CHAPTER 19: Echoes of a Soldier

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When they reached the Sheriff's station, it was all business. The group moved swiftly, clearing the building with practiced efficiency, securing the perimeter, and sweeping the shadows for anything unexpected. The briefing room became their base of operations, its flickering fluorescent lights casting uneven shadows that made everything feel more ominous.

Umbra laid the mutant's body on the table with a precision that bordered on ritual. For a moment, the room fell silent, broken only by the rhythmic click of Sam and Dean reloading their weapons—a sound that had become a second language.

For the first time, Umbra removed his helmet, revealing eyes that had seen too many battles and too few victories. He knelt beside Jacob, helping to patch him up in silence. No words passed between them, but there was an unspoken understanding—one shared by soldiers who had survived what others couldn't imagine.

Jacob broke the silence, his voice rough but steady. "The cultists… they wanted us here. This whole thing was a trap." The words hit like a hammer. The truth settled over the group like a shroud.

Umbra's hands paused for a heartbeat, then resumed their work. The news didn't surprise him—but it still landed hard.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Sam and Dean reappeared, Dean tossing a pile of scavenged weapons onto the table, frustration etched across his face. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing," he muttered, voice gruff with fatigue.

Sam wasn't looking at the weapons. His eyes stayed on Umbra, studying him like a puzzle that didn't quite fit. The guy looked like a younger, rougher-edged Castiel—and yeah, that threw Sam off. But shock? Not really. He'd felt it from the beginning: the head tilt, the stiff, robotic movements. It all lined up too neatly.

And let's face it—after everything he and Dean had seen, from alternate versions of themselves to timelines gone sideways, this was just another page in the cosmic horror novel that was their life.

Jacob caught the tension and sighed. "Guess it's time to pull this band-aid off," he muttered, glancing at Umbra. "Guys, meet Caleb."

The name hit like a thunderclap.

Dean's brows shot up. Arms crossed, his voice dripped with suspicion. "Caleb, huh? You wanna explain the whole 'masked vigilante' routine?"

Umbra—no, Caleb—met Dean's gaze with quiet intensity. In the flickering light, he looked older, more worn. "Trust," he said simply. His voice was low, deliberate. "I had to be sure. Most people… don't react well to what I can do."

Sam frowned, silent. His gaze lingered on Caleb, noting the way his shoulders tensed with every word. Every movement was deliberate, like he'd spent his life trying to take up as little space as possible.

It wasn't what Caleb said that stood out—it was what he didn't. Sam recognized the deflection. Caleb wasn't hiding malice. He was hiding pain.

There was something about him—something that twisted in Sam's gut. The way he moved reminded him of Castiel after the Fall: strong, but brittle. Like a structure under too much strain. And then there were his eyes.

Sam glanced at Dean, who was still sizing Caleb up like he couldn't decide whether to shake his hand or shoot him. Sam didn't blame him. Caleb didn't fit—not yet. But Sam knew exactly what that felt like.

He stepped forward, arms crossed. His tone was steady but probing. "Alright, then. You're not a demon. You're not an angel. So what are you?"

For a moment, Caleb stayed silent, his eyes distant—like he was watching ghosts from a past he couldn't escape. "I don't know what I am," he said at last, voice low and heavy with doubt that had settled over years.

The memory surged without warning, dragging him back into the chaos of that night.

It wasn't just dark—it was the kind of black that swallowed light, thick and suffocating. Crimson lightning split the sky, violent and vengeful. Fiery portals burned in the heavens, their flames licking the edges of reality like starving beasts. Jagged peaks loomed in the distance, shrouded in a living fog that pulsed with alien energy.

At the center of it all: a massive crater. The earth was scorched and cracked, like the world itself had recoiled from whatever had landed. And at its heart, Caleb lay sprawled and naked on the ash-covered ground, breathless.

Then—air. A sharp gasp as his lungs filled like it was his first breath in centuries.

His eyes snapped open: piercing blue, too bright, too aware. For a heartbeat, they mirrored the sky's glow—crimson lightning streaking in their depths. He pushed up on trembling elbows, staring across a ruined landscape that offered no answers.

"I didn't know where I was. Didn't know how I got there. Hell, I didn't even know who I was. Just… blank."

He sat up slowly, every muscle aching like he'd survived a war he couldn't remember. The air was thick with sulfur and the tang of burnt wood. His hands dug into the scorched dirt, searching for something—anything—real.

That's when he saw it.

Half-buried beside him lay a sword. Its blade gleamed like obsidian, edges sharp enough to hum in the still air. The hilt was rough, carved from jagged black stone. It pulsed faintly with red light, like a heartbeat.

Symbols ran the length of the blade—familiar, yet alien. Like a language he'd once spoken but forgotten.

"I didn't know what it said, but I knew it was mine. Like it had been waiting for me."

He reached out.

The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the light surged up the blade, casting the crater in crimson fire. The sword's weight was perfect—meant for him.

Time blurred after that. Hours, maybe days, passed as Caleb wandered the dead landscape. Ash stretched endlessly beneath a blood-red sky, pressing down like a judgment.

"I didn't see anyone. No voices. No footprints. Just… nothing. And the longer I walked, the more I felt like the world was trying to reject me."

But then—he found them.

It moved like a predator: low, sleek, its pale, scaled flesh rippling in the crimson gloom. Two barbed tentacles unfurled from its back, dripping venom. Rows of jagged teeth gleamed as it snarled.

Caleb's heart thundered.

More emerged from the shadows—Riftstalkers, though he didn't know that name yet. Black eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence. Their growls rolled out in slow, deliberate rhythm.

The largest stepped forward, eyes narrowing. Its growl was deep, guttural—a warning.

"They were hungry. I could feel it radiating off them, like heat. I didn't know what to do. My legs were lead. My chest felt like it was caving in. Then they moved—fast. Faster than anything I'd ever seen."

The pack lunged.

Caleb stumbled back, sword clenched tight, heart pounding.

"I didn't know how to fight. I didn't even know if I could."

One of the Riftstalkers leapt—jaws wide, venom glistening, tentacles lashing toward him. Caleb raised his arms on instinct, bracing for the impact.

And then—it happened.

It struck before he could process it. His vision blurred. His body dissolved into a swirling mass of fire and shadow. He didn't just feel the heat—he became it. Fire. Shadow. Rage. His form expanded, consuming the air around him like a living storm.

A roar tore from his throat, deep and unearthly, shaking the earth beneath his feet. The Riftstalkers recoiled—but it was too late. Caleb lashed out, his nebulous form striking like a tempest. One creature flew into the air, disintegrating before it landed. Another collapsed under the crushing weight of his gravitational pull, its scream cut short.

"I didn't know what I'd done. My body moved on its own—like it remembered something I didn't. When it was over, I was standing in the ash, alone again."

He looked down at his hands—still faintly glowing with embers. His chest rose and fell, slow and uneven.

"That was the first time it happened. But it wasn't the last."

The air in the briefing room thickened, heavy with the weight of Caleb's words. His voice—low, deliberate—unfolded like he was peeling back scar tissue. Sam and Dean didn't speak. The flickering fluorescent lights painted long shadows across the walls.

"I thought the Riftstalkers were the worst of it," Caleb said, his tone distant. "But that was nothing compared to what came next."

He stared at his hands—steady now, calloused—but back then, he remembered the way they trembled.

"I wandered the wasteland for what felt like weeks. The Riftstalkers stopped hunting me. After that fight, it was like they knew. Like they sensed I was something worse. But I didn't feel stronger. I didn't feel like anything. Just… hollow."

His eyes flicked to Dean, sharp and clear now.

"Then they showed up. The Paladins."

It had been raining ash that day. The sky above was torn in streaks of red and black, the storm of the Outerverse swirling like a living, breathing thing. Caleb had been kneeling beside a stream of molten rock, staring at his reflection—a warped shadow of something barely human.

"I didn't hear them coming," he admitted, shame flickering behind his eyes. "They hit me like a freight train."

A net of silvered chain exploded from the underbrush, striking him with enough force to knock him flat. He fought—power crackling through him, his body flaring with raw energy—but the chains were lined with symbols. Wards that burned.

The more he struggled, the tighter they pulled, the enchantments digging deeper, draining him.

"They didn't say a word. Just moved in like I was already a monster they'd decided to put down."

A sharp blow to the head.

Darkness.

When Caleb came to, he was inside a containment pod—steel and sigil-sealed, built to hold creatures from the Outerverse. The walls pulsed with a faint, sickly energy. Runes carved deep into the metal hummed just below the threshold of sound.

"They didn't talk to me," he said. "Didn't explain. Just watched. Like I was a bug under glass."

The Paladins were relentless. Not hunters—soldiers. Disciplined, methodical, fanatical in their mission to protect the multiverse from Outerverse horrors. Their armor gleamed with golden sigils that flared when they drew close, burning against Caleb's skin. Each one carried a weapon forged from black steel, humming with some energy Caleb couldn't name—but feared instinctively.

"They didn't see me as a person," he said, voice dropping. "To them, I was just another thing to put down. Like the Riftstalkers I'd fought in the wasteland. Dangerous. Disposable."

Their leader was the worst—a woman called Commander Rhen. Tall. Ice-gray eyes. A voice like a scalpel. Caleb remembered her staring through the reinforced glass, not with hate—but with cold, clinical interest. To her, he wasn't a man. He was a question. One she intended to answer, no matter the cost.

"They didn't just want to know what I was." Caleb leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "They wanted to figure out how to kill me."

He paused, jaw clenched. "I was there for weeks. Maybe longer. Every day was a new test. New burns. New questions without words. It didn't matter that I hadn't hurt anyone. That I hadn't done anything. To them, I was from the Outerverse. That was enough."

Then—softly, almost reluctantly—his voice shifted.

"And then there was Jacob."

The first time Caleb saw him, Jacob wasn't carrying a weapon. No lab coat. No escort. Just a man walking in with steady steps and sharp, calm eyes.

"He didn't look at me like I was a threat. He looked at me like… like I was someone. Like he saw something the others couldn't—or wouldn't."

Jacob had stopped just outside the field. Tilted his head, studying Caleb with open curiosity, not suspicion.

"You scared?" he'd asked. Not unkind. Just honest.

Caleb had said nothing.

"Yeah," Jacob said. "I'd be scared too. Locked up. Poked at. Written off before anyone even asked your name."

Caleb's lips twitched—just barely. "That was the first thing anyone had said to me since they dragged me in."

And Jacob came back. Day after day. Not to question. Not to test. Just… to talk. He spoke about the Paladins, the Outerverse, the war no one back home would ever believe was real. And slowly, Caleb started to talk back.

"I told him what I could remember. Not much. The Riftstalkers. The sword. The fire." Caleb exhaled, slow and tight. "And he listened. Really listened. Never interrupted. Never looked at me like I was broken."

Jacob had gone further than just listening. He'd fought for Caleb. Stood before the Regiment—those same senior Paladins who had already signed his death sentence—and told them the truth.

That if Caleb was dangerous, they'd already be dead.

That Caleb wasn't like the other things from the Outerverse.

"He didn't sugarcoat it," Caleb said. "Told them straight—if I'd wanted to kill them, I would've done it the moment they locked me up. He said I was different. And maybe… maybe that made me their best shot at surviving this war."

The Regiment hadn't agreed easily. To them, he was a gamble—a living weapon they didn't understand. A soldier without a flag.

"But Jacob wouldn't back down," Caleb continued. "Eventually, they agreed to let me live. But not as a person. As a tool. A weapon they could point at the Outerverse and hope it didn't blow back on them."

His lips twitched into a humorless smirk. "They didn't call me Caleb. Not at first. To them, I was just Umbra. The name stamped on my containment pod. The 'shadow.'"

Jacob only ever used it during missions—never outside of them. Never when it mattered.

"He said I deserved a real name. Something that was mine." Caleb's voice softened. "He's the one who gave it back to me. Caleb."

From that day on, he fought beside Jacob. Not for the Regiment. Not for the Paladins. For him—the man who'd seen him as more than a weapon.

"I trusted him," Caleb said simply. "He was the first. For a long time… the only one."

His gaze drifted across the room, unreadable.

"It wasn't easy, though. The others didn't trust me. I don't blame them. Hell—I wouldn't have trusted me either."

But trust wasn't handed out. It was earned. In fire. In blood. In battle after battle, where Caleb stood his ground to protect the people who still saw him as something half-wrong.

"And eventually… they stopped looking at me like a mistake waiting to happen. They started looking at me like family."

His eyes locked on Sam and Dean.

"And now, I'm trusting you two. Same way I trusted them. Same way I trust Jacob."

The room fell silent.

The weight of his story settled over them like ash after a fire—soft, heavy, and not entirely cold.

Dean leaned back, arms crossed, jaw working as he processed everything he'd just heard. He let out a sharp breath and ran a hand over his face. "Man…" His voice was rougher now, quieter. "They threw you in a cage just for breathing, huh? Didn't even give you a chance to prove you weren't like the rest of those things." He shook his head, eyes sharp—but no longer suspicious. "Yeah. I get that."

Sam glanced at him, surprised by the shift, but didn't comment. He turned back to Caleb. "I think we've all been there, in one way or another," he said, voice softer, more measured. "Hunted. Caged. Treated like something to put down."

Caleb tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Sam leaned forward. "We've been on the other side, too. Killing monsters. Saving people. And sometimes… sometimes we were wrong about who the monsters really were."

Dean let out a humorless laugh, his arms tightening across his chest. "Yeah. No kidding." He paused. His voice dropped. "You've been through hell, man. Don't let anyone tell you different."

Silence followed. Not awkward—just full.

Then Sam spoke again, his voice quiet. "For what it's worth, Caleb… we're not gonna write you off. You've got our trust."

Dean hesitated, studying Caleb. Then he nodded. "Yeah. We're not letting what happened to you happen again. Not on our watch."

Caleb's lips twitched—the faintest smile breaking through the lines of his face. "Thanks," he said. His voice was steady. "That means more than you know."

The room stilled again, but it wasn't the same kind of silence. The weight remained, but the tension had softened—replaced by something warmer. Something closer to understanding.

They sat in that quiet—the kind that follows shared scars laid bare.

Then Caleb straightened. His movements were brisk now, purposeful. "I'll head to the bunker. Bring Alistair back. Sounds like you'll need him to study this thing." He gestured toward the lifeless mutant on the table. He didn't wait for a response. He just stepped into the shadows—and was gone.

Jacob adjusted his vest, the weight of his gear pressing against fresh bruises and older wounds. But the heaviest burden wasn't physical—it was the crushing responsibility of keeping them alive. Of solving the nightmare tightening its grip around them.

Across the table, Sam and Dean sat in silence. No words were needed. They'd been here before—facing impossible odds, knowing each decision carved ripples through a fragile world.

The room remained still. The flickering fluorescent lights cast shifting shadows on the walls.

Sam leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of the table as he stared at the mutant's body. Dean sat across from him, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the same thing—but clearly seeing far beyond it.

By the window, Jacob stood in silhouette. The moonlight bleeding through the blinds etched him in silver. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of his knife—an old habit born from too many close calls. Caleb's story lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, curling into their thoughts like smoke.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Just the hum of the overhead lights. The old building settling around them.

Then Dean broke the silence, his voice low. "Think he'll come back?"

Jacob didn't turn. "He always does."

Sam glanced at Dean, expression thoughtful—and just a little guarded. "Let's hope it's soon. This thing," he said, nodding toward the mutant, "isn't gonna wait to tell us what comes next."

Outside, the wind howled softly, pressing against the glass.

Inside, they waited—suspended in the space between trust and uncertainty, between what they knew and what was coming.

For now, all they could do was wait.

—TO BE CONTINUED—