Every Fertile Inch (6/6)

Previous chapter.

Week 6.

11 kalends Octobris (September 21).

Note: Okay, so I give up on PWP. Warnings for this chapter of fantasy violence - of the monster-fight type, not domestic abuse or anything.

 

It had started out innocently enough. A quarrel in the morning, over nothing much - only Dean’s boundless and rather crude enthusiasm for chatter before breakfast, and Castiel’s lack of the same. Nothing terribly serious, logic would dictate; but Castiel wasn’t accustomed to arguing with Dean, even over small matters, and he found himself sulkier and more shaken than he’d expected.

They were out on patrol all day, the two of them - only a patrol, to keep the maps properly marked, nothing like a hunt. Castiel was soaring in slow zig-zags, scouting for signs of anything dangerous, Dean below on his horse with his favourite dog and a larger greyish one ranging out around him, shaggy and bloodthirsty. And maybe Castiel was a little further away than he would otherwise have been, maybe Dean was a little quieter. Maybe Castiel was a little distracted, tracing the complex little electric flickers of redcaps and gnomes and other more mundane life in the forest below. And his eyes were useless through the thick green thatch of the pine forest, of course, and he had no reason to be looking for something so large: the muted, roiling glow was nothing like the vibrant flare of werewolf, or wodewose, or any of those other creatures with a taste for flesh.

But excuses were for children, and those innocent of consequences.

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