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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[ He sighs. ]

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. ]

Edited 2021-07-05 01:22 (UTC)

[ That's an obvious lie, and Castiel should be grateful, perhaps, that he's being lied to instead of having the plate thrown at him, but he gives Dean a full-headed eye roll all the same before forcing the cup on Dean again. ]

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. ]

[ He's so goddamn dehydrated he could pass out. The cup is pushed to Dean's lips again and he can't help but drink, weakly lift a hand to cover Cas', dirty and grimy, but he does drink, greedily, while he listens.

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? ]

[ Though Castiel doesn't say anything as Dean drinks, some tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and there's a softening of relief to his expression. A person can go an incredibly long time without food, but without water... not so much. It's a step in the right direction, which is to say, in Dean's life being extended beyond tonight, and the relief Castiel feels may as well be a physical weight lifted from his shoulders.

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. ]

I don't understand how you failed anything. [ Castiel shot him twice, brought him down. It was maybe inelegant, but it certainly got the job done.

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.

[ Of course Dean doesn't understand. He doesn't know anything about how their community operates, and why should he? Though he was chosen by God, it was only a recent decision, apparently. He has all the knowledge of an outsider, still. Castiel sighs with the weight of responsibility, and failure, and how much Dean doesn't understand. At the sound of Dean picking up the tray, though, Castiel looks up. Though he tries to keep his expression unchanged and his eyes up on Dean's, conversational, he's gladdened, and deeply relieved, to see Dean eating anything at all. ]

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.

[ All Dean hears is 'blah blah blah, cult stuff, cult stuff, cult stuff'. He settles the tray in his lap with shaking hands, carefully chewing and swallowing, reaching to take a sip of water to wash it down. He's a little worried his stomach is going to rebel, but it stays calm, for now.

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.

[ It's exactly the kind of fear of isolationism Dean is experiencing that draws this ~~cult~~ family 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.

That's dumb as hell. Sometimes you need a doctor or an ambulance. Like, the one you'll probably need to call when my leg goes septic.

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. ]

I don't. Someone might.

[ 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. ]

Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence. [ It's basically just confirmation that yes, they're going to just let his appendages rot off, because no one has bothered to treat him, and Castiel didn't bring anything to do so, either.

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. ]

[ Dean sasses him, again, and Castiel pauses the motion of his hands to look up and stare at Dean in narrow-eyed disbelief. Of course Dean's anger and frustration are justified, but Castiel is sure he's never met someone so shamelessly irritating. ]

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. ]

[ Dean knows he's being an ornery, cantankerous bastard, but he's so full of rage and anger and frustration, he's having trouble containing himself. It's either draw on the fury or cry, and he will not cry. ]

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. ]

Edited (i keep seeing bad word choices i made slkdjf) 2021-07-06 01:26 (UTC)

[ Castiel doesn't know what he's said that's funny, if either Dean finds it comical that he's used vulgar language or if Dean just enjoys the picture in his head that actual shit-throwing makes, but the sudden quirk of Dean's lips upwards is... nice. He's much more attractive when he's smiling than when he's scowling, Castiel decides, and with that decision, promptly directs his eyes back down to his hands as they rinse Dean's, perhaps a bit more spotlessly clean than they need to be, by this point.

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.

[ Dean won't deny it feels nice. His hands are battered and aching, a lot like the rest of his body. He's been in bar fights, thrown through walls, shot (more times than just Cas' bullets), punched, kicked, nearly run over, jumped out of moving vehicles...

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. ]

[ “Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another,” Castiel could recite. But lauding Dean for his virtues while quoting passages about kindness and forgiveness would only get him berated for hypocrisy again, so Castiel keeps his reasoning less divine. ]

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.

I see.

[ 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.

[ Acknowledgement is a good enough answer for Castiel, although he was expecting more of an argument. He squints at Dean as if he could read his thoughts, only to be distracted away from his failed attempt at mind-reading by the comment about his family. Castiel sighs through the words. ]

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.

[ God, he'd kill for a shower. Mow through all these nutjobs, actually - with little to no regret. ]

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?

[ Literally killing people for the privilege of a shower isn't the way to salvation, in Castiel's opinion. But then Dean is also apparently the one chosen by God, so what the fuck does he know.

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?

[ Neither of them know a goddamn thing, because God's 'chosen' is sitting in filthy jeans and a jail cell. ]

I'll cooperate with them if you can help me get out. [ Is that win/win? He's not sure, probably not. It's no secret Dean wants to be here, but at this point, after days and days locked in solitude, his only company someone throwing food at him for fear he'll attack...

He's ready to comply at least on some level. ]

Toes? I no longer have toes. They're gone, left to rot. [ He peers at his foot, because he's trying to joke and laugh but yeah his leg hurts, it's probably not pretty, and Castiel was right - Dean probably wouldn't have let anyone in, anyway. ]

[ The offer of compliance is more than Castiel is expecting from Dean, and he looks at Dean with a confused mix of appreciation and concern. ]

Thank you. ...I will.

[ The joke either goes completely over Castiel's head, or else he's just incredibly good at deadpan humor, because there's no lift in his tone of voice or quirk to his lips to indicate that he's anything that entirely serious as he diagnoses Dean. ]

Then we'll have to amputate, I'm afraid. I'll go get the bone saw.

[ He stands, also, as if he intends to do just that, though of course he doesn't. If Dean's leg actually is bad enough that his toes have gone necrotic, that might be as good an excuse to get him out of here as any. No matter how valuable he is to Michael or anyone else, surely they wouldn't deny him proper medical attention beyond their own capabilities to treat. ]

[ It's probably the fever talking, because Dean's head is hot and he's a little sweaty, but it's fine, he's been brushing it off the whole time Cas has been down here, acting like the good little angel he is. ]

Whoa, whoa. You better be kidding, dude. [ Cause, you know -- Cas is standing, and while Dean probably needs medical attention, the guy has been literally literal ever since they met, so Dean is grasping his wrist, wrapping dirty fingers around his skin, hold tight and hot. ]

Don't -- actually do that.

[ The flush of warmth Castiel feels from Dean's sudden tight grip on his wrist isn't just due to the fever he can feel racing through Dean's skin. With the shiver passes, Castiel looks away, recognizing with guilt for the first time that he's put himself into a position, not only of authority, but as a caregiver, with Dean, and that it would be very easy to abuse that power. He gently pulls his hand out of Dean's grip, expression and voice going softer with a stiffness that might come across as forced, or poorly learned. What are people skills? Looking back, that joke was probably inappropriate, and Castiel's tone is as close to abashed as he can make it. ]

Dean... I wasn't actually going to get a saw, though I would like to get you antibiotics, along with some clean clothing, if that's okay.

[ After a moment, though, Castiel's forced embarrassment gives way to more natural concern again as he feels forced to ask, for clarity's sake. ]

You can feel your toes, right? I thought we were both joking, before.

[ Cas might take his wrist away from Dean's grip, but that doesn't stop him from wrapping his fingers into the material of Castiel's pant leg, because yeah he was joking, but also things are hot, and when injuries are hot, it usually isn't great. ]

Oh, you're allowed antibiotics, but not doctors?

[ Dean looks up at Castiel, triumphant like he's found some giant chink in the armor, ha, need a doctor for antibiotics, dontcha, but something in his expression twitches a little, and his grip tightens. ]

I don't feel good.

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wrong account herpderp

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