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feather_qwill ([personal profile] feather_qwill) wrote2010-11-21 12:39 am

Witching Hour [PG - Dean/Castiel - Supernatural] for Inksheddings

Originally posted last year for the Dean/Cas Xmas Secret Santa. Written in somewhat of a rush, as I kept changing my mind about what story I wanted to write, and ran low on time to do the actual writing, lol. Looking back on it now, there's a lot I want to change about it, but I don't really have the time or the energy, so it'll stay as-is.

Title: Witching Hour
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Cas
Rating: PG
Words: 1333
Warnings: A bit of violence, and blatant use of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Notes/Summary: I wanted this to have a kind of 'fairy-tale' feeling to it, although I'm sure sure how well I succeeded. "Just from looking at him, she knew what kind of guy he was."

Disclaimer: Not mine, now or ever.

It started, as many things do, with a witch. Actually, it started with the ghost of a witch, but there’s no need to bother about the details. The witch (who we’ll call Lucy, because we don’t know her name) wasn’t very good at being a witch even when she was alive, and being a ghost just made things harder for her. Poor Lucy. She mixed a lot of things up, but she managed to get one last good spell off before her bones were burned. It was a spell to give the hunter who re-killed her an incurable STD, because just from looking at him, she knew what kind of guy he was.

But as we already know, she wasn’t a very good witch. The hunter (who we’ll call Dean, because we do know his name) didn’t notice that a spell had been cast at all - but that night, he started to have very strange dreams.


Once upon a time there were two orphan brothers who lived alone in their father’s car. Their names were Sam and Dean, and for a long time they were by themselves, but one day a boy named Castiel moved into the Jeep on the other side of the parking lot. Castiel wan’t an orphan, but he still didn’t have a family any more.

“Where are you going, Dean?” asked Sam.

“Nowhere!” Dean said, “Mind your own business.” But actually he was going to see Castiel.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said when Dean hopped into the Jeep.

Dean grunted, because no one had ever taught him proper manners.

“I’m happy that you visited me,” Castiel said, “Was there something you wanted to give me?”

“No,” said Dean, “But if you gave me something, that would be okay.”

Castiel looked around the Jeep and picked up a needle.

“Have this,” he said, and Dean took the needle and put it in his pocket. On his way home, the needle poked him in the leg and he started to bleed.

“Ow! Stupid needle!” Dean said, and pulled the needle out of his pocket and threw it onto the ground.

When he told Sam what had happened, Sam said that he was stupid and should have put the needle in his sleeve instead. Needles were important; you needed them to put things back to rights. Dean shrugged.

“Next time, I will.”


In the morning Dean woke with only half-memories of his dreams and asked his brother if he remembered a boy named Cas.

“I don’t think so, Dean,” Sammy said, frowning, “Why?”

Dean shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind and remember his dream, but it would not come and soon he forgot the dream entirely and went about his day. There were waffles to be eaten and waitresses to be ogled, after all.


Prince Dean sat on his throne and examined the man who had come to ask his for hand. A poor tax accountant was no match for his own noble birth, but Castiel had already passed the king’s test and could not be sent away. The gold ring was heavy on his finger.

“You have won my father’s heart, but not mine,” said the prince, “There is another test you must pass before I will wed you.”

The prince sent the tax accountant out into the woods where demons lived, saying, “If you love me, then bring me back the heads of a hundred demons.”

Shortly after the tax accountant entered the forest, the prince began to feel ashamed, for such a man would surely die quickly. But the shame soon fled, for the prince was not much accustomed to the emotion.

Two days passed and the tax accountant returned, the stench of rotting demon-flesh announcing the arrival of his wagon long before it came into sight.


That morning Dean remembered his dream in full, and something else as well: the crack of thunder, wings of shadow and power, and a bone-deep terror of a being beyond his comprehension.

He knew then that he had forgotten something important - no, that something had been ripped from him. The witch, Dean realized at last, remembering the words that she had chanted as they burned her corpse, the words that had done nothing at the time. They’d gotten away safe, they thought, him and Sam and — and someone else. Someone else had been with them in the graveyard. Who?

A splitting pain arced between his temples and the motel room went white.


It was spring in the eleventh year since the great fire when the ground shook and a crack appeared in the side of the tower at the heart of the village.

The beast in the tower was feared by all in the village that surrounded it. On moonless nights the foul creature would howl, a awful high sound — like the screaming of a burning cat — that traveled
into every home and drove from sleep children and warriors alike. Some said that the village had grown around the tower to keep watch on the beast; others believed that the villagers of long ago had built the tower to contain one of their own gone mad with grief and sorcery, who over the years had grown feral and become more animal than man.

Whatever the origins of the beast, the villagers agreed that it must not be allowed to escape from its prison. A feast was thrown for the strongest and the bravest , and after they had glutted themselves, they went to the tower and open the doors that had been locked for all of living memory. There was a great battle between beast and man that went on until none lived but the beast itself and a hunter barely out of boyhood. The hunter raised his knife —

DEAN. A voice - the beast’s voice, the hunter knew, though it’s mouth did not open - rang through his head. The beast seemed to glow so brightly that the world around it went black in comparison. WAKE. YOU MUST REMEMBER.

Dean lifted the knife to the beast’s chest and carved it open. Then he reached in and pulled out its heart.


“Bobby. It’s me. Listen, I need to know how to break a witch’s death curse. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

The problem was that it wasn’t just his mind that had been messed with. Sam didn’t remember Cas either, and since the guy hadn’t been hanging around trying to make Dean recognize him, it looked like they hadn’t just forgotten Cas — the guy had disappeared off of the face of the earth entirely. Like he hadn’t ever existed.

But Cas was in Dean’s head, messing with his dreams, and Dean had to believe that that was real. After all, Cas had done it before. No reason he couldn’t be doing it now.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean said to the empty room, “You gotta give me a clue here.”

Of course, the dreams. Needle, ring, heart.

Dean found a needle in the first aid kit, bought a cheap gold ring from a pawn shop, and picked up a blister pack of sleeping pills from the drug store.


It was a white room this time, and they were each in their true forms, or as close as they ever were. Dean looked down at his hands; the needle and the ring had followed him into the dream.

“So, I think I’ve got it figured out,” Dean said, stepping closer to Cas, “I brought the needle and the ring, but where am I supposed to find your heart?”

Cas smiled, and it was a feeling like victory, like killing the bad guy before anyone got hurt, like being a kid again and Sammy thinking he could do no wrong. “Don’t you know?” Cas said, “You’ve had that all along.” And the angel of the lord placed his hand on the scar that sometimes burned but never hurt, and Dean understood.

“Oh,” he said, and woke.