Elephant Smooches

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 6 of 6, plus epilogue)

2014-01-19T17:08:28Z

Title: The Disappearing Island
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~36,000 total
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: At the end.
Carlos had borrowed a pair of hounds from the hooded figures once again. Although progress had been agonizingly slow, with Babbage's help he had managed to clear away the debris from the staircase inside Vansten's library. And so at last he ventured down towards the lower levels of Nightlantis, intent on picking up on Thurston's trail.

The ground shook intermittently as the island prepared to once again sink beneath the waves, the tremors growing more violent, and more frequent.

Worst of all, Carlos was aware that his seven days would be up in mere hours, meaning the portal would reopen, and he would have his only chance of getting home.

He was now down far enough on the lower levels that it had grown uncomfortably hot. He had discarded Cecil's borrowed jacket, hoping that he could soon apologize for the slight, shouldered his pack, and continued on downwards, face now dripping with perspiration. Down on these lower levels was yet more machinery, but it was stilled. It had a strange symmetry to it: god knows what it was all for, or who had built it. It looked like it hadn't been used in ages, and was covered with layers of rust.

Unfortunately, when he had gotten innumerable levels down, the trail suddenly ran cold. The hounds whined, but ran around in circles.

Carlos he felt the familiar odd prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He stood with the dogs on a leash. “Please, I need your help,” he said.

Tamika stepped forward from the shadows, wearing her mismatched clothes. The redheaded boy, Barton, was beside her. They stopped a short distance from Carlos. There were many other children arrayed around him now.

“You helped me before,” Carlos pleaded. “Before I went to confront the librarian.”

Tamika and Barton exchanged a skeptical glance. “That's right. We hate those stupid librarians. But why should we help you again?” Tamika asked.

“Because I need to rescue Prince Cecil.”

Tamkia and Barton burst into giggles and nudged each other, which further tried Carlos's rapidly thinning patience. “Oh, what is it?” he demanded.

“Why? Because you looooooove him?” Tamika taunted.

“Ewwwww!” chimed in Barton.

As the ground trembled once again, Carlos shook his head in frustration. “We share a mutual affection, yes. And what's wrong with that?”

“Mushy!” called Barton.

“Well, I am sorry that romantic feelings are considered to be 'mushy' in your world view. But the fact remains, if we do not rescue Cecil from Thurston, your entire island may be destroyed!”

“Thurston?” asked Tamika, her dark eyes narrowing in derision. “He's a real jerk.”

“He's a jerk,” agreed Barton.

“Although I would fain call attention to others's weaknesses,” said Carlos. “Yes. He is … a real jerk.”

“Give us a minute,” said Tamika. She signaled, and several children gathered around for a whispered conversation. After a frustrating moment, they turned back to face Carlos. “All right. We'll escort you down to the lower levels. That's where … they are sleeping. We think that's where he must've taken your boyfriend.” The children burst into more giggles as Carlos rolled his eyes.

“He is your boyfriend, right?” asked Barton.

“Yes, Cecil is my boyfriend.”

“Did you kiss him?” asked another child.

Carlos was going to tell them exactly why it was none of their business, but decided to keep his temper for the moment. “Yes, we have kissed.”

“On the lips?”

“Yes.”

There was a hearty round of children groaning, “Ewwwwww!”

It was true: Nightlantis tried his patience. “Can we perhaps get going?” sighed Carlos.

“This way,” said Tamika, and they all headed off down the corridor.

Carlos noticed the little girl who had asked about the kiss was walking beside him. “Can I pet your puppies?”

“You may,” said Carlos. She carefully touched the head of one of the hounds, and it gratefully licked her hand. She sprang back, looking at her hand.

“It's fine,” said Carlos, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears as the girl stared in wonder. He handed off the leash to her, and, after only a brief hesitation, she grabbed it in her little hand and trundled on ahead.

They ventured down a couple of dark staircases, and zigged through some dim corridors, and finally all the children stopped where the light suddenly grew brighter and everything opened up. They stood along a very extended railing.

Carlos ventured up to the rail and peered over. He gasped at what he saw and stepped back. And then, more carefully this time, he approached the railing.

They had somehow come out on the bottom of Nightlantis. Evidently, the city was symmetrical: just as it was bounded by a conical volcano above, so the very bottom consisted of a deep valley shaped roughly like an ice cream cone. He glanced up, and could see above them the many scattered structures that made up the underside of Nightlantis.

“How do we descend from here?” asked Carlos who looked around in vain for some sort of passageway.

“We fly down,” said Tamika, and indeed, some of the children had run to grab some very odd equipment which was stored around the rim. The contraptions were prodigious, and Carlos, despite his worry, was intrigued by their design. They contained a single seat, a small engine, and above that, something that looked like a very large, ribbed parasol. The ribs on the parasol were actually long, thin blades, and when the steam-powered motor was engaged, they whirled around. He watched in awe as Tamkia strapped herself into a seat and took off in the thing, hovering like a blown dandelion. And then she rose up and very slowly began to drift down into the conical valley.

Barton pushed Carlos impatiently into a seat. “But, I don't know how to pilot this machine!” said Carlos. “It's all right, it will take two,” Barton told him. He strapped in Carlos and then hopped up to stand on the seat in back of him, and, with no further ado, they were aloft.

Carlos gasped when they cleared the rail, as the bottom looked so very far down, but he tried to keep his head. The little craft drifted slowly downwards. “So,” said Barton, “what do you think?”

“This is remarkable. Do you think Cecil is being held at the bottom then?”

Carlos couldn't see Barton above him, but he could imagine the boy scrunching up his face to think. “That's our guess. We had one of these 'copters stolen. We imagine it was that jerk, Thurston.”

“It was stolen just now?” asked Carlos.

“No. Several days back. We think he's been going up and down. Don't know why.”

Carlos nodded. That was passing strange, especially if, as everyone said, there was no one below but the Old Ones.

“Hey,” said Barton. “So, you like Cecil?”

Carlos sighed, hoping this would not eventuate another round of teasing. “Yes, I like him.”

Above him, Barton was quiet for a moment, as if thinking very hard upon a problem. “Uh, so, how did you tell him?”

“I'm sorry? How did I tell him?”

Barton paused, as if screwing up his courage. “Yeah, if there's a person you like, I mean, like like, and you don't know if they like you, and you wanna tell them you like them, how do you tell them you like them?”

Carlos grinned. “Well, I've found it's advisable to just come out and confess your feelings.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes.”

“But, what if the person doesn't like you back?”

Carlos had to smile. Barton sounded in earnest. “If the person does not share your affections, then the gentlemanly thing to do is to retreat at once. And then you may pursue instead an interaction with someone who, one must hope, shares your feelings.”

Barton fell silent again, so there was no sound other than the whirling blades of the copter.

“Is there anyone particular you have in mind?” Carlos prodded.

“No!” insisted Barton. “Of course not. I'm just, you know, askin'.”

Carlos grinned, and soon after, they landed down on a circular rock ledge that was apparently the lowest rim of the valley. There was no railing here. Having unstrapped himself from the 'copter seat, Carlos ventured to the edge and leaned over to gaze beneath him: the circular space down in the center was dark, going to pitch black. “What lies down in the pit?”

“Where the Old Ones live, I 'spect,” said Barton. “Though I've no idea why they like it so cursed dark down there.”

“Maybe they're light sleepers?” ventured Carlos. He looked around. The valley here was not nearly as smooth as it had appeared from far above: caves and rock outcroppings pockmarked the valley walls, all perfect places to conceal someone.

“I think I saw where they got your boyfriend,” whispered Tamika, pointing straight across the circumference of the ledge. Carlos squinted across the abyss. Yes, he could dimly see a figure over on the other side.

“I'll go,” he said. “You two stay put!”

“We'll be fine!” Tamika told him.

“I need you to stand by these copters when we're trying to leave.” Carlos left and carefully made his way around the ledge.

He came upon a very odd sight: it was a large clock sitting on the rim, ticking away. He wondered idly if he took it apart whether it would have nothing inside, like the other clocks in Nightlantis. The clock had a bell on the top. Carlos wondered what it was for, and whether it might be a tolling clock.

He got his answer sooner than expected, as the minute hand reached the hour and the bell suddenly began clanging. Frantically, Carlos jumped out of sight behind some rocks. The bell kept ringing and ringing. And then, to his astonishment, a large, green tentacle poked out over the ledge. It felt around, and then, finally finding the clock, gave it a whack.

The bell ceased ringing.

The tentacle disappeared.

Carlos began to breathe again. He peered from behind the rock, but saw no more sign of the tentacle, nor the creature it presumably attached to.

He carefully made his way along the rim, and, with no further misadventures, and at length came to the place Tamika had spotted. He saw a flash of silver hair, and knew he'd come upon Cecil.

“Hold still,” he whispered as he ran to where Cecil had been chained up. “I'm here! I'm here. Are you all right?” Carlos reached out a hand and brushed his fingers on Cecil's face.

Cecil puffed air and blew some hair out of his face. “Oh, I'm fine. Other than the bad cliché of being chained up. How perfectly embarrassing!”

“You'll be fine,” shushed Carlos, plucking a bobby pin from Cecil's hair.

“We don't have time for that now, my love!” said Cecil.

“Excuse me?” said Carlos. “Uh, no, I need this,” he explained. “Are you certain you're all right? He didn't … harm you in any way?”

Cecil nodded. “I told Mr. Thurston that he lacks a villain's imagination. And then I requested some torture....”

“What?” asked Carlos. He was using the bobby to pick the locks of the metal clasps that held Cecil's wrists. “You requested torture?”

“Well, just a little.” Carlos stood blinking for a moment, but Cecil kept up his recitation. “But he just kept up muttering about inferior races and the like. He's very tiresome as an antagonist.”

Carlos shook his head and finished freeing Cecil's right wrist. “We'll get you out of here. I have some transport standing by.”

“I didn't know naturalists could open locks with a hair ornament.”

“My brother taught me this, actually. He's a bit of a bounder, but he has his uses.” There was a click, and Cecil was freed. He immediately (and somewhat dramatically) fell into Carlos's arms.

Carlos thought that they didn't really have time for drama, but then decided that it would only take a few seconds to give Cecil a nice kiss. (Although, in the back of his mind, he could already hear Tamika and Barton yelling “Ewww!”)

But the clench was soon interrupted by a gunshot. Carlos hit the floor, dragging Cecil down with him. “How much ammunition did that idiot bring along!” Carlos cursed.

“He might be setting the gun back to yesterday, when his armory was full,” said Cecil. Carlos frowned at him. “I told you time here is weird,” Cecil added with an apologetic shrug.

“We need to make our way back around the rim!” said Carlos. The ground shook again, and there was a loud boom. Carlos threw himself over Cecil. When at last the shaking stopped, he looked back up, he realized that there was now an avalanche blocking the way he'd come. “Damn!” he said. “Now the only way back is by Thurston!” As if in answer, another shot fired over their heads.

“No, there's another way,” said Cecil, wriggling out from beneath him. “But you have to trust me. Come on!” And with that, Cecil ran out to the edge of the rim and jumped off, disappearing into the blackness below.

“Cecil!” cried Carlos. Another shot came over his head. He ran after Cecil and, pausing a moment, closed his eyes and jumped.

He made a soft landing almost instantly. Oddly enough, it was now dimly lit down here. The ground below him was passing strange. It seemed to be a carpet of soft moss, but when Carlos moved, it rippled, as if there were a body of water just underneath. Despite his dire circumstances, Carlos's scientific curiosity was aroused, and he spent a little bit of time bouncing up and down in order to visualize the intriguing wave patterns.

Then Cecil was there, slapping a hand over Carlos's mouth. Cecil held a finger to his lips for silence. And then he gestured out across the cavern. There appeared to be something living there: Carlos's impression was a mass of enormous tentacles, all tangled up.

“The Old Ones lie sleeping here,” said Cecil, and Carlos realized whatever it is was faintly snoring. “Well, at least one of them. It’s a little hard to tell: all those tentacles.”

“This isn't very deep at all,” said Carlos. “It looked infinite from above. How did you know?”

Cecil shook his head. “I told you the Old Ones were rubbish at engineering. Also, I saw it wake up to punch its alarm clock.”

“Oh, was that what it was?” Carlos remembered the clock with the bell on top he'd seen the tentacle swipe at.

“Yes, fortunately, they're late risers. Lazy sods, if you ask me. Now, we need to make our way to the other side without disturbing it.”

Carlos poked at the ground one more time with his foot, sending out another ripple of waves. “There's water underneath,” Cecil explained.

“How remarkable!” whispered Carlos.

“Some toff sort of bed.” Cecil shrugged, unimpressed. “Now follow me!” Carlos nodded as Cecil crept along, keeping towards the side of what he guessed was the creature’s bedchamber. Carlos smiled, marveling at Cecil's bravery and resourcefulness. Perhaps the children were right to moan and groan over their mutual affection? Carlos had to admit to himself, even though he had only known the man a few days, he was rather smitten.

As Carlos's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed other features of the chamber. There were theatrical placards hung up on the walls, for example. As Carlos had never been a theater aficionado, he didn't recognize the titles. One advertised a show called Qunisniket Park, and another, Regner Lodbrog's Epicedium.

They also had to make their way around various items of furnishings. Carlos looked up at what he took to be the creature's kitchen. There were a number of oversized pots and pans all stacked up, as well as some kitchen knives big as swords. It was also stacked with books and periodicals. Carlos looked at one of the spines. The title was in the strange language of the Old Ones, but Carlos now had enough practice he could translate it: To Serve Man.

They made their way around the huge table, and were about halfway around the circumference of the room when they heard the shot. Fortunately, it missed Cecil and Carlos, but hit the floor of the chamber, and the result was a gusher of water, as if someone had knocked over a fire hydrant.

The creature abruptly ceased snoring, and suddenly, the tentacles began to writhe.

“Cecil, run!” said Carlos. He grabbed one of the oversized knives. “I'll hold him off!”

“You can't hold off a gun with a knife!” said Cecil, who stayed stubbornly put. “Don't be preposterous!”

“Cecil, I throw knives,” Carlos hissed.

Cecil paused for a moment staring in wonder. “Really?”

“Yes, that's how a killed a pirate! Aboard the Vigilant!”

Cecil gaped in a rather rude but endearing manner. “Carlos, I cannot begin to describe how terribly attractive that is!”

They stared dumbly at each other for a long moment, but another shot rang out. “Cecil! There’s no time for this. Go get cover!” Carlos ordered.

To Carlos's intense relief, Cecil scampered away. Carlos stood, gripping the knife, and tried to watch both the slumbering Old One (which, oddly enough with all the commotion, seemed to be drowsing once again) and Thurston, wherever he was. Also, as the surface of the bed was still leaking, and he was now shin-high in a rapidly rising tide of water.

The villain appeared just then, gripping his rifle, which was pointed at Carlos. “Stop right there,” Carlos threatened, hoisting the knife, and immediately realizing what a foolish defense this would be.

“Where is it?” demanded Thurston. “Where is the sacrifice?”

“Is that it?” asked Carlos. “You're helping the Old Ones now?” He wasn't really certain how he was going to get out of this one, so he decided to delay Thurston as best he could. He had read a lot of novels, and knew villains needed to explain themselves in the last chapter.

Thurston glared at him. “Only one Elder God. This abomination!” He pointed to where the creature snoozed nearby.

“You consider this creature an abomination, yet you evidently esteem him over Cecil?”

Thurston looked as if he would spit. “That savage is less that human.”

“You attempted to assassinate the mayor. What does that make you?”

“Some races are simply not as highly adapted,” Thurston averred primly.

Despite his current predicament. Carlos was offended, both for himself and for the scientific community at large. “Oh, do not use Mr. Darwin's theories this way! He would be appalled at the likes of you.”

“What do you know of it?”

“I am Mr. Darwin's correspondent of many years running!” Carlos crisply informed him.

“Really?” asked Thurston, who seemed a little crestfallen. To Carlo’s astonishment, he lowered his weapon, and approached Carlos. “I can't seem to get him to answer my letters. What do you think I'm doing wrong?”

“You're out of your mind, for one thing!” came a call from up above. Instantly, Thurston had his rifle up, pointing it at Cecil, who looked down on them from the creature's kitchen counter.

“Come down here, or I'll shoot!” screamed Thurston.

“Carlos, look out!” yelled Cecil. Carlos dove out of the way just as something dark and sticky rained down from up above. The gun went off once again. Thurston leapt to his feet, although the water was now rising, making every movement clumsy. He was now completely coated in the dark, sticky substance. Carlos raised his knife, but suddenly, Thurston had the gun up, pointing it at him.

But just then, a long green tentacle snaked out, wrapped itself around Thurston, and yanked him away. As Carlos looked on in horror, the Old One, which was now awakened, popped Thurston into its tentacled mouth and swallowed, emitting a satisfied burp.

Carlos felt a splash beside him. It was Cecil, who had hopped down from the kitchen counter up above.

“What was that?” whispered Carlos.

“Chocolate,” said Cecil, licking a bit off his fingers. “The beast has a sweet tooth. I saw a lot of dessert cookbooks when I was up there.”

“Clever!” said Carlos. There was a huge rumble. The Old One writhed around, and then suddenly disappeared beneath the surface of the rapidly rising water.

“I think we need to get out of here, Cecil,” said Carlos. They half-ran, half-swam for the far ledge. They pushed and pulled each other up, as the water had nearly risen to that level.

“Carlos!” shouted Tamika. “We thought you were done for!”

“We need to get going, right now!” Carlos told her.

“We can only take one of ya,” said Barton. He pointed to where one of the copters had been bashed by a falling rock. “You need to decide. And quick!”

“We think we can possibly take us and one of you,” said Tamika. “But that's all.”

“Take Cecil,” said Carlos immediately.

“No. I'm staying with Carlos,” said Cecil stubbornly. “You two ride up.”

“Cecil-” said Carlos.

“But we can't-” protested Tamika.

“Both of you!” commanded Cecil. “I don't like to pull rank, but I am your prince, so get up and out of here, now, or there shall be consequences!”

“What consequences?” asked Barton.

Cecil knelt down so he was eye to eye with Barton. “I shall look askance upon you,” he said quietly. “Now, go!”

The two children made to get into the copter. Carlos slipped his hand into Cecil's. “That was very brave,” he whispered.

“I don't care what happens,” Cecil insisted, “as long as I'm here with you.”

Carlos smiled and went to kiss him, to a hearty round of “Ewwww's” from the children, who were already riding up in the ‘copter.

“What's that?” asked Carlos, pointing upwards. There were shadows on the wall of the canyon.

And then, with the sound of beating wings, he was yanked upwards.

“Did you get all of them?” Josie fussed at her angels as they all alit back on the main level of Nightlantis.

“There are more children on the lower levels,” Carlos told her.

“We need to get them to safety,” said Cecil. “We owe them a large debt of gratitude.”

Tamika and Barton both straightened up proudly. “We can help,” said Tamika.

“Yeah, if we get to fly with angels again,” added Barton. Josie nodded to the angels, and they flew away with the children, who squealed in delight.

“Wish we'd thought of that when we needed to get down there,” Carlos groused as they watched them fly away.

“The angels won't interfere in most things,” said Josie. “But you'd already taken care of the sacrifice, so I told them to quit dilly-dallying and go help you.”

“Thurston ended up being the sacrifice?” asked Carlos. Josie nodded. “Then, as the children would say, ewww!”

“Thank you, Josie,” said Cecil, although Carlos still looked annoyed.

“By the way, Carlos,” said Josie, blinking through her thick spectacles, “I suppose you know that your portal is opened now.”

Carlos gasped. “What? Oh, good Lord, we have go! Cecil, come on!” Carlos took off running towards the edge of town and the passageway beyond.

Cecil, looking confused, started waving goodbye to Josie, who wrapped him in a hug. “You take care of him, my dear,” she whispered.

“Come along, Cecil!” hollered Carlos, as the ground trembled underneath them. He and Cecil ran breakneck through Nightlantis as the ground continued trembling, and a deep rumbling went up from deep beneath the mountain. They finally came to the tunnel, and ran along towards where Carlos had fallen what now seemed so long ago.

As the ground shook, Carlos ran as fast as he could, panting and gesturing upwards. “I see a light! I think it's opened!”

Cecil, looking bewildered, ran along behind.

“There it is!” shouted Carlos. Indeed, there was now an opening visible up in the tunnel's rocky ceiling. “Come along,” he told Cecil, “we can climb up there.”

“Carlos,” said Cecil quietly, “you want me to- to come along?”

Carlos stopped. The ground was now trembling mightily. “What? I thought that was the point!”

“To leave my home … for the outside world.”

Carlos’s heart sunk. “Cecil, I told you I would show you the stars and the moon. Now, come on!”

“Yes, but you didn't ask me formally,” said Cecil, who looked a bit put out.

There was thick dust all around and it was getting hard to see. Carlos was thrown against the side of the tunnel when the ground lurched. “Cecil, be reasonable,” he pleaded. “I was going to marry you, for Heaven's sake.”

Bits of the tunnel ceiling were coming down all around them, but Cecil pouted. “Well, only because you felt sorry for me,” he said, looking away.

“Cecil, that's not-” There was a terrific rumble, and the ground shook violently. Carlos sighed, deciding there was nothing for it but to get it out. He dropped down on one knee. He thought for a moment, and then began, “Cecil, I hope the past days have proved that I harbor a great deal of affection for you in my heart-”

Cecil crouched down, taking Carlos's hands. “Oh, you don't need to go down on a knee for me!”

Carlos huffed in pure frustration. “But you wanted romance, Cecil!”

“I suppose I did,” laughed Cecil, who tugged Carlos upwards. But just then, the ground beneath them buckled, and Carlos stumbled backwards. He fell … upwards, into the doorway, as if invisible hands were pulling him in.

Desperately, he grabbed the door frame and attempted to brace himself. He held out a hand. “Cecil, come with me! I-”

“Carlos!”

The ground shook, Carlos lost his grip, and felt something wrenching him upwards.

He found himself, quite suddenly, in the water. He looked below him, choking and disoriented. He could see through the clear tropical waters that the island that housed Nightlantis was already sinking beneath the sea. He thrashed in the water, looking this way and that, but didn't see the portal door anywhere. Finally, he looked up, and could barely see light of the sun barely showing through the surface of the water.

Kicking with all his might, he tried to ascend, but was held down by his now sodden clothing. His lungs began to burn. He yanked off his boots, and once again struggled towards to surface. Higher and higher he climbed, feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

Air.

He needed air.

And then it all went black.

Carlos sat up in bed. “Cecil,” he whispered.

“Get the Cap'n,” whispered a voice beside him.

Carlos blinked, looking around the gently swaying room, utterly confused. “Where- Where am I?” he asked.

“Don't you know, lad?” asked the mate. “You're back on the Vigilant!”

“You waited for me?” exclaimed Carlos.

“Waited?” asked the Mate. “You were gone less than an hour.”

Carlos laid back, relieved. “Yes. Yes, time works differently in Nightlantis.”

“Where? Listen, lad,” the mate said, leaning over him, “we think you might've bumped your head, jumping in like that.”

“Have you- Have you recovered Thurston?” asked Carlos.

“No, body's likely washed out to sea.”

“Washed out? From the doorway?”

The mate was squinting at him. “What doorway?”

“The empty doorway on the island.” It was all coming back to him. “We went up to investigate, and found ancient ruins....”

“Ruins!” laughed the mate. “Ruins of what? You found a deserted isle. Not even real interesting, according to our men.”

“But, if I didn't jump into a doorway-”

The mate looked confused. “T'was no doorway, lad. Thurston pitched raving into a pool, and you plunged in after him. Half mad yourself, if you ask me!”

“No doorway?” said Carlos.

“Oh, there you are!” boomed a familiar voice. Captain Cochrane entered the room and sat down next to him. “We thought we'd lost you. You were half drowned when we pulled you out.”

“I- I jumped in a pool?”

“Yes,” said Cochrane.

“There was no stone doorway?”

“Doorway?” The mate and Cochrane exchanged a puzzled glance. “I heard of no doorway. Did your brain get scrambled down there?”

Carlos tried to control his breathing. He noticed he was barefooted, wearing just his underclothes, and lying under a scratchy, woolen blanket. It looked like they had set him out in the mess room he usually used for surgery instead of his hammock. “What happened?” he asked.

“You went ashore on the island. You remember that?” Carlos nodded. “Thurston claimed it was supposed to be some kind of great lost civilization, but we saw no trace of that. Then that great fool started to rave about Old Ones and jumped down into a pool. You rushed in after him. Must have wanted to save his raving mad arse. But you both must have ended up washed out to sea.”

“That's what happened?” asked Carlos, rubbing his head.

“Yes. We think you may have suffered a concussion, in the fall. You’re damn fault, always jumping into trouble!”

Carlos lay back. So it had all been a strange fever dream. Yet it had felt so real. But it was all poppycock, obviously – a civilization below a mountain. “Thurston?” he asked.

“We've seen hide nor hair of Thurston,” said Cochrane.

“You were completely knocked unconscious,” added the mate.

“I was having-” Carlos began. “I had the strangest dream.”

“You were out. Lucky for you your friend dragged you in,” Cochrane continued.

“It was all...” Carlos began. “Wait, my friend, you said?”

“The native boy who rescued you?” said Cochrane.

“Native boy?”

“Yes, out exploring or something. Another madman! We all thought he was an old man. Hair white as-”

“Moonlight!” said Carlos sitting up.

The captain looked at the mate. “Well, of course. Anyway, he claims he's your friend. Funny kid, but speaks good English, I have no idea how.”

“Is he here? Is he still here?”

“Well, yes, he's up on deck. We thought- Carlos!”

But Carlos had already grabbed the blanket around him and took off running for the deck. I must look a madman, he thought, gallivanting around the deck half-dressed and half-drowned. It was night time, and the Vigilant was cutting silently through black waters.

And then he saw him, a silver-haired figure standing by the railing at the bow, gazing around in wonder. And then Carlos was behind him, wrapping him in an embrace.

“The stars!” said Cecil, pointing upwards. “Carlos, they're so lovely.”

“They are,” said Carlos, arms tight around Cecil's waist.

“I never knew there would be so much void between them.”

Carlos didn't answer, but only held on, his heart beating, his eye welling up.

Cecil turned around to face him. “Carlos, are we going to have an adventure now?”

“Yes, my dearest,” said Carlos, tracing Cecil's face with the tips of his fingers. “Yes we are.”

Epilogue

Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1860

Rafael sighed and gazed up at the vine-covered walls of his family estate, steeling himself. He heard a soft “ahem” next to him, and jutted out an elbow. Temperance, rubbing her bulging belly, took his arm.

A liveried servant opened the wide front door, and, with children trailing behind, the couple stepped through the threshold. The Baron stood there in the cavernous main entryway, leaning on his cane. He looked a slightly less tall than he had been, slightly more hunched, but his eyes remained sharp. His wife was at his side, extending her arms.

“Nana!” screamed the children, who broke into a run to embrace her. She fell to her knees to receive their hugs and kisses.

The Baron extended a courteous hand, and Rafael shook it, gratefully. “Well, look at you,” the Baron told Temperance, giving her a quick kiss on the temple.

“Oh, my dear, you look marvelous,” gushed the Baroness, taking both of Temperance’s hands in hers. “How far along?”

“Still another three months, but I’m already big as a house,” said Temperance, once again gleefully rubbing her belly.

“What’s all that racket?” came a voice from up the staircase.

A squeal suddenly went up from the children. “Uncle Cecil!” they chorused. The boy and girl tumbled over to greet the dark-skinned, silver-haired man who was descending towards them.

“Who brought these rugrats?” asked Cecil in mock horror, grabbing the girl up on one hip. “I suppose you’ll be demanding a story from Uncle Cecil?”

“Yes!” they chorused.

“Well, as it happens, your Uncle Carlos and I just returned from the Antipodes. What do you think about that?”

“Children, please don’t plague Uncle Cecil,” scolded Rafael.

Cecil winked at Rafael and reached out a hand to the boy. “Do you want to see a platypus? We picked him up in Tasmania!”

“Yes!” shouted the boy, and then they were off, walking back out the front door, while the Baroness escorted Temperance to the sitting room.

“Your brother’s up in his study, if you want to converse,” the Baron told Rafael. “He probably lost track of time again.”

Rafael nodded and excused himself to go upstairs while the Baron and his wife continued fussing over Temperance. He somewhat nervously made his way along a darkened hallway to Carlos’s rooms.

“Rafael, is that you?” called Carlos, who was indeed ensconced in his study. He rose from his desk and, ignoring his brother’s outstretched hand, wrapped him in an embrace. “I’m so sorry, I must have lost track of time.”

“It’s all right,” said Rafael, who was blushing slightly as Carlos pounded him on the back.

“Care to go outside for a smoke? It’s a fine day?” Rafael nodded. Carlos opened his humidor, and after grabbing cigars, they passed through the French doors to a small balcony overlooking the estate.

“I’ve heard congratulations are in order,” said Carlos, settling into a chair.

Rafael puffed on his smoke and leaned against the railing, heaving a sigh. “Twins this time, or so they tell me.”

“Great news!”

Rafael looked dubious. “Carlos, if I had any idea Temperance would be so … fertile….”

Carlos roared with laughter.

Rafael’s face took on a morose cast. “My two are tormenting their Uncle Cecil now. If you’d like, I can call them off.”

“It’s no problem. We’d like to get to know your children, so I can more easily pick who I’ll want to disinherit.”

Rafael scowled at his brother, who once again burst into laughter.

“To be serious, Rafael, will you require more financial recompense?” Carlos asked. “We want to assure for the children’s education.”

“We’re fine. You have been most generous.” He sighed again. “And, as I have often said, I am most grateful to you for smoothing things over with Mother and Father.”

Carlos waved his hands. “It was nothing with Mother: she’ll do anything to see her grandchildren. But as I’ve warned you….”

“No hint of scandal,” sighed Rafael, sounding more than a bit wistful.

“No returning to your former ways. At least while Mother is still alive,” Carlos warned.

Rafael turned his back on Carlos to gaze out over the estate, smoking for a while, deep in thought. “When we originally arranged this visit I didn’t expect to find you and Cecil here today,” he finally said. “I thought you were still out on your latest expedition.”

Carlos shrugged. “We had originally planned to be away longer, but turned around and made for home as soon as we received the news about Father’s stroke. He appears to be doing well though.”

Rafael came and sat down in the chair next to his brother, looking concerned. “Is that your opinion as a physician?”

“My opinion as a physician is that he’ll outlive the both of us.”

Rafael sighed and appeared to sag. “He will me, probably. I’m not so certain about you. You appear highly contented these days, Carlos.”

Carlos sat back, looking contented as a house cat. “Perhaps because I am?”

“Will you ever tell me the true story of how you and Cecil … became acquainted?”

“We’ve already told you everything.”

Rafael derisively waved around his cigar. “I don’t mean Cecil’s phantastical tales.”

Carlos leaned forward. “Rafael, as you must have learned by now, sometimes the phantastical is also true.”

“Papa!” came squeals from the doorway, as two children hurtled themselves towards Rafael.

“Uncle Cecil has a platypus!” “In the duck pond!” “And he has a beak like a duck!” “And webbed toes!” “And he swims!” “And he’s Albert!” “And he comes when he calls!” “And he’s from Tasmoonia!”

“Tasmania,” supplied Cecil, who was standing at the door, grinning.

“Children,” scolded Rafael, who was struggling to stand up. “Aren’t you going to greet your Uncle Carlos?”

“Hullo Uncle Carlos!” they chorused, and tumbled into his lap one by one for kisses. Then they were back to tugging on their father. “Come and see! Come and see!”

Rafael rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be swept off the balcony by the tide of toddlers.

When they had all gone, Carlos smiled at Cecil, and patted his leg. Cecil came over and sat on his knee, and Carlos kissed him softly on the temple. They took care, when they were in mixed company, but Carlos figured he could do as he wished on his own estate, and everyone be damned.

“When they get a little older, we can take them along on a voyage perhaps,” said Carlos.

Cecil’s eyes grew big. “That would be wonderful!” He nestled into Carlos. “Oh, Carlos, do you regret that we can’t have them?”

Carlos shrugged. “We could have them, if we wanted.” Cecil sat up and looked dubious. “There’s orphans enough in this county,” Carlos explained. “Like the lost children in Nightlantis. If you wanted, there are many children who want and deserve a home.”

Cecil gasped. “You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Cecil leapt to his feet. “Carlos, we need a child!”

“Right now?” laughed Carlos. “I haven’t finished my cigar.”

“Oh, hang your cigar. Come on! There’s no time to waste!”

“Cecil, it’s not like picking out a damned puppy or kitten.”

But Cecil would not be talked down. “We should go now. Our niece and nephew are here, they could help select a suitable cousin!”

Carlos regarded Cecil for a long moment. “All right, all right.” Cecil clapped his hands. Carlos tapped his cigar into the ash tray. “I suppose you’ll want to bring along Albert the platypus as well?”

“Oh, what a capital idea!” said Cecil, and he tugged Carlos off the balcony, and into their home.

It was silent for a short while out on the balcony, except for the whispering of the wind. And then a striped tabby cat leapt up and sat on the railing, grinning and switching its tail.

Notes on this chapter: I gave you a little epilogue, since people seem to like 'em. The depths of Nightlantis are somewhat based on Dante's conical version of the various circles of hell. I figure Cthulhu would like that.

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/144246.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 5 of 6)

2014-01-14T20:17:33Z

Title: The Disappearing Island (Chapter 5 of 6)
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~36,000 total
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: At the end.

Port Stanley, Falkland Islands, Year of Our Lord 1855

The arrow thrummed. The bird fell.

“I’ll be damned,” said Captain Cochrane. As they were out of range of any polite ears, he did not apologize for his profanity, but only lit up another cigarette. “You’re as true a shot with a bow as any man with a gun.”

“I’ve found an arrow causes less damage to my specimens,” Carlos explained, scrambling up the hill to locate his prize. Fortunately, the bird had not fallen too far away. He did though regret the lack of hunting dogs on board. “And,” Carlos continued as the captain enjoyed his smoke, “unlike ammunition, arrows can be reused.” He plucked the arrow out of the bird, as if in demonstration.

“Bow hunting, rifles, and I heard from some of the crew you’re no slouch at throwing knives.”

Carlos blushed. “That was a silly bet,” he acknowledged. “I was a little under the influence.”

“For a man of medicine, you are one deadly individual, Dr. MacLachlan. I pity any pirates who might falter aboard.”

“Not likely that we’ll come upon pirates on this voyage,” laughed Carlos.

“You never know,” laughed Cochrane. “And now, let's hasten in. I've heard tell it's mail call today.”

Carlos stiffened. “Mail call? Here?”

“I've seen the ship come in. Come on, Carlos. Maybe it'll be a message from that sweetheart of yours back in Scotland.”

Carlos's whole manner darkened.

“Aw, don't worry, Carlos,” said the Captain as they began to walk. “I promise I won't tell her about that girl in Rio.”

“What- What girl in Rio?”

“No way of telling it was actually a boy,” said Cochrane, winking and strolling off.

Carlos bit his lip.

An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856

Carlos had administered a mild sedative to Cecil, and he was now sleeping, albeit fitfully, on the couch, while angels hovered nearby.

“I don’t understand how this will work, Josie,” said Carlos. “I’ve been around your library. There are no entrances.”

“Yes. And no exits,” she said.

Carlos sat down on the couch next to Cecil. “I don’t understand.”

“The librarians are the most ferocious creatures in Nightlantis,” Josie explained. “We are afraid of them: so afraid, most avoid even speaking the name. It is thought by some that they are the descendants of the original residents, the Old Ones. Others say the librarians were created as their servants.”

“But you don’t know?”

“Even my angels fear them. The Old Ones dwell on the lowest depths of Nightlantis, where no one dares go. And a few of them are said to roam the library, as librarians.”

Carlos sat back, watching Cecil breathe. So that explained why everyone here started to tremble when you mentioned books or the library. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Josie sighed and, pushing up her spectacles, rubbed her eyes. “I've heard tell that firearms ain't of any use against them. And people have tried all sorts of tricks, including silver bullets.”

“Silver bullets?” Carlos thought about it. “Is there anything that baits them, like the whiskey for the snark?”

“Haven't heard anything. Why someone would want to bait them, I don't know. Once you're in the stacks, they'll find you.”

Carlos sighed. He was a man who felt he could defend himself, but he liked to arm himself beforehand. He thought of a whole city cut off from knowledge, and it grieved him.

“One thing, an old story,” mused Josie. “I don't see if it will be of any use, but they say, if you can pin down a librarian, they'll be constrained to answer your questions.”

“Pin it down?” asked Carlos. “Are we supposed to wrestle?” Carlos suddenly imagined grappling with a librarian. How would it fight him? Would it rap his knuckles with a ruler? Perhaps toss a quill pen at him? It didn't make any sense. Although he had to admit nothing much in this world made a lot of sense. Which brought up another question.

“The library doesn't even have any doors. How will I ever get in?”

“You'll wake up inside, with a slight headache, and no memory of how you came to be there,” sighed Cecil.

Carlos turned in shock at the sound of Cecil's voice. “Cecil....” Cecil attempted to sit up, but Carlos gently pushed him back down. “Cecil, you are in a state. Please....”

“I can't be of use to you if I'm knocked out!” Cecil protested. Josie's angels fluttered in agitation.

“You've upset the angels,” Carlos chided.

“No,” said Josie. She went to the door, and Cecil and Carlos followed her, Carlos with a worried arm around Cecil.

Josie carefully pushed the door open. Everyone looked around.

Standing around was a group of children, all dressed in bright, mismatched clothing. Cecil’s old clothes: Carlos immediately recognized the jacket made of grass, and several other peculiar garments.

Two children stood a bit nearer: Tamika and Barton. Tamika was wearing a woman’s brocaded gown over her shirt and pants, and Barton sported some kind of bright purple deerskin vest. Both grinned, and Tamika pointed to a case left in the middle of the clearing.

And then, with no signal, the children scattered, and disappeared from whence they’d come.

Still barefooted, Carlos ventured out and squatted down next to the case. He opened the latches and viewed the contents.

“What is it, Carlos?” Cecil called from the doorway.

“A viola. My own viola, to be specific,” said Carlos, picking it up, setting it to his chin and drawing a bow across it. A lovely, low music emitted.

Cecil drifted out nearby. “Carlos,” he whispered. Josie’s angels hummed with pleasure. “How are you doing that?”

Carlos looked up from his instrument and glanced around the yard, where the children had been standing. He looked back at Cecil. Maybe this was a message? “I have an idea, Cecil. But I’m going to need something from the armory.”

Cecil went inside to get dressed, and Carlos, after fussing with the viola for a while, lay back on Cecil's couch, wondering if his plan had any prayer of working.

Carlos blinked awake back in at his family's residence in Strathlachlan. He was lying on a couch in his father's library, a striped tabby nibbling at his ear.

“Hey,” he said, shooing away the cat. He sat up, and the book that had been resting on his lap slid to the floor. He leaned over and picked it up. Oddly enough, it was not in English. Instead, it was written in some strange runes.

“What the blazes was I reading?” he asked. The cat sat up on the arm of the couch, grinning at him.

And then the music began to play, in a room somewhere nearby.

“What do you do with a sleeping Elder
What do you do with a sleeping Elder
What do you do with an abomination
When stars are align-ed?

Sacrifice a virgin 'till he's sated
Offer a virgin until he's sated
Give him a virgin until he's sated
That will make him happy!

What do you do if he's sort of racist
What do you do if he's sort of racist
How do you cope if he's problematic
When you write his story?

Write up your cast so it's more inclusive
Call out actions that are exclusive
Offer an array of teaching moments
When you are a writin'.

What do you do if you still feel icky
Taking a shower but still feel sticky
When your sources appear too sqicky
When you the typewriter keys a clicky
When you write your story

The cat screeched, and the music abruptly stopped. Carlos felt a paw batting at his face again.

“Khoshekh?” asked Carlos. He sat up, but the cat leapt away, knocking over the timepiece on the mantelpiece. It toppled over, and hit Carlos in the head.

Carlos moaned. He sat up, rubbing his head, stretching his limbs. He didn’t recall falling asleep, though he did remember having a very strange dream.

Suddenly, a shock of fear ran through him. He stared around at the high bookshelves.

He was inside the library.

Getting quickly to his feet, Carlos tried desperately to shake off the disorientation. Cecil and Josie had warned him about this, but it didn’t make it any less strange. He glanced around to make certain he had brought along his items and was grateful to see that they were nearby. He gathered up everything and, being as quiet as he could muster, went to seek out a relatively open area.

The library was lit, as was all of Nightlantis, with the strange artificial lights, but there weren’t a lot of fixtures inside, so it was exceedingly dim, and shadows fell everywhere. He wondered if the Nighlantis librarians were even sensitive to light. Perhaps they sensed his presence already, and were merely toying with him?

Carlos swallowed his fear and tried to find his way out of the stacks, pausing at the end of each seemingly endless high shelf to look around for his antagonist. He wondered what had become of Hiram McDaniels, and whether the dragon was in here, somewhere, as well? McDaniels certainly caused a commotion wherever he went, but this structure looked vast from the outside, and, given the sometimes odd geometry of the place, there was no telling how vast it really was on the inside. He seemed to be in the middle of the biography section right now. He glanced at some book spines, pulling one of them out and flipping through it. He had no idea who Helen Hunt was, but she seemed to have many, many books written about her. Some local celebrity?

Carlos paused, gathering his things close to him. He could have sworn he heard, far off, a faint scratching or scraping sound, like a cat clawing at a piece of furniture. He smiled, thinking back to his mother scolding the family pets for just an offense, and then wondered if perhaps Khoshekh had happened to be in here somewhere. The thought, somehow, cheered him.

He turned again, but saw no way out of the maze of high bookshelves. He glanced at the book spines, and realized that he was still in the biography section, except now the shelves were filled with books about someone named Sean Penn. This was not going to work for his plan: he needed a more open area. He glanced up and decided to attempt a climb up to the top to see his way clear.

As the scratching sound continued, he set down his burdens and began to climb, remembering when he and his brother had pulled off such stunts as boys. Their last foray had ended badly when his brother had pulled down an entire bookshelf, scattering first editions and breaking one of Mother’s vases. And somehow, of course, Rafael was almost instantly forgiven.

A book near his foot tilted over, and Carlos managed to keep it from falling by toeing it with his boot. He needed to pay attention. He glanced down over his shoulder and saw he was about halfway up the tall bookshelf. At least, he mused, it wasn’t cracking under his weight, the way the tree had been. He listened for a moment: he still heard the rough scratching from about the same direction.

He carefully made his way to the top shelf, and then poked his head over the top.

He immediately ducked back down. He’d seen the source of the scratching sound: over across the stacks, out in an open area, there was a huge monster. It looked somewhat like a winged lion. Was this the librarian? Carlos peeked at the creature again. It didn’t notice him, but seemed completely wrapped up in scratching at one of the couches set out for patrons to sit and read. The area was mostly clear, but for about a half dozen wide pillars that spanned from the floor up to the high ceiling. Perfect, he thought.

Carefully, he memorized his course to get out of the stacks, and then, as quietly as he could, descended back to the floor. He gathered his bags and ventured through the stacks, heading towards the monster, pausing at the last turn, before he would expose himself.

He hunkered down and opened a case, drawing out his viola. He had decided to essay a difficult piece, Berlioz’s Harold en Italie, as he lacked a companion, and it included a significant solo part for viola. He hadn’t any sheet music, so was hoping that his recollection would suffice. He had played the first part, Harold aux montagnes, for Cecil, but his friend seemed wary of the number for reasons Carlos couldn’t understand. (Cecil claimed he didn’t actually believe in mountains, despite, as Carlos had tried to convey, living his entire life inside one.)

Carlos steeled himself and, viola poised under his chin, rounded the corner of the bookshelf so he was now in full view of the creature, which appeared to be batting at the tasseled doily that was draped over the back of the now somewhat despoiled couch. He squared his jaw, and began to play, which drew the immediate attention of the monster. It jerked around, a pair of slitted emerald green eyes now fixed on Carlos as he drew bow over strings.

He tried to quiet his beating heart as the beast first reared up, opening its cruel jaws, spreading out its terrible wings. Unlike Hiram McDaniels, who sported leathery, bat-like wings, this creature had wings like that of an eagle of other bird of prey, albeit in giant size.

He noticed something else: one of its front paws, which was furry but sported an eagle’s talons, clutched at a large, old book. Perhaps this really was a librarian after all? Carlos wondered as he played whether it was a biography of Helen Hunt or Sean Penn, as so far these were the only books he had seen in the vast holdings.

Was its breathing getting more and more shallow? It seemed so. The wings had folded down as he played, and, as if it were being lulled to sleep, it stretched out, making a hash of the carpet with its long talons.

Careful not to lose his place in the piece, Carlos stepped back a few paces, and the creature ambled along towards him, finally stopping right in front of one of the great pillars. He stood still, and continued playing. It yawned and smacked, and then curled up on the floor, its eyes blinking.

Just a few measures more, thought Carlos, as the beast’s breaths became more shallow, and its eyes fluttered closed. He thought he heard a soft snore.

He dropped the violin and dove for his bag.

In an instant, the beast blinked awake and reared up, roaring, wings spread wide, agitated at the cessation of the music. It reared back to pounce.

Carlos drew back his bow, and loosed an arrow. But his intent was not to kill. The beast screamed as an arrow pierced one broad wing and slammed into the pillar behind it, pinning it behind. It flapped and screamed and squawked in protest, but it was caught, like a butterfly on a pin.

Carlos lowered the bow, breathing hard. “I believe I now get my questions answered.”

The creature sighed, and, sensing it was trapped, slipped down, its back against the pillar. As it sagged, it appeared to shrink, until it was not a winged lion, but merely a man, Carlos’s arrow piercing not its wing, but a piece of his shirt.

“Go ahead,” the man sighed.

“You don’t seem like an Old One.”

“What?” he asked. “No! And I’m not a griffin either. I just came in here to check out a book. The door was open, so I decided to take a look around. I mean, I paid enough taxes on this stupid library, I thought I might as well get some use out of it!”

Carlos hunkered down so he was at eye level. “I’m Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan. Carlos.”

“I am, or I was, Mr. Stephen Carlsberg,” sighed the librarian. “You can call me Steve. I came in to check out a book.”

“That book?” asked Carlos, pointing to the one he was clutching.

“No! I wanted to get a biography of Helen Hunt. But the guy gave me this book, and I was stuck! Really annoying, how much government services have declined, don’t you think?”

“I have a hunch I might know how to get you un-stuck,” said Carlos. “But first, I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Ask away! I don’t know if I’ll have the answer,” muttered Steve, who started scratching at the carpet with his free hand.

“All right, first question, what will happen to Cecil when this contest is done?”

Steve suddenly got a strange look to him, as if he’d had one drink too many with dinner. The book clutched in his hands sprung open, and he began to read in what sounded like a disembodied voice. “Cecil will be the sacrifice. A sacrifice must be made. The Old One lies sleeping beneath the mountain.”

“Is there any way….” Carlos trailed off, choosing his words. “Is there any way to avoid this? Can there be another sacrifice?”

The book, of its own accord, began to turn pages. “There must be a sacrifice,” intoned Steve.

“But it doesn’t have to be Cecil?”

“There must be a sacrifice.”

“How do you get to be a sacrifice?”

Steve paused. The book’s pages ruffled. He began to read again. “They must come into the room willingly.” And then the book slammed shut.

Carlos crept over towards Steve, who still seemed out of it. Being careful not to touch it, he peered at the book cover. This book was not written in English, and said nothing regarding Helen Hunt or Sean Penn: instead, was the weird hieroglyphics he had seen around Nightlantis.

“That book is from the Old Ones,” Carlos mused.

“Huh?” said Steve. He seemed to be as one coming out of a dream. “Pardon me?”

“Oh,” said Carlos. “Excuse me! I need to check out a book in order to complete my task.”

“Could I please be released?” asked Steve. “I can’t get to the desk with an arrow stuck through me like this.”

“If I do, will you promise not to misbehave? And please take care of the furniture!”

“But I like to scratch. My claws get so dull.”

Carlos sighed. “We’ll try to get you a good scratching post. In the meantime, can you recommend a good book?”

“We have many captivating biographies of-“

“Something that does not involve Miss Hunt or Mr. Penn?”

Steve frowned.

“I find Mr. Penn to be very inspiring, Carlos. Do you know he saved several people from drowning?”

“Hrm?” said Carlos. He had sitting at the table trying to read his book, but, as his mind had drifted, had actually spent the last few moments watching Babbage cart out a few of Cecil’s rugs to take to the library for a new scratching post for the librarian.

Cecil got up from the couch, to stand next to Carlos. “Oh, no, Babbage, not that one!” He strode over to the mechanical man to rescue a really hideous purple area rug. With a huff of frustration, Babbage did an about-face and tromped back to the store room.

“Does anyone know what’s become of Hiram McDaniels?” Carlos asked.

“Mmm, very little. It was known that he was taken in after you had returned. But as you know, it’s difficult to see into the library.

Carlos nodded. After completing his check out, he had apparently lost consciousness, and the next thing he remembered was waking up on a very thrilled Cecil’s couch, together with his viola, his bow and quiver, and several biographies of Sean Penn.

And he also now had a history of Nightlantis, only it was not written in English, but in the strange language of the Old Ones. So the translation had been slow, as he was really not entirely certain what he was looking for. But what he had seen already was exceedingly worrying.

“I wonder if Mr. Carlsberg transformed back into a griffin before Mr. McDaniels entered the space?” said Carlos.

“Mr. Carlsberg sounds intensely irritating,” huffed Cecil.

“Oh, he's fine, when he's in his human form, really,” said Carlos, but Cecil thumped back on the couch and went back to his biography.

“I prefer to choose Mr. Penn as my role model from here on,” sniffed Cecil.

Carlos rubbed his eyes and went to sit down next to Cecil. “Cecil, I need to figure out what we're to do after the ceremony. From what I've gathered so far from my reading, Nightlantis surfaces once every two hundred years.”

“Give or take,” said Cecil. “As I've said, time works differently here.”

“At that point, the Old Ones require a sacrifice. If there isn't a sacrifice, Nightlantis will not just sink back under the ocean: it will be destroyed!”

“Well, yes, there is that,” said Cecil, still poring over his book. “Any idea who Mr. Hugo Chavez is? He's referred to often.”

Carlos put out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder. “Cecil, you are currently the sacrifice.”

Cecil looked down. “Well, yes, there's that.”

Carlos frowned. “Wait. You knew this?”

Cecil sighed and set down his book. “I've been raised as the sacrifice. It's my fate.” He glanced up at Carlos. “But, it's been all right, really. I didn't expect to fall in love. That was neat.” He smiled, and reached out to brush Carlos's cheek with his fingertips. He shrugged. “And the sexual intercourse was nice as well.”

“Cecil,” Carlos whispered. “We just met! I don't want to lose you.”

“Well, you were going back, regardless. You know, when the portal opens.”

“But I thought-” There was a great rumbling outside. “That came from the direction of the library!” said Carlos. He dashed out the door, Cecil following behind him, and Babbage tromping along behind.

There was a great clamor arising from the library, and a small crowd had gathered outside. There was clanging and bashing and shouting and banging and there were flames shooting out of some of the ducts on the roof.

“Is it McDaniels?” Carlos asked. He looked around and saw that some citizens were exchanging money: they were obviously betting on the outcome. Miss Hidge arrived, accompanied by her assistants, and then the City Council came as well, all flush-faced.

There was a cacophonous roar, and suddenly, one wall of the library erupted into flames. The crowd edged back, as some of the people standing too close had gotten slightly singed. There were roars and squalls from inside, and then, with a crash, part of the side of the building fell down.

There was a silence for a moment, as the dust settled and the ruins smoldered.

And then there was a single figure, visible through the smoke and haze.

Mr. Stephen Carlsberg, still clutching his book very tightly to his chest, emerged, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

He rubbed his belly, which seemed a bit swollen, and emitted a loud, very rude burp.

“Tastes like chicken,” he said aloud.

“Rude!” whispered Cecil.

A soft cry went up amid the crowd. “Where is Mr. McDaniels?” asked Carlos.

“Hello, Dr. MacLachlan!” said the librarian, who was still standing just inside the library as, one supposed, he was forbidden by whatever spell bound him to leave the premises. “Mr. McDaniels is currently making a circuit of my digestive tract. I think the green head is probably in the duodenum by now.”

“Citizens!” shouted Miss Hidge. “I believe I can make an announcement. I believe that the winner of this contest is-”

But suddenly she was knocked off her feet by another trembling. More bits of the library fell.

The pavement beneath their feet cracked. The crowd once again screamed and scattered as the fissures grew wider and wider.

“Is this an earthquake?” asked Carlos. “Is the island sinking again?”

“It's not time yet!” said Josie, who had arrived, along with her angels. “The stars are not yet in alignment. It must be something else.”

The something appeared to be rising from the depths of Nightlantis. Slowly, it cracked through the pavement and began to take shape. It was a large structure, not as large as the library, but quite substantial. But unlike the library, this building had windows and doors.

There was now a figure visible through one of the windows. A very naked figure.

At last, the shaking stopped, and the building came to rest. The crowd gathered around as Marcus Vansten emerged from the new structure, his mechanical men behind him, holding a stack of books.

“Behold the new Nightlantis Library! It was built by me, expressly for me, because I am quite rich. And as you see I have completed the task of checking out not one, but several books.”

“Vansten,” said Carlos. “That can't be in the rules. You can't build a library just for yourself!”

“There is nothing in the rules that says I can't.”

Miss Hidge was conferring with the City Council, who were rifling nervously. At length, she turned. “We cannot find any violation by Mr. Vansten. As he says, there is no rule that expressly forbids constructing your own library for the purposes of this task.”

There were moans and groans from the crowd. As well as the exchange of a great deal of cash.

“However, I have to state, Mr. Vansten, you also failed at the second task, hunting a snark.”

Vansten stepped forward. “I have evidence,” he announced, “that Dr. MacLachlan is not eligible for this contest. He is already affianced!” One of his mechanical men clomped forward, and brought out a coat. Vansten reached into the jacket pocket and retrieved a much-folded letter.

“You- You're the one! You stole my coat!” shouted Carlos.

“No, of course not. I had my sentinels do it,” said Vansten.

Carlos was about to reply in a most intemperate manner, but felt a cool hand on his arm. “Carlos,” said Cecil, his voice quavering, “is this true?”

Carlos bit his lip. “Vansten, have you actually read the letter?”

Vansten shook his head. “I don’t need to read. I’m-“

“Yes, I know, you’re really rich.” Carlos turned to Cecil. “Read the letter, Cecil. Please,” he said.

Looking uncertain, Cecil reached out to grab the letter, which Vansten would have plucked away, had Babbage not grabbed it from him.

As they all stood around the new library steps, Cecil cleared his throat and began to read.

“My dearest Carlos,

I pray as always this missive finds you in good health. Please know that whatever our circumstances, I honestly hope and pray for your safe journey, and eventual return to your family and loved ones.

I fear I do not know how to properly express what is contained in this letter, and you will please excuse my poor skill at writing. My sisters often make fun of me for not paying attention in class. I wish now that I had gleaned more from my English composition, although pleasant words perhaps will not make the meaning within less hard to endure.

Dear and faithful Carlos, it is with a heavy heart that I must report to you, soon after you departed, I began to pay visits to Strathlachlan, where your parents have been most welcoming. While I passed the time there, I had occasion to reacquaint myself with your brother, Rafael. Although our former acquaintanceship had led to many a misunderstanding, I believe that now your brother sees the former error of his ways, and so he was able to express freely to me the genuine longing of his heart.

The conclusion of this is that, before long, we realized that we still harbored a great deal of affection for one another. And that, even though I had been promised to you, it would not be honest of me to venture into a sacred compact such as one of marriage when in truth my heart now belongs to another.

As of the time I put pen to paper, I have been wed to your brother for a fortnight….”

As a gasp went up from those gathered around, Cecil abruptly stopped reading, his eyes welling up. Carlos nodded, and, his voice husky, Cecil continued.

As of the time I put pen to paper, I have been wed to your brother for a fortnight. We eloped, and escaped to London, where your uncle lives, and have been making a home down there. Your father has not reacted well to this, and has disinherited Rafael. I hope that in time, you can find it in your heart to forgive us, and to forgive your brother, and I implore you to help and mend this rift that has grown between Rafael and your father.

I remain, ever, your correspondent

Mrs. Rafael MacLachlan (Temperance)

“My parents insisted on the marriage,” Carlos explained. “It was the worst thing that has ever happened in my life, and broke my heart. I received that letter some weeks ago, at our last port of call. I have re-read it every day since. That’s why it was in my coat pocket. I thought my heart would ever bear the wound, until I met you, Cecil.”

There were quite a lot of adoring “Awwww’s” cooed by especially the female members of the crowd.

Cecil ran to Carlos, and they embraced.

The City Council shuffled, and came up King of hearts, Queen of Hearts, Ace of Hearts.

“I think we can declare a winner,” said Miss Hidge.

“You can do no such thing!” yelled Vansten. “I'm still very, very rich!”

“But, you're not actually the wealthiest person in Nightlantis,” said Carlos.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Carlos pointed to Mr. Carlsberg, who was still standing in the ruined wall of the old library. “You see that book Mr. Carlsberg is holding? It's not only expensive, it is, in fact, priceless.”

“Priceless?” asked Vansten, who started to get a faraway look in his piggish eyes.

“It is the only copy in all of Nightlantis. It is the only copy in all the world.”

“That can't be! If it's expensive, then it is by rights, mine.”

“It's true, Carlos,” said Cecil. “Mr. Vansten is very rich, and therefore, a great guy.”

“No,” said Carlos, “I'm afraid that book is in the hands of the public librarian, so it therefore belongs to the public.”

“No more!” shouted Vansten. “Sentinels!” he yelled. His mechanical men went up and surrounded Carlsberg, who didn't really seem terribly perturbed. “Give me that book!” he demanded.

Carlsberg grinned, gave another, smaller burp, and shoved the book into Vansten's hands.

Vansten let out a shriek. There was a howl of wind, and he and his mechanical men were suddenly sucked into the old library. And then, with a glow of light, the wall of the library repaired itself, until it was once again sealed tight.

Carlsberg, who was standing outside rubbing his stomach, said, “I have a bit of a digestive upset. Does anyone have some soda water?”

“I believe we can now finally declared a winner!” said Miss Hidge before the dust had even settled. “Oh, look, here is the mayor herself!”

With the faint scent of olives, there was suddenly a woman standing amidst them, dressed in an elaborate gown. She held a scepter topped by a heart, and her ornate crown contained several heart-shaped jewels.

“Your Honor,” said Miss Hidge, curtseying before her. The City Council formed up behind her in neat rows, as if setting up for a game of Canfield Solitaire. Those wearing the suit of hearts were all arrayed at the front.

“That's actually not a very good hand,” Carlos commented.

Mayor Winchell pointed her heart scepter at Carlsberg. “Off with his head!” she declared.

“What?” protested Carlsberg, as several of the club-suited City Council members surrounded him. “I only asked for a seltzer water!”

“Stop right there!” protested Carlos, despite Cecil attempting to hold him back. “This man has done nothing wrong.”

“Who are you?” sniffed Mayor Winchell.

“I am Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan, and I am the winner of Prince Cecil's hand!”

“Prince Cecil?” asked Mayor Winchell. “Married? When did this happen?”

“Possibly while you were afire. Or perhaps when you were transubstantiating into wine,” sighed Miss Hidge. To be honest, her job as the mayor's assistant must have been a trial.

Just then, as if things needed to be even more complicated, a shot rang out. Nightlantis citizens dove for cover.

Carlos peered at the mayor who had fallen beside him. Her gown was now soaked in blood. He crawled over to her to check her. “The mayor is dead!” he declared.

“Are you sure she's not just changing forms again?” sighed Miss Hidge.

Carlos shook his head. “No, she's really dead.” But suddenly the mayor transformed into a scarab beetle, which skittered off.

“See?” said Miss Hidge.

“Savage Negroes,” came a cry.

Carlos looked over to where a crazed Thurston was now holding a gun on Cecil.

“Oh, not you again!” Cecil told Thurston.

“Cecil, be careful!” called Carlos. “He's a murderer!”

Thurston grabbed Cecil by the hair and, pulling him along, ran into Vansten's library building.

“Cecil!” shouted Carlos. Heedless to the danger, he ran into the library building after Cecil. He was just in time to see Vansten and his hostage disappear down a staircase towards Nightlantis's lower levels.

But just at that moment, the earth beneath him trembled terribly, and he was thrown to the floor. He heard a rumble, and covered his head just as part of the ceiling collapsed.

The tremor ceased and Carlos leapt to his feet. But rubble now blocked the staircase leading downwards.

He rushed back out of Vansten's library building. “I lost Thurston! What was that shaking?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Josie, who was still standing nearby with her angels, “the island has started sinking.”

“What?” asked Carlos. “I thought the stars weren't in alignment yet.”

Josie looked at her angels, who hummed in agreement. “Not back when you last asked, but they are now.”

“But it's only been five minutes!” Carlos protested.

Josie shrugged. “The Old Ones require their sacrifice. Otherwise, Nightlantis will be destroyed.”

Carlos's mind raced. “And Cecil is the sacrifice.”

“Yes. They tend to be rather picky about things like that.”

“So we need to get him back....”

Josie nodded, and her angels ruffled their feathers. “Yes, we need to bring Prince Cecil back alive. So we can sacrifice him.”

Carlos looked around. It seemed everyone in the crowd was no staring at him. “You know, your town can sometimes get quite irritating!”

NEXT

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/144102.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 4 of 6)

2014-01-11T21:20:12Z

Title: The Disappearing Island
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~36,000 total
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: Posting this one a bit early as I've got a big chunk of Sunday set aside for fangirling Sherlock.

Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854

“Thank you for accompanying me today.”

“It's my pleasure, Captain Cochrane,” said Carlos. He watched as the captain sat down on a rock wall and yanked off his boot.

“Just Tom is fine. There's only the two of us out here,” said Cochrane, upending his boot and shaking it in an attempt to dislodge the offending pebble.

“Tom, then,” said Carlos. “I must admit, I usually do not fancy hunting for sport.” He patted one of the hunting dogs, who had padded up to investigate why its masters were stopped. “But I have been known to pursue the art when I am after specimens.”

“You have an interest in natural history,” said the Captain, who sat for a time evidently contemplating his footwear. He certainly did not seem in earnest to continue their hunting expedition.

“It's an avocation,” said Carlos. “As I am affianced, I will need to pursue my profession as a physician.”

“Ah, yes. My best wishes, and all that,” muttered the Captain. He had yanked his boot back on, but now was bringing out a silver cigarette case. He offered one to Carlos, who demurred. “Yes, filthy habit,” grumbled the Captain, who then lit up. “Picked it up during the Crimean War.”

The wind kicked up. The Captain pointed. “Did you hear that?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Listen.” The two men fell silent, as the wind gusted and then died. “It always sounds different going through the different stands of trees. Marvelous, really! I'll never quit listening to the wind. Probably the sea captain in me, thinking about the wind in my sails even when I'm ashore.”

Carlos nodded.

“So, I suppose your father told you I'm soon to leave on a surveying expedition for Her Majesty’s government.”

“Yes,” said Carlos, a bit wistfully it may be added. His thoughts drifted to distant lands, far beyond his father's estate.

“We plan to go around the tip of the New World, and then we'll visit your friend Mr. Darwin's islands, the Galapagos.”

Carlos turned to stare at the Captain, wondering now if he was being taunted on purpose. He searched his mind, but couldn't think of any offense he may have committed against Cochrane. Was this is father's doings, perhaps? First he had been forced in into this ridiculous engagement with Temperance Hatrack, and now the Baron wanted to rub Carlos's face in it?

“...But he gets seasick. Seasick! Can you believe it?” Cochrane had slapped Carlos on the back, which brought him out of his reverie.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos. “I'm afraid I rather drifted off.”

“Already asea, my lad? I was speaking of my naturalist, Carlos. He was all prepared to set sail with us, a young gentleman like yourself. Only it turns out he's of too delicate a constitution for a sea voyage! So I find myself about to shove off without my most important personnel.”

“A naturalist,” said Carlos. His mind was in a fog. “You need a naturalist aboard?”

“Just so.”

Carlos stood stock still. The dog, which had been sniffing the air, broke into a run. As the men watched, it charged across the field, disappearing into the heather. And then there was a rustling, and a flock of pheasants took wing. Without a thought, Carlos had his rifle braced against his shoulder. A shot rang out, and a bird fell. And then the sound of racing feet, and the dog had brought back the bird, safe in its mouth.

“Well, looks like we have tonight’s dinner,” said Tom, rubbing his hands together.

“We usually age them before they're served,” Carlos said absently, pulling the bird from the dog. “You need a naturalist aboard,” he added.

“We've been through this, Carlos. Yes! I need someone willing to serve as a naturalist aboard the Vigilant. Any idea who I could find on such short notice?” His face had broken into a cat-caught-the-canary grin.

An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856

Carlos sat up in bed, blinking blearily around in confusion.

It had begun innocently enough. During the night, he had encountered some trouble falling asleep. He had been listening to the clock ticking on his nightstand, and had remembered Cecil's remark about the clocks in Nightlantis. And so, having spotted a set of tools resting by the door, he had carefully disassembled the clock to find … absolutely nothing. It was completely empty of any mechanism inside. But it had been functional: he could swear he had heard it ticking, and observed the hands moving. Curious now, he had taken apart the clock in the sitting room as well. That one too was empty. And then the pocket watch he had fished out of his soup. He had then gone around and taken apart every timepiece in the guest house, only to find each and every one completely devoid of internal moving parts. The grandfather clock in the hall, which he had finished disassembling the very last, had instead of moving parts a kind of jelly inside, which appeared to sport a tuft of hair.

That had been his last memory before he drifted off to sleep. Or at least, he thought he remembered. But now, somehow, he was back in bed, and the clock beside him, which was perfectly intact, continued to tick.

The knocking on the door began anew: that had been the noise that woke him up, apparently. He pulled on a dressing gown and leapt up to answer, expecting perhaps to see Cecil at his door.

Instead, he was greeted by Babbage, who, after a quick bow, trundled in with a covered tray, which he sat on the table. “Thank you, Mr. Babbage,” said Carlos. He peeked under the cover, and was surprised to see a hot breakfast, with fried eggs and crisp bacon and thick toast and fresh butter and marmalade and fried potatoes and even some very hot, very strong brewed coffee (exactly the way Carlos preferred it).

Carlos didn't sit, but (somewhat rudely, it may be said) picked up a rasher of bacon and nibbled at it as he followed Babbage, who had headed over to a mysterious cabinet in Carlos's sitting room. The mechanical man flipped a switch. The apparatus lit up and hummed, and then, all of a sudden, a familiar voice filled the room.

“....reminds citizens that they are not allowed in our dog park. Do not go to the dog park. Do not gaze upon the dog park. If you see any hooded figures around the dog park, please ignore them. I am not to speak again of the dog park. In fact, please forget that I even mentioned it. No, quit thinking about it. Think about something else. Like gazelles!”

“Is that Cecil's transmission?” Carlos asked Babbage, who, not having the power of speech, could not reply. “I suppose I should wash up,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I mean, before I’ve breakfasted, since you've presented me with this lovely meal.” Babbage tooted, and replaced the cover on the breakfast tray, which seemed to indicate agreement, so Carlos excused himself to go to the washroom.

He had started running the bath when he heard the noise, something like a yowl, but something like a moan. He looked up into the bathroom mirror above the washstand, and was startled to see what looked very much like a grin, just hanging in mid-air. Carlos did a double take, and then approached the mirror, wiping off the steam that had condensed there.

The grin appeared to be hovering just over his shoulder, but now it was attached to the head of what seemed to be a cat. Carlos turned with a start, surprised to see that now he had a fully formed striped tabby perched on his shoulder.

“Er, hello?” he ventured.

The cat repeated the odd sound, so he scratched it behind the ears, as he was rather fond of animals. Although the creature did not sound any happier, he could feel it vibrate as if it were purring.

“Well, I need to take my bath now, before my breakfast gets too cold. I hope you don't mind.” Carlos gently picked up the cat and plucked it off his shoulder. He was somewhat surprised to find that instead of hopping to the floor, as a normal cat would, it ended up hanging in mid-air, where it seemed very contented.

“So Nightlantean cats defy gravity?” asked Carlos. Well, it made as much sense as anything else here. He determined that he would ask Cecil about it, and, after disrobing, performed his ablutions. The cat watched for a while, and then, apparently bored with the whole thing, now did the appearing trick once again, only this time in reverse. Starting from the tip of the tail, it slowly disappeared, leaving nothing but the head, and then nothing but the large smile, which finally winked out, leaving Carlos alone to finish bathing.

Carlos emerged from the bath to find Cecil himself knocking on his door. “I hope I am not intruding at to early a time?” he asked.

“No, not at all!” said Carlos, sitting down at the breakfast table. “Would you like to share some of my breakfast? Mr. Babbage was so kind to bring it.”

“Well, I've already eaten, but I do love toast and marmalade. Would you mind if I had a bite?”

“No, be my guest,” said Carlos, even though Babbage tooted as though to say, “You're being a bit of a pig, Cecil.” Cecil hungrily spread out butter and preserves on a slice of toast.

“You know,” said Carlos, “My country makes the best marmalade.”

“Rrrgh?” said Cecil, who had a mouth full of toast.

“Oh, yes. When you visit me, we'll sample some!”

“I would love to visit your country, Carlos!” said Cecil, once he had chewed through. “But I don't think I'll ever get to leave Nightlantis.”

“Why not?” asked Carlos.

“It's not my fate,” said Cecil, sadly buttering up some more toast. (He really was being just a bit greedy.)

“There's been a lot of talk about fate lately,” grumbled Carlos.

Cecil considered his toast. “So, we have a bit of time before the City Council announces the next task. Would you like a tour of Nightlantis beforehand?”

“I'm very interested in that large building in the middle of town. The very grand one.”

“Oh, uh, the library?” Cecil put down his toast and shivered. “I don't think you want to go there.”

“Why not? Is it forbidden? Like the dog park?”

Cecil's eyes brightened. “Oh, would you like to go to the dog park? It's a lovely place!”

Carlos, once again, was speechless.

On Carlos's insistence, they had walked by the library, though Cecil was careful to keep a distance between themselves and the commanding edifice.

Carlos noticed something extremely odd about it: it was a very grand design, but there were no windows and no doors. “How does one get into the library?” he had asked.

“Why would you ever want to do that? The proper question is, how do you escape!”

But then they had taken a turn and meandered over to the dog park. There were several people there, all dressed in the monk-like cowls Carlos had seen the other day. Cecil greeted them all by name. “Hi Vincenzo! Hello, Ibrahim!”

And all of them were out walking their dogs. Carlos bent over to scratch behind the ears of a hound who reminded him of one of his old hunting dogs. There were some dogs that reminded him of home, and others that only served to underline the notion that home was so very far away: one figure in particular was huffing along with a three-headed dog on his leash. The animal, which was nearly the size of a bull, at least seemed well-behaved.

“You like animals?” asked Cecil as they strolled through the very pleasant surroundings.

“I have a fondness for them. By the way, I met a most unusual feline in the washroom of the guest house. At least, I suppose it was a feline. He hovered in the air and then disappeared before my eyes.”

“Oh, you've met Khoshekh!” said Cecil. “He doesn't come out for just anyone, you know.”

Carlos smiled. If nothing else, at least Cecil’s cat liked him. “Do you have any idea what the next task will be?”

“I don't know. It's up to the City Council, and they-”

But Cecil abruptly stopped speaking when, all at once, every dog in the dog park began to bark and howl and generally cause a commotion.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and one of the hooded figures fell. There was panic and mayhem. Without thinking, Carlos leapt on top of Cecil, shielding his body.

Cecil wriggled out from under Carlos, and they both looked around. “Carlos, you’re a physician, go and help him!” Cecil told Carlos, pointing at the fallen man.

“Please be careful, Cecil!” said Carlos. He ran over to the fallen figure, who lay moaning and bloodied on the grass. A dog sat nearby, looking mournful. Carlos pulled open the robe. There was blood everywhere, but fortunately, it looked as if the wound was superficial.

“Am I dead?” whispered the hooded man.

“You’ll be fine, I think,” Carlos assured him.

“That’s most fortunate, because I am in arrears on my dues to the Esoteric Order of Dagon!”

“My listeners, please remain calm!” Cecil urged as men and dogs cowered around the park, full of fear.

“Begone, savage Negro!” came a call. The blood in Carlos’s veins froze. He turned around, and there was Thurston, eyes half mad, standing in the middle of the park, pointing a rifle directly at Cecil.

“I am sorry,” said Cecil, facing down Thurston, “but people are strictly forbidden from the dog park!”

“Cecil,” whispered Carlos, who was in a panic.

“Are you the one? The one who murdered my uncle, you black bastard?” raved Thurston.

Cecil calmly crossed his arms. “I do not believe your uncle and myself to be acquainted. And by the way, that isn’t a terribly courteous form of address. You, sir, are a racialist!”

“Thurston!” said Carlos, who sprang over to stand by Cecil.

“Dr. MacLachlan needs to attend to his patient,” said Cecil, holding out an arm to bar Carlos getting any closer to Thurston. Carlos glanced at Cecil, and then reluctantly retreated to tend to his patient. “And by what right do you go around shooting my listeners, anyway?” Cecil continued. “I have enough troubles with competing wireless transmissions as it is. I’ve heard there is a growing group of citizens who are now listening to the random numbers transmission instead.”

“Not us, Cecil!” ventured one of the hooded figures. “Those random numbers are boring.”

“And they’re not very random,” sulked another. They were slowly venturing out of their hiding places to come stand by Cecil, facing Thurston, who despite his mania we beginning to look unsure of himself.

“Why are you listening to the random numbers anyway?” asked a third hooded figure. “That’s not very loyal to Prince Cecil.”

“I dunno. I was tired of hearing about the City Council’s dealings all the time.”

“They’re definitely not playing with a full deck. Always nattering about Old Ones this, Elder Gods that…..”

“The Elder Gods!” roared Thurston, now waving the gun at the robed figures. “What do you know of them?”

Carlos had hung his jacket on a tree and was working in shirtsleeves to bind his patient’s wound. “What do you know of them, Thurston?” he called. “You are the one who made us aware of this island.”

“I know of him! Beneath the island R’lyeh, Cthluhu lies dreaming!” said Thurston.

Cecil heaved a sigh. “Yes, I know. Kind of a narcoleptic. Not much fun at parties, Cthulhu.”

“That’s why you’re after me!” declared Thurston.

“Why would we be after you for that?” asked one of the hooded figures.

“Because he didn’t get invited to one of Cthulhu’s parties?” asked another.

“Well, hardly worth shooting someone.”

“Depends on the party!”

“This isn’t over a party!” insisted Thurston. “This is-“ He jerked, and the gun went off in his hands.

Everyone ducked once again, but this time several of the dogs went racing after him. Gripping his weapon, Thurston bolted.

“Thurston, wait!” shouted Carlos, leaping up to give chase. But Thurston was already vaulting the short fence that bordered the dog park and fleeing into the city. Carlos lit off after him, ignoring Cecil’s shouts, and ran through then narrow streets.

Thurston ran down a narrow stairway towards one of the lower levels, and Carlos pursued him. He ended up in some unfamiliar area with much clinking, clanking heavy machinery. There were massive gears turning around, and pistons and the sound of steam. “Thurston!” shouted Carlos.

A shot rang out, and Carlos ducked as the masonry behind him shattered. He looked around, but the entire chamber was filled with gears and movement and steam and noise. “Thurston!” he yelled again. This time he heard a distinct clang. He ran over towards the sound, and found a round hatch in the floor. He pulled at it, but it appeared to be locked. He cursed, wishing that he had Babbage along with him.

He climbed back up to Nightlantis's main level and made his way back to the dog park. Most everyone had scattered to the winds, but Cecil remained, talking to a couple of the hooded figures. “Carlos!” he called, and, to Carlos’s surprise, he ran over and threw his arms around him. “I was worried about you! You shouldn’t have taken off like that!”

“I’m fine,” Carlos assured him as Cecil clung onto him. “I assure you. But Thurston got away. And he still has a weapon.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” said Cecil. To Carlos’s relief, he loosened his grip. “And the hooded figures say they’re in your debt, so if you need anything….” He pointed to the figures who remained. They nodded, and then lead their dogs away.

“That’s awfully kind of them,” said Carlos. And then, to his dismay, Cecil leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you for protecting me. That was very brave!”

Carlos’s neck had turned bright red. “That was…. I mean…. I just….”

“Now,” said Cecil, “we have to get going. The City Council has decided on the second task.”

Touching the spot on his cheek where Cecil had kissed him, Carlos turned towards the park and looked around. “My jacket,” he said absently.

“Yes?” asked Cecil.

“I hung it on one of the trees. But I don’t see it.”

“That’s odd,” said Cecil, who looked around as well. “Well, it will be fine, we’ll just get you another jacket. Come on!”

Carlos, after looking around one more time in confusion, set off with Cecil to his residence. Babbage met them at the door to Cecil’s chambers, huffing and puffing in consternation. “Oh, Babbage, don’t fuss,” Cecil scolded. “I need to change clothes myself, so why don’t you make yourself at home, Carlos? Babbage will search the wardrobes for something appropriate.”

Carlos sat down on a couch. “All right,” he said, although he was a little fearful as to what Babbage might pull out of the Prince’s closet: although Carlos had already developed quite an affection for him, Cecil did have a rather odd dress sense. The first few selections did not ease his mind: there was a jacket that seemed to be entirely constructed of grass, and another of more suitable material, but seeming dyed to display every color of the rainbow.

“I think you’d better leave this one to Mr. McDaniels,” Carlos told Babbage, hoping that he was not seeming too fussy.

Cecil, who had changed to a dressing gown, came and sat down next to Carlos, laughing out loud. “Bring him something for a military man,” Cecil told Babbage, who tromped away. “Would you like a drink, Carlos?”

“If you are having one,” said Carlos. Cecil leaned forward and picked up a decanter that was sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He poured the rich amber liquid into two glasses.

As Cecil leaned over, his dressing gown hung forward, and Carlos noticed some odd markings on Cecil’s chest. “Cecil,” he said as Cecil handed over a glass, “I hope this is not too forward, but your chest….”

“Oh, my tattoo?” asked Cecil. He pulled his dressing gown open to reveal a purple marking shaped like a large eye inked across his chest.

“That’s unusual,” said Carlos, who couldn’t help staring. “We’ve encountered some native peoples with similar markings.”

“Yes, it’s right over my heart, do you see?” asked Cecil, and with no further ado, clasped Carlos’s hand and placed it flat over the eye. “Can you feel it?”

“Uh,” said Carlos. True, he could feel Cecil’s heart beating, but he could also feel his own thumping away in his chest. Cecil’s skin was warm, and so very soft. “I-“

There was a tromping noise, and Babbage appeared once again, holding a jacket.

Cecil dropped Carlos’s hand. “Oh, look at this, I think this is quite suitable, don’t you?” Carlos finally dragged his attention to the garment in Babbage’s clawed hand. It actually looked quite decent.

“Yes, I think that will do,” said Carlos.

“Oh, perfect. Now let’s just get you out of that shirt!” said Cecil.

“I’m sorry?” Carlos managed to squeak as Cecil began to assault his buttons. “Well, we can’t have you gadding about in the same old shirt with a brand new jacket, can we?”

And so it was that sometime later, Carlos found himself wearing a mauve silk shirt (he had refused the ruby cravat Cecil had been foisting on him on the account that it made his neck itch). He had to admit, it was one of the finest garments he'd ever worn. His parents, although they had always possessed enough money to remain comfortable, didn't believe in such fancy items.

“That shirt fits really well,” Cecil had purred, which only added to Carlos's discomfiture. He wasn't entirely certain why he was continually feeling flustered when he was in Cecil's presence. The man was forward, it was true, and tended to sit a little too close, and his eyes were really lovely....

Carlos shook his head. He tore his eyes from Cecil's and gazed around the room, at the piles of various articles of clothing which had been picked up and discarded.

And then he got an idea.

“Cecil, you have a lot of clothing.”

“Isn't it ridiculous?” asked Cecil, leaning back on the couch. “I have garments for any and every occasion, and garments for no occasion at all! But people know I like them, and give me gifts, and who am I to refuse? I really am to clothing like the Old Ones were to architecture, with all the stairways going nowhere....”

Carlos fingered a jacket that had been thrown over the back of the couch. It was an impossible color and a phantastical style, but constructed of nice warm materials. “Is it possible that you could part with any of these items?”

“Hmm? Well, I'd probably never miss the bigger part of them, to be honest!”

“Because, I might know of a situation in which they might be useful. Um, some, acquaintances of ours, you might say.” Carlos held out his hand, to more or less the height of a child.

Cecil stared for a long moment, but then lit up like one of Nightlantis's artificial lights. “Of course! Babbage, let's sort out some of my less favored clothing!”

After they were at it for a while (to Carlos's astonishment, Cecil's extensive wardrobe included some rather nice dresses, possibly gifted from people who were still under the impression he was Cecilia) they had amassed several bags of clothing, which, with Babbage's assistance, they placed outside where the garden party had been hosted the other day.

“No need for these!” Carlos said, a bit too loudly and too brightly. “Now, let's go to our meeting!” Babbage began to steam off, and so did Carlos. He had to reach back and tug Cecil along when Cecil spent a bit too much time lingering and grinning and looking around.

“Do you think they will appreciate my cast offs?” Cecil whispered.

“I predict good use will be made of them!” said Carlos, pulling Cecil along.

Thus, they arrived at the meeting arm in arm, to glares from the other candidates: one from Marcus Vansten, and five different glares, plus a snort of fire, from Hiram McDaniels. (Wilcox, of course, had already dropped out, so was probably in his chambers, looking glum.) Carlos decided that their proximity probably appeared inappropriate, and so dropped Cecil's hand, much to Cecil's apparent dismay.

Fortunately, Miss Hidge bustled into the well-appointed sitting room, accompanied by her aides, and the City Council after them, all freshly shuffled.

“Where is the mayor?” groused Vansten.

“She has degenerated into a thin, greenish layer of throbbing protoplasm, as is the right of all mayors!”

Carlos believed he would like to see this, but kept his peace.

“We are here to announce the next task,” said Miss Hidge, her voice taking on unpleasant overtones. “Which shall be … hunting a snark!”

“What?” demanded Vansten as McDaniels's green head snorted fire. “We can't fight a snark!”

“And furthermore,” said Miss Hidge, ”you will return the snark alive.”

“But what if it's a Boojum?” demanded McDaniels.

“Then you will disappear,” said Miss Hidge, who followed the comment with a most unfortunate smile. “The good news is, we shall open Nightlantis's armory for you. You may choose any implements you feel you need for this task.” Her aides threw open a heavy wooden door, and suddenly, they could see a vast vault stocked with an amazing array of implements of mass mayhem.

“What in heaven's name is a snark?” Carlos asked Cecil as the other candidates fell upon the store of weapons with a great rattling and clattering. “I am a naturalist, and I have never heard of such a thing.”

“You don't want to find weaponry, Carlos?” asked Cecil, who looked concerned.

“I would much rather be apprised of my, er, opponent first,” said Carlos. He cast a glance at McDaniels, who was now carrying a mace and what looked like a stash of dynamite, and Vansten, who had his mechanical men carrying swords and shields and something that looked like a miniature canon.

“Finding them’s no bother,” said Josie. “It’s the catching them’s the trick.”

Carlos was over at her home, which was near something called a Used Car Lot. It was a large space occupied by many incredible metal vehicles of uncertain purpose. “Are these steam powered?” he asked, glancing into a window of a large, black one with the word “Impala” emblazoned on the back.

“Nobody knows,” said Josie. “Probably one of our temporal anomalies.” She pointed upwards. There were several strings of bright flags strung across the area. “Watch the breeze. That’s how you know a snark is near,” she instructed. Then she held out her hands. One angel presented her with a silver flask, and another, a glass. She calmly poured out a drink, and set the glass in the middle of the asphalt. And then she and the angels and Carlos retreated behind one of one of the larger vehicles to wait.

“So, the snark favors alcohol?” whispered Carlos as they waited.

“Only the best Scotch. They’re fussy buggers,” huffed Josie.

“I appreciate your doing this for me,” said Carlos.

She looked him up and down, her dark eyes blown up to twice their size refracting in her thick spectacles. “Perhaps I’m not doing it for you.” An angel let out a sort of a purr.

“I’m not quite certain why I am doing any of this,” Carlos admitted.

“Do you wonder what will happen upon the occasion of a candidate winningCecil's hand?” asked Josie.

“Well, I suppose there will be a wedding?” She seemed to imply something else, but before Carlos had a chance to inquire further, she held up her hand.

“Look,” said Josie, gesturing towards the strings of flags. Suddenly, the ones far away began to flap, as if in a strong breeze. The wind picked up, and Carlos watched as flags closer and closer by began to flutter.

Josie grabbed his arm, and she, Carlos and the angels ducked down on the lee side of the large vehicle just as the wind howled and everything shook. For a moment, Carlos was afraid the vehicle beside them was going to upend and crush them: the wind was that strong.

And then, just as swiftly, the noise ceased, and all was calm.

They emerged from hiding, and gathered around where the drink had been poured out. The glass remained, but it was empty.

“As I said,” said Josie, “the trick is catching the beastie.”

Carlos smiled and picked up the empty glass. “I think I might have an idea.”

Carlos stilled the dogs. He and Cecil had talked to the hooded figures, and he had ended up borrowing a couple of mid-sized hounds and a rather opinionated little terrier. Since no one had apparently actually seen a snark, he decided that he would employ a variety of animals. He had given all of them Josie’s empty whiskey glass to sniff, so they would at least have the smell of the creature, if not any idea of its appearance.

He had chosen a wooded area on the edge of town they called Grove Park. Cecil had warned Carlos not to notice the shadowy shape that hovered there, all the while pointing it out and talking about it of course. Carlos thought it was scientifically interesting, and Cecil promised to take him to tour Radon Canyon at some point.

Carlos had, finally, banished a very reluctant Cecil, with promises that he would flee upon being confronted with a Boojum, whatever the hell that was. And then he sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind make its way through the trees. He removed the flask Cecil had given him from his new jacket and poured out a glass of whiskey, sparing a sip for himself before he corked the flask.

And then, placing the glass up on a rock, he retreated behind some bushes. The terrier whined, and Carlos smiled, scratching it behind the ears. “None for you, my friend. But you'll have a goodly hunt soon, I promise.”

The air was warm, so Carlos shrugged out of his borrowed jacket and hung it up on a branch. Then, thinking twice about it, carefully folded it up and hid it in a bush. He didn't want any thieves snatching the jacket Cecil had so kindly loaned him.

The breeze gusted, and Carlos listened carefully. The leaves rustled through each stand of trees, each encounter having a slightly different tenor. He sat and listened, quietly petting the dogs. His mind began to wander. He began to wonder if he would ever make it back to the Vigilant. Certainly Cecil claimed time worked differently here, and it wasn't terribly hard to believe. Everything worked differently here. The mayor was some sort of mystical nonentity, the Council was a pack of cards, mechanical men roamed the city, and his rival for the affections of Prince Cecil was literally a five-headed dragon.

And that was another thing: Carlos had not only fallen into some kind of portal, he had also fallen into a romantic rivalry based around another man. He imagined telling Captain Cochrane about the entire story. Perhaps the captain would listen with sympathy. There were persistent stories, which Carlos neither believed nor disbelieved, that some of the young acquaintances the Captain visited at various ports were in fact young gentlemen.

Or not so much gentlemen. The wind rustled, and Carlos snapped back to reality. There, over by that stand of willow trees. Now closer, the ash trees. Yes, moving closer.

He gripped one of the hounds by the collar. It whined, very softly. Closer. Closer.

Carlos jumped to his feet. “Go!” he ordered, and the dogs were off, howling and barking, the little terrier at the lead. The wind – which was not a wind at all – abruptly changed direction, heading off over the tall grass towards a copse.

Grabbing his knapsack, Carlos took off running after the dogs. He had never tried pursuing the hunting hounds, and soon saw why, as he tripped on roots and stumbled underneath low branches. He got his foot snagged in a hole and crashed into some brambles, ripping up both his back and Cecil's borrowed shirt. Cursing a blue streak, using a lot of the vocabulary he had picked up on his voyage on the Vigilant, he picked himself up and hurried after the sound of lowing and barking, though it was growing farther and farther away in the distance.

Bleeding and aching, he finally came to a very large, very ancient oak tree, three dogs barking beneath it, the little terrier scratching and scraping at the bark.

“Is he up there? Our snark?” he asked as he stood, flush-faced and out of breath. He peered up into the branches, but had no idea how high his quarry might have gone. He did notice that the wind had ceased. He wondered if the creature had stopped for fear or necessity: the tree was on the margin of a field, so there was no place to jump off.

Carlos had been an eager tree-climber since he was a small boy, so, shrugging his shoulders, he grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up. And then, quietly and carefully, made his way further up, unsure of what he might find at the top.

Higher and higher he climbed, with no sign of the snark. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, sparing a look downwards, where he could still hear the hounds carrying on. The branches were growing more thin and brittle up here, and he started to worry that they would carry his weight. He wondered if he should have shed his boots before he climbed.

That's when he saw it, a slight rustle in the leaves overhead, as if by a small gust of wind. But the wind had died down. He resumed climbing, trying not to pay too much attention to the branches, cracking and protesting under his weight. There was no pool underneath him this time, he knew: no chance of a last minute rescue should he fall.

And then he came to a place where a branch must have fallen. He emerged from the canopy, and peered up at a branch just overhead, just out of his reach.

It was so terribly small, and something like a mouse. Its nose twitched as it sighted him, and for a moment, they stared at one another. “All that trouble, just from you?” Carlos asked softly, pulling his rucksack off his back. “You have nowhere to run, you know,” he added, noticing that the top of the tree was only a little further on. “Why not just come with me?” Gritting his teeth, his back protesting where he had shredded it in the brambles, he eased himself out further on his branch. Carefully and quietly, he raised a hand....

The creature hopped up, just out of his reach, and out of sight behind a cover of leaves.

“Damn!” sighed Carlos. Was it going to be all of this for a standoff at the top of the tree? He didn't think he could climb all the way to the top. Moving ever so slowly, he tried the next branch up. It crackled and bent. He sighed, and tried standing up on the branch he was now perched upon.

His head pushed through a cover of leaves, and he found himself face to face with a wriggling snark.

Its tail was being held in a mouth. A mouth that, at the present time, did not appear to be attached to a head, or much of anything at all.

Carlos stared. “Khoshekh?” he asked softly. And, as if its name was an invocation, the striped cat suddenly appeared before him, grinning and holding its prize.

Carlos stuck out a tentative, trembling hand. “May I...?” he asked. The mouth opened, and the snark dropped into Carlos's hand. He quickly shoved the little creature into his knapsack, and closed the top. “Thank you, Khoshekh! I really appreciate this!”

The cat let out an unearthly yowl, and then, lazily, disappeared again, beginning at the tip of its tail, and ending with its wide kitty grin.

Carlos was grinning himself when he made it back to the ground.

Cecil was wrapped around him with arms tight as strong as iron bars. “Carlos, I was so worried,” he sobbed.

Carlos looked around the room. Several of Hiram McDaniels's heads were now quarreling with Miss Hidge. There was no sign of Marcus Vansten.

“Did Vansten-”

“It was a Boojum,” sighed Cecil. “No way of knowing. According to witnesses, he just disappeared. When you were late, I thought....”

Carlos cupped Cecil's face. “Dear Cecil, I am completely fine, as you can see. Chin up, man! I have another victory!” He eyed McDaniels. His green head was now spitting fire. “What's gotten into McDaniels?”

“He claims he caught not one but two snarks,” said Cecil. “But the first was inadvertently roasted by his fires. He says he should get extra points, but the City Council is balking.”

“I hope they don't relent,” laughed Carlos. “Oh, by the way, unfortunately, I've destroyed your beautiful shirt.”

“What?” asked Cecil. Carlos shed his jacket, and showed Cecil the evidence of his encounter with the brambles.

“Carlos, my dear! You're bleeding!” sobbed Cecil, who seemed beside himself.

“I'll be fine, I just need somewhere to wash up....”

“You're coming with me! Straightaway!” said Cecil. “Babbage!” he ordered his mechanical man. “Tell Miss Hidge and the City Council that I've left to get urgent, life-saving medical care for Dr. MacLachlan!”

“But Cecil-” Carlos started before he was dragged away, leaving him wondering how Babbage, who despite many prodigious accomplishments, could not speak, would convey any message to anyone.

Carlos and Cecil arrived back at Cecil's large suite of rooms. Cecil at once set up a fire in the sitting room fireplace (Carlos marveled that he didn't have servants to do this for him) and then carefully washed Carlos's back and sides himself with a warm washcloth while he pressed Carlos with glass after glass of a sweet, smoky liqueur. Cecil had partaken of a couple glasses himself, with seemed to help calm his agitation. Carlos sat up in a rather comfortable overstuffed couch, the damaged shirt long since doffed, watching Cecil apply some kind of warm ointment to his scratches.

“It's probably good that you are doing this. Some of the scratches were deeper than I thought,” said Carlos, his mind warm from the fire and the alcohol and the sweet, vaguely flowery scent of the oinment.

Cecil had excused himself for the hundredth time to go get some bandages. He had returned with a roll of soft gauze. “Um, do you mind?” he muttered, and, to Carlos's amusement, scrambled into Carlos's lap to wrap the bandage around his middle.

“You have soft hands,” said Carlos.

“Thank you,” said Cecil, leaning close to pass the gauze around Carlos's back.

Carlos reached out a finger to stroke Cecil's cheek. “And soft skin.”

“Thank you.” Was Cecil actually blushing?

Carlos placed a finger under Cecil's chin and tilted his head up. He wasn't certain what had driven him to be so bold. “And your eyes are like starlight.”

Yes, Cecil was definitely blushing, dark cheeks highlighted pink. It was lovely. He clasped Carlos's hand, and placed it on the bandage. “Hold this,” he whispered. And then he scrambled off of Carlos to grab some string. He drew nearer again, but seemed shy.

Carlos dropped his hold on the bandage and, grabbing Cecil by the waist, pulled him back into his lap. “And you hair is moonlight.”

Cecil was shaking his head. “But I’ve never seen-”

“I'll show you,” said Carlos. And he realized, just in that moment, that he very much meant it. “I’ll show you the moon, and the stars, and all the other horrid romantic clichés. I wish sometimes I had read the poets instead of all those scientific papers, because I can’t say what I’m feeling right now, or what you’ve come to mean to me, even in this short time we’ve known each other. I know I can’t really compare you to the moonlight: the moon only casts reflected light, and you – you seem to have your own light source, something that’s illuminating you from within, and now I’ve tangled the words and made it all wrong.”

Cecil did appear lit from within, just then, his eyes shining so. I could be hanged for this, Carlos thought. Their eyes met for a long moment, but then finally, Cecil glanced down. “Your bandage,” he whispered, brushing a hand on the gauze, which had unraveled.

“Blast my bandages,” said Carlos. He gently tilted up Cecil’s head. And then he leaned forward, just a fraction, and their lips met.

And he was truly lost.

How long had they been kissing when Cecil gently pushed him back? Carlos had no idea: he’d lost all sense of time. “Carlos, my dear, is this really what you want?” Cecil asked.

“You’re what I want,” said Carlos. “What I’ve been searching for.” He ran a thumb along Cecil’s bottom lip, which was now plump from kissing. Cecil pulled him close, and Carlos gently lowered Cecil down on the couch, marveling at the feeling of contact, the electrical charge of skin on skin. Pieces of clothing were discarded and tossed thoughtlessly away, until the both of them were bare as Marcus Vansten, and moving in sync. Carlos had never felt so close to someone ever before, delighting in every soft moan and gasp he evoked from Cecil. His Cecil. He no longer cared anything for the results of any ridiculous tasks: they belonged to each other now.

Cecil sighed, whispering his name. Carlos pushed inside him, slowly, tenderly. “My Cecil,” he murmured. “I'm yours.”

They lay on the couch, legs tangled together, Cecil’s head resting on Carlos’s beating heart, Carlos running a tender hand through Cecil’s soft, silver hair. His hand traced down to where the large image of an eye was penned onto Cecil's chest, just over his heart.

“This is to remind me that the eyes of the Old Ones are ever upon me,” said Cecil.

Carlos paused, suddenly thoughtful. “Cecil,” he whispered, “I was talking to Josie. What is going to happen to you when all the tasks have been completed?”

With an effort, Cecil pushed himself up. He looked pained. But then there came an urgent knocking on the door. Carlos hastily pulled on his pants and shirt and Cecil donned a dressing gown and went to the door.

It was Josie at the door, her angels standing in back of her, wings flapping in agitation. “Cecil,” she said. “The third task has been handed down. It’s not official yet, but I needed to tell you.”

Cecil beckoned them to enter. “What is it, Josie? It can’t be that bad!”

But the story was in her eyes. “Cecil. The third task: to check out a library book.”

Carlos tilted his head, laughing. “What? I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound so- Cecil!”

But then he was down on the floor, holding Cecil, who had collapsed to his knees, racked with terrified sobs.

NEXT

--

Notes to Chapter 4: As you might have guessed, the snark is borrowed from Lewis Carroll, as is Khoshekh's weird behavior. As far as I am aware, there weren't actually any Chevy Impalas during the Victorian era, more's the pity.

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/143819.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 3 of 6)

2014-01-07T18:50:49Z

Title: The Disappearing Island
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~36,000 total
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: At the end. Publishing this chapter a little early for any of y'all trapped inside during the Polar Vortex. Stay warm!

Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854

Carlos sat in his father's study, staring out the window. His father sat behind his desk; his mother, in a chair beside Carlos.

He wasn't listening to either of them.

“I'm sorry about this, lad,” his father was saying. “If there were any other way....” He trailed off.

Carlos sat, still as a stone. A couple of his father's old hunting dogs had padded into the room to keep their masters under observation. One, lying curled up next to Carlos, perhaps sensing his agitation, pushed his grey muzzle into Carlos's hand. Carlos smiled slightly and scratched him behind the ears.

His mother reached over and touched his arm. “Your brother made some foolish promises to Miss Temperance,” she said, quietly.

“Rafael has been known to do that,” Carlos said bitterly.

“He left a trail of broken hearts from here to London,” stormed the Baron. “But he tangled with the wrong family this time. Lord Hatrack: he's got control of some debts.”

“We are indebted?” asked Carlos. He wondered why he hadn’t heard this information prior to this.

Angus chortled, though it sounded bitter. “Not us, lad. Your uncle.”

“Uncle Malcolm?” asked Carlos. Ah, that made sense. His father's younger brother had been, as far as Carlos believed the family stories, a bit like his own brother many years ago. Aside from the ladies, gambling was another of his vices, and that was the one that had tripped him up: he had long since run through his inheritance, and only kept on his feet through the Baron of Strathlachlan's generosity.

“So, I am doubly screwed,” said Carlos.

His mother gasped, but Angus only shook his head. He pulled out three glasses and filled them with a rich amber liquid from the crystal decanter on his desk. He pushed two glasses towards Carlos and his mother. Carlos took up the glass and upended it.

“Now, lad, that's sipping liquor!” scolded the Baron.

Carlos slid the glass back on the desk, and the Baron refilled it. “Show a bit of proper respect this time,” his father warned him.

Carlos didn't reply. The family crest was up above his father's desk. A ship at sea. The St. George Cross. A dragon, its tongue licking fire.

Carlos's mother left her glass untouched on the edge of the desk. “Understand, Miss Temperance is a fine young lady.”

“She knows her duty,” agreed the Baron.

“She will agree to a loveless marriage in order to keep up appearances,” Carlos spat.

“You may come to … appreciate her more,” said his mother.

“Carlos,” said his father. “We know you're a special lad. I've always said that. I couldn't be prouder to know that you'll be head of this family after me, that you'll continue my line.”

Carlos glared at them. “I'm not special,” he declared. “I only ever wanted one thing: what you have, with each other. But now you've denied it to me.” He rose.

“Carlos!” warned his father.

“I need to stretch my legs,” said Carlos stalking from the room. The dogs padded after him. He made his way to the back door, mindful of running into their guests, and let himself out, no clear destination in mind. The sky was dark, which matched his mood. He strode out towards the moors, his mind racing. There was silence for a while, the only sound Carlos's angry, beating heart.

“You intend to walk all the way to Edinburgh?” came a voice.

“And to London beyond,” snapped Carlos, turning on his brother. “How the hell did you find me?”

Rafael grinned. As was often remarked, he very much resembled his older brother, although he was not quite as tall, not quite as dark, and definitely not as possessed of an analytical mind. He was, in many ways, a somewhat paler copy of his sibling. “You always end up out here when you're agitated.”

“Rafael, what have you done?”

Rafael hopped up to sit on the stone fence that bordered their path. “It wasn't my fault! How was I to know Uncle Malcolm was at it again? He was always a great tit.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn't grab one of father's hunting rifles and shoot you!”

“You should thank me.”

“What?” Right now, Carlos badly needed to strangle someone, and Rafael was seeming a better and better candidate with each moment.

“Brother dear, in the two decades of our acquaintanceship, you have never shown the slightest interest in any person of the female gender. How is it you intend to carry on the family name without a suitable mate?”

Carlos found he couldn't look at his brother. He dropped his eyes, making a great fuss about patting a dog. “You've more than made up for my supposed lack of interest,” he muttered.

Rafael hummed, knowing he'd struck a nerve. “So, you see? I've hooked you a very decent fish.”

“She's not a fish!”

“But from a good family. She's not bad to look at. And agreeable. A little light on brains...”

“Rafael, she can't even carry on a proper conversation.”

Rafael looked baffled. “You really expect to be speaking to your wife?”

Carlos seethed. “Yes! I expect my life's companion will be able to converse!”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “You're being unreasonable again, don't you think?”

Carlos, not for the first time, imagined his hands tightening around his brother's throat. And then, abruptly, he sighed and leaned back against the fence next to his brother.

“Carlos,” said Rafael. “Dear brother. It's fate. And you can't resist fate. You're going to stay here, take a proper wife and have many howling children, and grow fat and content. And one day, you'll take on the Barony. It's what you were born for. It's what you were made for.”

Carlos wanted to argue, but he hadn't the words. He gazed out over his father's estate, his estate, a sinking feeling in his heart.

An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856

Carlos stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the incredible five-headed dragon that towered above him. The dragon was an element on his own family crest, but he had never in his entire life expected to actually encounter one. The entire room reeked of brimstone.

“I will burn you to ashes!” warned the green head as the monster reared up, spreading its leathery wings, and spitting fire.

“That's-” sputtered Carlos. He drew himself to his full height. “That is not polite.”

“Feel the beating of my wings, as I slay you, foolish mort-”

Suddenly, the dragon slapped its own face. “Now, you cut that out, green head,” warned the central, blue head. As the green head moped, the blue head turned to Carlos, extending a scaly clawed hand. “Hiram McDaniels, candidate for the hand of fair Prince Cecil,” he said.

“Uh,” said Carlos. He glanced over at Cecil, who nodded encouragement. Carlos shook hands with Hiram.

“May I present Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan,” said Cecil.

“You gone and brang a doctor, Prince Cecil?” said the blue head. “I hope you ain't ill?”

“No, I am fine. Dr. MacLachlan is staying here for a time, so I thought I would show him around our quaint little town. You'll be at dinner, I suppose?” he said, leading Carlos off.

“I'll be there!” said the blue head cheerily.

“The world will end in fire,” whispered the purple head.

“Uh, Cecil,” said Carlos as they walked along the bright, high-ceilinged corridor. “You do realize that Hiram McDaniels is, er, a dragon?”

“A five-headed dragon, to be precise,” said Cecil. “But you should see the other candidates.” As if in answer to Cecil’s comment, they came upon some more figures, milling in the hallway. “Oh, here we are. Carlos, this is Mr. Marcus Vansten. You remember the message he sent to my transmission?”

Carlos was brought up short. Mr. Vansten, at least, was a normal man. Carlos could see this very clearly, as Vansten was standing before them, naked as the day he was born. A number of mechanical men – attendants, Carlos assumed – stood around him. Unlike Babbage, these were splendidly appointed. One was completely plated in gold, another in silver, a third in platinum. Their eyes were rare jewels: diamonds, rubies, emeralds. Carlos couldn't help but glance back at poor Babbage, who tooted steam a bit forlornly he thought next to his preening brothers.

“Hello, Mr. Vansten,” said Cecil. “May I present-”

“Prince Cecil,” snapped Vansten. “Why has dinner been delayed?”

“I'm sorry,” said Cecil. “I just finished my wireless transmission, and I was showing Carlos-”

Vansten tapped on his pocket watch. It was solid gold. Of course. “I have things to do. I'm very, very rich.”

“Um, yes. Well, we'll-”

“And make sure my steak is cooked in put vegetable oil! My body is a temple!”

“I'm certain it is.”

“And no wheat! Or wheat by-products!” Vansten stepped forward, wagging a finger in Cecil's face. Carlos also stepped forward, pushing down Vansten's errant hand.

Vansten glared at him.

Cecil tugged on Carlos's arm. “Well, we must run. We're going to see Mr. Wilcox, to ascertain that he is ready.”

“Welllll, see that you do,” said Vansten as Cecil pulled Carlos away.

“How did he ever get into the running as your husband?” Carlos asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Oh, he probably bribed somebody. As you could clearly see, as a candidate he is … somewhat lacking,” Cecil added, arching an eyebrow.

Carlos broke into a smile. “Yes, not very impressive, is he?”

“Though it is a bit drafty in these corridors.”

And so, as Babbage tromped after them, they made their way down the broad corridor, arm in arm, giggling like a couple of school boys.

Cecil paused before a double doorway. “I should warn you, Mr. Wilcox doesn't always take kindly to being disturbed.”

Carlos laughed. “I believe at this point I am prepared for anything.”

Cecil knocked, but upon hearing no response, opened the door. They entered a large, high-ceilinged room. It had the look of a studio, with many wide windows, but all of them had been obscured by thick, dusty black drapes, so despite the artificial lighting it was very dark inside. Carlos was immediately struck by a number of unusual sculptures that dotted the room. They were monstrous figures, with many, slitted eyes, and long, slender tentacles instead of limbs.

“What is it now, Cecil?” came a wan voice. Carlos had been so distracted by the strange artwork that he hadn't noticed a young man slouched on a couch in back of the room.

“Mr. Wilcox, may I present Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan.”

The young man, Wilcox, made no move to get up. “Oh. He looks dreadfully ordinary, doesn't he?”

Carlos ignored the insult. “Are these your works?” he asked.

Wilcox rolled his eyes. “Well of course they are. There isn't anyone else in this dull town capable of such things.”

“They are quite unusual.”

“Well, I don't expect such as you could comprehend them.”

Carlos turned around. “I have a university education. I am a qualified medical doctor, and the ships naturalist aboard the HMS Vigilant. I doubt there is much you could produce that would be beyond my poor powers of comprehension.”

“You could not even speak their name, lest you go mad,” Wilcox warned.

“The Great Old Ones, you mean?” asked Carlos.

Abruptly, Wilcox was no longer slouching. In fact, he was no longer on the couch. He was, instead, standing in front of Carlos, clutching at his lapels, wide-eyed. “How do you know about the Great Old Ones?”

Carlos brushed off Wilcox and crossed his arms. “I could ask you the same question.”

Wilcox glanced over at Cecil, who told him, “Dr. Gutierrez MacLachlan is a learned man. Now, are you quite ready for dinner? We fully intend to start without you.”

Wilcox’s features, which were not pleasing in the best of times, formed themselves into a moue. “I shall collect myself and get to the table.”

“Splendid! Come along, Carlos.”

A thought occurred to Carlos as they sped along the corridor, and he had a chance to spy his reflection in one of the mirrors. “Cecil, I can't go to dinner in this state!”

“What are you talking about? Your hair is perfect!”

Carlos pointed to the mirror. “I'm in a state! These are the clothes I was wearing aboard the Vigilant to do surgery. They're hardly proper for a royal dinner.”

“Nonsense!” said Cecil. “We don't stand on formality here. Besides, this is less like a dinner, and more like … a picnic!”

“A picnic?”

“Yes, a picnic! Or maybe a tea party. Yes, a nice garden tea party. Come along, I'll show you!”

Cecil led Carlos out some French doors out to a patio area. True to Cecil’s word, there was a long table set up underneath the trees in the middle of a pleasant garden. Servants – both human and mechanical – fussed around arranging place settings. Carlos had been to a number of fancy dinners, but he had never seen such an assortment of strange cutlery as was arrayed on the table. Each place setting had no less than a dozen different pieces of silverware arranged beside and above it. There were objects that looked like corkscrews, and other implements that resembled eyelash curlers.

There was an old woman already seated at the dinner table. She was tiny: her legs didn't quite reach the ground. She wore glasses thick as the bottom of a crystal decanter. Her dark eyes refracted as large, inky pools.

Behind her stood some very unusual attendants. Carlos at first took them for yet more of the mechanical men, as they were too tall to be human. But one lazily flapped its gossamer wings and he somehow immediately knew that they were angels.

They were both holding little pieces of soft cloth, and were polishing up silverware.

“Josie!” said Cecil. “I'd like to present-”

“Carlos! My angels told me you were coming,” said Josie. Her voice was warm and scratchy.

“He fell through the gate,” Cecil told her.

“You are Miss Josie? I'd really like to get back to my ship,” said Carlos. He hadn't thought of it all day, as so much had happened to him, but now suddenly he remembered the Vigilant, and all of his obligations out in the world. “But the portal I fell through appeared to be closed.”

Josie looked back at the angels. They flapped their wings languidly, and nodded. “The portal will open again presently. Seven days,” she said.

“What?” asked Carlos.

“Return to where you fell seven days from now. That's when it will re-open.”

“Are you quite certain? It's on a schedule?”

“Well, of course. Magical things tend to happen in sevens!” She steepled her hands, and frowned. “Or – I don't know – it could just be a union thing.” One of the angels nodded, and placed a tiny, shining fork down at Josie's place.

“Thank you, Josie,” said Carlos, although his heart was sinking. The captain might stay for a day or even two to seek him out, but he was certain they would have cast off again after a week. And then where would he be: escaped, but stranded alone on an uncharted island.

Some more people were filing into the dining room. “Prince Cecil, may I speak with you!” called Miss Hidge, who appeared to have reconstituted since her disappearance. Cecil excused himself, and hastened over to speak with her.

Carlos found that Josie was regarding him, staring through thick spectacles. Carlos cleared his throat, thinking of something polite to say. “The situation with Prince Cecil’s marriage is very unusual to me,” he finally told her.

“It was time. The stars are in alignment, and it is time for Prince Cecil to wed,” Josie told him as the angels continued to polish the silverware.

“But you cannot see the stars from within Nightlantis,” said Carlos who immediately regretted his intemperance.

Josie smiled. “But I know they are there. As you know your species adaptation takes place, even though you cannot see it happen.”

Carlos shrugged, wondering how much of the outside world Josie knew about. “I cannot argue with you.”

Josie opened the sugar bowl and took out a cube of sugar with a delicate pair of tongs. A small animal poked his head out of the bowl, snorted, and pulled the lid back on. “So tell me, Carlos, what do you think of the candidates?” Josie asked. “I presume you have now encountered all of them.”

Carlos sat down next to her. “I am afraid, ma’am, that I am not impressed with these individuals,” he said, keeping his voice low lest any overhear.

“Aren’t you? And why not?”

Carlos sat up straight. “You will have to excuse me: my culture and customs are quite different from yours. However, I do not believe that any of them have Prince Cecil’s best interests at heart.”

“And you do? You who have known him less than a day?”

“I can’t claim to know him perfectly,” said Carlos. “But I believe he has … a kind heart. Certainly, there is someone else who would be a better match.”

“You have found such a companion for yourself, Carlos?”

Unthinkingly, Carlos touched the pocket in his jacket where he kept the letter folded up. “I-“ he stammered.

“It's time, ladies and gentlemen,” said Miss Hidge, clapping her hands. Carlos noticed that Cecil was suddenly by his side. Carlos stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair.

“Where in heck is the mayor?” boomed Hiram McDaniels.

“She's caught on fire. This happens to mayors all the time! As the mayor's assistant, I have that capability as well.”

Carlos was poised to ask Miss Hidge whether they might have a demonstration, but Cecil jerked his head, and Carlos ended up following him to the other end of the table. Looking back and forth, Cecil surreptitiously snatched up a couple of place cards as they walked by. He then placed them side by side near the end opposite Miss Hidge. “Look! Such a surprise, we're sitting together,” he said. Babbage politely pulled two chairs back, and Carlos sat down next to Cecil.

A servant came up and poured wine for the both of them. At this point, Carlos was only mildly surprised to see that the servant happened to be an eight-foot-tall rabbit. With a word of “cheers,” Carlos drank it down and held up his glass for another. “A week!” he moaned. “Josie says I must wait a week for the portal to re-open. I don't see how my ship will stay around for an entire week searching for me.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry. Time passes more slowly outside than it does down here. You may have only been gone for a few minutes now!”

Carlos arched an eyebrow. The wine was good, though a bit young. He swirled his glass. “Time passes differently here? Really?”

“Yes, I think it has something to do with the clocks.”

There was a clanging and clinking and stomping and tromping a general commotion as more people filed in and got themselves settled at the long table. Hiram McDaniels, what with five heads and a good ten foot wingspan, had taken up a whole end of the table and six place settings all by himself. Marcus Vansten of course brought his shiny mechanical men with him, although he'd neglected to bother with any clothing. Henry Wilcox slouched in at some point as well, though the effort he spent glaring at Carlos seemed to have worn him out, as his slumped over his place setting and said very little throughout the dinner. Even so, the table was long enough that there were several empty places. Carlos only wondered about this for a bit, though, as one of the servants suddenly announced, “Time’s up, switch places!” And so began a mass shifting of everyone going at least one place to the right. As Cecil had placed them next to a stretch of empty places, both Cecil and Carlos got fresh setting, but some people weren’t so lucky. Wilcox ended up at the place of McDaniels’s orange head, which was much the worse for wear.

“The first course!” one of the servants announced, once everyone was settled. “Mock turtle soup!” The servants began dishing out a fragrant soup.

“I’ve never had this before,” Carlos told Cecil.

“It’s a delicacy. Mock turtles aren’t easy to catch!”

Carlos dipped his spoon into the liquid, and was surprised to bring up a pocket watch. He took it out and shook it. It was still ticking.

“You’re an idiot,” said a voice.

“What?” asked Carlos. The voice seemed to come from his soup dish.

“Coming all this way,” said the dish. “And then falling down a hole.”

“Oh, you got an especially mocking version,” Cecil told Carlos. “Allow me!” He leaned over and glared at Carlos’s soup. “You lack salt.”

“What?” asked the bowl.

“And you’re hardly savory.”

“I have been expressly seasoned by only the finest chefs!” countered the soup.

“I should have advised Carlos to try the profiteroles instead. It would have been a more flavorful first course.”

Carlos stared. The soup had started bubbling, and now appeared to be dribbling out of the bowl into the saucer. He scooted back so as not to get hot liquid on himself.

“Oh, don’t try crying, we won’t listen to any of that!” Cecil told it. He leaned over with a napkin and dabbed at the side of the bowl. “Now, there, there.”

“I was only trying my best,” sobbed the soup.

Cecil motioned to the tall rabbit, who retrieved the soup and took it away. “Mock turtles act like bullies, but they’re really just insecure,” he said. “Oh, look, here is a Nightlantis speciality!”

The servants had brought out another bowl, and this time set down a box made of cardboard. The side of the box carried an illustration of a pyramid, and the logo, Flaky-Os. Cecil opened the box and shook it over his own bowl and Carlos’s. Some little rings poured out. Carlos picked one up and peered at it. “See?” said Cecil. He took one from his own bowl, tossed it up, and caught it in his mouth.

Carlos, peering around cautiously to see if anyone was looking, repeated the gesture. “Oh, these aren’t bad!” he said. It was sweet and crunchy.

“I like them with milk and sugar,” said Cecil, pouring out some fresh milk from a nearby pitcher. “And I prefer them to the imaginary corn flakes.”

“Imaginary corn flakes?” asked Carlos. Cecil pointed across the table, and he saw where Hiram McDaniels was peering into another box, this one labeled, “Mind Flakes.” There didn’t appear to be anything in the box, which was causing much frustration to several of Hiram’s heads. The green head finally spat fire at the box.

“Oh, toasted imaginary corn flakes. That’s a good idea,” said Cecil, measuring some sugar on his and Carlos’s Flaky-Os. “Now, take my advice and hurry.” Upon saying so, Cecil, raised the bowl to his mouth and began drinking his cereal. While Carlos wasn’t as bold, he did lean over and take several big bites.

“Time to switch!” hollered a servant, and, with Cecil taking a last big gulp of his cereal, he and Carlos moved again to fresh places on the right. This time the unlucky Wilcox, who was still following McDaniels, found himself at a place where the chair had been broken and all of the utensils melted.

The main courses were coming around. There were many too choose from, so Carlos followed Cecil in asking for roast goose and jelly, which contained few surprises, although the jelly tended to wriggle off if you didn’t stab it with a fork.

Vansten asked for some of the game pie, which turned out to be filled with broken badminton paddles. He got a string caught between his teeth, and had to have one of his robot servants pluck it out. McDaniels was attempting to eat some picked oysters, but it seemed they hadn’t been pickled very much at all, as they were all running around the table (which was rather odd, as oysters hadn’t any legs). He would occasionally aim a blast at fire at one, but his aim wasn’t terribly good, and he only ended up singing off Wilcox’s eyebrows.

They had just finished a fine dessert course of sticky plum duff when once again a servant cleared their throat. Carlos grabbed his cup of saloop, ready to run to another spot, but instead, Miss Hidge pinged a spoon on her glass and asked for silence.

“Now it is time for a few words from the candidates,” she said.

“I need to win,” pronounced McDaniel's blue head while his orange head blew on his cup of fried eels. “I'm the candidate … who cares!”

“What do you care about, dear?” asked Josie, who was now sitting opposite, although McDaniels's presence seemed to agitate her angel companions.

“I care about our children! And our children's future.”

“I've seen some of your children,” said Carlos. “I met a small group of them down on the lower levels.”

“Tamika and Barton,” said Cecil.

“Yes, Tamika and Barton and their friends. Do you care about them, Mr. McDaniels?”

The dragon's green head spat fire, which caught the tail of the tall serving rabbit. The rabbit squealed and ran out of the room. “Not those children,” grumbled McDaniels. “I don't care at all for those children.” He leaned forward, his scaly neck extending. “They got a most unpleasant look to 'em.”

“Sooo,” said Carlos. “You care for children in general, but not in particular?”

“Yeah. I don't for those children, in general or in particular!” He mused. “Maybe spit roasted?”

Carlos cringed.

“I am obviously the best candidate,” said Wilcox, who was struggling to collect all of his blueberry tarts in a butterfly net. The puff pastry was lighter than air (possibly because of the addition of helium, Cecil told Carlos) and so they tended to float away with any breeze. “I have the superior aesthetic sensibility!”

“I could buy you out,” insisted Vansten.

“My objets d’art are not for sale,” Wilcox maintained.

“What if I said I’d pay a thousand guineas for them,” said Vansten.

“Still no,” sniffed Wilcox.

“What if I said I’d let you keep your head,” growled McDaniels. Wilcox let out a shriek and let his turnovers escape, where McDaniels downed several of them with an especially well-aimed puff of flame.

“I am clearly the best candidate,” Vansten interrupted. “I don't see why anyone else is even bothering.” This caused McDaniels to flap his wings in agitation, which upset several place settings.

“But you can't even dress yourself,” said Carlos, somewhat intemperately. (He had probably drunk more than his share of the wine at this point.)

“What do you mean?” asked Vansten.

“Your deficiencies are rather on display,” said Carlos.

Vansten puffed up. “Well, you have shown yourself up for the fool you are! These garments are woven of only the finest imaginary silk, from John Peters's farm at the edge of town.

Carlos leaned forward. “You really haven't had occasion to read the tale by Anderson, ‘The Emperor's New Clothes?’”

Vansten, for the very first time, dropped his look of self-confidence. “Er, no. Is that, by chance … in a book?”

“Yes, of course it's a book,” said Carlos. He noticed the sounds of tinkling glassware and silverware on china had ceased, and looked around the table at an array of frightened faces. Everyone was staring at him, including Cecil. “I'm sorry, but don't people here read books?”

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

“If everyone would please listen!” trilled Miss Hidge. Everyone winced. She once again pinged a silver spoon on a wine glass. McDaniel snatched the spoon away from her and, before one of his more sensible heads could intervene, it was gobbled up by his green head.

Several figures dressed in elaborate ceremonial robes now marched in tight formation out into the garden by the table. Carlos at first took them for military, but they did not seem to be carrying weapons. They were also not the robed figures Carlos had seen down below. In fact, as they approached it became clear that they were all dressed as playing cards. Everyone at the table began to talk amongst themselves.

“Who are they?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“The City Council.”

“And … why are they dressed like that?”

“You don't want to know.”

“As the stars are in alignment,” Miss Hidge continued. “By order of our Mayor, the Right Honorable Pamela Winchell, and undersigned by the City Council, it is time for our Voice, His Majesty, Prince Cecil, to be wed. The candidates will complete three tasks. At the completion of the three tasks, the winner will be selected by an unbiased jury, our City Council members, from amongst those candidates who are both still living and retain most of their limbs attached.”

Carlos cringed, and downed some more of his wine.

“The tasks shall begin … now.”

Suddenly, everyone started to pay attention. “What's the matter?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“No one knows what the tasks will be until they're announced.”

“They're different every time?”

Cecil nodded.

“At this time, I would like to announce the first task,” continued Miss Hidge. Meanwhile, some of Miss Hidge's servants bore out a long, paper-wrapped package. They set it in the middle of the table. “This came to us through the inter-dimensional portal out in back of the llama farm.”

“Nightlantis has a llama farm?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“They're really alpacas, but we're not picky.”

“They're much nicer anyway,” said Carlos.

The servants unwrapped the paper. A number of identical objects fell out.

“For the first task,” continued Miss Hidge, “you must demonstrate your adaptability by putting these objects to their intended use.”

Each of the candidates grabbed one of the items.

“Impressive,” remarked Vansten. “A most impressive model of … this thing.”

“I've seen better,” scoffed McDaniels's blue head. “Many a time!”

“It looks so ordinary,” sniffed Wilcox, who stared into one end.

“What is it?” asked Cecil.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“It's a firearm, Cecil,” said Carlos. He snatched away the rifle Wilcox had been clutching: the artist had been staring down the barrel and fingering the trigger. “And you’re going to blow your damned head off, Wilcox.”

“This here is a gun?” asked McDaniels’s blue head.

“It’s a hunting rifle of some sort, though I’m not familiar with the design.” Carlos carefully sighted down the barrel, pointing it away from the table. He clicked a lever upwards and opened the breech. “It’s loaded,” he mused, snapping it back together.

He made to hand the gun back to Wilcox, who waved him off. “I want no part of this!” Wilcox insisted. “Firearms are not a wise aesthetic choice!”

“Here, go shoot someone,” Vansten told his mechanical men, handing the gun off to them. They bent metal heads over the device. “Maybe an angel, they’re a good target.”

Josie’s angels hummed their disapproval. “I don’t believe that would be a good idea,” said Josie, who was contentedly sipping her saloop.

“I wouldn’t mind a pair of wings above my mantelpiece,” said Vansten.

In reply, McDaniels flapped his own leathery wings, and his purple head roared at Vansten.

“Wait, wait. You don’t have to shoot a person,” said Carlos. “Here.” He picked up one of the empty plates from the table. “Allow me to demonstrate.” He handed the dish to Babbage and whispered to the mechanical man. Babbage, tooting that he understood, strode several paces away, and then when Carlos yelled, “Now!” tossed the plate high up into the air. Carlos aimed the weapon and fired.

The dish shattered, the shards raining down on them.

There a moment of silence, and then applause from around the table.

The City Council was silent for a moment, turning their backs to the crowd at the table. They bowed their heads together, and then a few of them shuffled to the front: 8 of hearts, 9 of spades, 6 of diamonds. The applause from those seated at the table increased.

“Oh, look! You had very good scores!” Cecil told Carlos.

“What?” said Carlos.

“Wait, we can do that,” said Vansten. “Shoot a dish,” he ordered is servant. The gold-plated platinum mechanical man swerved and aimed its rifle at the table.

“Wait!” yelled one of Miss Hidge’s assistants. As everyone screamed and dove for cover, the mechanical man fired, shattering the big tureen in the middle of the table that had held the Beef Wellington.

As the parties at the table dug themselves out, the City Council conferred again. This time after the shuffle, 6 of hearts, 8 of clubs and 3 of diamonds came to the front.

“Only three of diamonds?” yelled Vansten.

“You ruined a perfectly good tureen,” scolded Miss Hidge.

“He smashed a plate,” said Vansten, pointing to Carlos.

“Yes, but it wasn't full of food,” said Miss Hidge.

“Wait just a darn tootin' minute, I can do this too!” roared McDaniels. He tossed a plate high in the air, and then his purple head breathed fire at it, roasting it to a crisp.

The City Council conferred once again: 10 of spades, 8 of clubs, 3 of hearts.

“Three o' hearts?” yelled McDaniels.

“You didn't use the gun,” sighed Miss Hidge. “Then we have our three candidates, running in the following order so far: Mr. McDaniels, Mr. Vansten, and Dr. MacLachlan.”

Carlos was up on his feet as the table broke into applause. “What?” he said. “I'm sorry, what about Mr. Wilcox?”

“You fired the gun,” Josie reminded him.

“But … but I can't be a candidate!” Carlos protested.

“You don't want to be a candidate?” Cecil asked him, his eyes pleading.

Carlos sat back down to quietly speak to Cecil. “It's not.... I can't, Cecil.”

Cecil appeared to be blinking back tears. It tore Carlos's heart apart. “It's all right. I understand,” said Cecil, patting his arm. “You need to get back.”

“I need to get back,” Carlos repeated.

“So, am I to understand you are withdrawing your candidacy, Dr. MacLachlan?” asked Miss Hidge.

“I-” said Carlos.

“I will blacken his heart with my fire,” whispered McDaniels's purple head.

Carlos was silent. And then, scowling, he grabbed three plates off the table and tossed them out to Babbage. “Babbage!” he shouted.

The mechanical man deftly caught each plate and then tossed them up in the air, one after another. Carlos raised the rifle, causing everyone at the table to dive to safety once more, and with three quick shots, shattered all three.

The City Council shuffled and dealt: 10 of diamonds, 10 of clubs.

Queen of hearts.

“I- I formally announce my candidacy,” Carlos told Cecil.

Cecil's smile could have lit up an entire subterranean town.

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” said Cecil.

After dinner, Cecil had taken Carlos by the hand and led him across the garden to a small guest house on the edge of the grounds. But not before Josie and her angels had loaded him down with several pots of leftovers from the banquet, “In case you should get peckish tonight, dear.” He was now carrying them all, clumsily, in his arms.

The lights over the town had dimmed. Carlos guessed they did this for the nighttime here. He looked over at Cecil. His light eyes and silvery hair looked otherworldly right now. “Your hair reminds me of the moonlight,” said Carlos, feeling a little stupid as well as rather drunk. As a newly announced candidate, he had endured a number of toasts in his honor.

Cecil smiled, his eyes brightened. Carlos felt his heart flutter. “Really? I've never actually seen the moonlight,” said Cecil.

“I suppose you haven't.” Carlos considered this for a moment. “Funny, the stars determine your destiny, but I suppose you've never seen them either, have you?” But he has stars in his eyes, Carlos felt himself thinking.

“No. But I'd like to! I'd love to go outside, and have adventures. But I guess it's not my fate.”

“I've been told that my fate is to stay home and grow fat.”

“So, how are you faring at that?”

Carlos chuckled, juggling the tureens of hot food, feeling suddenly clumsy. “Well. Good night.”

“Good night, Carlos,” said Cecil. He turned to go, but then seemed to have a second thought. “I'm- I'm very glad you're a candidate.”

“So am I,” said Carlos, before he could think about it. Cecil smiled, and walked off, and Carlos watched him.

Carlos turned towards the door, but hesitated. There was silence all around him. He looked down at the pots of food. “This is far too much for me,” he announced to no one in particular. “I really wouldn't know what to do with it all.” He knelt down and placed the food on the ground near his door, and then, without a look back, entered the house, shutting the door behind him with a determined thump.

For a very short time, as little as a breath, there was silence.

And then the patter of very quiet feet, as the pots and tureens were gathered by many small hands, and silently whisked away.

NEXT

--
Notes on this chapter: the character of Henry Wilcox is taken from the Lovecraft story, The Call of Cthulhu. As you may have noticed, apologies are also owed to Mr. Lewis Carroll.

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/143367.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 2 of 6)

2014-01-05T18:05:25Z

Title: The Disappearing Island (Chapter 2 of 6)
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~36,000 total
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: At the end.

Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854

Carlos tugged at his stiff collar and listened to the soft tinkling of glasses and silver as the servants set up in his family’s formal dining room. All things considered he would have rather been out on the estate this evening, hunting for beetles.

He felt a small hand on his arm. He smiled as he turned around. His mother stood up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. The bonniest lassie in all of Iberia, his father called her, and she was still a striking woman, with strong cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, and black hair peppered with grey. Despite his relatively young age, Carlos’s own dark hair already carried a streak of grey, right at his hairline, just off center. Touched by the gods, his father swore.

“I am so sorry about this, miho,” his mother whispered, her words softened by a mild Spanish accent.

“I can endure an evening of formal dress now and again,” Carlos chuckled.

But his mother didn’t smile back. Instead, for a very brief instant, she frowned and looked her age. She patted Carlos on the shoulder, and then whisked off to direct the servants, leaving her older son standing alone to stew in confusion.

He didn’t remain alone for long. His father, Angus MacLachlan, seventeenth Baron of Strathlachlan, strode in. Although father and son shared little in the way of facial resemblance (Carlos took after his Continental side, the Baron was fond of saying), they were similar in height and bearing. His once reddish hair had gone iron grey, but his steely blue eyes were still sharp.

His father was accompanied by three young ladies, who swirled and cooed around him like so many kittens tumbling after their mother.

“Carlos,” said the Baron, slightly rolling the R in his son’s name, “I suppose you’ll attend to these three wee lassies. These are Lord Hatrack’s daughters: Miss Patience, Miss Constance, and Miss Temperance.” As his father pronounced their names, the three girls stepped forwards one after another and bobbed into curtsies, like well-trained puppies. “May I present my firstborn son, Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan.” Carlos bowed formally, evoking some muffled giggles. Carlos tried not to roll his eyes.

“I’ll leave you in his care, lassies. I have some matters to attend to prior to dinner,” said the Baron, who, with an eye to Carlos, swept off. Carlos kept up his formal smile: this must have been what his mother was referring to in her apology. She knew how much he despised small talk.

“You’re so awfully tall, Mr. MacLachlan,” gushed one of the girls. Carlos surmised it was Patience. “Er, yes, thank you Miss Hatrack. It is said I take after my father in that regard.”

“Tall and dark,” remarked a second Hatrack. Constance?

“Yes, I am said to resemble my mother in terms of complexion, Miss Hatrack,” Carlos answered, wondering if these individuals had ever happened to read a book, or indeed anything that involved using their powers of cognition.

“Are you the bug man?” ventured a third Hatrack. Miss Temperance, who was making a rather regrettable face.

“I have an interest in the natural sciences,” said Carlos. “This often involves the collecting of specimens. My father’s estate is a good source for such things.” While he spoke, however, a thought nudged at the edge of his mind. Miss Temperance Hatrack. It seemed he had heard the name before, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Were you perhaps at the museum’s last natural sciences lecture, Miss Hatrack?” he asked.

“Me?” she gushed as her sisters laughed rather openly. “Oh, no. My father says the study of science is no place for a woman!”

“Well, that’s nonsense,” said Carlos, before he could stop himself. “I mean,” he retreated, viewing the scandalized looks on the girls’s faces, “we have many female attendees at our lectures, and there are women amongst the aficionados of collecting. Butterflies, for example.”

“All displayed on pins,” sniffed Miss Constance.

“Er, yes,” said Carlos.

“Not worth getting my gown muddy,” agreed Miss Patience.

“Indeed,” said Carlos, who couldn’t help but frown. Fortunately, at that moment, much to his relief, they were called to dinner. Miss Constance and Miss Patience linked arms and walked ahead, and Carlos offered an arm to Miss Temperance.

“If I may be so bold,” she offered, “you are quite different from your brother, Mr. MacLachlan.”

“Rafael?” asked Carlos.

“Yes,” she cooed, her grip on his arm tightening. “Mr. Rafael MacLachlan.”

And quite suddenly the penny dropped. Miss Temperance Hatrack. Rafael referred to her as Tempy the Beanstalk, although not, Carlos hoped, in her presence. The implication was…. Well, it wouldn’t be mentioned in polite company.

Carlos led her into the dining room, where she found her place beside him, her sisters arrayed across the table. Sitting beside Carlos were their parents, Lord and Lady Hatrack. The Lord, a large man with bushy mutton chop sideburns accentuating his prominent jowls, didn’t look terribly pleased. Carlos’s father entered, leading his mother by the arm, nearly glowing in her presence. With a kiss to her hand, he got her situated at one end of the table, and then proceeded down to the other end, near Lord Hatrack.

Carlos beamed at his parents. He had always prayed for a bond in his own life as tender as the one he observed between his mother and father. It was clear to him his mother was not for his father just the loveliest girl in Barcelona, she was the only woman he had ever seen.

The rest of the parties seated themselves, Carlos noting with some curiosity that there were two places left unattended: one, he knew, was set for his brother Rafael, who made a habit of being late for occasions such as these. As for the other, Carlos had no idea, not unless the Hatracks thought to suddenly produce a Prudence, or perhaps a little Happenstance. He smiled at his own terrible joke as the servants began to fill their water glasses.

But then the dining room door flew open, and in burst the answer to his inquiry: Carlos’s younger brother, Rafael, in the company of a young woman. Carlos hadn’t seen her before, but that didn’t strike him as odd. He rarely saw Rafael in the company of the same young lady twice. What he did note was the reaction of a number of the Hatracks. Miss Temperance, to his left, audibly gasped, and her father, who had an unpleasant countenance, turned a beet red.

“You’re late, Rafael,” scolded his mother.

“My apologies, Mother,” said Rafael, as if he had committed no greater offense than bumping into someone on the sidewalk. “Mother, Father, Lord Hatrack, Lady Hatrack, Miss Hatrack, Miss Hatrack, and Miss Hatrack,” he nodded to the sisters in turn, although Miss Temperance Hatrack did not nod back, “may I present Miss Cruikshank?” The girl simpered and bowed, Lord Hatrack fumed, and Miss Temperance Hatrack, beside Carlos, reached over and intemperately gripped his arm. Carlos glanced at her in dismay, but was too polite to brush her off. Then, red-cheeked, Rafael and Miss Cruikshank took their seats. The servants bustled about, filling glasses with wine. Carlos noted that Miss Temperance, sitting beside him, went out of her way not to meet his brother's glance.

“Well, now that everyone is here and seated, we have a small announcement,” said Carlos’s father once the servants retreated. The same look of uneasiness that had crossed his mother’s face earlier now flitted over the Baron’s features. “I am pleased to let you know that Lord Hatrack has kindly consented to promise his wee lassie, Miss Temperance Hatrack, in marriage to our elder son.”

Carlos blinked, and Miss Temperance Hatrack’s hand tightened on his arm. Elder son? Wait, wasn’t that him? He flashed a look at his mother who, worryingly, did not meet his eye.

“Congratulations, brother,” chuckled Rafael. “Well done. And Miss Temperance, my best wishes.”

Miss Temperance’s hand was now a small vise gripping Carlos’s arm. “May I propose a toast, to the happy couple?” barked Lord Hatrack.

Carlos raised his glass. And then he upended it.

The room swirled.

An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856

Carlos moaned. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. He wondered whether he had lost consciousness for a moment, as a consequence of the fall.

He was lying, dazed, on a carpet of soft, springy moss. Sitting up, he checked himself for signs of injury, and then rose, somewhat shakily, to his feet.

Carlos looked around. He was now inside some vast underground chamber. He raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling directly above. Oddly enough, he couldn't see the door he had fallen through. Was it closed off now? “Johansen!” he called up. But there was no reply, and no movement nor any sound he could sense. “Johansen! Bonden? Anybody!”

He heard something then: the sound of running feet. He glanced around, but saw no one.

“Thurston?” hollered Carlos. “Thurston!” But there was no response, nothing but the dull echo of his voice.

“Thurston!” he shouted, his voice cracking. He sat down on a boulder, and put his head in his hands. Think, he told himself. Keep your head. After a moment, it occurred to him that it was weird, if he was indeed inside a sealed cave, that it was still light enough to see. Was there an opening that had escaped his notice? He looked around for a means of escape, and was surprised at what he saw: up on the rock wall, there was a small, round light source. But the closer he looked, despite his agitation, the more curious he became. It appeared to be made of glass, but there was no flame visible, only a glowing filament in the middle. It was passing curios.

The light was connected to a string of wire which stretched along the wall of the cave. Carlos followed it for a bit, thinking there might be someone at the source who could help him. He walked along a passageway for a while, occasionally shouting, “Thurston,” though he heard no more running footsteps. There were however more lights along the way, all connected to the long wire. “Thurston!” he shouted. The cave echoed.

“Thurston!” came a response.

Carlos froze. “Hello?” he ventured.

“Thurston!” the voice came again. And then the speaker was upon him: a most unusual-looking person. He was around medium height, and quite slim. His skin was dark, about the same hue as the Pacific islanders Cecil had met, but his eyes were a pale blue, which was rare in these parts. And although he appeared fairly young, his hair was pure silver.

It somehow reminded Carlos of the moonlight.

He was oddly clothed, wearing a colorful silk tunic over trousers that appeared to be constructed of some kind of animal pelt.

“Thurston,” said the man, giving a graceful bow.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Thurston?”

The man sprung back up. “Mr. Thurston? Sorry, don't know him. But I heard you calling, and took 'Thurston' to be a greeting of your people.”

Carlos stared for a while. He rubbed his head, wondering if he had sustained some kind of injury. This was definitely an odd conversation. “Er, no, actually, we say, 'Good day.'”

“Good day then,” said the man, giving the same bow. He had a quite lovely, sonorous voice, which gained resonance in the echoing cave.

“Good day,” said Carlos. He decided perhaps introductions were in order. “I am Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan. I am a naturalist aboard the HMS Vigilant.”

“Oh, how very elaborate, Carlos the Naturalist of the HMS Vigilant.” The man pointed to himself. “I am Cecil. Just Cecil. And are you presently seeking Mr. Thurston?”

“In fact, I must needs return to my ship. I was pursuing Mr. Thurston. He jumped through a door.” Carlos pointed upwards, feeling a bit ridiculous.

“Oh! You opened one of the interdimensional portals?”

“I suppose so. Yes. Though it looked like a door. An oddly-shaped door. And Mr. Thurston bolted through in a state of agitation.”

“And you jumped in after him? That was rather impetuous!” said Cecil, who was peering intently at Carlos.

Carlos scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, I fell through.”

Cecil nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. Easy to do. Non-Euclidean geometry, you know. That's the way the Old Ones sometimes built things. Didn't have a level, I guess.”

“Er, I guess not? So, you know about the Great Old Ones?”

“Yes, of course, they left their graffiti everywhere, didn't they?” asked Cecil, pointing to a nearby outcropping which had the strange hieroglyphic splayed over it.

“You can read it?”

“Yes, but why bother? All hail the mighty Old Ones,” Cecil muttered in a mock-pretentious voice. “When they can't even build an efficient interdimensional gateway. I mean, I suppose you don't have time paradoxes where you come from!” Carlos shook his head. “We're perpetually getting tomorrow and yesterday mixed up. It causes no end of problems!”

“I can imagine,” said Carlos

“Those gates are another thing! They tend to open and close in their own good time. Old Ones were pillocks at engineering. We might ask Josie back in town about it: sometimes her angels know these things. In fact,” said Cecil, his eyes widening, “why don't you come back to town with me? It's nearly dinner time. We could get something to eat, and see if anybody's has seen your Mr. Thurston.”

“But.... There is a town down here?” Carlos couldn't help but be intrigued. And he had to admit, he was feeling a bit peckish.

Carlos allowed Cecil to lead him down through a series winding tunnels. Carlos had been disoriented by the fall, but assumed that they were walking further into the interior of the island.

“So how did you come to our island, Carlos?” Cecil asked. “You don't mind if I call you Carlos, do you?”

“No,” said Carlos. It was a bit informal, but these were strange circumstances, and Cecil didn't appear to have a surname. “You may call me by my Christian name, although I am unused to hearing it.”

“Why is that? It is a lovely name. Why, almost as lovely as your dark, soulful eyes.”

“Um, indeed?”

“Carlos. Is it not a variant of St. Charles? And it sounds as soft as you delicate skin.”

“Uh....”

“Not that I've had the favor of touching it. But I am quite close enough to judge, I feel.”

“Er....”

“Not that I want to be too forward. I'm not being too forward, am I? Josie says I'm sometimes too forward.”

“Well...”

“But you never answered me!”

“Um, answered you what?” asked Carlos, his cheeks now burning hot.

“Why, what you have granted our humble community with the great favor of your presence?”

“Oh!” Carlos huffed a sigh of relief, hoping to guide the conversation into less treacherous waters. “I am a naturalist....”

“But you're wearing clothes!”

Well that hadn't worked at all. “Excuse me?” Carlos ventured.

“But I suppose you are naked underneath. As we all are. Well, except for that man who loiters at the post office.” Cecil narrowed his eyes.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, trying to clear up the misunderstanding, “I don't know what you mean, but I am a scientist.”

“Oh, that's lovely! But haven't we all been scientists at one time or another?”

“Er. Maybe. That is to say, I came here aboard the HMS Vigilant. We are in service to Her Majesty's government, charting the waters. And I have taken it upon myself to supply a list of the local wildlife, after the manner of Mr. Darwin.”

“Mr. Darwin? Is that your beau?”

“What? I should say not.”

“Good,” said Cecil, who was looking a little smug.

“I don't have a beau,” said Carlos.

“Even better!”

Carlos was about to explain the situation with his fiancée (not that it was any of Cecil's business: the man was a bit nosy) but then he heard a great clanking and clattering coming from the trail up ahead. He ground to a halt, astounded at the sight before him.

Coming towards them, clinking and clanking and stomping along, was a large man – but he seemed to be entirely encased in metal. Carlos at first took him for a knight in armor, as he had seen sets of medieval armor before. But something about this looked off. It wasn't shaped right somehow: it was of a form more like a mechanical toy than a man.

The prodigious contraption came to a halt in front of them, pausing to exhale a blast of steam from a pipe trailing out of the top of his head.

“Hello, Babbage,” sighed Cecil.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Carlos, who couldn't believe his eyes. “Cecil, is this a mechanical man?”

Cecil nodded. “Yes, this is my bodyguard, Babbage.”

The mechanical man came to attention, and executed a swift, somewhat clumsy bow. “I'm not entirely sure his name is Babbage,” Cecil whispered to Carlos. “They don't generally give the sentinels names. But he looks like a Babbage, don't you think?”

Carlos didn't really know how to reply. “Um. Good day, Mr. Babbage,” was all he could come up with. The mechanical man squeaked and creaked, and executed another bow for Carlos, flourished but another exhalation of steam. “I suppose he likes the appellation,” he surmised.

“Well, I suppose we better get a move on, if they've sent Babbage after me,” said Cecil. Babbage executed a turn and began to perambulate down the path. Cecil and Carlos followed him.

Carlos was just beginning to wonder why Cecil would need a bodyguard – especially something so prodigious – when all at once they rounded the bend and came upon an astonishing sight. The narrow tunnel opened up once again, and they could survey an entire town constructed within the hollow crater of the volcano.

“Welcome to Nightlantis!” said Cecil.

“This is remarkable!” said Carlos, staring in wonder. There were stone edifices of such weird geometry as he had seen up on the island, but here everything was in good repair, and had been freshly whitewashed. There were many tall buildings and graceful spires. He stared upwards in wonder: there was light overhead, but it was all artificial. Looking up, you could see the vaulted ceiling many meters high, formed, he guessed, of the interior of the island’s central mountain. No sky – neither stars nor clouds nor sun – was visible from within. The settlement was entirely isolated from the outside world.

Cecil hummed with obvious pride. “Well, it's just our modest little town. But we like it!”

“Prince Cecil!” There was now a small group of townsfolk heading their way, great looks of concern on their faces.

“Prince Cecil?” whispered Carlos.

Cecil’s dark cheeks turned a little pink. “Well … yes.”

“I thought you told me you were just Cecil.”

“Well, I am! To you! I mean, I'm their prince, but not your prince. Anyway, the whole thing is tiresome.” He turned to greet the townsfolk. “Hello, my listeners!”

“Cecil, we were very concerned!” said an officious-looking woman. “We sent Babbage off to find you!”

“I just went for a stroll in the caverns, Miss Hidge,” said Cecil.

“Cecil, you know you're not supposed to do that! And all alone?” she tutted.

“But I found this beautiful man there!” said Cecil, pulling Carlos over closer. “He's Carlos the Naturalist of the Vigilant!”

“Um, hello,” said Carlos. He couldn’t recall ever being referred to in such gushing tones before, not even by any of his female admirers.

As her aides murmured in appreciation, Miss Hidge tutted. “Well, I suppose his hair is perfect. And his skin is perfect. And his teeth are perfect,” she said, waving a hand. “But beautiful?”

“He's fairly beautiful,” said one of the fellows accompanying her.

“Oh, yes indeed! I am simultaneously awed and terrified by his hair,” commented the other.

Carlos self-consciously touched his hair, thinking he had not even bothered to comb it since he had plunged into the pool the other day.

“We ought invite him to the wedding!” said Cecil.

“Er, what wedding?” asked Carlos.

“That's a little forward, don't you think, Prince Cecil?” muttered Miss Hidge.

“Why don't we ask Mayor Winchell about it?”

Miss Hidge drew up to her full height, which was not terribly impressive. “We can't ask Mayor Winchell at the present moment.”

“And why not?”

“Because she has disappeared. Which is completely within her rights as mayor,” Miss Hidge added, glaring directly at Carlos.

“Uh, yes?” said Carlos, looking at Cecil.

“Why, I could disappear right now, if I really wanted to!” Miss Hidge insisted. “As her assistant, I can disappear as well. Allow me to demonstrate!”

“Er, I'm sure you could,” allowed Carlos.

“Then it's a plan!” Cecil told a dubious-looking Miss Hidge. “Come along, Carlos!” So, with Babbage stomping after them, Cecil led Carlos into the city. Behind them, while her aides watched her, Miss Hidge appeared to be straining with great effort.

“You'll enjoy this,” Cecil told Carlos.

There was a distinct “Pop!” sound behind them. Carlos turned around to see Miss Hidge was there no more, but there appeared to be a small, mustard-colored stain where she had been standing. “Do you smell olives?” asked Carlos.

“Come along, we don't want to be late. I'm in enough trouble as it is,” sighed Cecil. The town was truly lovely, although Carlos reckoned you could experience feelings of claustrophobia given the lack of visible sky.

“Will we see Josie, the person you mentioned?”

“She’ll be at the dinner later. We’ll see her after I make my transmission.”

“Transmission?”

“Yes, I’m supposed to be on the air now.”

Cecil didn’t explain any further. Carlos had expected Cecil to lead him to the center of town, towards a graceful building with tall spires that looked something like a palace. Well, given that he was “Prince Cecil.” But instead they began heading down dark staircases, as if they were heading to some underground carriageway, such as they had proposed to build in London. They threaded through through some hatches, and then descended a ladder or two.

They had bade Babbage farewell back up at the top: Cecil explained that the mechanical man would take something he called an “elevator,” which was evidently a steam-powered room which traveled upwards and downwards. Babbage had appeared annoyed at this eventuality, as he emitted a couple of harsh steam puffs, and then trudged off.

They walked through some remarkable sights. Some floors were completely crammed with noisy, clainking machinery, and with men crawling among it, shouting at each other. Other floors appeared to be completely deserted, the abandoned rune-carved structures standing silent as to their function.

“So what should I call you, um, Your Majesty?” Carlos asked as they scrambled down a ladder of metal rungs.

“Cecil, of course. That's my name!” Cecil called up.

“But, you're a prince,” said Carlos, leaping down to the floor.

“Oh, please.” Cecil waved his hand. “Everyone down on the lower levels calls me Cecil. It's only the stuffy people up above to stand on ceremony.”

“These are the lower levels? How many are there?”

“A lot!” They had finally arrived on a level that was a series of storefronts. Cecil hailed the shop owners, all of whom appeared to know him, as they walked along the underground avenue. As he had claimed, they all called him by his Christian name.

“Exactly how big is this Nightlantis?” Carlos asked as they walked down the broad, underground avenue.

“Nobody rightly knows. There’s definitely more underground than there is up top. Like I said, the Old Ones were a bit rubbish as engineers, so there's plenty of stairways that go nowhere and hatches that open in to blank walls and hallways that loop back on themselves somehow. The geometry gets odder, the deeper you go.”

“My goodness!”

“The lowest levels are also beastly hot, so nobody has followed them all the way down. That's where Cthulhu lies dreaming.”

“What?” asked Carlos. Something seemed familiar.

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! As they say,” said Cecil. “That's the old name for this city, R'lyeh. But it's a ridiculous name, I think. No one can pronounce it!”

Carlos nodded. He noticed a group of children had been pursuing them. They held themselves back, but (as Carlos was used to tracking wildlife through thick forests) he sensed them lurking, just out of reach. They were not at all the boisterous youths he was accustomed to, but rather silent and watchful.

“Ah, here we are,” said Cecil.

Carlos looked back, but the children had all slipped away. Cecil entered a storefront labeled “Nightlantis Civic Wireless Telegraphy.” Carlos stared at the sign for a moment. He seemed to recall the term “Wireless Telegraphy” in the works of Mr. Tesla, but couldn't quite place it.

He spotted Babbage tromping down the street and, with a bow to him, followed Cecil inside. He was astonished at what he found. For one, thing, somehow, the interior looked bigger than it had appeared from the street. Just to be sure, Carlos stepped back out the door, and then back inside several times.

“You'll let in flies, doing that,” Cecil scolded him.

“My apologies,” muttered Carlos, looking around at the large, high-ceilinged interior. “But I happened to notice-”

“Yes, it's bigger in here.”

“Well, it appears bigger.”

“No, it's actually bigger. The non-Euclidean geometry again. We have an infinite event horizon, something like that. Anyway, it's time I begin my transmission.”

“I'm sorry, your what?”

Cecil sat down at a wooden desk that was festooned with many dials and the strange, flameless light fixtures he had now seen everywhere in Nightlantis. There was an apparatus on top of the desk that looked like a metal cone. Cecil wound up a crank on the side of the desk, the dials flipped and the lights blinked on and off. He picked up a stack of papers on his desk, leaned forward and spoke into the cone.

“Is today the tomorrow you thought about yesterday? Please try to keep track, time is weird. Welcome to Nightlantis.”

Carlos stared around him in wonder. It seemed he heard Cecil's voice outside, echoing all around the area. Despite Cecil's annoyance, he went back to the door and poked his head outside.

“The Sheriff's Secret Police have requested that citizens refrain from illegal activities during the night time. It makes it harder to get daguerreotypes from the many hidden cameras, a spokesman explained. When you are committing crimes, you are urged to stand still, so the images do not turn out blurred.”

Cecil's voice was everywhere, though it had picked up a strange, tinny quality. Carlos noticed that the citizens who had been walking through the area now all stopped to listen.

Carlos stole back inside. It was marvelous, like a type of talking telegraph, he guessed. Another thing he would have to ask Cecil about, he supposed. He needed to get back to the Vigilant, but this place was so intriguing, he felt obligated to stay a while and learn about it.

“There's a new person in town, and he is perfect and beautiful. His name is Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan, and he is a naturalist from Her Majesty's Ship, the Vigilant.”

Carlos went quiet. He hadn't realized Cecil had caught his full name. Clearly, he had been paying more attention than Carlos realized.

“Tell me, Carlos, what do you think of Nightlantis so far?” Cecil pushed the cone over towards him with an elegant hand. The fingers were long and graceful, and Carlos stared at them for probably a bit longer than he should have.

“Er,” he stumbled. Cecil pressed the speaking cone a little bit nearer. “I find it very interesting here,” said Carlos, marveling as his voice echoed outside.

Cecil pulled the cone closer to himself. He leaned over further, his face very close to Carlos. “What do you find so interesting?” he asked. He pressed the cone back towards Carlos.

“Well, for example, I find your lighting system extraordinary. And I am very impressed with your servant, Mr. Babbage.”

Babbage, who had been silently standing watch nearby up until now, tooted out a blast of steam evidently in approval. Carlos smiled.

Cecil's face was awfully close to his now, Carlos noticed. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright.

“Er, I also think your city is very beautiful,” said Carlos, not certain why he had voiced a rather mundane thought. But this caused Cecil's smile to broaden, and his eyes to dance, and Carlos decided right then and there it had been an utterly perfect thing to say. “Um, especially the upper levels. I mean, the view.”

“The view here is very lovely as well,” said Cecil. Carlos suddenly dropped his eyes and found himself blushing. Why had he gotten shy? It was weird, but perhaps it was the disorientation. “Thank you, Dr. Gutierrez MacLachlan.”

Carlos sat back and tried to straighten up, clearing his throat.

Cecil edged away, grabbing a sheet of paper. “Listeners, as you know, I don't like to make this transmission all about me. I am but your humble narrator, chosen for this purpose. But I need your help. As you know, Mr. Marcus Vansten is one of our candidates. I have just received the following notice from him, or rather, from someone he hired to pass on a notice. The notice reads, 'I am Mr. Marcus Vansten. I am rich. I am the richest man you could ever imagine. In fact, I am so rich, you can probably not even imagine it. It's all right. Your imagination is probably anemic because you are so poor. But everybody is poor compared to me. Mr. Marcus Vansten: richer than you.' Well, what do you think of that, Nightlantis?”

“He sounds horrid,” blurted Carlos. “Er,” he muttered, hoping that his face wasn't close enough to the cone to be transmitted. Cecil grinned at him.

Sometime later, Cecil hurried Carlos out of the Wireless station as Babbage tromped along behind them. As they passed the shops, several citizens called out, “Hullo!” to Cecil along the way.

“We think Carlos is a good candidate!” announced a mustachioed man standing by a barber pole.

“Well, he's not really a candidate, Telly,” said Cecil.

“I'm voting for Carlos,” said a man wearing something that looked like a monk's cowl. He was accompanied by a similarly attired man, out walking their dogs. They both had their hoods pulled up, so it was difficult to make out their faces.

“Thank you, Hitoshi, Xavier,” said Cecil, tugging on Carlos's arm. “But Carlos is not-”

“Cecil, forget about Marcus. We want Carlos!” said a dark-haired girl, who was standing in the middle of a group of young people.

“Thanks, Dana. We appreciate that.”

“I'm sorry, Cecil,” said Carlos as he was escorted away. “To what are they referring when they mention candidates?”

“Well, my wedding of course.”

“You're- You're getting married?” For some reason, Carlos felt disappointed at the news. He wasn't entirely certain why. Cecil seemed a good fellow, and he should be glad for his good fortune. “I'm sorry, I mean, of course, my best wishes.”

Cecil looked glum, and patted Carlos's arm. “You are a good friend to say so. I am fated to be wed this year, as the stars are in alignment, and there are currently three candidates who are seeking my hand.”

“Er, forgive me if I am being forward,” said Carlos, “but isn't Marcus Vansten … male?”

“Yes, of course. All three candidates are male. You see, the town set this up long ago. They were expecting a girl – all the signs and portents pointed to it! I was intended to be Cecilia. So I came along as a bit of a shock to the system. But everyone has been so terribly understanding about it all.”

“Well, that was … agreeable of them.” Cecil kept a loose, companionable grip on Carlos's arm. Maybe, Carlos thought, marriage in this culture was different from what it was back home? He thought back to what the captain had told him: when you arrive at a place with different customs, try to learn a little about them before you pass judgment. That seemed reasonable, right?

“But we're headed to dinner now, and you'll get to meet them all!”

“This is your engagement dinner?”

Cecil laughed. “Not precisely, as I don't know who I'll be marrying yet.”

Both Carlos and Cecil turned at a soft sound behind them. The quiet group of the children Carlos had noted before were standing there, though they remained silent and still. One of them, a stocky, dark-skinned girl, stood a little ahead of them, a red-haired boy at her side. Carlos turned to approach them, but felt Cecil's hand on his arm.

“Careful,” Cecil whispered.

Carlos nodded but then slowly, as if he were approaching some new wildlife, moved forward a few steps. He crouched down, so he was at eye level with the dark girl. He noticed she was clutching something: a book. He peered at it, recognizing the cover. “Is that by chance a novel by Mr. Dickens?” he asked softly.

Carefully, as if revealing a great treasure, she held out the book so he could see the cover. “Oliver Twist: the Parish Boys' Progress,” read Carlos. “That is one of my favorites.”

She looked him up and down, and then glanced at the red-haired boy standing beside her. He was wearing a sash with some badges clumsily sewn into it. He nodded. She glanced again at Carlos, and then quickly, quietly, all the children scattered again.

Carlos remained squatting down for a moment. He got up. “Who are they?” he asked Cecil.

Cecil shook his head. “Miss Tamika Flynn – she's the leader – is a survivor of the summer reading program. Master Barton Donovan is her friend: he was one of the Eternal Scouts. I'm not sure about all of the rest of them. They mostly inhabit the lower floors, down where none of us dare go.”

Carlos nodded, wondering if the group of ragamuffins had happened onto a Fagin of their own. He and Cecil came to a pair of sliding doors. Cecil didn't move to open them, and neither did Babbage. But then, to Carlos's astonishment, they whisked noiselessly open on their own, to reveal a small chamber. Carlos followed Cecil inside, and Babbage clanked after them, the floor sagging slightly under his weight. Cecil pushed a lever to one side of the doors, and they slid closed. Then he turned a crank, and Carlos felt the floor lurch beneath him.

“It's the elevator,” Cecil explained. The floor settled, and he pressed the lever again. This time, the door opened to reveal they were now back at the top level of Nightlantis.

“This is extraordinary!” exclaimed Carlos, leaping outside, hoping to get a glimpse of the mechanism. But to his disappointment, it was all concealed inside of the structure.

“If you'd like, I think we can show you later, but right now we're late for dinner, and we don't want Miss Hidge – well, what's left of her – to get cross. She'll go tattle to the mayor, and then I'll have no end of worries.”

“So that's why you have Mr. Babbage following you?” asked Carlos. “They want to keep track of you?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I've heard stories, our own young Queen, Her Majesty Victoria, had an escort during the regency of her uncle, before she ascended the throne. She couldn't even descend a staircase without someone holding her hand!”

“Really?” asked Cecil. And then, more softly, “Did she appreciate it?”

Carlos leaned over to whisper to Cecil. “The rumor is, she detested it,” he confided.

Cecil smiled at the confidence, and Carlos felt his heart flutter.

“Well, here we are,” Cecil announced. They had come upon one of the grander buildings in Nightlantis, although not the one Carlos had taken for the palace. He still needed to ask Cecil about that one, and he start to wonder whether he could convince the prince to take him on an after-dinner tour of the city. But then Babbage opened up a great double door, and, on Cecil's urging, Carlos walked inside.

He froze as the great beast standing inside reared up, roared and spat fire.

--
Notes on Chapter 2: The mention of Tesla was the chapter's biggest anachronism, as Nikola Tesla wasn't born until 1856. By the way, Carlos's surname, MacLachlan, is a tribute to Kyle MacLachlan, who played Agent Cooper on Twin Peaks. And Charles Babbage was the engineer who came up with the concept of the computer.

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/143347.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Candy Glass

2014-01-04T20:25:21Z

Title: Candy Glass
Fandom: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins, Bobby Singer, Crowley, Castiel, Jim Beaver. Very mild implied Destiel.
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 8000
Summary: JP, JA and Misha are sitting around the set bickering about nothing important when they are suddenly sucked into the Supernatural universe. Like for reals and stuff.
Notes: I haven’t even tried writing RPF before, so forgive me for the suckitude.

“Marbles. In his car.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

Jensen eyed his best friend. Jared, who generally radiated sunny good humor, was never so bright-eyed and effusive as when he had just played an especially good prank on Misha, particularly one conducted in retaliation for yet another practical joke. In truth, Jensen no longer recalled which of the two idiots had started the current feud. Although he was grateful that he’d been on the sidelines for this particular exchange of unpleasantries, he also enjoyed egging on the separate parties.

“I wanna see. I want pictures!” he finally told Jared, who with a broad grin hastily whipped out his cell phone and began thumbing it.

Jensen sat back on the wooden bench. They were out on location today, in an abandoned town some miles north of Vancouver they sometimes used for filming main street scenes in what was to be this week's cursed small town. Due to some crossed signals, however, they had lost a lot of the morning while they waited for a couple of crew guys to replace the broad front window in one of the storefronts with candy glass, so they could perform a stunt there later. (Jensen wasn't exactly sure what the stunt would be as he hadn't actually yet read though all of the script: someone inevitably got thrown through a window in all probability.) While the second unit filmed nearby, Jensen and Jared had retired to sit out on the wooden porch near the newly replaced window, waiting for the stenciled on BROOKS GENERAL STORE lettering to dry.

“Jared.” The voice, though a full register higher than that of his character, was utterly unmistakable, and caused Jared to hastily pocket the offending cell phone and mold his features into a look of boyish innocence. “You know anything about my car?” asked Misha, whipping off his aviator shades like an officious cop in a terrible police procedural.

“Car? What car? Do you have a car?” answered Jared.

A pair of suspicious blue eyes slid over to glare at Jensen. Jensen held up his hands. “I know nothing about any of this.”

The eyes narrowed. “Any of what?”

“Uh, whatever?” tried Jensen.

Misha turned his attentions back to Jared. “Seriously? Seriously?”

“Dude, you sound like a Dr. Sexy extra,” giggled Jared.

Jensen looked his costar up and down. He was wearing jeans and flannel, topped by a down vest. “Why are you out of costume, anyway?” put in Jensen, thinking to steer the conversation to less treacherous territory.

“I’m done for the day. I was meaning to go home. You know, to my family?” He was now crowding into Jared’s space. Jared picked this exact instance to stand up, so instead of nose-to-nose they were more like nose-to-chest, which was not terribly impressive as a means of intimidation.

“So, uh, why can’t you go home, exactly?” wondered Jensen, who to be honest wasn’t entirely clear on the nature of the prank.

Misha drew in breath, ready for a god old fashioned rant. “Because my car-“

“Alright, ready for the stunt?” asked a huge, bull-necked man who had just wandered by. He was dressed like a crew member. The guy looked familiar, but or some weird reason, Jensen couldn’t place him. He definitely wasn't a regular member of the stunt crew. He squinted at the guy's badge, but it was reversed.

“Uh, what stunt?” asked Jared.

“I don’t have any stunts,” Misha told him.

“I thought you had a stunt,” Jared told Misha.

“No I don’t have a stunt.”

“You sure?”

“Naw, I just smite somebody.”

Jared laughed. “What?” asked Misha.

“Dude, you make the weirdest faces when you smite stuff.”

“Fuck off.”

Jensen, as he hadn’t yet completed reading the script due to being kept up nights by the howling of his adorable but somewhat fussy newborn daughter, did not have an opinion to offer.

“I thought you had a stunt, Mish,” Jared persisted.

“You’re probably thinking of 14,” said Misha. “I have a stunt in 14.”

“Oh, yeah. Where you get thrown by a guy.”

Misha rolled his eyes. “I always get thrown by a guy. At least I don’t get tortured again.”

“I like it when you’re tortured.”

“You’re a very troubled individual, Jared.”

Jensen frowned. The scripts this year – well, he'd already had a couple meetings about it. It seemed like they were wandering around instead of getting somewhere.

Jensen blinked. Quite suddenly he had several acres of stunt dude looming over him, blocking out the sun.

“Hey, dude,” said Jensen in warning.

“It’s time for your stunt,” said the guy. Worryingly, he was bigger than Jared, and he looked like he actually meant it. Jensen tried to catch Jared’s eye. Just in case he was up to anything uncool, it seemed like between the two of them they could hold him off, though he would probably reduce poor Misha to pixie dust. (Misha really needed to learn to fight some times: it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been on an action show for like the past six seasons.)

“We hadn’t heard about this,” said Jensen. “Maybe we better call-“

“Here we go!” said the guy, and then Jensen felt himself grabbed by the scruff of the neck and, along with Jared, tossed through the window as if he weighed no more than a freaking rag doll.

The candy glass shattered like it was supposed to, and Jensen, catlike, was back on his feet in a beat, just in time to be body-slammed by Misha, who had apparently been tossed in after them.

“Ow!” yelled Jared, who was trying to pick himself up. He also grabbed a piece of the shattered candy glass and started nibbling on it.

“What the fuck?” yelled Jensen, who didn’t confine himself to PG-rated swearing in real life. He heard a soft moan, and squatted down to take a look at Misha, who was now bleeding from a wound at his scalp line. “Mish! Dammit, he’s injured. Look what you did!” he yelled towards the window. “Now he’s gonna need stitches.”

“Can’t do anything but improve his looks,” laughed Jared. “Uhhh… Huh.”

“Huh … what,” demanded Jensen, hauling Misha up to stand, somewhat shakily, on his feet.

“Where did the stunt guy go?” Jared looked out the window, and then turned all the way around. “Does this even look like the same window to you?” he asked. He rubbed his head. “I wonder if I hit my head too?”

“What the hell?” asked Jensen. He now cast his attention away from Misha, who seemed pretty shaken up, to the broken window. Oddly enough, the midday sky outside had suddenly turned dark and threatening. “Jar, did you guys prank the crew or something? Are they fucking with us?”

Jared’s head was craned out the window, his long hair blowing in the breeze. Which begged the question of why there was now a breeze after a completely still, sunny afternoon. “I don’t think this is the crew’s doing, J.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean-“ But what exactly Jared meant was alas lost the ages, as just at that moment, there came a terrific howl behind them. The room lit up with a lurid, green light. The three men turned to see a rather terrific, well-rendered special effect of a ghostly spirit floating towards them.

“Whoa, that must’ve blown the budget,” said Jensen, looking it up and down. It was an old woman, flickering on and off like when a cable channel is going out. She had a wild, unhinged look in her eyes. Probably contact lenses, Jensen thought.

“Aw, you can tell it’s fake,” Jared told him.

“How?”

Jared drew nearer to the shimmering, greenish vision of a heavily made up female actress. “See? You can see the matte lines here.” He pointed to the edge of the vision, but then the vile old woman shrieked again, and, with a cry that was definitely not a girlie scream, Jared was thrown backwards.

Jensen tightened his grip on Misha as he felt his balls suddenly crawl back up into his abdomen. “Jar,” he said, backing up. “You OK, dude?” This prank was definitely getting annoying. He looked around, wondering where there must be a crew guy hidden, recording all of this on a hidden camera. “Hey, anybody? Not cool! We’ve got some guys hurt here.”

The special effect ghost rounded on Jensen. As he backed off, she seemed to surge forward, eyes boring into him.

And then, looming but a foot away, she opened her mouth to scream again.

“Don’t,” muttered Misha. “G’way.” Groggily, he waved his arm and ended up batting her in the nose. Instead of shrieking, she froze. Suddenly her eyes gave off sparks. And then the entire apparition was on fire, blazing in orange and red and yellow, and giving off the distinct smell of brimstone.

“J!” yelled Jared.

“What?”

“Run!” Jared dashed for the front door, wrenched it open and fled. Jensen followed along, half-carrying Misha with him. They all stopped outside on the porch, panting. It was dark, and looked like it would start raining any minute. “Hey, anybody!” Jensen called. But there was only silence in return.

“They're gonna be pissed of you ruin the take,” said Jared.

“Mish is hurt. Come on, he's gonna need stitches. You walk OK, dude?” he asked Misha, patting him on the stomach.”

“Yeah. I guess. I feel … weird,” Misha muttered.

“Like, weirder than usual?” Jared snarked.

“He looks pale,” Jensen worried. “You don't think he has a concussion, do you? You don't have a concussion, do you Mish? Let me see if your eyes are weird.” Jensen brushed Misha's hand away from his eyes and stared into them.

“Look, why don't you watch Old Cockeyes and I go get a guy,” Jared offered.

Jensen nodded and got Misha sat down on the bench next to him while Jared loped off. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Like you're gonna get an aneurysm?”

“Like when I fell off my bike going sixty,” moaned Misha. “Only sort of worse. Do you have aspirin?”

“I have Ibuprophin.”

“I don't like Ibuprofen. It's bad for your liver.”

“It's not your liver that's bleeding, dude.” Jensen pulled out his cell phone. He held it up and squinted at it.

“It could be bleeding!” Misha speculated, some color returning to his face. “Maybe I sustained massive internal injuries! Hey, that would be cool. Could I use your phone to tweet about this?”

“What happened to your phone?”

“My son dropped it in the toilet.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Why do kids do anything? Be thankful yours can't walk yet.”

Jensen was still frowning at his phone. “I can't get a signal.”

“Do you have AT&T?”

“No.”

“You should have AT&T.”

“Why are you lecturing me? Your phone is in the john!”

“Not any more. He flushed it.”

Jared had come back He did not look pleased. “Guys!”

“Jar, where's the guy?” asked Jensen.

“There is no guy.”

“Whaddya mean?”

Jared held up his hands. He looked genuinely perplexed. “I mean there's nobody here. They struck the set.”

“Wait, they already quit for the day? What the hell?” He looked back and forth between Misha and Jared. “You guys, what did you do?”

“We didn't do anything!” said Jared.

“You told me you did something,” said Jensen. “With the marbles!”

“Ah-ha!” declared Misha, who stood up to point an accusing finger at Jared. But then he put a hand on his head, groaned, and sank back down. “Ow.”

“That's another thing: the cars,” Jared told them.

“What about the cars?” asked Jensen.

There was a diner.

Of course there was a diner. There was always a diner.

A black 1967 Chevy Impala was parked outside. For whatever reason, it was the only car left on the lot. Fortunately, Jensen still had a set of keys in his pocket. Good thing he hadn't changed out of his Dean costume yet.

Misha was looking somewhat less pale. And because he was Misha, he had charmed the waitress into bringing him a big ziploc bag full of ice for the cut on his head. It didn't look so bad when you wiped the blood off. He was thumbing through the menu, looking in vain for something vegan. “I’m gonna catch hell when I get home if I smell like animal products.”

“Mish, we got bigger fish to fry,” Jensen told him.

“Fish!” said Misha. “You suppose fish would be acceptable? I mean, it’s fish!” he reasoned.

“How is fish vegan?” asked Jared, who was sitting opposite of them, folding a napkin into origami.

“It’s more vegan than a hamburger,” Misha reasoned.

“Are there degrees of vegan?”

“You guys,” said Jensen who was beginning to grow impatient with his companions. “We’ve got bigger problems here! How the hell are we gonna get home?” He and Jared and Misha had driven for an hour, unable to find the way back to Vancouver. None of their cell phones could get a signal, and it seemed like they were just driving around in circles.

“We got a car. We drive home,” shrugged Jared.

“Drive how? Where the hell are we? The GPS doesn’t work, and none of the signs make sense.”

“It’s a prank, J,” said Misha, who was scanning the seafood selections. “Hey, Jar! Get your foot off my balls!”

Jared whistled and tried to look innocent.

“We'll stop and ask for directions,” said Misha.

“We don't need to ask for directions!” Jensen insisted, his face turning a little red.

“What'll it be, honey?” asked the waitress, who had chosen this moment to reappear at the booth.

“I'll have the bacon burger with fries and a side of onion rings,” said Jared.

“Fish and chips,” said Misha. “With tar-tar sauce.”

“How is that vegan?” asked Jared.

“Hey, Jar. Fuck yourself,” muttered Misha.

“Oh, and I'll have an extra side of garlic fries. What?” Jared asked Jensen, who made a face. “All that driving around made me hungry.”

“I don't wanna drive with you after a bacon burger and onion rings, Farty McFartypants,” grumbled Jensen.

“And for you, doll?” the waitress prompted, looking at Jensen.

“Oh, uh.” Jensen had been so overwrought he had forgotten to take a look at the menu.

“He'll have the steak,” said Jared, pointing to it.

“Thanks, sweetie,” said the waitress, grabbing the menus and heading for the hills before Jensen could object.

“What?” asked Jared again. “You were gonna order the steak.”

Jensen pouted. “Maybe.”

“Jar, get your foot outta my balls,” Misha snapped. Jared giggled. “Hey, I mean it!”

“Make me,” said Jared.

Misha suddenly got a very strange look on his face. Strange, even for him. He reached down, and with two fingers, touched Jared's knee.

“God DAMN,” said Jared, who quite suddenly moved his leg.

“What happened?” asked Jensen, but Misha was looking slightly out of it. Jensen pulled up the tablecloth and peeked underneath the table. “Dude! Where did you pants go?” he whispered to Jared.

“Misha! What did you do to my pants?” Jared whispered to Misha. He was looking around frantically.

“Uh, I dunno,” said Misha. “What did I do?” Jensen pointed under the table.

Misha picked up the tablecloth took a glimpse. He broke into a smile. “How did I do that?”

“Give them back. Give me back my pants.”

“But I dunno how I did it.”

“Jensen!” Jared appealed.

“Can you give him his pants back? I don't wanna add arrest for indecent exposure to the list,” Jensen sighed.

Misha's brow was knitted with concentration. As Jared began to sweat, he reached down and touched two fingers to Jared's knee once again.

“Dude!” breathed Jared.

“OK,” said Jensen.

“What do you mean, OK?” asked Jared, bringing up one knee to reveal some bright red plaid polyester pants. “He put me in golf pants.”

Misha giggled.

“I'll kill you,” grumbled Jared. “I am sincerely gonna kill you. When I get back from the men’s room.” Aiming a glare at both Jensen and Misha, which got a “dude what did I do?” look in return from Jensen, he took off, the other two watching him.

They just managed to hold off a giggle fit until he was out of earshot. “They’re like six inches too short,” laughed Jensen. “So, how did you do that? Were they tearaway?”

Misha had stopped laughing, and was staring at his own hand. He sometimes did weird hippy shit like that, so it was no surprise. “I don’t know.” He placed his fingers on the napkin dispenser, and it started to glow. He withdrew his fingers.

“You sure you guys aren’t pulling a prank?” Jensen asked quietly. Misha shook his head. The guy looked honestly freaked out. Jensen slipped an arm around his shoulder. “Look, dude. Probably just something weird from being hit on the head.” Not that he really believed this at this point, but it seemed like a nice, calm thing to say.

“I can make pants disappear from a blow to the head? Shouldn’t I have turned into Superman that time I fell off my bike?”

“Mish, here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna watch Jared stuff his idiot face with food, and then we’ll ask for directions, and then we’ll get back to town and maybe stop by an ER on the way if you’re still feeling weird. Right?”

Misha nodded and quietly sipped his tea. Jensen sorta wanted to order the guy something stronger. Hell, he wanted a beer for himself, but he was driving, and he didn’t want either of his idiot costars to put a dent in baby. Especially Jared: dude needed to work on his parallel parking.

He wondered again if it was Jar and Mish up to one of their weird pranks. Or maybe someone finally had it with all the practical jokes and was pranking them? That would explain why Misha seemed honestly freaked out. That ghost back on the set had seemed pretty real, but seriously, those crew guys had been taking forever, it would have given them time to rig up something.

It didn’t explain Jared’s pants though. Jensen had to stifle a snicker as he sat back down, still glaring. “They’re plaid, Misha!” he huffed.

“I thought you liked plaid,” said Jensen. Fortunately, Jared’s moping was interrupted by the waitress bringing out heaps of food.

“You gonna finish that steak?” Jared asked through a mouth full of burger and onion rings.

“She just put it down like five seconds ago,” Jensen told him, irritably shaking on steak sauce. Misha picked up a French fry and considered it morosely. “Here, have his fries,” said Jensen, handing one of Misha’s fries to Jared.

“He has his own fries,” grumped Misha as Jared greedily ate his dinner.

“You snooze, you lose!” said Jared.

The waitress was back with bottles of ketchup and mustard and various other thing. “Hey,” said Jensen. “You know the best way back to Vancouver?”

Misha and Jared got quiet and side-eyed her. “Vancouver?” she asked. She seemed a little mystified.

“Um, what’s the nearest big town?” asked Jensen, casually sawing into his steak.

She shrugged. “You mean Sioux Falls?”

Misha and Jared exchanged a glance.

“Hey, sure,” said Jensen, keeping his voice even. He wasn’t an actor for nothing. “We got kinda turned around out there. GPS not working.” Maybe he should have done improv?

She gave a set of directions to the interstate, and Jensen calmly thanked her.

Misha pushed his plate away. “Sioux Falls?” he whispered. “What the fuck?”

“This day just got even more fucked up,” said Jared, who hadn’t stopped stuffing his face.

“Look, I got an idea,” said Jensen. And, to be honest, he did. Sort of. “You guys go ahead and eat.” He pulled Misha’s plate back. “Come on. I’m not gonna have you bitching that you’re hungry at 2 am.”

Misha looked a little put out, but petulantly crammed a french fry in to his mouth and chewed. “Or if you’re not gonna eat, fix my damn pants,” grumbled Jared.

Misha glared, and then he stuck out two fingers.

“Wait – what?” said Sam.

That's when they heard a scream. And a crash.

“Get down!” somebody yelled.

The three men complied, crowding somewhat awkwardly under their table, Jared with a plate of onion rings. “What's happening?” he munched.

“Are they being robbed?” asked Misha.

Jensen, who was envisioning some kind of Pulp Fiction scenario, poked his head up. He sat back down looking pale. “What is it?” whispered Misha. “Do they have guns?”

“Guys, it's a ghost. Like back on the set.”

Misha and Jared looked at each other. “No fucking way,” said Misha.

Suddenly, there was a crash right beside their booth. They cringed as an entire table went flying across the diner. “Fucking way,” said Jensen. “And it's freaking out. Mish, you gotta do that burn out thing you did before!”

“I can't do a burn out thing! I'm an actor!” said Misha.

“Dude, you've been changing my pants,” laughed Jared, who reached up for another plate of food off the table and came back with Misha's fish and chips.

“That's my dinner,” grumbled Misha.

“You were being all emo about eating,” reasoned Jared.

“I wasn't being emo!”

“You two!” said Jensen. “We gotta deal with this shit right here.”

There was another crash, and some assorted terrified screaming.

“We're actors, J!” Misha pleaded. “We're just a bunch of dumb, overpaid actors.”

“Iron,” said Jared. “We need iron. Where do you get iron in a diner?”

“They probably have skillets in the kitchen,” sighed Misha.

“Jar, you distract it, Mish and I will head for the kitchen!” said Jensen.

“J, I'm an actor!” said Misha.

“Yeah, well, we're acting like ghost busters now. Come on!”

Jared, still holding the fish and chips, nodded and stood up in the booth. Misha followed Jensen towards the kitchen. “When something's strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call!” Jared sang in a wavering voice.

“Ghost busters!” came a bunch of answering voices. And then there was another crash, and Jared yelled, “Oh shit.”

“Those were my fish and chips,” muttered Misha as they entered the double doors to the kitchen.

There were several kitchen staff and wait persons cowering within.

“Hey, you guys know about that poltergeist?” asked Jensen.

“It's one of the fry cooks, man!” answered a guy in a chef's toque. “He comes back every once in a while.”

“Is he angry over something?” asked Jensen.

“Naw. He was just always kind of a jerk.”

Jensen looked around. Life was not TV. “We need cast iron.”

“Do you have an iron skillet?” Misha asked.

The chef and several others pointed. “We meant, one that's not being used,” said Jensen, as the skillet was sizzling on the burner.

Several chefs shook their heads. “Busy night, man.”

Jensen sighed. A moment later, when he and Misha burst out of the kitchen, he was holding tight to a big skillet with a couple of potholders. “Over here, butt-face!” he yelled as Misha cringed.

The angry spirit charged. As Misha ducked out of the way, Jensen swung, scattering fried rice everywhere.

The spirit popped out. Just like on the show. Sometimes life was like TV.

“Dude!” yelled Jared from over in the booth. “That was cool.”

“Ready the smiting thing,” Jensen told Misha. “There!”

The spirit popped back into existence, all greenish glow and malevolence. Gritting his teeth and scowling fiercly, Misha stepped forward and slapped a hand on its head.

The thing screamed, green going to red and orange, and finally dissolved into a few glowing cinders.

There was a moment of silence, and then the diner burst into applause. Misha, knowing not what else to do, shrugged and took a bow.

“Man, you make the weirdest faces when you're smiting,” said Jared, who had come to stand alongside him.

“Oh, fuck off,” Misha told him, grabbing a piece of fried fish off the plate Jared was holding.

In the end, the night manager gave them a 30% discount on their meal, plus directions to Sioux Falls. “Thank you, Jensen, Jared and....”

“Misha,” Misha supplied.

“Misha? That's a weird name,” said the night manager.

Jared giggled, and the next chance he had, Misha changed his pants into a sarong.

“Singer Salvage? There’s really one in Sioux Falls?” asked Misha.

“Guess so,” said Jensen, looking up at the sign.

Jensen wasn’t exactly certain how he had arrived here. Once they reached the Sioux Falls city limits he’s kind of “used the force,” and just turned where it felt right.

Jared shuffled out after them. In the past hour, he’d been through culottes, clown pants, a skort, a kilt, leggings, old fashioned bloomers, a princess dress (complete with petticoats), buckskin (those were kind of cool) and finally back to jeans: mom jeans, eighties style, stone washed, acid washed, Levi’s, Lee, Kmart brand, baggy, and finally something somewhat normal.

Somewhere around the time of the bloomers, Jensen, for one, had become convinced that this was something a little more serious than a prank.

He nodded at Misha, who placed two fingers on the padlock that fastened the gate. It unlocked with a click, and they pulled the gate open.

“You can angel-finger locks now?” asked Jared. Misha shrugged, and then cocked an eyebrow.

Jared covered his crotch. “Don’t even think it! Leave my pants alone!”

There was the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked. Jared and Misha turned.

Jensen was already holding up his hands. “Jim-“

“Who the hell is Jim?” asked the old guy who looked exactly like Jim Beaver.

Jared started to speak, but Jensen put in, “Bobby.”

“And why the Sam Hill are you two dragging along that one,” asked Bobby, pointing the weapon at Misha, who took a couple steps back. “You know damn well he’s working with Crowley!”

“Hey!” said Misha.

“Mid-season six,” said Jensen. “OK. Bobby, we need your help.”

“I don’t trust the angel,” growled Bobby.

“Aren’t there alternatives to pointing a shotgun?” asked Misha.

“Mish, angel-finger him,” said Jensen.

Misha pointed two fingers, and suddenly, Bobby wasn’t wearing pants.

“I meant get the shotgun!” said Jensen.

“You didn’t specify,” sniffed Misha.

“I can still put a hole in you without the pants!” Bobby cried.

“Look, just put his pants back on,” sighed Jensen.

“Naw, give him a kilt!” laughed Jared.

Misha did his angel thing. He replaced Bobby's pants, and now he was holding the shotgun. “Hey, cool!” he said.

“Be careful with that thing, it’s loaded,” Jensen warned Misha. He turned back to Bobby. “We need help, Bobby. We’re not who you think we are. I’m Jensen, this is Jared, and Misha.”

“Misha?” said Bobby. “What the hell kinda name is that?” Jared chuckled, and Misha scowled.

It was amazing: it looked just like the old set, with dusty books sitting around everywhere. Despite the circumstances Jensen really wanted to go upstairs, just to see what had been up there. He knew he had to visit the panic room at least before they left.

“And you're telling me you three are … actors?” Bobby asked. He downed a shot of really bad Scotch, and Jensen mimicked the gesture. Driving or not, they needed this guy’s help. And they’d all been put through the “demon – revenant – skinwalker” test, and Jensen’s arm ached where he’d cut it. Dammit, silver knives hurt!

“We got popped into an alternate universe somehow.”

“Why the hell would anyone watch a show about us?”

“People are stupid,” said Jared, who was spread out on the couch, blitzing Bobby’s cell phone.

“Are you getting anything on that?” asked Jensen.

“Naw. I get a signal, but none of my numbers work.”

“So, what are you doing?”

“Playing Words with Friends!”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Bobby, we need a spell to get us back.”

“Well, I got spells. I got a whole damned living room full of spells. The question is, what kind of spell?”

“Angel,” said Jensen. “Angels popped us over to the other side. I mean, it happened on the show.”

“Sorry,” said Misha. He was sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table, and had been in sort of a moping mood. Jensen wasn’t exactly sure what was wrong. Bobby got up and returned with a stack of books, which he let drop in front of Misha.

“Here ya go. Got angel books, but they’re in Enochian.”

Misha was already thumbing through one. “Yeah, but who reads Enochian?”

“You don’t read Enochian?” boomed Bobby.

“Didn’t you do any research?” asked Jensen.

“Of course I did research,” sulked Misha.

“Even I read Enochian!” piped up Jared from his place on Bobby’s couch.

“Wait, what?” asked Jensen.

Jared sat up. “What? It takes like an hour.”

The other three exchanged a glance, and then the books were summarily dumped on the coffee table in front of Jared. “You!” said Bobby. “Find a damn spell.” He grabbed the phone away. “And quit running up my damn phone bill.”

“Wow, you’re just as crusty as your character,” said Jared, who was already contentedly flipping through a book.

“I’m not a character, ya idjit! I’m me.”

“What can I do, Bobby?” asked Misha, a little apologetically.

“You’ll be in charge of fetching ingredients, whenever this idjit gets us a spell.”

“But I don’t have my car,” said Misha.

Bobby turned on him. “You don’t drive, you use your wings.” He looked over at Jensen. “Wait, has this one learned to do anything but remove pants?”

Jensen shrugged. “Come on, let’s get outside and try to get you flying.”

“But, I don’t think I can do that.”

“Look at me! I’m king of the world!” yelled Misha, who was now standing on top of Bobby’s house. This was, for whatever reason, the very first place he thought he should fly to.

“All right, great. Now, come on down,” Jensen yelled. There was a wing-flapping sound, and Misha disappeared.

“Where the hell did he go?” asked Bobby.

“Hey, give me that!” came a yell from inside. “Misha, dammit!”

Misha appeared outside again, next to Jensen and Bobby, holding a sandwich. “This is really awesome!” he said, his eyes shining. And then he blinked out again.

“Where’s my sammich!” yelled Jared, who had just come running out the front door.

“Uh, I think Misha had it,” said Jensen.

“Imma kill that guy!” swore Jared.

“Go back inside and get me a spell!” Bobby chided.

“I think I got a spell,” said Jared.

Bobby and Jensen exchanged a glance. “Well then get back inside, kid!” urged Bobby.

“Will you make me another sammich, Bobby?” asked Jared, doing his very best puppy dog face.

“Yeah, yeah, just get back in there.” Jared nodded and went back inside.

“You work with those two? Every damn day?” Bobby asked Jensen. Jensen cracked a wry smile and nodded. “And you haven’t murdered them yet?”

Jensen shrugged, and Bobby marched back inside.

“Myrrh!” said Misha, who had just popped back.

Jensen jumped about five feet up in the air. “Uh, be careful doing that, OK?” he asked. “And, why did you get myrrh?”

“They always need it for spells on the show, right?” He brought it up to his nose and smelled it.

The front door banged open again. “Hey, we need myrrh!” yelled Jared.

Misha smiled, a “see I told you so” look on his face.

“All right, give Sandwich Boy his myrrh, and we’ll go gather the other stuff.” Misha made to walk, but then grinned and disappeared. “OK, you’re enjoying that way too much,” grumbled Jensen.

The evening passed quickly. Jensen translated, and Misha ended up popping in and out all over the world to get various weird ingredients. And then evidently he got a little bored or silly or however it was Misha's head worked, because then he went out to get them a round of tiki drinks from Maui, and he brought Jared a basketball (which he was gladly bouncing) and he got Bobby a puppy even though the guy swore he hated dogs (but Jensen spotted him feeding the little guy table scraps, so maybe Misha was using angel mojo to scan their souls or something?)

And then he got Jensen some Turtle wax, and Jensen decided his baby really needed a wash and a wax after all that driving, because Jensen or Dean Winchester, he loved that damned car.

After the Impala was buffed to perfection, Jensen was assigned to painting a giant trap of some sort on the floor out in one of the garage areas. Or at least he thought it was a trap. It was just squiggles really, but he guessed it was all something magical. Maybe they just wanted to keep him busy?

“You doin’ all right out here?” Bobby asked at one point. He’d come with beer, so Jensen took a break. He’d learned to flip the caps off the way Dean did it.

“How’s it going inside?” Jensen asks.

“That kid, Jared, plays Sam?”

Jensen smiled. “Yeah.”

“But, he’s nine feet tall, and he’s about as coordinated as a damn bull moose.”

Jensen spit beer. “Yeah, he broke his arm filming the show.”

“I don’t doubt it,” sighed Bobby. He leaned nearer. “Hey, could you tell me something?”

“Yeah.”

“From what I understand, you’re filming the show, but you’re a couple years ahead of us here?”

Jensen nodded, but he suddenly had a bad feeling.

“Well, I was just wondering about something. Now, you don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable. But you know that Jody Mills? She’s not half bad looking. Now, she’s had some terrible stuff happen to her, but we get along, and I’m not getting any younger….”

Jensen listened, having no idea what to say. Cas fucks up major league, and you get killed by a cheesy villain from season 7 who’s trying to make everybody fat?

“Will you unhand me, you insufferable oaf!” came a voice.

“Balls!” grumbled Bobby, who set down his beer and ran outside.

Wow, it was just like on the show. Jensen thought he’d have to tell Jim. Except how the hell was he going to explain all this crap to Jim? “Once we got pulled through a candy glass window and ended up in an alternate parallel universe where all this crap was real and we met you?”

Jensen heaved a sigh and followed Bobby outside. Jared was out there staring too.

This time Misha had brought back Mark. Only Mark probably wasn't Mark, he was probably Crowley.

Oh, fuck.

“Cas, you celestial asshole, what in the hellacious fuck do you consider yourself to be doing hauling this shitpile into my place?” asked Bobby, because there were no censors in this alternate parallel universe.

“My question precisely,” muttered Crowley, as Misha stood there holding him by his starched collar. “And what has gotten into him? His mind is even more adrift than usual!”

“I have to fix it, Bobby!” Misha told Bobby. “I made a bad mistake, and a lot of people got hurt, so I have to fix it while I'm here.”

“What the hell are you talking about, boy?”

Jensen put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. “I think I know,” he said quietly. “You and Jared go finish up.”

“What's going on?” demanded Crowley.

“Misha,” said Jensen. “Go panic room the king of hell, and then we'll talk.”

“Misha?” asked Crowley. “What the hell kind of name is that?” And then he and Misha winked out.

When Jensen found him, he was near tears.

They were standing outside, and it was getting dark and cold. “All right, talk,” said Jensen, leaning back against a scrapped car. He had an idea what this was about, but he wanted to hear it directly from his friend.

“I did something horrible, J,” said Misha. “I mean he did, but it was kind of me. And Bobby ended up dying! I mean, it was bad before, but now I've met Bobby, and I've given him a puppy and he's real! He can't die because of me! Or him, or … whatever it is!”

“Look, Mish. We've had a really fucked up day.”

“I know.”

“And I think you more than us, because you've got angel mojo somehow. I think it's making you upset.”

“I am upset! We need to fix things!”

“Misha. We've been friends a long time, right? I know what you want right now. You wanna get back to your family, right?”

“I do! I do. But....”

“But what?”

“Can't we just talk to him? I remember this. It was horrible. I was horrible, and then I died, and I got fired, and I didn't think I'd ever make it back, and it was awful!”

“But you got back,” said Jensen gently.

“But it was never the same! And I don't want him to do it, and I don't want Bobby to die. He has a puppy now!”

Jensen gritted his teeth, and thought about Dean dealing with crazy Cas. Would this mess things up? It was already weird, working some angel spell to get back.

“Please J.?”

“Look, I'll talk to Bobby, see if there's any way we can chat.” God, was he really agreeing to this. And then Misha was hugging him and sort of quietly sobbing. “It's all right. Hey, it'll be all right,” soothed Jensen.

Bobby's been right all along, I'm a idjit, he thought.

It was a really, really bad idea.

They had managed to conjure the angel. And had gotten him trapped.

But here was the thing about angels that people don't know: angels are fucking terrifying.

Jensen stared through the holy oil fire at the … being within. Misha had done a great job capturing Castiel's body language and gestures, but there was one thing missing from the performance, and you probably never could have conveyed this through film. This wasn't a man, this was like a freaking tornado that just happened to be centered around a man. The sheer presence was enough to make you go throw up everything you'd eaten for the past week or two. And then maybe crawl under your bed. How did Dean do it? Having this guy up in his face every week?

Jensen was standing off to the side with Bobby, wishing to god he could run away. What made things bad was that this Castiel creature kept looking over at him. It was like being stabbed through the heart with an icicle, every time he glanced over.

“Don't do it,” said Misha.

“Who are you?” said Castiel, and there was that rumbling voice. But now Jensen saw why the voice was like that, because that was the only way to capture the earthquake that tore through every time he spoke.

“I play you. I play you in our universe. I know you.”

“You know nothing.”

Against his better judgment, Jensen stepped forward. “Look, like we told you, we're just playing you, but we're ahead of you. We know what happens, and it's not pretty.”

The eyes were staring through him again. Jensen caught his breath.

“Jensen's right,” said Misha. “Cas, please: Bobby dies!'

Bobby jerked and looked at Misha. He turned to Jensen. “That true? That why you didn't wanna tell me?”

“Maybe.... Maybe it wouldn't happen like that,” Jensen pleaded.

“It may or it may not,” said Castiel. “I'm prepared to accept the consequences.”

“Consequences? Is that what I am to you, you prize asshole?” asked Bobby.

“I'm trying to stave off the apocalypse!” said Castiel. “There's a bigger picture here!”

“But Bobby's your friend!” said Misha. “Please. I know he is.”

“I don't have any friends,” Castiel insisted. He glanced at Jensen. Jensen's heart broke, just a little.

“Well I can see why!” said Bobby. “You're an asshole.”

“Enough!” said Jared. He was holding a bucket

“Jar, what are you doing?” said Misha. But Jared had already swung the bucket, pitching sand onto the holy oil fire.

“Jared! Fuck no!' said Jensen. The fire doused, breaking the circle.

Jared turned to Jensen. “J, that's not the way. Don't you guys see? You can't just trap him like that and make him listen. That's not how you do things!”

Although the circle was broken, Castiel remained still. “How do you do things then?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Look,” Jared told Castiel. “I don't want you to do it either. I messed up too. I mean, my character did. But sometimes you have to let people make their own mistakes.”

Castiel was staring at him. “You believe I'm making a mistake?”

“No, I know you are.” Jared waved at Jensen and Bobby. “But we'll be there for you, you know. After you mess up. It's the way things are. Look, I get it. You had to make a choice, and that isn't easy. I guess you have to do what you have to do.”

Castiel raised up two fingers, and touched Jared on the forehead. He disappeared.

“Where the hell did you send him?” demanded Jensen.

“Back to your reality,” said Castiel. He strode towards Misha.

“Please! Please at least think about what we've told you!” Misha pleaded.

“Misha,” said Castiel. “That's an odd name.” He smiled, and put two fingers on Misha's forehead, and Misha was gone too.

“Cas,” said Jensen.

Castiel touched Bobby, who collapsed to the floor. The angel knelt down and checked his pulse.

And then he approached Jensen, who tried very hard not to cringe back. He shivered, and tried not to run, not to burst out crying, not to curl into a ball. But Castiel just stood, nearly nose-to-nose, and stared. Was he looking into Jensen's soul? What was he seeing there?

“He'll be all right,” said Castiel.

“You'll- You'll deal with Crowley?” Jensen stuttered. “He's in-”

“In the panic room. I know.” He continued the uncomfortable stare.

“Personal space, dude,” Jensen whispered, trying to crack a smile.

“The resemblance is … striking.”

“I think...” Jensen muttered. Castiel continued to stare. “He can't say it. But I think... I'm pretty sure … he loves you,” Jensen finally said.

Castiel didn't reply, but nodded. And then he reached out his fingers, which he traced along Jensen's cheek.

He leaned forward, and very softly, pressed his lips to Jensen's forehead.

As it turned out, getting chucked back out of a window was almost as bad as getting thrown into a window in the first place.

Misha helped Jensen stand up, and they stared at the candy glass window that was, oddly enough, intact once again. “Damn,” said Jared, who was poking a finger at it. “I’m sort of hungry.”

“What, again?” laughed Jensen. He and Jared were both eagerly digging out cell phones.

Jared dialed and immediately said, “Hey, hon! We’re filming a little late today!” He started to wander off.

Jensen opened his phone and saw his screen saver: his fussy but utterly adorable infant girl. He glanced at his text messages, and then collapsed down on the wooden bench. It wasn’t just one perfect tear that fell, it was a whole bunch of them.

“Wife OK? Kid OK?” asked Misha softly. Jensen realized he was sitting next to him. Jensen nodded, wiping a sleeve over his eyes. “If I haven’t said it,” Misha told him, “you were really a trooper about all of this.”

Jensen nodded, and sniffled. “Can’t talk right now. You wanna borrow?” he croaked out.

Misha grabbed the phone and walked away, dialing. “Everything’s still OK?” Jensen asked Jared, who had wandered back.

“Your nose is red.”

“I know, dude.” Jensen sniffed again. “Everything all right?”

“Pretty much. Well, I’ve evidently got a llama now.”

Jensen paused for a long moment. “Wait, really?”

“Or maybe it’s an alpaca. I dunno.”

“We changed things?”

“Where the hell were you guys?” yelled Jim. At least it looked like Jim. It looked like Bobby too, but he was wearing really awesome eyeglasses. “We’re all waiting for-“ But he was interrupted by Jared sweeping him up into a great bear hug, capped by a smooch. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Just in a weird mood,” said Jared, putting him down.

“I didn’t know you were on call today,” said Jensen.

“I’m not on call,” said Jim. “Not until tomorrow. We gotta get to your dinner.”

“What dinner?” asked Jensen.

“To celebrate the damned Emmy nomination. I swear, what’s gotten into you? You already gotten jaded over the whole thing?”

“Emmy?” said Jensen, but then he was swept up into a monster Jared hug and moose smooch.

“Emmy!” roared Jared.

“Down!” Jensen managed to croak, and finally he was settled down on terra firma. “Bobby- I mean, Jim. We’ll be along, OK? Tell everyone.” Jim shrugged and shook his head, and left, no doubt to tell everyone that the stars had all turned into idjits.

“We changed things,” Jensen whispered to Jared.

“Looks like.”

Misha had wandered back. He handed Jensen his cell phone. His hand was shaking. “What?” asked Jensen.

Misha collapsed onto the bench. He looked confused.

“Everything all right?” asked Jensen. “Wife, kids?”

“Family is fine,” said Misha. “They're fine.”

“So?”

“I got nominated.”

Jensen looked up at Jared. “Hey, another Emmy?”

Misha was shaking his head. “Hell no. Someone.... Someone put my name in the nomination bucket for … a GLAAD Media Award.” He stared intently at Jensen for a long, oddly Cas-like moment. “I'm not sure what's going on...” he whispered. “I mean, on the show.”

Jensen stared back at him. And then he grinned. “Jared!” he yelled.

“On it!” Jared yelled back, even as he was bearing down on Misha.

“Jar- NO!”

After many moose kisses, they were all off to the party.

Though as it turned out, even in this shiny new universe, Misha still had a car full of marbles.

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/142875.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Disappearing Island (Chapter 1 of 6)

2013-12-31T22:48:13Z

Title: The Disappearing Island (Chapter 1 of 6)
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Carlos, a naturalist on board the HMS Vigilant, stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s. There he unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.
Notes: At the end.

Chapter 1

Santa Cruz Island, the Galapagos, Year of Our Lord 1856

“Doctor!”

The nest was almost within his grasp. Not one, not two, but three – three! – mottled brown and dun-colored eggs nestled there, tucked inside the tight weaving of grass and thin twigs.

Carlos repositioned himself on the branch, creeping carefully just a bit further out from the broad trunk, wincing as the wood creaked underneath his weight. He tried to avoid looking down. The tree in which he was perched had the misfortune to be positioned directly over a cliff, the nest dangling above a sheer drop to a pool of water far below. Carlos wasn’t exactly sure how deep the pool ran: perhaps it was twenty feet; perhaps only two feet. At any rate, he didn’t relish the idea of falling.

“Doctor!”

Carefully, he pushed further out along the branch. It was just inches away now. He could brush the nest with his fingertips. The branch crackled, the sound somewhat masked by the ripple of the nearby waterfall. The eggs belonged to Galapagos finches, as reported by Mr. Darwin. Carlos believed this was a new subspecies: the beaks of the adult specimens he had collected were remarkably different from any of the ones his correspondent had presented to the Royal Society.

The branch sagged worryingly. Carlos decided the only option would be swift, bold action: he would spring out, grab the nest, and then scramble back before the branch broke off completely. It was a foolproof plan. Probably. Slowly and carefully, he shinnied out on the branch as far as he dared, and then braced himself, counting down: ready, steady….

“Carlos!”

He froze in mid-lunge, nest almost in his grasp, startled by the sound of his little-used Christian name.

He shifted, just a fraction. The tree creaked, the added moment of his weight combined with distance from the center of gravity contributed to a catastrophic failure. The branch snapped, sending Carlos, the nest, and a large chunk of the tree all hurtling downward, now captives of the gravitational pull of the earth.

Carlos had time to recite a single Hail Mary and then, squeezing his eyes shut, prayed that the impact would eventuate a quick death. He hit the surface and, still bracing, plunged down into the clear cold water. And continued to plunge, sinking and sinking into the deep pool.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw before him in the crystal clear water the rocky shelf he had just barely missed hitting. Luck had been with him, and he had hit the water in approximately the center of a deep depression. His lungs were beginning to burn, so, struggling against his now sodden clothes and heavy boots, he swam his way slowly upwards, stroking his arms and kicking for what seemed like forever until, finally, gasping, he breached the surface.

Carlos spat water and then wheezed in a deep breath. He looked around at the rippling pool.

On the edge of the water, tangled in the branch that had fallen along with him, lay the nest, the tiny eggs still tucked within.

“Hey!” exclaimed Carlos, not believing his luck.

“Doctor!” He heard running footsteps, and, as he finally grabbed the nest and dog-paddled to the rim of the pool, he espied the cabin boy racing down to him. The youth, flush of face and sandy of hair, carried Carlos's pack of samples and his firearm and longbow on his back. “Doctor MacLachlan,” he cried, looking frantic. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine!” said Carlos, “and what's more, I have my prize!” Still treading water, he proudly handed off the nest to Christian.

Christian rolled his eyes as he tucked away the nest. “Next time, let me climb the damn tree. It's what I'm good at. Anyways, we need to quit swimmin' and get goin’, Doctor.”

“So soon?” asked Carlos. Christian stuck out a hand, and with his assistance, Carlos scrambled out of the pool, now sopping wet. Carlos set himself down on a rock and pulled off his boots, pouring out water, as well as a tadpole. He smiled as it wriggled away.

“We're shovin’ off,” said Christian.

“What?”

Christian looked left and right, and then leaned close to Carlos. “Pirates,” he whispered. “Sighted nearby. The cap'n's goin' after them, for sure.”

Carlos flashed a grin. Pirates weren’t the overwhelming threat they had once been in this part of the Pacific, but could still be a nuisance. And it would be just like the captain to strike out after them. “Do you have my samples?”

Christian hefted his bag. “I have what you’ve shot today. And I have your rifle.” He grunted. “And your bow. Though it’s getting damned awful heavy.”

“You should try archery, Christian,” said Carlos, grabbing his weaponry. “It’s a great gentlemanly pursuit!”

“Ain’t exactly a gentleman,” muttered the boy.

Carlos slapped Christian on the back, and they made their way back to the ship. Carlos whistled as he walked, immersed in the sights and sounds. These islands were such a contrast to the often gloomy Scottish highlands where he had grown up. There was life abounding here, and strange sights. It was like seeing the great web of life, all spread out before him.

“You see that, Christian?” he asked, pointing up a sheer rock face now on their right hand side.

“Looks like more rocks,” grunted the youth. He let out a startled sound as Carlos grabbed him by the shoulder.

“But look up! Do you see that white line, up about midway?”

Christian rolled his eyes. Going on these walks with Carlos was sometimes exciting for him, as when Carlos fired his gun. He had a keen eye and deadly aim. But sometimes it was like being back in class, and not in a pleasant way. “Yes, I see the white line.”

“Know what that is? Shells! I scrambled up the other day to have a look!”

The boy did not seem terribly impressed by this natural marvel. “Well, all right.”

“So, don't you wonder how they got up there? Sea shells, up so high?”

Christian stared at Carlos. “Because God put them there,” he stated, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Christian. It's all a matter of geophysics! This rock used to be under water, and then through the course of time, was shifted upwards. Mr. Lyell has a theory!”

“Do you know him then? This Mr. Lyell?”

“Well, no, but I have his book.”

“He can stay in his book. Come on, we need to get dinner.” Carlos continued walking with Christian towards Academy Bay. The Vigilant had been docked for the last few days in the sheltered harbor on Santa Cruz, and Carlos had enjoyed a very pleasant time observing the abundant local wildlife, including the skittering iguanas; many species of fishing birds like pelicans and herons; sea lions, which appeared deceptively lazy but, as Carlos could attest, were capable of sudden rapid movement on land when threatened; and the amazing giant tortoises, from which the islands were named, and which some said could be centuries old.

“Buenos dias, Carlos!” came a voice. Carlos waved to the regional governor, who was standing among a small group of men and women. Christian grunted in frustration, so Carlos sent him onwards while he stopped to greet the man.

“Buenos dias, Gobernador!” said Carlos, glad of the Spanish his mother had insisted on teaching him. He found his Iberian heritage and Christian name, which caused no end of annoyances back in his native country of Scotland, stood him in good stead with the Ecuadorians who populated the Galapagos islands, as it had with many of the natives they had met on their journey around South America. The captain had soon cottoned onto this as well, and often brought Carlos along when they first docked in a new area. This, Carlos believed, along with his willingness to take on the tasks of the ship’s surgeon, had ingratiated him to the captain, and probably caused his unofficial promotion from a supernumerary gentleman traveler to one of the captain’s trusted confidantes.

The Governor was now indicating one of his companions, who held samples of various butterflies he had collected. Carlos expressed his grateful thanks. The residents had been very generous in pointing out the dwelling places of much local wildlife.

The Governor’s daughter was also present, smiling and batting her eyes at him. Carlos searched his mind for her name. Was it Maria? Well, probably. The captain swore she had developed an affection for Carlos. This was, of course, absurd. He had only been here a few days: he barely knew the girl! But it wasn’t the first time on this voyage the local functionary had thought to bring along a daughter or niece or young second cousin when Carlos had showed up. The captain obviously thought such shenanigans were hilarious, but they only caused Carlos a deep embarrassment.

Carlos, clothes still damp, his hair plastered everywhere, muttered a goodbye to the girl, bowing and kissing her hand. This produced more ridiculous giggling and eye-fluttering. He finally managed to extricate himself, and, quite wet and somewhat red in the face, made for the Vigilant, where preparations were already underway to raise anchor.

“So, I heard you took some time out from scientific pursuits to take a bath today, Doctor,” boomed the captain as he strode into his dining area. He was a large man, but quick and graceful as a dancer. He seemed to Carlos to be as one with his ship, the Vigilant. The brig was ostensibly in Her Majesty's service on a surveying expedition, but Cochrane would never shy away from tangling with pirates. “Hoping to impress Carmelita?”

“Carmelita?”

“The Governor’s daughter!”

“Oh, was that her name?” The captain chuckled. Carlos barely looked up, so intent was he on tuning his viola over the creaks and groans of the gently rocking ship. He attempted to change the subject. “I didn’t think you would have time for a duet,” he said. “If what Christian tells me is true.”

“Christian’s got a big head, and a bigger mouth,” grumbled the captain, who took up his violin. He ran a bow over the strings and winced. “I'm going to have a chat with the boy's father when we're back in port. Bad enough I have a Spaniard on board as my surgeon!”

Carlos raised an eyebrow and repeated the rest of their familiar refrain. “As you know, I am Scottish on my father's side.”

“Even worse. A Scot!”

Carlos smiled wryly. Some months prior, while they were still on land, and Carlos had been considering the position as the Vigilant's resident naturalist, he and the captain had sat around at the local pub, arguing about music, one of the captain's obsessions. There they had unfortunately encountered a gentleman who had defamed Carlos's father. Carlos had been prepared to show the man a rare flash of his temper, but was prevented from doing so when Tom Cochrane instead flattened the bounder with one punch. Their friendship thus sealed, a few short days later Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan bade farewell to friends and family and embarked on the Vigilant.

“So what prize did this escapade bring you, Carlos?” prompted the captain. “I'll warrant it wasn't gold and jewels.”

“No, but I believe I have uncovered a new subspecies of the specimens Mr. Darwin described on his recent voyage. The bills on these finches are distinct from the examples he presented, and I believe represent an independent adaptation.”

“Adaptation? Oh, isn't that fancy.”

“Mr. Darwin is developing a new theory.”

“He's a Wedgwood, ain't he?” said the captain with a wink. “I was briefly enamored of one of their girls! Pretty little thing. Skin pale as bone china.”

“Tom, is there a woman in England you haven't been involved with?”

“Ha! I'm too much of a gentleman to comment.”

“And too little of one to refrain.” They smiled good-naturedly at one another.

“And what of your lovely lady friend, Virtue, is it? Chastity? I saw you picked up a letter in a feminine hand at our last port of call!”

“Temperance,” sighed Carlos, who suddenly pretended to be terribly interested in tuning his viola. There were three Hatrack sisters, daughters of Lord and Lady Hatrack: Patience, Constance, and Temperance. They were reputed to be lovely. And Carlos had the rare misfortune to be engaged to the youngest.

“What's got into you, lad?” asked the Captain, though his voice had softened. “It's a good match.”

“It would be, were she not actually in love with my younger brother.” He looked around, suddenly abashed. He hadn't actually admitted this tidbit to his friend prior to this, and now was regretting his confession.

The captain laughed, and slapped Carlos on the back. “Is that all?”

Carlos coughed. “I thought that was all, yes. Is there not supposed to be also some mutual affection?”

“That will grow in time, son, take my word for it. But now you must tell me what happened in that matter.”

Carlos scratched the back of his neck and now pretended to shuffle through his sheet music. “Prior to our engagement, my brother evidently made some … promises to the young lady. To Miss Temperance. But as his temperament appears to be as fickle as mine is constant, his affection for her was short-lived. Unfortunately, her father is a man of some renown in our community. In order to avoid a scandal, and his displeasure, my family promised … well, the promised me to her.”

Cochrane was hunched over, squinting, as he tended to do when he was trying to work out a puzzle. Carlos suspected the old man's eyes had grown somewhat weak, but he would never consent to wearing spectacles. “Steady, good-looking young medical doctor. You seems a fine prize, Carlos.”

“If you say so.” But he refrained from confessing the rest of his concerns, even to his friend: Miss Temperance Hatrack was lovely. Everyone said so! And so why did Carlos feel nothing for her, other than the faint sting of boredom that always surfaced during their conversations? Not that they had been conversations, but rather Carlos's feigned attentions whilst the young woman rattled on about this or that ridiculous gossip.

He somehow didn't feel the least bit drawn to her. You could mark it down to his resentment over his somewhat carefree brother's abandonment. But to be quite honest, Carlos had never felt such a thing for any young lady. In all the years his brother, nine months younger, had gone from fascination to fascination, conquest to conquest, Carlos had merely watched, and worried that he had been born lacking some particular sentiment.

And so he had absconded: when Tom Cochrane had shown up the next month following the announcement of the engagement, promising his father three years steady employment and an honorable service, Carlos had packed his medical books and fled.

Cochrane had a cake of rosin, and was treating his bow. He drew the bow once again over his violin strings and smiled, obviously pleased with the effect. “Well, enough of this talk. Good none of the men can overhear, they'll think we're old biddies gossiping. Come, let us quit stalling and play the reel.”

His face broke into a smile, and Carlos bent over his viola, and the sound of music, soft and bright, began to emit from the captain's mess.

But they had just begun to relax into the music when there came an insistent knocking on the hatch.

“Enter!” yelled Cochrane. “Who is interrupting my concerto?”

“Schooner. Spotted off the starboard bow,” the mate told him. He was missing a couple of teeth, but his grin was broad. “They're flying a black standard.”

The captain was already on his feet. He carefully tucked his precious violin back in its case. “Surgeon, lay out your knives, and we'll pray we don't need your services. We're on the hunt!” And, rubbing his hands together, he was out the doorway, making for the deck.

Many long hours later, Carlos collapsed into the hammock that had been strung above the large table in the chart room, which doubled as his quarters. He thought he had managed to save the mate's leg with a lot of careful suturing, but now it would be a battle to avoid infection, especially in this part of the world. He cast a glance at the bag of samples he had gleaned from their last port, awaiting his attention, but decided that he needed a quick nap before he could attend to them.

As the ship gently rocked, Carlos recollected the last few hours. When it became apparent the pirate vessel would not surrender without a fight, Cochrane had rapidly turned his ship to the side so his brig's long guns faced them. The canon blasted, raising fire and smoke and that acrid smell. And then there was answering fire, as planks sheared and cracked from the assault of the red-hot cannonballs. It was all shouting and confusion, and blood: so much blood.

They had lost two crew, although the pirates had fared much worse. One of the enemy casualties was on Carlos's account. The man had evidently sneaked aboard the Vigilant when the ships were lashed together, and had made his way belowdecks to the mess room Carlos was using as a surgery. Carlos was concentrating so closely on the matter at hand – he tended to get wrapped up in his work – that he didn't reckon anything was amiss until his surgical assistant – one of the stewards who was getting on in years – emitted a frightened yelp. But the pirate hadn't the time to even raise his blade at Carlos, as the doctor had grabbed one of his surgical knives and, nearly before the thought had reached his conscious mind, thrown it across the narrow room, stabbing the unlucky pirate in the neck. The villain sunk to his knees, and Carlos was back attending to his patient, who had gotten too close to an explosion and had been peppered with bits of sharp shrapnel. Carlos, as has been remarked, occasionally displayed a rather sharp temper.

And then Carlos had barely gotten the last bit of shredded cannonball flung into a bucket when the boatswain, a big guy named Gregg, had limped in, a large section of the deck sticking clean through one thigh. The man had fairly ordered Carlos to just saw off the leg so he could get on with his duties by God, but Carlos would have none of it. A doctor's first job being, after all, to do no harm. He discovered that by the same God’s grace the chunk of torn wood had not broken any bones nor severed any major vessels, and so, with a healthy dose of rum applied to the boatswain and the appendage, Carlos took to stitching up the damage.

The siege did not last long, and at some point during the time Carlos was sewing the mate back together, the other vessel had surrendered to the Vigilant. The stitched-up mate, though muttering something about getting repairs underway, drifted off to sleep or unconsciousness, rum bottle still clutched in his hand, and Carlos, with strict instructions to get the bloodstains from the impaled pirate cleaned up as soon as possible, decided a nap was in order.

Before retiring to his hammock, he removed his stained shirt and washed the caked blood off his hands and arms as best he could. He had pulled a much-folded letter out of his belongings. The envelope was addressed in a feminine script, and it was faintly scented with perfume. He hopped up into his hammock and held it close for a moment. There was no need to take it out of the envelope and read it: he had already pored over the words countless times. He knew its contents by heart. He sighed, refolded it and tucked it into an inside jacket pocket. And then, at last, he nodded off.

Music sounded all around him. Carlos was playing his viola, but not in the captain’s mess. He was out on deck, surrounded by the crew. They were sawing away at fiddles, plucking at Jew’s harps, thumping tambourines, and generally making a great commotion, stomping around, dancing. The music was weirdly intoxicating, like swimming in a beer barrel.

And then the boatswain appeared in front of him. His leg was gone, replaced by a great pegleg. Carlos was annoyed. He'd spent the entire afternoon sewing the fellow back together. The nerve!

And then the boatswain grabbed him by the arm, and they were dancing.

I’m the bosun Gregg
And I lost my gamey leg
Fighting scummy pirates
I lost my gamey leg

I shipped out from Boston … way-yoo!
Shipped out from Boston … wayyyy-yo!
Shipped out from Boston … way-yooo!
Shipped out from Boston, to find my gamey leg!

Carlos pushed the man aside. “I saved your leg. This isn't happening.” He stood, panting, feeling dizzy from the music and being twirled around and around like a toy.

But now it wasn't the crew making merry, it was the pirates. Many faces, laughing and leering at him.

He was caught from behind and whirled again into the dance. It wasn't Gregg. This time he couldn't quite see the person, although he noticed they had light, silvery hair.

Elder God is deep
Lying in his sleep
He lies beneath the ocean
Safe within his keep

I'm shipping out to R'lyeh …
Shipping out to R'lyeh …
Shipping out to R'lyeh …
Shipping out to R'lyeh

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!

“What in hell does that mean?” demanded Carlos. He turned all the way around, but his mysterious dance partner had disappeared. And then the men began to stomp on the deck. Carlos covered his ears. The pounding was intense.

Carlos was startled awake by a rapping at his door. “Wha-a” he muttered, half-falling out of the hammock. He shook his head, disoriented. The ship. He was on the ship. The pirates! He assumed there had been more casualties.

Christian poked his ruddy face in the door. “The cap'n wants you.”

Carlos shrugged and splashed water on his face at the washbasin. He frowned at his reflection in the glass, hair sticking everywhere. He climbed the narrow stairs up towards the deck. He blinked in the starlight. There was a full moon tonight, so he could see off the stern that they had already set up a tow of the captured pirate ship, the Alert. He opened the door and entered the captain's mess, where gathered the Captain, the first mate, and another man he didn't recognize, though he looked to be a sailor.

“Carlos, glad you're here,” said the Captain.

“The doctor looks knackered,” grunted the mate as Carlos rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“He's fine, just been stabbing pirates.”

“I didn't stab him, exactly,” Carlos demurred. “I simply tossed a surgical knife in his direction when he unkindly intruded on my surgical theater.”

“Remind me not to entreat your ire, Carlos,” smiled the Captain. He indicated the stranger. “Now, didn't you tell me you picked up a fair bit of Swedish in your travels?”

“I can manage,” said Carlos modestly. “In addition, I have corresponded with a professor of herpetology at Uppsala Universitet.”

“Well, here is the situation. The pirates were keeping a couple of prisoners from their last raid. One of them is a Mr. Thurston, who, as far as we can make out, is from Boston. The other is Mr. Johansen here, who is of Norwegian origin.” The man perked up, obviously recognizing his name. “And we're trying to work out what has happened.”

“Can't you inquire of Mr. Thurston?”

“Mad as a March Hare,” drawled the mate, circling his index finger around his temple.

“But he's been saying something about an island, and it's not one on our charts. Since that's our primary mission out here when we're not tangling with brigands, we wanted to look into it. But we haven't been able to communicate much with Mr. Johansen.”

“You are from Norway, sir?” Carlos asked in his best Swedish. He winced at the forced sound of his own accent.

“Oslo!” Johansen answered. “Although my ship originated in Valparaiso,” he continued in his native Norwegian. Carlos breathed a sigh of relief that he could follow.

“He sailed out of Chile,” Carlos told the others.

“We had taken on Mr. Thurston in a charter,” Johansen continued. “He told a mad tale about an unknown island. He had some papers that backed it up, but I don't know. I can't read Latin, so I'll leave that to someone else.”

“You said he seemed mad?” asked the captain after Carlos had translated.

“He claimed the island only appears when the stars are in alignment.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, but repeated the claim.

“Isn't that the mad geological theory you've been telling me?” asked the captain.

“Island chains may rise and fall. This is Mr. Lyell's theory. But ... the time course is many eons. Islands do not just pop up at will.” Carlos turned again to Johansen. “Did you make it to the island?”

Johansen became a bit agitated at that, and it took a few attempts for Carlos to get the story out of him. Evidently, Thurston, who was not overwhelmingly well-balanced to begin with, became more and more agitated and out of sorts the closer they came to the coordinates where, he claimed, lay the island. And then of course the ship had run into pirates and, having no guns of their own, ended up slaughtered.

But for some reason when it came to Thurston, the pirates stilled their hands. Taking him and his papers along with Johansen as hostages, they had set Johansen's disabled ship adrift with what crew remained. It appeared to him that they had set a course towards those coordinates when they had been intercepted by the Vigilant.

The first mate was the one who asked the obvious question. “What's the bloody attraction of this damnable island? What treasure lies there?”

Carlos once again addressed Johansen. The man, unfortunately, became yet more agitated, and Carlos had a great deal of trouble interpreting his words. He finally confessed to the captain and mate, “I'm sorry, but I'm not certain I'm understanding him correctly. He keeps saying something about Elder Gods, or Old Ones. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

The captain and mate shared a glance that Carlos could not interpret. The captain walked over to Johansen, extending a hand. “Thank you, Mr. Johansen.” The somewhat confused sailor shook it, and then the captain, grabbing Carlos by his arm, dragged him out of the room. “Mr. Thurston still has his papers. Can I trouble you, Doctor, to take a look at them? A good portion of them are transcribed in Latin, of course, but you being a scholar....”

“Yes, of course,” said Carlos, although he felt a headache coming on. He was still sleep-deprived, and did not relish diving into an assortment of probably old, hand-scribbled Latin documents, but the captain seemed in earnest. They would, no doubt, immediately make way to this mysterious island, whatever the consequences. The ship had been commissioned by Her Majesty's government to embark on a surveying expedition, and Carlos had never yet seen Captain Tom Cochrane shy from his duty.

Carlos nodded glumly and trudged back to his quarters, where were delivered almost immediately many sheaves of crinkled, dusty papers, to the extent that Carlos wondered at Mr. Thurston being allowed to transport them all on not one but two different ships: his chartered vessel, and then the pirate ship.

“And now we are the third vessel,” he sighed, picking up a paper at random. He sent a steward out for a pot of fresh coffee, and then got to reading.

It was many, many hours later before Carlos finally looked up from his research. The papers were the combined work of either towering genius or wretched folly, and Carlos, though his mind was muddled from exertion and lack of sleep, favored the latter. According to the materials from Mr. Thurston's collection, the earth, as Mr. Lyell and Mr. Darwin had proposed, was incredibly ancient. But unlike the positing of the geologist and the naturalist, it had been originally populated not by mere chance, but rather by a race of incredibly powerful beings – gods, really – great and terrible entities who after bringing life and building a lost civilization retired underneath the sea to sleep there until.... Well, it wasn't terribly clear what precisely they were hiding from, nor what they awaited.

It all got to sound like something out of a penny dreadful.

There was only one thing for it.

Carlos rose and, on somewhat unsteady legs (the sea was rough in this vicinity, and the captain had ordered full speed ahead, which caused a great deal of rocking) emerged from his quarters and went to seek out the third mate, who was standing watch.

He found him standing on deck along with a young sailor. They were standing side by side, the mate’s arm wrapped around the teenager’s waist. It wasn’t the first time Carlos had spotted the crew in such a compromising position, so he knew of the protocol. He loudly cleared his throat, giving the mate and the sailor time to disentangle themselves, and all three proceeded to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. Although Captain Cochrane tended to look the other way, the penalty for such shenanigans was severe. Though it was rare men could still be hanged for indecency.

Carlos marched up to the mate and informed him of his plans. He was then escorted by a sailor over to the spirits room, which now quartered their guest.

“Mr. Thurston?” said Carlos. The young sailor was still hovering at his elbow, looking nervous. For some reason, there were no lights on here. He couldn't see Thurston. There was a pile of blankets in a dark corner of the room, piled up like some rare bird had woven together a nest. “Mr. Thurston?” he repeated.

Then, suddenly, the nest was moving. Faster than Carlos could have imagined, it stood up and heaved forward. It was a man with a blanket wrapped around him like a cape, and he was waving a bottle of rum.

“Begone, savage Negro!” he raved. The sailor stepped in front of Carlos, and got beaned on the head for his trouble. Thurston raised his arm at Carlos, who sidestepped, grabbed Thurston by the wrist, and then turned him around, shoving him against the wall.

“Who brought this Negro here! Go away!” Thurston spat.

“I am a Scotsman!” Carlos hollered back. He pulled the bottle from the madman's grasp and tossed it away. “Gather your wits, Mr. Thurston, or I will call the Captain and have you restrained.” He gave Thurston a shove downwards, and, still wrapped up in his blanket, the man slid against the wall to sit on the bare wooden floor.

“Are you all right?” Carlos inquired of the sailor.

The boy was still standing, though he was rubbing his head. “I’ll put that bottle up his arse. We shoulda tossed you over with the bodies, Thurston!”

“I believe I can handle this,” Carlos told him. “Come by my surgery later if your head still grieves you.”

“Ain’t nothing grieves me more than this one,” the young sailor growled, pointing a thumb at Thurston. And then he departed.

“I’ll not speak to you, black bastard!” Thurston muttered at Carlos, who, while keeping a careful watch on him, hunkered down to be at eye level. Before his stint at university, Carlos had spent a year as an apprentice doctor, and had passed some time in an asylum for the insane. The physicians there had noted that what appeared to be a new strain of syphilis was causing mental impairment to some poor souls, sometimes decades after their first infection. It could cause grandiose delusions in the afflicted.

“Mr. Thurston,” said Carlos, keeping his voice low and steady. “I am Dr. MacLachlan. I am a physician.” He decided to only use one, hopefully more comforting and familiar, surname.

Thurston cringed back, eyeing Carlos suspiciously. “You are a doctor of medicine?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Are you from the savage islands?”

Carlos restrained himself from heaving a sigh. As he resembled his mother, he had sometimes evoked similar reactions from people in his homeland, who really should have known better. “No. I am a British citizen. I was born in Scotland.”

“You don’t look Scottish,” Thurston told him.

As this was one of the first coherent comments he had evoked from the man, Carlos did not take offense. “Yes, I left my bagpipes at home, I am afraid. My mother is Catalan.”

“Race mixing!” said Thurston, his eyes gone wide.

“If you consider the Scots a particular race, I suppose you are right,” said Carlos. His knees were getting sore, so he carefully lowered himself down to sit cross-legged in front of Thurston, although he kept at attention. “Now, Mr. Thurston, is it possible that, as a young man, you suffered from any notable afflictions?”

“Afflictions?”

“Er, yes, such as, perhaps, the French Disease?”

Thurston seemed to rear up. “I am an honorable man! I do not engage in your disreputable native orgies.”

“All right. All right.” Carlos decided on a different tack. Discussion of sexual matters was always dicey, even in the mentally stable. And he wasn’t likely to get anywhere with a detailed medical history at this point. At least the man was talking to him. “I have been looking through your papers.”

“My papers,” said Thurston, now peeping out of his blanket. “They took my papers.”

“We have them all. They are all safe, and in our care,” Carlos soothed. He reminded himself, keep your voice steady, and maintain eye contact. Though Thurston’s eyes seemed to be ever saccading left and right, which tended to confirm his preliminary diagnosis of neurosyphilis.

Thurston jerked forward, causing Carlos to take in a breath. But the man made no hostile move. He only said, “Then you know. They will be after you now. As they are after me. They finished off my uncle. He was killed for what he knew. Slain in cold blood by a savage Negro!”

And there was the odd aversion again. “Was he in the islands when this happened?” Carlos prompted.

“No, Boston!”

“Well. All right then.” Carlos’s mind raced, and he tried to shake off his annoyance at Thurston, wondering honestly how much of his current psychomania was due to his mental illness. “Your papers,” he said carefully. “They make many references to the Great Old Ones. I’m not familiar-“

Thurston hurled himself forward. He clutched at Carlos’s arms, his face now inches from him. “They have awoken! The stars are in alignment. He will come. The Great Old One will come! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!”

“What in hell does that mean?” groused Carlos, although the phrase sounded familiar. Something he had read? His head ached, and he wanted to curl up asleep in his hammock, away from all this nonsense about elder gods, and away from raving maniacs.

And then he heard it. They both heard the shout, from far above.

“Land ho!”

“The Galapagos were known to be disappearing islands. That's how I first heard about them,” the captain commented.

“Warn't nothing mystical about it,” grumbled the first mate. “They'd disappear in the fog.”

Carlos glanced over at the island they were currently sailing around, searching for a point to set anchor. So far, there did not appear to be a sheltering harbor, such as they had found back at the Galapagos. Rather, the island was rimmed by sheer cliffs and rocky beaches. Smack in the middle was giant conical mountain, which appeared to be a dormant volcano. This was no surprise: Carlos had long suspected many of the islands in this part of the world had their origin volcanism.

But most intriguingly, someone or something had been to this place long before. Carlos had looked through the glass to assure himself of it. There were stone formations visible here and there around the perimeter, and they were most definitely not natural. Instead, they appeared to be archways, somewhat like the ancient formations Carlos had seen at Stonehenge. Into the stone had been carved queer hieroglyphic markings, but not in any language Carlos recognized.

He didn't feel good about this. He didn't feel good about any of this.

“You may have to take a longboat.”

Carlos whipped around to look at the Captain. This last had been addressed to him. “Excuse me?”

“You may have to take a rowboat to shore, Carlos. Doesn't look like we'll find a place to set anchor.”

Carlos looked back towards the island. “You'd like me to … go ashore?”

“Of course! In fact, I expected you'd be chomping at the bit. New worlds to explore. What's gotten into you?”

“Maybe the boy has eyes,” said the mate.

“Oh, not you too, Horace! Getting superstitious on me, are you?”

Carlos and the first mate exchanged a glance. “I apologize, Captain. I don't have a ready explanation for it. I am first off a man of science … but I get an uneasy feeling from these shores.”

“Pish-posh. You'll take a small crew and scout around. I'm counting on you! Oh, and take that great fool, Thurston, with you. The fresh air will do the scoundrel some good.”

This last did not make Carlos any more enthusiastic about the task at hand.

In the end, it was Carlos, about a dozen crew men, led by the third mate, and accompanied by Thurston and Johansen, the last survivors of the rig that had been heading for the island. Although, but Carlos's reckoning, most of the sailors appeared no more enthusiastic about the landing than he.

The third mate, Bonden, was a steady young man, and before they got into the row boat, Carlos quietly took him aside and agreed on a brief surveying mission. The men were on edge, so Carlos thought it best to keep their time ashore to the minimum, to forestall any misfortune.

The men were uncharacteristically quiet as they stroked the longboat oars towards the rocky beach. Even the often frenetically animated Thurston kept his peace, though Carlos notice he kept his neck craned throughout the voyage, head bobbing left and right like some bizarre, oversized bird.

When the boat at last alit on the beach there was no sound but the lapping tide and the whistle of the wind around the odd stone formations. Bonden pointed upwards and, wordlessly, the crew fell in behind him, slowly scrambling up the sloping scree towards one of the looming stone monuments visible up ahead.

Carlos drew in a breath as they crested the hill, for visible around was not just one stone monument, but a veritable lost city. The remnants of stone structures lay everywhere, tangled in vines, some having been undermined by the invading jungle.

It went on as far as the eye could see. The highest point was perhaps a dozen feet up off the ground.

There was no sound but the wind.

“We'll do this faster if we split into groups,” Bonden said. Carlos reluctantly agreed, and that was how he ended up walking the grounds with another crewman, the now silent Johansen, and Thurston, who had gotten a look to him that Carlos didn't much like.

After about half a mile of walking, they came to a sort of clearing. Carlos wondered if it had been meant as some kind of town square, as the ground showed the remnants of paving stones, but there did not seem to be any buildings. There was only one structure: something that resembled a large, heavy door inside its frame. The lintel was decorated with the hieroglyphics they had seen on other structures, but otherwise there was nothing nearby: no ruins, and nothing to suggest that this door had ever been part of a wall.

“Well, that's passing strange,” said Carlos. He walked all the way around the door, but there was no trace of any other structure. He also noticed something that had bothered him about other buildings there: the geometry just looked off somehow. From some angles the door appeared to be square against the forest floor, but from others, it appeared to be leaning, to as much as a 45 degree angle.

The sailor shrugged and walked up, pulling on the handle. “I don't think that's a good idea,” Carlos ventured. But then to his surprise, and with a great squeaking of the hinges, the door suddenly popped open, sending the sailor off his balance. He fell back. Carlos and Johansen both gathered around, keeping their distance, but peering through the door.

Carlos gasped again. It was the middle of the day, but inside the door, it was pitch dark.

“What the-” Carlos began.

He was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Thurston. Hollering something indecipherable, the man suddenly rushed the door, and before Carlos or Johansen could move, leapt inside....

...and disappeared.

“Thurston!” Carlos shouted. He and Johansen looked desperately at one another, and then Carlos rushed towards the door. Grabbing the doorjamb, he leaned inside and called, “Thurston!'

But somehow he overbalanced. The door, which had been standing straight up just a moment ago, now seemed bent at a weird angle. Carlos grabbed desperately at the door frame, but lost his footing, and with a cry, fell down and down into the darkness.

NEXT

---

Notes on Chapter 1: Francis Wayland Thurston and Gustaf Johansen are characters from Lovecraft's The Call of Cthulhu. Carlos’s experience aboard the Vigilant is the result of a veritable snack mix of influences. The first is the extraordinary real-life voyage of Charles Darwin aboard the HMS Beagle in the early 19th Century. Carlos's friendship with Capt. Cochrane is based on the Aubrey-Maturin novels, which were in turn based on the real life exploits of Captain Thomas Cochrane (born in 1775).

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/142655.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

The Bloop of Cthulhu (Part 2 of 2)

2013-12-15T19:20:33Z

The Bloop of Cthulhu (Part 1 of 2)

2013-12-15T19:16:46Z

Title: The Bloop of Cthulhu
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: Teen
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos
Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations
Word Count: ~11,000
Summary: Carlos goes to investigate the Night Vale Bloop, but returns with more than he bargained for in the form of an adorable little soul-munching Elder God. Meanwhile, Cecil endlessly contemplates the state of their relationship, and several individuals from Carlos’s past drop by for a visit. This is sort of my weird and twisted version of a kid fic, if the kid in question had green tentacles and god-like powers.
Notes: This is complete fluffy nonsense, as befits the holiday season. Avó is Portuguese for Grandmother, and Avô is the word for Grandfather. More notes at the end.

“The Bloop.”

“The Bloop?”

“The Bloop!”

Cecil slouched at Carlos’s kitchen table, scratching at his chipped fingernail polish. He needed a manicure. “Is that the scientific term for it, Carlos? The Bloop?”

“Why, yes, in fact!” The scientist was currently bent over his oven, giving Cecil a rather lovely view of his utterly perfect derrière. Cecil often wondered how someone as ridiculously good-looking as Carlos had managed to live his life with no awareness of just how gorgeous he really was. Carlos straightened and, executing a flawless pirouette, deposited a steaming Pyrex dish to the kitchen table with his potholder-mittened hands.

The potholders were hand-knit, and depicted the alpha-decay of uranium-235 to thorium-231.

“Tuna casserole!” Carlos announced proudly, as if this accomplishment would put him in line for a sort of culinary Nobel Prize for Awesome. He took a whiff and grinned, his glasses slightly askew, a curl of hair dangling over his sweating brow. “I had tried rigatoni, but it kept crawling away.”

Cecil smiled. “That happens a lot here.” He rose and sidled in between the table and the beaming scientist, where he straightened out Carlos’s eyeglasses and carefully tucked the stray lock behind an ear for him. And then he gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “You have lovely eyes,” Cecil told Carlos. As well as lovely everything else, he failed to mention.

“They’re my grandmother’s eyes!” said Carlos.

“Oh. Does she want them back?” Cecil hoped not.

“Here, let me show you!” Carlos grabbed his laptop off the counter, where he had left it running some bootstrap estimations of standard errors, and plonked it down on the table. “My tia just sent me some family photos,” he explained as he took a chair.

“Your family photos?” said Cecil. “You’re showing me your family photos?” This appeared to be a sort of significant relationship milestone, so he insinuated himself into Carlos’s lap to get a good look.

Carlos, one hand curled around Cecil’s waist, the other on the mousepad, brought up a folder labeled Tia Bronislawa. “Here’s my, Avó, Maria Sklodowska.”

“Ah!” said Cecil. She was, not surprisingly, gorgeous, with flaming red hair and pretty pale green eyes. She was dressed in a lab coat, wearing the most unbecoming chunky glasses Cecil had ever seen.

The next photo depicted her along with another scientist. The male of the pair was dark-haired and dark-skinned, and, unsurprisingly, excruciatingly handsome. Both were dressed in lab coats, and both wore the exact same style of reprehensible eyeglasses. They were holding test tubes over the same Bunsen burner. “And here she is with my Avô Omar. He is a poet as well as a scientist.”

“A very good-looking couple,” said Cecil. Despite the attire, the pair looked to be out of the Vogue Presents Nuclear Science issue.

“Here are my other grandparents,” said Carlos, indicating another couple, a man with Asian features and a dark-skinned woman. They were, needless to say, wearing lab coats and eyeglasses of a different but similarly hideous design as his other ancestors.

And they were, needless to say, utterly stunning in appearance.

“And here they all are at my parents’s wedding, all in their finest formal lab coats: it was a special day.”

Carlos’s parents (a jaw-droppingly gorgeous man and a breathtakingly gorgeous woman) were pictured cutting into a cake baked to resemble the human genome. Carlos flipped through a few more images from the ceremony, and Cecil spotted not only from whom Carlos had inherited his spectacular green eyes, but also his gorgeous black, curly hair; his perfect, dark, delicate skin; his amazing high cheekbones; and even that spectacular ass (Great Uncle Nicolai, an inventor, as it turned out was also a total babe).

“And, of course, here I am.” Carlos clicked on a new picture of the smiling parents surrounding a baby carriage. The infant, who looked to be only a few months old, was nevertheless already wearing thick eyeglasses.

Cecil squinted at the image. “I didn’t realize they made lab coats in that size.”

Carlos continued clicking. “Yes, and here I am with my very first particle accelerator.”

Cecil nodded. Carlos was definitely the world’s most adorable baby. “So everyone in your family is a scientist?”

“Oh, yes! I come from a proud line of Cientistas! Several of my forbearers were persecuted for their lack of beliefs. As my Tio Neil always says, “The good thing about science is that it’s true whether you believe it or not!”

Carlos clicked on a particularly adorable picture of his toddler self, snuggled into the arms of his obviously adoring and also spectacularly photogenic parents. They were all standing in front of a perfect sunset. This image, Cecil reckoned, could probably punch a hole in reality through sheer transcendent beauty.

Carlos’s arm had tightened around his waist. “Family. It’s important, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” said Cecil. “So. Are you going after your Bloop?”

“Why, yes!” said Carlos, nudging Cecil off his lap so he could stand up. He grabbed a couple of plates and began to dishing up tuna casserole. “I was going to start at the abandoned missile silo on the edge of town. I’ve heard it’s connected to the underground cavern system.”

Cecil nodded and poured himself another drink. “Yes, the cavern leads to the unknowable darkness beneath. I haven't been there yet as I've heard they still don't have WiFi. Stay clear of the Sheriff’s Secret Police,” he warned.

“They haven’t been a problem since you told me about the warding sigils!” said Carlos, pulling down his shirt to reveal an array of arcane markings now tattooed onto his upper chest. Cecil sighed. Much as he regretted anything that would besmirch Carlos’s perfect skin, somehow the markings only made him even more attractive.

Cecil shook his head. What was he thinking? Groucho Marx glasses and a bucket for a hat would make Carlos more attractive! “Well, be careful.”

“Oh, and I had forgotten to mention, an old acquaintance will be in town this week.”

“Yes?” Cecil wondered if said acquaintance happened to be an old boyfriend, in which case, he’d have one of the NVCR interns research certain arcane charms and spells that caused itching in the nether regions.

“My old mentor at the Miskatonic Institute of Technology, Prof. Angell.”
 
“Prof. Angell,” said Cecil, trying out the name, his mind wandering to whether Carlos might have been intimate with his advisor, in which case he would also have the intern research untraceable poisons. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And why is he visiting?”

“He is on the study section reviewing my new grant proposal!”

“What did you propose?” asked Cecil, impaling the bit tuna casserole with a fork where it had tried to slither away. “I mean, in your grant.”

Carlos put down his fork and leaned nearer. “I’d like to stay in Night Vale for a few more years, and study the many interesting phenomena here. What do you think about that?”

“A few more years?”

“Yes! I think there are many, many more things to investigate here.” He reached out and put a hand on Cecil’s knee.

“St- study?” stammered Cecil, who felt a current from Carlos's touch suddenly jolt up his thigh where it caused a considerable electric storm in the pelvic region.

After that, one thing led to another, as it often did, and that was how Cecil ended up on top of Carlos’s kitchen table, performing acts for which perhaps no kitchen table had ever been designed. Cecil, who was at that point wearing little more than his socks and Carlos's lab coat, moaned and reached out to clutch a fistful of the tablecloth, upsetting a tureen of Swedish meatballs, which, after a bit of protest, suddenly swarmed and fluttered off, as processed meat products were wont to do in Night Vale.

“Carlos,” Cecil managed to croak out. The scientist, who at that point was wearing Cecil's left leg over one shoulder and really nothing else, paused a moment in his ministrations and looked down at Cecil, his glasses askew, black, twisted currents of hair straying over his sweat-dampened brow, while the paper-winged entree buzzed around his head.

He was, in other words, perfect.

Which meant Cecil needed to add a small dash of imperfection to this moment. “Carlos,” he whispered. “I want you to take me.”

“I am, dear,” Carlos grunted.

“I want you to take me to-“

“Cecil!” The voice carried an undercurrent of warning.

“Take me to-“

“CECIL!”

“THE BROWNSTONE SPIRE!” intoned Cecil, his voice suddenly infused with a strange, unearthly echo.

Black storm clouds gathered overhead, lightning struck, and the earth beneath the small desert town trembled.

And in Carlos’s house, the kitchen table, which was never designed to do such things, shuddered and then collapsed to the floor, taking Cecil and Carlos down with it.

“Oops!” said Cecil, pushing away some of the remains of the tuna casserole, which had fallen on his stomach.

“Cecil!” grumbled Carlos, disentangling himself from the tablecloth. “You’ve got to quit doing that!”

“I thought it added zest!” Cecil protested, licking some gravy off of Carlos’s cheek.

“We’ve broken my kitchen table,” sighed Carlos.

“It wasn’t much of a challenge. Maybe we should work on breaking the bed?” grinned Cecil.

Carlos started to say something, but then evidently thought the better of it. “You’re impossible,” he told Cecil, smiling and giving him a hand up. And with that, they retired to Carlos’s bedroom, leaving the remains of the tuna casserole to start its own civilization in the ruins of the table.

“So I have to ask, listeners … when Carlos shows me his baby pictures, what exactly does that mean? Does that mean he’d like to have children? I mean, is he implying that he intends to adopt a child, maybe from one of Night Vale’s unlicensed cloning emporiums, or did he mean that he’d like to raise a family with somebody? I mean, like a baby? What do we know about babies, anyway? I for one find them extremely suspicious in nature. What mysteries lie behind those large, soulful eyes? Why do they always make those odd cooing noises instead of speaking? What are babies hiding? Think about it, alert citizens! Be baby-wary!”

“In other news, the Sheriff’s Secret Police is conducting its periodic raids against the Esoteric Order of Dagon. So remember, if you are a deranged cultist, try not to wear your queerly proportioned tiaras around outside the house, and go easy on the human sacrifices this week.”

And now … the weather!

It's slithering in motion
When an Elder God I see
He sleeps beneath the ocean
Dreaming of hegemony
They blinded me with Cthulhu
They blinded me … with Cthulhu
And alien technology

When performing rituals
Blinding me with Cthulhu! (Cthulhu!)
Smelling foul redolency
Cthulhu!
Cthulhu....

As he was sitting, head bobbing to the pleasant electronica, an intern tapped at the window of Cecil's booth. It was odd, to say the least, as the intern in question was quite visibly not in his death throes, or at least fighting off shadow energy or management tentacles or the like. When Cecil opened the door, he was surprised to find the young man in fact still in the pink of health.

“There are some people here to see you, Cecil.”

“What people? Do I know any people?”

The intern – Wenceslas was his name – shrugged and pointed towards the lobby. There were two people waiting there, a woman whose bright red hair was streaked with grey, and a dark-skinned man. Cecil placed them as perhaps in their sixties, but they were both still strikingly attractive.

“Is that him? Is this Cecil?” asked the man. He had a slight accent Cecil couldn't quite pin down.

“Well of course it's Cecil! Who else could it be?” said the woman, coming over to give Cecil a fond embrace. She too had a slight accent, as well as cheekbones that could cut glass. She pushed back, holding Cecil's chin and clucking her tongue. “Tsk, look at you! You're only skin and bones.”

“Are you eating?” asked the man, who also gave Cecil a hearty hug – in fact, it was so hearty, it took Cecil's breath away. “Is he remembering to eat? You should always remember to eat!”

Cecil, who was still gasping for breath, noticed for the first time that the both of them were wearing lab coats. He peered again at their somehow familiar faces, and suddenly the penny dropped. “Are you...?” His eyes widened in recognition. “Are you Carlos's grandparents?”

“Well of course we're his grandparents!” said the man, taking out a strange, beeping instrument and waving it around the lobby. “I'm Omar, and this is Maria. Wow, some interesting readings here.”

“Hold out your arms, dear,” said Maria, who held up some knitting to Cecil's chest. “I need to measure this periodic table of the elements sweater for size.” She began tutting once again. “I'll need to take out a couple of rows.”

“Aw, don't bother, we'll soon have him fattened up,” declared Omar, who was evidently taking a reading of the ficus plant in the lobby. “Hrmmm,” he said, consulting the dials. “Very interesting readings!”

The doors opened and Carlos burst into the room. He was dirty and sweating and out of breath. He quickly and carefully set down a heavy backpack, and then rushed over to his grandparents. “Avó! Avô! Thank you for meeting me here.”

“Carlos, how are you?” said Maria, as the scientists turned their attention to him, drowning him in hugs and kisses.

“Cecil, these are my grandparents!” Carlos told him, once he had recovered from the onslaught. “Avó Maria and Avô Omar.

“Yes, we've just met,” said Cecil, who was feeling more than slightly confused.

“I'm so glad you could meet them here, just like we arranged,” said Carlos, giving Cecil a terribly odd look.

“Like we arranged?” said Cecil.

“Yes, just like we talked about,” repeated Carlos, who seemed rather more frantic than usual.

“So, is Cecil coming to your Cousin Oppenheimer's wedding?” asked Omar.

“Well, of course he's coming along to Cousin Oppenheimer's wedding,” said Maria.

“You'll need a formal lab coat, you know,” Omar told Cecil. “We don't go in for those modern dressed down weddings. Flip-flops and casual lab coats. Why, in my day-”

“Avô,” said Carlos, who had grabbed Cecil's arm and was marching him outside. “We'll get Cecil a proper lab coat. Now, if you could just stay here a minute,” he told his grandparents, “I need to chat.” Grabbing the backpack, Carlos marched Cecil outside.

“That's all right, I still have some readings to take!” said Omar, who was now waving his buzzing, flashing device at a very confused intern.

“Carlos, what is going on?” Cecil demanded as they stood outside in the parking lot.

“Cousin Oppenheimer,” grumbled Carlos. “What a jerk.”

“Carlos!”

Carlos was still peering inside the station. “My grandparents are visiting, you know, like we talked about?” he said distractedly.

“You never told me you had relatives coming here! You told me your old MiskTech advisor was going to visit.” Cecil glared, wishing for not the first time that scientists communicated like other people.

“Yes. That too,” said Carlos, who still seemed to be off in another world.

Cecil was going to rant more, but found himself distracted. “Carlos, is your backpack … moving?” he asked. Indeed, the pack appeared to be wriggling away.

“There's been a snag,” said Carlos.

“A snag?”

“A snag!” said Carlos, taking up the backpack. He unzipped the flap, and a small creature, about the size of three month old wombat, slithered out. Cecil stared. It looked somewhat like a small green octopus, and somewhat not like a small green octopus.

“Bloop!” said the creature.

Carlos picked it up, and it twined its tentacles around his neck. “I was in the caverns just now, investigating The Bloop. I was in a hurry to get back, because I needed to meet my grandparents. They were attending a conference on rare isotopes, and changed their flight at the last minute so they could stop by and see me. Anyway, this one must have sneaked into my backpack some time when I was down there. But by the time I discovered I had a stowaway, I was already driving back into town.”

“Bloop,” noted the creature, batting somewhat more than half a dozen large black eyes at Cecil.

“Carlos, do you know what this is? You brought back an Elder God!”

“Well, a little one,” said Carlos.

“Bloop bloop,” added the creature.

“You need to get him back to the cavern, Carlos,” said Cecil. “And soon! Before his parents find out and rend the fabric of the universe. They tend to do that when they're upset, you know.”

“I know, but I'm a little busy right now, what with my grandparents here unexpectedly and my faculty advisor on his way.” Carlos grabbed Cecil's wrist, staring at his wristwatch. “In fact, I need to get to the Night Vale Airport soon to pick up Prof. Angell. You'll be all right watching him in the meantime?” he asked, thrusting the creature at Cecil.

“Mrrrph!” said Cecil, as the little Elder God reached out its chubby little tentacles and wrapped itself around his head.

Carlos grinned. “Oh, this will be great, I see you're already getting along just fine!”

“Bloop!” said the creature.

“Carlos!” said Cecil, once he had mostly de-tentacled his mouth.

“Mmm?”

“And you're going to some … some wedding?”

“Yes, Cousin Oppenheimer. Don't worry, we'll go shopping for a formal lab coat.”

“I'm supposed to go with you?” asked Cecil, pulling a tentacle out of his ear to aid in the hearing process.

Carlos looked puzzled, as if he couldn't quite make out a theorem. “Why, yes.”

Cecil stilled his beating heart, and tried to reposition the bloop creature so it was not interfering too badly with his breathing. “As... As your wedding date?” he asked at last, eyes shining.

“Of course,” said Carlos, as if this were the most natural thing in the world instead of a remarkable relationship milestone. He leaned over and gave Cecil a kiss on a tentacle-free expanse of skin on his face, and then rushed back inside, calling, “Thank you, Cecil! I'll be in touch soon.”

“A wedding date,” said Cecil, stars in his eyes. As well as some sticky green protuberances.

“Bloop!” agreed the creature.

Some time after Carlos had tucked his impossibly good-looking relatives and their suitcases full of scientific equipment and fashion-forward lab coats into his hybrid sports coupe and roared off out of the station parking lot, it occurred to Cecil that he had utterly no idea what went into the care and feeding of a juvenile Elder God. And so he headed to Ralphs, sticking Bloop (as he had come to refer to the creature) into the child’s seat of his shopping cart and wending his way through the well-stocked aisles.

He was assaying the comparative merits of Captain Crunch versus Flaky-Os as a breakfast staple (Bloop appeared to prefer the latter, but Cecil was convinced he only wanted the collectible Cat Ballou-themed action figure included free in every box) when he heard a familiar voice bleating in his ear.

“Cecil!” demanded Steve Carlsberg.

Cecil sighed and tossed both cereal boxes into his cart. “What is it now, Steve Carlsberg?” he asked, beginning to wheel his cart in the opposite direction from Night Vale's most irksome presence.

“I need to talk to you about The Esoteric Order of Dagon!” Steve Carlsberg maneuvered around the cart and stood directly in front of it, where he stood, arms defiantly crossed. “This is important! It’s regarding human sacrifice.”

Cecil rolled his eyes, wondering if every unassuming small town community radio host had to put up with such annoyances. “Steve, we can’t just bring the entire town to a halt every time someone wants to slay someone else in order to pledge their eternal fealty to a malicious all-powerful entity.”

“But they’re killing people! While wearing funny hats! Foreign-made funny hats. And that’s just not right.”

"Maybe they don't think the hats are funny?”

"I suspect the government is involved."

It was at this point that Bloop, who had been amusing himself by oozing tentacle goo onto the unlucky cartoon mascots on the cereal boxes, slithered around to face Steve Carlsberg. “Bloop!” he said in greeting, blinking his many large black eyes and wiggling his little tentacles in greeting.

Steve Carlsberg went pale, and then he went whiter still. His eyes gaped, and his jaw dropped. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, and his testicles crept back up his epididymis into his pelvic area. He let out a strangled scream, and then ran off, blithering, down the cereal aisle and out the store, the cars on Route 800 screeching to a halt as he continued to run heedlessly out onto the highway.

“Bloop,” chided Cecil, “did you just drive Steve Carlsberg to madness by showing him the face of infinity?”

“Bloop!” confirmed the young Elder God, in a tone that Cecil, for one, interpreted as, “Yes, and that jerk well deserved it!"

While Cecil shook his head and mischievously gave the creature a small tickle underneath a green, scaly tentacle, he started to feel a humming sensation, as if someone were making a noise just outside his range of hearing. It could mean only one thing.

“Josie!” he said in greeting. The old woman hunched over the shopping cart, peering through a pair of Coke-bottle-thick lenses at Bloop, whilst a duo of her angel companions hovered nearby. It was they, no doubt, who were responsible for the otherworldly humming sensation.

“Oh my stars and garters,” the aged woman exclaimed, directing a pair of palsied hands towards the cute little abomination.

“More stars than garters,” Cecil told her. “They are evidently in alignment.”

“Bloop!” giggled Bloop as Josie picked him up and gave him a bounce or two for good measure. He twined a tentacle around her eyeglasses and tried them on for size, appearing a bit discombobulated that the old woman had a mere two eyes instead of eight. Continuing to hum, the angels bent down and took a gander at the tot.

“And who is the little one?” asked Josie.

“That's Bloop, one of the unknowable Elder Gods. I’m watching him for Carlos,” said Cecil, who managed to extract Josie’s eyeglasses from Bloop’s sticky grasp.

“Isn’t that nice,” said Josie, handing off Bloop to the somewhat nonplussed vermillion-tinted angel to her left. “Carlos is such a lovely boy. And he smells just like fresh sawdust and moonbeams!”

Cecil leaned closer to Josie, eager to make a confession. “Carlos invited me to his cousin’s wedding!” he whispered. He rubbed her glasses on his sleeve, trying to remove the worst of Bloop’s tentacle goo from the lenses.

“Ooo, has he?” asked Josie, her old eyes crinkling. “A wedding date. That’s a big step!”

“A big step,” agreed Cecil, who was happy for the confirmation. Bloop, who had been running an inquisitive tentacle over one of the chalcedony-tinted angel’s broad wings, gave its feathers a yank, and the angel emitted a high-pitched hum that sounded a lot like a celestial version of a girlie scream. The vermillion angel, with a rather amused if still celestially serene expression, tugged Bloop away from his brother angel, and may have emitted an ill-tempered chuckle. Bloop, for his part, waved a tentacle full of shimmering light blue feathers.

Cecil grabbed Bloop back from the angel and attempted to situate him back in the shopping cart. “How are you fixed for baby supplies?” inquired Josie.

“I have nothing, unfortunately,” Cecil lamented. “And my apartment is nowhere near Elder God-proofed!”

“Oh, I can help there, dear. I have a few things up in the attic. I’ll just have my angels transubstantiate them over to you this afternoon!”

The vermillion angel nodded, and bent low to coochie-coo Bloop at approximately where his chin would have been, although the chalcedony angel kept himself back several feet and appeared rather peeved about his injured wing.

“How’s it going?” Cecil balanced his phone between ear and shoulder while (with Bloop’s dubious “help”) he unloaded his groceries. The little abomination had grabbed the Flaky-Os cereal box and was apparently shaking it, looking for his prize.

“Not as well as I had hoped,” said Carlos, his voice hushed. He sounded frazzled. “Between Prof. Angell and my grandparents ... Well, I love my avôs, but they don't seem to get along with him."

“I’m so sorry. Can I help?”

Carlos’s voice went down another notch. He sounded very husky, and also pretty damned sexy. “How is our … little guest?”

Cecil watched as Bloop played with his Cat Ballou action figures, having Kid Shelleen and Tim Strawn both cower in his mighty presence on the kitchen counter. “He’s doing just fine. He’s pretending he has some worshippers right now!”

“Will you be able to look after him for just a while longer?” Carlos whispered. “I don't think I'll be able to get back to the caverns while Prof. Angell on is here."

“Josie is going to send over some baby stuff, so I think we’ll be fine. Don’t worry!”

“Cecil. Thank you. You’re terrific.”

Cecil sighed happily as he put down the phone. Being called “terrific” in Carlos's oaky tones! That was neat!

There was a knock on the door. Cecil opened it to find two visitors, one tall, and one not so tall.

"Josie sent us," said the shorter of the two, the one Cecil didn't recognize. "I'm Kokabiel," he added, sticking out a hand. Unlike the tall vermillion angel, his companion, he was about human-sized, and more or less human-shaped, other than the two sharp horns on his forehead.

Cecil shook his hand. "Are you an angel too?" he asked, hoping he wasn't prying.

Kokabiel looked pained. "Uh, former."

"Oh! A fallen angel?

Kokabiel drew himself up as the vermillion angel hummed with dry amusement. "I prefer the term, de-ascended celestial being if you don't mind."

"My apologies," said Cecil, as Kokabiel had begun to turn a little scarlet with the offense. "I didn't want to be racist!"

This appeared to mollify Kokabiel. "Anyway, my buddy here thought I'd be an expert in terms of the culturally appropriate."

"By all means!" said Cecil. "I'm new to this endeavor."

"A new parent, huh?"

Bloop had by this time slithered over to look curiously at the new arrivals. "Bloop?" He inquired of Kokabiel, reaching out his little tentacles.

"Aw, is this your little hell spawn?" Asked Kokabiel, picking up Bloop and holding him on one hip. "Hey, kiddo! Hey, he looks sorta like a green octopus. And sorta not." There was the squeaking of a wheel as the vermillion angel pushed in a very odd-looking baby carriage.

"I have some DW 40," Cecil offered, giving the carriage a once-over. Oddly enough, it didn't appear to have any right angles at all. It was trapezoidal or something.

"This is just how it manifests on this plane of existence," Kokabiel explained while Bloop eagerly clambered inside. "Non-Euclidean geometry." Cecil peered in at Bloop, who looked both close up and very far away. The little creature eagerly waved its tentacles.

"We also have a non-Euclidean high chair," said Kokabiel as the angel brought it in and then stood posing by it like some feathery Vanna White. Bloop eagerly crawled out of the stroller and tried the chair out for size. Cecil gave it a shake: unsurprisingly, one leg appeared shorter than the others.

"That beings up a question," said Cecil. "What does Bloop eat? I went through Ralphs, but he only seemed interested in the breakfast cereal.” Cecil held up a box of Flaky-Os and gave it a shake.

“Well, the adults feast on the souls of their worshippers of course, but this little guy's fangs probably haven't grown in yet. So, I suppose a little sugary cereal won't kill him.” Kokabiel reached into the box and brought up a handful of tasty toasted corn Flaky-Os, which he popped in his mouth. “Maybe with a nice bowl of yak milk?”

“I’ll have the milkman deliver a bottle,” said Cecil, as the vermillion angel handed him a non-Euclidean sippy cup. “In the meantime, how about some nice mango juice?”

“Bloop!” enthused Bloop.

Parenting was not so hard after all, Cecil reflected.

“Any other questions for now?” asked Kokabiel as the vermillion angel hauled in the last of the oddly-shaped baby furniture.

Cecil thought about Carlos, and the photo of him with the tiny particle accelerator. Obviously, the scientist would want Bloop to learn linear algebra, or perhaps how to speak Klingon. “What about enrichment?”

“We have some books,” said Kokabiel, pulling out a little hardback, My First Necronomicom. “And it’s got plastic pages, so you can wipe off tentacle goo.”

“This is wonderful,” said Cecil, admiring the pictures of the cartoon Elder Gods.

“Say, is that a Playstation?” asked Kokabiel, who was now leaning over Cecil’s entertainment center. The vermillion angel stood over the device and hummed appreciatively.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I bought it to play Ferrante and Teicher: Dynamic Twin Pianos.”

Kokabiel glanced at the vermillion angel, who nodded. “It’s possible we might be able to locate some … educational software, you might say.”

“That sounds wonderful!” said Cecil.

“The City Council has once again issued an advisory for citizens: please, if you are going to engage in kidnapping as a way of fulfilling your orgiastic Elder God-worshipping rituals, they urge you to wait until after 6 pm on weeknights. You're tying up traffic on route 800. And none of us want our commute dampened by the pitiful howls of the victims as you send their eternal souls screaming into the pit. Seriously listeners, a little common courtesy!

“In other news, there has been another of those subterranean earthquakes reported directly under Night Vale. Listeners, words to the wise: if you’re in an earthquake, remember the basic safety precautions: don’t panic. Round up your family members, find your towels and bathrobes, and proceed cautiously through that strange hole that has just appeared in your dining room wall. And don’t forget to leave a plate of cookies out for the Faceless Old Woman!”

Cecil picked up his cell phone on the second ring, grinning as he espied the Caller ID. He hadn't seen much of Carlos since his visitors had come into town, and he missed him. His lips, his perfect hair, his dark eyes … as well as all his other exciting and amusing parts. “Carlos?” He winced. There was a huge crash and the sounds of shouting in the background. “Carlos? Are you all right?”

He heard a light sigh from the other end. “I'm fine, Cecil. My grandparents are conducting some research with gravitational fields.” Cecil heard another loud sound, and then someone shouting, “Ouch! My back!”

“We miss you,” said Cecil, watching as Bloop sat on the floor nearby forming his Tinker Toys into a non-euclidean inter-dimensional portal.

“I miss you too! I'm calling for personal reasons, Cecil. I need another favor!”

“What do you need?” asked Cecil.

Carlos's voice grew somewhat lower and much, much sexier. “Cecil, my grandparents and Prof. Angell aren't getting along.”

“But they're all into science, aren't they?” asked Cecil. He had imagined them all making s'mores in the particle accelerator or some such. Isn't that what scientists did?

“Yes. But it's like trying to solubilize silver chloride in water! They're not even metastable.”

That didn't sound appealing. “I'm sorry.”

“So I've been attempting to keep them separated. That's why I'm asking: do you think you could distract Prof. Angell for an hour or so?”

“We could take him on a tour of Night Vale!” said Cecil, as Bloop slithered up into his lap to show him his newest creation.

“We? Oh, and how is … you know?” asked Carlos.

“Bloop and I are doing well, although we did lose a few interns to the spatial vortex he summoned.”

“He summoned a spatial vortex! My goodness, that is precocious.”

Cecil puffed with pride.

“Cecil, I need to warn you about Prof. Angell. He's a bit.... A bit … set in his ways.”

“That's just fine. We'll show him around town. Let him get to know our friendly little desert community! He'll come to love it, just like we do.”

“Uh…” hedged Carlos. “By the way, this is probably hardly worth mentioning, but there is a small chance, probably plus or minus a very large standard error term, so the alpha term….”

“Carlos!” scolded Cecil. There he went, talking like a scientist again.

“Well, if my grant proposal is not renewed, I wouldn’t be able to stay in Night Vale. I would have to go … elsewhere to conduct my studies. Anyway, Prof. Angell will be there at noon.” Suddenly, there was a great boom, and the sound of something shattering, and a cry of “Carlos! Was there always a ten ton safe in the middle of your floor?”

“I must go,” said Carlos, and before Cecil could reply, the call terminated, and he was left with only the dial tone buzzing in his ear.

“Carlos? Leaving Night Vale?” Cecil asked Bloop.

“Bloop!” said the small Elder God, as if to say, “That would be a significant step backwards in your relationship, wouldn’t it?” He held out a small structure constructed of Tinker Toys to Cecil, who turned it over and over in his hands. “Is this the Brownstone Spire?” asked Cecil, who noticed the toy was throbbing ominously, just like the real Brownstone Spire.

“Bloop!”

“Well, that’s very good. It’s almost noon now. What do you say we get ready to greet Prof. Angell?”

“Cecil!” announced intern Melchior. “You have visitors!”

“More visitors?” asked Cecil, peering inquisitively at Bloop. His life was busy this week! He brought Bloop out to the lobby where he was confronted by about a half dozen men wearing the robes of the Esoteric Order of Dagon. As Cecil walked in, they spotted his small charge and there were “Ooo's” and “Ahhh's.”

One of them, who was wearing a very oddly-shaped tiara (it was elliptical and didn't really fit his head, so it kept falling down into his eyes), came forward. He bowed, which nearly sent the tiara crashing to the floor. “We are the Esoteric Order of Dagon,” he said, a little needlessly, as well, who the hell else would gad about looking like that? “And we are here to offer our souls to the great Elder God!”

“Well, about that...” Cecil began.

“Oh, mighty Elder God!” exclaimed one of the Order, who leapt forward. “Please feast upon my immortal soul!” he added, holding out a hand.

“Rude!” muttered another of the Order, who had been politely standing in line.

Bloop agreeably slithered over and nommed on the man's arm. However, he didn't make much progress in the soul-devouring process, and only managed to cover the man's arm with a sort of greenish goo.

“He doesn't have his adult fangs yet, you see,” explained Cecil. “He can't really chew your souls yet.”

“Oh,” said their leader, pushing up his tiara as it had slid down into his eyes.

“Maybe we could puree our souls?” proposed another of the Order. “So they would be easier on his digestion?” There were murmurs of agreement amongst the eager faithful.

“It might be best to just wait,” said Cecil. The man who had offered himself to Bloop was examining his slime-encrusted arm. “I don't want to upset his stomach. If, er, he actually has one.”

Bloop wriggled back to Cecil, clutching his toy. “You know,” Cecil suggested, “if you’d like to make a supplication, he enjoys Tinker Toys a lot.”

The faithful exchanged many eager glances. Several seized the toys and examined them closely. “Are these made of the desiccated spines of dead creatures?” asked a one.

“Um, I believe you can pick them up at a toy store,” Cecil told them. There were impressed Ooo’s and Ahh’s from the crowd, who now gathered around Bloop, assembling colorful wooden sticks into spokes.

Intern Nicholas had burst into the room, looking eager. “Excuse me, Cecil, but you have a guest.”

“More guests? This is a busy day!”

Intern Nicholas led another man into the lobby. He was hunched over a recording device, speaking into it, all the while peering suspiciously around him. “I have spent many days here in the fetid swamp that is Night Vale, interacting with the horrid, inbred specimens who dwell here.”

“Night Vale isn’t a swamp,” Cecil told him brightly. “It’s an arid, desert environment.”

The man looked up as if startled, and glared at Cecil. “And what are you supposed to be?” he grumbled.

“Supposed to be?” Cecil mused. “Well, that’s one of those existential questions, isn’t it? I always thought if I hadn’t become a radio host, I might be a ditch digger, or perhaps a blade of grass!”

“What?”

“But I am Cecil Palmer, host of Night Vale Community Radio. You are Prof. Angell, I presume?” Cecil extended a hand. (It was his own hand, as he was attempting to be polite.)

“I am,” said Angell, cautiously holding out his own hand.

“Well, you’re in for a treat! We’re going to take you on a tour of our beloved town. Come on, Bloop!”

Bloop eagerly slithered over. He was now proudly wearing a crown fashioned out of Tinker Toys.

“Oh, what do you have there, Bloop?” asked Cecil, picking him up. “That’s very attractive!”

“Bloop!” answered Bloop

“What is this hell creature?” raved Angell.

“We’re calling him Bloop, because we can’t pronounce his proper name.”

“He’s an Elder God!” said one of the Order of Dagon.

“But just a little one,” said another.

“It is unspeakable!” said Angell, holding a hand in front of his face.

“Really?” said the acolyte. “Because we think he looks sort of like a green octopus. But sort of not.”

“Have you gone to the little Elder Gods room, Bloop?” asked Cecil. “I thought we’d take you to a local landmark,” he told Angell as they walked toward the exit. “I was thinking about the clock tower, but since that’s invisible and constantly teleporting, it’s a little difficult to locate sometimes. And there’s also our harborfront recreation center, but, since we haven’t had a flash flood in a while, you might find that disappointing as well.” They crossed the parking lot, heading for Cecil’s minivan. “So I thought I’d take you to-“

“I’ve got you, foul thing!” screamed Steve Carlsberg, who was racing across the parking lot, waving an axe. “You won’t get away from me.”

“Oh, what is it this time?” Cecil sighed.

“DIEEEEE!” wailed Steve Carlsberg, bringing the axe down on Bloop, and efficiently cutting the creature in two.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Prof. Angell.

“Bloop-bloop!” chortled the two separate halves of Bloop. And then, as everyone watched, the two halves knitted themselves together again, somewhat like a reverse mitosis. “BLOOP!” giggled the reconstituted young god.

Steve Carlsberg stood frozen in horror.

“Please excuse me, Professor,” Cecil told Angell. “Steve Carlsberg,” he scolded, “Bloop doesn’t have time to play with you now. We’re going to take a very important guest on a tour of Night Vale!” He knelt down to scoop up Bloop’s Tinker Toy crown, which had gotten clobbered. “Oh, and see what you did to his toy?”

Unfortunately, Steve Carlsberg obtained questionable benefit from this edifying lecture, as he was already screaming and running away.

“The abomination has somehow … reconstituted itself!” Angell was crouched in front of Bloop, whispering into his recording device. “Ack!”

The professor emitted a cry as Bloop snaked out a couple of chubby green tentacles and snatched the recorder from him. “Bloop!” he told the device, which suddenly turned red-hot and began to flash its lights.

“Now, Bloop,” said Cecil. “That’s not a toy. You give that back.”

“Bloop,” said Bloop contritely. He handed the recorder back to Angell, who juggled it in his hands like a hot potato.

Cecil gave over the broken Tinker Toy crown. “Now, let’s get you into your car seat!” He opened the sliding panel on his minivan and began to strap Bloop into the back seat. It wasn’t the easiest thing, as the seat appeared to be caught partially in an alternate dimension, which made doing the straps a bit of a pain.

“Is that … Euclidiean geometry?” asked Angell.

“Yes, according to Kokabiel, it tends to create a dimensional paradox. I’m lucky I got a minivan!”

“Kokabiel?”

“Yes, that’s the fallen angel – I’m sorry, the de-ascended celestial being who’s been helping me out with Bloop.”

“But angels don’t exist!”

“Shhh! I know, they’re not supposed to exist. But they had all this lightly used baby furniture!”

Angell didn’t reply, but instead wiped some of Bloop’s tentacle goo from his recording device with his sleeve and began to mutter into it about degeneracy as Cecil finished strapping Bloop into his car seat.

Cecil finished and rolled the back door closed. “Now! As I was saying, Prof. Angell, we have a special treat for you! We’re going to see … THE BROWNSTONE SPIRE.” Suddenly, Cecil’s voice took on an uncanny echo, and the entire parking trembled.

“Was that an earthquake?” asked Angell, clutching his recorder and suddenly looking around in a panic.

“What? No, we rarely get those. Except for rumblings deep underground where no man dares venture.” Cecil opened the passenger door. “Now, let’s get going! Sunset is always a lovely time to experience … THE BROWNSTONE SPIRE.” This time, the sky darkened, inky black clouds roiled overhead, and lightning crackled, leaving a faint whiff of ozone in the air.

Angell leapt into the passenger seat and swiftly shut the door behind him.

NEXT

A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness (Chapter 5 of 5)

2013-11-24T19:17:56Z

Title: A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos, Telly the Barber, John Peters (you know, the farmer), the City Council, Big Rico, Intern Dana, various characters from Lovecraft
Warnings: AU. Cursing
Word Count: ~30,000
Summary: 1930s-era AU (yes, really). Carlos, an impoverished graduate student attending Miskatonic University, joins an expedition to the Antarctic. But the explorers get more than they bargained for when they stumble upon a weird lost civilization.
Notes: At the end.

Cecil had never flown in an aeroplane before..

On any other occasion, this would have been cause for some celebration. As it turned out, Cecil was the world's best passenger, sitting eagerly in the copilot's seat, asking a raft of intelligent questions, seeming overjoyed just to be up in the air.

Carlos felt a little guilty as his replies were often limited to short, clipped sentences. He wasn't in the best of moods. Although he had made several attempts at wireless contact after the frantic call from Atwood, he had been unable to raise anyone at the Erebus camp.

“So, you've been to Tundra Bluffs?” he finally asked.

“We go regularly for rugby matches.”

“It's dangerous over there, but you got for sports?”

“It's my home team! It's important. Though they cheat.” Cecil narrowed his eyes. Carlos had already learned that the radio host's genial disposition could change in a flash either over mention of Tundra Bluffs, or some man named Steve Carlsberg.

Despite his dark mood, Carlos chuckled. They were nearing the end of the mountain pass. The sun had already faded. “But you've been on this side of the pass before?”

Cecil became contemplative. “When I was younger, I traveled. I journeyed all over the world, and had many adventures. But I have responsibilities now.”

“I'd like to hear about that some time.” The plane emerged from the pass into a stark, wind-swept environment. Carlos immediately banked the aeroplane towards the camp. He was concerned that he hadn't been able to bring along any weaponry, not that it would have done much good against the Old Ones. But Dyer had tossed away his pistol, and evidently firearms were unknown in Night Valhal-La, so he had been unable to arm himself to his satisfaction. All in all, he would have felt better if he had been carrying his father's shotgun, although he had thought to bring along a bagged lunch from Big Rico after seeing its effect on the Shoggoth.

He made a low pass over the camp. There was no movement; not a hint of human habitation. They circled around and flew low once again. It was obvious that the area was in some disarray. And then Cecil quietly pointed downwards, and Carlos felt a chill.

“Stay close to me,” said Carlos after he had landed the plane. He rummaged around in the back and picked up a crowbar.

Cecil sat back in his seat, his eyes going a little out of focus. “They've gone,” he said.

“What?”

Cecil shook his head, blond bangs falling into his eyes. “The Old Ones. They're not here any more. At least, not any living ones.”

Carlos nodded grimly, but grabbed the crowbar anyway. It's weight in his hand gave him some measure of security. The wind had stilled, and the area was silent, blanketed by a dusting of newfallen snow. They made their way to the place Cecil had spotted from the air, near where the party had broken through into the cavern containing the bodies of the Old Ones. Carlos looked out over the red-stained snow, disbelieving what he saw. His mind was not prepared for the horror that lay strewn there around the cavern opening.

“We should- We should give them a decent burial, I guess,” he finally managed to whisper. “After we have a look around.”

“This doesn't seem like them,” said Cecil. “Shoggoths will attack when they are provoked, but the Old Ones are different. Usually they leave us alone.”

Carlos gulped. “I wonder what set them off?”

“Digging up a grave may have done it,” said Cecil. “But I don't know. They get touchy about the strangest things sometimes.” He walked among the bodies, staring intently. “Is this everyone? Can you tell?”

Carlos forced himself to focus on the hideously mangled corpses for a time. He felt ill. “N-no. I don't see Lake, for one. He was the head of the Erebus camp expedition. Nor Atwood.” He looked at Cecil. “Do you think some of them may have survived?”

Cecil didn't reply, but pointed to the snow. The weird five-sided tracks were there, heading off towards the camp. Carlos nodded and, holding his crowbar, followed the tracks. The trail led to one of the biggest tents. “This was Lake's laboratory.” He frowned at Cecil. Something smelled bad inside. Gripping the crowbar, he opened the flap and slipped inside. His eyes slowly adjusted. He sucked in a breath.

There were two bodies in here, if you could call them that. One was, or had been, an Old One. It had been eviscerated, cut into pieces. “I suppose,” Carlos said softly, “Lake finally got the drill working.”

On the other table....

Well, it had once been Lake.

He felt Cecil's hand on his forearm, tugging him out of the room. He brushed the tears from his eyes, and allowed Cecil to lead him back outside.

Cecil pulled Carlos's jacket tighter around his shoulders. Cecil apparently didn't possess a heavy coat of his own, so Carlos had insisted he borrow one, even though Carlos had few possessions here. The fur trim enveloped his head, so Carlos could only really see his eyes peeking out. “Your friend dissected one of them, so they dissected him. I think they would consider this a fair turnabout.”

“One more stop,” whispered Carlos, though he found it hard to choke out the words. He and Cecil walked towards the radio tent. They found Atwood there, or at least what was left of him, though he was in better shape than Lake. Carlos was given proof that firearms did no good against Old Ones, at least if the twisted hunk of metal that used to be Lake's pistol was any indication.

He sat down at the wireless radio. “Erebus camp to base. Erebus camp to base. Over.”

“This is base!” came a voice. “Well, fook me for a joke! Carlos!”

“Pabodie!” said Carlos, cheered to hear his friend. “It's so good to hear your voice. Over.”

“We got a frantic call from Atwood. Then when we didn't hear from them, we feared the worst.”

Carlos began to speak, but then found he had no voice. He sat for a moment, sobbing quietly.

Cecil, gripping Carlos's shoulder, slid the microphone close to himself. “My name is Cecil.”

“Cecil? The real one?”

“Yes, I'm quite real. Though I am grieved to report that evidently, none of the personnel at this camp have survived.”

There was a long pause at the other end. Finally, a single word, “Damn.”

“I have some good news for you too, Mr. Pabodie. We have located your Mr. Gedney. He is safe from harm.”

“Carlos! Is this true?”

“Yes,” Carlos managed to choke out. “Yes, we've found him.”

“Well, how is he? Tell me, lad!”

Cecil and Carlos exchanged a glance. “He was flustered by his adventures,” said Cecil. “But I believe he will make a quick recovery. One of our station’s best employees is looking after him.”

“Can you get him to us?” asked Pabodie.

“Evacuate him?” asked Carlos.

“We've got a ride out, lad,” said Pabodie. “We've contacted an icebreaker. Some Russkies. They'll be here within the week.”

“You're leaving?” asked Carlos.

“We're leaving boy. You need to get out. And bring your friends. There's bad things afoot. Remember the Germans, the ones that brought us here on the airship? They're coming back, and they're bringing lots of company.”

“An invasion?”

“Yes. Word from our Russian friends is they want your city, Cecil.”

“They cannot have Night Valhal-La,” said Cecil. And once again, Carlos felt the room darken as his friend's anger rose.

“Don't worry. We won't let them,” Carlos told him, although he had no idea what they were going to do. “Frank, what the hell would they want with Night Valhal-La?”

“Who knows? The Fuehrer is a madman! He’s just taken Poland, and word is he’s eyeing the rest of Europe, and Africa as well.”

“Africa?”

“Africa, the Orient! He wants the world. Why not the Antarctic regions too?”

“Adolf Hitler is a stroppy little punk with a ghastly mustache,” grumbled Cecil.

Carlos pulled the microphone nearer to him. “Frank, we’ll come back with Gedney. Oh, and I’ll talk to Danforth and Dyer, see if they’ll come as well!”

“Danforth and Dyer escaped? Well, that’s good news. So they must have come after you I’ll take it? I'd been worried sick, you know. Though I kept up with your adventures on Cecil's show.”

“Yes, it’s a long story. But we need to get back before dark, and…. We need to properly dispose of the remains here. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Seems we can’t contact you directly, but if you have news, tell your friend, Cecil. I listen every night!”

“It’s always rewarding to meet a fan,” said Cecil, who was beaming.

Carlos headed first for the tent that contained their cache of equipment, sorting through for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. Cecil was perfectly happy to assist him, although he remained skeptical that any of it would do much good. After they had an assortment of guns and ammunition, plus what they could salvage of the party's journals all loaded on the plane, they turned to more grim matters.

Since the ground was frozen solid, they decided to inter the bodies of Carlos’s fallen comrades in the cavern that had contained the Old Ones, sealing it up when they were done. Carlos marked the area carefully, in case their loved ones should want to disinter the remains at a future time.

As for the remains of the partially dissected Old One, he let it be. As it was inside the tent it had been protected from sunlight and so had reverted to the frozen form they had found.

“Um, I suppose we should say something,” said Carlos as he finished packing snow over the cavern entrance. He had never been terribly religious, so was at a loss.

“These were scientists,” said Cecil. “And they were glorious. They gave their lives to bring order to the chaos, and now have returned to the great void. Did they have an eternal soul, and will that essence live on? I cannot say. But we will celebrate them in Night Valhal-La, for a life well-lived is never wasted. And so may they inspire a show-stopping new song and dance routine from our City Council as our citizens weep and rend their garments, humming along and always remembering as they tap their feet in unison, that it's probably not a great idea digging up an Old One as they’re really grumpy old shits in the morning. Goodbye, Erebus camp. May the deities of your choosing comfort your families back home.”

“But what shall I eat now?” wailed Pym.

Carlos, who had been carrying a shotgun on his person, already had it up and aimed. The journalist had crept up to the grave site so silently he had taken both Cecil and Carlos unawares.

“Good God, Pym! You scared the daylights out of us!” said Carlos, letting the shotgun’s barrel drop.

“Is this one of your scientists?” asked Cecil.

“No, he’s Dyer’s pet journalist. Pym, you haven’t been cannibalizing the corpses, have you? The pantry is still stocked, we just left there.”

“But Atwood had such appealing tenderloin,” moped Pym. “It was a matter of survival!” he added.

“He subsists on human flesh?” asked Cecil, who oddly enough, did not seem much put off by Pym’s peculiar dining habits.

“Apparently,” said Carlos.

“Well, we’ll have to take you back to Night Valhal-La,” Cecil told Pym, taking the man’s elbow. “We have a couple of City Council members who could stand to lose weight.”

Carlos sighed deeply and followed them to the plane.

“You're feeling better, then?”

Gedney grasped the cup of hot chocolate handed him. His hand shook a little bit, but then he relaxed, and took a sip. Dana, who was sitting on the chair arm beside him, patted his back. 'Yeah, a little groggy. But I think I'm all right.” He put his hand up to his nose and took a sniff. “I still smell a little like herring though.”

Dana snorted.

Carlos nodded, greatly relieved. They were all relaxing in what Carlos guessed could be called a sitting room in Cecil's enormous house. Gedney was still looking a little peaked, but seemed immeasurably improved from when Carlos had seen him before. Cecil offered up a plate of little cookies. Gedney waved him off, but Dana snatched one, as did Carlos. Cecil was quite apparently having a wonderful time bustling around playing the perfect host.

“Do you remember anything?” Carlos asked as Cecil set down the silver tray and curled up on the couch beside him.

Gedney gripped his mug tightly. “There was a lot of confusion, chaos, people yelling. Danforth swore he saw something – something big. I thought he was seeing things. He'd gotten a bit twitchy, especially since they'd pulled those … things out of the cavern. But then I saw it too! I was bringing up the rear, and it spooked my dogs. I fell off my sledge, and they ran away, and I couldn't catch up. Then I'm in the middle of a storm, alone, no idea which was to go. I must have gotten turned around. I walked until I couldn't any more, and then I lay down. I figured I was done for. But then I remember waking up some place warm, and I felt safe. And … it was kind of nice.” Gedney’s forehead creased into a frown. “Other than the raw fish, I mean.”

“The Elementary Penguins are reputed to be excellent parents!” said Cecil brightly. “More cookies?”

“Wouldn’t mind something stronger than hot chocolate,” sighed Gedney. Cecil fluttered off the couch and returned with a crystal decanter containing a smoky, amber liquid. He poured a dab into Gedney’s cocoa. Gedney took a sip, choked violently, and then waved a thumbs up.

Dana and Carlos immediately held out their cups of cocoa to Cecil.

“So, you want to go with Pabodie and the Russians, Gedney?”

“Yes, we’re going,” said Dana decisively, as Gedney was still clutching his throat.

“We?” asked Cecil, who suddenly sat forward, head in his hands, batting his eyes.

“Uh, if it’s all right with you, Cecil?” Dana backtracked. “I mean, like I told you, I wanna travel, like you did, and see the world.”

“And…?” Cecil prompted.

Dana and Gedney suddenly shared a sheepish glance.

“Ah, young love!” sighed Cecil. “How could I possibly stand in the way? Especially when I myself have recently found love.” And here he clasped Carlos’s hand and stared at the scientist with complete adoration.

“What?” sputtered Gedney.

“I knew it!” laughed Dana. “All that ranting about his hair.”

“He has lovely hair,” said Cecil.

Carlos felt his face grow hot. “Um, yes, Gedney. I had meant to tell you. And….” He gripped Cecil’s hand. “I’ve decided I’m going to remain here.”

Cecil beamed like he was going to explode with pure happiness. Carlos couldn’t help smiling.

“Is your grandma gonna be OK?” Gedney wondered.

Carlos sighed. “I hope so. You’ll look in on her?” Gedney nodded. “I am concerned about my family back home. But we need to do what needs to be done right here!”

“What exactly are you planning to do, Carlos?” asked Dana.

“We’re all done for,” said Pym. Carlos heaved a sigh as they all looked over to the morbid little man perched on the divan, where they had forgotten all about him. Carlos would have liked to forget all about him permanently. “And then we’ll have to select who shall be sacrificed!” Pym continued, eyeing Carlos’s haunches.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a cookie?” asked Cecil, holding out the silver platter. Pym formed his features into a moue, but nevertheless leaned forward and snatched a macaroon.

“Well, there’s a City Council meeting today.” Carlos put up his hands as both Dana and Cecil began to chuckle. “All right, all right. But I need to at least try.”

“Have you figured out how to phrase your request in the form of a show tune?” giggled Dana.

Cecil looked at Carlos, stars in his eyes. “Dana, you’re brilliant!” he declared.

“I’m not sure about this Cecil.”

Cecil was sitting next to Carlos in the auditorium, waving cheerily as various friends and fans arrived. Gedney was next to them, holding a phonograph on his lap. “This will be a showstopper. Don’t worry your pretty head!”

Carlos self-consciously passed a hand through his hair. It was getting a little long. He half-wished he had let Telly cut it the other day, although he knew it would have driven Cecil to a homicidal rage. Carlos wasn’t the kind of fellow who gave a lot of thought to his looks, but Cecil treated him like some kind matinee idol, and the townspeople here followed suit.

And then the lights lowered, some music played, and an array of robed figures bustled onto the stage. “Any new business?” the City Councilman asked, his gavel poised.

“Yes, I have some new business!” said Carlos. And then before he could be interrupted, he pressed on. “I have some information. This city is going to come under attack by a group of evil men.” The citizens in the audience started to murmur with concern.

“Evil, schmeevil,” said the head of the City Council.

“What does that even mean?” asked Carlos.

“Are any of these evil men over aged sixty-five?” asked one of the Council members. “Because then it would be old business!”

“These men have been storming through Europe, like a Shoggoth!” Carlos declared. The murmuring in the audience grew louder.

“I'm about to bang my gavel at you, Carlos,” the Councilman warned. “You're out of order!”

“You're a troublemaker!” yelled another City Councilperson.

Carlos turned and addressed the audience. “But this is serious! This could end your way of life.”

“I’m warning you, Carlos,” said the head of the City Council just as the lights dimmed and music started.

“At words political, we are critical
That we need to state
Instead of your constant hate
Of our fine estate
You go on complaining and shaming
How ineffective we are
But if our ditty is petty
At least we’ll warn you
How annoying you are….”

The rest of the council stood up and gathered around for a high kick number.

“You should stop
You should really quit it
You should stop
Do we need to spit it?
Your constant mewling has got us brewing a pout

You’re a constant whiner
A big shoe shiner
You’re such a drag
And a crowd displeaser
You’re anchovies
Spread out on our pizza

You’re a total downer, a creepy frowner, a sop
‘Cause Carlos this interrupting’s gotta stop!”

There was a round of polite applause. The City Council paused, breathing hard.

Steeling himself, Carlos approached the stage and stepped up, nudging the City Councilman away from the microphone. He signaled to Gedney, who set up the phonograph. The needle scratched, and then background music began to play.

Hesitantly, Carlos began to sing.

“I’m here to tell the story of a voter
Much plagued by politicians of no note
You guys are pressing your luck
And too much passing the buck
Cause mainly you don’t give a heck
But then my thoughts turn to the primary race….”

Cecil leapt up on stage, to a hearty round of applause, and the two began to dance as Carlos sang.

“We don’t get to kick out a king
Hereditary rulers we’re stuck with for life
But you guys are elected, so it must be true
Then we’ll get to kick out all of you.

Some may think of Elder Gods
Those tentacled folks are here to stay
But I’m telling you guys, listen you’re not Cthulhu
So we’ll get to kick out all of you

We’ll get to kick out every one I see
You all singing four-part harmony
We’ll get to kick out every soul
And have you asses living on the dole

You never let me finish my speech
Democracy you all wanna breech
Wait ‘til my polling place is in view
Then we’ll get to kick
Yeah we’ll get to kick
Yeah we’ll get to kick out all of you!”

He finished by dipping Cecil, to a thunderous standing ovation, and a bit of whistling and cat-calling (though from Carlos’s point of view, that may have been a bit over the top.).

“Listeners, we’re being invaded by cruel men from another country. And it’s fabulous! Are you part of a neighborhood watch program? We have the most stunning helmets for you to wear, and Big Rico’s is sponsoring torches and pitchforks for your rioting convenience!”

“I’m still nervous about this, Cecil,” Carlos confessed when the show was over and he and Cecil stood outside in the parking lot in back of the station.

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re worried,” mooned Cecil, tipping Carlos’s head down so he could kiss him on the forehead.

Carlos bit his lip. “We could get out, you know. Along with Gedney and Dana and Pym. We could just leave here with Frank’s Russians.”

“Russians are lovely people in general, but they do tend to spit on the sidewalk. And they have the annoying habit of threatening people with sharp objects.”

“Is that a no?” Carlos leaned back against Cecil’s jalopy, and Cecil cooperatively snuggled into him.

“As I’ve said, this is my home. And yours.”

“Cecil, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything, my dear,” said Cecil, his eyes bright.

Carlos patted the fender. “Why is it you have the only car in Night Valhal-La, and how the heck have you been getting gas for it.”

Cecil pulled back. “That is a very interesting story!” he declared. “You see-“

But just then, there came the roar of an aeroplane engine, flying low over the city. Carlos grabbed Cecil and threw him to the ground, covering him with his body.

“What is it? Are they here?” asked Cecil. “I’m not really dressed for an invasion: do you think I have time to change?”

Carlos sat up, scanning the sky. “That’s not the Germans, it's our transport plane. Danforth and Dyer! They're back!” He leapt to his feet, holding out a hand to help Cecil.

“That was terribly romantic, shielding me from anti-aircraft fire,” signed Cecil.

“Can you take me to the airfield?” asked Carlos.

“Hop in!” said Cecil, and they were off. Carlos had grown somewhat used to Cecil’s innovative driving style by now, but he was anxious about the well-being of his colleagues.

They drove clear of the city, and approached the flat area where Carlos’s light aircraft was parked. As they hopped out of Cecil’s car, the transport veered and dipped overhead, as if it were having trouble staying right in the air.

“He’s coming in too fast! He’ll never make it!” said Carlos as they stood and stared. The plane dipped, but then looked like it would abort. At the very last moment, it descended and came careening down the improvised runway as Carlos threw himself over Cecil.

The plane finally screeched to a halt just past the flat area, setting into some bushes at the end of the runway.

“Have I mentioned how stimulating I find it when you’re protective?” asked Cecil. Carlos pushed away, as they didn’t have time for such things right now, and ran down towards the plane. Cecil popped into the car and drove down nearer to the end of the field.

“Do you have a crowbar?” Carlos called. But to his surprise, the plane's door wrenched open, and Danforth stumbled out, falling into Carlos’s arms. Carlos pulled him clear of the wreckage, and then crawled through the doorway and into the plane. He emerged a moment later, looking frantic. He rushed over to where Cecil was tending to Danforth, laid out on the runway, looking deranged.

“Danforth, where’s Dyer? What happened to Dyer?”

Danforth blinked at Carlos as if he did not recognize him. “The black pit,” he muttered. “The black pit!”

“What?”

“The windowless solids with five dimensions,” said Danforth as his eyes stared somewhere in the far distance.

“Danforth!” shouted Carlos, shaking the man by the shoulders. “Where is Prof. Dyer?”

Danforth suddenly reached out and yanked Carlos by the collar, nearly strangling him. “The primal white jelly.”

Between Cecil and Carlos, they managed to loosen Danforth’s grip enough to pry him off Carlos. “What’s gotten into him?” Carlos asked Cecil, who was helping Danforth to his feet.

“Probably spotted one of the Proto-Shoggoths. Can make a man a little blinky for a time.”

“A Proto-Shoggoth?”

“Bound to happen, when you’re out poking elder gods with a stick,” sighed Cecil as they placed Danforth in the back seat of his car.

“I suppose we can ship him out with Pabodie,” said Carlos, settling into the car. “It’s too bad we can’t set the Old Ones against the Nazis,” he reflected.

“The mooooon ladder!” moaned Danforth from the back seat.

“The Old Ones have their ways,” said Cecil, turning over the engine. “I wouldn’t try to meddle with them. Well, unless you care to end up like our friend. Though he does seem livelier!”

“Yog-Sothoth!” mumbled Danforth.

“You might have better luck pinning those Germans between the Old Ones and the Shoggoths,” Cecil mused. “That would be colorful indeed!”

“The color of spaaaaace,” said Danforth.

“What did you say, Cecil?” asked Carlos.

“If you stuck the Germans between the Old Ones and-“ Cecil had to stop here, as Carlos had lunged over and kissed him. “Well,” said Cecil when the clench broke.

“Cecil, I love you!” said Carlos. “Let’s get into town.”

“The eyes in the darknessssss,” raved Danforth from the back seat.

“Yes,” said Cecil, who appeared a little stunned himself. “Yes, town.” He ground the car into gear, and they lurched forward.

As it turned out, parting with Pabodie was more difficult than Carlos had imagined.

He had gotten his passengers out to the base camp just in time. The Russian icebreaker was visible in the harbor. The ship, for its part, carried grim news: the German aircraft carrier, the Graf Zeppelin, had been spotted steaming its way south, and should be in range within mere days.

Carlos had dropped off Gedney, Dana, and a still raving mad Danforth, as well as their baggage. As for Pym, nobody had any bloody idea where he was, so at the last minute, Cecil had taken his place in the jump seat. Carlos was glad of this, as Pabodie seemed overjoyed to meet his favorite radio host, just as Cecil was thrilled to meet a fan.

But then it came time for farewells, and a goodbye toast turned into two or three for the old Scotsman, who Carlos suspected had gotten a head start on them anyway. He hugged Carlos with all his might, and then repeated the gesture for Cecil, warning him to take care of his beloved student. Carlos, by that point, had turned into the best student ever in the history of mankind, at least in Pabodie’s mind.

Wiping a tear, Carlos taxied away and, dipping a wing in farewell, departed the base camp. But he and Cecil had one stop on the way back: they were going to land one more time at the ill-fated Erebus camp to pick up something.

“You’re mad, you know,” Cecil told him.

“As mad as Danforth?”

“He’s perfectly sane.”

“How is that?”

“It takes a sane person to lose his senses at the Shoggoths.”

Carlos nodded.

“And now, listeners, a very special message for our guests! Here is Night Valhal-La's most beloved citizen, Carlos the scientist.”

“Thank you, Cecil. Treffen Sie mich auf dem Flugplatz. Ich habe ein besonderes Geschenk, Sie hier begrüßen zu dürfen. Ihr Führer wird sehr glücklich sein.“

“My poor, brave Carlos,” sobbed Cecil.

Carlos put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “We've talked about this Cecil. I need to go alone.”

“But the City Council wanted to sing them a welcoming song!”

“We don't want them to fear any threat,” said Carlos. He and Cecil finished hauling the bulging sack out of Cecil's trunk, depositing it on the airfield. “Now, this is going to start to reek any second. You need to get out of here.”

“Why not me instead of you?”

“Because I speak German, and you speak Modified Sumerian.”

“Curse my inadequate secondary education!” said Cecil. “Are you certain you gave them the right message? I thought you said you were rusty?”

Carlos looked around, uncertain. “I think so. I either invited them to the airfield, or asked them to snuggle with a llama.”

“Carlos!'

Carlos cupped Cecil's face and gave him a kiss. “Cecil, I'm going to be fine. I'm not suicidal! I want to get back to you. You … and that thing you were doing last night.”

Cecil smiled through tears. “You liked that?”

“Oh yeah,” said Carlos, rolling his eyes.

The noise of engines sounded overhead, and several airplanes now darkened the sky.

“They're here,” Carlos told Cecil. “Get back into town and make sure the preparations are in place. This is very important!”

Cecil nodded grimly and got back into his car. Blowing a kiss at Carlos, he drove off, and Carlos stood alone in the middle of the airfield, feeling like a complete chump. Though he was never going to tell Cecil this, it was a stupid plan, and between the Nazis and the Elder Gods, he would more than likely end up getting killed.

He just prayed he would somehow save the town in the process.

The enemy aeroplanes had started to land. Messerschmitts, unless Carlos missed his guess. They were lovely planes: too bad they were being used in the service of evil. Carlos has parked his own light aircraft far from the airfield, and they had towed the wrecked transport away as well. They didn't want to take any chances.

Carlos was the one taking chances right now. He held his hands up as the pilots approached him. “Guten Tag,” he told them, when they had drawn within hearing range.

“Heil Hitler,” said one that he took to be the leader: bright blue eyes and a strong jaw. The master race indeed. He cocked his head, and said in heavily accented but perfect English. “We are fans of your radio program.”

“Oh, thank you.” Carlos squinted at the man's insignias. “Leutnant, is it?”

The man nodded crisply. “You said you bear us a present?” He looked around, and there were sharp nods.

Carlos pointed to the bundle at his feet. He spoke slowly and clearly. “I have two gifts for you. This is the first one. It is the remains of an Elder God. I believe your leader will be pleased to hear of its existence.”

The lieutenant gestured at the package. Noting that he and the other pilots carried sidearms, although none of them were drawn, Carlos crouched down and, being careful to make only slow, deliberate gestures, unwrapped the package.

The horrible stink began to permeate the area as soon as he had opened the outer layer. Some men groaned, and a couple moved away. He finished unwrapping, throwing off the final flap with a small flourish.

The stench was unbelievable. Several of the pilots fell to their knees, and at least one began to vomit. Carlos stood, the lieutenant in charge still stood stock still, staring at Carlos. “This is a fair gift indeed.”

“It is an abomination!” shouted one of the men in German. “It is a foul thing. It should be burned.”

The lieutenant swiveled around, drawing his sidearm. He shot the man in the chest. The pilot crumpled to the ground. “Any other opinions?” he asked. His men, pale and sickened, shook their heads. “This is a great prize, and it shall be returned to our leader. Is that understood?”

He turned back to Carlos. “You said this is the first gift. What is the second?”

Carlos smiled. He heard it already, the soft call of “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!” coming over the hills. The stench had attracted it, as he knew it would. Living or dead, they could not abide the Old Ones.

“That,” he said, pointing up the hill, “is a Shoggoth.”

The men, possibly sensing the danger, as one all turned towards the hill, and the black abomination now hurtling towards them like some freakish version of a steam train.

Carlos was already running in the opposite direction. He heard shots and screams as he leapt into the tunnel Cecil had shown him the day before. He did not let up running. Anywhere he went, Cecil had warned him, a Shoggoth could follow, and now that he had picked up the vile scent of the Old One, it would be on his tail.

He ran up a set of steps two and three at a time, and emerged in the ruins at the very outskirts of Night Valhal-La. Just as he ducked behind a crumbling wall he heard the shot behind him and felt some masonry break just over his shoulder. At least one of the pilots had escaped the Shoggoth and was giving chase. Madness!

Another shot fired. Keeping his head down, he ran up more stairs and crossed an overpass, praying that he kept his sense of direction in the maze-like city. He came to an open space and nearly ran into one of the massive, blind Elementary Penguins wandering obliviously nearby. It was one of their smaller nesting areas. He skidded to a halt, and started to go around the thing.

“Stop right there!”

Carlos froze. Slowly, he turned. It was the lieutenant, aiming the gun right at his heart.

“You knew,” said the lieutenant. “You knew what that monster would do!”

“It's still chasing us. Listen!” said Carlos. Far off in the distance, they could hear the call, “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!” “You can shoot me, but the sound of your gun will only draw it here, and you'll be obliterated.”

“I'll take my chances,” said the lieutenant, aiming his pistol.

A gunshot rang out.

The lieutenant fell, shot right between the eyes.

Carlos gasped and turned. There were several Elementary penguins out here now, fluttering and agitated from the harsh noise.

“Pym,” said Carlos.

“All is lost,” said Pym, waving the gun. “We will have to draw straws.”

“Pym, you madman! The Shoggoth is coming! We have to get out of here.”

Some of the penguins had taken up the Shoggoth's call now, “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”

“I have no choice,” said Pym, now aiming the gun at Carlos and the blind penguins began to swarm around. “Your haunch will provide me with what I need.”

“Pym you idiot, you can't eat me!”

“Why not!”

“Because … because I'm a vegetarian! It's my religion.” And then, as if to prove it, Carlos hopped up and down, and sang, “Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna! Krisna Krisna, Hare Hare!”

Several of the Elementary penguins, hearing the rhythmic chant, began to echo it. “Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna!” The one closest to Pym called out, “Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna!” and kicked the little man over with a massive webbed foot. The gun flew from his hand and went skidding away.

The call of “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!” was growing ever louder. Carlos rushed out of the nesting area, ran along an overpass, and hurried down a set of stairs, falling to his knees at the bottom, panting.

A pale hand was extended towards him.

“Come with me if you want to live,” said Cecil.

Grinning gratefully, Carlos grasped Cecil's hand and ran for his car. “The Shoggoth is coming!” he warned. The call of “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!” echoed behind them.

“There's nothing that can outrun me and my flivver. Get in!”

Carlos leapt into Cecil's car, and with a couple of backfires, they were off, driving as only Cecil could drive. As the Shoggoth's cries grew louder and louder, they zoomed along overpasses, through tunnels, around blind corners, and one at least two occasions, down stone staircases. Carlos didn't see Cecil used the brake even once as he spurred his jalopy ever onwards, only a few meters, it seemed now, from the oncoming Shoggoth.

And then they came to a clearing, just on the outskirts of the main part of the city. There were several townspeople there, all wearing their civil defense helmets. Carlos saw Big Rico, Mrs. Rico, Teddy Williams, Telly the Barber, and Jon Peters (you, know, the farmer), hooded figures, as well as a number of City Councilmen and women.

And they were all lining the streets with chunks of a substance that looked a little like meat and a little like a vegetable. It throbbed weirdly.

Cecil raced his car through a narrow gap in the bait, and then the workers moved to fill the hole with more of the substance.

“Big Rico's lunch special?” asked Carlos.

“He's been cooking for days.” Cecil brought the car to a halt, and they turned around, staring over the back of the seats. “If this doesn't work, then....” Cecil interlaced his hand with Carlos.

“It will work!” said Carlos.

And then there was a roar of “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!” as the Shoggoth hurtled into the clearing, bearing down on the city like an unstoppable freight train. The crowd cried out, and people retreated.

Sitting inside the car, Cecil and Carlos watched in fascination through the back window.

The foul creature slowed, and then abruptly halted right on the perimeter of the piles of Big Rico's lunch special. It formed eyes at the front of it's amorphous bulk, and then a thin tentacle reached out and picked up one of the morsels. It popped one into a mouth-like cavity, and then made a motion that almost looked like chewing.

The creature burped.

And then it reached out more tentacles and snatched up more Big Rico's special. After it had gobbled up a rather large share, it slapped the tentacles on its midsection, emitted another, somewhat louder burp, and, with a satisfied cry of “Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”, began to ooze away.

The townspeople cheered.

“Carlos, we did it!” said Cecil.

Carlos gazed fondly at Cecil. “We should remember to keep Big Rico cooking. The Shoggoth may come back for seconds.” He looked down at this hand, still entwined with Cecil's. “Have I told you how stimulating I find it when you act protective of me?”

Cecil stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, and then leapt on top of him, smothering him with kisses.

The flivver began to rock.

Epilogue

Carlos closed the hatch on his aircraft and and tossed the last of the packages into a canvas sack.

He felt the clasp fall away from his hair, and turned to see Cecil standing behind him, holding it up in accusation.

Carlos's dark, curly hair now fell down past his shoulders. He had kept his promise not to cut it until Cecil gave his permission. As it turned out, Cecil still hadn't given permission. The grinning radio host tangled his long-fingered hands in Carlos's curls and gave him a kiss.

“Why do you insist on keeping your perfect hair all tied up like that?” Cecil asked.

“Because I don't want it tangled in the instruments when I'm flying.”

“Well, all right then.”

Carlos shouldered the bag and they walked to Cecil's car. “Did you get everything from the Wish Book?” Cecil asked eagerly.

“Yes, our friends the Russians delivered the mail.”

“Do you have my package?” Cecil asked.

Carlos fished into the bag and pulled out a small box. Cecil eagerly tore it open. It was a hood ornament. He positioned it at the front of his car. “Oh yes this will be perfect!” He inserted it back in the box and tossed it in the back seat. “And what did you get?” he asked as he fired up the engine.

Carlos had placed the canvas sack in the back, but had kept a rubber band-bound stack of mail for himself. “Post card from Gedney and Dana,” he said, showing Cecil a picture of a large statue of Jesus dominating a hill.

“Oh, they've made it to Rio! Excellent.”

“Dana says they intend to travel north all the way to the pole.”

“Ambitious!”

“And another postcard,” said Carlos, showing a photo of a giant squid. It was unsigned, and the scrawled text read, “The original, the eternal, the undying.”

“Oh, good to hear from Danforth. So how is he getting on these days?” laughed Cecil.

“They've given him the professorship, according to Gedney.”

“But isn't he still mad?”

“Never made much of a difference in academics,” Carlos told him. “Oh and speaking of Pabodie.” He opened a letter to show a photographs. “The War Department built him a new lab. Here's the picture.”

Cecil glanced over at the photograph of Pabodie with an arm thrown around the shoulders of Cecil's cousin Ernesto. “Your cousin likes the job?”

“Well, with Gedney off traveling, he needed someone reliable. They can't tell me what they're doing, as it's top secret.”

“Of course.”

“And here's something from my sister-in-law.”

“Ah, the lovely Beatriz,” said Cecil, reaching for the photograph.

“My nephew,” said Carlos of the photo of a Ernesto and Beatriz and his grandmother holding a baby.

“Our first cousin once removed,” Cecil corrected. “Oh, look at that, he looks just like me!”

“Yes, I notice a family resemblance,” said Carlos with a grin.

“Oh, and speaking of family, I have a photograph for you!” Cecil fished into a vest pocket and pulled out a photo which he passed over to Carlos. It showed two rather large, rather white penguins surrounding an enormous, fluffy yellow chick.

“The egg?” said Carlos. “The egg we planted with the pair of father Elementary Penguins? It hatched?”

“It did rather.”

“Well.” Carlos stared at the photograph. “They all seem happy and healthy.”

“They do.”

Carlos gazed at Cecil for a while. “Makes me wonder what ever happened to Pym.”

Cecil laughed. They drove for a while in silence.

“Cecil?”

“Mmm?”

“You know, you've never told me how you happen to be the only person in Night Valhal-La with a car.”

“Oh! Yes, that's an intriguing story. Did you want to hear?”

Carlos sat back in his seat. “I would like very much to hear!”

“Well!” said Cecil.

The car backfired, and they lurched over a bump, heading on into town.

Notes: Not sure why I've made a habit of composing fics based on Lovecraft's stories, as I really don't care for his writing. “At the Mountains of Madness” is a case in point, as he spends most of the tale telling us what he's not going to tell us. I mean, it was your choice to write horror, dude. Get a clue! Anyways. In case you were wondering, the various City Council songs were based on “Anything Goes,” “You're the Top,” and “I Get a Kick Out of You,” all by Cole Porter. And, yes, the Germans did have an aircraft carrier in World War II, only they never quite finished construction. Pym is of course based on the E.A. Poe character. Lovecraft was reportedly influenced by Poe's short novel, so I originally wanted to include the author as a character. He was, unfortunately, dead by the 1930s, so I popped in his avatar instead. Pym ended up being sort of a one joke character, but it's the thought that counts, right?

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/142335.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness (Chapter 4 of 5)

2013-11-21T00:06:19Z

Title: A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness (Chapter 4 of 5)
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos, Telly the Barber, John Peters (you know, the farmer), the City Council, Big Rico, Intern Dana, various characters from Lovecraft
Warnings: AU. Cursing
Word Count: ~30,000
Summary: 1930s-era AU (yes, really). Carlos, an impoverished graduate student attending Miskatonic University, joins an expedition to the Antarctic. But the explorers get more than they bargained for when they stumble upon a weird lost civilization.
Notes: At the end.

“Thank you for this, Telly.”

“Anything for our scientist,” said the barber, who was standing over Carlos, snip-snip-snipping his sheers through the air in giddy anticipation of pruning the scientist's dark, tangled mane.

“So, that guy with the sour face thinks it's too long?” asked John Peters who, despite being, you know, a farmer, was hanging out in Telly's barber shop, reading the magazines whilst he chewed on a stalk of grass. Sitting in the barber chair, Carlos nodded, causing Telly to jerk his head back into position. “Why don't you tell him to go hang himself?”

“Well, I'd like to, but he's the head of our expedition.” Carlos turned his head again, and Telly turned it back again.

“I thought you were the big boss?”

“Only in Cecil's mind.” Carlos heaved a sigh, gazing sadly into the mirror. Cecil quite obviously thought Carlos hung the moon. It had aggrieved the radio host so much when Carlos told him, honestly, that he needed to rejoin his expedition. Well, it was really the only rational course, wasn’t it? He needed to get back to the camp, and then back to Arkham, and school….

“So … does this mean you're going back?” asked John. Telly suddenly stopped his compulsive snipping.

“Yes. I’m going back,” Carlos told his reflection. He watched in the mirror as his two companions suddenly exchanged intrigued glances.

“You don't suppose-?” said Telly.

“We could ask him!” said John.

“Ask me what?” asked Carlos.

“The Wish Book!” said John as Telly suddenly dumped his scissors leapt for a low shelf. He pulled out a Sears mail order catalog, cradling it like a precious thing.

“You could bring us back our packages!” said Telly. “We've all got orders in from the Wish Book!”

“I ordered a brand new stainless steel pitchfork,” said John. “And some crabtree seeds. I'm a farmer, you know!”

“And I've ordered brand new shears constructed of the purest tungsten!” said Telly. “And whale oil mustache wax.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Carlos. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at the book Telly had unfolded before him. He didn't believe he'd ever seen this particular version of the Sears catalog before: it had an entire section devoted to tasteful eyewear for your camel or dromedary.

He somehow didn't have the heart to tell them that once he left, being an impecunious graduate student, the chances of ever making it back to this part of the world would be slim.

“Oh, it's time for the show,” said John, running to switch on the radio. The radio set crackled to life, and a familiar, comforting voice emerged from the large speaker.

“Terrible news listeners. It's about our town’s favorite newcomer, Carlos.”

Carlos cringed as Telly spread a cloth cape out over him.

“I've just gotten news that dear Carlos – dear, brave, beloved Carlos – is going to get his perfect hair cut!”

“Can we shut that off?” grumbled Telly.

“And not just by any barber, no! But by the treacherous Telly, the vile villain who always cuts hair far, far too short.”

Telly reached for the radio dial while a grinning John swatted his hand aside.

“How will our small town endure this tragedy? I cannot say. I cannot say! But if you do see Carlos – sweet, valiant Carlos – please tell him that we have a friend of his waiting for him at the station.”

Carlos was out of the chair, heading out the building, before Telly could yell at him to give the cape back. John sat back and chuckled.

“Gedney!” said Carlos.

Gedney blinked at Carlos, a confused look in his eyes.

“Intern Dana found him,” said Cecil, indicating the bright-eyed, dark-skinned young woman standing nearby.

Carlos embraced Gedney, pounding his back. “We're very grateful to you, Dana.”

Gedney emitted a sort of sound halfway between a squawk and a purr.

Dana smiled. “Found him in a penguin nesting area. You guys gave me the idea.”

“But we were just there the other day,” said Carlos.

“There are several smaller nesting areas near the edge of town,” Dana explained.

“He'll probably be a tiny bit shell-shocked for a while,” said Cecil as Gedney picked up a raw fish and downed it in one gulp.

“Um, yes,” said Carlos.

Dana was smiling at him. “He's kind of cute. My family could take him in for a few days. Get him eating cooked food again. I mean, I assume that’s what he liked, before?”

Carlos nodded, and Cecil said, “Thanks, Dana.” She led Gedney, waddling and flapping his hands, out of the room.

“Thank you, Cecil. I can't express how grateful we are – I am – for this.”

Cecil shrugged. He wasn't meeting Carlos's eyes. “You're going to hunt a Shoggoth,” he said, his voice strangely flat and emotionless.

“It's not a hunt, Cecil. We're not even bringing guns! Prof. Dyer simply wants to find a preserved specimen. Like Lake did with the Old Ones.”

“Guns wouldn't do you any good. Shoggoths don't die.”

Carlos shuddered. Somehow, he knew the radio host was speaking the truth. “Cecil, people back at the camp are in danger. My friends!”

Cecil finally looked up, his voice barely audible. “Please don't go.” He made to leave the room.

Carlos stood in his way. “Do you know anything that can help? Do the Shoggoths have any weaknesses? Anything at all?”

“Nothing.” Cecil sighed and pushed past Carlos.

“It was good knowing you, Cecil. You're- You're a good person. I wish-” But Carlos couldn't make himself go on. “Goodbye, Cecil.” He forced himself to turn to leave.

“The face.”

“What?” Carlos turned around.

Cecll's eyes were red-rimmed. “The face. If you can stand looking at it: it's supposed to drive men mad, but you may be.... You may be different. But the face is more sensitive. So they say. Though God knows who 'they' are, and why they're spending their time meddling in our affairs.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Cecil’s voice was soft: he appeared to be speaking more to himself than to Carlos. “And they’re telepaths. They’re sensitive to radio waves. That’s how the old ones controlled them. Though obviously it didn’t work terribly well in the end.”

Carlos gripped Cecil's shoulders. “Cecil. Thank you. I- I will see you again. Soon!” Cecil shuddered, and Carlos found he wanted nothing more than to take the frightened radio host into his arms. However, with an effort, Carlos removed his hands and strode out of the station, trying to effect a confidence he in no way actually felt.

The Shoggoths were reputed to dwell in the highest, most remote part of the city, alongside the mountain range. Big Rico had drawn a map for him, since Carlos hadn't the heart to ask Cecil about it. The restaurateur had warned them strongly that the area was dangerous. His wife had prepared them some kind of sandwiches for the trip. Since the bag was moving, making a sort of throbbing motion, Carlos hadn't bothered to open it, but merely stuffed it in his pack with the map and a thank you.

Despite what he had told Cecil, he also tucked his pistol into his pack.

And so they set forth, the three of them, Prof. Dyer taking the lead. Danforth, who barely spoke, followed along, and Carlos was at the back. They stopped a couple of times on the way so Danforth could make a rubbing of a particularly interesting hieroglyphic picture or two, although Carlos suspected the graduate student was simply trying to delay the inevitable a little longer.

Carlos pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. It was actually getting cold up here, as they gained in altitude after ascending a number of stone staircases and ramps. Only the centermost part of Night Valhal-La was still occupied – by humans, that is – so as they drew near to the building they were seeking on the outskirts, the structures became much worse for wear. They ended up frankly scrambling up piles of rubble, Carlos and Danforth stopping from time to time to help the now lagging Dyer, who firmly insisted on coming along all the way to the end.

“So what is your relationship to this Cecil person?” asked Dyer when they had stopped for a moment’s rest.

Carlos was taking a drink of water from his canteen. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Cecil has been a guide for me in this place. As have several of the other citizens.”

“Citizens? Balderdash. They’ve all gone mad.”

“All of them? But Cecil-“

Dyer snorted in derision. “Haven't you figured it out yet, Carlos? Cecil is obviously a radio operator from some expedition that lost its way.”

Carlos was silent for a moment. Was Dyer implying what he thought? He caught Danforth’s eye. The graduate student shrugged, as if he had heard Dyer’s speculations before. “So you’re saying, all of the citizens of Night Valhal-La-“

“It’s no great mystery Carlos. Think! Be rational, instead of carried away. Consider how many lost expeditions have tried to conquer this part of the world.”

Carlos could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could a man of science ignore the evidence in front of him? “You think these people are all lost explorers? Every single one?”

“Stands to reason. A frigate gets trapped in the ice, so the crew has to spend a winter down here, and sends a party or two overland….”

“Dyer, that can’t be the entire explanation. There are children here. And schools! And even a local government, though the effectiveness is questionable.” Carlos smiled slightly, remembering his frustration with the tap-dancing City Council.

“Isn’t that usually the case?” muttered Danforth.

“Nonsense. It all has a rational explanation!” Dyer insisted.

“It most certainly does. But is it the one you’ve apparently settled upon?” Carlos felt his cheeks were flushed, but not from exertion, nor the altitude. In the corner of his eye he could see Danforth looking back and forth between them, nervous as a puppy.

Dyer rose to his feet, looking Carlos up and down. “You surprise me,” he said. He turned and pointed up the hill. “If I am not mistaken, that is our goal, is it not?”

Both Carlos and Danforth directed their gazes up the mountain. Indeed, there stood the structure Big Rico had described, a weird, five-sided façade that abutted the hillside. This was the mouth of a great tunnel that led deep into the very center of the great mountain range.

The entrance to the building had partially collapsed, so they edged, one by one, over the crumbling piles of masonry and slipped inside, igniting their flashlights. They heard the sound of water dripping. Carlos cast his light around. The structure was in bad shape, as portions of the ceiling had caved in along the way.

“What's that smell?” asked Danforth. Indeed, it smelled rank inside: as bad as the Old One, rotting in the sun, but with something foul added even to that. A broken egg left in the pantry.

“Sulphur,” said Carlos.

“I wouldn't wonder if there's volcanic activity nearby,” said Dyer.

“Great, that’s just what we need,” grumbled Danforth. “Boiling lava.”

“Buck up, Danforth,” said Dyer. “Come on.” And without waiting for a reply, Dyer turned and proceeded down the dark, fetid tunnel.

Danforth crinkled his nose in disgust, but Carlos nodded to him, and they followed Dyer. The air grew increasingly rank as they drove deeper and deeper into the mountain. Danforth pulled his scarf over his nose to keep out the stink, but still his eyes watered.

“Wait!” said Carlos after both Danforth and Dyer had gone ahead. They returned to his side to stare at something he’d found on the floor. He spread his hand over what was an impossibly large, five-pointed footprint.

“And Old One!” said Danforth immediately. “An Old One was walking here.”

“Hold on to your senses, Danforth,” Dyer scolded.

Carlos was squinting at the ground, trying to keep his hand from trembling. “It’s like the prints I found back at the camp.”

“What prints?” asked Danforth.

“Just before I left. After Lake’s samples had been stolen, or blown away.”

Danforth hunkered down next to him. “You think they walked away, don’t you?” he whispered.

Dyer was clucking his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Those specimens were dead!”

“As my friend Cecil puts it, how could you ever tell?” asked Carlos. He aimed his flashlight back down the tunnel, towards the entrance. “This entrance is near to the mountain pass.”

“If they had walked over the pass,” said Danforth.

Dyer put his hands on his hips and harrumphed. “I wish the two of you could hear yourselves. You sound like raving ninnies! There hasn’t been a live Old One around these parts in many millennia. They’re extinct. Like the Shoggoths.”

“Raving ninny or not, I’m through with this, Dyer,” said Danforth, who stood up to face him. “It’s too dangerous! I’m going back.”

“Danforth, quit raving and come along.” Once again, Danforth looked to Carlos, who was still contemplating the footprint. Carlos rose and, nodding to Danforth, continued along down the tunnel, but his thoughts strayed to the gun he carried in his bag. Something felt dangerous about the particular strain of madness Dyer was showing.

Danforth was the next to call them to a halt. He had been pausing now and again to contemplate the hieroglyphic marks the Old Ones had carved along the tunnel. These markings couldn’t properly be called hieroglyphics, as they were too detailed, and looked more like cartoons. But this one was especially lurid: it showed several Old Ones lying on the floor. It took a moment to realize it what with their strange body composition, but all of them had been decapitated in a most ghoulish manner. He directed his light towards the very corner of the picture. There was something freakish and massive moving off.

“A Shoggoth?” asked Carlos.

“That would be my guess,” said Dyer, who, of the three of them, seemed almost giddy at the prospect. He walked on.

“Might as well get this over with,” Danforth muttered to Carlos. He tightened his scarf around his face and then strode off, walking abreast with his mentor. They disappeared around a blind corner. That’s when Carlos, who was lingering at the wall, heard the cry. He ran around the corner, bumping into Danforth, who pushed him out of the way and then collapsed along the wall, sinking to his knees and vomiting up seemingly everything he had eaten for the past week.

Carlos turned to see Dyer. The stink was terrible here. But that wasn’t why Danforth was ill: there were two corpses here. Old Ones. Their star-shaped, tentacle heads had been torn clean off their bodies, and they both lay in a pool of clotted black blood.

“What happened to them?” asked Carlos, although he felt he knew the answer.

“We’re close now,” said Dyer. “So close.”

“Too close,” rasped Danforth, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Those were alive, Dyer. Alive!”

“Yes,” said Dyer, his eyes shining.

“That’s it. I’m going.”

“No you’re not,” warned Dyer.

“I’m done, Dyer. You can do what you like, but I’m going back.”

“You’re doing no such thing,” said Dyer, pointing a gun at him. Danforth, his face a mask of disbelief, raised his hands.

Carlos felt in his bag: his pistol was gone.

“Wait until my father hears about this!” said Danforth.

“Your father can go hang himself.” Dyer waved the gun, and Danforth, glaring, walked into the tunnel. Dyer turned to point the gun at Carlos.

“Dyer. Think about what you’re doing,” Carlos said softly.

“I’ve thought about it long enough. You don’t know how long I’ve thought it over, boy. We’ll be famous! All of us. Imagine! You might even earn a professorship. You, a poor boy.”

“Dyer-“

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” The cry was soft, like an infant sobbing. Dyer and Carlos both jerked around to stare down the tunnel. Barely visible at the end was something softly luminescent approaching. It was like a bubbling mass, filling the entire span of the tunnel.

Danforth, ahead of them, stood, utterly frozen in the beams of their flashlights.

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” came the mocking voice, its timbre unknown to any earth creature. The dark thing drew nearer.

Dyer, his eyes suddenly filled with tears, pointed the gun, and fired a shot. The thing did not falter. He fired another shot, and another and another, emptying the gun, which he flung down the tunnel.

And then he was running away, as fast as his old legs could carry him.

Carlos, who had somewhat recovered his senses, yelled, “Danforth!” and turned to run as well. He started to run after Dyer, but hearing no footsteps behind him, stopped to look back.

And inky black tentacle glistened in the darkness, reaching out for Danforth.

“Danforth, look out!”

But Danforth stood, insensible, while the hideous protuberance snaked out and entwined around his waist. It chanted, “Tekeli-li, tekeli-li!”

Danforth was jerked off his feet, finally, too late coming to his senses, screaming in terror. Carlos knelt down and frantically dug in his pack, looking for something – anything – he could use as a weapon. He drew out the paper bag with Big Rico’s odd, throbbing sandwiches. With a cry of disgust he tossed it down the tunnel, rummaging for a knife.

The Shoggoth froze. It threaded a tentacle out towards the bag, humming all the time, the intonation almost like a question, “Tekeli-li, Tekeli-li?”

The bag fell open, and the tentacle withdrew as if it had received a shock. While Danforth hung from one tentacle, still sobbing for help, a couple of sandwiches undulated out of the bag and stood, pulsating, on the floor of the cave.

And then a very weird thing happened: the part of the Shoggoth nearest the sandwich started to shape itself into something resembling a hideous copy of a human face, with an array of glistening green eyes surrounding a protuberance that was like a desecrated version of a nose.

The relentless chant quite suddenly fell away, and was replaced by something that resembled radio static.

And then, as Carlos would swear to the end of his life, he perceived a familiar voice. “Carlos! The face!”

Carlos suddenly brought to mind the improbable tale of a swimmer caught in the jaws of a shark. He balled up his fists, rushed to the Shoggoth, which now appeared to be delicately sniffing at the sandwiches, and offered it a firm smack in the “nose.” To his utter shock and delight, the thing suddenly seemed knocked out of its senses. It fell back, its “face” area suddenly disorganized, and it dropped Danforth.

Wasting no time Carlos rushed to Danforth’s side. Gripping him around the waist, he half carried him away, running as fast as he could along the tunnel. “Come on! Come on!” They raced down the tunnel as if the devil himself was after them, which was not too far from the truth, and after what seemed like hours threw themselves up on the pile of shattered masonry that marked the tunnel entrance.

Dyer was outside, looking half crazed, panting and red-faced.

Danforth dove at him, tackling him to the ground. “You fucking asshole!” he shrieked, hitting him again and again and again in the face.

Carlos, with some effort, pulled Danforth off Dyer. “Both of you! We’ve got to get out of here, now!” He gave Danforth a shove down the hill, and then helped a now bleeding Dyer lurch to his feet.

“I had no idea,” muttered Dyer. “No idea.”

“You’re a shit head!” yelled Danforth. “I’m telling my father!”

“Danforth,” said Carlos. “Fuck you, and fuck your rich father. Now get out of here, or I’ll throw you to the Shoggoth.” He turned. “You too, Dyer.” And so, the bedraggled party limped its way back into town.

Carlos perched on the trunk of Cecil's jalopy out in the radio station parking lot. He was still wearing his fur coat. He peered up into the night sky. It was so different down here, the familiar constellations turned on their heads.

“Carlos?” Cecil was standing beside him. He had come up so quietly. “They said you wanted to see me.”

“I do.” Carlos stared at him. Cecil looked relieved, but quite tired, as if the events of the past day had somehow aged him.

Cecil tentatively moved closer. His voice, usually so sonorous, had a small quaver. “What is it now? Is there some new threat? Shoggoths? Old Ones?”

“Cecil.” Carlos paused, weighing how to put it all into words. At last, he simply said, “I can't stop thinking about you.”

Cecil was stunned into silence. For the first time Carlos could remember, he actually looked surprised. The radio host drew nearer, his eyes fixed to the ground, almost shy. “Is- Is that a good thing?”

Carlos reached out and yanked at Cecil's tie, tugging him close, so he stood between Carlos's thighs. “It's a very good thing,” he whispered. Still gripping the tie, he leaned forward and gave Cecil a very brief kiss.

Cecil batted his eyes and then smiled, his entire face lighting up in the soft moonlight, a beam of pure joy. He leaned in, resting his forehead on Carlos's, hands placed on the tops of scientist's thighs. He sighed, as if the weight of the world was off his shoulders. “I'm so happy you're safe.”

“I thought I might die, and I would never get to tell you…. I would never get to tell you everything.” Carlos gently cupped Cecil's face and kissed him again. Cecil relaxed into him, and they stayed like that for a while, pressed together, just kissing, enjoying the exquisite proximity.

Carlos thought he could spend the whole evening this way, with Cecil in his arms, but then Cecil pulled away. “Come with me,” he said, taking Carlos’s hand. They got in the car, and drove up to an area of town Carlos didn’t remember visiting before.

“Where is this?” he asked.

“This is an older part of the city. My home,” said Cecil. They stopped in front of a most extraordinary structure. It was five-sided, as was nearly everything in the city. But the architecture here was noticeably different than the other parts of town. In some respects, it looked finer and more delicately wrought, as if the designers had given everything a measure of extra care. As the car circled around, Carlos noticed that each particular side was distinctive, as if it had been the produce of five different architects.

They entered through a heavy wooden door that was carved with arcane sigils, and arrived in a high-ceilinged entryway. Carlos gasped and turned all the way around. This room was larger than his grandmother’s entire apartment. Cecil took Carlos’s heavy coat and hung it on a hook, and then lead him into an even grander room. Carlos frankly gaped. There were oddities aplenty here: strange skulls up on shelves, and odd animal pelts hanging on the walls, as well as lovely vases, delicate statues, and all manner of precious stones.

“This is your home?” asked Carlos.

“My family’s home,” Cecil answered modestly. “And yours now. If you want it to be.”

Carlos grinned as Cecil led him through one amazing room after the other, up a spiral staircase and around a gently sloping ramp, finally arriving at what Carlos presumed was his bed chamber, as it was dominated by a large, four-poster bed. Cecil began removing his jacket, and Carlos moved in to help him along, tossing away his jacket and vest, and then unfastening his shirt buttons. He saw that the odd markings visible on Cecil's wrists traced all the way up his arms, across his back, and over his upper chest, although his abdomen below his ribs was bare. Carlos directed his attentions towards this area of bare skin now, tugging at Cecil's belt.

Cecil suddenly backed him up and gave him a little push, sending Carlos back onto the bed. Cecil leapt up and straddled him before he could get up. “No. No belt until you take some of your own clothes off,” he told Carlos, struggling with his shirt.

“Oh, uh,” said Carlos, who blushed slightly when Cecil got the shirt unbuttoned and pulled it open.

“Oh good God, are you wearing long underwear?”

“It was cold! We're in the Antarctic!” Carlos reasoned.

Cecil glared, and then peeled off the undershirt, balling it up and tossing it away with contempt. “We'll get you something more appropriate. Silk!”

“Silk? I'll freeze my balls off. And believe me, you won't like that!”

Cecil had scrambled down to unlace Carlos's heavy boots. He tugged one off and ended up falling on his ass. Carlos, despite himself, started laughing.

“And we'll get you slippers,” grumbled Cecil, tossing away the boot and grabbing the other one. He crawled back up on top of Carlos and they began kissing again.

“This place,” muttered Carlos. “It's really beautiful.”

“You're beautiful. Beautiful and perfect.” Cecil had started to kiss his way don't Carlos's chest.

“I've never been accused of that before.”

“I knew you were coming. I had known for such a long time! But the moment I saw you, I fell in love. I couldn't help it.”

“How did you know I was coming?”

Cecil shrugged. “I know things, sometimes.” He sat up again, straddling Carlos, putting his hands through Carlos's thick black hair. “Thank god that monster Telly didn't get to your hair!”

“You like it this way?”

“Oh yes!” said Cecil, getting his fingers further tangled in Carlos's hair.

“I promise I'll never cut it then,” Carlos whispered.

Cecil came in for another kiss. “Let's get the rest of this ridiculous underwear off, shall we?” he said.

Carlos readily agreed. He pants had begun to feel damnably tight. It was a relief to slip them off. Then, finally, Cecil let Carlos unfasten his belt. And there were no more clothes between them, and Cecil was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen, pale and perfect, and he had never wanted anyone quite so badly.

Just before he once again he climbed on top of Carlos, Cecil asked, “Have you done this before?”

“No. Not with you.” Because really, that was all that mattered. When Cecil began to ride him it was slowly, almost excruciating. Carlos grabbed Cecil's hips tightly, pulling him down, loving to watch Cecil come undone like that, throwing his head back, pupils blown large, a great void in the middle of those uncanny violet irises. It was tender and violent at the same time, this desire that filled his heart.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together for a while, both just breathing in and out.

Cecil shifted on Carlos's chest. “Tell me about your parents.”

“My parents?”

“I need to know everything about you. Every scrap. Starting from the instant you were born.”

Carlos chuckled, his chest vibrating. “I don't think I remember that far back.” But Cecil pouted so he said, “My parents are dead now. My father worked in a factory that made aeroplanes. He sometimes flew on rescue missions. He taught me how to fly. He taught me everything. And one day, he went out, but he didn't come back.”

“I'm sorry.”

“My mother – she was never well. Not that I can remember. She died soon after. Or it seemed like soon after. So I went to live with Abuelita.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“No. I have a cousin, though. He's like a brother. He's stuck up and annoying. Just like a brother. Here!” Cecil let out a disappointed little grunt when Carlos got up off the bed. He grabbed his eyeglasses, then fumbled with his pants and brought back a wallet. “Here,” he said, fishing out a photo. “Abuelita and me. That's Ernesto, and his girlfriend, Beatriz.”

“Oh. So pretty!” said Cecil.

“She's going to have a baby.”

“First cousin, once removed,” said Cecil.

“I suppose I'll call him my nephew.”

“Our first nephew,” doted Cecil. “You know it's a boy?”

“Abuelita knows. Sometimes she knows things. Like you I guess.” Cecil squirmed, finding the most comfortable position on Carlos's chest. “You said you knew I was coming?”

Cecil pulled Carlos's glasses off and tried them on for size. “Why can't you believe that? You believe in electrons, but you can't see them.”

“But you thought I was going to leave,” said Carlos, kissing the top of Cecil's head.

“Yes.”

“You would have let me go?”

“I can't keep you here. Not if you don't want to be here.” Cecil tilted his head back to look Carlos in the eye, staring over Carlos's eyeglasses. “But I would have always loved you.”

Carlos smiled. He pulled Cecil towards him and kissed him.

Cecil's handed Carlos's glasses back to him, and his fingers strayed over to Carlos's shoulder. “This is beautiful too.”

Carlos glanced down. He had forgotten about the tattoo. “Oh! That was stupid. Pabodie made us do it when we crossed the equator.”

“But why did you choose this one?” asked Cecil, following a tentacle where it spilled off the shoulder and strayed onto the top of Carlos's chest.

“The kraken? I don't really know. They're lovely and mysterious. I was somehow drawn to it, to the image. And then I had to go back several times, so he could finish the colors. I'm really an idiot sometimes.”

“We'll get you more of them.”

Carlos threw his head back and laughed. “You don't want me to get my hair cut, but you want me to have more tattoos?”

“Yes. I'll mark out all the parts that belong to me. Here, and here, and here,” said Cecil, tracing his fingers down Carlos's chest, down his belly, and then down lower still. Carlos gasped. And then he pulled Cecil towards him and rolled on top of him, kissing him deeply, pressing against him, drunk on his body, his silky hair, his soft skin.

“We're going,” said Danforth. It was like a sigh.

Dyer and Danforth sat across the table from them at Big Rico's, Danforth nibbling at his lunch as if he was still nauseous. Dyer rubbed the split lip Danforth had given him. None of them had mentioned what happened in the Shoggoth tunnel.

Carlos sat with an arm loosely around Cecil, who was tucking into his soup. “Tundra Bluffs,” Cecil said, dabbing a bit of bread into the chowder and then licking a finger. “I wouldn't recommend it. Are you certain you don't want to see some lovely glacial lakes instead? Very romantic!”

“I would prefer to have two pilots along,” Dyer continued, while Danforth's lips formed a small pout.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos, who flicked his eyes towards Cecil. Cecil smiled and patted Carlos's thigh. “I won't be accompanying you.”

“That was not a request,” said Dyer. “That was an order. As the head of this expedition.” Did he sound a little defensive?

“No,” said Carlos.

“You realize that this is tantamount to resigning your position?”

“I am aware of that.”

“Suit yourself, Carlos. I pray your grandmother will find the wherewithal to continue on without your stipend.”

Carlos shuddered.

“I'll warrant she'd rather have a living grandson,” said Cecil, his eyes narrowing.

“You have no part in this,” Dyer told him.

“I have a part in any threat to our scientist,” said Cecil. Carlos looked around in shock: had the room just darkened? And he could have sworn the markings on Cecil's arms had just flicked, like a cat switching its tail.

“We will depart within the hour,” said Dyer. “With or without you, Carlos.” And then, dabbing his split lip with a napkin, he rose and stalked off.

“Danforth, you don't have to go along with this,” Carlos told him.

Danforth pushed his plate away, shuddering. “Yes, I do.” He glanced between Carlos and Cecil, looking apologetic. “I'm a second son of a powerful man. You won't understand. This professorship means everything to me. And Dyer was willing to forgive my … intemperance the other day.”

“Danforth, you should reconsider.” But the other man merely shook his head, and then headed out after his mentor.

Carlos shook his head while Cecil tutted. “Cecil?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I meant to ask you this: you have a cat floating in your bathroom?”

Cecil smiled brightly. “Oh, the one near the sink.”

“Uh, yes. That would be the one.”

“Oh, so you've met Khoshekh!”

Carlos frowned while Cecil continued to sip his tomato soup.

True to Dyer's word, they had loaded the plane and set off for the far mountain range Cecil called Tundra Bluffs within the hour. Cecil had given them a ride to the airfield, though Dyer would not meet Carlos's eyes, and Danforth simply appeared resigned to his fate. Cecil and Carlos watched as the plane taxied down the runway, and then continued watching until it was just a speck in the distance.

“I should probably attempt to contact the base while I'm here,” sighed Carlos. “I somehow doubt Dyer told them of his plans.” He went to his light aircraft and turned on the radio. “Erebus camp, this is Beechcraft. Erebus camp, this is Beechcraft. Over.”

There was silence for a long moment, and Carlos nearly turned off the radio and gave up, but then there was a sudden crackling. “Beechcraft! Carlos! Is that you?”

“Erebus Camp. Atwood, is that you? This is Beechcraft. Over.”

“They've come alive! It's a massacre! Terrible!” There was the sound of someone screaming in the background.

Carlos shivered. “Atwood, what's happening? Tell me what's happening. Over.”

“Help us! Oh God help us!” There was a sharp crackle, and then just static.

Carlos clutched the microphone. “Erebus camp! Erebus camp! Atwood! Lake! Anyone!” But there was no reply. Tears in his eyes, Carlos switched off his radio.

“It's started,” said Cecil quietly.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, hopping out of the plane and grabbing the man's shoulders. “I've got to go.”

Cecil shook his head sadly. “If you want to go, can't stop you.”

Carlos was grasping him. “Come with me!”

Cecil blinked up at Carlos. Once again, he looked surprised. “I- I don't know.”

“Please! They need help! I need your help.”

Cecil went up on his tiptoes and gently kissed Carlos's forehead. “Anything you want, my dear. Anything.”

Notes to this chapter: Fun fact, the first Sears Wish Book was published in 1933. Since the company started out selling farming equipment, it’s actually not so far-fetched that Telly would be buying a pitchfork that way. In case I haven't mentioned if before, “Tekeli-li” is the cry of the Shoggoth, which Lovecraft evidently borrowed from Poe.

NEXT

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A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness (Chapter 3 of 5)

2013-11-17T17:24:26Z

Title: A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness (Chapter 3 of 5)
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale/Cthulhu Mythos
Author: tikistitch
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Cecil/Carlos, Telly the Barber, John Peters (you know, the farmer), the City Council, Big Rico, Intern Dana, various characters from Lovecraft
Warnings: AU. Cursing
Word Count: ~30,000
Summary: 1930s-era AU (yes, really). Carlos, an impoverished graduate student attending Miskatonic University, joins an expedition to the Antarctic. But the explorers get more than they bargained for when they stumble upon a weird lost civilization.
Notes: At the end.

Carlos sat down in a fully equipped radio station. He would never in his wildest dreams have expected Cecil to be broadcasting from a place as nicely furnished as this. Along with the modern equipment there were troops of eager interns waiting to serve. Carlos refused Cecil's offer of food, as he had just eaten, so Cecil instead ordered up cookies and hot chocolate. The cocoa, when it arrived, appeared to be spiked with something a bit stronger than chocolate, but Carlos found he didn't much care.

“So, let's get down to business!” said Cecil, slapping a pair of headphones onto a slightly flustered Carlos. Before he could even ask if the microphone was live, Cecil had swung around and clicked a switch on his control panel. “Welcome to Night Valhal-La! Listeners, I have a special show today. As you know, we have some intrepid Arctic explorers now in our midst. And today is is my rare honor to speak with their strong-jawed leader, Carlos! Hello, Carlos!”

“Um, I'm not-” Carlos started, but thought the better of it. “Um. Hello, Cecil.”

“Carlos, I understand that you are looking for a friend.”

Carlos leaned forward, towards the microphone. “Yes, Gedney! He disappeared somewhere around the mountain pass-”

“Would you describe him as a good friend?” Cecil interrupted.

“What?”

“A good friend?” Cecil was leaning forward, seemingly attending on Carlos’s every word.

“Well, yes. I suppose so.”

“As in, ‘Why no, we're just good friends?’” Cecil accompanied the inquiry with a chuckle and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Huh? He's a colleague.”

Cecil perked up. “All right then. So, the question that's been burning on all our minds, are you married?”

“Uh, no.”

“Engaged? Seeing someone? Perhaps having a torrid affair?”

Carlos’s palms had begun to perspire. “What?”

“Which one? The engagement, or the torrid affair? You can tell me.”

Carlos looked around, trying to divine the unspoken jest. “None of them!” he finally answered.

“Well, good. And now, to more important matters.”

Carlos didn't comment, but only thought, thank goodness.

“Your hair.”

“Um...?”

“How do you get it so perfect? I mean, do you wake up, and it's like that, or do you have to take special care?”

Carlos put a hand in his hair, which had scandalized Dyer by growing to touch his collar. “It's just … nothing special.”

“Well, let's take some phone calls now.”

“You have … telephones?” Carlos asked lamely. Well, it made sense, if they had a radio program he reasoned, they probably had telephones. His grandmother back home didn’t even have one: they had to go downstairs and use a neighbor’s party line.

“Here's our first call, from Old Woman Josie! Hi, Josie!” Cecil cut the microphone and leaned close to Carlos. “She talks to angels,” he whispered.

“Hello, Cecil,” came an aged voice. “I have a question about Carlos.”

“Well, that's convenient, because he's sitting right here!”

“Is it true that he smells of lavender?”

To Carlos's infinite distress, Cecil suddenly leaned over very close and took a healthy whiff. He grinned. “Oh, lovelier than lavender, I'd say. He smells of promises and rainbows!”

“That's very nice,” said Josie. “And so handsome!”

“He’s perfect,” mooned Cecil. “And how are the angels today, dear?”

“They're very good. They’re helping mow the scrub grass. They say hello.”

Carlos had risen to his feet. He had grown supremely annoyed by the ludicrous interview, and he needed to get back to camp before it got too late. He pulled off the headphones and placed them on the board. “Cecil, I don't think-”

“Sooooo, Carlos the Scientist. What did you think of the Old Ones?”

Carlos was lost for words. He grabbed the headphones once more and sat down. “The Old Ones?”

Cecil steepled his hands, looking shrewd. “Yes, the ones your dreary Prof. Lake dredged up. Not terribly pleasant, are they?”

“You told me they built the city.”

Cecil brushed an imaginary dust speck from the sound board. “I didn't exactly say that.”

“Well, then, who did?”

“Wellllll, if you want to get technical, it was the Shoggoths.”

“Shoggoths?”

“Yes, their slaves. Nasty stuff.”

“Nastier than the Old Ones?”

“They staged a rebellion at some point, and now even the Old Ones are petrified of them.”

“Are they still around? The Shoggoths?”

“There are a few here, deep underground. We leave them alone. Mostly they took off for Tundra Bluffs.”

“That other mountain range in the distance?”

“Yes, and I think we'd all say, good riddance.”

Finding Cecil in a chatty mood, Cecil searched his memories. “You had said before our Erebus camp had been erected over a graveyard. The Old Ones?”

“Yes. And you dug them up. Not a move I would have made, if I may editorialize a bit.”

Carlos thought about this one for a while. “But they were still alive, weren't they?”

“Well, you saw them for yourselves. I mean, who can tell, dead or alive? They smell equally bad, either way!”

Carlos's mind reeled. “There were others. Other bodies, down in the cavern. Dyer and Lake were going to pull them out.”

Cecil tilted his head, arching an eyebrow. “That's interesting.”

“Cecil?”

“Well, I hate to use this radio program as a platform for my personal views....”

“But?”

“Not something that I would necessarily see as a wise course. Just speaking as a disinterested observer.”

Carlos was at the microphone. “Dyer! Lake! If any of you can hear me, listen to me, don't do it. It's dangerous. Leave the Old Ones, and get out of there! Please!”

“Ah, an impassioned plea. That was very dramatic, Carlos. Thank you!”

Carlos just nodded, hoping against hope that someone was listening, and that they would actually heed his warning.

“And here's a reminder, Night Valhal-La is squaring off against those weasels from Tundra Bluffs this evening. Go and cheer on our boys, because Tundra Bluffs is a bunch of nit-wits.” Cecil snapped off a switch on the sound board and removed his headphones. “That was aces!” he told Carlos. “You're going to be a snazzy addition to our little community.”

“I'm not staying,” said Carlos, who was already standing. He strode to the door of the recording booth and let himself out.

“But, you've hardly even got to know us,” said Cecil, who was following hot on his heels.

“Cecil, my camp is in danger! I need to go and help them.”

“You don't like us?”

“I like you just fine Cecil.” Carlos had reached the door of the studio, one hand grasping the handle.

“Really?” Cecil slipped between Carlos and the door, batting his eyes. “You're not just shining me? Because, my heart is easily broken.” Cecil held his hands over his chest, and mimed the pump of a heart.

“I need to get back.” And with that, carefully stepping around the overwrought radio host, Carlos left the building, bustling out into the streets of Night Valhal-La.

“But, you can't fly in this weather!” Cecil called after him. “It's too dangerous!”

“What weather? There's not a cloud in the-”

Thunder crashed.

Carlos stood out in the middle of the suddenly pouring rain, glaring.

Cecil flicked open an umbrella, which for some reason he happened to have in his hand, and held it up over Carlos's head.

“Looks like you'll have to spend the night. Come on, I'll give you a ride.”

Eyeing Cecil suspiciously, Carlos sighed and followed him around to the back of his studio.

“Aw, come on, don't be sore, Carlos. We've set up a nice place for you above your laboratory.” They came around the corner, and Carlos was once again taken aback, for an old jalopy was parked there.

“You have automobiles here?” asked Carlos.

“Well, of course. It's just a flivver, but it does the trick. Hop in!” Cecil fired up the engine. The car bucked and backfired a couple of times, and then finally lurched into gear, and they were off, Cecil hurtling down the narrow streets and byways at a reckless rate of speed. Several citizens were forced to leap out of the way, but no one seemed put off, and in fact, several picked themselves up out of the mud and happily yelled “Hi, Cecil!” after the car.

They finally came to a tire-squealing halt at a building out in back of Big Rico's. “Once you get settled, we can take in a quick dinner,” Cecil assured him.

Carlos peevishly refused Cecil's offered umbrella, so entered the structure dripping wet. He was cursing and shaking out his coat when Cecil flipped a light switch.

Carlos let out a breath.

It was row upon row of gleaming test tubes, graduated cylinders, beakers, bunsen burners, centrifuges and microscopes. There was an entire pantry full of reagents and solutions, everything clearly labeled. There were sinks for washing and tubes that blew gas and oxygen. There were fume hoods and a spectrophotometer and a calorimeter and a gas chromatograph.

“This is- This is-” Carlos lacked for words. He turned, and Cecil was there, holding up a lab coat.

“I hope this fits!” said Cecil, his eyes shining.

Despite his annoyance at being dripping wet, in addition being trapped in Night Valhal-La for the night, Carlos decided it would be polite to try on the coat, especially since Cecil seemed so eager. In fact, it fit perfectly, almost as if it had been made especially for him. Which, he suspected, it had.

Cecil immediately began fussing with Carlos's lapels. “Well, that seems to be serviceable,” he said, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust.

“It's perfect, Cecil.” Carlos looked around. “This is all really amazing.”

“It's for you.”

“It can't be all for me.”

“Why not? We've been waiting for you!”

Carlos found he was too tired to argue. At Cecil's urging, he headed upstairs, where he found he second floor had been converted to a cozy living area. He set his bag down on the bed, and then sat down beside it for a moment, head in hands, suddenly missing his grandmother and his cousin. He missed Pabodie and Gedney and even Dyer and Danforth and the rest. He wondered for a moment if he would ever see them again, but then told himself to buck up and stop moping. He went to the sink and washed his face, and then ventured back downstairs, where Cecil was eagerly awaiting him. He started to remove his lab coat, but Cecil wouldn't hear of it, insisting, “They'll all want to see!”

Cecil took Carlos's elbow and marched him over to Big Rico's, where for some reason someone had now laid out a red carpet under a large awning, and, despite the weather, several townspeople had gathered around. “Is there some event here tonight?” Carlos whispered.

“There is indeed!” said Cecil.

“Carlos!” shouted one of the citizens. And then there was a lot of waving and yelling, and someone stuck a piece of paper and a pen at Carlos.

“Sorry?” asked Carlos.

“Autograph,” Cecil whispered.

Carlos signed the paper, and the person who had offered it, a teenaged girl, jumped up and down and emitted a shriek. She ran over to show it to her friends, and they all squealed, hopping up and down in excitement.

“Carlos! Over here!” A flashbulb went off in Carlos's eyes, dazzling him for a moment. “Leann Hart, Night Valhal-La Daily Journal. Do you have any comments for our readers, Carlos?”

“Uh, the laboratory is … very nice?”

There were more shouts and more flashbulbs, and more papers shoved his way. Carlos was not quite certain where someone had gotten a very nice 8 x 10 glossy head shot, but signed it anyway. At last, Cecil tugged his elbow, hurrying Carlos inside Big Rico's. “Leann and her print journalism,” Cecil muttered, shaking his head. “It's on its way out of course.”

“Hello, Cecil. Carlos,” said a voice, and for a moment, Carlos wondered why Big Rico was wearing women's clothing.

“This is Mrs. Big Rico,” said Cecil.

“Oh, er, pleased to meet you, Mrs, er, Big.”

“Pleasure,” rasped Mrs. Big Rico. She really did resemble her husband, even down to the mustache, although her voice was a tad lower. “Come right dis way,” she told them, lumbering off to a somewhat secluded table in the back.

“Now,” said Cecil, opening the dinner menu once they were alone again. “What would we like?”

“I haven't brought any money,” Carlos told him.

Cecil leaned over, patting Carlos's hand reassuringly. “Don't worry, baby. It's my treat.”

Carlos left his menu untouched. “I'm sorry. Cecil, this feels like....”

“A date?” asked Cecil hopefully. Carlos frowned. “Oh, no no no no no,” said Cecil. “Um, unless you want it to be?”

Just at that moment, and before Carlos could form his answer, Big Rico himself approached the table. “Well, look at you two kids, out for a night on the town!”

Carlos looked between Big Rico and Cecil.

“What'll it be?” asked Rico.

“I'll just have my usual,” said Cecil.

Carlos opened his menu and scanned through for something recognizable. Kudzu salad? Boiled platypus innards? Yak rump à la king? “Uhh. Do you have anything like … an omelet?” he tried.

“Omelet?” rumbled Big Rico?

“Well, yes. Like a nice three egg omelet.”

Big Rico raised a bushy eyebrow. “I don't know if you could finish a whole three eggs.”

“Perhaps our guest is hungry?” said Cecil. “Celebrity takes it out of you!”

“What if I bring you one egg to start with?” the restaurateur asked Carlos.

“Sure,” said Carlos, thinking maybe they were short on provisions. He only wanted to be polite. Big Rico collected the menus and hurried off. His wife was soon back with two glasses of brandy.

“Armagnac,” said Cecil. “I think you will find it amusing.”

Carlos took a generous gulp of his. He found he needed a drink. “Cecil, how did you know I was coming?”

“Well of course you were coming. We've needed a scientist here for so long. Because, you know, science, right?”

Well, that made as much sense as anything.

Mrs. Big Rico was back with two steaming platters. She placed a broiled portabello swimming in some kind of red sauce in front of Cecil. And then, for Carlos, there was a fried egg, sunny side up, approximately the size of one of the hubcaps on Cecil’s flivver.

“That's … an egg?” asked Carlos, staring at the giant thing, which was actually overhanging the serving platter.

“You should see da chicken,” rasped Mrs. Big.

Carlos looked down at the acres and acres of egg staring back at him. “Hot sauce?” he asked.

Mrs. Big handed him a bottle, and then tromped off.

Carlos shook red lashes of hot sauce onto his single, mammoth egg while Cecil cut off a delicate bite of mushroom. “Mmm, bloody, the way I like it,” said Cecil. “How's the egg?”

Carlos stared at Cecil for a moment, but then decided, from what he'd seen of the menu, bloody mushrooms were probably right there beside the somewhat melted geodes. “It's, um, enough for my whole family for a week.”

“You don't like it?” asked Cecil, eyes wide, a bit of mushroom poised on the end of his fork.

“Oh, no, no, it's wonderful.” To prove his point, Carlos crammed a large dollop of egg into his mouth. Actually, it was quite good. But he also managed to swallow a bolus of hot sauce, and ended up coughing. He grabbed his drink and downed it.

Big Rico was by at just that moment and refilled their glasses. “Everything OK?” he inquired.

“Aces,” coughed Carlos.

“It's so good to have a scientist here with us at last!” said Big Rico, before once again disappearing.

Carlos bathed his throat in more alcohol because, well, what the hell? “Why do you fellows need a scientist?”

“Well, why does anybody need a scientist, really?” Cecil swirled his brandy and cocked his head. “We're really no different from any small town anywhere else in the world I suppose. Well, maybe except for the shoggoths, and occasional attacks of flesh-eating fungus. But other than that!”

“Flesh-eating fungus?” asked Carlos. The egg was actually quite good, but the brandy was better. “By the way, have you heard from that intern, Byrd? The one you sent to look for Gedney?”

“Oh, yes, he disappeared.”

“What?”

Cecil waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, it happens a lot with interns. Probably stumbled into a fissure in the crust of the earth, or got sucked into another dimension.”

“Can you locate him?”

“I wouldn't worry. I've sent Intern Shackleton to look for him.” He flipped open his menu, dabbing his chin with a cloth napkin. “Would you care for dessert? They have a really lovely imaginary ice cream tart here!”

“Maybe just coffee?” Carlos stopped to wonder how many glasses of brandy he had tossed back. His head was swimming. “I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

'Yes, lots to do!” said Cecil.

“I need to get going back to my camp.”

But Cecil was looking at something on the wall behind Carlos. “We could watch the moonrise!”

Carlos was still feeling a little muzzy when they left Big Rico's. The crowd had gone, thankfully, and the sky had cleared. The sky was full of stars. Cecil strolled over to where his car was parked and hopped up to sit on the trunk. Carlos leaned on the fender beside him.

Cecil pointed up to the sky. “I like watching the great void.”

The moon was cresting the horizon, and they sat and watched until it had pulled even with the flashing Big Rico's sign. Cecil shifted, and Carlos looked down at where he was sitting beside him. Cecil's pale, long-fingered hand was placed there on the fender. Carlos gazed at the fine markings traced there on his skin, and felt an odd urge to clasp it in his own. He shook his head. That was silly. He was going to wake up tomorrow, bright and early, get to his plane, run another search for Gedney, and then hurry back to Erebus camp and warn them about the Old Ones.

“I need to get going,” said Carlos, standing up. He was still a little wobbly from the brandy.

“I'll walk you over,” Cecil offered. It was only a few paces to the laboratory door, but Carlos shrugged it off. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing that had happened today.

They paused by the threshold. “This is me,” Carlos said somewhat lamely as Cecil stood there looking expectant.

“Uh-huh,” said Cecil.

“Well, good night,” said Carlos, finally thrusting out a hand to shake.

Looking a little disappointed, Cecil grasped his hand. “See you tomorrow?”

Carlos only grunted in reply. He turned and entered the laboratory, making his way up to his temporary quarters to the sound of Cecil's dodgy car backfiring and then roaring off, where he would certainly almost run down some more pedestrians.

He tugged off his clothing and fell deeply asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept soundly, his dreams narrated by a sweet, comforting voice that enveloped him.

He was awakened early the next morning by the sound of a frantic knocking on his door. He pulled on some pants and hurried downstairs. “Cecil,” he muttered grumpily as he threw open the door. What nerve! He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet!

“You're Carlos the scientist?” asked the couple who stood there, neither of whom, it should be added, was Cecil.

“Uh, yes. Yes I am,” answered Carlos, who suddenly felt half naked because, basically, he was. Unfortunately, his clothing was all upstairs, so he grabbed his lab coat off a hook and wrapped it around himself like a bathrobe.

“Can you help us?” the man asked. “Our daughter has been taken!”

The mother began to weep piteously. “I'm afraid we'll never see her again!” she wailed.

“Oh, uh. There, there,” said Carlos, awkwardly reaching out to pat her on the back.

“Please! We know you’re a scientist. Could you assist us?” asked the father. “We'd be eternally grateful!”

“Well, um, I'll try. So, what exactly happened?” Carlos mind reeled to bottomless pits and fissures and alternate universes, all the things that Cecil had mentioned.

“She's been kidnapped by the penguins!”

“The … penguins?”

Carlos heard a car horn, “A-oo-ga!” It was Cecil, pulling up in his backfiring flivver.

“Oh, Cecil, you're here!” said the father, running towards the car.

“Carlos said he'll help us!” sobbed the mother.

“Uhhhhh,” said Carlos definitively.

“Hop in!” said Cecil, opening the door. “I'll give you all a ride!”

“Uh, I should probably get dressed...” Carlos muttered.

“Nonsense, it's a balmy day,” said Cecil, yanking him into the passenger seat while the parents piled into the back. “All strapped in?” he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, roared off, down street and alleyway, to the location of the forbidden penguin park.

They all hopped over the fence, Carlos feeling completely ridiculous, and approached a large, crumbling stone structure. This building was completely covered in the weird hieroglyphics Carlos had noted before on other structures in Night Valhal-La. Cecil told the parents to wait by the car while he and Carlos ventured inside. There was a circular ramp sloping downwards in a spiral pattern, and they proceeded downwards. Cecil had been telling the truth about one thing: it was a warm day, and it got warmer the further down they ventured.

At the bottom of the ramp Cecil grabbed a torch from one of the sconces and gestured for Carlos to follow him. “Now, be sure and stay quiet,” he whispered. “We don't want to disturb them.”

Carlos was concentrating on the floor, being careful where he placed his bare feet, so he simply nodded and grunted, “Uh-huh.”

“Carlos!” he heard Cecil whisper, as if in warning.

“Hrm?” But by then Carlos had bumped into a large, white stone column. A large, feathery stone column.

He looked up.

It was no column.

Emitting a small shriek, he stumbled backwards, and into Cecil's arms. Cecil covered Carlos's mouth and yanked him backwards.

“Cecil, what the fuck is that?” whispered Carlos, gesturing furiously at the eight foot tall monstrosity standing before them.

Cecil nodded towards it, and Carlos watched in horror as it turned around to face them. The monstrous thing was an enormous … penguin. And albino penguin, to be more precise. It stared at them with pure white eyes, and then waddled off.

“Didn't it see us?”

“They're blind,” Cecil explained. “Been living underground for centuries. They eyes wasted away.” He narrowed his violet eyes. “I thought, as a scientist, you would realize this.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Let's get moving, shall we? The nesting ground is up ahead.” Carlos and Cecil crept ahead and peered around inside a wide open doorway. Cecil raised the torch, and Carlos beheld a nesting pair, tending to their young. The babies in this case were the size of the normal penguins Carlos had seen. They continued down the hallway, looking into another doorway, and then another.

“Over there!” said Carlos, pointing to the corner of one of the rooms. Indeed, these enormous penguin parents were tending to a human child, who didn't look amused at the prospect of being fed a live, still flapping fish.

Cecil and Carlos retreated back around a corner, where they spoke in hushed voices. “What should we do?” asked Cecil.

“Well, I don't know! Don't you have penguin herders or something?”

“No.”

“Can you....?” Carlos mimed a shotgun.

“No, we can't harm them in any way. We can't even upset them!”

“Why not?”

“These are the Elementary Penguins. They belong to the Old Ones.”

“The Old Ones live here?”

“What do you think dwells on the lower levels?” Cecil pointed to the floor, and for the first time, Carlos noticed the trail of five-sided footprints leading and down the hallway.

Carlos felt a shiver run down his spine. He grabbed the torch from Cecil and went back to the nesting room to have another look around. Cecil went along with him, standing on tiptoe to peer over Carlos's shoulder.

Carlos hunkered down, chin in hand, thinking hard. Cecil crouched down next to him. “What is it?”

“Cecil, I'm a little fuzzy on my avian biology, but I have a hypothesis. I need tissue from both birds to confirm it, back at the lab.”

Cecil smiled and picked up a handful of feathers which had fallen the doorway. “Will these do?”

Carlos nodded, and they headed back to the car. The parents were very reassured when Cecil and Carlos told them their child was fine, and with a lurch, they were thundering back to the lab. While Cecil took the parents to Big Rico’s to wait, Carlos immediately began to slice the feathers to prepare them for examination.

Cecil returned to find Carlos hunched over a microscope. “What have you discovered?”

“All of these cell samples from the feathers contain both X and Y chromosomes. I believe that both of the penguins in that nesting pair are male!”

“Oh, how interesting.”

“You see what that means?”

Cecil looked mystified. “One of them will have to puzzle out how to dance backwards?” he asked brightly.

“Cecil, they can't have an egg.”

Cecil straightened up, crossing his arms defiantly. “And why not? That isn't fair, is it?”

Carlos stood up as well, waving his hands. “No, Cecil. I mean, they can't biologically produce an egg of their own.”

“Oh.”

“I believe that may be why they've kidnapped the child!”

“Ohhhhh. Neat! You're sooo smart, Carlos.”

Carlos sighed.

“So, what should we do?” asked Cecil.

Carlos stood and thought for a while. He could see the Big Rico's sign flashing on and off outside the window. “I have an idea!”

Cecil and Carlos returned to the penguin park, carrying an egg fresh from Big Rico's pantry.

It was as big as a bowling ball. And nearly as heavy.

“How big are the chickens here, anyway?” asked Carlos as he cradled the egg on his lap over in the passenger seat.

“They sometimes trample the cows.”

“And eight foot albino penguins,” said Carlos, shaking his head. This was indeed an intriguing part of the world.

“You should see the hummingbirds here.” Cecil screeched to a halt near the penguin park building.

“I'll place this in the nest while you grab the child,” Carlos told Cecil as they once again ventured down the ramp. He paused upon hearing an odd sound, somewhere between a thump and a slither. “What's that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Oh?”

“Probably just one of the Old One waking up and coming to take great vengeance on anyone who's been disturbing his Elementary Penguins.”

Carlos blanched. “We have to get down there. Hurry!”

They hastened down the ramp, quickly as they could with the large, heavy egg, and crept to the nesting grounds of the kidnappers. They found the child was being guarded by only one bird, which had, apparently, fallen asleep. “Penguins snore?” asked Carlos.

“I thought you knew these things, being a scientist,” said Cecil.

“Well, it's never come up. You give them the egg, I’ll get the child.”

Cecil nodded. Moving as silently as possible, and with the terrible step-slither, step-slither sound of the Old One growing ever louder and nearer, they approached the sleeping penguins.

The child woke up and sighed. As Cecil placed the egg on the floor, Carlos held a finger to his lips. The child was curled up beneath the feet of the towering penguin. Carlos gestured to Cecil, who nodded. On the count of one, two, three, Carlos grabbed the child just as Cecil pushed Big Rico's huge chicken egg in its place. The penguin shrugged, and Cecil and Carlos held their breath, but then it went back to snoring.

They tiptoed out of the nesting room, Carlos carrying the child in his arms, both looking back over their shoulders at the sleeping parent.

Unfortunately, they stumbled right into the other father penguin, who had just come to the door bearing a large, flopping fish in its beak.

There was a short interval of silence.

And then the mammoth penguin began to flap its wings and shriek, “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

The step-slither got louder, as other penguins also emerged and began to shriek. “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

“Carlos?”

“Yes?”

“Run!”

And so they did, hastening out of the nesting area, down the hall and then the exhausting climb up and up and up the ramp, slick, cold stone beneath Carlos's still bare feet, as he hadn't even paused to put on shoes at the lab, he was still half naked underneath the lab coat.

And, for some ungodly reason, he was laughing.

They arrived at the car and Carlos somehow got in with the child in his lap, and after a couple of the loudest backfires he's ever heard, they plunged off into the city. Carlos held the tiny girl tightly to him, crying with laughter and relief. Cecil smiled as he maneuvered the car in front of Big Rico's, and then the parents were outside, grabbing their baby, and they were surrounded by other happy townspeople, but somehow Carlos knew Cecil's bright smile was just for him.

Just for him.

And then he heard it: a noise overhead overhead. Carlos peered up into the sky. The transport aeroplane was flying over the town. “Cecil! They've found us!” he exclaimed. “They must have heard your broadcast.”

Cecil was gazing up as well, his expression guarded.

“Come on! They must be landing nearby. Cecil?” Carlos's was already clutching the door handle of Cecil's car. Cecil, looking wistful, climbed in and started to drive, but slower, it seemed, than was his usual reckless pace.

“Cecil?”

“Mmm.”

“What was that sound the penguins were making?”

“Oh! Tekeli-li?”

“Yes! It sounded almost like a chant.”

“It was. They're a little like parrots. They'll call back what they've heard. That's the cry of the Old Ones. And … the Shoggoths.” He shivered.

“That's interesting.” Carlos wondered why his friend had grown suddenly colder. Cecil was his friend, wasn’t he? It seemed the nearest thing to describe their unlikely acquaintanceship. “Oh, here they are!” They had reached the edge of the city just as the transport plane descended from the sky above and put down to earth near Carlos's light aircraft.

Cecil screeched to a halt just beside where the plane had taxied to a halt. Carlos was out of the car in an instant, Cecil lingering behind.

The door opened, and Danforth stumbled down the steps. He fell to his knees, and vomited on the ground.

“Danforth?” asked Carlos, his hand on the man's back.

“Well, hello to you too,” said Cecil, who was back leaning against the car.

“Carlos! What is the meaning of this!” barked Dyer, who was just exiting the plane behind Danforth.

Carlos stood up, peering into empty the plane. “Is that everybody?” he asked, feeling a fear grip him. He had been praying that they had heard the radio broadcast and evacuated. But how could they, with the transport plane here?

“Well, of course it’s just us. What did you expect, the whole camp running after you?”

Carlos stared at the empty doorway in disbelief. “But … you're in grave danger. Didn't you hear the broadcast?”

“I should say not. We had no time for such nonsense! Pabodie called us up on the wireless, babbling that you'd been spirited away by some madman with a radio broadcast.”

“That would be me,” offered Cecil, raising a hand.

Pointedly ignoring Cecil, Dyer glared at Carlos. “Imagine my surprise to find you here in this … this dissolute state!”

Carlos looked down at himself, and suddenly remembered he was wearing only his trousers and a laboratory coat. He gulped. “Oh, but there's an explanation.”

“It damned well better be a good one.”

“We were helping the child,” he said, looking back at Cecil for confirmation. “She was kidnapped by penguins!”

Dyer's glare only intensified. “And where the deuce is Gedney? Wasn't that the point of this enterprise?”

“Oh,” said Carlos, once again looking back at Cecil. “We sent an intern after him, and then when he didn't return, we sent another intern.” His face colored, and he cringed internally as he wondered if he sounded half as pathetic as he suddenly felt.

“We don't have time for nonsense,” sniffed Dyer. “We will get our samples, and then we will return swiftly to base camp.”

“Samples?” asked Carlos.

“We aim to get a Shoggoth.”

“I'd advise you to bring a bucket,” snarked Cecil.

“And you're supposed to be Cecil?” asked Dyer. Danforth, who looked pale and shaky, had finally heaved himself to his feet.

“Supposed to be, and am.”

“Why a bucket?” asked Carlos, who was beginning to feel ill.

Cecil glared at Danforth. “Going for a Shoggoth? The bucket will be to bring back the bits of you we can salvage.”

The ride back into town was as quiet as it was uncomfortable. Cecil let them all off at the laboratory. Dyer and Danforth went inside, but Carlos lingered a bit.

Cecil hadn't gotten out of the car. He sat in the driver's seat, facing ahead, not looking at Carlos.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, who went to lean an arm on the top.

“Mmm.”

“Look, I don't want there to be any misapprehension. Of my intentions.”

“Your intentions?”

“The laboratory is wonderful. This whole town – everybody is wonderful.”

“Yes? But?” Cecil had turned his head, his eyes already full of betrayal.

“After we get Prof. Dyer's, uh, sample, I'm going to go back with him. Where I belong.”

Cecil stiffened, turning his head to stare straight ahead. “Goodbye, Carlos,” he said softly.

“Cecil-”

But the car, giving a backfire, sped away, and Carlos was left alone. “Damn.” He kicked at a rock on the ground, remembering too late that he was barefoot, and stubbed his toe.

He went inside the laboratory, where Dyer was already absorbed in his notes. Danforth still looked ill. “Would you like to wash your face?” Carlos asked him. Danforth nodded gratefully, and Carlos led him upstairs. He indicated the sink, and then began rummaging around for a clean shirt.

“He's mad, you know.”

Carlos looked up. Danforth was staring at him, his face dripping. Carlos handed over a towel. “Who's mad?”

“Dyer.”

Carlos sat down on his bed. “Why do you say that?”

“He- He's jealous of Lake's finds. The Old Ones. And even the mountains! He was already simmering mad, and then we heard that radio broadcast where Cecil called you the head of the team. Threw him off.”

“I thought he said you hadn't heard the broadcast?”

Danforth waved his hand. “He listens to every word. He told everybody we were coming after you and Gedney, but we came to get his blasted Shoggoth. He wants to make a name for himself.”

“Then why didn't he bring Pym? His journalist?”

“Doesn't trust him. He doesn't trust anyone anymore, except me. Because Papa is basically bankrolling this expedition.” Danforth sat down on the bed next to Carlos.

“You've dug up some more Old One carcasses?”

“Yes. The smell is horrific. It's driving the dogs mad.”

Carlos scratched under his chin. “The camp is in danger. We need to get them out of there.”

“Dyer is not leaving without his Shoggoth.”

“Why is he gotten so focused on it?” It made little sense, Carlos thought, his mind stretching back to the interview. Cecil had barely mentioned them it seemed.

“He's been reading the Necronomicom. He didn't tell anyone, but he was sure some of those old, cursed things must be down here. Well, he got his wish.”

Carlos sighed. It wouldn't be easy, but he had to be decisive, since Danforth was in bad shape. “We'll get one then.”

“You've seen them?”

“No. But we've seen an Old One.”

“Oh God no. A living one?”

“Well, almost. It was approaching us. But we got away! We'll be fine. We'll manage this.”

“How?”

“We'll improvise,” said Carlos wishing he felt half as confident as he tried to sound.

Notes for this chapter: the radio station interns, in case you hadn't already guessed, are all named after polar explorers.

NEXT

This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/141602.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Alexandria (Chapter 13 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:43:16Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

The ceiling crumbled. Dirty and bleeding, Dean clung onto Cas, thinking this was a very stupid way to die, but at least he got to be here, in his final moments, with this person. “I love you,” he whispered.

“What?” asked Cas.

“What?” answered Dean.

Yes, it was a very stupid way to die.

There was a sharp crack, and both of them stared upwards as suddenly a beam of sunlight lit up the dim tunnel.

A very large feeding tentacle snaked in, felt around, grabbed Lucifer’s body, and yanked him back out.

In the far in the distance, there was the muffled sound of slurping.

“Hey!”

Cas and Dean looked at one another, and then looked up to see Sam’s head peeking over the big hole in the ceiling. “Sam?” said Dean.

“That wasn’t very pretty!” said Sam.

“Sorry we missed it,” Dean yelled. “Hey, we need a hand.”

“I’m sending you lots of legs,” said Sam. He stepped back and Cecilia the crawly-bug was scurrying down into the hole. She stood before Dean and Cas, wiggling her tentacles in an excited manner.

“I guess we ride up?” Dean asked Cas. Dean grabbed onto the small bug and rode her back out of the tunnel, and then she went back for Cas.

“How the hell did you find us?” Dean asked Sam.

“Demeter found you!” said Sam, pointing to an excessively large bug that was standing nearby. “Lucifer wounded her calf, Persephone, and I guess he must have gotten some bug blood on him.”

Dean and Cas looked at each other. “I didn’t see any blood. Any bug blood, that is.”

“Well, it only takes a few molecules. These guys have an insane sense of smell.”

“I guess we’ll watch ourselves.”

“Anyway, between me and Alfie, we managed to convince her that you guys rescued her. Anyway, come on up, we'll take you to where everybody is gathered.” And then they were up a rope ladder, and riding on Demeter's back. Dean had to agree it was better than trying to ride inside one of the damned things.

Castiel looked around the encampment with wonder. The evacuees had gotten a few miles away from the Red Fort he guessed, as he could still see the red rock mountains in the distance. There were several giant bugs milling around, some of which – of whom? – he recognized, some he didn’t. He saw Crowley presiding over a gaggle of kitchen personnel, many of whom carried blades Cas had personally forged. There was a whole group of Benny’s vampirates, all seeking the shade of one of the bigger bugs. There were soldiers from the Red Fort, all mixed in with Lucifer’s people. Some of Lucifer’s men appeared to be prisoners of war, but others were mingling with his friends, chatting, or getting their wounds tended to. Doc Cottle was running back and forth, assisted by Rev. Jim, grumbling and checking the injured and flicking cigarette ashes at the unwary.

Some of Lucifer’s men ran up to Doc Cottle. “Come quick! You need to check on Abaddon.”

“What's wrong with her?” he grumped.

“We think it's a seizure! Hurry!”

“C’mon, Cas,” said Dean, and he followed Dean and Sam over to the redhead he recognized as one of Lucifer’s officers. She was now lying on the floor, writhing and foaming at the mouth. “Has she had these episodes before?” the doctor asked, kneeling down and supporting her head.

“I dunno. I don't think so.”

“Metatron!” wailed Abaddon. “No!”

“Wait, what did she say?” asked Dean. He looked at Cas.

Cas stepped forward. He hunkered down and watched Abaddon for a moment, while Doc Cottle administered a sedative. Her body relaxed, but she continued mumbling. “Doctor,” he said. “I think this condition may be magical in nature.”

“That guy Metatron?” asked Dean, who was hovering nearby. “That’s the guy who kicked you out, right?”

Cas nodded. “He is very powerful.”

“Abaddon thought he was controlling Lucifer,” Dean told them. “There at the end.”

“I think he may be seeking a new subject.”

“We need psychics!” said Sam, who was already running off.

Missouri was fetched, as was Pamela. Missouri knelt down next to Abaddon, who was pale and shaking, her eyes rolling up into her head.

“Whatever it is, it's gonna kill her,” said Cottle. “Her heart can't take it, and I don't wanna give her any more of the sedative.”

“Honey,” Missouri told Abaddon, “you gotta break the connection.” She looked up. “Pamela, help me.” The two women joined hands over Abaddon and started reciting the words. “Spirit, I command you to be gone. I command you!” Missouri began to sweat, and Pamela was breathing hard.

“I command you!” shouted Missouri.

Abaddon reared up and emitted an ear-piercing scream. Missouri and Pamela let go, and both women fell back, gasping and shaking.

Abaddon was up on her elbows now. “What the fuck?” she growled, looking around. She got to her knees, trying to stand.

“Easy, girl,” said the doctor, grabbing her arm to steady her.

“That fucker was in my head. In my head!” said Abaddon.

Missouri had raised herself up to sit, while Pamela remained lying down, with Jess down holding on to her. “Metatron?” Missouri asked.

“Metatron,” said Abaddon.

“We gotta kick that guy's fucking ass,” said Pamela, from where she was lying.

“Don’t worry. We will,” said Dean.

Thanks to what Benny was now calling the Bug Armada, and to Pamela's evident distress, everybody was swiftly relocated to the grounds of the old Sapphire Fort, including the troops who had remained loyal to Lucifer. They were behaving themselves, as Dean had threatened them with being used for bug feed.

John had called an informal meeting of the leaders to decide how to proceed. A rather large crowd sat around a big table in one of the old banquet rooms. John sat at the head with his sprained ankle propped up on a seat. There was a lot to talk about. Two of the six functioning forts had sustained a great deal of damage, and the Onyx Fort had been left with just a skeleton crew back home, and the remaining soldiers divided into loyalists and mutineers.

“I could take the men who are willing and take command of the Onyx Fort,” Abaddon volunteered.

“Do you trust all those guys?” asked Dean. “Or any of 'em?”

Abaddon smiled. “No. But we're used to it.”

“You know that place better than anyone,” said John. “I think you're the one for the job. Just don't get yourself killed.” Abaddon's smile broadened to a grin.

“I'd like to remain here at the Sapphire Fort,” said Pamela. “It's my home.”

“We could start rebuilding,” Bobby offered.

“'We?' Wait, you're staying here, Bobby?” laughed Dean. Bobby gave him the stink-eye.

“It's gonna be a big job,” said John.

“It's a big fucking mess,” Bobby agreed, “but it's near a bug den, so we'd have a supply of raw materials. Inias said he's happy to run the forge for us, when he's ready. If it's okay with Cas?”

Cas beamed and nodded.

“We'll need to call in the other leaders,” said John, “but this place has been abandoned so long, I don't imagine there will be any objections. We're probably going to need to staff the Emerald Fort as well.”

“I got a suggestion,” said Dean. “Bobby and I already talked about this. You up for it, Victor?”

“What?” asked Victor, who evidently had not been consulted.

“About damned time,” said Bobby.

“I- I-,” Victor stammered. Ash clapped him on the back.

“Good, that's settled,” said John. “We've got some repair work too.” He turned to Sam. “I don't suppose you'll mind your old man staying around while we rebuild our home?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other and grinned. “I think the boys have been waiting for this, John,” Ellen told him.

“I have a proposal too!” declared Benny. John was obviously not thrilled with the vampire sitting in, but Dean had insisted on it. “You're not the only ones put out of your home, brother.”

“We need to help Benny and his crew rebuild their ship,” said Dean.

“Well, I've had second thoughts regarding that,” said Benny. “I had one hell of a good time racing around on those bugs! My whole crew, in fact. I've never seen those bastards so happy.”

Dean turned to. “You wanna captain a bug?”

“That is what I'm proposing.”

“You're going back to your pirating ways, Captain Lafitte?” asked John suspiciously.

“No! In fact, I am going to turn over a new leaf, if there were any leaves out here. Seem to me you're in need of a transportation system.”

“I'll stick to my baby, thanks,” said Dean.

“But you're gonna need big things hauled, if'n you're gonna rebuild that smashed fort of yours. Stones and suchlike.”

“What do the bugs think of this?” asked Sam.

“I've been chatting with them, by way of Cas's little brother, and they're happy as hell to do it, if you keep running the generators for them to sniff.”

“We're bug drug dealers now,” chuckled Dean.

“But I need that little brother of yours along, Cas. Will it be agreeable to you if he’s our cabin boy?”

Cas smiled. “It seems my family is in demand here. Yes, he can go along, but I want to make certain he’s keeping up with his lessons-“

“That we can do!”

“And perhaps the title of ‘helmsman’ would be more appropriate?”

Benny threw his head back and laughed. “Stickin’ up for the little guy, are you? What about apprentice helmsman?”

Cas nodded. “It wasn’t what my father envisioned as a career, but I think it’s more suited to him than work in a forge.”

“We've all got a lot of work to do, but I'm optimistic,” said John. “We've got the Enemy on our side now. This is a great day.”

“There's one more thing,” said Pamela. “And it's a bigger threat than the bugs ever were.”

Dean stood talking to his brother when Missouri and Pamela came marching up. “Talk about an odd couple,” Dean told Sam.

“We need Sam,” said Pamela.

“We – who?” asked Dean.

“Me and Missouri.”

“I thought you guys hated each other!” Dean objected.

Missouri looked into Pamela's sightless eyes. “We got over it,” she chuckled.

“We're going to need all the magic users,” said Missouri. “Sam, and Cas too.”

They ended up gathering around a small table: Missouri, Pamela, Sam, Cas, and also Abaddon, though she still appeared pale. She had been set to leave for the Onyx fort, but when she found out the plans, had insisted on staying. Crowley had supplied them with fresh blood that he claimed he had had to steal away from Benny.

They all joined hands. “If you don't mind,” Cas told them, “I'd like to take the lead on this.”

“It's dangerous, Cas,” said Abaddon.

“I know,” he said, reaching out his hands. Everyone at the table linked hands and concentrated. The pool of blood in the center roiled up to resemble the Sapphire Fort. And then, abruptly, it began to wheel off across the terrain.

“Are you all right, honey?” Missouri whispered to Cas.

“I am perfectly all right,” he answered, glaring at the scrying bowl. The image soon changed to the Narrow Sea, and then they were hugging the coastline, and finally arriving in Lawrence, and alighting on a familiar building.

The view zoomed in as they flew inside and traveled from the entryway and down a wide corridor to a room stacked high with every kind of book. They threaded through the hoard to see a rumpled man standing in the midst, looking absolutely furious.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

He spoke, but it was as if his words were in their heads.

“Metatron,” said Castiel. “I am Castiel, the rightful owner of De Angelus Sword and Forge.”

Metatron shook his head. “You're still upset over that? We're fighting a war.”

“Not any more,” said Cas.

The ground trembled. And then the ground beneath Metatron's image was trembling as well.

“What are you doing?” said Metatron. “Wait! Stop!”

But the shaking worsened. All of the people at the table – Cas, Missouri, Sam, Pamela and Abaddon – concentrated deeply.

A book from the top of one of the piles came shaking loose and struck Metatron in the head. He fell to his knees, crying, “Stop!” But the shaking continued. “No!” An entire stack of books rocked and then toppled over, burying him to the waist. “Stop this right now!” And then another pile fell, and Metatron was buried up the the neck. “I'll get you for this!” he hollered, the voice echoing in all their minds.

Cas began to recite the words, and the rest of the table joined in. “I'm being crushed! Help!” screamed Metatron. But then a white light cut through the image, suffusing the room.

The books sparked, and lit on fire.

“Noooooo!”

And then they were backing swiftly out of the burning room, smoke wisping down the hall, and then out of the building, just as the rest of it caught on fire. The view whirled back, and they could see the entire mansion was engulfed in red-tinged flame.

And then back, until it was just smoke on the horizon.

And further back.

And further back.

The vision in the scrying dish slumped until it was just flat liquid.

Cas dropped his hands, sat a back and sighed.

“There goes Metatron,” said Missouri.

“It's a shame,” said Dean.

Everyone turned back to stare at Dean. “A shame?” Sam asked him. His throat was dry.

“About the books, I mean.” said Dean.

Pamela sat back and laughed.

The next few weeks were busy ones as everyone scrambled to begin rebuilding. Victor was approved as the new leader of the Emerald Fort, and so, after a big and rather drunken goodbye dinner, he had departed the Red Fort, taking along a few key personnel, including Ash, his new second in command. He also took along Garth, who wanted very much to learn to drive one of the cars.

Bobby soon had repair crews working at the Sapphire Fort. Cas stayed around to help Inias get the forge running successfully, and then said his goodbyes. Jo decided to start an apprenticeship with Inias. Ellen approved of this, although Kevin was still rather grudging about the whole thing. Ellen too stayed on at the Sapphire Fort, while Kevin joined Cas in returning to the Red Fort, where Sam, Dean and their father had already gone ahead to get started on repairs.

True to his word, Benny and his old crew began making runs almost every night, dragging stones and repair materials across the desert. During the days, the vampires slept while the bugs burrowed deep. Sam began to talk of mad plans for a vast underground railway connecting the forts, using the bug tunnels. He and Cas began talking late into the night about constructing steam powered locomotives for the job. Dean just rolled his eyes.

John stuck around for a while, which was surprising.

Jess had gone to the Red Fort too, which surprised absolutely no one.

But Dean had the biggest surprise of all.

“No kidding?” Sam asked Dean. “You're gonna drive to Venice?”

“Venice, California. Cas found it in an old book.” They were sitting in his office one late night, just like old times. Dean had a dusty old book opened on his desk, spread open on a map.

Sam threw up his hands. “I don't even know where to start. The west? Are you crazy?”

“Probably.” Dean was wearing his most annoyingly smug grin.

“You'll be eaten by bugs! That is before you run out of gas.”

“Cas and I have been talking with the bugs, along with his brother, Alfie. Seems it's a different tribe when you get further from the coast, but we're cool with them, as long as we stay on the roadway.”

“They have tribes?” Sam's eyes lit up. Almost despite himself, he was interested.

“Something like that. Anyway, that was the best word Alfie could come up with. Those brothers are smart. Weird as all hell, but smart.”

“Gas, Dean. What do you do when the reserve tank runs low?”

“That's the best part! The western outpost.”

“What?”

“There's a gas station right along the way. It's supposed to be run by some crazy hermit, Gabby or Gabe or something. Benny has heard some of the stories from western pirates.”

“You're gonna trust a bunch of bugs and a pirate story?”

“You wish you were going along, right?”

Sam sat back. “Dammit,” was all he said. And then he leaned over close to Dean. “You sure this is not all to avoid Dad and Rev. Jim marrying you off?”

Dean leaned in as well. “I haven't asked Cas yet!”

“Oh!” said Sam.

Dean was suddenly digging in a desk drawer. “You are sworn to silence on this!” He pulled out a little box. “I had Garth make this just before he left. Damn, the guy is good! I had no idea he was competent. We may have to kidnap him back from the Emerald Fort.” He handed the box to Sam. It contained a lovely little braided ring.

“Is this silver and gold?”

“Yeah.”

“It's pretty.”

“Anyway, I think out by the coast, you know. We'll get a picnic. A sunset. Very romantic. And he likes the water!”

“You're driving hundreds of miles into unknown territory … to propose?” whispered Sam.

“Yeah!” said Dean, like it was the most awesome idea ever.

The brothers grinned at one another.

And so, one morning, they all stood out in the long shadow of the Red Fort. Jess gave Cas an enthusiastic hug. Sam hovered near as Dean finished loading the car.

“And when will you be back? Will you be back?” Sam whispered to Dean, his voice rising a little at the end.

“In time for you guys's wedding. Don't worry!” Dean slammed the trunk. “You wanna go to the west coast, right, Cas?”

Cas drew nearer, wearing a puzzled expression. Dean draped an arm over Cas shoulders. “I'm sure I'll like the west coast. I like the water,” said Cas.

“He likes the water,” said Dean.

“And perhaps we will find a Corvette, Dean. I've heard they have them in California.”

“I dunno. Like I told you, they weren't made of steel. They might not be around any more. Or they'd be in real bad shape.”

“Then I will learn the magic of fiberglass, and I will repair it for you!” Cas told him. Dean just smiled and put a hand on Cas's jaw, rubbing his thumb along Cas's face, and they looked at each other.

Sam smiled as Jess came up to stand beside him. Dean gave Sam a quick hug, and Jess a peck on the cheek, and then he and Cas were in the car, waving goodbye.

The car revved and took off.

Sam, his arm around Jess, stood and watched until the car became a dot on the horizon, and then disappeared off the edge of the world. “You know,” Jess whispered, “how much you wanna bet those guys come back driving one of those wacky old cars, a Corvette?”

Sam laughed and kissed the top of Jess's head.

“Sam!”

Sam turned to see Crowley, standing there in a chef's tonque. “I need some input on tonight's menu.”

“OK. We'll figure it out,” Sam told him.

And then they all went inside.

THE END

xxxxx

I had to include this here 'cause they're so neat: these are ammo's chara designs for TFW. I bugged her (HAHA!) to include Sammy in one of her pieces because he's just so darned cute.

Alexandria (Chapter 12 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:41:53Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

“All aboard!” hollered Benny. “The S.S. Minerva. This ship of the desert ain’t waiting on nobody.”

He stood just outside the ruins of the Sapphire fort amidst a splendid chaos of loading provisions and bodies. Hanging above him was a rope ladder which happened to be tied, somewhere up there, to the carapace of the giant crawly-bug. They had managed to fashion a sort of sling on top of both her and her sister, Circe, anchoring pieces of canvas to their hard outer shells. They had communicated their intentions through Samandriel, who fondly remembered the passage over aboard Benny’s real ship.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” said Inias, who actually threw in a salute. Kevin and Jo crowded behind him. The boys were both still dusty from their journey back through the tunnel from the Red Fort.

“You kids sure about this?” asked Benny. “I don’t wanna get in no trouble with your brother, Inias.”

“I have a lot of experience with swords, sir,” said Inias. “And both Kevin and Jo are expert in using knives.”

Benny cast an eye up at his “army,” which consisted of the few members of his real crew who remained and a whole bunch of erstwhile sous-chefs and busboys armed with cleavers. “You keep to the back of the action, you hear? That’s a direct order. From your captain.”

The three teens nodded excitedly and clambered up the rope ladder. “Should call this the S.S. Kitchen Police,” Benny muttered.

“What’s that about my kitchen?” barked Crowley, who was approaching along with Jess and Pamela.

“We don’t have need of no cranky chefs,” Benny told him.

“I shall ready a victory feast for when you return, triumphant!” said Crowley, giving him a bow.

“I don’t feel good about letting you go alone, Jess,” said Pamela.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll probably need to rescue my fiancé again.”

“Fiancé?” said Pamela.

“Fiancé?” said Benny. “Well, congratulations, young lady!”

“Oh, goody,” said Crowley. “I do love baking wedding cakes. Come along, love,” he told Pamela. “We must get started on the seating arrangements!”

Benny grinned and watched them walk off. He nodded to Jess, who scrambled up the rope ladder, and then climbed after her, pulling the rope up after him. “Helmsman!” he barked.

“Is that me?” asked Samandriel.

“Yeah, kid, that’s you.”

Samandriel was near the front of the canvas, lying on his belly, with one of Minerva’s thin tentilla wraped around a wrist. Cecelia, who they also hauled up on board, sat beside him, excitedly wriggling her tentacles.

“All ahead, full speed, for the Red Fort!” said Benny, standing up and dramatically pointing his sword – the one Cas had forged for him – in the appropriate direction. Samandriel closed his eyes and communicated with Minerva, and suddenly, the crawly-bug was in motion.

And Benny was thrown from his feet. “Oops,” he said apologetically as Kevin and Inias caught him.

All of the soldiers of the Red Fort garrison – the ones left alive, that is – had been confined to one dormitory, so it was crowded inside the room.

“We’re worried about Bobby,” said Victor, leading Cas and Ellen over to a cot where Bobby lay. He was pale, and his breathing was shallow.

“He’s been hit on the head,” said Ash, as the other soldiers gathered around. “I mean, he’ll be okay, he’s got a hard head.” Several folks laughed, but it was a nervous laughter. They were clearly uneasy with the well-loved commander injured like this.

Ellen sat down on the bed next to Bobby, a worried look on her face. “He’s probably got a concussion. We need to get him out of here. Has anyone seen Doc Cottle?”

“There were some folks that escaped,” said Victor. “Mostly civilians and Captain Lafitte’s people. The doc may have been with them.”

“Damn,” said Ellen, looking around at the many wounded men. Even Victor was clutching at his ribs, though he was trying to be subtle about it.

“These men are not going to fight Lucifer’s contingent,” said Castiel.

“We’re fine, Cas,” said Victor.

“Yeah, we wanna kick their asses! Payback!” added Ash.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Cas. “I’ve just gotten word from one of his men that Lucifer has a plan to destroy the fort, with all of us inside.”

“How the hell would he do that?” But despite his brave words, Victor looked edgy.

“Dean and I noticed that the outpost had been damaged by one of the Enemy. We wondered why this had happened. One of Lucifer’s men told me how they’ve been doing it: they kidnap one of the young Enemy creatures and injure it. Somehow, this signals the parent to come and attempt a rescue.”

There was a stunned silence in the room. “And they’ll knock down an entire fort?” Victor finally asked.

“They destroyed the Emerald Fort that way.”

“But this is our home,” said Victor.

“I know. It’s mine too.”

Victor nodded to Cas. “Lucy’s always been a little crazy,” said Ash.

“Yeah, well he’s gone from a little to a whole lot,” grumbled Ellen.

“He may be under the influence of some great magic,” said Cas.

“Or he could just be a giant asshole,” muttered Bobby.

“Bobby!” said Ellen.

No one had noticed Bobby rousing. He painfully propped himself up on one elbow.

“Be careful, you old fool,” Ellen told him, but there was affection in her voice.

“The kid’s right. You boys look like I feel. If Lucy’s sprung the Enemy on us, we need to clear out and take this up later.”

“Bobby,” said Cas. “Do you know anything about the Enemy Lucifer captured?”

“No, I sure don’t.”

“Virgil claimed that Lucifer had captured one of their young. He told me it might have been housed in John Winchester’s quarters.”

Bobby rubbed his head. “John? That’s funny, that’s the last thing I remember, trying to roust John.”

“So you don’t know if the creature was there?” Bobby shook his head. “It’s possible if we locate the young creature and let it escape, we could possibly still save the fort.”

“You wanna try looking up in John’s room?”

“I’ll go with you, Cas,” said Victor.

“I think it would be better if you assist with the evacuation,” Cas told him. “I could elude Lucifer’s men more easily if I’m alone.”

“You sure, kid?” asked Bobby.

“John’s quarters are near to Dean’s. I know that area … quite well.”

Bobby chuckled. “I suppose you do.”

Abaddon pointed out across the battlements.

Lucifer picked up the binoculars and scanned the horizon. “How long has it been there?”

“I’m not completely sure. It came up in my last scrying.”

“Interesting, isn’t it? We have its calf, but it’s not attacking. I wonder why?”

“Maybe not now, but soon,” said Abaddon. “This joint is gonna crumble.”

Lucifer was silent.

“Lucifer. We need to get everybody outta here,” said Abaddon. “Fast.”

“You knew what was coming, Abaddon.”

“Look, Lucifer, what about the hostages? There's civilians in there. Cooks and blacksmiths and the like. Some of them are just kids.”

“An unfortunate circumstance, perhaps. After all, this is war.”

It was Abaddon's turn to be silent. “Is it?” she finally said.

Lucifer pulled himself up. “I was fairly certain I had located my traitor. Don't make me doubt myself.”
He smiled courteously at Abaddon and gave her back the binoculars. Then he turned to the sentry on duty. “Tell no one about the Enemy. If word gets out, I will kill you both. Personally.” And then he departed.

Abaddon glared after Lucifer, and then arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the sentry.

Dean crept up another back staircase to another darkened passageway. He had lived here since birth, so he knew every nook and cranny. But even so, he had already had a couple of close calls with Lucifer’s men. He peeked around another corner and was greatly annoyed to see a sentry barred his way through what he thought was a little-known back corridor. Crouching down behind the wall, he was thinking through alternative routes when, to his surprise, he spied his father coming from the other direction. John strolled right up to the guard, whistling as he walked.

“Identify yourself!” demanded the sentry, as Dean held his breath.

“I’m John Winchester. Good to meet you,” said John, sticking out his hand.

The sentry held up his sword. “Stay right there.”

“That’s not too friendly,” said John, moving to walk around the guy.

“I said, halt!” But John ignored him.

“Dad!” Dean burst out just as the guard struck his father, who was unarmed, right in the gut with his sword. Brandishing his weapon, Dean fell on the guy. There was a brief fight, and Dean ended up knocking away the guy’s sword and then running him through. The sentry collapsed in a pool of blood, and Dean turned to tend to his father.

But there was no John Winchester, no blood, and no sign of a struggle.

Dean gasped as he was suddenly tackled and pushed up against the wall, a hand over his mouth. He struggled, but then stopped when he saw who it was.

“Dad? Wait! I just saw the guy kill you.”

“That wasn’t me,” said John. “That was a doppelganger. Missouri gave me a spell.”

“Wow. That was impressive.” He stared at his father. “But I thought you didn’t like magic.”

John sighed. “As a general principle, no, I don’t. But let’s say I’ve been warming up to it. Now, tell me what the hell you’re doing here, Dean. Is your brother safe?”

“Sam’s fine. He’s out talking to a crawly-bug.”

John was speechless for a time. Dean was amused by this, but didn’t have time to savor the moment. “Dad, we gotta get out of here. We called the King of the Bugs and told him Lucy is the one who’s been kidnapping the little bugs.”

“He’s been doing … what?”

“That’s how the Emerald Fort was destroyed. And we think it’s what destroyed the Sapphire Fort: a bug.”

“And you’re … talking to these things.”

“It’s a long story, Dad. But we need to get everybody out of here. Everybody but Lucifer, that is!”

“I saw where they were holding our men,” said John. Let's go.”

Victor was nervous, to say the least. He knew the layout of the Red Fort like the back of his hand, but he had a large group of people to move, some of them badly wounded. Bobby had refused a stretcher, but he was clinging closely to Ellen. And just the fact that he had let Victor take point meant the old man must be hurting.

He came to another blind passageway and signaled everybody to halt. It looked clear, but something was wrong. Victor couldn’t explain it: it was like a tickling on the back of his neck.

“What is it?” whispered Bobby.

“Not sure,” Victor told him. He motioned for Ash, and, swords drawn, the both of them rounded the corner and proceeded cautiously down the hallway. Both clung to the side of the corridor, creeping along until they came to the next corner. Victor nodded to Ash and, at the same moment, they leapt out into the hallway, weapons at the ready.

And came face to face with several of Lucifer’s men. There was a tall redhead leading them.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, lowering her sword. “Does this place have a back door or not?”

Victor and Ash looked at one another. “Uh. What?” asked Victor, who was still holding his sword.

“I’m Abaddon,” said the woman. “I’m presently Lucifer’s second in command, which, given our leader’s current state of mind, is not a great career choice. So, we’re deserting. But we wanna avoid being bug feed.”

“Bug feed? Is there a crawly-bug here?” asked Ash.

“You hadn't spotted him?” asked Abaddon.

“We've been otherwise occupied,” grunted Victor.

“He’s out front. Biggest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then it’s just like Cas said. We’ve gotta evacuate,” Victor told Ash. “Let me get my men. We’ll lead the way.” He nodded to Ash, and they walked back down the hall.

“Wait, we’re gonna trust ‘em?” Ash whispered.

“Not on your life. But I don’t see as we have any choice.” He rounded the corner. “All right. I have some bad news, and some worse news.”

“What the hell is it now?” asked Bobby.

“We’re teaming up with Lucifer.”

Cas crept along the hallway. He hadn’t run into too many sentries along the way, he thought was odd. Was something distracting Lucifer’s men?

He reached the hallway where the Winchesters had their residences. John’s suite was just down the corridor from Dean’s, though Cas hadn’t been in there much, as John was usually away somewhere.

Looking carefully up and down the hallway, he crept over to John’s door. He had expected to spend a little time breaking the locking spell, but to his surprise, the door was open and slightly ajar.

Holding his breath and drawing his sword, he carefully pushed the door open. It was completely dark inside. He stepped across the threshold and scanned around the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The room John used as an office was in great disarray. Like Cas’s smithy it had been ransacked by Lucifer’s troops.

He froze. There was a soft noise coming from the hallway, where Cas guessed John’s bedroom was located. Gripping his sword, he edged down the hallway, towards the door. It was unlocked, but he definitely heard a scuffling sound from within. There was a light underneath the door.

“Mr. Winchester?” he whispered.

There was no reply.

Screwing up his courage, Castiel gripped the doorknob, and, with a quick twist, leapt into the room, his sword at the ready. But the room was deserted. It was lighter in here, as there was an open window that let in the sunlight. A breeze was blowing through the window, creating the noise of the curtains flapping in the wind.

Castiel sighed and lowered his weapon. He looked around the room, was also a mess. Regretfully, he sheathed his sword and began to make his way out of John’s suite. He walked back down the hallway, and into the office.

Cas froze. There was a man standing there.

“Hello again, Castiel,” said Lucifer.

“They’ve been captured,” said John.

Dean peered over the railing at the room on the floor below. A group of soldiers was paused, quite near the very back entrance of the fort. There were several injured men, and they were having their wounds tended.

What struck Dean – and obviously his father had noticed as well – was that the group was a mixture of soldiers from the Red Fort garrison as well as the Onyx fort: Lucifer’s men.

Dean withdrew from the railing and crouched down next to his father against the wall. “But nobody’s holding a sword to anybody, Dad. I’m not sure what’s happening.”

“What’s happening is we’re gonna get down there and kick their asses.”

“Dad-“

“Now, soldier!”

Dean nodded and reluctantly headed downstairs, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Two of Lucifer’s men were standing at the edge of the crowd, their backs to the stairs. John had decided if they took out a couple of them, the disruption would allow their own men to overthrow their (presumed) captors. But Dean didn’t think it looked anything like a hostage situation, especially as he saw Victor and Bobby up there talking quietly with a redhead he took for one of Lucifer’s group.

Dean searched the faces but didn’t see Cas, which also worried him. He hoped the bladesmith was all right.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and gestured up to his father, who he couldn’t see, but knew was watching. He crept up in back of Lucifer’s men.

“Hey, Dean! Dude!” hailed Ash, who had evidently spotted them.

Dean froze, his sword raised. “Uhhhhh, hey, Ash.”

With a cry, John leapt down from the stairs and landed in their midst.

“John, what in seven hells do you think you’re doing?” barked Bobby.

“This is John Winchester?” asked the redhead, who was giving him an appraising look.

“What am I doing?” asked John. “What are you doing? These are Lucifer’s troops. Did you get knocked in the head?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” said Bobby, feeling his bandages. “This is Abaddon, John. They’re deserting.”

“Lucifer’s nuts. Almost as nuts as you, it looks like,” Abaddon told John, a wry smile on her face.

“And apparently there’s a crawly-bug out there looking to take down the fort,” said Bobby.

“Yeah, it’s … a friend,” said Dean.

“What?”

“It’s a long story,” said Dean. “But we got a firm deadline. Maybe twenty minutes.”

“Okay, ya idjits,” said Bobby. “You heard the man. Get moving.”

“Uh, I think I may have sprained my ankle,” John admitted.

“Get to his ankle, and then get moving,” laughed Bobby.

Dean searched the faces. “Has anybody seen Cas?”

Ellen stepped forward with a roll of bandages for John. “We just left him, honey. One of Lucifer’s men told him where they were keeping an Enemy creature captive.”

“Where?”

“Your dad’s quarters.”

“Dammit, I don’t want bug spit all over my room!” groused John.

“Yes, and he was supposed to come right back,” Bobby told him.

“I got this,” said Dean. “You guys get out of here, I’ll be right back.” And, before they could reply, he was off running.

Sam sat in Iskander’s shade, sweating his ass off, and compulsively checking his watch. Dean had been gone a long time. Surely, Demeter was drawing near.

And then he heard the rumbling.

“No! It’s too early.”

Iskander began to move, all his legs flailing at once. Sam scrambled away as the huge animal turned itself about. It was like watching a sailing ship maneuvering for warfare. He ran up the closest dune and stood at the very top, watching the show from above.

And then Demeter broke the surface, all twitching legs and writhing tentacles. To Sam’s surprise, she breached fully, turning around to face Iskander. The two beasts faced off for a while, flaring their tentacles. And then, in a dominance display, Demeter raised the full front third of her body off the ground. Iskander did the same, and they paused for a moment, poised, facing each other.

Sam held his breath.

And then both of them slammed back down. The earth trembled, and Sam was knocked off his feet. He tumbled, rolling down the back of the dune. He paused a moment at the very bottom, the wind knocked out of him. And then he scrambled back up to see what was happening.

Both of the creatures were rearing again. And a huge chunk had fallen off the Red Fort’s front façade.

“How fortunate to run into you,” said Lucifer, leaning against the door jamb, casually swinging his sword.

Cas stood silent, breathing hard.

Lucifer canted his head to the side. “It’s not here, you know.”

“What’s not here?”

“Don’t play dumb! We put the creature down in the kitchen.”

“Then get out of my way! I need to find it.”

Lucifer raised a hand. “Castiel, aren’t you wondering by now why it’s so quiet around here? You know, your friends are in for a surprise. I’m allowing them to escape. Along with some filthy traitors. They’ll think they’ve sneaked out the back, but I’ve sent all my troops out to meet them.”

“It will be a slaughter,” said Cas.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got to warn them!”

“Or did you need to free that wretched bug? Either way, you won’t have time.” And Lucifer smiled his serpent smile.

Cas pulled the gun out of his belt. “I have one bullet in this gun, Lucifer. It’s for you.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Your enchanted bullets have no effect on me. I’m warded against your magic.”

“So were Virgil and Alastair.”

“Come on. Give it a try. And waste a bullet.”

Castiel stood, gun pointed, for a long moment.

The entire building groaned and shook. Lucifer was thrown against the door frame. Seizing the opportunity, Cas ducked past him and, pausing only to elbow Lucifer in the gut as he passed, fled down the corridor.

“You little fucker!” said Lucifer. He rubbed his stomach. “You hit me!” Cursing, he took off after Castiel.

Cas ran down the hallway and ducked into Dean’s room, where he made straight for the bathroom.

“A bathroom break?” chuckled Lucifer. “Isn’t this an inconvenient time?” He smirked and sauntered through Dean's chambers and into the bathroom.

Lucifer stalked slowly into the room, listening to the sound of dripping water. “Where the hell did you go. Oh, I see.” He padded over to the hot springs pool. He raised his sword, but was unable to see below the surface into the darkened pool. He edged over to the side.

A hand shot up, gripping his ankle, and pulling him down into the pool.

Lucifer screamed, and got a mouthful of water. And then someone was up on his shoulders, forcing him down, under the water. He hadn’t gotten a full breath before he was pulled in, so he wrestled desperately for the surface. Flailing, he reached back, desperately trying to unseat his unseen tormenter.

And then he struggled less.

And then less.

And then his body went limp.

After a while, Cas surfaced, gasping for breath. He felt hands under his armpits, yanking him out of the pool.

“Dean!”

“What are you doing?” said Dean, as Cas sputtered and spat water.

“Drowning Lucifer.”

Dean looked over the pool. “Cool! Dude, we gotta get outta here. Now!”

As if in answer the entire building rocked again.

“Dammit! I told Iskander to wait!”

“Who?”

“He’s King of the Crawly-bugs. Evidently.”

The building rocked again, and part of the ceiling fell, almost clobbering them.

Dean spat ceiling dust. “All right, we gotta go yesterday. Come on!”

“Dean! We need to rescue the creature.”

“We don’t know where it is.”

“I do! Come on.”

And they took off down the hall.

Victor was still feeling nervous. His motley band of soldiers had made it out the (they hoped) secret back entrance and onto the desert. They were now all assembled in a box canyon all the way over on the opposite side of the hill from the main entrance to the fort. But while the rest of the men were breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn't engaged Lucifer's men in their retreat, he remained wary.

“We should stop here and tend to the wounded,” said Bobby.

“Bobby, we should get out of here.”

“We said we'd wait a spell for Dean. What's gotten into you, Victor?”

“In case you've forgotten. Lucifer's men nearly killed me and Ash, just to prove a point. I don't see him just letting us walk out of here.”

“That's what we just done,” said Bobby.

Abaddon, who had been listening to the conversation, nodded. “I agree with Victor. You can't trust Lucifer. Believe me.”

Bobby sighed. “You can't be too careful I guess. Let's set out scouts.”

“Bobby!” shouted Ellen.

Pouring into the canyon was a swarm of men. Lucifer's men.

“We can't hold off that many!” said Victor. “We need to retreat. Everybody, get back inside!”

There was a rumbling. “Oh for fuck’s sake, now what!” said Bobby.

“I know that sound,” said Victor. “Everybody! Stay back!”

The Red Fort trembled, and then a large piece came crashing off, landing on the ground not too far from the small party of men.

“We can’t go back inside. We’ll be killed.”

“Balls!” said Bobby. “We're trapped like rats.”

“This way,” said Dean when, yet again, the building shook and he and Cas confronted a dead end. He led Cas down a dark, narrow stairway. Cas now had utterly no idea where he was. Not until Dean zigged and zagged and they suddenly emerged in a courtyard.

“There she is!” said Dean. Huddled in the corner, curled up like a giant, hippo-sized sowbug, was the creature they were looking for.

They rushed over. “She’s been injured,” said Cas, observing the green blood on the soft carapace.

“Dammit, now I wish we’d brought Sammy. He’s the one who speaks bug.”

Cas pulled at a chain that had been strung around the animal. “We need to break her free.”

The building shook, and Cas and Dean struggled to remain standing. Ignoring the ruckus, Cas pulled a tool out of his belt and began working at the lock on the chain. After a few moments, the lock sprung open, and the chain fell away.

The creature uncurled, and then bolted away, knocking down Dean and Cas. They lay there, stunned, for a long moment.

“You’re fucking welcome!” Dean shouted after it.

“Come on!” said Cas, beginning the chase.

“We’ll never catch it! It’s got more legs than the whole garrison combined.” But then he reluctantly came running after Cas. They followed it across the hall and then down a staircase.

The building trembled again, and they had to stop. “Lost her!” said Cas, standing at a corner, frantically looking left and right.

“I think I know what she’s doing.” He led Cas down a very rough hallway and into a storage room. It was large and crammed full of odds and ends. The back wall was rough and unfinished. They both entered and looked around.

There was a rustling sound, and both ran towards the back wall. They arrived just in time to see the creature burrow into the wall and disappear.

“We’re right up against the mountain back here,” said Dean. He squatted down and peered into the tunnel. “She was running to a place where she could burrow out.”

There was a great crack, and part of the ceiling came crashing down. Dean leapt on top of Cas and they both huddled at the wall as the room shook, the walls cracking.

Victor had his weapon raised. He glanced behind him once again. There were so few of them healthy enough to fight, but nearly everyone, even the guys who could barely stand, had grabbed some sort of weapon, even if it was only a crow bar.

“Our last stand. Great,” muttered Victor. They would probably tell heroic stories about this day. Thing was, Victor didn’t especially want to star in a heroic story.

Bobby was standing next to him, peering under the bandages on his head. He must have been thinking the same thing. “Just in case I don’t get to tell you later, Victor. It’s been an honor.”

Victor tried to think of something appropriately heroic to say. “Oh, fuck me,” was all that came out.

Bobby burst out laughing.

Up above them the hill trembled. A great crack appeared in the side of the Red Fort.

“What the hell is that?” asked Victor, pointing into the distance.

A huge shape appeared behind Lucifer’s army. It was a large crawly-bug, scurrying along the desert.

“It’s come for us!” said Abaddon.

“Wait, I don’t think so,” said Victor, peering into the distance.

It had some maniac up top, riding it. The bug halted, and there were people leaping down the sides.

There was a lot of shouting. Lucifer’s men had halted their advance, unsure what to do.

A cry went up, and to Victor’s utter astonishment, the people who had evidently ridden up on a big goddam crawly-bug charged Lucifer’s army.

“Everybody,” said Abaddon. “Forward!” Weapon raised, she began to rush towards the fight, her men hastening after her.

Victor gaped at Bobby.

“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” asked Bobby. “I need to get me a piece of Lucifer!”

Victor grinned and they both ran towards the melee.

Over on the other side of the hill, Sam watched as his beloved Red Fort began to tremble. He stood for a moment, praying that Dean and all the others had gotten out in time.

And then he looked around, remembering that without Dean, he was now all alone.

He began to walk around the mountain, hoping to meet the rest of the guys by the back entrance. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he wished he had thought to bring along a bottle of water.

He had been walking for a decent amount of time when he spotted the lone horseman hurrying his way. He waved, and the rider made a bee-line for him.

“Jess!”

“Need a lift?”

“Do I ever!”

“Seems I'm always pulling you out of danger,” said Jess, giving him a hand up to sit behind her.

“My hero,” sighed Sam, hugging her tight. “The others: did they make it out okay?”

Jess was quiet for a moment. “We don’t know. There’s a big dustup over on the other side of the mountain. I think we got the better of Lucifer’s men: that’s why I said I’d come over and get you.”

“My dad?”

“Your dad is fine. But….”

“Dean?”

Jess bit her lip. “No one’s seen Dean. Or Cas.”

Sam’s heart sunk.

Dean rose, coughing, and pulled Cas to his feet.

“Dammit, why couldn't Iskander wait another damn five minutes,” Dean cursed.

There was a shot, and Dean ducked again.

“Son of a bitch!” He peered up.

A man was standing at the door, pointing a shotgun at them.

“Dean,” whispered Cas. He eyed the tunnel the young creature had just made.

“Oh, shit no,” sighed Dean. He nodded. And then as one, they leapt into the tunnel and ran off, as fast as they could, keeping half-crouched and ducking around the many wild corners.

“Dean! Come on! It’s the only way!” shouted Cas. Dean let Cas yank him by the hand. “Faster.”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Dean told him as he ducked down to avoid hitting the low ceiling. “We need taller bugs!”

They went through a turn and ducked as something ricocheted off the wall beside them. “Oh, no! Not him!” said Dean, peering back along the dark tunnel.

“Lucifer,” whispered Cas.

“I thought you drowned him!”

“I did! I nearly drowned myself!”

“God damn that guy,” grumbled Dean. They both cringed as another shot rang out. Dean watched as part of the wall crumbled. “He must have picked up one of Sam’s salt shotguns.”

The ground quaked and the top of the tunnel began to collapse. “We’re not gonna make it.”

“We will make it!” Cas gripped Dean’s arm, tight enough to bruise, and hurried him along.

“We’re not gonna make it.”

“We will make it.”

“We-“ Dean cried out as he felt a sharp pain in his side.

“Dean!”

Dean put a hand to his ribs and saw the blood. “Damn! That stings like hell.” Cas grabbed Dean’s arm and threw it over his shoulders and then half dragged him along.

Another shot rang out. Cas halted as the tunnel ahead collapsed, scattering dust and dirt. Dean sank to his knees, grasping at his wound. Lucifer ran into view, wielding the shotgun. He grinned and pointed it at Cas, who stood staring at him.

Cas moved in front of Dean. He held up his hand towards Lucifer, and began reciting a spell.

Lucifer dropped the shotgun and, as Dean looked on in terror, grinned and unsheathed his sword.

“Cas, no!”

Cas continued speaking.

Lucifer raised his sword and lunged at Cas.

Cas grabbed the pistol from his belt and shot Lucifer through the heart, using the last bullet.

Lucifer gasped and fell to his knees.

“I guess you are not warded after all,” Cas told him.

Lucifer collapsed in a pool of blood.

“Is he all dead this time?” whispered Dean. Cas toed Lucifer with his boot, and went back to grab Dean and help him to his feet.

“I think he is all dead. But we must get out of here. I’m concerned about the stability of this tunnel.”

As if in answer, suddenly there was a great rumbling. Part of the ceiling collapsed, now blocking their way back.

“Oh shit, what now?” moaned Dean.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 11 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:40:37Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Dean regarded his brother, and then averted his eyes. He gazed instead at the behemoth in their midst: a crawly-bug had ended up partially surfacing, huge carapace now shining in the sun. According to Alfie’s “conversations” with Cecilia, the bugs were sensitive to the harsh sunlight, and so preferred to spend their time underground. Even now, small appendages along the side were constantly dipping into the sand and sending it up over the back, the way a rhino will sun-proof its hide. Not that Dean had ever actually seen a rhino.

Even partially hidden, this thing was the monstrously huge. And now his brother, along with a very excited Alfie, were sitting down inside the space demarcated by the long feeding tentacles, near the thing’s huge beak.

Cecilia was there too, Alfie occasionally putting out a hand to pat her back the way you would a dog. Sam was sitting cross-legged in front of the creature, one of its thin tentillum wrapped around his left arm. He would sit for a while, as if in a trance, and then rouse and shout up his communications to the spectators.

“What should I ask now?” he yelled.

“What should we call them?” Inias shouted back. Dean squinted up at Cas’s equally weird little brother. “Well,” he whispered to Dean, “I don’t think they’d like to be called the Enemy.”

Dean nodded. The kid had a point. “Yeah, go ahead and ask.”

Sam went silent for a moment, and Dean got to think once again about what a ridiculously stupid thing he was doing.

“They call themselves The People!” Sam shouted up.

“Wait. How are they The People? They’re bugs!”

Sam, down below, shrugged. “And she is called Minerva.”

“That’s a good name,” said Kevin, who was sitting beside Dean. “That’s a goddess.”

“Does she know anything about the attack on the outpost?” Jo shouted down.

There was another pause. “Someone has been kidnapping their young!” Sam shouted up, glaring at Dean.

“Hey, it wasn’t me,” said Dean.

“The mother was going in to rescue it. She wasn’t aware that she was disrupting anything. Her child was there. And he was wounded.”

“Hey,” Dean shouted down. “When you found Cecilia, Sammy, she was hurt. Did men do that to her?”

Cecilia, as if she sensed what Dean was saying, suddenly huddled in next to Sam, nearly knocked him over. He patted her back and righted himself.

“Cecilia is just a baby, I guess, so Minerva can’t tell exactly what happened, but she thinks some men hurt her, she got away, and then I helped her.”

“My brother,” muttered Dean. “Friend to bugs.” He thought for a moment. “Oh, right! Ask them about the engines. Are they really attracted to them?”

Sam nodded and then was silent for a very long time that time. “Thought it was just a yes/no question,” yelled Dean.

“It’s interesting!” Sam finally related after he woke up and they had what seemed like a three hour conversation.

“What? Wanna share with the rest of the class?”

“This is fantastic, Dean.”

“What is?”

“They utilize some of the effluent compounds from the emissions as substrates to creating new compounds. Dean! They’re alchemists. The precious metals and stones in their tunnels? Those are excretions.”

“They eat fumes and shit diamonds?” asked Dean.

“Exactly!”

“Holy shit.”

Sam was in a trance again. And then he took off his sidearm and presented it to Minerva. Many tentacles reached out and tentatively touched the sword.

“Dean! They can make us steel! Damascus steel! The kind Cas uses.”

“Swear to god,” Dean whispered, “My brother is the only guy in the world who wouldn’t put in an order for some gold bar.”

“So,” said Lucifer. “Tell me about Alexandria.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands into a steeple.

Castiel spat blood. “Bite me.”

Lucifer had left Naomi sit where she was, her now sightless eyes boring into Cas. The knife was still in her stomach. There was blood everywhere. “Could you at least close her eyes?” Cas whispered.

Lucifer tutted. “Alastair?” he asked. Alastair repositioned his brass knuckles and, as Uriel and Abaddon watched, walloped Cas.

Lucifer got up from his chair. “Castiel,” he said, sing-song voice, pacing up and down. “We’ve all been hiding out in the desert for weeks now, and we’re all a little tired and cranky. So why don’t you make it easy for all of us and answer my fucking questions.” And with that, he crouched down and grabbed Cas’s bloody collar and yanked his head off the ground.

“As I said, bite me, Lucy.”

Lucifer let Cas fall back to the floor.

“And get out of my fucking home,” Cas growled.

Alastair, unbidden, gave Cas a kick in the side. He moaned, and turned over, clutching his ribs.

The door opened and Virgil popped his head in. “We got Crowley.”

“And the Winchesters?”

“The sons are both said to be offsite. And we can't seem to locate John Winchester.”

“Neither can Dean,” muttered Cas.

Lucifer walked over and leaned his butt on Dean’s desk. “You have really been getting on my nerves, Castiel, I tell you. Who do I have to blow to get a decent bladesmith?” He grabbed a knife from Naomi's dead body and examined it, flashing it in the light. “Decent work, very decent work. Is this one of yours?” he asked Cas, who merely glared. “Well, we’ll see how sharp it is. Virgil?”

“Yeah boss?”

“Bring her in.” Virgil’s face formed a grin, and he darted back out the door.

“Who?” said Cas, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. He had scooted up to a sitting position. Lucifer nodded to Alastair, who grabbed Cas and thrust him into a chair.

“All right,” said Lucifer, running his thumb over the knife. “Ten fingers.” He leaned over in front of Cas and wiggled his fingers. “But how many, I ask you, do you really need?”

Virgil returned, dragging Ellen with him. Her eyes widened when she spotted Naomi's corpse, but she said nothing. Virgil pulled her over to the desk and slapped her hand down on it.

“No!” Cas started to say. Alastair punched him in the gut.

Lucifer flashed the knife and sauntered over. “Let’s play a game. Ten questions, ten fingers. Let’s see how many you can answer.”

“Lucifer,” said Uriel.

“Oh, what is it now, Uriel?”

Uriel’s eyes darted from Cas to Ellen. “Perhaps … there is another way.”

“Uriel,” said Lucifer, going over and wrapping an arm around Uriel’s broad shoulders. “You know, Ellen over there, she should be grateful.”

“Uh. Why is that, my Liege?”

“Because, she shouldn’t be alive at all.”

Uriel looked nervous, but didn’t speak.

Lucifer leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Somebody … squealed!”

Uriel shook his head, but Lucifer nodded enthusiastically.

“Isn’t that true Ellen?” asked Lucifer. Ellen remained silent, but she looked terrified. “Someone tipped you off, so you weren’t there when the outpost was destroyed? Someone from my inner circle.”

“That’s not possible,” said Uriel, trying to squirm out of Lucifer’s grasp.

“Oh, but it is, isn’t it?” said Lucifer, jabbing the knife under Uriel’s chin. “So Ellen should be grateful. She has ten fingers. And, she’s alive. Unlike some of us.” And then he jabbed the knife up into Uriel’s throat. The big man gasped, and then collapsed to his knees, choking on blood. He looked up, once, at Lucifer, and then toppled over.

“Mmm,” said Lucifer. “This is a good blade.”

Just then, two of his men stormed in. “Lucifer! We've located John Winchester.”

Lucifer tossed the bloody knife onto the desk. “This will have to wait. Stick that one someplace safe,” he added, pointing to Cas, “and come with me.”

“Damascus steel, Dean! Think about it!”

Dean smiled at Sam as they all walked back to the Sapphire Fort. “I was thinking about diamonds, but I’ll give you that.”

“And Inias says the forge here is basically intact. Now that the generator is working, we could set up the fort to work once again.”

“Those guys are kind of obsessed,” Jo whispered to Kevin, who only rolled his eyes.

“I think you need to check that with your girlfriend,” Dean told him.

As if on cue, Jess ran outside, breathless. “Dean! Sam! Come quick!”

“What’s going on?” asked Dean. But Jess had already run back inside. Sam took off running after her, so Dean ran as well, doing the best he could in the unstable sand.

They found Pamela in the middle of scrying. She was sitting at a small table. Her head was tilted back, and she was sweating heavily with the effort.

She turned and said softly, “You’ve been attacked!”

Dean ran up to the table and noticed that there was now a translucent image of Benny on the scrying dish. He was tinged blood-red. His lips moved, and Pamela spoke in a strange, low voice, “Is that Dean there?”

“Yeah, I’m here now.” Dean pulled up a chair, and then grabbed one of Pamela’s hands. Sam and Jess sat down and joined hands as well, forming a circle. Pamela relaxed slightly. “Talk to me.”

“It was the middle of the night. We were up, because that’s our time of day, but most everyone had gone to bed. The sentries were replaced by some new folks.”

“Lucifer’s men,” said Dean.

“That’d be my supposition. No fucking idea how they did it.”

“They're using magic,” said Sam.

“I just grabbed who I could and got the hell out. We got the doc, your reverend. And we found your dad’s psychic buddy, Missouri, so she’s helping me with the scrying. But we couldn’t find your dad.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a terrified glance. “And Cas?”

“Not him neither.”

Dean breathed hard.

“But there’s one more thing. And it’s weird. A couple of the folks coming out with us, they swore they saw Lucy’s men bringing in something big, in a crate. They said it looked like they’d carted up Crowley’s pet, that crawly-bug?”

“Cecilia?” asked Dean. “No, she’s here with us.”

Benny’s image raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Cecilia. Well, if it wasn’t her, then why the hell would they grab another one?”

Dean looked at Sam, who mouthed a curse. “Benny. They’re going to try to destroy the Red Fort.”

“How the bloody heck they gonna do that?

“It’s a long story.” Benny’s image started to waver. Dean looked across the table: Pamela was trembling. “Benny. I think our psychic is getting tired. You stay put there, stay far away from the Red Fort! We'll send some people out to find you and bring you back here.”

“You still on a bug hunt?”

“Yeah. We'll tell you about that later. Sit tight.”

“I hear ya, boss,” said Benny. And then his image dissolved, and Pamela slumped.

“Are you all right?” Jess asked Pamela.

“I was trying to contact Bobby,” said Pamela. She was now speaking with her own voice, but it was rough. “I couldn't get him. But then Benny popped up!”

“My mom is still there,” came Jo's quiet voice from across the room. Inias reached over to touch her shoulder and, to his astonishment, she gripped him in a hug.

“Ellen is gonna be OK,” Dean told Jo. “And so is our dad. And Cas. So is everybody.” He turned back to the table, staring into the water in the bowl. It was clear water. “Why was he all red?”

“He was using blood.”

“Oh,” said Dean, who decided not to wonder whose blood. “Sam. I got an idea. You up for talking to your new friend again anytime soon?”

Sam nodded, but looked curious.

“You can go in here and think about Alexandria.”

Alastair gave Cas a push and he ended up sprawled on the forge's floor. “We'll be back,” laughed Virgil. They locked the big door behind them.

Cas scrambled to his feet and limped back over to the door. He checked the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. They had probably thrown some magic up against it. Given enough time, Cas could have probably figured it out and beat it, but Lucifer had made it clear he wasn’t to be given much time.

He huddled against the door, clutching at his bruised ribs. He thanked God that Inias and Samandriel were safe for now. But it was clear that Lucifer was not going to stop this madness.

Cas painfully pushed himself up to a standing position, looking around for anything he could use as a weapon. The area was a shambles. Worse, it appeared that Lucifer's men had completely denuded his workshop of anything even resembling a blade, even the unfinished ones. He limped over towards the anvil, where to his surprise they had left scattered parts for his magical revolver. He quickly snapped them all together and regarded the gun. But what about bullets? He had only ever made seven, and one was already embedded in the wall. He made his way over to his workbench. All the drawers had been overturned, and parts were scattered everywhere. He squatted on the ground, feeling through the detritus for a bullet.

“False alarm,” came Virgil's muffled voice from down the hall.

“Let's have some fun with the bladesmith,” came Alastair's voice.

Cas held his breath.

In the end, Kevin probably volunteered because Inias volunteered.

It was not until later that he remembered how much he hated confined spaces.

“We patched up the wall in the kitchen,” Dean told them, “but I think we did a crap job of it.”

“You think?” said Kevin. “You know, I'm a musician, not a mason. And I'm sure as fuck not a spelunker!”

“Are you ready, Kevin?” asked Inias. He was always so damned calm.

“Let's get this over with.”

And Cecilia had run around and around, like the weird bug-dog she was. Kevin was glad at least they didn't have tails to wag, because that would just be too weird. So the boys both lowered themselves into the tunnel the small crawly-bug had excavated back when she's followed Sam to the Red Fort. According to her mother, the bug named Minerva, it was probably still intact, as Cecilia was old enough to excrete a sort of fixing agent to solidify the walls.

“We're walking on bug spit,” said Kevin, as they alit on the floor. It was actually bigger than he had imagined: tall enough to walk in, if you crouched down, though Inias had to crouch a lot further down, he noted with some satisfaction. But it wasn’t anything near straight, with a lot of corners and switchbacks. Cecilia may have been trying to evade rocks. Or maybe she was just crazy.

“You puzzle me,” said Inias.

“Oh, God. Are we gonna have to talk?”

“It seems as though we should be friends. And yet you always seem to greet me with hostility.”

“Yeah, so not fair, just because you're tall and good-looking and always get the girl....”

“This is about Jo?”

“No. Of course not. Jo is like … a sister. A really cute sister. Oh, fuck. Yes, it's about Jo.”

Inias ducked under an outcropping. “I don't have a lot of experience. With girls, I mean.”

“Well, you will.”

“Do you think she likes me?”

“Holy hell, Inias. Of course she likes you! Why do you think I hate your lousy ass.”

Even in the darkness, Kevin could see Inias's smug-ass expression. “That's nice.”

Kevin looked up at Inias. “That she likes you, or I despise you?”

“That she likes me.”

“Yeah.”

“But you? You'll come around.” And then Inias flashed the world's most annoying smile.

Crowley sighed and rattled the chain around his ankle. He could stand being confined down here by that wanker, Lucifer. And he could endure the beatings and the catcalls. But he really despised seeing his kitchen fall to ruin like this. Those idiots had no standards of cleanliness. They just thundered down here, made a mess, and then made another mess atop that mess.

He had managed to liberate a butter knife from the detritus, and was feebly attempting to pick the lock on his chain. When the scraping sound behind him first began, he thought for a moment he was hearing things. Probably brain damage from being clobbered one too many times. But then it persisted, and then the dust from the masonry began to fall.

He huffed. “You're going to have to go a lot faster if you want to get through some time this decade.”

“Crowley?” came a muffled but somehow familiar voice.

“Kevin?” What the hell? “Get a move on. This is an order.”

“Fuck. We come to rescue people, and Crowley is the first guy we meet?”

“I heard that!”

“We didn't want to make too much noise,” came another voice. “Are you alone?”

“No, I'm having a great party here, don't you hear the revelry?” groused Crowley.

“No.”

“He's being sarcastic,” said Kevin.

“Oh!”

“Castiel?” asked Crowley.

“No, I'm Inias!”

“Castiel Junior, then. Get a move on, boys!”

The scraping and pounding got a lot louder, and then, with a crash, Crowley was looking at two very dusty boys.

“Why are you here, Mr. Crowley?” asked Inias.

Crowley pointed to the iron bonds on his leg. “Because I've got a great bloody chain around my ankle.”

Inias smiled and took a tool out of his belt. In a few seconds, he has sprung the lock and freed Crowley. “You're a good man to have around, Inias.”

“I helped too!” protested Kevin.

“All right then, boys, what is your plan? I take it you are not appointing yourselves my new dishwashers.”

Kevin ran a finger over a greasy countertop. “Ugh! It's a mess down here.”

“It is rather.”

“Our plan is to liberate as many people as possible through Cecilia's tunnel,” Inias explained. “Do you have any information about sentries Lucifer may have posted?”

“Well, if you're looking for troops to rescue, you're out of luck. Lucifer's got them killed or beaten or locked away. Now if you want sous-chefs, you're in luck.”

“Can they handle knives?” asked Inias.

Crowley grinned. “I like your way of thinking, boy. Lucifer's minions don't bother with my place unless it's meal time. That means you have an hour or so.”

“This goes here and that goes there and the other goes the other.”

“I'm glad you're sharin' the technical terms!” Benny yelled up to Dean. With the help of Benny's men, they had quickly cleared the debris from the Sapphire Fort’s old generator room. They had spent the hours since then trying to salvage or repair enough parts to patch the main engine together again.

Dean, who was standing up on top of the main generator, laughed. “Just get her going so we can call your big friend.”

Jo was wiping his hands on a rag. “I think this baby is ready for testing.”

Dean scrambled down from his spot. “First time they've fired this up in centuries.”

“Should we all get maybe fifty feet away?” asked Jess, rubbing at a grease spot on her face.

“More like a couple miles away,” said Benny. “Boss, you sure about this?”

“There's a first time for everything!” said Dean, who counted himself lucky the stored gas cans hadn't either leaked or evaporated over time. They poured fuel into the tank and watched as the gauge rose. And then no one actually left the room when Dean pulled the switch. There was a terrible whine, and Dean thought it may have been better to give this place a wide berth like Jess suggested, only then the whine turned to a low, rhythmic rumble, and the thing started belching an acrid, brown smoke.

Jess consulted the dials. “Woo-hoo! You got yourself a generator, Dean.”

“Let's get Sam!” Dean was already sprinting outside, where Sam was leaning against the building. But his eyes were drawn to Minerva, the giant crawly-bug. She had surfaced completely, and now was approximately the size of a traveling circus.

But that was not the impressive thing.

While Cecilia ran excitedly back and forth, Minerva had somehow reared up on her front-most legs, so the entire back one third of her body was completely lifted from the desert surface. Her back legs jerked and her tentacle-like front appendages writhed.

“What the hell is she doing? Having a fit?” asked Dean.

“Watch,” was all Sammy would say. The jerk.

Suddenly, Minerva slammed her entire tail section down on the desert floor, raising a huge cloud of dust, and nearly knocking Dean off his feet. “Holy shit,” said Dean.

Minerva lifted her tail and brought it down again. The ground trembled.

And then again a third time.

“I think she cracked the foundation,” said Dean, putting a finger in his ear. “So, you gonna tell me what that was for?”

“It's a signal.”

“A signal for what? That the fort's gonna fall down?”

There was a distant rumbling. Dean whirled around to look at Minerva, but she was now standing silent. “That sounds like-” As if in answer, the ground began to pile up into a distinctive ring of mounds. “There's another-”

To everyone's astonishment, another giant crawly-bug, even bigger than Minerva, broke the surface, it's great feeding tentacles extended. “That's Circe,” said Sam.

“Ah, good to meet you,” said Dean.

There was another rumble, and more cracking, and yet a third, even bigger bug surfaced.

“And that's Iskander,” said Sam. “He's a bull.”

“So he is,” said Dean. “So he is.”

Alastair and Virgil came through the door to the forge, stopped, and both burst into laughter.

“Stay where you are,” said Cas, aiming the pistol at them.

“We're warded against guns. Duh,” said Virgil, who stepped into the forge.

“This gun is magicked,” said Cas, taking a step back. “I used a number of spells to forge it. And more magic assembling it.”

“No shit? Hey, Alastair, the kid made a magical gun.” Virgil edged forward.

“You know what we should do, Virgil? Let's grab it use it to beat the holy shit out of him,” said Alastair, who also drew closer.

“Thus, you are both wagering that your warding spells outweigh mine,” Cas told them. He was next to the hearth now, slowly backing up. He had stoked the fire in the hearth, and it made a low crackling sound.

“Why wouldn't our spells be more powerful?” asked Virgil, advancing towards Cas.

“You've seen my blades, haven't you?”

Virgil took a step forward, but Alastair stopped. “Don't be a pussy, Alastair,” Virgil chided. “He's just bluffing. He probably doesn't even have any fucking bullets.”

“I have bullets,” Cas told them, still edging backwards. “Would you like to see them? Up close?”

“I'll have a look when I'm cramming that gun up your ass, kid,” said Virgil.

“That will be difficult, with a hole in you.”

“Virgil. Be careful,” said Alastair. “This kid’s got a dangerous look to him.”

“Yes, stop right there, please,” said Cas, as Alastair came level with the hearth.

“Give me the fucking gun,” said Virgil, lunging forward.

Cas complied. He fired the pistol, hitting Virgil square in the chest, and sending magic arcing through the room. Virgil's back exploded and, as Cas dove for cover, the oven flared up, quick-frying a screaming Alastair.

Warily, Cas got up. As Virgil lay bleeding and moaning on the floor, he gave Alastair’s corpse a push with his toe. Then he went back to comb through the contents of the drawer scattered over the floor.

“Why don't … you finish me?” Virgil moaned.

“Could only find one bullet,” grumbled Cas. “You people are very disrespectful of others's property!”

“Sorry,” sighed Virgil.

Cas uncovered one bullet, and then another. He loaded them in the gun, and then got up and, returning to Alastair's charred body, pulled off the henchman's sword.

“Are you just gonna … leave me?” Virgil asked. “To bleed to death?”

“That was the plan.”

“I have information!”

Cas paused at the doorway. “What kind of information?”

“This whole place – it’s coming down!”

Cas approached Virgil and squatted down beside him. “Is Lucifer going to cast the same spell here he’s been performing elsewhere?”

“It’s not a spell, you idiot.”

“Yes, unfortunately, I’m pretty slow.”

“Metatron gave us the key. We grab the Enemy. The little ones. If you hurt them, the big ones will come and … boom!”

“So, you have an Enemy bug here now? Where?”

“Get out, quick! And be quiet!” Kevin scolded as, one by one, the kitchen personnel – sous-chefs and busboys and waiters and dishwashers and the like – all filtered out of their dormitories and made their ways down to the kitchen and Cecilia's tunnel to freedom. “Inias, is that everybody?”

“He wants to talk to you,” said Inias, who was leading a skinny teenager along.

“Garth! I'm really glad to see you, man!” said Kevin.

“Lucky me,” Garth told them. “I'd been working the forge, but I came down here to get a snack when the shit hit the fan.”

“Do you know anything about my brother?” asked Inias.

“Man. They took Cas off first thing. I heard Lucifer himself wanted him.”

Inias shuddered. Garth nodded and proceeded downstairs.

“Look, it'll be all right,” Kevin told Inias. “Lucy wants him to forge swords for him. He won't hurt him.”

“I- I should stay and look for him,” Inias told them.

“Inias, we were supposed to evacuate personnel and then get back to the Sapphire Fort!”

“You should get back. But I need to look for my brother.”

“Inias, don't be a dipshit!”

“I'm sorry, Kevin. I need to take a look.”

“Then I'll go with you.”

Inias blinked at Kevin. “You don't want to be … a dipshit.”

“Look, I know this place better than you,” Kevin told him. He was already stalking down the corridor. “The only way you're gonna avoid being spotted is if I'm with you.”

Inias smiled, and ran along behind Kevin, who signaled for silence, and then crept up a dark staircase. He poked his head out at the landing and looked up and down the corridor. Then he motioned for Inias to follow, and they high-tailed it down the corridor.

“Castiel! Is that you?”

“Oh, shit,” said Kevin.

“Ellen?”

Ellen put down the table leg she was holding and retreated back from the door to her room. “Cas! Damn, kid, you scared me.”

“Are you all right?”

Ellen grinned and flexed her fingers. “Ten fingers and ten toes. But you don't look so good, honey,” she added, coming to touch his face.

“You need to go. The fort is in danger.”

“I think that’s already passed.”

“No. I mean Lucifer is planning the same thing here that he did to your outpost, and the Emerald Fort. They have a wounded member of the Enemy somewhere here, and its kinsman is going to come after it.”

“And bring down the Red Fort with it?”

“Yes. Do you know where John Winchester might be? Virgil indicated that the Enemy captive had been taken to his quarters.”

“Good luck with that,” Ellen sighed. “No one has seen hide nor hair of John since we were invaded. I think Missouri must have worked one of her concealment charms on him. The old bastard.”

Castiel looked at Ellen curiously. “I didn't realize John was illegitimate.”

Ellen started to say something, but instead smiled and said, “Cas, honey, you never change, you hear?”

“I will try not to. You should attempt an escape.”

“No, you don't even go there. You're doin' something stupid, I'm there too.”

Cas frowned. “Do you have an idea where our soldiers might be confined?”

“I think this is a bad idea,” said Dean.

Sam grinned. “It's an awesome idea!”

“Hold still,” scolded Jess, who helping to smear Sam with some kind of clear goo.

“According to Minerva, if we cover ourselves with their secretions, it should keep us safe from the stomach acid.”

“I don't believe another human being just said that to me,” Dean sighed as Jo helped him with the goo.

“That's what put holes in my clothes last time.”

“Hey I got someone wants to chat!” said Benny, who walked up with another man.

“What the bloody blazes is that stuff!” groused Crowley. He reached out and put a finger in the bucket Jo was using, and then, to everybody's disgust, put his finger in his mouth.

“Chef! It's bug sweat!” said Dean.

“It has an interesting bouquet,” said Crowley. He looked around at all the staring eyes. “It's quite common to ingest insects in many cultures!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Did we get your personnel out?”

“I can report all kitchen staff present and accounted for!” said Crowley proudly. “Like a good sea captain, I waited until they were all evacuated to make my escape from the Red Fort. I must remark, they are all eager to take out some revenge.”

“What about Inias and Kevin?” asked Sam.

“Unfortunately, they hadn't made it back by the prearranged time. Garth tells me Inias was going to look for his brother.”

“Damn!” said Dean. “I was worried that would happen. We've gotta find them!”

“No, not Castiel,” said Inias calmly as Kevin tried not to shake.

Brady grinned. “Not Castiel. But someone just as good.” He grabbed Inias by the collar and shoved him up against the wall, his knife at the boy’s throat.

“Don't hurt him!” said Kevin.

“You wanna tell me what you're doing here?”

“We work in the kitchen,” said Kevin.

“Is that true? What do you do in the kitchen?”

“I wash dishes,” said Kevin.

Inias glared at Brady. “I sharpen knives.”

“You little shit!” said Brady, leaning in close. And then he gasped and slumped down. He collapsed in a pool of blood, a knife sticking out of his back.

“You two,” said John, who had just thrown the knife. “You need to get out of here. Pronto.”

“Mr. Winchester!” said Kevin.

“I saw what you two were doing,” said John. “But I’ve probably wrecked Missouri’s concealment spells by tossing that knife.”

“Sam and Dean are coming,” said Inias. “And they’re planning something big! We need to get everyone out of here.”

“But we only got to the kitchen staff,” Kevin added.

John nodded. “I’ll get word to my men. You two should go.”

Kevin was already leaving, but Inias stood still. “I'm attempting to locate my brother, sir,” said Inias.

John smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I'll take care of that. You have my word, son. I'm not gonna let anything happen to my future son-in-law. Now, you two get the hell back to that tunnel and get out.”

Inias tried to speak, but Kevin had already grabbed him by the arm and started to drag him back downstairs to the tunnel, and freedom.

There were three sentries posted outside the door.

This was a problem.

“I only have two bullets,” Cas explained.

“You made a whole gun, but only two bullets?” whispered Ellen.

“I made seven bullets, but I've used two, and I couldn't find the others in the mess,” Cas grumbled defensively.

Ellen peeked around the corner again. “What are they doing now?” Cas leaned over to look as well. The one guy had lit a cigarette, and was now lighting up a smoke for his friend. The third guy, not to be left out, leaned over to catch a light as well.

“Three on a match: bad luck!” said Ellen, clucking her tongue. Cas looked curiously at her, while Ellen appeared to be thinking. “Tell me something, Cas. You told me when you fire that gun, you cause a sort of kick back in your furnace?”

Cas nodded.

The three sentries remained standing there, smoking and very, very bored.

“You guys wanna play cards or something?” asked the first sentry.

“Mm. Wouldn't want Lucifer to catch us goofing off,” said the second.

“We're not goofing off. Besides, it's not real exciting here right now.”

“Lucifer's got eyes everywhere. Or worse yet, Uriel will find us.”

“No chance of that,” said the third sentry.

“What?” asked the other two. The third sentry drew his finger across his throat. “One of the Winchester men?”

“I heard Lucifer did the job himself.

“He killed Uriel? Why?”

“Probably caught him playing cards,” said the second sentry smugly. It was the last thing he was ever to say, as an instant later, he was shot in the throat by a bullet from Castiel's gun. His buddies had little time to react, however, as both their cigarettes flared up and set their hair and clothes on fire. The first sentry unwisely set to screaming and flapping his arms, and was only stopped when he ran into Ellen's sword. The third sentry wisely dropped to the floor and rolled. He was stopped when he had mostly extinguished himself and found the tip of Castiel's sword – the one he'd lifted from Alastair – at his neck.

“Unlock the door. Now,” said Ellen.

“Awwww! Yuck!” yelled Dean as he, along with his brother, was unceremoniously spat out on the desert floor by the biggest crawly-bug anybody had ever seen.

Sam sighed and attempted to wipe some of the goo off his hands with a handkerchief. “Hey, he got us here.” He waved at the Red Fort, which loomed overhead.

“Sam, I'm bug vomit!” said Dean, looking up at the monstrous bug. He sighed. “You gonna talk to him.”

Sam nodded and held out an arm. The bug sent a thin tentillum along to wind around his wrist. Sam's eyes lost focus for a moment. “I'm telling him that, yeah, Lucifer is the guy who harmed the calves.”

“The calves? Oh, that’s what they call the little bugs?” asked Dean.

Sam’s eyes snapped open. “Oh boy. The mother bug, Demeter, is on her way. Now!”

“No no no no!” said Dean, waving his arms at the bug. “We’ll get it out. We’re here to rescue it!”

“Her, not it. And I know. Iskander says he might not be able to stop her.”

“What, don’t tell me this Demeter is bigger?”

“No, but it’s her kid. I guess they go a little blinky when their young are in danger?”

“She can’t destroy the fort now! Our friends are still in there.”

“I'm trying to tell him, Dean.”

“Are you explaining?”

“Yeah, but, he's not as easy to talk to as Minerva. He's more … emotional.”

“What the hell?”

“I dunno. Maybe because he's male?”

Dean sighed, not disagreeing. “Tell him we need time.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t have any fucking idea. An hour?”

Sam was quiet for a very long time.

“What is it?” Dean finally asked.

“I’m having to explain to him what an hour is!”

“Geez.”

Sam was quiet for an annoying long period of time. “He will try to hold Demeter off for an hour. And it starts … now!”

Dean looked around. “What? Ah, shit.” He grabbed his sword, was also pretty sticky, and ran towards the Red Fort.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 10 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:39:04Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Benny sucked down the gooey red drink. “Man, that's outstanding,” he told Kevin, who had just served him. Kevin cringed and edged back half a step. Benny grinned wide, showing an array of sharp, pointed teeth. “Though I must say,” he said thoughtfully, “that jugular vein you got there does look a mite tasty.” Kevin emitted a very small shriek.

“Kevin, it's all right, he's joking,” Dean assured him. “You're joking, right, Benny?”

“Guess maybe I am,” Benny admitted. Kevin, who did not look reassured in the least, skittered over to the doorway to hover as the vampire emitted a belly laugh. Benny turned back to the table where he sat with Naomi, Sam and Dean, and Cas and his brothers, although young Alfie looked far more intrigued by his scorpion than the meal.

“Alfie, you need to put that away and eat now,” Inias urged him. “So you won't be hungry later.”

“I want hot dogs.”

“They may not have hot dogs here,” Inias told him.

“And Jasper needs his lunch,” Alfie protested, indicating his arachnid.

“What does it eat?” Dean asked. “We can ask for something from the kitchen.”

“I think it's supposed to eat insects, but it seems to be okay with small pieces of meat,” Inias told him.

Dean turned to Kevin. “Since you want to get out of here, go grab some scorpion chow.” And Kevin was gone.

“Thank you, Dean,” said Inias. Like Cas, his entire face lit up when he smiled.

“Oh, there are more of them!” exclaimed Pamela as Jess led her in. She walked straight up to a very confused Inias and put a hand to his face. “Mm-hm. Good genetics in this family.”

“But, you're blind,” said Inias.

“Yeah, thanks for the tip, hotshot. No fucking wonder I keep bumping into walls. Jess, why didn't you tell me?”

“Uh, sorry. I didn't mean to offend you,” Inias told her.

“She isn't offended,” Cas assured him. “She is utilizing sarcasm.”

“My cousin is a seer,” Jess explained. “She doesn't need eyes to see.”

“Your eyes can fool you,” said Pamela.

“She is a witch?” asked Naomi, who was standing up. “I can't break bread with such a person!”

Cas was on his feet as well. “Do not insult Pamela in my presence.”

“Okay okay okay,” said Dean, who was now also standing. “Can we not kill each other? Or bite? Or sting? We're gonna sit here, and we're gonna be nice, and we're gonna go through what the fuck is happening up North. Benny?”

Benny smiled and swept a hand between Cas and Naomi. “I dunno, brother, these two in a death match? Might be entertaining. I told you how he beheaded a fella. One stroke!” He mimed slashing with a sword.

“All right,” said Dean. “No swords, and no beheading. Benny, you wanna talk, start talking.”

Benny settled back down and crossed his hands over his stomach. The rest of them, some reluctantly, took their seats as well. “I had heard rumors of Northern types coming to beset folks like myself: folks who are just trying to make a dishonest living.”

“The pirates who attacked us,” said Cas.

“Yep, most likely. Despite this, we kept on making our runs. Our last foray up North, trying to get some more raw materials for you all. During this time, we encountered a group of refugees, including your brothers, Cas. As their story moved me, against my piratical nature, I took pity upon them, and brought them along.”

“You wanted a hostage,” griped Naomi, her eyes dark.

“Well. Maybe a little of that, too, now you mention it.” He tipped his cap at Naomi. “Not that it did me a damn bit of good. We got away, by the skin of my pointy teeth. And made sure they didn't get my ship as a prize!”

“You sunk the Lovely Andrea?” asked Sam.

“She's on the bottom of the Narrow Sea,” Benny told him. He was quiet for a time. Dean reached over and patted his back. “We'll sail again. We'll build her anew. I just need some timber.”

“Oh, yeah, we got a shitload of timber here,” said Dean.

“I'll build her of red rock this time.”

“We could fashion a ship of metal,” said Cas, who was getting a dreamy look in his eye.

Benny turned around to smile at Cas. “The trick, boy, is not to start out on the bottom of the sea.”

“No! There were iron ships before the flood. I've seen them!” He glanced at Dean. “I mean, I've seen pictures.”

Benny smiled a jagged smile. “Well, you get on that then. We'll get back to sea, one way or the other.”

“Meanwhile, we need to find space for your people,” said Dean.

“I have space,” announced Crowley, who had just arrived along with Kevin. “We cull a few and stuff them in a pie.” Kevin nervously approached Alfie and placed a plate with meat scraps before him. Alfie grabbed a knife and cut off tiny pieces of meat.

“Crowley, we're not gonna eat our guests,” Dean told him.

“We'll need to do something to feed all these inevitably hungry bellies, as well as ravenous undead.”

“Undead? I prefer to refer to myself as a blood-sucking sea farer,” said Benny.

“I am pulling my hair out, beloved leader,” Crowley told Dean. “First you put that reprehensible woman in my kitchen....”

“Ellen's run a kitchen for more years than I've been alive,” Dean told him.

“...and now you expect me to be a guardian for that mutant offspring of a kraken and a sowbug. It's tearing up my garden!”

“Is this just the day for everybody to bitch?” sighed Dean.

“Sowbug?” asked Alfie, who had looked up from feeding Jasper.

“You have a captive … sowbug?” asked Inias.

“Long story,” Dean told them. “We picked up one of the Enemy.”

“Wait. You have a creepy crawly? Here?” asked Benny.

Dean grinned. “Just a little one. It's Sammy's.”

“It's a long story,” Sam told Benny.

“What is wrong with you people?” fumed Naomi. “Now you're harboring the Enemy here?”

“Hey, we're harboring you here,” Dean snapped. “And by the way, Crowley is looking for volunteers for Enemy chow.”

“He's found out how to use them. Don't you understand?” asked Naomi. “That's the plan. He has books: all the books. And knows old magic.”

“We know. He used magic on Cas,” said Dean, putting a protective on the bladesmith’s shoulder.

“He killed the rest of the town council back in Lawrence. I saw him! They didn't have time to raise a hand.”

“She’s telling the truth,” said Inias, who still shuddered at the memory.

“Why did he spare you?” Dean asked Naomi.

“I don't know. I honestly don't know. He said he wanted someone around to tell the story. He's insane. And he's figured out old magic with the Enemy.”

“He's not using magic,” said Pamela. “Not with the Enemy.” Her voice was soft, as if she were very far away.

“How would you know, witch?” snapped Naomi.

“I know.”

Sam got up and went to crouch down beside Pamela. He held one of her hands in his. “What you showed us the other day … the Emerald Fort. That was the Enemy.”

“Yes.”

“But it wasn't magic?”

Pamela's white eyes turned to Sam, her expression, imploring. “I don't feel well.” Sam caught her as she sagged.

“Pamela!” shouted Jess, who was at her cousin's side.

“I can sense him. Metatron…” whispered Pamela.

“We're gonna get her to her room,” Sam told Dean. He watched as Sam and Jess helped Pamela out of the room, noticing that Bobby, who was looking quite concerned, hurried along after them.

Dean turned to Cas. “Bring your brothers. I got an idea.”

“We keep it out here,” Kevin explained. “Me and Jo have been watching it.”

“Jo is helping out?” asked Dean, a smile tracing his features.

“She says she'd rather be out here than hanging around with her mom in the kitchen,” Kevin whispered. They entered a small, stone-paved courtyard. Jo was sitting up on a low wall. The small creature that had tunneled into the kitchen was huddled in a corner, in the shade, and appeared to be ripping something apart with its beak.

“I think it's building a nest,” said Jo. She hopped down from the wall and approached Dean and the others. “Hey, Cas,” she said, though her eyes strayed to Inias.

“These are Cas's brothers,” Kevin told her.

“Yeah, I see the resemblance,” she said, sticking her hands deep in her pockets and continuing to gaze at Inias, who shyly smiled back.

“This is Inias,” said Cas. “And, um, this one is Alfie.” He put an affectionate hand in his littlest brother's hair. Alfie, for his part, seemed mesmerized by the Enemy.

“Are you a bladesmith too, Inias?” Jo asked.

Inias puffed with pride. “I was working as an apprentice in my brother's shop. I hope to go on helping him.” He flushed. “Um. If you'd like me to, Castiel?”

Cas beamed at him. “Of course I want you at my side.”

“I wouldn't mind learning too,” Jo said.

Dean guffawed. “You? Working at a smithy?”

Jo glowered at Dean. “Why the hell not?”

“Jo is a little old to start an apprenticeship, but she is smart and knowledgeable,” Cas told Dean.

“See? I'm knowledgeable!” said Jo.

Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Jo. You'd work at it for three days and get bored.”

“I would not.”

“Dean's right,” said Kevin. “It's a dumb idea.”

Jo rounded on him. “Oh, so I should aspire to work as a dishwasher?”

“I’m not a dishwasher. I’m a musician!”

“Alfie!” said Inias, who hurried over to the corner, where, while the adults and teens argued, the youngest De Angelus had gone to huddle with the creature. It had wrapped a thin tentilum around his small arm.

“Samandriel,” said Cas, who was now over there as well.

“She's Cecelia,” said Alfie. “And she likes the shade.”

“Your brother is a bug whisperer, Cas!”

Dean sat down on the bed next to Cas, who was slumped there, head in hands. “I abandoned my brothers, Dean.”

“But now they're here! You guys are all right.”

Cas turned on Dean. “I should have looked for them, Dean. Samandriel won't even look at me any more.”

“He'll get over it. Believe me! I've got a brother, too, remember?” Dean scooted over and tried to put an arm around Cas's shoulders.

Cas jerked away. “Dean. Goddammit. You kidnapped me and brought me here, and instead of doing my duty to my family, I got caught up in things, and I fell in love with you, and I don't know if I can put things right.”

Dean stared at him. “Awesome!”

“What?”

Dean pushed closer again. “You're in love with me. That's pretty cool.”

“Dean,” Cas despaired. “Did you hear anything else I said?”

“No, not really. No.” Dean leaned in for the kiss. After a brief moment of token resistance, Cas kissed back.

“You are really impossible, you know?” said Cas as Dean still held his face in one hand.

“I know, I know.”

There was a pounding on the door. “Not now Sammy!” Dean shouted.

“How the hell did you know it was me?” came Sam's voice from the other side.

“I know your knock. And your rotten timing.”

“You gotta get out here, Dean. Now!”

“What the hell is it now? Is Lucifer knocking?”

“No. It's worse!”

“You remember the Reverend Jim, don't you, Dean?” said John, presenting a smiling grey-haired man.

“Yes. Hey, Rev. Jim,” said Dean dutifully.

And this is Dean's friend, Castiel De Angelus,” said John.

“Oh, so you're Cas!” said Rev. Jim. “I've heard so much about you.”

“You have?” asked a very confused Cas.

“Your family makes swords?” asked Rev. Jim.

“Yes.”

“All right. Enough!” said Dean, stepping between them and pulling a flustered Castiel out of Jim's reach.

“Dean,” said John. “You need to make arrangements! I understand your brother has found someone.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “And how the hell do you know that?” demanded Dean. “I heard you split after he disappeared!”

“Your daddy knows because I told him,” said a dark-skinned woman who had been viewing the whole scene with a knowing expression.

“Missouri,” grumbled Dean.

Missouri strode forward and grabbed Cas by the chin. “He is a nice looking boy. A little scrawny. Haven't they been feeding you, honey?”

“I worked in the kitchen, in actuality,” Cas told her.

“You still have that scoundrel Crowley cooking here? Let me make a dish or two for you, fatten you up. You need to grow up to that voice.”

“I wouldn't go into Crowley's kitchen just now,” laughed Sam. “He's grumpy enough stepping around Ellen.”

“Ellen Harvelle?” asked John. “Is she here?”

“I thought you knew everything,” Dean told his father.

“I know everything, doll,” said Missouri. “I just tell your Daddy what he needs to know.”

“You should have told me about Ellen,” said John.

“Uh, Dad,” said Sam as Jess came into the room, leading Pamela. “This is Jess.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” spat Pamela, pointing across the room.

“What the hell is who doing here?” asked Dean.

“She means me,” said Missouri, narrowing her eyes. “Hello again, Pammy.”

“Don't call me that, you old fraud!”

“Hmpf.”

“I will not stay under the same roof with this quack!” raved Pamela.

“I have more psychic power in one fingernail than you do in your whole body, sugar,” Missouri retorted.

“Wait, how do you even know each other?” Sam asked, looking back and forth between the two feuding psychics.

“Every time I try to scry, there she is, nosing into my business!” sniffed Pamela.

“Who’s nosy, honey?” scoffed Missouri.

Victor poked his head into the room. “Boss, can I interrupt?”

“Please!” said Dean. He accompanied Victor out of the room, Sam following them. “We can't find the bug's – I mean Cecelia's – mother.”

Dean huffed in frustration. “You went back to where you and Sam saw her before?” Victor nodded. “Shit, I can't believe I'm calling one of those things a ‘she.’”

“No. Ash and I have been staking it out, but no luck, no sign of her.”

Dean stood and thought. “What if we go back to where Jess found Sam?”

“That's a long way,” said Sam. “And how the heck do we transport, er, Cecelia?”

“Well, she got here somehow! Look, I personally volunteer to go.”

“Can I personally volunteer to accompany you?” sighed Sam.

Dean nodded and started to walk off. “Sam, do you have any idea what the hell is between Missouri and Pamela?”

“I dunno. What's up between Rufus and Bobby?” Sam shrugged. “I imagine I'll get an earful tonight.”

Dean found Cas and Inias working in the forge. He stood for a while and watched the brothers, both pictures of intensity, their heads close together, examining a sword. Inias was applying a spell to a newly forged blade, so Dean kept his peace at the door to let the young man give it a try. He grinned as the room began to crackle with magical electricity, and then there was the bright light as the magic burned into the newly forged steel.

Cas picked up the blade with tongs and, as he quenched it, whispered something to his brother, who positively glowed with pride. It was pretty clear to Dean that despite their long separation, Inias worshipped Castiel. Cas pulled the new blade from the oil bath, and turned to Dean.

“Hope I’m not interrupting!” Dean told them.

“Inias was just trying his hand at a finishing spell.”

“Oh. Is he any good?” asked Dean playfully.

“He will be outdoing me very soon.”

Inias flushed red. It was pretty cute. “Oh, no. I’ll never surpass you, Castiel.”

Dean grinned. “I remember when my little brother would talk like that. It’s been a while. A long while.”

“Can I take a break now, Castiel? Jo is teaching me to ride horses!”

“Better you than me,” said Cas. And with a nod, Inias was out the door.

Dean watched him go. “You’ve got him working for you now?”

“Yes, he is assisting me.”

“You want to keep him on as an apprentice?”

Cas turned his head to stare at Dean. “Am I allowed to do that? I know that the fort is getting crowded.”

“Of course! He’s family. He and Alfie can stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“And you’re staying around too, right?”

Cas thought about it for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he said, “My brothers were the first thing on my mind, of course. And now that I have them near, I am much relieved. Even though they are somewhat … estranged.”

“No, Cas, you guys are not estranged! You haven’t seen each other for a while, and they’re young, so it’s probably uncomfortable right now. But look, you’re all together now, going on an outing together, you’ll get to spend time together….”

“Should I point out that Alfie is tending to his pet crawlie-bug, and Inias seems much more interested in Ellen’s daughter?”

“Dude, that’s how little brothers behave. It’s what they’re supposed to do. They’re being kids.”

“You think so?”

“Sam was just like them. Well, maybe not the whole having scorpions as a pet thing. But he’ll go off and do his own thing, and you don’t think he even remembers he has a big brother here. And then he’ll scrape a knee, or get into a fight with the girlfriend, and there he is again.”

“Sam still comes to you?”

Dean waggled his head. “Not as much as he used to. But yeah, he knows I’m there for him. It’s always been that way. Dad’s just not around much. I used to wonder about it, but I guess I’ve come to the conclusion he’s just not the type.” Dean frowned, growing thoughtful.

Cas paused before he spoke, steeling himself. “Dean, I feel an obligation to return home. To reclaim my inheritance.”

“Yeah, we could do that.”

Cas’s head went into its confused tilt. “We?”

“Sure! After we get Benny situated with a new ship, we’ll get across the Narrow Sea and grab your business from whoever the hell Metatron gave it to.”

“You intend to accompany me?”

“Should be fun! I’ve never been to the North.”

“Don’t you have obligations here?”

“I do. But look, we’ve gone away to Alexandria, and nothing disastrous happened, right? My dad’s here, and so is Bobby. And Sam is getting old enough too.”

“And what will you do in Lawrence, Dean? That is, when I am conducting my business?”

A smile crept onto Dean's lips. “Huh. I guess I’ll try and stay out of trouble.”

Cas sat back, a pensive look on his face. “Perhaps….”

“What?”

“Perhaps I should set up Inias and Samandriel to run the business. And … I could come back here?”

“That would work!” said Dean. “So, you know we’re gonna take off for a couple days?”

“Yes, to find the Sapphire Fort. Inias has already asked if he can accompany you. I’ve told him that he has my approval.”

Dean looked at the floor. “Aren't you coming along too?”

“My place is here, preparing our armaments.”

“You could take a day off. I could order you to take a day off.”

“Dean-“

“Yeah, I know. I know. We’ve both got obligations.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

Dean stepped forward, grabbing Cas’s belt and pulling him close. “You’re here now.”

Cas smiled. He reached over and laid down his tongs, and then draped his arms over Dean’s shoulders. “You are impossible, you know.”

“I know. I know.”

They placed Cecilia on an old trailer and Dean drove the truck it was hitched to. Kevin road shotgun, and the various “bug tenders,” Jo, Inias and Alfie, rode in the back with the Cecilia. Sam drove Jess and Pamela in the Impala up ahead. It was admittedly unusual for both Sam and Dean to be absent from the Red Fort at the same time, but Dean decided it was warranted as their father was still in residence, though there was no telling how long he would linger. Dean found himself half hoping John would be gone by the time they returned.

Kevin looked out the back window for the tenth time that hour, leading Dean to comment. “I think she’s all right back there.”

Kevin nervously glanced back once again, viewing the big crawlie-bug now draped under an old blanket. “Oh! Yeah, I think it’s fine.”

“You weren’t looking at our guest,” Dean noted. He glanced up into the rear view mirror, tilting it around for a good look. Alfie had fallen asleep next to the bug, resting on the blanket and snoring contentedly. It was like a kid and his dog. If the dog had been the size of a baby rhino. With tentacles.

On the opposite side, Jo sat beside Inias. They were chatting about something, and sitting a just a little bit too close.

Dean grinned. “Cas’s little brother is making friends fast.”

Kevin looked flushed. “Is that … appropriate?”

“It’s normal behavior. Believe me.”

Kevin looked dubious.

“You sweet on Jo?” Dean teased.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll tell you a secret. When she was a kid, she had a little crush on me.”

“You?” asked Kevin. Dean nodded. “Ew!”

Dean threw his head back and laughed.

“I mean,” Kevin backpedaled. “You’re like a million years old.”

“Thanks,” said Dean. “But look, let me tell you about Jo. She’s always known what she likes. And she’s not afraid of how it looks, or if anybody else approves or disapproves.”

“She likes knives. And guys who make them.”

“I just bet there are girls who like guys who play cello!”

Kevin stared at Dean. “What? Way the fuck out here?”

“Hey, check out Pam backseat driving.” They both looked up ahead, where Pamela was leaning over the back seat, pointing up ahead. She, Sam and Jess appeared to all be chattering.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Haha. Sam is trying to tell her there isn’t a road in the direction she’s pointing. I bet she wins the argument anyway.”

Castiel stood up on the roof and watched until Dean’s vehicle disappeared over the horizon, now, too late, regretting he did not relent to Dean’s continued blandishments and go along with them. It left a small empty place in his heart, being separated from his brothers so soon after finding them again. And, needless to say, Dean’s outrageously large bed seemed empty without Dean’s presence. He wondered, not for the first time, how he had gotten so attached so quickly. For so long his whole world had revolved around his little family. And now it seemed his family had grown by leaps and bounds.

“Hey, dude, you wanna play cards?”

Cas broke into a smile as Ash and Victor approached. “It’s very good to see you recovered, Ash.”

“Hey, nothing can keep me down,” said Ash with a big grin.

“We got a good game going,” Victor told him. “Benny is trying to win enough money to build a new ship.”

“I suppose I will be contributing heavily to the fund,” sighed Cas, as Victor slapped him on the back and led him down the stairs.

“I don't believe this.” Dean had spent the afternoon just wandering around the remains of the Sapphire Fort. They had taken a couple of wrong turns, but they had finally arrived an hour ago. Unlike Dean’s family home, the Red Fort, had been carved out of a mountain, this place had been erected smack in the middle of the desolate plains, each stone painstakingly dragged or magicked from a quarry far away. Even with the main wall shattered and broken it remained impressive, a fallen giant, larger even than the great Onyx Fort.

“This was supposed to be another fairy tale. Like a bug's hoard.”

“I found the bug's hoard,” said Sam, with a smile.

“What do you think happened?” asked Dean. “Was it an earthquake?”

Sam pointed, and Dean squinted across the desert. A part of the wall and the structure behind had crumbled. It looked as if it had been hit by a giant hammer. “If you look closely you can just see the remains of the crater.”

Dean stared at the territory surrounding the ruins. “So, you think it was the Enemy?”

“Yeah. It looks like it's the same as what happened to the Emerald Fort. At least in Pam's scrying. I’ve tried searching the records for it before. This must have happened generations before we arrived on the scene. It was abandoned over time, and nobody ever kept very good records. I guess when Jess and Pam's family was the only one remaining here, they laid down a bunch of misdirection spells to keep people away. But Pamela says she had to disable most of them for them to bring me back. That's the only way we found our way here.”

Sam wandered over towards the most damaged part of the facility, and Dean followed him. “If this is near a tunnel entrance, it could be that the creature undermined the foundation by mistake.”

“You mean when it was tunneling around?” asked Dean. “So basically this place was built too close to a bug highway.”

Sam ducked inside one of the rooms. Dean shrugged and went in after him. After all, he was curious as well. “Oh, shit!” he said as his eyes adjusted. “I see why they abandoned it!”

Sam was looking around as well. As things didn’t tend to rust out here, the metal components, though damaged, were still recognizable. “Was this the generator?”

“Bingo. The main generator. I didn’t pick up on it from outside. The Red Fort has an old generator room like this.”

“An old generator room? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. It was redesigned, centuries ago. See? You can tell how the venting is going out the side of the wall here?” Dean approached a stretch of wall that was still mostly intact and stuck a hand in one of the slits cut there. “There’s an old wives tale – one I think is true – that the Enemy is attracted to the fumes. That’s why you only run cars on highways. So, for the generators, we vent everything upwards now.”

“Dean. The generator at Ellen and Jo’s outpost: is it possible that’s why it was attacked?”

“No, no way. That’s a smart idea, but Ellen had it all set up right. And that wasn’t even the part of the building they hit.”

“Then I wonder what happened?”

“I guess we’re all wondering that. One thing I know, Lucifer helped it along.”

“We’re gonna look around!” Jo announced, tugging on Inias’s hand. Pamela had said she was going to do something called a scrying, and it sounded interesting, but Inias thought it might be nice to go along with Jo. He hadn’t expected to like the South too much, but it was kind of exciting here. First there had been pirates – actual vampire pirates – and then he’d found his big brother again, and then there were real live monsters here!

And then there was Jo, who liked to talk about swords, and made him feel sort of fluttery in his stomach. She kept hold of his hand as they walked out. “Stay in sight of the building!” Jess yelled after them. So now they were going to walk around an abandoned fort.

“Scrying is boring,” grumbled Kevin, who always seemed to tag along, and always seemed to be in a bad mood. Life wasn’t quite perfect.

“Pam wants to talk to Bobby,” said Jo, as if this held some deep significance.

“Ew, gross,” said Kevin. “He’s like a million years old.”

“Why shouldn’t she want to talk to him?” Inias asked.

“He’s so old,” explained Kevin.

“He’s a good guy,” Jo shot back.

“He’s too old for her.”

“Should she date you instead?” Jo giggled.

Oh. It finally made sense. Inias stopped before a broken place in the wall. “I wonder what this is?” he said, almost to himself.

“It doesn’t look like they use this part anymore,” said Jo.

Inias nodded and slipped inside.

“Hey, I don’t think we’re supposed to go in this part,” Kevin scolded.

“They said to keep in sight of the building!” said Jo, who then darted inside. Kevin, despite his objections, sighed and went after them.

“It’s pretty dark,” said Kevin. Inias spotted some dried branches on the floor. He twisted them together, and then, taking out a lighter, lit the top to create an improvised torch. Jo grinned, and, when Inias reached back his hand to her, she took it. He found he liked the feeling of her small hand in his. He smiled and led the way, Kevin a small dark cloud taking up the back.

They came to a very large room that looked mostly still intact. Inias’s heart raced when he saw the anvil. “Oh! Do you know what this is?”

“A big, scary room?” asked Kevin.

“This is the smithy! And it’s mostly intact.” He was moving around the room now, checking out the forge.

“You think you could still use it?” Jo asked.

“We’d have to make sure everything was ventilated. Get some lighting in here. But, yeah!”

Kevin sighed. “You come out here and you wanna make swords? Isn’t that your job?”

Inias stopped and studied his grumpy friend. He tilted his head. “We could look for the main kitchen.”

“I hate the fucking kitchen!”

Inias looked at Jo, who rolled her eyes. “You could come work with us, in the forge?”

“I need to be careful with my fingers.” Kevin held up his hands, wiggling his digits. “I’m a musician.”

“I guess I don’t understand. What does music do?”

“What do you mean what does it do? It’s beautiful!”

Inias shrugged. “We should get back. We need to tell Dean about this, so he can tell my brother.”

Kevin shook his head, turned, and started to make his way back out, cursing as he barked his shin on a piece of broken wall.

“After my brother finishes training me, I can run a shop of my own,” Inias told Jo quietly.

“I could help,” Jo told him.

“Yeah, you’d be great!”

One thing Cas had learned in his time at the Red Fort, it was fruitless to draw to an inside straight.

He sat down his cards and sighed, having already contributed, he thought, more than his share to Benny’s ship building fund.

“I think I’ll go down to the kitchen for something to eat,” said Cas. “Can I bring you anything?”

“I can’t believe Crowley likes you,” laughed Victor.

“That rascal don’t like nobody,” said Benny, who was gloating, though not too badly, over his winnings. “If’n he has some type B negative, I wouldn’t object.”

“He doesn’t have human blood, Benny,” laughed Ash.

“And how do you know?” asked Benny.

“Cas worked down there! Cas knows better!”

“Benny, would B positive be acceptable?” Cas asked, completely straight-faced.

“Maybe a little AB positive?” said Benny.

“I will check.”

Ash stared, open-mouthed, as Cas left the room, struggling to hide his smile. “You guys are shining us!” he heard Ash demand of Benny.

Cas made his way downstairs to his old stomping grounds, the kitchen complex. It was between meal services, so it was relatively empty. After greeting people he knew, Cas grabbed a tray and began to fill it up with bread and cheese and sausages.

“Come to steal more of my staff?” barked Crowley.

Cas nodded to his old boss. “Chef. You didn’t object when I sent you that new cutlery.”

“True, I will always forgive you for your knife fixation. Which, by the way, I find ridiculously attractive. If you should ever dump that Winchester boy….”

“Not likely.”

Crowley leaned closer. “So, what word about Lucifer’s whereabouts?”

“You know as much as I do.”

“Likely I know more. I used to work for that miscreant.”

“There’s no new movement. I wonder if he has given up?”

“No,” said Crowley. “Believe me. I know the man all too well. Lucifer will never give up. Not ‘til he’s got what he wants.”

“Aiiii!” Dean had literally jumped when he felt the tentacles curl around his leg. He turned around to see Cecelia the crawly-bug looking up at him.

“I think they don't see very well,” said Sam, who had just arrived with the others. “They spend a lot of time in the dark. That's why she likes to touch you.”

“I … don't like it,” said Dean, who nevertheless squatted down and reached out a hand, like you would to a dog. Her sensitive front feelers glided over his arm and up to his face. Then she poked his side, and Dean emitted a strangled gasp and fell on his butt.

While the creature hovered over him, wiggling tentacles, Sam rushed over to help him up. “Did she sting you?”

“Ticklish,” sputtered Dean. “No, I'm all right,” he told Cecelia as the rest of the crowd giggled.

“If you’re through clowning around, I think we're ready to head out,” said Sam.

“Are we all going?” Dean asked.

“I'm staying here,” said Pamela. “I've been trying to set up contact with Bobby. And it hasn't been working. Maybe when it's quiet.”

“Bobby, huh?” said Dean, wagging an eyebrow at Sam.

“Hey, I saw that,” Pamela told him.

“Saw what?”

Pamela shook her head and let Jess lead her back into the building while Cecilia and her young keepers turned and began to walk out in to the desert.

Dean hung back a moment. He looked over at Sam. “Last time we tried this, didn't end too well, I guess.” Sam sighed.

They walked for what seemed like hours in the bright sun. Dean checked his watch and realized it was only half an hour. He was unfamiliar with this territory, and that put him on edge.

“This is it,” Sam finally said. “This is where Jess found me.” Cecilia appeared to be getting excited, although Dean wasn't really certain. She was skittering around in circles, kind of like a dog would do. If you had a dog with twenty legs and tentacles that is. And then she dashed away.

“Alfie! Wait!”

Dean turned to see Sam running off after Cas’s little brother, who had in turn set off after Cecilia when she suddenly bolted. “Everybody, stay put!” Dean yelled.

As Dean ran after Sam and Alfie, he noticed Jo had thrown protective arms out blocking both Inias and Kevin from going forward. Maybe Kevin has a chance after all, he thought.

He crested a dune in time to see Sam tackle Alfie to prevent him from disappearing down a hole in the middle of a small rock formation. “Cecilia!” screamed Alfie, who was clawing at Sam's arm. “She's my friend!” he protested.

There was a distant rumble.

“Get up. Up on those rocks. Now!” shouted Dean, who was already climbing.

“But we wanna talk to the mommy!” protested Alfie.

“Yeah. From the outside this time. Sam!”

Sam had hefted Alfie over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and ran frantically towards the formation. There were already little hillocks forming in the sand at the bottom of the depression. Dean grabbed Alfie and pulled him up, and then held out a hand to Sam and dragged him up as well. Sam clambered to the top, and caught Alfie in a hug. But the boy seemed to have quit struggling, and was now gazing in awe at the boiling ground below.

The ground started to vibrate. “Fuck, it's a big one,” said Dean. “Everybody! Down!”

The insomnia had come upon Bobby Singer in his sixth decade of life. If he had been the philosophical type, he was not, he would have regarded it as perhaps karmic penance for a youth spent as someone who could fall asleep atop a mountain of rocks while a smith hammered nearby.

At three am, more or less, every night, and then continuing until the crack of dawn, his restless mind would awaken.

After a month or so of tossing and turning, Bobby, being the practical sort, had given up fighting the early morning restlessness, and instead used it as an opportunity for an early morning patrol of the grounds. It was a good time to catch lookouts on swing shift who had nodded off. It was actually a pleasant experience: Bobby loved kicking the snoozing bastards in the shin and seeing them fall all over themselves. Served them right for tossing back too many glasses of wine at dinner.

He thought he had found one, up on the north section of the roof. He trod carefully, so his boots wouldn't squeak and give away the game. This one seemed awfully still, actually.

Bobby crept closer and gave the guy's shoulder a good shake.

There was soft thud as he fell over.

“Soldier?” said Bobby softly.

He knelt down beside the man, and rolled him over. That's when he saw the bloody gash where the guy's neck had been slashed ear to ear.

“Balls.”

Fast as his aching legs could carry him he hurried down the stairs and then back up to the position of the next nearest sentry. He found the man slumped over, again with a gash to his throat.

He leaned over to examine the wound, touching a finger to the man’s neck. On the edges of the wound the skin was red and burnt, a sure sign of a blade that had been magicked.

Bobby’s mind reeled. He pushed down his regret over fallen comrades: time enough for that later. Somebody had penetrated their defenses with magic-powered weaponry. There might not be time to sound an alert. And they were present overstocked with civilians, but short-handed on troops. Especially with the Winchester brothers off on some bug hunt, he didn’t reckon they had the manpower for a full on battle right now.

Pushing down the panic rising in his belly, Bobby hurried back down into the building and towards John Winchester’s room. After a quick scan up and down the corridor, he knocked softly, and entered when he heard the muffled response from the other side of the door.

Bobby entered the darkened room. “John? We got a problem.”

“Yes. You do.”

Stars burst in Bobby’s field of vision, and he slumped to the floor as the world went black.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 9 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:37:09Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

“No dice, Sweet Cheeks,” said Pamela.

They were not half as drunk as Dean would have liked. At a certain point during the funeral banquet-turned-welcome-back-feast his curiosity had overcome him, and he had invited their new guests, Jessica and Pamela, back to his office for a debriefing. The Sapphire Fort! It was a day of miracles, and Dean was not one to believe in miracles. And better yet, they were evidently kinsmen to Josiah Moore, one of the Men of Letters.

Cas, who was now sitting cross-legged up on his desk, had thought to grab a bottle of wine from one of the tables. Which was one reason why, Dean reflected, he had come to love Cas. He allowed himself a brief, besotted look as Cas refilled his glass, and then turned to Pamela. Even though she was blind, he thought it polite to look her in the eye when they talked. But none of this seemed to be getting through that thick, psychic skull. “I just think, in light of what happened to our friend Ellen, that you guys would be safer here. For the time being.”

Pamela, who was sitting in the guest chair, snorted and held out her own glass. “Hit me, angel.” Cas obligingly hopped down and supplied more wine. “Look, bringing back your baby brother was the right thing to do. And I don't mind that my cousin here talked me into it. But I fucked up some of my protection and concealment spells when we left, so I need to get back to start putting everything right. We need to get back,” she added, pointing her face towards where Jess and Sam were sitting together on a small, ratty couch. They were sitting politely side by side, not touching, but Dean hadn't missed the fact that they had spent the evening basically being inseparable, dotted with the exchange of slightly silly glances. Well, he didn't blame Sam: as a rescuer, she was pretty damned cute. And she was brave, too, if she was riding around Enemy tunnels.

Dean leaned back and aimed his most charming smile towards Pamela's somewhat more rational cousin. “So, that's what you wanna do, Jessica: hustle back to your home. I mean, not that I blame you.”

“You can call me Jess.” Sam quickly smiled at her. “And, I dunno, Pamela. Maybe we should stay here, at least for a while?” Sam smiled again.

“Yeah, okay, they're overstocked on outrageously cute men here,” Pamela told her. Dean flinched. “But that's not gonna be much help when the shadow from the North descends. And mark my words, he'd coming.”

“Metatron?” asked Dean.

“Is that what he's calling himself these days? And he's not gonna be too pleased to find a witch.”

“Metatron is a magic user too,” Cas told her. He squinted across the room at her, head canted at a slight angle, as he did when he was confused.

Had she been sighted, Pamela probably would have rolled her eyes. “Yes, he is. Don't you get it? He wants to be the magic user. The only one. The guy's a hoarder.”

“That makes sense, Dean,” Cas told him.

Dean crossed his arms across his chest. “I dunno, why the hell should I believe you?”

“So what? Don't believe me. And let us go back, where I can keep us safe.”

“Pam, I don't think-” Jess started.

“Dean!” shouted Garth, swinging the door open wide. “It's in the kitchen! You gotta come! Now!”

“Oh, now what?” moaned Dean as Garth grabbed at his arm and attempted to wrest him up from his chair. Dean, along with Sam and Cas, nonetheless followed the nearly incoherent kitchen assistant down several flights of stairs and deep into the bowels of the kitchen.

They arrived at a dining hall where it looked like the entire staff of the kitchen had assembled. “What the hell is going on?” Dean barked.

“Crowley's in there,” said Kevin, pointing to one of the swinging double doors.

“And?”

Kevin gave him a funny half smile. “You could say … there's a bug in the soup.”

Dean shook his head and impatiently smashed through the doors and stalked into the kitchen. Where he suddenly pulled up short.

“Keep back, foul beast!” Crowley was shouting. He held a knife in each hand, and appeared to be yelling at one of the larger iron cauldrons where he kept his soup stock simmering.

And then a thin tentacle wove its way out of the pot, and then a very large bug head followed that.

“Holy fucking shit stay back!” said Dean. He looked around the kitchen and noticed a gaping hole in one of the walls. “Did it tunnel in here?”

“It would appear so,” said Cas, who went over to examine the hole.

“What the hell, Crowley?”

“I was creating my award-winning vegetable consommé when that monster came through my wall and started using my soup pot as a fucking bathtub. Get out of there, you mutant!”

Crowley emitted a high-pitched scream as the beast suddenly wriggled up the side of the soup pot, tipping it over and spilling prize-winning broth all over the floor. It continued its forward progression on many little legs until it stood in front of Sam, tentacles wriggling in anticipation.

“Stay back, Sam,” Dean warned.

But Sam noticed the electrical tape flapping on the back. “Dean. This one is mine.”

“What the hell?”

“This is the one Victor and I were helping. Hey,” he told it. “Did you follow me?” He extended a hand, and the creature reached out a thin tentacle, gently wrapping it around his arm.

Dean waved his arms. “Sam, what are you doing? Don't touch it!”

“Dean, I think it tried to help me.” Sam had sat down on the floor now. “It was brought me food, I think. Then I ran off, and it got worried. I mean, I feel like it's worried.”

“It's worried? Sam, I think maybe you spent too much time out in the sun.”

“No, Dean,” Cas interjected. “I think it's possible that your brother has developed some sort of empathic connection with this creature.”

“My brother can read the mind of a bug? Great.”

The creature unwound itself from Sam and then puttered back over to the spilled soup, where it drank lustily.

“So. It likes you, and it likes prize-winning consommé. What the hell do we do now?”

“I guess we need to get it back. But meanwhile.... I don't know. I guess we find some place it can't tunnel out of, and feed it soup?”

“God damn. Seriously? I'm den mother to a fucking Enemy?”

“Dean! Don't insult her.”

“It's a her? You can tell?”

Sam was brought up short. He stood, patting the creature on its carapace. “Um. Well, it seems to be female,” was all he could come up with.

“So. My brother is a bug psychic.”

“Ummm.” Cas was spending yet another late night at the smithy. Since hearing Pamela's warning, he had become obsessed with forging his magical gun. So Dean, bowing to the inevitable, came down here to be with him. Cas put a finger on the page he was currently reading and looked over at Dean. “You found a place for the creature?”

“They're keeping it penned up in a courtyard. One with a stone floor. We think it can't tunnel out, but nobody fucking knows. And Crowley gets to feed him soup. I think he's growing fond of the stupid thing. Either that, or he's planning it as a main course.”

“Probably the latter,” Cas muttered distractedly. He went back to tracing patterns in a steel barrel, Dean had spent hours watching him ream. Cas snapped it into the gun, and then snapped it back out again.

“Pamela is still bitching about taking off, though I think Jess is getting pretty bent on staying around. Think when my dad gets back he's gonna have to do another marriage parley. A Winchester and a Moore! He'll be all over that!”

“Your father: do you know where he went?”

“I dunno. Bobby claims he wanted to scare up Rev. Jim. I'm thinking he might be talking to Missouri again. Lord knows we could use the advice, but she's always so freaking vague.”

“Pamela is a quite powerful psychic.”

“She is?”

Cas nodded, staring intently at the part he was working on.

“Maybe I should consult her?”

“Maybe you should.”

Dean stared at Cas for a while. “I think you should go back to swords.”

“What? Why?”

“I like to see you work with your shirt off.”

Cas quite suddenly straightened up and stared at Dean. He paused, and then placed a marker in his book and carefully closed it. He strolled over to Dean, wriggled up into his lap, and kissed him.

“Now that is more like it,” sighed Dean. “Hey, wait, where are you going?” Cas had started to squirm out of his lap. Cas shrugged, and they kissed again, Dean now gripping his hair and pulling his head back for a better angle. Dean's hands strayed to Cas's shirt buttons. “Does this door lock?”

“Dean. You want to have sex … here?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

“Really?”

Dean pulled back a fraction. “Do you know how many dreams I've had about bending you over that forge?”

Cas appeared to run through this in his head. He turned to cast a puzzled look at the forge. Dean put his hands on Cas's head and gently turned it back. “I can show you. Does the door lock?”

Cas hopped up, and this time Dean didn't stop him. He went to the door and outstretched both arms towards it, palm facing out. He uttered some words, and the door clicked. “That's one of my strongest locking spells,” he explained. But then Dean caught him and kissed him, hands straying everywhere. He ran his hands down the back of Cas's thighs and tugged upwards, pulling Cas's legs around his waist. And then he backed him over so his ass was resting on the big metal anvil in the center of the room.

“This might prove … uncomfortable,” Cas told Dean, who was busy freeing Cas from his shirt.

Dean leaned over to whisper in his ear. “From now on, every time you go pounding on this anvil, I want you to remember me pounding you.”

Cas's eyes grew two sizes bigger.

In the end, as they were both willing but neither was an acrobat, they spent much of the time on the floor beside the anvil. But neither minded too much. To Dean's surprise, the words “Oh god I love you,” fell from his own lips as he climaxed. He worried for a moment as he gently lowered Cas's ankles from up over his shoulders and they both lay down together, but then decided that probably he had actually meant it.

Cas didn't reply, but simply snuggled into Dean's chest with a deep sigh. And then, oddly enough, he reached over and grabbed his book, flipping pages to where he'd laid the bookmark.

“Cas?”

“I had an idea for the etchings!”

“What?”

“On the barrel. But some will be on the stock I think.”

“That's what you were thinking about when we were … doing what we were just doing?”

Cas rolled back towards him, hair sticking up everywhere, pupils still wide as dinner plates. Dean pulled him nearer to kiss him, because it obviously had to be done. “I'm supposed to think about sex when I'm working now. So I'm also thinking about working during sex, correct?”

“Cas, you know you are really, really weird.”

Cas grabbed his underwear and pulled them on. “I want to make this gun for you, Dean. You're beautiful, and it will be beautiful too!” He tugged on his pants as well, and then, seeming to lose interest in clothing, grabbed the book and sat down, cross-legged, suddenly rapt at attention.

“Well. Okay.” Dean reluctantly rose as well and started getting dressed. He found what he ached to do was just grab Cas, book and all, and haul him back to their room, but he was somehow reluctant to interrupt whatever was going on.

“This room – does it feel different to you?”

Dean finished buttoning his shirt and considered the question. “Uh, different how?”

“I should have seen this before! The sigils: I can employ magic.”

“You can?”

But Cas had already scooped up the book and laid out the gun. It was all snapped together now. Still barefoot and shirtless, he stood before the anvil and held his hands over it.

“Cas, is that a good idea?” Dean wondered.

Like a man suddenly possessed, Cas spoke quietly and quickly, words in a strangely accented language. The gun fizzled and sparked as if it had just been hit with an electrical current, and then bright white-hot lines of current arced out from Cas’s fingertips. Cas seemed enveloped by an unearthly glow, his hair standing on end, his eyes wide and distant.

And then it was over, nothing left but the faint smell of ozone. Dean hurried over, Cas standing there, holding up the gun like it was a precious thing. He tilted it, and the light caught it.

“Holy shit,” said Dean, tracing out a careful finger over the surface. “God damn, that really is beautiful.” The entire piece was now dappled with hair-thin obscure markings. The effect was a little like tiny metallic scales. “I don’t understand. I didn’t think you could magick steel after it’s set.”

“It’s for you, Dean,” said Cas, as if that explained anything.

Dean shook his head and traced a hand along Cas’s back. “Thank you.” He stood in back of him, wrapping his hands around his waist, kissing his neck. “Just, enough for the night, okay? Let’s get back to the room.”

“Don’t you want to try firing it?”

Dean thought about it a moment, but Cas was already loading a bullet in the chamber. “Uh. Do you think we wanna do this outside?”

“Stand back,” said Cas, who had lined up a shot towards the thick exterior wall.

“Uh, this is magical, so you’re not sure what it’s gonna do, right?”

“It’s going to shoot, Dean.” Cas squinted down the firing line. And pulled the trigger.

The outer wall cracked as the bullet went through.

“Cas!” shouted Dean.

Suddenly the room sizzled as the fire in the forge suddenly flared up, red and orange. Cas stepped back, gasping, throwing up an arm to protect his face from the great heat.

And just as quickly as it had flared, the fire died back.

Dean had his arms wrapped protectively around Cas. “You OK?”

“I…. I think I’m all right. I think I may have enchanted the gun more than I realized.”

“Cas. From now on, we test the magical gun outside.”

Cas nodded, and they headed out, back to Dean's room, and safety.

“You guys don’t have anything here. Anything! I swear, how do you even do spells?”

Bobby was leading Pamela around the Red Fort, although he highly suspected his own superfluousness in the matter. Despite the opaque cataracts covering her eyes this one always seemed to know exactly where she was. She even had opinions regarding Winchester brother was the most attractive. “We got ya everything on your list, why the bellyaching?”

“This doesn’t seem like a Podunk operation. There’s stuff you want at your fingertips.”

“The head honcho ain’t much on magic.”

“John Winchester?”

“Dean Winchester. The honcho who’s actually around.”

“Oh. So why is he involved with a bladesmith? Those guys do magic, or so I've heard.”

“I don't know. Kids these days, they do what they want.”

Pamela smirked and pushed her dark glasses up on her nose as Bobby opened the door for her.

“Hey, Pamela, we think we got everything for you,” Sam said nervously, pointing to a table stacked with odds and ends, and dominated by a large, shallow bowl. He was there with Jess, along with Dean and Castiel. Dean was leaning against the wall, checking his watch.

“You brought too many good-looking men,” said Pamela with a grin, tapping a flustered Sam on his cheek. “Might be distracting.” She stopped in front of Castiel. “You. You're not gonna be the monkey wrench, are you?”

“I'm sorry?” Cas turned a confused glance at Dean.

“Why would he mess you up?” Dean asked her. “And … how would he mess you up?”

“He's got power leaking out his ears, and you ask this? Huh. But that's right, you don't believe in mumbo jumbo, do you?”

Dean checked his pocket watch again. “You said you'd show us what you'd seen. Can we get on with it?”

There followed an interlude of Pamela barking orders regarding arranging candles and various herbs to her satisfaction. And then she told them, “Get around the table. I'm gonna need everybody to join hands so I can make use of your energy.” just put Dean in an even worse mood. He sat between Pamela and Castiel, enjoying the feeling of taking Cas's callused hand in his own. He ran a thumb over Cas's palm. “No funny business, you two,” Pamela scolded, thoroughly confused Cas.

Pamela closed her sightless eyes and spoke some soft words. Dean looked around nervously as the candles – the room's only illumination – slowly dimmed.

A light bloomed in the middle of the wide serving dish. The water rippled and then, to Dean's amazement, it bubbled up to create a strange, transparent structure that looked awfully like….

“The Red Fort!” said Sam. “It’s us!”

“Shh! Concentrate,” Pamela scolded.

Sam looked abashed. Dean smiled at his brother, glad that for once he wasn’t the one in trouble.

“I want to see what he’s up to,” Pamela ordered. “Show me Lucifer.” She shut her eyes and concentrated.

The air in the room was electric. Then Dean swore he felt a whoosh of air. The candles sputtered, and the watery image of the Red Fort spun out of view. The effect was disorienting at first, until Dean realized he was getting a bird’s eye view of the surrounding territories.

“That’s the wrong direction. That’s not where the Onyx Fort is located!”

“Shhh!” hushed Jess.

Dean saw it in the “distance.” It looked like steam was rising. “That’s smoke,” Bobby whispered, and Pamela didn’t chide him for it.

The image pulled into the center of the table. Some people around the table let out gasps. Dean pressed forward to see what they were looking at. It was the Emerald Fort. Or at least, it had been. Part of the wall had literally crumbled, and there was a great pit in the ground nearby.

“But that’s not possible.” It was Jess speaking.

Pamela turned to face her cousin. “Of course it’s possible. This is the truth.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Bobby muttered.

“All right guys, I’m getting tired” Pamela told them. “Is there anything else?”

“Lawrence!” said Cas. Dean looked at him and nodded. “I want to see my home.”

Pamela sighed. “I’m not sure if I have the energy. I’ll try. Everybody, fucking concentrate now.”

Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s hand and actually made an effort. The view retreated again, and now swept to the coastline and off, gliding up the Narrow Sea towards the North. Dean glimpsed something along the coastline: it looked like a shipwreck. He wanted to ask Pamela to stop, but Cas looked worried, so he shut up and watched the sea go by. It was strange, he could have sworn he smelled salt spray, though it was probably his imagination.

And then they had reached a rocky coastline, waves chopping onshore, a Northern town perched above. Dean watched in fascination. He hadn’t seen so many buildings all in one place before. And it was so chaotic! It was like someone had dropped a box of blocks on the ground and just arranged the neighborhood like that.

“That’s my smithy,” said Cas, as they hovered over a small, neat building at the edge of town. “My home is out of town, up along the coast.”

“I know, don’t get pushy.” The effort seemed to be wearing on Pamela now. Dean could feel the sweat on her palm. The view shifted up the coast. Cas was leaning forward, as if he could see ahead. Dean smiled. Cas’s house was along a pleasant, wooded trail. He imagined Cas and his brothers walking along the cliffs near the seaside.

And then they came to a spot where the trees thinned. Cas gasped. Dean strained to look at the watery image. Yes, there was a foundation there. There had been a house.

Cas’s chair made a terrific crash as it fell to the floor, and Dean felt his hand tear away. The circle broken, the water splashed back into the bowl and Pamela took a breath. She sunk down, head in her hands. “Fuck,” she muttered.

Dean spun around.

“No,” whispered Cas. And then he fled the room.

“Wait! Cas!” Dean took off after him. He looked up and down the corridor, but then made a guess and ran up a staircase. He found Cas on the roof, crumpled in the corner, eyes red-rimmed.

“My brothers,” he told Dean.

“Cas. Your brothers are okay. All right. Listen to me. It’s just the house….”

“They destroyed everything!”

“Look, we don’t even know if that hoodoo bullshit is accurate. They showed the Emerald Fort destroyed. No way that’s gonna happen. Not in a million years.”

“What if it’s true? What if Samandriel and Inias.... What if they're dead?”

“Then they would have killed you along with them!”

“It should have been me instead.”

“Cas! No! You’re not gonna do this! We’ve got Benny looking for them. He’s gonna keep looking.”

“How? The Lovely Andrea is wrecked.”

Dean paused. So Cas had seen it too? “You’re going to keep up hope. All right? Remember they all thought Sam was dead, right? We had a funeral and a coffin and someone playing the fucking cello!”

“That was Kevin. You should know him.”

“Yeah, I know him. Kevin playing the fucking cello.” He wrapped his arms around Cas, hoping for another miracle.

“Come on, Cas,” Jo urged. “Jess has been teaching me.”

Cas looked up dubiously at the animal. “Don’t they make horses in … a smaller size?”

Jess, who was already mounted, looked at Jo and smiled. “You’re from the North, Cas, but you don’t ride?”

“I haven’t had the occasion. I’ve ridden in a horse cart.”

“It’s a great way to get around!” said Jess. “Really superior to cars in a lot of ways. You should ask Pamela.”

“I’ve found Pamela to be rather … opinionated,” Cas told them.

“She rides. And she can’t even see,” said Jess.

Cas sighed deeply. He had sword-making to oversee, and he needed to mold more bullets for his revolver prototype. But Dean had practically ordered him to go along on this outing. Cas suspected Dean was trying to cheer him up, since he had admittedly been in a dismal mood since Pamela had shown them her vision of Lawrence. Although, as Dean said, there wasn’t really much he could do for his brothers, he was still worried sick about them.

“I’ve heard there’s a crawly-bug hidey hole around here, so we’ll go look,” said Jo.

Cas was pulled out of his reverie. “Your intent is to approach where the Enemy has been sighted?”

Jess reined in her horse, had gotten impatient. “They don’t go after horses the way they’re attracted to engines. We’ll be fine. I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

Cas shook his head, decided he had might as well surrender to these two madwomen and the probability of certain death at the hands of the Enemy. Then when he didn’t come back…. Well, Dean would be sorry then!

“No, not that side, this side,” Jo told him as he gripped the saddle.

“Why?”

Jo huffed. “Because that’s the way you do it.”

“Horses can tell left from right?”

“They’re not stupid like certain people!”

Cas let Jo help him get situated up on the saddle while Jess watched, an expression of dry amusement on her face. And then they were off, Jess up ahead, Jo riding beside him and giving a constant patter of advice and gossip. “Sammy said he saw rubies! I wouldn’t mind finding some of those. No, sit up straight. Yeah, like that. Oh, I was reading one of your sword books and saw this amazing stiletto! Heels down! And relax your knees, you don’t wanna have him in a death grip.”

“There is something I don’t understand,” said Cas.

“Like, everything about riding?” Jo asked him.

“The Enemy are supposed to be hoarders. But there are no ruby mines in the vicinity. Where are they finding their troves?”

“Hey, that’s a good question!” said Jess, who held back to ride side by side with Cas. “I’ve been poking around the holes for a good long time, and I’ve found some pretty strange stuff. Like something called zirconium.”

“What the heck is zirconium?” Jo asked. “It sounds like a flower.”

“It looks like a diamond. I thought I had struck it rich, until I took it to a gemologist. But I’m not sure why the heck it was gathering it.”

“Do you ever find manufactured goods in the stash? Like coins? Or blades? Anything like that?”

Jess pulled a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and looked thoughtful. “You know, I don’t think I have.”

“You wanna find a treasure trove of swords?” Jo asked him.

“What are you thinking, Cas?” asked Jess.

Jo pointed excitedly. “Hey, what’s that up there?” She spurred her horse and charged ahead.

“Jo! Be careful, dammit!” Casting an apologetic glance at Cas, Jess took off after Jo.

“What is that?” Cas asked himself, holding onto the mane as his horse too suddenly bolted. And then, “Wait, who is that? I recognize him!”

“What the hell happened, Creevy?” Bobby asked.

“What is it with you picking up naked men in the desert?” asked Pamela.

“This one wasn't naked,” Jess pointed out. “And we had Cas with us.”

“I wasn't naked!” said Sam as Cas looked, confused, towards Jess.

“I wanna know what he was doing wandering around in the desert!” said Dean.

“All right, all right!” said the Doc, ashes flicking down from his cigarette as he waved his hands. “This man is my patient right now, and I need you all to go and fuck off.”

The party in question, Creevy, who was sitting on an exam table wrapped in a tattered blanket, tilted his dirty head and mumbled something.

“What was that?” asked Dean, who stopped as the others began to file out of the room.

“It's all gone. All of it. It's all gone. The Emerald Fort.”

“Hate to say I told you so,” Pamela cracked as Bobby led her away.

Dean glared at Creevy, and then departed as well. Sam and Cas were both in the corridor, waiting for him.

“Dean, you have any idea where Dad's gone to this time?”

“Am I supposed to keep track of him now?”

Sam glanced uncertainly at Cas, who was looking especially miserable. “If Pamela's vision was true...” he started. “I mean, sorry, Cas....”

“You don't need to apologize to me, Sam. I knew there wasn't much hope for my brothers.”

“Cas, they're still out there, dammit,” Dean insisted. “And, yeah, Sam, I know, we gotta send scouts out to see the other forts. If the Emerald Fort is really gone, then who the hell knows who's left.”

“Dean!” shouted Kevin. He was running down the corridor, breathless.

“Oh, great, it's Mr. Bad News. Don't you have dishes to wash?”

“I'd rather be on lookout than dealing with Crowley,” Kevin puffed. “There's people coming.”

“What people?” asked Dean.

“Armed?” asked Sam, as he and Dean exchanged a worried look as they followed Kevin, racing towards one of the lookout towers up on the roof.

“If they're an army, they're the most ragtag group of motherfuckers I've ever seen,” Victor yelled down from the tower.

“Are they coming from one of the other forts?”

“They're coming from the coast, looks like.”

“What the fuck?” Dean muttered to Sam. “No roads out that way, or I'd get the car and go myself.”

“You want, I could ride out with Jess,” Sam offered.

Dean looked his brother up and down skeptically. “Will Jess be okay?”

“Jess will be fine! It's me you need to worry about.”

“She is a very accomplished rider, Dean,” Cas assured him.

“Go,” said Dean, just as Victor, who had been climbing down the ladder from the watch tower, reached the bottom.

“What are you still doing here, kid?” Victor asked Kevin.

“You asked me to hang out here!”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Dean told him. “And put everybody on alert.”

“Alert for what?”

“They're either gonna be preparing a welcome banquet, or using all those new knives for something else.”

As it happened, the group of people straggling along towards the Red Fort was not an army. At least they didn't consider themselves as such.

“Benny!” yelled Dean as he embraced the big vampire, pounding on his back. “What the hell are you doing so far from the water?”

“You might ask me what the blazes I'm doin' in the sun,” Benny huffed, peeking out from under his improvised keffiyeh. “This weather ain't exactly conducive to my naturally fair complexion.”

Dean looked back at the many figures trailing behind. “We'll get you some shade. We'll get all of you inside. What the hell happened?”

“We were waylaid. Along with your new shipment of steel. Goddamn pirates!”

“Then Pamela's vision was correct again,” said Cas, who was glumly standing beside Dean.

“Cas! I didn't see you standing there, friend! I brought some individuals who would like to see you. Come on over here!” Without waiting for a reply, Benny grabbed Cas's arm and dragged him back to see a party of three people walking together. There were two tall people, man and woman, and a child.

The tall man tore off his scarf to reveal a dark-haired teenager. “Castiel!”

Cas stared in disbelief, and then rushed forward to cup the young man's cheek. “Inias! I thought you were lost.”

“It's a long story.”

Cas peered into his brother's eyes. “I've been so worried....”

Inias looked as if he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. “Alfie! Say hi!” he urged.

Cas fell to his knees before the child. “Alfie?” he asked. Inias helped the boy peel back the outer layers of his scarf. “Sammy!” he cried, recognizing his little brother.

The boy glared at him and stubbornly crossed his arms. “Alfie,” he stated.

Cas looked up at Inias in confusion. Inias hunkered down beside his brother. “Metatron. He sent us to another town to live under assumed names. I guess Sammy got used to his, since he'll only answer to Alfie now.”

“Alfie?” said Cas.

“You left us,” said Samandriel flatly, glaring at Cas.

“No! No, you know I would never do that!”

“Of course we know,” Inias told Cas. “Benny told us the story. He said you came against your will.” The brothers shared an uneasy look.

“I should have looked for you.”

“It's all right. We understand.”

“Inias, it's true,” said Dean, who had been hovering nearby. He held out his hands. “We had him kidnapped.”

“Oh,” said Inias. He straightened up, now flashing his eyes at Dean. “It was you?”

Dean smiled. “Yeah. Maybe it was a dick move-” But whatever he was going to say next was lost when Inias leapt over and socked him in the jaw. Dean stumbled back, lost his balance, and fell to his knees.

“Inias!” shouted Cas, pulling his brother back. Inias stood, breathing hard and clenching his fist.

“You're all right,” Benny told Dean, hauling him to his feet.

“Inias! Apologize,” demanded Cas. “Now!”

“No.” Dean rubbed his jaw. “I probably deserved that.”

“Lookit,” said Samandriel eagerly, pulling something from his pocket.

“Gah! Get back,” shouted Dean when he saw Samandriel pull out a little golden scorpion. “Those things are poisonous.”

“It's all right,” Cas told him. “Samandriel – I mean Alfie – has a way with bugs.” Dean watched in fascination as Cas's small brother reverently petted the little scorpion, and then it obediently hopped back into its matchbox.

“Well, I see some things haven't changed,” said Cas, putting a hand through Alfie's sandy hair. Alfie irritably flinched back from him, and Cas looked sad.

“Some things have changed,” said the female member of the group.

“Go ahead and reveal yourself, darlin',” said Benny, who was wearing a grin.

Cas took a step back, hand on his sword hilt. “Naomi,” he whispered as she pulled off her head scarf.

“It's all right!” Inias told him. “She's with us now.”

Naomi had balled her hands into fists. “I want. To kill. Metatron,” she stated.

Cas looked at Inias. He nodded. “Yes. We will do that.”

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 8 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:35:36Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Dean, his hands bound behind him, sat in angry silence on Rufus's floor.

“Suppertime!” said Rufus brightly, coming into the room holding a basket.

“You're going to feed this scumbag, Rufus?” said Dean, who glowered over at the yellow-eyed man.

“A little kidnapping among friends is no excuse to go hungry,” said Rufus. He held up the basket. “I just gotta go out and get some eggs.”

“Isn't it a little late for laying?” asked the yellow-eyed man suspiciously.

“Got me some lazy chickens,” said Rufus. “Am I dismissed?”

The yellow-eyed man glared at Rufus. “Belphegor,” he told his companion. “Go with him. Keep him out of trouble.”

His chubby friend, brandishing his shotgun, nodded to Rufus, and they both left through the back door. Dean kept up his stare at the yellow-eyed man, who smirked and went back to his book.

Cas, who was sitting beside Dean, also bound by ropes, looked over in concern. “Do you know this person, Dean?” Cas whispered.

“Cas,” said Dean, a little too loudly. “Meet Azazel. Please meet the man who murdered my mother in cold blood.”

“Oh,” said Cas his eyes gone wide.

Azazel glanced over from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, leafing through a large picture book. “So, you two planning a vacation?” he asked, holding up a picture of Venice and snickering.

“That is Venice! You should have more respect!” thundered Cas. He moved as if to scramble to his feet, but Dean leaned over and nudged him, shaking his head. Cas glowered.

“You still working for Lucifer?” asked Dean.

“I work for whoever pays me the most,” said Azazel. “And finding Alexandria will pay a pretty penny. Everybody's gone fucking nuts for these books for some damn reason.” He slapped the Venice book closed and dumped it on the floor, earning an actual low growl from Castiel.

Azazel crouched down and cupped Cas's chin with his hand. “And they'll pay more if I come back with a bladesmith, I think.”

It was Dean's turn to growl. “You're not touching him.”

“And your head on a platter,” said Azazel, reaching over and ruffing Dean's hair.

There was squawking and shouting coming from outside.

“What the hell?” asked Dean.

Azazel stood and stared, but the widows were dusty and grimy and it was difficult to see in the darkness. He grabbed his shotgun and pointed it at Dean and Cas. “Don't you move,” he warned them.

Sam awoke in the now familiar darkness.

He rose up to a sitting position and wondered how long he had been out. There was no way of telling in the perpetual dimness. How long had he been gone? How long since the creatures … took him?

He noticed there were brand new branches now in the room. Hell, this time they'd dragged in what looked like an entire bush. These were rich with berries, so he took advantage and crammed as many as he could find into his mouth.

“All right, time to get going,” he told himself. Using the wall to steady himself he lurched up into a standing position.

His badly torn pants rapidly fell down around his ankles. Sam cursed and, with some effort, bent down and pulled them back up, managing to get them tied around his waist so at least his ass wasn't hanging out. He dug into a pocket and with some relief found his lighter was still there. Breaking off some of the dry branches from the bush, he twisted them together and lit the end with the lighter, creating an improvised torch.

Holding his breath, he edged along the wall to the doorway of his chamber. Fortunately, the little glowing worms were crawling everywhere, so there was a bit of dim illumination in addition to his flickering torchlight.

He looked up and down the main tunnel. Seeing no obvious way to an exit, he chose the direction that seemed to be sloping upwards. He walked, barefoot, slowly along the cave, every moment watching and listening for the sound of creatures approaching, tracing his fingertips along the walls. He wondered as he walked if the cave formations were natural. As they knew the beasts were great burrowers, he thought it was possible this had all been created by the Enemy.

But why hadn't he been killed? It nagged at him. And it looked an awful lot like the little one was trying to feed him. The strangest thing was that he seemed to sense an intelligence. It was like it wanted to communicate with him.

It was nothing like he'd been led to expect.

Progress was slow, as he was still weak, and he froze, pushing himself against the wall every time he heard - or thought he heard - a noise.

He turned around another blind bend and stopped. There was something on the floor of the cave. He crept forward and knelt down, squinting in the flickering light of his torch. Even in the dimness he recognized them: they were diamonds. They were all lying at the entryway to another small chamber, like the one he had been in. He drew nearer to the doorway and peeked inside.

The entire chamber was filled with piles of diamonds.

He walked on, now stopping whenever he saw a doorway to a side cave. There was another chamber that appeared to be piles of gold. And another of silver. Emeralds. Rubies. Sam gawped. He had heard the creatures collected precious stones and metals. The bug's hoard. It was a bedtime story they told you as a kid. But the legends were all true. The legends, actually, had no fucking clue. He was Aladdin, trapped in the treasure-filled cave.

And then he saw it: a slanting of sunlight.

Checking once again up and down the corridor, he broke into a clumsy shambling run towards the end. He careened around a bend and then slowed as the angle of the floor went from a gentle slope to a good forty-five degree grade. He emerged, gasping for breath, underneath the harsh desert sun, but he did not stop running. He loped and stumbled and dragged up and down the dunes, until the cave entrance was no longer in sight.

And the he collapsed, breathing hard, completely exhausted, and with, he realized, utterly no idea where he was.

The cabin's back door burst open and Rufus stood there, a terrified look on his face. “Come quick! It's a goddamn gator got your friend!”

Azazel, still holding a gun on Dean and Cas, appeared indecisive for a long moment, but finally headed towards the door, telling Rufus, “Watch those two!” He glared back at Dean and Cas. “I'll be back!” he declared, and stomped out the door.

Rufus watched him go, and then, grabbing a knife, calmly crouched down and began to cut Dean and Cas free.

“Rufus? What the hell?” said Dean as he rubbed his wrists.

“My apologies, boys. I had to make damn sure those guys weren't being followed.” He flicked the knife, and Cas, too, was free. “Now, if I were you, I'd get in your car and get your asses out of here.”

There was a scream and a gunshot from out back.

“You need us to help, Rufus?” asked Dean.

Rufus smiled wide. “No, I think Lulabelle has got them taken care of.”

“Lulabelle?” asked Dean.

Rufus's smile got wider, and he nodded towards his back door. Dean and Cas glanced at each other and then headed over, carefully opening the door.

“Oh, uh yeah.” Dean slammed the door shut. He looked a little nauseous.

“That is a very big alligator, Rufus,” said Cas.

“Needed something to protect my chickens from the other gators,” Rufus told them proudly. “Plus, she has other uses. Now, like I said, I think you boys should clear out.”

He didn't need to ask twice.

A horse?

No, it couldn't be.

He was hallucinating. Half-crazed and hallucinating.

And then there was a shadow.

Sam put his hand up over his eyes.

“You're a long way from home.”

The voice was female. He lowered his hand and looked up a her.

Beautiful. A halo of blond hair. An angel.

He was obviously hallucinating.

“Hello? Hey, stay with me!”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Dean had been quiet since the escape from Rufus's place, sitting in the driver's seat, staring at the road ahead.

“That man, Azazel....”

“He killed our mom.”

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

Dean stared at the road for a long time. “Dad was away. Because he was always away. Even back then. And Sammy was just a baby. We're still not sure what happened. Not even to this day. And, I guess, with Azazel in Lulabelle's digestive system, maybe we'll never know.”

The traveled in silence for a time. “Did you...? Did you see it?” Cas finally asked, his voice soft.

“She was trying to use magic! Against a sword, Cas.”

Castiel considered for a while. “Your mother was very powerful. That's what Sam told me.”

“I thought so. I guess we all thought so.”

“Dean. Do you remember what she said? The words?”

Dean seemed far away. He started to speak, stammering the words....

Cas nodded. “I recognize that one. It's not aggressive magic, though.”

“Huh?”

“That's a protective charm. A very powerful one. It's similar to the protective charms I use when forging certain blades.”

“What?” Dean seemed to snap out of a trance. “A protective charm?”

“Yes.”

“I thought she was kicking his ass.”

“She was casting protective magic around you and Sam. As a parent, that sounds like a reasonable thing to do. Dean!” This last was shouted as the car veered off the road and came screeching to a halt at the edge of the asphalt. “Dean?”

Dean was hunched over the wheel, his body trembling. Cas extended a hand cautiously and lightly touched Dean's shoulder. “I always thought...” Dean whispered, the words choked out.

“She wanted to keep you safe. You and your brother.”

Dean's eyes were wet. “I'm sorry, Cas. I'm being an idiot. I know you lost your mom too.”

“You still have your family. Your father. And Sam.”

“And you.” Dean cupped Cas's jaw, stroking a thumb down his cheek. “And we'll find your brothers too. I swear.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean wiped his eyes on a sleeve and looked ahead. “Hey, is that smoke up there?”

“You found him where?”

Jess sighed and rolled her eyes, even though her cousin couldn't see.

“I told you, Pammy. He was out in the middle of nowhere.”

Pamela snorted and considered the large man now occupying Jessica's bed. Though she couldn't see, there were other ways of perceiving. He was unconscious, and his feet hung over the edge. “How is it you go out, you find naked men?”

“He's not all naked! Come on, tell me how he is.”

Pamela blinked sightless eyes and held her hands about a foot or so up over the injured man, brushing them along as if she were measuring something. “Dehydrated. Some minor malnutrition. And he needs pants! But otherwise, you scored a good find. He's been stung, but that's already going down” She shrugged. “He might be itchy.”

“So let him sleep it off?”

“Yeah, basically, and see where the hell you get shoes for feet that size.”

Jess snickered. “He is kinda cute,” she whispered, leaning over and draping her arms over Pamela's shoulders. “Is he nice?”

Pamela stiffened. “You know that's intruding.” She turned her head towards Jessica. “But, yeah.”

Dean knew something was wrong. They saw the trail of smoke from miles away. “It can't be,” he kept repeating to himself.

Cas stayed quiet. With much regret, he remembered their conversation in Alexandria about forgetting everything and heading off in the opposite direction. They were traveling right back to their cares and woes, Dean to protecting his territory from Lucifer and the more literal monsters, as well as whatever Metatron had in mind. And Cas still needed to find his family: his brothers seemed more remote to him with each day that passed.

“God damn,” said Dean when they drew so close he could no longer deny it. The desert outpost was gone: what little was left of it was now on the edge of a great crater, and the remains had been burnt to the ground. They exited the car and walked around, but there was nothing but already charred, twisted wood. And no sign of survivors. No Ellen. No Jo.

“The Enemy hit here?” asked Cas.

“Yeah, the Enemy. But it looks like they had some help.” Dean traced his fingers over the blackened remnants of a door, and Cas saw the markings, as if it had been hit with a sword.

There was no trace of the Harvelles or any living soul. Cas toed through some of the ashes and then bent down to uncover an item. He picked it up. It was Jo's book of armaments, the one he had spent a pleasant afternoon leafing through not so long ago. He pulled it to his chest, not certain why he was feeling so miserable: he had only met these people just the once.

“Let's go,” Dean told him. “We have a lot of miles, and I want to try to get home before nightfall.”

Cas nodded and, still clutching Jo's book, made his way back to the car.

Sam blinked. Daylight!

“I'm not blind!” he whispered.

“Good for you, Sweetcheeks,” came a voice. A female voice.

Sam struggled to sit up. He was on a bed. A nice, comfy bed. And staring into the obviously blind eyes of an attractive brunette. She was sitting in a chair near his bedside, knitting. “Uh. Hello?”

“Water?” she asked, gesturing towards a glass.

“Oh yeah,” said Sam. He grabbed the glass and downed the contents in one long gulp. “Thanks, uh...?”

“Pamela. And you might be-? Not that I mind calling ya Sweetcheeks.”

“Sam.” Oddly, though she was obviously unable to see, Pamela was faced in his direction. And then he remembered. “Uh, are you the one-?”

She grinned. “No, I'm not the one. Wait a minute. Hey, Jess!” she shouted. “Sleeping Beauty has awakened.” She turned back towards Sam. “Your Princess Charming is on her way.”

“Hey.”

Sam turned to the doorway, where a breathtaking blonde had just arrived, pink-cheeked and slightly out of breath.

Sam felt a bit out of breath himself.

“Sam, this is Jessica. My cousin. Jess-”

“Hi!” said Jess.

“Hi,” said Sam. “I- I thought you were an angel.”

And then they continued staring, a little dopily, at each other.

“OK you guys, knock it off!” Pamela barked, clapping her hands. “Jess, he's been on his ass for a while, why don't you take him to get something to eat?”

Sam was up out of bed. “Hey, steady,” cautioned Jess as he tottered a little bit. “You fall down, you'd crush us both!” She caught his arm, draping it over her shoulders, and led him out of the room while Pamela stayed behind, snorting with laughter and continuing to knit.

Sam and Jess walked down a broad corridor for a time in silence. They finally stopped a room that had been turned into an improvised kitchen. It had a cooler and hot plates, all hooked up to a small generator. It was sunny in this part of the building: not because of windows, but because part of the structure had crumbled away, and the hallway was partially opened to the outside.

“What is this place?” Sam asked, peering over a broken wall.

“This was the Sapphire Fort.”

“What? This is the seventh fort?”

“Was is the operative term,” said Jess. She had pulled a pitcher from the cooler and handed Sam a glass of iced tea. Sam self-consciously hitched up the too-short knit pants he was wearing. “There wasn't a whole lot left of your clothes,” Jess told him.

“Bug blood ate it away I guess.”

“What the hell were you doing wandering around in my desert?” Jo asked.

“Your desert, huh? I'm from the Red Fort.”

“The Ruby Fort, you mean?”

Sam laughed. “We never call it that, but yeah.”

“Is it still run by the Winchester family?”

“Is that good or bad?” asked Sam, tilting his head.

“Good, I guess. Our founder was reputed to be friends with Henry Winchester. They were both Men of Letters.”

“Henry Winchester! My great-great-several-greats-grandpa. He was supposed to be an interesting guy. They say I take after him. A little.”

Jess stopped and stared for a a moment.

“I thought you said Winchester were good?” asked Sam.

“You're Sam ... Winchester?”

“Yeah.”

Jess was silent. “Well. I suppose Pamela already knew. And didn't care.”

“And what about you? Are you the only ones here? And what the hell do you do out here?”

“It's just us, yeah. And the animals. There were more families still here when I was just a kid, but they've all left. But we get by. And Pamela has managed to lay down enough warding spells that we don't get bothered too often. That's why it was so strange finding you here. Pamela says she was scrying and saw you come out of a bug den!”

“It's true! The last thing I remember, Victor and I were patching up a bug-”

“Wait, you were helping a crawly-bug?”

“It was a little one. And it was wounded.”

“Wounded? That's strange. Those things are tough. Even the young ones.”

“Then the mom came, and next thing I know, I'm in Aladdin's cave.”

“Aladdin?” asked Jess, but Sam answered by pulling a diamond out of his pocket.

“There were whole rooms full of jewels and precious metals!”

“This isn't the biggest we've found,” said Jess, weighing it in her hand. “But it's pretty impressive.”

“Wait, you knew about the caves?”

“I can't say I've actually been inside. But if you know where an entrance is, you'll find stuff like this.”

“No shit?”

“You wanna see?”

“Sure! Man, wait 'til I tell Dean about this.”

Jess looked pained. “Dean is-?”

“My brother.”

“And he's back at the Ruby Fort.”

“Yeah. That's going to be a problem?”

Jess stared at him. “Yeah. That's gonna be a problem.”

“It was an agreement! It's lasted as long as anybody can remember. You don't screw with the outpost. Nobody screws with the outpost.”

“It appears that someone screwed with the outpost, Dean.”

“It's good we keep Alexandria a secret. Otherwise that would be a smoking ruin too.”

Cas gawped and clutched at the book that was open on his lap. When Dean had continued to drive in silence for many miles, Cas had taken to leafing through Jo's book. But now Dean was talking. He seemed to need to talk. “No. They wouldn't do that, would they?” The thought of all those books, gone....

“Watch them. Lucifer doesn't give a fuck about consequences. He just wants to hurt us.”

“I don't understand,” said Cas. And he didn't. He searched up ahead. “What is that?”

“I don't see.... Oh! Good eye. Well, I guess we'll find out when we get there. Get that thing off your lap and grab weapons.”

Cas carefully closed the book and stowed it under the seat, and then pulled out his sword. Dean stepped on the gas. He'd been nervously eyeing the fuel gauge since they left the outpost. They evidently had enough gasoline to get back, but just barely, so he had been driving a bit slower than he was used to in order to conserve fuel. Cas opened the glove compartment and dug out a pair of binoculars, and then tried to focus them in the shaking car. The question was now whether to slow down for the vehicle they had spotted up ahead, or to try to speed by.

Cas squinted, concentrating. “Well, what is it, Cas? Friend or foe?”

“Dean. Slow down.”

Dean was out of the car almost before it had come to a stop.

Ellen was so surprised she nearly didn't get her shotgun lowered in time for Dean to tackle her in a hug. “Ellen!”

Jo popped out from behind the truck and threw her arms around both of them.

“I don't believe it!” Dean gasped as he finally let them go. “I was sure you guys.... Well, we saw the outpost.”

Ellen nodded grimly. “I saw the smoke. We got a warning. Not even enough time to throw our shit into the truck. Or fill up the reserve. We just jumped in and drove until we ran low.”

“I lost everything,” whispered Jo, her eyes tearing up.

“Not everything,” said Cas. He held up the volume he had recovered. “I have your book of armaments.”

Jo put a hand on the book, and then had her arms wrapped tightly around Cas. “Thank you!” He awkwardly patted her on the back.

“We don't have enough to fill you up,” Dean told Ellen. “You guys wanna hitch a ride with us?”

Ellen and Jo transferred their few possessions into the Impala, and they set off once again. Cas thought it would be polite to ride in back with Jo, but was startled when she curled up against his shoulder after a few miles and drifted off to sleep. But then – maybe influenced by the soft sound of Jo's contented snoring – Cas too fell asleep a few miles on.

“That's just cute as hell,” said Ellen checking the rear view mirror. “So how is our friend, the librarian?”

“Feisty as ever,” said Dean. “And we were followed.”

“How the hell did they do that?”

“Not sure.”

“Seems like there's some terrible magic afoot lately,” said Ellen. They drove in silence for a while. “I suppose I'm not supposed to ask what you boys were doing in Alexandria?”

“Cas thought he could find some ways to improve his techniques. He's been making swords for us, Ellen. And … he's amazing.”

“There's a lot of magic around a forge,” Ellen said evenly.

“He's good. He's like Sam. He's like....”

“Like your mom?”

Dean bit his lip. “I don't trust that stuff.”

“I know you don't, kid.” She glanced back and Cas and Jo. “So, what does your dad make of this? You said he was back.”

“Me and Cas?” Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. “He was trying to get me married off!”

Ellen covered her mouth when she laughed so she wouldn't wake Cas and her daughter.

“It's not funny, Ellen!”

“Aw, c'mon, Dean! He's cute as a button. Jo would be all over him.”

“I've got responsibilities, Ellen. And so does he.”

“You need to be a good leader. That means looking out for your family. Lonely men are rotten leaders, Dean.”

Dean sighed. He glanced at Ellen. “He's not a rotten leader, Ellen.”

“I wasn't talking about your dad.”

“Yes you were.” He eyed her again. “I just think after Mom died.... I don't think he thought he could do the whole family thing any more.”

“So he left you boys to Bobby.”

Dean was silent for a moment. “Maybe if you guys had been at the fort, you and Jo....”

“The outpost needed tending.” Ellen looked back at her daughter. “And I needed some distance from that man.”

“That's a hell of a lot of distance!”

“Maybe someday you'll understand.”

“Absolutely not,” said Pamela.

“I'm sorry?” said Sam.

“You aren't going anywhere, Pretty Boy.”

“The name is Sam. And, yeah, I gotta get back to the fort. Everybody probably thinks I'm dead!”

“Then you won't be missed,” said Pamela.

“Look, Pamela. Be reasonable,” pleaded Jess.

“Jess, you remember how fucking long it took me to lay down all those warding spells? If we leave now, it's going to screw everything up for months!”

“But you could lay them again....”

“Not now, Jess. Not while Lucifer is going haywire!”

“Lucifer is always going haywire,” said Sam.

Pamela looked grave. “He's been using the Enemy for his attacks. I'm not sure how though.”

Sam's jaw dropped. “What are they doing?”

“The Emerald Fort: it's in ruins. I've seen it! And there's a bug crater below the main wall.”

“Then I really need to get back! I need to tell everybody!”

“I can't put us at risk! What's wrong with waiting here a few months until things die down? Then you can go back to the Ruby Fort.”

“Pamela, you don't understand! If I wait, there might not be a Red Fort!'

Dean knew something was badly wrong when Bobby and Victor rushed over to meet the car. Both of them looked ill with worry.

“We didn't know when you two would be back, son,” said Bobby quietly. “Ellen.” He tipped his hat.

“It was my fault,” said Victor.

“No, it wasn't,” Bobby snapped.

“And where the hell is my dad?” Dean demanded.

“He lit off. Dean, I'm sorry.”

Dean searched Bobby's face. “Sorry for what? Will someone tell me what you're sorry for?”

Bobby gripped Dean's shoulders. “It's Sam.”

Ellen pulled Jo in close. Cas stood silently by, holding his breath.

“What about Sam?”

“He was out with me,” Victor babbled. “It was Sam and me. Because Ash was still on the mend. We thought we need to keep up patrols, but we're short-handed....”

Bobby was still holding Dean's shoulders. “It was one of them. The Enemy.”

“He wanted to help,” Victor continued. “One of them was injured, and he wanted to help it, and then one of the big ones came....”

Dean's breath caught. “Where is Dad? Bobby, where the hell did he go?”

Bobby looked pained. “Dean, it hit him hard.”

Dean wrested himself from Bobby's grip. “So hard he didn't even stick around for the fucking funeral?”

“That's your father,” said Ellen softly. She was tearing up, and holding Jo close.

“I think he went to seek out Reverend Jim,” Bobby told Dean.

Dean shook his head. He turned and stormed away. He walked up the steps and kept walking until he reached a lonely section of the roof. And then he stood, breathing hard, fuming.

“I just need to be alone now, Cas.”

Castiel, who had followed him, nodded silently.

“Alone. Meaning alone.”

“Yes,” said Cas. “I'll be alone with you then.”

Dean laughed: a desperate, strangled sound. And then he went and engulfed Cas in a bone-crushing hug. “I don't understand you,” Dean told him. He wiped his eyes. He felt like killing something. He felt like taking a header off the roof. He felt like grabbing Cas and getting back in the car and going – just going. It was a million things. But the worst was the horrible feeling of nothing in the pit of his stomach. That was it? All the life Sam got to live?

“Magic,” said Lucifer. “More magic. That was the deal.”

“And in case you haven't been listening, I wanted you to catch a bladesmith and find me Alexandria. Neither of you seem to be able to achieve!”

Metatron's face was bluish, as it always was in Abaddon's scryings. But Uriel could imagine his face flushed red with fury. “What is your hurry?” Uriel asked, as pleasantly as he could muster. Abaddon shot him a glance, but he tried to avoid eye contact. The traitorous woman was starting to make sense to him, and this was something he needed to avoid. “You must understand, things move more slowly out here, in the desert.”

“Your parrot is squawking again.”

“But he asks a good question, Metatron,” said Lucifer.

Metatron stood up to his full height, unfortunately was not impressive. “You should be grateful, boy. I have elected to help you at present. Tomorrow, I could very well lend my help to aid someone else. Someone who gets things accomplished.”

“I need a concealment spell – a powerful one – if we're to attack the Red Fort.”

“Why won't my tactics work?”

“Believe me, they are more wily than that!” Lucifer huffed. “Metatron: give me the Red Fort, I will give you Alexandria. On a silver platter.”

The morning of Sam’s funeral dawned dim and grey.

Dean stood up on his favorite spot on the roof. He usually looked to the horizons, but today he could see nothing but the stones at his feet. “I should go to the fucking funeral. If Dad isn't there. Dammit. You'll come with me, right? They need to see me now.”

“Of course.”

Dean nodded. Cas had barely left his side these past couple of days. It had been a great comfort.

“Dean. Does this facility have mounted cavalry?”

“What? No.”

“Two riders are approaching.”

Dean ventured over to the edge of the roof, where Cas was now standing. “Oh, fuck. What now?” He looked at Cas. “We gotta get down there. More bad news!”

Dean led Cas down to the ground floor, to outside the fort's entryway. He immediately regretted this. There were so many people looking at him with pity in their eyes.

A coffin was up on an improvised dais. Behind the dais sat Kevin the kitchen boy, playing something really sad on a cello. Dean gawped at him. Kevin had a cello? When the hell had they dragged this fucking thing out to the fort? It seemed wasteful as hell.

Cas was looking at him expectantly. In fact, a whole lot of people were looking at him. Dean heaved a sigh and climbed up on the raised platform. He winced and, signaling Kevin to cut the dirge, looked into the coffin.

“Empty,” Kevin told him. “There.... I don't think there was a body?”

Dean shook his head and looked back over the crowd. “I think you guys want me to talk about my brother. Trouble is, I don't know where to even start. Maybe you guys could tell me. I know the world won't be the same. It's never gonna be-”

“Dean!”

Dean looked down to where Cas had been standing, but now he'd taken off running towards the mouth of the valley, as had several other people.

The riders Cas had spotted had now reached them. There was one horse in front and another in back tethered to the first horse.

The horse in front had two riders. The first was a lovely young girl.

The second was Sam Winchester, who slipped off rather awkwardly to stand unsteadily in front of his huffing brother.

Dean gawped at Sam, staring, unbelieving. “You're late,” Dean said at length. “You're late to your own fucking funeral.”

Sam smiled a lop-sided smile and hitched up the far-too-short pants tied around his waist. “Uh. Sorry?” But Dean had already gathered him in a hug.

“God dammit, Sammy. You gave us a scare! You gave me a scare.”

“What the hell?” said Victor, who was amongst the many people now gathered around the new arrivals. “I saw you taken!”

“I'm not exactly sure,” said Sam. He indicated the women he had arrived with. “Pam and Jess found me wandering around in the desert.”

“More like passed out in the desert,” cracked Pamela, blinking her odd, all-white eyes. “Hey, can we get something to drink here? I'm parched.”

“Crowley!” barked Bobby. “You prepared the funeral banquet?”

Crowley stepped forward, flanked by a couple of sous-chefs. “Yes, of course. Although I think now it will be more of a 'felicitations: he's not dead' banquet.”

“Well, you sit these gals at the head table. They brought our Sam back.”

Crowley, who broke into a small smile, courteously offered an arm to Pamela and led the women inside.

“Come on Sammy,” said Dean, who was beaming. “Let's go inside. We gotta get drunk.”

“Uhhh, could I get some pants first?”

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 7 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:33:44Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Inias spread out the book on his lap. Reading from 1,001 Tales of the South had become a little tradition with them, and he wanted to keep it. So much of their lives had been thrown into turmoil, first when their mother had passed away, when their father left them, and finally that terrible day when Castiel, who Inias thought of as ever loyal, had gone to see Metatron and never returned.

It had been a lot for him to take, and he couldn't imagine what effect it must have had on Samandriel. The boy had now withdrawn from most human contact, and contented himself with his strange little pets. One of his favorite things about the South was the notion that you could find tarantulas down there. Inias stifled a shudder. He'd gotten used to the insects, but a furry spider? That was a bit much.

“Inias, more pirates!” urged the boy, who was sitting on the floor watching what even Inias admitted was a rather pretty beetle scurry back and forth.

“All right,” said Inias. He turned back to the book on his lap. But just then there came a soft knocking at the door. “Let me get that,” he said irritably. He had no idea who would be about at this late hour. He was startled when he opened the door, a cold chill running down his spine. “Ion. Esper,” he said, greeting the grim henchmen. Without waiting for an invitation, Ion pushed past him and, along with Esper, stomped into the small cottage where the boys had been living these past few months. They talking around for a few moments, with much clattering and banging. Inias grabbed his brother, and, terrified, they both huddled in a corner.

Ion went back to the door. “It's all right,” he shouted to someone outside.

Inias held his breath as Metatron stomped inside. “Where is your brother?”

“I- I don't know,” said Inias, trying to clutch a squirming Samandriel. “So Castiel is still alive?”

“Of course. But I can no longer see him. Where has he gone?”

“I thought he had gone to the South?” Inias tried.

“I can't see him there! What kind of magic is he using?”

With a mix of hope and terror, Inias shook his head. Somehow, Metatron had been keeping track of Castiel! But what could have happened to him. Had he come back to Lawrence?

“You don't know the magic? He hasn't taught you?”

“I don't use magic, sir. It isn't allowed.”

“I know damned well it isn't allowed, you idiot. I'm asking if you know the spell!”

Dean had been quiet these past few miles. Cas was aware that they had to be on the lookout for people following him. And it was getting difficult to follow the roadway here, as there were so many routes blocked by water.

The terrain had changed some miles back, and it was much more to Castiel's liking, going from the rough desert to the well-watered environment he remembered from the North. But this was different from his home: they had gone from sparse vegetation to a riot of foliage, plants bursting out all over the place here, the ground gone mad with the sheer quantity of life.

The contrast between the fertile surroundings and Dean's mood was striking. Each time they stopped for water breaching the roadway, Dean would get out of the car and fret - for what seemed like a longer and longer period of time - as to whether the car would make it over. After encountering perhaps the half-dozenth instance of a washed out road, he seemed to Cas like a lit firecracker, the fuse fizzling while you waited for the inevitable explosion. Cas, who was quiet by nature, became even more careful with his remarks.

“Is that something up there?”

“I'm sure it's more fucking swamp,” grumbled Dean. They had both gotten out of the Impala to check the depth of yet another pool of standing water across the roadway. Dean's eyes followed where Cas was pointing, squinting into the gathering darkness of twilight. “Wait a minute,” he added. He walked back to the car and fished out a pair of binoculars, he focused on the hillside ahead. “Yeah. I think that's it. Hey. Good eye!” he told Cas. “Just not sure if this is the way,” he added sadly, pointing to the water. And then, “Hey!”

Cas, who had grown a trifle impatient, strode into the pool, was thankfully only ankle-deep.

“Be careful, Cas! You don't know what's in there.”

Cas continued to walk across. “It's all right, I'm a strong swimmer,” he declared, having reached the other side. “For the next stretch, I'll walk, and you will follow me in the car.” And then he continued walking up the road.

Dean watched his friend for a few moments, and then declared, “Well, works for me.” He hopped into the car and followed along.

Cas walked with a kind of contentment, though his shoes and socks and pants were soaked up to his shins. He loved and missed the water. And though it was pleasant, Dean's little pool of hot springs water was really no substitute.

He passed through another pool of standing water and walked around a sharp bend when he heard the noise that sounded a lot like a man cocking a shotgun. Because that's exactly what it was. A dark-skinned man was now standing a few meters ahead of Cas, holding a long firearm pointed at about mid-chest level.

Cas, who was intensely curious about guns at the present time, was probably not appropriately frightened by the situation. “Hello,” he said. “Is that a shotgun?”

“Damn right it's a shotgun.”

“I am constructing a firearm.”

“And what are you supposed to be?” the man barked.

Cas sighed deeply. This again. “I realize that I appear very young, but I am a bladesmith.”

The man lowered the shotgun, possibly out of surprise at the odd answer. “Come again?” But he raised the weapon again when at last the Impala rounded the bend and came into sight.

The car halted and Dean leapt out, holding his hands up. “Rufus! It's okay! He's with me!”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Dean Winchester.”

Rufus thought for a moment. “Any relation to Sam?”

“I'm his brother!”

Rufus peered through the darkness. “Really? You boys don't look anything alike.”

“Rufus. I'm John Winchester's son.”

“John's boy?” Rufus lowered his weapon again.

“Yeah. Bobby Singer's friend.”

Suddenly the weapon snapped up again. “Bobby Singer? Fuck that motherfucker!”

“Rufus-”

“Is it possible we could continue this conversation elsewhere?” asked Cas. “I believe I have a leeches in my socks.”

The Emerald Fort was often referred to as the Littlest Sister. Not that this made it unimportant, especially as the Seven were now the Six. But it had always been understaffed and a little neglected.

Three men sat up on the roof. Two of them were engaged in a battle of wits.

“You hear that, Gordon?” asked Kubrick, one of the contestants.

Gordon remained hunched over the chessboard. “Hear what?”

Kubrick shrugged. “I could have sworn I heard something. Down below.”

“You just don't wanna lose your bishop,” said Gordon, making his move and holding up his prize.

“Aw … fucknuts,” said Kubrick, surveying the disaster of the board.

Creevy, who had been hanging around doing not much of anything at all, looked down from the battlements and said, “Hey, guys! Down there!”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “I swear, Kubrick, do you pay that guy? I'm like, three moves from check!”

Making an apologetic gesture, Kubrick stood and wandered over to the edge of the roof to see what Creevy was on about. He squinted into the dimness. “Why the hell do I always pull swing shift?” he sighed.

“What is that?” asked Creevy, pointing into the distance.

“Think it's just dust,” Kubrick told him with a yawn.

“Or your imagination,” said Gordon. “Your move, Kubrick.”

“Wait,” said Kubrick. “Fuck, that's not dust. Gordon!”

Gordon was on his feet and next to Kubrick in a second.

“That's one of them,” said Kubrick.

“The Enemy!” agreed Creevy.

Gordon nodded. “Yeah, you're right. It's a little one. What the hell is it doing way out here on its own?” They grabbed weapons and headed down the stairs, although at a leisurely pace. You occasionally saw the small crawly-bugs, but they were usually easy to scare off.

“Why the hell isn't it running away,” said Gordon when they had reached the outer courtyard.

Creevy put out a hand. “Ow!” he said, drawing it back.

“Did it sting you?” asked Kubrick.

“No,” said Gordon. “Look, it's wounded.” It was true: one side had gotten slashed, and it was oozing out that icky acidic blood. Kubrick squatted down next to Gordon. He spotted something flashing on one of the legs. He kicked at the dirt around it to find it was tethered to a fine chain that was in turn anchored to the ground. He used his sword to pick up the chain, and looked inquiringly at Creevy and Gordon.

“What the hell?” asked Gordon. “Someone's got a pet crawly-bug?”

Kubrick looked thoughtful. “Could be somebody found it wounded, and brought it back. But why didn't we hear about this?”

There was a familiar rumbling sound along the desert.

“Oh, crap,” said Kubrick. “It's a big one. I really big one.” He looked at his comrades. “Inside! Now!”

The three raced back inside and finally arrived, panting, back up on top of the wall. As they looked down, just outside the exterior wall, the sand began to push upwards into small hillocks. The mounds swelled up in a semi-circle pattern all around the small crawly-bug.

The wall began to crack.

“Damn! It's underneath the wall!” yelled Gordon.

“Get back!” shouted Kubrick.

He, Gordon and Creevy backed up just as the wall buckled. Gordon and Kubrick jumped clear, but Creevy jumped and missed, screaming as he fell down with the crumbling wall.

“Creevy!” Kubrick shouted, but then he was nearly hit by a large feeding tentacle. He gave Gordon a shove and they ran across the rooftop as one entire side of the fort now buckled and plunged down into the sand below.

Cas sat with his feet up on a chair in Rufus's living room. Well, Cas figured it was a living room. He hadn't actually been in a lot of private residences in his time, so he was only really familiar with his family's house. It seemed that every room in Rufus's house was a kind of library, as there were books stacked everywhere.

“Are you done in there?” came Dean's voice from the kitchen. He had had to excuse himself when Rufus began pulling off the leeches.

Rufus had used a butter knife from the kitchen to flick them off into a jar, and now was washing Cas's feet and ankles. “Can't be too careful. There's usually no harm, but I've had 'em get infected before, and that hurts like the dickens.”

“Can I come out?” Dean pleaded.

“You wanna pick up the leech jar?” laughed Rufus.

“No!” Dean poked his head into the room, looking a bit nauseated.

“All right. You can help wash him up I guess.” Rufus grabbed the jar and handed Dean the washcloth. “I thought I'd fry them up in some oil!” he said, holding the jar under Dean's nose.

“Rufus! Goddammit.”

“You boys had dinner yet?”

“No!” Dean called.

“And Dean ate my lunch!” Cas complained.

“I didn't eat all of it.”

Cas looked at Dean accusingly. “Jo told me the hamburger was made from turkey.”

“Well, see? I told you it wasn't a cow.”

“Well, this ain't cow meat either,” said Rufus, hefting a platter of cured sausage, cheese, and a yellowy kind of cake. “I keep my cow for the milk.”

“What's the salami, Rufus?” asked Dean, who had brought out a pocket knife to cut off a hunk of sausage. “Wait, maybe you should let me eat first.”

“That one's venison,” said Rufus. “But this one?” He picked up an identical looking hunk of meat.

Cas was picking at the yellow bread. It was sweet, but not as sweet as a cake. He liked it.

“What's that one?” asked Dean.

“Gator I shot last month. He was trying to run off with my chickens. Bastard.”

“What is a gator?” asked Cas.

“Alligator. We'll probably show you one tomorrow,” said Rufus. “It's too late to make the crossing tonight, you understand. So you boys hole up here, and we'll go first thing tomorrow.”

“That's cool.”

“You know what you're looking for?”

Dean shrugged. “Cas is looking for a spell on armaments.”

“Ought to be easy enough.”

Dean smiled. “Rufus. What's the deal with you and Bobby?”

“He knows what he did!” spat Rufus.

“Please.”

“Please what?” asked Lucifer.

Kubrick glanced over at Gordon's headless corpse. Then he blinked up at Lucifer, who was currently in possession of Gordon's head. Lucifer tossed the head away, thoughtlessly, as if he was tossing a ball. He directed his gaze at Kubrick. “Please, what?”

Kubrick struggled as Alastair held the knife at his throat. “If you want to know something, I'll tell you.”

“Well,” said Lucifer. “The sorry fact is, I don't really want anything you have. Your fortification is frankly lacking.”

Kubrick had nothing to say. He looked over at Uriel and Abaddon, who had been keeping their distance.

“Unless you know the way to Alexandria?” said Uriel.

Kubrick looked to Uriel. “You know damn well Alexandria is the Red Fort's secret.”

“We know,” said Lucifer.

“Then … why?” Kubrick's eyes were pleading.

“Practice.”

“Practice?”

“There's always a bigger fish,” said Lucifer.

“But you need us!”

“How is that?”

“We may be small, but they're only the six of us to keep the Enemy at bay.”

Lucifer snorted. “We gave you a little one. A tiny one! Gift-wrapped. And look how successful you were at keeping that at bay!” He pointed over to the ruined section of the fort, where the Enemy's tunnel had undermined the foundation.

Kubrick gazed at the broken wall and felt sick. “I know we haven't always gotten along, Lucifer. But we should be comrades!”

“A little late for that,” Lucifer sighed. “And I'm just of late finding my own morality.”

“Morality?”

“Certainly. My morality. As long as I'm having fun and not hurting anyone, then everything should be all right.” Lucifer brought a hand to his chin, looking thoughtful. “I mean, of course, I guess I am hurting someone.” He waved a hand towards Kubrick. “But I'm having a lot of fun!”

He gestured at Alastair, who slashed. Kubrick fell, his blood and his life leeching out onto the unforgiving desert.

They didn't bother with the car the next day, just followed Rufus's lead as he walked quickly through the swampy lands. Cas was careful to follow Rufus's footsteps, as he seemed to instinctively know where to place his feet so as not to end up ankle deep in mud. The encounter with the leeches had given Cas a healthy respect for the water hereabouts.

They came at last to a vast stretch of water. Cas couldn't see over to the other side. “Is this the ocean?” he asked. It was curious, as it didn't seem to have a tide.

“It is now! At one point, this here was the mighty Mississippi river,” Rufus told him. “It overflowed. A little.”

“Just a little,” echoed Dean.

They found their way to a flat-bottomed wooden boat. It was barely big enough for the three of them. Cas and Dean sat while Rufus stood and skillfully used a pole to ferry them across. The water here was shallow, and also quite clear, so Cas found himself staring at the bottom as they passed over old roadways.

They skimmed by a rusty metal sign sticking part way in the water.

“Alexandria?” said Cas.

“This used to be the city limits,” Rufus told them. “Now it’s an island. There it is. Up ahead.”

Just coming into view was a partially submerged city. Rufus guided the boat right up between the abandoned buildings. “This all seems like a story my mother read me,” said Cas.

“There was a real city, Venice, built on the water like this,” said Rufus.

“In the South?” asked Cas.

“Oh, no. It was across the Wide Sea. But it's at the bottom of the ocean now. If you look around today, you'll probably be able to find pictures.”

“Ve-niz,” repeated Cas. He was going to look.

The water became too shallow to navigate. Rufus tied up the boat and led Dean and Cas through the city, and then to a vast field that contained many rusted out cars. Dean became distracted as they walked, running to see this and that vehicle. “Damn, I could have used those parts,” he muttered.

“This was the parking lot,” said Rufus. He walked closer to the structure. Cas was completely captivated. It looked like a giant tree, only formed of pre-flood concrete. “Was this made by the Men of Letters too?”

“Naw. Just a drunk architect with too much money,” Rufus told him. “But you see why we chose this?”

“It will keep everything up out of the water.”

“Correct. Well, unless the flood waters rise a few more meters. In case, I don't think you and I would care to be here. You wanna stand back? I gotta do my mumbo jumbo.”

Cas took a cautious step back, as Rufus was casting the unlocking spell. He noticed the sigils carved into the wide pillars: a lot of them. Obviously, someone didn't want anybody wandering in here.

The locks on the two heavy wooden doors clicked, and Rufus went to heave them open. Cas and Dean followed him up some wide concrete steps into the first floor.

Castiel gasped in surprise. He had never seen so many books, not even in Metatron's villa. The hall was chock-a-block with high shelves, and every shelf was crammed full of books.

“This is the treasure trove,” Dean told him proudly. “The Library of Alexandria. This is the reason Lucifer wants to get his hands on us.”

“Magical armaments would be up on the third floor,” Rufus told them. “You boys have fun, and I'll be back at dusk to pick you up.”

“Wait,” said Dean. “You're leaving?”

“I got shit to do, boy. You think my sausage makes itself?”

“But I thought you were supposed to be the librarian?”

“You got ‘til dusk,” said Rufus. “And then the boat is leaving, ready or not.”

“I'll be ready!” Cas assured him.

As Dean shook his head, Rufus departed, and Castiel scampered for the nearest staircase. “Wait for me, Cas! I'll never find you in this place.”

“That's all right Dean! I think I want to stay her forever!”

“Oh you do not!”

Much to his own surprise, Dean wasn’t entirely bored, as Cas kept him running after this or that book of spells or armaments, and then he had showed Dean a section with automotive manuals, and Dean had kind of lost track of time gazing at pictures of old racing cars. There was something called a Corvette made by the same company that had manufactured the Impala, and it looked like sex on four wheels. Dean set aside the book in the “check out” pile.

Dean did manage to drag Cas outside for a while to sit on a small stand of soft grass and eat the lunch Rufus had packed them. Cas was now a big fan of Rufus’s cornbread, and begged for the recipe to take back to Crowley, though Dean couldn’t imagine the fussy chef actually allowing such simple fare in his kitchen. They drank a little of the wine, too, and then one thing led to another and they were kissing. It was lovely, feeling like the only two people in the world, knowing they were likely the only two human beings on the island.

They were lying tangled together when Dean found himself speaking. “You know, when Rufus picks us up and takes us back, I have half a mind to just get in the car and drive, you know?”

“You mean, not go back to the fort?”

“Not go back to the fort. Just take off. Just forget about everyone, and everything.”

Cas slid around so he rested his arms on Dean’s chest. He looked into his eyes. “I still need to find my brothers.”

“I know. I know.”

“But I feel like that too,” Cas admitted.

Dean’s face broke into a smile. A soft breeze had come up, blowing Cas’s hair down into his eyes. Dean swept it away and kissed him on the forehead.

“We need to get back,” said Cas, getting up and grabbing his pants. “I need to find a couple more volumes. Are you going to be in the automotive section?”

Dean remained lying back in the grass for a moment more. “Probably. Man, you know the Corvette? It wasn’t even made of steel!”

“Really? What was it made of then?”

“Something called fiberglass.” Dean sat up. “When it was in an accident, it didn’t get dented, it ripped!”

“How would you repair it?”

“No idea. Maybe people just went and bought a new one. There were whole factories, you know.”

“It’s difficult to imagine. And how did they lay down the magic to fiber glass?”

Dean scratched his foot and thought he should put his clothes on. He felt a little itchy. “I don’t think they used magic.”

“What? Of course they did. They always used magic.”

“I’ve heard that didn’t start ‘til after the Flood.”

“I’ve heard different.”

Dean grinned and stuck out his tongue. Cas looked affronted for a moment, and then repeated the gesture. And then he turned, still barefoot and carrying his shoes, and walked up the stairs and back into the library. Dean sat back for a moment, admiring the view, and then grabbed his own clothes.

“Do you have it?”

There was a silence.

“Do you have another bug?”

Lucifer peered into Metatron’s face, or rather the replica of his face, traced in blue-tinged liquid.

“We have it,” said Lucifer. He cast his eyes around to Abaddon and Uriel. “We are simply … some of us … uncertain as to our next move.”

“Haven’t I outlined it for you?”

“Your instructions were clear,” said Uriel. “However, there are treaties, traditions….”

Metatron’s image in the middle of the table snorted. “And since when have treaties and traditions mattered to you people?”

Uriel straightened. “The outpost has long been a place where all are welcomed. The Harvelle family is and has always remained neutral. We do have a common cause. Do not forget that.”

“Your parrot is squawking up a storm today, Lucifer.”

“Uriel,” said Lucifer.

“I am growing impatient, Lucifer,” said Metatron. “Everything I have told you: has it worked?”

“It's worked. Though I wouldn't mind a little more information from some of those books I see around you.”

“In good time, Lucifer. Do this one thing for me, and we'll see about opening another spell book.”

“And then I'll have the Winchesters?”

“Yes, then it will be time to go against the Winchesters. And find Alexandria.”

Lucifer nodded. “It will be done.”

“Good.”

Metatron's image had barely melted back into the scrying bowl when Uriel spoke. “Lucifer.”

“No more of this, Uriel,” snapped Lucifer, who was already standing. “I agreed. Now get those lazy bastards to roust me another little one.” He spun on his heel and stormed out of Abaddon's room.

Abaddon sat back, crossing her legs, and gazed at Uriel.

“What do you want, woman?” asked Uriel.

“You're not leaving. I notice these things. I'm pretty smart for a girl.”

Uriel glowered at Abaddon. But still, as the damnable woman had taunted, he did not rise to leave.

“The outpost, Uriel? I mean, seriously?”

“Lucifer … is our leader.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Uriel squirmed in his seat.

Abaddon leaned forward. “Metatron's magical spells or not, there are some lines you don't cross.”

“I don't see what we can do about it,” said Uriel. And finally, he stood up.

“That's your excuse?” said Abaddon. She shook her head. “You can't think up a way around it?”

“I can think of many things,” said Uriel. He glanced at Abaddon, and then, rapping his knuckles on the table, made to leave.

Dean found Cas sitting cross-legged on the carpet up on the fifth floor, in a section that had nothing to do with either armaments nor magic.

“Where the heck did you go?” Dean asked.

Cas tilted the book over so Dean could see. It was a large picture book. “This is Venice,” he said. “It was a port in a land called Italy.”

Dean crouched down so he could see the book. It did halfway resemble Alexandria. Only it appeared that Venice had been designed to lie near the water. “It’s pretty.”

“I like water. I really miss living near the water.”

“Not a lot of water where we live, I guess.”

“Strange, in a world of water,” said Cas. “To live in a desert.”

Dean nodded.

“It’s sad that Venice is submerged now,” said Cas. “So much was lost.”

“Well, we still have Alexandria. I guess.”

“Why were people stupid?”

“You mean causing the flood? It’s not clear that’s what happened. I mean, it's not clear it was people to blame.”

“It was God’s wrath. That’s what my father told us.”

Dean slid down so he was sitting next to Cas. “I’m not sure I believe in God.”

“Really?” Dean shook his head. “You don’t believe in God. Or in magic. What do you believe in?”

Dean was thoughtful for a moment. “My family. Sammy’s always there for me. And Bobby’s always been like family. And … there’s this cranky bladesmith.”

“I’m not cranky!”

In the end, they added the Venice picture book as well as a couple of Dean’s automotive books to the pile. Rufus, when he showed up, grumbled for a while about how they would surely sink his boat, but everything fit just fine.

The shadows stretched long, and it was in gathering darkness that they finally pushed off, Rufus once again standing up to work the pole, just like the men in Cas’s Venice book. Dean sat in back and then grabbed Cas to sit down right next to him.

“You boys think this is a date?”

“Why not?” asked Dean, his arm around Cas. “You’re our gondolier, Rufus.”

“Hey, I like that. Want me to sing you some opera?”

“Uh, no.”

“Hava nagila, hava nagila, hava nagila, ve-ni’smecha!” sang Rufus.

“What the hell is that?” grumbled Dean.

“It means rejoice, dumb ass. I ain’t really supposed to be out working on a Friday evening, but I don’t suppose the Lord minds so much if I sing to him.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asked, and Cas stomped on his foot.

“Come on, sing along! Hava neranena, hava neranena….”

Cas started in singing along, so Dean joined in as well.

“Wait, what’s that?” asked Cas, pointing to some strange glowing objects now hovering near the boat.

“That?” said Rufus. “That’s just some old lightning bugs.”

“They glow!”

“Yeah, there’s some creatures got it all figured out.”

“You like it, Cas?” asked Dean, tightening his arm around him. “I won’t get to take you to Venice, but this is pretty cool, huh?”

“Maybe we’ll find Venice some time, Dean. And maybe we will ride in a Car Vent!”

“A Corvette? Yeah, maybe we will.” He looked up at the shore. There were two figures standing there now. “Rufus?”

They were holding shotguns.

“They got here today. I had no choice,” Rufus whispered. He continued poling to the shore. “I'm sorry.”

Blind.

I’m blind, Sam thought, blinking his eyes.

But after a moment, the softly glowing objects came into focus. He was some place dark. And cold.

He groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. Everything seemed to be intact, arms and legs where they should be. His clothing on the other hand was in pretty bad shape, with big holes everywhere.

And he’d completely lost his shoes.

What the hell?

He thought about standing up, got to his knees, and then decided verticality was a bad idea. The floor underneath him was dirt. He crawled over to touch the wall. The wall was earthen as well. He reached up to touch one of the softly glowing lights and it ended up falling down, flopping onto the floor.

And then it crawled away.

“Ew!” grunted Sam, surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I’m in a cave,” he told himself, more to hear himself speak than anything.

His back felt itchy. He reached around to scratch. There seemed to be a large welt on the small of his back, but he couldn’t position himself to turn around and look. A sting? Something had stung him.

He froze, seeing the movement. There was something at the mouth of his small chamber. He pressed himself back as far as he could on the low wall of the cave.

Sam stifled a gasp when he recognized the undulating tentacles. But he was further startled when he saw the remains of electrician’s tape hanging off the creature’s back.

It approached, and he felt a wave of calmness wash over him. That was strange: he should be scared out of his mind right now. The creature was carrying something in its tentacles. It placed it carefully down on the floor of the cave, and then, after remaining there for a little while, retreated.

Sam crawled over to see what the hell the thing had left him. It seemed to be branches of a bush. Sam recognized the smell from some salad Crowley’s kitchen had cooked up. Yes, there were small purple berries studded in the branches.

Sam suddenly realized he was starving. He wondered if the berries would be all right to eat? He picked one off and stuck it in his mouth. It was delicious, so sweet. He grabbed some more and ate them, until he had completely picked the branches clean.

“It’s bringing me food?” he thought. It must have been a coincidence. Maybe it was building a nest or something? Did these things nest?

A wave of drowsiness hit him, and Sam lay down again and fell asleep.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 6 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:31:53Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

“Psychics. I mean, what the fuck, Sammy?”

Sam sat down opposite his big brother, who was relaxing behind his desk. He looked around curiously. “So. Where's Cas?”

“What do you mean?”

Sam shrugged innocently.

“Cas is at the forge. Working. Where do you think?”

Sam pretended to stare at his fingernails.

“What, Sam?”

There were probably some things in life more fun than tweaking Dean. But Sam, as yet, was unaware of them. “You were pretty eager to introduce him to Dad.”

Dean tried to look insulted. “Yeah, well. He's our new bladesmith. Big news.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“Just … don't be disappointed if he doesn't react the way you want. Dad's dad, right?”

“I guess so,” Dean muttered. “So what the fuck is it with him and the psychics?”

Sam decided to let the change of topic pass. “You ever meet Missouri?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Once. I was a kid. A teenager. Dad took me along. That was the last time, I swear.”

“Well, so you know she's the real deal.”

“She's real obnoxious. I'll give you that. She told me I was a funny looking kid. Funny looking! Fucking psychics.” Dean scowled with the righteous fury of the funny-looking.

“But I think some of the stuff she told Dad has already come true.”

“What part? She speaks in riddles.”

“She told him you'd be forged by fire, and I'd heal in the earth.”

“You'll play in the mud, I'll light fires. Does she think we're still five years old?”

“The forge, Dean. Think about it. Don't you think she may have meant Cas?”

Dean scowled. “Or she could have meant Crowley would scorch my dinner. Who the fuck knows? What I really wanna know is why Lucifer backed off so quickly. I could have sworn an attack was coming.”

“Who knows with him,” said Sam.

“He's probably got his own psychics telling him bullshit.”

“I assume it's because the Enemy has been out in such force. But who knows? Maybe he's just reluctant to break the peace. We did just have him to dinner!”

Dean shook his head. “Victor says they didn't see them until they attacked. Like they were invisible. You don't think they're using magic, do you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But where the hell did they get the new spells?”

Sam held up his hands. “I dunno. Ask Missouri.”

“This is stunning work.”

Castiel looked around John’s cluttered office, located just down the corridor from Dean's suite of rooms. He was surprised to see only John, who was standing there holding one of Castiel's swords. The summons had come while he was working at the forge, so he had only time to throw on his shirt and run over. He had expected Dean to be here. Looking down, he suddenly realized that he had missed a button, and his shirt was askew.

“Yes sir. I mean, yes John.”

“Sit down, Cas.” John indicated a small table that had been mostly cleared of odds and ends. There was a jug of wine and some platters from the kitchen there.

“I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your lunch,” Cas ventured.

“Our lunch,” said John, pouring some wine into Cas’s glass. “Help yourself.” Cas noticed for the first time there was a place setting before him. At least John Winchester was more polite than Metatron, he reflected. Cas cautiously picked up some orange slices, lifting them onto his plate, where he politely waited for John.

Ignoring the food, John poured himself and Cas some wine and then took a sip. “So Dean tells me you didn’t finish your apprenticeship?”

Cas sniffed at the wine. And then took a nervous gulp of it. “No. Unfortunately, my father … hasn’t been around.”

“How long?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How long ago did your father take off?”

“Oh, uh, around three years ago now?”

“Three years? So, you speak for yourself?”

“Uh. I suppose so.” Cas was frankly a bit baffled by the direction of the conversation, but also felt too shy to inquire directly at this point. He took another drink of the wine, and then took a deep breath. For reasons that were a bit muddled to him, he found John Winchester somewhat frightening.

“It would have been better if you’d officially finished your apprenticeship. But I think any fair judge would say these swords are masterworks.”

Cas looked up in surprise. “Thank you.” John gestured with the wine jug. Cas held out his glass, and John refilled it.

“And your family owns the name to the smithy?”

Cas emitted a sigh. He swirled the wine in his glass. “It’s my family business, sir. I mean, John. But I don’t have any idea about the current status. By all accounts, Metatron seems to have taken the title for his own.”

“Metatron has no legal right to do that. He’s one scummy bastard.”

“Be that as it may, I have no access to my birthright at the present time. And I don’t know what’s become of my brothers.”

“You have two younger brothers?”

“That’s correct.” Cas felt the familiar hole in the pit of his stomach that came up with someone mentioned Inias and Samandriel. He gulped his wine again. No need to get sentimental around John Winchester.

“Any other living family?”

Cas blinked at the sudden tack in the conversation. He regarded his wine. “Distant relatives,” he grumbled.

“How distant?”

“Distant enough to not give a shit when my father took off. Uh. Sorry!”

John chuckled and refilled Cas’s wine glass once again.

“I think I’ve had enough,” Cas told him.

“I think you’ve had not nearly enough. Now, what are your intentions towards my firstborn?”

“Intentions?” Cas obediently took another sip of wine.

“Well, you’re the senior partner here, even though you’re younger. You’re a business owner. Dean is in charge here when I’m gone, but it’s not official, and this place really doesn’t technically belong to us.”

“Senior partner?” asked Cas. A thought was beginning to edge into his consciousness.

“Yes, you'd be considered the senior partner in the couple.”

Cas shot up, upsetting his chair, toppled over backwards. He gawped at John. He gestured with his glass, spilling a bit of the wine on the floor. “This is a marriage parley!”

John laughed. “Well, yeah. What the hell did you think it was?” He hefted the sword Cas had made. “About time that one settled down. And this would be a damn auspicious match. Never expected he’d link up with a tradesman. And armaments to boot!”

“But…” was all Cas managed to sputter out before the door opened.

“Dad. What the hell?” demanded Dean.

John remained seated, calmly twirling his wine glass by the stem. “Dean. You know children aren’t supposed to come to these.”

“Children? Dad! Geez! There isn’t supposed to be a this! I mean, not yet.” Dean was red-faced. Cas turned himself around and saw Sam was now lurking in the doorway, apologetic expression on his face.

“Dean,” sighed John. “If I have any hope of grandchildren to carry on the family name, I have to get Sam married off. And I can’t think of that until you’re out of the way.”

“Out of the way?” said Dean. “Jesus, Dad. Cas, come on, let’s get out of here.”

With one last mortified look at John, Cas let Dean walk him out of the office. Dean paused a bare moment to give the door a good slam, and then stalked off, Sam and Cas following him, though Cas felt a little unsteady on his feet. They made their way upstairs, finally ending up on an empty section of the roof.

“Uh. Sorry,” said Sam. “Dad asked where Cas was, and I slipped and told him probably in your room, and then it was, you know, the third degree.”

“Not your fault,” Dean muttered. “God! That guy!” Sam nodded to Cas and then retreated. Cas watched the big man slink down the stairway.

Dean was pacing back and forth. “Look, Cas, I’m sorry. I didn’t want him to do this. I mean, I wanna be with you.” Dean paused, and his face softened somewhat. “I mean, I really wanna be with you. But I didn’t want him … doing this! Like that. You know?”

Castiel’s brain was racing trying to keep up with the events of the last few moments. And the wine wasn’t helping things. “Dean. I can’t make a decision regarding marriage right now. Metatron has taken my business. And I still don’t know what’s happened with my brothers!”

“I know. I know.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Dad is.... It's always a clusterfuck when he's around. Why did I think this time would be different?”

Cas emitted a hiccup, and leaned against a low parapet.

“Are you drunk, Cas?”

“No! I mean yes. I mean, maybe?” Cas hiccuped again.

Dean drew nearer. “You're all unbuttoned,” he laughed, making to re-button Cas's shirt for him. “Did you come over right from the smithy?”

“Your father summoned me! Hic!”

Dean smiled. He finished the last button, and tugged Cas closer, finishing with a kiss. “You have to watch the drinking,” he muttered. “Someone could take advantage.”

“No one will touch me! I'll cut them with my knife.”

“I was talking about me.”

“Oh. You can touch me. You can kiss me again. I find I like kissing.”

“Damn. Where the hell did you come from, Cas?”

“The North. Remember, you kidnapped me?”

Dean embraced Cas instead of kissing him. He pulled back. “Dammit. Marry me.”

“Wasn't that what we were talking about?”

“I suppose. Oh! I almost forgot what with my dad being an asshole. Your book!”

Cas was now thoroughly confused. “What book?”

“Sam said you needed another volume to do the spell on a gun? An Enochian text?”

“Yes. It's not at your library. But Sam said he knew where to get it.”

“Yeah. Normally, we'd send someone else, but since Dad's here, we're in luck. What would you say to a road trip, Cas?”

“A … what?”

“It's a.... Actually, never mind. Let's get you back to the room, all right?”

Castiel stifled another hiccup. “I need to get back to the forge.”

“Uh, no, what you need is maybe to look at your magic books for a while. Very important.”

Cas nodded, and allowed himself to be led off by Dean. He took up one of his volumes when they got back to Dean's room, and, within a few minutes, he was face down in it, snoring away.

Dean pulled the covers up around him and, giving the top of his head a kiss, departed to make ready for the next day.

Uriel stormed out of the Onyx Fort to confront the men waiting outside in the courtyard. “What the blazes happened?”

“Wasn’t our fault,” grumbled Virgil.

“It got away,” said Brady.

“How did it get away?” Uriel fumed.

Brady spread his hands. “You’d be surprised how quick they are. They got a fuckload of legs!” He wiggled his fingers, miming a retreating crawly-bug.

“Capturing the creature was necessary for Lucifer’s plans.” Uriel stared sternly and Virgil and Brady. “You will go and obtain another.”

“But boss!” said Brady. “That’s gonna take all day.”

“Then take all day. And all night, for all I care. You have your orders.”

“How is it a good idea, messing with this stuff?” asked Virgil.

“How is it a good idea, disobeying a direct order from Lucifer?” demanded Uriel. Virgil and Brady looked at each other and then reluctantly walked back to their vehicle. Uriel watched as they drove off.

“He’s got a point.”

Uriel started. Abaddon was standing directly behind him. The blasted woman tended to do that. “A point regarding … what?”

“Messing with the crawly-bugs now? I gotta ask-“

“No, actually, you don’t.”

“Has the boss man gone out of his mind?”

Uriel began walking back towards the building. “We are merely acceding to Metatron’s … suggestions.”

“That’s another thing. Who’s calling the shots around here?”

“You heard Our Leige. We will employ Metatron only for as long as he is useful.”

Abaddon increased her pace to keep up with Uriel. “And Lucifer thinks he’s in charge here? You’ve heard the same things as I have about the North. It’s becoming a hegemony.”

“Ah, we’ve been improving our vocabulary, have we?”

“You’re telling me you have no concerns?”

“I know enough to keep them to myself.” And with that, Uriel stormed into the building, letting the door slam behind him.

Cas hadn't seen Dean's vehicle yet. Ash and Victor told him it was something that had once been called an Impala, and that Dean treated it like some combination of a treasured child and a beloved girlfriend. This puzzled Cas to no end. He had worked with tools since he was a small child himself, but did not regard any of them as a human presence.

The rumble of the engine seemed oddly familiar as Dean drove up. Cas was now used to seeing cars, much more so than the first time Ash and Victor had taken him out, but they were still a great novelty. Dean was obviously proud of her (that was one of Cas's first discoveries, that for some reason the car had been assigned a female gender). Before they could start off, Dean took him around, opening the trunk and the hood, and detailed many no doubt marvelous facts about her, almost none of Castiel understood. And then, after once again checking that the reserve tank was full, Dean bade goodbye to his brother, who had arisen early to see them off, and then they departed for the east for the neighboring territory of Louisiana.

Cas had been a little surprised that John hadn't come down to see them off, but Dean had explained that his father was not overly sentimental.

“So, the guy we're going to see?” Dean ventured after a couple of miles.

“The librarian.”

“Yeah, more or less. He's an old friend of Bobby's. Kind of a weird dude.”

“I think everyone in the South is weird! Uh, sorry, I don't mean you of course.”

“Ha! Right back atcha, Cas.”

“Do you know anyone from the North?”

“I know one guy. You're all I need.”

Dean had explained that even with the reserve tank, they needed to stop for refueling along the way. And sure enough, along the lonely road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, there was a small outpost.

“This isn't well fortified,” Cas commented as the exited the car.

“This is neutral territory. So, leave your weapons in the car. All of them. And no matter who we see in there, we don't start anything. Understood?”

Cas nodded, wondering who they might see. There were other vehicles parked around, most not in anywhere as good shape as the Impala. They seemed to lack parts, like the steel plate that covered the engine, or doors. Others seemed to be patchworks made up of other cars. There were a couple of very strange vehicles with only two wheels, like extremely buffed up bicycles. And there were a number of horses tied up as well. “Folks come from all over,” Dean said. “They make a great burger. We should try-”

“Dean Winchester! You little shit!”

“Ellen!” Dean reached over and happily embraced a pretty middle-aged blond woman. “It's great to see you.”

Ellen pushed him back. “I'm still pissed as hell at you for stealing Ash!”

“He's doing okay,” Dean assured her. “You heard then?”

“Yeah, probably his own fault, the dumb bastard. But he's tough as nails. Glad he's on the mend. And what's this?” she added, turning to Cas. “You pick up a stray?”

Dean grabbed Cas by the shoulder and pulled him forward. “Ellen, this is Cas! He's our new bladesmith.”

“Him? He's barley out of diapers.”

Cas scowled at the insult, but then found himself wrapped in a hearty embrace. “Welcome, Cas! You boys gonna go in for a bite? I can take care of your baby, Dean.”

“I'll be interested to hear what's been going on,” Dean told her. Ellen nodded, and Dean led Cas inside. Cas was startled to see the place was somewhat crowded. It was strange to run into so many people after miles and miles of desert wasteland.

Music was playing, but Cas didn't see any instrumentalists. “Where is the music coming from?” Cas asked.

“Jukebox. Come have a look!” Dean led him over to a very strange contraption. It was obviously a treasure from before the Flood. From what Cas could tell it was powered by electricity. It contained innumerable small black disks. Dean called for a coin, and when he inserted it, as Cas watched, a mechanical arm located the disk, was placed on a rotating table. A stylus then fell onto the disk, and it produced music. Dean picked a song by something he called a Lead Zeppelin.

“Dean.”

Dean turned around to face the petite blond teenager who was now confronting him. “Oh. Uh. Jo. Hey. How are-”

But Dean never got to finish his sentence, as Jo socked him in the jaw and stormed off. Dean toppled and would have crashed to the floor had Cas not caught him as the scattered crowd in the bar laughed.

“Dean? Are you all right?”

“I, uh, sort of deserved that, actually,” Dean told Cas, rubbing his jaw. “Actually, I totally deserved that.”

“Winchester. You always know how to impress the ladies,” said a sandy-haired man. He approached them accompanied by much shorter man.

“Kubrick. Creevy,” said Dean, greeting them, though he didn't look well pleased. “This is Cas.”

“New blood?” asked Kubrick.

“Looks like he was born a few hours ago,” snickered Creevy.

“Cas is our bladesmith,” said Dean. He leaned over Creevy. “Pity I can't show you his work while we're here inside. But maybe you can meet me outside later.”

Creevy took a half step backwards. “Uh, no. That's OK.”

Kubrick rolled his eyes. “You boys are a long way from the Red Fort.”

Dean shrugged. “We like to go check out the neighboring territories now and then.” He narrowed his eyes. “But isn't this a long way from the Emerald Fort?”

Kubrick and Creevy shared a glance. “We've heard Lucifer has been causing trouble,” he said, his voice low.

“I don't see any of his guys here today,” said Dean.

“Yeah, it's a little weird,” said Kubrick.

“Could be just a coincidence.” There were nods all around. “You guys seeing a lot of Enemy action?”

Kubrick and Creevy both nodded to that. “It's like some kinda migration time or something,” said Creevy. “Mostly the little guys,” he added, holding a hand down towards the ground.

“The little guys?” snickered Kubrick, who held a hand just above Creevy's head. Dean laughed. “Mostly, we don't bother them, and they don't bother us.”

“Cas and I were gonna get some grub, but can I buy you guys a drink first?” asked Dean. There were nods, and the party approached the bar.

“Really appreciate this Sam.”

Sam shifted in the passenger seat. “No problem, Victor. I don't want Ash going out before he's ready. Speaking of which, are you totally sure you're OK?”

“I'm great. Arm's a little stiff. My medic got a little sloppy with the whiskey when he was stitching.”

Sam howled with laughter. “Don't tell Dean, but I have a couple healing spells that might do the trick.”

Victor shook his head. Dean's allergy to magic was well known. “How is it he gets along with Cas? I've seen that boy at work now. He lays spells on everything. One of my uncles was a journeyman bladesmith, so I know how it works. He doesn't just cast at a step or two, he imbues that shit with magic.”

“Well, I try to stay back from my brother's affairs. As you know.”

“No doubt.”

“But you heard my dad was trying to get Cas to agree to a marriage?”

“What? Holy shit no! Dean never told me that.”

“Of course Dean didn't.”

“You might have an honest tradesman in the family?”

“It would be a first for my fucking family. Hey, what's that up ahead?”

“Dust devil likely. The wind has been kicking up.”

Sam scowled into the sun. “Are those birds?” he said, pointing towards the sky.

“Seems likely. I don't know, Sam. Probably circling some roadkill.”

“No, seriously, Victor. That's a lot of raptors. Let's go check it out.”

Victor glared up at the circling birds, and reluctantly took the car off the main road and onto a greatly rutted track that had been half obscured by the drifting dunes. They rolled up to a section near where the vultures seemed to be hovering. Occasionally, one would dive out of sight and then pull back up.

“I wanna see what they're diving at. Or who.”

“Nobody's unaccounted for at the fort, Sam.”

“I know, I know. But it's not far.”

Victor nodded, and both of them donned headscarves and ventured out up over a large dune. It didn't take them long to see what was going on.

“Oh, fuck, Sam. Let's get out of here.”

It was one of them. A small one, but one nevertheless. It was apparently alone in the middle of nowhere. There was a patch of green on one side, and a gooey green liquid tricked down.

Occasionally, a bird would dive bomb it, and then the creature would wave it's tentacles, as if defending itself.

“It's hurt, Victor.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Green blood. Yuck.”

“Don't you think we should go check it out?”

“What? You gonna sew it up? Did you bring your whiskey?”

“We've got a medical kit in the car.”

“Sam! Their blood dissolves steel!”

“Come on, Victor. We gotta see what we can do.”

“I'm gonna regret this,” Victor muttered.

Dean had a cold pack for his split lip and a really tasty hamburger. He leaned forward in the booth to whisper to Cas. “Just don't ask about what kinda meat.”

Cas arrested himself in mid-bite. “Uh. What kind of meat?”

“Sometimes horse. Sometimes camel. But it's been … other stuff. Crowley would spit!”

Cas set down his burger, struck by a sudden woozy vision of it getting up and galloping off.

“My mom wants to talk to you.”

Cas cringed when Jo appeared at their table, although she had been nothing but polite to him, and there had been no fisticuffs after her initial greeting Dean.

“You still got a helluva right, Jo. I'll tell you,” said Dean, jamming burger into his mouth.

“And what's up with the kid? You got a new boyfriend?”

“Yeah, actually. This is Cas!”

Jo directed her attention to Cas for the first time. “Wait. Really?” She leaned in towards Cas, who unconsciously edged back. “You know this guy is a meathead?” she asked, hooking a thumb at Dean.

“I haven't found him to be so, thank you for your concern.”

“Cas is our new bladesmith,” Dean told her, and Cas cringed again.

“I have full realization that I am young to be considered for that role,” Cas hastily added, shooting a glare at Dean.

Jo looked like she'd been dumbstruck. “You're a bladesmith? You make swords?”

“Uh. Swords and knives. Yes.”

Suddenly, Jo was in the booth, scooting up next to Cas. “I want a sword, but Mom won't let me have one yet. You really make swords? I should show you my knife collection!”

“Oh. Um. That would be … interesting.”

“Hey, then come on!”

Cas shot a last, desperate glance at Dean, who only smiled and crammed more burger into his face, and then he let Jo lead him away.

Dean pushed his plate aside, and then grabbed Cas's burger and took a generous bite.

“Does he know you're eating his lunch?” Ellen asked, sliding in to the booth opposite him.

“He wasn't gonna finish it,” said Dean.

“Yeah, what did you tell him? Horse? Or camel?”

“Both!”

“Dean, you're a little shit. And how is that handsome father of yours?”

“He just got back, actually,” said Dean, wiping grease off on his pant legs.

“No kidding? He's back at the fort?”

“Yeah. I guess he was visiting with Missouri. For one.”

“Old Misery. What did she have to say this time?”

“Same old crap. So. Cas and me, we're going to see an old friend.”

“I figured as much.” Both Ellen and Dean paused to surreptitiously glance around the room.

“Do we need to worry about anything?” Dean asked, pulling over the plate with Cas's burger.

“No. I don't think you'll be tailed this time. Lucifer's men, they've been scarce these past few weeks.”

“Well, that's reassuring at least.”

“I don't feel so. I used to be able to keep tabs on them at least. They'd show up, have a few drinks, and get chatty. But now, they're nowhere to be seen. It's like they've disappeared off the ends of the earth.”

“Ya know, Ellen, what we don't know won't hurt us. Hey, should we check on Cas?” he asked, just as he finished the bladesmith's burger, licking his fingers with great satisfaction.

“Where is he?”

“Jo took him.”

Ellen's face edged into a smile. “Yeah, we better.”

They found Cas lying contentedly on Jo's bed, his nose in a large old book. “I'm not saying you couldn't handle a saber, Jo. I am simply speaking from experience that it might not be the best choice.”

Jo, who was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with a book in her lap twisted around so Cas could see the page she was looking at. “See? Like this! With a jeweled hilt!”

“And where do you propose to get these jewels, young lady?” teased Ellen.

“Cas is gonna make me a saber!” Jo announced, bouncing to her feet.

“I will make you a blade,” said Cas, who was still browsing Jo's armaments book. “As I've said, I don't think a saber will serve you best.”

“My kid's kinda hard-headed,” said Ellen, putting an arm around her daughter and pretending to knock on her head.

“My brother Inias is approximately Jo's age,” said Cas. “And I believe he is confident about his likes and dislikes. Oh, here, this is what I was referring to.”

Cas turned the book around and Jo leaned over. She whistled low. “Sexy! I could use something like that.”

“Remember, the pointy end goes in the other guy,” snarked Dean.

Jo turned on Dean. “I could sock you again!”

“Joanna Beth. No fighting,” chided Ellen.

“C'mon Cas, we gotta get out of here.”

“Oh,” said Cas, who really looked as if he could spend the rest of the afternoon going through the book. Ellen and Jo followed them out to the car.

“Both tanks are topped off,” said Ellen. “You'll stop off on the way back?”

“Sure thing!” said Dean.

“You come back too, Cas!” said Jo, wrapping her arms around a somewhat startled Cas.

“What about me?” asked Dean.

“You can fuck off,” Jo grumbled to him, to Dean stuck out his tongue. Jo replied in the same manner.

“When we get back, you're gonna be the one to explain this to your dad,” said Victor.

“Just hold on,” Sam told him. Sam had fished out a pair of rubber gloves from the trunk and was awkwardly now “bandaging” up the wounded Enemy creature with some electrician's tape. It was slow going, as the tape would tend to adhere better to the gloves than the bug, and Sam was further hindered by the big welding apron he'd wrapped around himself to avoid contact with the caustic blood.

He paused and drew back, admiring his own handiwork. “See, this will work well. When it sheds its skin, the tape will go with it. See? It's already growing a new carapace.”

“Sam. Why the fuck are we helping one of these nightmare bugs?”

“I think it's just a baby, Victor.”

“Well, that means it's gonna grow to be an adult, and it'll come back and eat you and me!”

“Aw, come on, Victor. Hey, check this out!” he added, pointing to his feet. The creature had wrapped a couple thin tentilla around Sam's leg. “See? It knows I'm helping.”

“So what the hell do we even do with the thing?”

“I imagine we try to find its, er, parent. I guess?”

“I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that, Sam.”

“Could you run back and get another roll of tape?”

“You used a whole roll?”

“A lot of it just ended up sticking together,” Sam told him apologetically, indicating the pile of twisted tape beside him.

“Yeah, yeah. Sit tight, and talk amongst yourselves,” Victor muttered, though he was already starting to trudge up the dune towards their car.

“And could you bring me another jug of water?” Sam called after him.

“Yeah, and maybe some dancing girls? And a jazz band?”

“That would be great! Thanks, Victor!”

Victor shuffled up the dune and onto the road, pausing for a while at the car to guzzle some water and refasten his keffiyeh. He hadn't brought along his robes since he hadn't expected to be out in the desert for fucking ever. And worse yet, he'd worn the pair of boots with the hole in them, meaning when he got up to the road, half the desert came along with him.

He looked back towards where he'd come and decided Sam and his “patient” could wait a minute. He removed the offending boot, extracting his foot and flexing his toes with a relieved sigh. And then he upended the boot and let the sand flow out. It fluttered up and then flared up into his face, borne by a sudden, ill-timed gust of wind. Victor cursed and sneezed. He looked to the horizon. Yes, dust devils.

Victor frowned.

Leaving his boot sitting on the rutted road, he grabbed a pair of binoculars from the trunk and scanned the horizon.

Those weren't dust devils on the horizon....

The binoculars dropped in the trunk with a thump. Victor was already running, one shoe off, one shoe, on, over the dune.

“SAM!”

The trail was getting so close. Something tunneling their way. “Sam!”

Sam was sitting down now, the small Enemy holding several tendrils gently over his legs. He was … petting it? Victor froze as Sam looked up and waved. Beside him, the mound of sand was already growing, the sand bulging up where some great beast was reaching up with its large feeding tentacle.

“Sam! Look out!”

But it was already too late. The enormous feeding tentacle had just burst through the desert floor. It towered above Sam and the small creature for a terrifying second, and in that moment, Victor feared, Sam knew exactly what awaited him.

There was an explosion of sand, like something had punched a hole in the desert. And then they were gone: Sam, the little creature, everything. Nothing was left but a crater, and fine cloud of dust that hung over the desert like a shroud.

Victor stumbled and fell down, sitting on the dune, a last strangled scream still caught in his throat.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 5 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:30:03Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Castiel liked it hot. It felt familiar.

They had a small staff assigned to work in the forge, but his one request had been to send them all away to let him work. Perhaps later he would put them good use, but for now he longed to return to the familiar: all alone, working the same trade as his father, and his father before him.

He stripped out of his shirt and used it to wipe his forehead. And then he tossed it away without a thought. He had spent his time carefully folding and re-folding the metal into dozens of tiny layers. It was getting to the critical step, and that was all he could think of right now.

The knock came and he turned, irritated by the interruption. Dean Winchester was at the door, a questioning look on his face. Castiel's expression softened, and he waved Dean to enter.

Dean focused intently on him, barely bothering to look around. “I came to see how you were doing.” Dean often seemed ill at ease around him these days, and Castiel had no idea why.

“I'm going to apply the magic now,” Castiel explained. “I'm going to need you to stay very still, and when I tell you, you'll need to shut your eyes. If all goes well, it can be … intense.”

Dean nodded his understanding. Castiel showed him the blade in the forge, and where he would later plunge it into oil. It was still glowing.

“All right, you stay over here,” Cas told him. He put his hands on Dean's shoulders and led him a few steps away from the forge. He felt Dean suck in a breath. “Are you … all right?” Dean's face was just inches from his now. There was a thin film of perspiration over his body now, from the heat of the forge.

“I'm all right. I'm fine.” Dean held his arms stiffly down at his side, hands balled into fists.

Cas looked at him for a moment, but the blade was calling to him. He grabbed his tongs and then pulled the blade from the forge and placed it carefully on his anvil. Yes, it was just perfect. He took a step back and reached out an arm, palm facing the cooling blade. He shut his eyes tight and concentrated, picturing Benny in his mind, as the blade was meant for him. He intoned the words, being careful to enunciate each syllable, praying for strength and protection.

There was a faint humming sound. “Close your eyes!” he called over to Dean. Suddenly it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room, and then even with his eyes squeezed shut he saw the room suffused with a pure white light. And then the light was gone and there was a faint ringing sound.

Cas opened his eyes and stared at the blade, was still faintly sparking. He grasped the tongs and picked it up, staring in wonder.

Dean was at his side. “Is that what.... Is that what always happens?”

Cas came back to himself and dunked the blade in oil. “It's.... That was....” He wasn't certain why he was so tongue-tied. He finished quenching the blade, listening to the sizzle. He drew it out of the oil bath and laid it on his anvil.

He shook his head, trying to chase away the fog. “Here,” he said. “Your hands are bigger than mine.” Shuffling among various odds and ends on his work bench, he picked up a metal object and handed it over to Dean.

“Oh, the hilt!” said Dean, smiling. Cas reached over and repositioned it in Dean's hand. His fingers lingered there.

“It's fucking gorgeous,” Dean was telling him. “You'll make me something like this, right?”

“No,” said Cas. Dean looked surprised. “No, when I make you a sword, it will be for you. For you alone.”

Dean smiled, and Cas loosened his grip, his own hands fluttering nervously like caged birds. Dean leaned over slightly, running his fingers gently along the side of Cas's face. He appeared to want to say something, but instead turned and pretended to fight with his imaginary sword. “I'm sure it'll be amazing.”

Castiel grabbed his shirt off the floor and buttoned it up. He became aware of Dean watching him again, and started to feel self-conscious.

“Hey Cas. I do have a question.”

“Yes?”

Dean set down the hilt and leaned against the workbench. “You know how you guys apply magic to blades? Is it possible to do that kinda thing with bullets?”

Cas shook his head. “This isn't the first time I've been asked that. The common wisdom is no. There is simply not enough craft in making bullets.”

“Well, just thought I'd ask. Um, so I take it you've tried?”

Castiel smiled. “Yes, like a lot of people before me, I have tried.” He sadly shook his head. “If you would like, I could look into it again. Unfortunately, I no longer have my books.”

Dean suddenly got a faraway look. “We may be able to help you there.” He inclined his head. “Can you take off for a little while?”

Castiel nodded, and Dean led him out of the forge and along the corridor. Castiel by this time was used to zigzagging through the labyrinthine fort, but he reckoned he had never been to this part before. From his sense of direction, he thought that they were heading deeper into the hillside.

Dean at last came to a broad wooden door, reinforced with heavy steel bands. Cas couldn't imagine what might lie inside. He guessed it was a cache of weaponry. “Stand back a little,” Dean told him. “I'm not as good at this magic stuff as you.” Cas took a step back and Dean held out his hands, frowning in concentration. Runes carved around the door briefly glowed and dissipated, and with a click, the lock opened. Dean gripped the door handle and pushed inside.

Cas blinked in the darkness. He could tell it was a pretty cramped room, but little else. Dean hit a light switch. Rows of overhead lights came on, one after the other.

It was fantastic. The room was completely lined by shelves, each one of them crammed solid with books. Though the collection was nowhere as extensive as Metatron's cache, it was still impressive. Books were not as common since the Flood, and were regarded by many people with some suspicion.

Cas turned back to Dean, who was now grinning from ear to ear. “Like it? See if we have what you need in here. If not … well, we can make other arrangements.”

“Other arrangements?” Cas asked.

But Dean just winked. “Just take what you want. I think you probably heard the unlocking spell? The locking spell is the same. Anyway, remember it in case you wanna come back.” Cas nodded eagerly. “Just don't be surprised if you run into Sammy. It's his favorite place. Outside of sleeping!” Then he nodded, and left.

Cas turned and ran his hand down the spine of a random book. He guessed he needed to find the section on armaments. Just a few moments ago, all he'd wanted to do was get the sword finished and then maybe get a meal from his friends in the kitchen. But now?

When Benny's crew made their way back to the ocean and the Lovely Andrea, they carried not only a new blade for Captain Lafitte and a selection of livestock reluctantly granted over from Chef Crowley's stables, but also a variety of cutlery, ranging from hatchets to long knives to stilettos to daggers. Castiel had managed to locate some sort of amplification spell that meant he could charge up a variety of items, made by various hands, all simultaneously. Benny had made off with a lot of his first test batch, actually came out quite nice, although Castiel promised to improve things.

Castiel sent Benny back with an order for more Damascus steel. He had found another book that talked of an ancient technique called pattern welding that he was eager to try.

Dean, for his part, was impressed at the way the forge had gone from a quiet, nearly abandoned space to a clattering, banging free-for-all. He also noticed that it was being staffed by a notable number of former kitchen personnel, including Garth, who Crowley repeatedly cited for gross incompetence.

“I have something for you,” Cas shouted in Dean's ear. Dean wasn't exactly certain why he'd happened by the forge today. God knows there were a lot of other things on his mind right now. There were a currently many wild rumors about Lucifer's doings; he was getting more and more reports of patrols happening upon the Enemy in their rounds, and now Benny had made him worry that Metatron and the North were more of an imminent threat.

As usual, he tried not to let his worry show, but his smile was quite genuine as Cas put an arm around his shoulder and let him off to a small, quiet workroom adjoining the main forge. Cas did that thing where he carelessly wiped down the sweat on his body with his shirt and Dean had to step back and take a breath. He distracted himself by looking around the room while Cas prowled through the drawers of an old workbench. There was a pegboard on one side with some of what Dean guessed were his personal tools hung up. And there was a pillow and some bedding neatly folded in one corner.

“Cas, are you sleeping here now?”

Cas shrugged and stared at the floor. “It's quiet.”

“Hey, no problem. I should have thought about moving you out of that dorm. We could at least pull a cot in here or something. Sorry. I've just got a lot going on these days.” He sat down in the old, battered chair next to the desk, and it squeaked in protest. He smiled. It had metal wheels on the bottom, so he could slide it back and forth.

Cas sat up on the desk, unwrapping something concealed in a cloth. Dean slid over nearer. “I could give you the chair instead of this present,” Cas told Dean. “You seem enamored.”

“You're being funny, right?” laughed Dean, who leaned over to peer at what Cas was holding. It was a dagger, but it was utterly beautiful. Dean grasped the handle and held the blade to the light. Though the blade was smooth, it looked like it had been etched all over with fine patterns, changed as the light hit it.

“This is … fucking gorgeous.”

Cas smiled, and when Dean offered it back, he waved him off. “It's for you, Dean. It was an experiment. I thought perhaps because I couldn't make you the first sword from this forge, you would accept this as … a down payment?”

“Man, I probably shouldn't accept, but what the hell? Thanks. And you know, it's good seeing you smiling like that.”

Cas's face flushed and he dropped his eyes. Dean hopped out of the chair and perched up on the desk beside him. “Hey! I bet Lucifer would lose his lunch if I came after him with this blade in my teeth.” He demonstrated by putting it in his mouth and pulling a face.

“I wouldn't recommend that, Dean!” Cas warned him, looking alarmed.

“Just being an idiot,” Dean told him, wiping the blade on a shirt tail.

“Don't be … an idiot,” Cas told him.

“You wouldn’t like that?” asked Dean, his face now very close to Cas’s.

Cas swallowed.

There was a pounding on the door. Dean glanced at Cas and then called, “Come in.” He sighed when both Sam and Bobby appeared in the doorway. “This has gotta be trouble.”

“Dean,” Sam told him. “A couple of our patrols – they haven't come back.”

Dean was on his feet and stalking out of the room. Sam and Bobby followed. He looked at the dagger and stuffed it in his belt. “What do we know?”

“They were generally headed out west,” Bobby told him.

“Generally? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, generally out west, and if I fucking knew anything else, I'd fucking tell you.”

Dean grimaced. “Have we sent out search parties yet?”

“They only just turned up late. No time.”

“And we're short staffed. As usual,” Sam chimed in.

“Fuck that, I'll go out myself if I need to,” Dean grumbled.

“Yeah, that's a great idea, kid. Abandon your post when we need you here.”

Dean turned on Bobby. “I am not abandoning my post.” Sam put a hand on his shoulder, but Dean shook him off. “Those are my men! They're my responsibility.”

Dean and Bobby looked like they were going to square off right there in the corridor, but they were suddenly interrupted by Kevin, who came running up, out of breath. “Dean! The patrol came in. You need to hurry. They....” He paused gasping for breath.

“They're what? patrol? Who?”

“Victor and Ash! But Ash is all cut up.”

“I'll get Doc Cottle,” said Sam, who immediately ran off to fetch the surgeon.

“Show me. Now,” said Dean, and he and Bobby hurried along after Kevin, who seemed to have gained his second wind from pure fright.

They were both covered in blood, Victor and Ash, the latter spilled out on the floor, Victor kneeling over him, one hand outstretched as if he didn't know what to do with it.

“Doc's on his way,” Dean called. He was down next to Victor, one hand on his shoulder. “What happened?” he asked softly.

“Lucifer's guys. They must have been. I guess they followed us. I have no fucking idea how. We absolutely weren't being tailed, Dean. At least, I didn't think so. They jumped us. They came out of nowhere: I didn’t even see them until they were wailing on us. Virgil. One of them was Virgil! I looked straight into his eyes. I saw him!” Victor shook his head, as if trying to throw off the memory. “I threw Ash in the back of the car. Didn't know what else to do.”

“Ash?” asked Bobby, who had somewhat painfully lowered himself down to his knees. He leaned his head down, cocking his ear. “Son, can you hear me?”

“Fuck … off,” Ash whispered.

“Holy fuck, he's still alive,” said Victor. “Ash! You motherfucker!”

“Fuck … you … too,” Ash muttered.

Doc Cottle arrived in a haze of tobacco smoke. “What did you do to yourself now?” he groused. “Everybody! Back off and give him some breathing room.”

“Fuck you … too … Doc,” Ash wheezed.

“Hold still while I get your pulse,” the doctor told him. “Where's the goddam stretcher? Hey, you!” he called at Kevin.

“Me what?” But Cottle had already grabbed his hand and stuck it on Ash's leg.

“Hold your hand there,” he instructed him. “No, harder! Apply pressure.”

“I faint at the sight of blood!” Kevin protested.

“So when you fall over, fall towards the body and just keep up pressure!” Kevin cringed and obeyed. “Where's the stretcher?”

“Here's the stretcher!” said Sam, who had just arrived with two attendants.

“Get him up! We gotta get him patched together,” the doctor yelled at them. “You! Keep up the pressure or I'll skin you alive.”

Kevin cringed and followed the attendants as the rushed Ash off. “And you,” said the doctor to Victor, only pausing to take an agitated puff of his cigarette. “Let me see. Now.”

“It's fine. I'm fine,” said Victor. The doctor grunted and grabbed his arm. Victor winced as Cottle rubbed his thumb along a large gash. “You're coming with me too. Sam, got your sewing kit?”

“And the whiskey,” grinned Sam, grabbing Victor by the shoulder and steering him away.

“You're not a doctor, you're a quack!” Victor groused as Sam let him off.

Dean grabbed Doc Cottle by the arm. “Ash. Is he gonna make it?”

“Every second you keep me here weepin' is another second he's lying there bleedin’,” Cottle grumbled. He flicked ashes and jammed the cigarette back in his mouth. “I'll do my best,” he muttered, and then he too was off.

“Lucifer! God damn his hide!” shouted Bobby. He kicked at a rock, and then winced.

Dean stared intently at the floor. “You think they're coming?”

“It's just like Sam and I been telling you. Yeah. Don't fucking matter how many times you invite that asshole to a fancy dinner. He wants this place. Always has. And now that we got your bladesmith....”

Dean hugged his arms to his chest. “You think he wants Cas?”

“Don't matter that we already kidnapped him fair and square. Someone as can make magical weaponry? Hell yeah. When word gets out, if it ain't already, that kid's got a price on his head. Where are you goin'?” he added, as Dean began to stalk away.

Dean paused. “I can't do a fucking thing about Ash. I'm gonna do what I can.”

“Cas!”

“They said … you were looking for me?” the bladesmith asked as he hovered in the doorway of Dean's office. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and waved him in. Much as he'd become accustomed now to seeing Castiel around the fort, he still felt he barely understood him. In his brief jaunt to the South he had already gone up against pirates and the Enemy, and Dean had just witnessed him churning up enough magical power forging Benny's blade to light the entire fortification for a week. And yet a single word of praise sent him blushing and stammering and staring at the floor.

“You weren’t in the forge,” said Dean. “I mean … you know that. Obviously.”

Cas tentatively shut the door behind him. “I just went to see Ash. But the doctor in charge told me to get lost. He was … a little abrupt.”

Dean smiled and leaned back in his chair. “He's pretty protective of his patients.”

Cas came over to stand in front of his desk. “I had an idea. I didn't have time to tell you … before. I've been reading.”

“I figured as much. You're a book person. Like Sammy.”

“It's about the bullets.”

Dean paused. “You figured out an enchantment?”

“No. I still think that's impossible. Or it would be so weak as to not be worth the effort. But, Dean. Building the gun? I've been studying the craft of making armaments. I think it would be possible to incorporate a quite powerful spell into a rifle, or even possibly a pistol.”

“Holy shit, Cas! That's fucking brilliant.”

Cas smiled, and Dean's whole world suddenly brightened. And then he was on his feet, grabbing one of the dull, decorative swords that was mounted on the wall behind him. “So, how well you know how to use one of these?”

Cas shrugged. “Well enough. I can use a blade, but as I told you, I'm not a soldier.” He took the sword from Dean, though he looked confused.

Dean grabbed the other sword of the pair and came out from behind the desk. “You know how to defend yourself? If one of Lucifer's guys comes after you?”

“I suppose I can hold my own. I don't know.”

“Well, you need to know. I got a pair of my men down in the infirmary, and I just sent some guys after another pair that went missing. We're being hunted now, and you need to defend yourself.”

Cas straightened up. “I have magic.”

“No magic! Cas. You know my mom? I'm like my dad, that's what everyone says. But my mom? She was like you. Like Sammy, too, in her way. She read books and she knew the enchantments. And you know what somebody did? There was a border war, and my dad was out, and somebody put a sword through her.”

Cas’s eyes widened. “Oh. God. I'm sorry, Dean.”

“Show me what you know, Cas. Now.”

Castiel stood still, confused. “What do you want me to do?”

And then Dean lunged at him. Cas got his own sword up in time, and managed a very clumsy parry. “Defend yourself. Come on! Don't worry about me.”

“But-” But Cas didn't finish his protest, as Dean swung at him again. This time he didn't get his own sword up in time, and was rewarded with a nasty smack in the side. “Ow!” He rubbed his side.

“Come on! Hit me!” urged Dean.

“I don't....” Dean lunged again. Cas smacked his blade away, and then swung wildly. Dean expertly batted him away.

“That's it. Come on. Let me see what you got.”

Cas followed with a few more attempted attacks, but Dean always managed to get the best of him. “Harder! Come on. You can do better than that.”

Cas gritted his teeth and swung. He stepped back, breathing hard. “This is idiotic! I'll never be able to defend myself against an expert swordsman. Not without magic!”

Dean leapt at him, and Cas raised his sword again. But Dean kept coming, raining down blows. “Don't give up, dammit! Don't give up! Never give up!” But then Cas swung and missed, and Dean smacked him on the hand and his weapon dropped with a clank. Dean raised his sword, but Cas grabbed his arm, pulling Dean closer, and then stomped down hard on his instep. Dean yelped in surprise, and Cas countered with an elbow to his gut.

Dean started to fall, but managed to grab Cas and pull him down too, Cas gasping as Dean landed on top of him, dropping the sword. Cas reached his hands out above his head, scrambling for Dean's blade. But Dean stretched out too, trapping Cas's wrists beneath his hands. They were face to face now, breathing hard, Dean staring half-crazed down at him.

Then Dean's mouth was on his, pressing down desperately. Shifting his body, Dean tightened his grip on Cas's wrists, pushing his tongue into Cas's mouth, pressing his weight against Cas, pinning him down.

And then, just as suddenly, like a summer storm that raged and vanished, Dean was pulling back. He released Cas's wrists and went up on his elbows. They lay there for a long moment, staring at each other, panting. Cas's eyes were wide. “I- I'm sorry,” Dean whispered.

Cas slowly, carefully reached up one trembling hand and gently touched Dean's face, brushing back a stray hair. He shook his head. “Don't. Don't be sorry.”

And then Dean was back, kissing him again, Cas's arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, kissing back. Dean slid down and began to kiss Cas's neck. He grasped the thin material of Cas's shirt and yanked at it, tearing it open, buttons popping, and trailed his tongue down Cas's chest.

And then Dean rolled off and got to his knees, and Cas let out a small, disappointed moan. Dean grabbed Cas by the shirt collar and yanked him up. “Come on,” he muttered, backing up, pulling Cas along with him. Cas followed along, as if hypnotized. Dean pulled him back to a small door in the side of the office and pushed it open. As Cas continued to lock eyes with him, Dean turned him around, dumping him on the bed. Dean turned and bolted the door. And then Dean was on him, and his hands were everywhere, and Cas was on fire.

“So?” asked Lucifer.

Uriel stopped short. For once, Lucifer was sitting up, paying attention, although he was also giving himself a manicure with a dagger. Uriel’s gaze drifted over at Alastair, sitting on a countertop in the corner, crunched up like a gargoyle. The man’s face was in shadows, but Uriel could see the wide grin. This one likes killing, Uriel thought. For some reason, this made him feel nervous.

Uriel looked questioningly at Lucifer. “Go ahead,” said Lucifer, waving the letter opener.

“My Liege. The other party escaped, though both were badly wounded.”

“Virgil is a pussy,” grumbled Alastair. “You shouldn’t trust that one to squash a bug.”

“Alastair, when I want to hear from you, I’ll ask,” Lucifer said in a soft and careful voice. “As it happens, I asked Virgil to let them go.”

“Why, boss man?” asked Alastair, unfolding and hopping off the counter.

“Because we need someone to report back what has happened,” Uriel explained, looking down his nose at Alastair.

“Metatron’s spells, they’re the real deal,” nodded Lucifer.

“And there is more where that came from,” Uriel added.

“If you believe the legends,” said Lucifer. “Alexandria might be another bug’s hoard.”

“You don’t believe in Alexandria?” asked Uriel. “Then why-?” He cut himself off.

“Why what?”

“I’m sorry, My Liege. It was inappropriate.”

“You wish to know, why did I agree to go in with Metatron?” Lucifer nodded. “He clearly plans to use me and then do away with me when I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

“I won’t let him kill you!” Alastair protested. “He raises a hand, he’s dead as a dog.”

Lucifer pointed with the letter opener, “While he thinks he’s using us, we’ll be using him,” he said, pointing one way and then the other. “Besides, I hear the weather up North is fine this time of year.”

Uriel cocked an eyebrow. The boss was getting ambitious. Alastair cackled, and Uriel felt another chill run up his spine.

Cas awoke in the biggest bed he had ever seen. He roused, and, to his disappointment, realized he was alone there.

He sat up and yawned. He blinked, looking for his clothes, but they seemed to be scattered everywhere. There was a robe hanging from the back of a chair, so he put it on, intending to nose around for the bathroom. He heard the sound of trickling water and peeked through an open door. Happily, it was the washroom, though it appeared as big as his old dormitory. He gratefully relieved himself, and paused, still fascinated by the flush toilets in the fort. And then he noticed the large pool at the other end of the room. Steam was rising off the water. Sam had explained at one point that the fortification was built over hot springs, and some of the remarkable plumbing system made use of the mineral water. It looked like they had actually piped the water into this room to make a perpetually warm bath. Cas put a hand in the water. It felt wonderful. He looked around the bathroom, and, after peeking back into Dean's bedroom to see that no one was around, shed the robe and dipped into the bath.

He found a cake of soap in a dish and took some time washing himself. And then, even though the hour was late and he probably should have gotten out, he lingered. It was intoxicating, being here with nothing to do. The pool looked large enough to swim. How he missed swimming.

“Hey, sleepy head!”

He may have dozed off as he didn't hear Dean until he was standing right over him. Cas startled awake, saw Dean, remembered he was naked, and then had the absurd idea that he needed to cover himself up. “Um. Hello, Dean?”

“No, don't get out. That looks like a great idea.” And then Dean was kicking off his boots and shedding his clothes. Cas peered up at him. He looked utterly perfect up there, naked, like a young god. He yawned and stretched.

And then there was a splash and he was crouching in the water next to Cas, pulling on his arm. “Hey, come here. This is the best part.” Cas followed as Dean pulled him out, at first walking along the slick bottom, but he found it quickly fell away. He stumbled on the slippery floor and found himself in Dean's arms as Dean treaded water. “Is this great or what?”

Cas smiled up at Dean, expecting a kiss.

Dean grinned, mouth full of straight white teeth, and then unceremoniously dunked him.

Cas surfaced, peeved and sputtering as Dean treaded water and howled with laughter. Cas, however, was a strong swimmer, and had grown up with two mischievous brothers. He shot over behind Dean and tackled him from the back, dunking him in mid-laughter. Dean surfaced, choking, and then the choking turned to laughter and he splashed Cas. Cas turned and swam for the bench at the shallow side. Dean followed, and pulled Cas around to sit on his lap, and Cas finally got his kiss.

“I was pissed when I came back and you weren't in bed,” Dean told him. “I thought you'd be there, all warmed up and waiting for me.”

“Sorry. I had to pee,” Cas told him. Dean laughed again. “Where were you?”

“Went to visit Ash. He survived the night. Doc Cottle says that's good, that he's probably going to make it. Now, we have some time. We can do whatever you like.” And Dean emphasized the remark with another, more lingering kiss.

“Oh, um, yes.”

Dean's words came in short bursts as he paused to nuzzle Cas's neck, and then Dean's lips traced down to his chest. “Hey, I know things happened a little fast last night. But we can take it slower. Whatever you want.”

“I'm not sure,” Cas admitted. “What I want.”

“Wait,” said Dean, cupping Cas's face. “You'd been with a guy before, right? Or a girl?”

“I hadn't. Actually.” He suddenly felt exposed. “I had a business to run. Two brothers to look after....” But Dean cut him off with another kiss.

When he pulled back, Dean's eyes were wide and eager. “I get you all to myself?”

“If … you want to look at it that way?”

Dean's hands had found the curve of his ass and gave it a teasing squeeze, and Cas let out a gasp. And then Dean's fingers roamed lower, exploring his body. Cas clung to him, arching and moaning while their mouths met in a crushing kiss. Everything was slick and warm and wonderful as they wrestled there in the steaming water.

“Samandriel?”

Inias leaned on his broom and peered into the darkness. But, to his intense disappointment, the person entering the shop was not his younger brother.

“You look just like your brother when you do that.”

“Do what, Naomi?” huffed Inias as he returned to sweeping the smithy floor.

“Roll your eyes,” said Naomi, a slight smile crossing her features. “And you realize,” she continued, her voice lower, confidential, “you're not supposed to use his proper name?”

Inias gripped the broom, pushing too hard, scattering dust everywhere. “Yes. The De Angelus family, maker of blades, is no more.”

“Now, now. Don't be so unhappy. Despite your brother's troubles, you were allowed to continue your apprenticeship, weren't you?”

“This isn't an apprenticeship!” growled Inias. “Serving as a custodian to my own damned business. And they won't let me use magic! What good is a bladesmith who can’t say the words?”

Naomi put a finger to her lips and looked around. “Not many are allowed magic anymore. You know this.”

“What's a tradesman without his magic?”

“It's Metatron's commandment.”

“Fuck him.” He said it softly, but Naomi still looked like she would shit a brick.

She sighed. “I have something for you.” Naomi held up a brown paper-wrapped package. Frowning, Inias leaned his broom against the counter and took it from her. He unwrapped it, the paper crinkling. It was a book. He looked questioningly at Naomi: books had become almost as much contraband as magic.

“You said you liked reading to your brother. These are some tales. About the South.”

Inias nodded, his throat catching before he could say a word of thanks. Word was, his brother had gone South. Inias sometimes imagined grabbing Sammy, and hopping on one of the ships in the harbor to go look for him. Maybe when his brother was a little older. Even if they never set eyes on Castiel again, life beyond the Narrow Sea couldn't possibly be worse than his present existence.

Naomi was staring at him. “Take care, Inias. And … watch yourself.” And with that, she departed.

Cas somehow found his way back to the library from Dean's room. He had ventured back to his own room beside the forge only to find his things (what little there was) had all been transported as if by magic to the elder Winchester brother's quarters. He hadn't had the time to discuss this with Dean, so had just plowed ahead on the spell he was working on.

He had a rather large stack of books in his arms, and realized when he came to the door that he didn't really have an arm free to cast the unlocking spell.

“That's okay, I got it,” said Sam, who had just come up behind him. Sam casually flicked a hand at the door and it popped open. Sam grabbed the handle and politely held the door open when Cas, who was a bit flustered, entered and set down his stack of books.

“You didn't even say the words,” he told Sam, once the door was closed again.

“Oh, yeah. If you think them well enough, then you're good.”

Cas continued staring, but then awkwardly grabbed up a book and began to shelve it. There wasn't quite enough room for everything, so he had to resort to sticking a couple books in horizontally, irked him. “I haven't seen such a thing before.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced at the floor, shaggy hair falling in his face as he smiled shyly. “I think I inherited it. I guess our mom was a pretty good magic user.” He looked up, sparkling green eyes staring through dark bangs. “So, anyway, what are you here for? I might be able to help, if you're looking for something.”

Cas stood in silence for a moment. Both of the Winchester brothers possessed their own sort of beauty. So what in God's name does Dean see in me? “In point of fact, I am still pursuing Dean's request: to enchant a firearm.”

“Oh, the magic bullet spell.” Sam chuckled. “We've had some luck with engraving runes on the bullets, but they get distorted when you fire them.” He feigned firing off a gun, weaving hands together, two index fingers pointing and shooting.

“Not the bullets, Sam. The firearm.”

It was Sam's turn to stare at Cas. “You're gonna make a magic gun?”

“That is my hope.”

“Damn. That's smart. In fact, that's brilliant.”

“No one has pursued this line of inquiry before?”

You could see the wheels turning. “Well, making a gun.... It's complicated! All those little pieces.”

“Precisely! When you make a whole from parts, you can incorporate magic with various binding spells.”

Sam was beginning to get excited. “Yeah, I see where you're going. Shit! Why didn't I think of that?” He had already headed over to a section of shelving. “Have you looked in here yet?”

“Yes. The Enochian texts. But you don't have all the volumes of the series.”

Sam's grin spoke mysteries. “Ah, but we do!”

“Really? Where are they?”

But Sam was distracted by a commotion in the hallway outside. “Just a minute,” he said, peeking out the door. He stopped someone in the hallway and there was a whispered conversation. And then he was back in the room, radiating excitement. “Come on!” he told Cas.

Cas put down his books and headed out. Sam paused to re-lock the door with an impatient flick of the wrist, and then he was off running, Cas trying to keep up.

“What has happened?” Cas puffed.

“He's back!” Sam yelled back, and then he leapt for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and Cas contented himself for a while with just keeping pace with the long-legged Winchester.

They ended up in the grand corridor near the main entrance. Dean was there, and he was embracing a burly, dark haired man, still clad in a keffiyeh and desert robes. He looked like he had just come in from the wilderness. There were other robed men standing around as well.

Dean and the newcomer finally broke the embrace. Cas thought he had never seen Dean look so happy.

“Dad!” said Sam, who strode forward. The man smiled broadly and stepped forward to hug Sam, enthusiastically slapping his back.

“Dammit, Sam, are you still growing?” asked John, who took a step back and looked Sam up and down in mock surprise. Sam puffed up proudly. John turned to pump Bobby's hand. Bobby, to Cas, didn’t appear anywhere near as enthusiastic as the Winchester boys.

“Dad,” said Dean. He grabbed Cas by the arm and tugged him forward. “This is our new bladesmith. This is Cas.”

“It's good to meet you, sir,” said Cas, nervously extending a hand.

“We have a new smith?” John asked Dean, ignoring Cas for the moment. “Since when?”

Dean looked smug. “Since now.”

John waved a skeptical hand towards Cas. “Is the little bastard any good? He looks like he’s about fifteen years old.”

“I am nineteen years old, sir,” said Cas testily. Here we go again, he thought.

John turned to address Cas for the first time. “Can we cool it with the ‘sir’ business? Makes me feel like I’m a hundred years old.”

“You are a hundred years old,” barked Bobby, and several guys hooted with laughter.

“Look, I didn’t believe it either, at first, but he’s the best I’ve ever seen, Dad,” said Dean, and Cas stood tall with pride at this.

John didn’t comment, but instead peered inquisitively at his firstborn, and then gave Cas a searching look. “We’ll see, I guess. Welcome, Cas,” he added, finally holding out his hand to shake. His handshake was firm. And then Cas was evidently dismissed, as John said, “Come on, we have a lot to talk about.” He charged off, Dean and Bobby right behind him, Cas standing awkwardly back.

Sam grabbed Cas’s shoulder. “Hey. I’ll talk to them about getting that volume for you.” And then he too was off.

“Hey.”

Cas turned to see Kevin standing there with a large, covered platter. His face relaxed into a smile. “Hello, Kevin.”

“We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been surprisingly busy.”

Kevin shrugged. “Was gonna bring this down to Ash. And maybe visit for a while. Cottle’s a good doctor, but he’s too much of an asshole to be good company.”

“Can I go with you?” Cas asked. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he craved company just now.

“Hey, sure, come on! Victor sometimes comes down, and we need another hand to play cards. You do play cards, right?”

“Uh. No.”

“That’s even better!” Kevin assured him.

Inias began to leaf through the book Naomi had given him, 1,001 Tales of the South, and soon became so engrossed he didn't even realize when his brother finally appeared. Samandriel got up on tiptoes to peer in, dropping a pet grasshopper on the page so it could see as well.

“Do you want me to read?”

“Are there pirates?” asked Samandriel. Although the boy was resentful against Castiel, and would no longer suffer to say his traitorous brother's name, he had become fascinated with pirates after they heard their Castiel may have made it down through the Narrow Sea to the South, on a ship manned by privateers.

“There might be. Come on, pull up a chair.”

Samandriel grabbed a canvas sack filled with sawdust and dragged it over. He sat down while Inias hopped up on the counter and, pulling the lamp nearer, began to read. “In the beginning there were the Seven Sisters.” He paused, his finger on the paragraph. “Can you name all the forts, Sammy?”

Samandriel inhaled deeply, so he could recite it all in one breath. “The Ruby Fort, the Emerald Fort, the Onyx Fort, the Sapphire Fort, the Amethyst Fort, the Opal Fort, the Topaz Fort.”

“That’s right!”

“Only the Sapphire Fort was lost.”

Inias squinted at his brother. “Where did you hear that?”

“A mealybug told me.”

“Oh.” Inias shrugged and went back to reading.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 4 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:27:29Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

“Damn! You got a lot further than I thought.”

Dean dropped his pack in front of Castiel, who was sitting on a pile of rocks. He had removed his suit jacket and put it over his head. Unwrapping the bottom of his keffiyeh, Dean dug around in his pack and removed a jug of water, he proffered to Castiel. The bladesmith remained stubbornly motionless.

“Did you even bring any water? Look, you need to drink this, unless you think I can carry you back.”

Castiel glared.

“Cas, look,” said Dean, sitting down opposite with a sigh and taking a good drink of water. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

“My name … is Castiel.” His voice was the rasp a door makes when you don't remember to oil the hinges.

Dean shook his head. “I'm sorry. Okay? Things between us and Lucifer's crew … they're dicey right now. I had to get you out of there.”

“Virgil was spying!”

“Yeah. I know.”

Castiel stared at him. “You knew?”

“Yeah. He took off with them, by the way. He's gone.”

“Oh.”

“We guess he headed out with their crew when they left.” Dean handed over the water jug once again, and Castiel, letting the jacket fall from over his head and onto his shoulders, took a sip. “Look, I'm sorry. But I didn't think they'd pick up on who you were like that. I thought-”

“You thought I was my father.”

“Yeah. And you're not. You're a just kid.”

“I'm not a child.”

“Cas. We didn't wanna make things dangerous for you. I didn't wanna make things dangerous.”

“You failed.”

“Well. Yeah. But you're lucky. They might have found you before we did.”

“And what? I would have made swords for them? My trade?”

“Cas, you don't understand. I know Crowley is annoying as shit. But Lucifer? He'd chain you in the dungeon and have you at the forge until you died of exhaustion.”

“So you admit I'm a bladesmith?” He took another long swig of water as Dean fumbled in his backpack again.

Dean tossed him an orange. “Heard you like these.” Cas caught it. He hungrily tore it in half and raised the fruit to his lips. He devoured it like he had never tasted anything so delicious. “So, you think you could make us some swords?”

Cas picked some pith from between his teeth. “No.”

Dean threw up his hands in exasperation. “Wait. What?”

“What you are asking is for me to make you quality weapons. I cannot do that. Not with the materials you have at hand.”

“What do we need?”

“Your steel is shit. Weapons made from shit are still shit, no matter how much magic you apply. This is Lucifer's mistake.”

“What do we need? Tell me. I'll get it for you.”

Cas’s head lolled to the side, like an inquisitive puppy. “I need good Damascus steel. It's the only kind.”

“All right. We'll get it.”

Castiel wiped orange juice from his mouth. “How the hell will you do that?”

Dean grinned. “Remember, I have friends in low places.”

“Benny?” Castiel's eyes lit up.

“You met Captain Lafitte on the way over.” Dean shifted to sit next to Castiel on the outcropping. When Castiel did not object, he leaned over close and untangled the unholy mess Castiel had made of his tie. He pulled it off and tossed it in the bag.

“Benny said....”

“What did he say?”

“He said he'd ask about my brothers.”

Dean looked pained. “Sam told me you had brothers.”

“Inias and Samandriel. My younger brothers. I'm- I’m really worried about them, Dean.”

“You have a brother, Sam, too?” muttered Dean. Cas’s eyes were getting watery, and Dean found he longed to put a an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, well.... All right, you might as well know this. It was Benny that let us know Metatron was moving in on your territory. Metatron, he has a history. He's been taking over weapons shops all over the North. That's why it's getting hard for us to get armaments out here. We don't have anyone here who's got the skills and the magic.”

“I didn't know that. I usually don't pay attention to that kind of stuff.” He squinted at Dean. “You thought.... You thought you were protecting me?”

“Yeah, that's what we thought. We fucked up. Major league.”

Castiel nodded, absorbing what Dean had told him, although he felt a little light-headed from the sun. “Look, how about we get you back to the outpost?” Dean asked softly. “You could maybe relax for a while.”

Castiel got to his feet, although he found he was a little shaky. “I missed my shift on prep. Crowley will not be pleased.”

“Crowley can fuck himself,” said Dean. He had grabbed another scarf from his pack and was tying it around Castiel's head. “Besides, you're out of the kitchen. I want you on patrol.”

Cas blinked as Dean fixed the knot underneath his chin. “I'm not a soldier, Dean.”

“No, I know that. I'll put you with some good guys. Don't worry. I just think you need to see what we're up against.” Having satisfied himself that Castiel's keffiyeh was straight, he doffed his jacket and handed it over.

“That's your jacket, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know it's my fucking jacket. Put it on. You'll sunburn right through that shirt.”

Castiel held the jacket, but hesitated.

“You're in my patrol now,” Dean said softly. “That's an order.”

Cas let the suit jacket fall from his shoulders and donned instead Dean's jacket, was a little too big for him. Dean pulled it tight and smiled. “Is it far?” Castiel asked.

“Hey, you should have thought of that before you started walking! But no, if we go by the most direct route, maybe an hour.”

Castiel looked crestfallen. “Only an hour?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, you obviously need help with this desert survival thing. Come on.”

“No bladesmith. And no chef,” grumbled Lucifer as he and Uriel marched down the corridor towards his office. “Virgil, our spy, was compromised. And my fucking hamburger was cold.”

“Sorry I missed it,” said Uriel.

“Worst day of my life,” muttered Lucifer, opening his office door to find a stunning redhead sitting in his chair, her boots up on his desk. “Who in hell are you?”

The woman, who was busily applying a string of dental floss to her molars, signaled to wait. She then expertly balled up the floss and batted it into the waste basket. “Sorry, boss, those blueberry tarts were hell on my enamel.”

“What blueberry tarts?”

“The ones on the platter,” she said, indicating a plate on Lucifer’s desk now contained only crumbs. “I assumed they were to share.”

Lucifer had a glint of murder in his eyes. “Like I said, who are you?”

“Abaddon. Your new psychic. Since you broke the last one.” She shot a derisive glance at him.

“That was Lilith's fault,” sulked Lucifer. “I'm not going to take the blame for that.”

“Well, we're gonna do things my way this time,” said Abaddon, swinging her feet down and standing up. “Follow me,” she added, brushing past them out of the office.

Lucifer lunged at her, pushing her up against the wall, his sword at her throat. “Understand this. Nobody talks to me like that.”

Abaddon grinned and pointed down, where she had a stiletto at his belly. “Wanna dance?” she asked.

Lucifer released his grip.

Uriel's own hand was on his hilt. “But-”

“Let's get lost,” said Abaddon, breezing out of the office.

“I like this one,” Lucifer whispered to Uriel. He hurried after Abaddon, and Uriel hastened after them. They walked down to the room Lilith had recently used. The floor around the table was now covered in markings.

Abaddon stood, hands on hips. “All right, so ground rules, since I don't wanna end up taking my meals through a straw. See this circle on the floor? When we're chatting with Metatron, you do not break the circle, you do not step outside the circle.

Uriel leaned over and looked at the bowl in the center of the table. It was filled with what looked like blue-tinged water. “That isn't virgin's blood.”

“Red didn't go with my outfit.”

“What is it?” Uriel persisted.

“Whiskey. And blue curacao. Now, let's sit down and talk turkey with Metatron.”

Lucifer nodded to Uriel, and they sat down across the table, being mindful not to disturb any of the sigils scrawled on the floor. They joined hands, and the liquid rose to form an Onyx fort. But quite unlike the last time Lucifer had been scrying, the image of the fort retreated from view in a leisurely manner, and then traveled deliberately across the wastelands and over the sea. Unlike Lilith, Abaddon was keeping her eyes open, and directing her gaze deliberately towards the image in the bowl.

They came upon Metatron, once again, amongst his odd book formations. Even through the odd blue image, he appeared flustered. “What's going on. Lucifer?” This wasn't Abaddon talking this time though: the voice instead seemed to be in Lucifer's head. He nodded to Uriel, who was evidently hearing it too.

“Yes. Hello Metatron,” said Lucifer, glancing at Abaddon, who actually winked.

“What's going on?”

“New psychic.” Lucifer winked back. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yes, you idiots. Where were you?”

“At dinner. At the Red Fort. As you suggested, remember?”

“You were supposed to bring back the bladesmith!”

“Didn't get him this time. Next time.”

“What do you mean next time? He was in the desert. Why didn't you go after him?”

Lucifer looked at Uriel, who shrugged. “What the hell was he doing in the desert, anyway?”

Metatron huffed.

“Metatron,” said Uriel.

“What is it, parrot?”

Uriel frowned. “This parrot would like some backstory.”

Metatron actually sat down his book. “All right. What do you know about Alexandria?”

Uriel and Lucifer exchanged a look.

When they returned, Castiel's things had already been moved upstairs to another, smaller dormitory. Although Castiel was a little disappointed that he wasn't able to greet Kevin and Garth, he was also relieved at not having to face Crowley. He kicked off his shoes, and was asleep as soon as his face met the pillow.

He had some very strange dreams, about creatures that seemed part bug, and part octopus. Even in his sleep, he thought his brother Samandriel would be intrigued. He woke up refreshed, but with an ache in his heart.

After a meal (he wasn't precisely certain whether it counted as breakfast or lunch) and a long shower (where once again he was truly impressed by the water pressure, and also discovered that he was sunburnt, although not as badly as he had feared) he found his way upstairs, to the same area on the roof where he had met Bobby Singer the first day.

A bald, dark-skinned man immediately walked up to him, his hand outstretched. “You're Cas?”

“Um, yes. I'm Castiel. Cas.”

“Victor. Good to meet you. And that's Ash,” he said, pointing to a grinning man sitting on the parapet. “He's fucked up in the head, but he's all right.”

“Uh. Hello, Ash.”

“Hey, Wings!” said Ash, who hopped down and came over. In contrast to Victor, Ash had an elaborately-styled mop of reddish hair.

“I'm sorry?” said Castiel.

“De Angelus, correct?” asked Ash. “I figure you're our guardian angel.”

“I'm a.... I'm a bladesmith, actually.”

“You made your sidearm?” asked Ash, pointing to Castiel's sword. Castiel had figured since he was out of Crowley's domain it was now all right to bring it along. As both men seemed curious about it, he extracted it from the scabbard and presented it to Victor, who made a great show of sighting down the blade while Ash hovered nearby.

“Nice. Damn,” said Victor. “You made this?” he asked, handing it over to Ash.

“Holy sweet Mama! Can you make another?” Ash danced around with the blade, feinting left and right. “Can you make two? Can you be my new best friend?”

Castiel looked over at Victor, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Ash. We're in the presence of company, man. Be normal for five fucking seconds.”

“Normal is boring!” said Ash, handing Castiel back his sword. “Wanna hit the road?” Without waiting for an answer, Ash began to saunter away.

“Like I said, he's fucked in the head. But he's all right,” Victor whispered to Castiel. “So, are you going to secure us some new weaponry?” he asked as they reached a back stairway Castiel hadn't noticed before. “The armaments we've been getting – less than satisfactory.”

“I've requested the procurement of some new materials,” Castiel told him.

“They're gonna have Benny steal 'em!” Ash shot back, and then he disappeared around a bend.

“Won't be the first time,” chuckled Victor. “Besides, who needs good blade steel more than us? We're doing the Lord's work, if you ask me.”

“Fighting the Enemy?”

Victor snorted. “Yeah. Them. And Lucifer.”

“I met Lucifer.”

“I'm sorry. Ash and me, we were out on patrol during the banquet.”

“On purpose?” Castiel guessed.

“I don't mix well with that crowd. Oh, here we go.” They had reached the ground level, but Ash was still nowhere in sight.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a great beast came roaring into view. Terrified, Castiel flung himself back against the wall as the behemoth squealed to a stop.

A panel opened somewhere near the front, and Ash popped out. “Cas. Dude. Don't tell me you never seen a car before?”

“A … what?” asked Castiel, who was still shaking.

“You were born and raised in the North, right?” Victor asked.

“Yes.”

“Ash, he's never seen a car before.”

“Well, hot damn! You're in for a treat. This here is a Dodge Challenger. An automotive marvel from the time before the Flood.” He proudly patted the fender. The beast was still making a noise, but it was more like a purring sound than the dull roar it had when it was in motion.

“A car? Is this metal?” Castiel asked, putting a tentative hand on the hood. It was warm!

“Internal combustion,” said Victor. “Ash?” Ash tugged at something inside the car, and there was a click. Victor put his hand beneath a front panel and tugged. A large metal plate raised up, and the noise suddenly got a lot louder. His chariness overcome by curiosity, Castiel peered over the fender with Victor at the humming marvel housed beneath the hood. “We have access to petroleum products here,” Victor shouted. “Oil and gasoline. Keeps this bugger running.”

Castiel drew back and now walked the length of the car. There were pipes beneath the back wheels that let out a foul-smelling gas. “This car makes emissions, doesn't it?”

Victor smiled. “Hey, smart kid.” He let the hood slam down again, somewhat muffling the sound of the motor. “Yeah, it does. And we're pretty sure it attracts the Enemy. Either the noise or the smoke, we're not sure. So when you're out, we keep to the roads, and it’s best not to stay too long in one place.”

Castiel nodded, now completely intrigued. Victor showed him how to operate the handle on the back door, so he slipped inside, and Ash took off. Castiel was immediately grateful that he had been placed in one of the back seats, as the sense of vertigo was incredible. The desert seemed to fly by.

“Now,” Victor told him, “usually we have a set area to patrol, but Dean says he wants you to see one of them. So we're heading out to an area where we've ascertained recent activity.”

Castiel watched the desert slip by, desperately grasping the seat in front of him. “Sam told me that they're difficult to spot.”

“Not with my little secret baiting machine!” said Ash, hitting the gas pedal. They were just over a rut in the road, and Castiel nearly hit the ceiling.

“Aw, you didn't bring that stupid motor thing, did you?” asked Victor.

“Sure as fuck did. I invented it!”

“I thought Dean invented it?”

“Well,” Ash conceded, “maybe we both invented it.”

“I heard it nearly got Sam and Dean both killed!”

“Aw, they were obviously using it wrong.”

“Well, you are nowhere near my ass when you put that thing out.” Victor puffed air through his cheeks. “If their father had seen this….”

“John? Not likely.” Ash and Victor exchanged a glance.

“Sam and Dean's father?” asked Cas. In truth, his neck was getting tired from all the back and forth between these two, but the kitchen staff occasionally mentioned John Winchester with a sort of reverence usually reserved for the dead, and Castiel was curious.

Ash shook his head, so Victor answered. “John took it pretty bad when he lost his wife.”

“She is dead, then?”

“Yeah. It's been almost twenty years now.” Victor shook his head at the memory. “I was just a cadet at the time. There was a raid. It was unsuccessful, we beat them back. But not before Mary was killed. John was off on patrol. He was convinced that Lucifer was behind it, but the thing was, there wasn't any proof.”

“But Dean still invites Lucifer to dinner?”

“There’s only six outposts. We've all gotta get along, at some level.”

Ash was staring up ahead. “She was a magic user. Mary.”

“Yeah, that's right,” said Victor. “That might be why we can't get a bladesmith worth a damn. After Mary died – she was trying to protect herself with magic, and Dean saw the whole thing, poor kid – John decided that spells were bullshit, and I think he convinced Dean of the same.”

Cas put his elbows over the back of the seat. “You need magic to forge the best blades.”

“Well, you'd think that would be obvious. But there's no convincing John. He's even more hard-headed than his sons.”

Cas was thoughtful. “You said six forts? I thought there were seven? The Seven Sisters?”

“Originally it was seven. One was lost.”

“Lost? How do you lose an entire fortification?”

Victor shrugged. “The Sapphire Fort. It’s mentioned in all the records, but then the mentions stop.”

“It’s another bullshit legend,” Ash volunteered. “Like a bug’s hoard.”

“If you say so,” Victor told him. “I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff out here. A lot of weird stuff.”

Ash finally stopped the car on an overlook over a rather featureless plain. Castiel and Victor took out a pair of binoculars to survey the field while Ash pulled something from the trunk. It looked, to Castiel, like a smaller version of the Challenger's motor. Ash also fished out a can of gasoline and filled the reservoir, and then he clicked a switch and pulled a cord, and the thing sputtered to life and began to rumble and belch an acrid black smoke.

“Will you shut that damn thing down, Ash? I don't want it anywhere near me!”

“Aw, chickenshit.” But Ash clicked another switch, and the motor quieted. He slung it over his back. “I'm gonna head down and find a good spot.”

“You set it down and you get yourself right back up here, understood?” Victor told him. “That shit is dangerous.” Ash shrugged and walked down the hillside.

Castiel continued to scan the area with Victor's binoculars. “Ash's machine attracts the Enemy?”

“Yeah, at least that's what happened to the Winchesters. You ask me those boys are just magnets for the weird. But that's just my opinion. There's a theory the Enemy is attracted to gas engines, like I told you. There's also those that say rhythmic noises are enough.

“Like a motor?”

“Yeah.”

“Or … somebody walking?”

Victor nodded. “Like Dean said, you're a sharp kid.”

“Dean said that?”

Victor grinned.

“So what is that down there?” asked Castiel, pointing to one of the few features of the featureless landscape.

Victor focused the binoculars. “Oh, that was where somebody tried to dig a well. Folks do crazy things for water around here. Hundreds of meters deep, but it looks like they gave up.”

“Do the Enemy need water?”

“That's a damned good question.”

Castiel waited a beat. “And?”

“No fucking idea. Damn, what is taking Ash so long?” Victor jumped up on a pile of rocks and shouted down. “Ash, dammit! Place the thing and get the fuck out of there.”

Ash turned around and waved his middle finger at Victor, and then just kept on walking.

“Asshole,” grumbled Victor.

“You don't have, uh, what seems, um, military....”

“You mean we don't respect our superior officers?” laughed Victor. “Naw, kid. Anybody out doing this has an appropriate level of regard for our officers. I'm technically Bobby's second in command, but I don't mind telling the old bastard to go fuck himself, and he'd do the same for me. You want respect, get a dog.”

Castiel heard a low sound and looked back down to the plain. Ash had finally located a good spot, and now sat fiddling with his engine. It sputtered and died once, and then again.

“He needs to quit fucking with that thing and get back up here. I'm gonna yell at him in a minute.”

“What's that over there?”

“Where do you mean?” Victor trained the binoculars in the general direction Castiel was pointing. “Might be dust... Oh fuck!”

Down below, Ash cried out in victory as his motor hummed to life.

Meanwhile, off in the distance, the desert buckled and threw up a cloud of dust. The pattern of disruption was slow and steady. And it was headed right towards where Ash now stood.

“Ash! Get out of there NOW!” Victor screamed, waving his hands towards the trail of what was undoubtedly an Enemy creature tunneling towards him.

Down below, Ash turned and did a double take. And then he began running away. But in his panic, he did not run back towards the hill and safety, but rather at a course directly parallel to it.

“Shit,” whispered Victor. “No, asshole! Up here!” he thundered. He looked to Castiel, and then the car. “I gotta get down there. Cas, stay here, I'll take the car.”

“No, I have an idea,” said Castiel. Before Victor could object, he grabbed a coil of rope, tossed it over his shoulder and started running down the hill. But he didn't run towards Ash: instead, he ran towards the humming motor. The creature had swerved to intersect Ash, attracted, Cas reckoned, by the rhythm of his running feet. He heard the car roar to life and speed away as he ran.

He skidded to the bottom and made for the machine, making sure to pound his feet as loudly as possible. He grabbed the running motor and, without stopping to turn it off, started running towards the empty well, praying that it hadn't been capped off with something like concrete. The motor was heavy and slowed him down. He chanced a look back and gulped. Whatever it was had changed course and was now heading along after him. Well, he told himself, that's what you wanted, wasn't it?

He heard in the distance the roar of the Challenger: Victor had made it down. Hopefully he would swing around and rescue Ash. Though his lungs ached, he sprinted the last few meters for the empty well and found to his relief just a rotting wood plank capping it off. He tore off the plank, and tied one end of the rope and lowered the motor down the well as fast as he could, hand over hand. The dust storm kicked up by the tunneling creature was getting drawing nearer: within a few hundred meters now. It had looked like a frail smoke trail up from the overlook, but now he could see it was at least the width of several cars. Finally the motor must have hit bottom, because the weight was off his hands.

Every instinct told him to run, but instead he forced himself to do a strange dance away from the well, stepping and then sliding and then skipping – anything to break up the rhythm. He wanted the thing to get the motor, not him. Closing in, a few yards, he finally let himself run and then threw himself into a leap, falling face down on the ground.

The well creaked, and then there was a groan, and then, suddenly the whole well structure sunk beneath the desert floor as the bottom had dropped out of the earth. Castiel rolled onto his back and gawped. There was now a small crater where the well had been.

He carefully stood up and brushed himself off. The ground trembled. And then it shook.

And then the bottom dropped out. Castiel reached around, desperate for some purchase. He grabbed a rock and held on for all he was worth.

At last, the shaking stopped. He blinked. There was now a very large crater centered around the place where the well used to stand. He was clinging to the side, about twenty feet down. He shifted somewhat, and a rock near his feet went sliding down and down and down and down, to wherever the bottom might be.

He heard a familiar rumble up ahead and, trying desperately not to disturb the rock he was clinging to, looked up to the rim of the crater.

“You took my only rope, asshole!” Victor called down from the car.

“I got a tow cable,” Ash shouted. “Let's lower it.”

“You go out once – once! - and you almost get killed?”

Castiel, who was currently sitting on top of Dean's desk, winced, though not from Dean's comment. Sam, who was now perched in his brother's chair, was contentedly bandaging a large cut on Castiel's arm, and he had prefaced it with a big splash of alcohol.

“Want some?” Sam held up the bottle and smiled.

Castiel grabbed the bottle and downed a good gulp of whiskey. He wiped his mouth. “I didn't get to see one. But I did get to witness a tow cable in use.” He felt Dean’s hand on his face.

“Cas. Dammit. Try not to die!”

“You look concerned, Dean.”

“He's been freaking ever since he heard,” Sam chuckled. Castiel wasn't quite certain why Dean’s brother seemed to be enjoying this so much.

“I'm gonna kill Victor,” said Dean.

“It wasn't Victor's doing,” Castiel told him. “I myself determined to save Ash.”

“Ash is an idiot! He can save himself.”

“If he's an idiot, wouldn't he require help?”

“Don't be logical!”

Castiel looked to Sam for confirmation, but Sam only grinned. “I don't think what you need for this situation is my swords, Dean. I think Sam is right.”

Sam puffed up. “Of course I'm right.”

“I think these creatures require more study.”

Dean had started pacing, furious. “Well, the thing is, see, I'm not a fucking scientist. I'm a soldier! I hunt bugs and I kill them. That's what I do.”

“You gonna tell him the good news?” Sam asked, as he finished taping the bandage.

“What good news?” Dean grumbled. Sam snorted and shook his head, making the face Castiel was beginning to recognize as “My brother is the dumbest human being on the planet.” “Oh, yeah!” Dean finally said. “We have a visitor.”

“Hello, friend!” came a call from the doorway.

Castiel found himself wrapped in a back-breaking hug. “Benny!” he coughed, when once again he was able to breathe.

“Don't break my bladesmith,” Dean chided, reaching out his hand. Benny shook it while madly patting Dean on the back.

“Bladesmith? I'm here to take him on as second mate!”

“I'm sorry, but I won't go for less than first mate,” Castiel told him.

Benny rocked with laughter. “I can't never tell if you're being funny, friend.”

“Tell us the news,” said Dean.

“Well, I got you a little something. Seems there were some folks taking a whole lot of Damascus steel to Metatron, and, well, that ain't right, he been naughty this year. I was thinkin’ maybe Santa Claus needs to divert this to some nice kids.”

“Damascus steel,” said Castiel, savoring the words.

Benny eyed Castiel. “You didn't forget your promise now, did you?”

Castiel stood tall. “You will have your sword.”

“After my sword,” Dean interjected.

“No, Benny gets precedence.”

“What the hell? Who just put whiskey on your cuts?”

“Sam did,” Castiel reasonably pointed out.

“Whiskey?” asked Benny. Sam grabbed the bottle and handed it over. Benny looked at the label. “Kid, didn't nobody tell you not to drink spirits older than yourself?” he said approvingly.

“There's no liquor on earth older than you, Benny,” said Dean.

“That might just be true.”

“How old are you, Benny?” Castiel asked.

“Well,” said the vampire, sitting down next to Castiel. “It was up to eight hundred before I stopped counting.”

“Wow.”

“And for a vamp, I'm just a pup!”

“And,” Cas leaned forward. “What about my brothers?”

“So, there's good news and bad news there, kid. They were taken alive, that's clear. But they ain't in Lawrence no more.”

Castiel was silent. “Where were they taken? Did you find out, Benny?” Dean asked.

“I heard tell it was some place to the east.”

“Alexandria?” asked Castiel.

“What?”

Castiel reached into his pants pocket and withdrew the crumpled piece of paper he now always kept there. Dean grabbed it and straightened it out. “It was in my bag. I think maybe my brother put it there before he left.”

“I don't think that's where they'd take 'em, Cas,” said Dean.

“Are you sure, Dean?” asked Cas, who looked disappointed.

“Guys, are you thinking about the big picture here?” asked Sam. “If Metatron wants Alexandria...?”

“That's getting ambitious,” Dean finished.

“Told you boys he's one greedy little motherfucker,” said Benny.

Dean made a low sound in his throat – it sounded a lot like a growl – and turned to his brother. “Well, for now, he's on the other side of an ocean. We gotta think of the Enemy.”

“And Lucifer,” Sam added.

“It means armaments. Cas,” Dean said, turning around again. “I know it's a lot to ask.”

“I have Damascus steel. Show me to your forge. I'll make blades.”

“Oh, mama!” said Benny, rubbing his hands together. “I can see it already.” He held one hand behind his back and pretended to fence.

“You're okay then?” Dean asked Castiel. “I know it’s not great news about your brothers, but we’ll keep looking, right?” Benny nodded.

Castiel stood. “I would prefer to be occupied. I am eager to return to my trade. Where is your forge?”

Dean stood as well and, with a quick nod to Benny and Sam, escorted Castiel out of his office.

Benny invited himself to sit down, a quizzical expression on his face.

“We'll have the chef drain something for you and your crew,” said Sam.

“Pig is fine, though cow's better if you have it,” Benny said, though he sounded distracted.

“Long as you don't start-”

“-Snacking on the kitchen staff. Yeah, you make that joke every time, little brother.”

Sam shrugged. He was not, frankly, especially comfortable with the notion of having a single vampire as a guest, when in fact they now had a dozen of them lurking around. He rose to his feet. “I'll contact the kitchen staff.”

“So,” said Benny, picking at his fangs with a toothpick. “Your brother and the bladesmith kid....”

Sam slumped back into his chair. “What about it?”

“Nothing. Maybe. I've known Dean a long time now....”

“Not eight hundred years.”

“No. Not that long.”

“We had a little mishap today. A couple of the guys took Cas out to catch an Enemy, and the Enemy nearly caught them instead.”

“You boys just can't stop pokin' at those things, can you?”

“Well, they are abominations.”

“So am I.”

Sam shrugged. “Anyway, I think Dean feels responsible.”

Benny tilted his head. “And that's what you think,” he stated.

“What do you mean?” Sam shot back, just a little too quickly.

“Mmmm.”

“Don't give me that 'Mmmm” crap! Spill!”

“You don't think he's a little … stuck on the kid?”

Sam sagged, resting his head down on Dean's desk. He straightened and sat back in Dean's chair. “Maybe a little.” He heaved a sigh. “Maybe a lot.”

“Maybe a lot.”

Sam stood up. “Maybe. We just got a lot going on now. So, how do you want your blood: straight up, or with soda?”

“Hey, we heard you were down here,” Victor began as he and Ash approached Castiel in the main dining hall. He and his two companions were currently the only other occupants of the cavernous room.

“Yeah, it ain't mealtime,” said Ash.

“Hello Victor, Ash. These are my friends, Kevin and Garth. They work in the kitchen, so I was able to get a late meal.” He looked from side to side and noticed both boys had scrambled to their feet. “Are you finished already?” he asked.

“Sit down,” Victor told them. “You don't mind if we hang out?” he asked, noting with irritation that Ash had already taken a seat and had started poking at the tray of food.

“Not at all. There's plenty here.”

“If you don't mind leftovers?” Garth ventured.

“Aw, hell no,” said Victor, who sat down. “We had one mother of a day.” He grabbed the pitcher of wine and helped himself. “I'm not gonna be able to sleep for a while I think.”

“What happened?” asked Kevin, looking back and for the between Castiel and Victor and Ash.

“Didn't Cas tell you?” Ash chomped. “Pretty goddamned exciting.”

Now Kevin and Garth both scowled at Castiel, who offered, “I went on patrol.”

“You didn’t tell us that!” said Garth.

“And...?” Kevin urged.

“We saw the Enemy!” Ash told them. “And he nearly had Cas for a noontime snack!”

“What!”

“Aw, let me tell it!” said Ash, who proceeded to launch into a dramatic description, complete with sound effects, of an event somewhat resembled what had just happened to them on patrol that afternoon.

“Dude, why didn't you tell us?” Kevin asked when it had been concluded.

“I honestly didn't realize it was that exciting,” said Castiel.

They talked and ate and drank some more, until at last Dean came into the room. He looked around, surprised. He motioned for Castiel to come over.

“Is everything all right?” Cas asked him.

“Sure,” said Dean. “Just came down to tell you we got the forge ready. So, any time.”

“I'll start first thing tomorrow.”

“You know....” Dean kept his voice low.

“What?” Castiel cocked his head, listening.

“We don't usually mix here. I mean, kitchen personnel and patrols like that.”

“Why not?”

Dean shrugged. “Now that you mention it, I have no idea.” Cas inclined his head, and Dean followed him back to the table, where Ash proceeded to toss a dinner roll at his head. Dean snatched it out of the air and took a bite. To Garth and Kevin’s apparent surprise, Dean sat down and poured himself a glass of wine, and for a time they chatted and ate.

Lucifer looked around him at the party assembled outside. “Alastair, pay attention,” he scolded.

Virgil gave Alastair, who was leaning against the wall, drowsing, a kick in the shin. He roused, muttering something.

“Do you have the transcript from Metatron, Uriel?”

Uriel straightened out some papers. “I believe so. As you know, I am not a secretary,” he said, shooting an irritated glance at Abaddon.

“Don't look at me,” said Abaddon, who was suddenly giving her manicure a great deal of attention.

Uriel grunted. “Here it is: a minor spell of concealment. I have heard that the key is to be attentive when you recite the words.”

“I'm attentive,” said Lucifer, snatching away the papers. He ran his eyes over them, and then scanned the area. “Now I need a target.”

“Might I respectfully suggest something small?” said Uriel. “You could, for example, disarm one of our men down here?” He gestured at Virgil and a groggy Alastair. Lucifer smirked.

“That wouldn’t be any fun, they’re aware of me. How about the guards up above?” said Lucifer, pointing to two shadowy figures visible up behind the battlements on the roof.

“As you wish, My Leige,” sighed Uriel. Abaddon rolled her eyes, and Alastair began to drift back to sleep.

Lucifer held up the papers with one hand. He looked down, moving his lips, and then looked back up, carefully pronouncing the unfamiliar words. Virgil glanced over at Lucifer, who was now more caught up in the spell. Abaddon shuddered, feeling cold chills creep up her spine. Lucifer finished the first page and let it flutter to the ground.

Uriel took a step back, not quite sure why. Lucifer had his eyes closed now, his arm stretched out, seeming possessed. It was like watching Lilith at the first scrying with Metatron. Only Lucifer seemed more in control of it. “Lucifer,” whispered Uriel.

Another page dropped. It spun, and then alit on the ground. Lucifer kept reciting the spell.

There was a rumble.

Everyone looked around in confusion.

Lucifer was no longer there.

Alastair roused again, convinced that Virgil had kicked him again, but Virgil had moved away.

And then there was a faint scraping coming from the wall. It would have passed for something rustling in the wind, if you didn’t know otherwise. It was a quiet sound, like somebody climbing the rough stone. “Lucifer?” whispered Uriel. But there was no answer. And then the sounds faded, and it was quiet for a long moment.

All were staring upwards at the oblivious sentries up above. One of them, hearing the commotion, approached the edge and then, seeing the party gathered below, started to wave.

He stumbled back, as if someone had struck him. He struggled, punching wildly, but then appeared to receive another impact and fell, disappearing behind the battlement.

The second guard drew his sword. You could see him looking around wildly. He too looked as if he had been struck, but he managed to keep his balance, and rounded, raising his sword. And then he did an odd dance, as if he were struggling with an unseen opponent. His sword hand shot up, and then came down, the sword knocked from his hand. He wrestled with his invisible foe, and managed to slam the other man down on the parapet. But then, as a strangled cry escaped from his lips, he was flipped over the low wall and came tumbling down off the roof to land with a dull thud in the midst of Lucifer’s gathered minions.

Uriel approached the broken body of the sentry. He knelt down and, though it was obvious the guy didn’t survive, dutifully placed two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse. He shook his head and then used a thumb and forefinger to pull down the eyelids, closing the unlucky bastard’s eyes.

Uriel stood and, putting up a hand to shield his eyes, squinted up at the roof, where Lucifer now stood, revealed, panting for breath.

“Hey, chief,” Alastair shouted up. “That was badass!”

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 3 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:23:39Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

The burning smell was what he remembered.

That, and his mother’s terrified face.

Dean hurtled downstairs from his room towards the nursery, small bare feet smacking on the stone stairs. He didn’t have a light. He didn’t need one. He had thought to get one of Daddy’s swords, but he was still too short to reach up and grab it.

At last he was at baby Sammy’s room. Mary, his mother, bent over the crib, her face lined with worry.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Mary gathered up Sam in her arms and turned to Dean. “Dean. Baby. I need you to do something, honey. I need you to take Sammy, and go down the back staircase. The back staircase. You know the way.”

“Yes, Mommy,” said Dean, obediently taking his baby brother in his arms. “Is Daddy coming?”

Mary crouched down so she could be at eye level with her son. “Yes. Daddy will come soon. Meanwhile, you need to take Sammy.”

Dean looked up in wonder. His mom was crying. He didn’t want her to cry. “We’ll be all right!” he assured her.

“Of course you will!” Mary told him, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “Now I need you to go. Right now! Please hurry, baby.”

Dean nodded and, clutching the baby to his chest, ran towards the back door. He had just crossed the threshold when he heard the front door crash open.

Dean turned. It was a man: a big man, carrying a sword. It was one of those special swords, one of the ones that made the hair on your arms stand up when you tried to hold it. Flames licked behind him, his eyes showing a weird, yellowy color.

“Greetings, Mrs. Winchester.”

“Azazel.”

Mary stood her ground. She raised an arm, and said some of her words. Mommy had powerful words. They could make you feel woozy, or pin somebody to the wall.

But the man didn’t fall. He didn’t look scared at all. Instead, he blinked, and his eyes seemed to glow yellow in the firelight.

He lunged, impaling Mary on the blade. She sunk to her knees, one arm still outstretched.

“MOMMY!” screamed Dean.

The yellow-eyed man looked up, flashing his malevolent gaze on Dean. But Mary, with her last breath, swung her arm, and the back door slammed shut, shutting out Dean and Sam.

Dean gulped. And then, clasping Sammy to his chest and choking back tears, he ran, down and down and down, away from the fire and the blood, and into the darkness.

And then he was sitting up in bed, bathed in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. Slowly, Dean came back to the present, gazing around his room in the darkness. He sighed and got up, grabbing a robe from where it had been tossed carelessly over a chair. He shuffled to the door and traversed the short that separated his living quarters from his office. He turned on a light, and sat at his desk, rummaging in a bottom drawer.

A very familiar knock sounded at the door. “Yeah. C’mon in, Sammy,” Dean called. He smiled up at his brother, grateful for the company. He located the portrait he had been looking for, and brought it out to sit on the desk.

“You’re up late,” said Sam, not commenting about the small cameo of their mother. He was clutching a couple of very large, very old volumes to his chest.

“Nightmares,” said Dean. He ran a thumb over the image of his mother's face. “What about you?”

“Well, I was thinking.”

“Never a good idea.”

“The bladesmith?”

“Yeah. Castiel. What about him?”

“He’s a magic user. According to reports.”

“I’ve seen him. Use magic, I mean.”

“Oh!” Sam plopped down opposite Dean and regarded his big brother. He carefully set his books on the floor. “So, we’re going to-“

“We’re gonna nothing.”

“What? Look, Dean. I know he's not what we expected. But we went through a lot getting him over here. Why not just let him in the forge-”

“Because I said so.” Dean picked up the portrait and inserted it back in his bottom desk drawer. He pushed the drawer shut.

“Dean.”

“What we're gonna do, we're gonna leave him in the kitchen. For now. Look, maybe I'll change my mind, but for now, just trust me, okay?”

Sam didn't look at all convinced, but he nodded.

“And you - you should get to bed.”

Sam forced a smile and picked up the volumes by his feet. “Got some light reading first.”

“Bookworm,” said Dean. “Find me my magic bullet?”

“Not yet,” said Sam, who rose and stretched. “But some day.”

“G'night, Sammy.”

“How the actual fuck did you get on prep?”

Castiel placed another slice of pineapple in his mouth. He fiddled it around with his tongue until it made a smile, he flashed at Kevin and Garth, who were now sitting across the table from him, open-mouthed. Neither of them seemed terribly amused – Samandriel had always thought this kind of thing to be hilarious – so, disappointed, he chewed up the pineapple while he considered. He found that though he generally hated the South so far, he liked southern fruits a whole lot.

“Knife skills,” he finally said. They were seated in the kitchen, but off in a relatively quiet corner. After Castiel had gotten several hours of blissfully uninterrupted sleep he had learned to his delight that kitchen workers, unlike almost all of the rest of the personnel, were not restricted to any set mealtimes. He had wandered into the kitchen, along with his two friends (he supposed that now Kevin and Garth were friends), expressed a desire to eat, and had then found himself at a table spread with an array of leftover bits of various breakfasts, lunches and dinners.

“Well, darn it all to heck, I knew it,” sighed Garth.

“I could show you,” Castiel offered, fingering his knife. He found that although it was of inferior construction, it was more convenient to carry around than his sword. And Crowley had warned him against carrying swords in the kitchen. It did make sense: it could probably trip someone, or turn over a pot.

“Seriously?” asked Garth. “I ain't never been one for pointy objects.”

“That's because your knives are dull. Sharp blades are no danger. Except to people who get in my way.”

Kevin and Garth looked at each other and nodded. This sounded promising.

The door banged open and Chuck was suddenly standing in their midst, clipboard in hand. The staff, as one, ignored him.

“Wait staff duty tonight. I'm looking for volunteers.”

“Where's Crowley?” someone shouted.

“The Winchesters are having some special guests so I'm in charge,” Chuck fired back, just as someone launched a towel at his head. “Who did this?” he sputtered, waving the greasy towel. No one replied so he tossed it on the ground. “You!” he said to the first person passing him by. “And you!” he said, identifying another person. He scribbled the names on his clipboard.

“Wait staff?” Castiel whispered to Kevin and Garth.

“They must be having Lucifer's crowd over,” Kevin told him. “Oh God I hate them.”

“They're from a neighboring fort, I take it?”

“Neighbors, but things ain't exactly neighborly, if you get my drift,” said Garth.

“That's why they tolerate Crowley's annoying ass,” said Kevin. “You bring 'em over and feed 'em, and according to tradition, it keeps everybody happy.”

“Does it work?” asked Castiel.

“No,” said Kevin.

“Not in the least,” said Garth.

“You! You three. You're all up.” Chuck began to scribble on his clipboard.

“But I didn't volunteer!” Kevin protested.

“I've never waited tables before,” Castiel told him.

Chuck narrowed his eyes. “It doesn't matter. Dean insisted you be on the list, Blade Man.”

Castiel began to fiddle with his knife, caused Chuck to high-tail it out of their vicinity.

“Don't worry. We can help you, Castiel,” said Garth.

“You'll have to dress for it,” Kevin added.

Castiel looked them over. “What?”

“I don't see the point of a necktie?”

“How do you keep unraveling it? Stop!” grumbled Kevin. But Garth was the one to try and re-knot the disaster around Castiel's neck.

“You ain't never worn a suit and tie before, Castiel?” asked Garth.

“I've had no use for it.” They had managed to assemble him a suit of clothes that almost fit, although he had to keep his belt tightened to keep the pants up, and they had finally rolled up the cuffs on the jacket. He stared critically into the cracked mirror on the wall. “Why is this necessary to deliver food items?”

“What exactly did you do back in your little town?” asked Kevin.

“I made swords.”

“And that's it?”

Castiel tilted his head. “Sometimes, knives.”

Kevin and Garth glanced at each other, Kevin rolling his eyes. “You didn't like, go date girls or something?” Kevin asked.

“I had a business to run, and two younger brothers to tend to.”

Kevin and Garth looked at each other again, and Kevin shrugged in defeat. “Now, you got the concept?” he asked. “The big thing is not to trip. Or get tripped.”

“I think I can maintain stability.”

“This is an important deal, dude,” warned Kevin. “This is the reason we snatched Crowley from Lucifer.”

Cas paused. “I'm sorry? Crowley was … kidnapped?

Kevin and Garth exchanged a glance. “Well, yeah, sure,” said Garth.

“He's a really good chef,” said Kevin. “So we stole him. Fair and square!”

Castiel looked deeply offended. “Is kidnapping the standard procedure for you people?” he demanded.

The door burst open and Kevin and Garth turned around. “Hey, we're changing,” Kevin grumbled. And then, “Oh!”

“Hello, Dean,” sighed Castiel into the mirror as Kevin and Garth both cringed back to the side of the room.

“Wanted to see how you guys were doing. Oh, hey, what the hell, Cas?” He held Castiel by the shoulders and spun him around, scowling at the veritable hangman's noose the bladesmith had fashioned his tie into. “This isn't right. Here.” He started untangling it.

“Is this an occasion of some import?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah. I suppose the guys have told you. It's a tradition. A dumb tradition.” He looked up at Kevin and Garth. “Could you guys maybe...?” He inclined his head, and Kevin and Garth scurried out of the room and shut the door behind them.

Castiel scowled. “I'm sorry-”

“Hold still, almost done here.” Dean pulled gently on the tie and then righted Castiel's collar. “You're great. See that? That's how you tie a Winchester knot!” He pulled Castiel around again so he was facing the mirror.

“I thought it was termed a Windsor knot?”

“That's where you've been wrong.” Dean pulled over the one battered chair in the small changing room and sat down backwards in it, leaning his forearms over the back. Castiel stood awkwardly in front of him as Dean raked a thumb over his mouth and quite frankly looked him up and down. “Okay, tonight: we’ve got people from Lucifer's outpost over. Including old Lucy himself. Oh, and don't call him that! At least not to his face. We're in a state of truce, though I don't trust the sons of bitches. But here's where you come in, Cas: they'll be carrying sidearms.”

Castiel gave himself a moment to mull over Dean's words. He self-consciously crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Swords?”

“Now, we're having a disagreement. Bobby thinks – you met Bobby, right? - now Bobby thinks they've got a source for high quality weaponry. I think it's crap. And Sam is neutral, because that's my brother for you.”

“You'd like me to make observations?”

“Hell yeah. You're the man for this. Believe me, those guys, they're not gonna give a waiter a second glance. I mean, even if they should.” Dean smiled awkwardly, as if he had just put his foot in his mouth, and then glanced down at something on the floor. “Uh. Anyway.”

“Your armory is utter shit.”

Dean's face shot up. “Yeah, yeah, you've told me.”

“I could craft better blades.” Cas straightened up. “In my sleep,” he added.

Dean rose to his feet, sweeping the chair away. “Well, we'll see. All right? Tonight, I need your help. We need your help.” He paused and then approached Castiel again, fussing with his tie.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Castiel glared. “You kidnapped Crowley.”

Dean grinned mischievously. “Uh. I guess. Technically. But he totally prefers us to Lucifer.”

“You thought I was my father when you gave the order to kidnap me. Didn't you?”

Dean stepped back and bit his lip. “Look. It wasn't.... You gotta understand-”

There was a timid rap on the door. “Uh, Dean?” came Garth's voice.

“We gotta go, man!” came Kevin's voice.

Dean nodded curtly to Castiel and then opened the door and strode out. Kevin and Garth poured back in.

“We gotta get you to the kitchen,” said Kevin, tugging on Castiel's sleeve.

“Now, when you're taking orders for a table,” Garth told him, “always remember to go clockwise, so you'll keep it straight. And everybody gets a number....”

As it turned out, the night's assignment was easier than Castiel had imagined. It was a banquet, so everyone got the same food items at around the same time. And though the banquet room was noisy, Castiel actually preferred it to the kitchen, where Crowley was now screaming himself hoarse demanding perfection in each and every item.

Castiel heeded Kevin's warning about tripping, but he had always possessed a good sense of balance, so Chuck (who for some reason was temporarily overseeing the wait staff) soon assigned him to the tables with Lucifer's men, as they seemed to delight in harassing the kitchen staff. It was just as well, as Castiel was afforded a good chance to look over their weapons. He realized almost immediately, and to his slight annoyance, that he agreed with Dean: the swords looked good from a distance, but were rather obviously poorly made.

Lucifer himself was up at a table with Sam, Dean, Bobby, and a few men Castiel didn't recognize. He had been warned by Crowley himself to stay far away, and so had obeyed. He really didn't have much motivation to be around Dean Winchester, the person who had ruined his life.

“So what are you doing after your shift, angel?” asked one of Lucifer's men as Castiel reached over him to retrieve an empty plate.

“Washing dishes,” Castiel told him, straightening up and then rapidly side-stepping so another guy couldn't trip him. There was a round of chuckling Castiel didn't quite understand, and he stepped away.

He passed Garth just as the teen was himself being tripped, and managed to catch him by the back of his shirt and yank him upright before he spilled too much of his tray. “Thanks, Cas,” Garth whispered, and Castiel rankled slightly that Dean's new nickname seemed to have caught on.

He headed down a short corridor and pushed into the swinging doors that demarcated the kitchen. “Does this look like a finished plate to you?” Crowley was screaming at an unlucky soul hovering by a series of plates of main courses waiting to go out. The chef brought out a fresh clean towel and rubbed at an invisible spot on the side of the plate, was heaped with a great fat piece of chicken (Crowley had evidently located fowl somewhere that were not just bags of bones) and roast potatoes. Castiel's stomach growled, though it was fortunately a low growl. Between getting suited up and all the instructions he hadn't had a chance to eat before his shift, and the dish smelled quite rich and garlicky.

“All right, what are you standing there for?” Crowley barked at the loitering servers. “Let's get this chicken out before it dies of old age. You!” he said, poking Castiel in the chef. “Knife Boy. Where are you?”

“Table three, Chef,” said Castiel, glaring down at Crowley's pointing finger.

“This is going to the head table,” he said, pointing to a tray that was already filled. “You follow me. You seem to be the only idiot here not tripping over his own feet.” Crowley straightened up and marched out, and Castiel lifted the tray and followed him. “Pollo al ajillo,” Crowley announced as they arrived at the table. Castiel began to lay down plates, starting with Lucifer as the honored guest and then proceeding clockwise. They were seated around a round table, as Kevin had explained that short circuited any fighting about who sat where.

“Chicken,” said Lucifer.

“I hope and pray it will be to your satisfaction,” said Crowley, giving a slight bow.

Lucifer looked him up and down, and then turned to Dean. “You really ought to come over soon. We'd offer you a nice steak.”

Crowley bristled. “This poultry has been hand-raised. By myself. It is only the finest.”

Lucifer had cut a tiny portion, not bothering to wait for anyone else to be served, and popped it in his mouth. He smiled slightly and pushed his plate back. “You know what I'm really in the mood for? I'd really like a burger. I don't suppose you have anything like that around here?”

“You know,” said Dean, pushing his own plate back, “I could go for a burger too.” He nodded at his brother, who suddenly hopped up and went around to Crowley.

“Hey, yeah, let's see what we can scrape up,” said Sam, leading a fuming Crowley from the room. Dean looked at Castiel and nodded slightly. Castiel hurried over and picked up Dean's and Lucifer's plates, while the rest continued eating.

“You stole our waiter!”

Castiel swerved in time to avoid colliding with the loud guy from his own table. They guy held a wine glass, was slopping over as he swayed.

“Alastair,” said Lucifer evenly. “Why don't you get back to your table?”

“Hey, angel. Why did you abandon me?” Alastair slurred to Castiel.

“My name is Castiel De Angelus. It is not Angel. Nor is it Cas,” Cas told him, shooting a glare at Dean. Lucifer looked up in surprise.

Alastair took a lurching step towards Castiel, who deftly side-stepped. With a loud crash, Alastair ended up face down on the floor. There was a brief silence, and then the room erupted in laughter. He pushed himself up to sitting, rubbing his split chin, and glaring furiously at Castiel.

Dean shot to his feet. Lucifer remained in his seat, although his affable mien had suddenly dissolved. “Alastair,” he growled in a timbre that sent shivers through Castiel's spine. “Get back to your table. Now.”

Dean was looking at Castiel. He flicked his eyes towards the kitchen. Castiel nodded slightly and then, trying very hard to walk slowly and deliberately, headed back towards the kitchen, laughter echoing behind him.

Crowley was supervising a sous-chef in the preparation of a couple of hamburgers while Sam waited patiently at his side. Crowley looked over at Castiel as he set down the nearly untouched plates. “Just toss those out.” Castiel cringed, and his stomach rumbled again.

“Wait, can I have a bite?” asked Sam. “Mine is in there getting cold!” Castiel handed him a clean fork, and Sam bent over and served himself a big bite from his brother's plate. “Damn, this is delicious, Crowley!”

“Flattery … will get you everywhere. Yes, Castiel, go ahead! Better than having you serving with your stomach rattling like the oncoming Enemy.”

Castiel gratefully grabbed a fork and sent some pollo al ajillo towards his hungry gullet. Crowley turned back to the sous-chef to yell insults at his cooking ability.

“Does the Enemy really sound like that, Sam?” Castiel whispered.

Sam hopped up on the counter and put the plate on his lap. “No. They actually sound like nothing at all. By the time you see them, it's usually too late.”

Castiel shuddered.

“And sometimes … sometimes they travel underground! Then you just hear the ground rumbling. That's the mature ones. At least, I think it's the mature ones. I think they start off small and grow really large as they get older.”

Castiel stared at him, ignoring, for the moment, the delicious chicken on his plate. “Isn't that how things work with most creatures?”

“Nobody knows!” Sam threw his arms up, cause a bit of chicken from the end of his fork to go flying. “That's what's so cool about these creatures. We don't know how they reproduce, or even if they reproduce. We don't know about their lifespan. We don't even know what the hell they eat!”

“I thought they devoured men?”

“Meat can't be their source of nutrition, they'd die! I don't know. What we need to do, you know, is just follow them around for a while, see what makes them tick.”

“But … aren't you afraid of them?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You ask me, Cas, we're under a lot more danger from guys like Lucifer.”

“Other humans?”

“People. They're always the worst.”

Crowley had bustled over. “We have two … hamburgers.” He wrinkled his nose.

“I can take 'em out,” said Sam, reaching for the plates.

“No! Absolutely not. There are a few things, believe it or not, that my kitchen staff can still handle. Castiel?”

Cas hurriedly stuffed as much pollo al ajillo into his mouth as he could bear, and grabbed the plates.

“You didn't say you were half squirrel!” Sam laughed. “Thanks Chef,” he told Crowley. “We owe you one.”

“You owe me many!” the chef yelled after him as Sam followed along with Castiel.

“Where is Lucifer?” Castiel whispered as they neared the head table and saw the empty chair next to Dean.

“Aw, fuck him,” grumbled Sam. “Just don't tell Crowley. He'll stab something. Or somebody. We've got two burgers here,” said Sam as Castiel set down the plates.

“Awesome. I'm hungry as hell,” said Dean as Bobby glared. “Mmm. Lucifer doesn't know what he's missing. Thanks, Cas!”

Castiel gave a curt nod and stifled a garlicky burp. “Oh, so that's where my chicken went,” Dean whispered. Castiel blushed. “That's okay, glad it went to good use.”

Sam mouthed, “What the fuck?”, inclining his head at Lucifer's empty chair, and Dean shrugged. Castiel turned to go but noticed that some more kitchen staff were wheeling out a cart with the big cake the pastry chefs had whipped up for dessert. He turned around and decided to take the back way into the kitchen, hoping that Crowley hadn't yet dumped his plate of garlic chicken.

“Castiel De Angelus, I believe? Well, fancy meeting you here.”

He halted and turned around. “Lucifer,” he said quietly. How had the guy concealed himself in the shadows so well? It was creepy.

“Good, so we won't have to waste time on introductions. So how do you like your new job, scrubbing pots and pans for the Winchesters?”

“How do you know who I am?”

Lucifer smiled and extended a hand. “I have ears just about everywhere. I'm a big fan.”

Cas merely scowled at the extended hand. “A … what?”

“Why, your blades of course. De Angelus. You might not know this, but they're the only ones that really stand up to the Enemy. And that's my job.” Ignoring Cas's snub, he spread out his hands. “Protecting the world. We're the last line of defense!”

Castiel nodded, but didn't reply. He thought he should make an excuse and get back to the kitchen, but his legs didn't seem to work.

“So, we need to get you making blades, don't we?”

Castiel shrugged. “I don't know.”

“You don't know? I thought it would seem pretty clear. I know if you were living at my outpost, that's what we'd have you doing. Not scurrying around like some kind of … servant.”

“We're wait staff, not servants,” Castiel groused, not certain why the words had come tumbling out.

“You're defending the Winchesters? Really?”

“I need to get back to the kitchen.”

“Well, that's too bad. But I enjoyed our little chat.” Castiel had already turned around and headed towards the kitchen. “Castiel,” Lucifer called after him. “I hope we'll get to chat some more.”

Cas burst through the swinging doors, catching his breath.

“What's the matter, dude?” asked Kevin. “They trip you or something?

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

“We're supposed to be out serving cake. Hey, do you smell like … garlic?”

“Lucifer wanted hamburger.” Castiel turned and strode out of the kitchen.

“Wait. What?” Kevin followed behind.

Castiel made his way back to the banquet room. The men were all on their feet now, crowded together around the cake. Crowley was standing in back of it, looking it over pridefully as Dean held a knife and made some sort of speech. He must have just made a joke, as the men were laughing. Everyone had drunk their share of wine, and the room was noisy.

Castiel's eyes scanned the room for Alastair, as he wanted to avoid him. There he was, off in a corner away from where the main crowd had gathered, talking furtively with another man. To Castiel's surprise, it was Virgil, one of Dean's crew. Alastair, who suddenly appeared quite sober, was hanging on one of Virgil's shoulders, whispering something in his ear.

“Do you see that?” he asked Kevin.

“Those two? Figures. They're both dicks.”

“Virgil is from our staff.”

“So?”

“I think I need to warn Dean.”

“Warn Dean? Warn him about what?”

Ignoring Kevin, Castiel began to make his way around the back of the crowd, keeping an eye on Alastair and Virgil. He noticed that Garth was obliviously busing tables nearby, and he also noticed that Alastair and Virgil saw him too. He stopped, uncertain what to do. He wanted to get Dean's attention, but he didn't feel right abandoning his friend, not when both of the bullies seemed to have it in for Garth.

Castiel steeled himself and started threading back through the boisterous crowd towards the far corner. Alastair and Virgil split up, each one heading towards Garth from a different side. Castiel increased his pace, but Virgil reached Garth first. Garth straightened up from the table and, not seeming to notice Virgil, turned around as Virgil extended a foot to trip him. But for once the skinny teen noticed what was coming, and he managed to dance around without losing his balance. Virgil scowled and took a swing at Garth.

Castiel gasped.

Garth ducked and swung his tray full force into Virgil's midsection. The big man huffed and sunk to his knees. But then Alastair was on Garth, wrenching him by the back of his collar and throwing him like a rag doll. Garth smacked into the wall and started to sink down.

Castiel jumped up on the table and, threading through plates and dishes, ran across and hopped down just in time to grab Alastair by the back of the shirt as he lunged at Garth. Alastair grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall, where he suddenly froze when he felt Castiel's blade under his chin.

“Alastair!” At some point, people in the room had begun to pay attention. Lucifer and Dean had somehow whisked across the room to stand nearby. Alastair took a look at his boss and then, raising his hands, stepped back from Castiel.

“Castiel!”

Cas looked over to a red-faced Dean and lowered his blade. “Dean.”

“Get out of here. Now!”

“But, Dean-”

“Is said out! Now!”

Castiel breathed hard, glaring at Dean. He glanced over to make sure that Garth was all right. He was being helped by Kevin.

And then he turned and stalked out of the room, blinking back angry tears.

He marched down the hall and into the dormitory. He threw his few possessions into his bag, and, hiking it on his shoulder, grabbed his sword, and was away. Away from the fort, away from the desert, and most of all, away from Dean Winchester.

“I should get him.”

“I'll get him. We gotta get him before Lucifer tracks him down.”

Sam stood and watched his idiot brother tear around the room, tossing random crap into his bag. “You sure you're gonna need that letter opener, Dean?”

“I will when I stab him through the heart.”

“Dean! Look, it would be much quicker if I just go. I'm faster.”

“Yeah, 'cause you're built like a giraffe.”

“Actually, giraffes aren’t terribly fast. Their top speed-“

“Sammy! Do I look like I care?”

“And I'm the better tracker. And … to be honest, I'm not sure he's gonna wanna come back with you.”

“And he'd come back with you?”

“He likes me.” Sam gave a smug smile, partly because he knew it would make Dean slightly crazy. Not that he wasn't already slightly crazy.

There was a rap on the door, but before either brother could answer, they had a room full of Bobby Singer to deal with.

“What the fuck are you aiming to do, Dean?”

“He's going to get Cas,” supplied Sam.

“The fuck you are!”

Dean grimaced and picked up some salt-filled rounds. “What, did Chuck tattle on me again?” Dean tossed the rounds into his bag.

“Dean, those won't do much good without a rifle.”

“I know, Sam!”

Bobby planted his feet and crossed his arms. “And what if he don't wanna come back with you?”

“Then I'll hit the little son of a bitch over the head and drag his ass back here.” Dean zipped up his pack and grabbed a shotgun from the wall.

“Is there no appealing to your good goddamn sense?” railed Bobby.

“He's got no good sense,” smiled Sam.

“I'm going to get him,” Dean told him. “I'll be back soon.”

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 2 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:07:39Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

Inias bit his lip and watched his brother beside him on the floor, playing with caterpillars.

Abandonment. It was their lot in life.

Castiel had left for a meeting with Metatron, and that was the last they'd seen of him. Inias had waited eagerly for him to return, but then the day stretched into night, and he had gotten more and more nervous. That sick, sinking, utterly familiar feeling. Their mother had left them, and so had their father. Maybe Inias and Samandriel simply deserved to be abandoned.

And then the unsmiling men – Metatron’s men – had stormed into the house, thrown some of Castiel's things in a bag, and told Inias his brother was going some place far away. And they kept mentioning a word he had never heard before, Alexandria. Was that where they were sending Castiel? Inias had scribbled out the word as best he could and stuffed it into Castiel's bag when Samandriel had them distracted by his newest pet. Inias had gotten the note in the bag, though, unfortunately, Sam’s pet hadn’t survived the encounter.

He heard a shuffling of chairs and looked towards the dais. Naomi had come by the next morning to demand they come to the meeting. The town council was in a special session, and the agenda was what to do about two orphaned boys. Boys who happened to own the town’s only smithy. Inias felt his stomach lurch.

Naomi stood up in the center, looking impressive in her robes of office. There weren't a whole lot of people in the audience besides Inias and Samandriel.

Then the door opened, and a small, rumpled man entered. He carried a large, dusty old book. He marched all the way up and sat up right in the front row, but then he took out the book and began to read, as if he were slightly bored with the proceedings. Naomi, who quite suddenly appeared nervous, called everything to order, and then there was some droning about new business and old business.

And then Naomi said, “Regarding the De Angelus brothers....”

Inias felt he was going to be sick.

But now the rumpled man was on his feet, the opened book placed carefully on the chair beside him. “I have some new business,” he said.

“What is it, Metatron?” The council exchanged worried looks, and even Naomi looked flustered.

“I think this council has become redundant, so I'm here to give you your walking papers.” He smiled and tilted his head. The lower half of his face shaped a smile. “So to speak.”

One of the older, fustier council members spoke up. “We are not redundant.”

“Redundant? Is that what I said?” asked Metatron distractedly. “I'm sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say, obliterated.” And before anyone could object, he raised a hand, and, looking down at the book opened on the chair beside him, started to speak some arcane words. It sounded like the words Cas used in the smithy.

The room crackled with a familiar energy.

Naomi gasped, and then screamed, “No!”

Inias grabbed his brother, covering his eyes.

And then it was over, with nothing remaining but the smell of charred flesh.

“Now, Naomi, is it?” asked Metatron, who hopped up on the dais and went to stand before her. Inias held his breath as Naomi stood stock still, eyes wide. “I'm going to give you a choice...”

The journey took a full night and part of the next day.

Sam told him that it was easier to move during the night: it was cooler, and the stars were out to guide them. Castiel, who was too wired to sleep anyway, agreed. And so they had proceeded on foot, although he had no idea how Sam found his way through the drifting dunes.

He thought of the story his mother had read to him, so many years ago, about a boy and a girl who got lost in the woods, and thought perhaps he should have left behind a trail of bread crumbs. Or maybe orange peels. He didn't like the idea of going someplace when he didn't know the way back, and each step took him farther and farther away from his brothers. He reached into his pocket and, for the dozenth time, fingered the scrap of paper from his bag, the one with the word, Alexandria, scrawled out on it.

As for Sam, he had wrapped himself back up in his scarf – he called it a keffiyeh – and rarely spoke. He had at first asked Castiel a few questions about his sword making business, but then seemed to lose interest. It was just as well. Sam was one of the tallest men Castiel had ever met, so it was a job keeping up with his long strides, especially in the dubious footing offered by the endless stretches of sand dunes.

Once when they stopped, Castiel started to pour the accumulated sand from his boots, and Sam chuckled. “You can do that, but it'll just fill up again.”

“Was it always like this?” Castiel asked, not really expecting an answer. “Before the Great Flood?”

“From what I've heard, yeah, even before the Flood,” Sam told him. He spread his arms wide. “This used to be the Republic of Texas.”

“Teck-siz,” said Castiel, trying out the new word for size. Why hadn't he heard about this before? Maybe he had spent too much time with his nose in a book on sword making? “How did you come to live here, Sam?”

“What? My people have always lived here.”

“Oh. All right.” Cas peeled an orange. “Um. Are we close to our destination?”

“Yeah, I'm sorry, we're kind of taking the long way.”

“Are we avoiding … the Enemy?”

Sam chuckled. “Not really. We need to avoid walking through someone else's territory. They might not exactly be welcoming.”

Castiel didn't answer, but remembered what Benny had told him about conflicts between the forts.

Sam took a big pull of water and seemed to be looking Castiel up and down. “So, you're what, 21?”

“I am nineteen years old, Sam.”

Sam flashed a big smile. “Oh, okay, same as me!”

“You are nineteen as well?”

“Nineteen and still growing!” Sam boasted, taking the occasion to stand up. “Dean's pretty peeved. I wasn't supposed to be taller than him.”

“Dean?”

“My brother. Don't worry, you'll meet him.” Sam was now rummaging around in his own pack. He pulled out a black and white scarf. “Here. It's gonna be dawn soon. I'll help you put this on. You look like you've been spending a lot of time indoors.” Sam expertly twisted the scarf around Castiel's head and, with assurances that they were now close to the destination, they set off again.

Castiel finally set his tired eyes on his new residence some hours later. It was probably mid-morning, based on the position of the sun. The terrain had changed some miles back from endless sand to jagged and rocky. He was once again grateful that Sam had escorted him, as he reckoned he could have stumbled right by without seeing the fort, hidden as it was in the shade of two mountains. It had been carved straight out of the red stone of the cliffs. It was stunning.

“This is it. The Red Fort.” Cas canted his head to the side. The sandstone walls did carry a trace of reddish pigment.

Sam led him inside. Castiel’s feet were throbbing, and he was grateful for the cool, shady interior of the grand corridor. Sam greeted a number of people, and then he pulled aside a painfully skinny teenager and had a whispered conversation with him. Sam turned around to Castiel. “He'll take you to Bobby. Bobby will get you settled.” And then, before Castiel could object, Sam was striding off.

By this time Castiel was footsore and in desperate need of a long nap, so he followed the skittish teen without question. They wound through the labyrinthine structure, down this hall and that, and then up several flights up stairs, until finally they emerged into the sunlight, up on the roof. Castiel blinked in the bright light, and then stifled a yawn.

“What, you're bored already?” came a voice. And then there was the sound of chuckling. Castiel turned to address the one who had spoken to him, an older, bearded guy who was now glaring at him.

“Sorry,” Castiel muttered. He noticed there were several swordsmen hanging around, and all were staring at him.

“And what the blazes are you supposed to be?”

Castiel cast a glance at the teen who had brought him up there, but the guy appeared to be trying to disappear into a shadow. And then he faced the speaker. “I'm Castiel De Angelus. The bladesmith.”

“You're what?”

Castiel straightened up, although his back was aching. “I am Castiel De Angelus, the bladesmith.” The swordsmen continued to chuckle.

“Damn. I hollered for a dog, and they went and me a damn puppy,” groused Bobby. “Look, kid, I don't know what you are, but you sure as fuck ain't no master swordsmith.”

“I am,” stated Castiel. “I am Castiel-”

Bobby charged forward. “Do I look like I'm in the mood for an argument?” he snapped, pressing his face close to Castiel's. Castiel bit his tongue. “From now on, you're Castiel de Kitchen Staff, and I don't want to hear no backtalk. Comprende?”

Castiel gritted his teeth and nodded, while the men gathered on the roof continued to laugh.

“Go on, Garth. Get him out of here,” Bobby ordered the teen, who skittered out of the corner where he was hiding and tugged on Castiel's arm. Garth wasn't looking where he was going, and one of the men lounging by the stairs stuck out a foot to trip him. He nearly fell face first, but Castiel was quick enough to grab him by the back of the shirt and right him. Castiel then rounded on the guy who tripped Garth, pushing into his space and glaring at him. Even though the man had a few inches and about fifty pounds on Castiel he took a nervous step back.

“All right, idjits! Quit fucking around and form up!” Bobby yelled. “Garth, get Mr. Important Bladesmith out of my sight.”

Garth nodded and tugged Castiel towards the stairs as the men on the roof began to form up into rows.

Castiel, fuming, followed down the stairs. “You know,” Garth whispered, “That's Virgil. You shouldn't get on his bad side.”

“Why not?”

“He's one of the patrol officers now,” Garth huffed. “But he gets busted down to kitchen staff. Pretty often, too. He could make your life miserable. Believe you me.”

Castiel suddenly halted on the stairs. “So working in the kitchen is … a punishment?”

“Come on!” said Garth, grabbing at Castiel's sleeve. “We don't wanna be late.”

“And why not?”

“Because one guy you really don't wanna piss off is the chef!”

“So, the De Angelus guy.”

Dean glanced up at his brother. He was sitting in his office, feet up on his desk, drinking a beer. “The De Angelus guy?”

“Is a kid.”

“Is a kid?”

Sam pretended to look around. “Is there an echo in here?”

Dean twisted in his seat to face his brother, putting the beer to his lips. “The De Angelus guy is a kid.”

“Is that what I said?” Sam thumped down into the chair opposite Dean.

“How is he a kid?”

“Well, I was talking to him on the way here. It turns out the bladesmith – their father – took off, I guess. So he's been the one making the swords.”

“How the hell long has this been going on?”

Sam shrugged his wide shoulders. “I dunno. Years?”

“But what about those swords we've been seeing? Am I supposed to believe they were made by … some apprentice?”

“Doesn't seem likely.”

“No, it doesn't seem likely.”

“It must still be stuff left around from their father. I mean, I guess.” Sam shrugged.

Dean sighed. “So, basically, we're fucked.”

“Yeah. We're fucked.”

“Now who's the echo?”

Sam smiled.

Dean scratched his head. “So what did we do with the kid?”

“Bobby dumped him in the kitchen.”

“That'll work. If he's any good with a blade, he'll stab Crowley in the heart.”

Sam broke into a grin. “That won't work.”

“Why.”

“Crowley doesn't have a heart.”

Dean snickered.

“And what are you supposed to be?”

The kitchen was housed deep in the bowels of the fort, and it was utter chaos, with sweating, white-coated people running everywhere and flames flickering and occasionally whooshing off something being cooked flambé. The place smelled of carbon and damnation. Castiel, who had no fear of fire after so many years working over a forge, was intrigued to see that Chef Crowley was the only being down here who did not appear to perspire.

“I am Castiel.” He left off anything else, as he had no wish for another fight.

“And so, Castiel, why the blazes did you bring a sword to my kitchen?”

“Uh, they just brought him in, Chef,” Garth supplied.

Crowley's face flushed red. “WAS I TALKING TO YOU, GARTH?”

Garth cringed. “Uh. No sir.”

Crowley turned back to face Castiel. “Well?”

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

“See that you don't. So, I don't suppose you have even the tiniest smidgen of experience working in a kitchen?”

“No.”

Crowley threw up his hands in supplication, nearly tripping a girl rushing by with a dripping colander. “What they make me tolerate! All right, listen well, Castiel. You are to come nowhere near my kitchen while we are doing anything close to meal preparation. Is that clear? I want you away from my kitchen. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I don't want to smell you! You are to come here, quieter than a little mouse, after the last person has been fed, and wash all of the dishes. All of them. And put them away. And never let me know that you were here, darkening my kitchen. IS THIS UNDERSTOOD?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

“Then be back here this evening. But not before.”

“Yes.”

“Now, kindly get lost,” said Crowley, waving him off. Castiel, however, remained rooted to the spot. “Oh, what is it now?”

“I'd like to sleep for a few hours now, chef.”

“Yes I suppose standing here doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING is too taxing on your system.”

“I'll find him a bunk, chef,” said Garth, who was already tugging on Castiel's sleeve.

“See that you do,” grumbled Crowley. He rolled his eyes. “Why am I cursed to work with complete imbeciles?”

Garth led Castiel down a narrow hallway to the kitchen staff dormitory which, Castiel was delighted to learn, was also at this basement level, and was satisfyingly dark. Unfortunately, the only empty bunk was the one right by the door, and he learned, after stowing his meager possessions and finally bedding down, just why it was empty. Every time a staff member entered or left, they made a special point in slamming the door as hard and as loud as they could. Castiel endured an hour or so of this, and then, grabbing a pillow and a blanket, slipped underneath his bunk, and finally curled up there, on the cold hard floor, for a few fitful hours of exhausted sleep.

He was startled from his slumber by someone shaking his shoulder. He wearily crawled out from underneath his bed to see most of the other bunks were now occupied. Those who weren't snoring were busy shushing the unlucky guy who'd woken him up. Whoever it was, he was short and cranky as hell. “Aw, fuck off,” he grumbled, tossing a pillow back at the guy who'd just thrown it at his head. “Come on,” he rasped at Castiel. “Time for your shift. And Crowley doesn't take shit.”

Castiel rubbed his eyes and followed the kid back down the path to the kitchen. It was impossible to tell the time for sure, as there were no windows down here, but many of the lights had been dimmed, and barely anyone was around. The kitchen, far from the hub of chaos it had been this morning, was nearly deserted.

The boy stifled a yawn. “So the deal is, I bus, you clean. You don't leave 'til everything is sparkling. You dig?”

Castiel looked at the sink and nodded. The boy turned to leave. “And you are-?” Cas asked.

“I'm Kevin.”

“Kevin. I'm-”

“Dude, you're the new low man on the totem pole. That's all you are.” And then he was off. Castiel shrugged and began to fill a nearby sink with soapy water. He was amazed by the water pressure, and the heat of the water, was nearly scalding. The plumbing back in his hometown seemed crude by comparison.

Kevin soon returned with a tub full of scummy dishes. He unceremoniously dumped them in the sink and stalked off. Castiel soon lost himself in a rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing. He regretted that soaking in water would probably soften some of the hard-won calluses on his hands, but reassured himself this situation was temporary. Soon, he thought, Benny would come with news of his brothers, and he would return to the North.

“You're falling behind, dimwit.” Castiel was shaken out of his reverie by Kevin, who did not take kindly to being grabbed by the collar and having his head plunged into the dirty dishwater.

“What the fuck?” he sputtered when Castiel let him up. “Are you insane?”

“Potentially.”

Kevin stepped back, out of Castiel’s reach, and coughed. “Why did you do that?”

“My name is Castiel. I suggest that you employ it if you would like to communicate with me.”

“All right. All right. Castiel. I gotta go, get more of the fucking dishes.”

“Are we making any progress in that regard?”

Kevin slumped and put a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah. We're almost done with the dinner dishes. But then we gotta clean the pots and pans and that shit.” He waved his hand around the kitchen. Castiel looked around. The kitchen was chock-a-block with greasy pans and gooey pots. They were stacked seemingly everywhere. He sighed and nodded.

“It takes 'til dawn, usually,” Kevin explained. “Not that you could tell it was dawn in this shithole. You finish about when the prep people are coming in.”

“All right,” said Castiel, turning back towards the sink.

“That's it? 'All right?'” asked Kevin.

“Yes, all right?”

“I didn't wanna be here, you know. I was gonna be something else!”

Castiel grabbed a stack of dishes and handed them to Kevin. “Please place these in the appropriate cupboard, Kevin.”

Kevin frowned, but then did as he was asked.

“And what was your chosen career, Kevin?” asked Castiel, turning back to his chores.

“I'm gonna be a musician! I'm really good.”

“I'm sure you are. Then why are you here?”

Kevin grabbed more dishes from the drain. “My mom … she died.” His voice broke a little on the last word.

“Condolences. Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“Nope. It's just me.”

“I have two younger brothers.”

Kevin frowned. He stopped loading dishes and hopped up on the damp kitchen counter next to Castiel. “Oh! What happened to them?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh. Shit. Well. Sorry, dude.”

“I don't plan to stay here long. I am going go to find them.”

“I dunno, you know? It's not easy leaving here. How did they bring you here? Did you come by car?”

“By … what?” Castiel paused for a moment to stare at Kevin.

“It's like.... Oh never mind.” Kevin looked him up and down. “You're from the North, right?”

“Yes.”

“You'll see.”

Castiel stared for a moment longer, but as Kevin seemed disinclined to elaborate, he turned back to the dishes. “We walked here.”

“Yeah, well, you're not walking away. Not unless you have a guide.”

“Sam seemed to find the way.”

“Yeah, but the Winchesters were born here! Those guys know the territory like the backs of their hands. Guys like you and me, we wouldn't get far. We'd run out of water. Or get captured by another outpost. Or worse, run into the Enemy.”

“Is the Enemy around in great numbers, then?”

“Um....”

“What?”

Kevin picked at the frayed knee of his jeans. “Welllll, I've never really seen them. Or it. Or whatever. But I know they're around! Sam and Dean saw one the other day! I heard about it.”

“Sam and Dean are the Winchesters?”

Kevin goggled at Castiel. “You don't even know that? Yeah. They're in charge. Well, when their dad is gone. is most of the time, actually. This place has been operated by Men of Letters since.... Well, probably at least since the flood!”

“Men of Letters?”

Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation at Castiel’s obvious thick-headedness. “Dude, you can't tell me you haven't heard of them! They're a secret society.”

“If they're a secret society, how have you heard of them?”

Kevin rolled his eyes skyward. “Everybody's heard of them!”

“Pretend, then, that I am ignorant.”

“That won’t be hard,” Kevin muttered.

“Would you mind terribly bringing me some of those pots, Kevin?”

“Yeah, sure, man,” said Kevin, hopping off the counter. He brushed his slightly damp butt and grabbed an armload of frying pans. “So, you know there was the bad time. And the flood. And, um, I’m not sure if there was magic before, but there was magic. And the seven families. Or maybe it was twelve? Guess it depends on who’s telling the story. They built the Seven Sisters outposts to protect us! In the Republic of Texas, right north of Meh-hee-ko.”

“Meh-hee-ko,” Cas murmured.

“There were seven forts, but now there’s six. Um, I’m not sure if they used magic or not, but maybe. Anyway.”

“This is an intriguing story, Kevin.”

“Yeah! Like, everybody knows. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you it all in the North.”

“Yes. That’s surprising.” Castiel scowled as Kevin dumped a pile of cutlery into the sink. He extracted a cutting blade and held it up to the light. Dish suds scudded down the handle. “What is this supposed to be.”

Kevin emitted a giggle. “Dude. It’s a knife.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a knife. This is … shit.”

“Dude. Don’t tell Chef that!”

Castiel glared.

Deep within the bowels of the Onyx Fort, Lucifer sat, his feet up on the desk, and lobbed paper airplanes at the waste basket.

His office door opened and closed. He did not look up.

“My Liege,” came Uriel’s deep rumble.

“A little to the left, Uriel,” muttered Lucifer.

Uriel frowned, and then shuffled a fraction to the left. Lucifer let loose another paper airplane, nearly took Uriel’s eye out, before it fluttered and barely missed his waste basket. Uriel, for his part, stood stock still.

“God dammit.”

“My Liege, Lilith awaits.”

“So let her await. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Uriel stood still a moment more, and then crouched down to retrieve one of the paper airplanes. He patiently unfolded the creation, smoothing it out with his large hands. He cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. The dinner invitation from our good friends, the Winchesters.”

“Yes. It’s annoying. I want to go there and torment that traitor, Crowley, but I then we won’t be able to attack them for at least another month!”

“These gentlemen’s agreements are annoying,” Uriel tutted.

“The best chef in the Seven Sisters, and those rat bastard Winchesters stole him from me.”

“So. Are we attending?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucifer, standing up and stretching. “I’d much rather get eaten by a crawly-bug.” Uriel tossed the dinner invitation over his shoulder, and the two men exited the office and proceeded along a dark hallway and then down an equally dark staircase. “Does she have to do her scrying down here? I’d much rather watch from a nice deck. Maybe with a dancing girl on my lap.”

“You know what Lilith said about that?”

Lucifer emitted a snort. He was well aware of Lilith’s opinions about what she referred to as his “proclivities.” The woman badly needed to loosen up.

The found themselves in a dim, candle-lit room. A stunning blonde glared up at them. She sat at a round table with a shallow dish of a viscous red liquid in the middle.

“Does he have to be here?” she snapped, nodding her head towards Uriel. “He creates a negative energy.”

“Uriel is my second in command,” Lucifer supplied as he took a seat next to Lilith. “So, yes, he and his negative energy are here to stay.” Uriel smirked and took the seat opposite Lucifer. Lilith huffed a frustrated sigh.

“Is the virgin’s blood fresh today?” asked Uriel.

Lilith smiled. Even Lucifer felt a chill down his spine. “It’s perfectly fresh.”

They joined hands, and Lilith shut her eyes. The blood in the bowl began to bubble, and then the surface morphed into a distinctive shape: a small red-tinged replica of the Onyx Fort.

“Show me the Red Fort,” Lucifer told her.

Lilith nodded slightly. The small Onyx Fort shrunk down, and then seemed to roll off the edge of the dish. The image of rough terrain appeared, as if one was gliding over a red desert, and then finally the liquid in the dish formed an image of the Red Fort.

But then Lilith emitted a small cry and whipped her head back. The Red Fort too spun away, off the edge of the dish, and the image changed to more terrain, and then skimming over what looked like water.

“Lilith. What the hell?” asked Lucifer. “I said the Red Fort!”

“I don’t believe she’s in control now,” Uriel told him.

As Lilith began to pant and sweat, the image turned back to a coastline – but full of greenery, and less barren. Then the vision climbed up to a large, impressive building. The building grew in size, and then they were racing down some unfamiliar corridors.

They came to a room full of what looked like small stone obelisks. When you squinted at them, it began to appear that they were not stone at all, but stacks of books. There was a rumpled man standing there among the stacks, casually reading a book. He looked up as he spun into view. He was facing Lucifer, not Lilith.

“Greetings,” intoned Lilith as the figure’s lips moved. “I am Metatron. So nice to chat with you today.” Her voice was unnaturally low. Perspiration dripped down her forehead.

“Metatron?” asked Uriel.

Metatron’s red features formed a sneer. “Oh, very good, Lucifer, you have a pet parrot.”

“Don’t get snarky,” Lucifer told the image of Metatron. “That’s my job.”

“Oh, you’re not intimidated? That’s charming. You probably should be. But you’ve always been a bit of an idiot, haven’t you?”

“What do you want?” said Lucifer. “That’s my psychic you’re hijacking.”

“This won’t damage her. Much. And it’s what you want, not me. I’ve sent you a present.”

“That’s good. I love presents. Especially ones for me.”

“I’ve sent you a bladesmith.”

Lucifer and Uriel exchanged a glance. Now both men leaned forward, interested. “We’re listening,” said Lucifer.

“He’s with the Winchesters.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “If you’re sending him to me, why did he end up with the Winchesters? That’s not a very good gift.”

Metatron’s red image in the bowl glowered. “It was a fuck up,” Lilith intoned, her voice low. “He was given to the wrong pirates. And then we sent our pirates after him, but they screwed up as well.”

“Imagine,” cooed Uriel, “not being able to trust a pirate.”

“Silence, parrot.”

Lucifer gestured for Uriel to be quiet, and it was Uriel’s turn to fume.

“The boy’s name is Castiel. Of the De Angelus family.”

“I have heard of them,” said Lucifer, pressing his hands together. “And, why are you giving this gift to me?”

“I’m doing some … consolidation, you could call it, up here in the North. I need someone to do the same down South.”

“But why me?” asked Lucifer.

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“I’m a curious creature.”

Metatron sighed. “Just get the bladesmith. By cunning or force, I don’t care, though it seems you’re a little short on the former, so I’d recommend the latter. Now, I have some reading to catch up on.” Metatron’s eyes went back to the book, and suddenly his image in the blood was shrinking as if they were flying away from him. The building appeared again, and then the coastline, and then the red blood splashed as Lilith reared back, eyes rolling back in their sockets.

Uriel took out a handkerchief to wipe away a spot of blood from the bowl that had gotten on his lapel. Lucifer got up and gripped Lilith by the hair, bringing her head up. She was unconscious, foaming at the mouth. Lucifer let go her hair and her head lolled back.

“Perhaps the virgin blood wasn’t as fresh as she thought,” said Uriel.

Lucifer nodded towards the door, and they retreated, leaving Lilith sitting there. “The dinner invitation?” said Lucifer.

“Yes?”

“We need to dig it out of the waste paper basket.”

“What is this?”

“Uh. Chicken, Chef?”

Crowley glowered at the trembling sous-chef and held up the plucked pink carcass by one talon. “You would call this chicken?”

“Would I call this chicken?” repeated the sous-chef.

“What did I just ask you, moron? This is not poultry. It’s a bag of bones. A bag of bones!” But Crowley jumped back in mid-tirade and nearly dropped his non-chicken as suddenly a great pile of cutlery was dumped on the table before him.

“Do you call these knives?” Castiel demanded as he stepped boldly before the chef.

Crowley looked at the table, looked up at Castiel, looked back at the table, and then to the sous-chef he had been berating. “Is this a joke?”

“I assure you, this is no joke,” Castiel told him.

“Yes, I call these knives. Next question. And didn't I tell you to make yourself scarce?”

“These blades wouldn't cut through warm butter.”

“And what the bloody hell do you presume to know about blades?”

It happened in a split second: Castiel grabbed a cleaver and flicked it at the wall. It embedded in the door with a dull thrum.

Crowley and the sous-chef, as well as several other people who happened to be nearby, all stopped and gawped at the cleaver.

“I know something about blades,” said Castiel.

“Holy shit,” muttered Crowley, more to himself than anyone else. “I think I'm aroused.”

The door opened, and a tall green-eyed man poked his head inside. He looked at the cleaver and grinned. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Winchester,” grumbled the chef. “All right, everybody!” he shouted. “Get to your bloody jobs before I have the dish washer do another demonstration.”

Kitchen personnel scattered. Dean Winchester entered the room, and a small nervous man clutching a clipboard followed behind. Castiel continued to scowl at Crowley.

“You're the busboy?” Dean asked Castiel.

“I'm the dishwasher,” he deadpanned, not taking his eyes from the chef. “Do you have a whetstone?” he demanded of Crowley.

“That will improve things you think?” mused Crowley, who was now twiddling a carving knife.

“Your knives will still be shit. But they will be sharp.”

“Good enough for me. Will one of you idiots GET ME A WHETSTONE.” After a pause, there was a rustling, and at least three different people placed implements of various shapes and sizes on the table in front of Crowley. “Take your pick,” he told Castiel. Castiel grabbed a long sharpening steel and, pausing only to pick up a few of the knives, strode over to an empty station.

“I need to talk to you, Castiel,” said Dean, who followed along.

“You don't really have time for this, Dean,” said the nervous man behind him, who was now tapping his clipboard with a pen.

“I have time, Chuck. Don't freak.”

Castiel stuck the steel on the table, but did not apply any of the knives to it. Instead, he spread his hands around it and closed his eyes. Muttering a few words in a strange language, he scowled and gave his fingers a slight twitch. There was a crackle, and the steel sparked slightly. Castiel opened his eyes and grabbed one of the knives.

Dean blinked in surprise. “So, you use magic.”

“Yes, I use magic,” grumbled Castiel, who was already expertly scraping a knife along the magicked steel.

“We haven't been introduced. I'm Dean-”

“Winchester. Yes.” Castiel held up the knife, watching the blade flash in the kitchen light.

“Yeah. So anyway, the reason we brought you here-”

“You kidnapped me.”

“Well, technically-”

“Dean,” said Chuck, sotto voce. “Do I need to point out he has a knife? Actually, several knives?”

Dean hushed Chuck with a gesture. Castiel ran the knife up and down the steel again. “Uh. Is it sharp yet?” Dean asked.

Castiel reached over and tore a sheet of paper off Chuck's clipboard. While Chuck was still standing there, sputtering in protest, he ran the knife through it. It fell apart with barely a rip. “Yeah. Sharp.”

“Fucking A, Dean!” said Chuck.

“I wanted to ask you about your dad,” Dean persisted.

“What about him?”

“Well, when was the last you saw him?”

Castiel glanced at his hand, his fingers wiggling up and down as if he were counting down. “Approximately three years, two months, and eleven days ago.”

“Okay. And, you haven't heard anything since?”

Castiel finally looked up at Dean. He glared. “If I had, would I be here?”

“Maybe, maybe not?”

“I would choose to give up my inheritance to work scrubbing your filthy dishes?”

“Look, dude. I have responsibilities too! In case you haven't noticed, there's not exactly a whole lot of us, and we're keeping the Enemy at bay. And the swords my guys are using, they're not up to the job.”

“They're utter shit. I've seen them,” Castiel sniffed, turning back to his knives. “Worse than the cutlery.”

“Yeah, I'm real grateful for the opinion of a busboy.”

“I'm not the busboy. I'm the dishwasher.”

Crowley and a couple of sous-chefs now crowded around. “So what's going on with my knives?”

Castiel snatched a carrot off another counter and in a blur of metal had it diced.

“Excellent!” said Crowley. “My dear boy, you are no longer the dishwasher, you are hereafter and eternally on prep. Someone get him a station.”

“I was just up all night washing dishes,” Castiel groused.

“You can have nap time afterwards. I will even read you a charming bedtime story! All about a psychotic little cook. Julienning before play, we always say.”

“The other dormitory residents won't let me sleep.”

Crowley took a step forward. He reached out and cupped Castiel's face. “My lovely knife-happy boy, I promise, if you slice and dice for me now, I will personally go and murder every other single resident of that dormitory.”

Castiel stared for a moment. “All right.”

The sous-chefs, both of whom now shared a dormitory with Castiel, both shuddered.

“Are we done?” Castiel asked Dean.

Dean nodded and made his way out, Chuck hot on his heels. Dean stopped and once again admired the cleaver Cas had embedded in the door. He grabbed it on his way out. Chuck flinched back, but then kept up his pursuit as Dean hefted the cleaver.

“That was unproductive,” Chuck sniffed, keeping well back of the blade.

“The thing I don't get, I could swear some of those good swords we’ve been seeing are new.”

“And you seriously think Mr. Stabby Pants in there forged them, Dean?”

“Well.” Dean twirled the cleaver. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You're gonna lose a digit that way!''

Dean grinned an evil grin and let the cleaver spin around twice in his hand. Chuck actually gulped.

“Uh. We have a lot on the agenda,” said Chuck, eyeing the clipboard.

“I'm gonna go talk to Sam.”

“What?”

“I said I'm gonna go talk to Sam. I'll be back in a bit.” Dean flung the cleaver up into the air and turned up a staircase, leaving Chuck in the hallway looking up, terrified. The cleaver spun and came down and he cowered. But at the last minute, Dean stuck out a hand and caught it by the handle. And then he hurried on up the staircase, leaving Chuck fuming in the hallway.

Chuck looked up and down, and then put his hand into his jacket and pulled out a flask. He took a rather generous swig, and then continued on down the hallway.

The lights switched on in the dormitory, and Crowley marched in. All of the personnel, from busboy to sous-chef, stood at attention. Crowley, with Castiel following behind him, walked over to the bunk in the very back corner of the room.

“Who is here?”

“Uh. Me, Chef.”

Crowley ripped off the bedding and thrust it at the boy who's spoken. “Not anymore,” he told him. And then, nodding to Castiel, and giving everyone in the room a good glare, he strode out.

Castiel calmly laid his own bedding down on the corner bunk and then, being careful to take out the very long, very sharp knife he was now carrying, stuck it underneath his pillow, and then bedded down.

NEXT

Alexandria (Chapter 1 of 13)

2013-11-16T02:04:05Z

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Are you kidding? This is an awesome idea!”

Sam glanced skeptically over at his grinning idiot of a brother, perched up on the shining black hood of their vehicle like some kind of triumphant king on his gilded throne. And then he once again hoisted his binoculars and skimmed them over the barren landscape below. He fixed his eyes on a small, belching, motorized device stationed right in the middle of his field of view. The exact purpose of the machine was elusive, although if spitting smoke was its design, then it was doing an awfully good job.

“That's was a good idea. About the machine, I mean.”

Dean's eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but his smile was wide. “I read it in a book.”

Sam's eyes constricted in doubt. “What? You don't read.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Sammy. I'm a complicated guy. Anyway. It oughta call one. That's why this is so awesome. No more waiting around. Have them come to us for a change!”

“Yeah, but Dean, what if they're just minding their own business?”

“Oh, come on, Sammy! These things don't just mind their own business. They lurk! And slither! And tunnel. And fucked up shit like that.”

Sam shook his head, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “I still think we should have brought some guys for backup.”

“We're short-handed as it is, Sam. And besides, they'd just slow us down. We'll try this out, and then if it works, great!”

“And if it doesn't work?”

“Hey, maybe we'll find a bug's hoard.”

“Dean, I dunno about you, but I gave up believing in the Enemy's buried treasure chest back when I was six years old.”

“Six? A little late, Sammy, but you were always slow on the uptake. Wait! There! What's that?”

Sam turned and once again raised the binoculars. He futzed with the focus. Yes, there was definitely something happening. At first he thought it was just dust blowing in the wind. But then the picture clarified.

“Tentacles,” said Sam.

“Knew it!” Dean pitched forward, yanking the binoculars away from Sam.

“Hey watch it!” Sam yelped, pulling the strap off his neck where his brother was obviously trying to strangle him. He disentangled himself and then squinted off in the distance while Dean hogged the glasses. “It's just a little one,” he said.

“See?” said Dean. “And two of us, so we're golden. Come on!” And with that, he grabbed his sword and started step-sliding his way down the hill. Sam, still skeptical of the whole business, hefted his backpack and followed behind.

It had made its way over to Dean's bait and was hovering close. To Sam, it seemed somehow attracted to the acrid black smoke billowing out, as it appeared to be edging over closer, cautiously extending a couple of tentacle-like appendages to brush Dean's hacked-together contraption. The lore was that these things were attracted to the ancient internal combustion engines. But legend also had it that one glance of the things could drive a man mad. And that obviously wasn't so. Well, at least in Sam's case. He obviously couldn’t speak for his slightly deranged older brother.

The sounds of Dean's gas-farting machine grew louder as they descended. The creature continued its explorations of the device, seemingly oblivious to Sam and Dean. Was its back turned to them? Did these things even have a back? Sam paused while Dean drew nearer. This was the closest Sam had ever been to one where he wasn't absolutely shit-scared, running for his life. Roughly a football shape, a pointed oval, with lots of little legs along either side, and a whole sheaf of longer tentacle-like appendages sticking out at the one end. They sort of looked like mealybugs. Really, really big mealybugs. Like, crawl out of your nightmare and send you into a psychotic breakdown screaming your lungs out fucking mealybugs. He could see why folks called them crawly-bugs.

“Dean,” Sam hissed.

“What?” Dean froze and looked back over his shoulder, annoyance etching his features.

“I was just thinking … you know … maybe....”

“Maybe what?”

“Well, maybe we should just, you know, study the thing?”

Dean fumed, and Sam suddenly imagined black smoke curling out of his brother's ears. “Sammy,” he said softly, pointing his sword towards the creature. “Enemy. Blade. Like Dad always says, pointy end goes in first.”

Sam glowered. It was his turn to fume. “But Dean-”

There was a low rumble: one not caused by the motor. Both brothers looked around, confused.

“What was that? That's not-” But Sam's question answered itself as the ground on the far side of the mealybug thing began to swell up into little hillocks.

“Shit!” Dean took a long step backwards.

“It's a big one,” said Sam, who thought, okay, here comes the shit-scared running part.

“Out of here. Now,” said Dean. Both brothers did an about-face, only to discover the ground that had been in back of them was now rising into a series of very familiar mounds.

“We're surrounded,” said Sam. “It's directly below us!”

“Yeah, I get that,” said Dean.

“We're right over the maw.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what his brother's next words would be.

“RUN!”

Dean charged ahead, sword drawn, just as one of the large feeding tentacles broke through the ground and snaked out at them. Dean gripped his sword two-handed and swung. He managed to hit the tentacle right at the neck. With a snap, and the blade broke off and Dean was left clutching just a hilt.

“Fucking fuck!” yelled Dean, just in time to get clobbered by the swollen end of the tentacle. “Salt gun!' he managed to gasp as he fell.

The ground beneath their feet was beginning to tremble. It wouldn't be long. Sam was already reaching for the gun on his back. He pulled out a weapon that resembled an overly large double-barreled shotgun. He pumped once and fired, blasting out a white spray. The tentacle quivered and curled up against itself, as if in pain. Still holding the gun, Sam grabbed the back of his brother's shirt and yanked him to his feet, and they both began to high-tail it out of there as another giant tentacle and then another emerged from the rapidly crumbling ground around them.

Sam halted and fired ahead at another writhing monster appendage, and then it was Dean's turn to grab his brother by the back of the shirt and drag him along. They ran past the line of now a good half dozen extruded tentacles and started up the hill.

Sam yelped and fell flat on his face, snagged by one of the smaller tentillum twining its way around his ankle. Dean leapt towards his brother, ripping Sam's sword from its scabbard and hacking away at the worm-like appendage. There was a snap, and the tentillum burst out a gooey green liquid all over Sam's pantleg. The tentacle suddenly withdrew back into the sand. Dean dragged Sam to his feet, and they limped up the hill, not stopping until they'd reached the top.

They turned to watch. Sam noticed that the small creature had clambered onto one of the tentacles, wound around it in a manner that almost looked protective. There was a great low rumble, and the entire valley floor collapsed, as if it were being sucked into a sinkhole.

Then, with no more sound than a whisper, it was gone: tentacles, small creature, everything. It had sucked in Dean's contraption too, leaving only a crater in the sand.

The only noise was the wind.

“Damn,” said Dean. “Lost my bug lure. Now I'll have to make another one.”

“Ewwwww!” said Sam. “It got my pants.” He pointed down to where the splash of the creature's blood had now eaten a dozen holes in the bottom of his jeans.

“We'll get you new pants, whiner.”

“And what the hell do you mean, you're gonna make another one?”

“I mean I'm gonna make another one.”

“Why would you make another one?”

“It worked, didn't it?” He held up Sam's sword, he was still carrying.

“Dean!”

“Oh, shit.” Like Sam's pants, the blade had been damaged by the monster's blood. It now appeared that one edge was serrated. “Well, Sammy, look at it this way. Now you got a really big steak knife!”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, and the brothers limped towards the car.

Castiel paused. This was the critical step. This could make or break him.

He stepped back, scowling, wiping the rag wrapped around his wrist over his brow, a rivulet of sweat dripping down his bare chest.

The blade was in the forge, heating. Good Damascus steel: the best Castiel had ever worked with, he thought. He wouldn't have a lot of time. Spend too long on the words, and the blade could crack, and all your hard work would fly out the window. But you had to be careful with the words. Someone's life could depend on your magic.

He grabbed the tongs and, bracing himself, pulled the blade from the forge and set it on the anvil, where it glowed, hot and red.

He quieted his nervousness and, being careful with his grip on the tempered steel, thrust his left hand towards it, palm outward. He was very close: almost close enough to burn his hand.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, putting all his concentration on his work. He must be steel too.

The words came, second nature now. How many times had he repeated them, lying in his bed at night? This one was a spell of protection. Whoever wielded the sword would be safe from the blows of their opponent. He spoke softly and swiftly, carefully enunciating every syllable.

He opened his eyes to the flash: the blade had gone from red to white. He held his breath, feeling his heart beating. The steel seemed to shimmer and glow, the white light effusing its length, flashing the lovely layers he had painstakingly beat into metal, so many tiny etched lines, unique as a fingerprint.

And there it was, the faint susurration. The blade was talking. Yes, the spell was good. The spell was good.

Cas suddenly threw the an arm over his eyes. The light from the blade burst and suffused the room with the shine of ten thousand candles.

And then it was over.

Cas grabbed the tongs and tipped the sword into the oil bath, smiling at the sizzle. This was very good. His best! He let himself stop and smile, a small amount of pride bursting through. He had done well. Soon, his apprenticeship would be over, and he would make a fine swordsmith.

Startled, he turned to the sound of the door clattering open, and two boys tumbling in: a dark-haired teenager and a sandy-haired child or seven or eight.

“Castiel! How did it go, brother?” asked the older one, who was already smiling. He had obviously seen the light cast out from the spell.

“Inias,” Castiel scolded. “Samandriel. You know you're not supposed to interrupt when I'm working.”

Inias rolled his eyes good-naturedly and peered at the blade, still sizzling from the dip in the oil bath. “We saw the flash. Is this a good one?”

Castiel's small smile broke into a grin. “This is a good one. It's the best I've made.” His brother shared the grin. Castiel reached out and gripped the younger man by the shoulder. His head fell to the side, looking him up and down. “You'll be as tall as me soon.”

Inias stood up straighter. “You'll teach me everything you know? When you're a sword master? You're the best, Castiel.”

Castiel shook his head, although the grin did not fade. “I'm far from the best. Samandriel! What do you have now?”

Inias laughed and squatted down near the young brother who was watching something crawl back and forth on the floor. “His new pet.”

Castiel hunkered down to see the large spider legging back and forth between Samandriel's chubby hands down on the dusty floor. “Sammy,” he chuckled. “Still fascinated by bugs?”

“It's not a bug,” Samandriel told him. “It's a spider.”

“And you talk to this one?”

“Of course I talk to him,” Samandriel huffed. “He's very smart!”

“Smarter than most humans,” said Inias, repeating one of his little brother’s lines.

Samandriel set a somewhat crushed matchbox down on the ground. “Home, Felix!” he ordered.

“Felix?” Castiel mouthed to Inias, who shrugged. The spider obediently crawled into the box, Samandriel then crammed into a pants pocket. “That's impressive,” Castiel told his brother.

There was a small sound from across the floor: someone clearing her throat. Three boys stood up as one, turning around to behold the new party inside the shop, a tall officious-looking woman wearing the robes of a government official. “The door was left open,” she said. Her tone somehow managed to be half scolding, half apologetic.

“Naomi,” said Castiel, moving instinctively between her and his brothers.

“It's the annoying lady,” grumbled Samandriel.

“Shhh!” Inias told him, grabbing him and pulling him out of the way.

Naomi kept her gaze focused on Castiel. “Castiel. We have a new governor in the Kansas territory, and since your father is not presently available, he'd like to speak to you.”

Castiel glowered. Their father had gone out for some fresh air one night soon after their mother died. That had been three years ago. Naomi and the other busybodies on the town council had tried to break up Castiel and his brothers, and tried to take away the smithy. Castiel had refused. They were family, little and broken as it was, and the smithy was his birthright, even if he hadn't completed his apprenticeship when his father vanished. But it was one thing after another.

“What does he want to speak about?” Castiel asked. “Does he need a sword?”

“I don't think so, Castiel.”

“Then I have no business with him.” He turned his back on her and reached over to where his shirt was hanging on a peg. He threw it on and pretended to give a lot of attention to buttoning it up.

“Castiel, you need to speak with Metatron-”

“Metatron? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“I think he just wants to chat, Castiel.” Even with his back turned, Castiel could hear the carefully concealed impatience creeping into Naomi's tone. He was still young, but he was no fool. People like Naomi and this Metatron person didn't want to “chat.” They would hand over his business to a competitor, and rip apart his family.

“You think? You don't know?” Castiel turned back in time to see Naomi flinch. So, she was being kept in the dark as well.

“I'm certain everything will be all right. Stop being so stubborn, Castiel. You are an important part of our community.”

“So, are you gonna go?” Inias asked nervously as the three boys headed down the path through the forest to their cottage at the edge of Lawrence. It was dusk and many insects were just emerging to feed, so Samandriel had rushed ahead to chase them.

“It could be good for us, Inias.”

“In what way? And what the hell kind of name is Metatron?”

“Whoever this person is, I don't believe Naomi likes him.”

“Ohhhh,” said Inias. Castiel smiled. His brother was a bright kid.

“Who knows? I've heard tales from some of the sailors that the Enemy is afoot. Maybe he does want to order some armaments.”

“I could help you! If it's a big order.”

“Yes, you could.” They stopped outside their house. Castiel raised his arm, but then lowered it again. “Inias, why don't you say the words?”

Inias nodded eagerly, and as Castiel and Samandriel watched, raised his arm, palm outward, and carefully enunciated a few words in an ancient language. Abruptly several sigils painted on the door glowed with a soft yellow light. And then they faded. The door clicked open as the unlocking spell had its effect.

“Come on,” said Castiel. “We'll celebrate our big order.” They headed inside and, after Inias carefully re-drew the salt line over the threshold, closed the door behind them.

Naomi had said it was an important meeting, so Cas had taken a bath (with more-or-less hot water) the previous night and now wore his newest, itchiest shirt. He had half a mind to go meet Metatron the same way he customarily greeted Naomi these past couple years: still sweating and stinking from bending over the forge. But Inias had counseled a more sedate path. After all, if Naomi disliked him, this Metatron person might actually be all right.

He reached under his collar to scratch his neck, casting a glance out at the tide as he walked, hoping a view of the Narrow Sea would calm him. Some days, if it was clear, they said you could see all the way to the Isle of Arkansas on the eastern horizon. Cas had never seen it, and he didn't really have much use for sailor's tall tales.

He arrived at the villa, staring in wonder at all the commotion. Territorial muckety-mucks often moved around like head of a traveling circus, but this took the cake. Metatron had evidently taken over an entire villa (Castiel was unsure as to the proper owners, as he rarely got to this side of town). There were a number of horse-drawn wagons parked out back, and workers were still unloading crates. He wondered how long the governor intended to stay here. Lawrence was a moderate sized port, but most of their trade (well, what didn't get waylaid by the pirates) was with the peoples of the South, whom most of the territories regarded as only a step above the pirates.

Because of the hubbub he made it through the front courtyard and well into the house without being challenged. He paused in the high-ceilinged entryway for a moment, thinking to ask someone where to find Metatron, but curiosity got the better of him, and he instead chose a hallway more or less at random and wandered through.

Being careful not to get clobbered by any of the workingmen hauling heavy cartons, he ventured down the hall, peering into various rooms while trying his best to act nonchalant. Just a single room here was as big as his family's entire house. Strange to think all this space was being occupied by just a single man.

He paused before a doorway. Checking first up and down the hallway to make certain he wasn't noticed, he slipped inside a dimly lit room. He carefully picked his way between pile upon pile of books, stacked up nearly to the ceiling. It looked like they had unpacked the room, but left before they could fix them up on bookshelves. He picked up a volume with a red cover. It seemed to be some kind of spell book. Unlike many people in Lawrence, Castiel could read and write. His mother had read stories to him and his brothers every night before bedtime, and he had continued the tradition after she died. Their father had told them it made you a better smith if you could read books and not just rely on the lore your master passed down. This was fortunate, as when Castiel's father then departed, he had managed to teach himself many things about the craft by going through his father's small library.

But this was incredible: there seemed to be books on every topic here. And even some unimaginably old tomes here in this pile he was standing over. Castiel briefly wondered why a government official had books on magic, as it was little required for the job. But he didn't have long to ponder.

“Good choice! That book is among the rarest.”

Castiel nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned, clutching the crumbling volume to his chest.

“Now, don't break the spine,” chided the rumpled man who stood before him. Castiel, with shaky arms, held out the book to him, and the man took it with a sad smile, leafing through it. “This is a treasure. This is a book from before the Great Flood.”

“Really?” whispered Castiel. He tilted his head, wishing now he had had a longer time to look at the book. “I thought everything was destroyed.”

“Oh, no.” The man was still distracted leafing through his book. “There's a lot out there. If you know where to look.” He lifted his face to stare at Castiel. “And I know where to look. So, you must be the De Angelus boy.”

“Um. Yes. Castiel.”

“Good, good. I had wanted to talk to you. Very important stuff.”

“Yes? I'm important?”

“Critically important.” But the man didn't elaborate. Instead, closing the book and caressing it with his hand, he carefully placed it back atop one of the piles.

Castiel was silent for a long moment as the man gazed proudly at his pile of books. A sudden realization dawned on him. “You're Metatron.”

“I am Metatron. The Metatron.” He smiled at Castiel. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “I think I might have an omelet. I'm getting a little peckish.” Without waiting for Castiel's answer, Metatron bustled out of the room. Confused, Castiel hesitantly followed him. Metatron grabbed a book - seemingly at random - on the way out, and then led Castiel past much hustle and bustle of moving, down another long hallway and finally out to a balcony overlooking the sea. He seated himself at the table and began to leaf through the book spread open on his lap. Castiel, after standing flustered for a moment, finally sat unbidden in the chair opposite. Metatron reached up and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared, so rapidly that Castiel actually flinched. “Omelet,” said Metatron, making no indication whether this was for himself or for both of them. After pouring them both some cooled water from a pitcher, the servant whisked away without a word.

Castiel gazed off over the sea for a while, and then looked back at Metatron. He recognized some of the sigils on the binding of the book. “You're a magic user?” he asked.

“I find it to serve a purpose,” Metatron told him. “Now, to the matter at hand. So you are the sword maker serving this principality?”

“I am the sword master. Yes.”

“Not really a master, now are you?”

Castiel's cheeks colored. “Well, technically, I didn't finish my apprenticeship-”

“Then you are not the sword master. QED.”

Castiel straightened his back. “De Angelus Sword and Forge is my family business. As I have told Naomi-”

“Naomi?” Metatron's eyes drifted up to meet Castiel's, although he looked far away. “Yes, about that. Naomi is being replaced.”

“What?” For some reason, despite his great dislike for Naomi, the small hairs on the back of Castiel's neck started to prick up.

“Think on this. My territory is in need of a competent sword master, and she has demonstrated nothing but an extensive facility at the art of procrastination. It's disappointing, I tell you! The Enemy is afoot, and we can't afford to let our weakness show.”

Castiel's own thoughts drifted. “The Enemy? Yes. I've heard the rumors.”

“And of course you want your town protected. It's important for you. Your family. Your trade.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Castiel looked up distractedly as the servant placed a plate before Metatron.

The older man seized a fork and dug into his eggs, emitting a small moan of pleasure as he savored the first bite. It occurred to Castiel that he hadn't been given any food, but he was thinking more about the news that Naomi was gone. Perhaps, he thought, things were looking up for him and his brothers without Naomi constantly nosing into their lives. Perhaps Metatron could help him find a master bladesmith, and he could formally complete his apprenticeship.

“So, we are in agreement,” said Metatron.

Castiel blinked, coming out of his reverie. “Agreement?” He looked to his side. There were suddenly two servants standing on either side of his chair. They were big ones.

“We'll just get you out of the way, so we can bring in a real bladesmith,” muttered Metatron, who had returned to staring at his book while he continued to shovel omelet into his mouth.

“But, my brothers....”

“Don't worry. Your brothers will be taken care of.”

The servants each grabbed one of Castiel's arms. “What? Wait!” Metatron made a dismissive gesture, and the servants began to drag Castiel away, sending his chair tumbling down with a crash.

Castiel stamped down on one guy's instep hard with his heel. The guy cried out in pain and let go. The young bladesmith swiveled and sent an elbow into the other guy's gut. He doubled over. Castiel grabbed the chair and hit him over the head with it.

Then he whipped out his sword and pointed it at the first servant's neck. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“You did have to make this difficult, didn't you?” sighed Metatron. Not looking up from his book, he flicked up a hand and said some words.

Castiel gasped and grabbed his neck. He suddenly couldn't breathe. He fell to his knees, struggling for air.

And then the world went black.

The world swayed softly, back and forth, back and forth. It was slow and gentle, like a soft lullaby.

Castiel blinked in the sun. He smelled the ocean breeze, and his face relaxed into a gentle smile.

He sat up, stretching. Funny, but he couldn't remember falling asleep. And he seemed to have bedded down on some coils of rope. Groggy, he shook his head and looked up, off across the wide turquoise sea.

He gasped and shot to his feet, almost overbalancing, as the deck gently rolled with the undulating sea. Panic flooded him. He was on a boat, and the ship was rapidly making its way offshore.

In a split second, he made the decision. Castiel was a strong swimmer, but the boat was growing more and more distant from shore each moment he hesitated. If he tried it now, he could possibly make it back to land. Possibly. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of his brothers, dreading what Metatron meant to do with them.

He leapt for the rail, and then he was over, ignoring the surprised shouts coming from behind him.

The water was startlingly cold here, just off the shore, and the current was swift. He surfaced, spitting salt water, and began to swim, swift strokes and powerful kicks pushing him home. It wasn't far. Surely he's swum half this distance before: it would be no problem to push himself a little farther.

He became aware of a commotion behind him. Blinking in the briny water, he risked a look back over his shoulder. A boat. They had launched a small boat off the side: he glimpsed the flash of paddles as it skimmed his way. A shiver tore down his spine. He increased his speed, pushing himself, arms straining, heart pounding in his chest. Surely he could outrun them. He had to.

He heard them before he felt them. Raised voices, and the slap of oars. He dove down, slipping off below the waves in a random direction, trying to throw them off his trail, surfacing only when his lungs had begun to burn. He gasped for breath, only to find himself dragged down again by a great weight. His lungs half full of the salt sea, he thrashed, beginning to panic.

Just in time he was pulled back to the surface, and found himself entangled in a rope net, hauled up to the small boat like a fisherman's catch.

They rowed him back and dumped him on the deck of the larger craft, as if he was no more than a haul of salmon. He struggled to his feet, still choking on salt water.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going, minnow?” asked one of the big guys, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and yanking him up. Castiel, dripping wet, made to stamp on his foot, but these guys were evidently brighter than Metatron's servants. The guy twisted around, and Castiel found himself face-planted on the deck, one arm yanked up in back of him.

“He's not a minnow, he's an eel,” laughed another guy.

“Hey there now,” came another voice, accent ripe and smooth as a peach dipped in honey. “Now, that's no way to treat a guest.”

“He was trying to swim for it,” the crew member told him.

“Well,” said the voice, as the man behind it hunkered down close to Castiel. "You might not wanna try that again. My boys, they can smell your blood, and hear your heart beating right in that chest."

"I have to go!" Castiel pleaded.

“You wouldn't get very far in these waters, friend. If the sharks didn't snap your damned legs off, you'd end up crushed on the rocks and the gulls would have your sorry ass for a midnight snack.”

“My brothers! I have to get back to them.”

With a grunt, the man rose up and gestured to the sailors. Castiel was wrenched to his feet and came face to face with a broad, genial-looking bearded man. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Captain Benny Lafitte, and this here is my good ship, the Lovely Andrea.” He gestured, filled with pride. “Now, I got me a contract to see to your safe passage over these waters, and into the hands of some good friends in the South. So, why don't you just settle yourself down and enjoy my superior navigational skills?”

“You don't understand,” Castiel tried again. “I need to get back! Metatron tricked me!”

Captain Lafitte shared a glance with his crew men. “Yeah, he's been known to do that, brother,” he said softly. He straightened up. “But right now, we're on the job, and I have been mandated to bring your skinny haunches safely to the t'other side.”

“I won't go!” Castiel insisted, barging up so he was nose to nose with Benny.

The sailors made to grab him again, but Benny grinned and waved them off. He leaned in even closer to Castiel, so close the young smith could feel his warm breath. “So you see, it's like this.” He opened his mouth into a wide grin. Castiel heard a slight click, and became aware he was now staring upon two rows of razor-sharp fangs. He flinched back, but Benny caught him by the collar and drew him in closer.

“You're … you're a vampire.”

“Oh, a sharp boy. I like that. So let me explicate to you the present situation. If you don't find yourself inclined towards our accommodations abovedeck, we can just show you an alternative.” He leaned in close, and Castiel shut his eyes.

“I seen Swiss cheese with less holes. What the hellacious fuck were you idjits up to this time?” Bobby Singer held up Sam's sword – at least what was left of it – and glared at Sam and Dean. Sam at least had the decency to display a modicum of embarrassment, but Dean merely glared.

“We were, er, kind of baiting the Enemy,” Sam told him.

“Well, you dumb shits! Why would you go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Uh. It seemed like a good idea?” Sam shrugged and looked to his brother. Bobby turned his back on the Winchester brothers and walked across the roof to glare across the battlements into the desert wasteland that surrounded the fort.

“You at least find a bug's hoard while you were there?” Bobby grumbled. “Bring me some damned diamonds and rubies?”

Dean took a step forward. “Bobby, this was a success. We proved that the things are attracted to engines.”

Bobby rounded on him. “Boy, do you have a brain left in that head? Everybody knows the things are attracted to running engines! Now we are short on manpower, and our weaponry is a steaming pile of shit,” he added, holding up Sam's damaged sword. “And you get it in your fool head to go find the enemy and poke it with a damn stick?”

“Bobby,” said Sam.

“What do you think your daddy is gonna say when I tell him?”

Sam gulped, and even Dean looked contrite, if only for a short moment. But only a moment. “Bobby, the sword thing?” Dean ventured.

“Yeah.” Bobby tossed the sword to the floor where it clanged. “What about it?”

Dean and Sam looked at each other. “I got it taken care of,” Dean told Bobby.

Bobby glared. “You got it taken care of how? Oh, what did you do now?”

As it turned out, Captain Lafitte's idea of belowdecks accommodations was a small closet. Complete with a leg iron around Castiel's ankle.

“What if we sink?” he'd grumbled as the crew men chained him up.

“You better hope we don't,” the sailor had laughed, smiling with vampire teeth and hitching the key to his belt.

Castiel sat for a while and felt sorry for himself. There wasn't a whole lot in the room to distract him, just a piece of tarp for a bed, and a slop bucket they'd left in the corner for him to relieve himself. He had filled the bucket, but couldn't attract the crewman's attention to take it away despite repeatedly banging on the door.

He noticed a bag sitting on the floor opposite. He crawled over, squinting at it in the dim light. There was something sticking out of it.

Eagerly he grasped the hilt of his own sword and pulled it from the bag. He looked it over in wonder, and then opened the bag. It was his own clothing, and a few personal items. Castiel shivered. Metatron has evidently had his men go through Castiel's home before they'd sent him away. What had they done with his brothers? He carefully went through the bag, digging all the way to the bottom, tossing his clothing everywhere. But there was nothing there, nothing of value, just his own poor possessions. He sighed and, giving his leg iron a tug, sat back on the rough floor. And then he put his head in his hands and let himself have a good cry, there in the dark, furious tears falling from his eyes.

There was some kind of commotion in the corridor outside. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he cursed softly to himself and then started to toss his things back into the bag. It was then he saw the note crammed into a sock. He grabbed it crawled on hands and knees closer to the dim light from the porthole. He frowned. Scrawled out in messy letters was one word, “ALEXANDRIA.”

The commotion outside got louder. He crammed the odd note into a pants pocket and stood up to peek out the door. The door came crashing open and he was thrown back. The crewman who had chained him up paused in the doorway, and then fell forward face-first, a sword sticking out of his back.

Then a man Castiel didn't recognize appeared and pulled out the sword. Cas lunged for his own sword, lying by the bag, but got his leg iron tangled in the dead crewman and ended up sprawled on the floor. The stranger was at him. Castiel scrambled back, reaching for anything he could throw. His hand grasped the slop bucket. He tossed the contents at the swordsman, who reeled back, cursing, wiping the shit out of his eyes.

Quick as he could, Castiel kicked his leg and straightened out the leg chain. He threw it over the swordsman's head and pulled tight. The guy gasped and dropped his sword, falling to his knees. Castiel put a foot on his back and yanked. He struggled for a while, and then finally fell over, either dead or unconscious, Castiel couldn't tell, and didn't much care.

He grabbed the key off the dead crewman's belt and unlocked his ankle chain. And then, grabbing his own sword from his bag, he dashed out of the room and headed upstairs, hearing banging and screaming and shouting from what sounded like a terrific fight. He reached the main deck: it was a picture of utter chaos. Captain Lafitte's men had brought out swords and guns and were engaged in a huge, gory fight with another group of sailors. There was another vessel, a bigger one, now tied up alongside the Lovely Andrea.

This group appeared to be vampires too, so along with the usual sword wounds and gunshots a number of men had evidently resorted to biting each other. A big, wild-haired guy threw himself at Castiel, sword pointed and teeth barred, and was rewarded with a sword through his heart. He howled in pain. Usually that kind of blow wasn't enough to finish a vampire, but Castiel had forged his own sword with enough magic to cripple most anything.

Another man lunged for him, but Castiel stepped back and extended his hand, and muttered some words. His spell smacked the guy in the chest just right to send him stumbling backwards against the main deck's balustrade. Cas then punched him in the jaw hard enough to topple him overboard.

He made his way astern in time to catch Captain Lafitte ripping out a man's neck with his teeth. As his opponent fell, the captain reared up, blood dripping from his mouth, crazed look in his eyes. A man lunged at him, and the captain met him with his sword. But just as he was gaining the upper hand, yet another opponent crept up behind, raising his sword.

“Look out!” Castiel screamed. And then, before he even realized what he was doing, he dove at the man and with one clean blow, lopped off his head.

Benny stabbed his opponent, and then whirled around. Grabbing the fallen head by the hair, he hoisted it up and stared at Castiel.

“Christ on a cracker, boy.”

The deck was literally awash in blood. Most of the vampires had repaired themselves by now, but vampire magic didn't extend to washing bloodstains from clothing, nor swabbing pools of the stuff, now sticky and clotted, from the deck.

But Captain Lafitte didn't seem to attend to the blood. Instead, he was staring intently at Castiel's sword.

“No offense, brother, especially since you just saved my bacon, but how does a guy like you end up with a blade like this? Why didn't you tell me about this?” he asked nobody in particular in the crew.

“We didn't really look at his bag,” one of the crewmen muttered.

“Well, that's pretty damned obvious!”

“Captain-” Cas started.

“You can call me Benny. Think you earned it.”

Castiel bit his lip. “Benny. I made that sword. I'm a bladesmith.”

“You're an apprentice. I ain't never seen a blade stuffed with this kinda magic before. It's fucking intriguing, is what it is.”

“I am, technically, an apprentice. But only due to my father's … absence. Otherwise, I would have finished my apprenticeship by now. Sword making is my family business. Our family business. For generations.”

Benny leaned over and, to Castiel's surprise, handed him back the sword. “So, you got family back there you said?”

“I have two younger brothers. Inias and Samandriel. I don't know what's become of them.”

“Well, now. I can't take you back. That's something that just ain't allowed. But, I have a friend or two up North. It might not be beyond my capabilities to make certain inquiries. On your behalf.”

Castiel stared up at him. “You would do that?”

“On one condition. When you get where you're going, and you get yourself all set up, you go and make me a sword, one just like that one. Could you do that?”

Castiel regarded Benny for a while. “I made this last year. I could do better.”

“Well, that would be just fine. All right then. On your honor. I find out about your brothers, you get my my magical fucking sword.” Benny thrust out a large hand.

“Your honor … as a pirate?”

Benny laughed, a soft, merry rumble. “On my honor, as a vampirate.” Castiel extended a hand, cringing slightly at Benny's ice-cold grip. “Now,” Benny called, one paw gripping Castiel's shoulder, “Can we rustle up some real chow for my friend? Think he deserves a meal that ain't clotted.”

Castiel winced. But true to his word, Benny sent some of the crew scampering around, and before long, he had a very decent meal assembled of some savory meat (Castiel decided to not bother inquiring what kind, as he was hungry), sweet fresh fruits and even a bottle of wine. He puzzled at the fruit. He had seen the like before, but it was generally very expensive so he hadn't tasted anything like it in the years since his father had left.

After a time, Benny sat down opposite him. Castiel realized this room was probably supposed to be the captain's table, but as a vampire would have no use for such a thing, it looked like it had been used for storage.

“So how long have you been a pirate?” Castiel asked, not certain whether or not this was a polite inquiry.

“Since before your time. Nearly before the flood,” Benny laughed, reaching for the wine.

“You drink wine?”

“If I'm inclined. It don't do much to me no more, but I don't mind the flavor. Now that food,” he said, indicating Castiel's steak. “That stuff assaults my nose. Ain't worth it if it ain't fresh.”

Castiel nodded, and occupied himself peeling an orange. The scent was lovely. “So you remember the flood?”

“Well, I might be exaggerating a tad bit. I can honestly say I knew people who knew people who remembered this place as it was, just a stretch of dry land.”

“So, what happened.”

“Well now. They say it was the Enemy. But you ask me, it wasn’t the crawly-bugs: we brought it on ourselves. Nothing on this green earth dumb as a human.”

“But you're not a human,” Castiel pointed out, shoving an orange slice into his mouth.

“I was once. As were all of us.” Benny scraped his chair forward and put his thick forearms on the table. “Now, I gotta know, what do you know about the South?”

“Not much.”

“You ain't interested?”

“It hasn't been much of my concern.” He chewed orange pulp and mused about it. “There are the forts. The Seven. They protect us from the Enemy.”

“That's their stated purpose, yeah. But it's been my considered observation that they spend a decent amount of time fightin' amongst themselves.”

“I've occasionally caught wind rumors of internecine conflicts from sailors who've come ashore.”

“Ain't occasional. More like constant.”

“Isn't that against their code?”

“Code don't much matter when you're fifty miles from the nearest water hole that ain't poisoned.”

“I thank you for your interest, but it doesn't matter. I don't plan to stay long in the South.”

“Plans don't tend to last long in the desert. Now, I figure I owe you one, so I'm gonna give you some advice. I know you wanna look after your brothers, since you're an honorable guy. And it's good to have honor. But Metatron? Well, I've never had the pleasure, but I've heard tell of him, and he ain't such as you want for an enemy. Tricked out magic sword or not. You hear me, brother, you go where we take you, and you stay for a spell. There's not many I respect as far as I can throw their ass, not in the South, but these men, they're square. I can vouch for them.”

“On your honor as a vampirate.”

“On my honor as a vampirate.” Benny smiled through pointed teeth. “You sit tight for a spell, and I'll check around for your brothers. And there's a promise.”

A sailor entered, and Benny nodded at him. “We’re in sight,” he told Castiel.

The port, as it happened, was no port at all, but just a stretch of barren coastline, as far as Castiel could tell, absolutely identical to the other barren stretches of coastline along the South.

There wasn't even a dock, so, after bidding him farewell, and making him promise once again to craft the captain a sword, Benny sent Castiel off to be ferried to shore in a small rowboat. They cast him and his small bag of belongings on land with strict instructions to stay put. “Now, don’t go looking around for a bug’s hoard. You don't know whose territory you'll be wandering into, and besides, you'll definitely get lost.”

And then they rowed off, paddles slapping the water. Castiel, knowing not what else to do, waved goodbye.

The rowboat returned to the ship, soon weighed anchor, and then the Lovely Andrea set sail, silently retreating into the distance. Castiel watched until it became a speck on the horizon, and then, having nothing else to do, he watched some more.

The sun slanted low on the horizon. Castiel fished a jacket out of his bag and shrugged it on, rubbing his arms with the chill. And then he pulled out one of the oranges Benny had given him and started to peel it, more for something to do with his hands than any hunger. The food wouldn't last long if, as he feared, he had been abandoned here. They had also given him a canteen of fresh water, but he didn't like his odds walking in the sun.

He may have dozed, sitting there, coat wrapped around him, because when he looked up, it was like waking from a dream. A very tall figure now stood over him: big as a doorway, if there had actually been a door anywhere in sight.

Castiel was on his feet, clutching his sword, but the figure made no move towards his own weaponry: Cas could see he carried a rather ridiculously large rifle or shotgun on the back of his pack. Instead, after a pause, he unwrapped the dark headscarf that was hiding his face, and smiled with what looked to be genuine warmth.

“You're the De Angelus guy?” he asked, extending a hand.

Castiel nodded nervously, tentatively extending his own hand. “Castiel.”

“Castiel? It's a pleasure. I'm Sam Winchester. Welcome to the South!”

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