You Got the Silver
Title: You Got the Silver
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Fallen!Castiel
Warnings: Cursing. No beta, so if minor spelling errors make you turn purple, you might wanna read something else.
Word Count: 2,000
Summary: While Cas is still adjusting to a mojo-less existence Dean decides it would be a cool idea to go hunting things. Things with sharp, pointy teeth.
Notes: I’m writing a long fic and got stuck, so I hammered this one out pretty quickly, partly to get un-stuck.
“Cas.”
“Dean.” Cas had a nylon athletic bag open between them on the wide front seat and was slowly and methodically checking each one of the weapons contained within.
“Dude, you can’t spend eight hours at the damn gun range.”
“I need to increase my facility with firearms, Dean.”
“Eight hours? Come on, Cas. People don’t do that.”
“Maybe not. But as you are constantly reminding me, I’m not really a human, am I, Dean?”
That stung. “Look, okay, you’re not, but you need to stop the training crap sometimes and do human things, right? Like sleep. Or eat. Did you have lunch? Or breakfast?”
“I can’t remember,” Cas muttered into a 9 mm.
“How can anyone space out about not eating all day?”
Cas remained silent, but when Dean glanced over, his eyes flashed. “Not. Human.” He snapped the clip back into the Beretta, checked the safety, and placed it back in the bag.
“It won’t help to kill yourself. You wanna faint again? Like that job two weeks ago?”
“I didn’t faint!”
“What was it then?”
“I may have briefly … lost consciousness.”
“Cas!”
“Dean.” Cas heaved a sigh, zipped the bag, and placed it carefully at his feet. “I no longer have access to my powers. I am, as you yourself said, a … baby in a trench coat.”
“Aw, Cas, don’t bring that up again! I was being a dick when I said that.”
“This doesn’t make it less true.” Cas stared out the window for a while, watching old growth forest go by.
“Look, we’re gonna go home, cook you something nice to eat….”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, come on. You must want something? Burgers? I could get fancy and make lasagna, like that hot chick on the cooking show.”
“I prefer neither hamburgers nor hot chick lasagna, thanks, Dean. But I would like an aspirin. Please.”
Dean regarded his companion with deep suspicion. “Headache again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not surprised, spending the fucking day at a gun range!”
“I just require an aspirin, Dean. I promise I will not launch into a life of debauchery like the colorfully imagined version of me you experienced in Zachariah’s vision.”
Dean puffed out his chest. “I’m just trying to keep you safe here! You’re not used to dealing with this human stuff yet.”
“So some day you will remove the padlocks from the medicine cabinet? If I promise to refrain from absinthe and orgies?”
Dean laughed and glanced again over at Cas, who was sitting, truculent as a teenager, slumped down in his seat, arms crossed, vengeful expression twisting his face. Dean had to admit, his friend looked very little like the degenerate version of Cas from Zachariah’s fantasies. He looked more like…. Well, he looked like someone Dean knew well. “I dunno. You want an orgy?” Dean was richly rewarded for the dig by the mortified expression on Cas’s face.
“You’re joking. About the orgy.”
“Hey, you’re getting better at picking that up! You disappointed? You look disappointed.”
Instead of replying, however, Cas pitched forward in his seat, holding his head and moaning.
Dean frantically pulled to the side of the rural highway and stopped the car. “Cas? You okay?”
“Police radio,” Cas grumbled, sitting up, still cradling his head.
“How the hell can you still hear that shit?”
“Painfully. Dean. The station has received word of at least two victims of what superficially appears to be an animal attack.”
“Full moon tonight. Well, that’s suspicious. Did the vics survive?”
Cas put a hand to his head and appeared to be listening. “Two fatal attacks.”
Dean shook his head. “Okay. Good news, bad news I guess. Fewer witnesses, but that saves on silver bullets.”
“Did you want to stop at the mortuary on the way back? What?”
Dean was suddenly lost in thought. “Cas. You remember that case a couple weeks back? We thought we had a haunted house-“
“But as there was no EMF activity, we ascribed the activity to squatters. Yes.”
“Squatters. And their dogs. Their big fucking dogs, with big icky dog piles.”
This got a laugh from Cas. A small one, but a laugh nonetheless.
“Not funny, Cas. My boots still stink.”
“And you’re thinking-“ Cas didn’t need to fill in the end of the sentence.
“You packing silver bullets?”
“I always pack silver bullets.”
Dean grinned, and, gunning the car, executed a neat U-Turn and roared off.
“Dark and creepy. Just the way I like it. All we need is Bad Moon Rising on the radio,” said Dean, showing his flashlight around the ruined house. Cas was hunkering down near a ramshackle bookcase. “Find anything?”
“There have been humans residing here in the recent past, as I doubt lycanthropes bother with bookmarks,” he said, cradling a paperback.
“So what’s on the wolvie bestseller list?”
Cas looked at the cover. He smirked and held it up, shining a flashlight on the cover.
“Archangels: the Spiritual World Beyond the World. Oh boy.”
Cas flipped the book back open. “They are currently reading a dialog with Uriel. I wonder if the author was aware that he is currently deceased?”
“As well as a complete fucking asshole,” sighed Dean.
It was a tiny sound, just a whisper of a rustle.
“What was that?” murmured Cas, snapping the book shut as they listened to a creak somewhere in the house.
“Don’t get jumpy. Might be the wind.” Dean’s silver knife flashed briefly in the moonlight.
“Dean, as you must have noticed, there is no prevailing wind tonight.”
“You got your piece out?”
Cas quietly slid the book under his arm and unholstered a pistol. “As I told you, I currently have exactly three silver bullets in my armory.”
“Make ‘em count.”
They stood together, back to back, keeping their breathing shallow, listening for the nonexistent wind.
There was flash of fur and a deep growl, and the bookcase came toppling down, pinning Cas beneath it. Dean felt himself slammed to the ground by something big and wet and hairy and smelly.
“Wolf! Cas!” yelled Dean, scrambling for his sliver knife. He felt the hilt and stabbed upwards blindly. The big thing that had been on top of him yelped and cringed back, in time for Dean to see there was another werewolf now on top of the bookshelf slobbering over Cas. Two werewolves? Great. Just fucking great.
A snap of jaws by his left ear. Dean slashed at the wolf near him again and leapt over towards the one drooling on Cas. He was still pinned under the bookshelf, one hand gripping a snarling, medium-sized werewolf by the throat.
“Cas! Now would be a good time for the silver bullet thing!” Dean shouted. Cas’s was keeping the wolf at bay while scrabbling for the gun, now just beyond his reach, with his free hand. Dean jabbed the wolf in the back, blood on silver, but then whirled around as the first wolf roared and sprang at him again. Dean plunged the silver blade into its chest and it fell back, whimpering, and he turned around yet again to stab at the wolf snapping at Cas. It growled and body checked Dean, knocking the knife out of his hand, sending it sliding over the floor.
The wolf snarled again and tensed up to pounce, but fell in a sudden small explosion of blood and brain. Cas, gun finally in hand, had nailed it right in the head from under the damned bookshelf. Dean breathed, and then walked over to Cas. “Damn, dude, you gotta-“
Slam! The beast he had stabbed in the chest was now snarling on top of him. “God dammit, stay dead!” Dean screamed at it, grasping at its bloody throat.
Another shot rang out, and the writhing beast was suddenly a wet ball of bloody fur. Dean, still breathing hard, pushed it off. “Ew. Werewolf blood,” he said, regarding his now sticky front.
He crawled over on his hands and knees to where Cas was still lying underneath the bookshelf, gun trailing a coil of smoke.
Dean shook his head in wonder. “Holy fuck, dude. You did that left handed?”
“It was my only free hand,” Cas told him. “Can you please help me. With this book shelf? It’s very heavy. And hard. To breathe.”
“Yeah. Sure man,” said Dean. He and Cas started to heave at the shelf, and managed to shove it off. Dean gripped Cas under the armpits and pulled him up still holding his pistol in a death grip. “You okay? Everything okay? Anything feel broken?”
“I think I want to go home,” said Cas, who had managed to stand, though somewhat shakily.
Dean somewhat reluctantly released his grip. “Hey, yeah. We’ll go home, get a nice hot shower, wash off the doggie smell-“
A howl pierced the night.
Dean pivoted, pushing Cas in back of him as a third werewolf came crashing into the ruined room. They locked eyes, wolf and man, and then it charged them, fangs barred, spittle flecking.
A fucking pack? Dean sucked in his breath. Where the fuck had his knife gone? Fuck!
A pistol fired, smelling of gunpowder.
And it was down, head lolling to the side, blood pooling beneath it.
Cas stood, stock still behind Dean, gun arm still outstretched, breathing hard.
“Cas?”
“I am out of silver bullets now, Dean,” Cas informed him. He faltered, and Dean pulled one of Cas’s arms over his shoulders.
“Okay, yeah, seriously. Time to get out of here.” Dean pressed his hands on Cas’s gun arm, slowly lowering it, extracting the gun from the former angel’s iron grip.
“I think-“ Cas started. “I think I would be inclined towards eating soup.”
“That’s a good choice. Have I cooked you tomato rice soup before?”
“No, Dean.”
“Well, then, you’re in for a treat.”
Cas paused. Still shaking, he squatted down and picked up the Archangel book.
“Some nighttime reading?”
“Yes.”
“Cas?”
“Yes?”
Dean pointed around the room. “Three silver bullets. Three head shots. Good job. Fucking great job, actually.”
“I believe that practice makes perfect,” Cas told him.
“Cas. If somebody, ever again, tries to tell you you’re a baby in a trench coat, kick them in the balls. Okay?”
That got a small smile. “All right, Dean.”
“Let’s go home.”
“So, any words of wisdom from the archangels?”
Cas looked up from the table. He was huddled over his book, bathrobe pulled tight around him, water dripping down from his wet hair. He sported a pronounced five o’clock shadow, as he still hadn’t quite got the hang of shaving. “The author apparently thinks there are only seven dimensions.”
“Well, that’s an oversight.” Dean, who was also wearing a robe, albeit with a bit more flair, laid a bowl of a rich, red tomato soup down in front of Cas, and also presented him with a napkin containing exactly two aspirins.
“I don’t think I need the aspirin any more. Thanks.”
“Werewolves cured your headache?”
“Something like that.”
Dean walked back to the kitchen and returned with his own bowl of soup, and took a seat opposite Cas. Cas carefully laid a marker in his Archangel book, and set it to one side, beside the unruly jumble of books in the place setting just next to him. Several of the books were opened. It looked very much as if someone had been in the middle of doing research and then had been abruptly called away.
Cas dipped his spoon into the bowl and, blowing on it, took a considered sip. “You are right, Dean. This is very good.”
Dean ignored his own soup, and instead ran a hand along the spine of one of the books piled up beside Cas.
Cas paused. “We will find him, Dean.”
“I know.”
“And we will bring him back.”
“I know.”
“And we will all eat soup. And laugh at your terrible jokes.”
“They’re not terrible!” Dean caught himself smiling. “They’re not terrible. And, yeah. Thanks, Cas.”
Cas folded his hands, looking at Dean. They locked eyes for a moment. And then Dean grabbed his spoon.
“Eat your soup, Cas.”
“Yes, Dean.”
NEXT
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/131412.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Fallen!Castiel
Warnings: Cursing. No beta, so if minor spelling errors make you turn purple, you might wanna read something else.
Word Count: 2,000
Summary: While Cas is still adjusting to a mojo-less existence Dean decides it would be a cool idea to go hunting things. Things with sharp, pointy teeth.
Notes: I’m writing a long fic and got stuck, so I hammered this one out pretty quickly, partly to get un-stuck.
“Cas.”
“Dean.” Cas had a nylon athletic bag open between them on the wide front seat and was slowly and methodically checking each one of the weapons contained within.
“Dude, you can’t spend eight hours at the damn gun range.”
“I need to increase my facility with firearms, Dean.”
“Eight hours? Come on, Cas. People don’t do that.”
“Maybe not. But as you are constantly reminding me, I’m not really a human, am I, Dean?”
That stung. “Look, okay, you’re not, but you need to stop the training crap sometimes and do human things, right? Like sleep. Or eat. Did you have lunch? Or breakfast?”
“I can’t remember,” Cas muttered into a 9 mm.
“How can anyone space out about not eating all day?”
Cas remained silent, but when Dean glanced over, his eyes flashed. “Not. Human.” He snapped the clip back into the Beretta, checked the safety, and placed it back in the bag.
“It won’t help to kill yourself. You wanna faint again? Like that job two weeks ago?”
“I didn’t faint!”
“What was it then?”
“I may have briefly … lost consciousness.”
“Cas!”
“Dean.” Cas heaved a sigh, zipped the bag, and placed it carefully at his feet. “I no longer have access to my powers. I am, as you yourself said, a … baby in a trench coat.”
“Aw, Cas, don’t bring that up again! I was being a dick when I said that.”
“This doesn’t make it less true.” Cas stared out the window for a while, watching old growth forest go by.
“Look, we’re gonna go home, cook you something nice to eat….”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, come on. You must want something? Burgers? I could get fancy and make lasagna, like that hot chick on the cooking show.”
“I prefer neither hamburgers nor hot chick lasagna, thanks, Dean. But I would like an aspirin. Please.”
Dean regarded his companion with deep suspicion. “Headache again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not surprised, spending the fucking day at a gun range!”
“I just require an aspirin, Dean. I promise I will not launch into a life of debauchery like the colorfully imagined version of me you experienced in Zachariah’s vision.”
Dean puffed out his chest. “I’m just trying to keep you safe here! You’re not used to dealing with this human stuff yet.”
“So some day you will remove the padlocks from the medicine cabinet? If I promise to refrain from absinthe and orgies?”
Dean laughed and glanced again over at Cas, who was sitting, truculent as a teenager, slumped down in his seat, arms crossed, vengeful expression twisting his face. Dean had to admit, his friend looked very little like the degenerate version of Cas from Zachariah’s fantasies. He looked more like…. Well, he looked like someone Dean knew well. “I dunno. You want an orgy?” Dean was richly rewarded for the dig by the mortified expression on Cas’s face.
“You’re joking. About the orgy.”
“Hey, you’re getting better at picking that up! You disappointed? You look disappointed.”
Instead of replying, however, Cas pitched forward in his seat, holding his head and moaning.
Dean frantically pulled to the side of the rural highway and stopped the car. “Cas? You okay?”
“Police radio,” Cas grumbled, sitting up, still cradling his head.
“How the hell can you still hear that shit?”
“Painfully. Dean. The station has received word of at least two victims of what superficially appears to be an animal attack.”
“Full moon tonight. Well, that’s suspicious. Did the vics survive?”
Cas put a hand to his head and appeared to be listening. “Two fatal attacks.”
Dean shook his head. “Okay. Good news, bad news I guess. Fewer witnesses, but that saves on silver bullets.”
“Did you want to stop at the mortuary on the way back? What?”
Dean was suddenly lost in thought. “Cas. You remember that case a couple weeks back? We thought we had a haunted house-“
“But as there was no EMF activity, we ascribed the activity to squatters. Yes.”
“Squatters. And their dogs. Their big fucking dogs, with big icky dog piles.”
This got a laugh from Cas. A small one, but a laugh nonetheless.
“Not funny, Cas. My boots still stink.”
“And you’re thinking-“ Cas didn’t need to fill in the end of the sentence.
“You packing silver bullets?”
“I always pack silver bullets.”
Dean grinned, and, gunning the car, executed a neat U-Turn and roared off.
“Dark and creepy. Just the way I like it. All we need is Bad Moon Rising on the radio,” said Dean, showing his flashlight around the ruined house. Cas was hunkering down near a ramshackle bookcase. “Find anything?”
“There have been humans residing here in the recent past, as I doubt lycanthropes bother with bookmarks,” he said, cradling a paperback.
“So what’s on the wolvie bestseller list?”
Cas looked at the cover. He smirked and held it up, shining a flashlight on the cover.
“Archangels: the Spiritual World Beyond the World. Oh boy.”
Cas flipped the book back open. “They are currently reading a dialog with Uriel. I wonder if the author was aware that he is currently deceased?”
“As well as a complete fucking asshole,” sighed Dean.
It was a tiny sound, just a whisper of a rustle.
“What was that?” murmured Cas, snapping the book shut as they listened to a creak somewhere in the house.
“Don’t get jumpy. Might be the wind.” Dean’s silver knife flashed briefly in the moonlight.
“Dean, as you must have noticed, there is no prevailing wind tonight.”
“You got your piece out?”
Cas quietly slid the book under his arm and unholstered a pistol. “As I told you, I currently have exactly three silver bullets in my armory.”
“Make ‘em count.”
They stood together, back to back, keeping their breathing shallow, listening for the nonexistent wind.
There was flash of fur and a deep growl, and the bookcase came toppling down, pinning Cas beneath it. Dean felt himself slammed to the ground by something big and wet and hairy and smelly.
“Wolf! Cas!” yelled Dean, scrambling for his sliver knife. He felt the hilt and stabbed upwards blindly. The big thing that had been on top of him yelped and cringed back, in time for Dean to see there was another werewolf now on top of the bookshelf slobbering over Cas. Two werewolves? Great. Just fucking great.
A snap of jaws by his left ear. Dean slashed at the wolf near him again and leapt over towards the one drooling on Cas. He was still pinned under the bookshelf, one hand gripping a snarling, medium-sized werewolf by the throat.
“Cas! Now would be a good time for the silver bullet thing!” Dean shouted. Cas’s was keeping the wolf at bay while scrabbling for the gun, now just beyond his reach, with his free hand. Dean jabbed the wolf in the back, blood on silver, but then whirled around as the first wolf roared and sprang at him again. Dean plunged the silver blade into its chest and it fell back, whimpering, and he turned around yet again to stab at the wolf snapping at Cas. It growled and body checked Dean, knocking the knife out of his hand, sending it sliding over the floor.
The wolf snarled again and tensed up to pounce, but fell in a sudden small explosion of blood and brain. Cas, gun finally in hand, had nailed it right in the head from under the damned bookshelf. Dean breathed, and then walked over to Cas. “Damn, dude, you gotta-“
Slam! The beast he had stabbed in the chest was now snarling on top of him. “God dammit, stay dead!” Dean screamed at it, grasping at its bloody throat.
Another shot rang out, and the writhing beast was suddenly a wet ball of bloody fur. Dean, still breathing hard, pushed it off. “Ew. Werewolf blood,” he said, regarding his now sticky front.
He crawled over on his hands and knees to where Cas was still lying underneath the bookshelf, gun trailing a coil of smoke.
Dean shook his head in wonder. “Holy fuck, dude. You did that left handed?”
“It was my only free hand,” Cas told him. “Can you please help me. With this book shelf? It’s very heavy. And hard. To breathe.”
“Yeah. Sure man,” said Dean. He and Cas started to heave at the shelf, and managed to shove it off. Dean gripped Cas under the armpits and pulled him up still holding his pistol in a death grip. “You okay? Everything okay? Anything feel broken?”
“I think I want to go home,” said Cas, who had managed to stand, though somewhat shakily.
Dean somewhat reluctantly released his grip. “Hey, yeah. We’ll go home, get a nice hot shower, wash off the doggie smell-“
A howl pierced the night.
Dean pivoted, pushing Cas in back of him as a third werewolf came crashing into the ruined room. They locked eyes, wolf and man, and then it charged them, fangs barred, spittle flecking.
A fucking pack? Dean sucked in his breath. Where the fuck had his knife gone? Fuck!
A pistol fired, smelling of gunpowder.
And it was down, head lolling to the side, blood pooling beneath it.
Cas stood, stock still behind Dean, gun arm still outstretched, breathing hard.
“Cas?”
“I am out of silver bullets now, Dean,” Cas informed him. He faltered, and Dean pulled one of Cas’s arms over his shoulders.
“Okay, yeah, seriously. Time to get out of here.” Dean pressed his hands on Cas’s gun arm, slowly lowering it, extracting the gun from the former angel’s iron grip.
“I think-“ Cas started. “I think I would be inclined towards eating soup.”
“That’s a good choice. Have I cooked you tomato rice soup before?”
“No, Dean.”
“Well, then, you’re in for a treat.”
Cas paused. Still shaking, he squatted down and picked up the Archangel book.
“Some nighttime reading?”
“Yes.”
“Cas?”
“Yes?”
Dean pointed around the room. “Three silver bullets. Three head shots. Good job. Fucking great job, actually.”
“I believe that practice makes perfect,” Cas told him.
“Cas. If somebody, ever again, tries to tell you you’re a baby in a trench coat, kick them in the balls. Okay?”
That got a small smile. “All right, Dean.”
“Let’s go home.”
“So, any words of wisdom from the archangels?”
Cas looked up from the table. He was huddled over his book, bathrobe pulled tight around him, water dripping down from his wet hair. He sported a pronounced five o’clock shadow, as he still hadn’t quite got the hang of shaving. “The author apparently thinks there are only seven dimensions.”
“Well, that’s an oversight.” Dean, who was also wearing a robe, albeit with a bit more flair, laid a bowl of a rich, red tomato soup down in front of Cas, and also presented him with a napkin containing exactly two aspirins.
“I don’t think I need the aspirin any more. Thanks.”
“Werewolves cured your headache?”
“Something like that.”
Dean walked back to the kitchen and returned with his own bowl of soup, and took a seat opposite Cas. Cas carefully laid a marker in his Archangel book, and set it to one side, beside the unruly jumble of books in the place setting just next to him. Several of the books were opened. It looked very much as if someone had been in the middle of doing research and then had been abruptly called away.
Cas dipped his spoon into the bowl and, blowing on it, took a considered sip. “You are right, Dean. This is very good.”
Dean ignored his own soup, and instead ran a hand along the spine of one of the books piled up beside Cas.
Cas paused. “We will find him, Dean.”
“I know.”
“And we will bring him back.”
“I know.”
“And we will all eat soup. And laugh at your terrible jokes.”
“They’re not terrible!” Dean caught himself smiling. “They’re not terrible. And, yeah. Thanks, Cas.”
Cas folded his hands, looking at Dean. They locked eyes for a moment. And then Dean grabbed his spoon.
“Eat your soup, Cas.”
“Yes, Dean.”
NEXT
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/131412.html. Please comment there using OpenID.