From the Top of the First Page
Title: From The Top Of The First Page
Rating: PG
Words: 635
Spoilers: s4e1
Summary: Castiel meets Dean for the first time, and is somewhat surprised by the level of violence that ensues.
The room - what is it, some kind of shed? - is lit by the dying, jerky flashes of the electric bulbs whose currents are disrupted by Castiel’s presence, alternating between a shadowy confusion and a harsh, sparking light which throws into sharp relief the vast array of symbols covering the walls. The Righteous Man and his companion, an older man wearing a strange hat, have protected themselves against daevas, spirits, demons, with their paint that fills the air with an sour acrylic smell, and a large amount of research into ancient lore of which, Castiel estimates, at least seven-tenths must have been accurate. He supposes that is impressive by their standards.
They have nothing to protect themselves against angels. They were not expecting him.
Castiel is vaguely aware of bullets flying at his vessel, small stings of lead and momentum. They are not of consequence; he disregards them. Dean Winchester glares at him with narrowed eyes darkened by anger and apprehension and curls his finger around the trigger of his gun with a rhythm and reflex which, Castiel thinks, must come from extensive practice. This accords satisfyingly with his knowledge of the man: a hunter, a soldier, a man who needs only Heaven’s guidance to ascend to the ranks of their warriors, and perhaps also to stop shooting at them.
When he is closer to Dean he pauses to take in the Righteous Man fully, in the physical world to which Castiel returned him, for the first time. There is an unexpected hatred in his face, which he makes no attempt to hide. It confuses Castiel for a moment, but then he recalls that the man has spent his life in the destruction of that which he does not understand, and to him Castiel is just another supernatural threat. He will have to learn to break that habit.
Dean moves in a tight curve around Castiel, every muscle in his body tensed, poised to fight, and says, ‘Who are you?’ His voice is low and angry.
‘I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,’ Castiel informs him. His vessel’s voice is deep and smooth; he can feel it resonating in his human throat, such a strange sensation. He will have to get used to that.
‘Yeah?’ Dean says, unrestrained fury seething in his tone. It seems unreasonable. ‘Thanks for that.’
Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement, at which point the Righteous Man wheels forward with a long, serrated knife, and drives it into Castiel’s chest.
Why would he bother? is what Castiel thinks first, and immediately afterward, Why is he still so eager to kill me? After what I have done for him? It is stupid to be offended by the emotions of humans, irrational and immature as they are, but Castiel had been anticipating some gratitude. Perhaps some respect. They both seem conspicuous in their absence.
He can feel an unfamiliar sensation screaming in his chest; Castiel thinks it is what his vessel would perceive as pain. He ignores it, stands his ground and holds Dean’s eyes, which widen with shock as Dean draws back from Castiel, and his gaze drops, aghast, to the handle of the knife.
Castiel pulls it out of his vessel’s chest - a demon blade. Really, why? - and drops it to the floor; Dean’s eyes flick desperately to one side and Castiel raises a hand to catch the iron bar as Dean’s companion swings it towards his head. His human strength is fairly pitiful; Castiel reaches two fingers to the man’s forehead, sends out a gentle pulse of his Grace, and the man collapses to the concrete floor.
Castiel returns his attention to the Righteous Man, who is staring open-mouthed at his unconscious comrade. 'We need to talk, Dean,' he says evenly. 'Alone.'
Rating: PG
Words: 635
Spoilers: s4e1
Summary: Castiel meets Dean for the first time, and is somewhat surprised by the level of violence that ensues.
The room - what is it, some kind of shed? - is lit by the dying, jerky flashes of the electric bulbs whose currents are disrupted by Castiel’s presence, alternating between a shadowy confusion and a harsh, sparking light which throws into sharp relief the vast array of symbols covering the walls. The Righteous Man and his companion, an older man wearing a strange hat, have protected themselves against daevas, spirits, demons, with their paint that fills the air with an sour acrylic smell, and a large amount of research into ancient lore of which, Castiel estimates, at least seven-tenths must have been accurate. He supposes that is impressive by their standards.
They have nothing to protect themselves against angels. They were not expecting him.
Castiel is vaguely aware of bullets flying at his vessel, small stings of lead and momentum. They are not of consequence; he disregards them. Dean Winchester glares at him with narrowed eyes darkened by anger and apprehension and curls his finger around the trigger of his gun with a rhythm and reflex which, Castiel thinks, must come from extensive practice. This accords satisfyingly with his knowledge of the man: a hunter, a soldier, a man who needs only Heaven’s guidance to ascend to the ranks of their warriors, and perhaps also to stop shooting at them.
When he is closer to Dean he pauses to take in the Righteous Man fully, in the physical world to which Castiel returned him, for the first time. There is an unexpected hatred in his face, which he makes no attempt to hide. It confuses Castiel for a moment, but then he recalls that the man has spent his life in the destruction of that which he does not understand, and to him Castiel is just another supernatural threat. He will have to learn to break that habit.
Dean moves in a tight curve around Castiel, every muscle in his body tensed, poised to fight, and says, ‘Who are you?’ His voice is low and angry.
‘I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,’ Castiel informs him. His vessel’s voice is deep and smooth; he can feel it resonating in his human throat, such a strange sensation. He will have to get used to that.
‘Yeah?’ Dean says, unrestrained fury seething in his tone. It seems unreasonable. ‘Thanks for that.’
Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement, at which point the Righteous Man wheels forward with a long, serrated knife, and drives it into Castiel’s chest.
Why would he bother? is what Castiel thinks first, and immediately afterward, Why is he still so eager to kill me? After what I have done for him? It is stupid to be offended by the emotions of humans, irrational and immature as they are, but Castiel had been anticipating some gratitude. Perhaps some respect. They both seem conspicuous in their absence.
He can feel an unfamiliar sensation screaming in his chest; Castiel thinks it is what his vessel would perceive as pain. He ignores it, stands his ground and holds Dean’s eyes, which widen with shock as Dean draws back from Castiel, and his gaze drops, aghast, to the handle of the knife.
Castiel pulls it out of his vessel’s chest - a demon blade. Really, why? - and drops it to the floor; Dean’s eyes flick desperately to one side and Castiel raises a hand to catch the iron bar as Dean’s companion swings it towards his head. His human strength is fairly pitiful; Castiel reaches two fingers to the man’s forehead, sends out a gentle pulse of his Grace, and the man collapses to the concrete floor.
Castiel returns his attention to the Righteous Man, who is staring open-mouthed at his unconscious comrade. 'We need to talk, Dean,' he says evenly. 'Alone.'