#dicespn

Chill (AO3)

Summary:A hunt gone wrong sees Castiel weakened and desperate to warm up. Thankfully, both Dean and a convenient cabin are nearby. 1.6k

Written for the@writersofdestiel ‘Winter Exchange 2021′, for the wonderful ncdover1285,who sent in a prompt about Castiel suffering from the cold during a hunt.

The clouds roiled, thick and pendulous, darkening the sky as hail began to fall.

Thud! Thwack! The Impala held true to her course as solid chunks of ice began to pepper the windscreen. Dean flicked on the wipers, his eyes only giving a cursory glance to the road ahead as he surveyed the damage.

When he found none, he spared a glance to the passenger seat. “Least we know we’re in the right place for this Bulgarian beer demon, right, buddy?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “It’s not a beer demon, Dean, it’s an Ala, a demon of bad weather. The plural is Ale, as you can no doubt hear, it’s not pronounced–” he trailed off as Dean smirked and instead craned his neck, turning his attention to the sky. “Never mind. Yes, it appears we’re in the right place. We should make for the eye of the storm.”

A slight caress of the wheel, and Dean coaxed the Impala off the main road and onto a snowy dirt trail, leading towards a thick, heavy canopy of trees. Despite his control, there was nothing to be done about the uneven route, mounds of rock and snow and bumps rocking them from side to side as they were forced to brake abruptly.

“This is gonna wreck the tyres.” Dean announced, flicking off the engine and turning his collar up in preparation of the cold once they left the safety of the car. “Looks like we’re on foot from here.”

He paused long enough to retrieve what they needed from the trunk, a couple of flashlights and a dagger coated liberally in a thick, viscous blood. Just in case, he also slid the vial of blood into the pocket of his jacket. At the last moment, Dean’s hand caressed the flamethrower.

“Cas–”

“No.”

“But–”

“No, Dean. There are too many trees here for an open flame.”

“But you said she was scared of dragons, right? Dragons breathe fire, c’mon, you’ve seen Game of Thrones .”

Castiel sighed. “Dean, you’ve seen dragons. Did they breathe fire?”

“No.” Dean huffed, and slammed the lid of the trunk. “Alright, damnit, I got the dagger. Let’s just go before it gets any colder.”

He tossed the flashlight to Castiel, who caught it deftly, flicking it on. It was getting darker now, the flashlights only illuminating about twenty feet or so in front of them. The hail was melting slowly, making the ground underfoot wet and slippery. As they trudged forward, mud splashed up their legs, leaving a grey-brown soggy coating to the bottom of Dean’s jeans and Castiel’s slacks.

The wind howled around them, growing louder as they moved ever closer towards the eye of the storm, and the Ala’s lair, until even three feet apart, they had to shout to be heard.

“Why do creepy monsters always make their lairs in woods, dusty attics, and creepy cabins, man? Why can’t something just, you know, check in at a spa once in a while?” Dean gestured to a rickety cabin with jagged looking strips of wood masquerading as walls.

“What? I can’t hear you over this wind.”

Dean just shook his head and stepped forward, stumbling over a tree branch. As he righted himself, Castiel’s hand on his shoulder in a reassuring grip, he realised the world had gone quiet.

The wind had stopped. Despite the raging storm he could see all around, bolts of lightning shooting down, thick pellets of hail, there was nothing but deadly silence around them.

“I think we’re in the right place,” Dean breathed, turning his head when Castiel didn’t reply. “Cas? Cas !”

The angel was suspended, three feet in the air, held aloft by a bright white swarm of snow and crystals of ice. His head was thrown back, and Dean could see his veins glowing as ice was pushed through them. He jumped forward, closing one hand around Castiel’s wrist, but was forced to snatch it back as the cold seared his skin.

His jaw clenched, Dean cast his eyes around in the dim glow of his flashlight. “Let him go,” he ground out. “Now.”

No response greeted him, nothing but the deafening sound of silence echoed back at him as Dean began to turn slowly, shining the beam all around. As it brushed over Castiel, Dean could see how violently he was shivering, his lips beginning to tinge blue.

“I know you can hear me. You got until I count to three to let him go, and then you’re gonna wish you’d listened.”

“Foolisssh boy. You think a ssseraph and a ssstupid hunter could hurt me? You are outmatched, outwitted, and when I finisssh with your angel, you will be next.”

Dean wheeled around, looking for the source of the voice, slipping his free hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t think so. You know why?” He didn’t wait for a response, squeezing the vial of blood so it shattered, the shards piercing his skin. He yanked his hand free and held it up, pointing the flashlight towards the open wound. “Smell that, bitch? Dragon blood.”

There was a hissing shriek, and out of the darkness charged the Ala. In ordinary circumstances, she might be striking to look at. Long, flowing hair, stormy eyes, russet skin that held tints of purple under the night sky. Dean was more concerned with the waist-down, where she was pure serpentine, rippling navy scales that were charging towards him with top speed.

She didn’t even get close. Dean reached for the dagger in his back pocket and propelled it forward, embedding the blade deep into her solar plexus. He half-expected her to roil and screech and thrash around, and it felt almost anti-climactic when that wasn’t the case, she just dissolved into particles of ice and snow.

Castiel dropped to the floor with a thud.

Dean moved before he’d even realised it, crouching down at Castiel’s side. “You alright?”

Castiel wheezed, gasping for air as the ice began to recede, the white streaks of his veins fading away. “C-cold. Is she dead?”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean let out a huge sigh of relief, hauling Castiel up. “Yeah, I got her. Whoa, your hands are like blocks of ice. C’mon, we’ll never make it back to the car like this. We’ll hole up in that cabin, get a fire going. Can angels get hypothermia?”

“No.” Castiel replied curtly, but his teeth chattered, lessening the effect of his tone. “Though I admit, a f-fire would b-be welcome.”

Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel, keeping him upright and supporting most of his weight as they edged towards the cabin. Thankfully, despite Dean’s earlier reservations that the cabin was barely holding itself up, it seemed to be well insulated. The windows were thick glass, unbroken, and the walls were strong and complete. The door was locked, but a blow to the lock fixed that problem.

“What, you want to just walk back to the car? I’ll leave the money for the locksmith.” Dean huffed, feeling Castiel’s silent judgement. “Sit,” he added, ripping a dust sheet off an armchair and lowering Castiel down. “I’ll get a fire going.”

It took him longer than he liked to get the fire going, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with matches, then struggled to position the logs so the fire caught evenly. He crouched in front of the flame after it was lit, cupping his hands and blowing into them, warming his fingers.

“I should…” Castiel struggled to get up. “Take off my clothes.”

Dean blinked, and lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Uh.”

“They’re wet,” Castiel stripped off his trench coat and twisted it, watching puddles drip onto the oak floor.

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Dean cleared his throat and stared as Castiel carefully placed the coat to one side, shrugging out of his suit jacket. When the tie was next to go, Dean forced himself to turn away, looking around the cabin. “Blankets! I’ll see if I can find some.”

He searched around the adjacent room, eventually finding a thick woollen throw that wasn’t really big enough to completely wrap around Castiel, but would cover him for now. When Dean returned, Castiel had stripped off his boots and socks, his bare feet pointed towards the fireplace, but–thankfully–had kept his shirt and slacks on.

He looked… well, miserable. There was no other word for it.

Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently before nudging the armchair closer to the fire, tucking the throw around him firmly. “You doing okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine. Just… it never gets any easier. When you save me,” Castiel clarified. “I was sent to rescue you, and since then I think you’ve done most of the rescue.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I think it’s pretty even. Besides, who’s keeping score? That’s what family does. Didn’t the other angels all look out for each other? Your Garrison.”

At Castiel’s wince, Dean felt guilty for even bringing it up. “They did,” Castiel admitted, although there was a slight downturn to his mouth that Dean wasn’t sure was entirely attributed to the guilt Castiel harboured about the other angels. “But this is different. You’re different, Dean.”

Castiel shifted again, his head tilting back into the armchair, his eyes closing, oblivious to the sudden thudding in Dean’s chest. “Do you think we could stay here for a little while longer? I think I want to sleep.”

“Yeah, I think we can swing it. I’ll see if I can try your boots in the meantime. Make the drive back a little less uncomfortable.” Dean offered gently, bending to scoop them up.

There was no response, and Castiel’s breathing was even, steady, his eyes closed.

Dean hesitated for just a moment, and then reached out, carding his fingers gently through Castiel’s soft, dark hair. “You’re different too.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but they weren’t there yet. In that moment, it was all he had the courage to confess.

Dean set Castiel’s boots down in front of the fire and crouched down in front of it, warmth flooding through to his fingertips.

Commission for @buckysummers:)