Such stuff as Dreams
Castiel dreams.
He stands in a desert, sand frozen as glass. All around the horizon light flickers and bursts, a supernova that distorts the yawning gap of pale sand and bleached sky. They rip open on howling winds, mutilating the world into fractured turmoil.
Dead bodies surround around him.
This time there are four. Their faces waxy vacant, their suits inky black. The ashen imprints of their wings stretch out; deep elongated shadows that arc their way over the sands. They are strangely still in the biting winds.
He stares at them. And stares some more. They tell of nothing, only a task completed. There are always bodies. Where he walks they litter ungainly behind, mutated footprints that trail in his wake.
Its a hinderance that he will remember their faces, remember the fight, remember what they screamed. Its a fault. The memories of the lifeless angels will not fade. They remain because something deep inside, cold and mathematical, still believes its important not to forget.
A silent snap and Castiel stands in the clinical room. Its an intelligent decision to call him back. When he looks at the dead faces of angels to long, they all eventually become the same. The same man, over and over. A man they tell him to kill. So a man that he kills.
And kills. And kills.
Into his spine presses the chair, stiff and beige. Around his wrists wrap restrains, tight and grey. The ceiling is alive with a crawling mass, dripping black tentacles that writhe and squirm. Teeth and teeth and teeth smile down. He sees them a lot, but he knows they're not really there. Time to think of something else.
The chair is a familiarity. No, thats not the right word. He's not always in the chair, but it happens often enough to not be dismissed. Castiel blinks at the walls, there's no sensation in his fingers. After a pause he discovers its because he's gripping the armrests so tight that his hands are white. Strange.
Very faintly, cold and weak, something moves inside him. Its been slowly mutating for days, something akin to fear, except fear is to violent, to volatile, to uncontainable. This is deep and dark and distant. This is more like rumbling dread; but its so quiet and dull.
'You're becoming distressed again,' Naomi says. 'I wont allow the same outburst as last time. It's much more difficult when you don't work with us,' her chiding voice tells him he has done wrong. Yes, thats understandable. He's only ever in the chair when he's wrong.
She leans purposefully into his vision. 'You accept and allow this?'
Castiel knows this one, this is a test he always passes.
He says yes, and doesn't scream anymore when the drill pushes in.
Little pressure points appear over his skin. Pressure points that correspond to nothing in the room. They are cold and quick; tiny prickling sparks that he will realise later is rainfall. He will think it strange, because it never rains in dreams.
'You're getting more resilient,' says a voice that must be hers, 'your mind and body keep retaliating.' A finger taps his face, clacking on his cheekbone, 'you bruise now… were you aware?'
Castiel is not, and he says as so.
A lurch and shift, a blink and snap. He stands in a forest and all the trees are all crystal, bursting upwards as frozen pillars of glass. Around him lie the bodies, three and three. Their voices are dying echos which, no matter what is done, he will never forget. Ash rises from the scorched wings that spill over the ground. It flurries in the air, stings icy against his face, and Castiel breathes it in until it coats his lungs.
Is it ash or rain?
He stares at their faces until they all become the same.
Then he stands in the room and Naomi tells him who to kill.
Two bodies, three faces, more memories to carefully categorise. He still doesn't know the reasons. Maybe it was something he used to know; why it's important to not forget… Then he stands in the the room and Naomi tells him who to kill.
The rain becomes a downpour, its thrumming crescendos into deafening roars and Castiel kills and kills and- goddamn it Cas- air rushes freezing into his lungs as he jolts awake.
'-es awake.'
'Cas?'
He flounders, something very wrong, something happening to him. His skin doesn't feel right, burning shivers, lava trapped in ice. His eyes sting when he pries them open, things try to crawl into them, he blindly blinks in panic. Why is it still raining?
'I got him, grab a towel.'
Voices sound strange, oddly metallic in their resonance like they may belong to both the past and the present. They're too clipped to be echoes but are echoed nonetheless. The air smells of soft minerals, lingers of a tasteless taste. Where is he?
A new pressure appears on his flesh, something warm and safe wrapping around shoulder and neck. Castiel's head tips forward uselessly onto his chest, his vision swims then clears.
''kay, you with us?'
Castiel forces his own breath to slow, forces reason into his mind, finds focus. He is slumped against a wall, tiled and cold, pale and reflective. He can see his bare feet resting limply on white plastic, shimmering water swirls around them. Rain is still falling, loud and cold and insistent. A shower. In a bathroom.
In front of him squats Dean, half wet, half worry, all Dean.
'Hey,' he says calmly, though his eyes are wide and deep. 'Welcome back.' Another pause and Castiel gathers himself. 'You went from freezing cold to burning up, whats happening, man?'
'Dean,' Castiel states.
Dean frowns.
'I'm churning,' Cas amends, he'll fail the test if he can't even answer a question anymore. No, thats not right… The shower is hissing and his body beginning to shiver under its onslaught. That explains the rain, his brain thinks sluggishly.
'Whats happening?' he asks.
'You been asleep eight hours or so,' Sam's voice echoes lightly off the shiny walls. Castiel lifts his eyes, squinting through the water, and finds Sam standing behind his brother, leaning against the wall with a bundle in his hands.
'We didn't realise your fever got so high,' he explains, 'had to cool you down quick.'
Dean sighs a deeper frown reaches out a hand to capture Castiels, which is clinging weakly to the slippery tiles on the wall. Cas watches, waiting for his brain to catch up, as Dean lowers his still bandaged hand to rest carefully by his side. The water spiralling down the drain is tinged red.
'Churning,' Dean echoes, 'you said that before…' he is calm and in control again. An assembly of strength and power has returned, but they're still bitten back under stony anger and despair. Castiel is glad though, it was unsettling when Dean was so lost before.
'S'okay,' he says decidedly, and Castiel realises he hasn't responded, 'we'll talk about it later.'
Under pretend rainfall, Castiel swallows and nods. He feels the water slink over his face, feels it thrumming on his scalp, its nice. The icy streams curve over his cheeks, trickle into the crack of his mouth. He licks his lips and tastes the droplets.
And then something pricks in the back of his brain, where the turgid light still sluggishly churns. New and sharp and far fresher than icy water. His chest gives a painful lurch. A word leaps up his throat.
'Demons,' he croaks. 'There are demons.'
Both brothers freeze. The whole room freezes.
'You sure?' Sam asks.
'Where?' Dean demands.
A hopeless shake of his head that nearly sends him over. Dean grits his teeth, sudden sharpness, sudden frustration. 'Near,' Castiel manages, blinking water out of his eyes.
'Near as in outside our door, or near as in a five miles?'
Cas breathes in cold droplets and tries to ignore the fire in his chest. 'Five,' he says hopelessly. Then he frowns, mostly to himself, struggling to understand why his mind wont work how he asks it to.
'Five,' Dean repeats. He looks to Sam.
He stands, still holding the towel, a perfect mixture of prepared stillness and unprepared panic. But he sets his shoulders and sets his jaw, gives a small nod. 'Time to move out,' is all he says.
Everything moves in blurry lurches; a piercing squeak as the shower is yanked off, strength pulling him upwards, an unsteady walk back to the beds, the feel of sodden bandages smothering clammy over his tired skin, scents of age and must, of too many days spent in too small a room. They lower him down, Sam pressing the towel into his hands as Dean checks outside and pulls the curtain shut.
'Five figures across the street,' he reports.
'Demons?' Sam pushes the towel into Castiels chest, and Castiel wonders what he's supposed to do with it. Slowly and clumsily he pats at his wet skin, hands burning, eyes burning.
'Four creepy people and a creepy child all creepily staring at a motel? Yeah, I reckon they're demons.'
The sound of feet clunking, the feel of shifting air currents, then Sam's distant voice says, 'they're just stood there…'
A pause. Castiel continues to dab, light and timid, every movement sparking some kind of hurt. After an incomprehensable moment, he realises he's stopped thinking. Thats a bad thing, he tries to remind himself, and blinks as Sam and Deans voices rush back into his awareness.
'- just nuke 'em?'
'I guess… best plan we've got,' Sam turns to look at Cas. 'I'll get the gear, you get Cas?' and they both turn from the window and move towards him.
Sam brushes past, offers Castiel a tight smile as Dean stops before him. For a moment he does nothing but stare, as though Castiel is light and its the first time he's ever seen. It makes the angel harshly aware of his own body; to hot on the inside, to cold on the out, faintly shivering from both and from days of sickness. Any skin that's unmarred tingles with echoes of icy water. His pants and bandages drip haphazardly, thick and sodden.
How small he must look, bedraggled and broken.
'You look like someones walked over your grave,' Dean says, he begins unwrapping the uncomfortable clawing bandages from around Castiels chest.
Castiel blinks up at him, uncertain.
'Its an expression, Cas.'
'Oh.' Following Deans lead, he paws at the gauze that swarths his hands and wrists. 'It's a foolish one,' he adds after a moments thought.
Imperceptibly, Dean's face softens, 'now you're sounding more like yourself.'
'Good,' Castiel mumbles, trying to ignore his aching hands. And then things move to quickly for him to fully comprehend again.
Moments take control, flashing sensations; cold air rushing to meet freed skin, sharp tangs of antiseptic, electric pinpricks as injuries are rechecked, freshly wrapped, warm constricting bindings. Pants removed and replaced. Then a flare of swallowed panic when something looms towards his head, towards his face, towards his eyes. Muscles contract, breath stops… and then Deans face curls into an unhappy frown as he drops a t-shirt to the floor.
Under tarnished skin, shame burns.
More footfalls, a rustle, and with slow and then with careful movements Dean approaches again. A dark coloured shirt is clutched in his hands, long sleeves, thick and warm. Castiel watches uselessly as he is helped into it. One arm, then another, it hugs across his back. Dean avoids his face, wont even look at him anymore.
'Okay,' Sam reappears, hands wrapped tightly around glass cylinders. A strange swirling something sloshing within them, the ancient power makes Castiels chest buzz.
Dean finally looks up, grim faced. 'Let's vamoose.'
I like to call this chapter 'Cas doesn't understand showers or towels.'
For those who were interested in the amazing fanpic, you can find it here: thepoette. tumblr (.com)/image/45256808532 (just remove the spaces & brackets - thanks again for it! I loves.)
I'm still pulling 12 hour days at the mo, so sorry for delays and sorry again that this chapter is unedited! All your reviews and follows and amazingly kind words are definitely the highlight of a stressful time. Thanks so much :D and Happy Easter if you celebrate it!
ETA: I've altered the previous chapter slightly, and revealed one of the mysterious figures at the beginning to be Naomi. In my head it was always her, I can't remember my reasons for keeping her identity anonymous. The other figure is still unknown though.