[ the pit’s breaking apart. The torture, the horror of the last month washing away, out to sea, with the flood. Cas is a statue in the rising water, eyes on what may be a hallucination after so long down in this hole, hearing whispers, lost in visions, and wallowing in suffocating madness. Seeing him - Dean - it’s a crack in this stone prison, a bolt of light shot down to clear the illusion, and fog, and carnage.
Castiel lurches, stumbles, drags his exhausted frame off the rock wall to inelegantly run towards the maybe-mirage, water-logged and splashing as he goes. Salt water stings at the fungal festered lesions across his body, sinks a chill into his feverish skin already shivering, his hair oily and unwashed and partly clumped with dried blood, and he couldn’t care less about any of it.
Dean’s weapon connects with an acolyte that collapses to the ground, water fanning out around the limp body, and it could’ve been ripped from his memories. The fists at Dean’s sides to the tense line through his back and shoulders. The closer Cas gets, the deeper the dread pierces, fear that he’ll reach out only close his fingers in mist. Castiel’s heart hammers in his throat when he finally stretches out a hand and grasps frantically at Dean’s shoulder.
He’s solid. He’s here. ]
Dean. [ Cas pulls, demanding his attention. Regardless of what mark-fueled fury still clings to him from the fight, Castiel’s hands frame his face, dragging Dean’s eyes to him. His grin is written in pain as much as relief, the redness in his eyes may be due to the ritual’s effects, or the emotion welling up. It’s been nearly a month, and there were times Cas was certain he’d never see them again - never see Dean again. I need you, he’d said, and Cas couldn’t immediately fly to his side. The wrongness of it all made his skin crawl, made him want to scrape at the earth to dig his way out until his fingers bled. Somewhere, Dean was fighting tooth and nail to claw himself through this new internal hell, and Cas should’ve been there with more than jumbled text. At his side, to hold him back before Jo got hurt, to let him vent the rage when it was safe, to act as the anchor sturdy and rooted enough to steady him at the edge.
If he’d died here, raving at illusions as he sunk into the vines and became another mangled, decomposing corpse to be forgotten, he’d break that promise to return to him. Dean would be dragged down beneath the Mark’s murky waters, knowing his best friend failed him. The thought ached through every inch of him, deeper than the lesions the ritual split across Cas’s skin.
It feels unreal to have him here, to touch him, to look into his eyes and see Dean Winchester staring back at him, not yet consumed by the Mark. There’s still time, thank whatever god that matters. There’s still time. ]
Dean. [ an incredulous, raspy laugh punches from Cas like a sob, rattling out his lungs like he needs it as much as air, ] You’re okay, you’re here.
closed; dean
Castiel lurches, stumbles, drags his exhausted frame off the rock wall to inelegantly run towards the maybe-mirage, water-logged and splashing as he goes. Salt water stings at the fungal festered lesions across his body, sinks a chill into his feverish skin already shivering, his hair oily and unwashed and partly clumped with dried blood, and he couldn’t care less about any of it.
Dean’s weapon connects with an acolyte that collapses to the ground, water fanning out around the limp body, and it could’ve been ripped from his memories. The fists at Dean’s sides to the tense line through his back and shoulders. The closer Cas gets, the deeper the dread pierces, fear that he’ll reach out only close his fingers in mist. Castiel’s heart hammers in his throat when he finally stretches out a hand and grasps frantically at Dean’s shoulder.
He’s solid. He’s here. ]
Dean. [ Cas pulls, demanding his attention. Regardless of what mark-fueled fury still clings to him from the fight, Castiel’s hands frame his face, dragging Dean’s eyes to him. His grin is written in pain as much as relief, the redness in his eyes may be due to the ritual’s effects, or the emotion welling up. It’s been nearly a month, and there were times Cas was certain he’d never see them again - never see Dean again. I need you, he’d said, and Cas couldn’t immediately fly to his side. The wrongness of it all made his skin crawl, made him want to scrape at the earth to dig his way out until his fingers bled. Somewhere, Dean was fighting tooth and nail to claw himself through this new internal hell, and Cas should’ve been there with more than jumbled text. At his side, to hold him back before Jo got hurt, to let him vent the rage when it was safe, to act as the anchor sturdy and rooted enough to steady him at the edge.
If he’d died here, raving at illusions as he sunk into the vines and became another mangled, decomposing corpse to be forgotten, he’d break that promise to return to him. Dean would be dragged down beneath the Mark’s murky waters, knowing his best friend failed him. The thought ached through every inch of him, deeper than the lesions the ritual split across Cas’s skin.
It feels unreal to have him here, to touch him, to look into his eyes and see Dean Winchester staring back at him, not yet consumed by the Mark. There’s still time, thank whatever god that matters. There’s still time. ]
Dean. [ an incredulous, raspy laugh punches from Cas like a sob, rattling out his lungs like he needs it as much as air, ] You’re okay, you’re here.