Tell Me Who I Am part 11
Tell Me Who I Am
Part 1
~~~
The table lay in auspicious wait for the dinner ritual as it patiently stewed in the faint buzz of hungry anticipation; its two eager attendants wordlessly sat across each other. One of them relentlessly chewed on a now blunt toothpick while his eyes pinned down the other from under his bangs.
Jimmy turned away. “You shouldn't be reading at the table.”
He ran a finger down his immaculate fork and pressed hard on the butt of the handle until his fingernail gave a striking gradation of pink and white. “It's rude.”
Castiel gave no indication of hearing him, and, in fact, licked a finger and turned a page.
Jimmy closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to ignore the provocation. A thought occurred to him and made his tight lips loosen into a manifest smirk.
“Mother went by the book store today and got me that comic book you were telling me about. You remember it? The one Father thought was a waste of time and money.”
But the boy remained all the more aloof in that impenetrable stoic bubble of his that denied him the slightest regard. The toothpick snapped between his teeth.
“Will you be playing this evening?” he asked him, even though he knew the answer by heart already. His brother never failed to play his instrument after dinner, though it hadn't always been like that. He couldn't even remember when this infuriating habit had begun. And it would always, always be a soulful, lifeless tune that the boy could completely immerse himself in, as if he were stuck in some formless mourning that always swallowed him whole and left nothing of him behind to salvage.
“Yes,” the boy answered without looking up at him; he might as well have answered a bodiless voice.
Jimmy wrapped his fingers around the glistening fork. “Chopin?” he inquired. “Or will it be Beethoven? Or maybe Liszt's soft Liebestraum?” He was only dimly aware of how his voice grew more raving with each suggestion; and yet the boy's expression remained unchanged and unimpressed, which only succeeded in annoying him all the more.
“Or why not a bit of Purcell? Will you not give us a thrillingly bland Hungarian Rhapsody? Oh! Why not go all out and play us some old school Toccata and Fugue in D Minor? Or would opera suit you better?”
The boy quietly replied, “Those are all wonderful suggestions. I will consider each one of them. Now, please, Jimmy, there is no need for getting carried away; the food will soon arrive.”
Antoine, their young domestic who worked part-time, finally emerged from the kitchen with two dishes balanced in each hand and had a warm smile on his face that tried to establish an ostensible sense of normalcy back into the picture.
“Here we go, young masters,” he twittered as he placed the orange-tinged dishes in front of the boys. “Summer vegetable ragout with exotic curry sauce with added cayenne and cumin for extra flavour. Bon appétit!”
Jimmy scrunched his nose at the intruding meal and said, “Curry? Like the spicy kind?”
Antoine faltered a little and said, “Well... a little. Is that a bad thing?”
Jimmy pushed the plate away and snapped, “I hate spicy foods. And there's way too many veggies.”
Antoine scratched his neck and mumbled, “Well, I guess I could dilute the spices with some crème fraîche and pick some of the vegetables out...”
“No. Make me something else.” The boy calmly stared the servant down and added, “I can wait.”
The young man muttered a curt apology and took the dish away. Jimmy looked back at his brother to watch for any signs of disappointment, resentment or even a hint of irritation. But all he saw ― all he would ever see ― was that blank mask of nothing. Unruffled, untouched. He ate the meal before him with no visible relish, only retaining the facial distortions of someone simply acquiring his nutrition. It seemed that even eating boiled down to mechanical, clinical motions. Had he only been pretending to enjoy his company all those times ago? Jimmy could not remember if this was really Castiel's true self, or if the present him was only an elaborate mockery. Even so, his brother never failed his familial duties and remained loyal to the family head no matter how much the rest of the family saw him. He pressed his finger into the tip of the knife blade until the sensitive flesh tore apart. He doubted the boy would take notice by himself.
“Castiel,” he said, his gaze fixed and pressing into the boy across him, daring him to feel any sympathy.
The boy looked up from his brother's face to the increasing red stain on the table cloth, and after a moment's consideration, sighed, as if discreetly admitting defeat in the face of his brother's stubbornness, and pulled his chair back. He approached Jimmy, a napkin in one hand, and leaned over him, placing a hand on the table in front of him.
Jimmy wrapped his fingers around the knife and jabbed it into his brother's left hand, pummelling the handle with his fist so that the knife cut clean between the bones. A pained shriek tore from the boy's lips as he crumpled to his knees, his voice fading to stuttered cries and hisses while he stared agape at the protruding knife that seemed to pin him to the table. Jimmy twisted the instrument further into the wound and watched the boy writhe and scream while a gleeful smile brightened his own face.
He leaned over his brother's bent head and said, “Now how will you play your piano? Tell me, Cas, do you feel this?” He twisted the blade again and another shriek tore through the room.
“Show me those tears you've locked away safe inside, or do you simply have none left?” He narrowed his eyes. “Well then, I'll simply have to make some more!” He jerked the knife out of the hand and raised it above his head.
The boy fell back on his haunches, eyes shut tight and cradling the wounded hand close to his chest, but not daring to touch it, like it was a part of his body he could no longer salvage, infected as it was by his twin's rage. Jimmy gritted his teeth and fell down to the floor next to his brother. Finally, the boy opened his eyes and stared at his brother in what Jimmy could only discern as an apology ― there was no fear or hate or anger, only an apology that denied him any affect ― he remained unchanged even in pain. His grip around the knife tightened.
Antoine burst from out from the kitchen and dashed to the boy's curled figure.
“Castiel! Mister Castiel!” He grabbed a napkin to stem the flow of blood, causing the boy to whimper at the touch. Antoine glanced at Jimmy who still had the bloodied knife in his hand, but said nothing and focussed on collecting the boy in his arms and heading for the hospital. Jimmy stared after them coldly. He threw the knife aside, bitterly wishing he had gotten the other hand as well.
- - -
That night, Jimmy tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep because of the stormy weather outside, while his brother lay in a bed next to him, unperturbed and still with his bandaged hand sticking out over the mattress. The pitter patter of the rain against the window did nothing to help him sleep, and the occasional roll of thunder made him tense up every time. He always had the feeling that a stray lightning strike would eventually smash through the window and hit him, leaving behind a maimed corpse that would stare lifelessly up at the ceiling.
A particularly vicious thunder strike resonated so loud he could feel the reverberations throughout his body, making him yelp and curl in on himself. The mattress beneath him then dipped unexpectedly and another warm body besides his own pressed up against his side under the covers while an arm wrapped itself around his chest and shoulders. He screwed his eyes shut and breathed in the warmth around him. This body... it was all he would get; but it was meaningless if there was no soul in the warmth. He ground his teeth and tried to stop his tears from flowing so freely, especially when his brother had none to spare. He was so close and yet he couldn't be farther away.
“I'm sorry,” his brother murmured softly in his ear. “I'm so sorry.”
“Shut up,” Jimmy croaked.
“Sorry,” the voice continued to repeat in the semi-darkness.
Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut and bit out, “Shut up!”
The arm around him tightened and the voice ghosted over his neck, “I'm sorry. Please don't cry.”
But he wasn't allowed to be sorry if he didn't mean it. Not really. He turned on his side and kicked the warmth away, hard enough to make his brother grunt and fold in on himself. Kicking in that soft flesh sent ecstatic shivers down his spine, and the pained grunts were sweeter than any symphony he'd ever heard. And yet his idiot brother still kept his arm tangled around his body, like letting go was a defeat he would never admit to.
“Let go!” He tried to relieve the pressure around his chest. “You're choking me!”
“I'm sorry.”
“Stop saying that!” He bit down on the arm. His brother yelped, and was swiftly dealt a hard kick to the stomach. He finally let go, landing with a heavy thud to the floor. Jimmy crawled out of bed and swung his legs around Castiel, effectively straddling him, an enthralling determination persisting in his motions. Jimmy yanked the boy's chin so he could see those eyes, see how sorry they were now. But all that remained in the estranged mirror of himself was an apology whose exterior flaked off the harder he looked into that slack face. He trailed his fingers from the shoulder of the loose shirt sleeve down the slender arm, and slowly, gently, he brought the bandaged hand to his lips, still keeping his eyes fixed on his brother's. Castiel looked on, an expression of vague disinterest on his face. Jimmy clenched his jaw and pressed down on the stitched wound.
The boy's blank face suddenly twisted into a convulsed grimace: his eyes sealed closed, as if it could shut out the pain, while his upper teeth bit down on his lips so as to not scream out. But Jimmy wanted to hear that voice which was rendered all the more beautiful by the pain. But his stubborn brother refused to cry out; he narrowed his eyes and pressed harder.
“Why won't you cry out? Don't you want Father to come save you?” A red stain bloomed from the centre of the boy's palm outward. “Or do you like it when I hurt you like this?” The boy swallowed a whimper; yet there was something deadly resolute in his action that subverted the pathetic façade he displayed. This only worked to convinced Jimmy he would never be able to reach his brother again again. Jimmy exhaled and brought the hand to his cheek; the tender fingers twitched over his wet cheeks.
“You shouldn't cry.” Castiel frowned, reproachful, like his hand was the least of his problems. “You are always so easily carried away.”
Jimmy shut his eyes and huffed. “Shut up! I'm not crying. I'm pissed.”
“Do you want to see me cry as well that much?” the boy asked, a slight tone of surprise in his voice.
“Screw you,” Jimmy muttered, burying his face in the bloodied hand. “You think you're so tough...” He wiped his cheeks against the stiff fingers and pressed his forehead to his brother's warm, hard neck. Tomorrow, he would slash the piano's strings.
- - -
“Cas. Hey, man. How you holding up?” Dean stood by his side with George. He was relieved to know there hadn't been any physical injury or any irreversible damage to the boy. However, there seemed to be something missing in this scene. He turned to George and asked, “Hey, where's his father?”
“Mister Bellamy is on his way back from the airport,” he reported, seemingly engrossed in a tactile electronic device over which his fingers ceaselessly flitted across.
“Good,” Dean said, staring resolutely at the still body in bed. “I'd like to finally meet the bastard.”
The steward paused and looked up at the boy from behind his inscrutable glasses; his face clouded for a brief instant, but just as quickly reverted back to his usual expressionless figure, investing his attention once more in the gadget.
“Cas...” Dean turned to the boy who looked up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. If Dean looked hard enough, he could see a minute wrinkle in the corner of his mouth fold a little downwards in an irritated grimace, and he knew by now how imperious his irritation got. He heaved a sigh and slumped into a nearby chair. “You might be the stupidest smart person I have met. You're even worse than me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Castiel mumbled as he rose the sheet over himself until Dean was only barely visible through minuscule squares of light, “when I'm afraid you've set the bar impossibly high for many novices in the field. I honestly have no illusions in surpassing your experienced level.”
Dean huffed. The boy had a lot more spunk than he'd given him credit for; and there he was pitying the brat who'd spat in his face. “Don't think lying in a hospitable bed will stop me from kicking your scrawny ass, papa's boy.”
“Amazing,” a dry reply arose from behind the screen of sheets. “Your lines never stray far from their refuge in vulgarity.”
Dean clenched his jaw. How the hell could that brat say that while hiding his face? Of course he wasn't really going to kick him while he was down... Still, that didn't mean the boy could mouth off to him to his heart's content. He pulled his chair back and got up.
“Well, looks like you're doing just fine. I really don't need to stay here and take this shit from you.” He glanced at the boy, but the bulge of sheets refused to acknowledge him, much to Dean's frustration. He turned away with a huff and left the room.
The steward, who had seemingly until now been solely invested in his tactile device, raised his head and looked at the boy. Castiel lowered the sheets to his chest, pointedly ignoring the reproachful gaze.
“What?” he asked the wall, irritated.
George wordlessly turned his gaze away and stepped out of the room.
- - -
“Mister Winchester,” George called out to Dean in the hallway. The boy paused and swivelled round.
“What? Does Lord Bellamy need extra help wiping his ass?” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Forget it; I'm done with that spoilt brat,” he said and continued down the hall.
“He may seem like that...” George said as the boy receded further away. “But to see him so worked up only serves to show how much he's become attached to you.”
Dean's steps slowed to a stop.
“Though I've only been in the family household for a little over six years, I think I've come decipher most of the young man's quirks and habits. I do not know how it was before my time, but as long as I've known him, he has never made it his priority to socialise; however, I do not think it was his main preoccupation, as he was more engrossed with hiding behind mountains of academic books. I, occupied as I was by managing the house's finances, was not able to interact with him much. When I did interact with him and his brother, I have to say they were quite a handful despite their seemingly proper appearance.” He chuckled softly, though Dean couldn't tell if it was out of dry cynicism or fond exasperation. “I guess what I am trying to say is: don't give up on him now. You're truly an exceptional person if you've managed to crack open his shell just a little.”
Dean's stare lingered on the hospital floor for a moment longer while George's steps echoed further away down the hall. Don't you ever leave, the words raced across his mind in screeching clarity. He palmed his face and sighed. Contradictory bastard. Why couldn't things with him be clear and simple for once? Just once. He huffed. No way he was crawling back to that self-important asshole - he still had his dignity after all. He turned back and stared at the door down the hall.
“Ah, fuck it.”
- - -
Upon returning to the room, George immediately sunk in a chair, his device readily out to abstract himself from the tension. Castiel could tell what he was thinking as he sullenly stared at the sterile wall at his side. And he would probably be right, too. In the end, it didn't matter much, if at all, since he would soon be leaving it all behind and start building his life away from this morass of distracting and troublesome emotivity. But wasn't that tantamount to running away?
The door cracked open shyly, revealing through a thin margin a reluctant mass lurking in the opening. It seemed as though a decision had been reached as the mass finally opened the door completely, closed it behind him, and walked over with laboured nonchalance to lean on the wall Castiel had previously been engaged in staring at. To his surprise, the boy looked rather bothered and red.
Dean cleared his throat and muttered to the ground, “So... you, uh... you really wanna go to Switzerland, huh?”
Castiel lowered his eyes. “Yes, actually. Although, it has less to do with my father's wishes than you may think.”
Dean shrugged off the implied accusation. “Hey, whatever rocks your boat, man. If you wanna run off to yodel in the mountains for a while, knock yourself out; I don't care. I mean, it's not like I'd forget you or anything...”
Castiel looked up at him, his eyes wide and a little confused. “You mean you're... okay with it? It may only take a year. For now. I think. Are you sure it wouldn't be better if you were just done with me? I mean, it's not that big of a deal.” He clenched his fists in the wad of sheets he sorely wanted to disappear under.
The boy sighed and pushed himself away from the wall. “You blockhead.” He stared down the startled figure. “You're so wrapped up in your own little world that you deliberately shoot down anyone who so much as tries to get close to you. That way, you won't have to deal with failing to live up to anyone's expectations. You think you're neutral, safe above everything and everyone, watching people from a distance and pretending to be entirely independent and strong... But I've seen you at your most vulnerable, at times when the pressure of shouldering all that loneliness and responsibility was so much it made you sick. So I was there - I was convenient. I served to relieve some of that pressure and you served to satisfy some of my own desires. We both used each other.”
At this point, George thought it sensible to discreetly leave the room. Castiel blushed for him.
“If you would only be a little more open about what you want, maybe we could make this thing between us work.” He sat on the edge on the bed, his hands searching Castiel's.
But Castiel retracted his hands and hid his eyes behind his bangs. “Is that so? You say I should be more open about myself when I can see you've clearly read me like a preacher's book. So we've both just been using each other, have we? Is that the state of affairs between us, then? A practical relationship that tends to the physical and emotional desires of each party? How utilitarian. I like your way of thinking.” He gave a lop-sided smirk. “And here I was with this vague, odd hope that you would adopt a more nihilistic approach, like you always do.” He sighed and curled his lips into a sour smile. “But is mutual pragmatism not what love boils down to in the end?”
Dean's face folded into one of wounded disbelief, like he was suddenly disgusted by his callous honesty. Castiel flared up at that - he should be the one offended by having been openly used. That boy and his naïve notion of love which he gladly confused with lust dared be insulted? And yet his heart sank at the hurt expression, one that harboured an all-too familiar resentment. However, he'd known this would never have worked from the start, so why did this rejection make him want to gouge his eyes out so that he would never have to see the unvoiced accusation that undeniably lurked in every face he saw?
“Don't look at me like that,” he muttered to the sheets.
“Like what?”
Castiel whipped his head at him and shouted, “Like I'm a damn monster!”
Dean flinched back, surprised.
“You think you've got me down; you think you've finally figured me out like I was some sort of exotic, exciting puzzle to begin with, something to distract yourself with from your boring, normal life.” He absently rubbed a thumb over a small scar in the centre of his left palm. “You should be grateful to have the normal life you lead. It's enough.”
“It should be, but it's not.” Dean breathed out and stretched his legs out in front of him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I always thought I've had it easy. You know: loving parents, a precocious little dick as a younger brother, awesome friends, a string of girlfriends... things that you would normally expect in your typical teenage boy's life. No dead, absent, physically or emotionally abusive parents to write a book about, or anything to give me cause to complain. But you know, that doesn't make me any better off than you. While I may have most of my shit together, even though (and I'll admit it) I'm kind of a jerk sometimes, truth is: I have feelings for you, and you can't file that away as something I made up on the spot to score with you. Though now you're probably bangin' your pretty little noggin as to why anyone would ever feel that way towards you. And ain't that a sad thing to think?” He turned his head to Castiel and smiled at the round-eyed boy. “I actually envy you, Cas. How you keep calm and logical even when things seem to fall all around you.”
“Except when it's you.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, but that doesn't count. I am a persistent little bastard, and you kinda don't hate me. So you didn't stand a chance.” He added more seriously, “You've probably had to deal with more unreasonable shit than most could handle and that's why you've had to become strong and hide your own emotions. But in fact, you're rather sensitive because your heart isn't really as strong and unfeeling as you'd like people to think. It's okay if you let yourself be a little selfish, you know.”
Castiel tensed up and ran a thumb on the inside of his left palm. Dean was wrong on at least one account. He'd been selfish, once, for far too long. And yet somehow this boy honestly believed in him with such a boyish eagerness that it almost made him want to cry.
“You think I am selfless...” He arose from the mattress on his knees to trail his fingers across the nape of Dean's neck. “And yet I want to claim you all to myself. Tell me what you really want from me, Dean.” He pushed his fingers into the boy's hair while he pressed himself up against his back.
Dean leaned back and closed his eyes and murmured through barely open lips, “Just love me back.”
Castiel slipped a hand down the front of his shirt and grazed his nipple while he breathed in his ear, “And how do I do that?”
Dean arched back into the touch and shivered as Castiel nipped the place between his shoulder and neck and laved over the teeth marks with his tongue.
“You're on the right track,” he breathed.
At this point, Castiel could not bring himself to care that he was in a hospital room that had no lock. Besides, he had George by the door. And hearing Dean say those things with such an open heart... it wasn't fair. He hadn't been prepared for this.
Dean turned around in his arms and pushed him gently back into the mattress, pressing his lips against his with unrestrained and tender abandon. Castiel locked his arms around Dean's neck and plunged his tongue in the boy's mouth like he was desperate to taste some of that boyish candour for himself.
A succession of loud knocks suddenly resounded and made them hastily pull apart, breathless. The door opened and in walked his father, closely followed by an apologetic George. All the spit and fire that Dean had been harbouring toward the man until now had as if momentarily disappeared and were instead replaced by flustered intimidation.
Dean shot up from the bed and straightened out his clothes. “Oh, um, hello, sir. Nice to meet you.” He stuck his hand out to the sceptical figure who merely raised an eyebrow at the stretched out hand. “I guess not,” he mumbled and retracted his hand. Castiel suppressed a smile.
“By the way, Cas.” Dean turned to him, a bit red in the face. “Uh, you're welcome over for Thanksgiving tomorrow. If you want.” He seemed to want to say something else but one last look at his father convinced him it was time to go. “Well, see ya.”
His father watched him leave with a suspicious frown. He finally turned to him and said, “Castiel, who is that boy?”
Castiel tried hard not to act surprised at the first question his father had to ask him. “He's... he's a friend from school.”
The answer did not do much to satisfy him, but he seemed to let it go for now at least. His shoulders slumped out of fatigue and relief as he approached his son.
“Castiel... why do you make it your priority to worry me so?”
“Father?”
“Is it to get my attention that you constantly endanger yourself so foolishly?” He pressed a knuckle to his head as he shook it in disbelief. This was the most Castiel had seen him so worked up, barring work-related issues. “So far, I've been nothing but proud of your hard work. But there's something you're not telling me.”
Castiel lowered his eyes and said nothing.
His father sighed and lay a hand on his head. Castiel looked up at him, startled.
“The doctor said as long as you stayed away from the pills for now, you're able to go home with me.”
“But your plane...”
“I think a bunch of computer geeks in Sweden doesn't warrant precedence over my son's health.”
And the rest of the evening passed in a daze Castiel wasn't sure he'd woken up from yet. And then it hit him later that night. Could it be that the reason his father had smiled so forcibly when announcing the news for Switzerland was because... he didn't really want to see him go? He palmed his forehead and sunk into his own bed.
“Nah,” he said, and switched the light off.
- - -
“De Klerk...” Michael said to George from his office chair. The steward stopped clicking his stylus on a portable display screen he was manipulating in his lap.
He looked up.“Yes, sir?”
Michael steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Is there something I'm doing wrong?”
“Sir?”
“My son is gradually losing more and more weight, he barely talks, and he constantly shuts himself in his room, always hiding from the world. Maybe it was a mistake to have withdrawn him from school. But he's always hated socialising, so I thought I was doing him a favour.” He paused for a second in contemplation, pressing a knuckle against his teeth. “That boy... from the hospital. What is he to my son?”
George stared impassively at him for a moment before saying, “I believe he is a friend of Mister Castiel's.”
Michael shook his head. “Castiel doesn't make friends.” He paused, making George's hand tense a little around the stylus. He sighed. “I really wish he'd find himself a nice girl these days. But after seeing him at all our past cocktail parties and social gatherings, I know the chances are quite slim... I hope someday he'll forgive me.”
“Sir?”
He got up from his chair and headed out of the room. “Goodnight, De Klerk.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
- - -
Castiel awoke that morning to the shattering of glass. His ears immediately picked up an unearthly shriek that could only come from one person... His heart skipped a beat or two as he instantly jumped out of bed and threw on whatever clothes his hands first landed on and raced downstairs to find none other than...
“Where is he?! I want to see him right now!” Jimmy screamed at his father who was having a hard time keeping him away from the vases.
“You watch your tone with me, son.” He raised his voice in a gamble for authority, though it was pretty useless against Jimmy.
“Don't give me that shit! You took him away and screwed him up bad enough to have him institutionalised; now give... him... back!” He seethed. His entire body shook with the type of rage that kept him from breaking down. Castiel shook his head in embarrassment; he always got carried away so easily.
“What on earth are you talking about?” his father said, trying to knock some sense into the psychotic child. “He's upstairs sleeping.”
Jimmy swivelled round and landed his eyes on his brother who stood in the doorway. Castiel took a surprised step back. What in the world was his brother wearing? It was like San Francisco had swallowed him in the tackiest fashion craze and spat him out because his fashion sense seemed to rival their own. His hair had not only grown out into small ponytail but he'd also bleached it blond. The second offence was the sleeveless, open-chested pink hoodie he wore over a black long sleeved shirt with wavy golden designs and faux-faded dark blue jeans that appeared intent on not leaving much to the imagination. A thick white scarf seemed to hide half his face while his bangs and square blue-tinged sunglasses hid the other half. Castiel had the vague feeling that his brother was going through a rebellious identity crisis of some sort.
“Cas!” he squealed and dashed to squeeze his neck in his arms. Castiel was too stunned to respond, or even breathe for that matter. When Jimmy pulled away, his expression had considerably darkened. Even behind the over the top outfit, his brother still managed to instil an undeniable sense of uncanny intimidation that even now made his left palm itch.
“You scare me like that again, I swear I'll give you something worth being scared of for good,” he said. But Castiel could see in those same cold eyes the same angry tears well up.
“I'm sorry, Jimmy,” he croaked and wrapped his arms around him. “I'm so sorry.”
- - -
A/N: Okay, I SWEAR next chapter will be the last. I think. Oh, Jimmy.
Woops, I just realised i put the name Joshua somewhere -- that was something i did so i could have my sister read it without knowing it was a SPN fic lol. Fixed it now.
Part 12
Weblån
Part 1
~~~
The table lay in auspicious wait for the dinner ritual as it patiently stewed in the faint buzz of hungry anticipation; its two eager attendants wordlessly sat across each other. One of them relentlessly chewed on a now blunt toothpick while his eyes pinned down the other from under his bangs.
Jimmy turned away. “You shouldn't be reading at the table.”
He ran a finger down his immaculate fork and pressed hard on the butt of the handle until his fingernail gave a striking gradation of pink and white. “It's rude.”
Castiel gave no indication of hearing him, and, in fact, licked a finger and turned a page.
Jimmy closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to ignore the provocation. A thought occurred to him and made his tight lips loosen into a manifest smirk.
“Mother went by the book store today and got me that comic book you were telling me about. You remember it? The one Father thought was a waste of time and money.”
But the boy remained all the more aloof in that impenetrable stoic bubble of his that denied him the slightest regard. The toothpick snapped between his teeth.
“Will you be playing this evening?” he asked him, even though he knew the answer by heart already. His brother never failed to play his instrument after dinner, though it hadn't always been like that. He couldn't even remember when this infuriating habit had begun. And it would always, always be a soulful, lifeless tune that the boy could completely immerse himself in, as if he were stuck in some formless mourning that always swallowed him whole and left nothing of him behind to salvage.
“Yes,” the boy answered without looking up at him; he might as well have answered a bodiless voice.
Jimmy wrapped his fingers around the glistening fork. “Chopin?” he inquired. “Or will it be Beethoven? Or maybe Liszt's soft Liebestraum?” He was only dimly aware of how his voice grew more raving with each suggestion; and yet the boy's expression remained unchanged and unimpressed, which only succeeded in annoying him all the more.
“Or why not a bit of Purcell? Will you not give us a thrillingly bland Hungarian Rhapsody? Oh! Why not go all out and play us some old school Toccata and Fugue in D Minor? Or would opera suit you better?”
The boy quietly replied, “Those are all wonderful suggestions. I will consider each one of them. Now, please, Jimmy, there is no need for getting carried away; the food will soon arrive.”
Antoine, their young domestic who worked part-time, finally emerged from the kitchen with two dishes balanced in each hand and had a warm smile on his face that tried to establish an ostensible sense of normalcy back into the picture.
“Here we go, young masters,” he twittered as he placed the orange-tinged dishes in front of the boys. “Summer vegetable ragout with exotic curry sauce with added cayenne and cumin for extra flavour. Bon appétit!”
Jimmy scrunched his nose at the intruding meal and said, “Curry? Like the spicy kind?”
Antoine faltered a little and said, “Well... a little. Is that a bad thing?”
Jimmy pushed the plate away and snapped, “I hate spicy foods. And there's way too many veggies.”
Antoine scratched his neck and mumbled, “Well, I guess I could dilute the spices with some crème fraîche and pick some of the vegetables out...”
“No. Make me something else.” The boy calmly stared the servant down and added, “I can wait.”
The young man muttered a curt apology and took the dish away. Jimmy looked back at his brother to watch for any signs of disappointment, resentment or even a hint of irritation. But all he saw ― all he would ever see ― was that blank mask of nothing. Unruffled, untouched. He ate the meal before him with no visible relish, only retaining the facial distortions of someone simply acquiring his nutrition. It seemed that even eating boiled down to mechanical, clinical motions. Had he only been pretending to enjoy his company all those times ago? Jimmy could not remember if this was really Castiel's true self, or if the present him was only an elaborate mockery. Even so, his brother never failed his familial duties and remained loyal to the family head no matter how much the rest of the family saw him. He pressed his finger into the tip of the knife blade until the sensitive flesh tore apart. He doubted the boy would take notice by himself.
“Castiel,” he said, his gaze fixed and pressing into the boy across him, daring him to feel any sympathy.
The boy looked up from his brother's face to the increasing red stain on the table cloth, and after a moment's consideration, sighed, as if discreetly admitting defeat in the face of his brother's stubbornness, and pulled his chair back. He approached Jimmy, a napkin in one hand, and leaned over him, placing a hand on the table in front of him.
Jimmy wrapped his fingers around the knife and jabbed it into his brother's left hand, pummelling the handle with his fist so that the knife cut clean between the bones. A pained shriek tore from the boy's lips as he crumpled to his knees, his voice fading to stuttered cries and hisses while he stared agape at the protruding knife that seemed to pin him to the table. Jimmy twisted the instrument further into the wound and watched the boy writhe and scream while a gleeful smile brightened his own face.
He leaned over his brother's bent head and said, “Now how will you play your piano? Tell me, Cas, do you feel this?” He twisted the blade again and another shriek tore through the room.
“Show me those tears you've locked away safe inside, or do you simply have none left?” He narrowed his eyes. “Well then, I'll simply have to make some more!” He jerked the knife out of the hand and raised it above his head.
The boy fell back on his haunches, eyes shut tight and cradling the wounded hand close to his chest, but not daring to touch it, like it was a part of his body he could no longer salvage, infected as it was by his twin's rage. Jimmy gritted his teeth and fell down to the floor next to his brother. Finally, the boy opened his eyes and stared at his brother in what Jimmy could only discern as an apology ― there was no fear or hate or anger, only an apology that denied him any affect ― he remained unchanged even in pain. His grip around the knife tightened.
Antoine burst from out from the kitchen and dashed to the boy's curled figure.
“Castiel! Mister Castiel!” He grabbed a napkin to stem the flow of blood, causing the boy to whimper at the touch. Antoine glanced at Jimmy who still had the bloodied knife in his hand, but said nothing and focussed on collecting the boy in his arms and heading for the hospital. Jimmy stared after them coldly. He threw the knife aside, bitterly wishing he had gotten the other hand as well.
- - -
That night, Jimmy tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep because of the stormy weather outside, while his brother lay in a bed next to him, unperturbed and still with his bandaged hand sticking out over the mattress. The pitter patter of the rain against the window did nothing to help him sleep, and the occasional roll of thunder made him tense up every time. He always had the feeling that a stray lightning strike would eventually smash through the window and hit him, leaving behind a maimed corpse that would stare lifelessly up at the ceiling.
A particularly vicious thunder strike resonated so loud he could feel the reverberations throughout his body, making him yelp and curl in on himself. The mattress beneath him then dipped unexpectedly and another warm body besides his own pressed up against his side under the covers while an arm wrapped itself around his chest and shoulders. He screwed his eyes shut and breathed in the warmth around him. This body... it was all he would get; but it was meaningless if there was no soul in the warmth. He ground his teeth and tried to stop his tears from flowing so freely, especially when his brother had none to spare. He was so close and yet he couldn't be farther away.
“I'm sorry,” his brother murmured softly in his ear. “I'm so sorry.”
“Shut up,” Jimmy croaked.
“Sorry,” the voice continued to repeat in the semi-darkness.
Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut and bit out, “Shut up!”
The arm around him tightened and the voice ghosted over his neck, “I'm sorry. Please don't cry.”
But he wasn't allowed to be sorry if he didn't mean it. Not really. He turned on his side and kicked the warmth away, hard enough to make his brother grunt and fold in on himself. Kicking in that soft flesh sent ecstatic shivers down his spine, and the pained grunts were sweeter than any symphony he'd ever heard. And yet his idiot brother still kept his arm tangled around his body, like letting go was a defeat he would never admit to.
“Let go!” He tried to relieve the pressure around his chest. “You're choking me!”
“I'm sorry.”
“Stop saying that!” He bit down on the arm. His brother yelped, and was swiftly dealt a hard kick to the stomach. He finally let go, landing with a heavy thud to the floor. Jimmy crawled out of bed and swung his legs around Castiel, effectively straddling him, an enthralling determination persisting in his motions. Jimmy yanked the boy's chin so he could see those eyes, see how sorry they were now. But all that remained in the estranged mirror of himself was an apology whose exterior flaked off the harder he looked into that slack face. He trailed his fingers from the shoulder of the loose shirt sleeve down the slender arm, and slowly, gently, he brought the bandaged hand to his lips, still keeping his eyes fixed on his brother's. Castiel looked on, an expression of vague disinterest on his face. Jimmy clenched his jaw and pressed down on the stitched wound.
The boy's blank face suddenly twisted into a convulsed grimace: his eyes sealed closed, as if it could shut out the pain, while his upper teeth bit down on his lips so as to not scream out. But Jimmy wanted to hear that voice which was rendered all the more beautiful by the pain. But his stubborn brother refused to cry out; he narrowed his eyes and pressed harder.
“Why won't you cry out? Don't you want Father to come save you?” A red stain bloomed from the centre of the boy's palm outward. “Or do you like it when I hurt you like this?” The boy swallowed a whimper; yet there was something deadly resolute in his action that subverted the pathetic façade he displayed. This only worked to convinced Jimmy he would never be able to reach his brother again again. Jimmy exhaled and brought the hand to his cheek; the tender fingers twitched over his wet cheeks.
“You shouldn't cry.” Castiel frowned, reproachful, like his hand was the least of his problems. “You are always so easily carried away.”
Jimmy shut his eyes and huffed. “Shut up! I'm not crying. I'm pissed.”
“Do you want to see me cry as well that much?” the boy asked, a slight tone of surprise in his voice.
“Screw you,” Jimmy muttered, burying his face in the bloodied hand. “You think you're so tough...” He wiped his cheeks against the stiff fingers and pressed his forehead to his brother's warm, hard neck. Tomorrow, he would slash the piano's strings.
- - -
“Cas. Hey, man. How you holding up?” Dean stood by his side with George. He was relieved to know there hadn't been any physical injury or any irreversible damage to the boy. However, there seemed to be something missing in this scene. He turned to George and asked, “Hey, where's his father?”
“Mister Bellamy is on his way back from the airport,” he reported, seemingly engrossed in a tactile electronic device over which his fingers ceaselessly flitted across.
“Good,” Dean said, staring resolutely at the still body in bed. “I'd like to finally meet the bastard.”
The steward paused and looked up at the boy from behind his inscrutable glasses; his face clouded for a brief instant, but just as quickly reverted back to his usual expressionless figure, investing his attention once more in the gadget.
“Cas...” Dean turned to the boy who looked up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. If Dean looked hard enough, he could see a minute wrinkle in the corner of his mouth fold a little downwards in an irritated grimace, and he knew by now how imperious his irritation got. He heaved a sigh and slumped into a nearby chair. “You might be the stupidest smart person I have met. You're even worse than me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Castiel mumbled as he rose the sheet over himself until Dean was only barely visible through minuscule squares of light, “when I'm afraid you've set the bar impossibly high for many novices in the field. I honestly have no illusions in surpassing your experienced level.”
Dean huffed. The boy had a lot more spunk than he'd given him credit for; and there he was pitying the brat who'd spat in his face. “Don't think lying in a hospitable bed will stop me from kicking your scrawny ass, papa's boy.”
“Amazing,” a dry reply arose from behind the screen of sheets. “Your lines never stray far from their refuge in vulgarity.”
Dean clenched his jaw. How the hell could that brat say that while hiding his face? Of course he wasn't really going to kick him while he was down... Still, that didn't mean the boy could mouth off to him to his heart's content. He pulled his chair back and got up.
“Well, looks like you're doing just fine. I really don't need to stay here and take this shit from you.” He glanced at the boy, but the bulge of sheets refused to acknowledge him, much to Dean's frustration. He turned away with a huff and left the room.
The steward, who had seemingly until now been solely invested in his tactile device, raised his head and looked at the boy. Castiel lowered the sheets to his chest, pointedly ignoring the reproachful gaze.
“What?” he asked the wall, irritated.
George wordlessly turned his gaze away and stepped out of the room.
- - -
“Mister Winchester,” George called out to Dean in the hallway. The boy paused and swivelled round.
“What? Does Lord Bellamy need extra help wiping his ass?” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Forget it; I'm done with that spoilt brat,” he said and continued down the hall.
“He may seem like that...” George said as the boy receded further away. “But to see him so worked up only serves to show how much he's become attached to you.”
Dean's steps slowed to a stop.
“Though I've only been in the family household for a little over six years, I think I've come decipher most of the young man's quirks and habits. I do not know how it was before my time, but as long as I've known him, he has never made it his priority to socialise; however, I do not think it was his main preoccupation, as he was more engrossed with hiding behind mountains of academic books. I, occupied as I was by managing the house's finances, was not able to interact with him much. When I did interact with him and his brother, I have to say they were quite a handful despite their seemingly proper appearance.” He chuckled softly, though Dean couldn't tell if it was out of dry cynicism or fond exasperation. “I guess what I am trying to say is: don't give up on him now. You're truly an exceptional person if you've managed to crack open his shell just a little.”
Dean's stare lingered on the hospital floor for a moment longer while George's steps echoed further away down the hall. Don't you ever leave, the words raced across his mind in screeching clarity. He palmed his face and sighed. Contradictory bastard. Why couldn't things with him be clear and simple for once? Just once. He huffed. No way he was crawling back to that self-important asshole - he still had his dignity after all. He turned back and stared at the door down the hall.
“Ah, fuck it.”
- - -
Upon returning to the room, George immediately sunk in a chair, his device readily out to abstract himself from the tension. Castiel could tell what he was thinking as he sullenly stared at the sterile wall at his side. And he would probably be right, too. In the end, it didn't matter much, if at all, since he would soon be leaving it all behind and start building his life away from this morass of distracting and troublesome emotivity. But wasn't that tantamount to running away?
The door cracked open shyly, revealing through a thin margin a reluctant mass lurking in the opening. It seemed as though a decision had been reached as the mass finally opened the door completely, closed it behind him, and walked over with laboured nonchalance to lean on the wall Castiel had previously been engaged in staring at. To his surprise, the boy looked rather bothered and red.
Dean cleared his throat and muttered to the ground, “So... you, uh... you really wanna go to Switzerland, huh?”
Castiel lowered his eyes. “Yes, actually. Although, it has less to do with my father's wishes than you may think.”
Dean shrugged off the implied accusation. “Hey, whatever rocks your boat, man. If you wanna run off to yodel in the mountains for a while, knock yourself out; I don't care. I mean, it's not like I'd forget you or anything...”
Castiel looked up at him, his eyes wide and a little confused. “You mean you're... okay with it? It may only take a year. For now. I think. Are you sure it wouldn't be better if you were just done with me? I mean, it's not that big of a deal.” He clenched his fists in the wad of sheets he sorely wanted to disappear under.
The boy sighed and pushed himself away from the wall. “You blockhead.” He stared down the startled figure. “You're so wrapped up in your own little world that you deliberately shoot down anyone who so much as tries to get close to you. That way, you won't have to deal with failing to live up to anyone's expectations. You think you're neutral, safe above everything and everyone, watching people from a distance and pretending to be entirely independent and strong... But I've seen you at your most vulnerable, at times when the pressure of shouldering all that loneliness and responsibility was so much it made you sick. So I was there - I was convenient. I served to relieve some of that pressure and you served to satisfy some of my own desires. We both used each other.”
At this point, George thought it sensible to discreetly leave the room. Castiel blushed for him.
“If you would only be a little more open about what you want, maybe we could make this thing between us work.” He sat on the edge on the bed, his hands searching Castiel's.
But Castiel retracted his hands and hid his eyes behind his bangs. “Is that so? You say I should be more open about myself when I can see you've clearly read me like a preacher's book. So we've both just been using each other, have we? Is that the state of affairs between us, then? A practical relationship that tends to the physical and emotional desires of each party? How utilitarian. I like your way of thinking.” He gave a lop-sided smirk. “And here I was with this vague, odd hope that you would adopt a more nihilistic approach, like you always do.” He sighed and curled his lips into a sour smile. “But is mutual pragmatism not what love boils down to in the end?”
Dean's face folded into one of wounded disbelief, like he was suddenly disgusted by his callous honesty. Castiel flared up at that - he should be the one offended by having been openly used. That boy and his naïve notion of love which he gladly confused with lust dared be insulted? And yet his heart sank at the hurt expression, one that harboured an all-too familiar resentment. However, he'd known this would never have worked from the start, so why did this rejection make him want to gouge his eyes out so that he would never have to see the unvoiced accusation that undeniably lurked in every face he saw?
“Don't look at me like that,” he muttered to the sheets.
“Like what?”
Castiel whipped his head at him and shouted, “Like I'm a damn monster!”
Dean flinched back, surprised.
“You think you've got me down; you think you've finally figured me out like I was some sort of exotic, exciting puzzle to begin with, something to distract yourself with from your boring, normal life.” He absently rubbed a thumb over a small scar in the centre of his left palm. “You should be grateful to have the normal life you lead. It's enough.”
“It should be, but it's not.” Dean breathed out and stretched his legs out in front of him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I always thought I've had it easy. You know: loving parents, a precocious little dick as a younger brother, awesome friends, a string of girlfriends... things that you would normally expect in your typical teenage boy's life. No dead, absent, physically or emotionally abusive parents to write a book about, or anything to give me cause to complain. But you know, that doesn't make me any better off than you. While I may have most of my shit together, even though (and I'll admit it) I'm kind of a jerk sometimes, truth is: I have feelings for you, and you can't file that away as something I made up on the spot to score with you. Though now you're probably bangin' your pretty little noggin as to why anyone would ever feel that way towards you. And ain't that a sad thing to think?” He turned his head to Castiel and smiled at the round-eyed boy. “I actually envy you, Cas. How you keep calm and logical even when things seem to fall all around you.”
“Except when it's you.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, but that doesn't count. I am a persistent little bastard, and you kinda don't hate me. So you didn't stand a chance.” He added more seriously, “You've probably had to deal with more unreasonable shit than most could handle and that's why you've had to become strong and hide your own emotions. But in fact, you're rather sensitive because your heart isn't really as strong and unfeeling as you'd like people to think. It's okay if you let yourself be a little selfish, you know.”
Castiel tensed up and ran a thumb on the inside of his left palm. Dean was wrong on at least one account. He'd been selfish, once, for far too long. And yet somehow this boy honestly believed in him with such a boyish eagerness that it almost made him want to cry.
“You think I am selfless...” He arose from the mattress on his knees to trail his fingers across the nape of Dean's neck. “And yet I want to claim you all to myself. Tell me what you really want from me, Dean.” He pushed his fingers into the boy's hair while he pressed himself up against his back.
Dean leaned back and closed his eyes and murmured through barely open lips, “Just love me back.”
Castiel slipped a hand down the front of his shirt and grazed his nipple while he breathed in his ear, “And how do I do that?”
Dean arched back into the touch and shivered as Castiel nipped the place between his shoulder and neck and laved over the teeth marks with his tongue.
“You're on the right track,” he breathed.
At this point, Castiel could not bring himself to care that he was in a hospital room that had no lock. Besides, he had George by the door. And hearing Dean say those things with such an open heart... it wasn't fair. He hadn't been prepared for this.
Dean turned around in his arms and pushed him gently back into the mattress, pressing his lips against his with unrestrained and tender abandon. Castiel locked his arms around Dean's neck and plunged his tongue in the boy's mouth like he was desperate to taste some of that boyish candour for himself.
A succession of loud knocks suddenly resounded and made them hastily pull apart, breathless. The door opened and in walked his father, closely followed by an apologetic George. All the spit and fire that Dean had been harbouring toward the man until now had as if momentarily disappeared and were instead replaced by flustered intimidation.
Dean shot up from the bed and straightened out his clothes. “Oh, um, hello, sir. Nice to meet you.” He stuck his hand out to the sceptical figure who merely raised an eyebrow at the stretched out hand. “I guess not,” he mumbled and retracted his hand. Castiel suppressed a smile.
“By the way, Cas.” Dean turned to him, a bit red in the face. “Uh, you're welcome over for Thanksgiving tomorrow. If you want.” He seemed to want to say something else but one last look at his father convinced him it was time to go. “Well, see ya.”
His father watched him leave with a suspicious frown. He finally turned to him and said, “Castiel, who is that boy?”
Castiel tried hard not to act surprised at the first question his father had to ask him. “He's... he's a friend from school.”
The answer did not do much to satisfy him, but he seemed to let it go for now at least. His shoulders slumped out of fatigue and relief as he approached his son.
“Castiel... why do you make it your priority to worry me so?”
“Father?”
“Is it to get my attention that you constantly endanger yourself so foolishly?” He pressed a knuckle to his head as he shook it in disbelief. This was the most Castiel had seen him so worked up, barring work-related issues. “So far, I've been nothing but proud of your hard work. But there's something you're not telling me.”
Castiel lowered his eyes and said nothing.
His father sighed and lay a hand on his head. Castiel looked up at him, startled.
“The doctor said as long as you stayed away from the pills for now, you're able to go home with me.”
“But your plane...”
“I think a bunch of computer geeks in Sweden doesn't warrant precedence over my son's health.”
And the rest of the evening passed in a daze Castiel wasn't sure he'd woken up from yet. And then it hit him later that night. Could it be that the reason his father had smiled so forcibly when announcing the news for Switzerland was because... he didn't really want to see him go? He palmed his forehead and sunk into his own bed.
“Nah,” he said, and switched the light off.
- - -
“De Klerk...” Michael said to George from his office chair. The steward stopped clicking his stylus on a portable display screen he was manipulating in his lap.
He looked up.“Yes, sir?”
Michael steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Is there something I'm doing wrong?”
“Sir?”
“My son is gradually losing more and more weight, he barely talks, and he constantly shuts himself in his room, always hiding from the world. Maybe it was a mistake to have withdrawn him from school. But he's always hated socialising, so I thought I was doing him a favour.” He paused for a second in contemplation, pressing a knuckle against his teeth. “That boy... from the hospital. What is he to my son?”
George stared impassively at him for a moment before saying, “I believe he is a friend of Mister Castiel's.”
Michael shook his head. “Castiel doesn't make friends.” He paused, making George's hand tense a little around the stylus. He sighed. “I really wish he'd find himself a nice girl these days. But after seeing him at all our past cocktail parties and social gatherings, I know the chances are quite slim... I hope someday he'll forgive me.”
“Sir?”
He got up from his chair and headed out of the room. “Goodnight, De Klerk.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
- - -
Castiel awoke that morning to the shattering of glass. His ears immediately picked up an unearthly shriek that could only come from one person... His heart skipped a beat or two as he instantly jumped out of bed and threw on whatever clothes his hands first landed on and raced downstairs to find none other than...
“Where is he?! I want to see him right now!” Jimmy screamed at his father who was having a hard time keeping him away from the vases.
“You watch your tone with me, son.” He raised his voice in a gamble for authority, though it was pretty useless against Jimmy.
“Don't give me that shit! You took him away and screwed him up bad enough to have him institutionalised; now give... him... back!” He seethed. His entire body shook with the type of rage that kept him from breaking down. Castiel shook his head in embarrassment; he always got carried away so easily.
“What on earth are you talking about?” his father said, trying to knock some sense into the psychotic child. “He's upstairs sleeping.”
Jimmy swivelled round and landed his eyes on his brother who stood in the doorway. Castiel took a surprised step back. What in the world was his brother wearing? It was like San Francisco had swallowed him in the tackiest fashion craze and spat him out because his fashion sense seemed to rival their own. His hair had not only grown out into small ponytail but he'd also bleached it blond. The second offence was the sleeveless, open-chested pink hoodie he wore over a black long sleeved shirt with wavy golden designs and faux-faded dark blue jeans that appeared intent on not leaving much to the imagination. A thick white scarf seemed to hide half his face while his bangs and square blue-tinged sunglasses hid the other half. Castiel had the vague feeling that his brother was going through a rebellious identity crisis of some sort.
“Cas!” he squealed and dashed to squeeze his neck in his arms. Castiel was too stunned to respond, or even breathe for that matter. When Jimmy pulled away, his expression had considerably darkened. Even behind the over the top outfit, his brother still managed to instil an undeniable sense of uncanny intimidation that even now made his left palm itch.
“You scare me like that again, I swear I'll give you something worth being scared of for good,” he said. But Castiel could see in those same cold eyes the same angry tears well up.
“I'm sorry, Jimmy,” he croaked and wrapped his arms around him. “I'm so sorry.”
- - -
A/N: Okay, I SWEAR next chapter will be the last. I think. Oh, Jimmy.
Woops, I just realised i put the name Joshua somewhere -- that was something i did so i could have my sister read it without knowing it was a SPN fic lol. Fixed it now.
Part 12
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