Salvation (Perseides, Chapter 1 of 7)
Sep. 30th, 2012 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Salvation (Perseides, Chapter 1 of 7)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas; Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Rufus, Balthazar, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Uriel, Jody Mills, Ruby.
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Descriptions of violence, especially in later chapters. Some light hints of Sam/Ruby.
Word Count: 45,000 total
Summary: The apocalypse has come. Lucifer and Michael burned down heaven in their madness, and then rent our world in two. Much of the United States now roils in a state of constant warfare. When Sam, a fighter pilot working for the Michaelistas, is shot down over enemy lines, Dean, a tough ex-cop, risks everything to search for him.
Notes: This is set in a post-apocalyptic AU, but it is NOT the Endverse. The character of Al Swearengen has been shamelessly stolen, with love, from the Deadwood 'verse.
Cas sat and watched the lights skittering across the desert horizon like low flying shooting stars.
If he looked up, he could occasionally see a real shooting star. It was the time of year for the Perseid meteor shower. He studied the night sky. They said his people had come from up there. But even if the stories were true, he had been too young to remember. He put a hand up, as if he were reaching out to touch the stars.
He gripped his night vision binoculars, holding them to his chest. His eyes were keen without them, but he had picked them up in a recent salvage, and thought they were cool. Human made. He ran a hand over the smooth metallic surface.
Cas smiled to himself, thinking how much of what he knew about the human world came from what he knew about their scrap.
He scanned the low morning sky. Early mornings like these were the times they made a run for it, hopping over the wall in small winged vehicles, fleeing Lucifer. Sometimes they made it. Often, maybe more often, they did not, and then Singer Salvage would collect a new prize.
He took up the binocs and watched a lone light hurtle through the darkness. This one was very strange, very strange indeed: it was headed in the wrong direction. Who tried to make a run on the wall? Who wanted into Lucifer’s dread kingdom?
Brave little light, he thought. So many ships didn't make it across, their light extinguished forever, the fragile human inside extinguished.
He sat forward. He didn’t see or hear anything, rather he just sensed it, pulling with those other senses the humans didn’t seem to possess, or at least didn’t seem to know how to muster.
Cas turned the binoculars westward, searching for something. There. Artillery fire coming from the wall. Someone else had spotted the light. His light.
Cas switched his focus back to the ship that was desperately trying to make it across No Man’s Land. Even though it would cost him a potentially valuable job, he started urging it on, praying for it to make it. Come on. Dodge the bullets. You can make it.
The craft took evasive action, dodging left and right. Good, his guy could fly. Maybe he could make it?
Funny, now that he was looking at it under magnification, he saw it had the markings of a police cruiser. Their cops had no business here in No Man’s Land. Had someone jacked a cruiser and gone for a joy ride? That was kind of a cool notion.
But here came another barrage. He saw the orange shower of sparks on a stubby starboard wing, and sensed the desperation of the pilot, who was probably fighting with the unresponsive controls. He needn’t have bothered.
As the craft went into its fatal dive, Cas was already tearing off his jacket. And then he was winged.
He had the marker in the ground as soon as he alit. Singer Salvage: blue with a small pentagram. Bobby’s little joke. This area was now theirs. That was the rule out here: first claim gets the salvage. Bobby was used to having his pick. Let the demon outfits try their spells; no one was faster than Cas.
He shrugged back into his jacket. No use flaunting the wings, especially out here. Sometimes you’d run into a rival outfit that was harboring … jealousy. Usually no problem for Cas, but he really wasn’t in the mood for smiting anyone tonight.
He spotted the first piece of burning wreckage a few paces away. He hunkered down to take a look. Yes, it was definitely some kind of police cruiser. That was weird. It looked like the craft had been flying low enough that damage wasn’t too extensive. Flying low: Cas had been right, this had been a smart pilot. The cruiser had broken into three main sections: the tail, the fuselage with broken wing fins, and the cockpit, which had held together like it was supposed to in a crash. There might be more than scrap metal out of this one. That was good. There was always a hunger for spare parts out here.
He gave the burning fuselage a wide berth for now, the flames throwing a weird shadow across the wasteland as he passed. Cas was fairly impervious to fire, but you never knew when something might spark a fuel tank and cause a big boom. He walked on until he was even with the cockpit, which was aflame as well. He wasn't thinking on bothering with the fire extinguisher, even though he had one in his pack. Usually the best course was to let stuff burn itself out overnight. There wasn't much out here to damage, even if you got an explosion or two.
He placed another Singer Salvage marker at more or less the cockpit end of the trail of wreckage. He didn't technically need to mark the entire perimeter, but you couldn't be too careful. Especially not with the Mammonites and their ilk out here.
Cas turned suddenly, now facing the wreck.
The sense of desperation suddenly burned through him.
The pilot – he was still alive in there.
He was on the flaming wreckage in one leap, hands at the hatch release lever. He pried with his whole body, but the fucking thing was stuck. He peered in, but couldn't see anything: the dome was stupid one way glass. Of course, it was a cop cruiser! Well, he'd have to do it the hard way then. He gritted his teeth and, while the flames licked around him, put one hand on either side and twisted. The entire carapace popped off, but he overbalanced he fell down along with it, crashing on his back in the dirt.
Cursing, he threw it off him and scrambled back up. There he was, the pilot, lying still in his seat, half unbuckled, probably overcome from all the smoke. Cas crouched and extended his hands, gripping him tight under the armpits and then, without even bothering to unstrap him, wrenched him out. This time he fell in the dirt with the pilot on top of him.
“Hey, you OK?” He didn’t really expect a response. It was a young looking human, maybe only a few years older than himself. And, to Cas’ surprise, he was dressed in a cop uniform. Why would a cop steal his own cop cruiser? Weird. Well, definitely the most interesting salvage job he’d had in a while.
“We’ll get you back home,” he told the unconscious cop, once again whipping off his jacket.
And then they were gone to the soft sound of wingbeats.
Dean awoke to a face pressed inches from his own.
“He’s up!” came a low voice. Sepulchral. Am I dead, thought Dean.
“Give him some damn air, boy!” came a much more human sounding voice.
Dean blinked. The face receded. “Is he all right, Bobby?” asked the deeper voice.
“Quit the damn hovering, Cas. Go! Sit!”
Dean tried to focus his eyes, blinking even in the dim light. He attempted to sit up, and found arms pressing him down. “Now, take it easy. Take it easy, son,” said the more comforting voice. Dean felt himself settled back on something. He squinted, looking around. This sure as hell wasn’t a hospital. It looked like somebody’s living room. Though it was crazy: there were books piled everywhere. They seemed to be using a pile of books as an end table.
“So, Officer … Winchester is it?” asked the guy sitting next to him. Dean let his gaze fall on the guy for a minute. Fifty-something, maybe sixty, scraggly beard, ball cap, eyes that had seen everything. He decided he liked this guy, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Uh. Dean is OK,” said Dean. His voice was scratchy as hell.
“Cas! Make yourself useful. Get some water, dammit.” Dean’s tried to focus on the shadowy figure across the room, but he had darted out already. “OK, Dean,” the guy said to him. “I’m Bobby. You remember anything about what happened?”
“Before or after I got my ass shot down?” he asked.
The old guy guffawed. “How about after?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his head. A fire! And he couldn’t escape. Flames all around him. Smoke burning his lungs.
Dean suddenly saw a glass of water stuck in his face. “Cas! Don’t fucking drown him!” scolded Bobby, grabbing the glass. “Back!” he ordered, and once again the figure retreated across the room. As Bobby helped Dean sit upright so he could sip the water, Dean looked over at Cas. He was a skinny kid, maybe around Sammy’s age, maybe a little younger, a splay of tangled black hair in his face, and the bluest eyes Dean thought he had ever seen.
And one big, shit-eating grin on his face.
“Is he alive? Is he in possession of his facilities? Did I save him?” The voice did not match the kid at all. It was from someone … well, a hell of a lot bigger and older. Maybe he would grow into it?
“Yep. You saved him Cas,” said Bobby. “Oh, get your shoes off the furniture!”
“Not wearing shoes, Bobby.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re the one who pulled me out?” Dean asked Cas.
“I raised you from the fiery perdition,” Cas told him, eyes burning blue fire.
“Cas, quit bein’ fucking dramatic,” laughed Bobby, which only got Cas to grin wider.
“Well, thanks, dude,” said Dean. “Though….” He thought back. “My canopy. It was jammed. How the fuck…?”
“Yes, I had to pull it off,” Cas explained, as if it were no big deal. “The whole thing.”
“Wait!” said Dean, who was woozy, but not that woozy. “You don’t just pull a fucking canopy off one of those babies. You….” He was at a loss.
Bobby was grinning now. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked Dean.
“Don’t know what?” asked Dean.
“Cas here … he’s an angel. He does weird ass shit like walk into fires and pull open cruiser canopies.”
“Wait. This is an angel?” said Dean, staring at the ragged being crouched on the threadbare couch, grinning at him.
“What were you expecting? A damn harp?” asked Bobby.
“But…” sputtered Dean. “Angels don’t exist.”
“Oh, looks like we got ourselves an expert here,” Bobby told Cas. “So, Officer Winchester, you spend a whole lot of your time getting your ass saved by imaginary fucking beings?” asked Bobby.
“My mother believed,” said Dean. “And so does my brother. Did my brother. Does my brother.” He finished the water, wishing it were something a lot stronger.
“Do you need more water?” Dean blinked. Cas was suddenly in his face again, holding the empty glass.
“Cas!” said Bobby, jerking back a thumb. He seemed to treat Cas sort of the way you would a big, overly friendly dog, Dean thought. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up, kid? You smell like a damn barbeque.”
Dean noticed for the first time that Cas’ clothes were pretty badly scorched, from his aircraft fire, he guessed. But he didn’t seem to be injured in any way himself.
“OK, Bobby” said Cas, who was already on his way out the door.
“And then make yourself useful and get a load of my salvage!” Bobby yelled after him. “The boy would forget his head,” he sighed, more to himself than to Dean.
“That’s really an angel?” asked Dean.
“Well, from what I understand, those sort are more Nephilim than anything. But, yeah,” said Bobby. “You spent all your life in the Free States, I take it?”
Dean nodded. “Since I was a kid, anyway. My mom was killed in the Blitz. So Sammy – that’s my brother – and I found our way out.”
Bobby nodded. “Well, I dunno what they tell you folks in the Free States, but Cas is a refugee, like you. Only from Heaven.”
“Then … it was true? What my mom told us?”
“I dunno, son,” said Bobby, sitting back. “What did she tell you?”
“She told my brother and me, the lights coming down from the sky during the Blitz? Those were falling angels.”
“Pretty much,” said Bobby. “From what I understand, before Lucifer and Michael had it out down here, they burned down heaven. Quite a feud.”
“They burned down heaven? That’s not possible!” said Dean.
“The residents – the ones left alive anyway – got out, and most of ‘em ended up out west somewhere, as refugees. I had some come through here too. My mamma, she taught me some angel lore as well. I put up the signs, and had some folks come to earth hereabouts, where I could give them a hand. Cas’ people, I guess they were on the last boat out of there. He was pretty small, so his brother left him with me, t’ bring up. Not that a body can do much in the matter of bringin’ up angels. ‘Specially if they’re pigheaded little shits.”
Dean sat up, though it made his head swim a little.
“You OK, there, Officer?” asked Bobby.
“You can quit calling me Officer,” sighed Dean, looking down at his singed police jacket.
“I sorta figured as much. You seem to be a little AWOL, if I might say.”
“Yeah, I think this stunt pretty much got me resigned,” said Dean, shaking his head.
“You wanna tell me your story? Seeing as how you brought me the biggest salvage of the month. Not a lot of fools trying get into Lucy’s front yard like that.”
“I’m kind of a refugee myself. Like I said, our mom, she was killed in the Blitz. Don’t know what the hell ever became of our dad, so it’s just been Sammy and me.”
“Brother?”
“Yeah, my kid brother. I’m a cop. Well, I was a cop, and I thought he was headed for college. But he dropped out. He got it in his head that he needed to fly planes for the Teddy Roosevelt Brigade.”
“Supportin’ the Michaelistas, huh? Kid’s an idealist.” Bobby had wandered over to a cluttered desk and picked up a bottle and a couple of glasses, which he brought back over with him.
“Kid’s an idiot,” grumbled Dean. “That’s not our war.”
“You do realize what’s goin’ on, just over the border, out west?” asked Bobby, pouring out a couple of shots.
“I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know. I heard the rumors, no one's seen Michael in years.”
“That's what I've heard,” said Bobby.
“Yeah, so much for fighting for him. So, Sam’s plane disappeared over Arizona, and he’s now on a list of POWs.”
“So, you got it in your head you’re gonna hijack a police cruiser, cross over No Man’s Land into a war zone, and go bust him out? And you say he’s the idjit?” grinned Bobby, handing over a glass with a smile.
“Like I said, Bobby. He’s family. He’s all I got.”
“Well, lemme ask you this. You said you don’t believe in angels. What about demons?”
“More crap.” Dean downed his shot. It was like lighter fluid dipped in hot sauce. He choked, and then held out his glass for another shot.
“So, I take it you didn’t bother with any kind of magical incantations or nothin' to get your cruiser over the wall?” asked Bobby.
Dean frowned and shook his head.
“OK. You look like the kinda fellow who believes what he sees. And that’s good. But let me show you something. That is, if you figger you can walk?” Sitting down his shot glass, Dean gave himself a push, and with Bobby’s help, was up off the couch. The older man then led him outside, and then they were suddenly out in the middle of a pretty extensive salvage yard. Bobby led Dean to one side, bordered by a chain link fence topped by barbed wire. “That’s the wall, right over there,” said Bobby, pointing. He held up a pair of binoculars. “Now, you look over there, you tell me what you see?”
Dean shrugged and pointed the binoculars at the wall. He bobbled his balance a fraction, so Bobby just grabbed his arm to steady him. And then he focused, concentrating on the high expanse of concrete and razor wire just to the west.
He had expected it to just look like a blank wall, but it was nothing of the sort. It had so many markings, it actually looked … alive, somehow.
“What are…. What the hell are all those markings? Graffiti?” asked Dean.
“Now, who the hell you supposed would be fool enough to take a spray can to Lucy’s wall?” asked Bobby.
“Then what are they?” asked Dean, handing back the binoculars.
“Arcane symbols, sigils, fragments of Enochian. They’re there to prevent passage: angel, demon, human, all sorts of beings. There’s more that you can’t see, at least, our eyes can’t see. Cas could probably tell you. Or if you had a demon friend, which I wouldn’t recommend.”
“They’re to prevent us going in?”
“Us going in, them coming out. And then there’s more spells and magic, and more shit you probably don’t believe in, all up and down. Some as just to stop you, but a lot as do worse. I’ve seen men try to get over the wall end up with their skin peeled off, eyes boiled out of their head, heart just exploded.”
Dean shook his head at Bobby. It was too much to believe. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re damn lucky you crash landed, boy. You wanna get over that wall? Lucifer’s wall? You gotta know where, and you gotta know how.”
“I just.... I just wanna get my brother.”
“Well, my opinion? Plan A didn't work out so well. So, you might wanna start thinking on Plan B,” said Bobby. “And maybe C and D.”
Sam dragged into the bunkhouse and shambled into his room. He climbed into his upper bunk, his hair still wet from the shower, and flopped down into it.
He stretched out his long legs. His feet and ankles, as they always did, hung over the end of the mattress.
“Rufus! This sucks!” he howled at his roommate.
He glanced over as he felt the pressure on his thin mattress. The dark-skinned older man was standing casually, one arm propped on Sam’s mattress, the other fingering the miniscule butt end of his hand rolled cigarette. Rufus could always seem to drag one last puff out of those things. The guards were dicks about getting them tobacco, even though Sam knew damn well it was included in the care packages. He had packed some of those boxes, just a year or so ago!
Rufus wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his eyes were cast out of the window. He brought the butt to his lips, and damned if he didn’t get one last drag. And then he let it flick down, a little orange firefly, crushing out the spark below his boot on the rough wooden floor. Sam knew enough now not to go barefoot, or even in stocking feet, on these rough, splintery floors.
“You know what?” asked Rufus.
“What?” sighed Sam, settling his head back into his hard little pillow.
“There’s a poker game tonight,” said Rufus. He turned and started to saunter out of the room. He paused at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. He bobbed his head in a “come on” gesture towards Sam.
Sam frowned. Dean had taught him to play poker. Though Dean sucked as a player, Sam was pretty good. But he had never gotten an invitation to a game here before.
He didn’t think it over much. His bed was uncomfortable as hell, and this might be interesting. Or at least not crushingly boring. He was down and was walking beside Rufus in little more than one graceful leap. He grabbed his hat and jacket from the bare hooks by the door, and they shuffled out into the cold night wind. Sam, shivering, pulled his thin wool jacket tighter. “What’s this place like in the winter?” he asked Rufus.
“Sucks,” smiled Rufus. “That’s the desert for you. Sucks ass, summer or winter. You get socks in a care pack? Keep ‘em. You’ll wear every damn layer.”
Sam cast a glance up at the high walls, topped by barbed wire, and bedecked with more arcane symbols and warding signs than he’d ever seen. Sam didn’t ask Rufus, because he’s asked a million times, whether it was to keep them inside, or keep something else outside. Rufus would inevitably smile mysteriously and say, “Maybe a little of both.”
It was different over here in the West, of that there was no doubt. Sam had his first hints at flight school. At first he’d thoughts pilots were just superstitious as hell, but then he’d sat and listened as the grizzled veterans (actually, guys just in their 30s, a lot of them) spent an entire evening arguing about whether a red-eyed demon or a black-eyed demon made the fiercest opponent in a dogfight. And then there had been literal hours of painting everybody’s plane with the correct sigils. Oh, and the guy who’d run into engine trouble and then found something called a hex bag stuffed under his seat.
Sam had no opinion, red-eyed demons or jackal bones, but he’d become a believer pretty quickly after he’d landed here in enemy territory. His wingman had gotten shot down, and Sam, disobeying a direct order, had put his plane down nearby to try and help. The enemy soldiers who had showed up soon afterwards to greet him thought otherwise, and when their guns didn’t to the job of keeping Sam from charging into his buddy’s burning wreckage (which, thinking back, probably would have killed him), they suddenly morphed from unpleasant human guys to black-eyed freaks just to emphasize the point. Later he’d realized that had been his very first encounter with demons. It was not to be his last. He remembered Rufus’ oft-repeated quote: “Demons. You can’t trust ‘em. On the other hand, you can’t trust ‘em.”
He and Rufus had reached a bunkhouse at the far end of the camp. Sam had gathered from what Rufus and some of the other guys had said that this building housed the troublemakers, including guys who had somehow attempted escape, or even possibly escaped before. He wondered not for the first time how the hell they'd pulled off something like that. It seemed nothing, mortal nor immortal, could penetrate their prison walls.
Rufus led Sam directly to the common room, where a group of guys was seated around an improvised poker table: there were a lot of packing crates stacked here and there. He recognized a few faces: there was Ash from his bunkhouse. The guy was a bit of a doofus, but Sam liked him OK. And then Victor and Chuck were also from the west. Victor was a no bullshit kind of guy who Sam gathered was an ex-cop. Chuck by contrast was mousy as hell, and Sam had no idea how he’d ended up here.
And Frank. Sam tended to avoid Frank. He was not sitting at the poker table, but was off in a corner, gazing owlishly at all assembled.
One of the guys, one of the foreigners, looked up at them as they approached.
“Balthazar,” said Rufus, “Sam wants to join the game.”
Balthazar, a tall, slim handsome fellow who moved like a dancer, smiled merrily and said, “Camaus, do pull up a chair for our guest.” A small blond guy jumped up and pulled a milk crate next to Balthazar. Sam, who was a little nonplussed, sat down. Rufus remained standing nearby.
Balthazar, who had been dealing, took the pack and shuffled it. “Sam Winchester,” he said, arching an eyebrow, as if it were half a question, half a wry comment.
Sam nodded. Despite all being more or less military personnel (Sam on the “less” side), it was such a mix of different services and nations, guys didn't go mentioning ranks much.
“So, Rufus informs me that your mom used to tell you stories, back when you were a boy.”
“She died when I was pretty little,” said Sam, who was now utterly mystified by this line of questioning. “But, yeah.”
“What kind of things did she tell you?” asked Balthazar. He was now shuffling the cards elaborately, like some kind of sideshow magician.
“Well, one thing, that there were angels among us.”
“Angels?” asked Balthazar. And there was that merry look again.
“Yeah, I mean, my brother never believed. But I did. I always did.”
“Do you really? Believe in magic?” asked Balthazar. He fanned out the cards on the table.
Sam blushed, hearing Ash guffaw, and looked at the cards. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Well then,” said Balthazar. He sent a hand over the cards, flipping them over one way, and then the other. He fanned them out again. “So do I.”
Sam looked down at the deck. It was now, every card, ace of spades. He looked back at Balthazar, blinking in surprise.
“So, I also hear that you are growing impatient with Mr. Lucifer's … hospitality,” said Balthazar. He picked up the cards, and this time fanned them out in one hand and held it over to Sam. Sam picked a card.
It was the joker.
“Well, I don't wanna seem ungrateful,” said Sam, “but, yeah, that wall out there is putting a crimp in my social calendar.”
“Lucy likes his walls,” said Rufus, who was leaning back against the wall, lighting yet another cigarette.
“But like all walls, where there is a will, there is a way,” said Balthazar. “Your card, Sam. Is it the king of diamonds?”
“No, it's-” But Sam paused, staring at the card. King of diamonds. He tossed the card on the table, hearing Rufus chuckle behind him.
Sam leaned forward. “Balthazar, you got yourself a player,” he said.
“Splendid!” said Balthazar. “Rufus, why are you standing around like a lump! Pull up a milk crate! We need to relieve this young man of some of his money.”
Dean had been sitting in the yard of Singer Salvage feeling sorry for himself for he wasn't sure how long.
He nearly jumped out of his skin as the giant tow truck rumbled up and blew its air horn at him.
“Cas, you son of a bitch!” he yelled up at the kid leaning out of the driver’s seat.
“Going to pick up your plane. What’s left of it. Wanna come?” Cas yelled down from the cab.
Dean looked up. “On one condition!”
“Yeah?”
“You let me drive.”
Cas grinned and popped open the driver side door. Then he scrambled over while Dean hoisted himself into the driver’s seat. Dean cheered up almost immediately, sitting behind the wheel. There was something about driving that always calmed him.
A couple miles up the road he glanced over at Cas, who was slouched in the passenger seat with his feet propped up on the dusty dashboard. Dean noticed he had donned boots, as Bobby had yelled at him to do. “You sure you OK with me driving?” asked Dean.
“You’re a good pilot, Dean. I figure you can drive a truck,” shrugged the angel. His voice really seemed about an octave too deep for his scrawny frame.
“I crashed my damn plane.”
“You successfully evaded the antiaircraft fire for quite some time. I found that impressive. Of course, Bobby probably told you why that would have sucked?” he asked, raising the bill of his ball cap so he could look at Dean.
“Sucks to be me, in general,” sighed Dean.
“Sucks to be you,” Cas cheerfully agreed. “In particular.”
They were silent for a while. “So, uh, you're an angel?” ventured Dean.
“That's what they say,” said Cas, raising and lowering his ball cap. He pushed his tangled bangs out of the way, but they just fell back. “Though this not existing thing you informed me about is upsetting.”
“OK, sorry about that,” said Dean.
“I guess being an angel would explain the wings, huh?”
“You got wings?” asked Dean.
“Why wouldn't I have wings? I'm a fucking angel.”
“What about a harp?” asked Dean.
“Fuck harps.”
Dean found himself grinning. “So, uh, are they all white and feathery?” he asked, taking his hands off the wheel to flap them.
Dean cringed. Cas was suddenly leaning over really close. He needed to talk to the guy about this....
“They are dark as night, broad as branches, and the very sight of them causes tribulation in mere mortals,” Cas told him.
“Uh. You don't say.” Dean glanced over at him, not quite sure if the guy was yanking his chain. Damn, he could hold a stare like no one else. “Well, I don't think I'd have tribulations,” he told Cas, glaring back at him while trying to watch the road, “or whatever.”
Cas slouched back in his seat. “I doubt I would show them to you anyway. You need to turn off the main road. Here,” he said, pointing ahead.
“I see it!” said Dean. And he did. The site where he had just crash landed. He had to admit, it was pretty impressive. There was debris scattered over a good half mile. “That was … a pretty good crash.”
“I've seen worse,” Cas insisted. “Up there, alongside the fuselage. I'll set up the winch,” he said, but he was already darting out before Dean had even brought the heavy truck to a halt. Then the angel was out front, directing Dean to ease the truck into his opinion of exactly the right spot. Dean jumped out himself, and then occupied himself with helping Cas hook up the winch so they could ease the big piece of machinery onto the truck's broad bed.
“You're not bad at this. Wanna job?” grinned Cas after Dean had volunteered to run the winch.
“I did some construction work, before the police academy,” Dean noted.
“This is destruction work. More fun,” said Cas.
There was a distinctive humming sound. Dean looked over to a cruiser that had just pottered into view. It was an old model, nothing like the one Dean had wrecked, and it sounded like the engine was being held together with bailing wire and electrical tape. From the looks of the rusty, damaged body, that's exactly what had been done.
The pilot carelessly let the vehicle set down heavily on the landing gear. Dean cringed: the guy was obviously an idiot. No wonder his gear was in such bad shape. They were running without a canopy, another stupid move, so the two guys seated there just jumped out. Dean noticed that crudely painted on the side were the words Mammonite Salvage.
“Who are those guys?” asked Dean.
“Mammonite. The competition.”
“Wait, Mammon? Like in the Bible?” asked Dean.
“You read the Bible?” asked Cas, raising an eyebrow. “They’re trouble.” Cas had dropped his grin. “Stay back,” he warned, although Dean ignored him. Cas set his shoulders and strode up to greet them, Dean a couple steps in back of him. Dean suddenly regretted he'd left his sidearm in Bobby's living room. Well, that wasn't the only protection he carried.
It was two guys. They both had the same general look, pale, straw-colored hair, like they were related. Big guys, one big, the other bigger. Dean had been working as a cop long enough to suss people out, and they were clearly guys willing and able to do something stupid.
“We were out here last night, Cas,” said the smaller of the two.
“Then you were out here after my company, and thus have no rights,” said Castiel, gesturing to the blue marker he had set.
“How did you get to the site so damn fast, Cas? You shoot them down yourself?”
“This is a Singer salvage. It's marked.”
“And what's this supposed to be?” he asked, pointing to Dean.
“My summer intern,” said Cas.
“Hey, is that a cop uniform? Wait a minute. He's from out East, ain't he?” He took a step, but Cas sidestepped and blocked him.
“He's with me,” said Cas.
“He ain't supposed to be here, I bet. I bet we could get a reward, if we take him over the wall.”
“He's going nowhere.”
“Cas, you ain't got no sense of marketing.”
“Leave,” Cas told them. “Now.”
“He ain't your salvage.”
“Hey, he told you politely to leave,” said Dean.
“Then maybe we shouldn't be so polite,” snapped the Mammonite guy.
And then … they changed. Dean had seen a lot in his young life, but he had never seen anything like this. The guys' eyes suddenly rolled up and blacked over, like they had gotten filled up with ink or something. But it wasn't just that. Somehow, their whole presence changed. Dean couldn't explain it very well, but in a flash they went from threatening dipshits to fucking scary mofos.
His cop instincts took over then. The first rule was you did not show fear, even if you were one step from peeing your pants. Two of them, two of us, he told himself He wasn't happy that the bigger one was advancing on Cas, though he realized by now the kid was stronger than he looked.
The smaller one was in his face, and Dean easily ducked a dumb, wild punch from the guy. He followed up with a sharp elbow to the guy's gut, but was very surprised when the guy didn't go down. In fact, he didn't even seem phased by it. Dean ducked another badly aimed punch, and this time tried a kick to the knee. This time, he brought the guy down, but the sucker landed right on top of him. The guy recovered and swung back for another punch, but Dean sent a hand down to his ankle and came up with his extra gun, which he cocked up at the guy. “Don't try it,” he warned.
Suddenly, the guy was wrenched up off of him, and, to Dean's astonishment, Cas sent him sailing off to crash into the side of his dilapidated vehicle. His brother, who was looking much the worse for wear, pulled him up and half threw him into the cruiser. “This isn't over!” he yelled, and then both Mammonites took off, with the thrum of their rattle trap motor.
Dean, still on his back, saw Cas' hand reaching down, the angel looking curiously at him. He reached up and was pulled back to his feet, standing nearly nose to nose with Cas. The guy could be a little unnerving: he got in your face, and didn't seem to blink often enough.
“Just so you know, for future reference,” Dean said, “I can handle myself. In a fight.”
“I can see that, Dean,” said Cas, looking at Dean's gun. “For your future reference, standard ammunition doesn't generally work on those individuals.”
“Standard ammunition?” asked Dean, kneeling to put away his gun.
“The commonly followed procedure is to load rounds with rock salt. Sometimes silver bullets,” Cas told him. “But that only slows them down. I can exorcise them, but then they just come back, and not in a particularly friendly mood.”
“Exorcise?” asked Dean. “What the fuck are those guys?”
“Demons.” And the grin was back.
“So we got angels and demons out here? What else do I not know about that could kill me?”
“Hard to say,” Cas told him. “The scope of your ignorance fairly impressive.” Dean frowned. “Wanna help me get your wreck on my truck? We should probably get back and tell Bobby about our friends.”
“You could call me just an old-fashioned guy,” said Zachariah, beaming at his assembled prisoners.
“Could this guy be any more smarmy. Yuck,” Sam whispered to Rufus, who stifled a grin. Sam shivered in the cold morning air.
“Now, I'm new here, I know that. I know you all have a certain way of doing things, a certain way this camp has been run,” continued the pudgy, balding figure as he strode up and down the line, several guards shuffling along in his wake. “I have a certain way of doing things as well. A very simple way. And that's playing fair. You play by my rules, we'll get along. We'll get along just fine!” He had stopped more or less in front of where Sam and Rufus were standing. He flashed a million dollar smile, which made a sick tremble go down Sam's spine.
“You do not play by my rules,” Zachariah continued, “if you break my rules, of if you insist on consorting with known rule-breakers,” he said, suddenly coming to a halt right in front of Balthazar, “then I will not be so positively inclined towards you.” He fixed a scowl at Balthazar, which admittedly was not half so terrifying as his smile. Balthazar raised an eyebrow.
Zachariah walked back to the front of the crowd. “So I urge you all. Play by the rules. My rules. And then we will all get along.”
The speech, unfortunately, did not end there. As soon as it was finally finished, the prisoners all made for the relative warmth of their bunk houses.
“So, is Zach a red-eye or a black-eye. I couldn't tell,” Sam asked Rufus.
“Neither,” said Rufus, pausing to light one of his pathetic cigarette butts.
“Neither.”
“He ain't demon. He's an angel. One of Michael's boys, so it's rumored.”
“Wait,” said Sam as Rufus paused outside their building for a quick smoke. “I thought Lucifer and Michael were bitter enemies. Isn't that … weird?”
“There's rumors flying that Michael is losing. Maybe Zach saw the writing on the wall, and switched up. Otherwise, I don't know.”
“That's weird,” said Sam.
“Hey, Camaeus,” said Rufus to the small blond guy who had just walked up.
“Rufus. Sam,” said Camaeus. “Balthazar was wondering if you might wanna consort with some rule breakers?”
“These rule breakers, they got hot coffee?” asked Rufus.
“Yeah,” grinned Camaeus.
“I'm in,” said Rufus, tossing his cigarette butt away.
“I never did know what was good for me,” grinned Sam, following after Rufus and Camaeus.
It was getting dark by the time Dean and Cas drove back to Singer Salvage. Bobby was standing by the house with some guy Dean didn't recognize.
“Is this the dumb motherfucker?” asked the guy when Dean stepped out of the cab. He was black haired, black-eyed, and sported an old fashioned handlebar mustache.
“In the flesh,” said Bobby.
“Uh, what's up, Bobby?” said Dean. He noticed Cas was already down from the truck and standing right in back of him.
“This here is Justice Swearengen, the local magistrate,” said Bobby.
“Uh. You got judges out here?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, real live judges and courts, the whole motherfucking nine yards, wise guy,” said Swearengen. “And you, you dumb shit, are gonna appear before me, like a good cizitzen, first thing tomorrow fucking morning.” And with that, Swearengen nodded and stalked off.
“Bobby, what the fuck?” asked Dean.
“What is going on?” demanded Cas.
“Evidently, your new buddy is technically a fugitive from the law. Cas, did you tangle with the Mammonites?”
Cas shrugged. “We may have had discussions,” he said. “There was a considered difference of opinion regarding salvage rights.”
“Great, I raised a fucking lawyer,” said Bobby.
“Also, they tried to beat the shit out of us,” said Dean.
“Well, whatever happened, you boys must've pissed them off, because they ran and tattled to Sheriff Mills, and she had to get the magistrate involved.”
“This incident involved a visit from … Jody?” asked Castiel.
“Cut it, Cas! You ain’t too old to smack in the head,” said Bobby.
“I think an expression of gratitude is called for,” Castiel told him.
“You know what I think, kid? Swearengen’s gonna have you testify, we better get you looking decent,” Bobby countered.
“I took a shower this morning,” grumbled Castiel.
“I mean shave and a haircut, idjit. Now, go get my my scissors. You’re looking like a damn girl!”
Castiel scowled, but went off, evidently to retrieve the instruments of his destruction.
“I dunno about that, you should see my brother,” Dean laughed.
“Bring him by,” said Bobby. “Oh, quit looking like that,” he said as the angel returned. “Cas, you’re lucky I don’t take the damn electric shaver to your head!” Castiel, a look of fiery vengeance etched on his features, handed a pair of scissors to Bobby and then, every fiber of his being radiating resentment, plopped into a chair. “Now, I dunno what your mom told you about angels, Dean, but they’re unbearable little shitheads, when they get a mind. Cap, dammit!” he yelled at Castiel, who tugged off his ball cap. “You want them to take away Dean, do you?”
Cas suddenly turned towards Dean, a look of horror spread across his features. “No,” he whispered.
“OK, then, let’s evince a little cooperation here!” Castiel slumped down in the chair.
“Bobby,” said Dean as he watched the black thatch turn to something Bobby Singer considered presentable in a court of law.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not really sure I’m enthusiastic about this taking Dean away business either.” Dean sighed. He had been so bound and determined to look for Sammy, he hadn’t really considered what would happened if he didn’t make it over that wall. Dean wasn’t big on consideration.
“Well, son, I’ll tell you. I gave my word to Jody – that’s the sheriff – you’d show up tomorrow. I can’t promise anything. But let me just say, Al Swearengen is a … like-minded individual.”
“He’s a miserable old drunk,” muttered Cas.
“Well, yeah, that too.”
“I thought you guys in the neutral territories did what you wanted,” said Dean.
“What kinda rose garden did you grow up in, boy?” asked Bobby as the pile of matted black hair grew at his feet. “They leave us be as long as we don’t bother them too much. For the time being at least. But it’s common knowledge Lucy’s got his eye on us. Once he finishes up with Mike, he’s heading east, is the consensus, and No Man’s Land is just the first stop.”
“So the Valentine's Day bombing wasn’t a fluke?” asked Dean.
“It’s just the beginning,” said Bobby. He looked at Dean for a moment. “Did you know any of the V Day victims, son?”
“Yeah. My brother’s fiancée.”
“Aw, shit! I’m sorry, kid.”
“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel echoed. And indeed, he did sound sorry.
“It’s worse than you think. It’s the reason the dumb son of a bitch got it in his head he’s a freedom fighter,” sighed Dean.
“Well, if it makes any difference, a lot of people got joining up with the Michaelistas in their heads. But that's a damn shame about the girl.”
“Jess. I didn't know her well,” Dean admitted. “Sammy was gonna be the first in the family to graduate college.”
“You were working to put him through?” asked Bobby.
“Yeah, I worked construction for a while, before I got a job on the force.”
“You need to hire him on, Bobby. He shows a great deal of promise,” said Castiel.
“Yeah, and then maybe I could fire a certain pigheaded angel,” said Bobby. He took Cas by the shoulders and gave him a critical look. “Well, I think I've done enough damage. We'll go through my suits and see if I have anything small enough to fit you.”
“A suit?” wailed Cas.
“Yeah, you're gonna have t' dress like an actual civilized human for a couple hours, boo fucking hoo,” said Bobby. “And you,” he said to Dean. “We might not want to show you off in your uniform, if it's all the same to you.”
“Yeah. My jacket's a little scorched anyway,” said Dean, looking at his sleeves.
“Maybe I'll call Jody and see if her husband left anything we could use,” said Bobby
“Bobby,” said Dean. “I really don’t wanna go back just now. I know it’s my own damn fault, but I’m in a fuckload of trouble if I try to go back after pulling this stunt.”
“Son, I’m afraid sending you back, bad as it sounds, ain’t what they intend,” Bobby told him.
“Then, what would they do with me?” asked Dean.
Bobby and Cas shared a look that did not fill Dean with confidence. “According to Swearengen, they want what you want, kid. Get your ass over the wall,” said Bobby.
“What?” asked Dean.
“Now, don’t worry. We won’t let it happen,” said Bobby.
“They’re gonna give me up … to Lucifer?” asked Dean.
“We won’t let them,” said Cas. “I won’t let them.”
Dean looked from Cas to Bobby. He shivered.
What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas; Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Rufus, Balthazar, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Uriel, Jody Mills, Ruby.
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Descriptions of violence, especially in later chapters. Some light hints of Sam/Ruby.
Word Count: 45,000 total
Summary: The apocalypse has come. Lucifer and Michael burned down heaven in their madness, and then rent our world in two. Much of the United States now roils in a state of constant warfare. When Sam, a fighter pilot working for the Michaelistas, is shot down over enemy lines, Dean, a tough ex-cop, risks everything to search for him.
Notes: This is set in a post-apocalyptic AU, but it is NOT the Endverse. The character of Al Swearengen has been shamelessly stolen, with love, from the Deadwood 'verse.
Cas sat and watched the lights skittering across the desert horizon like low flying shooting stars.
If he looked up, he could occasionally see a real shooting star. It was the time of year for the Perseid meteor shower. He studied the night sky. They said his people had come from up there. But even if the stories were true, he had been too young to remember. He put a hand up, as if he were reaching out to touch the stars.
He gripped his night vision binoculars, holding them to his chest. His eyes were keen without them, but he had picked them up in a recent salvage, and thought they were cool. Human made. He ran a hand over the smooth metallic surface.
Cas smiled to himself, thinking how much of what he knew about the human world came from what he knew about their scrap.
He scanned the low morning sky. Early mornings like these were the times they made a run for it, hopping over the wall in small winged vehicles, fleeing Lucifer. Sometimes they made it. Often, maybe more often, they did not, and then Singer Salvage would collect a new prize.
He took up the binocs and watched a lone light hurtle through the darkness. This one was very strange, very strange indeed: it was headed in the wrong direction. Who tried to make a run on the wall? Who wanted into Lucifer’s dread kingdom?
Brave little light, he thought. So many ships didn't make it across, their light extinguished forever, the fragile human inside extinguished.
He sat forward. He didn’t see or hear anything, rather he just sensed it, pulling with those other senses the humans didn’t seem to possess, or at least didn’t seem to know how to muster.
Cas turned the binoculars westward, searching for something. There. Artillery fire coming from the wall. Someone else had spotted the light. His light.
Cas switched his focus back to the ship that was desperately trying to make it across No Man’s Land. Even though it would cost him a potentially valuable job, he started urging it on, praying for it to make it. Come on. Dodge the bullets. You can make it.
The craft took evasive action, dodging left and right. Good, his guy could fly. Maybe he could make it?
Funny, now that he was looking at it under magnification, he saw it had the markings of a police cruiser. Their cops had no business here in No Man’s Land. Had someone jacked a cruiser and gone for a joy ride? That was kind of a cool notion.
But here came another barrage. He saw the orange shower of sparks on a stubby starboard wing, and sensed the desperation of the pilot, who was probably fighting with the unresponsive controls. He needn’t have bothered.
As the craft went into its fatal dive, Cas was already tearing off his jacket. And then he was winged.
He had the marker in the ground as soon as he alit. Singer Salvage: blue with a small pentagram. Bobby’s little joke. This area was now theirs. That was the rule out here: first claim gets the salvage. Bobby was used to having his pick. Let the demon outfits try their spells; no one was faster than Cas.
He shrugged back into his jacket. No use flaunting the wings, especially out here. Sometimes you’d run into a rival outfit that was harboring … jealousy. Usually no problem for Cas, but he really wasn’t in the mood for smiting anyone tonight.
He spotted the first piece of burning wreckage a few paces away. He hunkered down to take a look. Yes, it was definitely some kind of police cruiser. That was weird. It looked like the craft had been flying low enough that damage wasn’t too extensive. Flying low: Cas had been right, this had been a smart pilot. The cruiser had broken into three main sections: the tail, the fuselage with broken wing fins, and the cockpit, which had held together like it was supposed to in a crash. There might be more than scrap metal out of this one. That was good. There was always a hunger for spare parts out here.
He gave the burning fuselage a wide berth for now, the flames throwing a weird shadow across the wasteland as he passed. Cas was fairly impervious to fire, but you never knew when something might spark a fuel tank and cause a big boom. He walked on until he was even with the cockpit, which was aflame as well. He wasn't thinking on bothering with the fire extinguisher, even though he had one in his pack. Usually the best course was to let stuff burn itself out overnight. There wasn't much out here to damage, even if you got an explosion or two.
He placed another Singer Salvage marker at more or less the cockpit end of the trail of wreckage. He didn't technically need to mark the entire perimeter, but you couldn't be too careful. Especially not with the Mammonites and their ilk out here.
Cas turned suddenly, now facing the wreck.
The sense of desperation suddenly burned through him.
The pilot – he was still alive in there.
He was on the flaming wreckage in one leap, hands at the hatch release lever. He pried with his whole body, but the fucking thing was stuck. He peered in, but couldn't see anything: the dome was stupid one way glass. Of course, it was a cop cruiser! Well, he'd have to do it the hard way then. He gritted his teeth and, while the flames licked around him, put one hand on either side and twisted. The entire carapace popped off, but he overbalanced he fell down along with it, crashing on his back in the dirt.
Cursing, he threw it off him and scrambled back up. There he was, the pilot, lying still in his seat, half unbuckled, probably overcome from all the smoke. Cas crouched and extended his hands, gripping him tight under the armpits and then, without even bothering to unstrap him, wrenched him out. This time he fell in the dirt with the pilot on top of him.
“Hey, you OK?” He didn’t really expect a response. It was a young looking human, maybe only a few years older than himself. And, to Cas’ surprise, he was dressed in a cop uniform. Why would a cop steal his own cop cruiser? Weird. Well, definitely the most interesting salvage job he’d had in a while.
“We’ll get you back home,” he told the unconscious cop, once again whipping off his jacket.
And then they were gone to the soft sound of wingbeats.
Dean awoke to a face pressed inches from his own.
“He’s up!” came a low voice. Sepulchral. Am I dead, thought Dean.
“Give him some damn air, boy!” came a much more human sounding voice.
Dean blinked. The face receded. “Is he all right, Bobby?” asked the deeper voice.
“Quit the damn hovering, Cas. Go! Sit!”
Dean tried to focus his eyes, blinking even in the dim light. He attempted to sit up, and found arms pressing him down. “Now, take it easy. Take it easy, son,” said the more comforting voice. Dean felt himself settled back on something. He squinted, looking around. This sure as hell wasn’t a hospital. It looked like somebody’s living room. Though it was crazy: there were books piled everywhere. They seemed to be using a pile of books as an end table.
“So, Officer … Winchester is it?” asked the guy sitting next to him. Dean let his gaze fall on the guy for a minute. Fifty-something, maybe sixty, scraggly beard, ball cap, eyes that had seen everything. He decided he liked this guy, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Uh. Dean is OK,” said Dean. His voice was scratchy as hell.
“Cas! Make yourself useful. Get some water, dammit.” Dean’s tried to focus on the shadowy figure across the room, but he had darted out already. “OK, Dean,” the guy said to him. “I’m Bobby. You remember anything about what happened?”
“Before or after I got my ass shot down?” he asked.
The old guy guffawed. “How about after?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his head. A fire! And he couldn’t escape. Flames all around him. Smoke burning his lungs.
Dean suddenly saw a glass of water stuck in his face. “Cas! Don’t fucking drown him!” scolded Bobby, grabbing the glass. “Back!” he ordered, and once again the figure retreated across the room. As Bobby helped Dean sit upright so he could sip the water, Dean looked over at Cas. He was a skinny kid, maybe around Sammy’s age, maybe a little younger, a splay of tangled black hair in his face, and the bluest eyes Dean thought he had ever seen.
And one big, shit-eating grin on his face.
“Is he alive? Is he in possession of his facilities? Did I save him?” The voice did not match the kid at all. It was from someone … well, a hell of a lot bigger and older. Maybe he would grow into it?
“Yep. You saved him Cas,” said Bobby. “Oh, get your shoes off the furniture!”
“Not wearing shoes, Bobby.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re the one who pulled me out?” Dean asked Cas.
“I raised you from the fiery perdition,” Cas told him, eyes burning blue fire.
“Cas, quit bein’ fucking dramatic,” laughed Bobby, which only got Cas to grin wider.
“Well, thanks, dude,” said Dean. “Though….” He thought back. “My canopy. It was jammed. How the fuck…?”
“Yes, I had to pull it off,” Cas explained, as if it were no big deal. “The whole thing.”
“Wait!” said Dean, who was woozy, but not that woozy. “You don’t just pull a fucking canopy off one of those babies. You….” He was at a loss.
Bobby was grinning now. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked Dean.
“Don’t know what?” asked Dean.
“Cas here … he’s an angel. He does weird ass shit like walk into fires and pull open cruiser canopies.”
“Wait. This is an angel?” said Dean, staring at the ragged being crouched on the threadbare couch, grinning at him.
“What were you expecting? A damn harp?” asked Bobby.
“But…” sputtered Dean. “Angels don’t exist.”
“Oh, looks like we got ourselves an expert here,” Bobby told Cas. “So, Officer Winchester, you spend a whole lot of your time getting your ass saved by imaginary fucking beings?” asked Bobby.
“My mother believed,” said Dean. “And so does my brother. Did my brother. Does my brother.” He finished the water, wishing it were something a lot stronger.
“Do you need more water?” Dean blinked. Cas was suddenly in his face again, holding the empty glass.
“Cas!” said Bobby, jerking back a thumb. He seemed to treat Cas sort of the way you would a big, overly friendly dog, Dean thought. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up, kid? You smell like a damn barbeque.”
Dean noticed for the first time that Cas’ clothes were pretty badly scorched, from his aircraft fire, he guessed. But he didn’t seem to be injured in any way himself.
“OK, Bobby” said Cas, who was already on his way out the door.
“And then make yourself useful and get a load of my salvage!” Bobby yelled after him. “The boy would forget his head,” he sighed, more to himself than to Dean.
“That’s really an angel?” asked Dean.
“Well, from what I understand, those sort are more Nephilim than anything. But, yeah,” said Bobby. “You spent all your life in the Free States, I take it?”
Dean nodded. “Since I was a kid, anyway. My mom was killed in the Blitz. So Sammy – that’s my brother – and I found our way out.”
Bobby nodded. “Well, I dunno what they tell you folks in the Free States, but Cas is a refugee, like you. Only from Heaven.”
“Then … it was true? What my mom told us?”
“I dunno, son,” said Bobby, sitting back. “What did she tell you?”
“She told my brother and me, the lights coming down from the sky during the Blitz? Those were falling angels.”
“Pretty much,” said Bobby. “From what I understand, before Lucifer and Michael had it out down here, they burned down heaven. Quite a feud.”
“They burned down heaven? That’s not possible!” said Dean.
“The residents – the ones left alive anyway – got out, and most of ‘em ended up out west somewhere, as refugees. I had some come through here too. My mamma, she taught me some angel lore as well. I put up the signs, and had some folks come to earth hereabouts, where I could give them a hand. Cas’ people, I guess they were on the last boat out of there. He was pretty small, so his brother left him with me, t’ bring up. Not that a body can do much in the matter of bringin’ up angels. ‘Specially if they’re pigheaded little shits.”
Dean sat up, though it made his head swim a little.
“You OK, there, Officer?” asked Bobby.
“You can quit calling me Officer,” sighed Dean, looking down at his singed police jacket.
“I sorta figured as much. You seem to be a little AWOL, if I might say.”
“Yeah, I think this stunt pretty much got me resigned,” said Dean, shaking his head.
“You wanna tell me your story? Seeing as how you brought me the biggest salvage of the month. Not a lot of fools trying get into Lucy’s front yard like that.”
“I’m kind of a refugee myself. Like I said, our mom, she was killed in the Blitz. Don’t know what the hell ever became of our dad, so it’s just been Sammy and me.”
“Brother?”
“Yeah, my kid brother. I’m a cop. Well, I was a cop, and I thought he was headed for college. But he dropped out. He got it in his head that he needed to fly planes for the Teddy Roosevelt Brigade.”
“Supportin’ the Michaelistas, huh? Kid’s an idealist.” Bobby had wandered over to a cluttered desk and picked up a bottle and a couple of glasses, which he brought back over with him.
“Kid’s an idiot,” grumbled Dean. “That’s not our war.”
“You do realize what’s goin’ on, just over the border, out west?” asked Bobby, pouring out a couple of shots.
“I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know. I heard the rumors, no one's seen Michael in years.”
“That's what I've heard,” said Bobby.
“Yeah, so much for fighting for him. So, Sam’s plane disappeared over Arizona, and he’s now on a list of POWs.”
“So, you got it in your head you’re gonna hijack a police cruiser, cross over No Man’s Land into a war zone, and go bust him out? And you say he’s the idjit?” grinned Bobby, handing over a glass with a smile.
“Like I said, Bobby. He’s family. He’s all I got.”
“Well, lemme ask you this. You said you don’t believe in angels. What about demons?”
“More crap.” Dean downed his shot. It was like lighter fluid dipped in hot sauce. He choked, and then held out his glass for another shot.
“So, I take it you didn’t bother with any kind of magical incantations or nothin' to get your cruiser over the wall?” asked Bobby.
Dean frowned and shook his head.
“OK. You look like the kinda fellow who believes what he sees. And that’s good. But let me show you something. That is, if you figger you can walk?” Sitting down his shot glass, Dean gave himself a push, and with Bobby’s help, was up off the couch. The older man then led him outside, and then they were suddenly out in the middle of a pretty extensive salvage yard. Bobby led Dean to one side, bordered by a chain link fence topped by barbed wire. “That’s the wall, right over there,” said Bobby, pointing. He held up a pair of binoculars. “Now, you look over there, you tell me what you see?”
Dean shrugged and pointed the binoculars at the wall. He bobbled his balance a fraction, so Bobby just grabbed his arm to steady him. And then he focused, concentrating on the high expanse of concrete and razor wire just to the west.
He had expected it to just look like a blank wall, but it was nothing of the sort. It had so many markings, it actually looked … alive, somehow.
“What are…. What the hell are all those markings? Graffiti?” asked Dean.
“Now, who the hell you supposed would be fool enough to take a spray can to Lucy’s wall?” asked Bobby.
“Then what are they?” asked Dean, handing back the binoculars.
“Arcane symbols, sigils, fragments of Enochian. They’re there to prevent passage: angel, demon, human, all sorts of beings. There’s more that you can’t see, at least, our eyes can’t see. Cas could probably tell you. Or if you had a demon friend, which I wouldn’t recommend.”
“They’re to prevent us going in?”
“Us going in, them coming out. And then there’s more spells and magic, and more shit you probably don’t believe in, all up and down. Some as just to stop you, but a lot as do worse. I’ve seen men try to get over the wall end up with their skin peeled off, eyes boiled out of their head, heart just exploded.”
Dean shook his head at Bobby. It was too much to believe. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re damn lucky you crash landed, boy. You wanna get over that wall? Lucifer’s wall? You gotta know where, and you gotta know how.”
“I just.... I just wanna get my brother.”
“Well, my opinion? Plan A didn't work out so well. So, you might wanna start thinking on Plan B,” said Bobby. “And maybe C and D.”
Sam dragged into the bunkhouse and shambled into his room. He climbed into his upper bunk, his hair still wet from the shower, and flopped down into it.
He stretched out his long legs. His feet and ankles, as they always did, hung over the end of the mattress.
“Rufus! This sucks!” he howled at his roommate.
He glanced over as he felt the pressure on his thin mattress. The dark-skinned older man was standing casually, one arm propped on Sam’s mattress, the other fingering the miniscule butt end of his hand rolled cigarette. Rufus could always seem to drag one last puff out of those things. The guards were dicks about getting them tobacco, even though Sam knew damn well it was included in the care packages. He had packed some of those boxes, just a year or so ago!
Rufus wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his eyes were cast out of the window. He brought the butt to his lips, and damned if he didn’t get one last drag. And then he let it flick down, a little orange firefly, crushing out the spark below his boot on the rough wooden floor. Sam knew enough now not to go barefoot, or even in stocking feet, on these rough, splintery floors.
“You know what?” asked Rufus.
“What?” sighed Sam, settling his head back into his hard little pillow.
“There’s a poker game tonight,” said Rufus. He turned and started to saunter out of the room. He paused at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. He bobbed his head in a “come on” gesture towards Sam.
Sam frowned. Dean had taught him to play poker. Though Dean sucked as a player, Sam was pretty good. But he had never gotten an invitation to a game here before.
He didn’t think it over much. His bed was uncomfortable as hell, and this might be interesting. Or at least not crushingly boring. He was down and was walking beside Rufus in little more than one graceful leap. He grabbed his hat and jacket from the bare hooks by the door, and they shuffled out into the cold night wind. Sam, shivering, pulled his thin wool jacket tighter. “What’s this place like in the winter?” he asked Rufus.
“Sucks,” smiled Rufus. “That’s the desert for you. Sucks ass, summer or winter. You get socks in a care pack? Keep ‘em. You’ll wear every damn layer.”
Sam cast a glance up at the high walls, topped by barbed wire, and bedecked with more arcane symbols and warding signs than he’d ever seen. Sam didn’t ask Rufus, because he’s asked a million times, whether it was to keep them inside, or keep something else outside. Rufus would inevitably smile mysteriously and say, “Maybe a little of both.”
It was different over here in the West, of that there was no doubt. Sam had his first hints at flight school. At first he’d thoughts pilots were just superstitious as hell, but then he’d sat and listened as the grizzled veterans (actually, guys just in their 30s, a lot of them) spent an entire evening arguing about whether a red-eyed demon or a black-eyed demon made the fiercest opponent in a dogfight. And then there had been literal hours of painting everybody’s plane with the correct sigils. Oh, and the guy who’d run into engine trouble and then found something called a hex bag stuffed under his seat.
Sam had no opinion, red-eyed demons or jackal bones, but he’d become a believer pretty quickly after he’d landed here in enemy territory. His wingman had gotten shot down, and Sam, disobeying a direct order, had put his plane down nearby to try and help. The enemy soldiers who had showed up soon afterwards to greet him thought otherwise, and when their guns didn’t to the job of keeping Sam from charging into his buddy’s burning wreckage (which, thinking back, probably would have killed him), they suddenly morphed from unpleasant human guys to black-eyed freaks just to emphasize the point. Later he’d realized that had been his very first encounter with demons. It was not to be his last. He remembered Rufus’ oft-repeated quote: “Demons. You can’t trust ‘em. On the other hand, you can’t trust ‘em.”
He and Rufus had reached a bunkhouse at the far end of the camp. Sam had gathered from what Rufus and some of the other guys had said that this building housed the troublemakers, including guys who had somehow attempted escape, or even possibly escaped before. He wondered not for the first time how the hell they'd pulled off something like that. It seemed nothing, mortal nor immortal, could penetrate their prison walls.
Rufus led Sam directly to the common room, where a group of guys was seated around an improvised poker table: there were a lot of packing crates stacked here and there. He recognized a few faces: there was Ash from his bunkhouse. The guy was a bit of a doofus, but Sam liked him OK. And then Victor and Chuck were also from the west. Victor was a no bullshit kind of guy who Sam gathered was an ex-cop. Chuck by contrast was mousy as hell, and Sam had no idea how he’d ended up here.
And Frank. Sam tended to avoid Frank. He was not sitting at the poker table, but was off in a corner, gazing owlishly at all assembled.
One of the guys, one of the foreigners, looked up at them as they approached.
“Balthazar,” said Rufus, “Sam wants to join the game.”
Balthazar, a tall, slim handsome fellow who moved like a dancer, smiled merrily and said, “Camaus, do pull up a chair for our guest.” A small blond guy jumped up and pulled a milk crate next to Balthazar. Sam, who was a little nonplussed, sat down. Rufus remained standing nearby.
Balthazar, who had been dealing, took the pack and shuffled it. “Sam Winchester,” he said, arching an eyebrow, as if it were half a question, half a wry comment.
Sam nodded. Despite all being more or less military personnel (Sam on the “less” side), it was such a mix of different services and nations, guys didn't go mentioning ranks much.
“So, Rufus informs me that your mom used to tell you stories, back when you were a boy.”
“She died when I was pretty little,” said Sam, who was now utterly mystified by this line of questioning. “But, yeah.”
“What kind of things did she tell you?” asked Balthazar. He was now shuffling the cards elaborately, like some kind of sideshow magician.
“Well, one thing, that there were angels among us.”
“Angels?” asked Balthazar. And there was that merry look again.
“Yeah, I mean, my brother never believed. But I did. I always did.”
“Do you really? Believe in magic?” asked Balthazar. He fanned out the cards on the table.
Sam blushed, hearing Ash guffaw, and looked at the cards. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Well then,” said Balthazar. He sent a hand over the cards, flipping them over one way, and then the other. He fanned them out again. “So do I.”
Sam looked down at the deck. It was now, every card, ace of spades. He looked back at Balthazar, blinking in surprise.
“So, I also hear that you are growing impatient with Mr. Lucifer's … hospitality,” said Balthazar. He picked up the cards, and this time fanned them out in one hand and held it over to Sam. Sam picked a card.
It was the joker.
“Well, I don't wanna seem ungrateful,” said Sam, “but, yeah, that wall out there is putting a crimp in my social calendar.”
“Lucy likes his walls,” said Rufus, who was leaning back against the wall, lighting yet another cigarette.
“But like all walls, where there is a will, there is a way,” said Balthazar. “Your card, Sam. Is it the king of diamonds?”
“No, it's-” But Sam paused, staring at the card. King of diamonds. He tossed the card on the table, hearing Rufus chuckle behind him.
Sam leaned forward. “Balthazar, you got yourself a player,” he said.
“Splendid!” said Balthazar. “Rufus, why are you standing around like a lump! Pull up a milk crate! We need to relieve this young man of some of his money.”
Dean had been sitting in the yard of Singer Salvage feeling sorry for himself for he wasn't sure how long.
He nearly jumped out of his skin as the giant tow truck rumbled up and blew its air horn at him.
“Cas, you son of a bitch!” he yelled up at the kid leaning out of the driver’s seat.
“Going to pick up your plane. What’s left of it. Wanna come?” Cas yelled down from the cab.
Dean looked up. “On one condition!”
“Yeah?”
“You let me drive.”
Cas grinned and popped open the driver side door. Then he scrambled over while Dean hoisted himself into the driver’s seat. Dean cheered up almost immediately, sitting behind the wheel. There was something about driving that always calmed him.
A couple miles up the road he glanced over at Cas, who was slouched in the passenger seat with his feet propped up on the dusty dashboard. Dean noticed he had donned boots, as Bobby had yelled at him to do. “You sure you OK with me driving?” asked Dean.
“You’re a good pilot, Dean. I figure you can drive a truck,” shrugged the angel. His voice really seemed about an octave too deep for his scrawny frame.
“I crashed my damn plane.”
“You successfully evaded the antiaircraft fire for quite some time. I found that impressive. Of course, Bobby probably told you why that would have sucked?” he asked, raising the bill of his ball cap so he could look at Dean.
“Sucks to be me, in general,” sighed Dean.
“Sucks to be you,” Cas cheerfully agreed. “In particular.”
They were silent for a while. “So, uh, you're an angel?” ventured Dean.
“That's what they say,” said Cas, raising and lowering his ball cap. He pushed his tangled bangs out of the way, but they just fell back. “Though this not existing thing you informed me about is upsetting.”
“OK, sorry about that,” said Dean.
“I guess being an angel would explain the wings, huh?”
“You got wings?” asked Dean.
“Why wouldn't I have wings? I'm a fucking angel.”
“What about a harp?” asked Dean.
“Fuck harps.”
Dean found himself grinning. “So, uh, are they all white and feathery?” he asked, taking his hands off the wheel to flap them.
Dean cringed. Cas was suddenly leaning over really close. He needed to talk to the guy about this....
“They are dark as night, broad as branches, and the very sight of them causes tribulation in mere mortals,” Cas told him.
“Uh. You don't say.” Dean glanced over at him, not quite sure if the guy was yanking his chain. Damn, he could hold a stare like no one else. “Well, I don't think I'd have tribulations,” he told Cas, glaring back at him while trying to watch the road, “or whatever.”
Cas slouched back in his seat. “I doubt I would show them to you anyway. You need to turn off the main road. Here,” he said, pointing ahead.
“I see it!” said Dean. And he did. The site where he had just crash landed. He had to admit, it was pretty impressive. There was debris scattered over a good half mile. “That was … a pretty good crash.”
“I've seen worse,” Cas insisted. “Up there, alongside the fuselage. I'll set up the winch,” he said, but he was already darting out before Dean had even brought the heavy truck to a halt. Then the angel was out front, directing Dean to ease the truck into his opinion of exactly the right spot. Dean jumped out himself, and then occupied himself with helping Cas hook up the winch so they could ease the big piece of machinery onto the truck's broad bed.
“You're not bad at this. Wanna job?” grinned Cas after Dean had volunteered to run the winch.
“I did some construction work, before the police academy,” Dean noted.
“This is destruction work. More fun,” said Cas.
There was a distinctive humming sound. Dean looked over to a cruiser that had just pottered into view. It was an old model, nothing like the one Dean had wrecked, and it sounded like the engine was being held together with bailing wire and electrical tape. From the looks of the rusty, damaged body, that's exactly what had been done.
The pilot carelessly let the vehicle set down heavily on the landing gear. Dean cringed: the guy was obviously an idiot. No wonder his gear was in such bad shape. They were running without a canopy, another stupid move, so the two guys seated there just jumped out. Dean noticed that crudely painted on the side were the words Mammonite Salvage.
“Who are those guys?” asked Dean.
“Mammonite. The competition.”
“Wait, Mammon? Like in the Bible?” asked Dean.
“You read the Bible?” asked Cas, raising an eyebrow. “They’re trouble.” Cas had dropped his grin. “Stay back,” he warned, although Dean ignored him. Cas set his shoulders and strode up to greet them, Dean a couple steps in back of him. Dean suddenly regretted he'd left his sidearm in Bobby's living room. Well, that wasn't the only protection he carried.
It was two guys. They both had the same general look, pale, straw-colored hair, like they were related. Big guys, one big, the other bigger. Dean had been working as a cop long enough to suss people out, and they were clearly guys willing and able to do something stupid.
“We were out here last night, Cas,” said the smaller of the two.
“Then you were out here after my company, and thus have no rights,” said Castiel, gesturing to the blue marker he had set.
“How did you get to the site so damn fast, Cas? You shoot them down yourself?”
“This is a Singer salvage. It's marked.”
“And what's this supposed to be?” he asked, pointing to Dean.
“My summer intern,” said Cas.
“Hey, is that a cop uniform? Wait a minute. He's from out East, ain't he?” He took a step, but Cas sidestepped and blocked him.
“He's with me,” said Cas.
“He ain't supposed to be here, I bet. I bet we could get a reward, if we take him over the wall.”
“He's going nowhere.”
“Cas, you ain't got no sense of marketing.”
“Leave,” Cas told them. “Now.”
“He ain't your salvage.”
“Hey, he told you politely to leave,” said Dean.
“Then maybe we shouldn't be so polite,” snapped the Mammonite guy.
And then … they changed. Dean had seen a lot in his young life, but he had never seen anything like this. The guys' eyes suddenly rolled up and blacked over, like they had gotten filled up with ink or something. But it wasn't just that. Somehow, their whole presence changed. Dean couldn't explain it very well, but in a flash they went from threatening dipshits to fucking scary mofos.
His cop instincts took over then. The first rule was you did not show fear, even if you were one step from peeing your pants. Two of them, two of us, he told himself He wasn't happy that the bigger one was advancing on Cas, though he realized by now the kid was stronger than he looked.
The smaller one was in his face, and Dean easily ducked a dumb, wild punch from the guy. He followed up with a sharp elbow to the guy's gut, but was very surprised when the guy didn't go down. In fact, he didn't even seem phased by it. Dean ducked another badly aimed punch, and this time tried a kick to the knee. This time, he brought the guy down, but the sucker landed right on top of him. The guy recovered and swung back for another punch, but Dean sent a hand down to his ankle and came up with his extra gun, which he cocked up at the guy. “Don't try it,” he warned.
Suddenly, the guy was wrenched up off of him, and, to Dean's astonishment, Cas sent him sailing off to crash into the side of his dilapidated vehicle. His brother, who was looking much the worse for wear, pulled him up and half threw him into the cruiser. “This isn't over!” he yelled, and then both Mammonites took off, with the thrum of their rattle trap motor.
Dean, still on his back, saw Cas' hand reaching down, the angel looking curiously at him. He reached up and was pulled back to his feet, standing nearly nose to nose with Cas. The guy could be a little unnerving: he got in your face, and didn't seem to blink often enough.
“Just so you know, for future reference,” Dean said, “I can handle myself. In a fight.”
“I can see that, Dean,” said Cas, looking at Dean's gun. “For your future reference, standard ammunition doesn't generally work on those individuals.”
“Standard ammunition?” asked Dean, kneeling to put away his gun.
“The commonly followed procedure is to load rounds with rock salt. Sometimes silver bullets,” Cas told him. “But that only slows them down. I can exorcise them, but then they just come back, and not in a particularly friendly mood.”
“Exorcise?” asked Dean. “What the fuck are those guys?”
“Demons.” And the grin was back.
“So we got angels and demons out here? What else do I not know about that could kill me?”
“Hard to say,” Cas told him. “The scope of your ignorance fairly impressive.” Dean frowned. “Wanna help me get your wreck on my truck? We should probably get back and tell Bobby about our friends.”
“You could call me just an old-fashioned guy,” said Zachariah, beaming at his assembled prisoners.
“Could this guy be any more smarmy. Yuck,” Sam whispered to Rufus, who stifled a grin. Sam shivered in the cold morning air.
“Now, I'm new here, I know that. I know you all have a certain way of doing things, a certain way this camp has been run,” continued the pudgy, balding figure as he strode up and down the line, several guards shuffling along in his wake. “I have a certain way of doing things as well. A very simple way. And that's playing fair. You play by my rules, we'll get along. We'll get along just fine!” He had stopped more or less in front of where Sam and Rufus were standing. He flashed a million dollar smile, which made a sick tremble go down Sam's spine.
“You do not play by my rules,” Zachariah continued, “if you break my rules, of if you insist on consorting with known rule-breakers,” he said, suddenly coming to a halt right in front of Balthazar, “then I will not be so positively inclined towards you.” He fixed a scowl at Balthazar, which admittedly was not half so terrifying as his smile. Balthazar raised an eyebrow.
Zachariah walked back to the front of the crowd. “So I urge you all. Play by the rules. My rules. And then we will all get along.”
The speech, unfortunately, did not end there. As soon as it was finally finished, the prisoners all made for the relative warmth of their bunk houses.
“So, is Zach a red-eye or a black-eye. I couldn't tell,” Sam asked Rufus.
“Neither,” said Rufus, pausing to light one of his pathetic cigarette butts.
“Neither.”
“He ain't demon. He's an angel. One of Michael's boys, so it's rumored.”
“Wait,” said Sam as Rufus paused outside their building for a quick smoke. “I thought Lucifer and Michael were bitter enemies. Isn't that … weird?”
“There's rumors flying that Michael is losing. Maybe Zach saw the writing on the wall, and switched up. Otherwise, I don't know.”
“That's weird,” said Sam.
“Hey, Camaeus,” said Rufus to the small blond guy who had just walked up.
“Rufus. Sam,” said Camaeus. “Balthazar was wondering if you might wanna consort with some rule breakers?”
“These rule breakers, they got hot coffee?” asked Rufus.
“Yeah,” grinned Camaeus.
“I'm in,” said Rufus, tossing his cigarette butt away.
“I never did know what was good for me,” grinned Sam, following after Rufus and Camaeus.
It was getting dark by the time Dean and Cas drove back to Singer Salvage. Bobby was standing by the house with some guy Dean didn't recognize.
“Is this the dumb motherfucker?” asked the guy when Dean stepped out of the cab. He was black haired, black-eyed, and sported an old fashioned handlebar mustache.
“In the flesh,” said Bobby.
“Uh, what's up, Bobby?” said Dean. He noticed Cas was already down from the truck and standing right in back of him.
“This here is Justice Swearengen, the local magistrate,” said Bobby.
“Uh. You got judges out here?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, real live judges and courts, the whole motherfucking nine yards, wise guy,” said Swearengen. “And you, you dumb shit, are gonna appear before me, like a good cizitzen, first thing tomorrow fucking morning.” And with that, Swearengen nodded and stalked off.
“Bobby, what the fuck?” asked Dean.
“What is going on?” demanded Cas.
“Evidently, your new buddy is technically a fugitive from the law. Cas, did you tangle with the Mammonites?”
Cas shrugged. “We may have had discussions,” he said. “There was a considered difference of opinion regarding salvage rights.”
“Great, I raised a fucking lawyer,” said Bobby.
“Also, they tried to beat the shit out of us,” said Dean.
“Well, whatever happened, you boys must've pissed them off, because they ran and tattled to Sheriff Mills, and she had to get the magistrate involved.”
“This incident involved a visit from … Jody?” asked Castiel.
“Cut it, Cas! You ain’t too old to smack in the head,” said Bobby.
“I think an expression of gratitude is called for,” Castiel told him.
“You know what I think, kid? Swearengen’s gonna have you testify, we better get you looking decent,” Bobby countered.
“I took a shower this morning,” grumbled Castiel.
“I mean shave and a haircut, idjit. Now, go get my my scissors. You’re looking like a damn girl!”
Castiel scowled, but went off, evidently to retrieve the instruments of his destruction.
“I dunno about that, you should see my brother,” Dean laughed.
“Bring him by,” said Bobby. “Oh, quit looking like that,” he said as the angel returned. “Cas, you’re lucky I don’t take the damn electric shaver to your head!” Castiel, a look of fiery vengeance etched on his features, handed a pair of scissors to Bobby and then, every fiber of his being radiating resentment, plopped into a chair. “Now, I dunno what your mom told you about angels, Dean, but they’re unbearable little shitheads, when they get a mind. Cap, dammit!” he yelled at Castiel, who tugged off his ball cap. “You want them to take away Dean, do you?”
Cas suddenly turned towards Dean, a look of horror spread across his features. “No,” he whispered.
“OK, then, let’s evince a little cooperation here!” Castiel slumped down in the chair.
“Bobby,” said Dean as he watched the black thatch turn to something Bobby Singer considered presentable in a court of law.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not really sure I’m enthusiastic about this taking Dean away business either.” Dean sighed. He had been so bound and determined to look for Sammy, he hadn’t really considered what would happened if he didn’t make it over that wall. Dean wasn’t big on consideration.
“Well, son, I’ll tell you. I gave my word to Jody – that’s the sheriff – you’d show up tomorrow. I can’t promise anything. But let me just say, Al Swearengen is a … like-minded individual.”
“He’s a miserable old drunk,” muttered Cas.
“Well, yeah, that too.”
“I thought you guys in the neutral territories did what you wanted,” said Dean.
“What kinda rose garden did you grow up in, boy?” asked Bobby as the pile of matted black hair grew at his feet. “They leave us be as long as we don’t bother them too much. For the time being at least. But it’s common knowledge Lucy’s got his eye on us. Once he finishes up with Mike, he’s heading east, is the consensus, and No Man’s Land is just the first stop.”
“So the Valentine's Day bombing wasn’t a fluke?” asked Dean.
“It’s just the beginning,” said Bobby. He looked at Dean for a moment. “Did you know any of the V Day victims, son?”
“Yeah. My brother’s fiancée.”
“Aw, shit! I’m sorry, kid.”
“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel echoed. And indeed, he did sound sorry.
“It’s worse than you think. It’s the reason the dumb son of a bitch got it in his head he’s a freedom fighter,” sighed Dean.
“Well, if it makes any difference, a lot of people got joining up with the Michaelistas in their heads. But that's a damn shame about the girl.”
“Jess. I didn't know her well,” Dean admitted. “Sammy was gonna be the first in the family to graduate college.”
“You were working to put him through?” asked Bobby.
“Yeah, I worked construction for a while, before I got a job on the force.”
“You need to hire him on, Bobby. He shows a great deal of promise,” said Castiel.
“Yeah, and then maybe I could fire a certain pigheaded angel,” said Bobby. He took Cas by the shoulders and gave him a critical look. “Well, I think I've done enough damage. We'll go through my suits and see if I have anything small enough to fit you.”
“A suit?” wailed Cas.
“Yeah, you're gonna have t' dress like an actual civilized human for a couple hours, boo fucking hoo,” said Bobby. “And you,” he said to Dean. “We might not want to show you off in your uniform, if it's all the same to you.”
“Yeah. My jacket's a little scorched anyway,” said Dean, looking at his sleeves.
“Maybe I'll call Jody and see if her husband left anything we could use,” said Bobby
“Bobby,” said Dean. “I really don’t wanna go back just now. I know it’s my own damn fault, but I’m in a fuckload of trouble if I try to go back after pulling this stunt.”
“Son, I’m afraid sending you back, bad as it sounds, ain’t what they intend,” Bobby told him.
“Then, what would they do with me?” asked Dean.
Bobby and Cas shared a look that did not fill Dean with confidence. “According to Swearengen, they want what you want, kid. Get your ass over the wall,” said Bobby.
“What?” asked Dean.
“Now, don’t worry. We won’t let it happen,” said Bobby.
“They’re gonna give me up … to Lucifer?” asked Dean.
“We won’t let them,” said Cas. “I won’t let them.”
Dean looked from Cas to Bobby. He shivered.
What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?
