WHO Sam Winchester & Castiel WHAT Comparing notes WHEN 19 October 2011, 0700 hrs [Backdate ftw] WHERE Abigail Winters Library READER DISCRETION Not advised
doubt can exist only where a question exists, a question only where an answer exists, and an answer only where something can be said.
In certain lines of work, getting into habit was in itself a bad habit. At times, though, there was virtue to be found in familiarity. For Sam, that meant the library. As banal as that sounded, Sam wasn't ashamed of his level of comfort around books. There was a structure to be found in printed words; books weren't always honest, but there was an unspoken order to them. And even if the latest novella penned by Julian Barnes was of limited use in puzzling out applied existentialism, he could at least appreciate the quiet and respite from rampant disorder that the humble fortress offered.
Under present circumstances, some quiet space was the optimal prescription. But not solitude. No, he needed more than that—he needed human contact, to see and to feel and to be unrelentingly reassured in the (wishful) knowledge that he was not alone. He could not bear to be left with his demons, the star of the metaphor in his case being very much literal. So he collected himself and began systematically to examine his situation, treating it with patience and resilience as he would any other case because what else was there?
Scribbling a list of evidences for and against two mutually exclusive conditions (the Devil and the world, one of which must be in his head) on a napkin, he had arrived at two distinct conclusions. One, the next time he stepped through any misleadingly harmless doorway, he was going to be better equipped than with a friggin' toothbrush. Two, whether this was the Devil's playground or not, the fact of the matter was that he was here, wherever here was. He definitely wasn't the first person to question his own existence or the existence of the rest of the world. If his experience as a long-time hunter not-first-time dimensional traveller had taught him anything, it was that crap happened, usually to him and usually not without an explanation. Eventually, anyway. Maybe he find the explanation, he can prove or disprove one of the two more or less unappetising possibilities.
This was admittedly easier said than done given such poor leads, but he and Dean had gone by on less before. Surfing the town's BBS on the library computer with Lucifer leering over his shoulder, Sam could not help but be more anxious than pleased about the poster who appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be an old friend and ally. The messages certainly had Castiel's mannerisms down pat. He absently fingered the fray of his flannel shirt (in an attempt to discern the subtleties of reality, he had developed an appreciation for tactile nuances) as he recalled the tell-tale implication of a single raggedy trenchcoat that had washed ashore. Could Castiel have survived? If so, why had he been radio-silent until now and how could he sound so…unchanged? Was it Leviathan, setting the stage for a sophisticated trap? Worse still, perhaps all this really was nothing more than fodder for false hope and the angel was just the pièce de résistance of an elaborate fantasy. A conundrum, that one.