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Something RealThe angel had slipped, he had tripped, and now he was falling. It was so so far and so dark, his plummet, the Earth beneath him a harsh and cruel thing. He knew that, he had seen it, he had watched the world for centuries.
He had been disloyal to his race, his had disobeyed, he had doubted, and now he was being banished. Yet he still feared as the ground came rushing up to meet him.
When the hunter had found him and carried him home, setting his bones as he slept, he felt so much. Even unconscious he could feel the pain of shattered bones, of torn out wings, of screaming muscles. Even unconscious he could feel Dean’s fingers intertwined in his own.
It took over a week before Castiel woke up, blood in his eyes and pain tingling his nerves. His fingers clutched Dean’s in return as his back arched and he shuddered in the agony of mortality. Dean was there though, hushing him, wiping the tears and sweat from his face, stroking his hair, never letting go of him.
Sam was smart, e
Cinders 5When Bella finally woke up it was with a moan and a turned shoulder. She didn’t want to be awake. She kept turning away from the light, kept turning away from Brer, and kept pulling the blankets over her matted hair. Ashley tried to speak to her, but she kept ignoring her. She had always liked sleeping in, but she was hurt as well, she needed extra rest.
Ashley, on the other hand, felt like she had never been hurt. She still had the scabs, but the aching had faded away from her muscles and bones. Whatever was in that salve that Brer had made, it made a huge difference. Bella looked alright, although she was pale, but she looked like she was on the tail end of her injuries.
“Come on, Bella.” She murmured, pulling the blankets down to reveal her face and stroke the space between her eyebrows, something she remembered, dreamlike, her father doing to her when she was sick. What did he even look like? She couldn’t remember anything about him, but she remembered the e
An Idea Gone WrongIt had taken a lot to get Cas into their new home. He was unconscious most of the time, the wound to his arm and his gut healing on their own, but he would randomly wake up and then he would scream that deafening scream and quake and thrash in his agony. Dean put him in his own bedroom, the memory foam contouring to his shivering, sweating frame, and Dean took the quiet moment to soundproof the room as best as possible and remove anything glass, lightbulbs and the like. He couldnt look after Cas, Sam, and the house that was being destroyed by the angels pain.
Dean passed the quiet moments by playing old records, his own as well as those that had been in the bunker before they had arrived. He patted Cas’s hair, ran his fingers through it and tried to soothe him. He spoke to him, told him secrets, all of the thing he hoped that they could do together once this was all over.
When Sam came back from the hospital he stopped, he finally left Cas alone, helped Sam in and down the stairs
A Horrible IdeaIt wasnt a good idea. At all. It was a horrible idea in fact and Dean knew it. He just didnt know what else to do. This was it, this was the only thing that he could think of. Cas had just tried to kill him, kill all three of them, and Sam was in the hospital, a few broken ribs and a whole lot of blood loss. It wasnt Cas’s fault, Dean could tell that much, but the fact remained. He wasnt in control. He was trying to kill the men he had once saved.
It was the blood in his eye that had given Dean the idea. The stupid idea. When he had come at them, blade swinging and fists with his full strength behind them, he had been bleeding, just above the eye. It was just like before, when he had killed Samandriel. Dean had had to stab him, right through the arm with the angel blade Cas had given them, in order to slow him down. It seemed to work, grounded him for a moment and that was all he had needed.
Dean had stabbed him again, in the gut, not a death blow but a pretty terrible one. The a
WholesHe needed his wings for this, that's what he'd said. They'd never seen them before, didnt know if they could actually manifest, but they rose from his back as huge and elegant masses of silver feathers, black tipped and predatory.
But now the fight was over and he still hadnt put them away. The feathers were no longer smooth but a mess, some sticking in the wrong way, some ripped out, some stained with quickly drying blood.
The left one was dislocated in two of the joints and it stuck out oddly, too painful for him to fold up against his back before removing them from the physical plain. He nursed it delicately as he sat in the back seat of the impala, that wing outstretched. Now that the fighting was over the two humans couldnt take their eyes off of them, kept glancing back through the rear-view mirror.
They had to sneak him back into the motel room, had to make sure that no one saw the wings. They didnt want to chance another hunter being there, they wouldnt understand that Cas was
HomeCas was silent as he entered the half submerged bunker, as he followed Dean inside. He wasn’t interested in all of the books or the weapons or the history. He was exhausted,h his body slumped and broken, bruises and cracks and cuts along his flesh. The battle had been hard and now it was done, Naomi was gone, he was free. Now he just wanted sleep.
Dean wouldn't give it to him though, made him shower first, helped him stay standing while the water tried to push him down, the perfect water pressure too much for his battered muscles. Then Dean dressed his wounds and put him to bed, laid him down in his own bed and covered him up and promised him silly little things like it would all be alright and he wasn't mad at him and he was home now.
Cas didn't believe any of it and, as he healed, he stayed quiet, even though he was starting to explore the library and read all of the books. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, spark all of that anger in Dean or, worse, Sam. Sam’s temper
Leaving Southampton She was in the kitchen when he stumbled in noisily, tripping as he went past the shelves and catching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
Pretending not to hear the stream of curses that followed, she kept her eyes fixed on the dishes, letting her hand trail in the soapy water. There was a loud scraping of wood against grimy concrete as he drew a chair and collapsed into it. At this she looked up, and after a moment's hesitation, she said, unnecessarily, "You've been drinking."
He clutched his head and said nothing. He hadn't shaved in weeks and stank of sweat and alcohol; he looked much older than his eighteen years.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he announced, loudly, "Fuck."
She didn't bother to tell him off. She just waited. And jumped when he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, onto the table.
"Our lives here are s
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