House Grimalkin: Chapter 3
Rating: Mature
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: M/M
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Bobby Singer, Additional
Summary: Dean is the child of two Courts, Seelie and UnSeelie, and was hidden at birth because he would have been killed if found. Now the Prince of Cats is sent to find him, defend him against all enemies, and bring him back to the Never Never to end a brutal war that has taken the lives of a great many. Trouble is, Dean is an auto mechanic from a tiny town in South Dakota, has suffered from hallucinations his entire life, and the birthmark talisman that proves his identity was burned off in a house fire that took the lives of his parents. Now the only way to prove that Dean is who Castiel claims him to be is to wake up Dean’s latent magic. That is, if he can convince Dean not to kill him, that Dean is actually sane, and that everything he knows is a little less than half the truth.
Dean spends the entire day digging around in the weathered guts of a rusted ‘55 Chevy Nomad. It’s an interesting automobile, a classic Chevy Bel Air from the front and a hearse behind. He supposes, as his hands scour the remnants of ice-green paint from the shell, that Chevy wanted in to the funeral business, ironically, since the Bel Air itself was such an eponymous drag racing car. Still, the Nomad was a great car-- perfect for road trips when the owner was not hauling around bodies or fretting about the price of gas. Dean let his mind drift as he worked. pointedly ignoring the cat sleeping on his cast-aside jacket on the wooden bench by the shop door.
Castiel had murmured something about how being surrounded by steel gave him a headache, and Dean had murmured back that he was free to leave at any time. To which Castiel had given him an exasperated eyeroll and curled up in a little ball. Every so often, Bobby would come by and pat Castiel on the head, which Dean thought was hilarious.
When Dean finally stands up and stretches, thinking about lunch, Castiel is still asleep, snoring in a very un-catlike manner. His bright white canine teeth jut out of his mouth and his little black nose twitches like he is sniffing something suspicious. Dean sneaks quietly past him, deciding he doesn’t need his jacket to walk a block to the diner and back. He finds Bobby in the front office. “You need anything for lunch, Bobby?” he whispers.
Bobby shakes his head. “No, I’m good.” By which he means, burger with everything but don’t tell Karen. And then, “Why are we whispering?”
Dean nods back at the cat. “Sleeping.”
Bobby gets a strange, familiar, concerned look on his face. “Dean…” he says slowly, quietly. “Why did you bring it to work, anyways?” Dean flushes, confused. He doesn’t know what to say to Bobby. On the one hand, Castiel is living proof that maybe Dean’s hallucinations aren’t actually hallucinations at all. On the other hand, what if they are? What if Castiel is just a cat?
“Yeah, Bobby. It’s not...” He clears his throat. “I’m not… it’s not--” He sighs, trying to muster a grin. “Just don’t let him get out in the street and get run over or something.” His cheeks burn. His mind is reeling with self-doubt and confusion, and his headache has gotten worse, not better. Feeling dizzy, he turns to go, and hopes the walk in the chill November wind will clear his head.
As soon as his boots hit the pavement, he feels better. The turmoil and pain in his head fades a bit in the bright late morning sunshine, and being away from Castiel makes it all a little less concrete. It’s a ten minute walk to Marlin’s on the corner, and Dean waits with a plate of fries while they make two burgers with everything to go, including even more fries. He smiles at Gina behind the lunch counter and she winks at him, their comfortable flirtation the same as always. He fills his lungs with a deep even breath of grease-and-coffee scented normality, and breathes out tension.
The peaceful feeling lasts until, on the way back to Bobby’s, he glimpses the pig on the corner.
Actually, it’s more of a boar, with bristles, tusks, and one ear missing a chunk of skin. That, and the heavy-looking spiked club in its hoof-like hand, makes Dean think it might be of a thuggish inclination. Its companion is vaguely jackal-looking, with a long thin snout and a gold hoop in its left ear. He can see the overlap of human faces, human arms and hands, but they are fainter than he remembers them being. Dean processes all of this while still walking, his steps falling maybe a little faster than before. After all, this is not the first time he has seen odd-looking folks in the midst of a crowd. Until Castiel, none of them had noticed him back.
Castiel must have been the beginning of bad luck, though, because these two are heading towards him with intent. Dean picks up the pace, wondering vaguely if this is what Castiel meant when he said something about ‘protection.’ Too late for regrets, now, and not enough time to make it to safety. He is caught out in the open with a bag of burgers and fries.
The pig reaches him first, and grabs his arm with a grip that belies the fact he only has three fingers. Dean wrenches his arm but can’t break free. He debates crying for help but discards the thought-- even if someone heard, what would they do? ] The pig
-0p-=[drags= him to an alleyway, pulls him into the cold shadow. Dean tugs hard to overbalance him, but the jackal is there, pressing him against the wall. “Hello, princeling,” it sneers.
Dean wavers in confusion-- princeling? Surely two cases of mistaken identity in one day wasn’t coincidence? He masks uncertainty with a sneer. “I don’t do doggy-style, asshole.”
The jackal grins a mouthful of needle teeth and glances at its comrade. Dean uses the distraction without conscious thought and smashes his elbow down on its long canine nose, and is rewarded with a ear-splitting howl. The pig slams a heavy hoof down on his head, and Dean collapses in a flash of white agony.
His legs give out. The gravel on the ground digs painfully into his knees. He hears something like screaming, but he can’t tell where it’s coming from. Vaguely he thinks, concussion by pig. And then, nothing at all.
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: M/M
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Bobby Singer, Additional
Summary: Dean is the child of two Courts, Seelie and UnSeelie, and was hidden at birth because he would have been killed if found. Now the Prince of Cats is sent to find him, defend him against all enemies, and bring him back to the Never Never to end a brutal war that has taken the lives of a great many. Trouble is, Dean is an auto mechanic from a tiny town in South Dakota, has suffered from hallucinations his entire life, and the birthmark talisman that proves his identity was burned off in a house fire that took the lives of his parents. Now the only way to prove that Dean is who Castiel claims him to be is to wake up Dean’s latent magic. That is, if he can convince Dean not to kill him, that Dean is actually sane, and that everything he knows is a little less than half the truth.
Dean spends the entire day digging around in the weathered guts of a rusted ‘55 Chevy Nomad. It’s an interesting automobile, a classic Chevy Bel Air from the front and a hearse behind. He supposes, as his hands scour the remnants of ice-green paint from the shell, that Chevy wanted in to the funeral business, ironically, since the Bel Air itself was such an eponymous drag racing car. Still, the Nomad was a great car-- perfect for road trips when the owner was not hauling around bodies or fretting about the price of gas. Dean let his mind drift as he worked. pointedly ignoring the cat sleeping on his cast-aside jacket on the wooden bench by the shop door.
Castiel had murmured something about how being surrounded by steel gave him a headache, and Dean had murmured back that he was free to leave at any time. To which Castiel had given him an exasperated eyeroll and curled up in a little ball. Every so often, Bobby would come by and pat Castiel on the head, which Dean thought was hilarious.
When Dean finally stands up and stretches, thinking about lunch, Castiel is still asleep, snoring in a very un-catlike manner. His bright white canine teeth jut out of his mouth and his little black nose twitches like he is sniffing something suspicious. Dean sneaks quietly past him, deciding he doesn’t need his jacket to walk a block to the diner and back. He finds Bobby in the front office. “You need anything for lunch, Bobby?” he whispers.
Bobby shakes his head. “No, I’m good.” By which he means, burger with everything but don’t tell Karen. And then, “Why are we whispering?”
Dean nods back at the cat. “Sleeping.”
Bobby gets a strange, familiar, concerned look on his face. “Dean…” he says slowly, quietly. “Why did you bring it to work, anyways?” Dean flushes, confused. He doesn’t know what to say to Bobby. On the one hand, Castiel is living proof that maybe Dean’s hallucinations aren’t actually hallucinations at all. On the other hand, what if they are? What if Castiel is just a cat?
“Yeah, Bobby. It’s not...” He clears his throat. “I’m not… it’s not--” He sighs, trying to muster a grin. “Just don’t let him get out in the street and get run over or something.” His cheeks burn. His mind is reeling with self-doubt and confusion, and his headache has gotten worse, not better. Feeling dizzy, he turns to go, and hopes the walk in the chill November wind will clear his head.
As soon as his boots hit the pavement, he feels better. The turmoil and pain in his head fades a bit in the bright late morning sunshine, and being away from Castiel makes it all a little less concrete. It’s a ten minute walk to Marlin’s on the corner, and Dean waits with a plate of fries while they make two burgers with everything to go, including even more fries. He smiles at Gina behind the lunch counter and she winks at him, their comfortable flirtation the same as always. He fills his lungs with a deep even breath of grease-and-coffee scented normality, and breathes out tension.
The peaceful feeling lasts until, on the way back to Bobby’s, he glimpses the pig on the corner.
Actually, it’s more of a boar, with bristles, tusks, and one ear missing a chunk of skin. That, and the heavy-looking spiked club in its hoof-like hand, makes Dean think it might be of a thuggish inclination. Its companion is vaguely jackal-looking, with a long thin snout and a gold hoop in its left ear. He can see the overlap of human faces, human arms and hands, but they are fainter than he remembers them being. Dean processes all of this while still walking, his steps falling maybe a little faster than before. After all, this is not the first time he has seen odd-looking folks in the midst of a crowd. Until Castiel, none of them had noticed him back.
Castiel must have been the beginning of bad luck, though, because these two are heading towards him with intent. Dean picks up the pace, wondering vaguely if this is what Castiel meant when he said something about ‘protection.’ Too late for regrets, now, and not enough time to make it to safety. He is caught out in the open with a bag of burgers and fries.
The pig reaches him first, and grabs his arm with a grip that belies the fact he only has three fingers. Dean wrenches his arm but can’t break free. He debates crying for help but discards the thought-- even if someone heard, what would they do? ] The pig
-0p-=[drags= him to an alleyway, pulls him into the cold shadow. Dean tugs hard to overbalance him, but the jackal is there, pressing him against the wall. “Hello, princeling,” it sneers.
Dean wavers in confusion-- princeling? Surely two cases of mistaken identity in one day wasn’t coincidence? He masks uncertainty with a sneer. “I don’t do doggy-style, asshole.”
The jackal grins a mouthful of needle teeth and glances at its comrade. Dean uses the distraction without conscious thought and smashes his elbow down on its long canine nose, and is rewarded with a ear-splitting howl. The pig slams a heavy hoof down on his head, and Dean collapses in a flash of white agony.
His legs give out. The gravel on the ground digs painfully into his knees. He hears something like screaming, but he can’t tell where it’s coming from. Vaguely he thinks, concussion by pig. And then, nothing at all.