Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean heard a bird call as his pen scratched across the surface of his notepad. He had been walking around the small town for a whole day and he still couldn't get used to the silence of the mountains. He missed the noise of traffic, of sirens, of shouting, of cell phones and electricity humming. Birds squawking just wasn't the same, he thought, as he finished the sentence.

“And could you please describe to me what, uh, what he looked like, Mrs. Clarke?” Dean asked the witness, her bright blue eyes strangely blank as he returned her gaze. He could feel nervous sweat begin to trickle down his spine under her watchful expression. He wore a damn suit every day, but it was suddenly constricting; tight and uncomfortable, even with a cool autumn breeze flapping his lapels, ruffling his hair and lifting the paper of his pad. He wondered idly how Wesson was doing in his suit, considering he was used to wearing the yellow polo shirt of the tech support department day after day.

“It was a zombie.”

Dean froze, his discomfort and nerves forgotten as he blinked in surprise at her words. He only just managed to stay in character as his suddenly chilled sweat sent a shiver up his spine. He did his best to keep his voice even as he scanned his notes again. “I see, and could you, uh, could you describe this… zombie for me please?”

“Well, it was Mr. Croft, but dead,” Mrs. Clarke answered matter-of-factly. And unhelpfully. She didn't seem put off that her words could have landed her in the loony bin if it had been anyone else asking the questions. Dean had interviewed a few people since he and Wesson, his colleague, had started hunting. Some had been scared and some had been in shock, one had even been high. Some were earnest or assured. But Mrs. Clarke, her white hair scraped back from her deeply lined forehead, blue eyes icy, was the most composed witness he had met so far.

“Uh huh, and can you describe to me what exactly it was about him that made you believe he was dead, ma'am?” he asked, trying to keep his voice in the flat calm of his 'Agent Plant' persona.

She shuddered visibly, and audibly, grimacing and wrapping her arms around herself. It was the first evidence Dean had that she really had seen something as unusual, and unpleasant, as she was describing. “He… he was rotting, putrefying!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up into the air, eyes wide. “His skin was all white and bloated too. He looked like he’d drowned, just like the Jeffreys’ cat last year when she couldn't pull herself out of the mill pond!” She pointed across the road behind Dean, “He hobbled back into the woods up the hill, just over there,” she finished, her wild expression having already faded back into a calm mask.

“O—okay, Mrs. Clarke, thank you,” he said, feeling a small flash of unease. “Please, here's my card, call me if you remember anything else.”

She nodded, barely animated, and slid back behind her door, closing it firmly in Dean's face.

He breathed out, letting the breeze cool him as he stared at her gleaming white front door. Was that strange? he wondered, but then shook his head. All small towns, stranded half way up a mountain, were probably full of 'characters.' He banished the thought, focusing instead on how easy it had been; he had been impersonating an FBI officer the whole day, and was getting away with it. No one refused to answer him, the ID he and Sam and put together on the Sandover office computer was working, and it was easy.

The elation passed quickly as he turned away from the woman's home and down the path. He rolled his eyes in disbelief at Mrs. Clarke's words before walking back to the sidewalk. Zombies. Were they even real? How in hell did you go about killing one?

Something gnawed at the back of his mind as he passed the neatly manicured lawn. Was it Mrs. Clarke's delivery? That blank expression? Those damned cold blue eyes..?

He pulled his phone from his pocket before he slipped into the front seat of his car, already bringing up the contacts screen as the door slammed closed. His thoughts jumped straight to the vehicle as he fumbled for the seatbelt, muttering “Damn thing.” He had bought the Silver Prius only a few years ago, but since he and Wesson had driven from the city to check out the case, he had found himself thinking that Agent Plant wouldn't drive the efficient, quiet car… Something about it just felt…off, now. Wrong. Dean Smith drove a Prius, Agent Plant did not, and after a day interviewing witnesses in his black suit and fake badge, he felt much more like Agent Plant than Mr. Smith.

“Wesson?” he asked as soon as the ringing ended and his colleague picked up, before Sam even had a chance to answer. “She saw him too. Got a name now, see what you can find out, 'kay? A, uh, Mr. Croft,” he read out from his note pad.

“Croft? Alright, I’ll print what I find out, they’re closing here pretty soon,” Sam answered, sounding tired and irritable.

While Dean had been out on the streets interviewing witnesses, Sam had been holed up in the library trawling the local newspapers and scouring the internet all day, trying to prove what they had read online. Sam had shown him an article on some conspiracy theory website a few days previously. A town with a long history of missing persons, all of whom turned up later—much later sometimes—dead and drowned. Dean hadn't been able to pass it up; another opportunity to hunt evil.

Which is why Sam’s apathetic tone got right on Dean’s managerial nerves.

“Cheer up Sammy! We’ve got a lead!” he exclaimed over-enthusiastically, trying to encourage Sam, to get him to feel appreciated, noticed, acknowledged—

He caught himself too late and dropped his head, huffing out a breath. “I'll grab something for dinner 'n pick up you up, okay?” he finished, relenting a little with his pep-talk tone, remembering that that wasn’t his role at the moment. He was hunting… And hunting was a partnership.

“Don't—don't call me Sammy. Please?” Sam replied, sounding faintly disgusted. “I'm not your kid brother, Smith,” he finished, before hanging up. Dean shook his head at his phone screen and put the car into drive. He would have to buy some greasy fast food just to cheer his gigantic co-worker-come-partner up—they’d been on first name terms since that first hunt. He knew he was in trouble when he got called Smith. But why Sam was throwing a hissy fit after getting the nice, cushy research job indoors all day, Dean didn’t know. He was the one out hitting the sidewalk, getting blisters and risking arrest and discovery every moment. So far outside of his comfort zone that it was—beyond exhilarating, he thought, grinning to himself.

-

The sun was already dipping low as the Prius turned a corner, the glare enough to make Dean squint as Sam Wesson’s tall figure strode down the path from the tiny local library to the sidewalk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam began the moment he got into the car, snatching the fries Dean had picked up especially for him. “Mr. Croft, forty-eight, widower of number six White Lane. He disappeared three weeks ago. His son reported him missing after he went on his regular evening walk with Trooper the dog. Dog came home, he never did. Until now.

“Before that,” Sam continued, stuffing fries into his mouth as he spoke, which made Dean gag a little as he drove. The guy was gonna give himself a coronary before he hit forty, he thought. “A George Wilson went missing, about six months ago now. His corpse showed up, rotting and bloated. Filled with rotting blackness, according to the report, on a river bank, three days after Mr. Croft disappeared.” Dean winced as Sam threw another handful of fries into his mouth. “Casper Newmann vanished about ten months before that—and showed up on a river bank, drowned, four days after Wilson disappeared, also rotting, also bloated.”

Dean wasn't watching the road. He was watching Sam in fascination as he wiped grease from his face with the tiny square napkin, completely unaffected by what he had been saying as he continued to chew.

“Dean!” Sam snapped, his eyes wide.

Dean threw his head back around just in time to take a sharp turn on the steep, hilly road, the tires screeching in protest at the mistreatment. His heart thudded in his chest as the smell of burning rubber filled the car and the sinking sun blinded him. “Shit,” he hissed as he got the car back under control, looking in the mirror quickly to see black skid marks on the tree lined road. “Plant's car wouldn't squeal—” he grumbled under his breath, blaming the car as his chest filled with embarrassment and shame at his near miss—at almost plunging the car straight down the steep ravine.

“What?” Sam asked, his voice sharp with shock, but Dean waved him off, refusing to admit to his Plant obsession. “You nearly drive us off a cliff and you aren’t gonna tell me what that was about?” Wesson exploded. “Fine! Okay!” Sam snapped angrily, but Dean wasn’t about to explain that it was his disgusting eating habits that had him so distracted, either.

“Just, uh,” he waved his hand up the hill, thick with trees stained gold in the sunset, “the view,” he muttered, hoping Sam would buy it.

“Really Dean? That’s what you nearly get us killed over?” he said scoffing and shaking his head. Dean relaxed though, despite Wesson’s tone and words. He could tell Sam was calming down. Negotiating their partnership was proving to be a conscious effort for both of them. “Anyway, if you can keep your eyes on the road, two days ago Ron Arlow went out of town unexpectedly. He has no family, but the girl who cleans the bar he owns and his flat above, apparently told her friend—the son of the sheriff—that Ron hadn't been home in a couple of days. Bar's been shut.”

“So,” Dean said, the driving incident forgotten as his mind started racing. He was already trying to see a pattern in the disappearances and the apparently drowned bodies, one of which was now seemingly a zombie. “All men. No pattern in the timings? Started about nine or ten years ago. One vanishes a little before another turns up? Seemingly dead of some kind water exposure, at the very least, mostly drowning it looks like, seriously decomposed to the point where they’re part black liquid. All apart from our Mr. Croft, who was seen by the majority of the damn town, walking around, plain as day—rotting and gross—yesterday at around eight, before walking into the woods.”

“That about sums it up, yeah.” Dean could see Sam nodding from the corner of his eye as he finally pulled into the motel parking lot. He reached behind himself and picked up his own dinner; a ham sandwich with limp lettuce and mushy tomato. He would have preferred a fresh salad, but it had been the best the convenience store had. He thought of Sam’s fries with disgust and of his own dinner with resignation. He ought to go on the master cleanse again when this was all done, he could already feel the white bread making him sluggish.

They pushed into the motel room, Dean following Sam through the faded brown door, and he winced again at the lurid orange carpet. On the walls was faded wallpaper, a seventies brown and orange flower print. The beds had the most clashing blue and white striped sheets. It was a world away from his clean white apartment in the city. He sighed wistfully as he draped his jacket over the back of the chair, eyeing the décor once more before he and Sam sat at the tiny round table and opened their laptops. Sam unwrapped his burger and Dean bit into his limp sandwich chewing mechanically as he navigated to Google's search page.

He huffed out a sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Three hunts and he already hated research. It hadn’t been a minute and his mind was already wandering.

“We should head to that cafe in the town tomorrow if we’re still here,” he voiced as he typed in ‘drowned corpses.’ “They were advertising a chicken caesar salad—,” he broke off, hitting the back-button repeatedly as the search results came up. Sam only grunted in response as he typed at his own laptop. “That last witness I spoke to today had the weirdest stare. Hardly blinked these huge cold blue eyes...” he trailed off as he began typing in the missing person’s names. Sam made a noncommittal noise. “Y'know Tina on third?” he asked, continuing his monologue. Give him accounts to manage and leads to chase at Sandover and he could go for hours, but research? Three minutes and he would be bored. “She was really weird the other day. She came up to me after a meeting and asked me out. I said no— I mean, she’s cute n’ all, but I’m not exactly dating material. Got work to think of. Anyway, she gave me this weird smile and patted my arm and said I was cute, and shouldn’t feel the need to hide.” Dean shrugged, frowning as he typed 'zombies' into a new search page. “No clue what she was on about,” he muttered, not expecting an answer from Sam. “She even kinda seemed happy when I turned her down, then goes and says crap about me hiding.” He scowled as a huge number of results popped up on his screen, mostly for computer games and costumes.

Sam just hummed. Dean scowled, falling silent a moment as he scrolled the web results. Three cases together—only three! A hand full of people—more maybe, that they had saved, and this guy already knew exactly when to bother listening to Dean, and when not to. Thank God he still behaved like Dean's subordinate at work, just like he was meant to. “I mean—why 'hide'?” he asked anyway, tired of the silence in the room after he gave up on the zombie search.

“Hmm? Oh, she thinks we're together, she was probably testing her theory out on you too,” Wesson replied, before shoving the last of the burger into his mouth like he hadn't just dropped that bombshell.

“I'm sorry, what?”

Sam swallowed. “She saw us together in the elevator, it was after we took out that old lady in the house downtown—” Dean shuddered, that had been the craziest, most violent ghost they had tackled so far. “Then she hit on me in the cafeteria and I told her I wasn't interested, so she squealed 'I knew it!' and hasn't stopped telling me we're adorable and that she'll keep the secret since then.”

Dean's mouth dropped open. “And you didn't think to correct her?! And, wait— She hit on you too ? We are not adorable!” His mind was racing with the inappropriateness of Sam’s words, of Tina’s actions, of his position in the company, of—

Sam just looked at him blankly and shrugged. “I figured it gave us an excuse to talk to each other more at work. Didn't think you'd mind…”

“Mind? No! Why would I mind?” he answered scathingly, summoning as much venom into his words as he could, ignoring Sam's surprised expression. It wasn’t like he dated at work, so Sam hadn’t ruined his prospects there, but he didn’t want people making assumptions about him, about his sexuality, and Sam had undermined him, left him ‘outed’ even if that wasn’t exactly the case.

He slumped back into his seat with a huff, angry, but unable to ignore Sam's logic.

No wonder the girls had been avoiding him the past few months— normally he at least got to enjoy some casual flirting at the water cooler if nothing else.

He didn't say another word after that, dreading what else Sam would come up with, or what expression his face was now pulling. He started googling again, doing his best to ignore Wesson’s words; ‘didn’t think you’d mind...’ trying his hardest not to think that about the implication within those words. He didn’t actually come across as gay, did he?

-

Four hours later Dean slammed his laptop shut. “Look, the Ghostfacers don't have anything on their website that sounds anything like this. Everywhere else it's just joke zombies and no link with water anyway. Wikipedia has nothing that I can see. Why don't we just go out there and see if we can find it, find out more? We don't have enough to go on, Sam. We need more info.” He felt a thrill run through him at the recklessness of his suggestion, even though it was a valid one. He was desperate to stop staring at the monitor, his mind churning as he researched. He needed to move.

Sam pulled a face, but nodded hesitantly, closing his own laptop. “Fine. Just observation, right?” he asked, uncharacteristically cautious.

“Right,” Dean nodded.

-

Dean shivered and gritted his teeth. He regretted not changing out of his FBI suit and into some of the brand new clothes he had picked up for this hunt. He had even booked time off work to avoid trouble—he shouldn’t be making amateur mistakes like not wearing appropriate clothing. The pants were no doubt ruined, as were his shoes, what with all the mud they were hiking through. He was sure his shirt was ripped somewhere too. Not to mention the autumn wind cutting through the thin fabric, chilling him to the bone.

They were in the woods that surrounded the small town on the steep hillside, the woods where Mr. Croft, the zombie , had last been seen. The trees were dense, and rather than the silent, easy hunt for a rotting zombie he had expected, Dean could hardly hear his own feet kicking up the crunching leaves. The wind was howling, rustling dead undergrowth and making the branches above his head creak and groan. Animals were making the most God awful noises, clicking and howling and chirping. He was flinching more than he thought possible— He silently cursed nature under his breath, the sound whipped away instantly by the wind.

Nonetheless he walked side by side with Wesson deeper into the woods, the darkness making it hard to pinpoint anything, even with the moon bright and full above them. The shifting shadows ruined any chance to see anything moving, and occasionally the moon was covered completely by the fast paced clouds, plunging them into total darkness. He couldn't even see light reflected from the Swiss army knife in his hand, or the hard silhouette of the fire poker Sam carried.

Just as the moon reappeared from behind the cloud again, ruining his growing night vision, Dean reached out and placed his hand against Sam's chest, stopping him from walking any further into the trees.

Through the shifting undergrowth, the dead leaves flying and falling in the wind, Dean could suddenly see something moving. Hovering at head height, just past the nearest thick tree trunks, was something pale and indistinct. Certainly something unusual. Dean’s hackles rose.

Sam stopped sharply at Dean’s touch, his head whipping around to focus where Dean stared. Dean did not move, he could feel Sam’s chest expand as he took a huge measured breath, analyzing what they saw. The shape only bobbed lightly where it hung, and Dean let his arm relax. Sam motioned for Dean to move to the left as he started creeping to the right, trying to out maneuver it through the trees, trying to discover what the shape really was; so out of place in the wind swept, dark wood.

Almost instantly, even their carefully placed footsteps, almost hidden by the noises of the screaming trees, alerted the— thing —to their presence, it was unlike anything Dean had ever seen before. His stomach swooped with the feeling that he was horribly out of his league.

It unfroze and bolted, tearing through the heavy undergrowth, the shape disappearing through the trees faster than Dean could even process it had moved.

“Get it!” Dean yelled and threw himself off down the hill, leaping a fallen branch and crashing after the figure, cursing his damned suit once more as it constricted his ability to run fast. Even so, running down a heavily wooded hillside, rocks, trees and tangled undergrowth in his way, was insanely different to running on the treadmill in Sandover's gym. He would have to look into mud running or something, if the hunting ever dried up, he thought, grinning as he ducked under a low branch and dodged a vicious looking, spiked bush. The corporate world had nothing on this.

The pale shape was only ten paces ahead of him. Despite the lack of details, Dean thought it ran like a human, a head bobbing from side to side and up and down. Dean could only just keep up, finding himself more than capable of running the obstacle course of the wood, hampered only by his suit as he chased—whatever it was.

Through the trees and the darkness he couldn't see the floating shape’s body— Logically he knew it was a head and its body must have been hidden by dark clothing, but there was nothing visible between the tree trunks, leaves and branches flashing past. The only other distinguishing characteristic that Dean could pinpoint as he chased it, was the stench.

It stank of rotting meat; rancid and foul.

Abruptly, it stopped in a small clearing—hemmed in by trees, too thick to pass. Dean cursed under his breath and skidded to a halt, his feet buried in dead leaves, but balanced on his toes nonetheless, ready to follow if it took off again. Behind him, he could hear his gigantic sidekick thundering through the trees—slow, ungainly, unfit. Dean smirked, thanking his salad and gym habits—until he refocused on the thing .

The creature was not panting. It was not breathing at all. Aside from the wind, his own thundering heartbeat and Sam’s clumsy steps, there was no noise. Paired with its stink, the thing, whatever it was, was clearly not alive in the same way he or Sam were.

It turned slowly to face him, and Dean's breath caught in his chest with horror.

The stench was overpowering, its face a bloated, distorted mess, skin white and pitted. Mrs. Clarke had been right. It was Mr. Croft, and he had drowned. His eyes were wide and vacant, the eyeballs pulp, and the lids eaten away. His mouth was still open, gasping, desperate for a breath he would never take again, the lips—partly missing, torn, eaten, tainted blue, dribbling something dark and liquid. More black liquid oozed slowly from his ruined eye sockets, trailed lazily down his neck from his ears and gaping mouth. His bald head did not gleam in the pool of moonlight, but clung, pallid and dead, to his skull, the skin breaking in places, stretching and pulling apart, revealing more black ooze beneath.

It was… “A zombie,” he stated, trying not to heave, as Sam finally caught up to him.

Sam covered his mouth and nose, gagging through his deep breaths, staring at the dead thing for himself. “Just observation, huh?” he panted.

Dean couldn’t reply.

It stared at them, uncomprehending, blank. Even if the body hadn’t been so obviously an animated, bloated corpse, they would have known he was dead. There wasn’t even a spark of animal intelligence left in that rotting face.

Dean’s heart thumped in his chest, not from his running, but from fear— The monster was still, unnaturally so—the blackened remains of its eyes staring in opposite directions—its attention fixed on them.

Suddenly the dead Mr. Croft launched himself forward on lurching feet. It had Dean on his back in the leaves, hands around his throat, in seconds. He was strong, the tips of his fleshy fingers pressing into Dean’s windpipe with the bony hardness breaking through in a wave of stinking black ooze, bruising his skin.

“Dean!” Sam yelled, but Mr. Croft's rotting face and stench were too close, his hold too tight, his ruined mouth leaking black viscous liquid. Dean grimaced as he used all of his strength to keep the creature at arms length, sucking in breaths when he could, beginning to get desperate for air, fresh or foul, slowly finding himself overpowered.

“Sa—” he gasped out with the last of his breath. Suddenly he was thrown hard into the mud at his back, rolling in the crunching leaves as cold, stinking filth splattered across his face and torso. He coughed and sucked in a huge breath, the cool air bliss to his starved lungs; rotting meat and damp earth. He huffed a near hysterical sounding laugh despite the gore that covered him, relief, panic, and fear flooding him. Wesson stood above him, panting hard, the long, dripping fire-iron held loosely in his hand.

Next to Dean, on the cold, scarred ground was the headless body of the late Mr. Croft. Dean did not look for the head. His pulped flesh had torn too easily with Sam's blunt instrument—it wouldn't be a pretty sight, the puddle of black foulness leaking from the stump of his neck was more than enough. He felt his stomach heave.

“We should really get somethin'… sharper,” he muttered, letting Sam pull him limply to his feet.

-

“Shui Gui—”

Dean sighed, a little rattled, a little exasperated despite the feeling of safety in the damp smelling, well lit motel room. He fixed Sam with a stare, grabbing hold of the exasperation he felt and letting go the fear with a short shrug. “If you think I'm going to ask you to explain—” He folded his arms across his chest, focusing on Sam and trying to ignore his near-zombie experience and the revolting stuff that he had had to wash off himself… It had taken two showers to feel clean.

“Can you—can you please take that towel turban off your head, Smith?” Sam asked, looking put upon. Dean scowled but pulled the towel off anyway, suddenly feeling ridiculous. He re-crossed his arms and glared at Sam until he looked back to his laptop, blinking rapidly.

“Shui Gui,” Sam began again, with a twist to his lip. “It's a kind of Japanese ghost. Pretty rare by the looks of it. The ghostfacers don't have it listed on their website. I actually had to dig pretty deep to find it.” His voice had already lost its irritated tone, and was enthused, making Dean smile a little. The guy really knew how to geek out. “I found a passing reference to something on wikipedia, and after a bit of digging on Google Scholar found an essay written in ancient Japanese—”

“Since when did you know Japanese?” Dean interjected, beginning to wonder if Sam could learn a language in the time it had taken him to shower.

“Google translate, Dean,” Sam answered snarkily, but with a smile. “Anyway, it referenced something else and—”

“Get on with it, Wesson,” Dean snapped, motioning for him to hurry it up as he rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, do you ever read?”

Dean scoffed in answer.

“Eventually I gathered enough info for an identification. It says that it's a water ghost. And instead of consuming or killing it's prey, it kind of replaces itself with them. So, that zombie isn't a zombie, but the… shed skin of a spirit. I’m thinking the others kind of… died of exposure before they were seen, and just looked like a drowned corpse on dry land… All that mention of black gunk.”

Dean shuddered, remembering that moment that he found himself in the leaves with the monster above him. “Gross,” he said loudly, “how d’we kill it?” He wondered briefly how it had come about that Dean Smith, manager at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. could so casually and… naturally talk about killing things. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t people, or animals even, that he was talking about killing. It was things that were preying on people. Even so, it seemed almost too easy. Even considering the gut wrenching fear he had felt in that moment, rotting hand pinching at his throat. He rolled his shoulders feeling his bathrobe move softly against his skin. At least some things were the same—at least he could still feel the comfort of habit, of softness, of routine.

“Well, there's a spell, but—I dunno, it's in Latin. It's not all that clear.”

Dean grunted, “What, didn’t learn Latin in your lunch break as well as Japanese?” Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean’s Latin was even worse than Sam's—basically non-existent.

“So. According to Google translate… And a bit, well a lot, more digging, I think it says we have to find the source of the river, then cleanse it.”

“Uh huh?” Dean prompted, absorbing Sam’s words despite their banter. It wasn't their regular kind of ghost—Salt and burn wouldn’t be enough. They'd killed three now, three ghosts, and all had involved salt and iron, and burning the bones, or in the case of their first ghost, at Sandover itself, its fingernail caught inside a glove. None of them had involved damned zombies, so Dean was open to the idea of needing something different to kill it. He had to admit to himself that he was a little disappointed. The Ghostfacers’ website, their go-to source for all things supernatural, had loads more things listed there, not just ghosts. Dean couldn’t help the curiosity he felt about vampires and werewolves, and he had almost been hoping to get the opportunity to hunt something a bit tougher.

“It has a verse that needs to be recited, uh, within four blade lengths of the river’s source, it says, and we have to burn aromatic herbs. That's it. It doesn't say anything else,” Sam said, shrugging.

“Seems straightforward enough. What do you say? We try it tonight?” Dean asked, already getting to his feet. Despite spending the night in the howling wind, hiking in the woods and being strangled by the super-humanly strong zombie-skin of a Japanese water ghost, he felt anxious to get back out there, about finding this thing, killing it. Excited even.

“Dean, it's two in the morning. We should wait and—”

“Come on Sammy, I expect a better attitude from our number one, award winning Tech support employee of the month, ya know. Up n' at 'em!” Smirking he returned to the bathroom to get dressed before Sam could throw anything in his direction. He’d hated that Dean had given him that award.

He grinned as he got dressed again, pulling on the jeans that were still stiff and new, and the black t-shirt and jacket. For the first time in years, gone was the striped shirt, suspenders and the smart suit. It felt strange to be in such casual clothes, but he was now ready to admit that slacks weren't great for hunting. His slacks from earlier were ruined, and his shirt? Stained with stinking black drowned-death filth. That had gone straight in the trash.

He glanced in the mirror and barely recognized himself.

He didn’t always wear suits; smart casual, sports kit, but this was something else. He had always been fit, hours spent in the gym saw to that, but now he looked capable, almost intimidating. His jaw looked sharper, his shoulders broader, and his eyes darker, glinting in the dim light of the bathroom.

He shrugged and pulled a face at his unrecognizable self. Gone was the soft office manager, and he didn’t know who was taking his place.

When he returned to the room, their twin beds set closer together than two co-workers’ beds ought to be, Sam was reading through the Latin, muttering under his breath. He had his jacket on, the poker at his feet and a sour look on his face.

“What’s the problem?” Dean asked, knowing he hadn't taken that long getting ready.

“We need the herbs to burn,” Sam said flatly, raising his eyes to meet Dean’s. “It's two in the morning. Any ideas on where to get them at this time of night, boss ? The nearest twenty-four hour store is a two hour drive away.”

Dean grunted in agreement, before flashing a grin, ignoring Sam's jibe, a thrill running through him— “Shit, I've been waiting for a chance to try this.”

He threw himself onto his bed, leaning down to the open rolling suitcase on the floor where he pulled out his lock picks. He raised them to show Sam with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

“Seriously?”

“Let’s go steal some herbs, Sammy! What do you think we should get? Cilantro? Marjoram? Turmeric? That's got some great properties… Or, so I hear—” he paused, suddenly feeling wrong footed and embarrassed under Sam's glare. “It is a spice though, not an herb…” he finished lamely, the awkwardness of his statement seeping in, making him realize how uncomfortable he was with his own words.

Sam just rolled his eyes and walked out the room.

Dean's shoulders slumped but he gripped the lock picks tighter. He had been practicing, he was damned if Sam's mockery and his own unease would ruin his fun.

He slammed the motel door and jumped into the driver’s seat of the Prius. With a sigh he put it into drive and pointed it in the direction of the nearest store.

-

“Is this going to take much longer, Smith?” Sam asked in a terse, irritated whisper as yet another set of headlights sped across the intersection at the end of the street. Dean ignored him. Sam clearly had no idea how difficult it actually was to pick locks, especially with a sasquach looming over his shoulder. These were nothing like the Master Locks he had been practising on.

The lock clicked and he looked up at Sam and grinned. It felt so natural, breaking into a store, simple even.

Sam snorted and pushed past him, a half smile on his face. Even though they had barely known each other two months, their banter—their ability to work well together was… unexpected.

“So, Master Cleanse, what did you think we ought to grab?” Sam asked, his eyes glinting in the dark, his whisper barely audible.

After the realization they would have to break and enter just to pick up the ingredients they needed in the tiny mountain-side town, they had done a quick search of the area, using google and then by driving the streets in Dean’s near-silent Prius. They had picked this store, not so much for its wide range of aromatic herbs, but for its lack of obvious surveillance cameras. Dean shrugged. “Are you sure the spell doesn't need anything specific?” Sam nodded with a shrug. “Well, whatever they have that smells good I guess, but I have a feeling this is the kinda crap we need to get right, y'know?” He was doubtful that just anything would cleanse a river, but they had nothing else to go on and it was worth a shot.

Sam nodded and shrugged, walking down the aisle of the tiny store, past magazines and cans of peaches. The place smelled of the astringency of lemon floor cleaner. “What's this?” Sam asked in a whisper, the wind a constant background noise through the trees behind the store. Sam picked up a limp bundle of leaves from the vegetable rack at the back, only just lit from the road with the orange glow of the street lamps.

“Uh,” Dean leaned in in the gloom, “dill?”

“And this?”

“Dude that’s broccoli. That one's rosemary, that'll work. Oh and that. That's bay, and sage there too.”

Sam sent him a flat look.

“Shut up. Just grab 'em.” He turned on his heel and left Sam piling the bundles of herbs into his hands alone.

Dean crouched down and re-locked the door carefully, there was no need to raise concerns in the town about break-ins.

Sam leaned against the wall, arms folded scanning the road. Dean cursed internally that they hadn’t kept a watch when they were inside the store together. “You ever wonder how only we seem to do this stuff? Its pretty easy—” Sam wondered aloud. “I mean, you’ve learned to pick locks— really slowly— in just a few months. How come no one else does this stuff?”

Dean grunted, ready to mutter something about how they had met, about the ghost of Sandover throwing them into a world no one else knew about but— “What the fuck’s that?” Sam snapped in a hushed whisper, pushing off the wall and taking a step into the road.

Dean froze. The last thing they needed was real cops. “What?” he breathed out, daring to look over his shoulder, his hands still on the lock picks.

“I saw something flash, something green between those buildings, low to the ground. It’s gone now.” His voice was tense, his whole body screaming how on edge he was.

“Animal?” Dean suggested, listening to the wind and his heart thumping in his chest.

“I dunno, maybe,” Sam muttered, his body clearly still tense, focused on the spot he had seen the unusual flash of color.

“Come on,” Dean muttered as he felt the lock click back into place, “let’s get goin’. We can get this shit sorted out tonight.” Sam just nodded and led the way to the Prius.

-

“Dean, it's going to be dawn soon, we should call it quits and get some sleep, come at it again tomorrow night.”

Dean sighed but shrugged. It seemed to him that hunting always had to take place at night time. They could just as easily kill ghosts in the daytime, but nighttime it always had to be. He had to admit though, aside from the practical advantages of less people being around, he was beginning to enjoy the double-life lifestyle he was living.

Despite that, and not wanting to agree with Sam’s suggestion, even he had to admit that they had nothing. They had been walking steadily uphill for hours, following the narrowing stream where George Wilson had been found. They were well into the trees now, the trunks thick and hard to navigate between, and the wind was picking up again, rattling the branches and making the trees groan. They kept losing sight of the stream as loose leaves were whipped past them on the gusts. They were both covered in scratches and the burn of poison ivy and they were both far more wary than the first time they had entered the woods that night. It was slow going as Dean kept turning around, trying to detect unusual noises or to see something move in the dark shifting shadows. He kept expecting the Shui Gui to leap out at them and his heart was jumping in his chest. They had no idea how much further they had to go. Map reading—damned orienteering—wasn’t easy in the dark, and the GPS didn't work out in the thick woods. They were searching blind.

But, Dean had not gotten to be one of the top paid managers in Sandover by quitting at the first hurdle. Quitting hadn’t made him captain of the swim team or salutatorian or won him a scholarship. And he wasn’t about to start now.

“Just a little further, Sammy, just past that big tree,” he muttered in answer to Sam's suggestion, pointing up the hill.

“I said don—”

“—Don't call you Sammy, yeah, I got it,” he grumbled, before—“Shit!” he yelped as his feet disappeared from under him. A wet, squelching noise accompanied his descent, until Sam's huge hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him painfully to his feet.

“Thanks,” he muttered as he carefully probed the ground with his toe in the darkness. The bank of the stream had become just mud hidden beneath the thick undergrowth. Their way ended in water and weeds, glinting dangerously through the low branches.

Sam nodded and led the way through the trees. He ducked low under branches, the leaves waving in the wind, the gray light beginning to make the shadows deeper, even harder to see by. The shifting shadows hid the way, their footing was even more unsteady, even more treacherous.

Dean slipped on the mud again, feeling his new boots sink into the mud, sending up an earthy, damp smell that wasn’t even unpleasant. He kept his balance though, holding onto a branch and bracing himself with a shoulder to a tree trunk. He did his best to keep his eyes raised, conscious every step, of the bag slung over his shoulder.

The wind howled, pressing his jacket against his back, and whipping his hair against his forehead. He shivered, feeling goosebumps rise up his neck.

“Sammy?” Dean said, stopping so suddenly that he skidded a little in the soft ground.

“I said—” Sam snapped back, but Dean talked over him.

“Sam, there. Look.” Through the trees Dean could see water glinting and rippling, dark in the gray dawn light. “It's a pool.”

Sam didn't reply, but hefted the iron poker. Their past experiences had led them to believe that ghosts knew what was up—they always attacked when Dean and Sam got close to—to ganking them. He smiled grimly. That felt like the right word.

They passed the last of the trees and discovered a pool, beautiful in the graying light. The water flowed from the rock above their heads, splitting and splitting again, until it tumbled over the ledge, too many streams to count dropping lightly into the circular pool a mere five feet below with a gentle pattering. Under the waterfall was a small hollow, rock filled and slick with moisture where the wind whipped it back. Around the pool were rocks and mud, weeds and reeds. It was something out of a fairy tale.

“Got the salt?” Sam asked as he trod warily around the clearing, following the rocky edges of the pool. Dean didn't bother to answer, only nodding as Sam clambered up the stone outcrop where the spring emerged.

“This is the source, Dean, there isn't another pool above it. It's coming right out of the rock.”

“Let's get this show on the road then,” Dean said quietly as he dug the salt from the bag. Since Sam was bigger and taller, and the debate on stronger was still open, Dean had been tasked with reciting the spell and burning the herbs to cleanse the stream while Sam stood guard. “We within however many sword lengths the damn thing said?”

Sam joined him again at the water's edge, nodding, and turned his back to the pool, anticipating an attack from the woods. Dean laid the salt in a circle around them, thickly, right up to the pebbles surrounding the pool, as close to the source as they could get. They had to hope that blessing the pool and not the waterfall would be sufficient, because there was no possibility of standing on that rock above the falls long enough to do the spell. The salt soaked up the water, but they didn't intend to be there long enough for it to dissolve completely, the line was unbroken.

Dean rummaged again and brought out the limp handful of herbs and a cigarette lighter. The plastic thing felt wrong in his hand. He turned his back to the woods, and hunched over, protecting the flame from the howling wind.

The Latin lines were short, but he still wasn't certain that he would get them right. In his jacket pocket was a phonetic version of the phrases, hurriedly written out in Sam's smooth handwriting as he had waited for Dean to dress. Why it was that Latin would work on a Japanese ghost, he had decided not to ask. Taking something on faith as a hunter seemed to be key to success.

He lit the herbs, holding his breath as the lifeless, but definitely not dry, herbs began to smolder. He shrugged, it would have to be good enough— They had to take the chance while they had it within their reach.

“Purificati mitto domi me mundare te mortemque tuam,” he said quickly, the gray light of the dawn just enough to light the words without needing to hold a flashlight as well.

He heard Sam shifting behind him, tense.

The wind only howled louder.

-

Castiel dreamed.

He dreamed of the deeps, places he had not been to in centuries, of shipwrecks and octopuses. He dreamed of an empty land. He dreamed of fresh clean cold air in his lungs, of freezing icy water through his gills.

He dreamed of the past.

He awoke writhing with his worst nightmare becoming truth. He curled into a ball, his icy scales standing proud and sharp, failing to protect him from the inevitable. Nothing could protect him now.

His nose twitched. His eyes opened.

And his chest filled with fury.

The scent.

The scent.

It was undeniable and he screamed his rage at it, the noise deafening in the cave, confined and echoing, his pain made solid.

“Why now?” he yelled into his cavern, tears welling in his frozen eyes. He had been so careful, had hidden so well. “Why now?” he sobbed, feeling as if his chest was cracking.

He could not resist the pull, no matter how hard he tried. It was irresistible.

He crawled from his bed as if he was dragged, the beloved pile of soft quilts and blankets falling away under his still gleaming liquid hands and knees, every fiber of his will trying to return to his nest, every fiber of his being making him go on, near tearing his body from his soul.

With a cough, he choked on water as he dropped into the sluggish flow, his gills unaccustomed to working after so long. His salty tears mixed with the underground river as he swam unwillingly into the fast flowing current, something almighty, heavy and painful sitting deep in his chest. It thumped hard, making him hiccough and choke, even underwater. The weight was agony.

The aroma was strong, beautiful, mesmerizing, controlling .

He would never be free, never again.

He was bound.

He would never more be one with the river, the sea.

His anger rose once again, white hot fury allowing him to battle against his own body, burning ice giving him the power to fight, to swim— His mind fought his limbs as they drove him through the hidden dip in the tunnel that hid his home, and into the stronger current, up, upwards against the current, up the sinkhole, through the waters of his pool, his home, his hideout from the world, from humans.

He thrashed, feeling the drag of the water against the crystalline webbing of his fingers and toes. His hair got in his eyes, the tendrils clinking and cracking as the black ice that made it up bashed together under the onslaught. The glow of the base of the sinkhole gave out, leaving only the blackness until his disobedient limbs pulled him onward, upward, against his will.

“No!” he cursed again, letting loose a plume of bubbles, but almost no sound.

He could not fight it, it was agony, it was desperate…

He had finally been found, a woman had finally sought him out, found him finally , and decided to bind him, to make him hers.

Selfish humans, taking what was not theirs.

He did not want a soul, he did not want to swap his never ending elemental life in this world for an existence in heaven once he died, mere flesh and bone.

He had had mortality forced upon him. After centuries, centuries, of hiding, some foolish human had bound them together, in this life and the next, all for the sake of his powers. She had better be in a terrible amount of pain, limbs missing, cancer eating her, was all he could think as his treacherous legs kicked until he broke the surface of his pool.

He choked again, gasping the first cold air he had breathed in—years it seemed, by the encroachment of the shaded trees above him, over his pool.

The smell was so strong here that it took everything in his power to resist crawling right up to his human—his captor and kneeling at their feet.

“How dare you!” he screamed at the two men, tears coursing from his frozen eyes— At the two men standing, aghast, on the edge of his home.

-

Dean stumbled back as bubbles rose from the pool. Nothing else happened. Sam was at the ready, scanning the wood, the trusty fire-iron held aloft, ready to take out the ghost should it attack— But aside from the wind and the waterfall, all was quiet.

Then something burst from the water in a violent plume of thrashing white water.

“How dare you!” it yelled, voice rasping and choked as it flailed, arms thrashing in the water, pushing itself, almost unwillingly, toward the shore.

“And you're a man? Centuries I've hidden! And it turns out you’re a man! I can’t even get the bonding fucking right! What next?!” It threw its strange, glinting arms up, splashing them back into the shallow muddy water where Dean stood. It looked up at him with malevolent, eerily glowing blue eyes. Although, Dean thought as he swallowed hard, all of him seemed… eerie. All of him seemed to glow in the bleak dawn light. It almost prompted a memory, but—

It was not human, that much was obvious. Nor was it a ghost.

Its hands were resting in the salt they had laid. Its hands, which were black on top, shining, glinting, translucent, a pale pattern trailing across… scales? They stood proud from his skin, hard, and razor sharp, but fine, small and delicate, catching the light, transparent in places. They faded out and smoothed down at his neck, where his 'skin' was white-blue, clear. Ice . The black patterned scales extended up his neck, down his sides and under the water. His chest was bare. Within that translucent chest, beat something solid and dark.

“Y—you—” he stuttered, taken aback by the sight of a creature dragging itself from the mud, clearly furious, its blue-white features, fluidly drawn into a vicious frown, its mouth pulled into a sharp, toothy sneer. Its eyes glinting in fury.

“Y—yuh—you,” it—no, he, spat, mimicking Dean as he rose fully from the mud, those scales standing upright, shivering, and… clinking . “You've bound us together and all you can damn well do is stutter?” He turned his face, appeared to Dean as solid-fluid water, and looked to the pool, stationery a moment. Dean had more than enough time to get an eyeful of his body. Dirty, smeared with mud streaming off him as the water that wasn't him drained. His scales extended all the way down his arms and legs, to webbed fingers and toes, the blue-clear ice making up his hands and torso and— Dean looked back up to his face, noting the pattern on the scales, lighter, glinting dangerously in the dark. His pectoral muscles were scaled and so were his hip bones. His hair looked like frozen water-weed, black, tangled. Dean could barely understand. He found his eyes drawn to his core again, where something organic seemed to beat. Like a heart.

The creature was breathing deeply, his eyes had even closed—until Dean yelped aloud and dropped the bunch of burning herbs that scorched his hand.

“What right do you have?” the creature hissed, his eyes narrowed, advancing on Dean, his nakedness all too apparent, his glinting eyes narrowed, his pointed teeth bared.

“S—Sammy?” Dean asked, not sure whether he ought to retreat or— “Do I attack?”

The creature coughed out a laugh, a twisted expression on his face. Dean noticed tiny black scales extending through his wild dark hair to his cheekbones, tinged with the paler color, impossible to tell what it was in the gray dawn light.

“You burn rosemary and sage, you bind me to you forever and now you want to attack?” He clearly tried to turn back to the pool, still rippling from his abrupt appearance, but he could not—he staggered and was brought to his knees, the scales rippling proud again before lying flat against the solidity that made up his skin.

“Shit,” Dean muttered and lunged forward, his innate humanity stronger than his growing hunters' skills. “Are you alright?” He reached out and touched a hand to the thing’s shoulder where he knelt in the mud.

The creature hissed and jerked back, holding his arm to his chest as if Dean's touch had burnt. It took a moment, but Dean registered the pain too, as if he too had touched something burning— or freezing , his brain supplied. He could have sworn that his eyes had glowed bright too, with something—some power from inside. There were gills on his neck by his ear, flapping violently in the cold air, his icy skin supple and soft looking. His mouth was pulled taut in a grimace, his teeth glinting in the growing light, his nostrils were flared as he sucked in deep breaths.

“Fine, then,” Dean grunted, “I only mea—”

“Dean, get back in the circle,” Sam ordered, his voice tense. That tone, even after only facing three ghosts together, was enough to have him leaping away from the scaled ice creature and inside the salt line.

The scaled thing looked up at that, visibly pained as Dean crossed the salt line, and he wondered for a moment if Sam's warning had been for him; the creature kneeling in the mud, clutching its arm to its chest and nursing its shoulder.

Dean flexed his stinging palm in sympathy.

“Shit,” Sam hissed and Dean realized he was turned away from the angry thing on the ground that glared up at him still. Dean spun, wincing as he realized that he had turned his back on a potential enemy. Admittedly a potential enemy that looked pissed rather than murderous.

The 'ghost' on the other hand…

“What the fuck?” he whispered as he came face to face with the bloated corpse of Ron Arlow, all six feet of heavily muscled bar landlord, apron still tied tightly around his waist.

For a guy that had been 'missing' for two days, he sure didn't look too hot. His dark skin was an unhealthy color around his eyes and lips, which were tinged blue-black. His tongue was thick and bloated and his eyes already puckering—rotting.

He stank. Not quite so ripe as Mr. Croft—but still enough to have Dean gagging.

“How—” he didn't get to ask Sam how the corpse had snuck up on them, even above the scaled creature's appearance, even above the noise of the waterfall or wind. The man was huge and ungainly, and, well, dead, he should not have been able to move that quietly.

Sam re-gripped his poker, and Dean thought it looked laughable against this huge enemy. “We really need to get some proper weapons, Sam,” he muttered getting nothing in return but a snort from near his knee.

“It can't cross the salt right?” Sam asked, his voice losing that self assured quality it had taken on since they'd began hunting together. “That's what the Ghostfacers say, right? Ghosts can't cross salt, they never have yet—”

Dean nodded, shifting his balance, wishing he had more than a tiny flick knife in his hand to fight with. “Why didn't the spell work?”

A noise by his knee dragged Dean's attention back down to the other creature. It was getting to its feet, still clutching his arm, a dazed expression still in his eyes. That dark center to his body was bigger, no longer obviously pulsing. As the sky was now a pale gray, the sun almost above the horizon, he could see the color on the creature's scales was blue—every shade, from the deepest indigo through to the palest tint, all the way to near-white. Dean didn't take the time to stare though, only taking in the thing's now dark, wide pupils before he turned back to the corpse.

“It wouldn't be able to cross the salt line if you hadn't broken it,” the ice-thing grumbled, his voice still deep and rasping. Dean shuddered until his words broke through.

“Me?!”

“Yes. You . What do you think happens when you bind a creature to you against his will? We willingly float to the surface and are precise and careful when we are dumped in the mud at the feet of our damned soul-bonded mate for life?!” he finished, his voice near hysterical.

“I—what!?”

“Dean!” Sam cut in, rocking on his feet as the corpse took a heavy step forward.

“Go,” the scaled creature at his side said darkly, his expression fierce. And—pissed off.

Dean just looked at him in terror filled question.

“Run.”

“What about—”

“Run!” he shouted in Dean's face, his teeth bared.

Distracted, Dean didn't notice as the corpse lashed out, staggering toward the broken salt circle that was dissolving rapidly in the mud. Ron's fingers latched onto his wrist, dragging, pulling, wrenching. With a dull thud, Sam's poker swiped down through the air, meeting dead flesh.

Dean staggered back as he was released, his eyes jumping straight back to the ice-creature. “But what about—you can't possibly—”

The creature took a step closer to Dean, his hair—no longer seemingly made of ice—drying into wild spikes, his face—warm skin beginning to taint cold ice—only inches away. “You should show me some respect, husband . Now. Run!”

Dean ran, gripping wildly onto Sam's arm with his uninjured one, dragging him through the woods back the way they had come.

It wasn't even a minute before he heard an almighty splash then a scream.

Dean stumbled to a halt, Sam's heavy panting adding to the howl of the wind and the screaming, the unending screaming.

The screaming that had begun after the splash.

He turned back.

-

Castiel collapsed to the ground.

The agony—

It was too much. Everywhere. So many different sensations. His chest was heavy and aching, his fingers tingling, his eyes prickling. It felt as if his insides were burning, like that great heat he had discovered in vents at the bottom of the ocean was boiling through his veins. The pain was inside, coursing through him, calling to something so deep within him, ripping it from him, latching on to something in his brain, in his head. Then there was the patch of skin where the human had touched him—

He was so wrong.

An abomination.

He could do nothing right.

Not even the bonding.

He screamed.

-

Dean turned to look back up the hill. The corpse creature was nowhere to be seen.

Lying in the mud, black, blue and tan in color, was the scaled creature. He clutched his head and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Sam took a hesitant step back toward the creature, then another. “He's in pain. Did the—the ghost get him?” Sam asked.

Dean shook his head, not sure. He was fascinated by the creature's growing solidity. He was no longer a creature of ice, but his chest was now flesh—pale, mud-smeared, but flesh—under the rising sun.

Something rustled behind Dean, and he was instantly on guard, spinning on his heel and taking three quick steps further into the trees. He brought the Swiss army knife back up in a movement so quick he surprised himself.

A bird took off through the undergrowth, dislodging the leaves it had been ferreting through.

Dean almost relaxed until a wail tore through the air.

He turned again to see the scaled creature lying on his side, twitching in the mud, Sam next to him, looking helpless.

He took a step forward, unsure how to help. If he should help. This was a monster after all—

The monster instantly stopped twitching as Dean's step took him closer to him.

Dean swallowed, frightened, confused, certain the ghost would reappear, but finding himself unable to leave something so clearly in distress—

He took another step.

The creature gasped in a breath and started whimpering again.

Another step.

The now almost-completely-flesh creature breathed out slowly, uncurling a little, his scales—a deep, dark brown, patterned still with every blue—glinting where they stood raised all the way along his back.

Another step, another, one more, and he knelt in the mud by the creature.

The creature, who lay blinking up at him, tears pooling in his still-blue eyes, surrounded by pale flesh. His lips were pink.

Dean's chest clenched as he remembered the creature’s words. Husband. Soul bonded mate for life. Bound.

“What—what do I do?” he asked Sam helplessly. Sam only shrugged.

The creature was breathing hard, a hand to his head another to his heart—the heart he had not had when he first surfaced—but he seemed alright again. Dean stood.

“No!” rasped the creature. “Please, don't—not again. Don't leave. Pain, so, so much pain.”

Dean looked to Sam. He was torn. On one hand this was a creature, something they knew they ought to be hunting. Creatures were evil. But this thing had saved them from the ghost. And now it was in pain. Seemingly bound to Dean— And the ghost could come back any moment, it was dawn, and they needed to get back to the motel and work out where their spell had gone wrong—

“Let's take him with us,” he said, flat, knowing Sam would not argue with him on this.

-

Castiel breathed deep, his chest heavy, bound by the tight constraints of flesh. He felt disgusting, befouled, his body no longer clean and pure, but made of flesh. But with the human next to him, the agony was gone. He felt as normal as he now ever expected to. Why his kind was afflicted with the bonding he did not know. He scowled, soulless immortality was better than this.

The human stood, and fear of more pain lurched in Castiel's gut. “No! Please, don't,” he broke off, reliving the memory of the pain, the agony of separation, that aroma; tainted and foul. “Not again. Don't leave. Pain, so, so much pain.” He rasped, too desperate not to experience that sensation again, to care about his pride in that moment.

He curled up and felt his scales arch up on his back. Another way in which he was wrong—

“Let's take him with us,” the human he was bound to said in a dark tone of voice.

He sensed him kneel next to him again, “Help me pick him up Sam? He ain't gonna walk.”

Castiel hissed and twisted away, rolling up into a crouch, ready to run. The human would not touch him again.

“Woah!” the human said, holding his hands up. Castiel glared at him, still conscious of the burning spot on his shoulder, even though he was now flesh, ice no longer. An elemental no longer.

His chest clenched.

“I do not want your help,” he hissed, his fury rising, pushing away the fear of pain.

“Okay, okay,” the human said looking up at the other, taller man who shrugged. “Look, uh, guy, we gotta go back to our motel and work out why our spell didn't work. If it hurts you to be apart from me, then you can come with us and we'll work this—” he indicated the two of them, “out later, okay? But we need to go, so you gotta come with us.” The man paused, and huffed out a sigh. “Look, take my jacket will you? Do you need any help walking?”

Castiel snarled his disgust at letting the human help him. He was perfectly capable. He did not need a human’s help, especially not from the one who had bound him, ruined him. The man staggered back onto his feet, looking spooked, his eyes wide in shock, and Castiel felt satisfaction rise up into his filthy, flesh chest.

“Fine. Whatever. Let's go Sammy—Sam. That ghost could come back any second.”

The humans turned their backs to him and started to move forward, away. “I will follow,” he hissed through his teeth, now blunt and useless, a shot of panic running up his back. The tall one paused and nodded. His bond mate ignored him entirely.

The humans stepped away at a quick pace through his woods in the morning light. Castiel did not know the year, but he had been sleeping a long time. It was late autumn going by the leaves on the ground, the bare rattling branches above. He straightened and watched the two men pass through the tree line surrounding his pool, his home. He felt his—disgusting and fleshy—gills flap with the desire to sink into the depths again. But the sweet smell of rosemary mixed with sage was already beginning to turn sour in his nostrils, bringing forward that sharp pain in the center of his face, behind his cheeks—his cheek bones .

He staggered forward a step, then another, at the furthest reach that the pain would allow without it becoming overpowering. He was less than thirty feet behind the humans.

Was this his life now? Not only was he the only male Undine in existence, in history , but he did not bond right—he was not fully human, and even as an elemental, he had not been right, always with two legs, rather than a beautiful sinuous fish-like tail of clear ice-hardened water. His scales stood proud—even now, as flesh—and patterned, rather than smooth and plain. And now the bond restricted his movement from his partner. He could not escape him. He shared his soul, and had to stay close at all times.

His life was now hell, not the eternal heaven it was supposed to become.

He stumbled along behind them, his usual soft footsteps loud to his own ears, suddenly heavy— His feet hurt in the undergrowth, stones and twigs scratching his newly created skin.

The light grew as he watched the men stamp, with no grace and little coordination, through the trees. He had forgotten how long the journey to the road was. It had been years, even before he had been sleeping, since he had walked it. The rivers under the craggy hills could take him wherever he wished to go.

Both men paused at the edge of the trees, beyond them; the hated gray road, despised tarmac. He hated everything the humans had done to this beautiful green and blue planet.

He sighed and scowled, following the men as they crossed the road, the sun not even breaching the hills yet, banked behind fresh cloud. He could not believe he couldn't stray further than thirty feet from that human, the one that now radiated hostility and— fear, perhaps.

He paused at the line of trees, watching the men cross the parking lot to the motel that stood on the other side of the road, hidden among the trees part way up the winding track that led further into the hills. The pain was building in his cheeks again, throbbing, making him wince. The smell of rancid herbs filled his head, but he forced himself to stay still, to remain hidden. He was an Undine, naked, in a human sense of the word, clearly not human, despite his now pale yellow-pink skin. He had to ensure his safety, and although it was early, he still had to be careful.

He swore, wishing the pain he could feel tearing its way into his skull would let itself be known to his bonded one too. It was a cruel joke that only he could feel it, he thought, as the human walked blithely on, stopping mid-pace in the middle of the parking lot.

Castiel frowned and followed the human's gaze across the lot to the road, where a car's engine roared into life. His chest thumped in fear and relief, pleased he had withstood the pain, pleased he had not been seen..

The human raised a hand in welcome to the woman in the car as she pulled away, looping back around to drive back down the hill to the town nestled there.

Castiel gritted his strange, blunt teeth, accidentally catching the inside of his cheek between them. The fresh and sharp pain distracted him, but he saw the man’s expression as the small blue car's noise faded.

His head was bent to the taller one’s, but Castiel could just see a confused frown on his face.

They started walking again before Castiel could decipher it, sending him staggering into the road in agony. He fled, without thought, silently to the tree line on the other side of the road, up the hill, out of the men's field of vision and dived among the undergrowth, his feet smarting, but safe and unseen.

He sucked in a large breath, realizing now that he actually had a need to breathe. It was strange that he had only just noticed.

Finding his balance, and his center, Castiel crept around the back of the motel, knowing instinctively which room the men were sharing by the tug he felt toward his human. He crouched, and sank to his knees, hidden completely by shrubs and overgrown plants. His head dropped back, hitting the concrete exterior of the raised building and he bit his lip, hard, willing himself to stay calm, to stop the itchy feeling in his eyes.

He placed his hand over the smarting patch of skin on his shoulder and winced at the burning pain. Finally, he looked down.

He discovered a blistered hand print. The man's hand had burnt him—even his scales, where the tips of his fingers had rested for the merest of seconds, were white and ashy.

The itch in his eyes became too much, and hot tears slipped down his face, the pain of crying new enough to send more tears spilling.

-

Dean could hear the creature following them, but only just. Its footsteps were light where theirs were heavy as they slip-slid over the mud and dead leaves, crashing through undergrowth and stumbling on rocks. The path they had beaten up there looked far more treacherous in the dawn light, as they made their way carefully back down.

By the time they made it back to the edge of civilization, Dean was yawning, Sam too. Dean didn't look back to check if the naked, scaled creature was still following them or not.

It was still early, before six, going by the blue digital clock hanging in the motel’s reception window. There was almost no one around. They crossed the parking lot to their motel room, chosen for its location; close to the tree line and the majority of the zombie-corpses. His Prius was sitting where he had left it after getting the herbs. All seemed calm.

From the other side of the lot, slashing right through the calm silence, he heard a car start up. He flinched, tiredness forgotten as he threw his gaze across the asphalt, his thoughts flying to the scaled creature—hopefully still in the trees behind them. In the driver’s seat of the car he spotted steely-gray hair and a lined forehead, a face he recognized as one of the women he had interviewed—Mrs. Clarke. Mrs. Clarke of the piercing, cold blue eyes and strange demeanor. He waved, a fake smile plastered to his face, as she drove away. His hackles rising, he turned immediately to Sam. “I interviewed her, Sam. What the hell is she doin' up here?”

Sam shook his head, “Maybe she has business with the motel? Or friends visiting?”

Dean shrugged, but something felt off. It was too early, too remote. The motel was placed there for hikers and backpackers. Why would a resident of the town be there?

He shook his head, concerned, but unable to decipher the reason for her presence. He decided to keep it in the back of his mind until they knew more. There were more pressing matters they had to attend to.

He was the first through the door of their room, falling onto the bed and opening his laptop immediately, wincing as the burn from touching the ice-creature flare in pain, the throb of the monster’s hit joining in sending an ache up his arm.

Sam slammed the door shut but hesitated before locking it and Dean looked up at him. “He out there?” he grunted, his lack of sleep and the pain making him sound short tempered.

“Can't see him. The salt line's intact though, we could leave it unlocked?”

Dean shrugged, his guilt battling his irritation and his growing sense of fear that they needed to protect themselves better. And fast.

He kicked his shoes off, and started searching for the spell, the translation, the ghost itself… Anything to gank the hulking, terrifying creature, and stop it killing innocents.

He did not see Sam's raised eyebrow at his silent, intent focus on research.

Save

Chapter Text

Dean awoke with his bruised and burnt hand on the keyboard and his arm numb under his head. He had fallen asleep while reading about water ghosts—

“Unfg,” he grunted as he pushed himself upright, grimacing at the pool of drool soaked into his jacket, and wincing at the pain caused by the corpse’s grip and the cold-scalded palm from where he had laid his hand on the ice creature’s shoulder…

“So, get this,” Sam announced from across the room, now bathed in late afternoon sun. Spread across his features was the biggest smirk Dean had yet seen him wear. “If you ever sleep around again, you'll die.”

Dean blinked.

That wasn't really something he could take in without coffee.

“I—what?”

“Water spirits. I don't know what kind, but most of them—if you bind yourself to one—you have to remain faithful, or you die!” Sam looked unnaturally gleeful, and Dean wondered if he should attempt that exorcism he had been trying to learn.

Dean frowned, entirely unable to process what Sam was saying. “Wait—What—No. What the hell are you doing researching our scaly friend out there when we have a mother fuckin' zombie-corpse monster trawling the woods, stealing bodies and drowning people?” He threw himself off the bed, running his hands through his hair, a trait he had trained out of himself years before.

The door to the motel room slammed open, the angry, naked, scaly creature stood in the doorway, throwing Dean completely for a loop.

“I'm bored, I'm cold and I'm hungry. I need to go hunting. Now,” he announced, a furious frown on his face, his lips pulled taut and white.

A red, angry mark on the creature’s shoulder drew Dean’s attention from his snarl. His irritation overtook his curiosity, and Dean's first reaction was to tell the creature to go hunting then, why would he care? and then he remembered—they appeared to be linked, practically physically. He crossed his arms wincing at the pain in his wrist, about to argue, but Sam threw something across the room which the creature caught without taking his eerily familiar cold, blue eyes from Dean.

The creature blinked and frowned at his hand, and slowly unwrapped the packet. Inside was a steaming burger, the same as Sam's half eaten one on the table, next to a foam box, presumably for Dean.

“I didn't see you when I went out,” Sam said, his words directed to the creature.

He laughed darkly, lifting the food to his nose to smell. “You won't see me if I do not wish you to,” he answered before taking a bite.

Dean swallowed at the groan the creature let loose around the burger. He dropped his arms with a sigh. “Jeez, if you're gonna hang around until we can sort this out, at least put some clothes on,” he muttered and sat back on his bed, digging one handed through his bags to find something the creature would wear.

He found another of his brand new t-shirts—a white v-neck, and some soft gray sleep pants—he'd only packed the one pair of jeans. Left handed, he threw boxer shorts and socks at the man's—creature's feet too.

The creature only glanced down at them where they had fallen as he chewed rapidly, some color beginning to darken his pale cheeks.

Dean noticed that his scales were the same color as his hair, a deep, dark brown. The pattern that softly trailed across them stained his skin blue in places too, at his temple and in the crease of his hip—

At that he dragged his eyes away, and back to Sam, trying to communicate his discomfort and annoyance.

“Why haven't you asked me to heal you?” the creature asked abruptly, making Dean's eyes snap back to him, finding him now only naked from the waist up. He had not put Dean's underwear on.

“What?” he asked, exasperated. It was like herding cats—or the tech department sometimes— Then the creature’s words filtered in properly. He shot a glance to Sam. How had they forgotten that this too, was a creature. Shouldn't they try to kill it? Not feed it and talk to it...

“Your hand it is hurt. Why haven't you demanded I heal it?” he asked again interrupting Dean's thoughts, his voice annoyed as if it was Dean who was the moron.

He shook his head and shrugged. “Can you?” His voice was incredulous, sounding nothing like himself. He coughed, clearing his throat, unused to feeling so off balance.

The creature sighed and stepped forward, too quickly for Dean to react, and brushed his fingers over Dean's forehead. The dull aching throb in his wrist vanished along with the stinging of his hand—the shape of which was etched on the creature’s shoulder. His hand print, raised in a red welt, even the bumps of his fingerprints, each crease, obvious—

He felt sickened at that, his gut twisting with guilt at what he’d done, the permanency of such an injury. But he raised his now pain-free hand in wonder. “Hey,” he said roughly, wriggling the fingers. “What d'you know?” he grinned weakly, wonder overtaking his guilt, then remembered why he wasn't in pain any longer. Remembered his burned and blistered handprint on the creature’s skin, remembered how much pain it had caused him, and his injury was nowhere near so bad.

The creature rolled his eyes and stepped back, pulling on the t-shirt, hiding the mark from view completely. Dean noticed that his skin, where it was not scaled, was risen in goosebumps before it was covered in the new, white fabric.

Just before the t-shirt dropped into place, Dean caught a flash of that blue-stained skin, where the creatures scales petered out at his hip bone. He blinked and looked up, suddenly remembering Sam's earlier words. “Hey, wait. What does this shit all mean, huh? Now I can't sleep with anyone?” he asked angrily, forgetting his own anger at Sam for concentrating on their new sidekick, rather than the actual case, or his gut churning disgust at himself for harming an innocent—monster…

“Else.”

Dean blinked. What?

“What?”

“Anyone else,” the creature sighed, licking his fingers clean of burger juices. “You can sleep with me without any ill effects, without death.”

Dean bit his tongue and turned around, closing his eyes, planning to count to twenty in his head to calm himself.

“I don't understand,” the creature continued. “Why did you bind us together if you did not know of my power. What reason did you have?”

Dean's jaw clenched on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, at that. The creature sounded resentful, but resigned, his anger lessened now he had food in his belly.

“It was an accident, we still don't know what we did wrong,” Sam said. “We were trying a spell to cleanse the river, to kill the ghost—”

“It isn't a ghost,” the creature stated. Dean spun around.

“What is it then?” he asked, swallowing the metallic tang.

He shrugged. “I don't know, but it was corporeal when I threw it into my pool.”

Dean nodded, then looked up and caught the creature’s eye. “Thank you for that, by the way.” The creature nodded. “I mean it. Thank you— uh…?”

The creature looked blank a moment. “Oh. Castiel.”

“Thank you, Castiel.”

-

“So how come you didn't know this— thing— was living in the water, the wood?” the human asked Castiel, sounding uncomfortable.

Castiel blinked, realizing they hadn’t offered their names in return— He growled slightly in the back of his throat in disgust at their rudeness, his own foolishness for offering information about himself. Shaking his head slightly, he sighed. He did not want to give anything else away to this man who had bound him accidentally, but seeing no other option—they were stuck together. They had to get along. He had had his break down. He had had his tantrum. Now he had to deal with this situation. No matter how abominable it was. Barely raising his voice he answered “I have been asleep for… some time. I do not know how long. What year is it?”

“Year?!” the man choked, surprise written all over his face. Castiel sighed again. “It's uh, twenty-seventeen.”

Castiel hummed. It wasn't his longest sleep ever. “It's been about ten years then, a little less, is it November?.”

“Ten years?” the man cried aloud, almost upset, his expression appalled.

“What is ten years to an immortal elemental? Well, at least I used to be. Now I am as mortal as you are. Thank you for that, by the way.” He snarked, shooting the human a glance, still disbelieving that his immortality had been stolen by accident, disgusted by it. “And what happened during that ten anyway? No doubt you humans screwed the world up even further. I doubt anything much of further interest happened?”

He turned, unable to look at the awful humans any longer as they exchanged glances, filled with mixed emotions.

He had to admit though, as he felt his stomach gurgle happily, that their food was superior to raw fish, and their clothes were warming to his newly exposed flesh. And they smelled nice and were surprisingly comfortable—he had never had a use for them before, and had scorned them, but sitting for hours in the cold near-winter air had left him shivering.

“It doesn’t even matter,” the other human said, “we need to find a way to get rid of it. So we need another spell, or—”

“We need to know more about it,” Castiel's… husband… said.

“Dean, we don't have time to go looking again, it's only a matter of time before it takes someone else. If that is what it's doing.”

Dean threw his arms up into the air, “That's what I mean, Sammy! We can go charging in all we want, but we don't know enough about… anything! We've fought off three ghosts, Sam. We are not prepared enough.”

Castiel looked between the two men. They seemed at odds, and not just about their current subject matter. He could see the taller man, Sam, trying to find it in himself to openly agree with Dean, and Dean himself—looked as if it was taking everything he had not to agree with Sam's words and go rushing in.

Sam's face scrunched up strangely, but he slumped in his chair anyway, giving in.

“So, what do you want us to do, Mr. I-hate-research?” Sam asked of Dean. Castiel felt as if he had faded into the background. He watched avidly as Dean's posture straightened and he seemed to become more—but less at the same time. Less alive, less vital, less raw. Less him.

“You should do some more research on what this thing could be. And I'll try and find out why the spell didn't work, and see if there’s a different cleansing spell. Unless we find out what it is, I guess that's our best shot for now.”

Dean threw Castiel a look. He found it indecipherable, but he couldn't look away. Shivering slightly, the scales rose on the back of his neck.

“I'm still going to deal with whatever— this— is,” Dean said, indicating the both of them again. “But for now, are you able to help us? You aren't gonna try and eat us or anything?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and snorted. To kill one’s bonded? Who knew what ramifications that would have on either part of their soul. “ Sadly,” he began, his voice dripping the venom he wished he possessed, “you are safe from me.”

Dean grunted, but the corner of his lip ticked up.

That was not the reaction he had tried to elicit.

“Fine. Well, I'm guessing you ain’t as hot with the internet, living underwater and napping for a decade, so could you, I dunno, write down everything you know about how we—I, bound you? So we can find out how to undo it? I mean—if you can write, that is...”

The human looked doubtfully at Castiel's webbed fingers, the flesh now a tan color, the webbing tinted blue and translucent. Tiny scales ran down the back of his hands irregularly. He had never noticed them before when he had been an immortal. “I'm an elemental, not a moron,” he answered and snatched up a notepad and pen from the table, trying to summon more anger at the human, but he couldn't. He was too worn out.

The human huffed, that tick at his mouth again, before he turned and opened a device that, Castiel realized, was a modern, compact computer. He had heard of the internet, but Dean was right, sleeping for ten years appeared to have left him behind on the technology side of things, if nothing much else.

He wasn't sure why he was bothering to write down what the spell they had tried had actually achieved. It was firstly, very simple, and secondly, completely, utterly and comprehensively irreversible.

Nonetheless, he gripped the pen, and began writing. 'You burnt sage and rosemary together. Those bind an Undine to a human soul. We now share a soul. You are bound to me as I am to you. I am supposed to offer my gifts in exchange for an immortal afterlife, sharing your heaven. I did not ask for this. I wished to remain immortal in this world, the true world. The only downside for you, apparently, is that you must remain faithful. Or you will die.'

He almost added all that was wrong with him. Everything that was unusual, everything that meant the bonding wasn't easy or regular. Why not all of the rules might apply.

But, he did not wish to give the human any more information about himself than he had to. He did not believe the bond could be broken without killing one, or both of them, but if he did find something, amateur hunter as he was, Castiel did not wish to put himself or his sisters at risk.

He flopped back onto the bed, feeling strange in the human's clothes. Too warm—but not—at the same time…

“You done already?” came Dean's gruff voice.

Castiel rolled onto his stomach, and nodded, eyeing the two humans. Dean was sitting upright and twisted to look at him, and Sam was slouched, glaring silently at his computer.

“Good, here take this,” Dean handed over a mobile phone, unlike anything he had seen before. “It's already on a website, read through, note down anything that looks useful or helpful. You've seen what we're dealing with. If you're certain it isn't a ghost, then it's starting to look like we'll need one hell of a spell.”

Castiel nodded, frowning.

Even when he had stolen among humans in the past, he had always remained hidden.

He had learned to read and write, and watched the civilizations change, he had learned about television, and music… He had experienced the human’s life, but always as a watcher, an outsider, near invisible, his solid-liquid form easy to hide, his natural tendencies toward solitude made it easy to remain aloof. He had never been asked to help, never had anything expected of him, never had a pair of green eyes bore into him anticipating him to be of use, to help.

It was unnerving.

And… nice.

He ducked his head and dragged the pad over to him in his new position. He turned to a new page, hissing quietly when the paper cut the webbing of his hand, causing his thoughts about Dean to evaporate instantly.

“You okay?” Dean asked immediately. Castiel looked up to find a concerned frown on his face, poised to get up from his chair. Sam had not even looked up.

He nodded, and looked back down, fascinated by seeing his blood for the first time, red and bright—

He stuck the injury in his mouth, already refocused on the mobile phone in his hand, disregarding the vast majority of the information as it was applicable to creatures only found in the deeps, or rock pools, ice floes or stagnant ponds. Or simply myth.

He had met many of the creatures, been chased by a few, fought others. The creature in his woods up the hill was something else altogether.

Something old .

Although that was simply a feeling he had. If he voiced it, he thought Dean would listen, and Sam? He might assume it was truth as he, too, was a creature. But, Castiel knew it was nothing more than a sense, a suspicion.

As he read, his thoughts drifted back to the humans.

They seemed good—or about as good as humans got. They didn't appear to mean him harm, which, as they were not the first hunters he had observed, he found surprising. But they were new to hunting—maybe, if he truly was bound to them, within thirty feet of Dean no less, then he could influence them to only hunt evil. True evil like the bloated corpse in his network of underground caves and rivers, and not creatures like himself, who had never hurt or killed anything that wasn't for food or protection.

He sighed.

“Huh,” Dean muttered.

“What?” Sam asked, voicing Castiel's thoughts.

“Uhm, hang on.” He turned to Castiel. “This won't do something awful and unintended will it?” He turned the computer to face Castiel, his voice a little petulant.

Castiel pushed himself up on his elbows a little and read the screen from where he lay. “It's a summoning spell,” he said aloud, not bothering to mask his confusion.

“Yeah, it says it will act like a beacon, bringing anything supernatural, within a particular radius, to you.”

“Why they hell would anyone want to use that?” Sam piped up, his face scrunched up again. Castiel had to agree. Why did such a spell even exist? What lunatic had invented it? Why draw hungry creatures to you?

“It, uh, does say it isn't really recommended pretty much all of the time. That's if it works at all. It's on some hack site…”

He trailed off, clearly unsure of what he had really found. Castiel found himself taking pity on him. He pushed himself to sit and inspect the spell properly. He hummed as he read the list of ingredients. “It isn't really a spell, well, not on the supernatural themselves. Or a beacon as such. It enchants a fire to burn with the scent of prey. So—it wouldn't really work on me. It wouldn't be too effective on vampires, because they could already sense you. But, maybe werewolves? Even unchanged? Demons, perhaps. It will probably work on the lower orders more, those driven by their base desire to feed.”

Across the table, Sam grunted, “So it'll work for us right?”

Castiel shrugged, feeling his scales catch briefly on the fabric across his shoulders. “It depends I suppose, on whether the creature is driven by hunger, or simply by violence. Or something else entirely.”

He looked up at Dean in time to see his expression run through a whole cycle—elation, concern, confusion, fear, purpose, then—restraint.

“Worth a try, though, right?” Sam said, sitting up straighter in his chair. Dean looked relieved for a second, before straightening his shoulders and giving a decisive nod.

“It looks like we can get most of this stuff. We just need…” he paused, a strange expression crossing his face. Uncertainty, “Uh,  more sa—”

“What?” Castiel demanded sharply, sitting up and snarling, his teeth bared. Dean's expression was forgotten. He couldn't cope with that damn stuff again. The aroma was still stabbing at the back of his skull, pounding against his awful flesh and bone sinuses, making his chest tight. It lingered in the air, to his skin, to the humans—

“No!” Dean raised his hands, his face almost white. “Salt! More salt!” Castiel growled, but at least the human looked a little guilty, he thought, as he dropped back to sit on the bed. He forced his expression into something less angry, simply a scowl, and folded his arms tight across his chest, feeling his own, new, damned heart beating within.

Glancing back up at Castiel, Dean continued. “We need charcoal, sulfur and saltpeter too, apparently.” His voice was quiet and Castiel thought he sounded chagrined, even though it had been his own conclusion that the man would say sage that had caused the tension. Good , he thought, maliciously.

There was a moment of heavy silence until Dean’s words finally sank making a connection in his brain. “Why does it want you to make gunpowder?”

Dean's eyebrows rose as he stared at Castiel. “More to the point buddy,” he said, his voice regaining confidence, “why the hell do you know how to make gunpowder?”

Castiel shrugged, unwilling to explain that he was interested in human ingenuity even while he abhorred the results, and had watched humans over the years simply to learn.

“Can't we just use gunpowder?” Sam asked and Castiel began to shake his head.

“Modern gunpowder is not made in the same way,” Castiel explained, slightly endeared to the uselessness of these brand new hunters, despite their binding him… He got identical bewildered expressions for his trouble.

“Well, we don't have a gun anyway, so I don't see how that would help,” Dean stated flatly, although there was something hovering at the edge of his tone.

“Okay,” Sam said, standing up. “I'll see if I can pick any of that stuff up legitimately. Charcoal shouldn’t be too bad, at least.”

Dean nodded. “Pick up something for dinner too will you? We'll need to eat before we head out. I'll start getting everything else packed up,” he said, returning to look intently at the computer screen.

Sam nodded and sent an unreadable look over his friend before he frowned and left.

Dean spun in his chair the moment Sam was out of the room and fixed Castiel with a look, a banked excitement behind his eyes. “What?” Castiel replied, frowning at the changeable, conflicted man.

“Wanna go steal some weapons?”

Castiel cocked his head and stared right back at Dean—his bonded mate for life, the human that now shared his soul with him.

Dean, it appeared, was more than Castiel had given him credit for. That spark that lay under the human’s skin— It seemed almost ready to surface.

“Okay,” he agreed a little hesitantly, relaxing his arms from his chest.

Dean grinned. “Awesome.”

-

Dean chewed his lip as he stepped through the doorway. He would never admit it aloud, but he was feeling a little out of his depth—monsters, creatures, impersonating the FBI, and now breaking and entering…

“So…” he said, drawing out the syllable, trying to cover his nerves. He looked around himself at the storeroom they were in. Despite feeling as if he was punching way above his weight with this hunting thing—a little like he had on that first day at Sandover so many years before—he was proud of himself. He’d managed to pick four locks in broad daylight without being spotted. He and Castiel now stood in the small but packed stock room attached to the local fishing and hunting shop, completely alone and unmonitored. There were boxes of tack and reels and bait, but also racks of guns in a cage, ammo, so many different knives…

Castiel sent him an unimpressed, blank look. His eyes almost shone under the hoodie that was pulled up over his messy hair and blue-patterned brown scales. Dean shivered. The man—Undine—was growing on him. Initially, when his words had been mistaken, and Castiel had jumped to conclusions, Dean had been shocked—a little scared. But it hadn't taken long after he had suggested getting some proper weaponry that Castiel began to thaw. Or maybe, Dean was just acclimatizing. The creature's furious stares were nothing to those Dean confronted in the board room daily, and his eye rolls were almost adorable, especially when paired with the snarling and the growl he seemed to make in the back of his throat. He was already growing used to him being there, next to him, and it had only been a few hours. He wondered if he would miss him when they broke the bond.

But they needed to tackle the monster in the woods first, before he tackled his… husband.

He sighed and picked up a hunting rifle. “What about this?”

Castiel shrugged, flicking the end of a machete he had uncovered in a box and flinching back, sticking the cut digit in his mouth.

Dean snorted and shook his head. Dude was clumsy. He stopped short, wondering where Dean Smith of Sandover had gone since meeting Castiel—he wasn't even thinking much like he used to only the day before, let alone months previously, before the ghost of Sandover himself had shown up. ‘Dude’ was hardly manager-speak, and yet… it felt oddly right on his tongue.

“Alright, we oughta just grab whatever we think looks good and scram, then. Someone will wanna come back here at some point,” he said, trying to pull himself together.

Castiel nodded, and began lifting blades and ammo into the bag in his hands.

“And be careful this time, will you?”

Castiel scowled at him.

Dean bit his lip and tried not to smile, as that blue stain to Castiel’s skin by his eyes seemed to get a little darker.

-

“What have you done?” Sam asked, his tone flat and dangerous, and not very much like Dean was used to him sounding.

Dean looked up innocently, doing his best to ignore Castiel as the Undine lined up the knives they had stolen on the bed by style, then in size order, his face intent as he arranged so much razor sharp metal.

“Nothing?” he finally answered, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on Sam and not the strange and—cute?—antics of the Undine.

“We have provided ourselves with significantly better protection, Sam, than the one fire iron and a switchblade you two “hunters” brought with you.” Castiel said, his voicing holding a sour note as his hands dropped back to the knives after forming the air quotes.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek again to stop from grinning at Sam's blank face. “Did you bring dinner? Get the charcoal?” he managed to get out around his suppressed laugh.

Sam huffed out a sigh at them and collapsed into the chair at the small table, pushing four handguns and their boxes of ammunition away from him.

“Yes. And yes,” he answered tersely. “I couldn't find anywhere that did salads on the drive back, somehow they were out at Micky D's. So I got you a burger.”

Dean wrinkled his nose in distaste and wondered what it would do to his insides. But he shrugged and sighed and picked up the box, handing the third to Castiel, who was eyeing his handiwork with a slight smile. His blue scales seemed… more— The pattern seemed different. “Here,” he said as he handed the creature his food.

He forgot how much his digestion would protest after he took the first bite. With his mouth full he asked incredulously, “This didn't come from McDonalds did it?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah, there was this joint the guy in the art store recommended.”

Dean swallowed with a groan. It was heavenly. Covered in sauce, deep fried pickles, onion, the meat was juicy and thick— “Oh my God,” he muttered and wolfed it down. The only distraction, a snort coming from where Castiel sat at the end of the knife littered bed.

When he looked up, the creature had orangey-pink sauce smeared around his lips and was happily licking them clean, his eyes shut. His tongue had a blue stripe down the center.

The sight did things to Dean's belly, and he wasn't sure what—

Maybe it was just the burger.

He cleared his throat and swallowed. “I, uh, I had a thought about getting saltpeter.” Sam looked up, waiting for him to continue.

“What about a lab? Or a school or something?” He all but felt Castiel's intent gaze on the back of his neck, but Sam’s expression was only gently surprised. Why either of them were shocked that he’d had the idea, he didn’t know— He was a manager at an international firm for heaven’s sake.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Sam said, before biting into his own burger. “There’s a high-school in the next town over I think, I’ll head over after I’ve eaten. You two can work on that Latin.”

Dean sighed and nodded. He didn’t want to be stuck indoors all day, but if he couldn’t go far from Castiel without causing him agony, then they needed to stay somewhere where a dude with blue-brown scales on his face wouldn’t attract attention. Sneaking into the back of a hunting store on the edge of town was one thing, but they could hardly walk brazenly down the street.

-

“I'm bored. Hunting is boring,” Castiel grumbled as he paced the room.

Sam had been gone for ten minutes and he was already tired of watching Dean lean over the computer, meticulously writing out the Latin phrase they would need later that night. He’d gotten his hopes up when Dean took him to break into the gun store. He had assumed the human's strange reserve was breaking, and that the spark he could see in his bonded one was ready to break loose. But now, they were left alone once more, and nothing interesting was happening. The man was focused and dull, and from what little Castiel knew of Dean, he wasn't him, wasn’t Dean . Something of the man’s essence was lacking, clouded. Repressed.

Castiel was also bored of dry land. He knew that the moment Undines were bonded, their bodies changed, and they had to give up the water, or drown. As in so many other ways, he wasn’t like others of his kind. He still had his gills, he still had the capability to survive underwater. He longed for his caves, caverns and his underground river. His home . But considering that was barred to him while a monster roamed the woods, he wanted to be doing something interesting, not standing in a damn motel room just… waiting.

He dropped to his knees on the floor, dragging one of the blades with him. He had little experience with weapons. His fingernails, when they were still an extension of his whole, still made of the clear ice of the arctic, could sharpen and extend at will. They were his weapons. Now, he was left with flimsy blunt stubs like any human.

He leaned back against the bed, knees drawn up, and started gripping and re-gripping the knife by the handle, trying to find a comfortable hold on the leather wrapped hilt. He extended his arm and twisted, trying to articulate the blade in a way similar to how his hands would rip and tear into his prey or an enemy.

As he thrust the blade forward into space, he watched the scales on the back of his hand.

Undine’s—true Undine’s—scales lay flat like those of a fish or a snake. His stood proud like a closed pine-cone, but worse yet, he shouldn’t have any what so ever, not after his elemental form had been stolen from him. Even more, though, he had color and pattern to his dark brown scales. He was used to being mostly translucent, almost not there, just black ice instead of clear across his scales. Having a shifting, inhuman pattern writhe across his colored, horny, nail-like scales was confusing.

He found himself drawn in by the gently moving swirls and stripes, almost changing with the rhythm of the knife spinning in his grip—

“Shit,” he muttered as the knife dropped from his hand, but he caught it—by the blade—before it hit the orange carpet.

He looked up at the surprised snort that Dean let loose. The human was watching him, his wide eyed expression fading fast to one of concern. “Crap, are you hurt?” he asked, sliding to the floor from his chair, where it was clear he had not been working for some time, and kneeled in front of Castiel.

“I’m fine,” he said, un-curling his fist, to see a hairline cut marring his palm. Blood welled up, and Castiel squeezed his fist closed once more, then flattening his palm, fascinated by the new blood that flowed from the burning cut. The pain reminded him of the hand print Dean had burned into his skin.

He rolled his shoulder at the thought, but Dean's attention was focused wholly on his cut. “Shit, no you're not,” he muttered before getting fluidly to his feet. Castiel's eyes were drawn to the man's motion. He knew nothing about the human, but it was evident that his ease of movement wasn't something he practiced much, it looked simultaneously natural and unnatural on his form.

“Come on buddy, we better bandage that.” Dean held out his hand to help Castiel stand.

Castiel growled in the back of his throat in disapproval and pushed himself to his feet. Dean rolled his eyes and turned to the bathroom. Castiel scowled after him. He wasn’t a weak and helpless pet.

“Wait, can you just zap it better like you did to me?” Dean turned to face Castiel with his eyebrows raised.

Castiel swallowed. He still did not trust this human, no matter how potentially harmless he might be. He was still a hunter, even if he was a beginner. He would not reveal all of his secrets.

He shook his head and lowered his eyes back to the wound. “I am too tired from healing you.”

Dean sighed and muttered, “Stupid fuckin' monster,” under his breath. Castiel looked up and caught a surprisingly soft look on the man's face, at which Castiel frowned, before following Dean to the tiled bathroom. He clearly wasn't truly insulting him. That raw bare spark was visible again.

“Sit,” Dean told him, and Castiel lowered himself obediently to the side of the olive-green tub, his hand beginning to throb as he contemplated Dean. “Can't believe I got saddled with the clumsiest damn creature on the planet, seriously,” Dean continued to mutter, opening a small green box that sat on the ledge behind the sink.

Dean perched on the closed toilet seat and roughly gripped Castiel’s palm and began cleaning and wrapping it. Castiel watched in fascination as the blood vanished, and the pressure of the white bandage took its place. He had never needed medical care before. It was strange. But, it felt nice too, to be cared for. Even by a human. Solitude and independence had not always been a choice—it was almost always the only option open to him.

He looked up as Dean fiddled with some tape to secure the bandage. Even sitting nearly lever with him, his bonded mate was tall. With green eyes and freckles, his hair a dark blond and his eyelashes long, everything about him was alive, golden. Even the curses under his breath as Castiel took the small roll of tape from him and found the end in seconds, handing it back.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticked up involuntarily at the grunted “Thanks,” Dean gave him.

-

Dean blinked in the sudden dimness of the woods, eyeing their surroundings expectantly, the wind cold and the smell of burning fading fast. “Is that it?” Castiel asked, his blue scales shifting in front of Dean's eyes where his sleeves were rolled up, his voice unimpressed.

“Think so,” Sam said, re-reading the scrap of paper with the Latin on. “All the ingredients are correct, I'm sure the pronunciation is spot on this time too—”

Dean shook his head and tore his eyes away from Castiel. “Maybe the spell doesn't work on it?” he wondered aloud. He was absolutely certain they had managed to get the right ingredients this time. The school lab the next town over that Sam had talked his way into had everything labeled neatly and Castiel had even helped with the pronunciation of the Latin, after Dean had fixed him up.

But, the fire died as quickly as it’d exploded into bright light, leaving them standing near Castiel's pool once again, in the last of the moonlight, surrounded by trees and the rustling of leaves and the sharp autumn wind.

Dean sighed. He was irritated. They didn't seem to be able to catch a break with this case, but at the same time he felt a tingling in the ends of his fingers at the challenge of working it out, of learning and… fighting.

Even so, the unchanging comparative silence of the dark woods was disappointing. He relaxed his grip on the blade in his hand.

“Wait,” Castiel murmured, his deep voice almost blending into the rustling of the leaves on branches above their heads.

Rustling, that Dean belatedly realized wasn't so random anymore, but rhythmic.

“It's here?” Sam asked, but Dean shushed him, bringing his blade up, re-tightening his grip. He might be fit but he damn well needed to learn how to handle a blade, he thought, scanning the dark trees.

He couldn't see a thing—with the fire dead and the moon, now their only source of illumination, a mere silver glow behind thin clouds, there was almost no light to see by.

“There,” Castiel hissed, leaning forward on his toes, his outline elegant. Dean dragged his eyes from Cas again just in time to see the dark shape of Ron Arlow stumble almost silently through the tree line surrounding them.

The corpse went straight for the extinguished fire; and Sam.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled as he leaped forward without thinking, knife raised high.

He slashed the blade across the thing's back, bruising his palm with his unpracticed grip. He switched his hold and tried again, not giving in, refusing to allow his partner to get hurt on his watch. He jammed the blade, two handed, into Arlow’s back where its kidneys were. The blow jarred his elbows, sending a stabbing pain lancing up his arms, all the way to the shoulder. But his attack did nothing to halt the corpse. It simply turned from Sam to face Dean, still standing straight, looming over him, its rotting aroma all but choking him, its eyes still pulp; staring at him. Errantly, Dean wondered why Arlow wasn’t covered in that black ooze was that had spattered all over him when Sam had taken out Mr. Croft.

“Crap,” he muttered, edging backward slowly.

He didn't have time to think before the thing swiped its ham-like fist through the air, hitting him in the side. He went flying, the moon taunting him as it suddenly shone silver bright through a break in the clouds, and he hit a tree with a dull thump.

Everything went black. He felt nothing at all.

-

Castiel’s thoughts halted the moment Dean was hit. He forgot that he didn't want the human, or a soul. He forgot that the creature was bigger than him. He forgot about Sam, who had already run to Dean's side.

The corpse faced him, and he snarled at it. Instinctively, he summoned the water. Boiling and burning, scalding; a maelstrom of agony—

But nothing happened. His power was gone, along with his immortality.

He snarled again. His anger rising once more. He may be useless, but he still had to do his best to protect his bonded. It was a part of him, it could not be denied.

He bared his teeth and hefted the blade in his hand. Ducking and weaving he danced under the corpse's reach, enticing him away from Dean and Sam, leading him toward the water.

He may not be able to summon it, but he could still breathe in it, could still swim.

“Come on,” he hissed at the corpse, just out of its grasp on the edge of his pool. He leaned back as the thing swiped forward and he nearly lost his balance, slipping on the wet rocks and silt. He regained his footing, growling and leaned forward, his fingers splayed, even though his fingernails were no longer weapons. He raised the blade, ready—

But his luck had run out. The corpse lunged again. It caught him, a slashing blow with its bared bone, sharp pointed fingers that slashed him deeply across the shoulder, sending him to the ground. Searing pain ran up and down his arm and into his chest. It was agony, nothing like the small cut lining his palm. The creature was rock solid, dead, muscle, armed with chiseled bone and rabid teeth, and it had torn into Castiel’s vulnerable flesh with ease.

The corpse was teetering on the edge of the pool, towering above him, overbalanced but secure. It was already turning back toward Sam and Dean—mindlessly assured.

With the knife clutched in his still-working hand, Castiel stretched across the ground, his movement pulling open the deep cut in his shoulder further. He could feel the hot blood spill and mark him. He reached further, his breath hitched in his searing chest, and he stabbed the creature in the foot. It was a pathetic action, and he snarled at his ineptitude, readying himself to make another effort, despite the cold numbness and screaming pain spreading through his arm.

The corpse did not howl in pain, or grunt or curse. Slowly, infinitely slowly, it staggered back a step, its foot landing in ankle deep water. Castiel winced as under its foot ground the small round pebbles in among the silt. With the grating sound of bone on stone, it went toppling backwards, its feet going out from under it, straight into Castiel’s pool, his home, his sinkhole, and into the strong current. For the second time he banished it using his element, his being, his home.

An angry wail was ripped from Ron’s throat as he sank beneath the surface. That flow, the strength of the water would pull the bloated, heavy corpse down stream. Down and away.

For a few hours at least…

He rolled onto his back and groaned, feeling his own blood soak him, flowing from his shoulder and sinking into the ground.

Another curse he suffered from—being so different to the rest of his species, to his sisters. He could only use his powers for the benefit of others.

He had never been able to heal himself.

“Cas?” Dean asked, his voice far away, but so close. Weak and pained, but strong. Relief, like the first dew, rushed through him.

“What's wrong with him?” Sam asked, his voice sounding like it was within a cave, far away too.

“The water,” Castiel muttered aloud. That was why he lived here, in the middle of a wood so far from the sea, from raging rivers. His cave. It was blessed. It helped him, made him strong.

With another groan, his eyes firmly shut, he heaved himself to his feet, his torn open shoulder pouring blood down his whole body, hot, sticky. Utterly unfamiliar. Repulsive.

“He's hurt! Cas!” Dean yelled and Castiel heard the human's stumbling footsteps approach.

They cannot be apart…

As soon as he sensed Dean's presence next to him, he pushed him into his pool, a yelp being cut off in an instant with the huge splash. “He'll be safe,” he managed to cough out in Sam's direction, before he threw himself into the water after the struggling human.

-

Dean tried to scream—surprise, fear, betrayal all trying to make themselves known, all trying to crawl up his throat. But his mouth filled with water. His nose, and eyes too—

He tried to swim, to kick to the surface, but the current was too strong, too fast. He couldn’t breathe and he was being sucked under. Only the light let him know which way was up. In panic he watched the circle of moonlight, fast disappearing above him as he was sucked down, down into the darkness, terrifyingly fast. Something—Castiel—was suddenly in the water, barely a ripple left in the water's surface so far above him.

The creature sped toward him, looking down and he met Dean's eyes. Even in the dark, Dean could see the confusion on his face, the frown, the relief, the surprise—all surrounded by a billowing halo of dark, spreading blood, outlined by the tiny disc of the moon above them.

Castiel reached out toward him with one arm, his webbed fingers splayed wide. He was kicking his legs, shoes and clothes dragging at him.

Dean closed his eyes. His air was gone. He wanted to cough, to clear his lungs, to breathe—

Even if Castiel was planning on saving him after pushing him in—it was too late.

He would die. Drowning in a pool. On his fourth hunt. Killed by his husband.

Something cool touched his lips.

A hand clasped his upper arm.

Air was forced into his mouth.

He choked, opened his eyes, tried to cough, and found lips on his again, blowing another breath into his mouth.

It was unpleasant, not enough oxygen, warm, difficult to pull into his lungs.

But it was air.

He carefully suppressed his urge to cough the water from his lungs, rolling his eyes as he blew a stream of bubbles out of his mouth, only to receive another breath from Castiel.

Above him, he could see a plume of stained water in what light was left before Castiel's lips met his once more, pushing in more air, and more. Castiel’s hand released his arm and clamped over his mouth and nose.

He couldn't see anything any more, the light was gone.

The palm left his face and gripped his hand. Dean hoped that he was right and that the message was clear; Castiel wanted him to hold his breath.

Castiel’s grip tightened and Dean felt himself dragged through the water. With his eyes screwed shut, he had no idea of the speed, but he felt himself buffeted by the current, and dragged in another direction, up and up and—

The pull was gone; both the hand on his arm and the current.

His face broke the surface.

He coughed and coughed and coughed and sucked in a huge breath, only to cough again.

“Go forward, you can stand,” Castiel whispered weakly, nudging him in the back. Dean could hear the pain in his voice. “I'm sorry. We can't be apart—and I need the cave. To heal.”

Dean only coughed again, spitting out the last of the water from his mouth, and finally opened his eyes.

He'd had no expectations of what would greet him when he opened his eyes, being so preoccupied with trying not to die…but what he found in front of him was unlike anything he could have imagined.

It was a cave—

The walls glittered, glowing with a soft blue haze. There was a shelf above the water. On it was a heap of fabrics in all different patterns. Above him was a spiral of light—

“It's an air vent,” Castiel grunted, following his gaze. “The fissure is lined with crystal, it reflects the light and illuminates the cave, even at night, as you can see.

“This cave is blessed.” He shrugged, his voice pained and weak as he sloshed over to an underwater ledge that Dean hadn't noticed before. “I cannot heal myself. I lied before,” his face was downcast at the admission, and Dean wondered why. “I just need to sleep here, just a little...” he finished, tailing off quietly.

“You what?!” Dean yelled, his awe at the beauty of Cas' home, and concern about him gone in a flash. “No! You do not get to throw me in a pool, nearly drown me, then pass out! Shit! Take me back up to Sam! I don't care if you fill the God damned river with blood! You do not abduct me!” His chest was suddenly filled with panic. He couldn't leave his friend above ground, in a wood where a monster roamed, alone, not knowing if he was safe—

One of Castiel's blue eyes opened a crack, his dark hair still plastered to his forehead. “I told him you would be fine. You'll be stuck down here longer if you make me take you back up… I’m not even sure I can manage.” Even through Dean’s anger he could hear the Undine’s pain.

“I don't care!” he snapped anyway, “Sam is gonna be shitting a brick! He doesn't know you! He won't think I'm safe! He’ll try and come after you!”

Castiel sighed deeply, “Fine,” he croaked out, struggling to push himself to his feet, knee deep in the icy cold, clean, clear water.

Dean watched him walk slowly to the low entrance to the cave, a hand to his shoulder to staunch the freely flowing blood, and crouch, bringing the deeper water there to his neck. He turned back to Dean and raised an eyebrow. Dean felt a twinge of guilt as the blood from his shoulder began diluting in the water again, bright and lurid in the reflected moonlight and warming blue glow.

All of this was his fault—binding a creature against his will to him. It was unfair to Castiel, and now he was demanding more. But he couldn't leave Sammy up there alone. They may not be brothers, but they were damn good partners for all their bickering. Sam would be going out of his mind, he needed to reassure him, to show him he was safe, to prove it.

Despite his growing reluctance to subject the creature to the strong current outside of his chamber, Dean felt he had to. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled as he joined Cas at the precipice, water sloshing loudly around his knees, the sound of far off dripping water reverberating through the cave.

Castiel only huffed in irritation and shrugged his uninjured shoulder, grimacing. He gripped onto Dean's arm once again, and slid beneath the water.

With planning and warning, a single breath—taken and held before entering the underground river—was enough to take them half way up the sinkhole that was Cas' pool from below.

Clenching his jaw shut, he tugged on Castiel's hand, letting out the breath in a rush once he was sure he had Cas' attention. The Undine blinked slowly and nodded, leaning in close, kicking his now-bare feet furiously against the current in a cloud of blood, illuminated with the same eerie blue glow that had grown on the walls of Cas’ cave.

All thought left him though as Castiel's cool lips met his again, carefully pressing air into his mouth.

This time, it wasn't as unpleasant. Cas' eyes were shut, a gentle frown on his tired forehead as he exhaled into Dean's mouth.

As soon as Castiel's breath was gone, he pulled away, hesitating a moment, watching Dean intently as he clenched his jaw shut again and began kicking himself, pushing himself upward, his shoes heavy on his feet. Cas looked down, his hand to his bleeding shoulder, and even in the dim glow, Dean could see him roll his eyes.

A minute later they broke the surface to Sam's wild eyed, terrified face and a blade at Castiel's throat.

“Hey, hey, hey, Sammy, it's okay, it's good. We're good,” Dean gasped, trying to suck in enough breath to speak. “Cas needs to heal, and that stupid bond thing means he needs me down there too, kay? It's good. He's hurt, so he needs to rest, he can't heal himself—” He sent the Undine a look, and received a blank, daring stare in return, his jaw set.

“But he threw you in!” Sam retorted angrily, breaking their eye contact.

Castiel sighed in a cracking voice. “Really Sam, if I meant him any harm, firstly I wouldn't have brought him back to the surface, secondly, you're holding a blade to my throat that I can easily swim away from, and you're so over balanced trying to reach me, that I could pull you in and drown you with no difficulty whatsoever despite the fact I’m losing all this damned blood. Now. You can see Dean is safe, I want to return to my home to rest and heal. Dean will be safe, and you can return to the motel. We shall join you in the morning when I am recovered, and we can research what the hell we are all up against, seeing as I am bound to your friend.”

Dean couldn't help the snort of amusement he let out at Sam's expression.

“It's cool, Sam, really. Dude has a bed and everything alright?”

Cas hummed a noise of disapproval and inelegantly back flipped under the water, leaving a dark stain on the surface. Sam, surprised, swayed and nearly fell in after him.

“Sammy?” he asked, waiting for permission to go. He didn't want to hurt the creature— Although he might throttle him for losing his shoes…

Sam eventually nodded. “Go on.”

Dean grinned, took a deep breath and slid under the water, coming face to face with the floating, unhappy Castiel. The moment he was level with Castiel, he was gripped by the wrist and pulled into the current that seemed to race directly down the sinkhole. Near the bottom, just like before, Dean found Castiel up in his face, his blue eyes just visible in the glow of the tunnel. He closed his eyes and leaned into Dean’s space, pressing their lips together.

This time he felt Castiel's legs kicking around his own, and saw them continuing along the tunnel, their breath being shared in one long exchange as Dean breathed out his spent breath through his nose.

Dean couldn’t be certain in the gloom, but he thought that the blue tinge to the Undine's cheek bones was darker, spread further. Maybe it was just loss of blood—worsening as they swam together, joined at the lips. He had to admit it was nicer though, not floating in the man’s blood.

But a moment later, Castiel broke from him and swam away, latching onto his hand again, at the last moment directing him back up into his chamber. Dean could see this time that the entrance was through a narrow cut, just wide enough for two bodies side by side, and hidden almost perfectly in the craggy, dark, blue luminescent side of the sinkhole's wall. He wouldn't have been able to find it alone, even if he would’ve been able to make it down without drowning.

The moment they were released from the current, Castiel let him go, flowing under the water to the shelf he’d lain on before. Without a word, only his head above the water, he was asleep in moments, his pale skin sickly looking, his closed eyes fluttering, the blood still oozing.

Dean stood in the middle of the cave, confused, suddenly cold, with his lips tingling—  And guilt raging.

He waded over to the blanket covered shelf and hauled himself out of the water.

He stared for a moment at Castiel. Despite the bloody pool surrounding him, slowly ebbing away, he looked peaceful. Pallid, but peaceful. Worry cut into Dean then, worry that he had hurt Castiel too much by demanding to be taken up to see Sam— He hadn’t appreciated how bad the wound that Castiel had sustained trying to save them all really was. There was too much blood. His own injuries, his brief unconsciousness was a minimal discomfort, a shock and a bruise, he didn’t even have a headache, and yet Castiel had risked his life, not only to save them, but to allow him to see Sam.

He slipped back into the water and waded as quietly as he could over to the water creature. His foot bumped something, and he looked down into the dark, crystal clear water, seeing the outline of his shoes that Castiel must have kicked off to swim better. He smiled and ducked under, picking them up before leaning over Castiel.

His face was lit by a dim patch of the blue glow, and it made him look ill, but he was breathing, the waves and spirals of his now ever changing patterns along his scales moving sluggishly. It was— he was beautiful. Dean had to admit that to himself.

He shivered again, and realized he needed to dry off. Slowly he made his way back to the ledge and heaved himself onto it. He placed the shoes Castiel had worn as far from the man's blankets as he could, and stripped out of his own clothes, down to his underwear.

Yawning and shivering, he looked around the cave. It really was stunning. Crystals glowed in the second-hand moonlight and the strangely warming blue glow. Echos surrounded him, the sound of rushing water and the musical sound of droplets hitting some unseen pool. It was mesmerizing. Dean believed Castiel when he said it was blessed.

He moved over to the man's blankets, old but beautiful, carefully mended in places. For some reason, he felt as if he was trespassing, lying on something so clearly treasured, but there was no other option. He needed sleep, and he needed to get warm.

With a look back to Castiel, feeling bad that there was nothing he could do to help the Undine, he lay down in only his underwear, and closed his eyes, pulling an old patchwork quilt over his shoulders. With the soft, well loved fabric, came the overwhelming feeling of everything Castiel. Dean was in his home, in his bed, it smelled of him, soft like dusty warm attics, everything here was all Castiel. His thoughts, his feelings, his home. It was overwhelming.

He’d put it off, those thoughts and feelings, barely thinking about it, letting himself simply accept the problem, putting it away to deal with at a later time. But now? He could do nothing but think. Think about his husband . The Undine. Castiel.

Castiel was beautiful—a fact that only a few days ago he would have laughed at.

He was straight. Or at least…

Dean had to admit to himself that even before he’d hit puberty, he had been driven, constantly seeking achievements and success. He’d slept with women, of course, always one night stands. He told himself he didn’t have the time to devote to a relationship.

Lying there, wrapped up warmly in Castiel’s blankets, he found it easy to admit to himself that perhaps there had always been something lacking for him. Perhaps it wasn’t his search for success getting in the way of finding a true… bond with someone, but his choice of partner.

He shifted and sent a sleepy look over at the indistinct shape of Castiel’s hair floating just above the surface of the rippling water.

Because Castiel really was beautiful, and smart, and adorable. He drew Dean's attention, and it wasn't only his shifting chameleon armadillo like micro-scales that were so fascinating. It was his eyes and his hint of a smile and his exasperation. His vibrant anger and his— damn it— his kissing. Yes, it hadn't been a kiss, they had been sharing oxygen, but Dean was certain that it had been more than that for the Undine as well as him, in those final few seconds…

He drifted asleep, confused and bewildered, but with a touch of a smile to his lips.

The instant he awoke, a blinding shaft of sunlight illuminating the entire cave, he twisted under the covers to check on Castiel.

He was still there, deeply asleep. His breathing was regular, deep and even, the bloody wound in his shoulder nothing more than a puffy red line under the torn hoodie, his cheeks were glowing with health and the patterns on his scales were swirling lightly and evenly.

Dean swallowed and smiled warmly, his thoughts still whirling from the night before. He still felt the same.

He wanted Castiel. He didn’t want to break the bond.

Doing his best to remain quiet, he went back to his clothes and pulled everything back on, scowling at the soaked boots that had not dried overnight. He wondered what the time was, and realized with a scowl, that his phone wouldn’t work.

He looked around the cave, noticing for the first time in the blinding light provided by the crystal well above his head, that there was more than one way out. Two more dark holes shimmered at the edges of the cave, under the water that remained calm in the center. Behind him the ledge rose straight up and arced over his head, funneling up to the air vent. On the occasional jut of crystal or rock there were shells placed carefully, a marble, a tin soldier, a gold ring. Tiny mementos, that Dean found he wanted to know the story of.

He turned toward a sloshing noise, a smile on his face ready to greet the waking Cas, but instead found the black-gray rotting face of Ron Arlow.

-

Castiel woke feeling warm and content. Sun was streaming through the crystal well, and his shoulder no longer stung. He closed his eyes and felt along the edges of the wound. He sighed happily knowing the water had blessed him with its help once more.

He let his eyes open once again, taking in the familiar sight of the crystal well, and his shelf of belongings were he often slept.

“Dean?” he asked aloud, unused to hearing his own voice in the echoing cave. When there was no reply, he managed to push himself up, enjoying the sounds of the water lapping at his sides, even though he was no longer one with the liquid whole. It felt different now, almost more real. The fabric of the clothes caught on his scales, and moved about him strangely, but it was not unpleasant. He waded to the ledge, and nudged the heap of blankets.

Instead of a solid body underneath his carefully collected and hoarded quilts, there was nothing—just more blankets.

Castiel just stood there, frightened by his own thoughts and emotions.

Firstly, he was confused to discover that he felt hurt that Dean had run from him, the emotion quickly turning to terror as he realized that Dean would not have survived the swim to the surface without drowning. Then fear struck cold to his core as he realized that Dean knew he wouldn’t make it without Castiel’s aid. Without that life saving exchange of air. Without that kiss… Dean knew he would die. So he either committed suicide, or was taken against his will—

Secondly he remembered that the currents in the rivers and chambers were fast, dangerous and had courses of their own. The one that pulled them down the sinkhole did not stop outside of his own chamber, but dragged you deep and fast into a network of rapids, caves and rivers that would kill all but the most agile swimmer, even if they were somehow able to breathe under water.

Thirdly, and he almost bent double with the strongly mixed feelings of complete and utter relief and strange sorrow, he realized that that pull, the crippling bond between the two of them was no longer active.

“What have you done, Dean? What has happened to you?” he whispered into the cave, forgetting how angry he should still be with the human, only thoughts of their lips pressed together in his mind, and how very right that had been.

Silently, he slipped under the surface, feeling the water flow into his lungs smoothly. Panic rose up his throat, tightening his chest, and making the water flow out of his gills almost like a cough; Dean was nowhere in sight, he couldn’t smell him in the water, there was nothing—

No not nothing.

By the deepest, lowest, fastest and most dangerous entrance to his cave, a scrap of fabric was caught on one of the jutting pieces of crystal that studded his home.

Fear jolted through him. The fabric wasn’t Dean’s.

He surfaced to look at the scrap in the full light of the cave. It was canvas. Like the huge corpse’s apron.

Castiel sank beneath the water once again and slipped through the narrow hole without a moment's hesitation.

He twisted and turned, contorted his body, avoiding rocks and roots and huge jutting pieces of clear, almost glowing crystal. How the hulking corpse made it through, Castiel could only guess. Maybe he blocked the way so much that he could literally climb up the shoot, rather than swim.

How Dean survived— if he had—

Castiel clenched his jaw shut out the thought, almost forgetting to breathe through his gills. Dean was almost certainly dead. He couldn’t survive the river, the lack of air. And if he could? Then what? The hulking corpse had him, would consume, or replace him or— Whatever the creature was that lived in his domain, it wasn’t letting humans live. Dean would be a bloated corpse, wandering the woods within hours if he wasn’t already. The lack of scent in the water meant it had been hours since Dean had been taken.

How? How had he slept through? How was the pull between them gone?

He surfaced into a cave, normally one he wouldn’t bother looking at as he rushed past. It was small, dark, and had a circular current, which, if you sat idle, could trap you like a whirlpool at sea.

Castiel was glad he had surfaced. Immediately he knew that Dean was not here, nor the corpse-creature, but something else was.

Standing on his webbed tip-toes, the water came to his chest. He allowed the current to drag him around the chamber until he hit a piece of smooth rock that stuck out, dipped and curved, almost like a seat.

Sitting, upright, gory and desperately sad, was a skeleton. It was held together with water-logged clothing and preserved sinew, but was otherwise just bone.

“I’m sorry friend. I should not have slept so heavy or I may have heard your calls for help,” he whispered. A swell pushed him forward and he slipped, regaining his footing just past the body. He spun to look at the remains again. “Oh. In that case, I could have laid you to rest, then. I am sorry my river took your life.” He ducked his head, honoring the remains, a huge piece of skull missing, the rest cut and deeply scratched. Castiel hoped that it had been the river that had taken the man's life… He did not want to contemplate what else it could have been.

He slipped beneath the water again and fought the current to re-enter the river; the river that took what it wanted, and harbored something dark. He hoped Dean's life had not yet been taken by either.

Chapter Text

“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked the moment he opened the door to his motel room and realized that Castiel was alone.

Castiel just shook his head and stamped into the room, dripping all over the violently orange floor.

“What the hell! Where is Dean?” Sam yelled, slamming the door closed again.

Castiel swallowed and shook his head, surprised once again at the swell of emotion he felt at losing Dean. “He was taken. By the corpse— But it is not what we thought it was,” he finished, slumping onto the bed, ignoring his wet clothes and noting once again how comfortable it seemed. “I found a skeleton.”

Sam was instantly on the alert, leaning forward, his eyes bright. Castiel realized that his anger must have been forgotten in the thrill and fear of discovery. “The skeleton—he must have died within the past ten years; he wasn’t there before I went to sleep. But, he came to rest sitting up, Sam. He came to rest sitting up.” Castiel repeated the last, sighing deeply, dropping his head into his hands, all energy suddenly drained from him.

“What—what does that mean?” Sam asked, sounding confused.

Castiel looked up and found Sam's forehead creased in confusion. Castiel heaved another breath, having forgotten just how new to hunting Sam and Dean were.

“Many cultures refuse to bury their dead sitting up, for the spirit can rise more easily, still fewer would allow a body to die in water and come to rest that way. I do not know exactly what our monster is, but it is not good.

“He didn't drown Sam, and that too, is bad, a death in water not of drowning? It was a violent death too, albeit, possibly accidental. That won’t birth a normal ghost or spirit,” he finished, closing his eyes, unable to support himself any longer. His chest ached for a man he had never wanted to be bonded to, he felt heavy with it. But, since discovering the body in the cave, he had been thinking about the injury the skull had sustained. Yes, the river could do that, but it would have broken other bones too if the man had been struggling as he was dragged through shoots and caves— The skeleton had been otherwise whole.

“Well what then?” Sam demanded, his voice tight. Castiel belatedly realized that Sam cared deeply for Dean, despite all their bickering, almost like a brother. But that did not prevent Castiel losing his temper with him.

“I don't know Sam! Damn it! I don't know! Dean has been taken, and he is probably dead, and I can't find him! I searched, Sam, I searched and I could not find him, nor scent him, nor— I just— I don't know how to get him back.” He almost blurted that he did not want to lose him, but he did not want to explain his developing feelings for the man who harbored such a bright spark within him.

“What about your damn bond?” Sam spat, bringing Castiel right back to the moment. He threw himself upright on the bed, his clothes cold and clinging to him. Sam's voice was full of distrust, full of venom.

Castiel felt his head swirl with Sam's implication, that he had made it up to trap Dean—

“Doesn't it lead you back to him? Or did you just hide him in some damn cave? Murdered him for fun!”

“Fuck you, Sam. The bond is real,” Castiel spat, baring his teeth. Then he deflated a little, he could understand Sam's distrust. “That pain? I think… I think it might have been the lingering scent of the rosemary and sage, Dean hadn't had a chance to wash since the bonding. The aroma was strong, it clung to him, it was agony. I couldn't leave it, but when I threw him in the water? I think he got washed clean, the scent was washed away. We are still bonded, that I—I’m sure of. But now I can leave his side—” He winced at his own words though. It was only intuition telling him that Dean was alive, that their bond was still strong between them.

Sam sneered, turning his back, radiating distrust and hate.

Castiel's anger rose again, but thinking of the bond brought back that strange mix of relief and displeasure. He needed to find Dean.

Sam turned, scoffing, folding his arms across his chest, and Castiel could see that the distrust in his expression had grown into something skeptical and mean. His eyes were searching Castiel's face, and his scales shivered and rose with his anger.

Sam’s expression darkened further. He didn't even need to say a word. Castiel stiffened and stood, returning Sam’s glare, his lip twitching, resisting the urge to attack.

“I did not take Dean and kill him, Sam,” he hissed, fury and fear coursing through him. Because he knew he had not killed Dean, but he might have unwittingly got him killed. He felt that terror rise up, filling him, panic, knowing that he might have been the cause, might have accidentally gotten his bonded one killed—

“He’s under your thrall! It’s not like we even know what you really are!” Sam yelled, snapping Castiel from his spiralling panic, the man's expression almost venomous. Castiel nearly stumbled back at the sight, but instead his hackles rose.

“Fuck you! I don’t even know what would happen to me if Dean were to die! It would almost certainly be a pointless half life, having our shared soul ripped apart so unnaturally.” He growled low in his throat, warding his enemy off. Sam did not know of what he spoke. Why would he even return to Sam if he had been the one to kill Dean? He had come to ask for, and offer help—he could have fled and never returned and Sam would never have known. “Dean is good. He is kind. I wouldn’t wish death or drowning upon him.” He broke off to draw breath, feeling his gills spasm with his anger, with the thumping of the brand new, hot heart in his chest.

He made a decision. He had anticipated teaming up with Sam to recover Dean, but— “If you don’t want to help me save him, potentially stop him from becoming something we— I have to hunt, then I’ll do it alone.” He snarled again, his scales rising further in pointed, vicious spikes, lifting the wet, ruined hoodie on his back. “Research me for all I care, Sam. Waste Dean's precious time. You’ll find out fuck all though! I’m the only god damned male Undine in existence, now or ever! I’m a freak! I’m broken! I never wanted to be bonded, but now that I am? I’m damn well going to save my husband!”

Castiel stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. He wanted to scream, but the blast of warm sunlight hitting his face had him hastily pulling the hood of his blood soaked, torn sweater up to cover the prominent scales on his cheek bones. He could feel them standing proud, feel the flush in his cheeks, the anger burning hot.

How dare Sam accuse him! Even without the words, Sam’s opinions about him would have been obvious!

He marched across the road and threw himself into the undergrowth at the tree line, ignoring the eyes he felt on him from across the parking lot, Sam could go to Hell. He was fuming, Sam and Dean were partners! How could Sam believe Castiel was responsible for hurting him? Hadn't he seen—

He sighed and deflated a little, his scales lowering. He came to a halt next to the stream where it disappeared into a tunnel to run under the road.

No, Sam had not seen— Castiel wasn't even sure what had even happened in the sinkhole. Their exchange of breath? It had not been a kiss. But even so, he hadn't been able to prevent holding on a little longer, swimming as he helped Dean to breathe just to extend the time they were in contact. It had felt so right. His lips had been so warm. It had run deeper than he had ever imagined something so, so mechanical , would have.

He shook himself, trying to banish those thoughts. He could dwell on them later, if— when he rescued Dean. He just needed to get him back alive.

He had to hope that the gut feeling he had—that Dean was not yet dead, that he would know —was correct, and somehow, somewhere, Dean was fighting, and their connection was still there, still strong, still sharing their soul.

He jogged a little further up the hill, following the stream until he found the point he needed. Without a sound, he threw himself into the swiftly flowing water.

He did not notice the steely gaze that was still fixed upon him, that had followed him into the wood.

-

Dean was shivering. Badly. He couldn’t move though, because he was safe. Safe for now.

When he had turned to find the corpse stalking toward him through the knee deep water, it felt as if his guts had turned to ice. It had felt like fire in his veins as Ron's body had stopped, and turned, and begun reaching toward Castiel.

Dean hadn't thought— He had felt a freedom, a thrill, burst through him— He’d leaped from the ledge, tackling the hulking beast into the water in one swift movement. Fleetingly, he wondered if Castiel's trick of submerging the corpse would weaken it, would allow it to be sucked away by the current.

It worked to a degree. The momentum of his body colliding with Ron's landed them both near the cave wall. He’d instantly twisted away, attempting to get to his feet, to save himself—

But the thing was caught by the current near that underwater opening, dark in the bright morning light in the cave. The corpse had been sucked away fast, but not fast enough to allow Dean to escape. Its fist had closed around Dean’s ankle, and the last thing he’d seen before being pulled under, only just keeping the breath in his body, was Cas' soundly sleeping face.

He remembered each knock to his body as he was sucked down a narrow slide-like shaft behind the corpse. He remembered each grunt and squeal as Ron's animated body hit lumps of rock and dimly glowing crystal. Each wounded sound that came from the creature made Dean clench his jaw tighter, trying keep his breath inside of him, grateful every moment for the corpse absorbing each sharp stone and hit from the twisting tunnel.

They surfaced briefly in a small cavern, only long enough for him to draw in a fresh breath before the hulking corpse was dragged under again, thrown down another water-slide like tunnel. He knew he would have died if he had been in front; the man’s huge and muscled frame was the only thing keeping him from turning as they were sucked down and down. They surfaced another few times, just as his vision was filled with floating black spots or whiting out completely, each time he pulled in a desperate breath, just in time, before they were submerged again.

They finally came to a rest on a shallow rise of hard rock in a deep, tiny cave. It was no wider than he was tall, and only just longer where the stone rose from the water.

Dean had two moments of clarity, moments where the beast was disorientated, moments where he managed to avoid death.

He realized that in the lull, in surfacing, in the creature's clear confusion, it had let go of Dean's ankle.

He realized that he could hurt it. He could escape.

With a gasp in the cold, clinging air, he launched himself at the monster again, landing a punch in the center of its face with a sickening crack that rebounded around the cave, mingling with the roar of rushing water in an unending echo.

Dean's panicked brain took too long to latch onto that fact—

The corpse was blocking the entrance, the singular entrance to the tiny cave, but the echoes were loud and long.

He looked up, there was a fissure, like in Cas' cave, but dark, dank and cold. Leaking water, and… the faintest of cold breezes.

He turned and scrabbled at the wall, making his fingernails bleed, but he managed to pull himself up and out of the water on to the narrowest of ledges, before the corpse beast managed to regain its balance. He climbed upward, pulling himself up into the narrow crack in the cave wall, a patch of pure blackness in the dimly blue-glow lit cave.

He wriggled into the hole, back as far as he could, feeling the rock slice at his arms and legs and side. But, he was out of reach of the bigger man, just barley— He was up high. The beast sloshed towards him, only one dead eye glinting in the dim light. Dean clung to the rock in the fissure just above the creature's head as it scrabbled at the rock—its fingers grasped only inches from his knees.

He listened to it growl and moan and roar, then quiet. It remained still, silent. It watched him. He could feel its rotting eyes on him. Watching, desperate. It wanted him, he knew it, he was so close…

Dean shivered again and wondered how long he could survive here. It felt like it had already been hours. He was thirsty and hungry and very very cold.

He shivered, this time with worry, with fear. He had no way to warn or alert Sam or Cas to where he was. He could die here, alone, in a cave deep underground, being watched by a corpse. How long until it got desperate enough to try and climb the narrow ledge?

Dean just had to hope that the corpse's larger stature was enough to prevent it climbing up after him.

He listened to the dripping water, to the roaring of the river beyond the corpse. There was a rhythmically calming quality to the noise, a set of sounds that beat in time with his heart. He rested his cheek against the stone and closed his eyes, shutting out the one still-whole eye of the creature watching him.

He shivered again, the only warmth the patches of pain where he had cut himself getting into the fissure. He must be bleeding, he thought. Bleeding, with a damned zombie watching him, freezing, in a hole, his only escape blocked, no way out, little hope of rescue— Especially since Castiel would be crippled, dying from the agony of separation.

He suddenly felt a surge of guilt, of misery. He had hurt the creature, the good creature that was innocent in all this. It was his fault they were bound together.

He lashed out in anger, in guilt, kicking his leg forward viciously into the cave wall, where a piece of crystal sliced deeply into his shin. He swore sharply as his leg exploded in pain and hot blood poured down his ankle.

The corpse growled deeply and advanced, sniffing the air. Dean slumped against the wall again, biting back a matching growl of annoyance and frustration. He’d be lucky to die of anything other than the corpse or blood loss now, he thought bitterly.

-

Castiel sucked in a breath of water as he dived under the surface, disappearing from view into the water that was deeper that it looked, covered by undergrowth, beneath an overhang of rock. It was an entrance into the cave system, into his network of underground rivers.

He was furious. How dare Sam accuse him! Even if the hunter had hardly said a word, his expression had been more than enough, Castiel thought, as he wriggled through the narrow space a tree root had made. He cursed the damn clothes he was still wearing, waterlogged and ungainly in the water.

At the first chamber he came to he stripped, carefully laying the sodden clothes safely over a crystal outcrop. When he rescued Dean, he would want his clothes back, he was sure.

Why Sam hadn’t wanted to help, Castiel couldn’t fathom. The men were practically brothers, Castiel could feel the bond developing between them, the trust, the camaraderie. Yet, he had scowled and pouted. The belief that Castiel was the one who had hurt Dean, had taken him, was obvious on his features.

Castiel dove down, down through many streams, letting the current take him down enclosed rivers. The currents were swift, cold and strong, occasionally picked out with the blue luminescence that grew on the rock, or the crystals that always seemed to glow a little more brightly when he passed. His home was beautiful, special. But it felt tainted to him now. He had to rescue Dean, and light up the place once more with that spark he housed within him. He bit his lip as he contorted his body, twisting from side to side as he hurtled, head first, down a smooth shoot, worn over millennia by water cascading down it. His ears popping, he was ejected into an underground lake, plummeting beneath the surface, surrounded by the roar of water hitting the broad, rippling expanse. The vast space was lit, like his cave, with the blue glowing light, and as ever, the sight, like a galaxy, caused his breath to hitch with wonder as he surfaced, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

The surface stream that fed into the river down the mountain was nothing compared to the true nature of the water in this place. The lake was the central point, before the cool, clear liquid flowed downwards, mimicking the surface stream, feeding the river and the plains below.

From the lake Castiel could get anywhere in the system, even, via a different route and a lot of hard work swimming, the waterfall he had just fallen twenty feet through.

He sank beneath, eyes wide, sucking in as much of the lake water as possible to try and detect anything that was unusual or wrong.

He could smell the ripe stench of the corpse still lingering in the water, but, as he swam in slow circles he could not discern a direction from which it had come. Clearly the corpse had swum or been washed here, but not in the past few hours. It was useless to focus on the smell.

Castiel floated below the surface, barely breathing, wondering what he was to do next. He could not scent Dean. Even the stink of the corpse, filling every corner of the lake, was faint and difficult to detect. He cursed, floating hopeless to the surface, thinking that his accursed flesh form must be to blame, he would have been able to smell a deer drinking from a pool a mile off in his elemental form.

It was ironic, he thought with a bitter laugh, that the cause of his body’s change would now die because he had changed it with the bonding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at the glowing ceiling of the huge cave.

His mind drifted to the last time he had swam through the lake, free and clear, cool water himself. He had returned to his pool, swimming upstream, all the way from the sea, the salt slowly leached from him as he joined the freshwater rivers, and from there, into his underground system, feeling himself as one with the water. Salt, silt, grit and sand had flowed through him, and he had taken only what he needed to sustain him—

He gasped and flinched. He sank in surprise, coughing as the water, once more, passed through him.

He looked at his hands under the water, illuminated in that constant blue light.

He was elemental again.

He could feel.

He could smell Dean's blood.

“Dean,” he called, knowing the human would not hear, but knowing any water dwelling creature within miles would know that he was angry, that he would fight, that his bonded one needed him. He could taste that acrid tang, that hot metallic taint, it was like oil to his watery form.

If the creature that had Dean had any sense, it would flee from his wrath.

Castiel hoped that it would not.

Castiel could not sense Dean himself in the water, but the corpse's presence was easy to follow, its foetid stench almost a solid thing to him now, almost causing him pain as it pressed against his ice hard skin.

He swam hard, his eyes shut, knowing the tunnels, following that touch of rancid flesh in the water. He spread his toes wide, the thin sheet of ice between each of his toes helping to push him through the water. His scales, flattened and slick against his body, his hair shard-like once again, clicking with the water battering at his face as he kicked and pushed against the current, his fingers keeping him steady and battling the punishing flow.

Suddenly the water was clean and clear once again, and in surprise Castiel opened his eyes and stopped swimming. Instantly, the current grabbed him and pulled him back down through the tunnel with the water—

There.

The creature was standing in a cave Castiel had never been in before, never even knew was there. The water was thick with Dean’s blood. He was terrified that he was too late—his fear raising his black-ice scales, sending a shiver across his skin.

He could see the rotting legs, like tree roots, of the corpse standing solid in the thigh high water, from his position in the entrance, hidden, beneath the surface, icy, solid. Furious.

Peeling his lips back in a snarl, he forced his fingers to lengthen, to harden with his ice, to become pointed and vicious and wicked. His teeth grew and sharpened. He radiated so much freezing wrath that ice formed in the fast flowing autumn water.

He erupted from beneath the creature, slashing with his claws, trying to inflict as much damage as possible on the dead thing, snarling, growling, unwilling to bite, but needing to hurt it, to kill it, to destroy it, to find Dean and save him.

It squealed, and threw itself on top of Castiel, trying to rip and tear into him in turn with its terrible bone pointed fingers. He sharpened each and every single one of his scales, the ice lengthening and slashing into its flesh, but nothing could hurt it. This one was not like the other corpse Sam and Dean had killed. This one was the true monster, not its shed skin. Even if it was not the spirit Sam and Dean had thought, it was still similar. Castiel roared and slashed up, screaming his rage at the dead weight on top of him. He managed to slither out from underneath its thrashing form but was trapped inside the tiny cave, the beast’s legs once more the only part of it he could see. It blocked the escape, the escape he had no need, no desire, to use until it was dead.

He broke the surface, growling, angry and cornered, his eyes locked on the corpse— He still could not scent Dean in the water, nowhere in the network of tunnels above him.

“Cas?” he heard whispered, weak and tired. He wavered, he could feel warmth spreading through his form— His fear grew at the intangible nature of the voice, the fear, the exhaustion.

But it was Dean and he was alive.

Castiel didn’t turn to find him, to see him, to ensure he was real. He could not take the risk. The creature, indestructible, was righting itself, and turning back to him.

Suddenly, Castiel could feel something coming...

Something he had never felt before, either in his elemental form, or in the flesh shape he had been forced into since bonding with Dean.

It was hot and cold, blissful, a wave of emotion surfacing and holding onto him, pulling him down and throwing him up into the sky to become rain. He was newly born, he was pure, he was free, he was loved. He was eternal, and nothing, he was vapor and the deepest darkest oldest ice, he was the bottom of the ocean and the stratosphere. He was—

He blinked and found himself still whole, in the dark cave exactly where he had been, Dean behind him, hidden and safe, the monster in front of him—

Screaming.

It threw its head back, an undulating noise emanating from its dead throat. Castiel blinked as a wave, the something , the clarity, the golden mist, the crystal waters, invisible and burning cold, flowed through him once again. And into the monster, obliterating it.

It seemed to boil away, there one moment, gone the next. A sordid mist of filth, taken by the breeze and swallowed by the water.

The beast was gone.

"C—Cas?" Dean's voice croaked out again, reminding him that he was not alone, that he had a job to do. That the indescribable sensation in the water was gone now, barely even a memory.

But Dean was there.

He turned and reached out with his ice solid fingers, finding Dean's eyes wide and fearful, his face pale.

He looked at his hands, and found them stained crimson.

He blinked, and looked back down into the water, back up at Dean.

"I came for you," he grunted, still bemused and confused at the sudden disappearance of the monster, at the ecstatic dousing of feeling he had experienced.

“I can see that—” Dean muttered, still hanging limply in the crevice he was wedged into. “A little help?” he asked, making Castiel jump.

“Of course,” he said, leaping forward, noting his skin was fading to flesh once more, a wave of warmth filling him, the sensation almost pleasing, almost missed.

He pulled himself up to the ledge Dean had clearly used to climb into the fissure, and reached in, just managing to wriggle up high enough to grab hold of Dean’s hand. How he had managed to get in there, Castiel could not work out, but it had saved his life. The monster’s meaty arms would not have been able to grip onto the ledge to reach high enough.

It took more time that he had imagined but between the two of them, they got Dean free and in the water.

“It’s safe?”

“I think so,” Castiel answered, his voice hoarse. “We need to get you warm and dry Dean, it’s been hours since you—” he broke off, his throat closing. He swallowed hard. “Since you were taken, and you are cold, too cold,” he said, worried. Humans could not stand the temperatures that he could, and Dean had been soaked through and cold since he had thrown him into his pool the night before, and who knew what the time was now? He did not know how long he had searched and searched. Dean’s teeth weren't even chattering any more.

“We need to swim,” he told Dean, supporting him in the thigh deep water, holding him carefully against his side. “Just once more, just to my cave, you can get warm and dry there, I'll breathe for you,” he told him, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks again. He was grateful for the dim blue glow that must disguise his coloring.

Dean smiled weakly and winked slowly, his coordination completely gone. “Sure thing Cas,” he answered, his tone simply resigned, accepting, too tired to care.

Castiel smiled, hoping to encourage Dean, and led him toward the opening, knowing, from his brief stint as an elemental once more, that he only had to swim, and drag Dean straight up the river to meet the cave where he could strip Dean and warm him.

He felt the blush rise further in his cheeks, and was glad that Dean could not see— He had been alive centuries, more, and he had never had need to blush before he had bonded with this human.

“Come on,” he muttered, sinking into the water and beginning to breathe the fluid into his lungs. Dean just nodded and took a huge breath, sinking into the water after Castiel. His lips looked blue.

Castiel could not allow that.

The moment Dean’s eyes closed as he sank beneath the water, Castiel pressed their lips together, hoping the warmth of his body would begin to warm Dean.

He exhaled, urging his breath into him as he pushed them up against the rapid onslaught of water. He was more than strong enough to swim them both safely home, he thought, kicking hard, feeling the water catch between his toes, feeling the strength of the water within himself too.

He never let go of Dean or his lips the whole way.

-

“Dean, Dean?” Castiel's voice swam around Dean as he felt hands cupped around his face.

Dean blinked up at him. He knew he should be trying to take deep breaths of the fresh air in the cave, but, all he could think of was Castiel's lips on his the whole time the naked man swam him strongly up stream, his muscles bunching under his soft skin, the blue on his scales moving in waves, faster and faster—

“Dean!”

He blinked up at Castiel again, reeling from the slap across his cheek that the other man had dealt him.

“Shit, you’re too cold, I’ve healed you Dean, but we need to get you warm. Now. Can you undress? Stupid question—” Cas huffed out, dropping back into the water without a splash. When had he gotten out of the water? How?

He felt his feet being tugged at, then he was pushed down against stone that felt warm. He smiled at the warmth, frowning when flashes of burning heat touched gently at his belly.

“Dean! God damn it, Dean!” Dean hummed as he tried to focus on Castiel.

“I like your scales, Cas, I don't think I told you. You’re like, the best chameleon, but even better. Glowey.”

Castiel bit his lip and frowned down at him. Why was he frowning? Hadn't he just told him he was pretty?

“Come here you idiot,” Cas muttered, gathering him up into his arms. Castiel’s flesh was burning hot against his, and he worried for a moment that Cas was getting sick. But as he felt soft fabric wrap around him and a hand press to his forehead he forgot about that, he felt safe and comfortable, and if he concentrated, he could feel the waves and patterns on Cas’ scales at they shifted color.

-

Dean awoke slowly, too warm, his neck and lower back aching.

He tried to move, but couldn’t. His feet were bundled, his head cocooned. Something was like a band of iron around his ribs, and his pillow was smooth and moving up and down slowly.

Castiel was pressed next to him, was holding him.

He looked up, and found Castiel’s face close to his. They were surrounded by his soft, well worn, well loved blankets. Cas’ face was not calm in sleep though, a deep frown cut his forehead and his soft lips were pulled down. The tiny bumps of scales at his pale cheeks were dark brown, no hint of the blue he vividly remembered flowing over them the night before.

The night before… He’d been cold, so cold. But mostly just tired. Hours spent propped upright, feeling the hot trickle of blood down his leg in a steady stream, desperately hoping that Castiel, Sam, anyone would find him, but knowing they wouldn’t.

But Castiel had. Somehow, somehow Castiel was alive, wasn’t hurting, and had found him. And when he had, he’d looked stunning once more, like he had in those first few moments after they had bonded, after he’d surfaced, furious, seething. In that cave Castiel was once again cold, solid clear water, gleaming in the dim blue light, beautiful, full of rage, animalistic, righteous, wild, magnificent.

Then that wild animal, eyes glowing, skin gleaming, scales sharp like razor blades, had bundled him up, stripped him and dried him off and warmed him up, his skin, flesh once again, soft and gentle— Dean shivered, his face pressed against the creature’s naked skin.

There’d been something about Castiel in those moments, the seconds after he’d changed back to flesh, the blue light picking up the lustrous darkness of his scales, the terror in his glowing eyes. Dean, shivered again. He needed to thank Castiel for saving him— He needed to let Castiel know he was grateful— He needed to wipe that frown from Castiel’s forehead— He needed to see those beautiful blues swirling across his soft, silken scales.

He leaned up, despite being wrapped almost too tightly to move, but just managed to press a very gentle kiss to Castiel’s unhappy lips, feeling his own naked skin brush up against the creature’s scales, lifting them ever so slightly. “Thank you for saving me, Castiel, thank you for coming for me,” he whispered, settling back against the creat—his creature’s shoulder.

Castiel’s arms tightened around his ribs, his fingers gripping Dean’s skin. Dean felt his scales rise up, a wave of tiny, smooth points brushing against Dean’s skin all the way from his feet to his chest, where his cheek rested on that soft transition of scale to skin.

A rumble sounded, almost more vibration than anything audible, deep in Castiel’s chest. His fingers clenched almost painfully against Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean?” Castiel suddenly coughed out with a gasp, his entire body rigid as he pushed himself up enough to look down at Dean.

“D—Dean?” he asked again, disbelief written in his wide, fearful eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep— I— Are you—?”

“Cas, I’m fine,” Dean murmured. “Damn hot, and I’m pretty certain your bed is the least comfortable thing on the planet,” he looked around himself, “or under it. But, I’m fine, thanks to you, Cas.”

Castiel slumped back against the blankets, heaving a huge sigh, leaving Dean’s ear pressed hard to his beating heart. “God, I thought I was too late, you wouldn't warm up,” Castiel muttered, his breath hitching a little against Dean's face.

Dean looked up again, finding Castiel's expression anguished. He smiled a little at the creature’s concern. He wasn't nearly so fearsome when he was worried— Dean only hoped that he was worried for the reasons he wanted. He leaned up and placed another soft kiss to the bolt of Castiel's jaw, his lips brushing against the beginnings of stubble and the corner of his gills.

Castiel's breathing stopped and his expression turned incredulous, disbelieving.

Dean found he couldn't watch any longer. The expression on Castiel’s face was too much for him, too overwhelming. He had to look away. “You, uh. It didn't hurt you did it? Me leaving you?” he asked instead, breaking that intense silence.

“It wasn’t you—it was the scent—the further you went from me, the more acrid the smell of sage and rosemary became, stale and bitter, left on your skin and clothes. It was agony. But now? The aroma has gone completely with your immersion, Dean. You smell of water and blood and sweat and exhaustion. But, also of life. I couldn't believe— I couldn't let you—” He broke off, slumping back against the pile of blankets, and Dean felt guilt rise up like a tide.

Castiel cared for him… Underneath his anger and irritation that Dean had accidentally stolen his immortality, Castiel cared for him.

And Dean cared for Castiel, but Castiel didn't know that. He didn’t think this was okay, thought Dean was only kissing him in thanks— And it was Dean’s fault, for crushing Castiel's hope, because Castiel's hope had mirrored his own, and that? That was terrifying. Workaholic Dean Smith, genuinely experiencing deep, painfully deep feelings for a man? A scaled, color changing, water-elemental man at that?  He’d shied away from the hope in his chest at Castiel's look because he was—what? Worried that he wouldn't be the man he’d been before? Worried that Sam's teasing—his encouraging rumors about them at work, making people think they were gay—was a bad thing? That it made him less?  He knew it didn't. He wasn't gay. He was bi. Always had been.

Suddenly allowing himself to see that, to act on it now, wouldn't change anything.

“Cas?” he whispered, looking back up at him, meeting his dark blue eyes. Dean realized that the blue on his scales was almost completely gone, not just from his face. “You were beautiful when you were ice,” he murmured into Castiel's warm flesh, feeling him tense up under him. He leaned in and placed another kiss to the creature’s jaw, feeling the gills rigidly shut. “You're beautiful like this too,” he said and he darted his tongue out to taste Castiel's skin, tracing the edge of a gill.

Castiel's chest hitched, and his gills flapped wildly making Dean lose all self consciousness, all worry, and chuckle, laughing out loud at Castiel’s reaction. “What?” Dean asked him through his laugh, smiling and pushing up onto his elbows, allowing the cool air of the cave to come between them, making him shiver.

“I—I didn't think you'd… I'm sorry, I never meant—”

“Cas?” Dean asked, suddenly over any and all of his hang ups. If this wasn’t what Dean Smith did, then damn him, he would be someone else. “Shut up, will you?”

-

Castiel gasped as something lit up behind Dean's eyes. That hesitance was gone, that other-ness that clouded him, Dean’s aura cleared in the moment that Castiel stuttered and apologized, his chest heavy, thinking he had somehow coerced Dean into liking him through gratitude, through something ingenuine.

Dean was now simply, and only, Dean.

He nodded dumbly to Dean's question, which only made the human laugh again, bright and happy, and then— Dean's lips were on his.

Castiel nearly flinched away, but then he melted into the sensation. Dean’s lips were burning hot against his, smooth, soft and insistent. Castiel felt a want deep inside of him unlike anything he could have imagined, he had never known another’s touch and he was glad, for surely nothing could compare to kissing Dean. He leaned up, parting his lips, and his tongue met Dean’s eagerly. He felt like he was floating, being dragged by the strongest tide and he grounded himself by clutching the blankets at his side, and wrapping his palm around Dean’s jaw.

Dean’s body pressed into his as they kissed slowly, languidly, tongues twining. Dean sighed contentedly into his mouth and Castiel smiled, wondering if all Undine felt so complete, so fulfilled simply being close to their bonded one. He had never thought that sex would be pleasant, not when his bond would inevitably be so one sided, being trapped and forced into a marriage against his will. But he had not counted on Dean.

He moaned at that thought, Dean, and on pure instinct, rolled his body up against his human’s. Dean groaned, and ground his body down into Castiel’s in turn, the hardness of his penis, a solid line against Castiel’s hip. He had never felt anything like it. He had never imagined a male’s body against his, had never felt anyone’s body against his— He moaned loudly and thrust his hips up against the hard line of Dean’s body, choking off a wail of pleasure as he realized how hard he was himself, how pleasurable that touch of burning hot skin against the head of his cock was.

He almost screamed when Dean shifted his weight, pressing their cocks together, but also resting his palm on the burn, the scar that Dean had left him that first night. He had done his best to ignore the raised welt of red tissue on his shoulder, but with Dean’s hot palm resting softly against it, he felt like he was caught up in a tidal wave, a whirlpool. He would never save himself from the thrill, the burning pleasure coursing hotly through his blood. He knew now he would never want to.

Dean moved again, and Castiel caught a dark, throbbing look in his eye, something greedy, something hot. His hand fell from Castiel’s shoulder, and he pushed himself up, off Cas’ body. The momentary relief-disappointment he felt at Dean’s hand leaving the scar, his warmth going completely, was forgotten the instant that Dean’s lips touched the center of the burn, and his other hand, almost scolding, wrapped around their erections, binding them together until Castiel felt they had become one.

He could no longer think, could only writhe, pant and feel.

Lava flowed through his veins, not water, not even blood, but the burning rock that spewed from the earth at the bottom of the ocean. He was a howling gale, air rushing, twisting, carrying him along, unstopping. His soul— their soul— was the earth, singing, laughing, huge, sustaining, encompassing—

Castiel came with a shout, the sensations overwhelming. He felt a cool, wet sensation against the scar, then Dean’s mouth was on him once more as he grunted and whimpered into his mouth, breathing hard and fast, thrusting jerkily against him, splattering Castiel’s stomach with his come, mixing readily with his own.

With a bewildered huffed laugh, Dean collapsed against Castiel, reaching around and pulling their bodies together tightly.

Castiel could only lie there and stare at the crystal well above them, lost for words and thoughts, a gentle thrumming singing in his chest in counterpoint to his thumping heart beat. Dean’s soul lovingly embraced them both.

-

Castiel broke the surface, grinning widely, even as they both gasped for breath. He and Dean exchanged a look—it was hard to keep a human alive under water when you were kissing properly, twining your tongues together, swimming and touching and—

“Sam!” Dean exclaimed, and Castiel snapped his head around to look above them, his jaw clenching in instant alert.

Sam was standing at the edge of the pool, a bunch of wilted leaves in his hand and his eyes raw and his face drawn. Castiel shrank back, unsure of the greeting that awaited him, yet angry too, confused, tense.

Sam dropped to his knees, his hair flopping forward, “Oh, thank God, I thought I was too late.”

“Sam?” Dean asked, confused. “Wait, can we get out of this pool first?”

Castiel watched Dean scramble from the pool before handing up their sopping wet shirts and Dean’s shoes. He followed and found, for the first time ever, that Dean’s insistence he cover himself was appreciated. He had been nude for centuries, and after three days, preferred to hide himself in front of Dean’s friend.

He climbed from the pool and stood up straight in front of Sam where he knelt in the mud, the late afternoon sun full on Sam’s exhausted face.

Something clicked. “You. You thought—” he couldn't finish, looking down at Sam, seeing the haunted fear in his eyes. He had thought that Dean was dead.

He dropped to his knees in front of Sam.

Castiel still wasn't sure how, but he was certain that Sam must have had something to do with that wave of glory flowing through the water, that wave that had destroyed the creature. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate you giving me a chance. Thank you for listening to me, I know that must have been hard. But we saved him.” Sam just nodded mutely.

“Is that—? Were you going to burn rosemary and sage?” Dean asked, confusion evident in his voice. “You—he’s mine, Sam. I—you—”

Sam snorted, snapping out of his daze. He looked up at Dean, his eyes flicking between Dean and Castiel. He smiled and shook his head. “Don't worry, Dean, he’s all yours. I just didn’t know how else to summon him,” he paused to nod at Castiel. “I needed to speak with him, to find out what had happened to you.”

“To me?” Dean exploded, eyes wide with incredulity. “I want to know what the hell happened to the monster!”

“I would like to know that too,” Castiel added, eyeing the collection of books and jugs and bags strewn around the entrance to his home. “But Dean has already nearly suffered from hypothermia once in the past twenty four hours, I suggest we all get back to the motel and get washed and warm and dry. Maybe you could pick up some food, Sam, while Dean and I wash?”

Sam sent him a look, but nodded slowly.

Castiel sighed with relief. For all that he loved his home, his trees, his pool— even in broad daylight he was beginning to get a feeling that something was watching them.

-

Dean smiled into the kiss he placed on the back of Castiel’s neck, feeling the water, hot and steaming, sluice all around them.

His mind was blank, he simply could not comprehend the way that Castiel made him feel.

He rubbed the shampoo into Cas’ hair, causing him to growl in mock annoyance. Dean laughed and Castiel spun before him, the blue staining to his cheeks almost as dark as his indigo scales at his cheekbones.

Dean shivered and Castiel laughed, pressing a kiss to his neck, which only made him shiver all over again. The blue stripe running down the center of his Undine’s tongue almost felt like getting an electric shock. He rolled his eyes as he wondered how a blow job would feel when they progressed that far.

Castiel turned to get more soap, his hesitance about showering—hot water and scented soap—gone moments after he’d seen the steam billowing from the small tiled room. Dean ran his fingers softly down Castiel’s back, feeling each bump and dip of his scales, each small triangular shard of deep brown, and hypnotically moving blue against his fingertips. They shivered under his touch as Castiel straightened and with narrowed eyes tackled Dean’s torso with the soap in his hands.

Dean yelped as Castiel’s calculating expression melted into a grin— of pure evil —as the Undine’s fingers began tickling him mercilessly, pressing him up against the cold tiles of the shower wall.

“You shit,” he whispered, his gaze drawn to the darkened skin of Cas’ gills at his neck. “I’m getting you back for that.”

Castiel just hummed and pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheek.

As ever, Castiel’s lips felt cool against his own skin, like a fresh breeze on a hot summer’s day.

He pulled Castiel in hard against him. Their bodies aligned from chest to knee, but neither of them were aroused. It was all too new, and he had a feeling they both wanted to move slowly. He just needed to hold Castiel, his bonded one, his husband against him. He needed him close. There was something about the man that left him feeling at peace, complete.

For the first time in his life Dean didn’t feel the need to do anything, to achieve, to win, to succeed.

He already had.

-

Dean inhaled deeply as Sam set a bag of food on the table. He eyed the two wrapped burgers and the salad. Reaching out innocently for the two burgers, he felt his stomach twist in guilt. He hadn't been to the gym since he and Sam had left to go on the hunt, an impromptu business meeting covering their absence.

He bit into the steaming burger. Damn it but it tasted too good.

Sam snorted and shrugged, pulling a face before sitting down with the salad in his hands.

Dean smiled as he passed the second burger to Castiel, who sat on the edge of the bed, wearing Dean’s old slacks and a white shirt that hung loosely across his shoulders. He grinned at him as Cas accepted the food, his hair adorably fluffy where it’d dried after the rough shampooing Dean had given him.

The scales on Castiel’s cheeks were sticking out a little, waves of blue shifting over them as he bit deeply into the burger.

Dean looked up surprised as Sam’s groan filled the room, a pomegranate seed sticking to his lip. “Thish ish amashing,” he said around a mouthful of salad, his eyes wide, the dark circles under his eyes from his worried, sleepless night emphasized. Dean blinked, and shrugged, not sure he totally agreed anymore.

Dean sent Castiel another quick look and turned to Sam again. “Uh, Cas seems to think we gotta thank you, but I’m still pretty hazy on what I’m thanking you for.”

Sam didn’t answer right away, instead shoving more leaves and dressing into his mouth, chewing rapidly. He swallowed, wiping his mouth on his hand, before taking a breath to speak, making Dean wonder what he was hiding. “After Castiel, um, paid me a visit, and we, um, might have not, um, come to an agreement, I uh, realized, I should maybe be doing a bit more than shouting…at him… and should maybe be looking into the things he told me.”

Dean huffed out a breath, wondering just what the hell had happened while he was freezing his balls off in some cave with a corpse.

“So, I figured since Castiel had already left, and is, uh, clearly better suited to searching underwater than me, I began looking into what the monster could be. Killed in water, still sitting up, didn't drown? Well, the internet didn't really help much until I stumbled across something in Norwegian. It was a website—well, it was a library entry.” He paused and cleared his throat, picking up his phone and putting it back down again. Dean couldn’t fathom what had Wesson so worked up… “The local library didn't have a copy of the book, even though it was meant to have an English version. But the, uh, well, I read into it a little, using google translate. Uh, it turns out the local book store had something helpful. There’s this kids book… Well, anyway, it’s a Dragur. Basically the same as the ghost, but… it’s rare, rarer, I should say. It isn’t, uh, ganked in the same way, but it's not difficult to kill.”

Sam looked pointedly down at the plastic water jug at his feet his hands finally still. Dean had wondered what the beads that rattled in the bottom were when Castiel had picked it up to carry back to the motel—

“Holy water,” Castiel murmured around the burger in his mouth.

Sam nodded looking worried.

“I'm fine Sam,” Castiel replied to Sam’s unasked question. “It felt kinda nice actually.”

Dean hummed in slightly irritated question around the burger in his mouth, shooting a look at Castiel. The Undine simply rolled his eyes at him and he slumped in his seat pouting. For some reason he didn't like Castiel being made to feel good by damned holy water in a river. Only he should be able to make Cas feel good…

Sam cleared his throat, getting Dean's attention once again. “I, uh, I'm gonna go grab a soda and you know, uh—” He was out the door, salad in hand, before he had finished the sentence.

“What's up with him?” he asked Cas, turning to face him. He had mustard smeared on his chin.

“I suspect that he noted the jealousy you exhibited Dean,” Castiel answered stiffly.

“Cas, I didn't— I just don't—” He broke off, sighing. He’d never had a problem explaining his damned feelings before. “I want to be the one who brings you pleasure, Cas. Not some damned weird assed magic water.”

“Dean, that's a ridiculous thing to say. We cannot just lie in a bed all day and have sex. It's impractical. You have to hunt, and I, too, will need to hunt for food. There are many other things in our lives that will bring us pleasure, my healing waters, the rain hitting the surface of the pool above my head, the taste of a burger,” he finished waving the half eaten meal in the air.

But Dean had stopped listening. “You—you're going to stay living in your pool?”

Castiel flinched and sat up straighter. “I— yes?” he answered, a frown cutting his features. The scales at his cheek bones went from a pale and royal blue, undulating across the flat shining plates, to the darkest brown, the scales standing proud.

“Dean,” he said, his voice a low growl, once again the wild animal they had accidentally pulled from the deeps. “I love my home, I cannot leave it—” Despite the panic in Castiel's tone, the fear, Dean felt his heart break in his chest. He hardly even knew the creature. How could it hurt him so badly to know that Castiel would not even consider leaving his home, not even think of discussing it.

“I—,” his voice cracked and he swallowed, but his phone began ringing before he could continue, before he could say anything—not that he knew what he could have possibly said. Please don't leave me? Please don't make me live in a cave? Please come with me?

“H-Hello? Uh, Agent Plant speaking,” he coughed out, turning his back to the pale faced Undine sitting limply on the bed.

“I found your card, my wife spoke to you! About the disappearances! I think she's been taken, too! There's blood everywhere!”

“Woah, woah,” Dean said, his mind jumping from zero to a hundred miles an hour. “Just tell me what happened Mr—“

“Mr. Clarke.”

-

“But this didn't happen in any of the other cases,” Sam said from where he was crouched by the coffee table in the center of the room. Blood was smeared and spattered all over the room, and the front door had stood wide open. Mr. Clarke was white and shaking, his eyes haunted.

Castiel had been ordered to stay in the car by Dean. He was still angry with the Undine for simply stating that he would live in his pool without another word, but he was banished because FBI agents, as far as he and Sam were aware, did not bring scaled creatures into victim’s houses with them.

Castiel hadn’t liked it, and Dean could practically feel his eyes boring into him through the car window and the man's living room wall.

“And you believe she was taken into the woods?” he asked the man. Mr Clarke nodded, then jerkily pointed at the smears of blood. They were clear in the direction the injured person had gone. A trail of blood drops, dark on the cold asphalt, was easy to follow, right across the intersection and into the tree line beyond.

“How long ago did this happen sir?”

“I don't know! I was at the store getting bread. She had been at work, but should have been back by six, I got back here at about six fifteen. I was going to make her grilled cheese sandwiches,” he finished, his voice hitching.

“Okay, Mr. Clarke, could you show me some pictures of your wife please?” Sam asked, leading Mr. Clarke from the room to give Dean a moment to snoop around and follow the blood trail.

Outside, it looked as if there had been a massacre, with blood everywhere. He couldn't see any link between Mrs. Clarke's apparent murder and the Dragur Sam had dispatched the night before, saving his ass.

He shot a look to the Prius, to check on Castiel, and felt like a weight had dropped into his gut at the empty car, door wide, Undine nowhere to be seen. “Oh, come on Cas, it was one stupid argument, you can't fuckin' run just 'cause o' that,” he muttered under his breath, running his hands through his hair.

“I haven't run anywhere,” Castiel's rough voice sounded behind him, terse, but darkly amused.

“Cas!” Dean turned and found the Undine looking white and strained, a deep frown marring his expression. “Cas, what's wrong?”

Castiel looked around, eyeing the blood and the black shining front door of Mrs. Clarke's house in the early evening Autumn sun. “This—” He sighed, his shoulder's slumping. “I can smell her Dean. This blood… Most of it isn't hers, it's another’s. A human's. She's an Undine, Dean.”

Dean flinched. The way Castiel had said those words sent a shiver down his spine. Castiel was scared of his own species. “You—”

“I didn't know,” he muttered, glaring at the blood, chewing his lip. His scales were dull, brown, flat. Defeated.

“Cas? Is there something I ought to know?”

Castiel looked up and met his eyes, before hissing, his teeth bared, and spinning on the spot, hurriedly walking to the car where he shut himself in, head bowed.

Dean nearly went after him, until he heard the sound of talking coming from behind him. Sam and Mr. Clarke. Cas had just been protecting himself. From Mr. Clarke. A man who had trapped an Undine for himself.

“Shit,” he whispered, walking quickly toward Sam and the old man. “Mr. Clarke, thank you for calling us, we have everything we need for now.” He nodded at Sam, trying to get the hint across that they needed to leave, fast. “Please call if anything else comes up. The police will be here soon to secure the scene, thank you.”

He walked hurriedly away, blocking Castiel from the man's view by standing in front of the car window. Sam placated Mr. Clarke before joining them, his face screwed up like he had been sucking on lemons. “What the hell, Dean?” he hissed, throwing open the passenger door.

“Inside,” Dean muttered, sliding into the driving seat.

“Well?” Sam demanded as Dean pulled away, needing to make Mr. Clarke think they had really left.

“Mrs. Clarke is an Undine, Sam.” Castiel muttered. “Mr. Clarke is her bonded one. And that's mostly someone else’s blood… If it was self defense, why would they have both gone into the woods? Undines never kill for anything except food or self defense…”

“Okay Cas,” Dean murmured, trying to reassure him, “We'll get to the bottom of this.” He pulled the car over, close to their motel once again. They were far away from the blood trail, but they needed to get out of their suits and pick up enough equipment to deal with—whatever.

Back in the woods, in jeans and jackets, loaded down with guns and knives that they barely knew how to use, Dean couldn't help but wonder what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Only months ago he’d been on the fast track to success. He had an apartment, a great job, a car that got him from A to B, friends and hookups whenever he wanted. And now he was hiking through a wood as the sun set, a colleague—a friend, in tow, a male Undine as his life partner and they were searching for god knows what.

He’d never felt more alive.

Until he remembered that Castiel didn’t want to go home with him.

“Damn it,” he muttered, too quiet for the others to hear over the sound of his and Sam's footfalls. He would find a way for them to be together. He would visit, they could meet at a motel, he would damn well swim to Cas' side.

“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice a warning. Dean stopped and turned, finding Castiel crouching in the undergrowth, his fingers in the trickling stream at his feet. He brought his hand up to his face, his blue striped tongue darting out to taste the cold liquid. Cas nodded decisively and stood. “They're upstream in the water, both bleeding.”

Dean nodded. He trusted Cas' knowledge, his understanding of the substance that used to make him up. “Come on then,” he said, taking off up the hill, following the tiny stream until it met a deeper cut, and a deeper one again. They followed it until even Dean recognized where they were. “Your pool?” he asked in a whisper, turning to look at Cas' grim expression and silently nodding head.

It was too quiet, too still… Dean didn't trust it. He hefted the gun in his hand, carefully aiming it at the ground as he took the safety catch off.

They slowly stepped through the trees, finding the glimmering surface of the pool, constantly broken by the falling drops from the waterfall. “Where are they Cas?”

His only answer was a grim faced nod toward the water.

As Dean turned to look closer, stepping in the red blood that gleamed at the edges of the water, the surface broke, the aged Mrs. Clarke struggling under the waterfall's flow, a rock in her hand as she throttled a young woman in the bend of her elbow.

Before Dean could raise his gun or think of diving in to help, Castiel was soaring through the air, landing in the tumultuous water without a splash.

-

Castiel swam up from below the struggling bonded Undine, her completely humanoid, bare feet kicking hard. He smiled, baring his teeth. Not for the first time in the past days, he was grateful that he was different.

He snatched her ankle and dove, dragging his quarry and her prey down with him.

He spun, his feet shod and useless, but his webbed fingers aiding his agility. Mrs. Clarke was a true Undine, female, and now fully human. She should not be able to hold her breath any better than Dean had been able to.

He pushed back up, roughly pulling the injured woman from Mrs. Clarke’s grip as she was sucked down by the current. He swam hard to get the woman to the surface and safe. He could not see. His vision was obscured by her blood. He threw her the last feet, knowing Sam and Dean would take care of her, and dived once more, following the scent of Mrs. Clarke.

He found her—

She stood, dripping, bloody, coughing water hard in the center of his pool, his home.

“Why?” he rasped, amazed she hadn't drowned, wondering if all Undines retained some of their original nature after the bond— No true human could hold their breath that long, surely?

“Because you are an abomination,” she answered, sneering.

“What?” he snapped, thrown by her answer. He was not disturbed by her words, but that he was implicated at all. He had been sleeping for ten years… He didn’t even know her, had never met her, didn’t even know she was of his kind until he smelt her blood…

“I scented you the moment I arrived here. I will not give up my home for you. If only I’d known where your disgusting dank little cave was, I would have killed you years ago.” Castiel only crouched a little, readying himself to attack. Or defend.

“You’re wrong , a beast, you should have been murdered at birth, but no. You survived to sully our species, and now you’re bonded? To a man? What did you do to snare the poor bastard? Sing to him? Flirt and smile and swim for him?” She scoffed, clearly mocking him. “With your two legs and your—your masculinity! You couldn’t snare a tadpole! You don’t deserve an eternity after death! My creature should have killed you. I thought it had when you did not resurface. I was pleased when the FBI came calling! I hoped they would find your body while searching the caves, but they turned out to be hunters! Poor ones at that! They succumbed to your—your—to you! And they didn’t kill you! They are useless. I was going to make another monster to finish the job, but now I have you here, I can do it myself.”

She finished her words with an exultant laugh but Castiel only smiled slowly.

“I wonder, Mrs. Clarke, if your husband knows of what you are? He must, he would have had to burn the sage and the rosemary like any other bonding. But, here you are, blackening his soul, the one you share. I honestly don’t know what happens when one of a bond dies prematurely, Mrs. Clarke, but I don’t think Mr. Clarke’s soul will be any more damaged than by what you have done to it yourself.”

She sneered again, crouching low herself. “And what of you, abomination? Have you not already ruined your bonded one’s soul? Simply by being what you are? A male where no male ought to be? Filthy and scaled when flesh, an affront to the purity of our species?”

Castiel took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, concentrating on the water swirling around his knees. He met her eyes slowly, a smile still on his lips, and leaped, becoming ice mid-flight, knowing her words for the poison they were.

He had not sullied Dean’s soul. Dean was brighter than ever.

And so was he.

He heard her gasp as he felt the ice within him become pure, become him. His scales became razor sharp and stood proud, his teeth and claws long and serrated.

Mrs. Clarke, an old and tired, cruel and bitter Undine would die at his hands. He did not relish her murder. But she had killed innocents in her pursuit of killing him, for no other reason than the fact that he was born different.

But, finally, he had found peace with himself. He knew he was not wrong. He was Castiel, bonded to Dean, male, strong, assured and good. He would rid the world of the monster in front of him, mourn her loss, and return to his husband, to the man he believed he could love.

It was anti-climatic how easy it was.

His leap landed as he had planned, with his claws at her throat.

They both dropped below the surface of the water in a cloud of dark red. She coughed and gasped and choked on blood and water. And was dead.

-

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel said, standing by his side in the clearing they had first faced the Dragur’s shed skin in.

With a feeling as if he had swallowed a brick, Dean remembered the conversation, that Castiel did not want to leave his home. But, he also remembered his decision to make it work anyway. He didn’t want to lose Castiel. “What for?” he asked turning from the pyre where Mrs. Clarke’s body burnt alongside the poor women whose injuries had been too much, whose skull had been shattered before Castiel managed to get her to the surface.

They’d won, but it felt like failure. So many had died.

Dean wanted to lean over and take Castiel’s hand. The man must feel wretched, knowing it was hate of him, hate of his differences that caused so many deaths. Not that he would ever say that aloud to him.

“I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t leave here,” Castiel continued, turning away too and beginning to walk after Sam who’d already started down the trail to the motel. “I was being selfish. But, if you still want… I would like to try and make our bonding, uh, true? Real? You mean a lot to me Dean. I don’t want to live in my cave, not where I murdered a murderer, but that’s not the only reason. I want to spend time with you. You—” He broke off, and Dean caught a strange smile on his lips. It reminded him of the night they’d spent together, the morning when Castiel had been so grateful that he was alive and well, so desperate to hold him, so soft.

“Will you? Uh, spend time with me?” Cas asked, sounding too vulnerable for Dean’s liking.

“I know just the pair of sunglasses to hide those amazing scales, and fingerless gloves might do the trick for the webbing, just—” he reached out and picked Cas’ hand out of the air, “—here.

“And we can come back here whenever you want,” he continued, hoping desperately that Castiel would agree to come with him.

But Castiel shuddered, his fingers clenching in Dean’s hand. “No, I don’t want to return to my cave for some time. It’s not a nice place there now, I would like to retrieve my possessions, but then leave the place to rejuvenate without me.”

“You got it,” he smiled. “Your blankets would look great on my— our bed.”

He just got a grin and a wave of almost neon blue scales as answer.

It was more than enough for him.

Save

Chapter Text

“Stop!”

“Cas? Shit! What’s wrong?”

“No, everything’s fine, pull over, Dean. Now!”

“What is it?!”

“That.”

“What the fuck are you talking about Cas?”

“Dean. That. That is the car for you.”

“What?! Oh. Oh Shit. Yes. Fuck yes.”

-

Sam shrugged as he watched Dean and Castiel drive off in the 1967 black and chrome Chevy Impala. At least he’d got a Prius out of the whole adventure.