Chapter 2
Most scholars agree that the Righteous Man, should he indeed have been a real person, was one of the victims of Revelation Industries. Records of that time are hard to come by, many being destroyed in the rebellions of the colony worlds in the 27th Century, but many sources claim that he underwent brutal torture, rape, and abuse at the hands of a man known only as Alastair. Whether these documents contain any truth is still debatable, most being highly corrupted or copies of the original, but it can be ascertained that he was not one of the victims rescued by authorities in 2557AD, the names of whom have survived to present day.
-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend
By Carver Edlund
Dean comes back to himself slowly. He feels more relaxed than he has done in years, despite the faint headache that he attributes to crying himself to sleep.
Hello, Dean.
He almost falls out of his chair and curses himself out loud for forgetting that he’s probably insane.
No, Dean. Insanity is not one of the quite extensive list of psychological problems that you seem to have acquired.
“I’m sorry. I’m hearing voices in my head. That’s not generally seen as a sign of sanity,” he replies acerbically. He helpfully adds to himself that replying to the voices in his head is also far from the world of the sane. The rough voice is firm and assured, but somehow gentle along with it.
Do you remember you last session with Alastair?
Dean does. Kind of. There are flashes of pain and him begging Alastair to stop, please stop, I’ll do anything.
You’re doing great, Dean. Now focus on what he was talking about towards the end.
The world dissolves around him and he’s suddenly back in the testing lab, strapped to the table with Alastair leering over him. He’s barely coherent, out of his mind with the pain of whatever new serum Alastair has burning through his veins.
“This is fun, Dean. Watching you… struggle. Watching you beg. You have nobody but yourself to blame if you’re not enjoying my attention, Dean. You agreed to it. To it all.” Alastair has an unpleasant, nasal voice that’s impossible to block out.
Dean whimpers. His body attempting to flinch away from Alastair’s hand even as it craves the contact, soft fingers trailing through his hair.
“I have a new test I want to do today. I think I should warn you, none of my apprentices have survived, but I have high hopes for you.”
Dean fights the urge to vomit. A few weeks ago, he would have rationalized that Alastair calling him his apprentice was merely a means of control. Now, he can’t bring together a coherent enough thought to do anything but hope that he survives. Death has long since ceased to be something he desires. He hopes that he makes Alastair proud, even as a part of his brain revolts against the very idea of it. Complicit in his own torture.
Azazel wheels in a gurney with another person on it. The guy is big, maybe as big as he is, with dark tousled hair and lightly-tanned skin. He has no scars, unlike himself. Dean would have found the man attractive in any other situation. He has a huge pair of feathery black wings that he’s lying on, folded tight on his back, but not enough to conceal them. Gamma Enterprises had experimented with animal DNA, combining it with humans’ to create hybrids. He wasn't aware that they had been successful.
Alastair moves the body until they are lying side-by-side. The man’s eyes are shut, although he appears to be breathing normally. He’s not tied down and Dean can’t help but be envious of him and his unconciousness.
“Now this, Dean, is an angel.” He pauses, gesturing to the wings that the guy is lying on. “Funny thing, these angels. They have a highly developed neural interface in their true form. They share thoughts. They could be the breakthrough we need to start up neural transfers again, if we could just get one to bond to a human without killing the subject.”
Alastair sighs. “I didn't want to have to resort to you, Dean. Especially when you’re so pretty and scream so beautifully for me. So empathetic still, you haven’t lost that. But, alas. You’re...”
The pain flares suddenly and Dean misses the next part of what Alastair is saying, too caught up in his own agony to concentrate on the world around him.
He rejoins the world as Alastair is connecting wires between him, the man, and to the machines in the far corner. Alastair flips a switch and a new wave of intense pain crashes down upon him as he blacks out.
He remembers waking up in his cell, wrists chained to the wall. He’d escaped, with the addition of the-voice-in-his-head.
He crashes back into his memories, drowning in the terror and distress and suffering.
Dean. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore. You’re in a spacecraft. Open your eyes.
He bursts out of the memory, chest heaving. He’s somehow tucked into a corner of the ship, curled into a small ball to protect himself from the blows that aren't coming. It’s pathetic.
“What the hell are you?” he asks angrily, ignoring the way his voice tremors.
I’m an angel. That’s what your species calls me.
“I’m sorry, pal, but shouldn't angels have halos and harps and shit. I didn't realize they were in the habit of possessing people like me.” Well done Dean. Arguing with yourself.
I don’t think my species has any resemblance to the angels of Judeo-Christian mythology, Dean. We’re, in fact, more close to sponges in our true-form.
“Well, yeah. That’s the point. Wait. You say you’re an angel, you came from that body. And he definitely had wings, which is weird enough, but he wasn't a sponge.”
Ah, yes. Alastair tried to get me to inhabit my own body first, the one used was quite brain-dead, no consciousness to speak of, but my kind are used to neural connections. The strain was too much for me without an active host.
“A host? Wait. A neural connection? Can you access my memories?” he asks, heart pounding at the idea of someone getting closer to him than even Alastair had managed.
I can. Your memories are quite interesting, so many new concepts.
“Get out of my head!” Dean roars, suddenly terrified by what the thing might find there. His worthlessness and all his mistakes. He doesn't want this thing to think of him as useless.
Dean? I’m merely using them to understand what you’re saying? Why are you upset?
“Privacy dude! Ever heard of it?” he asks. At least it’s not rifling through his head for fun, so it says. It sounds sincere, but then so had Sam before he stopped returning Dean's calls.
No, not before this. My brothers and sisters are in constant contact with each other. I believe you would describe it as a hive-mind. I have already accessed the majority of your memories. Apologies. Though as it is upsetting you I will limit myself to the knowledge only and not the memories themselves in the future. That and the sensory input systems in your brain.
“What the fuck? Get out of my head!”
I can’t.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean would rather be angry than panicking. Not to mention the fact that this thing had already seen everything in his head. That was too much leverage.
I’m bonded to you. I can only transfer into others, or back into my true-form, which Alastair destroyed.
“So, what. You’re a parasite?” he spits out. He ignores the weird sense of loss that he’s almost certain he’s picking up from the other creature.
Our relationship would best be described as symbiotic. I help you, you help me.
“And if I want you gone? If I don't care whether you live or die?” he ignores the fact that the angel had just insinuated that they had any sort of relationship outside of occupier and occupied.
You’d die too.
“Great. That’s just. Fan-friggin’-tastic.” He’d just escaped. He wasn't going to kill himself even if he had picked up a squatter who couldn't get out.
If you can find me a suitable host, then I’m willing to leave.
Dean pauses with the argument. He hasn't quite bought that this thing isn't just some weird construct his addled mind has come up with, but he’s not going to let some other poor bastard get possessed over him.
“Dude. You’re not getting in anybody else’s head. Hell, I don’t want you in my head!”
You have no way to remove me without killing yourself and me, which I will not allow. I got you out of that place and I can drag you back, kicking and screaming until there is nothing left of you but a gibbering mess. You have no other choice but to accept me.
Dean freezes, tucked into the corner with his hands clutching his head. He has no choice but to do what the thing says. He’s cold. There’s an empty sensation spreading through him. He retches, bile the only thing he can bring up. It stings the back of his throat, causing hot tears to well in his eyes. It’s the most he’s cried in a long time and he can’t understand why he can’t just get a grip.
“Yeah. Well, fuck you,” he croaks out.
The-voice-in-his-head is silent.
I apologize. It says after a while. I would do no such thing. I overreacted. The gravelly voice is steeped in remorse.
I know what sort of man Alastair is; he ripped me from my brothers and sisters. I would not force us to return to him even if it resulted in our deaths.
“Well sorry if I’m not going to believe my invader,” Dean snaps.
Invader is a loaded term. I’m not going to take over your body. That would be immoral, not to mention unethical. I’m simply going to share space with you.
“Dude, I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you either. What can a sponge even know about morality?” Dean shifts uncomfortably.
Yes, I was a sponge. My intelligence comes from the fact that I’m embedded into your central nervous system. If I bonded with a less intelligent life-form we wouldn't be able to have this conversation. When I was linked with my brothers and sisters, however, we combined to create a joint mind that had intellectual abilities far beyond a human.
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t have your own sense of self? It’s all tied up with your host?” he questions, trying not to sound curious. Even if the curiousness is buried under a sense of unease at having something in his head that he never wanted there.
No. Not quite. I have kept my name and I have many memories. The scientists talk. Even as I was lying in my second body, the one with the wings, I was aware of my surroundings. You simply give me a platform to process and understand those memories.
“You have a name?” Dean finds himself asking.
Yes. My name is Castiel.
Well it certainly made Castiel more relatable.
“Look. Castiel. I get that we’re in a pretty shitty situation. But you have get that I can’t trust you right now. I-” Alastair flashed through his head suddenly. Being tied down with no way of fighting back. Pain and torment and fire and no. Please no. Not again.
You cannot give your trust because the thought of you being culpable in another loss of bodily autonomy is too painful for you. I understand.
Castiel’s voice was calm and even. Almost soothing. There's a lack of judgement or pity that's refreshing. Then he remembers that Castiel’s a dick that invaded his head.
However, Dean I did not have a choice either. At the time I was a singular angel, trapped alone in a body that was driving me slowly mad. I had no mechanism to comprehend what was happening, let along stop it from occurring. I am sorry for what you are going through right now, especially when you have come out of an extremely traumatic experience, but please do not blame me for this. We are both victims of Alastair.
“No, no. It’s okay.” It’s my fault he adds silently. Too afraid to confirm what he’s known all along out loud. After all, he did agree to come to Alastair’s. A one year contract. Which is something else he’s going to have to work out, one year he was meant to complete and he’s only done four months. Sure, he never would have said yes without the threats Azazel was making against Sam and Jess, or the financial incentive that he received to make sure Sammy could go to college, but it was still his choice.
They are both in an untenable situation. So Dean does what he does best. He adapts. Pushes his fears and his worries and the feeling of being violated and wrong down and shifts into logic and pragmatism.
“Right. If we’re going to be stuck like this for a while,” Dean doesn't want to say forever. The idea that they won’t be able to fix this is unacceptable. “Dude, we need to lay out a few ground rules.”
I would be amenable to your suggestions. As I am no longer accessing your memories directly, I have very little concept on what it means to be human, outside of unending solitude and mortality.
Wait. Mortality. Angels were immortal? Did that make him immortal? No. He’s not an angel. Just had an extra passenger in his head.
“Uh. You said mortality…” Dean trails off. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, but it’s one of the things he needs to know.
Yes, Dean. We do not age and can self-replenish indefinitely. Our cells are much like the Earth species jellyfish, or cancer cells.
“And. Did- did this transfer over?”
Castiel is silent for a moment. There’s a weird tingling sensation that starts at the top of his head and ripples down his body, the wave cresting gently over the curve of his hips, a gentle caress that leaves him breathless.
“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.
I… Um… I…
Castiel stutters, obviously flustered and sounding unsure for the first time since he appeared in Dean’s head. For some reason it comforts Dean. It makes Castiel seem more human, though he is nothing of the sort, he’s less infallible. Dean grins, feeling more in control of the situation, any situation, than he has been in a long time.
“Dude, if you wanted to feel me up you only had to ask.” Dean grins. He has no idea where his flirty attitude has materialized from. It feels wrong, the way it always has, but on top of Alastair the insinuation makes him nauseous. Maybe the fact that Castiel is the first creature to have touched Dean with kindness for an eternity has made him latch on.
It was not my intent to be arousing. I was merely ascertaining if your hypothesis that my presence had made you immortal was correct.
That stops any lingering happiness Dean might have at the moment. He straightens his back where he’s leaning against the MX52’s wall.
“And?” he asks. Not sure if he’s more scared of not knowing the answer or finding out the truth.
My being here seems to have transferred my restorative powers to you. I’m sorry.
That’s something he’s going to have to adjust to. And plan for. Humans have been reaching for immortality for centuries and still haven’t found the key. He’ll be hunted. He’ll have to constantly shift, moving between star-systems and planets like one of the nomadic people of old. Though it’s something he’s been doing his entire life, so it’s not going to be a sudden change in lifestyle. He certainly won’t be able to let Sam see him more than once or twice. His very presence will put everyone he loves in danger. Which leaves him with Castiel, and only Castiel, as a source of companionship. But not alone.
“Okay then.” Dean’s mind is racing, planning and strategizing and building. If he’s being honest with himself, he never truly expected to make it out of Alastair’s alive, so he has very few plans to alter.
“Wait. I still don’t know if you’re even real. Just…” he pauses to rummage through some of the gray overhead lockers, locating a med-scanner. “Lemme do this scan and then we can talk some more.” He shouldn't have asked permission. This was still his body, even if he had picked up a roommate.
He carefully clips the scanner around his wrist, heads over to the pilot’s chair and brings up the scanner readout up on-screen. It’s pretty normal. All body systems are functioning at average to above-average levels, he’s malnourished, but that’s no surprise. He’s in surprisingly good health, although the system is quickly picking up the number of small injuries and larger scars he’s managed to accumulate. He gets flagged for psychological evaluation. As if he needs to be told that.
Dean’s seen what trauma can do to a human being. His father, and to a certain extent his four-year-old-self, is all the training he’s ever going to need in order to recognize when someone’s head has gotten screwed up.
His brain scan, however, brings up some interesting results. There’s obvious altered brain-chemistry since he last saw one of these. Unsurprisingly, a psychiatrist would have a field-day with what he’s seeing on the display, reduced levels of serotonin, dopamine and monoamine: all indicators of psychological disturbance. There’s one thing that has the scanner confused and flagging for further tests, however. It’s a strange deviation. There appears to be two distinct sets of brainwaves. One is obviously his own, unique variation of electrical impulses that make him, him. The computer searches the database before he can stop it and confirms it as his own.
He’ll have to ditch the ship as soon as he touches down. Any hacker would have easy access to that, and he would rather Alastair didn't recapture him. The other brainwave pattern is unidentified. Which rarely happens. Most kids are entered into the system at ten, their intelligence and empathy scores carefully linked to DNA profile, iris scan, preliminary brain scan and health-check. The UAP updates their file at twenty-one, as neural pathways haven’t developed properly at age ten, but unless severe situational trauma or changes take place, the preliminary scan can often predict well for later life.
Dean’s had been outstanding. Empathy levels so high that he’d had to go through an extra battery of tests to make sure he wasn't a telepath. Which would have been easier in the long run; telepaths were protected by the law even as they were feared by it. Empathy tests were normally just a precaution, used to weed out telepathic ability. Low-scorers weren't considered a problem or even lesser unless they were coupled with sadistic tendencies, which were flagged for monitoring. His intelligence tests had been scarily high as well, considering he had a scattered schooling from over a dozen star-systems, and most self-taught using online books. It was also the first time he was pushed into Alastair’s crosshairs.
The man had approached his father shortly after Dean had been released wanting permission to perform some additional tests on Dean, and willing to pay a substantial amount of money to do so. Luckily John had been in a particularly sober state that day, worried that the UAP would take Sammy from him if Dean’s tests showed too much damage, both physically and psychologically. He’d grabbed Dean, taken them back to their Beta-Class 2Y5-IMPALA and taken off, heading to a small, mostly agricultural system before Alastair had even gotten a good look at Dean.
Not that it had done much good in the end.
Dean blinks out of his memories, removing the med-scanner from his wrist.
His scans are too good, too healthy for someone who’s been tortured and pushed to the brink of survival for four months. He has a sneaking suspicion why.
“Have you been fiddling with my body?” is the first question asked. No way should he be this healthy.
I merely fixed some lingering problems that would have become a more serious if left unattended.
“Can you not, in the future? Please. At least without asking first.” There’s desperation coloring his tone as he realizes just how removed Castiel is from "normal" human behavior. Though there’s a small amount of gratitude that he won’t have to visit a hospital, to have other people know what happened. He can’t afford it anyway. He waits expectantly for Castiel to answer.
Certainly. I will abide by your request. Unless you are unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, I will not interfere with your body without permission.
“I thought you said I’m immortal?”
We are. I did not say invulnerable.
Dean doesn't miss the we.
“So if I got injured…” Or tried to rip you out of my head, he tags on.
I suppose we would die. I can’t fix everything.
“Right. So. Yeah. Immortality. Now we know you’re real there’s a couple of things I’d like you not to do.” Dean’s eyes were drooping, but he didn't want to sleep without laying out some rules clearly and concisely for Castiel. The guy had already messed with his body, there was no knowing what he’d do when Dean fell asleep.
No looking at your memories, no alterations to your body and no taking over your body without permission or your becoming incapacitated.
“For starters. If you do anything else weird that I don’t like, I’ll tell you.”
That’s a reasonable request. I confess to not understanding human customs very well, especially without the context provided in your memories.
It’s easy to forget that they’re having a conversation in his head, and that Castiel isn't human, or even completely separate from him. Too easy. It’s all too confusing and too much and Dean doesn't have enough energy to deal with anything else today. His talk with Castiel has left him feeling raw and split-open.
“’kay. I’m going to get some shut-eye so leave any questions until I wake up.”
I see. No interruptions while you sleep.
If Castiel, the weird sponge alien that’s calling itself an angel says anything else, Dean doesn't hear, instead sinking into unconsciousness to dream of darkness and torture.
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
-The Angel and the Righteous Man, Origins and History of a Legend
By Carver Edlund
Dean comes back to himself slowly. He feels more relaxed than he has done in years, despite the faint headache that he attributes to crying himself to sleep.
Hello, Dean.
He almost falls out of his chair and curses himself out loud for forgetting that he’s probably insane.
No, Dean. Insanity is not one of the quite extensive list of psychological problems that you seem to have acquired.
“I’m sorry. I’m hearing voices in my head. That’s not generally seen as a sign of sanity,” he replies acerbically. He helpfully adds to himself that replying to the voices in his head is also far from the world of the sane. The rough voice is firm and assured, but somehow gentle along with it.
Do you remember you last session with Alastair?
Dean does. Kind of. There are flashes of pain and him begging Alastair to stop, please stop, I’ll do anything.
You’re doing great, Dean. Now focus on what he was talking about towards the end.
The world dissolves around him and he’s suddenly back in the testing lab, strapped to the table with Alastair leering over him. He’s barely coherent, out of his mind with the pain of whatever new serum Alastair has burning through his veins.
“This is fun, Dean. Watching you… struggle. Watching you beg. You have nobody but yourself to blame if you’re not enjoying my attention, Dean. You agreed to it. To it all.” Alastair has an unpleasant, nasal voice that’s impossible to block out.
Dean whimpers. His body attempting to flinch away from Alastair’s hand even as it craves the contact, soft fingers trailing through his hair.
“I have a new test I want to do today. I think I should warn you, none of my apprentices have survived, but I have high hopes for you.”
Dean fights the urge to vomit. A few weeks ago, he would have rationalized that Alastair calling him his apprentice was merely a means of control. Now, he can’t bring together a coherent enough thought to do anything but hope that he survives. Death has long since ceased to be something he desires. He hopes that he makes Alastair proud, even as a part of his brain revolts against the very idea of it. Complicit in his own torture.
Azazel wheels in a gurney with another person on it. The guy is big, maybe as big as he is, with dark tousled hair and lightly-tanned skin. He has no scars, unlike himself. Dean would have found the man attractive in any other situation. He has a huge pair of feathery black wings that he’s lying on, folded tight on his back, but not enough to conceal them. Gamma Enterprises had experimented with animal DNA, combining it with humans’ to create hybrids. He wasn't aware that they had been successful.
Alastair moves the body until they are lying side-by-side. The man’s eyes are shut, although he appears to be breathing normally. He’s not tied down and Dean can’t help but be envious of him and his unconciousness.
“Now this, Dean, is an angel.” He pauses, gesturing to the wings that the guy is lying on. “Funny thing, these angels. They have a highly developed neural interface in their true form. They share thoughts. They could be the breakthrough we need to start up neural transfers again, if we could just get one to bond to a human without killing the subject.”
Alastair sighs. “I didn't want to have to resort to you, Dean. Especially when you’re so pretty and scream so beautifully for me. So empathetic still, you haven’t lost that. But, alas. You’re...”
The pain flares suddenly and Dean misses the next part of what Alastair is saying, too caught up in his own agony to concentrate on the world around him.
He rejoins the world as Alastair is connecting wires between him, the man, and to the machines in the far corner. Alastair flips a switch and a new wave of intense pain crashes down upon him as he blacks out.
He remembers waking up in his cell, wrists chained to the wall. He’d escaped, with the addition of the-voice-in-his-head.
He crashes back into his memories, drowning in the terror and distress and suffering.
Dean. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore. You’re in a spacecraft. Open your eyes.
He bursts out of the memory, chest heaving. He’s somehow tucked into a corner of the ship, curled into a small ball to protect himself from the blows that aren't coming. It’s pathetic.
“What the hell are you?” he asks angrily, ignoring the way his voice tremors.
I’m an angel. That’s what your species calls me.
“I’m sorry, pal, but shouldn't angels have halos and harps and shit. I didn't realize they were in the habit of possessing people like me.” Well done Dean. Arguing with yourself.
I don’t think my species has any resemblance to the angels of Judeo-Christian mythology, Dean. We’re, in fact, more close to sponges in our true-form.
“Well, yeah. That’s the point. Wait. You say you’re an angel, you came from that body. And he definitely had wings, which is weird enough, but he wasn't a sponge.”
Ah, yes. Alastair tried to get me to inhabit my own body first, the one used was quite brain-dead, no consciousness to speak of, but my kind are used to neural connections. The strain was too much for me without an active host.
“A host? Wait. A neural connection? Can you access my memories?” he asks, heart pounding at the idea of someone getting closer to him than even Alastair had managed.
I can. Your memories are quite interesting, so many new concepts.
“Get out of my head!” Dean roars, suddenly terrified by what the thing might find there. His worthlessness and all his mistakes. He doesn't want this thing to think of him as useless.
Dean? I’m merely using them to understand what you’re saying? Why are you upset?
“Privacy dude! Ever heard of it?” he asks. At least it’s not rifling through his head for fun, so it says. It sounds sincere, but then so had Sam before he stopped returning Dean's calls.
No, not before this. My brothers and sisters are in constant contact with each other. I believe you would describe it as a hive-mind. I have already accessed the majority of your memories. Apologies. Though as it is upsetting you I will limit myself to the knowledge only and not the memories themselves in the future. That and the sensory input systems in your brain.
“What the fuck? Get out of my head!”
I can’t.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean would rather be angry than panicking. Not to mention the fact that this thing had already seen everything in his head. That was too much leverage.
I’m bonded to you. I can only transfer into others, or back into my true-form, which Alastair destroyed.
“So, what. You’re a parasite?” he spits out. He ignores the weird sense of loss that he’s almost certain he’s picking up from the other creature.
Our relationship would best be described as symbiotic. I help you, you help me.
“And if I want you gone? If I don't care whether you live or die?” he ignores the fact that the angel had just insinuated that they had any sort of relationship outside of occupier and occupied.
You’d die too.
“Great. That’s just. Fan-friggin’-tastic.” He’d just escaped. He wasn't going to kill himself even if he had picked up a squatter who couldn't get out.
If you can find me a suitable host, then I’m willing to leave.
Dean pauses with the argument. He hasn't quite bought that this thing isn't just some weird construct his addled mind has come up with, but he’s not going to let some other poor bastard get possessed over him.
“Dude. You’re not getting in anybody else’s head. Hell, I don’t want you in my head!”
You have no way to remove me without killing yourself and me, which I will not allow. I got you out of that place and I can drag you back, kicking and screaming until there is nothing left of you but a gibbering mess. You have no other choice but to accept me.
Dean freezes, tucked into the corner with his hands clutching his head. He has no choice but to do what the thing says. He’s cold. There’s an empty sensation spreading through him. He retches, bile the only thing he can bring up. It stings the back of his throat, causing hot tears to well in his eyes. It’s the most he’s cried in a long time and he can’t understand why he can’t just get a grip.
“Yeah. Well, fuck you,” he croaks out.
The-voice-in-his-head is silent.
I apologize. It says after a while. I would do no such thing. I overreacted. The gravelly voice is steeped in remorse.
I know what sort of man Alastair is; he ripped me from my brothers and sisters. I would not force us to return to him even if it resulted in our deaths.
“Well sorry if I’m not going to believe my invader,” Dean snaps.
Invader is a loaded term. I’m not going to take over your body. That would be immoral, not to mention unethical. I’m simply going to share space with you.
“Dude, I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you either. What can a sponge even know about morality?” Dean shifts uncomfortably.
Yes, I was a sponge. My intelligence comes from the fact that I’m embedded into your central nervous system. If I bonded with a less intelligent life-form we wouldn't be able to have this conversation. When I was linked with my brothers and sisters, however, we combined to create a joint mind that had intellectual abilities far beyond a human.
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t have your own sense of self? It’s all tied up with your host?” he questions, trying not to sound curious. Even if the curiousness is buried under a sense of unease at having something in his head that he never wanted there.
No. Not quite. I have kept my name and I have many memories. The scientists talk. Even as I was lying in my second body, the one with the wings, I was aware of my surroundings. You simply give me a platform to process and understand those memories.
“You have a name?” Dean finds himself asking.
Yes. My name is Castiel.
Well it certainly made Castiel more relatable.
“Look. Castiel. I get that we’re in a pretty shitty situation. But you have get that I can’t trust you right now. I-” Alastair flashed through his head suddenly. Being tied down with no way of fighting back. Pain and torment and fire and no. Please no. Not again.
You cannot give your trust because the thought of you being culpable in another loss of bodily autonomy is too painful for you. I understand.
Castiel’s voice was calm and even. Almost soothing. There's a lack of judgement or pity that's refreshing. Then he remembers that Castiel’s a dick that invaded his head.
However, Dean I did not have a choice either. At the time I was a singular angel, trapped alone in a body that was driving me slowly mad. I had no mechanism to comprehend what was happening, let along stop it from occurring. I am sorry for what you are going through right now, especially when you have come out of an extremely traumatic experience, but please do not blame me for this. We are both victims of Alastair.
“No, no. It’s okay.” It’s my fault he adds silently. Too afraid to confirm what he’s known all along out loud. After all, he did agree to come to Alastair’s. A one year contract. Which is something else he’s going to have to work out, one year he was meant to complete and he’s only done four months. Sure, he never would have said yes without the threats Azazel was making against Sam and Jess, or the financial incentive that he received to make sure Sammy could go to college, but it was still his choice.
They are both in an untenable situation. So Dean does what he does best. He adapts. Pushes his fears and his worries and the feeling of being violated and wrong down and shifts into logic and pragmatism.
“Right. If we’re going to be stuck like this for a while,” Dean doesn't want to say forever. The idea that they won’t be able to fix this is unacceptable. “Dude, we need to lay out a few ground rules.”
I would be amenable to your suggestions. As I am no longer accessing your memories directly, I have very little concept on what it means to be human, outside of unending solitude and mortality.
Wait. Mortality. Angels were immortal? Did that make him immortal? No. He’s not an angel. Just had an extra passenger in his head.
“Uh. You said mortality…” Dean trails off. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, but it’s one of the things he needs to know.
Yes, Dean. We do not age and can self-replenish indefinitely. Our cells are much like the Earth species jellyfish, or cancer cells.
“And. Did- did this transfer over?”
Castiel is silent for a moment. There’s a weird tingling sensation that starts at the top of his head and ripples down his body, the wave cresting gently over the curve of his hips, a gentle caress that leaves him breathless.
“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.
I… Um… I…
Castiel stutters, obviously flustered and sounding unsure for the first time since he appeared in Dean’s head. For some reason it comforts Dean. It makes Castiel seem more human, though he is nothing of the sort, he’s less infallible. Dean grins, feeling more in control of the situation, any situation, than he has been in a long time.
“Dude, if you wanted to feel me up you only had to ask.” Dean grins. He has no idea where his flirty attitude has materialized from. It feels wrong, the way it always has, but on top of Alastair the insinuation makes him nauseous. Maybe the fact that Castiel is the first creature to have touched Dean with kindness for an eternity has made him latch on.
It was not my intent to be arousing. I was merely ascertaining if your hypothesis that my presence had made you immortal was correct.
That stops any lingering happiness Dean might have at the moment. He straightens his back where he’s leaning against the MX52’s wall.
“And?” he asks. Not sure if he’s more scared of not knowing the answer or finding out the truth.
My being here seems to have transferred my restorative powers to you. I’m sorry.
That’s something he’s going to have to adjust to. And plan for. Humans have been reaching for immortality for centuries and still haven’t found the key. He’ll be hunted. He’ll have to constantly shift, moving between star-systems and planets like one of the nomadic people of old. Though it’s something he’s been doing his entire life, so it’s not going to be a sudden change in lifestyle. He certainly won’t be able to let Sam see him more than once or twice. His very presence will put everyone he loves in danger. Which leaves him with Castiel, and only Castiel, as a source of companionship. But not alone.
“Okay then.” Dean’s mind is racing, planning and strategizing and building. If he’s being honest with himself, he never truly expected to make it out of Alastair’s alive, so he has very few plans to alter.
“Wait. I still don’t know if you’re even real. Just…” he pauses to rummage through some of the gray overhead lockers, locating a med-scanner. “Lemme do this scan and then we can talk some more.” He shouldn't have asked permission. This was still his body, even if he had picked up a roommate.
He carefully clips the scanner around his wrist, heads over to the pilot’s chair and brings up the scanner readout up on-screen. It’s pretty normal. All body systems are functioning at average to above-average levels, he’s malnourished, but that’s no surprise. He’s in surprisingly good health, although the system is quickly picking up the number of small injuries and larger scars he’s managed to accumulate. He gets flagged for psychological evaluation. As if he needs to be told that.
Dean’s seen what trauma can do to a human being. His father, and to a certain extent his four-year-old-self, is all the training he’s ever going to need in order to recognize when someone’s head has gotten screwed up.
His brain scan, however, brings up some interesting results. There’s obvious altered brain-chemistry since he last saw one of these. Unsurprisingly, a psychiatrist would have a field-day with what he’s seeing on the display, reduced levels of serotonin, dopamine and monoamine: all indicators of psychological disturbance. There’s one thing that has the scanner confused and flagging for further tests, however. It’s a strange deviation. There appears to be two distinct sets of brainwaves. One is obviously his own, unique variation of electrical impulses that make him, him. The computer searches the database before he can stop it and confirms it as his own.
He’ll have to ditch the ship as soon as he touches down. Any hacker would have easy access to that, and he would rather Alastair didn't recapture him. The other brainwave pattern is unidentified. Which rarely happens. Most kids are entered into the system at ten, their intelligence and empathy scores carefully linked to DNA profile, iris scan, preliminary brain scan and health-check. The UAP updates their file at twenty-one, as neural pathways haven’t developed properly at age ten, but unless severe situational trauma or changes take place, the preliminary scan can often predict well for later life.
Dean’s had been outstanding. Empathy levels so high that he’d had to go through an extra battery of tests to make sure he wasn't a telepath. Which would have been easier in the long run; telepaths were protected by the law even as they were feared by it. Empathy tests were normally just a precaution, used to weed out telepathic ability. Low-scorers weren't considered a problem or even lesser unless they were coupled with sadistic tendencies, which were flagged for monitoring. His intelligence tests had been scarily high as well, considering he had a scattered schooling from over a dozen star-systems, and most self-taught using online books. It was also the first time he was pushed into Alastair’s crosshairs.
The man had approached his father shortly after Dean had been released wanting permission to perform some additional tests on Dean, and willing to pay a substantial amount of money to do so. Luckily John had been in a particularly sober state that day, worried that the UAP would take Sammy from him if Dean’s tests showed too much damage, both physically and psychologically. He’d grabbed Dean, taken them back to their Beta-Class 2Y5-IMPALA and taken off, heading to a small, mostly agricultural system before Alastair had even gotten a good look at Dean.
Not that it had done much good in the end.
Dean blinks out of his memories, removing the med-scanner from his wrist.
His scans are too good, too healthy for someone who’s been tortured and pushed to the brink of survival for four months. He has a sneaking suspicion why.
“Have you been fiddling with my body?” is the first question asked. No way should he be this healthy.
I merely fixed some lingering problems that would have become a more serious if left unattended.
“Can you not, in the future? Please. At least without asking first.” There’s desperation coloring his tone as he realizes just how removed Castiel is from "normal" human behavior. Though there’s a small amount of gratitude that he won’t have to visit a hospital, to have other people know what happened. He can’t afford it anyway. He waits expectantly for Castiel to answer.
Certainly. I will abide by your request. Unless you are unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, I will not interfere with your body without permission.
“I thought you said I’m immortal?”
We are. I did not say invulnerable.
Dean doesn't miss the we.
“So if I got injured…” Or tried to rip you out of my head, he tags on.
I suppose we would die. I can’t fix everything.
“Right. So. Yeah. Immortality. Now we know you’re real there’s a couple of things I’d like you not to do.” Dean’s eyes were drooping, but he didn't want to sleep without laying out some rules clearly and concisely for Castiel. The guy had already messed with his body, there was no knowing what he’d do when Dean fell asleep.
No looking at your memories, no alterations to your body and no taking over your body without permission or your becoming incapacitated.
“For starters. If you do anything else weird that I don’t like, I’ll tell you.”
That’s a reasonable request. I confess to not understanding human customs very well, especially without the context provided in your memories.
It’s easy to forget that they’re having a conversation in his head, and that Castiel isn't human, or even completely separate from him. Too easy. It’s all too confusing and too much and Dean doesn't have enough energy to deal with anything else today. His talk with Castiel has left him feeling raw and split-open.
“’kay. I’m going to get some shut-eye so leave any questions until I wake up.”
I see. No interruptions while you sleep.
If Castiel, the weird sponge alien that’s calling itself an angel says anything else, Dean doesn't hear, instead sinking into unconsciousness to dream of darkness and torture.
Chapter 1
Chapter 3