falls more than climbs into the back seat beside Dean. The knife flicks forward from the spring holster on his right forearm, but he catches it in his left, and with one sharp slice, cuts through both ties on Dean's wrists, freeing him from the door handle and freeing his hands completely in one action. The knife still loosely held in his left hand, Castiel falls back against the opposite window, exhausted. He watches Dean through lidded eyes, fully expecting him to grab the knife and drive or make a run for it and leave Castiel here to finish dying, but he's resigned to his fate. ]

[ Helping his kidnapper is stupid.

Really, really stupid, because if Dean knows one thing, it's that this kind of individual doesn't give up. Ever. If Dean helps him, Castiel isn't gonna just pat him on the head and let him go. Even if Dean flees, his little stalker will eventually be right back on his heels.

He should let him die. He really...really should. ]

Try to relax.

[ With his hands freed, there's a brief moment where Dean does consider running and he looks at the road, the keys still in the ignition, the limp body of Castiel slumped against the opposite window.

Dammit.

Instead of running, he snatches the knife out of Castiel's hand, then leans in and squints, trying to get a good idea of what he's working with. ]

You need stitches. [ It's immediately clear, even without tearing all Castiel's clothes and vest away from the wound, which is what he moves to do with the knife, ripping right into the dress shirt so he can get a better look at his shoulder. ] And probably a transfusion. I'm a universal donor, but I doubt you've got a field kit like that out here. I do, but you snatched me away from my car, so. We're gonna have to make do.

[ Dean leans down and slashes the zip tie that's secured around his ankles, then opens the door so he can pop the trunk to see what he's working with. If the guys on a mission like he's said, there's going to be supplies, and Dean's intuition isn't wrong. Between the first aid kit in the front, another one in the trunk, some dental floss and a needle, he can do this.

Also, whiskey from the flask in Dean's jacket is definitely necessary. It's not really an escape risk, so he guesses that's why it wasn't confiscated.

He gets back into the car, leaving the door open so he has room to work, and airflow to keep it from getting too hot and stuffy. Unscrewing the lid of the flask, he holds it up to Castiel's lips, tipping it back, not really giving him a choice. ]

Take a swig. It'll help.

[ Because this is not gonna feel great. At all. Dean's going to have to move Castiel around to get the shirt out of the way and that damn vest off so that he can actually work without continually bumping into kevlar. Dean takes a drink himself, and sets about wiping the blood away with alcohol pads, digging the bullet out with the tweezers, and sewing the idiot back together. ]

Edited 2021-06-23 15:31 (UTC)

[ If there's anything Castiel has learned about Dean that wasn't in the prepared information about him, it's that Dean is clever, shrewd, and independent to a fault. There is nothing for him to gain by helping Castiel, and Dean must know that. Dean takes the knife from his hand, and Castiel's eyes clothes as he waits for the blow to land, for the door to open as Dean makes his escape, to die.

Instead, he hears the fabric of his shirt tearing, and opens his eyes to look up and see Dean still there, talking about stitches, and... blood donation? Castiel's chin lifts and his eyes narrow as he forces the blurry image of Dean above him into focus. ]

You're helping me.

[ It's a mumbled observation Castiel makes, just in time to watch Dean cut the rest of his bonds and exit the vehicle. Castiel's heart drops to his stomach, feeling strangely abandoned, oddly disappointed when he's the one who confronted Dean, shot him, apprehended him... Kidnapped him, really—

Dean returns a moment later, armed with Castiel's own supplies, and it must be guilt choking Castiel because if there were blood in his lungs, he would've been dead long before now. Castiel struggles to get his undamaged left arm underneath of him, to sit up, and to drag his blurry vision into focus on Dean. He opens his mouth to ask him "why," only to have a flask pushed to his lips.

Castiel doesn't have much strength to resist, but he tries, and mostly just ends up choking and coughing up half of what Dean fed into his mouth, only to be immediately distracted by the pain as his arm is tugged and maneuvered through his vest. Castiel groans and grits his teeth through the pain, and though he'd like to help Dean get his bloodied clothing off and his arm where it needs to be, his arm isn't responding to his brain's requests, and his thoughts are slow and thick-feeling as it is. Castiel's breath huffs. He squeezes the fist of his left hand in Dean's jacket and he watches, eyes almost unseeing, the gold horned amulet bounce against Dean's chest as Dean digs the bullet from his arm. ]

Is that— Is... all this necessary?

[ Stitches, Dean had said. A transfusion, he'd mentioned. And he'd poured alcohol down Castiel's throat. This is what he does for himself, isn't it? Apparently Castiel isn't the only one not new to being shot. ]

Yeah, I don't know why. [ Why he's helping, that is. ] Now stop moving.

[ It isn't easy work, fishing a bullet out of someone. Like, Dean's done it, a lot, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt or that he particularly likes it. His hands will quickly be slick with blood that he absently wipes on his jeans before going back to his task at hand. He's leaned in close, face hovering over the wound, squinting as he works. ]

It's necessary. [ Dean answers Castiel absently, pausing long enough to glance up, lips twisted in some unreadable expression. ]

You need a hospital, but unless you've got hidden transfusion supplies in this pimpmobile, you're gonna have to just get some sleep and wait for your blood to replenish.

[ If he makes it.

Dean is aware of Cas' hand gripping the dirty jacket he's wearing, but Dean doesn't pay him any mind. He's biting his lower lip in concentration, carefully, as gently as possible, fishing the bullet out of Castiel's shoulder. He's almost there, almost... ]

Got it. [ He holds it up, then takes it and sets it in Cas' lap. ] A souvenir.

[ Another drink is needed - for the both of them - and he's setting the flask down on the floorboard and wiping the needle down with an alcohol pad to sterilize. ]

If you make it through the blood loss, the biggest worry will be infection. We'll have to keep this clean, okay? [ He's talking as he's threading the needle; regular fabric thread isn't thick enough to hold skin together, but he's used dental floss often enough to know that it'll do the trick. Plus - added bonus! It'll smell nice and minty. ]

[ It's not. None of this is necessary. Castiel knows from experience what the bare minimum looks like. But he also knows what it looks like to hold someone in your arms and watch them die. Castiel doesn't watch Dean work; he watches Dean, instead: the concentration in his expression, the flush of red through his lower lip as he bites it in distraction. He's avoiding guilt, Castiel decides. He'd rather have Castiel's blood on his hands literally than metaphorically. That's what this is. That's why.

The excuse sounds incomplete and hollow in Castiel's head, but the waves of pain as Dean digs around his shoulder is a distraction from serious thought, anyway. Castiel is silent through the blinding flashes of pain that spark behind his eyes. He squeezes them shut, grits his teeth, and squeezes his fist in Dean's jacket until his knuckles go white. His brain can't even process what Dean means by a souvenir. He doesn't feel the bullet dropped in his lap, only collapses back against the seat once the pain returns to a dull, hot throbbing, and he allows his panting breaths to escape him and his eyes to crack open.

Dean is still there in front of him when Castiel opens his eyes: threading a needle, talking about avoiding infection. "We'll have to keep this clean," as if Dean is going to stick around that long, rather than escape. Castiel doesn't call him on it. His mind is a marble rolling and clacking endlessly around a wooden labyrinth. ]

I'll be fine.

[ Castiel doesn't believe it, but if it's guilt that's keeping Dean here, then Castiel feels as if he owes it to Dean, to say as much. ]

[ Stupid, Dean. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is so stupid. He should be halfway to the highway, on the phone with Sam and the FBI, turning himself in for crimes he hasn't even committed. Surely prison would be safer than wherever Castiel wants to take him.

But he just... can't leave him to die. Something inside him won't let it happen. It's infuriating. ]

Yeah, course.

[ Dean flashes a thin smile up at him, tugging the floss through the end of the needle. ]

You're gonna be okay, Cas. Drink. [ Dean is pushing the flask to Cas' lips again, forcing another swallow - burns the throat, numbs the body. It's the only medicine Dean has on him at the moment, so it's gonna have to work.

Cause once he takes another drink himself, he's dumping a little on the bullet hole, then jabbing Castiel with the sanitized needle, and setting to work. ]

[ The idea still rolls around in his head, why Dean would be doing this, what he has to gain, and none of the answers can possibly be satisfactory when Dean had said himself that he doesn't know why. He could do all of this, and smile like that, and then stab Castiel through the heart. Maybe this is elaborate torture.

Or maybe Dean really is a gift from God.

Castiel is confused, muddled, and in pain. Dean lifts the flask to his lips again, and Castiel tilts his head away, but he chokes less this time, swallowing the liquid down, feeling it burn through his chest. ]

Dean, you've done en— nngh...

[ That is a needle digging under his skin, and Castiel grits his teeth against the resurging spark of pain and the strange, uncomfortable sensation of his skin being pulled together. His hand had loosened in Dean's jacket, but now it goes to Dean's shoulder, and he grips him hard as he holds his breath, then blinks through the dizziness and tries to concentrate on his own breathing, instead. ]

[ Dean's really glad his own bullet wound is in his arm and not his shoulder, because Castiel is holding onto him tight enough to bruise. It hurts, but Dean doesn't stop what he's doing, gently tugging Cas' skin back together, piercing it with the needle again and again.

He works quickly, because he knows it hurts like a bitch and it isn't fun, and as tempting as it is to drag it out because fuck this guy, he doesn't. Dean moves as fast as he's able, scooting closer to make sure he's got a good angle, that the wound is stitched as tight as it can be, and no more blood is lost.

Cause...man. Castiel's lost a lot.

A few more quick stitches and he's knotting it off, snipping the spare floss and tossing it aside before dumping a little more whiskey to wash away any bacteria. It's how he's treated himself over the years, it's how he treats Castiel now. He gives a final sweep of the alcohol wipe before carefully drying the area with gauze, before he unceremoniously slaps a bandage on Castiel's shoulder, gently smoothing the medical tape down and reaching to pat the hand that's clutching at his shoulder. Ow. ]

That's the best I can do, man.

Edited 2021-06-23 17:48 (UTC)

[ The backseat is a mess of blood, pools of his, smears of Dean's. The shirt that hangs half off of Castiel is more red than white, and even Dean is striped in it, from his wrists to the smear of a handprint that remains on his jacket's shoulder as Castiel finally releases him and lets his hand fall away. His shoulder, or what little Castiel can see of it when he looks down, might just be the cleanest thing in the vehicle now: cleaned and freshly bandaged.

Castiel stares at it, exhausted and disbelieving. Maybe he passed out already, he thinks, and this is all imagined. Maybe they hit that tree after all. It would make more sense than Dean saving his life when Castiel has done nothing to deserve it and everything to deserve Dean's ire.

Slowly, wide-eyed with confusion and disorientation, he looks at Dean again. ]

Thank you.

[ There's a rumbling of a car on the road as it drives slowly past where they've careened off, the first car to pass theirs in miles, even before Castiel took them into the brush. Up the road it pulls over, and apparently having noticed the crash, it begins to back up towards them. ]

...Yeah. You're welcome.

[ And fuck me, I guess. Idiot.

Dean peers at Cas, reaching to carefully cup his face, studying those big blue eyes, his clammy skin and blown pupils. He's in shock most likely, and Dean carefully shifts to maneuver them, needing to get Cas' feet elevated more than they are.

The sound of a car engine stops him dead in his task, a cold thrill of fear slithering down his spine.

He's screwed himself, that's what he's done. Instead of bolting into the woods or leaving Castiel to bleed out and die, Dean's sealed his own fate because he's pretty sure that's not just a concerned citizen, and if it is, they're gonna call the cops because Castiel and Dean are covered in blood. ]

Shit. [ He's already moving, groping for the gun he'd stolen out of the trunk. ] Is that one of yours?

Edited 2021-06-23 18:20 (UTC)

[ When Dean reaches out and touches his face to examine him, Castiel doesn't flinch, but he holds his breath as he watches Dean look at him with... possibly the most concern anyone has ever looked at him. This is definitely a dream, Castiel decides. Not death, not Heaven, but unconsciousness of some kind, surely. There is no reality in which Dean should treat him with such kindness, not just as a stranger, but as person who attacked and restrained him.

He watches Dean, staring with dizzy, unfocused reverence as Dean moves about the car, propping Castiel's feet, then freezing as he stares out the window. Dean readies a gun and Castiel frowns. He hasn't heard or seen the other vehicle arrive and has no idea what Dean's referring to. He strains to sit up and the view through window swims. Castiel squints through the fog, but all he can make out is a black passenger vehicle of some kind, possibly the blurry shape of someone exiting from the driver's side, but it's all dripping together like watercolors. Castiel gives up trying to see. He lets his head tilt back against the window instead and closes his eyes. ]

I can't be sure. What do they look like?

The cars a black SUV.

[ Dean absently reaches to rest a hand on Cas' good shoulder, touch light, palm flat on his chest. Stop moving so much.

Dean's heart is jumping all around in his chest, no matter how calm he sounds. This has been the worst day ever. ]

Tall guy. Looks kinda like he sucked on a lemon. Black. Talk to me Cas, do I need to get us outta here?

[ Castiel's eyes open, not to the description, but to the surprisingly gentle pressing of Dean's hand against his chest. He doesn't move, pinned by the light but firm press of Dean's hand and his own fluttering consciousness, but his head tilts slightly at Dean's question. ]

Us?

[ He parrots back, uselessly confused. Why would he need to go anywhere? Why would Dean go anywhere with him? They need to go home. That's why Uriel is here. To take them home. Where else would Dean take them? What other option is there. His right arm feels heavy, pain radiating through his shaking fingers in waves, but he lifts it just enough to rest his hand over Dean's on the gun. The last thing he wants is a repeat of what's happened. He doesn't want Dean injured more than he is; he doesn't want Uriel to die. ]

No. Uriel... is my brother. He'll care for us.

[ Don't shoot him, Dean. Castiel's eyes fall closed again, but he keeps his hand where it is, heavily rested over the top of the gun Dean holds and Dean's wrist, pressing it down. ]

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