AN: Much love to but_seriously and alienor_woods for letting me spiral and wring my hands over plot points.
the birth and death of the day
14.
Caroline loses track of how long they sit in silence. Time seems to come unstuck, the seconds on Dean's watch flickering from quick flashes to slow, languid ticks. The only constant is the sound of their breathing, their inhales and exhales the only sense of reality that she can grasp onto.
Until Dean shatters the stillness.
He stands up so suddenly that Caroline flinches reflexively, his fingers flexing in and out of a fist at his side. He glances down at her wordlessly, then makes his way towards where the Impala is parked on the street. She stares at his retreating back before blinking herself out of her trance and racing after him.
She has no idea where they're going, only that she would follow Dean to the edge of the world.
He cranks the Impala and Def Leppard blares through the speakers; they wince in unison before Caroline reaches forward to pause the tape deck. Dean looks over at her, expression unreadable, but they both remain silent.
Caroline can't be sure what he's thinking, but she herself is consumed with the knowledge that she's sitting in Sam's seat. Her muscles tense at the sheer wrongness of it: her spot has always been in the backseat, behind Dean, not here up front next to him. She hates it.
But Dean says nothing. He gives no indication he's even noticed as he steers the car into the street and guns it southwards.
An hour into the drive, Caroline figures out where they're going. It makes her stomach hurt, her lungs suddenly feeling too small in her chest.
Another hour and Dean pulls into a parking spot and turns the Impala off. The sun is dipping well below the horizon, spraying purples and lavenders across the sky.
The air here is salty and cold from the ocean's spray. Caroline can hear the steady roar of the waves through the Impala's doors. She and Dean sit for a long, silent moment before he gives a ragged exhale and opens his door.
Caroline scrambles to follow him.
Literally any other time, it would have been comical, watching Dean struggle through the coarse sand down to the water, his combat boots kicking up a flurry behind him. With a desperation she can't pin down, Caroline kicks off her tennis shoes and hurriedly strips off her socks before taking off after him.
"Dean!" she calls out frantically, speaking for the first time in hours, her heart pounding as he keeps walking towards the water's edge. There's an elemental fear climbing up her throat that maybe he won't stop walking, that maybe he'll keep going right out into the ocean and let the water claim him—
But he stops, just out of the water's reach, and the tightness in her chest eases a fraction.
She slows to a walk, stopping when she reaches his side. She doesn't reach for him, doesn't try to take his hand. She doesn't touch him at all.
The waves of Chesapeake Bay crash against the sand, leaving behind small pockets of foam and long lines of crushed shells just past the tops of their shoes. Caroline remembers telling Klaus just weeks ago about their family vacation here, and it feels as though it's been decades, centuries, since he stood in her living room and inspected the framed photos on the mantle.
Her memory drifts further back, and she remembers how John had scooped her up and pretended to toss her into the same dark waves before which she now stands. She had built a sandcastle with Sam, which Dean had promptly trampled, and John had let them bury him in the sand up to his neck, grinning up at their delight behind his aviator sunglasses. Liz had watched the entire scene from her nearby camping chair, laughing behind her hand.
Now only the two of them remain.
Her chest aches.
She loses track of how long they stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the push and pull of the Atlantic tides against the sand. It isn't until the sun has vanished entirely and Caroline begins to shiver under the silvery moonlight that Dean seems to remember where he is, and that he is not there alone.
He pulls her into his side, his arm tight around her shoulders, hugging her briefly before they begin the slow, steady trek back to the car.
Back to a new world in which they somehow have to keep going despite the gaping hole where Sam used to be. Where Liz once was.
The cold, salty air stings when she breathes.
… … …
They are nearly home when the soft flutter of wings breaks the stillness of the car, followed by a whoosh.
"I am very sorry," Castiel says quietly from the backseat, his voice gravelly.
Neither of them acknowledges him, and he doesn't say anything else.
But he doesn't leave either.
… … …
They don't go home, not yet.
Instead, Dean steers the Impala towards the Salvatore boarding house, parking on the curb. The three of them sit in silence, none of them making a move to leave the car, until Castiel says slowly, "Are...are we going to go inside?"
The question jolts Caroline, her muscles twitching into activity, and she casts a look in Dean's direction. He's still gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles no longer bleeding but still a deep, dark red. "Yeah," Dean says finally, his hands sliding down the wheel before reaching for the door handle. "Yeah, we are."
Bobby is the first to greet them. "Listen, kids—" he starts to say, but Dean just shakes his head and walks forward, Caroline at his heels.
The Mikaelsons are noticeably absent from the room, but Caroline has barely a moment to wonder about it before everyone begins talking all at once.
"What happens now—"
"The witches have gone silent, and I don't know what that means—"
"Where's Sam, Care?"
"What the actual fuck happened out there?"
"Everybody shut the hell up!" Bobby yells, his voice carrying over the noise. His face is red, and he's glaring at the group like he's been herding cats for the hours that Dean and Caroline had spent at Chesapeake. "One question at a time, like goddamn grown-ups."
The room falls silent, with her friends exchanging looks that she can't quite discern before Stefan steps forward from their semi-circle.
"At the risk of sounding trite," he ventures, "What happens now?" The question isn't directed at anyone in particular but the eyes of the room swivel towards where she and Dean stand behind the couch.
Castiel clears his throat, answering for them. "It remains to be seen, but given the outcome of events, I would expect for things to...return to normalcy, for the most part." His gaze lowers, and he does not look at her or Dean. "For most of you."
It hangs heavy in the air, what he's leaving unsaid.
Nothing will ever be normal again. Not for her. Not for Dean. Not for their family.
And she just—
—can't be in there anymore, can't stand to be around the sympathetic glances she keeps intercepting from her well-meaning friends. Her leggings are still bloody, for fuck's sake—
She leaves, heading straight for the small half bathroom off the kitchen. There is a small iron bench pushed against one wall, a touch that screams Elena Gilbert, and Caroline sinks down gratefully onto it. Her head drops heavily into her hands, her scalp still aching at the touch. She inhales shakily, and tries to empty her mind of all thoughts except her breathing.
But she can't even find solace there.
"I gotta say, beautiful," Gabriel says brightly, "I'm personally pretty psyched you didn't bite it during The Big One."
Caroline nearly jumps off the bench, then bristles in annoyance, her palms pressing into her eyes. "Jesus be a fence. This is the bathroom. Get out!"
"You're just sitting here," he points out practically.
She stares at him, trying to figure out if he's seriously serious and good god, he is. "I am so fucking sick of archangels," she bemoans to the empty space in front of her before half flouncing her body towards him. "What do you want?"
She takes in how he is sitting, carelessly sprawled on the small bathroom bench, his knees wide and almost touching hers as he takes up the majority of the space. Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You're manspreading," she informs him coldly, shifting herself away from him as much as possible.
He grins in response. "You are so mean," he notes delightedly. "It's my favorite thing about you."
"You've met me all of like, four times."
"Semantics!" Gabriel leans forward and gives her a half leer. "If you ever get tired of dating that boy—"
"—what boy? Are you talking about Klaus because he's like a billion and we are not dating—"
"—just say the word because you clearly have no issues with an age difference, and I am a sucker for a hot blonde with an attitude problem." Gabriel's smile is sharp, the edge of a knife.
"What do you want?" Caroline hisses.
Gabriel's grin fades; he grows uncharacteristically serious and it's unsettling as hell. "To tell you this: Michael commanded a lot of loyalty. You Winchesters should watch your collective backs. Apocalypse might be averted, but, you know. Made a lotta new enemies out on that battlefield." He shrugs. "Plus, not every demon was fighting to keep Lucifer locked up. I'd keep an eye out for them too." Gabriel goes quiet, then: "And to offer my condolences. About Sam."
Her chest burns and her eyes drop down to her lap. "Thanks," she mumbles, tugging on a braid awkwardly before letting go immediately as her scalp begins to ache anew.
After several seconds of semi-tense silence, it occurs to her that he can relate. That when Sam fell, his brother fell too.
But she can't find it within herself to return his condolences. Not after everything Michael did, everything he took from them, from Dean, from her.
She lets her head fall back to the wall, her eyes shutting briefly before fluttering back open. "If Michael is gone, does that mean—does everything go back to the way it was?"
"You wanna know if you're gonna vamp back out," Gabriel guesses, his voice flat. "Hate to tell ya, but—" he gives an elaborate shrug, his palms outstretched as his head tilts. "No idea."
Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You're an archangel," she points out tartly. "How do you not know?"
"Unprecedented times, beautiful. Now, normally? If my brother had met some kind of natural—er, natural-ish—end? I woulda said you're screwed, and not in a fun way. Stock up on the blood bags, Draculina, 'cause you booked a one-way ticket back to Suckville."
Caroline exhales heavily; she hadn't even realized she was holding her breath awaiting his answer. "But now?"
He shrugs again, his shoulder bumping hers in the small space. "Anyone's guess." She feels his eyes on her and shoots him a glare. "You wanna go back to how you were?" Gabriel wiggles his fingers at her. "I can make that happen."
She automatically starts to shoot him down—the words take shape behind her lips and hover right on the edge of her tongue. But she stops them, and really, really considers his offer.
Pros and cons, like she's always done.
Elena would get her humanity back, but at the cost of her own. And to what end? So that Klaus could go back to siphoning off vials of her blood for his hybrid army for the rest of her natural life?
And speaking of Klaus—no, she won't touch that one. Not yet.
Most importantly, what of herself? If she clears her head of all the noise, of all the things she's told herself that she wants, all the things she's supposed to want and strips everything down to the most basic of questions: what does she want?
She could make it so Dean would never lose her, the last person he has left. Hell, she could even put off college and join him on the road as an actual asset instead of a liability—and never, ever the victim. Not again.
But even as she considers it, the old familiar fear still gnaws at her—the promise of eternal separation lingering in the back of her mind.
Vampires don't go to heaven, Caroline.
What would she do after her first one hundred years, as time slipped by her?
"No," she says finally, "I'm good."
Gabriel sends her a lascivious wink. "Sure are. Lemme know if you change your mind, though. I'm at your disposal, babe."
There's a soft rush of air, the sound of air giving way to wings, and he's gone.
She doesn't leave the bathroom immediately, instead staying seated on the small bench, eyes locked on her reflection in the oval mirror that hangs over the sink.
What do you want, Forbes?
Caroline squares her shoulders and turns on the sink to scrub at her hands.
Right now, the only answer she has is Sam.
Everything else can wait.
… … …
The house is quiet when they arrive, though someone has turned on the lights in the living room. Caroline is so tired that she can't be bothered to wonder who it was.
"You okay?" Dean asks her quietly as Bobby's truck pulls up behind them. It's just the two of them now, islands in the front seat.
And she's not—she doesn't want to go in that house, doesn't want to sleep in her bed like everything is fine and normal when it isn't, but Dean looks like he's approximately four seconds from a nervous breakdown, so she straightens her spine, sets her jaw, and does what she does best.
Buries it deep.
"Yeah," she reassures him as she reaches for the door handle. "I'm okay."
Their house doesn't feel any different, which might be the biggest betrayal yet. The air still holds a lingering scent of the cookies she had forced Jeremy and Matt to bake (and when she turns, there they are, sitting untouched on the baking sheet) and the TV is still on, now showing a screensaver that Caroline had set up months ago. Photos slip past each other: a prom picture of her, Elena, and Bonnie, her and Liz cheers-ing with coffee cups, Dean and Sam wearing equally stoic expressions, John solo and wearing his favorite aviators—Caroline lunges for the remote and turns the TV off with a click that barely seems to capture her desperation. She stares unblinking at her dim reflection in the black screen.
This morning, when she had French braided her hair and packed bags, she had had two brothers.
Dean's door shuts, as though punctuating her thoughts.
"Got any extra blankets?" Bobby asks, taking his cap off and placing it gingerly on the kitchen counter.
And it's silly for him to sleep on the couch when they have one—no, two extra bedrooms now, but she doesn't say anything to dissuade him. "Yeah." She points to a narrow door in the hallway. "Linen closet. Bottom shelf." She watches as he goes to it and helps himself to a few of the neatly folded quilts before turning to the couch to remove the back cushions herself. "How long do you think you'll stay?"
"As long or short as you kids need. Besides, I think we're gonna have to do some more figurin' out where we go from here."
Caroline chews her lip. "What do you mean?" The beginnings of panic flutter under her sternum like the wings of a caged bird. "You think this isn't over?"
Bobby gives a sofa pillow a few experimental fluffs before setting it down, satisfied. "Nah, I think Castiel's right. The Apocalypse is over." He casts a look that she can't read over at her. "You gonna be okay, kid?"
The truth sits on the edge of her tongue, right behind her teeth, but still she bites it back. "Yeah," she assures him, lies to him, her fingers fiddling with the corner of the couch. "Eventually."
And to his credit, Bobby doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press and she doesn't offer.
… … …
Caroline doesn't go to bed just yet.
She showers, scrubbing at her skin until it is pink and raw, letting the near scalding water soothe the aching bruises that dot along her scalp. She washes her face, flosses twice, brushes her teeth, and pulls on her pajamas, her reflection hazy in the lingering steam.
Her room has always been her safe haven, a place where she could feel wholly herself without judgement or commentary. There's a row of small potted cacti lining one side of her desk, loose photos hanging from a thin, makeshift clothesline that she had strung along one wall three summers ago, and twinkly white lights drifting from the ceiling.
She had made sure that it was a place she could come to and just be, pouring pieces of herself into what feels like the very walls, but something about crawling into her bed with its cheerful yellow sheets feels...disrespectful, and wrong. As though she is coming to the conclusion of a normal, albeit long, day, like the remnants of her world, already hanging by a tenuous thread, didn't shatter at her feet today.
Squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, she resolves that she will reach for the doorknob and she will start the walk down the hallway towards her room. She will.
Several seconds tick past, and she doesn't move.
Maybe she'll just sleep here, on the bathmat, even though that is so ew—
A knock at the door, followed by Bobby's hesitant, "Hey, kid, you uh...bout done?" neutralizes that idea entirely. Her chin drops to her chest for a moment before she looks herself in the eye, nods once, and opens the door.
"Sorry," Caroline offers as she slides past him, her bare feet padding softly on the floor.
Her bedroom is quiet, half of the bedspread bathed in the light of the nearby streetlamp. On her desk are Sam's ancient texts, with her sticky notes still marching down the margins just like he would have hated. The urge to rip them off the pages is suddenly overwhelming and Caroline's nostrils flare with the effort it takes to resist the impulse.
Her curtains are still partly open and she supposes the only thing surprising about the shadow that lingers there is that he waited patiently for her to show up. She wonders if she should say something to him. Wonders if he came all this way to watch her tiptoe around her bed as though it's a live wire.
His eyes are dark and hot as they track her movements, but he stays quiet, his face unreadable.
A standoff, then.
She folds first, throwing in the metaphorical towel without much of a fight. "I'm not inviting you in." She grasps at the words, a tether to a past life. It's something she might have said to him yesterday, or two weeks ago, or two months ago, when she had a mother. When she had two brothers instead of just one.
It's not supposed to be harsh, or a declaration of mistrust, but her intentions get tangled between her brain and her mouth, and it comes out as those things instead.
Caroline is wincing before he can say a word. "I didn't mean it like that," she corrects apologetically, and it occurs to her that she could never explain this to the six months ago version of herself—apologizing to Klaus (and worst of all, meaning it). "Just that...you know. Dean doesn't trust you, and he needs to have a place where he knows it's safe. I can't take that from him." She hesitates, the words and their weight heavy before she gives voice to them. "Even if I don't, like, totally agree."
Something flashes across his face, but it's gone before she can pin it down and study it. "Caroline," he murmurs, and it's the sound of her name on his lips that finally, finally breaks her.
Her face crumples, and without pausing to think about it, she walks straight over to the window and climbs right out of it.
If she's surprised him, he doesn't show it. She buries her face in his shirt, and his arms encircle her as though her place has always been inside of them. "I can't sleep here, like everything's fine, like nothing happened," she whispers into his collarbone, and she's barely finished exhaling the words before he's moving, taking her away at supernatural speed.
It takes all of a few seconds before she feels softness beneath her, and Caroline opens her eyes to see the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. She shifts to her side and curls into herself, knees drawing up to her chest to become as small as possible.
There is warmth at her back, then strong arms looping around her waist, tucking her securely in place. And despite everything, that makes a tiny, halfhearted smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—who would've guessed that Klaus, the terrifying Original Hybrid that had haunted their footsteps for months, would be a spooner? She tucks the information away for safekeeping into a secret, guarded place in her heart.
His stubble scrapes gently at her skin as he lets his lips linger at her temple. "You can sleep now," he murmurs into the fine hair there. "You're safe."
"'Kay," Caroline murmurs back, eyes already shut. "Gotta be back before Dean wakes up though. Mean it."
"Mhmm," is his only acknowledgement, but she's already asleep.
… … …
Caroline wakes up at 2:12 am according to the large antique clock on the wall, her eyelids flying open and adrenaline coursing underneath her skin. She had shifted sometime in the night, and her body is now strewn over his, her ear pressed into his chest with his hand on the small of her back. His thumb is stroking down the vertebrae there, notch by notch, occasionally pausing to press circles into a corner of particularly tight muscle.
At the change in her breathing, Klaus's hand on her back tenses.
"Go back to sleep," he says, the deep tenor of his voice vibrating under her ear.
"Can't." She turns her face slightly so that her nose is pressing into his shirt. "Wide awake now." She peeks out and catches a glimpse of his sketch. "What're you drawing?"
He tilts the pad towards her so she can see. It's a rough drawing, limited, she supposes, by the fact that the hand currently skimming under the hem of her shirt isn't holding down the other side of the paper; but he's skilled enough that she can tell it's the winged horses from Armageddon.
Seeing them, even in simple charcoal lines, is enough to make her stomach roll, so she shakes her head and returns her face to hide in his shirt.
"You talk in your sleep, you know," he says casually, his hand moving higher up her back. His thumb digs into a tense spot and her spine arches reflexively up into his palm.
"I used to a lot," she confides, shifting so that she's off of him and on her side, propping herself up on one elbow. His hand falls to rest at the curve of her waist. "When I was little. Supposedly grew out of it though." Her head tilts. "What did I say?"
The lines of his face are smooth and his expression is unreadable as he says with a studied casualness, "No true words. Mostly noises of distress." He places the pencil and the sketch pad down on the nightstand next to him with a studied calmness that she's seen before. Usually before a neck is snapped.
Caroline swallows hard, looking down at where his shirt meets his collarbone and focusing there as she says softly, "I didn't dream anything." A pause before she sneaks a glance up at him. "That I remember, anyway."
His eyes are dark and fixed on where his hand sits at the dip of her waist. "Small mercies, then."
She doesn't press him for any further explanation, instead shifting again so that her front is now flush with his side. "Would you do me a favor?"
His lips brush over her hair. "Ask away, sweetheart."
Her eyes close; just a short nap, she decides, while she can hold on to dreamless sleep. After all, she only has a little while longer before she'll insist upon going home. "Tell me a story," she says, fingers bunching in his shirt. "Real, fake—I don't care. Just...make me forget, for a little while."
If she has surprised him, he doesn't react. That's the nice thing about him, she thinks drowsily. Unflappable.
Without missing a beat, his fingers resume their slow climb up and down her back, and he begins, his voice a deep timber in his chest, "When I was a boy…"
He's barely done setting the scene—a lake, his voice rumbles under her ear, with geese rippling the waters, against a bright blue sky—before she's asleep again.
… … …
"How'd you sleep, kid?" Bobby asks her as he slides bacon and eggs off of the skillet and onto her plate.
"Fine," Caroline mumbles automatically, reaching for her fork. She can feel Bobby's eyes on her, can feel the skepticism radiating off of him, and she offers him her best attempt at a smile.
He doesn't look mollified. "You sure?"
"Yes, Dad," she snipes, pushing away the guilt that lingers at the lie and how easily she tells it. She still has the pattern of Klaus's shirt imprinted into her temple, for god's sake. Bobby doesn't look like he believes her, but she watches as he very obviously decides it's not worth the fight and lets it go.
"Well. Listen. I gotta ask you somethin', and I'm askin' you because all I'll get outta Dean is grunts for answers." Bobby hesitates, and the uncertainty on his face gives her pause. Caroline has only known him for roughly three weeks, but even she knows that it's a rare look for him. "Do you think you two'll wanna hold a—a funeral, or memorial or somethin' for Sam?"
Whatever she had been expecting, that wasn't it. Caroline shakes her head, unconsciously leaning away from him. "I—I don't know, Bobby, I'm not sure Dean—"
"How 'bout this," he cuts in, "you tell me what you think will help the both of you, and I'll get it done."
It escapes before she can stop it. "Sam back."
Bobby grimaces and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm a little short on miracles, kid. Gimme something I can actually do."
She's not hungry, and the bacon is tasteless in her mouth, but she recognizes the worry in Bobby's face, has seen it on her mother's a hundred times, so she chews and swallows robotically. "Help us get Sam back," she amends and Bobby gives a heavy sigh.
"Don't think that's possible, kid."
"Neither were angels, a year ago," Caroline points out practically, forcing down another bite.
"Yeah, but at least with them we had—" he gestures around at nothing in particular, "—stories and shit. Never heard of someone escaping the pit, till Dean. And last I checked, we're fresh outta angel garrisons."
"Maybe," she concedes, "but we have way more resources now. We can ask Cas, or Gabriel—"
Bobby fixes her with a stern look. "Ain't nobody asking Gabriel anything. I don't trust that little shit as far as I can throw him."
Caroline rolls her eyes, pushing the plate away from her and crossing her arms mutinously. "He's a resource—"
"He's a pain in our collective behind," Bobby grumbles.
"—I mean, seriously, think of all the information he has to have!" She leans forwards, eyes glittering. "We'd be dumb to not at least, like, I dunno, ask him stuff."
"Hell no," Dean's scratchy voice says from the hallway.
She and Bobby both fall silent as Dean pads over to the plate where the bacon is sitting. Caroline catches a glimpse of his face and has to fight back a sharp inhale—he looks terrible. His face is a splotchy watercolor of yellows, purples, reds, and blacks, and one of his eyes is still swollen shut. "Nobody is asking fuckin' Gabriel anything."
Caroline can't keep quiet; the words burst out of her as though shot from a cannon. "But Dean, he might know how to get Sam—"
Dean's face twists, and she winces in sympathy. It has to hurt, the broken skin pulling across bruised muscle. "Sam did what he had to do, and no, I'm not gonna leave him to rot down there. But you—" he points at Caroline, "—are not going to get involved. You're out, you hear me?"
The mutiny she feels must reflect in her face because his expression tightens. "Don't fight me on this one, Caroline. You're done."
Over Dean's shoulder, Bobby gives her a small shake of his head. Don't fight it, kid, she can almost hear him say, but it's on the tip of her tongue to point out to both of them that she can hardly be out when she also lives in this town and is currently best friends with not only a newly transitioned vampire but also a powerful witch. Instead, she looks down at her empty plate and taps her fork on the edge.
"Fine," she says tightly. "I'm...on the bench."
It's a small rebellion, and she knows that Dean knows it, but he just shakes his head and reaches for the coffee.
… … …
Bobby doesn't leave, but Caroline and Dean have come to a silent agreement: they don't leave the other in the house alone. Too many ghosts linger in the hallways.
(Sometimes, if her mind has wandered just far enough, she thinks she hears their voices. But they had salted and burned Liz's bones, burying just ash in the ground; and Sam had left nothing behind. Caroline wonders if she's slowly slipping into insanity.)
She can't pinpoint how exactly the deal came into existence, but it's been a week since Sam—her brain stutters, stops, course corrects—a week since Armageddon, and either they are both present in the house, or neither of them are. Bobby may be sticking around, but their home doesn't hold memories for him. He passes by the doorway next to the kitchen and doesn't notice the pencil ticks where she and Sam had tracked their growth spurts; his gaze doesn't pause at the slight dent in the wall where Dean had once thrown a textbook at Sam in the middle of an argument.
The house isn't haunted for Bobby the way it is for them.
Sleep, having already been in short supply before Armageddon, eludes her almost entirely now. The nightmares had started the second night after the battle, the first night she had tried to sleep in her own bed, and though they are formulaic, they are awful. Disjointed images of Sam surrounded by flames, his face twisted from pain, his mouth open in an endless scream—
The loud thunk of a bottle tears Caroline from her nightmares on the living room sofa; her eyes open and land on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue before flicking up questioningly to Dean. He puts two glasses down on the coffee table next to the bottle and looks at her expectantly.
"That's John's good stuff," she protests, her voice scratchy.
Dean shrugs, clearly uncaring. "Not like he has any use for it any more. Besides, it's for Sammy." He pauses and looks at the ground. "We're having an Irish wake."
She rubs her forehead and sits up slowly, her limbs aching from their hours of immobility. "I'm no expert," she says slowly, "but aren't Irish wakes supposed to be like, happy? Or at least like—" she wrinkles her nose, "—not miserable? They're like, celebrations of life, or whatever."
He doesn't say anything for several ticks of the old clock on the mantle. "I thought about having one," he tells her quietly. "For myself. Before I made the deal with that fucker." He laughs without humor and she hates the sound. "Sam beat me to it."
She can't think about that. "You think it'll help?" she asks skeptically instead.
Dean shrugs. "Think being drunk can't hurt."
Well. He has a point there.
And get drunk they certainly do—they get absolutely sloshed.
They're both sitting on the living room floor, legs stretched out in front of them, passing the ever-emptying bottle back and forth between them. Caroline had correctly assumed that with her recent return to humanity, her own alcohol tolerance would be at rock bottom, so she is hardly surprised when, after only a few sips into the bottle, her head is spinning. But Dean—
"I don't think John would approve of you chugging his good Scotch like a Tri Delt in Panama City," she remarks, forcing each word out carefully to avoid slurring them all together like a freaking lush.
Dean snorts and takes a long swig before passing the bottle back to her. "Done lots of things Dad wouldn't've approved of."
Caroline squints. "True," she allows before taking a deep drink of her own. "Also, same." She takes another tiny sip before handing it back to him. "Don't think he'd like any of us hanging out with angels."
Dean points at her. "Just the one angel. Not multiple."
"Cause John woulda seen it that way," she says sarcastically.
He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion. "Damn it. Point taken."
The bottle is half gone before either of them bring up Sam.
"He'd wanna know why we're sitting on the floor," Caroline says wistfully, her eyes fixed on their outstretched legs.
Dean gives a half laugh at that. "Not our faults he couldn't get comfortable anywhere. Fucking tree."
"Says the guy who's six-one," Caroline grumbles.
"He's six-four!"
Caroline does unenthusiastic jazz hands, wiggling her fingers. "Oooh, three whole inches. Big whoop."
He snorts and holds the bottle back out to her. "I'm not touching that one."
"It was low hanging fruit," Caroline agrees generously. She tips the bottle and takes a long drink, fortifying herself as she prepares to press on their mutual bruise. "Do...d'you think it was worth it?" She holds the bottle back out to him. "Everything we had to...you know." The words hang in the air—everything they had to do, everything they had lost. She doesn't specify, but the ever-present ghosts drift in the space between them. Sam. Liz. John. There are more names, she's sure, of people that meant something to Dean, people she never got to meet. "Was it worth it?" she repeats.
Dean doesn't answer for a long time, long enough that she starts to wonder if he's fallen asleep. She's half plotting how she'll have to get Castiel to help drag Dean into his room when he says, his voice sounding as though it's been dragged over broken glass, "World's still spinning right? Sun rising, setting, all that shit. I gotta believe that counts for something. We've..." he gestures with the bottle to the two of them, the remaining liquid sloshing against the dark glass, "sacrificed too much for it to not mean something."
She ruminates on that as he kills the Scotch.
… … …
A week later, Ellen calls with a job.
Caroline watches as Dean visibly brightens as he listens attentively to the list of reasons this particular demon possession bears all the hallmarks of something needing hunter interference. She watches as he remembers their silent arrangement, watches as his face falls when he looks up, and sees her watching him.
"It's okay," she assures him softly as he covers the receiver on his cell, the indecision playing out on his slowly healing face. "Bobby's here, right? Or I could go stay with Bonnie while he holds down the fort, if it would make you feel better." Or, she doesn't add, she could go stay at the Mikaelson mansion; or, a whispered voice in a neglected corner of her mind suggests, you could try staying here, by yourself, like an adult.
But it's too much like admitting defeat— that Sam's really gone, that they've really lost him, that this is a reality in which she will have to live for a while still.
It's a moot point, anyway—she can tell from the look on his face that Dean isn't buying what she's selling. "Ellen, give Rufus a call on this one, okay? Still dealing with shit on the homefront."
Caroline lurches out of her seat, grabbing for his phone. Dean evades her easily and she scowls at him in frustration before calling out, "Ellen, don't listen to him, he'll be there!"
Dean taps his phone to hang up and shoots her a look that she returns evenly as she demands, "What exactly do you have to deal with on the 'homefront'?"
(She wonders if he can hear her from his room, tossing and turning as she chases sleep. Wonders if he hears her wrenching awake from nightmares every night. Wonders if he's noticed that she's veered towards coffee as of late, that she's been employing a heavier hand with the undereye concealer.)
He does her the favor of looking sheepish. "I just meant—will you be okay? If I head out on a job?" Before she can answer, he rushes on, "It'll take a week, ten days, tops, then I'm back home."
With an effervescence she doesn't feel, Caroline snorts. "Ten whole days for one measly demonic possession? You're slipping, Winchester."
Some of the heaviness in his expression fades, and his green eyes are bright as he banters back, "Includes driving time."
"Uh huh. You sure it isn't just your fast approaching thirties catching up with you?"
He looks physically pained. "Don't you put that evil on me."
She shrugs. "If the orthopedic shoe fits—"
"Wow. Wow."
"I can get you one of those lumbar support pillows for the Impala if you want—"
"If you don't get out of this kitchen, I won't be responsible for my actions," he threatens.
In another lifetime, she would have gone giggling down the hallway, still poking at Dean over one shoulder.
In this one, she wonders if she'll ever be that girl again.
… … …
The day Dean is due to leave, he hollers her name from the kitchen, pulling her out of her UVA application.
"Your weirdo friends are here to have a meeting," he calls down the hallway. He pauses, then she hears in a lower, more sinister tone, "Get your face the fuck outta my fridge, Salvatore." Caroline sighs heavily and shuts her laptop. It's just as well—she had been stuck on Describe an event that you credit with making you who you are today.
It's been a tricky essay, one that she's started and erased at least four times. Her losses all seem too deeply personal and much too recent to put up for public consumption, and she can't very well wax poetic about the time she died and became a vampire.
The hallway to the kitchen passes by Sam's room; Caroline hesitates at the closed door before squaring her shoulders and walking past it, keeping her eyes determinedly forward.
Her eyebrows lift when she sees the small crowd—both Salvatores, Elena, and Bonnie all huddled in the suddenly cramped space.
"Hey guys," she says slowly, crossing the room to stand next to Dean. "What's going on?"
Bonnie is the first to speak. "How're you holding up, Care?" she asks gently.
Caroline shrugs uncomfortably. "Fine, I guess," she mumbles, her cheeks pinking. "What do you need?"
"And make it quick," Dean adds, a glower on his face.
The way they exchange looks, as though none of them wants to be the one to speak, has her suspicious; and if Dean's expression is any indication, he's a breath away from kicking them all out.
"The hybrid soldiers have to go," Stefan says from his spot on the wall, his arms crossed and his head bowed slightly. "This isn't a feudal state and Klaus isn't a king. He doesn't get to have an army at his beck and call."
"Oh...kay," Caroline says slowly, "I mean, yeah? I agree." She casts a look around at her friends. "I'm not super clear on what you want me to do about that though."
"Klaus listens to you," Stefan points out quietly and out of the corner of her eye, Caroline sees a muscle under Dean's eye twitch.
Damon leers at her. "Is listening what the kids are calling it nowadays?"
Dean's palm comes down on the countertop with a loud bang that makes both Caroline and Bonnie jump; the vampires in the room don't budge, though Elena looks at least a little shaken at his unexpected outburst. "So, you wanna send in Caroline, who by the way, is the most vulnerable out of all your asses, to what, negotiate with the head terrorist?"
Caroline's face colors as Damon scoffs, "Don't be a drama queen. Worst he'll do is turn her back into a vampire in a fit of pique—"
Her heart trips over itself. "If you know what's good for you, you'll shut the fuck up, Damon," she snaps, watching with thinly veiled concern as the vein in Dean's neck makes an appearance.
"Listen, I realize that none of what I'm about to suggest is a strong suit for you, but since you aren't going to help, could you maybe offer, I dunno, some thoughts or ideas?" Damon snaps back. "Considering this is technically your evil horde that you let him call back to active duty." He narrows his eyes at her.
Caroline blinks at him, acute dislike written on her face, before shifting her gaze to Stefan. "Yeah, I have something to add. Did you really need us—" she waves a hand in the space between herself and Dean, "—for this?" She crosses her arms over her chest in a mirror image of Stefan and raises an eyebrow at the room.
"What, like you've got something better to do, Barbie?" Damon asks waspishly, turning to her. "Last I checked, the both of you had exciting plans full of sitting comatose in an empty house. Fun."
"Damon," Elena admonishes, looking more than a little horrified at how cavalier he sounds. "Don't be an asshole."
"Don't be too hard on him, Elena, asshole is his natural state," Caroline snaps acidly, glaring at Damon with all the animosity she can muster. He has the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself, but she decides she doesn't really care about that either. "Fine," she bites off, sending a snotty look in the direction of the brothers Salvatore. "I'll ask him to get rid of them, but don't come crying to me when he laughs in our collective faces."
"Like hell you will," Dean interjects heatedly, and Caroline groans.
"It's fine," she says lowly, angling her head to minimize at least some of the supernatural eavesdropping.
"It's not fine," he retorts at a louder volume, glaring daggers at the group in the kitchen. "See, here's where we stand, me and Care—we're done fighting your battles. Do it your damn selves." He pins them with a look that has Bonnie dropping her eyes to the floor and Elena shifting uncomfortably. "This family has given enough. We have given enough. So, I repeat: do it your fucking selves."
"What makes you think we haven't tried?" Stefan cuts in quietly, looking at them directly for the first time. "Believe me, no one in this room—" he slides a hard glance in his brother's direction before correcting, "—most of us in this room don't want to involve either of you, and we—I wouldn't be asking if there were any other way."
And she's suddenly just so tired, down to the marrow of her bones. It's never-ending: one battle won, and a new one appears on the horizon. Maybe Dean's right—maybe they're done.
"I'll talk to him," she says, holding up a hand to stem the angry protests coming from Dean. "But after that, I... I'm out. I can't do this anymore."
Damon snorts as though he expected nothing less, and Stefan looks pained but resigned. But Bonnie and Elena—
She can't stop herself; before she knows it, she's walked over to them and the three of them are hugging, the way they had before she sent them off to battle angels. Had that really been so only days ago? She feels like she's aged a thousand years since then.
"I'm so sorry, Care," Elena says softly, her forehead dropping to Caroline's shoulder. "This is all my fault."
Caroline and Bonnie give identical snorts. "Because you have so much control over the face you were born with," Bonnie says sarcastically and Caroline nods her agreement.
"I'm sorry, too," Caroline echoes Elena, her fingers tightening on their shoulders, these friends who are her sisters in every definition of the word. She doesn't know what exactly she's apologizing for, harboring secret jealousies or secret trysts, but Elena is shaking her head and Bonnie is sniffling; and over Elena's shoulder, she sees Stefan and Damon exchange looks that are suspiciously fond—
"I'll do it," she whispers so that only Elena and Bonnie can hear. "I would do anything for you."
… … …
Dean has been gone for only three days, and she thinks she might be losing her mind for real. Sleep is treacherous, and by the second night, she's sipping Nyquil as though it's a cocktail. But that only makes the nightmares worse, and makes her feel hungover until well into the afternoon the next day, so she pushes the bottle to the back of her cabinet, determined to forget about it.
The morning of the third day, Caroline slips out of her house well before the sun rises. Bobby won't try to wake her until midmorning, so she figures she has plenty of time. For what, she doesn't know—she just needs to get out.
The nightmares had been especially bad the night before: flashes of Sam, of her mom, of John, all of them in Hell, before she had woken herself up gasping, covered in icy sweat.
Sleep had evaded her after that, and she had spent the remainder of the night staring at her phone, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram accounts of the Friday Night Lights cast, waiting for the clock to strike a reasonable hour to get up. At 4:30, unable to bear it any longer, she had tiptoed down to the bathroom and into the shower, trying to let the hot water of the shower wash away the lingering tension in her limbs.
For a brief handful of minutes, she had sat at her desk and contemplated returning to her UVA essay, but the restlessness in her limbs won out.
Dean has only been gone for less than seventy-two hours, and already she's unraveling.
The air is bracing without the warmth of the sun, and it does more to clear her head than the hot shower had. Her feet seem to have a destination, so she gives her mind a much-needed break and lets herself follow her footsteps where they lead.
It's hardly surprising that they take her straight to the Mikaelson door. She stares at the door knocker, an elaborate brass monstrosity that is equal parts pretentious and impressive, before turning back and walking towards the side of the house.
Caroline follows a stone pathway towards the backyard, which is unsurprisingly massive, and enclosed by a literal white picket fence. It's downright Rockwellian, and for the Mikaelsons of all families to have so thoroughly embraced something so traditional makes her snort.
Further behind the house, there is a garden full of flowers shedding their petals in preparation for the coming cooler weather. But as she takes a deep breath, her ribs expanding, she is filled with the scent of the blooms that remain.
That's where Rebekah, of all people, finds her several minutes later—basking in the scent of dying flowers as the moon wanes. "I thought I smelled something foul," she sniffs, tossing perfect hair over her shoulder and staring down her nose at her. "What do you want, Caroline?"
Great. "The list is long, Rebekah," she says tiredly, her arms crossing protectively over her chest. She deflects a haughty glare before continuing, "But for now, I need to talk to Klaus." No time like the present, she supposes.
Rebekah snorts derisively. "Talk, hmm? Is that what they're calling it?"
Caroline blinks before noting mildly, "I think you and Damon might be spending too much time together."
Rebekah bares her teeth in what Caroline thinks is supposed to be a smile. "Don't get cute, darling." She turns on her heel and Caroline hesitates briefly before hurrying after her.
The manor is quiet; the sound of their footsteps is all that disrupts the stillness.
"Be useful for once, and go fetch Nik," Rebekah says haughtily to a nearby hybrid with a dismissive wave of her hand; he nods eagerly and vanishes before Caroline can blink.
She briefly wonders if it bothers Rebekah, having Klaus's replacement family so near all the time; and to her surprise, her mind flits to Adam.
But before she can chase down that particular thread, she hears a familiar voice that definitely does not belong to Klaus—
"Caroline!" Kol calls out in delight; she stiffens, her arms crossing over her chest as she looks up to the top of the staircase. "What an unexpected surprise, especially at—" he makes a show of carefully inspecting his watch-free wrist, "this hour!" His smile is all sharp edges, a direct relative of Rebekah's with her bared teeth. "With what could our humble family possibly assist?"
She scowls at him, his charm sliding over her skin like oil. "I already told Rebekah—"
Kol waves her off. "Yes, yes, I heard. Alas, Nik isn't here." His grin turns into a leer. "But do make yourself comfortable." He gestures aimlessly at the ridiculously ornate living room furniture to his left as he descends the spiral staircase, dropping onto the large leather couch. "I'm sure he'll be back in short order." He grins up at her and pats the cushion. "Sit and stay awhile?"
She rolls her eyes and sits in one of the wingback chairs, away from him. Her ratty Chuck Taylors and old leggings look entirely out of place here, and it gives her a perverse sort of satisfaction to pull her feet up under her on the leather of the chair.
"Good thinking with the Molotov's," he says casually as she digs her phone out of her pocket to pull up Taylor Kitsch's Instagram and resume her mindless stalking.
"Thanks," she mumbles, eyes glued to her phone as her thumb scrolls.
"Didn't expect Nik to take up with a little anarchist, but—"
"An anarchist?" Her head snaps up from her phone. "More like I've had to sit through every single war movie made since like, the eighties. But you wouldn't know about that, since you're, you know, an actual fossil."
Without warning, Kol is leaning over her, his face inches from hers. "Don't interrupt," he scolds, arms bracketing her in; and she is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Klaus is not here and that Rebekah doesn't like her nearly enough to rein in Kol. Her heartbeat picks up in speed and Kol tilts his head to one side, hearing it. "Oh, calm down," he says, his tone not at all calming. "It wouldn't be worth the daggering from Nik. Besides, I think I like you."
Caroline swallows hard, unconsciously pushing further into the chairback to add a little more distance in between them. "Great," she manages, inwardly pleased that she doesn't sound afraid, only bored. "Now would you please get off of me?"
To her surprise, it works. In the space of a breath, he's back in his seat on the far end of the couch, a mischievous grin on his face. "Nik," he says cheerfully to somewhere over her shoulder, "you have a visitor!"
Her muscles tense, then relax. Her animal brain is still buzzing nervously at Kol's less than subtle threats.
"Kol," Klaus's voice says coldly from behind her, "Go bother someone else. Somewhere else, ideally."
Kol gives a mock salute before vanishing up the staircase; Caroline thinks she distantly hears his voice call out Rebekah's name.
Turning her gaze from the steps to Klaus, Caroline watches as his fingers skim across the glasses that sit on the extravagant wet bar in the corner of the room.
"Where'd you go?" she asks, brow furrowing. There's no blood on him, and he looks entirely at ease, but there's a vibe from him that seems off kilter, like he's stretched tight as a violin string—
"Keeping tabs on me?" he lilts, turning to face her.
She snorts. "You wish." Before he can reply, she hurries on, "This is a business trip."
One of his eyebrows arches and a smirk plays over his mouth. "That's a shame." He gestures for her to continue before turning back to the wet bar, as though he knows he will need it for the coming conversation.
"They want your hybrids gone," Caroline recites dutifully as Klaus pours a splash of whiskey into what she's sure is a genuine Waterford crystal glass. He doesn't ask who they are and she doesn't elaborate. "Gone, un-sire bonded, whatever." She accepts the glass he holds out. It's like five in the morning, the apocalypse is over, and she's exhausted— she won't judge herself too harshly for this. "Dealer's choice."
He scoffs, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Yes, so I've heard. But tell me, why should I do any of those things, sweetheart?"
It's probably a rhetorical question, but she answers anyway. "I seriously have no idea," she says honestly, pressing into her eyes with the heels of her hands until she sees spots dancing. She's running on roughly three hours of sleep—rough, restless sleep, the kind where she tosses and turns in her bed, waking up at the slightest noise in the house—and she wonders if she should be worried about the after effects of exhaustion before telling him, "I'm just passing the message along." Caroline pauses a beat. "I guess they figured you wouldn't shoot this messenger."
Klaus sits on the side of the couch nearest to her. "Caroline," he says, and the sudden influx of gentleness in his tone rankles.
"Don't be nice to me because you feel sorry for me."
One of his eyebrows arches upwards. "I'm never nice, love."
She snorts. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you say."
They sit in mostly comfortable silence until Caroline has managed to fortify her nerves with enough whiskey to broach the subject that's been weighing most on her mind since—everything.
"I need you to promise me something," she begins, pretzeling her legs beneath herself and turning to face him as she tugs on her leggings—a fidgeting habit that used to drive Liz crazy, she remembers with a sudden ache in her chest.
He tilts his head to one side and waits.
"Dean is going to try to rescue Sam—he hasn't said anything," she adds quickly at Klaus's raised eyebrows, "but I know him. He will, and I want to help, and if something happens to—to me, or to Dean, or to both of us, I need you to promise me that you—you'll keep trying. To rescue Sam." She says the last three words so quietly that she barely hears them herself.
But Klaus obviously does. He goes very, very still, his eyes narrowing on her the way a cat's might on a bird. It takes all of her self-control to keep a flush from spreading across her cheeks under the scrutiny. "Is there something I need to be aware of?"
Caroline shakes her head. "No. I'm just saying like...in general. It's highkey risky, you know?" She waves one hand around aimlessly. "And you know how this town is." She doesn't mention that he's mostly responsible for how this town is.
He looks like he doesn't believe her, and for reasons she can't quite articulate, it terrifies her that he will deny her this. That without her and Dean around, Sam will be left to rot away in Hell. Forgotten.
"If something happens to you," he echoes her words derisively, "I can guarantee that captaining your brother's rescue party will be the furthest thing from my mind." His eyes are hard, and she could smack herself for leading into the conversation this way.
But it's too late to take it back, so she shifts on her tucked in legs and says, urgency making her fingers twitch towards him, "Klaus, please understand—"
"I thought I made it clear," he says coldly, "that you are not allowed to die."
"Yeah, well, trust, I'm not exactly a big fan of the idea either—"
"And why would you ask this of me?" he wonders aloud as though she hadn't spoken, his voice deceptively relaxed. He's watching her so closely that she shifts again uncomfortably. "Why not ask your merry band of friends?" His gaze sharpens; it could run her right through. "Unless you think they have turned their attention elsewhere, towards a different enemy?"
"Klaus—"
"Gotten rid of that scythe yet, love?"
He is made entirely of ice, and she doesn't know how this conversation went so off the rails.
"Dean had it, last I saw," she retorts. "If you try to compel me—"
"Thought you were on vervain, sweetheart," he drawls.
"I am, but that doesn't mean you still get to try—"
"Are your friends planning on trying to kill me, Caroline?"
She scowls at him and crosses her arms over her chest. "I mean, yeah? Probably? But they haven't clued me in on it. In case you haven't noticed, I've been kinda busy—"
Burying Sam. Burying her mom.
It hangs between them unsaid; Klaus's face softens and Caroline releases a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding.
"I can't just...leave Sam down there," she says quietly, looking down at her hands. "He wouldn't leave me."
Klaus doesn't say anything, just swirls his drink in his glass. His expression is noncommittal, but far less murderous than just seconds ago. Caroline stares down at her nearly empty glass and thinks, fuck it before draining the last swallow and getting up to sit next to him.
"I feel like I'm breaking apart," she tells him, looking up and letting herself fall into the blue of his eyes. "Like I'm shattering, or something."
He hums, the sound reverberating from deep in his chest. She lets her hand settle there, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under the soft cloth of his shirt. Across the room, the curtains are closed, but the early dawn sunlight is beginning to bathe them in a molten gold.
"You've certainly been through enough," he says, his hand coming to rest over hers. "Break, if you need to."
Caroline doesn't miss the implication—break, Caroline, because I will put you back together. It's all at once comforting and terrifying that she believes he would.
"Can I ask you a question that you may not know the answer to?" she asks softly, her voice never rising above a whisper. It feels like a moment that requires quiet, after so many that have felt so loud.
His pointer finger comes up to gently push the hair that has escaped her long braid off of her forehead. "Go ahead, love."
"Do—do you know if I could still…turn it off?" Her voice is hesitant, and she isn't sure she wants to know if he has an answer or not. "Even though I'm human?" She doesn't wait for the question to linger. "It feels like I'll never be whole again."
Klaus's expression turns thoughtful. This, this is one of the things she likes about him that she will never be able to tell anyone: he's done so many awful things that nothing she says, nothing she asks, will ever shock him. With Tyler, with Matt—hell, even with Damon, she had tiptoed around the darker parts of herself, unable and unwilling to even acknowledge the shadows and the canyons that dot the landscape of her inner self.
But nothing shocks him. Nothing ruffles him.
It's freeing. Steadying.
"Perhaps," he acquiesces. "With a little help." His gaze narrows on her. "Do you want that?"
Her lashes lower. "I don't know," she whispers, and she folds herself forward to hide her face in his shirt at the overwhelming truth of it. What does it say about her, that she doesn't know? She thinks it should at least give her pause, her willingness to go numb under the pressure and the pain; but instead she considers it with the cold, distant calculation of someone who has lost entirely too much in entirely too short a time.
His voice rumbles under her ear. "You can get back to me on it."
She raises her gaze from her close inspection of the weave of his shirt fabric. His arms tighten around her almost imperceptibly when their eyes meet, and Caroline almost tells him that she feels like sand. That the harder anyone holds on to her, the more she slips away, even from herself.
But she keeps it to herself. Some things, she thinks, are best kept secret.
He moves as though to kiss her, his face mere inches from hers when—
—she yawns—
Klaus laughs softly, and he sounds genuinely amused. "Have you been sleeping, love?"
She scoffs and says with an attempt at flippancy, "I'll have you know that dark circles are very in right now."
The look he aims at her is so vintage Klaus, incredulous and smirky and like he has to weigh how badly he wants to eat her against his desire to put her in his pocket to carry around with him wherever he goes.
"That would be a no, then, hmm?" His fingers card through the escaped layers of her hair. It's soothing, a gesture that reminds her almost painfully of Liz, and she moves in her seat so that her back slots neatly against his chest. He doesn't say anything, just lets her rearrange his arms so that they fold securely around her stomach, held in place by her hand. His chest is warm, and somehow, despite who he is—or perhaps because of it, she thinks drowsily—her eyelids begin to feel heavy.
"Nightmares," she whispers, the syllables slurring together as she slowly succumbs to sleep. Just before surrendering entirely, she feels the muscles in his arms tighten around her.
… … …
When she wakes up, they've moved to a bed and the line of her body—her very stiff body—is pressed into Klaus's side, her head on his shoulder, her nose tucked in the curve of his neck.
As she opens her eyes, the realization dawns that she slept—actually slept, and fitfully.
Dreamlessly.
Klaus's only acknowledgment of her waking is a glance down at her before his eyes return to the small pad resting against the flat of his stomach, the pencil in his fingers gliding smoothly across the page.
"What're you doing?" she mumbles, her eyelashes still threatening to sweep back down and let sleep claim her.
Through her half-mast eyes, she watches as he spares her a quick glance before returning back to his pad. "Don't move," he says instead of answering her.
It occurs to her, like a thunderclap, that they have been here before, just days ago, and that it too was the last time she had slept without Sam's bloodied, bruised face making an appearance in her dreams.
How strange.
"Hmm?"
She hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but given their fight earlier, it seems like as good an olive branch to offer as any. "It's strange," she murmurs into his neck, "how I sleep better here."
That captures his attention away from his sketchpad. "Do you now," he murmurs back, setting both pad and pencil on the nightstand next to him and turning fully towards her.
"Well, my sample size is small—" her breath catches as his hands slide carefully under her shirt, "—but so far, there's a very high percentage success rate."
His lips find a spot under her ear that makes her sigh and relax into him. "I'm hardly one to stand in the way of scientific advancement," he says into her skin. "Should you find that you need further testing." His hands fist the hem of her shirt, and she dips her chin accommodatingly as it's pulled off of her and tossed aside.
She feels a tug low in her stomach, and she really, really shouldn't give in. From the bit of blue sky she can make out through the small gap in his curtains, Bobby is definitely already up—but, she rationalizes as his mouth travels down to her collarbone, it's highly unlikely he'll barge into her room if she doesn't answer his first knock. He'll probably—she sighs as Klaus's fingers slide to the waist of her leggings—assume she's still asleep.
He makes quick work of her leggings; they follow her shirt, tossed to the floor as his mouth never halts its slow march down her chest.
It's soft and easy—gentle hands whispering down her belly to her hips, soft words whispered into her ears, the loudest noise the rustling of sheets and of clothing falling to the floor. He is so, so gentle with her, as though she might turn to dust under his hands if he presses too hard. Even his thrusts, filling her up so completely, are languid, unhurried, and accompany his lips trailing down her throat.
His hand comes up to cup her breast, the pad of his thumb roaming across the nipple until it peaks. Her legs fall open a fraction more and Klaus's forehead touches hers. His thumb doesn't stop its ministrations, and her hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. To stop him or keep him there, she isn't sure.
Caroline nudges at his side with her thigh, and he comprehends her unspoken command immediately. He rolls onto his back, never once looking away from her, his hands falling to rest at her hips, long fingers stroking soothingly across her skin.
He lets her work out all her swirling emotions out on his body, his hand holding a steady grip on her hip bone. Anchoring her.
There is something about his coiled strength, the way his stomach muscles tighten as she moves, the way his jaw clenches, that makes heat pool low in her belly. Caroline leans forward, her lips nearly touching his and looks directly into his nearly black eyes.
She exhales, and it sounds like his name.
… … …
Bobby doesn't say anything when she appears in the kitchen well past noon, but he does shake his head and send her a knowing, slightly amused look.
Caroline reheats the breakfast he had made and sits across the counter from him.
"Bobby," she begins, "How long do you think you're gonna stay?"
"Dunno. Long as you kids need."
She nods once. "I—I think that's good," she says quietly. "When my dad gets back home, I'll be over there some, and Dean…" she lets herself trail off, unable to put her worry into adequate words.
To his credit, Bobby immediately grasps her meaning. "I gotcha," he says, and she sends him a small, grateful smile before pushing away from the countertop and heading down the hall, intent on the firmly shut door across from her own.
Sam's room is dark, the blinds snapped shut and curtains drawn. Caroline is unsurprised to find how clean it is—Dean is the messy one, leaving books open to the last read page and his bed unmade. Sam had always been more like her: shelves alphabetized, clothes folded neatly into drawers, and all odds and ends tucked into its place.
Grief, wild and acute, winds its way around her heart, threatening to overwhelm her. She stops in her tracks halfway to the bookshelf, her hands clenching into desperate fists at her sides.
She had thought she would be able to handle being in here, had thought that her goal of research would be enough to propel her forward, past the memories, past the ache in her heart—
Before she can stop herself, she's darting out of Sam's room, down the hallway and into her own.
"Everything okay?" she hears Bobby call after her, and she manages to toss a choked, "Yes!" over one shoulder before shutting her door.
Caroline closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to rest against the door.
"Fresh air," she says aloud. "I need fresh air."
… … …
The sun is warm on her face but there is just enough chill in the fall air that has her pushing her hands into the pocket on the front of her Stanford Law hoodie—an old gift from Sam that she had dug out from the back out of her closet after fleeing his room, the need to feel close to him threatening to swallow her whole.
(She remembers how Sam had sent it to her for Christmas, addressing the bulky package to their next-door neighbor in fear that John might throw it out. Overkill, she had texted him after spending thirty minutes listening to an update on Mrs. Gregory's four cats, her arthritis, and her grandchildren—in that order. He'd responded three days later, with a simple smiley emoji.)
They had buried Liz's ashes across from a stone bench that sits in the shade under a leafy maple tree; Caroline settles herself on it and stares out at the vibrantly green field.
How is there allowed to be so much color in a world without her mother? In a world without Sam?
She can't hold it all in her mind at once, how much they had lost—how much she had lost, in such a short time. Her eyes slide shut.
I wish you were here, she tells Liz in her mind. I wish you could tell me what to do.
What am I supposed to do?
It's hardly been any time at all, certainly not Rebekah's millennia, but Caroline's throat constricts as she tries to remember the exact way her mother would say her name. How long had Liz stretched out the long a? She knows her mother had said her name differently when she was angry, but she can't quite pull up the memory of how—did she sound exasperated? Annoyed? Tired?
And how exactly had her fingers felt brushing against Caroline's hair? How had it sounded when she sighed in exasperated fondness as her children started sniping at each other?
And how—her heart aches, cracks, splits into canyons—how had Sam's face crinkled when he smiled?
Please don't fade, she begs, begs someone, begs anyone who is listening. Please don't let them disappear.
But all that she hears is the softness of the breeze.
She closes her eyes and lets the wetness well behind her lashes before she takes a deep, steadying breath. When she reopens them, the world is sharp at the edges in that way that can only be brought on by tears.
Across the small, quiet field, a familiar figure hunches over a gravestone. Matt Donovan looks up and over at her, his hand coming up slightly in acknowledgement. Caroline dips her chin down in return.
She had forgotten his sister was buried here.
Matt doesn't move, but neither does she.
Two islands, she thinks with no small amount of bitterness, awash in a sea of misery. She still can't look at him without remembering Michael, without remembering Liz falling, and Matt seems to know it.
She looks away first.
… … …
It's all because of a knock at the door. Which in retrospect, is so mundane and stupid—
"I got it!" Caroline hollers from the kitchen, where she is currently trying her hand at Liz's recipe for apple cobbler—six tablespoons of butter, and so much sugar that she can feel her arteries hardening just reading the measurements. Delightful. "It's probably for me, anyway," she adds under her breath, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her jeans.
It all happens very quickly, once she opens the front door.
The hair on the backs of her arms stands straight up as the figure standing there, a stranger, she notes with slowly rising anxiety, stares her down. She starts to back away, moving to shut the door, ice in the pit of her stomach when the stranger moves, so quickly that she blinks and misses it. Strong fingers grasp her arms and she's never seen this man before in her life, but he's staring at her with so much hatred that it seems impossible that this isn't personal.
"He will yet rise," the man growls viciously, the light from the porch light glinting off of something in his hand. His eyes are entirely black and she knows immediately what he is: demon.
Any words she might have said die on her lips as a white-hot pain explodes in her side. The demon is gone before she can look down at her shirt, already blossoming a bright, violent red against the grey fabric. The only thought she can process at the sight is not Sam's sweatshirt.
Her heart is thudding too quickly in her chest, panic beginning to set her nerves aflame. Her fingers are sticky and wet where they clutch at her side. "Dean," she whispers, then, gathering her energy and pushing past the burning that bites every time she breathes, she shouts, "Dean!"
He nearly trips out of his room, rubbing at his eyes and looking more than a little annoyed. "Jesus, Care, what—" then his eyes fully open and all the blood drains from his face. "Castiel!" he bellows as she stares at him in terror. "Cas, get your feathered ass in here!"
There is a whoosh behind her and then Castiel grips her elbows tightly before she can sink to her knees. "What happened?" he demands. Caroline thinks hazily that she's never heard him sound panicked before.
"I don't know, I came out here and she was like this—Care, hey, hey, Care, look at me—" Dean snaps his fingers at her and she focuses her eyes on him. "Cas, what the fuck are you waiting for, lay your goddamn healing hands!"
Castiel is staring at where her fingers are pressed into her side. Caroline follows the direction of his gaze, down to where her blood is dripping steadily past her fingers and onto the floor. "I can't," he whispers, looking down at his hands as though he's never seen them before. "I—I told you. The Host—"
But Dean is no longer listening, had tuned him out after the word can't, and she sees the exact moment the John Winchester Military Academy training kicks in.
He grabs the tea towels hanging from the stove handle and throws them at Castiel. "Press down hard," he barks out, snatching his keys from the counter and yanking the front door open so hard its hinges groan in protest. "Keep pressing, Cas!"
"Big Marine energy," she jokes—or tries to joke. It comes out in a raspy whisper, and no one hears it.
The world tilts and Caroline finds herself looking up at the night sky, partially blocked by Castiel's profile. "It will be alright," he assures her, though even in her increasingly hazy state, she notices that he does not meet her eyes.
The night sky vanishes, replaced by the roof of the Impala.
"No," she tries to argue, tugging at Castiel's lapel. "Blood on the seats."
Dean doesn't pause in his frantic actions. Without turning around, he snaps out, "I don't give a single flying fuck about the seats." He throws the car in drive so forcefully that even Castiel winces.
"S'okay," Caroline says, frowning a little at how her words slur together. She tries again, forcing her tongue—which has begun to feel quite thick and heavy in her mouth—to form the sentence properly. "It's. Okay," she repeats.
Dean casts her a furious look from the front seat. "Shut the fuck up," he snaps and she would take it personally, but she is so drained that she can barely muster up the energy. His gaze flicks from her to Castiel. "Press harder, goddammit Cas!"
"Hey," she protests weakly, fingers coming up to touch Castiel's arm and finding with some surprise that he is shaking. Neither she nor Castiel tells Dean that the tea towels he is holding at her side is soaked through, her blood staining Castiel's hands. "Be nice to Cas." She tries to smile up at him, but her mouth won't cooperate. Her head feels too heavy for her neck so she lets it loll to one side. Her eyelids are heavy under sandbags that have suddenly seemed to rest atop her lashes, and really, what could it hurt to close her eyes for just a moment?
A loud crack reverberates through the small space of the Impala's backseat, followed immediately by a sharp stinging in her cheek. Her eyes fly back open to stare in hurt up at Castiel. "You—you hit me," she accuses, but the weakness of her voice is hardly intimidating.
"You must stay awake," Castiel orders, sounding so very much like the leader of an angel garrison that she finds herself nodding in the affirmative.
It would take too much energy to fight him and she needs all of hers just to keep her eyes focused. "Okay," she agrees, and the effort of following his directions is taxing enough that she falls silent.
"Why the fuck is no one answering their goddamned fucking phones?" Dean yells, slamming his palm against the steering wheel before glancing at the backseat again. "Care," he says, voice urgent and low, "you have to hang on, okay? Just—hang the fuck on, I'll fix it, I'll find someone—" He turns the car so fast that Castiel braces, his free hand coming up to grip her bicep tightly to keep her from sliding.
"Dean," she says, and she tries to reach out to him, but her hands won't budge. Hmmm. "Dean. S'okay. Doesn't even hurt."
"I do not think that is a good sign," Castiel warns her quietly, face drawn and concern written on his features.
"Caroline," Dean snaps from the driver's seat, "do you have or do you know any Mikaelson phone numbers?"
She doesn't. "No," she sighs, exhaling long enough that the word is stretched out on a breath of air. "You hate them, 'member?"
"Fuck me," Dean snarls in response, making another hairpin turn that has Castiel grunting.
"Cas," she murmurs, her finger barely tapping against the back of his hand. "Cas, am I going to die?" Her voice sounds small to even her own ears.
"Of course not," he says firmly, but she doesn't believe him. The pounding of her heart in her ears has slowed, and her breathing feels too shallow
"It's the biggest fucking house in the entire fucking town," Dean yells from the front seat. "How the fuck is it this hard to find?"
Oh. He's looking for the Mikaelson mansion, which means he must be really desperate and she—
Cas had lied to her. She must be dying, if Dean is looking for Klaus to help.
Caroline coughs a little, and her insides feel jumbled up all wrong. "Turn left at the stop sign," she mumbles before giving in to her exhaustion.
She's just so tired—
… … …
tbc.
AN: Wash your hands, donate to your local bail relief fund, and don't talk to cops without a lawyer present!
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