Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (Part 1 of 3)
Nov. 9th, 2012 07:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Gabriel/Kali; Dean, Sam, Castiel, Nick, Gabriel, Bobby Singer, Harry Spangler, Ed Zeddmore, Kenny Spruce, Victor Henricksen, Michael, Kali, Joshua
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 23,000
Summary: When public defender Sam Winchester's new client show signs of demonic possession he calls on his brother, Dean, a reluctant member of the GhostFacers team, for help. But the brothers might have stumbled into a meltdown of celestial proportions.
Notes: Written for the 2012 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge. My grateful thanks to my betas, zsomeone and nugatorytm; and to hipokras, for a fun and creative art prompt.
Sam checked his watch one more time and reviewed the stacks of legal briefs on the table in front of him. “Drew the short straw this time, Winchester,” Victor had told him when he had handed over the files. “Low man on the totem pole,” he’d added.
“The road to Hell,” muttered Sam, rolling his eyes, “is paved with Victor’s crap-ass metaphors.”
Sam grimaced and opened the newest file: the psychiatric evaluation. He was supposed to have reviewed it before he got here tonight, but then Brenda at Records couldn’t figure out how to use an encryption key with her email to save her worthless bureaucratic life (fucking government employees) so he’d had to drive out of his way to grab a hard copy and then hustle down to the county jail in the nick of time before visiting hours were over for the day.
He stretched and yawned. Another 3 am wakeup last night: this sleeplessness was getting annoying. Maybe he would try that herb tea he'd been reading about. It couldn't hurt.
Sam always hated meeting prisoners here, in this old slab of a building. It was supposed to convey the might and majesty of the legal system, but to him it was just an ugly, drafty old building that smelled like cleaning fluid that couldn’t quite mask the stench of urine.
And it was drafty as hell. He pulled his jacket closer, and listened to the creaking outside the one, high window. The wind had kicked up: it looked like a storm was blowing in. Just what he needed: a commute back in the dark and rain, and here he’d blown a headlight and needed his wipers replaced. He considered going to visit Dean. His brother probably wouldn’t mind sticking his piece of shit car back together, although he’d give Sam a ribbing about it being made of plastic. But the thought of sitting with a long neck beer while his older brother puttered around inside a car just made his face edge into a smile.
He’d call Dean. After he was done here. The guy kept late hours.
“Uh, Sam?”
Sam must have been lost in thought, because he nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of the voice behind him.
“Dammit, Artie,” he said, turning and looking at the broad-faced jailer behind him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Uh, hey, Sam? We were gonna bring Nick, but there’s been some kind of delay? I dunno, I can’t make sense of it.”
“You going to bring him here before I die of old age?” asked Sam, irritably checking the watch again.
“Yeah. We’ll do that. He’s on his way.”
Sam sighed and turned back to his psych report, which he spread out all over the table. Phosphoros, N., it said at the top. Since he didn’t have an electronic copy, he couldn’t do a search for the words he sought. “Flatness of affect,” was the phrase that came to mind, even before he’d found the doctor’s notes. He’d met Nick once before, and briefly. Poor son of a bitch was being held for murder of his wife and infant daughter. According to the police report he had called 911 himself, and they had found him sitting right there, his hands still bloody, muttering, “I don’t know what happened.” And that was all they’d gotten from him since. The few words they’d dragged out of him. He hadn’t really seemed to have processed the fact that his wife and daughter were dead.
Sam’s eyes now raced over the doctor’s report, searching for phrases like “fugue state” or “multiple personality disorder.” He needed something. But what he finally found stunned him.
Antisocial personality disorder.
They thought his guy was a sociopath?
Sam jumped, yet again. The wind had gusted, rattling the window again, and now the rain was beginning to make a patter. There was a soft moan, almost like someone speaking. He shivered, wondering why the hell he was so damned jumpy tonight. He did need a beer. Maybe a couple. And his jerk brother calling him “bitch.”
He scanned the psych report again. PCL-R. They had recommended administering Hare’s psychopathy test to Nick. Sam shook his head. Not gonna happen, not before the trial. He didn’t want his guy tagged as a soulless monster.
Sam jerked up again. His client was finally here. Sam got to his feet. Funny, the guard wasn’t Artie, or anyone he recognized. In fact, where had Artie disappeared to? Weird.
Sam hurriedly flipped the psych evaluation closed as he stood. Nick was exactly as he remembered him, shuffling in, head down.
“Hey Nick,” said Sam.
Nick didn’t look up, nor did he reply, but simply let himself be led over to the table opposite Sam.
“You can leave us now,” Sam told the guard. The guard didn’t reply, but turned around and walked towards the door of the little conference room. Sam stared after him, a little unnerved, though he wasn’t sure why.
The wind howled again.
“Saaaaam.”
It was the barest whisper. Sam turned with a start, looking up to the clouded window, which was now getting splattered with rain. Calm down, idiot, Sam told himself. He turned to face Nick again. “Nick, why don’t you sit down?” he asked, taking a seat himself. Nick sunk into his chair. Somewhere outside, lightning flashed. Sam, despite himself, looked up again. This was a bit early in the season for a thunderstorm. He actually got back up and walked over to the window, just as the boom of thunder crashed outside. Another lightning bolt flashed, and Sam started to count, 1-2-3. And then a boom.
Another flash and….
With a pop, the lights were out.
“He’s near.”
Sam jerked around. This wasn’t a weird whisper this time: this time, Nick had spoken. Sam regarded his client in the dim light. “I…. I’ll call a guard. They gotta have a backup generator here. Sit tight.” He moved to the door, opening it a crack. “Hey,” he began. He paused. Where the hell had the guard gone? He went outside into the corridor, shutting the door carefully behind him. He pulled out his cell phone and cast the light from its screen up and down the hallway. There was absolutely no one around.
“OK, whatever,” grumbled Sam, going back to sit with Nick. He flashed the light from his cell phone on his client, and was a little startled to see he was now sitting up, staring at Sam. The light from the phone was reflected in his eyes.
“Nick, we gotta just sit tight a little while.”
“I can’t hold him back…” whispered Nick.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold him back,” Nick repeated.
“Keep who back, Nick?” Sam’s mind reeled. A sociopath? Is he playing a trick?
“He wants to speak to you,” said Nick.
“Who?” asked Sam.
Nick stared at him, his eye glinting with an unearthly light.
Sam jumped once again as the door crashed open and a body hurtled into the room. He grabbed a chair and held it in front of him.
The lights flicked on.
“You okay in here?” asked Artie, raising an eyebrow at Sam.
Sam stood, breathing hard, and noticed he was still gripping the chair. He frowned and let it drop to the floor. “Everything OK in here,” he breathed, steadying himself. “Where the hell did you go?”
Artie glared. “I was right outside. The whole time.”
“Okay, okay,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”
“We'll need to cut this visit short, Sam,” said Artie, now a little apologetic. “No visitors until we get the power back. There was a lightning strike. We're on the generator now.”
Sam ducked his head down, scooped up everything from the table, and, with a nod towards Nick, fled out the door.
“Jumpy bastard,” grumbled Artie.
Ed and Harry were engaged in one of their many high level discussions.
“What?”
“What?”
“What what?”
Dean heaved a sigh, counted slowly to ten, and wondered if he should call Sammy regarding the legal ramifications of strangling one or both of his bosses. This was gonna be a long night. “Look, Ed…” he began.
“What is it, Winchester?” groused Ed, turning his bespectacled eyes towards Dean. “May I remind you that you are….”
“Still on probation,” said Dean. “After your last intern was scarred for life. Yeah. Got it,” he added, knowing full well it would make Ed and Harry cringe. He surreptitiously checked his watch again. After midnight. Well after midnight. And he had an early day at the auto shop tomorrow. “Look, this is a big house, have you thought maybe the entity just doesn’t happen to manifest in the dining room?”
“But we have the best angles in here!” whined Spruce.
“Uh, yeah, and I’m sure the spirits are fully aware of that,” said Dean. “What I was thinking was-“
“You’re not being paid to think, big guy,” Harry muttered under his breath. Dean paused, turning to glower at Harry, who was suddenly very interested in something on the ground.
“Look. Why don’t we split up? We could cover the most ground that way,” said Dean.
“We are not splitting up! We never split up! We stay together!” squealed Ed.
“It’s okay, Ed, it’s okay,” soothed Harry, patting his partner on the shoulder. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea, after all. Maybe me and Maggie-“
“You and Maggie?” snorted Ed. “Oh, yeah, why don’t you and Daphne take off and you leave me here with freaking Velma.”
“Who are Daphne and Velma?” piped up Cas, who had been standing quietly by the entire evening. Dean turned to him and smiled. Guy had a patience of a saint to put up with so much from Ed and Harry.
“It’s a TV cartoon, Cas,” Dean supplied.
“Oh,” said Cas, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Does an animation have relevance to smiting a spirit?”
“The kids used to go around in a van looking for ghosts,” said Dean.
“They were drug dealers! That’s the only explanation!” averred Ed.
“Hey, Cas, why don’t you make yourself useful and go get us coffee,” suggested Harry.
“You want Cas to hop over to Starbucks? In the middle of a job?” asked Dean.
“Oh, yes, get me a vanilla soy latte!” Ed told Cas. “Half decaf!”
“Would you like anything, Dean?” Cas asked him.
“Just … black coffee,” sighed Dean, who very much wanted to ask to come along. And then maybe keep driving and never return. But instead they sent Cas off with a list of insanely detailed orders, and then, to Ed’s dismay, Harry and Maggie decided to go off alone to explore the upper floor.
“I’ll check the basement,” Dean told Ed, striding off before anybody could object. He found the basement stairs just as the rainstorm, which had been threatening outside, suddenly hit. He ticked the light switch on and off a couple of times, and, seeing no response, clicked on his flashlight. “Dark and creepy, just the way I like it,” he muttered to himself, hoping that meant spirit entities and a quick finish to this endless evening.
“Don't quit your day job,” had been Sam's crack when Dean told him he was signing on with the GhostFacers. It had been good advice, but it made his life a little hectic, especially when Ed and Harry couldn't seem to understand that not everybody lived in Mom's basement. Or Mom's garage, rather. Some people, like Dean, actually had to work for a living.
Dean found his way down the wooden stairs, and was a little taken aback: the basement, which he had expected to be a single room full of cast-off sleds and Christmas decorations, seemed to be even more extensive than the main floor. He took out an EMF meter, and started his rounds. The first few rooms were evidently interconnected storerooms, and all were crammed to the ceiling with various odds and ends the former owners of the house evidently couldn’t be bothered to toss out.
The meter, which had been zero upstairs, started creeping slowly upwards as he walked. Dean glanced up, frowning. The rainstorm outside had dulled to a distant thrum on this level, but he thought he heard something up ahead. It wasn’t the scrabbling and scraping of rodents, as you’d expect. It sounded like distant music. He put his head up to a wall. Yes, it was coming from the next room.
He paused for a moment, considering running back upstairs and telling Ed or Harry. He shook his head and muttered, “Screw those dimwits.” He scanned the wall and, with some effort, pushed away a shelving unit that was partially obscuring a door, and checked the handle. It was locked. He shrugged and pulled out a pick, and the lock was soon opened to him.
He opened the door, and, cringing at the creaking hinges, entered the next room. The air was especially musty here, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while. He shone the flashlight around. It was weird: the room was huge, and unlike the other cluttered rooms, it was mostly empty. There were decorative columns that must have at one point been brightly painted, and Dean noticed that there were dim remnants of murals painted on the walls.
He didn’t hear the distant music any more, but he crossed the floor to take a look at the one large piece of furniture: an old fashioned theater organ. He pulled back the dusty tarp covering it and hit a couple of keys. He nearly jumped out of his skin when it actually played.
“OK,” Dean muttered to himself. “Blinky light switches, but the organ plays. Nice.” Suddenly, he looked, down, cross-eyed. He could see his breath. The room had grown cold.
And there it was, the slight, far-off sound of music. He pointed the flashlight around the room, and spotted it, over in the corner. Or rather, spotted them: the ghostly figures of a couple, dancing to the music. It was a cute little old-timey couple, he in a fussy high-collared suit, she in hoop skirts.
“Whoa. Haunted Mansion, dude!” said Dean out loud. And then he froze. The ghostly dancing couple both suddenly stopped dancing and glared over at him. “Uh, hi?”
And then they changed, from a charming amusement park ride to vile creatures, all teeth and claws and gawping mouths. And both came flying across the room, straight at him.
“Not good!” said Dean, making a run back the way he'd come. He dove through the doorway, and then the door suddenly closed behind him with a slam.
Dean gasped as he was suddenly thrown against the wall, a cool hand over his mouth. But fear turned to confusion when he saw it was Cas. Cas's face was just inches from his own, a finger on his own lips, gesturing for silence. Dean nodded, and Cas released his grip. Dean was surprised: for a scrawny looking guy, he was strong as hell.
Cas put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pointed upwards, mouthing, “Go!” But Dean stubbornly shook his head and pointed to the ground. Cas looked for one moment like he might try to force the issue. Dean was taken aback: he was used to Cas being a pretty mousy guy, but he seemed intense as hell right now. Cas shook his head in annoyance and looked around the dim room. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that Cas didn’t seem to be carrying a flashlight. Cas reached a hand into one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the room and brought out a big old fireplace poker, which he experimentally used to strike out a couple of times before handing it over to Dean.
“A … poker?” Dean mouthed.
Cas pulled him over by the collar, his mouth to Dean's ear. “Cold iron,” he hissed. Dean hefted the bar in his hands, feeling the weight, musing for a moment. He seemed to recall reading now that iron repelled spirits, though it didn't seem to be in Ed and Harry's bag of tricks. Dean whacked the air with the poker a couple of times, and then went to stand by Cas on the opposite side of the door to the ghostly ballroom. He listened.
When the music started up again, Cas held up three fingers. Dean nodded. Cas ticked off 1-2-3, and then they both burst into the room. The dancing ghosts halted in their tracks, and Cas was there, arm thrust out, palm towards the ectoplasmic couple, and began chanting in some weird language. Dean listened closely: it didn't sound like Latin, but the words sounded old.
And then it was like a repeat of Dean's experience: the lady of the couple was the first to fang out and come flying at Cas, but Dean stepped in her way and slammed her with the poker. To his surprise, her spirit dissipated at the touch of the iron. The male (or formerly male) spirit then dove at them, but Dean managed to bat him away as well.
“Cas, is this gonna take much longer?” asked Dean. Cas, however, had his eyes squeezed shut, and simply went on chanting.
The couple had now reconstituted at the other end of the room and, unfortunately, decided to both attack at once, instead of politely doing it one at a time like in the movies. “Cas!” yelled Dean. But the chanting merely became more intense. Dean gripped the poker like a baseball bat and the spirits flew at him.
But suddenly, they froze in mid-air, emitting a piercing scream. Dean dropped the poker to cover his ears. The spirits began to glow, and then seemed to fragment, like they'd been dipped in liquid nitrogen and hit with a hammer.
The screaming stopped and the ghosts disappeared. The room was suddenly silent.
Cas had dropped his arm, and was breathing hard. “Did you sustain any injuries, Dean?”
Dean poked a finger in his ear. “No, I'm fine.”
“I thank you for your assistance.”
“You did all the work, dude!” said Dean. “That was pretty freaking impressive!” he added. After a look around the ballroom and a check of Dean's EMF meter, they walked back the way they had come in.
“What was that, anyway?” asked Dean.
“I know.... I know a few spells,” explained Cas. “I should get upstairs. The coffee will be getting cold,” he said. And, indeed, Dean now noticed there was a small cardboard tray full of mochas and lattes sitting on one of the boxes in the basement storeroom.
“We gonna tell Ed and Harry about this?” asked Dean, tossing the poker back in a box.
“If it makes no difference to you Dean....” said Cas, frowning at Dean.
“Don't tell them? You're sure?” asked Dean.
“Yes, I am sure.”
“They'd just be pissed they didn't get it on tape,” grinned Dean. “Hey, your secret's safe with me, buddy.”
Cas smiled gratefully. “Now, maybe I should go ahead first?” he proposed. Dean nodded, and watched Cas take the tray of espresso upstairs, noticing once again that he didn't bother with a flashlight on the darkened stairway.
Dean caught Ed's whine as started upstairs. “Cas, my vanilla soy latte is cold!”
Sam knocked on a familiar door. The words, Public Defender – Victor Henricksen were stenciled on the smoked glass. Sam heard a grunt from within and poked his head in.
“Victor?”
“Sam! Come on in! Sit down!” smiled Victor, indicating a chair. Sam carefully folded himself into a tiny guest chair in Victor's cluttered office.
“So, the guy, Nick Phosphoros?” asked Sam.
“The murder case?” asked Victor, his glad-handing smile fading. “Yeah, that was a tragedy. Sorry I haven't had time to talk it over. I think our only option here is trying to keep the guy out of the electric chair. I've got a call into the DA’s office: I think there might be a deal in this, in return for consecutive life sentences-”
“Victor. I don't think he did it.”
Victor paused in his monologue. He gestured towards the door. “Close the door, Sam,” he said, going into a familiar desk drawer. Sam reached around and pushed the door closed (it was easy in the cramped office) as Victor came up with a bottle and two shot glasses. He placed the glasses on one of the stacks of files that littered his desk and filled them both.
“Now, Sam, what is Henricksen's First Rule of Law?” said Victor.
Sam took a shot glass and sipped. Eau de lighter fluid, he thought. “They're always guilty,” he recited.
“They're always guilty. I know, coming fresh from law school, you have pie-in-the-sky notions about what you'll be doing. What you're doing is this-”
“Defending guilty people,” put in Sam. “Yeah, but Victor, this guy, Nick-”
“...killed his wife and baby daughter. Sam, I know it's difficult, but that's what happened. Now, maybe he was having some kind of psychotic episode. But I think you’ll agree, the poor guy belongs in custody. So he doesn’t hurt anybody else.”
“Victor, look…” Sam began. A frown edged his features. “I’ve got a feeling about this guy. Now, wait before you interrupt me. You read the psych report?”
“Yeah. Maybe got us a sociopath.”
“No. It’s wrong.”
“Come again?” asked Victor.
“Look, Victor, I got a sixth sense about sociopaths. And this is a real thing, I know from reading the literature. Some people, like me I guess, just get an uneasy feeling around them. I don’t know how, but I just know.”
“And you don’t feel that little sociopath tingle around Nick?” asked Victor, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, no.”
“Great. A jury will eat that one up.” Victor sat back. “Look, Sam, I’m sorry, but the guy’s not a real multiple personality, and he’s not schizophrenic, either. He’s just a bad guy.”
“Listen Victor. I have a theory. I know it sounds crazy. But, you know about my family, right?”
“You told me they were a bunch of exorcist weirdos, right?” laughed Victor.
“Yeah, exorcist weirdos. Anyway, there’s a lot of lore about this. I actually looked it up in one of my grandfather's notebooks. There are documented cases where people have been … possessed.”
Sam looked up expectantly. He gulped. Victor's look was anything but encouraging.
“Okay, Winchester. You need some time off? Is that what you're telling me? Nick didn't listen to the fairies whispering in his ear-”
“No, actually, it would be demons-”
“Sam!” Sam shut up. “I'll spell it out. Nick is a bad guy. He isn't right in the head, and he did a terrible thing. But by the laws of our democracy, he gets the best defense we can give. So when we go to trial, if that's what this comes down to, I want the best possible defense, which means there better not be any fucking leprechauns or bride of the mummy or whatever else you saw in your tea leaves this morning. Is that understood?”
Sam shrunk down very small in his seat. “Yes sir.”
Dean sighed and hit the CALL END button on his phone and leaned against a tree. A possessed client? That sounded sort of cool. Awesome actually. He glanced over to where Ed and Harry were re-shooting close ups. “We need B roll!” they had said. Yeah, whatever. Dean had thought the point was helping people, not posing for the cameras. What were they, Paris Fucking Hilton?
He had learned a lot since he'd joined up with the GhostFacers, that he had to admit. EMF waves. Rock salt. But he had the impression there was more-
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cas! We've talked about this! Don't sneak up on me like that!” Dean said amiably. Seriously, guy had the social skills of an eight year old. Or maybe a man from Mars, Dean didn't know. He was hovering there now, too damn close, blinking at Dean like he'd never met a human before. “Take me to your leader,” thought Dean. But despite the weird, he wasn't an attention whore like Ed and Harry, and he actually seemed to know his shit.
“I'm sorry, Dean,” said Cas, who looked sort of baffled, but also didn't back up. Dean gripped Cas by the shoulder and led him on a walk, away from where Spruce was screeching about losing the light.
“You know, I never thanked you for the other day.”
“The other day?” asked Cas.
“The dancing ghosts,” said Dean. “I have no idea what you did, but that was cool.”
“I know a few … incantations,” shrugged Cas, who once again suddenly seemed evasive.
“Dude, you gotta teach me.”
“I’m not sure Ed and Harry would approve-“
“Oh, fuck Ed and Harry. Aren’t you sick of running after their coffee by now?”
Cas shrugged.
“Anyway, I was talking to my brother,” Dean confided.
“Your brother Sam? The one who is the defense attorney?” asked Cas. Dean frowned. Had he mentioned Sam to Cas? He couldn't remember.
“Anyway, he's got this client. It's pretty bad, it's a murder. And the thing is, he thinks the guy's possessed.”
Cas nodded. “Demonic possession may account for antisocial behavior.”
“This was pretty bad, Cas. This was his wife. And baby.”
“This indicates either a very strong demonic power, or alternatively the subconscious wish of the possessed human.”
“Whoa! Subconscious? So demons can be like an id monster?” Dean wasn't exactly sure where he'd picked up the term. Maybe he had read one of Sammy's college textbooks when he was bored?
“While Freud was incorrect on many facets of human behavior, and I believe parenthetically harbored certain sexist beliefs which were common in his era, I agree that your analogy captures the essence of the phenomenon, Dean.”
“Ya know what I like about you Cas?”
“Uh, what's that, Dean?”
“You use words like 'parenthetically' when you talk. It's spooky.”
Cas wore a look that verged upon happiness. “You like this about me, Dean?” he asked, his face a mask of earnestness.
“Yeah, I like you, sure,” laughed Dean, clapping Cas on the back to emphasize the point. Cas looked back curiously, as if he thought this meant there was something on his back, but then broke out into a real, if tenuous, smile. “So,” Dean continued, “maybe you'll come talk to my brother with me?”
“Of course,” said Cas, blue eyes sparkling.
“Cool! Hey, you wanna ride back into town?”
“That would be pleasant, thank you-” But then Cas suddenly froze, and his eyes seemed to go out of focus.
“What is it?”
“I, uh... I apologize, Dean. I forgot. I have a, uh, important meeting.”
“Meeting? What, with Ed and Harry?”
“Uh, no. You could say, my other job.”
“Oh, didn't quit your day job?” asked Dean. “Yeah, I understand. I'm still working at the garage, myself. In fact, gotta be on in a couple hours. Well, I'll be in touch about my brother, okay?”
“Yes, definitely.”
Castiel paused uncertainly, as he always did, at the door of Zachariah's office. If humans were puzzling to Castiel, then Upper Management was ever more so. He had been created as a soldier, or at least that's what he thought their heavenly Father's plan for him had been. This sudden transfer some decades ago to the Department of Revelation had been unexpected. He remembered Balthazar and Uriel, his comrades, rolling their eyes, and Uriel saying, “Working for Zach? You'll be chewed up and spit out, kid.”
He braced himself and pushed in the door. Zachariah sat behind his desk, stretching comfortably in his customary portly human vessel. Cas was very newly installed in his own vessel, and it still felt discomfiting.
“Ah, Castiel! Sit down, sit down!” said Zachariah, with a broad smile that came nowhere near his piggish eyes.
“Zachariah, I have left several urgent communications for your office....”
“Communications?” said Zachariah, who busied himself opening an envelope with a sharp letter opener. “I wasn't aware of any communications.” The eyes blinked with a simulacrum of innocence.
“My assignment, Zachariah.”
“Well, obviously a glitch in messaging. It's been in a state of constant clusterfuck since Gabriel left us I'm afraid.” He looked up. “Why don't you just tell me, now that you're here?”
Cas frowned. “So, that was not the reason I was summoned today?”
“Castiel, did I just ask for a report, or did I ask for more of your blithering?” asked Zachariah, running a finger down the side of his silver letter opener.
Cas kept his human face neutral. “I have found the Righteous Man, Zachariah. The one foretold in prophecy. He works with me, even now. I have never seen a human soul burn more brightly. He is like a holy fire, streaking-”
“Righteous Man?” asked Zachariah. “Hmpf. Well isn't that good news. Hallelujah, and hosannah, and all that shit. Now,” he said, straightening up in his chair, “it's time for your centennial performance evaluation.”
“Zachariah?”
“What is it, Castiel?”
Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “What should I do about the Righteous Man?”
Zachariah sat forward and knit his hands together. “Castiel, what were you told to do?”
“To wait, Zachariah?”
“Well, then, those are your orders.”
“But Zachariah-”
“Castiel! Need I remind you what happened with your previous assignment?”
Castiel shut his mouth and looked glum.
“Tell me, do you want another Poland? Is that what you want?”
Castiel looked down and muttered something.
“What was that?”
“No, Zachariah.”
“Alrighty then!” said Zachariah brightly. “About your performance evaluation....”
Dean had told Sam he was bringing along a “colleague,” but Sam was mildly surprised to see him walking up with neither Ed nor Harry, but instead some unassuming guy wearing a trench coat.
“Sam,” said Dean. “This is Cas.”
“Oh, nice to meet you, Cas,” said Sam, extending a hand.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Sam,” said Cas, who stared at Sam's hand for an awkward beat before clasping it warmly. Sam cast a glance at Dean, who mouthed, “It's okay.”
“This is an … interesting building,” said Cas, looking up at the exterior of the county jail building.
“Always gives me the creeps, frankly,” sighed Sam. “They're building a new one. Can't wait 'til it's completed, but it's taking for-fucking-ever.
“Yes, the structure is, unfortunately, located on a spiritual confluence, so there is bound to be elevated paranormal activity,” Cas informed them.
“You're … a psychic or something?” asked Sam
“No. Nothing of the sort,” Cas assured him quickly. “I read up on the lore regarding this building prior to our meeting. I am most impressed, though, that you are sensitive to it,” he added, training his laser beam eyes directly at Sam, who actually winced.
“Wish you'd talk to my boss,” said Sam, attempting to laugh it off.
“Why is that, Sam?” probed Cas.
“Oh, I told him the other day I get the heebie-jeebies when I'm in the room with a psychopath.”
“Victor?” laughed Dean. “What did he do?”
“Threw me out of his freaking office,” said Sam.
“I am surprised he is not well read on the literature,” said Cas. “This kind of sense is actually very well documented....”
“Yes! That's my point exactly!” said Sam, who hurried off, deep in nerdy conversation with Cas.
“This structure is actually at what in Hindu tradition is termed a Triveni Sangam...” Cas babbled.
Dean remained on the sidewalk for a moment, watching them go. “Great, an afternoon with the Geek Patrol,” he muttered, although he was smiling. He took a look down to make sure his tie was straight, and then hurried after his brother. He had to concede Sam's point about it being a place that gave you the creeps when he entered the revolving door to the lobby. The twenty foot high ceiling and bas-relief carvings he guessed were supposed to convey that this was a bunch of dudes who don't fuck around. The effect was marred by the metal detector set up there. And it smelled … well, it smelled like a place you would never quite clean up, even if you sand-blasted the walls.
“I told them you guys are from the P.D.'s office in Topeka,” Sam whispered to Dean when they approached the waiting room.
“So this is jail, huh?” asked Dean. “Dad always said I'd end up here someday.”
“Correctional facility, actually,” said Sam. Sam's line of B.S. must have worked, because they were soon buzzed in and led to a small conference room, where a guard walked in what Dean thought looked for all the world like a guy he would pass on the street and not look twice. He was tall, though not as tall as Sam, and sandy haired, but what struck Dean the most was the haunted look in his eyes. Well, judging from what Sam said the guy was supposed to have done, that was no surprise.
Nick sat down without a word (or rather seemed to let the guard seat him). Then, after the dude with the keys attached the chain at the Nick's waist to a loop on the table, the guard disappeared outside, and they were alone with the prisoner. Dean felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine.
“Uh, Nick? These are two of my colleagues,” said Sam. There was no response from the prisoner.
Cas had already gone over to Nick and, crouching down to be at eye level, gave the guy one of his penetrating stares.
Sam stared. “What's he doing?” Sam whispered to Dean, who gave a not terribly reassuring shrug.
Cas straightened up and walked over to the other side of the room to confer with Sam and Dean. “Sam,” he whispered. “I am not entirely certain this man is possessed. Or rather, if there is a possession, I do not believe it to be demonic in nature.”
“Oh, uh, there's other kinds of possessions?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, we meet new kinds of creepy crawlies all day long,” said Dean. “What to do you think it is, Cas?”
“May I try something?” Cas asked Sam.
Sam gestured, so Cas walked closer to Nick. This time Sam and Dean drew closer as well.
Cas said, “Nick?” And then he said something to Nick: it resembled Latin. Nick did not respond. Cas tried a couple more phrases, each time in what sounded like a different language, but Nick continued to sit, glassy-eyed.
Finally, Cas said something in words that were not in English, or any language Sam recognized. To Sam's shock, Nick seemed to perk up. He looked at Cas, his eyes coming into focus. And then Nick softly spoke in what sounded like the same language.
Cas did not reply. He seemed too nonplussed. Nick slowly sank back to his semi-catatonic state.
“Cas?” asked Dean.
Flustered, Cas gestured for them to go. Sam signaled to the guards, and they retreated, Cas, who seemed lost in thought, leading the way. He didn't speak again until they were all the way outside the buidling.
“Cas, you gonna freaking tell us what's going on?” asked Dean.
“I.... I'm afraid I don't know myself,” said Cas.
“Cas, what language was that?” asked Sam. “Maybe I could get a translator?”
“I doubt it, Sam,” said Cas. “I spoke to him in Enochian.”
“What's Enochian?” asked Dean.
“It is the traditional language of the angels,” said Cas.
“Whoa!” said Dean. “Is he possessed, or is the dude about to be raptured?”
“What do you think that means, Cas?” asked Sam.
Cas looked between the brothers. “I must seek revelation, I think,” he finally said. And then, with no further explanation, he turned and walked off, his overcoat flying in the wind behind him like a pair of khaki wings.
“Does he do that?” asked Sam.
“He does that,” said Dean. “Not big on social skills. Though he seems to know everything. Like, I mean, everything.”
“Yeah, how the heck did he learn the angel language?” asked Sam, who stretched and yawned.
Dean shook his head. “I dunno, maybe he hangs out at new age crystal shops.” He regarded his sleepy brother. “Dude, rough night last night?”
“Insomnia. Just can't stay asleep when I want to,” grumbled Sam.
“Insomnia?”
Sam waved his hands. “I'm just stressed. It'll pass. It'll pass.”
“You still gonna give me shit about going back to The Life?” asked Dean as they walked towards the parking lot.
“Well, maybe it's like you told me when you hitched up with GhostFacers, if you try to get away, it just sneaks up and bites you on the ass,” laughed Sam.
Castiel gazed up at the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique's blinking neon sign. He strolled inside and settled into a private booth. The curtain on the window drew back to reveal a couple making out on a large bed. The male of the couple hopped off the bed and came to crouch by the window.
“Hey, baby bro!” he hailed, twirling his handlebar mustache.
“Hello, Gabriel,” said Cas.
“How ya doin'?”
“I am still finding my assignment to be most perplexing.”
“Why is that?” asked Gabe.
“I fail to understand humans, brother.”
“What’s so hard to understand? Take it from me, baby bro, humans are dead simple. They just wanna eat, drink and screw!” Gabriel ticked them off on his fingers.
“Be that as it may, I was just summoned to see Zachariah.”
“Oh, hey, you mind if I continue with my performance?” asked Gabriel. “Don't want Bunny to get cold.” The comely girl on the bed, at the sound of her name, waved cheerily at Cas.
“That's fine,” said Cas. “Hello, Bunny.”
“So, you saw Zachariah. What did that big windbag want?”
“It was time for my centennial performance evaluation, and I had many questions this time, none of which were really answered, I found, to my satisfaction.”
“Zach is a dickweed wrapped in a douche bag shrouded in fuckery,” grumbled Gabriel into Bunny's cleavage.
“I have found the Righteous Man, Gabriel.”
“Hey, cool. Anyone I know?”
“Dean Winchester.”
“Oooo,” said Gabriel, pausing in his work. “That kid you work with, right? He has one righteous a-“
“Gabriel!” snapped Cas.
“Sorry.”
“…But Zachariah did not want to pursue it. And there is another matter. It concerns Dean's brother, Sam.”
“What's the matter, you thinking threesomes now, Cas?”
“Uh.... What?” asked Cas. “No! Absolutely not.”
“You can tell me, little bro. In fact, tell me in great detail. I need some spicy stuff for the Bank of Wank!”
“For the...? Oh, no, Gabriel! Please pay attention to something besides your genitals.”
“Can't blame a guy for trying.”
“Gabriel, Sam Winchester has a client. He brought me before him, as he surmised the man to be possessed. But I now think there is something else going on. I believe one of our brothers intends to use him as a vessel.”
“Oh Father, tell me it's not Michael. He's such an old fart-knocker.”
“No, Gabriel. Not Michael. Lucifer.”
“What? Okay, kid, you got rocks in your head. Lucy got spanked by Daddy and put in the corner a millennium ago. He ain't getting out of that one!”
“When I spoke to him in Enochian, the man said he was preparing the way for the vessel of the Light Bringer.”
“You know, Lucifer gave himself that nickname. Asshole.”
“There have been signs, Gabriel. And portents.”
“Portents schmortents! Prophecy is shit. What do the mandarins at headquarters say?”
Castiel's usually impassive features edged into something that may have been termed a pout. “They never tell me anything.”
Gabriel sighed. “Okay, look, I'll go make inquiries, see if any of my pantheon homeboys have heard anything.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. I-”
“What?” asked Gabriel when Cas paused for a long moment.
“Oh,” said Cas. “I don’t believe I have witnessed that particular sexual position prior to this.”
“Dude, you know the Kama Sutra? I was a consultant. Me and my main squeeze, Kali.”
“Yes, how is your, uh, better half?” asked Castiel.
“She’s fine and dandy, since I fucking smote that bitch, Azazel.”
“You do realize, Gabriel, that there is still much concern at headquarters regarding that particular murder? There was supposed to be a prophecy concerning the yellow eyed demon….”
“He disrespected my lady!” protested Gabriel. “He had to die.”
“Be that as it may…”
“You’re not gonna bust me to the man upstairs, are you?”
“Why would I, uh, bust you?”
“Oh, to get ‘exceeds expectations’ on your performance evaluation, or whatever.”
“I doubt that's in the cards no matter what I do,” sighed Cas.
“Well, piece of advice, little bro? If your orders seem to be shit, they probably are.”
“So, what should I do?”
“Go with your gut!”
“My gut?” asked Castiel, glancing down at his own stomach.
Gabe sighed and came to the front of the booth. “Ignore Zach and the birdbrains. Do what you think is right,” he told Cas.
Sam sighed and peered sleepily at the bedside alarm clock, though he almost didn't need to. 3 am, give or take. It was always 3 am, no matter what he did: exercise, herb tea, hot baths, cold showers, hypnosis tapes....
Sam had struggled with intermittent insomnia before, but it had never been so bad as the past few weeks. And the sleeplessness wasn't the worst part: it was the terrible feeling of dread that came over him. Did he pay his electricity bill? Had he remembered to turn off the oven? What was that twinge he felt in his chest?
He yawned and swung his long legs out of bed. It was surrendering, yes, but tossing and turning was the worst. He padded into the kitchen and switched on the burner under the kettle. He dropped a teabag in a mug, and then plopped down at the table, pulling a book out of one of the large stacks there. If he wouldn't be able to drop back to sleep for the next hour or so, he might as well get some work out of it, right? He gazed blearily at the law book. Damn, another year or so, he would probably need reading glasses, and then he'd never hear the end of it from Dean.
He chucked the book to the side and grabbed another and opened it more or less at random, just wanting something printed in a slightly bigger font. He scowled. He squinted.
And then he closed the book and looked at the cover, which had a large pentagram inscribed on it.
He opened the book again. No wonder the words had looked scrambled: it was written in Latin.
Sam closed the book again and stared at it, now getting a little freaked out. He currently lived alone, as the result of a long story, the shortened version of which was that he and his on and off girlfriend, Jess, were taking yet another “break.” And he hadn't had anyone over for … well, probably longer than was healthy. He sure as fuck hadn't had a coven of witches over for a damn book club.
He thought of calling Dean, but then again, it was fricking 3 am. 3 am, and his life was weird.
The noise made him start. It was just the kettle whistling. He rose, shaking his head. One freaky client, and he was suddenly a mess. He flicked off the burner and poured steaming water over the teabag, enjoying the nice smell, lost in thought. He replaced the kettle and impatiently yanked at the teabag. Sam almost always drank weak tea, because he was never patient enough to let the stupid thing steep for three whole minutes. He grabbed a spoon out of the mismatched bunch in the silverware drawer and squished the bag against the side of the cup, and then dumped the damp bag on the little foil wrapper. And then he brought the mug to his lips and turned around.
The mug shattered as it hit the tile floor. Hot tea splashed on Sam's feet and ankles.
Sam did not move.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Gabriel/Kali; Dean, Sam, Castiel, Nick, Gabriel, Bobby Singer, Harry Spangler, Ed Zeddmore, Kenny Spruce, Victor Henricksen, Michael, Kali, Joshua
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 23,000
Summary: When public defender Sam Winchester's new client show signs of demonic possession he calls on his brother, Dean, a reluctant member of the GhostFacers team, for help. But the brothers might have stumbled into a meltdown of celestial proportions.
Notes: Written for the 2012 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge. My grateful thanks to my betas, zsomeone and nugatorytm; and to hipokras, for a fun and creative art prompt.
Sam checked his watch one more time and reviewed the stacks of legal briefs on the table in front of him. “Drew the short straw this time, Winchester,” Victor had told him when he had handed over the files. “Low man on the totem pole,” he’d added.
“The road to Hell,” muttered Sam, rolling his eyes, “is paved with Victor’s crap-ass metaphors.”
Sam grimaced and opened the newest file: the psychiatric evaluation. He was supposed to have reviewed it before he got here tonight, but then Brenda at Records couldn’t figure out how to use an encryption key with her email to save her worthless bureaucratic life (fucking government employees) so he’d had to drive out of his way to grab a hard copy and then hustle down to the county jail in the nick of time before visiting hours were over for the day.
He stretched and yawned. Another 3 am wakeup last night: this sleeplessness was getting annoying. Maybe he would try that herb tea he'd been reading about. It couldn't hurt.
Sam always hated meeting prisoners here, in this old slab of a building. It was supposed to convey the might and majesty of the legal system, but to him it was just an ugly, drafty old building that smelled like cleaning fluid that couldn’t quite mask the stench of urine.
And it was drafty as hell. He pulled his jacket closer, and listened to the creaking outside the one, high window. The wind had kicked up: it looked like a storm was blowing in. Just what he needed: a commute back in the dark and rain, and here he’d blown a headlight and needed his wipers replaced. He considered going to visit Dean. His brother probably wouldn’t mind sticking his piece of shit car back together, although he’d give Sam a ribbing about it being made of plastic. But the thought of sitting with a long neck beer while his older brother puttered around inside a car just made his face edge into a smile.
He’d call Dean. After he was done here. The guy kept late hours.
“Uh, Sam?”
Sam must have been lost in thought, because he nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of the voice behind him.
“Dammit, Artie,” he said, turning and looking at the broad-faced jailer behind him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Uh, hey, Sam? We were gonna bring Nick, but there’s been some kind of delay? I dunno, I can’t make sense of it.”
“You going to bring him here before I die of old age?” asked Sam, irritably checking the watch again.
“Yeah. We’ll do that. He’s on his way.”
Sam sighed and turned back to his psych report, which he spread out all over the table. Phosphoros, N., it said at the top. Since he didn’t have an electronic copy, he couldn’t do a search for the words he sought. “Flatness of affect,” was the phrase that came to mind, even before he’d found the doctor’s notes. He’d met Nick once before, and briefly. Poor son of a bitch was being held for murder of his wife and infant daughter. According to the police report he had called 911 himself, and they had found him sitting right there, his hands still bloody, muttering, “I don’t know what happened.” And that was all they’d gotten from him since. The few words they’d dragged out of him. He hadn’t really seemed to have processed the fact that his wife and daughter were dead.
Sam’s eyes now raced over the doctor’s report, searching for phrases like “fugue state” or “multiple personality disorder.” He needed something. But what he finally found stunned him.
Antisocial personality disorder.
They thought his guy was a sociopath?
Sam jumped, yet again. The wind had gusted, rattling the window again, and now the rain was beginning to make a patter. There was a soft moan, almost like someone speaking. He shivered, wondering why the hell he was so damned jumpy tonight. He did need a beer. Maybe a couple. And his jerk brother calling him “bitch.”
He scanned the psych report again. PCL-R. They had recommended administering Hare’s psychopathy test to Nick. Sam shook his head. Not gonna happen, not before the trial. He didn’t want his guy tagged as a soulless monster.
Sam jerked up again. His client was finally here. Sam got to his feet. Funny, the guard wasn’t Artie, or anyone he recognized. In fact, where had Artie disappeared to? Weird.
Sam hurriedly flipped the psych evaluation closed as he stood. Nick was exactly as he remembered him, shuffling in, head down.
“Hey Nick,” said Sam.
Nick didn’t look up, nor did he reply, but simply let himself be led over to the table opposite Sam.
“You can leave us now,” Sam told the guard. The guard didn’t reply, but turned around and walked towards the door of the little conference room. Sam stared after him, a little unnerved, though he wasn’t sure why.
The wind howled again.
“Saaaaam.”
It was the barest whisper. Sam turned with a start, looking up to the clouded window, which was now getting splattered with rain. Calm down, idiot, Sam told himself. He turned to face Nick again. “Nick, why don’t you sit down?” he asked, taking a seat himself. Nick sunk into his chair. Somewhere outside, lightning flashed. Sam, despite himself, looked up again. This was a bit early in the season for a thunderstorm. He actually got back up and walked over to the window, just as the boom of thunder crashed outside. Another lightning bolt flashed, and Sam started to count, 1-2-3. And then a boom.
Another flash and….
With a pop, the lights were out.
“He’s near.”
Sam jerked around. This wasn’t a weird whisper this time: this time, Nick had spoken. Sam regarded his client in the dim light. “I…. I’ll call a guard. They gotta have a backup generator here. Sit tight.” He moved to the door, opening it a crack. “Hey,” he began. He paused. Where the hell had the guard gone? He went outside into the corridor, shutting the door carefully behind him. He pulled out his cell phone and cast the light from its screen up and down the hallway. There was absolutely no one around.
“OK, whatever,” grumbled Sam, going back to sit with Nick. He flashed the light from his cell phone on his client, and was a little startled to see he was now sitting up, staring at Sam. The light from the phone was reflected in his eyes.
“Nick, we gotta just sit tight a little while.”
“I can’t hold him back…” whispered Nick.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold him back,” Nick repeated.
“Keep who back, Nick?” Sam’s mind reeled. A sociopath? Is he playing a trick?
“He wants to speak to you,” said Nick.
“Who?” asked Sam.
Nick stared at him, his eye glinting with an unearthly light.
Sam jumped once again as the door crashed open and a body hurtled into the room. He grabbed a chair and held it in front of him.
The lights flicked on.
“You okay in here?” asked Artie, raising an eyebrow at Sam.
Sam stood, breathing hard, and noticed he was still gripping the chair. He frowned and let it drop to the floor. “Everything OK in here,” he breathed, steadying himself. “Where the hell did you go?”
Artie glared. “I was right outside. The whole time.”
“Okay, okay,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”
“We'll need to cut this visit short, Sam,” said Artie, now a little apologetic. “No visitors until we get the power back. There was a lightning strike. We're on the generator now.”
Sam ducked his head down, scooped up everything from the table, and, with a nod towards Nick, fled out the door.
“Jumpy bastard,” grumbled Artie.
Ed and Harry were engaged in one of their many high level discussions.
“What?”
“What?”
“What what?”
Dean heaved a sigh, counted slowly to ten, and wondered if he should call Sammy regarding the legal ramifications of strangling one or both of his bosses. This was gonna be a long night. “Look, Ed…” he began.
“What is it, Winchester?” groused Ed, turning his bespectacled eyes towards Dean. “May I remind you that you are….”
“Still on probation,” said Dean. “After your last intern was scarred for life. Yeah. Got it,” he added, knowing full well it would make Ed and Harry cringe. He surreptitiously checked his watch again. After midnight. Well after midnight. And he had an early day at the auto shop tomorrow. “Look, this is a big house, have you thought maybe the entity just doesn’t happen to manifest in the dining room?”
“But we have the best angles in here!” whined Spruce.
“Uh, yeah, and I’m sure the spirits are fully aware of that,” said Dean. “What I was thinking was-“
“You’re not being paid to think, big guy,” Harry muttered under his breath. Dean paused, turning to glower at Harry, who was suddenly very interested in something on the ground.
“Look. Why don’t we split up? We could cover the most ground that way,” said Dean.
“We are not splitting up! We never split up! We stay together!” squealed Ed.
“It’s okay, Ed, it’s okay,” soothed Harry, patting his partner on the shoulder. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea, after all. Maybe me and Maggie-“
“You and Maggie?” snorted Ed. “Oh, yeah, why don’t you and Daphne take off and you leave me here with freaking Velma.”
“Who are Daphne and Velma?” piped up Cas, who had been standing quietly by the entire evening. Dean turned to him and smiled. Guy had a patience of a saint to put up with so much from Ed and Harry.
“It’s a TV cartoon, Cas,” Dean supplied.
“Oh,” said Cas, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Does an animation have relevance to smiting a spirit?”
“The kids used to go around in a van looking for ghosts,” said Dean.
“They were drug dealers! That’s the only explanation!” averred Ed.
“Hey, Cas, why don’t you make yourself useful and go get us coffee,” suggested Harry.
“You want Cas to hop over to Starbucks? In the middle of a job?” asked Dean.
“Oh, yes, get me a vanilla soy latte!” Ed told Cas. “Half decaf!”
“Would you like anything, Dean?” Cas asked him.
“Just … black coffee,” sighed Dean, who very much wanted to ask to come along. And then maybe keep driving and never return. But instead they sent Cas off with a list of insanely detailed orders, and then, to Ed’s dismay, Harry and Maggie decided to go off alone to explore the upper floor.
“I’ll check the basement,” Dean told Ed, striding off before anybody could object. He found the basement stairs just as the rainstorm, which had been threatening outside, suddenly hit. He ticked the light switch on and off a couple of times, and, seeing no response, clicked on his flashlight. “Dark and creepy, just the way I like it,” he muttered to himself, hoping that meant spirit entities and a quick finish to this endless evening.
“Don't quit your day job,” had been Sam's crack when Dean told him he was signing on with the GhostFacers. It had been good advice, but it made his life a little hectic, especially when Ed and Harry couldn't seem to understand that not everybody lived in Mom's basement. Or Mom's garage, rather. Some people, like Dean, actually had to work for a living.
Dean found his way down the wooden stairs, and was a little taken aback: the basement, which he had expected to be a single room full of cast-off sleds and Christmas decorations, seemed to be even more extensive than the main floor. He took out an EMF meter, and started his rounds. The first few rooms were evidently interconnected storerooms, and all were crammed to the ceiling with various odds and ends the former owners of the house evidently couldn’t be bothered to toss out.
The meter, which had been zero upstairs, started creeping slowly upwards as he walked. Dean glanced up, frowning. The rainstorm outside had dulled to a distant thrum on this level, but he thought he heard something up ahead. It wasn’t the scrabbling and scraping of rodents, as you’d expect. It sounded like distant music. He put his head up to a wall. Yes, it was coming from the next room.
He paused for a moment, considering running back upstairs and telling Ed or Harry. He shook his head and muttered, “Screw those dimwits.” He scanned the wall and, with some effort, pushed away a shelving unit that was partially obscuring a door, and checked the handle. It was locked. He shrugged and pulled out a pick, and the lock was soon opened to him.
He opened the door, and, cringing at the creaking hinges, entered the next room. The air was especially musty here, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while. He shone the flashlight around. It was weird: the room was huge, and unlike the other cluttered rooms, it was mostly empty. There were decorative columns that must have at one point been brightly painted, and Dean noticed that there were dim remnants of murals painted on the walls.
He didn’t hear the distant music any more, but he crossed the floor to take a look at the one large piece of furniture: an old fashioned theater organ. He pulled back the dusty tarp covering it and hit a couple of keys. He nearly jumped out of his skin when it actually played.
“OK,” Dean muttered to himself. “Blinky light switches, but the organ plays. Nice.” Suddenly, he looked, down, cross-eyed. He could see his breath. The room had grown cold.
And there it was, the slight, far-off sound of music. He pointed the flashlight around the room, and spotted it, over in the corner. Or rather, spotted them: the ghostly figures of a couple, dancing to the music. It was a cute little old-timey couple, he in a fussy high-collared suit, she in hoop skirts.
“Whoa. Haunted Mansion, dude!” said Dean out loud. And then he froze. The ghostly dancing couple both suddenly stopped dancing and glared over at him. “Uh, hi?”
And then they changed, from a charming amusement park ride to vile creatures, all teeth and claws and gawping mouths. And both came flying across the room, straight at him.
“Not good!” said Dean, making a run back the way he'd come. He dove through the doorway, and then the door suddenly closed behind him with a slam.
Dean gasped as he was suddenly thrown against the wall, a cool hand over his mouth. But fear turned to confusion when he saw it was Cas. Cas's face was just inches from his own, a finger on his own lips, gesturing for silence. Dean nodded, and Cas released his grip. Dean was surprised: for a scrawny looking guy, he was strong as hell.
Cas put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pointed upwards, mouthing, “Go!” But Dean stubbornly shook his head and pointed to the ground. Cas looked for one moment like he might try to force the issue. Dean was taken aback: he was used to Cas being a pretty mousy guy, but he seemed intense as hell right now. Cas shook his head in annoyance and looked around the dim room. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that Cas didn’t seem to be carrying a flashlight. Cas reached a hand into one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the room and brought out a big old fireplace poker, which he experimentally used to strike out a couple of times before handing it over to Dean.
“A … poker?” Dean mouthed.
Cas pulled him over by the collar, his mouth to Dean's ear. “Cold iron,” he hissed. Dean hefted the bar in his hands, feeling the weight, musing for a moment. He seemed to recall reading now that iron repelled spirits, though it didn't seem to be in Ed and Harry's bag of tricks. Dean whacked the air with the poker a couple of times, and then went to stand by Cas on the opposite side of the door to the ghostly ballroom. He listened.
When the music started up again, Cas held up three fingers. Dean nodded. Cas ticked off 1-2-3, and then they both burst into the room. The dancing ghosts halted in their tracks, and Cas was there, arm thrust out, palm towards the ectoplasmic couple, and began chanting in some weird language. Dean listened closely: it didn't sound like Latin, but the words sounded old.
And then it was like a repeat of Dean's experience: the lady of the couple was the first to fang out and come flying at Cas, but Dean stepped in her way and slammed her with the poker. To his surprise, her spirit dissipated at the touch of the iron. The male (or formerly male) spirit then dove at them, but Dean managed to bat him away as well.
“Cas, is this gonna take much longer?” asked Dean. Cas, however, had his eyes squeezed shut, and simply went on chanting.
The couple had now reconstituted at the other end of the room and, unfortunately, decided to both attack at once, instead of politely doing it one at a time like in the movies. “Cas!” yelled Dean. But the chanting merely became more intense. Dean gripped the poker like a baseball bat and the spirits flew at him.
But suddenly, they froze in mid-air, emitting a piercing scream. Dean dropped the poker to cover his ears. The spirits began to glow, and then seemed to fragment, like they'd been dipped in liquid nitrogen and hit with a hammer.
The screaming stopped and the ghosts disappeared. The room was suddenly silent.
Cas had dropped his arm, and was breathing hard. “Did you sustain any injuries, Dean?”
Dean poked a finger in his ear. “No, I'm fine.”
“I thank you for your assistance.”
“You did all the work, dude!” said Dean. “That was pretty freaking impressive!” he added. After a look around the ballroom and a check of Dean's EMF meter, they walked back the way they had come in.
“What was that, anyway?” asked Dean.
“I know.... I know a few spells,” explained Cas. “I should get upstairs. The coffee will be getting cold,” he said. And, indeed, Dean now noticed there was a small cardboard tray full of mochas and lattes sitting on one of the boxes in the basement storeroom.
“We gonna tell Ed and Harry about this?” asked Dean, tossing the poker back in a box.
“If it makes no difference to you Dean....” said Cas, frowning at Dean.
“Don't tell them? You're sure?” asked Dean.
“Yes, I am sure.”
“They'd just be pissed they didn't get it on tape,” grinned Dean. “Hey, your secret's safe with me, buddy.”
Cas smiled gratefully. “Now, maybe I should go ahead first?” he proposed. Dean nodded, and watched Cas take the tray of espresso upstairs, noticing once again that he didn't bother with a flashlight on the darkened stairway.
Dean caught Ed's whine as started upstairs. “Cas, my vanilla soy latte is cold!”
Sam knocked on a familiar door. The words, Public Defender – Victor Henricksen were stenciled on the smoked glass. Sam heard a grunt from within and poked his head in.
“Victor?”
“Sam! Come on in! Sit down!” smiled Victor, indicating a chair. Sam carefully folded himself into a tiny guest chair in Victor's cluttered office.
“So, the guy, Nick Phosphoros?” asked Sam.
“The murder case?” asked Victor, his glad-handing smile fading. “Yeah, that was a tragedy. Sorry I haven't had time to talk it over. I think our only option here is trying to keep the guy out of the electric chair. I've got a call into the DA’s office: I think there might be a deal in this, in return for consecutive life sentences-”
“Victor. I don't think he did it.”
Victor paused in his monologue. He gestured towards the door. “Close the door, Sam,” he said, going into a familiar desk drawer. Sam reached around and pushed the door closed (it was easy in the cramped office) as Victor came up with a bottle and two shot glasses. He placed the glasses on one of the stacks of files that littered his desk and filled them both.
“Now, Sam, what is Henricksen's First Rule of Law?” said Victor.
Sam took a shot glass and sipped. Eau de lighter fluid, he thought. “They're always guilty,” he recited.
“They're always guilty. I know, coming fresh from law school, you have pie-in-the-sky notions about what you'll be doing. What you're doing is this-”
“Defending guilty people,” put in Sam. “Yeah, but Victor, this guy, Nick-”
“...killed his wife and baby daughter. Sam, I know it's difficult, but that's what happened. Now, maybe he was having some kind of psychotic episode. But I think you’ll agree, the poor guy belongs in custody. So he doesn’t hurt anybody else.”
“Victor, look…” Sam began. A frown edged his features. “I’ve got a feeling about this guy. Now, wait before you interrupt me. You read the psych report?”
“Yeah. Maybe got us a sociopath.”
“No. It’s wrong.”
“Come again?” asked Victor.
“Look, Victor, I got a sixth sense about sociopaths. And this is a real thing, I know from reading the literature. Some people, like me I guess, just get an uneasy feeling around them. I don’t know how, but I just know.”
“And you don’t feel that little sociopath tingle around Nick?” asked Victor, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, no.”
“Great. A jury will eat that one up.” Victor sat back. “Look, Sam, I’m sorry, but the guy’s not a real multiple personality, and he’s not schizophrenic, either. He’s just a bad guy.”
“Listen Victor. I have a theory. I know it sounds crazy. But, you know about my family, right?”
“You told me they were a bunch of exorcist weirdos, right?” laughed Victor.
“Yeah, exorcist weirdos. Anyway, there’s a lot of lore about this. I actually looked it up in one of my grandfather's notebooks. There are documented cases where people have been … possessed.”
Sam looked up expectantly. He gulped. Victor's look was anything but encouraging.
“Okay, Winchester. You need some time off? Is that what you're telling me? Nick didn't listen to the fairies whispering in his ear-”
“No, actually, it would be demons-”
“Sam!” Sam shut up. “I'll spell it out. Nick is a bad guy. He isn't right in the head, and he did a terrible thing. But by the laws of our democracy, he gets the best defense we can give. So when we go to trial, if that's what this comes down to, I want the best possible defense, which means there better not be any fucking leprechauns or bride of the mummy or whatever else you saw in your tea leaves this morning. Is that understood?”
Sam shrunk down very small in his seat. “Yes sir.”
Dean sighed and hit the CALL END button on his phone and leaned against a tree. A possessed client? That sounded sort of cool. Awesome actually. He glanced over to where Ed and Harry were re-shooting close ups. “We need B roll!” they had said. Yeah, whatever. Dean had thought the point was helping people, not posing for the cameras. What were they, Paris Fucking Hilton?
He had learned a lot since he'd joined up with the GhostFacers, that he had to admit. EMF waves. Rock salt. But he had the impression there was more-
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cas! We've talked about this! Don't sneak up on me like that!” Dean said amiably. Seriously, guy had the social skills of an eight year old. Or maybe a man from Mars, Dean didn't know. He was hovering there now, too damn close, blinking at Dean like he'd never met a human before. “Take me to your leader,” thought Dean. But despite the weird, he wasn't an attention whore like Ed and Harry, and he actually seemed to know his shit.
“I'm sorry, Dean,” said Cas, who looked sort of baffled, but also didn't back up. Dean gripped Cas by the shoulder and led him on a walk, away from where Spruce was screeching about losing the light.
“You know, I never thanked you for the other day.”
“The other day?” asked Cas.
“The dancing ghosts,” said Dean. “I have no idea what you did, but that was cool.”
“I know a few … incantations,” shrugged Cas, who once again suddenly seemed evasive.
“Dude, you gotta teach me.”
“I’m not sure Ed and Harry would approve-“
“Oh, fuck Ed and Harry. Aren’t you sick of running after their coffee by now?”
Cas shrugged.
“Anyway, I was talking to my brother,” Dean confided.
“Your brother Sam? The one who is the defense attorney?” asked Cas. Dean frowned. Had he mentioned Sam to Cas? He couldn't remember.
“Anyway, he's got this client. It's pretty bad, it's a murder. And the thing is, he thinks the guy's possessed.”
Cas nodded. “Demonic possession may account for antisocial behavior.”
“This was pretty bad, Cas. This was his wife. And baby.”
“This indicates either a very strong demonic power, or alternatively the subconscious wish of the possessed human.”
“Whoa! Subconscious? So demons can be like an id monster?” Dean wasn't exactly sure where he'd picked up the term. Maybe he had read one of Sammy's college textbooks when he was bored?
“While Freud was incorrect on many facets of human behavior, and I believe parenthetically harbored certain sexist beliefs which were common in his era, I agree that your analogy captures the essence of the phenomenon, Dean.”
“Ya know what I like about you Cas?”
“Uh, what's that, Dean?”
“You use words like 'parenthetically' when you talk. It's spooky.”
Cas wore a look that verged upon happiness. “You like this about me, Dean?” he asked, his face a mask of earnestness.
“Yeah, I like you, sure,” laughed Dean, clapping Cas on the back to emphasize the point. Cas looked back curiously, as if he thought this meant there was something on his back, but then broke out into a real, if tenuous, smile. “So,” Dean continued, “maybe you'll come talk to my brother with me?”
“Of course,” said Cas, blue eyes sparkling.
“Cool! Hey, you wanna ride back into town?”
“That would be pleasant, thank you-” But then Cas suddenly froze, and his eyes seemed to go out of focus.
“What is it?”
“I, uh... I apologize, Dean. I forgot. I have a, uh, important meeting.”
“Meeting? What, with Ed and Harry?”
“Uh, no. You could say, my other job.”
“Oh, didn't quit your day job?” asked Dean. “Yeah, I understand. I'm still working at the garage, myself. In fact, gotta be on in a couple hours. Well, I'll be in touch about my brother, okay?”
“Yes, definitely.”
Castiel paused uncertainly, as he always did, at the door of Zachariah's office. If humans were puzzling to Castiel, then Upper Management was ever more so. He had been created as a soldier, or at least that's what he thought their heavenly Father's plan for him had been. This sudden transfer some decades ago to the Department of Revelation had been unexpected. He remembered Balthazar and Uriel, his comrades, rolling their eyes, and Uriel saying, “Working for Zach? You'll be chewed up and spit out, kid.”
He braced himself and pushed in the door. Zachariah sat behind his desk, stretching comfortably in his customary portly human vessel. Cas was very newly installed in his own vessel, and it still felt discomfiting.
“Ah, Castiel! Sit down, sit down!” said Zachariah, with a broad smile that came nowhere near his piggish eyes.
“Zachariah, I have left several urgent communications for your office....”
“Communications?” said Zachariah, who busied himself opening an envelope with a sharp letter opener. “I wasn't aware of any communications.” The eyes blinked with a simulacrum of innocence.
“My assignment, Zachariah.”
“Well, obviously a glitch in messaging. It's been in a state of constant clusterfuck since Gabriel left us I'm afraid.” He looked up. “Why don't you just tell me, now that you're here?”
Cas frowned. “So, that was not the reason I was summoned today?”
“Castiel, did I just ask for a report, or did I ask for more of your blithering?” asked Zachariah, running a finger down the side of his silver letter opener.
Cas kept his human face neutral. “I have found the Righteous Man, Zachariah. The one foretold in prophecy. He works with me, even now. I have never seen a human soul burn more brightly. He is like a holy fire, streaking-”
“Righteous Man?” asked Zachariah. “Hmpf. Well isn't that good news. Hallelujah, and hosannah, and all that shit. Now,” he said, straightening up in his chair, “it's time for your centennial performance evaluation.”
“Zachariah?”
“What is it, Castiel?”
Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “What should I do about the Righteous Man?”
Zachariah sat forward and knit his hands together. “Castiel, what were you told to do?”
“To wait, Zachariah?”
“Well, then, those are your orders.”
“But Zachariah-”
“Castiel! Need I remind you what happened with your previous assignment?”
Castiel shut his mouth and looked glum.
“Tell me, do you want another Poland? Is that what you want?”
Castiel looked down and muttered something.
“What was that?”
“No, Zachariah.”
“Alrighty then!” said Zachariah brightly. “About your performance evaluation....”
Dean had told Sam he was bringing along a “colleague,” but Sam was mildly surprised to see him walking up with neither Ed nor Harry, but instead some unassuming guy wearing a trench coat.
“Sam,” said Dean. “This is Cas.”
“Oh, nice to meet you, Cas,” said Sam, extending a hand.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Sam,” said Cas, who stared at Sam's hand for an awkward beat before clasping it warmly. Sam cast a glance at Dean, who mouthed, “It's okay.”
“This is an … interesting building,” said Cas, looking up at the exterior of the county jail building.
“Always gives me the creeps, frankly,” sighed Sam. “They're building a new one. Can't wait 'til it's completed, but it's taking for-fucking-ever.
“Yes, the structure is, unfortunately, located on a spiritual confluence, so there is bound to be elevated paranormal activity,” Cas informed them.
“You're … a psychic or something?” asked Sam
“No. Nothing of the sort,” Cas assured him quickly. “I read up on the lore regarding this building prior to our meeting. I am most impressed, though, that you are sensitive to it,” he added, training his laser beam eyes directly at Sam, who actually winced.
“Wish you'd talk to my boss,” said Sam, attempting to laugh it off.
“Why is that, Sam?” probed Cas.
“Oh, I told him the other day I get the heebie-jeebies when I'm in the room with a psychopath.”
“Victor?” laughed Dean. “What did he do?”
“Threw me out of his freaking office,” said Sam.
“I am surprised he is not well read on the literature,” said Cas. “This kind of sense is actually very well documented....”
“Yes! That's my point exactly!” said Sam, who hurried off, deep in nerdy conversation with Cas.
“This structure is actually at what in Hindu tradition is termed a Triveni Sangam...” Cas babbled.
Dean remained on the sidewalk for a moment, watching them go. “Great, an afternoon with the Geek Patrol,” he muttered, although he was smiling. He took a look down to make sure his tie was straight, and then hurried after his brother. He had to concede Sam's point about it being a place that gave you the creeps when he entered the revolving door to the lobby. The twenty foot high ceiling and bas-relief carvings he guessed were supposed to convey that this was a bunch of dudes who don't fuck around. The effect was marred by the metal detector set up there. And it smelled … well, it smelled like a place you would never quite clean up, even if you sand-blasted the walls.
“I told them you guys are from the P.D.'s office in Topeka,” Sam whispered to Dean when they approached the waiting room.
“So this is jail, huh?” asked Dean. “Dad always said I'd end up here someday.”
“Correctional facility, actually,” said Sam. Sam's line of B.S. must have worked, because they were soon buzzed in and led to a small conference room, where a guard walked in what Dean thought looked for all the world like a guy he would pass on the street and not look twice. He was tall, though not as tall as Sam, and sandy haired, but what struck Dean the most was the haunted look in his eyes. Well, judging from what Sam said the guy was supposed to have done, that was no surprise.
Nick sat down without a word (or rather seemed to let the guard seat him). Then, after the dude with the keys attached the chain at the Nick's waist to a loop on the table, the guard disappeared outside, and they were alone with the prisoner. Dean felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine.
“Uh, Nick? These are two of my colleagues,” said Sam. There was no response from the prisoner.
Cas had already gone over to Nick and, crouching down to be at eye level, gave the guy one of his penetrating stares.
Sam stared. “What's he doing?” Sam whispered to Dean, who gave a not terribly reassuring shrug.
Cas straightened up and walked over to the other side of the room to confer with Sam and Dean. “Sam,” he whispered. “I am not entirely certain this man is possessed. Or rather, if there is a possession, I do not believe it to be demonic in nature.”
“Oh, uh, there's other kinds of possessions?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, we meet new kinds of creepy crawlies all day long,” said Dean. “What to do you think it is, Cas?”
“May I try something?” Cas asked Sam.
Sam gestured, so Cas walked closer to Nick. This time Sam and Dean drew closer as well.
Cas said, “Nick?” And then he said something to Nick: it resembled Latin. Nick did not respond. Cas tried a couple more phrases, each time in what sounded like a different language, but Nick continued to sit, glassy-eyed.
Finally, Cas said something in words that were not in English, or any language Sam recognized. To Sam's shock, Nick seemed to perk up. He looked at Cas, his eyes coming into focus. And then Nick softly spoke in what sounded like the same language.
Cas did not reply. He seemed too nonplussed. Nick slowly sank back to his semi-catatonic state.
“Cas?” asked Dean.
Flustered, Cas gestured for them to go. Sam signaled to the guards, and they retreated, Cas, who seemed lost in thought, leading the way. He didn't speak again until they were all the way outside the buidling.
“Cas, you gonna freaking tell us what's going on?” asked Dean.
“I.... I'm afraid I don't know myself,” said Cas.
“Cas, what language was that?” asked Sam. “Maybe I could get a translator?”
“I doubt it, Sam,” said Cas. “I spoke to him in Enochian.”
“What's Enochian?” asked Dean.
“It is the traditional language of the angels,” said Cas.
“Whoa!” said Dean. “Is he possessed, or is the dude about to be raptured?”
“What do you think that means, Cas?” asked Sam.
Cas looked between the brothers. “I must seek revelation, I think,” he finally said. And then, with no further explanation, he turned and walked off, his overcoat flying in the wind behind him like a pair of khaki wings.
“Does he do that?” asked Sam.
“He does that,” said Dean. “Not big on social skills. Though he seems to know everything. Like, I mean, everything.”
“Yeah, how the heck did he learn the angel language?” asked Sam, who stretched and yawned.
Dean shook his head. “I dunno, maybe he hangs out at new age crystal shops.” He regarded his sleepy brother. “Dude, rough night last night?”
“Insomnia. Just can't stay asleep when I want to,” grumbled Sam.
“Insomnia?”
Sam waved his hands. “I'm just stressed. It'll pass. It'll pass.”
“You still gonna give me shit about going back to The Life?” asked Dean as they walked towards the parking lot.
“Well, maybe it's like you told me when you hitched up with GhostFacers, if you try to get away, it just sneaks up and bites you on the ass,” laughed Sam.
Castiel gazed up at the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique's blinking neon sign. He strolled inside and settled into a private booth. The curtain on the window drew back to reveal a couple making out on a large bed. The male of the couple hopped off the bed and came to crouch by the window.
“Hey, baby bro!” he hailed, twirling his handlebar mustache.
“Hello, Gabriel,” said Cas.
“How ya doin'?”
“I am still finding my assignment to be most perplexing.”
“Why is that?” asked Gabe.
“I fail to understand humans, brother.”
“What’s so hard to understand? Take it from me, baby bro, humans are dead simple. They just wanna eat, drink and screw!” Gabriel ticked them off on his fingers.
“Be that as it may, I was just summoned to see Zachariah.”
“Oh, hey, you mind if I continue with my performance?” asked Gabriel. “Don't want Bunny to get cold.” The comely girl on the bed, at the sound of her name, waved cheerily at Cas.
“That's fine,” said Cas. “Hello, Bunny.”
“So, you saw Zachariah. What did that big windbag want?”
“It was time for my centennial performance evaluation, and I had many questions this time, none of which were really answered, I found, to my satisfaction.”
“Zach is a dickweed wrapped in a douche bag shrouded in fuckery,” grumbled Gabriel into Bunny's cleavage.
“I have found the Righteous Man, Gabriel.”
“Hey, cool. Anyone I know?”
“Dean Winchester.”
“Oooo,” said Gabriel, pausing in his work. “That kid you work with, right? He has one righteous a-“
“Gabriel!” snapped Cas.
“Sorry.”
“…But Zachariah did not want to pursue it. And there is another matter. It concerns Dean's brother, Sam.”
“What's the matter, you thinking threesomes now, Cas?”
“Uh.... What?” asked Cas. “No! Absolutely not.”
“You can tell me, little bro. In fact, tell me in great detail. I need some spicy stuff for the Bank of Wank!”
“For the...? Oh, no, Gabriel! Please pay attention to something besides your genitals.”
“Can't blame a guy for trying.”
“Gabriel, Sam Winchester has a client. He brought me before him, as he surmised the man to be possessed. But I now think there is something else going on. I believe one of our brothers intends to use him as a vessel.”
“Oh Father, tell me it's not Michael. He's such an old fart-knocker.”
“No, Gabriel. Not Michael. Lucifer.”
“What? Okay, kid, you got rocks in your head. Lucy got spanked by Daddy and put in the corner a millennium ago. He ain't getting out of that one!”
“When I spoke to him in Enochian, the man said he was preparing the way for the vessel of the Light Bringer.”
“You know, Lucifer gave himself that nickname. Asshole.”
“There have been signs, Gabriel. And portents.”
“Portents schmortents! Prophecy is shit. What do the mandarins at headquarters say?”
Castiel's usually impassive features edged into something that may have been termed a pout. “They never tell me anything.”
Gabriel sighed. “Okay, look, I'll go make inquiries, see if any of my pantheon homeboys have heard anything.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. I-”
“What?” asked Gabriel when Cas paused for a long moment.
“Oh,” said Cas. “I don’t believe I have witnessed that particular sexual position prior to this.”
“Dude, you know the Kama Sutra? I was a consultant. Me and my main squeeze, Kali.”
“Yes, how is your, uh, better half?” asked Castiel.
“She’s fine and dandy, since I fucking smote that bitch, Azazel.”
“You do realize, Gabriel, that there is still much concern at headquarters regarding that particular murder? There was supposed to be a prophecy concerning the yellow eyed demon….”
“He disrespected my lady!” protested Gabriel. “He had to die.”
“Be that as it may…”
“You’re not gonna bust me to the man upstairs, are you?”
“Why would I, uh, bust you?”
“Oh, to get ‘exceeds expectations’ on your performance evaluation, or whatever.”
“I doubt that's in the cards no matter what I do,” sighed Cas.
“Well, piece of advice, little bro? If your orders seem to be shit, they probably are.”
“So, what should I do?”
“Go with your gut!”
“My gut?” asked Castiel, glancing down at his own stomach.
Gabe sighed and came to the front of the booth. “Ignore Zach and the birdbrains. Do what you think is right,” he told Cas.
Sam sighed and peered sleepily at the bedside alarm clock, though he almost didn't need to. 3 am, give or take. It was always 3 am, no matter what he did: exercise, herb tea, hot baths, cold showers, hypnosis tapes....
Sam had struggled with intermittent insomnia before, but it had never been so bad as the past few weeks. And the sleeplessness wasn't the worst part: it was the terrible feeling of dread that came over him. Did he pay his electricity bill? Had he remembered to turn off the oven? What was that twinge he felt in his chest?
He yawned and swung his long legs out of bed. It was surrendering, yes, but tossing and turning was the worst. He padded into the kitchen and switched on the burner under the kettle. He dropped a teabag in a mug, and then plopped down at the table, pulling a book out of one of the large stacks there. If he wouldn't be able to drop back to sleep for the next hour or so, he might as well get some work out of it, right? He gazed blearily at the law book. Damn, another year or so, he would probably need reading glasses, and then he'd never hear the end of it from Dean.
He chucked the book to the side and grabbed another and opened it more or less at random, just wanting something printed in a slightly bigger font. He scowled. He squinted.
And then he closed the book and looked at the cover, which had a large pentagram inscribed on it.
He opened the book again. No wonder the words had looked scrambled: it was written in Latin.
Sam closed the book again and stared at it, now getting a little freaked out. He currently lived alone, as the result of a long story, the shortened version of which was that he and his on and off girlfriend, Jess, were taking yet another “break.” And he hadn't had anyone over for … well, probably longer than was healthy. He sure as fuck hadn't had a coven of witches over for a damn book club.
He thought of calling Dean, but then again, it was fricking 3 am. 3 am, and his life was weird.
The noise made him start. It was just the kettle whistling. He rose, shaking his head. One freaky client, and he was suddenly a mess. He flicked off the burner and poured steaming water over the teabag, enjoying the nice smell, lost in thought. He replaced the kettle and impatiently yanked at the teabag. Sam almost always drank weak tea, because he was never patient enough to let the stupid thing steep for three whole minutes. He grabbed a spoon out of the mismatched bunch in the silverware drawer and squished the bag against the side of the cup, and then dumped the damp bag on the little foil wrapper. And then he brought the mug to his lips and turned around.
The mug shattered as it hit the tile floor. Hot tea splashed on Sam's feet and ankles.
Sam did not move.
