Fic: Keepsake (Dean, Castiel)
For my 28 Flavours of Castiel thing.
Which, come on, there are lots up for grabs. Go over here. All you have to do is pick a flavour and leave a pairing, I'll write you fic. You can pick a second prompt if you want.
This one is 'Poorly Sick and Dying' Castiel for _sapphiredreams. Um...beware of what you ask for.
2014!fic complete with character death. *points at prompt* Though I didn't actually mean it to go that far. ~1000 words.
Keepsake
**
It's not just humans that suffer for Lucifer's reign. It's the supernatural as well. All the demons and spirits and creatures that are there because of or for humanity. One day the Croats all drop dead. Just like that, like someone cut the zombie's strings and all across the globe the lands are filled with dead things. And just like that, they all disappear. Probably with a click of Lucifer's fingers.
There are pockets of human survivors who think this is a good thing. This must mean that the end of the world is over. The virus is gone, it's safe to wander the streets again. Dean squashes any celebration in his camp before it can start. This isn't a victory. This is just the devil up to something.
Maybe he just got tired of playing with humans for awhile.
Two demons that Dean didn't even know were in his camp, spark up and dye. Refugees who'd realized early on that Lucifer wasn't their God after all. Lot of good it did them trying to hide out. Dean tries not to feel too much sympathy for them.
A month after the Croats have disappeared, Dean wanders from the camp - something he's cautioned others against doing - and on the side of the road, he finds a dying Hellhound. He can see it. It lays panting in the ditch with blood dribbling from its mouth, grunting hard breaths. Dean cuts its throat to put the thing out of its misery. Another week and another demon comes stumbling into the camp. It tells Dean with fever bright eyes “Nothing is safe.” Dean cuts its throat too.
It's not long before he realizes that Cas is sick.
It's still that little bit of angel in him, which is apparently a lot more than he's been letting on. Dean walks back into the camp as night falls and there's Cas. He's just standing in the shadows of trees, swaying on his feet and Dean can see bright glassy eyes in the reflection of the beam of his flashlight. Not so unusual but Cas usually keeps his bad trips inside his cabin.
Dean steps forward, calling Cas's name and Cas swivels his head around to stare. The flashlight casts off of something behind Cas and Dean realizes with shock that they're wings. Long black wings that stretch down to the ground as two great dead weights. “Cas, what the fuck? I thought...”
Cas drags them forward a step and then collapses down to his knees before Dean can jerk forward to catch him. They both end up in the dirt, Dean keeping Cas held upright with hard hands bracing his shoulders.
“They don't work,” Cas spits out and grunts as he tries to move them. They shudder, the feathers are all fluffed out and disordered. Cas manages to lift one a few inches off the ground before it thumps back and Dean can see the bare patches along the underside, where feathers have fallen or been pulled free. “They haven't for years, I don't know why they're here. I don't... Dean?”
Dean thinks back to the Hellhound, laying visible and dying in the ditch.
“Come on. Lets get you inside.”
He manages to haul Cas and the dead weight of his wings back to Cas's cabin, where the largest bed in the camp waits. Cas manages to roll onto his stomach and Dean pulls his wings to lay spread in some semblance of comfort but Cas still moans into his pillow.
“It's okay, man, I'm here,” Dean lies and Cas barks out a harsh laugh that grates on Dean's mind.
“That's rich. Too little, Deano. Open that drawer.” He nods with his head to the nightstand and Dean only hesitates for a minute before doing so.
A half-dozen pill bottles lay inside and Dean wonders if it matters which one he grabs.
“The vicodin,” Cas says before Dean can ask.
Dean shakes out two of the pills and Cas dry swallows them with a grimace. Yeah, way too little. Way too late. Still, Dean sits on the edge of the bed, mindful of Cas's dead wing though something in it has Dean reaching out to run his fingers over the arch of the bone. There was hope here once but now Cas doesn't react and Dean's not sure if he can feel the touch or not.
He can't stop seeing the Hellhound.
Cas folds his arms under his head and as Dean's touch trails from his wing to his back, Cas moans. The back of his neck is hot and there's the sheen of sweat across his forehead.
“Don't start,” Cas says before Dean can start anything and he stares down at the side of Cas's face. His eyes are closed and his nostrils flared, breath quick like he's fighting back nausea or a flare of pain.
“Start what?”
“Getting...maudlin and sentimental. It's too late. I don't need a nice send off speech about how you're sorry and didn't mean any of it.” He cracks his eye open and peers up at Dean. He's not smiling but Dean can easily imagine he is. “I already know it.”
And Dean could ask what the fuck Cas is talking about. Send off speech. That's stupid, it'll be fine. Cas will be fine. But his breathing is heavy and his wings are dull and matted. Except where there's no feathers at all and when Dean runs his hand through them again, they come off between his fingers without even a tug. He'd shown the demon and the hound some mercy. Dean can do that for Cas. He owes that much. Right?
Cas has his eyes closed again when Dean pulls the gun from his holster but he knows Cas can hear it. “Just don't haunt me, okay?”
“No promises.”
Dean rests the barrel of the gun at the base of Cas's skull as Cas brings his hand up to curl weak fingers around Dean's knee. Dean squeezes the trigger.
A week later, a rock throws itself at the back of Dean's head. Dean's probably going to regret keeping one of those feathers instead of burning it with the rest.
Which, come on, there are lots up for grabs. Go over here. All you have to do is pick a flavour and leave a pairing, I'll write you fic. You can pick a second prompt if you want.
This one is 'Poorly Sick and Dying' Castiel for _sapphiredreams. Um...beware of what you ask for.
2014!fic complete with character death. *points at prompt* Though I didn't actually mean it to go that far. ~1000 words.
Keepsake
**
It's not just humans that suffer for Lucifer's reign. It's the supernatural as well. All the demons and spirits and creatures that are there because of or for humanity. One day the Croats all drop dead. Just like that, like someone cut the zombie's strings and all across the globe the lands are filled with dead things. And just like that, they all disappear. Probably with a click of Lucifer's fingers.
There are pockets of human survivors who think this is a good thing. This must mean that the end of the world is over. The virus is gone, it's safe to wander the streets again. Dean squashes any celebration in his camp before it can start. This isn't a victory. This is just the devil up to something.
Maybe he just got tired of playing with humans for awhile.
Two demons that Dean didn't even know were in his camp, spark up and dye. Refugees who'd realized early on that Lucifer wasn't their God after all. Lot of good it did them trying to hide out. Dean tries not to feel too much sympathy for them.
A month after the Croats have disappeared, Dean wanders from the camp - something he's cautioned others against doing - and on the side of the road, he finds a dying Hellhound. He can see it. It lays panting in the ditch with blood dribbling from its mouth, grunting hard breaths. Dean cuts its throat to put the thing out of its misery. Another week and another demon comes stumbling into the camp. It tells Dean with fever bright eyes “Nothing is safe.” Dean cuts its throat too.
It's not long before he realizes that Cas is sick.
It's still that little bit of angel in him, which is apparently a lot more than he's been letting on. Dean walks back into the camp as night falls and there's Cas. He's just standing in the shadows of trees, swaying on his feet and Dean can see bright glassy eyes in the reflection of the beam of his flashlight. Not so unusual but Cas usually keeps his bad trips inside his cabin.
Dean steps forward, calling Cas's name and Cas swivels his head around to stare. The flashlight casts off of something behind Cas and Dean realizes with shock that they're wings. Long black wings that stretch down to the ground as two great dead weights. “Cas, what the fuck? I thought...”
Cas drags them forward a step and then collapses down to his knees before Dean can jerk forward to catch him. They both end up in the dirt, Dean keeping Cas held upright with hard hands bracing his shoulders.
“They don't work,” Cas spits out and grunts as he tries to move them. They shudder, the feathers are all fluffed out and disordered. Cas manages to lift one a few inches off the ground before it thumps back and Dean can see the bare patches along the underside, where feathers have fallen or been pulled free. “They haven't for years, I don't know why they're here. I don't... Dean?”
Dean thinks back to the Hellhound, laying visible and dying in the ditch.
“Come on. Lets get you inside.”
He manages to haul Cas and the dead weight of his wings back to Cas's cabin, where the largest bed in the camp waits. Cas manages to roll onto his stomach and Dean pulls his wings to lay spread in some semblance of comfort but Cas still moans into his pillow.
“It's okay, man, I'm here,” Dean lies and Cas barks out a harsh laugh that grates on Dean's mind.
“That's rich. Too little, Deano. Open that drawer.” He nods with his head to the nightstand and Dean only hesitates for a minute before doing so.
A half-dozen pill bottles lay inside and Dean wonders if it matters which one he grabs.
“The vicodin,” Cas says before Dean can ask.
Dean shakes out two of the pills and Cas dry swallows them with a grimace. Yeah, way too little. Way too late. Still, Dean sits on the edge of the bed, mindful of Cas's dead wing though something in it has Dean reaching out to run his fingers over the arch of the bone. There was hope here once but now Cas doesn't react and Dean's not sure if he can feel the touch or not.
He can't stop seeing the Hellhound.
Cas folds his arms under his head and as Dean's touch trails from his wing to his back, Cas moans. The back of his neck is hot and there's the sheen of sweat across his forehead.
“Don't start,” Cas says before Dean can start anything and he stares down at the side of Cas's face. His eyes are closed and his nostrils flared, breath quick like he's fighting back nausea or a flare of pain.
“Start what?”
“Getting...maudlin and sentimental. It's too late. I don't need a nice send off speech about how you're sorry and didn't mean any of it.” He cracks his eye open and peers up at Dean. He's not smiling but Dean can easily imagine he is. “I already know it.”
And Dean could ask what the fuck Cas is talking about. Send off speech. That's stupid, it'll be fine. Cas will be fine. But his breathing is heavy and his wings are dull and matted. Except where there's no feathers at all and when Dean runs his hand through them again, they come off between his fingers without even a tug. He'd shown the demon and the hound some mercy. Dean can do that for Cas. He owes that much. Right?
Cas has his eyes closed again when Dean pulls the gun from his holster but he knows Cas can hear it. “Just don't haunt me, okay?”
“No promises.”
Dean rests the barrel of the gun at the base of Cas's skull as Cas brings his hand up to curl weak fingers around Dean's knee. Dean squeezes the trigger.
A week later, a rock throws itself at the back of Dean's head. Dean's probably going to regret keeping one of those feathers instead of burning it with the rest.