ashen feathers

     “No. You can’t. Bringing you to Hell would be like dangling veal on a stick in front of hungry dogs– and as much as I can control my black-eyed boys, there’d be drool everywhere.” But it is a tempting thought. He’s already thinking of the perfect cage to put the little cherub in. 

Maybe next time.

     “You seem to forget I’ve places all over the world that aren’t directly connected to eternal damnation.” Places with room service, even.

It’s not so much the demons he’s concerned about, as it’s the hellhounds. In high numbers, they presented a considerable problem when his garrison laid siege to Hell. And that was back when he had all his grace (back when his wings still worked).

“Is any of those places near your mother’s hideout?”

Castiel: Uh... That was Crowley in the trunk.

Chuck: Crowley who?

Castiel: My romantic rival Crowley. He's tied up in the trunk. I'm doing as you said, Lucifer. I plan to gut him like a tandoori fish, then dump his carcass on Dean's doorstep.

Lucifer: [to Chuck] I did not tell him to do that. Absolutely not. It got lost in translation.

Lucifer: Cassie, this is no way to win Dean's heart!

Lucifer: [whispers] I'm so proud of you.

Lucifer: Drop Crowley off, safe and gentle-like.

Lucifer: [whispers] Kill him.

Lucifer: And then, win Dean the old fashioned way: with your boyish charm.

     castiel’s appreciation rests uncomfortably on house’s mind. he shouldn’t waste his breath. without the stolen files to substantiate his claims, the doctor would have kept to himself. one of house’s shoulders bounces for his earlobe, dismissive. “ you would’ve stunk up the place. ‘s too cold to open the windows. “

     he sidles through the tapered valley between his couch and coffee table, leaning forward casually once within arm’s reach of the armrest to grasp. leather creaks beneath his single - handed grasp. the cant of his head bars castiel from the whole of his face, that shadow of pain writhing against each seam til narrowed into a microexpression of discomfort a betrayal against himself; no faster or slower than a second’s time, it passes. house slumps gracelessly onto his end of the cushions.

     “ eat up. it’ll help with your blood sugar, “ as if replenishing his glucose will repair the rest of the damage murkoff’s stupidity inflicted onto him. as if anything is that simple. he sinks deeper into his seat. “ how’s the arm doing? “

Castiel watches his host with curious eyes, takes in the pained way in which he moves. The sort of constant agony that’s become part of the routine. Many of the patients were like that — with mangled limbs, and roughly stitched up faces, infected wounds that the staff were no longer alive to tend to.

If he were ever healed, Castiel wonders, would House still walk expecting pain with every step?

“It’s fine,” He shrugs, looks down at his neatly bandaged arm, tries to close his hand into a fist. Stiff joints resist the attempt, and Castiel shakes his head, “I barely feel it anymore.”

Blue eyes drift back towards the other man, linger on that leg that gives him so much trouble.