The night Castiel had left Alexandria, Carl had snuck back to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. He spent the next few hours staring at his reflection in the mirror, waiting for a knock on the door that never came.
He couldn't remember crawling into bed, but he woke up sometime around noon, blinking at the sunlight streaming through his window. He rubbed his eyes – both of them – and wondered how he'd even start explaining this one to his family. Only, by the time he finally mustered up the courage to head downstairs, a fresh bandage over his perfectly normal face, Rick and Michonne were nowhere to be seen.
Instead, he found Olivia folding laundry in the living room, watching over Judith as she played with her stuffed dolls.
"What are you doing here?" Carl blurted out, realizing a moment too late how rude he sounded.
Olivia gave him a reproachful look. "Good morning," she said pointedly, adding a folded t-shirt to the neat pile beside her. "Rick and Michonne had to run an urgent errand. They asked me to look after things while they're gone."
Frowning felt odd without the tightness tugging at his face. "What sort of errand?"
"You'll have to ask your dad when he gets back," Olivia replied dismissively, reaching for another item from the laundry basket.
"Why are you… doing that?" he asked, feeling his face heat as she folded his underwear.
She shrugged, barely looking up. "I don't mind. Keeps me busy."
He shifted on his feet. "Did they say when they'll be back?"
"No," Olivia answered sharply.
It was like trying to get answers from a brick wall. Carl's gaze drifted to Judith, managing a small smile as she proudly held up one of her favorite toys – an ugly doll with fuzzy pigtails and a goofy grin – but his mind was racing, still trying to make sense of it all. What could be urgent enough to make Rick and Michonne leave so suddenly? Without even telling him?
Shaking his head, Carl turned for the front door.
Olivia looked up suddenly. "Where do you think you're going?"
Carl was too confused to take offense at her tone. "Out?" he replied, hand hovering on the doorknob.
Olivia shot him a suspicious look, adjusting her glasses with the tip of her finger. It suddenly dawned on him that she wasn't there just to keep an eye on Judith.
Fuming, Carl made sure the door slammed behind him as he stormed out to find his friends.
Over the next few days, Carl couldn't decide if he was the town pariah or just the most talked-about person in Alexandria. That day in the cemetery, they'd all witnessed Rick accuse Castiel of having ties to the Saviors. And they'd all seen Carl jump between them, hand on his knife, ready to defend his friend against his own father.
To make matters worse, Bruce, Francine and Anna seemed to believe Carl was somehow responsible for them blacking out on the street – as if Castiel knocking them out on his way out was somehow Carl's fault!
According to the gossips – whose hushed conversations Carl kept catching the tail ends of – the current consensus was that Castiel was some kind of Savior bigshot, and his injuries and miraculous recovery were all part of some elaborate game. Apparently, Carl and his friends were either brainwashed victims or willing collaborators. Or possibly both.
Carl seriously considered revealing his new eyeball just to watch them choke, but he knew he had to talk to his family first. It was tempting, though.
"I can't pretend I'm half-blind for the rest of my life," Carl quietly complained to his friends one evening, pointing to his face. He wanted to complain loudly, but Olivia kept finding reasons to walk past his bedroom door. "It's not fair."
"Everybody's gonna think you've been replaced by a clone," Mikey suggested dryly, tapping his knee to the tune of the Copacabana. His dad had confiscated his record player. "An evil clone."
Claire, lounging moodily on Carl's beanbag, sighed heavily. "Go ahead and do whatever you think is best. Just keep in mind, they'll be weird about it no matter what."
"Honestly, Claire? I'm surprised," he admitted, "I never expected you to be so–" mature, he almost said, but caught himself just in time– "reasonable about this. What happened to Plan A?"
Plan A had been Claire's way of saying: shut up about the supernatural. It was the one thing she'd been drilling into them ever since they woke up on that boat in New Jersey.
"Don't be stupid," Claire said, propping herself up on her elbows and giving him a knowing look. "I'm not going to make you wear an eyepatch for life. I'm, you know, happy for you." She shrugged and settled back down on the beanbag, one arm pillowed behind her head. "Cas isn't here, so it's not like they'll be begging him to cure their hemorrhoids or whatever."
Carl hesitated. "You really don't think he's coming back, do you?"
"He did what he promised. He got us to safety," Claire sighed. It wasn't a yes, but not quite a no either. "He promised Jake and Scott, too." She paused, her gaze fixed on Carl's ceiling. "And he made me promise I wouldn't chase after his dumb ass, so here we are. Right now, all I can do is hope that for once in his very, very, very, very long life he actually knows what he's doing."
"Hey, I never promised anything," Carl pointed out, very reasonably. "What if I go?" he suggested. "I was a decent shot before my face got all messed up. Not as good as Scott, obviously, but if I could get my hand on a weapon, get inside the Sanctuary…" He shrugged. "All I've gotta do is take Negan out. How hard could that be?"
"Dude," Mikey huffed, shaking his head. "She just said don't be stupid."
Enid hummed in agreement. Her eyes were glued to the book in her lap.
More rustling came from outside Carl's door; Olivia was probably trying to eavesdrop again.
Visibly irritated, Claire propped herself up. "So, what time are we kicking off the orgy?" she said, her voice loud enough to carry through the door.
There was a brief pause. "Dinner's on the table," Olivia said icily.
Claire flushed. "Oh."
Refusing a home-cooked meal was out of the question, no matter how awkward it got. The only person around the table who seemed blissfully oblivious to the tension was Judith, seated in her high chair, kicking her little feet against the table and smashing spaghetti into her face, happy as anything.
"I heard little Oliver is settling in great over at Barbara's," Olivia ventured to strike up a conversation, twirling spaghetti around her fork. She lowered her voice a bit, as if sharing a secret, "I think they'll be good for each other."
Carl managed a polite smile. "Sure."
Olivia set her fork down with a sigh before reaching over to pat his hand. "Rick and Michonne will be back before you know it." She turned to Claire, offering a reassuring smile. "Your uncle, too, I'm sure. Then we can put this whole… misunderstanding behind us."
Claire was absently poking around her plate and didn't seem to realize Olivia was speaking to her until Mikey elbowed her in the ribs. "Huh?" She blinked, looking up in surprise. "Uncle?"
Olivia arched an eyebrow, her tone turning just a shade drier. "Castiel? I thought you said he was your father's twin."
"Oh, yeah. Just easy to forget sometimes," Claire said, recovering smoothly. She picked up her water glass and took a sip. "Dad was the handsome one."
Clearing her throat, Olivia dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "Well, Castiel is still very handsome, isn't he?" she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"He has a boyfriend, Liv," Enid said distractedly, her eyes still glued to her book.
"Oh no, really?" Olivia flushed. "Wait, not oh no like that," she stammered, flustered, her cheeks turning pink as she looked down at her plate. She sighed, then glanced over at Enid with a forced smile. "What are you reading, dear?"
Without looking up, Enid angled the book so they could see the cover.
Frowning, Carl reached over and snatched it from her hands.
"Hey!" Enid protested.
At first glance, it looked like one of those books his mom used to keep tucked away on their library's highest shelf, assuming Carl wouldn't find a way to reach it. The cover featured a hyper-realistic drawing of an improbably buff guy, naked except for a strategically placed swirl of what looked like bedsheets draped over his back and down to his lap. His jaw was so chiseled it bordered on a birth defect. Squinting, Carl realized that the "bedsheets" were actually supposed to be a pair of oddly shaped wings.
"Of Celestial Beings and Angelic Lore," Carl read the title aloud, snorting. "Where did you even get this?"
"Gabriel told me I could have it. I got it from his office." Enid huffed, making a grab for the book. "Give it back, Carl!"
Carl held it just out of her reach, flipping through the pages. "Wait – are these Gabriel's notes?"
"I don't know." Enid threw up her hands, fixing him with a glare. "Probably not. He said he found this book on a scavenging run last week."
"Found it where?" Carl wondered.
"Gee, I don't know," she said, rolling her eyes. "Think the Saviors would mind if I dropped by to ask him?"
The book was at least twice as thick as it had originally been, crammed with handwritten notes, sketches, and even diagrams. Sheets of lined paper were stapled over existing pages, the margins overflowing with scribbled annotations and half-finished thoughts. Entire sections had been slashed through almost angrily, with cramped handwriting filling in the missing passages, like a teacher scrawling corrections across a poorly written school paper.
Some of the original illustrations were surprisingly beautiful – various artists' renderings of angelic figures and wings, with Biblical scenes laid out in intricate detail. Most of these survived relatively unscathed, with only a few notes scribbled into the margins.
Carl paused when he spotted a few photographs paper-clipped to one of the pages. Curious, he slipped them free and began flipping through, balancing the book on the edge of the dining table. It was an unusual photoshoot: a blonde woman in a gray suit, lying flat between two massive charcoal-drawn wings. Her pose was stiff and unnatural, legs twisted awkwardly beneath her. Some of the shots zoomed in on the fine details of the charcoal wings, so precise and intricate that he could make out each individual feather.
"Weird," Carl mumbled. He'd seen enough dead bodies to know the redness blooming through her white blouse wasn't just for show.
Enid snatched the book back, glaring.
Later, after his friends had left and Judith was tucked away in bed, Carl stood over the sink, washing dishes. "I've got it," he told Olivia, motioning to the stack. "Go home, Liv. I'm sure you miss your own bed by now. We're fine here."
She hesitated, hovering near the kitchen table.
"If my dad asks why you left, tell him I threatened to stab you with a fork." Carl smirked, setting another plate on the drying rack. "This brainwashing's got me all kinds of messed up. I'm basically a ticking time bomb."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Goodnight, Carl. Please try not to fork anyone in my absence." She gave him a knowing look.
He blinked, then flushed, and then opened the kitchen window to call after her, "You're lucky I'm too brainwashed to think of a comeback!"
A few hours later, when Judith woke him at the crack of dawn, Carl found himself wondering just what the goddamn hell he'd been thinking, kicking Olivia out the door. He rolled off his stupid beanbag with a pathetic groan, hitting the floor in a tangled heap of blankets.
He lay there for a moment, face pressed against the cold floor, wondering just how terrible of an older brother he'd be if he let Judith scream something to the effect of "Freedom!" for just five more minutes.
Then, remembering that Hell was a real place, he pushed himself upright with a defeated sigh. "Alright, I'm up, I'm up."
He dug around for an old bandage and slapped it haphazardly over his face; partly out of habit, partly because Judith was talking now and was totally a snitch.
"CAAAL!" His sweet little baby sister continued to screech from her bedroom down the hall. The foundations of their home had likely begun to crack. Somewhere outside their walls, walkers' heads were possibly exploding. "LEMME OUT! LEMME OUT! LEMME OUT!"
"Hell is a real place," he reminded himself, muttering under his breath.
Peace returned to their little home not long after. Judith had her juice, her toys, and her good mood back. She seemed perfectly content bouncing around the living room while Carl sprawled on the sofa, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Just as he felt himself drifting, he heard the front door creak open. Sighing, he dragged himself up, ready to greet Olivia. "Morning–"
"Mama!" Judith squealed, abandoning her toy and sprinting across the room.
Michonne scooped Judith up, holding her close and pressing soft kisses to her forehead. "Hey, sweetheart," she murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of Judith's face. She held her close for a moment, her eyes filled with warmth as Judith babbled excitedly about everything and nothing in particular.
"Hey," Carl said awkwardly, fully awake now. "Um, where's dad?"
Michonne's gaze shifted to Carl, and her mouth tightened. She looked, well, not angry, not really, but like she was gearing up to be. It wasn't a look he often found himself on the receiving end of. It felt… pretty lousy, actually.
"Still out," Michonne said with a sigh, shifting Judith on her hip. "He'll be home soon."
He fiddled with his shirt, avoiding her gaze. "Right."
They hadn't left things on good terms. Sure, Carl could ask Michonne where she'd run off to with his dad, or question the grease stains on her clothes. But he didn't. He knew they'd only tell him when they trusted him again, and right now, they weren't so sure if they could.
He was pretty sure Michonne arriving first wasn't a coincidence. They must've thought she'd have an easier time getting through to him.
"Carl–" she began.
"It's okay, Michonne. I'm going to tell you everything," he said quickly, cutting her off. "Um, you're probably gonna want to sit down for this."
The fire raged for hours, devouring priceless antiques, essential winter provisions, wooden supports, and, oh – that gorgeous library. Sam had only gotten a quick peek at it, but the thought of all those lost books left his eyes burning with more than just the sting of black smoke.
The Hilltop community wasn't unprepared. They kept fire extinguishers at every trailer and shed, and two more inside the blacksmith's workshop. However, once the large propane tank behind the mansion had exploded, it became clear to all that any and all firefighting efforts were best spent protecting the walls and surrounding structures. The mansion was already lost, but there was still hope for the Hilltop.
Sam was determined to keep that hope alive, even as the fire painted the night in red and orange, polluting the air with heat and smoke; even with the dead horde clawing at the outer walls, their groans rising above the crackle of flames.
The hours stretched as corpses continued piling up beyond the walls. Dean and his friend worked tirelessly, unseen, to cull the undead horde. Still they kept on coming, an endless tide of mindless drive and destruction. Inside the walls, people moved with purpose, each with a task at hand, a piece of the larger survival puzzle – hauling water, readying weapons, and, if it came to it, preparing for a possible escape.
It was a long night, but as the first hints of daylight began to brush the horizon, and as the flames finally dwindled into smoldering embers, a fragile sense of relief settled over the community. It was short-lived.
"Get a spotlight over here, now!" Sam's voice rang out, leaving no room for arguments. There was a breach in the wall.
People scrambled to follow his instructions, weapons and tools at the ready. They'd prepared for this possibility. Fortunately, the wall hadn't collapsed, with most of its supports still in place – but there were gaps, large enough for the dead to squeeze through one by one.
"Earl, think you can patch it up?" Sam asked mid-swing, another dead body falling at his feet.
By all accounts, Earl Sutton was a skilled craftsman. More than that, he was calm and level-headed – the best kind of person Sam could ask for in a crisis. Earl didn't blink when an arm squeezed through the gap; he waited patiently for a Hilltop resident to sever it with an ax before returning to his work.
"It's not going to look pretty, but I'll make it work," he said gruffly, setting the welding mask over his face. "Just keep these damn things off my back!"
Together, Sam and a small group of Hilltop residents worked to stem the flow of the undead, protecting the community and buying Earl the time he needed to reinforce the walls. Between swings, Sam fired off questions to the people moving around him:
"What's the status outside the walls? Anyone got eyes on my brother yet?" The hex bags only lasted a few hours before the effect wore off; Dean and his friend wouldn't be able to hold their ground for much longer. "You – how's your arm holding up?" They'd suffered a few casualties fighting the Saviors before their uneasy truce. "Jesus, check in with each group leader – make sure no one's missing." Truce or no truce, the Saviors were not to be trusted.
Eventually, a young woman appeared to pull Sam away, waving for someone else to take his place in the defensive line. Her name was Tara. Despite their brief acquaintance, she'd proven to be exactly the kind of person he'd want watching his back.
"Dude," Tara said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Take a break."
"Just for a second," he muttered, catching his breath. Noticing the handheld radio in her hand, he asked, "Any luck reaching your friends?"
For the past few hours, Tara had been trying to send out a distress signal, hoping to reach anyone still out there who could lend a hand. Unfortunately, none of her messages seemed to be getting through.
"No dice," Tara huffed, her brows furrowing. "But listen to this. It's so weird."
She turned the dial, and immediately, a sharp screech pierced the air. People around them jumped in surprise, including Sam, who instinctively covered his ears. He knew that sound. But before he could say anything, the static suddenly rose in pitch, becoming an ear-splitting shriek.
Startled, Tara dropped the radio. It fell to the ground with a dull thud. The shriek grew sharper, vibrating through the device until, with a loud pop, the radio sparked and died, a wisp of smoke curling from its casing.
"What in God's name was that?" Earl grunted, lifting the welder's mask to peer over at them, his voice rough with irritation.
"It's okay," Sam replied quickly. "Just some background interference, probably fried the thing," he lied, keeping his voice steady.
Earl gave him a skeptical look before turning back to his work. Tara, however, kept squinting at the broken device on the ground, her brows knitted. "Interference?" Tara echoed in disbelief, catching Sam's gaze.
"It's… complicated," he told her with a grimace.
A lot of things interfered with radio signals, but only one thing sounded like that.
They hadn't seen angels since… well. It had been a long time. As far as Sam knew, Heaven had shut its doors, sealing itself off from the chaos down on Earth. The absence of angels had become a twisted sort of blessing; even as the world struggled to survive, it was, at least, an apocalypse of humanity's own doing. But if the angels were back? If they'd decided, suddenly, to make Earth their playground again…
Why here, why now? What were those winged assholes playing at?
Unless…
Well.
Unless Castiel was closer than any of them could have guessed.
"Really complicated," Sam stressed, before a commotion by the wall commanded his attention.
"Watch it, boy!"
"Doing my best, Earl!" the young man – teenager, really – shot back just as his blade passed inches from the older man's head. A corpse fell to the ground, splattering Earl with its rancid blood.
The kid's name was Calvin, or maybe Melvin; Sam couldn't quite recall. But he'd shown up with a weapon in hand, determined to fight, and that was good enough for him.
Calvin – or Melvin – struck again, and another body crumpled at his feet. This time, though, his weapon went down with it, the blade wedged deep in the creature's skull. Not knowing any better, the kid's hand remained locked on his weapon; he stumbled, dragged down by the weight of the corpse. Panic flashed in his eyes as he struggled to pull his blade free, hands slipping against the slick handle.
The kid was easy prey. They were on him in seconds.
Moving quickly, Sam bodily threw one of the dead creatures off Calvin (or Melvin). He took the head off another with a swift strike of his weapon, then drove his forearm under the jaw of a third, holding it back before it could tear the kid's face off.
Unfortunately, the creature's jaw snapped under the pressure. It died with its upper teeth buried deep in Sam's arm.
The kid scrambled to his feet, staring at Sam in horror.
Glancing at his arm, Sam sighed. "Damn."
Stepping closer, Tara paled as she took in the fresh bite. "Oh fuck," she whispered, her hands flying to his arm, gripping it tightly in both hands as if she could somehow stop the infection from spreading. "Shit, okay, okay. It's gonna be okay, Sam. We'll take care of it."
She wasn't looking at Sam but instead scanning the area, frantically signaling others to come over. Within seconds, several Hilltop residents rushed forward, some to join the defensive line, others with their sights on Sam. One of them grasped a machete in a white-knuckled grip, his gaze fixed on Sam's arm with a mix of resolve and dread.
Sam's eyes widened as they closed in. "Woah, woah, guys. It's okay! You don't need to hack anything off." Glancing behind him to confirm that the situation at the wall was under control, he tugged at his collar, revealing the faded scar just beneath his clavicle, only inches from his anti-possession tattoo. He attempted a reassuring smile, "Seriously, I'm fine."
They all stared. The man holding the machete lowered it slowly, a look of relief spreading across his face.
"You've been bit before?" Tara breathed, her grip on his arm loosening.
Sam took the chance to slip free. He nodded. "Yeah, turns out I don't… turn." He shook his arm. The new bite stung, but he'd been chewed up by far worse things in the line of duty. Still, he figured he'd better get it disinfected sooner rather than later. "I swear, I'm fine."
"Holy shit, dude." Tara shook her head in disbelief. "How?"
Shrugging, Sam said, "Honestly, I've a few theories, but–"
Tara cut him off. "No, I mean how did one of them even reach?" She squinted up at his collarbone, brow furrowed. "You're like… what, seven feet tall?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Only six-four, but thanks for the boost."
"That walker must've climbed you like a ladder."
He sighed, feeling a sudden pang of dread at the thought of introducing Tara to his brother.
He still remembered how rattled he'd been the first time he got bit. A month or two following Castiel's disappearance, he and his brother had gone rooting through an abandoned house, just as they'd done a million times before. A momentary lapse of judgment had Sam bending over a corpse, certain it was truly dead, and then –
He would never forget the look on Dean's face.
They'd had close calls before, but the dead had never actually gotten the drop on either of them. All it took was a single moment of carelessness.
And with Castiel gone…
Sam and Dean soon said their tearful goodbyes. Sam made his brother promise he wouldn't do anything stupid. Made him promise to let go.
And then – nothing.
Well, aside from a sore throat and a cough that stuck around for a few days. The bite simply scabbed over, fading into a scar instead of a death sentence. Over the next few weeks, Dean would flinch whenever Sam so much as cleared his throat, even though Sam was perfectly fine.
Sam was pretty confident he'd be perfectly fine after this bite, too. About as confident as he was that Dean would chew him out over it – so, somewhere in the high nineties.
"Earl, how much longer?" he called out with a sigh. The sun was nearly up.
"Give me a minute!" Earl barked, voice muffled behind the welder's mask. "Or d'you want it half-done and collapsing on your head?"
Sam raised his hands in surrender. Then he noticed one of the Saviors-turned-allies sprinting toward him. His hand instinctively closed around the hilt of his knife, but he quickly realized the man was only aiming to get his attention. He was followed by two Hilltop residents.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
There was no panic in the man's grim expression. "We have a situation." He met Sam's gaze steadily. "We need you in the medical trailer."
Because Sam wasn't born yesterday, he turned to the two Hilltop residents the Savior had been paired with. "What's going on?" he asked them pointedly.
It was a father-son duo, though their names escaped him. "You should come with us," the son said, grimacing as sweat beaded on his forehead. "Um, alone."
His father, standing beside him, nodded grimly. Both wore clothes streaked with dirt – Sam guessed they must be some of the Hilltop's gardeners.
"What exactly is this about?" Sam asked, frowning. The son shifted uneasily, glancing at his father, who looked equally uncomfortable.
"It's Simon," the Savior interjected, clearly irritated by the hesitation. "We think whatever's wrong with him – it's spreading."
Sam felt his heart thudding in his chest. "What?"
They'd been keeping Simon locked up in one of the trailers ever since his crew had decided to surrender. He'd been looking worse by the hour – most of his teeth gone, his back hunched, skin sloughing off in patches, and yet he still spat venom whenever anyone got close. Sam was convinced someone had hexed the man, his sickness having all the telltale marks of a magical affliction.
But an infectious curse? He'd seen those before, but they were incredibly rare. It made no sense. Not unless Sam had missed something important.
"Who's infected?" he pressed.
The father-son duo exchanged glances, hesitant. But the Savior, impatient, gruffly said, "A number of ours, plus that old broad Simon had at gunpoint yesterday."
Earl, who had just finished reinforcing the wall and had been listening to the exchange, froze. His face went pale. "Tammy?" Without another word, he took off toward the medical trailer. Toward his wife.
Sam cursed under his breath. "Keep to the plan," he told the others, his tone low and urgent. "We can't let this cause a panic, so keep it to yourselves for now." The Hilltop residents nodded, eyes wide with worry.
Sam signaled for the Savior and the father-son duo who'd come with him to follow. "You might need to quarantine too," he told them grimly, motioning for the Savior to lead the way.
The medical trailer was quiet. In retrospect, that should've been Sam's first warning.
He barely had time to register Earl's lifeless body before he felt the blade slip between his ribs.
Pain exploded through his senses. Sam staggered, gripping the edge of the trailer wall, trying to keep himself upright. His hand went instinctively to the wound, but the warmth of his own blood was already spilling through his fingers, hot and slick. Behind him, he heard Tara's pained cry.
All it took was a single moment of carelessness.
Sam should've been more vigilant, but the person at his back had been a Hilltop resident, not a Savior. It hadn't even crossed his mind that one of the very people he was fighting to protect would be the one to stab him in the back.
If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment! I write for my enjoyment, but I publish here for yours! x