Left Behind
by Oneiriad
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me.
It's morning the first time Gabriel comes to visit. Not early morning – Amelia's gone to work and Claire's off to school – but Jimmy's only just gotten up and is still in his bathrobe, searching the refrigerator hunting for something breakfast-like. One minute he's trying to balance eggs, milk and most of a cup of coffee in one hand, the next he knows without even having to look that he's no longer alone in the house.
He bolts
He's by the door, not caring about the sticky trail of blood, egg yolk and coffee he's been leaving since his foot came down hard on the shards of the freshly fallen cup, before he even manages to realize who his visitor is, before he manages to connect the glimpse of a smirking face to one of the fragmented bits of memory from his time as Castiel's vessel.
"Whoa, there, kiddo. Easy now, relax."
He turns to look at the archangel, defeated before they even start, because he knows there's nothing he can do, no place he can run to, nowhere he can hide, where Gabriel wouldn't be able to find him.
"Come on, Jimmy, aren't you pleased to see me?"
The smirk he glimpsed seems to have been replaced with a worried look or at least with a raised eyebrow, which he supposes might count as a worried look.
"What do you want?" and Jimmy knows that he's a sorry sight, a pathetic little human who's not even properly dressed, and his foot hurts in a way he strongly suspects means stitches and hours of waiting at the ER, but he can't just give up, even if he doesn't have a chance, can't just let them drag him back. Not without a fight or as much of one as he can put up.
"What, can't a guy just drop by to visit his baby bro's favorite vessel anymore?" and Gabriel's approaching him, hands open and outstretched in a non-threatening manner, as if Jimmy's some skittish animal – which he supposes he might as well be in the eyes of an archangel.
"I'm not… I won't… I…" but he can't find the words, just knows that he can't go back to that, not again, he just won't, and he knows that he's panicking, he's hyperventilating, but he just can't stop.
"Hey, hey, easy now, I told you, relax" and Gabriel's right there next to him, catching him just as his legs give way under him. "I'm not going to do anything, you know. Just stopped by to see how you were holding up, Jimbo." A snap he doesn't see coming makes his foot stop hurting, then Gabriel's tucking him back into the suddenly pristine kitchen, propelling him gently into one of the chairs.
Jimmy wraps his arms around himself.
"Why?"
"Well, 'cause Sam asked me to. Which is to say, Castiel asked Dean to keep an eye on you before he left, remember? But since you made it pretty clear you didn't want anything to do with them, he's been unusually insufferable even for him, 'till Sammy got fed up, and, well, here I am." While he's been talking, the archangel's been rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, digging out pan and bowl. Now he turns his full attention to mixing batter and pretty soon the kitchen starts to smell enticing.
By the time Gabriel places a plateful of pancakes in front of him, Jimmy's mostly managed to calm himself down. He finds himself staring at the angel, remembering that face staring back at him – no, not at him, at Castiel. Never at him. Then he looks away, embarrassed and nervous, but the angel doesn't even seem to have noticed, completely focused on the syrup-covered tower in front of him, so Jimmy dares a second glance.
The memories that Jimmy has from his second time as Castiel's meatsuit are fragmented at best. A lot of the time he spent basically asleep, tugged up safe and sound in Castiel's Grace, but often he would fight his way to the surface, clawing desperately, holding on and looking out, fighting not to let the Grace overwhelm him, fighting like he did that night Castiel came back and he somehow managed to stay awake, managed to beg him to turn around, to just let him look at his wife and child one last time.
"Earth to Jimmy" and he blinks, focuses on the angel that is here, now. "Those pancakes aren't gonna eat themselves, you know."
"Oh. Sorry."
He's about halfway through the generous portion when he feels a hand sliding through his hair and looks up. Gabriel's unnervingly close and looking at him in a way that abruptly reminds him that angels can read minds.
"You know, I could always make you forget" and it's all Jimmy can do to hold still as the hand slides through his hair, practically petting him. Part of him just wants to beg, please, yes, take it away, take it all away, but he bites his tongue, because he remembers how it felt when Cas left the first time, how it felt to have a huge brilliant hole in his memory, the sheer panic of not knowing what had been happening, and somehow he suspects that even if it was meant as a kindness, then that would be even worse. "If you were to ask me, I mean."
"I don't – I don't think I would."
"Right" and the hand slides through his hair, down his neck, then drops, as if Gabriel's not quite sure what to with it anymore.
"Thanks, though. For offering, I mean. I…"
"Yeah, yeah, kiddo, I know" and Gabriel's leaning back on his chair, finally grinning again and waving his hand. "Just finish your breakfast." So he does exactly that, to the tune of: "I don't make pancakes for just anyone, you know."
The dishes have been put in the dishwasher, the kitchen once more spick and span, when the angel leans against the doorframe and just looks at him, head cocked.
"What?" he surprises himself by asking.
"Oh, nothing. Just wondering if you'd mind it if I was to stop by, from time to time." Words casually spoken, but Jimmy can't help but wonder how many people's ever been given a choice about Gabriel's 'stopping by', isn't even sure he's actually getting one right now. Still, it's nice to be able to pretend.
"I – I guess I wouldn't mind that much" and he's a little surprised to discover that he actually means it, but Gabriel just smirks, winks at him and vanishes with a snap of his fingers.
It's not until Amelia comes home that he discovers that all the faucets in the house have somehow had the cold and hot water swapped, to the utter bafflement of the poor plumber hastily summoned, but since they just as mysteriously swap back a week later, and since Claire's exited squeal when she discovers the kitchen cupboard stuffed to bursting with Hershey's Kisses and sundry candy bars more than makes up for the shriek Amelia lets out when her nice hot back-from-work shower turns out to be, well, not, he forgives the trickster archangel. Not much else to do, anyway.
And life goes on, as best it can.
He spends a lot of time looking for a job these days, which isn't exactly an easy thing to get in the current economy, and not made much easier by the two year gap in his resume that he doesn't have a good explanation for or by the fact that the letter of recommendation from his previous employer isn't particularly recommending, though considering that he just disappeared without warning or explanation, that's hardly surprising. At least the house is paid for and Claire definitely doesn't seem unhappy about having a father who always has time to pick her up after school.
Most days he spends trying to distract himself, job hunting, hanging out at the local library, reading the newspaper – and if there's a story about a series of grave robberies two towns over, he pointedly ignores it, and tells himself that the Chevy Impala idling by the curb a few days later is just a figment of his imagination, though he still stays at home behind closed doors that week, telling Amelia he's feeling a cold coming on.
At night, in his dreams, there's nothing to distract. He dreams a gallery of monsters, screams and blood and tearing pain and wakes up covered in cold sweat, and those are the dreams he can live with. It's the other dreams, dreams of moaning and kisses and caresses, dreams of a deep voice saying "I love you" over and over again, those are the dreams he wishes would stop. When you wake up in the middle of the night, flushed and hard and horny, you're supposed to turn to the loving wife lying next to you, you're supposed to wake her with kisses and maybe try for that baby brother or sister for Claire that she's been hinting about lately, as if another child will somehow make you the happy, clueless family you once were. You're not supposed to sneak off into the bathroom and stand under the cold shower until your erection shrinks away, not supposed to stare into the mirror and not recognize yourself.
Sometimes he toys with the idea of going to see a psychiatrist, but it never gets any further than that – partly because money's tight enough as it is, but mostly because he's fairly certain what would happen if he did talk to a professional, spilled the whole sordid tale. At best they'd fill him with pills, at worst he'd wind up committed – and he can't really imagine either of those alternatives doing him any good. He searches the internet, vaguely hoping for some 'ex-possessees' support group to have sprung up somewhere, but no such luck. Not that he's sure he would have gone, even if he had found one.
Gabriel's visits turn out to be oddly relaxing, actually. He always shows up when Jimmy's alone (except that one time, when he shows up at dinnertime, playing the invited guest, smiling at Amelia as he hands her the bottle of far-too-expensive wine, but Claire can't stop staring at the angel and Jimmy finds himself asking him never to do that again, even as he feels ashamed of himself for doing so), and they never actually do or talk about anything important. At least once Jimmy's sitting and watching a movie when Gabriel arrives and the angel just snaps a bowl of popcorn into existence and sinks down on the couch next to him, making snarky comments about the actors. And if the visits are always followed by some trick or other, well, then it's actually sort of comforting.
Months roll by and the closest he's been to even hearing their names is the day he walks into the local bookshop to find the brand new Supernatural books prominently displayed. He picks one up, turning it over in his hands, realizing that he's probably in it. He finds himself walking towards the registry without having given it any conscious thought, winding up waiting in line behind a couple of teenage girls who are obviously fans of the series, talking excitedly about the new books, the soon to be released graphic novel Carver Edlund has apparently been collaborating with some very cool artist to make and the rumors about the Supernatural movie and how awesome it would be if Robert Pattinson was to play Sam. Their exited babble gives him the time to look at the book again, at the cover picture depicting what is clearly supposed to be Castiel, wings fully extended and framing the fiery words Lazarus Rising, and suddenly the idea of reading about it makes him dizzy, makes him put the book back down where he found it and walk out of the store and away.
It's a rainy day and he supposes that's lucky, because Amelia is in when he comes home, and otherwise she would have seen the tears, and he doesn't want to tell her, doesn't want to explain, not yet. Maybe not ever.
It's summer and he and Gabriel are sitting in the garden, having a quiet beer (well, he's having a beer – the crazy angel's got a bottle of something yellowish-orange, the label of which proclaims it to be something unpronounceable prominently displaying a strange slashed-through o), when Gabriel places a small white envelope on the table.
"What's this?"
"They asked me to give it to you" and he doesn't have to ask who 'they' are. "They're having a barbeque at Bobby's, a kind of 'it's-been-a-year-since-we-stopped-the-Apocalypse-let's-party' shindig, and they're inviting everyone. Hell, even Crowley's invited, but don't ask me whose brilliant idea that was. And you, of course."
"And me."
"Yeah, you, kiddo. You should come. I hear Bobby grills a mean rib. It'll be fun," but Jimmy's already shaking his head.
"You do realize that's not actually for me," and he nods towards the envelope before picking up his beer and downing what's left of it.
"Pretty sure it'd say Jimmy Novak if you snuck a peak."
"Yeah, but that's just what it says, not what it means. That's not what they mean and you know it. It's not Jimmy they want to see, it's Castiel, their buddy Cas, and I'm not him. I'm just Jimmy Novak, the guy whose body he borrowed, and all those people, they'd just look at me and find me wanting, because I'm not him, and I won't ever be him, not again, and they don't get that, do they?"
Gabriel just sighs, shaking his head. "Maybe they would if they met you," but he doesn't press, just snaps a barbeque of their own into being, as well as more beer. A lot more beer. Amelia's visiting her sister for the weekend and Claire's spending the night at a friend's house, so there's nobody around to stop him from getting drunk and crying and cursing the high heavens and finally falling asleep on the lawn. No one to see, either, except for a single guardian angel.
The next morning he wakes up in his own bed, surprisingly hangover-free, and when he goes downstairs he finds that Gabriel's left the plain white envelope on the kitchen table. The card inside is homemade, a small collage of drawings that look like something out of a medieval text on demonology and of photos. One of the photos are of the Winchester brothers and Castiel, the brothers laughing at something while Cas looks at them, bemused, his face set in an expression that Jimmy's not even sure he could manage if he tried.
He supposes he ought to throw the invitation in the trash, but he keeps it, making sure to keep it hidden from Amelia, occasionally taking it out and looking at the photograph of the angel – Dean Winchester's angel, his angel – until he can't bear it anymore. Days go by (the first few of them with Jimmy in a near-constant state of paranoia, wondering when the trick from Gabriel's latest visit will reveal itself in all its topsy-turvy glory, but it never does – though Claire's squeal announces the arrival of the chocolate same as always, and Amelia smiles at him and says "You know, usually it's the grandparents who are supposed to spoil the kids rotten," trying for strict, though she doesn't actually look like she minds.)
Days go by, bringing the day of the barbeque closer and closer – and then it's past.
The day after the barbeque was to be held, his phone rings. When he answers, all he can hear is breathing, so a few moments later he repeats his "hello" and adds a "who is this?" The person on the other end of the line takes a deep breath as if about to speak – then abruptly hangs up. He shrugs it off, but when the same thing happens two days later, he checks the number, only to find out that it's a dead end, just some bar in middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin. Besides, it's not even the same number as the first call.
The phone calls continue. Once, Amelia picks up his phone while he's in the shower. Afterwards she talks about maybe calling the police, wanting him to promise him to tell her if ' the breather' calls again. He does and he does, but he doesn't. He's not quite sure why, himself.
A couple of weeks later there's a big brown envelope in the mail. Inside are two things, the first of which is a letter, written in a somewhat shaky hand. It's brief, apologetic – 'I know we've never actually met', 'don't know if you've read the books, but I thought you ought to have this', 'not really out yet, so please don't show anybody' – and it's signed by Chuck Shurley.
The second thing is a comic, a paperback of perhaps some 200 pages. 'Supernatural' it says on the front, 'Left Behind'. The cover picture is of a man with his back turned, and he has the strangest feeling that it's supposed to be him.
His first impulse is to throw the thing away, but then he goes back, fishes it back up out of the trash, wipes it off and carries it upstairs with him. He's not quite sure why, couldn't say what impulse makes him steel himself this time. He just does.
He sits down on his bed and opens the comic, cracking the spine without even trying, leafing past the foreword by Stephen King to get to the actual story.
It starts shortly after the Apocalypse didn't happen. For the first about fifty pages it's mostly the Winchesters getting back to hunting more run-of-the-mill monsters – and in between Sam wrestling naked with a man-sized jackalope and Dean taking on a small horde of killer clowns with a chainsaw, there's Castiel. Sometimes he's there to lend a helping hand with the monster hunting, but mostly, when he appears on the page, the story is all him and Dean indulging in what's basically an extended honeymoon.
Graphically.
Jimmy supposes that it must be a sign that he's beginning to come to terms with things, that he can feel a small smile quirk at the edge of his mouth at the thought of how many hardcore evangelicals are going to be picking up this comic, having been tricked by the title into thinking it more of the favorite inane apocalypse-nonsense, only to choke on something when they get to the first bit of blasphemous gay angel sex.
Eventually, the story shifts. Comic book Castiel asks comic book Dean to meet him and then he tells Dean that he has to return to Heaven, that he has been called home. They share a surprisingly well-drawn epic kiss under a streetlight, and then comic book Cas asks Dean to look out for Jimmy for him.
In the very next picture, comic book Castiel is gone, and Jimmy is left standing in front of Dean. Then Dean reaches out for him and Jimmy shies away. In the picture he actually manages to fall on his ass, clumsy and uncoordinated, freshly back in control of his own flesh. It wasn't that bad in reality, he remembers, but he also remembers his full-body flinch and he remembers Dean's expression.
The next pages he leaves through quickly, barely taking the time to read them, trying not to remember the next few days and all the arguments, trying and failing miserably. Comic book Dean wants comic book Jimmy to stay, and while it's never outright stated, then the subtext of him wanting to keep Castiel's vessel around until he comes back is pretty clear. Comic book Jimmy is having none of it. He won't stay, won't let the brothers install him at Bobby's place, won't even let Dean drive him home to his wife and daughter once all arguments involving 'for your own good' has been tried and failed. The closest thing to a compromise is comic book Sam driving comic book Jimmy to the nearest bus station and giving him the money for a ticket.
He stops reading for a moment, just closes his eyes and forces the memories of those days back down, memories of not being able to even stand to be in the same room as the elder Winchester, of wanting nothing more than just to go home and forget, leaving all of this behind him for good.
The story continues along two roughly parallel tracks from there, occasionally interrupted by a subplot involving Sam, the demon Crowley and something that might, might not be the Tooth Fairy. One of the tracks follows comic book Jimmy as he returns home and is reunited with his wife (a lady of an apparently improbably generous anatomy) and daughter (drawn too young, too saccharine sweet and innocent), shows him trying to find his way back to his own life. Shows Gabriel coming to visit, the archangel drawn in an absurd caricature, like some demented leprechaun or a vaguely disguised Mr. Mxyzptlk.
The other track follows comic book Dean, at first throwing himself into his work, obviously expecting his angel to return to his side soon enough. Gradually, in between fighting trolls and a minotaur and a bunch of shapeshifting leopard cultists in the Deep South, his conviction starts to fail him. Turning the pages, Jimmy sees him standing in a small church, face to face with a magnificent stained glass angel, obviously drunk as he shouts for Cas to just come back already. In the corner of the frame the local parishioners are looking at comic book Dean as if he's crazy. It's hard to blame them.
The first dream sequence almost takes him by surprise, not so much memory as wishful thinking, as comic book Dean makes love to his angel, fingers threading through the feathers of huge, multicolored wings. And then you see comic book Dean and comic book Jimmy wake up, and in the comic it's obvious that they've been sharing the dream. You see comic book Jimmy take his cold shower, then go back to look at his wife, and you see comic book Dean calling out for Cas in the middle of the night, getting out of bed and standing, naked and spent, in front of the bathroom mirror, covering the angel's handprint with his own hand. You see him cry, just one single brilliant tear. It practically sparkles.
It occurs to him that Chuck better hope he's still got some archangel or other perching on his shoulder, because Dean is probably not going to be at all amused to see himself looking like the uke right out of a yaoi manga, then stops to wonder how exactly he himself even knows what yaoi is. He settles for concluding that Castiel must have been quite thorough in his investigation of human sexuality, and that is quite frankly more than he ever needed to know.
In the comic, life stumbles along for Jimmy, but he already knew that. For Dean, not so much – at one point he even goes out of his way to go on a hunt close to where comic book Jimmy lives, just to have an excuse to drive past his house. He practices how he'll be surprised to see him, but he never does, and eventually he loses his nerve and leaves again.
Eventually comes the bit where comic book Dean and Sam talk about how it would be fun to celebrate the anniversary of preventing the Apocalypse, and on the pages he sees Dean persuading comic book Gabriel to bring an invitation to Jimmy. Sees him being absolutely certain that Jimmy will be there, that they will finally talk, that Cas will…
And then the whole thing gets interrupted by a thirty-page jaunt involving something that might, might not be real honest-to-God lovecraftian Old Ones. Story-wise, it doesn't seem to serve any purpose other than to explain why comic book Sam's arm is in a sling when he turns the page and gets to the barbeque.
The barbeque starts nicely enough, people showing up, hands shaken, smiles, comic book Bobby reigning supreme at the actual barbeque. Then follows two pages covered in six nearly identical pictures of Bobby's backyard. Only two things change from picture to picture. One is comic book Dean, perpetually in the background, muttering, gradually going from "wow, he's late, better hurry up, Jimmy, or all the ribs are going to be gone" over "dammit, why isn't he here, he was supposed to be here" to "that ungrateful son of a bitch, why the hell can't he just". The other is comic book Gabriel, at first relaxing at the party, laughing and roasting marshmallows, then gradually growing aware of Dean's muttering, finally standing up.
The page turns to reveal a lavish two-page-spread, hunter and archangel squaring off. Jimmy has to admit that the artist knows his business – he hasn't actually drawn Gabriel's wings, just very carefully arranged the background to suggest a huge pair. Not that he's taking much time to admire the artwork, eyes focusing on the text in Gabriel's speech bubbles, to the exclusion of all else, accusations leveled in a thunderous voice he can almost hear. It's as if the whole world narrows into a single bubble, a single line of text.
"You know, Jimmy, the guy you and your boyfriend used like he was nothing more than a glorified strap on."
"The guy you used like a glorified strap on."
"Used like a strap on."
"Used."
The next thing he's really aware of is kneeling on the bathroom floor, head resting against the edge of the toilet bowl. The comic book lies on the floor nearby, having seemingly landed in an undignified, page-twisting, spine-bending heap where he dropped it.
The porcelain is cool against his forehead.
After a little while, he manages to take a deep breath and drag himself staggering to his feet, flushing the toilet and rinsing his mouth, leaning heavily against the sink. Deciding that he doesn't actually feel like standing just yet, he slides slowly back down, twisting as he goes so he ends up sprawled on the floor, leaning his back against the toilet.
He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, staring at the gaps between the tiles, when his pocket starts to vibrate and hum. He fishes the phone out, sees a number that he does not recognize, then answers.
"Hello."
The person on the other end of the line doesn't speak, as usual, only this time all of Jimmy's vague suspicions, so vague that he hadn't even really gotten around to admitting them to himself, truth be told hasn't wanted to admit to himself, has coalesced into a single burning certainty.
"Hello Dean."
And just like that it's like a dam has broken and Dean's voice is pouring over him, a jumble of "didn't know" and "never realized" and "didn't stop to think" – and "sorry". It's not until he hears that word, not until the knot inside him dissolves, that he realizes that it's the word he's been waiting for all these long months.
Holding the phone to his ear, not quite having it in him to answer that river of words just yet, Jimmy sits up straighter. His gaze falls on the comic lying where it fell and some impulse makes him pick it up and turn it over to find that it fell open to the very last page of the story. It's two frames, side by side. In the left one, comic book Dean is sitting in one of those crappy motels the Winchesters spend far too much time in. A line of speech bubbles wind their way across the page and back, starting at Dean's mouth and curling into the right frame, curling around comic book Jimmy sitting sprawled on a bathroom floor with tiles in an ugly green color he's never had in his house. It strikes him that the speech bubbles almost seem to form the silhouette of a huge pair of wings, not so much attached to either of the characters as they seem to be sheltering the pair of them.
The page turns blurry and he closes his eyes, leans his head back, and it occurs to him, then and there, that maybe, just maybe, Castiel hadn't just been talking to Dean that night.
I'm sorry. Please take care of him for me.
"Seriously, Jimmy, man, I wish I hadn't been such an idiot, I never even realized…"
"I know, Dean, I know."