#imogenbynight

Why he thinks he’s going to be able to see a damn thing beyond the fire-lit edges of their camp is a mystery, but Dean doesn’t bother to mention it. More likely than not, he’s not even thinking that far. A lot of the time, Dean knows, it’s less about having any real hope of success and more about the need to feel as though you’re at least doing something. Anything at all.

Because really, when it comes down to the cold hard facts? They’re helpless out here.

Sitting ducks, waiting for whichever desert-dwelling monster has been picking off the local horses — and most recently, an extremely unfortunate veterinarian — to stop toying with them like a cat batting a mouse from one side of a room to the other.

They’d found the case entirely by accident. Had been passing through New Mexico on their way back to the bunker when Dean had heard a familiar voice while waiting for his order at the Watrous Coffee House. He’d glanced toward the door, scanning faces, and found Cesar Cuevas talking with an older guy in dusty flannel.

Within the hour, he and Sam had been sitting in the kitchen of Jesse and Cesar’s ranch house going over the scant clues the retired hunters had managed to pull together in the days since a local vet — a well-liked guy named Petey — had been found on the edge of the neighboring acreage with his insides on the outside.

It’s not a lot.

Like the three horses which had suffered similar fates in the week before Petey died, there wasn’t any sign of a fight. No scuff marks in the ground to suggest he’d been dragged there after.

The local cops determined pretty quickly that the remains were in line with those left behind by a mountain lion and closed the case.

"Because of the missing spinal columns," Cesar had explained, his nose crinkling up in disgust. "Cougars tend to go for that first, and Petey and the horses were all… well. You get the idea."

"So what makes you think they're wrong?" Sam asked.

"Besides the fact that they're cops?" Jesse had snarked back, and Dean snorted. "No bite or claw marks, no paw prints, no scat, for starters."

"And this," Cesar added, handing over a long chunk of glittering stone. It only took Dean a moment to realize why it seemed familiar.

"Fulgurite?" he'd asked, handing it off to his brother, and Jesse and Cesar had nodded. "Any lightning storms lately?

"Not in months. And we found these at every site."

"Any idea what it means?"

"No clue."

"And that's all you've got so far?" Sam had asked, and the pair had nodded.

"Yup," Jesse said. "That's all."

That was six days ago, now, and though they've found a little more evidence, they're still stumped. Hence the camp out. Dean wasn't keen on it — camping isn't his bag on a good day, let alone when there's something eviscerating everything it can get it's hands on in the area — but after days of dead ends, and two more dead horses, they're beyond the point of putting it off.

Staring out past the creosote and cactus that edge their campsite, and knowing full well that he'd have just as much luck with his eyes closed, Dean listens for some other sound that might tell him what they're dealing with. Where it is.

Nothing. Just the distant pop of a car backfiring, and the tiny blinking lights of a plane flying east to west overhead. He's ready to give up when the whistle comes again.

Hiiiiiiiigh-low.

Shrill and sharp. It seems to come from somewhere straight ahead, and Dean strains to see. Strains and strains until his eyes start to sting.

He needs to blink.

…why the fuck can't he blink?

He tries to tell Sam, but his jaw feels wired shut. His tongue heaves against nothing, unmoving in his mouth as if pressed flat by some invisible force. He can’t speak. Can’t move.

He has the brief, panicked thought that he might not be able to breathe, but it passes. His lungs expand. Deflate. Expand.

Whatever is doing this, it doesn't want him dead.

Yet, he thinks, and the panic sets back in, dialed to eleven. It doesn't want me dead yet.

Thanks to the way they're standing, he's only peripherally aware of the side of Sam’s face, but it seems that he is experiencing the same problem. Great. Awesome.

Another whistle. Dean's skin prickles head-to-toe. Itches, like he's brushed up against fiberglass. His vision blurs as his eyes water with the agony of it, of being so goddamn itchy that he can't think, but utterly incapable of doing anything about it.

Another whistle.

Closer, now, but this time it's behind them. A little to the right.

Suddenly, the fact that there was never any evidence of a struggle makes a lot more sense. It's not that the thing is fast, or even particularly sneaky. It’s just been doing this. Rendering its victims incapable of fighting, moving, making a sound.

If they were anyone else, they’d be screwed right now.

If they were anyone else.

Cas, he prays, grateful beyond words for the angel on his shoulder and his freshly-reinstated wings. We’re in a bit of a situation here, buddy.

Another whistle.

Closer, still.

Another.

Then;

SNAP.

A wet crunch and a sound like a hose unravelling.

Cas, I really fucking hope that's you, Dean prays again, trying not to let himself imagine that a spinal column might make that sound if it were being yanked out of a living creature.

A whistle. Distressed gurgling.

THUD.

Footsteps crunching closer, and—

"Dean," Cas strides into his view, concern etched into his brow, his face spattered with blood. The wet droplets reflect the crackling fire, making him glitter in a way that should not be hot, but somehow really is. "That creature was about to kill you. Why didn't you call me sooner?"

You said you wanted to spend the week with Jack, Dean prays. I didn't want to interrupt Heaven stuff.

Cas frowns. Reaches out to touch Dean's jaw. His body floods with warmth as Cas' grace works whatever paralytic agent he'd been afflicted with from his system, and though he's been able to breathe the entire time, he sucks in a breath. Relaxes his muscles that feel as though he's been tensing them for a solid hour.

Fuck, he's gonna need a massage tomorrow. He can already tell he's gonna be feeling it in about three hours.

"'Heaven stuff' can wait. And Jack is God. He has plenty to occupy himself when I'm on Earth."

"Yeah, I know. I just… I feel like I've been monopolizing your time since you got back, that's all."

"It's not monopolizing my time when you're the person I wish to spend my time with," Cas reminds him. "Besides, I thought we agreed that if I was taking time off from hunting, you would too? You were supposed to be driving straight back to the bunker. I would have stayed to make the drive with you if I'd known you'd be putting yourself in danger."

"We were driving back. But then we ran into Jesse and Cesar, and they told us about this thing that had been— look, it's a long story, okay? And hey, you saved the day. So, y'know. All's well that ends well."

Cas huffs and crosses his arms. Unfortunately for him, Dean thinks the display is more cute than it is imposing.

"I'd prefer you didn't need saving in the first place."

"Well, yeah, obviously," Dean tells him. He glances over his shoulder. "What was it, anyway? Thing had a killer freeze ray."

"I'm not entirely sure," Cas admits, and Dean steps forward, pulling his sleeve down over his hand and wiping the dark blood off of Cas' cheek.

"But you killed it," he says.

"I did. It was projecting its intentions rather strongly. It was going to eat your spine, and then most of your organs. I couldn't allow it to live."

"My hero," Dean tells him, then, a brainwave; "Deus ex Caschina."

He grins wide, and Cas rolls his eyes. Waves a hand to zap the rest of the blood away. Dean takes that as his cue to properly express his appreciation.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says.

Try as he might, Cas can't keep the displeased frown on his face when Dean pushes into his space and kisses him. He does still manage to sound huffy when he says you're welcome, Dean, but the tilt of his mouth softens the bite.

"So, is Jack expecting you back upstairs tonight?" Dean asks, nipping lightly at his lip. "I'd kinda like to repay you for the assist. Get on my knees, say a prayer of thanks, maybe get my mouth on your—"

"Sam!" Cas blurts out, and Dean leans back, making a disgusted face, before he realizes what Cas is saying. Unwinding his arms from around Cas' shoulders, he turns to look at his brother as Cas makes his way over to him. He's still stock-still, eyes wide and pleading as he stares into the middle distance somewhere beyond Dean's shoulder.

"Oops," Dean grimaces. "Forgot we weren't alone."

"He started praying," Cas says by way of explanation, and boops Sam in the middle of his forehead. "My apologies for the delay, Sam. I was… momentarily distracted."

Stretching out his jaw, Sam shakes his long limbs as if to make sure they're all still functional.

"It's fine," he tells Cas, nice as pie, before turning a glare on Dean. "Maybe next time make sure everyone is alive and functional before you start macking on your boyfriend."

"We actually decided on 'partner'," Dean corrects him, mostly just to be annoying, and Sam narrows his eyes.

"Really?" he says flatly.

Dean knows he's just pissy about the whole left-in-a-frozen-state situation, but Cas — wonderful, badass, occasionally too literal for his own good Cas — moves back to stand at Dean's side, and Dean knows, immediately, that he's about to tell Sam why they settled on the term. He wishes he were filming the reaction, but there's no way he'd be able to get his phone unlocked in time.

"Yes," Cas says proudly. "Partners. Like cowboys, but married."

"You're not married," Sam says, incapable of well-actuallying no matter the circumstance, and— here comes the kicker, Dean thinks.

"We got married in 2013," Cas says. Matter of fact. Like Sam's forgotten something everyone knows. Sam's eyebrows rise high enough that they somehow seem to clear his forehead.

"What?"

"Admittedly, we weren't in a romantic or sexual relationship yet, and it was mostly to ensure that if I were to wind up in hospital as a human, Dean would be able to visit me without any difficulty. Though obviously now we can both acknowledge that we were very much in love with one another at the time."

"What?"

Dean whistles. High-low. It does the trick, snapping Sam out of his stupor, and after his snap-reaction of fear dissipates, Dean clears his throat. Points toward their campsite.

"Hey, uh… maybe we should pack all this up, head back to the ranch before it gets too late? I know the uh… the thing is gone, but the insects are not. So…"

"I can't believe you got married without telling me," Sam says.

"Oh my god, it was over a decade ago, get over it," Dean says.

Sam does not laugh.

"Dean."

Groaning, Dean throws his head back.

"Listen, when we do it for real, or like… renew our vows or whatever? You'll be the first to know."

"We can do that?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, I mean. People do it all the time. Why, d'you— do you want to?"

"I'd like to," Cas tells him.

"Okay. Let's do it. Maybe Cesar and Jesse will let us do it on the ranch."

"Are you two serious?" Sam asks.

"What?"

"Just like that, you're engaged now?"

"We're already married, Sam," Cas tells him, squinting. "Did you not understand what I said earlier?"

Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Sam pushes out a hard breath, and shakes his head, and seems to let it go.

"Congrats," he says finally.

"If you're wondering what to get us for a present," Dean says, pulling Cas alongside him toward the camp, "I hear waffle irons are always a good choice."