Inhaling sharply as the back of his neck pressed against the cool metal post, Castiel tilted his head in a way that he could keep his attention on the factory doors. They were rattling viciously, prevented from opening only by the metal bar he had shoved through the handles; it wouldn’t last long, especially with the rust, but it gave him some time to prepare for when they came. Alone, having lost his way from the other soldiers, he knew that nobody would find him — they were surrounded by Croatoan when he ran, and the sounds of the others yelling became a distant calling. If anyone had survived, they were extremely lucky.
A drop of water from the damaged roof above landed on his cheek, causing him to flinch from the slight sting it brought on one of his wounds. Scratches scattered across his face, leaving deep gouges and decorating his face with streams of blood and broken skin; he could no longer feel the pain it gave him, either by choice or human instinct, but he could still feel the warmth of his blood. It was an amazing feeling. It meant he was still alive, and his body hadn’t given up just yet, allowing him the few moments he had left to think over a few things. From how the patrol was meant to be a regular one, where things were supposed to go smoothly as they always did. To how he was always aware he was going to die soon, but not entirely in this fashion.
All humans died eventually, Castiel was well-informed. He just never imagined he would join them.
Angels didn’t have the ability to regret decisions, to face karma and feel guilty for their actions, but Castiel was ignorant and he learned that that wasn’t true. Emotions were a fickle thing, and he was pushed straight into the deep end; it was never gradual, and he became ever more aware the more he spent in the company of the Winchesters. He experienced hate, guiltiness, happiness, friendship, and emotions that he didn’t even know existed — sometimes he used them wisely, but other times he was clueless. He had to learn quickly, because the Winchesters weren’t always there to guide him.
Now, he felt guilty. It gnawed at him, clawed at his throat, and racked his brain. It destroyed his thoughts, replacing them with all the things he could have done to prevent this from happening. Perhaps he should have studied the map more, or double-checked the weapons this morning for any faults — or perhaps he should have stayed close to Dean, instead of breaking apart the group in order to make the search quicker. How was he to know that half of the rifles would become jammed, and their main radio run out of battery, or know that he was going to make such a selfish decision whilst relying on his maps?
A crackling sound came from his right hand, followed by a frantic voice that wasn’t quite reaching Castiel’s ears. His radio was running out of battery and was beginning to lose its frequency, but somebody had managed to come through on it, and he wouldn’t stop repeating the ex-angel’s name. Castiel recognised the voice immediately, and his finger hesitated over the button on his radio, wondering whether it would do any justice to give his Leader false hope. There were too many lost chances for Dean in the past to give him another one, and the soldier placed the radio down before sliding it across the factory floor until it hit a wall and lost its frequency. Even if Dean was to save him, he couldn’t stop the virus that was currently working through his veins and painfully wasting him away.
They were becoming even more erratic, having heard the noise from within the factory and knowing he was in there. Another push, a groan, and Castiel watched as the metal rod bent and broke before falling to the floor with a clank. He could smell their decomposition, filling the room with a putrid scent, and the soldier closed his eyes to rid their image from his mind and only concentrate on seeing his family. Not Balthazar, not Anna, nor Gabriel. Not them. Instead, he focused on Dean’s laugh, on Sam’s research ramblings, on Bobby’s insults, on Ellen and Jo’s fighting talk, and he felt safe as he lifted his left hand with the gun and pressed it against his temple.
With a smile, he pulled the trigger.
Adjusting his eyes to the darkness was sudden, as his mind tried to make sense of whether the massive bang was from his dream or within the camp. Either way, he immediately grabbed his clothes and got dressed, pulling his jacket over his shoulders and retrieving his rifle from one of his cabinets, where he made sure that the magazine was full and the trigger wasn’t jammed; it was only a dream, but there was something foreboding about it. He had retreated to his cabin early, as any duties he had in the camp were completed and he fancied sleeping early for once — he was never one for going to bed before midnight, because anything could happen and he preferred being prepared than being caught unaware. It rarely happened, but it was just his luck tonight that he was needed.
The quietness unnerved him, and he ceased his actions for a moment in order to listen for any movements outside. In his silence, Castiel contemplated making his way to Dean’s cabin, but he knew that he was studying the maps he gave him and didn’t wish to be disturbed. Besides, he could no longer hear any commotion and he blamed himself for being so on edge — the dream shook him up, because it felt real, and he had to check himself over for any phantom wounds. Reaching up, he rubbed at his eyes and released a wavering sigh; he was clean from drugs for months, and his body screamed at him every now and again for the release it needed. But he wanted to change, become clean permanently, and make Dean proud. He wanted to believe he could do it, but there were nights where he doubted his own restraint and he broke down, searching his cabin like a rabid wolf for any stray pill, or hidden blunt he might have stashed away and forgotten about. He never found anything, because himself and Dean made sure to get rid of everything.
Before he could register the scream in the distant, his door had already been forced open and he could smell the decay before he saw what decided to pay him a visit. It wasn’t the attack that surprised him, but the fact that he hadn’t seen a Croatoan for two weeks and one decided to suddenly show up; they should be in the inner city, as last reported by the morning patrol soldiers. Something was wrong, and their pattern was off; it definitely wasn’t staying true to his map migrations. It wasn’t staying true to Lucifer’s patterns, more specifically. Before he could question it any further, Castiel found himself using the side of his rifle to prevent the infected from tackling him to the ground — he had forgotten how strong they were, and he felt the impact of the ground moreover than the stinging on his forearm. “…Argh!" Clenching his teeth, the ex-angel pushed the Croatoan from his body using the rifle, before reaching inside his jacket and producing a knife that he promptly lodged inside the infected’s head. The Croatoan was too close for him to use the rifle, and he mentally thanked himself for equipping his jacket with necessary belongings.
This wasn’t a one-off attack, and Castiel knew this one would have brought his buddies along, so he shut the door and pushed a cabinet up against it in order to buy him some time to get his gear together. He collected more rounds for his rifle, any knives that he had available, and spare batteries for his radio and anyone who needed some. He wanted to believe that the items he was grabbing had nothing to do with his dream, but there was no denying the impact it had on his thoughts. When he had his wings, any sort of indication of bad-happenings was a sign that it was definitely going to occur, and he never lost his immediate response to prevent it from doing so; now was no exception. He could hear screams outside, mostly of children, and he breathed in deeply to remain calm - there was no justice in getting angry, losing concentration, and ending up with dwindling numbers in the camp. The only worry that niggled at him was the fact that Dean wasn’t here yet, because he always came to his cabin during an emergency.
With everything prepared, the ex-angel had no hesitation as he pushed the cabinet aside from the door, but he was promptly stopped as a sudden rush of blood made it to his temple and his vision turned grey for a few seconds. It was silent again, caused this time by a small loss of hearing, and all he could hear was his blood pumping; he felt as though somebody was keeping him in a choke-hold, and he used the cabinet for support before everything returned to normal. Pushing up his jacket sleeve, he noticed the small trickle of blood before the wound, and it took all his strength to swallow the nausea that attempted to crawl up his throat; he couldn’t remember being…
—no, he wasn’t going to believe that.
It was no good, he thought, as he curled his hands into fists to stop them shaking. It was no good focusing on that, because he had other people to save, and he would rather go out fighting than let the virus take him in his cabin. He couldn’t be sure he had the virus, but nobody needed to know either — especially Dean, because they had other things to worry about other than silly ol’ Cas. Using a bandage from his first-aid kit, he wrapped the wound and made sure that any signs of blood weren’t visible, before moving the cabinet completely. As he was about to open his door, he heard the familiar voice of the Leader speaking to another soldier nearby, and the worry he had from earlier disappeared. Looking back at the dead Croatoan, slumped in the corner of his cabin, Castiel couldn’t shift the dread that crawled up his spine; at least a bullet would be quick.
Placing his rifle strap around his shoulder, the male breathed in deeply and placed an unyielding expression to hide his uneasiness. Rolling his jacket sleeve back down, Castiel opened his cabin door and observed the camp quickly; it no longer looked peaceful, and he watched as their survivors scattered in different directions. Some of them were returning back to their cabins and presumably locking their doors, but others weren’t as prepared. Older survivors knew what to do, but recently saved ones were yet to be addressed with survival skills and what to do in a Croatoan attack, because no-one in the camp expected to be ambushed for a good while. Castiel had studied the maps, chartered the patterns, and even he wasn’t expecting it because this wasn’t predicted.
Either Lucifer had changed his direction, or this was caused by somebody else.
There was no knowing how many Croatoan’s were in the camp by this point, though it sounded more than dozen, or whether they had broken into each perimeter. As long as they were able to access vehicles and weapons, then there wasn’t going to be a problem, otherwise it was going to be difficult to balance survivors and defence. Various worries flashed through Castiel’s mind, from saving the food rations to making sure a majority of the survivors were saved, but he couldn’t do that by standing around and waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t long before he saw Dean making his way towards his cabin, looking as though he had already entered Leader-mode hours ago. “Dean, I already know what’s shakin’, so you don’t need to tell me—” I already had one visit, but I’m not going to tell you that, because you’ll worry "—what’s the situation? How many of the fences have been taken down?"
Inside, Castiel wanted to take Dean aside and tell him as much as he could; his regrets, his past decisions, and why he chose to help him. To tell him how thankful he was for guiding him, and how he still remained by his side through tough times; no matter his mistakes, Castiel somehow always ended up having a beer with the eldest Winchester and sitting in forgiving silence. He couldn’t do that, however, as it would be the biggest regret of his human life — he couldn’t do that to a man who had gone through enough already. Instead, the ex-angel kept his composure and promised himself that he would see through Dean’s survival.
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