The journey to the Saviors' stronghold spanned hours. Castiel's escorts had chosen a winding route toward what they called the Sanctuary, preferring to avoid attention. They clearly knew the area well. Castiel was grateful for the women's kindness in offering him transport, though he sensed Sasha's unease in his presence.
It was his fault; a year in captivity had dulled whatever social skills he'd once possessed. Blending in had never been one of his strong suits, but he liked to think he'd been making some progress prior to his confinement.
It was likely that he'd grown too used to the company of children and adolescents. Their developing minds were still open and malleable, their understanding of the universe not yet set in rigid terms. Around them, it was easy to just be himself.
Not quite so with their adult counterparts. They were no less attuned to his presence, their souls reacting to his grace with the same intensity; divine matter responding to divine matter. They felt his presence but their minds – their minds so often balked at what they could feel but not understand. It was exhausting.
His attempts to ease the tension inside the vehicle had been met with mixed results. Maggie seemed to take genuine pleasure in his company, much to the chagrin of her companion, Sasha. The latter remained tense and guarded, knuckles straining on the steering wheel, gaze fixed on the road ahead, although her eyes would occasionally dart to the large rifle wedged awkwardly in the passenger seat between Maggie's knees.
She did not take kindly to his suggestion of placing the rifle beside him in the backseat, where there was ample space.
Maggie shifted in her seat, sighing as she searched for a more comfortable position. She was telling him about the Saviors' compound. "The Sanctuary might look like a heap of rust from afar, but don't let that fool you – Negan's runnin' it like an army base. He trains his folks like soldiers, ranks and all," she said. Outside the car, the landscape transformed into a stretch of abandoned fields. "It's way too large to guard proper, and they know it. You best watch out for booby traps, mines, and things like that."
Castiel looked at her curiously. "You've been there before?"
"No." Maggie turned to meet his gaze. Her smile seemed bitter somehow. "But I've studied it. I know it like the back of my hand."
"Maggie," Sasha rasped in warning, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Maggie shot Sasha a quick glance before returning her focus to Castiel. "They've been on edge lately, you know," she said, eyebrows drawn. "Means they're more likely to shoot you on sight."
Humming his understanding, Castiel said, "That won't be a problem."
"What's your actual plan?" Sasha's eyes bored into him through the rearview mirror. "Do you really think you can just waltz in there?"
"I don't plan on waltzing," Castiel affirmed. After a pause, he admitted, "I'll assess the situation as I go."
"That's a great idea," Sasha replied, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Castiel knew Sasha had only agreed to escort him toward the Saviors' stronghold out of obligation to Maggie, but it was painfully clear how much she resented being there. Her face seemed permanently set in a deep scowl.
Once, Dean had warned Castiel that if he held a certain expression long enough, his face might get stuck that way. Normally, Castiel trusted Dean's wisdom, but he found this particular claim medically dubious at best and thus refrained from mentioning it to Sasha.
Some time later, as they stopped to refuel the gas tank and stretch their legs, Maggie reached into her backpack and dug out a few paper-wrapped bundles. She handed one to Sasha, who took it with a grateful nod, before offering another to Castiel.
"Here, I figured you might be hungry," Maggie said with a warm smile. "When was the last time you had a sandwich?"
Castiel's brow furrowed. He made no move to take the offered meal from her hand. "Oh, uh…never."
Sasha snorted. "You've never had a sandwich?" she asked in blatant disbelief.
Castiel tilted his head, considering. "Does a burger qualify as a type of sandwich?"
"Yes," said Sasha.
"No," Maggie said at the same time, rather empathetically. Then she glared at Sasha.
Sasha opened her mouth, but then seemed to think better of it. "I'm not arguing about food with the pregnant lady," she muttered, shaking her head as she peeled her own sandwich from its wrapper.
Maggie's mouth twitched. "There's always a first time," she said, attempting to hand over the paper-wrapped bundle.
Castiel took a step back, shaking his head politely. "Thank you, but… I don't eat."
Nostrils flaring, Sasha let out a strangled sound of frustration before taking a savage bite of her meal, her teeth flashing as she tore into the thick loaves. She shot an exasperated look at Maggie, her irritation clear.
Maggie slowly lowered her hand, her brow furrowed in confusion. Then her stomach gave a loud rumble and she shrugged, taking the sandwich for herself instead. As they lingered by the side of the road, she polished off one sandwich, then another, and finally a third before climbing back into the passenger seat.
It was, overall, a rather confusing journey.
Still, he was grateful for the help. He found himself telling the women about his recent travels with the children, sharing stories of endless bickering, of the constant bathroom breaks, and of the jokes that flew right over his head. With quiet pride, he also spoke of the children's resilience, their ingenuity, and their unwavering loyalty to each other.
He mentioned, with a hint of exasperation, how protective they could be. He was being careful, but he probably shared more than Claire would've wanted him to. He mentioned that, too.
"That girl must love you very much," Maggie hummed, stroking the gentle swell of her belly.
"It's more than I deserve," he sighed.
And as the shadows lengthened with the approaching dusk, Maggie began telling him her story. She told him about the Saviors, the ones she fought, and the ones she'd been recruiting to her side despite how guilty and conflicted it made her feel. She spoke about the pedestal she'd somehow found herself on.
Sasha kept hissing at Maggie, urging her to stop talking. She shot furious glares over her shoulder at Castiel, as if blaming him for triggering this exchange. But it wasn't until Maggie began to recount the night Negan had murdered her husband that Sasha nearly swerved off the road before bringing it to a sudden, screeching halt.
The silence grew heavy, broken only by Sasha's labored breathing, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
Castiel hesitated to speak. "I'm sorry," he told them both, finally.
They spent the remainder of the journey without speaking. The automobile was meant for rough, open terrain, with a skeletal design that let the wind inside. Castiel closed his eyes, feeling the open air, the silence giving him time to reflect further on the prayers of a boy he'd taken under his wing:
/"You know they're still pissed I helped that guy escape? I knew they'd beat my ass for it, but jeez. Hey Cas, if you ever run into this Daryl guy, tell him my spleen says hi."/
Scott prayed idly, conversationally, as if he didn't truly believe Castiel could hear him. For the past few weeks, he'd kept up a steady stream of consciousness, narrating his days as he went about his gruesome chores, unaware that he was leading Castiel right to him.
Perhaps it was the act itself that gave him the strength to endure the Saviors' casual cruelty. He would not have to endure it for much longer, Castiel vowed.
Finally, Sasha brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop.
"This is it," she said, her voice taut, shoulders held stiffly. She jerked her chin toward the road. "Keep going that way until you reach the intersection. Follow the signs for the industrial park." Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "That's where you'll find Negan."
Frowning unhappily, Maggie looked as though she wanted to protest. Sasha's hand snapped up, cutting her off before she could even start. "Don't," Sasha said sharply, chest expanding with the effort of reigning in her anger. "This isn't up for debate. We did what you wanted. Now it's time for us to get the hell out of here. It's done." She turned to Castiel, eyes narrowed. "We're done."
Castiel inclined his head. "Thank you."
He turned to exit the vehicle, but Sasha's terse voice stopped him.
"For what it's worth," she said with a long sigh, staring straight ahead without meeting his gaze, "I hope you don't die out there tonight."
Castiel's mouth curved slightly. "You too, Sasha."
He stepped out of the vehicle and began to follow the indicated path. It was a fairly nondescript road, bordered by thick woods on both sides, the asphalt concealed beneath a layer of fallen leaves and dirt. He didn't get far before he heard Sasha's exasperated exclamation behind him. He turned, frowning, as Maggie rushed after him.
"Wait." Maggie caught his hand, halting him. "Are you sure about this?"
Castiel looked down at their joined hands, puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Maggie hesitated, but her grip remained surprisingly firm. "We have a safehouse nearby," she offered. "Why don't you rest there tonight? You can head out in the morning."
He gazed at her, head slightly tilted. She had a kind heart, regardless of whatever innate sensitivity had first drawn her to him. "You're concerned for my safety," he concluded, oddly touched.
He could sense her longing – for the partner she had lost, for the future she hoped to build in his honor. He felt her anger, and her fear.
So much fear.
Making a snap decision, Castiel placed his hand atop hers. "Your son will be fortunate, Maggie. He will be healthy and strong." As he spoke, his eyes lit in a faint glow. "Don't be afraid."
Silently, Castiel extended his grace, weaving an ancient blessing into his touch. A shield of protection, once granted to future kings and prophets, now placed upon an unborn child, one who might never shape nations, yet was no less deserving of love and protection.
Maggie's gaze remained locked on his, her breath catching. A tear escaped her eye, slipping down her cheek. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow around them.
As the moment lingered, Castiel began to feel a hint of awkwardness creeping in. Clearing his throat, he withdrew his hand, tucking it into his coat pocket.
"I'll see you around," he offered with a slight shuffle and a nod before returning to his path.
As he walked away, he waited until he heard the vehicle veering off before turning his focus fully on the way ahead. Out of respect, he did not listen to the ensuing argument.
Not long now, he thought. The women had brought him within a wing stroke of the Sanctuary, the fortified stronghold that Maggie had described. He'd be there before dawn.
Following the wisps of prayer, Castiel marched on.
The fire could be seen for miles, and by all manner of creatures. Cloaked in blood and viscera, Dean and his companions walked among the dead.
As one, they marched, a sea of gaunt faces, each of them driven by the same mindless instinct, compelled by their twisted biology to seek out signs of life. They followed the call of the flames, shuffling on stiffened limbs or dragging their broken bodies along the ground, entrails leaving slick trails in the dirt.
Daryl called them walkers. It was as good a name as any, Dean supposed.
Though slow, traveling among the horde was faster than fighting their way through, especially with Dean's limp. It was an unsettling feeling, being surrounded by these creatures, brushing against their cold bodies, smelling their rot through shallow breaths, their masked scents the only thing standing in the way of a bloody feeding frenzy.
Dean glanced down at the gore-smeared bedsheet he'd pulled on over his clothes. It would only hide him for so long. "Starting to see the appeal of a skin-suit," he whispered to Jesus and Daryl.
He was just a touch too loud. One of the dead – a walker with a screwdriver jutting from one of its eyes – twitched and jerked at the sound of his voice. Without breaking his staggered stride, Dean discreetly swept the creature's foot with his walking stick, sending it crashing to the ground. It promptly impaled itself, the screwdriver sinking deep into its skull.
He shrugged at Daryl's glare, mouthing, sorry.
Slowly – painstakingly so – the Hilltop Colony came into full view. Dean had seen it once before, back when he and Sam had been scoping out the area. The fortifications sure were something: towering wooden logs that encircled the entire colony, bound and reinforced with thick iron bands. Excellent craftsmanship, Dean had thought then – and thought again now, watching those walls hold back the undead horde.
However, his impression of the Hilltop's mansion was a little different this time around. Though he'd only ever seen it from a distance, towering beyond the walls, he distinctly remembered it being a lot less… on fire.
"It's called Barrington House," Jesus whispered, careful not to draw the horde's attention. "It was a state-run safe zone before FEMA left us all to die." The flames' glow flickered in his eyes. "But we kept going. It took us months to build these walls."
"Don't tell me you're a carpenter," Dean whispered back.
Jesus gave him a tired look, like he'd heard that one a thousand times before. Dean rolled his tongue in his mouth, holding back a grin. He couldn't help it. For Christ's sake, the dude looked like he'd just stepped off a Mel Gibson movie set! Was Dean just expected to ignore that? He couldn't do it, he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough. Ever since they'd met Jesus, his brain had been working up a whole freaking arsenal of terrible, terrible puns.
In fact, he had one in the chamber right now. But then Daryl shot him another look – and ugh, fine. Dean rolled his eyes and, moving slowly – no need to spook the dead – mimed zipping his mouth shut. Better save the zingers for a more… lively crowd.
They'd made it past the edge of the wheat field when, all of a sudden, the ground rumbled beneath their feet. Moments later, the mansion's roof buckled and collapsed with a resounding crash. Ash and embers rained all around, the air shimmering with the intense heat.
Dean spied a glance at Jesus. His devastated expression spoke volumes.
The dead grew more and more agitated as they neared the walls, their movements just a shade quicker, more purposeful. They flocked to the barricades, hands raised and clawing, their groans blending into an eerie, constant hum. Their numbers were densest near the gates, forming an impenetrable mass of rotting flesh, trampling each other, limbs twisting and snapping in the surge of bodies. The squelching crush of bone and flesh rose high above the roar of the flames.
Even in disguise, there was no way of getting past that mess. Following Jesus' lead, they looked for the second, hidden entrance to the colony. Only that section of the wall was blocked too, they found – obstructed by a frenzied crowd of walkers, each of them eagerly reaching for the dead body hanging halfway to the ground, feet dangling just above their fingertips.
The corpse was fresh, not yet turned. The poor guy had somehow managed to strangle himself with his own harness. Dean had to hand it to him – it took real skill to go out that stupid. The rope wasn't even that tight; one of the man's arms was still caught inside it, twisted at an awkward angle where he'd tried to wriggle free, his bulging eyes frozen in terror just above his own elbow.
"That's Gregory," Jesus whispered, eyeing the corpse with a slight frown. "He was our leader."
Dean blinked, caught off guard by Jesus' rather blasé reaction. "I'm sorry for your loss," he mumbled insincerely.
They moved further along the settlement's perimeter, searching for a lull in the crowd. The wooden logs forming the walls were bound tightly, but if they could find a gap, they might be able to get a look inside. Finally, Daryl spotted a section where the dead weren't packed as tightly and gestured them forward.
Unfortunately, the walls there were a solid, impenetrable barrier. Just as Dean was about to suggest they move on and search for another spot, he caught Sam's voice drifting faintly from the other side of the wall.
But how to get his attention?
Motioning for the others to cover his back, Dean did the only thing he could think of – he cupped his hands over his mouth and pressed close to the wall. As loudly as he dared, he called out:
"Sammy!"
Immediately, Dean craned his head back, looking to see if anybody had caught onto his jig. Luckily, the fire's roaring was loud enough to cover for him. Jesus and Daryl gently redirected the few walkers who'd twitched in his direction, their backs pressed uncomfortably close to his.
And then, a miracle happened:
"How many times have I asked you to stop calling me that?" Sam's exasperated voice drifted from the other side of the wall.
Although he was grinning like an idiot, Dean made sure to inject just the right of disappointed older brother into his voice when he whispered back, "Sammy, you dick. Why'd you run out on me?"
There was a short pause. "It's a long story."
Surrounded by a horde of the dead and covered in things he didn't want to think about, Dean glared at his brother through the wood. "No rush or anything."
"Wait, aren't you wearing a hex bag?" Sam's voice had dropped to a tense whisper. He seemed to startle at the fact that Dean wasn't using magical protection.
"Long story," Dean echoed, sarcastic.
Sam's frown was practically audible in his hushed voice. "You better not have skimped on the dead guy cologne."
"Do I ever?"
"I don't know how to answer that."
"Oh, that's first."
Sam sighed. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry for taking off without telling you. I– I guess I needed to see this place for myself. These people… they built a real community out here, you know?"
A flake of ash tickled Dean's nose. "So what the hell happened?"
"Do you remember Simon?" Sam waited until Dean grunted an affirmative. "He found out about me being here. He was hurting people, I had to stop him. Things sort of… escalated from there."
Sighing, Dean pressed his forehead to the wood. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, the heat thick and suffocating. "You don't say."
"It's under control," Sam insisted.
"Sam," Dean exhaled slowly. "The place is on fire."
"...Not all of it."
"Sam."
"I know it looks bad," Sam admitted. "But it's also far from over. These people deserve a chance to fight for their home. I'm not about to turn my back on them."
A voice cut in on Sam's side of the wall, low and urgent. Dean couldn't make out what was being said, but he could tell Sam was moving away, his familiar voice intermingling with the background hustle.
He felt Daryl's weight shifting at his back. "Won't be long till one of 'em sniffs us out. Herd's getting restless."
"You got ideas? I'm all ears," Dean hissed, glancing over his shoulder.
Jesus seemed to be studying the wall's length. "Maybe," he murmured.
Footsteps approached from the other side of the wall, harried and familiar. Dean's head snapped up. "Sam?" he hissed, just loud enough to carry. "You there?"
"Yeah, I'm here," Sam replied, voice low. "Sorry, I'm here now."
Dean closed his eyes tightly. "Trying to figure out a way in. You're just a foot away, but we might as well be on different planets." Then he frowned. "You still haven't told me what happened with the Saviors."
There was a beat of silence before Sam replied. "Don't worry about the Saviors."
"See, when you put it like that, I actually am starting to get worried about the Saviors," Dean pointed out. "And please don't give me that 'It's under control' bullcrap. That just tells me it's not all under control. What the hell's going on back there?"
Sam hesitated, clearly worried about Dean's reaction. "We've… negotiated a truce."
Dean felt Daryl stiffen. "Come again?" he asked in a tight voice. If the dead weren't at his back, he'd probably be shouting. "How'd you manage that?"
"Simon's crew turned on him," Sam explained simply.
Dean huffed. "That's convenient."
"Tell me about it." The sigh seemed to drag itself out of Sam. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure he's been cursed."
Dean frowned. "Cursed how?"
"I'm not really sure, but he's starting to look like Gollum."
Dean's eyebrows rose of their own accord. Admittedly, that… sounded hilarious, but it was the sort of magic neither of them expected to find around here. Negan being a hunter was starting to seem more and more plausible by the minute. "And the rest of the Brady Bunch?" he asked sarcastically. "You figured they just decided they liked you more?"
"Of course not," Sam scoffed. "Believe me, I know what this sounds like. I'm keeping an eye on them, but right now, we've got to handle what's in front of us. We need all the working hands we can get." There was a sharp edge to Sam's voice. "We'll figure out who's double-crossing who after."
"After what, Sam?" Dean wondered. "The place is burning to the ground as we speak. You've got half the local undead community knocking on your wall. What's the endgame here?"
Even as he spoke, he could feel Jesus' sharp gaze boring into the back of his head. He didn't want to be the one to say it, but someone had to. They could fight the Saviors, but the fire had already consumed the Hilltop's mansion, and its perimeter walls were buckling under the weight of a thousand dead claws. The colony was a lost cause.
At this point, all they could do was cover the survivors in putrid blood and gore and hope they make it through the night.
There was a beat. "When did you get so cynical, Dean?"
Dean inhaled sharply. "We're on a mission, Sam. We can't get sidetracked by every–"
"This place is worth saving," Sam interrupted, his voice sharper than before.
"I never say it wasn't."
Sam's tone softened. "Dean, I'm not accusing you of anything. Finding Cas, that's important. But people… they're important, too." He paused. "This past year, the way we've been going… It's been one fight after another, leaving scorched earth behind us. No rest, no breaks… just an endless hunt." He let out a weary sigh. "Don't you ever feel like we've lost sight of who we are?"
There was a low grunt behind Dean's shoulder – Daryl was getting antsy. He wasn't wrong. This was no time for a heart-to-heart.
But Sam… wasn't exactly wrong either, was he? This past year, Dean had pushed everything else aside, narrowing their lives to a single, all-consuming mission: finding Cas. He'd forced Sam away from people who could've used their help.
Their father had always drilled into their heads: you don't get to pick and choose who deserves saving. For all his many faults, John Winchester would've stayed to help these people, because the job – his duty – always came first. It wasn't about choice or convenience; it was about doing what was right.
Breathing deeply, Dean asked gruffly, "What's the plan?"
"We're trying to control the fire," Sam said. "We can't stop it, but we can make sure it doesn't spread to the nearby structures. The walls will keep the dead at bay." He sounded confident.
"The walls won't hold forever."
"Not forever, just until morning," Sam insisted. "We'll deal with the horde once we've got daylight on our side. We're preparing for that too."
Dean scoffed. "And what's your plan B?"
Sam paused for a moment before answering, "Saviors drove here with armored trucks. We've got those on standby," he sighed, clearly hoping it wouldn't come to that. If they needed to make a run for it, saving everyone would be next to impossible. "Right now we have them backed up against the walls. If it comes down to it – if, because this is our absolute last result – we'll bring the walls down and save whoever we can. We have the baseboards rigged with explosives."
"What about camouflage?" Dean asked, gesturing to his own blood-stained cover despite the fact that Sam couldn't see him.
"We thought of that. But you know how this works – one person freaks out and triggers a feeding frenzy. Next thing you know, the dead attack anything that moves. It's not ideal, they've got young kids here."
Dean sighed, nodding. "Make sure those trucks are ready, just in case. And Sam? Watch your back. There's a million ways this could go south."
"Saving the Hilltop is all that matters," Jesus murmured, then leaned against Dean's shoulder to speak directly to his brother. "Sam, there's a weak spot at the base of the northeast corner, right under the watchtower. If the dead keep pressing at it, that whole section of wall might collapse."
"Yeah, I know," Sam said, probably flapping his giant head in agreement, "Earl's already – uh, wait, who is that?"
"This is Jesus," Dean deadpanned.
"What, seriously?"
"Not that Jesus."
Dean was about to ask how many people Sam had working on his side, but something suddenly whooshed past his ear. His jaw dropped when he realized that Jesus, the absolute show-off, had leaped at the wall and was in the process of scaling it.
"Uh… this one does parkour."
"What?"
Dean smirked. "Heads up, Sam. Reinforcements inbound."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Sam as Jesus dropped down on his side of the wall. Dean listened as they exchanged quick introductions, but then Daryl's gruff whisper cut in, "You gon' do that too?"
Dean stifled a laugh. "You first, asshole." Then, turning back to the wall, he told Sam, "Got my buddy Daryl with me too. He's cool." His tone shifted, all business now. "Alright, Sam. It's your show – what do you need us to do?"
There was a pause, followed by a grunt from the other side. Moments later, two hex bags came sailing over the wall, one of them bouncing off the head of a walker. The creature made a low snuffling sound in response.
"It's fine," Sam said quickly, preempting Dean's protest. "We've got our work cut out for us back here. While you're out there, might as well get started on that horde. Just remember, don't let them touch you." He paused. "Uh… does your friend know about magic?"
"We're good," Daryl said, already cutting his finger to activate the spell.
Dean blinked, momentarily cross-eyed, before Daryl shoved the second bag into his chest. Without missing a beat, Daryl drove his knife into the nearest walker's head. The others nearby jolted, glancing around with vacant eyes, but didn't seem to register that Daryl was looking unusually lively all of a sudden.
Magic was awesome, sometimes.
"You comin'?" Daryl grunted, mid-swipe at another one of the dead, barely pausing as he took it down.
Dean shook himself out of his daze, clutching the hex bag. He paused, patting his side to make sure his dad's journal was still safely tucked inside his jacket, then shrugged off the blood-soaked shroud, flinging it aside. No point in dragging around dead weight now.
They had a long night ahead of them.
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