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tikificTitle: No Direction Home (Blood on the Tracks, Chapter 1 of 7)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas; Sam, Crowley, Bobby, Gabriel
Warnings: Cursing, some violence, Dean being dickish, appetizing descriptions of Greek food.
Word Count: I dunno. Long-ass story. It was up over 30K last I checked.
Summary: Sam can't read a damn map; a mad scientist archangel is after Cas' grace; Crowley is going through a nasty demonic divorce; and the angel voices have all suddenly gone silent.
Notes: This is semi-post-Season 7 on the timeline, with the caveat that I’ve arbitrarily resurrected some characters just for the hell of it. Also: each chapter begins with a brief flashback that takes place prior to the main narrative. I have labeled these flashbacks, but you gotta pay attention, OK? Also, there's gonna be a Coda following Chapter 7.
A demon, a human, and an angel walk into a bar....
Unfortunately for all parties, this is not the beginning of a terrible joke.
Abduxuel couldn't remember a whole hell of lot about how he'd gotten there. Must have possessed some poor dickwad at some point. That was how it generally happened. But he wasn't sure why this fucking meat suit felt so tight. And clammy! He was burning up. He tugged at his collar.
It was growing dark, as evening came early here. He looked up at the neon sign, shining on the street like a grease-smeared orange beacon, so out of place in this bleak part of the world. There was one thing he knew for sure: he needed a damned drink. Ha! A drink would be damned, once it made its way down Adbuxuel's cursed gullet.
He opened the heavy wooden door and pushed his way inside. He noticed the stares as soon as he entered. Why was everybody still wrapped in their winter coats? It was so bloody hot in here. Stifling.
The bartender just nodded, and Abduxuel nodded back and pointed, and soon found himself with a shot of whiskey before him.
What he really wanted was a nice, frosty margarita, but he could tell it was not that kind of place.
He took a gulp. It burned his throat. It was OK. Not great, but OK.
He wished to express this sentiment to the bartender. Abduxuel cleared his stinging throat. “He will sit on his throne, in glory,” was what came out.
The bartender said something like, “What's that, buddy?”
“He will place the sheep to the right, and the goats to the left,” Abduxuel replied. He said it in Russian, of course, but that was still what he said.
The bartender gave a sort of “what the fuck?” expression. And there were now a couple of other fur-coated regulars crowding nearby.
“He will say to those on his left,” continued the demon, “depart from me. And, can I get another?” he finally managed at the end, though it came out a little strangled. He held out the glass to make the point, tugging again at his collar, the sweat now openly dripping from him.
“Uh, I think maybe you've had enough,” opined the bartender.
“I thirsted, and lo, you gave me nothing to drink!” grumbled Abduxuel, throwing money onto the bar.
“Look, buddy. Your money's no good here,” said the bartender, as a couple of the regulars drew nearer and tried to loom over the demon. They were bigger than Abduxuel's meatsuit, as if that even mattered.
"For those on the right, you will dwell with me forever, in kingdoms of glory."
“Why is he getting so red?” asked one of the patrons.
“For those on the left, you who are cursed with eternal fire!” warned Abduxuel. He tore his shirt open, revealing a purplish, sweating chest.
“I think you need to leave,” urged the bartender, as other hands started to grip Abduxuel. The demon effortlessly shook them off, humans scattering like leaves. There were screams, and some people started to run.
They would not, alas, get very far.
“I am the alpha and the omega. The first and the last. And that drink was fucking watered down!”
Abduxuel, who was now actually glowing a lurid heliotrope, whose hair was now giving off a slight but visible steam, hefted his empty shot glass high and then slammed it down on the counter.
The explosion was visible from as far away as Alaska, where the weird purplish lambency was mistaken, by some, for northern lights.
The present day....
“Right or left?”
Sam looked glumly at Dean, the mad pilot behind the wheel of the Impala. Yeah, he thought, his mind now speaking to him in his brother's voice, shut your cakehole and bark out directions. Even though it was, you know, contradictory.
“Sammy, do we turn right or left?”
Sam made his reply, but because he (intentionally) did not raise his voice, his response was buried beneath the musical stylings of Metallica.
So Dean steered left. The Impala, obviously, would not be held back by the infernal wimp-itude of a certain brother/navigator. The car, and Sam, veered left with Dean's whim. One of them let out a long sigh.
“What?” snapped Dean, finally jamming down the volume on the car stereo. Dude needs eight tracks, thought Sam.
“Dude,” said Sam, who was now noodling with his cell phone. At least one of the Winchesters had bid goodbye to the twentieth century. “It would help if you’d ask me more than five seconds before you make the turn.”
“Have you got it figured out or what?” Dean persisted.
Sam held up the phone. “It’s saying no service out here.”
“Let me see that!” demanded Dean, who grabbed the phone from his brother and started madly thumbing it while he was driving.
“Dean. The map application won’t work when there’s no service. Watch it!” warned Sam, suddenly fearing impending death.
Dean maneuvered the car around a turn without taking his eyes from Sam's phone. Disgusted with modern technology, Dean lobbed it back at his brother. “Try the map,” he grumbled.
“What map?”
“In the map compartment!”
“What, the glove compartment?”
“Who keeps gloves in there? That's a dumb name.”
Sam pulled out a map as Dean squealed through another fork in the road, choosing the direction, seemingly, with a mental coin flip. “Should we pull over until we figure it out?” asked Sam, who of course knew the answer. “We might be headed off in the wrong direction. “ This was true. The area was wooded and hilly, and it would have been awfully easy to get lost. Which was where they were rapidly heading with their possibly demon-possessed driver. Sam cast a glance at Dean, expecting his eyes to go black at any second.
“Fuck pulling over, the car does not stop. We got a faceless demon to catch, dude! Now, read the damn map, Sammy!”
“I don't even know how to unfold these fucking things!” whined Sam, now faced with the sickening prospect of ancient Auto Club treeware. “And Dean, if you keep making turns like this before we can tell where we are,” he protested as Dean steered off on yet another switchback, “you'll get us so lost I won't be able to figure it out!”
“You're not doing a great job now!”
“Can you just- Can you pull over for a sec?” demanded Sam.
“THE CAR DOES NOT-” began Dean, who thereupon laid on the brakes with all of his might. The car squealed to a halt a mere inches before an orange barrier propped across the middle of the road.
“Who puts a fucking barrier in the middle of the road?” howled Dean.
“Uh. Maybe the guy who wanted to warn you the bridge ahead is fucked?” proposed Sam, who popped out and pointed ahead at the washed out river crossing. He leaned against the car and opened the map, which unfolded like a crazy paper accordion. “I'll never get this crappy thing folded back together,” he grumbled.
“Where the fuck are we, Sammy?” asked Dean, now himself spilling out of the car. “We're pulled over now! Like you wanted!”
“I can't tell,” said Sam, who rotated the map 90 degrees, and then another 90 degrees. And then he flipped it upside down. Alas, the lines and images on the map appeared to have no resemblance to physical reality.
“Just look for the washed out bridge,” grunted Dean.
“There is no bridge on this map, washed out or otherwise."
Dean was about to tear the map away from his little brother when he and Sam heard the familiar soft sound of beating wings.
“Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam. Bobby sent me to look for your two.”
“AT LAST! Someone who can tell us where we are,” Sam told their trench coat-clad friend.
“I know exactly where we are!” protested Dean.
“Oh yeah?” asked Sam, pointing to the acres of map he had spread across the Impala's hardtop. “Then where are we?”
Castiel looked quietly between the brothers. “Are you two currently engaged in a quarrel of some kind?” he inquired.
“NO!” chorused Dean and Sam.
“You’re fighting, aren’t you?” sighed Castiel, a look of infinite disappointment spreading across his angelic features.
“Never mind, Cas!” said Dean. “Where are we?”
Cas narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward, his face inches from Dean’s, peering with concern into his human friend’s face. “You’re right here Dean,” he comforted.
Dean stared back at Cas for a long moment. “OK!” said Dean, throwing up his hands. “That’s enough!” He abruptly turned and stalked off over to the back of the car, where he wrenched up the trunk and started grubbing around.
“Um. Sam. What is your brother doing?” Castiel whispered.
“No. Fucking. Idea. Dean, what the fuck? I thought we were late for a very important date? You know, demons don't slay themselves? Unless they're really stupid, I guess.”
Dean did not reply, but came back with a roll of duct tape. He crouched down in front of Castiel and, with a ratcheting sound, peeled off a line of tape and stuck it down on the dusty asphalt in front of the puzzled angel’s shoes.
“Dean, um, may I ask what the tape is for?” asked Castiel.
“One minute,” said Dean. “Now, you stay there and do not move!” he ordered Castiel. He then paced off three steps down the road and laid down another line of tape, which he then stood behind. “OK, now, Cas, that’s your mark. You remain behind that mark, and say what you just said.”
“Uh. ‘May I ask what the tape is for?’” repeated Castiel, looking confused at Sam, who shrugged.
“No, no, what you said before that!” said Dean.
Castiel frowned. “’Hello, Dean?’”
“No, no, no! After that, but before what you just said!”
Cas looked at Sam again, and then tried. “Uh. ‘We are right here, Dean?’”
“Yes, exactly! Did you see that?” said Dean, who was glowing in triumph.
“Uh, what did we see, Dean?” asked Sam.
“Look,” said Dean, wandering back over to where Sam and Cas were standing. “It’s an appropriate personal space distance! I’m over there, and Cas is over there, and guess what? I can still listen! And understand! Without you standing so fucking close I can count your nose hairs.”
Castiel self-consciously put a hand to his nose. “Why wo’d you wan’ to do dat?”
“You don't need to be up my ass to communicate!” continued Dean, now leaning in so close his nose was inches from Castiel's, and his spittle actually fell to the angels stubble-covered chin.
"Dean, how would I be able to count nose hairs if...."
"I am capable of comprehension over a distance!” said Dean, who was leaning in even more.
“Uh, Dean,” said Castiel, staring cross-eyed at looming Dean Winchester.
“What?”
“Shouldn't you be behind your mark?” asked the angel, pointing behind Dean to his sadly abandoned duct tape mark some distance up the road.
That was all it took to send Sam into a giggle fit. “On your mark, Dean,” he taunted.
“Come on!” yelled Dean, now finally snatching the paper map from Sam. “Cas, can you at least tell me where we are on the map?” he demanded.
“Well, I could-” began Cas. But then he did something really odd, even for him. He froze, his eyes focused on the middle distance. His face a mask of confusion, he slowly turned all the way around, a full 360 degrees, as if searching for something.
“Oh what the fuck is it now? Imaginary bees again?” asked Dean. “Tell me it’s not the invisible bees!”
“The angel voices,” said Castiel quietly.
“What about 'em, Cas?” asked Sam. Their angel appeared concerned.
“No matter where we are, not matter what we are doing, we can ever hear our brothers and sisters, as they converse in Enochian,” Castiel told Sam.
“You’re missing angel gossip? OK,” said Dean. “Kristen Stewart cheated on Robert Pattison.”
“Oh, that is terrible. He must be heartbroken,” said Cas sympathetically.
“What happened to the angels, Cas?” prompted Sam.
“I do not know, Sam. They just stopped,” said Castiel. “Every voice, suddenly silenced.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. “You're telling us there's a great disturbance in the force?” asked Dean.
Cas opened his mouth. “I-“
“OK, OK, don't say it,” said Dean.
“Actually, I do understand the reference," Cas told him. "Sam showed me the movie you speak of.”
“What?” asked Dean, rounding on Sam. “You showed him Star Wars? When?”
“When you were with that cocktail waitress,” sighed Sam.
“Oh!” said Dean. “The one with the nice...?” he asked, sliding his hands through some splendid curves.
“Yeah, that one,” sighed Sam. “Anyway, Cas came looking for you, and the trilogy was on Spike.”
“I find the work had a surprising amount of spiritual content. Also, lightsabers are quite cool,” opined Castiel, who mimed whacking something with a laser sword.
“Wait, you guys hang out without me?” asked Dean.
Castiel and Sam looked at one another in confusion.
“Well, to be perfectly blunt, you were out screwing a waitress, Dean,” said Sam, while Cas looked slightly embarrassed.
“But it’s Star Wars! I would have hung out,” pouted Dean.
“OK, well, given we ever get out of this mess, next time the trilogy is on, we'll get popcorn and hang out,” said Sam, his voice now straining with exasperation.
“Oh, yeah, we gotta get the fuck out of here. Hey, Cas, since you're here, could you just use your Jedi thing and zap us out?” asked Dean.
“I do not think that Jedi evinced the power of teleportation, Dean. Perhaps you need a closer reading of the trilogy. However, no, I cannot zap us out.”
“Wait, why not?” asked Dean,
“I- I am afraid the cessation of the angel voices has interfered with my sense of location,” Castiel confessed.
“You use the angel voices to tell where you are?” asked Sam.
“Yes. It is a way of placing one’s self,” said Cas, who nodded.
“So you're a bat!” said Dean.
Castiel suddenly scowled, his eyes two blue lasers pointed at Dean. “I am an angel of the Lord. I am absolutely nothing like a bat!”
“No, dude, you're Batman!” laughed Dean.
Castiel's glower deepened, and Sam, sensing an oncoming storm, jumped between them. “OK, Dean? Offensive, dude.”
“What's offensive?” asked Dean.
“So you can't just zap us out of here,” Sam asked Castiel.
“No,” said Castiel. "I cannot just zap you out of here."
“What do you usually do when the angels all decide to shut their pieholes?” asked Dean.
“This has never happened before,” said Castiel, concern washing over his features. “I fear something terrible has happened.”
“Wait, this is serious then?” asked Dean.
“Yes, Dean. It could be terribly serious,” said Castiel.
“Well why didn't you tell us that?” asked Dean.
“I believe I just did,” sighed Castiel, his angelic patience nearly exhausted.
“No, you didn't. Look, dude, this angel nonchalance is not doing it. If it's upsetting, you need to, you know, react,” said Dean, who was suddenly frantically waving his arms. “Like this!”
Castiel stared at Dean. “This is a demonstration of a human reaction to danger?” he asked Sam.
“Uh, no, actually, Dean's being a dick,” Sam told him.
“Well,” said Castiel. “Why don't you two simply enter the car, turn around and retrace your steps to the place where you got lost?”
“Not possible, thanks to Mr. 'Car does not stop,'” grumbled Sam.
“Well, we might as well get in try to find our way out,” said Dean, heading around to the other side of the car and opening the driver's side door.
“Wait, I gotta fold up this piece of shit,” said Sam, wrestling with the map that seemed to have unfolded to roughly the size of Nebraska.
“Allow me, Sam,” said Cas, who grabbed the map and shook it once. It magically refolded. He smiled a smile of angelic smugness.
“Whoa, hey, cool!” said Sam.
“Oh, yeah, Cas. You can't get us out of here, but thank god your map folding abilities are unaffected!” grumbled Dean.
Castiel's look turned dark again. “Dean,” he said, waving the map in an accusatory manner. He took a very deep breath as if steeling himself for something. “I came here today because Bobby requested me to do so. He was concerned that you two had gotten yourselves in trouble. Again! In return, you have criticized my understanding of personal space issues, my expression of emotion, the fact that I sometimes socialize with your brother and … and … you have compared me to a bat!”
Dean stared for a moment, one arm resting on the Impala's top. “You really don't like the bat thing, huh?”
“No I really don't like the bat thing!” said Castiel, who actually threw his arms up in frustration. It looked to Sam rather amusingly similar to Dean's previous demonstration of “emotion.” But, Sam wisely shut his piehole, and instead sympathetically patted Castiel's back.
“Well, OK,” said Dean, who was smart enough to recognize a “this chick’s about to blow” outburst, but was more than a little weirded out hearing that kind of thing from Cas. “I guess it's been kind of a shitty day, and I'm frustrated. But, I'm sorry I said all that stuff.”
Castiel nodded, but continued to scowl.
“And, you're not anything like a bat,” Dean continued. “You're like, um, a bee?”
“Bees are admirable,” said Castiel. Dean smiled in triumph. But then he emitted a cry and crashed to the ground.
Sam was around the car in an instant, and Cas literally leapt over it, holding a sword and yelling at something Sam couldn't see.
“Off him! Now!” shouted Cas, waving the sword.
Sam was on his knees, wresting his brother up from the ground. “Are you OK?”
“Something tried … to lick me,” said Dean. He looked at the front of his shirt, which was wet.
“Hellhound,” said Castiel, who was holding out his angel sword at the invisible something.
“Oh holy fuck!” said Dean. He looked at his shirt again. “This is dog drool? Ewwww!”
Suddenly, there was a piercing whistle, and with the sound of thumping paws, Castiel appeared to watch the beast run off.
“Growly! Good boy! That's Daddy's good boy!” came a familiar voice.
“What do you think you're doing, Crowley?” called Castiel, still holding his sword, as the demon emerged from the woods, patting a very, very large invisible dog.
“Well, nice to see you too, Castiel,” sighed Crowley. “And here we came all the way out here to rescue you boys!”
“Rescue us from what?” asked Dean, sadly regarding his icky shirt as Sam helped him to his feet. “Clean laundry?”
“Unless I miss my guess, which I rarely do,” said Crowley, “Hansel and Great-Bigel and Feather-Fill forgot to leave a trail of breadcrumbs when you left grandmother's house this morning?”
“I thought your grandmother had passed away,” Castiel asked Sam and Dean.
Crowley sighed. “The angel voices?” he asked Castiel. “Radio Free Enochian? Off the air? Poof!” he added, his hands miming and explosion.
Castiel studied Crowley. “Yes, something has happened with the angel voices.”
“What do you know about this, Crowley?” asked Sam.
“And angel-boy can't get it up to transport you gentlemen without his bat signal, correct?” Crowley asked Sam and Dean.
“WHAT?” said Castiel, aiming his angelic glare of vengeance now at the demon.
“Well, it is the logical analogy, dude,” said Dean.
“Gentlemen, as difficult as it may be to believe, I did not arrive here strictly through the badness of my cold, cold heart. We may have a mutually agreeable business situation,” said Crowley. “I would like to discuss matters. Er, somewhere we might not be overheard.”
“Somewhere, meaning...?” asked Dean.
“My evil lair, of course!” said Crowley.
“You are warded against angels, Crowley,” Castiel reminded him, giving the demon a cold, cold stare.
“I was. Due to pressing present circumstances, I have had a couple of fork-tailed minions running around all morning with a can of magical paint remover and a rag.” He sighed as Cas continued to glower. “Oh for Chuck's sakes, you can all hold hands like we're going on a kindergarten trip if you wish to!”
“Cas,” said Sam quietly, putting a hand on the angel's arm. “I think maybe we should hear what he's got to say.”
“What about the car?” asked Dean.
“I will bring the damned car! Though it may strain my back!” promised Crowley, putting a hand to the small of his back. “Remind me to schedule a massage when I get back. We always have happy endings at Casa de Crowley. Anyone care to join?” he asked, standing a bit too close to Sam.
“Uh. Ew, Crowley,” said Sam. Dean smiled and shrugged, getting a scowl from Sam this time.
Cas made an “I'm watching you,” gesture at Crowley, who rolled his eyes and said, “All rightie, Bam!”
And then, wherever they were, they were there no more.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas; Sam, Crowley, Bobby, Gabriel
Warnings: Cursing, some violence, Dean being dickish, appetizing descriptions of Greek food.
Word Count: I dunno. Long-ass story. It was up over 30K last I checked.
Summary: Sam can't read a damn map; a mad scientist archangel is after Cas' grace; Crowley is going through a nasty demonic divorce; and the angel voices have all suddenly gone silent.
Notes: This is semi-post-Season 7 on the timeline, with the caveat that I’ve arbitrarily resurrected some characters just for the hell of it. Also: each chapter begins with a brief flashback that takes place prior to the main narrative. I have labeled these flashbacks, but you gotta pay attention, OK? Also, there's gonna be a Coda following Chapter 7.
A demon, a human, and an angel walk into a bar....
Unfortunately for all parties, this is not the beginning of a terrible joke.
Abduxuel couldn't remember a whole hell of lot about how he'd gotten there. Must have possessed some poor dickwad at some point. That was how it generally happened. But he wasn't sure why this fucking meat suit felt so tight. And clammy! He was burning up. He tugged at his collar.
It was growing dark, as evening came early here. He looked up at the neon sign, shining on the street like a grease-smeared orange beacon, so out of place in this bleak part of the world. There was one thing he knew for sure: he needed a damned drink. Ha! A drink would be damned, once it made its way down Adbuxuel's cursed gullet.
He opened the heavy wooden door and pushed his way inside. He noticed the stares as soon as he entered. Why was everybody still wrapped in their winter coats? It was so bloody hot in here. Stifling.
The bartender just nodded, and Abduxuel nodded back and pointed, and soon found himself with a shot of whiskey before him.
What he really wanted was a nice, frosty margarita, but he could tell it was not that kind of place.
He took a gulp. It burned his throat. It was OK. Not great, but OK.
He wished to express this sentiment to the bartender. Abduxuel cleared his stinging throat. “He will sit on his throne, in glory,” was what came out.
The bartender said something like, “What's that, buddy?”
“He will place the sheep to the right, and the goats to the left,” Abduxuel replied. He said it in Russian, of course, but that was still what he said.
The bartender gave a sort of “what the fuck?” expression. And there were now a couple of other fur-coated regulars crowding nearby.
“He will say to those on his left,” continued the demon, “depart from me. And, can I get another?” he finally managed at the end, though it came out a little strangled. He held out the glass to make the point, tugging again at his collar, the sweat now openly dripping from him.
“Uh, I think maybe you've had enough,” opined the bartender.
“I thirsted, and lo, you gave me nothing to drink!” grumbled Abduxuel, throwing money onto the bar.
“Look, buddy. Your money's no good here,” said the bartender, as a couple of the regulars drew nearer and tried to loom over the demon. They were bigger than Abduxuel's meatsuit, as if that even mattered.
"For those on the right, you will dwell with me forever, in kingdoms of glory."
“Why is he getting so red?” asked one of the patrons.
“For those on the left, you who are cursed with eternal fire!” warned Abduxuel. He tore his shirt open, revealing a purplish, sweating chest.
“I think you need to leave,” urged the bartender, as other hands started to grip Abduxuel. The demon effortlessly shook them off, humans scattering like leaves. There were screams, and some people started to run.
They would not, alas, get very far.
“I am the alpha and the omega. The first and the last. And that drink was fucking watered down!”
Abduxuel, who was now actually glowing a lurid heliotrope, whose hair was now giving off a slight but visible steam, hefted his empty shot glass high and then slammed it down on the counter.
The explosion was visible from as far away as Alaska, where the weird purplish lambency was mistaken, by some, for northern lights.
The present day....
“Right or left?”
Sam looked glumly at Dean, the mad pilot behind the wheel of the Impala. Yeah, he thought, his mind now speaking to him in his brother's voice, shut your cakehole and bark out directions. Even though it was, you know, contradictory.
“Sammy, do we turn right or left?”
Sam made his reply, but because he (intentionally) did not raise his voice, his response was buried beneath the musical stylings of Metallica.
So Dean steered left. The Impala, obviously, would not be held back by the infernal wimp-itude of a certain brother/navigator. The car, and Sam, veered left with Dean's whim. One of them let out a long sigh.
“What?” snapped Dean, finally jamming down the volume on the car stereo. Dude needs eight tracks, thought Sam.
“Dude,” said Sam, who was now noodling with his cell phone. At least one of the Winchesters had bid goodbye to the twentieth century. “It would help if you’d ask me more than five seconds before you make the turn.”
“Have you got it figured out or what?” Dean persisted.
Sam held up the phone. “It’s saying no service out here.”
“Let me see that!” demanded Dean, who grabbed the phone from his brother and started madly thumbing it while he was driving.
“Dean. The map application won’t work when there’s no service. Watch it!” warned Sam, suddenly fearing impending death.
Dean maneuvered the car around a turn without taking his eyes from Sam's phone. Disgusted with modern technology, Dean lobbed it back at his brother. “Try the map,” he grumbled.
“What map?”
“In the map compartment!”
“What, the glove compartment?”
“Who keeps gloves in there? That's a dumb name.”
Sam pulled out a map as Dean squealed through another fork in the road, choosing the direction, seemingly, with a mental coin flip. “Should we pull over until we figure it out?” asked Sam, who of course knew the answer. “We might be headed off in the wrong direction. “ This was true. The area was wooded and hilly, and it would have been awfully easy to get lost. Which was where they were rapidly heading with their possibly demon-possessed driver. Sam cast a glance at Dean, expecting his eyes to go black at any second.
“Fuck pulling over, the car does not stop. We got a faceless demon to catch, dude! Now, read the damn map, Sammy!”
“I don't even know how to unfold these fucking things!” whined Sam, now faced with the sickening prospect of ancient Auto Club treeware. “And Dean, if you keep making turns like this before we can tell where we are,” he protested as Dean steered off on yet another switchback, “you'll get us so lost I won't be able to figure it out!”
“You're not doing a great job now!”
“Can you just- Can you pull over for a sec?” demanded Sam.
“THE CAR DOES NOT-” began Dean, who thereupon laid on the brakes with all of his might. The car squealed to a halt a mere inches before an orange barrier propped across the middle of the road.
“Who puts a fucking barrier in the middle of the road?” howled Dean.
“Uh. Maybe the guy who wanted to warn you the bridge ahead is fucked?” proposed Sam, who popped out and pointed ahead at the washed out river crossing. He leaned against the car and opened the map, which unfolded like a crazy paper accordion. “I'll never get this crappy thing folded back together,” he grumbled.
“Where the fuck are we, Sammy?” asked Dean, now himself spilling out of the car. “We're pulled over now! Like you wanted!”
“I can't tell,” said Sam, who rotated the map 90 degrees, and then another 90 degrees. And then he flipped it upside down. Alas, the lines and images on the map appeared to have no resemblance to physical reality.
“Just look for the washed out bridge,” grunted Dean.
“There is no bridge on this map, washed out or otherwise."
Dean was about to tear the map away from his little brother when he and Sam heard the familiar soft sound of beating wings.
“Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam. Bobby sent me to look for your two.”
“AT LAST! Someone who can tell us where we are,” Sam told their trench coat-clad friend.
“I know exactly where we are!” protested Dean.
“Oh yeah?” asked Sam, pointing to the acres of map he had spread across the Impala's hardtop. “Then where are we?”
Castiel looked quietly between the brothers. “Are you two currently engaged in a quarrel of some kind?” he inquired.
“NO!” chorused Dean and Sam.
“You’re fighting, aren’t you?” sighed Castiel, a look of infinite disappointment spreading across his angelic features.
“Never mind, Cas!” said Dean. “Where are we?”
Cas narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward, his face inches from Dean’s, peering with concern into his human friend’s face. “You’re right here Dean,” he comforted.
Dean stared back at Cas for a long moment. “OK!” said Dean, throwing up his hands. “That’s enough!” He abruptly turned and stalked off over to the back of the car, where he wrenched up the trunk and started grubbing around.
“Um. Sam. What is your brother doing?” Castiel whispered.
“No. Fucking. Idea. Dean, what the fuck? I thought we were late for a very important date? You know, demons don't slay themselves? Unless they're really stupid, I guess.”
Dean did not reply, but came back with a roll of duct tape. He crouched down in front of Castiel and, with a ratcheting sound, peeled off a line of tape and stuck it down on the dusty asphalt in front of the puzzled angel’s shoes.
“Dean, um, may I ask what the tape is for?” asked Castiel.
“One minute,” said Dean. “Now, you stay there and do not move!” he ordered Castiel. He then paced off three steps down the road and laid down another line of tape, which he then stood behind. “OK, now, Cas, that’s your mark. You remain behind that mark, and say what you just said.”
“Uh. ‘May I ask what the tape is for?’” repeated Castiel, looking confused at Sam, who shrugged.
“No, no, what you said before that!” said Dean.
Castiel frowned. “’Hello, Dean?’”
“No, no, no! After that, but before what you just said!”
Cas looked at Sam again, and then tried. “Uh. ‘We are right here, Dean?’”
“Yes, exactly! Did you see that?” said Dean, who was glowing in triumph.
“Uh, what did we see, Dean?” asked Sam.
“Look,” said Dean, wandering back over to where Sam and Cas were standing. “It’s an appropriate personal space distance! I’m over there, and Cas is over there, and guess what? I can still listen! And understand! Without you standing so fucking close I can count your nose hairs.”
Castiel self-consciously put a hand to his nose. “Why wo’d you wan’ to do dat?”
“You don't need to be up my ass to communicate!” continued Dean, now leaning in so close his nose was inches from Castiel's, and his spittle actually fell to the angels stubble-covered chin.
"Dean, how would I be able to count nose hairs if...."
"I am capable of comprehension over a distance!” said Dean, who was leaning in even more.
“Uh, Dean,” said Castiel, staring cross-eyed at looming Dean Winchester.
“What?”
“Shouldn't you be behind your mark?” asked the angel, pointing behind Dean to his sadly abandoned duct tape mark some distance up the road.
That was all it took to send Sam into a giggle fit. “On your mark, Dean,” he taunted.
“Come on!” yelled Dean, now finally snatching the paper map from Sam. “Cas, can you at least tell me where we are on the map?” he demanded.
“Well, I could-” began Cas. But then he did something really odd, even for him. He froze, his eyes focused on the middle distance. His face a mask of confusion, he slowly turned all the way around, a full 360 degrees, as if searching for something.
“Oh what the fuck is it now? Imaginary bees again?” asked Dean. “Tell me it’s not the invisible bees!”
“The angel voices,” said Castiel quietly.
“What about 'em, Cas?” asked Sam. Their angel appeared concerned.
“No matter where we are, not matter what we are doing, we can ever hear our brothers and sisters, as they converse in Enochian,” Castiel told Sam.
“You’re missing angel gossip? OK,” said Dean. “Kristen Stewart cheated on Robert Pattison.”
“Oh, that is terrible. He must be heartbroken,” said Cas sympathetically.
“What happened to the angels, Cas?” prompted Sam.
“I do not know, Sam. They just stopped,” said Castiel. “Every voice, suddenly silenced.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. “You're telling us there's a great disturbance in the force?” asked Dean.
Cas opened his mouth. “I-“
“OK, OK, don't say it,” said Dean.
“Actually, I do understand the reference," Cas told him. "Sam showed me the movie you speak of.”
“What?” asked Dean, rounding on Sam. “You showed him Star Wars? When?”
“When you were with that cocktail waitress,” sighed Sam.
“Oh!” said Dean. “The one with the nice...?” he asked, sliding his hands through some splendid curves.
“Yeah, that one,” sighed Sam. “Anyway, Cas came looking for you, and the trilogy was on Spike.”
“I find the work had a surprising amount of spiritual content. Also, lightsabers are quite cool,” opined Castiel, who mimed whacking something with a laser sword.
“Wait, you guys hang out without me?” asked Dean.
Castiel and Sam looked at one another in confusion.
“Well, to be perfectly blunt, you were out screwing a waitress, Dean,” said Sam, while Cas looked slightly embarrassed.
“But it’s Star Wars! I would have hung out,” pouted Dean.
“OK, well, given we ever get out of this mess, next time the trilogy is on, we'll get popcorn and hang out,” said Sam, his voice now straining with exasperation.
“Oh, yeah, we gotta get the fuck out of here. Hey, Cas, since you're here, could you just use your Jedi thing and zap us out?” asked Dean.
“I do not think that Jedi evinced the power of teleportation, Dean. Perhaps you need a closer reading of the trilogy. However, no, I cannot zap us out.”
“Wait, why not?” asked Dean,
“I- I am afraid the cessation of the angel voices has interfered with my sense of location,” Castiel confessed.
“You use the angel voices to tell where you are?” asked Sam.
“Yes. It is a way of placing one’s self,” said Cas, who nodded.
“So you're a bat!” said Dean.
Castiel suddenly scowled, his eyes two blue lasers pointed at Dean. “I am an angel of the Lord. I am absolutely nothing like a bat!”
“No, dude, you're Batman!” laughed Dean.
Castiel's glower deepened, and Sam, sensing an oncoming storm, jumped between them. “OK, Dean? Offensive, dude.”
“What's offensive?” asked Dean.
“So you can't just zap us out of here,” Sam asked Castiel.
“No,” said Castiel. "I cannot just zap you out of here."
“What do you usually do when the angels all decide to shut their pieholes?” asked Dean.
“This has never happened before,” said Castiel, concern washing over his features. “I fear something terrible has happened.”
“Wait, this is serious then?” asked Dean.
“Yes, Dean. It could be terribly serious,” said Castiel.
“Well why didn't you tell us that?” asked Dean.
“I believe I just did,” sighed Castiel, his angelic patience nearly exhausted.
“No, you didn't. Look, dude, this angel nonchalance is not doing it. If it's upsetting, you need to, you know, react,” said Dean, who was suddenly frantically waving his arms. “Like this!”
Castiel stared at Dean. “This is a demonstration of a human reaction to danger?” he asked Sam.
“Uh, no, actually, Dean's being a dick,” Sam told him.
“Well,” said Castiel. “Why don't you two simply enter the car, turn around and retrace your steps to the place where you got lost?”
“Not possible, thanks to Mr. 'Car does not stop,'” grumbled Sam.
“Well, we might as well get in try to find our way out,” said Dean, heading around to the other side of the car and opening the driver's side door.
“Wait, I gotta fold up this piece of shit,” said Sam, wrestling with the map that seemed to have unfolded to roughly the size of Nebraska.
“Allow me, Sam,” said Cas, who grabbed the map and shook it once. It magically refolded. He smiled a smile of angelic smugness.
“Whoa, hey, cool!” said Sam.
“Oh, yeah, Cas. You can't get us out of here, but thank god your map folding abilities are unaffected!” grumbled Dean.
Castiel's look turned dark again. “Dean,” he said, waving the map in an accusatory manner. He took a very deep breath as if steeling himself for something. “I came here today because Bobby requested me to do so. He was concerned that you two had gotten yourselves in trouble. Again! In return, you have criticized my understanding of personal space issues, my expression of emotion, the fact that I sometimes socialize with your brother and … and … you have compared me to a bat!”
Dean stared for a moment, one arm resting on the Impala's top. “You really don't like the bat thing, huh?”
“No I really don't like the bat thing!” said Castiel, who actually threw his arms up in frustration. It looked to Sam rather amusingly similar to Dean's previous demonstration of “emotion.” But, Sam wisely shut his piehole, and instead sympathetically patted Castiel's back.
“Well, OK,” said Dean, who was smart enough to recognize a “this chick’s about to blow” outburst, but was more than a little weirded out hearing that kind of thing from Cas. “I guess it's been kind of a shitty day, and I'm frustrated. But, I'm sorry I said all that stuff.”
Castiel nodded, but continued to scowl.
“And, you're not anything like a bat,” Dean continued. “You're like, um, a bee?”
“Bees are admirable,” said Castiel. Dean smiled in triumph. But then he emitted a cry and crashed to the ground.
Sam was around the car in an instant, and Cas literally leapt over it, holding a sword and yelling at something Sam couldn't see.
“Off him! Now!” shouted Cas, waving the sword.
Sam was on his knees, wresting his brother up from the ground. “Are you OK?”
“Something tried … to lick me,” said Dean. He looked at the front of his shirt, which was wet.
“Hellhound,” said Castiel, who was holding out his angel sword at the invisible something.
“Oh holy fuck!” said Dean. He looked at his shirt again. “This is dog drool? Ewwww!”
Suddenly, there was a piercing whistle, and with the sound of thumping paws, Castiel appeared to watch the beast run off.
“Growly! Good boy! That's Daddy's good boy!” came a familiar voice.
“What do you think you're doing, Crowley?” called Castiel, still holding his sword, as the demon emerged from the woods, patting a very, very large invisible dog.
“Well, nice to see you too, Castiel,” sighed Crowley. “And here we came all the way out here to rescue you boys!”
“Rescue us from what?” asked Dean, sadly regarding his icky shirt as Sam helped him to his feet. “Clean laundry?”
“Unless I miss my guess, which I rarely do,” said Crowley, “Hansel and Great-Bigel and Feather-Fill forgot to leave a trail of breadcrumbs when you left grandmother's house this morning?”
“I thought your grandmother had passed away,” Castiel asked Sam and Dean.
Crowley sighed. “The angel voices?” he asked Castiel. “Radio Free Enochian? Off the air? Poof!” he added, his hands miming and explosion.
Castiel studied Crowley. “Yes, something has happened with the angel voices.”
“What do you know about this, Crowley?” asked Sam.
“And angel-boy can't get it up to transport you gentlemen without his bat signal, correct?” Crowley asked Sam and Dean.
“WHAT?” said Castiel, aiming his angelic glare of vengeance now at the demon.
“Well, it is the logical analogy, dude,” said Dean.
“Gentlemen, as difficult as it may be to believe, I did not arrive here strictly through the badness of my cold, cold heart. We may have a mutually agreeable business situation,” said Crowley. “I would like to discuss matters. Er, somewhere we might not be overheard.”
“Somewhere, meaning...?” asked Dean.
“My evil lair, of course!” said Crowley.
“You are warded against angels, Crowley,” Castiel reminded him, giving the demon a cold, cold stare.
“I was. Due to pressing present circumstances, I have had a couple of fork-tailed minions running around all morning with a can of magical paint remover and a rag.” He sighed as Cas continued to glower. “Oh for Chuck's sakes, you can all hold hands like we're going on a kindergarten trip if you wish to!”
“Cas,” said Sam quietly, putting a hand on the angel's arm. “I think maybe we should hear what he's got to say.”
“What about the car?” asked Dean.
“I will bring the damned car! Though it may strain my back!” promised Crowley, putting a hand to the small of his back. “Remind me to schedule a massage when I get back. We always have happy endings at Casa de Crowley. Anyone care to join?” he asked, standing a bit too close to Sam.
“Uh. Ew, Crowley,” said Sam. Dean smiled and shrugged, getting a scowl from Sam this time.
Cas made an “I'm watching you,” gesture at Crowley, who rolled his eyes and said, “All rightie, Bam!”
And then, wherever they were, they were there no more.
