Dean and Castiel Ficlets
Author: Vesper (Regina)
Rated: G to PG-13
Category: General
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel
Spoilers: Season 4
Summary: Mostly unrelated ficlets, all Dean and Castiel concentric, all from prompts from my sister, except for the last two. 1994 words, total.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Archival: If you wish to archive, please link to my website or my Livejournal post. Please keep all my headers intact.

"rain and blood, with still work to be done"

Notes: Lyl asked for "Rain and wings...hurt/comfort" and blood, "cuz it looks pretty in the rain." I couldn't get the wings in there, but this was the result. 335 words.


Dean wakes to chilling cold. He's lying face down in mud, and for a second his mind is a complete, utter blank. His ears are ringing, ringing with a shrill flat tone. He blinks, feels rain, stinging sleet, like glass shattering in a million tiny shards, striking his skin, over and over again.

It's so cold.

The noise in his ears expands to a dull roar, before exploding into vivid sound, the rain drumming down.

He breathes in and out, in harsh breaths, and the rain spits from his mouth, against the mud. Steam drifts away. "Sammy," he whispers and closes his eyes.

Time passes, but he can't keep his finger on it, doesn't know how much. He opens his eyes. He curls his hand against the ground, tries to push up, can't.

"Here."

Dean looks up, sees a hand, but beyond it is unclear, the rain in his eyes and something else, his vision tinged with pink. He groans and somehow finds the strength to turn over, swiping a hand at his forehead. He looks at it, sees blood and mud. The rain quickly cleanses it, drops tinged rose-pink and dung-brown falling away.

"Cas."

"Dean."

The angel's hand grasps his, pulls, and Dean surges forward and is promptly sick, vomit spattering against the ground.

"Oh, God," he says, as soon as he can breathe again, and then says, "Sorry."

Castiel says nothing, just kneels beside him, the bottom edges of his coat trailing in the mud, forearms balanced on his legs, hands touching, hanging, in the middle. Dean slumps forward, head between his knees.

"I hate concussions. How long was I out?"

Castiel answers, "Twenty minutes."

"Where is she?"

"Gone."

"Sam with her?"

"Yes."

Dean softly swears and then stands, over-balancing and nearly falling forward, checked only by Castiel's hand on his sternum.

Dean steps away, out of the gentle pressure on his chest. "Come on," he says. He doesn't look back, doesn't check to see if Castiel is there. He doesn't have to.

End.