*Hi, everyone! Sorry, for the long wait. This is a shorter chapter, but I just wanted to give a brief over view of how Daryl and Aria are coping after the prison. There are some new flashbacks here for Aria, hopefully you guys like them. This is the beginning of a whole new Aria. It's going to get a lot darker. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited! I really appreciate your support and for sticking with this story. I'm going to try and get the next chapter out as soon as possible, please be patient. This story is nowhere near it's end and I'm not giving up on it anytime soon. Thank you and enjoy!*
Daryl's POV
"I ain't leaving without you."
How many times have I told her something just like that? The farm after Shane, when she got bit, Woodbury, her breakdown, and so many other times; all false fucking promises because I left. I found Beth and we ran. There was nobody left, how could she be alive?
Because it's her.
I stare at the flames, letting them eat me alive. I'm nothing. She didn't deserve to be with me. She gave me everything and I gave her nothing in the end. Nothing but words that mean jack shit without proof. The fucking ring is still in my pocket because we never got back to how it was. We were right there. So damn close to getting past Olivia and then the virus and the governor hit. She was right too. I should have let her take the shot. Rick never dealt with the governor face to face. The two of us have, and I stopped her.
"We should do something."
I didn't believe in her, didn't trust her to make the right decision.
Because you're afraid that the girl you love is gone.
"We should do something," Beth repeats, her voice piercing through the fog of my mind. I finally look up at her, finding those big blue doe eyes staring at me expectantly, but I've got nothing to give her. No condolences for her father or sister, no hopeful words about the others. Nobody made it, not even Aria. She couldn't have because the other possibility, the possibility that I left her, isn't an option. "We aren't the only survivors. We can't be."
But we are. There is no one left. Everybody's just gone; either dead or running like us.
"Rick, Michonne, Aria, they could be out there," she continues, and her name sends a stab of guilt through my chest. "Maggie and Glenn could have made it out of A block. They could've."
I want to believe, but I can't. If they got out why aren't they here? Hoping doesn't do us shit. It's another false promise and I've had enough of those. I watch the fire, the sparks jumping into the air. Beth's got too much hope. She believes and that's what's going to get her killed. It's what got everyone else in our group killed. Rick believed he could talk the Governor down, look how that turned out for him. We believed that we could have a sanctuary, a place to rebuild and thrive, and look what happened to our home. It's all just a waste of our time.
"You're a tracker. You can track," she stands up, looking down at me with expectation, begging me to get up and join her. But I keep my gaze trained on the fire because that's where I belong. I should be roasting in those flames. "Come on. The sun will be up soon. If we head out now, we can-" she stops herself, swallowing her next words. I can't look at her. There's hope in her and I don't think there's any left in this world. "Fine. If you won't track, I will."
Beth grabs my hunting knife from where it's embedded in the ground, and stalks off into the dark woods.
"Protect our people."
A drawn out sigh escapes me and I pull myself to my feet, kicking the fire out as I snatch my crossbow up. I left her, but I can make it up to her. It's all I can do. I'll protect Beth because Aria would want that. Keeping her safe is the only way I won't die because if she wasn't here, I may have just jumped into those flames.
Aria's POV
Red sprays my face, turning me into a modern piece of art. It accentuates the texture of my skin, contouring the tiny ridges of my cells as it dries. My body is a canvas of carnage, bearing the soul of a broken human. A soul that is painted black, letting the darkness rip soul's last shred of humanity into bloodied pieces. It bathes in the blood of hope as I bathe in the blood of the undead. Both of us killing for a cause unbeknownst to us because this slaughter isn't to help the world, it's to finally release all the pain inflicted on us. And it feels good to exact the revenge that has been denied to me for so long. The world doesn't want good people to walk it; it wants the evil to grace its land so that we can kill each other off. That's why all the good ones die, they are granted the chance to be at peace as we live in the new hell.
Walkers lie around me disembodied, brutally torn to shreds. It's what they do to everyone else, only seems fair to give them a dose of their own medicine. After all, I am one of them. I'm an empty carcass, roving the dead world, surviving off of my basic needs. I'm just hollow, dead, nothing but food for the next animal in the food chain.
My feet move one in front of the other without purpose, the destination unknown. It's all about moving, I can't stop. I have to keep walking until the next threat appears, until the next meal can be found. I could say that stopping means death, but that means nothing to someone who is already the dead walking.
One week since the prison, at least that's my best guess. I left her there, abandoned her like she forced me to. The angel in the ground was dead on impact. I put a knife through his head just to be sure he wouldn't come back. At least that's what I tell myself, but it's a lie. Putting a knife through his brain is putting it gently if I'm being honest with myself. I bludgeoned the angel's skull, nothing but fragments of bone left. That's when he took over, the monster.
He's been whispering in my ear for decades, far before this world happened. He's just gotten louder, started fighting back. I remember plunging the knife into Mark's chest, the screaming and his last words. The monster was there, masked as anger and fear, but it was him. Years passed and he turned into alcoholism, torturing me in my defenseless state. Then war came and he made me the perfect soldier, making the men in my platoon fear me and question my mental state.
"Hey, Doc, when the Taliban come for us, you're going to seduce them for us, right?" I smirk, rolling my eyes at Kovic's smart ass mouth.
"Yeah, Kovic, I'll just send them right to you for that lap dance."
The guys snicker to themselves, watching the rooftops and doorways as we move down the street in rows of three. It is dead quiet except for our small talk in the bombed streets of Kabul.
"Fuck you, Redford."
"You wish," I retort to my friend, wiping my brow of the beads of sweat that never go away. It's twice as hot inside my flak jacket, the heat trapped between my body and the metal plate becoming a personal sauna. We round the corner silent until Jennings opens the door to tease the Specialist,
"Hey, Kovic, how's that girlfriend of yours doing?"
"You mean his dolls?" Huttner cracks next to me, pink lips curled up in an amused grin as he steals a glance over his shoulder at the Midwesterner.
"You're fucking hilarious, Huttner."
"At least he's smart enough not to piss off the Doc," Reese adds, running the back of his gloved hand over his sweat soaked forehead.
"He's got a point. I can always give Molly a call and let her know you've decided to bat for the other team," I joke, stealing a quick glance behind me at Kovic, who playfully shoves me forward.
"She'd believe that as much as she believes in aliens." Our coms crackle in our ears before our Lieutenant's voice sounds,
"Bravo Team, what's your location?"
All the teasing is gone as we listen to Staff Sergeant Decker give our position. I scan the balconies with colored blankets lying over the rails, checking the broken infrastructure of the roofs from bombs blasts for any signs of movement.
"Copy that, Bravo. Overhead watch has got some suspicious activity east of you about one klick."
"Copy, Lieutenant Sanders, heading to the location now. Over." Our coms go silent for a moment before Staff Sergeant Decker calls over his shoulder. "Cut the jokes and keep your eyes open, soldiers. Unless you want to see Kovic give a lap dance."
Everyone cracks a smile and I can imagine my friend rolling his eyes. He puts himself in these positions though. Two years together, and the dumbass still has yet to realize that I can give his jokes right back. It's always entertaining though to watch the whole squad gang up on him in my defense.
"Nobody fucks with our Doc."
That's what Huttner always says when the occasional soldier likes to comment how a woman doesn't belong out here alongside them. My squad knows better than anyone that I'm more than capable on my own. The number of wrestling matches we hold in the barracks over the past couple of years has proven my capability. They respect me and I respect them, watching out for them like the Moms, girlfriends, and wives the left back home.
Corporal Reese's shoulders tighten before me as he shifts his rifle, tightening his grip I'm sure, and everyone does the same. It's an unspoken command that we are in our area and that we need to be ready. Blast holes wreck every few houses from RPGs, the homes riddled with bullet holes. My pulse remains even in wake of the eerie silence, my breathing calm as I press the stock of my M-16 into my shoulder; eyes trained down the sights as I trail the muzzle from doorway to rooftop. Our boots crunching against the gravel is the only sound, like wolves preying in a fresh snow.
The crack of the sniper isn't heard until after Levitz goes down on my left, and then all hell breaks loose. Rapid fire rains down on us as we scramble off the streets, Corporal's call of contact drowned out by the deafening bullet storm. I grip Levitz's jacket, Huttner covering me as I drag his limp body to a home, breaking down the door, the three of us stumbling in as the road explodes with a missile. My ears ring, dust raining down on us as my heart thunders in my chest, trying to catch my breath. I glance next to me at Huttner, catching his wide brown eyes. No blood, just dirt smudged on his sweat covered face, and I take control right away.
"Get on that window and cover me while I take care of Levitz!" I yell in his ear, the crack of gunfire and our men screaming out calls sounding from outside.
He's up in a second, rifle pressed to his shoulder as he takes position at the front window. I drag Levitz right behind him, grunting at the man's weight. Blood soaks his left shoulder, grey eyes wide as he stares up at me. He's gasping and I rip his flak jacket open, doing a rapid assessment for an exit wound and not finding one.
"Stay with me, Calvin," I shout over the constant gunfire. The home shakes with the shock wave of another RPG. My name is called out over the firefight, my heart rate picking up with the knowledge that more of my men are hurt.
I rip my pack off my shoulders, grabbing the trauma shears and cut his sweat soaked beige shirt down the middle revealing his bare chest. His chest doesn't rise and fall properly and I reach for the needle decompression in the second pouch of my bag. Levitz's skin is already getting pale, shock starting to set in with the collapsed lung. There's no telling what that bullet did once it entered his body. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, struggling for air as he tries to remain still.
I pop open the needle cartridge when bullets fly by me. I drop over Calvin, heart skipping a beat as my hand shoots to my hip for my M9. Rough Arabic voices sound as rifles click empty. It's all instinct as I pop up, aiming my M9 and shoot. Two shots to the chest and one to the head for the first, the other turns to run, but I tap my trigger twice, bullets piercing the man in the middle of the back as he stumbles into a wall and slumps down it. Another RPG rockets into the street, the firefight rolling on oblivious to us three soldiers.
"Huttner," I call, kneeled beside Calvin who's barely hanging on, watching the back door. We should have fucking cleared it, set up a better perimeter. There's no answer and I steal a glance over my shoulder and nearly crumple. He's slumped on his side, a streak of blood painted down the wall from the gunshot to his head. My grip falters, shoulders slumping as a choked breath flutters past my chapped lips.
A warrior yell makes me turn back around too late as a Taliban soldier plows into me, pinning me to the carpeted floor, a large knife gripped in his hand aimed for my head. My pistol falls from me, my hands wrapping around his wrist to fight for control of the blade. His other hand wraps around my throat, nails digging into the soft skin, trying to grip my windpipe. Red floods my vision as I glance to my left, Huttner's dead body staring back at me.
I punch the man in the face, twisting his wrist as I move the blade away. Thrusting my knee up, I catch the man in the gut, knocking the knife free from his hand. Bullets ricochet off the window pane where my friend was positioned, my squad calling out to each other over the enemy fire. My knuckles collide with his jaw, dropping the man to the ground beside me as I pin him beneath my weight.
It's rapid fire, my fist spitting out pain like a M-16 magazine. Red paints my knuckles, like it paints the wall with Huttner's blood, just like it paints Levitz's skin. I can't hear the satisfaction of bones snapping in the man's face but I can feel it. It's not enough though. He's a pulp, unrecognizable, but it is still not good enough. My hand claims his knife and buries the blade to the hilt into his chest. A strained gasp is shouted from blood stained lips before the blade finds purchase again in his right lung, then his left. It's a blur, dark red soaking the dark clothes, clinging to my gloves and fatigues like dye.
The war in the street is drowned out by my heavy breathing, the squelch of the knife puncturing over and over in a twisted melody that makes my heart sing in revenge. Revenge for every soldier blown up, riddled with bullets; vengeance for the family's back home that will receive that olive branch sealed envelope with the fake words of sympathy for their loss.
"Redford! Doc, stop!"
Hands pin mine down to the mangled body, blood soaking into my gloves, staining my palms for sure. A voice pierces through the red haze, my own screaming to stop and I freeze, locking eyes with Kovic.
It's quiet, too quiet. Not impending danger silent, but the kind reserved in wake of unspeakable acts. My conscious screams not to look, but I do, glancing down at the man and find bile rising up my throat. Unrecognizable doesn't even begin to define the body beneath me. My eyes slide upwards, catching each wide eyed gaze of my men. It's not quiet; it is fear striking my squad speechless.
I remember the cautious glances stolen in the Humvee back to base, Huttner and Levitz's bodies riding in body bags two cars behind us. It took an hour to wash all the blood off my face and arms. Then Decker's words as he explained the reason for my discharge. They lied. Every man in my squad lied to our superiors, saying that I was unstable; making up details to support my disability discharge for personality disorder. It was one hell of a story they spun, all to make sure that I stayed out of a military prison. Send me home before the monster could take over, before he could hurt one of them. Only the monster never rested.
He turned into a silent whisper of self-loathing, reminding me of how many people died at my hands. Those whispers became more insistent as innocent people were ripped to shreds by creatures of the night, slaughtered by demons because I couldn't save them.
He swims in my veins, the same color red as the haze that blinded me that day in Afghanistan. He's the blood that spills from my enemies, my friends, the ones I can't save; warm, full of live and pumping through my body non-stop. There's no death for him without mine. The monster is the violent voice in my head that drowns my conscious. He is Oriax's voice, my doubts and fears, combined in one to remind me of every failure I've had and the people who have hurt me. But it's not the physical pain he makes me remember, no it's the fleeting comments of others that he uses.
The bar is fairly filled. It's still early though for the younger crowd, the ones who always get rowdy. Give or take another hour or so and the place will be jammed until the wee hours of morning. Country music sings through the speakers, cowboy hats adorning the men's heads at the bar while girls in short shorts dance across the floor in their leather cowboy boots.
"You gotta love, Alabama," Kyler comments offhanded, watching one of the waitresses walk past him, eyes glued to her ass covered in homemade cutoff shorts.
"I think you mean the girls, buddy," Luke smirks, and I feel his chocolate eyes on me as I lazily throw my darts at the board.
It's just practice, something to remind me of the brothers. A heavy sigh flutters past my lips, the next dart just barely making it on the board. I gather them up and drop them on the high top table, stealing a large sip of my Guinness.
"Do you know how to play this game?" Luke questions teasingly, picking up a metal dart with red fletching
"I don't know, do I?" I snark; fixing him with an annoyed look as I snatch the dart back. Three months we've been hunting together and he knows nothing about me. Why I'm hunting with him, I have no clue. I'm better on my own, and there's only one pair of men that I want to hunt with. However, one is rotting in a cage with Lucifer and the other is living some apple pie life.
How Dean could just walk away, I don't understand. I know he promised Sam he would do this, but when has Dean ever listened to Sam? He asked me to do the same thing and I told him no. I wasn't going to make I promise I knew I couldn't keep. But four weeks alone and it just felt wrong. Something was missing, something that Luke and Kyler couldn't replace.
Luke is just a friend with benefits, an extra hand for hunts, and Kyler is his friend who I met a week ago. Good guys, decent hunters, and fun, but there's nothing in common between the three of us besides the fact that we like whisky and hunt the supernatural.
"Watch it, man. She'll take all your money before you even realize it. You're talking to the queen of hustling right here," Kyler adds, leaning back in his seat as he waves a waitress over.
I hop into the tall seat with a small grin, "Queen might be going a bit far there, Kyler."
"I think it's fairly accurate. All the hunters know better than to take you on in a game of pool."
I shrug, thinking of all the money the Winchesters and I won as a team. Sam and Dean played the game while I flirted around with the competitors, screwing up their shots on purpose. We played dirty, but it was a sight to watch how well we worked, like we were triplets with a psychic connection.
"Well, not every hunter," I tease, slapping the lip of Luke's Patriot's cap down over his eyes.
Luke shakes his head, giving me a playful shove as he rights his cap; resting it lightly over his short blonde hair, keeping his eyes clear. The waitress meets us at our table, grinning at Kyler's quick wit. She takes our refill orders and Kyler follows after her, chatting her up as he slides into a seat at the bar, watching her work. The two have been at it all night and I know she's going back to the hotel with him. I'm just glad Luke is smart enough to get us separate rooms every hunt.
"Did the Winchester's teach you to hustle?"
"Dean taught me darts, but pool was something that I learned from high school. My ex was really into it and he taught me the ropes. Conning people just came with the job. But the brothers and I and were a good team. I learned a lot of little tricks because of them," I explain, rambling as I reminisce. Luke doesn't say anything, polishing off the rest of his beer, and then twirling the empty bottle around in his hands, deep in thought.
"I don't understand why you hunted with them," he comments nonchalantly, setting the bottle back down as he folds his hands on the table.
"Excuse me?"
He shrugs, "I'm just saying, Aria, you're a hell of a hunter. So, are the Winchesters, but they use people. They get people killed. They only worry about each other. Anyone else is left for dead. I think you did the right thing leaving them, you would have only gotten hurt in the end."
My jaw is clenched tight, a dull ache spanning up into my temples. I give a curt nod, downing the rest of my Guinness. "I need a smoke," I comment gruffly, stomping out the door before he can try to apologize.
The humid air hits me hard as I step out into evening night. Townspeople meander up and down the streets, couples linked together by the arm while little children sprint by, their laughter contagious to those around them. I lean back against the brick building pulling the pack of Marlboro's from my jean's pocket. Dean would kill me three times over for this, but he's not here and I don't give a shit anymore. The nicotine swirls in my lungs, extinguishing the fiery rage in my veins as I let out a cloud of smoke.
Part of me wants to go back in there and defend the brothers, punch the dick in the face and tell him he is right, I work better alone. But I don't because that voice is back telling me he's right. Dean doesn't even call me anymore. He gave up. His last voicemail was ten simple words, "Do what you want. I don't care. Don't call me." Why should he? He got out. Sam saved the world, righted his wrong for starting the apocalypse in the first place. In the end, the Winchester's both got what they wanted. I, on the other hand, got left behind. I didn't get what I wanted, just the opposite.
Luke's right though. They don't care about anyone other than themselves. Dean didn't care when he knocked me out so he could sell his soul to save Sam. Sam didn't care that he abandoned me so he could work with Ruby while Dean was in hell. Neither of them cared enough to call me and let me know that Dean was back from Hell. I was just useful, an extra pair of hands, another brain. Nothing more, nothing less.
The muffled music of the bar gets louder as someone leaves. I don't look up, staring at the gum stuck to the concrete. Luke stops next to me, hands stuck in his jean pockets like a shy boy. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. They're your friends and-"
"Were," the single word a blunt interjection that silences Luke for a few moments.
"I'm sorry."
The red tip of my cigarette sits at the edge of the filter, and I draw in one last inhale before flicking it into the street. His words don't matter, the Winchester's don't matter. I'm not needed anymore and that hurts so fucking much. I grab him by the shirt, pulling him against me as I lean into the brick building. His hands rest on my hips hesitantly, brows furrowed together.
"Why don't you put those lips to better use," I breathe out, trailing my hands lightly over his chest. And he does, capturing mine in hunger. This is what we do, drink and fuck. He doesn't care. That's why I'm with him and Kyler. They don't care, so I won't get hurt. His words swirl in my head, branded there, but I bury them down deep. Nothing matters anymore. His lips trail over my jaw and down my neck, and I pretend that this is what it feels like to needed.
It worked too. The moment was fleeting after we lay in the cheap motel bed, his arms wrapped around me, his even breath against my neck. But it was gone just as fast, making me sneak out of his sleeping hold and steal another smoke on the bench outside the room.
I knew what I needed then and Luke wasn't it. I wanted somebody to fill up that lonely hole inside me, to feel needed, and loved. Luke could never be that, and I found that out the hard way. But like I told Daryl, what I want and need are two different things.
My machete hangs heavier in my grasp at the thought of him, shoulders slumping forward. I need him, but he's not here. That's why the monster is roaming free inside me because my anchor is gone, the one who tied me to the girl that the monster drowned in order to be free. He could have saved that girl after what she found on top of that ridge.
"Home."
One simple word that captured what he meant to me; safety, love, a chance to stop running. But here I am doing exactly that; running, lost in these woods with my monster, far away from my home. He didn't save her and I didn't save him. They're both dead. Everyone is dead.
I break through the forest, the soles of my combat boots meeting the asphalt. Down the road is a town, small shops sitting right on the edge of it, away from the heart of the place. A sign, worn by the weather, catches my eye. In chipping gold letters is the word Haven, the date the town was settled underneath. I snort, shaking my head at the name. There's nobody in this town, that much is obvious. Guess it's not much of a Haven after all.
My senses go on high alert as I pass the first few shops, scouring the broken windows for a threat. Everything is picked over by the knocked over shelves, open boxes piled high on top of each other, and garbage trailing out on to the streets. I reach the cross section, the abandoned street lights staring down at me like silent judges with their colorful lights.
A huff passes my chapped lips, the next breath of air halted as the crashing of glass sounds to the right of me. A person flies through a window, landing hard on the asphalt street, shattered glass trailing after him as he rolls to a stop with a loud groan. Three figures jump out of the broken window, two males and a female; obvious survivors by their tattered clothes and mud streaked faces. The demon knife is in my hands, and I'm moving forward before I process the situation playing out in front of me. I tell myself that they are dangerous; a threat that would have come after me eventually, but it's a lie. Something inside is screaming, fighting back against the soulless monster and making me move on instinct.
They're mountain cats stalking a hurt deer and I'm the wolf that wants blood, protecting her cubs like the guardian I am. I barely steal a glance at the injured person, deciding to give them a quick chance to run as I charge the closest of them. He sees me coming, dodging my knife easily, an annoyed look on his aged face. I wait for the black eyes, but they don't come. Instead, a silver angel blade slips into his palm, "I swear you and those Winchester's are like cockroaches."
"Now that's no way to talk to a sister is it? I doubt Daddy dearest would be very proud."
The other two have their attention on me as well, glowering as the hurt figure finally gets to their feet. I steal a quick glance and everything inside me shifts because I'm not staring at a nobody, I'm staring at Cas. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, awkward, naive, archangel Cas who was held captive by Metatron, is standing behind the three with blood spilling down his nose, staining his white collared shirt.
But then I'm not staring because the angels notice my drifting gaze and attack. I drop the demon knife, grabbing my machete and move. It's a flurry, metal cracking against metal in the dead silence as I move on instinct, dodging and blocking the angel's attack. I'm calm on the outside, my body a machine for fighting, but inside my head is screaming one thought only,
Save Cas.
The angel jabs the blade at me and I side step, bringing the machete down on his arm, severing the limb. An agonized scream pierces the air as I sweep up the angel blade and jam it into his chest. That stunning bluish white light blinds me for a moment before it clears and the body slumps to the concrete.
Cas is struggling, obviously injured, the man and woman surrounding him like a cornered animal. I grab the male angel, spinning him around and driving the triangle blade up through his jaw into his head, his grace exploding. I drop the corpse, finding the woman pinned by Cas.
"We didn't do this. Please, we want to help right this," he pleads with the struggling female.
"You and those Winchester's are nothing but danger. You never deserved the position to guard our home gates. You failed and now we are stuck here in this hell."
"No, we can fix this."
"You destroyed-Ahh," the angel screams as I shove Cas aside and shut the woman up, bringing the blade down through her sternum and into her vessel's heart.
I wipe the blade clean on her clothes, processing the small conversation that just took place as I holster all my weapons. I grab the demon knife and place it back in my boot before finally meeting those cerulean blue eyes. My heart swells and clenches, back and forth, but I force a smile anyway and grip the angel, pulling him into a fierce hug. He hugs me back awkwardly and when I let go, his brows are scrunched up in concern.
"So, Metatron kicked everyone out of Heaven?" I question quickly, stealing the chance from the angel to voice the concern in his gaze. A solemn nod as a ghost of a sigh slips past his split lips,
"He used some kind of spell, using Alfie's grace. I'm sorry, Aria." I brush the condolence off, numb to the pain as the monster and I struggle internally.
Leave. Stay. Leave. Stay. Kill. Protect. Kill. Protect.
"Where are Sam and Dean?" Those bright eyes squint in suspicion, hesitation in his words,
"I don't know. When all the angels fell so did we, just not in the same place...Aria, where are the rest of your people?"
"Dead. The prison fell. Abaddon and the Governor broke through our fences. As far as I know, I'm the only one alive." There's supposed to be emotion behind those words, watery eyes, and a few choked up pauses. But it's blunt and numb, leaving the angel even more concerned.
"What about Daryl, Rick, Hadley?"
"They had a fucking tank, Cas. An army rolled through those fields. Does that answer your question?" I snap, grounding out the words.
His piercing eyes fall as I sigh, watching the street behind him. There's no easy way to explain that I've lost myself. How am I supposed to make it clear how unsound I am with words? It's not possible. He hangs his head, shoulders weighed down by his own demons.
"Look, night is coming soon and the seasons are changing. Let's find you some better clothes and hole up in one of these buildings for the night. Tomorrow will scavenge for more supplies, weapons for you. Then we'll figure this all out."
"We need to find Sam and Dean. The angels are hunting us, blaming us for being locked out of our home. I need to find them so that we can fix this." He walks past me and I catch his arm.
"Hold up there, feathers. I can't just let you go on your own."
"Then you'll come with me."
An exasperated breath rushes from me as I release him, trying to control my frustration, "Angels are hunting you. If I hadn't stumbled upon you, you would be dead right now. You just got your ass kicked. Rest up and tomorrow we will look for them."
It's reasonable. He's hurt and he needs to heal. Night is coming and it does no good to track people at night. It's what the real me would say, but the monster side has walked through the night like a ghost this past week. That's dangerous with Cas and despite the monster screaming at me, I'm not going to let anything happen to him. My broken heart wins against the demon inside, stitching those shredded parts of humanity back together.
"Okay," he answers reluctantly with his gravelly voice.
I have a piece of family back. Everyone else is dead, but Cas is here, living breathing. My mission isn't to kill walkers and survive anymore; it's to protect Cas at all costs. I'm not going to let anything happen to him. That little stitched piece of humanity may be there, but the monster is still in control. He'll make sure nothing happens to Cas.
