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Writerverse Quick Fic 9

Title: Struggle
Prompt: Body in the trunk
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 393
Rating:PG
Original/Fandom:Fandom – Supernatural
Pairings (if any):Dean/Castiel
Warnings: none
Summary: The aftermath of the fight with Ephraim in Heaven Can't Wait (9.06)


Another brother dead at my hands. Another body in the trunk of the Impala. I wonder if my boss's neighbours will see him taking the body outside and how he gets away with this time after time. This is the first time I've truly pondered such mundane matters in the aftermath of slaying one of my own kind. No, not my own kind. Not anymore. Not if I want to live this human life.

And here he is, the one being in all creation still prepared to clear up my messes. I study his face as he cleans my wound with the supplies from the first aid kit he found in the cupboard under the sink. He wraps my hand in the blue bandana from his pocket. Naturally, such improvised bandages are useful in the field but I'm unsure why he uses it when the real thing is at his fingertips, sterile and disposable.

He meets my eyes. I think he's forgotten he's still pressing the bandana into my hand to stem the flow of blood. The ragged cut across my palm stings and my swelling wrist throbs. The pain of contact makes me pull away instinctively but it's not the physical pain that forces me to tear my eyes away from his.

I tell him about the baby's fever. He picks her up. He gives her a small dose of medicine. I watch him set about soothing her and lulling her to sleep as he must have done with his brother when they were both small. He calls her a precious little angel and then glances up at me.

“I was talking to the baby,” he needlessly clarifies.

“You were talking to the baby,” I echo.

I'm uncertain why this is the moment that the truth finally hits me. This is the man I love with all my essence, from my stolen grace to my brand new soul. Also the heart he helped me find. The heart which tells me I need to find the words to convince him to stay or to let me go home with him.

I'm a coward. I remain silent. I feel my legs start to tremble as I resist the urge to sit down or simply fall to the floor. Without uttering another word, we begin to wipe away all evidence of the struggle.
Child of the nineties
Harks back to earlier times
Sounds of the sixties

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