A/N: Make sure to check out Really Bad Eggs at my profile if you haven't already. A small part of this chapter won't make much sense, otherwise.

This chapter marks the end of part one! I feel so blessed to finally put this out there. It's been a long, long time, and an incredible journey for me. A huge thank you to everyone who's left comments over the years. I couldn't have done it without you. I'm going to spend some time writing the next part of the story (which I'm so very excited about) along with a few other projects of mine. Subscribe to my account to receive a notification when the next part is posted.

Rick's head hurt in a particular way. It was a pulsing pain that thrummed behind his left temple, accompanied by a growing sense of despair. A familiar sort of agony, brought solely on by arguments with his teenage son.

Said teenager stood planted in the doorway of the small room in the rear of the infirmary, arms crossed over his thin chest. His chin jutted out in defiance, as if daring Rick to try and get past him. Carl made it no secret that Rick wasn't welcome in the infirmary, least of all in the little room in the back where the mysterious "Castiel" lay dying, hanging on by a thread for far longer than Rick had even thought possible.

"Son," he tried again, gazing down at his child and wondering how this bull-headed young man had ever fit in the crook of his arm, "if you'd just talked to me-"

"Not this again," Carl said, rolling his eye and letting out an exasperated huff, the very picture of teenage insolence. "Dad, seriously. There's nothing to talk about."

Rick snapped, unable to stop himself, "You haven't told me a goddamn thing, Carl."

The boy scoffed and looked away, hiding behind the armor of a defiant teen. Rick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, cursing at himself for losing his cool.

It had been six days since his children had returned to him: six days trapped in this terrible cold war with Carl and his friends, hovering around the infirmary, keeping a united front against anyone who wasn't them, giving away nothing except half-truths and shrugged shoulders.

Rick had hoped that with enough gentle coaxing, Carl would open up to him. He'd been so patient these past six days when all he really wanted was to grab his son by the shoulders and shake until the truth came tumbling out.

Throat tight with emotion, Rick asked softly, "What are you so afraid of?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Carl speared his father with a hard glare. "I'm not scared," he answered, flushed with anger. "I'm not you, Dad. And why d'you care, anyway? It's not like you were out there looking for us. You let Michonne do that," he said, his tone accusing. "You were too busy licking Negan's boots."

Feeling as though he'd been slapped in the face, Rick drew a sharp breath. He grabbed onto the doorframe, steadying himself. Carl flinched at the sudden movement but held his ground, glaring at his own father like he was an enemy.

The words stung, but it was plain to see the hurt behind the anger. Rick knew his son well, recognized the pain glistening his eye. Slowly, he lowered his hand to Carl's shoulder, feeling the muscle tense under his palm.

"I looked for you," he said softly, heart aching, "of course I looked for you." He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. "I'll never stop looking for you," he added meaningfully. "I know I haven't always been the best father to you and your sister, but Carl, I'm trying to be."

Carl's expression wavered. Then he shrugged Rick's hand off his shoulder. "That was a great speech, Dad," he said, scowling once more, "but I don't need your help. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," Rick said gently, "but you don't have to do it alone."

"I'm not alone," Carl huffed, crossing his arms.

Rick held back a sigh. Carl was right, of course; he wasn't alone. He had his friends, didn't he? He had returned with Enid and Mikey, his old friends from before they had all vanished. However, at the time, their bond had seemed to be one of convenience, the youths drawn to each other solely because there were no other survivors their own age around. Not so much anymore. Now, they were as thick as thieves. Completely in sync, keeping their secrets to themselves in whispered conversations and furtive glances. Guarding the infirmary and the man whose death was long overdue. Whatever the children were hiding, it was clear this Castiel was a big part of it. Or, perhaps, he was the reason for it at all.

And then there was Claire, the girl who'd survived a walker's bite. Or, more likely, the girl who'd lied about it. Rick wasn't quite sure how he felt about her, yet.

Rick's eyes drifted beyond Carl to the stranger on his deathbed, the one his son was so eager to protect. Six days unconscious, at least, and clinging to life with each rattling breath. He would've suspected foul play if he hadn't seen Castiel's injuries with his own two eyes, having carried him to the infirmary himself - seen those shoddily stapled wounds on his chest and torso, the unmistakable bite marks on his limbs, the flesh torn clean off his face - there was no faking that.

No doubt, Castiel was one tough bastard. Rick was also sorry the two of them would never really get a chance to meet. He licked his dry lips and asked, "What about him?"

Carl stiffened. "What about him?"

Rick knew he had to choose his next words carefully. "Who is he to you?"

"He's my friend," Carl added resolutely, squaring his shoulders in a subtle attempt to block more of the doorway from Rick's view. Showing more concern for the dying man than he'd shown his own father in days.

Rick frowned. He tilted his head, giving Carl a long, thoughtful look. He knew his son, knew that kind of fierce loyalty didn't come out of thin air. Clearly, Castiel meant something to the children, but there was something disturbing in the way they were showing it. There was no dignity in a slow, overdrawn death. Even dying men had bodily functions, had needs. For all their professed care, they hadn't so much as placed an IV in Castiel's arm.

"Don't worry about Cas, Dad," Carl said, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "He's not your problem. You wanna talk so badly? Fine, let's talk." He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "What are you going to do about Negan?"

"It's complicated," Rick said, holding back a sigh.

"Make it uncomplicated, then," said Carl with a scowl. "You know, I kept telling my friends what a badass my dad is. I thought… I thought I'd be coming home to a war zone, not whatever the hell this is." He threw up his arms, gesturing at the empty cabinets around the infirmary. "After everything we've been through - you let him get away with this? Why?"

"To keep you safe," Rick said softly. "To keep this community safe."

"Safe?" Carl bared his teeth in a snarl. "Negan murdered my friend. Glenn, Abraham, Denise, they're all gone. And what about Daryl? You're not even trying to get him back. And you let them take our guns, our food, our medicine. We're sleeping on the fucking floor." His voice cracked when he said, "You just gave up, Dad."

Sorrow wormed its way into Rick's heart. "They have the numbers, Carl. An army. We can't fight them, not the way you want to."

"We're not fighting at all," Carl said bitterly.

Rick opened his mouth to respond, but the creaking of the infirmary's front door caught his attention. He turned to find Mikey standing by the small kitchen aisle, looking awkward and wearing the expression of someone who had realized too late that they were interrupting something.

The boy fidgeted, shifting his weight from heel to heel. "Hey, um. It's my turn to watch Cas." He gave a small, helpless shrug. "Should I come back later?"

"It's fine," said Carl, glaring at Rick as he did. "Dad was just leaving anyway."

Rick stepped down the infirmary's porch steps, letting the sun wash over his face with its warmth. The door was slammed behind him, and not by his own hands. He sighed.

The infirmary was situated by the lake, at the very heart of Alexandria. It was a defensible position, which was likely the reason Deanna had chosen the three-bedroom, two-floored Southern-style house as their town's infirmary. Looking behind him, Rick's face tightened at the sight of the sealed windows and shuttered blinds. Since their arrival, Carl and his friends had all but turned the infirmary into their den.

Rick sighed, turning the corner. He'd meant to head home (for at least Judith and Michonne would be glad to see him) but paused when he noticed the little boy Carl had brought in. Oliver, he remembered vaguely.

Surprisingly, he was alone, the streets otherwise completely deserted. Normally, the residents of Alexandria would be out and about on such a nice day, tending to their budding gardens or indulging in the latest round of town gossip. Not so much, anymore. The Saviors had trampled over their gardens and, well, they were overdue a visit.

Negan had promised to return in two days. It'd been six days.

No wonder everyone was on edge.

The little boy didn't seem to mind or care, if he even noticed the tension. He was hunched over the asphalt, painting it with bright pieces of chalk. Perhaps he'd followed Mikey over, since he'd been living with the teenager and his father, or perhaps he'd just slipped outside to enjoy the fresh air and sunlight.

Either way, Rick thought, a plan forming in his mind, it was about time the two of them were properly introduced.

"You're Oliver, right? I'm Carl's dad." Rick wore his most benign smile as he approached, without the slightest show of teeth.

"I know who you are," the boy replied, barely looking up from his artwork. His hands and clothes were coated in a fine layer of chalk dust.

Rick crouched down beside him, brow furrowed lightly. "What's this?" he asked, peering down at the single large circle Oliver was painting on the asphalt, alternating between different colors of chalk.

Oliver didn't look up. "It's a halo."

"A halo?"

Oliver hummed in response, selecting a blue piece of chalk from his pile. Rick tilted his head as he watched the boy add another circle to his drawing. The yellows and whites bracketed the other colors in a sort of glow. It wouldn't have been his first guess, but Rick supposed it did look something like a halo.

A memory surfaced in his mind, a scene from a different life. Rick and Lori had received a call from Carl's preschool teacher. She'd wanted to know if there was trouble at home, based on a drawing Carl had made in class. Something about the size and shape of the windows in Carl's little yellow crayon house. Rick honestly could not recall.

Lori had taken offense to the question, inquiring about the teacher's home life in turn. Over the next few months, on more than one occasion, Rick had caught Lori looking over Carl's drawings, going as far as to pick out crumpled papers from the waste basket in their son's bedroom. He'd never been sure what she was looking for, himself. Sometimes, a window was just a window.

Shifting in his crouched position, Rick lowered his knee to the ground. "How're you getting by, Oliver?"

Oliver shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"What's the matter?" Rick asked gently, picking on the smallest hint of unhappiness in the boy's body language. He ventured a guess, "Are you worried about your friend?" Rick asked gently.

Another shrug. "Not really."

Rick narrowed his eyes. "No?"

Oliver's small hand turned rough over the asphalt, the chalk threatening to crack in his hand. "It's not like he's dying. "

Oh, Rick thought, a pit forming in his gut. Somehow, despite his age, Rick hadn't expected the boy to still be this naive about the world and how it was.

"Oliver, look at me, please," Rick said gently, sitting back on his heels. He waited until he had the boy's full attention. "You know what happens when somebody gets bit, don't you?"

"They turn," said Oliver easily enough, a puzzled expression on his face. His green eyes widened. "Um, do you have ulterior motives?"

"I… what?" Rick asked, taken aback.

"Ulterior motives," Oliver repeated, enunciating each word carefully around his childish lisp, clearly parroting someone else's words. He fidgeted a little. "It means – um, it means–"

Rick let out a soft sigh. "Did someone tell you I might ask you some questions?" he asked even if he already knew the answer. An idea formed in his mind. "You're not in trouble, Oliver. You're right, I do have–" he winced– "ulterior motives."

Should've asked Michonne to talk to this one, Rick thought, cursing at his lack of foresight. She was better when it came to kids, including his own.

"I'm trying to get a sense of who you are," Rick continued carefully. "We don't let just anybody stay in Alexandria, you know. There's a process, a way we do things around here." He fought to keep a straight face as he added, "So I do have to talk to you a little. Make sure you're not… dangerous."

Oliver blinked. "I'm six."

Rick's mouth twitched. "I don't make the rules."

Oliver seemed to mull it over. "Okay," he said finally, the tension leaving his shoulders. Then he frowned. "Did you talk to Claire, too?"

"I did," Rick said, leaving out how little he'd gotten out of the girl, what with Carl hovering over his shoulder. "Why do you ask?"

"She's really dangerous," Oliver said, proudly.

"Oh?"

Oliver's eyes widened, realizing he might have said something he shouldn't have. "But you won't kick her out, right?"

"Not without a very good reason," Rick answered truthfully.

Oliver bit his lip. "You really shouldn't. Cas wouldn't like that," he said as if Castiel was in any position to like or dislike anything.

Rick let out a carefully controlled breath. "Has Cas been around long?"

Oliver frowned. "He's really old."

Rick felt a spark of amusement at the thought of Castiel being really old, considering he looked to be around Rick's own age. "I meant, when did y'all meet?"

"Um…" Oliver hesitated, pausing to think it over. "It's been…"

The boy looked down at his hands, as if trying to count the… Weeks?... Months?...

All of which must seem like a very long time to a kid.

"A long time," Oliver concluded, dropping his hands in frustration. "You can ask Cas when he wakes up."

"Oliver, he's not-" Rick stopped and sighed.

Really should've let Michonne handle this one, he thought somberly.

"What happened to Cas, Oliver?" Rick asked instead, hoping to coax the understanding naturally.

The boy's brow crinkled. "There was an explosion," he said, hesitantly.

"An explosion?"

"Yeah. We had to hide." He said, upturned nose scrunching up in thought. "Then we went to look for Cas, but the monsters found him first. And they ate him!" Oliver scratched at his face with a dust-covered hand. "It's okay, though. He wasn't awake when it happened."

"Oliver…"

"Wait," said Oliver, a brief moment of panic passing over his face. "I forgot!" He threw a guilty look in the direction of the infirmary. "I'm not – I'm not supposed to talk about Cas."

Rick exhaled slowly. "Why not?"

"Just cause." Oliver picked up a piece of chalk and pointedly resumed his drawing, mouth set in a determined line.

"You can talk to me," Rick insisted, not ready to lose that particular thread. "Oliver, look at me. I just want to protect you. I can't do that if you don't tell me the truth."

"Carl says you can't protect anyone," Oliver said without a glance in Rick's direction.

Rick closed his eyes for a moment. He opened his mouth to reply but then something caught his eye, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. He turned his gaze to the infirmary. A chill ran down Rick's spine as he noticed the open kitchen window. It could've been one of the boys who'd opened it… but something in Rick's gut told him otherwise.

"Stay here," he ordered, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

He covered the short distance soundlessly, instinctively crouching under the many semi-shuttered windows. He pressed his back to the wall, hoping he was only paranoid as his hand lifted the hatchet from its holster at his side. The boys were talking quietly in the backroom, oblivious to the intruder in the infirmary kitchen.

The intruder who was making themselves quite at home, filling a glass of water from the tap. Feeling the glare on his back, the figure looked over his shoulder, as relaxed as one could be.

Jesus smirked and raised his glass in greeting. "Is this a bad time?"

"You could've used the front door," Rick suggested dryly before proceeding to do just that, using the door like a normal person. He pulled out a barstool and sat at the kitchen aisle, facing Jesus. He set the hatchet down between them. "What are you doing here, Jesus?" Rick asked. "It's the middle of the day."

Jesus was a cautious man. He wouldn't have taken a risk, showing up in Alexandria in broad daylight, if it wasn't important.

"Is Maggie okay?" Rick asked, a flicker of dread forming in his gut.

Before Jesus could reply, Carl came storming out of the back room. "Dad, I thought I told you – " he froze when he noticed Jesus, causing Mikey to bump into his back. "Uh…"

"Hey, kids," Jesus said amiably, a small smile playing on his lips.

Something strange was happening to Carl's face. He looked like he didn't quite know what to do with his mouth. He glanced at Mikey with a pause that was a little too long before replying, deceptively casual: "Hey… Jesus."

Mikey leaned over Carl's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Carl elbowed him lightly in the ribs in turn.

Jesus raised his eyebrows, bemused at the boys' strange behavior.

Welcome to the club, friend, Rick thought, suddenly wishing there was anything stronger than tap water in reach.

Mikey cupped a hand over his mouth and whispered something else to Carl, insistent despite Carl's not-so-subtle attempts to squirm away.

"Stop it," Carl hissed, a little too loudly to be counted as a whisper, "No! I'm not gonna ask… are you crazy?"

"Boys," Rick sighed, feeling the headache returning, "what is it?"

The teenagers exchanged meaningful looks. "Nothing," came the simultaneous reply after a long beat. Mikey sulked at Carl's side, shoulders slumped.

"Well," Jesus said, glancing between Rick and the two teenagers, his brow furrowed in confusion, "It's good to see you both returned alive and well."

"Some of us with brain damage," Carl muttered, throwing a glare at Mikey. He stepped forward, joining them at the kitchen aisle. "What's going on, Jesus?"

"I came to talk to your dad," Jesus replied, his blued-eyed gaze flickering toward Rick in a silent question.

"Whatever it is, you can say it in front of us." Carl fixed his father with a glare. "Right, Dad?"

Sighing, Rick rubbed at the crease between his brows. "Maggie?" He reminded Jesus.

Jesus' smile broadened, his eyes glinted. "Maggie sends her love."

He drew a rolled-up map from his satchel, spreading it over the kitchen aisle in a theatrical flourish. The map had seen frequent use, scribbled over many times with marks and dates along with scribbled messages.

It wasn't the first time Rick had seen it, but never in broad daylight, and never with such air of finality over it all. He raised a hand to the map, tracing the notches made by Maggie's neat handwriting. A pit formed in his stomach, an uneven mix of hope and fear swirling about his intestines. Maggie's love was a death sentence if the Saviors ever caught them with it.

Carl took a step closer. "What is this?"

Rick turned to face his son, lifting a hand to Carl's shoulder. This time, Carl did not brush him off.

"We're not fighting the Saviors," Rick told Carl seriously.

Understanding rounded Carl's eye. "But you're going to." His gaze flicked down to the map. "Or at least, you're preparing for it."

Rick shook his head. "When - if - the time comes…"

"Does Michonne know?" Carl asked.

Rick dropped his hand from Carl's shoulder. "She knows enough."

Carl scoffed.

Jesus spoke up. "We didn't know what we were up against last time. Now we do." He pointed out different marks on the map between them. "We know their favorite routes, where their outposts are, where they've set up blockades." He stopped at a crossroad and tapped his finger at the scribbled marks there. "More importantly, we know where they're losing."

Rick exhaled sharply. "Explain."

Jesus smirked. He reached down to his belt and unclipped his radio, setting it on the kitchen aisle. Then he flipped a switch.

The radio came to life in a burst of static, followed by the unmistakable chaos of a gunfight in progress. Someone was screaming, their voice nearly drowned by the cacophony of gun blasts, yelling, and, for whatever reason, classic rock music.

"It's a trap!" the tinny voice yelled over the soundwaves, crackling with more than just panic. " Get the fuck –" a burst of static – "we've got dead ones crawling up our– "

Jesus turned the radio off. He hummed. "Someone out there started without us," he said, pleased. "We don't know who they are, but they're doing something right." He took a moment to sip from his water glass. "It started with Simon's disappearance." Jesus turned to the kids, adding for their benefit, "He's Negan's second-in-command."

"Negan said he went AWOL," Mikey blurted out, immediately flinching as all eyes turned to him. Still, he continued, "Carl, do you remember? He made that whole stupid speech, right before he… he…"

"I remember," Carl said softly.

"Is he dead?" Rick asked, eyes narrowed. He remembered Simon, not too fondly.

Jesus shook his head. "Not dead, unfortunately, but he'd been missing. The Saviors picked him up about… five-six days ago? He was attacked, apparently, someone killed most of his men, robbed him, and, uh…" Jesus stopped to scratch his nose, smirking behind his hand - "... gave him a bad haircut?"

Rick stared. "What."

Jesus held up his hands. "I know, but hear me out. The Saviors went after whoever attacked Simon. Set traps, ambushes, the whole nine yards. It should've been an easy fight, after all, it's the Saviors' home territory. Except they're still losing ."

"But who's fighting the Saviors?" Carl demanded. "Who are they?"

The first sign of uncertainty crossed Jesus' handsome features. "We think it's an army," he said.

"An army?" Rick asked skeptically.

"How do you know all this?" Mikey asked quietly.

Jesus patted the radio fondly. "The Saviors are nothing if not chatty." He smirked, adding, "And we've got someone inside the Saviors' compound. Someone we can trust."

Rick's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about that?"

"Maggie is," Jesus said simply. That, more than anything else he might have said, freed the tension from Rick's shoulders. "It's new, what we have. Delicate. Negan's not stupid enough to trust her, not yet. We're working on that."

"Who is her?"

Jesus smirked. "Plausible deniability, Rick."

"Can't you get her to kill Negan?" Carl asked.

"And then what?" Jesus countered, not unkindly. "Even if she slits Negan's throat and gets away with it, it's not going to be enough. The Saviors are more than one man." He shook his head. "It'll be a suicide mission."

Carl bit his lip. "What if you ask her to kill someone else?" He leaned over the aisle. "There's a guy… he's British, I think, and he has a prosthetic leg. You can't mistake him for anybody else. He was a prisoner the last time we saw him. Can she do it?... It's important."

Jesus raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty tall order. Rick?" He turned to Rick, questioning.

Carl sighed. "Look, Dad, I know I haven't been completely honest with you," he said, tense under his father's gaze. "I'm asking for you to trust me. There are things I can't tell you yet, I'm sorry about that, I really am, but please, Dad. Please trust me."

Rick studied his son's face. "You're asking to kill a man."

"Yes."

"Is it revenge?" Rick asked, without judgment. He understood the need for it, sometimes.

Carl shook his head. "If he talks, he might –" he stopped and sighed. "It won't be good. I can't tell you why. I can't. Just… please, Dad."

Rick released a long-held breath. A part of him wanted to say no, to demand honesty in exchange for whatever this was. Another part of him wanted to trust his son. Did trust him. Enough to put a stranger's life on the line.

They've done worse, all of them.

Rick gave a small nod.

Jesus' lips thinned, not altogether comfortable in ordering a hit on another man's life. But he nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Carl sagged in relief. Mikey didn't say a word but looked down at his feet. They both flinched at the sudden crash from the back of the infirmary.

They heard a muffled groan.

Rick picked up his hatchet. He didn't hurry after the teenagers. His son could handle a single walker, he knew that better than anyone.

The gurney had toppled over. That was the first thing Carl noticed upon entering the room. The second thing was Castiel, sprawled under the gurney's rickety frame.

His heart skipped a beat. Then Castiel looked at him, and he was still Castiel. Face partly torn into ribbons, bloodshot eyes squinted in confusion, shockingly blue and alive.

"A little help?" Castiel grunted from under the gurney.

Pushing back a mostly-hysterical laugh, Carl strode forward. He and Mikey lifted the gurney off of Castiel. They helped him sit on the floor, pushing him back to lean against the wall, then tucked his coat and blanket around him. Castiel allowed the manhandling. His hand dangled over his head, still cuffed to the gurney's side rail.

Blood trickled down from the corner of Castiel's eye. He looked terrible. He'd been looking terrible for a while, ever since the walkers had gotten their teeth into him. Somehow, Carl always imagined he'd heal himself when he woke up.

"You're alive," Rick stated. He stood in the doorway, hatchet held loose in his hand.

"I'm very surprised." Castiel's voice was like sanding paper. He pressed a hand to his face, curling forward in his seat. Carl and Mikey caught hold of his arms, holding him upright.

"Easy," Carl murmured, concerned.

Keeping his steps light, Rick stepped inside. His cool gaze swept over Castiel's huddled form in mounting suspicion. Carl glared at his dad. Did he think Castiel was faking his injury? A chunk of his face was missing!

"How are you still alive?" Rick asked bluntly.

Castiel merely grunted in reply.

"Can we save the interrogation for later?" Carl hissed.

"This man needs a doctor," Rick stated flatly. He had to be shocked to find Castiel awake and unturned, but he hid it well.

"We have a doctor at the Hilltop," Jesus offered tentatively, stepping around Rick. "If we can bring Dr. Carson here, or you to him – " he crouched down next to Castiel, peering at him with wide, pale eyes. He must've known Castiel was in there, must've taken a peek at his unconscious form before. "Were you truly bitten?" Jesus breathed. "Rick's right – how are you still alive?"

Castiel gave a groan of annoyance, like he wasn't entirely sure why everyone was crowding him right now, but he really wished they'd stop.

"Good genes," Mikey replied instead, a hint of panic in his voice. He flushed. "Really good genes. He's immune, like Claire. They're, uh, related?"

"Incredible," Jesus said, looking like he meant it. "Do you know what this means? To the world? I've never heard of anyone who – "

"Let's keep this to ourselves for now," Carl interjected. "You don't need to get Dr. Carson, Jesus. Really, it's fine. We've got this. "

Jesus' brows furrowed, unconvinced. He spoke to Castiel, who had yet to raise his face from his palm, "You need antibiotics, at the very least."

"He's got really good genes," Carl insisted, flustered. He gently prodded Castiel with his elbow.

"I don't want antibiotics," Castiel all but growled, dragging his face up. Crusted blood coated his palm. He paused. "Where are we?"

"Alexandria," Carl told him. "We arrived about six days ago. You've been, well, you know." He gestured in his father's direction. "This is my dad, Rick Grimes."

"And that's Jesus!" Mikey blurted, a little too loudly, making the man in question flinch. Mikey gave Castiel a hopeful look. "You know Jesus, right, Cas? You, uh, met before?"

Jesus frowned. "I don't think so?"

Castiel looked at Jesus, then turned back to Mikey. "Have we?" he asked, befuddled.

Mikey's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Castiel seemed perturbed by his reaction. Frowning, he turned his gaze to Jesus, laser-sharp. The two of them stared intensely at one another for several long moments until, abruptly, Jesus flinched. He stumbled back in his haste to get away, almost tripping over his own two feet. It was unusual behavior for someone best known for scaling sheer walls.

"Jesus?" Rick asked in concern.

"I'm… I'm going to go," Jesus said and then all but fled.

"Uh," Carl said.

With a heavy sigh, Castiel turned to Mikey. "I know him now." His voice still carried a note of confusion. He was acting like he was humoring the teenager, although he seemed confused as to why. Trying to be helpful, Castiel added, "His name is Paul."

Sitting beside Castiel, Mikey slumped against the wall. "I don't think he's coming back with antibiotics," he said dejectedly.

Carl shot him a glare. Then he turned to his staring father. "Cas… has that effect on people," he explained unconvincingly. "Don't worry about it," he finished lamely.

Suddenly, Castiel lurched forward. Carl winced as a splash of bloody vomit hit the ground, droplets splattering his and Mikey's jeans. The sound of heavy retching echoed through the small room for several long moments before finally subsiding. Castiel continued making painful hacking sounds, and he would have fallen into his own pile of vomit if Carl hadn't looped an arm around his chest.

With his hand still handcuffed to the gurney's side rail, Castiel's head hung low, gasping for air.

"Where's the key?" Carl hissed at Mikey.

Mikey blanched. "Shit." He stood up quickly, patting his pockets. "I don't know!"

Carl glared. "Go find the girls. And stop being so weird!"

Groaning, Castiel dragged a hand over his bloodied mouth. He only seemed to notice the torn part of his cheek then. Tentatively touching his skin, he only looked annoyed that a part of his face seemed to be missing.

"Yeah, you got gnawed on. Sorry," Carl said sheepishly. He slapped Castiel's hand away from his own face. "Stop touching it!" Then he turned to Rick. "Dad, can you get him a glass of water or something?"

"Carl," Rick stressed, incredulous. "He needs a doctor."

"He needs a glass of water," Carl countered stubbornly.

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Rick left the room. Before he could return, Carl heard and flinched at the sound of a sharp metal clink. Castiel's arm slumped at his side, no longer handcuffed to the rail. At least he'd waited until Rick was out of the room, thought Carl.

"Rusty lock," Carl explained upon his father's return, carrying a glass of water and a suspicious stare. He took the water and gently coaxed the glass to Castiel's lips. He had to tilt his head a certain way, or the water would seep out the hole in his face. "There you go."

"Carl –" Rick started to say, only to be shoved rudely by a bunch of teenagers and one very small boy.

Claire pounced on Castiel, hugging him a little too roughly. Enid and Oliver joined in on the hug, leaving Castiel startled and in obvious pain as he held on for dear life.

"You asshole," Claire sniffed into his shoulder.

Grinning a little, Carl slid away from the racket and came to stand beside his father. "Can you… come back later, maybe?" he asked his father hopefully. There was a lot they all needed to talk about, and they couldn't really do it in front of Rick.

They watched as Claire reluctantly pulled away. She raised a fist as if to punch Castiel in the chest. Then she thought better of it, her hand dropping reluctantly at her side.

Rick made no attempt to move.

"Dad," Carl quietly intoned.

Rick did not take his eyes off Castiel. "I don't like this, Carl."

Carl sighed. "Dad, come on."

"Carl – "

"We'll talk later," Carl offered. He adjusted his hat, not meeting Rick's eyes. "Just give them some privacy, okay? I know you have no reason to trust Cas yet, but I swear he's harmless." Carl inwardly winced. That might've been the biggest lie he'd told his dad yet. "I promise I'll explain everything later. Trust me, all right?"

Rick heaved a long, heavy sigh. Carl had never been more glad to shut the door in his father's face. He turned around, slumping against the closed door, and waited until he heard the infirmary's front door close.

"What are you gonna tell him?" Claire asked, eyebrows raised. She didn't seem pleased.

"Give me a break, Claire," Carl sighed. "Dad's really hard to lie to."

"Suck it up," said Claire, crossing her arms in a huff. "You can't tell him anything – not until Cas is better. They'll freak out, all right? Cas doesn't need that right now."

Castiel dragged his eyes to meet hers. He had a look like he had no idea what she was even talking about. He nodded, because it was the easiest thing to do just then. Then he winced, because even nodding was difficult.

Claire's frown softened. "Are you okay?"

Castiel blinked at her, eyes bleary. "No."

"Are you going to be okay?" Enid asked before Claire could say anything.

He sighed. "Eventually."

Her answering smile was bright. "Good enough for me."

Castiel dragged a tired hand across his forehead. Then he blinked, and focused on Oliver. The little boy was sitting on Castiel's legs, watching them all with wide eyes. "Have you lost a tooth?" Castiel asked all of a sudden, squinting at the boy.

Oliver's face brightened. He nodded eagerly, then leaned forward to bare his teeth, pulling his lower lip down to display the missing tooth. Castiel peered into his mouth, like that was the most important thing just then.

"Hey congrats, squirt," Enid said, mouth turned in amusement. She leaned forward to ruffle Oliver's hair. "Hope you saved it for the Tooth Fairy."

Castiel froze. "He will do no such thing," he told her sharply. To Oliver he said, very seriously, "Do not, under any circumstances, leave offerings for the Tooth Fairy. "

Eyes wide, Oliver nodded.

The teenagers exchanged startled looks with one another. "There's really a Tooth Fairy?" Enid asked, then cleared her throat because her voice came out as a squeak.

Castiel leaned back against the wall with a sigh. All the energy seemed to have drained out of him. "Where there's belief, there is – " he trailed off, seemingly losing his trail of thought. "We made it to Alexandria?" he asked.

"Yeah, Cas. I told you earlier, remember? " Carl pushed back from the door, concerned. "We finally made it. You've been out for a while."

Castiel's frown deepened. The expression pulled on his facial injury gruesomely. "And what about," he growled, "those people?"

"All taken care of," Claire soothed. "We're okay, Cas. You don't need to worry about us. Even Judith's here, Carl will bring her over later. She's gonna be so happy to see you."

Castiel nodded slowly. His brow creased. "And where are – "

Claire interrupted him hurriedly. "They left."

The atmosphere in the room turned sour immediately. Carl and the others stared at Claire, not that Castiel seemed to notice. He was frowning, blinking in confusion and obvious pain.

"Left?" Castiel asked softly.

Claire nodded, a little too fast. "A few days ago. I'm so sorry, Cas. We couldn't talk them out of it. You know how Jake gets." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I don't understand. Why would they leave?" Castiel asked, starting to move as if he was going to stand up.

Claire pushed him back down. "Easy," she said. She lifted the blanket and tucked it more securely around his shoulders. "I know how you feel, trust me. But you can't go after them right now, okay? You need to heal first. You're in no condition to do anything else right now, okay?"

So that's what this about, Carl thought despairingly. Claire was worried Castiel would go after the Saviors. The others turned to Carl, questioning. They'd follow his lead, he knew. He could tell Castiel the truth, tell him Jake was dead and Scott was taken, and have Claire hate him forever.

Or he could follow her lead.

At least until Castiel got better. And then they would go and fight the Saviors.

Together.

Carl pushed a smile to his face. "Just rest, Cas. We'll catch you up on everything later."