Fic: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty {2}
Title: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty Ch.2 ( Ch.1)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 3,069
Castiel's chest hurts. Well, all of him hurts, but the gaping wound is by far his biggest fear right now. With each staggered, jerky step the three of them take he is jolted and the pain reminds him of how much blood he is losing. Distantly he thinks he might be feeling faint, a darkness lingering at the back of his eyes and slowly creeping forward. He stumbles. The two hard bodies pressed to his side drag him along. Suddenly they stop, and Father Novak can hear the opening of a car door before he is bundled into the back seat, someone clambering in beside him and squashing his legs. The car rocks from side to side as the door is shut behind them. Castiel can feel leather under his hands and worries that he is staining it with the blood that it still pouring from the bite on his chest. The car growls to life beneath him, and quickly throws him back as it speeds off. All three of them are panting. Castiel can feel something shaped like the barrel of a gun resting against his knee.
“Are...Are you okay?” The man sitting on his legs asks, and the vicar recognises him as the one who dragged him out of there. He opened his eyes into little slits, seeing beneath him the leather he could feel, lit up by the lights of Chicago. He turns his head towards his rescuer, dizzy, and he guesses that this is what shock feels like.
“My...” Castiel gestures to his chest, where the wound has blackened his coat and run blood over everything. He looks at the bleary picture of the man before him, a giant in size with a strong brow bone and large sideburns, his hair long and swept back. Their eyes fell to the gaping hole, and widened in surprise.
“Shit...Dean, he's been badly hurt.” The huge man said to the one who was driving, and turned in his seat, trying to give Castiel space to move. His eyes dart all over the injury, and then up his neck and to his jaw.
Legs freed slightly, Castiel tugs them away and slumps against the seat. He feels a headache coming on, the lights flashing through the car windows bringing with them a stab of pain. He winces and touches his forehead, groaning. The huge man, in the meantime, crowds close and tugs back Castiel's over coat and jacket. His breathing is incredibly loud, as if in the holy man's ear rather than his shoulder.
“I'm going to rip your shirt open, okay?” He asked, and it sounded like he was shouting. This was one hell of a headache. Castiel groaned again and nodded.
“Headache.” He said through gritted teeth which seemed silly now that he thought about it, in relation to the wound on his chest, and hissed as the man carefully picked his shirt away from the bite. The car pulled into a shady car park, black and almost empty. There was the shriek of tearing fabric and Castiel snarled as pain shivered through the close bite. Then the giant man stilled. His frowning face became surprised, and then concerned, and finally worried.
The driver, Dean, twisted in his seat and looked back at the two of them. “What is it?” He asked, and then looked at the flesh revealed through the huge rip in Castiel's shirt. Hie took on a stony expression, something cold settling over his stubbled face and lowering his brow over green eyes. Castiel panicked, and craned his neck to look at the bite wound. He gasped loudly at what he saw.
The flesh of the wound moved before his eyes, writhing and growing and replacing. Now half its original size, the skin reappeared fresh and pink at the edges of the hole. He scrambled backwards, pressing himself into the seat, trying to get away from his own skin.
“Dean,” The giant man said, hands still fisted in the vicar's shirt. “He's been-”
“I know, Sam. I can see for myself.” Dean snapped loudly, and looked at Castiel suspiciously, who gulped. He could hear his heartbeat loud in his ears. Actually...he could hear more than that. He could hear...everything.
“What's happening?” He asked, scared, because this wasn't possible. Wounds don't heal themselves like that, you can't pick up visual details in the dark like that, your ears can't hear everything like that, and your nose can't smell everything like that. Then again, dead bodies couldn't reanimate and attack you with sharp teeth until a few minutes ago.
“Dead man's blood?” Sam asked, neither of the men answering Castiel's question.
Dean nodded once, and Sam withdrew a syringe from nowhere and stabbed it into Castiel's neck, injecting something into him. Father Novak became weak and unaware, everything fading out and becoming fuzzy, his mind unable to concentrate on any one thing as his hands weakly groped at Sam's tense wrist.
*
When the weakness faded and Castiel's mind began to process everything again, he noticed a few things. One, those lights were murder, two, he was tied to a chair, and three, there was a man in a wheelchair with a revolver in his hand watching him intently. He took the safety off with a menacing click. At that moment Father Novak wondered if his day could get any worse.
“You fed yet?” The man asked, his voice low and a bit gruff.
“Fed?” Castiel asked, expecting his throat to be hoarse from screaming but being somewhat pleasantly surprised, if confused, to find it not hurting at all.
“Listen boy, there ain't no time to be playin' stupid. Dean and Sam are plannin' on riskin' their necks and retrievin' that kid who bit ya if you can be cured, so don't be beatin' around the bush. Have you fed yet?” The man said, his eyes narrowing under bushy greying eyebrows, and his lips thinning surrounded by a trimmed salt and pepper beard.
“I don't understand, one moment I was-” Castiel began.
“Have you fed?” The man asked again, interrupting him. Castiel looked at the gun, still facing him.
“I had dinner at the conference.” He said, and hoped that answered the question he was being asked.
There was a long, pregnant pause. Then the man put the safety back on and put the gun down. “You don't know what just happened, do you? You ain't worked it out.” He said, and folded his hands over his rounding beer belly.
“I was attacked.” Castiel said, uncertain.
“Yeah, by a vampire.” The man said, and Castiel wanted to laugh at that, but the tone was so serious, so definite, and all of a sudden things began to make sickening sense. His disbelief must have read on his face. “Don't look so shocked, they're more common than you'd think. Now, have you fed?”
“N-no. No, I haven't.” Castiel said, and swallowed dryly.
The man took a long look at him and then nodded. “The boys'll be back soon. They needed to get some emergency supplies.”
There was another brief silence, and Castiel's mind was whirring. Okay, so vampires existed. Okay. Wonderful. Brilliant. And he had been attacked by one, and turned into one. Hooray. Yip-di-doo. Oh, and he was tied up in a chair by what seemed to be a small group of vampire hunters, because of course they exist, because how else would the vampires not be...well...everywhere? He was going to die, wasn't he? Or was he already dead? Dear God, this can't be real. Surely he must have fallen asleep and this was some incredibly vivid dreams. This must be some sign, some test. Some good must come from it...surely. Every cloud, after all...
“So I'm a vampire?” Castiel blurted, and then snapped his mouth tightly shut.
“Yep. Looks like you swallowed some vamp juice.” The man replied, and took off his cap to scratch at his head before replacing it. Well fuck, if you would pardon his french.
“Oh...” And there were the tears. Castiel was imbued by a sudden sense of doom. His life was gone. He was gone. He was a monster, or so it seemed. A monster who fed on blood, who resided in a hovel and tempted innocent passers-by in for dinner. How would he survive? Would the hunters kill him? Oh, and he can never go back to his faith. Even looking at a crucifix will having him hissing, burning. He'll never be able to go out and fly a kite in the sun again. He'll never...he'll never be human.
That thought wedged itself in his chest. He hung his head and looked down at his lap, arms tied behind the chair awkwardly.
The warmth was sapped from his being.
It was only a few minutes before Sam and Dean returned, a couple of bags full of God knows what in their arms. They set them down on a coffee table, Sam turning to Castiel and not offering him a smile or frown. Dean looked expectantly at the man.
“So, Bobby, what've you got?” He asked, and Castiel was happy to finally know everyone's name, even if he hadn't been formally introduced yet. Do you even introduce vampires to people?
“He's curable. Not a drop 'o human blood in 'im. But Dean, you said that nest was packed.” Bobby said, and picked up a tumbler of whiskey from the table beside him, knocking some back.
Dean gave Castiel a long look out of the corner of his eye.
“We can't just throw him back to them, Dean.” Sam said as he stepped closer to them all, and Castiel so far was growing fondest of Sam, seeing as he was the one who kept on giving him help.
“Damn straight we couldn't give him to them, that would mean more of the sunovabitches to kill.” Dean said in a rather cold tone, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. C'mon Sammy, let's go.” Dean said, and turned towards the door, pulling his car keys from his pocket and spinning them once around his index finger with a jangle.
“Wait, uh...” Sam looked at Castiel expectantly, and it wasn't for a few moments that he remembered they didn't know his name yet.
“Father Castiel Novak.” Castiel told him, as if saying the 'Father' at the beginning would magically cure him of his vamprism.
“Uh, Father, the one who turned you. The one who sired you, do you know who they were?” Sam asked, his expression sympathetic and gentle, a contrast to Dean and Bobby's hard approach.
“Thomas.” He said, and then realised that that wouldn't really be enough to go on. “The boy attacking me. I think he was killed, and I got a mouthful of his uh...of his blood.” And that was enough to make him feel green around the gills.
“Little black boy, crazy-ass eyes, wiry little body and vampy little heart?” Dean said, as if he couldn't go on Castiel's description.
“Yes.” He said, and nodded once to doubly affirm, even though he wouldn't describe the boy like that himself.
“Yeah I ganked him. Hopefully they haven't done anything with the body yet.” Dean said, and pursed his lips before shrugging heavily. “Let's go get us some vampire blood.” He and Sam traipsed out of the door. A few moments later Castiel heard a car starting up, and he gingerly investigated his teeth with his tongue, finding them mercifully flat and plain. Mercifully omnivorous. Then he sneaked his tongue around the front of his teeth and up towards the gum, wincing and feeling sick when there was a cold gap there, and the smallest hint of pricking teeth. As he withdrew his tongue into it's resting position Bobby eyed him with a hint of boredom.
“You're a priest then?” He asked.
“Yes, a vicar.” Castiel said. “However I doubt that I will be able to return to my profession now. A mere crucifix will send me toppling to the ground. I am...an abomination, now.” He gave a bitter and painful smile. Bobby scoffed.
“I swear, them idjits at Hollywood always put those ideas in people's heads. A crucifix won't do jack squat to a vampire. Though, 'm gonna be honest with ya', most people stop believin' in God when they encounter vampires.” He wheeled himself over to the bags that Sam and Dean left on the coffee table, routing around in them in a rustle of paper before pulling out a beer.
“Why?” Castiel asked.
“Think about it - these creatures have been created, they walk around, they kill innocent people. Even God-fearing people like you. Most people don't believe that God would let such a thing happen.”
Castiel blinked and swallowed, because yeah, that would explain why some people gave up their faith after encountering these things. He looked at his knees, the fabric of his trousers grimy and dusty there. He could hear Bobby's heartbeat from across the room.
“We're gonna have to cure you as soon as possible. The hunger will no doubt be gettin' to you soon.” With a bang the cap of the beer flew off the bottle and skidded across the floor, hit against the side of the table.
“Hunger?”
“For blood.” Bobby explained briefly, drowning any other words in a glug of beer. And yes, of course blood. Castiel shivered, his nostrils flaring wide. Beneath everything he could smell clearly the blood of Bobby sitting in his chair metres away. He bit the inside of his cheek with blunt molars, the flap of flesh caused by his braces rubbing over his gum. “Of course,” Bobby started, and then cleared his throat, “we're gonna have to move you to my place. We don't have the ingredients needed here.”
“R-right.” Castiel said, and suddenly he didn't think he'd be able to go a car drive without attacking one of them. “How will we transport me?”
“Boot?” Bobby said with a non-committal shrug. “We'd have to move the weapons, but I'm sure we could do it.”
Fantastic.
It was then that something...strange happened. Castiel took in a large lungful of breath and felt like he was being plunged underwater, coldness seeping through all of him, the room around him suddenly not being there any more. He looked into the dark eyes of a short man, pale, with short black hair and thin lips, a dark suit. 'There's been an attack on one of our Chicago nests.' A voice said, a heavy British accent and weariness coating the tone, yet the man's lips didn't move but to purse in irritation. 'The Winchesters are expected to be involved. I expect you to help.' The man raised an eyebrow. 'Any in the area. I expect that should be about fifty of you, if you move quickly. Go.'
In an instant Castiel was back in the motel room, the bright artificial light blinding him, the smell of blood and beer and oil and detergent in the air and the sound of Bobby's beer clanking against the metal arm of his wheelchair loud in the room. It took a moment before things sunk in.
“Something just happened.” He said, and looked towards Bobby who had been eyeing him from across the room.
“The hunger kickin' in?”
“No, I uh...I saw someone.” Understanding flashed over Bobby's face and he relaxed slightly in his chair.
“What did they look like?” He asked, and Castiel hoped that he was being helpful.
“Uh, black hair, dark suit. Dark eyes-” He began, trying to find the words to aptly describe who he had seen.
“Smarmy lookin'?” Bobby cut over.
“I don't know, he was sending fifty of us to a Chicago nest.” Castiel said, and panic jumped in Bobby's eyes.
“What else did he say?” He asked quickly, and started to wheel himself back over to the side table where the gun was placed.
“That there could be something to do with Winchesters and um...um...I think that's it.”
Bobby had a cell phone in his hand and was scrolling quickly through his contacts. He hissed a vile curse under his breath, followed by a snarled, “Crowley.”
“Sam, Crowley's sending fifty of 'em your way. God knows why.” Bobby all but yelled into the phone when his call was picked up. There was a moment of silence where Bobby's eyes flicked back and forth over the room and listened. “No, get the boy and get out. We have to move, and fast.” He hung up, and turned his head to address Castiel. “We don't have time to do anything to the trunk, we'll have to dose you up on dead man's blood for the car journey until it's safe.” He wheeled himself backwards and towards a suitcase, from which he pulled a jar of thick, red liquid and a syringe.
“Dead man's blood?” Castiel echoed, and eyed the jar with fear, because he was sure that had been what Sam and plunged into his neck not that long ago.
“Yep.” Bobby was wheeling closer. “Now you bite me and I'll kill you, boy.” He said, and opened the jar, pulling out a sizeable dose of blood, fixing on the needle, testing the syringe for bubbles and then putting the jar aside so he could come closer to Castiel's neck. The smell of his blood grew thicker in Castiel's nose, overwhelming and heady. With a click his teeth speared out from their hiding place. He shut his jaw as best as he could and held his breath, screwing up his eyes and waiting for the prick of a needle.
He could smell and hear and sense as Bobby neared, and wondered for a moment if he could really resist the temptation of all that blood travelling just beneath a few layers of skin, thick and red and tasting of iron, and then the needle was in, he flinched, the blood was pushed into his system, and he was drained of all strength.
This one is actually about 2 chapters rather than the one I had planned, and boring as fuck. Hooray, brilliant first impressions.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 3,069
Castiel's chest hurts. Well, all of him hurts, but the gaping wound is by far his biggest fear right now. With each staggered, jerky step the three of them take he is jolted and the pain reminds him of how much blood he is losing. Distantly he thinks he might be feeling faint, a darkness lingering at the back of his eyes and slowly creeping forward. He stumbles. The two hard bodies pressed to his side drag him along. Suddenly they stop, and Father Novak can hear the opening of a car door before he is bundled into the back seat, someone clambering in beside him and squashing his legs. The car rocks from side to side as the door is shut behind them. Castiel can feel leather under his hands and worries that he is staining it with the blood that it still pouring from the bite on his chest. The car growls to life beneath him, and quickly throws him back as it speeds off. All three of them are panting. Castiel can feel something shaped like the barrel of a gun resting against his knee.
“Are...Are you okay?” The man sitting on his legs asks, and the vicar recognises him as the one who dragged him out of there. He opened his eyes into little slits, seeing beneath him the leather he could feel, lit up by the lights of Chicago. He turns his head towards his rescuer, dizzy, and he guesses that this is what shock feels like.
“My...” Castiel gestures to his chest, where the wound has blackened his coat and run blood over everything. He looks at the bleary picture of the man before him, a giant in size with a strong brow bone and large sideburns, his hair long and swept back. Their eyes fell to the gaping hole, and widened in surprise.
“Shit...Dean, he's been badly hurt.” The huge man said to the one who was driving, and turned in his seat, trying to give Castiel space to move. His eyes dart all over the injury, and then up his neck and to his jaw.
Legs freed slightly, Castiel tugs them away and slumps against the seat. He feels a headache coming on, the lights flashing through the car windows bringing with them a stab of pain. He winces and touches his forehead, groaning. The huge man, in the meantime, crowds close and tugs back Castiel's over coat and jacket. His breathing is incredibly loud, as if in the holy man's ear rather than his shoulder.
“I'm going to rip your shirt open, okay?” He asked, and it sounded like he was shouting. This was one hell of a headache. Castiel groaned again and nodded.
“Headache.” He said through gritted teeth which seemed silly now that he thought about it, in relation to the wound on his chest, and hissed as the man carefully picked his shirt away from the bite. The car pulled into a shady car park, black and almost empty. There was the shriek of tearing fabric and Castiel snarled as pain shivered through the close bite. Then the giant man stilled. His frowning face became surprised, and then concerned, and finally worried.
The driver, Dean, twisted in his seat and looked back at the two of them. “What is it?” He asked, and then looked at the flesh revealed through the huge rip in Castiel's shirt. Hie took on a stony expression, something cold settling over his stubbled face and lowering his brow over green eyes. Castiel panicked, and craned his neck to look at the bite wound. He gasped loudly at what he saw.
The flesh of the wound moved before his eyes, writhing and growing and replacing. Now half its original size, the skin reappeared fresh and pink at the edges of the hole. He scrambled backwards, pressing himself into the seat, trying to get away from his own skin.
“Dean,” The giant man said, hands still fisted in the vicar's shirt. “He's been-”
“I know, Sam. I can see for myself.” Dean snapped loudly, and looked at Castiel suspiciously, who gulped. He could hear his heartbeat loud in his ears. Actually...he could hear more than that. He could hear...everything.
“What's happening?” He asked, scared, because this wasn't possible. Wounds don't heal themselves like that, you can't pick up visual details in the dark like that, your ears can't hear everything like that, and your nose can't smell everything like that. Then again, dead bodies couldn't reanimate and attack you with sharp teeth until a few minutes ago.
“Dead man's blood?” Sam asked, neither of the men answering Castiel's question.
Dean nodded once, and Sam withdrew a syringe from nowhere and stabbed it into Castiel's neck, injecting something into him. Father Novak became weak and unaware, everything fading out and becoming fuzzy, his mind unable to concentrate on any one thing as his hands weakly groped at Sam's tense wrist.
*
When the weakness faded and Castiel's mind began to process everything again, he noticed a few things. One, those lights were murder, two, he was tied to a chair, and three, there was a man in a wheelchair with a revolver in his hand watching him intently. He took the safety off with a menacing click. At that moment Father Novak wondered if his day could get any worse.
“You fed yet?” The man asked, his voice low and a bit gruff.
“Fed?” Castiel asked, expecting his throat to be hoarse from screaming but being somewhat pleasantly surprised, if confused, to find it not hurting at all.
“Listen boy, there ain't no time to be playin' stupid. Dean and Sam are plannin' on riskin' their necks and retrievin' that kid who bit ya if you can be cured, so don't be beatin' around the bush. Have you fed yet?” The man said, his eyes narrowing under bushy greying eyebrows, and his lips thinning surrounded by a trimmed salt and pepper beard.
“I don't understand, one moment I was-” Castiel began.
“Have you fed?” The man asked again, interrupting him. Castiel looked at the gun, still facing him.
“I had dinner at the conference.” He said, and hoped that answered the question he was being asked.
There was a long, pregnant pause. Then the man put the safety back on and put the gun down. “You don't know what just happened, do you? You ain't worked it out.” He said, and folded his hands over his rounding beer belly.
“I was attacked.” Castiel said, uncertain.
“Yeah, by a vampire.” The man said, and Castiel wanted to laugh at that, but the tone was so serious, so definite, and all of a sudden things began to make sickening sense. His disbelief must have read on his face. “Don't look so shocked, they're more common than you'd think. Now, have you fed?”
“N-no. No, I haven't.” Castiel said, and swallowed dryly.
The man took a long look at him and then nodded. “The boys'll be back soon. They needed to get some emergency supplies.”
There was another brief silence, and Castiel's mind was whirring. Okay, so vampires existed. Okay. Wonderful. Brilliant. And he had been attacked by one, and turned into one. Hooray. Yip-di-doo. Oh, and he was tied up in a chair by what seemed to be a small group of vampire hunters, because of course they exist, because how else would the vampires not be...well...everywhere? He was going to die, wasn't he? Or was he already dead? Dear God, this can't be real. Surely he must have fallen asleep and this was some incredibly vivid dreams. This must be some sign, some test. Some good must come from it...surely. Every cloud, after all...
“So I'm a vampire?” Castiel blurted, and then snapped his mouth tightly shut.
“Yep. Looks like you swallowed some vamp juice.” The man replied, and took off his cap to scratch at his head before replacing it. Well fuck, if you would pardon his french.
“Oh...” And there were the tears. Castiel was imbued by a sudden sense of doom. His life was gone. He was gone. He was a monster, or so it seemed. A monster who fed on blood, who resided in a hovel and tempted innocent passers-by in for dinner. How would he survive? Would the hunters kill him? Oh, and he can never go back to his faith. Even looking at a crucifix will having him hissing, burning. He'll never be able to go out and fly a kite in the sun again. He'll never...he'll never be human.
That thought wedged itself in his chest. He hung his head and looked down at his lap, arms tied behind the chair awkwardly.
The warmth was sapped from his being.
It was only a few minutes before Sam and Dean returned, a couple of bags full of God knows what in their arms. They set them down on a coffee table, Sam turning to Castiel and not offering him a smile or frown. Dean looked expectantly at the man.
“So, Bobby, what've you got?” He asked, and Castiel was happy to finally know everyone's name, even if he hadn't been formally introduced yet. Do you even introduce vampires to people?
“He's curable. Not a drop 'o human blood in 'im. But Dean, you said that nest was packed.” Bobby said, and picked up a tumbler of whiskey from the table beside him, knocking some back.
Dean gave Castiel a long look out of the corner of his eye.
“We can't just throw him back to them, Dean.” Sam said as he stepped closer to them all, and Castiel so far was growing fondest of Sam, seeing as he was the one who kept on giving him help.
“Damn straight we couldn't give him to them, that would mean more of the sunovabitches to kill.” Dean said in a rather cold tone, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. C'mon Sammy, let's go.” Dean said, and turned towards the door, pulling his car keys from his pocket and spinning them once around his index finger with a jangle.
“Wait, uh...” Sam looked at Castiel expectantly, and it wasn't for a few moments that he remembered they didn't know his name yet.
“Father Castiel Novak.” Castiel told him, as if saying the 'Father' at the beginning would magically cure him of his vamprism.
“Uh, Father, the one who turned you. The one who sired you, do you know who they were?” Sam asked, his expression sympathetic and gentle, a contrast to Dean and Bobby's hard approach.
“Thomas.” He said, and then realised that that wouldn't really be enough to go on. “The boy attacking me. I think he was killed, and I got a mouthful of his uh...of his blood.” And that was enough to make him feel green around the gills.
“Little black boy, crazy-ass eyes, wiry little body and vampy little heart?” Dean said, as if he couldn't go on Castiel's description.
“Yes.” He said, and nodded once to doubly affirm, even though he wouldn't describe the boy like that himself.
“Yeah I ganked him. Hopefully they haven't done anything with the body yet.” Dean said, and pursed his lips before shrugging heavily. “Let's go get us some vampire blood.” He and Sam traipsed out of the door. A few moments later Castiel heard a car starting up, and he gingerly investigated his teeth with his tongue, finding them mercifully flat and plain. Mercifully omnivorous. Then he sneaked his tongue around the front of his teeth and up towards the gum, wincing and feeling sick when there was a cold gap there, and the smallest hint of pricking teeth. As he withdrew his tongue into it's resting position Bobby eyed him with a hint of boredom.
“You're a priest then?” He asked.
“Yes, a vicar.” Castiel said. “However I doubt that I will be able to return to my profession now. A mere crucifix will send me toppling to the ground. I am...an abomination, now.” He gave a bitter and painful smile. Bobby scoffed.
“I swear, them idjits at Hollywood always put those ideas in people's heads. A crucifix won't do jack squat to a vampire. Though, 'm gonna be honest with ya', most people stop believin' in God when they encounter vampires.” He wheeled himself over to the bags that Sam and Dean left on the coffee table, routing around in them in a rustle of paper before pulling out a beer.
“Why?” Castiel asked.
“Think about it - these creatures have been created, they walk around, they kill innocent people. Even God-fearing people like you. Most people don't believe that God would let such a thing happen.”
Castiel blinked and swallowed, because yeah, that would explain why some people gave up their faith after encountering these things. He looked at his knees, the fabric of his trousers grimy and dusty there. He could hear Bobby's heartbeat from across the room.
“We're gonna have to cure you as soon as possible. The hunger will no doubt be gettin' to you soon.” With a bang the cap of the beer flew off the bottle and skidded across the floor, hit against the side of the table.
“Hunger?”
“For blood.” Bobby explained briefly, drowning any other words in a glug of beer. And yes, of course blood. Castiel shivered, his nostrils flaring wide. Beneath everything he could smell clearly the blood of Bobby sitting in his chair metres away. He bit the inside of his cheek with blunt molars, the flap of flesh caused by his braces rubbing over his gum. “Of course,” Bobby started, and then cleared his throat, “we're gonna have to move you to my place. We don't have the ingredients needed here.”
“R-right.” Castiel said, and suddenly he didn't think he'd be able to go a car drive without attacking one of them. “How will we transport me?”
“Boot?” Bobby said with a non-committal shrug. “We'd have to move the weapons, but I'm sure we could do it.”
Fantastic.
It was then that something...strange happened. Castiel took in a large lungful of breath and felt like he was being plunged underwater, coldness seeping through all of him, the room around him suddenly not being there any more. He looked into the dark eyes of a short man, pale, with short black hair and thin lips, a dark suit. 'There's been an attack on one of our Chicago nests.' A voice said, a heavy British accent and weariness coating the tone, yet the man's lips didn't move but to purse in irritation. 'The Winchesters are expected to be involved. I expect you to help.' The man raised an eyebrow. 'Any in the area. I expect that should be about fifty of you, if you move quickly. Go.'
In an instant Castiel was back in the motel room, the bright artificial light blinding him, the smell of blood and beer and oil and detergent in the air and the sound of Bobby's beer clanking against the metal arm of his wheelchair loud in the room. It took a moment before things sunk in.
“Something just happened.” He said, and looked towards Bobby who had been eyeing him from across the room.
“The hunger kickin' in?”
“No, I uh...I saw someone.” Understanding flashed over Bobby's face and he relaxed slightly in his chair.
“What did they look like?” He asked, and Castiel hoped that he was being helpful.
“Uh, black hair, dark suit. Dark eyes-” He began, trying to find the words to aptly describe who he had seen.
“Smarmy lookin'?” Bobby cut over.
“I don't know, he was sending fifty of us to a Chicago nest.” Castiel said, and panic jumped in Bobby's eyes.
“What else did he say?” He asked quickly, and started to wheel himself back over to the side table where the gun was placed.
“That there could be something to do with Winchesters and um...um...I think that's it.”
Bobby had a cell phone in his hand and was scrolling quickly through his contacts. He hissed a vile curse under his breath, followed by a snarled, “Crowley.”
“Sam, Crowley's sending fifty of 'em your way. God knows why.” Bobby all but yelled into the phone when his call was picked up. There was a moment of silence where Bobby's eyes flicked back and forth over the room and listened. “No, get the boy and get out. We have to move, and fast.” He hung up, and turned his head to address Castiel. “We don't have time to do anything to the trunk, we'll have to dose you up on dead man's blood for the car journey until it's safe.” He wheeled himself backwards and towards a suitcase, from which he pulled a jar of thick, red liquid and a syringe.
“Dead man's blood?” Castiel echoed, and eyed the jar with fear, because he was sure that had been what Sam and plunged into his neck not that long ago.
“Yep.” Bobby was wheeling closer. “Now you bite me and I'll kill you, boy.” He said, and opened the jar, pulling out a sizeable dose of blood, fixing on the needle, testing the syringe for bubbles and then putting the jar aside so he could come closer to Castiel's neck. The smell of his blood grew thicker in Castiel's nose, overwhelming and heady. With a click his teeth speared out from their hiding place. He shut his jaw as best as he could and held his breath, screwing up his eyes and waiting for the prick of a needle.
He could smell and hear and sense as Bobby neared, and wondered for a moment if he could really resist the temptation of all that blood travelling just beneath a few layers of skin, thick and red and tasting of iron, and then the needle was in, he flinched, the blood was pushed into his system, and he was drained of all strength.
This one is actually about 2 chapters rather than the one I had planned, and boring as fuck. Hooray, brilliant first impressions.