Frozen Inside Part 4
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Chapter 15: Chapter 15
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Dean is curled up in the corner of the cage, trying to rest in a way that keeps his body warm, and the hard angle of his hips and elbows off of the hard metal. He hasn't found the correct position yet, and he knows that he will not, even if he turns this way and that for the rest of his life.
The men who brought him to this place are gone, and new men are talking outside the canvas that covers his cage. These men are not concerned with him, they throw him bread crusts smeared with mud, earth spattered potato peelings, and the bones of the meat that they eat, more to mock him than to nourish him. Dean eats whatever they give him, cracking the bones and eating their marrow, gnawing the bread and scraps. He needs strength. And strength comes from food, and rest and water. He has water only because of a hole in the canvas, that allows rain into the enclosure. It runs over the top of his cage, running down the bars where he can lick it from the metal. The water tastes of iron.
He still can't sleep, maybe that's why he feels so weak.
Dean wishes he could sense better, that he could change his form, but he can't. So he tries to get what he can with his human ears and nose. Which isn't much. He can smell fire, and cooking, hear men talking, shouting and singing tunelessly. It's night, and he can hear animals outside of the camp, birds and small rustling rabbits. That's it.
There's another kind of sense, one that tells him that he's closer to Sam than he's been in days. Sam is still far, far away, but not as far.
Castiel is closer too.
It takes Dean a while to pinpoint him. He's moving, his mate is getting closer. Dean sits up, cold and weak but suddenly sensing Castiel, close. Very close.
And getting closer by the second.
Castiel is coming for him.
(-*-)
Castiel runs through the woods, his limbs aching more with every step. It feels like his bones are fine crystal, being struck by a silver fork. Humming and singing inside of him. His fingers suddenly snap, and Castiel drops to the ground, crying out in pain. He looks at his hands, finding that his fingers are bent, clawed over and set that way. The claws that come from under his nail beds have pierced through the leather gloves.
Slowly, he gets to his feet, and starts to run again.
Something is happening to him. He is changing, becoming something akin to Dean and Sam. A shape shifter, a heathen demon. He remembers all too well what Dean had gone through to become a man once more, and the thought that such a monstrous thing happening to him makes him feel sick.
Still, like a whip driving him on, there is the knowledge that Dean is somewhere close by. Dean needs him. And he needs Dean. It grows stronger with each footfall, with each twinge of his spine. As if the transformation visiting itself upon him is taking him to Dean. Urgently sending him towards the one that made him this way, towards his mate.
Castiel looks at the path ahead and finds that, to his surprise, he can see each tree distinctly. He can easily see the difference between an elm and a pine tree, the shapes of their leaves are sharp to his eyes. A scuffle in the leaves at his side catches his eye, and Castiel watches a small brown bird pick at the debris of the forest floor.
He sees everything as though it were daylight. A demon's sight, to see as clear under the moon, as with the sun.
Ahead of him, the trees thin and Castiel sees another palisade, noticeably rougher in construction than the one that had guarded New Haven. This one has a large gate in the side, studded with iron, held up with thick ropes and coils of chain. Castiel uses his claws to shred the gloves on his hands, and dispenses with his cloak.
He climbs the palisade with barely a thought, as if some part of his mind is suppressing his own fear at these strange additions to his body. He reaches the top of the construction and leaps easily down onto the wet, muddy slop of the ground inside.
There's a campfire off to the side, surrounded by several man-shaped shadows. Four tents close to them, and a log cabin over to the left. Surrounding Castiel are the skeletons of several carts and wagons, and a hitching post with one horse at it. A small camp, as thieves would set up. Or hired soldiers.
The horse scents Castiel seconds later, and rears up, its eyes white with fear as it screams into the night, its breath white in the cold.
The men at the fire look up, and instantly go for their weapons, shouting to their fellows, six of them, who come running from the tents and the cabin, slithering on the marshy ground. Each man has a rifle and a bandolier with a knife and pistol. Twelve men. Armed, experienced, and with a vested interest in returning his skin to Crowley, or at least, to Crowley's home.
Castiel looks at them, and it's almost as if he has lost all capacity for fear.
The men come closer, and their faces are fearful, half violent, half terrified. He wonders what these past hours have made of him. Whether his hands are all that have changed, or if he is now deformed and twisted. Barely a man.
He tries to speak, for the first time since waking to find his captor dead. But only a low growl escapes him. No words, just that sound, which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
One of the men cocks his rifle.
Castiel lunges.
(-*-)
Dean grasps the bars of his cage and strains to hear anything other than screaming.
The screaming had started moments ago, high, fearful yelps and cries of terror. Human terror. Rifle shots echoed in the night, their sharp report followed by shouts of directions, rally cries, and then more screams. Pistol shots. Shouts. One horrified moan of pain cut off in a loud, wet, crack.
Then a snarl.
A snarl that carries on the wind to where Dean is locked in his cage. A sound that carries anger, victory and frustration all at once.
Dean shouts wordlessly back.
Running feet slap on the mud outside, and all at once the canvas is snatched aside, revealing, the in the glow of a fire that is fast spreading to one of the tents outside, the blood-soaked form of Castiel.
Dean sticks his arm out through the bars, and Castiel leaps forwards, grasping his hand in his own warped one, pressing close to the bars of the cage. Dean leans forwards and touches their faces together, feeling blood slip against his skin. Castiel is breathing heavily, whimpering at the end of each breath. He's changing. Quickly.
"I need..." Dean says, but Castiel is already thrusting a bloodied bunch of keys at him.
Dean struggles with the lock, trying key after key after key, while Castiel slips gracelessly to the muddy floor, bracing himself on hands and knees, shaking with suppressed pain.
It takes Dean what feels like an age to free himself, but at last he forces the door of the cage open, and goes to Castiel's side, touching him, looking him over and trying to work out what's happening to him.
Castiel whimpers quietly.
"I know, it hurts." Dean tells him. "First change does." He inspects Castiel's claws, and the matching ones growing on his feet. They look wrong, not like Dean's own. He frowns, certain that something is amiss here.
"I've never turned anyone." He admits to Castiel. "I was born with this. But, my father, told us that for people, it's a disease. It hurts. It can kill, or hurt badly, a hurt that doesn't go away."
Castiel is sweating, his skin already shining with it, and he trembles and jerks on the floor. Soon. It's all going to happen very soon, and Dean has no way to stop it. He looks at Castiel's fragile throat and wonders if perhaps it wouldn't be kinder simply to snap his neck. Dean remembers stories his father had told him. Warnings. Tribesmen who tried to turn their powerless relatives, and who made them half wolves by accident. Men with twisted arms, and faces like rotting bodies.
Castiel's whole body spasms, and Dean realises that he's out of time, just as Castiel starts to scream.
Dean watches as his mate's skin roils and stretches, hears his joints pop and his bones break while Castiel screams himself hoarse, and is finally silenced when his throat rips, and his voice is stolen from him. He screams in silence, and his teeth are squeezed from his bloody gums like pips from a crushed fruit, new, sharp fangs slicing their way upwards. The skin peels from his tongue, leaving a raw muscle that writes in a silent shout.
The skin of his body splits open, and underneath a thick, wet hide begins to sprout hair. His fleshy ears peel away, and his whole skull cracks as it reforms and grows. Castiel's spine lengthens, ripping free from his skin and hanging loose as ribbons of new skin lace themselves over the bloody bone.
His voice returns with a reedy whine, that turns into a screech, and finally ebbs away into silence as Castiel collapses, shaking, onto his side.
Dean stares at his mate, a knot of fear in his throat.
Something has definitely gone wrong.
(-*-)
The pain is gone, and Castiel is so grateful, that he would crawl to Michael's feet and give his forgiveness for his betrayal, if only the pain would not return.
He never wants to feel that agony again.
It takes a few moments, but gradually, he becomes aware of a hand stroking his side. It's a tickly sensation, and a moment later Castiel realises that this is because the hand on him is gently ruffling his new fur. He opens his eyes, and sees Dean, far, far above him, leaning over him and brushing his hand over his body.
Castiel tries to speak, and no sound comes out, save for a small noise.
Dean strokes him and says something that it takes a moment for Castiel to reconfigure into something he can understand.
"I don't know what you are."
Castiel doesn't understand. He's a wolf, surely? Dean had bitten him, and Dean could change into a wolf, that was the legacy he carried from his father. So, logically, Castiel had been given a share in that legacy too.
He tries to look at himself, but this is quite difficult, he catches only a glimpse of spotted fur and a long, full, tail before he cannot move his head further up. He growls in impatience.
"We have to leave." Dean tells him, and Castiel responds by getting to his shaking feet (all four of them, which makes him feel confused for a moment, before some part of his mind teaches him how to walk). His paws are covered in blood, and without thinking he lifts one and starts to lick it clean. He becomes so engrossed in this task that he doesn't notice Dean shifting beside him, until his muzzle bumps the side of his face and the familiar wolf shape of Dean's body patters over the mud, leading the way out of the tent.
Castiel follows.
It's altogether very strange, being in this new form. His senses are heightened, he can smell the night air, the mingled odours of smoke from the burning tent, the gunpowder smoke, the touch of urine in the soil. The slaughtered bodies of the men let off a scent of blood, but also of residual fear.
Dean picks over the bodies, looking at them, and then back at Castiel, waving his tail approvingly.
Castiel follows after him, and is momentarily stumped by the presence of the high fence, which he can no longer climb. He is surprised when Dean scrabbles at the mud, gouging out a small tunnel for them to pass through.
Castiel drops low to the ground and wriggles into the small hole distastefully. It smells of rotted wood and damp roots. On the other side, he has barely a second to get to his feet and reach the cover of the forest, before he's knocked off them again by Dean, who throws him onto his back, pouncing on top of him and scenting him quickly, a soft growl catching in his throat. Castiel knows that he must smell Crowley, even under the fresh blood.
Dean steps back, and starts to clean the blood from Castiel's fur with gentle swipes of his tongue. Castiel offers up his paws readily, and closes his eyes in contentment, his pain almost forgotten. Dean is returned to him, and every part of his body sings 'mate' with intoxicating joy. Finally, he allows himself to feel safe.
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Chapter 16: Chapter 16
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So, this is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who's been with this fic since the beginning, for encouraging me to write (and write, and write) I am planning a little bit of a follow up, about the expansion of the pack etc etc. But I felt this was a good place to wrap up this particular story.
In the dark of the forest, with the scent of raging fire and smoke blackening the clear air around them, Castiel closes his new eyes and basks in the warmth of his fur, and of the rough tongue that gently cleans him. Dean makes soft sounds in the back of his throat - gruff noises of curiosity, and suspicion as he comes across new scents and tastes on Castiel's hide. Castiel wonders, dimly, how he can explain Crowley. The yellow room. Balthazar. Alistair. That dinner. The drugged wine. Waking, soiled, afraid. Almost being taken again. Tied down. Strapped. The images, and his own fear, scramble through his mind like the leaves of a book blown apart by the wind.
And in that second, Castiel is suddenly aware that Dean knows. Dean knows, because he can see these things inside of Castiel's mind.
Just like Castiel knows that this is not some ability of Dean's race. This is theirs, and theirs alone.
More emotions, more pictures assault him. But these pictures are Dean's - the cold cage and dark tent, the men who threw food to him, the rank sight of that food, the feeling that Castiel was in pain, unbearable. Then, something from before, back in the cave at the moment of their capture, Dean's mind a frantic snarl, like a tangle of briar - and the knowledge that Castiel is vulnerable. Human. (seeing himself from Dean's perspective is odd, because he does not look at all how he imagines himself to look, or how his rare glimpses of his reflection show himhe looks. Dean sees him as...something almost otherworldly. He shines in Dean's eyes, like a man shaped figure carved from the moon, only warm, and safe. A figure that promises such love that Castiel can barely stand to view himself through Dean's mind).
He sees the bite on his own arm, livid and fresh in Dean's memory, and understands that it was made to protect him. To give him the power to protect himself.
Dean nudges him onto his freshly washed stomach, and Castiel lies on the forest floor, lulled by the sudden lack of danger, by the return of the familiar scents of the forest, and of Dean. There's a warm pulse in his mind as Dean's heavy, lupine body settles on top of him, and that pulse is singularly warm and pleasing as a bed by the fire. Mate.
Castiel is almost a stranger to himself. All has been stripped away, left with his clothes in some place which is now lost to him. Before, imprisoned with Crowley, he had mourned the loss of his innocence, his purity. As he had transformed, he had hated Dean for ripping away his humanity. But now...now he feels almost nothing of his human self. His mind is no longer repeatedly stabbed and skewered by guilt, or fear, or helplessness. He can only feel the soft, mist like warmth of his mate's presence, wrapping around his every nerve and making them sing.
When Dean enters him, Castiel barely gives a thought to right and wrong, pain and pleasure. It feels nothing like it did when he was human, when he could feel hot, agonising pleasure arching through both of them, aching, demanding, despite being so devotional. Now it's like being enfolded in an embrace. Connected. Loved. His paws scuff the dirt, and Dean moves on him, nosing the back of his neck, ruffling, nipping and laving the fur. Castiel feels a deep contentment, under the weight of his mate. His alpha. The word comes almost naturally. Dean is his alpha. And that's all he holds in his mind. Dean. Dean. Dean.
Something rumbles in his chest, involuntarily, a deep, low sound. Over and over, like a house cat prostrate on the sunny ground, kneaded into oblivion.
The part of Dean inside of him grows, and Castiel arches a little, rubbing his back against Dean's belly. The wolf rests on top of him, burying its nose in his fur, whimpering. Castiel is curious as to the feeling he has now, the new feeling of being stretched inside, as Dean releases his fluid inside of him. It should probably appal him. But, the purr still rumbles in his chest, and he finds inside himself instead, a deep satisfaction.
When the bulging root of Dean's member recedes, he moves off of Castiel, and Castiel stands reluctantly. He wants to curl up and sleep, but he knows that they are not so safe here that they can afford to linger.
Dean rubs against his side fondly, rushing round him to lick his face, and sniff at his hind legs, where Castiel can feel a slight wetness prickling his fur. Dean leads him into the woods, and they walk together, alternatively chasing and trotting through the trees.
A night songbird flutters past, and Castiel pounces before he thinks, catching it with one paw and bringing it down to the earth, dead. He picks it up carefully, and prowls after Dean, presenting it at his mate's feet and rubbing up against his side, his long, full tail twisting, drawing it's silky length over Dean's nose. Dean sniffs, and skitters about on his paws, tongue lolling in amusement. He tears into the small bird, famished, and eats what he can, lifting his muzzle to find that Castiel is waiting to lick the blood from him.
They pass through the forest, and Castiel realises, quite unexpectedly, that he is happy.
Dean leads him onwards, and the way begins to look familiar, until once again, Castiel is confronted with the burrow that Dean and Sam had first taken him to. He enters of his own accord, and finds the shadowed, root mapped space to be as comforting as a childhood haunt.
They curl up together on the ground, nose to tail, in a circle of furred limbs.
(-*-)
When Castiel wakes, he stretches, and realises that he has hands and feet once more. He looks at his naked, mud speckled arms and legs in surprise, and notices Dean's naked form beside him, where he's lying, face down on the trodden earth. Dean is once more in human form, and without thinking, Castiel traces one, raw nailed hand over his arching, tanned back, down to the hollow just before the swell of his buttocks. Dean stirs, and Castiel removes his hand. Watching, and waiting.
When Dean opens his eyes, he notices Castiel's change immediately, and seems pleased that it was successful. His expression dims when he sees the darkness on Castiel's face.
"I killed them." Castiel says, and feels his stomach clench painfully tight. He had not just killed, he had torn those men apart. He remembers the feel of their muscled necks his hands, the way their flesh had given to his teeth and claws, the way the hot blood and slithered down his throat.
All the guilt that had left him when he became an animal returns a thousand fold, and Castiel shivers, and feels his eyes prickle with tears. Crowley was a monster. Crowley had tried to hurt him, and yet still, Castiel was worse - because he had ripped Crowley open, and played with the heavy, stinking sacks of his organs, splashed his blood gleefully over the bedroom. He had seen the evidence of it.
He had allowed Dean to mate him, still able to smell the dismembered bodies of those men on the smoky wind.
Castiel is still trembling with horror when Dean kisses him, a ferocious kiss that forces hunger into Castiel's shrivelled soul.
"He hurt you." Dean tells him, and Castiel knows that Dean has seen it all, read it from the corpuscles of his own brain. Dean kisses him again, and Castiel moves his mouth in response, willing the oblivion of his transformed self to return.
"They took us, hurt us." Dean says, meaning the men from the camp.
"I did a terrible thing." Castiel tells him, eyes shining, his tears making Dean's certain face waver. "I've done so many terrible things."
Dean pushes him gently to the floor, where he can crowd him soothingly on the sleep warmed dirt. And it is, soothing, so much so that Castiel closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of dirt, skin, roots and sweat that clings to both of them, along with a heavy musk that must be a remnant of Dean's wolf body. Or perhaps his own.
"You survived." Dean tells him, and Castiel knows that it's true. That, to Dean, all the men that are dead because of him, might as well be rabbits, or bloody songbirds. Casualties of life. Dean shares no kinship with men. And now neither does Castiel.
Dean cups his face, his other hand pressing the pinkish ring of scaring tissue on Castiel's arm. "I did this for you. I survived for you."
Castiel holds onto to him, and leans upwards to kiss Dean, as every part of him demands that he must. Afterwards he leans his forehead against Dean's and says, "I love you." Because he does. Though it hurts more than he ever thought it would, though it scares him and has changed him beyond all recognition. He loves, and so he will survive.
(-*-)
The next day is the one for which Sam had slated his return. Dean is twitchy, excited but also morose and worried. Castiel, himself lost between his guilt and his newly born love for his mate, tries his best to settle Dean and console him.
They shift back and forth, restlessly, mating as animals (as if Dean senses that this way, Castiel does not feel the heavy weight of his Christian guilt during the act) and curling up as men to touch and kiss and sleep for a while. After one such rest, Dean rolls on top of Castiel, strong limbs touching his, coaxing him into a position in which Dean can mount him, their faces close. Expecting pain, Castiel is surprised to find himself already wet, partly with Dean's last release, and partly with something that smells strongly of the musk that he had detected on waking. Too tired to think much on it, Castiel accepts that, as Dean's mate, and with his new found flexibility of form, his body can now act as that of a woman. He has heard men talking rudely of women, and their wetness, and now he knows to what they referred, this slick of mating, that makes Dean moan as he enters him, covering himself in the musky sweetness that is evidence of Castiel's desire.
Castiel cannot control himself with Dean moving inside of him. It feels so good, so instinctive, that his busy mind is blissfully quietened. Pleasure roars through him, and his claws slide forth, catching at Dean's back and making him grunt, and then groan with pleasure. As men, they couple like animals, sweating, grappling, forcing their bodies together and aching when they part.
It is delicious. The perfect madness.
Castiel can feel the animal within him even when he is in the shape of a man, lying, spent, beside Dean on the earthen floor. The animal, whatever it is, is sharper than a man, more cunning, more violent. But it is fiercely loyal to Dean, and to Castiel, he can feel it. It has a power that he never dreamt he could possess. And, as guilty as he feels over killing Crowley, and his men...he knows that he would do it again.
Dean has killed for him, and this does not upset him, he expects it. The animal expects it. Just as it expects Castiel to kill for Dean. To kill anyone or anything that threatens their lives, or the life of Sam.
Pack instinct, Castiel is learning, is a much better master than the church ever was to him.
The church made him feel weak, and grateful, and meek. Washed in the tears of a virgin, and left to dry in an icy puritan wind.
The pack charges him with its survival, bathing him in blood and licking him clean. It calls to him from within, in the voice of his thundering heart. Flesh and blood, death and pleasure. And he has never felt as alive as he does when he feels Dean calling him.
When Sam returns, Dean scents him almost immediately. The burrow is on the way to the cave, and that must be where Sam is headed. Dean, still wearing his wolf form, bolts from Castiel's side with a sharp bark, and Castiel follows without question, his paws quick and silent on the earth.
They emerge into starlight, having lost track of the day. Dean runs a little way along the path, then stops to listen. He howls, a short, blunt sound, and then prances on the spot as a tall figure emerges from the trees.
Castiel catches up with Dean, and see's Sam, carrying his bundle, and with his arm around a shorter figure, bundled heavily in clothes.
Dean sits, waiting for Sam to come forwards, he does, bringing the newcomer with him.
"Dean." Sam says, voice low and respectful. Their time apart has altered him a little, his hair has been cut, and his clothes are new ones, made by hand. The scent of a female bound up in their stitches. "This, is Jessica."
The figure takes down her hood, revealing a pretty, if pale and nervous face, and long waves of blond hair. Castiel steps forwards curiously, and when Sam sees him he looks shocked, and backs away.
Dean wuffs reassuringly.
"Dean, what did you do?" Sam demands, anger evident in his voice.
Dean stiffens, hairs prickling with anger at Sam's tone. Castiel rubs against him soothingly, and Dean subsides for the most part, too happy to have Sam returned to him to worry about such a small infraction.
"You turned a human." Sam breathes. "Castiel...I'm so sorry I left you." He looks so sad, and for a moment, Castiel doesn't know why. Before he remembers that this thing that Dean has done to him, is probably as deeply possessive as he could have been, and that Sam must see it as proof of his violation.
Castiel rubs against Dean, then lies at his feet and purrs to show his acquiescence to his current state.
Sam doesn't seem to know what to make of them. He turns instead to Jessica. "This is my brother, Dean...and Castiel."
Dean whines.
"I told her about us...I showed her." Sam admits, saying quickly. "Her mother was tried for witchcraft, and Jess knows something about the creatures of this world, if only from her stories." He places a hand on her stomach, which Castiel now notices, is great with child. "Her husband perished on the crossing from England, and now no family will offer her charity."
Jessica seems scared, but curious, and Castiel thinks that this will serve her well when it comes time to explain exactly who he is, and what he is to Dean. They will have to tell Sam of Crowley, and of their need for a new home. A story that will be etched into their memories and told repeatedly.
The pack has pups, after a fashion. Jessica's children from her husband. Assured successors for their pack of strays. That night, sheltering in another cave, not so well protected as their last, but more suitable for Jess and her swollen stomach, Dean nudges Sam to bed with his mate, and then comes to keep Castiel warm through the night.
There are many things to be feared, Castiel knows this - Cold, hunger, cruelty, villainy, incarceration. But love is not one of them. And neither is Dean.
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
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Dean is curled up in the corner of the cage, trying to rest in a way that keeps his body warm, and the hard angle of his hips and elbows off of the hard metal. He hasn't found the correct position yet, and he knows that he will not, even if he turns this way and that for the rest of his life.
The men who brought him to this place are gone, and new men are talking outside the canvas that covers his cage. These men are not concerned with him, they throw him bread crusts smeared with mud, earth spattered potato peelings, and the bones of the meat that they eat, more to mock him than to nourish him. Dean eats whatever they give him, cracking the bones and eating their marrow, gnawing the bread and scraps. He needs strength. And strength comes from food, and rest and water. He has water only because of a hole in the canvas, that allows rain into the enclosure. It runs over the top of his cage, running down the bars where he can lick it from the metal. The water tastes of iron.
He still can't sleep, maybe that's why he feels so weak.
Dean wishes he could sense better, that he could change his form, but he can't. So he tries to get what he can with his human ears and nose. Which isn't much. He can smell fire, and cooking, hear men talking, shouting and singing tunelessly. It's night, and he can hear animals outside of the camp, birds and small rustling rabbits. That's it.
There's another kind of sense, one that tells him that he's closer to Sam than he's been in days. Sam is still far, far away, but not as far.
Castiel is closer too.
It takes Dean a while to pinpoint him. He's moving, his mate is getting closer. Dean sits up, cold and weak but suddenly sensing Castiel, close. Very close.
And getting closer by the second.
Castiel is coming for him.
(-*-)
Castiel runs through the woods, his limbs aching more with every step. It feels like his bones are fine crystal, being struck by a silver fork. Humming and singing inside of him. His fingers suddenly snap, and Castiel drops to the ground, crying out in pain. He looks at his hands, finding that his fingers are bent, clawed over and set that way. The claws that come from under his nail beds have pierced through the leather gloves.
Slowly, he gets to his feet, and starts to run again.
Something is happening to him. He is changing, becoming something akin to Dean and Sam. A shape shifter, a heathen demon. He remembers all too well what Dean had gone through to become a man once more, and the thought that such a monstrous thing happening to him makes him feel sick.
Still, like a whip driving him on, there is the knowledge that Dean is somewhere close by. Dean needs him. And he needs Dean. It grows stronger with each footfall, with each twinge of his spine. As if the transformation visiting itself upon him is taking him to Dean. Urgently sending him towards the one that made him this way, towards his mate.
Castiel looks at the path ahead and finds that, to his surprise, he can see each tree distinctly. He can easily see the difference between an elm and a pine tree, the shapes of their leaves are sharp to his eyes. A scuffle in the leaves at his side catches his eye, and Castiel watches a small brown bird pick at the debris of the forest floor.
He sees everything as though it were daylight. A demon's sight, to see as clear under the moon, as with the sun.
Ahead of him, the trees thin and Castiel sees another palisade, noticeably rougher in construction than the one that had guarded New Haven. This one has a large gate in the side, studded with iron, held up with thick ropes and coils of chain. Castiel uses his claws to shred the gloves on his hands, and dispenses with his cloak.
He climbs the palisade with barely a thought, as if some part of his mind is suppressing his own fear at these strange additions to his body. He reaches the top of the construction and leaps easily down onto the wet, muddy slop of the ground inside.
There's a campfire off to the side, surrounded by several man-shaped shadows. Four tents close to them, and a log cabin over to the left. Surrounding Castiel are the skeletons of several carts and wagons, and a hitching post with one horse at it. A small camp, as thieves would set up. Or hired soldiers.
The horse scents Castiel seconds later, and rears up, its eyes white with fear as it screams into the night, its breath white in the cold.
The men at the fire look up, and instantly go for their weapons, shouting to their fellows, six of them, who come running from the tents and the cabin, slithering on the marshy ground. Each man has a rifle and a bandolier with a knife and pistol. Twelve men. Armed, experienced, and with a vested interest in returning his skin to Crowley, or at least, to Crowley's home.
Castiel looks at them, and it's almost as if he has lost all capacity for fear.
The men come closer, and their faces are fearful, half violent, half terrified. He wonders what these past hours have made of him. Whether his hands are all that have changed, or if he is now deformed and twisted. Barely a man.
He tries to speak, for the first time since waking to find his captor dead. But only a low growl escapes him. No words, just that sound, which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
One of the men cocks his rifle.
Castiel lunges.
(-*-)
Dean grasps the bars of his cage and strains to hear anything other than screaming.
The screaming had started moments ago, high, fearful yelps and cries of terror. Human terror. Rifle shots echoed in the night, their sharp report followed by shouts of directions, rally cries, and then more screams. Pistol shots. Shouts. One horrified moan of pain cut off in a loud, wet, crack.
Then a snarl.
A snarl that carries on the wind to where Dean is locked in his cage. A sound that carries anger, victory and frustration all at once.
Dean shouts wordlessly back.
Running feet slap on the mud outside, and all at once the canvas is snatched aside, revealing, the in the glow of a fire that is fast spreading to one of the tents outside, the blood-soaked form of Castiel.
Dean sticks his arm out through the bars, and Castiel leaps forwards, grasping his hand in his own warped one, pressing close to the bars of the cage. Dean leans forwards and touches their faces together, feeling blood slip against his skin. Castiel is breathing heavily, whimpering at the end of each breath. He's changing. Quickly.
"I need..." Dean says, but Castiel is already thrusting a bloodied bunch of keys at him.
Dean struggles with the lock, trying key after key after key, while Castiel slips gracelessly to the muddy floor, bracing himself on hands and knees, shaking with suppressed pain.
It takes Dean what feels like an age to free himself, but at last he forces the door of the cage open, and goes to Castiel's side, touching him, looking him over and trying to work out what's happening to him.
Castiel whimpers quietly.
"I know, it hurts." Dean tells him. "First change does." He inspects Castiel's claws, and the matching ones growing on his feet. They look wrong, not like Dean's own. He frowns, certain that something is amiss here.
"I've never turned anyone." He admits to Castiel. "I was born with this. But, my father, told us that for people, it's a disease. It hurts. It can kill, or hurt badly, a hurt that doesn't go away."
Castiel is sweating, his skin already shining with it, and he trembles and jerks on the floor. Soon. It's all going to happen very soon, and Dean has no way to stop it. He looks at Castiel's fragile throat and wonders if perhaps it wouldn't be kinder simply to snap his neck. Dean remembers stories his father had told him. Warnings. Tribesmen who tried to turn their powerless relatives, and who made them half wolves by accident. Men with twisted arms, and faces like rotting bodies.
Castiel's whole body spasms, and Dean realises that he's out of time, just as Castiel starts to scream.
Dean watches as his mate's skin roils and stretches, hears his joints pop and his bones break while Castiel screams himself hoarse, and is finally silenced when his throat rips, and his voice is stolen from him. He screams in silence, and his teeth are squeezed from his bloody gums like pips from a crushed fruit, new, sharp fangs slicing their way upwards. The skin peels from his tongue, leaving a raw muscle that writes in a silent shout.
The skin of his body splits open, and underneath a thick, wet hide begins to sprout hair. His fleshy ears peel away, and his whole skull cracks as it reforms and grows. Castiel's spine lengthens, ripping free from his skin and hanging loose as ribbons of new skin lace themselves over the bloody bone.
His voice returns with a reedy whine, that turns into a screech, and finally ebbs away into silence as Castiel collapses, shaking, onto his side.
Dean stares at his mate, a knot of fear in his throat.
Something has definitely gone wrong.
(-*-)
The pain is gone, and Castiel is so grateful, that he would crawl to Michael's feet and give his forgiveness for his betrayal, if only the pain would not return.
He never wants to feel that agony again.
It takes a few moments, but gradually, he becomes aware of a hand stroking his side. It's a tickly sensation, and a moment later Castiel realises that this is because the hand on him is gently ruffling his new fur. He opens his eyes, and sees Dean, far, far above him, leaning over him and brushing his hand over his body.
Castiel tries to speak, and no sound comes out, save for a small noise.
Dean strokes him and says something that it takes a moment for Castiel to reconfigure into something he can understand.
"I don't know what you are."
Castiel doesn't understand. He's a wolf, surely? Dean had bitten him, and Dean could change into a wolf, that was the legacy he carried from his father. So, logically, Castiel had been given a share in that legacy too.
He tries to look at himself, but this is quite difficult, he catches only a glimpse of spotted fur and a long, full, tail before he cannot move his head further up. He growls in impatience.
"We have to leave." Dean tells him, and Castiel responds by getting to his shaking feet (all four of them, which makes him feel confused for a moment, before some part of his mind teaches him how to walk). His paws are covered in blood, and without thinking he lifts one and starts to lick it clean. He becomes so engrossed in this task that he doesn't notice Dean shifting beside him, until his muzzle bumps the side of his face and the familiar wolf shape of Dean's body patters over the mud, leading the way out of the tent.
Castiel follows.
It's altogether very strange, being in this new form. His senses are heightened, he can smell the night air, the mingled odours of smoke from the burning tent, the gunpowder smoke, the touch of urine in the soil. The slaughtered bodies of the men let off a scent of blood, but also of residual fear.
Dean picks over the bodies, looking at them, and then back at Castiel, waving his tail approvingly.
Castiel follows after him, and is momentarily stumped by the presence of the high fence, which he can no longer climb. He is surprised when Dean scrabbles at the mud, gouging out a small tunnel for them to pass through.
Castiel drops low to the ground and wriggles into the small hole distastefully. It smells of rotted wood and damp roots. On the other side, he has barely a second to get to his feet and reach the cover of the forest, before he's knocked off them again by Dean, who throws him onto his back, pouncing on top of him and scenting him quickly, a soft growl catching in his throat. Castiel knows that he must smell Crowley, even under the fresh blood.
Dean steps back, and starts to clean the blood from Castiel's fur with gentle swipes of his tongue. Castiel offers up his paws readily, and closes his eyes in contentment, his pain almost forgotten. Dean is returned to him, and every part of his body sings 'mate' with intoxicating joy. Finally, he allows himself to feel safe.
________________________________________
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
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So, this is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who's been with this fic since the beginning, for encouraging me to write (and write, and write) I am planning a little bit of a follow up, about the expansion of the pack etc etc. But I felt this was a good place to wrap up this particular story.
In the dark of the forest, with the scent of raging fire and smoke blackening the clear air around them, Castiel closes his new eyes and basks in the warmth of his fur, and of the rough tongue that gently cleans him. Dean makes soft sounds in the back of his throat - gruff noises of curiosity, and suspicion as he comes across new scents and tastes on Castiel's hide. Castiel wonders, dimly, how he can explain Crowley. The yellow room. Balthazar. Alistair. That dinner. The drugged wine. Waking, soiled, afraid. Almost being taken again. Tied down. Strapped. The images, and his own fear, scramble through his mind like the leaves of a book blown apart by the wind.
And in that second, Castiel is suddenly aware that Dean knows. Dean knows, because he can see these things inside of Castiel's mind.
Just like Castiel knows that this is not some ability of Dean's race. This is theirs, and theirs alone.
More emotions, more pictures assault him. But these pictures are Dean's - the cold cage and dark tent, the men who threw food to him, the rank sight of that food, the feeling that Castiel was in pain, unbearable. Then, something from before, back in the cave at the moment of their capture, Dean's mind a frantic snarl, like a tangle of briar - and the knowledge that Castiel is vulnerable. Human. (seeing himself from Dean's perspective is odd, because he does not look at all how he imagines himself to look, or how his rare glimpses of his reflection show himhe looks. Dean sees him as...something almost otherworldly. He shines in Dean's eyes, like a man shaped figure carved from the moon, only warm, and safe. A figure that promises such love that Castiel can barely stand to view himself through Dean's mind).
He sees the bite on his own arm, livid and fresh in Dean's memory, and understands that it was made to protect him. To give him the power to protect himself.
Dean nudges him onto his freshly washed stomach, and Castiel lies on the forest floor, lulled by the sudden lack of danger, by the return of the familiar scents of the forest, and of Dean. There's a warm pulse in his mind as Dean's heavy, lupine body settles on top of him, and that pulse is singularly warm and pleasing as a bed by the fire. Mate.
Castiel is almost a stranger to himself. All has been stripped away, left with his clothes in some place which is now lost to him. Before, imprisoned with Crowley, he had mourned the loss of his innocence, his purity. As he had transformed, he had hated Dean for ripping away his humanity. But now...now he feels almost nothing of his human self. His mind is no longer repeatedly stabbed and skewered by guilt, or fear, or helplessness. He can only feel the soft, mist like warmth of his mate's presence, wrapping around his every nerve and making them sing.
When Dean enters him, Castiel barely gives a thought to right and wrong, pain and pleasure. It feels nothing like it did when he was human, when he could feel hot, agonising pleasure arching through both of them, aching, demanding, despite being so devotional. Now it's like being enfolded in an embrace. Connected. Loved. His paws scuff the dirt, and Dean moves on him, nosing the back of his neck, ruffling, nipping and laving the fur. Castiel feels a deep contentment, under the weight of his mate. His alpha. The word comes almost naturally. Dean is his alpha. And that's all he holds in his mind. Dean. Dean. Dean.
Something rumbles in his chest, involuntarily, a deep, low sound. Over and over, like a house cat prostrate on the sunny ground, kneaded into oblivion.
The part of Dean inside of him grows, and Castiel arches a little, rubbing his back against Dean's belly. The wolf rests on top of him, burying its nose in his fur, whimpering. Castiel is curious as to the feeling he has now, the new feeling of being stretched inside, as Dean releases his fluid inside of him. It should probably appal him. But, the purr still rumbles in his chest, and he finds inside himself instead, a deep satisfaction.
When the bulging root of Dean's member recedes, he moves off of Castiel, and Castiel stands reluctantly. He wants to curl up and sleep, but he knows that they are not so safe here that they can afford to linger.
Dean rubs against his side fondly, rushing round him to lick his face, and sniff at his hind legs, where Castiel can feel a slight wetness prickling his fur. Dean leads him into the woods, and they walk together, alternatively chasing and trotting through the trees.
A night songbird flutters past, and Castiel pounces before he thinks, catching it with one paw and bringing it down to the earth, dead. He picks it up carefully, and prowls after Dean, presenting it at his mate's feet and rubbing up against his side, his long, full tail twisting, drawing it's silky length over Dean's nose. Dean sniffs, and skitters about on his paws, tongue lolling in amusement. He tears into the small bird, famished, and eats what he can, lifting his muzzle to find that Castiel is waiting to lick the blood from him.
They pass through the forest, and Castiel realises, quite unexpectedly, that he is happy.
Dean leads him onwards, and the way begins to look familiar, until once again, Castiel is confronted with the burrow that Dean and Sam had first taken him to. He enters of his own accord, and finds the shadowed, root mapped space to be as comforting as a childhood haunt.
They curl up together on the ground, nose to tail, in a circle of furred limbs.
(-*-)
When Castiel wakes, he stretches, and realises that he has hands and feet once more. He looks at his naked, mud speckled arms and legs in surprise, and notices Dean's naked form beside him, where he's lying, face down on the trodden earth. Dean is once more in human form, and without thinking, Castiel traces one, raw nailed hand over his arching, tanned back, down to the hollow just before the swell of his buttocks. Dean stirs, and Castiel removes his hand. Watching, and waiting.
When Dean opens his eyes, he notices Castiel's change immediately, and seems pleased that it was successful. His expression dims when he sees the darkness on Castiel's face.
"I killed them." Castiel says, and feels his stomach clench painfully tight. He had not just killed, he had torn those men apart. He remembers the feel of their muscled necks his hands, the way their flesh had given to his teeth and claws, the way the hot blood and slithered down his throat.
All the guilt that had left him when he became an animal returns a thousand fold, and Castiel shivers, and feels his eyes prickle with tears. Crowley was a monster. Crowley had tried to hurt him, and yet still, Castiel was worse - because he had ripped Crowley open, and played with the heavy, stinking sacks of his organs, splashed his blood gleefully over the bedroom. He had seen the evidence of it.
He had allowed Dean to mate him, still able to smell the dismembered bodies of those men on the smoky wind.
Castiel is still trembling with horror when Dean kisses him, a ferocious kiss that forces hunger into Castiel's shrivelled soul.
"He hurt you." Dean tells him, and Castiel knows that Dean has seen it all, read it from the corpuscles of his own brain. Dean kisses him again, and Castiel moves his mouth in response, willing the oblivion of his transformed self to return.
"They took us, hurt us." Dean says, meaning the men from the camp.
"I did a terrible thing." Castiel tells him, eyes shining, his tears making Dean's certain face waver. "I've done so many terrible things."
Dean pushes him gently to the floor, where he can crowd him soothingly on the sleep warmed dirt. And it is, soothing, so much so that Castiel closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of dirt, skin, roots and sweat that clings to both of them, along with a heavy musk that must be a remnant of Dean's wolf body. Or perhaps his own.
"You survived." Dean tells him, and Castiel knows that it's true. That, to Dean, all the men that are dead because of him, might as well be rabbits, or bloody songbirds. Casualties of life. Dean shares no kinship with men. And now neither does Castiel.
Dean cups his face, his other hand pressing the pinkish ring of scaring tissue on Castiel's arm. "I did this for you. I survived for you."
Castiel holds onto to him, and leans upwards to kiss Dean, as every part of him demands that he must. Afterwards he leans his forehead against Dean's and says, "I love you." Because he does. Though it hurts more than he ever thought it would, though it scares him and has changed him beyond all recognition. He loves, and so he will survive.
(-*-)
The next day is the one for which Sam had slated his return. Dean is twitchy, excited but also morose and worried. Castiel, himself lost between his guilt and his newly born love for his mate, tries his best to settle Dean and console him.
They shift back and forth, restlessly, mating as animals (as if Dean senses that this way, Castiel does not feel the heavy weight of his Christian guilt during the act) and curling up as men to touch and kiss and sleep for a while. After one such rest, Dean rolls on top of Castiel, strong limbs touching his, coaxing him into a position in which Dean can mount him, their faces close. Expecting pain, Castiel is surprised to find himself already wet, partly with Dean's last release, and partly with something that smells strongly of the musk that he had detected on waking. Too tired to think much on it, Castiel accepts that, as Dean's mate, and with his new found flexibility of form, his body can now act as that of a woman. He has heard men talking rudely of women, and their wetness, and now he knows to what they referred, this slick of mating, that makes Dean moan as he enters him, covering himself in the musky sweetness that is evidence of Castiel's desire.
Castiel cannot control himself with Dean moving inside of him. It feels so good, so instinctive, that his busy mind is blissfully quietened. Pleasure roars through him, and his claws slide forth, catching at Dean's back and making him grunt, and then groan with pleasure. As men, they couple like animals, sweating, grappling, forcing their bodies together and aching when they part.
It is delicious. The perfect madness.
Castiel can feel the animal within him even when he is in the shape of a man, lying, spent, beside Dean on the earthen floor. The animal, whatever it is, is sharper than a man, more cunning, more violent. But it is fiercely loyal to Dean, and to Castiel, he can feel it. It has a power that he never dreamt he could possess. And, as guilty as he feels over killing Crowley, and his men...he knows that he would do it again.
Dean has killed for him, and this does not upset him, he expects it. The animal expects it. Just as it expects Castiel to kill for Dean. To kill anyone or anything that threatens their lives, or the life of Sam.
Pack instinct, Castiel is learning, is a much better master than the church ever was to him.
The church made him feel weak, and grateful, and meek. Washed in the tears of a virgin, and left to dry in an icy puritan wind.
The pack charges him with its survival, bathing him in blood and licking him clean. It calls to him from within, in the voice of his thundering heart. Flesh and blood, death and pleasure. And he has never felt as alive as he does when he feels Dean calling him.
When Sam returns, Dean scents him almost immediately. The burrow is on the way to the cave, and that must be where Sam is headed. Dean, still wearing his wolf form, bolts from Castiel's side with a sharp bark, and Castiel follows without question, his paws quick and silent on the earth.
They emerge into starlight, having lost track of the day. Dean runs a little way along the path, then stops to listen. He howls, a short, blunt sound, and then prances on the spot as a tall figure emerges from the trees.
Castiel catches up with Dean, and see's Sam, carrying his bundle, and with his arm around a shorter figure, bundled heavily in clothes.
Dean sits, waiting for Sam to come forwards, he does, bringing the newcomer with him.
"Dean." Sam says, voice low and respectful. Their time apart has altered him a little, his hair has been cut, and his clothes are new ones, made by hand. The scent of a female bound up in their stitches. "This, is Jessica."
The figure takes down her hood, revealing a pretty, if pale and nervous face, and long waves of blond hair. Castiel steps forwards curiously, and when Sam sees him he looks shocked, and backs away.
Dean wuffs reassuringly.
"Dean, what did you do?" Sam demands, anger evident in his voice.
Dean stiffens, hairs prickling with anger at Sam's tone. Castiel rubs against him soothingly, and Dean subsides for the most part, too happy to have Sam returned to him to worry about such a small infraction.
"You turned a human." Sam breathes. "Castiel...I'm so sorry I left you." He looks so sad, and for a moment, Castiel doesn't know why. Before he remembers that this thing that Dean has done to him, is probably as deeply possessive as he could have been, and that Sam must see it as proof of his violation.
Castiel rubs against Dean, then lies at his feet and purrs to show his acquiescence to his current state.
Sam doesn't seem to know what to make of them. He turns instead to Jessica. "This is my brother, Dean...and Castiel."
Dean whines.
"I told her about us...I showed her." Sam admits, saying quickly. "Her mother was tried for witchcraft, and Jess knows something about the creatures of this world, if only from her stories." He places a hand on her stomach, which Castiel now notices, is great with child. "Her husband perished on the crossing from England, and now no family will offer her charity."
Jessica seems scared, but curious, and Castiel thinks that this will serve her well when it comes time to explain exactly who he is, and what he is to Dean. They will have to tell Sam of Crowley, and of their need for a new home. A story that will be etched into their memories and told repeatedly.
The pack has pups, after a fashion. Jessica's children from her husband. Assured successors for their pack of strays. That night, sheltering in another cave, not so well protected as their last, but more suitable for Jess and her swollen stomach, Dean nudges Sam to bed with his mate, and then comes to keep Castiel warm through the night.
There are many things to be feared, Castiel knows this - Cold, hunger, cruelty, villainy, incarceration. But love is not one of them. And neither is Dean.