CHAPTER 20: The Strings of a Puppet

——

The air in the room thickened with anticipation. Every sound—the faint hum of the lights, the groan of the building settling—seemed amplified in the stillness. It was the quiet before the storm, and they all felt it.

The sound of footsteps broke the spell, sharp and deliberate. Caleb reappeared, Alistair at his side. Jacob's expression softened just enough to betray a flicker of relief. "Al," he greeted, his voice steady but warm. "Glad you're here."

Alistair nodded curtly, his eyes already locked on the grotesque mutant sprawled across the table. His brow furrowed as he leaned in, the clinical detachment of a man too used to horrors masking his unease. "I assume this is what you dragged me here for," he said, pulling on a pair of gloves with practiced precision.

Jacob wasted no time. "Something is mutating these people. We need to know how—and why." His voice was clipped, urgent.

Alistair examined the corpse with care, his movements methodical, his expression grim. "This… isn't like anything we've seen before," he muttered, his tone more subdued than usual. Without another word, he dove into the examination, the room falling into uneasy silence.

The team retreated to the lobby, the oppressive tension hanging like a stormcloud. They had done their part—for now. All that was left was to wait. Minutes crawled by, each one heavier than the last, the silence broken only by the occasional scrape of Alistair's instruments and the soft rustle of his notes. Time dragged, the weight of their uncertainty pressing down harder with every tick of the clock.

Finally, Alistair emerged from the briefing room, his gloves discarded, his expression carved from stone. The lines of his face spoke of what he'd seen, what he'd uncovered. It wasn't good. "I've figured out what's causing the mutations," he said, his voice low, measured, carrying the gravity of his discovery.

Jacob straightened, his eyes sharpening as he leaned forward. "What are we dealing with?"

Alistair gestured for them to follow, leading them back into the room. The mutant's corpse still lay sprawled across one table, but he directed their attention to a smaller one nearby.

The sight stopped them cold.

On the tray lay something alive—twisted in all the wrong ways.

The organism was worm-like, its segmented body lined with jagged barbs that gleamed under the flickering lights. Four sinewy appendages extended from its core, each covered in thin, pulsating tendrils. The tendrils twitched faintly, as though sensing the room, and for one horrifying moment, it almost seemed aware.

Dean took a step back, his lip curling in disgust. "What the hell is that thing?"

Alistair didn't look up, his voice calm but grim. "A parasite. It latches onto the host's spine using these." He gestured to the barbs. "From there, the tendrils spread through the body, infiltrating muscles, nerves, and even the brain. It doesn't just control them—it changes them."

"Into what?" Dean asked sharply, his voice low but edged with unease.

"A puppet," Alistair replied. "Stronger. Mutated. The host becomes something else entirely."

Sam's voice cut through the rising tension. "But they're still alive?"

Alistair's hesitation was brief, but it spoke volumes. "Alive, yes. But completely powerless. The parasite overrides everything—mind and body."

For a moment, no one spoke. The faint twitch of the parasite's tendrils filled the silence, amplifying the sense of helpless horror that gripped the room.

Caleb broke it first, his voice sharp and urgent. "Can we remove it? Save them?"

Alistair exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly. "No. The parasite burrows too deeply. Removing it… kills the host."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Dean let out a breath through clenched teeth. "So what? We just kill them? People who had lives—families—before this thing got to them?"

Sam's jaw tightened. "There has to be another way. There's always another way."

Jacob's voice cut through, sharp and steady. "If there isn't, we'll make sure it's fast. They deserve that much."

The parasite twitched again, its tendrils shifting ever so slightly, and the unspoken reality settled over them. These weren't just monsters—they were victims.

"There's one more thing, Alistair," Caleb's brow furrowed, his mind working furiously. "Back at the hospital," he began, his voice tense, "I saw… masses. Organic structures. People were fused into them. But they appeared dormant. What does that mean?"

Jacob nodded grimly, recalling the horrors in the tunnels. "Same thing in the flood system. People… absorbed into the walls."

Alistair's frown deepened as he pieced it together. "The parasite isn't just mutating individual hosts," he said slowly. "It's building something—a hive perhaps. Those dormant people… they're part of a network. A larger organism. It must be controlling them all."

The words hit like a gut punch. Dean let out a low whistle, his jaw clenching tight. "This Therion bastard," he muttered, his voice low and cutting, "really has a thing for parasites, doesn't he? Guy's clearly got a fetish for body horror."

Jacob's voice was steady, but the weight of the task ahead was clear in his tone. "We need to find the source," he said firmly, his gaze sweeping over the team. "And we end it. Whatever it takes."

The room grew quiet again, the determination thickening into resolve. They had their answer. Now they had to decide what to do with it.

Meanwhile, Ackerman's boots echoed down the dim corridors of their makeshift headquarters, each step a reminder of how hollow the place felt without O'Neill. The sound reverberated against the cold, empty walls, amplifying the silence that pressed down on her like a weight. Her rifle hung heavy in her hands, her knuckles pale as she gripped it tighter. Every shadow felt alive, every flicker of movement another reason for her to glance over her shoulder. But the real threat wasn't in the hall—it was in her own mind.

Tonight was different. The air felt thicker, the shadows darker, like the building itself was holding its breath. The silence was suffocating, filled with the ghost of her own thoughts. And in those thoughts, O'Neill's face kept flashing—his laugh, his determination, the way he'd thrown himself into the fire without hesitation. He'd bought them precious seconds, given them a chance to escape.

And now he was gone.

Ackerman tried to push it down, tried to focus on her patrol, but the ache in her chest only deepened. O'Neill wasn't just a soldier. He was family. And without him, there was a gaping hole in the team—and in herself—that she wasn't sure could ever be filled.

By the time her patrol ended, exhaustion had settled in her bones. Not the kind that sleep could fix—the kind that comes when you've been carrying too much for too long. She found herself wandering toward the restroom, hoping that the cold water might shock her out of the spiral she felt herself slipping into.

Inside, she leaned over the sink, gripping its edges like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her reflection stared back at her, hollow-eyed and worn, the weight of too many battles etched into her face. For a moment, the dam broke. Tears welled up, spilling over silently as she let herself feel the loss—not just of O'Neill, but of all the brothers and sisters she'd lost along the way. Each face flickered behind her eyes, each memory a jagged piece of her soul.

But grief was a luxury she couldn't afford. She wiped her face, steeling herself for the next fight. O'Neill would've wanted her to keep going, to see this through to the end. And she would. For him. For all of them.

As she reached for the faucet to splash her face, a faint noise stopped her hand mid-motion. A rhythmic tap. Quiet at first, almost imperceptible. Then it came again—tap… tap-tap… tap.

Ackerman froze, her pulse quickening. She straightened slowly, her eyes darting to the restroom stalls reflected in the mirror behind her. Empty.

The noise stopped.

She let out a shaky breath, shaking her head. You're just tired. It's nothing. Just the building settling, or maybe the pipes.

But the air felt different now—thicker somehow, like the room itself was holding its breath. A faint metallic tang hung in the air, sharp and cold, pricking at her senses.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her rifle tighter, scanning the room again. "Hello?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper. The sound echoed, hollow and empty.

Nothing.

Still, the unease refused to leave her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she took a cautious step toward the stalls. Her boots clicked softly against the tile, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence.

Then came the smell.

Faint at first, but unmistakable—coppery, wet, the acrid tang of blood. Her stomach twisted as she turned back to the sink, her hands trembling.

"O'Neill?" she whispered, the name escaping her lips unbidden.

And then she saw him.

At least, it looked like him.

Her breath caught in her throat. His face, once so full of life and determination, was pale and lifeless. His body bore jagged wounds, grotesque reminders of his final moments. But his eyes—those eyes that had always radiated loyalty and warmth—were now hollow, filled with nothing but rage and torment. Whatever stood before her wasn't O'Neill anymore.

"O'Neill?" she whispered, her voice trembling, though she already knew the truth. There was nothing human left in those eyes.

A low growl rumbled from his throat, inhuman and guttural. His lips curled back, revealing sharp, predatory fangs. Before she could react, he lunged.

The impact knocked the rifle from her hands as he slammed her against the wall with inhuman strength. She struggled, but his jaws were already at her throat. Pain erupted as his teeth tore into her flesh. Her scream turned to a wet gurgle, blood spilling from her lips as her body crumpled to the floor.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sickening sound of her blood pooling beneath her.

The door burst open, and Jacob, Caleb, Sam, and Dean stormed in, weapons drawn. They froze at the sight. Ackerman lay lifeless on the floor, her throat torn open, her wide eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Over her body stood O'Neill—or the thing that used to be him—drenched in her blood, his twisted face locked in a grotesque snarl.

Jacob's hand shook as he raised his weapon, his voice a whisper of disbelief. "No… O'Neill…"

But there was no time to process the horror. The creature let out a feral growl and charged.

"Take him down!" Jacob barked, his voice cracking but resolute.

Sam and Dean fired, their rounds tearing into O'Neill's body, each impact echoing like thunder. He staggered but didn't fall, his movements jerky and wild, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. "Damn it!" Jacob growled, unloading his clip into the creature. But it wasn't enough. The thing didn't stop—it just roared, the gunfire fueling its frenzy like blood in the water.

Finally, Sam steadied himself, aimed, and fired a single shot into O'Neill's head. The creature collapsed in a heap, its body twitching once before going still.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Jacob knelt beside Ackerman, his hand shaking as he reached out to gently close her lifeless eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Slowly, he slipped her dog tags from around her neck, the metal cool against his fingers, and added them to the chain already heavy with the names of the fallen.

Dean paced a few feet away, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His jaw worked furiously as he stared at the ground, refusing to look at Ackerman's body. "She didn't deserve this," he muttered, his voice low but sharp, like a blade barely held in check. "None of them do."

Sam glanced at his brother, his own expression pale and strained. "Dean…"

Dean shook his head, cutting him off. "I mean, what the hell are we even doing, Sam? We're supposed to be saving people—saving them. But every step we take, more of them die. And we're just supposed to keep moving, like it doesn't matter?" His voice cracked at the end, the frustration and grief spilling over.

Sam swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "It matters, Dean. It always matters." He crouched next to Ackerman's body, his eyes tracing over the wounds. "She saved us, back at the tunnels. O'Neill did too. They knew what they were walking into, and they chose to fight anyway." His voice wavered but steadied as he added, "We owe them."

Dean's pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders tense, his back to the group. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, his voice came, quieter now. "I just… I'm tired of burying people, Sam. Feels like that's all we ever do."

Sam stood, his gaze fixed on his brother's back. "I know," he said softly. "But we're still here. And we've got a job to do."

Dean exhaled sharply, his fists loosening. He turned back toward Jacob, his voice tight but resolved. "We take this thing down. For her. For O'Neill. For all of them."

Jacob nodded, his expression grim but resolute. "We will." His jaw tightened, his grief pushed down beneath the unyielding mask of a leader who couldn't afford to break.

He moved to O'Neill next, the motions mechanical, practiced, but no less painful. As he slipped O'Neill's tags free, Jacob paused, his gaze lingering for just a second longer. Then he stood, his expression hard, his steps steady as he rejoined the others. The pain stayed buried, but the weight of it followed him, like it always did.

"We need to find the source of this, and put an end to it fast," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Alistair stepped into the doorway, his face pale and grim. "We're running out of time," he said, his voice low but urgent. "I need more time to study the parasite—figure out if it has any weaknesses we can use."

Jacob's eyes hardened, his grief giving way to determination. "Then we don't wait. Caleb, secure the perimeter. Sam, Dean, you're both with me, we need to start reinforcing the defenses."

The team nodded, moving with grim purpose. They couldn't afford to let their grief slow them down. Not now. Not with the darkness closing in. This wasn't just a fight for survival anymore—it was a fight for the survival of all life in this realm.

——MEANWHILE——

Jack stirred, the rough cotton sheets of the bunker feeling weirdly cozy as he stretched out, shaking off the cobwebs of sleep. The soreness in his body, a painful souvenir from his brush with the Carlsbad portal, was fading faster than he expected. The angry red lines across his skin were nearly gone, replaced by faint echoes of their former selves. He took a deep breath, the air feeling thicker, electric, as if the room itself buzzed with some unseen force. Something inside him hummed too—a low, insistent energy that wasn't there before.

The bunker felt… off. Too still. Usually, there was the faint shuffle of footsteps or the clink of dishes, life humming through the walls. But now? Hollow.

Jack swung his legs off the bed, pulling on his boots with a growing sense of unease. The silence was sharp, like a blade against his nerves. Moving through the dim hallways, the sound of his boots on the floor echoed louder than they should have.

But the unease wasn't just the silence. Something was wrong—off in a way he couldn't quite put into words. His grace hummed faintly, stirring like it did when danger was near. Except this wasn't danger. This was… wrongness.

The shadows seemed longer, stretched thin, warping the familiar space into something alien. Jack paused, his breath hitching as a faint image flickered through his mind again: the parasite. Its barbs, its twitching tendrils. And beneath it all, the faint whisper of something alive. Something watching.

"Jack?"

He flinched at the sound of Charlie's voice and turned quickly to see her standing in the doorway of the library, a stack of books balanced precariously in her arms. She tilted her head, studying him.

"You okay? You look… I don't know. Freaked out," she said.

Jack hesitated. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just… tired."

Charlie gave him a knowing look but didn't press further. "Well, try to get some rest, okay? You're not going to be much help if you're running on fumes."

Jack nodded, but the unease in his chest only deepened. "Where is everyone?" He asked.

She straightened, shooting him a weary look. "Florida."

Jack blinked. "Florida?"

"Portal," she said, her tone sharp and matter-of-fact. "Sam, Dean, and the others left yesterday to shut it down. Haven't heard from them yet." She turned back to her notes, scribbling furiously. "Oh, and Umbra—Caleb—took Alistair to handle some kind of lead. He was here earlier."

"Umbra? Caleb?" Jack frowned. "Who's that?"

Charlie barely looked up. "You met him yesterday. Big guy, quiet, wears a helmet. Kinda intense."

Jack frowned, the pieces not quite falling into place. "And Cas? Is he still in the infirmary?"

At that, Charlie paused, her expression softening. "Yeah, he's improving. Alistair checked in earlier and said he's doing better."

Jack exhaled, relief loosening the knot in his chest. "That's good."

Charlie offered him a small, hopeful smile. "We needed some good news."

Jack nodded, resolve hardening in his chest. He wasn't about to sit idle. If things were this tense, they needed everyone back on their feet—including Castiel.

"I'm going to check on him," he said, already turning toward the infirmary.

——

The infirmary was quiet, the dim lighting casting a warm glow over the figure on the bed. Castiel lay motionless, his face pale but peaceful, his breaths slow and steady. Jack stepped closer, the soft hum of machinery punctuating the silence. Cas looked better—healthier—but still fragile, like the fight had been drained from him.

Jack pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down, placing a hand gently on Cas's arm. Closing his eyes, he focused inward, letting his grace stir and flow through him. Warmth bloomed under his palm, spreading into Cas's skin. The faint glow of his power filled the room, a quiet but insistent force.

But something else stirred too.

As Jack's grace flowed, he felt it—a faint resistance, like static interrupting a radio signal. It was sharp, alien, a flicker of something dark and invasive, clawing at the edges of his power. His breath caught, and for a moment, his focus faltered.

The images came suddenly, unbidden. A twisting, barbed parasite, its tendrils burrowing into flesh. A crimson haze spreading like blood through water. And in the middle of it, a pulsating mass of writhing tendrils, alive and aware. Jack's pulse quickened as the vision intensified, his stomach twisting with nausea.

"Jack?"

Cas's voice broke through the haze. Jack blinked, the images vanishing like smoke as he refocused on the room around him. Cas's blue eyes were open, watching him with concern.

"You okay?" Cas asked, his voice hoarse but steady.

Jack forced a smile, though his chest still felt tight. "Yeah," he said quickly, brushing it off. "Just… a lot on my mind… How're you feeling?"

Cas blinked, his mind still foggy. "Better. Thanks to you," he murmured, gratitude lacing his tone.

Jack leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "You scared us. We thought we'd lost you."

Castiel's gaze sharpened, noticing Jack's weary posture and the faint marks still etched into his face. "You don't look so great yourself. What happened?"

Jack hesitated, the memory of Carlsbad clawing at the edges of his mind. "The portal… it was pulling at me. Draining me. Dean prayed to me—said you were dying. I tried to get back, but something… something on the other side wouldn't let go." His voice faltered. "Next thing I knew, Umbra brought me here."

"Umbra?" Cas's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Helmet guy," Charlie's voice cut in as she entered the room. She smiled at Cas, her presence brightening the space. "Glad to see you awake, sunshine. We've missed you."

Castiel returned her smile faintly, his eyes still fixed on Jack. "You shouldn't push yourself like that."

Jack shook his head, determination hardening his features. "We need you, Cas. Something's coming—I can feel it. It's big."

Charlie's smile faded, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean? What's coming?"

Jack's gaze drifted, his voice distant. "I don't know. But it's strong. Stronger than anything we've faced."

The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of Jack's words sinking in. Castiel sat up, resolve flashing in his tired eyes. "Alright. What's the plan?"

——TO BE CONTINUED——