AN: I took a hiatus from my other fanfic to write this, because after watching Torn and Frayed I've had this epiphany and I needed to get it down on paper.
This story doesn't follow a linear time sequence, so pay attention to the days of the week and the Roman numerals. Also, apparently I enjoy writing stories where Dean's head gets f*cked with. But not really.
This doesn't have a happy ending, so read with it in mind that you are subject to sudden and slightly-painful emotions. Enjoy.
Part one: a Saturday
.
IV
A cold and vaporous draft, much like smoky breath in winter, struck his face, fogging everything up. He pulled the sheets above his head. The sound of running water was coming from the bathroom, and the sound was tempting. He could really go for a hot shower in that frozen motel room.
Finally he opened his eyes.
The whole atmosphere had a blue tint to it, but after a few blinks, it faded - though hesitantly - into an all-encompassing headache. He rubbed the back of his neck, where the pain was the most acute, and took another pillow from the floor in a lazy fist and wrapped it around his head.
He felt lost. He felt like he had been abandoned. But he couldn't explain these feelings; everything was perfectly normal - or at least, as normal as things could get for the Winchester brothers: Sammy was in the shower, getting himself prim and proper for whatever hunting agenda he had planned for the day; and Dean was, well, Dean. He assumed he was hungover, for the time being, and made up his mind to fall back to sleep, however briefly.
It was still fairly dark out. He glanced at the clock to see that it wasn't morning at all, or at least not what he would consider morning. Three a.m.? Really?
Was he really that out-of-it? Maybe he was still drunk. There wasn't any way of being certain; he couldn't ask Sam because he was still in the shower by the time Dean fell back to sleep, dazed and freezing.
How much time had passed, Dean knew not, when he awoke in a cold sweat, wound and constricted by every stale sheet on the bed. His first instinct was to glance at his brother who, to Dean's envy, was peacefully passed out with his back facing him. Five-twenty a.m., and Dean's vision was again tinted with that sickly blue, like he had just woken up from an administration of laughing gas and still wasn't quite full-minded yet.
Something big must have happened in his dream to make him panic like so. Ever since the first few months after Hell, his brain had become desensitized to nightmares, but now - why now? He had gotten far more intoxicated than this before.
Still, something he couldn't place a mental finger on lingered in that pained spot at the nape of his neck. And that something gnawed till morning, keeping his restless eyes roving, still closed in their sockets to avoid that ghostly blue.
V
'You have to forget.
'You have to forget... me.
'For your benefit; not mine.'
It was a comforting voice. But it wasn't pleasant. It sat under some surface in his mind - some surface that didn't have a opening, so that it was more like a closed tank of water, and the creature that was his thoughts scratched at that surface, seeking air. But its attempts were futile.
Dean inhaled sharply, taking in the chilled wind through chapped lips. He held his arms close to his chest to keep his jacket wrapped tightly around him, but it didn't help much.
A look at his phone told him he had only been out ten minutes. Sam was bound to sleep for another few hours if he had gone to sleep past three, so Dean folded himself into the Impala, sitting as lightly as possible on the cold leather of the seat. It had crossed his mind that it probably wasn't the best of ideas to drive while hungover, but as long as that surreal blue tinge was gone from his sight, he didn't care.
He rubbed his eyes and ruffled the hair on the back of his head where the pain had been, and after letting the engine warm up, he drove. Somewhere. Somewhere away.
A little neighborhood caught his interest on the outskirts of the downtown-area - it was one of those old, hilly streets, where people would still the time to take care of flower boxes even in sub-freezing temperatures; would still take the time to repair their fences should a board go astray; and there was something charming about it that made Dean feel safe. Though he'd never admit to it.
A certain house in the recess of a cul-de-sac was somehow magnetizing to him. It wasn't particularly attractive or special - in fact, it was rather cluttered in his opinion - but he took his time in driving past it nonetheless: its panels were faded yellow, like an Easter egg, and miscellaneous ornaments were placed on the exterior and throughout the yard, and they were becoming more visible as the sun began to rise.
A small garden statue appeared to have been knocked on its side in the dreary flowerbed. Upon further inspection, he saw that it was an angel figure: it had wings, a halo, and wore robes, but it was cracked largely down the center, and minor lines indicated other inflections. Soil and hedge leaves lay in a circle around it, but nothing touched the statue itself.
'It's for your protection that I do this -'
A swear slipped through Dean's lips, and he slammed the brakes. That voice again. And the blue. The blue was crowding his peripherals, like a vignette photograph, until his head seemed to burst with the very color.
VI
" 're we gonna talk about it?"
Sam scoffed, turning to his older brother with incredulity. "Not particularly. Since when do you want to talk about your alcohol binges?" he said. "Hell, since when do you want to talk about anything?"
They were sitting in the parked car. Dean had arrived back at the motel that morning from his brief excursion to find that Sam was, naturally, still sleeping. The older brother showered, then came out to watch Sam staring pensively at the screen of his cell phone. Dean stood silently for a few moments before packing his things, still wordless. Sam had looked too tired to talk about it.
Presently Dean shrugged, digging his key half-mindedly into the ignition. He truly was curious about the previous night, but he didn't know how to broach the subject. What am I supposed to ask? Dean thought. Hey, Sammy, what the hell did someone slip into my drink last night that's making me see blue? Oh, and why were you showering at three a.m.? And why do I have no recollection of anything whatsoever?
"Dean, are you okay?" Sam said. "I mean, I know it's not your cup of tea to talk about things like this, and I don't mind listening, but - why all of a sudden?"
Dean shook his head and put the car into reverse. They took off several blocks up the road to a cheap diner that - thank heavens - looked warm. Dean parked and hesitated a moment before unlocking the doors.
"Just one question," he muttered at last, "does the name Castiel sound familiar to you?"
Part two: the previous day, Friday
.
I
Dean's confusion was piled so high in his mind, it almost seemed to be weighing down on his eyelids, tempting him to succumb to sleep. He was still pondering something he and Sam had briefly thought about several days prior: the fact that maybe Castiel was being controlled by superior forces in Heaven. Dean needed to know who and why.
Sam was out, somewhere; maybe on a really long drive, maybe at a bar. Dean didn't blame the guy - he had just severed ties with Amelia, the closest thing to a partner Sam had had for a long time. But Dean did wish he had someone to place his thoughts on.
He took the notepad from the side table, and though he had never been one for notes, he wrote anything he knew that had to do with what could be controlling Castiel.
A few hours later, he readjusted himself, sitting up from his position across the small table. He had been in deep thought all afternoon. Now he was exhausted, but at least now he had answers.
Sam came into the motel room quietly, setting his keys on the dresser, and Dean saw through the crack of the door that it had become dark outside.
"You okay?" Dean said. Sam nodded. "Listen," the older said, "I think I know what Cass' problem is. I'll explain later. I need to talk to him, though."
"I don't know, Dean," Sam said, looking at his brother apologetically. "I don't exactly think he's subject to the whims of your calls anymore, ever since what happened with Samandriel. He probably has a lot of duties up in Heaven after killing one of his own -"
Sam was cut off by the sound of his own name from behind him. Dean looked at the caller. Castiel stood limply, his face downcast and morose.
"Cass, are you alright?" Sam said, remembering the last time they had seen the angel, and internally shuddered.
"Nevermind that."
Dean started: "Cass, I -"
"I know, Dean. I'm afraid I don't remember anything."
"Can you tell me anything about them?"
"About who?" Sam said, looking questioningly from his brother to the angel. His query was ignored.
"Unfortunately, my memory is tampered with after every visit... I've tried to recall something, anything, but just acknowledging that the occurrences are real is more than strenuous." One could practically read it on Castiel's face that he had been through something breaking.
"Is there any way to stop them?" Dean said. He was more than earnest to do whatever it took to save his friend from being controlled again.
"Stop what? Cass, what's happened to you?" Sam asked.
"I'll explain later, Sam," Dean brushed his brother off. "Cass, what can we do?"
II
Without warning, Castiel suddenly found himself in a pristine gray room with white lights around him, and Naomi stood at her desk with a look of utmost contempt across her face.
"Castiel, you know what you need to do."
"No." Castiel couldn't. He wouldn't. Even if Naomi forced him, he'd find a way to fight it -
"He knows too much, Castiel! Heaven has a superior plan, and you're about to let this abomination stop it, by swaying your opinion yet again? Kill him."
"I said no," Castiel said, accenting his dissent. If he killed Dean, oh God, he couldn't kill Dean -
"You serve Heaven, not man!"
"Anything but this, Naomi -"
Naomi gritted her teeth, swooping out from behind her desk and stopping in front of Castiel. She raised her face to be but a few inches in front of his own and grabbed his collar in a maddened fist.
"Then you will wipe the Winchesters' memories. Of you. Of Heaven. Of every angel they've encountered."
Castiel's eyes widened and he stopped breathing momentarily.
"It's your only option, Castiel."
"Sam doesn't know anything. Only Dean." Immediately Castiel regretted saying it - he didn't have a clue why he had said it in the first place; he supposed Naomi had the ability to extract information like so. But Castiel still felt like he had betrayed Dean with those words.
"Go." She released his collar and he went.
III
"Hold him down, Sam," Castiel found himself saying. His eyes were directed at Dean, and he hoped he looked sorry.
"W-why? What?" Sam said.
Dean furrowed his brows. Seeing the raw anguish in the angel's eyes made him want to run. He backed into a corner of the room, thoroughly confused and even a little scared - his best friend, his protector, wasn't the same.
"You have to forget," Castiel said.
"Forget what?" Sam asked.
Castiel replied as if Dean had asked it. "You have to forget... me." He wanted to apologize, and with all his strength, he fought his hand which was seeking Dean's forehead for a few more moments.
"Why? For what reason, Cass?" Dean shouted. Castiel looked as if he were about to cry, but he didn't respond. "Goddamnit, Cass; why?"
"For... for your benefit; not mine."
Dean shook his head, biting down the lump in his throat. "I won't let you -"
His voice was breaking. Castiel cut him off.
"It's for your protection that I do this." Castiel took a long stride towards Dean, who didn't even know what was going on. The last thing he saw was the brilliantly bright blue of the angel's eyes, watery and bereaved.
"Thank you, Dean. For... everything." He reached for Dean's forehead - and just like that, Dean was sent into a painful rest and Castiel caught him by the waist before he slumped to the floor. "I'm sorry."
"Why'd you do it, Cass?" Sam said, only half-questioningly, as he looked at his brother who lay in a distressed sleep on the motel bed. He shook his head when he received no answer and sat by Dean.
"I... don't know."
Whether it was out of guilt or from the calling of something in Heaven, Castiel disappeared, leaving Sam behind with his amnesiac brother.
Sam didn't know how many hours he spent in the shower that night. Another friend was gone, and he could only share those memories with himself.
Part three: that same Saturday
.
VII
Castiel found himself in the brightly-lit, white room again. This time Naomi was sitting down.
"Well done, Castiel," she said. He scowled at her proud face.
"Let me see him one last time," he said. "I'll keep my identity unknown to him."
"I can't take that chance. But I can show him to you, to prove my fidelity to obedient angels." She gave him one of her falsely-sweet smiles and came around her desk again, bringing herself close to Castiel. She pressed two cold fingers to his forehead.
Castiel saw Dean like something through a foggy mirror: he was cradling a beer, sitting in front of the television, laughing along with Sam to some program.
"See?" she said, removing her fingers from his face to bring him back to reality. "He's happy. And you can be, too, Castiel. If you'd just forget the Winchesters."
"That wasn't real," Castiel said.
"Does it matter?" Naomi returned to the seat behind her desk. "Should you ever try to see the Winchesters again, you will be forced to kill him. And Sam. And there won't be any loopholes."
"That vision wasn't real. Let me see them. In person, this time."
Naomi gave him a cruel grin again, one that made her look like she was actually trying to feign softness. "Don't get too close. That wall in his mind? It could kill him if you broke it."
VIII
"Does the name Castiel sound familiar to you?"
Sam froze, and not because of the icy door handle he had been trying to wrench open. Slowly he faced his brother, drawing a blank for something credible to say. His mouth fumbled with his breath for a moment.
"No, why?" he said.
Dean unlocked the car and shoved his keys into his pocket. "Just curious."
"Really?" Sam said, his face twitching into that half-smirk he always made when he lied. He hoped Dean wouldn't push the topic further if they got inside the diner fast enough.
"Just had a... weird dream last night. Nothing important."
Sam breathed a sigh of relief when the bell above the diner door sounded, signaling their conversation to an end as Dean asked the waitress for a table of two. They were seated towards the front of the restaurant, where it was noisy enough to distract them from further conversation, and after ordering their food Dean rested an elbow on the table and his face in his palm, scratching at his tired eyes with the other hand.
"You look like hell," Sam said, "for someone who slept so long last night."
"Yeah, well, I didn't actually get to sleep till three," Dean grunted, putting pressure on the inner corners of his eyes.
"Your dreams were really that bad?"
"I guess." For a few moments Dean watched Sam, who only looked back out of curiosity. "What did I - what happened? Last night, I mean." Dean's voice was hushed, and Sam thought it even sounded a bit frightened.
"You must have taken a few too many shots. I found you lying over the counter of the bar. Had to haul your ass back to the motel."
"What time was it?"
"Twelve, maybe?" Sam shrugged, looking bothered. Dean was about to ask him why he had been showering at three, but the waitress came with their food, and Sam hastily began a conversation about a new case he had found. Dean, prepared to cut him off with his question, was distracted by something else in the corner of the room. A man had been watching the brothers intently, but then quickly shied away at Dean's glance.
Suddenly, an overcoming bout of pain pounded at the spot on the back of his neck. He slumped over without control of his body and closed his eyes tight, willing the pain to be gone, trying to shut out the blue that filled his mind, but it only got worse. He heard Sam's furious queries, asking Dean if he was okay, and then felt his brother's hands on his shoulders.
The pain was gone. The blue was gone. Just like that.
He sat up slowly and looked around. The man in the corner of the room was gone, but Dean could have sworn he had heard the flapping of wings from the exact spot the mysterious trench-coated man had been in.