A/N: *taps mic* uh...is this thing on?
Thank you to: Yokan for kickstarting me back on this crazy ride, to but_seriously for the amazing new graphic and for THAT LINE, and to alienor_woods for a lot of things.
the birth and death of the day
13.
This isn't Sam's first possession.
When he had agreed to…house Michael, for lack of a better word, he'd known what to expect. The whole 'boxed in in a space too small for him' feeling, the powerlessness, the frustrated itch in his limbs to do something, to stop doing whatever it was they were being forced to do—he'd anticipated all of that.
What he hadn't prepared for was the quiet.
Demons like to torment, and it carried over to their possessions. In Sam's experience, that meant they wouldn't shut. up. about what they were forcing their version of you to do—how it would torture your family, how they'd kill you afterwards (slowly, always slowly). Most demons, he had found, considered their internal monologues to be half the pain of being possessed. He had thought Michael would be the same way, especially given how this possession has specifically lasted longer than he and Gabriel had thought it would. A few days, Gabriel had said. He'll either accept Dean's offer—and Dean will offer, with you down for the count. Gabriel had shrugged. Or, you never know. Maybe your friends will pull it off.
Neither has happened, and yet still Sam sits in his box. In the silence.
He's had a lot of time to think, and has spent most of it by brooding about Dean and Caroline, with some Jess, John, and Liz sprinkled throughout. (He's tried to remember Mary Winchester, racked his brain until he knows Michael feels it, but he gives up when he draws nothing but blanks.)
Mostly, he thinks about Dean and Caroline.
Sam remembers how Caroline had stolen his college acceptance letters out of the mail for him, hiding them in the top drawer of his desk, right under the false bottom he'd constructed. He remembers her patiently teaching him how to fold a crescent roll that didn't come from a can, and how to eyeball just how much garlic a recipe really called for—you don't measure garlic with measuring cups, you measure it with your heart, Sam, she had said passionately, eyes laughing and face serious. He had discovered that he truly enjoyed cooking, especially after having spent most of his life in and out of motel rooms, eating meals grabbed on the run. He remembers that Caroline had been thrilled to find a fellow culinary enthusiast, dubbing them the Barefoot Contessi and pulling out all of Liz's old cookbooks in excitement.
He remembers marking off her height on the side of the doorway until she gloomily told him she thought she had stopped growing but that she was okay with it, really, because if she didn't grow anymore, she'd keep her position at the top of the pyramid (he remembers that she'd shot up three more inches later that fall).
There was one winter that the flu had ravaged the Forbes-Winchester house, and he'd caught the nastiest strain that had wound its way through their family. Liz had taken his temperature faithfully every two hours, watching worriedly as it climbed into triple digits before breaking. He remembers how Caroline had flouted her mother's rules about his quarantine and watched pirate cartoons with him until both of their eyes were glassy. He hadn't been completely recovered when they ventured out into the biting Virginia cold to spar with molding tree branches.
He remembers how he and Caroline had binged Law & Order obsessively the summer before everything went to shit; and how after a spirited discussion on defense attorneys, she had looked up the Virginia Innocence Project and told him in no uncertain terms he had to work for them once he became a big shot lawyer.
Once he had arrived at Stanford, she had sent him a few of the cases that he assumed she found particularly upsetting, and he never told her he set up Google alerts for them. He can't remember if he had ever even replied to her.
He'd always wanted to be a big brother, had idolized Dean to an almost obsessive degree, and here in the cramped space inside of himself, he thinks about how he failed.
They're standing outside, him and Michael; Sam recognizes their surroundings. He taught Caroline how to swim here, and the memory fills him with warmth—he can almost feel the August sun and the summer humidity thick in the air. It triggers something else in his memory, something even earlier—he's tiny, and he doesn't know how he was ever that small. Dean is bigger than him, but not by much and they are running, laughing in the light of golden hour. He calls for Dean to wait for him, but Dean runs ahead, and Sam is left behind.
Always on your own, a voice hisses and Sam tries to blink. Fails, again. Like he had failed Jess, like he had failed Caroline, like he had failed Dean.
Pathetic, the voice taunts viciously.
He tries to turn his head.
You are weak. You are nothing.
You are a failure.
Defeated and dejected, Sam retreats and he can feel Michael's sneering contempt before he is left alone again in the silence of his memories.
He waits—one beat, then two, then three—before focusing all of his willpower on his pinkie finger.
It twitches.
… … …
Caroline snags Bonnie's arm and pulls her into her room before the others notice. If she knows Dean, and she definitely does, he's triple checking his sigils and rehashing battle plans with Castiel right about now, not looking for the three of them. "Hey," she says softly, "Scythe?"
Bonnie's eyes slide to the door Caroline has just closed before she pulls a familiar curved blade out of her backpack. "Last resort," she says grimly.
Caroline nods. "Have—have the witches said anything about maybe there being any other way?"
Bonnie glances at her, sympathy etched on her face. "No," she says, voice so gentle that it almost hurts. The fragile hope that had been blooming in her heart against all odds dies a quick, withering death. "They haven't. I don't think there is another way, Care." She touches Caroline's arm and Caroline is flooded with a warmth so visceral that it feels like her skin is glowing. "I'm so sorry."
She swallows hard. "Nothing I haven't been expecting," she whispers, pulling her arm away. If this is how it's going to be, how it has to be, Dean deserves for her to feel all of her grief, all of the sorrow that threatens to devour her whole.
He deserves that from her.
The door opens with a soft snick, and Elena peers inside. "Bon," she says softly, "time to go." Her gaze slides to Caroline, whose arms have wrapped protectively around her midsection. "Care, I…" she trails off, and Caroline doesn't blame her.
She doesn't have the words either.
"Go," she tells them instead, reaching for her two best friends. Their arms encircle each other and Caroline can pretend, if only for these few ticks of the clock, that this isn't goodbye. That they will reconvene in this exact place in a few hours. Her grip on Bonnie and Elena tightens and she says, her voice just above a whisper, "Be careful."
Elena's hand tightens around hers and Bonnie rests her head on Caroline's shoulder. They exhale together, as a trio, and then Bonnie and Elena are breaking away, heading for the door. Matt and Jeremy follow, she assumes to say their own goodbyes. Jeremy's face looks particularly stormy, like a hurricane is brewing behind his eyes.
"We'll catch up with you," Dean says to them; Bonnie slides one last look at Caroline before the door shuts behind them.
It's just the two of them now, and Caroline has been dreading this moment.
She'd read somewhere, a long time ago, that déjà vu was an echo of a past life; that it was the brain's way of trying to stretch itself backwards in time. Caroline certainly feels as though she's been thrown backward, watching as Dean hurdles to certain death.
I'm always saying goodbye to you, she thinks, her heart splitting.
Dean tugs on her ponytail and, in an attempt to make him smile, she sticks her tongue out at him. The grin that ghosts across his face reminds her of their old lives, before demons, before she was a dead seventeen-year-old, before backroom deals with angels playing at God.
It fades quickly.
"So here's the thing. You're not going," he informs her quietly, and he sounds older than she's ever heard him—battle hardened, and world weary.
"I know, but—" she starts to say, but he halts the torrent of words that threaten to flood out of her with a held up hand.
"Listen to me, Care." Dean hesitates, looking down at his feet. Her heart twists in her chest. "We're gonna win this, okay? I don't care what it takes, what I have to do—the world doesn't end today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon, not if I have any say in it. I'll let Michael in—no, don't interrupt, okay? This is important."
He exhales shakily, and Caroline feels like her head is being held under ice water. Her entire body is cold, her insides trembling. "You and Sammy, you're gonna make it. Sam's gonna go back to Stanford, finish out his last semester, take the bar, and go get innocent people out of prison."
He still isn't looking at her. "You're gonna graduate, top of your class—" here he does look up, eyes locking onto hers as he adds sternly, "or else," and she shouldn't laugh because he's talking about her future without him in it, but it bubbles up within her regardless. "You'll go to Georgetown and meet some guy," he waves a hand and snorts. "Some dude I'd probably hate, to be honest, some absolute prick in board shorts and a polo, named Elliot or some shit—" another watery laugh escapes her, and she covers her mouth before it can turn into sobs.
Dean barrels forward as though he hadn't heard her. "You'll marry him, and have your white picket fence, and your labradoodle, and two perfect blonde kids and Caroline," here he takes both of her hands in his and stares directly into her eyes. "You're going to be okay. You have to be okay. You have to live, you and Sammy. You have to."
She knows him well enough to hear what he's leaving unsaid—they have to live because he can't, because he won't, because he's exchanging himself for their chance at it. "You sure you're not just trying to get out of being Elliot's brother in law?" she offers weakly.
Dean chuckles a little, but his heart isn't in it and silence falls between them again until— "Caroline," he says softly, his eyes downcast as though his shoes have suddenly revealed themselves to contain the secrets of the known universe. "Promise me that you'll live. That you'll do everything you've ever wanted to do. I gotta know that before—I just gotta know."
Her throat constructs painfully, her breath coming in short, desperate little spurts. "Okay," she swears hoarsely, her nails biting into the palms of her hands as she clenches her fists. She will not cry now, will not make this harder for him. There will be plenty of time for that later.
He looks at her then, really looks at her, green eyes holding fast to hers. "Practice throwing punches, get a single scratch on my car and I'll resurrect myself just to kick your ass, don't forget that beer before liquor and you've never been sicker—" she chokes on an unexpected laugh— "don't take shit from anyone, Caroline, and I mean anyone. And—" he hesitates before barreling forward. "You and Sammy take care of each other."
Dean pulls her in for a hug and she grips him so tightly that if she were still a vampire, his ribs would have all cracked under the strain. She wills time to slow down, tries to force the sound of the ticking clock on the mantle to stretch beyond the measly seconds they're getting, but she's barely taken a handful of breaths before he lets go and steps back. "I love you, so much," he tells her and then he's gone.
Like he was never even there.
… … …
She's left with Matt and Jeremy, and she gets it because they're the humans, the most likely to get well and truly broken; but it skates so perilously close to Damon's taunt of shallow and useless that misery roils in the pit of her stomach. The logic-driven side of her brain understands that three of them are the most breakable of their tiny band of fighters. Realistically, she understands that her friends cannot fight a battle if they are distracted by constant worry over her wellbeing.
But her brain's emotional side has never been one for logic, and it starts the slow spiral into panic and despair. She tries to yoga-breathe through it, even touching her toes and reaching over her head in sync with her inhales and exhales. It helps a tiny bit.
Caroline's anxiety has always manifested itself into actions, and the trait had survived her transitions from human to vampire and back again.
She puts Matt and Jeremy to work measuring the ingredients for cookies (baked goods, she has found, always help, and she has no reason to believe the Apocalypse would be any different). She French braids her hair into tight plaits that lay flat against her skull (she had never quite understood why the monsters that laid waste to Sunnydale every episode hadn't just grabbed a fistful of Buffy Summers' blonde hair during hand-to-hand), and changes into her comfiest leggings before she starts packing bug out bags.
A Spotify playlist full of Dean's favorite songs is playing on the TV, the singer crooning about a house in New Orleans, while Caroline tells herself that maybe she's just…packing for a camping trip. It's one of John's old euphemisms for hunting, and she finds herself wishing for the advice of her late stepfather more than she would have ever thought possible. After all, she thinks with just a small amount of bitterness, John Winchester knew when to cut and run.
And if the three of them have to run, then they have to run.
(She won't think about the where, the how, the why, or the who they'll be leaving behind.)
Her own bag is first: extra hair ties, face wipes, a mostly full bottle of hand sanitizer, a pair of clean socks, sunscreen, an extra toothbrush and toothpaste that's still in its plastic dental pouch, a phone charger and a fully charged external battery. After digging around in the pantry, she finds a bunch of MREs and wrinkles her nose in distaste before tossing a few in her backpack. Dean's is next, and she repeats the motions without thinking, adding in John's thick journal for good measure.
There are five reusable water bottles under her bed. She had been saving them for Christmas presents—one for each of her parents, herself, and Dean and Sam. Each of their initials is stamped brightly on the front of the bottles because Caroline is nothing if not a sucker for a monogram; and she had even sprung for the filter inserts on a last minute sure, why not whim when she had seen that they were half off. Before she can think too hard about it, she grabs three of them and shoves them in the backpacks. It wouldn't do to survive the Apocalypse only to die of Legionnaire's after drinking river water, she reasons.
When she has exhausted the contents of her own room, Caroline finds herself hesitating in front of the shut door of Liz's bedroom. Her hand hovers over the knob while she wavers on entering before she squares her shoulders and grasps it tightly, opening the door.
The bed is made with military precision, not a wrinkle to be found on the bedspread. There's a book with a Target receipt slid between the pages on the side table, next to a pair of cheap bright red reading glasses and an empty glass from the kitchen. She lets her fingers trail down the bedspread as she slowly makes her way towards the dresser where Liz had kept her jewelry—or lack thereof, as Caroline had often complained. The room still smells like Liz's perfume; Caroline inhales deeply, letting it fill her lungs.
In the center of the dresser rests a familiar small wooden box. It's been sitting in the same spot for as long as she can remember, and it houses the few pieces Liz had owned or inherited from her own mother. Caroline's fingers tremble as she opens the lid.
The first thing she finds is the engagement ring her father had given her mother, a band with a small diamond in the middle. Caroline fingers it gingerly, as though it might turn to dust in her hands, before putting it back in its place.
Next to it is the only piece of jewelry Caroline can actually remember her mother wearing—a simple thin band, given to her by John Winchester. She thinks belatedly that maybe they should have buried it with Liz, but instead of putting it back where she found it, Caroline slips the ring on her index finger. Its slight weight is comforting; she had been so used to wearing her lapis lazuli ring that her forefinger has felt naked since her unexpected transition back to humanity.
Tucked into the dresser mirror is an old Polaroid—in it, she is maybe three, and dressed as a bumblebee, her grin wide and gapped. Next to her squats Liz, pointing at the camera and grinning just as widely as her tiny past self.
Before she can overthink it, Caroline tucks the photograph into her backpack.
"Care!" Jeremy yells from her kitchen. "Elena called, we gotta go!"
… … …
The crowd at the Salvatore house is bloodied but intact.
(Caroline counts, just to be sure.)
(Twice.)
"It wasn't so much a battle," the older woman says flatly. "More like a shot across the bow. We were damn nearly overwhelmed." She exchanges a look with the younger blonde woman next to her before giving Caroline a once over. "So you're Caroline then."
It isn't a question but Caroline finds herself nodding in answer all the same. The older woman considers her before giving her a single slow nod. Something about her reminds Caroline of Liz and her heart constricts painfully.
"Like Liz cloned herself, huh," the woman says to Bobby as he passes by; he grunts in agreement. "I'm Ellen. Heard a lot about you."
Caroline forces a pained smile in return, giving a mumbled, "Nice to meet you," before retreating back to where Dean is holding his bloody side.
"If you get even a single drop of blood on my fucking rug, I will end you, Winchester," Damon is snarling at him.
"Believe me, a little blood would be an improvement," Dean snaps back.
She ignores them both, focusing on Dean and ordering, "Let me see it." With a roll of his eyes, Dean lifts his shirt up halfway, revealing a deep gash that seems to run up half of his abdomen. Caroline feels her jaw drop open at the sight before she shuts it quickly.
"It's not a big deal," he insists at her horrified expression, letting the shirt fall back down. "Just a flesh wound."
"It is not just a flesh wound," she snaps, turning to Damon. "Get me a sewing kit."
Damon mock-salutes her before vanishing. Before she can react, he's back, thrusting a needle and spool of thread into her hands. "Have at it, Florence Nightingale." Caroline glares at his back before turning to Dean, who is eying the needle with no small amount of incredulity.
"You sure you know how to use that thing?"
There's a book of matches on the coffee table; Caroline snags one out of the flap and lights it, ignoring the increasingly skeptical look on Dean's face.
"It was a good speech," she offers instead, holding the needle over the flame carefully. "Even though you lowkey ripped off Titanic." She waves her free hand in front of them. "Have kids, Rose, travel the world, Rose. You're basically Jack Dawson with a sawed off."
Dean grunts but doesn't argue, choosing instead to watch as she threads the needle on her first attempt. With what can only be described as reluctant acceptance, he lifts his shirt again.
The gash is deep, tearing through layers of skin and muscle. If Caroline focuses, she's pretty sure she can make out bone.
"This is gonna hurt," she warns him and he huffs out what she thinks is supposed to be a laugh but sounds more like a wheeze.
"No shit," he says, closing his eyes. "You're about to sew my fuckin' side back together."
In one corner of the room, Elena leans on Jeremy while she sips out of a blood bag. Damon and Stefan linger nearby—typical—and the Originals are nowhere to be seen. A quick burst of worry, followed by adrenaline, spikes through her veins before she reminds herself it's Klaus she's worrying over. He's more than capable of taking care of himself.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" Dean asks from above her as she slips the tiny needle back and forth across his torn skin. The stitches are all the same size and march neatly in a straight line, she notes with no small amount of neurotic satisfaction. Caroline Forbes, she thinks ruefully, obsessed with order, even at the end of the freaking world.
"Home ec," she says with forced brightness, eyes focused on her work.
Dean grunts in disbelief. "Mystic Falls High doesn't have home ec."
"Maybe not when you were there, old man," she retorts, and when Dean doesn't immediately respond, some of the tension between her shoulder blades relaxes.
"So what did you learn to sew on?" he asks finally. "In home ec. Curtains? Buttons on clothes? Pillowcases?"
"You're awfully interested in my sewing skills when they're literally all that's saving you from a seriously rough scar."
"Chicks dig scars."
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Rambo."
Dean is quiet for long enough that she starts to think he's dropped it.
Then— "He taught you, didn't he," he says, and it's not a question.
When she doesn't say anything in response, Dean drops his head back and shuts his eyes. "Goddammit," he growls, fists clenching. "Did he teach you how to get fuckin' shrapnel out of wounds too or some shit?" But just as quickly as it had appeared, the vitriol seems to escape him and he sighs heavily. "He was supposed to leave you out of it, out of all this bullshit."
Caroline snorts as she finishes up his stitches. "Yeah 'cause that worked out so well." She holds her hand out without looking. "Scissors, please." Someone hands them to her and she gives her handiwork a final once over before nodding once and snipping the extra thread. "The shrapnel thing I really did learn in home ec," she snarks before growing serious. "And I don't think this family would recognize normal if it bit us in the collective ass."
He doesn't reply, and the expression on his face is so tired, so weary, that she elaborates as she moves to sit next to him. "Sam was at Stanford," she offers hesitantly. "He hadn't been gone all that long—it was that first year, after 'The Blowout,'" she makes exaggerated air quotes with her fingers, "and I think Mom was working a night shift maybe? I don't know where you were." She shrugs and doesn't mention that Liz had started working a lot of night shifts after Sam left. "It was just me at home."
There's the soft whisper of air moving somewhere behind her and she knows without looking that it's Klaus even before his hand feathers across her braided hair.
Dean scowls at the gesture but stays silent, so Caroline continues. "John told me he had a car accident and that he didn't want to go to the hospital because he was in between jobs." She and Dean give identical snorts; it makes her laugh and a shadow passes across Dean's face. "I believed him because like, why wouldn't I believe my stepdad? And, well," she gestures at the space between the two of them. "I have the best non-medically licensed stitches in the greater tri-state area."
He doesn't laugh at her joke. "So he had you stitch him up, at what, thirteen?"
"Almost fourteen, and he was getting blood on Mom's hydrangeas." She raises an eyebrow at Dean before asking practically, "Should I have just let him bleed out on the front porch?"
"Maybe," he shoots back, and she knows he doesn't mean it.
"I like being useful. This," she waves at his side, "makes me feel like I'm…I dunno. Part of the team."
Dean leans forward, his face serious and his eyes hard. "Caroline. You have always been part of the team." He considers before adding, "This team, anyway Team Winchester."
She shrugs, painfully aware of the super hearing in the room. "There's a difference between logically knowing that and feeling it."
To her great relief, Dean doesn't press her to continue.
If it had just been the two of them in the room, she would have maybe elaborated—that for so long she had felt the odd man out between Bonnie and Elena, an afterthought in their trio, that it had been just so fucking nice to be needed for once. That even Sam and Dean, despite how much she knew they loved her, had seemed to have their own team, a unity borne in blood that sometimes felt like concrete, walling her off from truly belonging.
But it isn't, so she keeps it to herself.
… … …
The music in the spacious living room kicks up, the soft sounds of a piano and string quartet washing over them.
"Who picked this boring shit?" Dean demands upon returning from the kitchen, tugging at the hem of his bloodied shirt and glaring accusingly at the expensive stereo system.
Caroline snitches immediately, pointing a finger at Damon. "He made me turn off the REM. Said I was being 'morbid' and that my 'gallows humor' wasn't 'appreciated'." She makes exaggerated air quotes with her fingers before scoffing.
"End of the World?" Dean asks and when Caroline nods in confirmation, he turns his scowl on Damon. "A fucking classic," he grouses irritably before dropping down into the open seat next to her.
"Yeah well, pardon me if I don't appreciate the sentiment," Damon snaps, a dangerous edge to his voice that indicates they should all just drop it, right fucking now.
"Okay, boomer," Caroline mutters under her breath. They're all on the verge of hysterical, the air crackling with just how closely each of them is skating towards the line. She needs to do something, needs to keep her hands busy before she screams, so she knocks Dean's knee with hers before standing up and heading into the kitchen. At least there she can pace around the island and chew on her lower lip in peace.
Or not—Klaus is already there, sharpening several daggers with long, wicked looking blades.
"Personally, I quite liked your musical choice," he greets offhandedly, and she doesn't know why but her face warms.
"Thanks," she mumbles, barely listening as she counts how many steps it takes to get from one wall to the other (fifteen if she takes normal strides). She switches to pretending the line of the tile is a balance beam, her arms lifting slightly to keep her balanced before— "Wait, really?"
He glances over at her, and if he finds her actions odd—she's sure she looks crazy, but the nervous buzzing in her stomach won't abate without some movement—he lets it be. "It is, as your brother called it, a classic," he says, dimples flashing even though he isn't quite smiling.
She wrinkles her nose. "I would have definitely picked you as a music snob," she tells him. She deepens her voice in an exaggerated impression of him, her faux British accent heavy. "'Well, Beethoven's music may not be for everyone, Caroline, but he was exceptional company.'" She pretends to toast him with an imaginary glass from the other side of the room.
Klaus laughs outright at that, dimples flashing. "Afraid I never had the pleasure. I was in South America that century." His expression turns thoughtful. "You'd enjoy the Galapagos."
"I do love a beach," she confirms as she paces, gaze turning wistful before narrowing on him. "What were you doing in the Galapagos? Clubbing baby sea turtles?"
"A story for another time," he evades, going back to his sharpening. The metal sings in his hands.
Caroline snorts. "You're assuming we make it out of this intact."
This time, he doesn't look up from his work; her eyes trace the ripple of his sleeves as the fabric slips over his forearms. "I never assume."
She sits down in the seat across from him. The table is small enough that she just barely has to slouch for her knee to brush against his. "So, what, you just know?"
His eyes flicker to hers before focusing back on the dagger blades. "I've lived a very long time, sweetheart. Long enough to recognize beginnings and endings." Klaus sets down the honing steel and examines one of the daggers, his jaw tight, before meeting her eyes. "And long enough to know the difference between the two."
There's a soft flutter, followed by the sound of rustling nearby and Caroline is grateful for the distraction from the heat in Klaus's gaze. She twists in her seat to find Castiel setting down a large jar on the kitchen island.
Inspiration strikes.
"Is that all the Holy Oil you have left?" she asks Castiel curiously, walking over to where he is leaning on his palms, brow furrowed. She reaches out to examine the jar—the glass is cloudy and covered in dust. Her fingers leave behind ruddy streaks.
The boarding house kitchen is secluded, far from the group that is currently fiercely debating whether to strike first or to wait for Michael & his army to re-engage. She doesn't know how she knows that Klaus has left the room to join the argument, but she is sure of it. He may move quicker and quieter than the feral cats her mother used to feed on the front porch, but she just knows.
Castiel's face is carefully expressionless as he muses over her question, though his eyebrows quirk together for a brief moment.
"A few more jars." He watches with guarded interest as Caroline pulls out the empty glass bottles from the recycling bin next to the island. "You have an idea."
"Maybe," she concedes as she lines the bottles up neatly on the kitchen island. "How much oil does it take to banish an angel? Can it be, like, just a little?"
Castiel considers her thoughtfully. "I have not experimented with it myself to know an exact amount," he offers solemnly, "but I believe a little would work."
She chews her bottom lip. "Have you heard of a Molotov cocktail?"
It's as though she's said the magic words—Kol appears from out of nowhere into the kitchen. "My favorite things," he crows gleefully, and he actually rubs his hands together like a super villain. "Bombs and beautiful girls." He sends a lascivious wink her way and she wrinkles her nose in response.
Castiel doesn't spare him a glance; his gaze is steadfast in its focus on Caroline. "Explain," he instructs her and she rolls her eyes at Kol before turning her attention back to the row of bottles she has lined up like tiny soldiers on the island.
"He's not wrong," she allows with a scowl in Kol's direction; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him take a brief, sarcastic bow. "It is a bomb. But I think…I think instead of motor oil, we could take the Holy Oil and have—" she waves her hand in the air, "—angelic chemical weapons."
"I'm not gonna ask how you know so much about Molotov cocktails," Dean says from the doorway; she shoots him a small grin and when he reaches them, she bumps his shoulder with hers.
"Google," she assures him as she gets to work, splitting the oil into tiny fractions across thirty or so empty bottles.
Ellen and Bobby load the pickup trucks with her handiwork, and she helps Dean arrange his arsenal in the trunk of the Impala. But they can only delay the inevitable for so long (though Caroline tries her best, forcing no less than six guns into the wrong holders before Dean catches on).
"Care," he says quietly as he shuts the trunk.
She cuts him off before he can go on any further. "I can't do...that again." He seems to get it immediately, nodding. No speech this time. "Just—be careful. Try not to die." She hesitates. "If you and Sam could both not die, that would be great. Ideal, actually."
Dean is quiet and she knows, knows that he's trying to figure out how to say goodbye without promising her anything. "I'll do my best," he says finally, and she hugs him as tightly as she can. "Caroline." He fixes her with a pointed look. "Stay here."
Caroline blurts out the words before she can think better of it. "I'll do my best."
It makes him laugh, and after all the tears, this feels far more fitting.
… … ...
Caroline is full of pent up nervous energy, her knee bouncing erratically while her fingers tap against the island counter. Across the room, Matt sighs heavily and for a brief moment, they lock eyes.
She can see on his face that he's thinking the same thing she is.
"Fuck it," he says, standing so abruptly that his chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood floor. "I can't just sit here and wait." He digs in his pocket and pulls his keys out, looking at her resolutely. "You coming, Caroline?"
For a half second, she is frozen, the only thought in her mind that Dean would never forgive her. But it only lasts a moment before she steamrolls past that. At least this way, he might be alive with forgiveness to withhold.
And, in all fairness, she hadn't promised that she'd stay put. I'll do my best, she'd said. She had warned him.
Well.
Her best, it turns out, isn't quite good enough.
(Par for the course, it seems.)
Her thumb rolls over the handle of a dagger Klaus had left behind, and she wonders briefly if he had expected this from her. As if somehow, he knows her better than she knows herself.
"Yeah," she affirms finally. "Let's go."
For good measure, they slap together a handful of regular, non-angelic Molotovs, Caroline taking a secret pleasure in stuffing lighter fluid-soaked rags into the bottles of some of Damon's most expensive liquor.
It's a short drive to the wide expanse of the park, even when Matt's shitty truck isn't being pushed to its absolute limits. In the brief interim, Caroline finds herself knee deep in the soft haze of memories.
John Winchester and Elizabeth Forbes had gotten married under the towering oak tree in her backyard. Caroline remembers that Sam and Dean had worn miniature versions of their dad's suit, and that while Liz had worn her own hair down and loose, she had braided pretty white flowers into Caroline's. She remembers being so excited about her princess dress that she could hardly sleep the night before, her limbs twisting with anticipation while she giggled under the covers.
She remembers John kneeling down to meet her eyes, his own serious and solemn. I promise to take care of you, too, he had said and she remembers that she had beamed up at him with her gap tooth smile until the seriousness of his expression had faded into a rare smile.
Sam, already taller than the average twelve-year-old, had let her use his height as a stepping stone to reach the lower branches of the tree. She had always wanted to see the view from the top, and once it was clear that she wouldn't stop begging, Sam had sighed with exaggerated heaviness and bent down to let her scramble atop his shoulders.
Caroline had dedicatedly pulled herself up until she was well and truly stuck, her beautiful princess dress dusty and torn on one side. Once she had discovered the extent of her stuck-ness, she had started crying and true to his promise, John had climbed up after her, bringing her back down safely to the ground as she tearfully hiccuped into his shoulder. He had berated Sam, who had nodded somberly until John's back was turned, when he had promptly shot Caroline a conspiratorial grin.
She'd been stuck to his side like glue from the on.
Dean had been a tougher sell.
Caroline vividly remembers being ignored for months and Sam telling her it wasn't her fault. They had moved around a lot up till then, he had told her, and Dean was just plain prickly.
Like a cactus, she had said with all the wisdom of a first grader who had just completed a social studies course on the desert. With all the dignity a hurt six-year-old could muster, she announced to anyone who would listen that Sam was her favorite big brother.
Irony of ironies, it had taken a full knockout fight over pie, complete with hair pulling and biting, that had endeared them to each other. Liz had separated them, her face exasperated, and forced them to sit in separate coroners while Sam, who had watched the whole exchange with interest, was awarded the coveted slice.
As the scenes of Mystic Falls fly past the window, she finds herself begging a God she's pretty sure isn't listening that she can keep them both.
… … …
"What," Dean snarls as he slashes his way through the firefight to Matt's truck, "the. fuck. are you doing here?" His tone puts a stutter in her step and she nearly trips over her own feet. Stupid slow reflexes.
"I couldn't just sit there, doing nothing!" Caroline cries, dashing to the truck bed before he can stop her. Their cargo has fallen over and is in general disarray, but the Molotov cocktails are still fully intact. "And we made more of these."
"They're just normal ones," Matt adds hurriedly, grabbing fistfuls of bottles. "But maybe they'll still help?"
Dean stares at him. "You, I don't care about," he says to Matt flatly, ignoring Caroline's glare. He points to a spot nearby with the end of his sword. "Take 'em over there, give 'em to Bonnie." Matt darts off and Caroline feels a slight stab of betrayal at how quickly he abandons her to Dean's wrath.
"Didja forget that you're a human?" he demands, turning to her and slapping his sawed off into her palm before she can answer. "Stay the hell back and shoot anything that comes at you!"
She would snark back at him, but he's already headed back into the battle, wading through the smoke. Her fingers jitter against her leggings, her eyes darting from where Elena and Damon are combating—winged horses, what the fuck—to scouring the field for Sam.
He's nowhere to be found, and she can't just stand here, waiting.
Caroline rocks on her toes before gritting her teeth and heading in after Dean, snagging a Holy Oil Molotov for good measure.
But she doesn't get very far.
An iron grip wraps around her wrist and yanks her backwards.
"You aren't supposed to be here," Klaus snaps at her, pulling her into his side. His shirt, his jaw, and his hands are all stained a horrible dark red. "You're supposed to be safe at the boarding house!" He shouts the last bit at her while tearing out the throat of her eighth-grade science teacher, all while never breaking eye contact with her.
Her stomach churns and seriously, the last thing she needs is to puke in the middle of Armageddon.
"Yeah, well," she snaps back, exhaling through her teeth. So much for her theory that he left the dagger behind for her on purpose. "Can't say I'm that great at following orders." She thrusts the glass bottle in his grasp, her hand shaking as she flicks the Zippo lighter she'd dug out of the bottom of Matt's glovebox and brings the flame to the rag. It ignites and she steps back. Without a moment of hesitation, Klaus throws the bottle towards the fight, and the effect is immediate—the glass shatters and the Holy Oil spills onto the ground, catching fire. The smell of burning flesh and hair makes her eyes water.
She still doesn't see Sam—Michael in the melee, though she knows he is there somewhere, waiting for the most opportune moment to pounce on Dean.
Klaus actually growls at her before shoving an unfamiliar hybrid in her direction. "If you die, I will send you to hell myself," he snarls darkly at her, and there's no time to dissect how the frisson of the old fear that he inspires mixes with a sudden, fierce rush of lust.
She's great at compartmentalization. She'll deal with it later.
If later comes.
Swallowing hard, Caroline eyes this new keeper disdainfully before shaking her head and scanning the field for Sam. "I'm not a damsel in distress," she informs the hybrid, pleased when her voice does not shake. She reaches into a nearby pickup truck and trades the sawed-off for a long-bladed dagger someone has left behind.
The scene in front of her is a jarring whirlwind of color, a cacophony of horrible, clanging sounds. It very nearly overwhelms her—the smell of blood and smoke, the red staining yellowing grass, the acidic haze of smoke that drifts over them from where Bonnie's forest fire has mixed with the burn of the Holy Oil, the shouts and screams of people she knows, people she loves.
Through the madness, she manages to spy Dean, who is almost as efficient at killing as Klaus. The sharply curved scythe whips through the air, and he too barely looks as it cuts down the angel in front of him. She follows his gaze, willing to bet money that Sam will be at the end of it.
But then the ground itself seems to shake, throwing her and the hybrid Klaus has tasked with guarding her to the earth. The smoke isn't as thick down here, but Caroline loses track of her dagger all the same, her palms stinging.
The sudden grip of strong fingers tight gripping her hair by the roots jerks her upwards from her position on her hands and knees. Pain erupts in her scalp, and she can't find her balance as she is pulled relentlessly backwards. All of the air is knocked out of her and she can't even scream, her lungs contracting painfully, choking on the pain and the smoke—
Sam—no, not Sam, never Sam—Michael, Michael is pulling her up by her hair, using Sam's fingers to dig in between the tight plaits of her braids and yanking upwards, forcing her to follow. Her hands grapple for purchase at his wrists, frantically trying to push him off of her without losing a chunk of her scalp in the process.
"Stop, please, Sam!" she begs between chest-shaking coughs, her nails scratching as hard as she can down the length of his forearms. Michael isn't listening, his gaze fixed somewhere a few feet ahead of her. As he moves backwards, she scrambles desperately with him, alternating between trying to see his face to looking hysterically for Dean. She doesn't see him, she doesn't see him—
"Dean!" she screams, finding her voice as her feet slip out from under her. Michael doesn't stop, doesn't care that he is dragging her by her hair through the bloody field. Her scalp has gone numb; pain blazes from behind her forehead and down her neck. Her leggings are streaked with blood, and she's not even sure if it's hers or not.
Caroline regains her footing for a split second, her eyes desperately searching around her for something, anything to free herself with before landing on a dagger that had been dropped in the fight.
"Hey, you dickblister!" Dean shouts from somewhere close by, and Michael is distracted for just long enough that Caroline can grab the weapon and thrust it into his thigh, hoping fervently that she's missed an artery. Michael grunts and releases her.
Caroline doesn't waste a moment; she clambers to her feet and runs as fast her legs can take her to get behind Dean. Her scalp throbs and she thinks vaguely her lip must be split from the way it's aching. The inside of her mouth tastes like pennies.
"For the love of all that is holy, Caroline, stay back," Klaus snarls in her ear, his fingers like iron shackles looping around her wrists. "You can't help, not here. Not like this."
"Fuck off," she shouts back at him, yanking against his grip to no avail. "Let go of me!"
His arms cage her, her spine straining against his forearms, and he hisses, his mouth so close to her temple that she can feel his breath on her face, "If you do not stop, I will compel you, Caroline!"
She's about to retort that since she expects nothing less than conniving backstabbing from his hybrid ass, she's been faithfully taking her vervain, thank you very much—
The sickening sound of flesh thudding onto flesh, of bones cracking is what breaks through the red haze of anger. She stops pulling against Klaus and tries to turn, terrified, towards the noises.
Her legs threaten to give out at the scene: Michael using Sam's body to beat the absolute holy hell out of Dean.
Klaus won't let her turn fully around, won't let her watch. One palm spans the entire back of her head, keeping her face hidden in his shirt. His other arm is wrapped tightly around her waist, pinning her in place. She knows she's sobbing, can feel the wetness tracking down her face, but her body doesn't feel like it's under her control anymore.
Someone is moaning, "No, no, no, no, no," over and over, and it sounds like her voice but she can't feel her throat. A few paces back from them, Bonnie's eyes have turned entirely white, the weight of generations of magic heavy in her voice and making the air crackle. There is a deafening rumble and the ground quakes again, then—
"Dean," Sam croaks. "Care."
Klaus's grip loosens ever so slightly and, her entire body going numb, Caroline slides out of his grasp, tripping out from the circle his arms have made around her.
It is Sam, his hair hanging floppily in front of his eyes, his raking over her face and Dean's, as though memorizing them, as though searing the lines of their faces into the spaces of his heart. His facial muscles are twitching, and Caroline knows every moment of control must be a struggle.
She stumbles clumsily away from Klaus, towards Dean, towards Sam, towards her family.
Once she has closed the narrow gap between them, she grasps one of Sam's hands tightly in hers and in her peripheral vision she sees Dean copy her movements. "I don't—I don't have much time," Sam spits out, teeth clenched with the effort of keeping Michael at bay. Behind him, Caroline can see that the earth has opened up, and she grips Sam's hand hard enough that she can feel his bones rubbing together. He doesn't seem to feel it. "You have to—you have to let me do this," he says, voice raw. "Only way. Gotta end it."
"Goddamnit, Sam," Dean growls, his free hand clenching into a fist that turns his split knuckles white. "You can't fucking do this—"
Sam lets out a humorless chuckle. "It's this or the world ends." His mouth twists and he jerks his thumb towards the chasm behind them. "He's really fucking scared of that."
"Sam," Caroline whispers, her voice trembling and her hands shaking where they clasp his. "Sam, there has to be another way, there has to be—"
"There isn't, and you know that." His voice is soft and certain. "It has to be me."
There is no speech like with Dean; Sam just looks at them, so intensely that she briefly thinks he's succeeded in slowing down time. Behind him, the gaping wound in the earth seems to howl.
"Don't do this," she begs again brokenly, her tears splashing down to where his hand grasps hers. "Please, Sam, don't do this."
He shakes his head, gaze sliding briefly to Dean, whose right eye is swelling shut, then back to her. "What about the world, Care?" he reminds her gently and she presses forward, shaking her head so hard that her scalp burns where Michael had gripped.
"Fuck the world," she says urgently and Sam gives a slightly shocked laugh. "Sam, I don't want the world, I don't care about the world, what are we supposed to do without you—" her voice breaks off and her chest aches so much that it feels like all of the interconnected bones surrounding her heart have shattered.
Sam looks at her, a small, bittersweet smile playing over his features before his gaze shifts to Dean.
"'M not gonna leave you, Sammy," Dean grits out, voice thick. His face is almost unrecognizable, covered in blood and sweat, the skin of his cheeks split. "Made a promise. 'M not going anywhere."
For a long, lingering moment, the only sound Caroline hears is the whipping of the wind.
Until— "I know," Sam tells him. "I know, Dean."
The air around them goes supernova, the roar of the wind deafening and she will not look as her hands grasp at nothing. She can't look, can't bear to see it—
Then—
Silence.
Caroline knows before she opens her eyes that Sam is gone.
… … …
They sit together on the front steps for what feels like hours—
It feels like time passes differently now, in this world. A world without—
Maybe, if she concentrates hard enough, the earth will open up and swallow her too.
… … …
Caroline doesn't flinch when Dean breaks the silence.
"I promised Dad."
She pulls her legs into her chest and lays her head on her knees, eyes focused on him. "I know."
He has two black eyes, his face is covered in splotchy purple bruises, and Caroline knows he would have thrown himself into the pit a thousand times over if it meant he would have taken Sam's place. He already had once.
"I promised Dad," he repeats bitterly. "That I would watch Sammy's back." He doesn't look at her, doesn't lift his gaze from the ground. There's a crack in the sidewalk that he appears fascinated by; a tiny green bloom is pushing its way through the concrete to the surface. She's sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but she's too tired to overthink it. "It was supposed to be me; I was the one who was supposed to die, not him. What kind of brother does that make me?"
It isn't a question that requires an answer, but she gives him one all the same, her voice scratchy. "Mine," she tells him solemnly, rounding her spine so that she is hunched further around her knees, making herself as small as possible. It's not an answer that makes any kind of sense, but something visceral within her needs to give voice to it, to remind him that he is hers just as much as he was Sam's, blood be damned. Literally.
The hand she reaches out is bloodied; the skin on the back of her knuckles is broken, and bruises in the shape of fingerprints dust her wrist. She tucks it into the crook of his elbow and rests her head on his shoulder. "You're my brother too and I—I don't know what I would do without you."
Time slips by, the sun dipping below the horizon, and still neither of them makes to abandon their seats on the steps. Caroline doesn't know how long they stay like that, unmoving in their seats on the steps. The street lights have long flickered on when she says quietly, "You know I love you, right?"
Dean doesn't answer, doesn't seem to have even heard her. "It was supposed to be me," he says flatly, voice hoarse. "It was always supposed to be me."
And for once, Caroline Forbes can't find any words.
… … …
tbc
A/N: Inspiration is a fickle thing, and I hadn't found any in TVD for a very long time. This chapter got off the ground after re-reading so many of my favorite fics from years ago, and remembering why I enjoyed writing these characters so much. I am so, so grateful for the incredibly talented writers in this fandom.
I have too many excuses for my absence to list here, but if you're still here reading this fic, know that I deeply, deeply appreciate it.
I am, as always on Tumblr (little-miss-sunny-daisy) and on Twitter (sunnydaisy6). I'd love feedback if you're so inclined!