Never Know What It Means
Named after: Simple Design by Breaking Benjamin
by HR
Rated T
Friendship/Angst
SuperWho: Castiel and The 10th Doctor, slight Destiel, one-sided
So because I got so many faves and follows and reviews I"ve actually decided to continue this, in a multi-chap format. This was my headcanon the entire time, so I thought I'd share with you guys.
For Doctor Who: Post-Rose, Pre-Martha, 10th Doctor.
For Supernatural: Season 5. Post The End, Pre Changing Channels, most likely.
Summary/Prompt: Dean may have seen the 2014 that was doomed to happen, but Castiel didn't – not until The Doctor showed him.
Disclaimer: *Sigh* I am neither the genius that is Eric Kripke, nor am I British. But if I was both, I would never shut up because I'd have a totally wicked accent, and SuperWho would've become a canon thing a longggggggg time ago.
The TARDIS lurches again, and Castiel's gripping ever tighter.
"Doctor!" he cries, over the Doctor's whooping and the rush of all of time and space whipping past them. He has the urge to flap his mighty, powerful wings and, to put into Dean's words, get the Hell of out of Dodge, but something tells him that even if he attempted to, the TARDIS "in-flight" mode would stop him. (That's one of the many reasons the angels avoided the Time Lord race for as long as their Father would allow them to – the power they wielded frightened them.)
The Doctor laughs out-loud again, shrugging his trench coat off and tossing it to the side, where it falls into a heap. "Alternate dimensions are so much fun, Castiel! I haven't been to one since –" the Doctor's smile falters, "Well that doesn't matter! Woo-hoo!" The TARDIS shakes once more and then in a flash of popping noises and sparkling lights, it stops and the lights dim.
"We have arrived!" the Doctor says, grin back in full force, bounding to the front door and flying it open. "Welcome to 2014."
Castiel's mouth falls open, and the protests being conceived in his throat die. "Doctor," he whispers, "Where are we?" His voice is broken and more gravelly than ever before, and there's a pain in his vessel's skull he's never felt before. He clutches it in mouth hands, fingertips rubbing the temples. He cries again when another flash of pain blooms in his forehead and he sits, tugging at his vessel's hair. "What is happening?"
"What's the matter, Cass? You've neve' had a headache?" the Doctor tilts his head and treads towards the angel, his accent mangling his words. "No, I don't suppose you angel's would. Well, special circumstances!" He reaches Castiel. "Sorry, 'bout that. Just a little alternate-universe-traveling side-effect." He grips the angel's forearms and pulls him to his feet, where he staggers. "Up and at 'em, Castiel! Watch your step, right this way." He pulls Cass towards the TARDIS entrance.
Slowly, the pain recedes back to wherever it came from, and soon the angel's blinking his eyes wide open, stepping over the threshold and into unknown territory.
His hands fall to his sides and he's blinking rapidly, blue eyes dilated, peering into the night. He can't see past the heap of broken cars and other such mechanisms, and the fact that its night doesn't help this fact. "Where are we?" Castiel repeats, taking a tentative step forward.
Time-traveling is something Castiel has done before, but he's never even attempted an alternate universe (if that's where they really were). The air's starchy and somehow unreal around him, and he passes his hand through it, testing. The molecules stick to his vessel's skin more so than usual, and it's not in that moisture-filled-air sort of way – it's as if they're pushing against him, rejecting his existence.
The Doctor doesn't answer his question, not right away. He's circling his TARDIS, patting parts of it lovingly, "This took a lot outta you, didn't it girl?"
Castiel turns, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "Doctor," he repeats, sternly, using his You-should-show-me-some-respect voice. "I suggest you answer my question." His hand itches reflexively towards his archangel's blade, though somehow he knows it wouldn't be of much use.
"I did," the Doctor's not at all intimidated by Cass' tone and gives another one of those exaggerated smiles, "We're in 2014! Well, the version of it your brother Zachariah sent that Dean of yours too."
"What?" the word is sharp in his mouth, and he's tilting his head again. "That's impossible – I assume Zachariah tore it down after he returned Dean home."
If the Time Lord notices how the angel's voice skips over Dean, he doesn't acknowledge it. "Never underestimate my TARDIS, Castiel. Or me, for that matter." Though the grin is still in place, his tone is more serious than Cass has yet to hear.
Castiel doesn't respond, simply turns away and tilts his head towards the sky, listening for his siblings. He doesn't hear them, and panic arises in his throat. "Why can't I hear my brothers and sisters?" he wonders out-loud.
"Because they aren't yours," the Doctor explains patiently. "They're the Castiel's from this universe."
"What does that mean?" He holds his hand out in front of it, and turns it over, studying the palm. As far as he knows, it looks the same – still Jimmy Novak's.
"You're angel-ness is probably all screwy-woohey right now!" The Doctor claps his hands and moves to stand in front of Cass. "Not gone, just none-existent in this universe! I have a couple of theories if you'd like to hear them."
Cass simply stares.
The Doctor continues anyway, "Well either the Castiel in this universe doesn't have one, or there's only room for one of your Graces. And since, technically, you don't belong here, all your abilities, all your connection to Heaven, goes to him."
Castiel drops his hand and takes another step, past the Doctor. "You have yet to tell me where we are, exactly, in this universe."
"Camp Chit-eh-quwah-blooey, or something along those lines," the Doctor tilts his head and stares at the sky. "I'm not entirely sure, I believe it's one of those Native American names."
"Is this where –" Cass breaks off and turns swiftly, towards the Doctor. "Doctor, how did you know about Zachariah? And his transporting Dean to this world?"
A slight blush appears on the Doctor's cheeks and he smiles sheepishly, "I've been watching the two of you for quite some time. I've even met your future selves. I took your advice, by the way, and you were correct! Following honeybees is a rather fun experience."
Cass blinks. "I don't know what you're referring to."
"Not yet you don't," the Doctor points at Cass as he says this, before running off towards the scrap yard of skeletons of once great machinery. "Come look at this beauty, Castiel!" he calls, disappearing behind a dust-covered car that touches the back of the angel's memory with lazy fingers. Curiosity reaches him and soon he, too, is stepping behind the car, studying its dirt-clouded exterior.
The Doctor has poked his head inside, rummaging along the floor board. "A jump start from the TARDIS could get her running, I bet."
It's then that Castiel recognizes it – it's Dean's beloved Impala, windows gone and tires missing, nothing more than another broken memory sitting in a lonely scrap yard, surrounded by overgrown grass and the always-sticky midnight air. For some reason, seeing the Impala like this causes a lump to appear in his throat – but he shoves it away and merely frowns. "That's Dean's car."
"It's Dean of this version of 2014's car," the Doctor corrects, picking up a twisted piece of metal and standing up outside the car, twirling it in his fingers and eyeing it with wide eyes and a slightly pouted mouth. "This looks familiar," he muses, totally oblivious to the confused Castiel.
"Stop what you're doing and put your hands up."
Both Cass and the Doctor do as their told, hands flying up in the air over their heads, expressions startled. The piece of metal in the Doctor's hands falls to the dirt with a soft thud, and he eyes it longingly.
"Dean," Cass breathes, staring at the rugged, broken version of the hunter he gripped tight and raised from Perdition. This Dean is far worse than the one at home, and that lump in his throat is back.
"Who the Hell are you?" This Dean, not Castiel's Dean as much as the 2014 one, is holding a shotgun at their faces; no doubt, it's loaded with rock salt.
"Oh, again, with the guns! Really, are they necessary?" the Doctor chirps, a frown creasing his features.
"Answer the question!" Dean demands, tone harsher than before.
"I'm the Doctor!" the Time Lord says like he's cheering at a fancy cocktail party. "And this here is Castiel! Well, not your Castiel, Castiel from 2009. Well, Castiel from a different version of your 2009. Well, not so much a different version – actually, I'm sure both versions are very much the same up until a certain turning point, but a sort of, but not really, kind of, maybe, a version that ends differently than yours."
"What the Hell are you rambling about?" This Dean's tone is still harsh and demanding, but his grip loosens almost imperceptibly on his shotgun, like he's at the very least intrigued with the Doctor's words. "And what kind of name is the Doctor anyway, huh? Talk about self-absorbed, condescending douchyness. And you!" he points the gun to Castiel, "You're not Castiel, I know that for a fact!"
"Oh but he is!" the Doctor insists, taking a hesitant step forward.
"Oh really? Because as far as I know –" he breaks off and shakes him head, "Nice try, buddy, I'm not telling you anything."
"Dean," Cass tries again, drawing the Hunter's attention to himself. "It's me."
"Alternate universe you," the Doctor's stance relaxes just a little.
"I think this is the appropriate time to say that you're not helping the situation," the angel casts a look at his companion.
"Apologies!" the Time Lord gives another of those over-exaggerated smiles. "A lovely chat we're having, this is, but there's a reason for our visit. Don't forget this, Castiel."
Dean's not quite believing these two - as far as he's concerned, they more or less just dropped right of the sky, and these days anything that comes from somewhere unfamiliar is nothing but trouble.
Castiel can read this in his face. And that frightens him; what frightens him more is the fact that he's frightened at all, in the first place.
"Here's an idea," the Doctor muses, taking a tentative step forward. "How's - " But he's cut off as Dean suddenly unearths a flask from his worn and tattered jacket pocket and sloshes water across the Time Lord's face.
The Doctor blinks once, spitting out the holy water now filling his mouth. "Dean," the Doctor stresses his name like he's scolding him, "We aren't one of your demons."
"Shape shifters, then," Dean growls, a silver knife suddenly in his hand. The Time Lord's eyes widen a fraction, his hand flying up in automatic protection as Dean marches forward, knife held high. The blade grazes the Doctor's palm, and he gives a yelp of pain, falling backwards with quick, uneven steps, until he's landing on the hood of what was once the Impala. He gives a hiss of pain and clutches his hand, working his fingers, before looking up at Dean with eyes that dance with just a glint of amusement Castiel is sure Dean cannot detect.
"That hurt!" the Doctor complains, still working his fingers. He turns his palm towards the hunter. "But look on the bright side - I'm obviously not a shape shifter, now am I?"
Dean examines the Doctor's palms, and Castiel notices for the first time that he's oddly quiet.
That he refuses to look at him.
"Sorry, man," Dean finally says with a defeated sigh, and lowers the shotgun still being held high in his hand. "You can never be too sure, y'know?"
He's still not looking at Castiel. So the angel doesn't say a word.
"Where'd you come from?" Dean looks around, glancing over his shoulder, and then the other, before turning his gaze back to the duo in front of him.
"Gallifrey," the Doctor shrugs, "But Cass here - well, I already told you that."
"Gallifrey?" Dean repeats, the word strange and foreign in his mouth; it doesn't quite sit well on his tongue. "What is that one of them third-world countries or something?"
"Not quite," the Doctor settles on, a shadow passing briefly over his face - it's consumed by another quick grin, however, before Cass, or Dean for that matter, can read further into it.
He smiles a lot, Castiel thinks without really thinking it at all, but he can read what's underneath all those wide grins and eye-gleams, because he's seen it in Dean - his Dean - more times than he cares to admit. He's already seen it in the Time Lord, when they first met, mere moments before.
The loneliness. He'll say it again – the Doctor is a very lonely man. He's been clinging to the hope of an adventure for a while.
And he's eyeing that twisted piece of metal on the ground like it's his lifeline.
Dean finally looks at Cass then, and something smolders behind all the brown-flecked green, something Castiel can't identify, something that makes that foreign lump force it's way back into his throat again, clawing and scratching like a wild animal. He tries to say something - he doesn't know what, not yet - but all that emerges is a weak gasp, like that wild lump is growling.
"What year is it?" the Doctor asks then, something creaking in his voice. He looks at Dean with a furrowed brow, a firm set of the mouth, eyes still darting to that piece of metal beneath his feet.
"2013," Dean finally says after a reluctant pause. "So, if you're not demons, 'shifters, and you're not Croats, what are you?"
Croats. The word means nothing to Castiel, even though something burning in the back of his mind tells him that it should.
"Aw, one year off, not too bad," the Doctor tosses Cass a grin, "Could be worse. And, you!" he turns back to Dean, "I've already told you. I'm the Doctor!"
"Are you human?" the words are out of Dean's mouth in an instant, and his fingers are clenching around his shotgun again.
The Doctor eyes it warily, choosing his words carefully. "I'm a Time Lord."
"A what?"
"It's exactly what it sounds like," the Doctor says, as if that'll clear up the muddle that is the whole situation, "I travel through time and space in a blue box."
"A box," Dean repeats incredulously.
"Yes, a police box!"
Dean blinks slowly, "So you travel through the whole friggin' universe in a – cramped – blue police box. How . . . well, how do you fit? Is it bigger on the inside, or something?" his tone is mocking, but both Cass and the Doctor look at him for a long moment. "Oh, come on, seriously?"
"Seriously," the Doctor repeats in a rough, American accent. He offers another grin – he seems to have a limitless supply of them.
"If you can travel through all of time and space," Dean copies the Time Lord's earlier words, "Then what are you doing," he glances around, "Well, here? It's the God damn apocalypse, man, you can go anywhere and you're here. Why?" He says without speaking that he's still wary, suspicious, of the duo before him, still not sure if he believes everything he's hearing.
Cass is aware that his words are, toned-down, so to speak. They lack a certain wittiness and sarcasm that the angel has certainly grown accustomed to since he pulled him from Hell. This Dean, this 2014 – er, 2013, Dean is very, very tired.
"We're here to see you," the Doctor says then, and Dean's blinking his tired, oh so very green eyes slowly, drawing back automatically, as if afraid of the Time Lord's words.
"Whaddya mean? What do I have to do with your space-man stuff?"
"A lot, actually," the Doctor muses, crouching down and picking up the twisted piece of metal on the ground that Castiel has long forgotten about, before rising to his feet slowly, eyes still trained on Dean's face. "See, Castiel here, and I. We're going to help you save the world."