Chapter 27:Bad Decisions
Dean sat at his desk, chair turned to his bed where Castiel was lying, asleep. As much as Castiel insisted he was fine, Dean had a bad feeling that this was more then just an illness. He had never seen his Angel in this shape before. His skin had turned grey, small blotches on his face red from fever, dark circles hung under his eyes, and his hair had taken on the wild look you see on caveman documentaries.
He was getting impatient just sitting here, watching his best friend and partner die. Especially when he knew there was something he could be doing out there to help him. He stood up to pace around the room. His mind working quickly. Of course there was one person he could talk to. Who could help him with this.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of the thought. He'd learned several times over that that was a bad road to go down. Though, it did always work out fine in the end. No, he thought looking down at Castiel. It was because of that same thought, that they had met in the first place.
Sighing, he looked down at his arm, where the mark had used to show. Where the skin had once been red and raised like a burn, was now smooth and pale. Once again, he looked over to his lover, lying still in bed.
He'd told Sam that Castiel hadn't done anything, that he wouldn't. Not without talking to him first, but he was beginning to doubt that. He wanted to believe that Castiel wouldn't do anything without telling him, but then again, he wasn't entirely sure.
Dean wasn't stupid, he knew that starving the mark wasn't going to work as well as he led everyone else to believe. He also knew that his cravings stopped when he started spending time with Castiel. At least his cravings for killing did. At first, he thought his insatiable lust for his angle had been because he hadn't slept with anybody for so long, and because it was Castiel. Someone he knew, even then, he was in love with. But know he was beginning to wonder. Was his body and soul telling him that he needed Castiel for something else.
Did Castiel know? Did Castiel do it on purpose, or was he just jumping to conclusions? Maybe this bad feeling was just because he was constantly convinced something bad was going to happen to him, or around him.
He threw himself back down in his chair, eyes trained on the wall. 'I need a drink'. He thought, getting up and walking to his closet. He'd hidden a bottle in there, knowing his father wouldn't find it. He pulled the whiskey out of the pockets of one of his coats, unscrewing the top and taking a long pull off of it. The burn of the liquor down his throat a small comfort.
He watched Castiel for a few more minutes, his mind working furiously. The alcohol working it's way to his brain, causing him to make a brash decision that he knew he would regret eventually. He pulled his duffle bag out of the closet, and started packing what he would need. Making sure he had enough clothes, he tiptoed to the bathroom, picking up his and Castiel's tooth brushes and tossing them in the bag, along with the toothpaste and soap. He then walked back into his room, bending down by the bed to gently shake Castiel awake.
Castiel squirmed, letting out a grunt as he came back to the land of consciousness. He opened his eyes, staring blearily up at Dean, confusion on his face.
"Is it morning?" He asked sitting up and looking around. His voice extra gravely from sleep, before he burst out into a fit of hacking coughs.
"No. But he have to go. Okay." Dean answered, keeping his voice low as he helped Castiel sit up and running a hand through his sweaty hair.
"Where?" Castiel asked, sitting up and swinging his feet over the edge.
"We just have to leave. Now." Dean said, helping Castiel with his shirt. His skin was hot enough that Dean started to worry even more. Making a mental note to give Castiel some aspirin when they got in the car, he lifted Castiel up, putting an arm around his waist.
Moving through the halls unnoticed was a lot more difficult when he was holding another man steady. Castiel's extra weight making him go slower, his breath more labored. While Castiel continued to ask questions between small moans from the pain in his head.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he got Castiel into the car and buckled him in. They where almost home free. Running around the car, he threw the duffle bag in the back, then started the car. He backed out quickly, knowing the door was going to open soon. His baby's engine, while magnificent, was loud.
He drove as quickly as he dared out of the garage, seeing his father and Sam coming in just as he broke free of the entrance. Their surprised faces shrinking in the distance. He drove down the road, breaking the speed limit for several miles before he was certain he was safe. He looked to Castiel, who had fallen asleep in the passenger seat again.
He wasn't sure about this course of action, but it was the only one he had. He just hoped it worked.
John sat down "All Hell Breaks Loose" with a deep sigh, before holding his head in his hands. Rubbing his eyes, trying to stall the tears that where forming. It was bad enough having to read about your own children dying. It was even worse when you read about the other selling their soul in a desperate bid to get his brother back, believing his own life wasn't worth it. And seeing him say something like that to Bobby, plain as day. There was only so much he could take.
John knew he wasn't the best father, but he obviously should have watched his words and how he said them around Dean. He'd actually made his son believe his life wasn't worth it. He'd never even known that Dean had such a low opinion of himself until then.
He rubbed his hand over his face, debating on whether he wanted to continue on to the next book, or stop for a breather and get some sleep. Take everything in. But before he could make a decision, he had an overwhelming urge to check on his children. Though he knew they would cringe at being called that. But no matter how old they where, they where still his children.
He stood to exit his room, and walked to the door. Opening it slowly, he walked out to the hall. He followed his usual path down the hall, stopping at Sam's room and opening the door as quietly as possible.
Sam was sitting at his desk, headphones in his ears as he read a book. He looked up when John entered the room with a question on his face. John pointed to the headphones, and indication that he should take them off. Nodding, Sam did as asked, and looked back to his father.
"What's up?" He asked, placing a slip of paper in his book to save his place.
"Oh, nothing." John answered swiftly, looking around the room, reminding himself that this was all real. That Sam was sitting here, alive and well from the looks of it. Realizing that he was probably acting weird, Sam was giving him a look, he cleared his throat. "Just wanted to see how you where doing. If everything is okay."
"Um, fine. I guess." Sam answered, sending his father a skeptical look.
"Good." John croaked, looking anywhere but at his youngest. "Good. Glad to see that your not lying in a road, stabbed in the back or anything." He said, about to turn around. Stopping when he heard a chuckle come from Sam.
"I knew it." Sam's amused voice coming from behind him.
"Knew what?" John asked, turning back to his son, who was wearing an amused, if slightly irritated look on his face.
"I knew you found those books." Sam answered, rolling his eyes. "I planned on burning them, Dean to. He hated them. Actually, I went to go and do it yesterday, but I couldn't find them. Thought Dean might have beat me to the punch."
"So it's all true?" John asked, not seeing the point in hiding it.
"Yeah, it's all true. The writer was a prophet who had a pretty singular focus on Dean and I. The poor guy didn't know what he was doing until we found him." Sam explained standing up. "We heard he kept writing and publishing for awhile after he found out we where real. I would kill the guy if he wasn't dead already."
"What makes you think the guys dead?" John asked, remembering the pictures on the back, and the man with the squeaky voice who helped to pull him out of a grave.
"A few years later we met Kevin." Sam answered while sifting through a box. "Castiel told us only on prophet can exist at a time. Kevin was a prophet, so that meant that Chuck had to have died some way or another."
"Well, if Cas said it, it must be true." John stated sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Chuck? I thought the authors name was Carver Edlund?" John asked, as Sam found what he was looking for and gave him a picture. I was of a young boy of asian decent. His hair was messed up, as if he ran his hands through it regularly out of frustration. He was standing next to a bunch of papers that looked to be notes. His face clearly showing how little he cared about having his picture taken.
"That was an alias. He was kind of a private guy." Sam answered, sitting back down at his desk.
"So, Chuck is the guy in the picture in the back of the books?" John clarified, putting the picture aside.
"Yeah, I think so. Why are you so interested about this?" Sam asked, picking the picture up with a look of sadness before putting it back in it's box.
"Because the guy in the back of those books. The one you say is dead." John started, watching his son's face. "He was there when I woke up, and he drove me here." He finished, watching as his son processed that information.
But before Sam could say anything about it or ask anymore questions, they heard the Impala's engine from the garage. They both ran from the room, directly to the garage, slamming the door open as they entered the room. Arriving just in time to see the Impala peel out of the open door.
"Damn it, Dean." Sam shouted, grabbing his head in frustration.
John watched the tail lights fade before turning around to grab the keys of one of the other cars, only see they where all gone. Dean had taken them, he didn't want to be followed.
He took a deep breath, his son was smart. He knew they had no other way to travel, and by the time they could get one, the trail would be cold. At the very least, he wouldn't be gone long.
"That Angel's still here." John tried to comfort his son. "He'll be back for him soon."
"Unless he took him with him." Sam said, running out of the garage and making a beeline for Castiel's room. John following, that thought never occurring to him. Castiel was too sick to be moved like that, he would never have gotten out if he was carrying him as well. Sam threw Castiel's door open and looked inside, then did the same with Dean's. When he found the rooms empty, he slammed his hand against the door frame, repeating his earlier statement.
"Damn it, Dean." He said as he punched the wall again. John couldn't help but agree with him.
"That's it. I gotcha'." Dean said, practically carrying Castiel through the door of the motel room he'd checked into. He helped Castiel to the bed, setting him down gently. He put their bag down before placing a hand over Castiel's forehead. He was warm, the aspirin Dean had given him has had to have worn off by now.
"Lay down, I'm going to go get you some ice. See if I can bring down that fever." Dean said, taking Castiel's jacket off of him to try and cool him off some more.
"Dean, this is a stupid idea." Castiel stated, refusing to lay down.
"Yeah, ice to bring down a fever, real stupid." Dean joked, grinning up at Castiel.
"That's not what I mean." Castiel panted, waving Dean's hands away as he tried to guide him down on the pillows.
"I know." Dean said, staring down at the floor. "But Cas, I'm not seeing any other choices here. I can't just sit and do nothing while your dying."
"We don't know that for certain, Dean." Castiel sighed, grabbing Dean's hand. His grip weak from the effort. Dean leaned his head to Castiel, feeling the heat radiating off Castiel's body, but wanting to be closer.
"Cas?" Dean whispered, wrapping an arm around his partner. Castiel looked up at him, his eyes glazed from sickness, but the question in them showed he was listening. "Did you know? Did you do this on purpose just to save me?" He asked, he had to know, he couldn't wait until Castiel got better.
"I knew Angel grace was necessary to save you." Castiel admitted, his voice quiet and he looked down at their entwined hands. "But I believed that I did not have enough to do so myself. So I continued to look for another way before attempting it."
"If you didn't do it, then how did it happen?" Dean asked as he breath Castiel in.
"I don't know." Castiel admitted. "But either way, I'm glad that your cured." He said, kissing Dean on the cheek before sagging down. "And I would do it again."
"Why don't you get some sleep." Dean said, steadying Castiel as he stood, and helping him to lay down. "I'm gonna run out and get you some soup and ice. See if I can find some medicine that will help. Be back in half and hour, tops." He coaxed, laying his lips on Castiel's before standing up.
He made sure the doors and windows where sealed with salt, and a devil's trap was in place in every entrance just to make sure. He carved a few anti-angelic symbols on the door for extra measure. Castiel could barely stand, let alone defend himself, he wanted to make sure he would be safe here for a few minutes.
He grabbed his bag, and walked out the door, mindful of the salt and drove to the nearest crossroad. His mind racing over what he was doing. Mentally cataloging everything that he needed.
He set everything up quickly, knowing he had to get back to Castiel quickly, and set fire to the herbs in the bowl. He then waited, getting more and more inpatient as the minutes ticked by.
"Where the Hell are you, you son of a bitch?" Dean shouted to the empty road, looking around.
"Well, that's hardly a way to greet an old friend." He heard from behind him. The accent giving it's owner away. He turned around, looking directly at the King of Hell. "Dean, long time no see. I was afraid you'd forgotten about me." The smarmy man stated with a long suffering face. "Or perhaps you where looking for this." He suggested, pulling out a long blade, carved from bone. "Seems you'd lost the thing." He stated, pointing the weapon at Dean. Looking him up and down from over it. "But then again, you don't need it anymore, do you. You've lost your demonic aura. So what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need help." Dean admitted, looking directly at Crowley. His voice desperate.
There you are, another chapter. I am sooooorrrrrrryyyyy that it took so long for an update. I just haven't had much time for writing lately, and when I do, and I try to, nothing seems to come out good. I'm also sorry this one is so short considering how long you all had to wait for it. I will try to put another chapter up as soon as I can.
But until then, I hope you enjoyed it, and have a nice day.