Chapter 9
Dean's internal organs immediately unclenched from their spasms the moment Pestilence was de-ringed, but his mind was slower to follow, still wrapped in the agony of phantom pain. Dean let out a gasp and tried to roll over. He needed to get up, needed to fight.
But the Horseman didn't attack. Clutching the bloody stumps of his hand against his chest, Pestilence stood in the corner, shaking tremulously like a pathetic old geezer. He managed to deliver one last baleful glare, and then disappeared. Third one down, Dean thought with a small measure of triumph.
He rolled over, only for his heart to drop into his stomach at the sight of the demon nurse lying on top of Cas, neither of them moving.
Dean crawled over and shoved the woman off. Her eyes were wide open and vacant, the demon-killing knife sticking out of her chest. Cas's eyes were closed, his chin stained with blood.
No, no, no.
"Cas." Dean patted his cheek.
Sam dragged himself over, expression tight with worry as he felt for a pulse.
Cas moaned and his eyelids fluttered. Dean nearly sagged in relief.
But then Cas let out a small cough, and instantly curled onto his side with a choked sound of pain. Both Dean and Sam gripped his shoulders to brace him, exchanging terrified looks—defeating Pestilence was supposed to have cured him!
"Cas, hey, look at me." Dean reached down to cup his face, trying to coax Cas into opening his eyes again. He actually didn't feel that hot…
Cas's lids dragged upward, and his eyes weren't glazed with fever, either.
"Cas, how do you feel?" Sam asked urgently.
His face pinched. "Awful."
Dean's chest tightened with fear. "You still feel sick?"
Cas furrowed his brow and blinked a few times before responding. "I- I don't think so… My chest hurts…and I think I'd rather be unconscious. But…I don't feel…like I did a few minutes ago." His eyelids fluttered again and he tried to crane his neck around. "Has it only been a few minutes?" He seemed to notice the blood on his chin, and reached up to wipe it off with his sleeve.
Dean still wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. Was Cas still sick, or cured? Should they take him to a hospital now? He did look better. Though, it wasn't hard to look better than death warmed over.
"Yeah, only a minute." He spotted the ring on the floor nearby, and snatched it up. "You did good, man. You ganked Pestilence." Dean felt a swell of pride for the former angel, who had not only taken down a Horseman singlehandedly, but done it on the brink of death. That was pretty badass.
Cas's lips curved in a faint smile. "And you and Sam are okay?"
"We're fine," Dean assured him. He glanced at his brother and lowered his voice, even though Cas could obviously still hear him. "What should we do?"
Frowning, Sam placed the back of his hand against Cas's brow and held it there for a long moment. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a fever anymore." He eyed Cas critically. "Your ribs hurt?"
Cas nodded. "Am I still ill?" he asked, a trace of fear in his voice.
"I don't think so," Sam said. "But all that coughing left your diaphragm bruised. It'll heal in a few days."
Cas let out a lengthy sigh, only to grimace as that little movement apparently caused pain as well. "It's always going to take 'a few days,' isn't it?"
Sam gave him a sympathetic wince. "Yeah, pretty much."
Dean patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, Cas. We'll get you a bed and the remote, and you can get some real rest for a few days without us dragging your ass all over the mid-west."
Cas frowned and immediately tried to sit up. "I'm well enough to travel," he protested. "I can still help with the hunt—"
"We don't even have a lead on Death," Sam cut him off. "And I think Dean and I need to recoup after this one, too." He turned to Dean. "Right?"
"Absolutely." Dean wanted a drink, or four…except the memory of his stomach trying to turn inside out while still inside his body was kind of stirring up the nausea again. Maybe some 7-Up would be better.
He looped his arm under Cas's, Sam taking his other side, and hauled him upright. Cas tried to bite back a grunt, but didn't quite succeed.
"Easy, buddy," Dean said, guiding him toward the door. They carefully sidestepped around the bodies and made it outside to the Impala. Dean frowned when he spotted the back door hanging open, but decided not to say anything. Cas had been delirious with fever when he'd come in after them—and Dean should have berated him for that stunt to begin with, except he'd saved all their asses.
He and Sam helped Cas slide into the backseat, and Dean scooped up the blanket from the ground. It was colder than Cas was now, so he merely threw it onto the floor. They'd find a warm place to hole up in for a while soon.
Dean actually drove a few miles away from the convalescent home before finally stopping at a motel, wanting to put some distance between it and them for when the authorities found the mess inside. He made sure to rent a room with a kitchenette, complete with microwave and mini refrigerator, as he planned to stock up on cold and flu stuff so Cas could recuperate properly. While it seemed pretty clear that Cas wasn't sick anymore, he was still weakened after the whole ordeal, and walking from the car to the room had tired him out pretty thoroughly.
"I'm gonna do a store run," Dean announced. "Stock up on food for our stay."
Sam quirked a brow at him. "Dean, I don't think a bunch of Chinese leftovers is the best idea." His hand fluttered against his stomach.
Dean's own gurgled unpleasantly. Dammit, if Pestilence had ruined a bunch of different meals for them, Dean was gonna be pissed.
"I was thinking chicken noodle soup," he said, nodding to Cas, who was sitting on the bed and looking ready to fall over.
Sam perked up. "Oh, pick up some honey to go with the tea."
"Got it."
Dean headed out. At the store, he grabbed several cans of soup, along with some paper bowls to microwave it in. And a can opener. It'd been a while since he'd done this, but he still remembered the necessities from when he'd had to take care of Sammy and Dad wasn't around. He also bought some pop-tarts, heat wraps, and instant ice packs.
When he got back to the room, he found Sam puttering around and heard the water in the shower running. The bathroom door was open a tiny crack, presumably for Sam to check on Cas since he'd seemed a bit wobbly on his feet.
"Got everything we need for a few days," Dean said, putting the grocery bags on the small table. He glanced at Cas's sweater draped over the back of a chair. There were several spots and smears of blood on it—Cas's own that he'd coughed up, along with some from the demon nurse he'd stabbed.
"Guess we can chuck this ugly-ass thing," he commented.
Sam looked over with a frown, then darted a furtive glance at the bathroom. "Um, Dean," he said quietly, moving toward the table. "I don't think the sweater is a fashion statement."
"Yeah, because it's a fashion travesty."
Sam rolled his eyes. "No," he hissed. "I mean…I think Cas likes that sweater because it's…like a safety blanket or something."
Dean stared dubiously at his brother. "What, like because he doesn't have the trench coat anymore?" Maybe Dean should have bought him a replacement.
Sam heaved an exasperated sigh. "No. Because of…" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Because of the scars."
Dean's throat automatically constricted at the mention of Cas's scars. Dean had seen them when they were fresh wounds, evidence of unimaginable torture and brutality. They were the kind of scars that left marks on the soul, not just the body. He glanced at the bulky, heavy sweater in a new light. Damn.
Dean gingerly picked up the article of clothing. "I'll- I'll go wash this."
Sam gave him a sympathetic look. "We could just buy him another one."
Dean shook his head. "No. No, I can do this for him." He swallowed around the lump growing in his throat. "You got everything you need for a couple hours?"
Sam's mouth turned upward in a small smile. "Yeah, we're good."
Dean looked up the nearest laundromat on his phone, and then collected the rest of their laundry before heading out. It was a good thing he and Sam were well-practiced with removing bloodstains from clothes, and it took Dean less time than he'd anticipated to clean the soiled sweater.
By the time he returned to the motel, Cas was tucked in bed, multiple pillows propping him up, and the television playing some documentary from the History channel or something. He had a paper bowl of steaming soup sitting in his lap. Sam was at the table, clacking away at his laptop while he nibbled on a pop-tart.
Cas looked over at Dean's entrance as he set the bag of laundry down, and frowned when he pulled out the sweater from the top.
"I got the blood stains out," Dean said by way of greeting. "It still needs to dry, though. I didn't want to throw it in a machine and risk it shrinking." He draped the sweater over the back of the chair again.
Cas's brow furrowed further. "Y- you washed it? I thought you didn't like that sweater."
Dean shrugged one shoulder. "But you do. And bloodstains are nothing. Sam and I have lots of practice getting them out." He couldn't help casting an assessing eye over Cas's current clothes. He was wearing the flannel Dean had bought, but again, two shirts at the same time; the contrasting colors showed on one collar poking out underneath the other. Dean knew the wounds were healed, but he wondered if the scars were still sensitive, or if it was purely a psychological thing for Cas to pad himself like that.
It was a topic for another time, however, when Cas was feeling better. And in the meanwhile, Dean would stop giving him a hard time about the sweater. Maybe he'd even buy Cas another one.
Dean went to the shopping bags to grab a package of pop-tarts for himself, and then went over to plop on the other bed, putting his feet up. "So, what are we watching?"
"A documentary on America's Civil War," Cas replied.
"Cas said he observed it back when his garrison was watching earth," Sam mentioned casually, though Dean knew his brother well enough to detect the slightly pointed tone behind the statement.
Dean leaned back against the headboard. It wasn't Dr. Sexy, but he'd survive. "That mean you can tell me what they get wrong?"
Cas canted his head thoughtfully. "Well, they have tried their best to reconstruct events from historical data, but there are some discrepancies…"
Dean settled in for a history lesson, glad that for once in what seemed like a long while, Cas seemed to be engaged and enjoying himself. His family was safe again, and that's all that really mattered.
Sam was right that after a few days, Castiel's ribs started feeling better and it didn't hurt to breathe anymore. The soup and tea soothed his raw throat from all the coughing, and resting in a soft bed did do wonders for his exhaustion. Yet for all his restored health, Castiel couldn't shake the feeling of despondency hanging over him like a dark shroud. He could easily contract another illness in the future and have to go through this misery all over again.
Castiel didn't know if he could bear it.
Dean had taken the Impala to fill the tank with gas. Now that Castiel was mostly on the mend, they'd be heading out again, three individuals against an Apocalypse of cosmic proportions.
Castiel finished packing his clothes in his duffel. He was wearing the sweater again, and was more grateful than he wanted to admit that Dean had managed to salvage it.
Sam stacked his and Dean's bags by the door, then turned around, mouth pressed into a pensive frown. "Hey, Cas, how are you doing?"
"Fine," he replied. "I have not experienced a relapse."
"Yeah, no, I meant, uh…" Sam shifted his weight as though in discomfort. "With…you. You know, emotionally. With adjusting to being human."
Castiel stilled his hands. It amazed and sometimes aggravated him how perceptive the younger Winchester could be.
"It's just," Sam went on. "When you were sick, your fever was pretty high, but you said…"
Castiel frowned. What had he said? Oh, yes. Something along the lines of not wanting to live in this decrepit state. He still felt that way, to a degree. But he was not 'thinking of killing himself' as Dean had once asked him.
Castiel let out a wearied sigh. "Every time I think I'm becoming accustomed to being human, I'm met with another complication," he admitted. "I just feel like…I will never not struggle with something or other."
Sam gave him a sympathetic half-smile. "That's…life. Struggles are a part of it."
Castiel nodded solemnly. "Life is a terminal illness."
Sam's mouth turned down. "Cas…"
"I'm sorry, Sam," he interrupted. "I know you and Dean are trying to be patient with me. I'm just not sure I can do this."
Sam opened his mouth, probably to once again heap reassurances upon Castiel, but he barreled on first.
"But I promised you and Dean I would try. So I will."
Sam's expression shifted to relief coupled with understanding. "Good. Because me and Dean need you around." He hesitated, and glanced out the window as though searching for something. "Actually, Dean's really gonna need you. Because- because I've been thinking about Lucifer and the Cage. And…" Sam took a deep breath and let it out. "What if we open the Cage, and I jump in."
Castiel blinked owlishly at him for several long moments, not sure he had heard that correctly. "You want to say yes to Lucifer, and then jump in the hole?" he asked.
Sam huffed out a strangled laugh. "Yeah. Go ahead and tell me it's the worst plan you ever heard."
Castiel opened his mouth, but stopped. This had never occurred to him, because it was wild and insane and…so like a Winchester.
"Of course," Castiel finally spoke. "I am happy to say that if that's what you want to hear." He paused, chewing on this train of thought. "But it's not what I think."
Sam's eyes widened. "Really?"
"You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. You have remarkable strength, Sam. More than I could ever hope to have." And here Castiel's chest tightened at the implications of this plan. "Maybe you could resist Lucifer, but there are things that you would need to know."
Sam still looked a bit stunned. "Like?"
"Michael is likely using your brother Adam as a vessel."
Sam winced. "We were trying not to think of that."
Castiel leveled a grave look at him. "Sam…if you say yes to Lucifer and then fail…this fight will happen. And the collateral…it'll be immense. There's also the demon blood."
Sam stiffened. "What? What are you talking about?"
"To take in Lucifer, it would be more than you've ever drunk." Castiel knew how hard it had been for Sam to give up the demon blood, not to mention Dean would not be happy about this. He wouldn't be happy with the idea at all.
"But…why?" Sam asked.
"It strengthens the vessel. Keeps it from exploding."
"But the guy he's in now—"
"He's drinking gallons," Castiel informed him. It was the only way Lucifer's current body, who wasn't his true vessel, could sustain the archangel for this long. And Castiel had already witnessed signs of decay when he'd encountered the Devil at Carthage.
Sam's throat bobbed, and Castiel could see the doubt warring in his eyes.
"Sam," Castiel said quietly. "You do understand what jumping into the Cage means."
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "I do, Cas. It means stopping the Apocalypse and saving the world. I let Lucifer out; it's only right I put him back."
Castiel gazed at him sadly. "I suppose it makes me a 'heartless dick,' as Dean would say, but I don't want you to."
Sam's lips twitched in a small smile. "That's not heartless."
"It's selfish. As a battle strategist, I know this is the way to win the war."
Sam nodded. "I figured as much."
Castiel's heart twinged with grief. He'd been so consumed with the thought of himself not surviving this war, of not surviving being human…he'd never even once entertained the horrifying thought that one of the Winchesters wouldn't either.
Resolve filled Sam's eyes then, and he lifted his chin. "I know I promised to be there, Cas, to help you with everything about being human. I don't think that's gonna happen."
Castiel's throat tightened until it was becoming difficult to breathe again.
"But you'll still have Dean. And he's gonna need you. You'll need each other. And you'll both be fine." Sam took a step forward and clasped Castiel's shoulder. "That, I still have faith in."
Castiel swallowed hard, and nodded, unable to speak. At the sound of the Impala's engine pulling up, Sam drew back and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Then he was picking up their bags and sweeping out of the room.
Castiel felt a heavy dread settle over him as he grabbed his duffel and followed.
Dean got out of the car. "I just talked to Bobby. He says he knows where Death is going to be."
"Really?" Sam said. "How?"
Dean shrugged. "Don't know, but let's get on it."
Sam hurriedly stowed the bags in the trunk, holding it open for Castiel to bring his over as well. They shared a sorrowful, yet resigned look, and then Sam was moving around to climb into the front passenger seat.
Castiel slid into his place in the back. He took a deep breath, and prepared to brace himself for what came next.
A/N: I admit, it's not the happiest ending, but there's only so much one can do given that things with Lucifer are about to come to a head.
Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed. ^_^ Next up is another sequel to one of my other fics, The Path to Redemption, continuing that season 9 AU. You can always check my profile for a list of fics in the pipeline. Until next time!
