Part 2: Eye of a Hurricane
Master Post
Part 1: Visitation
Part 2: Eye of a Hurricane
There are more motor vehicles around than Castiel thought there would be. No one is producing them anymore, but there are enough people left who understand cars and motors to keep the ones still in existence running for a while longer, and there is still fuel, even though it's no longer being siphoned from the earth. Dean is holding onto his hand, his fingers sticky from something he ate at breakfast no doubt, but he seems to have gained a measure of confidence since the day before. He's holding himself very still, very upright, staring ahead intently, as though gauging his surroundings for potential threats.
Their ride is a brown truck with a cabin large enough to accommodate six grown men, if needs be. The driver, a quiet man in a flannel shirt over fading blue jeans named Bruce, gives them a nod when Katie introduces them and explains what they need.
“I'm not going further than Toledo and back, but I can always use the company. There's always people coming and going there. Won't be hard for you to catch a ride in the direction you want to go.”
“We appreciate it.”
“I'm going no matter what,” Bruce shrugs, as if it's of no consequence. “Don't have a car seat, but the kid looks big enough to sit in the back. You're practically grown-up, aren't you, son?” he directs a sudden conspiratorial grin at Dean, whose expression thaws a bit. He nods. “That's what I thought. Hop on board. I got a schedule to keep.”
Castiel shakes Katie's hand briefly, lifts Dean up into the truck's cabin and buckles the safety belt around his hips before climbing into the front himself. Dean immediately twists in his seat, pressing his face to the window to watch the scenery roll by. It's brighter outside during the day, but the light is dim, now, compared to before. The clouds of ash hang thick in the air, turning the light a sickly white, devoid of warmth.
“Has the sky looked like this all this time?” he finds himself asking.
“Since the Visitation, yeah. How come you don't know?”
He shakes his head. “It's difficult to explain, but... I wasn't present for many months.”
“Lucky you.”
Castiel huffs something that might be agreement or amusement, and says nothing further. He glances back at Dean, watching the world through a pane of dusty glass, his eyes very round as he takes it all in. The road is littered with debris that's been swept to the sides to clear it, rusting hulks of cars that must have been caught in the initial devastation, their frames twisted and bent into shapes which bode ill for the occupants in them at the time. Every so often he catches sight of an animal carcass, lying on its side, rotting in the filthy air. The third time he risks looking at Dean and finds the child chewing on his lip, staring at the decomposing remains with a look far too old for his face.
Sometimes there are people walking along the side of the road, some seemingly with a direction in mind, others with large baskets and bags, collecting what little can be salvaged from the rubble. Dean surprises him by waving at some of them, and they wave back, sometimes with a smile or even a laugh, and Castiel feels the knot in his stomach loosen at those moments. It may be a terrible and frightening new world out here, but it's reassuring to see that some people haven't forgotten how to find joy in small things. When one woman blows Dean an extravagant kiss, he giggles and turns to look at Castiel with a smile that takes his breath away, pointing at her.
Castiel forces himself to smile. “You liked that, did you?”
Dean grins, then turns back to wave even more enthusiastically, and Castiel can see the woman laughing, pointing out the waving child to her friends.
“There aren't too many children left,” Bruce says quietly. “We try to take extra special care of the ones we got.”
“I don't understand.”
Bruce gives him a speculative look. “Katie said you haven't been around. After the Visitation was done, everything went to hell for a while. People got sick, and there weren't enough doctors to go around. Just before there was a flu pandemic, and after it became a fully-blown epidemic. The children got hit the hardest.”
After that, there doesn't seem to be anything of use to say. Castiel barely resists the sudden urge to pull Dean into his arms and never let go again.
They pull into Toledo a couple of hours after leaving Detroit. There is no traffic, but the roads are no longer maintained the way they were before: there is no one to operate the heavy machinery required for it. Bruce pulls up in front of a diner with a hand-painted sign that says simply “May's Diner.”
“My supply pick-up is on the other side of town, but you can get good food here, and it's not expensive. May's a good woman. You can probably find yourselves a ride out of town there, too, if you wait long enough.” Bruce turns in his seat, and very seriously shakes Dean's hand. “You take care, now, son. And watch this one: he needs taking care of.”
Dean looks up at him, returns the handshake and nods very solemnly.
“Good boy.”
*~*
May is a plain woman in her late thirties, dressed like everyone else in long, warm clothing from which most of the colour seems to have faded. Her short-cropped hair has a healthy dusting of grey but her face is unlined, and she breaks into a heartfelt smile when Castiel walks in, Dean clinging to his sleeve in a sudden fit of shyness.
“Hi there. Passing through?”
Castiel nods. “We're going to Idaho.”
“Bet you'd like some food first, though,” she bends a bit to look at Dean. “Hello, sweetheart. What's your name?”
Dean ducks behind Castiel, who shrugs. “This is Dean.”
“Shy, are we? That's all right,” May leads them to a corner booth, eyes Dean critically, then fetches a yellowing telephone book from behind the cash register and places it on one side of the bench. Dean climbs up without a word, settles on the phone book, small feet kicking under the table. “I'm May, in case you hadn't guessed.” She pauses, waits, and Castiel realizes she's waiting for him to introduce himself.
“I'm Cas. It's... nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Cas. That's an unusual name. Is it short for Casper?”
“Castiel. But I haven't gone by that name in a long time.”
She nods, purses her lips. “Even more unusual. I think I'll keep that one to myself: not everyone is likely to react well to it, you know.”
“I appreciate your discretion.”
“Mm-hmm. All right. We've got a beef and mushroom casserole today, or else pasta with tomato sauce. What would you like, Dean?” the warmth is already back in her voice.
Dean's eyes go wide, and he turns an anxious look toward Castiel.
“Would you like the casserole, Dean?” Castiel gets a headshake. “The pasta, then?” A nod. He smiles, turns to May. “We'll both have the pasta, please.”
“All righty, then. You two just sit tight. Would you like a coffee while you're waiting?”
It will be the second cup of coffee in his entire life. He's still not sure if he even likes the drink. “Yes, please.”
She returns a moment later with a steaming white mug and a bowl of sugar packets. “We're out of cream, but I have whitener if you want it.”
“It is perfectly acceptable as it is.”
May places a small stack of used paper on the table, and pulls a handful of wax crayons from the pocket of her apron. “There you go, Dean. I know that having to wait around is pretty boring, so why don't you draw some pictures?”
Dean looks up at her, bangs falling into his eyes, then down at the paper. He hesitates, then carefully reaches out and plucks a brown crayon from the pile, pulls a sheet of paper over, and applies himself carefully to his new task. He squirms when he notices Castiel watching him, and so Castiel pointedly looks elsewhere, takes a sip of his coffee plain, then grimaces and adds a spoonful of sugar. He tastes it again, adds a second spoonful, and that makes it more palatable.
The meal is plain but filling, and Dean manages to smear tomato sauce on his face and hands and a good portion of his shirt. Castiel ends up taking him into the restroom at the back of the diner and scrubbing him clean with a hand towel, while Dean squirms in his grip, twisting away from the rough fabric, but submitting to the treatment without so much as a peep. Castiel begins to wonder if he should be worried about the fact that Dean still hasn't said a single word to anyone. Surely he's capable of speech? He files the thought away for future reference. At last, Dean is no longer sticky or covered in red sauce, and Castiel ushers him from the restroom. May is waiting for them when they return.
“I may be able to help you get on your way,” she says as Castiel carefully peels eight dollars out of the wallet Katie gave to him and places them on the table. “There's a fella leaving Toledo tomorrow or maybe the day after, heading west. I'm not sure exactly where he's going, but I can put you in touch with him, and the two of you can work something out.”
Castiel nods. “Thank you. Do you know of a place where we can spend the night, in that case?”
She pauses, gives him a considering look. “I'm guessing you're not exactly rolling in money?”
It's his turn to hesitate. “I am not familiar with that idiom, but... I don't have much money, no.”
“Are you willing to work in exchange for a reduction in the price of your room?”
“If I can. I don't have many useful skills.”
“You'd be surprised. You're a healthy adult, which means there'll be some use for you somewhere. Why don't you sit back in your booth, and once I'm done serving lunch you can come with me. I think I know somewhere you can stay.”
He nods his thanks, leads Dean back to the table, and very carefully doesn't watch as the boy uses a yellow crayon to draw what looks like an elaborate sunburst.
*~*
There are few people out on the street, although it's a nice enough day for the time of year. A pall hangs over the town, the way it hung over Detroit. Dean ducks his head, hands over his sunburst drawing to May, staring diffidently at his feet, and she thanks him with all the sincerity she can muster. It's a mass of yellow, an indistinct brown figure at the centre.
“You should sign it, sweetie. All great artists sign their work,” she says, and so Dean very carefully prints his name in wobbly letters at the bottom of the picture, slightly off-centre. The 'n' is backward, but the name is recognizably his.
“What is it meant to be?” Castiel asks him, but Dean just looks at him as though he's dim-witted.
May shakes her head. “It's the Visitation, Cas. Anyone can see that.”
He looks at the picture again, tilts his head as though the angle will help him see better. “Oh.”
From the outside, it looks completely different.
Dean slips a hand into his, and they follow May down the street, and minutes after they leave the main thoroughfare Castiel feels hopelessly lost. He's never had to worry about directions before, he always used to know exactly where he was. He has to slow his pace so that Dean can keep up with him, trotting on sturdy little legs beside him. They stop in front of a pretty little white house, and May strides up the front walk and rings at the door. A moment later the door opens, revealing a young blonde woman, equally as pretty as the house. Her jeans are clean, and her pink shirt is the first real colour Castiel has seen since he came back. She smooths her hands over her hips, smiles, and her mouth looks soft, her teeth white.
“Hi, May. What can I do for you? Oh!” she startles as Dean suddenly darts out from behind Castiel and grabs hold of her wrist, grinning up at her. She smiles back, obviously smitten. “Well, hi there. What's your name?”
Dean just grins and hangs on, so Castiel answers for him, again. “This is Dean. He's normally very shy. I expect it's because you're pretty that he's taken a liking to you. He likes pretty girls.”
Dean directs a flat look at him. She blushes, glances up at him through her lashes, then looks back down at Dean. “That's a really nice name, Dean. I knew a Dean, once. He saved my life, you know. He was very brave. And also really cute. I guess it must go with the name, being handsome.”
She ruffles his hair, and Dean glows under the praise. If Sam were here, Castiel thinks, he'd be rolling his eyes.
May clears her throat. “Charlie, you think you can give these boys a room for the night? I figure you must have a few things around here that need doing. I thought Cas here could give you a hand with them, in exchange for a bed for the night at a reduced rate.”
Charlie hesitates visibly, looks first at Dean, then at him. “Yeah, okay. Why don't you come in, and we'll figure something out. May, you want to come in? I can make tea.”
May shakes her head. “No, thank you anyway. I should get back to the diner. I'll be in touch, Cas, as soon as I hear anything.”
Castiel follows Charlie inside, Dean trotting at her heels. “We had a storm last week,” she's saying over her shoulder. “One of the trees in the yard lost some big branches, so if you're any good with a saw I could use a hand breaking it up into smaller pieces and hauling it to the shed for kindling.”
“I can learn.”
She huffs a laugh. “You and the rest of us.”
He glances around the house, noting that while it's very neat and tidy, it's also unlike some of the suburban houses he visited with Sam and Dean. There is no evidence of many electronic appliances, and he catches sight of salt lines by the doors and windows. “Does everyone know of the supernatural now?”
Charlie stops, gives him a more appraising look. “Sorry?”
He points. “Salt lines. Is this common knowledge now?”
“No, it's not. It's a precaution I learned from some friends, years ago. To be prepared. It's why I can still live here when most people don't. How do you know about this stuff?”
He shrugs. “Let's just say I have special insight into the matter.”
“Christo.”
Castiel throws back his head with a laugh. “I'm not a demon, Charlie,” he reassures her, although Dean has retreated back to his side.
She grins ruefully. “Sorry. You're just... well, no offense, Cas, but you're a little weird.”
“I've been told that. No, rest assured, I'm a human, just like you.”
*~*
Performing manual labour is not something Castiel has ever had to do before. As an angel, physical exertion was an afterthought, and even in the last days before the apocalypse, when he was human in all but name, he was not required to do anything of the sort. Despite May's promise to help him find transportation, it's several days before he hears back from her. In the meantime, he does the best he can to help Charlie around the house. He quickly discovers that he's mostly useless at basic repairs, at least at first. He helps her to saw the fallen tree branches in her yard into firewood, piling it into small cords near a makeshift shed that's been built in recent months for the express purposes of keeping wood dry.
“I'm trying to plan ahead,” Charlie tells him. “We can still heat with oil for now, but there's no telling how long it'll last, and firewood takes a while to dry out. Green wood doesn't burn as well, just makes lots of smoke.”
“You've given this a lot of thought.”
“Someone has to.”
The first night she serves him a dish of stewed beans and meat from a large pot, which she tells him is chili. It's fragrant and warm and makes his tongue tingle from the spices. It staves off the November chill, and he wraps his hands around the bowl, savouring the warmth seeping into his skin. Dean is sitting in his lap, drowsy but unwilling to be left alone to sleep in the large bed Charlie has provided for them. Castiel keeps an arm wrapped loosely around the boy's midsection, while Charlie, her voice quiet, tells him about the two brothers who saved her life many years ago, before the world ended.
“It's easier to believe now than it was at the time,” she says, with a smile that takes ten years off her face. “The spirit of a dead woman who comes and kills people through the mirror?It was a kid's game, until people started dying. Back then the two of them ―Sam and Dean― came and went, and it felt like a ghost story someone had made up to tell around a campfire, complete with the mysterious heroes who drove off into the sunset in their muscle car. Now, though... everything's different.”
Castiel knows what she means. People are more open to the truth, now that it has been laid bare before them.
“I never heard from them again,” she continues, but he senses she's no longer talking directly to him. “Not that I expected to. But I wondered, for a long time. What they do, it's dangerous, you know? So sometimes I wonder if they're safe, if they're still alive, if they're still doing what they were. Especially with everything that's happened, it kind of makes me feel safer to think that there are people out there, still trying to hold back the dark.”
Castiel glances down at the boy in his lap, warmth coiling unaccountably in the pit of his stomach. Sam and Dean may not have the chance to see the good they do over the long term, but they have changed lives, almost always for the better. Dean is very nearly asleep, limp and relaxed against his chest, breathing even, but Castiel can tell he's awake and watchful, even under heavy-lidded eyes. He raises a hand, combs his fingers through Dean's hair, and is rewarded with a soft sigh and a settling of the boy's weight against him.
“You're good with him,” Charlie smiles. “But he's not your son. I can tell. How did you end up with a kid his age?”
He's surprised. He feels entirely out of his depth with Dean in this form, constantly plagued by the worry that he'll do him some irreparable harm. He's so small like this, vulnerable.
“He's my charge, I suppose. But he's also my friend.”
She likes that description, he can tell. “Your friend, huh? Well, stranger things have happened. He looks like he's about to drop, though. Maybe you should take him upstairs. I'll clean up here.”
“Are you sure? I don't wish to leave you with all this,” he gestures to the unwashed dishes, and she chuckles.
“I've seen worse. You can make breakfast tomorrow, if you insist.”
His lip twists. “I don't think that's a good idea. De ―someone once told me my cooking was terrible, the only time I tried it.”
“Well you're going to have to learn. You can't get by these days without knowing how to cook a little bit. I could teach you a bit, if you want. Everyone should at least know how to cook eggs.”
“We're likely leaving tomorrow, if we can get a ride out.”
“Then you'll just have to learn fast.”
He smiles as he pushes his chair back and hoists Dean into his arms. “I suppose I will.”
*~*
The promised ride out of town fails to materialize the next day, and while May is apologetic, there doesn't appear to be much he Castiel can do about it. He takes Dean for a long walk around the town when he appears to become restless, and is once again taken aback by the warmth with which people greet the boy. There are no children Dean's age, although there are several older ones, between ten and fourteen years of age, he guesses. Of those, the girls in particular seem to take a shine to Dean, and he suddenly finds his morning monopolized by a couple of young girls who insist upon taking them both to a nearby park.
“Come on,” a girl named Lucy tries to get Dean to take her hand as they walk, but Dean stubbornly clings to Castiel's hand instead. She takes it in stride, introducing Castiel to her friend instead. “Nessa and me are best friends forever. Aren't we, Nessa?”
Nessa is darker-complexioned than Lucy, older and considerably more sober in her bearing. She nods, though, in a way that suggests to Castiel that Lucy is perhaps the more dominant of the two. “That's right.”
“Forever is a very long time,” Castiel says, and Lucy shrugs, unconcerned. “Do you have other friends?”
“Lily,” Nessa's voice is quiet.
“She died of the flu,” Lucy supplies helpfully, in that artless way that some children have when something is too monumental for them to fully understand. He thinks Nessa understands all too well. “But it was a long time ago.” He revises his opinion of Lucy's age, puts her perhaps closer to seven or eight at the most, whereas her friend appears to be on the cusp of adolescence. It's an odd match, from what little he knows of these things, but then, these are odd times.
Lucy makes a dash for the playground when they get there, Dean and Castiel in tow. Her wiry hair has been carefully woven into tiny braids with wooden beads on the ends which clink together musically as she moves. Dean is fascinated, and reaches up to tug gently on the braids. She giggles. “You like those, huh? My momma braided my hair. She used to complain about it taking so long, but she doesn't anymore. Don't you want to go on the slide, Dean?”
Dean has balked at the foot of the ladder leading up to the top, squinting dubiously at it. He ducks his head, looks back at Castiel from beneath his bangs. Castiel smiles encouragingly. “Go on, it's all right. I won't be far.”
“Maybe he'd like the swings better,” her friend says. “He's a little small for the big slide.”
“Okay. You want to go on the swings, Dean?”
Dean appears to think about it, then, after one last look at Castiel, nods. He lets Lucy grab his hand, then, and trots behind her until they reach the swings. He squirms away when she tries to lift him onto the swings, and it's only when Castiel approaches again that he lets himself be picked up and deposited in one of the small swings.
“Why doesn't he talk?” Nessa asks.
“I'm not sure.” Castiel has asked himself this question, along with a hundred others, over and over again over the course of the past couple of days. No one, himself least of all, has any answers for him. “I think perhaps he is waiting for the right time to say what he needs.”
“I think you should push him,” Lucy is studying the swing critically, oblivious to their conversation. “I'm too short and he won't go high enough.”
“Is going high important?”
“Of course!”
Nessa agrees. “It's better when your dad pushes you, anyway.”
“I'm not his―” he stops. “Why is it better?”
She shrugs. “I dunno, it just is. Or your mom, but I guess Dean's mom isn't around anymore, is she?”
There's a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. “No, she passed away many years ago.” When Dean was still a child, he's about to say, when he catches himself.
“At least he's still got you.”
“Come on, Castiel!” Lucy calls. She's perched on one of the swings designed for older children, the chains creaking against the wooden seats. “You have to come push the swings now!”
Nessa smiles unexpectedly. “She means she wants you to give her a push to start her off. She hasn't figured out how to do it on her own.” She trots to her own swing, and within seconds her skinny legs are pumping up and down, propelling the swing into the air.
Castiel obligingly gives Lucy a 'start,' then turns back to Dean. “Would you like me to push you?”
Dean looks down at the ground, then back up at him, and kicks his feet experimentally. Then he nods, small fists curling around the chains to steady himself. Castiel pulls the swing as far back as he can reach, then lets go, watching with no little trepidation as the rusted chain squeaks alarmingly. The swing holds, though, and Dean grins delightedly over his shoulder, and so he pushes harder, until the swing goes as high as the chain will allow and Dean is shrieking with delighted laughter.
“Look!” Castiel turns to see that Lucy is lying across the swing on her stomach, arms and legs spread wide. “I'm flying!”
*~*
It's several days before he's able to secure transportation away from Toledo, long enough that he begins to worry about whether the money he was given is going to last all the way to Idaho. He's going to have to find a way to earn money, he realizes, or at least some sort of skill he can use for barter. Given the current state of things, there aren't many skills he has that are applicable. Centuries-old knowledge isn't useful in a world where people are barely scraping by. For now, they're all right, and he supposes he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
Charlie pronounces him a fair cook, in the end. “You won't be winning any culinary prizes, but at least the two of you won't starve while you're on the road. What do you think, Deano? Is it edible?”
Dean looks up from where he's sitting at the kitchen table, propped up on a telephone book ―the default for small children to sit on when there are no booster seats available, it seems― and grins. He's got maple syrup smeared over his face, and is very carefully trying to cut through a pancake with his fork. It's been days, and he still hasn't so much as said a word, which Castiel finds worrisome, among all the other things he finds worrisome. Charlie seems to have taken it in stride, however, making him wonder if many human children stay silent this way. He doesn't have much to go on in terms of experience.
“I think he approves,” Charlie says, startling him out of his reverie. “I hope you don't mind my saying so, but the house is kind of going to feel empty without the two of you here, even if you're not all that loud,” she smiles.
He's unaccountably sad at having to leave her behind, finds to his surprise that she too brushes away tears and embraces him upon his departure.
“You take care now, okay? Of yourself and Dean.”
“I will,” he promises. “And you do the same.”
Castiel makes a point of buying a knife before they leave town, a large Bowie that closely resembles the one he remembers Dean having about his person at all times. He tucks it in a sheath, concealing it beneath his jacket without a word. Their ride out of town is another rust-eaten van ―they seem ubiquitous in this new, unfamiliar world. The driver is a thin, unshaven man of dubious hygiene who introduces himself as 'Lyle.' Last names are a luxury in this world, and Castiel doesn't bother even extending his hand to shake. Lyle doesn't appear to expect it, anyway.
“Just keep the kid quiet, and we'll do just fine,” he says by way of greeting. “Trip'll cost you ten bucks. Five up front, five when we get to Dayton. That'll cover gas, and you get to ride shotgun. You know how to work one of these? None of the others do, and I could use the backup.” he tosses a twelve-gauge at Castiel, who instinctively puts out a hand and plucks it neatly out of the air and racks it, grateful for those last few lessons with Dean before the end. Lyle gives him a look that much more appreciative. “All right, then.”
The van is filled to capacity with passengers, and so Castiel is forced to hold Dean on his lap, the seatbelt buckled securely around them both, the shotgun propped at his feet. The November weather has turned chilly, but with the sky still white with ash, it's impossible to tell whether or not it will snow. For all Castiel knows, it may never snow again. Nothing is certain. He's made sure Dean is dressed in as many layers as he can comfortably wear while still being able to move, and has opted himself for more layers as well, another thing he learned from the Winchesters before the end. Layered clothing is the key to being prepared for all contingencies with the weather and imperilled living conditions. Dean wriggles in his lap until he's able to look out the window, the hood of his sweater drawn over his ears and fastened tightly with drawstrings. He sucks on the knuckle of his left index finger, watching the world go by over his fist.
The drive is entirely silent, the grey-tinged countryside sliding past them in a blur. None of the passengers appear to know each other, and none of them engage in small talk. Castiel doesn't bother introducing himself or trying to learn their names. In another day or two, they'll be nothing but distant memories, as ephemeral as the ghosts Sam and Dean used to hunt, fading into mist. It was past well past midday when they left, their departure delayed by endless small things and around four or five o'clock ―Castiel has no watch and can only vaguely guess at the time, the sun hidden as it is behind the thick ash that hangs overhead― a mousey-looking woman opens up a basket and hands out stale sandwiches of some sort of meat paste. The sandwiches are dry, the paste barely edible, but it's free nourishment, and he knows better than to turn his nose up at it.
Dean stirs in Castiel's lap, and points out the window with a now-wet finger, eyes wide, his expression both curious and a little fearful. Castiel peers through the windshield at what he had first assumed was simply debris along the road, and which he now realizes are dozens of crows, pecking at the carrion to be found near the ditches. The scenery here is already very different from what it was on their way to Toledo. There are no people walking the roads here, just an empty, desolate expanse of fields and abandoned houses, the occasional car rusting by the side of the road. He spots several animal carcases strewn about, and in one instance his stomach roils when he recognizes the shape of a human hand protruding from what's an otherwise unrecognisable mass of half-eaten, half-rotted flesh. After that, the sight of bodies becomes more frequent, and he finds that he can't shield Dean from all of them, try as he might.
Through the truck's air vents the cold air acquires a sickly-sweet tinge, and if they all recognize the taste of death, no one says a word.
*~*
Twilight creeps in unnoticed, the sunset invisible behind the barrier of ash. Dean is restless, fidgeting in his lap, obviously bored, and likely overtired by the long trip. He wriggles, accidentally jabs Castiel in the sternum with a small, sharp elbow, and either ignores or doesn't notice Castiel's grunt of discomfort.
“Dean, I know it's uncomfortable, but you must sit still,” he admonishes quietly.
The boy huffs an exasperated-sounding sigh, and for a moment Castiel sees nothing in him except Sam at his most petulant and unreasonable. In spite of himself, he smiles, thankful that Dean is facing away from him and can't see him struggling between amusement and sorrow. Dean gives one last wriggle, then settles again, sucking on his knuckle, kicking his feet until Castiel is forced to clamp a hand over both his ankles to keep them still.
“He's well-behaved, for his age,” the woman with the sandwiches remarks. Dean's elbow is digging in under Castiel's ribcage, and he's finding it difficult to believe that this is what consists of being well-behaved, but it would be churlish of him to contradict her.
“Really? I haven't much experience with children.”
She smiles, and suddenly looks much prettier than he originally thought, not that he'd taken much notice of her. “Oh, he is. Mine were hellions at that age. They'd have been bouncing off the walls of the van by now, yowling at the top of their lungs. I can't believe he's sat still this long, and not a peep out of him!”
“He doesn't speak much.” Castiel is at a loss.
“Late bloomer,” she says, as though that's supposed to mean something to him, and so he simply nods, and silence falls back over them. He understands, now, why humans so often compare the falling of silence to that of a shroud. Death surrounds them all.
The crows gather in ever-increasing numbers, even though the light is failing. Soon it's impossible for Castiel to tell whether the sky is darkening naturally, or whether their wings are blocking out what little light there is left. The cold creeps in, settling in Castiel's bones and making his joints ache and his breath fog in the air. Dean shivers and burrows into his chest for warmth, and Castiel strokes his head absent-mindedly, the gesture of comfort half-remembered from his vessel's paternal instincts, and he hears a quiet snuffle from the boy.
“All right?” he asks softly.
Dean sits up, pulls his hand from his mouth and points with a wet finger toward the road ahead, illuminated by the van's high-beams. Castiel strains to look ahead, and almost immediately wishes he hadn't. At first it seems the road is simply covered in a black shroud, but as they approach the shadows sharpen into the silhouettes of hundreds more crows, which flap up to soar lazily in the air above them as the van approaches, circling and watching. Waiting.
“Oh my God, what is that?” one of the passengers asks, voice cracking, though he's speaking barely above a whisper. Dean shoves his knuckle back into his mouth, holds onto his wrist with his free hand, and Castiel doesn't think he's imagining the shiver that runs through him, this time due more to what he's seeing than the cold.
The stench of death is thick inside the van now, cloying and choking. Ahead, bodies have been piled near a ditch, bloated and sprawled however they landed when they were tossed aside there. It's too cold for flies, but what few eyes they have left after the crows got to them stare glassily at him from faces distorted by rot ―the light from the van's high-beams reflecting off the scratched corneas. Their flesh has been partially torn away by scavengers, the visible patches of skin pale and shining, almost translucent as it stretches from the bloat.
“Why have these people not been buried?”
Lyle snorts. “Ain't got nobody who cares enough, I reckon.” He's dismissive, derisive almost, but the van is slowing in spite of his words, as though the dead are commanding his respect, however grudging it might be.
“Does this happen often?” Speaking now seems almost blasphemous, but he can't bear the silence
Lyle shrugs. “You get bodies now and again. There ain't much that's alive in these parts.”
There are uneasy murmurs from the back of the van, and Castiel finds himself touching a fingertip to the hilt of his knife, still concealed beneath his jacket, checking to make sure the shotgun is within easy reach. It feels like he's been hunting with the Winchesters for a lifetime, and in a way he has. A short lifetime, but a lifetime nonetheless. He wonders if Jimmy Novak knew how to fire a shotgun, doesn't believe he did.
“We should―” he begins, but isn't given the time to finish his sentence as the driver's side window suddenly explodes inward, and the van erupts into ear-splitting screams.
*~*
There are people outside the van, one clinging to the hood, another hanging from the roof and reaching through the broken window with sharp-clawed hands. Lyle screams as the windshield shatters, throwing his arms up over his face, and the van spins out of control in a shriek of brakes and the stench of burning rubber as it skids along the half-frozen asphalt. Instinctively Castiel wraps one arm around Dean, hunching over to protect him as the van careens over the ditch past the piled of corpses. There's a sickening crunch as they run into the fence along the side of the road, and Castiel wrenches to the side as a length of wood as thick as his arm punches through what's left of the windshield and threatens to impale them, shielding Dean with his body.
For a moment a hush settles over them. In the stillness, Castiel can hear the harsh pants and muted whimpers of the other passengers, can feel Dean trembling against him. He releases his seatbelt, heart jackhammering against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears, only to have the screams start up again as the van's rear doors are ripped from their hinges in a shriek of tearing metal. Before he can turn to see what's happening his own window bursts in a glittering shower of cracked glass, and he's being dragged from the vehicle by something which has his arm in a vice-grip. He loses his hold on Dean, for a moment sees nothing but the pitch-black sky as he lands, winded, on the frozen ground.
A face appears above him, feral and savage, and he catches a glimpse of a set of jagged fangs protruding from between otherwise rotten teeth, like a shark's. The vampire runs a grey tongue over its fangs, then almost quicker than Castiel can see, it lunges at his throat. He twists away, clawing at the ground, and feels a rush of putrid air as it narrowly misses tearing out his jugular. He shoves himself back toward the van, kicking with both legs, feels his fingers close around the cold barrel of the shotgun. There's a terrible, tearing pain in his calf, but it fades a moment later, and he swings the shotgun around, shoves the barrel directly into the creature's neck, and pulls the trigger, sees its head come free of its shoulders in a spray of red droplets and ribbons of tattered, marbled flesh.
Dean is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel's heart lodges itself somewhere near his mouth as he scrambles to his feet. “Dean!”
Vampires are swarming the wreckage of the van, clinging to it like giant, bony spiders, screaming and laughing maniacally. They're nothing like the vampires he remembers from before, the secretive, arrogant creatures that took pleasure in taking their victims alive and torturing them for days before ending their lives. These are terrible, desperate creatures, their eyes flashing hungrily in the darkness, screeching and catcalling as they tear the body of one of the passengers limb from limb between them, their sallow faces smeared with gore and viscera.
The woman who gave out the sandwiches is dead, sprawled on the ground, her throat gone, eyes staring glassily off to one side, limbs splayed grotesquely, her grey skirt rucked up around her hips. The world slows almost to a crawl around him, and he finds himself staring at her, wondering if he should feel some sort of loss. The van rocks on its wheels, and there's a grating, screeching sound as it slowly tilts, two wheels coming free from the frozen earth, and it crashes onto its side, shards of glass raining inside with a musical tinkling.
“Dean!”
There's no answer. He racks the shotgun just in time as another vampire lunges for him, takes off the top of its head with a second shell, and it drops, twitching. He doesn't think it's dead ―Dean was always very clear on the fact that the creatures had to be beheaded completely in order to be stopped, but this one appears to be immobilized, at the very least. He whirls on himself, putting his back to the upturned van, and drives the stock of his weapon into the face of another vampire which falls back, hissing.
An instinct makes him turn his head, and he catches sight of Dean standing in the road, his eyes so wide with fear they appear to swallow his whole face. Bodies litter the side of the road, bleeding sluggishly into the dirt, and he can feel the moment when the vampires' attention turns away from the still-warm corpses and settles on the boy. The creatures are everywhere, a good half-dozen of them still in full fighting trim. Two of them leap, cat-like, to stand before him, while the rest stare hungrily at Dean, the tension in their bodies visible. They're coiled like springs, ready to throw themselves at their latest meal.
“Dean, run!”
*~*
The shotgun jams after one more shot. Castiel grips it by the barrel, drives the stock at the remaining vampire's face, aiming for its eyes. It hisses and draws back, barely, then bares its teeth in a horrific grin.
“Well well well,” it says in a mocking sing-song. “It's been a while since the cattle fought back. Come on, little calf. Let's see how well you do now that your gun doesn't work!”
A lifetime ago it would have been nothing to destroy this creature. A simple touch of the fingers. Less time than it would take to formulate a thought. Now, though, his powers are gone, and his body is turning traitor. He's breathless, aching, his arms burning from the unaccustomed exertion, all his nerve endings thrumming. The vampire laughs at him, taunting, circling, while all the while he's acutely aware of Dean, alone and vulnerable only a few yards away, the vampires bearing down on him.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches them approach, slowly now, as though they have all the time in the world. Dean stumbles back a step, one hand raised in front of him in a futile attempt to ward them off. Castiel can see naked terror in his eyes, can imagine the vicious grins on the faces of the predators as they move to circle him.
“Run!” he shouts again, praying Dean isn't so paralysed with fear that he'll stay rooted to the spot.
With a snarl of his own so savage he barely recognizes his own voice Castiel slams the butt of the shotgun into the vampire's face, then sweeps its legs out from under it with a vicious kick. It lands on its back with an expression so shocked it might be comical under other circumstances, and before it can react he brings the butt of the shotgun down again, putting all his weight into the blow. He feels the fragile bones of its faces shatter and crunch, raises the weapon and strikes again, again and again, until the vampire's head is crushed, an unrecognisable pulp of flesh and blood and splintered bone.
“Dean!”
There's no time to think. Heedless of anything else, Castiel scrambles out of the ditch and throws himself past the prowling vampires. Dean is already running, but it's nothing to overtake him, snatch him up into his arms and clutch him to his chest. He keeps running, but finds himself face to face with the grinning, wild face of a vampire a split-second later.
“And where do you think you're going?”
Dean is clinging to his shoulders with both hands, head ducked down and pressed up against his chest, shaking so hard Castiel can barely keep hold of him. The vampires are advancing, slowly, methodically, cutting them off from the road. Castiel takes a step back, then another, his mind a blur of pure animalistic terror. There's nowhere to run but toward the field, and on the uneven ground he stands even less of a chance of escaping. There's a bitter taste in his mouth, his stomach churning as he realizes they're going to die if he can't find a way to get them away. He looks around desperately for a weapon, anything that might help them get away, and his gaze falls upon the mouldering pile of corpses sprawled in the ditch nearby. He half-remembers something Dean once told him, in another lifetime, and without stopping to second-guess himself he takes to his heels, barrelling past the weakest looking vampire, shoving it bodily out of his way.
He and Dean sprawl amongst the corpses, and the stench of rot fills his nostrils and mouth, making his gorge rise. He gags, nearly vomits, shoves Dean under the nearest body.
“Stay down! Don't come up until I tell you!”
Castiel scrambles away from him, slip-sliding over the bodies, feeling rotted flesh give way under his boot heels, sinews snapping and small bones splintering beneath him. He pulls his knife free of its sheath, buries it to the hilt in one of the bodies, then braces himself in order to pull it out, covered in thick, blackish ichor. One of the corpses' limbs tears loose as he scrambles for purchase, and he finds himself tumbling into the ditch, landing sprawling on his back. An unearthly growl announces the first vampire, descending on him, slavering and snarling, limbs splayed, spider-like. He feels its breath, foetid and cold on his face, and just barely manages to bring up his hand and drive his knife into its arm. It chokes, ribbons of saliva dribbling over its lower lip, and he feels its grip slacken before it slides off him, boneless and limp.
Castiel flails, desperately trying to regain his feet, feels a burning pain in his shoulder, twists on himself and scratches at it with the knife. The dead man's blood is brutally effective, more than he'd dared allow himself to hope, and his reflexes are still good enough that when the remaining two try to flank him, he's able to dive at their feet, rolling past them and slashing at their legs with the knife. They crumple, their knees buckling before they fall face-forward onto the ground. For a moment he's too stunned to move. Then, slowly, he clambers to his feet, pulse still racing.
“Dean?”
The night is all too quiet, but a moment later there's a shifting, rustling sound, and a grimy head pokes out from under the corpses. Dean scrambles over to him and throws himself headlong into his arms, his tiny frame racked with silent sobs. Castiel grips him as tightly as he can, staggers away from the corpses to sit on the road and rocks him.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It's okay. It's okay, they're gone. You're safe now. We're both safe.”
Neither of them move for a very long time.
*~*
It's only when he feels Dean's sobs turn into uncontrolled shivers that Castiel manages to rouse himself enough to get up and out of the road.
“Okay,” he says briskly, trying to remember how Dean used to be when they needed to be efficient and ruthless. “We can't stay here, Dean-o. It's cold and there might be other things around.”
He's not sure where the nickname came from, but Charlie used it, and Dean doesn't seem to mind. He finds a reasonably-sheltered spot, and settles Dean there, draping his jacket over the tiny shoulders. He winces as the movement pulls at what feels like a nasty cut on his shoulder.
“Did they bleed on you?” he asks, checking Dean over as best he can in the dark. “Are you hurt at all?” He gets a headshake, and lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, so relieved his knees almost buckle. “Okay. Stay here. I'm going to go make sure those things can't come after us again.”
He'd forgotten just how difficult and bloody it is to decapitate a vampire. He never had to do it before, preferring to let Dean handle the more run-of-the-mill creatures, but he remembers seeing both Winchesters spattered with gore and complaining bitterly about vampires that didn't conveniently disappear in a cloud of dust the way they did on the television. It takes the better part of twenty minutes to sever the spinal cords of the four remaining vampires, and by the end his muscles are burning, his arms trembling. His shoulder is on fire, as is his right calf. It's impossible to tell how bad his injuries are without a light source, but he's able to walk and fully move both arms and legs, and so he thinks he may have gotten off lightly. He's also relatively sure that none of the vampires managed to infect him, even inadvertently. From what he knows, the effects are almost instantaneous, and he has no feeling of heightened senses or hunger.
He limps back to Dean. “Come on. They're all dead now.”
Dean looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded now that the adrenaline has worn off. He takes Castiel's hand, looking even smaller in Castiel's heavy jacket, and follows him back to the van, sticking close to his leg without clinging. He tugs on Castiel's hand, points to the blood stain on his pants leg, the question obvious.
“Yes, I am injured, but I don't believe it to be serious. There is no need to worry,” he assures the boy, who simply nods.
There are no survivors. There is no way to shield Dean from the horror of the bodies of their former travelling companions, and so Castiel doesn't even try. “I know it's awful,” he says, kneeling and smoothing Dean's hair back from his head, “but they can't feel anything now. They're beyond pain, and beyond fear. Do you understand?”
He's not sure Dean does, but there's nothing to be done about that now. He clambers into the wreckage of the vehicle, closes his eyes briefly at the sight of one of the men who'd been riding with them, his sternum ripped open, ribs jutting through the flesh. Gritting his teeth, he begins sorting through the upended belongings, finds the pack and duffel bag that he packed for him and Dean nearly five days ago. He drops them outside, then pulls out the rest of the baggage, finds a flashlight tucked into the door on the driver's side, and uses it to sort through the piles, looking for anything that might be of use. Waste not, want not, he remembers. He clears the jam from the shotgun, straps it to the duffle bag; finds a few cans of food, helps himself to a few more changes of clothing and a spare blanket.
He shines the flashlight over his leg, winces as he sees the wicked-looking gash that stretches from just behind his knee and winds down over his shin all the way to his ankle. He has no way of tending to it now, but it's going to need some sort of treatment unless he wants to find himself permanently lamed, or worse. Logic would dictate staying near the van at least tonight, to use it for shelter, but he finds he can't stomach the idea of spending the night near all those corpses. Even though he knows it's only his imagination, he fancies he can feel their sightless eyes boring through past his skin to gaze at his soul, judging and finding him wanting.
He pulls the straps of the backpack over both his shoulders, slings the significantly-heavier duffel bag over his right shoulder, testing to see if he can bear the weight. Then, gingerly he hoists Dean up onto his left hip, curling an arm around his waist.
“Ready to go? We're going to find somewhere to bed down for the night, but it's not going to be here.”
Dean nods, and Castiel feels some of the tension drain from the small body, as though Dean too had been dreading the thought of spending any more time in this place.
“Okay then,” Castiel makes his way slowly to the road, and strikes westward. “Here we go.”
*~*
The morning dawns not much brighter than the night. It's lighter out, but everything still has the washed-out feel to it that it always does, now that there is no sun. Castiel blinks in the pale light, forcing his eyes open. He and Dean took refuge in an abandoned outbuilding on a farm which looks like it burned down months ago, clinging to each other in the narrow sleeping bag Castiel obtained in Detroit. It's not really big enough for two people, but Dean is small enough to fit, and this way they were better able to keep warm, stave off the shock of the night's events. Slowly, Castiel draws down the zipper on one side to free himself, and winces as he finds his leg has stiffened in the night. His pants leg is crusted with dried blood, and when he turns up the cuff he sees that the wound is already turning an angry red around the edges. He has no first-aid supplies to speak of, and realizes in retrospect that it was an oversight on his part. If he learned nothing else from Sam and Dean in the days when they were still hunting, it's that medical supplies are more important even than weapons. As an angel, he never had to think of such things, but now he has both himself and Dean to think of.
Dean sits up next to him, scrubbing at his eyes with grubby fists. They're both still filthy, covered in dirt and smears of blood and other substances that Castiel finds he doesn't really want to think about. It's funny ―in that non-funny way, as Dean used to say― how quickly he's beginning to think like a human. When he was an angel, the thought of human bodily fluids of any kind would barely have registered with him, let alone provokes the feelings of revulsion currently roiling in him.
“Did you sleep all right?”
Dean tilts his head to the side, and Castiel doesn't press the issue. Instead he takes advantage of the new light to check Dean again. Apart from being filthy, though, Dean really does appear to be unharmed, a minor miracle in itself, considering what happened to everyone else with them. He opens two of the cans of food ―tinned pears― raising a silent prayer of thanks for the person who invented the kind of can that opens using a simple pull-tab. He hands one can to Dean, together with an admonishment to eat slowly, wipes his hands until they're at least somewhat clean before lifting the can to his lips. The pears are sweet, the juice in which they're canned running down his chin, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Dean giggles quietly under his breath, and in spite of himself Castiel smiles.
“What? You think I look silly?”
Dean ducks his head, but he's still smiling, and Castiel rolls his eyes in amusement. “I'm not the only one covered in pear juice, Mr. sticky-hands.”
He packs up their gear as quickly as possible, and on his way out he spots what looks like the spigot for a garden hose attached to one of the charred walls. On an impulse he twists the knob, and is rewarded with a thin stream of water, barely more than a trickle, but it serves well enough to get them a little more clean, though he doesn't want to risk using it as drinking water. Dean squirms, unimpressed with the cold water and the rough fabric of the shirt Castiel has ripped apart to use as makeshift washcloths, but he keeps a firm grip on him.
“Come on, Dean, it's not that bad,” he says a little impatiently. “It's just water. Or would you prefer to stay covered in filth all day?” Dean gives him a dark look which suggests he thinks it's a trick question, and Castiel sighs. “Never mind. You are just as stubborn this way as you were when you were fully yourself.”
Dean glares, and not for the first time Castiel has doubts about his level of awareness. “Dean, do you remember what happened?”
He's asked before, and he gets the same answer. Dean stares at the ground, shrugs one shoulder, scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the dirt. The corners of his mouth have turned down, smalls hands clenched into fists.
“Dean? Talk to me,” he realizes his mistake the moment the words have left his lips. Dean looks up, his expression suddenly hard, a stubborn set to his jaw, and deliberately closes his mouth. Castiel sighs again, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, that's not ―I didn't mean you have to talk. Not yet, not if you're not ready. I worry about you, that's all. It used to be difficult to make you keep silent, remember?” he tries to smile, chucks Dean under the chin, and gets only a distrustful stare in return.
He clambers stiffly to his feet, his leg throbbing. “Do you think you can walk for a while? I'm not sure I can carry you right now. We're going to try to get to the nearest inhabited place, find some help there. All right?”
He doesn't exactly expect an answer, but Dean shuffles over to him, and follows readily enough when he makes his way back to the road. They walk in silence, beneath the ash-filled sky, the only sound for miles the cawing of carrion crows. After perhaps an hour, Dean, who's been lagging a step or so behind, puts on a small burst of speed and slips his hand back into Castiel's.
They keep walking.
*~*
It's tougher going than Castiel anticipated. Nothing he ever did before, as an angel or as a human, has prepared him for walking long distances on little rest and almost no food. Before, there was always transportation to be had, food to be found or scrounged when necessary. Now he finds himself in the odd position of having to think about rationing, about where they're going to be able to find drinking water that's safe for both of them. It's not as cold during the day, but it seems that winter is closing in faster than anyone anticipated, and he's sure that if they don't find another vehicle in which to travel, they won't get very far.
After another hour of walking Dean is lagging badly, dragging on Castiel's hand, and so Castiel bends down and pulls him up onto his shoulders, wincing a little bit as Dean reflexively grips his hair with his fingers. He stays still as Dean shifts until he's properly balanced, then sets out again, more slowly than ever. His shoulder protests at the treatment, but the pain is bearable, more so than that in his leg, and he's able to keep going for another hour or so ―as best as he can judge without a watch or the exact position of the sun. He thinks he still has a pretty good sense of the time, perhaps a tiny remnant of his angelic powers. Or perhaps it's something all humans have, he doesn't really know.
They stop to rest a few times, and when he thinks it's about midday he sets Dean down on the ground by the side of the road where he's found a patch of dying grass. He rummages in his pack for the food he salvaged the day before, preparing a makeshift meal for them. He has no utensils, not even a plate on which they can put the food, but he makes do with the tin cans and their fingers, and they have a cold meal of beans cooked in lard and spam, something Dean once assured him ought to be a last resort. It's salty and the texture is not what he expected, but it's better than going hungry, and apparently Dean has either forgotten his earlier revulsion for the food or else he is of the same opinion that it's preferable to no food at all, because he eats it methodically, licking his fingers and wiping them on his pants leg when he's done. Castiel doesn't bother saying anything about his table manners.
“Ready to go?”
Dean nods, although he still looks as though he's ready to lie down right where he is and go to sleep. Castiel debates staying where they are a while longer ―God knows they could both use the rest― but decides against it. The quicker they get moving, the quicker they'll be able to find a real resting place. When he tries to get to his feet, though, his injured leg buckles under him, refusing to take his weight. He lets out a surprised grunt, drops back onto his ass, and is rewarded with a giggle from Dean.
“Thought that was funny, did you?” he manages a pained smile. If Dean is laughing, it means he hasn't figured out yet that anything is seriously wrong, and the longer he can keep the boy from worrying, the better.
He looks through his pack again, and while no first aid supplies have magically appeared in there, he does tear apart another shirt into a makeshift bandage, wrapping up his calf as tightly as he can. He should have done it to begin with, he thinks ruefully, but it never occurred to him at all. So much for becoming accustomed to being human. He sits for a while, leg outstretched, waiting for the throbbing to die down. He's going to have to find some sort of walking stick, now, and they won't be making much progress now that he's lame and Dean will be walking the majority of the time. Dean sits next to him, tracing lines in the dirt with a small stick, glancing up at him from beneath his bangs every so often. His nose is running, and Castiel is beginning to wonder if that's a perpetual state of affairs for human children. They're going to have to stock up on handkerchiefs, seeing as how tissues appear to be a rare commodity now. He ruffles Dean's hair, forces himself to keep a light tone.
“It's okay. I'm a little more banged up than I thought, but we'll get going in a few minutes.”
Dean doesn't look convinced, keeps scratching at the ground with his stick, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Then abruptly he raises his head, scanning the horizon down the road the way they came from, expression intent. Then before Castiel can so much as reach out to stop him he's on his feet, trotting to the side of the road just as the sound of an engine reaches Castiel's ears, still far enough away that it might easily be a figment of his imagination. The engine belongs to a red sedan, which crests over a low hill a few moments later, and slows to a halt before them. The window rolls down, revealing a young man with dark curly hair and a bright smile.
“Need a lift?”
*~*
Part 3: Pontiac
Part 1: Visitation
Part 2: Eye of a Hurricane
There are more motor vehicles around than Castiel thought there would be. No one is producing them anymore, but there are enough people left who understand cars and motors to keep the ones still in existence running for a while longer, and there is still fuel, even though it's no longer being siphoned from the earth. Dean is holding onto his hand, his fingers sticky from something he ate at breakfast no doubt, but he seems to have gained a measure of confidence since the day before. He's holding himself very still, very upright, staring ahead intently, as though gauging his surroundings for potential threats.
Their ride is a brown truck with a cabin large enough to accommodate six grown men, if needs be. The driver, a quiet man in a flannel shirt over fading blue jeans named Bruce, gives them a nod when Katie introduces them and explains what they need.
“I'm not going further than Toledo and back, but I can always use the company. There's always people coming and going there. Won't be hard for you to catch a ride in the direction you want to go.”
“We appreciate it.”
“I'm going no matter what,” Bruce shrugs, as if it's of no consequence. “Don't have a car seat, but the kid looks big enough to sit in the back. You're practically grown-up, aren't you, son?” he directs a sudden conspiratorial grin at Dean, whose expression thaws a bit. He nods. “That's what I thought. Hop on board. I got a schedule to keep.”
Castiel shakes Katie's hand briefly, lifts Dean up into the truck's cabin and buckles the safety belt around his hips before climbing into the front himself. Dean immediately twists in his seat, pressing his face to the window to watch the scenery roll by. It's brighter outside during the day, but the light is dim, now, compared to before. The clouds of ash hang thick in the air, turning the light a sickly white, devoid of warmth.
“Has the sky looked like this all this time?” he finds himself asking.
“Since the Visitation, yeah. How come you don't know?”
He shakes his head. “It's difficult to explain, but... I wasn't present for many months.”
“Lucky you.”
Castiel huffs something that might be agreement or amusement, and says nothing further. He glances back at Dean, watching the world through a pane of dusty glass, his eyes very round as he takes it all in. The road is littered with debris that's been swept to the sides to clear it, rusting hulks of cars that must have been caught in the initial devastation, their frames twisted and bent into shapes which bode ill for the occupants in them at the time. Every so often he catches sight of an animal carcass, lying on its side, rotting in the filthy air. The third time he risks looking at Dean and finds the child chewing on his lip, staring at the decomposing remains with a look far too old for his face.
Sometimes there are people walking along the side of the road, some seemingly with a direction in mind, others with large baskets and bags, collecting what little can be salvaged from the rubble. Dean surprises him by waving at some of them, and they wave back, sometimes with a smile or even a laugh, and Castiel feels the knot in his stomach loosen at those moments. It may be a terrible and frightening new world out here, but it's reassuring to see that some people haven't forgotten how to find joy in small things. When one woman blows Dean an extravagant kiss, he giggles and turns to look at Castiel with a smile that takes his breath away, pointing at her.
Castiel forces himself to smile. “You liked that, did you?”
Dean grins, then turns back to wave even more enthusiastically, and Castiel can see the woman laughing, pointing out the waving child to her friends.
“There aren't too many children left,” Bruce says quietly. “We try to take extra special care of the ones we got.”
“I don't understand.”
Bruce gives him a speculative look. “Katie said you haven't been around. After the Visitation was done, everything went to hell for a while. People got sick, and there weren't enough doctors to go around. Just before there was a flu pandemic, and after it became a fully-blown epidemic. The children got hit the hardest.”
After that, there doesn't seem to be anything of use to say. Castiel barely resists the sudden urge to pull Dean into his arms and never let go again.
They pull into Toledo a couple of hours after leaving Detroit. There is no traffic, but the roads are no longer maintained the way they were before: there is no one to operate the heavy machinery required for it. Bruce pulls up in front of a diner with a hand-painted sign that says simply “May's Diner.”
“My supply pick-up is on the other side of town, but you can get good food here, and it's not expensive. May's a good woman. You can probably find yourselves a ride out of town there, too, if you wait long enough.” Bruce turns in his seat, and very seriously shakes Dean's hand. “You take care, now, son. And watch this one: he needs taking care of.”
Dean looks up at him, returns the handshake and nods very solemnly.
“Good boy.”
*~*
May is a plain woman in her late thirties, dressed like everyone else in long, warm clothing from which most of the colour seems to have faded. Her short-cropped hair has a healthy dusting of grey but her face is unlined, and she breaks into a heartfelt smile when Castiel walks in, Dean clinging to his sleeve in a sudden fit of shyness.
“Hi there. Passing through?”
Castiel nods. “We're going to Idaho.”
“Bet you'd like some food first, though,” she bends a bit to look at Dean. “Hello, sweetheart. What's your name?”
Dean ducks behind Castiel, who shrugs. “This is Dean.”
“Shy, are we? That's all right,” May leads them to a corner booth, eyes Dean critically, then fetches a yellowing telephone book from behind the cash register and places it on one side of the bench. Dean climbs up without a word, settles on the phone book, small feet kicking under the table. “I'm May, in case you hadn't guessed.” She pauses, waits, and Castiel realizes she's waiting for him to introduce himself.
“I'm Cas. It's... nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Cas. That's an unusual name. Is it short for Casper?”
“Castiel. But I haven't gone by that name in a long time.”
She nods, purses her lips. “Even more unusual. I think I'll keep that one to myself: not everyone is likely to react well to it, you know.”
“I appreciate your discretion.”
“Mm-hmm. All right. We've got a beef and mushroom casserole today, or else pasta with tomato sauce. What would you like, Dean?” the warmth is already back in her voice.
Dean's eyes go wide, and he turns an anxious look toward Castiel.
“Would you like the casserole, Dean?” Castiel gets a headshake. “The pasta, then?” A nod. He smiles, turns to May. “We'll both have the pasta, please.”
“All righty, then. You two just sit tight. Would you like a coffee while you're waiting?”
It will be the second cup of coffee in his entire life. He's still not sure if he even likes the drink. “Yes, please.”
She returns a moment later with a steaming white mug and a bowl of sugar packets. “We're out of cream, but I have whitener if you want it.”
“It is perfectly acceptable as it is.”
May places a small stack of used paper on the table, and pulls a handful of wax crayons from the pocket of her apron. “There you go, Dean. I know that having to wait around is pretty boring, so why don't you draw some pictures?”
Dean looks up at her, bangs falling into his eyes, then down at the paper. He hesitates, then carefully reaches out and plucks a brown crayon from the pile, pulls a sheet of paper over, and applies himself carefully to his new task. He squirms when he notices Castiel watching him, and so Castiel pointedly looks elsewhere, takes a sip of his coffee plain, then grimaces and adds a spoonful of sugar. He tastes it again, adds a second spoonful, and that makes it more palatable.
The meal is plain but filling, and Dean manages to smear tomato sauce on his face and hands and a good portion of his shirt. Castiel ends up taking him into the restroom at the back of the diner and scrubbing him clean with a hand towel, while Dean squirms in his grip, twisting away from the rough fabric, but submitting to the treatment without so much as a peep. Castiel begins to wonder if he should be worried about the fact that Dean still hasn't said a single word to anyone. Surely he's capable of speech? He files the thought away for future reference. At last, Dean is no longer sticky or covered in red sauce, and Castiel ushers him from the restroom. May is waiting for them when they return.
“I may be able to help you get on your way,” she says as Castiel carefully peels eight dollars out of the wallet Katie gave to him and places them on the table. “There's a fella leaving Toledo tomorrow or maybe the day after, heading west. I'm not sure exactly where he's going, but I can put you in touch with him, and the two of you can work something out.”
Castiel nods. “Thank you. Do you know of a place where we can spend the night, in that case?”
She pauses, gives him a considering look. “I'm guessing you're not exactly rolling in money?”
It's his turn to hesitate. “I am not familiar with that idiom, but... I don't have much money, no.”
“Are you willing to work in exchange for a reduction in the price of your room?”
“If I can. I don't have many useful skills.”
“You'd be surprised. You're a healthy adult, which means there'll be some use for you somewhere. Why don't you sit back in your booth, and once I'm done serving lunch you can come with me. I think I know somewhere you can stay.”
He nods his thanks, leads Dean back to the table, and very carefully doesn't watch as the boy uses a yellow crayon to draw what looks like an elaborate sunburst.
*~*
There are few people out on the street, although it's a nice enough day for the time of year. A pall hangs over the town, the way it hung over Detroit. Dean ducks his head, hands over his sunburst drawing to May, staring diffidently at his feet, and she thanks him with all the sincerity she can muster. It's a mass of yellow, an indistinct brown figure at the centre.
“You should sign it, sweetie. All great artists sign their work,” she says, and so Dean very carefully prints his name in wobbly letters at the bottom of the picture, slightly off-centre. The 'n' is backward, but the name is recognizably his.
“What is it meant to be?” Castiel asks him, but Dean just looks at him as though he's dim-witted.
May shakes her head. “It's the Visitation, Cas. Anyone can see that.”
He looks at the picture again, tilts his head as though the angle will help him see better. “Oh.”
From the outside, it looks completely different.
Dean slips a hand into his, and they follow May down the street, and minutes after they leave the main thoroughfare Castiel feels hopelessly lost. He's never had to worry about directions before, he always used to know exactly where he was. He has to slow his pace so that Dean can keep up with him, trotting on sturdy little legs beside him. They stop in front of a pretty little white house, and May strides up the front walk and rings at the door. A moment later the door opens, revealing a young blonde woman, equally as pretty as the house. Her jeans are clean, and her pink shirt is the first real colour Castiel has seen since he came back. She smooths her hands over her hips, smiles, and her mouth looks soft, her teeth white.
“Hi, May. What can I do for you? Oh!” she startles as Dean suddenly darts out from behind Castiel and grabs hold of her wrist, grinning up at her. She smiles back, obviously smitten. “Well, hi there. What's your name?”
Dean just grins and hangs on, so Castiel answers for him, again. “This is Dean. He's normally very shy. I expect it's because you're pretty that he's taken a liking to you. He likes pretty girls.”
Dean directs a flat look at him. She blushes, glances up at him through her lashes, then looks back down at Dean. “That's a really nice name, Dean. I knew a Dean, once. He saved my life, you know. He was very brave. And also really cute. I guess it must go with the name, being handsome.”
She ruffles his hair, and Dean glows under the praise. If Sam were here, Castiel thinks, he'd be rolling his eyes.
May clears her throat. “Charlie, you think you can give these boys a room for the night? I figure you must have a few things around here that need doing. I thought Cas here could give you a hand with them, in exchange for a bed for the night at a reduced rate.”
Charlie hesitates visibly, looks first at Dean, then at him. “Yeah, okay. Why don't you come in, and we'll figure something out. May, you want to come in? I can make tea.”
May shakes her head. “No, thank you anyway. I should get back to the diner. I'll be in touch, Cas, as soon as I hear anything.”
Castiel follows Charlie inside, Dean trotting at her heels. “We had a storm last week,” she's saying over her shoulder. “One of the trees in the yard lost some big branches, so if you're any good with a saw I could use a hand breaking it up into smaller pieces and hauling it to the shed for kindling.”
“I can learn.”
She huffs a laugh. “You and the rest of us.”
He glances around the house, noting that while it's very neat and tidy, it's also unlike some of the suburban houses he visited with Sam and Dean. There is no evidence of many electronic appliances, and he catches sight of salt lines by the doors and windows. “Does everyone know of the supernatural now?”
Charlie stops, gives him a more appraising look. “Sorry?”
He points. “Salt lines. Is this common knowledge now?”
“No, it's not. It's a precaution I learned from some friends, years ago. To be prepared. It's why I can still live here when most people don't. How do you know about this stuff?”
He shrugs. “Let's just say I have special insight into the matter.”
“Christo.”
Castiel throws back his head with a laugh. “I'm not a demon, Charlie,” he reassures her, although Dean has retreated back to his side.
She grins ruefully. “Sorry. You're just... well, no offense, Cas, but you're a little weird.”
“I've been told that. No, rest assured, I'm a human, just like you.”
*~*
Performing manual labour is not something Castiel has ever had to do before. As an angel, physical exertion was an afterthought, and even in the last days before the apocalypse, when he was human in all but name, he was not required to do anything of the sort. Despite May's promise to help him find transportation, it's several days before he hears back from her. In the meantime, he does the best he can to help Charlie around the house. He quickly discovers that he's mostly useless at basic repairs, at least at first. He helps her to saw the fallen tree branches in her yard into firewood, piling it into small cords near a makeshift shed that's been built in recent months for the express purposes of keeping wood dry.
“I'm trying to plan ahead,” Charlie tells him. “We can still heat with oil for now, but there's no telling how long it'll last, and firewood takes a while to dry out. Green wood doesn't burn as well, just makes lots of smoke.”
“You've given this a lot of thought.”
“Someone has to.”
The first night she serves him a dish of stewed beans and meat from a large pot, which she tells him is chili. It's fragrant and warm and makes his tongue tingle from the spices. It staves off the November chill, and he wraps his hands around the bowl, savouring the warmth seeping into his skin. Dean is sitting in his lap, drowsy but unwilling to be left alone to sleep in the large bed Charlie has provided for them. Castiel keeps an arm wrapped loosely around the boy's midsection, while Charlie, her voice quiet, tells him about the two brothers who saved her life many years ago, before the world ended.
“It's easier to believe now than it was at the time,” she says, with a smile that takes ten years off her face. “The spirit of a dead woman who comes and kills people through the mirror?It was a kid's game, until people started dying. Back then the two of them ―Sam and Dean― came and went, and it felt like a ghost story someone had made up to tell around a campfire, complete with the mysterious heroes who drove off into the sunset in their muscle car. Now, though... everything's different.”
Castiel knows what she means. People are more open to the truth, now that it has been laid bare before them.
“I never heard from them again,” she continues, but he senses she's no longer talking directly to him. “Not that I expected to. But I wondered, for a long time. What they do, it's dangerous, you know? So sometimes I wonder if they're safe, if they're still alive, if they're still doing what they were. Especially with everything that's happened, it kind of makes me feel safer to think that there are people out there, still trying to hold back the dark.”
Castiel glances down at the boy in his lap, warmth coiling unaccountably in the pit of his stomach. Sam and Dean may not have the chance to see the good they do over the long term, but they have changed lives, almost always for the better. Dean is very nearly asleep, limp and relaxed against his chest, breathing even, but Castiel can tell he's awake and watchful, even under heavy-lidded eyes. He raises a hand, combs his fingers through Dean's hair, and is rewarded with a soft sigh and a settling of the boy's weight against him.
“You're good with him,” Charlie smiles. “But he's not your son. I can tell. How did you end up with a kid his age?”
He's surprised. He feels entirely out of his depth with Dean in this form, constantly plagued by the worry that he'll do him some irreparable harm. He's so small like this, vulnerable.
“He's my charge, I suppose. But he's also my friend.”
She likes that description, he can tell. “Your friend, huh? Well, stranger things have happened. He looks like he's about to drop, though. Maybe you should take him upstairs. I'll clean up here.”
“Are you sure? I don't wish to leave you with all this,” he gestures to the unwashed dishes, and she chuckles.
“I've seen worse. You can make breakfast tomorrow, if you insist.”
His lip twists. “I don't think that's a good idea. De ―someone once told me my cooking was terrible, the only time I tried it.”
“Well you're going to have to learn. You can't get by these days without knowing how to cook a little bit. I could teach you a bit, if you want. Everyone should at least know how to cook eggs.”
“We're likely leaving tomorrow, if we can get a ride out.”
“Then you'll just have to learn fast.”
He smiles as he pushes his chair back and hoists Dean into his arms. “I suppose I will.”
*~*
The promised ride out of town fails to materialize the next day, and while May is apologetic, there doesn't appear to be much he Castiel can do about it. He takes Dean for a long walk around the town when he appears to become restless, and is once again taken aback by the warmth with which people greet the boy. There are no children Dean's age, although there are several older ones, between ten and fourteen years of age, he guesses. Of those, the girls in particular seem to take a shine to Dean, and he suddenly finds his morning monopolized by a couple of young girls who insist upon taking them both to a nearby park.
“Come on,” a girl named Lucy tries to get Dean to take her hand as they walk, but Dean stubbornly clings to Castiel's hand instead. She takes it in stride, introducing Castiel to her friend instead. “Nessa and me are best friends forever. Aren't we, Nessa?”
Nessa is darker-complexioned than Lucy, older and considerably more sober in her bearing. She nods, though, in a way that suggests to Castiel that Lucy is perhaps the more dominant of the two. “That's right.”
“Forever is a very long time,” Castiel says, and Lucy shrugs, unconcerned. “Do you have other friends?”
“Lily,” Nessa's voice is quiet.
“She died of the flu,” Lucy supplies helpfully, in that artless way that some children have when something is too monumental for them to fully understand. He thinks Nessa understands all too well. “But it was a long time ago.” He revises his opinion of Lucy's age, puts her perhaps closer to seven or eight at the most, whereas her friend appears to be on the cusp of adolescence. It's an odd match, from what little he knows of these things, but then, these are odd times.
Lucy makes a dash for the playground when they get there, Dean and Castiel in tow. Her wiry hair has been carefully woven into tiny braids with wooden beads on the ends which clink together musically as she moves. Dean is fascinated, and reaches up to tug gently on the braids. She giggles. “You like those, huh? My momma braided my hair. She used to complain about it taking so long, but she doesn't anymore. Don't you want to go on the slide, Dean?”
Dean has balked at the foot of the ladder leading up to the top, squinting dubiously at it. He ducks his head, looks back at Castiel from beneath his bangs. Castiel smiles encouragingly. “Go on, it's all right. I won't be far.”
“Maybe he'd like the swings better,” her friend says. “He's a little small for the big slide.”
“Okay. You want to go on the swings, Dean?”
Dean appears to think about it, then, after one last look at Castiel, nods. He lets Lucy grab his hand, then, and trots behind her until they reach the swings. He squirms away when she tries to lift him onto the swings, and it's only when Castiel approaches again that he lets himself be picked up and deposited in one of the small swings.
“Why doesn't he talk?” Nessa asks.
“I'm not sure.” Castiel has asked himself this question, along with a hundred others, over and over again over the course of the past couple of days. No one, himself least of all, has any answers for him. “I think perhaps he is waiting for the right time to say what he needs.”
“I think you should push him,” Lucy is studying the swing critically, oblivious to their conversation. “I'm too short and he won't go high enough.”
“Is going high important?”
“Of course!”
Nessa agrees. “It's better when your dad pushes you, anyway.”
“I'm not his―” he stops. “Why is it better?”
She shrugs. “I dunno, it just is. Or your mom, but I guess Dean's mom isn't around anymore, is she?”
There's a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. “No, she passed away many years ago.” When Dean was still a child, he's about to say, when he catches himself.
“At least he's still got you.”
“Come on, Castiel!” Lucy calls. She's perched on one of the swings designed for older children, the chains creaking against the wooden seats. “You have to come push the swings now!”
Nessa smiles unexpectedly. “She means she wants you to give her a push to start her off. She hasn't figured out how to do it on her own.” She trots to her own swing, and within seconds her skinny legs are pumping up and down, propelling the swing into the air.
Castiel obligingly gives Lucy a 'start,' then turns back to Dean. “Would you like me to push you?”
Dean looks down at the ground, then back up at him, and kicks his feet experimentally. Then he nods, small fists curling around the chains to steady himself. Castiel pulls the swing as far back as he can reach, then lets go, watching with no little trepidation as the rusted chain squeaks alarmingly. The swing holds, though, and Dean grins delightedly over his shoulder, and so he pushes harder, until the swing goes as high as the chain will allow and Dean is shrieking with delighted laughter.
“Look!” Castiel turns to see that Lucy is lying across the swing on her stomach, arms and legs spread wide. “I'm flying!”
*~*
It's several days before he's able to secure transportation away from Toledo, long enough that he begins to worry about whether the money he was given is going to last all the way to Idaho. He's going to have to find a way to earn money, he realizes, or at least some sort of skill he can use for barter. Given the current state of things, there aren't many skills he has that are applicable. Centuries-old knowledge isn't useful in a world where people are barely scraping by. For now, they're all right, and he supposes he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
Charlie pronounces him a fair cook, in the end. “You won't be winning any culinary prizes, but at least the two of you won't starve while you're on the road. What do you think, Deano? Is it edible?”
Dean looks up from where he's sitting at the kitchen table, propped up on a telephone book ―the default for small children to sit on when there are no booster seats available, it seems― and grins. He's got maple syrup smeared over his face, and is very carefully trying to cut through a pancake with his fork. It's been days, and he still hasn't so much as said a word, which Castiel finds worrisome, among all the other things he finds worrisome. Charlie seems to have taken it in stride, however, making him wonder if many human children stay silent this way. He doesn't have much to go on in terms of experience.
“I think he approves,” Charlie says, startling him out of his reverie. “I hope you don't mind my saying so, but the house is kind of going to feel empty without the two of you here, even if you're not all that loud,” she smiles.
He's unaccountably sad at having to leave her behind, finds to his surprise that she too brushes away tears and embraces him upon his departure.
“You take care now, okay? Of yourself and Dean.”
“I will,” he promises. “And you do the same.”
Castiel makes a point of buying a knife before they leave town, a large Bowie that closely resembles the one he remembers Dean having about his person at all times. He tucks it in a sheath, concealing it beneath his jacket without a word. Their ride out of town is another rust-eaten van ―they seem ubiquitous in this new, unfamiliar world. The driver is a thin, unshaven man of dubious hygiene who introduces himself as 'Lyle.' Last names are a luxury in this world, and Castiel doesn't bother even extending his hand to shake. Lyle doesn't appear to expect it, anyway.
“Just keep the kid quiet, and we'll do just fine,” he says by way of greeting. “Trip'll cost you ten bucks. Five up front, five when we get to Dayton. That'll cover gas, and you get to ride shotgun. You know how to work one of these? None of the others do, and I could use the backup.” he tosses a twelve-gauge at Castiel, who instinctively puts out a hand and plucks it neatly out of the air and racks it, grateful for those last few lessons with Dean before the end. Lyle gives him a look that much more appreciative. “All right, then.”
The van is filled to capacity with passengers, and so Castiel is forced to hold Dean on his lap, the seatbelt buckled securely around them both, the shotgun propped at his feet. The November weather has turned chilly, but with the sky still white with ash, it's impossible to tell whether or not it will snow. For all Castiel knows, it may never snow again. Nothing is certain. He's made sure Dean is dressed in as many layers as he can comfortably wear while still being able to move, and has opted himself for more layers as well, another thing he learned from the Winchesters before the end. Layered clothing is the key to being prepared for all contingencies with the weather and imperilled living conditions. Dean wriggles in his lap until he's able to look out the window, the hood of his sweater drawn over his ears and fastened tightly with drawstrings. He sucks on the knuckle of his left index finger, watching the world go by over his fist.
The drive is entirely silent, the grey-tinged countryside sliding past them in a blur. None of the passengers appear to know each other, and none of them engage in small talk. Castiel doesn't bother introducing himself or trying to learn their names. In another day or two, they'll be nothing but distant memories, as ephemeral as the ghosts Sam and Dean used to hunt, fading into mist. It was past well past midday when they left, their departure delayed by endless small things and around four or five o'clock ―Castiel has no watch and can only vaguely guess at the time, the sun hidden as it is behind the thick ash that hangs overhead― a mousey-looking woman opens up a basket and hands out stale sandwiches of some sort of meat paste. The sandwiches are dry, the paste barely edible, but it's free nourishment, and he knows better than to turn his nose up at it.
Dean stirs in Castiel's lap, and points out the window with a now-wet finger, eyes wide, his expression both curious and a little fearful. Castiel peers through the windshield at what he had first assumed was simply debris along the road, and which he now realizes are dozens of crows, pecking at the carrion to be found near the ditches. The scenery here is already very different from what it was on their way to Toledo. There are no people walking the roads here, just an empty, desolate expanse of fields and abandoned houses, the occasional car rusting by the side of the road. He spots several animal carcases strewn about, and in one instance his stomach roils when he recognizes the shape of a human hand protruding from what's an otherwise unrecognisable mass of half-eaten, half-rotted flesh. After that, the sight of bodies becomes more frequent, and he finds that he can't shield Dean from all of them, try as he might.
Through the truck's air vents the cold air acquires a sickly-sweet tinge, and if they all recognize the taste of death, no one says a word.
*~*
Twilight creeps in unnoticed, the sunset invisible behind the barrier of ash. Dean is restless, fidgeting in his lap, obviously bored, and likely overtired by the long trip. He wriggles, accidentally jabs Castiel in the sternum with a small, sharp elbow, and either ignores or doesn't notice Castiel's grunt of discomfort.
“Dean, I know it's uncomfortable, but you must sit still,” he admonishes quietly.
The boy huffs an exasperated-sounding sigh, and for a moment Castiel sees nothing in him except Sam at his most petulant and unreasonable. In spite of himself, he smiles, thankful that Dean is facing away from him and can't see him struggling between amusement and sorrow. Dean gives one last wriggle, then settles again, sucking on his knuckle, kicking his feet until Castiel is forced to clamp a hand over both his ankles to keep them still.
“He's well-behaved, for his age,” the woman with the sandwiches remarks. Dean's elbow is digging in under Castiel's ribcage, and he's finding it difficult to believe that this is what consists of being well-behaved, but it would be churlish of him to contradict her.
“Really? I haven't much experience with children.”
She smiles, and suddenly looks much prettier than he originally thought, not that he'd taken much notice of her. “Oh, he is. Mine were hellions at that age. They'd have been bouncing off the walls of the van by now, yowling at the top of their lungs. I can't believe he's sat still this long, and not a peep out of him!”
“He doesn't speak much.” Castiel is at a loss.
“Late bloomer,” she says, as though that's supposed to mean something to him, and so he simply nods, and silence falls back over them. He understands, now, why humans so often compare the falling of silence to that of a shroud. Death surrounds them all.
The crows gather in ever-increasing numbers, even though the light is failing. Soon it's impossible for Castiel to tell whether the sky is darkening naturally, or whether their wings are blocking out what little light there is left. The cold creeps in, settling in Castiel's bones and making his joints ache and his breath fog in the air. Dean shivers and burrows into his chest for warmth, and Castiel strokes his head absent-mindedly, the gesture of comfort half-remembered from his vessel's paternal instincts, and he hears a quiet snuffle from the boy.
“All right?” he asks softly.
Dean sits up, pulls his hand from his mouth and points with a wet finger toward the road ahead, illuminated by the van's high-beams. Castiel strains to look ahead, and almost immediately wishes he hadn't. At first it seems the road is simply covered in a black shroud, but as they approach the shadows sharpen into the silhouettes of hundreds more crows, which flap up to soar lazily in the air above them as the van approaches, circling and watching. Waiting.
“Oh my God, what is that?” one of the passengers asks, voice cracking, though he's speaking barely above a whisper. Dean shoves his knuckle back into his mouth, holds onto his wrist with his free hand, and Castiel doesn't think he's imagining the shiver that runs through him, this time due more to what he's seeing than the cold.
The stench of death is thick inside the van now, cloying and choking. Ahead, bodies have been piled near a ditch, bloated and sprawled however they landed when they were tossed aside there. It's too cold for flies, but what few eyes they have left after the crows got to them stare glassily at him from faces distorted by rot ―the light from the van's high-beams reflecting off the scratched corneas. Their flesh has been partially torn away by scavengers, the visible patches of skin pale and shining, almost translucent as it stretches from the bloat.
“Why have these people not been buried?”
Lyle snorts. “Ain't got nobody who cares enough, I reckon.” He's dismissive, derisive almost, but the van is slowing in spite of his words, as though the dead are commanding his respect, however grudging it might be.
“Does this happen often?” Speaking now seems almost blasphemous, but he can't bear the silence
Lyle shrugs. “You get bodies now and again. There ain't much that's alive in these parts.”
There are uneasy murmurs from the back of the van, and Castiel finds himself touching a fingertip to the hilt of his knife, still concealed beneath his jacket, checking to make sure the shotgun is within easy reach. It feels like he's been hunting with the Winchesters for a lifetime, and in a way he has. A short lifetime, but a lifetime nonetheless. He wonders if Jimmy Novak knew how to fire a shotgun, doesn't believe he did.
“We should―” he begins, but isn't given the time to finish his sentence as the driver's side window suddenly explodes inward, and the van erupts into ear-splitting screams.
*~*
There are people outside the van, one clinging to the hood, another hanging from the roof and reaching through the broken window with sharp-clawed hands. Lyle screams as the windshield shatters, throwing his arms up over his face, and the van spins out of control in a shriek of brakes and the stench of burning rubber as it skids along the half-frozen asphalt. Instinctively Castiel wraps one arm around Dean, hunching over to protect him as the van careens over the ditch past the piled of corpses. There's a sickening crunch as they run into the fence along the side of the road, and Castiel wrenches to the side as a length of wood as thick as his arm punches through what's left of the windshield and threatens to impale them, shielding Dean with his body.
For a moment a hush settles over them. In the stillness, Castiel can hear the harsh pants and muted whimpers of the other passengers, can feel Dean trembling against him. He releases his seatbelt, heart jackhammering against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears, only to have the screams start up again as the van's rear doors are ripped from their hinges in a shriek of tearing metal. Before he can turn to see what's happening his own window bursts in a glittering shower of cracked glass, and he's being dragged from the vehicle by something which has his arm in a vice-grip. He loses his hold on Dean, for a moment sees nothing but the pitch-black sky as he lands, winded, on the frozen ground.
A face appears above him, feral and savage, and he catches a glimpse of a set of jagged fangs protruding from between otherwise rotten teeth, like a shark's. The vampire runs a grey tongue over its fangs, then almost quicker than Castiel can see, it lunges at his throat. He twists away, clawing at the ground, and feels a rush of putrid air as it narrowly misses tearing out his jugular. He shoves himself back toward the van, kicking with both legs, feels his fingers close around the cold barrel of the shotgun. There's a terrible, tearing pain in his calf, but it fades a moment later, and he swings the shotgun around, shoves the barrel directly into the creature's neck, and pulls the trigger, sees its head come free of its shoulders in a spray of red droplets and ribbons of tattered, marbled flesh.
Dean is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel's heart lodges itself somewhere near his mouth as he scrambles to his feet. “Dean!”
Vampires are swarming the wreckage of the van, clinging to it like giant, bony spiders, screaming and laughing maniacally. They're nothing like the vampires he remembers from before, the secretive, arrogant creatures that took pleasure in taking their victims alive and torturing them for days before ending their lives. These are terrible, desperate creatures, their eyes flashing hungrily in the darkness, screeching and catcalling as they tear the body of one of the passengers limb from limb between them, their sallow faces smeared with gore and viscera.
The woman who gave out the sandwiches is dead, sprawled on the ground, her throat gone, eyes staring glassily off to one side, limbs splayed grotesquely, her grey skirt rucked up around her hips. The world slows almost to a crawl around him, and he finds himself staring at her, wondering if he should feel some sort of loss. The van rocks on its wheels, and there's a grating, screeching sound as it slowly tilts, two wheels coming free from the frozen earth, and it crashes onto its side, shards of glass raining inside with a musical tinkling.
“Dean!”
There's no answer. He racks the shotgun just in time as another vampire lunges for him, takes off the top of its head with a second shell, and it drops, twitching. He doesn't think it's dead ―Dean was always very clear on the fact that the creatures had to be beheaded completely in order to be stopped, but this one appears to be immobilized, at the very least. He whirls on himself, putting his back to the upturned van, and drives the stock of his weapon into the face of another vampire which falls back, hissing.
An instinct makes him turn his head, and he catches sight of Dean standing in the road, his eyes so wide with fear they appear to swallow his whole face. Bodies litter the side of the road, bleeding sluggishly into the dirt, and he can feel the moment when the vampires' attention turns away from the still-warm corpses and settles on the boy. The creatures are everywhere, a good half-dozen of them still in full fighting trim. Two of them leap, cat-like, to stand before him, while the rest stare hungrily at Dean, the tension in their bodies visible. They're coiled like springs, ready to throw themselves at their latest meal.
“Dean, run!”
*~*
The shotgun jams after one more shot. Castiel grips it by the barrel, drives the stock at the remaining vampire's face, aiming for its eyes. It hisses and draws back, barely, then bares its teeth in a horrific grin.
“Well well well,” it says in a mocking sing-song. “It's been a while since the cattle fought back. Come on, little calf. Let's see how well you do now that your gun doesn't work!”
A lifetime ago it would have been nothing to destroy this creature. A simple touch of the fingers. Less time than it would take to formulate a thought. Now, though, his powers are gone, and his body is turning traitor. He's breathless, aching, his arms burning from the unaccustomed exertion, all his nerve endings thrumming. The vampire laughs at him, taunting, circling, while all the while he's acutely aware of Dean, alone and vulnerable only a few yards away, the vampires bearing down on him.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches them approach, slowly now, as though they have all the time in the world. Dean stumbles back a step, one hand raised in front of him in a futile attempt to ward them off. Castiel can see naked terror in his eyes, can imagine the vicious grins on the faces of the predators as they move to circle him.
“Run!” he shouts again, praying Dean isn't so paralysed with fear that he'll stay rooted to the spot.
With a snarl of his own so savage he barely recognizes his own voice Castiel slams the butt of the shotgun into the vampire's face, then sweeps its legs out from under it with a vicious kick. It lands on its back with an expression so shocked it might be comical under other circumstances, and before it can react he brings the butt of the shotgun down again, putting all his weight into the blow. He feels the fragile bones of its faces shatter and crunch, raises the weapon and strikes again, again and again, until the vampire's head is crushed, an unrecognisable pulp of flesh and blood and splintered bone.
“Dean!”
There's no time to think. Heedless of anything else, Castiel scrambles out of the ditch and throws himself past the prowling vampires. Dean is already running, but it's nothing to overtake him, snatch him up into his arms and clutch him to his chest. He keeps running, but finds himself face to face with the grinning, wild face of a vampire a split-second later.
“And where do you think you're going?”
Dean is clinging to his shoulders with both hands, head ducked down and pressed up against his chest, shaking so hard Castiel can barely keep hold of him. The vampires are advancing, slowly, methodically, cutting them off from the road. Castiel takes a step back, then another, his mind a blur of pure animalistic terror. There's nowhere to run but toward the field, and on the uneven ground he stands even less of a chance of escaping. There's a bitter taste in his mouth, his stomach churning as he realizes they're going to die if he can't find a way to get them away. He looks around desperately for a weapon, anything that might help them get away, and his gaze falls upon the mouldering pile of corpses sprawled in the ditch nearby. He half-remembers something Dean once told him, in another lifetime, and without stopping to second-guess himself he takes to his heels, barrelling past the weakest looking vampire, shoving it bodily out of his way.
He and Dean sprawl amongst the corpses, and the stench of rot fills his nostrils and mouth, making his gorge rise. He gags, nearly vomits, shoves Dean under the nearest body.
“Stay down! Don't come up until I tell you!”
Castiel scrambles away from him, slip-sliding over the bodies, feeling rotted flesh give way under his boot heels, sinews snapping and small bones splintering beneath him. He pulls his knife free of its sheath, buries it to the hilt in one of the bodies, then braces himself in order to pull it out, covered in thick, blackish ichor. One of the corpses' limbs tears loose as he scrambles for purchase, and he finds himself tumbling into the ditch, landing sprawling on his back. An unearthly growl announces the first vampire, descending on him, slavering and snarling, limbs splayed, spider-like. He feels its breath, foetid and cold on his face, and just barely manages to bring up his hand and drive his knife into its arm. It chokes, ribbons of saliva dribbling over its lower lip, and he feels its grip slacken before it slides off him, boneless and limp.
Castiel flails, desperately trying to regain his feet, feels a burning pain in his shoulder, twists on himself and scratches at it with the knife. The dead man's blood is brutally effective, more than he'd dared allow himself to hope, and his reflexes are still good enough that when the remaining two try to flank him, he's able to dive at their feet, rolling past them and slashing at their legs with the knife. They crumple, their knees buckling before they fall face-forward onto the ground. For a moment he's too stunned to move. Then, slowly, he clambers to his feet, pulse still racing.
“Dean?”
The night is all too quiet, but a moment later there's a shifting, rustling sound, and a grimy head pokes out from under the corpses. Dean scrambles over to him and throws himself headlong into his arms, his tiny frame racked with silent sobs. Castiel grips him as tightly as he can, staggers away from the corpses to sit on the road and rocks him.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It's okay. It's okay, they're gone. You're safe now. We're both safe.”
Neither of them move for a very long time.
*~*
It's only when he feels Dean's sobs turn into uncontrolled shivers that Castiel manages to rouse himself enough to get up and out of the road.
“Okay,” he says briskly, trying to remember how Dean used to be when they needed to be efficient and ruthless. “We can't stay here, Dean-o. It's cold and there might be other things around.”
He's not sure where the nickname came from, but Charlie used it, and Dean doesn't seem to mind. He finds a reasonably-sheltered spot, and settles Dean there, draping his jacket over the tiny shoulders. He winces as the movement pulls at what feels like a nasty cut on his shoulder.
“Did they bleed on you?” he asks, checking Dean over as best he can in the dark. “Are you hurt at all?” He gets a headshake, and lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, so relieved his knees almost buckle. “Okay. Stay here. I'm going to go make sure those things can't come after us again.”
He'd forgotten just how difficult and bloody it is to decapitate a vampire. He never had to do it before, preferring to let Dean handle the more run-of-the-mill creatures, but he remembers seeing both Winchesters spattered with gore and complaining bitterly about vampires that didn't conveniently disappear in a cloud of dust the way they did on the television. It takes the better part of twenty minutes to sever the spinal cords of the four remaining vampires, and by the end his muscles are burning, his arms trembling. His shoulder is on fire, as is his right calf. It's impossible to tell how bad his injuries are without a light source, but he's able to walk and fully move both arms and legs, and so he thinks he may have gotten off lightly. He's also relatively sure that none of the vampires managed to infect him, even inadvertently. From what he knows, the effects are almost instantaneous, and he has no feeling of heightened senses or hunger.
He limps back to Dean. “Come on. They're all dead now.”
Dean looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded now that the adrenaline has worn off. He takes Castiel's hand, looking even smaller in Castiel's heavy jacket, and follows him back to the van, sticking close to his leg without clinging. He tugs on Castiel's hand, points to the blood stain on his pants leg, the question obvious.
“Yes, I am injured, but I don't believe it to be serious. There is no need to worry,” he assures the boy, who simply nods.
There are no survivors. There is no way to shield Dean from the horror of the bodies of their former travelling companions, and so Castiel doesn't even try. “I know it's awful,” he says, kneeling and smoothing Dean's hair back from his head, “but they can't feel anything now. They're beyond pain, and beyond fear. Do you understand?”
He's not sure Dean does, but there's nothing to be done about that now. He clambers into the wreckage of the vehicle, closes his eyes briefly at the sight of one of the men who'd been riding with them, his sternum ripped open, ribs jutting through the flesh. Gritting his teeth, he begins sorting through the upended belongings, finds the pack and duffel bag that he packed for him and Dean nearly five days ago. He drops them outside, then pulls out the rest of the baggage, finds a flashlight tucked into the door on the driver's side, and uses it to sort through the piles, looking for anything that might be of use. Waste not, want not, he remembers. He clears the jam from the shotgun, straps it to the duffle bag; finds a few cans of food, helps himself to a few more changes of clothing and a spare blanket.
He shines the flashlight over his leg, winces as he sees the wicked-looking gash that stretches from just behind his knee and winds down over his shin all the way to his ankle. He has no way of tending to it now, but it's going to need some sort of treatment unless he wants to find himself permanently lamed, or worse. Logic would dictate staying near the van at least tonight, to use it for shelter, but he finds he can't stomach the idea of spending the night near all those corpses. Even though he knows it's only his imagination, he fancies he can feel their sightless eyes boring through past his skin to gaze at his soul, judging and finding him wanting.
He pulls the straps of the backpack over both his shoulders, slings the significantly-heavier duffel bag over his right shoulder, testing to see if he can bear the weight. Then, gingerly he hoists Dean up onto his left hip, curling an arm around his waist.
“Ready to go? We're going to find somewhere to bed down for the night, but it's not going to be here.”
Dean nods, and Castiel feels some of the tension drain from the small body, as though Dean too had been dreading the thought of spending any more time in this place.
“Okay then,” Castiel makes his way slowly to the road, and strikes westward. “Here we go.”
*~*
The morning dawns not much brighter than the night. It's lighter out, but everything still has the washed-out feel to it that it always does, now that there is no sun. Castiel blinks in the pale light, forcing his eyes open. He and Dean took refuge in an abandoned outbuilding on a farm which looks like it burned down months ago, clinging to each other in the narrow sleeping bag Castiel obtained in Detroit. It's not really big enough for two people, but Dean is small enough to fit, and this way they were better able to keep warm, stave off the shock of the night's events. Slowly, Castiel draws down the zipper on one side to free himself, and winces as he finds his leg has stiffened in the night. His pants leg is crusted with dried blood, and when he turns up the cuff he sees that the wound is already turning an angry red around the edges. He has no first-aid supplies to speak of, and realizes in retrospect that it was an oversight on his part. If he learned nothing else from Sam and Dean in the days when they were still hunting, it's that medical supplies are more important even than weapons. As an angel, he never had to think of such things, but now he has both himself and Dean to think of.
Dean sits up next to him, scrubbing at his eyes with grubby fists. They're both still filthy, covered in dirt and smears of blood and other substances that Castiel finds he doesn't really want to think about. It's funny ―in that non-funny way, as Dean used to say― how quickly he's beginning to think like a human. When he was an angel, the thought of human bodily fluids of any kind would barely have registered with him, let alone provokes the feelings of revulsion currently roiling in him.
“Did you sleep all right?”
Dean tilts his head to the side, and Castiel doesn't press the issue. Instead he takes advantage of the new light to check Dean again. Apart from being filthy, though, Dean really does appear to be unharmed, a minor miracle in itself, considering what happened to everyone else with them. He opens two of the cans of food ―tinned pears― raising a silent prayer of thanks for the person who invented the kind of can that opens using a simple pull-tab. He hands one can to Dean, together with an admonishment to eat slowly, wipes his hands until they're at least somewhat clean before lifting the can to his lips. The pears are sweet, the juice in which they're canned running down his chin, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Dean giggles quietly under his breath, and in spite of himself Castiel smiles.
“What? You think I look silly?”
Dean ducks his head, but he's still smiling, and Castiel rolls his eyes in amusement. “I'm not the only one covered in pear juice, Mr. sticky-hands.”
He packs up their gear as quickly as possible, and on his way out he spots what looks like the spigot for a garden hose attached to one of the charred walls. On an impulse he twists the knob, and is rewarded with a thin stream of water, barely more than a trickle, but it serves well enough to get them a little more clean, though he doesn't want to risk using it as drinking water. Dean squirms, unimpressed with the cold water and the rough fabric of the shirt Castiel has ripped apart to use as makeshift washcloths, but he keeps a firm grip on him.
“Come on, Dean, it's not that bad,” he says a little impatiently. “It's just water. Or would you prefer to stay covered in filth all day?” Dean gives him a dark look which suggests he thinks it's a trick question, and Castiel sighs. “Never mind. You are just as stubborn this way as you were when you were fully yourself.”
Dean glares, and not for the first time Castiel has doubts about his level of awareness. “Dean, do you remember what happened?”
He's asked before, and he gets the same answer. Dean stares at the ground, shrugs one shoulder, scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the dirt. The corners of his mouth have turned down, smalls hands clenched into fists.
“Dean? Talk to me,” he realizes his mistake the moment the words have left his lips. Dean looks up, his expression suddenly hard, a stubborn set to his jaw, and deliberately closes his mouth. Castiel sighs again, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, that's not ―I didn't mean you have to talk. Not yet, not if you're not ready. I worry about you, that's all. It used to be difficult to make you keep silent, remember?” he tries to smile, chucks Dean under the chin, and gets only a distrustful stare in return.
He clambers stiffly to his feet, his leg throbbing. “Do you think you can walk for a while? I'm not sure I can carry you right now. We're going to try to get to the nearest inhabited place, find some help there. All right?”
He doesn't exactly expect an answer, but Dean shuffles over to him, and follows readily enough when he makes his way back to the road. They walk in silence, beneath the ash-filled sky, the only sound for miles the cawing of carrion crows. After perhaps an hour, Dean, who's been lagging a step or so behind, puts on a small burst of speed and slips his hand back into Castiel's.
They keep walking.
*~*
It's tougher going than Castiel anticipated. Nothing he ever did before, as an angel or as a human, has prepared him for walking long distances on little rest and almost no food. Before, there was always transportation to be had, food to be found or scrounged when necessary. Now he finds himself in the odd position of having to think about rationing, about where they're going to be able to find drinking water that's safe for both of them. It's not as cold during the day, but it seems that winter is closing in faster than anyone anticipated, and he's sure that if they don't find another vehicle in which to travel, they won't get very far.
After another hour of walking Dean is lagging badly, dragging on Castiel's hand, and so Castiel bends down and pulls him up onto his shoulders, wincing a little bit as Dean reflexively grips his hair with his fingers. He stays still as Dean shifts until he's properly balanced, then sets out again, more slowly than ever. His shoulder protests at the treatment, but the pain is bearable, more so than that in his leg, and he's able to keep going for another hour or so ―as best as he can judge without a watch or the exact position of the sun. He thinks he still has a pretty good sense of the time, perhaps a tiny remnant of his angelic powers. Or perhaps it's something all humans have, he doesn't really know.
They stop to rest a few times, and when he thinks it's about midday he sets Dean down on the ground by the side of the road where he's found a patch of dying grass. He rummages in his pack for the food he salvaged the day before, preparing a makeshift meal for them. He has no utensils, not even a plate on which they can put the food, but he makes do with the tin cans and their fingers, and they have a cold meal of beans cooked in lard and spam, something Dean once assured him ought to be a last resort. It's salty and the texture is not what he expected, but it's better than going hungry, and apparently Dean has either forgotten his earlier revulsion for the food or else he is of the same opinion that it's preferable to no food at all, because he eats it methodically, licking his fingers and wiping them on his pants leg when he's done. Castiel doesn't bother saying anything about his table manners.
“Ready to go?”
Dean nods, although he still looks as though he's ready to lie down right where he is and go to sleep. Castiel debates staying where they are a while longer ―God knows they could both use the rest― but decides against it. The quicker they get moving, the quicker they'll be able to find a real resting place. When he tries to get to his feet, though, his injured leg buckles under him, refusing to take his weight. He lets out a surprised grunt, drops back onto his ass, and is rewarded with a giggle from Dean.
“Thought that was funny, did you?” he manages a pained smile. If Dean is laughing, it means he hasn't figured out yet that anything is seriously wrong, and the longer he can keep the boy from worrying, the better.
He looks through his pack again, and while no first aid supplies have magically appeared in there, he does tear apart another shirt into a makeshift bandage, wrapping up his calf as tightly as he can. He should have done it to begin with, he thinks ruefully, but it never occurred to him at all. So much for becoming accustomed to being human. He sits for a while, leg outstretched, waiting for the throbbing to die down. He's going to have to find some sort of walking stick, now, and they won't be making much progress now that he's lame and Dean will be walking the majority of the time. Dean sits next to him, tracing lines in the dirt with a small stick, glancing up at him from beneath his bangs every so often. His nose is running, and Castiel is beginning to wonder if that's a perpetual state of affairs for human children. They're going to have to stock up on handkerchiefs, seeing as how tissues appear to be a rare commodity now. He ruffles Dean's hair, forces himself to keep a light tone.
“It's okay. I'm a little more banged up than I thought, but we'll get going in a few minutes.”
Dean doesn't look convinced, keeps scratching at the ground with his stick, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Then abruptly he raises his head, scanning the horizon down the road the way they came from, expression intent. Then before Castiel can so much as reach out to stop him he's on his feet, trotting to the side of the road just as the sound of an engine reaches Castiel's ears, still far enough away that it might easily be a figment of his imagination. The engine belongs to a red sedan, which crests over a low hill a few moments later, and slows to a halt before them. The window rolls down, revealing a young man with dark curly hair and a bright smile.
“Need a lift?”
*~*
Part 3: Pontiac