#featuring: aziraphale (fellandfeathers)

[bloodsalted]

@fellandfeathers || sent a reaction meme! || accepting!  

send “no, you don’t get to die”  for my injured muse to react to yours saying this while they’re bleeding.

dean can taste the blood trickling down the side of his chin from the corner of his lips. it coats his tongue and the inside of his mouth in a coppery, rust flavor so rich that he can smell it inside and outside from where it's caked on his nostrils. he spits some out. not caring that it lands wherever. his hand's covering a damn rip across his side. a dull blade always fucking hurts so much worse than a sharp one. tears you up bad, too. all that strength it takes to punch it in. let alone how that asshole made sure to twist it on it's way out.

demons. this one had a vendetta. he pissed it off real good.

what he wasn't expecting was two more crawling up from behind. sneaky dicks. had him near the end of the damn long fight when he was winning. couple more seconds, he coulda sent that thing to hell. or whatever else sorta place ended up swallowing it whole. he didn't give a shit as long as it was dead.

yeah that was minutes ago. now? he's slumped against a wall. bleeding dizzy and lightheaded with a broken leg he hasn't let his brain recognize, his insides feel all sorta messed up (they are..he can't breathe right and he's choking more times than his lungs appreciate) and he can't move. panic comes and goes. has him reaching for a phone that isn't there. his eyes close. he forces them open. it's a losing battle and they're shut again by the time he feels the pain start to fade.. not a good damn sign, he tells himself. wake up! but the effort feels way more than the payout. that's bullshit. get up?!

'no, you don't get to die..' an unfamiliar voice draws eyes half-lidded.

"..or what?" is all he manages before a soft grunt cuts him off. he's lifted off the ground. out of the pool of crimson and dark red. he feels pale hair against his cheek before the world goes warm, golden and then black.

[safetypinned]

@fellandfeathers || inbox loveliness || az!!!

“Something the matter, dear? You’re looking a touch glum.”

the television plays a random 80's horror movie in the background. too soft lighting. big hair. you can practically smell the aquanet through the television screen as the slumber party is picked off one by one. in spite of every grisly death being played out in cheesy, overdramatic horror movie fashion--sam doesn't tune into the screams. or meaty, gross sounds of the next on screen death with too much fake blood that paints damn near the entire set a bright, bright red hue.

he's got his body stuffed into the corner of the sofa--gaze trained on a particular spot in the wall that must be overwhelmingly fascinating considering he's barely moved or blinked since he found it. doesn't realize that the normally neutral expression he's trained his features into over the years (mostly to avoid dean going into parent mode and not letting up til he's satisifed that sam's not gonna implode) has twisted into reflecting where his brain's truly at. a million miles away from the cushions he's, miracuously, made himself look so damn small inside. he hears the familiar voice cut through imaginary ambient noise of a place that's nowhere near where they both are.

instead. buried under years of rubble and attempts to just move on.

"uh.. yeah. sure." he looks busted. caught red-handed. a few blinks and he offers up a condolence prize for asking the million dollar question anyone could ask someone with winchester for a last name. fruedian slip. he's let the cat out the bag when he was supposed to make another knot to keep it in there. a brilliantly bright smile, he puffs out a breath--embarrassed. "i mean.." brows pinch together and he lightly admits. "one of those nights, you know? where the past comes creeping up on you worse than the guy wielding some kinda killer guitar in this dumb movie."

[bloodsalted]

aziraphale. with a fancy name like that and the way he came out of nowhere to a damn grave to help? healing him up? making sure he came out squeaky clean. and not booking it to high hell once he got a good look at who he showed up to assist? dean's brain's wrapping around details and gluing them together while puttering along the increasingly aware side of better.

we'll see where this goes! dean winchester. can be bad or indifferent lately. rarely good. must be his lucky night!

no instant contempt or wariness that creeps into the kind pair of eyes regarding him so curiously once he says who he is? awesome! "yeah, i'm good. pissed i didn't get rid of 'em but good. thanks to you.." sooner or later, he ends up giving aziraphale the same brand of gaze. open but curious.

the more dean watches him, the more aziraphale reminds him of someone he misses. someone that's gonna be hellishly pissed off when he hears dean went off on his own. zero back up. then landed up on the wrong option of win or lose.

who attacked him? purposefully coughing, dean clears his throat and measures the other with a back and forth sweep of eyes that've seen too much to not be least a little guarded about certain things. even if that warmth of healed bones and wounds lingers. listing his enemies could get him an ally or another enemy. though with walking-on-sunshine here--he highly doubts enemy. fuck it. go for it.

"mostly just a what.." the who can come later. "..what if i said demons?" barely any sort of pause longer than a breath--but a tiny break before he gives into one of the burning questions in his head. spin the fan! see what shit hits it! "..did cas..uh..castiel send you?" cause breathing him in? being near him? why's dean suddenly feel homesick? instead of what the fuck or how did this night go THIS way??

DEAN WINCHESTER. Aziraphale squints marginally as the name conjures the faintest of recollection, although he fails to place exactly why.

❝ Oh! ❞ He settles for a chipper smile, wishing no rudeness upon the young man who's already been through quite an ordeal. ❝ Well, it's my tremendous pleasure to make your acquaintance Dean Winchester, and I'm so pleased you're now well. ❞

Dean's lack of questioning regarding the healing Aziraphale had provided, though, does beg a query of his own. Brows furrowing, the back of Aziraphale's hand pulls toward his chest, fingers curling in concern.

❝ I hate to surface a rather recent and grim memory, but do you—do you know just WHO ATTACKED YOU? ❞

Or more accurately, what? They were the most vicious and vile group of demons Aziraphale had ever encountered, even if it was only in brief passing. He fears they may return for whatever their fascination is with this dear soul.

[bloodsalted]

adam's apple bobs inside a throat that strains to swallow. a flinch of his brow begs the pardon of aziraphale's healing as he bends a stubborn-to-get-any-less-janky knee and draws that leg up to work out tired muscles. a grin's flashed over to the pale haired stranger so carefully sat beside him. green gaze bounces across his features as a mind races to connect all sorts of thoughts together.

would he have helped him if he knew who he was? if cas's mark on him didn't erase the hell that dean still feels tainting his soul even if he doesn't talk about it anymore? would this perfectly spoken gentleman remain? or would he become like so many that've crossed dean's path?

another inhale of the faint but slightly familiar scent wafting around the angel tinted with something else. something that reminds dean of licorice or absinthe and sugar. anise. it's anise. or clover? what is that? but what's inside it quells some of the anxiety still left from being introduced to the losing end of that battle knocking at dean's brain.

that smell.. relaxes him more. the next breath is held. introductions need to be made.

"aziraphale.." dean repeats back, committing the name to memory. "it's really good to meet you. everything considered.." then braces for whatever's about to happen when he dives head first into, "you can call me dean winchester."

@fellandfeathers

IT'S CURIOUS HOW DEAN seems quite unbothered by the entirety of the situation. The demons. The healing. Aziraphale, himself.

It makes Aziraphale suspect there isn't something entirely novel about the experience, which might explain why there's also something faintly familiar here.

He can't quite place what he's recognizing, but it can't be the energy from his own miracle, even as the clover-like scent of ozone lingers ever so gently in the air.

❝ That MIGHT BE WISE, yes. ❞ He'll certainly feel better staying close for the time being. ❝ Although, I'm not sure you're in proper condition to drive. ❞

While Aziraphale has a license issued ninety years ago in London, he's doubtful it's valid here. Eyebrows raise at the sudden realization of his own rudeness, and it takes him about three seconds longer that usual to settle on an introduction.

❝ I'm... Aziraphale. ❞ It's a chance over every other human in history who's known him as Mr. Fell, Dr. McFell, even Fell the Marvelous... or some variation of the sort. ❝ WHAT SHALL I CALL YOU? ❞

[bloodsalted]

the healing has warmed his entire being. freckled skin is flushed in spots. muscles and bone mended back together. organs that beg for a freaking night off from the bottle or fight have been righted. deeper than that. a soul that is left tattered and torn with every battle that takes him so close to the grave that so many of them want to see him fall into and never crawl back out of again.

oh, but he isn't that (un?)lucky. there are angels watching over him. this righteous sinner of a man who would proclaim to anyone that he's just not worth the trouble. while clinging to every last breath he's got because abandoning his family? yeah that's not gonna happen. so? the willpower in him is strong. to keep on kickin'. keep on breathing. damn near begs the angel in its own right to not abandon him to whatever's waiting for him at the end. this time.

the hunter melts in the angel's arms and drifts off into a slumber that lasts for close to an hour after aziraphale's healing fades back to the angel for his safe keeping. this probably won't be the last time these boys need him. they have a bad habit of winding up in this position. much to heaven and hell's chagrin.

eyelids flutter. what seems to be a calm awakening echoes with a burrow of his brows before a light jolt has him blinking at the other. seems like sleep clings to him desperately in the way his eyes are refusing to open fully. til a weather-worn hand comes up and brushes over the hollow of each. his legs refuse to move just yet. every limb feels relaxed. heavy. in a good way. so much that his fingers drop back to his stomach. that he was sure should be in agony but there's nothing there. not even any blood on fingertips that are lifted so he can turn his attention down his frame to their tips.

a groggy voice quietly echoes off damp stone as he inhales the smell of dirt and death and the faint irony flavor of old blood mixed in. "you did this..." it's not a question. more a realization. the way he feels is so close to each time castiel's brought him back from the edge. "i owe you a thanks... uh.. thanks."

he lifts his head, squints down at his chest. raises a tired brow when he's squeaky clean. when their eyes meet again, he searches aziraphale's. there's a few dozen questions that immediately come to mind. the first one being.. "how'd you know..?"

THERE'S A DARKNESS INFECTING HELL leaving the damned even more restless than usual. No one is sure of the source or the motivation, just that the rise in demonic activity in America is enough to ruffle a feather here and there and perhaps raise an eyebrow or two ( and it's more often than not, raised above stylish sunglasses, as a matter of fact ).

Against Crowley's insistence they stay out of this, a solo investigation was well underway, and Aziraphale found himself on a TRAIL OF SIN AND SULFUR, having quickly discovered this stock of demons to be unlike any he's ever encountered.

There is something truly evil to the wickedness that brews here.

The entire affair has led him to a graveyard, watching a cloud of black smoke plume into the skies and nearly eclipsing the low-hanging moon. A cackling only audible to celestial ears fills the air as the demons revel in the victory of LEAVING DEAN WINCHESTER FOR DEAD.

It's a pity ( for them ) they failed to finish the job.

In the depths of a private mausoleum—belonging to a family line by the name of Wagner; God rest their weary, tormented souls—Aziraphale finds Dean in quite a dreadful state. He stoops down, scooping Dean up and propping his back in the crook of his arm. Just as the sun is about to set on yet another lifetime of the infamous hunter, Aziraphale begins to heal Dean's wounds; he shan't be TOO LATE EVER AGAIN.

❝ There, there, ❞ he reassures, although he's quite certain consciousness is well-beyond Dean at this point. ❝ No broken bones, no open wounds, and—❞

Oh, dear him.

❝ No internal organs out of place. ❞

Aziraphale has also done the favor of removing any blood staining Dean's clothes, but that's hardly of importance as he WAITS FOR THE WAYWARD SON TO RISE AGAIN.

[bloodsalted]

a low grunt sounds in dean's chest as he lets aziraphale help him into a sitting position. the side of his shoulder rests against the musty wall of the mausoleum but he's grateful that he can sit and isn't in much discomfort at all. everything considered? he was fixin' to be in far worse wear when and if he woke up from the errors of his ways earlier. tired eyes flick his gaze across the angel's. he's exactly what dean would picture an angel to look like. before they proved otherwise.

he looks like light.

resembles heaven in a way dean can't quite fit into words inside his skull. say you were to picture heaven and the way so many artists and religious people paint it? and then you put a guy who embodies that in there? right beside the pearly gates? he'd picture someone like aziraphale. his caring eyes. white hair. he's heaven in a nutshell. the kind of heaven dean pictures as good and pure and not isolating and lonely and full of dicks and assholes.

his palm comes up to wipe against his brow. "i think i was." his way of admitting he was fucked without some back up. hey? he must like this guy. he just admitted to something he normally has about half a dozen half-cocked at the ready to be fired ways of chalking up shit's creek territory to nothing he couldn't handle.

"what? you wanna ride shotgun?" the hunter cracks a grin, temple now pressed to the stone, too. guy looks like where he's healed physically? he's about to fall over. maybe driving isn't the best option but nothing coffee and a little bit of a prayer to the highway gods won't fix. yeah? the idea of leaving his car out this way? nah. it'd be like leaving his head behind. "could keep an eye on me.."

and he leaves that unspoken question hanging in the angel's mind. WHO IS MISSING HIM, indeed. so begs that scar on his arm that is full of angelic energy. pulsing. living. breathing in his veins and on his skin.

WORRY HAD PLAGUED Aziraphale the entire hour Dean was unconscious. Ever hopeful, he fancied the idea that maybe—just perhaps—Dean's mind was in a quieter, gentler place than the tribulations of the moments prior.

He hadn't dared to move from the filthy floor of the mausoleum, not until lashes fluttered open and a hoarse voice managed to speak.

A smile brightens Aziraphale's face as Dean Winchester, once again, RISES LIKE LAZARUS from beyond the grave. Although, if you were to ask Aziraphale, Dean seems awfully more exhausted and weary than Lazarus ever was... even just before death itself.

Had Aziraphale known to whom he was speaking, perhaps his reply would have been different, or, at the very least, he certainly would have thought about it more. Nonetheless, he can't help but breathe a nervous laugh of relief at the question.

❝ Well, you did look like you were in need of a bit of assistance. ❞ He tries his best to help Dean to an upright seated position. ❝ Is there, um... ANYTHING ELSE YOU REQUIRE? And where are you meant to be right now? Perhaps I can help you return home. ❞

He leaves his final question ( for the time being ) unasked even as curiosity burns in his chest: WHO IS MISSING YOU?