Supernatural FIC: Something Ventured
Title: Something Ventured
Author: guardian_chaos
Rating: Strong PG-13, or possibly mild R
Words: 4000-ish.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Castiel, future!Dean, future!Castiel. Cameos from Chuck and Gabriel.
Genre: angst, friendship, hurt/comfort, future!fic
Spoilers: for 7x17 ("The Born-Again Identity") and all of 5x04 (“The End”).
Warnings: non-explicit references to past non-con (OC/Cas), drug use, and some violence.
Author's Note: "The End" universe. Ah, such a cheery, happy place. I wrote this fic before seeing 7x21, so details in this may deviate slightly from that episode. This fic was mostly an exercise, and highly experimental.
Author's Note (2): If you're looking for slightly less experimental end!Verse fic, I recommend my fic, " Implicit (as in Trust)," instead. That's one of the fanworks I'm most proud of. :)
Summary: Dean swears that the future Zachariah once showed him will never come to pass, but sometimes he looks at Cas and can see how easily it could.
* * *
This is how the end of almost everything starts, though Dean won’t be aware for at least a year of what is happening. Castiel sits next to him on the hospital bed, one of the angel’s hands curled loosely around a small cup of multicolored pills and the other around a reflective glass of water. The mental ward is calm for once, with no screaming and no restless pacing of other patients in the hallways, and Castiel is more lucid than he has been in weeks.
“I will only require the use of these for another month or so,” Castiel says, his elbow a soft warmth against Dean’s shoulder as the angel tips the pills into his mouth and washes them down with the glass-clear water. Gold sunlight reflects on his skin, chasing shadows away in his sparkling blue eyes. “After that, my grace will have healed me sufficiently that they will no longer be necessary.”
“That’s good, Cas.” Dean leans back on his elbows, his heels kicking the feet of the bed so that it moves marginally beneath them both. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but I like you best when Lucifer’s not riding your coattails.” The sheets against his arms are aged but soft, little pills of lint in their pastel-colored folds. They speak of comfort and of safety, and despite himself Dean finds himself relaxing.
Only a few inches from his side, Castiel sits straight-backed in his trench coat and white hospital clothes, ever the soldier even in this quiet moment. Shadows still linger in his eyes, but he seems to be managing them well. The hospital they are in seems to have done Castiel a world full of good.
“Regarding that, I must agree with you.” Castiel’s eyes are distant but tranquil as he takes another sip from his cup of reflected light and water. “I will find it pleasant to be able to leave this place.”
Dean says the thoughts that are in his head, though he isn’t sure if he should. Sometimes, he still catches himself feeling amazed that Cas has survived the past few years at all. “Well, it’ll be good to have you back with us.”
Castiel’s smile is warm and nonjudgmental, an oasis of calm to fight off the storms of yesteryears. “It will be good to be back, Dean.”
A faint wind drifts through the window, which has been lifted just an inch to let in the warmth of summer. Castiel shuts his eyes and basks inside of the heat and the light. Shadows drift away from his perception as the medication starts to take effect, and the quiet whispers of Lucifer become nothing more than breaths. Dean’s presence at his side is a far greater weight, both on his human senses and on his more angelic ones. Castiel also knows that Sam is on his way back from the cafeteria, and will bring with him warm beverages: coffee for dean, and tea for Castiel.
Nothing seems wrong. No, nothing at all.
* * *
The wall in Sam’s head, restored by Castiel’s interference in a way they had all assumed to be permanent, does not hold. A year later, Sam’s memories of Hell explode like stars bursting behind his eyes, flames shot miles high in a single skull until he is a weeping mess who cannot remember who he is. Sam’s memories of what Lucifer had done to him in the pit are far stronger than his memories of his own life, and they threaten to tear him apart.
Perhaps it is a defensive reaction that convinces Sam he is not Sam, the victim who had been so utterly tortured in so many ways, but rather Lucifer, the one who willingly chose to bestow this torture he remembers so vividly.
Sam, believing himself to be Lucifer, acts accordingly. The carnage following is unspeakable, and Castiel teams up with Dean to try to stop it, but they do not succeed, nor can even track down Sam for any long period of time. Meanwhile, the Leviathans release a devastating virus that sweeps over most of the population, killing millions. Among those who still live, some begin to rot and then go mad, though they can still breathe.
The virus, they learn, is called Croatoan. In that terror-stricken moment, Dean tells Castiel of a dream once given to him by Zachariah that foretold the very future they seem to have found themselves within, and of how the both of them might change into people they don’t want to become.
“You are wrong. Our destinies can yet be altered,” Castiel insists, echoing earlier words from a life that doesn’t quite feel like his own at all. “We can still change what will happen to us both."
Dean sits on a hotel bed opposite Castiel’s own bed and regards the angel with a pained, lost expression. He clearly remembers these words, as they had been spoken to him years prior. Though the words have changed hardly at all, the one who is speaking them has changed so unbelievably much. He rubs at his forehead with a gruff, irritated sigh. "Cas, it is not that friggin' simple."
"You say that you have seen this future before, and the version of yourself who lived within it?" Castiel clutches the rough bedsheets beneath him, while outside, they can hear the repeating gong of church bells ringing. The bells ring every night at precisely the same time, as a sign that the city has not yet been overcome by those infected by the Croatoan virus. Castiel predicts, in an unnerving, hyper-aware corner of his mind, that the bells will stop being rung in a matter of days. He frowns, continuing, "Then refuse to be what your future self was. Choose to do something significant in a way that is different from how he would have acted, and a different path will arise as a consequence.”
Dean looks away, to the wall, but then looks back at Castiel, and Castiel feels an abrupt, urgent tugging in his chest that he has only ever felt before when breaking rules that would defy the course of destiny itself. He sees Dean's face close off as the hunter seems to come to a decision about what he is about to do.
In one life, Dean gets up from his bed, bridges the gap between them, and envelops Castiel in a hug. This is unusual, as Dean does not do this. The hold is tight and uncomfortable, the smell of Dean’s fear and worries about the future concentrated deeply within the flesh of the shoulder Castiel finds his nose pressed into. Still, Castiel raises his arms to wrap them around Dean, knowing about -- if not being well practiced in -- the art of hugging to provide comfort for another. He tells Dean that he is sorry, and Dean, after a brief pause, tells him that he is sorry, too.
In another life, Dean only bites his tongue, wraps his blankets tightly around himself, and turns away from Castiel without another word. There is nothing to be said that will ever make losing Sam tolerable, and so he will not trouble Cas, who is quite possibly his last remaining friend, with a problem that will never go away. If only one of them must suffer, Dean thinks, it will be Dean himself. So be it.
* * *
Castiel finds himself haunted by the loss of Sam Winchester as he and Dean sit in the rubble of an abandoned house that Sam and a hoard of demons have just put a lot of effort into destroying. The ceiling is gone, rays of moonlight burning against shattered support beams, and the stink of sulfur is overpowering in the air.
Sam’s sleeping head rests in Dean’s lap while Castiel stands, trembling, against a charcoal black wall a few feet away from the two brothers. He has spent too much of his energy trying to protect Dean from the demons and Sam’s attempts to kill them both, his grace feels like it is nearly gone, and neither he nor Dean knows what to do right now. All Castiel knows is that he can barely breathe, that the remnants of his grace are not sustaining him well enough to keep out the whispers of hallucinations in his head, that he has lost a friend, and that Dean is not looking at him.
“Dean.” The name bubbles up from Castiel’s chest like a prayer, popping and drifting empty in the air, sent to no one. Castiel feels skinned alive and there are shadows moving through the building that he knows are not there. He had been convinced the medication to keep him from hallucinating was no longer necessary, that in the past two years he had healed enough to block these images out, but they do not go, no matter how much he blinks. “Dean, please help me.”
The world lurches in every direction, and it takes Castiel a full minute to realize the distortion was caused by himself falling facedown against a cement floor, helpless and caught by no one.
His last memory of this moment is Dean’s hand on his back, pressing deep into the space where invisible wings meet frail, vulnerable human flesh. He feels, in the space of a single heartbeat, that a piercing gaze has caught him, but then it vanishes, along with his sight, like a twirl of smoke getting sucked into the sky.
In one life, Dean is grateful that Cas had been able to just knock Sam out, rather than outright killing him. He remembers Castiel’s future and the way his future self had treated him there, remembers the way it had seemed that drugged-up, hippie version of his friend might have toppled over if a harsh wind struck him funny. The memory gentles Dean’s hands as he eases Castiel’s body into the air, allowing Castiel’s bloodied face to rest against his shoulder as they tumble out of the building together.
In another life, Dean blames Castiel for Sam’s being broken to begin with. He grasps Castiel’s body a little too tightly when he lifts the angel from the floor, and his hands shake with the effort it takes him not to drop the angel back into the rubble of this god-forsaken building. He sees where Castiel broke his nose, and it disgusts him because Castiel should be stronger than this, but he isn’t anymore. When Dean carries the unconscious angel out of the building, it is with a sense of resignation, because of all the people he had once had in his old life, only himself and Castiel still remain.
Behind Dean and the unconscious Castiel in his arms, Risa and the rest of their tattered group of non-Croatoan-infected humans gather to haul Sam’s unconscious body from the floor. Sam may not be recoverable, but Dean knows he has to try.
* * *
Sam escapes from Camp Chitaqua pretty quickly after he wakes up there. Dean had expected this, but the blow is no less painful for having seen it coming. Dean finds very little comfort in the fact that the casualties resulting from Sam's escape were minimal, for all that Dean can focus on is that he has just lost a brother, and he does not think he will be able to get him back again.
Buried under the weight of this realization, Dean retreats to his own hut to be alone. He stays there for nearly a month, hardly speaking to anyone else in the camp. Cas visits sometimes, under the guise of discussing camp matters that are too desperate to be left untended to, though it is painfully obvious that Castiel's true aim is to try to help Dean snap out of his growing depression. Ultimately, however, Castiel realizes it is best to leave Dean alone with his grief. Before he does, he tells Dean, "I will be here when you need me again."
In one life, Castiel's words are a soft comfort, gentle in the air, and Dean thanks his friend before the angel leaves him to go back to his own hut.
In another life, Dean reminds himself that if he can find a way to survive without Sam, surely he can manage to survive without anyone else, too.
No more than a week later, Castiel seems to grow tired of waiting and bodily drags Dean back to the world of the living. This is for once not in literal terms, but no less important this time than when it was. Forced to talk to and issue orders in person to the camp inhabitants Castiel parades Dean around to meet with, Dean is not sure if he should resent the angel or thank him profusely. Castiel, as patient as a saint, never makes Dean decide, only stands by his side as they try, together and with their ragtag group of the world's leftover population, to survive the world's fall into decay.
* * *
Dean finds quickly, through his interactions as a leader in Camp Chitaqua, that most of those living in the camp don’t seem to like Castiel very much. So many blame angels for having started the war that eventually led to the ruined world, and Castiel in particular for having held the very creatures that had brought the Croatoan virus upon the human race. For his part, Castiel is kind to -- if a little distant from -- nearly all of Chitaqua’s inhabitants, but Dean still sees that there are certain members of the camp who only approach Castiel with anger, no matter how silent the angel is being in their presence. Whenever possible, Dean intercedes, but he can’t be in all places at all times.
Sometimes, the attacks are just verbal. Dean has heard so many insults regarding Castiel’s social ineptitude that it’s a wonder Castiel hasn’t just stopped talking altogether. Some also mock Castiel’s apparent unease when he is not wearing his coat, especially when the coat reaches a point of being so dirtied that it becomes nearly unrecognizable from the days when Castiel could repair the coat with merely a thought. Still others dislike Cas for being immune to the Croatoan virus, as their own lives -- as well as the lives of their friends and their families -- are constantly threatened by it.
On occasion, the attacks against Castiel become physical. More than once, Castiel appears inside of Dean’s hut to simply lie on the bed there, his face or arms or whatever else had been touched on him purpled by bruises he doesn’t seem to care much about healing. When asked, he tells Dean not to be concerned. That if he really did not wish to be harmed, he would not allow it. That he is merely acting as an outlet for aggression that would otherwise be directed at those who really could not defend themselves. That Dean has more important concerns to worry about.
The fights bother Dean, but he knows people need to be trained to defend themselves in one way or another, especially now, and he also knows Castiel has grown to be a rather adept fighter and can take care of himself just fine. As far as Dean can tell from the various bruises he sees on the bodies of other members of Camp Chitaqua the mornings after these fights, Castiel always gives as well as he gets, while still not leaving any lasting damage. Castiel’s own bruises, however, always seem to last longer than anyone else’s.
When Dean corners Castiel in his hut one night to confront him about this, demanding he stop letting people hurt him for the sake of whatever sick entertainment he seems to get out of it, Castiel’s response is to shove Dean, hard, against a wall. The angel just stands there then, shaking, his palms pressed flat against Dean’s chest to hold him back as Dean’s eyes boggle at the display of force.
“Stop,” Castiel chokes in a voice that is entirely not like him, his head bowed low and his fingers twitching around the fabric of Dean’s jacket. “Don’t-don’t.”
In one life, Dean takes this moment of physical closeness to notice the bruises around Castiel’s neck that look like handprints, and the way Castiel flinches to the side when Dean lifts his hands to rest them on Castiel’s wrists.
He asks, quietly, for Castiel to tell him if there is more going on than simple fighting, and Castiel, with a violent shudder than racks his body like a clothesline caught in a thunderstorm, falls forward and lets his almost hysterical breathing tell the story for him.
The morning after, the man Dean had assigned as Castiel’s roommate wakes up to a bullet through his head. That same day, Dean moves all of Castiel’s things into Dean’s own hut, and Castiel moves in with Dean, rumors be damned.
In another life, Dean shoves Castiel’s hands off, furious at having been practically struck by the angel, and Castiel’s flinch gets lost in the way he stumbles to take a step back.
“Oh, forgive me,” Castiel snaps, just before turning to storm out, “I didn’t intend to be a bother.”
Nothing will be fixed until weeks later, but by that point, what is in Castiel’s head is so dark and so terrifying that he’s begun to over-medicate to avoid it, a habit he never really steps away from.
By the time Dean realizes what is causing Castiel’s sudden mental decline, and then dealt with Castiel’s roommate accordingly, it is painfully apparent that his actions came too little, and too late.
* * *
Dean makes life a living Hell from then on out for anyone who dares to speak against Castiel. He tells them that there wouldn't even be a world to watch being destroyed if it weren't for Cas having saved it so many times. Anyone who refuses to be kind to Castiel after this speech gets kicked out of the camp. Dean is beyond giving a damn, at this point. Gradually, everyone at Camp Chitaqua gets the hint:
Castiel is not to be mocked or harmed, ever, and if anyone does so, Dean's wrath will rain down on their head and be even worse than the destruction waiting for anyone beyond the boundaries of their camp. Castiel doesn't know how to respond to this, nor does he acknowledge the change in any way. He just continues to act as kindly to people as he always has. He goes on raids sometimes, and he learns how to shoot guns and drive trucks because of the number of people who are suddenly eager to gain his favor.
Other times, Castiel just sits in Dean's hut and rolls a bottle of pills between his palms, voices that aren't there whispering in his ears about the things that have been done to him during the nights his weakening body wasn't able to hold off its newfound need for sleep. Dean watches the exchanges and they way they carve Castiel's face into terrible, frozen shapes. Dean can only ever see Castiel's side of each hallucinated conversation, and feels guilty that he doesn't know how to make them go away.
Hoping to provide a distraction for Castiel, Dean makes sure that Chuck spends a lot of time with him, especially when Dean needs to leave the camp for any significant period of time. The once-prophet may be annoying at times, but Dean still considers Chuck to be trustworthy, plus his constant babbling is sometimes even enough to draw away Castiel's attention from the shadows in his head that have been there ever since his grace began to ebb away, leaving plenty of space for poisonous images to fester.
"Of all the angels we could've gotten to stay with us," Chuck comments one day, after finishing a twenty-minute complaining rant about the lack of hot water pressure in their camp. He's sitting next to Castiel on the floor in Cas and Dean's hut, while Dean is off on some raid somewhere. Chuck and Castiel are sharing a can of tuna that Chuck has brought to try to get Castiel to eat something, and they are both eating from it using just their fingers, "I'm glad it's you, Cas. You know that, right? I always liked you in my stories, even when you were all scary and stuff. You're good company."
Castiel sighs, his mouth full of the taste of fish and his body innocently warm where Chuck's arm is leaning against him to wield the tuna can. This sort of physical contact, Castiel thinks, is far nicer than other kinds. "I am glad you still believe that to be true."
In one life, it will take Castiel a while to recover, but some things do get better over time. Every now and then, he leaves his own bed and sleeps beside Dean because it makes Castiel feel safe from endless whispers and the feeling of rough hands around his neck. His and Dean's bodies stay separated by their own, individual blankets, leaving a small gulf of space between them that they never cross, but they still share warmth, and Dean will sometimes reach across the distance to rub Castiel’s back until they both fall asleep.
It’s not the greatest way to live, but it’s more peaceful than it could be, at least.
In another life, the Castiel Dean invites to stay in his hut spends a great deal of his time staring at the floor between his bare feet, and downing too many pills. He and Dean don't really speak to each other, and Dean tries to give Castiel space because neither one knows how to make that strange sense of unfamiliarity go away.
Eventually, perhaps driven mad by a silence in which only hallucinated voices and stray thoughts can be heard, Castiel just leaves. The angel jumps around from hut to hut, convincing himself he likes to be touched because he can think of no other reason why he is letting what is happening actually happen to him. His reputation starts to precede him, but he finds himself beyond the ability to care. With too many drugs comes a lack of inhibition, which others seem to like. Stories about Castiel’s exploits run rampant through the camp, following his drugged stagger with every step.
Sometimes, when he is particularly high and there is a soft, gentle hand running down his shoulders, he can feel a tingling in his back that almost feels like feathers poking out from his spine, soft and easy and free of consequences.
The feeling never lasts.
* * *
Turns out, as is revealed late in the year 2014, Gabriel's not dead after all. The angel visits one paralyzingly cold December night, to find Castiel sleeping. The cold outside, while brutal to Camp Chitaqua's inhabitants and their limited abilities to provide themselves with heat, has also served the purpose of slowing the random rampages of those infected with the Croatoan virus. As a result, even though the camp is freezing, the quiet is also somewhat of a relief.
In one life, Castiel wakes up instantly, Dean's sleeping hand still on the back of his neck because Castiel had been having nightmares all night long and Dean had fallen asleep trying to calm him down. Castiel mistakes Gabriel for one of his hallucinations for only a brief second before what is left of his angelic senses kick in and he knows, with bone-deep certainty, that it is his brother rather than any fabrication that stands before him now.
"Heya, bro!" Gabriel croons, with a smile that ends in a strange, half-there wobble, "Yeah, I know, I'm not dead. Trickster. Y'know how it goes." He points at himself, as if this is a sufficient explanation. "Has the end of the world been sucking for you, too? At least you've got your friend there to help you carry on, that's sweet. And important. Don't ask me why; I'll never tell." He shakes his finger. "But it is. Don't worry, I've knocked him out cold, but he'll be fine in an hour. Anyway, what do you say we try to blow this popsical stand and try to change it all back, hmm? I'm not really favoring the end of this movie too much, and I suspect you aren't, either."
In another life, Castiel is too drugged to even notice when Gabriel appears, and certainly too drugged to have been aware even if he had woken up that Gabriel's decision to help or not help restore humanity's dominance over the world will rely incredibly much on the way humanity has treated Castiel, the only truly fallen angel left in the care of human kind.
Castiel, smelling sharply of smoke and buried in the arms of people who don't care about him, doesn't wake up. Gabriel goes back to heaven. Sam as Lucifer keeps walking the world, and the Croatoan plague follows him everywhere he goes.
* * *
Years before any of this is given a chance to happen, Dean drinks slightly too-cold coffee at the foot of Castiel's hospital bed, while Sam crams his tall frame into the space beside Castiel so that the two of them can sit together against the headboard. Castiel, while leaning against Sam's shoulder, sips his chamomile tea with calm delight, amazed that Sam had noticed even this small beverage preference that Castiel had developed in the short amount of time that he had spent with Daphne as a faith healer. All three of them are sharing a pie that sits in the center of the bed, filling the brightly lit room with the scent of blueberries.
Dean jolts violently up from the bed when a rush of wind slams against the walls, coalescing into Gabriel's familiar, smirking shape in the center of the room. The shock is great enough that Dean has his gun whipped out before he is even consciously aware of having done so, as does Sam.
"You!" Dean and Sam cry as one, already leaping to actions their bodies haven't decided on yet. They, as well as Castiel, demand at about the same time how Gabriel could possibly alive, which he waves away with a swing of his wrist.
"Oh, stop panicking, that is going to get tiresome really quickly." Gabriel smirks, his hands held extravagantly out from his sides. "All you need to know is, surprise! I'm still kicking! Gloriously, I might add." Brushing past Dean with ease, Gabriel pats Castiel on the side of the face. "Hey, little bro, did you miss me?"
Castiel's expression is one of desperate, somewhat confused hope as he grabs Gabriel's hand from the air to hold it tightly. "You're supposed to be dead."
"A lot of things are supposed to happen," Gabriel says, his eyes locked on his brother's startled gaze, "but that doesn't mean they will. I skipped ahead, saw where this is all going. Gotta tell you, I really don't like it one bit, so I decided to reveal myself a few years earlier than I'd originally planned. You don't mind if I fix up your head right now instead of later, do you? I'm on a bit of a schedule crunch, you understand. No time like the present to fix a screwed up future."
* * *
And so it goes.
Some of that one possible future may come to be.
None of the other possible future ever comes to be.
Many, many directions are possible, and absolutely nothing has ever been set.
~5/04/2012
Author: guardian_chaos
Rating: Strong PG-13, or possibly mild R
Words: 4000-ish.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Castiel, future!Dean, future!Castiel. Cameos from Chuck and Gabriel.
Genre: angst, friendship, hurt/comfort, future!fic
Spoilers: for 7x17 ("The Born-Again Identity") and all of 5x04 (“The End”).
Warnings: non-explicit references to past non-con (OC/Cas), drug use, and some violence.
Author's Note: "The End" universe. Ah, such a cheery, happy place. I wrote this fic before seeing 7x21, so details in this may deviate slightly from that episode. This fic was mostly an exercise, and highly experimental.
Author's Note (2): If you're looking for slightly less experimental end!Verse fic, I recommend my fic, " Implicit (as in Trust)," instead. That's one of the fanworks I'm most proud of. :)
Summary: Dean swears that the future Zachariah once showed him will never come to pass, but sometimes he looks at Cas and can see how easily it could.
* * *
This is how the end of almost everything starts, though Dean won’t be aware for at least a year of what is happening. Castiel sits next to him on the hospital bed, one of the angel’s hands curled loosely around a small cup of multicolored pills and the other around a reflective glass of water. The mental ward is calm for once, with no screaming and no restless pacing of other patients in the hallways, and Castiel is more lucid than he has been in weeks.
“I will only require the use of these for another month or so,” Castiel says, his elbow a soft warmth against Dean’s shoulder as the angel tips the pills into his mouth and washes them down with the glass-clear water. Gold sunlight reflects on his skin, chasing shadows away in his sparkling blue eyes. “After that, my grace will have healed me sufficiently that they will no longer be necessary.”
“That’s good, Cas.” Dean leans back on his elbows, his heels kicking the feet of the bed so that it moves marginally beneath them both. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but I like you best when Lucifer’s not riding your coattails.” The sheets against his arms are aged but soft, little pills of lint in their pastel-colored folds. They speak of comfort and of safety, and despite himself Dean finds himself relaxing.
Only a few inches from his side, Castiel sits straight-backed in his trench coat and white hospital clothes, ever the soldier even in this quiet moment. Shadows still linger in his eyes, but he seems to be managing them well. The hospital they are in seems to have done Castiel a world full of good.
“Regarding that, I must agree with you.” Castiel’s eyes are distant but tranquil as he takes another sip from his cup of reflected light and water. “I will find it pleasant to be able to leave this place.”
Dean says the thoughts that are in his head, though he isn’t sure if he should. Sometimes, he still catches himself feeling amazed that Cas has survived the past few years at all. “Well, it’ll be good to have you back with us.”
Castiel’s smile is warm and nonjudgmental, an oasis of calm to fight off the storms of yesteryears. “It will be good to be back, Dean.”
A faint wind drifts through the window, which has been lifted just an inch to let in the warmth of summer. Castiel shuts his eyes and basks inside of the heat and the light. Shadows drift away from his perception as the medication starts to take effect, and the quiet whispers of Lucifer become nothing more than breaths. Dean’s presence at his side is a far greater weight, both on his human senses and on his more angelic ones. Castiel also knows that Sam is on his way back from the cafeteria, and will bring with him warm beverages: coffee for dean, and tea for Castiel.
Nothing seems wrong. No, nothing at all.
* * *
The wall in Sam’s head, restored by Castiel’s interference in a way they had all assumed to be permanent, does not hold. A year later, Sam’s memories of Hell explode like stars bursting behind his eyes, flames shot miles high in a single skull until he is a weeping mess who cannot remember who he is. Sam’s memories of what Lucifer had done to him in the pit are far stronger than his memories of his own life, and they threaten to tear him apart.
Perhaps it is a defensive reaction that convinces Sam he is not Sam, the victim who had been so utterly tortured in so many ways, but rather Lucifer, the one who willingly chose to bestow this torture he remembers so vividly.
Sam, believing himself to be Lucifer, acts accordingly. The carnage following is unspeakable, and Castiel teams up with Dean to try to stop it, but they do not succeed, nor can even track down Sam for any long period of time. Meanwhile, the Leviathans release a devastating virus that sweeps over most of the population, killing millions. Among those who still live, some begin to rot and then go mad, though they can still breathe.
The virus, they learn, is called Croatoan. In that terror-stricken moment, Dean tells Castiel of a dream once given to him by Zachariah that foretold the very future they seem to have found themselves within, and of how the both of them might change into people they don’t want to become.
“You are wrong. Our destinies can yet be altered,” Castiel insists, echoing earlier words from a life that doesn’t quite feel like his own at all. “We can still change what will happen to us both."
Dean sits on a hotel bed opposite Castiel’s own bed and regards the angel with a pained, lost expression. He clearly remembers these words, as they had been spoken to him years prior. Though the words have changed hardly at all, the one who is speaking them has changed so unbelievably much. He rubs at his forehead with a gruff, irritated sigh. "Cas, it is not that friggin' simple."
"You say that you have seen this future before, and the version of yourself who lived within it?" Castiel clutches the rough bedsheets beneath him, while outside, they can hear the repeating gong of church bells ringing. The bells ring every night at precisely the same time, as a sign that the city has not yet been overcome by those infected by the Croatoan virus. Castiel predicts, in an unnerving, hyper-aware corner of his mind, that the bells will stop being rung in a matter of days. He frowns, continuing, "Then refuse to be what your future self was. Choose to do something significant in a way that is different from how he would have acted, and a different path will arise as a consequence.”
Dean looks away, to the wall, but then looks back at Castiel, and Castiel feels an abrupt, urgent tugging in his chest that he has only ever felt before when breaking rules that would defy the course of destiny itself. He sees Dean's face close off as the hunter seems to come to a decision about what he is about to do.
In one life, Dean gets up from his bed, bridges the gap between them, and envelops Castiel in a hug. This is unusual, as Dean does not do this. The hold is tight and uncomfortable, the smell of Dean’s fear and worries about the future concentrated deeply within the flesh of the shoulder Castiel finds his nose pressed into. Still, Castiel raises his arms to wrap them around Dean, knowing about -- if not being well practiced in -- the art of hugging to provide comfort for another. He tells Dean that he is sorry, and Dean, after a brief pause, tells him that he is sorry, too.
In another life, Dean only bites his tongue, wraps his blankets tightly around himself, and turns away from Castiel without another word. There is nothing to be said that will ever make losing Sam tolerable, and so he will not trouble Cas, who is quite possibly his last remaining friend, with a problem that will never go away. If only one of them must suffer, Dean thinks, it will be Dean himself. So be it.
* * *
Castiel finds himself haunted by the loss of Sam Winchester as he and Dean sit in the rubble of an abandoned house that Sam and a hoard of demons have just put a lot of effort into destroying. The ceiling is gone, rays of moonlight burning against shattered support beams, and the stink of sulfur is overpowering in the air.
Sam’s sleeping head rests in Dean’s lap while Castiel stands, trembling, against a charcoal black wall a few feet away from the two brothers. He has spent too much of his energy trying to protect Dean from the demons and Sam’s attempts to kill them both, his grace feels like it is nearly gone, and neither he nor Dean knows what to do right now. All Castiel knows is that he can barely breathe, that the remnants of his grace are not sustaining him well enough to keep out the whispers of hallucinations in his head, that he has lost a friend, and that Dean is not looking at him.
“Dean.” The name bubbles up from Castiel’s chest like a prayer, popping and drifting empty in the air, sent to no one. Castiel feels skinned alive and there are shadows moving through the building that he knows are not there. He had been convinced the medication to keep him from hallucinating was no longer necessary, that in the past two years he had healed enough to block these images out, but they do not go, no matter how much he blinks. “Dean, please help me.”
The world lurches in every direction, and it takes Castiel a full minute to realize the distortion was caused by himself falling facedown against a cement floor, helpless and caught by no one.
His last memory of this moment is Dean’s hand on his back, pressing deep into the space where invisible wings meet frail, vulnerable human flesh. He feels, in the space of a single heartbeat, that a piercing gaze has caught him, but then it vanishes, along with his sight, like a twirl of smoke getting sucked into the sky.
In one life, Dean is grateful that Cas had been able to just knock Sam out, rather than outright killing him. He remembers Castiel’s future and the way his future self had treated him there, remembers the way it had seemed that drugged-up, hippie version of his friend might have toppled over if a harsh wind struck him funny. The memory gentles Dean’s hands as he eases Castiel’s body into the air, allowing Castiel’s bloodied face to rest against his shoulder as they tumble out of the building together.
In another life, Dean blames Castiel for Sam’s being broken to begin with. He grasps Castiel’s body a little too tightly when he lifts the angel from the floor, and his hands shake with the effort it takes him not to drop the angel back into the rubble of this god-forsaken building. He sees where Castiel broke his nose, and it disgusts him because Castiel should be stronger than this, but he isn’t anymore. When Dean carries the unconscious angel out of the building, it is with a sense of resignation, because of all the people he had once had in his old life, only himself and Castiel still remain.
Behind Dean and the unconscious Castiel in his arms, Risa and the rest of their tattered group of non-Croatoan-infected humans gather to haul Sam’s unconscious body from the floor. Sam may not be recoverable, but Dean knows he has to try.
* * *
Sam escapes from Camp Chitaqua pretty quickly after he wakes up there. Dean had expected this, but the blow is no less painful for having seen it coming. Dean finds very little comfort in the fact that the casualties resulting from Sam's escape were minimal, for all that Dean can focus on is that he has just lost a brother, and he does not think he will be able to get him back again.
Buried under the weight of this realization, Dean retreats to his own hut to be alone. He stays there for nearly a month, hardly speaking to anyone else in the camp. Cas visits sometimes, under the guise of discussing camp matters that are too desperate to be left untended to, though it is painfully obvious that Castiel's true aim is to try to help Dean snap out of his growing depression. Ultimately, however, Castiel realizes it is best to leave Dean alone with his grief. Before he does, he tells Dean, "I will be here when you need me again."
In one life, Castiel's words are a soft comfort, gentle in the air, and Dean thanks his friend before the angel leaves him to go back to his own hut.
In another life, Dean reminds himself that if he can find a way to survive without Sam, surely he can manage to survive without anyone else, too.
No more than a week later, Castiel seems to grow tired of waiting and bodily drags Dean back to the world of the living. This is for once not in literal terms, but no less important this time than when it was. Forced to talk to and issue orders in person to the camp inhabitants Castiel parades Dean around to meet with, Dean is not sure if he should resent the angel or thank him profusely. Castiel, as patient as a saint, never makes Dean decide, only stands by his side as they try, together and with their ragtag group of the world's leftover population, to survive the world's fall into decay.
* * *
Dean finds quickly, through his interactions as a leader in Camp Chitaqua, that most of those living in the camp don’t seem to like Castiel very much. So many blame angels for having started the war that eventually led to the ruined world, and Castiel in particular for having held the very creatures that had brought the Croatoan virus upon the human race. For his part, Castiel is kind to -- if a little distant from -- nearly all of Chitaqua’s inhabitants, but Dean still sees that there are certain members of the camp who only approach Castiel with anger, no matter how silent the angel is being in their presence. Whenever possible, Dean intercedes, but he can’t be in all places at all times.
Sometimes, the attacks are just verbal. Dean has heard so many insults regarding Castiel’s social ineptitude that it’s a wonder Castiel hasn’t just stopped talking altogether. Some also mock Castiel’s apparent unease when he is not wearing his coat, especially when the coat reaches a point of being so dirtied that it becomes nearly unrecognizable from the days when Castiel could repair the coat with merely a thought. Still others dislike Cas for being immune to the Croatoan virus, as their own lives -- as well as the lives of their friends and their families -- are constantly threatened by it.
On occasion, the attacks against Castiel become physical. More than once, Castiel appears inside of Dean’s hut to simply lie on the bed there, his face or arms or whatever else had been touched on him purpled by bruises he doesn’t seem to care much about healing. When asked, he tells Dean not to be concerned. That if he really did not wish to be harmed, he would not allow it. That he is merely acting as an outlet for aggression that would otherwise be directed at those who really could not defend themselves. That Dean has more important concerns to worry about.
The fights bother Dean, but he knows people need to be trained to defend themselves in one way or another, especially now, and he also knows Castiel has grown to be a rather adept fighter and can take care of himself just fine. As far as Dean can tell from the various bruises he sees on the bodies of other members of Camp Chitaqua the mornings after these fights, Castiel always gives as well as he gets, while still not leaving any lasting damage. Castiel’s own bruises, however, always seem to last longer than anyone else’s.
When Dean corners Castiel in his hut one night to confront him about this, demanding he stop letting people hurt him for the sake of whatever sick entertainment he seems to get out of it, Castiel’s response is to shove Dean, hard, against a wall. The angel just stands there then, shaking, his palms pressed flat against Dean’s chest to hold him back as Dean’s eyes boggle at the display of force.
“Stop,” Castiel chokes in a voice that is entirely not like him, his head bowed low and his fingers twitching around the fabric of Dean’s jacket. “Don’t-don’t.”
In one life, Dean takes this moment of physical closeness to notice the bruises around Castiel’s neck that look like handprints, and the way Castiel flinches to the side when Dean lifts his hands to rest them on Castiel’s wrists.
He asks, quietly, for Castiel to tell him if there is more going on than simple fighting, and Castiel, with a violent shudder than racks his body like a clothesline caught in a thunderstorm, falls forward and lets his almost hysterical breathing tell the story for him.
The morning after, the man Dean had assigned as Castiel’s roommate wakes up to a bullet through his head. That same day, Dean moves all of Castiel’s things into Dean’s own hut, and Castiel moves in with Dean, rumors be damned.
In another life, Dean shoves Castiel’s hands off, furious at having been practically struck by the angel, and Castiel’s flinch gets lost in the way he stumbles to take a step back.
“Oh, forgive me,” Castiel snaps, just before turning to storm out, “I didn’t intend to be a bother.”
Nothing will be fixed until weeks later, but by that point, what is in Castiel’s head is so dark and so terrifying that he’s begun to over-medicate to avoid it, a habit he never really steps away from.
By the time Dean realizes what is causing Castiel’s sudden mental decline, and then dealt with Castiel’s roommate accordingly, it is painfully apparent that his actions came too little, and too late.
* * *
Dean makes life a living Hell from then on out for anyone who dares to speak against Castiel. He tells them that there wouldn't even be a world to watch being destroyed if it weren't for Cas having saved it so many times. Anyone who refuses to be kind to Castiel after this speech gets kicked out of the camp. Dean is beyond giving a damn, at this point. Gradually, everyone at Camp Chitaqua gets the hint:
Castiel is not to be mocked or harmed, ever, and if anyone does so, Dean's wrath will rain down on their head and be even worse than the destruction waiting for anyone beyond the boundaries of their camp. Castiel doesn't know how to respond to this, nor does he acknowledge the change in any way. He just continues to act as kindly to people as he always has. He goes on raids sometimes, and he learns how to shoot guns and drive trucks because of the number of people who are suddenly eager to gain his favor.
Other times, Castiel just sits in Dean's hut and rolls a bottle of pills between his palms, voices that aren't there whispering in his ears about the things that have been done to him during the nights his weakening body wasn't able to hold off its newfound need for sleep. Dean watches the exchanges and they way they carve Castiel's face into terrible, frozen shapes. Dean can only ever see Castiel's side of each hallucinated conversation, and feels guilty that he doesn't know how to make them go away.
Hoping to provide a distraction for Castiel, Dean makes sure that Chuck spends a lot of time with him, especially when Dean needs to leave the camp for any significant period of time. The once-prophet may be annoying at times, but Dean still considers Chuck to be trustworthy, plus his constant babbling is sometimes even enough to draw away Castiel's attention from the shadows in his head that have been there ever since his grace began to ebb away, leaving plenty of space for poisonous images to fester.
"Of all the angels we could've gotten to stay with us," Chuck comments one day, after finishing a twenty-minute complaining rant about the lack of hot water pressure in their camp. He's sitting next to Castiel on the floor in Cas and Dean's hut, while Dean is off on some raid somewhere. Chuck and Castiel are sharing a can of tuna that Chuck has brought to try to get Castiel to eat something, and they are both eating from it using just their fingers, "I'm glad it's you, Cas. You know that, right? I always liked you in my stories, even when you were all scary and stuff. You're good company."
Castiel sighs, his mouth full of the taste of fish and his body innocently warm where Chuck's arm is leaning against him to wield the tuna can. This sort of physical contact, Castiel thinks, is far nicer than other kinds. "I am glad you still believe that to be true."
In one life, it will take Castiel a while to recover, but some things do get better over time. Every now and then, he leaves his own bed and sleeps beside Dean because it makes Castiel feel safe from endless whispers and the feeling of rough hands around his neck. His and Dean's bodies stay separated by their own, individual blankets, leaving a small gulf of space between them that they never cross, but they still share warmth, and Dean will sometimes reach across the distance to rub Castiel’s back until they both fall asleep.
It’s not the greatest way to live, but it’s more peaceful than it could be, at least.
In another life, the Castiel Dean invites to stay in his hut spends a great deal of his time staring at the floor between his bare feet, and downing too many pills. He and Dean don't really speak to each other, and Dean tries to give Castiel space because neither one knows how to make that strange sense of unfamiliarity go away.
Eventually, perhaps driven mad by a silence in which only hallucinated voices and stray thoughts can be heard, Castiel just leaves. The angel jumps around from hut to hut, convincing himself he likes to be touched because he can think of no other reason why he is letting what is happening actually happen to him. His reputation starts to precede him, but he finds himself beyond the ability to care. With too many drugs comes a lack of inhibition, which others seem to like. Stories about Castiel’s exploits run rampant through the camp, following his drugged stagger with every step.
Sometimes, when he is particularly high and there is a soft, gentle hand running down his shoulders, he can feel a tingling in his back that almost feels like feathers poking out from his spine, soft and easy and free of consequences.
The feeling never lasts.
* * *
Turns out, as is revealed late in the year 2014, Gabriel's not dead after all. The angel visits one paralyzingly cold December night, to find Castiel sleeping. The cold outside, while brutal to Camp Chitaqua's inhabitants and their limited abilities to provide themselves with heat, has also served the purpose of slowing the random rampages of those infected with the Croatoan virus. As a result, even though the camp is freezing, the quiet is also somewhat of a relief.
In one life, Castiel wakes up instantly, Dean's sleeping hand still on the back of his neck because Castiel had been having nightmares all night long and Dean had fallen asleep trying to calm him down. Castiel mistakes Gabriel for one of his hallucinations for only a brief second before what is left of his angelic senses kick in and he knows, with bone-deep certainty, that it is his brother rather than any fabrication that stands before him now.
"Heya, bro!" Gabriel croons, with a smile that ends in a strange, half-there wobble, "Yeah, I know, I'm not dead. Trickster. Y'know how it goes." He points at himself, as if this is a sufficient explanation. "Has the end of the world been sucking for you, too? At least you've got your friend there to help you carry on, that's sweet. And important. Don't ask me why; I'll never tell." He shakes his finger. "But it is. Don't worry, I've knocked him out cold, but he'll be fine in an hour. Anyway, what do you say we try to blow this popsical stand and try to change it all back, hmm? I'm not really favoring the end of this movie too much, and I suspect you aren't, either."
In another life, Castiel is too drugged to even notice when Gabriel appears, and certainly too drugged to have been aware even if he had woken up that Gabriel's decision to help or not help restore humanity's dominance over the world will rely incredibly much on the way humanity has treated Castiel, the only truly fallen angel left in the care of human kind.
Castiel, smelling sharply of smoke and buried in the arms of people who don't care about him, doesn't wake up. Gabriel goes back to heaven. Sam as Lucifer keeps walking the world, and the Croatoan plague follows him everywhere he goes.
* * *
Years before any of this is given a chance to happen, Dean drinks slightly too-cold coffee at the foot of Castiel's hospital bed, while Sam crams his tall frame into the space beside Castiel so that the two of them can sit together against the headboard. Castiel, while leaning against Sam's shoulder, sips his chamomile tea with calm delight, amazed that Sam had noticed even this small beverage preference that Castiel had developed in the short amount of time that he had spent with Daphne as a faith healer. All three of them are sharing a pie that sits in the center of the bed, filling the brightly lit room with the scent of blueberries.
Dean jolts violently up from the bed when a rush of wind slams against the walls, coalescing into Gabriel's familiar, smirking shape in the center of the room. The shock is great enough that Dean has his gun whipped out before he is even consciously aware of having done so, as does Sam.
"You!" Dean and Sam cry as one, already leaping to actions their bodies haven't decided on yet. They, as well as Castiel, demand at about the same time how Gabriel could possibly alive, which he waves away with a swing of his wrist.
"Oh, stop panicking, that is going to get tiresome really quickly." Gabriel smirks, his hands held extravagantly out from his sides. "All you need to know is, surprise! I'm still kicking! Gloriously, I might add." Brushing past Dean with ease, Gabriel pats Castiel on the side of the face. "Hey, little bro, did you miss me?"
Castiel's expression is one of desperate, somewhat confused hope as he grabs Gabriel's hand from the air to hold it tightly. "You're supposed to be dead."
"A lot of things are supposed to happen," Gabriel says, his eyes locked on his brother's startled gaze, "but that doesn't mean they will. I skipped ahead, saw where this is all going. Gotta tell you, I really don't like it one bit, so I decided to reveal myself a few years earlier than I'd originally planned. You don't mind if I fix up your head right now instead of later, do you? I'm on a bit of a schedule crunch, you understand. No time like the present to fix a screwed up future."
* * *
And so it goes.
Some of that one possible future may come to be.
None of the other possible future ever comes to be.
Many, many directions are possible, and absolutely nothing has ever been set.
~5/04/2012