Chapter Text
His traitorous foot caught on a root and he almost fell. He barely staggered upright again and continued stumbling between gnarly trees. He kept his eyes on the ground, to tired to even hold his head up. All that mattered was he kept going. But it was so cold. His entire body hurt. He was sure he was leaving a trail of crimson that could be followed. They’d find him eventually. His will to keep going was crumbling at every gust of icy wind.
He tripped over something again and this time he did fall. His descent was surprisingly gentle. The ground was so soft. With a sort of detached curiosity he wondered what he was lying on. His heavy eyes struggled to focus. Eventually he could make out the woven straw in front of him. The pale yellow colour was fascinating. Wait … woven straw? He forced his eyes open properly and looked up. He was lying on a mat, and in front of the mat was a door. His mind slowly made the connection; door equals people. Friendly or not, he didn’t care anymore. They would kill him faster than the cold.
Pain shot through him as he struggled to get up. He was vaguely upset that he was ruining the lovely yellow mat by staining it red. He lurched forward the last few steps and leaned on the door. The world was getting very dark. Strange. Shouldn’t the snow make everything bright?
What was he doing? Ah yes, the door. It was a lot harder to raise his arm than he had predicted. He was puzzled to see his hand shaking violently. Odd. He couldn’t even feel it. He managed to thump on the door twice and was satisfied by the resounding thuds he’d made. The darkness was creeping in faster and faster. His knees buckled and he once again got closely acquainted with the mat.
It really is a nice mat, was his last thought before the darkness swallowed him completely.
* * *
Dean was cursing at his mangled weaving attempt when he heard two knocks on the door. Who the hell was out in this blizzard? Couldn’t they leave him alone? He stomped downstairs and threw open the door.
At first he saw nothing. Then he looked down. A man was crumpled in a heap on his doormat. He stared, mind blank as he took in the strange clothes and soaked black hair. Then he noticed the blood. It was pooling underneath the guy way too fast and there was another puddle a few feet away. His stomach dropped and he jerked into action.
He grabbed the guy underneath his arms and hauled him inside to the kitchen table. He was surprisingly light despite the thick wet clothes. Dean was freaking out a bit. The guy was bleeding everywhere, and he cursed when he touched the guy’s skin and realised how cold it was. Hypothermia and blood loss were a nasty combination.
The guy moaned faintly and shifted, face screwing up in pain. Dean made up his mind.
“Oh hell no, you are not dying in my house,” he growled.
Okay. He just had to do this step by step. He’d seen the healers do it before. Sort of. The first thing was stop the bleeding. He tentatively peeled back the sticky clothes where the blood was darkest and swallowed when he found the source of it. A huge gash split open the guy’s stomach like a grotesque smile. Blood was leaking out of it much too fast and seeing the guy’s pallor, he wondered how long he’d been bleeding like this.
He hurried to find a spare clean shirt and pressed it hard over the wound. The guy made a strangled sound and started struggling weakly.
“Sorry dude,” Dean muttered, doubting he could hear him anyway. He was too far gone.
Thank god he had half a spool of thread hidden in the back of cupboard. He grimaced as he stuck the needle through bloody skin. Just don’t think about it Dean, he thought. Easier said than done, he retorted sarcastically. Arguing with yourself now? Maybe living by himself hadn’t been such a good idea. Shut up.
He managed to do all the stitches without throwing up. Somehow he successfully wrapped the shirt around the wound so it held and was hopefully stopping the bleeding. The guy wasn’t protesting anymore. Apart from the small movement of his chest, he was too still. People were supposed to move, even when sleeping. They should turn over or sniff or something. It was freaking him out, and Dean moved even faster.
Now to warm him up. Dean didn’t have time to be embarrassed by taking off someone else’s clothes - not that he didn’t have ample experience; he was too worried about how shallow the guy’s breathing was getting. He stripped him of the bulky clothes with difficulty, leaving the underclothes on to give him some modesty. His cheeks reddened at the guy’s admittedly attractive body. He admonished himself for objectifying a dying person and shook off the thoughts.
Dean was leery about moving the guy again when he was so hurt, but it wasn’t like he had a choice if he wanted him to live. He slipped one arm under the guy’s knees and the other under his back and lifted. The guy’s head thudded against his chest as he cradled him. He quickly moved to deposit the guy on the couch in front of the fire, which he was thankful he had already lit.
He nearly overbalanced as he leaned over the couch and he put the guy down harder than he’d intended. The guy didn’t even twitch.
Dean hurried to get the warmest blankets he had. As he returned he realised the guy would need body heat or he wouldn’t warm up. He stared at the already occupied, tiny couch. How to do this? Let’s just get it over with, he thought. He undressed, and with a great deal of swearing he managed to climb onto the couch next to the guy and wrap the blankets around both of them. The couch groaned under the weight of two grown men. He held his breath, but it didn’t give way. Wincing as his skin came into contact with the guy’s icy body, he settled down as best he could and prepared for a long wait.
* * *
The guy didn’t move for almost two days. He’d eventually started shivering, which Dean was pretty sure was a good sign, and sure enough, the guy had regained a little colour. But he still hadn’t woken up. The snow had stopped long ago and Dean was starting to worry that they guy might die from starvation rather than anything else. He had tried to give him water but he didn’t swallow it.
He was sitting in a chair that he’d pulled up next to the couch containing Mr Comatose, attempting to untangle his weaving when a rustle made him look up. His eyes widened as he saw the guy awake, staring at him from beneath the veritable mountain of blankets. His first thought was blue. Because holy shit this guy had nice eyes. Dean knew he had a thing for blue eyes. This was just unfair.
The guy opened his mouth but grimaced when he made a dry croaking sound. Dean leapt to his feet.
“I’ll get you some water.” He left before the guy could move.
When he returned, he yelped in alarm. The guy had swung his legs off the couch and was trying to get up. He appeared to have realised he was in his underwear because he kept a blanket wrapped around him. Dean rushed forward.
“Woah, dude, don’t get up!” Too late. The guy made it to his feet, but he turned a nasty shade of grey and doubled over, gasping. Dean caught him before he could fully descend onto the floor.
“What’d I tell you?” he muttered irritably. Despite the pain on his face, the guy managed to scowl in his general direction. He helped him back onto the couch and the guy grunted as he lay back, too tired to sit up properly.
“Don’t try that again, yeah?” The guy just stared at him. Dean was getting sick of calling him ‘the guy.’
“So what’s your name?” After a long pause where the guy studied him, he finally spoke.
“Castiel.”