Entertaining Angels (21/21) Part A
Dec. 23rd, 2008 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maychorianTitle: Entertaining Angels
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam's motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he's there to help them—they can't quite tell.
Word Count: 1627
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack, and now a vid! I listened to Trans-Siberian Orchestra a lot while writing this. It might show. (I have a playlist called “Christmas Fight Music.” Is that weird?)
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
21
Bobby and Sam were bustling around, shrugging into coats, grabbing supplies. Bobby had a book, a couple of guns. Sam had the harness-like contraption they’d pieced together to hold the stone ring against his eye, leaving both hands free for the lance. Both occasionally glanced at the window, even though the other wards were still holding, so the dragon couldn’t be coming toward the house. Not yet, anyway.
But the time was now. The monster was going down.
Dean stood still in the middle of the room, watching them. He had to swallow several times to work up the moisture to talk. “You guys go ahead. I’ll…I’ll be right behind you.”
Sam nodded absently and gave him an understanding glance as he headed out the door. Bobby looked at him a little longer, wise brown eyes so knowing, as always, piercing straight through him. They thought they knew exactly why he was hesitating to leave the house. They didn’t.
Dean turned to the window to watch them go, saw them striding purposefully through the salvage yard, Sam leading and Bobby only a few steps behind. The younger Winchester looked like a warrior, a hero, an illustration from a book, tall and strong and certain, jaw square and hard, eyes focused and intent, hefting that long, wicked-looking weapon in both hands with purpose and strength. He knew what he was doing. They both did.
Dean, though…
He turned to Castiel, watching him sleep. It had been almost fifteen hours since he’d said a word, and yes, Dean was keeping count. Ten hours since he’d managed to sip some diluted soup. Six hours since he had looked at Dean with any kind of lucidity. Three hours since the last time he’d woken gasping and choking, his breaths stuttering, almost halting altogether, then hung over Dean’s arm sobbing for air while Dean clapped his back, trying to loosen the phlegm, help him get the oxygen he needed. One hour since Dean had noticed the blue-gray tinge around his lips, slowly growing deeper.
He didn’t want to lose this kid. God, he didn’t want to lose him. He and Sam…they had thought he was theirs. But Cas had never really belonged to them, not really—he was just on loan. And if Dean didn’t do what he knew he had to do, he was going to lose him anyway.
There was no choice here. There never really had been, and Dean was an idiot for ever thinking that he had any kind of control over this situation.
Movements harsh and jerking, Dean got a metal bowl from the kitchen, a lighter from the box by the fireplace. Kneeling by Castiel, he fished out the hex bag hidden in the couch cushions. He had to shift the boy a few inches to the side to find it, but Cas didn’t stir, just lay there limp and unconscious, breathing through his mouth, chest barely moving.
Dean laid a hand on his cheek and just looked at him for a long moment, memorizing his features. Then he put the hex bag in the bowl and lit it on fire.
His hands weren’t shaking. They weren’t.
He knelt there, waiting, long enough for the second hand to sweep twice around the clock on the wall. Long enough for Cas to breathe a hundred and three times. Long enough for his palms to sweat and his stomach to twist.
So Uriel wasn’t a punctual bastard. Good to know.
Dean could hear Bobby chanting, even through the walls of the house. And that low rumble, rising and falling, full of evil intent…that might have been a dragon roaring, growling, declaring its intention to kill. Dean pushed himself to his feet and strode out the door, throwing on a jacket and drawing Ruby’s knife as his foot hit the ground outside.
The incantation was working, obviously. The dragon had become visible. Not fully—Dean could see through it to the trees on the other side, the telephone pole broken jaggedly in the middle like a ship’s mast torn away by a cannonball. It was as big as Bobby’s house, gaping mouth like the open door of a forge revealing a bed of red-hot coals.
Sam stood in the bed of a junked pick-up truck, one foot up on the side, lance held like a vaulter’s pole, as if he was just waiting for the right moment to run forward and leap right over the monster’s back. The dragon swung its head toward him, nostrils pouring gray-white smoke, and Sam jumped to the roof of a Toyota, long legs steady and graceful, feet firm as those of a goat on a mountainside.
Bobby’s spell was in Greek, so Dean didn’t know most of the words, but he recognized the flowing syllables and complex words. The older man’s voice was steady, constant, a solid foundation to fight on. Dean could see the dragon’s attention wavering toward Bobby, wanting to put an end to the words that weakened it—and the man who spoke them—but Sam constantly shoved himself in the way, demanding that the dragon remain focused on him to prevent immediate impalement.
Dean stalked forward, feeling the rage rise up in him like a tide, welcoming its fuel. “Hey, bitch!” he yelled, commanding. “Hell sent you to kill an angel, huh? Didja think he’d be alone? Didja think he’d be helpless? Time to think again, you fire-breathing freak!”
The heavy head swung toward him, transparent yellow eyes sparking with mad fire. Oh yeah, it understood him, the tone if not the words. “That’s right,” Dean said with grim satisfaction, crossing the ward’s border to stand beneath the dragon’s mouth. “Come and get some. We’re gonna send you back to the Pit where you belong, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
The plan had been for Dean to distract it while Sam found a spot to strike with the lance. Dean was following the plan. If he was throwing himself into his role with maybe a little more fierce glee than Sam would be happy with, well, it was too late to change it now.
Sam was too busy fighting to glare at Dean like he probably wanted to, though. Dean’s pride was fuel, too, watching his little brother come at the monster like a knight in a light tan coat, movements hard and efficient, not a step wasted, dancing among the cars, leaping from roof to hood to truck bed and down to the ground again, looking for his opening.
Dean was dancing, too, ducking and weaving, darting in and out, never staying within striking distance for more than a second at a time. The dragon snapped at him, then turned back to Sam, advancing and backing away, clearly unsure of what to do and pretty damn angry about it. The puff of black smoke through the nostrils was always a dead giveaway that a blast of fire was coming, giving them plenty of time to get out of the way, but they left scorched and blackened cars in their wake, craters on the ground, snow not melted but obliterated.
They were on both sides of the thing now, taking turns, tag-teaming it, the dragon-slaying Winchester boys working in perfect concert. The transparency gradually seeped away, color bleeding in like dye on cotton, spreading, then covering. Dean saw his chance and ran in, struck the knife a cut across a tendon as thick as his wrist in a shower of supernatural sparks, then sprinted back before it could turn on him.
The cut blazed. The dragon roared, and that leg went dead, useless. Not a fatal wound, but a helluva good one, if Dean did say so himself. He grinned, wide and glad, glad, watching for another chance like that one.
But it was Sam’s turn now to find his opening, perching precariously on the hood of a semi, one foot braced on the cracked and bending windshield. The lance went in, smooth and bright as solid lightning, finding a vulnerable point between neck and chest. The dragon howled, and Sam pushed harder, twisted. Dean saw him shove it in the way that he knew would spring the spikes, already buried in the monster’s flesh.
The earth shook as the dragon crashed to its massive knees, a creature of hell pinned on a human weapon, writhing and stuck. Only then did the wings unfold, trying to lift it away. But this was one thing that it could do in Hell but couldn’t do here—earthly physics disallowed this one thing.
“Gotcha.”
Sam’s voice was not gloating or smug, though Dean wouldn’t have blamed him if it had been. He simply sounded calmly gratified, a workman well-pleased with the tool he had crafted. The dragon twisted and wailed, eyes rolling, puking misaimed smoke and fire toward the sky. Sam held onto the shaft of his weapon, grim, solid, immovable. There was no chance of escape.
Bobby’s voice continued in the background, a rising crescendo as the monster weakened. Sam slowly swung the dragon’s neck down in an irresistible arc, forcing its head to the ground. Dean stepped forward, calmly side-stepping the last, weak billows of fire. He stepped on the dragon’s snout, forcing its mouth shut, ignoring the sparks that spurted from its clenched teeth.
Dean saw the spot between its eyes, the vulnerable point where only a thin shell of blood and bone protected the brain, and stabbed Ruby’s knife through it like an icepick swung sharply down, pouring every single ounce of anger and frustration and grief and pain into the thrust.
A last, muffled whimper, a pathetic wisp of smoke rising and dying in the frosty air, and the dragon was dead.
Part 21.B
AN: I swear, I’m only pausing here so I can drive home from work. The rest is coming soon.
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Category: Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: K+/PG
Spoilers: Through 4.10
Summary: A strange boy shows up at Dean and Sam's motel room. Maybe he needs help, or maybe he's there to help them—they can't quite tell.
Word Count: 1627
Disclaimer: Angels belong to God. The Winchesters belong to Kripke. It's a sad, sad world we live in.
Author's Note: Fanart and soundtrack, and now a vid! I listened to Trans-Siberian Orchestra a lot while writing this. It might show. (I have a playlist called “Christmas Fight Music.” Is that weird?)
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
21Bobby and Sam were bustling around, shrugging into coats, grabbing supplies. Bobby had a book, a couple of guns. Sam had the harness-like contraption they’d pieced together to hold the stone ring against his eye, leaving both hands free for the lance. Both occasionally glanced at the window, even though the other wards were still holding, so the dragon couldn’t be coming toward the house. Not yet, anyway.
But the time was now. The monster was going down.
Dean stood still in the middle of the room, watching them. He had to swallow several times to work up the moisture to talk. “You guys go ahead. I’ll…I’ll be right behind you.”
Sam nodded absently and gave him an understanding glance as he headed out the door. Bobby looked at him a little longer, wise brown eyes so knowing, as always, piercing straight through him. They thought they knew exactly why he was hesitating to leave the house. They didn’t.
Dean turned to the window to watch them go, saw them striding purposefully through the salvage yard, Sam leading and Bobby only a few steps behind. The younger Winchester looked like a warrior, a hero, an illustration from a book, tall and strong and certain, jaw square and hard, eyes focused and intent, hefting that long, wicked-looking weapon in both hands with purpose and strength. He knew what he was doing. They both did.
Dean, though…
He turned to Castiel, watching him sleep. It had been almost fifteen hours since he’d said a word, and yes, Dean was keeping count. Ten hours since he’d managed to sip some diluted soup. Six hours since he had looked at Dean with any kind of lucidity. Three hours since the last time he’d woken gasping and choking, his breaths stuttering, almost halting altogether, then hung over Dean’s arm sobbing for air while Dean clapped his back, trying to loosen the phlegm, help him get the oxygen he needed. One hour since Dean had noticed the blue-gray tinge around his lips, slowly growing deeper.
He didn’t want to lose this kid. God, he didn’t want to lose him. He and Sam…they had thought he was theirs. But Cas had never really belonged to them, not really—he was just on loan. And if Dean didn’t do what he knew he had to do, he was going to lose him anyway.
There was no choice here. There never really had been, and Dean was an idiot for ever thinking that he had any kind of control over this situation.
Movements harsh and jerking, Dean got a metal bowl from the kitchen, a lighter from the box by the fireplace. Kneeling by Castiel, he fished out the hex bag hidden in the couch cushions. He had to shift the boy a few inches to the side to find it, but Cas didn’t stir, just lay there limp and unconscious, breathing through his mouth, chest barely moving.
Dean laid a hand on his cheek and just looked at him for a long moment, memorizing his features. Then he put the hex bag in the bowl and lit it on fire.
His hands weren’t shaking. They weren’t.
He knelt there, waiting, long enough for the second hand to sweep twice around the clock on the wall. Long enough for Cas to breathe a hundred and three times. Long enough for his palms to sweat and his stomach to twist.
So Uriel wasn’t a punctual bastard. Good to know.
Dean could hear Bobby chanting, even through the walls of the house. And that low rumble, rising and falling, full of evil intent…that might have been a dragon roaring, growling, declaring its intention to kill. Dean pushed himself to his feet and strode out the door, throwing on a jacket and drawing Ruby’s knife as his foot hit the ground outside.
The incantation was working, obviously. The dragon had become visible. Not fully—Dean could see through it to the trees on the other side, the telephone pole broken jaggedly in the middle like a ship’s mast torn away by a cannonball. It was as big as Bobby’s house, gaping mouth like the open door of a forge revealing a bed of red-hot coals.
Sam stood in the bed of a junked pick-up truck, one foot up on the side, lance held like a vaulter’s pole, as if he was just waiting for the right moment to run forward and leap right over the monster’s back. The dragon swung its head toward him, nostrils pouring gray-white smoke, and Sam jumped to the roof of a Toyota, long legs steady and graceful, feet firm as those of a goat on a mountainside.
Bobby’s spell was in Greek, so Dean didn’t know most of the words, but he recognized the flowing syllables and complex words. The older man’s voice was steady, constant, a solid foundation to fight on. Dean could see the dragon’s attention wavering toward Bobby, wanting to put an end to the words that weakened it—and the man who spoke them—but Sam constantly shoved himself in the way, demanding that the dragon remain focused on him to prevent immediate impalement.
Dean stalked forward, feeling the rage rise up in him like a tide, welcoming its fuel. “Hey, bitch!” he yelled, commanding. “Hell sent you to kill an angel, huh? Didja think he’d be alone? Didja think he’d be helpless? Time to think again, you fire-breathing freak!”
The heavy head swung toward him, transparent yellow eyes sparking with mad fire. Oh yeah, it understood him, the tone if not the words. “That’s right,” Dean said with grim satisfaction, crossing the ward’s border to stand beneath the dragon’s mouth. “Come and get some. We’re gonna send you back to the Pit where you belong, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
The plan had been for Dean to distract it while Sam found a spot to strike with the lance. Dean was following the plan. If he was throwing himself into his role with maybe a little more fierce glee than Sam would be happy with, well, it was too late to change it now.
Sam was too busy fighting to glare at Dean like he probably wanted to, though. Dean’s pride was fuel, too, watching his little brother come at the monster like a knight in a light tan coat, movements hard and efficient, not a step wasted, dancing among the cars, leaping from roof to hood to truck bed and down to the ground again, looking for his opening.
Dean was dancing, too, ducking and weaving, darting in and out, never staying within striking distance for more than a second at a time. The dragon snapped at him, then turned back to Sam, advancing and backing away, clearly unsure of what to do and pretty damn angry about it. The puff of black smoke through the nostrils was always a dead giveaway that a blast of fire was coming, giving them plenty of time to get out of the way, but they left scorched and blackened cars in their wake, craters on the ground, snow not melted but obliterated.
They were on both sides of the thing now, taking turns, tag-teaming it, the dragon-slaying Winchester boys working in perfect concert. The transparency gradually seeped away, color bleeding in like dye on cotton, spreading, then covering. Dean saw his chance and ran in, struck the knife a cut across a tendon as thick as his wrist in a shower of supernatural sparks, then sprinted back before it could turn on him.
The cut blazed. The dragon roared, and that leg went dead, useless. Not a fatal wound, but a helluva good one, if Dean did say so himself. He grinned, wide and glad, glad, watching for another chance like that one.
But it was Sam’s turn now to find his opening, perching precariously on the hood of a semi, one foot braced on the cracked and bending windshield. The lance went in, smooth and bright as solid lightning, finding a vulnerable point between neck and chest. The dragon howled, and Sam pushed harder, twisted. Dean saw him shove it in the way that he knew would spring the spikes, already buried in the monster’s flesh.
The earth shook as the dragon crashed to its massive knees, a creature of hell pinned on a human weapon, writhing and stuck. Only then did the wings unfold, trying to lift it away. But this was one thing that it could do in Hell but couldn’t do here—earthly physics disallowed this one thing.
“Gotcha.”
Sam’s voice was not gloating or smug, though Dean wouldn’t have blamed him if it had been. He simply sounded calmly gratified, a workman well-pleased with the tool he had crafted. The dragon twisted and wailed, eyes rolling, puking misaimed smoke and fire toward the sky. Sam held onto the shaft of his weapon, grim, solid, immovable. There was no chance of escape.
Bobby’s voice continued in the background, a rising crescendo as the monster weakened. Sam slowly swung the dragon’s neck down in an irresistible arc, forcing its head to the ground. Dean stepped forward, calmly side-stepping the last, weak billows of fire. He stepped on the dragon’s snout, forcing its mouth shut, ignoring the sparks that spurted from its clenched teeth.
Dean saw the spot between its eyes, the vulnerable point where only a thin shell of blood and bone protected the brain, and stabbed Ruby’s knife through it like an icepick swung sharply down, pouring every single ounce of anger and frustration and grief and pain into the thrust.
A last, muffled whimper, a pathetic wisp of smoke rising and dying in the frosty air, and the dragon was dead.
Part 21.B
AN: I swear, I’m only pausing here so I can drive home from work. The rest is coming soon.
