A Study In Blood 4/?
Sam and Dean stared at Castiel, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the angel had suddenly developed a sense of humor and that this all was some sick joke. Maybe it was just a coincidence that they had both been visited by Lucifer in their dreams, maybe it was just a coincidence that Castiel had shown up right at that exact moment.
But, as they stared at the angel’s face, they knew that it was real. Castiel looked like the poster child of hopelessness. His mouth was set in a straight line, lips pressed tightly together, eyebrows furrowed and his shoulders slumped.
The two brothers sat down on their beds. Dean rubbed his hand over his face and Sam stared at the floor, as if he were in a trance. After taking a few moments to let situation sink in-to really sink in-Dean cleared his throat.
“Where is Lucifer now?”
Castiel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“No ideas?”
Shaking his head, the angel sat down beside Dean on the bed. “Probably near-or inside-his vessel.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, duh!” he snapped as he turned his head to face Castiel. “Who’s his vessel?”
The angel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well what the hell do you know, Cas?!” Dean shot up off the bed and held up his hands, exasperated.
“Dean!” Sam interjected. “Give him a break. This wasn’t supposed to happen; it was supposed to be impossible for him to get out of that cage. There’s no way anyone could be prepared for it.”
“Is that true?” the elder brother asked Castiel. “You tools didn’t even plan for this?”
Castiel opened his mouth to argue-to say that Sam was right, that even if the angels had known that it was going to happen, there was nothing they could’ve done to ‘plan’ for it-but closed it before any words could escape. What could he say? Lucifer was an unstoppable force before, and now it seemed that he was even stronger.
“Plan for what?” Castiel retorted. “The second Apocalypse? Even if the higher angels did know Lucifer was going to be released from the cage, do you really think they’d tell me about it?”
“He’s got a point there, Dean,” Sam said as his eyes moved from Castiel to his brother. “After everything he did for us-”
Dean snorted. “Oh, right. The whole ‘being a martyr’ thing. Very noble.”
“Well, you would know better than anyone,” Castiel snapped at him.
Sam and Dean stared at Castiel, both stunned into silence. All things considered, the times that Castiel stood up for himself were few and far between.
Dean’s stare eventually hardened into a glare. “What did you say?”
“Dean, don’t!” Sam insisted, standing up and stepping between his brother and Castiel. “Pretty sure he could kick your ass.”
When Sam turned around to address Castiel-and, sort of, apologize for his brother’s words-he saw that the angel had vanished. At least, that was his initial thought, but then he caught site of a hunched figure sitting at the small table by the window, pouring over a book like his life depended on it. It was the Bible, and Castiel didn’t seem to be reading any of the words, only glancing at the pages before he turned to the next one.
Sam sat down across from him. “Looking for something?”
Castiel shook his head. “No. Reading my Father’s word comforts me in times of distress.”
The younger Winchester held his breath, fully expecting Dean to come back with a smartass remark, but none came. Instead, he’d settled down back onto his bed and closed his eyes.
“You’re reading it?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. You’re on each page for, like, a second!”
“Angels are able to obtain, and retain, information at greater capacities than humans.”
“But don’t you have it memorized?”
“Of course.”
“Would you two geeks shut up?!” Dean growled, dramatically throwing the pillow over his head.
Castiel lifted his eyes from the Bible and glanced at Dean for only a split-second. Soft snores immediately rose from the bed.
Sam looked from Dean to Castiel, and his brow frowned. “You put him to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” Sam mused. “That was…nice of you. I think.”
“You should lie down as well. I will put you to sleep.”
Sam did, and Castiel willed him to sleep. As the Winchester brothers slept the rest of the night away, Castiel read the Bible and prayed, and prayed, and prayed.
Dean slept for five hours. His eyes cracked open lazily, and the first thing they focused on was Castiel, who was still sitting at the table. He had his fingers interlaced together, his elbows on the table, his head resting on his hands, eyes closed, in a very human expression of praying. His lips were moving, and when Dean focused on them, he could hear a soft, rumbling whisper escaping from the angel, although he couldn’t make out the words.
Dean pulled the covers off his body and waved his hand to get Castiel’s attention. It didn’t work. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and, after waving his hand again, cleared his throat. Castiel’s blue eyes snapped open and locked onto Dean.
Dean glanced over his shoulder to find Sam, and saw him sleeping on the opposite bed. Satisfied that they wouldn’t be eavesdropped on, he apologized to Castiel.
“Cas, hey. I’m sorry, all right? I know you’re helping as much as you can. It’s just…” he shook his head, distraught at his own thoughts and feelings. “Now it’s like everything that we went through was pointless, you know?”
Castiel nodded. “You don’t have to apologize, Dean. I understand. What I don’t understand is why God is allowing this to happen.”
Dean shrugs carelessly. He’d never thought about why God was allowing it to happen. He didn’t even believe in the possibility of God until he’d met Castiel, and he still wasn’t sure if the man-or, the thing-existed. “Well,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “you heard what Joshua said. God didn’t care the first time. Why would he now?”
“I just can’t accept that…that he would…that he wouldn’t…” Castiel cut off his sentence, shaking his head in resignation.
Dean saw something familiar on the angel’s face. Betrayal. Heartbreak. He’d suffered the same at the hands of his own father. “You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you? Look, maybe…maybe you just need to accept that your dad isn’t the guy you thought he was.”
The frown on Castiel’s lips, and the one on his brow, deepened. “My Father-”
“Your father was fine with the fact that Lucifer got busted out of his cage. Your father was fine that nearly seven billion people were gonna die. He’s fine that Purgatory’s been opened up, and he’s fine that you angels are going all civil-war on each other. Cas, he doesn’t sound like a father. He sounds like a dick.”
Castiel didn’t respond, and Dean was kind of glad for that. He’d never been good at chick flick moments, as Sam was well aware. He would listen to someone talk until they were blue in the face, but when it came to offering advice or comfort…that wasn’t his forte.
“I spoke with Balthazar while you were asleep,” the angel announced. “He was unaware that Lucifer has been freed.”
Dean nodded. A second later, his brain caught up with his ears.
“What?!”
The inquiry was shouted, and Sam rolled over in his sleep but, fortunately, didn’t wake up. Dean sat down at the table with Castiel and scooted his chair closer so that they were touching. Castiel watched him curiously, his expression clearly asking, what was that you were saying about personal space?
“What the hell do you mean, he was unaware? How is that possible? You knew the instant Lucifer got out; why didn’t he?”
“I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t know.”
Dean had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out with another smartass comment. He took a deep breath. “What about the other angels? Do they know?”
Castiel sighed. “I’m not sure. He told me that their behavior hasn’t been altered, which is…not possible. If they knew Lucifer was free, they would be on…‘red alert’.”
Dean felt himself smiling despite the grimness of the situation. “Red alert, huh?”
The angel nodded. “Yes.”
“So…why do you know? Why would you feel it and not them? Do you think that it could be, um…an attack? Is it possible that Raphael and his dudes are just making you think that Lucifer’s out?”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “But you and Sam-”
“We think we saw him,” Dean interrupted. “We could’ve been dreaming. Could they have messed with our minds like that? Make us think that we were really seeing him? Or even just make us dream about him? You gotta admit, it would make for one hell of a distraction.”
“Yes, it would. But I don’t believe that’s what’s happening.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not sure. I just…know.”
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and took slow, deep breaths. Castiel continued to stare at him. His eyes followed Dean’s hand as it went from the table to his nose, then back to the table. Dean looked at him and their eyes met.
“What the hell is going on, Cas?”
Castiel looked away from Dean and out the window, where sunlight was pouring down from the sky. His response was candid and terse.
“I wish I knew.”
Sherlock tried to be quiet, he really did, but John’s mother-hen ears were a force to be reckoned with. As soon as he’d cracked open their front door, John was standing a few behind him, clearing his throat, arms crossed across his chest.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock heaved a sigh and bit his tongue.
Damn it.
Turning around slowly, he was met with John’s scolding expression.
“John?”
John stepped closer to Sherlock. “Would you mind telling me,” he said, his voice rising with intensity and volume, “just where the hell you think you’re going off to?”
Sherlock cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “Mummy? Is that you in there?”
“This isn’t funny, Sherlock! I’m serious. You’re in no condition to be wondering off. Especially by yourself!”
Sherlock couldn’t argue with that. He hadn’t slept or eaten for the past five days and had experienced six seizures and had hallucinated four times. He always saw the same imagery, always heard the same sounds, always smelled the same smells, always felt the same feelings. His skin was as white as paste and he felt awful-sluggish.
Scared.
Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in Hell before, but the hallucinations he had experienced had been just that-hellish, both in the literal and figurative sense of the word. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames flickering around him and heard the booming, piercing screams. He felt the blood flowing from his fingertips, the heat from the flames burning his skin.
Every time he opened his eyes, he saw John staring at him, with the most worried, yet concerned, expression that Sherlock had ever witnessed. John tended to his every need, whether that meant getting him something to drink, getting his laptop, sending a text, anything he needed, John was more than happy to provide.
Now the man stood before him, scowling.
“Well?”
Sherlock looked away from John. Even with pride and reputation, John was the one person whom he couldn’t stand to be disappointed with him.
“I know where he is.”
That got John’s attention immediately. His mouth dropped open slightly and he again moved closer to his flat mate. His brow furrowed and his head shook in disbelief, awe. “…How?” His voice was hushed, as if speaking too loudly would suddenly make the statement false.
Sherlock couldn’t explain how he knew. He just did. He’d been sitting staring out the window, trying to focus on the rain falling from the sky, the people running along the street, the cabs stopping and starting as they picked up passengers, anything other than his hallucinations, and suddenly, it had come to him. In his mind, he saw the image of a seven-story, broken down, abandoned warehouse, one he knew to be located in East London. Along with the image had come a single word:
Moriarty.
The detective shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just know.”
“You’re not…you’re not sure? You mean you’re guessing? I thought you didn’t guess?”
“I don’t!” Sherlock snapped. “John, I can’t explain it. But I know he’s going to be there…and I know I have to stop him.”
John scoffed. “Oh. Right. Of course. It makes perfect sense that almost two years of radio silence, you suddenly just ‘know’ where he is. Coincidentally, it happens shortly after you start having unexplainable hallucinations and seizures. Right.”
Sherlock shifted his weight impatiently. “Your point, John?”
“My point, Sherlock, is that something is wrong with you. Very, very wrong. You need to go to a hospital.”
“I’ve already been.”
“Yes, well you need to go back. I’m a doctor, and I have not the slightest idea what’s wrong with you. You need to see a specialist.”
“No, what I need to do is stop Moriarty!” Sherlock lunged forward and put his hands on John’s shoulders, gripping them tightly. “I’ve been looking for him for two years, and whenever I’ve gotten close, he’s vanished. This is my chance!”
John frowned. “You’re not in any condition to-”
“That doesn’t matter!” Sherlock growled. “Wake up, John! You know how powerful this man is. He’s eluded me since we met him at the pool. This is it.”
John’s brow furrowed further, but he knew that Sherlock was right. Jim Moriarty was a killing machine, without ever leaving his desk. He orchestrated many of the crimes that were committed in London; he fed off of chaos and pain. A consulting criminal, he’d called himself.
“Have you called Lestrade?”
Sherlock shook his head and let his hands slide off John’s shoulders, visibly relieved that his friend was seeing things his way. “No, there’s no need.”
John looked at him curiously. “No need?”
“He’ll be alone,” Sherlock explained as he pulled on his gloves.
“Uh-huh,” John said, clearly not convinced. “And, uh, how-how do you know this?” Before Sherlock could answer, he said, “Oh, let me guess-you just know.”
“Yes.”
John uncrossed his arms and stroked his chin, eyes closed in thought. When he opened them again, they were hard and determined.
“I’m coming with you.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, John, I don’t-”
“Either I come, or you don’t go,” John interrupted. “I’m bloody worried about you, all right? You can’t expect me to stay at home while you go wondering around London looking to confront a serial killer!”
Sherlock smirked at that. “Oh, John,” he said as he wrapped his navy scarf around his neck, “he’s so much more than that.”
John, to his surprise, wasn’t all that shocked when Sherlock ordered the cabbie to the location of one of London’s oldest warehouses. He had never believed in psychic powers, but he also trusted Sherlock, and that trust was stronger than his doubts. It was one of the strangest buildings John had ever seen-tall, beige, with windows on the front only, and with a single door. The windows didn’t start until the second floor, which left the one door as the only ‘safe’ means of exiting-no wonder the place had closed down.
The cab dropped them off about a hundred meters away. As they were walking towards the structure, Sherlock briefed John on the plan. “I’m going to go in,” he said. “I want you to wait out here.”
John stropped and gripped Sherlock’s arm, forcing him to stop. “Whoa, whoa, no way. No. I’m not-”
“You can stand out here and stop him if he tries to escape,” Sherlock explained. “Look at it-he’s not going to jump out of one of those windows without hurting himself. If, for whatever reason, I can’t stop him, you can jump him when he leaves. That door is the only exit.”
“And what if he, oh, I don’t know, shoots you?” John spat. “Is it really worth it? Just let me come with you! I can make sure from inside-”
“No, John!” Sherlock interrupted, jerking his arm free from John’s grip, “you can’t.”
“Why not?!”
“Because that night at the pool was enough, all right?” Sherlock growled. His blazing gray eyes locked onto John’s. “It was enough, John.”
John could have asked him to go into more detail, but he didn’t. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and without his consent, the memory of the pool flashed back into his mind. He remembered walking into the pool, bombs strapped to his chest. He remembered Sherlock turning and staring at him, a look of utter betrayal and confusion etched onto his face. Then Moriarty had entered, and the two geniuses had started their sarcastic, almost flirtatious banter. Even though Sherlock was finally meeting the one person on Earth he considered to be his equal, he still made a point of it to glance at John every few seconds to check on him, even asking him, ‘You all right?’.
And then Moriarty was gone.
Sherlock was on his knees in an instant, tearing the explosives off of John’s body, asking him if he was okay and even getting a bit snappy when John didn’t respond immediately. John had thought that, perhaps, Sherlock had felt guilty about what had happened, but the detective had never again brought it up, so John didn’t, either.
John felt himself nodding. All logic told him that this was a bad idea, but he knew that Sherlock couldn’t live with himself if they had a repeat of their first confrontation with Moriarty. Part of him was touched, and part of him was terrified.
“Fine,” he told his friend. “Yes, fine. Just be careful, okay?”
Sherlock smirked. “I’m always careful.”