Insult to Injury (Dean, Sam, Castiel, PG-13) Part 1/7maskedfangirlMarch 31 2010, 00:37:15 UTC
Note: This turned into a 3700k word not-a-comment-fic because I couldn't seem to stop writing. Also, it wound up being kinda Dean-centric. I'm posting it all anyway, a scene at a time, and you'll just have to deal like the brave little soldier I know you are.
Dean is having trouble expressing just how much he hates witches. He hates witches so much it feels like flames rising up the sides of his face when he thinks about them. He hates witches so much he almost sort of doesn’t regret torturing their souls in Hell. He hates witches so much he wants to make a children’s birthday party game called Pin My Boot on the Witch’s Goddamn Hag Face. He hates witches more than he hates salad. Dean rants about how much he hates witches on the drive out of San Antonio while Sam makes bitchface in the passenger seat, stiff-legged and muddy from the failed hunt.
“We’re bound to find her trail again,” Sam says, ever the freaking optimist. “A witch that powerful can’t just disappear.”
“What do you know, you friggin’ salad eater?” Dean snaps, because he’s still sore from the spill they took off a bridge chasing that freaking witch and goddamnit, witches.
This is when a gravelly voice behind his ear says, “Dean,” and he has to catch himself to keep from swerving all over the road.
“Hey, Castiel,” Sam says, like having a nerdy rebel angel apparating in the backseat of the car at 65MPH is perfectly normal. Which it…kinda is these days. But still. That kind of complacency wigs Dean out a little. “I’m guessing you didn’t have any luck with the witch, either?”
Castiel shakes his head in the rearview mirror. “She threw powder in my face and disappeared through a rip in space-time.”
“And you couldn’t follow her?” Dean says with a scoff. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of space cowboy.”
“What kind of powder?” Sam asks.
Castiel winces, examining a cut on his palm. It heals with a shake of his hand. “Soil from the grave of a wicked man, the crushed bones of an infant, dried blood, and some herbs that are thought to be extinct.”
“Peachy,” Dean mutters.
“Dude,” Sam says, “that could be a heavy duty curse. Why do you have to be such an ass about everything?”
Dean scowls at the road. “Were you even listening to me talk about witches, or did all that hair obstruct your hearing?”
“I feel fine,” Castiel says in the backseat, still healing small cuts by shaking his hand like a Polaroid picture.
Dean is having trouble expressing just how much he hates witches. He hates witches so much it feels like flames rising up the sides of his face when he thinks about them. He hates witches so much he almost sort of doesn’t regret torturing their souls in Hell. He hates witches so much he wants to make a children’s birthday party game called Pin My Boot on the Witch’s Goddamn Hag Face. He hates witches more than he hates salad. Dean rants about how much he hates witches on the drive out of San Antonio while Sam makes bitchface in the passenger seat, stiff-legged and muddy from the failed hunt.
“We’re bound to find her trail again,” Sam says, ever the freaking optimist. “A witch that powerful can’t just disappear.”
“What do you know, you friggin’ salad eater?” Dean snaps, because he’s still sore from the spill they took off a bridge chasing that freaking witch and goddamnit, witches.
This is when a gravelly voice behind his ear says, “Dean,” and he has to catch himself to keep from swerving all over the road.
“Hey, Castiel,” Sam says, like having a nerdy rebel angel apparating in the backseat of the car at 65MPH is perfectly normal. Which it…kinda is these days. But still. That kind of complacency wigs Dean out a little. “I’m guessing you didn’t have any luck with the witch, either?”
Castiel shakes his head in the rearview mirror. “She threw powder in my face and disappeared through a rip in space-time.”
“And you couldn’t follow her?” Dean says with a scoff. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of space cowboy.”
“What kind of powder?” Sam asks.
Castiel winces, examining a cut on his palm. It heals with a shake of his hand. “Soil from the grave of a wicked man, the crushed bones of an infant, dried blood, and some herbs that are thought to be extinct.”
“Peachy,” Dean mutters.
“Dude,” Sam says, “that could be a heavy duty curse. Why do you have to be such an ass about everything?”
Dean scowls at the road. “Were you even listening to me talk about witches, or did all that hair obstruct your hearing?”
“I feel fine,” Castiel says in the backseat, still healing small cuts by shaking his hand like a Polaroid picture.
***
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