Some God!Cas action, thank š
(warning for violence. and⦠this might turn into a series, if youāre lucky. š)
Dean would like to say that he was dragged up to the altar kicking and screaming. He would like to say that he fought back against his captors, the members of a pious village who were meant to help him, not pawn him off like cattle. He would like to say that he did his best, that he is only now being shoved to his knees over the sacrificial sigil painted on the temple floor because he was thoroughly defeated.
But, he cannot say any of those things. The truth of the matter is, he was too shocked to put up any sort of fight. He had come to these people to heal from an illness, following the promise of a god known for unexpected second chances, and a group of worshippers who were kind, quiet, just. He wasnāt expecting to be healed just to be slaughtered on an altar.
Two worshippers hold his arms, ensuring he stays knelt over the sigil while the head priestess draws a knife from the folds of her robes. She advances, chanting cries to the gods, then grabs Dean by the hair and makes her cut in one, clean motion.
Itās shallow, not intended to kill, but the thin line across his neck still hurts enough to draw a pained hiss from him. The worshippers holding his arms throw him forward, then, forcing him to catch himself on the ground with one hand while his other presses against the cut on his throat, like that might hold the blood in. Despite his best efforts, however, the blood falls through his fingers and drips onto the sigil beneath him.
It lands with an audible plop, and everything goes still. The tension in the temple is a palpable thing, suffocatingly heavy in the air. A beat passes, then another. For a fraction of a second, Dean lets himself hopeāmaybe, maybe, this isnāt where heās turned into dinner for a god. Maybe the sacrifice wonāt work. What good could Deanās blood be, anyway?
And then thereās a peal of thunder overhead. Beyond the templeās windows, the sky rapidly darkens. Thereās more thunder, loud enough to make Dean jerk and clap his hands over his ears, cut on his throat momentarily going forgotten, an accompanying flash of lightning, and thenā
Dean is slow to raise his eyes, almost not daring to believe what heās seeing. The god is shrouded in dark colors, black and deep grey silks dragging on the ground before flowing up his body. They cross tightly across his chest, yet twine around his shoulders in a way that leaves them mostly exposed. He smells like rain, and ozone, and his eyes, when Dean meets them, look like they are lit with the lightning of his domain.
Dean only realizes that he has breathed the name aloud when the god raises an eyebrow at him. Dean canāt help but be mildly embarrassed; he doesnāt know this god, doesnāt worship him, so he has no right to feel as awestruck in his presence as he does.
The head priestess steps forward to be standing even with Deanāthough she very carefully doesnāt cross the lines of the sacrificial sigilāher head bowed and her arms extended. āOh Great Castiel, we are not worthy to be in your presence, yet we offer your this tribute in the hopes that he will bring you joyāā
A flash of rage goes through Dean, and he tears his eyes away from Castiel to glare up at her. He presses more firmly at the wound on his throat as he grits out, āYou mean you kidnapped me, you goddamnāā
The priestess hisses an insult at him, too quick for him to catch, then turns and kicks him in the ribs. Dean gasps And collapses further onto the ground, now clutching at the new pain in his stomach instead of his bleeding neck.
Above him, Castiel practically growls, and the loudest crack of thunder yet shakes the temple.
The priestess falls to her knees, breath hitching in her throat. āIāIām sorry, I did not mean to offend you, Great Oneāā
āYou offer me a sacrifice,ā Castiel says, and shit, the deep rumble of his speaking voice nearly sounds the same as his growl. It sends an involuntary shiver down Deanās spine. āAnd then you hurt it in my presence. Is this how you show your respect?ā
The priestess cowers beneath the godās rage. āN-no, Great One. I only meant to quiet him, not hurt him. Look at him! He is yours, your intended! His very soul screams of it! We found him, for you!ā
Castiel flicks his fingers in the priestessā direction. She begins to scream, but the sound cuts off almost immediately; she slumps to the ground, and Deanās blood runs cold.
Before he can determine whether or not she is dead, however, a set of warm fingers curl around Deanās chin, and his face is lifted back up toward Castielās. The godās face is impassive, and all the more intimidating for it. Looking up at him, Dean can scarcely breathe.
This is how heās going to die. Some religious zealots made a harebrained decision to try to sacrifice him, pissed off their god in the process, and now heās going to kill Deanā
The corner of Castielās mouth ticks up in a smile. āShe was right; your soul is mine. Thatās good. It has been a while since I last had an attendant.ā
āAn attendant?ā Dean repeats. āYouāre not going to kill me?ā
The god looks amused. āNo. I am not.ā
He takes his hand from Deanās chin and drags his fingertips across the cut on his neck, sending a tingling sensation into the skin that isnāt difficult for Dean to interpret. Sure enough, when he raises his own hand to check afterwards, the cut is completely gone. All that remains of it is the blood across Deanās skin, staining his hands.
He sags forward, suddenly dizzy. Castiel places a hand on his shoulder to hold him steady, then raises his gaze over Deanās head to stare at the rest of the worshippers. āYou would do well not to repeat your priestessā mistakes,ā he calls to them. āYou will be punished for her brashness.ā
Good, Dean canāt help but think. They deserve to be punished, even if their sacrifice is technically being accepted. He would be happy to see the whole village burn.
Dean can only guess how the worshippers react to the news, though, because immediately after he has spoken, Castielās grip on Deanās shoulder tightens. The air constricts around them, and then between one moment and the next, the temple vanishes, the human realm being replaced with the godly one. Dean blinks in an effort to force his eyes to focus, and when they do, he sees that he is in a bedroom, alone. In an instant, he knows the truth of his fate.
Heās Castielās now, whether he likes it or not.