He ran a single finger around where he knew the circle was carved into his chest, wincing. They had stitched parts of him up, and he could almost feel the string pulling his skin back together again. There was an infection, raging, making the edges red and the middle weep. Even through the bandage he could see the ugly colour creeping to the surface. It made him feel so impure, his stomach lunged every time he so much as caught a glimpse.
He'd asked if there would be scars. It seemed important to know somehow. The sympathetic looks he received in return answered that question better than words ever could.
He closed his eyes, hitting his head softly back against the hospital pillows.
What had he got himself involved in?
Some sort of cult?
The police had come by to talk to him twice, but he still could not provide them with any answers.
A white light and paralysing fire was hardly a description that they could work with.
The doctors said his memory would come back, that the trauma may be keeping it at bay, but so far he had had nothing. No flashes, no names, no memories of his time before waking up in that bed. He didn't know where he had grown up, what he had been doing with his life, if he had family, friends?
Sometimes, he thought he could picture his own hand holding a small pocket knife, carving the symbols into his chest. A few times he had found himself wanted to ask for pen and paper, just to see if he could draw that near perfect circle.
He refrained every time however.
He did not want to know if he was capable of stabbing a blade through flesh. Even if it was his own.
"Mr Novak, I'm Doctor Foster, a psychiatrist here at the hospital, I was wondering if we could have a chat."
He rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. The sky was dull, the cloud's heavy, it seemed like it would rain soon. His lips tugged slightly at that thought, the idea of rain pleasing him somehow. He couldn't help but wonder if that was a new thing, or a link to his past.
"How are you feeling today?"
He didn't answer. He didn't want to answer. He knew why she was there and it had nothing to do with his lack of memory. The nurses expected him to be angry. Everyone kept telling him it was okay if he wanted to lash out, to express anger at what had happened to him. They made no secret of the fact that they thought his nonchalant attitude towards it all, was a problem in itself.
But he couldn't help it.
He just wasn't feeling it.
Maybe it was because he couldn't remember. Or maybe the anger had just been sliced out of him when his body was used as sketch pad. He didn't know. But he didn't feel angry. Not towards the people that had done this to him, nor himself. The only thing he did feel in fact was this uncomfortable clench deep inside his gut when ever anyone repeated that statement back to him.
He couldn't explain it. But they weren't allowed to. They weren't allowed to mention anger to him.
It wasn't there place.
It could never be their place.
The first drop of rain fell and he gave a small a half smile. He quite liked the thought of standing under it.
"I know this isn't easy for you."
He turned to look at the woman in the white coat, his expression falling.
She didn't know a thing.
On the fourth day, they told him he had been registered as a missing person, nearly two years ago. That they went to contact his family but the house had been empty for months, with no forwarding address. Neighbours had said his wife and daughter had upped and left one day and that was that.
He looked down at his finger, where a ring should have been, there wasn't even a trace there had ever been one. Noindent, no change in his skin tone. Nothing to link him to the people they were speaking off.
"Their names are Claire and Amelia." He knew the doctors expected that to provoke a reaction in him. It didn't. They could have been the names of the people in the next room for all he cared.
Though it did bring him to wonder about one thing-
Just what kind of person was he, to leave them in the first place?
A technician managed to get his phone working on the fifth. It contained just two contacts. 'Sam and Dean.' Other than that, there were no pictures or text messages on the device. Nothing at all to link it to himself.
Perhaps it belonged to the cult. If he had even decided he was apart of a cult?
"Jimmy?"
He turned it over in his hand, it was battered and dented and the screen was scratched, his blood sticking into the cracks. Maybe it was best for him to just throw it away. What was the point of him having it anyway? It was near to useless.
"Jimmy." A hand touched his arm and he jumped, his attention flickering to the nurse in seconds, his instincts on high alert. He felt his shoulders tense up and square, his eyes narrow and harden. His whole body positioning itself to fight. "Woah easy, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you."
He forced himself to relax, letting out a small breathe, not understanding where that reaction had come from. He had no reason to think he was in danger. No reason for his hair to be sticking up on the back of his neck. Yet it was and he felt it, running through his blood - an instinct, so deep he couldn't possibly follow it back to the source. One that was telling him he had to fight.
"Have you tried calling the voicemail?" She asked. Not at all phased by his lack of verbal response. They had become rather used to his silence. For a while they wondered if he had some sort of brain damage. But no, he was too alert and he could speak, it was just he often had nothing to say. "Here."
She reached out, dialling a number, before handing the phone back to him and leaving the room. Saying something about giving him some privacy. He wasn't sure there was any part of him that needed it.
He raised the phone to his ear slowly all the same, uncertain, his stomach tying itself in knots as it anticipated the things it could say. The parts of his life it could reveal.
If it revealed anything at all.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
New messages.
'Cas? Please, if you get this call me.'
Cas? Who was Cas?
'Dude you have us worried sick here, where the hell are you?'
That was another voice, a deeper voice than the first. Were these supposed to be his friends? This Sam and Dean? A part of him had hoped if he heard their voices it would trigger something, but he just felt as confused as ever.
Who were they? And who the hell was he?
'Cas, damn it...Please tell me you're alright. You can not do this to us."
He frowned realising what he had failed to detect in the first message. That man sounded upset. Worried about him. He closed his eyes, trying to picture their faces. Trying to force his mind to reveal something about them.
Anything.
He wasn't angry about what had happened to him, but he was starting to become frustrated with the lack of knowledge.
How could his mind know nothing?
How could it just forget people that were supposed to mean something to him.
Claire, Amelia, Sam and Dean?
This wasn't right, none of this felt right.
He almost hung up the phone.
'Cas come on man, this ain't funny. Just get in contact yeah?.'
'Please, please tell me you did not carve that symbol into yourself. What the hell were you thinking? You're not immortal! We would have found another way? Christ if the angels have you…" the voice paused. "Don't worry we'll get you back. I swear to God."
His blood ran cold as he glanced down to his chest...well that at least cleared one mystery up. He guessed he really was a psychopath. He had to be right? To do that to himself? To create some fake name then take a knife to his own body?
Who the hell was he?
And why did the man have such an odd way of asking if he were dead?
'Damn it Cas.'
Yes, damn it, damn the world, damn himself. Damn everything. Including his own freakin mind. If this was supposed to be helping him, he'd rather have never picked the device up in the first place. None of this made any sense and his breathing was slowly getting heavier, harder to control.
He didn't understand any of it.
'Cas.'
He pulled the phone away, staring at the screen with his lips pressed firmly together.
Who the hell was he?
Who were these people?
And what had he been doing to need to butcher himself in the first place?
He pushed himself up off the pillows, gasping out as the wounds stretched. He tried to swing his legs over the bed. He needed to stand, he needed to get out of there.
He collapsed back against the headboard, gasping. Sweat sweeping across his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath.
He wasn't going anywhere.
The phone was still talking, so he raised it back to his ear.
There was nothing else to do anyway.
Saved messages.
'Casssss… Cas. Hey! Sorry. Dean's not here. You should have answereD. Cus then I could tell you *hicup* why. I reallllly want to thank you. For being my friend. Even though I'm … you know. You don't need reminding. You're a good friend, but shhhhhh I won't tell God if you don't. It will be our secret .. Will I see you soon? I hope so, Cus' you know you're always welcome with us."
His forehead creased up and he pulled it away again, looking at it as if it had grown its own set of wings.
Why had he saved that? Of all things. The man was clearly intoxicated.
Though at least now he could put a name to each voice.
He sighed, dropping his hand heavily against the sheets.
This was all too much.
And he was exhausted.
Pain and fire. Flashes of light so bright it could take your eyes out.
He was desperate.
He had to stop them.. .
A hand cutting down his chest, blood trickling down his front.
His own screams.
Their screams.
Suites and blades.
And his body ripping itself apart.
A boiling pan of water and his hand inside. Cooking. Trembling.
A body of a tall man lying lifeless on the ground.
'Take me! NOT HER.'
He sat up with a jolt. His entire face contorting in pain as the injury to his chest burned. He gasped, sweat pouring down the back of his neck. He pulled violently at his hospital gown, his hand searching for the wound, almost expecting the blood to be pouring out of it as he had seen just moments ago. He pulled at the tape, needing it to be free, needing the string out of his skin. It couldn't be there, it shouldn't have been there.
He pulled and scratched. This wasn't right. None of this was right.
This wasn't his home, it wasn't what he needed-
There were suddenly hands gripping at his shoulders, pushing him back down. Prying his bloody fingers away. He could hear the monitor behind him going crazy and he tried to force himself to sit up, to fight back against the people holding him down.
He was a soldier, and they were nothing. They had no power over him.
"Sir calm down. You must calm down."
"SAM."
He needed to get back. He needed to stop it. He needed to be there. He needed to get Dean and-
Something cold and sharp dug into his arm.
Then everything went blank.
"Jimmy?" He turned blankly, his stare almost vacant, he had gotten better at responding to his name. Or the name he told them anyway. He was no longer sure that was who he was. There was a nurse in the doorway, another one. There never seemed to be the same one on duty. Unless he just couldn't remember their faces. How could he trust his own mind when it couldn't tell him anything about himself? "These men from the FBI want to talk to you."
She indicated behind her and he glanced to them. They were both tall. One more so than the other. Dressed in suits as you would expect.
"I'll leave you gentlemen too it. Go easy on him, he can't remember a lot."
He rolled his eyes. Couldn't remember anything more like. He was starting to think it was going to remain that way too.
"Thanks ma'am."
He blinked, taken aback by the voice. He narrowed his eyes and for the first time that day, really concentrated on his surroundings. It sounded so familiar to him. Gruff with hidden anger shimmering underneath the surface. He squinted pulling apart every inch of the man who had spoken. His eyes were hard, haunted and there was an air about him which he didn't quite understand.
Still he tried too. Wanting nothing more than to decipher his face and come to know something with absolute clarity.
He concentrated, scanning along the defined jawline, taking in the fullness of his lips and the symmetricness of his face.
It had to mean something. It had too.
"Cas! You had us worried sick!" He recognised that voice too and frowned, turning his attention to the other agent. Sam and Dean worked for the FBI? Now that was a surprise. His heart sank however when he realised he was just remembering them from the phone calls. That he hadn't suddenly unlocked his mind. He tried to hide the disappointment as he looked the other man up and down. He was far taller, broader, than he had imagined. His eyes told him he had seen horrors too, but nowhere near the same level of his partner. There was still something there, something that had not been broken, made even more clear by the wave of colours that almost seem to encircle them. Not green or brown, but everything in between, it was fascinating.
Yet still unfamiliar.
Sam took a hopeful step forward, but the man's smile wavered as he looked away. He felt bad, but he couldn't face him, didn't want to face either of them. Dean moved further into the room too, in front of Sam, looking a less confident this time.
"You alright man?"
He didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. These men, they wanted something from him, expected something from him and he had a horrible feeling he was about to let them down. If he was completely honest, he kind of felt let down by them too. Seeing them was supposed to trigger something. Was supposed to tell him who he was. Tell him why his one and only saved message, was a drunken one of all things. He was meant to have this explosion of feelings, to know the times they had laughed and cried together.
To be reminded why he carved something into his chest.
Was it to protect them?
To get away from them?
He didn't know.
He would never know.
There was nothing.
They were strangers.
Perhaps this was all pointless and Claire and Amelia would be too.
He swallowed, forcing the next words from his lips.
"... You are my friends?"
He needed it confirming. Needed to hear it from their mouths, to watch for even the slightest signs of them lying. To know he had pinned his hopes on the right people, even if he didn't get a result.
The look that crossed Sam's face made him wish he had kept his mouth shut.
Regret almost flooring him.
He couldn't have hurt him more if he had taken a knife to his chest and made them wear the same scar.
"You really did hit your head." Dean replied, glancing to Sam, almost like he knew he would be more affected by that statement. The man reached out, only slightly, as if he was wanting to put a comforting hand on his partners arm.
It didn't quite make it all the way and he frowned again.
He was missing something there.
"So I'm told. Why do you keep calling me Cas?"
He struggled over even asking that. But it seemed fundamental. Was it was a nickname? Had he changed his identity when he had left his wife? He knew nothing about himself, he needed for at least the name to be right. Maybe then everything else would fall into place.
The reaction from Sam was instant, he sucked in a breathe, his eyes giving everything away in the few seconds he remained facing him for. He turned his back fairly quickly, stepping towards the wall, a shaky hand reaching to rub at his face.
Okay, so... there was one thing he had learnt about himself. He apparently had the uncanny ability to upset the younger man with very little words.
He needed to apologise. Say anything to remove that expression from his face.
He was fairly certain there was not a single person in the world who deserved to wear it less.
Dean swallowed. "Oh jeez. Okay. Jimmy. You remember us right? Do you know where Cas went? Is he… is he okay?"
He blinked.
Slowly,
His mouth parting.
That… that did not make sense?
The man looked desperate, glancing around to make sure no one had heard him.
He shook his head. If it was at all possible he was even more confused than before.
"Am I … meant to have a duplicate?" Or a mental illness? He was sure he had spotted a leaflet on multiple personalities. Was that what was going on here?
Was he unwell? Did he just need to take medication for things to start making sense again?
And had it really come to the stage where he was hoping that was an answer?
Dean's eyes widened dramatically and the two agents quickly shared a concerned look.
Okay. So maybe that wasn't it at all.
"What? No." Dean's eyes narrowed, as if he was suspicious he was playing some sort of game with them. What ever he was trying to find in his expression, he must have found, because he swallowed hard and let out a low whistle, raising his eyebrows. "So you really don't remember anything? Like anything, anything?"
He made some strange spinning motion with his finger.
He could only bring himself to blink. "No."
He really had pinned his hopes on the wrong people.
The wrong and very strange people.
"Well then you could be Cas?... I mean he sounds like Cas, sort of" The last part was directed to Sam, his voice lowering. He chose not to point out that with the size of the room, he could still hear him anyway.
It was his brain that was injured after all, not his ears.
Maybe he was slow on the uptake?
"I don't… know." He let his arms flop to his sides. Giving up on thinking this would help him. They clearly had no more of an idea than he did. What had his voice got to do with whether he was himself or some unknown twin? Identicals sounded the same too right?
Perhaps it was the way he spoke.
He looked back to Sam as the man turned his head to reface him. His movements hesitant, as if he was trying to protect himself.
From him?
He certainly hoped not.
He held his gaze as Sam walked towards the end of the bed, resting his hands on top of the bars. He didn't say anything, but for some reason he couldn't look away. Almost transfixed. There was certainly something about this man that captured his attention.
"Do you recognise me at all?"
He thought about lying, about giving him some sort of false hope. He didn't know him, but he certainly didn't want to hurt him either. Not when he had done so already.
He opened his mouth, the 'yes' on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn't come out though, no matter how hard he pushed. So eventually he simply shook his head.
That was apparently the second thing he had learnt about himself today.
He could upset Sam, but he could not lie to him.
The man closed his eyes, ducking his head and he had to look away.
Apparently he didn't like letting him down either.
Things were awkward for the rest of their visit to say the least. Dean didn't seem to have much patience and he could only say he didn't know something so many times. Sam, barely spoke two further words. When ever he looked at him, he just seemed upset, then guilty, then he'd look away again.
It was a horrible pattern that he would have done anything to break.
He was starting to get the distinct impression they were close. Or Cas and Sam were close anyway. Close enough that his lack of recollection affected him on a much deeper level than it did Dean. He wasn't sure what to make of that.
They tried telling him stories, but that's all they were to him, stories. He didn't connect with a single one. None of them felt like they had happened to him, none of them tugged at anything in the corner of his mind. He may as well have been reading out of newspaper.
He knew they were leaving bits out too. Dean would pause, choose his next words carefully, or go off in another direction altogether. It was disheartening to say the least and made him realise more and more that he wasn't the man they were looking for.
Later on, as he watched them walk out the door, Sam barely managing a goodbye, he was struck by the realisation that that was it. That would be the last he would see of them. He wasn't related to them. He was not their responsibility and when he was fit to leave, he would have no one waiting for him. Nowhere to go.
He sunk back against the wall, turning to watch the rain outside again. His expression returning to the blank mask he had been wearing before.
That was fine.
He didn't need them.
He didn't need anyone.
"Here. I often find comfort in this when I need it the most."
He glanced down as a nurse placed a small red book on the side of his bed. He refused to look up as she walked away again, his eyes fixed on the cover. He at the very least knew what it was. A bible. Carefully he reached out to gather it in his hands. He ran a finger along the spine, but when his eyes landed on the cross, he flung the thing across the room.
He didn't understand where the rage came from, but it shot through him before he had the chance to process it. All he knew at that moment was he wanted it and its words and it's promises as far away from him as possible.
They were empty and belief wouldn't help anyone. Least of all him.
That was the fourth thing he learnt about himself.
He did not care for the word of God.
He lay back down in the bed, pulling the covers up high over himself.
He had had enough.
Enough of all of it.
He was done trying to understand.
A soft knock on the door the following day, caused him to do nothing more than turn his head to face it. Not bothering to try and sit up. It hurt and it was only going to be someone else wanting to prod and poke at him. Asking him questions that they should know he didn't have the answers too.
Do you remember what happened?
Do you know what day it is?
How are you feeling?
It infuriated him.
And if that damn blonde Foster women brought in the 'smiley-frowny chart' again he was going to start aiming for the window.
Hey. What do you know? He was an angry person after all.
"Hi." He blinked in surprise, instantly reaching behind him to push himself into a sitting position. Sam? "I- I brought you some things. Cus, you know hospital food sucks."
He held a bag out, his lips twitching into a brief, yet soft smile. He hovered by the doorway for a moment, before taking a deep breath, almost like he was trying to prepare himself and stepping inside.
"You came back?"
He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. He honestly never thought he would. He wasn't who he wanted him to be. So why would he ever return? Why would he set himself up for more hurt?
The man looked taken aback by the question. Which he supposed was at least a step up from him being upset.
"Of course? I'm not that fickle. Cas or-or Jimmy, we will help you figure it out." He stepped around the the other side of the bed, pulling up a chair and reaching inside the bag to empty it. "I didn't really know what you might want so I brought a selection. Urrr, no beer sandwiches though sorry." He almost laughed to himself, though quickly sobered up when he noticed the confused expression he was receiving.
Beer… sandwiches?
Was he serious?
He pulled a face at the man.
"Please tell me I have never consumed one of them?" It sounded disgusting. Worse than disgusting. Like chewing on a wet sponge which tasted like fermented grass. Who in their right mind would put that in their mouths? Never mind their bodies.
This time, Sam's 'laugh' was a little less strained.
"No. No you didn't. You made them for me actually."
He was pretty sure his face showed his feelings on that matter, as he curled the corner of his lip up and looked up at the man with confusion.
"You like them?"
Or was he trying to poison him? Perhaps that was why he had saved the phone message. It was the result of his attempt at a meal.
"No. We threw them in the bin." Sam ducked his head, his hair falling into his face. "Well almost all of them. One did end up under Dean's pillow."
He raised his eyebrow. Now that was perhaps a story he wanted to hear more of.
(A/N I know it's been ages i'm so sorry. Writing Cas as Jimmy, as not Jimmy was a hell of alot harder than i had anticipated. Writing without mentioning either name and not letting it get confusing was even harder. Hope it turned out okay. I hereby PROMISE to update again before christmas. (However if i fail dramatically i want to wish everyone a very merry christmas)