A/N;Thank you to everyone who has left the very kind reviews and are keeping an eye out for my erratic posting. Sorry for keeping you waiting so long- hope this chapter makes up for that. Enjoy.
Chapter Ten
"Put me to sleep Evil Angel. Open your wings Evil Angel. Fly over me, Evil Angel. Why Can't I breathe Evil Angel?" Evil Angel – Breaking Benjamin.
Making it back to the apartment that he and Mac shared in uptown New York was all that kept him going. He'd only managed to sidestep Sophie, the Butler and the threat of the hospital, by accepting their offer of a ride back home and throwing Mack's medical credential's around. Upon letting himself in to the apartment he made for the kitchen and the ice, he sensed who he'd find waiting before he hit the Kitchen door.
Mac's face was a familiar safe heaven for him. Although the slightly (in Caleb's opinion) uptight physician, betrayed his old money roots, by reining in his emotions and maintaining perfect etiquette and composure – his eyes always sold him out. Mackland's eyes were brown pools of deep expression that gave away whatever emotion currently possessed their owner. Caleb was the exact opposite; he gave his emotions free hand. Hell, he even armed them on occasion, with whatever was handy; beer, spirits … full contact blood sports! This evening had been one of those occasions, and Mac had apparently chosen this evening to wait up for him.
Caleb had brought this on himself. He should have waited until Mack was out of town before taking on an actual match. But something in him craved the simplicity of the fight – your mistake … you pay. He'd damn near lost very badly tonight, if Sophie hadn't had the match called – a very unpopular decision that had to be upheld by some suits heavies. He still had no clue how she had pulled off that little stunt, but from her exchange with Sebastian and then her Daddy on the way home in the Limo he knew he had misjudged her severely… there was no way Seb would go against whatever protection policy she blackmailed out of her Father. In his half dazed state in the back of the luxury car, he recalled laughing out loud at the way she held Daddy dearest to ransom. But right now, he craved was a hot bath, an ice pack and the good meds.
"Back late, Son?" Mac commented coolly, though his eyes pleaded with Caleb to come clean.
Reaves shifted his stance to favor his less battered left side.
He knows. Or he thinks he does.
Caleb was grateful that his father's psychic abilities worked on a more physically limited wavelength than his own. He would have to avoid Mac's touch at all costs – he wasn't prepared to play "Bare your Soul" right now.
"Yeah wild party went a little awry … some people got a little handsy."
Throwing convention out, Mac's face took on the one mould Caleb had been attempting to avoid.
"Are you alright, son?" Mac asked in a voice laced with worry.
Caleb moved quickly evading his father with outstretched palms and a backward two-step. Mackland's hurt look and unsure, faltering hand caused Caleb to flinch. Hurting Mac was not the purpose of this exercise.
Not something you have a good deal of say in – is it boy? The new Southern drawl that had taken up residence in Violet's apparent absence, crooned sarcastically from a dark corner of his mind.
This time Caleb's flinch was more pronounced and undisguised.
"I'm good!" he asserted a little more strongly than necessary, answering them both. "I need a bath and some rest, it all worked out, everyone walked away from it."
Caleb silently prayed that the burning sensation in his side was more bruise than break. The pain was a welcome distraction from the dreams though. Caleb was counting on being too exhausted to dream tonight. In fact he prayed he was too tired because he was honestly not sure how much more he could take.
As he wished his son goodnight Mackland Ames watched him make his way towards his part of the apartment with a frown. Something in the way Caleb carried himself was setting off alarm bells. He was hurt. Mac wanted nothing more than to call the boy back and to demand to know what was wrong but the fierce affirmation that everything was alright made him think he would not only be wasting his time, besides the ensuing argument would use up the little reserve of energy his boy seemed to have left. He hoped that Caleb would be more reasonable after some rest, because that was all the room the boy was going to be getting. Even if he had to get Jonathan to hold the teen down so he could read him – he was willing to take the fallout, because nothing was more important to him than his child's wellbeing. Not even his own happiness.
As he laid his head down with a grateful sigh, Caleb was over the moon at the thought of putting an end to the worst day he'd had in many years. He only had one contender for worst day of his life. Whenever a day sucked out loud, he would refer to it as the "runner-up" or the "serious contender". Today had been a real serious frigging contender! Of course the throbbing ribs, black eye, boot shaped bruise on his chin and burning lower back did nothing to help that.
His opponent had fought dirty from the beginning, trying to gain the upper hand by tenderizing Caleb's Kidneys. He hadn't expected Marquis of Queensbury rules on the street, but he hadn't expected a professional heavy weight National champ. Sophie had probably saved his ass back there.
The dark haired psychic gasped suddenly, letting out a strangled cry as he rolled onto the tenderest spot of his abused back. He jerked reflexively on to his side and curled up as far as the pain would allow him, in to the fetal position. Closing his eyes and sucking on a cut on his inner lip to keep himself quiet, Caleb did something he hardly ever did – he prayed. Caleb prayed hard for unconsciousness. And with a slam of his bedroom door and a darkened jade glare – his prayer was turned down.
Dean moved faster than Caleb gave him credit for as he crossed the space between them, he startled the older youth by suddenly appearing by his bed.
"Stalker much, Winchester?" he growled roughly, pain making his words unnecessarily sharp.
Dean ignored him and went to work, expertly examining for breaks starting at Caleb's neck and shoulders.
"Hey get the fuck off a… ahhh!" Reaves' protests were reigned in as Dean ghosted over the psychic's battered ribs.
"Hold still, asshole, or I'll start resetting bones right here," Dean returned distractedly.
Caleb snorted childishly. "They aren't even broken – some Doctor you'll be!"
Dean looked at Caleb squarely, anger blazing bright. "They aren't broken … yet, Reaves. Just wait till my Dad – or yours, figures out you took Street Fighter to the next level!"
The older boy pushed away from his former friend. He was not in the mood to take this shit from the kid. Unfortunately for Caleb, Dean was faster, not having just suffered a prison reprisal style beating. Caleb's cry as Dean tried to grasp his lower back, was full throated agony, and had him throwing a protective arm around his right side and panting through gritted teeth for breath.
Dean's anger had melted off his face like an Indian summer in December, and was replaced by a look of horrified concern.
"Caleb… are you alright … sorry man, I just thought you were winged, and playing it down for your Dad … I think it's bad, Damien, you need a …"
Caleb was sweating and shaking slightly. His lower back was on fire. He was inclined to agree with Deuce, but it would have to be silent, as he just could not contend with the pain that was making his eyes water and the disembodied voice in his head's incessant taunting.
Gonna cry Caleb? Want a hug… gonna ball, Baby? Call Daddy Caleb – oh yeah…. He's too busy gutting Mommy, isn't he?"
Caleb shook his head breathing harder.
"Stop it DAMN IT … Leave me the fuck alone!" he growled clenching his eyes tightly.
When he opened his eyes he saw the injured look on Dean's face.
Caleb Thomas Seaver! The voice chanted. I do believe you just kicked the puppy!
With a jump, that only heralded more pain, Caleb realized that Dean had just taken hold of his shoulders and was kneeling in front of him with unabashed panic on his face.
"I'm getting your Dad, Damien … just hang in there, man, okay? Just keep…"
"No!" Reaves' strong vehement objection gave him the strength to push up off the bed, ignoring the bite in his lower back. "I'm fine, Deuce. Don't get Dad's blood pressure up over nothing?"
"You're a piss poor liar, Junior."
A voice from the doorway had both boys jumping to, and almost coming to attention shoulder to shoulder. Caleb recovered first.
"John," he said by way of greeting and silent curse at his luck at being discovered by his eagle-eyed mentor.
"If you two want to skip the pitiful excuses and move directly to the truth – I'd sure appreciate the opportunity to get a good nights sleep."
Caleb cursed the fact that his stupid move had pulled Dean into John Winchester's firing range. Caleb decided to draw his fire.
"What is it with you Winchester's and not wanting to use the bathrooms in your own rooms?"
His flat joke fell exactly where he thought it would – on its face. He needed to re-think… to re-group.
"Boy, if you think you're…" John began his voice shot through with annoyance.
"Sorry Corporal." Caleb cut in with only a slight strain in his voice. "Got to take a leak."
Caleb's half shuffling movement to the ensuite bathroom had John frowning more deeply. He turned to Dean's anguished face – as if he needed further confirmation.
"Ace, go wake Mackland. Tell him to bring his bag of tricks."
Dean merely nodded before heading for the door. As he reached the darkened corridor, he was halted by the bathroom door slamming open hard as Caleb clung desperately to the handle with both hands; panting and sweating heavily.
"I think I'll take that hand now, Johnny … peeing blood … bets off."
John had started moving towards his obviously injured charge as soon as he appeared waxen faced and losing his fight to stand up. He reached him just as Caleb's body gave in and he started to tilt forward. John's hands grasped the kid with a surety and gentleness that was usually reserved for dire moments.
"Forget Mac, Dean, call 911!" John commanded, sending the younger boy running towards the nearest bookcase and Caleb's phone.
John took the kid's weight as he gently lowered him to the floor. Placing the psychic's head in his lap and stroked his dark hair briefly before moving to the pulse point at his neck.
"Tell me why I keep finding you on the floor these days, Junior?" he asked quietly, unsure who the joke was supposed to bolster.
Himself he guessed, because even from a cursory glance at this range, he could see Reaves had taken one hell of a beating. John counted Caleb as one of his own, and he wouldn't feel comfortable till he put the thing that had hurt one of his boys – in the ground.
Mackland appeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. Taking in his son's form on the floor, John's protective crouch over him and Dean's tense but clear rendering of Caleb's condition over the phone, he pushed away his paternal instincts to rush John Winchester and push him away to get to his boy. He opted instead for what Caleb needed most right now; Doctor Mackland Ames. He took a knee by his friend as he put an almost steady hand on his son's neck.
"What happened?" was all he could manage and he kept his gaze from John and firmly on Caleb.
Dean joined them and started speaking quickly.
"There was this street fight … bet…"he paused throwing a nervous glance at his father's darkening gaze.
But swallowing, he put the consequences out of mind as best he could, Damien needed him.
"Caleb was betting on Street fights?" Mac questioned with an incredulous tone.
"No … he was the bet – I think," Dean floundered. "From the look of his back, whoever he took on fought dirty."
Mackland kept his mind on the cold clinical path, because the road not taken led to the Abyss of "What the Hell?!" right now. Why would Caleb feel the need to seek out a street fight? Gingerly with John's unsought, but appreciated help, turned the boy on the ground onto his side.
The angry red, blue and black patchwork drew an unfamiliar two word response from Dr. Ames.
"Holy Shit!"
Quickly touching his son's face, exposed arms and bare chest under the uncharacteristic white T-shirt he'd chosen to sleep in, he mumbled.
"Cold." Turning to look at John he asked urgently. "What was he complaining of before he lost consciousness?"
The ex-Marine shook his head. "I heard him cry out – it woke me, when I got here he had come out of the head because there was…"
"Blood?" Mac asked flatly, showing no emotion.
"Are you reading me, Mac?" John asked.
Mackland ignored him. "Dean – how long did they say the EMT's would be?"
The room had that smell to it. Despite the tube gushing sweet air up his nose, the scent of ungodly cleanliness wormed through. Caleb began to switch back on, slowly, sluggishly, feeling numb and somewhat otherworldly …ah – the good meds! His eye cracked open and gradually focused on his Father's worry lined face.
"D-ad?" he heard himself croak as if he'd swallowed Kermit.
"Glad your back with us, son." Mackland smiled gently, leaving his hand on Reaves' upper bicep with no apologies.
Caleb smiled weakly, his lips pulling tightly. Mac's face remained worriedly creased though his eyes were awash with relief. He cleared his throat before continuing in a hoarse tone.
"Your Kidneys suffered some pretty serious bruising; thankfully surgery is not necessary… if you hadn't been discovered by young Dean…"
Ames couldn't finish the sentence: which usually indicated bad things, as his father was nothing if not concise.
"I owe Petit Poirot again?! Damn, that kid might as well stick me in a gilded lamp and demand to be called Master … I don't do harem pants for anyone though!" Caleb quipped, trying to pull the mood in the room from Defcon one.
The older man smiled obligingly, all his Eastern high society manners and his deep seated love for the boy in front of him, pulling him to indulge a little. But there were one or two unavoidable, unique pitfalls to parenting a strong willed psychic smart ass…
"I don't want to talk about it, Mac." Caleb replied to the unasked question, looking away and picking at the thread of his sheets.
"I thought we had agreed to the "wait until your invited" rule to reading people?" Mac asked kindly.
Caleb searched around with his hands for the bed controls, and with his father's help, increased the angle of the bed, so at least he could feel slightly less like a wrung out throw rug.
"I figured the formal invite was lost in the mail," He mumbled still avoiding the other man's gaze.
"Caleb," Ames began in a gentle but clear voice, "When we started our journey together, we made one very important promise to each other – do you recall?"
"Always put the lid back on the toothpaste?" the teen murmured examining the Pollyanna inspired pastoral painting on the wall closely.
Mac held on to the sigh that threatened to leak out. His instincts were jumping – something was very off here. Not only was Caleb being evasive and actually avoiding looking at him, he was way too subdued. Though Mac was giving the "Keep your mind to yourself" speech, the contact he had with the boy's arm and specifically the hospital gown he wore, was sufficient to get a read on him, except Reaves had all his defences up. This was no longer a world weary twelve year old, fired by distaste for authority and distrust of the world in general. This was a powerful Psychic near the peak oh his abilities and his mind was as inaccessible to Mac as if it were dead bolted behind a door of psychic Kevlar.
"May I speak then?"
No answer. Ames felt like he'd been transferred back to the Children's Psychiatric hospital in Brooklyn.
"Your insistence on going out and participating in the fights that your thrill seeking schoolmates only bet on, shows a desire for one-upmanship. But it's more than getting the better of a bad bunch whose approval you neither court nor care about – isn't it? I can only assume you sought out this violent pressure relief because you thought it a fair match, given your training and you felt the need to pay for something… how am I doing?"
Caleb threw him a filthy look. "I don't have self destructive tendencies."
Mac smiled. He knew Caleb would see through his layout.
"How would you describe it then, Caleb? Faulty self- preservation instincts?!"
Caleb rolled his eyes.
"Sarcasm is my failsafe, Dad, not yours."
Mac sighed sadly running his fingers over his brows. Caleb saw the tell for what it was. His adoptive father was pushing his limits, trying with all his professional skills to beat back his responses as a parent. But Caleb caught them all courtesy of the psychic up-link. Fear rode chief amongst Ames' emotions, followed by worry, concern, anger and guilt. The last caused Reaves the most curiosity; Mac blamed himself for the current situation.
"You're not to blame for my dumb ass moves, Mac," the boy grunted sourly.
Mackland Ames paled, and the younger psychic nearly flinched at the surge of anger that rolled his way from the other man.
"Caleb Thomas Reaves- what the hell did you suppose I would feel when my only son, my only duty worth noting, would rather let some knuckle dragging, backstreet caveman, beat him to a pulp, than talk to me about what has obviously been eating at him?! How did you expect me to react after seeing you unconscious, Caleb, or witnessing the bruise pattern that covers two thirds of your body?"
Caleb watched the man before him pace in an agitated manner. Words were not enough to convey the emotions he could no longer contain. Mac, who was usually so poised, calm and collected, looked like he desperately needed something to break.
Reaves closed his eyes, he almost thought he had slipped in to Freaky Friday moment.
"Stop… please?" he whispered unsteadily. "I'm … sorry, Dad."
The light touch on his shoulder caused him to look up.
"I'm not angry at you, son – I'm … scared that, I could have lost you … that you'd rather exorcise your emotions this way than by letting me get close … I'm feeling guilty about not noticing something … I'm sorry, Caleb."
Caleb closed off the moisture in his eyes locking arms tightly round is chest.
"Please Mac, stop – this is not you're… I don't …deserve…"
When he opened his eyes he knew they were overly bright, and though he could read the alarm emanating from the physician, his face gave away very little of it. Caleb's imminent meltdown was freaking his father out, but the relief that rode alongside his burning need to comfort his son, told Reaves that Mac anticipated this route as "normal".
"There is nothing within my power to give you, Caleb, that would not be yours at your slightest whim," Mackland started, his voice thick with emotion.
Caleb looked away abruptly from the Doctor, who was standing very close and had somehow covered his hand over his son's.
"I love you, son. There is nothing you can do or tell me that will ever change that."
The tears fell hot and heavy and Caleb groaned inwardly as he swatted savagely at the salt water running unchecked down his cheeks. His father's grip became firm gradually as Caleb allowed the emotion to flow – almost unchecked. "What if …" he began haltingly.
Mac braced himself, sealing off any emotions as best he could, not wanting his boy to interpret his own inner turmoil as disapproval or worse, rejection. He maintained contact with the young psychic and tried to will away the tremors that ran through his body. This was like the early years with Caleb, in the aftermath of the hellish nightmares that plagued him about his parents, his grandmother … his foster carers.
"Breathe, Caleb," Mac supplied softly, never letting go of his boy.
Caleb looked at him briefly, his arms still clamped round his sides, tears flowing and breath hitching unevenly, as if he were fighting with himself to stay or run like hell.
Mac laid a tender hand on the back of his son's neck and forced himself to breathe deeply, until Caleb's staggered breaths imitated his own.
"What if I told you Daniel Elkins was right?" Reaves asked hoarsely, (This changes from Caleb's POV to Mac's in the one sentence … might want to make it all Caleb since it was Caleb's dialogue and if you want to keep the Mac part? Maybe attach it to his dialogue below?)
The teenager held fast to Mac's eyes and squeezed his heart with the level of pain he saw in his boys face. "About what specifically?" Mac's tone was neutral but he was becoming weary.
Caleb had held fast to any loophole Mac had given him regarding the crackpot theories of Elkins concerning Caleb's heritage.
"About all of it Mac!" the teen exploded. "My fucking murdering son of a bitch great grandfather laying down for a demon and torching his own congregation. My fath… Isaac ending his own cursed line before it got overgrown … we all know bad blood will out don't we?!"
Caleb's shouts were getting more savage and as if to illustrate his last point, he pulled savagely at his cannular, sending a spray of blood over the lily white sheets.
"Caleb!"
Mackland's alarm brought a bristling nurse into the room.
Mac grabbed Caleb's injured hand and bellowed at the Nurse. "We're fine… please leave!"
The wispy woman set her face with a look of grim disbelief.
"I said get out woman – are you deaf?!" Mac hollered whilst working to stop the bleeding.
After settling matters he grabbed Caleb's chin, getting right in his space and forcing the young man to look at him.
"You are not your Grandfather, Caleb, do you hear me?"
The boy laughed bitterly. "I'm not only damaged goods Mac… I'm damned. I am a filthy demon half breed … you need to stay the fuck away before I do to you what…"
Mackland put his forehead gently against Caleb's, causing the boy to draw a shuddering breath and halt his tirade. He held his son's head tenderly and whispered.
"You are afraid you will harm me?"
Caleb exhaled in a barely there tone. "Not just you."
Ames knew he was breeching all Caleb's comfort barriers but he needed to interrupt the direction Caleb's anger was taking. Talking, communicating – no matter how forcefully your point was verbally made, was not an issue. Expression through harming was not a door Mac would leave open to Reaves. He had allowed indulgences in the past around the Anniversaries of his family's deaths – reluctantly giving over his son's care to John, as Caleb found more solace in action than words. But the punishment he'd taken in the fight earlier and his willingness to turn his rage on himself, were both new worrying trends and Mac needed to find out fast, what had pushed his child down this darker path.
Whatever response the Doctor had been preparing himself for, to the unexpectedly tender gesture of comfort. He didn't receive it. Caleb not only allowed the contact, but seemed to lean into it – pushing Ames' panic buttons.
"Not just me?" he prompted kindly, gently.
Caleb closed his eyes not able to meet his father's enquiring look.
"Deu… Deuce… everyone … I dreamed of … I saw myself through the eyes of…" his voice was torn, raw with emotion and choked with guilt.
"What you saw was … a vision?" Mac kept all judgment from his voice.
With his eyes closed Caleb began to recount his dreams. Once he started he could not stop, it was like the truth had hi-jacked his tongue, and after watching like a hawk, every word he said… it was pure relief.
"Caleb." Ames interrupted his rolling tale, pulling away slightly to look at him, but maintaining contact. "Who is Cecile – you said she warned you about what would happen… who is she?"
Reaves laughed a tear falling loose and tumbling unheeded down his cheek.
"She's a ghost, Dad," He answered matter of factly, marveling at the lengths his father would go to, to keep him from feeling like a Freak.
Right now Ames face was at war with itself – muscles in open rebellion against synapses, wrestling over which expression had right of way.
"I think I might be helpful, if you start at the beginning Caleb?" the older man asked evenly.
Mac's senses were telling him that this story would provide the reason behind that elusive feeling of unease he had had about his son since meeting him at Jim's farm. The mood swings, the uncharacteristic hostility towards his family, the withdrawn occasions that went entirely against the grain of the soul he had grown to know and love. Ames braced himself, gathering his wits because there was no way he was allowing some spirit to continue tormenting his child. Of course all indicators so far were telling the Scholar that this was no ordinary Spirit, but then Mackland Ames could only hope that the entity – whatever it was - would appreciate that the boy it had chosen to move against was not ordinary either. In fact in attempting to bring harm to Caleb Reaves, it had taken on the wrong family!!