Episode 17: Dreamcatcher
Title: Dreamcatcher
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Authors daymarket
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, OC and canon characters
Rating: R
Word Count: ~15,800
Warnings: language, mild violence, some disturbing imagery, references to hell, references to elements that are dub/non-con in nature (Dean/Alastair non-explicit)
Betas: nyoka and zatnikatel
Art: Chapter banner by smallworld-inc; digital paintings by smallworld-inc, which you can also find here (they contain spoilers for the episode).
Summary: Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes he spoke aloud.
0. Dean
He's cold.
It's odd. He can't ever remember a time when he wasn't cold, yet at the same time his skin itches with faint impressions of warmth. Or maybe those are just the imprints left behind by Alastair's hands, the times when his Dad holds him in his arms and runs his fingers over his heart, gently stroking the slick, trembling surface. It's a peculiar feeling. Dean isn't quite sure whether or not he'd call it good, but then again, who is he to say anything these days?
Except that he does, he thinks faintly. Because he's the prince, and he holds their lives in his hands. There's a child in front of him, a familiar one who at the same time seems unapproachably alien. The warm blush in its cheeks and the rosiness of its lips are a stark contrast against the icy walls of the court, and for a moment Dean wants to lean forward, press his hands against its face, and warm it up. He's done that before, he remembers, and for another moment he can remember that same fleeting warmth again.
It hasn't always been like this.
A hand rests firmly on his shoulder, hard and unyielding. "My prince," Alastair says quietly into his ear. Dean flinches despite himself, and he can feel the hand tighten its grip. He looks up at Alastair; at the wise, knowing eyes that somehow ground and destabilize him all at once. As if Alastair knows what Dean's thinking - which he does - he smiles, pressing a light finger against Dean's chin. Dean leans forward involuntarily towards the touch, unsure of what the other man wants from him. The finger stops him - so close - and then Alastair says, "The court awaits your judgment, my prince."
Alastair's hands leave him, and Dean drops back against his throne, his innards twisting at the loss of touch. He braces one hand against his chin in an attempt to reclaim the heat, but his hands are cold, icy, frozen in a way that the child in front of him would surely shrink away from. Dean drops his eyes to look at it, huddled in front of the throne of ice. He's seen it before, he knows, and he will see it again. "Come here," he says, his voice cracking slightly.
The child raises its trembling head and comes towards him. There's fear in its eyes, but madly enough, it lifts a hand and trustingly allows him to take it. He can feel its hand in his, a burning point of warmth, and for a moment he thinks that perhaps this time, things can be different.
Alastair shifts behind him, and Dean feels an involuntary shiver run down his spine. It's not quite a warning, but it's enough. Dean closes his hand around the child's own hand and watches as its eyes widen fractionally in pain, the mouth opening to utter a cry. Quickly, he places his other hand over its mouth to muffle the cry. "Shh," he murmurs, although he's not sure who he's trying to reassure. "I'll take care of you."
He's learned a lot of things from Alastair. This, at least, he can pass on.
He rises. He can feel the court rustle around him; he's tied into it, and sometimes he wonders vaguely if it even exists if he isn't there. As he leaves the room with the child in tow, Alastair is behind him, steady as a shadow and just as close. Dean wonders for a moment if the child knows what's going to happen to it, and he quickly banishes that thought from his mind. They're like toys, dispensable and discardable, not meant to be thought of.
Even if they do squirm rather more than a real doll does. It's not pleasant, he knows. It's not supposed to be pleasant. The children are here as a penance, but whether its theirs or Dean's, he has no idea. It probably isn't his, he thinks, because he's not the one who suffers. The fiery, unrelenting heart of the furnace is something that probably wouldn't even burn him, cold as he is.
The child shrieks, a high-pitched wail of despair. The flames of the furnace are reflected in its eyes, and for a moment Dean feels the slightest echo of unease tug at the gaping hole in his chest. This isn't right, he thinks, but he's not sure how he came to that particular conclusion. After all, Alastair has never been anything but supportive of him, and the court will obey its prince to the death. "It's okay," he says awkwardly, brushing a hand along its brow and pushing the sweat-soaked hair back. "This is for your own good."
He looks up at Alastair as the last sentence leaves his lips, searching for reassurance. Alastair smiles at him and then down at the child, who wails again and tries to pull away from the gaping maw of the furnace. "You're very good," he says, and Dean feels a faint flicker of jealousy as Alastair curls his fingers briefly through the child's hair.
Tiny fingers clasp his hands, and Dean looks down in vague surprise. "Please," the child says in a high, thin voice. Dean studies its face, watching carefully as liquid wells up in the corners of its eyes. It's in distress, he realizes, and for a moment he feels an inexplicable urge to free it from its chains and set it free. He can imagine it spreading wings and flying away, although he's not sure where that idea comes from-
"Dean."
Dean jumps at the sound of his father's voice. Alastair knows. He always knows. "I'm sorry," Dean says, his shoulders hunching instinctively. Something inside his stomach curls at the disappointment he knows that he is; the disappointment that Alastair always has in him.
"Finish the work."
The flames work slowly, licking the child with leisurely, almost loving caresses. Dean can see its mouth open and close, but he can't hear anything over the sounds of Alastair's steady breath in his ear.
((()))
It boils down to this:
This is the chest. It's made out of finely carved ice that will never melt in any fire; stone has shattered before it and steel has faltered. There is a lock, one that only Alastair can open. Dean's not sure how Alastair does it. He has vague memories of fighting Alastair once in a vain struggle to open the chest, but those memories have long since crumbled into dust just like all the children of the court.
He knows that there was a time when the children were special, when in fact there was just one child, the one who began it all. That child had a name, something small and familiar and beautiful, something that he held close and loved with all his heart. And then one day, that child was going to die. Rather than let that happen, Dean stepped forth and gave his heart to save him.
Or did he? He can't remember. Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe he never deserved his heart to begin with.
He can feel it sometimes when it beats from within the chest, although that may very well just be his imagination. He presses a hand against the skin over the place where his heart should be and thinks that he can feel the blood rushing through his veins, warm and hot and infinitely alive. The illusion is always ruined, though, by the cold touch of skin against skin.
In the room, Dean watches as Alastair unlocks the chest and reaches inside for his heart. His father is capable of infinite gentleness and care, cradling Dean's heart like a lover, never allowing it to come to harm. As Alastair runs light, almost playful fingers over the trembling surface, prickles spread throughout Dean's entire body, buzzing and crackling just under his skin. Dean throws his head back and clenches his fingers in the sheets of the bed, trying not to breathe. It's a terrible feeling, ecstatic and pleasurable, hovering just at the edges of pain. Alastair's touch burns; not enough to be painful. But only just.
"I'm sorry," Dean gasps out, fighting for coherent thought and breath. "Dad, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"I know," Alastair says softly, and Dean is painfully aware of the other man's gaze on him, judging and implacable. "But do you, Dean? Sometimes I wonder. This is what we must do. This is what we will do, what we were made to do."
Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes that he spoke aloud. He can feel his father's presence, oppressively close, but more than anything else he can feel his heart as it beats frantically in Alastair's hands. As Alastair's fingers twitch, Dean feels the jolts sharpen and tip over into pain, and he can't stop the strangled scream from coming out.
"Do you think you deserve a reward, Dean?" Alastair says. His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the thumping of Dean's heart. "After your poor showing today, I'm inclined to say no. What do you think you deserve instead? A punishment?"
Yes. Yesyesyes. There's only one answer, and there will only ever be one answer. Dean draws in a deep, gasping breath of air, and the word works its way out of him in short, choked moans. He can feel it the instant that Alastair tightens his grip on his heart, squeezing as if he wants to crush it in his hands. Dean thrashes helplessly, no longer in control of his own body. It feels like every muscle is seizing up, curling helplessly into itself in an effort to escape; it feels like death. This is what you chose to be.
He's aware of wetness on his cheeks, of - of tears, the word coalescing in his mind with a painful finality. "Please," he whispers. Dean claws at the sheets, fighting helplessly, but not against Alastair, never against his father. "Please-"
He can feel it the instant that Alastair releases his heart. Dean sags against the bed, a soft, pathetic keen escaping involuntarily from his lips. He doesn't deserve this, this reprieve, but he's pathetically grateful nonetheless. "Dean," he hears, and then cool fingers bring his chin up. Dean opens his eyes and sees Alastair, shadowed and blurry and utterly inescapable. "You're not unforgivable."
"No," Dean whispers, unable to summon the strength for anything more. "Dad-"
He doesn't know what he's pleading for, but Alastair does. Alastair always knows. Alastair sets his heart back into the chest, and Dean feels an aching sense of loss, even more hollow than usual, as his heart disappears from view. The lid shuts and the lock clicks back into place, and Dean has to force himself to keep his eyes on Alastair. "Be at peace," Alastair tells him gently, both hands coming up to frame his face. "You're a good boy, Dean."
Dean clings to the voice as it slides over him, sending long, oily tendrils of calm through his body. He can feel his father place a light, chaste kiss on his forehead, and he allows himself to sink further into the cloying darkness.
((()))
1. Castiel
Dean looks dead.
There's no other way to describe it, and Castiel's heart clenches painfully at the sight of Dean's slack, still face. He presses a hand against Dean's chest, more to reassure himself that Dean is still breathing than anything else. "He's dreaming," he says softly, trying to dampen the sudden dread threatening to overwhelm him. They've dealt with nightmares before, but this is different.
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Sam asks, and the look on his face is one of confusion, hope, and terror all at once. "Because he'll wake up. So that's a good thing, right?"
"The spirit went into him," Castiel says, trying hard to keep his own panic down. "I doubt there's anything normal about this particular scenario." He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Really, he should have expected all of this. Since when have their lives been anything resembling simple or lucky? Even a simple salt-'n'-burn of all things, one of those back-to-basics jobs, inevitably goes wrong. With all that's been happening across the globe, Castiel should have been better prepared for something like this. For spirits to be more than simple spirits. "The spirit had a grudge to impart, and Dean…" he trails off.
Sam blows out a harsh breath. "You think he's having a flashback?" he asks, and Castiel can tell that he's just barely keeping himself calm. "He had one a while back. If he's trapped in a dream, then maybe the same thing is happening again."
"It's a dream," Castiel says grimly. "Anything is possible."
"But you have to wake up at the end," Sam persists. "Otherwise it's not a dream, it's a - it's a coma, isn't it? People don't dream in comas." He pauses and then adds uncertainly, "Do they?"
"Even if they don't normally," Castiel says wearily, "I can assure you that this is anything but ordinary." He presses a hand against Dean's forehead and forces down his own terror. He knows that Dean has been having flashbacks since New Jersey, and it's irrational to deny it all. Some tiny part of him had hoped to avoid this, though, futile as that might have been. "The spirit forced our hand," he murmurs more to himself than Sam, but Sam lets out an unhappy huff at the words.
"There wasn't much hope of stopping it to begin with, was there? We've always had plenty of nightmare fodder," Sam says, his voice half-laugh, half-cry. "As if Hell weren't enough…"
Castiel looks down at Dean's face and traces the frown lines. Those lines are new since he rebuilt Dean's body, and there's a story behind each and every one. "We'll get him back," he says shortly, letting the words buttress his belief. It's a promise, one that he knows how to start but has no idea how it will turn out.
Sam looks at him for a moment before apparently tracing the same path Castiel's thoughts are taking. "Dreamroot!" he says, straightening. "I bet Bobby will know where we can get some. We can go into the dream and-"
"How long would that take?" Castiel interrupts. Perhaps not exactly the same path, he thinks ruefully.
"I don't know - a couple hours?" Sam says.
"Too long," Castiel says. He closes his eyes, assessing what strength he has. It's not without a certain sense of fatalism that he says, "I'm going in." He's not really sure if he's strong enough, but what choice does he have?
"Going where?" Sam demands, managing to look panicked and irritated all at once. As Castiel gives him a slightly exasperated look, Sam splutters and points at Dean. "Into his head?"
"Dreamwalking is a skill all angels have," Castiel says evenly. He brushes Dean's hair away from his forehead, hating the faint coolness of Dean's skin. Dean should be warm even while dreaming, not edging slowly towards the coolness of a corpse. This is something new, and new is never good when it comes to their tumultuous lives.
A hand grips his arm, and Castiel follows it to look up at Sam's determined face. "Take me," Sam says, his jaw set. "You'll need backup if Dean's having a Hell dream." He smiles a little self-deprecatingly and adds, "I know I've got my own demons, but I can help you find him."
Castiel stares down at Sam's hand for a moment and does a quick mental calculation of his own capabilities. The answer is depressingly grim, and he shakes his head in despair. It can't be done, not in his current depleted state, and for a moment he hates his own fragility more than anything else. "I can't take you dreamwalking," he says somberly. He takes a breath and then adds in a rush, "I don't even know if I can take myself."
"Your mojo's all gone?" Sam asks quietly.
Castiel shrugs and doesn't answer. He has enough. He has to have enough. "Keep him alive," he orders. "His body can still die, and if that happens…" He closes his eyes. "I may not have the strength to resurrect him. Not again."
There's a moment of hesitation from Sam, and he can sense the agonized paralysis running through the other man's body. Finally, Sam loosens his grip on Castiel's arm, but he doesn't remove his hand. "How long?" Sam asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Castiel opens his eyes and looks down. He knows Dean's body and his mind - or the conscious part at least. This is no ordinary dream, though, and he can still remember the way Dean had convulsed when the spirit had entered him. He wonders if it's actually in Dean's mind, or if it's just cursed him, or maybe it's wiped his mind completely, or maybe Castiel is no longer strong enough to reach him… "I don't know," he breathes out, and he doesn't dare to look at Sam's face.
Castiel takes a deep breath, forcing himself to chase the dark thoughts away. He needs to be calm for this; dreamwalking is an angelic skill, and in some ways he needs to think like an angel. The thought is oddly foreign, and for a moment Castiel feels a tremor run through him at the realization of all the ways he has changed, perhaps irrevocably.
No. You can do this.
He pushes away his uncertainties and pushes against Dean's mind. "Keep him alive," he murmurs absently to Sam. "His physical body will still need sustenance while I'm gone, and-" He breaks off, frowning. There's something blocking his way, intangible but still stubbornly pushing him back. He's never quite encountered anything like it before: even when Dean wasn't actively inviting him into his mind before, it never took more than a small nudge to enter. Castiel narrows the focus of his thoughts and pushes through determinedly until the barrier shatters, pattering around him like a thousand tiny shards of-
-ice.
Castiel grunts as they rain down around his head, wincing as they cut into his wings - his wings? He turns his head slightly to ascertain that they are indeed present, and he frowns slightly in confusion. That's not supposed to happen, he thinks, dazed. He stares at them for a moment as he wills them to disappear, but they remain stubbornly corporeal. Fanning them out gingerly, he can feel the weight of them in a way he's never quite thought about before, feel the snow melting on them, tiny pinpricks that are just faint enough to be more annoying than painful. He breathes out and watches his breath coalesce in front of him into a puff of mist, and for a moment he just stares at it dumbly, uncertain of the sight. Cold, he thinks. "Snow," he says out loud.
Well. At least he can rule Hell out, he thinks wryly.
He kneels down and picks up one of the shards in his hand. There's a bright flash of pain, and then blood lines the edges of a cut on his finger from where the glinting edges sliced him. Castiel winces but doesn't let go, watching with a numb fascination as his blood spreads across the smooth, clear surface of the shard. Interesting.
He looks up, studying the sight before him. He's no stranger to the fluid world of dreams, even if he can't remember any of his own. And yet each time he enters another human's dream, the seemingly limitless bounds of human imagination always leave him a bit at a loss. There's a castle looming before him, although he could have sworn that earlier no such thing was there. The castle is blindingly bright and reflects the light with a relentless intensity that makes him wince.
Castiel takes a step towards it and ducks his head as the glare grows brighter. It doesn't want him here. There's something here, something that Dean has built to hide in, or perhaps something else is blocking him from getting to it. From what, he's not sure, and he definitely doesn't know for what reason. "We don't have to do this," Castiel says softly to the dreamworld as he takes another step forward. "Dean, listen to me…"
A harsh wind blows up around him, spitting snow into Castiel's face. He should be protected from the cold to some extent, but this world, it seems, has turned the rules inside out. "Dean!" he shouts into the howling wind. He can barely hear his own voice.
The wind jerks at his clothes as if it's trying to push him back out of spite. Castiel grits his teeth and lowers his head, determinedly pushing not just against the wind, but against the fabric of this world.. "We need you to wake up," he yells, knowing that he can be heard. "I'm worried for you. And Sam's worried for you. Please, Dean…"
He can't even hear his own voice now over the howling of the wind. "It's not supposed to be this cold!" he snarls out of sheer frustration. It's childish and thoroughly petty, but Castiel knows that dream or not, he's going to die if this keeps up. What's going on in Dean's mind? "Go back to where you came from," Castiel growls vindictively, aiming his words at whatever's torturing Dean's mind. "He's not yours, he's-" Castiel takes a deep breath and flinches as the wind sears his throat and nose.
"-mine."
Sudden quiet.
Castiel coughs uncontrollably for a moment before catching his breath. Absently rubbing his throat, he takes a moment to flex his wings before looking around. Between one step and the next, he's moved to standing in the middle of an icy hallway. This place is even colder than the outside, but at least the wind and light have ceased. None of the people standing on either side of the hall seem to notice his entrance or his outburst. Castiel edges along the wall, his heart pounding dully in his ears. The silence is ringingly loud after the howling wind, and it's also extremely unnerving. The humans glint dully in the light, and Castiel's eyes narrow. They're statues, statues made of ice. The amount of detail carved into them is truly breathtaking; he can see every individual stitch and jewel and even the fine lines of their hair. And yet, as he turns to examine them further, he sees that their faces are blank. A smooth, featureless plane.
He reaches out and touches a statue lightly. It's cold to his touch, but it doesn't move or otherwise react. Castiel tucks his hands back into the pockets of his jacket and considers the scene for a moment. He knows that Dean is somewhere in here, and that this world is created from his mind - or it should be, although with the spirit's grudge in the mix, and with all that's been happening to them, who's to say that anything belongs to Dean alone? He clings to that thought as he walks through the hall, observing the unnatural stillness with growing dismay. Dean's mind is a very cold, desolate place.
The thought stings deeper than it should, and Castiel has to take a moment to shake himself out of the growing pessimism. He can sort out the reasons later if he finds Dean - or rather, when he finds Dean, he corrects himself. Castiel squares his shoulders and walks through the hall of statues, determined not to be intimidated. He moves through an open doorway, trying to find some sign of life in the place. Though there is no wind or glare to stop him here, it still seems like the halls are actively fighting to keep him away. He emerges into a featureless, icy corridor with several doorways, steps through one, and finds himself back in the same place. The corridors are a winding, twisting maze with no discernible way to tell the difference between one and the other. Each time he turns a corner, the same coldly imposing hallway appears.
Something really doesn't want him here.
This isn't working. Castiel leans against the wall and tries to curb the growing tide of frustration within him. He's never going to get anywhere by just walking. Perhaps he's never even moved within the dreamspace; he's no closer to finding Dean than before. But at the same time, he's certain that Dean is here. This is still the shelter Dean has created for himself, after all, and it wouldn't be so stubbornly trying to keep him away if there was nothing to hide. Castiel tries to batten down the flood of doubt, but the questions treacherously bleed into his mind anyway - what if Dean doesn't want him here? What if he's hiding here because he doesn't want to be rescued, or at least rescued by Castiel?
Castiel clenches his fists. No, he thinks, shoving the thoughts out of his mind. He thinks instead of Dean's hands on his, drawing him close, of their shared body heat, of Dean's kisses, and Dean's soft, deep laugh against his ear. They've had nightmares, both of them, too many to count, and Castiel will be damned if he leaves Dean to fight this one out alone. This is what he's here for. Dean knows it, he knows it. Dean would not intentionally keep him out.
"So," Castiel breathes, exhaling plumes of mist. He feels somewhat ridiculous speaking out loud to the flat walls of ice, but he's not really alone, is he? He's got a listener; this world wouldn't exist if Dean were dead. "And for some reason, you don't want me here, do you?"
He closes his eyes and flings out all his senses, trying to grasp ahold of the rules in this strange world. Silence greets his initial query, but Castiel presses harder. He begins to walk blindly, his hands jammed firmly into the pockets of his jacket to protect against the temptation to brace himself. Dean, he thinks, and feels a small flush of triumph as there is a stir somewhere deep within the dreamworld. He braces himself for impact should he bump into a wall, but surprisingly (or perhaps not), nothing comes as the presence grows stronger and stronger until it's right there. He opens his eyes.
Dean.
Dean stares at him blankly, and Castiel's heart jumps into his throat as he stares back. Dean looks pale. It seems like he's one step away from becoming a statue of ice himself, and only the faint heaving of his chest reassures Castiel otherwise. Castiel's eyes flicker around the room, searching for the malignant presence. He definitely felt it, so where is it? His eyes flash to Dean, searching the other man carefully. Something's wrong, he thinks, and then almost laughs at his absurdity. No shit, Sherlock, as Dean would say. Everything about this is wrong.
Castiel reaches out and touches Dean with a tentative hand. He feels cold to the touch, and Castiel wonders chillingly if this is a premonition of things to come. Reaching out with his other senses, he frowns slightly. This is Dean, but at the same time, it's not. It's as if a hole has been carved from his chest, leaving a gaping wound that has never healed; perhaps it's scabbed over with time, but the infection festers underneath. It's an oddly familiar sensation, and Castiel shakes his head, trying hard to place it.
He takes a step forward, and the movement is swift and without warning. In a single fluid motion, Dean shifts, backing up against a table. Emotion flits across his face, quick and elusive, before being replaced by a flat, expressionless façade. No. "Dean," Castiel says gently, trying not to spook him further. He forces his wings to lay flat, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Are you all right?"
Dean looks at him. "You're-" he begins, before breaking off abruptly. His voice has a strange, flat quality to it. "You aren't welcome here, guard."
Guard. Castiel looks again, this time picking out the details of Dean's clothing, of the fine embroidery, of the rich, plush fabric that stands out starkly against the icy white of everything else. Is Dean the master of this land? That would make sense, but it's a grossly distorted truth, as something seems to be missing from him. Castiel takes another step forward. Dean hunches his shoulders slightly, and Castiel cocks his head slightly in confusion. Dean is taking on a defensive position, which is unusual for the supposed ruler of whatever kingdom this is. "You shouldn't be here," Dean repeats, but his voice is quieter this time and maybe - just maybe - more human.
"Sam's waiting for you," Castiel tries. Dean shows no sign of recognition of the name, but Castiel persists, trying to reach the essence of whoever or whatever remains. "You're dreaming, Dean, and you need to wake up."
"This is mine," Dean says, but he suddenly sounds much more uncertain.
"It is," Castiel allows, "but it's not just yours. Or it's not completely yours." He looks around involuntarily, the feathers on his wings prickling with tension. The room appears to be empty other than him and Dean, but in this dreamworld, who knows what rules govern this place. "There's someone here interfering with your dream," he tries.
"It's what I'm supposed to do," Dean says, but Castiel gets the feeling that he's addressing some other issue. Dean's gaze focuses on him, and Castiel has to force himself to stare firmly back into the frigid, crystal eyes, so unlike Dean's welcome green. "That's what he's always told me."
"He?" Castiel echoes, latching onto the word. "Who's he, Dean?" The spirit? He knows that the spirit's original gender was male, but they burned the spirit's body, didn't they? It should be at rest, but nothing about the case went as expected. Could this be a sign that the problems here are caused by the spirit's actual and continued presence? Castiel ponders the possibility, wondering if he grossly miscalculated the situation.
Dean makes no move to reply though, and his eyes seem to be staring through Castiel rather than at him. There's a long, frozen silence, and Castiel desperately wants to reach out and grab Dean, but at the same time he somehow knows that such a move would not be allowed. Finally, Dean says in that same implacable tone, "Who are you?" Unspoken: why are you still here?
Castiel inhales slowly and tells himself not to be surprised. This is a dream; this is like no dream he's ever shared with Dean before. Whenever they've shared dreams, it's always been warm, intimate, nothing like this frozen palace of ice. Even when Castiel was souled-up, the nightmares came from the souls, not from his and Dean's connection. What should Castiel say to Dean now? Once, it was easy. I'm an angel of the Lord. But those days are past, and now there are far too many answers to that question - I'm a fallen angel. I'm your friend. I opened Purgatory. I love you, Dean.
Castiel swallows before speaking, hesitant to trust his voice. He settles for, "I'm here to save you." This is hardly the place for human outpourings of devotion, he thinks, and tucks the other words away for a better time. He lays a hand on Dean's hand and winces at the icy coldness of his skin. Now that he's actually touching Dean for longer than a moment, the tangible loss is more acute than ever. "What happened?" he prods, not really expecting an answer.
Dean stares at him dumbly for a moment, and Castiel can feel the silence settle around them, thick and oppressive. Holding a staring contest with Dean seems to be somewhat pointless, and Castiel tries his best to push away the growing despair by distracting himself. He pushes at Dean, trying to get him to move, but it's eerily too close to moving a statue of ice. Dean doesn't resist him, exactly, but nor does he move of his own will.
With a sigh, Castiel sidesteps Dean, studying the rest of the room. There are tapestries decorating the walls, their patterns too faint to be clearly seen. He steps closer to one, reaching out a hand to touch the iced-over threads.
His heart jumps wildly at the sudden warmth. Oh. Oh.
There are soft, tentative hands on his feathers. Castiel turns to look at Dean, who's stroking a trembling hand down the edge of Castiel's wing. Oh…kay. Castiel studies Dean's face, trying to calm his pounding heart. Dean's expression is softer, stranger, both focused and dazed all at once, and the contradiction sends a tight curl through Castiel's stomach. He can feel the cold of Dean's hand and while it's not pleasant, it's not totally unpleasant, either. Just…odd. Like something's missing.
He shakes his head, trying to turn his attention back to the tapestry, but - well, he's distracted. Dean is touching his wings, and even if it's not completely Dean - even if this world is nothing but a manifestation of Dean's mind - Castiel clenches his fingers into fists, trying to catch his breath. "Dean," he says tightly, "you need to stop."
And Dean stops.
And part of the reason, perhaps, is that they're not alone anymore.
With what he has left of his angelic strength, Castiel pushes Dean behind him and stands to face the intruder in a single fluid move, wings flared out to hide Dean from view. The intruder is a tall, wiry man, and he looks more vividly alive than anything else in this world with the tan of his skin and the coal blackness of his eyes. "Alastair," Castiel breathes, recognition hitting him all at once.
"Aren't you a pleasant surprise," Alastair grins, teeth bared. "Hello there, little angel."
For a moment, Castiel freezes in surprise, his mind struggling to process the sudden turn of events. Out with the spirit theory, he thinks, and back with the nightmare one - Alastair's here, strong and alive, prowling around Dean's mind. Dean has suffered Hell flashbacks many times before, and the nightmares have returned with a vengeance of late given Castiel's and Sam's own experiences acting as a trigger to Dean's memories. Even so, this is not what Castiel had been expecting. Dread trickles down Castiel's spine as he tries to think of a way out. He's fought Alastair and failed before, and now he's down to the dregs of his power, barely even an angel anymore. At the same time, though, this Alastair isn't really a demon, is he? He's Dean's nightmare, and theoretically, Dean should have control over him... "Dean," he says urgently, not looking away from the demon. "You have to wake up. Alastair is dead, remember? I saved you from him in Hell, and Sam killed him. He can't hurt you anymore."
Alastair's grin widens, and then he says, "Isn't that a rude way to start off, little angel?" Something glints in his hand: it's a knife, blade curved and wickedly sharp. "Real or not real, dream or not dream. Do you think you can die in a dream, little angel? Do you think you can really kill me?"
"Dean," Castiel says, louder. "Alastair is not real. Sam's waiting for you. I'm waiting for you." He knows he sounds desperate, hears how his voice cracks a little bit on that word. "You're not the same person I dragged out of the Pit."
"Are you so sure, little angel?" Alastair says. "He's mine. He's always been mine. I just let you borrow him for a little while, that's all." He snaps his fingers, and Castiel stumbles as Dean pushes past him, moving towards Alastair. Alastair places a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean allows the touch, his eyelids fluttering rapidly as he sags limply into Alastair's hold. Alastair leans down and claims Dean's mouth in an undoubtedly brutal, punishing kiss. Dean's hand moves slightly, but he doesn't otherwise react. Castiel feels himself freeze for a moment, all the air rushing from his lungs. The hand with the knife wraps around Dean's neck, placing the blade just under Dean's jaw.
A soft, pained noise shakes Castiel out of his lethargy, shocking him down to his very core. "Get away from him," he snarls, sudden rage flooding him. Dream or not, Alastair is the embodiment of a burden that Dean has evidently carried for a while now, and it's about time the nightmare stopped. Alastair needs to be purged from Dean's mind as readily as he was purged from the physical world.
Castiel's not as fast or strong as he was once was, but he's learned some new tricks since then. He wraps his hand around Alastair's and jerks it away, spinning the demon around to face him. Alastair laughs at him, breath hot and rank. Castiel feels a shudder of revulsion run down his spine. "You want to play, little angel?" Alastair whispers. "Try this-"
Castiel hears the whistle of the blade as it cuts through the air and ducks instinctively, but not enough to stop a bright flare of pain from bursting across his wings. He casts a frenzied look over his shoulder, looking at the single line of grotesquely red blood painted across the feathers. "You're not real," Castiel says through clenched teeth. "You are a figment of Dean's traumatized mind." He wills his sword to appear in his hand but is only vaguely surprised when it doesn't. This world has been nothing but hostile to him so far, after all. He'll have to play this one by ear. "Dean, this is all in your mind. You are in control of this world. You need to take back the reins and force this demon into submission-"
Alastair laughs, a harsh, throaty sound. "Kinky!" he says, sounding delighted. "And here I thought you angels were a stuck-up bunch of snots. We've got room for one more, sure we do. Want to play? Three's company too."
Castiel looks around desperately, searching for a weapon with which to defend himself. Alastair takes advantage of the gap and leaps forward, the knife slicing through the air with deadly intent. Castiel ducks under the blow and tries to will his wings invisible, but they stay stubbornly real. It is almost as if he is caught between worlds, much as he was back in the Everglades. But in this dreamworld, his wings manifest as solid, whereas Dean had only been able to see shadows of them after he touched Tara's shack in Florida.
Alastair grabs the edge of the feathers of his wings, and Castiel gives a sharp, involuntary gasp at the pain. "No," he forces out, knowing that it's just a waste of air but unable to stop. As Alastair tightens his fingers, Castiel grits his teeth and slams into the demon. Now for a very human trick - he pins him down and jabs his knee sharply into the nightmare's groin.
Alastair smiles at him, sharp and feral. "Do that again," he leers. "Moves like that, angel, I'd think that you were interested."
Like Dean must have been interested, Castiel thinks grimly, hating the forty-year delay that kept him from Dean with a sudden, burning intensity. "Go back to Hell," he snaps instead, trying to slam Alastair's hand hard against the tile in an attempt to dislodge the knife. To his dismay, Alastair is far stronger than he lets on, and his fingers barely twitch. The demon's fingers curl around his, and Castiel gasps sharply as Alastair begins to bend them back, contorting the joints in a way human joints aren't supposed to move.
"Run, run, little angel, run to daddy," Alastair sing-songs as he gets to his feet, forcing Castiel down in turn. With a single brutal push, he sends Castiel sprawling onto the floor. The blows that rain onto his ribs in quick succession leave Castiel choking for breath against the pain. Alastair straddles him across the waist, leaning down to press a hand against Castiel's chest. Castiel grits his teeth as the knife in his free hand draws close, waving about in a faintly mocking dance. "Of course, you're already here, and you're not going to get away, are you? Hmm?"
"Dean," Cas says hoarsely. His wings twitch from their pinned position behind his back, beating helplessly in an attempt to break free. He can see the edges of Dean's still figure from above Alastair's shoulder, but his eyes are dead and flat in a ghastly pale face. "Dean!" he shouts.
The edge of the knife touches his cheek and Castiel sucks in a deep breath in anticipation of the pain. He keeps his eyes firmly on Dean's, willing Dean to look his way. He shivers and feels the first cut as a dull sensation more than anything else, but he knows that the pain will be coming soon. Alastair grins at him and shoves the knife deeper, and Castiel knows that he's bleeding now. He can feel his blood trickling down his neck, searing hot against the ice of the castle.
Castiel grits his teeth against the pain and tries again to shove Alastair off, but the nightmare is much stronger than he should be - or maybe it's because Castiel is weaker. Either way, it's a result of Dean's mind, and Castiel redoubles his efforts to reach the frozen man. "Dean," he pants, aware that Alastair is drawing the blade perilously close to slitting his throat. "You're not a murderer-"
Alastair grabs a handful of hair and slams his head back against the ice, and Castiel reels with disorientation. "Yes," Alastair says softly, "he is."
Castiel stares wide-eyed up at him, the words scattering from his mind. He imagines that he can see Dean begin to move, in which direction he doesn't know. Castiel can feel the blade bite deeply into his neck, too deep for him to survive this round, and the pain floods through him with shocking suddenness. "Dean," he chokes out, but it's too late. Now or never-
Castiel closes his eyes and pushes against the fabric of the dream as hard he can, forcing himself to ignore the agony spreading through him. Breathe - don't breathe - and then push, snapping through the dream with everything he's got. He'll be fine in the real world, when he wakes, if he wakes, and he'll be back for Dean, he swears. It feels like a coward's move, but there's nothing he can do if he wants to survive. Castiel reaches up blindly, trying to push Alastair away from him and shatter back into waking.
"Whoa! Cas, calm down, it's just me!"
Castiel's eyes fly open and he freezes at the sight of Sam standing before him with his hands spread wide in a placating gesture. "Dude, it's okay," Sam says. "You all right?"
Castiel stares at him dumbly for a moment before pressing a hand to his neck. No blood. The pain is vivid in his memory, but there's nothing to show that it was ever there. He lets his hand drop and looks around the room, feeling numb. Peeling wallpaper, faint smell of mold in the air. Motel room, then. Not a surprise unless you count the overwhelming surprise that he survived.
His eyes fall on Dean. Dean is eerily still on the bed - Sam has pulled the blanket up over him to give the illusion that he's just sleeping, but his face is blank. Not unlike his dream counterpart, if Castiel is going to be honest. There's a bag connected to a vein in his arm.
"Cas?"
Castiel doesn't look away from Dean's unconscious form. He can hear Sam heave a soft, shaky sigh. "How's…uh. How'd it go?"
Castiel eases himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle the IV bag, and lays a hand on Dean's. It feels cold, like Dean's close to dying already. "It was…frozen," he says finally. After a moment, he adds, "I saw Alastair."
He doesn't have to turn around to see the tension that jolts through Sam's frame. "What?" Sam says, and for a moment his voice is darker, containing undertones of some sort of feral rage. "A Hell dream then?"
"Evidently," Castiel says tiredly. "Dean's trapped in some sort of nightmare, one of his own making. He's…" he shakes his head as he tries to piece together what his senses told him about Dean, about the strange emptiness. "He's not complete, Sam. Something's missing."
"Wait. Are you saying that he's lost part of his mind?" Sam says, looking alarmed.
"Not lost. Hiding. It's all still there, just fragmented somehow."
"What do you mean, fragmented?" Sam asks. "Like, he's been broken? That's…" he swallows, and then says quietly, "I wish I could say I was surprised."
Castiel turns to look at him. "Memories that are hardly new to you, as well."
"Yeah, well, I never had to torture anyone," Sam says with a tired laugh. "Not that I didn't have to face my own demons down there…" he trails off. "Anyway." Sam coughs and clears his throat, obviously not wanting to dredge up his memories of the Cage. Then: "So what happened?"
"Alastair tried to kill me," Castiel says, unconsciously reaching up to rub his throat again. "I'm weakened, that's true, but Alastair was much stronger than he should've been. What that means, I don't…I don't know." He stares listlessly for a moment before his eyes focus on the IV bag connected to Dean's arm. "How long has it been?"
"Um." Sam sits down next to Castiel on the bed, and out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel can see him twist his hands uneasily. "Three days."
Castiel gets the unspoken feeling that Sam has been counting down the days, minutes, even seconds until his return. "Any news?"
"Not really," Sam says. "The most exciting bit you missed was me posing as a doctor to sneak some IV bags from a hospital. Bobby's been doing much of the researching while I watch over Dean. Mira's helping too. They're both contacting everyone they know to see if anyone has heard of anything like this."
"That is good," Castiel murmurs, sudden exhaustion pressing down all around him. Technically, he hasn't really been corporeal these three days, but his limbs suddenly feel rubbery, refusing to obey his commands. "It didn't feel like three days for me," he says, and it's an effort to get the words to come out properly.
"You okay?" Sam asks awkwardly. "You look ready to fall over." Castiel waves a hand in dismissal of the question; he's okay, he has to be okay. Sam fidgets for a moment as Castiel doesn't answer, and then he says, "What about Dean? Is he okay?"
"Define okay," Castiel says wearily.
"Do you think you can bring him back?"
Castiel turns his head with an effort to look at Sam. "I don't know," he answers truthfully, and the answer feels like a stab through his heart. He's never had any use for the metaphor in all the millennia of his existence, but just recently he's starting to learn. People expend so much time and energy to their hearts - love, broken love, hopes for love, lost love…
He forces himself to shake some of the stupor away. "I need to go back," he says, more for Sam's benefit than anything else. "I don't know how the dream will continue to change. Dean…"
"He's always been a bit of a martyr?" Sam says dryly.
"It must be a Winchester thing," Cas says.
"And it's rubbing off on you, evidently," Sam says, and Castiel feels Sam place a hand against his shoulder. "Seriously, you look terrible. You're running low on angel-juice, Castiel. Take a break."
"The dream's still there," Castiel says, more to himself than to Sam. Sam pats Castiel's shoulders awkwardly, and Castiel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He's so tired. "I should…"
"You said Alastair kicked your ass, right?" Sam says. "And that was you when you were fresh. You really think you can take him on if you're tired?"
"I wouldn't have to rest if I were still an angel," Castiel mutters.
There's an exasperated sigh from next to him. "And the Apocalypse wouldn't have started if I hadn't been stupid," Sam says. "We've all got regrets that we've got to cope with."
Castiel turns his head to look at Sam with a small frown. "This is your brother," he says slowly. "I would've thought that you'd be desperate."
Sam grimaces. "It's been three days," he says, his words slow and halting. "I just…" he sighs. "I passed the desperate stage about two hours in, and since then it was mostly just worry and…" Sam's mouth pulls briefly to one side, and then he sighs. "Look, if you're exhausted, you're not going to be much help to anyone. Dean's been in a shitty situation for a while, and I don't really think it's going to change that much if you rest for a couple of hours." He looks sideways at Castiel. "It's self-interest, too. Both of you collapsing is a bad idea."
Castiel closes his eyes as Sam's words hit him. Sam's worried about him. For some reason, the idea still surprises Castiel. That Sam cares about him, maybe has even truly forgiven him. He's been aware of it for a while, but at the same time, there's a difference between knowing and knowing something. Cas exhales slowly, shakily, and gives a short nod. "Thank you," he says quietly.
Sam squeezes his shoulder and lets go of him. "You'll be fine," he says. "We all will."
It sounds like a promise, one that Castiel desperately wants to believe is true.
Episode 17: Dreamcatcher (Continued)
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Authors daymarket
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, OC and canon characters
Rating: R
Word Count: ~15,800
Warnings: language, mild violence, some disturbing imagery, references to hell, references to elements that are dub/non-con in nature (Dean/Alastair non-explicit)
Betas: nyoka and zatnikatel
Art: Chapter banner by smallworld-inc; digital paintings by smallworld-inc, which you can also find here (they contain spoilers for the episode).
Summary: Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes he spoke aloud.
0. Dean
He's cold.
It's odd. He can't ever remember a time when he wasn't cold, yet at the same time his skin itches with faint impressions of warmth. Or maybe those are just the imprints left behind by Alastair's hands, the times when his Dad holds him in his arms and runs his fingers over his heart, gently stroking the slick, trembling surface. It's a peculiar feeling. Dean isn't quite sure whether or not he'd call it good, but then again, who is he to say anything these days?
Except that he does, he thinks faintly. Because he's the prince, and he holds their lives in his hands. There's a child in front of him, a familiar one who at the same time seems unapproachably alien. The warm blush in its cheeks and the rosiness of its lips are a stark contrast against the icy walls of the court, and for a moment Dean wants to lean forward, press his hands against its face, and warm it up. He's done that before, he remembers, and for another moment he can remember that same fleeting warmth again.
It hasn't always been like this.
A hand rests firmly on his shoulder, hard and unyielding. "My prince," Alastair says quietly into his ear. Dean flinches despite himself, and he can feel the hand tighten its grip. He looks up at Alastair; at the wise, knowing eyes that somehow ground and destabilize him all at once. As if Alastair knows what Dean's thinking - which he does - he smiles, pressing a light finger against Dean's chin. Dean leans forward involuntarily towards the touch, unsure of what the other man wants from him. The finger stops him - so close - and then Alastair says, "The court awaits your judgment, my prince."
Alastair's hands leave him, and Dean drops back against his throne, his innards twisting at the loss of touch. He braces one hand against his chin in an attempt to reclaim the heat, but his hands are cold, icy, frozen in a way that the child in front of him would surely shrink away from. Dean drops his eyes to look at it, huddled in front of the throne of ice. He's seen it before, he knows, and he will see it again. "Come here," he says, his voice cracking slightly.
The child raises its trembling head and comes towards him. There's fear in its eyes, but madly enough, it lifts a hand and trustingly allows him to take it. He can feel its hand in his, a burning point of warmth, and for a moment he thinks that perhaps this time, things can be different.
Alastair shifts behind him, and Dean feels an involuntary shiver run down his spine. It's not quite a warning, but it's enough. Dean closes his hand around the child's own hand and watches as its eyes widen fractionally in pain, the mouth opening to utter a cry. Quickly, he places his other hand over its mouth to muffle the cry. "Shh," he murmurs, although he's not sure who he's trying to reassure. "I'll take care of you."
He's learned a lot of things from Alastair. This, at least, he can pass on.
He rises. He can feel the court rustle around him; he's tied into it, and sometimes he wonders vaguely if it even exists if he isn't there. As he leaves the room with the child in tow, Alastair is behind him, steady as a shadow and just as close. Dean wonders for a moment if the child knows what's going to happen to it, and he quickly banishes that thought from his mind. They're like toys, dispensable and discardable, not meant to be thought of.
Even if they do squirm rather more than a real doll does. It's not pleasant, he knows. It's not supposed to be pleasant. The children are here as a penance, but whether its theirs or Dean's, he has no idea. It probably isn't his, he thinks, because he's not the one who suffers. The fiery, unrelenting heart of the furnace is something that probably wouldn't even burn him, cold as he is.
The child shrieks, a high-pitched wail of despair. The flames of the furnace are reflected in its eyes, and for a moment Dean feels the slightest echo of unease tug at the gaping hole in his chest. This isn't right, he thinks, but he's not sure how he came to that particular conclusion. After all, Alastair has never been anything but supportive of him, and the court will obey its prince to the death. "It's okay," he says awkwardly, brushing a hand along its brow and pushing the sweat-soaked hair back. "This is for your own good."
He looks up at Alastair as the last sentence leaves his lips, searching for reassurance. Alastair smiles at him and then down at the child, who wails again and tries to pull away from the gaping maw of the furnace. "You're very good," he says, and Dean feels a faint flicker of jealousy as Alastair curls his fingers briefly through the child's hair.
Tiny fingers clasp his hands, and Dean looks down in vague surprise. "Please," the child says in a high, thin voice. Dean studies its face, watching carefully as liquid wells up in the corners of its eyes. It's in distress, he realizes, and for a moment he feels an inexplicable urge to free it from its chains and set it free. He can imagine it spreading wings and flying away, although he's not sure where that idea comes from-
"Dean."
Dean jumps at the sound of his father's voice. Alastair knows. He always knows. "I'm sorry," Dean says, his shoulders hunching instinctively. Something inside his stomach curls at the disappointment he knows that he is; the disappointment that Alastair always has in him.
"Finish the work."
The flames work slowly, licking the child with leisurely, almost loving caresses. Dean can see its mouth open and close, but he can't hear anything over the sounds of Alastair's steady breath in his ear.
((()))
It boils down to this:
This is the chest. It's made out of finely carved ice that will never melt in any fire; stone has shattered before it and steel has faltered. There is a lock, one that only Alastair can open. Dean's not sure how Alastair does it. He has vague memories of fighting Alastair once in a vain struggle to open the chest, but those memories have long since crumbled into dust just like all the children of the court.
He knows that there was a time when the children were special, when in fact there was just one child, the one who began it all. That child had a name, something small and familiar and beautiful, something that he held close and loved with all his heart. And then one day, that child was going to die. Rather than let that happen, Dean stepped forth and gave his heart to save him.
Or did he? He can't remember. Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe he never deserved his heart to begin with.
He can feel it sometimes when it beats from within the chest, although that may very well just be his imagination. He presses a hand against the skin over the place where his heart should be and thinks that he can feel the blood rushing through his veins, warm and hot and infinitely alive. The illusion is always ruined, though, by the cold touch of skin against skin.
In the room, Dean watches as Alastair unlocks the chest and reaches inside for his heart. His father is capable of infinite gentleness and care, cradling Dean's heart like a lover, never allowing it to come to harm. As Alastair runs light, almost playful fingers over the trembling surface, prickles spread throughout Dean's entire body, buzzing and crackling just under his skin. Dean throws his head back and clenches his fingers in the sheets of the bed, trying not to breathe. It's a terrible feeling, ecstatic and pleasurable, hovering just at the edges of pain. Alastair's touch burns; not enough to be painful. But only just.
"I'm sorry," Dean gasps out, fighting for coherent thought and breath. "Dad, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"I know," Alastair says softly, and Dean is painfully aware of the other man's gaze on him, judging and implacable. "But do you, Dean? Sometimes I wonder. This is what we must do. This is what we will do, what we were made to do."
Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes that he spoke aloud. He can feel his father's presence, oppressively close, but more than anything else he can feel his heart as it beats frantically in Alastair's hands. As Alastair's fingers twitch, Dean feels the jolts sharpen and tip over into pain, and he can't stop the strangled scream from coming out.
"Do you think you deserve a reward, Dean?" Alastair says. His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the thumping of Dean's heart. "After your poor showing today, I'm inclined to say no. What do you think you deserve instead? A punishment?"
Yes. Yesyesyes. There's only one answer, and there will only ever be one answer. Dean draws in a deep, gasping breath of air, and the word works its way out of him in short, choked moans. He can feel it the instant that Alastair tightens his grip on his heart, squeezing as if he wants to crush it in his hands. Dean thrashes helplessly, no longer in control of his own body. It feels like every muscle is seizing up, curling helplessly into itself in an effort to escape; it feels like death. This is what you chose to be.
He's aware of wetness on his cheeks, of - of tears, the word coalescing in his mind with a painful finality. "Please," he whispers. Dean claws at the sheets, fighting helplessly, but not against Alastair, never against his father. "Please-"
He can feel it the instant that Alastair releases his heart. Dean sags against the bed, a soft, pathetic keen escaping involuntarily from his lips. He doesn't deserve this, this reprieve, but he's pathetically grateful nonetheless. "Dean," he hears, and then cool fingers bring his chin up. Dean opens his eyes and sees Alastair, shadowed and blurry and utterly inescapable. "You're not unforgivable."
"No," Dean whispers, unable to summon the strength for anything more. "Dad-"
He doesn't know what he's pleading for, but Alastair does. Alastair always knows. Alastair sets his heart back into the chest, and Dean feels an aching sense of loss, even more hollow than usual, as his heart disappears from view. The lid shuts and the lock clicks back into place, and Dean has to force himself to keep his eyes on Alastair. "Be at peace," Alastair tells him gently, both hands coming up to frame his face. "You're a good boy, Dean."
Dean clings to the voice as it slides over him, sending long, oily tendrils of calm through his body. He can feel his father place a light, chaste kiss on his forehead, and he allows himself to sink further into the cloying darkness.
((()))
1. Castiel
Dean looks dead.
There's no other way to describe it, and Castiel's heart clenches painfully at the sight of Dean's slack, still face. He presses a hand against Dean's chest, more to reassure himself that Dean is still breathing than anything else. "He's dreaming," he says softly, trying to dampen the sudden dread threatening to overwhelm him. They've dealt with nightmares before, but this is different.
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Sam asks, and the look on his face is one of confusion, hope, and terror all at once. "Because he'll wake up. So that's a good thing, right?"
"The spirit went into him," Castiel says, trying hard to keep his own panic down. "I doubt there's anything normal about this particular scenario." He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Really, he should have expected all of this. Since when have their lives been anything resembling simple or lucky? Even a simple salt-'n'-burn of all things, one of those back-to-basics jobs, inevitably goes wrong. With all that's been happening across the globe, Castiel should have been better prepared for something like this. For spirits to be more than simple spirits. "The spirit had a grudge to impart, and Dean…" he trails off.
Sam blows out a harsh breath. "You think he's having a flashback?" he asks, and Castiel can tell that he's just barely keeping himself calm. "He had one a while back. If he's trapped in a dream, then maybe the same thing is happening again."
"It's a dream," Castiel says grimly. "Anything is possible."
"But you have to wake up at the end," Sam persists. "Otherwise it's not a dream, it's a - it's a coma, isn't it? People don't dream in comas." He pauses and then adds uncertainly, "Do they?"
"Even if they don't normally," Castiel says wearily, "I can assure you that this is anything but ordinary." He presses a hand against Dean's forehead and forces down his own terror. He knows that Dean has been having flashbacks since New Jersey, and it's irrational to deny it all. Some tiny part of him had hoped to avoid this, though, futile as that might have been. "The spirit forced our hand," he murmurs more to himself than Sam, but Sam lets out an unhappy huff at the words.
"There wasn't much hope of stopping it to begin with, was there? We've always had plenty of nightmare fodder," Sam says, his voice half-laugh, half-cry. "As if Hell weren't enough…"
Castiel looks down at Dean's face and traces the frown lines. Those lines are new since he rebuilt Dean's body, and there's a story behind each and every one. "We'll get him back," he says shortly, letting the words buttress his belief. It's a promise, one that he knows how to start but has no idea how it will turn out.
Sam looks at him for a moment before apparently tracing the same path Castiel's thoughts are taking. "Dreamroot!" he says, straightening. "I bet Bobby will know where we can get some. We can go into the dream and-"
"How long would that take?" Castiel interrupts. Perhaps not exactly the same path, he thinks ruefully.
"I don't know - a couple hours?" Sam says.
"Too long," Castiel says. He closes his eyes, assessing what strength he has. It's not without a certain sense of fatalism that he says, "I'm going in." He's not really sure if he's strong enough, but what choice does he have?
"Going where?" Sam demands, managing to look panicked and irritated all at once. As Castiel gives him a slightly exasperated look, Sam splutters and points at Dean. "Into his head?"
"Dreamwalking is a skill all angels have," Castiel says evenly. He brushes Dean's hair away from his forehead, hating the faint coolness of Dean's skin. Dean should be warm even while dreaming, not edging slowly towards the coolness of a corpse. This is something new, and new is never good when it comes to their tumultuous lives.
A hand grips his arm, and Castiel follows it to look up at Sam's determined face. "Take me," Sam says, his jaw set. "You'll need backup if Dean's having a Hell dream." He smiles a little self-deprecatingly and adds, "I know I've got my own demons, but I can help you find him."
Castiel stares down at Sam's hand for a moment and does a quick mental calculation of his own capabilities. The answer is depressingly grim, and he shakes his head in despair. It can't be done, not in his current depleted state, and for a moment he hates his own fragility more than anything else. "I can't take you dreamwalking," he says somberly. He takes a breath and then adds in a rush, "I don't even know if I can take myself."
"Your mojo's all gone?" Sam asks quietly.
Castiel shrugs and doesn't answer. He has enough. He has to have enough. "Keep him alive," he orders. "His body can still die, and if that happens…" He closes his eyes. "I may not have the strength to resurrect him. Not again."
There's a moment of hesitation from Sam, and he can sense the agonized paralysis running through the other man's body. Finally, Sam loosens his grip on Castiel's arm, but he doesn't remove his hand. "How long?" Sam asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Castiel opens his eyes and looks down. He knows Dean's body and his mind - or the conscious part at least. This is no ordinary dream, though, and he can still remember the way Dean had convulsed when the spirit had entered him. He wonders if it's actually in Dean's mind, or if it's just cursed him, or maybe it's wiped his mind completely, or maybe Castiel is no longer strong enough to reach him… "I don't know," he breathes out, and he doesn't dare to look at Sam's face.
Castiel takes a deep breath, forcing himself to chase the dark thoughts away. He needs to be calm for this; dreamwalking is an angelic skill, and in some ways he needs to think like an angel. The thought is oddly foreign, and for a moment Castiel feels a tremor run through him at the realization of all the ways he has changed, perhaps irrevocably.
No. You can do this.
He pushes away his uncertainties and pushes against Dean's mind. "Keep him alive," he murmurs absently to Sam. "His physical body will still need sustenance while I'm gone, and-" He breaks off, frowning. There's something blocking his way, intangible but still stubbornly pushing him back. He's never quite encountered anything like it before: even when Dean wasn't actively inviting him into his mind before, it never took more than a small nudge to enter. Castiel narrows the focus of his thoughts and pushes through determinedly until the barrier shatters, pattering around him like a thousand tiny shards of-
-ice.
Castiel grunts as they rain down around his head, wincing as they cut into his wings - his wings? He turns his head slightly to ascertain that they are indeed present, and he frowns slightly in confusion. That's not supposed to happen, he thinks, dazed. He stares at them for a moment as he wills them to disappear, but they remain stubbornly corporeal. Fanning them out gingerly, he can feel the weight of them in a way he's never quite thought about before, feel the snow melting on them, tiny pinpricks that are just faint enough to be more annoying than painful. He breathes out and watches his breath coalesce in front of him into a puff of mist, and for a moment he just stares at it dumbly, uncertain of the sight. Cold, he thinks. "Snow," he says out loud.
Well. At least he can rule Hell out, he thinks wryly.
He kneels down and picks up one of the shards in his hand. There's a bright flash of pain, and then blood lines the edges of a cut on his finger from where the glinting edges sliced him. Castiel winces but doesn't let go, watching with a numb fascination as his blood spreads across the smooth, clear surface of the shard. Interesting.
He looks up, studying the sight before him. He's no stranger to the fluid world of dreams, even if he can't remember any of his own. And yet each time he enters another human's dream, the seemingly limitless bounds of human imagination always leave him a bit at a loss. There's a castle looming before him, although he could have sworn that earlier no such thing was there. The castle is blindingly bright and reflects the light with a relentless intensity that makes him wince.
Castiel takes a step towards it and ducks his head as the glare grows brighter. It doesn't want him here. There's something here, something that Dean has built to hide in, or perhaps something else is blocking him from getting to it. From what, he's not sure, and he definitely doesn't know for what reason. "We don't have to do this," Castiel says softly to the dreamworld as he takes another step forward. "Dean, listen to me…"
A harsh wind blows up around him, spitting snow into Castiel's face. He should be protected from the cold to some extent, but this world, it seems, has turned the rules inside out. "Dean!" he shouts into the howling wind. He can barely hear his own voice.
The wind jerks at his clothes as if it's trying to push him back out of spite. Castiel grits his teeth and lowers his head, determinedly pushing not just against the wind, but against the fabric of this world.. "We need you to wake up," he yells, knowing that he can be heard. "I'm worried for you. And Sam's worried for you. Please, Dean…"
He can't even hear his own voice now over the howling of the wind. "It's not supposed to be this cold!" he snarls out of sheer frustration. It's childish and thoroughly petty, but Castiel knows that dream or not, he's going to die if this keeps up. What's going on in Dean's mind? "Go back to where you came from," Castiel growls vindictively, aiming his words at whatever's torturing Dean's mind. "He's not yours, he's-" Castiel takes a deep breath and flinches as the wind sears his throat and nose.
"-mine."
Sudden quiet.
Castiel coughs uncontrollably for a moment before catching his breath. Absently rubbing his throat, he takes a moment to flex his wings before looking around. Between one step and the next, he's moved to standing in the middle of an icy hallway. This place is even colder than the outside, but at least the wind and light have ceased. None of the people standing on either side of the hall seem to notice his entrance or his outburst. Castiel edges along the wall, his heart pounding dully in his ears. The silence is ringingly loud after the howling wind, and it's also extremely unnerving. The humans glint dully in the light, and Castiel's eyes narrow. They're statues, statues made of ice. The amount of detail carved into them is truly breathtaking; he can see every individual stitch and jewel and even the fine lines of their hair. And yet, as he turns to examine them further, he sees that their faces are blank. A smooth, featureless plane.
He reaches out and touches a statue lightly. It's cold to his touch, but it doesn't move or otherwise react. Castiel tucks his hands back into the pockets of his jacket and considers the scene for a moment. He knows that Dean is somewhere in here, and that this world is created from his mind - or it should be, although with the spirit's grudge in the mix, and with all that's been happening to them, who's to say that anything belongs to Dean alone? He clings to that thought as he walks through the hall, observing the unnatural stillness with growing dismay. Dean's mind is a very cold, desolate place.
The thought stings deeper than it should, and Castiel has to take a moment to shake himself out of the growing pessimism. He can sort out the reasons later if he finds Dean - or rather, when he finds Dean, he corrects himself. Castiel squares his shoulders and walks through the hall of statues, determined not to be intimidated. He moves through an open doorway, trying to find some sign of life in the place. Though there is no wind or glare to stop him here, it still seems like the halls are actively fighting to keep him away. He emerges into a featureless, icy corridor with several doorways, steps through one, and finds himself back in the same place. The corridors are a winding, twisting maze with no discernible way to tell the difference between one and the other. Each time he turns a corner, the same coldly imposing hallway appears.
Something really doesn't want him here.
This isn't working. Castiel leans against the wall and tries to curb the growing tide of frustration within him. He's never going to get anywhere by just walking. Perhaps he's never even moved within the dreamspace; he's no closer to finding Dean than before. But at the same time, he's certain that Dean is here. This is still the shelter Dean has created for himself, after all, and it wouldn't be so stubbornly trying to keep him away if there was nothing to hide. Castiel tries to batten down the flood of doubt, but the questions treacherously bleed into his mind anyway - what if Dean doesn't want him here? What if he's hiding here because he doesn't want to be rescued, or at least rescued by Castiel?
Castiel clenches his fists. No, he thinks, shoving the thoughts out of his mind. He thinks instead of Dean's hands on his, drawing him close, of their shared body heat, of Dean's kisses, and Dean's soft, deep laugh against his ear. They've had nightmares, both of them, too many to count, and Castiel will be damned if he leaves Dean to fight this one out alone. This is what he's here for. Dean knows it, he knows it. Dean would not intentionally keep him out.
"So," Castiel breathes, exhaling plumes of mist. He feels somewhat ridiculous speaking out loud to the flat walls of ice, but he's not really alone, is he? He's got a listener; this world wouldn't exist if Dean were dead. "And for some reason, you don't want me here, do you?"
He closes his eyes and flings out all his senses, trying to grasp ahold of the rules in this strange world. Silence greets his initial query, but Castiel presses harder. He begins to walk blindly, his hands jammed firmly into the pockets of his jacket to protect against the temptation to brace himself. Dean, he thinks, and feels a small flush of triumph as there is a stir somewhere deep within the dreamworld. He braces himself for impact should he bump into a wall, but surprisingly (or perhaps not), nothing comes as the presence grows stronger and stronger until it's right there. He opens his eyes.
Dean.
Dean stares at him blankly, and Castiel's heart jumps into his throat as he stares back. Dean looks pale. It seems like he's one step away from becoming a statue of ice himself, and only the faint heaving of his chest reassures Castiel otherwise. Castiel's eyes flicker around the room, searching for the malignant presence. He definitely felt it, so where is it? His eyes flash to Dean, searching the other man carefully. Something's wrong, he thinks, and then almost laughs at his absurdity. No shit, Sherlock, as Dean would say. Everything about this is wrong.
Castiel reaches out and touches Dean with a tentative hand. He feels cold to the touch, and Castiel wonders chillingly if this is a premonition of things to come. Reaching out with his other senses, he frowns slightly. This is Dean, but at the same time, it's not. It's as if a hole has been carved from his chest, leaving a gaping wound that has never healed; perhaps it's scabbed over with time, but the infection festers underneath. It's an oddly familiar sensation, and Castiel shakes his head, trying hard to place it.
He takes a step forward, and the movement is swift and without warning. In a single fluid motion, Dean shifts, backing up against a table. Emotion flits across his face, quick and elusive, before being replaced by a flat, expressionless façade. No. "Dean," Castiel says gently, trying not to spook him further. He forces his wings to lay flat, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Are you all right?"
Dean looks at him. "You're-" he begins, before breaking off abruptly. His voice has a strange, flat quality to it. "You aren't welcome here, guard."
Guard. Castiel looks again, this time picking out the details of Dean's clothing, of the fine embroidery, of the rich, plush fabric that stands out starkly against the icy white of everything else. Is Dean the master of this land? That would make sense, but it's a grossly distorted truth, as something seems to be missing from him. Castiel takes another step forward. Dean hunches his shoulders slightly, and Castiel cocks his head slightly in confusion. Dean is taking on a defensive position, which is unusual for the supposed ruler of whatever kingdom this is. "You shouldn't be here," Dean repeats, but his voice is quieter this time and maybe - just maybe - more human.
"Sam's waiting for you," Castiel tries. Dean shows no sign of recognition of the name, but Castiel persists, trying to reach the essence of whoever or whatever remains. "You're dreaming, Dean, and you need to wake up."
"This is mine," Dean says, but he suddenly sounds much more uncertain.
"It is," Castiel allows, "but it's not just yours. Or it's not completely yours." He looks around involuntarily, the feathers on his wings prickling with tension. The room appears to be empty other than him and Dean, but in this dreamworld, who knows what rules govern this place. "There's someone here interfering with your dream," he tries.
"It's what I'm supposed to do," Dean says, but Castiel gets the feeling that he's addressing some other issue. Dean's gaze focuses on him, and Castiel has to force himself to stare firmly back into the frigid, crystal eyes, so unlike Dean's welcome green. "That's what he's always told me."
"He?" Castiel echoes, latching onto the word. "Who's he, Dean?" The spirit? He knows that the spirit's original gender was male, but they burned the spirit's body, didn't they? It should be at rest, but nothing about the case went as expected. Could this be a sign that the problems here are caused by the spirit's actual and continued presence? Castiel ponders the possibility, wondering if he grossly miscalculated the situation.
Dean makes no move to reply though, and his eyes seem to be staring through Castiel rather than at him. There's a long, frozen silence, and Castiel desperately wants to reach out and grab Dean, but at the same time he somehow knows that such a move would not be allowed. Finally, Dean says in that same implacable tone, "Who are you?" Unspoken: why are you still here?
Castiel inhales slowly and tells himself not to be surprised. This is a dream; this is like no dream he's ever shared with Dean before. Whenever they've shared dreams, it's always been warm, intimate, nothing like this frozen palace of ice. Even when Castiel was souled-up, the nightmares came from the souls, not from his and Dean's connection. What should Castiel say to Dean now? Once, it was easy. I'm an angel of the Lord. But those days are past, and now there are far too many answers to that question - I'm a fallen angel. I'm your friend. I opened Purgatory. I love you, Dean.
Castiel swallows before speaking, hesitant to trust his voice. He settles for, "I'm here to save you." This is hardly the place for human outpourings of devotion, he thinks, and tucks the other words away for a better time. He lays a hand on Dean's hand and winces at the icy coldness of his skin. Now that he's actually touching Dean for longer than a moment, the tangible loss is more acute than ever. "What happened?" he prods, not really expecting an answer.
Dean stares at him dumbly for a moment, and Castiel can feel the silence settle around them, thick and oppressive. Holding a staring contest with Dean seems to be somewhat pointless, and Castiel tries his best to push away the growing despair by distracting himself. He pushes at Dean, trying to get him to move, but it's eerily too close to moving a statue of ice. Dean doesn't resist him, exactly, but nor does he move of his own will.
With a sigh, Castiel sidesteps Dean, studying the rest of the room. There are tapestries decorating the walls, their patterns too faint to be clearly seen. He steps closer to one, reaching out a hand to touch the iced-over threads.
His heart jumps wildly at the sudden warmth. Oh. Oh.
There are soft, tentative hands on his feathers. Castiel turns to look at Dean, who's stroking a trembling hand down the edge of Castiel's wing. Oh…kay. Castiel studies Dean's face, trying to calm his pounding heart. Dean's expression is softer, stranger, both focused and dazed all at once, and the contradiction sends a tight curl through Castiel's stomach. He can feel the cold of Dean's hand and while it's not pleasant, it's not totally unpleasant, either. Just…odd. Like something's missing.
He shakes his head, trying to turn his attention back to the tapestry, but - well, he's distracted. Dean is touching his wings, and even if it's not completely Dean - even if this world is nothing but a manifestation of Dean's mind - Castiel clenches his fingers into fists, trying to catch his breath. "Dean," he says tightly, "you need to stop."
And Dean stops.
And part of the reason, perhaps, is that they're not alone anymore.
With what he has left of his angelic strength, Castiel pushes Dean behind him and stands to face the intruder in a single fluid move, wings flared out to hide Dean from view. The intruder is a tall, wiry man, and he looks more vividly alive than anything else in this world with the tan of his skin and the coal blackness of his eyes. "Alastair," Castiel breathes, recognition hitting him all at once.
"Aren't you a pleasant surprise," Alastair grins, teeth bared. "Hello there, little angel."
For a moment, Castiel freezes in surprise, his mind struggling to process the sudden turn of events. Out with the spirit theory, he thinks, and back with the nightmare one - Alastair's here, strong and alive, prowling around Dean's mind. Dean has suffered Hell flashbacks many times before, and the nightmares have returned with a vengeance of late given Castiel's and Sam's own experiences acting as a trigger to Dean's memories. Even so, this is not what Castiel had been expecting. Dread trickles down Castiel's spine as he tries to think of a way out. He's fought Alastair and failed before, and now he's down to the dregs of his power, barely even an angel anymore. At the same time, though, this Alastair isn't really a demon, is he? He's Dean's nightmare, and theoretically, Dean should have control over him... "Dean," he says urgently, not looking away from the demon. "You have to wake up. Alastair is dead, remember? I saved you from him in Hell, and Sam killed him. He can't hurt you anymore."
Alastair's grin widens, and then he says, "Isn't that a rude way to start off, little angel?" Something glints in his hand: it's a knife, blade curved and wickedly sharp. "Real or not real, dream or not dream. Do you think you can die in a dream, little angel? Do you think you can really kill me?"
"Dean," Castiel says, louder. "Alastair is not real. Sam's waiting for you. I'm waiting for you." He knows he sounds desperate, hears how his voice cracks a little bit on that word. "You're not the same person I dragged out of the Pit."
"Are you so sure, little angel?" Alastair says. "He's mine. He's always been mine. I just let you borrow him for a little while, that's all." He snaps his fingers, and Castiel stumbles as Dean pushes past him, moving towards Alastair. Alastair places a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean allows the touch, his eyelids fluttering rapidly as he sags limply into Alastair's hold. Alastair leans down and claims Dean's mouth in an undoubtedly brutal, punishing kiss. Dean's hand moves slightly, but he doesn't otherwise react. Castiel feels himself freeze for a moment, all the air rushing from his lungs. The hand with the knife wraps around Dean's neck, placing the blade just under Dean's jaw.
A soft, pained noise shakes Castiel out of his lethargy, shocking him down to his very core. "Get away from him," he snarls, sudden rage flooding him. Dream or not, Alastair is the embodiment of a burden that Dean has evidently carried for a while now, and it's about time the nightmare stopped. Alastair needs to be purged from Dean's mind as readily as he was purged from the physical world.
Castiel's not as fast or strong as he was once was, but he's learned some new tricks since then. He wraps his hand around Alastair's and jerks it away, spinning the demon around to face him. Alastair laughs at him, breath hot and rank. Castiel feels a shudder of revulsion run down his spine. "You want to play, little angel?" Alastair whispers. "Try this-"
Castiel hears the whistle of the blade as it cuts through the air and ducks instinctively, but not enough to stop a bright flare of pain from bursting across his wings. He casts a frenzied look over his shoulder, looking at the single line of grotesquely red blood painted across the feathers. "You're not real," Castiel says through clenched teeth. "You are a figment of Dean's traumatized mind." He wills his sword to appear in his hand but is only vaguely surprised when it doesn't. This world has been nothing but hostile to him so far, after all. He'll have to play this one by ear. "Dean, this is all in your mind. You are in control of this world. You need to take back the reins and force this demon into submission-"
Alastair laughs, a harsh, throaty sound. "Kinky!" he says, sounding delighted. "And here I thought you angels were a stuck-up bunch of snots. We've got room for one more, sure we do. Want to play? Three's company too."
Castiel looks around desperately, searching for a weapon with which to defend himself. Alastair takes advantage of the gap and leaps forward, the knife slicing through the air with deadly intent. Castiel ducks under the blow and tries to will his wings invisible, but they stay stubbornly real. It is almost as if he is caught between worlds, much as he was back in the Everglades. But in this dreamworld, his wings manifest as solid, whereas Dean had only been able to see shadows of them after he touched Tara's shack in Florida.
Alastair grabs the edge of the feathers of his wings, and Castiel gives a sharp, involuntary gasp at the pain. "No," he forces out, knowing that it's just a waste of air but unable to stop. As Alastair tightens his fingers, Castiel grits his teeth and slams into the demon. Now for a very human trick - he pins him down and jabs his knee sharply into the nightmare's groin.
Alastair smiles at him, sharp and feral. "Do that again," he leers. "Moves like that, angel, I'd think that you were interested."
Like Dean must have been interested, Castiel thinks grimly, hating the forty-year delay that kept him from Dean with a sudden, burning intensity. "Go back to Hell," he snaps instead, trying to slam Alastair's hand hard against the tile in an attempt to dislodge the knife. To his dismay, Alastair is far stronger than he lets on, and his fingers barely twitch. The demon's fingers curl around his, and Castiel gasps sharply as Alastair begins to bend them back, contorting the joints in a way human joints aren't supposed to move.
"Run, run, little angel, run to daddy," Alastair sing-songs as he gets to his feet, forcing Castiel down in turn. With a single brutal push, he sends Castiel sprawling onto the floor. The blows that rain onto his ribs in quick succession leave Castiel choking for breath against the pain. Alastair straddles him across the waist, leaning down to press a hand against Castiel's chest. Castiel grits his teeth as the knife in his free hand draws close, waving about in a faintly mocking dance. "Of course, you're already here, and you're not going to get away, are you? Hmm?"
"Dean," Cas says hoarsely. His wings twitch from their pinned position behind his back, beating helplessly in an attempt to break free. He can see the edges of Dean's still figure from above Alastair's shoulder, but his eyes are dead and flat in a ghastly pale face. "Dean!" he shouts.
The edge of the knife touches his cheek and Castiel sucks in a deep breath in anticipation of the pain. He keeps his eyes firmly on Dean's, willing Dean to look his way. He shivers and feels the first cut as a dull sensation more than anything else, but he knows that the pain will be coming soon. Alastair grins at him and shoves the knife deeper, and Castiel knows that he's bleeding now. He can feel his blood trickling down his neck, searing hot against the ice of the castle.
Castiel grits his teeth against the pain and tries again to shove Alastair off, but the nightmare is much stronger than he should be - or maybe it's because Castiel is weaker. Either way, it's a result of Dean's mind, and Castiel redoubles his efforts to reach the frozen man. "Dean," he pants, aware that Alastair is drawing the blade perilously close to slitting his throat. "You're not a murderer-"
Alastair grabs a handful of hair and slams his head back against the ice, and Castiel reels with disorientation. "Yes," Alastair says softly, "he is."
Castiel stares wide-eyed up at him, the words scattering from his mind. He imagines that he can see Dean begin to move, in which direction he doesn't know. Castiel can feel the blade bite deeply into his neck, too deep for him to survive this round, and the pain floods through him with shocking suddenness. "Dean," he chokes out, but it's too late. Now or never-
Castiel closes his eyes and pushes against the fabric of the dream as hard he can, forcing himself to ignore the agony spreading through him. Breathe - don't breathe - and then push, snapping through the dream with everything he's got. He'll be fine in the real world, when he wakes, if he wakes, and he'll be back for Dean, he swears. It feels like a coward's move, but there's nothing he can do if he wants to survive. Castiel reaches up blindly, trying to push Alastair away from him and shatter back into waking.
"Whoa! Cas, calm down, it's just me!"
Castiel's eyes fly open and he freezes at the sight of Sam standing before him with his hands spread wide in a placating gesture. "Dude, it's okay," Sam says. "You all right?"
Castiel stares at him dumbly for a moment before pressing a hand to his neck. No blood. The pain is vivid in his memory, but there's nothing to show that it was ever there. He lets his hand drop and looks around the room, feeling numb. Peeling wallpaper, faint smell of mold in the air. Motel room, then. Not a surprise unless you count the overwhelming surprise that he survived.
His eyes fall on Dean. Dean is eerily still on the bed - Sam has pulled the blanket up over him to give the illusion that he's just sleeping, but his face is blank. Not unlike his dream counterpart, if Castiel is going to be honest. There's a bag connected to a vein in his arm.
"Cas?"
Castiel doesn't look away from Dean's unconscious form. He can hear Sam heave a soft, shaky sigh. "How's…uh. How'd it go?"
Castiel eases himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle the IV bag, and lays a hand on Dean's. It feels cold, like Dean's close to dying already. "It was…frozen," he says finally. After a moment, he adds, "I saw Alastair."
He doesn't have to turn around to see the tension that jolts through Sam's frame. "What?" Sam says, and for a moment his voice is darker, containing undertones of some sort of feral rage. "A Hell dream then?"
"Evidently," Castiel says tiredly. "Dean's trapped in some sort of nightmare, one of his own making. He's…" he shakes his head as he tries to piece together what his senses told him about Dean, about the strange emptiness. "He's not complete, Sam. Something's missing."
"Wait. Are you saying that he's lost part of his mind?" Sam says, looking alarmed.
"Not lost. Hiding. It's all still there, just fragmented somehow."
"What do you mean, fragmented?" Sam asks. "Like, he's been broken? That's…" he swallows, and then says quietly, "I wish I could say I was surprised."
Castiel turns to look at him. "Memories that are hardly new to you, as well."
"Yeah, well, I never had to torture anyone," Sam says with a tired laugh. "Not that I didn't have to face my own demons down there…" he trails off. "Anyway." Sam coughs and clears his throat, obviously not wanting to dredge up his memories of the Cage. Then: "So what happened?"
"Alastair tried to kill me," Castiel says, unconsciously reaching up to rub his throat again. "I'm weakened, that's true, but Alastair was much stronger than he should've been. What that means, I don't…I don't know." He stares listlessly for a moment before his eyes focus on the IV bag connected to Dean's arm. "How long has it been?"
"Um." Sam sits down next to Castiel on the bed, and out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel can see him twist his hands uneasily. "Three days."
Castiel gets the unspoken feeling that Sam has been counting down the days, minutes, even seconds until his return. "Any news?"
"Not really," Sam says. "The most exciting bit you missed was me posing as a doctor to sneak some IV bags from a hospital. Bobby's been doing much of the researching while I watch over Dean. Mira's helping too. They're both contacting everyone they know to see if anyone has heard of anything like this."
"That is good," Castiel murmurs, sudden exhaustion pressing down all around him. Technically, he hasn't really been corporeal these three days, but his limbs suddenly feel rubbery, refusing to obey his commands. "It didn't feel like three days for me," he says, and it's an effort to get the words to come out properly.
"You okay?" Sam asks awkwardly. "You look ready to fall over." Castiel waves a hand in dismissal of the question; he's okay, he has to be okay. Sam fidgets for a moment as Castiel doesn't answer, and then he says, "What about Dean? Is he okay?"
"Define okay," Castiel says wearily.
"Do you think you can bring him back?"
Castiel turns his head with an effort to look at Sam. "I don't know," he answers truthfully, and the answer feels like a stab through his heart. He's never had any use for the metaphor in all the millennia of his existence, but just recently he's starting to learn. People expend so much time and energy to their hearts - love, broken love, hopes for love, lost love…
He forces himself to shake some of the stupor away. "I need to go back," he says, more for Sam's benefit than anything else. "I don't know how the dream will continue to change. Dean…"
"He's always been a bit of a martyr?" Sam says dryly.
"It must be a Winchester thing," Cas says.
"And it's rubbing off on you, evidently," Sam says, and Castiel feels Sam place a hand against his shoulder. "Seriously, you look terrible. You're running low on angel-juice, Castiel. Take a break."
"The dream's still there," Castiel says, more to himself than to Sam. Sam pats Castiel's shoulders awkwardly, and Castiel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He's so tired. "I should…"
"You said Alastair kicked your ass, right?" Sam says. "And that was you when you were fresh. You really think you can take him on if you're tired?"
"I wouldn't have to rest if I were still an angel," Castiel mutters.
There's an exasperated sigh from next to him. "And the Apocalypse wouldn't have started if I hadn't been stupid," Sam says. "We've all got regrets that we've got to cope with."
Castiel turns his head to look at Sam with a small frown. "This is your brother," he says slowly. "I would've thought that you'd be desperate."
Sam grimaces. "It's been three days," he says, his words slow and halting. "I just…" he sighs. "I passed the desperate stage about two hours in, and since then it was mostly just worry and…" Sam's mouth pulls briefly to one side, and then he sighs. "Look, if you're exhausted, you're not going to be much help to anyone. Dean's been in a shitty situation for a while, and I don't really think it's going to change that much if you rest for a couple of hours." He looks sideways at Castiel. "It's self-interest, too. Both of you collapsing is a bad idea."
Castiel closes his eyes as Sam's words hit him. Sam's worried about him. For some reason, the idea still surprises Castiel. That Sam cares about him, maybe has even truly forgiven him. He's been aware of it for a while, but at the same time, there's a difference between knowing and knowing something. Cas exhales slowly, shakily, and gives a short nod. "Thank you," he says quietly.
Sam squeezes his shoulder and lets go of him. "You'll be fine," he says. "We all will."
It sounds like a promise, one that Castiel desperately wants to believe is true.
Episode 17: Dreamcatcher (Continued)