Crowley favored the angel blade; the divine weapon that bit like pure acid, ached beyond all physical barriers and pierced the blackened remains of my soul.
That's how it always started. That's how I knew it was time to head to the middle of the woods to "collect firewood". The minute that holy burn ripped into me, I grabbed an axe and wordlessly wandered into the trees with Freya at my heels.
The first couple of days it was a trip and a trial I endured alone. But on the third day, Castiel followed me with a bottle of whisky and a plastic bucket.
"Fuck off," I growled at him through my teeth as I marched between trees. Freya walked beside me, giving little heed to the angel she had befriended to give me her full attention. She stopped short when I came to a standstill, and sat faithfully at my feet.
I dropped my axe, peeled my leather jacket off with a rigid mein, and carelessly abandoned it on the forest floor. Two deep cuts had already been made on my left bicep, and a third was inching its way across the skin on my right. Dark, crimson blood oozed in fat beads down my arms, but I barely noticed. My attention had been dulled by the hot, white agony of the angel blade.
I leaned forward against a young ash and gritted my teeth. I could hear Castiel's footsteps come to a halt some feet behind me, and, when I expected them to begin a mopey retreat, they took another step forward.
"I said fuck off," I gnarled as a fourth cut tore into my skin, digging deep and slow across my arm.
"Yes," Castiel acknowledged with sincerity. "I did hear you the first time."
"Then what the fuck are you still doing here?" I barked in a whisper with my jaw clenched tightly.
"For support, I suppose," Castiel replied, unsure of his words, which caused him to pause and think about whether he had used the right term. "Someone should be here with you," he continued with confidence. "Dean can't, and frankly neither can Sam. So here I am."
I pushed myself away from the tree and spun around on my heel to face the angel.
"I don't need support," I spat. A short, sharp breath caught in my throat as a fifth incision made its way across the right side of my chest. Weak-kneed, I shuffled sideways until I reached a felled maple – a long, fat old tree – where I sat in a plunge that shook the timber. Freya stuck by me like a bodyguard, careful not to get too close or too far away. She sat to the right of me and stood watch. "I'd… prefer to… experience this… alone."
Castiel gave me a flat smile, wordlessly telling me he didn't believe me. He strolled forward, leaves crunching under his sensible shoes with each step, and took a seat on the log beside me. I rolled my eyes.
Another incision crossed my chest, and I tried to put my mind on something else; the sigh of the trees shifting in a warm breeze, the call of a loon on a nearby lake, the perfume of earth and wood and leaf. My fingers gripped the peeling bark of the tree, my heels dug into the dirt. After a while, when the pain of the immediate assault began to regress, I could feel blood latch onto my t-shirt, the cotton sticking to my skin as the crimson color began to seep through. I grimaced and turned my head to glance at Castiel. He was sitting straight with his left hand wrapped around the neck of the whisky bottle, and his right holding the bucket's handle. "What's with the bucket?"
"I told Sam and Dean I would bring them some water to boil," Castiel said, motioning vaguely through the trees in the direction of the lake. He paused and looked down at the white plastic object, then set it on the ground. "It gave me an excuse to leave camp."
"Nobody asked you to," I snapped. "You should have stayed behind to keep an eye on them."
Castiel smiled a vague smile.
"Your sons will be fine, John," he assured me with the utmost of confidence. "If Crowley was closing in, I don't believe he would bother torturing himself to get to you."
"That's reassuring," I grumbled sarcastically.
The cutting stopped, but this was not a relief. In the two days I had weathered torment at Crowley's hands, I had learned the slashing and the slicing was foreplay. A smug hello and warning of what was to come.
"Please leave," I begged as I braced myself for the anguish that laid ahead of me. Castiel did not move, nor did he acknowledge that he had heard me. He simply sat on the downed tree, patiently waiting.
And then the fire started.
It wasn't a literal fire, of course, but that's what it felt like. It began in my left arm and it quickly traveled my veins, surging through my body until it felt like I was being devoured by flames, only without the sweet relief of death. I half expected the blazing heat to subside after a couple of agonizing minutes, mostly because Crowley had tried this form of torture on me the previous day, and the burn ebbed and flowed in spurts spanning nothing longer than three minutes. This time, though, the heat was relentless. It scorched my blood, burned muscle and bone. It was paralyzing. Breathtaking in a literal and horrific sense.
Holy water. Judging by how long the divine liquid incinerated my very being to the core, I surmised Crowley hadn't just shot himself up with a hearty dose of the stuff. He had hooked himself up to an IV to prolong its tormenting effect.
Somewhere beyond the fire, I could feel my body tremble. I could also feel myself losing balance. My body swayed forward and I slumped towards the ground. I managed to catch myself on my hands and knees as my lips curled in a silent scream.
The fact that I couldn't scream only magnified the agony I was in. Not that I wanted to scream. But pain — raw, unadulterated and excruciating pain — often makes a person (or a demon, for that matter) yearn to expel bits of their anguish through their throat, let it out into the air where it can dissolve and fade away. And it helps, sometimes, even if the effects are minuscule by comparison. Me, I had to keep my mouth shut. Hold in every howl and and scream my body desperately wanted to dispel.
I had to suffer in silence.
But one compassionate hand reminded me that, though I had to endure my torment in silence, it was not endured alone.
I turned my head left where I found Castiel stooping beside me. The lines in his forehead were creased in a worrisome contrition, and his blue eyes shone with empathy. His lips formed a troubled but encouraging smile and his hand lingered on my back, wordlessly telling me that he was there, and he wasn't leaving me.
The angel carefully aided me upright, and didn't complain when I collapsed against him with an inhuman force. I kicked my feet out in front of me and let him half carry, half drag me into an upright position, using the downed tree to prop me up beside the ever watchful Freya. When he was sure I wouldn't slide sideways, he returned to his seat on the log and patiently waited.
My fingers dug through dirt and leaves and grabbed a hold of the earth like my grip was the only thing keeping me from being flung into space. A gasp struggled free from my throat in my efforts to reign in the urge to scream, and my eyes snapped shut. Sweat beaded along my brow as the holy water continued to flood my body with its toxic heat. I found myself calling out to the god that has forsaken me, silently praying for mercy. For water to douse the fire. But my prayer went unanswered and the fire burned on.
Eventually, after a grueling eternity (which was actually closer to thirty minutes), the pain started to subside and, at long last, fade away. I eased my grip on the earth, opened my eyes, and took in a deep breath. Freya, completely aware I had returned from anguish, nuzzled her head under my arm and pressed her head against my chest. I scratched her behind her ears as I drew my legs back so my knees were arched and my feet were flat on the ground.
A clear bottle of amber liquid danced in my field of vision inches from my face, and I turned to see Castiel extending the drink to me. I took it, twisted the cap off and took a long, deep swallow. From the corner of my eye I watched as he extracted my cigarettes and my silver zippo from my jacket pocket. He reached these out to me and, after I had set the liquor bottle on the ground, I accepted these too.
"Thanks," I muttered, both embarrassed by what he had witnessed, and highly conflicted. I hated him.
I wanted to hate him.
But, for some reason, I didn't. Not anymore. I never would again.
I lit a cigarette and sucked in a deep lungful of smoke.
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, and I sighed a smoky sigh.
"It's not your fault," I grudgingly admitted, avoiding his eyes as I spoke.
"I did not set your fate, but I did nothing to stop it," the angel said apologetically. "I am as guilty as my brothers and sisters."
"Is that why you came here?" I asked. "This is some kind of penance for you?"
"Yes and no," he replied thoughtfully. "As I said, you shouldn't have to suffer this alone. You don't deserve this, John."
I thought about the sins of my past, the things I did when I was alive. The people I had gotten killed. The way I raised my sons, and how, perhaps maybe I could have — should have — done it differently. The line between fate and free will was blurry, and I couldn't discern where my actions fell.
"Yeah, well, maybe I do," I scoffed.
"You don't," Castiel said, his tone gentle but firm. Certain. I turned my head to look at him, and he gave me that flat, sympathetic smile he was always giving me. "How do you feel?"
"Like a fucking demon," I grumbled miserably. I took a drag from my cigarette and flicked gray ash that fluttered to the ground like polluted snow. "At least Crowley can only hurt me as much as he wants to hurt himself."
"That is a silver lining," Castiel said agreeably with a nod of his head.
I turned my head down and absently scratched Freya while I smoked my cigarette. There is little solace to be found in peace when you know the same damn fight lingers on the horizon. I found myself again thinking of the finale of this game, and how, no matter what path we took, it would always end the same way; with me dead. The question now was how willing was I to continue to endure Crowley's torture? To let Sam and Dean — and even Castiel — go down on the way there?
"You know," Castiel spoke gently. Solemnly, like he knew what gears were turning behind my eyes. "Your sons are very good at finding an alternate route for an alternate ending."
I glanced up at him.
"You taught them many things," he added. "I think it's their turn to teach you something. Something they taught me." He stood, his eyes still on me. "There's always another way."
I let the words sink in with a slug of whisky. The angel stood before me with his hand extended. I sighed and accepted his offer, letting him pull me to my feet. Freya leapt back with an air of excitement as I stood, carefree now that her duty of watchdog had ended for the day. Castiel handed me my jacket and, as I drew it over my shoulders and zipped it up over the blood soaked shirt, bent to collect my axe.
"I should get the water before Dean wonders where I went," he announced. He handed me the axe and gathered up his bucket. I slung the axe over my shoulder and watched as he wandered towards the lake with Freya frolicking around him. I sighed.
"Castiel!" I called after him, and he turned. "Thanks."
He smiled.
"You're welcome," he said. He started to turn, but paused and added; "My friends call me Cas."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves now," I said. The angel smiled knowingly and took his leave. And, once he was out of view, a small smile lifted at the corner of my lips.