Insult to Injury (Dean, Sam, Castiel, PG-13) Part 2/7maskedfangirlMarch 31 2010, 00:38:17 UTC
The next day, Castiel is in the motel room when Sam and Dean get back from interviewing witnesses. Dean’s eyes slide over him and then back to Sam, who he’s starting to hate almost as much as salad right now, because the guy hasn’t freaking shut up since they left the last victim’s building. He’s like one of those refrigerator magnet sets, and he’s just forming different sentences with the same bunch of words over and over again. Motive. Human sacrifices. Lore. Virgins. Blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, it’s so sticky-hot out that Dean wouldn’t be offended by a Hell comparison, and the air conditioner in the window is sputtering and wheezing like the elderly father of the landlord they just interviewed.
“-And so, since all the victims were pure, she’s going to be even more powerful having their blood for the spell. And the more, the better. We’re talking mecha-witch, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes for about the fifth time since they got into the car. “Thank you, Sam, I never would’ve figured that out on my own. Hey, next time I pick up the funny pages, maybe you could explain Marmaduke to me, too. Hey, Cas.”
“Hello,” Castiel says, looking strained. He’s examining his own arm, the coat and sleeve pushed up to his elbow. Sharp red cuts cross his skin at random angles, leading from the back of his hand up under the sleeve.
“Woah,” Dean says, stopping for a moment. “You hop on the self-injury bandwagon, Cas? Do we need to have a very special episode of Degrassi here?”
“You know I don’t understand that reference.” Castiel winces, tracing the line of a fresh cut.
Sam sighs. “Dean, will you stop going all-all you about this? It’s important that we understand this.”
Dean slams his keys down on the dresser and turns to face his brother. “All ‘me’ about this? Look, I know you think I’m not smart enough to wear the sweater vest of research or whatever, but I do understand the crap you’re spouting. I do.” He narrows his eyes, trying not to let just how much he understands show on his face. “Blood is power. It beefs up the bad guys better than Wheaties. I get it.”
Sam stops short, his eyebrows buckling up in that lost puppy dog shape, and he swallows. “The bad guys,” he repeats.
Castiel makes a choked sound, and then a gurgle that brings stops both brothers mid-thought, and then he pitches forward, coughing a spray of blood onto the sunset patterned comforter of Dean’s bed.
“Woah!” Dean shouts, lurching forward to catch the angel as he falls forward. It’s a learned reaction he picked up playing nurse to Sammy all those years when Dad was out working cases, and he’s surprised at how much Castiel feels like Sam as a kid - a tangle of limbs and floppy hair, startlingly breakable in his hands. He eases the guy down on Sam’s bed, tapping gently on his cheek to gauge reaction. “Hey, Cas. Cas! What happened?”
Castiel’s eyes slide open, his pupils blown wide and unfixed, and hey, that might be a bad sign. “Hurts,” he says through bloody lips.
“Where?” Dean says, and then Sam is beside him, unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt to look for injuries.
Castiel just shakes his head.
“Real helpful,” Dean mutters.
“Dean,” says Sam, pointing to the exposed patch of Castiel’s belly. The skin is splitting on its own, a red seam crawling across the pasty white. Dean looks at his brother’s bewildered expression, and the moment it dawns on Sam’s face is the moment he gets it, too. “Goddamn witches,” Sam hisses.
“-And so, since all the victims were pure, she’s going to be even more powerful having their blood for the spell. And the more, the better. We’re talking mecha-witch, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes for about the fifth time since they got into the car. “Thank you, Sam, I never would’ve figured that out on my own. Hey, next time I pick up the funny pages, maybe you could explain Marmaduke to me, too. Hey, Cas.”
“Hello,” Castiel says, looking strained. He’s examining his own arm, the coat and sleeve pushed up to his elbow. Sharp red cuts cross his skin at random angles, leading from the back of his hand up under the sleeve.
“Woah,” Dean says, stopping for a moment. “You hop on the self-injury bandwagon, Cas? Do we need to have a very special episode of Degrassi here?”
“You know I don’t understand that reference.” Castiel winces, tracing the line of a fresh cut.
Sam sighs. “Dean, will you stop going all-all you about this? It’s important that we understand this.”
Dean slams his keys down on the dresser and turns to face his brother. “All ‘me’ about this? Look, I know you think I’m not smart enough to wear the sweater vest of research or whatever, but I do understand the crap you’re spouting. I do.” He narrows his eyes, trying not to let just how much he understands show on his face. “Blood is power. It beefs up the bad guys better than Wheaties. I get it.”
Sam stops short, his eyebrows buckling up in that lost puppy dog shape, and he swallows. “The bad guys,” he repeats.
Castiel makes a choked sound, and then a gurgle that brings stops both brothers mid-thought, and then he pitches forward, coughing a spray of blood onto the sunset patterned comforter of Dean’s bed.
“Woah!” Dean shouts, lurching forward to catch the angel as he falls forward. It’s a learned reaction he picked up playing nurse to Sammy all those years when Dad was out working cases, and he’s surprised at how much Castiel feels like Sam as a kid - a tangle of limbs and floppy hair, startlingly breakable in his hands. He eases the guy down on Sam’s bed, tapping gently on his cheek to gauge reaction. “Hey, Cas. Cas! What happened?”
Castiel’s eyes slide open, his pupils blown wide and unfixed, and hey, that might be a bad sign. “Hurts,” he says through bloody lips.
“Where?” Dean says, and then Sam is beside him, unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt to look for injuries.
Castiel just shakes his head.
“Real helpful,” Dean mutters.
“Dean,” says Sam, pointing to the exposed patch of Castiel’s belly. The skin is splitting on its own, a red seam crawling across the pasty white. Dean looks at his brother’s bewildered expression, and the moment it dawns on Sam’s face is the moment he gets it, too. “Goddamn witches,” Sam hisses.
***
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