Although it was only a short trek through the settlement, Castiel was breathing raggedly by the time they reached the cemetery. The angel slumped against the wall, his face drawn with exertion, blood trickling from one of his eye ducts.
Wincing in sympathy, Carl pulled a few squares of gauze from his back pocket, always keeping some around for the exact same reason. Claire snatched it from his hand.
"It's like you're trying to piss me off," she fretted at Castiel, pushing the gauze into his face.
Sighing, Enid nodded in agreement. "You have to let yourself heal, Cas."
"This will pass," Castiel rasped, taking the gauze and pressing it to his eye. True to his word, he seemed to be breathing easier.
Her answering huff said she wasn't buying it. Carl refrained from reminding her how, just a few weeks prior, he himself had been elbow-deep in Castiel's guts, wrestling his innards back into place. A little bleeding eyeball was nothing in the grand scheme of things, right? Carl would know.
Alexandria's cemetery lay in an out-of-sight corner at the far end of the settlement, nestled between the walls and the last house on the block. A makeshift collection of planks marked the resting place of those fortunate enough to receive a burial.
They'd been planning an expansion of the walls here, Carl recalled. With so many people squeezed inside the narrow space now, it felt like a bad omen.
While nearly everyone in the community had gathered within the narrow confines of the cemetery, the Saviors had torn through the little shed in the back. They'd taken out the shovels and were laying them out on the ground, looking oddly somber about it.
The only one who looked genuinely pleased to be there was Simon. He strolled around the cemetery, thumbs hooked into his belt, scuffing his feet over compressed dirt and reading the names on every carefully etched plank out loud.
"I have to say, I'm impressed," Simon remarked with a nod, his lips subtly pursed in approval as he surveyed the cemetery grounds. "Everything's so… symmetrical. It's almost enough to make an OCD ghost feel right at home, eh, Padre?" He winked at Gabriel.
The priest's lips formed a tight smile as he regarded Simon, his gaze betraying a hint of unease. "I'm glad you appreciate the effort," he said softly. "It's important we show our departed the respect they are owed. They remind us of everything we've lost and sacrificed along the way. Keeping their memory alive is as much of a privilege as it is our duty."
Simon responded with a light chuckle. "Wow, that's a lot of hokey." He casually adjusted his belt as he turned his attention to Rick, who had been watching him like a hawk. "What are you waiting for, a written invitation?" He sneered, gesturing toward the shovels. "Time to get to work, assholes."
No one moved. A murmur rippled through the crowd, the tension palpable as each member of their community grappled with their own sense of helplessness. They looked to Rick for guidance. Surrounded by an army of predators, what else could they do?
Carl's mind raced with a multitude of terrible possibilities. Was Simon going to force them to dig their own graves? He didn't put it past the man.
Glancing at Castiel, Carl found some reassurance. So far, the angel had kept his word to Gabriel, staying out of... whatever the hell this was. But even though he was hurting, Carl didn't doubt that Castiel would jump to protect them if it came to that.
The terrified resignation on his neighbors' faces made Carl want to shout about it from the rooftops. That wouldn't be fair to Castiel, but man… it sure felt good, picturing Simon with his eyes burnt out of his skull.
With that satisfying image in his mind's eye, Carl stood a little taller. Today, tomorrow, a month from now, it didn't matter. The Saviors would get what was coming to them.
"Well?" Simon demanded, his voice sharp and impatient.
Standing under the watchful eye of the community he'd sworn to protect, Rick's shoulders sagged. "No one has to die today," he said softly.
Simon's eyebrows popped up. "They might," he threatened, moving until he was practically breathing in Rick's face, "if you make me ask again."
More than anything, Carl wanted this game to be over. Grab his gun, his mind whispered.
Jaw clenched, Rick reached for the shovel with the yellow handle, the one no one ever really used because it was so heavy. Certainly heavy enough to crack a few skulls, if ever the need arose. Keeping his gaze lowered, Rick did his best to keep his anger to himself.
Simon seemed pleased. "Back her up, boys!" he yelled out suddenly.
A steady beeping drew everyone's attention to the street. The Saviors reversed a heavy box truck right up to the cemetery's entrance. The sticker on the backdoors had the words "Arctic Haul" printed in bold letters next to a faded illustration of a polar bear.
The realization dawned on Carl like a smack in the face. "Daryl?" he whispered.
Simon heard him and gave a little snort in response. "What, that guy? Pfff." He shook his head, chuckling. "You really think we'd come all this way to throw Daryl a damn funeral?"
Rick's shoulders relaxed incrementally.
The smirk on Simon's face broadened. "Nah, we cut that asshole loose weeks ago. You see, your boy Daryl went and got himself bitten. Cross my heart, he walked right into that ugly little thing's mouth. What a shame," he said with a sneer, punctuating his words with a mocking click of his tongue. "Some people can't take a hard day's work."
"You're a liar," Carl burst out. He pressed forward, only to be stopped by Michonne's strong arms weaving tightly around him, grounding him in place.
"Don't," she whispered in warning, a hitch in her breath.
Simon was relishing every moment of this. "Afraid not, sonny." He turned to Gabriel, grinning at his horrified expression. "You know what, Padre? Next time you find a herd, keep your eyes open. Who knows? Maybe you'll get to see Daryl again. If you do, feel free to–" he imitated a gun going off– "give him his last rites."
Lowering his gaze, Gabriel responded by uttering a silent prayer under his breath.
All around them, the crowd grew restless, the air thick with shared anxiety. Rick stood among them in silence, his knuckles turning white around the shovel's yellow handle. His pale eyes stared blankly into space.
Carl's heart stilled. He knew that look.
All it would take is one swing. Just a quick swing. It wouldn't take much to wipe the smirk from Simon's face, permanently.
But then what?
Simon liked to play games. He was practically baiting Rick to attack. The entirety of his crew was watching, waiting in the wings with their weapons at the ready. Winning this fight would take some kind of a miracle.
They had a miracle.
He just wasn't up to it right now.
"I got him," Carl told Michonne, shaking himself free. He then picked up the shovel she'd dropped and stuck it in the ground, hoping the sound would help draw Rick out of the fugue state he'd slipped into. "Dad," he said sternly.
Rick shuddered as he pulled himself back from the edge. His eyes still carried a wild glaze as he looked over at his son.
"Let's just get this over with," Carl told him, gripping the shovel to keep his hands from shaking. It might not be Daryl, but the Saviors had brought someone. There would be time to mourn later, away from Simon's gleeful eyes.
Mouth trembling, Rick nodded. He turned back to Simon and said, his voice dripping with disgust, "Thank you for telling us."
Simon had the gall to look disappointed. Grimacing, he dragged a hand over his shaved skull. "Go on," he grumbled at his men, "show 'em what's hiding behind curtain number one."
Stomach rolling, Carl watched alongside everyone else as the Saviors went on to unload the truck. They knew that the Saviors wouldn't bring a refrigerated truck all the way out here for no reason, wouldn't drag them all to the cemetery, wouldn't thrust shovels into their hands. Not without a reason.
But if not Daryl, then whose body was in the truck? A lot of people had vanished by the time Carl had found his way back home: Maggie, Carol, Tara, Rosita, Sasha, even Morgan was –
Carl stared.
The truck was empty.
Rick let out a stuttered exhale. "You said–"
"Maybe I wasn't being very clear," Simon interrupted. "We're not here to bury anyone today." He paused for emphasis, scanning the faces around him. Then slowly, very slowly, he raised both hands, palms open and facing upwards, as if lifting an invisible weight. "Get it?"
What?
Rick stared at Simon without comprehending.
"You're serious," Michonne said, bewildered. Her lips twitched slightly, a reflexive reaction, as if her mind were trying to convince her it was just a bad joke.
Simon let out a long, airy sigh. "Serious as a clown in a library," he replied.
For several long moments, no one moved. This was clearly another one of Simon's twisted mind games. The idea of excavating their loved ones from their own graves seemed beyond cruel, even for the Saviors. Surely, this was just another test.
"What would a clown be doing in a library?" Castiel's perplexed voice cut through the tense silence.
Simon snapped his fingers in Castiel's direction. "That guy gets it," he quipped. And then, without warning, his mood changed. "I want half."
Breath catching in his throat, Rick's gaze flitted around the cemetery grounds, his mouth moving as if he were counting every plank. "Half," he repeated, weariness evident in his voice.
Simon surged forward, bringing their faces inches apart. "Did I stutter?" he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. His cheeks flushed crimson with rage. "You think this is a joke? Let me break it down for you, asshole: I want half these damn graves turned over, whether it's your little sister, your auntie, or your goddamn poodle down there. You fucking dig, you use your fingernails if you have to, or I will tear this place apart piece by piece and take my pound of flesh from the ground up."
The ensuing silence was deafening.
Simon's teeth were bared. "What's it going to be, Rick? Up or down?"
"For God's sake, Rick!" Spencer burst across the cemetery and seized a shovel, plunging it into the ground with determined force.
A thin, keening sound pierced the air. Carl's face snapped to find Barbara standing in the window, watching everything from the upper floor. Her mouth was open in horror, letting out that awful sound.
Oh, Carl thought dumbly, so that's where she went.
There was a sudden commotion as some of Alexandria's residents rushed to stop Spencer, while others moved to defend him. However, it barely lasted. Moments later, Spencer's hands faltered. Gagging, he threw his head aside and heaved. The shovel had barely scratched the surface.
"Hey Simon, this one's worth at least two bodies," joked one of the Saviors. He sidled up to Olivia and wrapped a meaty arm around her neck. She whimpered, eyes wide with terror.
"Let her go," Carl demanded, his hand inching towards his knife.
The Savior sneered, but then Castiel intervened. "Release her," the angel rasped, his glare fixed on the Savior. "Now."
"Stay out of it," Claire whispered furiously, tugging Castiel back by his torn coat.
The Savior recoiled, his expression a mixture of confusion and fear. He stumbled, shoving past his own crew in his haste to get away. Everyone stared between him and Castiel, taken aback by the strange turn of events.
"Up or down?" Simon growled, his face mere inches from Rick's. He seemed oblivious to anything else happening around him.
The scent of cold sweat hung heavy in the air, suffocating and cloying. The Saviors shifted restlessly, anticipating violence. Weapons were unholstered, metallic clinks anything but subtle. A few of them looked apprehensive, casting wary glances, while others licked their lips, tasting blood in the air.
Upstairs, Barbara wailed.
Face downcast in sorrow, Rick turned away from Simon and dropped the shovel into the nearest mound.
"Dad," Carl whispered, so low he didn't think anyone had heard him.
"Wait," Spencer gasped out, lifting his head with his hand outstretched. "Not… not that one."
Rick paused, standing over Reg Monroe's grave with his grip tight around the yellow handle. He surveyed the horrified faces, trying to decide which of their loved ones he would unearth for the Saviors' sick pleasure. He lifted his face to the sky and exhaled. "Why do this?" he asked, voice low and scratchy.
Simon's eyes flashed with rage. "Too late." He drew his handgun and racked it, then pointed it at Michonne's head. Her shoulders hitched.
"No, wait, wait…!" Rick threw out his hand, his voice breaking with desperation.
The world turned upside down. Blood rushing in his ears, Carl's mouth moved before he could stop himself: "Cas, DO something!" he shouted.
Eyes narrowed, Castiel stomped forward on heavy feet.
"Don't you dare, Cas," Claire hissed, wrapping both hands around Castiel's wrist.
It occurred to Carl then that she was blocking Castiel from conjuring his blade into his hand. There was no familiar whisper of metal, no trace of otherworldly gleam.
The angel frowned at her, frustration slipping into his bloodshot gaze. Her grip was tight around his wrist, nails digging into his skin. He could have shrugged her off easily, but he didn't. Castiel always let Claire have her way.
Simon seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. "No, by all means, Cas," he taunted, sidling up to Castiel with a mocking grin. "Dare."
Castiel's face tilted, frowning. Flecks of dried blood dotted the hollow beneath his eye.
It was hard to define what it was about Castiel that put some people on edge. On the surface, he was just a guy. A bit odd, for sure, but just some guy. And yet something about him made people react in unexpected ways, even though they couldn't understand why.
From the way Simon's smirk dimmed, it was clear he wasn't immune to the Castiel effect. It was fleeting, but noticeable. When Castiel didn't react, Simon almost seemed relieved.
Maybe Carl was just imagining things.
With his lips curling into a sneer, Simon lowered his face to Claire's level. "Didn't think so."
Abruptly, Simon spun on his heels. "Right-o, where was I?" Humming, he scratched his bald head, surveying his audience. "Oh, that's right. Consequences." He smirked and raised his gun.
Using the hand that wasn't constrained by Claire's tight grip, Castiel lifted and pressed two fingers to the back of Simon's shiny bald head.
The reaction was immediate. Simon spun around with an undignified yelp, turning his weapon on Castiel. As did at least a dozen Saviors, guns drawn to defend their so-called leader.
Pushing Claire firmly behind him, Castiel held up his hand to show it was empty. He had a look of smug satisfaction about him, like the one time he'd actually beaten them in a game of Trivia Pursuit.
Of course, Simon was as baffled as he was livid. "What… the fuck?"
Castiel paused. "There was a bee?" he offered unconvincingly.
For once, Simon was rendered speechless. It didn't stop him from raising his gun an inch higher, his finger brushing over the trigger. Carl held his breath, but before Simon could make up his mind, the driver of the refrigerated truck climbed out, diverting his attention.
"It's him again," said the driver, a pudgy man in khakis and a bucket hat that reminded Carl a little of Dale. He presented Simon with a handheld radio.
Simon scoffed. "Now?"
"He says it's important." Not-Dale shrugged.
With the gun still trained on Castiel, Simon raised his face to the heavens and heaved a long, aggravated sigh. When he rolled his eyes, he did it with his whole body.
Then he snatched the radio, mouthed 'Sorry' to everyone watching, and squeezed the Talk button. "Ye-ello."
The line crackled to life with a burst of static. "Is this Simon?"
"Speaking."
"Thank goodness!" the voice said furiously, the static doing little to disguise its frustration. "I've been waiting an eternity to speak with you–" the connection crackled– "don't mean to tell you how to run your crew, but really, as a fellow leader–"
Simon's eyebrows popped up. Judging from the static, the man wasn't close by, yet somehow he managed to sense that he'd just misspoken.
"Ah, not that, erm, what I mean is–" he stammered– "I do admire your leadership skills."
"Kind of busy here," Simon said with an air of faux-friendliness. The plastic creaked in his grip. "What's pulling your wedgie this time, Gregory?"
Carl pressed his mouth closed, repressing a gasp. He couldn't show that the name meant anything to him. Was this the Hilltop's Gregory? It might not have been, it wasn't like it was an unusual name. He snuck a glance at his dad, looking for a sign of recognition.
Anyone who didn't know Rick might've missed it, but Carl would've recognized that shifty look anywhere.
Gregory cleared his throat into the static. "I assure you this isn't like last time," he simpered. "It's– it's one of those people you told me about."
Simon's entire demeanor shifted. He lowered his weapon, tuning in entirely to the conversation at hand. "Oh?" he purred.
Static crackled on and off as Gregory ranted "–waltzed right in like he owns the place. Of course, from your excellent description, I recognized him immediately. Tall feller–" his voice distorted– "all this talk of insurgency and insubordination, you know I won't stand for that–" a wave of static – "inform you straight away!"
The radio creaked, plastic straining in Simon's hand. "You do not let him leave, Gregory. That little shitface is mine, you hear me?"
"Ah, yes, yes, of course, you can count on–" static crackled– "rush you or anything, but, ah, time is of the essence here. I'm, uh, stalling him the best I can, but–"
Simon muted the radio. "Change of plans," he announced brightly. "We're taking a little detour. Rick, buddy, see this gets done by the time we're back–" he made a vague gesture at the cemetery grounds. "Everybody else: with me."
Most of the Saviors obeyed without hesitation, except for one bald man with arms like tree trunks who sheepishly raised his hand.
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Leroy?"
Leroy cupped a giant hand over his mouth. "What about the priest?" he whispered loudly enough for everyone in the cemetery to hear. "Negan said–"
"I know what Negan said," Simon growled in annoyance. He rolled his eyes before snapping his fingers at Gabriel, who instinctively took a step back. "We're borrowing the priest," he announced.
Gabriel blinked. "Pardon?"
Shaking his head, Rick protested, "Wait, what are you–"
"Shhhhhh." Simon pinched the air with his fingers, ending with a theatrical zipping motion. "Shh. I don't want to hear it. Do you happen to have a Rabbi on hand? A Voodoo Shaman, perhaps? No? Then this one will do. Negan wants to talk to him." He rolled his eyes, adding, "And don't ask me why, because I really don't care. What's between a man and his God is his own goddamn business."
"It's okay," said Gabriel, although his expression said it was anything but. "If it's counsel Negan seeks, I'll be more than–"
"Great!" Simon interrupted, snapping his fingers. "Dex–" he called out to one of the bikers– "Take Father Whatever-His-Name-Was to see the boss. Everyone else: MOVE!"
No one spoke as the Saviors loaded Gabriel onto a motorcycle, not allowing him to take anything with him. The priest tried to remain calm, even managing a smile to reassure the community members, some of whom were openly weeping at his departure.
And just like that, the Saviors were gone. Only the feeling of violation remained.
"There was a bee?" Rick demanded furiously, turning on Castiel.
Castiel didn't respond. His face was turned away, a frown playing on his brow. It was as if he was listening to something none of them could hear. Chances were, he was.
"Dad, the Saviors are heading for the Hilltop," Carl stated firmly, partly to draw Rick's attention away from Castiel. "Aren't we going after them?"
Enid spoke up quietly, addressing Rick, "We have to warn Maggie."
"She isn't there," Rick replied curtly, his glare still fixed on Castiel.
"What?" Enid asked, eyes round. "Where is she?"
But Rick's attention was elsewhere. "Why don't you ask your friend?" As Castiel turned to walk away, Rick seized him by the shoulder. "Hey, I'm talking to you."
"Back off, asshole," Claire snarled, her blonde hair flying as she quickly shoved herself between them.
Backing away, Rick rubbed his shoulder in surprise. Claire didn't look it, but she packed one hell of a punch. "Do you make a habit of using teenagers as bodyguards, Castiel?" he asked dryly.
Frowning at Claire in disapproval, Castiel replied, "As it happens, they leave me little choice."
Rick scoffed before asking, head tilted, "How are you involved with the Saviors?"
Castiel frowned in confusion. The crowd murmured, a sea of bleak expressions and whispers of uncertainty.
"That man knew you," Olivia spoke up, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her face was blotchy and red. "He just looked at you and he ran. He knew you, Castiel." She rubbed at her neck.
Castiel shook his head and sighed. "No, Olivia. He was just weak."
"You think we're stupid?" Rick demanded. "'Cas, do something'?" he repeated, eyebrows raised and lip curled back. "What exactly did my son – my son – think you might do?"
Carl felt himself flush. "Dad–"
Rick held up his hand. "I've been lenient. My boy, he vouched for you, which is the only reason I'm not stabbing you in the face right now–"
"Dad, are you serious?" Carl demanded angrily.
"– So I'm giving you one last chance, man to man, to come clean." Rick took a threatening step forward and asked through gritted teeth, "Just who the hell are you, Castiel?"
Exasperated, Castiel glanced at the teenagers. Claire shook her head furiously, mouth set in a thin line.
That only made Rick angrier. He snarled, "No, you don't look at them, you answer me."
"I could just let him stab me in the face," Castiel suggested to Claire with a sigh of frustration.
"No!" Claire yelled at him.
"Is this some kind of game to you?" Michonne wondered, her voice a careful blend of restraint and anger. Like everyone else, she'd been watching the exchange with growing unease and suspicion. "We brought you into our home, don't we deserve the truth?"
Her gaze turned to Carl. He looked away.
"Your friend is alive," Castiel decided to offer a different truth instead, almost as a gesture of peace. The unexpected response hit Carl like a punch in the stomach
"What?" Rick whispered, caught off guard. "What did you say?"
"Simon lied to you, your friend isn't dead," Castiel stated matter-of-factly, nodding. A look of puzzlement crossed his features as he frowned, adding, "He also lied about going to the restroom earlier."
"How could you possibly know that?" Rick demanded suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, he's severely constipated."
"About Daryl, jackass!" Rick snapped.
"Oh." Castiel's expression fell. "Intuition?"
Behind him, Enid's palm met her forehead.
The vein in Rick's forehead strained against his skin. "Jesus took one look at you and ran for the hills. Was he 'weak' too?" He took a step forward, murder in his gaze. "Am I?" His voice was a dangerous whisper. "You think you know who you're dealing with here? Do you have any idea what I can do?"
Castiel watched him with a frown, head tilted. "I know who you are, Rick Grimes," he said honestly. "Your children think the world of you."
Anyone familiar with Castiel would have recognized the sincerity in his tone. Rick, however, didn't know him at all. To him, it was a thinly veiled threat, using his children as leverage.
With his teeth bared in a snarl, Rick advanced on Castiel, hatchet in his hand.
Carl rushed into the space between them. "Dad, stop!"
For a brief moment, everyone was still. The silence was deafening. It was only when Carl followed his father's devastated gaze did he realize that his hand was on his sheathed knife. Swallowing hard, Carl dropped his hand. A wave of guilt washed over him.
"Just… go back to the infirmary, Cas," he said, not looking up.
Castiel nodded quietly, mouth turned down in sympathy. The girls jumped on the opportunity to drag him away, supporting his weight as he slowly limped away.
"Bruce, Francine," Rick called, his sharp gaze following Castiel's retreating form. "Watch the infirmary. Make sure he doesn't leave."
Carl scowled and turned to follow after them, but Rick's grip on his arm stopped him. "No," Rick said sternly. He pushed one of the shovels into his chest. "You're helping."
Carl gaped at him. "Are you crazy?"
Rick turned to his distraught community members. "I know this seems insane," he told them, voice rising with authority. "But this is an insane world. You heard Simon; they'll be back for their half." He spread his hand toward the line of graves, eliciting gasps of horror and covered faces.
Rick continued, shaking his head, "No, we move our people where they can't be found. The Saviors want bodies; there's plenty behind the walls." He scoffed. "They won't know the difference."
Carl's back and shoulders ached by the time they finished, well past sundown. Although his father called out his name, Carl ignored him as he stomped past the front door of their house. Despite the strong temptation, he stopped himself from slamming the door in Rick's face.
Carl knew he was acting like an angst-riddled teenager, but he'd just finished desecrating a graveyard on his father's orders. He felt like he was entitled.
Apparently, Rick disagreed. "We have to talk."
Carl scowled. "I need a shower."
Rick stood in Carl's path, blocking the stairs. "It can wait," he said sternly, studying his son's face. His expression softened. "Carl, you were about to pull a knife on me. On me. For what, that man?"
The mix of hurt and anger in Rick's voice was clear, but Carl refused to feel guilty. Not yet. He needed his anger to shield him. "You should've told me about Maggie," he said, desperate to change the subject. "Where is she?"
Disbelief entered Rick's voice. "You want to talk to me about keeping secrets?"
"That's–" Carl cut himself off, glaring. "Know what? Fine, don't tell me." He slipped under his father's arm and made for the stairs. "I'm gonna take a shower. We can talk when I don't smell like something bit me." He stomped up the stairs in a huff.
"Don't you climb down the window!" Rick shouted after him.
Carl yelled back, "I'm not gonna go out the window. Jesus, Dad."
He went out the upstairs window.
As he snuck past the living room window, he crouched down, catching snippets of Rick and Michonne's quiet conversation. He nearly startled when he spotted Eugene at their front door, hand raised to knock. Fortunately, Eugene didn't notice him, allowing him to slip away undetected.
He thought he would need to pass the guards to get into the infirmary, but he didn't expect to find Bruce and Francine sprawled on their backs, knocked out. Carl hurried to check on them but was startled when Francine gave a rather impressive, drawn out snore.
Okay, then.
The infirmary was quiet. In recent weeks, he and his friends had essentially taken over the place. With their doctor dead and the Saviors having stolen all their meds – the whole thing about taking only half was such bullshit – the infirmary had been just another house, no different than any other on the block.
With Tara and Denise gone, Claire had moved into the upstairs bedroom, while Castiel mostly inhabited the floor below. Occasionally, Olivia would show up with a home-cooked meal, joining the teenagers in harassing Castiel to rest. The fridge had quickly filled up with children's drawing – Oliver was in his stick figure phase, while Judith was more of an abstract artist.
When Carl entered, the homely atmosphere was completely absent. Instead, he found Claire sitting alone on the bottom step of the staircase, cradling her nape with her head held low, sniffing quietly.
"Claire?" he asked softly, approaching with the care one would use around a wounded animal.
"You just missed him," she murmured.
"Cas left?" Carl wasn't surprised. What shocked him was that Claire had let him go.
And Claire – laughed.
"We're so damn stupid," she said, laughing through her tears. It was a hitching, uncomfortable sound. "He knew, Carl. He knew about Jake, everything."
"How?" Carl whispered. They'd been so careful.
"He can hear prayers," she sighed, brushing a knuckle over her eyes. "And Scott's been praying to him every day." She laughed sadly. "I'm such an idiot, thinking I could keep him here. He even took one of Oliver's stupid drawings with him. Like some kind of memento. I don't – I don't think he plans on coming back at all."
Carl shook his head. "No, no, Claire, you were just trying to protect him. He knows that." He sighed deeply. "I'll talk to him, okay? Stay here. He can't have gotten far."
He couldn't have gotten far, not with the way he'd almost collapsed earlier just to make it down the street. Carl took off running anyway.
When Carl reached the gates, he found them still locked shut, but Anna, the guard on duty, was slumped over, snoring peacefully. She stirred slightly when Carl slammed the gate shut behind her. He and Castiel were going to have a serious talk about leaving people knocked out when there were roamers out and about.
It was a good thing that Carl knew where Castiel was headed. He'd seen the angel's face turn that way earlier, when he was listening to something none of them could hear. Northeast, toward the Saviors' main compound.
Where Scott had been praying to him all this time.
Under the moonlight, Castiel looked much better than he had that afternoon. He stood taller, not as hunched over. The extra hours of rest had clearly benefited him.
He wasn't too pleased to see Carl, however. "Carl, go home," he said sternly.
Breathing hard, Carl shook his head. "Don't leave," he pleaded through quickened breaths. "You can't do that to– to Claire."
Castiel turned to face him fully. "I have to."
"Then I'll come with you."
"No." Castiel was shaking his head before Carl even finished his sentence. "You need to stay here. With your family."
He opened his mouth to argue, but Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder, halting him. "Listen to me, Carl. You did well today, hiding your dead. There's more to this than meets the eye. Those people took your priest for a reason. They wanted the remains of your people for a reason."
"Which is…what?" Carl asked, baffled.
Cas sighed. "I don't know yet, but I need to find out before they're ready."
"I don't get it." Carl shook his head helplessly, bile rising in his throat. "There are corpses around every corner. Why bother with ours?"
"It's different."
"How is it different?" Carl demanded, voice cracking. He'd spent the better part of the day carrying the too-light remains of people long gone, listening to their families weeping as if they were losing them all over again. He needed to know why.
"Before I left, I saw the list of names at your gates," Castiel began. "More names than the graves in your cemetery. Your people couldn't bring them all home, but you've tried, haven't you?" His gaze bore into Carl. His eyes were very blue, even in the dark. "You care about your dead, you commemorate them. The ones you have brought to burial inside your walls, and the ones you were forced to leave behind. Throughout history, across the span of cultures, that's always been the case. Humankind has created thousands upon thousands of practices and rituals meant to honor the dead. That intent, that sense of purpose and faith, it leaves something behind. Something that can be used, do you understand?" He squeezed Carl's shoulder. "They don't care about the bodies, they care that you cared for them."
"The world is full of graveyards," Carl pointed out quietly.
"That is true." Castiel nodded. "But how many have not yet been abandoned?"
"That's really creepy, you know that, right?" Carl asked, causing Castiel to snort in amusement. "I'm coming with you. You really can't stop me."
"I really, really can."
"Cas, come on!" Carl protested, huffing. "Scott's my friend, too. And besides – you're hurt!"
"I'll be fine," Castiel said firmly, a little exasperated. Then he paused, looking at Carl in contemplation. "In fact, so will you."
And before Carl could ponder the meaning behind that statement, Castiel pressed two fingers to his forehead. Carl's breath stuttered as his vision filled with light. A warm glow washed over his entire body, melting away his every ache, making him feel lighter and strangely serene.
Castiel spun him around and gave him a slight nudge. "Go home, Carl."
Later, standing in front of the mirror in his small en suite bathroom for what felt like an eternity, Carl eventually summoned the courage to unpeel the bandage from his eye.