![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Shoot Out the Lights (Blood on the Tracks, Chapter 3 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: Somewhere between 36K and 37K, depending on which software program you believe.
Summary: Unicorns are annoying, as are mad scientist archangels. Demon strip clubs can ruin your appetite. And it’s good to have a plan, even a dumb one.
Notes: This is nowhere logical on the timeline: I make vague reference to stuff that happened in S7, but there’s also some folks alive who shouldn’t be. I’ve started each chapter with a flashback. They don’t make sense now, but they will, I promise. But if you wanna read something linear, this ain’t it. Drinking with Australians is fun: this isn’t relevant to anything, just an observation.
Some weeks ago....
“Goddammit!” said Sam. He sat down hard on the ground, not caring any more about the mud and muck, and wiped a grimy arm across his grimy forehead. “Fucking unicorns!” he bellowed. “Fuck you!”
“Hello, Sam.”
“Oh, not you, Cas,” said Sam after the angel had appeared to the soft sound of beating wings. “I don’t mean fuck you, I mean fuck the unicorns.”
Castiel looked puzzled. But he often looked puzzled. “Dean said you were having some trouble obtaining powdered unicorn horn,” he told Sam, head tilted, eyes blinking.
“Yeah. I have problem with getting powdered unicorn horn. It's the FUCKING UNICORNS!” said Sam. There was a distant thrum of hoof beats, and some neighing that sounded an awful lot like laughter. “Dean was supposed to come out and help.”
“There is no need. For I have an affinity for unicorns,” Castiel told him. He extended a hand, and Sam, albeit reluctantly, took it and let Cas raise him up from muddy perdition.
They walked together to the field, where, under the moonlight, two or three of the pale beasts congregated. The herded together, as if sharing a secret, and then looked, as one, at the two approaching beings.
“Here, allow me,” said Castiel. He raised a gentle hand, and strode towards the unicorns.
The horses emitted mocking whinnies and trotted away from him. Cas looked puzzled. But then he often looked puzzled. He repeated the gesture, to the same effect, except this time the beasts scattered.
Castiel frowned. “This usually works,” he muttered. “Oh, well.” He raised his hand again, and now walked towards the nearest unicorn. It seemed to stare at him until he got within an arm’s length.
The unicorn suddenly reared, knocking a surprised Cas back into the mud. And then it cantered away.
“That…. I don’t understand,” said Cas as Sam caught him under the armpits and dragged him back to standing.
Sam regarded his angelic friend. “Uh, Cas. You know what they say about unicorns? They like … virgins?”
Castiel turned to stare at Sam. “But….” He scowled, deep in thought for a moment. Sam saw many expressions fleet across his face, one after another. “I didn’t think that counted…” he finally muttered.
Sam smiled mildly at Castiel. “Dude. When this is over, if you wanna talk…?” Castiel tilted his head. “For now, let’s try to corral one, OK?”
Cas nodded, regarding the mud stains on his coat. “Fucking unicorns,” he sighed.
“Yeah. Fucking unicorns.”
The present day....
Dean was choking. He put a hand up to his throat, and felt his collar drawn tight against it. He blindly reached back. There was a hand gripped tightly to the back of his shirt.
"What the blazes?" asked Bobby, upon whose floor Sam, Dean, and Crowley had just appeared.
"That, my non-friend," said Crowley, who had just released his demonic grip on both Sam and Dean, "was utterly brilliant timing."
"What the hell happened to you boys?" asked Bobby. "I sent Cas after you, and you come back with Crowley instead? Can’t we keep our damn supernatural beings straight?"
"Cas!" shouted Dean, who had leapt to his feet. "We gotta get him! That Ragweed dude has him!"
"You two should consider yourself lucky I managed to escape with you," lectured Crowley. "I sensed this one's clumsy summons coming down the pike,” he added, pointing an accusing finger towards Bobby, who artfully ignored him.
"Ragweed? Cas has hay fever?" Bobby asked Dean. “That’s just what we need, a sneezing celestial being.”
"No, Bobby, someone named Raguel?" said Sam, who had recovered and picked himself up.
"Ain't he one of the angels? A higher up bugger?" asked Bobby.
"Sadly, I believe I know what this particular bugger is on about," said Crowley, who had risen to his feet and begun to dust himself off as well. "He- Oh for fuck's sake, Bobby!" he shouted, pointing upwards. "You've got me under one of your ridiculous traps?"
"Put me in a good mood, demon," warned Bobby, crossing his arms, "I'll let you out. But right now I am in a very, very bad mood."
“What’s going on?” asked Dean.
“Easier to show you,” said Bobby, who held up a strange conical flask.
“I that what I think it is?” asked Dean. The milky, glowing substance inside the flask looked familiar.
“Is that angel grace?" asked Sam, taking the flask from Bobby and turning it over in his hands
“That item is worth a pretty penny,” Crowley noted. “On the open market.”
"You in the market for this stuff, Crowley?” Bobby asked the demon suspiciously.
“If you're not part of the solution....” said Crowley, feigning great offense. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t deal in the hard stuff! But you lot probably don't want to know how many vials I've been offered of late.”
“They're killing angels and taking their grace?” asked Dean.
“You extract it from live angels, pet,” corrected Crowley. Dean swallowed hard. He remembered Anna saying the process was pretty painful. Agonizing. “Oh, fuck, Bobby!” he said, suddenly putting two and two together. “Ragweed – or whatever the fuck its name was – said he needed Cas for his grace.”
“Shit,” said Bobby. “So how the hell did you idjits bump into Raguel anyway?”
“That was my fault, as I was prepared to explain, before….” said Crowley, scowling and pointing accusingly upwards to the demon trap on Bobby’s ceiling.
“If anything happens to Cas, Crowley….” warned Dean.
“Yes, yes, yes, you’ll extract my beating heart with a rusty knife,” grumbled Crowley, who sat back down on Bobby’s floor. “Kindly quit overacting and let me explain. As I told you, I am involved in a sort of domestic squabble.”
“Domestic? You?” asked Bobby.
“Divorce,” supplied Sam.
“Ohhh,” said Bobby.
“Irrelevant details!” protested Crowley. “To cut, as they say, to the chase, the insufferable cunt has made off with what are rightfully our joint possessions. Your perky-assed hunter boys and their unshaven sidekick helped me obtain an ingredient vital to tracking down the vile whore’s ill-gotten gains. And indeed, when we encountered our celestial friend Raguel, he was clad in my priceless 1938 ‘Bride of the Demon’ laboratory coat!”
“Crowley,” said Sam. “Let me get this straight. You collect … movie costumes?”
“It is a part of cultural history! It was screen used! I matched it myself!” wailed Crowley. “I outbid Peter Jackson for it! I currently possess a rather decent stable of artifacts from that particular film. And now that great feathered lout is … is … wearing my coat around to clobber angels! It could get stained!”
“Yeah, lord help us all if Cas uses to blow his nose,” grumbled Bobby.
“Crowley,” asked Sam. “I don’t understand. Why the hell is the archangel Raguel wearing your horror movie lab coat?”
“Absolutely no fucking idea!” said Crowley. “As I have told you, my vile and foul ex-domestic partner has gotten her repulsive claws into some of my prized pieces.”
“Crowley,” said Bobby, “So, you used a conjuration to find Raguel? Or the coat?”
“My coat,” pouted Crowley. “The spell only found that ratty archangel as a side dish.”
“Would it work again?”
Down on the floor, Crowley sighed and gripped his own knees. “Even if I could reproduce it, it turns out to have a rather fatal flaw, in that Raguel could evidently use his angel trickery to trace us as well. I doubt he’ll hesitate to smite us if he sees us a second time. Your angels do like smiting things.”
“What should we do?” asked Dean. “Bobby! Cas might already be dead.”
“Might be better off that way,” muttered Crowley, “considering the alternative.”
Dean turned to the demon, breathing hard and staring him down for a moment. “Bobby,” he finally said. “I need a gallon of holy water. I wanna see how much this guy can guzzle.”
“Wait wait wait!” urged Crowley holding up his hands. “There might be another way. There is a magical object that could find my item.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you use that in the first place, instead of putting us through all the shit with the faceless demon?” asked Dean.
“Sadly, it has been … borrowed from me,” hedged Crowley.
“You got an annoying neighbor?” asked Bobby.
“It isn’t a lawn mowing device,” grumbled Crowley.
“Then, what is this thing?”
“And more importantly,” said Sam. “Where is it?”
“It is an enchanted compass,” said Crowley. “Really unique little item. But it’s been waylaid by … an old acquaintance.”
“You mean another guy who wants you dead?” asked Dean.
“More or less. Claims I owe him a debt. Wanker.” Crowley narrowed his eyes.
“Where, Crowley?” repeated Sam.
“Ah, my friends,” smiled Crowley, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “As to the where: have you never watched a police procedural, then?”
“I hate police procedurals,” muttered Dean.
“Well then, you wouldn’t know,” said Crowley. “It lies where investigations inevitably begin … in a strip club!”
Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean quite suddenly did not appear so wrathful as before.
Castiel lay on the cold metal table, contemplating his fate.
It was a sham, actually. Evidently, at some point during the time he was unconsciousness, he had been stripped of his human clothes and strapped to the table. But it was all cardboard and tissue paper. He could have easily broken free, even without his angelic powers, were he not being held down by the magic of an infinitely strong, half mad archangel.
Indeed, the room appeared to be some kind of cruel joke: like a movie set, it was only authentic-seeming from a certain, precise angle, but otherwise all quite visibly constructed of chicken wire and bare two by fours. Cas thought of his brother, Gabriel, regretting that he wouldn’t see it. He would have appreciated the dramatic flair.
Raguel, who seemed to have been occupying himself with nonsense, fussing with test tubes filled with sugar water and whatnot, finally turned to see Castiel. “Ah, so you have decided to join us, my unlucky brother!”
“Am I correct in that you intend to remove my grace by forcible means?” inquired Castiel.
“Yes! When the Son of Man sits on his throne, in his glory, we must separate the sheep from the goats. And you, unfortunately, are going down, with the sinners! Now is the time to plead, before you are cast into the fiery pit of eternal punishment.”
Castiel considered this. “Well, it is probably an appropriate fate for me,” he mused.
Raguel blinked. “Um. I’m sorry?” His eyes, like his wild hair, were grey, and seemed oddly unfocused.
“Considering my behavior, I think this consequence is meet,” Castiel told him. “I am fallen. And I have done many terrible things. The loss of my grace would seem justified.”
“So you accept the judgment of your holy Father?” said Raguel.
“I accept the fate. I do not accept that you are passing judgment. You are obviously mentally incompetent.”
“I judge the nations in His holy name!” growled Raguel. He was not only wearing an old-fashioned white medical tunic, but red rubber gloves that appeared a size too big for him.
“That's ridiculous,” scoffed Castiel. “No one has heard from our Father for years. You can hardly claim to speak for him, nor are you within your rights to take on his job. That was something important I learned, to my dismay.”
“Sinner! You are trying to tempt me.”
“It is probably true I have sinned, but I am just laying out the facts. Now, you say you are judging, but why use sets and artifacts from a twentieth century human cult movie? I recognize these objects from a film my human friend, Sam, showed me.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” bellowed Raguel.
“No, Satan is still in his cage. There was another person, a demon, running the underworld for a while, but he grew quickly tired of the job. And anyway, I am neither of those individuals.”
Castiel could hear Raguel breathing: heavy, measured breaths. Cas didn't suppose he would survive this. The extraction of grace was a high casualty process at best, and this fellow didn't look like he was terribly careful about it. He didn’t know a whole lot about this brother. Gabriel had always talked about him as if he were insane, which meant a lot, if Gabriel thought so. So reasoning with him was almost certainly out of the question. But Castiel thought, for reasons that were not quite clear even to himself, that he should not go to his final reward without lodging a protest.
He did not expect the archangel's face suddenly to be so close to his, breathing hard. His breath smelled distinctive. A spice. Castiel tried to recall what it was.
“This will hurt,” said Raguel. “Not a little. A lot.”
Castiel nodded. He had borne pain before. Angels rather liked torture. They were dicks, many of them.
Raguel drew his knife. One edge was serrated, and stained red.
And then Castiel's world was torn asunder.
“Damn! Bobby will be disappointed he didn't come along!” said Dean as the paused outside the Second Circle Gentlemen’s Club.
“Bobby is doing research,” sighed Sam.
“That's what we're here for!” grinned Crowley, slapping Sam on the back. Sam glared at the demon. Despite many reassurances, Bobby had been fairly damn reluctant to spring Crowley from the devil’s trap. Sam agreed with Bobby: it felt like Crowley was holding something back from them, but as yet, Sam wasn't quite sure what. Dean had been persuaded when Crowley, as a gesture of good faith, and despite constant bitching about his tricky back, magicked Dean’s beloved Impala back to Bobby’s wrecking yard. But Sam wasn't certain Dean was the best judge of character right now. Sam was pretty sure his brother was at least partially sublimating a growing sense of worry over Cas into a newborn enthusiasm for demon strip clubs.
But Sam couldn't tell Dean that. For one thing, he doubted Dean had even heard the word “sublimating” before.
The black-eyed doorman seemed reluctant to let them in, especially when it became apparent that Sam and Dean were nothing but a couple of humans. But Crowley chatted amiably and passed the hulking door guard several bills of some currency Sam didn't recognize: what country had pictures of Dick Cheney on their 66 dollar bills? In fact, what country had 66 dollar bills?
The inside of the club was about what Sam had expected from following Dean into a number of similar human establishments: smoky and too loud and smelling of something Sam didn't want to think about.
With one distinctive difference....
“Whoa!” said Dean, pointing to the girl who was currently defying gravity on one of the poles. “That stripper! She has four.....”
“You'd be surprised what she has two of,” grinned Crowley.
“It's like twins. In one girl....” muttered Dean.
“Dean!” scolded Sam.
“Well, as long as we’re here,” his brother protested.
“Dear,” Crowley asked a passing waitress, “Will you please tell the proprietor that Mr. Crowley is here to see him?”
“Is the owner your friend?” asked Sam as the demon girl sauntered off, her forked tail switching lazily in back of her. “The one with the compass?”
“My compass,” grumbled Crowley.
“How did he get it then?” asked Sam.
Crowley sighed. “During the interlude when I was overseeing hell, I had to make outlays for certain … capital improvements. So, I sought out external funding sources, you might say, investors, of a sort.”
“Uh. Are we talking loan sharks, Crowley?” asked Sam. “Demon loan sharks?”
“No, no, no, no, no, nothing of the sort!” fluttered Crowley. “Well, I mean. Something like that, but not much.” The demon waitress was signaling, so Crowley motioned to Sam and a fairly oblivious Dean to follow him into what looked like a back room. It was a lot quieter back here. And a lot darker.
Sam gasped as he was suddenly shoved up against a wall. A black-eyed demon thug held him, knife to his throat. He cast his eyes to the side and saw Dean and Crowley were in the same predicament.
“Crowley,” came a very, very deep voice. Sam looked around the demon thug’s knife arm, over to the center of the room where, sitting at the round poker table behind a mighty pile of chips was the biggest, baldest demon he had ever seen. He smoked a fat cigar, and had gold rings on his big, fat fingers.
“Uh. Fenriz,” said Crowley. “How pleasant to see you again.” His voice was strangled as a rather large demon had a blade pressed into his neck so hard it was drawing a bit of blood.
“Crowley, you bring humans into my bar?” tutted Fenriz. “You disrespect me!”
“There is a perfectly reasonable explanation,” said Crowley. “A friend of ours is in a bit of trouble, and we simply need use of my compass. For a time.”
“You mean my compass?” hissed Fenriz.
“Look, Fenriz, my old friend. These aren't just any humans! These are the Winchester brothers, the famous hunters.”
“They don't look famous to me,” snorted Fenriz, rubbing his head with his sausage-fingered hand.
“And these boys … love a game of chance.”
“Hmpf.” Fenriz didn't move very much, but might have nodded his head just a fraction, and suddenly, Dean, Sam and Crowley were released.
Sam's head spun. Games of chance? Did he mean gambling? Sam had never been much for poker, and he didn't see a pool table in here.
“A game? I like games,” rumbled Fenriz. He wore his human eyes, not his demon ones, but they were still blacker than black, two dots lost amid all that pink skin. “What about a little contest?”
“How about we see how loud these humans can squeal?” asked one of the demon henchmen, running a finger over his blade.
One of the other demons leaned over and whispered in Fenriz's ear. The giant demon sat back and laughed: a cold, malicious sound. “Yes, that would be amusing. You boys look hungry,” he said, casting his eyes between the brothers. “What about an eating contest?”
“Sure!” said Dean, who confidently barged up to the table and took an empty seat. “What do you got? I could use a burger,” he added, patting his stomach.
“Dean!” warned Sam, who somehow did not think burgers would be on the menu. Unless they were maggot-ridden. He already felt himself gagging at the memory.
“I have a specialty in mind,” said Fenriz, whose grin showed off a shiny gold tooth. “Lazlo!” As the poker players cleared away from the table, a large, red-haired demon took the chair opposite Dean, glaring at him. Someone buzzed in carrying two steaming, covered bowls on a tray. They sat one down in front of Dean, and another in front of Lazlo.
Sam sniffed. No, definitely not hamburgers. He wasn't even certain the dish was going to be from this world. “Oh, dear,” muttered Crowley.
“What is it?” whispered Sam.
“You don’t want to know.”
“The usual terms, Crowley,” said Fenriz. “Your boy wins, I'll loan you my compass. For a short period of time.”
“What if he loses?” pressed Sam.
“As I said before, you don't wanna know,” whispered Crowley.
“I won't lose,” said Dean, staring down Lazlo.
“Are you totally sure about this, Dean?” pleaded Sam, wondering if he was the only sane being left in the room.
“Let's get going,” his brother answered, leaning forward. “I'm starved.”
Fenriz's gold-flecked grin widened. He waved a hand, and the covers were whipped off the bowls.
“Bloodworm stew,” rumbled Fenriz. Sam, his curiosity getting the better of him, leaned over to catch a glimpse of the foul-smelling dish, and was immediately sorry he did. Swimming in Dean's bowl, obviously still alive, were fat red wriggling things that looked like well-fed leeches. Sam backed off, but Dean only continued glaring across the table at Lazlo.
“On your marks!” said Fenriz. Lazlo picked up his large metal spoon, and so did Dean. “Ready … steady … go!”
At that, Lazlo, who still had his black eyes locked to Dean's, plunged his spoon into his bowl and began to slurp.
Dean stared.
He can't do this, Sam thought, wondering about his new life as a slave in a demon strip club.
Dean held up his spoon, and as Lazlo watched over his soup bowl, looking puzzled, Dean dropped it to the table. It fell with a clatter.
Lazlo continued slurping, but kept an eye on Dean.
Grabbing his own bowl with both hands, Dean raised it to his lips, and began to drink straight from the bowl. No, he was not drinking, he was guzzling it down, eyes squeezed shut, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Drink!” shouted Crowley. “Drink … drink … drink!” More demons picked up the cry. Dean gulped at the disgusting stew as a surprised Lazlo watched in horror. “Drink … drink … drink!” Dean’s bowl tilted higher, at a 45 degree angle. Lazlo, perhaps sensing defeat, tilted his own bowl towards him and spooned faster, but it soon became apparent who was winning: not he. He finally threw away his own spoon, and, stopping to take a breath, grabbed the bowl and began to drink himself.
Dean's head was back, the bowl now all the way up above him, rivulets of the disgusting stew dripping down either side of his face as demons chanted. Lazlo's eyes were wide open, desperate.
And then a smack, as Dean smashed the empty bowl upside-down, back down on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He gave his stomach a thump, and, to his own apparent surprise, emitted a puff of red smoke from his mouth.
“Wow,” said Sam, who had probably never been quite so impressed with his brother's iron stomach.
“Lazlo,” said Fenriz. “You suck.” He snapped his fingers, and Lazlo exploded in a splatter of red guts and puff sulfurous smoke.
“That's my boy,” said Crowley, slapping Dean on his back. Dean, who only now had started looking a trifle woozy, belched more red smoke, which also emitted from his ears.
“This human is impressive!” said Fenriz. “Are you certain you won't sell him to me, Crowley?”
“Um, maybe later on that one?” asked Crowley, who was wresting Dean to his feet. “Now, I don't mean to be rude, but promises were made, entertainment doesn't come for free, does it?”
Fenriz snapped his fingers, and there appeared in his big hand what looked for all the world like a normal cheap compass, the kind you killed yourself to figure out in Boy Scouts.
If you had a normal ass childhood and were in the Boy Scouts, Sam thought sourly.
The big demon flipped the compass over the table to Crowley, where it was deftly intercepted, one-handed, by Dean. “We gotta go,” Dean said, standing and putting a hand over his mouth. Red smoke emitted between his fingers. He turned and, head held high, strode on slightly wobbly legs out of the room.
“Uh, be seeing you,” said Crowley, who cast a nervous glance at Fenriz and then hotfooted it after Dean.
“Of that I am certain,” said Fenriz, adding a hearty laugh. Sam hastened after Crowley.
“Show me how to work this compass whatchajiggy,” Dean told Crowley the minute they were all outside in the alley behind the club.
“Dean, what are you doing?” asked Sam, shivering in the cold night air.
“Going to get Cas,” said Dean, who was still burping smoke. “And hope to fuck he's still alive.”
“Dean. No! We go back to Bobby's and we make a plan,” reasoned Sam, rubbing his own arms.
“I got a plan,” said Dean. “We go get my damn angel. Now. Crowley?”
“I hate to cast aspersions on your obviously well thought out strategy,” said Crowley, “but had you carefully considered perhaps listening to your brother?”
Dean grabbed Crowley by the collar. “I got a belly full of demon bloodworms, Crowley. You wanna cast aspersions? Try it with an iron bar up your ass.”
“All right! All right!” said Crowley.
“You can stay here if you want, Sammy,” Dean told his brother.
“No, I'm going. I'm going,” said Sam.
“As am I,” said Crowley.
“Why the hell are you coming along, Crowley? You're a coward,” grumbled Dean.
“Yes indeed, but I'm not having you fluttering away with my devil's compass,” said Crowley. “Whatever you would do to me, Fenriz will do much, much worse if I lose or damage his toy.”
Hunched over the cold metal table, Raguel twisted the knife again.
This one's grace had remarkably strong roots. But he was almost there. The subject had lost consciousness some time ago, which removed some of the entertaining element of the procedure. But Raguel reminded himself to consider his holy mission. He was, after all, doing his Father's work.
“You imbecile! You're getting bloodstains all over my priceless keepsake!”
Raguel straightened, his work suddenly forgotten.
“I outbid Peter Jackson for that coat! Peter Fucking Jackson!” wailed Crowley, who was standing, improbably, across the room.
The demon, thought Raguel, wondering how the hell it had got in here, and contemplating how much fun he would have taking it apart, fleck by fleck.
Raguel raised his hand to make a warding gesture, but screamed as his sleeve caught on fire.
“That's for you, assbutt!” hollered Sam, who had lobbed an improvised molotov at him. There wasn’t much to work with in the “laboratory,” as most of the chemicals seemed to just be water with food dye in them. The flaming grenade had been vegetable oil, which, while not lethal, was at least a distraction.
“Shit!” yelled Crowley, now witnessing his blood-stained collectible incur further damage.
“Come on!” urged Sam, grabbing Crowley by the arm and tugging him away from the fake laboratory. They were both out the door and running, after one final look back by Crowley.
It was fortunate that Crowley was out of sight, as Raguel at once threw off the lab coat and then stomped out the fire. He glowered and, with a glance back at the unconscious Castiel, ran after Sam and Crowley.
Dean, who had been crouching behind one of the fake lab benches, crawled out and ran across the room to where Cas was still lying on the table. “Cas? Can you hear me?” he whispered. There was only the sound of labored breathing, raggedy and rasping. Dean tore off the straps and pulled Cas down to the floor, where Dean positioned the naked, shivering angel somewhat awkwardly in his lap. Then Dean pulled out a knife, drew it across his own arm, and began to mark some Enochian sigils into the pillar underneath the table. He paused one moment. Was that approaching footsteps? He heard voices, including his brother shouting something.
Dean finished the angel banishing sign, and, pulling Cas as close as he could, muttered, “I'll be back for you, Sammy,” adding, “I hope this shit works. I’m getting tired of being zapped the fuck around today.” And then he smacked a palm into the middle of the banishing sign, and the world turned white.
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: Somewhere between 36K and 37K, depending on which software program you believe.
Summary: Unicorns are annoying, as are mad scientist archangels. Demon strip clubs can ruin your appetite. And it’s good to have a plan, even a dumb one.
Notes: This is nowhere logical on the timeline: I make vague reference to stuff that happened in S7, but there’s also some folks alive who shouldn’t be. I’ve started each chapter with a flashback. They don’t make sense now, but they will, I promise. But if you wanna read something linear, this ain’t it. Drinking with Australians is fun: this isn’t relevant to anything, just an observation.
Some weeks ago....
“Goddammit!” said Sam. He sat down hard on the ground, not caring any more about the mud and muck, and wiped a grimy arm across his grimy forehead. “Fucking unicorns!” he bellowed. “Fuck you!”
“Hello, Sam.”
“Oh, not you, Cas,” said Sam after the angel had appeared to the soft sound of beating wings. “I don’t mean fuck you, I mean fuck the unicorns.”
Castiel looked puzzled. But he often looked puzzled. “Dean said you were having some trouble obtaining powdered unicorn horn,” he told Sam, head tilted, eyes blinking.
“Yeah. I have problem with getting powdered unicorn horn. It's the FUCKING UNICORNS!” said Sam. There was a distant thrum of hoof beats, and some neighing that sounded an awful lot like laughter. “Dean was supposed to come out and help.”
“There is no need. For I have an affinity for unicorns,” Castiel told him. He extended a hand, and Sam, albeit reluctantly, took it and let Cas raise him up from muddy perdition.
They walked together to the field, where, under the moonlight, two or three of the pale beasts congregated. The herded together, as if sharing a secret, and then looked, as one, at the two approaching beings.
“Here, allow me,” said Castiel. He raised a gentle hand, and strode towards the unicorns.
The horses emitted mocking whinnies and trotted away from him. Cas looked puzzled. But then he often looked puzzled. He repeated the gesture, to the same effect, except this time the beasts scattered.
Castiel frowned. “This usually works,” he muttered. “Oh, well.” He raised his hand again, and now walked towards the nearest unicorn. It seemed to stare at him until he got within an arm’s length.
The unicorn suddenly reared, knocking a surprised Cas back into the mud. And then it cantered away.
“That…. I don’t understand,” said Cas as Sam caught him under the armpits and dragged him back to standing.
Sam regarded his angelic friend. “Uh, Cas. You know what they say about unicorns? They like … virgins?”
Castiel turned to stare at Sam. “But….” He scowled, deep in thought for a moment. Sam saw many expressions fleet across his face, one after another. “I didn’t think that counted…” he finally muttered.
Sam smiled mildly at Castiel. “Dude. When this is over, if you wanna talk…?” Castiel tilted his head. “For now, let’s try to corral one, OK?”
Cas nodded, regarding the mud stains on his coat. “Fucking unicorns,” he sighed.
“Yeah. Fucking unicorns.”
The present day....
Dean was choking. He put a hand up to his throat, and felt his collar drawn tight against it. He blindly reached back. There was a hand gripped tightly to the back of his shirt.
"What the blazes?" asked Bobby, upon whose floor Sam, Dean, and Crowley had just appeared.
"That, my non-friend," said Crowley, who had just released his demonic grip on both Sam and Dean, "was utterly brilliant timing."
"What the hell happened to you boys?" asked Bobby. "I sent Cas after you, and you come back with Crowley instead? Can’t we keep our damn supernatural beings straight?"
"Cas!" shouted Dean, who had leapt to his feet. "We gotta get him! That Ragweed dude has him!"
"You two should consider yourself lucky I managed to escape with you," lectured Crowley. "I sensed this one's clumsy summons coming down the pike,” he added, pointing an accusing finger towards Bobby, who artfully ignored him.
"Ragweed? Cas has hay fever?" Bobby asked Dean. “That’s just what we need, a sneezing celestial being.”
"No, Bobby, someone named Raguel?" said Sam, who had recovered and picked himself up.
"Ain't he one of the angels? A higher up bugger?" asked Bobby.
"Sadly, I believe I know what this particular bugger is on about," said Crowley, who had risen to his feet and begun to dust himself off as well. "He- Oh for fuck's sake, Bobby!" he shouted, pointing upwards. "You've got me under one of your ridiculous traps?"
"Put me in a good mood, demon," warned Bobby, crossing his arms, "I'll let you out. But right now I am in a very, very bad mood."
“What’s going on?” asked Dean.
“Easier to show you,” said Bobby, who held up a strange conical flask.
“I that what I think it is?” asked Dean. The milky, glowing substance inside the flask looked familiar.
“Is that angel grace?" asked Sam, taking the flask from Bobby and turning it over in his hands
“That item is worth a pretty penny,” Crowley noted. “On the open market.”
"You in the market for this stuff, Crowley?” Bobby asked the demon suspiciously.
“If you're not part of the solution....” said Crowley, feigning great offense. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t deal in the hard stuff! But you lot probably don't want to know how many vials I've been offered of late.”
“They're killing angels and taking their grace?” asked Dean.
“You extract it from live angels, pet,” corrected Crowley. Dean swallowed hard. He remembered Anna saying the process was pretty painful. Agonizing. “Oh, fuck, Bobby!” he said, suddenly putting two and two together. “Ragweed – or whatever the fuck its name was – said he needed Cas for his grace.”
“Shit,” said Bobby. “So how the hell did you idjits bump into Raguel anyway?”
“That was my fault, as I was prepared to explain, before….” said Crowley, scowling and pointing accusingly upwards to the demon trap on Bobby’s ceiling.
“If anything happens to Cas, Crowley….” warned Dean.
“Yes, yes, yes, you’ll extract my beating heart with a rusty knife,” grumbled Crowley, who sat back down on Bobby’s floor. “Kindly quit overacting and let me explain. As I told you, I am involved in a sort of domestic squabble.”
“Domestic? You?” asked Bobby.
“Divorce,” supplied Sam.
“Ohhh,” said Bobby.
“Irrelevant details!” protested Crowley. “To cut, as they say, to the chase, the insufferable cunt has made off with what are rightfully our joint possessions. Your perky-assed hunter boys and their unshaven sidekick helped me obtain an ingredient vital to tracking down the vile whore’s ill-gotten gains. And indeed, when we encountered our celestial friend Raguel, he was clad in my priceless 1938 ‘Bride of the Demon’ laboratory coat!”
“Crowley,” said Sam. “Let me get this straight. You collect … movie costumes?”
“It is a part of cultural history! It was screen used! I matched it myself!” wailed Crowley. “I outbid Peter Jackson for it! I currently possess a rather decent stable of artifacts from that particular film. And now that great feathered lout is … is … wearing my coat around to clobber angels! It could get stained!”
“Yeah, lord help us all if Cas uses to blow his nose,” grumbled Bobby.
“Crowley,” asked Sam. “I don’t understand. Why the hell is the archangel Raguel wearing your horror movie lab coat?”
“Absolutely no fucking idea!” said Crowley. “As I have told you, my vile and foul ex-domestic partner has gotten her repulsive claws into some of my prized pieces.”
“Crowley,” said Bobby, “So, you used a conjuration to find Raguel? Or the coat?”
“My coat,” pouted Crowley. “The spell only found that ratty archangel as a side dish.”
“Would it work again?”
Down on the floor, Crowley sighed and gripped his own knees. “Even if I could reproduce it, it turns out to have a rather fatal flaw, in that Raguel could evidently use his angel trickery to trace us as well. I doubt he’ll hesitate to smite us if he sees us a second time. Your angels do like smiting things.”
“What should we do?” asked Dean. “Bobby! Cas might already be dead.”
“Might be better off that way,” muttered Crowley, “considering the alternative.”
Dean turned to the demon, breathing hard and staring him down for a moment. “Bobby,” he finally said. “I need a gallon of holy water. I wanna see how much this guy can guzzle.”
“Wait wait wait!” urged Crowley holding up his hands. “There might be another way. There is a magical object that could find my item.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you use that in the first place, instead of putting us through all the shit with the faceless demon?” asked Dean.
“Sadly, it has been … borrowed from me,” hedged Crowley.
“You got an annoying neighbor?” asked Bobby.
“It isn’t a lawn mowing device,” grumbled Crowley.
“Then, what is this thing?”
“And more importantly,” said Sam. “Where is it?”
“It is an enchanted compass,” said Crowley. “Really unique little item. But it’s been waylaid by … an old acquaintance.”
“You mean another guy who wants you dead?” asked Dean.
“More or less. Claims I owe him a debt. Wanker.” Crowley narrowed his eyes.
“Where, Crowley?” repeated Sam.
“Ah, my friends,” smiled Crowley, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “As to the where: have you never watched a police procedural, then?”
“I hate police procedurals,” muttered Dean.
“Well then, you wouldn’t know,” said Crowley. “It lies where investigations inevitably begin … in a strip club!”
Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean quite suddenly did not appear so wrathful as before.
Castiel lay on the cold metal table, contemplating his fate.
It was a sham, actually. Evidently, at some point during the time he was unconsciousness, he had been stripped of his human clothes and strapped to the table. But it was all cardboard and tissue paper. He could have easily broken free, even without his angelic powers, were he not being held down by the magic of an infinitely strong, half mad archangel.
Indeed, the room appeared to be some kind of cruel joke: like a movie set, it was only authentic-seeming from a certain, precise angle, but otherwise all quite visibly constructed of chicken wire and bare two by fours. Cas thought of his brother, Gabriel, regretting that he wouldn’t see it. He would have appreciated the dramatic flair.
Raguel, who seemed to have been occupying himself with nonsense, fussing with test tubes filled with sugar water and whatnot, finally turned to see Castiel. “Ah, so you have decided to join us, my unlucky brother!”
“Am I correct in that you intend to remove my grace by forcible means?” inquired Castiel.
“Yes! When the Son of Man sits on his throne, in his glory, we must separate the sheep from the goats. And you, unfortunately, are going down, with the sinners! Now is the time to plead, before you are cast into the fiery pit of eternal punishment.”
Castiel considered this. “Well, it is probably an appropriate fate for me,” he mused.
Raguel blinked. “Um. I’m sorry?” His eyes, like his wild hair, were grey, and seemed oddly unfocused.
“Considering my behavior, I think this consequence is meet,” Castiel told him. “I am fallen. And I have done many terrible things. The loss of my grace would seem justified.”
“So you accept the judgment of your holy Father?” said Raguel.
“I accept the fate. I do not accept that you are passing judgment. You are obviously mentally incompetent.”
“I judge the nations in His holy name!” growled Raguel. He was not only wearing an old-fashioned white medical tunic, but red rubber gloves that appeared a size too big for him.
“That's ridiculous,” scoffed Castiel. “No one has heard from our Father for years. You can hardly claim to speak for him, nor are you within your rights to take on his job. That was something important I learned, to my dismay.”
“Sinner! You are trying to tempt me.”
“It is probably true I have sinned, but I am just laying out the facts. Now, you say you are judging, but why use sets and artifacts from a twentieth century human cult movie? I recognize these objects from a film my human friend, Sam, showed me.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” bellowed Raguel.
“No, Satan is still in his cage. There was another person, a demon, running the underworld for a while, but he grew quickly tired of the job. And anyway, I am neither of those individuals.”
Castiel could hear Raguel breathing: heavy, measured breaths. Cas didn't suppose he would survive this. The extraction of grace was a high casualty process at best, and this fellow didn't look like he was terribly careful about it. He didn’t know a whole lot about this brother. Gabriel had always talked about him as if he were insane, which meant a lot, if Gabriel thought so. So reasoning with him was almost certainly out of the question. But Castiel thought, for reasons that were not quite clear even to himself, that he should not go to his final reward without lodging a protest.
He did not expect the archangel's face suddenly to be so close to his, breathing hard. His breath smelled distinctive. A spice. Castiel tried to recall what it was.
“This will hurt,” said Raguel. “Not a little. A lot.”
Castiel nodded. He had borne pain before. Angels rather liked torture. They were dicks, many of them.
Raguel drew his knife. One edge was serrated, and stained red.
And then Castiel's world was torn asunder.
“Damn! Bobby will be disappointed he didn't come along!” said Dean as the paused outside the Second Circle Gentlemen’s Club.
“Bobby is doing research,” sighed Sam.
“That's what we're here for!” grinned Crowley, slapping Sam on the back. Sam glared at the demon. Despite many reassurances, Bobby had been fairly damn reluctant to spring Crowley from the devil’s trap. Sam agreed with Bobby: it felt like Crowley was holding something back from them, but as yet, Sam wasn't quite sure what. Dean had been persuaded when Crowley, as a gesture of good faith, and despite constant bitching about his tricky back, magicked Dean’s beloved Impala back to Bobby’s wrecking yard. But Sam wasn't certain Dean was the best judge of character right now. Sam was pretty sure his brother was at least partially sublimating a growing sense of worry over Cas into a newborn enthusiasm for demon strip clubs.
But Sam couldn't tell Dean that. For one thing, he doubted Dean had even heard the word “sublimating” before.
The black-eyed doorman seemed reluctant to let them in, especially when it became apparent that Sam and Dean were nothing but a couple of humans. But Crowley chatted amiably and passed the hulking door guard several bills of some currency Sam didn't recognize: what country had pictures of Dick Cheney on their 66 dollar bills? In fact, what country had 66 dollar bills?
The inside of the club was about what Sam had expected from following Dean into a number of similar human establishments: smoky and too loud and smelling of something Sam didn't want to think about.
With one distinctive difference....
“Whoa!” said Dean, pointing to the girl who was currently defying gravity on one of the poles. “That stripper! She has four.....”
“You'd be surprised what she has two of,” grinned Crowley.
“It's like twins. In one girl....” muttered Dean.
“Dean!” scolded Sam.
“Well, as long as we’re here,” his brother protested.
“Dear,” Crowley asked a passing waitress, “Will you please tell the proprietor that Mr. Crowley is here to see him?”
“Is the owner your friend?” asked Sam as the demon girl sauntered off, her forked tail switching lazily in back of her. “The one with the compass?”
“My compass,” grumbled Crowley.
“How did he get it then?” asked Sam.
Crowley sighed. “During the interlude when I was overseeing hell, I had to make outlays for certain … capital improvements. So, I sought out external funding sources, you might say, investors, of a sort.”
“Uh. Are we talking loan sharks, Crowley?” asked Sam. “Demon loan sharks?”
“No, no, no, no, no, nothing of the sort!” fluttered Crowley. “Well, I mean. Something like that, but not much.” The demon waitress was signaling, so Crowley motioned to Sam and a fairly oblivious Dean to follow him into what looked like a back room. It was a lot quieter back here. And a lot darker.
Sam gasped as he was suddenly shoved up against a wall. A black-eyed demon thug held him, knife to his throat. He cast his eyes to the side and saw Dean and Crowley were in the same predicament.
“Crowley,” came a very, very deep voice. Sam looked around the demon thug’s knife arm, over to the center of the room where, sitting at the round poker table behind a mighty pile of chips was the biggest, baldest demon he had ever seen. He smoked a fat cigar, and had gold rings on his big, fat fingers.
“Uh. Fenriz,” said Crowley. “How pleasant to see you again.” His voice was strangled as a rather large demon had a blade pressed into his neck so hard it was drawing a bit of blood.
“Crowley, you bring humans into my bar?” tutted Fenriz. “You disrespect me!”
“There is a perfectly reasonable explanation,” said Crowley. “A friend of ours is in a bit of trouble, and we simply need use of my compass. For a time.”
“You mean my compass?” hissed Fenriz.
“Look, Fenriz, my old friend. These aren't just any humans! These are the Winchester brothers, the famous hunters.”
“They don't look famous to me,” snorted Fenriz, rubbing his head with his sausage-fingered hand.
“And these boys … love a game of chance.”
“Hmpf.” Fenriz didn't move very much, but might have nodded his head just a fraction, and suddenly, Dean, Sam and Crowley were released.
Sam's head spun. Games of chance? Did he mean gambling? Sam had never been much for poker, and he didn't see a pool table in here.
“A game? I like games,” rumbled Fenriz. He wore his human eyes, not his demon ones, but they were still blacker than black, two dots lost amid all that pink skin. “What about a little contest?”
“How about we see how loud these humans can squeal?” asked one of the demon henchmen, running a finger over his blade.
One of the other demons leaned over and whispered in Fenriz's ear. The giant demon sat back and laughed: a cold, malicious sound. “Yes, that would be amusing. You boys look hungry,” he said, casting his eyes between the brothers. “What about an eating contest?”
“Sure!” said Dean, who confidently barged up to the table and took an empty seat. “What do you got? I could use a burger,” he added, patting his stomach.
“Dean!” warned Sam, who somehow did not think burgers would be on the menu. Unless they were maggot-ridden. He already felt himself gagging at the memory.
“I have a specialty in mind,” said Fenriz, whose grin showed off a shiny gold tooth. “Lazlo!” As the poker players cleared away from the table, a large, red-haired demon took the chair opposite Dean, glaring at him. Someone buzzed in carrying two steaming, covered bowls on a tray. They sat one down in front of Dean, and another in front of Lazlo.
Sam sniffed. No, definitely not hamburgers. He wasn't even certain the dish was going to be from this world. “Oh, dear,” muttered Crowley.
“What is it?” whispered Sam.
“You don’t want to know.”
“The usual terms, Crowley,” said Fenriz. “Your boy wins, I'll loan you my compass. For a short period of time.”
“What if he loses?” pressed Sam.
“As I said before, you don't wanna know,” whispered Crowley.
“I won't lose,” said Dean, staring down Lazlo.
“Are you totally sure about this, Dean?” pleaded Sam, wondering if he was the only sane being left in the room.
“Let's get going,” his brother answered, leaning forward. “I'm starved.”
Fenriz's gold-flecked grin widened. He waved a hand, and the covers were whipped off the bowls.
“Bloodworm stew,” rumbled Fenriz. Sam, his curiosity getting the better of him, leaned over to catch a glimpse of the foul-smelling dish, and was immediately sorry he did. Swimming in Dean's bowl, obviously still alive, were fat red wriggling things that looked like well-fed leeches. Sam backed off, but Dean only continued glaring across the table at Lazlo.
“On your marks!” said Fenriz. Lazlo picked up his large metal spoon, and so did Dean. “Ready … steady … go!”
At that, Lazlo, who still had his black eyes locked to Dean's, plunged his spoon into his bowl and began to slurp.
Dean stared.
He can't do this, Sam thought, wondering about his new life as a slave in a demon strip club.
Dean held up his spoon, and as Lazlo watched over his soup bowl, looking puzzled, Dean dropped it to the table. It fell with a clatter.
Lazlo continued slurping, but kept an eye on Dean.
Grabbing his own bowl with both hands, Dean raised it to his lips, and began to drink straight from the bowl. No, he was not drinking, he was guzzling it down, eyes squeezed shut, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Drink!” shouted Crowley. “Drink … drink … drink!” More demons picked up the cry. Dean gulped at the disgusting stew as a surprised Lazlo watched in horror. “Drink … drink … drink!” Dean’s bowl tilted higher, at a 45 degree angle. Lazlo, perhaps sensing defeat, tilted his own bowl towards him and spooned faster, but it soon became apparent who was winning: not he. He finally threw away his own spoon, and, stopping to take a breath, grabbed the bowl and began to drink himself.
Dean's head was back, the bowl now all the way up above him, rivulets of the disgusting stew dripping down either side of his face as demons chanted. Lazlo's eyes were wide open, desperate.
And then a smack, as Dean smashed the empty bowl upside-down, back down on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He gave his stomach a thump, and, to his own apparent surprise, emitted a puff of red smoke from his mouth.
“Wow,” said Sam, who had probably never been quite so impressed with his brother's iron stomach.
“Lazlo,” said Fenriz. “You suck.” He snapped his fingers, and Lazlo exploded in a splatter of red guts and puff sulfurous smoke.
“That's my boy,” said Crowley, slapping Dean on his back. Dean, who only now had started looking a trifle woozy, belched more red smoke, which also emitted from his ears.
“This human is impressive!” said Fenriz. “Are you certain you won't sell him to me, Crowley?”
“Um, maybe later on that one?” asked Crowley, who was wresting Dean to his feet. “Now, I don't mean to be rude, but promises were made, entertainment doesn't come for free, does it?”
Fenriz snapped his fingers, and there appeared in his big hand what looked for all the world like a normal cheap compass, the kind you killed yourself to figure out in Boy Scouts.
If you had a normal ass childhood and were in the Boy Scouts, Sam thought sourly.
The big demon flipped the compass over the table to Crowley, where it was deftly intercepted, one-handed, by Dean. “We gotta go,” Dean said, standing and putting a hand over his mouth. Red smoke emitted between his fingers. He turned and, head held high, strode on slightly wobbly legs out of the room.
“Uh, be seeing you,” said Crowley, who cast a nervous glance at Fenriz and then hotfooted it after Dean.
“Of that I am certain,” said Fenriz, adding a hearty laugh. Sam hastened after Crowley.
“Show me how to work this compass whatchajiggy,” Dean told Crowley the minute they were all outside in the alley behind the club.
“Dean, what are you doing?” asked Sam, shivering in the cold night air.
“Going to get Cas,” said Dean, who was still burping smoke. “And hope to fuck he's still alive.”
“Dean. No! We go back to Bobby's and we make a plan,” reasoned Sam, rubbing his own arms.
“I got a plan,” said Dean. “We go get my damn angel. Now. Crowley?”
“I hate to cast aspersions on your obviously well thought out strategy,” said Crowley, “but had you carefully considered perhaps listening to your brother?”
Dean grabbed Crowley by the collar. “I got a belly full of demon bloodworms, Crowley. You wanna cast aspersions? Try it with an iron bar up your ass.”
“All right! All right!” said Crowley.
“You can stay here if you want, Sammy,” Dean told his brother.
“No, I'm going. I'm going,” said Sam.
“As am I,” said Crowley.
“Why the hell are you coming along, Crowley? You're a coward,” grumbled Dean.
“Yes indeed, but I'm not having you fluttering away with my devil's compass,” said Crowley. “Whatever you would do to me, Fenriz will do much, much worse if I lose or damage his toy.”
Hunched over the cold metal table, Raguel twisted the knife again.
This one's grace had remarkably strong roots. But he was almost there. The subject had lost consciousness some time ago, which removed some of the entertaining element of the procedure. But Raguel reminded himself to consider his holy mission. He was, after all, doing his Father's work.
“You imbecile! You're getting bloodstains all over my priceless keepsake!”
Raguel straightened, his work suddenly forgotten.
“I outbid Peter Jackson for that coat! Peter Fucking Jackson!” wailed Crowley, who was standing, improbably, across the room.
The demon, thought Raguel, wondering how the hell it had got in here, and contemplating how much fun he would have taking it apart, fleck by fleck.
Raguel raised his hand to make a warding gesture, but screamed as his sleeve caught on fire.
“That's for you, assbutt!” hollered Sam, who had lobbed an improvised molotov at him. There wasn’t much to work with in the “laboratory,” as most of the chemicals seemed to just be water with food dye in them. The flaming grenade had been vegetable oil, which, while not lethal, was at least a distraction.
“Shit!” yelled Crowley, now witnessing his blood-stained collectible incur further damage.
“Come on!” urged Sam, grabbing Crowley by the arm and tugging him away from the fake laboratory. They were both out the door and running, after one final look back by Crowley.
It was fortunate that Crowley was out of sight, as Raguel at once threw off the lab coat and then stomped out the fire. He glowered and, with a glance back at the unconscious Castiel, ran after Sam and Crowley.
Dean, who had been crouching behind one of the fake lab benches, crawled out and ran across the room to where Cas was still lying on the table. “Cas? Can you hear me?” he whispered. There was only the sound of labored breathing, raggedy and rasping. Dean tore off the straps and pulled Cas down to the floor, where Dean positioned the naked, shivering angel somewhat awkwardly in his lap. Then Dean pulled out a knife, drew it across his own arm, and began to mark some Enochian sigils into the pillar underneath the table. He paused one moment. Was that approaching footsteps? He heard voices, including his brother shouting something.
Dean finished the angel banishing sign, and, pulling Cas as close as he could, muttered, “I'll be back for you, Sammy,” adding, “I hope this shit works. I’m getting tired of being zapped the fuck around today.” And then he smacked a palm into the middle of the banishing sign, and the world turned white.
