fiveclawedfics

The Devil's in the Details, Part 1

fiveclawedfics — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 20:22:47 GMT

One evening Dean's baby brother walked out the door to get burgers and never came back.

Dean called his brother after the first hour and a half. Sure, Sam was a big boy now who could take care of himself, blah blah blah, but the craziness of the past couple of months had put Dean on constant guard. Demons, hunters, alternate dimension monsters from the future, they all wanted a piece of the Winchester brothers. And Sam knew this, for all his bitching about Dean being overprotective. He'd give Dean a heads-up if he planned to stay out. Right? Right.

So it wasn't a total surprise when the call went to voicemail. As soon as he finished his message, Dean grabbed his coat and headed out. The burger place was fifteen minutes away on foot. Dean walked slow, looking all around for tracks, blood, signs for a struggle, anything. Zip, zero, zilch. And the guys at the burger place hadn't seen an oversized twenty-something, either. Dean called again--nothing. He went back over the way to the burger place, checked both sides of the road, the intersecting streets, called again. Nothing. So he walked back to the hotel, got in the Impala, drove all over town. Nothing.

Had Sam run off again? If he had Dean would throttle the life out of his little brother himself. That first time Sam had been pretty shaken up when Dean had told him about Dad's last words, so he left to find the other special children. This time...well, a lunatic had crash landed into their lives about two weeks ago predicting death for Dean and insanity for Sam. Castiel was enough to give anyone the creeps, but they hadn't seen or spoken to him since they had left him at Bobby's house. Dean couldn't think of anything in the past day or two that might have set Sam off.

The first rays of sunshine were peeking over the horizon in the east by the time Dean made it back to the motel. Dean called up Ellen; Sam had gone there last time, and it was closer than Bobby's place. She chewed him out for calling her so early but cooled down when he explained. "I'll keep my eyes open for him, Dean."

"Thanks. And if you hear anything--"

"Course I'll call you. You know that."

"Thanks, Ellen." He hung up and dialed Bobby.

One ring and then the click of Bobby picking up. "Hello," said a raspy, distinctly un-Bobby voice.

Dean buried his face in his other hand. Of course he'd get the nutjob. "Castiel, put Bobby on the phone."

"It's 6:02. Bobby's asleep. What's the matter?"

Fuck. Castiel would probably hunt and kill Sam himself if he heard the news. "Nothing's wrong. I gotta check on something with Bobby for a hunt. We're working on a time limit here."

"Tell me the problem, I can help."

Dean bit back a biting remark. "Just put Bobby on," he sighed.

"I'm not gonna wake him at this hour! That'd be rude. I can tell you whatever you need."

"You're not my friend," Dean said savagely. Silence at the other end. Shit, he was probably going to hang up. "Okay, okay, that was out of line. I'm sorry. Just...put Bobby on the phone, okay?"

"...Thank you, Dean."

"What?

"For apologizing," Castiel snapped. Dean felt a pang of guilt as he recalled his many unpleasant exchanges with the guy over the previous week, most of which had been his own fault. Crazy as Castiel was, he had been pretty submissive after Dean caught him in Sam's hospital room with a scalpel. "Give me the address of whatever crappy motel you're staying at, and I'll wake Bobby up."

Dean dug up the hotel stationary from the bedside table and read out the address. A clunk sounded over the phone; a couple of minutes later Bobby picked up. "What the hell's the matter, Dean? It's six in the morning."

He quieted down when Dean told him about Sam. They spent a good twenty minutes discussing the situation but had not come up with any answers by the end of the conversation. Dean hung up and slumped back on his bed. For the first time he felt the exhaustion coming from the lack of sleep.

Someone knocked on the door. He ignored it. The knocking continued. "Wrong room, you stupid son of a bitch!" The jackass at the door kept knocking, so he got up and yanked the door open, ready to let loose all the shit that had built up in him since Sam's disappearance.

Castiel stood at the doorstep, fist raised. Dean stared. "What the fuck." And then, "How?"

"I flew." Castiel pushed past him into the room. "What's the problem?" He looked around. "Where's Sam?"

"Getting breakfast," Dean growled. This was the last thing he needed, the last fucking thing. He grabbed Castiel's arm to throw him out of the room but it was like pulling on a wall. "You really can't get a clue, can you?"

"Getting it loud and clear, just don't care. You call Bobby early in the morning, Sam's absent--it's easy to do the math. What happened?" Castiel fixed Dean with one of those intense stares, the kind that made him feel like the deepest and darkest parts of him were exposed. It was enough to make him let go and back up a step, but he kept his mouth shut. The other man sighed. "What do I have to do to get you to trust me?"

He did not have time for this shit. "I've seen the way you look at Sam, like he's some kind of monster. I don't let people like that near my brother."

"I admit I find Sam...disconcerting, but I will not hurt him when we find him. I swear it," Castiel said with such a straight face that Dean could almost believe him. Instead he folded his arms and set his own stare on the other man for a minute, two minutes, until Castiel dropped his eyes. "Sam was Azazel's proxy in my world," he said eventually. "I told you how Azazel possessed your father. He took the counterparts of you and your brother prisoner and broke them entirely." And this time he did look up to meet Dean's gaze. "I would like to keep that from happening again."

"Yeah, by slitting his throat. I'm not stupid, you know. The only reason you haven't gone after Sam is because of me, because you think I'm...I don't know, it's pretty creepy." The admission made Dean feel inexplicably embarrassed. He didn't like the way Castiel looked at him, didn't like the expectations hiding in those blue eyes.

If Dean was embarrassed, Castiel was mortified. He flushed a deep red and sat suddenly on the bed farthest from Dean. "I am sorry," he muttered. "It is not fair--" He broke off and shook his head as if to brush away some thought. After a moment he repeated in a louder voice, "I am sorry. I judged your brother too quickly. To be honest, I don't know much about the nature of the special kids before they came into their powers. By the time I came to Earth, Sam had already murdered all of the other children. If your Sam rejects his powers, it's possible that he could hold on to his sanity."

The first piece of good news in months. It wasn't much, but Dean still perked up. "How does he do that?"

"He can never use his powers. Consciously, I mean--I doubt the visions will cause any real damage. Anyway, it is important that he stays safe so he isn't tempted." Castiel gave Dean an expectant look.

Dean sighed. Thought of Ava, of Yellow-eyes, of Castiel's many powers. Might as well put him to use. "Get in the car, I'll explain while we drive."

Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 6

fiveclawedfics — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 01:10:54 GMT

This time, trouble was six feet tall, skinny with a too-big T-shirt dangling off of him, and a habit at staring intensely at everything. Literally, everything. He was staring out around at all the junked up cars when the door opened, just a few steps behind the boys, and then his head whipped around to look Bobby up and down. Bobby returned the stare. "You wanna tell me who your pal is?"

Sam exhaled shortly, a sigh of long frustration. "It's...kinda a long story." The brothers exchanged glances briefly. "There are a couple of things we need to look up...we were wondering if we could look through your books," Sam continued

The skinny guy said nothing. Just stared.

"Yeah, well, come on in," Bobby said. As the boys gathered in the living room, he ducked into the kitchen to get them a couple of beers. On a hunch he spiked the skinny guy's bottle with a little holy water. Trouble sighed when Bobby handed the beer to him but drank without a complaint. He rarely touched it again during the conversation that followed.

Bobby had been on some pretty bizarre hunts in his time, but this story took the cake. Flashes of light, miracle cures, impossible creatures--apparently Trouble was a monster never mentioned before in hunter lore. He explained himself with the silliest story Bobby had ever heard. "You idjits really expect me to believe this?"

There was a look of mildly constipated frustration on Dean's face. "I know it's ridiculous, but you think we'd've come to you if, you know, if there hadn't been..." He trailed off, gesturing in a futile attempt to convey his thoughts. "All this weird stuff's been happening, and I sure as hell don't know what to make of it. Thought you might have some idea what's going on."

"I know it sounds absurd," Trouble said suddenly. He had barely spoken before, only interrupting to correct the occasional detail. "But you're hunters. You know that the stranger the story is, the more likely it's true. People usually go for the more believable story when they're lying."

"Yeah, and sometimes a moron mistakes a goat for a unicorn," Bobby retorted.

"Just check the lore on Azazel and Lilith, it'll back me up--"

"We already said we'd do that," Sam interrupted, exasperated.

"Even if you're right about Yellow-eyes's name, it doesn't mean the freaking Apocalypse is nigh," Dean added.

"Look, you have to admit that Azazel has something big planned--"

"Will you all shut your mouths for a moment?" Bobby shouted over the rising argument. To his surprise,the boys obeyed. Bobby turned to Trouble. "Listen, why don't you take a walk while I talk things over with the boys," he asked. "Outside. You look like you could use the sunshine." To his mild surprise, the guy got up without a word. A few moments later the front door slammed."Alright, now that he's out of the way, why don't you tell me what really happened."

"We did," Sam said flatly.

"So this guy tries to kill you with some crazy mojo, and now you're trying to help him?"

"Uh. See, uh.." Sam flailed around for an explanation for a few moments before getting out, "Honestly, Bobby, I don't know what else to do with him. He's fixated on us. Well, on Dean." His mouth twisted. "He'll probably hide in the Impala again when we leave."

"So you're trying to dump him in my lap."

"Noooo, we just--" Dean's protest died at Bobby's frown. "Alright. We want him off our hands. I think the first step is figuring out what he is. You got any ideas?"

"My best guess? He's some kind of demigod. Every so often you run into a pagan god hanging around long after the good old days. He doesn't act like one, though. Doesn't seem nearly vain enough, and no god worth his spit would claim to be an angel."

"Maybe it's a survival tactic," Sam suggested. "Like that vampire nest from a couple months back. They were feeding on animals instead of humans," he explained.

"Dude, he blew up a crypt and fed us a bullshit story. That is the worst way to fly under the radar."

"Okay, so he's got an agenda."

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"Whatever Castiel wants, I don't think he's hostile," Sam mused. "He keeled over fixing me. He wouldn't've done that if he was planning to kill us."

"He's terrified of you, Sam. He looks at you like you're a thing."

"Yeah, I know." Sam shifted uncomfortably.

"Sam's right," Bobby said. "Whatever Castiel is, he doesn't mean any harm right now." Every instinct he had screamed against this makeshift solution, but it seemed to be their only option. "You boys are gonna stay here a couple of days anyway. We'll keep an eye on him and figure out what to do from there."

When they told Castiel their decision, he smiled slightly. "Thank you for keeping your promises," he said, deadpan enough that Bobby couldn't tell if he meant to be sarcastic. The boys didn't quite meet his gaze.

When Bobby came downstairs the next morning, he found breakfast waiting on the kitchen table, the dirty dishes cleaned, and a note in small, neat handwriting: Need to fix myself. Be back in the evening. He spent the day calling every hunter he knew. When Castiel returned and went straight to the kitchen to fix dinner, Bobby discarded his original conclusion. Pagan gods could be friendly, but they sure as hell didn't do chores.

"Why are you doing this," Dean demanded when they sat down to eat.

Castiel looked baffled at the question. "You need to eat."

"I can feed myself, thanks. Ow!"

"What Dean means," Sam said, kicking his brother under the table, "is thank you."

Dean couldn't stop picking at Castiel that week. Not from any provocation, but for what he represented. Bobby and the boys spent most of the day picking through demonologies and Middle Eastern folklore, and more and more it seemed like Yellow-eyes and Azazel were the same demon. And if that much of Castiel's story was true, then other parts might be as well. As the week went on Dean spent increasing amounts of time working on cars in the yard or looking for new work, calling Sam and Bobby a bunch a geeks, saying all that research would send them to the looney bin. Bobby put up with his bitching for a full day before putting the boy in his place. Every man had his own way of dealing with bad news, but the least he could do was to keep himself from inconveniencing other folks.

As for the person responsible for starting this mess, he stationed himself in a living room corner with some of the oldest, most esoteric texts in the house and only stirred to get other books. Sometimes he sat for more than an hour, staring into space. And every morning breakfast was waiting for Bobby when he came downstairs, the kitchen cleaner than it had been in years. The laundry turned up clean when he left it out, too.

One morning Bobby woke up in time to catch Castiel frying bacon in the kitchen. "Morning."

Castiel didn't turn around. "Morning. You're up early."

"Woke up early." Off to the side, toast popped out of the toaster, floated away and onto a plate at a gesture. Bobby had never seen anything like this creature before; angel was as good a name as Bigfoot. "You were right about Yellow-eyes."

"Thank you." Castiel dumped the bacon onto a second tape, the burner flickering out untouched.

Just because one part of his story was true didn't mean that rest was true as well. But Bobby knew deep in his gut that something big was on the horizon. Suddenly the end of the world didn't seem so impossible. "We're on the verge of the Apocalypse?"

"More like the verge of the verge. Azazel's got some big hoops to jump through. But he's smart as fuck and has had ages to plan." Castiel brought the dishes to the table, then stood back, folding his arms and frowning. "Things are so different here. What he's doing to the children here, it's nothing like what happened at home. Even the children are different."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"He picked a favorite and pointed him in the direction of the other special kids. Once a special child accepts his abilities, he grows exponentially more powerful. Once the proxy got started, he never lost his momentum."

Great. Some day some souped-up jackass might come knocking down doors looking for Sam. Business as usual for the Winchesters, Bobby supposed. "You say you're an angel." Castiel nodded. "Where's Heaven in all this?

"Expect that Heaven wants the Apocalypse. They did in my world." There was no mistaking the bitterness in the angel's voice. "I've tried to contact my siblings here, but no one's picking up the phone. It's possible that they are reluctant to get involved--we are strongly forbidden from interference on Earth until the Apocalypse--but it's better to assume that the archangels couldn't give a flying fuck about humanity."

"They don't--And you're only mentioning this now?!" Bobby slammed his palms down on the table. He had half a mind to throttle the other man.

Castiel flopped down in one of the chairs, suddenly looking tired. "You didn't believe my story. I thought I'd wait until you'd listen to me. I'll tell the Winchesters before they leave."

"You're staying here?" Bobby asked, incredulous. Watching Castiel watch the boys, he had assumed the angel would insist on going with them, possibly by force.

Castiel dropped his eyes to the table. "...I will leave if you want," he said after a moment, voice low.

"Oh, pull yourself out of your pity party," Bobby said grumpily. "You can stay here." And to his surprise, he meant it. "On one condition: you're gonna find a way to kill Yellow-eyes that doesn't involve a gun we don't have anymore. You waltz in here known answers to questions it took John Winchester years to learn to ask, I figure you know how to put down demons permanently. We're not sitting back on our asses waiting for the Apocalypse. I don't care if you need to build the damn Colt from scratch--you're finding a way to kill that bastard. Deal?"

The angel cocked his head, examining Bobby with a canny eye. "Deal."

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Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 5

fiveclawedfics — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 02:54:16 GMT

Sam could tell they weren't leaving the motel room tonight, so he opened his computer and found a Chinese place nearby that did deliveries. Dean bitched about Chinese food and then asked for the chop suey. Sam put down mixed vegetables for himself and turned to Castiel. "What do you want?"

"I don't eat."

"Everybody eats," Dean said.

"It isn't necessary for me," Castiel said. "I know you have little money."

"Dude, we can cover freaking takeout." Dean looked over to Sam. "Just order the cashew chicken, that's usually good." As Sam made the call, his brother pulled up the single chair in the room and sat down on it backwards to fix Castiel with a look. "Okay. Talk."

"It will sound crazy."

Sam hung up and flopped down onto the other bed. "Try us. We've seen a lot of crazy stuff. Why don't you tell us what you really are?"

"I'm an angel of the Lord." Castiel watched as Sam exchanged looks with Dean. "I know I don't look like much right now, but I'll show you my wings when I'm stronger."

"Yeah? What happened to you?" Dean snarked. "A run-in with a jet engine?"

To Sam's surprise, the corner of Castiel's mouth twitched upwards. "That would have been preferable. I have spent..." He paused, apparently calculating something. "About two years in a prison camp run by demons. It was very unpleasant. In the final days the Resistance--I mean, the armies of humanity--was besieging the city, so the demons decided to burn it down. I escaped in the chaos, but something went wrong and I ended up...here."

"Here." Sam tested the word on his tongue. "What's 'here?'"

"...I think this is a different world from mine," Castiel said, distinctly unhappy. Dean gave a snort of disdain; Sam barely suppressed one of his own. "I know," he continued. "I wouldn't believe it in your shoes. The situation now--" His eyes flicked over Sam and Dean. "--What we're doing, right now, would have been temporally impossible in my world. You--" He gestured to Dean. "--would be dead, and you--"

"Sam would've gone dark side, you already told me that," Dean interrupted. "I hate to break it to you, but you're freaking delusional."

"Dean!" Good Lord, his brother wouldn't know subtlety if it punched him in the face.

"What? I'm just calling it like it is!"

"I am not delusional," Castiel said fiercely, hands curling in the bedsheets. "I am an angel, and our minds are not malleable like a human's. Give me time and I will prove myself to you."

Dean opened his mouth, presumably to say something obnoxious, but Sam waved him to silence. "Alright. Let me get this straight. You're an angel. From the future. From another universe."

"That's right."

"And you want to stay with us because..."

"I think Azazel is running the same plan here that he had back home." He crawled to the edge of the bed. "Stopping him is my top priority. Let me help you."

"Yeah?" Dean snapped. "What makes you so certain?"

"Sam is a special child. Azazel must have fed his blood to Sam in the nursery. You've met other special children, right?"

"A few," Sam said, a little too casually. Demon blood. There was no way to prove Castiel's claims, but it made sense. Why had Yellow-eyes visited his nursery? How did all the special kids get their powers? What tied them to Yellow-eyes? They must have been altered--it was the only logical answer. If it wasn't demon blood, it must be something equally vile. Loathing pooled in his stomach. There was something sick inside him, and he could do nothing about it. Unless... "Is there a way to fix the kids? Drain the demon blood out or--I dunno--?" He gestured, unable to finish the sentence.

"No. It is an intrinsic part of you." Fuck. Sam could feel all those half-suppressed fears bubbling up--his freakishness, his impending insanity, descent into evil and goddammit Castiel was reading his mind right now. He glowered at the man, who shied away.

Casting a worried look to Sam, Dean began, "We're not here to talk about Yellow-eyes--"

"Hold it, I want to hear what he's got to say."

Dean frowned, moved to Sam's bed, and hissed in his ear, "This guy's nuts. You can't believe anything that comes out of his mouth!"

"I know that, Dean!" Sam snapped, louder than he intended. He ratcheted the volume down several notches and continued, "Look, we're following up on every lead we get about Yellow-eyes. Every lead, no matter how crazy."

"Sam, the last lead we had was Gordon going on about a demon war!"

"Okay, so maybe we look into that a bit further. Whatever Yellow-eyes is planning, it's big, and if we stop him before he pulls it off then--you know--" Sam swallowed, painfully aware of the third person in the room. He needed a drink. "--Maybe we can save the special kids."

"You're grasping at straws, Sam," Dean said, but the fight had gone from his eyes.

"I'll do whatever it takes."

Castiel's eyes flicked back and forth between Sam and Dean when they turned back to him. He remained silent until Dean said, "Get on with your story."

"...I am trying to help you," Castiel said in such a deadpan voice that it took Sam a moment to realize that he was frightened.

"We're not going to hurt you," Sam said in his kindest voice.

"Yes. Well." Castiel scooted to the side of his bed to better face the brothers. "Azazel is trying to free Lucifer from Hell. That's a very difficult process, and he needs a human proxy to complete it. That's why he created the special children."

"Lucifer? As in the goddamn Devil?!" Dean exclaimed, right as Sam said, "A proxy? What happens to all the other kids?

"Azazel pits all of 'em against each other. Last one standing gets to start the Apocalypse."

"Yeah--how does he do that, exactly?" Dean demanded. "I mean, what's the proxy supposed to do?"

"There's a heavily warded Hellgate in Montana. Azazel needs it open, but he can't get to it. So the proxy opens up the depths of Hell and swarms of demons get out. The one to remember is Lilith. See, there's sixty-six seals--locks--on Lucifer's cage, but there's hundreds of ways to break them. The last one is Lilith. Lucifer rises when she dies."

The shock of his announcement left Sam speechless. Dean opened his mouth, then closed it after a moment, frowning. In the silence that followed the rap on the door sounded unusually loud. Sam crossed to the door to get the food, paid the deliveryman, and passed out the cartons to their respective owners. They all dug into their cartons without saying another word.

Of course Dean finished first, stuffing his empty carton into the takeout bag before leaning forward. "Alright, Castiel--"

"You can call me Cas."

"Pass, thanks. We were heading to Sioux Falls today to see a friend of ours, Bobby Singer. He's got a pretty big collection of books on hunting. You'll probably find something that will help you figure out how to get home."

That was Dean to the core: ignore the apocalyptic pronouncements and try to pretend everything was going great. "We're gonna spend a couple of days there ourselves, so we'll help you settle in," Sam broke in.

"We are?"

"Yeah, we are." Sam ignored his brother's frown and turned back to Castiel. "You've answered a lot of important questions for us. I'd like to compare your story with the lore Bobby's got."

Castiel gave him a small, uncertain smile. "I'm happy to help, but I haven't finished yet." He fixed his eyes on Dean. "Azazel has plans for you as well."

"Yeah, yeah, I end up in Hell, you said that already." Dean crossed his arms. "Fuck that noise. No way I'm selling my soul."

"Even if it was the only way to save your brother?"

Dean's face clouded over. "'Course not," he said, a little too loud and a little too late to be believable.

Even with all the craziness surrounding the special children, even with Yellow-eyes plotting their doom on the sidelines, sometimes the most terrifying thing in Sam's life lately was his brother. Most of the time he seemed normal, all jackass jokes and wannabe coolness, but sometimes the mask slipped and Sam saw pain in his face. Dad's death had hit him hard. "Dean..." His brother looked over him, just a glance, and Sam snapped his mouth shut. They weren't having this discussion now, not in front of a stranger.

Castiel sighed. Stared at Dean until the other met his eyes. "You are righteous, Dean," he said softly, like he was talking to an animal about to bolt. "That makes you very important in the grand scheme of things."

The tension shattered. Dean gave a snort of laughter, and Sam had to bite back a snicker of his own. He loved his brother, but he wouldn't nominate either of them for Man of the Year, much less righteousness. "Man, you got me mixed up with someone else."

"You are righteous," Castiel insisted. "The virtue in your soul burns like a bonfire in a field of candles." He dragged a hand through his hair in apparent frustration. "I don't get it. Why can't you recognize your own worth? Every time, I swear--" He broke off with a shake of his head. "Anyway. The first seal on Lucifer's cage is broken when one of the righteous goes to hell. Selling your soul literally means the end of the world."

"We've already established that's not going to happen," Dean snapped. "You coming to Bobby's with us or not?"

"Dean, this is important!"

Dean folded his arms. "With us or not?"

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes flicked to Sam, who kept his face smooth. Despite his insistence of helping the brothers, despite all the information he had given them, Sam could not bring himself to trust this man, much less work with him. Reading their expressions, Castiel slumped in defeat. "With you," he muttered at last.

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Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 3

fiveclawedfics — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 21:45:32 GMT

Castiel woke up in restraints. The doctors had used some sort of strong plastic to tie his wrists to the bars on his bed. To his delight, the ties easily tore when he pulled them. His strength was returning. Already he could feel his Grace repairing the damage dealt by the explosions. The hellfire would be a little more tricky, but he could deal with it. What he could really use, Castiel decided, was enough holy water in which to bathe, so he could disinfect the tainted burns.

The real question was what to do about the Winchesters. Castiel had no idea how much time had passed since his confrontation with Dean, but he guessed it was enough for them to check out of the hospital. Even if they hadn't, Dean would be on guard for him. Despite his growing strength, Castiel did not feel ready to take on the hunter just yet. He wasn't certain if he could put people to sleep yet, and a proper fight would quickly attract attention. A frontal assault was useless, he decided. Best to wait until the middle of the night and hope the Winchesters did not leave before then.

After a while a nurse came in with forms to fill out, only to make noise when he found that he had broken his restraints and torn off his wrappings. So then he had to endure humans fussing over him for a full hour as they reapplied ointments and bandages and all the other things mortal treatments had required. They insisted on asking all sorts of personal information for their precious forms, too. Castiel had always been a little fuzzy on the methods of human doctors. Now he was learning far too much for his own taste. But he peaceably accepted their attentions and ate the food they insisted on feeding to him (the latter part, he grasped, was very important in human healing). He had obeyed sillier mores before. When the humans finally left, Castiel sank back into his bed, relishing the time he had before he made his strike.

Nearly an hour later, the door swung open. Startled, he looked up to find Dean Winchester hovering just over the threshold. Castiel brightened. "It's you. Please, come in."

Dean regarded him with a canny eye, then hesitantly moved to stand by the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I talked to a couple of nurses about you," he said after a moment. "I'm guessing 'Castiel Winchester' isn't your real name."

"Castiel is. I don't have a last name."

"Yeah? What kind of name is that?"

"A holy one."

Silence fell again as Dean looked him over, checking for...Castiel could not say for sure. Eventually the hunter said, "Show me your chest."

Castiel blinked. "Sure, let me--" Before he could break the restraints, Dean reached back to yank free the hospital gown's ties and pull it down. Castiel flushed and looked away from Dean.

Dean studied the sigil layout. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down, folding his arms. "You're the guy from the church."

It took Castiel a second to understand the meaning of his words. "Sam has woken up?"

"Oh, he's been awake since yesterday, he just hasn't been coherent," Dean barked. "You know, I thought you were some crazy hunter, maybe a psychic. But hunters don't appear out of thin air in a burst of light. Or blow out people's eardrums and a whole crypt's worth of windows. So what are you? One of the special kids?"

"No!" Castiel snapped. He busied himself by fixing the gown, but in a few moments he had to face the question again. "It's complicated. But that doesn't matter. Like I said, I'm a friend."

"Bullshit! You came at my brother with a scalpel!" Dean leaned forward. "The way I see it, friends are honest with each other. About the big stuff, at least. You want to be bestest friends with me? Put your money where your mouth is."

“I’m an angel of the Lord,” Castiel said helplessly, and then, just to get it out of the way, added, “From the future.” Dean threw his head back and laughed. "I'm serious, Dean! How do you think I know so much about you? I know your whole life. Your mother used to sing 'Hey Jude' to you when she put you to bed. Your brother made the amulet you wear and gave it to you on Christmas Eve in 1991. You lost your virginity to a girl named Sally when you were fourteen and you learned to drive a year later. The most important thing to you is your family, but the three of you split up after Sam left for college, and now that you've got Sam back you think that everything is going to be sunshine and pie. It's not going to work." Castiel braced himself on the railing and reached out for Dean, only for the hunter to jerk away from his touch. Unsurprising, but it still hurt to see Dean look at him so coldly. "Let me help you. I will tell you what Azazel plans to do in the future, places, dates, everything. We can set up an ambush. We can even save Sam. If Azazel gets his hands on him, it's all over."

Dean regarded him for a moment, face and soul unreadable. Then he said, "Let me ask you something, Marty McFly. What year do you think you landed in?"

Castiel cocked his head at the question. "2005, maybe 2006."

"It's 2007." Dean sat back with a smile as the news sunk in. "Your information? Is pure, unadultered shit. That stuff with my dad, that happened last year. And funnily enough, me'n'Sam have been doing just fine till now."

"No, that's not true, that' can't be true," Castiel burst out. "Dean, this is too cruel for you--" Dean pointed to the display on the machine connected to Castiel. Beneath a group of mysterious numbers and abbreviations glowed the date: 03.07.2007.

The world crumbled.

He...

He did not belong here. Would never belong here. Wherever "here" was. This beautiful, peaceful world, it did not have his family in it, the brothers and sisters who had defied the will of Heaven when he spread word of their superiors' intentions. It did not have the humans, brilliant and bright in their ferocity, standing strong against incomprehensible horrors. It did not have Dean, his Dean, his Dean. Whom he had rescued from Hell and who had rescued him from Heaven.

Castiel had lost his home before. On the day he decided to rebel, he resigned himself to exile or (more likely) death. Even after the Resistance had negotiated a truce with the orthodox angels, he had known that any permanent treaty would ban him from Heaven. That, Castiel could live with. He had found a home among the friends he had made on Earth. This time, he had nothing.

No, that wasn't quite right. He had a Dean, a Dean similar to his Dean in many ways. Less broken for sure, but with the same fundamental goodness shining in his soul. This Dean hated him, but he was the closest thing to a home Castiel had left. This Dean--

This Dean, Castiel suddenly realized, had walked out the door some time ago.

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Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 2

fiveclawedfics — Sat, 18 Aug 2012 23:14:33 GMT

Lights. Bright lights, strong enough to come through his eyelids, and a sense of something wrong. He must have gone into stand-by when he had tried to flee. Easy prey, especially for something like Sam. But this was not prison; there were no wards. Comfortable bed, soft sheets--he hadn't felt anything like this in ages.

Castiel opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital room. A good hospital room, not like the shabby clinics that serviced most of the world these days. Which meant that someone had taken him to one of the strongholds of humanity, like San Francisco or Singers or Mexico City. He must have been mistaken for a human if they'd brought him here instead of a healer outpost. Given his condition, he couldn't fault them--

The world was missing.

Castiel stretched out his consciousness, searched frantically for a landmark, anything. And yes, there was the world, floating at the edge of his senses, but he could not even locate himself, much less any of the billions of people on the planet. Billions! A full six billion swarming across the earth, bargaining at the bazaar and chasing after buses and falling in love! Castiel sank back into the gloriously soft bed, baffled. Now that he thought about it, Sam had not felt like Sam. He knew the feel of the Antichrist's aura all too well. But the Sam in the church was...normal. Castiel had taken him for some random human until he had gotten a good look at the other's face.

Perhaps it was a vision of some sort? But this reality encompassed the world. Only an archangel could make such a good copy of life, and he could not imagine why any of them would go to all that effort for him. Castiel racked his brains. Modern hospital, six billion people, normal Sam... Perhaps he had been thrown back in time? The idea seemed ludicrous. Time was not fluid on Earth. But then, he hadn't been on Earth, had he? He had been in the negation. Perhaps time was malleable there as it was in Heaven and Hell? It seemed the only possible answer. For now, he'd have to work on the assumption that somehow he had been thrown back several years, back before Azazel had possessed John Winchester. Which meant...which meant that he was one of the strongest creatures on Earth at the moment.

The Devil's Gate in Montana had not been opened yet and the Seals remained unbroken. So none of the truly powerful demons had escaped from Hell yet, nor had the angels begun to walk the Earth once more. Only a handful of demons polluted the Earth at the moment, and almost all of them would be run-of-the-mill types. In fact, Castiel doubted that (aside from Azazel) any of them were strong enough to color their eyes white instead of black. Nor would any of the special children had really come into their own yet. Easy pickings, all of them, for something like him.

His fingers curled into the sheets. It was impossible to change the past. But then, he had seen a number of impossible things before. He'd seen the upper ranks of Heaven become incompetant and corrupt; he'd seen humanity break free from the control of Heaven and resist the forces of Hell; he'd seen a man rescue an angel from the deepest sanctum of Heaven. And after all the lines he had crossed and rules he had broken to save the world, he had no right now to stop at another pesky "impossible."

Castiel swung his legs out of bed, pulled the IV from his arm. There was work to be done, and the sooner finished, the better. He needed to find the Colt. He needed to kill Azazel. He needed to execute the special children. And, if all else failed, he needed to warn the Winchesters about the future.

First, though, he needed to renew the bindings that held him to this body. Already parts were responding poorly to his commands, with disintegration setting in at the very edges. Castiel stumbled from the room, using a minimal amount of power to render himself unnoticeable to passerby. As he moved quietly through the corridors, he marveled at their occupants. These people took their safety for granted! They were actually fat with prosperity! It was extraordinarily bizarre. Shaking his head at the wonder of it all, Castiel snatched a scalpel from a passing tray of surgical tools and ducked into a bathroom.

Fortunately, it was empty. Castiel pulled off his hospital gown and ripped away the bandages across his chest. Apparently the doctors had tried to sew closed the broken sigils, but thankfully their efforts had not interfered with the binding spells even more. Someone could walk in at any moment, so he had to move fast. Deflection was thin protection; even these peacetime civilians would notice a man carving occult symbols into his flesh. At least scalpels were made for delicate work.

Squinting at his reflection, Castiel carefully redrew the broken sigils, pouring every drop of Grace he had left into the binding spells. He didn't have enough power to fix the keystone runes over his heart, but his work today would buy him the time he needed to regain the strength needed to finish the job. What the hell had Sam planned to do to him? Castiel probed the handprint with a finger and gasped at the pain. The spell had been a dismissal intended to expel him from his vessel in the most violent way possible. With the ties binding him in the body so tightly, the force of the spell would have torn him in two.

Wrapping himself back in the hospital gown (the ties in the back took some effort) Castiel flopped down onto the floor in order to catch his breath. Sam had to be in this hospital, he decided. His true voice would badly hurt even special children new to their powers. And humans would bring the injured from the same site to the same hospital, right? So all he had to do was to go through the hospital until he came close enough to sense Sam. Once the Winchesters checked out, it would become much more difficult to find them. So now was the time to strike, and never mind his weakness. He'd slit Sam's throat and then pass out in a corner somewhere.

An hour and a half later found him panting outside Room 421. Glancing around quickly, Castiel eased the door open and slipped through. As the door swung shut he braced himself against the wall for a moment, dizzy with fatigue. Thankfully, the room was empty. Sam himself appeared to be asleep. Clenching the scalpel in his fist, Castiel stumbled across the room to the bed. Just a few more steps. A few more steps, and he would cleanse the world of this thing.

The door swung open.

Oh shit.

Footsteps across the floor before a force slammed him against the wall, twisting his arms behind his back and squeezing the scalpel out of his hand. And a voice, low and rough against his ear: "Who the hell are you and what are you doing to my brother?" A hand curled in his hair and cracked his head against the wall. "Huh? You one of Gordon's friends?'

It was Dean. Of course it was Dean, and despite the ache threatening to bring him to his knees, Castiel found himself grinning like an idiot. "Dean," he managed to get out. "I--It's been so long--" He cut himself off. This Dean didn't know him, not yet. He'd fix that. "Okay, I know this looks bad--"

"No shit, Sherlock! Only reason I haven't gutted you is because we're in public." The grip around his arm tightened. "Now you tell me who you are or I'll cut you open anyway."

Buttons. It always came back to pushing the right buttons. Castiel licked his lips. "Don't you ever wonder what Azazel--Yellow-eyes--was doing in your brother's room that night?" Silence at his ear. "He wasn't after your mother. He was after Sam. He fed his blood to your brother, and when your mother interrupted he killed her."

Dean whipped him away from the wall and threw him to the ground. Too weak to rise, Castiel sprawled on the floor until he felt the contents of a bottle upended upon him. Holy water. He rolled over and sat up to find a pistol thrust in his face. "Who--what the hell are you?" Dean demanded.

"Not a demon, for starters," Castiel rasped. "I'm a friend." He'd save the angel bit for later.

"Like hell!"

"I'm serious. You and me, we've got the same goal: putting Yellow-eyes down."

"No, not really. My number one goal is keeping my family safe. You? Are a threat. Now get out of here. Next time I see you, I'm putting a bullet in your head."

"You know something's wrong with your brother, Dean. Sam gets premonitions, right? He gets a migraine and suddenly starts seeing the future. Maybe you've already met one other person like him, Sandra Weiss. Let me tell you, what you've seen so far, it's just the beginning.

"Sam is going to go insane. All of the special children do, it's the demon blood in them. Your brother is going to become a monster and you will have to put him down. I'm sorry, I truly am. But I think Sam would rather die human than a thing."

Dean cocked his pistol. "So you are one of Gordon's buddies," he hissed. "I shoulda shot him when I had the chance."

Time to pull out the big guns. "In a little while, you'll run into your father when you look into the death of a man named Daniel Elkins," Castiel said. Dean paled, shock rippling through his soul. "Together you'll find a very special gun that can kill anything and your family will hunt down the demon that killed your mother. It all goes wrong, Dean! Yellow-eyes possesses your father, he takes you and Sam prisoner, and he breaks you in ways you can't begin to imagine. You sell your soul for Sam's freedom, but it's too late. By the time you get pulled out of Hell, Sam is fucking demons and murdering anyone who gets in his way."

Dean swallowed, his knuckles white against the gun. "How do you know that, no one knows..." He swallowed. Castiel gazed up at Dean through his lashes, reading the hunter's soul like a book. Rage, anxiety, desperation, and not a little fear. "You're lying. No one gets out of Hell, not once they've gone downstairs."

What an odd detail on which to focus. He was grasping at straws, Castiel supposed. He gave Dean a small smile. "It happens on very rare occasions."

"Yeah? What kind--"

The door swung open. Castiel twisted around to see a nurse come in with a cart. "We just got the results from the MRI, Mr. Connor--what on earth?"

"This man broke into the room with a scalpel, Nurse...Jennifer, right?" Dean smiled, face full of charm and hands tucked behind his back. The nurse dimpled. "I found him right by my brother's bed. I doubt he had anything pleasant in mind, so if you could just..." The nurse pressed a red button by the door, undoubtedly summoning security. "Thank you, Jennif--can I call you Jenny?"

"Sure thing." Nurse Jenny searched through the instruments on her cart before producing a hypodermic needle.

Castiel's eyes widened at the sight. He shook his head to clear away the bad memories. "Please don't," he said. "I won't resist."

And then, shockingly, Dean hoisted him up by his armpits. "Let me give you a hand, Jenny." Castiel staggered forward and pressed his face against Dean's chest, unable to resist. It felt so good to be in Dean's arms again, that he forgot about the needle until he felt a prick in his backside and the flow of a sophoric into his bloodstream. Weak as he was, he could not resist the drug's effects. The world spun away into darkness.

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Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Prologue

fiveclawedfics — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 02:54:25 GMT

Five days, seventeen hours, and twenty-one minutes since Mérida. Castiel looked up as the door to his cell swung open, sky shining in. This was it. The demons were coming to put him up on the rack. He was just surprised they hadn't gone to work on him sooner. Whatever they did, Castiel told himself, it could never be as bad as his punishment in Heaven. Besides, Dean would surely come for him one day.

The raw, overwhelming power of an archangel filled the air. Lucifer himself stepped into the room, a faint smile playing at his lips. "You're the one, right? Castiel, who split the Host in two."

Castiel stared at his visitor in shock. It took him a few moments to realize Lucifer's intentions. Captured angels had been spotted later fighting for the forces of Hell. "The answer is no," he ground out.

"I thought you might say that." Lucifer cocked his head, a much put-upon brother dealing with a recalcitrant younger sibling. "Fly with me, Castiel."

The place they landed in seemed like a picture from the days Before, when humans fought only each other and a handful of hunters were enough to defend against the monsters lingering in the dark. Now the forces unleashed by the Apocalypse warped the planet itself, shattering the land with earthquakes, floods, fiery rains, blight, and numerous other calamities. But this land was green and beautiful, all sharp peaks piercing the skies, forests painting the slopes. Castiel stretched his consciousness out for hundreds of miles and found only animals. "Three hundred thousand people used to live here."

"Do you remember," Lucifer said as he looked over the Appalachians, "how humans tore up these mountains looking for coal? By the time I escaped, they'd begun to blow up the peaks to find new seams."

"Three hundred thousand people," Castiel repeated. "How much of the Eastern Seaboard did you destroy?"

"Destroy? I fixed it. I'm restoring Creation."

"Bullshit," Castiel snapped, surprising himself with his idiotic bravery. "Your armies are destroying the world!"

"The demons are a means to an end. I'll deal with them when the time comes." Lucifer leaned in, pulled Castiel around to look him in the eye. "I understand, brother. Dean Winchester is an extraordinary human. Your loyalty to him is commendable. But the rest of the species..." He shrugged dismissively. "No other creature in Creation is as greedy and shortsighted. They would have destroyed themselves in a few generations anyway and taken the planet with them."

"They learn," Castiel insisted. "Our Father created them to grow and evolve in a way unlike any other animal. It has been only a few thousand years since the start of human civilization and already they are exploring the stuff of the cosmos. Well, were exploring."

Lucifer laughed. "Really, Castiel? You're making theological arguments to me? I was by our Father's side when he created humanity and I can tell you, He said no such thing."

"The meaning is evident in His actions."

"Mm. You were more of a philosopher than a soldier before the war, weren't you." Castiel tried to pull away, but Lucifer held him tightly. "I am offering you a chance, brother. Join me. I will even preserve Dean Winchester for you."

"The answer is no," Castiel repeated.

"I see."

After they flew back to Philadelphia, Lucifer pressed Castiel's vessel against a wall, reached into the very stuff of him, and ripped out his wings. "We'll talk again when these grow back," he said, and vanished.

Castiel screamed and screamed.

**********

Lucifer visited him twice more. The answer remained no.

**********

"You're a tough nut to crack, aren't you," Sam said, almost conversationally. "Almost two years and you haven't even begun to break." He ruffled Castiel's hair. "Lucifer is...annoyed. He wants you fighting for us. You're a symbol." Fingers closing painfully tight in his hair, and then Sam yanked him upright to lean and close and murmur in his ear. "You need to be destroyed." At the best of times, Castiel was weaker than Sam Winchester; now, weakened by the wards engraved in the cell walls, he found the power spilling from the Antichrist almost suffocating. "I'd rather decorate this city with your intestines, but I have to admit, the look on Dean's face when he sees you flying for us..." Sam released Castiel, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy at the thought.

"You know, Sam," Castiel said, "Every time Lucifer comes to make his offer, he always spends time talking. A lot of it is arguing, but really, he just wants a conversation. Maybe it's just me, but I'm guessing he gives the other angels similar treatment." Sam's eyes snapped open. Castiel gave him a small, sly smile. "He wants to be with his own kind. If he wins, you'll be the first to go. You're the worst of humanity. You're what he hates the most."

Sam scowled--then grinned, bright and wide and playful. With a flick of his wrist, he lifted Castiel into the air and slammed him against the wards. Castiel bit back a cry of pain--he'd scream for the demons, but not for this bastard. "Did you really take me for a bitch? After all this time?" he laughed. The stink of his own flesh burning filled Castiel's nostrils. After a few more agonizing moments, the power holding him in place vanished, and he fell to the ground with a thump. And then Sam loomed up before his eyes, bending over with a serrated knife in his hands. This close, Castiel could make out the Enochian runes engraved into the metal. "I figure the demons here have been getting lazy," Sam hissed. "It's so easy to break an angel. Wake up the vessel and--" He dragged the knife across Castiel's belly, reached in, and pulled out the innards. "--go to town. I wish I could hear the angels' screams, but they do beg so prettily afterward.

"But you--you don't have anyone else in there with you. You're wearing a glorified fucktoy. That's right, I know exactly what your siblings did to you," he smirked at the look on Castiel's face. "How Dean got you out of Heaven. The other angels were more than happy to explain after they switched sides."

Castiel tried to turn away, see anywhere but Sam, the very last person he wanted to know about his punishment. Sam gripped his chin, held him in place. "You don't get to look away," he cooed, like a parent calming a child. "You're going to look me in the eye while I cut you up and then I'm going to find out what really hurts you." A flash of the knife opened his jugular; another two severed the tendons in his arms. "I'm guessing I'll have to do something about the layout on your chest." And this time, Castiel did scream as the flesh of his chest peeled away, feeling the ties binding him to this body waver ever so slightly. "Jackpot." Sam grinned. "I've got a couple of weeks to burn. I got time to be creative."

**********

The first explosion shook the foundations of the prison; the next three brought the building tumbling down. Castiel curled into a ball as his cell collapsed around him, his heart leaping in his chest. Dean was coming. It hurt a bit, to be buried beneath the rubble, but after a month in Sam's hands the pain was inconsequential. With the wards broken, his Grace swelled within him, giving him the power to dig himself out of rocks pinning him to the floor.

When he broke through to stare out into the sunshine for the first time in two years, he found a group of humans digging desperately at the rocks, dragging other angels out. Two of his siblings flung the rubble aside as well, but another three crouched down, staring at nothing. One had left his vessel trembling on the ground; Castiel could sense him battering mindlessly against the wards around the city, thoroughly mad.

Around them was chaos. Shells flew through the air, some flaming up and exploding as they hit the wards. Shells flew through the air, some flaming up and exploding as they hit the wards surrounding Philadelphia. The sky crackled with power in the far distance, dust storms billowing against what appeared to be a large, invisible wall. His siblings, he realized.

A human ran to his side as he pushed the last of the stones away to pull him upright. She and her friends wore rags, Castiel noticed. Not soldiers, then, just slaves imprisoned in the closest approximation of Hell on earth. He wondered how they managed to make explosives. "What's going on?" he asked his new friend.

"Lotta prisoners coming in, these last couple of months," the human explained. "Said the Americans was moving up the Eastern Seaboard, had a foothold down in Florida. We figured when the army came to Philadelphia, we could break out in the chaos if we got the angels free. But these guys--" She shrugged helplessly.

"They've been under the knife since they came here," Castiel snapped.

"Yeah? I been here more than four years and I ain't broken. Soldiers of God my ass!"

Castiel shook his head against her bitterness, too tired to deal with the intricacies of human emotions at the moment. He moved to crouch down next to his siblings. "Tophiel," he said to the nearest in Enochian. "Tophiel, we need to go back to work."

Tophiel raised her face to look at him with glassy eyes. "--My vessel," she said after a pause. "My vessel has gone insane." She curled her fingers in her hair, scratched and pulled at her scalp. "She is screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming--I can't make her sleep!" The despair hung heavy in her voice.

Castiel wrapped his arms around her "Think of the demons," he murmured in her ear, and Tophiel moaned. "They're coming back, Tophiel." She trembled against him. "They're going to hurt you, and they're going to hurt your vessel--what's her name?"

"Amira al-Husseini."

"Are you going to let the demons hurt her again?"

"I--I can't. Can't fight. The wards, I'm too weak--"

"You know that's not true. Feel me, sister." He reached out for her with his true body, pressed his Grace against her until she responded. "We are free and we are going to make these sons of bitches pay for what they did. Get angry, Tophiel. Think of the oaths we swore when Lucifer twisted the first woman into the first of these abominations."

"Oaths, yeah, that's rich, coming from you," she muttered, and he knew he had her. As the others dug more angels out, Castiel moved from Tophiel to Uzzah and then Azariel, and Buraqil, Dumah, Munkar, Raziel, cajoling his siblings back onto their feet. The seconds slid by as they worked. With the angels' assistance, the humans would be able to free everyone from the rubble in a few minutes, but any moment now the demons would sense their escape.

And then the sky rippled, exploding a moment later into a dome of fire. "The defenses are falling!" one of the humans shouted over the roar of the flames. Ashes began to fall gently like snow. Lightning danced through the fire. "We gotta get out of here before the whole place gets torched!" He coughed and scrubbed soot from his eyes. The ever-present stench of sulfur began to thicken. As one, the group broke into a run.

They made as far as the occupied parts of town.

Black smoke blocked out the sky, lancing down into the terrified slaves swarming below. The demons smashed humans against the walls, broke necks, slashed open stomachs, hamstrung and decapitated. Scorched earth tactics, Castiel thought. He went to work.

None of them had the strength to burn the filth, but they were still angels, and these demons were cannon fodder possessing unarmed humans. It was simplicity to pin a line of demons against a wall and give them a proper exorcism. And then, one by one, the demons fled their hosts, leaving only humans and angels in the streets. They'd won.

"There are tunnels below the city," Tsadkiel said. "Those rebels are moving through them."

"The way out?"

"Must be, or the closest thing we've got. There's an entrance about a mile away--"

The ground ripped open, spewing hellfire. As the fire incinerated humans and angels alike, Castiel manifested his wings, seized the two nearest bodies, and leaped into the air. Landing on a building on the outskirts of old Philadelphia, he released the two he had rescued, turned to go back into the inferno--and fell to his knees, too terrified to move. This maddened escape, the power warping the sky, the spells ripping the city apart--Castiel folded away his wings and trembled.

"They didn't take your wings?" Uzzah. He'd rescued Uzzah. And a human.

"They've grown back. It's almost time for Lucifer to rip them out again." Castiel willed himself to his feet. "I need to go back," he muttered, as much to himself as to the other two. He perched on the roof's edge, gathering his strength to return.

A familiar figure appeared with a pop in the street.

Force wrapped around him, slammed him hard against the opposite building and then to the street. A boot ground his face into the cracked asphault. "Clean up duty," Sam drawled. "Real pain in the ass." He grasped Castiel by the throat and lifted him into the air. "Well, at least I get to kill you." He dug his fingers into the sigil layout and began chanting in Enochian. Magic bound Castiel's true self, began to pull, and blessed Father the pain--

--With a large crack, the skyfire vanished; the sound of breaking glass filled the air as the barriers shattered. Stunned, Sam broke off the chant, and the spell unraveled. Castiel flung himself back, flapping his wings wildly to port out of Philadelphia.

But something went wrong. Perhaps Sam's spell skewed his direction. It felt like drilling straight through the walls of the worlds. Like sinking through very thick, crushing metaphorical gel. And then something snapped, and Castiel fell through.

Into nothing.

Less than nothing, even--more like the negative of existence. Floating in the negation, Castiel wondered if he had died. But then he sensed the glimmers of prayers and messages and spells rushing past him. This was an important discovery, he realized. Finding prayers and seeking revelation came as naturally to angels as breathing did to humans--so naturally that no one had ever really bothered to wonder how it worked. This negation could be the explanation.

Castiel didn't care.

Burnt, exhausted, and weak, all he wanted was to rest. Anywhere would be fine. Castiel felt around in the negation, snatching at passing messages and prayers. Surely one of them must have a friendly on the other end. Here: someone was performing the Last Rites. Desperately gathering the glimmer to himself, he sensed a familar, nonhostile presence on the other end beside whoever was reciting the prayers. There was no time to confirm the person's identity; the negation was dragging at his very being. With the last of his strength, Castiel hurled himself in the direction of the prayer's source, felt the crushing pressure as he drilled through the walls of the worlds once more, and tumbled through a blinding light onto a hard stone floor.

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fiveclawedfics — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 20:26:57 GMT

Weeks pass before the doctors deem Aya strong enough to receive visitors. When Kojuuro gets the news, he heads over to her room, only to faintly hear voices inside, so he relaxes against the wall and waits for the occupants to finish. Eventually the door slides open.

"...Kojuuro."

Kojuuro nearly folds himself in half.

"I am told you spent two days fasting on my daughter's behalf."

"As you say, your Ladyship."

"Your loyalty is to be commended."

"I do my duty, your Ladyship."

"Indeed." And she sweeps away.

There is something about Yoshi that makes his hackles rise. Part of it is because she is, in her own way, a very dangerous woman. She is not a soldier like her husband or daughter, but she is a canny politician and a shrewd businesswoman without whom the running of Oushuu would be a significantly more difficult task. Kojuuro, on the other hand, much prefers to meet his enemies on the battlefield. He can play politics well enough, but encounters with people like Yoshi always leave him feeling as if he is standing on shaky ground.

Because Yoshi is most certainly an enemy. Yoshi despises him, considers him responsible for her daughter's rough and ill-mannered ways. Kojuuro quietly believes that she wanted a daughter to raise in the ways of women and to teach the intricacies of politics. And in fact she has taught Aya much already about the running of the domain, having insisted on participation in the little lady's education even after Kojuuro's boon. The little lady simply will not admit to paying much attention. Kojuuro once debated privately telling Yoshi about how well her daughter has absorbed her lessons, but decided that it would be a Very Bad Idea. The lady of Oushuu is a very proud woman.

He enters the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

"Hey, Kojuuro."

Aya is pale and visibly thinner. Her right eye has turned a milky white and does not focus on him when he enters the room. But she is smiling and sitting up, and Kojuuro feels his own mouth twitching in response.

"Did Mom catch you on the way out?"

"'Mother,' and yes."

"Whatever. She doesn't really care about me anyway."

"Your mother cares about you a great deal--"

"Don't lie to me, Kojuuro."

This is the other problem. Aya's relationship with mother is rocky, to say the least. "Have you been fighting again?"

"No, but as soon as I get better she'll start nagging me again." She closes her eyes, looking tired. "Bonten is going to grow up and be her perfect son. I'm her stupid daughter."

He surprises himself by wrapping his arms around her. "Your mother loves you. No matter how much you fight, she will always love you. That's what mothers do. You'll understand when you have children."

"How would you know? You're not even married."

"I take care of my siblings. And a certain little troublemaker." He ruffles her hair.

"I'm not having kids." It's something she says frequently, so he ignores her, but then she struggles out of his arms to give him a serious look. "Really. I'm not having kids. Or getting married."

"Wait until you're older before--"

"What you mean is that Father will marry me off to someone important. I'm not stupid, Kojuuro." She sits back with a sigh. "All these weeks, I got nothing to do but lay around and think. And I realized something. I'm gonna get a couple of years to ride and fight and act like a boy, and then Father will marry me off to someone and I'll have to stay home and run the castle while he gets to do the funs stuff."

Kojuuro sighs. "Aya-hime, none of us gets to choose who we marry. Your father and mother didn't, and neither will I. And Terumune-sama loves you dearly. I highly doubt he'll choose a man looking for a--a yamato nadeshiko*. Running the domain is an important duty and, well, you wouldn't be the first woman to accompany her husband into battle."

"I don't to fight as someone else's wife!" she snaps, banging her fist on the floor. "I want to fight as me. I want to rule as me. I'm not getting married."

Kojuuro suddenly realizes that this conversation is much more important than he thought. "...Aya-hime, you know I follow your father's wishes," he says, half-sensing a question in her words.

"I don't want you to disobey Father. I want you to help me make Oushuu strong."

Oh gods, she isn't suggesting what he's thinking, is she? "...I can't do that. You'll split Date in two. Your brother is the heir--"

"Not if I start now. Not if you help me. Please, Kojuuro. You said I would make a great lord."

And that is the crux of the problem. He knows in his bones that she will be someone great, someone remembered by the scholars and the storytellers. He wants her to go as far as possible, wants to see her get the accolades that he is certain she will earn.

"...What do you want me to do?"

She grins, fierce and toothy, like Dairokuten-Maoh* himself plotting mischief, and points to her right eye. "Take it out."

*~Footnotes~*

*Yamato nadeshiko--Roughly, "the flower of Japanese womanhood." A yamato nadeshiko is the perfect woman in traditional Japanese patriarchy, being completely devoted to her family and submitting to her father/husband. Wikipedia and Tvtropes have a more detailed explanation.
**Dairokuten-Maoh--The Japanese name for the Buddhist demon Mara. A trickster figure, he tries to tempt people away from a spiritual life.

Untitled Fic, part 4

fiveclawedfics — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 19:47:39 GMT

Aya changes after the incident. Before, she was a good enough pupil in the areas that interested her, but her mind still wandered and she frequently ran off to play instead. But now she understands the precariousness of her situation despite her young age, and throws herself into her work. She orders one of the servants to wake her early every morning, then stumbles into Kojuuro's room, to try to copy his movements as he practices his sword forms. "This is entirely unnecessary, Aya-hime," he tells her one day when she yawns a few too many times. "You're still too inexperienced to properly do most of these forms. And we devote time to the sword every day anyways."

"Doesn't matter," she insists. "I need to be good. Really good."

And she pays close attention when he lectures her on the basics of tactics and strategy, of managing a province, of diplomacy, of protecting the peasants and dealing with natural disasters. Aya is still too young to understand the true import of what he tells her, but she nods and listens and does her best to commit his words to memory. If he can just get her accustomed to thinking like a lord at this young age, Kojuuro hopes, she will fully understand warcraft and statecraft alike by the time she grows up.

Besides, Aya is after all an uncommonly talented child. She understands more than he expects. And she is so very, very dear to him. Kojuuro is determined to prepare her fully for whatever lies in her future.

Until, several months into her eleventh year, disaster threatens that future's existence.

*****

Epidemic rages throughout Oushuu. Terumune orders the monks in the region to set up emergency hospitals and abases himself in long rituals to beg favor from Heaven. Some recover, others die. The disease continues to spread.

When Aya first falls sick, Kojuuro refuses to get worried. She's a strong kid, she'll be fine. When she is confined to bed, she waves off his concerns. "It's not the first time I've been sick, Kojuuro. Nothing's gonna happen."

Two days later, the doctors ban all visitors from her room.

Learning about Aya's condition feels like a punch in the gut. She is delirious; she has a high fever; she may not live out the week. Kojuuro stumbles back to his room, almost senseless. He knows that Terumune is arranging for the monks to carry out special prayers to beg mercy from the buddhas. He knows the doctors are doing everything to save her. He knows there is absolutely nothing he can do.

It's not enough.

Kojuuro sits down in front of the small alter he maintains in his room, lights several sticks of incense, focuses on the mandala, and begins to recite the mantra.

*****

Time passes.

Some people come to take him somewhere. He ignores them.

Some other people come to point out that the monks are already praying for the little lady's life, and that he is only endangering himself. He ignores them, too.

Someone else finally comes to tell him that Aya's fever has broken, and the doctors believe that she will live.

Kojuuro unfolds himself and stands up, stretching out limbs that have fallen asleep by now. He walks shakily down to the kitchens, eats a little rice, then returns to his room to pass out for the next fifteen hours. Previous Chapter

Untitled Fic, part 3

fiveclawedfics — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 02:34:50 GMT

The Katakura maintain an estate two days' journey from Yonezawa Castle with a small town nearby. It is located on a trade route, so it sees a fair amount of traffic, much of which passes by the castle as well. Kojuuro rides out with a merchant train, taking an embarrassing amount of pleasure in its leisurely pace. His mother sent him to Yonezawa six years ago, and he has had few chances to return since then, especially after he was ordered to raise Ayahime. He has never complained about his lot--indeed, he is honored that his lord chose him for so many duties--but nevertheless, he looks forward to seeing his mother and siblings for more than a few days at a time.

Two months pass quietly. Kojuuro works the fields, goes over the household finances with his mother, plays with his younger siblings, runs through the sword forms, reads a new poetry anthology. It is extremely relaxing, extremely pleasant, and more than a little boring. Still, he is adjusting.

And then one day he goes down to the fields and finds Aya waiting for him.

"KOJUURO!!"

It's definitely her. She's dirty and dressed like a common boy, and she seems to have hacked off her hair with a knife, but it's definitely HER. Aya barrels into him with the force of a charging horse, nearly knocking him over, and wraps herself around his legs. Kojuuro almost demands her to tell him what the hell is going on but then realizes that it would be a very bad idea to openly recognize her.

"Mind your manners, boy!" One of the villagers grabs her ear and yanks her back. "Apologize to Katakura-sama. On your knees!"

Aya glowers at the woman for a moment, and then actually obeys. "If your lordship would be so kind, please forgive this one for his impertinence..."

Discreetly Kojuuro pinches himself, just to make sure that it isn't a dream. The woman bows shamefacedly. "Please forgive him, Katakura-sama, he's just a boy we took in, lost his parents in the wars--"

"It's nothing, not a problem. In fact--" He reaches down to pull Aya to her feet, then hoists her up over his shoulder. "I'll see that he's cared for back at the mansion."

As soon as they're on the horse and heading back home, Aya twists around to look at him, eyes bright. "Kojuuro! I knew I'd find you at the fields! Look, everything is gonna be fine--" He scowls down at her. Her grin wavers just a little, then snaps back into place. "I know you're angry, but--"

"--But nothing, Aya-hime! What the hell are you doing here? Running away? No, forget it. We'll talk once you've had a proper bath. And clothes. And a haircut. What were you thinking?!"

"Leaving!" she says hotly. "You don't get it, Kojuuro, it was awful in Yonezawa. Mummy wants me to act like a girl and be really polite, stupid polite I mean, and I have to wear all these kimonos and they're impossible to move in. It's horrible, horrible! So I left."

"You can't just leave! You can't ignore all the things you don't like. You have responsibilities, Aya-hime--"

"Not anymore," she says bitterly. "Daddy has his heir now and Mummy doesn't like me, so they don't need me anymore. I'll just sit around the castle and wait for Daddy to marry me off to some other lord, and then I'll sit around his castle making babies. That isn't responsibilities, Kojuuro. It's just sitting." She fingers the horn of the saddle. "It's stupid! I'm not going to sit around castles for the rest of my life! I'm going to have adventures. I'll fight all the bad guys and become the best samurai in Japan." She twists around to grin at him. "Come with me! You can teach me how to fight and we'll go all over Japan on a warrior's pilgrimage. It'll be a real party!"

Kojuuro pulls the horse to a stop, catches her chin to force her to look at him. "I'm ashamed to hear you say that."

"Kojuuro--"

"Did you learn nothing from me? You're the daughter of Date Terumune. I'm the head of the Katakura family. We both owe Terumune-sama our lives and our service. Run away?! I would kill myself first. You're going right back home tomorrow morning, and don't even think about trying to run off."

He lets go of her, but Aya-hime keeps staring at him, wide-eyed. Then she twists back around, slumps down into the saddle--and bursts into tears.

Kojuuro is stunned. Aya does not cry very much, not for a child her age. Oh, she wails like any other little kid when she hurts herself, but her default unhappy emotion is spitting mad, usually with a side dish of mass destruction. She doesn't cry.

But right now she buries her face in the horse's mane, shoulders shuddering, making little whimpering sounds. It is really quite unnerving. Shocked, Kojuuro pulls the horse to a stop, slides off, leads it to the side of the road, and hobbles it. Then he pulls Aya off and sits down, pressing her to his chest. At first she struggles and tries to push him away, but after a moment or two she gives in and wraps her arms around him.

They sit there for a while in silence. Kojuuro wracks his mind for a solution. It is his lord's decision that the little lady will move to the women's quarters, but he cannot abide to see Aya so miserable. He strokes her hair, dirty and tangled. Every sense is screaming, do something, do something.

"Look," he says at last, "I'll talk to your father when we get back to Yonezawa. I can't promise anything, but I'll try my best. Okay?"

She looks up, eyes wide and tearstained. "Really?!"

"I can't promise anything," he repeats. "You'll probably continue with your lessons anyway. But Terumune-sama might permit me to teach you the sword."

Aya actually squeals and snuggles up to him, burying her head in his shirt.

*******

"How did you do it?"

"Sir?"

"How did you bring her back willingly? Anyone else would need to drag her home kicking and screaming. I know my daughter, Kojuuro."

"As you say, Terumune-sama."

Kojuuro tried his best to return Aya to Yonezawa as discreetly as possible, but as soon as he neared the castle he encountered bands of searches armed with posters of her face. By the time they reached Yonezawa people had already come out to stare. After the servants rushed the little lady out of his sight, Terumune called him into a private room and demanded an explanation.

"Hiding herself on a merchant's wagon." His lord whistles. "How many nine-year-olds actually make a plan to run away? I was wondering why she had gotten so quiet in the last few weeks. She must have been planning this for some time." Like most people who have dealt with Ayae, his voice holds a mixture of exasperation and admiration. And more than a little affection.

They drink their tea in silence. Finally Terumune puts his cup down. "What can I do for you, Kojuuro." It's not a question so much as a statement of fact.

"Serving your lordship is enough of a reward, Terumune-sama."

"Yes, and I'm sure all of my other retainers will be impressed by your loyalty. I, however, prefer to pay my debt immediately. So if there is anything I can do..."

This is his chance. Kojuuro scoots back on his knees and bows until his forehead touches the floor. "Terumune-sama, it would be my honor if you would permit me to continue to tutor your daughter."

A momentary silence, and then a dry chuckle. "Anyone else, I would have thought this whole fiasco was their plan." It is a hurtful statement, and Kojuuro just barely prevents himself from angrily protesting, but Terumune carries on regardless. "But not you! I know you. And I know my Aya." Another dry chuckle. "Sit up, Kojuuro, and look me in the eye." Terumune's hands are flat on his knees, and he has a small but not unkind smile on his face. "You're one of my best and brightest. In a few years, you will be teaching Bontenmaru as you taught Aya. In a few decades, you will be one of the most senior retainers to the Date clan. Your request could threaten that future. Now tell me, why do you want to teach Aya?"

"Your daughter is a prodigy, Terumune-sama. I believe it would be a terrible waste if--"

"Be honest, Kojuuro. Why do you really want to teach Aya?"

"...I promised Aya-hime that I would request--"

"I said to be honest."

Terumune's voice has the sharp crack of the general for whom he fights. "I want Ayahime to be happy. I want the pleasure of teaching her and I want to watch her grow up. I want to see her ride into battle and make Date proud."

He feels his cheeks burn. Ever since he was young, he was trained to serve, to subdue his own desires for the sake of Oushuu. But Terumune grins, wide and open.

"Request granted." Previous Chapter

Untitled Fic, part 2

fiveclawedfics — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 02:15:46 GMT

When Kojuuro is nineteen, Yoshi becomes pregnant again.

To his surprise, Aya is rather excited at the prospect. "It'll be so cool!" she gushes to Kojuuro. "We'll go on adventures and fight battles together and we'll always have each other's backs. I'll show him how to read and to ride a horse and how to use a sword and which people you should trust. We'll be like Yoritomo and Yoshitsune. You can be Benkei," she adds graciously.

"Aya-hime, may I remind you that Yoritomo betrayed his brother and forced him to commit seppuku," Kojuuro points out. He's tried to make her understand that ruler cannot limit himself (or herself) to battle; she needs to understand how to run a country and to follow the political intrigues that inevitably accumulate around an important daimyo.

Unfortunately, Aya refuses to pay attention. "Yoritomo should've listened to Yoshitsune instead of Kajiwara Kagetoki," she says dismissively. "Obviously I won't make that same mistake. Siblings are supposed to help each other, not fight."

Kojuuro sighs. "Aya-hime, if your honored mother bears a son, he will replace you as the heir to Oushuu. Your lessons with the sword will end, your rooms will be moved to the women's quarters, and your mother and her handmaids will teach you how to run a household and be a good wife. Even if Yoshi-hime gives birth to a daughter, she will still be raised as a girl."

Aya blinks at him, and for a moment he thinks that she understands the gravity of the situation. Then she laughs. "Daddy wouldn't do that to me."

"Father," Kojuuro corrects her. Despite his best efforts, Aya's approach to politeness is half-hearted, to say the least.

"Whatever. He wouldn't do that to me because he loves me. Besides, I'd be terrible at girl stuff. I'm really good at being a boy."

She is absolutely right. Aya is unusually intelligent. She knows her numbers, writes well, and while her approach to statecraft lacks subtly she seems to understand the basics of responsibility. And even at this early stage in her education, she appears to be a prodigy with the sword. For a nine-year-old girl, it is quite a list of accomplishments. Kojuuro rather guiltily hopes that the baby will be a girl. Aya would make a terrible wife, would argue incessantly and refuse to submit to her husband. And she really does have the potential to become a good leader of Oushuu. It would be a waste to send her to the women's quarters.

Still, one must make do with what one receives in life. He tries to explain this to Aya when her mother bears a son and Terumune-sama releases him from his duties.

"What do you mean, you're leaving?!" she cries. She actually grabs onto his trousers. "You can't go! You're my teacher!"

"Aya-hime, we've already discussed this. Your brother is the heir now. What you need to study are subjects that your mother can best teach you."

"That's why you have to stay! No one is listening to me!" She is desperate. "The servants took away my bokken and some of my books and clothes and everything else they moved to the women's quarters and Mummy wants me to learn how to play the shamisen. I can't play the shamisen, Kojuuro!" She tugs harder. "But Daddy will listen to you, I know he will, he always said you were one of his best retainers. You said I could be a great ruler, Kojuuro! He'll listen to you!"

Kojuuro sighs, squeezes her shoulder. "Everyone has their responsibilities."

"I know that. You've told me a million times--"

"Everyone has their responsibilities," he repeats more firmly. "But responsibilities change sometimes. Your duty is to obey your parents, study your lessons, and prepare for the day when you marry to strengthen Date. You do not need to worry about the duties of an heir anymore. Instead you will learn how to run a household, mind its income, and to be a good wife and mother."

A servant slides the door open. "Katakura-sama, the merchants are getting ready to leave!"

"I'll be out shortly." Kojuuro climbs to his feet and ruffles Aya's hair. "We will see each other again," he says gently. "Just not as often."

And then he walks out. It's difficult not to look back, but Kojuuro has always been a model of discipline.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Untitled Fic, part 1

fiveclawedfics — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 03:41:55 GMT

When Kojuuro is ten, a great celebration is held: Yoshi has finally given the lord of Date a child. At the time, he is too young to understand the true reason for celebration. All that matters is that Date Terumune now has an heir. This is the person that Kojuuro will serve when he grows up. Even at this young age, he is all too aware of his duty. The Katakura have always been senior retainers of the Date family. As the eldest son he is expected to be an exemplar of service--all the more so that, having lost his father some years back, he must also be the head of the family.

By the time he is fifteen, though, when he has received his name and begun his service as a personal page to Terumune, Kojuuro knows that Aya is not the heir that his lord needs. Terumune needs a son for an heir. His daughter's birth proved his wife's fertility, and so there was much hope Yoshi might produce a son, given time. But five years have passed and the lady has not even born another daughter. For now it seems that Aya will grow up as an only child.

Even though she is not the child he wanted, the little lady is still the apple of her father's eye. Terumune dotes on his daughter; he visits whenever he can find the time and gets down on his hands and knees to play with her, for all the lack of dignity it brings him. Those seeking the lord of Oushuu are frequently told to look in his daughter's quarters, and Kojuuro has been present on several occasions when Terumune met informally with a few close advisors with his little girl in his lap. Perhaps for this reason he comes up with his unusual idea.

Kojuuro is present when Terumune makes the formal announcement to the rest of the clan. "Aya will become my heir," he says sternly, looking down at his other notable retainers from his seat on the dais. "She will be raised like a man and lead Date after my death. I will not accept any other alternatives.

A low murmur fills the room for a few moments before someone finally says, "Terumune-sama, there are plenty of other capable men--blood relations, even--that you could adopt--"

"No!" Terumune brings his palm down hard on the surface of the dais, silencing all other voices. "I fully intend to see my own child inherit my office. Perhaps in the future the gods will bless me with a son, but I cannot bet on that possibility and Ayais reaching the age to begin her education. For the present she must be raised like a boy."

It is an unpopular decision, one perceived as putting Oushuu at risk. But Date Terumune is a good and capable reward, and so the grumbles about his decision never go much further. Aya begins learning her kanji and her numbers from the family shrine's priest. Privately, Terumune informs Kojuuro that in a few years he will become the little lady's teacher in the sword and the bow. "You are the head of the Katakura," his lord explains. "It is imperative that you grow used to serving Aya. You will be her right hand when the two of you have grown older." Terumune permits himself a small smile. "You have performed excellently so far. I have high expectations of you."

Kojuuro bows his head. "It is an honor, Terumune-sama," he says huskily. It turns out that his childish assumption was correct five years ago. Aya is the person that he will serve when she grows up.

**************

Aya grows into what the polite would call "a rambunctious child" and what everyone else would call "a little terror in desperate need of a spanking." Spankings work on occasion, but Kojuuro quickly discovers that understanding the way she thinks is the quickest way to results. After she begins pinching unaware bystanders and running away giggling, he sits her down and has a Talk with her:

"You are going to stop pinching people from now on. Your behavior is inappropriate for the heir of the Date clan." (He has been criticized for using long words, but Aya is much smarter than most people credit her, and does not appreciate the adults who talk down to her.)

"You say that about everything. I'm the heir. I get to do what I want, and everyone has to obey me." She scowls, a look of almost comic disapproval on her little face.

Kojuuro sighs. "You are picking fights and then running away. Are you a coward, Aya-hime?"

"No! No, I'm not--"

"You can't be a coward and be the heir to the Date. Oushuu needs a strong leader."

"I'm not a coward!"

"You're acting like one."

"It's just fun, Kojuuro, it's not a fight--"

"You're hurting people." He's got the bruises to prove it. "Which means you're trying to start a fight. And then you're running away."

"It's not a fight!" Aya bursts out.

"Then why are you pinching people?" Kojuuro crouches down to look her in the eye, clasping her shoulders. "Aya-hime, only a bully and a coward hurts people outside of a fight. A samurai only attacks when he means to go to war. Are you a bully or are you a samurai?"

"I'm a samurai!"

"Then act like one." Kojuuro stands up and delivers the final blow. "I am very disappointed in you, Aya-hime. I thought you weren't a bully."

"Kojuuro--"

"You will stop pinching people from now on. Am I understood?"

"...Yes, Kojuuro."

"Good." He turns on his heel and leaves the room, sliding the door behind him.

The funny thing is, he thinks as he prepares for bed later that night, is that she truly loves him. Kojuuro is the one who disciplines her, who drills her in her lessons, who drags her with him out to the farms every planting season, and yet Ayaadores him. She follows him everywhere, even into the onsen, which his acquaintances--and more importantly, Terumune--think is hilarious. "Tell me about the Genpei War, Kojuuro. Can I hold your sword? Please please? I don't get it, isn't the whole point of the peasants to grow plants and make stuff? Why does Dad have to meet with those stupid old men from Aizu anyways? Some of Mummy's servants said I was a mean brat. Am I a brat, Kojuuro?"

("Later, Aya-hime, after you've finished copying your characters. No, it's too heavy for you. I said no, Aya-hime. You're getting it wrong; we're here to serve the peasants, not the other way around. Not everything can be solved by fighting, Aya-hime. You are a strong and smart little girl--I'm sorry, big girl--though you get into far too much trouble.")

And, Kojuuro thinks as he dozes off, in spite of everything he is in fact developing a soft spot for that walking catastrophe. Aya is a fierce little thing, full of energy and excitement. Most of the complaints about Terumune's choice have died away; Aya seems much better suited for a boy's life than that of a girl.

He's still not sure where she got that damn Barbarianese phrase book, but he'd swear she memorized the entire thing before he took it away. Next Chapter

Untitled One-Shot, post-5.10

fiveclawedfics — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 22:26:01 GMT

He knows. And he's pretty certain Dean knows he knows.

Sam noticed early on the intensity of his brother's relationship with Castiel. It wasn't that surprising, what with the whole "gripped-you-tight-and-pulled-you-from-perdition" thing, so Sam never really paid it much attention. And then on the way to Kripke's Hollow after the catastrophe in Ilchester, Sam had been a little too distracted to listen closely as Dean explained the situation he had left back at Chuck's place. But later, when he thought about it, he remembered the strange tenor to his brother's voice, as if it were about to break.

Still, that wouldn't have meant much, except Sam hasn't been sleeping well, lately. Starting the Apocalypse tends to weigh heavy on the conscience. These days he sleeps in fits and starts, drifting off uneasily only to bolt awake a few hours later. Sometimes he'll get up, wash his face, or maybe pace a bit, just something to get this restless energy out. Usually Dean sleeps like a baby--or pretends to--throughout.

Except for this one time, when he woke up to the sound of whispers.

It took him a few seconds to realize people were talking, and then he nearly bolted out of bed before he recognized the sound of Dean and Castiel's voices. Which...okay, weird. He hadn't realized that the angel had started dropping by for social calls in the middle of the night. Alright, it wasn't that uncharacteristic of the angel, but he was surprised that his brother put up with it. Sam opened his eyes.

Dean was sitting up in bed, turned to look at Castiel, who was perched on the side of the bed, back to Sam. They were speaking too softly for Sam to make out more than their voices. Castiel dropped his head, and Dean leaned forward to place his hand on the angel's shoulder, speaking intently. After a moment Castiel lifted his head to look at Dean, his profile sharp in the moonlight. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then cupped it against Dean's cheek.

And...wow. Wow. This was lightyears away from his business, but Sam could not turn away. Normally Sam would have expected Dean to rear back, pull away from the angel, but instead he reached up to cover the hand with his own. And rasped out a single syllable, loud enough for Sam to hear:

"Cas..."

Not my business. Really not my business, Sam thought, and forced himself to roll over.

After that night, he starts noticing things. The way Dean's eyes always flick across Castiel's body when the angel appears. The goofy little smile he gets on his face when Castiel calls. How they always seem to drift towards each other when they're in the same room. Once Sam knows what to look for, it's almost suffocating to be in the same space with them, because Castiel is here not for the Winchesters but for Dean, while Dean...Dean wants to do things that involve Sam not being there. And the air thickens with desire.

It's weird. Weird weird, for a multitude of reasons, and Castiel being male-shaped is only the start. Sam has never seen his brother act like this before, and Castiel, well, is sort of like a massive walking bundle of over-serious bizarreness. And then they waltz around each other like awkward teenagers still figuring out the basics of flirting ettiquette. It should be funny, but it really, really isn't.

Sam can't take it anymore. The next time Castiel shows up, he makes hasty excuses involving nonexistant hunger and a burger place up the road, and gets the hell out. Twenty minutes later he's ensconced in a little secondhand bookstore he noticed yesterday.

Sam likes bookstores. Independent ones, not the crappy impersonal chains. Something about them makes it easier for him to think. Right now, drifting through the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section (which consists primarily of cheesy pulp novels and the usual selection of Heinlein and Asimov), Sam thinks he should be happy for his brother. Dean has fallen in love with someone who returns it fullheartedly, and that's a good thing, right? After all the crap in their lives, after all that misery, Dean deserves a little happiness. It's the end of the world, after all, so it's not like he's going to get another chance.

Except the only thing Sam can think is, Someone else to lose. Because they're all going to die. It's the end of the world, and he and Dean are both signed up to play leading parts--well, vessels to the leading parts--in the play. They have the entire forces of Heaven and Hell gunning for them, and the damn Colt didn't work, and they are all going to die. Hell, the way their luck runs, everyone they know will die. Especially Castiel, who defied Heaven for them--no, for Dean. Castiel will die, and it will wreck Dean, who will also die, and Sam will die, too. Okay, so maybe it won't be in quite that order, but they're all gonna die. Probably painfully, too.

Sam wants his brother to get that happy ending. He wants to see Dean ride off (fly off?) into the sunset with his arm around Cas, and maybe get a letter every Christmas from some godforsaken part of the US, because his brother specializes in finding flyspeck towns in the middle of nowhere. He'd also like a white picket fence in the boringest part of surburbia, complete with the wife and the dog and the 2.5 kids, and for the the Apocalypse to be a little less imnient. And maybe a pony.

Two hours later, he comes back to the motel, burgers in hand. Castiel is gone, and Dean is in the shower, singing Led Zepplin very badly. The sheets on Dean's bed have been smoothed out, which is funny, because Sam is pretty sure they were all rumpled up when he left. A couple of minutes later the bathroom door swings open, quickly swings closed again once Sam is spotted, then swings open once more before Dean emerges, now with a towel wrapped around his waist. "So was the Burger Ranch or whatever it's called any good?"

"I've had better. And worse, I guess...it's passable. Thought you might be hungry when I got back, so I brought you one of their cheeseburgers."

"Yeah? ...What took you so long?" Dean is already digging through the bag, but there's an odd twist to his voice.

"Stopped by a bookstore, browsed a bit...you know."

"Nerd." There's a bite mark on his neck that wasn't there before. Sam doesn't say a thing.

The Devil's in the Details, Part 3

fiveclawedfics — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:05:16 GMT

Bobby was always glad to see the Winchester boys. They were good hunters and good people, two qualities that didn't necessarily go hand in hand. Problem was, they always brought trouble trailing after them every time they showed up on his doorstep.

This time, trouble was six feet tall, skinny with a too-big T-shirt dangling off of him, and a habit at staring intensely at everything. Literally, everything. He was staring out around at all the junked up cars when the door opened, just a few steps behind the boys, and then his head whipped around to look Bobby up and down. Bobby returned the stare. "You wanna tell me who your pal is?"

Sam exhaled shortly, a sigh of long frustration. "It's...kinda a long story." The brothers exchanged glances briefly. "There are a couple of things he needs to look up...we were wondering if we could look through your books," Sam continued

The skinny guy said nothing. Just stared.

"Yeah, well, come on in," Bobby said. As the little group at the door came into the house, he went to get a couple of beers, spiked with holy water, of course. The boys took their bottles without a fuss--they knew the drill--but the skinny guy stared at the beer, then at Bobby, then back at the beer, before taking it and swallowing a mouthful.

The guy remained quiet as the Winchester boys told Bobby one of the silliest stories he had ever heard--and Bobby had been on some pretty bizarre hunts in his lifetime. He sat back in his chair as they finished. "You idjits really expect me to believe this?"

There was a look of mildly constipated frustration on Dean's face. "I know it's ridiculous, but you think we'd've come to you if, you know, if there hadn't been..." He trailed off, gesturing in a futile attempt to convey his thoughts. "All this weird stuff's been happening, and I sure as hell don't know what to make of it. Thought you might have some idea what's going on."

"The more absurd a tale is, the more likely it is to be true," the skinny guy--Castiel--said suddenly. "People usually go for the more believable story when they're lying. So the stranger it is..." He shrugged. "You should know that. You're hunters. Strange stories are your stock in trade."

"Yeah, and sometimes a moron mistakes a goat for a unicorn," Bobby retorted. Still, Trouble here didn't come off like a fool, and there was something distinctly off about him. He was a little too...intense. Bobby narrowed his eyes at the stranger. "Listen, why don't you take a walk while I talk things over with the boys," he asked, testing for a reaction. "Outside. You look like you could use the sunshine."

To his mild surprise, the guy slid his chair out and got up without a word. A few moments later the front door slammed.

There was a brief pause before Bobby turned back to the boys. "Alright, now that he's out of the way, why don't you tell me what really happened."

"We did," Sam said flatly.

"So this guy tries to kill you with some crazy mojo, and now you're trying to help him?"

"Uh. See, uh.." Sam flailed around for an explanation for a few moments before getting out, "Honestly, Bobby, I don't know what else to do with him. We can't get rid of him, we can't kill him--"

"Believe me, I tried," Dean interjected.

"Yeah, he offered to let us take potshots at him during lunch. Now he just follows us around, giving Dean puppy-dog eyes."

"What're you talking about, you're the one he's obsessed with," Dean protested. "All that Antichrist shit, half the time he looks like he's ready to kill you." He let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. "We figured you might know what he is, Bobby, how to get rid of him, something."

"And there's also the stuff he told us about the yellow-eyed demon."

"Sam! I told you to forget that bullshit!"

"Look, Dean, you can ignore it if you like, but this is the first lead we've gotten on the yellow-eyed demon in a while, and I'm sure as hell following up on it. I mean, what if he's right? All the special kids up against each other in a battle royale, winner gets to start the Apocalypse. With stakes like those, even if there's only the slightest chance of it ever happening, we gotta find a way to stop it, right? We can't just sit back and let it happen!"

"Armageddon isn't going to happen, Sam, it's just the crazy ranting of a lunatic," Dean said wearily.

Bobby brought his hands down on the table sharply just as Sam opened his mouth for a retort, succeeding in shutting the boys up for once. "Alright. You boys know you're always welcome here. Your...friend can sleep on the floor." Truth be told, Bobby didn't know what to do with the so-called angel, but putting on a friendly appearance might give him the time to figure out what this Castiel really was.

It was in this fashion that Bobby found himself spending a week in close quarters with the Winchesters and an overpowered lunatic. To his surprise, it went better than he thought. The boys spent most of their time apart--Sam peered through old demonologies, while Dean worked on cars in the yard--which was probably a good thing, since when they did run into each other, they inevitably began to fight. Bobby would swear he had heard the same argument at least four times since they came to stay: Sam wanted to stick around a little longer, while Dean wanted to get back on the road. But all those arguments were really about Castiel. Looking into a connection between the yellow-eyed demon and Azazel meant acknowledging on some level that the so-called angel's story might hold some truth to it, that Sam might someday go crazy and kill them all. And that idea was something that Dean refused to contemplate.

As for the person responsible for this mess, he secreted himself in the attic with some of the oldest, most esoteric texts in the house, only coming out on a few rare occasions to pick out another book. And then, bizarrely, he began doing chores. Two days after the Winchester's arrival, Bobby came downstairs in the morning to find breakfast already set out on the table. The coffee had one hell of a kick, the food was edible, and the dishes would turn up clean if he left them in the sink long enough. Even then, Bobby wasn't quite certain if the guy was responsible until he caught Castiel piling dirty laundry into the washing machine.

"You learn to do that up in Heaven?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Heaven exists on dimensions far beyond this plane of base matter. But I've spent most of the last few years in army camps. You pick up stuff."

"Like making breakfast."

"Yeah, well..." Castiel half-shrugged, bent over as he was. "You humans need so much maintenance. Most of us picked up the basics within a year or two."

Typical conversation for the--whatever the guy was.

A few days after that, Bobby woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps coming up to the second floor. When he went to investigate, he found Castiel with Sam's overlarge body easily slung over his shoulder at the top of the stairs. Noticing Bobby, the guy made a gesture as if to wave away suspicion. "He passed out a short while ago. I think he drank up all of your rum."

Going down a few steps and craning his neck, Bobby could just see the glint of empty bottles on the kitchen table. Nearby, Sam made a snuffling sound. There was a thin line of drool trickling from his mouth, and even in sleep his face had that mildly stupid look common among drunks pasted across it. "What happened?"

"He found what he was looking for," Castiel said, with a touch of grim relish. "I was right."

Bobby felt a chill run through his veins. "About the Apocalypse?"

"No, about the identity of the yellow-eyed demon, so far as I can tell from the books he was looking at. You can check it out, he left a bunch of books open on the living room floor."

Sure enough, there was a whole circle of books just wide enough to accommodate a stretched-out Sam Winchester. Bobby squatted to take a look. There was an old translation of 1st and 2nd Enoch, a well-thumbed commentary on the Torah, a couple of medieval demonologies, collections of myths primarily from the Middle East, and a few more modern (and now highlighted, damn it) texts on the topic of demons. Pages and pages of scribbled notes, broken occasionally by devil traps and similar occult symbols, completed the mess.

"Most of the Watchers were killed during the First Rebellion," came a voice above him, making Bobby nearly jump out of his skin. That was another thing that annoyed him about the so-called angel; the bastard was unnaturally fast and quiet. Castiel flopped down nearby, propping his arms up on his knees. "The strongest and the cruelest were stripped of their Grace and bound in Hell. Except for Lucifer, of course. Still, something of the divine lingers within, corrupted into an obscenity, which is why holy water and similar measures won't hold them." He sighed. "Never did learn how Azazel got out of Hell. Once the shit hits the fan, you don't bother worrying about how it happens, just how to stop it."

There were a couple of minutes of silence as Bobby examined Sam's notes. They were pretty hard to follow--Sam used some sort of personal shorthand for most of them--but after a while he picked up the line of reasoning. Nothing about the Apocalypse, actually, but a lot about a whole variety of powerful demons, analysis of the stories surrounding Azazel, and yellow-eyed creatures in mythology. And, Bobby realized with a sinking feeling, Castiel was right, at least on this one fact. Azazel was the yellow-eyed demon. Which meant...

"We on the verge of the Apocalypse?"

"Mm. More like the verge of the verge. There's still a few big hoops to jump through first, but Azazel's already got his pawns lined up . Bastard's smart as fuck. He wouldn'ta put his plan into action until he was absolutely ready. Give it a couple of years and..." Castiel made a small exploding sound.

"How do we stop him? Without killing the special kids," Bobby added as the "angel" opened his mouth.

Castiel gave him a sulky look. "I wasn't going to suggest that," he said irritatedly. "Killing the kids might give us some time, but it won't solve the root of the problem. Besides, I'm--disconnected from this world. Couldn't pick out their location if my life depended on it. Azazel is the key. Kill him before he opens a Devil's Gate, and no more Apocalypse. "

"I don't suppose you have some fancy-shmancy angel power to put him down?" Bobby asked without much hope.

"Nah. I'm just a foot soldier. Grigori are way above my paygrade."

A foot soldier supposedly close to the Messiah, by his own account. Bobby was pretty certain that Castiel was lying about something, but he wasn't quite sure what. Before, it was easier to just dismiss the guy's stories entirely, but after this identification of Yellow-eyes with Azazel...not so much. Bobby flipped through the notes again, just to make sure. After a moment he asked, "What kinda dumbass locks up his strongest enemy instead of taking him down, anyway?"

"Well, with Lucifer, even Michael was pushed to his limits, binding him in place. As for the Watchers...I think it was a fate-worse-than-death thing. Or because most of the higher echelons are smug, self-righteous bastards willing to let the world burn if it turns out well for them, the fuckers. Probably both. I was far too low in the ranks when I was one of the loyal to get any explanation beyond 'Have faith.' And once I left the ranks of the loyal, well, like I said, the Apocalypse takes a higher priority to everything else."

"And God?"

Castiel leveled a penetrating look at him. "God exists."

Bobby stared right back at him, undaunted. "So where is He? Sitting back on His ass, watching the world burn?"

After a moment, the so-called angel looked away. "...We don't know."

"You don't know?!"

"God exists," Castiel said severely with the rock-hard certainty of a fanatic. "The prophecies aren't being sent by any angel and certainly by no demon, but someone must be sending them, therefore God must exist." He tilted his head. "Are you acquainted with Deism?"

"Yeah, yeah, God is a clockmaker." Bobby sighed. It was two in the morning, and he was not in the mood for a theological discussion. The Apocalypse was nigh. Right now, he felt old and tired. Bobby sat back on the floor and stretched his legs out with a groan, disturbing some of the notes. "The boys're probably leaving in the morning. Well, whenever Sam recovers from his hangover." Castiel nodded, a brief duck of his head. "You going with them?"

"I'm not wanted," the other man said matter-of-factly, a strain of bitterness twisting through his voice. "I don't force my company on other people, not unless it's necessary. I was thinking of staying here, if you'll have me. You've got one hell of a library here. There's still a couple of things I wanna check out."

"...And if I kick you out?"

Castiel gave a half-shrug. "Dunno. Probably go to the Vatican or some place similar. It's not like I've got anything urgent now."

"Armageddon don't count as urgent?"

"What do you expect me to do?" There was a distinct note of annoyance in Castiel's voice. "My plan involved Winchesters, but neither of 'em are interested in playing along. I suppose I could hunt Azazel down and get myself torn to shreds, but I don't think that would be very productive."

"And you're more interested in finding a way home than you are in stopping the Apocalypse here."

Castiel's fists clenched and unclenched convulsively. "I miss my Dean," he said after a moment.

Bobby considered the man. He didn't really want the guy around, but... "You waltz in here knowing the answers to questions John Winchester spent years just learning how to ask. You go through the oldest books in the house, books I've owned for decades and barely understand a word in 'em, and you--you make corrections in the margins." Castiel raised his head to nod cautiously. "You can stay here long as you like, but in return you're gonna find a way to kill Yellow-eyes that doesn't involve a gun we don't have anymore. We're not sitting back on our asses waiting for the Apocalypse. I don't care if you need to build the damn Colt from scratch--you're finding a way to kill that sonuvabitch. Do we have a deal?"

The so-called angel cocked his head, examining Bobby with a canny eye. "We have a deal."

Go to the previous chapter.

Coda to 5.01

fiveclawedfics — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 05:17:51 GMT

He should be able to sleep. After all the stuff that's happened in the last day or so, Dean is surprised he doesn't just pass out in exhaustion as soon as his head hits the pillow. But he's too keyed up to sleep, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Eventually he gives up, rolls out of bed, and pulls his clothes on. Sam stirs in the next bed when he stubs his toe on something and curses, but only turns over and goes back to sleep. Which is a relief. Dean still isn't quite certain how to deal with a conscious Sam, doesn't even know how to talk to him at the moment. They haven't spoken a word to each other since that brief conversation in the parking lot. Sam hasn't even been able to meet his eye. It took him ages just to get in the damn car. Dean is pretty certain that if he hadn't waited for Sam, had just driven off then and there, Sam would've turned around and never come back. And yeah, there's a part of him that wonders if maybe he should have done that, make a clean cut, rather than dragging it out.

See, Sam was always Dean's everything. His little brother to protect, his friend to tease, his partner to back him up. But none of that really applies any more. Sam turned it all down when he walked out the door from that trashed motel room, chose his demon girlfriend over his brother. And, y'know, started the fucking apocalypse. You can't protect someone who doesn't want protection. It's kinda hard to joke with a guy who set the devil free. And yeah, Sam will probably back Dean up for now--but what about in the future? What happens when withdrawal kicks in (because that's definitely a when, not an if, no way in hell something that fucked up doesn't come with a nasty good-bye present)? Or if his demon powers come back? Shit, what if Sam just goes nuts and starts killing everything? His eyes went black, killing Lilith. He must be part demon now. God only knows how long it is before he starts acting like a demon, too.

Funny thing is, even after all the shit that's gone down, Dean still can't turn Sam away. Because Sam is Dean's everything. Has been so ever since he was four. At this point, Dean can't begin to imagine life without him.

He just can't imagine life with him, either.

There's a vending machine in the parking lot, and Dean goes out to buy a coke. While he's punching in the numbers, there is the soft whuff of displaced air behind him, and Dean doesn't have to turn around to know who's there. "You really do need to be more careful," come that familiar, gravelly voice.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Dean says, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. The coke makes a clunking noise as it hits the bottom of the vending machine, and he bends to pick it up. "Lucifer's up and about and everyone wants my head on a pike. But the whole world's going to hell, I figure I could use a coke." Actually, he could really use a drink, except he's pretty certain that would be a spectacularly bad idea at the moment.

Dean turns, leans back against the machine and gives a side-long glance at the angel standing next to him. Castiel has his hands tucked into his pockets, gazing at the sky with an unreadable expression. After a moment he glances over at Dean, who quickly finds his bottle cap far more interesting than the angel. He fiddles with it for a moment. There are a lot of things he wants to say to Castiel, but he's having a hard time getting the words out because he is not a girl, and all the things he can think of are really girly sentences. "How're you... I'm, uh... You doing okay? Not about to, uh, explode or anything?" He takes a long swig to cover up his embarassment.

"The form is stable. It'll do, for a vessel." Castiel pauses briefly. "Jimmy is gone, though."

"He's gone? What, did the angels take him away?"

"My siblings destroyed his body. Such experiences tend to be fatal for mortals," Castiel says dryly.

"But you're--" Dean gestures vaguely at the angel. "You look like...I mean, you still got the bed head and, and the crappy trench coat and--you know." And the big blue eyes and the slender wrists and those sharp hipbones which have played significant roles in some of Dean's more colorful dreams lately.

But Castiel shakes his head. "The appearance is the same but the body is different. Jimmy has gone to his reward." Another pause. "It's...lonely."

Dean can think of about a million responses to that, all of which are likely to provoke serious smiting. Instead he sticks with a mumbled, "Lonely. Sure. Sucks, doesn't it." And then, hesitantly, "You can crash with us. If, uh, you need a place." Christ, he sounds like a teenage virgin working up her courage to ask her crush out. "Or...yeah. I mean, we've got the room."

"Angels don't need rest. Not the way humans do, at least," Castiel says shortly. And then he looks straight at Dean. "You should be resting. The opportunities to do so will probably be rare in the future."

"Hey. You think if I could sleep I'd be out here, drinking a coke?" He takes a long drink, just to punctuate his point.

"I'll come back to your room with you," Castiel says, and Dean chokes on the soda. "I'll put you to sleep." And a line like that is just asking for a dirty rejoinder, except for the high-chance-of-smiting thing. Dean thinks he'd actually turn the offer down if only because of what he's afraid he'll do, but Castiel is right. He could use the sleep. So he finishes off the coke and tosses it in a nearby trashcan. "Yeah, okay."

Back in the hotel room, Sam is still asleep. Dean pulls off his shoes and socks, climbs into bed, pulls a thin sheet over himself, and closes his eyes. After several moments entirely free of angel fingers on his forehead, he opens them again to glare at Castiel. "Well? Make with the angel mojo!"

Castiel frowns at him. "You shouldn't sleep in your clothes."

Dean stares at the angel. "Cas, I'm thirty years old. I think I can go to bed any way I want by now."

"It's unhygenic to sleep in your clothes," says Castiel primly.

Dean gives up. He pulls his jacket and shirts off and slides out of his jeans, extremely conscious of the angel watching intently. It feels vaguely like being in a porn movie without any actual porn.

After he settles beneath the sheets again, Castiel perches on the edge of the bed and looks down at him. "Goodnight, Dean," he says gravely.

It's possibly the last thing Dean ever expected to hear from the angel. "Uh. What?"

"Goodnight, Dean." Castiel tilts his head. "That is what you say at times like this, right?"

His lips are slightly parted and his eyes are bright in the dark, and it would be so, so easy for Dean to reach up and cover that mouth with his own. It would be so easy to comb his fingers through the angel's hair, so easy to pull him down on the bed and touch him with lips and fingers and cock until he reaches the peak of his pleasure. There are so many things Dean wants to say, so many things he wants to do, and he knows he will never do any of them.

Dean sighs and turns over onto his side, back to the angel. "G'night, Cas," he murmers. To his surprise, the angel drags fingers through his hair before brushing them across his forehead. For a few moments he revels in the sensation, and then it's lights out.

Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 4

fiveclawedfics — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 03:55:25 GMT

It was gratifying to ruin the day of the monster who had hurt Sam. Dean had felt a stab of vicious satisfaction as the creature slumped back in his bed and stared at the wall. And stared. And stared. No tears, no yelling--just stared, mouth slightly open. The hand on the railing slowly curled into a fist, crumpling the metal almost absently. After a moment, he started trembling.

It was pretty freaky. Dean had seen a lot of crazy stuff in his line of work, but there was something unnerving about the guy. The monsters he had killed usually acted pretty human right up until they ripped people's throats out. This guy? Not so much. Oh, he got the basics of humanity down enough to fool Dean into thinking he was just another fuck-up at first. But right now he was uncanny, seemed barely conscious of his own body. Even monsters didn't act like that.

After ten minutes of silence, Dean left for Sam's. Overall, it had been an unsatisfying encounter. He had only decided to pay the monster a visit after Sam had explained what had happened in the crypt. It didn't take a genius to connect the man he had seen with the man with the scalpel. And, well, Dean had wanted to know where the guy had learned all that stuff about Dad. Pretty stupid, in retrospect. Lots of monsters were mindreaders; this guys just dug deeper than most. He still didn't know what the guy was, but he'd figure it out eventually.

When he opened the door to his brother's room, Sam looked up from a book. "Oh. Hey, Dean." He frowned. "Did something happen?"

"The guy from the crypt, they're keeping him in this hospital," Dean explained. "I paid him a visit to--" He broke off at the frustrated scowl on Sam's face.

"Dean, I--I can't hear you."

Fuck. Dean kept forgetting the deafness. Or, more exactly, he just didn't want to accept it. He dug into his jacket for his notepad and wrote out a summary of his conversation with the monster.

It took several pages. Sam paged through them, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "This makes no sense. He's a super-strong psychic with a banshee scream? I've never heard of anything remotely like that."

Tell me about it, Dean scribbled.

"I don't think he's pulling all of this stuff out of your mind, though. The stuff about Dad, sure, but he was talking about demons burning down Philadelphia before I told him who I was." Sam leaned forward. "I think he knows something."

He read your mind, dumbass
Anyway no one burned down Philly it would've been on the TV.

"No. This guy didn't freak out till he looked me in the face, and when he did it was like he'd seen some monster from his past. Like--well, like the way we'd look at Yellow-eyes. I don't think he would have spent all that time asking for a doctor if he'd read my mind and known who I was."

Oh Lord. How could his brother be so smart and still be so stupid? Mindreader, Sammy! The simplest answer is usually the right one.

"There's more here and you know it, Dean! Look--" Sam flipped through Dean's explanation until he found the page he was looking for. "Here, you said he called Yellow-eyes 'Azazel.' That's big. Dad spent more than twenty years trying to find Yellow-eyes and he never found out the demon's name. This guy--" He flipped through more pages. "--Castiel--he drops the name like it's nothing. We should look up Azazel, Castiel too while we're at it. Hell, maybe you could..." Sam hesitated for a moment, then continued, "...You could talk to him again, see what he thinks is gonna happen."

NO

"Oh, come on! It can't hurt!"

NO

"Just in case, Dean! We gotta be prepared for whatever Yellow-eyes has got planned for us. We have to follow up on every lead! And he likes you, right?"

NO

NO

NO

We're leaving the hospital tomorrow and if I see that guy again I'm gonna kill him PERIOD

Sam glowered at him, clearly on the verge of one of his patented bitchfests. "It wouldn't kill you just to talk to him. It's not like he's gonna come after you with a scalpel."

Tired of rewriting NO again and again, Dean shook his head this time, throwing a few negative gestures for good measure.

Sam sank back onto his pillows, scowling. "God, Dean, sometimes you just..." He threw up his hands in frustration, picked up the book, and buried his face in it. Normally this would be the cue for Dean to leave--Sam's snits usually lasted several hours unless he got his way--but after that monster tried to slit his brother's throat, Dean didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone for an extended period of time. So he sat back, turned on the TV, and ignored the evil looks Sam sent him over his book until the nurses came to chase him out.

Things went pretty smoothly the next day. Sure, the doctors squawked on about remaining concussive symptoms, but eventually they admitted that Sam was well enough to go home. That was more than enough for Dean, who wanted to get Sam as far away from the monster as possible. Sam continued to sulk, right up until he nearly fell over onto his face from walking.

U want me to get a wheelchair?

"No!" Sam massaged his eyes. "Why aren't my legs working right?"

Maybe the angel induced concussion?

Sam glared at him.

Aside from that little incident, everything else continued to go fine. The day remained clear and the highway mostly empty as they drove to Bobby's place. Sam spent most of the time dozing. Secretly, Dean suspected that the concussion was still causing his brother problems, but it was nothing a little rest could fix. The deafness was the issue. Sammy would never hear again, the doctors had said. So much for hunting, then. A hunter without all of his senses was a dead hunter.

On the brighter side of things, at least he could play his music as loud as he liked without any whining from the shotgun.

Sam bitched when they passed the turn off for Philadelphia--he wanted to see if there was anything suspicious going on--but Dean planned to head straight to Bobby's. He wasn't taking any chances; the next time the monster tried to kill Sammy, he'd know how to gank the thing. They stopped at a motel somewhere outside of Akron. "There's a burger place up the way," Dean began as his brother roused from sleep, remembered, and shut his mouth with a scowl before reaching for the notepad. Christ, this would take some getting used to. U want something to eat?

"You get yourself something, I'm really not hungry," Sam said, swinging the car door open and stumbling towards their room, his bag dangling from his shoulder. "My head is killing me. Just wanna lie down."

U need a painkiller?

"I've already taken several, Dean," Sam said in his obnoxious I'm-a-big-boy-look-how-independent-I-am voice. Dean shrugged and headed back out to the Impala, buckled himself in, reached to turn the car on--and sighed, hand dropping to the emergency break. No more talking in the car; no more banter; no more Sam, hunting. He'd probably go back to law school and marry some pretty girl who spoke sign language and go live a boring life in Boringsville, California. And yeah, maybe that was a good thing. That was what Sam wanted, right? Right.

No more Sam, hunting.

Dean stuck the key in the ignition.

"Excuse me," came a voice right by his ear.

Dean leaped about a foot in the air--or would have, if he hadn't been sitting down. "I--you--how--What are you doing in my car?!"

Castiel tilted his head, looking for all the world like a teacher dealing with a particularly dull student. "Riding with you, of course. I got in while you were in the hospital."

Dean went for his gun.

When he finished firing, Castiel frowned at him, headshots vanishing within seconds. "You'll destroy your hearing if you keep doing that."

That was the final fucking straw. Dean climbed out of the car, swung the back door open, and dragged the monster (still in a hospital gown, for crying out loud) outside to slam him against the side of the car. "What the hell is wrong with you? You try to kill my brother, you feed me some bullshit story about Yellow-eyes, and now you, you spend the whole day sitting in the back of my car waiting, what, for Sam to leave? What do you want from me?!"

The other man visibly wilted under the barrage. "I wanted to come with you. Please."

Dean backed up, shaking his head. "You've got to be kidding me." If he could get to the trunk--but no way he could get it open in time. If he could just keep Castiel focused on himself, maybe the nutjob wouldn't remember to go after Sam. Dean pointed away from the car. "Get out of here. Now. I don't ever want to see you again."

"No. No, please." Castiel had a distinctly desperate look in his eye. "I--Look, I made a mistake, I thought this was home--but it's not. And I can't go home, can't ever see him--You're the closest thing I've got, you're the only thing that resembles home, please, I've got nowhere else to go. I'm begging you." The guy was trembling again. He wrapped his arms around himself, looking miserable. "I'll be useful, I swear. I was made to fight the things you hunt, okay? And--and my upkeep's real low, I don't need to eat or sleep, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, that's all I need, I swear. I won't hurt Sam. That was a mistake, coming into his room like that, I thought he was--but he isn't. I'll help you find Azazel, I mean Yellow-eyes, help you find a way to kill him, just please, please. Let me stay."

Any other time, Dean would have taken this guy for a victim. But he remembered: Sam crumpled on the hospital bed, looking dead. Dean shook his head. "Whoever you're looking for, it's not me."

Castiel's eyes fluttered to the ground. "I can fix Sam's ears," he said quietly.

That got Dean's attention.

"Bullshit."

"No, really. You saw how fast I fixed those bullet wounds. I'm too weak to do anything fancy, but I can handle the little things. It wouldn't take much effort to fix Sam--your brother's ears." There was just the slightest hesitation over the word brother.

He was lying. He had to be lying. The doctors said that the damage was permanent. Only, this guy had all these other crazy abilities. Why couldn't he magically fix people up? If there was the slightest chance... Dean held up his hand. "Okay. Okay, look, I'm gonna head inside and talk to Sam, and you--you stay right there. Don't even think about moving. If I see you going off someplace I'm--I'll kill you. Seriously. Okay?" Castiel nodded silently. Dean headed around the car and into the room, looking over his shoulder every so often to make sure this lunatic didn't go anywhere.

For all his nonsense about talking to the crazy guy with delusions of angelhood, Sam was (understandably) less-than-excited about letting said crazy guy near him. "I've never heard of any magic that heals people. Well, at least not any without major consequences. It's probably some sort of trick."

Don't you want your hearing back?

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna sell my soul for it!"

He's not a demon I threw holy water on him nothing happened.

"Holy water didn't work on Yellow-eyes!"

Something like Yelloweyes wouldn't let us live
Also he didn't try anything in the car why would he do something now?

"Look, just get out the rock salt, just in case."

When they went outside Castiel was standing right where Dean left him, leaning against the Impala. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out a shotgun, expecting the monster to jump him at any moment, but Castiel did not stir until Sam approached him. The two stared at each other like facing down a rabid wolf, and then Castiel pressed two fingers to Sam's foreheads. There was a small flash of light, and then both staggered back. Sam actually rubbed his ears, a startled expression on his face. Castiel supported himself on the side of the car, then slowly slid to the ground. Dean--Dean just stared. "You alright, Sammy?"

"I'm fine." Sam seemed astounded at the concept. "Even the headache is gone."

Dean looked down at Castiel just in time to see the man spit out a mouthful of blood. "You--uh--need a hand?"

"I can't stand," Castiel stated, deadpan.

Dean took one arm, Sam the other, and together they dragged Castiel into the room to deposit him on one of the beds. He passed out immediately. Goddammit, Dean just knew he'd be sleeping on the floor tonight. "So--you still out for dinner?"

"Uh--no, I think I could get something down," Sam said. Translation: Hearing or not, I still don't want to be alone with this guy when he wakes up.

They'd barely moved towards the door when Castiel stirred. "Wait." He pushed himself upright on shaking arms. "Does this mean I can stay?"

Dean fiddled with his shirt. "Look. Me'n'Sam, we're really more of a two-person operation." Castiel opened his mouth, about to protest, but Dean held up a hand to silence him. "But--it sounds like you've got some pretty big problems and, you know, maybe we can help." Castiel closed his mouth, an uncertain expression settling across his face. "Why don't you tell us the whole story, we'll see what we can do."

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Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 1

fiveclawedfics — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 23:41:20 GMT

When it came to religion Sam Winchester was never really the fire-and-brimstone type. Still, working the case in Providence, something in him really seized onto the concept of an avenging angel. The idea that somewhere there was an angel watching over this little crime-ridden neighborhood, hunting the human monsters the way he and Dean hunted the supernatural ones--that they were not alone in this permanent war, that there really was something backing them up against all the evil in the world--well. It was not like he did not have faith, but it would have been wonderful to have proof, real proof, of Heaven, of some afterlife that was not Hell.

He should have felt relieved or happy or something, watching Father Reynolds deliver the Last Rites to Father Gregory, but the only emotion he could summon up was disappointment. Sure, the killings would stop. Sure, the victims deserved it. Sure, even the killers were at peace. Everything worked out okay, right? Right. Sam suppressed a sigh as Father Reynolds finished, a bright white light consuming the ghost.

Then he blinked and focused more intently on the light. The ghost was gone, but the light was only growing brighter. Something...something was not right.

A buzz filled the crypt, and Sam felt an odd pressure squeeze around him. The air itself felt heavy and gel-like. He reached for the priest, who was still staring at the light with something like awe. "Father, we probably should--"

There was a CRACK, and the light reached eye-searing proportions. Sam ducked away, pulling the priest with him, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the sound of massive wings flapping frantically, and the light blinked out.

Father Reynolds made a sound like a stifled gasp, and Sam opened his eyes. A naked man sprawled out on the ground, filthy with grime and blood. "Jesus Christ! Uh, sorry, Father." The two of them hurried to the man's side. He did not appear to be breathing. Sam felt along his wrist, then his neck for a pulse, but to no avail. "I think he's--"

The man gave out a sudden, rattling breath, and began breathing normally. Simultaneously, his pulse started up beneath Sam's hand, as if it had never stopped in the first place. Strange, that. Nearby, the priest got to his feet. "He needs to get to the hospital. And there's a first aid kit in my office--"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll stay with the guy." As Father Reynolds disappeared down the corridor, Sam rolled the man onto his back, frowning. Something was very wrong here. As he appraised the man's injuries, he found himself wishing he had brought a knife, or more holy water, or something else besides the now-used ingredients for the seance. After a long and varied career in hunting, he could not recall encountering or hearing about anything quite like what had just happened.

The man was tall but slight, with wild dark hair and a bruised, sickly look to him. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a nasty gash on his forehead, mixing with the dust that caked his body. There were terrible burns across his right arm and side, with numerous other smaller scrapes, wounds and burns across the rest of his body. Alien sigils carved into his flesh covered his chest and shoulders; a few were fresh enough to begin to heal over, but the rest had scarred long ago. A large handprint seared over the heart obscured the symbols. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

Sam pulled his shirt off, ripped a strip from it and wrapped it around the head wound. The man stirred at the touch, made a soft noise of pain, and rolled onto his side, revealing more burns on his back. "Hey. Hey, listen, everything's going to be all right, okay? Father Reynolds is calling an ambulance. Just stay calm and stay still." He didn't expect the man to live much longer, but he wouldn't let him die alone.

"...maiboddy." The man clutched at his chest. "Needa healurr." His words slurred together.

"They're on their way." Brain-damaged, probably.

"Sgood." The man relaxed. After a moment he added, "Cunns'kreded grund. Thassgood. 'S f'kin awesome." He gave a tired grin and patted the floor. "Whurr're we? Iss nor'mer'ka?"

"Uh, what?"

The man slapped the ground in frustration. "Can' get this boddy t' wurk ri'. Th' ties...I needa healurr."

"Whoa, calm down!" Sam pressed a placating hand to the man's shoulder. "You'll hurt yourself if you move around too much. The ambu--the healers are coming."

"Whass takin' so lon', they kin fly. Port. Whatevurr." He was silent for a moment. "There'arnt any wardz, they kin port."

In most other situations Sam would write off the man's mumbling as the delusions of the dying. But something felt off about the man, something beyond the circumstances in which he appeared. "What happened to you?" he ventured.

"Bin in Phil'delphya lasttoo yearz. Rezzistince bsieged it, ver' big battle, demons deciddid t' torj th' place. Then th' portin' wardz broke, so I go' th' hell ou'."

"Demons?! You were fighting demons? ...Who were planning to burn down Philadelphia."

"Alreddy burntit, how you thing I got these." The man gestured at his burns. "Hellfurr. Evribuddies prolly dead bainow."

Okay, so the guy was insane, but he had definitely gotten caught up in something supernatural. Hell, maybe he'd snapped from the trauma. "Hey--I'm Sam Winchester. I hunt the things that--"

The man went rigid, then sat bolt upright, looking pissed. "Lissin, asshole--" He broke off as his eyes fixed upon Sam's face. The rage melted away to be replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. And then the man screamed.

Sam's eardrums exploded immediately. All along the corridor, the windows shattered. The force of the shout threw him backwards, hard, and his head burst into agony as it cracked against the wall as he slid to the ground. Dizzy with pain, he tried to shield himself from the still-falling glass, with little success. The last thing Sam saw before he passed out was the man, staggering away as fast as he could as if Sam were the devil himself.

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