Supernatural: took a turn into dead end street and lost our way (5/8)
Title: took a turn into dead end street and lost our way
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel pre-slash, 2014!Castiel, Sam, Bobby, S6 guest character
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean gets a strange call from Cas saying that he's stranded on the side of the road. When Dean gets there he finds a very confused and starting-to-get-the-shakes 2014 Cas. At first Dean thinks this was his chance to make up for his future self's screw ups, but it becomes clear this isn't just good luck: there's been a switch. And unless he can find a third option, Dean's facing a godawful choice: either he sends 2014!Cas back to certain death or he leaves "his" Cas stranded in a Croat-ridden wasteland, alone and at Lucifer's mercy.
Word Count: 1634
Total Word Count: 7369
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: Interestingly enough, I get the urge to write whenever I'm saddled down with tons of projects and shit. Finally I've got this out of my system and can get back to actual work. See you two months later, guys. (Or hopefully less.)
The look on Bobby's face reminded Dean why he really, really hadn't wanted to do this. The vision of that blasted, desolate future hadn't exactly been something he was all fired up to shout from the rooftops, and now the two closest people in his life knew-people who in the first time round had not lived to see that future. Briefly, the overturned, bloody wheelchair flashed in front of Dean, and he hoped no one noticed when his hands shook and his eyes lingered on Bobby in a stare that bordered on stalker territory. If Bobby noticed, he didn't press Dean when he failed to elaborate or fudged over details. The promise to Sam burned in the back of his mind. What was the point of knowing? Dean knew what it was like to live life on a deadline, and it sucked. The future had changed, but there was always that whisper of what if, what if. Dean let on only as much as Bobby needed to understand the present situation, and that was that.
At the end of it, Bobby shook his head and looked at the kitchen, where Sam was standing guard over Cass-and, with no pretense at subtlety, guarding Bobby's stash of alcohol from him. "Poor bastard," he muttered. Then, with uncanny precision he asked the one question that had been plaguing Dean the whole car ride: "Sure it's good for them to see each other?"
Dean winced, leaning away as though Bobby had scored that bull's eye literally as well as metaphorically. He pushed his fingers into his hair and sighed, mouth twisting wryly. "I'm not thrilled about this myself, but if there's any danger Cass-damn it, the angel Cass-needs to know about, I can't let him go flapping about in the dark. Plus I figure he can do his freaky angel mojo-" like he did for me-"and help Cass-human Cass- catch a break. At this point, I'm out of ideas short of raiding the closest pharmacy."
Bobby snorted at that. "As if I'd allow that sort of thing under my roof. You're not doing him any favors, dragging him up and down the road like that. You ain't exactly a doctor licensed to care for a recovering addict, you know."
"Well, it's not like I can just dump him in the closest rehab with demons and angels after him!" Dean snapped back in frustration. Realizing his hair was standing on end from all the tugging, he smoothed it down and strived for calm. "He's…not in a good state, Bobby."
Bobby sighed. "I guess we're doing this, then."
Dean forced a smile, mostly for Bobby's benefit. Right now, he felt so drained he couldn't be wrung out enough to fill a thimble. "Thanks," he said quietly, catching one-handed the keys that Bobby tossed at him.
Bobby grunted, jerking his head towards the library. "C'mon. I think I still have some of those books laid out."
The spell failed.
No goddamn fanfare, no thunder and lightning disgorging an angel in a trenchcoat in need of a serious attitude readjustment. No shadow wings or cryptic talk.
They had all come a long way since then. Dean didn't like to dwell too long on it. The angel he'd first met had not been happy, but he had not been unhappy either, what with holy missions and Heavenly purpose and all that crap giving him direction in life. Yanking that out from under his feet-Dean imagined sometimes that it had to feel akin to the time the doubt had started to worm into him that John Winchester could, at times, actually be not in the right.
With a deliberate effort, Dean stopped thinking about it. He stared at the book in Bobby's hands, at the strange whorls and curves of the symbols scrawling across the yellowed pages. Bobby's expression dissuaded him from asking if anything had gone wrong. This spell had far better range and reception than the cheap-ass phone in Cass' pocket. Dean couldn't even whip out the lame scuba-diving excuse to reassure himself.
They waited some more. Absolutely nothing continued to happen.
Sam spoke flatly from where he had been poised with an angel blade, waiting to smite any uninvited guests. "Okay. So what now?"
"This was your idea, big guy," Dean sniped back at him to hide his worry. "So…what now?"
"This was our best lead," Sam said, a frown scrunching his forehead. "I don't like that our Cass isn't answering our calls. There's something wrong…"
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Dean muttered.
Sam very obviously resisted the urge to reach over and slap him upside the head. "Cass blasts back from the future, and suddenly our Cass straight up vanishes? There must be a connection." He rolled the angel knife absently between his palms, staring at the glint of light as it travelled up and down the blade. "I wonder…"
"Well, spit it out," Dean said, growing antsy at Sam's verbal pussyfooting. "You were so eager to share with the class before."
Sam stood. "I want to do some research first. Have to make sure my hypothesis is right." He walked out, while Dean scowled at his retreating back.
"He's just trying to help, idjit," Bobby said, rolling up behind him and punctuating his words with a sharp poke. "While Sam hits the books, go on and make sure Cass doesn't puke onto my bed sheets. He'll enjoy the company." The unspoken he'll need it resounded between them.
The dreams were getting worse.
Cass just stared whenever Dean asked, until he forced himself to shut up on the topic. Uncomfortably, he was reminded of Sam trying to pry him out of his Hell-induced shell; guy would speak when he found the words for it, and right now it was enough that he was there providing non-judgmental silence and tons of ice water and caffeine on hand. Great, just hook up the recovering junkie up with a new addiction. Cass absolutely refused to sleep though, even if it would kill him doing it; to say he looked like warmed-over death would actually be a compliment.
He was pacing up and down the length of his room when Dean found him, eyes trained firmly on the ground under his feet. "It didn't work," he announced flatly before Dean could even open his mouth.
Dean leaned against the doorway. "Dude, even when you're human you're still reading my mind. How did you know?"
Cass gave him the merest trace of a smirk that was soon wiped off by the jumpy twitch of his facial muscles. "I didn't. This was one case where I hoped you would prove me wrong, shockingly enough." He sighed with a sound like a rusty hinge in a breeze. "However, it was not unexpected."
"First Sam, now you." Dean rolled his eyes. "Any chance one of you will stop speaking in riddles and let me in on what's actually going on?"
"Trust me, I'm doing you a favor here," Cass said. "Sam will figure it out. You will too, if you haven't already-you're just too stubborn an idiot not to see what's staring you straight in the eyes."
"Thank you." Dean folded his arms. "Well, what I see right now is someone who doesn't know when he's elbow-deep in shit creek. You aren't in good shape, Cass. If you've figured out something that can help us help you-"
Cass just shook his head, smiling weirdly. "Nothing can help," he said in a whisper that barely made it into Dean's hearing range. "Absolutely nothing will help."
Then he added, "Well, if I get myself roaring shit-faced drunk-"
"You'll regret it in the morning," Dean said, but only half-heartedly. More and more, it seemed almost cruel to deny Cass the oblivion he so desperately craved. It was the freaking Apocalypse, for God's sake. If there ever was a time for a man to drug or fuck himself into blissful stupor like there was no tomorrow, this was it. It wasn't like Cass had any meaningful life left to poison away.
"There are more hours in a day than there are mornings left," Cass murmured, the smirk flashing quicksilver across his mouth again-this time as a knife that cut both ways. "Listen to me. What must you think of me, Dean?"
Sad. Hollow. Pathetic. Dean looked away like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, but even without his angel powers Cass was as capable of reading him as ever. "You were hoping for your angel friend to come and fix me up, am I right?" He let out a light, amused chuckle that tore at Dean. "He can take this away." Dean looked back to see Cass touching his head. "But he can't take this away." Cass touched his chest, his fingers turning briefly into claws as a spasm rippled up his arm. "It'll happen again. You know."
Dean thought of the fire, the chains, the knife. Sometimes he could still feel all that as though it had happened yesterday. He knew. Hell had breached him at some deep, fundamental level and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put him back together again. Castiel had tried, though. He had tried.
A hand took his arm. Cass leaned against his shoulder, far too light for a man of his age and size, but still solid and warm and alive. "Still, if you insist on playing nursemaid, I'm hungry," he said as though they had only been discussing the weather. "I'm glad I came back, if it was only for the food."
He would probably throw it all up again, but Dean wasted no time in leading the way. It was the least he could do.
end part five
part six