[Fic] Retribution (PG-13) for yellowhorde
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Retribution
Author: kadiel_krieger
Recipient: yellowhorde
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language.
Spoilers: Vague ones for aired episodes of Season 5
Summary: There are a handful of people that will go toe-to-toe with a supernatural nasty for Dean. Castiel just happens to be one of them.
Author notes: Hopefully this works for you. I tried to offer up several different flavors of Castiel.
In retrospect, they probably should have stuck together. It's a thought Dean's had before, countless times. Most of those times have cropped up when he's lying somewhere hard and cold with his head cracked mostly open. He shivers and rolls onto his side, rock sliding slick under his ruined palms, and as darkness swirls up to claim him, he thinks maybe he should find a better way to be predictable.
At least he'll be unconscious when they start to pull him apart.
Small favors.
***
The next thought he remembers having is something along the lines of, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, son of a bitch," which might be because Sam's just bumped over a pothole the size of the Grand Canyon with his girl or because he's stretched across the back seat bleeding out with nothing but a scratchy wool blanket to hold his guts in. Either way, Dean's not in the mood for the searching look Sam swings over the back seat at him, and he grunts, "Eyes on the road," before he passes out again.
***
The second time he wakes, he's thankfully stationary and, if the familiar pattern of rust stains crawling across the ceiling are anything to go by, back at the motel. He can hear Sam talking in hushed tones with someone, but the words are rough enough or panicked enough he can't really tell what his brother's saying. While he may not be the same brand of brainiac as Sam, Dean knows enough about head injuries to want to stay awake - he just can't seem to make it happen, can't seem to do much of anything but hurt and sleep. Headlights sweep across the ceiling in a bright, broad arc and he watches them blur down to pinpricks as his eyelids drift closed against his will.
***
Castiel is there the next time, clammy hands against fevered skin, and jumbled phrases of long dead languages, with eyes only for Dean - Dean's pain, Dean's guilt, Dean's suffering - and the unspoken wishes there to take it all away. That hurts more than the mangled remains of his guts, to have Castiel look at him with such open fear and pity. It's not what he signed on for, and if his mouth weren't gummed shut by epic cottonmouth and the throbbing ache in his jaw, Dean's sure he'd share that sentiment with anyone who'd listen. Then Cas moves away and the long gash in his stomach sears back to startling Technicolor and he can't see beyond the red or hear beyond the rustle of Castiel's trench coat and his careful words to Sam, "He needs care I can't give him."
***
Sanford and Son greets him, the last time - muted shapes moving on the tiny television in the corner. There's a tube in his nose, another in his arm, and when the light clicks on overhead, Dean squints against it and the halo of violently red hair that hovers into view. The face that slides into focus after seems warm and open, friendly without being overly so, and he thinks that while it may be the perfect kind of face for a nurse to have, there are other faces he'd rather be seeing. He swallows hard and when he tries to clear his throat it sounds like there are fucking dead cockroaches rattling around inside. Red's right there with a brown plastic cup, metallic-tasting water, and a bendy straw. Dean drinks, not because he's thirsty, but because it seems like has to in order to speak. When he's downed a couple decent sized gulps, she gives him a satisfied smile like he's been a good dog and Dean does his best not to be an asshole when he finally makes his mouth work well enough to ask.
"Brother?" he croaks out, and damned if it doesn't still sound like he's spent the last year six feet under which, okay, he did spend part of it there but that's beside the point.
"He went home about an hour ago, said he'd be back first thing in the morning," she says and dims the lights again, "Get some rest, Henry."
A minute after he watches the curtain sway closed behind her, Dean hears the sound of a television coming off mute a few yards down the hall. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd pull the monitors and make a run for it, but the stitches across his stomach are that kind of itchy hot that means there's either an infection coming on or one being staved off by the antibiotics being pumped into his arm. As much as Dean hates hospitals and all the trappings, he'll wait to find out from the pros on the dayshift just which one it is.
At least he's alone, the bed next to him neatly made, no cluster of machines beeping, no poor stiff moaning his way through pneumonia or whatever typically landed normal people in the hospital. Unfortunately alone means quiet, and after having been immobile for who knows how long, the last thing Dean wants or needs is more rest. What he needs is to crack some harpy skull, give them something to write home about and tell their harpy buddies not to mess with Dean Winchester because he's the biggest badass in the Western Hemisphere and absolutely did not get his guts spilled on his shoes by a set of harpy talons the size of fucking steak knives. That would make the rhythmic pounding inside his skull disappear, really it would.
Up in the corner, Redd Foxx is faking his way through another heart attack when Dean almost has one of his own. One minute the chair beside his bed sits empty, and in the next he's playing host to one seriously pissed off angel with feathers in his hair and three slowly closing slashes decorating the right side of his face from cheekbone to jaw. It's a little terrifying, what with the painkillers moving through his system dulling his reactions, the fact he has no fucking clue where any of his weapons might be. Not to mention Cas can be pretty fucking scary when he's pissed off and means it. Not that Dean would know anything about that. At all.
"Dean," Castiel says, his voice hard and heavy, almost serrated.
"Yeah?"
"You're awake."
Dean watches Castiel's wounds draw in on themselves, entranced. He's never had any delusions about the angel being "other" or "alien", that's one of those unavoidable truths that would smack anyone who spent more than five minutes in a room with the guy right in the face. But never before has he been confronted so simply and completely by that otherness in such a quietly unavoidable way - Castiel healing himself as Dean lays broken.
"For whatever good that does, yeah, I'm awake."
Castiel only looks at him, eyes wide, head tilted.
"So, you gonna share with the class? Or are the feathers not something we talk about now?"
"I felt it necessary to seek retribution," Castiel says simply, matter-of-fact, like there was never a question otherwise - as if it were easy as taking out the garbage or going grocery shopping.
Never mind the fact that angels aren't really in the vengeance business. Except that they are, sort of, in a general smite-happy way where evil bastards end up with the short end of the stick. Still, he's gotten his ass handed to him more completely than this a time or two and Castiel never felt the need to step in.
Maybe Cas is starting to feel as helpless as he does.
It makes Dean's head ache. But when Castiel frowns and combs his fingers awkwardly through his hair he only manages to tangle the feathers in further instead of shaking them loose. It's ridiculous and so completely Castiel that Dean has to laugh, but it fucking hurts so he stops.
"C'mere featherbrain," Dean says, even though he can't believe he's about to groom a bonafide Angel of the Lord like a damn monkey. There's no one around to see, so as far as he's concerned this is between him and Castiel and the wall. Besides, he's doing them all a favor, the only thing that could possibly make Cas look more absurd than his typical get up is if they let him wander around with shit stuck in his hair.
Castiel stands and covers the three-foot stretch of green linoleum between him and the bed instead of just scooting his chair closer like a normal person, and wouldn't it be just Dean's luck that he got the only brain-damaged angel in the garrison to look after him. Whatever. He'll keep Castiel, social ineptitude and all, the dude gave up heaven for him - has to count for something.
"Yes, Dean?" Castiel asks, and if the scary badass weren't gone before, he's certainly lost now in the quiet need to please, to comfort, to protect Dean and do whatever he wishes. Which is terrifying in completely new and different ways - that a creature as glorious and powerful as Castiel would choose to center his entire world around something, someone so completely fucked up makes Dean a little sick to his stomach. Not enough to send him away, because Dean's base and selfish and he needs Cas' help now more than ever. Even after seeing the shell that the other Castiel became because of that other Dean, he can't bring himself to let Cas go. Right now, strapped to a hospital bed and juiced up on drugs, is probably the worst time to contemplate why. Inaction tends to make him jitter and brood.
"Bend down so I can reach, Cas."
Castiel does bend, like he has hinges in his hips - stiff and strangely graceful at the same time. His nose ends up about an inch away from Dean's, his breath puffing out in soft flutters over Dean's lips, that clean, heady scent that follows him around in a cloud crawling up Dean's nostrils and making him even more stupid and giddy than the painkillers. This close, Dean can't even see the feathers to pick them free, but he can see Castiel, the terror and frustration of his waning power, the loss, the worry, but most of all the faith. Faith in something greater, something better, and even if Dean's not hopping on the God train anytime soon or ever, once in awhile and for a second or two, Castiel can make him believe that there's more than just this.
Dean doesn't think before he does it, and tomorrow he'll blame the cocktail they've been pumping through his veins for making him bold and delusional, but even now, he knows better. He knows he means it, even if he doesn't know why.
Castiel's lips are dry when he leans up to catch them, and if he'd been expecting the angel to flip out or step back or flit away, when he pulls back, Dean would be sorely disappointed.
Luckily, for both of them, he wasn't expecting anything. Or unluckily, Dean's not sure which, because he's also pretty sure that he's the only one that feels uncomfortable now. Since, you know, Castiel has all that confusion to fall back on and is even now trying to figure out what strange human custom the gesture was indicative of so that he can formulate an appropriate response. Dean can hear the gears turning, even if Castiel is too close for him to actually see.
Dean brings a hand up, the one not taped up to a tube, and pushes Castiel back out of his personal space just enough that he can do what he intended to in the first place - pluck the feathers from the tangle of his hair. He holds the last one out to Castiel like an offering and says, "Thanks."
Castiel tilts his head again, the fingers of one hand tracing the outline of his lips as his brow furrows tight, and when he reaches with his other hand to take the feather from Dean their eyes meet for a split second that stretches on forever. It's weird and so not what he needs right now with his intestines held together by string and his head a puffy aching mess, but fuck if it doesn't warm him from the inside - that maybe Cas gets it, just a little.
A smile quirks at the corner of Castiel's lips as he tucks the feather into the front pocket of his coat and smoothes the lapel flat over it, like it's something precious.
"No Dean, thank you," Castiel says, cryptic as ever, and then vanishes in a rush of wind.
Fucking angels.
Title: Retribution
Author: kadiel_krieger
Recipient: yellowhorde
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language.
Spoilers: Vague ones for aired episodes of Season 5
Summary: There are a handful of people that will go toe-to-toe with a supernatural nasty for Dean. Castiel just happens to be one of them.
Author notes: Hopefully this works for you. I tried to offer up several different flavors of Castiel.
In retrospect, they probably should have stuck together. It's a thought Dean's had before, countless times. Most of those times have cropped up when he's lying somewhere hard and cold with his head cracked mostly open. He shivers and rolls onto his side, rock sliding slick under his ruined palms, and as darkness swirls up to claim him, he thinks maybe he should find a better way to be predictable.
At least he'll be unconscious when they start to pull him apart.
Small favors.
***
The next thought he remembers having is something along the lines of, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, son of a bitch," which might be because Sam's just bumped over a pothole the size of the Grand Canyon with his girl or because he's stretched across the back seat bleeding out with nothing but a scratchy wool blanket to hold his guts in. Either way, Dean's not in the mood for the searching look Sam swings over the back seat at him, and he grunts, "Eyes on the road," before he passes out again.
***
The second time he wakes, he's thankfully stationary and, if the familiar pattern of rust stains crawling across the ceiling are anything to go by, back at the motel. He can hear Sam talking in hushed tones with someone, but the words are rough enough or panicked enough he can't really tell what his brother's saying. While he may not be the same brand of brainiac as Sam, Dean knows enough about head injuries to want to stay awake - he just can't seem to make it happen, can't seem to do much of anything but hurt and sleep. Headlights sweep across the ceiling in a bright, broad arc and he watches them blur down to pinpricks as his eyelids drift closed against his will.
***
Castiel is there the next time, clammy hands against fevered skin, and jumbled phrases of long dead languages, with eyes only for Dean - Dean's pain, Dean's guilt, Dean's suffering - and the unspoken wishes there to take it all away. That hurts more than the mangled remains of his guts, to have Castiel look at him with such open fear and pity. It's not what he signed on for, and if his mouth weren't gummed shut by epic cottonmouth and the throbbing ache in his jaw, Dean's sure he'd share that sentiment with anyone who'd listen. Then Cas moves away and the long gash in his stomach sears back to startling Technicolor and he can't see beyond the red or hear beyond the rustle of Castiel's trench coat and his careful words to Sam, "He needs care I can't give him."
***
Sanford and Son greets him, the last time - muted shapes moving on the tiny television in the corner. There's a tube in his nose, another in his arm, and when the light clicks on overhead, Dean squints against it and the halo of violently red hair that hovers into view. The face that slides into focus after seems warm and open, friendly without being overly so, and he thinks that while it may be the perfect kind of face for a nurse to have, there are other faces he'd rather be seeing. He swallows hard and when he tries to clear his throat it sounds like there are fucking dead cockroaches rattling around inside. Red's right there with a brown plastic cup, metallic-tasting water, and a bendy straw. Dean drinks, not because he's thirsty, but because it seems like has to in order to speak. When he's downed a couple decent sized gulps, she gives him a satisfied smile like he's been a good dog and Dean does his best not to be an asshole when he finally makes his mouth work well enough to ask.
"Brother?" he croaks out, and damned if it doesn't still sound like he's spent the last year six feet under which, okay, he did spend part of it there but that's beside the point.
"He went home about an hour ago, said he'd be back first thing in the morning," she says and dims the lights again, "Get some rest, Henry."
A minute after he watches the curtain sway closed behind her, Dean hears the sound of a television coming off mute a few yards down the hall. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd pull the monitors and make a run for it, but the stitches across his stomach are that kind of itchy hot that means there's either an infection coming on or one being staved off by the antibiotics being pumped into his arm. As much as Dean hates hospitals and all the trappings, he'll wait to find out from the pros on the dayshift just which one it is.
At least he's alone, the bed next to him neatly made, no cluster of machines beeping, no poor stiff moaning his way through pneumonia or whatever typically landed normal people in the hospital. Unfortunately alone means quiet, and after having been immobile for who knows how long, the last thing Dean wants or needs is more rest. What he needs is to crack some harpy skull, give them something to write home about and tell their harpy buddies not to mess with Dean Winchester because he's the biggest badass in the Western Hemisphere and absolutely did not get his guts spilled on his shoes by a set of harpy talons the size of fucking steak knives. That would make the rhythmic pounding inside his skull disappear, really it would.
Up in the corner, Redd Foxx is faking his way through another heart attack when Dean almost has one of his own. One minute the chair beside his bed sits empty, and in the next he's playing host to one seriously pissed off angel with feathers in his hair and three slowly closing slashes decorating the right side of his face from cheekbone to jaw. It's a little terrifying, what with the painkillers moving through his system dulling his reactions, the fact he has no fucking clue where any of his weapons might be. Not to mention Cas can be pretty fucking scary when he's pissed off and means it. Not that Dean would know anything about that. At all.
"Dean," Castiel says, his voice hard and heavy, almost serrated.
"Yeah?"
"You're awake."
Dean watches Castiel's wounds draw in on themselves, entranced. He's never had any delusions about the angel being "other" or "alien", that's one of those unavoidable truths that would smack anyone who spent more than five minutes in a room with the guy right in the face. But never before has he been confronted so simply and completely by that otherness in such a quietly unavoidable way - Castiel healing himself as Dean lays broken.
"For whatever good that does, yeah, I'm awake."
Castiel only looks at him, eyes wide, head tilted.
"So, you gonna share with the class? Or are the feathers not something we talk about now?"
"I felt it necessary to seek retribution," Castiel says simply, matter-of-fact, like there was never a question otherwise - as if it were easy as taking out the garbage or going grocery shopping.
Never mind the fact that angels aren't really in the vengeance business. Except that they are, sort of, in a general smite-happy way where evil bastards end up with the short end of the stick. Still, he's gotten his ass handed to him more completely than this a time or two and Castiel never felt the need to step in.
Maybe Cas is starting to feel as helpless as he does.
It makes Dean's head ache. But when Castiel frowns and combs his fingers awkwardly through his hair he only manages to tangle the feathers in further instead of shaking them loose. It's ridiculous and so completely Castiel that Dean has to laugh, but it fucking hurts so he stops.
"C'mere featherbrain," Dean says, even though he can't believe he's about to groom a bonafide Angel of the Lord like a damn monkey. There's no one around to see, so as far as he's concerned this is between him and Castiel and the wall. Besides, he's doing them all a favor, the only thing that could possibly make Cas look more absurd than his typical get up is if they let him wander around with shit stuck in his hair.
Castiel stands and covers the three-foot stretch of green linoleum between him and the bed instead of just scooting his chair closer like a normal person, and wouldn't it be just Dean's luck that he got the only brain-damaged angel in the garrison to look after him. Whatever. He'll keep Castiel, social ineptitude and all, the dude gave up heaven for him - has to count for something.
"Yes, Dean?" Castiel asks, and if the scary badass weren't gone before, he's certainly lost now in the quiet need to please, to comfort, to protect Dean and do whatever he wishes. Which is terrifying in completely new and different ways - that a creature as glorious and powerful as Castiel would choose to center his entire world around something, someone so completely fucked up makes Dean a little sick to his stomach. Not enough to send him away, because Dean's base and selfish and he needs Cas' help now more than ever. Even after seeing the shell that the other Castiel became because of that other Dean, he can't bring himself to let Cas go. Right now, strapped to a hospital bed and juiced up on drugs, is probably the worst time to contemplate why. Inaction tends to make him jitter and brood.
"Bend down so I can reach, Cas."
Castiel does bend, like he has hinges in his hips - stiff and strangely graceful at the same time. His nose ends up about an inch away from Dean's, his breath puffing out in soft flutters over Dean's lips, that clean, heady scent that follows him around in a cloud crawling up Dean's nostrils and making him even more stupid and giddy than the painkillers. This close, Dean can't even see the feathers to pick them free, but he can see Castiel, the terror and frustration of his waning power, the loss, the worry, but most of all the faith. Faith in something greater, something better, and even if Dean's not hopping on the God train anytime soon or ever, once in awhile and for a second or two, Castiel can make him believe that there's more than just this.
Dean doesn't think before he does it, and tomorrow he'll blame the cocktail they've been pumping through his veins for making him bold and delusional, but even now, he knows better. He knows he means it, even if he doesn't know why.
Castiel's lips are dry when he leans up to catch them, and if he'd been expecting the angel to flip out or step back or flit away, when he pulls back, Dean would be sorely disappointed.
Luckily, for both of them, he wasn't expecting anything. Or unluckily, Dean's not sure which, because he's also pretty sure that he's the only one that feels uncomfortable now. Since, you know, Castiel has all that confusion to fall back on and is even now trying to figure out what strange human custom the gesture was indicative of so that he can formulate an appropriate response. Dean can hear the gears turning, even if Castiel is too close for him to actually see.
Dean brings a hand up, the one not taped up to a tube, and pushes Castiel back out of his personal space just enough that he can do what he intended to in the first place - pluck the feathers from the tangle of his hair. He holds the last one out to Castiel like an offering and says, "Thanks."
Castiel tilts his head again, the fingers of one hand tracing the outline of his lips as his brow furrows tight, and when he reaches with his other hand to take the feather from Dean their eyes meet for a split second that stretches on forever. It's weird and so not what he needs right now with his intestines held together by string and his head a puffy aching mess, but fuck if it doesn't warm him from the inside - that maybe Cas gets it, just a little.
A smile quirks at the corner of Castiel's lips as he tucks the feather into the front pocket of his coat and smoothes the lapel flat over it, like it's something precious.
"No Dean, thank you," Castiel says, cryptic as ever, and then vanishes in a rush of wind.
Fucking angels.