fic: I Will Make You Fishers of Men [SPN, Dean/Cas]
Title: I Will Make You Fishers of Men
Author: littlehollyleaf
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: up to and including 7.02
Category: h/c (homg! I wrote h/c)
Warning: Um, tentacles?
Rating: R
Word count: ~3, 700
Summary: Castiel's still alive, barely, buried deep inside the Boss Leviathan. Until the sound of Dean in pain gives him the strength to break free. But without access to his Grace is Castiel too weak and too late to save his dying friend?
Author's Note: Belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY to takadainmate, who wanted Dean/Cas with Leviathan tentacles. I did my best, hon ♥ Title from Matthew 4:19 "And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."
I Will Make You Fishers of Men
For the longest time - or, he thinks on reflection, for no time at all - there's nothing but darkness.
Castiel tries his utmost to pierce the veil, but the black is impenetrable and after a time - or not - it's all he can do to keep a hold of himself. More than once he finds himself musing over the syllables of his name like they're a foreign thing, an idle curiosity. Only to have their meaning rush back to him in what seems the very instant of loss - the truth of them, of him, of the whole sorry situation snatched from the edge of the abyss just as gravity threatens to topple him over.
This, more than the dark, is what scares him. Because here, in this vast, unfathomable nothing, the only power he has is his name. If he loses that...
It's at one such time, as he teeters precariously on the brink of non-existence, that he first hears the voice.
It says, echoing around and within him, everywhere and nowhere - get the fuck out of my friend, you filthy son of a bitch! And Castiel wants to weep for the joy of it because the highest hosts of Heaven never sounded so sweet.
Every gruff and harshly-spoken word is a lifeline from then on, anchoring Castiel within himself and giving him new strength. He redoubles his efforts to escape, to fight the inky shroud, refusing to lie quietly in his tomb.
But even so, it's useless. As hard as he tries, the black is stronger.
Until Dean starts screaming.
It's more like choking at first. Muffled, bitten back grunts that Castiel can't be sure are born of pain or not. Then the first cry breaks through and there's no doubt - whatever's happening to his friend is agony. And it doesn't stop. Just gets louder and louder and sharper, driving Castiel frantic. Enough that the nothing becomes the vague semblance of something. Something with walls, hemming him in. He doesn't stop to think, he flies at them. He smashes against them. He pounds their insubstantial surface, focuses everything he has on breaking them down.
Then the screaming stops and a wildness grows in Castiel. Out! He has to get out!
He gathers himself, surges forward, up, down and around at the same time and -
It's something of an irony, Castiel thinks, that after longing for anything but darkness his first glimpse of light should make him want to block the warm, yellow-tinted glare out again. But so it is. His eyes scrunch up against the glare, plunging him once more into the black he's been trying to evade. But -
Wait.
Eyes. He has eyes.
He blinks them open again quickly and blurred visions swim in front of him, colours and shapes converging.
There seems a great deal of red. Then pale white. A hint of green.
Then his eyesight clears and Dean Winchester comes into focus. He's slumped upright somehow against a dark wall, greying plaster peeling away from it, wide patches covered in damp.
The red is all over Dean and it's not long before Castiel sees it's blood, fresh and dripping. It's difficult to identify the precise cause because there are so very many possibilities. The gash across Dean's forehead is perhaps most prominent and responsible for the majority of blood painting the side of Dean's face and matting his hair, but there's also a couple of cruel splits in his lips that must share the blame for some of the hurt at least. Then there's the markings about Dean's throat - a dark circle of fingerprints and tiny half moon cuts where nails have broken the skin. Not to mention the way Dean's right eye is almost obscured by a large, mottled bruise expanding around it.
He looks, Castiel reflects, sick to the stomach at the thought of it, like hell. Not the drab, psychological torture Crowley had shown Castiel the fatal night of their bargaining but the fire and brimstone he remembers from his first visit. Back when the pain had been, everywhere and always, a physical, visceral thing. He'd seen souls in far worse condition than Dean appears now of course, but that his friend should even be close to such a fate - again - is bad enough.
Castiel grapples with his newfound limbs, reaching out to try and clean Dean up where he can. Weary eyes catch the movement - Dean's right nothing but a slit in swollen skin - and the hunter flinches away as Castiel's hand draws near.
This stops Castiel at once. This and the vibrant, terrifying spots of red along his fingers, dotting his knuckles and the white cuff at his wrist. He draws in a sharp breath, looks down and forgets to breathe altogether.
Dean is not slumped against the wall. He is being held to the wall by the point of a long, serrated blade piercing his side. Castiel's other hand is gripped tight about the handle, digging the weapon in so far he can feel the brush of Dean's jacket over his fingertips.
No thought goes into what Castiel does next, all he knows is a wave of horror that draws him back, pulling the blade with him. Dean makes a small, whimpering sound as the knife leaves him, sagging down, but even through the hurt he has the presence of mind to press a hand to the wound and keep it there.
Meanwhile, Castiel lets the blade drop to the floor with a clatter, running shaking hands up and down his clothes, overwhelmed by the urge to remove the crimson taint from them as soon as possible. Dean watches him, breathing ragged. At first he is expressionless, then his features slowly twist into a sneer.
"What?" he chokes. "Decided red isn't your col-?" His last word is lost in a fit of wet, racking coughs. He struggles under the strain of them, losing his footing and his hold on the wall until he is sliding to the ground. Castiel is shocked to see more flecks of blood spew from his lips.
"Dean, I..." he breathes, finding his voice. Dismissing the need to cleanse himself he hurries to his knees before the man. "Dean."
He lifts his hand again, pausing helplessly over Dean's shoulder, unsure where he can touch that will not be the cause of more pain.
Dean takes a couple of shallow breaths and stares at him, long and hard.
"C...Cas?" he asks after a moment and, to Castiel's great distress, removes the hand from his now heavily bleeding side to try and curl slippery, blood-coated fingers round Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel takes Dean's hand and presses it back, feels Dean's life pulse over both of them regardless, hot and sticky. He nods.
"It's me, Dean. I'm here."
A pointless repetition, but he is too distracted to attempt a more comprehensive grasp of language at present. Dean does not seem to care in any case, his lips breaking upwards on one side, cracking the splits in them back open.
"Knew... knew you were in there... somewhere. I -"
Dean chokes again and Castiel uses his other hand to hold his friend's shaking body against the wall.
"Hush, Dean. You are... gravely injured, you mustn't -"
"Gotta... got, spell," Dean presses on regardless, as stubborn as ever. "Sam'n... Bobby are fixing it. Gonna... fix you. Get those bastards..." He coughs again, head dropping down. When he draws himself back up there are fresh spots of red on his chin. He seems to be less afflicted now, though, because there's a cocky glint in his eye and when he speaks his voice is firmer, with a hint of his familiar, arrogant twang. "Offered myself as a distraction..." His lips quirk again and he leans forward, voice lowering to a conspirative whisper. "Mighta convinced the others I could stop you... it... them from killing me." He splutters out what Castiel assumes from his smile is supposed to be laughter. "Ooops..."
Castiel shakes his head. He can feel something breaking inside him, just as bad as the man before him has been. By his hand, because of his weakness. And Dean had offered himself - a willing sacrifice. It's not right. He's not worth it.
"S'okay," Dean mutters, frowning at Castiel's expression. He tries to lift his other hand, the one that isn't being held down by Castiel's own, but draws it barely an inch off the floor before lack of strength sees it drop down again, knuckles hitting concrete with a dull thud. "You didn't... s'the only way... had to..."
He tries again to lean closer, but Castiel shuffles forward instead, moving his hand from Dean's shoulder to his forehead, automatically holding two fingers together for a more concentrated channel of power. He presses the tips to Dean's skin and searches within himself.
Nothing.
He tries again.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
No. No. It seems almost that the darkness was preferable to this, this failure, the knowledge that Dean Winchester's life is here within his grasp, here where he can feel it slipping away from him. He moves his hand back and closes his eyes - hoping, briefly, that this will return him to the black where he will find this has been nothing but a dream. Or nightmare rather.
But even as he thinks it he feels Dean's laboured breath on his face, feels the hunter sag against him until their foreheads touch.
"Cas," Dean says, so quiet Castiel knows he would never have heard if they weren't so close. "You gotta... you gotta look after Sam..."
As soft as the words are they strike Castiel like a physical blow. Because Dean would never, never, give up Sam if he had the choice.
He cannot allow this. He will not.
He just needs to focus. Concentrate. Unfurl his wings and find his grace. Yes.
Castiel breathes in deep and searches for the centre of himself, his true self. Truth be told, he suspects the ancient powers that held him captive have been chipping away at it, systematically destroying it piece by piece, leaving him nothing. But he can't let himself think that now. Dean needs him, and he can't let his friend down. Not again.
There, there. A kernel of power. If he can just...
It's with a sigh of relief that Castiel feels power unlocking inside him, expanding out, breaking the confines of his physical form.
Except, instead of the two familiar appendages he is expecting he can sense... multitudes. More and still more of them, growing, blooming out of him like vines in the spring. Curling and twisting, entwining and breaking free in an intricate dance.
Gasping, he jerks his head back, opens his eyes and stares.
These are no wings.
There are no feathers to be seen on these thin, delicate, whip-like limbs filling the space around him and trembling in the cool air. These long things that sway and stretch out in lazy, hypnotic swirls, like serpents, as though trying to taste the world they are newly born to. Each of them a rich and shining black he has come to know all too well.
Not his power then.
What are these new monsters Castiel has unleashed?
A spike of fear runs through him and the things react. But not to attack Castiel in his weakness as he might expect or to strike him down and bind him. Instead they shiver and group together, making complex patterns and braids. Embracing, Castiel realises, like lovers, or family. And he can feel them. He senses comfort and a soothing of his dread. Yours, they seem to whisper. We are yours. Don't be afraid.
Calmer, Castiel focuses on one pair, opens himself to them and watches, wide-eyed, as they untwist at his command. He extends his thoughts and looks on in wonder as the others bend and flex, darting and swimming round each other for him with easy, natural grace. Wild and ancient and, oh, so beautiful Castiel could sing.
Not his power. But now the tables are turned on his tormentors. They may have drained him of his grace strand by strand, but now he has mastery over their strength. Now he is in control of them.
He looks back to Dean and finds the man unawares, chin dropping to his chest, breath and heartbeat slowing. Blood pumps sluggishly from Dean's wounds now - he has little left.
Castiel contemplates the tear in Dean's side, poorly held together by their red and slippery palms. But he is not sure of himself enough for that yet. Instead, he turns his gaze to Dean's other hand resting palm upward on the floor, knuckles torn where they graze the cold and uneven ground.
Carefully, Castiel sends a couple of tendrils down to brush the hand. He has them turn it, slowly and softly, stoking the hunter's broken skin. There's no light, no glow of power, but at their touch Dean's wounds begin to knit back together, flesh tightening and smoothing out. Healing.
Dean mutters something unintelligible. Tries to open his eyes.
"Wha-? What happened?" he slurs.
"Nothing," Castiel tells him, aware of the terror his unorthodox appearance may inspire. He needs to keep Dean from that, at least for now. A sudden fluctuation in his heartrate at such a delicate time could end him forever. "Just be still, Dean."
He sends out the rest of the inky vines, some of them curling about Dean's forearms while some of them draw Dean's hand from his side. Both Dean's wrists are encircled while other tendrils press tight against and inside his open wound.
Their power must already be taking effect because Dean finds the strength to struggle.
"Cas?" he cries, looking up and blinking.
Castiel takes Dean's head in his hands to try and keep his eyes forward.
"It's alright -"
"No. Cas, what is that?"
He strains against Castiel's hold, head twisting, trying to see what's happening. Castiel can feel the tensing of Dean's skin where he is being held down, can feel Dean attempting to resist what must seem to him a bondage.
"Dean. Dean," he entreats, slowly and softly, and is gratified when Dean stops fighting and looks at him directly. "Will you trust me?"
Both of them hold, the turn of the universe seeming to pivot on the question.
Then Dean lets out a breath, body relaxing.
He nods.
"'Kay..."
Castiel nods back, something like a smile tugging his lips for the first time in what feels like centuries.
"Close your eyes," he instructs - the better to shield Dean from fearful visions. Dean swallows, like he suspects Castiel's reasoning, but lowers his eyelids nonetheless.
A burst of fondness for this strange, contradictory man erupts inside Castiel. This man who can brave the terrors of the wilderness like a lion, defy the heavens, but who also bows his head, meek as a lamb, when he chooses to, who weeps and trembles in the quiet like a child. He runs a palm down Dean's cheek, trying to gentle the involuntary tremors he can feel under his friend's skin.
"Dean," he breathes, letting foreign but submissive strength flow out of him. "It will be alright. Just, don't fight this."
Dean takes a breath. He may intend to argue, or voice his agreement. Either way Castiel stops him, wanting to convince Dean of his affection, of his care, once and for all. With his wings and grace lost to him Castiel must resort to human expressions of intimacy and, knowing this to be one Dean appreciates, he presses his lips to the man's cut and bleeding ones.
The tension Dean responds with is not ideal, but at least it keeps him still while the new parts of Castiel begin to heal in earnest.
Then Dean seems to melt, breathing a hot sigh down Castiel's throat and kissing back.
They embrace deeply, delving inside each other, and each warm, slick twist and turn seems to mimic the swirls and curls being made across the rest of Dean's body.
When Castiel draws back to give Dean some air Dean's lips are whole again. Swollen still, perhaps, but in an entirely new, and pleasing, way. Dean blinks his eyes open, slow and languid like he's waking from a dream, and for a moment Castiel can see shining ink circling inside them.
Then it passes, melting away as the last of the power drains from Dean's system, leaving him clean. His eyes shine a rich and natural green.
Castiel untangles himself from his friend while Dean blinks and shakes his head, regaining awareness.
"Dude..." he mutters. "The fuck?"
Dean presses one of his newly freed hands to his side and finds the skin there smooth and unblemished, as it should be. He touches his other hand to his lips and runs a couple of fingers across the unbroken, cherry-red curve of them. A movement Castiel follows closely.
He isn't sure whether Dean is questioning the healing or the kiss.
Isn't sure which he is most apprehensive about explaining.
His new features express his uncertainty by rising up around him, each of them waving and shaking in a way that's impossible to miss. And Dean doesn't.
"Whoa!"
Dean's eyes grow wide and he flinches back, gaze darting wildly from moving limb to moving limb. Castiel takes a breath, readying himself for angered shouts and criticism of his stupidity.
Instead, when Dean speaks next his voice is soft. Castiel would almost say he sounds in awe.
"What... what are they?"
When he risks glancing back Castiel finds Dean fixated on his new appendages, face angling up to them as his body leans unconsciously closer to get a better look.
Ah. Perhaps Dean has not yet grasped the implications.
"They are manifestations of this Leviathan's power," Castiel explains, knowing the instant Dean understands what has been done from the way his head snaps round, eyes focusing hard and deep into Castiel's own. In this choice, however, Castiel is unrepentant and meets the gaze. "My power is lost, Dean. Or weakened. Using theirs was the only way to save you."
There's silence for a moment, save for gentle swishing as the tendrils resume their dance. Then Dean sucks in his bottom lip, chews on it and nods.
"Okay," he says. Then, wonder of wonders - "Thank you."
The warmth of this response, and the tender smile that accompanies it, distracts Castiel, making him forget his control. A couple of vines shoot forward, flicking curiously about Dean's neck and prodding his cheek.
"Hey," Dean mutters. "Cut that that out."
"Sorry," Castiel starts. "I -"
He cuts off with a shiver as Dean lifts a hand to swipe at his assailants, brushing them away as you might an errant fly. But oh, the feel of his skin upon them. The touch, as brief as it is, seems to reverberate through all of them. A sudden flare of physical excitement.
Dean holds still when he sees the effect of his gesture, arm still upraised. Then he lifts an eyebrow and curls his lips to one side in a smirk. His hand moves again, finding the nearest vine and smoothing a finger slowly and deliberately down the length of it.
The involuntary gasp Castiel utters in response is not, he thinks, one of his finer moments.
Dean just laughs.
"Jesus, Cas. I have seen some weird shit, but this is by far the weirdest. I can't believe you turned yourself into some kinda of octopus-thing for me."
"Octopus would be an inaccuracy," Castiel answers, still catching his breath. "These limbs number far more than eight."
The hearty laughter Dean gives in response is pleasurable enough to outweigh Castiel's confusion over it.
"God, I've missed you, man," Dean smiles.
It is a marvel, it truly is, that Dean can attach the utmost importance to the most trivial of matters, while letting comments of actual import pass his lips without so much as a thought.
"You have?"
There's a pause as Dean catches his eye, smile faltering. Castiel supposes his tone had been somewhat lacking in levity. When Dean swallows, shifting in discomfort, Castiel decides he should attempt to correct this error.
"We should... find your brother. And Bobby," he says. Humour has never been his forte, but he can at least change the subject. "You said they have a spell."
He attempts to rise, tendrils fanning out at his back, but Dean clasps his wrist to stop him. Castiel turns to him quizzically.
"No, wait. I -" Dean cuts off, licking his lips. It's a gesture Castiel has long come to understand as a sign of uncertainty within the hunter. "I mean. There's no hurry, right? You got these things on lockdown?"
He nods at the twisting mass over Castiel's shoulder.
"I have them secure," Castiel confirms.
"Okay..." Dean nods. "Okay, cool. Well... maybe we could... I mean..." His lips flicker in a brief grin, wild and unsure and yet, strangely enough, more enticing because of it. "I saw this crazy porno a while back and... well, it's not every day you get a chance to actually try something like that. And you did... you know..."
Dean shrugs, eyebrows lifting in a gesture Castiel gathers is supposed to be sufficient enough to convey his friend's meaning. But as with many of Dean's attempts at communication, especially of late, Castiel finds himself unable to discern the message or even glean enough to attempt conjecture.
A porno, he knows, is a form of entertainment involving two or more parties engaged in sexual activities. Usually of a kind that defies both convention and physical limitation. How this relates to himself and Dean at the present time he is unaware.
Castiel decides to be forthright.
"I don't understand."
Dean shakes his head. Castiel thinks the accompanying eye-roll is what might be termed affectionate.
"Dude. You're the one who kissed me," Dean answers. "Here. Let me spell it out for you."
Castiel feels a moment of unease as Dean grips him by the shirt, embarrassed at the mention of his earlier, impulsive, display of affection and unsure what Dean intends. All of which becomes irrelevant when Dean draws them together and kisses him.
"Oh," Castiel murmurs as Dean parts their lips for air.
There's a hum against his cheek as Dean breathes a smile over Castiel's skin. Then Dean reaches a hand over Castiel's shoulder and down his back.
"Oh..." Castiel says again as sensation quivers along hundreds of new nerve endings at once.
They tumble to the floor together and Dean proceeds to relate the details of the porno he'd described. Thoroughly. Twice.
~fin~
Author: littlehollyleaf
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: up to and including 7.02
Category: h/c (homg! I wrote h/c)
Warning: Um, tentacles?
Rating: R
Word count: ~3, 700
Summary: Castiel's still alive, barely, buried deep inside the Boss Leviathan. Until the sound of Dean in pain gives him the strength to break free. But without access to his Grace is Castiel too weak and too late to save his dying friend?
Author's Note: Belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY to takadainmate, who wanted Dean/Cas with Leviathan tentacles. I did my best, hon ♥ Title from Matthew 4:19 "And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."
I Will Make You Fishers of Men
For the longest time - or, he thinks on reflection, for no time at all - there's nothing but darkness.
Castiel tries his utmost to pierce the veil, but the black is impenetrable and after a time - or not - it's all he can do to keep a hold of himself. More than once he finds himself musing over the syllables of his name like they're a foreign thing, an idle curiosity. Only to have their meaning rush back to him in what seems the very instant of loss - the truth of them, of him, of the whole sorry situation snatched from the edge of the abyss just as gravity threatens to topple him over.
This, more than the dark, is what scares him. Because here, in this vast, unfathomable nothing, the only power he has is his name. If he loses that...
It's at one such time, as he teeters precariously on the brink of non-existence, that he first hears the voice.
It says, echoing around and within him, everywhere and nowhere - get the fuck out of my friend, you filthy son of a bitch! And Castiel wants to weep for the joy of it because the highest hosts of Heaven never sounded so sweet.
Every gruff and harshly-spoken word is a lifeline from then on, anchoring Castiel within himself and giving him new strength. He redoubles his efforts to escape, to fight the inky shroud, refusing to lie quietly in his tomb.
But even so, it's useless. As hard as he tries, the black is stronger.
Until Dean starts screaming.
It's more like choking at first. Muffled, bitten back grunts that Castiel can't be sure are born of pain or not. Then the first cry breaks through and there's no doubt - whatever's happening to his friend is agony. And it doesn't stop. Just gets louder and louder and sharper, driving Castiel frantic. Enough that the nothing becomes the vague semblance of something. Something with walls, hemming him in. He doesn't stop to think, he flies at them. He smashes against them. He pounds their insubstantial surface, focuses everything he has on breaking them down.
Then the screaming stops and a wildness grows in Castiel. Out! He has to get out!
He gathers himself, surges forward, up, down and around at the same time and -
It's something of an irony, Castiel thinks, that after longing for anything but darkness his first glimpse of light should make him want to block the warm, yellow-tinted glare out again. But so it is. His eyes scrunch up against the glare, plunging him once more into the black he's been trying to evade. But -
Wait.
Eyes. He has eyes.
He blinks them open again quickly and blurred visions swim in front of him, colours and shapes converging.
There seems a great deal of red. Then pale white. A hint of green.
Then his eyesight clears and Dean Winchester comes into focus. He's slumped upright somehow against a dark wall, greying plaster peeling away from it, wide patches covered in damp.
The red is all over Dean and it's not long before Castiel sees it's blood, fresh and dripping. It's difficult to identify the precise cause because there are so very many possibilities. The gash across Dean's forehead is perhaps most prominent and responsible for the majority of blood painting the side of Dean's face and matting his hair, but there's also a couple of cruel splits in his lips that must share the blame for some of the hurt at least. Then there's the markings about Dean's throat - a dark circle of fingerprints and tiny half moon cuts where nails have broken the skin. Not to mention the way Dean's right eye is almost obscured by a large, mottled bruise expanding around it.
He looks, Castiel reflects, sick to the stomach at the thought of it, like hell. Not the drab, psychological torture Crowley had shown Castiel the fatal night of their bargaining but the fire and brimstone he remembers from his first visit. Back when the pain had been, everywhere and always, a physical, visceral thing. He'd seen souls in far worse condition than Dean appears now of course, but that his friend should even be close to such a fate - again - is bad enough.
Castiel grapples with his newfound limbs, reaching out to try and clean Dean up where he can. Weary eyes catch the movement - Dean's right nothing but a slit in swollen skin - and the hunter flinches away as Castiel's hand draws near.
This stops Castiel at once. This and the vibrant, terrifying spots of red along his fingers, dotting his knuckles and the white cuff at his wrist. He draws in a sharp breath, looks down and forgets to breathe altogether.
Dean is not slumped against the wall. He is being held to the wall by the point of a long, serrated blade piercing his side. Castiel's other hand is gripped tight about the handle, digging the weapon in so far he can feel the brush of Dean's jacket over his fingertips.
No thought goes into what Castiel does next, all he knows is a wave of horror that draws him back, pulling the blade with him. Dean makes a small, whimpering sound as the knife leaves him, sagging down, but even through the hurt he has the presence of mind to press a hand to the wound and keep it there.
Meanwhile, Castiel lets the blade drop to the floor with a clatter, running shaking hands up and down his clothes, overwhelmed by the urge to remove the crimson taint from them as soon as possible. Dean watches him, breathing ragged. At first he is expressionless, then his features slowly twist into a sneer.
"What?" he chokes. "Decided red isn't your col-?" His last word is lost in a fit of wet, racking coughs. He struggles under the strain of them, losing his footing and his hold on the wall until he is sliding to the ground. Castiel is shocked to see more flecks of blood spew from his lips.
"Dean, I..." he breathes, finding his voice. Dismissing the need to cleanse himself he hurries to his knees before the man. "Dean."
He lifts his hand again, pausing helplessly over Dean's shoulder, unsure where he can touch that will not be the cause of more pain.
Dean takes a couple of shallow breaths and stares at him, long and hard.
"C...Cas?" he asks after a moment and, to Castiel's great distress, removes the hand from his now heavily bleeding side to try and curl slippery, blood-coated fingers round Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel takes Dean's hand and presses it back, feels Dean's life pulse over both of them regardless, hot and sticky. He nods.
"It's me, Dean. I'm here."
A pointless repetition, but he is too distracted to attempt a more comprehensive grasp of language at present. Dean does not seem to care in any case, his lips breaking upwards on one side, cracking the splits in them back open.
"Knew... knew you were in there... somewhere. I -"
Dean chokes again and Castiel uses his other hand to hold his friend's shaking body against the wall.
"Hush, Dean. You are... gravely injured, you mustn't -"
"Gotta... got, spell," Dean presses on regardless, as stubborn as ever. "Sam'n... Bobby are fixing it. Gonna... fix you. Get those bastards..." He coughs again, head dropping down. When he draws himself back up there are fresh spots of red on his chin. He seems to be less afflicted now, though, because there's a cocky glint in his eye and when he speaks his voice is firmer, with a hint of his familiar, arrogant twang. "Offered myself as a distraction..." His lips quirk again and he leans forward, voice lowering to a conspirative whisper. "Mighta convinced the others I could stop you... it... them from killing me." He splutters out what Castiel assumes from his smile is supposed to be laughter. "Ooops..."
Castiel shakes his head. He can feel something breaking inside him, just as bad as the man before him has been. By his hand, because of his weakness. And Dean had offered himself - a willing sacrifice. It's not right. He's not worth it.
"S'okay," Dean mutters, frowning at Castiel's expression. He tries to lift his other hand, the one that isn't being held down by Castiel's own, but draws it barely an inch off the floor before lack of strength sees it drop down again, knuckles hitting concrete with a dull thud. "You didn't... s'the only way... had to..."
He tries again to lean closer, but Castiel shuffles forward instead, moving his hand from Dean's shoulder to his forehead, automatically holding two fingers together for a more concentrated channel of power. He presses the tips to Dean's skin and searches within himself.
Nothing.
He tries again.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
No. No. It seems almost that the darkness was preferable to this, this failure, the knowledge that Dean Winchester's life is here within his grasp, here where he can feel it slipping away from him. He moves his hand back and closes his eyes - hoping, briefly, that this will return him to the black where he will find this has been nothing but a dream. Or nightmare rather.
But even as he thinks it he feels Dean's laboured breath on his face, feels the hunter sag against him until their foreheads touch.
"Cas," Dean says, so quiet Castiel knows he would never have heard if they weren't so close. "You gotta... you gotta look after Sam..."
As soft as the words are they strike Castiel like a physical blow. Because Dean would never, never, give up Sam if he had the choice.
He cannot allow this. He will not.
He just needs to focus. Concentrate. Unfurl his wings and find his grace. Yes.
Castiel breathes in deep and searches for the centre of himself, his true self. Truth be told, he suspects the ancient powers that held him captive have been chipping away at it, systematically destroying it piece by piece, leaving him nothing. But he can't let himself think that now. Dean needs him, and he can't let his friend down. Not again.
There, there. A kernel of power. If he can just...
It's with a sigh of relief that Castiel feels power unlocking inside him, expanding out, breaking the confines of his physical form.
Except, instead of the two familiar appendages he is expecting he can sense... multitudes. More and still more of them, growing, blooming out of him like vines in the spring. Curling and twisting, entwining and breaking free in an intricate dance.
Gasping, he jerks his head back, opens his eyes and stares.
These are no wings.
There are no feathers to be seen on these thin, delicate, whip-like limbs filling the space around him and trembling in the cool air. These long things that sway and stretch out in lazy, hypnotic swirls, like serpents, as though trying to taste the world they are newly born to. Each of them a rich and shining black he has come to know all too well.
Not his power then.
What are these new monsters Castiel has unleashed?
A spike of fear runs through him and the things react. But not to attack Castiel in his weakness as he might expect or to strike him down and bind him. Instead they shiver and group together, making complex patterns and braids. Embracing, Castiel realises, like lovers, or family. And he can feel them. He senses comfort and a soothing of his dread. Yours, they seem to whisper. We are yours. Don't be afraid.
Calmer, Castiel focuses on one pair, opens himself to them and watches, wide-eyed, as they untwist at his command. He extends his thoughts and looks on in wonder as the others bend and flex, darting and swimming round each other for him with easy, natural grace. Wild and ancient and, oh, so beautiful Castiel could sing.
Not his power. But now the tables are turned on his tormentors. They may have drained him of his grace strand by strand, but now he has mastery over their strength. Now he is in control of them.
He looks back to Dean and finds the man unawares, chin dropping to his chest, breath and heartbeat slowing. Blood pumps sluggishly from Dean's wounds now - he has little left.
Castiel contemplates the tear in Dean's side, poorly held together by their red and slippery palms. But he is not sure of himself enough for that yet. Instead, he turns his gaze to Dean's other hand resting palm upward on the floor, knuckles torn where they graze the cold and uneven ground.
Carefully, Castiel sends a couple of tendrils down to brush the hand. He has them turn it, slowly and softly, stoking the hunter's broken skin. There's no light, no glow of power, but at their touch Dean's wounds begin to knit back together, flesh tightening and smoothing out. Healing.
Dean mutters something unintelligible. Tries to open his eyes.
"Wha-? What happened?" he slurs.
"Nothing," Castiel tells him, aware of the terror his unorthodox appearance may inspire. He needs to keep Dean from that, at least for now. A sudden fluctuation in his heartrate at such a delicate time could end him forever. "Just be still, Dean."
He sends out the rest of the inky vines, some of them curling about Dean's forearms while some of them draw Dean's hand from his side. Both Dean's wrists are encircled while other tendrils press tight against and inside his open wound.
Their power must already be taking effect because Dean finds the strength to struggle.
"Cas?" he cries, looking up and blinking.
Castiel takes Dean's head in his hands to try and keep his eyes forward.
"It's alright -"
"No. Cas, what is that?"
He strains against Castiel's hold, head twisting, trying to see what's happening. Castiel can feel the tensing of Dean's skin where he is being held down, can feel Dean attempting to resist what must seem to him a bondage.
"Dean. Dean," he entreats, slowly and softly, and is gratified when Dean stops fighting and looks at him directly. "Will you trust me?"
Both of them hold, the turn of the universe seeming to pivot on the question.
Then Dean lets out a breath, body relaxing.
He nods.
"'Kay..."
Castiel nods back, something like a smile tugging his lips for the first time in what feels like centuries.
"Close your eyes," he instructs - the better to shield Dean from fearful visions. Dean swallows, like he suspects Castiel's reasoning, but lowers his eyelids nonetheless.
A burst of fondness for this strange, contradictory man erupts inside Castiel. This man who can brave the terrors of the wilderness like a lion, defy the heavens, but who also bows his head, meek as a lamb, when he chooses to, who weeps and trembles in the quiet like a child. He runs a palm down Dean's cheek, trying to gentle the involuntary tremors he can feel under his friend's skin.
"Dean," he breathes, letting foreign but submissive strength flow out of him. "It will be alright. Just, don't fight this."
Dean takes a breath. He may intend to argue, or voice his agreement. Either way Castiel stops him, wanting to convince Dean of his affection, of his care, once and for all. With his wings and grace lost to him Castiel must resort to human expressions of intimacy and, knowing this to be one Dean appreciates, he presses his lips to the man's cut and bleeding ones.
The tension Dean responds with is not ideal, but at least it keeps him still while the new parts of Castiel begin to heal in earnest.
Then Dean seems to melt, breathing a hot sigh down Castiel's throat and kissing back.
They embrace deeply, delving inside each other, and each warm, slick twist and turn seems to mimic the swirls and curls being made across the rest of Dean's body.
When Castiel draws back to give Dean some air Dean's lips are whole again. Swollen still, perhaps, but in an entirely new, and pleasing, way. Dean blinks his eyes open, slow and languid like he's waking from a dream, and for a moment Castiel can see shining ink circling inside them.
Then it passes, melting away as the last of the power drains from Dean's system, leaving him clean. His eyes shine a rich and natural green.
Castiel untangles himself from his friend while Dean blinks and shakes his head, regaining awareness.
"Dude..." he mutters. "The fuck?"
Dean presses one of his newly freed hands to his side and finds the skin there smooth and unblemished, as it should be. He touches his other hand to his lips and runs a couple of fingers across the unbroken, cherry-red curve of them. A movement Castiel follows closely.
He isn't sure whether Dean is questioning the healing or the kiss.
Isn't sure which he is most apprehensive about explaining.
His new features express his uncertainty by rising up around him, each of them waving and shaking in a way that's impossible to miss. And Dean doesn't.
"Whoa!"
Dean's eyes grow wide and he flinches back, gaze darting wildly from moving limb to moving limb. Castiel takes a breath, readying himself for angered shouts and criticism of his stupidity.
Instead, when Dean speaks next his voice is soft. Castiel would almost say he sounds in awe.
"What... what are they?"
When he risks glancing back Castiel finds Dean fixated on his new appendages, face angling up to them as his body leans unconsciously closer to get a better look.
Ah. Perhaps Dean has not yet grasped the implications.
"They are manifestations of this Leviathan's power," Castiel explains, knowing the instant Dean understands what has been done from the way his head snaps round, eyes focusing hard and deep into Castiel's own. In this choice, however, Castiel is unrepentant and meets the gaze. "My power is lost, Dean. Or weakened. Using theirs was the only way to save you."
There's silence for a moment, save for gentle swishing as the tendrils resume their dance. Then Dean sucks in his bottom lip, chews on it and nods.
"Okay," he says. Then, wonder of wonders - "Thank you."
The warmth of this response, and the tender smile that accompanies it, distracts Castiel, making him forget his control. A couple of vines shoot forward, flicking curiously about Dean's neck and prodding his cheek.
"Hey," Dean mutters. "Cut that that out."
"Sorry," Castiel starts. "I -"
He cuts off with a shiver as Dean lifts a hand to swipe at his assailants, brushing them away as you might an errant fly. But oh, the feel of his skin upon them. The touch, as brief as it is, seems to reverberate through all of them. A sudden flare of physical excitement.
Dean holds still when he sees the effect of his gesture, arm still upraised. Then he lifts an eyebrow and curls his lips to one side in a smirk. His hand moves again, finding the nearest vine and smoothing a finger slowly and deliberately down the length of it.
The involuntary gasp Castiel utters in response is not, he thinks, one of his finer moments.
Dean just laughs.
"Jesus, Cas. I have seen some weird shit, but this is by far the weirdest. I can't believe you turned yourself into some kinda of octopus-thing for me."
"Octopus would be an inaccuracy," Castiel answers, still catching his breath. "These limbs number far more than eight."
The hearty laughter Dean gives in response is pleasurable enough to outweigh Castiel's confusion over it.
"God, I've missed you, man," Dean smiles.
It is a marvel, it truly is, that Dean can attach the utmost importance to the most trivial of matters, while letting comments of actual import pass his lips without so much as a thought.
"You have?"
There's a pause as Dean catches his eye, smile faltering. Castiel supposes his tone had been somewhat lacking in levity. When Dean swallows, shifting in discomfort, Castiel decides he should attempt to correct this error.
"We should... find your brother. And Bobby," he says. Humour has never been his forte, but he can at least change the subject. "You said they have a spell."
He attempts to rise, tendrils fanning out at his back, but Dean clasps his wrist to stop him. Castiel turns to him quizzically.
"No, wait. I -" Dean cuts off, licking his lips. It's a gesture Castiel has long come to understand as a sign of uncertainty within the hunter. "I mean. There's no hurry, right? You got these things on lockdown?"
He nods at the twisting mass over Castiel's shoulder.
"I have them secure," Castiel confirms.
"Okay..." Dean nods. "Okay, cool. Well... maybe we could... I mean..." His lips flicker in a brief grin, wild and unsure and yet, strangely enough, more enticing because of it. "I saw this crazy porno a while back and... well, it's not every day you get a chance to actually try something like that. And you did... you know..."
Dean shrugs, eyebrows lifting in a gesture Castiel gathers is supposed to be sufficient enough to convey his friend's meaning. But as with many of Dean's attempts at communication, especially of late, Castiel finds himself unable to discern the message or even glean enough to attempt conjecture.
A porno, he knows, is a form of entertainment involving two or more parties engaged in sexual activities. Usually of a kind that defies both convention and physical limitation. How this relates to himself and Dean at the present time he is unaware.
Castiel decides to be forthright.
"I don't understand."
Dean shakes his head. Castiel thinks the accompanying eye-roll is what might be termed affectionate.
"Dude. You're the one who kissed me," Dean answers. "Here. Let me spell it out for you."
Castiel feels a moment of unease as Dean grips him by the shirt, embarrassed at the mention of his earlier, impulsive, display of affection and unsure what Dean intends. All of which becomes irrelevant when Dean draws them together and kisses him.
"Oh," Castiel murmurs as Dean parts their lips for air.
There's a hum against his cheek as Dean breathes a smile over Castiel's skin. Then Dean reaches a hand over Castiel's shoulder and down his back.
"Oh..." Castiel says again as sensation quivers along hundreds of new nerve endings at once.
They tumble to the floor together and Dean proceeds to relate the details of the porno he'd described. Thoroughly. Twice.
~fin~