#so now prepare yourself for: nurse stubbornly refuses to admit there is anything wrong with her

[nursc]

@ltnsingh asked: blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver.

christine is not the foolish sort, despite all her claims to the contrary. she talks a big game, smiling far too wide while describing the troubles and scrapes she’s gotten into, painting herself as indistructable. it’s easier to blame her recklessness in those stories than to paint the full picture — to admit to others that there is something kinder, more delicate fueling the fire beneath her soles. that maybe it is not the trouble she’s chasing, but the person that got themselves stuck in a bad situation.

she's never been able to look away. drawn to these people like a moth to a flame, christine orbits around the real reckless like a pale, worried moon.

short hair stubbornly sticks to her forehead as she shakes her head in protest, swatting la'an's hand away. fingers return to press against her eyes, the small movement triggering another wave of nausea, her vision darkening at the corner.

❛⠀⠀⠀i’m fine. let me look at you.⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀ ⠀

actions speak louder than words

[unwrittenlibrary]

i know, you know.

summary -> bucky would die for you, but that’s not what you want from him.

words -> 1.7k

warnings -> light angst & near death & use of nickname (sweets)

notes -> i started game of thrones & i am obsessed with the idea of medieval bucky now so add that to my wips list

»»————-　☾　————-««

Bucky has no sense of self preservation.

You’re unsure if it’s because when he was a boy he was sent to war where it wasn’t a when you come home, it was an if. Or maybe because he’s lived so long he doesn’t feel like he needs to worry about life.

At first Bucky’s martyr-like care for you had made your pulse race. Throwing himself in front of punches thrown your way and saving you from bullets by reaching out his metal arm.

Then you realized he never thought things through. He just threw himself into harms way without worrying about whether or not he would survive the action.

You’ve learned all this within the two years you’ve known him. He’s become your best friend. Something more than that too. Shared stares and secret kisses that leave your heart fluttering and skin heating.

You love him, the kind of love that bubbles under the surface of kind smiles and more than friendly touches.

The kind that leaves your leg shaking as you sit beside him now, because Bucky Barnes has been asleep for three days.

A bullet had tore through his chest and left him gasping for air and bleeding out at your feet. You had dropped beside him to your knees after sending a bullet through the attackers chest.

“Sam, you’ve got to get us out of here.” You gasp into your comms. “Bucky’s hurt.” Your hands come to rest over the wound and you press harshly against them.

You look around in panic. “You idiot.” You mumble to him. Bucky’s blinking slowly and is obviously in a daze as he tries to focus on you leaning over him. “

“I’ll die before I let someone hurt you.” Bucky whispers. Your hands are stained red and Bucky’s eyes slide shut again after he breathes the words out. You let out a choked cry as you stare down at him.

“He’ll be okay.” Sam’s hand is resting on your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. “Bucky is a fighter.”

You shake him off. “Bucky is an idiot.” You snap. Your eyes trail over his chest that’s rising and falling steadily.

‘He’s lucky.’ The doctor’s words come to your mind. ‘If it weren’t for that serum he most likely would have bled out in the field.’

You can’t stop thinking about the scene. The tips of your fingers are still stained red, the blood stubbornly refusing to wash away and remains a constant reminder of Bucky’s words in the field.

“Bucky is an idiot with no self preservation.” You start again. The words that had been caught in your throat the past three days come tumbling out like vile. “He’s selfish and doesn’t have any remorse for his choices or any idea what his actions may do to the people who care about him.”

You look at Bucky again. He doesn’t stir. His chest is still rising and falling steadily while his eyes remain closed. “I’m going to get a drink.” You push your chair our abruptly. Sam jumps away from you as you shove past him.

Guilt weighs you down immediately. You hadn’t meant to snap at Sam and you certainly didn’t mean all you said about Bucky.

It’s just - Bucky isn’t supposed to look like that. You had never seen him look so vulnerable. His skin pale and body completely immobile as he sleeps.

It has you panicking. Bucky, your Bucky, was strong and unmoving in a way that left enemies shaking. He had an aura that made you feel warm and confident with him by your side.

The hospital walls are a blank white that leave you simultaneously nauseous and comforted as you rest your back against it and shut your eyes.

Nobody stops to ask if you were okay or if you needed help, many of them too busy or preoccupied with actual patients. It was relieving to be able to have a moment of silence with nothing in your thoughts but what may be going on with the people you watched moves throughout the hospital.

How many were visitors there for a similar reason to yours? How many regular patients or who was a favorite nurse?

Sam’s voice makes you straighten out when you hear your name. You look at him apologetically, but before you can get the words out, he cuts you off. “Bucky’s awake.”

You pause. “Just like that?” You ask dumbly. You knew that this is what would happen. The doctor had explained that Bucky had been placed in an induced coma so his body could heal on it’s own and that he would wake up on his own time.

After three days though, you can’t imagine looking into Bucky’s eyes. You don’t know how to after seeing him so close to death.

“Just like that.” Sam says kindly. “I told you he was a fighter.”

You swallow thickly in an attempt to hold back tears. “I don’t… I’ll be in there soon.” You settle against the wall again.

Softly, Sam speaks, “Soon? He’s asking for you.” He tilts his head in an attempt to get you to look at him, but your eyes stay stuck to the ground. “Nobody ever said Bucky wasn’t an idiot, but he’s an idiot who cares. About you.”

“He can care about me without trying to kill himself!” You exclaim. You shoot an apologetic look toward the nurses who glance over at your voice.

There’s a beat of silence before Sam sighs. “He can. But how is supposed to know that? All Bucky has known is war, maybe in some way saving you from violence is all he knows how to do to show he cares.”

You look away again before you heave out a sigh. Your mind is a scrambled mess of panic, stress and exhaustion. All you want is to go home and forget any of this ever happened.

“I’ll give you some time.” Sam presses a reassuring kiss to the top of your head. “Just talk to him, yeah?”

You nod reluctantly. “I will.” When you don’t move, Sam raises his eyebrows. “Just… Give me a second.” When Sam leaves you in the hallway again, you suck in a deep breath in preparation.

<- ☾ ->

“Sweets.” Bucky smiles softly when he spots you in the doorway. “Been wondering where you were.”

You look him over like you’re expecting to see him covered in blood again. “Needed some air.” You answer curtly.

Bucky watches you quietly as you move further into the room. “Something wrong?”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” You avoid answering the question. Bucky notices you pause at the end of his bed and stares with furrowed brows.

When you don’t say anything else he forces out an awkward chuckle. “I’m always gonna be okay, sweets.”

“That’s not true.” You snap. You heave in a breath as Bucky watches with wide eyes. “You don’t get to just… Just wake up and be fine.”

“I am fine.” Bucky waves his hands out in front of him as if to show you. You shake your head in disbelief. “What? I am!”

“Your blood was on my hands!” You yell, shocking Bucky into silence. “You were bleeding out! Bucky, I had to watch you almost die in my arms. You don’t… You don’t get to sit here and just say you’re fine.”

“Sweets…” Bucky trails off. His eyes move over you like you’re a wild animal and he’s afraid you’ll pounce. It makes you even more upset that you look like the irrational one here.

You look away. “You were bleeding out and there was nothing I could do but watch. I can’t… I can’t do that again.”

“What am I supposed to do?” His voice raises and you know it’s so you’ll look over at him again. “Just let them hurt you?”

There’s a moment of tense silence before you nod. “Yes.”

“I’m not doing that. I can’t and I won’t.” Bucky’s shaking his head wildly at the thought of you getting hurt. “That’s not an option.”

You scoff. You’re still standing at the end of his bed and you can’t bring yourself to move closer. Not with how angry you are at him. “What is this self-sacrificial bullshit? Who does it help?”

“You!” Bucky yells. You’re almost afraid somebody will come in to check on him and find the two of you in the midst of a fight. “I’d rather be in this bed than see you in it.”

You let out a humorless laugh, but it just ends up as an exhausted sigh. “I can’t lose you, Bucky.” You finally admit in a whisper. “I can’t… I need you here, alive.”

Bucky’s eyes soften as you looks you over. “Come here.” Your eyes grow teary as he opens his arms for you crawl in beside him. “Please, sweets. Come lay with me.”

“Bucky…” You sniffle as the beginning of a sentence trails off. You move quickly to lay beside him, careful of the wires. “I don’t want you to die for me.”

His hand runs up and down your arm as your head rests on his shoulder. “This life. My life. It’s been full of violence, I just want to protect you from it.”

“You can protect me without almost dying. I won’t watch you do this again.” You look up at him sadly, the sound of his monitor beeping steadily somehow helps you breathe calmer as you push the words out. “If you want me in your life, you’ll give up this self-sacrificing bullshit.”

Bucky shifts so he can look down at you. “What else should I do?”

“Let me fight on my own. Have faith that I can handle myself.” Your hand trails down to intertwine with his. “If I… If I ever got hurt in the field like this, I’d rather you fight for me than die for me.”

Bucky inhales sharply. “I do have faith in you.” His left hand comes up to rest on your cheek and turn you eyes to face him again. “I know you’re a good fighter. I just… I…”

“I know.” You agree. The words are clear in his eyes and the nervous smile on his face. “I just need you to promise me, no more being a martyr. I don’t need anything else right now.”

Bucky’s thumb gently runs over your cheek bone. “I promise to try.” You allow your eyes to shut as Bucky leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

There are words unspoken between you two. Things that should be said and talked about, but it can wait. You’re content to lay with him, like this, for now.

»»————-　☾　————-««

notes -> just a short bucky piece while i work on my longer fics! next part of the survivor series should be out soon.

[webcricket]

The Wake-Up Call

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 3961

A/N: One-shot written for @narisjournal-blog Lizzie’s 300 Follower Challenge with the prompt – “Breakfast hadn’t prepared her for today’s events.” Whether human or angelic, sometimes all a heart needs is a wake-up call to admit what existed therein all along. And breakfast, of course – it’s the most important meal of the day. Equal parts humor, angst, suspense, and fluff.

Breakfast hadn’t prepared you for today’s events. Your eyelids fluttered open to a black void. At least you hoped the lack of light was because of its total absence in whatever hell hole you’d landed in and not something worse. A high-pitched ringing lambasted your ears, interrupted by a low involuntary gurgling groan vibrating in your throat as you botched a dizzying attempt to clamber upright into a semi-vertical position. The headache you’d nursed all day – the result of sheer exhaustion coupled with an empty stomach – had attained a whole new level of excruciating pain. You clawed at your ears, the source of the piercing buzz. You were fairly certain the intense noise originating from within your skull was your brain attempting to escape your cranium from the inside out; the gelatinous grey matter deciding just then it was unwilling to tolerate the inhumane conditions of this day any longer. You couldn’t blame it for trying, however ill-timed the endeavor. Dismissing the clearly concussed nonsense flitting through your conscious mind, you reasoned the renewed ruthlessness of the throbbing and noise probably had more to do with the massive bruise forming on your temple and the sticky liquid oozing from your split eyebrow and stinging your dark-blind vision. You groaned again – the act of thinking hurt.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Castiel called out to you; his gruff voice echoed off the walls of the room – at least you supposed it was an enclosed room based on the reverberating acoustics.

“More or less,” you mumbled, dabbing at your bleeding brow with the base of your palm to redirect the flow of blood before dragging yourself across the floor toward the sound of rustling fabric. You figured there was less chance of vertigo-induced fainting and the resultant further head trauma if you remained mostly recumbent as an intimately close captive of gravity. No use aiding and abetting in your brain’s prison break. That, and since falling through a trap door disguised as a perfectly ordinary appearing floor mere moments ago, you had a few trust issues to work out about the perceived solidity of solid surfaces.

“Good,” the word fell oddly strained off the angel’s tongue. He grunted in a manner strongly suggestive of profound agony.

“Cas?” you cried out in alarm, pulse amplifying to a tinny whine in your ears with a rush of adrenaline.

He answered with a wet gasping cough.

You risked rising to your knees to crawl the remainder of the distance to him. Your fingers grazed the rubber sole of a boot, following the attached ankle, calf, and knee as guideposts to his body proper. Shuffling forward, you knelt in a disconcertingly large and viscous puddle. Fingertips ghosting over his thighs, you reached up and out into the darkness. Touching his shuddering chest, you located and cupped his face in your palms, pads of your thumbs smearing the tacky fluid collecting at the corners of his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he sputtered, rather unconvincingly. Weakly grasping at your wrist, his fingers were cold and trembling. “Are you certain you’re alright? I-I didn’t recognize the sigil until it was too late. I should have known this was a trap.”

“Nothing a little Aspirin won’t cure,” you dismissed his concern, your own worry for him more pressing. You felt his brow – his vessel going clammy with shock – shock he shouldn’t be experiencing as a celestial being. You gingerly palpated his torso until your fingertips hit the sharp spike of steel rebar protruding from his lower abdomen. You reflexively gasped as he moaned in response to your grim discovery. Judging from the current of blood gushing out around the entry point of the serrated shaft of metal, it had nicked or punctured something major. “Fine? You call this fine?” You shrugged out of your jacket and, wadding it into a tight ball, applied firm pressure to the wound.

“It’s-” he grunted.

“You’re bleeding out. Why aren’t you healing?” you cut him off, swallowing a sickening surge of fear at the thought of losing the angel. Up until now you took for granted there would be plenty of time to find the courage to tell him how you felt. Time to show him how much his kindness and care meant to you. Time to explore the budding emotion that caused your heart to flutter whenever he was near.

“The walls, I-,” he choked, abdomen racked spasmodically, lungs seized by an agonal pang of anguish as they flooded with fluid.

“Shh,” you soothed, voice cracking, “don’t talk, just…just try to relax. I’m right here. I need you to stay with me.” You instinctively reached for his cheek. Inclining forward, you rested your forehead against his as the convulsion passed. “Please Cas,” you whispered, salty warm tears overflowing to rain upon his skin, “please. Promise me.”

He sucked in a rattling breath, covering your hand with his own, giving your fingers a feeble reassuring squeeze. He would do anything in his power that you asked of him – anything – and he deeply regretted the extant matter of his dying was entirely out of his control. He refused to lie to you. “Sam…Dean…will find us,” his voice emerged a faint murmur muffled by the blood ascending his gullet. “They’ll double back…any minute…find us.” He had to believe they’d find you. Rescue you in time. The alternative was unacceptable.

“Any minute,” you sniffled agreement, nodding into his brow. Assuming, your brain opined, they haven’t fallen victim to a similar trap. The angel needed help now. You couldn’t wait for rescue that might never arrive. “Hey Cas-?”

His fingers twitched in acknowledgement

“Suppose those numbskulls need us to rescue them. Can you see any way out of this place?”

The pitch black room was rapidly growing darker to his angelic sight. The sight that allowed him to read with clarity his death sentence aglow upon the four walls – intricate warding sigils carved into the cement and designed to paralyze the healing power of his grace and render him essentially mortal – an angelic death trap unseen by you with your constraints of human perception. Blinking, he returned his gaze to your red-rimmed unfocused eyes – the vibrant warmth of your soul washing over him in the gloom. He watched a single tear pool and spill over your lashes. Hope – it was his favorite quality in humans – your most endearing virtue and most vexing fault. How many times had you stubbornly maintained hope when all appeared lost? When he saw none? He looked again to the walls and saw it – directly behind you – a defect in the outline of a door. No lock, no knob, no way to open it. Only hope.

“Angel?”

His vessel’s heart began to race in a futile attempt to circulate the blood that didn’t fill his veins any longer. He knew he should tell you about the door. Maybe there was a way out. More likely it was only a way in. And right now he selfishly needed you to hold him. Needed the comfort of your touch. He was scared to die alone and in the dark. There was so much he needed to say and so little time. “Y/N-” He felt himself falling, your name the final softly spoken sentiment on his tongue as consciousness failed him. Fingers sliding from the bare flesh of your arms, he tried desperately to hold on, to anchor himself to your presence, to somehow express to you the breadth of the love he held confined within his heart before its final beat.

“Cas!” you sobbed, catching him and cushioning his head as he slumped and crumpled limp to the floor.

* * * * *

You blindly bashed at the motel alarm clock in a vain attempt to silence the bass assault upon your eardrums. It kept insisting you awaken, even after you yanked the cord from the outlet in a delirium of rage and launched the whole contraption into the oblivion otherwise known as the middle of the room.

“Y/N.”

It seems someone, at some point, had told the abrasive timepiece your name, and you were not at all amused. “Leave me alone!” you moaned into the lumpy pillow, the actual syllables emerging from your throat in the garbled and incomprehensible groaning speech characteristic of the half-asleep human.

“Y/N, you overslept. Again.”

Now the damn thing was judging you. You popped open a dry sleep-crusted eye, blinking against the harsh early morning light spilling in from the spaces between the drawn curtains.

Castiel stood at your bedside, apathetic blue eyes squinting back at you.

“Ugh!” you groaned, yanking the blanket over your head and burrowing deeper into pillow. “Why?”

The angel cocked his head in thought. “It’s already past 7AM,” he suggested in answer to your vague query.

“Cas,” you mumbled, tone undulating to a drawn out whine as if this would instill greater meaning to your question, repeating, “why?”

Cas looked off to the left, jaw clenching as he tried, very hard, without intruding upon your private thoughts for clarification, to determine what, precisely, you wanted him to say. You had a way of confounding him he found at once frustrating and delightfully charming. Flummoxed, expression softening diffidently, he simply offered again with a shrug, “You overslept.”

“Under-slept,” you corrected. “As in, not enough, short of, needed more.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed. “Over implies too much of something. And your irritable mood definitely suggests that this is not the case.”

You were fairly certain the angel just called you cranky. From anyone else, you would have taken it as an insult and retorted with a demonstration of precisely how grouchy you were capable of being when provoked. But with Cas, you knew it was innocent observation. Sitting up with a huff and throwing off the covers, you jammed your fingers into your eye sockets to rub away the vestiges of sleep. Your fingers moved to massage the headache kindling into existence at your temples.

“Sam and Dean went out for breakfast.”

You looked over at the angel and yawned, “And you’re still here.”

Eyes narrowing, he glanced down at himself then back to you, mumbling, “I appear to be.”

You snorted a laugh. “I mean you didn’t go with them.”

He shook his head, fingers fumbling in his pockets. “I thought-”

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, mouth stretching in another lazy yawn as you watched his methodical search.

He produced a granola bar from inside his suit pocket, offering it to you with a small proud smile. “I thought you might be hungry too.”

“Um, thanks Cas.” You turned the foil-wrapped bar over in your fingers, noting the labelled expiration date of nine years prior.

“You’re welcome,” he beamed. “Uh, Jimmy had it in his pocket when-,” he prattled, gesturing at himself “-you know. I’ve held on to it all these years just in case.”

The gift was so sincere, you overcame your skepticism about the bar’s vintage and ripped the corner of the package open. The brown congealed mass inside was rock hard and definitely going to break your teeth if you tried to consume it. You bit your lip and peered up at the angel. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings. You needed a distraction. “Hey, you know what would be great with this?”

His eyes willingly glinted.

“A cup of coffee. I think I saw a machine in the motel office. You mind grabbing me one while I hop in the shower?” It wasn’t food, but you hoped the caffeine would help your aching head.

“Of course.” He turned to leave the room.

“And Cas?” you called after him.

Fingers poised on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder.

“When you come back and forget to knock and walk in to find me half-naked, don’t act so dumbfounded. You’re not fooling anyone.”

The angel’s cheeks flushed as he scurried out the door.

* * * * *

“Grigori,” Cas growled when Sam peeled the sheet back to reveal the cold corpse resting beneath – the grey human husk marred with purple bruising and layer upon layer of distinct scars on the arms where the angelic abomination had fed upon the human soul within for years. “They’re supposed to be extinct.”

“Yeah, well, not so much,” Dean griped, motioning for Sam to shroud the body. “Looks like those dimwitted dicks upstairs let more than one of these soul-suckers slip through the cracks. Is anyone surprised? Anyone? No? No one?”

The angel cast Dean a grim glare.

Your stomach rumbled.

“Seriously?” Sam arched a brow at you.

Evidently brutally tortured dead bodies and the antiseptic smell of the morgue did little to deter your hunger. You rolled your eyes, muttering in your stomach’s defense, “You could’ve at least brought me back a bagel or something.”

“Hey, you snooze you lose, sweetheart.” Dean smirked.

“Dean,” Cas chided, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“I heard that’s just a myth perpetrated by the cereal industry,” Dean countered.

“Says the man who thinks bacon is a food group,” you argued.

“And cheeseburgers,” Cas helpfully suggested.

“They are, grouped on a plate, with extra fries.” Dean’s green eyes twinkled in self-amusement.

“Guys!” Sam scolded, wagging his jaw at the deceased. “A little respect?”

Your stomach rumbled louder. “Sorry,” you sheepishly pressed your palm to your belly.

“What about the granola bar I gave you?” Cas questioned.

“Not that granola bar?” Dean exchanged a knowing glance with his brother as he picked up the coroner’s report.

Cas looked up between them, a confused cock to his head.

“The one you’ve been trying to pawn off on us for years,” Sam clarified. “The one I’ve personally tried to throw away, what? Seven or eight times now?”

“I stopped counting,” Dean added, skimming the report.

“You didn’t actually eat it, did you?” Sam’s forehead creased in genuine concern.

You shook your head, raising your eyes to meet the angel’s wounded blues. “Sorry Cas, it’s-” You fished the stale bar out of your pocket and offered it back to him. “Well, whatever it is, it was a still nice gesture and I appreciated it.”

“Says here they scraped creosote oil from her skin.” Dean’s gaze lifted from the notes, redirecting you back to the case.

“But the police report said the body was found in a seasonal cabin, miles from town.” Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless he moved her,” Cas reached under the sheet and carefully lifted a shriveled hand. Stooping, he brought her fingers to his nose and inhaled.

Dean’s features twisted in horror.

Stomach acid churning, you turned away, fighting a wave of nausea.

“What is it?” Sam inquired – significantly less grossed out by the action than the rest of you.

“It’s specifically the type of preservative used as a flame retardant,” Cas explained.

“Like-” you gagged “-like the stuff they use to treat lumber?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded, delicately folding the woman’s hand to place it under the sheet, “exactly like that.”

“We passed an abandoned lumber mill on the way into town last night,” you pointed out.

“I’d say that’s as good a lead as any.” Dean tossed the file aside. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

“Get them out of here!” you whisper-screamed, tugging on Dean’s jacket sleeve. A young man and an even younger girl lay restrained and unconscious on dingy cots, wandering in the dream-world created for them by the Grigori. An array of giant rusted, but nonetheless menacing, metal saw blades hung from the walls around them. You recalled the boy’s smiling picture from a missing person’s poster you saw at the police station earlier. With any luck they could both be saved. If it had only been weeks, not years, since they were taken perhaps they were still strong enough to survive.

Sam rushed to cut the young man’s bindings, gently cradling the boy’s frail frame in his arms.

“Now!” you ran ahead, sending a subdued shout of further instruction over your shoulder before Dean could launch a protest. “Come back for us.” You disappeared through the same door Cas vanished through moments ago.

The murky hall streaked with eerie horizontal beams of dust illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight. The footprints on the freshly disturbed sawdust strewn floor indicated Cas had gone right. You readjusted your grip on your angel blade, holding it at the ready as you as you ventured ahead. Cas? you prayed, not wanting to risk alerting the Grigori, if it was here, to your presence. Cas? Where are you?

Cas heard your prayer as he tarried at the far end of the hall, calloused fingertips distractedly tracing a sigil burned into the wooden beams there. It seemed at once familiar and foreign to him.

The angel stood transfixed as you approached him. You flattened a hand to his shoulder. “What is it?”

“I don’t-” he mumbled, his fingers following the winding lines inward to the heart of the strange sigil, unable to stop himself from completing the pattern, “-know.” Blinding light blazed from the charred symbol, radiating from the center outward and stinging your vision. Cas’ blue eyes flamed in reflected horror. Too late, he pivoted and tried to shove you backward out of danger. The floor hinged beneath your feet. Unbalanced, you stumbled forward into his arms, both of you tumbling tangled into the abyss. He did the only thing he could do to protect you then – wrapping his arms about you as you fell, he twisted your bodies, using himself to buffer you from whatever fate awaited below.

* * * * *

“No, no, no! Don’t you do this, you hold on! Castiel, you’re not going anywhere; do you hear me?” You smoothed the angel’s hair, his head rolling limply in your worrying hands. A thready uneven pulse still quivered in his neck.

A metallic lock disengaged behind you with an almost imperceptible ting.

Rocking to your heels, you turned to confront the sound. You squinted against the bright light suddenly pouring through the crack of a door. Holding a hand up to shield your eyes, your heart leapt into your throat in the hope it was Sam or Dean looming outside the entry in backlit shadow. Instinct told you otherwise. Dark-adjusted eyes struggling to locate your lost weapon, you saw the angel blade glinting well out of reach. You scrambled to your feet, grasping a stray piece of the same steel rebar that impaled Cas as you rose. Placing yourself squarely between the door and the fallen angel, you waited.

“Ah, how splendid!” the dark figure bellowed with laughter. “Fresh fodder and a foe bagged together. And to think I believed after billions of years I’d seen everything.”

“Who are you?” you wielded the rebar in front of you, beginning to discern the figure’s sneering features as your sight adapted. You had a good idea it was the Grigori. You also had no immediate plan and needed to stall.

The man chuckled again, flicking his wrist and sending you careening like a ragdoll sideways into the wall.

This did nothing to improve your headache. Smashing face first, you collapsed into a bloodied heap.

He strolled across the threshold into the room, squatting over Cas to admire his handiwork with a smug grin.

The Grigori misjudged both your resilience as a hunter and your devotion to Cas. Head spinning, you slithered up the wall, brain becoming vaguely aware and kindly sharing its notice of the winding imperfections in the concrete below your fingertips. Sigils. They were sigils. Of course! No wonder Cas couldn’t heal. And that meant maybe…you clutched at the rebar and hoped. Lurching forward, you plowed into the Grigori, using the force of your body’s momentum to propel the piece of steel through his ribcage, skewering his vessel’s heart.

Gasping in sheer surprise, fingers clawing useless at his chest, he keeled over backward, powerless, doomed to die by his own trap.

Summoning the last of your strength, willing yourself to not to pass out in spite of the odd hollow and simultaneously fuzzy sensation overtaking half your skull, you staggered to Cas. You picked up his ankles, drawing them up to your waist and locking his feet within your elbows, you leaned heavily backward, dragging him inch by excruciating inch from the room. When the final strand of his hair traversed into the safety of the sigil-less room beyond, your knees buckled. Curling up beside him, you wrenched free the rebar penetrating his abdomen. Thankfully you couldn’t hear the moist sucking sound the metal made as it tore through his vessel’s liver over the ringing in your ears. Steel clattering to the floor, you succumbed to the overwhelming desire to close your eyes and sleep.

* * * * *

A steady beep pulsed as a distant echo your dream. You reclined against a tree – the bark smooth and soft where it touched your back. The verdant grass lush and cool beneath your legs. The sun shone warm on your skin. The sky above stretched infinite and blue.

“I think she’s waking up.”

“Be quiet, Dean.”

You looked down to see the hand embracing yours and opened eyes you didn’t realize were shut.

“Y/N?”

You blinked and Castiel’s concerned features slowly came into focus. Trembling with effort, you reached up to try to caress his scruffy chin to prove to yourself he was real. He grasped your fingers midway and drew them to his lips to place a tender kiss thereupon. He seemed to surprise himself with the action.

“You’re alive,” your voice cracked hoarsely.

He nodded, a subtle smile curving his mouth and softening his blue gaze. “Thanks to you.”

You winced when you tried to smile, the shattered bones in your cheek crackling.

“Try not to move,” he frowned at perceiving your pain, brushing the backs of his fingers gently over your face, grace tingling to sooth but not mend your injury. “I’m not strong enough to heal you yet.”

“I’m fine,” you tried to laugh, which was an even worse idea than smiling based on the shooting pain radiating from your fractured ribs.

“Liar,” Dean teased from the end of the bed. “Good to have you back, kiddo.” He gave your foot a light squeeze, somehow knowing this was the only body part of yours that didn’t hurt.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And nice work back there. You’ll be happy to know those kids are going to make a complete recovery too. We’ll leave you to get some rest and you’ll be out of here in no time.” He nudged his brother toward the door.

Cas moved to rise.

You caught the angel’s wrist and he settled back into the chair as Sam and Dean left the room.

He sat quietly for a while, fidgeting with his focus as he grappled in silence with everything he wanted to say to you. He peered around at the drab medical machinery of the room, spent a few minutes scrutinizing the ceiling, and few more contemplating the linoleum floor tiles before his attention drifted to you.

“I-” you both spoke at the same time. He nodded yieldingly.

“Cas, I thought-” Tears welled in your eyes.

His hand found yours.

“I thought I lost you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Holding your palm to his cheek, he relaxed into the warmth of your touch.

Your fingers tickled the dark curls at his temple. “I can’t lose you, angel. I-”

“I love you too,” he finished your declaration, eyes gleaming wet as he gazed back with shared affection. He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, whispering into your skin, “Now rest, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”