Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 18 - Dr. Sam Winchester - Relationship Councilor and ...
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“Did you want to ask me about him?”
Castiel freezes at Sam’s question, the preternatural stillness that he can achieve when he wishes.
Sam has been spending a lot of time at Collinwood lately, nearly every spare moment when he’s not at the hospital, running tests, taking readings, asking questions. And although he’s spent a fair amount of time with Castiel, he still hasn’t gotten used to how still he can be. It’s clear to Sam that Castiel generally works very hard to hide his otherness and that the effort is constant and unending. It’s only now, that Sam knows what Castiel is, that Castiel has stopped trying to pass for human.
So, Sam knows instantly, by the way Castiel’s entire body goes inhumanly still that Castiel knows that Sam is asking if Castiel wants to know about Dean.
“How is he?” Castiel finally says, voice quiet and even.
“Really shitty,” Sam replies easily as he draws another vial of blood. Sam’s currently trying to discern what effect feeding has on Castiel’s numbers. Which numbers go up, which go down. What effect does quantity have?
He hasn’t gotten around to completely mapping out his studies yet, but he’s creepily aware that at some point, he’s going to have to test freshness of the blood. From a purely scientific point of view, he’s excited.
The non-scientist part of him feels really weird about it.
He focuses back on what he’s doing.
“Is he unwell?” Castiel hedges.
“Depends on what you mean by that.” Sam swaps one blood vial out for another. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He works. He sleeps. Or rather, he lies down horizontal in a bed. I don’t think he’s sleeping much if his face is anything to go by.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything in reply.
“And it doesn’t look like you’re sleeping much either,” Sam offers.
“I do not require much sleep.”
“Kinda not the point I was trying to make. Do you ever think about going over to the pub? Talking to him?”
“He said he did not wish to see me. I am not to come by. I am not to speak to him.”
Castiel’s voice is flat and monotone. Empty.
“Yeah, that sounds like something Dean would say. But, the thing is, he’s miserable.”
Sam isn’t sure why he thought that would maybe cheer Castiel up, but instead, Castiel slumps at the words.
“I know. I thought… that perhaps once he knew… I imagined I would have a moment to explain. To… atone.”
Sam ineffectually pats Castiel on the shoulder, gripping the solid joint. Castiel turns his head and stares uncomprehendingly at Sam’s hand.
Sam pulls it back.
This is awkward. How does one comfort a vampire?
“Maybe you need to make a gesture?”
“I cannot force anything on him. I will not.”
“And I’m absolutely not suggesting you do. There will be no forcing. I’m just… I mean…’cause if you’re waiting for Dean to smarten up?” Sam sighs. “It’s a good thing you’re probably immortal.”
Castiel smiles at the dark humor and Sam’s relieved that it didn’t all just go completely pear-shaped.
“Are you saying my longevity will be of use in trying to outlast your brother’s stubborn streak?”
“He still might outlast you. Depends on if he can stay mad after he dies.”
At the mention of death, Castiel’s eyebrows frown slightly and he loses his smile, turning slightly away from Sam again.
“Oh, I’m, uh, sorry,” Sam says quickly. “It can’t be easy for you to… well, Chuck… told me about how you became a vampire. About Dean. In the past.”
Castiel nods once. “It is not easy watching someone you love die. I have known the death of everyone I knew. My family. My friends. My… Dean.”
“At first, I didn’t believe Chuck when he said that Dean was the same as he was in the past. I thought it was crazy,” Sam confesses, slotting the blood vials into their carrying tray. “And then I realized, hey, I’ve already committed to finding a cure for vampirism, so how much further of a stretch can reincarnation be?” Sam’s lips curl in a wry smile. “But I’ve seen Dean since he met you and he’s never… he’s never been that way about anyone. And I don’t know if it’s because some part of him does remember or if it all really is just bullshit. But I know he was happy. That’s what I want for him.”
“Myself as well. And he’s made it clear I am to stay away. So I must. So I shall.”
Sam nods. It doesn’t seem like there’s much more to say on the subject of Dean. Sam hopes Chuck fares better.
He notes the time the blood was drawn on his chart, adding a few other numbers to input into his tracking system later. He clears his throat. “Uh, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” Castiel nods to the chair opposite him and Sam sits. It’s quiet in the lab as Sam considers what he’s about to ask Castiel to do.
“We know that feeding has a direct impact on your numbers and you’ve been more than gracious in varying your patterns and habits for my knowledge and experiments. But I’d like to go further. Quite a bit further.”
Sam tries not to be afraid when Castiel’s eyes sharpen and focus on in him with precision. “I assume you are not considering anything either of us would find… distasteful, in one way or another?”
“No, I’m not suggesting anything… graphic for lack of a better word,” Sam is quick to add. “Let me start again. If I understand correctly, Chuck awoke you? You were hibernating, so to speak?”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t feed while you were in… there.”
“No, it was quite impossible. I was entombed.”
“How is that possible?” Sam asks, leaning forward, brow furrowed. “How is it that you need to feed, but you were able to hibernate?”
“After a period of withdrawal, my functions cannot sustain themselves fully. I am able to shut them down. It’s not entirely voluntary, although I do have some control over it.”
Sam nods thoughtfully. “And there is no way to not feed and escape hibernation?”
“Not that I know of, although it’s not as though I was given a lesson when I was turned,” Castiel replies, his eyes flashing with grim humor. “I only know that I was determined to sleep. There was too much…” Castiel pauses and looks away for a moment. “This was sometime after…” his voice trails away and Sam’s pretty sure that sentence ends with after Dean died. “I had learned that I could stave the hunger for a time but that I was unstable, a danger to others when I did. So the only way to ensure that I would not feed was to be entombed.”
“Who did you trust with that?”
“My sister. Abigail. It is the worst burden I could have placed on her but she accepted it with grace and honor. She knew what I was. What I had become. But she still loved me.
“I hoped that I would remain undiscovered for some time. Until Charles came along, I was asleep. Or resting, I suppose.”
“What was it like? The withdrawal, the hibernation?”
Castiel thinks, his gaze sombre and faraway. “I cannot say. I recall being entombed. There was grief. Fear. Horror. Then hunger. It was relentless. It was painful, although I could not pinpoint exactly where. It was as though each one of my cells were screaming at me and the volume was such that I was being overloaded. I couldn’t discern one part of my body from another. I… dreamed. Or hallucinated. I’m not sure which. I couldn’t tell the difference. It might have been days or years.” He taps his fingers on the table, as though trying to pinpoint the memory, as though he’s reciting a poem and not the sensation of being buried somewhat alive and suffering. He makes a soft ‘hmm’ sound before turning his blue eyes back to Sam.
“Is that what you’re asking, Sam? Do you wish to study the withdrawal?”
Sam purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. I think we need to. By seeing how you respond without drinking, I’m hoping to figure out why you need to drink.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to nod. “And when would you like to begin?”
“As soon as you think you’re willing.”
“I am willing, but arrangements should be made.”
“Like?”
“Confinement. Security. For yourself and Charles. No one should be allowed to come to Collinwood and I must not be allowed to leave.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I cannot honestly remember all the details from before, Sam. And I’ve told you, I have killed before. I certainly am capable of it. This affliction is a monster sleeping beneath my skin. When I deny it blood…” Castiel’s fingers curled on his thighs, pulling his hands into tight fists. “It pulses. I cannot be allowed the modicum of freedom that I have now.”
Sam wonders if he should take it back, if they should just scrap the whole idea. But he promised to try and find a cure and this is a step toward that.
“All right. Tell me what you need and Chuck and I will arrange it.”
***
That damn manuscript is haunting him.
Dean threw it in the trash the second after Chuck left.
Then he proceeded to stare at it in the trash for five minutes before cursing and pulling it back out.
He tucked it under his arm, but by the time he was back downstairs in the basement, he had resolved to throw it out again.
Ten minutes after that, he was cursing again as he stood in the back parking lot of the pub and stared at the door, trying to convince himself he didn’t want to go downstairs and get it.
It was finally Ash’s turn to close and Dean had been telling himself that he was looking forward to an evening of beer, action films and food he didn’t cook. He’d spent the whole day convincing himself of this.
He kicks the dumpster hard and curses a blue streak as pain shoots up his toes and foot. He wrenches the back door to the pub open and ignores Ash’s laconic “Dean-o, thought you left man,” and stomps down the stairs, snatching the stupid manuscript up.
He storms back up the stairs and ignores Ash again.
“Have a good night, dude,” Ash calls after him.
He will, Dean thinks viciously. He’s going to have a great night. Best night in days.
His mood is still sour by the time he steps into the house and spots Sam getting ready to leave, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” Sam says, forcing a casual tone. “You’re not closing tonight?”
“Ash,” Dean replies, eyeing the bag. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I was going to call you,” says Sam. “I’m taking some time off from the hospital and I’ll… well I’ll be at Collinwood.”
Dean tells himself it isn’t jealousy he feels. It isn’t jealousy or worry, neither envy nor interest.
“Oh,” he manages.
“Yeah. I’m running some tests. On Castiel. And it’s just better if I’m there monitoring him.”
“I didn’t ask why,” Dean says coldly.
“No,” Sam agrees. “But you wanted to.”
“Sam,” Dean warns.
Sam holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just wanted to let you know where I was and that you don’t have to worry about me.”
“You’re hanging out with a fucking vampire, of course I’m gonna worry.”
“The same vampire you were living with and nothing happened to you,” Sam counters.
Dean clenches his jaw but before he can grind out a reply, Sam points to the manuscript tucked under Dean’s arm.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Garbage.”
Taking in Dean’s tone and his defensive stance, Sam understands. “It’s from Chuck. Isn’t it?”
“Did I miss the fucking memo where everyone got the right to butt into my personal life?”
“Have you read it?”
Dean swallows. “No.”
“You should.”
“Well, you don’t get a vote.”
It’s the most they’ve spoken to each other in days. It’s tense and awkward and Sam strangely doesn’t want it to end.
“He misses you.”
“Jesus, what are you? Yenta for the undead?”
“He’s not undead,” Sam clarifies. “There is a medical basis for his condition. I just haven’t found it yet.”
“It’s not a condition, Sammy. He’s a vampire.”
Sam straightens. “I’m confident I can find a treatment.”
“Pretty sure they’ve already come up with one. Stake through the heart.”
Even as he says it, Dean feels sick and wants to pull the words out of the air and stuff them back in his mouth.
“You don’t mean that,” Sam says. He hitches his bag onto his shoulder. “Come to Collinwood, Dean. Just talk with him.”
“You shouldn’t even be going over there. It’s dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t. And you know it isn’t. He won’t hurt me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. He’s not a killer by nature, but even if he was, he would never hurt me because I’m important to you. He wouldn’t do that to you.”
Dean averts his eyes from Sam’s gaze. “If you get in trouble, you call me. You’re not my favorite person right now, but I’ll come.”
“I know. But I won’t get into any trouble.”
Dean doesn’t move from the foyer as Sam leaves. He stays standing there, listening to Sam’s beater car chug to life and then rumble down the driveway. He tells himself his desire to get in the Impala and follow Sam to Collinwood is only so he can drag Sam back home. It has nothing at all to do with Castiel.
Because he doesn’t miss him.
At all.
And if he can’t sleep much lately, or if he’s walking around feeling like some scooped out all his insides with a really dull melon-baller, well, it’s probably because running your own business takes a lot out of a person.
And when he does sleep, if he has that crazy dream where he’s chasing after something (someone) and he catches it (him) and then it (he) slips out of Dean’s grasp and he wakes in a cold sweat panting for air, well… it’s nobody’s business but his own.
No matter how hard he tries to convince himself he’s fine and he doesn’t care, he’s not and he does. Despite the fact that he’s been telling himself all day that he couldn’t wait to get home and sack out in front of the television and watch a Dirty Harry marathon, he knows the truth is that he’s been dreading his night off for days. Dreading coming home and sitting in the dark, trying to fill the time and not think about Cas.
He’s pretty fucking terrible at not thinking about Cas.
He loses whole sections of hours standing around not thinking about Cas.
He wants to hit something, he wants to break something. He wants to lie down in bed and not lie awake for hours.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night or day, depending on when he finally falls asleep, he wonders if he’s crazy. Because sometimes he thinks he made a mistake. A really fucking big mistake and he’ll start dialing the numbers to Cas’ phone or he’ll think about getting in the car and driving over to Collinwood.
Then he thinks vampire. Which is usually immediately followed by lied to and the whole cycle starts over again.
But in those moments, before he stops himself, he remembers how happy he was. How happy they both were. And nothing about it felt fake or wrong. He remembers how comfortable and uncomplicated he felt around Cas. It was all so simple; He couldn’t fucking believe how simple.
He realizes that when he was with Cas, he honestly never saw it coming to an end. It’s not something he ever had before. He’d always inherently known the shelf life of any other relationship he entered into, and they were short. Always short. But he never thought about the end with Cas.
Then the end came and it was like someone just yanked the world out from under him and then for just added kicks and giggles, wrapped every raw nerve he had in salty sandpaper. Everything hurts. Everything feels wrong, like he’s going down a busy street and everyone else is going against him, jostling him, bumping him.
Everything is hard.
He finds himself in his room and just falls face down onto his bed. If Sam were acting like this, Dean would accuse him of being a fourteen year old girl. He’d tease him mercilessly, then take him out and get him rip-roaring drunk on tequila. By the end of the night, Dean would make sure Sam didn’t even know the name of the girl he’d lost. Then, over the course of the next few days, Dean would pick Sam up, dust him off and send him back out into the world, ready to face it again.
But Sam’s not here to do the same for Dean and Dean doubts a bottle of tequila is gonna do the trick. He doubts there’s enough tequila in the world to do the trick.
***
Sam knew of course that money always made things happen faster. He just didn’t realize how much faster.
After his discussion with Castiel, Sam, Chuck and Castiel had sat down and discussed the security measures that should be taken in order to ensure everyone’s safety.
Castiel was the one who brought up his sarcophagus. Sam’s not sure he could have and from the look on Chuck’s face, he probably couldn’t have either. Castiel talked calmly about its silver lining, how he can’t press his hands up against it to open the lid without severe pain and crippling burns. He mentioned that the lid is quite heavy and would take a lot of his strength to move, due to the religious inscriptions on it. He was relatively certain they could carve a section of the side out for his arm to pass through and Sam could still monitor his blood work, take pressure readings and even ask Castiel some questions if he wished.
Sam and Chuck tried not to squirm too much as they planned Castiel’s entombment. If Castiel noticed that they fidgeted, he didn’t say anything.
Chuck scurried off to make the arrangements and Sam decided he didn’t want to know how the author was going to have the sarcophagus moved from the cemetery to Collinwood. Chuck seemed to know an odd assortment of people and Sam was constantly amazed at the things he could find out or procure.
By the time Sam returned from his place and his run in with Dean, a motley crew of very silent, very sombre men were in the middle of delivering the stone tomb and silver coffin to the cellar of Collinwood. They spoke only to Chuck and only to ask where to place the items and then to settle the bill.
Chuck had bustled around making sure everything was intact and undamaged, checking the linens on the inside of the coffin for tears or rips in a strangely morbid fastidiousness. When finally satisfied, he had left again, this time to somehow obtain tasers.
Sam wouldn’t even know where to start but apparently Chuck Shurley, author extraordinaire, had no problems.
Now, seated in the kitchen, drinking a cup of the very fine coffee that Chuck keeps stocked, Sam studies Castiel. He is quiet as usual, eyes drifting over to the window and out to the back courtyard, darkened by nightfall. Sam wonders what Castiel thinks about. He’s silent for long stretches and appears to have no desire to fill the silence with idle chatter. They do have conversations and if Sam has a question, Castiel answers it, but there are still interminable stretches where Castiel says nothing.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” answers Castiel simply without hesitation.
“It’s just that, it sounds like it will be pretty unpleasant for you.”
“It will be,” he acknowledges.
“Are you… nervous?” Sam spins his cup around on the wood table, the china making a hollow sound.
“I am not looking forward to it, but I see the necessity of it.”
“Is there anything you want before we go ahead with this? I thought we could start tomorrow at daybreak, so if you did want something…” or someone remains unspoken.
Castiel is quiet for a moment and then speaks. “There is nothing I want that I am able to have. And I suspect you know as much.”
“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I could try to talk to him again? I mean, I did talk to him the other day but I could try again. As I said before, he’s pretty fucking miserable.”
“I appreciate the offer, Sam, but I believe it would be futile. Thank you.”
Sam manages a weak smile.
“Are there any tests you would like to do before I’m secured?”
Secured is a much better word than entombed, thinks Sam. Or inter, inhume.
“Well,” answers Sam, trying to go into doctor-mode, “I wanted you to… drink before we… before you’re secured. I’ll take a baseline blood sample then, as well as your pressure. I had thought about taking your temperature, but we’d have to drill another hole in the cof… in the … in the box for me to be able to get to your ear or your forehead. Or I could reach in and….”
“It would be best if you did not reach your limbs inside once I am consumed by the hunger,” said Castiel evenly.
“Oh. Right. So I guess that’s out. Other than that, I’m hoping to get some feedback from you on how you’re doing.”
“I will do my best to answer any questions honestly.”
Sam nods completely at a loss for a reply that wouldn’t be inappropriate. Something inane like Oh, hey, yeah, as honest as you can be while I starve you into hallucinations and madness, thanks!
Medical school never prepared him for the bedside manner required when tending vampires.
“If there is nothing further, I have some… errands I would like to attend to before dawn.” Castiel rises as he speaks, fluid grace transitioning him from seated to standing.
“Of course,” replies Sam. “I’ll see you at sunrise.”
“Until sunrise.”
Next Chapter - 19 - A Chuck Shurley Novella
“Did you want to ask me about him?”
Castiel freezes at Sam’s question, the preternatural stillness that he can achieve when he wishes.
Sam has been spending a lot of time at Collinwood lately, nearly every spare moment when he’s not at the hospital, running tests, taking readings, asking questions. And although he’s spent a fair amount of time with Castiel, he still hasn’t gotten used to how still he can be. It’s clear to Sam that Castiel generally works very hard to hide his otherness and that the effort is constant and unending. It’s only now, that Sam knows what Castiel is, that Castiel has stopped trying to pass for human.
So, Sam knows instantly, by the way Castiel’s entire body goes inhumanly still that Castiel knows that Sam is asking if Castiel wants to know about Dean.
“How is he?” Castiel finally says, voice quiet and even.
“Really shitty,” Sam replies easily as he draws another vial of blood. Sam’s currently trying to discern what effect feeding has on Castiel’s numbers. Which numbers go up, which go down. What effect does quantity have?
He hasn’t gotten around to completely mapping out his studies yet, but he’s creepily aware that at some point, he’s going to have to test freshness of the blood. From a purely scientific point of view, he’s excited.
The non-scientist part of him feels really weird about it.
He focuses back on what he’s doing.
“Is he unwell?” Castiel hedges.
“Depends on what you mean by that.” Sam swaps one blood vial out for another. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He works. He sleeps. Or rather, he lies down horizontal in a bed. I don’t think he’s sleeping much if his face is anything to go by.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything in reply.
“And it doesn’t look like you’re sleeping much either,” Sam offers.
“I do not require much sleep.”
“Kinda not the point I was trying to make. Do you ever think about going over to the pub? Talking to him?”
“He said he did not wish to see me. I am not to come by. I am not to speak to him.”
Castiel’s voice is flat and monotone. Empty.
“Yeah, that sounds like something Dean would say. But, the thing is, he’s miserable.”
Sam isn’t sure why he thought that would maybe cheer Castiel up, but instead, Castiel slumps at the words.
“I know. I thought… that perhaps once he knew… I imagined I would have a moment to explain. To… atone.”
Sam ineffectually pats Castiel on the shoulder, gripping the solid joint. Castiel turns his head and stares uncomprehendingly at Sam’s hand.
Sam pulls it back.
This is awkward. How does one comfort a vampire?
“Maybe you need to make a gesture?”
“I cannot force anything on him. I will not.”
“And I’m absolutely not suggesting you do. There will be no forcing. I’m just… I mean…’cause if you’re waiting for Dean to smarten up?” Sam sighs. “It’s a good thing you’re probably immortal.”
Castiel smiles at the dark humor and Sam’s relieved that it didn’t all just go completely pear-shaped.
“Are you saying my longevity will be of use in trying to outlast your brother’s stubborn streak?”
“He still might outlast you. Depends on if he can stay mad after he dies.”
At the mention of death, Castiel’s eyebrows frown slightly and he loses his smile, turning slightly away from Sam again.
“Oh, I’m, uh, sorry,” Sam says quickly. “It can’t be easy for you to… well, Chuck… told me about how you became a vampire. About Dean. In the past.”
Castiel nods once. “It is not easy watching someone you love die. I have known the death of everyone I knew. My family. My friends. My… Dean.”
“At first, I didn’t believe Chuck when he said that Dean was the same as he was in the past. I thought it was crazy,” Sam confesses, slotting the blood vials into their carrying tray. “And then I realized, hey, I’ve already committed to finding a cure for vampirism, so how much further of a stretch can reincarnation be?” Sam’s lips curl in a wry smile. “But I’ve seen Dean since he met you and he’s never… he’s never been that way about anyone. And I don’t know if it’s because some part of him does remember or if it all really is just bullshit. But I know he was happy. That’s what I want for him.”
“Myself as well. And he’s made it clear I am to stay away. So I must. So I shall.”
Sam nods. It doesn’t seem like there’s much more to say on the subject of Dean. Sam hopes Chuck fares better.
He notes the time the blood was drawn on his chart, adding a few other numbers to input into his tracking system later. He clears his throat. “Uh, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” Castiel nods to the chair opposite him and Sam sits. It’s quiet in the lab as Sam considers what he’s about to ask Castiel to do.
“We know that feeding has a direct impact on your numbers and you’ve been more than gracious in varying your patterns and habits for my knowledge and experiments. But I’d like to go further. Quite a bit further.”
Sam tries not to be afraid when Castiel’s eyes sharpen and focus on in him with precision. “I assume you are not considering anything either of us would find… distasteful, in one way or another?”
“No, I’m not suggesting anything… graphic for lack of a better word,” Sam is quick to add. “Let me start again. If I understand correctly, Chuck awoke you? You were hibernating, so to speak?”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t feed while you were in… there.”
“No, it was quite impossible. I was entombed.”
“How is that possible?” Sam asks, leaning forward, brow furrowed. “How is it that you need to feed, but you were able to hibernate?”
“After a period of withdrawal, my functions cannot sustain themselves fully. I am able to shut them down. It’s not entirely voluntary, although I do have some control over it.”
Sam nods thoughtfully. “And there is no way to not feed and escape hibernation?”
“Not that I know of, although it’s not as though I was given a lesson when I was turned,” Castiel replies, his eyes flashing with grim humor. “I only know that I was determined to sleep. There was too much…” Castiel pauses and looks away for a moment. “This was sometime after…” his voice trails away and Sam’s pretty sure that sentence ends with after Dean died. “I had learned that I could stave the hunger for a time but that I was unstable, a danger to others when I did. So the only way to ensure that I would not feed was to be entombed.”
“Who did you trust with that?”
“My sister. Abigail. It is the worst burden I could have placed on her but she accepted it with grace and honor. She knew what I was. What I had become. But she still loved me.
“I hoped that I would remain undiscovered for some time. Until Charles came along, I was asleep. Or resting, I suppose.”
“What was it like? The withdrawal, the hibernation?”
Castiel thinks, his gaze sombre and faraway. “I cannot say. I recall being entombed. There was grief. Fear. Horror. Then hunger. It was relentless. It was painful, although I could not pinpoint exactly where. It was as though each one of my cells were screaming at me and the volume was such that I was being overloaded. I couldn’t discern one part of my body from another. I… dreamed. Or hallucinated. I’m not sure which. I couldn’t tell the difference. It might have been days or years.” He taps his fingers on the table, as though trying to pinpoint the memory, as though he’s reciting a poem and not the sensation of being buried somewhat alive and suffering. He makes a soft ‘hmm’ sound before turning his blue eyes back to Sam.
“Is that what you’re asking, Sam? Do you wish to study the withdrawal?”
Sam purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. I think we need to. By seeing how you respond without drinking, I’m hoping to figure out why you need to drink.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to nod. “And when would you like to begin?”
“As soon as you think you’re willing.”
“I am willing, but arrangements should be made.”
“Like?”
“Confinement. Security. For yourself and Charles. No one should be allowed to come to Collinwood and I must not be allowed to leave.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I cannot honestly remember all the details from before, Sam. And I’ve told you, I have killed before. I certainly am capable of it. This affliction is a monster sleeping beneath my skin. When I deny it blood…” Castiel’s fingers curled on his thighs, pulling his hands into tight fists. “It pulses. I cannot be allowed the modicum of freedom that I have now.”
Sam wonders if he should take it back, if they should just scrap the whole idea. But he promised to try and find a cure and this is a step toward that.
“All right. Tell me what you need and Chuck and I will arrange it.”
***
That damn manuscript is haunting him.
Dean threw it in the trash the second after Chuck left.
Then he proceeded to stare at it in the trash for five minutes before cursing and pulling it back out.
He tucked it under his arm, but by the time he was back downstairs in the basement, he had resolved to throw it out again.
Ten minutes after that, he was cursing again as he stood in the back parking lot of the pub and stared at the door, trying to convince himself he didn’t want to go downstairs and get it.
It was finally Ash’s turn to close and Dean had been telling himself that he was looking forward to an evening of beer, action films and food he didn’t cook. He’d spent the whole day convincing himself of this.
He kicks the dumpster hard and curses a blue streak as pain shoots up his toes and foot. He wrenches the back door to the pub open and ignores Ash’s laconic “Dean-o, thought you left man,” and stomps down the stairs, snatching the stupid manuscript up.
He storms back up the stairs and ignores Ash again.
“Have a good night, dude,” Ash calls after him.
He will, Dean thinks viciously. He’s going to have a great night. Best night in days.
His mood is still sour by the time he steps into the house and spots Sam getting ready to leave, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” Sam says, forcing a casual tone. “You’re not closing tonight?”
“Ash,” Dean replies, eyeing the bag. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I was going to call you,” says Sam. “I’m taking some time off from the hospital and I’ll… well I’ll be at Collinwood.”
Dean tells himself it isn’t jealousy he feels. It isn’t jealousy or worry, neither envy nor interest.
“Oh,” he manages.
“Yeah. I’m running some tests. On Castiel. And it’s just better if I’m there monitoring him.”
“I didn’t ask why,” Dean says coldly.
“No,” Sam agrees. “But you wanted to.”
“Sam,” Dean warns.
Sam holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just wanted to let you know where I was and that you don’t have to worry about me.”
“You’re hanging out with a fucking vampire, of course I’m gonna worry.”
“The same vampire you were living with and nothing happened to you,” Sam counters.
Dean clenches his jaw but before he can grind out a reply, Sam points to the manuscript tucked under Dean’s arm.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Garbage.”
Taking in Dean’s tone and his defensive stance, Sam understands. “It’s from Chuck. Isn’t it?”
“Did I miss the fucking memo where everyone got the right to butt into my personal life?”
“Have you read it?”
Dean swallows. “No.”
“You should.”
“Well, you don’t get a vote.”
It’s the most they’ve spoken to each other in days. It’s tense and awkward and Sam strangely doesn’t want it to end.
“He misses you.”
“Jesus, what are you? Yenta for the undead?”
“He’s not undead,” Sam clarifies. “There is a medical basis for his condition. I just haven’t found it yet.”
“It’s not a condition, Sammy. He’s a vampire.”
Sam straightens. “I’m confident I can find a treatment.”
“Pretty sure they’ve already come up with one. Stake through the heart.”
Even as he says it, Dean feels sick and wants to pull the words out of the air and stuff them back in his mouth.
“You don’t mean that,” Sam says. He hitches his bag onto his shoulder. “Come to Collinwood, Dean. Just talk with him.”
“You shouldn’t even be going over there. It’s dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t. And you know it isn’t. He won’t hurt me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. He’s not a killer by nature, but even if he was, he would never hurt me because I’m important to you. He wouldn’t do that to you.”
Dean averts his eyes from Sam’s gaze. “If you get in trouble, you call me. You’re not my favorite person right now, but I’ll come.”
“I know. But I won’t get into any trouble.”
Dean doesn’t move from the foyer as Sam leaves. He stays standing there, listening to Sam’s beater car chug to life and then rumble down the driveway. He tells himself his desire to get in the Impala and follow Sam to Collinwood is only so he can drag Sam back home. It has nothing at all to do with Castiel.
Because he doesn’t miss him.
At all.
And if he can’t sleep much lately, or if he’s walking around feeling like some scooped out all his insides with a really dull melon-baller, well, it’s probably because running your own business takes a lot out of a person.
And when he does sleep, if he has that crazy dream where he’s chasing after something (someone) and he catches it (him) and then it (he) slips out of Dean’s grasp and he wakes in a cold sweat panting for air, well… it’s nobody’s business but his own.
No matter how hard he tries to convince himself he’s fine and he doesn’t care, he’s not and he does. Despite the fact that he’s been telling himself all day that he couldn’t wait to get home and sack out in front of the television and watch a Dirty Harry marathon, he knows the truth is that he’s been dreading his night off for days. Dreading coming home and sitting in the dark, trying to fill the time and not think about Cas.
He’s pretty fucking terrible at not thinking about Cas.
He loses whole sections of hours standing around not thinking about Cas.
He wants to hit something, he wants to break something. He wants to lie down in bed and not lie awake for hours.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night or day, depending on when he finally falls asleep, he wonders if he’s crazy. Because sometimes he thinks he made a mistake. A really fucking big mistake and he’ll start dialing the numbers to Cas’ phone or he’ll think about getting in the car and driving over to Collinwood.
Then he thinks vampire. Which is usually immediately followed by lied to and the whole cycle starts over again.
But in those moments, before he stops himself, he remembers how happy he was. How happy they both were. And nothing about it felt fake or wrong. He remembers how comfortable and uncomplicated he felt around Cas. It was all so simple; He couldn’t fucking believe how simple.
He realizes that when he was with Cas, he honestly never saw it coming to an end. It’s not something he ever had before. He’d always inherently known the shelf life of any other relationship he entered into, and they were short. Always short. But he never thought about the end with Cas.
Then the end came and it was like someone just yanked the world out from under him and then for just added kicks and giggles, wrapped every raw nerve he had in salty sandpaper. Everything hurts. Everything feels wrong, like he’s going down a busy street and everyone else is going against him, jostling him, bumping him.
Everything is hard.
He finds himself in his room and just falls face down onto his bed. If Sam were acting like this, Dean would accuse him of being a fourteen year old girl. He’d tease him mercilessly, then take him out and get him rip-roaring drunk on tequila. By the end of the night, Dean would make sure Sam didn’t even know the name of the girl he’d lost. Then, over the course of the next few days, Dean would pick Sam up, dust him off and send him back out into the world, ready to face it again.
But Sam’s not here to do the same for Dean and Dean doubts a bottle of tequila is gonna do the trick. He doubts there’s enough tequila in the world to do the trick.
***
Sam knew of course that money always made things happen faster. He just didn’t realize how much faster.
After his discussion with Castiel, Sam, Chuck and Castiel had sat down and discussed the security measures that should be taken in order to ensure everyone’s safety.
Castiel was the one who brought up his sarcophagus. Sam’s not sure he could have and from the look on Chuck’s face, he probably couldn’t have either. Castiel talked calmly about its silver lining, how he can’t press his hands up against it to open the lid without severe pain and crippling burns. He mentioned that the lid is quite heavy and would take a lot of his strength to move, due to the religious inscriptions on it. He was relatively certain they could carve a section of the side out for his arm to pass through and Sam could still monitor his blood work, take pressure readings and even ask Castiel some questions if he wished.
Sam and Chuck tried not to squirm too much as they planned Castiel’s entombment. If Castiel noticed that they fidgeted, he didn’t say anything.
Chuck scurried off to make the arrangements and Sam decided he didn’t want to know how the author was going to have the sarcophagus moved from the cemetery to Collinwood. Chuck seemed to know an odd assortment of people and Sam was constantly amazed at the things he could find out or procure.
By the time Sam returned from his place and his run in with Dean, a motley crew of very silent, very sombre men were in the middle of delivering the stone tomb and silver coffin to the cellar of Collinwood. They spoke only to Chuck and only to ask where to place the items and then to settle the bill.
Chuck had bustled around making sure everything was intact and undamaged, checking the linens on the inside of the coffin for tears or rips in a strangely morbid fastidiousness. When finally satisfied, he had left again, this time to somehow obtain tasers.
Sam wouldn’t even know where to start but apparently Chuck Shurley, author extraordinaire, had no problems.
Now, seated in the kitchen, drinking a cup of the very fine coffee that Chuck keeps stocked, Sam studies Castiel. He is quiet as usual, eyes drifting over to the window and out to the back courtyard, darkened by nightfall. Sam wonders what Castiel thinks about. He’s silent for long stretches and appears to have no desire to fill the silence with idle chatter. They do have conversations and if Sam has a question, Castiel answers it, but there are still interminable stretches where Castiel says nothing.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” answers Castiel simply without hesitation.
“It’s just that, it sounds like it will be pretty unpleasant for you.”
“It will be,” he acknowledges.
“Are you… nervous?” Sam spins his cup around on the wood table, the china making a hollow sound.
“I am not looking forward to it, but I see the necessity of it.”
“Is there anything you want before we go ahead with this? I thought we could start tomorrow at daybreak, so if you did want something…” or someone remains unspoken.
Castiel is quiet for a moment and then speaks. “There is nothing I want that I am able to have. And I suspect you know as much.”
“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I could try to talk to him again? I mean, I did talk to him the other day but I could try again. As I said before, he’s pretty fucking miserable.”
“I appreciate the offer, Sam, but I believe it would be futile. Thank you.”
Sam manages a weak smile.
“Are there any tests you would like to do before I’m secured?”
Secured is a much better word than entombed, thinks Sam. Or inter, inhume.
“Well,” answers Sam, trying to go into doctor-mode, “I wanted you to… drink before we… before you’re secured. I’ll take a baseline blood sample then, as well as your pressure. I had thought about taking your temperature, but we’d have to drill another hole in the cof… in the … in the box for me to be able to get to your ear or your forehead. Or I could reach in and….”
“It would be best if you did not reach your limbs inside once I am consumed by the hunger,” said Castiel evenly.
“Oh. Right. So I guess that’s out. Other than that, I’m hoping to get some feedback from you on how you’re doing.”
“I will do my best to answer any questions honestly.”
Sam nods completely at a loss for a reply that wouldn’t be inappropriate. Something inane like Oh, hey, yeah, as honest as you can be while I starve you into hallucinations and madness, thanks!
Medical school never prepared him for the bedside manner required when tending vampires.
“If there is nothing further, I have some… errands I would like to attend to before dawn.” Castiel rises as he speaks, fluid grace transitioning him from seated to standing.
“Of course,” replies Sam. “I’ll see you at sunrise.”
“Until sunrise.”
Next Chapter - 19 - A Chuck Shurley Novella