Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain from this. No harm or infringement intended.
What if Samuel Campbell's anti-vampirism potion couldn't work? Castiel thinks he has a solution. Horror ensues.
AU Alternative ending to episode 6.05 Live Free or TwiHard, skipping ahead to 6.11 Appointment in Samarra.
Warning: DarkFic, Dean/Cas (no pr0n), character death.
Inspired by the fantastic "And the Heavens Split in Two" by Iryann, "Rhapsody" by Siouxsie and the Banshees (spotify:track:0Vr50qX0hf16E2lj6mvRqW), far too much firewater, and not nearly enough sleep. Please review!
Rhapsody
"Dean, you OK?" Sam called down to his brother.
"Yeah, I'm good," said Dean, after a brief moment, staring up from the decapitated head of Boris that he held under foot. He surreptitiously licked his lips clean as Sam and Samuel struggled to take in the shocking sight of the vampire bloodbath that he'd wrought.
"This works, it's not going to be a kiddie ride, you know that?" said Samuel mixing up a dose of the patented Campbell anti-vampirism potion.
"That's great, light her up," said Dean impatiently, as the sound of Sam's and Samuel's heartbeats resounded louder and louder in his ears.
"So, what'd you see in there?" asked Sam.
"What?" asked Dean incredulously, with the sudden horrifying realisation that he was merely useful to Sam.
"In the nest," prompted Sam impatiently, "what'd you see?"
The wet pulpy sound of blood pounding through veins echoed louder and louder in Dean's ears, each heartbeat like a siren's call.
"Sam, I can't hear you," cried Dean, "your... your blood is so freaking loud. J-j-just back off."
At that, Samuel poured the red-tinged and unpleasantly lumpy liquid he was concocting into an old, chipped tin mug; it made an obscene glugging noise that made Dean suddenly salivate.
"OK, give me the damn cure," Dean pleaded desperately.
As he brought the cup to his mouth, Dean was suddenly hit by the truly dreadful stench. Dead man's blood, he thought, as his stomach instinctively churned at the prospect of drinking the exact opposite of what his body truly craved.
"L'chaim," he quipped, as he raised the cup in a mock toast to life, hoping beyond hope that this wasn't wine for the condemned as he downed the foul smelling brew.
Samuel stared at Dean questioningly.
Sam had a brief vision of what should have been:
"I don't think it w..." he started, before throwing up the potion.
"Is it working?" asked Sam
"Either that or he's dying" dead-panned Samuel
In the real word:
"I don't think it worked," Dean replied.
"You drank someone's blood, didn't you?" accused Samuel, "I should have known, you stupid, unreliable..."
"It was Boris, OK," exploded Dean, "I couldn't help myself. My hands... they were... soaked... covered... in his blood. Before I knew what I was doing I had… licked them... clean."
Sam stood there motionless; staring at Dean as if he were some slightly disappointing science fair project. Oh, you are so not my Sammy, the realisation flashed through Dean's mind, even in his current state.
"So what do we do now?" asked Sam coldly.
Samuel hefted a machete that had suddenly appeared in his hand, "We go back to Plan A."
Dean felt a sudden unexpected, but familiar feeling of calmness flow over him as, with a fluttering of wings, Castiel miraculously appeared in front of him, facing towards his murderous family.
Castiel placed one hand on Dean's chest, gently pushing Dean backwards and further behind him, "Stop," he intoned, "I won't let you do this."
Sam cocked his head quizzically, "Why, do you know how to cure him?"
Cas sighed, and glared briefly at Samuel before returning his gaze to Sam, "Vampirism is a permanent state; there is no cure," he growled. His eyes flicked back to Samuel, "But, you already knew that."
Dean, his mind reeling, suddenly found himself standing in a clearing deep in a wood that was lit from above by a dazzling array of blazing stars.
A forgotten part of his self, screaming in the back of his own mind, realised that he no longer felt the chill of the cold night air.
He looked around to distract himself from the usual stomach churning sensation he always got each time he flew Angel Air. Thanks to his new preternaturally sensitive ears he realised he was far from any human habitation with only Cas for company.
The angel stood on the other side of the clearing with his back to Dean, staring off sadly into the clear black starry night.
"They burn so bright, for so long and so far away," said Castiel, "and yet ultimately they serve no real purpose. Yours is the only life in this creation."
He turned to Dean, "Do you think they regret the loneliness of their existence?"
Dean shook his head, not understanding the philosophical ramblings of the angel. He moved towards Castiel, aware of the angel's heartbeat that was so much slower and yet deeper than a human.
"Cas, why have you brought me here? Is it... is true what you said back there?" Dean asked hesitantly.
Castiel gazed at him with his familiar 100-watt blue-eyed angel gaze, the stare that always made Dean feel naked, like Cas could see past all the layers of accumulated bullshit down to the scared little boy running out into the dark. The boy who was terrified of being left alone.
"They manipulated you, and each other, for their own ends," Castiel said finally.
"God damn it," swore Dean, "I never trusted that SOB."
Castiel winced slightly at the Lord's name being taken in vain. He placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it in an awkward gesture of comfort. Dean looked up, a small moan escaping his lips, as the hand print from where Cas had pulled him from perdition pulsed in time with the sound of the angel's heartbeat.
Dean placed his hand over Castiel's, but kept his eyes carefully lowered back down on the ground, "You should have let them end me, Cas," he moaned, "I'm... I'm a monster now. It somehow feels easier with you, but, but it's still all I can do not to rip your throat out, man."
He brought his gaze back up to Castiel's face, feeling himself being swept away into those deep endless pools of blue. The pounding swishing sound of Cas' blood thundered louder and louder in Dean's ears. There was a sharp burning, but strangely exhilarating, sensation in his mouth as a set of long, needle-thin and razor-sharp teeth erupted from his gums.
Dean abruptly realised the lie of the late night Christopher Lee films of his childhood, and even that douche Pattinson, that vampires weren't cold, calculating, or even romantic killers. It was all about finding a brief respite from the bone-numbing cold, the mindless joy of the hunt, the passionate thoughtless animal rending of flesh and the feeding, the hot liquid gold of another's life and soul stolen. In that moment Dean knew with stark certainty that he was damned, and that any attempt to fight the temptation of blood was deluded and doomed to certain failure.
"Dean, stop, listen to me," growled Castiel as he used his angelic strength to effortlessly hold a now howling and frenzied Dean a few scant hairbreadths from his flesh.
"What I'm about to do, I need you to realise is of my own free will. I know what I'm doing, Dean. I need you to understand that whatever happens this is not your fault," the angel said intently, "Dean, you need to drink from me."
Dean shuddered, suddenly struggling to breathe as if the air had run out, trying and failing to deny the blasting convulsive force of guilty joy that ran through his entire being at the angel's words.
"Cas, I can't, I can't. I won't be able to stop," he wailed through an unfamiliar mouth that now bristled with dagger-like teeth, "I'll kill you, I can't Cas, please, I want it so much."
"It's OK, Dean. Please, feed from me. It'll be all right, I promise. This is the only way I can keep you alive and not damned," reassured Castiel, "please, let me do this for you.
"Now, feed," commanded the angel, releasing his grip.
The howling, screeching monstrosity that had once been Dean Winchester threw itself forward and tore, gouged, cut, ripped and drank from its closest friend.
And it was good.
Seated on a salt-encrusted rock overlooking the ocean, Dean squinted into the bright sunshine, "I love it here", he said, "it's so peaceful."
Castiel gave a low laugh as he cupped Dean's jaw gently and ruffled his hair. Dean had a suddenly flash back to his father as he used to be, and gazed up at his angel adoringly.
"We will always be here," smiled the angel.
/flash of red/
"I love you, Cas", replied Dean dreamily.
"I know," Castiel grinned,
/splatter of blood/
"I love you too."
/spray of red/
Dean awoke slowly; as he rose to wakefulness he gradually became aware that the wounded-animal keening sound he could hear was actually coming from his own mouth.
The skin on his face and hands felt tight and stretched, with a jolt he realised that he was drenched in blood that had dried and hardened.
Dean's eyes watered and he could feel the slight sting of sun burn from the pre-dawn sunlight. Beneath him the twisted remains of Castiel heaved itself into a sitting position with a sickeningly wet, hollow sound.
Dean stared into the ravaged face of his friend as just the very worst of the injuries oh-so-gradually, miraculously healed themselves. At a sudden movement in the corner of his eyes he realised that for the very first time he was actually seeing Castiel's wings, not the black shadow of what was there, but the real-freaking-white-feathered wings rising from his back through the ever-present trench coat. Wings that looked frayed and spattered with blood and gore, the left looking broken and hanging limply to one side, while the rightmost one stretched up and out, wrapping itself around Dean tenderly and shielding him from the burning sun.
"I'm here for you, Dean," rasped Castiel, "I'll always be here for you."
With a flash they were back in the sleazy motel room, with Sam and Samuel nowhere to be seen.
Dean shrank to the safety of the bed in the corner furthest from the dingy light filtering through the ragged curtains and dirty glass, as Castiel busied himself collecting a wash cloth and a bowl of soapy water. Gently Castiel washed his own dried and clotted blood from Dean's skin, while Dean merely sat there staring off into space, his eyes glassy and unfocussed.
Castiel eased off Dean's leather jacket and biker boots, and gently but firmly eased him under the covers. Small, wounded animal noises escaped Dean's lips until Cas held his hand against Dean's back, lovingly stroking out the tension in knotted muscles. Castiel settled himself back to wait out the remainder of the day.
As daylight turned to dusk, Dean started to stir, and soon was able to ease himself up to a sitting position. He senses felt heightened, yet he almost felt normal.
"Cas, I'm so sorry," rasped Dean. His tongue felt furred and too large for his mouth, while his throat felt like it had been sandblasted; he had never felt so thirsty in his life.
"That's not necessary, Dean," said Castiel, "The blood of an angelic host has certain qualities that should help keep the worst of your vampiric symptoms in check."
"Should?" asked Dean incredulously.
"Well, this hasn't exactly been tried before," replied Castiel slightly defensively, "but, at least in theory if you only drink from me, you shouldn't crave human blood, and since I can heal myself, no one dies and so there is no stain on your soul."
"You seem to have all this figured out," said Dean, rising to his feet and clasping the angel by his shoulders, "but, what I did to you last night..."
"Is better than me losing you now, after all we have been through," interrupted Castiel, "I know this isn't what you would have chosen - I'm not what you would have chosen, but please..."
Cas cocked his head to one side as he scrutinised Dean, taking in the pale gleaming of feverish skin, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the skin pulled taut across cheekbones.
"You need to feed again," said Castiel as he pulled Dean's mouth down to his neck. He did his best to stifle his screams as razor sharp teeth ripped through his throat.
As the days gave way to weeks and months, they fell into an unholy domestic arrangement. Dean would fall into a heavy torpor during daylight hours in the back of the Impala, while Castiel drove (always at exactly the speed limit) to the next destination.
At dusk they would hunt, Dean finding that the thirst sharpened his edge, only then would he feed. Normally, they would strip and lie down naked together in an empty bath in their motel room, any embarrassment or lascivious thrill long dispelled by the need to avoid the incriminating evidence of blood soaked clothing and the terror of the violent tearing and rending that normally accompanied feeding.
Often the feeding frenzy would escalate to the point of an intense rapture and Dean would feel himself consumed in a huge ball of white light – then he would find himself back on the beach with Cas, a more human, emotional Cas, who could laugh freely and didn't automatically flinch when he tried to touch him.
On waking, Dean would first wash away the gore and then carry Cas to the bed, where he would gently rock and try to calm the angel while he healed – gradually Dean noticed the healing took longer and longer.
After a time Castiel confessed his suspicion that Sam had returned from hell without a soul, they came to the unanimous, but unspoken decision that at least one of the Winchesters should escape damnation and they started to search for a solution.
Death stared at them with curiosity.
"You do realise that all of this is wrong, don't you?" he said in his calm measured tones, "Someone has interfered with the natural order of this universe for their own purposes. The path that was laid out for all of you has been... overlaid… with a new pattern."
The pale gaunt incarnation shook his head in executive irritation as if to dismiss the thought as an irrelevancy.
"I will help you, if you wish," he continued, "but I will only restore Sam's soul, not your half-brother's," he held up a finger for quiet as Dean's mouth opened to interrupt, "and only because it serves my purposes.
"I warn you though, you are not going to like how this turns out." he said chillingly.
Dean exchanged a side-long glance with Castiel in confusion. The angel looking exhausted and pale, his heavily bagged eyes smarting in the bright florescent lighting, also seemed none the wiser.
"I wish," said Dean.
Sam shouted in anger as Death moved to replace his soul.
With his soul back in place, Sam screamed in horror at what he had done to his brother.
When he saw what had become of Cas he shrieked in madness.
Sam sat on the bed, his long arms tightly hugged around his knees, his breathing ragged as he trembled in shock.
He had watched in revulsion as the thing that had once been his brother clasped Castiel's shoulder and as the gaunt and horribly scarred angel trembled under that touch. There was a sick despairing love in the angel's eyes like a kicked dog that had crawled back on its stomach desperate to lick the hand of the owner that beat it.
In the past Sam had always felt a sharp stab of jealousy pierce his heart every time he'd watched his brother and Castiel exchange those long intense gazes that were both so silent and yet spoke volumes. Now it seemed... corrupted.
I caused this, he thought.
He only calmed after Dean had left for the night's hunting.
"Cas," he called.
The angel turned and stared at him, his once vividly blue eyes were bloodshot and rolled crazedly.
"Castiel, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam wept.
"Dean needs me," Castiel rasped, "I take care of him," he looked down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, "I pulled him from hell with these hands, and I won't let him fall again."
"Oh, Cas, but look at you. Please, let me help you, let me get you away from here," begged Sam.
"No!" shouted Castiel as nubs of shark-like teeth protruded from his gums, "He doesn't trust you any more, now he'll love me!"
"Now he'll love me," he repeated quietly, as he turned from Sam and sat, staring blindly into space, waiting for Dean's return.
Sam awoke suddenly, the room in darkness, aware of an aborted cry that had sounded out in the night. He reached for the duffel bag of weapons and provisions he'd secretly prepared earlier, but froze at sudden movement.
The silhouette of a figure looming in the light coming from the bathroom resolved itself into the figure of his brother. Sam couldn't help but notice how much weight his brother had lost; Dean's skin seemed stretched to the point of tearing across sharp and angular bones.
"Sammy? Help me carry him to the bed," called Dean as he struggled to support Castiel.
Surreptitiously sliding the bag out of sight with one foot, Sam crossed the room and effortlessly lifted Castiel into his arms like baby, surprised at how light the angel was, he carried him back and gently laid him down onto the bed.
Dean busied himself arranging blankets and fluffing pillows, studiously avoiding eye contact with Sam.
"You're my brother, and God knows I love you, but he's given up so much for us. For me. "
Dean looked up suddenly, his green eyes flashing unnaturally in the dim light of the room, "He's not human; his blood, it's special,
"It's like drinking the sun, it's fantastic, it better than hunting, or booze, or even sex – but it's killing me. It's keeping me... me, but it's like it's poison to my body.
"And the things I do to him, Sam. I can't control myself - I'm like an animal. And I like it. And he lets me do it, and it's killing him too. He can't heal himself properly any more, Sammy, and he's starting to change.
"D'you know I can see his wings now? They used to be so beautiful; like a swan's. Now they're rotted and diseased, they're just stumps."
"Don't talk like that Dean," pleaded Sam, "we'll sort this out, don't we always find a way?"
"Not this time Sammy," Dean laughed without humour, as he turned his back and gazed down at Castiel, "I'm losing myself – it's only a matter of time until I really hurt someone.
"Oh man, the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions. I've escaped from death so many times, but I gotta wonder if it wouldn't have just been better if I'd died – what was it Dad used to say? What's dead should stay dead."
"Don't say that…" Sam reached out to place his hand on Dean's shoulder in a gesture of comfort.
At the touch Dean spun round with a spitting snarl around a mouth suddenly full of needle-like fangs and threw Sam across the room. Breathing heavily, Dean lowered his teeth to Sam's throat. He paused as his eyes widened in shock and he fled from the room.
Despite the agonising pain shooting in his chest, and difficulty breathing, Sam somehow managed to pull himself to his feet. A protracted coughing fit filled his mouth with blood and the room swam alarmingly as he staggered over to the bed where Castiel was now sitting bolt upright and staring at him intensely.
"Sam, don't come any closer," growled Castiel.
"Cas, it's OK, I'm not going to hurt you, but we need to get out of here." Sam gasped in pain as he retrieved the bag hidden under the bed and rummaged through it, "Dean's right. He is out of control, but maybe Bobby can help us."
"That's not what he means Sammy", rasped Dean from the open doorway, "you've got a punctured lung. The smell of your blood on your breath – you smell like… prey."
"Dean, you just stay away, man, I mean it," shouted Sam brandishing a wooden stake and mallet.
"Why, are you going camping? For God's sake Sammy, didn't I teach you anything - this isn't Dracula, what's wrong with a good ol' machete?" laughed Dean scornfully, and for just one brief moment it was like the old days.
Without any warning Sam suddenly felt like he was drowning - his lungs burned with a desperate need for oxygen and all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His body spasmed as a coughing fit sprayed the room with a fine mist of blood.
Dean watched in horror as Cas lunged towards his brother with vampire teeth now fully extended. "No!" he roared as he moved to protect Sam.
Sam looked up in agony from his fit to see his brother diving towards him, in terror he raised his arms to protect himself, using the stake to fend off the assault.
Maddened by the blood that now seemed everywhere, Castiel grabbed the hammer from the floor near to where he'd been shouldered to one side, and used it protect the only person he had ever loved. He felt weak, and after a while his arm ached, but God had given him a mission to protect Dean, and Cas was nothing if not resolute.
Dean awoke face down in a pool of blood, it tasted cold, and human, and… dead. He opened his eyes, only to close them quickly, just an instant too slow to avoid seeing Sammy's remains. He bit through his lip at the pounding agony of the stake that protruded from his chest and cried out in anguish.
He felt arms close around him and pull him up, and in a moment of hope, opened his eyes - only to see Cas looking down at him with wildly staring eyes.
"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," wept Castiel, "I couldn't let him hurt you. Please, don't hate me."
Unaware of the tears pouring from his own eyes, Dean tenderly cupped the angel's face in his hand, "I could never hate you, Cas, " he sighed, feeling his unnatural life gradually leaching away from him.
"You have shown me such things as I could never imagine, Dean Winchester," intoned Castiel, "things beyond my knowledge of Heaven, and fate, and duty. But angels are messages from God; we're not like human souls meant to go on forever.
"I have been honoured to be your companion, but it's all too much, I have no interest in a life without you.
Castiel gripped Dean's hand tightly, "Please, let me play out my purpose and guide you back to our Father," he said as he bared his throat.
As the blood entered Dean's mouth and he drank and drank, the universe seemed to both explode in a vision of white roaring light and yet fade to blackness.
"Non timebo mala," sighed Castiel with his final breath.
It was early morning, the light still a beautiful liquid gold, as the sun continued to rise just over the horizon. They stood at the base of a hill, a faint, not-well-travelled path leading up into the distance.
Cas turned to Dean and took his hand. "I have so much to show you, things you couldn't begin to dream of," he smiled.
A tall figure ahead of them in the distance turned and waved in their direction, then waited for them to catch up.