[Castiel] Thursday's child has far to go. (childofthursday) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-09-10 17:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, castiel, dean winchester, samandriel |
Who: Castiel and Evil!Samandriel feat. a mostly unconscious catboy Dean Winchester
What: Ultraviolence - [kryptonite plot]
When: 9/10 - Tuesday
Where: Winchester House
Rating: High. TW for violence. All the violence.
Status: Complete
Poor, poor Dean. Samandriel had really thought he’d last longer than he did. But, in the end, he’d passed out from the pain. He was pretty, though. All that blood. It was beautiful. His fluffy kitty ears and sad droopy tail. Yeah, Dean’d put up a good fight, and Samandriel left him strung up in the archway between the kitchen and the living room.
Castiel would be home soon. Samandriel put on his best terrified face and allowed himself all covered with blood that...okay, it was Dean’s. Dean’s blood, but Castiel didn’t need to know that. He could play this all for a while longer, pretend to be sweet, innocent, terrified Samandriel. The door opened. Samandriel stared blankly off into space, hugging his knees tightly to his chest as though he couldn’t even begin to think about moving or breathing or anything.
The door closed, and Castiel began to go through his afterward motions -- nearly a ritual now, always the same -- only pausing in midmovement, keys dropping loudly to the floor along with his briefcase when he caught sight of Dean hung from wrists and bloody (so bloody) in the doorframe. "Dean!"
His pause lasted no longer than that, his movements becoming quick and oddly precise in getting his husband down, collapsing with him onto the floor and immediately checking for vitals. Alive, alive. But so much blood. He had to -- stop it. He didn't even think twice about beginning to tear his own shirt off to use to staunch some of the blood, to see where it might all be coming from, even.
Ironically, it took him a moment more -- panicked and focused on the most important thing in his universe -- to even realize Samandriel was in the room with them. "What happened? Samandriel!" His voice was strained, too deep, nearly a break.
Samandriel turned and reached over to touch Dean and put him back in mostly one piece if not still unconscious. He’d stay that way for a while, but only because Samandriel wanted him to. His shell-shocked mask stayed for a long moment, looking horrified at Castiel before he just couldn’t hold it anymore.
“I did,” he said, smirking deviously. His eyes didn’t click black like they had for Abigail, but instead went white for Castiel’s tailor-made illusion. “Hello, Castiel.” He moved far too quickly and far too powerfully for anything human as he pinned the other angel on his back so that he couldn’t go about designing some kind of banishing sigil. It might not even work. Castiel might not be enough angel for it to, or the sigil might not care. Either way, it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.
Castiel's range of response to the happenings in his kitchen were bewilderingly multifaceted -- even with the panic and confusion there was some sense of relief to him when Samandriel healed Dean. Dean was alive, Dean was no longer bleeding and that was what mattered absolutely the most.
Not that he wasn't interested in his own survival, as well. The white flash of Samandriel's eyes was telling -- not a complete explanation but enough for him to know that this wasn't his brother, at least not exactly. The younger angel was stronger than he was, but that didn't mean Castiel would not fight, would not struggle and writhe and buck underneath the other man's strength, looking for leverage to free himself.
“Do you know how saddened I was to discover that this particular cat’s penis isn’t barbed?” A gesture and he pinned Castiel’s hands to the floor so he could lean back and regard him curiously.
That wasn't okay. Hiding his shock and terrified disgust, Castiel shut his expressions down as best he could -- his face going blank as he could possibly make it, although it could never really hide the fire and fear in his eyes. He twisted his hips violently, looking to knock Samandriel-- no, not Samandriel, whoever this was -- off of him.
"Who are you?"
“In your brother,” Samandriel said simply. “Or perhaps I am your brother. Does it really matter? I’m the one with the upper hand here.” He rode out the twisting of Castiel’s hips. “You two had such a nice time together didn’t you? That was...oh it was sappy honeymoon quality and his little bitty heart went all pitter patter like he would’ve followed you into the sun.”
"You aren't my brother." There was a sharp note to Castiel's voice -- accusation along with a strong sense of belief. Cas would not rise to the barbs; this wasn't Samandriel, although it might be something in him, certainly. He didn't, and would not stop fighting -- he was an Angel of the Lord, strength or not, and his resolve was great. His nails bit hard into his own palms for a sense of focus and snarled at his not-brother. "Let me go."
“Not until I have what I came for,” Samandriel said, running fingers down Castiel’s cheek. “You are so damn pretty when you’re angry, you know that. Your lips do this thing where it’s hard to separate them from the rest of your skintone and you’re just kind of a mouth. Like George Bush only fuckable.”
Castiel wasn't even sure how to respond to that, wasn't sure he would have even if he knew how. He froze momentarily, as if the implications of Samandriel's words were just now sinking in. No. That wasn't something that would happen -- was not something that had already happened to Dean. Castiel simply could not believe it.
He snarled again, bit wildly in the direction of Samandriel's fingers.
“Now now, that’s just rude.” Samandriel moved his hand away, but only to strike Cas hard across the face. “You know, if he knew what I was doing to you, he’d probably cry and scream and beg and throw himself in front of the figurative bus.” Samandriel got up off of him, but pinned the angel’s legs to the floor for his trouble.
“You should tell me what you think happened to your precious little Dean.”
At that slap, everything went skewed for a moment, and Castiel saw white and tasted copper in his mouth. He'd bitten something -- his tongue, his cheek with the force of the blow.
It was easy to ignore, even as he spit some of that blood from his mouth. His anger outweighed his pain, and he struggled uselessly against his not-brother's will. "If you did anything to him--"
Samandriel walked over to Dean and brought the unconscious, barechested hunter to sitting. “I did only what he begged me not to do,” the fallen angel said darkly. “He’s so pretty when he’s desperate. Have you ever gotten him there or do you spend most of your time just whining at him until he gives in to you? It’s no wonder he needs Lucifer around to marshall him. You certainly haven’t got the spine for it.” He picked up the knife he’d used earlier and carved a line down the center of his chest.
“Should we open him up? See if his heart actually does beat only for you?”
Lies. Lies. This Samandriel had to by lying, because if he wasn't, Castiel would kill him himself. He might still if given the chance. This was not his brother, and even if it was, Dean was his first priority, Dean came before all other things.
Again, he ignored the words that would hurt the most, tried not to let them sink in because it wasn't like that. It wasn't. Twisting his hips was resulting in nothing with his wrists and legs pinned to the ground and Cas had to force himself still. Save his energy for when he had a chance to use it.
"If you touch him, I will kill you." Castiel was well aware of the fact that terror was now something he could taste in the back of his throat.
“No, you won’t,” Samandriel said. “You don’t even know what I am. You don’t know where to start looking. Even if you did, you don’t have the power.” He stroked his hand over the blood on Dean’s chest and then jerked the hunter’s head back by the hair roughly. He took the knife and cut off the tip of one of Dean’s pretty little cat ears.
“Besides, could you live with yourself knowing you might be killing your poor, innocent, completely devoted to you little brother?”
Castiel could not look away -- could not stop watching as that unnatural and cute ear was mangled forever, blood half spraying half oozing from its thin tip. He felt sick, and for one stupid second was grateful that he was flat on the blood soaked floor, otherwise the acid threatening to come up surely might have.
"I could. I think he would rather be dead than be what you are," he said, and was surprised at how calmly it came out. "Stop touching him. If you have to hurt someone, it should be me."
“I’ll make sure your sweet, darling little brother knows that you’d off him without a second thought,” Samandriel said, playing a little with the mangled ear. “I am hurting you, Castiel. I’m hurting you in the most efficient way possible. Shall I hurt you more and wake him up?”
It was no surprise at all that Samandriel was right. The absolute easiest way to threaten or hurt Castiel was to turn it all toward Dean. He couldn't help biting his own bottom lip, nearly welcoming the addition of blood in his own mouth.
"Don't." Dean Dean Dean. "What's the point to this? To hurt the real Samandriel?"
“Does there need to be a point?” Samandriel asked, and with a gesture, woke Dean up, but left him absolutely paralyzed just watching and feeling what was happening to him while Castiel was equally unable to do things to make it stop.
“But really, what’s the point to all this power if you don’t ever use it? I ended his bully problem, you know, and will he thank me for it if he ever comes back? No. I even managed to get him out of his abusive household and all he’s going to do about it is cry.”
Staring into Dean's eyes was difficult at their respective angles, but Castiel tried his hardest for it anyway, attempting to offer comfort, a promise of something else completely.
"I think he's stronger than you give him credit for," Castiel said, but had somewhere along the way lost his sense of calm, his tone going sharp and too deep somehow all at the same time. "If you continue to touch him, Samandriel, I will have you dead, and you will regret your decision to place your hands on the Righteous Man instead of me."
Samandriel smirked and let his tongue run over the wound in that ear he’d made just to drive the point home. “You mean this hand?” he asked, and the knife sank right in the center of the print burned onto Dean’s shoulder.
Castiel made a noise -- strangled and raw -- nearly a scream, as if that knife had gone into more than just his husband, as if it had bit into the both of them and cut away something important and bright. That was his mark. His. And Dean was his. It hurt Castiel in ways he could not explain or put to words that Samandriel was ruining the spot that connected Dean to him.
"Stop stop stop," he didn't even know what he was saying, the words just pouring out in ways they never had before. "I'll kill you, you're dead already. Dead." He was writhing again, bucking wildly against his hold, praying for just enough grace to break free.
Samandriel dragged the knife down like he was gutting a fish the way he was tearing through Dean’s flesh. “Careful who you threaten.” He pulled the knife out and let Dean bleed for a bit. Samandriel leaned down with his lips against Dean’s throat and the blade just there. “He could be the one who ends up dead. After all, he’s just a man.”
Dean wasn't just a man, he was more, so much more. Just because Dean wasn't just a man didn't mean he wouldn't die like one. The blade at his husband's neck made Castiel still completely, eyes wide and shining with something that wasn't just worry. There was a sick frustration and sense of terror that was overwhelming him, building more and more as each tiny second passed. "Don't," he said, tone wrecked and almost small. "Don't." He blinked, hard and angry, possibly a little wet.
“Then stop me,” Samandriel said, “are you fast enough to save him?” He released the hold on Castiel, and was kind enough to at least heal the wound on the hunter’s arm from bleeding out if only because that would be boring. Dean dying like that without anyone really paying attention.
He could be fast enough, couldn't he? Castiel laughed, overwhelmed, light headed and absolutely desperate. Pulling himself to his feet with reflexes that were faster than they should have had, it was clear he at least had that much grace to him -- although it was nothing near substantial enough to beat something like Samandriel.
Flinging himself forward into the other angel, Cas dug his teeth further into the wound in his mouth, causing more hurt and blood. Just so long as he got that thing far enough away from Dean, he'd use his own blood and spit to draw the sigil he needed.
Samandriel released Dean from his paralysis as well while he knocked Castiel aside and went rolling with him in the mess of a living room. This would be what they were for now, rolling and fighting like school children. He rather liked it. It was almost foreplay.
Dean wobbled. He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t listen to him right away and he didn’t know how he was going to manage getting in the middle of that fight anyway. It didn’t stop him from trying no matter the cut on his chest that would need stitches. He lunged. He missed, but he still tried.
The rolling around did little to help Cas get the time he needed to draw the sigil, but he felt this was still better than being stuck on the floor, a blade to Dean's neck. He threw all of his weight into it, not caring at all about the fact that his back and sides hit into tables or broke furniture. What did his breath matter at all if Dean wasn't safe?
"Back!" He half shouted at Dean, blood dripping down his mouth and a warning in his tone -- a refusal to let the other man get any closer. Where was that knife? It was hard to get a clear view of anything between all the tumbling. Weapons, he needed a weapon.
Samandriel smirked, and in a thought was not beneath Dean any longer. He was behind Castiel, grabbing his dominant arm and wrenching it back. He spoke low against his ear, “you’ve gotten boring brother. I think I’ll kill you later. After all, your house is a mess and it just wouldn’t do to let you leave it that way.”
And then Samandriel was gone. His first stop would be home to change his clothes and get cleaned up. Then perhaps he would go visit Lucifer. He’d left him hanging for nearly long enough in what might be quiet worry.
Dean groaned as he rolled onto his back. He was breathing heavily, just trying to collect himself. “Cas,” he said roughly. He was too dizzy. He couldn’t really focus on anything. “Gonna need you to sew me up, buddy.”
It took Cas a moment to focus -- half leaning against the coffee table -- to realize that this intruder, his not brother, was gone from the room leaving him with only aches, pain and a mouth full of blood. He shook his head, let out a bark of a laugh that was the furthest thing from sincere and crawled over to Dean, staring at his husband and the deep cut in his chest.
He stood, wavered, and then almost blankly wandered out of the room, only to return a moment later with a first aid kit that thankfully included a sewing needle for stitching. He dropped to his knees beside Dean and opened up the little kit with hands that were entirely too steady. Shock, the thought almost blankly. That's what this was.
"I'm not your buddy, Dean." And then he pulled out exactly what he needed to get the job done as efficiently as possible. It would hurt.
“Says the guy who’s kid brother just tried to give me heart surgery,” Dean replied. He couldn’t help but yell while Cas stitched him up. It was necessary, and he’d get someone to steal him some damn antibiotics later, but for now this was what they had. “Alcohol,” he gasped out once Cas was done. “Get some alcohol on it before you gauze it. Fifth of whisky should do it.” Dean had been sewing himself up since he was a kid. He knew how this worked. He just wasn’t at an angle at all to manage this one himself and frankly even if he was, he didn’t think he could.
"Where the fuck would I get whisky, Dean?" Cas sounded frazzled and distant now, despite his calm hands and even stitchings. Of course he was frazzled, he never swore. Ever. "Neither of us drink." He did have rubbing alcohol though, and that had to work, right? He stared at the little bottle of clear liquid for a moment before deciding it was as good as they were going to get and tipping some out onto the wound.
Dean was about to point out that he’d stashed some away just for medical purposes, but it was too late. The sound that ripped through his throat was a ragged scream as the isopropyl burned. “Get the ear too,” he managed, breathing heavily through the pain.
"I'm sorry." Castiel didn't realize his own tears, but they were there, blurring his vision into a fog. He was angry and hurt and sick with frustrated worry. He wanted so many things at once that he wasn't even sure how to prioritize.
He took one of Dean's hands in his own as he poured more of that alcohol onto Dean's ruined cat ear. It was nearly ludicrous. He did not laugh. "I'm going to kill him," the angel said it so resolutely, so sure, it was like he was talking about getting the mail or mowing the lawn.
Dean squeezed Cas’ hand hard, but managed to keep from crying out again. “Not a demon,” he said, breath ragged. “Just laughed when I tried to exorcise him and I threw salt and it did nothing.” He wasn’t sure there was anything with the juice to kill the kid.
"An angel then," Cas said, taking his hand back in order to properly gauze the wound on Dean's chest, placing a secure amount of medical tape over it. He was unsure what to do about the ear, and felt regretful for it. He didn't yet want to look at his handprint on Dean's arm -- he knew it'd been healed, but not whether it was scared differently. He was afraid to look, absolutely terrified, and so just went on with his half distant and nearly blank words. "I know a lot about angels. I can find a way."
“Don’t think I can back you up in this fight,” Dean replied. He’d try, but he didn’t think it was going to happen. He hurt too much, and he was pretty sure that Cas wasn’t going to waste any time in knocking the kid down.
His shoddy work was as done as it could possibly be, and so Castiel settled all the supplies away into the little kit again, and then gazed long and hard at the silly little red plus sign on the box before turning his eyes toward Dean.
It took a long moment, but finally he found some focus, eyes clearing a little, and he shook his head as if finally, finally realizing they were actually alone. "Dean," he said, nearly a whisper. "I was --" Terrified. For you. But he wasn't sure if he was allowed to say it or if it would just be too much.
“Don’t,” Dean said, standing up slowly. He could barely manage it, but Cas needed him to be strong somehow and he needed to...to fucking change his pants or something. “He wasn’t gonna kill me. It woulda ruined his freaking game.” Dean didn’t need to say that he was terrified too. Like hell he wanted to die in front of Cas like that. He started shakily up the stairs. Somehow, he’d make it to their room. Somehow.
Castiel didn't. Couldn't. Dean wasn't the only one who felt obligated to be strong. Cas should have been more at this point. He was an Angel of the Lord, and had nothing going for him to protect his own beyond Knowledge and Language, and it wasn't -- it wasn't enough.
He wasn't much better on his feet than Dean -- not because of wounds or blood loss (although he knew he ached and was bruised, and his mouth was a mess) but over exertion -- all the adrenaline he'd been riding on moments before was seeping out of him at an alarming rate. It didn't stop him from hovering behind Dean, a hand settled on the small of his back as they moved up the stairs.
"I'm still going to kill him," Castiel murmured, more to himself than to Dean. He needed something, just one goal, in order to keep everything in order.
Dean didn’t make it far enough to do much more than collapse onto the bed. “What if I don’t want you to?” he asked, but he was out cold before he could hear any answer.
Everything was bloody still -- the both of them, the kitchen and living room. The bed would be now, too. Castiel was too tired to even allow himself to feel ill over it.
"Inconsequential," he told his husband, and found that in this, Dean's opinion would not matter anyway. It was only good for the both of them that there would not be an argument for it.
He crawled into the bed, pressing himself against Dean and closed his eyes. It wasn't sleeping so much as passing out.
The dreams came anyway, not caring a moment for the technicality.