Disclaimer: Not mine. Title is from Explosions in the Sky.
A/N: I'm so sorry for the last chapter, everyone, but it had to be done. What's an Apocalypse without some horrible casualties? Rest in peace, Liz.
Ahem, just in case you didn't notice: the rating of this fic has changed. I sincerely hope that this does not put anyone off of continuing to read.
Again, thanks for the feedback—you all are the very best. Happy reading.
the birth and death of the day
9.
Caroline barely feels being passed to someone but then she's pulled right off her feet, her forehead dropping onto Sam's shoulder and she has the faint realization that he's carrying her somewhere. He isn't saying actual words, just soft shushing and then there's warmth at her back and Dean says, his voice sounding as though someone dragged it over broken glass, "Care…hey, Care—" His arms cover hers and the three of them are a conjoined ball of tears and grief.
Damon says from somewhere beside them, "Go home," and later Caroline will realize just how broken he sounds in this moment and who would have predicted real friendship between Damon Salvatore and—
"Mom," she tries to say, but nothing comes out and Damon, ever observant, puts a hesitant hand on her shoulder and says quietly, "Consider it taken care of, Caroline." And oh God, if Damon's being nice to her, that means this isn't a dream, that all of it's really happening, and she just completely checks out.
It's kind of like an out-of-body experience: she sees herself rest her head on Sam's chest in the backseat of the Impala, her breathing jagged and his expression the picture of stunned. Dean's face is bleached of all color, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. None of them say anything as Dean whips in the car into the driveway, slamming on the brakes and pulling the parking brake as though it's committed a personal offense.
She pushes Sam's arm off of her shoulders, her eyes burning until she can't see anymore. The welcome mat trips her up at the doorway and she stumbles into the foyer, pushing Dean away as he tries to catch her elbow.
"Don't," she rasps out, jerking out of his grasp and locking herself in the bathroom.
She has no idea how long she sits there, knees pulled up to her chest, goose bumps rising on her skin from the cold of the bathroom floor. Her back is pressed against the bathtub, pieces of her dirty hair falling in front of her eyes. There's blood on her clothes and the smell of it permeates the air; it makes her want to vomit.
After several minutes it takes too much energy to even sit up and she curls into a small ball on top of the bath rug.
Every breath takes her further away from Liz; every second is another that passes in a world where her mother no longer exists. Maybe if she doesn't move from this spot—maybe if she concentrates hard enough she can make everything stop. But then there's a hesitant knock on the door and Caroline tightens into herself, not answering.
"Care," Sam says gently. "Care, you don't have to come out, but…we're here, okay?"
A small, miniscule part of her feels slightly guilty, because she's not the only one grieving—she knows Dean and Sam are suffering as well, knows that Liz was just as much mother to them as to herself. But a larger, more selfish part of her is too wrapped up in her own numbness to care.
Caroline lays on the bathroom floor until her limbs stiffen and begin to ache, protesting the long passage of time without movement. She doesn't know how much time has actually passed but there is a new, more insistent knocking on the door followed by the slight creaking of it being pushed slightly open.
"Hey," Elena says gently, sliding into the room, followed swiftly by Bonnie. They don't say anything else, but Bonnie sits on the edge of the tub, her elbows on her knees and Elena sits next to Caroline, stroking her hair away from her face.
They sit there until Caroline loses track of time, her eyelids slowly shutting as the combined sounds of Bonnie and Elena's heartbeats lull her into an uneasy doze.
"Care," Bonnie says softly, touching her shoulder and waking her out of it. "Can we get you anything?"
Caroline shakes her head, tucking her nose into Elena's knee. "No," she whispers, her throat full of nails and cement and pain. "Just…just stay."
So they do.
… … …
Pull yourself together.
It's a mantra that Caroline chants in her mind the entire day—when she shuts off her alarm, when she stands in the shower, eyes shut tightly against the scalding water. She repeats it silently as she pulls on her black dress, as she curls her hair and as she slips her favorite pair of earrings into her ears. She meets her own eyes in the mirror only briefly—with the dark circles and the equally dark eyeliner, she looks hollow.
She feels hollow too.
Sam holds her hand and she rests her head on Dean's shoulder as they stand in front of freshly moved earth. She doesn't look at the shiny box, doesn't meet anyone's eyes and blames the rain falling off the edges of Dean's umbrella for the wetness on her face. There is no priest to preside over the funeral and in the back of her mind, she's fairly certain Sam and Dean dug the grave themselves. After all, there's no one left in Mystic Falls.
Caroline watches numbly as her friends lay roses on the dark earth, watches as though from very far away as she herself follows their lead. Watches as Bonnie touches the earth next to the grave and a patch of light yellow flowers springs up where her fingers rest. Watches as Stefan claps Damon on the shoulder because her least favorite Salvatore's jaw is twitching like he's trying very hard not to cry.
The out of body experience ends when she looks up and sees the Originals hanging back on the fringe of the tiny semi-circle around her. Even Kol's expression is grim and drawn, but it's the open sympathy on Rebekah's face that feels like a knife to her stomach and Caroline becomes very aware of the fact that she can't do this. She tugs on Dean's hand and says in his ear, "I—I'm gonna go home."
He pulls back and the concern in his green eyes nearly makes her take it back. "It's okay," she whispers, squeezing his hand reassuringly. Her voice wavers and the words almost don't make it around the painful lump in her throat. Dean searches her face for something—she has no idea what, or if it he finds it—before he wraps her in a bear hug and whispers back, "See you at home."
As soon as she enters the safety of her room, she peels the black dress off as though the fabric is burning her skin and makes a beeline for her shower.
Caroline sits in the tub, the water from the showerhead hot and soothing, her knees drawn up to her chest and her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Time loses meaning and she has no idea how long she sits there, skin wrinkling as the water turns cooler and cooler. And still it is the knock at the door, followed by the sound of it opening, that draws her out.
"Guys," she starts to say, tugging down the front of an old Mystic Falls P.E. shirt with 'Winchester' scrawled across the middle. "I'm fi—"
It's not Sam and Dean.
It's not even Elena or Bonnie.
It's Rebekah.
She looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable hovering in the doorway, fingers drumming idly against the side paneling of the house. "You don't have to let me in," she says as soon as she catches Caroline staring at her in shock. "I just—I needed to tell you." She takes in a deep breath, as though she has to psych herself up for her announcement. "I'm sorry about your mother."
"Um," Caroline says numbly.
Rebekah shifts her weight from foot to foot. "My mother was killed as well. I know how it feels," she says slowly, arms wrapped around her middle as though she's cold. "And I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss."
Caroline takes a cautious step towards her. "Um, thanks," she offers half-heartedly, voice hoarse. Rebekah acknowledges it with a slow nod and is turning to go when Caroline swallows and walks to the door, calling after her, "H-hang on."
The other girl turns expectantly and Caroline looks down, her grip on the doorway vise-like. "You can't come in," she says flatly. "But you can—you can stay, if you want." She motions to the swing on the porch. "I'll be right out."
Two steaming mugs of tea later Caroline asks quietly, "How did your mom…if you don't mind me asking—"
"I'm surprised Elena didn't tell you," Rebekah says thoughtfully, staring out at the front yard as the wind picks up and sends the multicolored leaves spiraling into the air. "Niklaus killed our mother."
Caroline starts, tea splashing dangerously close to the edge of her mug at her sudden movement. "He what?"
Rebekah looks entirely unaffected at her shock. "Our parents were hardly deserving of the title after we turned, Caroline." She takes a long sip before continuing. "Mikael hunted us like animals for a thousand years and our mother—" Rebekah sighs and in that moment, Caroline realizes just how old the girl sitting next to her actually is.
"Does it get any easier?" she wonders aloud, voice catching on the nails digging painfully into the walls of her throat.
"What?" Rebekah asks distractedly. "Being motherless?" Caroline nods, unable to force herself to speak. Rebekah is silent, her pointer finger tracing the mouth of the mug cupped in her hands.
"Yes," she finally answers, a faraway look in her eyes. "But not in the way you would like." She glances over at Caroline. "You forget. You forget the sound of their voice, the way they smelled, the things they said to you and the way they said them. You just…forget."
Caroline's face is pale. "But I don't want to," she whispers desperately and pity flashes across Rebekah's face.
"You won't, for a while," she offers comfortingly and Caroline blinks as tears start threaten at the back of her eyelids.
"Thanks for your sympathy, Rebekah," she says carefully, pulling one leg up to her chest so her chin can rest on her knee. "Really, I mean that. But I—I think I need to be alone."
Rebekah takes it well, rising and placing her mug gingerly on the wooden railing of the porch. "Thank you for the tea." Caroline gives a jerky nod as Rebekah starts to walk down the front steps. "And Caroline?"
Caroline looks up from where her mug rests against her thigh. Rebekah's face is still perfectly friendly as she says serenely, "Don't doubt that I'll still rip out your throat if you hurt my brother."
… … …
"What happens now?" Sam asks Castiel quietly as they sit around the dinner table. The room is painfully empty even though the four of them are all there; a coffee cup with Mrs. Officer embossed on one side and a lipstick stain on the other sits on the counter, half-filled with ice-cold coffee. No one wants to be the one to finally empty it.
Castiel looks uneasy, stubble dotting his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. "We wait," he says grimly. "For their next attack. There is an angel—"
"Excuse me, what?" Dean snaps and his voice is considerably louder then Sam's and Castiel's; it makes Caroline flinch. "We just sit and fuckin' wait around?That's some bull crap and you know it, Cas."
There's a pained expression on Castiel's face as he says carefully, "We can plan and make arrangements—there's an angel, Joshua, who is said to communicate with God—"
"Oh fuck this noise," Dean growls impatiently and Caroline winces, her head dropping into her hands.
"Can we not?" she says softly, not looking up from the safety of her palms. "I just—we just had Mom's funeral. Can we put off planning yours for at least a day?"
The harsh lines of Dean's face soften and he reaches over to pull her hands gently from her face. "Care," he says, "Care, we gotta do something. More people are gonna die and it's just gonna get worse."
Her eyes flicker up to look at him. "I don't care," she says flatly and Castiel looks mildly alarmed. "What?" she demands, the lump in her throat apparent by the wavering scratch of her voice and Castiel's face changes to understanding. "Can I—we just—my mom's funeral was today. I get to be a selfish bitch." Her voice cracks. "At least for today."
The room is suddenly too small and her chair makes a screeching noise as she stands up. "I need some air," she mumbles, fingers rubbing against her brow bone.
The wind is cool outside and the door creaks as Dean joins her on the porch. "How many times have we had this conversation?" Caroline asks reflectively, resting her forearms on the porch railing and not looking at him. "God, I have like déjà vu of déjà vu right now. Here, let me do both sides." She straightens, still not facing him. "Dean, you can't sacrifice yourself because you're my brother and I love you and you've already died once and it nearly destroyed me and Sam—" She lowers her voice in a terrible imitation of him. "Caroline, I have to do it because I think the entire fate of humanity is my responsibility and for my next magic trick I'll turn a cocky-ass lady's man into a candidate for canonization into fucking sainthood."
Finally she looks at him and he looks like he's fighting back a grin and she was not trying to be funny, damn it! "It's not a joke, Dean," she snaps and the grin he's trying to hide fully breaks through.
"Dean Winchester, Patron Saint of AC/DC," he snorts and Caroline blinks—because okay, now that she's rethinking her words, it's a little funny—and she struggles to contain her own threatening grin.
"Patron Saint of Muscle Cars," she retorts, the terrible burning in the back of her throat easing slightly.
"Cheap beer," he suggests and laughter builds up in her chest.
"Sawed off shotguns."
"Cheeseburgers."
"Crappy diners."
His grin is splitting his face and hers is lingering on the corners of her mouth until she bursts into the tears she's been holding at bay all night.
"Whoa," Dean says, alarmed, hands coming to grip her forearms and holding her at arms length. "Hey, you're okay." Caroline only cries harder and he pulls her into a hug. He smells like leather and soap and she sniffles into his shirt.
"If you die, I'll never forgive you," she threatens but the tremble in her voice betrays her and his arms simply tighten around her.
"I know," he says quietly and she squeezes her eyes shut.
… … …
It's been two days since her mother's funeral and she hasn't really been sleeping much—or at all, since she can't really make herself drift off—so when she hears someone in her room, she rolls over and pins the intruder with a look.
"Breaking and entering doesn't really mesh with your whole vibe," she comments and Klaus shrugs idly.
"And what would that be, exactly?" he wants to know, voice soft, and she watches as he slides his jacket off and drapes it over her desk chair before making himself comfortable. Caroline casts a quick glance towards where her curtains are slightly parted—the Impala is gone—and breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
"You know," she shrugs and the sheet slides down to reveal her bare shoulder. She doesn't miss the way his eyes follow it. "All suave and debonair. Ocean's Eleven. Rat Pack. This is like…beneath you or something." She wrinkles her nose. "Pedestrian."
His dimples flash and she leans over the side of her bed to her bedroom floor where a long sleeved t-shirt lays crumpled. She pulls it over her head to cover the tank top she sleeps in and he says lowly, "I wanted to see how you were getting along."
Caroline shrugs and plays with the hem of the shirt, not looking at him. "I'm getting along," she says flatly.
"Hardly an answer, sweetheart."
"It's the best one I can give right now," she retorts sharply, looking up; her breath catches when she finds him now standing by the edge of her bed. "You know you're doing that thing again where you're super creepy, right?"
He ignores her insult, "I could make you turn it off," he points out lowly, his voice almost warm. It makes her want to consider his words more than she would ever admit, especially not to him. "Make all the pain stop."
She flinches away from him. "I'm not a coward," she snaps, drawing the sleeves of her shirt down over her fingers and curling her hands into fists. "And I am not afraid of pain. Besides, after your mind-zap the other day—" His eyes turn stormy and she doesn't finish the thought, only shrugs again. "Let's just say breakfast is a bitch and a half to get down."
Klaus sits down uninvited on her bed and she automatically scoots over. "Caroline-"
"Oh, save it," she grumbles, rubbing her forehead. "You're an asshole and I don't know how I let myself forget it. You're only being nice because you feel sorry for me."
His eyes narrow at her. "Apologies are in order, I will admit, but your gang of friends has been trying to kill me for months. And Caroline," Klaus leans in so they are nearly nose to nose and it takes most of her concentration to keep her breath from catching. "I'm never nice."
She groans in annoyance and flops backwards on her bed. "Oh my God you suck at this. Seriously, just stop. You're only digging yourself deeper."
He does and falls so quiet for so long that if it weren't for the weight of him on her bed she would think he left. But then he says, "I'm sorry for your loss, Caroline."
Her heart constricts violently in her chest and her fingers curl down on the top of her bedspread, gripping it tightly. "You shouldn't have held me back. I could've—would've—"
Without warning, his hands are gripping her shoulders and pulling her upwards, forcing her to look at him. "You could have what?" Klaus demands, eyes flashing. "All you would have succeeded in doing was commit suicide, sweetheart, and I'll be damned if I let that happen."
"You'll be damned?" Caroline repeats in disbelief, pushing him away and swinging her legs down so that she can stand and properly yell at him. "News flash, control freak: you're already damned and last time I checked, you're not the boss of me!" She'll berate herself later for her straight-from-the-sandbox admonishment but she can barely think straight and it's the best she can do at the moment.
"You would have gotten yourself bloody killed," Klaus hisses at her and she scoffs at him, the inside of her chest tightening.
"Some of us love our parents," she retorts and when it comes out in a choked half-sob instead of the taunt she was aiming for, she claps her hands to her mouth and takes a step away from him. She can feel the bubble of grief—tears and pain and short gasps of breath—growing inside of her and the anger vanishes from Klaus's face.
"Caroline," he says softly and she shakes her head, still backing away until her back meets her bedroom wall. Klaus's hand comes up to her face and brushes a strand of hair off of her forehead and the bubble breaks.
She's practically hyperventilating when he slides one of his arms around her waist, his free hand going to stroke her hair soothingly. She hiccups into his chest and her fingers fist his shirt as she tries very hard to not shake.
"It's all right," he says, over and over, fingers brushing through her hair rhythmically. "It's all right."
Her breathing starts and stops in stutters, catching and tripping violently over the air she forces into her lungs. One—she takes a deep, trembling breath in, two—and lets it back out.
When the hysteria finally ebbs away, her fingers relax and her shoulders slump, the previous tension leaving her muscles aching in its wake. "You're forgiven," she mumbles into his shirt and she can feel him smile slightly into her hair. "But don't do it again."
He kisses her temple. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."
Caroline tucks her nose into his shirt, reaching up to wipe her face with her sleeve. "All I feel is grief and numbness," she whispers, voice muffled by the proximity of her sleeves to her mouth. "Does it ever stop?"
His fingers still their path in her hair for a moment. "Did it stop with your brother?" he asks gently, his voice vibrating in his chest underneath her ear.
Ice settles in the pit of her stomach. "That was different."
"Was it now," he murmurs, his thumb running up and down her spine in slow, lazy circles.
"I knew exactly where Dean went," she mumbles shakily into his shirt. "And maybe it's stupid and totally messed up, but I figured that if I d-died, even Hell couldn't be that bad if I was there with someone I love." Her sigh hitches and she bites her lip, taking in another yoga-breath; she doesn't miss the way his arm tenses around her waist. "And no matter what Cas says, you and I both know vampires don't go to Heaven."
"I don't know that," Klaus says reflectively, "and neither do you, sweetheart."
Caroline snorts in disbelief. "We're monsters. Abominations of nature." She swipes at her running nose, her eyelashes thick with tears. "Heaven isn't for us."
And that's the crux of it, really—her mother's death guaranteeing an eternal separation. "I'll never see her again," she rasps, squeezing her eyes shut again.
Klaus doesn't argue, but she knows him well enough by now to recognize the slight tension in his fingers as disagreement.
But she can't think about that anymore.
The electricity in the air crackles as it becomes more palpable, and the muscles in her back tense in the wake of where his hand is still travelling soothingly. "I can't stop crying," she tells him hoarsely, her hand releasing the bunched up ball of his shirt she has been gripping. She flattens her palm over his heart; its steady rhythm is almost hypnotic.
"That's to be expected, sweetheart," he says and she turns her face so that her forehead is pressing into his chest.
"K-Klaus—I'm never—never going to see her—" she chokes out again, breath catching with every inhalation and something dark and scary flashes in his eyes. She catches it before burying her face in his collarbone. "There's no way—I can't—"
Klaus doesn't say anything—just lets her continue her outpouring of grief and she can't remember if she's ever seen him so patient.
Maybe she's drunk on grief, she thinks, because her limbs are heavy and languid with the same weight as when she has too much Maker's Mark. But she doesn't really care at this moment—she's too numbed by grief and pain to feel anything else.
"When do I stop feeling so dead?" she whispers, pulling away slightly so she can look up at him, her eyes wide.
Klaus's hands cup her face, thumbs brushing the fresh tears away and he says again, "You will, Caroline. Eventually."
And it's still not an answer—not in the slightest—but he has lived a thousand years and the sheer weight of that fact makes Caroline nod like she believes him.
She does believe him.
A thousand years has to count for something, right?
Never dropping his gaze, she slowly stands on the tips of her toes and brushes her lips against his.
She's kissed him before—like, less than three days ago, in fact—but not like this. The first one was born of anger and fear and—she recognizes it now—desperation stemming from the encounter with Famine; the second because he was being so nice when she thought Castiel had died.
This—
Caroline is terrified of being numb forever. She just wants to feel something, anything—lust, disdain, self-loathing—she'll take any of it.
Forever is a very real thing for a vampire, she thinks with a slight tremor of terror.
"Caroline," Klaus says warningly, pulling away from her slightly and frowning a little, something dangerous flashing in the depths of his dark blue eyes. "You're upset about your mother. You don't want to start anything you can't finish."
The thrill of anticipation starts to flutter in her stomach and she grasps at it with more than a little desperation—anything to vanquish the deadened ache that's been haunting her for three days. So instead of immediately answering, she slides an arm around his neck and touches her nose to his. "I'm not," she tells him steadily, and when his already darkened eyes shade to near black, there's a quiet flare deep inside her. "I'm not," she repeats more insistently and she kisses him again.
This time his reaction is instant. What had been an almost chaste touch of lips before becomes his tongue sliding past her teeth, his hands dropping to her hips and gripping tightly, pulling her close. Her fingers slip down to the hem of his Henley and she pulls up; he smirks at her as he lets her peel it off of him. She tosses it to her bedroom floor.
Caroline dots slow, wet kisses across his collarbone and down the slight dip of muscle in the center of his chest before he grips her upper arms and hauls her back up to him, his mouth returning the favor on hers before he slowly raises her arms, his hands sliding back down her body and reaching for her shirt. She watches languidly as it and her tank top fall to floor next to his. "You're radiant," he says hotly, almost reverently, into her bare shoulder and when she exhales shakily into his ear, she feels him smirk on her skin.
When he kisses her again, it's deeper than before and the hair on her arms stands up. Stomach clenching, she undoes the button of his jeans without breaking the kiss and he groans a little into her mouth. Once his jeans are carelessly discarded, she goes for the drawstring of her pajama bottoms—but his hands catch hers and bring them up over her head. "Doing my job for me, sweetheart?" he admonishes lightly with a brush of his human teeth against her neck. She makes an impatient noise and one of his hands releases its hold on hers to toy with the drawstring.
"Klaus—"
He cuts her off with a kiss so soft her knees nearly give out—a barely there graze of lips that belies almost everything she knows about him; and she is so thoroughly distracted that when she feels his roaming hand part her thighs, she jumps slightly.
He's not even touching her anywhere particularly scandalous—and over her pajama bottoms, no less—but as he contents himself with strumming her inner thighs with his fingers, her own captive ones clench in protest against his restraining hand. "Klaus," she repeats, more insistently this time and his eyes flicker up to meet hers.
His reaction to whatever it is he sees there is to slide his hands around the backs of her legs and hitch them upwards so that they wrap around his waist. Caroline's mouth goes dry and her limbs feel boneless as she leans in to kiss him again.
If anyone can make her feel something—anything—
The backs of her bare legs hit the bedspread and she realizes with a start that she somehow missed him making short work of her pajama bottoms—and that all that's separating them is her underwear.
"No going back," Klaus warns harshly in her ear, his rough voice a contrast to the gentleness of his fingers in her hair.
Caroline touches her forehead to his. "I don't want to go back," she tells him quietly, and when he hitches her up against him in response, a low ache starts swirling in the bottom of her stomach. "I—oh my God," she breathes when his hand moves down her legs, taking her underwear with it.
He kisses her again, almost chastely before letting his lips move down to the column of her throat—then down to her neck, and lower still; they leave a blazing trail of want marching straight down her sternum. He pauses at her hipbone, lips lingering, and she realizes through a fog of anticipation that she's holding her breath.
Then his mouth is right there and her fingers twist in the sheets, her back arching and hips rising for more, tiny noises slipping past her clenched jaw. Her stomach clenches and her fingers wind themselves in his hair, keeping him in place because she might die if he moves— then her vision is swimming and her eyelids flutter shut.
But right before she falls apart, his nose and mouth trace back up her body and she groans aloud. "Seriously—" she starts to whine, shifting her hips in an attempt to bring back the friction, but his fingers on her waist hold her in place. They replace his mouth, long and hot and curling and her eyes squeeze shut again, sparks flying on the inside of her eyelids.
"Caroline," Klaus says and he doesn't even sound like himself, his voice raspy and growling. Her eyes don't open as she mumbles, "Yeah?" She doesn't care what he says as long as he doesn't stop—as long as he never stops.
His fingers are gone and his stubble is rough against her cheek. "Look at me," he demands roughly and it doesn't even occur to her to ask why. Her eyes open and meet his just as he slides into her and Caroline doesn't even recognize the noise she makes as coming from her own throat. Her fingernails dig into the defined muscles of his back and he makes this sound in her ear that would be completely terrifying if they were in literally any other situation—demanding and rough and wanting.
But then Klaus stills, his eyes nearly piercing in their intensity and Caroline immediately tenses. "What's wrong?" she asks, and her voice doesn't sound anything like it normally does—too hoarse, too gasping and desperate for him to just move against her again.
He doesn't answer; instead leaning down to kiss her softly—almost sweetly. The look on his face is near to worshipful and if she weren't so close to becoming a puddle of pure bliss, it would terrify her.
Instead she pushes her hips up, drawing him further inside and he groans into her hair, his teeth scraping the shell of her ear. "Holy crap," Caroline whispers, his hands tight on her hips and her nails trailing down his shoulders.
Caroline falls apart in Klaus's arms, white-hot sparks dotting behind her eyelids as she moans his name. The scruff of his beard scrapes against her jawline as he nuzzles her hair; and then he rolls them over so that her head rests on his chest, his breath fanning across her face.
The ramifications of what she's done tug at her briefly—after all, she knows exactly who he is, what he's done, and what this momentary surrender will be to him—and a flash of nervousness jolts through her. What if he never lets her go?
But then it disappears as sleep vetoes all doubts. Exhaustion finally, finally tugs at her eyelids and just as she lets it take her, she feels him lay an almost tender kiss on her brow bone.
… … …
The sunlight streaming in through her curtains and the smell of pancakes wakes her up and for a single, heartbreakingly peaceful and perfect second, Caroline doesn't remember. Doesn't remember why the air of grief has been hanging around her for days—doesn't remember why her lips are so swollen.
But the heavy arm slung possessively over her waist and the legs tangled in hers bring it all flooding back.
And they're both so, so naked.
Very slowly, Caroline unfolds herself from Klaus's arms and cautiously leans over the side of her bed to fish around on her floor for her shirt. Two of her fingers curl around the fabric and she pulls it over her head in a flash, nearly breathing a sigh of relief before warily glancing over her shoulder—he's still asleep. She thinks. Maybe.
She manages to pull on her clothes and leans into her dresser mirror, wincing at the love knots littered throughout her hair—that, coupled with the flush at the tops of her cheeks, does nothing to hide her late night activities. She pulls her sex hair into a high ponytail and, with a final glance at Klaus sleeping in her bed—he doesn't look nearly as scary with her yellow paisley sheets pooling around his hips—she slips out of her bedroom.
Right smack into Dean.
"Hey," he says as he munches on a bowl of cereal, his voice still gritty with sleep; Caroline shuts her bedroom door as quickly and quietly as she can. "Why're you up so early?" He taps her on the nose with his spoon. "School's out for…ever, actually."
She swallows and hopes he can't see her nerves. But he's Dean, and he knows her so she doesn't tempt fate by standing there like a guilt-stricken little girl with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. "Couldn't sleep," she says honestly, tugging at her ponytail. "Um—I think I'm gonna go up to the Falls. Take a breather." She makes a wide gesture with her palms. "Be in, you know, nature."
Dean frowns at her. "Bad idea, kiddo. What if some Omen-wannabe angel snatches you up?" He pauses and the frowns deepens, suspicion beginning to creep across his face. "Besides, you hate nature."
Her heart picks up speed again but Caroline still shrugs idly. "I'll tap my heels three times and get Cas to beam me up Scotty?" she suggests, arching an eyebrow at him as she walks to the door. "Maybe I'm starting to appreciate that if we lose, nature's not gonna be there anymore."
Before he can grill her anymore—because seriously, IhadsexwithKlauslastnightbye ! is dancing on the tip of her tongue and that would be the nightmare to end all nightmares—she walks out to her car, the unearthly quiet of the town settling in the pit of her stomach.
… … …
As Caroline pulls her car into a completely empty parking lot that is nowhere near the Falls, she thinks that Dean was completely accurate in his suspicions.
The heavy oak doors of the church are surprisingly unlocked and creak when Caroline hesitantly pushes them open. "H—hello?" she calls into the empty entryway, the silence wrapping around her and coming to rest in her bones.
The pews are completely empty and the sun shining through the stained glass windows near the ceiling makes rainbows shimmer across the carpet. It should be comforting, but she feels very much like the next victim in Zombieland and every muscle in her body is on high alert.
She slowly sits down on the front row, automatically folding her hands and bowing her head like a small child.
"You okay there?" a voice asks curiously and Caroline jumps out of her seat.
The voice belongs to an older dark skinned man who is peering at her, his eyebrows raised; one look at him and Caroline knows she knows him from somewhere. She just can't put her finger on where. Maybe a dream?
"Are you all right?" the man asks again, this time with a little more concern and her mind kicks into overdrive. The reedy rasp to his voice tugs somewhere in the back of her memory but she can't place it.
"Everyone's gone," Caroline stammers incoherently and he tilts his head at her. "Because of the—the pipe thing." Oh God, it was a pipe right? She can't even remember which lies they've told anymore.
He looks amused. "Seems so. Town's been awful quiet here lately."
"Right," she mumbles non-committedly, and he casts another concerned look her way.
"You want to talk about it?" he asks and Caroline's eyes flash up to his.
"Talk about what?" she asks carefully, edging away from him slightly.
"Whatever's got you running to a church by your lonesome at seven-thirty on a Thursday morning," he says sensibly and she flushes.
"Oh. Yeah. Uh no, I don't—not really."
He studies her thoughtfully before he says kindly, "You have a good day then," and starts to turn away. And before she can stop them, the words spill from her mouth. "My mom died a few days ago and I haven't been coping really well and I just did something kind of bad and I really, really don't want to go to Hell." The last few words come out in a whisper; the man pauses and turns back to face her.
"Now why would you go to Hell?" he asks gently, and when Caroline looks up to meet his gaze, it's so soft and warm that she nearly bursts into tears.
"I just might," she mumbles vaguely, wincing inwardly at the shake in her voice. "Not—not because of the bad thing I just did but because—because I think I'm just a bad person."
"Oh, I don't believe that," the man tells her comfortingly and she shakes her head emphatically.
"I am," she insists. "I've really, really hurt people. There's no way that—okay look, God can't love someone like me. If He even exists." She looks at him with wide eyes. "Do you think God exists?" Caroline has no idea why she's asking him these things, but he doesn't seem surprised at all by her openness.
The man tilts his head at her and seems to truly consider her question. "Yes," he says finally and when her mouth opens to ask him how he can be so sure, he holds one hand up to stop her. "Would you not say it's better than the alternative?"
"Is it, though?" she counters, raising an eyebrow. "That someone up there is supposed to love us and lets us tear each other apart anyway? Or lets other—" Caroline falls silent, suddenly very aware that she has no idea who this person who is or what side he might be on. "I don't know," she finishes lamely.
The man considers her and Caroline can feel tears fighting to make their way past her eyelids. "Look," she says, wiping at the corners of her eyes, "you should probably not stay in town. It's not safe."
He smiles at her, and it's so warm and comforting that she kind of forgets why it's not safe in Mystic Falls. "Oh, Caroline," he says, and just like that, cold terror pierces the fog. Stupid, stupid idiot, always letting your guard down! "You are too young to be this old."
She flashes to the door of the church in less time than it takes to blink, but the door is gone—and not just the door, but the entire church and they're now standing at the Falls. Slowly, fear and trepidation seeping through her veins, Caroline turns.
"What did you do?" she whispers, backing away from him. "Who are you? Are you going to kill me?"
He looks at her with kind, sympathetic eyes and that just makes it so, so much worse. "No, I am not here to kill you, Caroline," he says. "It is time we had a talk."
Panic starts to flare around her heart, fluttering against it like bird's wings. "So talk." She casts a nervous glance around. "Why are we at the Falls? I mean, I know we're still technically at the church and maybe this is all in my head, but why are—"
"Caroline," the man—angel interrupts gently. "I have a message for you."
Her stomach drops straight through her shoes as realization dawns. "You're Joshua," she says flatly. "The guy who has a direct line to God."
Joshua tilts his head slightly. "He talks. I listen," he acknowledges. "One gardener to another."
"Yeah?" Caroline hisses, voice cracking in desperation. "Not sure if you noticed, buddy, but his garden's freaking dying."
"I know," Joshua says calmly, and it makes her want to scream. "He knows as well. And that, Caroline, is his message to you: leave it."
Caroline freezes, the blood pounding in her ears. "E—excuse me?"
"Back off," he says solemnly. "Let it go."
"Let it—you can't be serious!"
"He knows," Joshua repeats, sympathy in his every feature. "But he will not help." Her face crumbles and her mouth starts to tremble.
"So what now, then?" Caroline demands, arms wrapping around herself in an attempt to keep the shaking at bay. "He wipes us out? Noah and the ark, second verse same as the first? Start from scratch because something got screwed up again?" Her voice is reaching a fever pitch, scorching at her throat. "What about my brother?"
It's not until she feels wetness on her face that she realizes she's crying. Joshua reaches out and clasps her hand in his; his grip is warm and firm. "I am sorry," he says quietly. "I wish I could do more to help you."
"Then help me!" she shouts, breaking around the words.
"I cannot."
She goes still, her mind briefly reaching for that switch that Damon and Stefan go on and on about before shying away. "Then no," she rasps lowly, refusing to look at him. "My answer to your question is no. If this is who God is, then no—this is not better than no God at all."
… … …
Caroline doesn't remember driving home, but she finds herself sitting in her car in her driveway. The Impala is still parked on the street, and every time she looks up and sees it in her rearview mirror, a great and terrible feeling of despair threatens to overwhelm her every thought.
Slowly, feeling as though she is much, much older than eighteen, Caroline gets out of the car and walks to her front door. She can hear Sam and Dean arguing about the dishwasher in the kitchen and she rubs her hand across the back of her neck. From her vantage point in the foyer, she can see that her bedroom door is open and her unmade bed empty, but even the relief of dodging that particular bullet is fleeting.
"Caroline," Castiel says out of nowhere, and she doesn't even jump.
"Hey," she says tonelessly, dropping her bag on the floor before sinking limply onto the sofa. She tucks one pillow under her arms and curls into the fetal position, knees drawn up tightly to her chest.
Castiel stares at her before saying quietly, "You met Joshua."
She's not at all surprised that Castiel knows. "He's a d-bag."
He wasn't—not really—but it makes her feel a little better to lump him in with the Bad Guys.
Castiel's eyes bore into hers and she wonders briefly if he's trying to read her mind. "God will not help," he says, and it isn't a question.
It hits her like a bolt of lighting and Caroline sits straight up. "You knew," she says slowly, eyes narrowing as Castiel looks down. "You knew that he washed his hands of us and yeah, pun freaking intended."
"I suspected," Castiel admits softly, "after I encountered him. I had hoped to be wrong."
"Well you weren't," Caroline says flatly, collapsing back against the cushions. "He's completely ambivalent about the world ending and everyone dying."
"Who is?" Dean asks, wiping a plate dry as he stands behind the couch and just as Caroline blurts out, "No one!" Castiel says gravely, "The Lord."
Caroline bites her lip before risking a glance at Dean's face. His expression hasn't changed in the slightest but his lips have turned white and Sam next to him looks nearly devastated.
"So," Dean says finally, voice devoid of all emotion, the plate hanging lifelessly from his fingers. "God's just another deadbeat dad like the rest of them." Sam jerks as though to say something but stays silent. "Can't say I'm all the surprised." They watch as he finishes wiping down the plate, sets it on the table by the front door and walks out, Impala keys dangling in his hand.
Caroline takes in a shaky breath and turns her face up to Sam's. "What happens now?" she asks quietly, but it's a question without an answer and they all know it.
… … …
tbc.
A/N: With the heavy religious tone to this chapter (and to this fic in general from here on out) I feel as though I should clarify/disclaim that I am not trying to make any sort of religious statement at all. This is entire story is just an exercise in imagination without any sort of implications or attempts on my part to lecture anyone on faith or religion or spirituality.
Just wanted to throw that out there just in case.
I also want to thank Anne/bkgrl and Malia/a pretty little liar for basically holding my hand through this chapter. Go read their stuff because they are so fantastic.
And thank you for sticking with this story for as long as you have. Seriously. You—yeah, you with the face—you're the best.
Please review if you are so inclined! And feel free to follow me on tumblr: little-miss-sunny-daisy