Chapter Text
Carpet appeared beneath his feet, knees buckling and arms winding around himself. Pain reverberated through his core, but he somehow remained upright. He swallowed thickly, lilting forward as his balance faltered, but he managed to catch himself by stumbling backward instead.
“Castiel?”
It was a familiar voice but not the one he wanted to hear. It was filled with surprise and concern, but there were subtle tones of suspicion and confusion as well. Understandable, considering the last time they saw each other.
“Castiel!”
He staggered toward the voice, trying to form the name of its owner with his tongue and lips. Instead, he formed an abundance of saliva, feeling like his insides were trying to leave his body. He didn’t understand. Why couldn’t he see anything? Where did all the floating, black splotches and sparks of light come from?
Someone grabbed him by the arm, holding him up but simultaneously pushing him. They traveled in a particular direction—he couldn’t really feel his feet moving, but they must have, because he knew he didn’t fly—fingers clutching at his arm and the back of his overcoat. Someone cursed loudly and then apologized.
Dean. I have to find Dean. His knees hit something hard. He was kneeling. Someone was telling him to breathe, but he couldn’t, and he didn’t understand. He shouldn’t have needed oxygen, but he felt panicked without it, and he… he was afraid, he realized. Afraid? His vessel was malfunctioning. It had to be. I can’t breathe. My stomach is trying to escape. I don’t understand. I can’t swallow. It’s so hot. I can’t breathe.
“Hey, hey, stop panicking.” Hands rubbed his back and gripped his shoulder, pushing him against a cold, hard, smooth surface. “Tell me what happened.”
Castiel felt the muscles in his mouth and throat spasm, a horrible sensation that barely let his words out. “Raphael.” He clenched his teeth, digging his fingers into his stomach. What is my vessel doing? He panted, wondering why it was so unbearably hot. “I need to—speak with D—”
“Okay, let’s get this over with first, then we can talk.” They pushed Castiel with their leg, trying to move him closer to the cold, hard, smooth thing.
Castiel shook his head, trying to open his eyes but only finding sparks and speckled shadows. It can’t wait. He pressed his lips together and hunched over, breathing hard through his nose and wondering why his body was trying to pull itself apart. He had never heard of humans spontaneously turning inside out, and even if they did, wouldn’t his grace keep that from happening?
“Castiel? Ohh. I wasn’t thinking.”
Castiel barely heard the words. He liked the thing he was kneeling in front of—liked the chilled nature of it. It felt good on his overheating vessel. He was so hot. He was sweating, and he wasn’t even supposed to be able to sweat, and he still couldn’t breathe.
“You’ve probably never thrown up before. Or even seen it.”
Castiel forced his eyes open and glanced up at the blurry outline kneeling next to him, afraid to open his mouth and hoping a confused look would be enough.
“It sucks, but you’ll be alright.” Hands were moving—gesticulating—but there was also a hand on his shoulder. How could there be that many hands? “Your body is trying to… well, it doesn’t matter. Just open your mouth and let it happen. Don’t fight or try to stop it, take breaths when you can, and you’ll be alright.”
“It doesn’t—” Castiel struggled to swallow, “—feel like I’ll b—” He never got to finish, cut off by a rush of acid coming up his throat. He didn’t understand, but his head was pushed down and someone rubbed his back. His body was contracting, muscles clenching so hard he couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. He didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it, and he was scared.
“You’re alright. Just breathe. It’s almost—Don’t straighten up! Keep your head down and stay over the toilet. It’s almost over.”
A hand on the back of his neck kept him close to what he now knew was the toilet, and after a few more seconds of straining, his body finally loosened. He sucked down as much air as he could. “Couldn’t—breathe.” He panted and trembled, taking a few seconds to appreciate the oxygen. “Couldn’t breathe.” He gulped down another lungful, struggling to keep his composure. Malfunction due to faulty construction. Crack in my chassis.
“Castiel?”
“Strange.” He didn’t like the taste, but he wasn’t sure how to get rid of it. He scraped his tongue against his teeth and tried spitting several times to no avail. “Don’t—like it.” He felt the hand rubbing his back again, and for reasons he didn’t understand, it made him feel better.
“Yeah, nobody likes it.”
Blinking slowly, Castiel tried to recalibrate his ocular settings, and while he couldn’t fully make out the shape in front of him, he could see enough to confirm it matched the voice he had been communicating with since his arrival. “Sam.” He had planned to offer more than a single word but nothing else came out.
“That’s me.” Sam gave him a tight smile, uncomfortably confirming Castiel’s observation. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Still out of breath—which was fascinating in the worst of ways—Castiel found he could think a bit better than before. Sam Winchester was kneeling next to his very disoriented, weak form and doing nothing to take advantage, despite Sam’s inherent degeneracy and the recent confrontation over with Anna. Castiel connected that to Dean’s absence and subsequently concluded Sam did not need the Righteous Man to maintain his humanity, which didn’t make sense.
Castiel had not been kind to Sam—in some ways, one might argue he had been unkind—and he knew he had let Sam down. But Sam was standing there, close enough for Castiel to lean on, holding him steady and hovering almost protectively overhead. I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing is making sense.
“Castiel?”
“Raphael.” Castiel shifted his weight, hoping to get his feet beneath him, but he wound up collapsing against Sam’s leg instead. Why am I incapable of staying upright?
“Like, the archangel Raphael?” Sam rubbed Castiel’s back again. “Did he do this to you? Or did you get hurt trying to help him? Or…?”
Castiel was barely able to keep his eyes open. Is this exhaustion? He grabbed the closest thing he could actually get a grip on and pulled, trying to get to his feet.
“Wait, stop!” Sam’s leg moved, and Castiel realized he must have pulled on Sam somehow. “You’re going to knock me down. Just sit for now.”
Castiel let his hand fall, smacking against the tile floor. It hurt—somewhere in his brain there was something about bones—but he didn’t try to move it. “Dean.”
“I’ll get Dean, but I want to make sure you’re alright, and I want to make sure whoever hurt you isn’t coming here. Now, did Raphael do this, or did someone else do this?”
“Raphael did…” Castiel tensed. “You… have to run.” Why hadn’t he thought of that until Sam mentioned the threat coming to their location? “They’ll—they’ll be coming for me.” He shook his head, pushing on the only part of the young man he could reach while silently berating himself for forgetting the threat. “You have to run.”
“Who are ‘they?’” Sam caught Castiel’s hand by the wrist. “Is Rahael working with someone?”
I don’t know. I don’t remember. It couldn’t have just been Raphael, right? He wouldn’t have acted without Michael, and Michael… Michael was—
Castiel grabbed the side of his skull as a screeching sound pierced his brain, his hand soon jolting to cover his eye as the sound bled into a sharp, rotating spire of pain shooting into the socket.
“What’s wrong? Hey! Tell me what’s wrong.”
Castiel slumped, the toilet digging into his back as the pain behind his eye increased. Don’t answer that. But he wanted to. You don’t know anything. But he was supposed to. Crack in your chassis. That was nothing new.
“Hey.” Sam covered Castiel’s hand with his own, helping to shield the eye. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.” He moved, and Castiel could feel him getting closer, but he couldn’t see anything other than the occasional, blinding white light. “Even if it’s just a couple words you spit out. I need something to work with. Is it a spell? Or a… uh… I don’t even know what works on you guys, actually.”
“I remember…” Castiel swallowed thickly, “…they were…”
“…okay, again, who are ‘they?’ Or is ‘they’ Raphael?”
“Raphael was with some—” Crying out, Castiel lurched forward and pressed on his eye even harder, scattering phosphenes over images of white rooms and dark suits. He leaned forward and heaved into the toilet as the outline of someone’s face and shoulders sharpened for a split second before evaporating. Keep your mouth shut. But he had something important to tell them. You don’t know anything. But he was supposed to. He knew he was supposed to. No, you’re not. He refused to believe that; refused to believe there was an innocuous reason behind his inability to get off the floor by the human waste receptacle.
“Just stay right here, okay?”
Castiel held onto the toilet with shaking hands, the pain behind his eye lingering as he refused to abandon his attempts to remember. Just think for a moment. He pressed his forehead to the plastic, but that was somewhat warm from how long he had been on it already, so he leaned forward a little more and found icy ceramic that felt divine against his skin. Raphael. And Dean. I wanted to talk to Dean when I landed. About Raphael? Or… something Raphael told me? He remembered receiving revelation. But it must have been something I was supposed to conceal. It couldn’t be something Raphael did want me to relay to Dean; I wouldn’t be in this state if I were following orders. He swallowed a whimper, trying to breathe through his nose and finding it congested. I don’t understand. He must have… disliked the revelation? And… he wanted to tell Dean about it, but… Raphael came to stop him. Then he was in a room, strapped down on his back, and—
“What is it? What happened?”
Still screaming, Castiel wrapped his arms around his head and writhed until the sounds warbled into something resembling speech. “Hurts.” He moved his head and hit the toilet, realizing he was on the floor at its base.
“He’s okay, Dean. Just get here. Fast.” There was a pause, a couple footsteps, fabric rustling, and suddenly Sam’s voice was closer. “Let’s get you off the floor.”
Castiel shook his head with a slurred, “Y’ave n’rum.”
“Have to run? Run from what?”
I don’t remember. Castiel wanted to scream. I don’t remember, but you have to run!
“Okay, okay! Calm down, it’s okay. We’ll run. I’m gonna go pack, Dean will be here any second, and then we’ll run. Just… just stay there.”
Castiel hadn’t really intended on trying to move, but he couldn’t say so, crammed between the toilet and something that dug into his back. I don’t know what to do. I told them to run, and I—his breath hitched when the pain behind his eye flared—can’t return to Heaven. I know that much. He shuddered, a chill running down his spine, but he didn’t know why. He was still burning up. But why? What did I do? And what am I supposed to do now?
“Cas?”
Inhaling deeply, Castiel forced his eyes open and found Dean in the bathroom doorway. “You were s… supposed to run…”
Dean gestured to his left with both hands, but Castiel had no idea what was in that direction, so it wasn’t helpful. “Yeah, we’re trying to do that now. Hop up and get moving, Cas.”
Hopping is not going to happen. Up isn’t happening either. Castiel shook his head. “They can follow me.” He was surprised by how sore his throat was and struggle to speak through it. “You… need to…” He glanced in the direction Dean had indicated, figuring it was an exit, and then he locked onto Dean, breathing carefully as another tremor racked his frame. “I’m a liab—” he coughed, the spasm quickly devolving into another escape attempt from his stomach, except nothing came out this time. “Go.”
“What? We’re not gonna leave you, Cas!”
Why? Castiel was a messenger and a soldier; from the time he was created, even as he had climbed the ranks, he knew he would never be more than cannon fodder to his superiors. And Castiel had gotten Dean out of Hell, certainly, but Dean had been far from grateful, and they hadn’t had many positive interactions since.
“You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in.”
“Because they gave him a choice. They either kill me... or kill you. I know how their minds work.”
But Dean didn’t hear the silent question or the memories that followed, and by the time Castiel realized he had to open his mouth and speak, he was being dragged to his feet.
“Sam! Help me out here!”
Castiel grasped at open air and limbs and clothes, but he couldn’t hold onto much, and he could see what was in front of him even less. He started hacking the moment he was upright, contorting and spasming so violently, he thought for certain the inside of his throat was bleeding. And if it somehow wasn’t, the way his chest ached and burned with every cough had to mean something was wrong all on its own.
Castiel hit something firm but soft, one arm rushing to cover his midsection while the other hand flew to his neck. He clutched his coat and overcoat—why did humans wear multiple coats?—fingers clawing at his tie. I’m so cold. But he wasn’t; he was burning up, every inch of him radiating heat. Everything hurts. But more than pain, the overwhelming weight on him, dragging him down, making him not want to move even if doing so would ease the ache. I’m so tired. And even though he knew it was unwise to sleep—even though it shouldn’t have been possible for him to sleep—he waffled between a gentle drift and a headfirst dive, eventually winding up well under the surface of consciousness.
It’s so hot. He pushed against whatever was on top of him. It wasn’t heavy, but it was thick and smothering, making it more unbearable than any weight. He needed air on his skin; air in his lungs. It’s so hot.
“Hey.”
He inhaled sharply, feeling the thickness move away and immediately regretting his desire for it to be gone. Shaking violently, he tried to roll over as the coughing resumed. Cold, cold, cold, cold—
“Easy.” It was Sam speaking. He had spoken the first time, too, and he quickly returned the thickness. “Castiel, can you hear me?”
Castiel hummed in lieu of an answer, thankful when the thickness was tucked around his shoulders, even if that meant sweltering. Anything was better than the uncontrollable shivering.
“Do you know… what happened to you?” Sam was closer, his voice soft. “You, uh… well, it looked like you were running from something, and… then you were violently ill, and now you’re running a high fever, but… you’re an angel, so we weren’t sure…” He trailed off, uttering word fragments as he struggled.
It was similar to when they first met. Sam felt he had spoken out of turn and immediately tried to correct himself, extending a hand but keeping it low and hesitant. And then Castiel had called him the Boy with the Demon Blood, and his essence had… drooped, almost.
Not wanting to see that moment in his mind, Castiel inhaled and forced his eyes open. “I told you to run.”
“We did.” Sam lifted a brow, seeming unimpressed or… condescending, perhaps? “We weren’t going to leave you. Especially not like this.”
Castiel tried not to be offended; he didn’t really have a right to be, given his miserable state.
“So instead of trying to convince us to bail, maybe try giving us advice on how to be ready for whatever or whoever is coming. If we work together—”
“It’s futile,” Castiel rasped, shards of glass raking the walls of his throat as he tried to impress upon Sam the unchangeable nature of the situation. “They will find me. Finis.”
Sam spread his hands. “Really? Because you guys apparently couldn’t find Anna until she started hacking angel radio.”
Castiel didn’t know what angel radio was, but he could guess. “Her grace was gone. My grace is not.” He took a careful breath, slightly disturbed by the realization he had never been careful with an autonomic function before. “They… took something from me, but it wasn’t…” His head dipped, but he pulled it back up. “I can still feel my grace. They took, ah… they must have—” He choked back a scream, fighting whatever was spread over him in a desperate attempt to grab the burning, stabbing pain behind his eye.
Sam must have known what was wrong immediately, because Castiel soon felt a large hand on his face. It didn’t ease the pain, exactly, but something about it felt better, especially when Sam’s other hand cupped the back of Castiel’s head and held it still while applying steady pressure.
Castiel opened his mouth, hoping to use only a couple words to explain the situation in a way Sam would understand, but he never got the chance as he began to cough again. He didn’t understand; didn’t understand the mild tickle in his throat, always followed by a burn, or how he could exhale in such a sudden, violent way he felt he was dragging blades up and down his windpipe.
“You were doing that back at the motel—I mean, the last motel.”
Castiel tried to worm his hands up toward his chest, struggling to move in the tangle of clothes and sheets and the thickness he now realized was a blanket. He kicked, hoping he could loosen the fabric wrapped around him, but all he did was feel hotter and cough harder.
“Here.” Sam pushed down on Castiel’s shoulder, getting him to lie flat, and gave him a few firm pats on the chest with an open hand. “Breathe slowly and shallowly. Don’t gasp or suck down large amounts of air. Slow and steady wins the race.”
Castiel peered up at Sam through half-lidded eyes, trying to follow the instructions enough to get a response out. “I am—not racing.” He almost questioned Sam’s advice further, but he remembered the urgency of the situation. “You and Dean—have to run. They are—”
“I think you need to stop trying to finish that sentence. Every time you try to say who ‘they’ are or what happened with Raphael, you grab your eye and start screaming. If there’s some kind of… spell or seal or something on those memories, repeatedly trying to remember them is just going to hurt you.”
“It’s necessary,” Castiel breathed, already closing his eyes to try again.
Sam shook him in response, firing back with, “It’s pointless.” He waited until Castiel met his eyes to continue. “Dean and I have this place warded, and I’m researching more wards right now, and if you give us some time, we’ll figure this out. We always do.” There was something passionate blazing in his eyes, similar to when he had loudly exclaimed the population of the town Uriel intended to destroy. “You’re sick. You need to rest.”
Castiel swallowed hard and tried to push himself up, but his muscles gave almost instantly. “I can’t—be sick.”
“But you are. You threw up, you’re coughing and wheezing, your lungs rattle every time you breathe, and you have chills with a fever of 104.8.” Sam continued to hold his gaze, seeming both serious and sympathetic, a combination foreign to Castiel.
Or so he had been told.
“I'm sorry.”
“No. You're not. Not really. You don't know the feeling.”
“I…” Castiel dismissed the memory and the sting it caused, finding it incredibly ironic that he couldn’t recall matters pertaining to life and death, but trivial sentimentalities he didn’t even want to remember were persistently coming to mind. “I do not… feel well…” He had to admit that much was true.
Sam exhaled sharply, a smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth. “Get some rest.”
Rest… Castiel wanted to refuse, and yet, there was something so tantalizing about the idea. Not even sleep, just a state of stillness and ease; of no longer trying to stand upright or remember what had put him in this predicament in the first place. Soldiers do not rest. He forced his eyes open, wondering when they had closed, and he tried to sit up, but he didn’t get far. I’m so tired… And despite himself, despite his training, despite knowing the shame that waited on the other side of unconsciousness, Castiel drifted off to sleep.
“…ire. You can feel the heat radiating off him.”
That was what Castiel heard upon waking up, right before his vessel began wrenching air from its lungs in an attempt to expel a mucous substance.
“And every time he has one of these fits, it sounds thicker.”
“Should we try some medicine? There’s a Dollar General up the road.”
Still hacking, Castiel turned his head to the side as he got the urge to roll over. He coughed again, and again, and again, to the point he couldn’t feel anything else.
“I’m starting to think we should. If he can get sick like this even though he’s an angel, maybe medicine will work even though he’s an angel, too. We could up the dose—just give him a whole bottle of nigh quill or something.”
Finally getting a break in the spasms, Castiel sucked down a lungful of air and hoarsely replied, “You need to—stay inside the wards.” My throat is thick.
“Well, look who’s awake.” Dean sounded smug, footsteps indicating an approach from Castiel’s right. “How are you feeling?”
Castiel mustered the strength to open his eyes. “Every sense I have is giving me a negative experience.”
Dean snorted. “Sounds about right.” He slapped Sam on the arm and grabbed something from a small table. “I’m running to the store and running right back. If I’m not here in ten minutes, assume the worst.” He clicked his tongue and made a gesture with his finger and thumb.
“Dean—” Castiel tried to push himself up, shuddering when the slightest exposure to open air turned his skin to ice. “Whatever is happening to me can’t kill me. It isn’t worth the risk of stepping outside the protection of the wards.”
But Dean stared back at him as if he thought Castiel was an idiot. “Dude.” He rolled his eyes and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him and making several of the markings on the walls glow as their connections were reestablished.
“That…” Castiel looked at Sam, trying to relay his frustration but finding it hard to summon words. “He didn’t—that wasn’t—” Why isn’t my brain working? Where are my words? “That’s not even a valid argument!”
“Yeah, Dean does that.” Sam chuckled, approaching the bed. “What he means is that it doesn’t matter if you aren’t going to die; we don’t want to see you miserable like this.”
Castiel opened his mouth to object again—to say how utterly inane the supposed reasoning was—but even that slight inhale ghosting against his throat sent him into yet another spastic fit. He rolled onto his side, eyes watering, and startled when a hand landed on his back. Sam began to rub and hit him—perhaps ‘firmly pat’ was a better term?—which made him feel strangely better. Castiel wasn’t sure why being struck would produce relief, but it did, and he remembered it had done something similar the last time he was awake.
“I’m gonna tell Dean you need more than nigh quill.”
More than nigh quill? What is a quill going to do? And how could they get one faster than nigh? Nigh generally meant something was coming very soon; were they going to get him some kind of quill that was even nigher? More importantly, how was a quill supposed to help him not feel like his vessel was breaking with him trapped inside it?
As if on cue, his body finally calmed and fell silent. He didn’t dare breathe, trying to stay as still as possible.
“Are you in pain?”
Castiel turned his head toward Sam, surprised by how difficult it was to keep his eyes open, let alone focus them on Sam’s face. “No. Fatigue and discomfort at most.” Because maybe, if they thought he was in better health than he was, they would do what they needed to do and leave him behind.
But Sam didn’t seen convinced. “Castiel…” His mouth hung open for a moment, expression shifting between the moment he met Castiel and the moment Castiel said, ‘As a matter of fact, we are. And?’ From awe to anger, then revulsion back to reverence. “Look, I don’t…” Sam exhaled sharply as the pendulum finally decided which way to swing. “You know what? No.”
He sounds angry. Which wasn’t good because Castiel was very weak, and he didn’t know how powerful the Boy with the Demon Blood was at that particular moment. But Sam was kind of his own accord back in the first motel.
“You’ve shown us nothing that deserves any kind of admiration or respect.”
Castiel pushed against the mattress, but his limbs were weak. I can’t leave my vessel. Jimmy Novak was difficult to find and prepare. But he might not have a choice.
“So, no more kid gloves. I’m just gonna lay down the brass tacks.”
Castiel stared, thoroughly confused.
“You are not okay. You’re sick. Mr. Leave Now or We Lay You to Waste is getting laid to waste by the flu, apparently, and you need some mud monkeys to take care of you.”
Instinctively, Castiel snarled his response. “I do not need either of you. I d—”
“Then leave.” Sam took a few steps back and pointed to the door Dean had disappeared through a few minutes earlier. “Go on. You can’t fly, but you say you can take care of yourself, so go ahead.”
Castiel grit his teeth and pushed against the mattress again, managing to lift himself a little. It was hard to get free from the tangle of blankets, but he pulled on his legs and pushed with hands until he got one foot on the ground, followed immediately by the other as he dragged himself upright.
Immediately—sooner than immediately, if that was possible—his vision dissolved into stars and black spots. He flailed his arms, one hand striking something hard as he fought to steady himself, and the feeling of stumbling through a furnace with his stomach in knots came rushing back. Carpet hit him in the face—or perhaps his face hit the carpet—and the only coherent thought he had was that he needed to find another toilet before his stomach did the thing it had done before.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Castiel couldn’t be offended, too busy trying to get into a position where up was up again, and soon a hand grasped the back of his jacket and pulled him to his knees.
“Easy. Just breathe for a second and figure out if you’re gonna throw up again.”
How does one figure that out? Castiel gulped down air between the contractions at the back of his throat.
“Slow, Castiel. Deep but slow.”
Castiel blinked his watery eyes and managed to clear enough of the spots and sparks to see a plastic bin in front of him. To replace the toilet. At least, he assumed so, and as much as he didn’t want to relive the experience, he tried to follow the previous instructions and ‘just open his mouth and let it happen.’
But it didn’t. His throat mimicked the sensation a few times, and there was excessive saliva falling from his lips, but the longer he sat and breathed, the easier his stomach felt. Is that what he meant when he said to figure it out? He kept breathing and swallowing, flexing his palms against the rough carpeting as he tried to reorient himself. His legs were folded beneath him, the hard parts of his shoes digging into his buttocks and thighs as his knees began to ache. He could feel his heartbeat—rather, Jimmy’s heartbeat—in his head, behind his eyes, and the—
“You okay?”
Castiel didn’t know how to answer that.
“I mean, do you still feel like you’re going to throw up?” Sam spoke in a tone that made it seem like he planned to ask the second question regardless of Castiel’s response.
But then why would you ask the first? Why wouldn’t you just ask the second question and forgo the less descriptive option that leaves room for confusion?
“Castiel?”
“This floor is hideous.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is pretty ugly.” He didn’t sound angry or gloating. “Actually, now that I’m looking at it, I don’t think it would have been very noticeable even if you had puked everywhere.”
Castiel shook his head slowly, unable to move his vacant stare from the spot on the floor where it was, somehow, both fixed and unfocused. “I don’t… like this floor. It offends my eyes.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a moment. “Castiel, you need our help. I know you don’t like us—”
“I never said that.” He was drenched in sweat.
Exhaling softly, Sam tried again. “Fine. I know you don’t like me, but—”
“I never said that, either.” He was getting colder as a result.
“…but you need our help. So set aside the bigger picture, and the orders from above, and just…” Sam moved in Castiel’s peripherals, holding out his hands as if to block any response Castiel might offer, be it verbal or physical or something else. “Rest.”
That isn’t how this works. You have to know that. Castiel was a bargaining chip at best and a liability at worst, and he desperately wanted to relay whatever it was he had been so severely punished for. He trusted himself enough to know he had gone to that motel room for a reason; a reason so important he would betray his family. His usefulness in the greater plan was almost expired, but there was still something for him to do, and he couldn’t meet his end until he did it. If he could just remember what that thing was… remember what he had seen… heard? Overheard, perhaps, while lurking in a hallway to—
“You have to stop doing that!”
Castiel was too busy screaming in pain to answer.
“Stop trying to remember,” Sam argued, exasperated and upset.
“It’s important,” he rasped back. “It has to be. It wouldn’t be concealed otherwise.” He clenched his teeth, trying to prevent the chattering that made it so hard to talk.
“Castiel.”
I’m so tired… and I’m getting colder… but my face and neck are still so hot…
“Dean and I will figure something out.”
Castiel opened his mouth, but he couldn’t summon any kind of response. His body was heavy, like the chains that normally held the souls of the damned had found their way up and over his shoulders instead.
“C’mere.” Sam muttered the words under his breath, but he was close enough for Castiel to hear him. Mostly because he was also close enough to slip his hands underneath Castiel’s arms. “Up you go.”
Gripping the back of Sam’s shirt, Castiel managed to his feet beneath him and shift toward the bed before half falling into it as Sam let him go. He pulled his arms in close, not knowing how to get rid of the frost that coated his skin. He figured taking his clothes off wouldn’t help, though, so he didn’t understand why Sam started to do exactly that.
Castiel watched blearily as his overcoat was peeled away. “I am cold.”
“I can tell,” Sam chuckled, caught somewhere between bitterness and amusement. “Trust me. Getting rid of this outfit is going to make you feel better.”
“Why should I t—” Castiel cut himself off. If this really is a human sickness, he would know best how to treat it. But Sam was an abomination, and even if it were Dean asking him to trust, how could he put his fate in the hands of someone with such a limited perspective? Such a finite understanding of the universe? I don’t think this is a good idea. But Sam couldn’t read his thoughts. “I don’t think this is—”
“I’m not arguing with you about this.” Sam ignored the meager resistance, continuing to remove the overcoat until it was tossed aside and Castiel was colder. “Jacket, too. You can’t get comfy in a suit and tie.”
Castiel didn’t know what ‘comfy’ was. He’s human. He knows these things. He had always questioned too much, he knew that. It was a fault in his design; something that had been not quite right about him from the moment he was created.
“Castiel, you aren’t always going to understand your orders. Nobody does, because that’s how orders work, but you don’t see the rest of us questioning. Trust the plan, Castiel.”
But he never did—not fully, not the way he was supposed to. He came off the line with a crack in his chassis. Not defective enough to be useless, but needing corrections and repairs more often than was normal.
“Give me your arm.”
Castiel obeyed without really thinking, somewhat surprised when Sam, who had just removed his jacket, immediately starting putting a different jacket on him.
“Button that up, and I’ll see if I have a bigger one to put over it.”
Hands moved sluggishly, trying to manipulate the button and slat. “I already had two coats on.” It doesn’t make sense to take off two coats… he watched his fingers struggle with the fabric… and then put two different coats on… he was having a hard time fastening this jacket…
“Hey.”
Castiel startled when his shoulders were grabbed. What? He looked up and found Sam, who was suddenly in front of him again, staring down with a faint smile.
“Come on. You need sleep.”
He frowned, confused, and then looked down at his jacket, which had two fastened buttons. He then looked at his hands, lying limply in his lap instead of working on the third button.
“You fell asleep,” Sam explained.
Castiel stared. In the middle of…?
“It was just for a second.”
Castiel stared some more and then, not knowing why he thought Sam would answer him honestly, he asked, “Am I dying?”
Laughter burst from Sam’s mouth, but the broad smile lasted mere seconds. “Uh… no, Castiel. You’re not dying. Sorry, I thought…” He cleared his throat. “Never mind. You’re not dying. Whatever Raphael or ‘they,’” he made a curling motion with some of his fingers, “did seriously weakened you, enough to get something mimicking human illness. But even illnesses with the symptoms you have are generally non-lethal. Humans get them all the time, and a lot of us won’t even bother going to a doctor for it. We just ride it ou—uh, like, manage the symptoms until it wears off.”
“Oh. I see.” Castiel looked back down at his partially buttoned jacket. I do not feel well. He didn’t want to do anything. I have never felt this unwell.
Sam took Castiel by the shoulders again and guided him toward the head of the bed, something Castiel decided to go along with. He sighed in relief when his back hit the soft cushioning, and he didn’t mind when Sam rolled him onto his side. He did wonder why Sam started touching his feet, lifting them and unlacing the shoes he was wearing before working them off, but he didn’t question it. He also didn’t question it when Sam grabbed his belt, unbuckled it, and slid it free, and he was very glad he didn’t. Once the belt and shoes and coats were gone… he felt different. He wasn’t sure how he felt different, and he couldn’t really say he felt better, but he felt soft and… comfy, he supposed, like Sam had said he would be.
“Dean was right.” Sam pressed the back of his hand to Castiel’s forehead before moving it to his neck. “You’re burning up.”
“I am not on fire.” Castiel had stopped trying to keep his eyes open.
Sam snorted. “I didn’t say you were.” He paused, and there was something almost taunting in his tone when he continued. “I just meant you look like death warmed over.”
“Warmed over what?” Castiel tried to breathe through his nose, but it was harder than before. “I don’t…” He couldn’t remember what he was asking about. “I never said that…”
There was a beat of silence. “Never said what?”
“Monkeys…” He couldn’t think; wasn’t sure what he was saying or why. “Never called you mud monkeys… never said humans were…”
And that was the last thing he managed to say before the combination of heat in his core, ice on his surface, stinging in his throat, aching in his bones, and pressure in his head snuffed him out like a candle flame.
“Up and at’em, Cas. We gotta move.”
Castiel tried to open his eyes—really, he did—but he couldn’t. He tried to move his arm, splayed heavy and useless over his head, but that was just as fruitless. His head was pounding, he could only breathe through his mouth, and his throat was on fire.
“Sammy, how we looking?”
“They’re on the floor below us.”
“How do they know we’re here without knowing we’re, you know, here?”
Castiel silently answered, his lips refusing to cooperate. They can sense me, but the wards distort it enough that they cannot get an exact location. But they could get a general one, which they clearly had, and Heaven would continue to find the Winchesters that exact same way no matter where they went.
“I have the hex bags, all the sigils are in the Impala—”
“Yeah, well, we have all those things in here, too, but there’s still angels downstairs! How are we gonna lose them long enough to find a new spot?”
Castiel could tell he had been pulled into a sitting position, and with a more vertical orientation, he was able to open his eyes. “Go.” He fumbled for Dean’s wrist and shoved it away with what little strength he had. “It’s me, not you.” It was agony just to speak, and he didn’t know why his voice sounded… thick, almost. Coarse. “I can’t remember what happened. I likely never will.” He took a breath and tried to rouse himself as he struggled to his feet. “They’ll have questions for me.” He started to process the room they were in, noting the lack of light and Sam’s lumbering frame in the doorway. “I can delay them.”
“We’re not leaving you. We’ve been over this.” Dean stared him down, green eyes blazing, and he jerked his head toward the door. “You’re up now, so let’s go.”
Castiel did ‘go’ toward Sam, which was probably what Dean wanted, but when Sam went to the right, Castiel knew his brothers or sisters had to be to the left.
“Hey, we’re going this way.” Sam spoke in a whisper, his tone urgent.
Pushing away whoever touched his shoulder, Castiel continued to walk, the dizziness that had once accompanied a sudden shift now accompanying his sustained movement. It seemed simply slowing his movements would not remove the obstacle of imbalance or low visibility.
Castiel jerked to a stop when someone grabbed a handful of his jacket, stumbling back but managing to stay on his feet. “Dean—”
“I know you’re sick, man, but this way means this way.”
“I cannot help you,” Castiel replied flatly, straining to focus on Dean’s face. “Heaven would never leave holes in their work. I cannot do anything for you other than this.” He indicated the hall as much as he could, black spots floating in front of Dean’s cheek and collar. “You have a better chance of hiding if I’m not with you. Perhaps that advantage will be enough.” He barely got the last word out before he started coughing again, soon tasting something salty on his tongue.
Dean’s expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and anger. “Cas, you—”
“Looks like you lingered too long, brother.”
Castiel looked down the hall, its carpet and walls and ceiling blurring together as his eyes tried to find their way back to clarity. They can still manage an escape. He flexed his hand only to realize he didn’t have his blade. I must have lost it somewhere. I’ll have to find another way to hold my own. Not another way to win; this wasn’t a fight he had any chance of winning. It was simply a matter of how much time he could give to the Winchesters.
“Castiel, after this many millennia, why would you rebel? And why over this?”
I don’t even remember what I rebelled over. “My motives are my prerogative.” Castiel glanced at Dean, a silent but definitive command in his eyes.
“I’m not leaving you,” Dean growled under his breath.
“Dean, come on,” Sam urged.
Castiel faced his siblings. He hoped Dean would listen to Sam, but trying to focus on one thing was nearly impossible, let alone two or three. Thankfully, he heard footsteps retreating a moment later and addressed his opponents. “There’s only two of you.”
Smirking, Braziel dropped his blade into his hand and stepped forward. “In your condition, that’s one more than necessary.”
Castiel stepped forward as well, and while his steps were far from steady, they didn’t waver when his sister, Raquiel, joined the advance.
“Woah, woah, hey!” Dean, who apparently had not left with his brother, cut between them and pushed back against Castiel. “Hey, let’s just talk about this.”
“We have no—”
“You guys got me out of Hell.” Dean spread his arms as if to offer some defense to the angel behind him. “I figure that’s not, like, a rewards program, where you get points for every good deed you do until you earn enough to win the Free Eternal Damnation Pass.”
Castiel squinted at Dean, bewildered by his words and baffled by his actions. “Dean.”
“Shut up,” Dean snapped over his shoulder, and then he went right back to talking to Braziel and Raquiel. “We’ve been, you know, sort of sympatico since you got me out. Kinda worked on some projects here and there…”
My head… It was throbbing, and aching, and ringing, and burning, and spinning, and nearly bursting with the sensation of dandelion fuzz inside his skull. Dean, you can’t win this. You defiant… arrogant… stupid—
“I said back up!” Dean’s tone said it was a threat to the enemy, but he forced Castiel back again by taking a retreating step of his own.
Only this time, Castiel lost his footing. He hit the ground hard, the back of his head striking the thinly carpeted floor, and he could only hope he wouldn’t get the urge to throw up again.
“Look, Cas already told us everything. I get it if you want to kill him for vengeance or creed or some crap like that, but there’s no catastrophic lore dump you can keep from happening by tailing us all over the country.”
Castiel registered the words as untrue but couldn’t speak—couldn’t think, really—as the convulsions started up again, air tearing at the walls of his throat.
“We both know that’s not true,” Braziel purred. “Even if he wanted to, Castiel can’t tell anyone anything of significance.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” Dean huffed the response, almost like a laugh, brimming with his usual bravado. “But you haven’t met my brother.”
Slowly, the fit subsided, leaving Castiel on the floor, open-mouthed and panting like a dog. I can’t move. Everything hurts.
“You mean the brother who pretended to run away but really went to prepare your car, thinking if he had it ready when you joined him outside, you would somehow be able to escape?”
“Close.”
Castiel cringed when he heard the familiar sound of grace being obliterated.
“But no cigar,” Sam continued.
That doesn’t make sense… Well, the cigar part didn’t. Castiel understood the plan itself and found it quite smart. Sam pretended retreat but instead got Castiel’s weapon—which Castiel should have known they took while he was unconscious—to kill their pursuers, giving them even more time and advantage in the long run. Hopefully, that would be enough to get them to safety and allow them to find out whatever it was Castiel had been unable to relay, and it brought a small sense of peace to know he had at least managed to get a good weapon into their arsenal, even if he himself had been no use at all. It wasn’t a good feeling, but it was better than a meaningless death, and as he once again fell headlong into the black, he found himself thinking there were worse ways to go.
But he still didn’t get the cigar part.
“Freaking out isn’t going to help, Dean!”
“We’ve got Heaven on our tail and a blue rare angel steak on the bed. What am I supposed to do other than freak out?”
Castiel inhaled, trying to find it in himself to open his eyes.
“One. Hundred. And ten de—”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time, Dean!”
He tried to swallow, but it hurt, like glass between his vocal cords.
“Listen, Dean, we need to focus on—”
“We’re outnumbered and outgunned, Sam. They’re going to find us eventually, Sam. And we can’t live on the run forever, Sam.”
“Why do you keep saying my name?”
“Because you keep saying my name!”
I shouldn’t be here. He knew that much. He had collapsed in the hallway, and while his siblings had been killed, there should have been more siblings who came after, found their bodies, and subsequently finished him off. He should not have woken up. But I did, and I’m still with the Winchesters. Meaning… He groaned, deep and guttural, half to express his physical pain and half to express the mental anguish they were causing.
“And you—Cas?” Dean cut himself off mid-argument. “Cas, are you with us?”
“Unfortunately.” Castiel was barely able to make out anything in the dim light, but he didn’t need to see to talk. “I wasn’t lying… about my memory. I cannot be… the resource you think I can.”
Dean pushed past his brother to grab something from a nearby table and brought it to the bedside. “You need to get some meds in you. Now.”
Frustration growing, Castiel tried to argue, but his mouth refused to cooperate. It will not help me remember. I cannot remember what I was going to tell you. What part of that escapes your understanding?
“Sam, help him sit up a bit.” Dean started doing something with his hands. “Heads up, this stuff tastes like…” He faltered for a moment. “Okay, well, every descriptor I can think of right now wouldn’t mean anything to you, so it just tastes bad, okay?”
Castiel tried to shake his head. It’s not going to remove the barrier.
But Dean didn’t hear him—and if he had, he probably wouldn’t have listened—instead working with Sam to get Castiel upright, and once they did, Dean put a plastic bottle in his hand.
“You’re gonna need to drink the whole thing.” Dean nodded sideways. “Probably. We don’t really know. We’re kinda winging this.”
Castiel was thoroughly confused, but he figured the quickest way to make the brothers understand was to drink the contents of the bottle and show them it hadn’t helped. So he put it to his lips and tilted it, almost choking the second it hit the back of his throat before managing to swallow half a mouthful and spit the other half back into the bottle.
“I told you it’s nasty.”
Castiel spent a moment trying to figure out if his stomach was going throw things again, and then he resigned himself to another swig. Then another, and another, and another after that until the bottle was empty in his hand. That was vile.
“It’s gonna take a few minutes to start working,” Sam said from somewhere nearby. “Or maybe sooner, since you drank the whole thing. Or… maybe later, because you’re an angel.”
It’s not going to work at all. Though Castiel was swiftly growing tired again.
“Do you feel any different ” Dean pressed, sitting on the edge of the bed.
They won’t believe me if I don’t at least try. Castiel’s head bobbed, but he tried to remember what had happened in Heaven. He had gone to receive revelation, and when he got it… when he got it… he tried to—
“Not again,” was Sam’s response to the groan. “You have to stop thinking about Heaven.”
But you told me to…? Castiel opened his mouth, trying to relay his confusion, but he was losing his grasp on consciousness a little more with every second.
“Hey, open your mouth.”
Castiel did as they asked, letting his jaw go slack, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open or his head up. He felt something hard and thin in his mouth, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the physical pains and the overwhelming desire to… do something … to get some sort of… something else… though he didn’t know what those things were or why his body wanted them.
“108. I’ll take it. It’s still a death sentence for a human, but I will take it.”
“Now the question becomes, ‘Will the meds go out of his system as quickly as they went in?’ He can’t be chugging a bottle of nigh quill every hour, on the hour.”
“I mean, it’ll break the bank, but it probably won’t kill him.”
Forcing his eyes open again, Castiel looked down at the bottle in his hand, barely able to read the label on it. NyQuil? He drifted again. That is not how you spell those words… and the capitalization… and spacing… is… severely…