Oneiroi [part three]

[mclachland]

prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | epilogue


Three.
"The best reason for having dreams is that in dreams, reason is unnecessary."


"Cas."

He startles, standing and casting about for something familiar, but he is no longer in the diner in Kellogg, Idaho. This is someplace new, someplace different and somehow wrong. It looks like the many motels the Winchesters have stayed in, only nicer and larger, with plush carpeting beneath his feet and warm lighting. The walls are painted a soft white and there are framed paintings hanging in between each door, all of them non-descript and abstract subjects.

It is the doors that draw his attention.

In each wall, curving at the end of the corridor, are dozens of doors, all heavy wood with old, bronze knobs. There are no other markings. There is a break in the wall, allowing him to see across to the other side, which appears to be nothing except more doors.

This is what Iris had told them to expect. They are here. In Demos Oneiroi.

The angels -- of all stations -- had truly believed it to be a myth. Iris's role as liaison was more of a perfunctory, diplomatic thing, an acknowledgement of the old gods' place in the world despite that beliefs had shifted overwhelmingly in Heaven's favor. Not once did any of them, not in their petty fights and meetings and full-on wars, ever dare to think something lay beyond the boundaries of the Father's Kingdom. That the Father was not absolute.

No one knew. Not even Michael. And now here Castiel stands, a faceless soldier of God-turned-mortal, and he alone knows the truth.

He closes his eyes and exhales. His head feels simultaneously too big and small, and it hurts.

Sam, standing at the rail, looks up, squinting. "It looks kind of like this hotel we stayed at once. Dean'd hit it big gambling and we... well, treated ourselves. This swanky place just outside of Atlanta. The hallway never ended; it was all one floor, just spiraling up. It looks just like this."

Cas wants to ask what the difference is between a hotel and a motel, but it does not seem relevant. He mostly wants to fill the silence, as there is no other noise except for them. Sam's words echo in the giant, cylindrical space before fading altogether, leaving them with only the sound of their own breathing for comfort.

"All the doors appear to be the same," Cas says, moving to one of them, running his hands down the wood. It is unnaturally smooth, glossy. He pulls his hand away and rubs his fingers together, trying to capture the sensation. "We will be relying completely on chance."

"The luck of the draw," Sam snorts, rolling his shoulders. "Isn't Winchester Latin for 'shitty luck'?"

If memory serves, Winchester originated from the Welsh Caer guenif, or 'white city'.

"Should we go?" Cas has his hand on the knob of the door, ready to turn and throw it open, but Sam shakes his head once, emphatic.

"No," Sam says. "Never pick the first door. Let's walk a bit."

Cas slowly withdraws his hand, clenching it into a fist, and stares at the patterns in the wood of the door, wondering if it is one of the trick doors Iris warned them about. If he had opened it and stepped through, would his heart have stopped in his chest while he lay helpless in Iris's diner? Or would this door be the direct link to the inner sanctum of Morpheus's throne room? Would it have taken him straight to Dean? He hates not knowing. He hates not feeling power and thought and love and Grace flowing through every part of him.

Be calm, he tells himself. Even if he had his Grace, it would make no difference here. They are in Morpheus's realm now. Everything that happens will be on Morpheus's terms.

Calm.

"All right."

Sam turns and starts down the hall, running his fingers over the walls and the doors, filling the air with a soft whisper, leaving Cas to follow him as he has always done with the Winchesters. It occurs to him that he has never led them anywhere, opting instead to remain a few steps back, as if he had not yet earned the right to walk in step with them. Perhaps now that he is one of their kind, down to their level, he will be given and will take that privilege.

They walk for what seems to be an eternity -- perhaps time runs slower here or has no power at all -- before Sam comes to a stop in front of a door on the left-hand side of the corridor.

"This one?" It takes a moment for Cas to realize it is a question, that Sam is looking for his input.

"Yes. This seems fine." It isn't. None of this is fine. Chances are whatever lies beyond this door will bring them no closer to finding Dean. Dean Winchester is such a loud, little marvel; that Cas can no longer hear or feel him makes him want to scream in fruitless rage. He dealt with the loss of the Host's Song -- the voices of all his brothers and sisters -- well enough; it sometimes astounds him the severing of contact with his own brethren is nothing compared to what he feels for a single, marked, infuriating, human man.

Somewhere, his old friend Balthazar is laughing hysterically.

He reaches for the knob, but a hand on his shoulder makes him pause.

"Cas." There is a terrible look in Sam's eyes, a mix of pity and sympathy Cas cannot disentangle. The smile Sam attempts to offer him dies in its infancy. "Are you… are you okay?"

"Yes."

Sam does not look convinced. "Cas, I'm a graduate of the Winchester School of ‘No, Seriously, I'm Fine’. This isn't... You just lost... I hate to remind you, because I know you've gotta be... We're friends, right? I mean, I'm just worried. It all happened so fast and you haven't had any time to adjust, or even just breathe, and I'm... Cas, I don't know. I just want to make sure you're --"

"I'm fine," Cas says, holding up a hand to forestall the protest that is certainly brewing on Sam's tongue. "I have to be, Sam. Dean needs us both to be fine, regardless of... recent events. I will have time to adjust, as you say, after we take him out of Demons Oneiroi."

We're friends, right?

It's something he has not truly considered before this moment. He has always been in service to Dean, who carries Castiel’s mark with him like a badge of honor. Everything he has done in the last year, both in Heaven and on Earth, has been for Dean, and in turn everything Dean has done has been for Sam. In a very roundabout way, everything Cas has done has also been in service of Sam. Sam, who is no longer the "boy with the demon blood". Sam is worried for his well-being. Sam is fighting against the same evils and injustices as him. Sam has not let him down. Ever.

"I released you from Bobby's panic room." The words come unexpectedly tumbling out of him, accidental to be sure, but they are now in the open, hanging between them.

Sam stares, blinks, and then nods. "Yeah, I know, Cas."

"I'm sorry." Cas straightens but finds he cannot stop speaking. His mouth has shaken off his control. "I did not... I was operating under orders I knew were wrong, and I did it anyway. It's my fault it has come to this. I'm sorry, Sam."

The words are inadequate but the sentiment behind them is genuine. Regret is another emotion to which he must adapt and accept. It is entirely human to admit to one's faults. As an angel, he had no need for it, as everything he did was in the name of God. He has no such luxury anymore. His faults are now his own.

"If it wasn't that, it would've been something else." Sam shrugs. "It was a shitty thing to do, but... forget it, Cas. We're way past it. We're good."

We're good. It is how the Winchesters say 'all is forgiven'. Cas exhales and nods, feeling the weight lifting until he can no longer feel it. It is wonderful. This must be what confession is like for humans.

"Thank you," Cas says. "There is... much, I fear, that I am sorry for. That I will be sorry for."

"Welcome to Humanity," Sam says, grinning outright now. "Your gift basket will arrive in a week or so."

"Gift basket?" Is there a reward for joining the ranks of Mankind?

Sam shakes his head and turns his attention to the door. "Forget it."

Humor. Of course. He will have to learn how to use it in order to deflect the things that ought to be said. This is how humans live.

"So, we ready?"

The door innocuously stands before them, solid and waiting, the metal of the knob tarnished with what looks like time and use. The wood itself appears faded in color, as if the shine of gloss has rubbed away. He has seen such doors at Bobby's house, well-used and perhaps somehow loved. Whatever lies on the other side may be kinder to them than Cas previously thought.

"Yes."

Sam nods and Cas reaches for the knob, turning it firmly and pushing the door open, and they are on a street.

Sam frowns and turns in a circle, scanning the houses and trees. Cas has never been to this place, wherever they are. It is a... nice neighborhood, much like the one Jimmy Novak once lived in. The houses are painfully normal, the lawns well-kept. Most of the houses are white and have porches. Some have small garden beds with cheerful pink and white flowers, a couple have large bushes on either side of the staircases. There are mailboxes. There are children's toys on a few of the lawns, bright and plastic. The sidewalks are clean, the cars parked along the curbs small and nondescript. Behind the houses are the shadows of trees, the hum of insects and the twittering of birds filling the air. There is nothing amiss.

"Where is everyone?" Sam wonders aloud. There is nothing amiss except for all the people who are.

"I do not recognize this place," Cas says, studying one house that has a small car on its lawn, pink and with pedals. A child rides that, he thinks, perhaps pretending to be old enough to operate a vehicle like their parents. "Do you?"

Sam reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, squinting as he continues to scan the street for life. "Kinda...? I'm not sure. It seems... familiar, I guess. I mean, I can't really remember coming here, at least not for a hunt. You see a street sign anywhere?"

He does not. Frowning, Cas walks past Sam toward the house with the pink plastic child's car and climbs the five stairs leading to the front door. He moves to open it, but pauses. Humans do not like it when you enter uninvited. Knocking upon the door is considered polite. He knocks upon the door, takes a step back, and waits. Perhaps the owners of this home are somewhere deep within and it will take a moment for them to answer.

After a moment or two without any response, Cas turns and goes back to the street. "I do not believe anyone is here."

"Huh." Sam makes a face, then shrugs. "Okay. Well, let's walk around, see if we find anyone."

For a street, it is quite long, and he and Sam walk for a very long time before it breaks, the lines of the curb bending to form something new. There is no sign to designate the change as Cas has seen while seated in the back of the Impala, but it does not deter Sam, who walks along the asphalt as if he knows the path intimately.

Sam stops suddenly, eyes lighting on a silver car parked in front of a brown house. It is not as sleek and well-loved as the Impala, but he motions for Cas to follow as he approaches it. The driver's side door is unlocked and Sam sits inside, one leg still on the ground. He pulls down what Dean calls the visor, frowns at his reflection in the tiny mirror there, then pushes it back against the ceiling, moving onto the passenger-side visor.

"The keys are inside here somewhere."

Cas frowns. "How do you know?"

"Dean and I used to do this all the time," Sam says, which does not answer the question and does not seem to make much sense anyway. Cas is under no impression that Dean and Sam were and are free of sin when it comes to handling other people's property, but he had believed they hot-wired the cars they were forced to steal. Or at least that is what Dean had told him.

"I don't think --"

Cas's eyes are on the dark windows of the brown house, framed by bright red shutters, when he hears it.

"Sam, stop."

Pausing in the act of searching for whatever it is he is searching for, Sam leans out of the car and peers at Cas curiously. "Everything okay?"

Cas peers into the space between the brown house and the neighboring white one with the peeling paint. There is a small patch of trees beyond their yards, the trees murmuring with the wind. He had heard something that sounded like a bird's chirp, but not. Louder, guttural. The kind of sound the tiny creatures that populate the trees in northern America do not make. He attempts to see if the grasses move without the aid of the wind, but they sway without care for his troubles.

Sam follows his gaze and blinks. "Cas, is there something --"

"No," Cas says, eyes still on the shifting patch of green. "No, I was mistaken."

Sam nods and then turns his attention back to the inside of the car, making a noise of triumph followed by the jingle of metal. "Jackpot. Hop in, Cas. Let's do this in style."

Cas walks around to the passenger door, glancing once more into the trees behind the houses. Finding nothing, he slides into the seat and shuts the door firmly, putting it out of his mind. It is nothing. A simple trick of human hearing. He has seen plenty of films during the early morning hours in which females alone in their houses hear things that are not actually there. Sometimes the films end with the women having sexual relations with the men come to murder them in the night. Those kinds of films are Dean's favorite.

Sam shuts his own door and slips the key into the car's ignition, turning it and grinning at the answering roar. It is quieter than the Impala. Cas finds he misses it. Dean's car is almost an extension of the man himself, loud and beautiful, confident in ways others could never be.

"All right," Sam murmurs, pulling away from the curb and driving easily away, down the street, away from the brown house.

Cas looks into the mirror at his right, unable to take his eyes away from the reflection of what looks to be some kind of large structure, but Sam turns a corner and it is gone.

They do not turn on the radio. Sam says that sometimes it is nice to simply drive in silence, which Dean ruins by blasting his music all the time. The muted rumble of the car's tires against the street is almost soothing, as is the slight tremble that can be felt in the seat against Cas's back. It is relaxing; it makes sense now that Dean does this when he needs time to himself.

Sam continues to turn onto streets as they come upon them, a countless series of rights and lefts onto nameless stretches of road, before odd, oblong shadows crest the horizon. Buildings. They are approaching a city.

"Huh," Sam says, absent enough that Cas knows it is not him who Sam addresses. "I wonder if we were right outside the city all this time."

"What city is this?" Not that it matters. All human cities look and sound the same. Except... they will all look different now. He will need to know the names.

Sam says nothing, opting instead to increase the car's speed. The orange needle slowly brushes past the 60 on the gauge. It is odd Cas finds this speed to be quite fast, as cars have always seemed so sluggish to him.

They enter the city limits without fanfare; they are the only moving automobile on the road. All the other cars are either ensconced in lots or parked alongside the curbs. The streets are empty of all movement.

The car hums as it rolls to a stop. Sam puts it in park, then opens his door to leave the vehicle. "Let's check it out."

Sam shuts the door and begins walking, head tilted back to take in the skyscrapers that hang like paintings in the sky above them. Cas frowns, but also opens his door and gets out, feeling vulnerable. This stolen car does not have the weaponry the Impala carries. He does not like being unarmed, although there has been no indication that weapons are even needed. They have not come across a single person. This feeling of... unease is unfounded. How very odd.

He walks after Sam. "Perhaps we ought to --"

There is movement a few blocks down, but it is too far away to see. It is silhouetted under the green awning of a brick building, a massive shadow swaying from side to side. Sam turns and spots it as well, his broad shoulders going stiff. Whatever is moving grows bigger as it approaches.

"Hey, I know this," Sam says, voice clear, as if waking from a -- "Dream. This is a dream. Oh, shit, I know what this is."

There is a curious chirp to their left, exactly like what Cas heard at the brown house, and he spins in surprise to hear it so close by. The leathery face that peers at him is one he has never encountered personally, but he knows it from a museum he once visited while waiting for Dean and Sam to interview a woman about a possession. It had been rendered in plaster and metal pins, as well as captured in a drawing beneath it, while a woman wearing a badge proclaimed with great enthusiasm, There is still so much we are learning about them!

He recognizes the giant, arching claws protruding from its toes. He does not recognize the way his stomach seems to bottom out at the very sight.

"Get back to the car," Sam whispers.

The entire world trembles, great booms from a distance that grow louder and more terrifying as they draw nearer.

"Cas, get back to the car," Sam says again, voice wrought with fear like he has never heard from a Winchester, not even when facing the Apocalypse. "Get back to the car!"

More chirping and snarling fill the air until it is like the very world is alive with it, buzzing against Cas's skin, the anticipation of the hunt burning him. He is prey in the slitted eyes that regard him with great interest.

Thunder bellows through the street, but it is not thunder. It is an amalgam of elephants trumpeting and tigers roaring, so loud and jarring he can feel it in his teeth, behind his eyes. The ground quakes, forcing buildings to shake off loose bits of plaster and brick. A behemoth emerges from behind a skyscraper and lets loose the sound of horror.

"Jesus Christ, run!" Sam barrels by, grabbing Cas by the wrist and pulling him toward the car. It takes a moment for his legs to coordinate themselves and keep pace with Sam, but it takes them little time to reach the vehicle.

The velociraptors scatter at the sight of the Tyrannosaur, giving them the perfect opportunity to open the car doors and get inside. Sam presses a button and the locking mechanism engages just as a velociraptor slams its body into the trunk of the car.

"Fuck!" Sam throws the car into reverse and presses his foot into the accelerator as hard as he can, forcing the creature beneath the vehicle and then underneath it. Cas cannot help but shout in surprise as he is jarred in his seat as they run over it.

Handling the car with shocking ease, Sam spins slightly, puts the gear into forward, and drives quickly away from the gathering of dinosaurs in the heart of the city. Cas, gripping the seat, turns to sit on his knees and watch through the back window as the Tyrannosaur swiftly follows, its feet disturbing the very Earth in its need for a meal. However, it is no match for the speed of the car and begins losing momentum, unable to push its large body any further. Cas watches as it slows down, growing distant behind them, the velociraptors tiny dots next to it.

Panting, he turns and sits properly, head falling back against the rest.

"Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus," Sam gasps, gripping the steering wheel tightly, face white and dotted with sweat. "That seemed a lot less scary when I was ten. Hell, it was amazing when I was ten. Jesus. Oh, God, how did we even -- Cas, you okay?"

"I am fine," Cas says, but his voice shakes and is very high in pitch. His right hand grips the small bar above the window, fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically, and he can't seem to pull it away. "Those were --"

"Dinosaurs," Sam finishes, nodding, trembling hard. "Yep. Those were dinosaurs. Jesus, were those dinosaurs. I went through this phase when I was a kid, right? Big dinosaur phase. Everything had dinosaurs on it. Shirts, backpack, notebooks, you name it. Dean took me to see Jurassic Park when it came out and, man, that was it. I had these shoes, these sneakers? The soles lit up when you walked, right? The backs were the mouth of a T-rex. I thought it was so badass."

A shrill, nervous laugh bursts from his mouth. "Now… less badass?"

Sam starts laughing, hysteria making him rasp. "Yeah, maybe just a little less now. God, I can't even believe that. I haven't had the dinosaur dream in years. Forgot how real it felt."

"It felt real because it is real," Cas says. "If we die here, we die. This is our reality. For however long we're here."

He slumps into his seat, suddenly exhausted, stomach cramping from hyperventilation and tension in the muscles. His breathing is still beyond his control.

Sam nudges his knee. "You okay, man? You're coming down off the adrenaline. Just take deep breaths."

"I'm trying."

The road ahead is flanked by buildings he does not recognize and streets without names, all blurring by as they drive. Cas rests his forehead against the glass of the window, closing his eyes to everything outside and reveling in the coolness of the pane.

"So, what," Sam says after a moment of silence. "That's what this is going to be? This whole time?"

"Morpheus will use our dreams against us, yes." Cas opens his eyes. "Our dreams are made up of our greatest fears, desires, and memories. What better way to stop us than to pit us against ourselves?"

Sam frowns, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You dream?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think angels slept."

Cas smiles slightly against the window. Despite what Sam knows of angels -- which is that they are a bunch of dicks, as Dean is fond of saying -- he will never be truly cured of his curiosity. The angel mythos taught to him will never be rooted out for the newer, updated, more depressing version. "They don't."

"But then how do angels dream?"

"They don't."

Sam turns his eyes from the road, confused. "But --"

"Angels don't dream," Cas says. There is a sign on either side of the street, warning that the road is out up ahead.

"But… you do." It is not phrased as a question, even though it clearly is. Cas nods. "Why?"

He does not have an answer that might satisfy Sam, or even himself, because he does not know. He says as much, to which Sam mutters something about a 'special snowflake'.

"I don't understand that ref --"

The impact is on his side, a quick and sudden strike that forces the car from the street and into the air, sending it spinning. Glass bursts like an explosion, ripping and embedding into his skin, opening a million little wounds to the world, but it doesn't register the way slamming bodily into Sam does. He had not belted himself in the way Dean never does and thinks for a moment he will force Dean to do so every time he gets into the Impala from now on.

The vehicle stops its flight by landing upside down, crushing the roof of the car, forcing the metal and fabric and plastic into his belly and chest. He cries out, the surprise fading and awareness creeping in. He can feel the bright, sharp pain in his left leg, probably broken by the angle at which he was thrown into Sam.

Sam. "Sam!" But Sam only groans, a terrible gash at his temple furiously sending blood into his eyes. Sam swipes at them, movement sluggish. At least he is alive.

"Sam, we must --"

The car is struck again, this time from behind, much like the velociraptor did, and the metal of the car crumbles like paper. Cas pulls himself forward just enough to see the road, sprinkled with glass and bits of metal. Beyond the wreckage stands another creature, larger than the velociraptors, stockier, with strong flanks and a domed head. It turns around slowly, tail swinging, and takes stock of the damage.

With a grunt, Sam unfolds himself from his seat and peers out, groaning upon seeing this new foe.

"What is that?"

"From the sequel," Sam mutters, words slurring a bit. "But they got it wrong. Those ones don't use their heads to bash shit. Their necks are curved. Saw a thing about it."

Very faintly, the broken gear stick under his hand quakes as the ground beneath them trembles. His heart pounds with a new wave of adrenaline washing away the exhaustion. He knows that sound.

"Sam, get up. We need to get out of here." He grabs for Sam's wrist and begins tugging, shimmying his body toward the only way out of the wreckage. Beside him, Sam grumbles but starts moving as well, struggling to free himself from a low piece of hanging plastic. The rip of tearing fabric and glass cutting skin mingled with heavy breathing and the sound of thunder growing louder are all that can be heard in the car as they move to free themselves.

Cas is the first to slide out, leg aching with a pain unlike anything he's ever felt, and his eyes immediately go to the dome-headed dinosaur, which seems to have lost interest in them. It is looking away, presumably where the pounding of giant footsteps comes from. After a moment, it cocks its head and then runs away, disappearing behind a building.

"Shit," Sam hisses, hand outstretched. "I'm stuck."

Cas stumbles, his injured leg buckling, but reaches to take Sam's hand in both of his, pulling with everything he has. The muscles in his back strain and his leg screams with agony. Something rips inside the car, audible, and Sam cries out.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Cas leans back, using all of his weight, and Sam slides halfway out of the wreck, enough that he releases Cas's hand and scrambles out the rest of the way, getting to his feet while Cas staggers back.

"Jesus." Sam pushes up against Cas's side and tugs his arm around his shoulders, taking the weight off his injured leg.

"It hurts," Cas says needlessly. "I don't think I can run."

The Tyrannosaur bursts from between two buildings and lets loose a roar that shakes the very world.

"Yeah," Sam says loudly, eyes wide with terror. "You might have to anyway."

They turn and walk-run in the opposite direction as quickly as they can, going around the car and attempting to find a rhythm they can manage together without putting any undue stress on Cas's leg. Behind them, the Tyrannosaur barks out a growl Cas can feel in his chest, and the ground shakes with its steps. He has never felt such bone-chilling fear.

"Go, go, go, go, go, go," Sam urges under his breath, quickening their steps, never once complaining about Cas's clumsy pace, just keeps his eyes straight ahead and moves them along as fast as they can.

Suddenly, Sam stops, and Cas stumbles into his side.

"Sam, what --" Then he sees.

The signs claimed that the road was out. They had been half-right.

The road simply ends. There is nothing beyond it but gray fog. Cas peers down over the edge, but that yields no happy news. It does not matter; it is… such a long way down. His throat closes at the sight, more frightening than ten Tyrannosaurs.

The one behind them is catching up, the street beneath them trembling with its lunging steps, followed by the sounds of the velociraptor pack.

"We'll have to jump," Sam says flatly.

"No."

"Cas --"

"No, no, no," Cas gasps, unable to stop himself from struggling against Sam, who holds him fast by the wrist draped over his shoulder. "No, I can't. I can't jump. There's nothing there. I can't. I'll fall."

He cannot breathe. His lungs heave and constrict, trying and failing to draw in an adequate amount of air, and his body feels light, heavy, too much and too little. He can't jump. How can Sam expect him to jump without anything there to catch him? If he jumps, he will not fly. He will fall. He will fall and fall and fall and fall and there will be nothing, no hand to help him, just worlds upon worlds rising as he plummets through Hell and the First Realm and whatever else Morpheus may have instilled in the universe, through universes, and he will fall and fall and fall --

"CAS!" Sam slaps him with his other hand, then grasps his chin to force Cas to look at him. Sam, with a bleeding head wound and half-dazed eyes. "Cas, we have no choice."

"I'll fall," Cas says inanely, because Sam does not seem to understand. "I'll fall and I'll keep falling --"

"You already Fell," Sam says. "Remember? You already Fell."

He did. He is already Fallen, and yet he still stands.

"Plus," Sam continues, trying to inject some kind of levity into his words. "It's gotta be better than being ripped apart by raptors, right?"

Panting, Cas looks again at the white-gray abyss, and swallows a sob. "All right. All right. You are right."

The Tyrannosaur is nearly upon them, slowing down with great, growling breaths, the raptors at its heels, splitting into a formation that will ensure both he and Sam cannot escape. Clever beasts.

"C'mon," Sam says, eyes on the Tyrannosaur. "We can do this quick."

Cas watches two of the raptors take position at their left, their weaker side due to his injury. The larger of the two lifts its head and makes deep, abrupt calls in its throat, a communication of some sort, perhaps letting the others know their prey has been cornered.

From the corner of his eye, he sees something move, a bright flutter in the air that has him turning. He recognizes it as the thing Gabriel pulled from Dean's throat. One of the raptors eyes it as well and takes a curious snap at it, but it floats instead toward where he and Sam are standing at the edge.

There is a door.

"Sam!" Cas shouts over the blood-curdling roar of the Tyrannosaur, which tosses its head once and then begins charging forward.

Sam turns his head, sees the door. "Go!" He bursts into movement, practically dragging Cas over to where it stands.

Reaching out, Cas fits his palm over the knob, curls his fingers around it just as the Tyrannosaur opens its mouth and --

"… Look, I get what you're saying, but Elton John doesn't count. I'll give you Seger, though. I'm not sure when you even had a chance to listen to any of this stuff, but you could do a whole lot worse than Seger…"

Cas rears back to avoid the tyrannosaur, an automatic response that will prove futile, and the ground rocks slightly with his movement. Panting, he pauses and takes stock of the street, which is gone, replaced by what looks to be a lake. Glancing down, he finds sturdy wood and fiberglass under his feet, and he follows it on an upward curve to where it stops. A boat. He is on a boat.

"What the fuck," Sam says dazedly behind him.

"… and Night Moves is a classic, but… I don't know. Not really rock, y'know? I hear the words 'rock' and I don't automatically think Bob Seger or Elton John. Especially not Elton. Jesus Christ, don't listen to Elton."

That voice.

"Fine, Seger's okay, but that's the line. As soon as we get back to the car, we're listening to Smoke on the Water on repeat until you understand what true rock is."

He turns slowly and can't stop the half-sob that escapes him.

Dean adjusts the fishing rod in his hand and frowns at him. "What?"


prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | epilogue

Comments

[nicole-sill.livejournal.com]

I absolutely adore you. I just finished last years DCBB and now I get to read this. Your treatment of Castiel's feelings is so delicate yet profound. Thanks for taking the time to write something this deep!

[laura-trekkie.livejournal.com]

Well, that was intense! And a bit too close!

Sam now knows that Cas dreams, so will his gigantic brain work on that for awhile and come up with anything useful? Do their injuries transfer into new dreams, or do they get fixed each time they go through a door?

And yay, they've found Dean, but is it really Dean, or is it a dream construct that will only react within the scope of the dream?

Laura.

[oywidapoodles.livejournal.com]

Humor. Of course. He will have to learn how to use it in order to deflect the things that ought to be said. This is how humans live.

Perfection.