Arms Wide Open. Part Five.
Part 5/13
Winter’s Bones. [November 27th, 1998]
Dean.
Autumn has come and gone and Bobby, Dean, and the angel have fallen into a familiar routine. Castiel accompanies them on their hunts and when they stay at the salvage yard he drops in every other day to update them on the progress of the search for Dad. Unsurprisingly, there is no progress. No one has seen or heard from him.
Castiel has proven to be a valuable asset with his ability to zap in and out of locked places and Bobby and Dean have made much progress loosening up his stiff and awkward behavior. Castiel has taken their efforts in stride, and although he still struggles with the finer points of the English language as well as abstract concepts like sarcasm, he can go about everyday human things without screaming “angel” with his every move. Dean could swear that even Bobby is warming up to the thought of Castiel staying with them for the long haul.
By the end of November the three have dealt with ghouls, ghosts and poltergeists and one very memorable zombie-infested graveyard. Dean still fights snickers when he thinks of the angel’s bewildered expression when a split-in-half undead resorted to gnawing on his coat. The latest suspicious sounding news report has led them to snowy Idaho, to a stretch of road between Bozeman and Livingston to be exact. It is not common for multiple spirits to claim the same territory, but in this case that’s what they are dealing with.
For several decades locals reported sightings of a young girl on the side of the road, and apparently her appearances caused people to stop and look for her just in time to avoid hidden patches of black ice or other wintry dangers. With time people thought of her as some sort of protective spirit, watching out for travelers as long as snow stuck to the ground. Finding out who she was turns out to be ridiculously easy since everybody seems to know her story. She was a local girl by the name of Celia Grey who died in 1969 under mysterious circumstances on the outskirts of town, close to the very patch of road that she guards now. She was only 17.
Then there is the second spirit that started haunting the road in late 1997. This one is as malevolent as they come and it brings with it blizzards and icy gales strong enough to swirl cars around like toys. It claimed 21 victims last winter and this year another four people have died already. It isn’t difficult to determine the identity of this one, either. In October of 1997, only two accident reports were filed for the stretch of road in question. One in connection with the death of Harold Sterling, a 76 year old retired dentist from Bozeman who died of a heart attack on the evening of October 12th. His car was found a day later by the side of the road, and the weather had been cold but clear. In the picture that’s attached to the file he looks almost peaceful. The second accident claimed the life of 32 year old Jackson Pintallion, a teacher from the local elementary school. He died on October 24th when he lost control of his car due to a sudden blizzard and crashed into a copse of pine trees. There is nothing peaceful about his picture.
They figure that the early onset of winter had caught Pintallion off guard and that he now uses the weather to force others to share his faith. They locate his grave and salt and burn the sucker before they drive to the next cemetery to take care of Celia Grey.
“Why are we burning the girl?” Bobby and Dean both look at Castiel who has stopped a few steps in front of her gravestone.
“She’s a spirit, moron.” The fact that Castiel is an angel hasn’t kept Bobby’s usual charm away for very long. Castiel isn’t bothered by the name-calling, but he still looks reluctant.
“Look," Bobby says. "All spirits turns violent; we’ve been over that already. Maybe they aren’t vengeful from the start, but at some point they all get there. We can’t risk it.” He holds out one of the shovels to the angel. Castiel keeps staring at Bobby and Dean sighs.
“Bobby's right, man. She’s gonna kill eventually.” A few seconds later Castiel grabs the shovel and starts to dig.
The sun is just rising over the trees when they are done with filling the grave back up. They should feel good after a job well done, but something feels off, at least to Bobby and Dean. Castiel has wandered off to the left and is busy studying how the early morning sunlight reflects from the snow. Probably. Dean bites his cheek and looks at Bobby.
“Neither of them showed up.” Bobby just nods. It’s unusual but it happens, sometimes. But twice in one night?
“Maybe we should check the road again before we leave.” This time, Dean nods.
“Yeah, we should. Something’s weird here.” Dean looks over to Castiel and hopes that it’s their hunter senses going off and not some contagious angel-fueled remorse. She was a spirit. They didn’t have a choice.
When they reach the haunted stretch of road, Dean reduces their speed to a crawl. The road itself is free, but around them the woods are hidden under a blanket of snow. They might miss whatever they are looking for if they go too fast. Dean just hopes they don’t have to search on foot. It’s freezing outside. In the backseat, Castiel is back to his usual inquisitive self.
“Are we expecting a third spirit?”
“God, I hope not,” Bobby mutters.
“No, we’re just checking. Never leave a hunt unfinished, Castiel.” Dean meets the angel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and Castiel nods. Then he frowns.
“Why would this hunt not be finished? Did we miss something?”
Dean shrugs. “We’re not sure. That’s why we’re here. If you see something odd, just let us know.”
“Something odd like the spirit of Celia Grey?”
In the passenger seat, Bobby rolls his eyes. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Then I would like to let you know that I see something odd.”
“What? Where?” Dean stomps on the brakes and turns around to the angel, but he doesn’t need clarification when he looks out the back window. “Holy shit!”
“What now?” Bobby turns around, too, and his face turns unhealthily pale.
Behind them the world has been swallowed by something that looks like a solid wall of swirling snow. It’s about a mile away but catches up to them fast - what were a few snowflakes drifting by the windows turns into a sudden gush of wind that rocks the Impala a foot to the left. We definitely missed something, Dean thinks.
Bobby grabs the younger hunter’s arm and points to the right side of the road where the spirit of Celia Grey stands at stares at the unnatural weather. She turns around slowly, settling her gaze on the Impala for a moment, and finally faces away from the storm. She looks terrified. Then she starts to run.
“Sonovabitch.” Wind and snow are increasing in speed by the second and obstruct their view; a short moment later they can barely see her through the front window.
“No way!” Bobby tugs at Dean arm again. “Isn’t that the guy, what’s his name, the one with the heart attack?” Dean follows Bobby’s outstretched finger and indeed, there’s a seriously pissed off dead dentist running after the girl. He too passes the car, and when Dean catches a glimpse of the spirit’s face, he flinches back. The ghost looks murderous.
“Huh,” Dean says, “I didn’t see that one coming.”
Castiel taps him on the shoulder. “I think we should move.”
In the next second the Impala is hit from behind and Dean thinks for a moment that some idiot crashed into them, but then the world is gone and they are surrounded by swirling clouds of snow. The car rocks violently with the strong winds.
“Balls.” Bobby gets their research out of the glove compartment while Dean starts the car again. The logical thing would be to turn around, since the weather seems to follow Sterling as he chases Celia, but Dean can’t see a fucking thing. Driving into a ditch in this weather can’t be good. He looks at Bobby.
“Just go ahead. Maybe we can find a safe place to park somewhere.” Another gust of wind hits the tail of the car and pushes them to the right. Dean blindly tries to correct their course and leans forward, which doesn’t do a thing to improve visibility.
“So what, the dentist is responsible for the blizzards?” The car swerves and Dean’s knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel. “And Celia is somehow bound to him or to this road, and now he chases her with his freaky storm powers? This doesn’t make sense.” Another blast of wind hits them and Dean goes silent. He can’t see shit, but the Impala is still rolling, so they're probably still on the road. Next to him Bobby is going through their research and squinting his eyes in the dim light.
Then his head snaps up; he groans and slaps a piece of paper against the dashboard. “Balls!”
“Hey, watch it!” That earns Dean a cuff to the head and the young hunter grins sheepishly. “Did you find something?”
“I’m not sure. I just thought- what if we had it all wrong? The teacher might've been the first victim. If Sterling is connected to the weather and Pintallion died in a blizzard-”
“Damn, you’re right. Then Sterling probably killed him. But what about the girl?” The wind is coming from all sides now and they have slowed to a walking pace once more. The snow is so dense that the light inside the car has dimmed to an eerie grey.
“I don’t know, but whatever her connection is, we have to take Sterling out first.” Bobby waves his hand at the windows. “This could get a lot worse.”
“Great.” Dean tries not to look as worried as he is. Bobby turns to the backseat and faces the angel that listened to them silently.
“You can take care of a salt and burn yourself, right?”
Castiel nods, but he doesn’t look happy. “You want me to leave you here?”
“Well, last I checked, our teleporting abilities were a bit rusty. But you seem to have a knack for it, so it would be really nice if you could go ahead and burn the bastard.” Bobby flicks through the notes again. “He’s in the same cemetery as the girl. Lot-”
A rustle of wings has Bobby glancing up again, and apparently the angel didn’t need any more detail. The backseat is empty. A moment later the snow lets up. The world around them is still dusky and the clouds overhead seem to loom close enough to touch, but at least Dean can make out the road. Both men’s eyes meet.
“Go for it?” Dean asks and Bobby nods. They sure as hell can’t stay where they are, and they both know it.
“Yeah. Do it.”
Dean steps on it, the Impala giving it all she has, and maybe they would have made it if the wind hadn’t decided to set in with renewed strength. The hopeful look on Dean’s face turns into one of utter surprise when the storm hits the front of the car from the left and the trunk from the right. There’s a second when gravity seems to let up and Dean feels like they're flying. Which is because they kind of are, Dean realizes as the horizon tilts to the side.
“Shit, Bobby,” is all he gets out before they hit something bone-jarringly hard. They keep hitting things over and over again and directions lose meaning because everything is reduced to countless sharp impacts. Papers fly and limbs flail; they're hitting the windows, the wheel, and the dashboard as the laws of physics stop applying to their dimly-lit world.
Another crash tosses them forward and up, and Dean is hanging limply in the seatbelt, feeling too dazed to hold on to anything. Then they car thuds to the right and Dean’s head follows suit. He sets eyes on Bobby exactly as the older hunter’s head collides with the passenger side window. Dean briefly wonders how he never noticed all the red on the glass behind Bobby before, and then everything goes black.
Castiel.
Not two minutes have passed since Castiel teleported from the Impala to a grocery store near the cemetery to procure a jar of salt. Shovels and lighter fluids were not necessary since without Dean and Bobby present Castiel needn’t hide the extent of his powers. So with salt in hand it took him 36 seconds to locate the grave of Harold Sterling and another 14 to free the casket. He was just about to distribute the salt evenly all over the body like Dean taught him when he registers a drop in temperature. The next moment the ghost of Harold Sterling wraps his hands around the angel’s throat and starts squeezing as if to suffocate him. Castiel tilts his head and Sterling’s eyes widen before he hisses and takes a step back.
“You’re not human!”
“That is true. Neither are you.” Castiel glances in the direction of the open grave and immediately the body catches fire. The ghost gawks first at the flames, then at the angel, and finally rushes forward with an enraged wail before he crackles out of existence.
During the short physical contact with the spirit, Castiel has seen what connected Harold Sterling and Celia Grey. He assumes that with the dentist gone, the girl will find rest now, too - what they hadn’t known was that Sterling was the one responsible for Celia’s death. The man had harbored an unhealthy sexual interest in young women and in 1969, after a few months of stalking poor Celia, he finally decided to fulfill his desires. One afternoon Celia visited a friend who lived a little out of town, and on her way back, Sterling attacked her. He threw her to the ground and kicked her a couple of times but then she grabbed a nearby stone, threw it at him, and fled. He chased after her but the blood in his eyes and the concussion she had given him slowed him down until he lost sight of her. He was scared that she would tell the authorities about him but a few days later the news reported about her death; apparently she had succumbed to internal injuries of unknown origin.
Sterling never stopped lusting after teenage girls and young women, but after Celia he was too scared to actively follow his urges again. He never forgot the girl that got away from him, though, and when he felt his heart give out 29 years later, hunched over his steering wheel on the side of the road, he saw her again. She stood just a few feet away and looked at him, a little curious and a little sad. He smiled at her, at pretty Celia with her long hair wafting in the wind, and he saw it in her eyes the second she recognized him. He'd chased her ever since.
Castiel makes sure that the monster’s body is properly burned.
When Castiel pops back into existence, he does so on the side of the road; Dean always tells him to be stealthy and not to aim for the middle of things. The angel is muddy and his clothes smell of smoke, but he has the tingling sensation in his stomach that he learned to associate with a job well done. His grace sings to him in a way it hasn’t for a long time; he feels elated. Then he frowns.
The road he is standing next to is no longer visible, both the asphalt and surrounding woods buried underneath tons of freshly fallen snow. Castiel can’t see the Impala anywhere, but he knows that Dean and Bobby are close; he can feel them. The air is clear now and the blue sky is free of clouds. The sight is breathtaking. But Castiel can’t stop to admire the beauty of god’s creations because he has to look for his humans. He zeroes in on Dean, coaxes the wind into existence once more, and blows the snow away as he walks. When he finally finds the Impala, Castiel is worried. The car is obviously much worse for wear. A few windows are cracked and the back window is missing completely, as are the side mirrors and the backlights. The Impala’s roof is leaning against a birch tree in the distance and Castiel is looking straight at the exposed underbelly of the car.
Now that he is close, he notices that the humans inside are fading fast. One heartbeat is considerably slower than usual and both of their breaths sound labored. Castiel smells blood. He reaches up to the driver’s side of the car, adding a few more dents when he grabs it tight, and lowers the car back into its designated position. He extends his senses and finds that Bobby’s broken skull, smashed right leg and ruptured spleen will turn life-threatening in a couple of minutes. Dean doesn’t have nearly as long as that.
Both sides of the car are crashed inwards, the metal twisted badly enough for the doors to be stuck. Castiel knows that the black car is among the things that are most valuable to Dean, so he is aware of the fact that Dean will not be pleased with the angel’s next actions. But he figures that he is fine with that as long as Dean is alive to complain about it. The angel grabs the driver’s side door and tears it off. It hits the ground with a sad little thud and Castiel thinks that the car is probably just as damaged as the men it shelters. Inside the Impala, blood has splattered across windshield and dashboard and soaked into the upholstery and through the hunters' clothes. Castiel wishes he hadn’t left them alone.
He already knew that Dean’s condition was critical, but the visual confirmation regardless catches Castiel unprepared. Apart from the fact that Dean seems to be stuck under the steering wheel, there is also too much bone visible for his liking. He decides against lifting the broken man out of the car. Dean probably wouldn’t survive being moved. Instead Castiel grabs the steering wheel, snaps the entire thing off, and throws it into the backseat. He leans a little closer to Dean and touches his bruised left temple. The hunter flinches and Castiel lets go, surprised. He had expected Dean to be deeply unconscious.
Dean gurgles something; is probably trying to speak, but the angel knows that the injuries to his cartilage and vocal cords are much too extensive for that. Castiel senses what Dean is trying to do, who he is trying to call and his grace gets heavy with compassion. The world around them seems to slow, which is a strange experience since his celestial wavelength is not bound to time per se. Dean groans and opens the eye that hasn’t yet swollen shut. Again he seeks for a comfort that isn’t Castiel’s to give and the angel feels inexplicably like weeping. The visual of a bloody bubble that bursts between Dean’s lips becomes seared into Castiel’s memory with sudden sharpness.
“Mmmmh.” Dean coughs and tries again. “Mm-mee.”
“I am sorry.” Castiel truly is. But this is a wish that he can’t fulfill. What he can do is fix the physical damage, though.
“This is going to hurt.” Dean's one eye rolls up, further up, and back into his head, which Castiel knows isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.
“More.” Castiel clarifies, and clears his throat. “This is going to hurt more. But not for long. You will feel better soon.”
The heart in Dean’s chest is losing its fight with trauma and blood loss as he watches, so Castiel stops communicating in human ways and touches Dean’s temple again, concentrating on all the things that need mending in this broken body. Dean goes rigid under his touch. Another bloody gurgle makes its way out before Dean’s airways clear up. Bones snap back into their intended shape, blood flow is restored to the lower extremities and once more contained to Dean’s circulatory system. Castiel knows that if he stops now, Dean will be in a lot of pain because the residual damage is still echoing through the traumatized cells. But if he wants to keep Bobby from dying too, and to teleport them away, he has to limit the use of his powers. He lets Dean slip into a deep slumber and hopes for the best.
The angel has to remove the passenger’s side door as well before he can fix Bobby. As soon as the internal bleeding stops, he feels the blood pressure stabilizing. The skull fracture mends just as well as the fragmented bones in the hunter’s right leg, meaning that Bobby will still have the use of both of them. Castiel is surprised how relieved he is as soon as both humans are breathing steadily with their heartbeats strong. He has grown attached to them on a level that far exceeds what is needed to fulfill his mission. The angel wonders how he didn't notice that before.
Finally, he rights himself up and looks around. There is no sign of angry sprits anymore, no sign of anything, really, other than the road, the woods, and the snow. And the Impala, of course. Castiel realizes that, while none of them are in danger of freezing to death anytime soon, this is not an ideal place for any of them to be. Dean and Bobby are fragile and so is his vessel. He can’t afford to spend any of his power on keeping them warm, but his reserves might just be enough to get them home.
The angel is glad that the hunt is done so getting them out of here won’t coincide with the Winchester rule of hunting that dictates ‘never leave a hunt unfinished to bite you in the ass later’. Because no matter how out of it both hunters are right now, they wouldn’t be pleased to know the angel took them halfway across the country mid-hunt. Castiel looks guiltily at the doors that are lying in the snow and decides to transport the car with the hunters in it because that will cost less energy than going back and forth a few times. Castiel breaks the trunk when he tries to pry it open, but he figures that at this point one more thing to fix won’t matter that much. He lays both doors on top of the torn weapon compartment and gently places the lid back on top. Then he teleports into the backseat, holds on to Dean and Bobby for good measure, and with a rustle and a pop the car is gone. Castiel spends the last of his grace on zapping them from the car into the study before he slumps to the ground and closes his eyes.
It takes three days of almost uninterrupted sleep for the humans to get back on their feet. Castiel catches them up to speed and as soon as he can afford it, feeling how they still suffer, he offers to rid them of the pain their bodies still remember. Both of them refuse adamantly, though, which Castiel doesn’t understand. He tries to persuade them to let him at least try, until Dean, still sore and tired, huffs out an angry breath and hits the sofa cushion.
“Damnit, Cas! The angel raises his eyebrows at the abbreviation but stays silent.
“You’ve been out for two days straight, too. You already came through for us. You did everything we could have asked for and more, and you exhausted yourself to the point of collapse.” Dean gets up and moves his limbs, flexes his hands and knees; gingerly, but determined.
“We’re good, see? Bobby and I, we won’t be winning any marathons anytime soon, but we’re walking and talking. And we’re fine. Now sit your ass down and put your feet up until it’s time for dinner.” He leans over, anger gone, and whispers conspiratorially. “Bobby is cooking, so you’re gonna need all the rest you can get before you face the special of the day with a side of charcoal.”
Castiel doesn’t understand why Bobby would feed them a mostly tasteless side dish of carbon and ash, but he won’t insult their hospitality by refusing to try it. He still feels weak after straining his grace that much, too, so he follows Dean’s suggestion and takes a seat on the couch. In the kitchen, the clanging of pots has stilled after Dean’s last statement and now Bobby pokes his head around the corner.
“I heard that, boy. If you don’t like what you’re getting, feel free to make dinner yourself.”
Dean raises his head and sniffs the air before he grins at Bobby. “I think something’s burning.” Bobby retreats into the kitchen and the sound of a pot being flung into the sink is drowned out by a stream of colorful curses. The smell of something freshly burned wafts through the air. Dean opens his mouth for another comment, no doubt, but Bobby beats him to it.
“Shut it, boy!” Dean rolls his eyes but his grin widens. Bobby turns his attention to Castiel. “Cas, the kid is right. So sit your ass back down and don’t even think about touching anything with those magic fingers of yours, that clear? Idjits.” Castiel smiles as well. He leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He is certain that the finer points of this whole conversation eluded him as usual, but still. Cas. No one ever called him that before. He likes it.
Dean.
By the middle of December they've shaken the last remnants of the accident. Well, Dean and Bobby and Castiel have. The Impala, not so much. From what little Dean remembered, he had expected dents and scrapes; maybe a broken taillight and a warped roof; maybe a missing bumper. Castiel knew surprisingly little about cars, and so he reported nothing but that there was damage to the point of the Impala maybe not running anymore.
Dean didn’t cry when he first saw her, but it was a close thing. Not a single part of the car is unscathed; every window shattered and most of the dents have dents of their own. The doors are missing, the lid of the trunk is off, the steering wheel is gone. And it only gets worse when they look inside. Bobby and Dean go silent when they see the blood. It’s everywhere.
Bobby's the first to break the silence. “Close call.”
Dean doesn’t answer. Bobby’s tone becomes soft when sees the open devastation on Dean’s face. “Dean. We’re alive. This is fixable. It’ll be ok.”
Castiel.
Since Dean started working on repairing the Impala his mood has improved greatly. Castiel spends most of the time he is seen with Bobby, but when he shadows the humans unseen he likes to watch Dean work on the car, too. It is amazing how the Impala improves under the young hunter’s care. Castiel suspects that Dean knows about the harm he did, though, and he still feels guilty about it, so he deems it best not to impose. Also, he finds that he enjoys spending time with Bobby. The older hunter turns out to be an unexpected wealth of information on all things supernatural and Castiel likes to hear him talk about it.
On one particular afternoon, the steady sounds of metal being hammered back into shape echo through the yard. At the angel’s questioning glance, Bobby had mouthed ‘the trunk’ and Castiel had felt heat rising up to his face. Just as they start to discuss how best to classify skinwalkers, the hammering stops abruptly and is promptly replaced by Dean cursing a blue streak. Castiel frantically thinks about what he can do to help, but he isn’t particularly skilled in the art of automobile restoration. At one point he had considered getting Dean a new car, but he wasn’t sure whether that might make things worse. Castiel looks at Bobby and hopes the helplessness he feels doesn’t show on his face. Bobby meets his gaze and shrugs.
“At least he has something to do now," he tells Castiel. "Working all that anger out can only be good for him. Plus, this way he won’t brood all day over the fact that we’re still clueless about John.” Castiel couldn’t agree more. Again, he wonders when he started valuing the wellbeing of his human charges more than the successful outcome of his current mission. John Winchester is still nowhere to be found but Castiel finds that he doesn’t mind so much like he used to. He knows that the man is important, and he doesn’t wish his fate on Dean, so the older Winchester has to be located. But the angel wouldn’t mind if it took a little while longer to do so. He won’t have the time to stick around once heaven’s plans are set into motion.
Skies And Stars And Hell. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
He likes the place they're currently settled in. He doesn’t remember how long they've been here, only that it’s probably been years since the last time they moved. It’s winter right now, which means the days are cold and the nights even colder but the air smells clean, even inside his Box. The nights are dark, but they always are, no matter where they stay. The days, though - the days have given him something precious.
They're inside of a big hall, probably some kind of storage depot. It's empty now except for some heavy machinery in one corner and the Boxes; his, the one for Pain, and Sara’s. For once he isn’t slotted between the two, and what makes this place even more special is the view. The huge windows of the hall are barred up with wooden planks but the window right next to his Box is missing one of them. Through the gap he can see part of the neighboring building; a red brick wall much like those of their own hall, and a piece of grey roof. Above that is the sky.
Now, he's seen a little bit of sky before, but here, during a few weeks in winter, the sun rises exactly on top of the roof that he can see. It’s a captivating sight. The first time he witnessed it, he cried. Never before had he seen something so painfully beautiful. In that moment, he finally understood what the bald man meant when he talked about the wonders of the Lord’s creations.
Now, when it’s winter, he tries to wake up as soon as possible and stares outside until the spectacle plays itself out in front of him again. It is miraculous. First the deepest, darkest blue changes into the pale frost of early morning and then there are so many colors he can’t even name them all. Of course he knows what colors are called in general, but is there a word for the slow shift from dark blue to purple or for the thing between orange and red? He doesn’t know. Usually there are no such colors around him, but during the bitter cold mornings between autumn and spring, he can watch them paint the sky. He never wants to leave this place.
No matter what season, he spends the days he has to himself at his new favorite spot right next to the unbudgeables in the back. Sometimes, that small patch of sky is of the brightest blue; other times there are clouds in wondrous formations, passing by slowly or chasing each other. He even sees birds from time to time. They soar high up with the winds and he follows them with longing eyes and wonders what that much freedom feels like. It must be wonderfully terrifying. He only hopes that, if he ever manages to repay the world for his existence, heaven will be as amazing as the bald man described it. Because if it truly is shaped by people’s desires, this is what his heaven would consist of - no walls and no darkness, just deep breaths under a blue, blue sky. He starts praying more often, although he knows it won’t do him any good. But he really needs that chance to save his soul.
He is with Sara when things change abruptly. The tall guard enters Sara’s Box while they are pondering which book she should bring next. Sara never takes kindly to their time being cut short, so at the sound of the door she looks up with a scowl. “What is it?”
The guard points towards the cot and jerks his head. “He needs to come with me.” Sara gets up and keeps her hand on his knee, indicating that he should stay seated.
The guard isn’t happy about that. “He needs to come. Right now!”
He knows that hesitation on his part will end in Pain, so he slides from the cot and her hand falls back to her side. She stares at him for a moment, as if she were about to say something, but then she brushes his hair back behind his ear. They both know this is a wasted effort; soon the strands will do their best to obscure his field of vision again. But it’s a gesture of comfort, so he leans into it for a second.
“We will continue this the next time we meet. Go with the guard now.”
When he enters his Box, blue plastic bag clutched to his chest, he doesn’t notice it at first because it is the middle of the night. But his automatic check on the unbudgeables is met by a hard, plain surface. Oh no, he thinks, and checks on the other three sets of holes as well. All of them are covered. He crouches into a corner and pulls his blankets up to his chin, just in case he's in for a bumpy ride. He leans his head against the cool metal wall and tries not to be disappointed about this latest turn of events. He'd already suspected that they wouldn’t stay here forever. But this time it’s worse than before. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay close to the sky. But crying is a sign of self-pity, just as wallowing is, so when he feels tears burning behind his eyes he hides his face in the crook of his elbow to muffle the sobs he can’t hold back.
What has him stopping cold a short while later, ears straining and heart pounding, are unfamiliar sounds from the outside. Someone says something in a language he doesn’t recognize. The tone speaks of anxiety, maybe even fear. Hidden in the dark, he doesn’t dare move. Other voices join in and the language flows back and forth melodically. There must be several men and at least one woman. He tries to make himself as small as possible and hopes they are not here to kill him. Then, a man barks a warning and everything goes still. A second later, bangs and thumps and grunts and more shouting reach his ears. Someone screams, a long piercing dreadful sound that ends in a broken cough. The hair on his arms and neck start to rise.
He's scared, but he tries to clear his head and be reasonable. Suddenly, an idea pierces his mind. What if this is the heavenly war? Maybe the chance to repent has finally arrived. He shivers in sudden anticipation. If this is the end, he will only get one shot at this. He has to be ready. He lets go of the blankets and slowly crawls to the door. He takes shallow breaths and tries not to alert anyone to his presence yet. He doesn’t know what exactly he is supposed to do, so he tries to be prepared for everything. The guards and the bald man always say that he’d be told about his role in heaven’s plans when he needed to know and not a second earlier. He knows that this is for the best; he shouldn’t be trusted with information like that. But the uncertainty of what he’ll have to face sinks like a loaf of stale bread into his stomach. He starts to pray.
It doesn’t take long for his muscles to cramp and for his back to ache. The sounds outside have slowly died away but still no one has come for him. He huffs a confused breath against the door and flinches when he hears a steady shrill beeping that becomes higher and more frequent the closer it gets. He knows this sound. He scrambles back to his blankets just in time to land on them when metallic clangs are followed by the first violent bucks of his Box. Soon they are on the move again, he can tell by the sounds.
His fists clench in his blankets while he wonders what the trouble outside had been about. He can’t ask the guards, but maybe he can hint at something when he sees Sara. She always helps him if she can, even if it's just to satisfy his curiosity. The tension in his muscles soon eases up a little and the steady buzz in the background helps to calms his nerves. That's when he sees it.
There is a glow. In his Box. He shakes his head, but the sliver of light stays. He gets up slowly, steadies himself against the wall, and takes a few careful steps. He can make out the faint shape of his hand in front of him as he feels for his way. Another few steps and he is standing in front of the metal plate that covers the six unbudgeables next to the door. There's a gap.
He presses his face as close to the small opening as he can, but he doesn’t see a thing. Instead, a fresh breeze catches him right in the eye and he flinches back. His fingers start moving of their own accord, squeezing into the slit and pulling at the panel. At first, nothing happens so he pulls again, stronger this time. The gap is still there but it is completely unaffected by his efforts. He takes a step back and tries to be rational. He shouldn’t be doing this, anyway. The guards will be so mad if he breaks something. His eyes travel back to the small glimmer of light. As soon as he reaches his new location, chances are that he once more will be kept in dim twilight at best. This might be his last chance to enjoy the sun. He pushes his fingers even further into the narrow space and tries to widen it again and again. All he wants is to see the sky; just one more time. He almost goes crazy with the sudden need for it. He jerks at the metal sheet, and he forgets about the guards. It takes a good while, but finally, the panel gives a little. He almost howls with victory.
Hours later the frenzied movement of dawn has become a steady rhythm of push and pull, and he does so with all his strength. When he needs to take a break, he wipes his hands on his pants and goes for the small round nubs that seem to hold the metal in place. Normally, they wouldn’t move an inch, but where the gap is big enough he is able to twist them between his fingertips. Twisting them in one direction narrows the gap, twisting them into the other one widens it. So far he has been able to take three of the small pegs out completely. It must be early evening by the time he gets a fourth one out and the gap is finally big enough to look outside.
He is so excited that the pain in his hands doesn’t even register with him. Later that night his fingers will ache and become encrusted with dried blood, but for the moment all he is aware of is movement. His face is squished against the wall and he has to blink away tears from the wind that rushes through the holes, but he doesn’t mind any of that. He is looking outside. He can’t make out single shapes at first - all he sees are dark smudges of green and brown spotted with white, and on top of that an infinite, pale blur of blue - the sky. He marvels at the sight and he can’t suppress a slightly hysterical giggle. Dear Lord, this is fast.
The later it gets, the more clouds gather in the sky to hide the evening sun. He is a little disappointed because he had hoped to see a sunset. Early evening turns to dusk and with the fading light he seems to move slower. He can still make out the dim silhouettes of trees. There must be hundreds of them, thousands; they smell of earth and living things and of adventure. But soon enough, the absence of sunlight has the vast horizon melting with the woods and night takes over.
He sighs and limps to his sleeping mat. His back aches from the position he had been in for the last few hours and his hands hurt something fierce. His face feels numb and his left leg fell asleep a while ago. When he lies down, the limb comes back to life with painful pins and needles. He unsuccessfully tries to ignore his sore body, tucks his blankets around him to ward off the cold, and closes his eyes. He tries to sleep so he can get up in time for one more sunrise, but the excitement of the day keeps him awake.
He has seen trees and snow and fields and snow. Once, very shortly, he even glimpsed water and snow; probably a lake or a river. Admittedly, all of these things rushed by too quickly to make out many details, but he never thought he would see any of this at all, so he still is happy. Sleep evades him for a long while, though, and finally he sighs and gets up once more. He keeps the blankets tightly wrapped around his shoulders and walks around a little to loosen his stiffening limbs. When he passes the gap he throws another glance outside and stops dead in his track. There are lights outside. They blink in and out of existence so at first he thinks he’s imagining things. But one handful turns into two, then three, and soon there are thousands of them. They illuminate streets and huge buildings and even people. He is in a city.
He doesn’t understand how people can stand the middle of night to be this bright. There are lights on the buildings, brightly colored signs and letters. A pale glow illuminates the streets and on each corner, floating orbs gleam red and green and yellow and back again. In the background there are countless smaller lights; steady square dots of white and yellow. There must be a million of them, at least. They pile on top of each other so high that they must reach the sky. It looks as if all the stars have fallen down from heaven and are trying to get home again. This is different - and infinitely better than reading about things.
Every once in a while his Box stops and he immediately ducks out of sight. He knows that he can’t be seen by the general population; he is too dangerous. He could hurt them. While they continue their way through the city, the lights become less again, not as blinding, and he can see fewer and fewer people. Then the streets are empty and a few minutes later he stops again, longer this time. The metallic clanging is back, followed by muted voices, the sounds of machinery, and hissing noises. The stretch in front of the unbudgeable is deserted, so he stands very still and keeps looking outside. Maybe he can finally see the source of all these sounds. Somewhere in the back of his mind he begins to hope that they have reached their destination already. How exciting would that be; to be in the middle of a city that never grew dark thanks to its myriad lights. He can’t dwell on that thought for very long, though, because suddenly he is flying.
The ground falls away without warning and although there is only a slight swaying, not remotely enough to knock him off balance, he grips the metal plate in front of him as tight as his hurting hands allow. He wonders how often he might have flown before without even noticing it, trapped in the blackness of his Box and hidden from the world. He sends a quick prayer of thanks heavenwards for this experience and directs his attention back outside. The ground is floating away and the higher he rises, the more of the marvelous city he can see in the distance. It’s huge and the lights stretch out in front of him like a blanket of woven stars. Bird’s-eye view, his mind supplies helpfully, better perspective. He feels a little like throwing up.
Suddenly the city moves to the right; the Box must be turning. The further it turns, the clearer a disturbing sight gets: the sea of lights is breaking apart. The top is still there and the bottom half too, but in between is a winding band of darkness.
The closer he gets back to the ground, the more lights are visible in the darkness. Where a moment ago there had been a black void, now the stars extend downward, further than he can see. He gets sick with a sudden onset of vertigo. He doesn’t understand what has happened - did the earth just open up in the middle of the city? Is there a basement underneath? A sudden thought has him gasping for breath. Did he just glimpse into the depths of hell? Maybe hordes of demons are marching through the city right now to cast sinners straight from their beds into endless suffering. He feels the hysterics start to claw their way up into his chest.
The lights below aren’t of the fiery kind, though, there's hardly any red at all. But while the city itself stands unmoving like stone, down below the lights are constantly moving; twisted and distorted imitations of the original. He steps away from the gap and hides his face behind his hands. He sucks in a few deep breaths and when his legs give way, he slides down the wall. He wants to hide from this, whatever it is; mirage or deception or worse. The thought of staying here isn’t as comforting as it was a moment ago.
He returns to awareness with a groan. What had been a painful throb earlier has stiffened up to the point of agony. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to use his hands again. He crawls to the plastic bag and carefully digs for a bottle of water. Usually, he only gets the cup with his food, but when he is being moved the guards put bottles in his bag. Opening the cap is excruciating, but he gets it done without passing out. He slowly sips some of the cool fluid and takes a closer look at his hands. They are a scratched and swollen, bloody mess; but he is happy to discover that they don’t look as bad as they feel. He pours a bit of water over each hand and carefully dabs away the dried blood. He is more grateful than ever for the light that filters through the gap; in the dark this would have been much harder to do. He pauses for a moment. The gap. The lights. The city! He scrambles to his feet, stifles another groan, and presses his face back into the opening between plate and wall.
He must have missed the sunrise; a huge city is spread out in front of him under a pale winter sky. When he looks down, he has to smother a relieved laugh. He is high above the ground once more, flying, and what had looked like a black band coiling through the city lights turns out to be a wide river that runs through it. Several boats are lined up along its edge. On the opposite shore the city stretches as far as he can see. Houses and streets and patches of green all squish together and fade away into the frail grayish blue of the horizon. He smiles at his childish fears now that he sees the truth: what he had mistaken for the ground opening up to the pits of hell had actually been the river reflecting the lights of the city.
Satisfied, he nods at himself and takes a closer look at his immediate surroundings. He's still flying, but not nearly as fast as he'd been moving through the woods yesterday. He seems to steer towards one of the big boats that decorate the shoreline. It’s a strange shore, without sand or vegetation, and he can’t see a single tree. He wonders if the real shore lies behind him, on the other side of the Box, and whether it looks exactly like Defoe described it. He would have liked to see it, but in front of him are nothing but grey stone and rectangles of color, all of the same size. No, not rectangles. He frowns and takes a closer look before he sucks in a surprised gasp. Those are Boxes. Boxes like his own. They are red, yellow, and orange; some bright and new, some fading away. In between are many brown ones, too, and an occasional blue or green. He never imagined there could be so many of them.
He is still advancing the boat; only it’s not really a boat, but more of a ship. A huge ship. His Box changes direction and he floats closer until he sways directly above its deck. More Boxes are already stacked in neat rows underneath, and now they rise up as if to greet him. He is probably going to be put down here - on a ship. His stomach flutters with excitement. Not only has he been flying, but now it seems that he’s going to travel on a river, too. He can’t wait to see that. Only, when he thinks he finally has reached the ground, he keeps on sinking. He is lowered in between all the other Boxes and he realizes with a jolt that no matter how big he’ll be able to make that gap, if he is surrounded by Boxes he won’t be able to see a thing. He knows because that is the way their three Boxes are usually positioned, Sara’s on one side and the one for Pain on the other. He has time for two panicky breaths before his fears become reality and he settles to the ground with a clang. The light is gone.
He uses his elbows to guide his way down and tilts his head against the wall as soon as he sits. He feels tired and weak and not only because of the sudden plunge into darkness. His sleep had been uneasy. He's used to undisturbed nights without smells, lights, and above all without sound. The city has all that, though, and lots of it. It smells of both good and foul things and every time he opened his eyes, there was a yellowy shimmer of light inside his Box. The worst were the noises, though, with the steady buzz of traffic as a foundation for the shouting and banging and grumbling and howling. Some sounds had been far and muffled, some close, but all of them had been there. He doesn’t know how people can concentrate on anything, much less sleep peacefully with that kind of endless racket.
Now that the Box next to him obscures his view again, there is not much left for him to do. He makes his way back to the blankets and while he lays in the dark he wonders about all the other Boxes. He doesn’t know why he assumed that there were no others like him. Now that he thinks about it, neither the guards nor the bald man had ever mentioned that he was unique in any way. They said that he was dangerous; that the corruption in his soul and his abominable blood ensured his stay in hell after death. They told him that to keep people safe, he couldn’t be seen. That if he didn’t try for salvation, his fate was sealed and that with a soul as spoiled as his, only a sacrifice of the highest degree would do. No one ever said that there weren’t others waiting for the same chance. He thinks about all the Boxes he has seen, and wonders how many of them are filled with monsters like him.
He spends the rest of his journey in darkness. Before he knows it, the rocking and coiling sensation of being on a river is replaced by the steady buzz that he now knows to associate with roads. They drive through the night, though, and they don’t pass through big cities, so there aren’t many lights to be seen. The next time he opens his eyes, the three boxes have been settled in the usual pattern, his own being framed by the other two. It is day, but all he can see is the wall of the Box-for-Pain.
go back (part four) || Masterpost || continue (part six)
Winter’s Bones. [November 27th, 1998]
Dean.
Autumn has come and gone and Bobby, Dean, and the angel have fallen into a familiar routine. Castiel accompanies them on their hunts and when they stay at the salvage yard he drops in every other day to update them on the progress of the search for Dad. Unsurprisingly, there is no progress. No one has seen or heard from him.
Castiel has proven to be a valuable asset with his ability to zap in and out of locked places and Bobby and Dean have made much progress loosening up his stiff and awkward behavior. Castiel has taken their efforts in stride, and although he still struggles with the finer points of the English language as well as abstract concepts like sarcasm, he can go about everyday human things without screaming “angel” with his every move. Dean could swear that even Bobby is warming up to the thought of Castiel staying with them for the long haul.
By the end of November the three have dealt with ghouls, ghosts and poltergeists and one very memorable zombie-infested graveyard. Dean still fights snickers when he thinks of the angel’s bewildered expression when a split-in-half undead resorted to gnawing on his coat. The latest suspicious sounding news report has led them to snowy Idaho, to a stretch of road between Bozeman and Livingston to be exact. It is not common for multiple spirits to claim the same territory, but in this case that’s what they are dealing with.
For several decades locals reported sightings of a young girl on the side of the road, and apparently her appearances caused people to stop and look for her just in time to avoid hidden patches of black ice or other wintry dangers. With time people thought of her as some sort of protective spirit, watching out for travelers as long as snow stuck to the ground. Finding out who she was turns out to be ridiculously easy since everybody seems to know her story. She was a local girl by the name of Celia Grey who died in 1969 under mysterious circumstances on the outskirts of town, close to the very patch of road that she guards now. She was only 17.
Then there is the second spirit that started haunting the road in late 1997. This one is as malevolent as they come and it brings with it blizzards and icy gales strong enough to swirl cars around like toys. It claimed 21 victims last winter and this year another four people have died already. It isn’t difficult to determine the identity of this one, either. In October of 1997, only two accident reports were filed for the stretch of road in question. One in connection with the death of Harold Sterling, a 76 year old retired dentist from Bozeman who died of a heart attack on the evening of October 12th. His car was found a day later by the side of the road, and the weather had been cold but clear. In the picture that’s attached to the file he looks almost peaceful. The second accident claimed the life of 32 year old Jackson Pintallion, a teacher from the local elementary school. He died on October 24th when he lost control of his car due to a sudden blizzard and crashed into a copse of pine trees. There is nothing peaceful about his picture.
They figure that the early onset of winter had caught Pintallion off guard and that he now uses the weather to force others to share his faith. They locate his grave and salt and burn the sucker before they drive to the next cemetery to take care of Celia Grey.
“Why are we burning the girl?” Bobby and Dean both look at Castiel who has stopped a few steps in front of her gravestone.
“She’s a spirit, moron.” The fact that Castiel is an angel hasn’t kept Bobby’s usual charm away for very long. Castiel isn’t bothered by the name-calling, but he still looks reluctant.
“Look," Bobby says. "All spirits turns violent; we’ve been over that already. Maybe they aren’t vengeful from the start, but at some point they all get there. We can’t risk it.” He holds out one of the shovels to the angel. Castiel keeps staring at Bobby and Dean sighs.
“Bobby's right, man. She’s gonna kill eventually.” A few seconds later Castiel grabs the shovel and starts to dig.
The sun is just rising over the trees when they are done with filling the grave back up. They should feel good after a job well done, but something feels off, at least to Bobby and Dean. Castiel has wandered off to the left and is busy studying how the early morning sunlight reflects from the snow. Probably. Dean bites his cheek and looks at Bobby.
“Neither of them showed up.” Bobby just nods. It’s unusual but it happens, sometimes. But twice in one night?
“Maybe we should check the road again before we leave.” This time, Dean nods.
“Yeah, we should. Something’s weird here.” Dean looks over to Castiel and hopes that it’s their hunter senses going off and not some contagious angel-fueled remorse. She was a spirit. They didn’t have a choice.
When they reach the haunted stretch of road, Dean reduces their speed to a crawl. The road itself is free, but around them the woods are hidden under a blanket of snow. They might miss whatever they are looking for if they go too fast. Dean just hopes they don’t have to search on foot. It’s freezing outside. In the backseat, Castiel is back to his usual inquisitive self.
“Are we expecting a third spirit?”
“God, I hope not,” Bobby mutters.
“No, we’re just checking. Never leave a hunt unfinished, Castiel.” Dean meets the angel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and Castiel nods. Then he frowns.
“Why would this hunt not be finished? Did we miss something?”
Dean shrugs. “We’re not sure. That’s why we’re here. If you see something odd, just let us know.”
“Something odd like the spirit of Celia Grey?”
In the passenger seat, Bobby rolls his eyes. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Then I would like to let you know that I see something odd.”
“What? Where?” Dean stomps on the brakes and turns around to the angel, but he doesn’t need clarification when he looks out the back window. “Holy shit!”
“What now?” Bobby turns around, too, and his face turns unhealthily pale.
Behind them the world has been swallowed by something that looks like a solid wall of swirling snow. It’s about a mile away but catches up to them fast - what were a few snowflakes drifting by the windows turns into a sudden gush of wind that rocks the Impala a foot to the left. We definitely missed something, Dean thinks.
Bobby grabs the younger hunter’s arm and points to the right side of the road where the spirit of Celia Grey stands at stares at the unnatural weather. She turns around slowly, settling her gaze on the Impala for a moment, and finally faces away from the storm. She looks terrified. Then she starts to run.
“Sonovabitch.” Wind and snow are increasing in speed by the second and obstruct their view; a short moment later they can barely see her through the front window.
“No way!” Bobby tugs at Dean arm again. “Isn’t that the guy, what’s his name, the one with the heart attack?” Dean follows Bobby’s outstretched finger and indeed, there’s a seriously pissed off dead dentist running after the girl. He too passes the car, and when Dean catches a glimpse of the spirit’s face, he flinches back. The ghost looks murderous.
“Huh,” Dean says, “I didn’t see that one coming.”
Castiel taps him on the shoulder. “I think we should move.”
In the next second the Impala is hit from behind and Dean thinks for a moment that some idiot crashed into them, but then the world is gone and they are surrounded by swirling clouds of snow. The car rocks violently with the strong winds.
“Balls.” Bobby gets their research out of the glove compartment while Dean starts the car again. The logical thing would be to turn around, since the weather seems to follow Sterling as he chases Celia, but Dean can’t see a fucking thing. Driving into a ditch in this weather can’t be good. He looks at Bobby.
“Just go ahead. Maybe we can find a safe place to park somewhere.” Another gust of wind hits the tail of the car and pushes them to the right. Dean blindly tries to correct their course and leans forward, which doesn’t do a thing to improve visibility.
“So what, the dentist is responsible for the blizzards?” The car swerves and Dean’s knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel. “And Celia is somehow bound to him or to this road, and now he chases her with his freaky storm powers? This doesn’t make sense.” Another blast of wind hits them and Dean goes silent. He can’t see shit, but the Impala is still rolling, so they're probably still on the road. Next to him Bobby is going through their research and squinting his eyes in the dim light.
Then his head snaps up; he groans and slaps a piece of paper against the dashboard. “Balls!”
“Hey, watch it!” That earns Dean a cuff to the head and the young hunter grins sheepishly. “Did you find something?”
“I’m not sure. I just thought- what if we had it all wrong? The teacher might've been the first victim. If Sterling is connected to the weather and Pintallion died in a blizzard-”
“Damn, you’re right. Then Sterling probably killed him. But what about the girl?” The wind is coming from all sides now and they have slowed to a walking pace once more. The snow is so dense that the light inside the car has dimmed to an eerie grey.
“I don’t know, but whatever her connection is, we have to take Sterling out first.” Bobby waves his hand at the windows. “This could get a lot worse.”
“Great.” Dean tries not to look as worried as he is. Bobby turns to the backseat and faces the angel that listened to them silently.
“You can take care of a salt and burn yourself, right?”
Castiel nods, but he doesn’t look happy. “You want me to leave you here?”
“Well, last I checked, our teleporting abilities were a bit rusty. But you seem to have a knack for it, so it would be really nice if you could go ahead and burn the bastard.” Bobby flicks through the notes again. “He’s in the same cemetery as the girl. Lot-”
A rustle of wings has Bobby glancing up again, and apparently the angel didn’t need any more detail. The backseat is empty. A moment later the snow lets up. The world around them is still dusky and the clouds overhead seem to loom close enough to touch, but at least Dean can make out the road. Both men’s eyes meet.
“Go for it?” Dean asks and Bobby nods. They sure as hell can’t stay where they are, and they both know it.
“Yeah. Do it.”
Dean steps on it, the Impala giving it all she has, and maybe they would have made it if the wind hadn’t decided to set in with renewed strength. The hopeful look on Dean’s face turns into one of utter surprise when the storm hits the front of the car from the left and the trunk from the right. There’s a second when gravity seems to let up and Dean feels like they're flying. Which is because they kind of are, Dean realizes as the horizon tilts to the side.
“Shit, Bobby,” is all he gets out before they hit something bone-jarringly hard. They keep hitting things over and over again and directions lose meaning because everything is reduced to countless sharp impacts. Papers fly and limbs flail; they're hitting the windows, the wheel, and the dashboard as the laws of physics stop applying to their dimly-lit world.
Another crash tosses them forward and up, and Dean is hanging limply in the seatbelt, feeling too dazed to hold on to anything. Then they car thuds to the right and Dean’s head follows suit. He sets eyes on Bobby exactly as the older hunter’s head collides with the passenger side window. Dean briefly wonders how he never noticed all the red on the glass behind Bobby before, and then everything goes black.
Castiel.
Not two minutes have passed since Castiel teleported from the Impala to a grocery store near the cemetery to procure a jar of salt. Shovels and lighter fluids were not necessary since without Dean and Bobby present Castiel needn’t hide the extent of his powers. So with salt in hand it took him 36 seconds to locate the grave of Harold Sterling and another 14 to free the casket. He was just about to distribute the salt evenly all over the body like Dean taught him when he registers a drop in temperature. The next moment the ghost of Harold Sterling wraps his hands around the angel’s throat and starts squeezing as if to suffocate him. Castiel tilts his head and Sterling’s eyes widen before he hisses and takes a step back.
“You’re not human!”
“That is true. Neither are you.” Castiel glances in the direction of the open grave and immediately the body catches fire. The ghost gawks first at the flames, then at the angel, and finally rushes forward with an enraged wail before he crackles out of existence.
During the short physical contact with the spirit, Castiel has seen what connected Harold Sterling and Celia Grey. He assumes that with the dentist gone, the girl will find rest now, too - what they hadn’t known was that Sterling was the one responsible for Celia’s death. The man had harbored an unhealthy sexual interest in young women and in 1969, after a few months of stalking poor Celia, he finally decided to fulfill his desires. One afternoon Celia visited a friend who lived a little out of town, and on her way back, Sterling attacked her. He threw her to the ground and kicked her a couple of times but then she grabbed a nearby stone, threw it at him, and fled. He chased after her but the blood in his eyes and the concussion she had given him slowed him down until he lost sight of her. He was scared that she would tell the authorities about him but a few days later the news reported about her death; apparently she had succumbed to internal injuries of unknown origin.
Sterling never stopped lusting after teenage girls and young women, but after Celia he was too scared to actively follow his urges again. He never forgot the girl that got away from him, though, and when he felt his heart give out 29 years later, hunched over his steering wheel on the side of the road, he saw her again. She stood just a few feet away and looked at him, a little curious and a little sad. He smiled at her, at pretty Celia with her long hair wafting in the wind, and he saw it in her eyes the second she recognized him. He'd chased her ever since.
Castiel makes sure that the monster’s body is properly burned.
When Castiel pops back into existence, he does so on the side of the road; Dean always tells him to be stealthy and not to aim for the middle of things. The angel is muddy and his clothes smell of smoke, but he has the tingling sensation in his stomach that he learned to associate with a job well done. His grace sings to him in a way it hasn’t for a long time; he feels elated. Then he frowns.
The road he is standing next to is no longer visible, both the asphalt and surrounding woods buried underneath tons of freshly fallen snow. Castiel can’t see the Impala anywhere, but he knows that Dean and Bobby are close; he can feel them. The air is clear now and the blue sky is free of clouds. The sight is breathtaking. But Castiel can’t stop to admire the beauty of god’s creations because he has to look for his humans. He zeroes in on Dean, coaxes the wind into existence once more, and blows the snow away as he walks. When he finally finds the Impala, Castiel is worried. The car is obviously much worse for wear. A few windows are cracked and the back window is missing completely, as are the side mirrors and the backlights. The Impala’s roof is leaning against a birch tree in the distance and Castiel is looking straight at the exposed underbelly of the car.
Now that he is close, he notices that the humans inside are fading fast. One heartbeat is considerably slower than usual and both of their breaths sound labored. Castiel smells blood. He reaches up to the driver’s side of the car, adding a few more dents when he grabs it tight, and lowers the car back into its designated position. He extends his senses and finds that Bobby’s broken skull, smashed right leg and ruptured spleen will turn life-threatening in a couple of minutes. Dean doesn’t have nearly as long as that.
Both sides of the car are crashed inwards, the metal twisted badly enough for the doors to be stuck. Castiel knows that the black car is among the things that are most valuable to Dean, so he is aware of the fact that Dean will not be pleased with the angel’s next actions. But he figures that he is fine with that as long as Dean is alive to complain about it. The angel grabs the driver’s side door and tears it off. It hits the ground with a sad little thud and Castiel thinks that the car is probably just as damaged as the men it shelters. Inside the Impala, blood has splattered across windshield and dashboard and soaked into the upholstery and through the hunters' clothes. Castiel wishes he hadn’t left them alone.
He already knew that Dean’s condition was critical, but the visual confirmation regardless catches Castiel unprepared. Apart from the fact that Dean seems to be stuck under the steering wheel, there is also too much bone visible for his liking. He decides against lifting the broken man out of the car. Dean probably wouldn’t survive being moved. Instead Castiel grabs the steering wheel, snaps the entire thing off, and throws it into the backseat. He leans a little closer to Dean and touches his bruised left temple. The hunter flinches and Castiel lets go, surprised. He had expected Dean to be deeply unconscious.
Dean gurgles something; is probably trying to speak, but the angel knows that the injuries to his cartilage and vocal cords are much too extensive for that. Castiel senses what Dean is trying to do, who he is trying to call and his grace gets heavy with compassion. The world around them seems to slow, which is a strange experience since his celestial wavelength is not bound to time per se. Dean groans and opens the eye that hasn’t yet swollen shut. Again he seeks for a comfort that isn’t Castiel’s to give and the angel feels inexplicably like weeping. The visual of a bloody bubble that bursts between Dean’s lips becomes seared into Castiel’s memory with sudden sharpness.
“Mmmmh.” Dean coughs and tries again. “Mm-mee.”
“I am sorry.” Castiel truly is. But this is a wish that he can’t fulfill. What he can do is fix the physical damage, though.
“This is going to hurt.” Dean's one eye rolls up, further up, and back into his head, which Castiel knows isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.
“More.” Castiel clarifies, and clears his throat. “This is going to hurt more. But not for long. You will feel better soon.”
The heart in Dean’s chest is losing its fight with trauma and blood loss as he watches, so Castiel stops communicating in human ways and touches Dean’s temple again, concentrating on all the things that need mending in this broken body. Dean goes rigid under his touch. Another bloody gurgle makes its way out before Dean’s airways clear up. Bones snap back into their intended shape, blood flow is restored to the lower extremities and once more contained to Dean’s circulatory system. Castiel knows that if he stops now, Dean will be in a lot of pain because the residual damage is still echoing through the traumatized cells. But if he wants to keep Bobby from dying too, and to teleport them away, he has to limit the use of his powers. He lets Dean slip into a deep slumber and hopes for the best.
The angel has to remove the passenger’s side door as well before he can fix Bobby. As soon as the internal bleeding stops, he feels the blood pressure stabilizing. The skull fracture mends just as well as the fragmented bones in the hunter’s right leg, meaning that Bobby will still have the use of both of them. Castiel is surprised how relieved he is as soon as both humans are breathing steadily with their heartbeats strong. He has grown attached to them on a level that far exceeds what is needed to fulfill his mission. The angel wonders how he didn't notice that before.
Finally, he rights himself up and looks around. There is no sign of angry sprits anymore, no sign of anything, really, other than the road, the woods, and the snow. And the Impala, of course. Castiel realizes that, while none of them are in danger of freezing to death anytime soon, this is not an ideal place for any of them to be. Dean and Bobby are fragile and so is his vessel. He can’t afford to spend any of his power on keeping them warm, but his reserves might just be enough to get them home.
The angel is glad that the hunt is done so getting them out of here won’t coincide with the Winchester rule of hunting that dictates ‘never leave a hunt unfinished to bite you in the ass later’. Because no matter how out of it both hunters are right now, they wouldn’t be pleased to know the angel took them halfway across the country mid-hunt. Castiel looks guiltily at the doors that are lying in the snow and decides to transport the car with the hunters in it because that will cost less energy than going back and forth a few times. Castiel breaks the trunk when he tries to pry it open, but he figures that at this point one more thing to fix won’t matter that much. He lays both doors on top of the torn weapon compartment and gently places the lid back on top. Then he teleports into the backseat, holds on to Dean and Bobby for good measure, and with a rustle and a pop the car is gone. Castiel spends the last of his grace on zapping them from the car into the study before he slumps to the ground and closes his eyes.
It takes three days of almost uninterrupted sleep for the humans to get back on their feet. Castiel catches them up to speed and as soon as he can afford it, feeling how they still suffer, he offers to rid them of the pain their bodies still remember. Both of them refuse adamantly, though, which Castiel doesn’t understand. He tries to persuade them to let him at least try, until Dean, still sore and tired, huffs out an angry breath and hits the sofa cushion.
“Damnit, Cas! The angel raises his eyebrows at the abbreviation but stays silent.
“You’ve been out for two days straight, too. You already came through for us. You did everything we could have asked for and more, and you exhausted yourself to the point of collapse.” Dean gets up and moves his limbs, flexes his hands and knees; gingerly, but determined.
“We’re good, see? Bobby and I, we won’t be winning any marathons anytime soon, but we’re walking and talking. And we’re fine. Now sit your ass down and put your feet up until it’s time for dinner.” He leans over, anger gone, and whispers conspiratorially. “Bobby is cooking, so you’re gonna need all the rest you can get before you face the special of the day with a side of charcoal.”
Castiel doesn’t understand why Bobby would feed them a mostly tasteless side dish of carbon and ash, but he won’t insult their hospitality by refusing to try it. He still feels weak after straining his grace that much, too, so he follows Dean’s suggestion and takes a seat on the couch. In the kitchen, the clanging of pots has stilled after Dean’s last statement and now Bobby pokes his head around the corner.
“I heard that, boy. If you don’t like what you’re getting, feel free to make dinner yourself.”
Dean raises his head and sniffs the air before he grins at Bobby. “I think something’s burning.” Bobby retreats into the kitchen and the sound of a pot being flung into the sink is drowned out by a stream of colorful curses. The smell of something freshly burned wafts through the air. Dean opens his mouth for another comment, no doubt, but Bobby beats him to it.
“Shut it, boy!” Dean rolls his eyes but his grin widens. Bobby turns his attention to Castiel. “Cas, the kid is right. So sit your ass back down and don’t even think about touching anything with those magic fingers of yours, that clear? Idjits.” Castiel smiles as well. He leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He is certain that the finer points of this whole conversation eluded him as usual, but still. Cas. No one ever called him that before. He likes it.
Dean.
By the middle of December they've shaken the last remnants of the accident. Well, Dean and Bobby and Castiel have. The Impala, not so much. From what little Dean remembered, he had expected dents and scrapes; maybe a broken taillight and a warped roof; maybe a missing bumper. Castiel knew surprisingly little about cars, and so he reported nothing but that there was damage to the point of the Impala maybe not running anymore.
Dean didn’t cry when he first saw her, but it was a close thing. Not a single part of the car is unscathed; every window shattered and most of the dents have dents of their own. The doors are missing, the lid of the trunk is off, the steering wheel is gone. And it only gets worse when they look inside. Bobby and Dean go silent when they see the blood. It’s everywhere.
Bobby's the first to break the silence. “Close call.”
Dean doesn’t answer. Bobby’s tone becomes soft when sees the open devastation on Dean’s face. “Dean. We’re alive. This is fixable. It’ll be ok.”
Castiel.
Since Dean started working on repairing the Impala his mood has improved greatly. Castiel spends most of the time he is seen with Bobby, but when he shadows the humans unseen he likes to watch Dean work on the car, too. It is amazing how the Impala improves under the young hunter’s care. Castiel suspects that Dean knows about the harm he did, though, and he still feels guilty about it, so he deems it best not to impose. Also, he finds that he enjoys spending time with Bobby. The older hunter turns out to be an unexpected wealth of information on all things supernatural and Castiel likes to hear him talk about it.
On one particular afternoon, the steady sounds of metal being hammered back into shape echo through the yard. At the angel’s questioning glance, Bobby had mouthed ‘the trunk’ and Castiel had felt heat rising up to his face. Just as they start to discuss how best to classify skinwalkers, the hammering stops abruptly and is promptly replaced by Dean cursing a blue streak. Castiel frantically thinks about what he can do to help, but he isn’t particularly skilled in the art of automobile restoration. At one point he had considered getting Dean a new car, but he wasn’t sure whether that might make things worse. Castiel looks at Bobby and hopes the helplessness he feels doesn’t show on his face. Bobby meets his gaze and shrugs.
“At least he has something to do now," he tells Castiel. "Working all that anger out can only be good for him. Plus, this way he won’t brood all day over the fact that we’re still clueless about John.” Castiel couldn’t agree more. Again, he wonders when he started valuing the wellbeing of his human charges more than the successful outcome of his current mission. John Winchester is still nowhere to be found but Castiel finds that he doesn’t mind so much like he used to. He knows that the man is important, and he doesn’t wish his fate on Dean, so the older Winchester has to be located. But the angel wouldn’t mind if it took a little while longer to do so. He won’t have the time to stick around once heaven’s plans are set into motion.
Skies And Stars And Hell. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
He likes the place they're currently settled in. He doesn’t remember how long they've been here, only that it’s probably been years since the last time they moved. It’s winter right now, which means the days are cold and the nights even colder but the air smells clean, even inside his Box. The nights are dark, but they always are, no matter where they stay. The days, though - the days have given him something precious.
They're inside of a big hall, probably some kind of storage depot. It's empty now except for some heavy machinery in one corner and the Boxes; his, the one for Pain, and Sara’s. For once he isn’t slotted between the two, and what makes this place even more special is the view. The huge windows of the hall are barred up with wooden planks but the window right next to his Box is missing one of them. Through the gap he can see part of the neighboring building; a red brick wall much like those of their own hall, and a piece of grey roof. Above that is the sky.
Now, he's seen a little bit of sky before, but here, during a few weeks in winter, the sun rises exactly on top of the roof that he can see. It’s a captivating sight. The first time he witnessed it, he cried. Never before had he seen something so painfully beautiful. In that moment, he finally understood what the bald man meant when he talked about the wonders of the Lord’s creations.
Now, when it’s winter, he tries to wake up as soon as possible and stares outside until the spectacle plays itself out in front of him again. It is miraculous. First the deepest, darkest blue changes into the pale frost of early morning and then there are so many colors he can’t even name them all. Of course he knows what colors are called in general, but is there a word for the slow shift from dark blue to purple or for the thing between orange and red? He doesn’t know. Usually there are no such colors around him, but during the bitter cold mornings between autumn and spring, he can watch them paint the sky. He never wants to leave this place.
No matter what season, he spends the days he has to himself at his new favorite spot right next to the unbudgeables in the back. Sometimes, that small patch of sky is of the brightest blue; other times there are clouds in wondrous formations, passing by slowly or chasing each other. He even sees birds from time to time. They soar high up with the winds and he follows them with longing eyes and wonders what that much freedom feels like. It must be wonderfully terrifying. He only hopes that, if he ever manages to repay the world for his existence, heaven will be as amazing as the bald man described it. Because if it truly is shaped by people’s desires, this is what his heaven would consist of - no walls and no darkness, just deep breaths under a blue, blue sky. He starts praying more often, although he knows it won’t do him any good. But he really needs that chance to save his soul.
He is with Sara when things change abruptly. The tall guard enters Sara’s Box while they are pondering which book she should bring next. Sara never takes kindly to their time being cut short, so at the sound of the door she looks up with a scowl. “What is it?”
The guard points towards the cot and jerks his head. “He needs to come with me.” Sara gets up and keeps her hand on his knee, indicating that he should stay seated.
The guard isn’t happy about that. “He needs to come. Right now!”
He knows that hesitation on his part will end in Pain, so he slides from the cot and her hand falls back to her side. She stares at him for a moment, as if she were about to say something, but then she brushes his hair back behind his ear. They both know this is a wasted effort; soon the strands will do their best to obscure his field of vision again. But it’s a gesture of comfort, so he leans into it for a second.
“We will continue this the next time we meet. Go with the guard now.”
When he enters his Box, blue plastic bag clutched to his chest, he doesn’t notice it at first because it is the middle of the night. But his automatic check on the unbudgeables is met by a hard, plain surface. Oh no, he thinks, and checks on the other three sets of holes as well. All of them are covered. He crouches into a corner and pulls his blankets up to his chin, just in case he's in for a bumpy ride. He leans his head against the cool metal wall and tries not to be disappointed about this latest turn of events. He'd already suspected that they wouldn’t stay here forever. But this time it’s worse than before. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay close to the sky. But crying is a sign of self-pity, just as wallowing is, so when he feels tears burning behind his eyes he hides his face in the crook of his elbow to muffle the sobs he can’t hold back.
What has him stopping cold a short while later, ears straining and heart pounding, are unfamiliar sounds from the outside. Someone says something in a language he doesn’t recognize. The tone speaks of anxiety, maybe even fear. Hidden in the dark, he doesn’t dare move. Other voices join in and the language flows back and forth melodically. There must be several men and at least one woman. He tries to make himself as small as possible and hopes they are not here to kill him. Then, a man barks a warning and everything goes still. A second later, bangs and thumps and grunts and more shouting reach his ears. Someone screams, a long piercing dreadful sound that ends in a broken cough. The hair on his arms and neck start to rise.
He's scared, but he tries to clear his head and be reasonable. Suddenly, an idea pierces his mind. What if this is the heavenly war? Maybe the chance to repent has finally arrived. He shivers in sudden anticipation. If this is the end, he will only get one shot at this. He has to be ready. He lets go of the blankets and slowly crawls to the door. He takes shallow breaths and tries not to alert anyone to his presence yet. He doesn’t know what exactly he is supposed to do, so he tries to be prepared for everything. The guards and the bald man always say that he’d be told about his role in heaven’s plans when he needed to know and not a second earlier. He knows that this is for the best; he shouldn’t be trusted with information like that. But the uncertainty of what he’ll have to face sinks like a loaf of stale bread into his stomach. He starts to pray.
It doesn’t take long for his muscles to cramp and for his back to ache. The sounds outside have slowly died away but still no one has come for him. He huffs a confused breath against the door and flinches when he hears a steady shrill beeping that becomes higher and more frequent the closer it gets. He knows this sound. He scrambles back to his blankets just in time to land on them when metallic clangs are followed by the first violent bucks of his Box. Soon they are on the move again, he can tell by the sounds.
His fists clench in his blankets while he wonders what the trouble outside had been about. He can’t ask the guards, but maybe he can hint at something when he sees Sara. She always helps him if she can, even if it's just to satisfy his curiosity. The tension in his muscles soon eases up a little and the steady buzz in the background helps to calms his nerves. That's when he sees it.
There is a glow. In his Box. He shakes his head, but the sliver of light stays. He gets up slowly, steadies himself against the wall, and takes a few careful steps. He can make out the faint shape of his hand in front of him as he feels for his way. Another few steps and he is standing in front of the metal plate that covers the six unbudgeables next to the door. There's a gap.
He presses his face as close to the small opening as he can, but he doesn’t see a thing. Instead, a fresh breeze catches him right in the eye and he flinches back. His fingers start moving of their own accord, squeezing into the slit and pulling at the panel. At first, nothing happens so he pulls again, stronger this time. The gap is still there but it is completely unaffected by his efforts. He takes a step back and tries to be rational. He shouldn’t be doing this, anyway. The guards will be so mad if he breaks something. His eyes travel back to the small glimmer of light. As soon as he reaches his new location, chances are that he once more will be kept in dim twilight at best. This might be his last chance to enjoy the sun. He pushes his fingers even further into the narrow space and tries to widen it again and again. All he wants is to see the sky; just one more time. He almost goes crazy with the sudden need for it. He jerks at the metal sheet, and he forgets about the guards. It takes a good while, but finally, the panel gives a little. He almost howls with victory.
Hours later the frenzied movement of dawn has become a steady rhythm of push and pull, and he does so with all his strength. When he needs to take a break, he wipes his hands on his pants and goes for the small round nubs that seem to hold the metal in place. Normally, they wouldn’t move an inch, but where the gap is big enough he is able to twist them between his fingertips. Twisting them in one direction narrows the gap, twisting them into the other one widens it. So far he has been able to take three of the small pegs out completely. It must be early evening by the time he gets a fourth one out and the gap is finally big enough to look outside.
He is so excited that the pain in his hands doesn’t even register with him. Later that night his fingers will ache and become encrusted with dried blood, but for the moment all he is aware of is movement. His face is squished against the wall and he has to blink away tears from the wind that rushes through the holes, but he doesn’t mind any of that. He is looking outside. He can’t make out single shapes at first - all he sees are dark smudges of green and brown spotted with white, and on top of that an infinite, pale blur of blue - the sky. He marvels at the sight and he can’t suppress a slightly hysterical giggle. Dear Lord, this is fast.
The later it gets, the more clouds gather in the sky to hide the evening sun. He is a little disappointed because he had hoped to see a sunset. Early evening turns to dusk and with the fading light he seems to move slower. He can still make out the dim silhouettes of trees. There must be hundreds of them, thousands; they smell of earth and living things and of adventure. But soon enough, the absence of sunlight has the vast horizon melting with the woods and night takes over.
He sighs and limps to his sleeping mat. His back aches from the position he had been in for the last few hours and his hands hurt something fierce. His face feels numb and his left leg fell asleep a while ago. When he lies down, the limb comes back to life with painful pins and needles. He unsuccessfully tries to ignore his sore body, tucks his blankets around him to ward off the cold, and closes his eyes. He tries to sleep so he can get up in time for one more sunrise, but the excitement of the day keeps him awake.
He has seen trees and snow and fields and snow. Once, very shortly, he even glimpsed water and snow; probably a lake or a river. Admittedly, all of these things rushed by too quickly to make out many details, but he never thought he would see any of this at all, so he still is happy. Sleep evades him for a long while, though, and finally he sighs and gets up once more. He keeps the blankets tightly wrapped around his shoulders and walks around a little to loosen his stiffening limbs. When he passes the gap he throws another glance outside and stops dead in his track. There are lights outside. They blink in and out of existence so at first he thinks he’s imagining things. But one handful turns into two, then three, and soon there are thousands of them. They illuminate streets and huge buildings and even people. He is in a city.
He doesn’t understand how people can stand the middle of night to be this bright. There are lights on the buildings, brightly colored signs and letters. A pale glow illuminates the streets and on each corner, floating orbs gleam red and green and yellow and back again. In the background there are countless smaller lights; steady square dots of white and yellow. There must be a million of them, at least. They pile on top of each other so high that they must reach the sky. It looks as if all the stars have fallen down from heaven and are trying to get home again. This is different - and infinitely better than reading about things.
Every once in a while his Box stops and he immediately ducks out of sight. He knows that he can’t be seen by the general population; he is too dangerous. He could hurt them. While they continue their way through the city, the lights become less again, not as blinding, and he can see fewer and fewer people. Then the streets are empty and a few minutes later he stops again, longer this time. The metallic clanging is back, followed by muted voices, the sounds of machinery, and hissing noises. The stretch in front of the unbudgeable is deserted, so he stands very still and keeps looking outside. Maybe he can finally see the source of all these sounds. Somewhere in the back of his mind he begins to hope that they have reached their destination already. How exciting would that be; to be in the middle of a city that never grew dark thanks to its myriad lights. He can’t dwell on that thought for very long, though, because suddenly he is flying.
The ground falls away without warning and although there is only a slight swaying, not remotely enough to knock him off balance, he grips the metal plate in front of him as tight as his hurting hands allow. He wonders how often he might have flown before without even noticing it, trapped in the blackness of his Box and hidden from the world. He sends a quick prayer of thanks heavenwards for this experience and directs his attention back outside. The ground is floating away and the higher he rises, the more of the marvelous city he can see in the distance. It’s huge and the lights stretch out in front of him like a blanket of woven stars. Bird’s-eye view, his mind supplies helpfully, better perspective. He feels a little like throwing up.
Suddenly the city moves to the right; the Box must be turning. The further it turns, the clearer a disturbing sight gets: the sea of lights is breaking apart. The top is still there and the bottom half too, but in between is a winding band of darkness.
The closer he gets back to the ground, the more lights are visible in the darkness. Where a moment ago there had been a black void, now the stars extend downward, further than he can see. He gets sick with a sudden onset of vertigo. He doesn’t understand what has happened - did the earth just open up in the middle of the city? Is there a basement underneath? A sudden thought has him gasping for breath. Did he just glimpse into the depths of hell? Maybe hordes of demons are marching through the city right now to cast sinners straight from their beds into endless suffering. He feels the hysterics start to claw their way up into his chest.
The lights below aren’t of the fiery kind, though, there's hardly any red at all. But while the city itself stands unmoving like stone, down below the lights are constantly moving; twisted and distorted imitations of the original. He steps away from the gap and hides his face behind his hands. He sucks in a few deep breaths and when his legs give way, he slides down the wall. He wants to hide from this, whatever it is; mirage or deception or worse. The thought of staying here isn’t as comforting as it was a moment ago.
He returns to awareness with a groan. What had been a painful throb earlier has stiffened up to the point of agony. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to use his hands again. He crawls to the plastic bag and carefully digs for a bottle of water. Usually, he only gets the cup with his food, but when he is being moved the guards put bottles in his bag. Opening the cap is excruciating, but he gets it done without passing out. He slowly sips some of the cool fluid and takes a closer look at his hands. They are a scratched and swollen, bloody mess; but he is happy to discover that they don’t look as bad as they feel. He pours a bit of water over each hand and carefully dabs away the dried blood. He is more grateful than ever for the light that filters through the gap; in the dark this would have been much harder to do. He pauses for a moment. The gap. The lights. The city! He scrambles to his feet, stifles another groan, and presses his face back into the opening between plate and wall.
He must have missed the sunrise; a huge city is spread out in front of him under a pale winter sky. When he looks down, he has to smother a relieved laugh. He is high above the ground once more, flying, and what had looked like a black band coiling through the city lights turns out to be a wide river that runs through it. Several boats are lined up along its edge. On the opposite shore the city stretches as far as he can see. Houses and streets and patches of green all squish together and fade away into the frail grayish blue of the horizon. He smiles at his childish fears now that he sees the truth: what he had mistaken for the ground opening up to the pits of hell had actually been the river reflecting the lights of the city.
Satisfied, he nods at himself and takes a closer look at his immediate surroundings. He's still flying, but not nearly as fast as he'd been moving through the woods yesterday. He seems to steer towards one of the big boats that decorate the shoreline. It’s a strange shore, without sand or vegetation, and he can’t see a single tree. He wonders if the real shore lies behind him, on the other side of the Box, and whether it looks exactly like Defoe described it. He would have liked to see it, but in front of him are nothing but grey stone and rectangles of color, all of the same size. No, not rectangles. He frowns and takes a closer look before he sucks in a surprised gasp. Those are Boxes. Boxes like his own. They are red, yellow, and orange; some bright and new, some fading away. In between are many brown ones, too, and an occasional blue or green. He never imagined there could be so many of them.
He is still advancing the boat; only it’s not really a boat, but more of a ship. A huge ship. His Box changes direction and he floats closer until he sways directly above its deck. More Boxes are already stacked in neat rows underneath, and now they rise up as if to greet him. He is probably going to be put down here - on a ship. His stomach flutters with excitement. Not only has he been flying, but now it seems that he’s going to travel on a river, too. He can’t wait to see that. Only, when he thinks he finally has reached the ground, he keeps on sinking. He is lowered in between all the other Boxes and he realizes with a jolt that no matter how big he’ll be able to make that gap, if he is surrounded by Boxes he won’t be able to see a thing. He knows because that is the way their three Boxes are usually positioned, Sara’s on one side and the one for Pain on the other. He has time for two panicky breaths before his fears become reality and he settles to the ground with a clang. The light is gone.
He uses his elbows to guide his way down and tilts his head against the wall as soon as he sits. He feels tired and weak and not only because of the sudden plunge into darkness. His sleep had been uneasy. He's used to undisturbed nights without smells, lights, and above all without sound. The city has all that, though, and lots of it. It smells of both good and foul things and every time he opened his eyes, there was a yellowy shimmer of light inside his Box. The worst were the noises, though, with the steady buzz of traffic as a foundation for the shouting and banging and grumbling and howling. Some sounds had been far and muffled, some close, but all of them had been there. He doesn’t know how people can concentrate on anything, much less sleep peacefully with that kind of endless racket.
Now that the Box next to him obscures his view again, there is not much left for him to do. He makes his way back to the blankets and while he lays in the dark he wonders about all the other Boxes. He doesn’t know why he assumed that there were no others like him. Now that he thinks about it, neither the guards nor the bald man had ever mentioned that he was unique in any way. They said that he was dangerous; that the corruption in his soul and his abominable blood ensured his stay in hell after death. They told him that to keep people safe, he couldn’t be seen. That if he didn’t try for salvation, his fate was sealed and that with a soul as spoiled as his, only a sacrifice of the highest degree would do. No one ever said that there weren’t others waiting for the same chance. He thinks about all the Boxes he has seen, and wonders how many of them are filled with monsters like him.
He spends the rest of his journey in darkness. Before he knows it, the rocking and coiling sensation of being on a river is replaced by the steady buzz that he now knows to associate with roads. They drive through the night, though, and they don’t pass through big cities, so there aren’t many lights to be seen. The next time he opens his eyes, the three boxes have been settled in the usual pattern, his own being framed by the other two. It is day, but all he can see is the wall of the Box-for-Pain.
go back (part four) || Masterpost || continue (part six)