"So what are you saying, Bobby?" Sam asks.
"I'm sayin' that heaven and hell are on lock down. There's nothing on the radar. It looks like we're either finally seein' peace on earth," Bobby snorts, "or the cosmos is resettin' the pieces on the universal chess board."
"Great," Sam sighs. Can't they catch a break? Just one time? "I'll let Dean know when I get back." His brother is gonna love this.
Sam can hear Bobby shifting books and papers in the background, "How's he doin' anyway?"
"He's worried about Cas, and doesn't want to show it."
"So he's got his head further up his ass than usual."
Sam laughs, "Basically."
"Make sure he don't do somethin' stupid."
"Right, that'll be easy," Sam rolls his eyes.
"How's the angel?" Bobby's voice is gruff, but he sounds concerned.
Sam sighs, "Still out of it."
"Well, when he wakes up," Bobby continues, and Sam likes his certainty that Cas will wake up; he needs that, "I got some questions for him."
"Yeah," Sam agrees, "So do we; I'll keep you posted."
"Take care, boy," Bobby tells him.
"Yeah, you, too, Bobby," Sam hangs up. He sighs, leaning against the hood of the Impala in the mostly empty parking lot of a Waffle House. It was only a ten minute drive from the motel, and it seemed as good a place as any to grab some breakfast. Sam rubs his forehead, he's had a long night, though, maybe not as long as Dean and Cas; hence he's on a food run and checking in with Bobby, while the two of them get a few extra minutes of shut eye—no doubt they're gonna need it, and Sam's understanding like that. Plus, he needed some space to think the situation through without seeing the pained looks on both of their faces (Cas' comes from physical and, presumably metaphysical, injures, Dean's from emotional and psychological ones). He's worried about Cas, about Dean, about the fate of the universe—he'd call that a typical Wednesday if it weren't for Cas' particular situation and the news that Bobby had just dropped on him.
Sam walks into the mostly empty restaurant and places his order, leaning against the counter, largely ignoring the advances of the young waitress, Lauren, while trying to figure out if there have been any signs or portents lately. She's noticed nothing except yesterday's storm, but, she shrugs, "Not that weird for June 'round here."
"Yeah," Sam agrees, "Right," Hurricane force winds, grace explosions, and fallen angels are totally typical in the South East in mid-June, par for the course.
"So that's: three double waffles; two sides of hash browns, one with cheese; a side of sausage; a side of bacon; and four coffees to go."
"Yeah, that's me," Sam pays in cash; Lauren writes her number on the receipt, and Sam smiles politely, grabbing the bag of food and leaving. It's drizzling and humid outside, steam rising off of the asphalt. He drinks his first cup of coffee in the Impala on the way back to the motel. Sam is quiet in his approach to the room.
Last night had been…traumatic. Dean had given the second bed to Sam and had suffered no protestations to the contrary.
"It's fine, man," he had insisted, not even glancing away from Cas.
Sam kept shooting looks between his brother and the angel because ever since he came back from hell, ever since he got his soul back, he's noticed that something is different between them. Dean and Cas have always been close; they'd had a special bond, and once Cas had rebelled against heaven, he and Dean had just kind of clicked. But lately, they'd seemed—more intense. Dean has always been resistant to making connections outside of his family, to making friends, to trusting people, which makes sense—Sam himself has let Dean down multiple times—but it's like Dean has just taken Cas into that space where so few people are allowed to go, and, now, with Cas injured, it's as if Dean is too worried or scared about Cas' recovery to bother hiding how much he cares about the guy. Sam isn't sure if Dean has ever really put much thought into how he feels about Cas—he loves his brother, but getting him to talk about his feelings is like performing a complex dental procedure without Novocain; Dean is more of a drown emotions in alcohol and violence type of guy most of the time—Sam wonders if this falling thing, Cas being around more, might be something of a paradigm shift for the two of them…Don't get him wrong, he wants Cas to get better—Cas is his friend too, and he's done so much for the both of them, hell, for humanity, that if paying him back for that means finding his missing mojo, Sam's all for it—but he can't help but hope that the angel and his brother might both get something out of this…Knowing the way the universe usually responds to Sam's wishes, he's not really all that optimistic, and he accepts on some level that it's probably not going to happen, but he can dream…
They'd crashed hard last night, all three of them; Dean leaning on the headboard next to Cas' face down form, and Sam sprawled out on the spare bed. That had only lasted about three hours, when Sam had woken up to screaming. He'd flown out of bed into a fighting stance, knife at the ready before realizing that Cas was the one making the noise, and Dean was trying to calm him down.
"What's going on?" Sam had asked, coming over to help, but Cas had flipped out at the sight of him, and began struggling harder against the IV drip, shouting, and recoiling in Dean's arms. Sam had stepped back, hands up, weapon down, in a gesture of peace.
"Nightmare," Dean said tensely to his brother, struggling to get Cas to realize what was happening, where he was, and that he was okay (or as okay as could be expected, given the circumstances). It had taken about ten minutes of hushed conversation, while Sam stood by feeling helpless. Dean was showing Cas a degree of tenderness that Sam had not seen since he was a child, that he had thought their father, a lifetime of hunting, and an extended stay in hell had beaten out of his brother; it blew him away a little bit to see it resurface, and it made him realize beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was something extraordinary between Dean and Castiel.
Cas was shaky and sweaty, but something that Dean said must have penetrated the panicked haze and residual nightmares because he stilled, breathing heavily, before laying a hand on Dean's shoulder, staring intently at his face, like he might be expected to draw it from memory later. Dean ran a hand through Cas' hair, gently and Cas leaned towards him before flinching sharply away. Dean's face fell, but he continued his ministrations. Sam bit his lip, watching them.
They'd changed Cas' dressings (his back still looked flayed, but it was healing more quickly than was strictly normal), given him more morphine for the pain, and then laid him back down and covered him up. He'd woken with nightmares twice more throughout the night, both times it had taken Dean at least fifteen minutes to calm him down and bring him back to the present. Sam couldn't really do anything, but stand by supportively, given that Cas didn't seem to recognize him in the immediate aftermath of his dreams. Feeling powerless in the face of a friend's pain sucked, watching Dean shoulder the burden alone also sucked, and Sam hated it.
So he'd tried to be helpful this morning by going to get some breakfast, maybe they could get Cas to try to eat something solid today. Sam is guessing that if he's human enough to be sleeping and having nightmares, getting some food in him would probably be a good idea. He had woken up at seven and quietly gotten dressed, grabbed the keys from the table, careful not to rouse Cas or Dean. The angel was laying on his stomach only his left arm exposed, crisp white bandages stark against the dark comforter; his face turned towards Dean. Dean for his part was curled protectively towards Cas, only a few inches separating them, his right finger tips resting as lightly as possible on Cas' exposed palm. Sam had given their sleeping forms a small smile, unwilling to disturb them, and feeling strangely like he was intruding on something intensely private.
He half expects them to be in the same position when he returns, which is why he opens the door very softly, but it's only Cas lying in the bed, dead to the world. Sam can hear the shower running, so he sets up breakfast on the small table, and digs into his waffles and his second cup of coffee, while he waits for his brother. Dean comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later with his hair in damp spikes, fully dressed, wiping his face with his hand. He looks exhausted but when he spies Sam, food, and coffee, he smiles almost radiantly, "Waffle House?"
Sam nods.
"Remind me to get you an extra nice birthday present this year," Dean grins before downing his cup of coffee in one gulp and enthusiastically digging into his cheese covered hash browns. Sam is eating at a slower pace, but then Dean hasn't eaten anything since yesterday at lunch, so he supposes he can excuse the disgusting display of Dean shoveling the greasy mess into his mouth.
"So Bobby called," Sam begins, once Dean has finished the hash-browns. His brother pauses, mid-bite of his bacon.
"Did he have news about Cas?" he looks ready for a solution, and Sam doesn't want to dash that expression of really misplaced hope.
"Not exactly," Sam replies, Dean's face hardens, "Apparently, there's been no sign of demon activity since yesterday at two in the afternoon."
"The same time we found Cas," Dean supplies.
Sam frowns, "Looks like."
Dean leans forward, forearms on the table, hands clasped, he glances at Cas with a furrowed brow, before looking back at Sam, "So what's Bobby's theory; Raphael and Crowley called a truce and are singing kumbaya, roasting marshmallows, around the hellfire?"
Sam smirks halfheartedly; he can always count on Dean's humor to break up even the most horrendous situations. This morning, he's thankful, rather than annoyed by that particular trait, "He's got two theories."
Dean raises his eyebrows, "And?"
"World peace," Sam deadpans.
"'Cause that's likely," Dean snorts. Sam nods in commiseration; there's no way that's ever gonna happen, "What's behind door number two?"
"Armageddon the Sequel," Sam allows.
"Well that's just fucking awesome," Dean says, taking a sip of coffee. His eyes dart to Cas again. He's trying to be subtle about it, but really missing the mark. Sam hates the fact that Dean thinks he has to hide the worry and affection he feels—for Sam, for Cas, for both of them.
It shouldn't be like that. But, of course, Dean's learned over and over again, that it has to be. Sam purses his lips.
"So what are we thinking; that whatever did this to Cas is responsible for the heaven/hell lockdown?"
Sam shrugs, shifting his focus to the problem at hand "Seems like our best guess right now; Bobby's still working on it."
"Great," Dean scowls. He wants to be able to do something, anything, to fix this; the waiting game is not one that he wants to play, especially not if people he cares about lie in the balance.
Sam sighs, "Our best bet right now is to get the scoop from Cas."
Dean narrows his eyes; "Yeah, well, Cas isn't talkin' yet." It is unbelievably strange to be on this side of his brother in mama bear mode; Sam is usually the person being protected, not the one considered a threat…he's kind of impressed. It actually makes him feel happy (a weird feeling in general for him) to know that Dean is that worried about and protective of Cas.
"Chill, dude," Sam makes the open palm gesture: slow down, it signals, I'm not gonna hurt anyone here, especially not Cas; he's my friend, too, remember? Dean leans back in his chair, nodding a little, indicating that his brother should continue; Sam is thankful for non-verbal communication sometimes, because Dean is much more willing to converse in it, "I'm not saying we wake him up and give him the third degree," He follows Dean's gaze over to Cas, "Sleeping is good for him, I'm guessing. I just mean, when he does wake up, we're gonna have to ask him about this, see what he knows."
Dean's mouth is a hard line. Sam can read his brother like an open book, and he knows that Dean's thinking about Cas' back, the fact that the burns, as bad as they are, are superficial wounds, which is terrifying to think about—all evidence points to the fact that Cas has lost his grace, that he's literally had his wings incinerated, and who knows what else. Judging by the screams, he's guessing a lot. Sam's face softens as he looks at Dean looking at Cas, because those nightmares last night, they were just the beginning, both Winchesters know what it's like to be tortured, to be in pain, to live every twisted agony you can think of—but it's never finished, you get to relive it over and over, in your waking hours, in your dreams, in seemingly innocuous reference points that you encounter every single day. Asking Cas about what happened, that's the first step in forcing him to deal with that, forcing him to relive whatever the hell he's been through. Dean's expression says that he would rather set himself on fire than do that to Cas, that he doesn't want to bring about those hellish memories for the angel. Sam also knows that they have to, and so does Dean.
AN:
Welcome to chapter four. Sorry about all the suspense (kinda), but Cas will be in the next chapter, which is going to be mostly from Dean's POV, so stay tuned. Thank you for taking time to read and review!