Previous Chapter Here “What have you found?”
Chuck nervously flips through his coiled notebook, pages rustling.
“Well, it took me some time to track down the paperwork, record keeping being what it is, but I think I’ve got the beginning of what happened to Ruby’s estate after you… well after she… you know.” Chuck makes a sharp gesture with his hands that is creepily reminiscent of when Castiel broke Ruby’s neck. Chuck realizes what he’s done immediately and cringes. “Sorry. Uh, anyway. So Ruby’s estate reverted back to her father.”
“Her father?” Castiel repeats. “I did not know of him.”
“No, he uh, still lived in England at the time.”
“What was his name?”
“Lucian. I don’t have a lot of the details yet, but I don’t think they were in contact a lot. She left England when she was fourteen and came to America. With only a servant. Which is kind of odd for a girl of her age at the time. So I’m looking into that, see if I can find out what happened but,” Chuck shrugs. “Who knows. I mean, it’s not like anyone would have to write down why they were doing what they were doing, you know? Anyway, there was the fire, which, uh, you know,” Chuck said with nervous darts of his eyes. “And Ruby was dead, and it took some time I guess for the magistrate to sort it all out. Um, by the time Ruby’s father came over from England, the city had taken care of Ruby’s burial and a lot of people had been in and out of the estate and the church got involved with what they saw and it seems like a lot, if not all of her, um… stuff was confiscated. I’m looking into diocese records to see what I can find.”
Chuck hands over some notes he had made while doing his research, all typed up clearly for Castiel with dates and timelines all detailed. Castiel flips through them thoughtfully while Chuck continues.
“So, it looks like her father showed up and cleared out the rest of her estate and then went back to England. Jolly old.” Chuck chuckles.
Castiel’s eyes flick up from his notes and rest on Chuck who coughs and squirms a little in his seat.
“And, um, one of the cooks at the pub, Ash, he’s like, really good with computers and information, and if it’s all right with you, I thought maybe we could hire him to look into Ruby’s dad. I can access the Collinsport historical records directly here, and honestly, the archivists are just so fucking happy to see a real live person that they’re pretty helpful, but I don’t know how to go about getting the England stuff, but Ash, he can get pretty much anything he wants on the internet. And I wouldn’t be weird at all, because I can tell him you’re researching your past and old family friends and, you know, whatever.”
Castiel keeps reading Chuck’s notes while Chuck fidgets in his seat before finally looking up.
“Very well. Put Mr…?”
“Um, he just goes by Ash.”
Castiel’s expression clearly indicates what he thinks of that. “Put him on retainer. Pay him whatever you see fit.”
Chuck puffs up a little with pride a the responsibility. “Okay. Will do.” Chuck shifts in his seat. “So, how are things?”
Castiel’s cool eyes met Chuck’s. “How do you mean?”
“Well, um, it seems like you and, uh, Dean are, you know, uh, doing pretty well. Together. Not that I think about you together, because I don’t and the dreams have mostly stopped now, thank god, not that I saw much before,” he hurries to add. “Because I didn’t and if I did, Jesus that’s not a conversation I would ever, ever bring up with you. But Dean spends a lot of time here and he seems happy and you seem happy and so.” Chuck stops abruptly. “You have no lingering desire to kill me that’s been languishing unchecked all this time that I’ve suddenly activated, do you?”
Castiel smiles at Chuck and Chuck’s not sure if he should smile back or make a break for it.
“Charles, you do amuse me. I enjoy your company. It’s refreshing.”
Chucks shoulders sag a little in relief. “Oh, thank god.”
“I believe things, as you say, are well.”
“Good. That’s, uh, good.” Chuck nods. “‘Cause Dean seems like he’s happy. When I see him. Around Collinwood and at the pub. And you…”
“Do I seem happy to you, Charles?” Castiel asks with a raised eyebrow. “As happy as a monster can be?”
“You’re not a monster,” says Chuck immediately. “You just… have… a thing. A blood thing.”
Castiel lets out a wry huff. “I’ve not heard it phrased quite that way. Ever.”
“Well, you’re not killing anybody, and I figure that’s kind of a plus. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, but that is hardly the status quo by which we should measure things.”
“I guess. But it’s something.” Chuck is silent for a moment. “We’ll find something. There’s got to be something out there.”
Jesus, is he giving a pep talk to a vampire? Wow. Surreal.
A really bad pep talk. He sighs.
“Thank you, Charles. Your devotion is heartwarming.”
From anyone else it would sound sarcastic and maybe even a little mean, but Castiel means it and it makes Chuck smile.
“You’re welcome.”
***
The head of the lab had left him a note, a note for crying out loud, asking him to call her when he gets the report.
He’d been assured by her that the tests had been run three times, the final time by herself personally, and the results were accurate. She’d checked the integrity of the samples as well and could find no instance of contamination. She’d even gone as far as to pull up the serial numbers on the vials and check the batch shipment logs to ensure that there wasn’t something wrong with any of the vials that Sam had used.
Everything came up fine, except for the results themselves.
He mentioned to Castiel at their meeting that he might send the results to an immunologist, but at this point, he’s going to have to send them to a hematologist as well because he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.
He really isn’t sure, in fact, how Castiel is alive with numbers like these.
His next thought is for Dean. Dean who’s been so happy lately. Every time Sam sees him, he’s got a grin on his face and Sam’s not dumb, he knows it’s all about Castiel. Not that Dean wasn’t happy before he met Castiel. He’d been… content. He had the pub, he had Sam, he had good friends. But since he started seeing Castiel… it’s like Dean had been waiting for something and it finally showed up.
Sam doesn’t know what Dean will do if that gets taken away from him. Now that Dean’s had it, Sam’s not sure he can go back to just being content.
He’s getting ahead of himself here. First off, Sam has to figure out what they’re dealing with here, and he’s going to need some help.
***
Two days later and Sam still doesn’t understand the results of Castiel’s blood work. He tracked down a hematologist to review them and on a last minute whim, he struck Castiel’s name off the report, leaving only patient statistics. The hematologist had told him in no uncertain terms that the results were impossible. Somewhere, somehow the samples must have been contaminated because nobody could have the kind of numbers he was reading on the report. It simply wasn’t possible to pull those kinds of results out of a living patient.
Sam didn’t tell him about the lab already verifying the vials and the collection. Sam also didn’t tell him that the patient in question was seen walking around Collinsport on a regular basis.
Although never in the sunlight.
The immunologist was equally stumped and had questioned the veracity of the blood work as well. She’d read Sam’s notes about the sun allergy and had run several tests on the samples sent to her, including exposing one of the small samples to UV light.
Where it had promptly boiled and then exploded.
Her only plausible answer was that the samples must have been procured improperly or contaminated in the lab. Agent unknown.
Sam had taken the blood himself and he knew that it wasn't compromised when it went into the vials. And he had the lab run the batch numbers of his collection vials again. He’d even gone so far as to take one vial of his own blood for every vial of Castiel’s blood that he had taken and had the lab verify their equipment.
His blood came up fine.
He was left with a pretty tough conundrum. What were the chances that all ten of Castiel’s samples were somehow corrupted?
Pretty slim.
But then again, the alternative is that Castiel isn’t… isn’t what? Alive? Human? That’s been the sticking point for Sam. The sheer ludicrousness of either of those choices has been the only thing keeping Sam from hunting Dean down at Collinwood and dragging him home to find out what the hell is going on.
That and how ridiculously happy Dean is. Sam’s been checking in with people all over town and everyone’s been commenting on it. The town is in full throttle gossip mode about Dean Winchester and Castiel Collins. Sure, there are some who are hoping a sweet girl with a nice rack will put Dean on the ‘straight and narrow’ (pun definitely intended), but most folks are just happy to have something to gossip about.
Last night, Sam laid in bed for hours running circles in his own brain. Part of him was waiting for the tell-tale snick of a key in a lock indicating that Dean had come home, but it never came.
Dean was spending pretty much every night at Collinwood.
In the dark, alone in the house, Sam’s imagination got the better of him. His brain was all too helpful in coming up with simply preposterous and ridiculous reasons for Castiel’s results, and most of them hovered around the VAMPIRE theory.
Which is just… he was ashamed to even think it. It’s ludicrous. Completely illogical and they’d take away his medical degree(whoever the ubiquitous ‘they’ are) if they knew he even let it cross his mind.
Back at the hospital the next day he shakes his head at his own foolishness. He’s a doctor, for crying out loud. He relies on science and results, tests and data, for his facts.
The facts are this: Castiel Collins’ condition is some kind of medical mystery, but that does not mean that he isn’t human. Jesus. The sheer amount of things they don’t know in medicine is astounding. There are still new discoveries, new frontiers. And the human body is a complex organic machine, performing thousands of functions every day. They’re still learning all the ways that things can go wrong, all the ways the body can malfunction and create havoc.
But it’s hardly any reason for him to… well to freak out, frankly. The mystery of DNA was as seemingly impenetrable a relatively short time ago. Sam just has to get a hold of his ridiculousness and focus on the science. Focus on the facts. There are very few things that really do go bump in the night.
He’s so busy giving himself a stern talking to as he signs into the duty roster he doesn’t notice Chairman of the Hospital Board, the head of Hospital Security, a rep from Legal Affairs and the Hospital PR spokesperson chatting with Dr. Sorenson from Blood Services until they’re almost next to him.
“… well it’s a serious problem on quite a few levels and I think we’re going to have to alert the police,” Dr. Sorenson is saying.
Sam’s ears perk up and he feigns working on some charts left behind the desk at the nurse’s station while he listens. The hospital is fraught with gossip and Sam is not immune. Plus, these are some serious heavy weights, and it’s pretty early for them to be meeting. It looks like they’re coming back from Blood Services and heading to the elevator bank at the far end of the nurse’s station.
Dr. Sorenson is still speaking. “Collinsport is a good town, but donations to the bank are always hard to come by. Not everyone who is a candidate donates on a regular basis. And with flus breaking out in Mexico and other vacation hotspots, our list of regular donors is slim at best. Of course, this is just the logistics. This doesn’t even take into account the severity of a security breach like this. And an ongoing one at that.”
The head of security, Marsters? Marten? Sam frowns, it’s definitely and ‘M’ name speaks next, his voice hushed and low. “We’ve beefed up security but clearly it hasn’t helped. I think going to the authorities might be a good step.”
They’ve passed by Sam now, still on their way to the elevator bank and he nonchalantly grabs random charts and follows at a discrete distance. Janice from PR is gesturing wildly.
“Are you insane? This is a publicity nightmare. If we go to the police, it will be all over the 5 o’clock news. And they’ll have a fucking field-day with it? Can you imagine the headlines? Blood Bank Break In: Is the Hospital Safe?” She flashes her hands like she’s seeing the words on the page in front of her. “Bleed Out at the Hospital: Possible Satanic Link? Hemorrhaging Hospital: Collinsport General faces Blood Theft.” She shakes her head. “Jesus, we’ll lose some of our biggest patrons.” She jabs at the elevator button with her long red nails. Sam ducks behind the corner and watches them as they wait for the elevator. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears.
“Legal Affairs agrees,” nods Bernadette Newman, her blond bob swaying slightly. “We simply can’t afford this kind of publicity. The risk management analysis is extremely unfavorable.”
“I don’t give a rats ass about the risk management,” snaps Sorenson. “Fifty units of blood have been stolen, stolen, from the bank. Do you know how many lives that is? Not to mention, god only knows what’s being done with it. If we don’t go to the police, how will we explain it when 50 units of blood end up splashed all over some random crime scene? Oops, we just didn’t notice it was gone?”
The elevator doors hiss open and the response from the Chairman of the Board is cut off when they slide shut again on the small conglomeration.
Sam’s stuck where he is, staring at the closed elevator doors.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Blood. Missing from the blood bank. Fifty units. Fifty.
Castiel Collins and his weird sun allergy.
His even more bizarre lab results. That no one can explain. That experts say can’t come from a living human.
And Dean. Jesus fucking Christ. Dean.
But it’s ridiculous. Isn’t it? It can’t possibly be real.
They can’t possibly be real.
They are things of myth, things of stories, created by stealing snatches of history and unexplained medical phenomena, rolling them together with superstition and the natural human proclivity for storytelling, until they emerged as a fully formed creature of folklore.
Vampires.
It has to be a weird coincidence. Some freak twist of chance. Because if it’s not, if it’s real… and Castiel…. And Dean….
He pulls out his cell phone, ignoring the signs that say to have it off in the hospital and flicks it on, dialing Dean’s phone.
Voicemail. Fuck!
“Hey, Dean, look when you get this can you call me? Or come by the hospital? And can you come home tonight?” Fuck fuck fuck! “Okay, so, yeah. Yeah.” He ends the call and sends a quick text message with the same words.
He’s hearing his name called over the intercom and his pager is buzzing against his hip with the code for triage in the emergency room. He crazily dials the number for the pub and leaves a message for Dean there as well as he catches an elevator.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
***
By four in the afternoon, he still hasn’t heard back from Dean, despite trying his cell several more times. After calling the pub, he finds out that Dean was there but had to drive out to the fish supplier because the latest shipment was bad. He called back again only to find out that the liquor store had sent over a crate of vodka instead of whiskey and Dean had gone to the warehouse to sort it out. Ava assured Sam that Dean had gotten the message on the cell phone and the messages from earlier and had a message of his own.
“He said to stop harassing him or he’ll beat your princess ass and he’ll be home tonight after close.”
Sam feels a surge of relief at Ava’s recitation of the message. Dean is fine, Dean’s okay and he’ll come home tonight.
Where Sam can talk to him.
About his possibly creepy vampire boyfriend.
Fuck.
He’s clocking out of his shift, signing off on the remainder of his charts and wondering exactly how he’s going to kill time until Dean gets home tonight when he’s hit with a crazy thought.
Maybe he should just go see Castiel.
It’s stupid. He can’t just walk up to the man and say ‘Hey, I kind of think you might be a vampire? So, yes or no?’ or ‘You know those blood tests? Yeah, results are in, you’re a blood sucking fiend.’ Or maybe, ‘How’s undead life treating you?’
All of these thoughts should be steering him away from Castiel, but it’s not stopping him from getting into his car and heading out toward Collinwood. He thinks about turning around, about heading home and waiting for Dean, and yet, he finds himself pulling up the long driveway to the old estate. He’s only been on the grounds a handful of times, and only to the new house where Pamela, Becky, Anna, and Ben live. The Collins family is quite generous to the hospital and host charity balls and functions with large checks and as an eligible doctor, he’s pretty much ordered by the hospital board to show up and smile.
He’d heard from Dean and from local gossip that Castiel had restored the old estate but as he sits in his beater car, tapping his fingers on the wheel, he’s having a hard time taking it all in. The place is fucking impressive. The idea of Dean practically living here is mind-boggling.
There’s another car in the drive and Sam’s careful to park in a manner so as not to block it in. He’s staring at it trying to figure out who it belongs to when Chuck Shurley comes out of the front door, closing it behind him like he owns the place.
“Chuck?” Sam questions.
Chuck flinches and turns. “Dr. Winchester?”
“Call me Sam,” Sam says absently. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, me?” Chuck asks reflexively. “I do some stuff, some work for Castiel. Antiquities, research. That kind of thing.”
Chuck’s always been a little jumpy but he’s nearly vibrating as he answers Sam’s question.
“I see,” says Sam. “So, you know him pretty well then?”
“Um, yes?” Chuck answers, as though he’s not sure. “I mean, I do stuff for him and then we meet about it. And I guess we talk.”
Chuck’s inching away from Sam toward his car.
“How long have you known Castiel?”
“Uh, since he got here. We, um, ran into each other, and um, you know, I’ve been out of work lately and he’s new so he needed some help.”
“You seem nervous.”
“What? No, I’m not,” Chuck says quickly. “Totally not. I just, you know. Stuff to do. And I drink a lot of coffee. I’m just a highly excitable person, is all.”
Sam nods but his expression clearly indicates he doesn’t get it. “Dean had mentioned a while back that you didn’t look so good. You know you can come see me if you want. No charge.”
“Oh, what? No, totally not necessary. I was, um, with the flu, you know? But it’s gone now. One hundred percent better. Well, it’s been great but I gotta go.” Chuck’s opening his car door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
Sam has an uneasy feeling about Chuck’s nerves. He remembers Dean telling him briefly that he thought something was wrong with the squirrelly author. That was right when Castiel had first come to town. And it seems that Chuck has been spending a lot of time at Collinwood.
With Castiel.
“Chuck, is there anything maybe that you want to tell me? That you might need to tell me?” Sam asks lowly.
“Uh, no?”
“Because like I said, Dean was worried about you and you can talk to him or you could talk to me. And if I were your doctor anything you said would be in confidence. Like if you were sick or… hurt,” Sam finishes meaningfully.
“That’s really nice of you, Dr… I mean Sam, but I’m good. Tip-top.”
“And Castiel?”
“What about Castiel?” Chuck responds warily.
“If you thought there was something wrong with him, maybe something medical or… something else, you could tell me.” Sam pauses, fixing his gaze on Chuck’s wide eyes. “I would listen. I … I’d believe you.”
The silence hangs between them long enough for it to be uncomfortable until Chuck finally speaks.
“I don’t have anything to say.”
Sam leans in. “Are you sure, Chuck?”
“Castiel has been very good to me.”
“I’m sure he has been. But, if you’re afraid of him, Chuck…”
“I’m not!” Chuck explains loudly. “I’m not,” he repeats. “I mean, yeah, he’s… different. But he’s a good person. He’s been good to me. Look, I have to go. I appreciate it, Sam, I really do. But there’s nothing wrong.”
Sam leans back so Chuck can shut the driver door and watches him drive down the long path. After Chuck’s car has disappeared from view, he turns back to Collinwood. Squaring his shoulders, he steps up to the door and knocks.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting when the door swings open. Atmospheric organ music? Fog pouring out from the door? Hinges creaking ominously? But all that happens is that Castiel Collins is standing in the shadow created by the overhang, wearing dark jeans and a simple blue t-shirt.
And he’s barefoot.
Which kind of makes Sam’s vampire assumption seem a little ridiculous.
“Oh,” blurts Sam.
“Dr. Winchester. Did we have an appointment?” Castiel asks. It’s a question but his tone clearly indicates he knows they did not.
“I wanted to talk to you.” It’s blunt and despite the nature of his visit, he still cringes at his statement.
“Yes?”
“Uh…” Sam draws a blank. He hadn’t really thought about exactly what he was going to say. Blurting out ‘are you a vampire?’ seems really absurd. But at the same time, there’s is a medical mystery going on and Sam needs to know what it is, especially since Dean’s involved.
Watching Sam’s face as he tries to form a question, Castiel’s brows have drawn together. “Would you like to come in?”
“People know I’m here,” Sam says quickly.
Castiel’s eyebrows draw even closer in confusion. “Of course they do,” he replies and Sam’s not quite sure what he means. “Charles, for instance. I’m sure you passed him on your way up.”
“Yeah, well, people other than your… um, your… Charles.”
Castiel nods slowly, as though Sam’s insane. “Very well. I’m sorry, Dr. Winchester, you have me at a loss. As you can tell from my attire, I was not expecting company. About what did you wish to speak?”
“Erm…”
“Is this about Dean?” Castiel asks suddenly and takes a step toward Sam. He winces as it puts him in sunlight for a moment and then quickly retreats back to the shadows of the doorway. “Has something happened to Dean?” Castiel’s long fingers curl around the door, knuckles going even whiter from his grip.
Sam pauses at the concerned tone in Castiel’s voice. “No,” he replies. “Dean’s fine.”
Castiel visibly relaxes, flexing his fingers, nodding to himself. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“But he is part of the reason I’m here.” Sam watches Castiel’s expression. When he had thought something was wrong with Dean, he’d seemed truly distraught.
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Collins,” Sam begins.
“As I mentioned, you may call me Castiel.”
Sam jerks his head in one quick nod and makes a decision. After all, he’s got long legs and it’s a sunny day. Chances are good he can get to the car right? And he can surely drive faster than Castiel can chase him. “Castiel. I want to ask you something and I... want you to tell me the truth. You have no reason to trust me, but I’m going to ask anyway. Because I need to know. For Dean’s sake. And no matter what the answer is, I think you care about him.”
Castiel’s watching Sam carefully now. His face seems to be a mask of reassignment. He cannot read Sam Winchester’s mind, but at this moment, he doesn’t have to. Sam’s tense posture, his wary eyes, his clenched jaw scream volumes at Castiel. “My blood work has returned,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“You have come to a conclusion.”
“Yes.”
Castiel sighs. “Ask your question, Dr. Winchester. Though you know you will not like the answer.”
“Are you a vampire?” There it is. Out in the open. Sam’s entire body tenses to break into a sprint for the car.
“Yes, I am.”
They stand there for a full two minutes, neither one saying anything. Castiel does not blink, but Sam’s eyelids flutter as his brain processes the answer. It seems so ridiculous and he half suspects that at any moment, this stone-faced, blue-eyed creature will ludicrously break into a grin and say Gotcha! and then clap him on the shoulder and give him a good tease for his insane question.
But Castiel does not move. It’s the first time Sam has been truly aware of his otherness. When people don’t move, they still sway slightly, or their fingers twitch, their chest rises and falls with respiration. But Castiel is a statue. His immobility is unnatural.
But strangely, not frightening.
“Does Dean know?”
“He does not.” Castiel’s expression is complex. Perhaps sad or troubled.
“Do you drink blood?” Sam asks quietly.
“Yes.” Castiel still does not blink.
“Dean’s blood?” Sam’s voice rises.
“No. Not once.”
“How can I believe you?”
“I don’t know,” Castiel answers simply. He does move this time, one shoulder going gently up and down in a shrug.
“Chuck?”
Castiel pauses at that. “Charles has been a gracious donor.”
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up at the terminology. “You’ve… drunk Chuck’s blood?”
“Yes. Although not recently.”
“The blood bank,” Sam states knowingly.
“Just so.”
There’s another full minute of silence.
“Are you going to kill me?” Sam questions.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Castiel’s face flashes for a moment on an expression of hurt and grief. “Because I am not a killer. I … have killed,” he says slowly, regretfully and Sam flinches. “Many years ago. But I do not need to kill to survive and I won’t kill you.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you come to me?”
Castiel’s eyes flicker away from Sam, to some distant point over Sam’s shoulder or perhaps even further. “I thought… It seems so foolish now. I thought that perhaps modern science could cure me. That there could be a treatment for my… affliction. Though that hardly seems viable now.”
Sam fidgets back forth on his feet for a moment wondering if he’s crazy, or under some kind of bizarre vampiric influence. “To be honest, I haven’t started working on your condition. I’ve only reviewed the results of your tests. There may be a treatment.”
Castiel’s eyes seem to brighten. “You would search for a treatment? You would assist me?”
Sam pauses. “I don’t know if I can. I could try. But… you have to do something for me.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I will never turn you.”
“Jesus, no!” Sam yelps, horrified, holding his hands up like that would hold Castiel back. “That’s not what I was going to say. I… you have to tell Dean. I can’t… I won’t lie to him. And he needs to know. He deserves to know. And he deserves to hear it from you.”
“I know,” replies Castiel simply, forlornly. He looks so miserable at that moment.
“If you don’t tell him, I will. But… It should be you.” Sam grimaces thinking about having to tell Dean this, if Dean would even believe him and not just immediately assume it was some kind of prank. He also wonders briefly about the wisdom of seemingly ordering a vampire to do something, but Castiel is simply nodding softly to himself.
“Yes, of course,” Castiel says lowly. “I have… struggled with telling him, but you are right. He deserves to know.”
“You, uh, you didn’t um…” Sam fidgets again. “I mean, he seems really happy and that’s real, right? You didn’t put a whammy on him or something?”
“Certainly not.”
“I mean, it’s not like I could do much about it even if you did. I’m pretty sure if I went screaming into town that you’re a vampire they’d revoke my medical license. To start with. Because it sounds totally crazy. I’m not crazy right? You’re not just fucking with me?”
“Would you like to see my fangs?” Castiel asks, a faint smiling pulling at his lips.
Sam laughs nervously. “Haha, uh, no. Jesus, no,” he finishes quickly. “That’s… um. Wow, that’s not necessary. I’ll probably have to see them eventually for an exam but I think that I’ve reached my freakout-o-meter for today.”
“I don’t think I’ll tire of learning modern colloquialisms for some time,” Castiel says with a trace of fondness.
Sam has a sudden thought “How old are you?”
“I was born in 1786.”
“Fuck me,” Sam breathes and then remembers that he’s a professional dammit. “I mean, impressive.” He takes a second to process the information. “So that’s you in the portrait in the Collins’ house! Not your ancestor. You.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“If you are serious about treating me, Dr. Winchester, then perhaps you would like to come in?”
Castiel steps aside, leaving room for Sam to come in or not. Sam hesitates. He’s no idiot. He’s got a healthy dose of fear and a solid instinct for survival. For all intents and purposes, Castiel is not human. Not entirely at any rate. His mind flips through all the mythology and fiction he knows about vampires. Is he foolish to consider not just stepping inside, but jumping with both feet right into the rabbit hole? The medical mystery is tantalizing. How does Castiel survive? How was he created? How invulnerable is he? How much of the myths and stories are true? Is it possible to treat him? How much knowledge can he share with Sam?
Then there is Dean. If Sam could cure Castiel and he could be a normal human… If Sam could do this not only for scientific reasons but for Dean…
Sam’s lips curve up in a small, hesitant but genuine smile. He takes a step forward.
“As I said before, you can call me Sam.”
***
Dean can’t stop thinking about Ben’s story.
About Ruby.
His thoughts wander while he’s working and sometimes he’s realizes he’s been staring at the payroll screen of his laptop for a full thirty minutes without keying anything in -- which isn’t nearly as bad as the other day when he almost fed his hand into the meat grinder.
He doesn’t think about anything in particular, just keeps replaying Ben’s story over in his head. Over and over, in a bizarre loop, he sees the pictures his brain has conjured up to go with the narrative. He pictures long black, wavy hair and dark, inky eyes that simultaneously make him shudder with fear and rage.
The fear he kind of gets. Ben’s story was pretty clear; Ruby was not a nice person. But the rage… the rage is… disconcerting. Odd. It feels strange to be so angry about a person, a character, in a story. Sure, he’s been involved in fiction before and he likes movies and books as much as the next person, but he’s never let anything like this stick with him like this.
It’s been over a week since the camping trip and Dean is still seeing voodoo dolls in his mind’s eye with tufts of hair and buttons sewn on them.
He’s tired tonight. He hasn’t been sleeping well since the trip and it’s starting to catch up with him. He’s having strange dreams that he can’t remember when he wakes. He gets vague impressions of things; docks by the seaside, crates, men talking, shouting, the startling blue of Cas’ eyes.
Sometimes he thinks he sees fangs, a half-formed impression of teeth that leaves him uneasy and… sad, he thinks.
Which is beyond weird.
He cuts off a sigh and focuses on what he’s doing. He’s been closing the pub for a week now and has three nights more to go until he switches off with Andy and Ash. He finds that it’s when the pub’s closed down, chairs stacked on the tables and lights dimmed low that, that he’s most distracted. He’ll wipe up the same area of the bar several times over, forgetting that it only needs a cursory wipe since Ava keeps it spotless. He empties out the VLT machines and mindlessly bundles the bills, adding in the cash from the register before closing down the debit and credit machines. Twice he blanks out on keying in the correct sequence and has to start again.
He mentioned to Cas that he’s going home tonight, to his own place. Sam left a message and Dean feels bad for not spending time with him lately. Plus, Cas hasn’t said anything, but Dean’s been pretty much living at Cas’, and he feels like maybe he should give them a break before Cas decides they need one. It’ll be good to check in with Sammy and sleep in his own bed for a night.
It’ll probably be good for Cas to get a good night’s sleep too. Every night Dean’s either being shaken awake by Cas or jerking awake of his own volition, disturbing Cas in the process. The strange nightmares crawling across his brain in technicolor every night.
Cas hasn’t said anything about it, but Dean feels awkward. He feels kind of like some sort of nut case and he figures he should spend a night, or two, away from Cas before Cas gets around to asking him to.
He carefully stacks the bills from the VLT machine into his worn money sack letting his mind zone out on counting out stacks of one-hundred and wrapping elastics around them twice. He resets the machines and heads down to the basement.
The basement of the pub would probably win an award for creepy atmosphere. Unfinished and incomplete, the plumbing drops down from the ceiling and sometimes the old pipes groan and squeak. The stairs are slim and dark since Dean never bothers to replace the bulb at the top of the stairs. He figures anyone who doesn’t know how many stairs there are doesn’t belong in the basement and deserves to break their neck on the way down. He’s never minded the basement before and in fact, kind of enjoyed its off-kilter atmosphere, but since the camping trip, he feels slightly edgy and finds himself picking his way carefully down the stairs, suddenly ridiculously worried that after all these years, he will be the one that ends up falling, his broken body only coming to a dead stop after it has careened its way down the steep flight.
Once he gets the image of himself twisted and battered, he can’t seem to shake it. He hustles through setting up the cash float for tomorrow, balancing the tills and rebooting the computer system.
He grabs a finished pizza that he left on the counter earlier, a late, late dinner for himself and maybe Sam if he’s still up. He’s fumbling for his keys, trying to juggle the pizza and the money sack when the hair on the back of his neck rises. He’s always had good instincts and he pays attention to them. His eyes sweep the deserted parking lot, trying to discern the shapes he recognizes from ones that shouldn’t be there.
Nothing jumps out at him, figuratively or literally. He slides into the driver’s seat, tossing the pizza on the passenger side and thumps his thumbs on the steering wheel a couple of times, wondering if he should hang out for a bit or not. After a few minutes when the hairs on the back of his neck start to settle, he shakes his head at his own jumpiness and drives off.
He heads home and smiles when he sees Sam’s beater car in the driveway and the flickering lights in the window, indicating the TV is on. Sam sits up from the sofa as Dean steps through the front door.
“Oh, do I know you?” Sam asks. There’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there the last time Dean saw him and he kicks himself for not coming home to check on Sammy sooner.
“Ha ha, princess. I brought pizza,” Dean replies, holding the box up as proof.
“Oh my God, it is you,” Sam says with mock surprise. “You still live here?”
“Keep laughing it up and you’ll get no pizza.” Dean’s toe-ing off his shoes and Sam takes the opportunity to snatch the pizza out of his hands.
It’s a ‘no talking zone’ while they dish out slices of pizza and stuff themselves with cheesy goodness, the only sound being an affirmative grunt when Sam raises his eyebrows and points at the fridge. He comes back with two beers, sliding one across the table to Dean.
“Off duty?” Dean asks, gesturing at the drink.
“Yeah, got off earlier today. Just watching some tv.”
“What’s up at the hospital?”
They haven’t done this in a while; sat around the kitchen table catching up with each other. Dean feels a little stab of guilt when he realizes he hasn’t really spent that much time with Sam since he met Cas. He’s actually a little surprised Sam hasn’t been giving him more shit about it. He listens patiently while Sam tells him the minutiae of the hospital; nameless cases and idle gossip. In turn he tells Sam about the goings on at the pub. He has no gossip to speak of since he really never pays that much attention to it.
The pizza’s gone and they’re both just finishing off their beers when Sam does his throat clearing thing.
“So, uh, Castiel Collins, huh.”
Dean frowns at expectant look Sam gives him. Sam ducks his head a little and again Dean notices the tightness around Sam’s eyes, in his jaw. “Is there a question in there?”
Sam twirls his beer bottle back and forth between his hands while he thinks. “Just, uh, you know. Wondering how things are going?”
“Things are good,” Deans answers, smile automatically coming to his face.
“Good, that’s good.”
Sam’ fingers drum restlessly on the table and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he speaks again.
“So, you’re happy, then? With Castiel I mean?”
Dean eyeballs him sideways. “Yeah,” he says warily. This is about as close to a heart-to-heart they’ve had in years. Dean hasn’t seen Sam this nervous since John pulled him away from ‘The Goonies’ when he was twelve to have ‘the talk’ with him about girls.
“Nothing weird is going on or anything?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing,” Sam backpedals at Dean’s expression. “Just, uh, wanted to check in with you. Haven’t seen you much lately. You know.”
“Jesus, is this a sharing moment? Are you trying to get me to share?” He says the word like it’s foreign and bizarre.
Sam stills. “Why? Is there something you feel like you need to share?” he asks carefully.
“No.” Dean scowls at him. “I’ve been spending a lot of time at Cas’. So what? I like spending time there.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay?”
“Seriously. What’s with the ‘After school special’ talk? Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
Sam shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “No reason.”
Dean’s still giving him the hairy eyeball. “Uh-huh.”
“And, uh, how’s Castiel?”
“Cas is fine. I’m fine, he’s fine, we’re all fine,” Dean says, frowning at Sam. “Except you, apparently.”
“What? Can’t I ask about your life?”
“You asked, I told you but you’re all…” he makes a chopping motion with his hands, “… with the questions.”
“What? I’m just curious.”
“You’ve met him,” Dean replied back quickly. “I’m not keeping him hidden or anything.”
“Seeing him at the hospital as a patient doesn’t count,” said Sam just as fast.
Dean paled a bit. “Oh, fuck. Is that what this is about? Did you find something? Is he sick?”
“No, Dean, I…” Sam starts.
“Is he dying?”
“I can’t discuss any results that may or may not have come in with you. Jesus, he’s a patient.”
“I swear to Christ, Sam, if he’s dying and you don’t tell me-”
“He’s not fucking dying, alright.” Jesus, far from it. “Fuck, you’re such a drama queen.” Sam takes a long swig from his beer to keep from saying anything more.
“I’m a drama queen? You’re the one making me think my boyfriend is dying!”
At that loud burst, the kitchen falls silent. Dean fidgets. Sam squirms. The ‘sharing circle’ has never been a comfortable place at casa de Winchester.
“Is he?” asks Sam.
“Is he what?” counters Dean.
“Your, you know, boyfriend?”
Dean pauses like he’s trying the word on. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I think he is.”
“And you really are happy?”
“I will punch you.”
Sam tosses his hands up. “All right, fine. I’m done.”
Next Chapter - 16 - The Reckoning