[fic] Triskele - Part IV (b)
Over the course of the next two days, Dean rarely stopped thinking of the Death card. Before Sam and Jess had left for Cambridgeshire, Dean had asked Sam about it, but Sam didn't seem nearly as concerned about it as Dean. Mostly because Sam more easily accepted the misnomer part of it than Dean did. "Don't think of it as someone dying," he'd said. "Think of it as something ending. Like if Dr. Sexy, MD got cancelled."
But that only angered Dean, because there were some things one didn't joke about, and the cancellation of Dr. Sexy, MD was one of them.
Then Sam left with Jess, promising to return as soon as he could, and Ellen, Jo, and Ash followed not more than 2 hours later.
Then things got awkward.
(At least for Dean.)
Sitting with just Cas at meals, being able to hang out only with Cas-he wasn't complaining since he, y'know, was Cas' good, dear, maybe-more friend. It was just awkward. If Cas noticed, he didn't say anything; he just went on like nothing had changed. His calm proved to be something of an example for Dean's worried nerves. Dean relaxed a little bit, and just as he was about to settle down to something more comfortable as they sat down for chess in the parlor (God, Elizabethans were boring), a servant came to fetch Dean with news of a visitor.
Castiel travelling behind him, Dean hurried to the foyer and caught sight of who came to call. Seeing who was standing there, he got a horrible shiver, and with just one shared look from Cas, Dean regretfully accepted what he really should have seen coming.
There at the door, entirely out of place in the sun, was a tall, lanky man with a sunken-in face. He wore no hat, and his hair was slicked back to show off a high forehead. When Death finally registered Dean's presence, he brandished out a scroll, and read aloud,
"The Right Honorable, the earl of Smyth, you are under arrest for-" He stopped, read ahead, and shrugged. "Heresy." Pause. "Formalities."
But Dean wasn't so amused. Instead, he was actually more shocked, and then he was … a little puzzled. "Uh, heresy?" he asked.
"It means you're not following the preferred religion like they want you to," Cas offered.
"Yeah, I know what heresy means. I don't get why I'm being arrested for it. I've been going to church each Sunday!"
He must have stared pleadingly to Death, because Death just looked confused and taken aback. "Don't look at me, I'm just doing my job."
"But I didn't do anything wrong! Cas-tell him I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Proof and charges have been brought against you. I don't know, nor care, what happened. I care about doing my job, so if you could hurry it up? I'd like to make it to London before the 20th. I have a niece's wedding to attend."
"I'm not gonna just go along with you like this! I'm not guilty of anything!" Dean yelled. A few of the servants stood warily by, and Castiel had stepped up beside him. His hand landed on Dean's shoulder, tugging him just slightly. Eyes remaining on Death, Dean stepped back in compliance.
"You're not going to win this one, Dean," Cas whispered.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"It has nothing to do with confidence. It's simply how this is going to happen. There's no way around it." Castiel glanced over to Death, where Dean was still staring, and forced Dean around to face him. Dean was a little surprised at the movement, then more surprised at the proximity; it was a little close, even for them. Cas quieted his voice some more, and Dean had to really focus. Not just because of the soft tones, but because of the light puffs of air hitting his cheeks. "Listen. It takes roughly 11 days to get to London from here. I'll go ahead and let the others know, and we'll get you out."
"Yeah, good luck with that. Make it quick, in any case."
"Just stay alive. I will find you."
"Why are you writing me off? I don't plan on dying-" He stopped then; it had thrown Dean off, and he then gaped at Cas with a clear, 'Are you serious?' written across his face. "When did you watch that one?" Not that Last of the Mohicans was a bad movie, but it wasn't one he expected Sam to watch with Cas.
"I … don't understand." Cas' eyes shifted.
Dean shook his head with a, "Never mind…" and returned his attention to Death, who was now eating some marzipan and glancing around. Of course he would be, any time something delicious was around. Some things never changed, he supposed. Dean coughed to catch Death's attention - that sounded innocent and not at all ominous - and stepped forward.
"Are you ready?"
Just once more Dean turned to Castiel, who nodded and handed over a purse of money. Being arrested wasn't an issue with Dean. Normally he was technically guilty, but not this time. This time he knew he was completely innocent. Dean's eyes left the purse to rest on Cas. There was a kind of understanding between them, unspoken as always and as familiar as their lives were irregular. Dean took the purse with a brush of fingers - too quick or too long the contact Dean couldn't decide - and then he turned to walk towards Death, and away from Lawrence Hall and Castiel.
***
Dean was used to long rides. He'd driven from coast to coast and back again. Sometimes he was in a hurry, and others he took his time with. He would waste gas for whatever reason he deemed was important enough to waste it on. Concerts, monsters, girls; point was, he was used to long rides for a variety of reasons.
But none of that had prepared him for an eleven-day trip on bumpy roads in a coach with Broody McFrownypants. Apparently Death's name in this universe was Mordecai, which Dean found amusing. Death hadn't found Dean's laughter very amusing, and understandably, so Dean thought it best to just keep quiet for the majority of the trip's remainder. Instead he silently wished they could stop and fix the coach's suspension, since these roads were just nasty and he wished them on no vehicle. He thought that a lot over those eleven days.
But he also contemplated the Death card, and it was sinking in. What was odd was that he didn't feel too bothered by it. Sam had said that the Death card simply signified an end of something. Well, being arrested, by Death, was certainly an end. At least of whatever lifestyle he had and, he hoped, the coming end of his time in Elizabethan England. But he also knew what awaited those who were accused of heresy, and that involved smoke and fire. So he supposed the Death card could also be extremely literal, thank you Sam and Cas for absolutely no help.
Dean sighed. It was a very long and bumpy eleven days.
***
London was … not quite what he thought it would be. Of course, he didn't really think he'd get to see the London Eye, but Dean was surprised at how grungy it was. He didn't expect Molly Maid or anything, but wow-The Jungle should have had a sequel. He said as much aloud to Mordecai, but Mordecai looked like he was contemplating sending him to a psychiatrist. Right, right-keep the references down. (And on second thought, did they even have psychiatrists in Elizabethan England?) What else was odd was that he hadn't expected to be traveling through London this time at night. It was way past bedtime for just about everyone.
He got the feeling that something was Definitely Up when he was ushered into a boat with Mordecai and some other dude, and was silently taken what was probably a hundred or so yards down what he assumed was the River Thames. With each silent stroke of the oar, Dean's apprehension grew. This was just like in the movies, and if the movies were at all correct, he was headed straight for the Tower. He kept his mouth shut - literally bit his tongue - and as the boat entered a small little passage, Dean wanted to die. He was at the Tower, and he knew what happened to people at the Tower. More than anything, he wanted to fight off Mordecai and the other guy, and make a run for it somewhere-anywhere. There was no way he was getting his head chopped off for something he wasn't guilty of. It was one thing to be arrested for suspicion, but laying his head on the block was not going to happen. (Especially for something as stupid as religion.)
"H-heheh, you guys are just pulling my chain, right?" He tugged his own.
The scowl Other Dude gave him was enough to shut him up the rest of the ride. That, and the ravens he could hear giving a lonely call every now and then with a very unpleasant flap of wings. Through the rest of the waterway and through the gate, into the tower; struggling was out of the question if Other Dude's grip was just a normal grip as he was escorted up to where he'd be held. Dean closed his eyes tight as they slowed down in front of the door Dean could only assume led to his cell.
But when he opened his eyes, it was … just a room. Not a jail cell, but an actual room. Bed, windows; chamber pot-all the amenities a prisoner could want. (No, really.) It was better than the crappy cell Henrikson had thrown Sam and him into. Humanity had really taken a step backwards with that one. Dean turned back to Mordecai and Other Dude with a smile. "This place got room service? I'm dyin' for a burger and coke."
The slam of the door was his answer.
"It was worth a shot," he told himself. At least the bed appeared somewhat comfortable. Hell, if this was going to be his jail cell, he was fine; lock him up for years. He could handle being alone, with crappy food. And no music. And no Sam. And no Cas.
Dean glanced out the window. Just, just, just on the horizon, some light was starting to appear. He sighed, ignoring the growing flecks of gold on the purpled river, and the ravens' calling increased with the brightening of the sky. Well, screech all they wanted, Dean returned to the bed and fell on top of it. Even if it was for just an hour, he was going to get some kind of shut-eye.
***
The next day, Dean learned, was the 17th of July. Nothing really happened, except that he was given some food, and man, he really could have used one of Castiel's zippity-doo-dah toothbrushes. He pretty much amused himself by singing a few songs, and rocking out on an air guitar to them. When he was done with that, he managed to engage one of the guards in the hallway in some conversation about his home life. The guard was widowed, and his only son worked at the Exchange. (Which, apparently, was like an Elizabethan shopping mall.) He was actually a pretty nice guy; easy going, didn't take much too personally. Dean liked him.
The day following, however, was not quite the same. He had a visitor, and it was someone he'd not at all expected. Just as he was finishing his lunch, the door had opened and in stepped Jess with a polite smile and curtsey to the guard. When the door shut, she hurried over and took his food aside.
"Hey, I was actually liking that!"
"You don't have time to like it." She pulled a letter out of her purse. "This is from Sam and Castiel-"
"Cas found you guys that quick?!"
"Well of course," Jess said with an amused chuckle. "It's been nearly two weeks since your arrest. Find a fast, strong stallion, and you can get anywhere (well, most anywhere) in England within a week." Right, because Cas would waste his time on horseback. Jess sat facing him on the bed, and handed him the letter. "It's Crowley. Ash has a small network set up, undetected, trying to get as much news and information as he can. According to them, Crowley has people everywhere. Sam told us about Fergus MacLeod and Ash is still trying to get information about that, but he suspects that Crowley's incentive is a clear path between London and Edinburgh. Lawrence Hall stands in the way of that." Did the girl ever pause for air? Had she been like this in real life? "While he's the one that framed you and ordered the arrest, we doubt those who actually brought you here know that. In fact, Westminster received news of your imprisonment only yesterday afternoon."
Dean would have said something along the lines of, You say all of this like I shouldn't be this confused, but then he remembered that he shouldn't be so confused. He probably should have brushed up on Tudor Politics with something more than some Canadian-produced sensual drama series. Damn those Canadians and their sensual drama series. So instead he just said, "Okay…" and prompted her to continue.
"Crowley has control of the Star Chamber, and he's presenting them with overwhelming amounts of false evidence against you right now. An attainder cannot be far behind."
Right. Because he knew what those were.
"There's no way Sam can put anything together in time to save you before any more news leaves the chamber."
There was fright in Jess's voice, and it was evident in her eyes. Dean had a feeling that had he known Jess for more than a few minutes when she was alive, they probably would have been good friends. (And played pranks on Sam.) "So then…" Dean started. "Why're you here? Just to let me know?"
"Yes?" She tried. "But, my advice is to play along as neutrally as you can if any of the chamber interrogates you. Find a way to make their questions your armor. Your answers can't waver, or show any weakness. These men will, literally, rip you apart."
"How the hell am I supposed to answer, then?!"
"Neutrality; cancel them out. Tell the truth, but keep it vague. Blend two answers into one. Just as you would if arguing with Sam and you didn't want to give him a definitive answer. Combine the yes and the no. The details are in the letter. Read it, and move quickly."
Jess leaned forward to kiss Dean's cheek, and she left the room with another curtsey to the guard. She also left Dean with more questions than answers, and that was quite a feat, he thought. He had no idea how this was supposed to happen, and what about Westminster, and the Star Chamber? Mumbling to himself, he opened the letter, and read the pitiful two lines.
No real time to write. Listen to Jess. We're coming for you. Cas is out of juice. Burn this. Sam
Listen to Jess? Awesome advice, thank you Sam, but she was about as confusing and vague as something really confusing and vague. What was that supposed to mean, combine his answers? He had no idea how the Hell that was supposed to happen, or if he even would be interrogated. There were more pressing issues, like Cas being out of juice? Awesome. Stupid angel. Zapping wherever it was he needed to go to get Sam was probably what did it. The second he saw Cas again, Cas was gonna get the right-hook he'd been asking for since Day One, and this time Dean wasn't going to break his hand. If they survived, anyway, but Dean had every intention of surviving.
When it came to burning the letter, there wasn't much Dean could do. He had no fire in the room, and no matches or lighters. So instead he did the next best thing: he spent the next hour making sure he had torn the bits of parchment that had been written on into miniscule confetti flakes. He hummed some Aerosmith while doing it, even muttering out some of the lyrics to Same Old Song and Dance as he decided that there was too much recognizable about the 'S' in Sam's name.
"Not today, fair S. Perhaps another time, another place."
Once the hour had passed, Dean found himself amazingly bored.
Three hours after that, and discovering that there wouldn't be any actual questions needing actual answers, Dean found himself wishing he was once again amazingly bored.
***
The last things Dean properly remembered were being dragged very much against his will down some very unwelcoming halls, and the ravens' screeching sounding more threatening than anything Alfred Hitchcock could conjure up. Before he could even open his eyes, all he could focus on was a painful throbbing at his hairline. He remembered being shoved down a small flight of steps; he must have hit his head and blacked out. For how long he didn't know, but it was long enough, he discovered upon opening his eyes, to be dragged somewhere farther down that hall and shackled to the ceiling by his wrists.
"Son of a bitch," he hissed. He tried pulling as best as he could on the chains, but they were in cemented in rock. They weren't going anywhere. "Dammit!"
Moving his feet, he realized he'd been stripped of his boots, jerkin, and doublet. He was only in his shirt and hosen, and for the first time since he'd arrived in 15-fucking-86, he wanted them back, discomfort and all. Like this he felt far too exposed and open, and Dean did not like it. Shackled to a ceiling, torches the only source of light, and puddles of water soaking his feet; Dean didn't like it at all.
What the hell happened to Sam's plan?! Where were Sam, and Cas? This was what they were supposed to have been avoiding, right?
"You know, it's not often I get to do this with nobility."
Dean froze at the voice, then shot his head up. That lisp was all he needed to hear to feel his blood run cold. Dean tried to focus on breathing evenly, but it wasn't an imagined voice, and it came back.
"I almost don't know where to begin! I'm kind of excited."
Dean forced a laugh. "Well, well, well, Don Corleone. Don't get too excited. You are really not my type."
"Oh, I don't think that'll matter, do you?" A wide and frightening grin spread across Alastair's face as he turned around from a table of Really Unpleasant-Looking Things. He was still as scarily ugly as ever. "I really wish I could tell you we'd both be enjoying this, but that would be a lie. I'm afraid the pleasure will be all mine."
Dean tried wriggling in his cuffs, though he knew it would do no good. He glared to Alastair, his heartbeat quickening every few seconds, and skipping a beat whenever Alastair's eyes flashed. He tried with every rush of blood in his ears to push away any foul memories of a place similar to this. So he grinned, himself. "You could at least romance me with some food, you dick." Humor. Humor was the answer, right?
Alastair walked around Dean, away from the table and offering Dean a view of it he wished he hadn't taken. Those Really Unpleasant-Looking Things looked even less appealing; worse, they looked well worn, and used. Dean's breath left him as he tried unsuccessfully to beat down the panic wracking him.
"You sure?" Alastair asked as he examined a dagger. "I think it would just make an unnecessary mess."
Dean hated to admit that Alastair was right, but with how the bile rose in his throat at the glint of the dagger…. He had to. Dean swallowed it down, closing his eyes. He was surprised to find himself muttering prayer after prayer, focusing on the dark of his eyelids. He tried tricking himself into thinking that the cool metal around his wrists was a comforting contrast to the nervous sweat that proved his heat. It didn't work in the least. He only felt more nauseated, and it angered him.
But he would not show fear his fear. Not to Alastair; never to Alastair.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," he drawled. "What to do first?"
"H-hey, that's Lord Smyth to you, bucko." Trying to buy more time didn't count as showing fear, right? "Breaking the law by torturing nobility, you may as well show some kinda respect."
Alastair's voice was entirely too amused. "Don't worry, I asked that question when they brought you down here. Everything's fine. They're looking into attainting you anyway, so as long as you're cooperative and I'm careful? No one has to get into any more trouble." Alastair gently laid the blade of the dagger against Dean's throat. He applied almost no pressure, but Dean's pulse pressed uncomfortably against the blade. "You know, trying to kill the queen isn't a very nice thing to do."
Dean spat in Alastair's face, screw the dagger. "Fuck you, I'm not trying to kill anyone!" he yelled. "Might make an exception for you, once I'm outta here."
Alastair wiped the saliva off of his face, a practiced sneer being painted on beneath it. "Pity I can't actually kill you, yet." The dagger he held traveled down to Dean's shirt, and sliced through it. Dean's breath rattled, and he sucked his stomach in as much as he could. Alastair had noticed, if that evil little coil on his lips was any indication. "But I can make this as unbearable for you as I possibly can. I'll have you begging for mercy and death before too long."
With no warning, Dean felt Alastair's fist connect underneath his diaphragm. This time his breath really did leave him, and he curled in on himself as well as he could. He choked in as much air as he was able, his mind nothing but a freeze-frame of the demon Alastair standing above him and taunting him. Dean coughed, trying to straighten himself, and his lips twisted up.
"I'd like to see you try," he gasped.
Alastair grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt, his ugly face as close to Dean's as he could get without bumping into each other. His voice was a hiss, and he said, spitting, "Don't tempt me."
***
Dean gripped at the cobble beneath his hand as he fought off the surge of pain in his abdomen and the shocking hot burn where two fingernails used to be. His other arm wrapped in front of his torso where the slash was, warm blood still not clotting as fast as he might have liked. He felt dizzy, and his shoulders were killing him from having been dislocated. His lip was split in several different places, his nose was broken, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Burns were seared on his arms and legs, even his back and chest. His stomach twisted, and he wretched up something foul he remembered Alastair forcing down his throat.
He felt shaky everywhere, and both cold and hot. He felt sick, miserable, and beaten, and it only multiplied when he realized that he actually was all those things. He groaned, trying to roll away from the mess of blood and bile. At first, the water on his back felt so good; such a nice relief, but the sting set in soon enough and he gave a weak grunt. He couldn't move any more.
Fucking Alastair. The only positive thing about the torture was that his intestines weren't spilling out of him.
With an airy groan, Dean gazed at the blurry ceiling. It might have been one minute, it might have been eight, but soon enough he heard the pounding of boots. It was faint at first, but their intensity grew louder. No, Dean thought. He tried to stop himself, but his body automatically turned to his side, still away from the mess, and curled in on itself. He hated the automatic response, and he clenched his jaw to keep from yelling at the pain of his shoulder. He hoped, hoped, hoped it wasn't Alastair back so soon, or anyone else wanting to take any more pride from him. The footsteps came to a stop at the entrance of the chamber, and the silence was thick enough to make his ears pop-probably the only uninjured part of him.
"Dean!"
Before Dean could decipher the voice, the steps were running towards him, and hands were turning him around. Large, warm hands with a familiar touch, and not one that made him cringe away, but feel safe. The voice was Castiel's, and though Dean was sure Cas didn't mean to cause him any pain, Dean was unable to stop seething at every movement. Castiel kept Dean like that for far longer than Dean really thought was necessary, but conscious though Dean was, he couldn't say anything just yet.
There was some rustling around, making Dean moan in agony. (Seriously, Cas, I'm in pain, stop fucking moving.) Something comfortably warm was thrown over him, and he was forced into a sitting position. (Why, Cas?!) His head fell forward to Castiel's shoulder, his arms limp and unmoving at his sides.
"Just let me cover you up," Castiel whispered harshly. "Can you walk?"
Dean's only response was another grunt, followed by a whimper, but Castiel seemed to ignore it in favor of the footsteps thundering their way closer and closer. Fear shook through Dean once more, his hands grasping as tightly as they could to the bottom wing of Castiel's jerkin. It didn't last long, and he fell limp again when Castiel said softly, "It's all right. It's Sam. It's okay."
The steps came to a stop, and even though Dean had relaxed (although minutely), Sam's obvious tension only started to work him up again. He wanted nothing more than to tell Sam he was okay, and pffft-like some loser was going to beat Dean Winchester into submission, or to death.
"He'll be okay." Cas said to Sam. "Go get linen, and ale."
There was no sound, which meant Sam wasn't moving. Then a loud, "Go! Now!" tore itself from Castiel and Sam was off, the sound of splashing water quieting every second.
Each moment after, Castiel's fingers pressed carefully to Dean's throat, checking his pulse. Sometimes they pressed around the smaller wounds to check them. The smaller ones had stopped bleeding, but the larger one, like the one across his abdomen, still bled. Not as heavily as before, maybe, but more than enough to rest comfortably.
"Dean, I am so sorry," Castiel stressed. "This is my fault, I should have made you stay. God, I'm sorry. Dean, can you hear me? Can you talk at all?" Even for as gently as Cas put his hands on Dean's shoulders, it was the wrong move.
"Fuck-!" he yelled. It was muffled into Castiel's shoulder. "M-move your hands!" he rasped. Castiel did as told immediately. "Dislocated," he groaned lightly.
Dean could just imagine what Castiel was doing with his hands, unsure of where to put them. "Why are your shoulders dislocated? How?"
Dean shuddered. "Rack," he harshed. "After he was done using me as a punching bag, he tied me up to the rack and Gonzo'd me. Just my shoulders. Legs are frickin' killin' me, but they're all right, save a few burns."
"I always hated watching them use the rack," Castiel commented.
Dean coughed a chuckle out, and swallowed. The taste of bile burned. His voice was still rough, but he spoke a bit more clearly now. More slowly, and softly. "After that he hung me back up, whipped my back, and cut into my front."
Dean pressed harder into Castiel's shoulder.
"Gotta say, though, you're 3-for-3."
"What do you mean?"
"Hell, man. Third time you've saved me from Hell, and Alastair."
"Oh," he whispered. "I can't claim any of those. I had an army of angels to assist me in Hell, Sam killed Alastair after he escaped my trap, and now I'm afraid there's no hospital, and I can't heal you."
Very carefully, Castiel's hands rested on either side of Dean's face, and he held him up to inspect him. With each passing second, Castiel's face grew more and more regretful. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault this happened. I should have just come for you and conserved my energy, I'm so sorry, Dean."
The blurriness cleared, and Dean stared Castiel dead in the eye for a moment, before his head fell, his forehead hitting against the bridge of Castiel's nose. Castiel's hands remained now in Dean's hair, holding him as best he could without causing any more pain.
"I fucking hate this place," Dean forced out. "I want to go home. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing. I had to be tortured? What kind of game is this?"
Castiel was quiet for a moment before answering, "A cruel one." Gently, Castiel's thumbs rubbed a bit of blood from Dean's cheeks. The action was small, but it was warm and it assured him that although he was hurt and in a world pain, he would be okay. He was Dean Winchester, and apparently if Castiel had any say in it, Dean would be just fine.
The silence they shared was comfortable, the first comfortable silence in a small while, so Dean was almost disappointed when he heard Sam return. After that, he was pretty much at their mercy. They removed whatever shreds remained of his shirt from him, and as careful as they tried to be, wiping the excess blood off of him was still painful as they brushed around open wounds. Sam tried talking to Dean to get his mind off of it, and Castiel used a gentle hand when pouring the ale over the larger cuts. It stung like a bitch, but Dean did his best to keep his volume to a minimum when they wrapped him up as best they could. The worst part was getting his shoulders back in place. Dean may have let a few choice expletives escape him when that happened.
Walking was a hassle. Possible, but very much a hassle. Often his legs wanted to give out; he felt like his strength had been zapped from him, and what with the slash in his front? Every step threatened to trip him. He wouldn't win, even when leaning on Sam and Castiel; it only made him feel weaker.
"You just gotta be honest with yourself, Dean! Admit you're nothing-"
Dean powered ahead as much as he could.
It was dark out, of course, and Dean was exhausted. Sam led them to a large wagon, filled with hay, and extra linen. Dean was more than happy to just fall on top of it, but while Sam hooked the horse to the front, Cas instead felt the need to help Dean lay down. Dean winced as he situated himself, and once the horse was set Sam came back to arrange the wagon's hay around Dean as Cas hopped in next to him and checked to make sure his bandages were still in place. The hay was itchy, but it was still vastly preferable to the cold stone floor of the dungeon.
"I have to cover you guys up until we're out of London," Sam told them. He kept his voice low, his eyes flitting around to make sure they weren't being watched. "It's going to get hot under there for a while, but once we're safe, I'll uncover you."
Dean nodded as best as he could as Castiel laid down just before the linen wafted over them. Having calmed down his movements, everything started to hurt Dean ten-fold as the adrenaline began to ebb. His shoulders hurt almost more than they did when dislocated, and his burns continued to sear him. There was a pounding in and around his swollen eye, and his nerves were still on the fritz where his body bled. It was made no better when the wagon started with a lurch that didn't agree with Dean at all, but then again, much of the rough-roaded journey probably wouldn't.
In the first 15 minutes of the ride, they were stopped once. Thankfully by no one important, it seemed, but after that it was quiet for the next stretch. Castiel never actually asked him if he was okay after any bumps or holes they encountered. Instead he held on to Dean's hands, making sure to avoid the bandaged fingers, and he held them firmly whenever Dean winced. Dean would grip back, his strength determined by the shot of pain, and sometimes a hiss or grunt would escape him. When that happened, Cas would gently rub his thumb over whatever part of Dean's hand it rested on, and he'd give a quiet hum. There wasn't any room to feel awkward or uncertain about anything; not that Dean needed that awkwardness to figure out just how serious the situation was.
"How long do you think it'll be 'til we stop?" he finally whispered after a sharp pain dissipated.
Cas shrugged as best he could. "I'm sure we'll stop for breaks every couple hours, but we may not reach our destination for a day or so."
Dean groaned. "Sucks." He shook his head, a small grin growing in place of the scowl. Castiel's lips twitched up in response, but Dean felt the unfortunate drooping of his unbeaten eye. "Wake me up when I need to be. I'm dead tired, and I hurt."
Castiel nodded. "Of course."
Dean held his breath for a moment when he felt that funny, twisting pull again. It wasn't painful, it didn't make him feel nauseous. It was warm, and soft, and if anything, it helped him feel better. He released his breath, then, "And Cas, thanks." He shut his eyes, falling sleep quickly and he welcomingly let it claim him, but not before he felt something warm press to his brow. It was all he needed for that feeling to settle, and from then on, it was permanent. He wasn't getting rid of this one.
Part IV (a) | * | Part V (a)
But that only angered Dean, because there were some things one didn't joke about, and the cancellation of Dr. Sexy, MD was one of them.
Then Sam left with Jess, promising to return as soon as he could, and Ellen, Jo, and Ash followed not more than 2 hours later.
Then things got awkward.
(At least for Dean.)
Sitting with just Cas at meals, being able to hang out only with Cas-he wasn't complaining since he, y'know, was Cas' good, dear, maybe-more friend. It was just awkward. If Cas noticed, he didn't say anything; he just went on like nothing had changed. His calm proved to be something of an example for Dean's worried nerves. Dean relaxed a little bit, and just as he was about to settle down to something more comfortable as they sat down for chess in the parlor (God, Elizabethans were boring), a servant came to fetch Dean with news of a visitor.
Castiel travelling behind him, Dean hurried to the foyer and caught sight of who came to call. Seeing who was standing there, he got a horrible shiver, and with just one shared look from Cas, Dean regretfully accepted what he really should have seen coming.
There at the door, entirely out of place in the sun, was a tall, lanky man with a sunken-in face. He wore no hat, and his hair was slicked back to show off a high forehead. When Death finally registered Dean's presence, he brandished out a scroll, and read aloud,
"The Right Honorable, the earl of Smyth, you are under arrest for-" He stopped, read ahead, and shrugged. "Heresy." Pause. "Formalities."
But Dean wasn't so amused. Instead, he was actually more shocked, and then he was … a little puzzled. "Uh, heresy?" he asked.
"It means you're not following the preferred religion like they want you to," Cas offered.
"Yeah, I know what heresy means. I don't get why I'm being arrested for it. I've been going to church each Sunday!"
He must have stared pleadingly to Death, because Death just looked confused and taken aback. "Don't look at me, I'm just doing my job."
"But I didn't do anything wrong! Cas-tell him I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Proof and charges have been brought against you. I don't know, nor care, what happened. I care about doing my job, so if you could hurry it up? I'd like to make it to London before the 20th. I have a niece's wedding to attend."
"I'm not gonna just go along with you like this! I'm not guilty of anything!" Dean yelled. A few of the servants stood warily by, and Castiel had stepped up beside him. His hand landed on Dean's shoulder, tugging him just slightly. Eyes remaining on Death, Dean stepped back in compliance.
"You're not going to win this one, Dean," Cas whispered.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"It has nothing to do with confidence. It's simply how this is going to happen. There's no way around it." Castiel glanced over to Death, where Dean was still staring, and forced Dean around to face him. Dean was a little surprised at the movement, then more surprised at the proximity; it was a little close, even for them. Cas quieted his voice some more, and Dean had to really focus. Not just because of the soft tones, but because of the light puffs of air hitting his cheeks. "Listen. It takes roughly 11 days to get to London from here. I'll go ahead and let the others know, and we'll get you out."
"Yeah, good luck with that. Make it quick, in any case."
"Just stay alive. I will find you."
"Why are you writing me off? I don't plan on dying-" He stopped then; it had thrown Dean off, and he then gaped at Cas with a clear, 'Are you serious?' written across his face. "When did you watch that one?" Not that Last of the Mohicans was a bad movie, but it wasn't one he expected Sam to watch with Cas.
"I … don't understand." Cas' eyes shifted.
Dean shook his head with a, "Never mind…" and returned his attention to Death, who was now eating some marzipan and glancing around. Of course he would be, any time something delicious was around. Some things never changed, he supposed. Dean coughed to catch Death's attention - that sounded innocent and not at all ominous - and stepped forward.
"Are you ready?"
Just once more Dean turned to Castiel, who nodded and handed over a purse of money. Being arrested wasn't an issue with Dean. Normally he was technically guilty, but not this time. This time he knew he was completely innocent. Dean's eyes left the purse to rest on Cas. There was a kind of understanding between them, unspoken as always and as familiar as their lives were irregular. Dean took the purse with a brush of fingers - too quick or too long the contact Dean couldn't decide - and then he turned to walk towards Death, and away from Lawrence Hall and Castiel.
***
Dean was used to long rides. He'd driven from coast to coast and back again. Sometimes he was in a hurry, and others he took his time with. He would waste gas for whatever reason he deemed was important enough to waste it on. Concerts, monsters, girls; point was, he was used to long rides for a variety of reasons.
But none of that had prepared him for an eleven-day trip on bumpy roads in a coach with Broody McFrownypants. Apparently Death's name in this universe was Mordecai, which Dean found amusing. Death hadn't found Dean's laughter very amusing, and understandably, so Dean thought it best to just keep quiet for the majority of the trip's remainder. Instead he silently wished they could stop and fix the coach's suspension, since these roads were just nasty and he wished them on no vehicle. He thought that a lot over those eleven days.
But he also contemplated the Death card, and it was sinking in. What was odd was that he didn't feel too bothered by it. Sam had said that the Death card simply signified an end of something. Well, being arrested, by Death, was certainly an end. At least of whatever lifestyle he had and, he hoped, the coming end of his time in Elizabethan England. But he also knew what awaited those who were accused of heresy, and that involved smoke and fire. So he supposed the Death card could also be extremely literal, thank you Sam and Cas for absolutely no help.
Dean sighed. It was a very long and bumpy eleven days.
***
London was … not quite what he thought it would be. Of course, he didn't really think he'd get to see the London Eye, but Dean was surprised at how grungy it was. He didn't expect Molly Maid or anything, but wow-The Jungle should have had a sequel. He said as much aloud to Mordecai, but Mordecai looked like he was contemplating sending him to a psychiatrist. Right, right-keep the references down. (And on second thought, did they even have psychiatrists in Elizabethan England?) What else was odd was that he hadn't expected to be traveling through London this time at night. It was way past bedtime for just about everyone.
He got the feeling that something was Definitely Up when he was ushered into a boat with Mordecai and some other dude, and was silently taken what was probably a hundred or so yards down what he assumed was the River Thames. With each silent stroke of the oar, Dean's apprehension grew. This was just like in the movies, and if the movies were at all correct, he was headed straight for the Tower. He kept his mouth shut - literally bit his tongue - and as the boat entered a small little passage, Dean wanted to die. He was at the Tower, and he knew what happened to people at the Tower. More than anything, he wanted to fight off Mordecai and the other guy, and make a run for it somewhere-anywhere. There was no way he was getting his head chopped off for something he wasn't guilty of. It was one thing to be arrested for suspicion, but laying his head on the block was not going to happen. (Especially for something as stupid as religion.)
"H-heheh, you guys are just pulling my chain, right?" He tugged his own.
The scowl Other Dude gave him was enough to shut him up the rest of the ride. That, and the ravens he could hear giving a lonely call every now and then with a very unpleasant flap of wings. Through the rest of the waterway and through the gate, into the tower; struggling was out of the question if Other Dude's grip was just a normal grip as he was escorted up to where he'd be held. Dean closed his eyes tight as they slowed down in front of the door Dean could only assume led to his cell.
But when he opened his eyes, it was … just a room. Not a jail cell, but an actual room. Bed, windows; chamber pot-all the amenities a prisoner could want. (No, really.) It was better than the crappy cell Henrikson had thrown Sam and him into. Humanity had really taken a step backwards with that one. Dean turned back to Mordecai and Other Dude with a smile. "This place got room service? I'm dyin' for a burger and coke."
The slam of the door was his answer.
"It was worth a shot," he told himself. At least the bed appeared somewhat comfortable. Hell, if this was going to be his jail cell, he was fine; lock him up for years. He could handle being alone, with crappy food. And no music. And no Sam. And no Cas.
Dean glanced out the window. Just, just, just on the horizon, some light was starting to appear. He sighed, ignoring the growing flecks of gold on the purpled river, and the ravens' calling increased with the brightening of the sky. Well, screech all they wanted, Dean returned to the bed and fell on top of it. Even if it was for just an hour, he was going to get some kind of shut-eye.
***
The next day, Dean learned, was the 17th of July. Nothing really happened, except that he was given some food, and man, he really could have used one of Castiel's zippity-doo-dah toothbrushes. He pretty much amused himself by singing a few songs, and rocking out on an air guitar to them. When he was done with that, he managed to engage one of the guards in the hallway in some conversation about his home life. The guard was widowed, and his only son worked at the Exchange. (Which, apparently, was like an Elizabethan shopping mall.) He was actually a pretty nice guy; easy going, didn't take much too personally. Dean liked him.
The day following, however, was not quite the same. He had a visitor, and it was someone he'd not at all expected. Just as he was finishing his lunch, the door had opened and in stepped Jess with a polite smile and curtsey to the guard. When the door shut, she hurried over and took his food aside.
"Hey, I was actually liking that!"
"You don't have time to like it." She pulled a letter out of her purse. "This is from Sam and Castiel-"
"Cas found you guys that quick?!"
"Well of course," Jess said with an amused chuckle. "It's been nearly two weeks since your arrest. Find a fast, strong stallion, and you can get anywhere (well, most anywhere) in England within a week." Right, because Cas would waste his time on horseback. Jess sat facing him on the bed, and handed him the letter. "It's Crowley. Ash has a small network set up, undetected, trying to get as much news and information as he can. According to them, Crowley has people everywhere. Sam told us about Fergus MacLeod and Ash is still trying to get information about that, but he suspects that Crowley's incentive is a clear path between London and Edinburgh. Lawrence Hall stands in the way of that." Did the girl ever pause for air? Had she been like this in real life? "While he's the one that framed you and ordered the arrest, we doubt those who actually brought you here know that. In fact, Westminster received news of your imprisonment only yesterday afternoon."
Dean would have said something along the lines of, You say all of this like I shouldn't be this confused, but then he remembered that he shouldn't be so confused. He probably should have brushed up on Tudor Politics with something more than some Canadian-produced sensual drama series. Damn those Canadians and their sensual drama series. So instead he just said, "Okay…" and prompted her to continue.
"Crowley has control of the Star Chamber, and he's presenting them with overwhelming amounts of false evidence against you right now. An attainder cannot be far behind."
Right. Because he knew what those were.
"There's no way Sam can put anything together in time to save you before any more news leaves the chamber."
There was fright in Jess's voice, and it was evident in her eyes. Dean had a feeling that had he known Jess for more than a few minutes when she was alive, they probably would have been good friends. (And played pranks on Sam.) "So then…" Dean started. "Why're you here? Just to let me know?"
"Yes?" She tried. "But, my advice is to play along as neutrally as you can if any of the chamber interrogates you. Find a way to make their questions your armor. Your answers can't waver, or show any weakness. These men will, literally, rip you apart."
"How the hell am I supposed to answer, then?!"
"Neutrality; cancel them out. Tell the truth, but keep it vague. Blend two answers into one. Just as you would if arguing with Sam and you didn't want to give him a definitive answer. Combine the yes and the no. The details are in the letter. Read it, and move quickly."
Jess leaned forward to kiss Dean's cheek, and she left the room with another curtsey to the guard. She also left Dean with more questions than answers, and that was quite a feat, he thought. He had no idea how this was supposed to happen, and what about Westminster, and the Star Chamber? Mumbling to himself, he opened the letter, and read the pitiful two lines.
No real time to write. Listen to Jess. We're coming for you. Cas is out of juice. Burn this. Sam
Listen to Jess? Awesome advice, thank you Sam, but she was about as confusing and vague as something really confusing and vague. What was that supposed to mean, combine his answers? He had no idea how the Hell that was supposed to happen, or if he even would be interrogated. There were more pressing issues, like Cas being out of juice? Awesome. Stupid angel. Zapping wherever it was he needed to go to get Sam was probably what did it. The second he saw Cas again, Cas was gonna get the right-hook he'd been asking for since Day One, and this time Dean wasn't going to break his hand. If they survived, anyway, but Dean had every intention of surviving.
When it came to burning the letter, there wasn't much Dean could do. He had no fire in the room, and no matches or lighters. So instead he did the next best thing: he spent the next hour making sure he had torn the bits of parchment that had been written on into miniscule confetti flakes. He hummed some Aerosmith while doing it, even muttering out some of the lyrics to Same Old Song and Dance as he decided that there was too much recognizable about the 'S' in Sam's name.
"Not today, fair S. Perhaps another time, another place."
Once the hour had passed, Dean found himself amazingly bored.
Three hours after that, and discovering that there wouldn't be any actual questions needing actual answers, Dean found himself wishing he was once again amazingly bored.
***
The last things Dean properly remembered were being dragged very much against his will down some very unwelcoming halls, and the ravens' screeching sounding more threatening than anything Alfred Hitchcock could conjure up. Before he could even open his eyes, all he could focus on was a painful throbbing at his hairline. He remembered being shoved down a small flight of steps; he must have hit his head and blacked out. For how long he didn't know, but it was long enough, he discovered upon opening his eyes, to be dragged somewhere farther down that hall and shackled to the ceiling by his wrists.
"Son of a bitch," he hissed. He tried pulling as best as he could on the chains, but they were in cemented in rock. They weren't going anywhere. "Dammit!"
Moving his feet, he realized he'd been stripped of his boots, jerkin, and doublet. He was only in his shirt and hosen, and for the first time since he'd arrived in 15-fucking-86, he wanted them back, discomfort and all. Like this he felt far too exposed and open, and Dean did not like it. Shackled to a ceiling, torches the only source of light, and puddles of water soaking his feet; Dean didn't like it at all.
What the hell happened to Sam's plan?! Where were Sam, and Cas? This was what they were supposed to have been avoiding, right?
"You know, it's not often I get to do this with nobility."
Dean froze at the voice, then shot his head up. That lisp was all he needed to hear to feel his blood run cold. Dean tried to focus on breathing evenly, but it wasn't an imagined voice, and it came back.
"I almost don't know where to begin! I'm kind of excited."
Dean forced a laugh. "Well, well, well, Don Corleone. Don't get too excited. You are really not my type."
"Oh, I don't think that'll matter, do you?" A wide and frightening grin spread across Alastair's face as he turned around from a table of Really Unpleasant-Looking Things. He was still as scarily ugly as ever. "I really wish I could tell you we'd both be enjoying this, but that would be a lie. I'm afraid the pleasure will be all mine."
Dean tried wriggling in his cuffs, though he knew it would do no good. He glared to Alastair, his heartbeat quickening every few seconds, and skipping a beat whenever Alastair's eyes flashed. He tried with every rush of blood in his ears to push away any foul memories of a place similar to this. So he grinned, himself. "You could at least romance me with some food, you dick." Humor. Humor was the answer, right?
Alastair walked around Dean, away from the table and offering Dean a view of it he wished he hadn't taken. Those Really Unpleasant-Looking Things looked even less appealing; worse, they looked well worn, and used. Dean's breath left him as he tried unsuccessfully to beat down the panic wracking him.
"You sure?" Alastair asked as he examined a dagger. "I think it would just make an unnecessary mess."
Dean hated to admit that Alastair was right, but with how the bile rose in his throat at the glint of the dagger…. He had to. Dean swallowed it down, closing his eyes. He was surprised to find himself muttering prayer after prayer, focusing on the dark of his eyelids. He tried tricking himself into thinking that the cool metal around his wrists was a comforting contrast to the nervous sweat that proved his heat. It didn't work in the least. He only felt more nauseated, and it angered him.
But he would not show fear his fear. Not to Alastair; never to Alastair.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," he drawled. "What to do first?"
"H-hey, that's Lord Smyth to you, bucko." Trying to buy more time didn't count as showing fear, right? "Breaking the law by torturing nobility, you may as well show some kinda respect."
Alastair's voice was entirely too amused. "Don't worry, I asked that question when they brought you down here. Everything's fine. They're looking into attainting you anyway, so as long as you're cooperative and I'm careful? No one has to get into any more trouble." Alastair gently laid the blade of the dagger against Dean's throat. He applied almost no pressure, but Dean's pulse pressed uncomfortably against the blade. "You know, trying to kill the queen isn't a very nice thing to do."
Dean spat in Alastair's face, screw the dagger. "Fuck you, I'm not trying to kill anyone!" he yelled. "Might make an exception for you, once I'm outta here."
Alastair wiped the saliva off of his face, a practiced sneer being painted on beneath it. "Pity I can't actually kill you, yet." The dagger he held traveled down to Dean's shirt, and sliced through it. Dean's breath rattled, and he sucked his stomach in as much as he could. Alastair had noticed, if that evil little coil on his lips was any indication. "But I can make this as unbearable for you as I possibly can. I'll have you begging for mercy and death before too long."
With no warning, Dean felt Alastair's fist connect underneath his diaphragm. This time his breath really did leave him, and he curled in on himself as well as he could. He choked in as much air as he was able, his mind nothing but a freeze-frame of the demon Alastair standing above him and taunting him. Dean coughed, trying to straighten himself, and his lips twisted up.
"I'd like to see you try," he gasped.
Alastair grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt, his ugly face as close to Dean's as he could get without bumping into each other. His voice was a hiss, and he said, spitting, "Don't tempt me."
***
Dean gripped at the cobble beneath his hand as he fought off the surge of pain in his abdomen and the shocking hot burn where two fingernails used to be. His other arm wrapped in front of his torso where the slash was, warm blood still not clotting as fast as he might have liked. He felt dizzy, and his shoulders were killing him from having been dislocated. His lip was split in several different places, his nose was broken, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Burns were seared on his arms and legs, even his back and chest. His stomach twisted, and he wretched up something foul he remembered Alastair forcing down his throat.
He felt shaky everywhere, and both cold and hot. He felt sick, miserable, and beaten, and it only multiplied when he realized that he actually was all those things. He groaned, trying to roll away from the mess of blood and bile. At first, the water on his back felt so good; such a nice relief, but the sting set in soon enough and he gave a weak grunt. He couldn't move any more.
Fucking Alastair. The only positive thing about the torture was that his intestines weren't spilling out of him.
With an airy groan, Dean gazed at the blurry ceiling. It might have been one minute, it might have been eight, but soon enough he heard the pounding of boots. It was faint at first, but their intensity grew louder. No, Dean thought. He tried to stop himself, but his body automatically turned to his side, still away from the mess, and curled in on itself. He hated the automatic response, and he clenched his jaw to keep from yelling at the pain of his shoulder. He hoped, hoped, hoped it wasn't Alastair back so soon, or anyone else wanting to take any more pride from him. The footsteps came to a stop at the entrance of the chamber, and the silence was thick enough to make his ears pop-probably the only uninjured part of him.
"Dean!"
Before Dean could decipher the voice, the steps were running towards him, and hands were turning him around. Large, warm hands with a familiar touch, and not one that made him cringe away, but feel safe. The voice was Castiel's, and though Dean was sure Cas didn't mean to cause him any pain, Dean was unable to stop seething at every movement. Castiel kept Dean like that for far longer than Dean really thought was necessary, but conscious though Dean was, he couldn't say anything just yet.
There was some rustling around, making Dean moan in agony. (Seriously, Cas, I'm in pain, stop fucking moving.) Something comfortably warm was thrown over him, and he was forced into a sitting position. (Why, Cas?!) His head fell forward to Castiel's shoulder, his arms limp and unmoving at his sides.
"Just let me cover you up," Castiel whispered harshly. "Can you walk?"
Dean's only response was another grunt, followed by a whimper, but Castiel seemed to ignore it in favor of the footsteps thundering their way closer and closer. Fear shook through Dean once more, his hands grasping as tightly as they could to the bottom wing of Castiel's jerkin. It didn't last long, and he fell limp again when Castiel said softly, "It's all right. It's Sam. It's okay."
The steps came to a stop, and even though Dean had relaxed (although minutely), Sam's obvious tension only started to work him up again. He wanted nothing more than to tell Sam he was okay, and pffft-like some loser was going to beat Dean Winchester into submission, or to death.
"He'll be okay." Cas said to Sam. "Go get linen, and ale."
There was no sound, which meant Sam wasn't moving. Then a loud, "Go! Now!" tore itself from Castiel and Sam was off, the sound of splashing water quieting every second.
Each moment after, Castiel's fingers pressed carefully to Dean's throat, checking his pulse. Sometimes they pressed around the smaller wounds to check them. The smaller ones had stopped bleeding, but the larger one, like the one across his abdomen, still bled. Not as heavily as before, maybe, but more than enough to rest comfortably.
"Dean, I am so sorry," Castiel stressed. "This is my fault, I should have made you stay. God, I'm sorry. Dean, can you hear me? Can you talk at all?" Even for as gently as Cas put his hands on Dean's shoulders, it was the wrong move.
"Fuck-!" he yelled. It was muffled into Castiel's shoulder. "M-move your hands!" he rasped. Castiel did as told immediately. "Dislocated," he groaned lightly.
Dean could just imagine what Castiel was doing with his hands, unsure of where to put them. "Why are your shoulders dislocated? How?"
Dean shuddered. "Rack," he harshed. "After he was done using me as a punching bag, he tied me up to the rack and Gonzo'd me. Just my shoulders. Legs are frickin' killin' me, but they're all right, save a few burns."
"I always hated watching them use the rack," Castiel commented.
Dean coughed a chuckle out, and swallowed. The taste of bile burned. His voice was still rough, but he spoke a bit more clearly now. More slowly, and softly. "After that he hung me back up, whipped my back, and cut into my front."
Dean pressed harder into Castiel's shoulder.
"Gotta say, though, you're 3-for-3."
"What do you mean?"
"Hell, man. Third time you've saved me from Hell, and Alastair."
"Oh," he whispered. "I can't claim any of those. I had an army of angels to assist me in Hell, Sam killed Alastair after he escaped my trap, and now I'm afraid there's no hospital, and I can't heal you."
Very carefully, Castiel's hands rested on either side of Dean's face, and he held him up to inspect him. With each passing second, Castiel's face grew more and more regretful. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault this happened. I should have just come for you and conserved my energy, I'm so sorry, Dean."
The blurriness cleared, and Dean stared Castiel dead in the eye for a moment, before his head fell, his forehead hitting against the bridge of Castiel's nose. Castiel's hands remained now in Dean's hair, holding him as best he could without causing any more pain.
"I fucking hate this place," Dean forced out. "I want to go home. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing. I had to be tortured? What kind of game is this?"
Castiel was quiet for a moment before answering, "A cruel one." Gently, Castiel's thumbs rubbed a bit of blood from Dean's cheeks. The action was small, but it was warm and it assured him that although he was hurt and in a world pain, he would be okay. He was Dean Winchester, and apparently if Castiel had any say in it, Dean would be just fine.
The silence they shared was comfortable, the first comfortable silence in a small while, so Dean was almost disappointed when he heard Sam return. After that, he was pretty much at their mercy. They removed whatever shreds remained of his shirt from him, and as careful as they tried to be, wiping the excess blood off of him was still painful as they brushed around open wounds. Sam tried talking to Dean to get his mind off of it, and Castiel used a gentle hand when pouring the ale over the larger cuts. It stung like a bitch, but Dean did his best to keep his volume to a minimum when they wrapped him up as best they could. The worst part was getting his shoulders back in place. Dean may have let a few choice expletives escape him when that happened.
Walking was a hassle. Possible, but very much a hassle. Often his legs wanted to give out; he felt like his strength had been zapped from him, and what with the slash in his front? Every step threatened to trip him. He wouldn't win, even when leaning on Sam and Castiel; it only made him feel weaker.
"You just gotta be honest with yourself, Dean! Admit you're nothing-"
Dean powered ahead as much as he could.
It was dark out, of course, and Dean was exhausted. Sam led them to a large wagon, filled with hay, and extra linen. Dean was more than happy to just fall on top of it, but while Sam hooked the horse to the front, Cas instead felt the need to help Dean lay down. Dean winced as he situated himself, and once the horse was set Sam came back to arrange the wagon's hay around Dean as Cas hopped in next to him and checked to make sure his bandages were still in place. The hay was itchy, but it was still vastly preferable to the cold stone floor of the dungeon.
"I have to cover you guys up until we're out of London," Sam told them. He kept his voice low, his eyes flitting around to make sure they weren't being watched. "It's going to get hot under there for a while, but once we're safe, I'll uncover you."
Dean nodded as best as he could as Castiel laid down just before the linen wafted over them. Having calmed down his movements, everything started to hurt Dean ten-fold as the adrenaline began to ebb. His shoulders hurt almost more than they did when dislocated, and his burns continued to sear him. There was a pounding in and around his swollen eye, and his nerves were still on the fritz where his body bled. It was made no better when the wagon started with a lurch that didn't agree with Dean at all, but then again, much of the rough-roaded journey probably wouldn't.
In the first 15 minutes of the ride, they were stopped once. Thankfully by no one important, it seemed, but after that it was quiet for the next stretch. Castiel never actually asked him if he was okay after any bumps or holes they encountered. Instead he held on to Dean's hands, making sure to avoid the bandaged fingers, and he held them firmly whenever Dean winced. Dean would grip back, his strength determined by the shot of pain, and sometimes a hiss or grunt would escape him. When that happened, Cas would gently rub his thumb over whatever part of Dean's hand it rested on, and he'd give a quiet hum. There wasn't any room to feel awkward or uncertain about anything; not that Dean needed that awkwardness to figure out just how serious the situation was.
"How long do you think it'll be 'til we stop?" he finally whispered after a sharp pain dissipated.
Cas shrugged as best he could. "I'm sure we'll stop for breaks every couple hours, but we may not reach our destination for a day or so."
Dean groaned. "Sucks." He shook his head, a small grin growing in place of the scowl. Castiel's lips twitched up in response, but Dean felt the unfortunate drooping of his unbeaten eye. "Wake me up when I need to be. I'm dead tired, and I hurt."
Castiel nodded. "Of course."
Dean held his breath for a moment when he felt that funny, twisting pull again. It wasn't painful, it didn't make him feel nauseous. It was warm, and soft, and if anything, it helped him feel better. He released his breath, then, "And Cas, thanks." He shut his eyes, falling sleep quickly and he welcomingly let it claim him, but not before he felt something warm press to his brow. It was all he needed for that feeling to settle, and from then on, it was permanent. He wasn't getting rid of this one.
Part IV (a) | * | Part V (a)