SPN: Star of the Morning (3/8)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Star of the Morning (3/8)
Series: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Post The Rapture, AU

Summary: Castiel, removed from his host, is forced to make a temporarily substitution. Dean is so not onboard with this plan.

 

With nothing to do and nowhere to be, they stop for lunch at a mostly empty 50s-style diner in Aberdeen MS, all hideous colours, Motown piped in through the speakers, and grease. Jimmy takes one look at the menu, pales, and orders a salad and O.J. while leaning over the table with his back a good foot from the seat. Sam, sitting by the window and apparently feeling unadventurous, goes for a burger and fries. Dean, rolling his eyes at him, asks the waitress with the damn fine ass – which is not affected in the slightest by the lurid uniform – for a steak with potatoes and gravy.

Please Mr. Postman is crackling through the speakers when the food arrives, the waitress giving him a wide smile as she pushes the salad across to Jimmy, ignoring the rumpled man entirely. Jimmy, taking the plate and staring down at it in unimpressed moroseness, doesn’t seem to care. Sam, however, kicks his brother under the table. Dean turns to glare; Sam raises his eyebrows pointedly while she puts the other plates down and then flounces away.

“What?” hisses Dean.

“Dude. Angel.”

“He can damn well shut his eyes if he doesn’t like it,” says Dean, who will never lose an argument to Sam because of rule #1 of sibling interaction: Older Brothers Cannot Lose, but the truth is he’d been running entirely on autopilot. He picks up his knife and fork and launches into the steak while Sam sighs and picks up his burger.

If Castiel has any thoughts about the girl – or the steak – he doesn’t voice them, but it ruins Dean’s mood anyway. He chews his way through the steak sullenly – it’s overdone – and hardly notices the soggy potatoes. Sam abandons his burger for the fries, and when they’re polished off begins on it again without enthusiasm. Jimmy picks at his salad like a bird, and then leaves to go to the can.

“I think I know why this place is empty,” says Dean, eyeing the remainders of his grey potatoes.

“Tell me about it,” says Sam, putting down his half-finished burger.

“You think Jimmy’s okay?”

“Well, we should probably get him something else later, maybe some energy bars or something…”

“That’s not what I meant. Also: energy bars?” Dean gives his brother a what are you, a hippie? look. Sam ignores it.

“I don’t know. There’s not a lot we can do. He can’t see his family, he must know that. How would you feel? Hey, you’ve got a your life back for a couple days but don’t bother to enjoy it, you’re going to lose it again.” Sam pulls a pickle out of his burger, considers it, and then puts it down again.

“Better a few days than nothing,” says Dean, staring at the empty seat across from him.

“Is it? I’m not so sure.”

“Yeah, well, I am. Even a few days is worth it.” Dean turns to look at Sam, and sees the flash of recognition there.

In the back of his mind, Castiel stirs. I didn’t know you were so invested in living, says the angel in a quiet, hard tone.

I’m just full of surprises, is what he broadcasts, what lies over the surface of his thoughts loud and prickly. But under it, steady with the strength of belief he can’t help: Life’s the only thing we have that matters. He’s learned it the hard way; learned how much even this crappy life meant to him: so much that he’d have given anything – almost anything – to keep it.

And, before that, how very wrong it felt, living one that wasn’t his. Living one that should have belonged to some poor Joe labelled as a sinner.

Living one that should have belonged to Dad.

You are uniquely qualified to know that, says Castiel, ignoring Dean’s attempt at fending him off and picking up the deeper thread shamelessly.

Thanks for reminding me.

In the corner, the bathroom door creaks open, Jimmy returning slowly. Sam turns back to his plate; Dean glowers at the wall.

They leave a stingy tip.

----------------------------------------------

“You know,” says Sam after they’ve been on the road for a while, reaching out to turn down Don’t Stop Believing and swivel to look over his shoulder, “you could call your family. I mean, you can’t visit them, but if you want to use one of our phones…”

Dean glances at his brother in surprise, Sam catches it and shrugs slightly. Jimmy, sitting sideways on the backseat staring out the driver’s side window at a dirty white field, doesn’t turn. “No thanks.”

“It’s no problem. It’s not like we’re paying the bill, anyway.”

Currently Mr. Werkowitz of Cleveland is.

“No thanks,” says Jimmy in exactly the same tone. The one they’re used to hearing from Castiel: cold and gruff detachment.

“Okay. If you do, just let us know.” Sam waits a second, awkwardly, and then sits back. Dean reaches out and turns up the volume again.

In his head, Castiel is still and silent.

-------------------------------------------

Another night, another motel, another separation. This time Sam takes the second room, Dean bunking with Jimmy. He’s not looking forward to it.

Jimmy’s not the easy-going ignorant civilian Dean remembers, but it’s not like they knew him for more than a couple of hours. A couple of hours which changed the man’s entire life, again. He’s quiet now, like always, and Dean can only imagine what he must think about during the long drives. What he must be thinking about, lying on his stomach on one of the twin beds.

“You can borrow some of my clothes, if you want. Or we could get you some new ones; can’t believe we didn’t think of it before,” says Dean, to break the silence. Jimmy’s still sporting the trench coat look, probably because his shirt and jacket are stained with blood. The same shirt and jacket he’s been wearing for the past several months.

“Sure,” Jimmy says, without looking. “Whatever.”

“Right,” drawls Dean uncertainly, staring at the unmoving figure. He sorts through his bag and turns out a loose long-sleeve shirt and some laundry-softened jeans. Drops them on the corner of Jimmy’s bed, by his feet. “Those’ll probably do you for tomorrow; we can stop off somewhere then and pick you up some stuff.”

“Thanks.” The same dead tone.

“No problem.” Dean stares for a minute, and then walks stiffly into the bathroom to stare at his face in the mirror. A little tired, a little dull, nothing that stands out. No stamp on his forehead “Angel Onboard.” He turns on the sink and splashes some cold water on his face.

You listening? he asks, without looking up.

Yes. Castiel hardly shifts.

How well do you know him? Dean keeps his eyes on the drain, slightly tarnished with a water stain ringing it, so he doesn’t see the cold anger on his face. So the angel doesn’t.

I’m aware of the major event of his life, of his family and friends, of his values and morals, says Castiel in a closed voice, a voice which says: I don’t want to talk about this. Dean ignores it.

That’s not what I asked. I asked how well you know the man. Know what he wants, what his goals are, what he’s afraid of. What he loves, how he loves it.

Angels are not humans, Dean. These are not things we consider, although we may be aware of them.

That’s a crappy answer, Cas. I’m asking if you understand him. Hell, do you even care about him?

There’s no response.

Are you just going to tell me you can’t? Give me that bull: angels don’t feel, angels don’t understand, angels don’t care? You’ve ruined his life, don’t you dare tell me you don’t know him!

Castiel shifts heavily in his mind, heat slipping out for just a second like steam from under the lid of a boiling pot. This isn’t your business, Dean.

Like hell it’s not! Who else out there is going to stick up for him? No one. Throw out someone possessed by a demon, and hordes of people’ll show up to try to pry it out. Give them someone possessed by an angel, and they’ll call it a blessing!

And either way, it would be irrelevant, says Cas, almost sharply. He has agreed to it.

Yeah, because you gave him the choice of him, or his daughter. That’s not agreement Cas, that’s coercion! Dean does look up now, stares into his own furious eyes and wishes he could see something of the angel there to glare at.

Castiel doesn’t answer. It takes all the restraint Dean has not to tell him to get the fuck out, regardless of the danger.

A year ago, we would have been fighting something like you, he snarls, finally.

A year ago, you wouldn’t have been able to, answers the angel coldly. Dean tenses as if struck, and slams the tap shut so hard the metal squeals under his grip.

Fuck you, he says, and storms out of the bathroom. Which puts him absolutely no further from the angel. “Fuck,” he says aloud again, throws his bag at the wall and drops heavily onto the bed.

“Got that right,” says Jimmy, in a muffled voice. Dean freezes, not having forgotten the man’s presence as much as having forgotten he might be listening.

Dean sighs deeply, immediate rage cooling slowly.

“He give you this much trouble?” he asks after a while, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

There’s a pause, and then, “Dunno. Mostly all I remember’s the pain. He blocks out the rest pretty well, but he can’t seem to do the pain properly. Maybe he doesn’t understand it.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

The ceiling’s the usual motel fare, moulded stucco with a light fixture shaped like a sun mounted in the middle. It’s got little curved mirrors sticking out around the edges to indicate heat rays; Dean can see his legs in them, also the floor and Jimmy’s shoe.

After a while, Dean clears his throat. “You have to do it; I get that. It’s you or your family – it makes sense. But, you’ve got some time now. Maybe a couple of days, even. I’m not the kind of guy to tell people how to live their lives or anything, but from someone who knows what it’s like to only have a couple of days left, you should make the best of it.” As soon as he’s said it, he’s not sure why. Thank god Sam’s not here to see him giving advice about emotional choices to strangers. Maybe Cas shorted out something in his brain.

Jimmy makes a gruff sound, and Dean thinks he’s coughing before he realises the man’s laughing. “How? Go to Vegas? Go sky diving? See the Grand Canyon?”

“Call your family,” suggests Dean, in the same light-hearted tone. Great, now he can’t stop himself.

Jimmy falls silent immediately. Then, “No.” There’s none of the polite disinterest of this afternoon. Just hard, cold refusal.

“Look, some time – something – is better than nothing.” He surprises even himself with the strength of his belief. But there’s no hunter alive who doesn’t have that same conviction: life tops everything else, even if it’s not necessary the hunter’s life. Always.

“Just – drop it. Okay?”

There’s no room for argument in that tone, and Dean doesn’t know the man well enough to press it in any case. Hell, he doesn’t know anyone well enough to press something like this, other than Sam. “Okay,” he says, in a backing off tone. Jimmy sighs.

His back, says Cas out of nowhere, in an odd voice close by him. Dean sits up, and starts to look behind him before he catches himself.

And then, No.

Dean. We don’t have time to linger here.

You want me to help you use him again? Take him, twist him like a puppet until he doesn’t suit you anymore and then throw him away? Well, screw that.

There is no choice here. If I don’t take him as my vessel again, then what? Will you protect him for the rest of his life? The demons will hunt him, torture him, kill him, if you don’t.

“It’s not right,” snarls Dean, aloud.

No. But it’s what must happen. He will give you the same answer.

“I don’t care what he thinks, he’s wrong!”

Then you are no better than me.

There’s a tiny pause, filled with knives and broken glass. And then:

“Cas?” says Jimmy from the bed, sitting up to look at Dean with the most focus Dean’s seen in his eyes since the man’s speech near the barn. In his head, Castiel unfolds himself, heat and strength pressing against Dean’s mind like a bird beating its wings against its cage.

Ask him, says the angel, voice loud and harsh as waves crashing against a seawall in Dean’s ears.

Dean, eyes narrowed against the heat in his head, stares at the man sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him.

“Jimmy, look – you’ve got to go back. I know. But it doesn’t have to be right away. We can hold off, take things slow, give you some time.”

Jimmy gives him a long, slow look. “You must drive Cas crazy,” he says, finally, in a flat tone. “It’ll do him good. But don’t bother on my behalf.”

“Jimmy –”

“Just do it. We don’t have that kind of time to waste, do we? Do we, Cas?”

Dean can feel the angel fighting to keep himself from answering, from speaking in Dean’s voice or even just nodding. From using Dean as he promised not to. It’s dizzying, and Dean closes his eyes and presses his hand against the bridge of his nose.

“Just… get it over with,” says Jimmy, and Dean hears the shuffle of fabric and the creak of springs as he sits down again. Castiel calms, pulling back. Dean, face twisted into a furious snarl, walks over and raises his hand.

-------------------------------------------------

Dean doesn’t dream, or if he does, he doesn’t remember. He wakes to stare up at the ceiling in confusion for a minute, a hundred similar ceilings flashing through his mind before he remembers where he is. What he is, right now. An angel’s host. He closes his eyes, used enough to it now to not feel any fear. He feels disgust instead, with himself, with Castiel, with Jimmy. With Heaven and Hell and the goddamn Apocalypse. It’s too big, too much, too momentous for him. For people in general, for the weak, insignificant humans who have no chance of fighting this battle that will take place on their soil. Who can’t even comprehend it.

That is why we must fight it for them, says Castiel, softly.

Dean rolls over. I thought you didn’t care about humans anymore, he says, with sarcasm and bitterness, not expecting an answer. He gets one anyway.

I won’t place one above the others, won’t value them above my brothers and sisters. It’s not the same thing.

Dean’s still working out the implications of that when the covers rustle on the other bed, Jimmy shifting.

“Jimmy?” Dean looks over, whispering uncertainly in the darkness.

Jimmy’s voice is gruff with sleep, or maybe just pain, but strong nevertheless when he answers. “Yeah. What time’s it?”

The bright red lights of the digital clock beside the bed read 7:48.

“Almost 8 o’clock. Time to get up. How’s the back?” Dean rolls out of bed and shuffles over to the wall to find the light switch, fumbles around near the door before tracking it down. Jimmy sits up, face slightly haggard, hair sticking in all directions.

“Alright.”

“I’ll take a look at it. Might as well take off your shirt, if you’re gonna change anyway.” He heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take care of his own bed head while the other man slowly begins shifting out of his dirty layers. By the time he returns, Jimmy’s picking at the white bandage on his back, glancing over his shoulder while clearly trying not to twist his spine. Dean comes over to crouch down by the side of the bed, and slowly unwraps the gauze.

Under it the burn is still an angry red, but much less prominent against the paler skin around it. There are no longer any open wounds, no cracking red or weeping fluid, but the mark is still raised prominently. Still a definite ward.

“Looks okay. No infection. It’s healing well.”

“How much longer.”

Cas?

Two days, perhaps.

“Two days, give or take.”

“Right.”

Dean raises his hand, holds tense and stiff as the heat streams through him and the redness withdraws slightly, skin straightening like a sheet being pulled flat. When he’s finished, hands shaking, he pulls a small first-aid kit from his bag and rewraps the burn carefully. Jimmy still flinches.

He’s just tied off the end when someone hammers on the door, causing them both to start. Dean gets up, gun in hand.

As expected it’s Sam, standing dressed with his bag on his shoulder and his phone in his hand.

“Just got a call from Bobby,” he says without preamble, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “Friend of his called in a banshee in Marshall, Missouri.”

Dean stares at him in incredulity. “You think now’s a good time for a hunt?” He glances back towards Jimmy, sitting on the bed with tense shoulders trying to take regular breaths. “Let his friend take care of it!”

“He tried,” says Sam, darkly. “It was his wife – his widow – who called Bobby.”

Dean blinks, then lets out all his breath in one harsh breath. After a minute he looks back towards Jimmy again, considering.

“I guess we could stash him with Bobby…”

“Dean, Bobby’s almost exactly behind us. In the time it takes to get there, then to Marshall…”

“So what, we should take him with us? Banshees are nasty work, you know that. What’s he going to do, threaten to report it for tax evasion?”

“If I don’t come,” says Jimmy, from behind them, “it’ll be that much longer before you get rid of Cas.”

“Yeah, and if you do,” says Dean, turning to face him, “and the banshee gets you, I might never get rid of him!” But Dean can see he’s going to lose this fight, can read it in Jimmy’s eyes for all that he doesn’t know him. It’s been a long time since he’s seen that kind of fatal acceptance in anyone’s eyes, a lack of concern with the future. Reminds him unaccountably of the girl that time with faith healer and the Reaper, of Layla. Maybe that whole incident’s just on his mind after yesterday’s conversations.

“Fine,” he growls. “You come, you do what we tell you when we tell you, and if things go bad you get the hell out, got it?”

“Yes,” says Jimmy.

Dean turns back to Sam. “I don’t like this,” he says, pinning his brother with his eyes for a moment. Sam shrugs, what can we do?

Nothing. Exactly, precisely nothing.

He’s getting damn tired of no-win scenarios.