SPN: The End of Innocence (7/9) [M]
Fandom:
Supernatural
Title:
The End of Innocence
Chapter 7:
Back to Reality
In which the dust starts to settle, Castiel starts to recover, and Dean makes a discovery.
Author:
lt_indigo
Pairing(s):
none
Warning(s):
nothing you wouldn't expect following on from Chapter 6
Disclamer:
Kripke owns, not me.
Word count:
3,873
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Claire spent the rest of the night curled facing Castiel, holding his right hand (the only part of him she felt safe touching). He slept fitfully, dosed up on just enough morphine to take the edge off of the pain and relax him. She didn’t sleep at all: every time he so much as twitched, she was on high alert. Was he in too much pain? Was he having nightmares about what had happened?
Jane returned as the sun rose, before the rest of the camp started their day, with some painkillers, sleeping pills, various creams, coffee, porridge, and a box of the books she and Chuck had brought back from Blue Earth.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to leave here today,” Jane said when Claire eyed the box suspiciously. “Cas will probably sleep until noon at least, and you should try to concentrate on something else.”
She went on to discuss the medication she had brought for Castiel, and what Claire should do to care for him. She left with a promise of bringing some soup later for them both to eat.
With a sigh, Claire pulled the breakfast towards her and ate mechanically. Once done, she glanced over to the sleeping angel before flipping open the box. She felt a surge of affection at the pen and paper she found on the top, and set about cataloguing the contents, to see if there was anything of use in tracking Gabriel. Or, she realised with a horrible lurch, building a version of Colt’s gun: that project was hers too now. As if she knew anything about firearms, beyond the very basics of how to shoot and clean them. Maybe, if she could get the right spells together, someone else would be able to build it for her: someone like Dean.
Even thinking his name put her into a foul mood. She pushed the pad of paper away from her angrily and resisted the urge to throw something only because the documents were potentially both delicate and invaluable, and the crockery from breakfast would smash and wake Castiel.
As it turned out, her consideration was needless.
“Claire, what’s wrong?” Castiel’s soft voice asked from the bed.
She sighed and turned to look at him. He was bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, blinking sleepily at her.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m just frustrated. I wish I hadn’t let you go with Dean last night. I wish I had realised before what was going on. I wish you’d thought. And I’m really glad I punched him last night.”
“You did what?” He moved to sit up, winced abruptly and settled back onto the bed. Claire pushed herself up from the table and crossed to the bed.
“He deserves a lot more,” she said firmly. “He shouldn’t get away with treating anyone like that, even when you could heal yourself. Now, let me have a look at your shoulder and back: Jane said I should make sure everything is starting to heal up, and there’s painkillers for you to take if it’s too much.”
He lay on his front helpfully, although she could see the tell-tale redness of his neck and ears that said he was not entirely comfortable about this. It was about as awkward a situation as it got, but they could get through this. She cared too much to let a little embarrassment get the better of them.
Carefully, she peeled the dressing from his shoulder. The crescent-shaped wounds had stopped bleeding at some point during the night and were scabbed over and bruised-looking, but not red or hot to the touch. She rubbed some of the tea tree cream in, explaining to Castiel what she was seeing and doing. He seemed pleased they were using a natural(ish) product to treat him, rather than chemicals. The arnica for the black stripes over his back received a similar reception, and he started to tell her about the history of herbal remedies to distract himself as she massaged it in, because the morphine had worn off and he was squirming with discomfort as she worked.
Jane arrived as Claire was finishing rubbing cream delicately into Castiel’s wrist. The doctor looked pleased to find Cas awake and lucid. She had a flask of soup, three bowls and enough bread to share between them. She also had an inflatable ring that would make sitting slightly less of an ordeal for Cas. Claire cleared off the table and they helped him up and over so that he could eat properly. Jane made Cas swallow two Vicodin pills with his soup, something he was less happy about until they kicked in. Then he couldn’t care less that they weren’t natural; he just enjoyed their effects.
After the meal, Claire sloped off to Bobby’s cabin, allowing Jane to inspect Castiel’s other injuries in complete privacy. She was all for getting over their mutual squeamishness but, for now, there was a boundary she would happily leave to Jane to cross. She found Chuck at Bobby’s, his arm in a sling and directing a couple of his staff in unloading boxes from the truck she had driven back. She decided to give them a hand, stacking Bobby’s lore books together, Pastor Jim’s collection of historical weirdness on the other side of the room, and miscellany in the middle for now. She paused when she flipped open a box to find something she wasn’t expecting at all: the books looked like modern paperbacks. Fiction.
“What are these?” she demanded of Chuck, picking one out. It was definitely fiction: a book called ‘Supernatural: Mystery Spot’.
Chuck looked embarrassed. “They’re mine,” he admitted, flushing. “The ones I wrote. Bobby insisted; said he had a hunch they’d be useful somehow. I don’t even know why he had them: it’s not like he doesn’t - didn’t - know all this already.”
Claire flicked through a few pages, and the names of the main characters jumped out at him. Suddenly, the books made a certain kind of sense: they had been written as fiction, but actually weren’t.
“These are the gospels, aren’t they?”
Chuck nodded miserably. “The published ones, yeah.”
“There’s unpublished ones?”
“A butt-load,” Chuck told her. “There were some stories that just weren’t right for publication for one reason or another, like the prequel to that one, and, of course, everything that happened after Dean went to Hell. My publisher went bust right after the last one was printed, so the readers never met Cas. Thank goodness, really: the fandom was bad enough with slash fic before; they would have gone absolutely nuts over him.”
Claire’s grip on the book tightened: she knew what slash fic was from the Harry Potter fan-fiction she had read before everything had gone wrong. The idea of teenage girls writing really bad sex stories about Castiel and, she assumed, Dean was too horrifying for words, especially right now. Then another thought shoved its way into her head: who the hell were the slash writers shipping, if there was no Cas? No, no, she really didn’t want to think about it, because that was just gross.
“I had an investor,” Chuck continued, not noticing Claire’s reaction: he was staring into space. “Some Scandinavian guy with one of those really weird long names. He was a big fan, was willing to give me enough capital to start self-publishing. He was excited about the whole apocalypse storyline.” Chuck sounded bitter now, and darkly amused.
Claire snorted. “I bet he’s not any more. Your apocalypse sucks ass.”
Chuck shrugged. “It would have made a great plot if it actually was fiction, though. Post-apocalyptic, dystopian stuff sells. Hollywood loved it.”
Claire steeled herself and plucked the books labelled ‘#1’ and ‘#2’ from the box. She shrugged at Chuck’s disbelieving expression. “Bobby’s instincts are - were - normally good. I owe it to him to find out.”
And she owed it to herself and Castiel to find out as much as possible about the man Dean Winchester had been before the apocalypse, back when all he was was a hunter and big brother to Sam.
.oOo.
Jane was waiting for her when she returned with the two Supernatural books and a box from Bobby’s house. She left with a smile and a curious glance at the two loose books.
“How are you feeling?” Claire asked, dumping the box next to the table.
“The painkillers are nice,” Cas said with a spacey smile. “And Jane was kind to me. She says I’ll be okay in a few days.”
“That’s good news. Do you want to sleep a little more?”
Cas shook his head, appearing oddly child-like as he smushed his face into the bed with each turn of his head. Claire wondered just how powerful the Vicodin was.
“Jane says I should drink some more water. She says it’s important.”
Claire smiled indulgently and poured a glass from a jug on the table. She took it to him and helped him to drink around half of it before setting the glass down on the cabinet beside the bed. Cas squirmed on the bed, burrowing back under the covers.
“Maybe I will have a little sleep now,” he mumbled, his words slurring. Claire pressed a kiss to his forehead and headed back to the table and her books, opening the box of Bobby’s things and, with a sigh, began to catalogue the books, flipping through their contents briefly and setting aside any she couldn’t read for Cas to look at when he was feeling better.
.oOo.
Claire passed out early and spent another night carefully holding Castiel’s hands. She woke the next morning feeling a little better about things. Cas was blinking lazily at her.
“Claire, why do you care so much about me?” he asked softly. “I took your father from you. Three times.”
She thought, because he was absolutely right: there was no logical reason for Claire to have any affection for Castiel at all, after all he had put her and her mother through. That said:
“You saved me and my mom when the demons came for us. You saved my dad’s life. He begged you to take him. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, ever. I remember what you went through when you got dragged back to Heaven. And I remember that you gave him back to me, for months.”
He scrambled back from her, right to the edge of the bed, his eyes wide. “You remember that?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“I tried so hard to keep it from you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“I know.”
“I promised your father I had kept it from you.”
She reached over and cradled his face between her hands. “It’s okay, Castiel. I know you didn’t mean for me to know, but they hurt you so badly. It’s okay. It’s honestly okay. I’ll tell you what else I remember: I remember that you cared about us, enough to defy Heaven to keep your promise. I remember how much affection you had for Dad. I know how much you still grieve for him. And I am pretty certain that I wouldn’t be here right now it if weren’t for you. Mom and I wouldn’t have known enough to get out when the Croats came. We wouldn’t have known how to survive, how to ward against the demons who roamed the countryside, looking for stray humans. We definitely wouldn’t have known to come here. You gave me the knowledge to survive this, Cas, and I can never thank you enough for that.”
There were tears in his eyes. She swept them away gently and kissed his forehead. “Now, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I ache,” he said, his voice still rough, “but the pain is not as great.”
“You want to grab a shower?”
“Yes, very much.” He sat up gingerly, and winced. “The human body is, on some levels, disgusting.”
Claire laughed. “Yeah, it sure is. You should be grateful you took Dad back rather than sticking with me. Come on, take one of your pills, and maybe after washing up, we can get some breakfast?”
It was still early out - the sun was barely up and, even with the delay of a shower, they were some of the first into breakfast. This was probably a good thing: it meant that Cas wasn’t overwhelmed by the number of people, especially given his absence the day before. It was also obvious to Claire that he was struggling to sit for any length of time on a normal seat, even with the painkillers. Because of that, she didn’t hang around after they had eaten, and dragged him back to the cabin and set him to work on the books she couldn’t read. Within an hour, her catalogue list had been added to, with Castiel’s neat, precise writing (so unlike Jimmy’s messy scrawl) detailing both the given name and a translation of the title, along with a rough guide to the contents within.
He picked up the last book on the table.
“Claire?”
It was the first Supernatural book. He was frowning at it, as if trying to determine why it was there.
“Oh, that. Apparently Bobby had a hunch it would be useful. We brought the whole series back, but Chuck says there’s more that never got published.”
Cas frowned. “In general, Bobby Singer’s instinct are to be trusted, but… I am uncertain about this: Chuck’s gospels are not the most accurate portrayals and, as you say, they do not catalogue every part of Sam and Dean’s lives. There are large periods missing, and Bobby may have been thinking of something that has not been printed. That said, perhaps you might see something in the gospels to assist you in your research that I did not when I read them.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that Cas had read them, she supposed. The books were the writings of a prophet, after all.
“It might also be beneficial for you to understand the events that led up to the apocalypse,” he continued, more softly. His thumb was running along the edge of the crisp pages absently, and Claire took it from him gently.
“I’ll read it,” she assured him.
.oOo.
They relocated to the library for the rest of the day, and Claire made good use of the fact that Cas wasn’t really fit to do anything else to have him catalogue the books in the languages she couldn’t read (he had implanted her with an innate knowledge of Enochian, Latin, ancient Greek and, for some reason, German, but everything else was beyond her), while she worked on Pastor Jim’s mountains of manuscripts.
Chuck popped in around midday.
“Hey, missed you yesterday, Cas. It’s good to see you getting back in the saddle. It’s always harder when it’s someone close to you.”
Cas looked baffled, and it took Claire a second to work out what Chuck meant: someone had covered for him yesterday.
“We’re getting there, aren’t we, Cas? Bobby was good to us both. How about you: is your arm okay?”
Chuck grimaced. “Jane says it’ll heal up just fine, eventually. Apparently carrying dead bodies isn’t good for bullet wounds. Who knew?”
Claire lightly stamped on Castiel’s foot as he opened his mouth to answer the prophet. Oddly enough, he understood what she had done, which amused her immensely: someone had taught him what treading on someone’s foot meant, but not how to recognise a rhetorical question.
“I am pleased to hear you were not more seriously injured,” Cas said. “I… I needed to do something to help today.”
“I hear you,” Chuck said. “Dean’s just the same: you missed his crew heading out last night. Something about Kansas City still being clean: he wants to find out why.”
Claire felt something inside her relax: without even realising it, she had been on edge, looking out for Dean all morning. Knowing he wasn’t in camp meant that he couldn’t harm Cas right now. Because she hadn’t decided what to do when Cas eventually went back to training and field missions, with Dean. She couldn’t protect him forever (and wasn’t that backwards?), and she knew that even after everything he had done, Cas would not stay away from Dean. Cas still didn’t blame Dean for his injuries, or realise why what Dean had done was so wrong.
“Probably demons, like DC,” she muttered.
“But why?” Cas said. “The rest of the Midwest has been overrun: why leave Kansas City free from the Croatoan virus? It has no strategic value for the demons.”
Chuck gave Cas a wry smile. “That’s what Dean said too. That’s why he figured it was worth a look.”
Cas was looking more thoughtful than usual. “It still puzzles me as to why the demons have saved some areas. There is some value in a pure human sacrifice, but I cannot think what Lucifer would need with such a ceremony. They are generally to appease the pagan gods. I cannot think of any other circumstance under which a possessed human would not suffice.”
“Well, that’s a cheerful thought,” Chuck grumbled: “we’re utterly worthless, instead of just mostly worthless. Way to lift the mood.”
Cas seemed to realise his error. “My apologies,” he said, not quite meeting Chuck’s eyes. “I am still learning how to gauge when such observations are appropriate. It troubles me that there does not seem to be a real reason for the demons’ actions in keeping certain areas free from Croats, and I am glad that Dean is trying to find an answer.”
Chuck placed a gentle, almost fatherly hand on Cas’ shoulder. “It’s okay. Sometimes I forget you’re not used to humans. Sometimes I just remember the guy who cared enough about humanity that he tried to stop the apocalypse almost solo; the guy who stood in front of an archangel to protect a prophet.”
Cas swallowed, hard, looking… was that ‘embarrassed’?
Chuck squeezed gently. “And sometimes I still have nightmares about finding this in my hair.”
He released Cas and tugged a thin leather thong from under his shirt. On the end was what looked suspiciously like a tooth.
Cas looked at it curiously before reaching out to touch it. Almost as soon as his fingertips touched it, however, he recoiled as if burned.
“This… this was Jimmy’s?”
Chuck nodded and tucked it away. “I think of it as yours, but yeah. It reminds me that there are still good people in the world; someone who was willing to sacrifice his life to save me. It also reminds me that no matter what crap we get thrown at us, we need to fight for what’s right, no matter what the cost.”
Claire suddenly realised that she was eyeing where the tooth had disappeared under Chuck’s shirt. “I… I don’t want to know, do I?”
Chuck snorted with something resembling laughter, but had an edge of darkness to it. “No, you really don’t. Be glad that ‘Lucifer Rising’ never got published: it’s far too… explode-y.” He sighed. “The publishers would probably have made me cut that part anyway. I only put it in because it was cathartic to be able to write something I’d actually witnessed for real; something that wasn’t a vision. Even if it was, you know, that, because it was something that honoured someone who deserves recognition of what he did.”
Castiel was definitely looking embarrassed now: he was blushing. “I did what I had to do.”
Claire got up and hugged him. “And that’s exactly why I don’t hate you,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s why I still have faith that we can win.”
.oOo.
They worked through until sunset, when Jane appeared with some stew and a sour expression. She scolded them both for working themselves too hard: especially Cas.
“You aren’t running on grace any more, Castiel,” she said sternly. “Your body can heal itself, but it can’t conjure the necessary lipids, amino acids or energy from nothing. You need to feed it.”
Chastised, he set down the latest dusty tome and took the bowl she forced under his nose.
“Same for you, young lady: you’re still growing, you need to eat.”
Claire nodded obediently, already shovelling the mediocre stew into her mouth.
“I am sorry, Jane,” Cas said after a couple of mouthfuls. “I don’t believe either of us realised the time. Claire’s research could be vital in our efforts to combat Lucifer and thus stop the Croatoan virus.”
The doctor sighed. “Don’t think I don’t know that, but Claire can’t research effectively unless she’s properly nourished. And neither can you. I’ll be back here in an hour, and I want to find you gone. Rest is vital too.”
“Yes, Jane,” they both said meekly.
They both ate quickly after she left, and made sure the library wasn’t left in a mess. Bobby might have kept it looking reasonably chaotic, but everything had its place. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted dirty bowls left lying around, so they returned them to the kitchen before retiring to their cabin. Cas settled down with an ancient Sumerian text he thought held some promising spell-work, and Claire, after a little needling, cracked open ‘Supernatural’ and began reading about the night that changed the Winchesters’ lives forever.
The trouble with having a cabin in such a prestigious location was that as soon as there was any kind of activity in the main yard, such as a team coming home, the furore disturbed what little tranquillity they had left in the world. Sam and Dean had just uncovered the case their father had been working on before his disappearance when the lights and shouting jolted her out of Jericho, California, and back to camp (realising just how tired she must have been the previous night, not to have heard them leave).
Dean and his crew were piling out of the truck, as were two women Claire had never seen before. It still wasn’t altogether unheard of for the crews to pick up strays, but these two weren’t the usual: they were scanning their surroundings carefully, shotguns held tightly. The younger one, the blonde, nudged the older when her eyes swept over the porch Claire and Cas were standing on. She didn’t seem hostile: on the contrary, she was appraising and faintly amused.
“Cas, hey, Cas!” Dean yelled, gesturing for the angel to join them. He moved to comply and Claire followed closely behind him. Dean saw and said nothing, but Claire could see something flicker behind his eyes.
“Cas, can you hook Ellen and Jo up with a cabin for a few days? They’re staying to work on the Kansas City case.”
“Of course, Dean,” Cas said readily before turning to their guests. “It is an honour to finally meet you. Claire, would you rouse someone from the warehouse and acquire some sheets for the Harvelles?”
Claire nodded and with a hard look directed at Dean, warning him to keep his distance, she jogged away up the track to the warehouse. Dean clearly knew the two women and Cas knew of them: would she read about these two in the books? Were they fellow hunters? And just what was going on in Kansas City?
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