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. ]
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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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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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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No, of course we're allowed doctors.
[ Sister Muriel has been the community's doctor since their brother Harut left, and that's immediately what Castiel thinks of, rather than his explanation of the community's distaste for hospitals before. Everyone is taught basic first aid, as well, to help their fellow members of the community, and Dean should've been cared for by someone better than this, even despite his resistance.
Castiel's thoughts are interrupted, however, as Dean grabs onto his pant leg and looks up at him, somehow more ill in appearance suddenly than in the moments before. Castiel hunches down towards Dean and he presses his palm against Dean's warm forehead instinctively. ]
I'll bring you whatever you need.
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[ His conviction is lacking, mostly because he feels like shit and he's not letting go of that pant leg, because it's solid and he's been down here so damn long without any real human interaction he's reluctant to let Cas leave again.
Dean gropes for his wrist again with his spare hand, gripping, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. ]
Don't...don't go.
[ It would be really, really easy for Castiel to manipulate Dean at this point. Cas is the one that brought him food. That came to him, that washed his hands and offered water to drink and wipe his face, that offers to treat his wounds. It isn't Dean's fault if he's getting a little attached. ]
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Of course, from Dean's perspective, everyone in Castiel's family is creepy in some respect. Dean has made that clear. Even Castiel himself he'd called "brainwashed" and a "blowhard about God," which makes it all the more striking when Dean grabs for his hand, and leans into him, and asks him not to leave. Castiel flushes warm, despite himself. His heart hammers loudly in his chest, and he's momentarily struck speechless. He should go, for many reasons. Mainly, he should go because Dean needs real medical treatment, and clean clothing, and fresh water. But Dean asks him to stay, and it's so very different from the Dean that Castiel has come to know in their brief time together that he can't find the strength to deny Dean's request. ]
Of course. I'll stay as long as you'd like.
[ Stiffly, awkwardly, Castiel leans down and sits against the wall beside Dean again, shoulder to shoulder, and though he takes his hand from Dean's forehead in the process, he slips his palm against Dean's wrist on the way down, and twines their fingers, and looks at the far wall, after, with their hands still linked down between them, hidden from the door by the rise of his knee as some kind of privacy for Dean, in case someone were to walk in unannounced, which Castiel isn't expecting, though it isn't entirely out of the question, he supposes. He's also entirely expecting Dean to pull his hand away, or maybe make some attempt to kill him, but Castiel feels obligated to try to comfort Dean, all the same, however poor he may be at it.
After he remembers to breathe, still awkwardly, Castiel tilts his head and raises his voice in an attempt at levity. ]
I'd rather not pee in the bucket, though.
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And Dean's thoughts, when left alone without booze or sex or any number of questionable distractions, are dangerous.
He's tired, afraid, desperate for his freedom, and the longer he's left down here like a chained dog the more he's inclined to behave to see how far it gets him. Throwing his food certainly hasn't gotten him anywhere - compliance seems to be the only option left. Trying to remember himself is getting hard though, especially with the fever clouding his brain. He feels like shit.
Dean clutches Castiel's hand, shifting his head to look over at him, eyes a little glassy as he manages a smirk. ]
Sorry, man. Only toilet in the area.
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[ It's an unfortunate circumstance Dean has found himself in, even beyond the, uh, toilet situation. Even more unfortunate is that everything Castiel can do to help ease Dean's situation involves leaving the room, which Dean seems reluctant to allow. Castiel can't blame him. After all, Dean has been almost entirely alone in the literal dark with no human contact for days already. Eventually Castiel will have to leave, to help Dean in more literal ways, but for now, he settles himself with helping in a less tangible way.
The clutch of Dean's hand in his and even the glassy look to his dark eyes has Castiel's heart beating shamefully quickly, and he tells himself it's nothing personal, that it's just human contact and the satisfaction that comes with helping someone, but even to himself, the words feel like a lie. Castiel looks at the far wall and tries to not imagine Dean's smirk there, but the press of their shoulders and their linked fingers is a constant reminder. Castiel's voice is rough, the way it gets when he speaks quietly, as the dark seems to necessitate. ]
Maybe if they keep refusing to give me the key to your collar, they'll let me take you out on a leash.
[ That came out wrong. Or rather, it came out exactly as intended, but the wrongness seeps in after, along with the poor reception to his earlier joke, so Castiel feels the need to look at Dean, a bit sheepishly, and clarify. ]
I'm kidding. We don't... walk people around on leashes.
[ Why is he the way that he. Dean would really be having a much better conversation with Uriel, if he were here instead. ]
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[ Because Dean would choose a big ol cabin. Something overlooking water, maybe. A home with a deck, those big wind up umbrellas to help with the shade, maybe some twinkle lights. A long dock, maybe a fishing boat. He's been daydreaming about it, so he doesn't go fucking apeshit down here alone in the dark.
Maybe he's already losing his mind, because he's sitting here holding Cas' hand, afraid to let him go, looking over at him like he's Jesus or something.
He sure does have nice lips. Big and plush and pillowy.
Did Jesus have nice lips? Hm. Something else to ponder in his delusion, maybe. He probably did, he would've been middle eastern, so why wouldn't he? Beard too, maybe.
He's torn from his sexualization of Jesus by the prospect of being walked like a dog, and he snorts a laugh, rolling his head to look at Cas proper, before letting it fall to rest on his shoulder. He's so tired, shivery in his skin, hot and cold. ]
I bet you do. I'll bet you anything if you asked that exact question, they'd let you. If it got me outta here, I'd let you.
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I'm... You won't have to do anything like that, Dean. You'll walk out of here on your own terms, once you're strong enough again to walk, and think, clearly.
[ Castiel turns his face, irresistibly towards Dean's, rested on his shoulder, and talks quietly nearly against his hair. ]
You feel warm.
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