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“Dean!” Sam is yelling, voice strained and distant. Dean can’t spare the breath to shout back. The monster—something with enhanced strength and a craving for human flesh—has its hands wrapped firmly around Dean’s neck. It’s thumbs press against his windpipe. Pressure burns behind his eyes and his head feels hot and cloudy, and the most he can manage is a strangled wheeze.
The monster grins, a skinny tongue slipping out to lick it’s oily lips. Excited pants, hot and warm moisture, envelop Dean’s face, and he recoils in disgust, renewing his struggle to pry away the hairy digits encasing his throat.
“Dean!” Sam cries out again, but he sounds no closer. “Where are you?!”
Right here, Dean thinks. Getting strangled by a werewolf wanna-be. If you could hurry up and find me that would be great, Sammy.
But of course, Sam can’t hear that. And he hasn’t come running free of the surrounding woods like an overgrown Bambi. So it’s up to Dean.
He manages to peel back the monster’s fingers, earning a confused and furious growl, but Dean only glares back. His eyes bore into the dark pupils of the monster’s and he manages to wrench away it’s hands, yanking them to the side. The monster is unbalanced, and Dean takes advantage, rolling free forcefully.
He retches dryly, coughing and hacking into the grass—his abused throat burning. But he doesn’t have time to recover. The monster pivots to face him, black eyes glinting and tongue lolling free of it’s loosely parted fangs. Dean barely has time to brace himself before the beast flings itself in his direction, hands outstretched, claws tapered to vicious points.
They connect. Dean grunts and stumbles back at the hit, managing to get his arms inside the monster’s outstretched grasp to keep it’s flailing claws away from his face and torso. They embed themselves in his shoulders instead and he exhales sharply.
The monster growls gutturally, struggling more rigorously with the scent of fresh blood to egg it on. Dean slides back, feet losing purchase on the slippery grass—wet from morning dew or sea spray or whatever else. The monster’s teeth gnash together, inches away from his face. Hot, fetid breath mists between them, and Dean grimaces.
Something needs to change. Fast. Dean stretches and is barely able to press a thumb against the monster’s eye, curled so his fingernail is sharp and debilitating. The monster yowls and jerks back, shaken loose. Dean winces as it’s claws slide free, tearing another good inch of his flesh, and jacket. Dammit .
He doesn’t have time to think about it though. Quickly, he extracts a knife where it’s hidden in his boot, sliding the blade free so glints in the scarce moonlight. The jagged edge is curved slightly, and ready to do the job. He holds it close and grips the handle tightly.
Distantly, he hears Sam. Louder, closer, this time. It’s his name being shouted again. More desperate. He feels a surge of relief at the continuous calls. It means his brother’s alright, not struggling with a monster of his own. It also means he can get his ass over here and help Dean finish off this one.
“Over here, Sam!” Dean yells, or, tries to. His voice is scratchy and half stolen, but he hopes Same was able to hear something because he doesn’t have time to say anything else. The monster, one eye squeezed shut and bleeding, creeps closer on hands and feet, swaying back and forth, ready to pound.
Dean tenses, and the monster barrels towards him again. He points his knife, hardens his stance, and steps to the side, letting the monster lurch by him. Then, he buries the knife up to the hilt in it’s back, just missing the spine.
The howl it emits is bone chilling, and Dean’s heard enough death screams to recognize it. But the monster isn’t done yet, and it doesn’t let Dean forget it.
It pulls itself up and charges yet again. Dean’s beginning to realize it only has one mode. Go.
But God, Dean is so fucking done. He’s got new bruises layered on top of the old, and new cuts, and his throat feels inflamed and like someone took sandpaper to it. He wants a drink and a meal to match. He wants to find a motel and take a cold shower in a shitty, rundown bathroom, then go to bed on a lumpy, stained mattress. He wants to settle on a second-hand couch with the company of an angel who doesn’t quite realize the concept of single-person cushions—not the companionship of a bloodthirsty werewolf reject. But to get any of that, he has to finish this first.
He lands a hit. There’s the sound of flesh being cut and torn. The noise is wet and it sets his stomach wrong, even after all these years of hearing it, but Dean wears a tired smirk. The solid thump of the monster’s body landing on the ground tells him it’s impending death has been advanced. Done.
He stands over the body. It’s two, black eyes, stare at a point Dean knows nothing about, and it’s tongue has slid free again—laying still, moist tissue drying out, resembling a dead worm. His blood coats the thing’s fingernails, gathering at the points to drip, bleeding into the spongy ground.
Dean turns and leaves it there.
“Sam!” he shouts, in the direction of the woods. He stares at the wall of trees, lightly shaking branches ruffled by wind. Where is he?
“Dean!” Sam replies. He’s closer again.
“Sam!”
Dean can not believe he’s playing a version of Marco Polo in the early hours of the morning—corpse of their hunted monster cooling behind his feet. But, here he is.
With the noise from the fight gone, he can hear the lapping of waves between Sam’s intermediate shouts, coming from the cliff behind him. Dean glances at it, realizing he came closer to the edge than he thought.
He takes a few firm steps in the direction of the wood line, scanning it for signs of movement. It only takes a few moments before he catches it. The silhouette of his younger brother emerges from the shadows, hulking and tall and moving quickly. Dean starts in his direction, finding relief in his face once he’s close enough to see him.
“Took you long enough,” he says.
“Sorry,” Sam offers absently, then, more serious. “I lost the monster.”
Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointed at the prone form sprawled across the ground. “I found it.”
Sam’s tense shoulders drop with a sigh. “Oh thank God,” he says. “Then let’s burn the thing and get out.”
“Hell yeah,” Dean agrees.
Sam nods in the direction of the tree line, where the Impala lays behind a narrow swatch of woods. “I’ll go grab the stuff—if you want to grab fuel?”
Dean sighs. “I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it.”
Sam shoots him a glare. “Dean.”
“Sammy.”
“Fine,” Sam relents. “Out of one.”
“Three,” Dean says.
“One,” Sam insists.
“Fine.”
In unison they both put out their hands. It stretches the new wounds in Dean’s shoulder but he ignores the pangs. They hit their closed fists against their open palms three times. Bum, bum, bum.
Scissors. Rock.
Sam wins.
Dean mumbles a string of curses as Sam marches victoriously towards the woods. Smug bastard.
Dean turns back to the corpse, walking closer reluctantly. He prods the thing with his foot. “How much wood do you think we’ll need to get you lit up?’ he asks.
The body doesn’t respond—luckily.
Dean sighs and prepares to assemble a pile of wood for burning the thing—yearning for the lumpy motel mattress. God, he could just collapse right here, looking no more alive than the monster bleeding out beside him. At least then he wouldn’t have to stand, or move. Standing and moving are so hard. His limbs are so heavy. His head pulses with a headache—burning and throbbing. He pushes the heels of his palms against his eyes until glowing orbs float behind his eyelids. If he could just get to that motel bed—
“Dean!”
He spins around because that’s the tone Sammy uses when he’s scared or hurt and Dean needs to be there fast.
He just manages to catch a glance of Sam facing him, already at the treeline but rushing back in his direction. Is something chasing him? Dean thinks frantically, hands curling around his knife handle. But Dean can’t see anything in motion behind him—
Something barrels into him from behind.
Oh.
So nothing's chasing Sam. Something is attacking him.
The thing’s momentum sends Dean crashing to the ground. He doesn’t have time to get his arms under him and he lands with a sickening crack he feels in his ribs. His knife goes flying at the same time, and he bites his lip or his tongue or something because blood and pain blooms to life in his mouth.
The heat and pressure of a person, or person-esque figure, has latched on to him, pressing him into the ground. Sharp nails bury themselves in his back and something drapes across his neck, sending gooseflesh crawling across his skin. The curtain moves, and he can see—is that hair?— in the corner of his vision.
The thing shrieks, high pitched and feminine and so so so angry. Dean cringes into the grass. So. There were two monsters.
Dean’s dazed, but he manages to roll over, tipping the monster off of him, kicking it away. It pulls back with an angry cry, lunging again almost immediately.
Dean sidesteps. He doesn’t have his weapon, and he casts a distracted, harried look at the nearby ground, trying to find the glint of the metal blade. He finds tracks sliced into the ground by a rushed approach, leading to the edge of the cliff. Dean distantly pierces together the image of this monster clawing her way up the cliff’s edge and sneaking silently but furiously towards him. He shakes his head, not needing that picture.
The thing continues to stalk closer, hissing and leaping towards him in short, threatening bounds. Dean backs up step by step. His empty hands hover at his sides, one close to cupping the ribs aching and searing with every step he takes.
Sam is racing over but he’ll be too late. There’s too much distance between them—which is only growing—and this thing is ready to make a final, decisive move. Dean doesn’t have his knife, and he’s been missing his gun even longer. He can’t keep retreating, with the cliff right behind him, churning water crashing against the sheer, rocky edge.
Wait.
Dean dodges a pounce and scrambles to stay upright, feet sliding for purchase against the slick grass. He jerks back, keeping an eye on the cliff, wheels turning in his head.
If he can…
Sam’s shouting again, the monster’s spitting, and the water is lapping against stone insistently. The pain in his neck and ribs and other assorted locations overlaps and merges—paired with his exhaustion, he’s practically dead on his feet.
Dean’s only getting closer to the cliff’s edge and the monster’s only getting faster. They’re yards away. Feet. Inches.
Dean stands still, open air just beyond his heels. The monster doesn’t even pause. Dean looks into its eyes, which are dark with hate and clouded by anger. It sets its feet and hurls itself forward, claws poised in front of it’s open snarl.
Dean forces himself to stay still as a statue before it’s feet leave the ground, and then, with all the power he can wring from his battered body, he flings himself to the side and forward, landing sprawled across the ground a foot or two away from the edge.
The monster shrieks as it’s momentum drives it over the cliff and Dean cannot believe the move actually worked. On hands and knees, he laughs breathlessly towards the ground.
When he looks up, adorning a shit-eating grin, he sees Sammy slowing to a stop, panting with the excursion of the sudden sprint.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam hisses. “You alright?”
Dean gets himself upright. “Fine.”
“You sure?” Sam continues, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. “You went down hard…”
“I’m good, Sammy,” Dean promises shortly, ignoring the twinging from his myriad of aches. When Sam continues to look hesitant he gets defensive. “What, thought I couldn’t handle a low-grade bitch like that? C’mon man.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but his concern melts away. “Alri—Watch you!”
But Dean, for the second time in how many minutes, is taken by surprise despite his warning. Sam lunges forward—too late.
A hand wrapped around Dean’s ankle pulls. The face half visible over the cliff’s edge glares from behind his legs. It’s dark eyes shine with hatred, and tainted victory. It’s long hair is greasy and hangs before it’s face.
Dean’s leg is yanked out beneath him. The hand clinging to his foot tugs him over the edge at the same time his upper torso collides with the ground, hard. The pain is overwhelming, and it masks his senses in a sudden blur as he’s drawn limply over the edge.
But it doesn’t hide the cold of the air as it envelopes him. It’s damp, icy air that shouldn’t be a problem, but merges with his aches just right and leaves him freezing and in pain and hurtling to the turbulent waters below in about the most uncomfortable position he could be in.
The monster’s grip slips away as they fall in tandem, and it’s figure is lost in the shadow of the cliff side. Dean’s left alone.
Sam, he thinks on his way down. How he has the time he doesn’t know—but the world, which always seems to have the worst out for him—must have decided to throw him a bone on this one, because everything slows down, like he’s sinking through the viscous hold of syrup. Maybe it makes his life more amusing for existential beings to observe. Whatever it is, Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He wonders as he drops if he’s about to die, but scratches the thought. It would be too easy, after everything they’ve been through. To die here would be laughable compared to everything else. No. Dean thinks he’ll survive—but it’s going to hurt. A lot.
He wishes he was at a motel room right now...that he could drown the pain with a stiff drink and a night of uninterrupted rest. Or a few hours at the least. He really wishes he was at Bobby’s place. Camped out in the spare room. Or even in the Impala, catching up on some missed Z’s. But he isn't in any of those places. He’s falling through the air—God, he wishes he could fly .
The thought burrows deep and warm in his chest, leaving it tight, as the realization strikes. Cas can fly— his best friend can fly . Fuck, he wishes Cas was here. Screw everything else he wanted—just give him the single angel and he would be the happiest person around.
Dean approaches the water with the thought lodged in the forefront of his mind. Cas, Cas, Cas. He braces himself, eyes squeezing shut, taking a deep breath and preparing to connect with the water, to swim for the surface.
But when the contact comes, it’s not with water.
Dean feels something warm and soft folding around him, two arms embracing him, firm and steady. Dean forces his eyes open, but can see nothing—his face is pressed against the fabric of a shirt. “I’ve got you,” a deep voice murmurs, and Dean lets himself relax.
Cas.
He leans into him, fingers curling around his trench coat, risking a glance at the water below and cursing the quick look. There, the water roils. He grabs onto Cas with a firmer hold and swallows thickly.
“Hold on,” Cas orders him, and Dean feels something shift behind Cas, a light ruffling noise joining with the easy roar of rushing water. They begin to ascend, and Dean refuses to look. The world twists and the only solid thing is Cas. He keeps his eyes closed tight, only opening them when he’s set onto something firm. Ground.
“Thanks, man” Dean breathes. He keeps a hold on Cas’s arm as he steps back, unsteady. Cas keeps a hold of his own on Dean’s jacket.
“Are you injured?” Cas asks urgently, and Dean can see his eyes scanning him, but doesn’t have the chance to assure him he’s fine.
“Dean!” Sam cries, and Dean turns, to find him running over. He almost steps away from Cas, but thinks screw it and stays huddled next to him. “I thought yo u died,” Sam is saying, coming to a stop, eyes wide and breathing heavily. He’s so dramatic, Dean thinks. But he claps his brother on the back anyway.
“Not yet, Sammy.”
Cas shoots him a look at that.
“Christ Dean,” Sam curses, shaking his head so his princess hair goes rippling. Dork. He steps out from under Dean’s hand, glaring reproachfully at him. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Dean thinks this is unfair—the monster was dead. How was he supposed to know there’d be two? But Sam is looking at him with those kicked-puppy eyes and Dean doesn’t want to argue with him when he looks prepared to cry.
So Dean says, “I’m alright.”
Two suspicious looks meet that statement, but Dean ignores both of them. He eases his hold on Cas’s trench coat and steps back, pulling away from Cas’s grip. He walks away, towards the corpse of his beaten monster, and knows the other two will follow.
They do. Two pairs of footsteps sound behind him, pressing against the soggy ground.
“We gotta burn this sucker,” Dean manages, trying to hide the way his teeth begin to click together involuntarily. They draw closer to the body. His clothes feel damp and his bones burn ice-cold. His side is throbbing, his lip stings, his skin feels mottled with the pattern of bruising. That motel bed? Heaven.
But Dean’s own piece of heaven is much less accepting compared to his hypothetical motel bed.
“Dean.” Cas says. “Dean. Dean.”
He repeats his name, and Dean can hear the edge of disapproval in his gravelly tone so he doesn’t answer. But that just prompts Cas to speed up until he’s grabbed hold of Dean’s shoulder and pulled him back to face him and Sam. “You are hurt,” Cas states bluntly.
“Yeah Dean,” Sam pipes up. With the same supporting insistence he used when they were kids and Dean had to argue with well meaning adults who didn’t understand hunting. Dean doesn’t like that it’s being used against him. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
Dean sighs. “I’m fine,” he insists.
Cas doesn’t seem willing to take him at his word. His hold on Dean’s shoulder tightens, and the marks the initial monster raked through his skin throb. Dean swallows thickly, flinching away from Cas’s hold.
The angel pauses, hand hovering in the air between them, where it was previously enrapturing Dean’s upper arm. “Your shoulder?”
“I’m okay,” Dean says. “Just a few scratches.”
Cas’s eyes narrow, but it’s Sam who speaks. “And your neck? That’s going to be some rough bruising.”
And Dean can feel that he’s right, so he just shakes his head. “What do you want me to say Sammy? It doesn’t matter if I have a few bruises or scratches. We have to finish the job.”
He turns away from two frowns and starts for the corpse again. “Now let’s burn this bastard.”
Only, there’s a sudden rush of air behind him. Dean glances back, and finds Cas completely gone.
Before Dean gets the chance to blink or even think ‘gee that sure was a fun visit’ the angel reappears. Beside the monster’s corpse, which is now alite and burning.
Cas reaches out and lets his hands hover over the fire for a moment, gaging the warmth.
“He’s learned that from you,” Dean says, after a moment where he and Sam remain still and watch Cas warm himself from the burning of a corpse.
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t give me credit for that.”
They both approach Cas—Dean attempting to hide a limp when his left ankle starts twinging—and the angel looks up. If Dean wasn’t mistaken, he’d say he looked proud.
“We should leave now.” Cas says firmly. “The monster’s been disposed of.”
“Yeah, and you took the sport out of it,” Dean tells him, but is secretly glad for avoiding his chore of gathering firewood. He stands next to Cas, and imagines he feels an invisible weight flat against his back. Something soft and firm that almost seems to assist him in staying upright. Maybe Dean hit his head.
Sam ignores Dean. “Thanks for…” he looks at the smoldering body. “Thanks, Cas.”
But Cas isn’t paying him attention. “We should leave now,” he repeats, and his eyes are on Dean, who doesn’t doubt he’s categorizing every minute wince or visible hurt. “Back to the motel room, so we can tend to your injuries—”
“Okay,” Dean says over him. “Let’s just head back to the Impala.”
Cas frowns. “I could—”
But Dean knows what he’s about to offer, and while he’s grateful Cas saved him from a dip in the ocean, he’s not looking for another angel ride. He’s still feeling nauseous from the last one.
“I’d rather walk,” he cuts in.
Cas almost looks a little put out, and Dean feels a little bad for that. So he starts walking. Cas follows, staying flush to his side. The gentle strength that seems to follow him, enshrouding Dean’s shoulders, remains.
“Should we just leave this?” Sam asks, and Dean looks back to find him still gazing uncertainly at the burning corpse.
“The ground’s soaked Sammy, it’s fine.”
But Sam still hesitates.
“Scared of Smokey Bear?” Dean presses. And Sam catches up quickly.
“We’re not just supposed to leave fire,” he says defensively.
But before Dean can come up with something that assures Sam all his little forest friends will be safe, Cas interrupts with, “It will go out.”
And neither Sam or Dean are set to argue the point with an angel. So the trio walks on in silence. They end up in the forest, and it’s a short walk to the Impala—but for Dean, it feels much longer. He tries to limit the weight against his ankle and realizes quickly that over the unsteady ground, it’s a fruitless endeavor. Soon, curses well up and he has to bite them back with clenched teeth. His throat is tight with swelling, and his shoulder’s sting against the night air. Each step leaves his ribs aching and his body irritated.
He doesn’t want to be the one who pulls out the, ‘how much longer’. But luckily, he doesn’t have to.
The break free of the treeline, and Sam and Dean alike have audible sighs ready for the sight of the Impala waiting for them.
“Baby,” Dean sighs. “I am so glad to see you.”
He can see Sam’s nods in agreement out of the corner of his eye. Both of them are clearly ready to collapse into the seats and drive to the motel. Still, Dean’s reluctant to pull away from Cas and the invisible support stemming from him—but they need to get in the car. Dean prepares to step away from Cas and get in the driver’s side, when Sam interrupts.
“I’ll drive,” Sam suggests, holding out his hand for the keys. Dean pulls them out, looks at them, glinting in the night glow, then turns to take in Sam’s waiting hand. When it’s clear Dean’s hesitating, Sam pulls out his patented bitch face.
“C’mon Dean,” he coaxes insistently, flexing his hand in a gimme gesture. “You fell off a cliff—you’re not driving.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says intuitively, but then pauses. Would it really be such a bad thing to relinquish the keys for a quick drive? He sighs, and passes them over. As with every time, he warns, “Not a scratch.”
Sam rolls his eyes, as expected. “When have I ever left a scratch?”
And Dean could dredge up mentions of the summer he taught Sam to drive, or when they were backing out of that driveway and he wasn’t expecting the trashcans to be at the bottom. But that would no doubt start an argument. And Dean isn’t sure if he’s up to winning one of those right now.
He and Cas move to the passenger side of the Impala, and Dean is about to get in the front, when Cas reaches out. His hand grabs Dean’s shoulder—below the scratches left by the monster—and squeezes. Five fingers press warmth through Dean’s multiple layers.
Dean looks up, meets the angel’s eyes. Their deep blues are turned into dusty pools by the dark. Cas tilts his head, eyebrow raised minutely. Dean swallows.
Cas opens the door to the backseat and Dean follows him through it without a complaint. He can feel Sam’s gaze through the rear-view mirror, but his brother doesn’t say anything. So Dean ignores him. The Impala starts, and heat is coaxed through the chilled interior. Dean clicks his seatbelt into place and settles against the seat.
Finally sitting, the exhaustion from their trek through the woods doubles. His chest feels a little tight and his stomach still turns from the abruptness of Cas’s midair save. Bruising smolders against his ribs, in odd splotches along his limbs. His head pounds with a headache.
“Turn it down, Sammy,” he says when the music plays, still blasting at the high volume he had it turned to when they arrived. Sam must see him wince, because the music is turned so low, the sounds start to leak and meld together into a dim white-noise.
“Are you alright?” Cas is saying, again. And it hits Dean that he usually isn’t the one advocating for quiet.
He knows he should reassure Cas, and Sam, that he’s fine. But he blinks, and his eyes stay slid shut for too long. The words get caught in his throat as he manages a nod. The pressure of Sam’s gaze is once again pinned to him, paired with Cas twisting in his seat to lean closer, eyebrows furrowed together.
Dean’s head is nodding, resting at an awkward angle against his own shoulder, sure to leave a crick. With how often he usually rests in Baby, he should know better. But the night catches up all at once. With low music, the engine’s murmur, and wind whistling against the car’s exterior in his ears, Dean fades.
Distantly, he can feel something adjusting him where he sits. It’s not a monster, and that’s good enough for Dean. He allows whoever is manipulating him to do so, and soon, his head rests against something warm. Fabric that smells like smoke presses against his face and he leans into it.
“Goodnight,” a deep voice whispers. And then, soft enough to blur against the music, “Dean.”
Something soft and gentle rests over the top of him, blocking out the chills the Impala’s yet to replace. Sleep edges out the overlapping pain and discomfort running rampant in his body. He sighs, in comfort, and relief.
It’s not the motel room. But for now? It’s more than enough.