Claire sat on a threadbare blanket in the shade of a crooked tree. She ran her fingers through her damp hair and watched the fading sunlight paint vivid colors across the horizon. Across the water in the far distance, a lone figure was hanging by a noose, swaying gently in the breeze.

Their campsite stood on a bump of a hill, overlooking the shoreline and much of the surrounding wooded area. It was a quiet little spot, save for the constant soundtrack of nature. Claire could appreciate that now that her ears had finally stopped ringing.

"JESUS FUCK!"

Claire jumped, startled. She turned toward Mikey. The two of them were alone at the campsite except for the still-unconscious Castiel. Mikey's boney spike poked through his shirt as he hunched next to the fire pit, cursing up a storm.

Claire sighed. She rose to her feet and approached her friend from behind. "Hey, are you okay? Let me see," she said, pulling his shoulder.

"I'm fine." Mikey waved her off, irritably. He shook his burnt hand. "Goddamn dollar-store piece of crap," he grumbled as he determinedly pulled the bubbling pot out of the fire, managing to set it down to cool without further incident.

Claire rolled her eyes. It wasn't the first time that day that Mikey had somehow mishandled the dented stew pot they'd been using to boil their drinking water. Or, as he'd called it, "Satan's Pot."

It wasn't something they'd bothered with a day earlier. Not too long ago they had bottled water, preserved food, and a conscious Castiel who didn't need to eat or drink but had a knack for telling if any nasty microscopic things were swimming around in their rations. Having to filter and boil their drinking water was a pain in the ass, but then, so was Travellers' Diarrhea. Better safe than very, very sorry.

Claire looked over at where Castiel was laid out on his back, knocked out since their run-in with the hunters that morning. Though he'd "eaten" a few dozen bullets, he didn't have any bruises or injuries as far as Claire could see. Even the mosquitoes seemed to be leaving him the hell alone. Whatever damage he'd done to himself, saving Judith, saving all of them - it went beyond the husk of Jimmy Novak.

Claire guessed that the hunters had been aiming at his head when they'd shot him - force of habit, probably - because Castiel's hair looked like a bird's nest. He looked absolutely fine, even more now that they'd changed his shirt to something a little less mauled (and boy, hadn't that been awkward). His color looked okay and his chest kept rising and falling even though Claire had it on good authority it didn't technically need to. Still, he remained stubbornly unconscious.

Claire offered a silent but heartfelt prayer:

Dear Castiel who art-not in Heaven… you suck.

To Mikey, she said, "Maybe we can find you some aloe for that hand later."

Mikey shot her a glare over his shoulder. "Maybe we can find you some pants later," he retorted.

Claire choked on a laugh, caught off guard. It had been a hot and blood-soaked day. Earlier she had been all too happy to strip down to her bra and underwear and take a running dive into the water. When she'd gotten out, she had thrown on an oversized t-shirt, wearing it like a potato sack while she washed her own clothes and left them to dry.

Claire prodded Mikey with her bare toe. "What are you, Mormon? It's hot. Fuck off."

Mikey stood and turned to her, sighing like she was the unreasonable one. "Holy shitballs, Claire. Will you get over yourself? I meant for safety. You know there are handicapped walkers in these woods." He made a vague gesture toward the underbrush.

"Handicapped walkers," Claire repeated slowly.

"You know, the lurkers. The ones that haven't got legs or whatever." He tapped at his own thigh for emphasis. "It's safer to keep your pants on. And your shoes."

"My jeans are still drying," Claire said, pointing to where her pants were hanging from a branch, wet and still carrying some obvious bloodstains. There was only so much she could do with lakewater and no soap. "But it's not like they could stop a bite anyway."

Mikey frowned under his messy bangs. He had a few inches on Claire, but he always seemed to slouch. "They're dead, Claire, they're not sharks. They can't bite through denim."

She barked a short laugh. "Unfortunately, they really, really, can. It's that green shit all over their teeth. It's some kind of acid - it eats through anything: leather, denim, fuzzy socks-"

Mikey gave her a look. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

"And risk your life over a joke? Are you serious?" Claire demanded, crossing her arms. "Go ask the others if you don't believe me."

Mikey looked perturbed. He shook his head, then bent down to pick up an old milk jug and a strainer. There was no shortage of garbage left behind from previous campers. Before leaving, he said, "For the record, I'm going to get more water, not because you told me to." With that, he promptly turned around and started heading toward the lake.

It was only a short walk down to the water. The decline toward the lake took a bit of a balancing act. He slipped a little but managed to keep his balance. Claire watched him go, a crinkle in her forehead. She didn't bother going after him. Someone did have to stay behind and watch over the campsite. And Castiel, too. Angel or not, he probably wouldn't want to get gnawed on in case there really were some… handicapped walkers… lurking around.

"Can you believe that guy?" Claire asked Castiel, not expecting an answer. "I bet he's cussing so much now 'cause he thinks you can't hear him."

Mikey was what she'd privately refer to as a "Baby Survivor". Some people took to the new state of the world matter of factly, accepting it readily and adapting to the craziness that had unfolded all around them. Others, like Mikey, took it a lot harder. They relied on other people for protection, keeping to the sidelines whenever they could. In her experience, Baby Survivors rarely lasted for very long.

It wasn't entirely his fault, she supposed. Enid had told her about Alexandria, and how sheltered it had once been. And Mikey had been pulling his own weight. He'd cooked, helped with the kids (who were also Baby Survivors, technically, on account of being actual babies), and he'd even kept a meticulous tally of their inventory before those assholes Hunters came along.

Mikey was her friend. Her dorky, gawky, well-intentioned friend. One who was in desperate need of a haircut, but more importantly, needed to be able to take care of himself, himself.

Caring about other people was a bitch, she thought.

Most of her friends were down by the water. She couldn't see Scott anywhere, but Jake was sitting with a fishing rod on the old, rotting pier. Judith and Oliver were supposedly helping Carl and Enid dehusk and wash the black walnuts the two had foraged, and even from her vantage point, Claire saw how delightfully messy an endeavor that was.

Camping had never been Claire's idea of a good time, but at least the children were having the time of their lives, she thought. The little monsters had spent the better part of the day in their underwear, splashing around in the shallow edges of the lake or zooming around with endless energy, not a care in the world.

The sound of rustling leaves pricked up her ears. She tensed, her knife fell to her hand. A moment later Scott stepped up from behind the ransacked trailer they were camping by. He was carrying a rusty shovel and wearing an automatic rifle in a sling. His clothes were mud-stained.

"Um, hi," said Scott, sheepish. "It's just me."

"I can see that, doofus." Claire rolled her eyes and stashed the angel blade back into her sleeve. "What have you been up to?"

Scott left the rusty shovel against the trailer wall. "I stashed the guns. I figured we don't need the ones we don't have bullets for. We could always go back for them someday."

"You buried them?" Claire asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, not far from here." He perked up. "I made it look like a little kid's grave, too, so nobody would think to dig it up, and if we do come back, we won't have any trouble finding it. I even made a cross." He lowered his voice superstitiously. "Don't tell Carl, but I took that shirt Judith was wearing. The bloody one? I left it over the rocks. Adds credibility, y'know?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Claire. The last thing Carl needed was a reminder of the grave he almost had to dig for his baby sister. "Not for me to stifle your creativity, Scott, but you should've told someone where you're going."

"It's not a big deal," he said, shrugging. "I only came across one dead guy. I hid for a bit and he went away." Flipping his rifle to his front, Scott plopped down next to Satan's Pot, frowning when he realized the water was still too hot to gulp down like he wanted to. "Oh, man."

"Here," said Claire, handing him an old, used-up tin can.

Scott took it gratefully. "Thank you."

"Here's an idea," said Claire as Scott quenched his thirst, "why don't we hang these up before it gets dark?"

Scott wiped his mouth. "The old tin can trick."

"Yep."

It was a well-known party trick in their post-apocalyptic world. Claire wasn't sure who'd first come up with it, or if it was just people's common sense. Put up some cans on a wire and hope nothing actually shows up to make them rattle. It was something that must have saved many lives on dark nights.

Claire plopped down next to Scott. "Anyway, it's a full moon tonight."

Scott's eyes widened. "Are you worried about werewolves?" he whispered.

Claire sighed deeply. "No, Scott. I'm thinking we'll be able to see a little better with a full moon. Why would I be talking about werewolves?"

"Claire, dude, seriously." Scott threw up his arms, water sloshing in his can-turned-mug. "Werewolves are the least surprising thing that could've happened to us." He gestured at Castiel, lying motionlessly just a few feet away, and added, "There's an angel in a coma right by that tree!"

Claire's stomach churned. "He's not in a coma. He's resting."

Scott pulled a face. "You know what I meant." He chewed his lower lip nervously. "Has he moved at all since we got here?"

Claire squared her shoulders. "Not yet."

Scott nodded. "Don't worry, I'm sure he's okay. Just needs a little shut-eye. He hasn't slept at all since we hit the road."

"He doesn't sleep, Scott."

As they sat there, it occurred to Claire that she had misjudged Scott terribly. In the beginning, she had pegged him as a Baby Survivor, just like Mikey. Jake had always been the more capable of the brothers, loud and boisterous while Scott sulked nervously in his shadow.

Except that wasn't quite true, was it? Claire had seen the Hunters' bodies. Even through all the chaos, between all the smoke and fire and deafening gunfire, Scott had taken headshot after headshot, all the while the dead swarmed from all around them. He hadn't been a tiny bit nervous then. Not at all.

A few nights ago and after a few drinks, Scott had confessed to having a body count of zero, at least where the dead were concerned. Claire had believed it at the time. After all, she'd seen Scott take on walkers before. Someone had always needed to intervene because no matter how many times Scott would hit the things, they kept getting back up.

"Is it really true that you've never killed a walker before?" Claire blurted out.

Scott's shoulders tensed. "It's a long story," he said after a long pause. "It's not a nice one."

He gave her a knowing look. "You know what, I'll tell you all about it if you tell me how'd you put that knife up your sleeve."

"What are you talking about?" With a brief motion, the angel blade fell to her hand. She showed it to Scott, who raised his eyebrows.

"That thing's longer than your forearm."

Claire frowned. It had been simple enough when Castiel had shown her how to do it. Just a sleight of hand. She hadn't put much thought into it then. Except that now she realized that Scott was right, the blade didn't logically fit inside her shirt sleeve the way it had fit before into her jacket. The t-shirt she wore, oversized as it was, really wasn't long enough to sheath the angel blade properly.

"Huh," she said, studying the shiny blade. "I didn't notice. I guess it's, like, magic."

"You didn't notice," said Scott, shaking his head. "No offense, Claire, but you're honestly the weirdest person I know." He jerked his thumb toward Castiel. "Him included."

Claire gasped in mock offense. "You take that back."

The pitter-patter of little feet scampering up the hill interrupted them. A moment later Claire had a lapful of a breathless, squirming little boy. She gasped when an elbow accidentally caught her in the jaw.

"Claire, help!" Oliver gasped out, curly hair plastered to his face. "He's trying to eat me!"

Jake came shambling up the hill. His handsome face was contorted in an ugly snarl as let out a long, gasping moan. Jake staggered menacingly toward them, right hand raised and grasping. It was what he was holding in his left hand that shook her.

"Is that a goldfish?" Claire asked, surprised. Still hooked to a line was probably the biggest goldfish she had ever seen.

Jake stopped his terribly accurate impersonation to glare. "Of course it's not a goldfish. It's a gold-colored fish."

"In other words: a goldfish," Scott said with a deriding snort.

Jake huffed. "Show some gratitude, man. I spent half a day trying to catch this thing." He then threw the fish at his brother, who caught it instinctively.

"Ugh! It's so… wet," Scott complained, holding it out at an arm's length.

Claire raised her blade. "Do you think I can clean it with this magic holy knife?" she asked, grinning widely at the idea of having more than just walnuts for dinner.

—-

As the day drew to a close, the group settled down to eat. The black walnuts turned out okay once they finally got the damn things open. Since they couldn't find a nutcracker or even a hammer among the tools scattered around the campsite, they'd ended up putting the broken-down truck on neutral and rolling it down the hill, the walnuts sacked up and laid down in its path.

The goldfish tasted like mud. They scraped it clean, pushing most of the stringy meat onto Judith and Oliver.

Oliver tried the fish and immediately adopted a grossed-out expression. He stuck out his tongue, which had little bits of white meat on top of it. Claire rolled her eyes and poked his tongue with a fishbone. The six-year-old snapped his mouth shut.

"I don't like it," Oliver complained, small face scrunched up in disgust.

Claire's stomach growled. "Tough luck, kid. Now eat up." She handed Oliver another scrap of meat, carefully cleared of poky fish bones.

Oliver's mouth turned down in anger. The sun had darkened his light-brown skin considerably, making his pale eyes shine bright in comparison. He took the morsel from Claire's hand, munching on it quickly and discontentedly.

Jake leaned forward and ruffled Oliver's hair. "Cheer up, kiddo. At least it's not broccoli."

Oliver ducked out of the way, pouting. "I like broccoli."

As the sun went down, the campsite became a hubbub of activity. They chased after the younger kids, packed their meager belongings, and bickered over sleeping arrangements. They picked through the scattered garbage and found a decent number of tin cans to hang around their perimeter, creating a rudimentary alarm system in case anyone or anything came skulking by.

Castiel remained stubbornly asleep through it all, and from time to time Claire caught her friends exchanging worried glances.

Several hours into the night found them sitting around the extinguished fire pit, chatting about nothing in particular. In the dark, the woods became eerie, looming shadows. Insects chirped incessantly, seemingly louder with every passing moment. From time to time, a bat would announce its presence by flying low above their heads, as if checking in on them.

Claire was reminded of the last time she had gone camping. She'd been about eleven and it was her church's annual summer camp. They played all kinds of sports, and the popular girls always picked Claire for their teams, even though she wasn't particularly good. They played Tag and Capture the Flag, ate s'mores around the campfire, and Truth or Dared at least half the camp into their first kiss.

Claire hated it.

It was right after her father had walked out on them. Claire was sad and withdrawn because her daddy had just told her he wasn't her father anymore. Worse was that everybody at camp knew about it, because it was the church's summer camp, and Claire's grandmother had never been known to keep her mouth shut.

Somehow, she felt a lot at home with her ragtag group of friends, in their nightmarish post-apocalyptic world, next to a passed out creature wearing her father's face, than she ever did at that camp.

"You know," said Claire, aimlessly picking at the dirt from beneath her fingernail, "this is a lot like Bible Camp."

Enid, who had grown up in an atheist household, tilted her head curiously. "How's that?"

"It wasn't just singing Kumbayah around the fire, you know. We're camping, aren't we?" Claire worried her lip for a bit before admitting, "I've been praying a lot, also."

"I hear you talking about it the other day," Carl interjected, looking at Castiel's prone form. The angel was laid on his back a short distance from them, little Oliver tucked asleep at his side. "Can he really hear you when you pray?"

"Doesn't mean he'll answer, but generally, yeah. It's like leaving a voicemail. Kind of."

"Can he hear you now?" asked Carl.

Claire shrugged. "Can't hurt, right?"

The teenagers looked at one another. Wordlessly, operating on the same idea, they all dropped their heads and closed their eyes. Several moments passed before the silence was broken when somebody started to giggle.

"Sorry, sorry," said Jake, he tried once again before collapsing to the side in a barely contained fit of laughter.

Judith, who much to their chagrin was still wide awake, saw Jake lying on the ground and immediately pounced on him, letting up a happy squeal when Jake snapped her up and lifted her in the air, as she had clearly hoped he would.

Castiel was still unconscious.

"It's okay," said Claire, catching Carl's disappointment. "It was a long shot anyway."

"Hey, so," said Jake as he sat up. He had Judith flung over his shoulders, much to her teetering delight. "How're we carrying Cas out of here tomorrow? He's heavy as fuck."

"Fa-ack," Judith parroted happily.

Enid hid her laugh behind a cough. Carl adopted a look of horror.

Jake grinned at Judith over his shoulder. "No, babygirl. It's pronounced 'fuck'. Can you say it after me? Fuck?"

"Judith, no, we don't say that," Carl said quickly, stepping up to collect his little sister.

Judith didn't like that at all. She kicked and squirmed, hitting Jake in the nose with her tiny foot. Then she let out a shrill scream, probably making every walker in their vicinity aware of their presence.

Jake rubbed his nose. "Nice, man."

"You are such an ass," said Carl as he resigned to Judith's demands to be let down. The toddler immediately scampered back to Jake and climbed onto his lap. Then she decided sitting was too boring, so she stood up, balancing on Jake's knees.

Jake rolled his eyes over Judith's blonde head. "What? Like, she can grow up killing walkers but she can't hear a bad word?"

"She's not killing any walkers till she's at least, like, nine."

The cans jingle as someone stepped into their camp. They all relaxed when they saw it was just Mikey, coming back from nature's call in the woods.

"What the hell was that?" Mikey asked, looking behind him to see if any walker had been beckoned by Judith's tantrum.

"Jake's an idiot," said Scott, shaking his head.

Mikey flopped down to the ground. "So, the usual?"

Jake threw a walnut shell at Scott. "If I ever turn, I'm eating you first."

Claire hummed a little, watching Judith using Jake as a jungle gym. "How is she not tired yet? It's after midnight, I'm pretty sure."

Oliver had long since conked out. He had cozied up next to Castiel right after dinner, on a pile of old clothes. Judith, on the other hand, had fought them off at every step. She hadn't wanted to sleep next to Oliver, or go potty, or eat walnuts-and-fish for dinner. In the end they'd given up and figured she'd tire herself eventually.

"Do you think she's different now?" asked Scott in a soft tone. "After… you know."

Carl scoffed at that. "She's just wired up 'cause she had a long nap in the afternoon."

"It's not that," said Scott, frowning deeply. "Look at her, she's a ghost."

Carl's mouth fell open.

Jake looked at his brother, aghast. "Dude, what?"

Scott raised his palms, defensive. "I meant she's pale, man. Sorry, that came out wrong." He chuckled a little, nervously. "We spent the whole day out in the sun. It's not like we had any sunscreen or anything. You're all red in the face, but Judith's still white as a sheet."

"He's got a point," said Jake after a long pause.

Carl's jaw twitched. The darkness turned his features sharp, the space where his eye should have been pitch black. "You're not sunburned."

"I'm Indian," he pointed out with a snort. "Your sister looks like a Gerber baby."

"Maybe it's like, an aftereffect of coming back from the dead," Mikey suggested, oblivious to the rising tension. "It's not really a bad thing, is it?"

"I guess not," said Carl with a sign and a glance in Castiel's direction. Then with a heavy frown, he sat back down. "There's something we need to talk about."

Claire felt rather than saw Enid turn rigid at her side. "What's up?" Claire asked.

Enid let out a long sigh. "It's something you should know before we get to Alexandria. It's only right." She brought her knees to her chest, crossing her arms over her knees. "Jake, Scott, that old group of yours. They called themselves the Saviors, didn't they?"

The twins looked at each other. Jake sat up straight, setting Judith down on the ground. "You met them."

Enid shook her head. "Not personally."

"They attacked some of our friends," Carl explained, looking down at his hands.

Jake sucked a breath through his teeth. It was Scott who asked softly, "Did you lose anyone close to you?"

Carl shook his head. "No, they handled it. They uh, had a rocket launcher." Grimly, Carl went on to tell them about the next encounter his people had with the twins' old crew. He told them about a place called the Hilltop, and an agreement they'd made with them - supplies in exchange for mercenary work.

It was obvious most of the events had been given to Carl second-hand. Claire tried to keep pace with the story. She knew Carl's dad was named Rick, that Michonne was his friend-turned-sort-of-step-mom, and that Glenn and Maggie were good friends to both him and Enid, but the rest of the names sort of blended together.

"Wait, wait, what's this about Jesus, again?" Claire interrupted.

Carl paused, frowned. "Uh, just this guy. He's the one who introduced us to the Hilltop."

Claire pressed on. "Yes, yes, but is he actually Jesus?"

Carl's mouth opened and closed a few times. "No?" He suddenly seemed unsure. "I think his real name's Paul."

"So, let me get this straight," said Jake, rubbing his face. "You - and possibly Jesus Christ, what the fuck - you went and attacked the Saviors to help out that jackass Gregory?"

"I wasn't actually there." Carl frowned. "You know Gregory?"

"Is Gregory the one with the rocket launcher?" Claire asked.

"No, that's Daryl. Gregory's the leader of the Hilltop," Enid said.

"He is such a dick." Jake sniffed.

"Maggie did say he was a creep," Enid offered, shrugging. "He paid, though. Things got back to normal after that, as far as we know."

"As far as you know," Jake repeated darkly. "Jesus Christ. We should've stayed back with the army. Negan's gonna skin us alive if he finds us around Carl's asshole dad. No offense."

Carl smiled faintly. "A little taken."

"He's not wrong. Your dad is an asshole," said Mikey, quickly adding, "and that's not necessarily a bad thing, alright? If this Negan guy is so dangerous, I'd be glad to have your dad on our side."

Claire lifted up a hand as if she was in a classroom. "Negan's one of the Saviors, right?"

"Negan's dead," Carl stated matter-of-factly. "That's the one thing I do know. Dad killed him himself."

"Bullshit," Jake shot back. "I've seen that asshole shake off a fucking bite. Ain't no way your old man put him down."

Claire threw up her hands, exasperated. "Who's Negan?"

"He survived a bite?" asked Enid, skeptically. "That's impossible." She suddenly had a thoughtful, almost excited look on her face. "What if he's not human?"

"Like Cas?" Jake asked in disbelief. "Trust me, Negan's no angel."

"He could be a demon," Claire suggested. "Have you ever seen his eyes do this weird, black thing-" she waved at her face. The twins blinked at her, clearly a no. She persisted, "Does he give off this weird smell? Like rotten eggs?"

Jake threw up his arms. "I've never sniffed him!"

Claire had another idea. "Maybe he's a vampire? Does he, um, avoid the daylight?"

Claire didn't, strictly speaking, know anything about vampires.

"Does he sparkle?" Enid muttered.

"He likes to swear a lot and hit people with his bat," Scott offered tentatively. "The bat's name is Lucille."

"Jeez. He sounds terrifying," Claire said, sarcastic.

Jake scowled. "Hey, laugh all you want, but do you know what Negan does to traitors? He hangs them up like scarecrows in front of the Sanctuary. See, if you smell bad enough, the dead, they leave you alone. They walk right past you. If you really piss him off he'll just cover you in guts and let you hang there to rut, alive, with all the dead ones to keep you company. Keeps you hanging there for as long as possible, too. You're lucky if you're dead first."

"Jake, we promised we'll protect you, and we will," said Carl resolutely. "Nothing's changed."

Jake laughed bitterly. "Fuck you, Carl. And your eyeball."

"This isn't helping," Scott scolded his brother gently. "We could have stayed back with the army, but we chose to keep going. Alexandria's what, a day's ride away from the Sanctuary? Negan was gonna find it sooner or later. We knew the risks." Looking at Carl, he asked, "That place your people attacked. Where was it?"

Carl exchanged an uneasy look with Enid and Mikey. "We weren't there." After a long pause, he added, "I don't know."

Scott pressed on. "How many people were killed?"

Carl's mouth thinned. "I wasn't there, Scott." He tilted his head. "What are you trying to say?"

"I think that you took down an outpost," Scott replied, cool as though they were discussing the weather. "The one closest to Hilltop would've outfitted, what, twenty? Thirty?" He looked at Jake, who nodded. "The others will have wanted to find out who did it. They'll know Hilltop had something to do with it, and trust me, Gregory will talk."

Carl let out a soft exhale. "How many outposts are there?"

"There are four we know of, plus there's the Sanctuary. The are hundreds of people there. Not all fighters, but enough," Scott said.

Jake added, "They're not all bad, man. Most of them are just trying to survive." He rubbed at his shoulder with a heavy sigh. "Not much to do about it now. Like it or not, there's gonna be a fight. There's always a fight."

"You're all talking like we haven't got Cas on our side," said Mikey in an incredulous tone. "Things are different now."

Claire felt her anger flare. "Cas is sick, in case you haven't noticed. He nearly died saving our asses today." Her voice trembled when she said, "He's not some rabid dog you could sic on your enemies, Mikey."

Mikey held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not saying he should murder everyone, Jesus. But, think about it, if people find out about him, maybe they won't… they won't want to fight. Nowadays everyone's always at each other's throats because they think this is it, right? End of the world and everything. But if they knew about Cas, knew who he is -"

"They'll… what?" Jake cut him off. "Sit around a campfire singing Hallelujah instead of ripping each others' throats?" He rolled his eyes. "Don't be a moron."

"Murdering everyone is a valid option," said Scott, straight-face. "What?" he asked at their furrowed expressions. "You can't expect us to ignore that Cas is a total ace in our pocket just because you've got this weird thing about him. I'm sorry, Claire. I know you want to do the right thing. I do, as well." He smiled sadly. "But I wanna live, too."

"Claire does have a point, you guys," Enid said, her words bringing a swell to Claire's throat. "We can't ask Cas to risk himself when we don't know what we're up against. Especially with those hunters still around. Who knows? Maybe Negan was one of them. Maybe he wasn't human. I've never met anyone who's immune. Have you?"

"Nobody's immune to a bullet in the head," Carl argued. He immediately deflated. "Well, Cas is, I guess, but that's not the same thing."

Enid shook her head. "We don't know what we're walking into. Until we do, I think we need to stick to the original plan."

Claire snapped her fingers and pointed at Enid vehemently. "Yes! Thank you!"

The original plan was something they'd discussed at length. Or, in point of fact, argued.

It was the answer to the question, "What the hell are we going to tell everyone?" The answer was, of course, that they'd been kidnapped. And that they had survived. And that Castiel was their friend. Their completely normal, very human, extraordinarily ordinary friend. The plan did not include a single word about Angels with a capital A, Heaven, or ancient Aztec gods. None whatsoever.

Of course, on the two separate occasions where they'd actually encountered real living people, their plan had immediately gone straight out the window. But, damn it, Claire was determined to finally see it though.

She knew the others were still in awe of Castiel. She knew that. They didn't get it. They didn't get that angels were dicks and that God was the worst and that none of what they'd been through really mattered, the world had died, and all of them, all of them, even Castiel, were all on their own.

Not to mention that something was seriously wrong with Cas. He couldn't be trusted not to accidentally blow himself up. He needed someone to watch over him, and Claire intended to do just that.

"We can figure this out on our own," Claire stated, hands clasped into fists above her knees. "Whatever's going on with these Savior people, we'll figure it out. We can leave Cas out of it. I've been saying it this whole time-"

Carl's alarmed voice interrupted. "Where's Judith?"

A sharp pang of terror shot down Claire's spine. Her head swiveled as she looked around for the missing girl. She spotted her almost immediately, and her heart stuttered. Judith was sleeping soundly in the crook of Castiel's arm. He was awake.