Trips, Falls, and Accidental Love Spells

Freedom.

It's so close, Castiel can lick his lips and taste it.

Only the heavy wooden door in front of him and the horde of malicious invading mercenaries now stand between him and his sweet, sweet freedom. He’s not surprised by the attack, given the heinous crimes the Lord has committed.

Just thinking of finally being on the other side of that door and very far away from the four cold-stone walls he’s called his bedroom feels like a dream. He'll be able to use his magic for good, use it to heal rather than hurt. He'll be able to feel the breeze on his face and the sun on his skin and even the summer grass between his toes. Picturing himself traveling aimlessly from town to town, healing those he meets along his path, sends absolute shivers down his spine.

Castiel flicks his eyes down at the intricate swirls and symbols he's drawn with chalk on the floor. His eyes pour over each white mark again, checking for mistakes. He’s no fool, there’s only one shot at getting this exactly right. Theoretically, the sigil should activate once he tosses the vial of his blood into the circle and knocks any attacker unconscious without harming them, allowing Castiel to slip out of the room, down to the secret escape passageway, down the hallway, and out into the open world. Squeezing the tiny jar tighter in his sweating palm, for the first time in his life, Castiel’s fate is in his own hands.

A life for a life, a never-ending cycle, his mind whispers. His mother traded his life for her own, though from the stories he’s read a mother is a figure who provides their offspring, unconditional love. The woman who gave birth to him could hardly be classified as such. For Castiel was merely a means for his mother to rid herself of her debts and child-raising obligations. Selling him at the tender age of six to the cruelest, power-thirsty man in the land Lord Zachariah was horrendous but the woman also agreed to blood bond Castiel’s magic to the Lord; a bond only broken by death. And death finally reaped the man made of pure nightmares, leaving no sorrow or unshed tears in Castiel’s heart, but rather a much stranger feeling–hope.

A scream echoes against the corridor walls. Heavy impending footsteps pull him from his daydreams and memories.

Sucking down a breath, Castiel racks his brain. Surely, he’ll need supplies; can’t heal the sick and needy with good intentions alone. Behind him sits a little makeshift table and accompanying bookshelf nested on top. Pocketing the vial of his blood, he scans the three shelves–dragon scales, goblin teeth, griffin feathers, and other rare and nearly impossible spell ingredients filling the three shelves–he wishes he didn’t have to leave any of it behind. His fingers ghost over the glass jars, lingering, yet not touching. It’s a collection he’s managed to build over the years, but then again, memories of the horrible spells and curses he’s been forced to perform are tied to each. Perhaps starting over wouldn’t hurt. While Castiel will never be able to wash the blood of the innocent from his hands, perhaps once he's out of this forsaken hell hole, he can begin to.

More screams and hurried footsteps bounce off his stone wall cage. Time’s running out and he knows it; it’s staring him in the face, mocking him. Spurring into action, he makes haste to the barely adult-sized bed pushed up against the far wall, the only small luxury ever afforded to him, and rips off the top sheet. Returning to the bookshelf, he turns the sheet into a makeshift knapsack. Where to begin? Castiel bites his lip and methodically starts on the bottom shelf tossing small jars and vials wildly into his bag. He murmurs a silent prayer the different types of glass hold up as they clink harshly together with each new addition. Moving to the middle shelf, he steals a glance at his bag. Perhaps this is enough? No, he reasons. Better to have too much than nothing at all.

As he's reaching for a Phoenix feather on the top shelf, the wooden door is kicked in, hitting the wall with an impressive thud, dangling from its hinges like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Tension fills the room. Castiel's hammering heartbeat matches the heavy pants coming from the two intruders. For all his preparation, of course, he would run out of time.

No, no, no his mind rages against his skull.

A long, anxious moment passes with no one moving a single muscle.Castiel stares at the two attackers in the room and two sets of hard eyes stare right back.

Castiel breaks the tension first, quivering fingers fumbling for the vial in his pocket.

He's always considered himself agile and quick with his movements, but apparently not quick enough.

Freeing the vial from his pocket with his right hand, Castiel pivots to throw the vial onto the sigil. Only within the next breath, it slips through his fingers. Unbearable pain explodes across Castiel's right chest; he doesn't recognize the screaming voice leaving his body. There's a blade buried in the meat of his upper pectoral and for the life of him, Castiel can't fathom who the hell actually throws a knife in a fight in such close quarters. Most would have attacked with a sword, buying him the precious seconds he needed. His assumptions were wrong, this has all gone horribly wrong.

The shock of the blow not only knocks the wind out of his lungs but knocks him back into the table. The shelves behind him rattle. Glass shatters all over the floor, much like his hopes and dreams.

Cursing? Castiel can definitely hear a string of curse words between inhaling breaths. All he can think of as his knees give out and he sinks to the floor, is how rude and impolite it is. A sound escapes his lips. It’s somewhere between a sob or a bubble of laughter. He can’t tell the difference between them as the numbness of pain clouds his mind. Operating on autopilot, he clutches at his wound; fingers shaking as they close around the hilt of the knife embedded into his body.

With a shuddering exhale, he pulls the offending piece of metal out. He pays no mind to the approaching footsteps or the exchanging of words reminiscent of commands being said above him. The knife clatters to the floor. His wound bleeds freely. He presses his hand to it, applying pressure, but the blood seeps through his fingers. It should be warm. It’s cold. Everything feels cold–the floor, his fingers, his body, the tears sliding down his face.

A pair of well-traveled leather boots appear in front of him, standing just inside the sigil; the silly chalk lines he placed his future, his penance, his redemption for the crimes he’s been made to commit, on working. He blinks slowly, eyes bleary, at the boots then his eyes travel up to the owner. Well-made brown pants, and a dark green jacket covering light armor covered in splattered crimson accompany the boots. If circumstances were different, Castiel would say the man before him is breathtakingly beautiful— sporting a slightly stubbled jaw, plush lips, a spattering of freckles, and unforgettable green eyes the color of forests he’s never explored, the beginnings of spring grass he’s never felt.

He stares into the man's glistening eyes; watches silently as the man standing above him raises his sword to deliver a killing blow. As the sword comes down, Castiel closes his eyes, accepting his inevitable fate. Every one of Castiel’s regrets plays through his mind's eye: he never saw the world, never healed the needy, never tasted the finest foods, never made any friends or felt like he belonged, never felt the touch of another, and never had the chance to fall in love.

A bright white light illuminates the space, so bright it stings against his eyelids. Ah, divinity, he thinks as the light persists but then slowly fades. Death is upon him.

So, he waits. And waits. And waits.

And nothing happens.

Maybe he has already passed on? Is this the afterlife? But he swears his body is still buzzing with pain, breaths still quickened and ragged, blood still spilling from his hand pressed to the knife wound.

Then he notices warmth on his cheeks.

With a shaky breath, he dares to crack his eyes open and sees those warm summer green grass eyes barreling into his blue ones.

"Will you marry me?" Green Eyes says, and that's it.

He's hallucinating. This is death’s cruel joke or this is a dream because he passed out from the pain before they had a chance to kill him, the heat from Green Eye’s hands a clear figment of his imagination.

Castiel blinks, but the warmness radiating from the calloused palms holding his face like he is some precious treasure feels so real. Green Eyes blinks in response to his blink and Castiel gasps.

This is real.

This is real.

"What?" Castiel croaks out, choking on his tongue. He hears an echoing, “what?” from the other man in the room followed by a hissed,

Castiel wants to turn his head to address the shrieking voice but the lips of the freckled man holding his face hostage split into a swoon-worthy smile and Castiel is too captivated to move.

"I think you heard me beloved: will you marry me?" The other man asks again, a soft fondness reflected in his eyes Castiel’s never seen directed towards himself before. It’s like the sun shining through a meadow in a forest–secret, secluded, yet warm–and Castiel finds himself wanting to bask in it.

Castiel tilts his head in response, distraught. The action causes a soft chuckle from the man in front of him, the sound foreign to Castiel, but nonetheless pleasant.

Another hysterical, “Dean!”, but Castiel can’t seem to pay it any mind and neither does Freckled Face.

A soft, “Oh,” leaves Green Eye’s plush lips, his eyes flicking to Castiel’s upper chest, “I can fix that.”

A calloused hand leaves his face, and Castiel’s eyes trail after it, watching as the hand reaches into a bag clipped onto Green Eye’s hip. Said hand produces a small vial from the bag, pops the cork, and pours the contents onto Castiel’s injury. Scorching like a wildfire, heat seems to envelop him, from his cheeks down the column of his throat to his wound all the way down to his toes. It seeps into his bones, into his core. The cold and buzzing pain both dissipate in the fire’s wake.

A foreboding shadow casts over the pair followed by a grated "What did you do to him?!"

Ripping his attention from the affectionate gaze before him, Castiel finally looks up to take in his other attacker. His very, very large and, at the moment, very threatening attacker.

Castiel stumbles for an answer because, truthfully, he is just as confused by this turn of events. "I–I have no idea, one minute I'm ready for death… and the next,” he waves his hand, gesturing to all of Green Eyes, “he's... he's like this!"

The tall man scrubs a heavy hand down his face, "Magic.” His eyes turn into slits that would rival any snake about to bite, and points the tip of his sword at Castiel's face "Only one way to fix this."

Yet before Castiel has a chance to respond, a hand leaves his face and pushes the sword away like a toddler with a toy he doesn't want, "Quit, Sam."

"Dean..." Sam trails, confusion flashing across his features.

Dean. The word tumbles around and around in Castiel’s head, and he finds he likes it as he connects the word to the man.

"I mean it, Sam, I love him," Dean says.

Sam's face sours in an expression Castiel could only classify as downright horror, "Alright, I'm putting an end to this right now."

Dean drops his hands and stands, putting himself directly between Castiel and Sam. Puffing his chest out, Dean states, "If you wanna touch a hair on that pretty lil’ head, you're gonna have to go through me, Sammy.”

"Dean, come on. This is not you, Dean,” Sam pleas, voice sounding smaller than Castiel imagines someone of Sam’s size could produce. Dean simply crosses his arms looking completely unimpressed, letting the plea go unanswered. Castiel is mystified by the exchange. Sam certainly looks like he could mow down armies of soldiers with nothing but his sword. While the two may be comrades, Castiel doesn’t understand the authority Dean holds over a man like Sam to lower his sword with a single raised eyebrow and a pout.

"You," Sam directs his attention around Dean to Castiel. "Can you fix this?"

Castiel clicks his teeth together and mulls over an answer. He was pouring blood and all but knocking on hell’s door mere moments ago, so he decides to speak the truth.

What's he got to lose?

"I have no idea." Castiel answers. His eyes seek out the sigil and he racks his mind for an explanation for this wild turn of events. Replaying the last few minutes in his head again, he rationalizes, "I believe when I fell back into the table something shattered onto the sigil changing, the original spell."

"And what was the original spell? Mhm?" Sam questions, face morphing into disgust.

Castiel rolls his eyes, able to hear the, I bet you were trying to kill us, inference in Sam's words.

"It was a simple spell to render whoever invaded this room unconscious so I could slip into the hallway,” Castiel states, “out the secret passage hidden behind the hideous painting at the end of the corridor and finally be free. I'd never do anyone harm, not when I could avoid it."

"Yeah Sammy, can't you see he's an angel?" Dean asks, turning to shoot what Castiel assumes is supposed to be a reassuring smile.

"Free?" Of course, the word Sam caught onto was free. Sam furrows his brow, "Like someone's princess locked in a tower?"

"Sure." Castiel shrugs, not caring to offer any more explanation on his tragic situation but instead. "If I can restore him—Dean–" he corrects, trying the name on his tongue, finding he still likes it, "–to his original state. Will you give me your word that you’ll grant me freedom?"

Castiel watches Sam volley his attention between him and Dean, obviously struggling with a decision. Anxiety pulses underneath Castiel’s skin. These two men tried to murder him, but if they are able to grant his wish, grant him his life, Castiel is willing to throw caution to the wind to follow them.

With a heavy roll of his eyes and a deep huff, Sam sheaths his sword. “If you return Dean back to his normal jerk state, then you have my word you will be free to leave on your own accord.”

Hope blooms in his chest. With a firmness, he didn’t realize he possessed, Castiel replies, “Then you have my word. I will fix Dean in return for my freedom.”

Dean holds out his hand towards him, “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

Sam frowns, Dean smiles, and Castiel places all his faith for his future in the hand he takes.