We followed far, as far as this machinery takes us,
To some imaginary place where the compass shifts
And our lips drift to our cheeks.
Is this the edge of the world? All I know is we can't move closer.
"Don't Look Now, I'm Being Followed. Act Normal" by Hands Like Houses
Castiel had always liked nighttime. When he was a kid, sixteen or maybe seventeen, he'd taken an elective at school in astronomy, and even now he could point out major stars, constellations, groupings of celestial objects to beautiful and far away to be sullied by the dirt of humankind. He'd always found a certain calm in them. A definite path of destiny. What he wouldn't give to know exactly where his life led! Like the stars, the planets. The sky was more solid than the ground had ever been.
"You've got your head in the clouds, kiddo," Gabriel had smirked. "Too much time on your hands. You should join government, get you on track."
He'd met Balthazar, and the sky was just a sky again, a vast expanse of nothing too broad to care about, to empty to really want to explore.
He had a path. He had a place, a destiny, a fixed place in the world, and now all that–
"Cass, man, you okay? I'm talkin' cheeseburgers, here."
Dean was talking. They were seated on the hood of the Impala, and above them bruised clouds covered what little of the stars were left to see.
In an instant, the faux calm crumbled. He sucked in a deep breath, turned to face Dean.
"What?"
A frown. Dean bit his lip, knotting his arms across his chest.
"I don't like this. You're not okay, man," he said roughly. Impatience is leaking out of his words like toxin. Castiel wonders off-handedly how long he's been spacing out, how long Dean's been talking at him. "Jesus Christ, say something."
"I am not Jesus," he offered.
Dean laughed a humorless laugh. It sounded like it hurt. But he was quiet.
Castiel imagined a hundred tiny stars filling the darkness of the sky, forming the blurry, twisting shapes of monsters with teeth and skulls and wide, gaping mouths.
In his head, they swallowed him whole.
...
Lucifer leaned forward, conspiratorial, Sam's grin egging him on.
"And then I'm all like, 'Damn, Ruby. Tell me how you really feel!' And she totally flipped me off! In front of her grandmother."
Sam snorted into his beer.
"Oh God, do I remember Ruby. What a bitch," he chuckled. Lucifer nodded sagely, lifting his glass.
"Amen, Sammy my boy. Amen."
Lucifer found himself enjoying the night. He'd come for other reasons. He'd come for his brother, he'd come to kill the other Winchester, but now he found himself red-cheeked. It really had been years since he'd seen Sam.
Of course, he had no idea that Jess was dead. A twinge in the back of his mind. What was it? Regret? Remorse? Pity? It was foreign to Lucifer, as new as joy.
"Hey, Lucy?" Sam sounded more than a little tipsy now, his eyes half-closed and hazy.
"Yeah?"
"You ever feel like a third-wheel? Like, a really really big one?"
He blinked. Lucifer gave the room (empty now, the bartender woman had disappeared an hour ago with a knowing smirk) a cautious glance. Was there someone else here? Government?
"Uh, no. Not lately."
Sam looked suddenly sad. It wasn't a tearful sad. No, it was the quiet kind, hidden behind dusty brown bangs and hazel eyes. He leaned back, staring at the patched ceiling. His mouth parted slightly, and Lucifer heard him chuckle almost sarcastically.
"It's the strangest thing," Sam said. "Like you don't fit anywhere, 'cause no one understands you but they need you and hate you all the while." A sip of beer. His cheeks were starting to shade, his voice to slur. "And every single time someone gets all broken up, it's me that's gotta watch it. I gotta shut up and listen. I gotta sit back and watch because I'm a fucking commodity, a back-up. I'm sick, Lucy. I'm sick."
He snapped his head back down to stare at Lucifer, stare hard, his lips curled back into a snarl.
"And the worst part? He's happy with it. He always says he's okay without me, but he still comes crawling back like I'm some stupid savior, or whatever. And you know what? Maybe I am. But he's got Cass now, and I had Jess, and we were happy until she died and Cass went comatose. I was happy!"
He paused to shove his bangs out of his face.
"But she keeps dying in here, man," he tapped his head. "Se's just burning up and I can't ever stop it."
Lucifer was silent.
The name Cass kept filtering through his head, screaming at him, but all he could focus on was the look of utter devastation on Sam Winchester's face.
"Amen, Sam," he whispered, because he didn't know what else to say. "Amen."
...
Dean watched Castiel. It had started to rain, the dull water sliding in rivers down Castiel's pale face, trickling onto his white shirt. He'd forgotten his trench-coat again. He looked, to Dean, like a very wet and very confused kitten.
He was staring at the sky. Above, the clouds still broiled and stirred and the sound of distant summer thunder shook the earth. The hood of the Impala was getting slippery, and Dean was goddamn cold. He shivered, and glared at Castiel.
"C'mon, Kitty-Cass," he chuckled at his own joke. "We gotta go in now. It's getting unbearable."
"I like it out here."
Dean ran a frustrated hand over his face. All I ask for is one day to get drunk, and this is what you give me? God had a sick sense of humor.
He slid from the hood, grabbing Castiel's sleeve as he went, trying to yank him from the Impala as well.
"Okay. Time to go. You're cranky when you're tired," he managed to pull Castiel off of the car, but he refused to move after that. In fact, he turned to give Dean a flat stare, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Don't touch me, Dean," he hissed, jerking his arms away. Dean blinked. He hadn't expected that reaction.
Almost as quickly as he had snapped, Castiel lapsed back into the silence, rain now causing his hair to stick out even more, his tie soggy and dark. He shivered, but ignored Dean's worried questions.
Above, thunder sounded again. A flash of lightening. The trees cracked and swirled, and hail began to smack into Baby's windshield, tiny pops of sound in an otherwise frozen scene. Dean found himself thankful for the distraction–it willed his pounding head to stop whirring, stop screaming at him. This was all wrong. Castiel should be better.
"Listen, Cass–" he started, reaching out a hand. But Cass beat him there.
"It's okay, Dean," he said quietly, and Dean could have sworn he was smiling as he turned his head slowly to stare at him with blank eyes. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to fix everything."
"What the hell does that mean, Cass?" Dean yelled over the third clap of thunder. The lightening was getting closer. His jacket stuck to him with muddy rain water. "What're you talking about, man?"
"It's better this way," Castiel said again, softer. He was closer to Dean now, his head tilted slightly. The blue of his eyes was suddenly blinding, suddenly terrifying against the dark of the storm. It swarmed Dean's vision, caught his breath. "I'm going to save you."
He blinked to rid himself of it, taking a minute to knead the dirty water from his eyes, nerves suddenly alight.
"Cass, wait a minute. I don't need you to save me, man–" the unmistakable sound of an engine starting cut him off. He snapped his eyes open, heart slamming in his chest.
When he opened his eyes, the Impala was gone.
And so was Castiel.
"CASS! Oh, shit...CASS!"
On the forth sound of thunder, the lightening rent a bleeding hole in the clouds. The stars, like the rain, were gray and empty.
...
In a restaurant outside of a city, a man sat alone at a table in the corner. He smoked a cigarette, his fingers still on the slender paper. The smoke smelled of something sweet, something cold.
He ordered two sandwiches, and two beers, to go. The restaurant wasn't cheap, but it wasn't too expensive either, and the dressed-up waitress slipped him a pen-ink phone number with his plastic bag (Thank You Come Again). She didn't question the amount of food, or the credit card slipped cautiously across the wood of the table. The feather tattoo that crossed his arm grew taut as he handed her seven dollars, in change. She accepted the tip with a smile and moved on.
She wouldn't remember, the next day, that the man had left a picture on the table. She wouldn't remember how he smiled a bit when she handed it back to him apologetically, asking him if he left it behind, and were those his brothers, or something?.
He'd shake his head and say no with a sad smile, but she wouldn't remember that either.
She would only remember the seven dollars, his British accent, and the violent lash of rain against the roof of her car as she drove away after closing.
...
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Mana Walker. She's the Sam to my Dean. Honestly, man. She's spectac-lacular (to be said in drunk Sam voice). I don't know what I'd do without her!
Thanks for reading/reviewing. You are all magnificent people, and deserve a hug from Kitty-Cass.
Meow.
-chaoswalking