Thank You -
He was lost, more lost than he had ever been and for him, that was saying something. He felt like he'd spent his entire time on Earth more lost than found, always searching for his place and never quite finding it, always seeking answers to questions that had none.
But now, it was different. He couldn't even manage to form the questions any longer. He had never felt more alone, more isolated, more like he was floundering.
It was like sinking in a hole of quicksand. At first, he fought it with everything inside him. He didn't want to be this way. He'd had no intention of becoming what Sam had been when he took on his burden. He thought he could get the best of the insanity and still be able to manage a more or less normal existence. Once again, his pride had conquered him and there hadn't been anything he could do about it before it was too late. The insanity that Sam had been fighting was more powerful than he'd anticipated and he found it was stronger than him.
He'd never really come up against anything stronger than him before. It was a new experience and one he didn't like at all. Sure he'd made his share of mistakes. He wasn't trying to denying that fact. But always before he'd managed to hold to his sense of righteousness and now even that was gone.
He wasn't righteous. He wasn't a savior. He wasn't even a good person. The things he'd done, he couldn't even begin to come to terms with all that. He was responsible for the evil running rampant in the world. He was to blame for so many deaths, and not just strangers, though that was bad enough, but deaths of those he called friends.
That was the thing he was having the most trouble with. Bobby Singer had been a good man, a righteous man, a man Castiel wished he could be more like. He'd admired him. He'd seen him as something of a role model. He hadn't realized that until he'd heard the news of Bobby's death. But it was true. And there was no mistaking the fact that Castiel was directly responsible for his demise. If he hadn't made the choices he'd made, done the things he'd done, put into motions the things he'd put into motion, Bobby Singer would still be alive, would still be fighting the good fight, would still be a righteous man.
It was the simplest of truths and the thing that made it the hardest to look at himself in the mirror. It had been so long since he'd been able to do that, look in a mirror and recognize the person looking back at him.
He was the worst kind of evil and if the Winchesters really wanted to be humane, they'd drive an Angel's sword through his chest and put him out of his misery. But then, why would they want to be humane to him? He certainly didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve a quick end. He deserved to languish in the self imposed prison of his mind for the rest of eternity.
He'd fucked up. He'd fucked everything up, but then again, that was what he always did. He fucked things up. Everything he'd ever tried to do ended badly.
He remembered, once upon a time, in what felt like a different lifetime, feeling strong, believing in something. But it was all gone now, fallen to the wayside as belief after belief had been ripped away from him until there was nothing left to hold on to.
Nothing but the sound of her voice.
It was the one thing he clung to as insanity waged inside his head. Knowing the things he was seeing weren't really there didn't make them any less real, less painful, less tormenting.
Lucifer was gone now. That had never been his burden to bare. That was Sam's misery, his torture. The things that chased Castiel in his mind were worse. Inky black, toothy things that laughed as they bragged about how easy he had been to manipulate, that was his torment. The things he'd let loose on the world wouldn't stop taunting him, teasing him, playing with him.
Still, underneath it all, was the sound of her voice, talking to him about everything and nothing, soothing him with her low, dulcet tones.
Even better were the times when he could feel her hands on him, anchoring him to a reality he no longer felt part of. Her fingertips brushed his damp forehead in the dead of the night and it was something to grab hold of. Her touch was never what he'd expect from her.
A demon, and not just any demon, but one capable of inflicting unspeakable pain on a soul so sever it would never recover, somehow managed to touch him with a tenderness that took his breath away. Her gentle hands pushed back the hair that became plastered to his forehead with the sweat of his fear. Her soft voice lulled him into a place where he could find enough peace to sleep for a while. Her reassuring presence made that sleep a peaceful one.
He could tell the difference. Even if he couldn't find the reserves of strength to let her know it, he knew when she was there and when she wasn't. When she was gone the dreams were anything but peaceful. The few hours she spent out of his presence were more painful than he could bare and the relief he felt the moment she stepped into his bland, gray walled world was monumental. His life had come down to that, actually, moments of unendurable torture between times when she was with him. He braced himself when she left, holding on to the thought in his mind that he just had to make it through until she returned.
He held to her, though he was sure she didn't know it. She saved him, though he couldn't make her see it. He'd come to depend on her to get him through the worst of his visions, his torture. He pulled on her strength, her confidence, her self assurance.
What he couldn't understand was why. Why did her presence stave off the agony in his brain? Why was it her he drew from like he did?
It didn't make sense. He hated her, hated everything she stood for, if she still indeed stood for anything. But then again, she was a lot like him, lost and floundering with no direction and nothing to believe in anymore.
She was the enemy or she had always been before. Now he wasn't sure how to categorize her anymore. Surely an enemy wouldn't still be here, day after day, night after night, offering what little comfort she could. That wasn't how enemies acted towards each other. Why wasn't she jumping on the opportunity of his weakness to make him pay for all the things he'd done to her? Why wasn't she adding to his torture instead of easing it?
That was what he would have expected from her. Not this. Never this. It was confusing, the way her thumb caressed the back of his hand when she held it as she read to him in the wee hours of the night while everyone around them slept. He couldn't explain the desperation in her voice when she finally put the book away and almost pleaded with him to come back to her. But it happened every night and he was more than certain that she had no idea he could hear her. If she did she'd never let him see the tears that streamed down her cheeks or the look in her eyes as she gazed at him helplessly.
What he found in her was compassion and he had no idea what he'd done to deserve that from her. She wanted to help him. She was intense in her need to save him. She offered him her pity, her sympathy and more than that, the diligence of her determination to help him live through all this.
And he was sure he'd have already given up if it hadn't been for her. But she never left him. She always came right back, over and over. He had no idea how she managed to talk the staff into letting her do what she was doing, but he was grateful for it. She was with him nearly twenty-four hours a day. She took the burden of his care on completely alone. No other nurse came around to tend to him. No one else even came near him unless she approved. She fed him, dressed him, bathed him. He was completely at her mercy and in the beginning that had terrified him. But it was a notion quickly put aside when he found her to be almost loving in her care for him.
Now he trusted her like he'd never trusted anyone before, not even Sam or Dean. His life, his survival was in her hands and she had proved to him that they were able, capable hands and he had nothing to worry about, at least, on that front and that was a relief in itself. Knowing she was there, taking care of what was happening on the outside left him more reserve to fight the battles waging on the inside.
He hoped she understood that. He hoped that somehow she knew how important she had become to him. He made a promise to himself to tell her as soon as he was able.
It was something she needed to hear. Because whether she knew it or not, he heard everything she said to him. He knew it all, at least on some level. He knew her now. He recognized the sadness in her voice when she told him about her life when she'd been a mere human caught up in a life that had gotten out of control faster than she'd been able to stop it. He knew about the man that had turned her into the thing she'd become. He knew how much she hated herself for letting that happen.
He was surprised to hear that she hadn't always been what she was now. Once, she'd been a fresh-faced young girl, full of all the hopes and dreams that young girls held to so desperately, love, children, a family, happiness. She'd wanted all that once, wanted it so badly she'd let herself do things she'd never forgive herself for. That made sense to him. He knew all about things that couldn't be forgiven.
He wondered, at times when his tormentors were at rest, what she had been like when she was human. He thought that perhaps the gentle, tender, loving woman he found himself with now was as close to the real her as anyone had ever seen. And he knew that allowing him to see that side of her was a gift, a precious gift that he would always treasure. He also knew that if she even suspected he could see her like that through the haze of his craziness, she'd be gone.
She'd never be able to see herself like he saw her. Gentle and tender in her eyes was weak and vulnerable, two things she'd never let herself be again. Her time in hell had made her strong, resilient and resourceful. She couldn't afford to let anyone know that it was all just a mask. The snarky humor, the devil-may-care attitude, the fuck-them-all demeanor were her way of keeping herself safe. And he'd never take those away from her.
She needed to stay hidden. It was the only way she could survive. Without them, the world around her would eat her alive, chew her up and spit her out. Without them, she'd be exactly where he was now.
She'd seen and done things that no one could ever come back from in tact. She'd been Crowley's right hand, his apprentice of sorts, before Dean came along and usurped her. Crowley had taken an already twisted, vulnerable mind and turned it into a machine to do his bidding. And do his bidding she had, until he found he longer had a use for her. Then he'd cast her aside, just like every other man in her life had ever done to her, starting with a human father that was little better than the demonic one that had adopted her.
She'd been hurt so many times, abused and abandoned over and over by those she thought genuinely cared about her.
First, her human father. Castiel suspected there was far more to that story than she was letting on. The cold edge in her voice when she mentioned him spoke volumes of the things he'd put the poor girl through long before she'd ever been touched by the evil that claimed her. She'd admitted that locking her in the basement of her family's home to fend for herself against the rats and other vermin that inhabited the dark, dank place had been something of a pastime for him. That was, of course, when he was done beating her for even the smallest indiscretion. But there was something more, something darker and much more sinister in what she left unspoken that made it possible for him to focus on her pain for a moment and put his own aside.
Her road to darkness had started with a slave on the plantation where she grew up. The woman had apparently taken an interest in the young Meg and began to teach her the magic of her people. Voodoo was the proper term for it and not just harmless voodoo, but the darkest, bloodiest kind. The kind that turned people into puppets and took away their free will.
That was the instrument the human Meg had used to procure herself a husband and an escape from her father. It had been an act of desperation, but it was also an act that condemned her soul. She had died at his hands when he learned what she had done to him. She hadn't gone into the details of how he'd found out, only that he had and he killed her for it.
But the damaged had already been done and Crowley had wasted no time in claiming her as his own. She had been a gifted practitioner as a human. She hadn't disappointed as a demon. Castiel could understand why. Meg was loyal beyond anything else and so very eager for approval she was an easy mark for those that knew the art of manipulation. And Crowley was, of course, a master in the field.
Once that had gone south, once Crowley had cast her aside for the shinier, prettier toy he'd found in Dean, she'd thrown herself in the only direction left open to her.
And it made sense as well. She had more father issues than any sane person could handle, so naturally she'd latched onto the closest thing to that she could find.
Looking back, Cas could admit that he regretted that it had been him that informed her that Lucifer wasn't the father she'd been seeking for so long. He didn't like knowing that he'd caused her pain when he delivered that news. At the time, he'd reveled in the look of shock and disbelief on her beautiful face. He'd watched as her dark eyes flashed at him in rage and even though he was, for all intents and purposes, her prisoner at the time, the sight of her like that had done things to him, caused his body to stir in ways he wasn't familiar with.
Recalling that time reminded him of the scars she surely still carried from the fire he'd thrown her into to aid his escape. He remembered not even thinking twice before he'd stepped into the middle of her back and made his escape using her as a bridge. He regretted that now, too and he was grateful that the scars were hidden under the blue cotton scrubs she always wore. He didn't want to be reminded of them every time he looked at her. He already had so much to feel guilty for.
Knowing he had caused her that kind of pain and she'd answered it with the kind of kindness she was giving him now was more than he wanted to think about. It was more than he could handle.
She was sitting in a chair beside his bed now, reading to him like she did every night. He was never very sure what she was reading. Sometimes, he thought he recognized a passage or two here and there, but normally, like tonight, it was her voice alone that calmed him. The words mattered very little.
He narrowed his eyes to the barest of slits and focused all his concentration on her for a moment. The effort was straining but more than worth it. Her feet were propped on the bed resting against his thigh. In one hand she held the book. The other hand was absently playing with the few dark, curly tendrils of hair that had escaped from the bun at the back of her head. Blood red nail polish on her perfectly manicured fingertip peaked through the darkness of her hair startling him with its contrast. She pulled her pouty, pale pink, bottom lip between her teeth as she paused and reached for the glass of water on the table beside his bed.
He studied her intently as she pressed the glass to her lips and took a long, slow drink from it's contents and he was suddenly lost in the memory of the feel of those lips against his own. He could remember exactly the way she tasted, Earthy, rich and so very full of life. Even in the heart of battle with Hell hounds breathing down their necks and danger around every corner, it had taken everything inside him to let her go. He hadn't expected to feel that.
The kiss was an experiment of sorts and one she'd initiated. She used sex like a weapon wielded skillfully as a means to getting what she wanted and in that instance it had been his sword that caught her fancy. She'd kissed him to distract him so she could snatch it from his side. But there was something more there.
It hadn't been necessary for starters. She could have easily gotten her hands on the sword without the subterfuge of the kiss. She was quick and nimble and he was already more than a little distracted by the dangers assailing them. It wouldn't have even been much of a challenge for her to just grab the damn thing away from him.
But instead she'd kissed him and it was a smart move. It had served not only to distract him while she slide her petite hand around his side and seized the weapon. Sam and Dean had been more than a little dumbstruck by the move as well. And they were even more stupefied when Castiel had decided that he would never get a better chance to test the waters of his own sexuality.
It was bad timing, he admitted that, but the first kiss had felt so good, he had to know what all the fuss was about. And once he had her braced against the wall with his body pressing insistently into hers, her hands threaded in his hair and her lips moving pliantly under his own, he understood it all. He hadn't at the time. He'd simply filed the emotions away to examine at a better, later time.
But once he had that better time, he understood all the fuss completely. In fact, her mouth had become something of a distraction for him for a long time. Just being in the same room with her threw him off his game more than a little.
She put the book aside and laid it on the table beside her water. She was watching him watching her so intently with a perplexed look on her sharply chiseled features. Dark eyelashes blinked at him surrounding even darker eyes that saw more than any mere human ever would.
She leaned in close to him after dropping her feet to the floor with a thump. "What are you thinking about so hard, Feathers? What is that look all about?"
The nicknames had confused him at first, then they irritated him once Dean had explained their meaning. Now he wanted to smile at the familiarity of them. He liked them, Feathers, Clarence, Tree-topper, all her little names that were originally meant in mocking. Somehow since she'd come to look after him, the mocking was gone and there was genuine warmth and affection when she spoke them.
For some reason the voices in his mind seemed less loud tonight and he thought maybe, just maybe he might be able to get a message out to her. He wanted to try at least. There might not be a better time to make the attempt.
He wet his lips, swallowed hard, and tried to sit up. He only managed to lift his head from the pillow and already he could feel the fog working to pull him back under, but he wasn't done yet. Even if all he managed was one sentence, at least she would know that he was still there, that her efforts weren't for nothing.
"Thank you," he breathed out between gritted teeth.
Her eyes widened in shock for a moment then turned compassionate. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "You're welcome, Clarence. I promise I'm not going anywhere. You're safe as long as I have any say in the matter."
The vow she made meant more to him than he could possibly tell her. He believed her, trusted her and with the promise still in the air between them, he dropped his head back to his pillow and closed his eyes. He let himself drift off as he indulged in the small amount of peace she offered him.