![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zoemathemataPrevious Chapter Here
Castiel does not require much sleep, and so, it is not as frustrating for him as it is for humans when sleep will not come. He does not find sleep particularly restorative and he is often plagued by dreams that contain too many things supernatural and unearthly. He does not miss sleep when he cannot have it.
His routine sleep is different from his near hibernation, in which he was engaged when awoken by Charles Shirley. That repose was closer to… death than to sleep.
So he is not overwrought when he cannot sleep that night, when thoughts of Dean keep him awake. Overwrought is not a feeling he has needed to contend with since… well, not for a very long time.
But he is somewhat haunted by his thoughts. In his mind, he imagines all sorts of ways he can tell Dean the truth of his nature. He has no illusions that it will be as simple as telling Sam Winchester ‘yes,’ nor as quick and obvious as starting to feed on Charles Shurley.
The first seems so clinical and detached. The second is horrid.
Nor will it be at all like when Dean found out the first time, and for that he is both grateful and regretful - grateful he doesn’t have to stare at Dean’s failing body, bloody and broken, and tell him what he’s done, regretful that he will not be able to easily explain his motivations, which needed no explanation when he was first turned. His reasons had been all too obvious and devastating.
Though he feels he knows Dean, knows him intimately, inside and out, backward and forward, past and present, he is at a loss to predict how Dean will react. Will he be suspicious? Horrified? Angry? Will he laugh at the absurdity of it? Refuse to believe it?
He keeps his bedroom dark, but he can still tell without the antique clock on his nightstand that he has been awake all night. He can feel the sunrise in his bones - a fine tingling along his spine that warns him not to rush out exposed. He knew that Dean would not be at Collinwood tonight, having been asked home by Sam. He also knows that Sam promised not to say anything to Dean in order for Castiel to have the chance to speak with him. But Sam had been adamant, (or as adamant as one is comfortable being with a vampire), that Castiel has a very short window in which to tell Dean the truth, and if Castiel doesn’t do it, then Sam will.
While he has been putting off telling Dean, Castiel knows that Sam is right. Dean must know, and Castiel must be the one who tells him.
Daybreak has not cut the infinite circle of his thoughts, but the strange, still unfamiliar beep of his newly acquired cellphone does.
Admit it, u r totally lost without me
His lips curl in a small smile at the black letters on the tiny screen and with infinite patience, he types out a response, a task that is so new to him it is traumatically slow. He wants to type that he did dearly miss Dean. That he is troubled by things he needs to say. That he does not know how to say what needs to be said. But he also knows Dean and knows such words may perhaps be too cutting. Too honest.
Instead, he writes something he thinks will make Dean smile. It takes a long time to press all the miniscule keys, but he relishes the task. He knows that at this very moment, Dean is staring at his phone, thinking of him.
Of course I am. Pray tell, what is your name again?
Dean’s response is lightening fast; his ease with the technology apparent.
:P
Castiel frowns for a moment until he remembers Charles explaining emotional icons.
It had been an extremely convoluted lesson.
He sends back what he believes to be an appropriate response.
: - |
Dean’s reply is again quick. ha. So I’ll c u tonite after I close?
Castiel hesitates, trailing his fingers over the small screen of his phone. He does not want to say yes. He cannot say no.
Yes.
;)
He smiles again at the silly punctuation, imaging the wink on Dean’s face, his expression full of amusement as he types.
He wishes he could see it in person one more time before tonight.
***
It’s been a busy day for Pamela. With her husband and his brother gone, running the family business has fallen to her, Anna, and Becky. But with Anna’s sensitive artistic nature and Becky’s lack of attention, the bulk of it falls on Pam’s shoulders. Normally, she doesn’t mind. She’s got a sharp brain and her psychic sense has served her well in the past.
Not that she’s mentioned that to the board of directors. They just think she’s got a head for business and a body for sin.
She actually heard someone quote the scene from ‘Working Girl’ one day. Of course, they hadn’t said it out loud, but she didn’t always just listen with her ears.
It took a while after her husband’s disappearance for the board to take her seriously, but once they realized she wasn’t just playing at it, and they got a glimpse of the formidable brain behind the looks, things started falling into place. Now, they present all major decisions before her.
Which is why she’s exhausted at two in the morning and can’t sleep, trying to sort out if they should proceed with the latest acquisition.
She slides out of bed and pads downstairs to the drawing room, turning on only a few lights. She absently shuffles her tarot deck as she ponders the latest business questions, focusing her thoughts on the deck, and settling in for a reading.
The hard backed chairs aren’t exactly comfortable but they’ll do, and she scooches it a bit closer while she decides on what layout to use. She takes a moment to center herself and starts laying out cards, face down, in a simple European layout of seven, dealt right to left. She flips them over one at a time.
She frowns. It sometimes takes her one or two hands to work up to a reading, but the cards she’s just dealt are a mess. No connection, no relevance at all to the problem at hand. She slides them back together and shuffles, dealing again.
She taps her finger absently as she stares at the cards laid out in front of her. She’s never had two such convoluted spreads back to back. She pushes the laid out cards to the side, rests her fingertips on the remaining deck and pauses. She’s never been one to look a gift muse in the mouth.
“Am I asking the wrong questions?” she says softly. She turns three cards over. The answer is unequivocally yes.
She takes a moment to consider her next question.
“Is this about business or family?” She turns over one card.
Family.
“Ben or the girls?” She turns over another card.
No.
She doesn’t have a lot of family and once you take away the people living in the house, that leaves her missing husband, her missing brother in law and…
“Castiel?” She deals again.
Yes.
She nods to herself. Feeling like she has a place to start, she focuses on Castiel and shuffles the cards, relaxing into the soft swoosh of the deck over itself and the rhythm of shifting. She takes one more calming breath, while she ponders her layout.
“All right,” she murmurs quietly to the darkened room. She lays out her cards in a simple Celtic Cross. “Let’s see what you have to say about Castiel.”
***
When his phone rings at half past two, he expects it to be Dean, telling him he cannot make it to Collinwood tonight. He steals himself for the disappointment, lets the resignation wash over him.
“Yes?” he answers.
“Castiel, it’s Pamela. Is Dean with you?”
“No,” he answers simply, surprised at her calling at this hour and at her tone.
“Where is he?” Her voice is rushed and tense. He can feel the anxiety creeping over the phone and settling into his spine. He sits up in his chair.
“I believe he is still closing at the pub. Why? What is wrong?”
“You need to go there. Now.”
“Pamela…”
“Go. Now.”
He drops the phone without ending the call.
***
Dean takes one last look around the interior of the pub, eyes flickering over the cleaned tables and chairs. Satisfied, he flips off the lights, zips the money bag shut and stuffs it in the inside pocket of his denim jacket. It hardly fits but it doesn’t matter. He’s just on his way to Collinwood.
He sets the alarm and hustles outside into the cool night, turning around to lock the door.
He feels something cold at the back of his neck and his mind has a second to process gun before he hears a voice.
“Hand the bag over.”
His back to his assailant, Dean doesn’t turn around. His keys are still hanging from the deadbolt as he lifts his hand in a gesture not so much of ‘hey, I surrender’ as it is one of ‘hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.’
“Hey, man,” he says rather calmly. “Why don’t you just walk away and we’ll call it no-harm, no-foul.”
The barrel moves from his neck to his back and digs in. “The bag.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Dean lies. There’s over twenty grand in the sack from the VLTs and if he hands it over… he’s got insurance, but that’s not the point. This is his business, his livelihood, his place.
It’s not like he thinks his life is worth less than the twenty grand. He’s not even really thinking that far. He just knows that he works hard, his staff works hard, and this is his money.
“I’m not asking twice.”
Dean’s just turning his head to the side, just about to glance over his shoulder and get a better handle on the situation when he hears the mugger make a sort of ‘oof’ sound and the pressure at his back is gone. He turns around and he’s not sure what he’s more surprised by - that someone else is there, or that it’s Cas.
Cas has his back to Dean and is stalking slowly toward the guy that seconds ago had a gun pressed up against Dean’s back. The mugger is on the ground, face hidden by a mask, legs and arms scrambling backward, like a spider in his attempt to gain purchase from where he must have… fallen? Stumbled? Dean’s actually not all that sure how he got so far away from them.
Dean sees the gun on the ground, close to the man’s hand. His eyes widen and he only has time to shout Cas’ name before the assailant has got the gun in his grip and is pulling the trigger.
Cas’ shoulder jerks slightly once backward, but he doesn’t stop moving forward. He flinches again at the next sound of a gunshot and Dean might have shouted ‘no’ but he’s not certain if he just thought it or if he actually said it out loud.
And then Cas is reaching toward the man, grabbing the gun by the muzzle and just tossing it aside like it’s a toy he’s finished playing with. He leans over the man, grabs his head, and snaps it sharply around.
It’s strangely anti-climactic to watch the mugger fall to the side in a boneless heap, and Dean doesn’t know what Cas did. Cas turns back to Dean, moving grimly toward him. Dean’s eyes drift to the red blossom spread across Cas’ shoulder and another one seeping from his torso, into the waistband of his pants. He reaches out to touch one of the wet splotches, his fingertips coming back sticky and crimson.
“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages. Dean had seen the shots, seen Cas’ body flinch, but he assumed the mugger’s bullets had gone wide when Cas didn’t go down. “You’ve been shot.”
“Are you hurt?”
Cas’ hands clasp his shoulders tightly, just shy of painfully, and the contact snaps Dean into action. He starts fumbling for his pocket, his cell phone.
“I’ll call Sam or 911 or… no, Sam. I can get you to the hospital faster than the ambulance can get here and Sam will meet us there. He’ll know which doctors to ask for. Jesus. Can you walk to the car? Holy fuck…” He’s got his phone out of his pocket, trying to dial Sam’s number, distracted by the bloody fingerprints he’s leaving on the keypad.
Castiel snatches the phone away from him. “I’m fine. Are you hurt?”
“Jesus, no, I’m not hurt,” Dean blurts loudly. “And you’re not fine, you’ve been shot. You’re probably in shock or something. But it’s fine,” Dean forces his voice to go calm and soothing. “It’s fine. We’ll go to the hospital and it will be fine. Give me the phone.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Castiel,” Dean says lowly, using his full name. “We’re going to get into the car, and then I’m going to drive to the hospital.” Instead of standing here while you bleed out, he wants to add. Fuck, he doesn’t know how much time they have, how much shock and blood loss are a factor here. He should probably put something on the wound. His fingers slide up Castiel’s arm, over to his shoulder, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “Here, let me see -”
He stills as he pulls the shirt aside and sees blood stained skin. And only blood stained skin.
No wound, no bullet hole.
It’s not like he’s seen a gunshot wound before but he knows there should be something. Torn skin, more blood.
There isn’t. There isn’t anything. Just a faint mark, the skin pink and shiny where Dean’s pretty sure a bullet hole should be.
“Dean…”
Castiel’s voice is low and even. Reluctant. Dean flicks his eyes up to Cas’ and then back down, pulling the shirt farther away, searching the rest of Cas’ shoulder.
“Dean, we should return to Collinwood.”
Dean spares him a confused and mutinous glance before pulling Cas shirt out of his waistband and lifting it up, searching for the second bullet hole and finding nothing but seamless bloody skin.
Dean drops the edge of the shirt and takes a step backward, his spine meeting the steel door of the pub. His keys, still in the lock jam into his shoulder-blade.
“What the fuck?”
“Let us return to Collinwood,” Cas says simply. He reaches out for Dean’s elbow and Dean jerks it away.
“You were shot. I saw you get shot. I saw.”
Castiel is silent, eyes watching Dean, expression carefully neutral.
Dean’s got one hand up, keeping Cas from taking another step toward him. Either he’s crazy and he didn’t really see Cas get shot, or…
He’s not really sure what the other option is.
“There’s blood all over your shirt. You were shot,” Dean repeats.
Finally, Castiel nods once. “Yes.”
He doesn’t know how to react to that admission. He’s somewhat relieved that he’s not gone completely bat-shit and seeing things. On the other hand, that means that Cas was shot and is now… not wounded.
“Please, let us go to Collinwood. We can speak there.”
“No. You tell me what the fuck just happened. Right here. Now.”
Castiel’s shoulders slump. Of all the ways he imagined telling Dean, doing so in the parking lot of the Winchester pub had never crossed his mind. He imagined them having this conversation ensconced in the warm environment of Collinwood, where he could sit down and take the time to explain everything fully, where he could answer any and all of Dean’s questions.
But standing in the half-light from the lone streetlamp, seeing Dean stare at him, wary and suspicious before he even began, was not at all what he anticipated.
“I am…” Castiel begins, his voice halting. He shifts slightly on his feet. “I am not… entirely… not quite…”
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“I am not mortal,” Castiel says, lifting his shoulders..
“You’re not what?” Dean shoots back incredulously.
“Mortal. I am not mortal.”
Dean looks skeptical at best, ready to lunge at Castiel at worst.
“What are you?” Dean’s voice doesn’t come out shaky at all, which is impressive, since he’s pretty sure his insides are vibrating. He knows what Castiel is about to say, he knows it. The sunlight allergy, his nearly archaic mannerisms, the absence of any wounds, the painting in at the new Collins house… All these things seem to come together at once, like a broken mirror coalescing in front of him and he knows that Castiel will only be able to give one, impossible, ridiculous answer.
“A vampire.”
Dean doesn’t mean to laugh, but laugh he does, a breathy chuckle that bubbles up his esophagus and floats out into the night.
“Of course. Of course you fucking are.” He doesn’t know why he said that. He didn’t even mean to speak, but the words came out.
“Dean…”
“Don’t.” Dean’s tone is sharp and resolute. “Don’t you fucking say one. More. Word.” Jesus, he needs to think. He just needs to think about this.
“Come to Collinwood, and I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
“You promise? That’s fucking rich. Where was this burning desire for honesty, I don’t know, say when we met?”
Part of Dean wants to get in the car and go to Collinwood and have everything explained. The other part of him wants to punch Castiel in the face for lying. He’s not sure which reaction is more absurd - to follow Castiel to Collinwood or punch him the mouth for saying he’s a vampire.
While his brain is warring between the two options, he has the stray thought neither of those responses is correct.
Shouldn’t he be afraid?
He doesn’t feel afraid.
“You don’t know what it has been like. You don’t know the entire truth.”
Castiel’s words come to him as though down a long tunnel and he forces himself to pay attention.
“I don’t want to know the truth.” Which is a lie. Dean does want to know the truth but it’s like his anger is in control of what’s coming out of his mouth and he can’t stop it. Jesus, he just needs to think
Castiel stills. “Yes, you do. Of course you do,” he says quietly, earnestly.
“No, I really fucking think I don’t.”
“Dean. Please. Come to Collinwood with me. I will answer any question you ask, tell you anything you want to know.”
“No.”
“This doesn’t change what we are to each other.”
“We’re not anything to each other. Not anymore.” Dean shakes his head firmly. The two halves of him are still warring with each other. One half cheering ’Fuck yeah! You tell him!’ and the other half pleading with his mouth to shut the fuck up.
Castiel looks so defeated and the mean part of Dean continues to cheer while the other part wants him to take it back and tell Cas he didn’t mean it and he’ll come to Collinwood and listen.
“You don’t mean that. You can’t… You don’t know what I’ve… what we’ve…”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to get in my car and go home and you’re not gonna call me and you’re not gonna stop by.” He has a brief moment when he thinks, wow, I’m giving orders to a vampire.
“I will give you time but please let me explain first.”
“No, this is not ‘time’, this the end.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh this time, a quiet, sad huff that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. “It’s never the end for me. I waited two hundred years. And I’ll wait two hundred more. All I can do is wait.”
Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s words are confusing and he just wants to push them out of his mind, not listen to the tone of his voice.
“I need to leave,” Dean says, more to himself than to Cas. “Will you stop me?” His eyes are hard as they meet Castiel’s and Castiel simply takes a step off to the side.
“Of course not. I would never force you to do anything.”
Dean still watches him warily as he steps forward, toward the Impala. His footsteps stutter as he comes to the body of the mugger. It still hasn’t moved; Cas killed someone.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Go,” he hears Castiel say behind him, sotto voice. “I shall take care of it.”
He’s not sure if he’s grateful and relieved by that or horrified and scandalized. He doesn’t turn around again as he crosses the parking lot to the car, but he can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the entire way. He turns his head just as he pulls out of the lot and sees Castiel still standing where he left him, staring after him.
***
Castiel spends a long time standing in the darkened parking lot.
He’s not sure how long, exactly.
The night is cool and still.
And lonely.
He considered that this might be one of the outcomes. That Dean wouldn’t even let him explain.
He had hoped it wouldn't be the case.
What he hadn’t anticipated was not actually getting the chance to gentle the news at all. Instead, it was presented to Dean in a most gruesome way.
He knows he has to take care of the mugger’s body. While it’s not something he looks forward to, it is something he can do rather easily.
He knows he should do it now, do it quickly, while there is no one yet about.
And he will.
But right now, all he can do is stand, in the dark, staring after the road that Dean drove away on.
***
Sam hears Dean come in the front door, hears the dull ‘thunk’ of the money bag hitting the floor, which in itself is not an unfamiliar sound, but the lack of cursing and bitching following it is unusual for Dean. He hears Dean drop his jacket on the floor before he hears the tell-tale clomping of Dean’s booted feet crushing the carpeted stairs.
He pauses outside the door, hesitating long enough to hear the mattress squeak, but the light under the door stays on.
He knocks sharply on the door.
“Fuck off, Sammy.”
Sam opens the door anyway and pokes his head in. “I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”
“Well, here I am. Now fuck off.”
Undeterred, Sam stays put. “Um, something wrong?”
“No. Fuck off.”
Sam pushes the door the rest of the way open and leans against the jamb. His fingers twitch nervously before he finally crosses his arms over his chest. This might not even be about Castiel. Maybe Castiel hasn’t even told Dean yet. But Dean was supposed to go to Collinwood tonight and now he’s home. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to blurt anything out if Castiel hasn’t told Dean yet.
He suddenly understands circular soap opera dialogue.
He thought about it all day, wondering what he would do when Dean found out. He went around and around in his head for hours, and what it always came down to was how happy Dean had been lately. Sam didn’t think he had seen Dean that happy in… ever. Certainly not as an adult. And if Castiel made Dean that happy, then Sam didn’t care what he was.
Although the vampire thing was still a little tough to swallow. Who saw that one coming?
Staring at Dean face down on his bed, Sam is torn. Should he ask Dean if Castiel spoke to him? Should he play it cool? Should he leave Dean alone until Dean comes to him?
He immediately nixes that last idea because Dean would come to him to talk about half past never. If he wants Dean to talk to him, he’s gotta do it old-school - play pesky little brother.
“So, what’s up?”
“What part of ‘fuck off’ are you not getting?” Dean’s still face down on his bed, his voice coming out mumbled and fuzzy.
“Did something happen at the restaurant?” Sam asks, playing dumb.
Dean pushes himself up and glares at Sam. “Jesus Christ, I thought you went to university. Fuck off means ‘go away.’”
Sam shifts from one foot to the other. “You seem upset.”
“Well if I am, it’s my own goddamn business,” Dean spits out, turning his back on Sam and flopping down on his bed again.
“Sooooooo, what’s going on?” Sam pesters. He’s got to be careful or it will end in fisticuffs. Over the years, he’s learned how far he can push Dean before it ends in a couple of good solid punches. He figures he has about two more minutes before they reach boiling point.
“None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business.”
“Touchy, touchy,” replies Sam easily, stepping into the room and perching on the corner of Dean’s bed. “So listen,” he says, deciding to go for the old ‘distract and pounce’ tactic. “Can I borrow the Impala this weekend?”
“No,” Dean replies automatically still speaking to the mattress.
“C’mon. I gotta drive out of town and my car probably won’t make it.”
“Tough shit.”
“It’s not like you’ll be really using it anyway. Isn’t Ash closing this weekend? And you spend most of your time lately at Collinwood -”
“Well not this fucking weekend.” Dean’s response is abrupt and terse.
“Oh?” feigns Sam. “Why not?”
“That’s over.”
“Really?” Sam asks. “‘cause last night it was all ‘he’s fine and I’m fine and he’s my boyfriend.’”
“Not anymore.”
Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth from a chicken. Sam rolls his eyes, grateful that Dean can’t see. “I thought you were happy. You seemed really happy.”
There’s a pause, and Sam wonders if he’s pushing too hard or not hard enough. “I was.”
“So….?”
An even longer pause stretches out and Sam’s not sure if it’s going to end with Dean telling him to fuck off again or not. Dean’s whole body tenses and Sam tenses in return, ready to dodge out of the way of a flying fist, but all that happens is that Dean pushes himself up and swings his leg off the side of the bed so he’s sitting.
“Found out he was lying to me.”
Sam pauses what he considers an appropriate amount of time before speaking. “About what?”
Dean shrugs, looking down at his hands hanging between his knees.
“Is he, um, cheating on you?” Sam’s face screws up as he asks it. If that were the case, that would come dangerously close to them having a serious conversation about sex and that shit could get awkward.
“No,” Dean says quickly.
Think of another question, think of another question. “Did he steal from you?”
“No,” Dean replies, not as quickly but somewhat morosely. “Nothing like that.”
“So, uh, what is it?”
Dean sighs long and deep. “You’re not gonna believe it. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe it and I was there, I saw…”
“What did you see, Dean?” Sam’s voice is quiet. Dean’s head is hanging low, gaze turned downward and Sam leans forward waiting for him to speak. He glances down at Dean’s hands and sees the tell-tale reddish-brown that he’s intimately familiar with from work.
“Is that blood? Do you have blood on your hands?” Sam asks, tensing up again.
“Yeah,” Dean says on an exhale.
“Are you hurt?”
“S’not mine. It’s Castiel’s.”
So it’s ‘Castiel’ now and not ‘Cas.’ Sam gives Dean another minute, but Dean remains silent.
“Dean, what’s going on?”
Dean shakes his head. “It’s crazy, man. Abso-fucking-lutely crazy. You’re not gonna believe it,” Dean repeats.
Sam swallows. “Try me.”
Dean lets out a wry laugh and his expression screams, okay, but you asked for it.
“Turns out, he’s a vampire.”
Sam forces his face to remain completely blank for a moment and then lets his eyebrows shoot up.
“I swear to God, Sammy,” Dean barrels on, not waiting for a response, “I am not even making this shit up. Un-fucking-believable.”
“How did, uh…” Sam fidgets. “How did you find out? I mean, did he tell you?”
“He kind of had to when I saw him get shot.”
“What?” Sam exclaims.
“Yeah, mugger at the pub,” Dean says, like it’s ludicrous. “Fucker was gonna rob me blind and all of a sudden Cas… Castiel is there and…” Dean makes a sort of chopping motion with his hands. “And there’s gunfire and I was doing a pretty good job of not freaking the fuck out and he’s got blood on him and the mugger is dead and I was gonna call you or 9-1-1 - I didn’t know -”
“You should always call 9-1-1. They’re equipped to handle emergency situations,” Sam interjects without thinking and Dean gives him a look.
“Not the point, Sam.”
“No, I … sorry. Go on.”
“Well he’d been shot but there was no - “ again, Dean sweeps his hands over his chest. “And I asked him what the fuck and then he up and says he’s a vampire.”
Sam waits for Dean to say more but there’s nothing.
“That’s, um. Wow.”
Dean looks at him sideways and Sam tries not to, but he squirms a little bit. This is just like that time when he was twelve and he’d wanted to poke around in Dean’s room, trying desperately to figure out how to be as cool as his older brother and without even stepping foot in the bedroom, Dean just knew that Sam had been up to something.
“You knew,” Dean says lowly.
“Huh? What?”
“You knew. You fucking already knew.”
Dean stands up, which makes Sam stand up and take a step back. Dean starts closing the distance between them and this might end in fisticuffs after all.
“What? No, that’s… how? How would I know?”
“I don’t know how but you did, didn’t you?”
Sam’s back hits the dresser. “No, I…” Sam caves. He doesn’t want to lie to Dean. “All right yes, fine I knew. But I just found out yesterday.”
“How?” Dean demands. “How did you know?”
“I got his blood work back and it was just… wrong. And there’ve been these thefts at the hospital. From the blood bank.”
“Jesus,” Dean says, his body slumping. “I didn’t… I mean, I hadn’t even thought… but he really does drink blood?”
“Yes. But he hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Oh, I suppose he told you that,” Dean shoots hotly.
“Yes he did. And I believe him.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, you should have told me.”
“I just found out! And I thought you should hear it from him! Besides, what was I gonna say? ‘Hey Dean, you know your boyfriend Castiel Collins? Yeah, sorry about that, he’s a bloodsucking fiend.’”
“So, you what? Talked to him about this?”
“Yes,” Sam nods. “He’s looking for a cure, Dean. And I’ve agreed to help him.”
Dean’s eyes are murderous. “The hell you will.”
“Dean, I’m not ten anymore. You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“You just watch me.”
Sam sighed, dropping his tone. He knows Dean better than he knows himself sometimes and he knows Dean is just spoiling for a fight. “I’m not gonna fight with you about this. You’re just using this to avoid how you feel.”
“Oh, did I miss the part where you got a fucking psychology degree as well?”
Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t bait me, Dean, not this time.”
Dean seems to deflate a little and turns away from Sam.
“So, what else did Castiel tell you?”
Dean shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I left after that.”
“What? What do you mean you left?”
Dean turns back to Sam. “I mean I fucking left. I didn’t hang around to hear some creepy, freaktastic sob story.”
“But… don’t you have questions? How he became a vampire, how it works?”
“Don’t care,” mumbled Dean. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“No!” Sam exclaims. “I didn’t want to ask too much and I figured he’d tell you and then you’d tell me.”
“Well, I’m sorry I ruined your Scooby-Doo vampire mystery, but this is my life.”
“I know it’s your life, Dean. But you were happy.”
“I was happy before him,” Dean snaps.
“No. No, you weren’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were content but you weren’t happy.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s not. And you know it’s not. Dean, I just want you to be happy.”
“With a vampire?” Dean asks and then he laughs. “Jesus, it’s ridiculous, I can’t even believe I’m saying it out loud.”
“I know it’s not… traditional.” Sam shifts on his feet.
“Traditional? Traditional? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“For what it’s worth, I think Castiel is a good guy.”
“He’s not human!”
Sam winces. This is going so badly. “He’s… well, I’m not sure exactly what he is and that’s what I’m going to be working on first, but I think he really cares for you.”
The whole conversation is getting uncomfortable. Feelings, relationships, and now the completely unheard of addition of the supernatural and Dean’s done.
Dean makes a chopping motion with his hands. “I’m done talking about this.”
“You can’t just end the conversation.”
“Out,” Dean states, pointing at the door.
“Dean-”
Dean stood at his door gesturing for Sam to leave. Sam sighs in resignation and takes a step toward the door.
“Just, think about it. Go talk to him.”
“Beat it,” Dean replies with a jerk of his thumb the way of the door.
“I don’t want you to make a mistake that you’re gonna regret.”
“Sam-” Dean’s voice has a warning tone in it that Sam’s learned over the years. Sam holds up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“I got it, we’re done for tonight, but just… think about it.”
Sam turns and leaves before Dean can get another word in edgewise.
The door shuts solidly behind it and Sam’s pretty sure the accompanying thump he hears is Dean’s head falling against the wood.
Next Chapter - 17 - The Prophet Chuck
Castiel does not require much sleep, and so, it is not as frustrating for him as it is for humans when sleep will not come. He does not find sleep particularly restorative and he is often plagued by dreams that contain too many things supernatural and unearthly. He does not miss sleep when he cannot have it.
His routine sleep is different from his near hibernation, in which he was engaged when awoken by Charles Shirley. That repose was closer to… death than to sleep.
So he is not overwrought when he cannot sleep that night, when thoughts of Dean keep him awake. Overwrought is not a feeling he has needed to contend with since… well, not for a very long time.
But he is somewhat haunted by his thoughts. In his mind, he imagines all sorts of ways he can tell Dean the truth of his nature. He has no illusions that it will be as simple as telling Sam Winchester ‘yes,’ nor as quick and obvious as starting to feed on Charles Shurley.
The first seems so clinical and detached. The second is horrid.
Nor will it be at all like when Dean found out the first time, and for that he is both grateful and regretful - grateful he doesn’t have to stare at Dean’s failing body, bloody and broken, and tell him what he’s done, regretful that he will not be able to easily explain his motivations, which needed no explanation when he was first turned. His reasons had been all too obvious and devastating.
Though he feels he knows Dean, knows him intimately, inside and out, backward and forward, past and present, he is at a loss to predict how Dean will react. Will he be suspicious? Horrified? Angry? Will he laugh at the absurdity of it? Refuse to believe it?
He keeps his bedroom dark, but he can still tell without the antique clock on his nightstand that he has been awake all night. He can feel the sunrise in his bones - a fine tingling along his spine that warns him not to rush out exposed. He knew that Dean would not be at Collinwood tonight, having been asked home by Sam. He also knows that Sam promised not to say anything to Dean in order for Castiel to have the chance to speak with him. But Sam had been adamant, (or as adamant as one is comfortable being with a vampire), that Castiel has a very short window in which to tell Dean the truth, and if Castiel doesn’t do it, then Sam will.
While he has been putting off telling Dean, Castiel knows that Sam is right. Dean must know, and Castiel must be the one who tells him.
Daybreak has not cut the infinite circle of his thoughts, but the strange, still unfamiliar beep of his newly acquired cellphone does.
Admit it, u r totally lost without me
His lips curl in a small smile at the black letters on the tiny screen and with infinite patience, he types out a response, a task that is so new to him it is traumatically slow. He wants to type that he did dearly miss Dean. That he is troubled by things he needs to say. That he does not know how to say what needs to be said. But he also knows Dean and knows such words may perhaps be too cutting. Too honest.
Instead, he writes something he thinks will make Dean smile. It takes a long time to press all the miniscule keys, but he relishes the task. He knows that at this very moment, Dean is staring at his phone, thinking of him.
Of course I am. Pray tell, what is your name again?
Dean’s response is lightening fast; his ease with the technology apparent.
:P
Castiel frowns for a moment until he remembers Charles explaining emotional icons.
It had been an extremely convoluted lesson.
He sends back what he believes to be an appropriate response.
: - |
Dean’s reply is again quick. ha. So I’ll c u tonite after I close?
Castiel hesitates, trailing his fingers over the small screen of his phone. He does not want to say yes. He cannot say no.
Yes.
;)
He smiles again at the silly punctuation, imaging the wink on Dean’s face, his expression full of amusement as he types.
He wishes he could see it in person one more time before tonight.
***
It’s been a busy day for Pamela. With her husband and his brother gone, running the family business has fallen to her, Anna, and Becky. But with Anna’s sensitive artistic nature and Becky’s lack of attention, the bulk of it falls on Pam’s shoulders. Normally, she doesn’t mind. She’s got a sharp brain and her psychic sense has served her well in the past.
Not that she’s mentioned that to the board of directors. They just think she’s got a head for business and a body for sin.
She actually heard someone quote the scene from ‘Working Girl’ one day. Of course, they hadn’t said it out loud, but she didn’t always just listen with her ears.
It took a while after her husband’s disappearance for the board to take her seriously, but once they realized she wasn’t just playing at it, and they got a glimpse of the formidable brain behind the looks, things started falling into place. Now, they present all major decisions before her.
Which is why she’s exhausted at two in the morning and can’t sleep, trying to sort out if they should proceed with the latest acquisition.
She slides out of bed and pads downstairs to the drawing room, turning on only a few lights. She absently shuffles her tarot deck as she ponders the latest business questions, focusing her thoughts on the deck, and settling in for a reading.
The hard backed chairs aren’t exactly comfortable but they’ll do, and she scooches it a bit closer while she decides on what layout to use. She takes a moment to center herself and starts laying out cards, face down, in a simple European layout of seven, dealt right to left. She flips them over one at a time.
She frowns. It sometimes takes her one or two hands to work up to a reading, but the cards she’s just dealt are a mess. No connection, no relevance at all to the problem at hand. She slides them back together and shuffles, dealing again.
She taps her finger absently as she stares at the cards laid out in front of her. She’s never had two such convoluted spreads back to back. She pushes the laid out cards to the side, rests her fingertips on the remaining deck and pauses. She’s never been one to look a gift muse in the mouth.
“Am I asking the wrong questions?” she says softly. She turns three cards over. The answer is unequivocally yes.
She takes a moment to consider her next question.
“Is this about business or family?” She turns over one card.
Family.
“Ben or the girls?” She turns over another card.
No.
She doesn’t have a lot of family and once you take away the people living in the house, that leaves her missing husband, her missing brother in law and…
“Castiel?” She deals again.
Yes.
She nods to herself. Feeling like she has a place to start, she focuses on Castiel and shuffles the cards, relaxing into the soft swoosh of the deck over itself and the rhythm of shifting. She takes one more calming breath, while she ponders her layout.
“All right,” she murmurs quietly to the darkened room. She lays out her cards in a simple Celtic Cross. “Let’s see what you have to say about Castiel.”
***
When his phone rings at half past two, he expects it to be Dean, telling him he cannot make it to Collinwood tonight. He steals himself for the disappointment, lets the resignation wash over him.
“Yes?” he answers.
“Castiel, it’s Pamela. Is Dean with you?”
“No,” he answers simply, surprised at her calling at this hour and at her tone.
“Where is he?” Her voice is rushed and tense. He can feel the anxiety creeping over the phone and settling into his spine. He sits up in his chair.
“I believe he is still closing at the pub. Why? What is wrong?”
“You need to go there. Now.”
“Pamela…”
“Go. Now.”
He drops the phone without ending the call.
***
Dean takes one last look around the interior of the pub, eyes flickering over the cleaned tables and chairs. Satisfied, he flips off the lights, zips the money bag shut and stuffs it in the inside pocket of his denim jacket. It hardly fits but it doesn’t matter. He’s just on his way to Collinwood.
He sets the alarm and hustles outside into the cool night, turning around to lock the door.
He feels something cold at the back of his neck and his mind has a second to process gun before he hears a voice.
“Hand the bag over.”
His back to his assailant, Dean doesn’t turn around. His keys are still hanging from the deadbolt as he lifts his hand in a gesture not so much of ‘hey, I surrender’ as it is one of ‘hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.’
“Hey, man,” he says rather calmly. “Why don’t you just walk away and we’ll call it no-harm, no-foul.”
The barrel moves from his neck to his back and digs in. “The bag.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Dean lies. There’s over twenty grand in the sack from the VLTs and if he hands it over… he’s got insurance, but that’s not the point. This is his business, his livelihood, his place.
It’s not like he thinks his life is worth less than the twenty grand. He’s not even really thinking that far. He just knows that he works hard, his staff works hard, and this is his money.
“I’m not asking twice.”
Dean’s just turning his head to the side, just about to glance over his shoulder and get a better handle on the situation when he hears the mugger make a sort of ‘oof’ sound and the pressure at his back is gone. He turns around and he’s not sure what he’s more surprised by - that someone else is there, or that it’s Cas.
Cas has his back to Dean and is stalking slowly toward the guy that seconds ago had a gun pressed up against Dean’s back. The mugger is on the ground, face hidden by a mask, legs and arms scrambling backward, like a spider in his attempt to gain purchase from where he must have… fallen? Stumbled? Dean’s actually not all that sure how he got so far away from them.
Dean sees the gun on the ground, close to the man’s hand. His eyes widen and he only has time to shout Cas’ name before the assailant has got the gun in his grip and is pulling the trigger.
Cas’ shoulder jerks slightly once backward, but he doesn’t stop moving forward. He flinches again at the next sound of a gunshot and Dean might have shouted ‘no’ but he’s not certain if he just thought it or if he actually said it out loud.
And then Cas is reaching toward the man, grabbing the gun by the muzzle and just tossing it aside like it’s a toy he’s finished playing with. He leans over the man, grabs his head, and snaps it sharply around.
It’s strangely anti-climactic to watch the mugger fall to the side in a boneless heap, and Dean doesn’t know what Cas did. Cas turns back to Dean, moving grimly toward him. Dean’s eyes drift to the red blossom spread across Cas’ shoulder and another one seeping from his torso, into the waistband of his pants. He reaches out to touch one of the wet splotches, his fingertips coming back sticky and crimson.
“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages. Dean had seen the shots, seen Cas’ body flinch, but he assumed the mugger’s bullets had gone wide when Cas didn’t go down. “You’ve been shot.”
“Are you hurt?”
Cas’ hands clasp his shoulders tightly, just shy of painfully, and the contact snaps Dean into action. He starts fumbling for his pocket, his cell phone.
“I’ll call Sam or 911 or… no, Sam. I can get you to the hospital faster than the ambulance can get here and Sam will meet us there. He’ll know which doctors to ask for. Jesus. Can you walk to the car? Holy fuck…” He’s got his phone out of his pocket, trying to dial Sam’s number, distracted by the bloody fingerprints he’s leaving on the keypad.
Castiel snatches the phone away from him. “I’m fine. Are you hurt?”
“Jesus, no, I’m not hurt,” Dean blurts loudly. “And you’re not fine, you’ve been shot. You’re probably in shock or something. But it’s fine,” Dean forces his voice to go calm and soothing. “It’s fine. We’ll go to the hospital and it will be fine. Give me the phone.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Castiel,” Dean says lowly, using his full name. “We’re going to get into the car, and then I’m going to drive to the hospital.” Instead of standing here while you bleed out, he wants to add. Fuck, he doesn’t know how much time they have, how much shock and blood loss are a factor here. He should probably put something on the wound. His fingers slide up Castiel’s arm, over to his shoulder, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “Here, let me see -”
He stills as he pulls the shirt aside and sees blood stained skin. And only blood stained skin.
No wound, no bullet hole.
It’s not like he’s seen a gunshot wound before but he knows there should be something. Torn skin, more blood.
There isn’t. There isn’t anything. Just a faint mark, the skin pink and shiny where Dean’s pretty sure a bullet hole should be.
“Dean…”
Castiel’s voice is low and even. Reluctant. Dean flicks his eyes up to Cas’ and then back down, pulling the shirt farther away, searching the rest of Cas’ shoulder.
“Dean, we should return to Collinwood.”
Dean spares him a confused and mutinous glance before pulling Cas shirt out of his waistband and lifting it up, searching for the second bullet hole and finding nothing but seamless bloody skin.
Dean drops the edge of the shirt and takes a step backward, his spine meeting the steel door of the pub. His keys, still in the lock jam into his shoulder-blade.
“What the fuck?”
“Let us return to Collinwood,” Cas says simply. He reaches out for Dean’s elbow and Dean jerks it away.
“You were shot. I saw you get shot. I saw.”
Castiel is silent, eyes watching Dean, expression carefully neutral.
Dean’s got one hand up, keeping Cas from taking another step toward him. Either he’s crazy and he didn’t really see Cas get shot, or…
He’s not really sure what the other option is.
“There’s blood all over your shirt. You were shot,” Dean repeats.
Finally, Castiel nods once. “Yes.”
He doesn’t know how to react to that admission. He’s somewhat relieved that he’s not gone completely bat-shit and seeing things. On the other hand, that means that Cas was shot and is now… not wounded.
“Please, let us go to Collinwood. We can speak there.”
“No. You tell me what the fuck just happened. Right here. Now.”
Castiel’s shoulders slump. Of all the ways he imagined telling Dean, doing so in the parking lot of the Winchester pub had never crossed his mind. He imagined them having this conversation ensconced in the warm environment of Collinwood, where he could sit down and take the time to explain everything fully, where he could answer any and all of Dean’s questions.
But standing in the half-light from the lone streetlamp, seeing Dean stare at him, wary and suspicious before he even began, was not at all what he anticipated.
“I am…” Castiel begins, his voice halting. He shifts slightly on his feet. “I am not… entirely… not quite…”
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“I am not mortal,” Castiel says, lifting his shoulders..
“You’re not what?” Dean shoots back incredulously.
“Mortal. I am not mortal.”
Dean looks skeptical at best, ready to lunge at Castiel at worst.
“What are you?” Dean’s voice doesn’t come out shaky at all, which is impressive, since he’s pretty sure his insides are vibrating. He knows what Castiel is about to say, he knows it. The sunlight allergy, his nearly archaic mannerisms, the absence of any wounds, the painting in at the new Collins house… All these things seem to come together at once, like a broken mirror coalescing in front of him and he knows that Castiel will only be able to give one, impossible, ridiculous answer.
“A vampire.”
Dean doesn’t mean to laugh, but laugh he does, a breathy chuckle that bubbles up his esophagus and floats out into the night.
“Of course. Of course you fucking are.” He doesn’t know why he said that. He didn’t even mean to speak, but the words came out.
“Dean…”
“Don’t.” Dean’s tone is sharp and resolute. “Don’t you fucking say one. More. Word.” Jesus, he needs to think. He just needs to think about this.
“Come to Collinwood, and I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
“You promise? That’s fucking rich. Where was this burning desire for honesty, I don’t know, say when we met?”
Part of Dean wants to get in the car and go to Collinwood and have everything explained. The other part of him wants to punch Castiel in the face for lying. He’s not sure which reaction is more absurd - to follow Castiel to Collinwood or punch him the mouth for saying he’s a vampire.
While his brain is warring between the two options, he has the stray thought neither of those responses is correct.
Shouldn’t he be afraid?
He doesn’t feel afraid.
“You don’t know what it has been like. You don’t know the entire truth.”
Castiel’s words come to him as though down a long tunnel and he forces himself to pay attention.
“I don’t want to know the truth.” Which is a lie. Dean does want to know the truth but it’s like his anger is in control of what’s coming out of his mouth and he can’t stop it. Jesus, he just needs to think
Castiel stills. “Yes, you do. Of course you do,” he says quietly, earnestly.
“No, I really fucking think I don’t.”
“Dean. Please. Come to Collinwood with me. I will answer any question you ask, tell you anything you want to know.”
“No.”
“This doesn’t change what we are to each other.”
“We’re not anything to each other. Not anymore.” Dean shakes his head firmly. The two halves of him are still warring with each other. One half cheering ’Fuck yeah! You tell him!’ and the other half pleading with his mouth to shut the fuck up.
Castiel looks so defeated and the mean part of Dean continues to cheer while the other part wants him to take it back and tell Cas he didn’t mean it and he’ll come to Collinwood and listen.
“You don’t mean that. You can’t… You don’t know what I’ve… what we’ve…”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to get in my car and go home and you’re not gonna call me and you’re not gonna stop by.” He has a brief moment when he thinks, wow, I’m giving orders to a vampire.
“I will give you time but please let me explain first.”
“No, this is not ‘time’, this the end.”
It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh this time, a quiet, sad huff that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. “It’s never the end for me. I waited two hundred years. And I’ll wait two hundred more. All I can do is wait.”
Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s words are confusing and he just wants to push them out of his mind, not listen to the tone of his voice.
“I need to leave,” Dean says, more to himself than to Cas. “Will you stop me?” His eyes are hard as they meet Castiel’s and Castiel simply takes a step off to the side.
“Of course not. I would never force you to do anything.”
Dean still watches him warily as he steps forward, toward the Impala. His footsteps stutter as he comes to the body of the mugger. It still hasn’t moved; Cas killed someone.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Go,” he hears Castiel say behind him, sotto voice. “I shall take care of it.”
He’s not sure if he’s grateful and relieved by that or horrified and scandalized. He doesn’t turn around again as he crosses the parking lot to the car, but he can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the entire way. He turns his head just as he pulls out of the lot and sees Castiel still standing where he left him, staring after him.
***
Castiel spends a long time standing in the darkened parking lot.
He’s not sure how long, exactly.
The night is cool and still.
And lonely.
He considered that this might be one of the outcomes. That Dean wouldn’t even let him explain.
He had hoped it wouldn't be the case.
What he hadn’t anticipated was not actually getting the chance to gentle the news at all. Instead, it was presented to Dean in a most gruesome way.
He knows he has to take care of the mugger’s body. While it’s not something he looks forward to, it is something he can do rather easily.
He knows he should do it now, do it quickly, while there is no one yet about.
And he will.
But right now, all he can do is stand, in the dark, staring after the road that Dean drove away on.
***
Sam hears Dean come in the front door, hears the dull ‘thunk’ of the money bag hitting the floor, which in itself is not an unfamiliar sound, but the lack of cursing and bitching following it is unusual for Dean. He hears Dean drop his jacket on the floor before he hears the tell-tale clomping of Dean’s booted feet crushing the carpeted stairs.
He pauses outside the door, hesitating long enough to hear the mattress squeak, but the light under the door stays on.
He knocks sharply on the door.
“Fuck off, Sammy.”
Sam opens the door anyway and pokes his head in. “I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”
“Well, here I am. Now fuck off.”
Undeterred, Sam stays put. “Um, something wrong?”
“No. Fuck off.”
Sam pushes the door the rest of the way open and leans against the jamb. His fingers twitch nervously before he finally crosses his arms over his chest. This might not even be about Castiel. Maybe Castiel hasn’t even told Dean yet. But Dean was supposed to go to Collinwood tonight and now he’s home. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to blurt anything out if Castiel hasn’t told Dean yet.
He suddenly understands circular soap opera dialogue.
He thought about it all day, wondering what he would do when Dean found out. He went around and around in his head for hours, and what it always came down to was how happy Dean had been lately. Sam didn’t think he had seen Dean that happy in… ever. Certainly not as an adult. And if Castiel made Dean that happy, then Sam didn’t care what he was.
Although the vampire thing was still a little tough to swallow. Who saw that one coming?
Staring at Dean face down on his bed, Sam is torn. Should he ask Dean if Castiel spoke to him? Should he play it cool? Should he leave Dean alone until Dean comes to him?
He immediately nixes that last idea because Dean would come to him to talk about half past never. If he wants Dean to talk to him, he’s gotta do it old-school - play pesky little brother.
“So, what’s up?”
“What part of ‘fuck off’ are you not getting?” Dean’s still face down on his bed, his voice coming out mumbled and fuzzy.
“Did something happen at the restaurant?” Sam asks, playing dumb.
Dean pushes himself up and glares at Sam. “Jesus Christ, I thought you went to university. Fuck off means ‘go away.’”
Sam shifts from one foot to the other. “You seem upset.”
“Well if I am, it’s my own goddamn business,” Dean spits out, turning his back on Sam and flopping down on his bed again.
“Sooooooo, what’s going on?” Sam pesters. He’s got to be careful or it will end in fisticuffs. Over the years, he’s learned how far he can push Dean before it ends in a couple of good solid punches. He figures he has about two more minutes before they reach boiling point.
“None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business.”
“Touchy, touchy,” replies Sam easily, stepping into the room and perching on the corner of Dean’s bed. “So listen,” he says, deciding to go for the old ‘distract and pounce’ tactic. “Can I borrow the Impala this weekend?”
“No,” Dean replies automatically still speaking to the mattress.
“C’mon. I gotta drive out of town and my car probably won’t make it.”
“Tough shit.”
“It’s not like you’ll be really using it anyway. Isn’t Ash closing this weekend? And you spend most of your time lately at Collinwood -”
“Well not this fucking weekend.” Dean’s response is abrupt and terse.
“Oh?” feigns Sam. “Why not?”
“That’s over.”
“Really?” Sam asks. “‘cause last night it was all ‘he’s fine and I’m fine and he’s my boyfriend.’”
“Not anymore.”
Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth from a chicken. Sam rolls his eyes, grateful that Dean can’t see. “I thought you were happy. You seemed really happy.”
There’s a pause, and Sam wonders if he’s pushing too hard or not hard enough. “I was.”
“So….?”
An even longer pause stretches out and Sam’s not sure if it’s going to end with Dean telling him to fuck off again or not. Dean’s whole body tenses and Sam tenses in return, ready to dodge out of the way of a flying fist, but all that happens is that Dean pushes himself up and swings his leg off the side of the bed so he’s sitting.
“Found out he was lying to me.”
Sam pauses what he considers an appropriate amount of time before speaking. “About what?”
Dean shrugs, looking down at his hands hanging between his knees.
“Is he, um, cheating on you?” Sam’s face screws up as he asks it. If that were the case, that would come dangerously close to them having a serious conversation about sex and that shit could get awkward.
“No,” Dean says quickly.
Think of another question, think of another question. “Did he steal from you?”
“No,” Dean replies, not as quickly but somewhat morosely. “Nothing like that.”
“So, uh, what is it?”
Dean sighs long and deep. “You’re not gonna believe it. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe it and I was there, I saw…”
“What did you see, Dean?” Sam’s voice is quiet. Dean’s head is hanging low, gaze turned downward and Sam leans forward waiting for him to speak. He glances down at Dean’s hands and sees the tell-tale reddish-brown that he’s intimately familiar with from work.
“Is that blood? Do you have blood on your hands?” Sam asks, tensing up again.
“Yeah,” Dean says on an exhale.
“Are you hurt?”
“S’not mine. It’s Castiel’s.”
So it’s ‘Castiel’ now and not ‘Cas.’ Sam gives Dean another minute, but Dean remains silent.
“Dean, what’s going on?”
Dean shakes his head. “It’s crazy, man. Abso-fucking-lutely crazy. You’re not gonna believe it,” Dean repeats.
Sam swallows. “Try me.”
Dean lets out a wry laugh and his expression screams, okay, but you asked for it.
“Turns out, he’s a vampire.”
Sam forces his face to remain completely blank for a moment and then lets his eyebrows shoot up.
“I swear to God, Sammy,” Dean barrels on, not waiting for a response, “I am not even making this shit up. Un-fucking-believable.”
“How did, uh…” Sam fidgets. “How did you find out? I mean, did he tell you?”
“He kind of had to when I saw him get shot.”
“What?” Sam exclaims.
“Yeah, mugger at the pub,” Dean says, like it’s ludicrous. “Fucker was gonna rob me blind and all of a sudden Cas… Castiel is there and…” Dean makes a sort of chopping motion with his hands. “And there’s gunfire and I was doing a pretty good job of not freaking the fuck out and he’s got blood on him and the mugger is dead and I was gonna call you or 9-1-1 - I didn’t know -”
“You should always call 9-1-1. They’re equipped to handle emergency situations,” Sam interjects without thinking and Dean gives him a look.
“Not the point, Sam.”
“No, I … sorry. Go on.”
“Well he’d been shot but there was no - “ again, Dean sweeps his hands over his chest. “And I asked him what the fuck and then he up and says he’s a vampire.”
Sam waits for Dean to say more but there’s nothing.
“That’s, um. Wow.”
Dean looks at him sideways and Sam tries not to, but he squirms a little bit. This is just like that time when he was twelve and he’d wanted to poke around in Dean’s room, trying desperately to figure out how to be as cool as his older brother and without even stepping foot in the bedroom, Dean just knew that Sam had been up to something.
“You knew,” Dean says lowly.
“Huh? What?”
“You knew. You fucking already knew.”
Dean stands up, which makes Sam stand up and take a step back. Dean starts closing the distance between them and this might end in fisticuffs after all.
“What? No, that’s… how? How would I know?”
“I don’t know how but you did, didn’t you?”
Sam’s back hits the dresser. “No, I…” Sam caves. He doesn’t want to lie to Dean. “All right yes, fine I knew. But I just found out yesterday.”
“How?” Dean demands. “How did you know?”
“I got his blood work back and it was just… wrong. And there’ve been these thefts at the hospital. From the blood bank.”
“Jesus,” Dean says, his body slumping. “I didn’t… I mean, I hadn’t even thought… but he really does drink blood?”
“Yes. But he hasn’t killed anyone.”
“Oh, I suppose he told you that,” Dean shoots hotly.
“Yes he did. And I believe him.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, you should have told me.”
“I just found out! And I thought you should hear it from him! Besides, what was I gonna say? ‘Hey Dean, you know your boyfriend Castiel Collins? Yeah, sorry about that, he’s a bloodsucking fiend.’”
“So, you what? Talked to him about this?”
“Yes,” Sam nods. “He’s looking for a cure, Dean. And I’ve agreed to help him.”
Dean’s eyes are murderous. “The hell you will.”
“Dean, I’m not ten anymore. You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“You just watch me.”
Sam sighed, dropping his tone. He knows Dean better than he knows himself sometimes and he knows Dean is just spoiling for a fight. “I’m not gonna fight with you about this. You’re just using this to avoid how you feel.”
“Oh, did I miss the part where you got a fucking psychology degree as well?”
Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t bait me, Dean, not this time.”
Dean seems to deflate a little and turns away from Sam.
“So, what else did Castiel tell you?”
Dean shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I left after that.”
“What? What do you mean you left?”
Dean turns back to Sam. “I mean I fucking left. I didn’t hang around to hear some creepy, freaktastic sob story.”
“But… don’t you have questions? How he became a vampire, how it works?”
“Don’t care,” mumbled Dean. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“No!” Sam exclaims. “I didn’t want to ask too much and I figured he’d tell you and then you’d tell me.”
“Well, I’m sorry I ruined your Scooby-Doo vampire mystery, but this is my life.”
“I know it’s your life, Dean. But you were happy.”
“I was happy before him,” Dean snaps.
“No. No, you weren’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were content but you weren’t happy.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s not. And you know it’s not. Dean, I just want you to be happy.”
“With a vampire?” Dean asks and then he laughs. “Jesus, it’s ridiculous, I can’t even believe I’m saying it out loud.”
“I know it’s not… traditional.” Sam shifts on his feet.
“Traditional? Traditional? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“For what it’s worth, I think Castiel is a good guy.”
“He’s not human!”
Sam winces. This is going so badly. “He’s… well, I’m not sure exactly what he is and that’s what I’m going to be working on first, but I think he really cares for you.”
The whole conversation is getting uncomfortable. Feelings, relationships, and now the completely unheard of addition of the supernatural and Dean’s done.
Dean makes a chopping motion with his hands. “I’m done talking about this.”
“You can’t just end the conversation.”
“Out,” Dean states, pointing at the door.
“Dean-”
Dean stood at his door gesturing for Sam to leave. Sam sighs in resignation and takes a step toward the door.
“Just, think about it. Go talk to him.”
“Beat it,” Dean replies with a jerk of his thumb the way of the door.
“I don’t want you to make a mistake that you’re gonna regret.”
“Sam-” Dean’s voice has a warning tone in it that Sam’s learned over the years. Sam holds up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“I got it, we’re done for tonight, but just… think about it.”
Sam turns and leaves before Dean can get another word in edgewise.
The door shuts solidly behind it and Sam’s pretty sure the accompanying thump he hears is Dean’s head falling against the wood.
Next Chapter - 17 - The Prophet Chuck