The cold was suffocating, cutting every inch of his
unclothed body and hurting more than Alastair’s blade (which had created a
pattern on his arms and legs a couple of minutes ago). There were chains on his
wrists and ankles, preventing him from hugging his chest and curling up in a
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was remembering what was going on in
his mind at the time. Dead-Dean was cursing every living thing in the world,
and plotting his revenge. Dead-Dean was hoping that Alastair came back soon so
he could teach the hunter on how to use the blade on other people. Dead-Dean
wished that Sam was in hell in his place.
It was that final thought that pushed Dean into
awakening, a silent scream in his lips. The hotel room was dark, but some light
got in from the window. Dean looked at his brother on the other bed, still
asleep, and closed his eyes in self-disgust. It took some time of breathing in
and out slowly until he could make his limbs move (make them understand that he
wasn’t cold, that he wasn’t in hell) and order them to take him to the bathroom
to splash some water in his face. Upon coming back he wasn’t really surprised
to find a glowing winged figure sitting crossed legged on his bed.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Dean mouthed. He didn’t
want to awake Sam and he knew that Castiel could understand him.
The angel said nothing. He just petted the bed in a
silent request for Dean to lie on it. Like
a puppy, Dean thought, sighing. He went though, watching the angel
Castiel had a creamy-white skin, blue eyes and blond
hair. His wings were white and gold, each one bigger than his bed. His features
were delicate and genderless; Dean remembers that the first word that popped
into his head when he saw the angel was ‘‘ethereal’’. Castiel looked young and
old, peaceful and strong, female and male, innocent and experienced.
The angel watched him lying on the bed and pulling his
blankets to his chin. It was one of their staring contests, where Dean felt
that all of his vulnerabilities were out in the open, but he didn’t care:
Castiel’s kind off were too. Dean was amazed but all the divinity that he found
and Castiel looked like he was admiring humanities greatest creation.
They stayed like this for what felt like hours. Both
barely even breathing in fear of the other turning his gaze and stopping their
intimacy - because if Dean was being honest with himself, this is what their
staring contests were. No romantic encounter with any woman made him feel like
this: it was joy, sadness, pain and pleasure all at once, filling his system
with warmth that not even heaven could provide.
Dean fell asleep though, the human in his finally
winning the battle.
You are aware that not-misha is, in fact, not Misha, right?
Nooo don’t ruin my little dream world! I want not-misha to be Misha. They are so good at it! So intelligent and both twisted/straightforward in their thinking, so kind and compassionate. Maybe, possibly, actually a mite TOO good with the literacy and spelling. Misha is very good too but he usually makes a tiny mistake here and there. Do you seriously know for a fact that not-misha is not Misha?