Map of the World: September 15-27
Sealing the contract
Warnings at the end
—Interlude—
It’s fucking freezing.
“What…”
His entire body feels like it’s made of liquid, words slurring into incomprehensibility between his tongue and freezing air. Hands on his shoulders push him down before he can protest: it’s like he’s not even moving; no matter how hard he struggles, he gets absolutely nowhere. He’s got to find Sam. Castiel promised, and a contract is a contract, even with a god.
“Sam. Tell me—” He chokes on a mouthful of frozen air, coughing desperately until he can breathe again, speak again, remember how to form words. “Tell me…where he is.”
“Stop fighting me,” Castiel says from somewhere behind him, and he’s pushed down again, buried to the chest in clinging, roiling heat, fire burning through every nerve. Every muscle locks up in shock, and he feels himself sinking, helpless, but as his chin touches something liquid, he’s pulled back up again. “Dean, listen to me—”
“Cas, you need help?” Another voice, female, and Dean vaguely wonders who the fuck calls a crazy god Cas. “I can—”
“Get out.” The command is unmistakable and inarguable. After a moment, he adds, “Rest while you can. I can handle this.”
Dean swallows, head falling back helplessly against something solid with a thump he can feel in his teeth and pounds through his head, scattering his thoughts like sheep before a wolf’s sharp teeth. Even Sam keeps flickering in and out, a motel TV with shitty reception, static fucking up the signal.
“You said—”
“Dean…” Abruptly, the solid surface behind him moves; blinking, Dean tries to focus, but all he can see are blue eyes drilling into his. “Dean,” he says more quietly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Dean nods slow and languorous; it’s like moving through honey.
“Listen to me. You have to stop fighting me. Despite what you may think, this is to your benefit.”
That’s never not been a lie, and he can’t believe Castiel thinks he’d buy it now, after everything.
“Try.”
Frowning, Castiel rests a hand on his forehead, then eases it around to gently cup the back of his head, a warm buffer between him and an edge like a dull knife he didn’t even notice cutting into his neck. Despite himself, he relaxes back into the firm hold with an audible sigh of relief, closing his eyes; even holding up his head these few seconds feels like too much effort.
“You can’t give up, Dean, not now.” It takes a long time for him to identify the voice as Castiel’s, soft and rough and something else, something he’s never heard before. “I can’t—” His voice breaks off for an uneven breath, and distantly, Dean wonders if he’s okay. “If you do, I’ll be forced to take measures that will make you very unhappy once you’re cognizant again, and I won’t care at all. I’ve done worse for far less. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah.” Slitting open his eyes, Castiel’s face comes into abrupt, almost painful focus; going by his expression, he’s pissed about something. Making an effort, he tries to think what he missed. “Am I supposed to build an altar or—”
“For the sake of what remains of my sanity,” Castiel interrupts flatly, “don’t finish that sentence.”
Startled, he takes in the deep circles under Castiel’s eyes and what looks like a couple of days beyond his normal level of stubble, wondering if he should be surprised that even as a god, Castiel still doesn’t get the perks include not looking like shit. Converting the masses and executing the unbelievers must be exhausting.
Lonely, too, he thinks with an unwelcome flicker of pity. Gods don’t have friends to tell them to eat their goddamn spamburger and beans—All of it, Cas. Don’t look at me like that—and go to bed already—I’m not kidding here. Bed. Now.—the goddamn reports will wait for tomorrow.
“You realize that even if this was a real contract, it’s not actually valid until it’s confirmed by both parties—” Castiel’s voice cuts off. “What am I saying? I need to get you out now, so please be still.”
“I have to kiss you?” Dean asks curiously and is rewarded with an expression he’s never seen on Castiel’s face before. “What? Gods don’t do that?” Not like there’s a handbook for this kind of shit, and really, why isn’t there? Maybe they should write one. Knowing the rules would help, even if the only thing anyone ever follows is the letter.
“Hell can’t be worse than this,” Castiel mutters, hand slipping away with a brief trail of fingers over his cheek before he shifts into a crouch and settles both hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Don’t attempt to help me. You’re not very good at it.”
Dean tries a smirk for the fit. “And fuck you very much.”
For some reason, this requires more personal attention and less mojo’ing; as his feet touch a solid surface that he hazily identifies as the floor, he belatedly realizes he’s soaking wet. His t-shirt clings to his skin, boxers rucked up in wet, uncomfortable bunches against his thighs, water sliding down his bare legs and dripping onto the floor with almost audible plops and puddling around his feet.
Cas takes his entire weight before his legs have a chance to crumple underneath him, and even so, it’s an effort not to just collapse. Lifting his head, he tries to get some idea of where he is, but even with the room shifting nauseatingly in and out of focus, it’s pretty clear it’s in the same place he was earlier. He’s never thought Castiel was a palace and marble floors kind of guy—angel—whatever—but he’d have thought he’d go for something a little more upscale than the budget motel aesthetic: bare, dingy walls, the only light from a bare lightbulb clinging to the ceiling, and what looks like furniture a few decades from new.
Glancing down, he catches a glimpse of—a tub—the smooth, dark surface broken by—water, ice, what the fuck—and stops short, trying to make some kind of sense of what he’s looking at.
“Cas—” he starts, trying to hold onto the thought—water, that’s what’s forming a puddle around his feet, melting ice—but a pull on his arm drags his gaze down to a familiar tube snaking down from his elbow and taped into place. Turning to follow it knocks his other arm into Castiel with an explosion of pain that makes him double over, black dots dancing in front of his eyes from the agony when his weight drops abruptly onto his own feet. “Fuck.”
He won’t pass out. He won’t. He won’t.
“…I told you to be still,” Castiel is saying, sounding pissed, which makes Dean wonder if Castiel actually thought that obedience thing would really work. Swallowing back the taste of bile and blood, his attention’s caught by the bulky, misshapen bandaging loosely wrapped around his right forearm, gauze stained with red-brown streaks beneath a thin layer of plastic. Trying to flex his fingers without success, he realizes in dim horror it’s because he can’t feel them.
Effortlessly, Castiel rights him again, slinging Dean’s arm carefully over his shoulder to dangle uselessly against his back. As they start to move away from the tub—an industrial icemaker, I suppose—things start to click into place: ankle, you get you ran yourself into a hairline fracture, right?, the bandage, infection rate is seventy percent, his head is killing him, why isn’t he responding?, he’s almost got it…
You’re dying.
Castiel stops short, looking at him. This close, Dean can see his eyes are red-rimmed as well as bloodshot, the iris a thin rim of electric blue around swallowing black. “What did you say?”
Dean licks his cracked lips and tastes dried blood. “Am I dying?”
“No,” Cas answers fiercely, fingers digging into his hip hard enough to almost clear his head. I have faith. “You’re not going to die.”
“Why—” Can’t I think? He tries to hold onto the thought, desperate, but it’s trying to get away, slipping frantically out his grasp. “What happened?”
“You were attacked on patrol by a colony of brownies and the wounds became infected,” Cas answers, searching his face. “The infection is proving extremely persistent, but we still have many options available for treatment.”
That sounds about right. “If. If you can’t. Find one—”
“We will,” Cas interrupts. “The problem is, we need time to find the right one, and your fever is dangerously high, which is causing complications in treating you. Do you understand?”
It’s almost gone, goddamn it. “Time.” A thousand miles to go before he sleeps. It feels like forever. “You need time.”
“Yes.” Cas closes his eyes for a second. “I need time.”
Dean tries to hold onto it—the jeep, the cabin, a woman wrapping up his arm, Cas saying—Cas saying…
“Did you see them when you died? The first time?”
“Dean?”
“I didn’t get a chance to count them. Did you?” The ghosts of invisible sheep start to circle them, echoes of non-existent baaing filling his ears. Sheep in Kansas: something’s wrong with that. Turning his head, he takes them in and belatedly remembers they’re not actually sheep; a couple of them give him glares, shaking their heads frantically, and worse, they don’t even stay still, so he can’t get a count. “Stop moving…”
Fingers bite into his arms and he blinks up at Castiel, trying to remember what they were talking about. Then he does: Sam. He almost forgot Sam. He has to—do something to get Sam back. All at once, it dawns on him: contract.
“I forgot.” Somehow, he finds the strength to move, half stumbling until Castiel catches him with a muttered curse, which would normally be hilarious, but it takes all of Dean’s concentration to stay upright long enough to get this over with. Leaning forward, Dean just manages to aim for Castiel’s mouth and kiss him.
He’s not sure how long it lasts—he’s not sure how long it’s supposed to, he’s only done this with demons, maybe it’s different with gods?—but Castiel’s the one that jerks back first. Dean only realizes he closed his eyes when he opens them, licking his lips and wondering at the lingering taste; it’s nothing like demons, a thick, rotting sweetness, sour like curdled milk, that he’ll taste with every mouthful of food, every drink of water, every goddamn breath for days. This is nothing like that. It’s almost like—
“Why did you do that?” Castiel whispers.
I wish I’d done it before, Dean thinks hopelessly. When you were still the person who made me want to try. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“Sealed the contract,” he says hoarsely. “Love, loyalty, obedience, the whole nine yards. It’s done.”
Castiel doesn’t answer for what feels like forever. “You believe that, don’t you?”
Before Dean can work out what the hell that’s supposed to mean, he’s abruptly lying down, completely dry—mojo, fucking finally—and there are pills—this part’s familiar, though he still has no idea what that’s about—before Castiel does something with his arm. A point of chill begins to spread a cloudy warmth through his whole body, and all at once, he relaxes into the mattress.
Lazily, he glances down, but Castiel catches him, easing his head up before he can see what’s going on down there, and honestly, it feels way too good to really care.
“No, you already pulled it out twice. You should be asleep within the next few minutes.” Dean nods as best he can with Castiel’s hand on his jaw, blue eyes meeting his. “You said I should find other options. I’m taking your advice.”
“Maybe,” Dean whispers, and wonders what he’s even saying: a miracle in progress. “What advice?”
“It’s not done,” Castiel states. “The contract. I didn’t agree to the terms.”
“Bullshit.” Frantic, Dean tries to sit up, but the hand on his shoulder effortlessly pins him to the mattress. “It’s—”
“A contract requires the consent of both parties, and I haven’t consented.”
This is a nightmare, has to be. “What—” he swallows, mouth dry. “What else do you want?”
“Proof,” Castiel answers. “Your obedience is questionable. You need to prove to me that you can be.”
Dean manages to nod again; he supposes making a contract with someone who actually knows him is probably a bad idea when it comes to terms. Around the bed, the sheep gather closer, and now they’re glaring at him in unison. “What do I have to do?”
“Just one thing,” Castiel answers, never looking away. “I need more time, Dean. You can give it to me by doing one simple thing: you won’t die. Do you understand me?”
Despite the fact his eyes want to shut, like, yesterday, he can’t make them do it, not with Castiel looking at him like that.
“Verbal acknowledgement is mandatory.” Castiel’s hand tightens, getting his full attention. “Say it.”
“I won’t die,” Dean says obediently, though he’s got to wonder why Castiel needs his help with that. The entire god package is beginning to look a lot shittier than he thought, and not just because it made his best friend crazy. “Did you know what it would do to you?”
Castiel freezes, staring down at him, then looks away, reaching for a blanket and tucking it around him. “You should sleep.”
“So should you.” He sold his soul to Hell, and Castiel sold his to godhood; both of them went into it knowing the consequences, but that didn’t make having to live with them any easier. “I never wanted…wanted you to do this. Not for me.”
He wonders if it’s his imagination that Castiel’s hands are shaking. “I understand why now.”
“You just had to do it,” Dean says bitterly. “I gotta live with knowing it was me that made you.”
“Dean…” He pauses, then reaches for another blanket, smoothing it over him. “I’m currently debating whether to ever tell you about this. It would be entertaining to observe your reaction, but then I’d have to actually talk about it.”
Dean slits his eyes open. “Huh?”
“It’s not an easy decision.” Castiel rests a hand on Dean’s forehead again, soothing. “I need you here so I can make it.”
Dean nods, relaxing at the slow, rhythmic stroking, gentle even though he can feel how badly Castiel’s hand’s shaking. It’s almost hypnotic—scratch that, maybe it’s actually hypnotic, but he’s surprisingly okay with that. A series of vaguely encouraging ‘baa’s’ punctuate the entire surreal experience. Try not to make it too hard to pull it off, okay?
“I’ll be here,” he says at last; no one, even fucked-up almost-gods, should feel like Castiel looks right now. “I promise.”
Castiel nods. “I’ll hold you to it.”
He’s half-finished with his vivisection when he finally gets tired of the talking.
“Dean—” it gurgles through a ruined throat. “Listen to me—”
It cuts off when he shoves a knife through their throat.
“Alistair,” he says patiently. Again. “It’s Alistair now. What you give up, you don’t get back.”
“No,” the guy says through a severed throat, staring at him with irritated, bloodshot blue eyes before he abruptly pulls out the knife and sits up, organs spilling out into his lap. “That’s not your name, and this isn’t what you are.”
“How are you doing that?” Alistair asks curiously; only demons get up from the rack.
The guy gives him a surly glare. “You aren’t this.”
“It’s exactly what I am; I carry it everywhere, always. Why don’t you get that?” Gesturing at the intestines dripping toward the floor, he adds, “You’re making a mess, by the way.”
“Please don’t elaborate,” the guy says. “I really don’t want to know what you’re doing right now.”
“I deserved to be here. Did you think I ever left?” He reaches for another knife, balancing it in his hand before stepping back toward the rack. It’s his favorite one, sharp and dull, a million agonized screams written into every inch of the blood-soaked metal; he always carries it wherever he goes. “I didn’t. Now lie the fuck down.”
The blue eyes narrow. “Make me.”
Before he can move, the gloom near the rack starts to thicken, curls of darkness forming lines and edges that resolve into the uncertain shape of a door. A door that immediately begins to shake, like a whole bunch of tiny, frantic hooves are hitting it all at once.
He frowns. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the guy asks irritably. “They say the first step is to admit you have a problem. Why, I have no idea, but let’s try that. Do you want to know what yours is?”
“Shut up.” Alistair stops halfway toward the shuddering door, wondering when he started toward it in the first place, and turns around to see the guy inexplicably swinging his legs over the side of the rack. “You…can’t do that.”
“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that.” Tentatively, he sets his feet on the floor and collapses, one bloody arm stretched over the rack.
“Never mind,” Alistair says softly, starting to smile. An angel on his knees in Hell: who gets that? “You look good on your knees.”
“I’ve heard that, too. Get some new material.” Fingers digging into the rack, the guy spits out a mouthful of blood, glaring up at him. “I kneel for no one and nothing, not anymore. And neither do you. You stood up.”
Alistair swallows. “What?”
“You said yes, Dean—”
“That’s not my name!”
“—and you stood up.” Gripping the rack, he gathers what remains of his legs beneath him, pushing himself up until he’s standing unsteadily in a pool of his own blood. Looking up, he meets Alistair’s eyes, the blue incandescent. “And you taught me to do it, too.”
Alistair licks his lips, trying to speak, but no words emerge.
“We have to ask, even here. I asked, Dean. You said yes. No one says no, not if they’re worthy of the question.”
“Shut up!” He starts back toward the guy, but the door starts to crack, light shivering along each sharp edge and burning away the gloom, and somehow, he’s reaching for the doorknob.
“All you have to do,” Cas says softly, “is remember how to stand up.”
A frantic beeping fills the room, almost drowned out by a woman saying, “Breathe, Dean, goddamn you! Come on! Breathe!”
there's just so much to this and I missed si much the first time (this is my second)