Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with Supernatural. All I own is the arrangement of words in this story.
Warnings: Spoilers for 8.17 "Goodbye Stranger", minor language
A/N: It's finals-time again, which means my muse has kicked into overdrive. I swear it's subconscious rebellion. Anyway, this was inspired by that great scene from 8.17, and written in part as a response to my own dissatisfaction regarding the lack of Dean H/C due to Cas's quick-fix. However, I aimed for a bit more depth than that, so hopefully that's evident. Who else is loving S8? I've loved almost every episode, and can't wait for the finale! :)
Big thanks to Sharlot for being an awesome Beta. :)
As always, reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading.
Phantom Pain
The change in the angel's demeanor is sudden and disorienting.
Dean's survival instincts are throwing up all kinds of red flags, but something deeper compels him to stand his ground. He searches the cold, hard eyes of a being that can kill him with a single touch, but can't find any hint of his friend.
Who is this stranger?
The first time Cas brings his blade down, it ricochets off the stone tablet in Dean's hands. In that moment, Dean is absurdly thankful that the heavenly artifact is sturdy enough to act as an impromptu shield against the angel's inexplicable attack, but the blow still sends shockwaves of electric pain ripping through his arm muscles, almost brings him to his knees from the force of it.
Dean knows he stands no chance of surviving a fight against an angel bent on his destruction. He begins to back away, feeling vulnerable and even a little frightened at how pathetically unprepared he was for this turn of events. He has no plan, no time, and nothing on him with which to defend himself.
His voice is the only weapon he has, so he raises it, pitched in an authoritative bark.
"Cas, fight this – this is not you!"
Those piercing blue eyes remain impassive as the angel advances. The lights are on, but Cas isn't home. The angel's vessel hasn't even broken a sweat. It's as if he's swatting at a fly with a newspaper, belying the bone-crushing force behind his movements. One strike, and Dean would be eviscerated.
"Fight it!" Dean shouts, just before the blade comes down again.
This time, he barely gets the tablet up to block the hit.
He regains his footing a moment later, lifting his head quickly so he can see the next assault.
Instead, he's stunned at the sight of the angel turned away, bent at the waist, anguish marring his face.
"What have you done to me, Naomi?" The words come out tortured; his expression, pained.
Dean latches onto the name, desperately trying to get a purchase on the situation.
"Who's Naomi?" He demands, his posture unconsciously switching from defensive to offensive.
But Cas doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed somewhere beyond these walls.
"Cas!"
The angel's only response is to shake his head, his face crumpling in despair.
Dean doesn't know what to do, doesn't have a clue what is going on. Everything in him screams 'danger', fight or flight, but he can't walk away from his friend.
Not like this.
Cas is folded in half, hands on his knees, breath sawing in and out of contorted lips, looking lost and broken and five kinds of horrified.
Dean reaches out tentatively with his right hand, shifting the tablet into the crook of his left arm.
"Cas?"
Seconds after his hand makes contact with the angel's shoulder, his back bounces off solid stone.
He doesn't even realize he's been hit until he finds himself lying prone on the floor halfway across the room.
He's woken in the wee hours of the morning by the unmistakable sound of retching coming from the bathroom.
Sam curses and rolls onto his side, the heavy fog of sleep ready to reclaim him. Before nodding off, he makes a mental note to ask Dean in the morning if he had a bad burger or something. It wouldn't be the first time.
But then a new sound beckons like fingers rooting around inside his brain, searching for his consciousness: deep, guttural moans.
That's not normal.
In seconds Sam's eyes snap open and he's throwing the covers off, stumbling to the bathroom.
Dean hadn't shut the door all the way in his haste, and Sam doesn't bother with privacy, pushing the door the rest of the way open.
"Dean?"
His body curls instinctively, a protective reflex against the pain. He landed hard on his shoulder, can already feel the bruises forming there, and his brain throbs from being sloshed against the back of his skull courtesy of his flight and crash landing.
A lifetime of training has him moving on autopilot, clumsy limbs forcing him to his feet. He snatches up the tablet, turns to make a beeline for the door.
As if he could outrun him.
He's blocked by the trenchcoated vessel, his face set in a frown, and it's the first time in a long time that Dean feels fear.
Cas – or whatever is possessing him - is going to kill him.
Instinct again, blind and occasionally foolish; Dean raises his fist, swings it hard. But the angel intercepts the punch easily, catching Dean just above the wrist.
One quick twist and the bones in Dean's forearm are crushed.
His knees collapse beneath him as fire and lightning instantly shoot from the damaged limb up to his brain, and for a brief moment Dean is blinded by the agony. The scream that escapes his lips is loud and hoarse.
Flashes of red and black explode behind the lids of his eyes. For a split second, Dean's scream is one of a billion others, the scream of the eternally tormented.
The scream of the damned.
His brother is in his black T and boxers, kneeling in front of the toilet with his eyes closed, resting his forehead against the edge. He's pale and sweaty, blowing air in and out of his mouth like a Lamaze class instructor.
Without thinking, Sam pulls the back of his wrist up toward his nose to block the smell of vomit.
"You sick?"
It's a stupid question, but Sam asks anyway, testing the territory. Dean prefers privacy when he is ill; Sam has often borne the brunt of his brother's hostility when mother-henned.
But all Sam gets in response is a throaty hum, too similar to the moans that woke him seconds ago, and it sends his heart racing for his throat.
He's down on his knees next to his brother in an instant.
"Hey, Dean? Hey, man. What's going on with you?" His voice is pitched soft in deference to the lines of pain around his brother's shut eyes.
But there's no sign that Dean even hears him.
It takes a few moments for Dean's mind to adjust to the agony radiating from his broken limb, but when it does, he realizes that he was the only one screaming.
He's not in Hell.
The pain is too tangible.
Writhing in Cas's grip, Dean instinctively tries to pry himself free, but the hand locked around his damaged arm is like iron.
He has enough medical knowledge to know that the arm is broken in several places, and a small voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like John Winchester is telling him that panicking will only get him killed faster, that his movement probably only does more damage. With effort, he reins himself in and stops fighting.
Lifting his head, he tries to get a look at his tormentor. But before he can meet the angel's eyes, his neck is snapped back by blunt force. Blood immediately runs, warm and wet, from his bruised and burning nostrils.
Not to be deterred, Dean tries to look up again, because damn it, he wants the angel to see him, to see the look of betrayal in his eyes.
This time, the blow splits the skin above his left eye.
After that, Dean loses some time.
He's taken enough beatings in his life that he knows how to operate in a semi-shutdown mode. His subconscious throws up a barrier between his body and his mind - he can feel the blows hitting his face, tastes the blood on his tongue, but the pain is at a distance. As the blows rain down, Dean's mind trips over itself, processing thought and emotion with rapid intensity.
At some point, he comes to the conclusion that being on his knees, immobilized while the crap is beat out of him, is a tad unjust. It's not even remotely a fair fight. And despite the ever-increasing ringing ears, throbbing arm, tunneling vision, and stinging face, Dean has enough sense left to get pissed.
When there's a break in the beatdown, Dean lifts his gaze to his attacker's face, only to see that the angel's eyes are averted, fixed impassively on the stone tablet lying on the floor.
This is all about the tablet.
"You want it?" Dean growls angrily. "Take it!"
Cas turns back to him marginally, lifting his eyebrow as if in surprise, or perhaps doubt.
True to form, Dean boldly metes out the caveat.
"But you're gonna have to kill me first."
While he can't see the slightest crack in the angel's composure, there's enough of a pause that it fuels Dean's wrath.
The angel's expression remains vacant. Blank.
Dean finds this infuriating, because how dare Cas half-ass this thing.
He'll be damned if Cas leaves him here, bloodied and half-dead. Cas started it; now he'd better see it though. Dean will force his hand, regardless. After years of cycling around forgiveness and betrayals, this is their last stand.
It's all or nothing. Cas is either in, or he's out.
"Come on, you coward," he hisses, taunting, blood and spittle flying off trembling lips.
"Do it! DO IT!"
He's hoping for anger, maybe even glee, anything but that empty stare. A part of him thinks that provoking the angel just might cause him to crack, breaking through the robot-like exterior. But after everything they've been through, if the idea of killing Dean isn't enough to bring Cas back to senses, Dean knows nothing will.
And he quickly realizes his miscalculation.
Cas isn't half-assing anything here.
Dean gives no response, just makes that alarming low humming noise again, so Sam does a visual triage.
He notices how his brother is clutching his right arm to his to stomach, but can't see any injury, can't fathom why Dean is curled in on himself the way he is. But as his hand hovers over the hunched back he can see the shivers wracking the older man's frame.
"Hey, you cold? Want a blanket?"
He doesn't wait for a reply this time, just walks out, rips the comforter off the nearest bed and drags it into the bathroom. As he's tucking the material around his brother's shoulders, his arm brushes Dean's neck.
Dean's skin is clammy, his breathing labored. Sam does the math. That plus the shivering equals shock.
When he reaches for the side of his brother's neck to check his pulse, Dean finally opens his eyes, but his reaction takes Sam by surprise.
Dean jerks away, almost toppling himself over, and fucking whimpers.
The angel strikes him again, harder this time, and Dean feels his cheek rip open courtesy of the top of the angel blade gripped in Cas's hand. He grunts at the crack of bone, and his eye immediately begins to swell shut.
By now, his barrier is gone. Between his arm and his face, the pain is magnificent.
Dean is struck by the desperate realization that if this doesn't stop soon, he will die. And dying means never finding out how Cas got out of Purgatory, why he's gone Terminator on him. It means leaving a weakened Sam to face the rest of these trials – and Crowley - alone, unprotected, and Dean can't let that happen. There's too much at stake, not the least of which is his brother's life.
He rapidly concludes that he needs to use a different strategy if he wants to get out of here alive, so he stows the anger and pulls from someplace deeper.
Drawing his wobbly head up after a particularly brutal hit, he stares up into the face of his best friend, and tries desperately to reach him.
"Cas…this isn't you…this isn't you!"
Look at me. See me. Cas, you're hurting me.
But the angel's fist smashes against the side of his head again…and again…and again, until Dean loses count of the punches.
He feels the structure of the side of his face give way under the force of the repeated, methodical blows - his jaw, his cheek, the delicate bones around his eye. There's gore dripping down his onto his collar, sliding down his neck. There's thick blood gathering in the back of his throat. His vision has all but dissipated.
He's on the verge of unconsciousness now, but fights it with everything he has left. He knows his body can't take much more; he's probably bleeding in his brain, and if he passes out now, he's likely to never wake up. Just one or two more blows will be the end of him.
This is it. His last chance.
Parting blood-crusted lips, he pleads with this angel of death.
"Cas…. Cas…."
Sam recoils as if burned. He's never heard his brother make that noise before.
"Dean?" He places a warm hand on his brother's bent knee, leans forward and tries to make contact with the watery, bloodshot gaze.
"Hey."
Dean's looking at him with dull, glassy eyes, but he's not tracking.
Sam clears his throat, makes his tone firmer, more like John Winchester, trying to get his brother to focus.
"Dean. Hey. Look at me. It's Sam. You with me?"
It works, of course. Dean blinks and blinks again, and after a moment, meets his brother's gaze.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is raspy, like sandpaper.
The younger man tries to give an encouraging smile, but it's fleeting at best.
"Yeah, man. You're kinda scaring me here. Do we need a hospital?"
"Huh?" Dean is exhausted, deep shadows beneath his eyes, his complexion waxy.
Sam swallows the fear-induced impatience. "Look, I need you to focus, okay? I'm about three seconds away from calling an ambulance."
Dean's eyes flutter shut, and he leans wearily against the toilet's edge.
"No."
"Be straight with me, Dean. This isn't normal."
"Be okay," Dean mutters, wincing. "Jus' hurts."
"What hurts, specifically?" Sam presses anxiously.
Dean groans. "Face…head…friggin' arm."
Sam shakes his head. "I don't understand, Dean – did something happen? I was with you all night."
Dean's gaze wanders, and it takes him several moments to answer.
"Cas," comes the barely-audible reply.
"What? Cas isn't here, Dean…."
"No. Cas did it. Earlier."
For the first time Sam notices how hard Dean is working to speak without moving his jaw.
Dean had told him how Cas had attacked him back in the cave. But….
"But Dean…you said he healed you."
"He did. Dunno…don' unnerst…." he breaks off mid-word and groans, shutting his eyes against the pain.
Sam winces in empathy.
"Okay, okay. We'll figure out," he soothes, squeezing his brother's knee. "Don't try to talk."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
He sees his friend's arm raised, the angel blade poised to kill, and he knows this is not only about saving himself, but about saving Cas as well.
His left hand comes up, quivering, in a placating gesture.
"I know you're in there…I know you can hear me."
His voice is mangled, the sounded of broken glass being ground into gravel, his breath whistling past the blood pooling in his throat.
Absently he registers the utter lack of recognition in the angel's eyes.
"Cas…it's me."
If he had half his usual strength, the words would be shouted in the authoritarian tone Dean inherited from John Winchester. Instead the words bleed out in a whimper. It's all he can manage.
His face is so busted up that it's difficult to move his mouth, and Dean can feel bone grinding on bone when he forms words. He battles back the nausea, gives it everything he has.
"We're family." His voice breaks on the word.
This is his brother in arms. The one who'd stood by the Winchesters as an ally against impossible odds, who'd sacrificed himself for them over and over.
"We need you."
This is his guardian. The one who'd pulled him from the depths of Hell, the one he'd prayed to just a few nights before, begging him to look out for Sam.
"I need you."
This is his friend. The one Dean relies on, turns to, leans on, when he desperately needs someone bigger and stronger than himself.
And he has so few friends left.
For a long moment, the angel just stands there, frozen.
Dean doesn't know if his words meant anything, if he was heard or even understood.
The world is blurred and his ears are ringing. He knows he won't be able to hold on much longer.
"Cas…"
The blade slips from the angel's fingers, clattering to the floor.
"Okay. First things first. Let's get you back to bed; you'll be more comfortable there."
He ignores the moans of protest as he lifts his brother, still wrapped in the comforter, to his feet.
"Easy…easy, kiddo…."
Luckily, Dean is able to walk on unsteady legs, and they make it to the bed without incident.
Once the older man is settled, Sam bends next to the bed. "Hey, man. Gotta get your pulse, okay?"
Dean's eyes give permission, but he still hisses when Sam's gentle fingers make contact with the skin of his neck.
Sam frowns; a little too fast, probably because of the pain. Pain from what exactly, though?
"Alright, here's the deal. If you're still like this in morning, we're going to hospital."
Dean doesn't disagree. Instead, Sam watches, horrified, as Dean's eyes fill up and spill over, the silent tears leaving dark puddles on the white pillowcase.
For his stoic brother to be in this much pain….
Feeling helpless, Sam walks to the bathroom and runs a washcloth under the water in the sink until it turns steaming hot. He returns to his brother's side and gently places the cloth over his eyes.
Dean lets out a throaty groan, reaches a shaky hand up to rest gently across the warm cloth.
Sam worries his lip.
Dean slumps to the floor as much as he's able, sensing a reprieve. Cas releases his arm a moment later, and Dean moans as he cradles the mangled appendage in his lap. He's breathing hard, gasping, trying to get a handle on the pain.
Suddenly, there's a brilliant light to his left – Cas has picked up the tablet. Dean raises an arm weakly to protect his good eye from the light. He turns his head and feels his brain somersault in his skull, nearly sending him into oblivion.
After the light recedes, Cas just stands there, holding the tablet in his hands. There's emotion in his expression now, but Dean can't read it.
He can't figure out why the beating stopped, can't figure much beyond the fact that the adrenaline is rapidly evaporating from his veins, leaving him feeling dangerously weak. He's freezing, lightheaded. His head feels loose, stuffed with soggy cotton, his neck barely able to keep it raised. He can hardly think, his body hyper-focused on the trauma to his arm and head, his body already beginning to tremble from shock.
The angel doesn't say a word, just raises his hand and slowly reaches for Dean's face.
"Cas?"
Dean shies back as much as he can, thinking surely Cas is going to kill him now, not violently, but with a single touch.
Panic rises within him. He doesn't mind the thought of death, has even welcomed it at times. But not like this. Not now.
But Dean can't find anymore words in his muddled brain to express himself – he's out of time, and all he can do is whimper.
"No…Cas…Cas!"
"Scale of one to ten, how bad is it?"
"Hursss…." Another low moan.
It is answer enough. Sam walks over to their medical bag and digs deep, pulling out a small, rarely-used satchel. He walks around the bed so he is on Dean's left side, needle at the ready.
"Dean? Gonna give you the good stuff, alright? Just need your arm for a sec."
The fact that Dean doesn't even acknowledge that he is about to receive morphine tells Sam all he needs. Dean hates morphine. But this qualifies as an extreme circumstance, so Sam depresses the plunger carefully into Dean's lax arm, holds a cotton ball over the puncture area, then covers it with a Band-Aid.
As he turns to walk back toward the trashcan, he's stopped by a tug on his shirt. Glancing down, he sees that Dean has reached out with his left hand, snagging the edge of Sam's white t-shirt between two fingers.
Sam's heart climbs into his throat.
"Hey, man," he says quietly, taking his brother's calloused hand into his own.
"Take it easy, alright? I'm here. You're okay."
He tries to flinch away, but the angel's hand comes to rest firmly against the side of his bloodied face. Dean gasps in pain at the contact, feeling the bone fragments in his cheek shift under the light pressure.
Instinctively, he grasps the sleeve of Cas's coat in his fist as if it's a lifeline.
Then, coolness invades the broken places within his body - healing energy from the same angel who'd been using him as a punching bag moments ago.
The pain recedes, then disappears altogether.
And just like that – it's as if it never happened.
A few minutes pass.
Sam waits until the hand inside his own goes limp, until he hears Dean's breaths become steady and even.
He removes the washcloth from his brother's sweaty forehead, pleased to see that the lines of pain have receded.
His brother is sleeping peacefully.
Still, he's concerned about the effects of the morphine.
Sam spends the rest of morning in an armchair pulled up next to Dean's bed, researching on his laptop and watching his brother for the slightest change.
Dean wakes up with a dry mouth, a headache, and slight nausea.
Morphine hangover, he thinks, and groans.
"Hey, hey, hey – you awake?"
There's Sam, leaning into his personal space, concern plastered all over his features.
Dean leans away from the hovering figure, instantly annoyed at the attention.
"Unfortunately."
He licks his lips, grimacing at the taste in his mouth, then sits up too quickly, has to close his eyes against the dizziness.
The warm hand against his chest presses him back against the headboard, brings him back from the brink.
He hears his brother's strained voice as if through a filter: "…just take it easy, alright? You remember anything from last night?"
"Morphine?" Dean asks, frowning.
"You were in tears, Dean. I had to give you something."
Dean's eyes pop open at that, fixed in a glare. Then he shifts, uncomfortable with the raw look on his brother's face, and glances away.
Sam clears his throat. "Anyway, I did some research while you were out – "
"How long was I out?" Dean interrupts, because the way the sun shines through blinds of the motel window tells him it can't be morning.
Sam sighs, "about seventeen hours," and Dean can see the weariness in his features now, knows Sam probably hasn't gotten a wink of rest in all that time.
"At first I figured it was something supernatural since I couldn't find a mark on you," Sam says.
Dean rubs his face. "What'd you find?"
Sam plops down on the other bed, hands clasped between his knees.
"Not much, actually – but I have a theory."
"Well, let's hear it."
"Um. Well…I think it was a kind of psychosomatic episode."
"Psycho-what? Speak English, brainiac," Dean retorts irritably.
Sam lets a moment pass before speaking, keeping his tone gentle and his expression neutral, knowing Dean isn't going to like what he is about to say.
"Look…I wasn't there, I know. But from what you told me and what I saw last night, Cas inflicted some pretty significant damage. And while he may have healed your body of the injuries, he didn't heal your mind of the trauma."
At the word 'trauma' Sam can almost see Dean erecting his emotional walls, bristling against perceived weakness.
"The body heals faster than the mind," Sam continues. "What you experienced last night, I think, was a delayed response. It was your mind playing catch-up, reacting to injuries that weren't there anymore."
"You're saying all that was in my head?" Dean asks sharply.
"No – no. The pain you felt was real. It just wasn't from a real injury. Your mind essentially told your body it was real."
Dean shoots him a glare. "Those are some pretty fancy mental gymnastics, there, Dr. Phil."
Sam huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, well when you live our crazy lives…."
"I don't get it. I've been hurt before and Cas healed me – what makes this time different?"
"I don't know. Maybe something went wrong and he couldn't heal you completely."
Dean appears skeptical. "I don't know, man."
"What Cas does, healing people like that - it isn't natural, Dean. It's supernatural. Our minds and bodies aren't supposed to heal that fast. It's not how we're programmed. It makes sense that there could be side effects from that."
"Huh." Dean nods to himself. "So maybe he didn't know what would happen."
"Maybe." Sam shrugs.
He desperately wants to believe that, because to think anything else – that Cas was careless, or that knew he hadn't healed Dean completely – is enough to make him start itching for an angel blade. He's tired of seeing his brother in pain, of watching him get beat down by losses and betrayals.
No more. Not if Sam can help it.
"Well, do you think this could this happen again? This psychosomatic thing?"
Sam's surprised at the vulnerable look in Dean's eyes, the way he unconsciously goes to rub his right forearm.
He replies honestly. "I don't know. I mean, I hope not."
"'I hope not' isn't a very comforting answer, Sam."
"Yeah. I know."
He lets the silence linger between them for a bit before speaking again.
"Did he say anything to you, after?"
"I already told you what he said about the tablet," Dean says.
"No, not about the tablet," Sam retorts. "About the fact that he almost killed you."
"He said he was sorry."
"That's it?"
"Yeah, Sam. That's it," Dean replies heatedly.
Sam shakes his head, turns to stare at the opposite wall.
Dean rolls his eyes. "What's your problem?"
Sam doesn't answer, lost in a memory.
Sam sees everything. Feels everything. But he's not in control. From deep within himself, he screams at Lucifer, rages insensibly against the being using his body to beat his brother to a pulp.
He feels Dean's hands scrabble futilely at his jacket.
"I'm here, Sammy; I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you...I'm not gonna leave you!"
The love and the ache he feels for his brother is indescribable. Sam stills from within, overcome with devotion.
And that's how he takes Lucifer by surprise.
"Aw, for cryin' out loud – will you quit brooding?"
Shaking himself back to the present, Sam clears his throat. "Sorry. It's just…."
He shakes his head, mouth curled in frustration.
"Just what?" Dean asks sharply.
"It's just...how do you always end up being the punching bag?"
He's shocked as soon as the words hit the air. It is a horrible thing to say out loud, something Sam instantly regrets.
Why is he always saying the wrong things?
But Dean's walls are firmly in place. He merely rolls his shoulders, lifts his chin.
"Just takin' one for the team, Sammy."
And with that, the older hunter reaches for the remote on the table next to the bed and flicks on the TV, effectively ending all conversation. It's some John Wayne western, but Sam knows Dean isn't really watching.
Sometime later he says, "So I guess this is my turn, huh?"
Dean startles as if he'd been in a doze. "What?"
"These trials, whatever they're doing to me. It's my turn to take one for the team. "
Dean's eyes widen marginally, his face turning stern. "Sam..."
"I'm just saying," Sam interjects quickly. "I don't mind it so much - the coughing up blood, the feeling crappy. It's worth it, you know?" Then he smiles.
At that, Dean gets a determined look on his face. He levers himself up, scoots toward the edge of the bed. When his feet are planted firmly on the floor, he leans forward, bracing a hand on his thigh.
"You listen to me. Any hits we take, we take together – you understand?"
Sam swallows against the intensity of Dean's demeanor, then nods. "Yeah. Okay."
"Good." Dean settles himself again, this time closing his eyes.
Sam can sense the future barreling toward them like a freight train, and he stands in the middle of the tracks, open arms, waiting for it to run him down. He welcomes the responsibility, the weight of the trials.
This is a beating he'll gladly take. For Dean. For the world.
It's his turn, and it's more than worth it.
End
A/N: [Edited 7/14/13]
Thoughts?