Chapter Text
Behind the stage, there were the mingled scents of sweat and piss and body paint. Dean wrinkled his nose, and tried not to touch anyone or anything. Even Castiel, master of composure, had an expression of faint disgust on his face.
On the other side of a wide, red curtain, inside the main circus tent, they could hear the clamour of hundreds of voices. They sounded exuberant and expectant. Dean could feel his heart thudding in his chest, fast and hard and painful: he’d never done anything in front of such a big group of people before, let alone perform a semi-improvised fighting routine that he’d only started learning that same afternoon. Having had a maximum of maybe four hours’ sleep the night before. And only ten lamb kofte all day to stave off his hunger.
“You should have eaten,” Castiel said in his ear, obviously working on a similar line of thought, pressed close by the density of performers all around them. Dean lifted one shoulder, too nervous to reply. He felt as though he’d be sick if he opened his mouth. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, silent and slightly awkward. He could probably guess how Dean was feeling, but he had no idea what to do to help. Perversely, that made Dean feel slightly better. At least the guy wasn’t totally perfect.
“You look good,” Castiel said eventually, in a tone that suggested he was trying to be encouraging. Dean smiled weakly, more in response to the effort than because Castiel’s words actually helped in the slightest.
“You do too,” he managed. They’d got dressed separately, Dean deciding to leave their tent altogether when Castiel stripped off his tunic and began pulling down his şalvar with no shame at all, no hesitancy. It hadn’t been a bold, teasing move – it had been as though Castiel really hadn’t cared at all whether Dean saw him in all his clothes or none of them. Dean wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that.
And when Castiel had emerged from the tent in his white şalvar and spotless new matching pelerin… he’d been bright, dazzling in the dark and musty tent with sawdust under his feet. There was grace in his shoulders, in his eyes, in the way his longer hair fell loosely over the side that was singed. He could have told Dean that he’d been sent from Yarım above, and Dean would probably have got down on his knees.
He’d walked over to Dean, his feet bare like the saints’ had always been, blessing the ground with the kiss of his skin. And he’d opened his mouth to speak, his eyes alight with the knowledge of ages…
“I’m hungry,” he’d said. And Dean had snapped his mouth shut, and swallowed, and nodded. They’d gone and bought keşkek, and Dean had eaten none of it, his heart simultaneously in his throat and the pit of his stomach.
He wasn’t regretting that decision now. His insides were doing flips, and he was pretty sure that anything he’d eaten wouldn’t have stayed down for long. He sighed, and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. Everything was so big, so confusing, so tiring. His muscles were aching. All he wanted to do was be back home. He’d managed to write a letter before the show had started, to send back to his family – or at least he hoped he had. He’d scratched out a few words on some cheap paper he’d found at the market while Castiel was eating his keşkek, and slotted it carefully into the dusty wooden box at the top of the market, anyway. He hoped it would find its way to Bobby and Ellen’s house eventually. He’d try again every time they found themselves in a place with a post service.
Writing home, and thinking of his brother and Jo and Bobby and Ellen, had cemented the sick feeling in his stomach that had been growing every time he thought of his responsibilities at home, of the people who counted on him. Going with Castiel had been a snap decision, one that had seemed right at the time – but he’d turned his back on everyone he knew, to help someone he’d met barely a few hours before.
Someone who’d saved his life in that time.
Someone who probably didn’t actually need his help anyway.
Someone who might, in fact, be a really, really terrible person.
Someone who’d saved his life, for Yarım’s sake, how bad could he be?
And so Dean went in circles, round and round. He felt as though his head was going to explode. Every now and then he emerged onto an island of pensive calm; he reminded himself that this wasn’t forever, that he’d probably be home inside two weeks, and it would all be over. And then he thought about what his family would say when he returned, and he cringed. He couldn’t pretend like this was some kind of meaningless jaunt. No matter how things stood with Castiel – whether he was good or evil or somewhere in between – Dean had made a life-changing decision that he would never be able take back. He thought that if he had the chance to explain himself properly, Sam might just understand – and the other three, too. But there was no guarantee that he was going to get that chance. If Sam had done this to him, Dean would be too angry at him to even look him in the eye for months afterwards.
“Dean,” Castiel said. “I need you to focus.”
Dean looked at him, blinking back the wetness in his eyes and pressing his lips together, hard. Castiel looked disconcerted.
“Are you –”
“I’m fine,” Dean interrupted brusquely, slightly too aggressively. He looked down at his feet. “Just… nothing, it’s fine.”
“If you’re nervous…”
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not,” Dean said. “Just gotta get on with it, right? And then we can hightail it out of here and make for the open road. Desert. Whatever.” He grinned crookedly. Castiel didn’t give him so much as a flicker of a smile in response, but his eyes were a little softer, a little kinder than usual when he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“If you do not want to do this,” he said, “I understand. I believe you’ve been having second thoughts about coming with me, this afternoon. I wish to stress that I do not want to force you. I am capable of travelling alone.”
Dean blinked at him, his mouth half-open with no words to say. Castiel had a better read on him than he’d initially thought, it appeared. He was watching Dean with those blue, blue eyes, an expression on his face like – Dean struggled for the words – like he already knew what was going to happen. Like he knew Dean was going to leave him. And like that knowledge hurt, just a little bit.
Dean blinked, looking at Castiel with new eyes. Suddenly he seemed less – perfect, less unreachable.
“I’m staying,” he said firmly. And he couldn’t help himself thinking that it was worth it, the whole damn thing was worth it, just to see the way Castiel’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and the way his eyes changed – the way warmth kindled deep within them, genuine and profound for the first time since they’d met. It was as though he’d been hoarding kindling in their depths, and only now was Dean beginning to find the way to strike the flints over them.
“You don’t have to,” Castiel said again, as though he couldn’t quite believe Dean’s answer.
“I know,” Dean said. His awareness of how close they were was steadily increasing; he resisted the inexplicable urge to flick his eyes down to Castiel’s lips, conscious of how that would look. “No one’s making me. I want to.”
Castiel stared at him, as though he’d never heard anything so strange in his life. Had no one ever shown this guy the least measure of kindness, or loyalty? Dean remembered the surprise on his face when Dean had handed him the torn-off strip of his tunic – and then, shit, he remembered the reason he’d done that in the first place.
“Cas,” he said, “how’s that wound you had? We didn’t get you any new dressing for it or anything, I – I totally forgot.”
“Castiel,” said Castiel absently, without any real fire. “And it’s fine. Clean, not painful.”
“But –” Dean began, remembered the length of the cut on Castiel’s torso – how it had brought him to the edge of unconsciousness.
“I’m a fast healer,” said Castiel determinedly, an edge in his voice that Dean didn’t understand. He took the hint and dropped the subject, though with a frown and a slight step backward that almost had him treading on the toes of the weightlifter who was standing directly behind him. Yarım damn him, every time Castiel seemed within Dean’s reach, he made sure to push himself away.
“Gooooooooood evening, everybody!” Dean heard Crowley say on the other side of the curtain, distracting him. The noise of the crowd was stilled for a moment, and then crashed into applause. “My, my, my, what an audience. I see some beauties – good evening, Ma’moiselle – and some beasts, too. If you’re not sure which one you are, come and see me after the show, and we’ll find out.” Dean would have rolled his eyes, if his subsiding nerves hadn’t made a sudden resurgence. Hearing the audience reacting to Crowley’s banter had reminded him that it was entirely possible that they could be booed off the stage if they weren’t good enough. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too thick with nerves. “What a show I have for you tonight! Gilda, making the trapeze a breeze! Tracy, showing us all how to ride several stallions at once – easy, boys! And let’s not forget our clowns – Ed, Harry and the gang!” The crowd went wild: obviously these acts were popular, maybe regulars on the circus tour. “But tonight’s first act is completely new, everybody. Brand, spanking new. Although spanking’s not on the schedule until later.” Dean could just imagine the saucy wink that Crowley was giving his spectators. It couldn’t be him and Castiel first, could it? Surely Crowley wouldn’t throw them out there when the audience was totally cold, on their first night? “With their talents yet unproven, I leave it to you to decide their fate. Make some noise for the desert fighters, Dean and Castiel!”
Castiel offered Dean a small, slightly sick-looking smile – apparently he wasn’t completely immune to nervousness, either – and then pushed the red curtain aside, and stepped out onto the stage.
Nothing could have prepared Dean for what he saw. Every last seat in the tent was taken, and there was a laughing, jostling rabble sitting on the floor, too; he wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen people swinging from the top of the tent, it was so full. It was a sea of faces, rising in a great tiered wave of expectant eyes. There were huge lights on the edge of the stage, being swirled around the audience by kids no more than six or seven years old. As Dean watched them, they swung the gas lamps round to illuminate his horrified face, blinding him almost completely with their glare. He blinked furiously, turning his face to the side, towards Castiel.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” he mumbled into Castiel's ear, and then, before he could stop it spilling out, “’m fucking terrified, man.”
As his eyes adjusted, Castiel put that hand on his shoulder again. This time, Dean was ready for the way that his heart jumped a little in his chest. He almost laughed. How in the name of Yarım did his body have time to react to a hand on his arm when he was standing in front of hundreds upon hundreds of people, pretty much on the point of fainting from sheer nervousness?
Castiel leaned in, and Dean could see that his eyes were bright and clear.
“Let’s show them what we can do,” he said, and in his voice was a hint of a challenge, a question – asking Dean to meet him halfway, to do what was needed to make this work.
Dean gulped, and tried to gather what courage he had. Not a lot, as he’d found out recently, but he was going to use it if he could.
“Come on, then,” he said, and was glad that the audience was too far away to hear the way his voice shook. Castiel nodded, and stepped back a few paces – and took up his stance.
Dean followed his lead, unable to stop himself glancing out at the audience. Did they look as good as Castiel had promised they would – him in white and Dean in black, the forces of good and evil about to clash in an epic battle? Or did they look how Dean felt, like a couple of stupid boys wearing fancy dress?
“Dean,” Castiel called across the space between them. His voice was as soft, as intimate as ever, carving out a place for them in this tent full of eyes and expectancy. The audience’s murmuring grew louder and more impatient, drowning out the rustle of food packets and creaking of chairs – but it all seemed distant when Dean looked into Castiel’s eyes. “Ready?”
Dean adjusted his pose, digging his feet into the layer of sawdust that coated the wooden stage, making sure his stance was flexible, not too taut. He remembered the feeling of Castiel’s hands pushing his shoulders, and shut his eyes for a brief second.
“Ready,” he called.
“Two,” Castiel said, barely above a whisper, but Dean caught it. Two: high kick, double punch, twist and upward jab. Go.
He moved, letting his feet do the thinking for him, following the route that they’d plotted over the afternoon. His kick was a little lazy, but Castiel covered for him with a dramatic overreaction that made it look more impressive; his follow up double-punch was better, and Castiel had to work to parry the first and dodge the second.
“Five,” Castiel muttered as Dean twisted past him. Five: crouch and trip, kick to the stomach, left punch. The segue from jab to crouch was neat and smooth. They were already finding their rhythm, tapping into the naturalness and dance that they’d achieved in practice: after five, eight. After eight, eleven, three, six. Eight again, but reversed. The audience were getting absorbed, Dean could sense it: they were starting to gasp when Castiel came close to pinning him, or when he almost tripped Castiel over with a viciously fast swipe at his legs. And yet it wasn’t quite enough. They needed to be on their feet, clutching their faces, yelling. This performance wasn’t going to be enough, they had to change it up.
Dean held up a hand to Castiel, indicating that he needed a break. Castiel complied instantly, moving to circle Dean slowly, as though searching for a weakness. Dean, meanwhile, surveyed the stage. It was mostly empty, but in the corner there was a ladder, presumably for the clowns – or perhaps just for the construction crew. Either way, it was just what Dean needed.
“Go with me on this,” Dean said, moving his lips as little as possible. “Bring the dagger into it.”
Castiel blinked once, to show he’d understood.
Dean ran across the stage, eliciting a few surprised intakes of breath from the audience. He picked up the ladder in both hands. It was a simple affair, straight up and down, no supports whatsoever. Dean felt himself relaxing as he held it in his hands. They’d worked with these for months in savaşçı training, to improve their agility and balance. He knew he could still do this.
Whirling the ladder above his head, he ran for the centre of the stage. Castiel planted his feet when he saw Dean coming, reaching into his pelerin and producing the savaşçı’s dagger, which glinted wickedly in the yellow lamplight. Dean didn’t pause, and threw the ladder at Castiel. As he’d expected, Cas caught the top rung in one hand instinctively, while the bottom of the ladder thudded into the sawdust; Dean leapt off the ground, the crowd starting to whoop and yell as he hopped from rung to rung as quickly as he could, one two three four five six seven and jump, performing a neat flip over Castiel’s head and landing on the balls of his feet behind Castiel’s back.
The crowd went wild, but Dean didn’t spare them a thought; he moved to give Castiel a sharp punch in the side, but before he could execute the move, a foot lashed into his stomach. He had no idea how Castiel had reacted so fast, but the spinning kick had caught Dean completely unawares. Stumbling, he turned his imbalance into a backwards somersault and rolled back to his feet as quickly as he could, one hand on the floor and the other straight out behind him. Castiel was already flying at him, dagger in hand. Now the audience were involved, shouting and cheering for their favourite. Dean watched Castiel approach, only realising he was grinning when Castiel’s eyes glinted at him in return.
The dagger flashed down and Dean struck Castiel’s wrist, hard. Castiel dropped the dagger and Dean caught it in his other hand, stabbing forwards at Castiel’s ribs, but Castiel twisted away as fast as a fox. At the last moment, Dean realised that Castiel had his foot hooked around Dean’s ankle; as he completed his twist, Cas pulled Dean off his feet. Dean threw himself into the fall, one hand on the floor to take his weight and push himself onwards as he did a full backwards flip and landed upright, stumbling a little. He’d had to drop the dagger to avoid collapsing, though, and Castiel was picking it up off the ground now, advancing on him with his shoulders back, head dipped menacingly. The crowd was yelling, half of them elated in support of Castiel and half yelling for Dean to act, to do something, anything.
Dean began to move around Castiel, heading for the very centre of the stage, where the ladder still lay in the sawdust. Some of the audience liked his play, but others were shouting against it – the same move wouldn’t work twice. Dean agreed with them. He stooped and picked up the ladder, lifting it off the ground and higher, above his head. He turned it in his hands, once, twice, picking up speed; soon it was whirling over his head like a huge, vicious blade. Castiel eyed it for a moment and then ducked low, obviously hoping to get under it; Dean pursed his lips, concentrated, and moved his arms, passing the ladder around the back of his body, then to the front and over his head once more in a neat loop that went round and round. There was no way Castiel was ever going to get close enough to attack. He met Dean’s eyes, and tilted his head. Dean grinned, and jerked his head in a little self-satisfied nod. Yeah, that’s right. You’re gonna have to figure this out on your own. Castiel’s eyes narrowed. He started watching the ladder go round, and round. Dean thought he saw Castiel’s lips moving, as though he were counting.
Surely not, he thought. That’s impossible. Tell me he’s not going to –
In one smooth, unruffled movement, Castiel dropped the dagger, stepped forward, reached out a hand – and caught the ladder, bringing it to a dead stop two inches from his face – without even looking at it.
The audience went completely crazy, shouting loud enough to deafen. Whether they could sense the very real competitiveness between him and Castiel, or whether it was simply the spectacle, they were lapping up the performance more eagerly than Dean ever could have hoped. He dropped the ladder at the same time as Castiel; it clattered to the floor as they moved in close, fighting hand-to-hand, vicious and fast, barely pulling their punches at all as they sought an opening. This was the closing stages of the fight: whoever got the best of this bout would be the overall winner. Dean’s hand slammed into Castiel’s side; he barely reacted, jabbing at Dean’s throat almost too quickly to parry. Their strikes were fast and furious, their dodges even faster. Dark and light clashed, just as Castiel had intended, every blow desperate, each force hungry for the victory. Kick, lunge, block, punch. Castiel’s swinging right fist almost connected with Dean’s cheek; he only avoided it by dropping, allowing gravity to pull him down to the floor faster than his muscles could take him. He was preparing for the rest of the practised move, low spinning kick and a roll to the side, when Castiel took him by surprise. He span on his heel so that he was facing away from Dean’s crouch, and then sat down – so that he was sitting on Dean’s shoulders, Dean’s head between his thighs, which he squeezed together as he pulled all his weight backwards. The pair of them crashed to the floor on their backs, Dean still wedged between Castiel’s legs. He tried to struggle out from under the other man’s weight, but then he heard the crowd’s yelling change; in unison they drew a long, shocked breath. He stopped moving and paid attention to what was above him. Something long, silver, and shiny. A dagger, poised above his chest.
Dean stared at the blade for a few seconds, and then tilted his head to look back at Castiel.
“You cheated,” he muttered. Castiel must have fallen backwards to find the dagger within his reach.
“I learned,” Castiel said with a smile.
“Castiel…” Dean trailed a hand slowly up Castiel’s leg. Castiel’s eyes widened for a second – and that was when Dean struck. Fast as a viper, he snatched his hand away from Castiel’s knee, grabbed the dagger by the blade, cutting open his palm – and, arching his back to reach, plunged it deep into Castiel’s chest. Red spurted everywhere, gushing over the white şalvar, the beautiful new pelerin.
His eyes still wide with shock, Castiel swayed where he sat… and then fell backwards.
Dean crawled out from under his legs, and moved around him, lifting the other man’s head and resting it in his lap. He cradled Castiel’s face in his hands, stroking his cheek as his blue eyes fell slowly closed.
Dean glanced out at the audience, or what he could make out of them past the bright gas lamps. He saw hands over mouths, faces glazed with tears. They were spellbound.
“I think you can get up now,” he muttered to Castiel.
Castiel’s eyes flicked open again.
“Now?”
“Now.”
They both stood up. The audience’s appreciation started slowly, but it kept on growing, building up to a roar of tumultuous applause as Dean and Castiel took three deep, sweeping bows, like they’d practised. By the time they’d taken their last, the noise had reached ear-splitting levels once more, with whistles and screams joining the clapping. Crowley emerged onto the stage, and he was beaming at them.
“Did you see that!” he yelled to the crowd through a huge megaphone; they called back to him, a swirling mass of sudden love. “Did you see that! Quite a debut for our new duo!”
It was the happiest Dean had seen him. Crowley grabbed his arm and raised it into the air.
“Your victor!” he shouted, to a mixture of cheers and catcalls. “Didn’t like the result? Come again to see our fantastic desert fighters. You never know what might happen next time!”
Dean did his best to smile as the audience kept clapping. Now that it was over, and they’d succeeded, he just wanted to get backstage, get their money – and find a place to sleep. He glanced over at Castiel, who seemed to read his expression without difficulty; he tilted his head questioningly towards the red curtain through which they’d emerged onto the stage. Dean nodded and they left the stage together, Dean shaking his arm out of Crowley’s grip. The audience kept clapping behind them, but neither turned around to acknowledge it. Leave them hungry, said a voice in Dean’s head. Where did that one come from? Someone had said it to him once. Probably Sam, quoting from some book or other.
“I’m going to kill you,” Castiel said, looking down at his white pelerin, which was soaked through with the fake blood that had come gushing out of the pouch under his arm, which Dean had burst with his last, fatal stab.
“Hey, we agreed. Loser gets covered in fake blood.”
“When I agreed to that,” said Castiel peevishly, “I thought I would win.”
Dean laughed. It came out creaky with tiredness. Castiel was fiddling around inside his pelerin, pulling out the spilled blood pouch.
“Let’s get our money first,” he said. “Then find a place to sleep.”
Castiel nodded silently; he, too, was tired. They pushed through the other acts waiting backstage, finally running into someone they recognised at the very edge of the group: the tall, red-haired woman who’d been with Crowley earlier in the day. Dean remembered thinking that she was probably in charge, and that suspicion was confirmed up close by the quality of her clothing and the superior tilt of her chin. She was used to being obeyed.
“Great show tonight, boys,” she said, smiling through lips as red as the fake blood on Castiel’s pelerin.
“Thank you, efendi,” said Dean warily.
“Are you in charge here?” Castiel demanded, slightly less respectfully. Dean sighed internally and tried to cut him some slack. They were both exhausted.
“I certainly am,” she replied, holding out her hand to each of them. “Abaddon. Meeting you two is an absolute pleasure.” The way she said it had Dean shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I guess you boys’ll be wanting your pay?”
“Yes, efendi,” Dean muttered. She was so beautiful, but there was a predatory look in her eye that had him on alert, muscles tense despite his tiredness. She reached into the inside pocket of her sleek grey tunic, and pulled out a thin wad of notes.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she said, smiling hypnotically. “See you back here tomorrow!”
“Actually, we will not be returning,” Castiel said flatly, as he took the money. “This was an exclusive performance.”
Dean hissed through his teeth as Abaddon’s smile vanished.
“Oh, what a shame,” she said, her voice as light and cutting as a razor wire. “Won’t you stay just a few more nights?”
“Sorry,” Dean said, grabbing Castiel by the arm and starting to move them both away. “We can’t stay. Unavoidable, uh, thing. It was great to meet you,” he finished lamely, as he reached the door of the little backstage tent and pushed out through the folds of thick fabric, out into the night.
“We could’ve just left,” he said to Castiel as they began to walk away, with a bite of anger in his voice. “You didn’t have to tell her we were going.”
Castiel shrugged.
“What difference does it make?” he said. The night was milder than the one they’d had before, or perhaps it simply felt that way with the mass of tents protecting them from the cool of the desert. Dean lifted a shoulder and let it fall.
“Just… didn’t feel quite…” he said, breaking off when he heard the sound of light scuffling behind him. He looked at Castiel, and knew that he’d heard it, too. They kept walking unhurriedly, ears strained. There was nothing…
And then there was a hand around Dean’s neck, huge and strong and squeezing, choking the air and the sound out of him before he could react. Glancing right, he saw that Castiel was in a similar predicament. He tried to lash out, but his arms swung backwards and connected with what felt like the side of a cliff face. Yarım save them, Dean’s vision was already starting to blur through lack of air. He coughed and struggled, trying to draw breath, but the person holding him had a grip of iron.
“Easy, Hellhounds,” said a sweet, soft voice, finishing on a laugh. Abaddon walked into Dean’s field of vision, smiling brilliantly. “There are so many benefits to running a circus,” she purred, “but my favourite has to be the staff. Where else would I find seven-foot muscle mountains prepared to follow my every order? Hold them tighter.” The order was rapped out quickly, and its execution was even quicker; the fingers around Dean’s throat pressed tighter, choking him in earnest. He tried to kick, to swivel, to punch, but he found only air.
“Let them go,” Abaddon said, just as he was about to pass out. Dean collapsed to the ground as soon as he was released, and heard a matching thud that told him Castiel had fallen beside him. Abaddon squatted down beside them, watching them try to catch their breath through bruised throats, her smile wide and lethal.
“No one leaves my circus unless I say so,” she said. “Crowley might think it’s all contracts and agreements, but I have ways of making the talent loyal to me. Now, I’m going to put this one in chains.” She put her fingers under Dean’s chin, tilting his face up to look at her. She surveyed his features for a moment, before transferring her gaze to Castiel. “And if you don’t want him to start losing fingers, you’ll stick around. Do you understand?”
Castiel watched her, still breathing hard. Abaddon didn’t break their stare; in fact, her smile only widened.
“I said, do you understand?” she repeated. “Or do I need to give you a demonstration? My Hellhounds are so much fun. They’ll take fingers off whenever I ask them too. Won’t you, boys?”
A grunt deep enough to have come from the mouth of a troll sounded somewhere to Dean’s left.
“No,” Castiel rasped. “No. I understand.” He shared a look with Dean, and then glanced down to the ground. Dean followed the course of his swift glance. Castiel had his hand splayed in the sand, five fingers spread out. Five fingers. Five.
Crouch and trip, kick to the stomach, left punch.
He caught Castiel’s eye, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Good,” Abaddon was still saying, the exchange so fast that she’d noticed nothing. “Time to go, then.”
“Yes,” agreed Castiel. Dean tensed his muscles, waiting… “Time to… Go.”
Dean moved with all the speed he could still muster, swinging his weight into a crouch and then sweeping out one outstretched leg. The man behind him – the Hellhound, as Abaddon had called him – was more of a monument than a human being, but the swiftness and determination of Dean’s kick to the back of his knees had him stumbling. Before he could recover, Dean was standing, bringing his knee up as he went, connecting solidly with the man’s washboard stomach. He finished the job with a brutal punch that slammed into the Hellhound’s ear, sending him sprawling.
Dean turned to see Abaddon taking a stance, lean and poised as a long-legged cat, fists up. He eyed her over, and didn’t fancy his chances. Behind him, his Hellhound was starting to recover, too. Castiel was still struggling with his; the punch hadn’t landed sweetly, and the bodybuilder was bent over with pain but still fighting. Dean made his decision. He lifted his leg high and slammed his foot into the second Hellhound’s cheek, making him howl with pain. Grabbing Castiel by the arm, he hurdled the fallen Hellhound and began to run. He heard Abaddon give a sharp, irritated shout as he and Castiel disappeared into the velvet cloak of the dark.
And it was shockingly dark, even under Ayın Yarısı: the capricious eye turned the glow of its gaze away when Dean needed it most. They stumbled through the rows of tents, cleaving to the safety of each other’s grip, making sure not to get separated in the blackness. Behind them, the sounds of Abaddon and the Hellhound in pursuit were enough to keep them running.
“This way!” Castiel called, dragging Dean towards the outline of a tent. He’d spoken loudly, and Dean was angry with him for giving away their position – how could he be so stupid? – before he understood Castiel’s plan. They came to a halt and stepped in close to the tent, blending in against the fabric. They waited, hearing their sounds of their pursuers approaching – and then their yells of annoyance, as the tent’s guy ropes tripped them up, sending them sprawling. Dean nodded to Castiel, and took his hand.
Laughing, coated in silver like mad desert foxes, they ran away into the night.
“That was fun,” Castiel said dryly, as they curled up under the awning of a small tent on the outskirts of the town, trying to find comfort in the sand for the second night running. Dean grinned at him, huddling as close to the tent’s fabric as he could for warmth.
“Not bad,” he agreed. “Night, Cas.”
This time, Castiel didn’t correct him.