Disclaimer, timeframe, summary: see first chapter.
In the Wake of Angels: Part II
Once Jimmy had showered and borrowed a pair of sweatpants from Dean, the brothers set about cleaning his wounds. Jimmy was in shock, it seemed, and said nothing while he lay on the bed like a practice medical dummy. There was none of the nervous energy he'd exhibited last time this had happened; none of the almost stoner-like confusion and boundless hunger. His only movement was a slight shivering as Dean rubbed him down with Neosporin like he was covering a pale child with sunblock. Only three or four of the cuts looked deep enough to require real bandaging; one or two probably could have done with stitches, but that was a luxury that didn't even cross Dean's mind as a real option. A dozen or so other smaller cuts were covered with Band-aids. It was a fair patch job, but Dean was still worried. The last thing they needed was Jimmy to come down with an infection.
As though reading his mind, Sam disappeared briefly into the bathroom, and reappeared a moment later, shaking an orange cylinder. "We've got about three bottles of amoxicillin left. More than enough for him to take it until the worst of it heals. Jimmy," he said, addressing Jimmy directly for the first time Dean could remember. "Are you allergic to any antibiotics?" Jimmy shook his head as he struggled into the shirt that Dean had just given him. "Good." Sam opened the bottle, shook a pill out and handed it to Jimmy. Jimmy took it, then blinked up at him.
"Um," he said, sounding like he was trying to express annoyance, but couldn't muster it. "Could I have some water maybe?"
"Oh. Yeah." Sam retreated to the bathroom again and returned with a glass. Like stitches, needing a drink to swallow a pill was something that simply didn't enter a Winchester mind.
"Okay," Dean said, after he'd watched Jimmy take the medicine. "What the hell happened to Cas?" Jimmy stared blankly up at him, and Dean sighed.
"I actually have a theory," Sam said quietly, settling down on the bed next to Dean, opposite Jimmy.
"Well," Dean drawled. "Do tell, professor."
"Demon blood," Sam said quietly. "The demons weren't just cutting Cas, they were cutting themselves too." Dean remembered that; he'd written it off as a product of all the confusion in their little pile of a blood orgy. "I think they were trying to infect Jimmy's body with their blood so he'd be unfit to host Cas anymore. Sort of force Cas out, take him out of the picture for a while 'til he finds a new vessel. If they can't kill an angel, at least they can incapacitate him."
Dean shivered at the implications of Sammy's words, but it was Jimmy who spoke first. "There's… demon blood… in me?" He demanded, his voice very nearly a squeak.
"If I'm right," Sam continued. "If that's really what they were trying to do, then yeah. It tainted you, made you unable to be a vessel."
Jimmy blinked, absorbing that, and Dean waited, full of questions but unwilling to speak up just yet. "Is it still in me?" Jimmy said finally. Dean glanced over at Sam, who didn't meet his eyes.
"Yeah," Sam told him.
"So… what does that mean?"
"Demon blood is like a drug," Sam explained, looking awkward. "It's almost like a steroid. It can make you stronger but you come to depend on it."
Jimmy blinked again. "What now?"
"Now… you're gonna come down," Sam admitted. Dean could hear the twinge of helplessness undercutting the words. "You're gonna detox," Sam continued. "Hopefully it won't be that bad since you've only had the blood once. But I honestly don't know."
"Detox," Jimmy parroted weakly, looking like he was struggling to understand the words being spewed at him.
Dean spoke at last. "Should we take him to Bobby's?"
Sam's face pinched in like he hated his answer even before he gave it. "Even the way you drive, Bobby's a day away at least. I think it's best to ride it out here and hope it won't be as bad." As bad as mine, Dean filled in for him. Sam's first detox had been terrible; he still hadn't told Dean everything that had happened to him, but the screams that had filled Bobby's house had been enough to paint an adequate picture. But though his first had been bad, his second had made a cakewalk of it, even though they'd at least had his cooperation that time. Sam had screamed like knives were going through him for a day, followed by two days of hallucinations so vivid he ended up breaking his own arm before they were through. Then there had been a final day of unconsciousness that seemed nearly a coma, until finally on the fifth day Sam had opened his eyes and smiled weakly at Dean, who had grabbed him up in his arms and cried helplessly into his hair, no longer caring about the Winchester aversion to hugs.
Dean hoped like hell that Jimmy's wouldn't be like that, since like Sam said he'd only been exposed once. But Castiel's exit him had already left him so weak, and he hadn't ever experienced demon blood before, while Sam had. So really, it was just a matter of wait-and-see, as it often was.
They didn't have to wait long. The shivering that Dean had attributed to shock only intensified with time, until Dean caught on to the fact that it was more than just stress and exhaustion. Jimmy seemed coherent, though still wordless and morose; he lay on the bed, silently riding out the shaking and sweating, while Sam flipped through the channels on the tiny motel TV and tried to get a response from him regarding what show he'd prefer. Dean paced the room, armed, on guard, waiting for it to get worse.
But it didn't really seem to-- at least, not 'worse' in their sense of the word. Jimmy managed to drift off for a while before bolting out of bed and to the bathroom, where Dean listened with sympathy as he retched repeatedly, Castiel's nonexistent eating habits leaving him nothing to bring up. But although Jimmy might realistically have argued, it wasn't that bad. It seemed if anything like a case of stomach flu, something he could ride out, no reason to panic.
The night continued like this and eventually the sun rose, finding Jimmy curled on the floor of the bathroom with a pillow and blanket, tossing fitfully but sleeping nevertheless. Finally relaxing for the first time in nearly half a day, Dean was starting to feel the blows he'd taken from the gigantic demon, only hours before but so, so long ago-- before Castiel had been poisoned out of Jimmy's body, relegated to parts unknown.
"I don't think we both need to be up with him anymore," Sam said at last, coming over to where Dean was habitually standing by the door, though not guarding them from anything specific. "You should get some sleep."
Dean held out his fist in a rock-paper-scissors position. Sleep sounded fantastic, but he wasn't willing to take the first nap just like that. "Play you for it."
But Sam shook his head. "You took more hits in that fight. You should sleep first. Seriously," he added.
Though his chest was aching and his left eye was heavy and swollen, Dean's instinct was still to take the first solo watch, as it always had been. But something in Sam's eyes swayed him; he seemed almost to want to be the one watching over Jimmy. "Dean. I've got this."
Oh right, Dean realized. Detox buddies. Who better to see Jimmy through a demon blood come-down than the only other person they knew to have been through one himself?
"Okay," Dean relented, turning away from the door with a body that was suddenly stiff and weak. "Well. You know where to find me." He laughed because nothing in their current motel room was more than two giant steps from the next thing. Sam didn't laugh, but Dean didn't mind, instead dropping into bed still fully dressed and falling asleep the moment his eyes were shut. Mmm… sleep.
***
Dean woke to the sound of two frantic voices, one flat-out screaming, one calling his name. He was on his feet before his eyes were fully open-- owowow-- and looking around the room, dizzy from the position change, heart already racing.
They were on the next bed, both on their knees; Sam was behind Jimmy, arms around his chest, restraining him as he tried again and again to launch himself off the bed. And Jimmy was screaming, sometimes just noise and sometimes a name. Claire.
"He thinks his daughter's dead," Sam shouted above the racket. No duh, Dean felt like replying, but bit it back. He'd been wondering how long it would take for the rest of the Novaks to come into play. Jimmy hadn't asked for them this time; Dean had thought maybe he'd learned his lesson, but apparently the inevitable had just been delayed by the poisoning. But here was his greatest fear resurfacing: harm to his wife or his little girl.
"Is there any talking to him? I mean, you think we can bring him out of it?"
Grimly, Sam shook his head. "You couldn't talk me out of any of it."
"It's still worth a shot." He climbed up on the bed next to Jimmy, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, getting closer than he was strictly comfortable with but hoping it would help. "Jimmy. Listen to me. Jimmy Novak. It's Dean. Okay? Dean Winchester. Listen: you're hallucinating. That's not Claire." He squeezed Jimmy's shoulder, hoping to emphasize his point. "That's not your daughter. Can you hear me? That isn't her. Jimmy." There was no reaction, not even a flicker.
"He can't hear you, Dean," Sam sighed, struggling more now to restrain the flailing man. "Could you take him for a second?"
Dean slid off the bed and back on behind Jimmy, grabbing him around the chest and holding him put. Sam sat back, rubbing his tired arms and grimacing. "I don't think there's anything for it but to ride it out," he remarked, and his reply was Dean oofing loudly as he took an elbow to his gut.
"Thank you, Captain Optimism," Dean snapped. Restraining Jimmy-- who was actually sort of smallish, Dean realized, completely unimposing on his own-- would normally have been relatively easy task, but not when his rib was cracked and his whole chest bruised. He knew Sam was right, though. "How much sleep did I get?"
"I dunno. Two hours?"
"Yeah. Eh." Dean sighed, dropping his head, holding onto Jimmy with his whole body now. Suddenly, catching him off guard, he realized how much he missed Castiel-- and not just because his dramatic exit had left such a trail of disaster in its wake. He just missed having him there, missed talking to him, sitting with him. Weird. And far from relevant now.
Jimmy's screams slowly became sobs-- mourning, Dean knew, over what he saw as the body of his daughter. Gradually he released his hold, letting Jimmy fall bonelessly to the mattress, giving him privacy during what was genuine grief, albeit for an imaginary girl. He retreated, leaning back against the headboard next to Sam, staring off into space and wishing for time to speed up a bit. Or slow down. Or something.
Suddenly the sounds of crying stopped, and Jimmy's body went tense, his hallucination shifting. Dean jumped to his feet and Sam lurched forward to the foot of the bed, ready to restrain him if it turned violent once again.
"You!" Jimmy growled, head still tilted down, and Dean tried to tell if there was any way he was talking to him or Sammy. "You!" He screeched again. "Castiel, you bastard! You said you'd keep her safe!"
For a moment, Dean allowed himself to hope that this wasn't imaginary, that Castiel really was in the room with then. But then Jimmy lunged off the bed, headed towards the door, and Dean only just tackled him in time.