[fic; spn] Something in the Night
Title: Something in the Night
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, fluff, h/c
Summary: When Castiel needs him, Dean comes.
Word Count: ~2000
Warnings: Torture!
Notes: Done for demonic_fish, as a pinch hit for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. Her prompt was, Castiel dies in Dean's arms. Make me cry! For a lighter version, Castiel almost dies but Dean saves him (not with healing cock). I chose the lighter version, because I'm a wimp cx and because it gave me an idea pretty much instantly. It probably won't make you cry, but it might be worth a good "Aww." Hope you like it!
Castiel awakens with a gasp; his vessel's lungs don't expand. He knows this feeling, as if he is being dragged downward by a strong current in murky, polluted water. It is somewhat like flying through hell, only now he is lost with no objective. He fights it, beating desperate wings against the pressure until he submerges. He blinks weary eyes open and takes in his surroundings, but he does not comprehend them. His body is weakened and sore from misuse and he feels with a renewed sense of loss the absence of his brethren. Being cut off from the host, Jimmy's body cannot be healed as it once could.
His hands are suspended above his head by an invisible force, his ankles locked to the ground. The room around him is wide and dimly lit by a small, solitary window to his left. The building is old and showing signs of decay in some places. There is no furniture and nothing catches his interest except for a staircase leading downward behind him. The walls are littered with sigils. They are ancient, some of them too old for Castiel to recognize. He does know enough of them to know that, bound or not, he is stuck here. He thinks for one ridiculous moment of his cell phone, but even if he could get to it, someone who had taken as many precautions as they had to keep him here wouldn't have given him such an easy out.
He waits for some time, patiently searching for any chance of escape, until a creak sounds from the staircase. His eyes dart to the square opening in the floor, body twisting awkwardly to catch a better view of it. His vision falls on the ascending figure with instant recognition. A mockery of joy at seeing Castiel twists around the man's rotting face. Nick. The man's name was Nick and Castiel sends the poor lost soul a prayer before bracing himself to face Lucifer. He reorients his body so that the other angel has to walk around. An amused huff of breath sounds from behind him. He grimaces.
Lucifer gives neither greeting nor introduction, for which Castiel is grateful. This being may be his kin, but Castiel is trapped and tired and in no mood for any bullshit. Instead, he asks, “What will you do with me?” His tone is even, neutral. He is aware that Lucifer has no interest in him. He is not a threat, and even less is he an asset, to the other angel. The purpose of this meeting can only be his death, of that Castiel feels certain.
“Oh, come now,” at this, Lucifer summons a cart and begins arranging various instruments of torture. It is too similar to the cart Uriel had brought for Dean to be a coincidence, although it bears no salt or holy water. Castiel casts unsure eyes at the cart. He expected nothing less than a miserable death, but this was a startling superfluity. “Is it so wrong to pay my dear little brother a visit?” A knife is hefted and twirled between thin fingers playfully. Castiel shudders involuntarily. “I even invited some friends.”
Castiel feels his lips tug open unintentionally, although whether it is in complaint or inquiry he is not sure.
“Don't worry,” Lucifer cuts him off. “He'll be getting here soon.”
Castiel can't stop the scream that rips out of his throat as the knife bites into the sensitive flesh of Jimmy's belly.
It's a trap. Even if Sam hadn't felt the need to repeat this fact several times before Dean had left, he would have known. He hated the feeling of knowing he was going into a situation unprepared, but he couldn't let that stop him. Not when Cas was in trouble like this. Sam hasn't really understood and Dean hadn't asked him to, instead telling him to stay behind with Bobby and keep working on some case.
The message had been delivered through a garbled voice mail.
Dean, the message had started, I... ture... need s... help... at Artesian... still in South Dakot... old house... please, c... soon.
The Impala flies down the empty back road in the fading light as Dean tries to squash the voice inside his head that keeps telling him he won't make it in time. His entire body hums in anticipation, making the drive seem five times longer. When he finally spots the house, he freezes. It's completely run down and falling apart, nestled in the woods all alone, nothing around for miles. There's a tiny window on the second floor that's almost covered by a tree and he spots some shadows moving around inside. That's all it takes to make him dart out of the car and toward the building without even stopping to grab a gun. When this fact registers, he almost turns back, but the reassuring weight of Ruby's knife tucked into his boot makes the decision for him. He does move more cautiously afterwards, although he doubts that it matters. He's not sure what's waiting for him in there, but its definitely expecting him.
The door opens easily and silently with a nudge of his shoulder, but the front room is empty. There's a doorway a little bit further up that looks like it might lead to a kitchen but the broken furniture that practically serves as a barricade is still covered in a layer of dust, so he turns to the stairs to his right instead.
Each step is emphasized by a wearied, deep curve, the middle depressed downward. The shape is exaggerated by the shadows filling the house. Dean directs his steps carefully towards the sides, not eliciting a single creak as he ascends.
The wood passes beneath his feet at an achingly slow pace, leaving him longing to just sprint up. The door finally comes within reach; Dean presses his back against the wall next to it and cranes his neck to scope out the room through the mostly open door. Cas is right in the middle, only half visible. Dean can't see his face, but he can see enough of his head to know that it's being held up high, that Cas isn't taking any shit. His arms are stiff, stretched above his head.
Dean shifts his head around to take in the rest of the little rundown room but nothing catches his interest.
He hears footsteps pick up from inside and he's glad he gets the warning before the door swings open in an exaggerated movement.
"Oh, look," the familiar voice says gleefully. "Our guest is here."
The realization of just how deep of shit Dean has landed himself in seeps in slowly as Cas lets out a startled noise.
Lucifer smirks, a disturbed kind of joy spread across his face. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arms in a perfect mockery of a Stepford housewife and says, "Come on in." With the motion comes a pressure in Dean's gut that drags him forcefully forward until he slams against the far wall. The old wood scratches against his face for a second before he is flipped around and face-to-face with Cas, eyes etched with poorly masked concern. He tries to silently tell Cas it's okay, but the uncertainty coiled in his stomach hinders the effort.
His attention is drawn back to the room's other occupant when Lucifer announces, "You're just in time for the show."
With a twist of Lucifer's hand, Cas let's out a whimper. The skin of his neck turns a raw shade of pink, indenting at regular intervals in the shape of fingers. Dean bites his lip in sympathy. He can't quite keep the "stop" from ripping out of his throat, but he winces as soon as the word hits the air.
Lucifer pauses, statue still until he slowly tilts his head in Dean's direction. "Excuse me?"
Dean meets his gaze, anger boiling up inside of him. "Let him go. You got me, that's what you wanted, right?"
Lucifer's lips curl into a smile. "Silly boy. This is what I want."
The words are emphasized by the glint of light off the metal cart as Lucifer moves it closer to him.
Before Dean can start a tirade about genocide and hell on earth, the devil twists his hand in the air again and Cas makes an all too human noise. Dean grinds his teeth. Blood seeps in a slow crawl out of Cas' eyes, following the curve of his cheeks. The dark trails move in time with Lucifer's hand. When the lines meet Cas' lips, the sound of grinding bones makes its way out.
"I've seen you, Dean," Lucifer continues, "Watched you. There's nothing I could do to you to really hurt you. But this?" His smile splits into a malicious grin. "This gets to you."
The pressure that holds Dean in place bears down on his shoulders until he finds himself sitting awkwardly, looking up at Cas' blood-streaked face. His wrists are tight to the floor, a few splinters finding their way into the sensitive skin when he struggles. The guilt settles heavily in the pit of his stomach despite his best efforts.
Lucifer turns his attention away from Dean and back to his methodical destruction of Cas' temporary body. When he gets to his neck the bruises swell up to match Lucifer's hands without him ever touching the angel, but he actually picks a knife up to slice through Cas' biceps. Likewise, the acid that bubbles away the ever-present trench coat and everything underneath to leave welted burns all along the pale chest came from a vile. The screams Cas lets out etch themselves into Dean's memory and he squeezes his eyes shut, struggling with more fervor. He bites back a tiny sound of triumph as he manages to inch his hand a little closer to the blade still tucked in at his ankle. Lucifer doesn't notice.
Lucifer continues his decent, deep scratches wrapping themselves around Cas' abdomen. Dean doesn't see what comes after this, but the noise Cas lets out tells him he probably doesn't want to. Dean inches his hand further toward his boot. A series of snaps run themselves through Cas' legs before he goes limp with a whimper.
Dean sighs, because that's it, right? There nothing left for Lucifer to break. But then Cas is upright again, bloodstains still present, but clothes and skin and bones intact. That's all it takes for Dean's hand to surge the rest of the way forward and close over the handle of the knife, his mind flashing with images of Hell. He pauses once the knife is secure in his grip, Lucifer starting the whole process over, faster this time. He's not sure what to do. The sigils Cas taught him flow through his mind, but what if they don't work on the devil? What if they work on Cas, too, and send him into an even bigger mess? Was it worth the risk? Cas' ribs crack and make the decision for him. He slices into his arm and traces the sigil into the floor underneath him.
In the seconds that follow, blinded by the light of Lucifer's departure, Dean's feet drag him across the room to where Cas is falling, falling, falling and before he can process what just happened, he has an angel in his arms, bleeding and gasping for air.
Dean tries to ignore the way his throat constricts as he gasps out a "Hey," punctuated with a gentle shake. Cas shivers in response and blinks his eyes open.
"Dean."
The relieved watery smile that his name on the other's lips brings vanishes when Cas lets out a pained groan. For a second, Dean feels panic flood him. He's still not quite sure what condition Cas is in, doesn't know if he can heal himself now or not. But a quick glance at the cuts littering his body shows the skin mending and Dean can hear the unsettling sound of bones moving themselves back into place.
The tension slowly leaves Dean's body. His fingers are wound tight in the arms of Cas' trench coat, only loosening when the angel's own brush soothingly against them, the reassurance of Cas' steady, rhythmic breaths against Dean a promise that everything was okay.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, fluff, h/c
Summary: When Castiel needs him, Dean comes.
Word Count: ~2000
Warnings: Torture!
Notes: Done for demonic_fish, as a pinch hit for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. Her prompt was, Castiel dies in Dean's arms. Make me cry! For a lighter version, Castiel almost dies but Dean saves him (not with healing cock). I chose the lighter version, because I'm a wimp cx and because it gave me an idea pretty much instantly. It probably won't make you cry, but it might be worth a good "Aww." Hope you like it!
Castiel awakens with a gasp; his vessel's lungs don't expand. He knows this feeling, as if he is being dragged downward by a strong current in murky, polluted water. It is somewhat like flying through hell, only now he is lost with no objective. He fights it, beating desperate wings against the pressure until he submerges. He blinks weary eyes open and takes in his surroundings, but he does not comprehend them. His body is weakened and sore from misuse and he feels with a renewed sense of loss the absence of his brethren. Being cut off from the host, Jimmy's body cannot be healed as it once could.
His hands are suspended above his head by an invisible force, his ankles locked to the ground. The room around him is wide and dimly lit by a small, solitary window to his left. The building is old and showing signs of decay in some places. There is no furniture and nothing catches his interest except for a staircase leading downward behind him. The walls are littered with sigils. They are ancient, some of them too old for Castiel to recognize. He does know enough of them to know that, bound or not, he is stuck here. He thinks for one ridiculous moment of his cell phone, but even if he could get to it, someone who had taken as many precautions as they had to keep him here wouldn't have given him such an easy out.
He waits for some time, patiently searching for any chance of escape, until a creak sounds from the staircase. His eyes dart to the square opening in the floor, body twisting awkwardly to catch a better view of it. His vision falls on the ascending figure with instant recognition. A mockery of joy at seeing Castiel twists around the man's rotting face. Nick. The man's name was Nick and Castiel sends the poor lost soul a prayer before bracing himself to face Lucifer. He reorients his body so that the other angel has to walk around. An amused huff of breath sounds from behind him. He grimaces.
Lucifer gives neither greeting nor introduction, for which Castiel is grateful. This being may be his kin, but Castiel is trapped and tired and in no mood for any bullshit. Instead, he asks, “What will you do with me?” His tone is even, neutral. He is aware that Lucifer has no interest in him. He is not a threat, and even less is he an asset, to the other angel. The purpose of this meeting can only be his death, of that Castiel feels certain.
“Oh, come now,” at this, Lucifer summons a cart and begins arranging various instruments of torture. It is too similar to the cart Uriel had brought for Dean to be a coincidence, although it bears no salt or holy water. Castiel casts unsure eyes at the cart. He expected nothing less than a miserable death, but this was a startling superfluity. “Is it so wrong to pay my dear little brother a visit?” A knife is hefted and twirled between thin fingers playfully. Castiel shudders involuntarily. “I even invited some friends.”
Castiel feels his lips tug open unintentionally, although whether it is in complaint or inquiry he is not sure.
“Don't worry,” Lucifer cuts him off. “He'll be getting here soon.”
Castiel can't stop the scream that rips out of his throat as the knife bites into the sensitive flesh of Jimmy's belly.
It's a trap. Even if Sam hadn't felt the need to repeat this fact several times before Dean had left, he would have known. He hated the feeling of knowing he was going into a situation unprepared, but he couldn't let that stop him. Not when Cas was in trouble like this. Sam hasn't really understood and Dean hadn't asked him to, instead telling him to stay behind with Bobby and keep working on some case.
The message had been delivered through a garbled voice mail.
Dean, the message had started, I... ture... need s... help... at Artesian... still in South Dakot... old house... please, c... soon.
The Impala flies down the empty back road in the fading light as Dean tries to squash the voice inside his head that keeps telling him he won't make it in time. His entire body hums in anticipation, making the drive seem five times longer. When he finally spots the house, he freezes. It's completely run down and falling apart, nestled in the woods all alone, nothing around for miles. There's a tiny window on the second floor that's almost covered by a tree and he spots some shadows moving around inside. That's all it takes to make him dart out of the car and toward the building without even stopping to grab a gun. When this fact registers, he almost turns back, but the reassuring weight of Ruby's knife tucked into his boot makes the decision for him. He does move more cautiously afterwards, although he doubts that it matters. He's not sure what's waiting for him in there, but its definitely expecting him.
The door opens easily and silently with a nudge of his shoulder, but the front room is empty. There's a doorway a little bit further up that looks like it might lead to a kitchen but the broken furniture that practically serves as a barricade is still covered in a layer of dust, so he turns to the stairs to his right instead.
Each step is emphasized by a wearied, deep curve, the middle depressed downward. The shape is exaggerated by the shadows filling the house. Dean directs his steps carefully towards the sides, not eliciting a single creak as he ascends.
The wood passes beneath his feet at an achingly slow pace, leaving him longing to just sprint up. The door finally comes within reach; Dean presses his back against the wall next to it and cranes his neck to scope out the room through the mostly open door. Cas is right in the middle, only half visible. Dean can't see his face, but he can see enough of his head to know that it's being held up high, that Cas isn't taking any shit. His arms are stiff, stretched above his head.
Dean shifts his head around to take in the rest of the little rundown room but nothing catches his interest.
He hears footsteps pick up from inside and he's glad he gets the warning before the door swings open in an exaggerated movement.
"Oh, look," the familiar voice says gleefully. "Our guest is here."
The realization of just how deep of shit Dean has landed himself in seeps in slowly as Cas lets out a startled noise.
Lucifer smirks, a disturbed kind of joy spread across his face. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arms in a perfect mockery of a Stepford housewife and says, "Come on in." With the motion comes a pressure in Dean's gut that drags him forcefully forward until he slams against the far wall. The old wood scratches against his face for a second before he is flipped around and face-to-face with Cas, eyes etched with poorly masked concern. He tries to silently tell Cas it's okay, but the uncertainty coiled in his stomach hinders the effort.
His attention is drawn back to the room's other occupant when Lucifer announces, "You're just in time for the show."
With a twist of Lucifer's hand, Cas let's out a whimper. The skin of his neck turns a raw shade of pink, indenting at regular intervals in the shape of fingers. Dean bites his lip in sympathy. He can't quite keep the "stop" from ripping out of his throat, but he winces as soon as the word hits the air.
Lucifer pauses, statue still until he slowly tilts his head in Dean's direction. "Excuse me?"
Dean meets his gaze, anger boiling up inside of him. "Let him go. You got me, that's what you wanted, right?"
Lucifer's lips curl into a smile. "Silly boy. This is what I want."
The words are emphasized by the glint of light off the metal cart as Lucifer moves it closer to him.
Before Dean can start a tirade about genocide and hell on earth, the devil twists his hand in the air again and Cas makes an all too human noise. Dean grinds his teeth. Blood seeps in a slow crawl out of Cas' eyes, following the curve of his cheeks. The dark trails move in time with Lucifer's hand. When the lines meet Cas' lips, the sound of grinding bones makes its way out.
"I've seen you, Dean," Lucifer continues, "Watched you. There's nothing I could do to you to really hurt you. But this?" His smile splits into a malicious grin. "This gets to you."
The pressure that holds Dean in place bears down on his shoulders until he finds himself sitting awkwardly, looking up at Cas' blood-streaked face. His wrists are tight to the floor, a few splinters finding their way into the sensitive skin when he struggles. The guilt settles heavily in the pit of his stomach despite his best efforts.
Lucifer turns his attention away from Dean and back to his methodical destruction of Cas' temporary body. When he gets to his neck the bruises swell up to match Lucifer's hands without him ever touching the angel, but he actually picks a knife up to slice through Cas' biceps. Likewise, the acid that bubbles away the ever-present trench coat and everything underneath to leave welted burns all along the pale chest came from a vile. The screams Cas lets out etch themselves into Dean's memory and he squeezes his eyes shut, struggling with more fervor. He bites back a tiny sound of triumph as he manages to inch his hand a little closer to the blade still tucked in at his ankle. Lucifer doesn't notice.
Lucifer continues his decent, deep scratches wrapping themselves around Cas' abdomen. Dean doesn't see what comes after this, but the noise Cas lets out tells him he probably doesn't want to. Dean inches his hand further toward his boot. A series of snaps run themselves through Cas' legs before he goes limp with a whimper.
Dean sighs, because that's it, right? There nothing left for Lucifer to break. But then Cas is upright again, bloodstains still present, but clothes and skin and bones intact. That's all it takes for Dean's hand to surge the rest of the way forward and close over the handle of the knife, his mind flashing with images of Hell. He pauses once the knife is secure in his grip, Lucifer starting the whole process over, faster this time. He's not sure what to do. The sigils Cas taught him flow through his mind, but what if they don't work on the devil? What if they work on Cas, too, and send him into an even bigger mess? Was it worth the risk? Cas' ribs crack and make the decision for him. He slices into his arm and traces the sigil into the floor underneath him.
In the seconds that follow, blinded by the light of Lucifer's departure, Dean's feet drag him across the room to where Cas is falling, falling, falling and before he can process what just happened, he has an angel in his arms, bleeding and gasping for air.
Dean tries to ignore the way his throat constricts as he gasps out a "Hey," punctuated with a gentle shake. Cas shivers in response and blinks his eyes open.
"Dean."
The relieved watery smile that his name on the other's lips brings vanishes when Cas lets out a pained groan. For a second, Dean feels panic flood him. He's still not quite sure what condition Cas is in, doesn't know if he can heal himself now or not. But a quick glance at the cuts littering his body shows the skin mending and Dean can hear the unsettling sound of bones moving themselves back into place.
The tension slowly leaves Dean's body. His fingers are wound tight in the arms of Cas' trench coat, only loosening when the angel's own brush soothingly against them, the reassurance of Cas' steady, rhythmic breaths against Dean a promise that everything was okay.