Title: As Fuel for Our Journey
Recipient: maychorian, for the castielfest fic exchange on LJ
Characters: Sam, Castiel (Dean is present in spirit if not in body)
Wordcount: 1,752
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 5.17, general spoilers for the show through Season 5.
Notes/Prompt: "After Blue Earth, Sam and whumped!Cas look for Dean. Feel free to go AU." Okay, so, uh... this isn't exactly AU, and it kind of went in a different direction than I thought it would, and... umm... yeah. I really hope you like it, maychorian. *worries*
Title is from a quote by Kenji Miyazawa: "We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey."
Summary: Dean is gone, and his absence is a gaping hole in Castiel's chest.
Further Note: A huge thank you to yasminke who beta'd this thing for me and pointed out all my wacky grammar and syntax and made it a much better fic than it started out. :)
"Dean."
Dean is gone, and it hurts —worse than before, when Leah Gideon attempted to rip what was left of his grace to shreds. Castiel felt hands lift him, afterwards: Dean's hands, easing him into the back seat of the Impala next to the shell-shocked pastor. He had to close his eyes against the despair permeating the air. There was blood in his mouth, running from his nose.
"Are you going to do something stupid?" Sam asked.
"Come on, Sam, give me a break." The words were right, but Dean's voice lacked conviction.
He can't tell how much time has passed since then. Dean placed him on the motel bed, awkwardly draped over a pillow, and he's been staring at a filthy patch of wallpaper, pain thrumming through his body. He doesn't remember being tortured in heaven, not precisely, but he thinks it may have felt somewhat like this. Then Dean is suddenly gone —there's a distant roaring from outside— and the gaping hole in his chest tears wider. He curls in on himself, closes his eyes against the pain.
There are hands again a moment later, larger ones, more gentle. "C'mon, Cas. Can you sit up for me?"
"Dean." It comes out as a groan, tinged with the same despair that he's felt from Dean for weeks now.
"We'll get him back," Sam's voice is firm, but he keeps his tone soft. "I promise. We'll get him back. But first we have to make sure you're okay."
He forces his eyes open, blinks painfully against the light. "Not okay."
"I know that."
Sam is prying him out of his trench coat with firm, gentle gestures. Smooths his fingers briefly over his forehead. Castiel struggles briefly. "Dean..."
"It's okay. I know where he's going. I need you to come with me, though."
"Of course."
His eyes roll back in his head.
It's still dark. Dean is still gone. His absence is a consuming void in Castiel's chest. He's in a bed, the same one as before he thinks, but the bedspread has been pulled back, the sheets cool and soft against his skin. He's been stripped, laid bare and covered over again, like the earth beneath the first winter's snow. He shifts uncomfortably, moans as the pain flares up inside, as bad as ever, and curls in on himself. Immediately there's a hand on his shoulder, and the bed dips.
"Cas?"
"I..." he coughs, tastes blood on his tongue, and Sam shushes him.
"Don't talk yet. I got you some water. Just let me do the work, Cas," an arm slides under his shoulders, denim rough against his skin, and he murmurs a protest at the sensation. It feels like needles digging into his back. "Shh, easy. I know it hurts. I gotcha. Swallow this for me, okay?"
There's something chalky on his tongue, followed by water, and he swallows before it threatens to choke him. He thinks it might be more of the pills Dean gave him earlier. He can't hold himself up, lists bonelessly against Sam's broad chest, head lolling forward. Sam cradles the back of his head with one hand, long fingers curling around the base of his skull, coaxes more water into him.
"We're going to have to go soon. Dean's got a pretty good head start on us."
"He's given up," Castiel manages, and his voice sounds raw, as though his vocal cords have been stripped down. Sam puts the empty glass down, brushes the tips of his fingers against his forehead to smooth his hair back.
"He has, but I haven't. If I help you, do you think you can get up? You can sleep in the car on the way."
"Of course."
Everything goes dark again.
The night rushes by in a blur of headlights and the faraway shining of stars. Castiel closes his eyes, falls backward in a dizzying rush, wings useless. Sam tucks a blanket over his knees, presses a bottle of tepid water into his hands, keeps silent, staring into the darkness ahead. Castiel comes awake with a jolt, the plastic bottle tumbling to his feet, right hand scrabbling feebly at the door, breathing hard. Before Sam can pull the car over to the side of the road he's jackknifing forward, vomiting painfully, a string of bile and saliva and all the alcohol still in his stomach.
Sam stops the car, comes around to open his door and drops to a crouch beside him. "You gonna hurl again?"
He doesn't know. He's never vomited before, doesn't understand the mechanics of it, whether or not it will happen again is a mystery. Sam unbuckles his seatbelt, pulls him up —all but has to lift him bodily out of the seat while he pushes ineffectually at him. He doesn't want assistance —doesn't deserve it. He's utterly helpless, limp and weak and useless, has to let Sam sit him on the ground, propped against the warm metal of the car while he cleans it out. He lets his head rest against the car, watches the stars spin drunkenly above his head. He's very nearly sick again when Sam's face comes between him and the night sky.
"Cas, you have to talk to me. I'm totally out of my depth here. I don't know how to help you."
He shakes his head. "It will pass."
"Is there anything I can do? You're obviously in pain."
"I don't know."
He hears Sam sigh. "Do you want more water?"
"I don't require it."
There's a bottle pressed to his lips anyway, a moment later, and it does feel pleasant, cooling away the burning sensation in his throat. Darkness closes in, and he lets himself spiral backward.
The sky is beige, and the earth is spinning far too quickly. Something has happened to make it spin out of control. He thinks his Father should stretch out a hand and stop it, slow its progress. He wonders if humans feel like this all the time, if it's something he should get used to. The sky is beige, and when he turns his head it blurs and becomes green with maroon stripes.
"You back with me?"
"Dean?"
"Still just me," Sam says, apologies written on his face, etched into his voice. He wipes Castiel's face with a damp cloth. "How's the pain?"
He stops to consider it. "Bad."
"Okay," Sam doesn't stop his motions, and Castiel can't bring himself to shove him away the way he ought.
"I should have stopped him."
"Cas, you were practically catatonic with pain. He saw an opening, and he took it."
He tries to sit up, has to let himself fall back, eyes slipping shut, feels Sam catch him and ease him down. Sam pushes more pills into his mouth, encourages him to swallow them with water.
"I'm sorry," Sam says softly. "I don't know if this is even helping; human anatomy's the only frame of reference I have."
He doesn't understand why Sam insists on staying with him. Before he and Dean would simply have left him alone to tend to his injuries. He shouldn't need help, certainly doesn't deserve Sam's compassion, not after everything he's said and done, not after this latest failure.
"It's okay, Cas," Sam says, and he wonders if he somehow voiced his doubts aloud. "You're gonna be fine."
He tries to speak, can't manage more than a strangled moan. Dean is getting further away with each passing moment, and Castiel is doing nothing but slow them down. Sam brushes sweat-soaked hair from his forehead.
"It's okay, Cas," he repeats. "We'll find him. You just have to stick with me, okay? You and me, we're gonna get Dean back. You with me?"
He nods, swallows. "Of course."
This time, it feels more like falling asleep.
He sleeps in the car, and when he's awake he notes the different smell: plastic instead of leather, stale food instead of gunpowder. He blinks tiredly, brings up a hand and rubs his thumb against his sternum. The pain there is receding, finally. He coughs weakly, shifts upright in his seat and finds he can breathe easier when he's not leaning into the seat belt.
"Dean?"
He meant to phrase the question as more than a single word, but his voice cracks, his words fail him. Sam understands, though.
"We just missed him. Again. But Lisa would have been his last stop. So I know where he is now."
"How do you know?"
Sam shrugs. "I know him. I'm the last person on earth he trusts, the last person he wants to see, but he's my big brother. He taught me everything I know, and it's everything he knows. He knows how I think, and I know how he thinks. I just know him."
"What will you do when you find him?" Castiel doesn't know what he would answer if the question were posed to him, but he's curious.
"Bring him back. I need him. I know it's selfish, but I do. You said it yourself: I'm an abomination. He's the only thing keeping me human."
Castiel coughs again, leans his head back against the headrest. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Even if it's the truth?"
"It's not. It's... a facet of the truth." He rubs harder with his hand, trying to ease the pressure in his chest, but it's no longer the same pain as before. "I wasn't made for this."
"Being human?"
"Regret. Doubt."
To his surprise, Sam claps a hand on his shoulder and directs a wistful smile at him. "Don't be so sure, Cas. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that our Dads have always made a habit of keeping us in the dark about what they've got planned."
He nods, and the last of the pain vanishes.
"We're nearly there. You still want to do this?"
"Of course."
He keeps his eyes open, and watches the sun rise.
One hour later Castiel watches Sam walk alone into a motel room like a hundred others they've seen before. In a few moments, he knows, he and Sam are going to bring Dean home.