ℭ𝔞𝔰ƚ𝔦𝔢𝔩 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foolintherain) wrote2021-06-20 01:58 pm
foolintherain) wrote2021-06-20 01:58 pm
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. ]
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. ]
sounds like dean
I'll be back again soon.
[ He can't leave without assuring Dean that much, even if Dean is upset with him personally and likely would rather see anyone else. Castiel can't allow Dean to think he would abandon him, even if he isn't able to help in the way Dean expects. He turns and walks out of the cell, and after he shuts the door, he locks it again. Dean is in no state to mount an escape, and if Castiel left the door unlocked, he's worried Dean might try and hurt himself in the process.
There's also the possibility that someone else without a key might come in here and do worse than what's already been done. Frowning at the idea, angry on Dean's behalf and feeling betrayed by his family, Castiel stalks back upstairs, leaving Dean once more to silence and relative darkness. ]
typical
[ Dean sinks against the wall, pathetic and miserable, alone. Lost. Wondering why he hadn’t just shot Castiel and taken the car, why he’d saved him, what difference it had made.
None, it seemed.
Castiel is met on the way down by a brother bringing Dean his meal, inevitably another one that will be left to waste, because naturally, their ‘chosen’ cares nothing about food waste, the time prepared, the effort that went in to feeding him. ]
Ungrateful, isn’t he? They say he’s God’s chosen, but I imagine this will be my fifth time being attacked.
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"Count it a joy when you meet trials of various kinds, for know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness."
[ Castiel recites drily, thinking of course more of Dean's trials than Daniel's, though he's sure the latter will interpret it the other way around. He turns to Daniel and takes the tray from his hands. ]
I'll bring it to him.
[ Daniel argues about responsibility, but Castiel is convincing with his own heartfelt concern for Daniel's health and his own failure to atone for. Eventually, Daniel agrees and returns the way he'd come, but not before Castiel is able confirm that it's Daniel's garrison in its entirely that's been seeing to Dean, as directed by his lieutenant, their sister Hannah.
It's not immediately that Castiel returns to Dean's cell, but almost an hour later. He's changed from the scrubs and slippers into a white button-down, slacks and loafers, and he sets down a bucket in order to open the locked door, picking it up again once he's inside.
He looks at Dean, mostly to reassure himself that Dean is still alive and conscious, before he sets the water bucket down just inside the door and holds the tray of food still in one hand, frowning in Dean's direction. ]
I hear you haven't been eating.
[ It's obvious enough from how Dean looks, gaunt and exhausted with a tray of uneaten food from his last "meal" still rotting in the corner, but Castiel says the observation aloud anyway, so that Dean can know that, yes, Castiel has been talking to Dean's other, ah, captors. ]
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And this is how he's repaid. A bucket of shit and crappy food and a collar on his neck.
The hour Castiel is gone, Dean is leaned against the wall, his eyes closed - he's waiting for the door to unlock and open so he can fling a tray of rotting food, but it doesn't come at the time it usually does, which leaves him on edge, a little afraid, and unnerved. He's tired, though, so with his head tipped back like that, he dozes because he can't help it; his body is exhausted, barely healing, bloodied and laughably bandaged, probably infected. He's feverish and sick, cheeks pink with color that make his freckles stand out, eyes a little too bright.
But hey. He's here.
When the door finally does unlock, he rolls his head to look, narrowing his eyes, but he doesn't bother to throw his metaphorical feces. Instead, he just watches, a brow lifted. ]
I thought I told you to go away.
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[ Yes, Dean had told him to go, and Castiel has said that he would be back. So here they are. Castiel ignores Dean's reminder. Instead, he lets the door fall shut but unlocked behind him, and he closes the space between them and kneels next to Dean, the tray of food held in both his hands. ]
I assume you haven't been eating because you think the food has been laced with something.
[ The alternative is, of course, that Dean's trying to starve himself, either to die or to force his release, but Castiel willfully ignores that possibility. He looks at the food he's brought, a meager meal of mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and grilled chicken, with a plastic cup of water. There's nothing artful about it. It's a simple meal, but that's probably better for Dean, if he'll eat it. From the look of him, he wouldn't be able to keep much down, if he's even willing.
Castiel falls from kneeling to sitting beside Dean. He balances the tray on his thigh, close enough for Dean to reach without directly offering it to him. ]
I made this meal for you myself. There's nothing suspect about it. Though, if you'd still like me to taste it in front of you, I will.
[ Castiel explains, and he doesn't force the food on Dean, though he does lift the cup and all but press the rim of it to his lips. Drink, you stubborn idiot. ]
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Hi, Cas.
[ And. Well -- yes. That's part of it. He assumed it was drugs, because they certainly hadn't been shy about drugging him before, but also he's hoping it would force their hand, make them let him go. Like...a food strike, or something. But it doesn't seem to be working, because he's going on several days now of refusing food and water and there's been no sign of release. ]
I'm not hungry. [ Or thirst, apparently, because he clamps his lips shut.
Plus, you know - he doesn't trust him. ]
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Drink.
[ Mostly that, though the food is important, too. All of it is important, not just for Dean's sake, to keep him alive, to heal him and return him to good health, but to show Dean's cooperation, and earn Castiel's family's trust again, for both of them. Castiel isn't shy about explaining it. ]
You need to eat. You need your strength if you plan to plot some sort of outlandish escape, and you need your captors to believe you're cooperating with them if you ever intend to slip this literal leash you're wearing. Martyring yourself only brings you closer to God.
[ Which, really, should be a good thing, and Castiel should be following Dean's example and refusing food himself rather than correcting Dean's behavior, but somehow through the ordeal of Dean's capture, this whole God's chosen thing has become less important to Castiel than the man himself. ]
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Castiel has a point, which is...a little odd, but Dean can't discount the guy's spitting straight facts. He's been down here languishing and being a general loud, noisy, obnoxious pain in the ass when maybe the trick is to simply comply. It goes against everything in him, just rolling over, but dammit..
The bastard is right. If Dean's going to get out of here, he needs his strength. ]
You're just saying that because you want your family to trust you. What're you gonna do when you win it back, and I bust out? [ And kill whoever necessary in the process.
He pushes the cup away, rubbing at his mouth, watching Castiel and wondering what his next move will be. Hand him the tray, see if Dean kicks it? Feed him? ]
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He sets both the cup and the tray down between them, for Dean to eat or ignore, or throw, though at least he seems to be listening to reason at the moment, and Castiel is anxious to meet him there, in the murky gray between what his family seems to want of Dean and the freedom Dean desires. ]
Once I regain my family's trust by bringing you into the fold, then I'll have done my part and my previous failure will be forgiven. Others of my family have left of their own accord, but on the off chance that you aren't permitted and instead find it necessary to escape someone's guard... As long it's not my watch you're escaping, and it's the first offence of whoever's watch you slip, I can't imagine there will be further consequences for anyone involved.
[ Except, of course, for Dean if he's caught again, but that goes without saying. If Castiel plans it right, which he hopes that Dean would let him, for both their sake's, then there shouldn't be killing necessary on either side. ]
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Dean reaches for the tray, pulling it into his lap, poking at the potatoes but not eating just yet. ]
You caught me, right? And you didn't die in the process. [ because of me remains left unsaid. ] So I don't get why they're so bent out of shape over you.
[ He takes a small bite of chicken, hoping it's not full of roofies, but even if it was, he can't bring himself to care anymore. ]
And -- I thought you were hell bent on me being here. It sure sounds like you're willing to help me out. [ Generally speaking, and, you know. Out out.
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This isn't how I expected you to be treated.
[ He's mentioned it before, apologized already, but he doesn't mind repeating it as many times as it takes for Dean to believe. Castiel looks around the room, frowning at the chain drilled into the stone wall and similar hooks in place at other points. A cellar for storage, he'd believed. How many other times has Naomi or someone like her "stored" prisoners here? And Castiel, born here, raised here all his life, had no idea. ]
No one should be treated this way.
[ What Castiel can actually do about it, though, is another problem. He lets his legs unfold and leans back further against the wall with his hands crossed loosely in his lap, relaxing a bit more now that Dean is drinking and eating, and in some small way being cared for, at last. ]
Our community is like a bridge. We support each other, lean on each other. There are rankings, position of responsibility earned by trust. The more you aid the community and help it to thrive, the higher rank you earn. You gain more responsibility, and more people are trusted in your care.
[ It's a lot to explain, but hopefully that bit of backstory will help answer Dean's question now, as Castiel fills in the rest of the blanks. ]
Uriel is a member of my garrison, below me in rank. His life is in my care, and by ordering his aid in retrieving you, when I was already injured and you were no longer restrained, I violated his trust, and thus the trust of the community.
[ As if that weren't enough reason for discipline, though, Castiel had taken one more giant leap in the wrong direction. ]
And I ordered him to call an ambulance for me.
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It's trust that has him eating what's brought to him by Castiel, he realizes, which makes him frown down at his food, though he's still listening.
He takes another bite, and another. ]
You were on death's door. Of course you called an ambulance. Why wouldn't you?
[ In the last few days (has it been days? he's losing track of time, he should've started marking them like people do in prison movies), Dean has found himself wishing more and more that he had the family Cas talks about - not this one, cause they're a fucking cult, but his own. His dad who's in prison. His brother in California that he hasn't spoken to in years.
He's found himself wishing that one person would notice he was gone, that one person would call a missing persons report, would freak out when the Impala was discovered laden with bullet holes.
But there isn't anyway. No one will come, no one will call, no one will look for him.
It's a cold bucket of icy water in his veins, and he finds he can't eat anymore, his stomach rolling with nausea. Dean sets the tray aside after only a few bites, and pulls his knees up to his chest. ]
I'm glad you're okay.
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cultfamily together. Castiel knows Dean is estranged from his relatives. That's just one more reason why Castiel had been sure that Dean would accept his offer to join their family. ]We take care of one another. Relying on people who aren't members of the community is... discouraged.
[ Including, yes, police and hospital services. And Dean, which is why he's being made to earn the community's trust, though it was Castiel's understanding that God had already granted it to him. At the expression of relief, Castiel meets Dean's eyes, and it's difficult not to take the words warmly to heart (mostly because it's Dean who's saying them, Castiel realizes, distractedly), but there's nothing there but the desire for survival. Without Castiel, Dean would likely simply starve to death and never manage his mistake. Castiel is a tool in Dean's workshop, and that's fine. Being a tool of God's chosen is all Castiel really wanted out of his life, anyway.
With a glance towards Dean and the discarded tray, he stands and leans over, only just enough to grab the bucket and drag it over. He places it between them, dips his hands in the soapy water, which is steaming lightly, and wrings out a clean washcloth. He looks at Dean expectantly. ]
Hold out your hands.
wrong account herpderp
Unless you plan on letting it rot off as penance.
[ Which he guesses is what they're aiming for, since it's been days, he's filthy, and it's all oozing and gross, much like his arm. Regardless of the plan, it hurts, it's gross, he's gross.
He'd say he smells, but everything in here smells, so it's hard to really say if it's him, personally, or if it's his poo bucket, or something else best not named. ]
You could just let me shower. [ But he holds his hands out anyway with a sigh, because arguing has gotten him nowhere. ]
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[ Yes, Dean is caked in dirt, dried blood, and his own filth, and Castiel could guess that he hadn't been treated beyond the initial bandaging Castiel himself had done, but to hear it confirmed is infuriating. His jaw tenses as he grits his teeth and lets himself focus on what's in front of him: namely, cleaning Dean's hands, to start. ]
I could dump this bucket over your head, if you'd prefer.
[ He'd bring Dean upstairs and give him access to the communal washroom on his floor if he could, but Dean is one of the few people here given less trust than Castiel. Until Castiel finds a way to convince Naomi that Dean, and himself, can be trusted, Dean is restricted to where he is, vile as Castiel finds it to be.
Despite the tension in his body and the frown in his expression, his hands are gentle on Dean's as he rinses away layer upon layer of grime from Dean's fingers, rinses the cloth in the bucket with fresh, hot water and begins again, taking on a slow, meditative sort of rhythm. ]
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God, he hates all these people. ]
You could. Then at least I wouldn't have to hear all your blowharding about God and hypocritical nonsense about how no one should be treated this way, while I sit here collared like a slave.
[ It's tempting to knock Castiel's teeth out, but he doesn't, because it wouldn't do anything except make his situation worse. Besides, it feels really good, and it seems like it's the only semi bath he's going to get, though he's sure he could probably handle this himself. ]
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I'm trying to help you. But my capacity to do so is limited, because you decided to attack and fling shit at the people who brought you food. Would you even have let someone near you if they'd offered to treat your leg?
[ Castiel continues to clean Dean's hands as he argues, wiping away grime and stink as the soapy water grows darker. His strokes remain gentle but they're longer pulls than before, with more pressure, finding more purpose in his distraction. ]
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I didn't fling actual shit. [ Dean counters, a smile tugging at his lips because listening to Mister Holier Than Thou say 'shit' is pretty damn funny. ] I didn't want their food that was probably drugged - [ because let's be real, it probably was, ] I didn't ask to be here, didn't ask to be shot. So, forgive me if I'm kinda mad about it. And you don't have to do what you're doing.
[ Dean doesn't yank his hands away, but he does tip his head and give Castiel a curious look, because it isn't necessary, Cas could easily leave the bucket down here and Dean could just stick his head in drown himself in petty, righteous rage.
...Ah, come to think of it...that's probably why Castiel hasn't left him alone. ]
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He's giving Dean more of a hand massage than properly cleaning him at this point, really. And when Castiel finally realizes it, he forces himself to stop. He rinses the cloth through and looks up at Dean. ]
You're right. I don't have to be here at all.
[ If Dean wanted to kill himself, he certainly could. He was doing a fine enough job before Castiel intervened. But Dean ate what was given. He's allowing his hands to be cleaned without striking out. He's talking. That's signal enough to Castiel that Dean wants to be saved, and Castiel isn't anywhere near to giving up on the man who, for no logical reason, saved him. He holds the cleaned, dripping washcloth out towards Dean. ]
Wash your face.
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His body is a wreck. It's a chiropractor's wet dream or worst nightmare, hard to say.
Dean takes the washcloth from Castiel, grateful but so unwilling to show it because he knows, he knows it's a manipulation technique.
He can't help the little moan as he scrubs at his face, though. Feels amazing. ]
Then why are you? [ Guilt, maybe. ]
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Because you saved me, Dean. You could've left me to die in my car while you escaped, but you helped me instead.
[ Castiel pushes the bucket of water towards Dean for easier access to rinse the quickly darkening cloth he's using to wipe his face. Then he crosses his fingers loosely over his knees again and looks at Dean again with steady appraisal. ]
I'd like to return the favor.
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[ He bites back the I don't need YOUR kind of saving comment, because he's a little concerned if he pushes back too hard, Castiel will eventually say to hell with you, Dean, and walk away, leaving him down here in this pit by himself to die or...something.
The I should've left you stays unsaid, too, as Dean dunks the cloth again to scrub at his filthy neck. ]
I gotta say, Cas, I'm not a fan of your family.
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That's... understandable. You've seen the worst of them.
[ He looks in the direction of the door, thinking of David and the others in his garrison, and of Uriel, and Naomi. Yes, Naomi was strict, especially regarding outsider contact with the community, but he never would've expected this of her... Then again, Castiel didn't know her personally, the way he knew many others. ]
I wish I could introduce you to the family I'm closest to. Balthazar, Rachel, Samandriel... I'm sure that you and Uriel would have gotten along as well, under better circumstances.
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I seriously doubt that. Chuckles doesn't seem like someone that would vibe with me on any level.
[ He tosses the cloth into the bucket and settles back, letting his head rest against the wall, eyes closed. There isn't really a lot to say - Dean has no reason to have any extended conversation with the guy. Like. The bucket was great, he ate a little bit of food, but beyond that Dean's not really in a great mental space.
No one is coming. No one is coming, and it stings.
Dean's gotten himself out of scrapes before, crawled out of barred cells like it was nothing, but this is another ballgame. This is probably where every piece of who he is dies, and it's terrifying. ]
What do you need me to do so I can get the hell out of here?
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Dean is right, though— or almost right. If he were alone, killing everyone might be his only escape. No one is coming for him, and even if one of his wayward family members were to try, they would have no idea where to look, and only a labyrinth of buried clues to follow. He isn't alone, though. No one is coming, because the only one coming for him is already here. ]
I need you to heal, and to stay alive in the best condition you're able to manage. Cooperation with my family would be optimal, but I won't get my hopes up.
[ Castiel tilts his head to look at Dean's lap and what's become of the injury to Dean's leg, but all he can make out is denim blackened with dried blood. ]
How bad are your injuries? Can you still feel your toes on that leg?
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