SPN FIC: Wanted
TITLE: Wanted
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: Dean/Cas (implied, barely)
WORD COUNT: about 1300
DISCLAIMER: Well, they're still not mine which continues to be a great pity.
RATING: PG13 for language and unpleasant situations
A/N: Written for this prompt over at SPN kink meme. I'm not happy with the title, but it's the only thing I could think of in that everybody wants Castiel in this fic, and not in a good way.
There are various ways to incapacitate an Angel. Naturally, this knowledge is not something that Heaven advertises. Angels are celestial soldiers, the children, messengers and warriors of God. It would not do to have them brought down by those who would use this knowledge to harm them and interfere with the will of their Father.
Castiel wishes his Father was there now. He can’t move, and he isn’t sure how these humans accomplished it. They haven’t hurt him - yet - but he feels so cold and alone, so vulnerable. They have stripped him, but covered him with a thick blanket after laying him out on the table. The restraints buckled around his ankles and wrists are, he supposes, insurance. There is a taint to them, so he knows they bear sigils to further inhibit his movement.
Strangely, it is the older man who is the kindest. He is the one who covered Castiel. He pets Castiel’s hair, tries to force water down him and dabs at his face with a cloth when the liquid spills out from between his lips. “You have to understand why we’re doing this. We can’t just stand back and watch - if there’s a chance we can stop the Apocalypse, we have to take it. They - he promised if we delivered you to him, they’d call it off. Or at the very least, protect us and our families. I have three grandchildren. Please. Please understand.”
Castiel does. This is why he turned his back on his own family. This is why he sided with the Winchesters, with Bobby, and by default with every single living soul on the face of the Earth. So he is technically on the same side as these people and yet they have left him broken and helpless. To be traded like a bargaining chip. To who, he wonders. Zachariah and Michael? He can’t imagine he is so important to them, except in removing the last angelic help available to the struggling Winchesters.
Lucifer, perhaps. Since Carthage he has felt the Fallen One casting about for him. He can’t burn the protective symbols into Jimmy’s ribs the way he did for Sam and Dean, but there are other ways to hide himself from his brother. Ironic, perhaps, that since with every day his Grace diminishes, he also has to try less. It becomes easier for him to hide among the humans since he is coming closer to joining their ranks.
He isn’t sure which of them would grant him the most, or least, mercy. He doesn’t want to find out.
If he had speech, he would try to persuade this man to release him. He would not beg. Or perhaps he would. He remembers what Zachariah and the others did to him when his disobedience saw him dragged back to Heaven. He remembers hands pinning him, Zachariah cupping his face and swearing this was all for his own good. He remembers begging then, pleading with Michael to make them stop, not just hurting him. To stop all of it.
Michael had simply turned and walked away, and Castiel remembers his own screams of frustration and then pain.
By contrast, his treatment at Lucifer’s hands seems mild, until the flaring pain of the Harvelles’ demise reawakens and he thinks Heaven was kinder to him after all.
The old man sighs, and leaves. Castiel tries to protest but his vessel has made him a prisoner. He would rather the old man was here than leave him alone. He already doesn’t know how long he has been here, but surely it is long enough that the Winchesters realise he is missing.
By now, they will have begun to search for him, but Castiel is unsure how easy these people will be to track. He cannot remember where he was before he was here.
Perhaps the search has already been undertaken and long abandoned.
Then he feels it - a burst of recognition deep inside. He hears gunfire. Someone screams, and it is so very close by.
The instinctual flinch when a face appears above him is only prevented by the deadened form he occupies. Dean pats his cheek, angry and desperate, and starts undoing the restraints. Castiel can hear a voice, nearby. Sam. He is demanding to know what ‘you gave him. What was it?’. He focuses too deeply on Dean to know if Sam receives a reply.
Dean pulls Castiel into a sitting position. He locks arms around him, and Castiel wishes he could return the embrace.
“We got you,” Dean whispers to him. “Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry. But we got you now. Bobby’s waiting outside with the truck. We’re gonna get you home and we’ll fix this.”
Castiel wishes he could tell Dean he knows, but speech is still beyond him. He can only endure as Sam lifts him easily and carries him out to the truck.
They cannot be too far from Bobby’s home, Castiel thinks, for all the time it takes to arrive there. But then his perception of time is skewed. He is not sure of how long he has been separated from his friends, except that it is too long.
Sam carries him to the panic room, and sets him down. The blanket the others used is torn away from him by Dean, as though it were cursed. It is replaced by another, and it smells of Sam for he was the last person to use this room. The scent is warm and familiar and it brings some comfort.
Sam goes back upstairs and Dean sits on the floor next to the bed and tells him that every single one of the bastards who did this is dead or wishes they were.
Castiel thinks of the old man and wonders if there is hope for any of them.
Eventually, Dean sleeps. Sam comes downstairs, and stares at them for a moment. He takes another blanket from a shelf on the wall and stretches Dean out on the floor. He drapes the blanket over him, and then takes Dean’s place at Castiel side.
His hand is huge around Castiel’s, and his voice is low. He tells Castiel that Bobby believes within the next day this should wear off. He tells Cas that it was a combination of an Earth flower called Belladonna, and demon blood, and some obscure ritual. His other hand touches Castiel’s shoulder, and Cas remembers the sudden surge of agony when something sharp struck him there.
He remembers falling, and the fear at being unsure what was happening to him.
He doesn’t realise he is shaking until Sam has pulled him into an embrace, one he still can’t return, but Sam’s words are hopeful. “That’s a good sign,” he says.
Castiel hopes he is right.
The day moves slowly. Sensation returns gradually to his limbs, and when Bobby comes down in the chairlift to take a turn at sitting with him, and gruffly squeezes his hand, Castiel is able to return the grip. Bobby snorts a little, but Castiel doesn’t miss the relief on his face.
A while after that, he is able to move enough to pull the blanket up a little further since it is cold in the room.
Before much longer, he can even sit up, and with some help from Dean take the water offered to him. A little of it still dribbles down his chin, and Dean catches it with a napkin.
“Do not,” Dean says, his voice hard but shaking, “ever go checking stuff like that out on your own again. I will kick your ass.”
He still can’t speak, but he settles for resting his forehead against Dean’s and hoping Dean knows part of him never wants to go anywhere on his own again.
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRING: Dean/Cas (implied, barely)
WORD COUNT: about 1300
DISCLAIMER: Well, they're still not mine which continues to be a great pity.
RATING: PG13 for language and unpleasant situations
A/N: Written for this prompt over at SPN kink meme. I'm not happy with the title, but it's the only thing I could think of in that everybody wants Castiel in this fic, and not in a good way.
There are various ways to incapacitate an Angel. Naturally, this knowledge is not something that Heaven advertises. Angels are celestial soldiers, the children, messengers and warriors of God. It would not do to have them brought down by those who would use this knowledge to harm them and interfere with the will of their Father.
Castiel wishes his Father was there now. He can’t move, and he isn’t sure how these humans accomplished it. They haven’t hurt him - yet - but he feels so cold and alone, so vulnerable. They have stripped him, but covered him with a thick blanket after laying him out on the table. The restraints buckled around his ankles and wrists are, he supposes, insurance. There is a taint to them, so he knows they bear sigils to further inhibit his movement.
Strangely, it is the older man who is the kindest. He is the one who covered Castiel. He pets Castiel’s hair, tries to force water down him and dabs at his face with a cloth when the liquid spills out from between his lips. “You have to understand why we’re doing this. We can’t just stand back and watch - if there’s a chance we can stop the Apocalypse, we have to take it. They - he promised if we delivered you to him, they’d call it off. Or at the very least, protect us and our families. I have three grandchildren. Please. Please understand.”
Castiel does. This is why he turned his back on his own family. This is why he sided with the Winchesters, with Bobby, and by default with every single living soul on the face of the Earth. So he is technically on the same side as these people and yet they have left him broken and helpless. To be traded like a bargaining chip. To who, he wonders. Zachariah and Michael? He can’t imagine he is so important to them, except in removing the last angelic help available to the struggling Winchesters.
Lucifer, perhaps. Since Carthage he has felt the Fallen One casting about for him. He can’t burn the protective symbols into Jimmy’s ribs the way he did for Sam and Dean, but there are other ways to hide himself from his brother. Ironic, perhaps, that since with every day his Grace diminishes, he also has to try less. It becomes easier for him to hide among the humans since he is coming closer to joining their ranks.
He isn’t sure which of them would grant him the most, or least, mercy. He doesn’t want to find out.
If he had speech, he would try to persuade this man to release him. He would not beg. Or perhaps he would. He remembers what Zachariah and the others did to him when his disobedience saw him dragged back to Heaven. He remembers hands pinning him, Zachariah cupping his face and swearing this was all for his own good. He remembers begging then, pleading with Michael to make them stop, not just hurting him. To stop all of it.
Michael had simply turned and walked away, and Castiel remembers his own screams of frustration and then pain.
By contrast, his treatment at Lucifer’s hands seems mild, until the flaring pain of the Harvelles’ demise reawakens and he thinks Heaven was kinder to him after all.
The old man sighs, and leaves. Castiel tries to protest but his vessel has made him a prisoner. He would rather the old man was here than leave him alone. He already doesn’t know how long he has been here, but surely it is long enough that the Winchesters realise he is missing.
By now, they will have begun to search for him, but Castiel is unsure how easy these people will be to track. He cannot remember where he was before he was here.
Perhaps the search has already been undertaken and long abandoned.
Then he feels it - a burst of recognition deep inside. He hears gunfire. Someone screams, and it is so very close by.
The instinctual flinch when a face appears above him is only prevented by the deadened form he occupies. Dean pats his cheek, angry and desperate, and starts undoing the restraints. Castiel can hear a voice, nearby. Sam. He is demanding to know what ‘you gave him. What was it?’. He focuses too deeply on Dean to know if Sam receives a reply.
Dean pulls Castiel into a sitting position. He locks arms around him, and Castiel wishes he could return the embrace.
“We got you,” Dean whispers to him. “Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry. But we got you now. Bobby’s waiting outside with the truck. We’re gonna get you home and we’ll fix this.”
Castiel wishes he could tell Dean he knows, but speech is still beyond him. He can only endure as Sam lifts him easily and carries him out to the truck.
They cannot be too far from Bobby’s home, Castiel thinks, for all the time it takes to arrive there. But then his perception of time is skewed. He is not sure of how long he has been separated from his friends, except that it is too long.
Sam carries him to the panic room, and sets him down. The blanket the others used is torn away from him by Dean, as though it were cursed. It is replaced by another, and it smells of Sam for he was the last person to use this room. The scent is warm and familiar and it brings some comfort.
Sam goes back upstairs and Dean sits on the floor next to the bed and tells him that every single one of the bastards who did this is dead or wishes they were.
Castiel thinks of the old man and wonders if there is hope for any of them.
Eventually, Dean sleeps. Sam comes downstairs, and stares at them for a moment. He takes another blanket from a shelf on the wall and stretches Dean out on the floor. He drapes the blanket over him, and then takes Dean’s place at Castiel side.
His hand is huge around Castiel’s, and his voice is low. He tells Castiel that Bobby believes within the next day this should wear off. He tells Cas that it was a combination of an Earth flower called Belladonna, and demon blood, and some obscure ritual. His other hand touches Castiel’s shoulder, and Cas remembers the sudden surge of agony when something sharp struck him there.
He remembers falling, and the fear at being unsure what was happening to him.
He doesn’t realise he is shaking until Sam has pulled him into an embrace, one he still can’t return, but Sam’s words are hopeful. “That’s a good sign,” he says.
Castiel hopes he is right.
The day moves slowly. Sensation returns gradually to his limbs, and when Bobby comes down in the chairlift to take a turn at sitting with him, and gruffly squeezes his hand, Castiel is able to return the grip. Bobby snorts a little, but Castiel doesn’t miss the relief on his face.
A while after that, he is able to move enough to pull the blanket up a little further since it is cold in the room.
Before much longer, he can even sit up, and with some help from Dean take the water offered to him. A little of it still dribbles down his chin, and Dean catches it with a napkin.
“Do not,” Dean says, his voice hard but shaking, “ever go checking stuff like that out on your own again. I will kick your ass.”
He still can’t speak, but he settles for resting his forehead against Dean’s and hoping Dean knows part of him never wants to go anywhere on his own again.