Hey, everyone! The Innocent's next chapter is coming along nicely…about 200 words a day. I…am a procrastinator. Big time. Anyway, I was watching Charmed again and I saw MISHA COLLINS! Tell you what, that was a nice surprise. And you know what? I've seen every single Charmed episode and I didn't know he was on there until yesterday. Gah, fuck you brain!
Une Journée Pour Se Souvenir
Chapter 4: Break Me Down
Songs of the Chapter:
So Small- Carrie Underwood
People Help the People- Birdy
Crazy Enough- MercyMe
Castiel hummed a song his grandma Eden used to sing to him as a little boy. He wasn't sure why he was, considering his throat was hoarse from coughing up mucus and blood.
Hours earlier, Castiel had managed to pull himself up into a sitting position against a lone trash bag. He sat with his arms limp by his sides, glasses hanging crookedly off his face, crusted, dried blood flaking off his cheeks and hair. He was numb by then, the frigid February cold turning the pain into a dull ache. He couldn't move, but he was just fine with that. Just the journey from the ground to the trash bag had been excruciatingly painful.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the sidewalk at the mouth off the alley. Castiel's head lolled to the side as he looked. Every single passerby had overlooked him, probably dismissing him as a homeless man, clutching their shopping bags to their chests and hurrying along, even after he called out to them. Eventually, he stopped caring. No one was going to help him. He briefly wondered why that man…Michael…hadn't finished him off. Maybe that's what he was coming to do. Good.
The heavy footsteps came closer and Castiel gave it one last try.
"Help!" he croaked as loud as he possibly could. His cry echoed off the walls of the alley. He felt his split angel kiss tear again and let out a soft whimper. The footsteps stopped, then started, picking up the pace. In the dim light from the streetlamps, a figure appeared at the mouth of the alley. Castiel couldn't find the strength to lift his head as the person slowly approached him.
Flashes of jackboots appeared before his eyes and Castiel's sluggish heart rate quickened. The figure came to a stop in front of him, the light of the streetlamps silhouetting them against the night sky. Castiel looked up at them with pleading eyes.
"Please," he croaked. "Help me."
And then Castiel was dead to the world…again.
"Sammy! Turn that shit down!" Dean shouted over the loud blaring of his brother's trashy music. He would never understand why Sam loved that damned flippy-haired, girl-voiced, Madonna in the making. It was one of the few things that made him ashamed of having Sam as a brother; another being…Sam shaved his legs. And am was the straight one.
Dean hunched over his text book on the kitchen counter while his other hand stirred a pot of spaghetti on the stove.
"Therapists who lean toward the cognitive branch will look at dysfunctions and difficulties as arising from irrational or faulty thinking. In other words, we perceive the world in a certain way (which may or may not be accurate) and this results in acting and feeling a certain…"
Dean slammed his text book shut. He wasn't getting any of this. None of this crap was getting him any closer to his answers. All he'd learned so far was people are crazy in one way or another.
A knock on the front door pulled him from his grumpy thoughts and he quickly flicked off the stove.
"Hold on a second!" he shouted as he drained the spaghetti. He threw the dishtowel over his shoulder and wiped his hands on his pants before turning the lock and cracking open the door.
Anna stood outside in a heavy, multicolored shawl, bright red rain boots and a deep purple dress. She was definitely a sight to see with her graying hair piled high up on her head. She reminded Dean of an all grown up Punky Brewster. She was clutching her gigantic purse to her chest. She pushed past Dean and into the apartment without permission, something Dean normally wouldn't mind…if he was wearing a shirt. He hadn't bothered after his shower and had gone straight to studying/cooking. He also just wasn't particularly fond of wearing them.
"Anna? Something wrong?" Dean set the dishtowel on the counter next to the simmering spaghetti.
"Oh, dear. Yes, I'm afraid there is. Balthazar was out for his nightly jog, you know, because Gabriel told him he's been getting a bit of a belly-"
"Yes, Anna, I know," interrupted Dean, pushing her back on track.
"Well, he found a man lying in the alley beside the coffee shop on 92nd. He was badly beaten and barely conscious." Anna sat down heavily on the queen bed in the middle of the living room/study/bedroom and searched through her purse.
"Oh, shoot!" she said, stomping her foot. "I can't find my cell phone. There are so many things in here that don't need to be-AHA!" She stopped mumbling and held her phone triumphantly above her head. "Here it is!"
Dean watched, slightly amused as Anna pushed random buttons on the phone. Finally finding what she was looking for, Anna beckoned Dean forward. Dean stepped around a pair of Sam's rumpled sleep pants and his jacket (they weren't the tidiest people on the planet) and settled beside Anna on the bed.
She handed him the phone and Dean squinted at the old 2005 Nokia. As soon as his eyes focused on the screen, he nearly dropped the phone. On the screen was a person's face, barely recognizable through a mask of bruises and a painful looking split lip. There were bruises littering their neck. But Dean wasn't paying attention to the bruises. The scarf. That's what was missing.
Oh, God. It was Castiel.
Castiel slowly blinked his eyes open, groaning as a harsh light burned across his vision. He moved his arm over his eyes and gasped at the sudden flare of pain. Where was he?
"Thank God, you're awake. What the Hell, you don't carry a license in that wallet of yours?" Castiel's eyes snapped open as a crisp English accent spoke from somewhere to his right. Laboriously, Castiel turned his head and popped open an eye.
"Wha…where-who…what?" Castiel fumbled, his brain so foggy from the pain that he couldn't get a simple sentence out.
"He's an articulate fellow, isn't he?" The English man said, turning his head to someone out of sight.
A low chuckle sounded and Castiel propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest. A man wearing a white apron spotted with numerous stains, with longish light brown hair was standing by his feet, chewing on a candy bar. Castiel's eyebrows drew together as he frowned; he was in a kitchen.
He was lying on a couch, one of his legs dangling off, his foot twisted at an odd angle. He seemed a bit too big for the couch.
"Why…am I in a kitchen?" Castiel felt something rip from his throat and let out a series of body wracking, burning coughs. He covered his mouth with his arm out of habit and when he pulled it away nearly passed out again. His jacket arm was coated in fresh blood. He fully sat up and continued his coughing fit.
"Gabriel! Don't just stand there, get the man some water!" the English man shouted and the brown haired man, Gabriel, hurriedly filled a glass with water from the sink.
Castiel gratefully accepted the glass. His shaking hands made it near impossible to get the water in his mouth. The glass clattered against his teeth and suddenly a hand was holding it steady. He looked up into the worried face of Dean.
Castiel's split lip throbbed at the touch of the water and he hissed, abruptly jerking away from the glass, feeling nearly every bone and muscle in his body scream in protest. He moaned and pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling his numb ankle flop uselessly. He buried his face in his arms and breathed heavily, hoping and praying to whoever was listening to please make it stop.
"Cas?" The cushion beside him dipped and Castiel moaned again, wheezing loudly as his chest continuously seized up. A hand was on his back, rubbing soothing circles. Castiel jerked away from the hand, everything hurting, the pain seeming endless. Rough sobs jerked from his chest, stinging the cuts on his face. Castiel fisted his hand in the fabric of his coat, probably straining a knuckle or two with the force of his grip.
"Castiel, you need to calm down. You're not helping yourself," said Dean. He sounded worried but Castiel couldn't stop.
"I-I ca-ca-can't-t," he stammered, rocking back and forth on the sofa. He was in unbearable pain, every sob like ripping open a stitch, every breath like pouring rubbing alcohol over the wound.
"C'mon, Gabe. Help me get him to the bathroom," Dean said. Two hands slid around his back and two others at his feet and he was being lifted off the couch. He nearly screamed in agony, a choked off sob the only thing able to find its way out of his raw throat.
"Balthazar, get your ass up there and run a bath."
"As you wish, master. I mean it's not like I'm your boss or anything. No, not at all," Balthazar grumbled.
"Balthazar!" Dean shouted.
"Fine, fine, I'm going. Keep your shirt on." Someone brushed by them and nudged Castiel's broken foot. His eyes snapped open and he shouted a string of obscenities.
"Just hang on, Cas, we're almost there," Dean said, taking great care not to jostle him. They awkwardly turned into the bathroom, Castiel hoped his leg wouldn't get rammed into the door or that his ear would catch on the door frame.
"All right, Gabe, carefully let go of his legs." Dean's grip on Castiel tightened and he felt horrible when Castiel whimpered in pain. Gabriel lightly set his feet on the linoleum of Balthazar's bathroom. He lived above the restaurant because it was cheaper rent.
The sound of running water filtered in above the loud pounding of Castiel's heart echoing in his ears.
"Gabe, get his boots off." Castiel felt a twisting at his ankle and jerked. His leg spasmed, unable to process so much pain at once.
"Fuck! Carefully!" Dean hissed. He gently slipped Castiel's blood stained jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Dean fingered the collar of Castiel's white T-shirt and frowned.
"Balthazar, get the scissors. He's not gonna be able to move for me to get this stuff off ," said Dean, holding his hand out for the scissors, never looking away from Castiel's face. His eyes were shut tight in pain, his fists clenching and unclenching, his chest falling unevenly as he gasped and wheezed. Whoever had done this had seriously fucked him up.
Balthazar handed him the scissors and Dean cut Castiel's T-shirt down the back. He slid it off his shoulders and added it to the pile of Castiel's clothes. He looked up and saw Gabriel dropping Castiel's boots to the floor.
"Help me with his pants," Dean ordered. Gabriel nodded, for once his face deadly serious, not a hint of a smile.
Dean unbuckled Castiel's belt and helped Gabriel slide his pants down his legs. They dropped to the floor and Dean almost gagged at the sight of Castiel's mangled ankle. It was swollen in all the wrong places, purple, red and every other color in the spectrum. Gabriel looked away.
Dean used the scissors to cut away Castiel's undershirt, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever he would see. And he saw a lot.
Dean didn't think a chest could swell, but Castiel's sure did. There were numerous patches of raw skin and bruises. What looked like road burn snaked up Castiel's right side. There was barely a hint of the pale, creamy skin he'd seen earlier. It was all mangled and bruised and sticking out at odd angles.
"I-Into the tub," Dean shuddered, feeling the bile rise in his throat in disgust and anger.
The three of them gingerly lifted Castiel into the old claw footed tub, slowly submerging his battered body into the lukewarm water.
Castiel's eyes snapped open and his back arched. He clawed at Dean's shirt, clutching at it as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.
"It hurts," he ground out, feeling Dean's hand slip into his own. He gripped it tight, feeling his body seize up again and again.
Looking at Castiel's fevered, bruised, blood crusted face, Dean wondered who could have done this and why. How could one person have caused so much damage? What had Castiel done to deserve a beating as severe as this? To deserve so much pain? Dean's chest hurt, looking at Castiel like this.
Castiel wasn't the confident, smart, funny guy he'd seen hours before. This man in front of him was crying, sobbing because someone had decided to beat the shit out of him for no apparent reason.
"Who did this to you?" Dean murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
"Michael…Novak. He-He was mad 'cause I insult-ted that-t wait-tress-s," Castiel stammered, gripping Dean's hand harder as violent coughs jerked his entire body. Dean blinked, surprised to feel tears well in his eyes. He pressed his knuckles to his trembling lips. Why was this affecting him so much?
Castiel groaned and turned his head, spitting blood into the water. He panted and wheezed.
"Dean, i-it hurts," he said again, turning those cerulean eyes on him. They were bright with tears and pain and agony.
Dean rubbed his thumb across the back of Castiel's hand. "I know, Cas," he said. "I know."
What the fuck is wrong with me? I must enjoy writing all this angst and tragedy and...UGH! Just shoot me now!
Anyway, I have been jamming out to Lynyrd Skynyrd all afternoon and seriously putting off my Spanish project that's due on Tuesday...fuck.
Reviews are accepted, not required, but loved.
Shave Less, Braid More,
Dublin O'Malley
XOXOX