Helpless (for RP in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
teamarchangel and Prompt 29.1 in <lj site="li
Jul. 7th, 2010 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rocksaltshotgun[Author's note: this is over 5500 words worth of a plot setup for RP (written as a ficlet due to the two main characters both being mine), but was also written to fulfill the just_muse_me prompt 29.1. Helpless. There is some m/m UST, bad language, mild torture, and a horrible disregard for research on the medical stuff. Sorry! Don't like? Don't read. Unless you're involved in the RP, in which case it's probably a good idea to at least skim it... Needless to say, this is RP-verse, not canon!]
The craziness accompanying the resurrection of his father completely distracts Dean for a bit, so it's a week or more before he really gets it together enough to go check out the reports of demonic activity in Colorado. Matter of fact, it's Bobby's news of the nest he ran into on the way down that rekindles the urge to go check things out.
He'd really like to have Sam or Castiel along in this one, but Sam is of course sticking with Blue, and Dean gets it, to a point. Doesn't keep him from missing their Hunts together, though, and in the back of his mind he can't help wondering if those days are already over. And Castiel -- well, he suspects his Bonded has been tasked with hunting down those angels who chose the wrong side in the war. It would explain his even more grumpy than usual tone as he explains "sorry, Dean, I have orders." It's not a job he envies his angel one bit.
He even contemplates taking Dad along -- wouldn't be the first time the two of them went out on a Hunt together. Except that he's not really sure he'll measure up to expectations these days, and there's going to be enough trouble from the bad guys.
So he's pretty sure he'll be hunting solo this time. Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last. He shrugs and loads up the car with weapons and a bag stuffed with a few changes of clothes, then shoves the trunk closed. And nearly jumps out of his skin to find Crowley standing right there.
"Fancy a copilot?" the demon asks, and Dean can't help wondering if that smirk in his tone is natural or he has to work at it.
"You want to come on a job with me? Again?" Dean asks, wondering exactly what angle Crowley's playing. Is it just that he feels safer being away from town if Dad's there and he's not, or is there more to it than that?
"You're heading toward Denver, right? Bit more civilization there -- maybe I can find a decent latte."
Dean rolls his eyes. "You're a demon -- you can blip wherever the hell you want, whenever you want. This isn't a shopping trip."
"Safety in numbers, though. You turning down my help? Gift horse -- mouth," Crowley answers with a shrug.
"All right, get i--" and the demon is already sitting in the passenger seat, looking up at him and waving.
"Going to stand out there all day?"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets into the car. It's going to be a long trip...
* * *
By the time they get to Colorado, Dean figures he should be up for sainthood -- he hasn't killed Crowley yet. And he's certainly not about to admit that he welcomes some of the conversation -- though he can do without the tales of past Deals and he's not really sure what he learns about other demons counts as information when it really just sounds like gossip.
That, and he can far too easily imagine Sam laughing his ass off at what could only be described as a bout of dueling eyerolls. So yeah, he's more than glad to stop for what's left of the evening, though he has to listen to Crowley complaining about that, too. Until he points out that it was his idea to come along, and he's welcome to leave at any time. And thank god, the room has two beds -- and magic fingers -- and after Crowley fiddles with the tv for a moment, free porn.
...which would just be really weird with the demon sharing the room with him, he realizes, after hearing that low chuckle at the way his eyes lit up. "Look, you, you're not getting any of this, got it?" he asks, wishing he'd had a few swigs of whisky first to make this whole thing feel less... WEIRD. "I'm bonded to Cas, and that's that. Now stop watching every move I make. It's creepy. Like Zachariah."
Crowley shudders at that and makes the same kind of ickface a cat does when it smells something bad. "No need to get insulting, now," he answers, then he pulls out the photocopied 'local dining' guide and studies it, gaze creeping over the top of it after a moment to find Dean staring at him with his brow creased in obviously heavy thought. "Looks like there's a passable steak place if you want. My dime, as long as you keep my ass in one piece. You up to it, Tiger?"
"Huh?" Dean answers at first, still trying to figure out why Crowley really even cares beyond whatever it is the Demon sees in him (and no, that line of thought is very quickly stomped out of existence before it has a chance to become more than an inkling). And then he sees a flicker of something in Crowley's eyes -- so brief he'd almost think he imagined it, but he realizes the demon is lonely. Wow. "Yeah, of course -- steak would be great. You're still not getting any of this."
"Can't fault a guy for trying," Crowley says with a shrug, then he's standing and slipping off his tie. "Might be a tad overdressed for this place," he explains, gaze traveling over Dean's body for probably longer than necessary. "But I'm just not comfortable in jeans and plaid."
"Yeah, that's a scarier image than I want in my head, thanks," Dean answers, grabbing up his keys and taking a moment to check all his weapons before they head out.
"Do I get any?" Crowley asks, blipping in front of Dean after locking the motel room. "Just in case?"
"There something about this place I don't know?" Dean asks, glowering as he has to get closer to unlock the Impala's door. Opportunistic little bastard.
"No! It's just -- well, it doesn't really sound like my kind of place."
"We get into any barroom brawls, I'll protect you," Dean answers with a smirk. Like a demon's gonna need his protection.
* * *
Even though he's bonded to Castiel, Dean just can't help himself when it comes to flirting with a cute waitress. As they work their way through appetizers, though, he's oblivious to her giggling and chatting with some of her coworkers just out of clear hearing range of their table. It isn't until she comes back to bring their steaks and leaves again, and Crowley chuckles, that Dean has the first clue about what's going on. "What? Does she think we--" He cuts himself off and looks over at the trio of young women, who immediately manage to find other jobs to do. "Oh god, really?"
Crowley laughs again and leans in closer. "Not only do they think we're together, they think I'm your sugar daddy."
"Ew! Okay, back in the creepy zone again, dude!" Dean blurts, backing away. He's loud enough that two of the guys a couple of tables away glance in their direction, and Dean frowns as he sees them whispering to their buddies. He can tell from their expressions and body language that they're not the understanding type.
"Trouble?" Crowley asks, following his gaze as casually as he can before returning his attention to his food.
"Could be," Dean answers as he glances around the room and realizes the one small family who was here when they arrived is getting ready to leave. "This bunch leaves, and it stops being a 'nice family restaurant' and turns into that kind of place you were worried it would be," he muses as he surreptitiously checks his knives again. It doesn't really register that it's pretty late for a family with a young girl to be out anyway.
"Charming," Crowley mutters, then he looks up just as the little girl is walking past their table. The colour drains from his face as she walks out and he hears a soft tinkling laugh. "We're buggered," he mutters, just an instant before all hell breaks loose.
Dean realizes it at nearly the same instant, just relying on long-trained instincts, and he wishes yet again that the Colt were a more concealable weapon. "Shit. Demons..."
The remaining patrons at the tables nearby stand nearly as one and start to close on them. Dean's on his feet, a knife in each hand, wondering how long holy water holds up against demonic blood. Crowley surprises him by also standing, and instantly moving to put them back-to-back. There's something in his hand but Dean doesn't get the best look at it before the demons close in.
"Got any bright ideas?" Crowley asks as one of the guys from the other table lunges at him. There's the crack of a small pistol, and the guy staggers back, shot right through the eye. After a moment he starts to scream, and falls over as smoke and ichor pour from the hole.
"What the fuck?" Dean asks while slicing at the two closing on him.
"Blessed bullets -- can't load the frigging things myself, but they work well enough," Crowley answers, firing another round at his next attacker.
"Sneaky fucker," Dean mutters, a little bit of a smile in his voice.
"Demon, remember?" Crowley answers with a grin, then shoots another one of the approaching group. This shot isn't as well aimed, and the demon roars with pain and anger, but keeps coming. "Just wish it was a bigger gun!"
"We're really fucked," Dean hisses, glancing back over his shoulder to see that the patrons from the further tables have moved in by this point. They're surrounded, and one little pistol and a few very sharp knives just aren't going to be enough. He reaches into his pocket for a holy water flask, pours some more on his knives, then splashes the rest on the approaching demons. It slows them down, but he knows that's all it's going to do.
"Sorry, Tiger -- hate to eat and run, but..." and the warmth of Crowley at his back is just gone.
"Crowley, you sonofabitch!" Dean snarls as the demons close in on him and drag him down. He goes down fighting, trying to kill as many as he can before they take him out. The last thing he registers is a hard blow to the back of his head...
* * *
When consciousness returns, it brings with it a throbbing pain at the base of his skull and the knowledge that he's stripped down to his boxer briefs and securely bound to a metal chair. "Shit," he mutters, looking around the nondescript room. The only real distinguishing feature is the fact that the high ceiling and industrial lighting means the room is probably part of a warehouse style building. Oh yeah, and the table nearby is covered with instruments that are far too familiar to him. "Great..." he mutters, then he notices one of the items on the table is a glass bottle of some vaguely scientific looking design. There's a liquid inside the bottle that looks like some kind of tarry ink or syrup, and he isn't sure if it's a trick of the light or not, but it looks like it's moving. "What the fuck...?"
An instant later, there's a displacement of air and Crowley's there, crouching down to hide behind him while he works on unfastening the ankle restraints.
"Crowley, you sonofabitch, you fucking left me there," Dean hisses.
"And now I'm rescuing you," the demon answers. "You're welcome."
"They could've--"
"They could've captured the both of us, and then no one would be around to save either of us," Crowley says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and he shouldn't have to waste his time explaining it.
"Shit," Dean mutters as Crowley frees his legs, knowing he's right again. Then Crowley moves to one side to unfasten his wrists, and he mutters it again.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"
Crowley jumps to his feet and spins to see a man wearing a lab coat standing in the doorway. "Bugger me," he mutters, desperately wishing he'd managed to at least free one of Dean's hands.
"You just keep digging your hole deeper, don't you, Crowley?" the man asks with a smirk. Then his gaze slides to Dean where he sits glaring with impotent rage, and he laughs. "Of course, from everything we know about Dean Winchester, it's no wonder you came back to try to rescue his sweet ass... Just your type, all attitude and craving demon cock..."
"I don't-- we're not-- Ow!" Dean stops after Crowley lightly kicks him in the ankle.
"Just let us go, and there'll be no trouble," Crowley says calmly. His eyes flicker black for an instant and he shifts his weight very slightly as if bracing himself for something. The overhead lights flicker, and Dean feels goosebumps rising all over his body.
"Are you hoping that we'll kill you in a fight so you'll escape your punishment?" the man asks, taking a step into the room and smiling. His eyes flicker white, and his smile broadens at the quiet gasp that escapes Dean. "On the contrary, dear Crowley, you're going to join Dean in my little experiment."
"The hell I am, Uphir," Crowley snarls, flinging a hand out to point at the other demon and letting go all of the power he gathered in one devastating but invisible bolt. The Archdemon shrugs and raises a hand to catch the power, squeezes it in his fist until it fizzles into little sparks that die away in seconds. "Oh bugger me," Crowley mutters, backing into Dean's chair.
Dean can see Crowley is nearly shaking in fear, but the demon still has enough presence of mind to reach back and fumble at the restraint, managing to tug the tongue out of the loop and nearly free of the buckle prong before the Archdemon -- Uphir -- raises a hand and makes a subtle gesture. Suddenly Crowley's posture changes completely, stiffly standing at attention with his hands at his sides. A sound that might be a whimper escapes him, and Dean realizes he's being held immobile by Uphir.
"What experiment?" Dean asks, his voice shaky. He clears his throat and repeats the question louder, looking up at the Archdemon with as much defiance as he can muster.
"Oh, just something we've been perfecting -- you see, normally angels can't be killed except by certain weapons, wielded by their own," Uphir explains. "Needless to say, we've found this aggravating and more than a little unfair. So, I've been working on a little something to, shall we say, level the playing field?"
"Oh shit..." Dean breathes, and Crowley whimpers again. Dean's gaze returns to the table and that bottle, then he looks up at the Archdemon again. "Well, neither of us are angels, so you don't need to try your poison on us."
Uphir laughs, and Dean shivers at that sound and the evil he can feel rolling off the Archdemon. "Oh, we already know it kills humans instantly, though I'd be interested to see if it affects you quite the same way. There are certain rumours I've heard about you..." An evil grin and a quirk of an eyebrow, then, "And we know it makes lesser demons incredibly, cripplingly sick." He turns his focus to Crowley again and asks, "But you're not just any demon, are you, Crowley? King of the Crossroads, I believe it was?" He laughs as Crowley whimpers again, than he turns to the table and picks up the bottle, turning it so the lights glint on it and clearly show that it moves on its own. Right now, it seems to be reaching for where Uphir is holding the bottle, thin gooey strands of it throwing themselves at the glass wall of the bottle.
Dean tears his attention away from the horror show in a bottle to lean down and tug at the half unfastened restraint with his teeth, finally managing to unbuckle it. With one hand loose he can free the other one quickly, and he hurries to do so even as Uphir is inserting an old-style hypodermic needle through the rubber stopper of the bottle and filling it with the viscous liquid.
He's free and standing up, wincing at the pain that explodes through the back of his head as he does so, just as Uphir turns back to them. "About time," the Archdemon murmurs, "I was starting to think all the tales were lies."
He waves his free hand, and Dean finds himself shoved aside as Crowley is unceremoniously dumped into the chair. "Crap!" Dean gasps, struggling against the Archdemon's power, watching helplessly as Uphir walks to Crowley and gestures at his arm. Crowley fights it, but raises his arm and unbuttons his cuffs, then rolls up his sleeves to bare the pale unmarked skin of his forearm.
"This might sting a bit," Uphir says with a look of anticipation that turns Dean's stomach. Then the Archdemon grabs Crowley's wrist and slides the needle in, injecting the poison into his veins. Uphir steps back and watches, then, smiling as black lines begin to appear, slowly spreading from the injection site. He finally releases his hold on Crowley and grins gleefully as the demon begins to scream.
"You sadistic bastard!" Dean snarls, trying to throw himself at the Archdemon and discovering that he's still being held immobile.
"Calm down, you'll get your turn," Uphir says, his attention still on Crowley and the slow progression of the poison's effects. "I thought it would work faster than that. Hmmn..."
"You bloody bastard," Crowley spits through clenched teeth, before clutching at his arm and letting out another scream. He doubles over in the chair, breathing hard and squeezing his arm just above the spread of the black lines, trying to keep it from going any further.
"Interesting," Uphir muses, "it's traveling along the blood vessels and the nerves. Fascinating. Must be why it's so excruciating. It is excruciating, isn't it?"
Dean's still struggling against the Archdemon's hold, hoping that his sadistic curiosity will make him lose concentration enough for him to grab something that could be used as a weapon from the table. But it's Crowley who manages to do something that might save them. As Uphir pulls his affected arm free from his grasp to study it, he sticks two fingers of his free hand in his mouth and gives a shrill, loud whistle. "You should know," he pants, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, "I raised him from a pup, and when I switched sides, so did he."
A ghostly howl sounds nearby, and Dean can't hide the shiver of fear that ripples through him, even though he knows the Hellhound is on their side. At least, as much on their side as something like that can be. Something big hurls itself against the door, and the entire wall of the room shakes. Another howl follows, then snarling and growling, and the sound of claws tearing at the cheap door. Suddenly Dean can move, but for a moment he's still frozen in terror, until Crowley lets out another agonized scream. That spurs him into motion, and he lunges for the instruments on the table at the same time that Uphir decides he needs to find a way to defend himself.
They collide into each other and their momentum sends them into the table itself, bringing it crashing down in a clatter of metallic objects and the chilling sound of shattering glass. Dean's too focused on reaching for a nice sharp blade he spotted to watch exactly what he's reaching over, until he feels something that gives the impression of strands of razor wire dipped in acid (and he should know) wrapping around his wrist and forearm. He gives a blood-curdling scream and tries to shake it off, but if anything it's climbing up his arm, sprouting out new tendrils that strain toward his neck and face. For a moment Uphir just sits there, mesmerized by his creation's reaction to Dean, then the door bursts open and the Archdemon flees, vanishing right before the Hellhound's teeth close on his throat.
Dean can't see the Hellhound of course, but he feels the large furry bulk bound past him and knows it's heading over to Crowley. But most of his attention is glued on how the hell he's going to keep the poison from getting to his face. Every part of his skin it's touching is on fire, every nerve screaming out in intense pain, and he can actually see thin streams of smoke rising from his seared flesh when the tendrils move. Somehow he manages to bite back the screams, and drag himself to his feet, desperately searching the room for his clothes. If he can just find his jacket...
He lets out a rough grunt of pain as the tendrils reach his shoulder and chest, but he also sees what he's looking for. He doesn't want to, but he has to use his free hand to grab the reaching tendrils and pull them away from his face, and then it's climbing its way up the other arm, too, flesh sizzling as it goes. He thanks god, or whatever, that he doesn't have any open wounds at the moment, because he's sure if this stuff gets into his bloodstream, he's done for. And then his hand closes on his jacket and he's leaving black smears on the fabric, but he finds the other flask in the pocket and pulls it out. "Suck on this, you demonic freak show," he mutters, uncapping the flask and pouring holy water over his arms and chest. For a moment nothing happens and he's terrified there wasn't enough, then the viscous black goo starts to turn grey and flaky, peeling away from his skin in chunks. It hurts -- it hurts so bad that after a long moment his body actually stops registering the pain. But not before he lets out a roar of agony that leaves his throat raw and makes the Hellhound growl threateningly.
"Tell me about it," Crowley hisses, and Dean can hear the pain in his voice. He's rapidly going numb, himself, and after he gathers up the rest of his clothes he walks back over to the chair and looks down at the demon. Crowley's shaking in pain and leaning against what must be the Hellhound while squeezing his arm once more. "Gimme your belt," he demands, and Dean stands there dumbly, staring at him as if he's just spoken in Aramaic. "Give me YOUR FRIGGING BELT!"
Dean shakes himself back to alertness and realizes what Crowley wants. "Yeah, got it. Can you take your jacket off?" he asks, pulling his belt out of the beltloops of his jeans. Huh. He should probably put those back on at some point.
"Bloody hell," Crowley mutters, tugging his jacket off and getting his sleeve out of the way by the simple expedient of ripping it off from the shoulder. "Damn it, I liked that shirt..." Then he grabs the belt and slides the end through the buckle, making a loop he can fasten himself since Dean seems to be shutting down. He slides it up his arm and is about to tighten it just below his elbow when Dean manages to snap out of it again.
"Above the joint," he says, reaching out to move the belt for Crowley. He tightens it, then points to a thin line that darkens and thickens as they watch, spreading into the blood vessels at the crook of his elbow. "Sorry..."
"No time for that now -- we're sitting ducks if we stay here. They're going to come back in numbers if that bloody restaurant was any indication..." He looks up at Dean again and shakes his head. "Gimme your keys."
"What? No!"
"Bloody hell I'm dealing with amateur hour. Look, your car's back at the steakhouse. You're turning the most unattractive shade of grey and I'm not bloody having you put us in a ditch. Now give me your bloody keys, and I'll get the car, bring it here, and DRIVE US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Dean stares at him for a long moment, then nods and hands him the keys.
"Good boy. Now get dressed, and wait outside -- keep Azi with you."
He's gone before he can hear Dean ask, "You named him Ozzy?"
* * *
In the ten minutes it takes for Crowley to return with the Impala, Dean finally manages to get dressed -- at least, he manages to get his jeans, socks and boots back on. When he tries to put his t-shirt on, the searing pain of the burns on his arms comes rushing back and he nearly blacks out from the intensity. He comes back to himself to find the Hellhound licking his face, and he's really glad there's no one around to hear the girly scream he lets out.
And then there's his jacket -- the black smears on it seem to be inert, but he's not really willing to find out it still has some fight left in it. He carefully empties out all the pockets, including the hidden ones, and leaves it there. The fact that Azi growls at it as they're leaving makes him think he made the right choice.
Once they're outside and safely hidden, he takes the time to inspect his wounds. Caustic chemical burns are the closest analogy he can think of, and he's pretty sure if he hadn't thought to use the holy water, it would have kept on burning all the way down to his bones. As it is, both forearms, the palm of his left hand, and all the way up to his right shoulder and upper chest are covered with an intricate, almost lacy network of the burns. It looks almost like some tribal tattoo of a rosebush design; branches and thorns from the climbing tendrils and thicker knotted areas where it stopped longer to secure its grip.
And oh god, it hurts. It's only his experiences in Hell that make it possible for him to keep going at this point. The pain is a constant searing fire, but after a while his brain and body just tune it out. Unfortunately, it makes him tune everything else out, too, and he doesn't hear the horn until the second honk.
Azi nudges him with his head, then growls, and he shakes himself awake again to hear Crowley yelling for him to get his damned ass in the car or he's leaving him there. He drags himself to his feet and pretty much falls into the passenger seat, and Crowley peels out before the door is even completely closed. As they speed away down the deserted road, he can hear enormous feet loping along beside them, keeping up with no trouble. Until the terrain gets too hilly, at which point there's a ghostly howl that trails off into the distance and Crowley nods. "He'll meet us there," he explains, glancing over to see Dean's curious look.
"How are you holding up?" Dean asks, and damn, his voice is rough.
"Apparently physical activity makes it travel faster," the demon answers with a frown. "And my bloody arm's going numb but I don't dare loosen the tourniquet."
"We're hours away from home..."
"Yeah, I know. Wasn't one of my smartest moves, going on this little jaunt with you..."
* * *
He drifts in and out of consciousness, knowing that at least twice he's been woken by a colourful string of curses and some dangerously erratic driving. And unless he's hallucinating, the scenery's been rushing by a lot faster than the Impala's safest top speed. The third time he's woken the same way, he looks over at Crowley to see the demon -- pale and sweating -- toss the belt into the back where his bag from the motel lies. "You got my bag, too?" he asks weakly.
"Didn't know if there was anything important in it, so I just grabbed the whole thing," Crowley explains. Then he glances at Dean and frowns. "You look like shit."
"Yeah, you don't look so hot yourself," he answers. Then he looks out again and frowns. "We're going slower."
"Yeah. I can either mojo us faster, or mojo this shit slower. Can't do both, and I can't put the bloody tourniquet around my neck..."
They speed past a streetlight, and Dean gets a good look at him; sees the black lines starting to snake out from under the collar of his shirt and up his neck. "Oh..."
"Yeah. I figure even if it doesn't kill me, if it reaches my brain we're done for..."
"Crap."
"Just... Let me concentrate on driving and stopping this stuff, and try to get some rest. Dunno if you're still in shock, but you've been spiking some pretty high temperatures..."
"I have?" Dean asks, shivering and automatically moving to rub his arms for warmth at the same instant Crowley reaches out to stop him.
"Don't!" But it's too late, and Dean doubles over in the seat, gasping in pain and nausea and wondering if blacking out might be a better idea.
It takes a longer moment than either of them are really comfortable with before the car's back under control, then Crowley says, "Let me focus on driving, Tiger. You focus on not vomiting on your upholstery." When Dean finally manages to straighten enough to look at the demon, he can see his jaw clenched in obvious strain and his eyes fully black. He's also pretty sure he's starting to hallucinate, because otherwise there are two small horns poking up through Crowley's disheveled hair...
* * *
About half an hour out of Kayenta there's a bang, then a flurry of cursing as the car careens wildly out of control. The horn blares and Dean flails wildly, struggling up out of a fever dream to find Crowley slumped into the steering wheel and the Impala heading on a collision course with a cactus. "Oh fuuuck!" he yells, trying to brace himself. There's a horrible crunch and a jolt of impact, and Dean kind of remembers pain and screaming, and then there's just the sound of the horn for a long moment.
Dean finally manages to claw his way back to consciousness and pulls Crowley back from the steering wheel. He gets one look at the sickly grey pallor of his skin and the creeping black lines making their way up his cheek, and knows there's no way either of them are getting back to Wickenburg without help. At least, not if they want to get there alive.
He reaches for his bag in the back and howls in pain as the seared skin of his burns stretches and in some places splits. He keeps reminding himself that it's his baby he's sitting in and throwing up is not an option, and finally he manages to grab the bag and haul it into the front. There's another flask of holy water in there, and he pours some of it over the burns, biting back a whimper at the pain. He'd see if Crowley could drink some if he were human, but that option's not open to them. Instead he caps the flask again and keeps it on the seat nearby, then rummages for his cellphone. He opens it and nearly faints from relief when he gets a signal.
He almost speed-dials Sam, but realizes his brother is most likely in the middle of something. Then he dials Cas -- voicemail, damn it, and he's really going to have to walk his angel through how to set that up... "Cas, it's Dean. I dunno where we really are -- up the road from Kayenta a bit and off the road up close and personal with a cactus... I'm sorry. If you can track Crowley, he's here. Otherwise, Dad can help you track the GPS."
He sighs and ends the call, then hits the newly programmed speed-dial 4. Voicemail again? "Dad? It's Dean. I fucked up. We're hurt. I'm gonna try for Archangels, but I dunno. You can trace my phone's GPS... We're somewhere near Kayenta." Yeah, he's getting more incoherent... He ends the call, then realizes the sun's getting higher in the sky and they're going to cook if they don't get shelter soon.
He stumble-falls out of the car, then makes his way around to the driver's side, trying not to cringe at the damage the cactus did, or the way one tire rim is bent thanks to their trip over rock and sand after the blow-out. Finally he gets the door open and pulls Crowley down out of the car and onto the ground beside the Impala. She'll shelter them from the sun for a bit more, but then it'll be right overhead...
By the time he's done with that, his arms are oozing and he's barely able to think from the pain. He flops down next to Crowley and closes his eyes; a few moments later shakes himself awake again. Yeah, it really is that desperate...
He scowls up at the sky and clears his throat, then feebly shouts, "Gabriel? Raziel? Raphael? We need help..."
To be continued in RP...
just_muse_me prompt 29.1. Helpless. There is some m/m UST, bad language, mild torture, and a horrible disregard for research on the medical stuff. Sorry! Don't like? Don't read. Unless you're involved in the RP, in which case it's probably a good idea to at least skim it... Needless to say, this is RP-verse, not canon!]The craziness accompanying the resurrection of his father completely distracts Dean for a bit, so it's a week or more before he really gets it together enough to go check out the reports of demonic activity in Colorado. Matter of fact, it's Bobby's news of the nest he ran into on the way down that rekindles the urge to go check things out.
He'd really like to have Sam or Castiel along in this one, but Sam is of course sticking with Blue, and Dean gets it, to a point. Doesn't keep him from missing their Hunts together, though, and in the back of his mind he can't help wondering if those days are already over. And Castiel -- well, he suspects his Bonded has been tasked with hunting down those angels who chose the wrong side in the war. It would explain his even more grumpy than usual tone as he explains "sorry, Dean, I have orders." It's not a job he envies his angel one bit.
He even contemplates taking Dad along -- wouldn't be the first time the two of them went out on a Hunt together. Except that he's not really sure he'll measure up to expectations these days, and there's going to be enough trouble from the bad guys.
So he's pretty sure he'll be hunting solo this time. Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last. He shrugs and loads up the car with weapons and a bag stuffed with a few changes of clothes, then shoves the trunk closed. And nearly jumps out of his skin to find Crowley standing right there.
"Fancy a copilot?" the demon asks, and Dean can't help wondering if that smirk in his tone is natural or he has to work at it.
"You want to come on a job with me? Again?" Dean asks, wondering exactly what angle Crowley's playing. Is it just that he feels safer being away from town if Dad's there and he's not, or is there more to it than that?
"You're heading toward Denver, right? Bit more civilization there -- maybe I can find a decent latte."
Dean rolls his eyes. "You're a demon -- you can blip wherever the hell you want, whenever you want. This isn't a shopping trip."
"Safety in numbers, though. You turning down my help? Gift horse -- mouth," Crowley answers with a shrug.
"All right, get i--" and the demon is already sitting in the passenger seat, looking up at him and waving.
"Going to stand out there all day?"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets into the car. It's going to be a long trip...
By the time they get to Colorado, Dean figures he should be up for sainthood -- he hasn't killed Crowley yet. And he's certainly not about to admit that he welcomes some of the conversation -- though he can do without the tales of past Deals and he's not really sure what he learns about other demons counts as information when it really just sounds like gossip.
That, and he can far too easily imagine Sam laughing his ass off at what could only be described as a bout of dueling eyerolls. So yeah, he's more than glad to stop for what's left of the evening, though he has to listen to Crowley complaining about that, too. Until he points out that it was his idea to come along, and he's welcome to leave at any time. And thank god, the room has two beds -- and magic fingers -- and after Crowley fiddles with the tv for a moment, free porn.
...which would just be really weird with the demon sharing the room with him, he realizes, after hearing that low chuckle at the way his eyes lit up. "Look, you, you're not getting any of this, got it?" he asks, wishing he'd had a few swigs of whisky first to make this whole thing feel less... WEIRD. "I'm bonded to Cas, and that's that. Now stop watching every move I make. It's creepy. Like Zachariah."
Crowley shudders at that and makes the same kind of ickface a cat does when it smells something bad. "No need to get insulting, now," he answers, then he pulls out the photocopied 'local dining' guide and studies it, gaze creeping over the top of it after a moment to find Dean staring at him with his brow creased in obviously heavy thought. "Looks like there's a passable steak place if you want. My dime, as long as you keep my ass in one piece. You up to it, Tiger?"
"Huh?" Dean answers at first, still trying to figure out why Crowley really even cares beyond whatever it is the Demon sees in him (and no, that line of thought is very quickly stomped out of existence before it has a chance to become more than an inkling). And then he sees a flicker of something in Crowley's eyes -- so brief he'd almost think he imagined it, but he realizes the demon is lonely. Wow. "Yeah, of course -- steak would be great. You're still not getting any of this."
"Can't fault a guy for trying," Crowley says with a shrug, then he's standing and slipping off his tie. "Might be a tad overdressed for this place," he explains, gaze traveling over Dean's body for probably longer than necessary. "But I'm just not comfortable in jeans and plaid."
"Yeah, that's a scarier image than I want in my head, thanks," Dean answers, grabbing up his keys and taking a moment to check all his weapons before they head out.
"Do I get any?" Crowley asks, blipping in front of Dean after locking the motel room. "Just in case?"
"There something about this place I don't know?" Dean asks, glowering as he has to get closer to unlock the Impala's door. Opportunistic little bastard.
"No! It's just -- well, it doesn't really sound like my kind of place."
"We get into any barroom brawls, I'll protect you," Dean answers with a smirk. Like a demon's gonna need his protection.
Even though he's bonded to Castiel, Dean just can't help himself when it comes to flirting with a cute waitress. As they work their way through appetizers, though, he's oblivious to her giggling and chatting with some of her coworkers just out of clear hearing range of their table. It isn't until she comes back to bring their steaks and leaves again, and Crowley chuckles, that Dean has the first clue about what's going on. "What? Does she think we--" He cuts himself off and looks over at the trio of young women, who immediately manage to find other jobs to do. "Oh god, really?"
Crowley laughs again and leans in closer. "Not only do they think we're together, they think I'm your sugar daddy."
"Ew! Okay, back in the creepy zone again, dude!" Dean blurts, backing away. He's loud enough that two of the guys a couple of tables away glance in their direction, and Dean frowns as he sees them whispering to their buddies. He can tell from their expressions and body language that they're not the understanding type.
"Trouble?" Crowley asks, following his gaze as casually as he can before returning his attention to his food.
"Could be," Dean answers as he glances around the room and realizes the one small family who was here when they arrived is getting ready to leave. "This bunch leaves, and it stops being a 'nice family restaurant' and turns into that kind of place you were worried it would be," he muses as he surreptitiously checks his knives again. It doesn't really register that it's pretty late for a family with a young girl to be out anyway.
"Charming," Crowley mutters, then he looks up just as the little girl is walking past their table. The colour drains from his face as she walks out and he hears a soft tinkling laugh. "We're buggered," he mutters, just an instant before all hell breaks loose.
Dean realizes it at nearly the same instant, just relying on long-trained instincts, and he wishes yet again that the Colt were a more concealable weapon. "Shit. Demons..."
The remaining patrons at the tables nearby stand nearly as one and start to close on them. Dean's on his feet, a knife in each hand, wondering how long holy water holds up against demonic blood. Crowley surprises him by also standing, and instantly moving to put them back-to-back. There's something in his hand but Dean doesn't get the best look at it before the demons close in.
"Got any bright ideas?" Crowley asks as one of the guys from the other table lunges at him. There's the crack of a small pistol, and the guy staggers back, shot right through the eye. After a moment he starts to scream, and falls over as smoke and ichor pour from the hole.
"What the fuck?" Dean asks while slicing at the two closing on him.
"Blessed bullets -- can't load the frigging things myself, but they work well enough," Crowley answers, firing another round at his next attacker.
"Sneaky fucker," Dean mutters, a little bit of a smile in his voice.
"Demon, remember?" Crowley answers with a grin, then shoots another one of the approaching group. This shot isn't as well aimed, and the demon roars with pain and anger, but keeps coming. "Just wish it was a bigger gun!"
"We're really fucked," Dean hisses, glancing back over his shoulder to see that the patrons from the further tables have moved in by this point. They're surrounded, and one little pistol and a few very sharp knives just aren't going to be enough. He reaches into his pocket for a holy water flask, pours some more on his knives, then splashes the rest on the approaching demons. It slows them down, but he knows that's all it's going to do.
"Sorry, Tiger -- hate to eat and run, but..." and the warmth of Crowley at his back is just gone.
"Crowley, you sonofabitch!" Dean snarls as the demons close in on him and drag him down. He goes down fighting, trying to kill as many as he can before they take him out. The last thing he registers is a hard blow to the back of his head...
When consciousness returns, it brings with it a throbbing pain at the base of his skull and the knowledge that he's stripped down to his boxer briefs and securely bound to a metal chair. "Shit," he mutters, looking around the nondescript room. The only real distinguishing feature is the fact that the high ceiling and industrial lighting means the room is probably part of a warehouse style building. Oh yeah, and the table nearby is covered with instruments that are far too familiar to him. "Great..." he mutters, then he notices one of the items on the table is a glass bottle of some vaguely scientific looking design. There's a liquid inside the bottle that looks like some kind of tarry ink or syrup, and he isn't sure if it's a trick of the light or not, but it looks like it's moving. "What the fuck...?"
An instant later, there's a displacement of air and Crowley's there, crouching down to hide behind him while he works on unfastening the ankle restraints.
"Crowley, you sonofabitch, you fucking left me there," Dean hisses.
"And now I'm rescuing you," the demon answers. "You're welcome."
"They could've--"
"They could've captured the both of us, and then no one would be around to save either of us," Crowley says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and he shouldn't have to waste his time explaining it.
"Shit," Dean mutters as Crowley frees his legs, knowing he's right again. Then Crowley moves to one side to unfasten his wrists, and he mutters it again.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"
Crowley jumps to his feet and spins to see a man wearing a lab coat standing in the doorway. "Bugger me," he mutters, desperately wishing he'd managed to at least free one of Dean's hands.
"You just keep digging your hole deeper, don't you, Crowley?" the man asks with a smirk. Then his gaze slides to Dean where he sits glaring with impotent rage, and he laughs. "Of course, from everything we know about Dean Winchester, it's no wonder you came back to try to rescue his sweet ass... Just your type, all attitude and craving demon cock..."
"I don't-- we're not-- Ow!" Dean stops after Crowley lightly kicks him in the ankle.
"Just let us go, and there'll be no trouble," Crowley says calmly. His eyes flicker black for an instant and he shifts his weight very slightly as if bracing himself for something. The overhead lights flicker, and Dean feels goosebumps rising all over his body.
"Are you hoping that we'll kill you in a fight so you'll escape your punishment?" the man asks, taking a step into the room and smiling. His eyes flicker white, and his smile broadens at the quiet gasp that escapes Dean. "On the contrary, dear Crowley, you're going to join Dean in my little experiment."
"The hell I am, Uphir," Crowley snarls, flinging a hand out to point at the other demon and letting go all of the power he gathered in one devastating but invisible bolt. The Archdemon shrugs and raises a hand to catch the power, squeezes it in his fist until it fizzles into little sparks that die away in seconds. "Oh bugger me," Crowley mutters, backing into Dean's chair.
Dean can see Crowley is nearly shaking in fear, but the demon still has enough presence of mind to reach back and fumble at the restraint, managing to tug the tongue out of the loop and nearly free of the buckle prong before the Archdemon -- Uphir -- raises a hand and makes a subtle gesture. Suddenly Crowley's posture changes completely, stiffly standing at attention with his hands at his sides. A sound that might be a whimper escapes him, and Dean realizes he's being held immobile by Uphir.
"What experiment?" Dean asks, his voice shaky. He clears his throat and repeats the question louder, looking up at the Archdemon with as much defiance as he can muster.
"Oh, just something we've been perfecting -- you see, normally angels can't be killed except by certain weapons, wielded by their own," Uphir explains. "Needless to say, we've found this aggravating and more than a little unfair. So, I've been working on a little something to, shall we say, level the playing field?"
"Oh shit..." Dean breathes, and Crowley whimpers again. Dean's gaze returns to the table and that bottle, then he looks up at the Archdemon again. "Well, neither of us are angels, so you don't need to try your poison on us."
Uphir laughs, and Dean shivers at that sound and the evil he can feel rolling off the Archdemon. "Oh, we already know it kills humans instantly, though I'd be interested to see if it affects you quite the same way. There are certain rumours I've heard about you..." An evil grin and a quirk of an eyebrow, then, "And we know it makes lesser demons incredibly, cripplingly sick." He turns his focus to Crowley again and asks, "But you're not just any demon, are you, Crowley? King of the Crossroads, I believe it was?" He laughs as Crowley whimpers again, than he turns to the table and picks up the bottle, turning it so the lights glint on it and clearly show that it moves on its own. Right now, it seems to be reaching for where Uphir is holding the bottle, thin gooey strands of it throwing themselves at the glass wall of the bottle.
Dean tears his attention away from the horror show in a bottle to lean down and tug at the half unfastened restraint with his teeth, finally managing to unbuckle it. With one hand loose he can free the other one quickly, and he hurries to do so even as Uphir is inserting an old-style hypodermic needle through the rubber stopper of the bottle and filling it with the viscous liquid.
He's free and standing up, wincing at the pain that explodes through the back of his head as he does so, just as Uphir turns back to them. "About time," the Archdemon murmurs, "I was starting to think all the tales were lies."
He waves his free hand, and Dean finds himself shoved aside as Crowley is unceremoniously dumped into the chair. "Crap!" Dean gasps, struggling against the Archdemon's power, watching helplessly as Uphir walks to Crowley and gestures at his arm. Crowley fights it, but raises his arm and unbuttons his cuffs, then rolls up his sleeves to bare the pale unmarked skin of his forearm.
"This might sting a bit," Uphir says with a look of anticipation that turns Dean's stomach. Then the Archdemon grabs Crowley's wrist and slides the needle in, injecting the poison into his veins. Uphir steps back and watches, then, smiling as black lines begin to appear, slowly spreading from the injection site. He finally releases his hold on Crowley and grins gleefully as the demon begins to scream.
"You sadistic bastard!" Dean snarls, trying to throw himself at the Archdemon and discovering that he's still being held immobile.
"Calm down, you'll get your turn," Uphir says, his attention still on Crowley and the slow progression of the poison's effects. "I thought it would work faster than that. Hmmn..."
"You bloody bastard," Crowley spits through clenched teeth, before clutching at his arm and letting out another scream. He doubles over in the chair, breathing hard and squeezing his arm just above the spread of the black lines, trying to keep it from going any further.
"Interesting," Uphir muses, "it's traveling along the blood vessels and the nerves. Fascinating. Must be why it's so excruciating. It is excruciating, isn't it?"
Dean's still struggling against the Archdemon's hold, hoping that his sadistic curiosity will make him lose concentration enough for him to grab something that could be used as a weapon from the table. But it's Crowley who manages to do something that might save them. As Uphir pulls his affected arm free from his grasp to study it, he sticks two fingers of his free hand in his mouth and gives a shrill, loud whistle. "You should know," he pants, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, "I raised him from a pup, and when I switched sides, so did he."
A ghostly howl sounds nearby, and Dean can't hide the shiver of fear that ripples through him, even though he knows the Hellhound is on their side. At least, as much on their side as something like that can be. Something big hurls itself against the door, and the entire wall of the room shakes. Another howl follows, then snarling and growling, and the sound of claws tearing at the cheap door. Suddenly Dean can move, but for a moment he's still frozen in terror, until Crowley lets out another agonized scream. That spurs him into motion, and he lunges for the instruments on the table at the same time that Uphir decides he needs to find a way to defend himself.
They collide into each other and their momentum sends them into the table itself, bringing it crashing down in a clatter of metallic objects and the chilling sound of shattering glass. Dean's too focused on reaching for a nice sharp blade he spotted to watch exactly what he's reaching over, until he feels something that gives the impression of strands of razor wire dipped in acid (and he should know) wrapping around his wrist and forearm. He gives a blood-curdling scream and tries to shake it off, but if anything it's climbing up his arm, sprouting out new tendrils that strain toward his neck and face. For a moment Uphir just sits there, mesmerized by his creation's reaction to Dean, then the door bursts open and the Archdemon flees, vanishing right before the Hellhound's teeth close on his throat.
Dean can't see the Hellhound of course, but he feels the large furry bulk bound past him and knows it's heading over to Crowley. But most of his attention is glued on how the hell he's going to keep the poison from getting to his face. Every part of his skin it's touching is on fire, every nerve screaming out in intense pain, and he can actually see thin streams of smoke rising from his seared flesh when the tendrils move. Somehow he manages to bite back the screams, and drag himself to his feet, desperately searching the room for his clothes. If he can just find his jacket...
He lets out a rough grunt of pain as the tendrils reach his shoulder and chest, but he also sees what he's looking for. He doesn't want to, but he has to use his free hand to grab the reaching tendrils and pull them away from his face, and then it's climbing its way up the other arm, too, flesh sizzling as it goes. He thanks god, or whatever, that he doesn't have any open wounds at the moment, because he's sure if this stuff gets into his bloodstream, he's done for. And then his hand closes on his jacket and he's leaving black smears on the fabric, but he finds the other flask in the pocket and pulls it out. "Suck on this, you demonic freak show," he mutters, uncapping the flask and pouring holy water over his arms and chest. For a moment nothing happens and he's terrified there wasn't enough, then the viscous black goo starts to turn grey and flaky, peeling away from his skin in chunks. It hurts -- it hurts so bad that after a long moment his body actually stops registering the pain. But not before he lets out a roar of agony that leaves his throat raw and makes the Hellhound growl threateningly.
"Tell me about it," Crowley hisses, and Dean can hear the pain in his voice. He's rapidly going numb, himself, and after he gathers up the rest of his clothes he walks back over to the chair and looks down at the demon. Crowley's shaking in pain and leaning against what must be the Hellhound while squeezing his arm once more. "Gimme your belt," he demands, and Dean stands there dumbly, staring at him as if he's just spoken in Aramaic. "Give me YOUR FRIGGING BELT!"
Dean shakes himself back to alertness and realizes what Crowley wants. "Yeah, got it. Can you take your jacket off?" he asks, pulling his belt out of the beltloops of his jeans. Huh. He should probably put those back on at some point.
"Bloody hell," Crowley mutters, tugging his jacket off and getting his sleeve out of the way by the simple expedient of ripping it off from the shoulder. "Damn it, I liked that shirt..." Then he grabs the belt and slides the end through the buckle, making a loop he can fasten himself since Dean seems to be shutting down. He slides it up his arm and is about to tighten it just below his elbow when Dean manages to snap out of it again.
"Above the joint," he says, reaching out to move the belt for Crowley. He tightens it, then points to a thin line that darkens and thickens as they watch, spreading into the blood vessels at the crook of his elbow. "Sorry..."
"No time for that now -- we're sitting ducks if we stay here. They're going to come back in numbers if that bloody restaurant was any indication..." He looks up at Dean again and shakes his head. "Gimme your keys."
"What? No!"
"Bloody hell I'm dealing with amateur hour. Look, your car's back at the steakhouse. You're turning the most unattractive shade of grey and I'm not bloody having you put us in a ditch. Now give me your bloody keys, and I'll get the car, bring it here, and DRIVE US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Dean stares at him for a long moment, then nods and hands him the keys.
"Good boy. Now get dressed, and wait outside -- keep Azi with you."
He's gone before he can hear Dean ask, "You named him Ozzy?"
In the ten minutes it takes for Crowley to return with the Impala, Dean finally manages to get dressed -- at least, he manages to get his jeans, socks and boots back on. When he tries to put his t-shirt on, the searing pain of the burns on his arms comes rushing back and he nearly blacks out from the intensity. He comes back to himself to find the Hellhound licking his face, and he's really glad there's no one around to hear the girly scream he lets out.
And then there's his jacket -- the black smears on it seem to be inert, but he's not really willing to find out it still has some fight left in it. He carefully empties out all the pockets, including the hidden ones, and leaves it there. The fact that Azi growls at it as they're leaving makes him think he made the right choice.
Once they're outside and safely hidden, he takes the time to inspect his wounds. Caustic chemical burns are the closest analogy he can think of, and he's pretty sure if he hadn't thought to use the holy water, it would have kept on burning all the way down to his bones. As it is, both forearms, the palm of his left hand, and all the way up to his right shoulder and upper chest are covered with an intricate, almost lacy network of the burns. It looks almost like some tribal tattoo of a rosebush design; branches and thorns from the climbing tendrils and thicker knotted areas where it stopped longer to secure its grip.
And oh god, it hurts. It's only his experiences in Hell that make it possible for him to keep going at this point. The pain is a constant searing fire, but after a while his brain and body just tune it out. Unfortunately, it makes him tune everything else out, too, and he doesn't hear the horn until the second honk.
Azi nudges him with his head, then growls, and he shakes himself awake again to hear Crowley yelling for him to get his damned ass in the car or he's leaving him there. He drags himself to his feet and pretty much falls into the passenger seat, and Crowley peels out before the door is even completely closed. As they speed away down the deserted road, he can hear enormous feet loping along beside them, keeping up with no trouble. Until the terrain gets too hilly, at which point there's a ghostly howl that trails off into the distance and Crowley nods. "He'll meet us there," he explains, glancing over to see Dean's curious look.
"How are you holding up?" Dean asks, and damn, his voice is rough.
"Apparently physical activity makes it travel faster," the demon answers with a frown. "And my bloody arm's going numb but I don't dare loosen the tourniquet."
"We're hours away from home..."
"Yeah, I know. Wasn't one of my smartest moves, going on this little jaunt with you..."
He drifts in and out of consciousness, knowing that at least twice he's been woken by a colourful string of curses and some dangerously erratic driving. And unless he's hallucinating, the scenery's been rushing by a lot faster than the Impala's safest top speed. The third time he's woken the same way, he looks over at Crowley to see the demon -- pale and sweating -- toss the belt into the back where his bag from the motel lies. "You got my bag, too?" he asks weakly.
"Didn't know if there was anything important in it, so I just grabbed the whole thing," Crowley explains. Then he glances at Dean and frowns. "You look like shit."
"Yeah, you don't look so hot yourself," he answers. Then he looks out again and frowns. "We're going slower."
"Yeah. I can either mojo us faster, or mojo this shit slower. Can't do both, and I can't put the bloody tourniquet around my neck..."
They speed past a streetlight, and Dean gets a good look at him; sees the black lines starting to snake out from under the collar of his shirt and up his neck. "Oh..."
"Yeah. I figure even if it doesn't kill me, if it reaches my brain we're done for..."
"Crap."
"Just... Let me concentrate on driving and stopping this stuff, and try to get some rest. Dunno if you're still in shock, but you've been spiking some pretty high temperatures..."
"I have?" Dean asks, shivering and automatically moving to rub his arms for warmth at the same instant Crowley reaches out to stop him.
"Don't!" But it's too late, and Dean doubles over in the seat, gasping in pain and nausea and wondering if blacking out might be a better idea.
It takes a longer moment than either of them are really comfortable with before the car's back under control, then Crowley says, "Let me focus on driving, Tiger. You focus on not vomiting on your upholstery." When Dean finally manages to straighten enough to look at the demon, he can see his jaw clenched in obvious strain and his eyes fully black. He's also pretty sure he's starting to hallucinate, because otherwise there are two small horns poking up through Crowley's disheveled hair...
About half an hour out of Kayenta there's a bang, then a flurry of cursing as the car careens wildly out of control. The horn blares and Dean flails wildly, struggling up out of a fever dream to find Crowley slumped into the steering wheel and the Impala heading on a collision course with a cactus. "Oh fuuuck!" he yells, trying to brace himself. There's a horrible crunch and a jolt of impact, and Dean kind of remembers pain and screaming, and then there's just the sound of the horn for a long moment.
Dean finally manages to claw his way back to consciousness and pulls Crowley back from the steering wheel. He gets one look at the sickly grey pallor of his skin and the creeping black lines making their way up his cheek, and knows there's no way either of them are getting back to Wickenburg without help. At least, not if they want to get there alive.
He reaches for his bag in the back and howls in pain as the seared skin of his burns stretches and in some places splits. He keeps reminding himself that it's his baby he's sitting in and throwing up is not an option, and finally he manages to grab the bag and haul it into the front. There's another flask of holy water in there, and he pours some of it over the burns, biting back a whimper at the pain. He'd see if Crowley could drink some if he were human, but that option's not open to them. Instead he caps the flask again and keeps it on the seat nearby, then rummages for his cellphone. He opens it and nearly faints from relief when he gets a signal.
He almost speed-dials Sam, but realizes his brother is most likely in the middle of something. Then he dials Cas -- voicemail, damn it, and he's really going to have to walk his angel through how to set that up... "Cas, it's Dean. I dunno where we really are -- up the road from Kayenta a bit and off the road up close and personal with a cactus... I'm sorry. If you can track Crowley, he's here. Otherwise, Dad can help you track the GPS."
He sighs and ends the call, then hits the newly programmed speed-dial 4. Voicemail again? "Dad? It's Dean. I fucked up. We're hurt. I'm gonna try for Archangels, but I dunno. You can trace my phone's GPS... We're somewhere near Kayenta." Yeah, he's getting more incoherent... He ends the call, then realizes the sun's getting higher in the sky and they're going to cook if they don't get shelter soon.
He stumble-falls out of the car, then makes his way around to the driver's side, trying not to cringe at the damage the cactus did, or the way one tire rim is bent thanks to their trip over rock and sand after the blow-out. Finally he gets the door open and pulls Crowley down out of the car and onto the ground beside the Impala. She'll shelter them from the sun for a bit more, but then it'll be right overhead...
By the time he's done with that, his arms are oozing and he's barely able to think from the pain. He flops down next to Crowley and closes his eyes; a few moments later shakes himself awake again. Yeah, it really is that desperate...
He scowls up at the sky and clears his throat, then feebly shouts, "Gabriel? Raziel? Raphael? We need help..."
