Chapter Seven
Journey On
He was walking up to the bunker, at long last. He finally reached his destination, he made it to the Winchesters. To Dean. The Impala was parked by the side in its usual spot, otherwise the road was clear. It was raining hard, and he was soaked. The clothes weighed him down and his shoes sloshed with every step. His hair was plastered to his forehead, every drop stealing a bit of warmth from him. But he was almost there, he was so close, all that stood before him was now the plain iron door to the depths of the bunker.
He knocked with as much strength as he could muster, which resulted in a rather paltry effort. Castiel hoped someone would hear him. He was tired, wet, hungry, cold and worst yet, guilty. Some minutes passed when he leaned his head against the door. "Please, it's me Cas. I'm here. I need your help." He was barely speaking above a whisper, knowing no one would hear him. It was really a prayer, a prayer of the lost.
The locks on the door started making noise; he lifted his head immediately and stepped back. It swung open slowly. It was Sam opening the door from behind and Dean holding a gun in a defensive stance in the corner. Their eyes meet, and Dean lowered his gun.
"Hello Dean." Dean looked at him, but he didn't smile, he didn't say a word. He just walked up to him and punched Castiel right in the jaw. The impact and surprise was sufficient to knock him to the mud. He felt a coppery warm taste in his mouth and immediately spat out some blood. The punch dazed him for a second then he looked up at Dean with a hurt questioning look. Dean just stared him down coldly.
"You son of a bitch." Castiel never heard such venom, such contempt in Deans voice before. "You think you can come back crawling to us, wanting help?" Dean crouched down on his toes to look Cas right in the eye. "You halo wearing bastard, you deserve this, you brought this on yourself. You didn't listen to me." Deans voice grew louder and deeper, his eyes filled with an anger that silenced Cas. He pulled Castiel up by the lapels of trench coat when he stood up. "Well, I got news for you pal! I'm through helping you! Through ya hear me. Done! Don't ever come back here. Stay the fuck out of our lives!" With that Dean threw him back into the mud and headed back into the bunker.
His face landed in the mud, he struggled to get back up but he was in shock. Cas looked up, wiping the mud from his eyes in time to see Sam sadly shake his head while he closed the door on Cas. He did not know if the wetness on his face came from the sky or from his eyes.
"Son, you ok?" Castiel snapped awake. He looked over to Steve, who had a worried look on his aged face and his hand on Castiels arm which he was just shaking. "Seems to me you had a bad dream there."
"Yes. It was a…unpleasant dream. Thank you for waking me." He replied his elderly friend looking at him with gratitude.
"This Dean fella, he that friend of yours you're heading back to?"
"Yes, but how did you know? We have not discussed him." Castiel was still trying to find his mental footing from the pain the dream caused him. When Dean threw him down, it felt as if his chest suddenly felt constrained while his heart ceased to beat. He looked outside quickly. He noticed that they were parked near a shopping center and the sun indicated it was near mid-day.
"Well, you talk in your sleep. Figured you needed rest from all that walking. You mentioned Dean quite often. 'Have to get back to Dean' you said more than a dozen times. Put two and two together." Steve smiled a grin to the angel. "Good friend?"
Castiel was silent for a moment while he contemplated his response. He knew the dream he had of Dean was not real, but it felt so real. He never dreamed himself before; last time he slept it was a comforting blackness. Never had his own dream, and not be in someone else's was new experience. Cas decided he did not like having his own dreams. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the dream Dean had by the lake, the calm serenity of it. He let that serenity flow into him now.
"Yes, Dean is a good friend." Cas paused for a minute. "Without him, I would not be who I am today." He added.
"Now that's good to hear, friends should be like that, helping each other out. I hope we're friends Cas." Cas tilted his head to the older man.
"Of course. You showed immense generosity and kindness without due cause. You took a risk in assisting me." He tried to form a smile on his face, but found it was already there. Most curious. "I am proud to call you a friend."
"Good to hear. Now, I hate to break it to you Cas, the bus will be here soon. I checked the station while you were snoozing." He pointed to the station. "It's heading east, which is where you want to go if you want to get to Kansas." Cas looked at the small bus depot across the road. His desire to go back to the Winchesters, even shadowed by his dream, was immensely strong, but tempered by the sadness that he would have to say good bye to Steve.
"I do not have knowledge or means to convey my gratitude adequately." Though their encounter was brief, they were comfortable with each other. Steve just smirked and huffed. "Well, you bought breakfast and you gave an old man a reason to have faith through these troubling times. We're square Cas. Now you stay low, avoid the police and trouble in general."
"I will. Thank you for all your help." Cas moved to open the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned to face Steve again. He was handed a scrap of paper, it had a phone number and an address. "If you get to your friends and make it through all right, give me a call or write a letter."
"Yes, I will do so. I believe correspondence would be acceptable, eh, and enjoyable." He tried to smile again, and once again, found that he was already, albeit small though.
"Good then. Now git going, head back to Dean and watch his back. And you take care now." He turned the engine over, and put the truck in drive as Cas closed the door. As he peeled away, he waved good bye to the angel through the rear window before merging onto the main road back to his home. Cas waved slowly back. It was dangerous to keep up a correspondence, as it may endanger the elderly man, but he owed it to him to write at least a letter. He hoped some of his brothers and sisters found such kindness in others.
Turning to the station, he headed to the ticket stand. He had a little over two hundred dollars and a fake ID of one James Hetfield. With the amount of cash he had, he can get over to Omaha, Nebraska the ticket board read. That would put him considerably closer to the bunker but also deplete most of his cash. Last time he was stranded, Bobby wired him some money. He did not want to put undue hardship on Amelia, so he would not use the credit card again.
He wished he could phone Sam or Dean, but he did not memorize either one's number. With his 'angel radio' it was much faster and easier for them to pray and him fly to their location. He sighed, being graceless, as Dean would say, sucks. He had to be careful with his remaining funds, for not only did he have to travel, but he needed to eat. It was unlikely he could afford a motel, but he will forgo sleep if need be. The nap that Steve allowed him rejuvenated him immensely. He could also rest on the bus, as he pretended to do when he was first travelling with the angel tablet.
Walking up to the ticket stand, he laid down several twenties to a bored looking woman with too much make up. "One way to Omaha please." She sighed, took his money and typed on her computer. She took down his name, showed her his ID and handed him his ticket. The bus came about twenty minutes later. It was nearly a twenty hour ride from Bozeman to Omaha, and Castiel did not look forward to all that time alone with his thoughts.
After reading about the supposed history of the War in Heaven, which he mused should be called the First War in Heaven since there's been a couple by now, he put the book down. Sam closed his eyes; his migraine was just exploding in pain now. There was no point on continuing on reading, the lights, even though subdued, seemed way too bright in the library.
The day progressed slowly since breakfast; Kevin spent most of it with him in the library, reading the tablet. Sam was looking at cases and theories on fallen angels. Dean was nowhere to be seen or heard, but he figured Dean would skulk for a while. After seeing the website with Cas's handprint, he stormed off. Sam knew that the subject of Cas was always a touchy one with Dean. Especially now that Cas was missing, perhaps even dead. So Dean would avoid dealing with it like a rational person and cope by either drinking, watching porn or use the shooting range. He wouldn't doubt that Dean could do all three at once either.
His older brother said he would always put Sam first, now and always the night before. Sam appreciated the sentiment, he really did, but he also knew it was unhealthy for the both of them to be so dependent on each other. Seems though, they would only move on from each other if one of them was dead. As it was shown with him in Hell or Dean in Purgatory, they both moved on to form 'normal' lives. Sam was able to attend Stanford for those few years because he was more or less disowned from both his brother and father then. That was before they knew he had demon blood and was Lucifer's vessel though. He cupped his head in hands, his elbows on his knees. He tried taking a deep breath to alleviate the pain, but to no avail. All this thinking made his head hurt worse. Maybe lying down would be a good idea.
"I am going to lie down for a bit", he said to Kevin who looked up at him getting up. The prophet just nodded and returned to looking at the tablet. Sam turned to the main hallway and was walking out when Kevin called out to him. Sam turned around and looked at Kevin, who was looking tired as he was.
"My grandmother used to get really bad headaches; she used to meditate to ease them. She said empting her mind of everything put her at ease. Maybe you should do the same Sam, who knows? It might work." With that, he returned to his task of decoding the tablet.
The kid had a point. He did a couple of meditation sessions back in college, an activity offered to help students cope with the stress of school. It wouldn't hurt to give it a try again. He'll try to meditate when he was in his room. Hopefully it went better than his first try in Stanford. Falling asleep public space when students have sharpies is never a good idea. At least here, if he dozed off, he can sleep on his own bed.
Crowley only had a small light in the far end of the dungeon, a couple of books and a cot that was extremely uncomfortable. The chains on his wrists made them raw, and he was surrounded by silence. Alone with this own thoughts, the Winchesters could not have been more cruel, or helpful to him.
He deserved this. In his own dungeons in Hell, the cells were much worse and the treatment of the damned horrible, but then it was Hell. Now he was one of the damned as well, but he was in a better situation. No demons came to torture him, though Dean was liable to do so. Even if Dean or even Kevin came down to torture him, he deserved it. For the past day, he has been reflecting on all his sins. Whereas before he didn't care, or was even pleased and proud about them, all he felt now was guilt.
Never before had his past actions felt so wrong. Even the points where he helped with world, like with giving the boys the Colt or his blood, it was for his own ass. Those actions were just a sham, shallow good deeds to allow him to work his evil.
'Come now love, t'was for the best. If it weren't for us, the Winchesters and the world would be burnt to a crisp three times over.'That voice in his head, he knew that was all that was left of his demonic self. 'Yes, your TRUE self. Or don't you remember? Can't recall being the King of Hell? YOU'RE THE KING OF HELL! How can you be reduced to such a blathering fool?'
The internal struggle between his guilt and need for redemption, for love battled with his former pride, his demon self, was being reflected on his face. He was still filthy from his beating from Abaddon, but he looked pale, and there was dried tear trails down his face. 'Abaddon, that bitch! We'll show her the proper respect we deserve. Take our throne from us will she? Ha! She can try.'She can have it he thought. 'Let her have it? Do you remember how Hell was before we organized and made it more civilized? She takes over, it'll be chaos all over again. Just as bad a Lillith and Azazel! Can you live with that?'
He was right, if Abaddon comes to power in Hell, who knows what she'll do. Lower demons flock to the strongest demon, out of self-preservation and reward. And no one would be stronger than Abaddon. She could do what he has been striving for centuries, fully claim hell. Abaddon had the power, the strength and the tenacity. Once her power base was secure, she could lead more demons onto Earth. With the angels grounded, there was literally no force to stop her or a demon army.
Wanting forgiveness and seeing a path to redemption, he drowned out the demon in him for now, and concentrated on how to help the Winchesters with Abaddon. He began writing all he knew that could help them fight the soon to be new Queen of Hell.
