Supernatural fic - 4.16 interlude
Title: As cold waters to a thirsty soul
Characters: Sam, Castiel, Dean (sort of), Anna, Ruby
Rating: R for profanity
Word Count: ~3300
Spoilers: through 4.16
Summary: "missing scenes" for episode 4.16: "On the Head of a Pin" ~ Sam, Castiel, and their thoughts as they wait for Dean to wake up - including Dean and God, what to do next, whom they can count on and what it takes to do the job.
Thanks: to catdancerz,
just_ruth, and
kaz_tiel for so generously and excellently answering my beta request. However, I let the fic stew a long time after they replied, and it changed significantly - any remaining mistakes are mine.
A/N: One character's presentation hasn't really worked for me so far, but I do try my utmost to be fair to all the characters.
Credits:
- title from Proverbs (XXV:25).
- Latin cobbled together from what I found on Basic Prayers in English and Latin and this Allexperts QA, with a little help from InterTran.
* * * * *
As cold waters to a thirsty soul
Sam glanced at the clock, again.
Not even a full minute had passed since he last checked. He heaved a sigh, fiddling absently with the coffee cup he'd drained countless clock-glances ago.
Dean was doing okay, all things considered. The doctors had said he was recovering remarkably, and would wake up in the next couple of hours. The nurses even set up a rolling tray with water and a paper cup.
That was several hours ago.
Sam could feel a headache coming on. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Dean being this quiet, this long, was just plain wrong. Dean had come back from Hell - Hell. And, except for the oddly silent stretches in the Impala - and that one terrible roadside confession, when it seemed he'd break down completely, irreparably, if Sam so much as touched him - Dean had still managed to crack jokes and demand pie, and call Sam bitch.
Here, all Sam could hear was the background noise of the machines hooked up to his brother.
Sam opened his eyes, blinking in the weak, waning daylight. What was coming was just a normal headache, nothing worse, nothing more complicated - trivial, really. It was just what happened when you sat in a silent room for too long with your brother comatose, the world collapsing around you, and the Apocalypse on its way, and nothing at the moment you could do about any of it, but be angry.
And all he could do was get angrier, when one of the angels who'd landed Dean here in the first place flat-out refused to fix him, despite the fact that Dean was paying the price for their mistakes.
But even if they hadn't intended for Dean to end up in the hospital, they still sent him into that torture chamber against Alastair. Angels, those bastards, had forced Dean to relive Hell.
Sam stood and started pacing, disgusted at how naive he'd been only a few months ago. "Mercy my ass," he muttered, not noticing as the coffee cup crumpled in his restless grip.
Yet, he had come to terms with the angels' ruthlessness - because Sam himself was proof now that, yeah, sometimes the ends justified the means. Now, what really infuriated him was their incompetence. Couldn't interrogate demons worth a damn, couldn't even manage a goddamn devil's trap - and no, Sam wasn't going to apologize for blasphemous language again, ever - and of course Castiel hadn't healed Dean, either. No; Dean was here, healing, safe from demons, safe from angels and their pointless, screwed-up plans, all because of -
- because of Sam.
Ok, it really was too quiet.
Sam was surprised to notice the coffee cup still in his hand. Caffeine just didn't do anything for him anymore. Reaching across the bed, he set it aside without another thought on the rolling tray, then bent to bring his face level with his brother's.
"Jerk. I wish you'd get up already. I'm sure you don't like it here any more than I do."
Dean slept on.
Sam could talk about how lousy the hospital food was, or some other crap like that - fall back on the empty chatter they both used, more and more often, to cover up everything that really mattered. But Sam was tired of hiding - especially from Dean - and the headache was starting to throb. Besides, Dean couldn't hear him anyway...
... although, if Dean woke all of a sudden to tell Sam he was being childish, or retarded, or as pathetic as any loser who cried his way through sex, please no chick-flick waterworks at his bedside, thanks ... that would be completely - perfectly - ok.
"You know, we wouldn't be wasting time here if your angel buddies could get their act together," Sam chuckled humorlessly. "Makes me wonder how they managed to get you out of Hell. But even then, they didn't … really save you, you know?" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, they certainly weren't worth shit this time around."
Great; the last thing Dean needed was someone bitching at him even while he slept. Sam backtracked. "Look, I won't say I understand, because you still haven't talked it out ... which is okay. I get it. I get why you wouldn't even want to think about it, let alone talk. But the angels know, right? Castiel, at least, should know everything you were going through down there. But they still pit you against Alastair. No choice; not even an apology that they can't do their own dirty work; they just took you!"
He watched his hands clench into white-knuckled fists with a strange detachment, as if they weren't his. "So, yeah, Dean, you were right all along. God, apparently, doesn't give a crap."
Damn how his throat was closing up; he was not about to cry, he was angry, damn it. He'd killed Alastair and got Dean back to safety - him, not angels, not miracles. Him, the "boy with the demon blood."
So screw the angels and their sanctimonious disapproval of his "extracurricular activities." Thank - well, Sam didn't know who, not God anyway, not anymore - that he hadn't backed down; the angels didn't know what the hell they were talking about, not then, not now. One of Hell's worst demons would be back on the rampage, and Heaven would have one less soldier here on earth - though a crap load lot of good that did - if Sam hadn't chosen as he did, hadn't seen beyond the demonic origin of his powers and accepted them, for all the good he could do with them.
He looked back up defiantly. "I'm glad I could find you, Dean."
Suddenly his eyes were stinging; he took a deep breath, ignoring how it shuddered. "And, damn it but I'm glad I didn't listen to you, or the angels."
His head was pounding now, but he didn't care; God but saying it out loud, even with no one to hear, felt so good, like the high after a difficult kill, almost as good as a shot of Ruby's blood -
Sam gasped, backpedaling from Dean's bedside.
He'd known, of course, why coffee had no effect on him anymore, why everything tasted so horribly bland to him these days. Hospital food wasn't great, but it wasn't that bad either - he knew the real reason.
The stinging in his eyes sharpened; his vision blurred.
"Dean," he said quietly.
No response. Dean hadn't heard a word.
No miracles today.
Sam blinked back the sting in his eyes and turned away. Because he was stronger than that now. Stronger than demons ... and, apparently, even angels. Which, yeah, was just plain wrong seven ways from Sunday, and really, really terrifying if he'd let himself think about it - but no, he wouldn't. He could be strong for Dean now as he couldn't be, before; as Dean had been for both of them, all their lives.
Pacing again, Sam decided he was glad he'd gotten all this out of his system while Dean couldn't hear. Dean didn't need more burdens, couldn't take on any more. Sam had already kept his secret for months. He could bear it, would bear it, himself.
He knew what he wanted instead of coffee. But still, it would feel better just to have a cup in his hands. Got used to it over the past few years, out on the road with his brother.
Sam realized his hand was already on the doorknob.
Yeah, a walk would be good, get rid of some tension, get his circulation going again. He'd go get coffee and come right back, make sure Dean woke up ok, and then call him jerk.
Sam managed to close the door gently before bursting into double-time toward the nearest elevator down.
* * * * *
For what seemed an eternity, Castiel stared at the empty vessel of his fallen brother. The scorched earth around the body cooled quickly, two dull, parched shadows all that remained of the tremendous power of Uriel's wings.
The hand on Castiel's shoulder squeezed, insistent. Only then, he remembered Anna's presence. Remembered her stabbing Uriel from behind, declaring, "There's still me."
He stood swiftly, breaking contact.
Anna frowned.
Castiel simply stood there, his expression neutral. She had just saved his life, whatever her motives, so he would continue to overlook the order that mandated her death.
Anna closed the distance between them and reached a hand toward his head. "You're still bleeding; you should heal those cuts," she murmured softly, soothingly, belying the severe little lines marring her brow. He remained still, arms hanging slack. But he glanced toward her other hand, the one which gripped loosely, almost carelessly, the blade that had killed Uriel. It was still dripping blood.
He didn't know whether it was right, to feel so grateful for such a thing, but thank God Anna had refused to give him a direction in his darkest hour. Her agenda was not his, had never been. He would not ask her again.
So much for history; so much for allies he had once implicitly trusted. Uriel died believing in Lucifer rather than God, had killed other angels - kin. And Anna killed Uriel in his betrayal, but the killing was not just; she had forsaken the right to judge any of them long ago, when she abandoned those she led, turning her back on all of them and everything they protected together, without ever a trace of remorse.
Too many had already died. Others had converted; orders could be false. Castiel needed to think things through, construct a new strategy to accommodate everything that had changed, and for that he needed to go, someplace safe, a place where he would not be plagued by old comrades or superiors whom he could no longer trust.
For just a moment longer, he held himself still, though every fiber of his being sang with the overwhelming urge to leave.
Evenly he met Anna's gaze, closing his hand around the bloody weapon just as her hand came within a hair's breadth of the blood on his brow. "This isn't yours to wield," he said quietly.
Anna's eyes flashed, bright as blades, for just a moment.
Where Castiel stood, there was a pulse, like a breath from a weary child. Anna's hand touched only empty air.
* * * * *
Dean looked a lot better than the last time Castiel saw him - no supportive collar, less wiring, and a lot less tubing. Nevertheless Castiel sensed something off, felt awkward standing at Dean's bedside.
He was standing where Sam was seated, last time. The chair now stood on the other side of the bed, its vacancy louder to Castiel's senses than the machines' steady electrical rhythms.
Absently Castiel regarded the devices used to help Dean heal, tracing the lines' tangled paths, parsing the data shifting constantly on the monitor. A bottle of water, a crushed disposable cup, and a smaller, unused paper cup stood by on a tray with wheels - small and out of place amid the panoply of machines.
Castiel was comfortable with the logic of machinery, whether physical or spiritual. Telephones and cars took but a moment to decipher, and no effort to control. The devices of Heaven's arsenal were far more complex - even something so ubiquitous as water - but he could master their workings, too; had even created an apparatus that would hold, with absolute certainty, any demon. The details so crucial in the construction, the many components required - all came together logically in his mind and in his hands, fitting just right. And when the device failed, it was not due to any mistake or lack of foresight in the plans -not the mechanical plans, anyway.
His orders used to be like that. Individually, they never suggested any bigger picture, but each one had its place and its importance. And through the ages those orders had fit together seamlessly to form a greater whole - so logical, so right, Castiel never had any cause to doubt.
Dean would call that naive. Or, rather, something more ... colorful.
Castiel lowered his head, exhaling in what might have been a chuckle at himself - and was surprised to discover several bright red spots on the coat lapels. Only then he sensed the warmth still trickling down his face, running along his jaw. The hand he put to his temple came away bloody.
Usually he was much more conscientious with his vessel. Castiel shook his head at his lapse even as he closed his eyes, and concentrated. A moment later his vessel was cleaned up, the clothing repaired and clean, the tissue mended. Yet suddenly his limbs felt oddly ... cumbersome.
He went around the bed to the chair, careful to tread silently despite shoes definitely not crafted to be quiet. The chair back was ill-designed, too flat for comfort, too low to support one's head naturally, but Castiel made do - thinking of Sam, who was so much taller, sleeping through a night in this chair. He wondered how much human senses would protest the next morning.
Considering all this, Castiel was surprised to feel somewhat ... better, once he sat down.
Half-apologetically, he glanced at Dean. Sam's voice rang in Castiel's memory, anger almost - almost - concealing the raw vulnerability in his eyes as he demanded Miracle, NOW.
I can't, Castiel had replied, and it was true. Standing orders forbade miracles, even small ones, especially when humans could work through difficulties themselves. And orders or no, Castiel really couldn't, because the renewal of Dean's body was tied to his soul's return from Hell: a one-time deal. Humans were so much more than logic and machinery; they were his Father's creations.
As was this world.
Tipping his head back, Castiel gazed up toward a home he could no longer see, but remembered with keen yearning; thought of his brethren, with whom he fought, together, to protect this world that was home to his Father's other children. He thought of responsibility, and brotherhood; pondered what Sam had resorted to in order to increase his power so fast, so much; wondered why Sam would do such a thing - then thought of Dean, and kin, and the world these brothers fought demons - and defied angels - to save. The same world for which so many of Castiel's own kin had already died.
His Father's creation, his Father's children. For these, and only these, could Castiel consider disobedience.
So he would take it upon himself to ... question, in the days to come. But he would not give up any part of what mattered most; what he and his brethren stood for, died for.
He bowed his head. The words were quiet, even in this quiet room, but steady.
"In huic fides, Pater, vivere et mori statuo." In this faith, Father, I intend to live and die. "Fiat volun -"
There was a rustle. Castiel stopped, gaze flickering to Dean.
Dean stirred.
It was more breath than movement, but it was enough. Castiel's spirits lifted. He didn't know yet what his next step should be, but Dean was waking up, relatively all right, and that was worth something in itself.
Whether through the monitors' information or some instinct of his own, it suddenly occurred to Castiel that one of the first things that would bother Dean upon waking was a really dry mouth. The rolling stand with its cups and water suddenly didn't seem so out of place.
Not wishing to break the quiet, Castiel raised his hand just a little, palm facing forward. He watched attentively as the cap twisted loose and the bottle rose and tilted, pouring water right against the cup's inner surface so as to minimize the noise. Mildly he waved clockwise, then toward the right. The bottle recapped and set back down, while the tray rolled forward gently, silently, so that both cup and bottle stood easily within Dean's reach.
Castiel didn't really expect Dean to take it, just as he expected no friendly welcome - certainly not this time. Dean would have questions, accusations.
But then, when did Dean ever not?
Well, he would answer anything Dean asked, to the best of his knowledge. Trust was not in question here; in such matters Dean held nothing back, so Castiel wouldn't either. And the water was there if it was wanted.
Castiel settled back in the chair and looked up again, unconscious that his expression right then would have set Dean off about crazy little kids who actually ate their vegetables and obeyed their bedtimes, and shared their crayons gladly. "Fiat voluntas tua," he murmured, finishing his prayer and his promise as Dean finally awoke.
Thy will be done.
* * *
Downstairs in the cafeteria, half an hour before Dean woke up, Sam had discovered that the hospital cafeteria served pie on Saturdays only, and that like all hospital desserts, the slices were served chilled, wrapped clinically in cellophane together with the plates they came on.
"What? Fresh-baked?" The lady behind the counter waved toward the dessert counter's meager offerings - which, yeah, all looked like they tasted worse than their decorative plastic counterparts. "It's hospital food, young man."
Sam sighed, sorry he'd asked. "Thank you very much, ma'am," he said, and moved toward the coffee machines.
The lady shook her head sympathetically as he walked away, but felt a little better for him when a young woman with dark hair and darker eyes suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and latched onto his arm. He wouldn't be thinking of pie anymore, that was for sure. Brightly she turned to the next customer.
"Ruby?! - " Sam exclaimed. The scalding heat of spilled coffee on his hand didn't even register. "What are you doing here -?"
Ruby smirked knowingly. "You kicked some major ass a couple days ago, Sam, it's no surprise you're feeling a little ... worn out." She glanced at the sugar canister in Sam's hand, amused. "A sugar high's not going to get you back in top form, you know that, right?"
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "I bet you're not finding food very tasty, either. And I think you know why."
Sam grimaced. His head hurt, and yeah, he knew. He had known all along.
"So?" he said shortly. "You mean I can -"
"Yes, Sammy." Ruby locked her gaze with his.
Sam hadn't thought about it much the last few days when she wasn't around, at least not consciously, and even when he did it was just a thought. Not a hunger, like it was now - but now, with the prospet so close -
He shook his head, but the headache just throbbed worse. "Dean's still -"
Ruby arched one brow, but her voice was strangely mellow, not as sarcastic as Sam expected. "You've been sitting in that room for how long?" Then she rolled her eyes, back to her usual self. "You know you can't give your brother that friendly welcome back to the land of the waking if you keel over from exhaustion yourself, right?"
Again she smiled, an offer in the gleam of her eyes, the very curve of her lips, a promise of blood, strength, power. "I think you need it now, Sammy. But not here - "
Despite the headache, Sam thought it through. It was simple, really. It wouldn't take long, and he'd be back soon - in better condition to take care of Dean.
He let Ruby steer him out of the cafeteria.
* * * * *
Characters: Sam, Castiel, Dean (sort of), Anna, Ruby
Rating: R for profanity
Word Count: ~3300
Spoilers: through 4.16
Summary: "missing scenes" for episode 4.16: "On the Head of a Pin" ~ Sam, Castiel, and their thoughts as they wait for Dean to wake up - including Dean and God, what to do next, whom they can count on and what it takes to do the job.
Thanks: to catdancerz,
just_ruth, and
kaz_tiel for so generously and excellently answering my beta request. However, I let the fic stew a long time after they replied, and it changed significantly - any remaining mistakes are mine.
A/N: One character's presentation hasn't really worked for me so far, but I do try my utmost to be fair to all the characters.
Credits:
- title from Proverbs (XXV:25).
- Latin cobbled together from what I found on Basic Prayers in English and Latin and this Allexperts QA, with a little help from InterTran.
* * * * *
As cold waters to a thirsty soul
Sam glanced at the clock, again.
Not even a full minute had passed since he last checked. He heaved a sigh, fiddling absently with the coffee cup he'd drained countless clock-glances ago.
Dean was doing okay, all things considered. The doctors had said he was recovering remarkably, and would wake up in the next couple of hours. The nurses even set up a rolling tray with water and a paper cup.
That was several hours ago.
Sam could feel a headache coming on. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Dean being this quiet, this long, was just plain wrong. Dean had come back from Hell - Hell. And, except for the oddly silent stretches in the Impala - and that one terrible roadside confession, when it seemed he'd break down completely, irreparably, if Sam so much as touched him - Dean had still managed to crack jokes and demand pie, and call Sam bitch.
Here, all Sam could hear was the background noise of the machines hooked up to his brother.
Sam opened his eyes, blinking in the weak, waning daylight. What was coming was just a normal headache, nothing worse, nothing more complicated - trivial, really. It was just what happened when you sat in a silent room for too long with your brother comatose, the world collapsing around you, and the Apocalypse on its way, and nothing at the moment you could do about any of it, but be angry.
And all he could do was get angrier, when one of the angels who'd landed Dean here in the first place flat-out refused to fix him, despite the fact that Dean was paying the price for their mistakes.
But even if they hadn't intended for Dean to end up in the hospital, they still sent him into that torture chamber against Alastair. Angels, those bastards, had forced Dean to relive Hell.
Sam stood and started pacing, disgusted at how naive he'd been only a few months ago. "Mercy my ass," he muttered, not noticing as the coffee cup crumpled in his restless grip.
Yet, he had come to terms with the angels' ruthlessness - because Sam himself was proof now that, yeah, sometimes the ends justified the means. Now, what really infuriated him was their incompetence. Couldn't interrogate demons worth a damn, couldn't even manage a goddamn devil's trap - and no, Sam wasn't going to apologize for blasphemous language again, ever - and of course Castiel hadn't healed Dean, either. No; Dean was here, healing, safe from demons, safe from angels and their pointless, screwed-up plans, all because of -
- because of Sam.
Ok, it really was too quiet.
Sam was surprised to notice the coffee cup still in his hand. Caffeine just didn't do anything for him anymore. Reaching across the bed, he set it aside without another thought on the rolling tray, then bent to bring his face level with his brother's.
"Jerk. I wish you'd get up already. I'm sure you don't like it here any more than I do."
Dean slept on.
Sam could talk about how lousy the hospital food was, or some other crap like that - fall back on the empty chatter they both used, more and more often, to cover up everything that really mattered. But Sam was tired of hiding - especially from Dean - and the headache was starting to throb. Besides, Dean couldn't hear him anyway...
... although, if Dean woke all of a sudden to tell Sam he was being childish, or retarded, or as pathetic as any loser who cried his way through sex, please no chick-flick waterworks at his bedside, thanks ... that would be completely - perfectly - ok.
"You know, we wouldn't be wasting time here if your angel buddies could get their act together," Sam chuckled humorlessly. "Makes me wonder how they managed to get you out of Hell. But even then, they didn't … really save you, you know?" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, they certainly weren't worth shit this time around."
Great; the last thing Dean needed was someone bitching at him even while he slept. Sam backtracked. "Look, I won't say I understand, because you still haven't talked it out ... which is okay. I get it. I get why you wouldn't even want to think about it, let alone talk. But the angels know, right? Castiel, at least, should know everything you were going through down there. But they still pit you against Alastair. No choice; not even an apology that they can't do their own dirty work; they just took you!"
He watched his hands clench into white-knuckled fists with a strange detachment, as if they weren't his. "So, yeah, Dean, you were right all along. God, apparently, doesn't give a crap."
Damn how his throat was closing up; he was not about to cry, he was angry, damn it. He'd killed Alastair and got Dean back to safety - him, not angels, not miracles. Him, the "boy with the demon blood."
So screw the angels and their sanctimonious disapproval of his "extracurricular activities." Thank - well, Sam didn't know who, not God anyway, not anymore - that he hadn't backed down; the angels didn't know what the hell they were talking about, not then, not now. One of Hell's worst demons would be back on the rampage, and Heaven would have one less soldier here on earth - though a crap load lot of good that did - if Sam hadn't chosen as he did, hadn't seen beyond the demonic origin of his powers and accepted them, for all the good he could do with them.
He looked back up defiantly. "I'm glad I could find you, Dean."
Suddenly his eyes were stinging; he took a deep breath, ignoring how it shuddered. "And, damn it but I'm glad I didn't listen to you, or the angels."
His head was pounding now, but he didn't care; God but saying it out loud, even with no one to hear, felt so good, like the high after a difficult kill, almost as good as a shot of Ruby's blood -
Sam gasped, backpedaling from Dean's bedside.
He'd known, of course, why coffee had no effect on him anymore, why everything tasted so horribly bland to him these days. Hospital food wasn't great, but it wasn't that bad either - he knew the real reason.
The stinging in his eyes sharpened; his vision blurred.
"Dean," he said quietly.
No response. Dean hadn't heard a word.
No miracles today.
Sam blinked back the sting in his eyes and turned away. Because he was stronger than that now. Stronger than demons ... and, apparently, even angels. Which, yeah, was just plain wrong seven ways from Sunday, and really, really terrifying if he'd let himself think about it - but no, he wouldn't. He could be strong for Dean now as he couldn't be, before; as Dean had been for both of them, all their lives.
Pacing again, Sam decided he was glad he'd gotten all this out of his system while Dean couldn't hear. Dean didn't need more burdens, couldn't take on any more. Sam had already kept his secret for months. He could bear it, would bear it, himself.
He knew what he wanted instead of coffee. But still, it would feel better just to have a cup in his hands. Got used to it over the past few years, out on the road with his brother.
Sam realized his hand was already on the doorknob.
Yeah, a walk would be good, get rid of some tension, get his circulation going again. He'd go get coffee and come right back, make sure Dean woke up ok, and then call him jerk.
Sam managed to close the door gently before bursting into double-time toward the nearest elevator down.
* * * * *
For what seemed an eternity, Castiel stared at the empty vessel of his fallen brother. The scorched earth around the body cooled quickly, two dull, parched shadows all that remained of the tremendous power of Uriel's wings.
The hand on Castiel's shoulder squeezed, insistent. Only then, he remembered Anna's presence. Remembered her stabbing Uriel from behind, declaring, "There's still me."
He stood swiftly, breaking contact.
Anna frowned.
Castiel simply stood there, his expression neutral. She had just saved his life, whatever her motives, so he would continue to overlook the order that mandated her death.
Anna closed the distance between them and reached a hand toward his head. "You're still bleeding; you should heal those cuts," she murmured softly, soothingly, belying the severe little lines marring her brow. He remained still, arms hanging slack. But he glanced toward her other hand, the one which gripped loosely, almost carelessly, the blade that had killed Uriel. It was still dripping blood.
He didn't know whether it was right, to feel so grateful for such a thing, but thank God Anna had refused to give him a direction in his darkest hour. Her agenda was not his, had never been. He would not ask her again.
So much for history; so much for allies he had once implicitly trusted. Uriel died believing in Lucifer rather than God, had killed other angels - kin. And Anna killed Uriel in his betrayal, but the killing was not just; she had forsaken the right to judge any of them long ago, when she abandoned those she led, turning her back on all of them and everything they protected together, without ever a trace of remorse.
Too many had already died. Others had converted; orders could be false. Castiel needed to think things through, construct a new strategy to accommodate everything that had changed, and for that he needed to go, someplace safe, a place where he would not be plagued by old comrades or superiors whom he could no longer trust.
For just a moment longer, he held himself still, though every fiber of his being sang with the overwhelming urge to leave.
Evenly he met Anna's gaze, closing his hand around the bloody weapon just as her hand came within a hair's breadth of the blood on his brow. "This isn't yours to wield," he said quietly.
Anna's eyes flashed, bright as blades, for just a moment.
Where Castiel stood, there was a pulse, like a breath from a weary child. Anna's hand touched only empty air.
* * * * *
Dean looked a lot better than the last time Castiel saw him - no supportive collar, less wiring, and a lot less tubing. Nevertheless Castiel sensed something off, felt awkward standing at Dean's bedside.
He was standing where Sam was seated, last time. The chair now stood on the other side of the bed, its vacancy louder to Castiel's senses than the machines' steady electrical rhythms.
Absently Castiel regarded the devices used to help Dean heal, tracing the lines' tangled paths, parsing the data shifting constantly on the monitor. A bottle of water, a crushed disposable cup, and a smaller, unused paper cup stood by on a tray with wheels - small and out of place amid the panoply of machines.
Castiel was comfortable with the logic of machinery, whether physical or spiritual. Telephones and cars took but a moment to decipher, and no effort to control. The devices of Heaven's arsenal were far more complex - even something so ubiquitous as water - but he could master their workings, too; had even created an apparatus that would hold, with absolute certainty, any demon. The details so crucial in the construction, the many components required - all came together logically in his mind and in his hands, fitting just right. And when the device failed, it was not due to any mistake or lack of foresight in the plans -not the mechanical plans, anyway.
His orders used to be like that. Individually, they never suggested any bigger picture, but each one had its place and its importance. And through the ages those orders had fit together seamlessly to form a greater whole - so logical, so right, Castiel never had any cause to doubt.
Dean would call that naive. Or, rather, something more ... colorful.
Castiel lowered his head, exhaling in what might have been a chuckle at himself - and was surprised to discover several bright red spots on the coat lapels. Only then he sensed the warmth still trickling down his face, running along his jaw. The hand he put to his temple came away bloody.
Usually he was much more conscientious with his vessel. Castiel shook his head at his lapse even as he closed his eyes, and concentrated. A moment later his vessel was cleaned up, the clothing repaired and clean, the tissue mended. Yet suddenly his limbs felt oddly ... cumbersome.
He went around the bed to the chair, careful to tread silently despite shoes definitely not crafted to be quiet. The chair back was ill-designed, too flat for comfort, too low to support one's head naturally, but Castiel made do - thinking of Sam, who was so much taller, sleeping through a night in this chair. He wondered how much human senses would protest the next morning.
Considering all this, Castiel was surprised to feel somewhat ... better, once he sat down.
Half-apologetically, he glanced at Dean. Sam's voice rang in Castiel's memory, anger almost - almost - concealing the raw vulnerability in his eyes as he demanded Miracle, NOW.
I can't, Castiel had replied, and it was true. Standing orders forbade miracles, even small ones, especially when humans could work through difficulties themselves. And orders or no, Castiel really couldn't, because the renewal of Dean's body was tied to his soul's return from Hell: a one-time deal. Humans were so much more than logic and machinery; they were his Father's creations.
As was this world.
Tipping his head back, Castiel gazed up toward a home he could no longer see, but remembered with keen yearning; thought of his brethren, with whom he fought, together, to protect this world that was home to his Father's other children. He thought of responsibility, and brotherhood; pondered what Sam had resorted to in order to increase his power so fast, so much; wondered why Sam would do such a thing - then thought of Dean, and kin, and the world these brothers fought demons - and defied angels - to save. The same world for which so many of Castiel's own kin had already died.
His Father's creation, his Father's children. For these, and only these, could Castiel consider disobedience.
So he would take it upon himself to ... question, in the days to come. But he would not give up any part of what mattered most; what he and his brethren stood for, died for.
He bowed his head. The words were quiet, even in this quiet room, but steady.
"In huic fides, Pater, vivere et mori statuo." In this faith, Father, I intend to live and die. "Fiat volun -"
There was a rustle. Castiel stopped, gaze flickering to Dean.
Dean stirred.
It was more breath than movement, but it was enough. Castiel's spirits lifted. He didn't know yet what his next step should be, but Dean was waking up, relatively all right, and that was worth something in itself.
Whether through the monitors' information or some instinct of his own, it suddenly occurred to Castiel that one of the first things that would bother Dean upon waking was a really dry mouth. The rolling stand with its cups and water suddenly didn't seem so out of place.
Not wishing to break the quiet, Castiel raised his hand just a little, palm facing forward. He watched attentively as the cap twisted loose and the bottle rose and tilted, pouring water right against the cup's inner surface so as to minimize the noise. Mildly he waved clockwise, then toward the right. The bottle recapped and set back down, while the tray rolled forward gently, silently, so that both cup and bottle stood easily within Dean's reach.
Castiel didn't really expect Dean to take it, just as he expected no friendly welcome - certainly not this time. Dean would have questions, accusations.
But then, when did Dean ever not?
Well, he would answer anything Dean asked, to the best of his knowledge. Trust was not in question here; in such matters Dean held nothing back, so Castiel wouldn't either. And the water was there if it was wanted.
Castiel settled back in the chair and looked up again, unconscious that his expression right then would have set Dean off about crazy little kids who actually ate their vegetables and obeyed their bedtimes, and shared their crayons gladly. "Fiat voluntas tua," he murmured, finishing his prayer and his promise as Dean finally awoke.
Thy will be done.
* * *
Downstairs in the cafeteria, half an hour before Dean woke up, Sam had discovered that the hospital cafeteria served pie on Saturdays only, and that like all hospital desserts, the slices were served chilled, wrapped clinically in cellophane together with the plates they came on.
"What? Fresh-baked?" The lady behind the counter waved toward the dessert counter's meager offerings - which, yeah, all looked like they tasted worse than their decorative plastic counterparts. "It's hospital food, young man."
Sam sighed, sorry he'd asked. "Thank you very much, ma'am," he said, and moved toward the coffee machines.
The lady shook her head sympathetically as he walked away, but felt a little better for him when a young woman with dark hair and darker eyes suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and latched onto his arm. He wouldn't be thinking of pie anymore, that was for sure. Brightly she turned to the next customer.
"Ruby?! - " Sam exclaimed. The scalding heat of spilled coffee on his hand didn't even register. "What are you doing here -?"
Ruby smirked knowingly. "You kicked some major ass a couple days ago, Sam, it's no surprise you're feeling a little ... worn out." She glanced at the sugar canister in Sam's hand, amused. "A sugar high's not going to get you back in top form, you know that, right?"
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "I bet you're not finding food very tasty, either. And I think you know why."
Sam grimaced. His head hurt, and yeah, he knew. He had known all along.
"So?" he said shortly. "You mean I can -"
"Yes, Sammy." Ruby locked her gaze with his.
Sam hadn't thought about it much the last few days when she wasn't around, at least not consciously, and even when he did it was just a thought. Not a hunger, like it was now - but now, with the prospet so close -
He shook his head, but the headache just throbbed worse. "Dean's still -"
Ruby arched one brow, but her voice was strangely mellow, not as sarcastic as Sam expected. "You've been sitting in that room for how long?" Then she rolled her eyes, back to her usual self. "You know you can't give your brother that friendly welcome back to the land of the waking if you keel over from exhaustion yourself, right?"
Again she smiled, an offer in the gleam of her eyes, the very curve of her lips, a promise of blood, strength, power. "I think you need it now, Sammy. But not here - "
Despite the headache, Sam thought it through. It was simple, really. It wouldn't take long, and he'd be back soon - in better condition to take care of Dean.
He let Ruby steer him out of the cafeteria.
* * * * *