FIC: Supernatural: Recrudesence 11 - 17
Whatsoever I've feared has come to life.
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life.
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile,
Sunspots have faded, and now I'm doing time
’Cause I fell on black days.
Whomsoever I've cured, I've sickened now.
Whomsoever I've cradled, I've put you down.
I'm a search light soul they say, but I can't see it in the night.
I'm only faking when I get it right.
’Cause I fell on black days.
How would I know that this could be my fate?
~Soundgarden - Fell On Black Days
_______________________________________________________________________
*
Something was following him.
Castiel had rested for a small amount of time, just enough to both gather his strength and to make absolutely sure Raphael and his ilk were truly gone. Then he had moved.
It had gone with him, trailing him, always just out or reach of his senses - like an itch he couldn’t reach.
It followed him relentlessly… until he reached his final destination.
The Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Over thirty-thousand acres of pure salt. Inaccessible for demons; and featureless enough that a human scryer wouldn’t be able to pin point an exact location. It was an image he had pulled from Samuel’s fractured thoughts as he’d healed him - Sam had kept this place in reserve for a time when he and Dean really needed to hide. Well, Castiel really needed it now. It lacked only protection from angels.
Which could be rectified.
Castiel dug out a flat area, twice the size of the rings. He placed them in the exact center of the hollow and traced an Enochian ward around them using holy oil. The salt burned yellow, melted, and went out. It cooled into a brown glasslike etching. One Castiel, nor any other angel, could reach across. Castiel then carefully pushed more salt over the symbol and the rings, covering them both.
Then he did it again, adding a second ward that expanded the ‘invisible fence’, as Dean would have phrased it, a further five-hundred feet back. Then a third time, the diameter now nearly a half-mile wide.
It was well done. Castiel himself could no longer reach the rings, which meant that they were beyond the reach of all angels and demons. When this was over, he would bring Dean here so that he could retrieve them. Until then, they were moderately safe. He was pleased.
The irritating itch had stopped as soon as he entered the salt-fields, which only confirmed what it had been. He wasn’t worried as he moved on. There were more powerful beings searching for his location then that glad-fly of a demon buzzing around.
He needed a safe place to meet the Winchesters. Someplace that offered some protection against the angels who were waiting for a chance at them. A chance to tell Dean and Sam truths that Castiel had never spoken. A chance to break Dean’s faith in him, cause him to run and leave the rings venerable. Castiel needed someplace that might give him time to tell Dean what he really was, and allow the human to decide his own path. He was done with treading on the freewill of others. Dean would know all. And Raphael could no longer threaten him with exposure of the truth.
When the truth has become a weapon to your enemies, it is easy enough to loosen their grips. And in doing so, become stronger.
Eventually he called Dean, to tell him when and where they could meet.
*
The cheeseburger was cold, but it didn’t matter. It was just food. He tore off another bite and chewed and swallowed. Dean had finally given it to him after he’d washed up at a rest stop somewhere. He didn’t know where. He didn’t know where they were now either. He waited…but there wasn’t any urge to ask. So he didn’t.
Besides, Dean and Bobby were talking.
“Why the hell did the angel want to meet you there?” Bobby asked. He sounded confused. “St. Boniface Church? That’s on the west side, right? There’s nothing on that side of this city. Why doesn’t he just meet up with us when we stop?”
He heard the words, and he understood them, but they flowed around him - happy little noises in an impossible reality. He enjoyed them absently, like birdsong on a warm day.
“Look, I don’t know why, okay? He said he was being followed before, so he may be trying to shake them. Also, he wants to talk to me.” Dean’s hands flexed on the steering wheel…Sam saw it, noted it, ate his burger. Just like he saw the pointed look Dean gave Bobby in the rearview mirror, the ‘don’t upset Sam’ look. After that, Sam kept his eyes carefully focused on the blackness churning outside his window as he chewed.
Vaguely he wished it was daylight. He wasn’t scared of the dark, there was nothing to be scared of. The dark was just…night, and not near as dark as…. But he liked the sun. The heat of it. Truth was, he didn’t need it though. He was just tired of being cold. It made him feel…numb.
The world was so…flat. Stale. Meaningless. Colors were only bright, never deep, never poignant. The sun was only hot, never warming. The stars were only there, never beautiful. They were only distractions. There was no point to any of it.
He hurt. There was a gapping, shrieking wound that was throbbing inside him, constantly. A darkness deeper than night and colder than….
It was real. It was there. And it was the only thing he could feel, fully.
And even it didn’t matter.
(He always hurt.)
He finished the rest of the burger mechanically, absently rubbing at the aching that went so much deeper than his flesh.
“Look,” Dean continued. “It’s been one hell of a day. Let’s find a motel, bed down, and I’ll go get Cas, okay?” He shot a concerned look in Sam’s direction, watching him dig at the muscles of his chest. Sam ignored it.
Dean looked uneasy. In the back, Bobby nodded. “That might be for the best.”
He really wanted another Coke. He’d never really liked it before, but now the acidic-sweetness of it seemed almost to have flavor.
He felt a touch, and looked down to see Dean pulling his hand away from his chest. “Stitches itching?” Dean asked, not unsympathetically.
“No,” he answered honestly, and looked back out the window. Dean could have his hand, if he wanted.
Nobody else was touching him. Ever.
The thought was raw and red, fearful and furious…and faded back into the cold, sharp white that filled the back of his mind quickly enough so that he didn’t really feel it much.
Dean turned him loose. The dark churned restlessly outside the windows. And neither thing mattered.
They drove for awhile. Then there was a motel. And Dean dropped him and Bobby off, departing with an obviously anxious look. “Ten minutes. I swear. We’ll be back in ten.” Sam wondered who he was trying to reassure, them or himself.
The door slammed, and he put it aside. For now. The gapping wound in the center of him was churning restlessly - voices and thoughts and images sliding up and fading away like a brief glimpse of snowflakes as they fell from white clouds into white, cold ground…brief and perfect and cold and cutting. And they vanished as fast as they appeared. Inside he was a swirl of cold and white and a storm that wanted to bury him. No, not bury him. It wanted to tear him open, tear his very self apart and crawl through what was left - loose itself on the word, turn all of reality into that same twisting, cutting cold…
He shuddered, forcing his eyes open. He was here. Here.
(He was never there.)
The whole in him shrieked. He shivered.
Bobby had turned away from the door. He sighed, watching Sam standing stiffly and shaking. He shifted nervously, but you had to hand it to the guy - he wasn’t running. “You want to watch some TV?” Bobby asked.
He didn’t want anything, but Sam sat on one bed while Bobby flicked on the TV. Bobby watched for awhile, got bored, got up for the bathroom with a magazine and a warning: “I locked the door. Don’t leave this room.”
Sam watched him. Willing him to go away. He was a disturbance. It wasn’t that Sam didn’t appreciate having Bobby around, but he…it was too much. He’d been alone for so long (he was always alone) that he wasn’t sure how to handle being with others.
And it was so…disconcerting. He’d seen Dean and Bobby before. It had kept him strong, kept him fighting, to see them, to know they lived and continued. He’d known, known it would make Sam stronger, that he would struggle harder with something to survive for, that he wouldn’t give completely into despair if he remembered his sacrifice had a purpose. So he’d let Sam see them every once in while…and it worked; he’d been stronger than the other vessel. It had helped Sam survive, which had helped him prevail more often then not. He’d let him see…see but never be seen. Never touch, never hold, never communicate, never be with.
And now…he wasn’t sure how to do it anymore.
He needed some time. He... the hole in him was demanding his attention, and he couldn’t fight it with Bobby in the room. He couldn’t give in with someone watching. Couldn’t show weakness.
And he really needed…to not have to ignore this - just for a little while.
Bobby shifted uncomfortably, obviously unhappy with Sam’s lack of response, then, finally, went into the bathroom.
Good.
Sam allowed his eyes to close once Bobby was out of the room. Bitter teeth were tearing into him from the inside, dripping acid like drool. The hollow ache was roaring still, a sucking black hole in the very center of him that was so cold it burned. It was demanding his attention, his focus, stealing his control away in little bits and pieces… enjoying his agony. And part of him wanted to fall into it. Let it take him.
His chest twinged. It was pain, and once it would have brought him to his knees… but now it wasn’t enough to do much more than get his attention.
He’d been rubbing the skin over his incision again, unconsciously hurting himself while trying to ease a much deeper wound that would never be soothed. His tee-shirt was damp under all the layers. He pealed them back to find blood.
He had ripped several of the stitches loose. That was…inconvenient.
Getting up, he found the med-kit that contained the antibiotics Dean was making him take. Inside were scissors and tweezers.
Good enough.
He was picking the last two free of his flesh when Bobby opened the bathroom door. He hissed as he saw what Sam was doing.
“Christ, kid.” The older man sounded half appalled, half resigned. “They weren’t ready to come out yet.”
“Close enough,” Sam shrugged, laying the scissors down. The incision gaped a little, but it was closing. And not leaving a scar. Weird.
“You’ve got blood in your bed,” Bobby pointed out.
“Not much,” Sam answered.
Bobby seemed reluctant to come into the room. Then huffed. There was a resignation to him that discomforted Sam to see, but he had no idea how to help. “Okay,” Bobby said, stepping to the TV, obviously deciding that keeping things as normal as possible was the best option. “It’s your bed. TV gonna bug you? Pawn Stars is coming on. I love that show.” Bobby settled himself in the other bed, and Sam watched him pull his gun out and lay it next to his hand on the dirty-yellow bedspread.
Sam wasn’t foolish enough not to know it wasn’t completely to protect against things outside the room.
He approved. You could never tell when things would just get to be…too much for someone.
So he laid down and stayed still. Even when the hole in the center of him throbbed so hard it felt like it was trying to twist and turn him inside out, he kept still. He didn’t curl up, or tuck in no matter how much he wanted to. He locked his hands in place to keep from rubbing at the burn in his chest. Silent things tended to get overlooked when the fury started flying. You weren’t interesting if you weren’t screaming. Still things were boring when they didn’t react to stimulus; not pain or false kindness. There was sanctuary in stillness. There was power in it.
And Sam was very good at being still.
Eventually Bobby relaxed. It wasn’t long until he dozed. It wasn’t unexpected; it’d been a long couple of days for him, and the room was tranquil. Sam waited until the dozing turned into the more even breathing of deep sleep, and he broke his stillness.
Sitting up, he ignored the massive pulse of pain that his still healing body gave. He’d stiffened while lying on the bed.
Didn’t matter.
He shivered in the chill that radiated from inside him.
Dean had said ten minutes. He’d said. And he’d said it at least two hours ago.
He’d also said St. Boniface Church.
Sam wasn’t completely sure where that was, but it couldn’t be hard to find.
The door barely made a sound as it closed behind him.
*
Part 10 Part 12
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life.
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile,
Sunspots have faded, and now I'm doing time
’Cause I fell on black days.
Whomsoever I've cured, I've sickened now.
Whomsoever I've cradled, I've put you down.
I'm a search light soul they say, but I can't see it in the night.
I'm only faking when I get it right.
’Cause I fell on black days.
How would I know that this could be my fate?
~Soundgarden - Fell On Black Days
_______________________________________________________________________
*
Something was following him.
Castiel had rested for a small amount of time, just enough to both gather his strength and to make absolutely sure Raphael and his ilk were truly gone. Then he had moved.
It had gone with him, trailing him, always just out or reach of his senses - like an itch he couldn’t reach.
It followed him relentlessly… until he reached his final destination.
The Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Over thirty-thousand acres of pure salt. Inaccessible for demons; and featureless enough that a human scryer wouldn’t be able to pin point an exact location. It was an image he had pulled from Samuel’s fractured thoughts as he’d healed him - Sam had kept this place in reserve for a time when he and Dean really needed to hide. Well, Castiel really needed it now. It lacked only protection from angels.
Which could be rectified.
Castiel dug out a flat area, twice the size of the rings. He placed them in the exact center of the hollow and traced an Enochian ward around them using holy oil. The salt burned yellow, melted, and went out. It cooled into a brown glasslike etching. One Castiel, nor any other angel, could reach across. Castiel then carefully pushed more salt over the symbol and the rings, covering them both.
Then he did it again, adding a second ward that expanded the ‘invisible fence’, as Dean would have phrased it, a further five-hundred feet back. Then a third time, the diameter now nearly a half-mile wide.
It was well done. Castiel himself could no longer reach the rings, which meant that they were beyond the reach of all angels and demons. When this was over, he would bring Dean here so that he could retrieve them. Until then, they were moderately safe. He was pleased.
The irritating itch had stopped as soon as he entered the salt-fields, which only confirmed what it had been. He wasn’t worried as he moved on. There were more powerful beings searching for his location then that glad-fly of a demon buzzing around.
He needed a safe place to meet the Winchesters. Someplace that offered some protection against the angels who were waiting for a chance at them. A chance to tell Dean and Sam truths that Castiel had never spoken. A chance to break Dean’s faith in him, cause him to run and leave the rings venerable. Castiel needed someplace that might give him time to tell Dean what he really was, and allow the human to decide his own path. He was done with treading on the freewill of others. Dean would know all. And Raphael could no longer threaten him with exposure of the truth.
When the truth has become a weapon to your enemies, it is easy enough to loosen their grips. And in doing so, become stronger.
Eventually he called Dean, to tell him when and where they could meet.
*
The cheeseburger was cold, but it didn’t matter. It was just food. He tore off another bite and chewed and swallowed. Dean had finally given it to him after he’d washed up at a rest stop somewhere. He didn’t know where. He didn’t know where they were now either. He waited…but there wasn’t any urge to ask. So he didn’t.
Besides, Dean and Bobby were talking.
“Why the hell did the angel want to meet you there?” Bobby asked. He sounded confused. “St. Boniface Church? That’s on the west side, right? There’s nothing on that side of this city. Why doesn’t he just meet up with us when we stop?”
He heard the words, and he understood them, but they flowed around him - happy little noises in an impossible reality. He enjoyed them absently, like birdsong on a warm day.
“Look, I don’t know why, okay? He said he was being followed before, so he may be trying to shake them. Also, he wants to talk to me.” Dean’s hands flexed on the steering wheel…Sam saw it, noted it, ate his burger. Just like he saw the pointed look Dean gave Bobby in the rearview mirror, the ‘don’t upset Sam’ look. After that, Sam kept his eyes carefully focused on the blackness churning outside his window as he chewed.
Vaguely he wished it was daylight. He wasn’t scared of the dark, there was nothing to be scared of. The dark was just…night, and not near as dark as…. But he liked the sun. The heat of it. Truth was, he didn’t need it though. He was just tired of being cold. It made him feel…numb.
The world was so…flat. Stale. Meaningless. Colors were only bright, never deep, never poignant. The sun was only hot, never warming. The stars were only there, never beautiful. They were only distractions. There was no point to any of it.
He hurt. There was a gapping, shrieking wound that was throbbing inside him, constantly. A darkness deeper than night and colder than….
It was real. It was there. And it was the only thing he could feel, fully.
And even it didn’t matter.
(He always hurt.)
He finished the rest of the burger mechanically, absently rubbing at the aching that went so much deeper than his flesh.
“Look,” Dean continued. “It’s been one hell of a day. Let’s find a motel, bed down, and I’ll go get Cas, okay?” He shot a concerned look in Sam’s direction, watching him dig at the muscles of his chest. Sam ignored it.
Dean looked uneasy. In the back, Bobby nodded. “That might be for the best.”
He really wanted another Coke. He’d never really liked it before, but now the acidic-sweetness of it seemed almost to have flavor.
He felt a touch, and looked down to see Dean pulling his hand away from his chest. “Stitches itching?” Dean asked, not unsympathetically.
“No,” he answered honestly, and looked back out the window. Dean could have his hand, if he wanted.
Nobody else was touching him. Ever.
The thought was raw and red, fearful and furious…and faded back into the cold, sharp white that filled the back of his mind quickly enough so that he didn’t really feel it much.
Dean turned him loose. The dark churned restlessly outside the windows. And neither thing mattered.
They drove for awhile. Then there was a motel. And Dean dropped him and Bobby off, departing with an obviously anxious look. “Ten minutes. I swear. We’ll be back in ten.” Sam wondered who he was trying to reassure, them or himself.
The door slammed, and he put it aside. For now. The gapping wound in the center of him was churning restlessly - voices and thoughts and images sliding up and fading away like a brief glimpse of snowflakes as they fell from white clouds into white, cold ground…brief and perfect and cold and cutting. And they vanished as fast as they appeared. Inside he was a swirl of cold and white and a storm that wanted to bury him. No, not bury him. It wanted to tear him open, tear his very self apart and crawl through what was left - loose itself on the word, turn all of reality into that same twisting, cutting cold…
He shuddered, forcing his eyes open. He was here. Here.
(He was never there.)
The whole in him shrieked. He shivered.
Bobby had turned away from the door. He sighed, watching Sam standing stiffly and shaking. He shifted nervously, but you had to hand it to the guy - he wasn’t running. “You want to watch some TV?” Bobby asked.
He didn’t want anything, but Sam sat on one bed while Bobby flicked on the TV. Bobby watched for awhile, got bored, got up for the bathroom with a magazine and a warning: “I locked the door. Don’t leave this room.”
Sam watched him. Willing him to go away. He was a disturbance. It wasn’t that Sam didn’t appreciate having Bobby around, but he…it was too much. He’d been alone for so long (he was always alone) that he wasn’t sure how to handle being with others.
And it was so…disconcerting. He’d seen Dean and Bobby before. It had kept him strong, kept him fighting, to see them, to know they lived and continued. He’d known, known it would make Sam stronger, that he would struggle harder with something to survive for, that he wouldn’t give completely into despair if he remembered his sacrifice had a purpose. So he’d let Sam see them every once in while…and it worked; he’d been stronger than the other vessel. It had helped Sam survive, which had helped him prevail more often then not. He’d let him see…see but never be seen. Never touch, never hold, never communicate, never be with.
And now…he wasn’t sure how to do it anymore.
He needed some time. He... the hole in him was demanding his attention, and he couldn’t fight it with Bobby in the room. He couldn’t give in with someone watching. Couldn’t show weakness.
And he really needed…to not have to ignore this - just for a little while.
Bobby shifted uncomfortably, obviously unhappy with Sam’s lack of response, then, finally, went into the bathroom.
Good.
Sam allowed his eyes to close once Bobby was out of the room. Bitter teeth were tearing into him from the inside, dripping acid like drool. The hollow ache was roaring still, a sucking black hole in the very center of him that was so cold it burned. It was demanding his attention, his focus, stealing his control away in little bits and pieces… enjoying his agony. And part of him wanted to fall into it. Let it take him.
His chest twinged. It was pain, and once it would have brought him to his knees… but now it wasn’t enough to do much more than get his attention.
He’d been rubbing the skin over his incision again, unconsciously hurting himself while trying to ease a much deeper wound that would never be soothed. His tee-shirt was damp under all the layers. He pealed them back to find blood.
He had ripped several of the stitches loose. That was…inconvenient.
Getting up, he found the med-kit that contained the antibiotics Dean was making him take. Inside were scissors and tweezers.
Good enough.
He was picking the last two free of his flesh when Bobby opened the bathroom door. He hissed as he saw what Sam was doing.
“Christ, kid.” The older man sounded half appalled, half resigned. “They weren’t ready to come out yet.”
“Close enough,” Sam shrugged, laying the scissors down. The incision gaped a little, but it was closing. And not leaving a scar. Weird.
“You’ve got blood in your bed,” Bobby pointed out.
“Not much,” Sam answered.
Bobby seemed reluctant to come into the room. Then huffed. There was a resignation to him that discomforted Sam to see, but he had no idea how to help. “Okay,” Bobby said, stepping to the TV, obviously deciding that keeping things as normal as possible was the best option. “It’s your bed. TV gonna bug you? Pawn Stars is coming on. I love that show.” Bobby settled himself in the other bed, and Sam watched him pull his gun out and lay it next to his hand on the dirty-yellow bedspread.
Sam wasn’t foolish enough not to know it wasn’t completely to protect against things outside the room.
He approved. You could never tell when things would just get to be…too much for someone.
So he laid down and stayed still. Even when the hole in the center of him throbbed so hard it felt like it was trying to twist and turn him inside out, he kept still. He didn’t curl up, or tuck in no matter how much he wanted to. He locked his hands in place to keep from rubbing at the burn in his chest. Silent things tended to get overlooked when the fury started flying. You weren’t interesting if you weren’t screaming. Still things were boring when they didn’t react to stimulus; not pain or false kindness. There was sanctuary in stillness. There was power in it.
And Sam was very good at being still.
Eventually Bobby relaxed. It wasn’t long until he dozed. It wasn’t unexpected; it’d been a long couple of days for him, and the room was tranquil. Sam waited until the dozing turned into the more even breathing of deep sleep, and he broke his stillness.
Sitting up, he ignored the massive pulse of pain that his still healing body gave. He’d stiffened while lying on the bed.
Didn’t matter.
He shivered in the chill that radiated from inside him.
Dean had said ten minutes. He’d said. And he’d said it at least two hours ago.
He’d also said St. Boniface Church.
Sam wasn’t completely sure where that was, but it couldn’t be hard to find.
The door barely made a sound as it closed behind him.
*
Part 10 Part 12