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blue_bells» Title: Hope and Flight
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Non-consensual blood-drinking
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean/Castiel
» Summary: Wherein Dean is not happy about being mistaken for a vampire, but sees surprisingly happy things under the influence.
» A/N: Written here for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
martyred_wings in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic.
Dean thrashes and kicks, but in the end the angels hold his jaw and empty half the flask down his throat.
Castiel is shouting in the background, the fresh wound on his arm still flowing as Zachariah collects it in a ceramic cup before topping up the flask. Castiel’s cuffs bang loudly against the pipe on the other end of the room and Dean’s only consolation is that the angels’ grip on him stays tight. Cas is making too much noise and Dean fights to keep their eyes on him.
They pinch his nose until he threatens to choke, liquid copper and sickly spice sloshing cold against his tongue and just before he’s sure he’s going to retch, his throat sucks it in.
He pounds at the ground when half of it ends up in his lungs and he cough, gags, and drags in sticky air. He thinks about what just when to his stomach and it promptly heaves, but nothing comes up. He clenches a sweaty fist to the shirt of his stomach, twists knuckles into his sternum and gut as he spits to the dirt, but nothing comes up.
He’s flushing hot, his head is rings with a pulse that roars to drums before all sound flattens to a high whine. His touch is numb and he digs his hands into the dirt trying to hold on, but he may as well be shovelling with rocks; he can’t feel a thing. He’s evaporating from his own skin, every pore exposed and leaking and in a breath he’s without limb or muscle: he’s standing on cliffs of a foreign shore with the wind whipping his face; he’s fishing on the docks of a warm, autumn day; he’s flying over rainforests he’s never seen before and somehow he’s also in an abandoned workshop on his hands and knees in the dirt.
Raw power is pulsing through him and it feels like song, it catches his breath. It sounds like wing beats now, crashing in his ears and he shuts his eyes, wincing. On the tail of the tide is the pure warmth, hope and flight. It’s everything Castiel never shows and Dean could only suspect.
Dark, polished leather shoes slide into his vision and Dean looks up with a curse on his tongue, but Zachariah just smiles and salutes Dean with the flask.
“For later,” Zachariah tucks the flask into Dean’s jacket with a dangerous smile before tipping him on his ass.
Dean lands in the parking lot of their motel, Castiel sprawled next to him with his bloody arm still flowing and when Dean’s mouth waters, though mesmerised and disgusted, Dean knows they’re in trouble.
He rolls over and finally retches.
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Non-consensual blood-drinking
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean/Castiel
» Summary: Wherein Dean is not happy about being mistaken for a vampire, but sees surprisingly happy things under the influence.
» A/N: Written here for
martyred_wings in comment_fic. Dean thrashes and kicks, but in the end the angels hold his jaw and empty half the flask down his throat.
Castiel is shouting in the background, the fresh wound on his arm still flowing as Zachariah collects it in a ceramic cup before topping up the flask. Castiel’s cuffs bang loudly against the pipe on the other end of the room and Dean’s only consolation is that the angels’ grip on him stays tight. Cas is making too much noise and Dean fights to keep their eyes on him.
They pinch his nose until he threatens to choke, liquid copper and sickly spice sloshing cold against his tongue and just before he’s sure he’s going to retch, his throat sucks it in.
He pounds at the ground when half of it ends up in his lungs and he cough, gags, and drags in sticky air. He thinks about what just when to his stomach and it promptly heaves, but nothing comes up. He clenches a sweaty fist to the shirt of his stomach, twists knuckles into his sternum and gut as he spits to the dirt, but nothing comes up.
He’s flushing hot, his head is rings with a pulse that roars to drums before all sound flattens to a high whine. His touch is numb and he digs his hands into the dirt trying to hold on, but he may as well be shovelling with rocks; he can’t feel a thing. He’s evaporating from his own skin, every pore exposed and leaking and in a breath he’s without limb or muscle: he’s standing on cliffs of a foreign shore with the wind whipping his face; he’s fishing on the docks of a warm, autumn day; he’s flying over rainforests he’s never seen before and somehow he’s also in an abandoned workshop on his hands and knees in the dirt.
Raw power is pulsing through him and it feels like song, it catches his breath. It sounds like wing beats now, crashing in his ears and he shuts his eyes, wincing. On the tail of the tide is the pure warmth, hope and flight. It’s everything Castiel never shows and Dean could only suspect.
Dark, polished leather shoes slide into his vision and Dean looks up with a curse on his tongue, but Zachariah just smiles and salutes Dean with the flask.
“For later,” Zachariah tucks the flask into Dean’s jacket with a dangerous smile before tipping him on his ass.
Dean lands in the parking lot of their motel, Castiel sprawled next to him with his bloody arm still flowing and when Dean’s mouth waters, though mesmerised and disgusted, Dean knows they’re in trouble.
He rolls over and finally retches.
