Supernatural fic: Not Gone...Dormant
Title: Not Gone...Dormant
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Castiel
Summary: It turns out angel blood is even more addictive than demon blood.
Warnings/Spoilers: Erm...creepiness (I hope).
Word Count: 539
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Stop reminding me.
Author’s Notes: This was written for a prompt (which is also the summary of this fic) on the sharp_teeth LJ comm.
Not Gone…Dormant
All it takes is a taste.
And not like the “just a taste” of demon blood either. Then, he’d barely let it touch his tongue before he spat it out, disgusted with himself. It’d taken him weeks to get used to it. But with this blood…a measly one drop-and not even a big drop at that-falls onto his lips, and reflexively he licks it off. The blood is tangy, tangy and sweet, like a piece of candy that’s sour at first, but once you get past the covering, it’s deliciously saccharine.
He glances up, at where Dean is busy wrapping bandages around a wound that Castiel had suffered in his latest fight alongside the Winchesters. The drop had come from, as Sam notes, a blood-soaked rag that Dean had tossed on the table next to Sam, the soggy cloth spraying some of its liquid wonder into the musty air.
Sam looks at his brother, noticing that Dean has an injury of his own; a broken arm, it seems. Sam realizes he’s the only one unscathed, and he isn’t sure why that pleases him, but it does. “Go get that set, Dean,” he hears himself saying. “I’ll fix Cas up.”
“I’m fine, Sam,” says Dean, in that usual gruff way of his, even as he struggles to wrap the bandage with one hand.
“Dean,” Sam intones, putting just the right levels of whine and beseeching into his voice to where he knows Dean won’t be able to resist complying.
Seething, Dean glares at Sam, then glances at Castiel, then groans. “Fine,” he replies, reaching for the keys of the Impala. (Sam would pay more attention to how badly Dean must have fractured his arm if he’s this willing to go to a hospital, were it not for the saliva continuing to coat his mouth, that one drop of angelic lifeblood still spreading across his taste buds.)
Sam waits until Dean leaves, the Impala’s guttural engine dying away, and then stands up from his chair, walking-stalking, some might say-over to the bed where Castiel sits. He takes Castiel’s arm in his grip and unravels the haphazard bandaging job Dean had done, revealing the gaping wound underneath. “Looks like that’s pretty bad,” says Sam, fixated on the glistening red and feeling a familiar buzzing throb flow through his veins. “Does it hurt?”
Castiel stares at Sam for a moment, perplexed but oblivious to Sam’s hunger. “Not particularly,” he says. “But it is annoying.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” says Sam.
Castiel nods, having no reason to not trust Sam. He’d forgiven the boy long ago for his bout with demon blood addiction; and besides, he knows the Winchester brothers are better at patching up injuries than he is. “Thank you,” he replies.
Sam merely smiles, the grin beginning at one corner of his mouth and stretching slowly to the other, his dimples deepening and his eyes darkening. With a well-placed blow, Sam knocks Castiel unconscious, the angel, confined by his vessel’s limitations, falling limp on the mattress. Sam stands up to cross the room, locking the door, and then, steadily, walks back towards Castiel, sitting once more on the bed and taking the angel’s arm.
And then he feasts.
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Castiel
Summary: It turns out angel blood is even more addictive than demon blood.
Warnings/Spoilers: Erm...creepiness (I hope).
Word Count: 539
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Stop reminding me.
Author’s Notes: This was written for a prompt (which is also the summary of this fic) on the sharp_teeth LJ comm.
Not Gone…Dormant
All it takes is a taste.
And not like the “just a taste” of demon blood either. Then, he’d barely let it touch his tongue before he spat it out, disgusted with himself. It’d taken him weeks to get used to it. But with this blood…a measly one drop-and not even a big drop at that-falls onto his lips, and reflexively he licks it off. The blood is tangy, tangy and sweet, like a piece of candy that’s sour at first, but once you get past the covering, it’s deliciously saccharine.
He glances up, at where Dean is busy wrapping bandages around a wound that Castiel had suffered in his latest fight alongside the Winchesters. The drop had come from, as Sam notes, a blood-soaked rag that Dean had tossed on the table next to Sam, the soggy cloth spraying some of its liquid wonder into the musty air.
Sam looks at his brother, noticing that Dean has an injury of his own; a broken arm, it seems. Sam realizes he’s the only one unscathed, and he isn’t sure why that pleases him, but it does. “Go get that set, Dean,” he hears himself saying. “I’ll fix Cas up.”
“I’m fine, Sam,” says Dean, in that usual gruff way of his, even as he struggles to wrap the bandage with one hand.
“Dean,” Sam intones, putting just the right levels of whine and beseeching into his voice to where he knows Dean won’t be able to resist complying.
Seething, Dean glares at Sam, then glances at Castiel, then groans. “Fine,” he replies, reaching for the keys of the Impala. (Sam would pay more attention to how badly Dean must have fractured his arm if he’s this willing to go to a hospital, were it not for the saliva continuing to coat his mouth, that one drop of angelic lifeblood still spreading across his taste buds.)
Sam waits until Dean leaves, the Impala’s guttural engine dying away, and then stands up from his chair, walking-stalking, some might say-over to the bed where Castiel sits. He takes Castiel’s arm in his grip and unravels the haphazard bandaging job Dean had done, revealing the gaping wound underneath. “Looks like that’s pretty bad,” says Sam, fixated on the glistening red and feeling a familiar buzzing throb flow through his veins. “Does it hurt?”
Castiel stares at Sam for a moment, perplexed but oblivious to Sam’s hunger. “Not particularly,” he says. “But it is annoying.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” says Sam.
Castiel nods, having no reason to not trust Sam. He’d forgiven the boy long ago for his bout with demon blood addiction; and besides, he knows the Winchester brothers are better at patching up injuries than he is. “Thank you,” he replies.
Sam merely smiles, the grin beginning at one corner of his mouth and stretching slowly to the other, his dimples deepening and his eyes darkening. With a well-placed blow, Sam knocks Castiel unconscious, the angel, confined by his vessel’s limitations, falling limp on the mattress. Sam stands up to cross the room, locking the door, and then, steadily, walks back towards Castiel, sitting once more on the bed and taking the angel’s arm.
And then he feasts.