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hoodie_timeTitle: The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
Producing a small bowl of some kind of oil, Castiel dips a finger in it and draws a sigil on Dean's forehead.
Nose wrinkling, he blinks furiously. "Dude. This has some serious funk. It smells like hour four of a Phish concert." The fact that he even knows what that's like shows there is such a thing as going too far to get laid, and Dean has been there. Once.
Castiel pauses, his finger resting in the small pool of oil. "Do you make light of everything?"
"Only the important stuff."
Castiel regards him for a long moment, and Dean wishes fiercely that he had some kind of read on angelic expressions.
"Open your shirt."
It takes an enormous effort of will not to make a joke about that, but Dean manages to keep the wisecracks at bay.
The angel paints another sigil on Dean's chest, leaving behind a sensation of faint warmth along its lines. "When I tell you to close your eyes, you must do so without delay."
Dean nods.
Castiel begins speaking in some language Dean's never heard. Slow, rough-sounding syllables that sound less like chanting than like the sound of slogging through a muddy field with the gunk sucking at your shoes with every step. For the next round, Castiel puts a palm against each of the sigils he's drawn, repeating the syllables.
Heat builds within Dean's forehead and chest. Light pours from Castiel's hands into Dean -- or maybe it's pouring from Dean into Castiel's hands. The radiance envelops them both, and he sees Castiel's wings unfurling. There's a hum in the air that he's never heard before, that has always been there, and it's like the song/not song that he heard in Cassie's kitchen, multiplied by thousands. Terror and joy shudder through him, and he sways against Castiel's hands. Some kind of energy surges into him, holding up upright, and it loops through him and returns to Castiel.
Castiel's in full angel mode now, sound and fury and music and light. The presence within Dean moves toward him, hesistant as a shy child at first, then rushing forward to greet its kindred and be welcomed home.
"Close your eyes," Castiel says, in English and in angel at the same time, and Dean complies.
The heat and light and sound he's been bathed in become suddenly too much, forcing Dean to sag back from Castiel's touch and hide his face in the crook of his arm.
And now the sound of Castiel's voice is nothing but screech and hiss and pain, the sound of tectonic plates heaving and grating against each other.
So long, and thanks for all the fish, Dean imagines Castiel saying, just before he blacks out.
***
When Dean comes to, he's a lot warmer than he'd expected to be. It's dark again, and the angel noise has toned it down to a throaty roar. There's an odd feeling of motion too, like he can suddenly feel the movement of the earth.
"Whoa. That was a hell of a thing," he says to the starless sky.
And then he's nearly pitched off the ground, which -- he belatedly realizes -- is not the ground. There's the screech of tires and fishtailing, and Sam yelping "Dean!"
Fuck, did I just teleport myself here? He prods the corners of his mind, but doesn't feel another presence there, or any sense of confinement.
"Dean, did you just do that?" Sam asks.
"I don't think so. I think maybe it was Castiel."
"Your hitchhiker," Bobby says. "Is it --"
"Gone. I guess Castiel took it home." He thinks about sitting up, but realizes he likes lying on the back seat just fine. The Impala's rumble vibrates through his muscles. Best Magic Fingers in the world. Dean pats the upholstery. Sorry I didn't recognize you at first, baby.
Switching on the dome light, Sam peers at him. "Are you all right?"
"Tired. Call Cassie, will you? Tell her I'm okay."
And he lets his baby lull him to sleep.
***
Dean surfaces a few times, finding himself in a room that's a helluva lot nicer than the motel room he remembers. Every damn time he finds Sam watching him. Sometimes he's quietly conversing with Bobby, sometimes he's by himself.
"Dude," Dean finally says. "Get some fucking sleep. You look like crap on a stick."
Of course Sam ignores that. "Do you want anything? Coffee? Something from room service?"
Letting his eyes drift closed, he mutters. "'Nother few minutes."
"Dean. You're sleeping your life away."
Is he? He shifts, sits up. "How long since I had my angelectomy?"
"About eighteen hours."
Doesn't seem all that excessive, considering he's been hopscotching all over the country, freeballing and barefooting it in the dead of winter. "Bobby still around?"
"Yeah. He's getting in some rack time. You want him? He said to wake him up anytime."
"Naw, let him -- well, actually yeah. Maybe he'd sit here with me while you go grab me something to eat. Of all the damnedest things, I'm suddenly craving some of that crazy chili. With the cinnamon."
"I thought you thought it was the most disgusting thing in the known world."
Well, uh, yeah. He'd figure out what he'd do with the shit once Sammy brought it back. Dean shrugs. "Cravings. Who knows why."
Sam eyes him for a long moment, then finally nods. "Sure. I'll get Bobby. How do you want it? One-way, five-way, something in between?"
"Huh? Oh. The chili. Call me when you get there."
Lingering just long enough to make Dean feel like there's something he's leaving unsaid, Sam finally nods and leaves the room. Bobby's at his door quick enough that it's clear he's been sleeping in his clothes.
"Decided to join the waking world, huh?" Bobby says. "How are you feeling?"
"We can get to that later. There's something I need to know, Bobby, and I need you to tell me the truth." Dean lets that hang there until he gets a minute nod in response. "I need you to tell me how Sammy's doing."
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
Producing a small bowl of some kind of oil, Castiel dips a finger in it and draws a sigil on Dean's forehead.
Nose wrinkling, he blinks furiously. "Dude. This has some serious funk. It smells like hour four of a Phish concert." The fact that he even knows what that's like shows there is such a thing as going too far to get laid, and Dean has been there. Once.
Castiel pauses, his finger resting in the small pool of oil. "Do you make light of everything?"
"Only the important stuff."
Castiel regards him for a long moment, and Dean wishes fiercely that he had some kind of read on angelic expressions.
"Open your shirt."
It takes an enormous effort of will not to make a joke about that, but Dean manages to keep the wisecracks at bay.
The angel paints another sigil on Dean's chest, leaving behind a sensation of faint warmth along its lines. "When I tell you to close your eyes, you must do so without delay."
Dean nods.
Castiel begins speaking in some language Dean's never heard. Slow, rough-sounding syllables that sound less like chanting than like the sound of slogging through a muddy field with the gunk sucking at your shoes with every step. For the next round, Castiel puts a palm against each of the sigils he's drawn, repeating the syllables.
Heat builds within Dean's forehead and chest. Light pours from Castiel's hands into Dean -- or maybe it's pouring from Dean into Castiel's hands. The radiance envelops them both, and he sees Castiel's wings unfurling. There's a hum in the air that he's never heard before, that has always been there, and it's like the song/not song that he heard in Cassie's kitchen, multiplied by thousands. Terror and joy shudder through him, and he sways against Castiel's hands. Some kind of energy surges into him, holding up upright, and it loops through him and returns to Castiel.
Castiel's in full angel mode now, sound and fury and music and light. The presence within Dean moves toward him, hesistant as a shy child at first, then rushing forward to greet its kindred and be welcomed home.
"Close your eyes," Castiel says, in English and in angel at the same time, and Dean complies.
The heat and light and sound he's been bathed in become suddenly too much, forcing Dean to sag back from Castiel's touch and hide his face in the crook of his arm.
And now the sound of Castiel's voice is nothing but screech and hiss and pain, the sound of tectonic plates heaving and grating against each other.
So long, and thanks for all the fish, Dean imagines Castiel saying, just before he blacks out.
***
When Dean comes to, he's a lot warmer than he'd expected to be. It's dark again, and the angel noise has toned it down to a throaty roar. There's an odd feeling of motion too, like he can suddenly feel the movement of the earth.
"Whoa. That was a hell of a thing," he says to the starless sky.
And then he's nearly pitched off the ground, which -- he belatedly realizes -- is not the ground. There's the screech of tires and fishtailing, and Sam yelping "Dean!"
Fuck, did I just teleport myself here? He prods the corners of his mind, but doesn't feel another presence there, or any sense of confinement.
"Dean, did you just do that?" Sam asks.
"I don't think so. I think maybe it was Castiel."
"Your hitchhiker," Bobby says. "Is it --"
"Gone. I guess Castiel took it home." He thinks about sitting up, but realizes he likes lying on the back seat just fine. The Impala's rumble vibrates through his muscles. Best Magic Fingers in the world. Dean pats the upholstery. Sorry I didn't recognize you at first, baby.
Switching on the dome light, Sam peers at him. "Are you all right?"
"Tired. Call Cassie, will you? Tell her I'm okay."
And he lets his baby lull him to sleep.
***
Dean surfaces a few times, finding himself in a room that's a helluva lot nicer than the motel room he remembers. Every damn time he finds Sam watching him. Sometimes he's quietly conversing with Bobby, sometimes he's by himself.
"Dude," Dean finally says. "Get some fucking sleep. You look like crap on a stick."
Of course Sam ignores that. "Do you want anything? Coffee? Something from room service?"
Letting his eyes drift closed, he mutters. "'Nother few minutes."
"Dean. You're sleeping your life away."
Is he? He shifts, sits up. "How long since I had my angelectomy?"
"About eighteen hours."
Doesn't seem all that excessive, considering he's been hopscotching all over the country, freeballing and barefooting it in the dead of winter. "Bobby still around?"
"Yeah. He's getting in some rack time. You want him? He said to wake him up anytime."
"Naw, let him -- well, actually yeah. Maybe he'd sit here with me while you go grab me something to eat. Of all the damnedest things, I'm suddenly craving some of that crazy chili. With the cinnamon."
"I thought you thought it was the most disgusting thing in the known world."
Well, uh, yeah. He'd figure out what he'd do with the shit once Sammy brought it back. Dean shrugs. "Cravings. Who knows why."
Sam eyes him for a long moment, then finally nods. "Sure. I'll get Bobby. How do you want it? One-way, five-way, something in between?"
"Huh? Oh. The chili. Call me when you get there."
Lingering just long enough to make Dean feel like there's something he's leaving unsaid, Sam finally nods and leaves the room. Bobby's at his door quick enough that it's clear he's been sleeping in his clothes.
"Decided to join the waking world, huh?" Bobby says. "How are you feeling?"
"We can get to that later. There's something I need to know, Bobby, and I need you to tell me the truth." Dean lets that hang there until he gets a minute nod in response. "I need you to tell me how Sammy's doing."
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Date: 2010-02-24 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-25 08:33 pm (UTC)