17: [Action] Don't Fear the Reaper

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[ooc; This is just gonna be reserved for The Operator, Dean, and Castiel to write in. But if you enjoy disembowelment, feel free to read~]

There are a lot worse things that Dean Winchester could be doing with his time than hunting down something that he isn't completely, one-hundred percent knowledgeable about.

Vampires are easy.  Cut the head off.

Werewolves shot with a silver bullet.

Ghosts?  Salt and burn the remains.

But reapers...the last time Dean's seen a reaper, he was hanging in limbo, waiting to die in a hospital.  It wasn't so bad, then.  It had taken the form of a young woman named Tessa, startlingly pretty and unfailingly sympathetic to the mortality of humans.  Infinitely wise.  His first experience had been less pleasant.  Dean's first real brush with death was a little over a year ago: heart attack thanks to a fuck-up with a 10,000 Volt stun-gun trying to kill something on the job, and he landed an all-expenses-paid trip to the Great Beyond.  Prognosis wasn't good: Six weeks, at best.  But a local faith healer had cured him, at the price of someone else's life.  Someone controlled a reaper.

Someone was playing God.

In those last moments of consciousness when Faith Healer Roy Le Grange had laid hands upon him, Dean saw a tall, pale man in a dark suit.

The Operator obviously isn't going to play nice.  Dean can't reason with it, like he did with Tessa.  There's the chance that it could be controlled by someone, the way Le Grange's reaper was, but everyone in this godforsaken place is scared of the damn thing, so that's outta the cards.  Maybe it just went rogue.

"Aaaaand I don't even know how the Hell I'm s'posed to kill it," Dean mutters to himself, snapping his father's journal shut and tucking it into his duffel bag.  He's armed with a decent amount of weapons, ranging from salt-rounded shotguns to silver knives - because you can't take any chances with Death - and an angel.

Dean takes a deep breath, staring up at the forbidding woods with a tight frown on his face.

"You ready, Cas?"

Comments

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

Castiel is lost.

Oh, he knows well enough where he is physically. He's in the woods. Somewhere. He has a gut feeling about which way to go if he wants to get back to the mansion, and that's a useful enough thing in itself, but.

He's lost Dean. And without Dean, Cas is lost.

Whatever it was, being an angel had very, very little effect on it. He's not even sure that's why he's still alive, and suspects it had far more to do with whim than any invulnerability on his part. The creature - he can't think of it as a man, not even a twisted one - was so fast, so sudden, even to Castiel's senses. It-- Cas shudders, his mind shying away from touching what happened.

And then Dean was gone.

And then Cas heard screams, long and ragged, short and choked. The crack of gunfire. All of it echoing, too far for him to reach, and far too close for the terrified, human, animal part of him. And then finally, silence. He couldn't even tell what direction the sounds came from, and that's why he's wandering now, urgent but aimless. He's afraid of what he'll find, and afraid he won't find anything.

Night has come and gone, and his coat and hair are wet with dew. Grey light filters through the trees, everything quiet and still.


And-- there. Finally, amidst the interminable grey, Castiel sees color. Red, still shining dully in the dampness, vivid and almost-black on the ground. And another spot, a few feet farther, and another.

He follows them.

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Hours pass. Or maybe days.

It’s healing, very slowly.

Very loudly.

The smooth, striated muscle tissue in his biceps stringing together, the cartilage snapping back into place where his nose should be, the crunching of bones in his ribcage as they curl back to their original positions, protecting the inside of a chest with nothing in it. Dean can barely hear it, can barely feel it, but the ache is immeasurable.

He still can’t speak, but he screams in his mind.

Mouth open like a fish out of water; struggling to breathe without a set of lungs, Dean’s broken fingers twitch in a pathetic attempt to snatch at something, anything. He doesn't know where his left arm is. For the first time in his life, Dean is terrified. It isn't a fear of dying, but a fear of pain.

Delirious, he hopes a buzzard doesn't find him. Something is stuck in his throat.

He thinks it's his throat.

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Colors are coming back into Castiel's world, one at a time.

First grey, hazy and indistinct, shadowshapes of trees emerging in slightly darker shades, harder edges. Lightening and sharpening as morning crawls on. Then red, sudden and wet, glistening, sticky. The smell of copper. And black, where it's dried thick on leaves and dirt.

And now, white. A spot of brightness shines in the fog ahead, drawing Cas toward it like a beacon. He's almost close enough to stumble over it when the fog dissipates and he sees what it is.

Bone.

It brings yet more colors back when he collapses to his knees, almost falling on it. Brown of leather - a bit of jacket clinging, faded black jagged scrap of worn tee.

Gold of freckles, on one tiny patch of skin that isn't flayed, isn't red as the blood thickening and clotting over the torn flesh around it.

Dean. Oh Heaven, Dean.

Castiel reaches out, heedless of the blood, and picks up the-- it's an arm, he thinks. It's heavier than he expects. He clutches it against himself, breath coming fast, bile in his throat, sour and unfamiliar. Distantly he notices the thing is (still?) warm. He feels something move almost imperceptibly under his bloody fingers and nearly drops the limb. He looks closer, trying to swipe blood away and just smearing it instead. Is that...?

He holds himself still, halting his own breathing, blinking away wetness in his eyes that a small part of him is startled by - he's never wept, didn't know he could - and stares at the lump of mortality in his arms. There, he sees it: beneath the smears of blood, the skin is slowly, inexorably, impossibly healing itself, jagged edges crawling closer together.

Dean. Cas has to find him. The rest of him. He stands, bringing his find with him, and hastens on, stumbling further along the trail of gore, stooping every so often to gather up another piece.

Cas has seen Hell, and this is reminding him of it.

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Eyelids close over empty sockets, and Dean waits.

He waits until the sclerae heal over severed blood vessels, followed by the retinas, the lenses, the pupils, and the other pieces he had to remember in high school but can't give a fuck about right now. He waits until his head feels fuller, and green eyes snap open to gaze, wildly panicked, around him.

The vertebrae in his neck are making crackling sounds, popping back into place and twisting in the process, dragging his perspective from the side, on the ground, up to the sky.

The sky.

Framed by spindly trees and almost as blue as-

...if his tear ducts were in working order, he might cry.

After all that darkness, Dean didn't think he'd see something so goddamn beautiful in his entire life.

His exposed ribs feel cold, despite being nothing more than bone. Veins snake their way over stark white, and he feels heavier with the advent of growing new organs in his chest. Heavier, but no less in agony. Each twitch of healing, each cell that rebuilds itself - Dean feels it all. He doesn't bother writhing despite the sinking notion that his lower body is mangled beyond all comprehension.

His spine cracks again, re-shaping into something natural and perfect. Empty stomach, the lower intestine, the gall bladder. The heart. It thumps rhythmically, though there is little blood to pump and his arteries are still winding their way through his torn frame.

Dean opens his mouth, forcing something to come out, and he feels goosebumps prickle over his growing flesh as the only thing that does come out trickles over his lower lip, staining it red. It tastes like iron and Hell.

But he wouldn't know.

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There is no way of knowing how long it takes Cas to follow the trail of fragments. He himself is unable to say, later. The sky has lightened to blue where it's visible though the occasional gap in the trees, but Cas doesn't look up. He is far too intent on following his gory path.

His mind plays an endless desperate loop of Dean Dean Dean as he hastens along. The patches of blood and other matter are far between, but he still wonders how there can be so much from one person, and doesn't dare to anticipate finding much left at the end of this red road.

Finally, finally an interminable amount of time later, Castiel comes to the end of the trail. He halts, standing frozen at the edge of a small natural clearing. There lies Castiel's tie to this world, his purpose, the person he is bound to, for good or evil...

...if one can call the mangled thing before him a person at all.

"Dean."

There is no answer.

The clearing is not silent though; as Cas watches transfixed, a femur straightens with a snapping sound, and muscle begins to crawl across it.

"Dean." Cas rushes forward.

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Dean isn't aware of how extensive the damage is to his body until he hears a series of sequential pops coming from somewhere further away. His toes, maybe. Or his feet. It doesn't matter, his nerves haven't even reached that far yet - Dean is sure that when they do, the agony of muscle growing back over the bones they were flayed from will hurt worse than his ribs had. Dean's nose, no longer broken, and his eyes are the only parts of his face that appear to have already healed. All he can taste is iron, and his jaw must be dislocat-

SNAP

He stands corrected.

Hours ago, Dean tried calling for help. His vocal cords won't work. Something severely damaging must have happened the instant that long-fingered hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed. The frustration that he can't help himself - that he can't help anyone else - is immense. Dean would almost rather be in a hospital, and he hates hospitals. Then he hears it.

"Dean."

Cas.

"Dean."

Cas.

Jesus fuck, he wishes he could just say something, anything. Even if it's just "Hi" or "Took you damn long enough". The muffled crunching of dead leaves gets loud, more hurried, until Castiel swings into view and stupidly wide, blue eyes are staring down at him, and Dean notices arbitrarily that yes, that is his missing arm that Castiel is clutching. He wonders where he'd left that.

Dean smiles a rather wry, bloody smile; just a twist of his lips. Then the lungs in his chest suddenly inflate and his eyes widen as he takes a sharp, shuddering first breath, panting heavily. At least those are in working order, despite the burn every time he inhales. Gasping like a fish out of water; struggling to breathe, Dean’s fingers twitch in a pathetic attempt to snatch at Castiel’s trenchcoat, falling short.

The piercing screams that had reverberated in Dean’s skull not long ago have, by now, been replaced by quiet whines and whimpers. Not being able to convey his emotions and anguish by speech forced him to resort to the desperate measure of being as loud as possible with his thoughts in the vain hope that Castiel could hear him, and help him, but Castiel is just crouching there with this unfathomable sadness in his eyes.

It's not even the sadness that Sam would usually give him, and that's pretty bad. Castiel knows something that he doesn't.

And then the lacrimal ducts in Dean's eyes heal, and he cries.

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Cas sinks to his knees beside Dean - it IS Dean, and he's a beautiful sight even if he's not whole. Cas has rebuilt him before; he never thought he'd have to see anything close to it again, but he's more than willing to if it means getting him back. Castiel's hands are covered in blood, his jacket wet through with dew and irreparably stained with gore, but he doesn't care.

He drops the arm at Dean's side and then bends forward over him, meeting his wide eyes, and reaches a hand out. He touches two red fingers to Dean's forehead and--

Nothing happens.

No, this isn't right, isn't the way it's supposed to work. Yet again Cas curses his brethren, the choice he was forced to make between orders and rebellion, the choice that is still, even here, slowly stripping him of power.

He'd do it again though, in less than a heartbeat.

And though Cas wishes he could speed the process, spare him some agony, Dean's body does seem to be healing itself, however slowly. Cas picks up the arm again, gently laying it near Dean's left side where it should rejoin, he hopes. He holds it in place, hand splayed over the shoulder, watching Dean's eyes water at the pain, though he doesn't make a sound apart from harsh breathing. Cas wonders why Dean didn't call for him, if he's been alive all this time, and then realizes... oh. Dean can't speak. And Cas hasn't been listening for anything more than his physical voice.

Stupid, so stupid he berates himself, shaking his head and raking one sticky hand through his hair. He opens their connection wider, listening, hoping and dreading he'll hear Dean's voice.

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Cas.

Thank God for Cas, finally getting his ass over here, finding him, keeping him company in this Hell and protecting him from whatever vermin might feel like gnawing on his entrails while he's incapacitated.

Two sticky, red fingers press against his temple, and Dean's eyebrows furrow. What the fuck is he doing, blessing him? Like Dean could use that now, all beat to shit and torn open like Jack the Ripper's plaything. The angel seems surprised when nothing happens. Blinking through the wetness that blurs his vision, Dean's body appears to be making up for the tears he hadn't been able to shed for the past few hours. They stream down blood-soaked cheeks, leaving clean trails behind them.

Shuddering as Castiel rests his left arm beside him, Dean can feel the twining of muscle, cartilage and veins as the appendage is re-connected. The moment the nerves are joined, he screams - Or he tries to, rather, eyes wide and mouth open in stunned silence. It's a sudden, outrageously painful electric shock through his entire body, sparking through each and every cell, making him infinitely grateful that the rest of him is mostly attached.

His belly is still open, the soft skin taking the longest to close, eking its way over empty space. Dean doesn't want to know the state of his legs. It all hurts. And he can't stop thinking about it, either.

Fuck...fuck, shit...I can't even- My legs, Jesus...

He shuts his eyes, trying to breathe through his nose, strangely warmed by the fingers on his bare shoulder, now that he can feel them. Shivering and taking a careful gulp of air, his first order of coherent panic is to ramble on.

...Stupidest fucking thing I ever goddamn did. Remind me not to play Operator again, this- Argh, damn...ngh... The frustration turns into a whimper of pain as another stab of nerves crackle through his arm, and Dean shakily lifts his good hand in an attempt to get Castiel's attention. To have something to hold onto.

Please, I can't...I don't even have Sammy here, and I've already kicked the bucket. S'not s'posed to happen. None of this...goddamnit, Cas, if you can hear me, fucking say something before I go nuts. Green eyes open wide, looking up at the angel pleadingly.

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When Cas opens his mind a little further, he doesn't so much hear as feel Dean's pain, incoherent and overwhelming, words not just insufficient but impossible. He gasps at the barrage, knowing that as strongly as he may feel it, it must be so, so much worse for Dean himself. Cas has died before, but it wasn't like this - drawn out and torturous, and more than a human mind should be able to handle. It was brief, so sudden that his vessel's nerves didn't have time to feel it.

Then, below the wordless animal keening, he hears Dean's voice. Hears him say his name, ask him to answer.

He tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder, knowing it's probably not a physical comfort, but hoping it reassures on a level deeper than that. And he can't seem to help himself, anyway.

He swallows. "Dean. I hear you."

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One would think that, after something as painful as being torn apart, being put back together would be easy - it's infinitely worse. Being flayed alive is easy. Instantaneous. You almost don't feel it when it's that sudden, and you black out from the agony.

Being rebuilt is an entirely different matter.

Dean is certain this is what Hell feels like. Slow, and torturous. Laying there helplessly. Waiting to fall unconscious, but you can't because it's like cheating and that just isn't allowed. He feels something reassuring and full curl inside of him at Castiel's words, and his expression is of visible relief.

Figures an angel would be able to hear thoughts.

Cas?

I can't...move. How's the damage? Keeping coherent thought is difficult when the pain keeps spiking in random flares. I feel like I went through a damn woodchipper.

Dean huffs, wincing as his chest spasms, and his eyes dart to one side. To be perfectly honest, he's ashamed to be seen like this, and to be so vulnerable breaks the reputation he has for protecting those he cares about.

Cas... He's suddenly acutely aware that his chest is bare, and there is no familiar, light weight upon it. No amulet. Dean panics, knowing it could be anywhere. It's the last bit of Sammy he has here - the only bit, actually. And it's gone. Eyes alight with terror, his mind keens with regret at the loss. My...my thing, my amulet...Cas, please, dude; Have you seen it? Did you...did you pick it up? I- I need it, it's from Sam, it's important...

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"It's.... not that bad," Cas says. Cas is a terrible liar. "It's getting better," he adds, and that at least is very true. It's fascinating to watch Dean's body reknit itself, piece by piece. Amazing to see how everything fits together to perfectly, and despite the horror of this whole situation, Castiel finds his belief in God's existence strengthened. The amulet Dean lent him in his own time is warm against his chest, merely with his own body heat now, but he still prays someday it will burn hot, and he will find God.

And demand to know why He's letting things like - like this, like the Apocalypse, happen.

Even as he has the thought, Dean's desperate voice rises again in his mind. My amulet...Cas, please... Have you seen it? it's from Sam, it's important...

I- I need it


Castiel's hands go to his own collar, undoing the top button of his shirt, loosening the tie a little more than its already-bedraggled state. Dean's eyes are wide, watching him. Then he reaches underneath, grasping the cord and drawing the amulet out. He pulls it over his head, holding it between them for a moment.

He'll miss it, he realizes. It's the one thing he has from his Dean, and it's important that he still has it whenever he returns to his own time. He'll miss its weight around his neck, grounding him.

But he'd miss seeing it on Dean more.

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Cas sucks at lying. Dean can't see everything, but he's got the sinking feeling that his legs look like they got run over several times by a MACK truck, and Dean has enough experience with getting hit by a semi to judge that. Another sharp sensation burns through him - this time over his thighs - and he realizes just how naked he is. Dean can't bring himself to care about the clothes since he's alive but they'd be nice to have on the way back to the mansion to avoid giving anyone an eyeful.

Bullshit.

Dean's mind barks at Castiel, and then he seems to relax against the forest floor, green eyes staring dully up at the sky. They flicker to Castiel as the angel moves, pale hands reaching behind his neck and lifting something over his head after a few minor adjustments are made to his collar and tie. For a split second, Dean thought he was going to start taking off his clothes.

Recognition and confusion hit Dean at the same time, and he stares, slack-jawed, at his amulet in Cas' fingers. What the fu- Where did you get that?! Dean jerks again as the last rib in his chest cracks, and new flesh licks over the bloody bone. It doesn't even distract him.

You find it back in the woods, or somethin'?

Dean tries to keep his thoughts from sounding too accusatory, but it's hard when one of his prized possessions is wrapped around the neck of something he technically isn't supposed to know until a half a year from now.

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"I-- no," says Cas. "I didn't find it in the woods. You gave it to me. Will give it to me. I don't know the proper way to say it. But in my time, I am... borrowing it from you, for a task. And it doesn't matter here, so it should be yours again."

Cas is aware he's rambling, but he's not used to Dean not filling the silence. "We will look for yours when you're whole," he goes on, "but if it is lost, I will be... grateful, to have carried this as long as I have."

He shuts up then, and leans forward farther over Dean. He reaches around behind his neck, cupping his nape carefully, their faces close as he slips the cord over Dean's head and settles it on his bare new chest. He gets an absurd sudden urge, and before he can rethink it he bends down, kissing Dean softly, gently as if he'll break again, on the forehead. His hand over the amulet is warm on Dean's skin.

Then he lays Dean's head down, careful not to jar him, and pulls back, turning away a bit. He's more than a little surprised at what he just did.

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Dean has never heard Castiel babble this much. It's weird. Normally he's so reserved. Fortunately, it serves as a welcome distraction from the sudden violent prickling in his legs as muscles start crawling over the gouges. Dean isn't happy about the prospect of looking for his amulet in these woods, nor does he look particularly happy about having lost the damn thing in the first place to have it replaced by a future-version.

Won't that make a time-paradox happen? A wormhole? A...something?

Were Dean in full control of his muscles, he would have tensed as Castiel bent over him, lifting his head gently and slipping the leather cord around his neck. The angel is close, and Dean's healed enough by now to sense a vaguely spicy scent reminiscent of frankincense, and the slightest crackle of ozone. His eyes aren't a normal blue. They're electric and unnatural and strangely appropriate.

They remind Dean of the sky he spent a couple hours staring at.

A firm hand rests upon his chest, steadying him, and Dean opens his mouth on instinct to speak - despite lacking a voice - only to be cut off by warm, dry lips pressing against his forehead. For several long seconds, he blinks, jaw unhinged, while goose-bumps roll over his flesh in an unforgiving wave.

Uh.

Even his thoughts are sort of garbled, despite the obvious overwhelming gratitude for his amulet.

...what was that?

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Despite the unfamiliar sensation of feeling sheepish about what he just did, Cas can't help the small roll of his eyes, and is grateful he's turned enough away that Dean, still immobile, can't see the expression. It feels disorientingly human to be unsure of his own actions, and he reacts to it defensively.

"That was a kiss," he replies drily.

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If Dean had more blood in him, he might have blushed.

...thank you, Captain Obvious.

He thinks rather loudly, wishing he had enough strength to at least turn his head to one side and avoid eye contact. That was...weird. Not bad, but weird. Dean feels himself starting to withdraw a little, just as defensive. He tries to shake himself out of it, but apparently it's impossible to go longer than five minutes in someone else's presence without becoming convinced that he's wading into dangerous waters.

Fortunately, the sense of weight and touch coming back into his legs with another shock of agony jolting him down to the molecular level distracts him from his thoughts. Dean's mind howls again, and at last he can breathe properly, panting, chest heaving, grimace plastered to his face.

Don't be- ngh...a smartass, Cas.

The way Dean sees it, he's got to be done soon. He feels cold and shivery everywhere, and he thinks his stomach is healed over.

How'm I lookin', Doc?

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Cas would ask who this 'captain obvious' is, but suspects from Dean's tone that it is merely an expression, and doesn't matter, baffling as it may be.

He turns back and looks more directly at Dean, letting his gaze follow the mostly-reknit curves of him, the new-but-familiar hills and valleys. There are still holes here and there, gaps not yet covered by pink, new skin, and he suspects that there is still rebuilding going on under the thin flesh of Dean's torso. As he watches, a bone jutting from one hip is covered with skin, and freckles flicker into life across it. Then goosebumps.

"You look naked," he replies.

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By then, enough blood has spilled back into his veins to push a weak flush into Dean's cheekbones. The hunter wrinkles his nose. While Dean isn't a blatant exhibitionist, he is particularly proud of his body, and putting it under the microscopic, almost-scientific scrutiny of an angel makes the muscles in his stomach clench nervously.

Pull it together, Dean.

No shi- Ahhhh, fuck. His toenails are growing back, one by one, and as the last keratin tip slides into place, Dean mentally whimpers in relief.

Figure that out all by yourself, genius? Increasingly bitter thanks to the uncomfortable coiling sensation in his belly, unsure if he should interpret it the way he usually interprets the feeling, Dean huffs through his nose. Great, now I get to walk back to the house wearin'-

"-My birthday suit."

Dean's right hand flies up to his neck, and all previous anger melts away as he realizes that he can speak again. "Thank fuck," He manages hoarsely, letting his head thump back onto the leaves beneath him. Dean strains a little, smiling at Castiel now, an emotional roller-coaster.

"What made you come lookin' for me, Don Juan?"

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It's almost a shock to hear Dean's voice - his physical voice, rough and deep and beautiful - again, and Cas drinks it in, not answering for a moment. He senses Dean is uncomfortable with his lack of clothing, and he slips the jacket from his own shoulders, holding it out for Dean to take from him and use, if he wishes.

Then he gets past the mere sound of Dean's voice and pays attention to what he actually said. Dean spoke to him, but didn't use his name. That... frustrates, almost angers him, he realizes, and also makes him aware that he really, really wants to hear Dean say his name again.

"Would you rather I hadn't?" he snaps, "And that is not my name. Who is Don Juan?"

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Easing himself up onto his elbows - from this vantage point, Dean can see the skin of his instep closing up. He wiggles his toes and then belatedly realizes how full-frontal he is. Grabbing Castiel's trenchcoat and throwing it over himself, Dean slowly sits upright and rubs the back of his neck.

What the Hell is up with Cas, anyway? He casts a confused expression at the angel, surprised at his sudden, fervent reply.

"Geez, chill. If anyone should be freakin' out, it oughta be me." Dean raises an eyebrow, reaching up to finger the amulet around his neck with his left hand. He doesn't bother explaining Don Juan. Some references Castiel shouldn't know about.

"...Cas?" He furrows his brow. "Cas, I know that wasn't a cakewalk-" Hell, Dean can still feel his insides tingling unpleasantly. "-But what crawled up your ass and died? I mean...dude, you were practically mackin' on me a second ago."

This doesn't bother Dean as much as it should.

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"You, Dean. You died. And fine, so you came back. But what if you hadn't?"

I would be alone here.

The more he lets himself think about it, the more Cas is enraged with Dean's foolishness, his rash charge into this farce of a hunt. Now that Dean is mostly himself again, Cas is able to look past his own overwhelming relief - and he is relieved - and see the stupidity that led to this situation. He is not so blind he can't see his own part in it, either. He should have made Dean wait longer, should have done research himself, should have somehow stopped this from ever happening.

In a perverse rush of selfish, righteous wrath that he immediately regrets, Cas almost wishes Dean had suffered longer, paid harder for what he put Cas through.

He stands up then, clenching his fists, suddenly too full of agitated energy to stay still any longer. He wants to leave this place and never return, never wants the reminder of what happened, of how he, Castiel, an angel, could do nothing to stop it. His ineffectualness scares him, and that in turn angers him.

Cas is pissed.

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Dean stares up at Cas, eyebrows drawn up in question. It's almost a strain to keep eye contact with someone who looks like they could shoot fucking lasers at you at any given instant. So he was the problem? Alright, yeah, okay...so Dean hadn't exactly prepared himself for any of this. He hadn't given the excursion much thought. One can't blame him if they've been inside his head.

Cas was just there.

Cas ought to have heard the residual pain. Or rather, the constant pain. Dean's been carrying it around since he got to this godforsaken madhouse. Jesus, contact. Stability is something he craves, but Dean is used to being the one to fuck it up.

He stands quietly, almost introspective, and tugs Cas' trenchcoat on, belting it and not really noticing how tight it is in the shoulders. Suddenly Dean feels tired, bone weary. Dark circles and sleepy eyes, nothing left to rid the world of, no one left to touch, caught between these fuck-all woods and Cas and one last chance to keep them both safe when he screwed up the first time.

"...Everyone gets five lives here, Cas," Dean replied dully, rubbing his face. He can't bring himself to fight.

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"So you decided to waste one," Castiel snaps. It's not a question. "Surely you didn't need my help for that."

Admittedly, he is relieved to hear they get five lives here, however absurd the idea is. He just wishes Dean would be less rash. He's angry because (among other things), five lives aside, he almost lost Dean. And sure, this isn't the first time. But somehow it hasn't mattered this much before. Cas doesn't know what that means, and is a little afraid to examine it.

He senses Dean's crushed mood, and privately feels bad about it. He isn't in the habit of prying into Dean's mind though, so while he realizes Dean's pain isn't just physical, he doesn't realize how long it's been there.

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"Waste one?"

Dean mumbles, expression dark. He doesn't answer; he can tell that Castiel is pissed. He had his reasons, and testing his own limits as well as the mansion's was part of this whole deal. As well as blowing off steam, not that he got to do much of that, being strewn across the forest floor like some kind of macabre, grotesque confetti.

Dean huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. He connects physically. It's Dean who strikes out with a fist when he's angry, or lays a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder when he's worried for him, pats his brother's face, slaps him on the back of his head. For all his bravado and attempts at distance, Dean needs physical contact like he needs air. He has no problem initiating it, but tends to smack it away when someone reciprocates unless it comes from an Approved Source, meaning someone female, reasonably hot and adventurous.

The world is, lately, very limiting in its ability to provide that. Right now, he feels empty and couldn't give a damn where the next touch comes from. Dean rubs at the back of his neck when he's nervous or needs a moment to think or is otherwise out of his element.

"...Look, I'm sorry," He grits out, avoiding eye contact. "Whaddayou want, a written apology?"

Arguing with an angel is probably bad form. Dean scratches his left shoulder, nose wrinkling in thought. "I'll be more careful next time - Do more...more research, or somethin'."

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Cas sighs. "No," he says, "Your apology is sufficient." If you mean it.

He's weary, and wants to be away from here, back to the mansion for its familiarity if nothing else. He needs new clothing, and wants to wash himself of the gore still clinging to him, drying and crusty now. He begins walking, slowly in deference to Dean's state, in the direction he's vaguely aware it lies.

"If there is a next time at all," he continues sharply as he goes, knowing the likelihood is high with their track records, "we must be more prepared. You must teach me to shoot, and show me where the library is." He's only had very limited experience with the Internet, and doesn't know if it exists, here.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Cas isn't the only one covered in gore. Licking his lips, Dean tastes dried blood and makes a face. He'd willingly kill someone for a shower right now, if only to ease the soreness in his limbs. Stepping carefully - because shit, he's barefoot - through the underbrush, Dean tags alongside Castiel rather than striding ahead with his usual "confidence".

There's bound to be a next time. There's always a next time. That's just friggin' rhetorical.

"I can do that," Dean replies quietly, thumbing at his Adam's apple with the distracted fascination that he can finally produce sounds again. There isn't much he can say to make Castiel less embittered - in fact, Dean is pretty damn sure that the 'endangering their lives' factor isn't even the part Cas is ticked about.

Dean wishes he knew what the Hell it was. He can read people, but he's not the psychic-wonderboy.

Wincing as brambles cut at his calves, he pushes on. Dean suddenly realizes that he's done more talking with Castiel in the past month than he has with Sam in the past half-year. "Hey," Dean nudges one of Cas' shoulders with his own. "...thanks."

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

Cas leans into Dean's nudge, inexplicably liking the contact. Though he's forgiven him, he's still angry with Dean, and suspects that may last a while, even if he can't pinpoint or articulate the reason for it. He's angry with Dean for devaluing himself, for being rash and stupid, and angry at himself for failing to protect him. It's more than just those things though, and his feelings churn unfamiliarly within him. There's a long pause before he answers, and when he does, he looks sideways and up at Dean and smiles, small and rueful and brief, before letting his expression smooth out again. "You are welcome."

He stays close to Dean as they walk, steadying him a few times when he trips barefoot over brambles or tree roots. He wishes he could give him his shoes, but can tell at a glace they'd be too small. All the more reason to return to the mansion, he supposes.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

Thinking about it lucidly, Dean considers that the only time he's seen Castiel smile was when they were hitting the bottle of Jack over Christmas, and that...Wingy Thing*...happened. It's nice, Dean notes distantly, pricked out of his thoughts by a pinecone under the arch of his foot. He feels a strange sense of accomplishment, having wrangled something as trivial as a smile, out of Castiel. Particularly after the angel made him feel two feet tall with all the berating.

Dean is beginning to sense a pattern in fucking up the relationships he's taken for granted so far in the mansion. First it was Kurt, then Castiel...Dean hopes that the Medicine Seller isn't next, or he'll really be screwed when the shit hits the fan.

Once they break through the line of trees, and Dean can see the mansion, he heaves a sigh of relief and casts another skeptical glance over his shoulder. Better left to another day. The silence they've shared has been surprisingly comfortable, and when Dean opens his mouth to speak again, he actually finds himself checking what he's about to say, first. Even then, he feels...

...nervous?

"We should, uh...we should hang out more. Not with me gettin' gutted, either."

*The Wingy Thing (TM) is an event that they will never speak of again, considering that after his initial groggy, sleepy mumbling against Castiel's chest upon waking up, Dean had nearly had an aneurysm trying to flail off the angel, and subsequently cracked his head on the coffee table. Needless to say, he's still trying to forget what happened.

LATE TAG IS LATE HOLYSHIT

[out-of-minutes.livejournal.com]

It's a few more minutes before Castiel finally replies, the shape of the mansion growing larger ahead of them as they walk, their footfalls crunching in the quiet.

"I would... like that," he says softly.

Then they pass out from under the cover of the trees, and the weak winter sun falls warm on them after the chill of the forest.