Shave and a Haircut
Jul. 6th, 2012 06:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Shave and a Haircut
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Crowley, Sam
Warnings: Mild cursing.
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Dean and Castiel find themselves rescued from Purgatory. But why?
Notes: Spoilery if you haven't seen the end of S7. I'm actually hopelessly stuck writing Mythklok Chapter 102, so I did this instead.
Dean huddled under the tree, trying to make himself seem small and inconspicuous. It wasn't as difficult as it sounded. Compared to the cruel abominations that roamed here, one little human guy probably seemed pretty inconsequential. Undersized, and probably gristly. Not worth the effort.
But that didn't keep them from trying.
Night time was the worst. No, the worst was that you could hear them, but you never quite saw the bastards. All you had was the rustling. And sometimes the moaning. He wasn't sure which was worse. Even now, after all this time, it was difficult for him to pick out what was just the wind and what was one of them.
Daytime was when they two, Dean and Cas, scavenged for food. For Dean. Mostly nuts and berries. It had made him sick as a dog at first, but in time his growling stomach had gotten used to it. Water was more problematic. They tended to gather around the few clear water holes. Dean had gotten used to drinking mud, the silt filling his ever empty belly. Of course you couldn’t boil it, because that meant making a fire. And a fire meant smoke. And visibility.
How many nights had it been now, anyway? How many days, months, years? Dean had no idea. He had stopped counting. And how many years had passed back on the earth now? How was Sam doing? Was he married? Kids? Grandkids? Maybe the older brother was nothing but a pack of faded photos, rubber banded together and stuck in a shoebox. Memories faded. Even the bright ones.
He turned at the sound: a subtle crackle of twigs underfoot. He held his breath. Cas!
The angel stumbled up, and then collapsed to his knees in front of Dean, bloodstained sword still glinting in his hand. “You're all right. We're all right now,” Castiel said, breathing hard. Dean was glad it was nighttime, glad whatever damage the angel had sustained tonight was hidden in the darkness. At first, Castiel had repaired himself – his clothes and presumably his body – following these encounters. But then after a while he seemed to run out of energy, or stop caring. The trench coat was nothing but dirty, bloody rags at this point.
“I’ll take the first watch, Cas,” said Dean, because that’s what he always said nowadays.
“Yeah,” said Cas, who thereupon collapsed. Dean caught Castiel, and pulled the angel in to lean against his legs. It wasn’t exactly sleep, it seemed to be a kind of unconsciousness. And Castiel was getting harder and harder to rouse in the mornings. Some day, maybe soon, maybe tomorrow, Cas wouldn’t get up again. And whatever it was would come and kill Dean.
What happened when you died in Purgatory, Dean wondered. Did you just spend eternity in some Leviathan’s belly, getting slowly digested?
Dean sat back and let his weary eyes flutter shut, listening to the rustle of the wind, listening to the angel’s labored breathing. He remembered long ago, when Sammy had been just a kid: long summer nights, and he hadn’t wanted to go in, insisted he wasn’t sleepy, Dean, he wasn’t sleepy at all and he wanted to stay up and see fireworks. And then some time later Dean would look down at the sound of the soft snore, and the kid was slumped against him, dead to the world.
Dean jumped, startled from his reverie.
That hadn’t been the wind.
Cas’ sword lay were he had dropped it, the angel’s fingers outstretched as if he were still reaching for it. Trying not to disturb the Cas, nor make any sudden movements, Dean leaned forward and grasped it. The hilt was smooth and cold in his clammy hand.
Dean clutched the angel killing sword. And waited, shivering, to die.
“Put that down, you oaf!”
“What?” said Dean.
“Come on, we have places to go!” said Crowley, who now stood before him. The demon leaned over and put one hand on Dean and one on Castiel, and then they were in Purgatory no more.
“What the hell?” said Dean, looking around.
“Close. But I keep hell rather better furnished nowadays,” sniffed Crowley, looking around disdainfully at the dingy motel room where the three men now stood.
“Where are we?” asked Dean. Castiel, who looked disoriented, sat down hard on one of the beds.
“What does it look like? Has Purgatory made you dim? Or even dimmer?” asked Crowley.
“It looks like a crappy motel room.”
“It is a seedy motel room,” said Crowley, smiling and holding out his arms. “Your favored environment.”
“On earth?” asked Dean.
“Where else?” sniffed Crowley.
“Great! Where’s Sammy?” said Dean.
“In due time!” said Crowley, holding up one finger. “Right now, I need you to stay put for a while, as I have places to be, people to do. And please don’t attempt to leave, that would be tiresome.” Crowley waved a hand, and a pile of clean clothes and toiletries appeared piled up on one of the beds. “Use the time to get yourselves cleaned up, you look a right mess!” he added, staring at Castiel, who was regarding him with bewilderment.
And then Crowley was there no more.
“Shit!” said Dean. He sighed and tried the motel room door, not surprised to find it locked. He found that the windows, which looked out on a brick wall, were blocked as well.
“Ya know,” Dean told Castiel. “I'll try this escape shit later. Right now, I’m gonna take the asshole's advice and have a shower.” He grabbed this and that from the bed. “Don’t bother me, I’m gonna be at least a week in there.”
“All right, Dean,” said Castiel. Dean smiled. Well, at least Cas sounded somewhat coherent. Dean made for the bathroom, praying all the time that this place had decent hot water.
It did. Oh, it did!
He kicked off his clothes and crammed them all in the trash can. And then he stood under the wondrous liquid. He just let it run over his body for a time, and then he used up an entire dumb little bar of soap, enjoying the foam everywhere, and glorying in being somewhere safe. And then when he stepped out into the steamy shower stall there was flossing and brushing and shaving. He pulled on some of the clean clothes Crowley had left: jeans and a T shirt. They fit, more or less. But who cared, they were gloriously clean.
He heard the TV, and stepped out into the main room. Castiel didn’t look like he had budged an inch from where he was perched on the bed, but he somehow had the TV remote in his hand. Angel magic, Dean decided.
He was watching and episode of Dr. Sexy, MD.
Castiel looked around at Dean. “I fail to see the point of this show,” he said.
“That is the best show on television!” said Dean. “Anyway. Come on. You heard what Crowley said. Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, flipping a brand new, paper wrapped bar of soap at the angel. Castiel caught it, and stared. “Oh, you’re not gonna tell me you don’t know the purpose of soap.”
“I grasp the purpose of soap, Dean.”
“Then use it,” said Sam, pulling Castiel up to his feet. Dean grabbed a shoulder of the ragged trench coat and extracted Cas from what was left of the poor garment, and then pushed the angel towards the bathroom.
Castiel shrugged, evidenly too tired and weak to fight, and made for the bathroom. “I better hear the sound of hot water!” Dean yelled after him as the door closed. It was like getting Sammy to brush his teeth.
Dean regarded the woefully stained trench coat in his hands. He turned to the waste basket, but found he somehow didn't have the heart. So instead he carefully folded the garment, and tucked it under the pillow.
Dean then hopped up on the bed where Castiel had been sitting and soon got caught up in Dr. Sexy’s medical antics. Sometimes, when his mind wandered down in Purgatory, he had speculated how far behind he would be when and if he was ever released. But he was surprised and pleased to find that he remembered each and every one of the storylines.
“Wasting brainspace on this show,” he chuckled. He heard the bathroom door click open, and felt the release of moist heat. He turned around, his chuckle turning to a real honest belly laugh.
Castiel, dressed only in a towel draped around his waist, looked every bit the drowned rat. He blinked uncertainly as rivulets of water tricked down from his sopping wet hair.
“How you feel?” asked Dean as water pooled on the rug under Castiel’s feet.
“That was … interesting,” said Castiel.
“Did you wanna razor?” asked Dean, digging through the toiletries on the bed.
“Oh Dean! Why would I resort to that?” said Castiel, blue eyes opened wide in horror. “Things are looking up for us, I think. I mean, we've showered. That's good, right?”
“No, no, you idiot!” laughed Dean. “A razor! To shave, not to slit your stupid wrists,” he said, rubbing his own chin.
“Oh,” said Castiel, now rubbing his stubbly cheeks. “Do you think Crowley's purposes will require us to be clean shaven?”
“I don’t give a shit about Crowley. It’s just to feel good,” Dean told him, handing over a razor with a fresh blade and some shaving cream.
“Um,” said Castiel, weighing the objects carefully in his hands as if they were part of a spell to ward off a demon hoard.
“Cas. You have shaved your vessel's face before, right?” asked Dean.
“I hadn’t felt the need,” admitted the angel.
“OK, look, we'll do this once,” said Dean, steering Castiel back into the bathroom. “You pay attention! We'll look really good, and then we'll figure out what Crowley wants, and then we'll fuck him.”
“Not literally, right?” asked Castiel, as Dean popped the lid down on the toiled and sat the angel down.
“Uh, hopefully, not,” agreed Dean. “Crowley might like that too much. OK, look up!” Castiel obeyed, and Dean slathered shaving cream over more or less the lower half of his face. He handed Cas a hand mirror while some of the cream (Dean had been perhaps a bit over enthusiastic) dripped off his face and pooled on the towel in his lap. “Now watch! I'm not your mom, so this is the last time I'm gonna do this,” warned Dean, grinning at the memory of putting Sammy through the paces many years ago. He cringed inwardly when he recalled that Sam's face afterwards had been just the tiniest smidge uneven. But, no worries. He started to hum.
“Dean?”
“Try to not squirm around when I have a razor at your throat Cas, OK?”
“Yes, Dean. I'll try. Why do you suppose Crowley released us?”
“You try and figure out why that guy does anything, you'll drive yourself crazy,” said Dean, all his attention focused on the razor and an expanse of skin underneath Castiel's chin. “And you already been there, remember?”
“I suppose so. I remain somewhat apprehensive about this.”
“Look. Crowley's weakness is he always figures he's the smartest guy in the room. I say, just let him be smug, and we'll win. Like we always do.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” sighed the angel. Dean could almost imagine the poor guy's wings drooping.
“Hey! Hold up the mirror and look!” said Dean, repositioning the mirror in Castiel's hand. “See how great you look? And it's not how you are, it's how you look!”
“It is? I was unaware of this,” said Castiel, who looked soapy and clean shaven and confused.
“Smooth as a baby's ass. Come on,” said Dean, dropping the razor in the sink. “You can rinse that off.” He turned. “Was that somebody in our room?” he asked.
Castiel nodded. “Maybe,” he said, turning to the sink and peering into the bathroom mirror at himself in bemusement. “Maybe Crowley has returned?”
“We're in here!” called Dean, coming out of the bathroom. “OH MY GOD! SAMMY!” he shouted, rushing over to greet his brother.
He stopped short, a strong restraining hand on his arm.
“Dean. That's not Sam,” said Castiel, smooth face still dripping.
Dean turned back to the face of his brother. No. Oh no.
“Hey, heard you broke out too!” grinned Lucifer. “Lot of that going around.”
“What do you want?” asked Dean. “What did you do to Sam?”
“What do you think I did to Sam? Duh!” said Lucifer.
“Where is Crowley?” asked Castiel.
“I had my servant bring you here. So I could have the pleasure of finishing you myself,” grinned the horrible thing who was not Sam.
Suddenly, Castiel was muttering in Enochian, eyes closed in concentration, one hand stretched out.
There was a bright, blinding flash, and a flaming doorway opened up on one wall.
“Thank you, Castiel!” yelled Lucifer, who seized the still chanting angel and tossed him into the abyss.
The angel didn't even have time to scream.
“No!” hollered Dean who, unthinking, jumped on Lucifer's back. They grappled for a while, and then Lucifer leapt back like a pro wrestler, slamming Dean to the floor. Dean got the wind knocked out of him. He grabbed blindly at Lucifer, frantically trying to stay out of that doorway, or at least grab Lucifer along with him.
“In you go!” yelled Lucifer, aiming a kick right at Dean's stomach.
Dean screamed.
And snapped awake.
His back was to a tree. An angel snored quietly in his lap.
Dean sucked in air, trying not to cry, not to let the tears come.
That was the worst thing, really. Worse even than hell. Here, you had hope. Sometimes, for just a brief instant, they would let you hope.
He blinked. There was a gentle hand on his face, wiping the tear.
“It will be all right Dean,” said Cas. He looked barely awake.
“I know,” said Dean. “I know.”
And so they sat, huddled together, waiting for the dawn.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Crowley, Sam
Warnings: Mild cursing.
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Dean and Castiel find themselves rescued from Purgatory. But why?
Notes: Spoilery if you haven't seen the end of S7. I'm actually hopelessly stuck writing Mythklok Chapter 102, so I did this instead.
Dean huddled under the tree, trying to make himself seem small and inconspicuous. It wasn't as difficult as it sounded. Compared to the cruel abominations that roamed here, one little human guy probably seemed pretty inconsequential. Undersized, and probably gristly. Not worth the effort.
But that didn't keep them from trying.
Night time was the worst. No, the worst was that you could hear them, but you never quite saw the bastards. All you had was the rustling. And sometimes the moaning. He wasn't sure which was worse. Even now, after all this time, it was difficult for him to pick out what was just the wind and what was one of them.
Daytime was when they two, Dean and Cas, scavenged for food. For Dean. Mostly nuts and berries. It had made him sick as a dog at first, but in time his growling stomach had gotten used to it. Water was more problematic. They tended to gather around the few clear water holes. Dean had gotten used to drinking mud, the silt filling his ever empty belly. Of course you couldn’t boil it, because that meant making a fire. And a fire meant smoke. And visibility.
How many nights had it been now, anyway? How many days, months, years? Dean had no idea. He had stopped counting. And how many years had passed back on the earth now? How was Sam doing? Was he married? Kids? Grandkids? Maybe the older brother was nothing but a pack of faded photos, rubber banded together and stuck in a shoebox. Memories faded. Even the bright ones.
He turned at the sound: a subtle crackle of twigs underfoot. He held his breath. Cas!
The angel stumbled up, and then collapsed to his knees in front of Dean, bloodstained sword still glinting in his hand. “You're all right. We're all right now,” Castiel said, breathing hard. Dean was glad it was nighttime, glad whatever damage the angel had sustained tonight was hidden in the darkness. At first, Castiel had repaired himself – his clothes and presumably his body – following these encounters. But then after a while he seemed to run out of energy, or stop caring. The trench coat was nothing but dirty, bloody rags at this point.
“I’ll take the first watch, Cas,” said Dean, because that’s what he always said nowadays.
“Yeah,” said Cas, who thereupon collapsed. Dean caught Castiel, and pulled the angel in to lean against his legs. It wasn’t exactly sleep, it seemed to be a kind of unconsciousness. And Castiel was getting harder and harder to rouse in the mornings. Some day, maybe soon, maybe tomorrow, Cas wouldn’t get up again. And whatever it was would come and kill Dean.
What happened when you died in Purgatory, Dean wondered. Did you just spend eternity in some Leviathan’s belly, getting slowly digested?
Dean sat back and let his weary eyes flutter shut, listening to the rustle of the wind, listening to the angel’s labored breathing. He remembered long ago, when Sammy had been just a kid: long summer nights, and he hadn’t wanted to go in, insisted he wasn’t sleepy, Dean, he wasn’t sleepy at all and he wanted to stay up and see fireworks. And then some time later Dean would look down at the sound of the soft snore, and the kid was slumped against him, dead to the world.
Dean jumped, startled from his reverie.
That hadn’t been the wind.
Cas’ sword lay were he had dropped it, the angel’s fingers outstretched as if he were still reaching for it. Trying not to disturb the Cas, nor make any sudden movements, Dean leaned forward and grasped it. The hilt was smooth and cold in his clammy hand.
Dean clutched the angel killing sword. And waited, shivering, to die.
“Put that down, you oaf!”
“What?” said Dean.
“Come on, we have places to go!” said Crowley, who now stood before him. The demon leaned over and put one hand on Dean and one on Castiel, and then they were in Purgatory no more.
“What the hell?” said Dean, looking around.
“Close. But I keep hell rather better furnished nowadays,” sniffed Crowley, looking around disdainfully at the dingy motel room where the three men now stood.
“Where are we?” asked Dean. Castiel, who looked disoriented, sat down hard on one of the beds.
“What does it look like? Has Purgatory made you dim? Or even dimmer?” asked Crowley.
“It looks like a crappy motel room.”
“It is a seedy motel room,” said Crowley, smiling and holding out his arms. “Your favored environment.”
“On earth?” asked Dean.
“Where else?” sniffed Crowley.
“Great! Where’s Sammy?” said Dean.
“In due time!” said Crowley, holding up one finger. “Right now, I need you to stay put for a while, as I have places to be, people to do. And please don’t attempt to leave, that would be tiresome.” Crowley waved a hand, and a pile of clean clothes and toiletries appeared piled up on one of the beds. “Use the time to get yourselves cleaned up, you look a right mess!” he added, staring at Castiel, who was regarding him with bewilderment.
And then Crowley was there no more.
“Shit!” said Dean. He sighed and tried the motel room door, not surprised to find it locked. He found that the windows, which looked out on a brick wall, were blocked as well.
“Ya know,” Dean told Castiel. “I'll try this escape shit later. Right now, I’m gonna take the asshole's advice and have a shower.” He grabbed this and that from the bed. “Don’t bother me, I’m gonna be at least a week in there.”
“All right, Dean,” said Castiel. Dean smiled. Well, at least Cas sounded somewhat coherent. Dean made for the bathroom, praying all the time that this place had decent hot water.
It did. Oh, it did!
He kicked off his clothes and crammed them all in the trash can. And then he stood under the wondrous liquid. He just let it run over his body for a time, and then he used up an entire dumb little bar of soap, enjoying the foam everywhere, and glorying in being somewhere safe. And then when he stepped out into the steamy shower stall there was flossing and brushing and shaving. He pulled on some of the clean clothes Crowley had left: jeans and a T shirt. They fit, more or less. But who cared, they were gloriously clean.
He heard the TV, and stepped out into the main room. Castiel didn’t look like he had budged an inch from where he was perched on the bed, but he somehow had the TV remote in his hand. Angel magic, Dean decided.
He was watching and episode of Dr. Sexy, MD.
Castiel looked around at Dean. “I fail to see the point of this show,” he said.
“That is the best show on television!” said Dean. “Anyway. Come on. You heard what Crowley said. Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, flipping a brand new, paper wrapped bar of soap at the angel. Castiel caught it, and stared. “Oh, you’re not gonna tell me you don’t know the purpose of soap.”
“I grasp the purpose of soap, Dean.”
“Then use it,” said Sam, pulling Castiel up to his feet. Dean grabbed a shoulder of the ragged trench coat and extracted Cas from what was left of the poor garment, and then pushed the angel towards the bathroom.
Castiel shrugged, evidenly too tired and weak to fight, and made for the bathroom. “I better hear the sound of hot water!” Dean yelled after him as the door closed. It was like getting Sammy to brush his teeth.
Dean regarded the woefully stained trench coat in his hands. He turned to the waste basket, but found he somehow didn't have the heart. So instead he carefully folded the garment, and tucked it under the pillow.
Dean then hopped up on the bed where Castiel had been sitting and soon got caught up in Dr. Sexy’s medical antics. Sometimes, when his mind wandered down in Purgatory, he had speculated how far behind he would be when and if he was ever released. But he was surprised and pleased to find that he remembered each and every one of the storylines.
“Wasting brainspace on this show,” he chuckled. He heard the bathroom door click open, and felt the release of moist heat. He turned around, his chuckle turning to a real honest belly laugh.
Castiel, dressed only in a towel draped around his waist, looked every bit the drowned rat. He blinked uncertainly as rivulets of water tricked down from his sopping wet hair.
“How you feel?” asked Dean as water pooled on the rug under Castiel’s feet.
“That was … interesting,” said Castiel.
“Did you wanna razor?” asked Dean, digging through the toiletries on the bed.
“Oh Dean! Why would I resort to that?” said Castiel, blue eyes opened wide in horror. “Things are looking up for us, I think. I mean, we've showered. That's good, right?”
“No, no, you idiot!” laughed Dean. “A razor! To shave, not to slit your stupid wrists,” he said, rubbing his own chin.
“Oh,” said Castiel, now rubbing his stubbly cheeks. “Do you think Crowley's purposes will require us to be clean shaven?”
“I don’t give a shit about Crowley. It’s just to feel good,” Dean told him, handing over a razor with a fresh blade and some shaving cream.
“Um,” said Castiel, weighing the objects carefully in his hands as if they were part of a spell to ward off a demon hoard.
“Cas. You have shaved your vessel's face before, right?” asked Dean.
“I hadn’t felt the need,” admitted the angel.
“OK, look, we'll do this once,” said Dean, steering Castiel back into the bathroom. “You pay attention! We'll look really good, and then we'll figure out what Crowley wants, and then we'll fuck him.”
“Not literally, right?” asked Castiel, as Dean popped the lid down on the toiled and sat the angel down.
“Uh, hopefully, not,” agreed Dean. “Crowley might like that too much. OK, look up!” Castiel obeyed, and Dean slathered shaving cream over more or less the lower half of his face. He handed Cas a hand mirror while some of the cream (Dean had been perhaps a bit over enthusiastic) dripped off his face and pooled on the towel in his lap. “Now watch! I'm not your mom, so this is the last time I'm gonna do this,” warned Dean, grinning at the memory of putting Sammy through the paces many years ago. He cringed inwardly when he recalled that Sam's face afterwards had been just the tiniest smidge uneven. But, no worries. He started to hum.
“Dean?”
“Try to not squirm around when I have a razor at your throat Cas, OK?”
“Yes, Dean. I'll try. Why do you suppose Crowley released us?”
“You try and figure out why that guy does anything, you'll drive yourself crazy,” said Dean, all his attention focused on the razor and an expanse of skin underneath Castiel's chin. “And you already been there, remember?”
“I suppose so. I remain somewhat apprehensive about this.”
“Look. Crowley's weakness is he always figures he's the smartest guy in the room. I say, just let him be smug, and we'll win. Like we always do.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” sighed the angel. Dean could almost imagine the poor guy's wings drooping.
“Hey! Hold up the mirror and look!” said Dean, repositioning the mirror in Castiel's hand. “See how great you look? And it's not how you are, it's how you look!”
“It is? I was unaware of this,” said Castiel, who looked soapy and clean shaven and confused.
“Smooth as a baby's ass. Come on,” said Dean, dropping the razor in the sink. “You can rinse that off.” He turned. “Was that somebody in our room?” he asked.
Castiel nodded. “Maybe,” he said, turning to the sink and peering into the bathroom mirror at himself in bemusement. “Maybe Crowley has returned?”
“We're in here!” called Dean, coming out of the bathroom. “OH MY GOD! SAMMY!” he shouted, rushing over to greet his brother.
He stopped short, a strong restraining hand on his arm.
“Dean. That's not Sam,” said Castiel, smooth face still dripping.
Dean turned back to the face of his brother. No. Oh no.
“Hey, heard you broke out too!” grinned Lucifer. “Lot of that going around.”
“What do you want?” asked Dean. “What did you do to Sam?”
“What do you think I did to Sam? Duh!” said Lucifer.
“Where is Crowley?” asked Castiel.
“I had my servant bring you here. So I could have the pleasure of finishing you myself,” grinned the horrible thing who was not Sam.
Suddenly, Castiel was muttering in Enochian, eyes closed in concentration, one hand stretched out.
There was a bright, blinding flash, and a flaming doorway opened up on one wall.
“Thank you, Castiel!” yelled Lucifer, who seized the still chanting angel and tossed him into the abyss.
The angel didn't even have time to scream.
“No!” hollered Dean who, unthinking, jumped on Lucifer's back. They grappled for a while, and then Lucifer leapt back like a pro wrestler, slamming Dean to the floor. Dean got the wind knocked out of him. He grabbed blindly at Lucifer, frantically trying to stay out of that doorway, or at least grab Lucifer along with him.
“In you go!” yelled Lucifer, aiming a kick right at Dean's stomach.
Dean screamed.
And snapped awake.
His back was to a tree. An angel snored quietly in his lap.
Dean sucked in air, trying not to cry, not to let the tears come.
That was the worst thing, really. Worse even than hell. Here, you had hope. Sometimes, for just a brief instant, they would let you hope.
He blinked. There was a gentle hand on his face, wiping the tear.
“It will be all right Dean,” said Cas. He looked barely awake.
“I know,” said Dean. “I know.”
And so they sat, huddled together, waiting for the dawn.
