Category/Rated: Gen, PG
Year/Length: 2008/ ~562 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Prompt: Dean/Sam or Dean/Castiel or DeanandSamandCastiel. Bible, knife, wine, night sky and/or cyclone.
The silence feels like a physical presence in the night, weighing everything down. Overhead the stars are burning bright, the new moon dark. The ground under Dean's feet is wet and cold, from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day. He curls his toes up in the mud, gooseflesh rising across his bare flesh.
He wants to ask one more time if this is what has to happen, if Castiel is sure, if there isn't another way. But those questions have been answered, and this isn't the place for them anyway. The silence out here won't allow for questions. It barely allows for breathing. Dean's jaw is locked up tight, his stomach tense and full of nerves, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.
The crowd around him is silent as well, tired men and women with defiant eyes and hard faces, washed out by the moonlight. They all have their weapons, because even now, even in this, it would be insanity to go defenseless into the dark night. Not with the monsters moving amongst them here at the end of the world.
There's a light touch across Dean's shoulders. He tilts his head back, blinking at Castiel, nodding slightly. Castiel nods back, one side of his mouth curving up just a little bit. He's as naked as Dean, skin covered in nothing but moonlight, and the shadows that dance over his shoulders and down his back.
Then Castiel wraps an arm around Dean's chest, stepping close behind him. Castiel's skin is chilled, his fingertips almost cold where they press against Dean's ribs. Dean shivers, sucking in as deep a breath as he can manage, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Castiel nudges Dean after a moment, and Dean nods, biting his tongue and raising his right hand to shoulder height, his palm to the sky. It takes effort to unclench his fingers, but he manages after a long moment, trying to ignore how his heart is racing, how he can barely breathe.
Dean has no time to feel the knife. Castiel is faster than any human, and the blade is beyond sharp. The warmth of his blood filling up his palm and running down over the sides of his hand is the first thing Dean feels. It's shocking, after the cold of the night.
The pain comes then, a deep burn that makes Dean hiss. It takes everything he has to keep from flinching, to stop himself from applying pressure to the wound, cursing, lashing out at Castiel for causing the injury. Dean stands still, blood running down his forearm, ink black and glittering like diamonds where it catches the starlight.
For just a second Castiel's cheek presses against Dean's shoulder, as he raises a chalice, holding the wooden cup beneath Dean's elbow. The cut was deep, and the cup fills quickly. Dean watches it, unable to even make himself blink, until the chalice is filled to the brim.
Only then does he curl his fingers in to his palm, lowering his hand and turning slowly. Castiel holds the chalice steady, raising it without spilling so much as a drop. Dean holds Castiel's gaze when the angel brings the cup to his lips, drinking deep.
It leaves a smear of blood along Castiel's upper lip, his mouth reddened with Dean's blood. Dean cradles his arm to his chest, and shivers hard.
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