CHAPTER 10: Echoes in the Dark
——MEANWHILE, IN LINCOLN, NEW MEXICO——
Dean leaned against the grimy window of the saloon, eyes scanning the empty, desolate horizon beyond. Exhaustion clung to him, settling heavy on his shoulders, rooting him in place. His mind circled back to Sam and Charlie—where the hell were they? The question gnawed at him, twisting tighter with each unanswered minute, barbed and relentless.
The saloon seemed to mirror his unease, frozen in a forgotten past. The silence was too thick, pressing in on him, a weight he couldn't shake. The faded wallpaper, the creaking floorboards—everything in this place felt like a relic, a ghost of what had once been alive. Dean took a deep breath, but it didn't help. He needed air, an escape from the suffocating quiet.
Stepping outside, he wandered down the cracked, empty streets of the ghost town. Buildings stood like tombstones, hollowed and silent, windows shattered, doors hanging open to nowhere. There was a loneliness here, something deeper than the absence of people. It seeped into his bones, whispering of things lost and forgotten.
Yet as he walked, the quiet began to settle him, calming the storm of thoughts churning in his mind. His steps slowed, deliberate now, as if the dead town was offering him a strange kind of peace. The memories it held, ghostly and faint, brushed against him like an echo, distant but grounding. He let his thoughts drift to what this place must have been—dusty cowboys, whiskey-slinging bartenders, poker chips clattering on tables. It was almost too easy to picture.
The sound of his boots on gravel reminded him that it'd been too long since he'd checked on Cas. Guilt and worry stirred, and his stomach growled, a reminder he hadn't eaten in hours. He headed back to the saloon, hoping to scavenge something from their gear.
Nothing but weapons and tech. Typical. He was about to give up when he noticed a duffel on a nearby table, a note pinned to it with Jacob's name on it. "Keep the angel hydrated," it read. Dean raised an eyebrow and unzipped the bag, finding water, bread, jerky—finally, something useful. He let out a breath, his usual annoyance with Jacob softening. For all his gruffness, the guy had thought ahead.
Provisions in hand, Dean headed upstairs to the room where Cas lay. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by a dim fire that barely pushed back the darkness. Dean set the supplies down, pulled a chair up beside the bed, and looked at his friend. Cas's skin was pale, his fever high, breaths shallow as he fought against the infection.
Dean leaned closer, pressing the back of his hand to Cas's forehead. Too hot. A knot of worry tightened in his chest, but he forced it down. Cas had been through worse. He had to make it through this too. "Hey, man," Dean muttered, unscrewing the cap from a water bottle. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."
Cas's eyes fluttered open, hazy with exhaustion. Even staying conscious looked like it took everything he had. Dean grabbed a pillow, easing it behind Cas's head before helping him take a sip. "Drink up," he said quietly. "You need it."
Cas's hands shook as he took the bottle, and Dean felt a pang watching him struggle. Cas was the strongest being Dean had ever known, and seeing him like this—it hit deep. Each sip seemed to drain him, but he kept going, stubborn as always. When he finished, he slumped back, breaths shallow. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice a rough murmur that barely rose above the crackling fire.
Dean stayed quiet, eyes trained on the floor. Letting people see how much he cared had never come easy. But Cas knew; he always did. Cas's tired eyes found Dean's, a faint glimmer of reassurance there. "They'll be okay, Dean," he rasped. "Sam and Charlie—they're tough. Just like you."
Dean nodded, swallowing back the worry that still gnawed at him. He wanted to believe it. He did believe it. But knowing didn't make the fear go away. As Cas's eyes drifted shut, slipping back into a restless sleep, Dean exhaled, feeling some of the tension ease. Cas was right. Worrying wouldn't help them now.
After a long moment, Dean stood, casting one last glance at Cas before grabbing a pillow from the bed across the room. He tossed it onto the floor and stretched out, exhaustion washing over him like a tide finally breaking. For a brief moment, sleep offered him an escape from the constant storm of doubt and fear. The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across the walls, whispering of battles fought and those still to come. But for now, he let himself rest, knowing the fight would find him soon enough.
——LATER——
Castiel jolted awake, his body convulsing as though struck by raw electricity. Pain shot through every nerve, like a live current tearing him apart from the inside. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his mind fogged with confusion and nausea so intense it felt like the ground was spinning. Instinctively, he gripped the edge of the bed, trying to anchor himself as waves of disorientation crashed over him.
He felt the urge to call out for Dean, but he swallowed it back. Dean needed rest, more than Castiel did. Bracing himself, Castiel swung his legs over the bed, each movement sending fresh shocks of pain through his body. His fingers dug into the nightstand as he forced himself to his feet, his vision blurring. He took a shaky breath, each step a monumental effort as he staggered toward the bathroom.
Reaching the door handle, a sudden violent nausea struck him. His knees buckled, bile rose in his throat, and he barely managed to stumble inside before collapsing to the cold tile floor. The shock of it was a small relief against his fevered skin. He clung to the edge of the toilet as his body heaved, retching violently. But it wasn't just bile. Thick, black tar oozed from his mouth, mingled with blood—a substance foreign and unnatural, like the very essence of sickness dragged from the deepest parts of him. It stuck to his throat as if resisting his attempts to purge it, clawing back with a life of its own.
Gasping, he coughed again, each gag a desperate fight, his vision blurring as his strength waned. Another wave struck, brutal and unrelenting, and more of the viscous tar splattered into the bowl, filling the air with the sickening stench of rot. For a heart-stopping moment, he feared he might choke on it, the thick black substance closing his throat. Desperately, he reached out, blindly groping at the walls, reaching for Dean, for anything. But his strength was draining fast.
Darkness began closing in, squeezing the breath from his lungs, his vision shrinking to a tunnel of suffocating blackness. And then, faintly, a light pierced through.
He blinked, disoriented, and there was Dean kneeling beside him, eyes wide with worry. Castiel tried to speak, but his throat burned, his voice reduced to a strained whisper. "Dean… I'm sorry."
Dean's hand gripped his shoulder, firm and grounding. "Don't, Cas," he said, his voice rough but steady. "Let's get you back to bed." Dean slipped an arm under Castiel's shoulders, pulling him upright with gentle strength. Castiel leaned heavily on him, his last reserves of energy spent as Dean guided him back to the bed.
As Castiel sank onto the mattress, a flicker of unease twisted in his gut. Something felt wrong. His gaze shifted to Dean, whose face flickered, the familiar lines of his expression shifting in the firelight, subtle at first but then unmistakable. Dean wasn't here.
Heart pounding, Castiel tried to pull back, but his body refused to obey, his limbs too weak, his mind too clouded. The figure beside him warped and twisted, solidifying into a form both familiar and utterly wrong. It was the Empty. His stomach clenched, dread rooting him in place as he realized he was trapped once again.
The figure smiled, cruel and mocking, its expression a dark parody of Dean's face. And then, just as quickly, it shifted again, its features morphing into Meg's. Her dark eyes glittered with sadistic amusement. "Oh, Cas," she purred, her voice dripping with venomous nostalgia. "I've been dying to see that look on your face again."
"This isn't real," Castiel whispered, his voice shaking, barely audible. He clung to that one thought. "You're not here. You're just… just a fever dream."
But the Empty, wearing Meg's smile, leaned in closer, its eyes alight with twisted pleasure. "Oh, I'm very real, Castiel. And I've got something to show you." She gestured to the shadowed corner of the room, her smile widening. Castiel's eyes followed her hand, and his blood froze.
In the darkness, he saw his own body—lifeless, crumpled as though discarded. The walls around him began to shift, contorting into the familiar black void of the Empty, an endless, suffocating darkness pulling him back in. He was trapped again, falling into its grasp.
"You're dying, Cas," the Empty's voice echoed, thick with satisfaction.
"No," he rasped, shaking his head. "I can't… I won't…"
The Empty loomed closer, its form shifting back into Dean's, this time with an angel blade in hand, the sharp gleam of the blade catching the dim light. "Oh, it's happening," it whispered, cruel delight in its eyes. "And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
Suddenly, Castiel found himself pinned against the cold stone walls of the bunker's dungeon, unable to move. The Empty—still wearing Dean's face—stepped closer, spinning the angel blade between its fingers, its twisted smile broadening.
"Miss me, Cas?" it drawled, Dean's familiar voice laced with malice. "Because I've missed you." The blade rose, and the Empty leaned in, its breath hot against Castiel's ear. "Dean will wake up soon. But until then…" It pressed the blade to his chest, just over his heart. "You're all mine."
Castiel's heart pounded as he struggled against the invisible force pinning him, but his body was too weak, his strength gone. The Empty's laughter echoed in his ears, a hollow, mocking sound that rattled through his bones. And with one final, cruel smile, it drove the blade down.
——MEANWHILE——
Dean jolted upright, his breath fogging in the freezing air, heart pounding from the remnants of a nightmare he couldn't quite shake. The cold was unnatural, biting into his skin like a knife. He glanced at the fireplace, where the flames had died down to a faint glow, swallowed by shadows that seemed to crawl and twist across the walls, creeping ever closer.
"Damn it," he muttered, shoving himself out of bed and stumbling to the hearth. The freezing air stung his lungs as he rubbed his hands together, trying to fend off the chill. With methodical precision, he stacked fresh logs over the embers, striking a match and watching as the flames slowly reignited, flickering and casting light back into the room. The warmth crept back, but a strange, unsettling tension lingered.
As the fire crackled to life, Dean let out a breath of relief. But then his eyes drifted to the bed, and his heart seized with dread.
Cas was lying sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
"Cas!" Dean was by his side in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees, fear clawing up his spine. Castiel's face was pale, almost gray, and his lips were tinged with a sickly blue. Dean's fingers pressed urgently to Cas's neck, searching for a pulse. There—faint, fragile, but there. Relief hit him like a wave, but the shallow, labored breaths coming from Cas's chest brought the fear rushing back.
Then he saw it—black, tar-like residue smeared around Castiel's mouth. Dean's stomach twisted. The Rougath virus. It was suffocating him.
"Shit," he hissed, forcing back the rising panic. He leaned in, tilting Cas's head back and working desperately to clear the thick sludge from his throat. But the tar clung stubbornly, resisting his efforts like something alive, something hellbent on choking the life out of Castiel.
"Come on, man, breathe," Dean muttered, his voice tight with fear. His hands trembled as he pulled at the sticky black substance, but it was relentless, thick and sinister, fighting back against every attempt to clear it. Cas's body jerked weakly, the barest sign of struggle, but his breathing was slowing, each second ticking away like a countdown Dean couldn't stop.
Desperation tightened in Dean's chest. He had no idea what to do, but he knew one thing—he wasn't about to let Cas die here, not like this.
Then it hit him—the sedatives Alistair had given him.
Dean cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He scrambled to the nightstand, his hands fumbling with the syringe in his rush. His pulse roared in his ears, but his grip was steady, fingers moving with the practiced ease of someone who'd been in life-or-death situations too many times. He filled the syringe, knelt beside Cas, and injected the sedative into his arm, murmuring a silent prayer under his breath.
He watched, holding his own breath as he waited for any sign it was working. But the seconds ticked by, and Cas's breathing didn't improve. His skin was still deathly pale, the black tar still thick in his throat, refusing to release him.
Frustration burned through Dean as he ran a hand through his hair, pacing in a circle before dropping back down beside Cas. The sedative hadn't worked. Cas was slipping further away, and a cold realization gnawed at him—he was losing him.
"No way, Cas. You're not going out like this," Dean growled, determination hardening his voice. He laid Cas flat on the floor, his mind settling on the one option he had left. He positioned his hands over Castiel's chest and began compressions, his movements filled with a desperation that bordered on rage. Each push was a demand, a plea, forcing life back into the angel.
"Come on, Cas. Don't you dare leave me," Dean muttered, his voice a low, fierce whisper. His breath came in gasps, raw with fear, as he poured every ounce of strength into the rhythmic press of his hands.
The room felt like it was closing in, walls pressing around him, the fire's faint light casting haunting shadows. But Dean barely noticed, his focus locked on Cas. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fire and the relentless beat of his compressions, each one a silent scream for Cas to hold on.
——CONCURRENTLY——
Castiel lay crumpled on the floor, twisted and broken, each breath a thin, ragged rasp that seemed to take everything he had. His form shivered, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and pain, the boundary between life and death drawn thinner than ever, like a frayed thread ready to snap.
Standing over him was the Empty, its face a grotesque mimicry of Dean's. But the resemblance was only skin-deep; the eyes were voids, wells of endless, consuming darkness. The rest was a twisted reflection, an unfeeling echo of Dean's determined stance, stripped of warmth and humanity.
"Why bother, Castiel?" The Empty's voice droned, hollow and detached, echoing through the space like a sound without a source, both near and distant, invasive yet unreachable. "Do you actually think Dean can save you? Out there, he's just flailing in the dark. And you really believe he understands what's happening here?" It gestured to the surreal void around them, a bleak landscape shaped from Castiel's own fears and doubts, meant to ensnare him.
In the real world, Dean fought a battle of his own. His hands pressed down on Castiel's chest, each compression an urgent attempt to bring his friend back. Castiel's breaths were faint and shallow, and Dean's own pulse raced, fear tearing at him.
"Cas, come on, man! Don't do this!" Dean's voice cracked, desperation spilling into each word. Every compression was a plea, an order, his hands moving with increasing intensity. "Come back to me, Cas! You hear me? Come back!"
In the Empty's domain, Castiel's vision blurred, caught between exhaustion and the cruel weight of the illusion. The Empty-Dean flickered before him, like a failing signal, but through the haze, Castiel saw something real: Dean. The true Dean, fiercely holding on, refusing to give up.
"You're wasting your time," the Empty hissed, a sharper edge creeping into its voice, wrapping tighter around Castiel's mind, clawing at his will to fight. "This struggle? It's all in vain."
The words struck deep, laced with a poison designed to crush his spirit. But a stronger force stirred inside him, something that could not be broken. Memories surfaced—moments shared with Dean, battles survived together, times Dean had pulled him back from the brink. This wasn't the first time they'd faced the dark together, and each time, their bond had brought them back.
With a groan, Castiel forced himself against the weight of the Empty's hold. His hand, trembling and weak, stretched out—not toward the false image before him, but to the presence beyond it. Toward Dean. His fingertips brushed something solid, something warm, just barely there, but real.
In the waking world, Dean froze. He felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible touch against his hand. He looked down, eyes widening as Castiel's hand found his, weak but unmistakable. "Cas?" he whispered, his heart hammering. That touch—it was proof Cas was still fighting.
"That's it, buddy. I'm right here," Dean murmured, voice thick with determination. He returned to his work, his hands pressing down on Castiel's chest with renewed urgency. "You're not going anywhere, Cas. Not today."
In the Empty's world, the creature recoiled, its expression twisting with confusion and intrigue. "This is… interesting," it muttered, as fractures began to run through the fabric of its illusion, cracks spiderwebbing outward. The nightmare started to unravel, splintering as Castiel's awareness clawed its way toward reality.
With each of Dean's compressions, Castiel's breaths deepened, the black tar in his throat receding as the Empty's grasp weakened. The thick, oppressive weight that had pinned him down lifted, reality bleeding through the illusion. And then, with a sharp, gasping breath, Castiel's eyes flew open, lungs drawing in air like a man returned from drowning.
The first thing he saw was Dean, hovering above him, his face a mix of exhaustion and unrestrained relief.
"Dean…" Castiel rasped, voice barely a whisper, hoarse from the ordeal. "Is it… really you?"
Dean let out a shaky laugh, one hand still resting on Castiel's chest as though needing that confirmation himself. "Yeah, Cas, it's me," he replied, voice thick with emotion. He helped prop Castiel up, his touch gentle. "Who else would be here to save your sorry ass? Think I'd let anyone else have this pretty face?"
Castiel managed a faint smile, the exhaustion slipping briefly to allow a glimmer of warmth. "I thought it was—" He paused, shivering at the memory. "Just a bad dream."
Dean's gaze softened, his eyes conveying something deeper than relief. "Yeah, well, more like a nightmare, from the look of it." He surveyed the room, the danger easing but not yet gone. "But we're not out of the woods yet. Come on, let's get you back to bed. Slowly."
Dean slipped an arm around Castiel, steadying him as he helped him up. Castiel's legs trembled, barely supporting him, but Dean's grip was solid, guiding him with every step, his presence anchoring him.
"You're doing good, Cas," Dean murmured as they moved, his voice calm, his hand a steadying force. "One step at a time. We'll get through this."
Dean eased him onto the bed, arranging the blankets around him with a care that spoke louder than words. Castiel sank into the mattress with a sigh, letting go as exhaustion took hold. His gaze drifted up to Dean, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
"I should have… asked for help," Castiel murmured, each word an effort. "Didn't want to be a burden."
Dean's response was instant, his hand landing on Castiel's shoulder with the kind of unwavering strength that left no room for doubt. "Cas, you're never a burden," he said, his tone fierce and steady, unbreakable as iron. "You hear me? Never."
Castiel's eyes closed, his breathing slowing to a soft, even rhythm as peace finally settled over him. Dean, satisfied but unwilling to leave his side, pulled up a chair and settled beside the bed, his hand never leaving Castiel's. The crackling of the fire filled the quiet, flickering light casting warm shadows across the walls. And in that stillness, in the soft rise and fall of Castiel's breaths, Dean allowed himself to believe that, for now, the worst was over.
He would stay there, holding his friend in the light, until he knew that the virus would not claim him.
——TWO HOURS LATER——
The low growl of an engine cut through the quiet like a warning shot, snapping Dean to attention. His eyes flicked toward the window, catching the growing rumble as it barreled closer. Instinct kicked in—he knew that sound too well. As the noise reached a crescendo, Dean moved fast, peering out into the night just in time to spot the shadows of Sam, Charlie, and Jacob coming toward the saloon, moving with a purpose that screamed trouble.
Relief washed over him, but it didn't stick. Something was off. He could see it in their stride—too tense, too urgent. Their faces, set like stone, told him enough. Dean's gut twisted with that old, familiar warning, the one that had saved his skin more times than he could count. Whatever they were bringing back wasn't good news.
Not wasting a second, Dean bolted down the stairs, his boots hitting each step with a heavy thud. He met them at the door, and one look at Sam and Charlie's faces was enough to tell him he'd been right. Behind them, Jacob lingered, worry etched across his face, his movements sharp and tight.
"Is the angel awake?" Jacob's voice sliced through the silence, low and urgent, his gaze snapping to the staircase. The worry in his eyes said it all—they'd run into something big.
Dean clenched his jaw, gears turning. Whatever mess they'd found out there, it wasn't behind them. Not by a long shot. The room hung thick with that heavy dread, the kind that always crept in right before things went south. And Dean knew, deep down, they were all about to dive headfirst back into the fire.
——TO BE CONTINUED——
