Seven Hells, Part 3 of ?
Jan. 8th, 2013 10:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Seven Hells, Part 3 of ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.
Word Count: 80,000
Summary: Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, no, I did not make up the cherpumple. It's a real thing.
“So what do we got so far?”
Sam popped his shoulder once again. He noticed Kevin and Ruth both grinning surreptitiously at him. He had needed the forty winks after the drive, but reminded himself to never again fall asleep on a wooden pew. Those things were fucking uncomfortable as hell.
Sam glanced up to where Dean was handing over his garden burger. He grabbed it and, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, cautiously peeked inside the greasy waxed paper. Who the hell made a greasy veggie burger?
“Well, I know one thing,” sighed Kevin, who had unwrapped his burger and then sort of let it sit there on the altar. “It’s officially called The Tablet of Mine Enemies.”
“Catchy,” said Dean. “Hey, Guardian Girl, are you vegetarian, or do you eat normal food?”
“Anything,” grinned Ruth. “Did you get fries?”
Dean handed her a carton of fries and drew another burger out of the paper sack. “The double bacon cheeseburger goes to Mr. Free Will over here,” he said, handing it off to Cas. “How about mushroom?”
“Awesome,” said Ruth.
Cas took a tentative bite of his double bacon burger, chewing thoughtfully. His manner appeared nothing at all like his attack of the munchies back when they had confronted the horseman, Famine: the remnants of Jimmy’s terrible hunger. Sam imagined Cas delicately cutting into the burger with a tiny knife and fork, like the judge on one of those TV cooking shows. “This was a good choice, I think,” Cas said, wiping secret sauce off with a coat sleeve.
“I thought Cas didn’t eat?” said Sam.
“He’s practicing exercising his free will decision-making powers,” said Dean, tucking into this cheeseburger, shoving a good half it into his craw.
“Hey, could I try a bite?” Ruth asked Cas. “I love bacon.” Cas dutifully handed his burger over to her. “Here, try the mushroom,” she coached him, trading her own.
Cas took a careful bite of the mushroom burger. “This is quite good. I don’t think I like it as well as my choice, but it is flavorful.”
Ruth took a chaw of the bacon burger. “Oh my god!” she squealed.
“Good?” asked Dean, his eyes lighting up.
“This is better than sex!” she gushed.
Cas scowled. He grabbed the bacon burger back and took another bite. “Well,” he said, “it’s difficult to reconcile the two activities, but I would say I judge sex to be slightly better than this hamburger.”
Sam’s jaw was somewhere near the floor. He glanced back at Kevin, who was staring, and at Ruth, who was rather pointedly trying not to giggle, as if she had just been party to a great dirty joke.
Dean was glaring at Cas. “Here,” he said, extending a paw towards the erotically charged bacon burger. Cas once again dutifully handed over his lunch. Dean took a generous bite. “Holy fuck. Hey, Cas, buddy. You wanna trade?” he asked, holding up the remnants of his own cheeseburger.”
“No, Dean, I do not wish to trade.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I think I made good use of my free will,” said Cas, sticking out his hand.
“Dean, why didn’t you just get a bacon burger too?” Sam asked him as Dean reluctantly forked over the burger.
“I didn’t wanna get the same thing as him,” Dean muttered sullenly into his cheeseburger.
“Why not?”
“Because I just didn’t wanna. Kevin! So what’s the deal with the tablet?”
The prophet had been sulking over his untouched burger, the grease now congealing in the waxed paper. “Not much,” he sighed.
Dean crinkled up his now empty hamburger wrapper and went to stand beside Kevin. “You gonna eat that?” he asked of the discarded burger.
Kevin sighed and shook his head, and the beef patty was on its way to Dean’s mouth.
“So, you got the title, right? Enemy Mine Tablet?”
“Tablet of Mine Enemies,” said Kevin.
“Why does everybody call it Nebuchadnezzar’s tablet then?” Dean asked Ruth, who shrugged.
“Nebuchadnezzar probably stole it,” opined Cas, who was still taking tiny, girlie bites of his bacon burger. He narrowed his eyes. “He always was a little light-fingered. You should hear about the siege of Jerusalem.”
“Cas, no one cares about angel gossip,” sighed Dean. “And are you gonna spend all day playing with that burger?”
“I like the experience of tasting my food, Dean.”
Sam snickered, earning a dirty look from Dean.
“So what’s on the tablet?” Dean persisted.
“That’s what makes no sense!” said Kevin, throwing up his hands. “It’s like … a recipe.”
“A what?” asked Dean.
“I knew it!” said Ruth.
Kevin flipped through his notes. “It’s like how to bake a cake. There’s the long section on how to roll out the crust….”
“Dean!”
“What?” asked Dean. Cas was suddenly beside him, standing altogether too close.
“Something.… I sense that there is something happening here.”
“And what it is ain’t exactly clear? Yeah. Well, thanks for that, Stephen Stills.”
“What?” asked Cas.
“Oh, praise Jesus! I found you!” shouted Garth Fitzgerald, who had just pushed his way into the nave.
“Garth? What’s going on?” asked Sam.
“Where’s Linda?” asked Dean.
“Where’s my mom?” asked Kevin, who had shot to his feet.
Dean read Garth’s expression. “Oh. Shit,” he said.
Garth sat on a pew, head in hands, looking for all the world like he was praying.
Ruth sat next to him, patting him on the back. “She just wanted to sunbathe out on the deck,” sighed Garth. “I knew it was a risk, but you just don’t say no to that woman! They said- They said they'd bring her back to me in pieces!”
“There, there,” said Ruth, tipping back her beer.
Dean stood off to one side with his brother, talking in heated whispers. “I’m just saying-“
“Dean, no,” said Sam.
“We leave her with Crowley a week or two, he comes to us on his knees begging us to take her back!”
“Dean,” said Sam. “And what if he just blows her up? Like he did with several of the prophets?”
Dean smiled slightly and shrugged, earning a glower from his brother.
Sam moved over to where Garth and Ruth were sitting, and Dean followed him.
“I just can’t say no to Linda,” Garth repeated.
“No one can,” Dean grumbled, earning another reproachful look from Sam.
“Ruth, is there any way you could help us out here?” Sam asked her.
“Geez, I’m sorry guys. I’d like to help, but I’m kind of like Sigourney Weaver in Galaxy Quest, I have one job.…” She trailed off, pointing towards the tablet. Cas and Kevin were both hunched over it, having a heated discussion.
“You kids find anything interesting in that tablet?” asked Dean. “Like maybe how to dismember an annoying King of Hell?”
Kevin sighed and grabbed his notebook. “I think there’s something weird going on that I don’t get, like this is supposed to be a metaphor or something.” Garth looked up and took the notebook.
“But as I have explained, angels do not eat,” said Cas.
“Or at least they pick at their food for twelve hours,” said Dean, eyeing the good three quarters of a bacon burger still in Cas's hand.
Kevin put an exasperated hand through his hair. “Why have a recipe for a cake if it doesn’t mean anything?”
“Uh, Metatron was hungry that day?” proposed Sam.
“Some people cook for recreation,” suggested Ruth. “I mean, not me. But some people.”
“Yeah, that would take time away from your beer,” grumbled Kevin.
“Damn straight,” grinned Ruth.
Garth looked up from the notebook. “Don't none of y'all cook?” he asked, pointing to the recipe.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, my brother and I won the Betty Crocker bake off at the county fair last season,” snapped Dean.
“What? Really?”
“No, not really!”
Garth narrowed his eyes. “There's no need to be rude, Dean.”
“Garth, what is it?” asked Sam.
“Well, for one thing, if this is a cake recipe, why on earth would y'all make a crust? Cakes don't have crusts-”
“Pies do!” said Dean, who had suddenly turned from scornful to excited.
“Maybe they just didn't have a different word for cake and pie,” reasoned Sam. “I mean, why would a pie have frosting?” he asked, pointing to the section on making a cream cheese frosting.
“Oh, hell!” said Dean, suddenly getting it. “This is that thing they had on TV. Where you bake pies inside of cakes?”
“Sounds gross,” said Kevin.
“A cherpumple!” said Ruth. “It’s supposed to be a million billion calories.”
“But angels do not eat,” Cas repeated.
“We know, Cas,” said Dean.
“Wait, maybe it’s to share. You know, be hospitable,” said Sam. “Kevin, is there any commentary about the recipe? Does Metatron say the purpose?”
Kevin grabbed the notebook and leafed back a couple of pages. “Herewith lies the words for the bounty of hospitality; and thine enemy shall sup upon it; and thou shalt break bread together; and neither shall one leave the table, nor the other; and none shall cross swords; until the cake shall be consumed entire.”
“Is it just me, or does that sound like a spell to you?” asked Sam.
“What kind of spell? Iron Chef Babylon?” asked Dean.
“No!” said Sam. “Dean. I’m getting a really crazy idea.”
“Those are always the best kind, Sammy,” grinned his brother.
Garth, as it turned out, wasn’t kidding about being able to cook. And to everybody’s surprise, he actually seemed to have the makings of an executive chef. Despite the almost complete absence of culinary knowledge among his sous chefs, the little-used rectory kitchen in the building beside the church had been converted to a hub of activity. Even though a quick web search had recommended using frozen pies, Garth was a perfectionist, and besides, no one wanted to risk potentially messing up the pie magic.
“Cas back yet?” Dean asked Sam.
“How would I know, Mr. Profound Bond?” grinned his brother through a face full of flour.
“I am here, Dean,” said Cas who had appeared with the sound of wing beats uncomfortably close to Dean.
“Good. Garth says we’re almost done. We gotta move on this if we don’t wanna have to deal with getting back Mrs. Tran in a bucket.
Kevin, who was on frosting duty, paused and glowered at Dean.
“Keep a goin’, boy, before that frosting hardens!” Garth, on the other side of the monstrous cake, urged him.
“So how did it go?” Dean asked Cas.
“I left them in a state of … negotiation.”
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. “How is that?”
“Business in that pantheon is conducted at a slow pace. They tend to be … bureaucratic.”
“That sounds annoying.”
“It reminds me of home,” said Cas, a small smile on his face.
“So we’re ‘go’ to send out word to Crowley?” Dean prompted impatiently.
“This pastry just has to cool a little,” Garth told him.
“Yes, I think so, Dean,” said Cas.
“Castiel. Forgive the lack of preliminaries, but WHERE'S MY FUCKING TABLET?” Crowley glowered across the rectory's dining room table at Cas.
“I thought you would accept this peace offering first,” said Cas, indicating the behemoth pastry set in the middle of the table. Crowley noticed the table was set up for formal dining.
“So I'm talking to Madman Castiel now? Yes, that makes my bloody day, Sparkles,” grumbled the demon impatiently.
“It was made from scratch from the freshest ingredients,” Cas babbled, happily taking some of the cream cheese frosting on a finger and licking it off. “Including organic flour and pesticide free-”
“All right,” said Crowley, holding up his hands. “Stow the feverish babble. If I have a bite of your horrid pastry abomination, will you hand over my tablet?”
Cas held out a hand. There were suddenly two ginormous slices beached on the two elegant china plates set out on opposite sides of the table.
Crowley, not taking his eyes from Cas, slithered down into a chair. Cas seated himself as well. Crowley picked up a silver fork, plucked up a tiny piece of the cake, and then made a rather rude show of sniffing the little crumb. “Well, no poison, I'll give you that. Not that you'd be that stupid. Oh, hell yes, you'd be that stupid. Look who I'm talking to.”
“Yes, it was sheer coincidence about that dog blood,” said Cas, forking himself a bite of cake.
Crowley sneered at Cas, and then chomped down on the forkful of cake. He made a great show of chewing and then swallowing. “All right there you go. NOW WHERE'S MY-” Crowley stopped. He had attempted to rise from his chair, but failed. He wriggled and writhed, but was completely unable to get up. “What the blazes did you do to me now, you lunatic?”
“You need to finish,” said Cas calmly. “Odd. You style yourself as the smartest man in the world, yet you seem to have forgotten almost every human fairy tale ever written.”
“I'll summon my armies here. I'll gut your boyfriend!”
“No, actually, you won't. You can't make any hostile moves until you're finished,” said Cas.
“What?”
“Coffee?” asked Cas, holding up a silver carafe.
“There's twenty pounds of this dreadful pie-cake monstrosity on my plate!” bellowed Crowley.
“Have you tried meditation?” inquired Cas, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I have found that it helps calm the nerves.”
Crowley gripped the arms of his chair and glared at Cas. “I am going to finish this hell cake. And then I am going to personally gut you and every single Winchester and every single prophet I can find.”
“OK,” said Cas. He peered at Crowley with concern. “You know, if you eat quickly like that, you might give yourself a stomach ache?”
Crowley was tucking into the cake … well, with a demonic fury. He held the plate up to his face, and used the fork as a sort of rake to push it into his mouth. “Gonna … eat … an' then … kill!” he vowed. Cas watched impassively, carefully making certain he had exactly the correct proportions of sugar and cream in his coffee while Crowley waded through cherry pie layer, then pumpkin, and then finally, and with a terrific effort, the apple. He finally crammed the last morsel of crust into his mouth, and paused. He poured himself a cup of coffee, ending up splashing half of it on the table, and then up-ended the cup into his mouth to aid swallowing the wad of cake-pie.
“All right, I am done,” he said, bolting up.
And then he sat right down once again. “What the actual fuck?” he thundered.
Cas looked at him, twirling a morsel of pumpkin-in-yellow-cake on his fork. “I think I may need to finish too.”
Crowley goggled at Cas, his face now beet red. “Well then FUCKING FINISH.”
“I find I like to savor my food,” Cas told him.
Crowley leaned forward in his chair, his eyes flashing dark. “When I get out of this one, angel-”
“You will kill me, and everyone I care about, and then maybe you'll resurrect us so you can kill us all again?”
Crowley blinked.
“I thought I would help. You seem to be having difficulty creating more garish threats,” Cas told him simply. “I like the apple,” he said, nibbling at a speck of pie on his fork.
Crowley let his head drop into his arms. “You're just playing the drooling loony this time,” he muttered, putting his head up. “You fooled me. You do it so terribly well.”
“I'm curious. Why do you continue to underestimate me?” Cas asked. “And more importantly, underestimate the Winchesters?”
Crowley frowned and sniffed the air, his expression quite abruptly turning to one of shock. “Are you actually with that repulsive Winchester boy now?” he whispered.
Cas tilted his head. “I wonder if you realize how your tone makes you sound … jealous.”
“I take it back. You are a raving bedlamite.”
“Thank you.”
Crowley’s operatic mannerisms had faded and fallen away. He looked at Cas, now sounding grave. “You can't be serious. Castiel. He's a mortal. Your sick idea of a romance is spending the next fifty years watching him shrivel up and die? And then what? Throw yourself on my mercy? Because I won't make it quick.”
“I'm sure you won't.”
“Won't make you human, you know. Nothing will make you what you want to be. You're a creature. A monster. Like me.”
Cas set down his fork, pushing his plate back just a fraction. He met Crowley’s eyes. “You're right. I am a monster. I just hope to my Father I am not like you.”
Crowley’s glance was shrewd. “Your Father flew the coop a few centuries ago, or didn’t they distribute the memo to dodgy angels third class harboring delusions of grandeur?”
Cas looked far away. “My Father speaks to me. But I was not always so adept at listening for Him.” He shook his head sadly.
“Well then listen to the sound of my voice, Sparkles. I’m going to win this time. I’m going to have it all, all the tablets and the prophet to boot. I’ll have various Winchesters roasting on an open fire, and you over my knee. Where you belong.”
Cas’s eyes grew big. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? You knew it was a trap….”
“Of course I knew.”
“But you walked in anyway. Crowley. It doesn’t have to be this way….”
“Yeah, it does,” Crowley snapped, his eyes darkening, the straightforward manner suddenly shed like an extra skin. “I’m not one of your penitents looking for redemption. I’m a bloody sociopath. I don’t have it in me.”
“Crowley-“
“When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day. Now EAT YOUR FUCKING CAKE!”
“It’s a cherpumple.”
“Fuck you.”
The door banged open and Dean came striding into the room.
He stopped short.
“I smell a Winchester!” Crowley howled.
“What the hell happened to him?” Dean asked Cas. “Pun intended.”
The reason Crowley had to rely on his sense of smell was that he was actually sitting around backwards in his chair. He seemed unable to turn around although he was struggling.
“Crowley has been trying out various spells in order to escape, Dean,” Cas explained. He was chewing delicately at a morsel of pie. “I don't think that particular one worked out right.”
“No, me neither, Cas,” said Dean. He leaned over and, with a thumb, rubbed a bit of cherry filling that had gotten into the corner of Cas's mouth.
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Cherry,” said Dean, licking off his thumb.
“Will you two kindly QUIT FLIRTING so I can go on my massive killing spree?” pleaded Crowley.
“He also consumed his pie too rapidly,” Cas confessed to Dean. “I believe it has given him dyspepsia.”
“Just fucking finish, Castiel,” sighed Crowley.
Cas looked at Dean, who nodded. Cas picked up his plate and unceremoniously crammed the entire remainder of the cake into his mouth. He swallowed, and then delicately dabbed his chin with a cloth napkin.
Crowley suddenly whipped around in his chair. His face was cherry pie red, and he was pouring off sweat. He breathed hard. “Finally!” he cried, leaping to his feet.
“Want the recipe?” smiled Dean, pulling out a tablet and pushing it across the table to Crowley.
“What is this, another bloody tablet?” asked Crowley, snatching at the stone. He hefted it with both hands, squinting at it.
The door banged open again.
“I am Ruth, Acting Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, three hundred twenty-second of the blood,” said Ruth, who was pointing her swords in Crowley’s general direction.
“Oh spare me the rousing speeches!” groused Crowley, thunking down the tablet. “I know who you are, Merida. And why the hobnail boots?” he raved, pointing at her feet. “Is there a grave shortage of women’s footwear, or do you fancy prancing around like a goth construction worker?” Ruth grinned. Crowley turned back to Cas. “Is the aim now to annoy me to death, angel?” he barked at Cas, who stifled a burp.
“Excuse me,” said Cas.
“Kevin’s mom, Crowley,” said Dean. Cas rose and stood beside Dean.
Crowley stared at them. “You’ve cost me an afternoon. I’m going to take it out in Tran fingers and Tran toes. And maybe Tran ears. And eyes.”
Dean nodded to Ruth, who pointed a sword at Crowley’s neck.
Ruth glared down the sword. “Crowley. Yield … or die.”
Dean felt Cas suddenly, quietly, grip his fingers around Dean's forearm. His lips were very close to Dean’s ear. “Remain calm,” he whispered. Dean frowned.
“Fuck off,” Crowley told Ruth.
Ruth shook her head. “They never listen.”
“’Tis a pity,” said Bibi, who had just appeared beside her.
The room had darkened considerably. Vibhishana had not appeared alone: instead, there were … things. Dean couldn't really say he saw them, more like he sensed they were there. They weren’t really in the room, but seemed to be ever darting just out of the corner of his eye. They wriggled and writhed. They moaned. And rustled. And crackled. And slithered. They were not things that should be seen in daylight, nor on earth. Abominations. Desecrated, cursed things.
Dean shuddered, and felt Cas’s hand tighten on his arm. Dean had seen a lot of horrible things in his life: many things no mortal man ought to have seen. But he struggled to fight down the sick feeling in his stomach, and the rising sense of panic. He did not want to be in this room. He wanted to flee.
“I am here by your side,” Cas was whispering. “I will not leave, Dean.”
“Yeah, good thing,” muttered Dean.
“Vibhishana,” said Crowley.
“Greetings, Self-Styled King of Hell,” countered Bibi, giving a slight bow.
“You have no place here. This is not your fight,” Crowley told him.
Bibi looked thoughtful. “Mmm. My uncle might tend to disagree there, mate.”
Crowley looked furious. “Tell Yamaraja he can bite me,” he spat.
“I think he might take great pleasure in that.” Bibi’s teeth were white.
Crowley looked around. There was something else reflected in his eyes now, something besides rage and annoyance. The King of Hell looked frightened. “Take your pets and get out of here,” Crowley blustered.
“Give back Mrs. Tran,” said Dean, trying desperately to keep the tremor from his voice.
“Oh, thanks for that, Mr. One Note,” said Crowley.
“Do. Or don’t. Ain’t no matter to me,” said Bibi. “My pets are getting peckish.”
The writhing and rustling increased. The creatures pressed into the room, sniffing and fork-tongued-licking at it, hungry.
Cas was going to break his arm, Dean thought, but he stayed absolutely still. He was trying to distract himself by calling to mind another time when Crowley had seemed frightened. He honestly couldn't remember.
There was a soft sigh in the corner of the room as Mrs. Tran appeared. She looked around, disoriented. Then Ruth had her at the elbow.
“This isn't over,” Crowley growled at Bibi, the sound emitting from deep in his throat. Then he turned to glower at Dean and Cas and, with a fain whiff of sulfur, he was gone.
“Oh, I hope not, mate,” said Bibi, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope not.” And then he too faded, along with the other presences. Light and air returned to the room.
Dean heaved a sigh, looking down at his hand. He was trembling.
“Come on, Kevin and Garth are waiting. And we got pie!” said Ruth as she dragged Mrs. Tran from the room, grabbing the tablet on the way.
“Mrs. Tran. Speechless,” said Dean, who realized Cas was still gripping him. “That's only the second time I've seen that.”
“Are you all right?” Cas asked, his voice a little rough.
“I been better. Is that why you wouldn't tell me what you and your buddy Bibi were planning to pull?”
“We weren't certain we could do it. Bibi's family has been at odds with Crowley in the past. It was not clear they would openly oppose him, however.”
“You trust the guy?” asked Dean. He leaned back on the table, crossing his arms.
“You … wish my opinion, Dean?” There was a spark of hope in Cas's eyes.
Dean shrugged, but didn't drop his gaze. “That's why I asked.”
Cas wrinkled his brow and stood silent for a long moment. “Yes. I think we can trust Bibi. As for the other Lords of Hell....”
“You think we need them?”
“They would prove … useful.” Cas nodded, but it seemed, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean leaned over towards the cake and took some of the frosting on a finger.
“You should have a piece! It's pretty tasty,” said Cas.
Dean stood up wearily and heaved a sigh. “No, I think we should go make sure the Trans are situated first.” He made to go towards the door, but Cas reached out to touch his shoulder.
“Dean?”
“What?”
“I have been thinking about something. The reason I was meditating the other day. I had wondered why you wanted me to get the anti-possession tattoo. And why you do not feel comfortable telling Sam about us.”
“Cas, it's just like I told you!”
Cas shook his head. “No, I don't think that's the reason. At least, I don't think that's the full reason.”
“Well what's the reason, then?” Dean snapped, his voice sounding too harsh.
“You suspect I will leave you.”
Dean started to speak, but halted. His eyes darted to the floor. He stood silently for a moment, biting his lip. “Cas. Everything leaves me. My mom. My dad. Bobby. Sam can barely stand to be with me. He's gonna leave after we finish with the tablets.” He looked up. “And you. Even you … let me go.”
Cas now had Dean by the shoulders. “Dean. I am here now. I will not go. You do not need markings on my back, but if that is what you wish, we will do it.” He traced a line across his chest. “Property of Dean Winchester. Uh, fuck off.” He winced at the curse, and Dean had to smile.
But Dean had had enough of chick flick moments for the afternoon. “C'mon,” he urged. They walked back over through the yard, to the church, using a side door. Garth was sitting in a pew, one arm, as well as his jacket, around Linda Tran's shoulders. “No, y'all gotta listen to me from now on,” he was muttering to her.
Kevin and Ruth were hunched over the altar, and Ruth was typing on a laptop. “No, you can't say that!” Kevin scolded.
“Hey,” said Ruth, looking up at Cas and Dean. “I need to borrow the Trans for the afternoon, if that's OK? Kevin was gonna help me write my personal essays!”
“You can't say your hobbies include beer and stabbing people in your med school application!” said Kevin.
“Should I call them avocations?” she asked him.
“Your brother is out in the car, Dean. Said he had to make a phone call?” Garth told him. Dean cracked a smile, imagining his brother needed some space from the Trans or Garth or being offered a beer every five minutes. He signaled to Cas, and they both left the church through the front door.
Sam was leaning against the Impala, no cell phone in sight.
“Ready to hit it?” he asked.
Quite suddenly, Dean gripped Cas's arm. “No Sam,” he said, glancing nervously at Cas, and then back to his brother.
Sam leaned against the car again, and tilted his head in a very Cas-like manner.
Dean glanced at the angel once again, and then plowed ahead. “Cas and me, we got something to tell you....”
Sam grinned.
Cas looked up from the book he was reading as Dean began to snore against his chest. He put a fond hand through his human’s hair and, as Dean wriggled and began to drool on Cas’s midsection, he turned back to his book.
He glanced back at the page, and then blinked in confusion at the sudden flash of strong white light. He covered his face, and turned to shield Dean. But Dean was no longer there.
Cas brought his arm down and peered around.
The white room.
He was standing in the white room again.
His vessel’s heart started to hammer in his chest. It all came rushing back, all of the pain and confusion.
Naomi, sitting behind her desk, hands clasped, perfectly buttoned up, stared him up and down. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re out of uniform,” she quipped.
Cas looked down. He was still wearing only a borrowed pair of Dean’s sweatpants. He was silently grateful he had thought to pull on anything at all. He gulped and looked back to Naomi.
“Report,” she stated.
Though every fiber of his being screamed no, Cas felt the words pouring out of him. “Crowley attempted to secure the cooperation of the prophet once again by kidnapping his mother. The Winchesters coordinated with the tablet’s guardian and her ally to prevent this.”
“You should have eliminated the mother by now. She’s nothing but a drag on the mission.”
“I don’t want to be here,” said Cas. He wriggled uncomfortably. The raw tattoo on his back had begun to itch again.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Castiel,” snapped Naomi. “It’s your fault we have been brought so low as to use … spies.”
Cas blinked. Although he could never remember what happened in the white room after he had been returned to earth, once he was called, every encounter shone with crystal clarity. And he definitely could not recall Naomi threatening to lose her perfect composure like this before. “You aren’t happy about this either,” he stated.
“That has no relevance to your mission.”
“What is my mission?” Cas felt something: it was something straining at his grace. He hadn’t noticed it before.
“Castiel. We rescued you from Purgatory at a great cost-”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued-“
“So I will tell you what to do, and you will do it.” Naomi was quickly recovering her preternatural calm. If he could keep her talking just a while longer.
“If we could-“
“You will return to where you where you were, and you will remember nothing. Nothing. Now!”
“Cas?”
Cas shuddered. How had his book gotten on the floor?
“Cas!”
“Dean,” said Cas, leaning over to grab the book.
“Man,” said Dean, rubbing his eyes and pulling Cas close. “You look like you had a nightmare. But you don’t dream. Did you have one of those … things?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cas! You know you can talk to me. About anything.”
“I would talk to you if there was anything to talk about,” Cas grumbled. He paused, trying to force himself to calm down. Yes, there was obviously something amiss. Dean said that he would sometimes blank out for a brief moment, and then have no memory of the incident. “Yes, I think I had a … thing,” he admitted.
“Wonder if it’s, you know, from all the Purgatory stuff.”
Purgatory? “Yes. Something to do with Purgatory,” said Cas. He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s late. You need to get back to sleep.” He gently pushed Dean’s head back into his chest.
“Mmmm, angel pillow,” muttered Dean. And then his breathing got slower and slower.
But Cas didn’t go back to his book. He put the book down on the end table and grabbed his cellular phone. He went to the web application, and typed in, “sociopath.”
Naomi sat at her desk, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“A little … fraught, my dear,” came a voice from behind the two-way mirror.
“I am doing my best for you, sir. Always.”
“We don’t want that dirty little hippie running loose in heaven again, ranting about free will and all that other nonsense.”
“No, sir. Have you-“
“What? Spit it out, woman.”
“Has there been any news … of Samandriel?”
“Another traitor!”
“Sir?”
“If there were news, I would tell you. Now, silence, my dear. Let us get to work….”
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.
Word Count: 80,000
Summary: Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, no, I did not make up the cherpumple. It's a real thing.
“So what do we got so far?”
Sam popped his shoulder once again. He noticed Kevin and Ruth both grinning surreptitiously at him. He had needed the forty winks after the drive, but reminded himself to never again fall asleep on a wooden pew. Those things were fucking uncomfortable as hell.
Sam glanced up to where Dean was handing over his garden burger. He grabbed it and, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, cautiously peeked inside the greasy waxed paper. Who the hell made a greasy veggie burger?
“Well, I know one thing,” sighed Kevin, who had unwrapped his burger and then sort of let it sit there on the altar. “It’s officially called The Tablet of Mine Enemies.”
“Catchy,” said Dean. “Hey, Guardian Girl, are you vegetarian, or do you eat normal food?”
“Anything,” grinned Ruth. “Did you get fries?”
Dean handed her a carton of fries and drew another burger out of the paper sack. “The double bacon cheeseburger goes to Mr. Free Will over here,” he said, handing it off to Cas. “How about mushroom?”
“Awesome,” said Ruth.
Cas took a tentative bite of his double bacon burger, chewing thoughtfully. His manner appeared nothing at all like his attack of the munchies back when they had confronted the horseman, Famine: the remnants of Jimmy’s terrible hunger. Sam imagined Cas delicately cutting into the burger with a tiny knife and fork, like the judge on one of those TV cooking shows. “This was a good choice, I think,” Cas said, wiping secret sauce off with a coat sleeve.
“I thought Cas didn’t eat?” said Sam.
“He’s practicing exercising his free will decision-making powers,” said Dean, tucking into this cheeseburger, shoving a good half it into his craw.
“Hey, could I try a bite?” Ruth asked Cas. “I love bacon.” Cas dutifully handed his burger over to her. “Here, try the mushroom,” she coached him, trading her own.
Cas took a careful bite of the mushroom burger. “This is quite good. I don’t think I like it as well as my choice, but it is flavorful.”
Ruth took a chaw of the bacon burger. “Oh my god!” she squealed.
“Good?” asked Dean, his eyes lighting up.
“This is better than sex!” she gushed.
Cas scowled. He grabbed the bacon burger back and took another bite. “Well,” he said, “it’s difficult to reconcile the two activities, but I would say I judge sex to be slightly better than this hamburger.”
Sam’s jaw was somewhere near the floor. He glanced back at Kevin, who was staring, and at Ruth, who was rather pointedly trying not to giggle, as if she had just been party to a great dirty joke.
Dean was glaring at Cas. “Here,” he said, extending a paw towards the erotically charged bacon burger. Cas once again dutifully handed over his lunch. Dean took a generous bite. “Holy fuck. Hey, Cas, buddy. You wanna trade?” he asked, holding up the remnants of his own cheeseburger.”
“No, Dean, I do not wish to trade.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I think I made good use of my free will,” said Cas, sticking out his hand.
“Dean, why didn’t you just get a bacon burger too?” Sam asked him as Dean reluctantly forked over the burger.
“I didn’t wanna get the same thing as him,” Dean muttered sullenly into his cheeseburger.
“Why not?”
“Because I just didn’t wanna. Kevin! So what’s the deal with the tablet?”
The prophet had been sulking over his untouched burger, the grease now congealing in the waxed paper. “Not much,” he sighed.
Dean crinkled up his now empty hamburger wrapper and went to stand beside Kevin. “You gonna eat that?” he asked of the discarded burger.
Kevin sighed and shook his head, and the beef patty was on its way to Dean’s mouth.
“So, you got the title, right? Enemy Mine Tablet?”
“Tablet of Mine Enemies,” said Kevin.
“Why does everybody call it Nebuchadnezzar’s tablet then?” Dean asked Ruth, who shrugged.
“Nebuchadnezzar probably stole it,” opined Cas, who was still taking tiny, girlie bites of his bacon burger. He narrowed his eyes. “He always was a little light-fingered. You should hear about the siege of Jerusalem.”
“Cas, no one cares about angel gossip,” sighed Dean. “And are you gonna spend all day playing with that burger?”
“I like the experience of tasting my food, Dean.”
Sam snickered, earning a dirty look from Dean.
“So what’s on the tablet?” Dean persisted.
“That’s what makes no sense!” said Kevin, throwing up his hands. “It’s like … a recipe.”
“A what?” asked Dean.
“I knew it!” said Ruth.
Kevin flipped through his notes. “It’s like how to bake a cake. There’s the long section on how to roll out the crust….”
“Dean!”
“What?” asked Dean. Cas was suddenly beside him, standing altogether too close.
“Something.… I sense that there is something happening here.”
“And what it is ain’t exactly clear? Yeah. Well, thanks for that, Stephen Stills.”
“What?” asked Cas.
“Oh, praise Jesus! I found you!” shouted Garth Fitzgerald, who had just pushed his way into the nave.
“Garth? What’s going on?” asked Sam.
“Where’s Linda?” asked Dean.
“Where’s my mom?” asked Kevin, who had shot to his feet.
Dean read Garth’s expression. “Oh. Shit,” he said.
Garth sat on a pew, head in hands, looking for all the world like he was praying.
Ruth sat next to him, patting him on the back. “She just wanted to sunbathe out on the deck,” sighed Garth. “I knew it was a risk, but you just don’t say no to that woman! They said- They said they'd bring her back to me in pieces!”
“There, there,” said Ruth, tipping back her beer.
Dean stood off to one side with his brother, talking in heated whispers. “I’m just saying-“
“Dean, no,” said Sam.
“We leave her with Crowley a week or two, he comes to us on his knees begging us to take her back!”
“Dean,” said Sam. “And what if he just blows her up? Like he did with several of the prophets?”
Dean smiled slightly and shrugged, earning a glower from his brother.
Sam moved over to where Garth and Ruth were sitting, and Dean followed him.
“I just can’t say no to Linda,” Garth repeated.
“No one can,” Dean grumbled, earning another reproachful look from Sam.
“Ruth, is there any way you could help us out here?” Sam asked her.
“Geez, I’m sorry guys. I’d like to help, but I’m kind of like Sigourney Weaver in Galaxy Quest, I have one job.…” She trailed off, pointing towards the tablet. Cas and Kevin were both hunched over it, having a heated discussion.
“You kids find anything interesting in that tablet?” asked Dean. “Like maybe how to dismember an annoying King of Hell?”
Kevin sighed and grabbed his notebook. “I think there’s something weird going on that I don’t get, like this is supposed to be a metaphor or something.” Garth looked up and took the notebook.
“But as I have explained, angels do not eat,” said Cas.
“Or at least they pick at their food for twelve hours,” said Dean, eyeing the good three quarters of a bacon burger still in Cas's hand.
Kevin put an exasperated hand through his hair. “Why have a recipe for a cake if it doesn’t mean anything?”
“Uh, Metatron was hungry that day?” proposed Sam.
“Some people cook for recreation,” suggested Ruth. “I mean, not me. But some people.”
“Yeah, that would take time away from your beer,” grumbled Kevin.
“Damn straight,” grinned Ruth.
Garth looked up from the notebook. “Don't none of y'all cook?” he asked, pointing to the recipe.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, my brother and I won the Betty Crocker bake off at the county fair last season,” snapped Dean.
“What? Really?”
“No, not really!”
Garth narrowed his eyes. “There's no need to be rude, Dean.”
“Garth, what is it?” asked Sam.
“Well, for one thing, if this is a cake recipe, why on earth would y'all make a crust? Cakes don't have crusts-”
“Pies do!” said Dean, who had suddenly turned from scornful to excited.
“Maybe they just didn't have a different word for cake and pie,” reasoned Sam. “I mean, why would a pie have frosting?” he asked, pointing to the section on making a cream cheese frosting.
“Oh, hell!” said Dean, suddenly getting it. “This is that thing they had on TV. Where you bake pies inside of cakes?”
“Sounds gross,” said Kevin.
“A cherpumple!” said Ruth. “It’s supposed to be a million billion calories.”
“But angels do not eat,” Cas repeated.
“We know, Cas,” said Dean.
“Wait, maybe it’s to share. You know, be hospitable,” said Sam. “Kevin, is there any commentary about the recipe? Does Metatron say the purpose?”
Kevin grabbed the notebook and leafed back a couple of pages. “Herewith lies the words for the bounty of hospitality; and thine enemy shall sup upon it; and thou shalt break bread together; and neither shall one leave the table, nor the other; and none shall cross swords; until the cake shall be consumed entire.”
“Is it just me, or does that sound like a spell to you?” asked Sam.
“What kind of spell? Iron Chef Babylon?” asked Dean.
“No!” said Sam. “Dean. I’m getting a really crazy idea.”
“Those are always the best kind, Sammy,” grinned his brother.
Garth, as it turned out, wasn’t kidding about being able to cook. And to everybody’s surprise, he actually seemed to have the makings of an executive chef. Despite the almost complete absence of culinary knowledge among his sous chefs, the little-used rectory kitchen in the building beside the church had been converted to a hub of activity. Even though a quick web search had recommended using frozen pies, Garth was a perfectionist, and besides, no one wanted to risk potentially messing up the pie magic.
“Cas back yet?” Dean asked Sam.
“How would I know, Mr. Profound Bond?” grinned his brother through a face full of flour.
“I am here, Dean,” said Cas who had appeared with the sound of wing beats uncomfortably close to Dean.
“Good. Garth says we’re almost done. We gotta move on this if we don’t wanna have to deal with getting back Mrs. Tran in a bucket.
Kevin, who was on frosting duty, paused and glowered at Dean.
“Keep a goin’, boy, before that frosting hardens!” Garth, on the other side of the monstrous cake, urged him.
“So how did it go?” Dean asked Cas.
“I left them in a state of … negotiation.”
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. “How is that?”
“Business in that pantheon is conducted at a slow pace. They tend to be … bureaucratic.”
“That sounds annoying.”
“It reminds me of home,” said Cas, a small smile on his face.
“So we’re ‘go’ to send out word to Crowley?” Dean prompted impatiently.
“This pastry just has to cool a little,” Garth told him.
“Yes, I think so, Dean,” said Cas.
“Castiel. Forgive the lack of preliminaries, but WHERE'S MY FUCKING TABLET?” Crowley glowered across the rectory's dining room table at Cas.
“I thought you would accept this peace offering first,” said Cas, indicating the behemoth pastry set in the middle of the table. Crowley noticed the table was set up for formal dining.
“So I'm talking to Madman Castiel now? Yes, that makes my bloody day, Sparkles,” grumbled the demon impatiently.
“It was made from scratch from the freshest ingredients,” Cas babbled, happily taking some of the cream cheese frosting on a finger and licking it off. “Including organic flour and pesticide free-”
“All right,” said Crowley, holding up his hands. “Stow the feverish babble. If I have a bite of your horrid pastry abomination, will you hand over my tablet?”
Cas held out a hand. There were suddenly two ginormous slices beached on the two elegant china plates set out on opposite sides of the table.
Crowley, not taking his eyes from Cas, slithered down into a chair. Cas seated himself as well. Crowley picked up a silver fork, plucked up a tiny piece of the cake, and then made a rather rude show of sniffing the little crumb. “Well, no poison, I'll give you that. Not that you'd be that stupid. Oh, hell yes, you'd be that stupid. Look who I'm talking to.”
“Yes, it was sheer coincidence about that dog blood,” said Cas, forking himself a bite of cake.
Crowley sneered at Cas, and then chomped down on the forkful of cake. He made a great show of chewing and then swallowing. “All right there you go. NOW WHERE'S MY-” Crowley stopped. He had attempted to rise from his chair, but failed. He wriggled and writhed, but was completely unable to get up. “What the blazes did you do to me now, you lunatic?”
“You need to finish,” said Cas calmly. “Odd. You style yourself as the smartest man in the world, yet you seem to have forgotten almost every human fairy tale ever written.”
“I'll summon my armies here. I'll gut your boyfriend!”
“No, actually, you won't. You can't make any hostile moves until you're finished,” said Cas.
“What?”
“Coffee?” asked Cas, holding up a silver carafe.
“There's twenty pounds of this dreadful pie-cake monstrosity on my plate!” bellowed Crowley.
“Have you tried meditation?” inquired Cas, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I have found that it helps calm the nerves.”
Crowley gripped the arms of his chair and glared at Cas. “I am going to finish this hell cake. And then I am going to personally gut you and every single Winchester and every single prophet I can find.”
“OK,” said Cas. He peered at Crowley with concern. “You know, if you eat quickly like that, you might give yourself a stomach ache?”
Crowley was tucking into the cake … well, with a demonic fury. He held the plate up to his face, and used the fork as a sort of rake to push it into his mouth. “Gonna … eat … an' then … kill!” he vowed. Cas watched impassively, carefully making certain he had exactly the correct proportions of sugar and cream in his coffee while Crowley waded through cherry pie layer, then pumpkin, and then finally, and with a terrific effort, the apple. He finally crammed the last morsel of crust into his mouth, and paused. He poured himself a cup of coffee, ending up splashing half of it on the table, and then up-ended the cup into his mouth to aid swallowing the wad of cake-pie.
“All right, I am done,” he said, bolting up.
And then he sat right down once again. “What the actual fuck?” he thundered.
Cas looked at him, twirling a morsel of pumpkin-in-yellow-cake on his fork. “I think I may need to finish too.”
Crowley goggled at Cas, his face now beet red. “Well then FUCKING FINISH.”
“I find I like to savor my food,” Cas told him.
Crowley leaned forward in his chair, his eyes flashing dark. “When I get out of this one, angel-”
“You will kill me, and everyone I care about, and then maybe you'll resurrect us so you can kill us all again?”
Crowley blinked.
“I thought I would help. You seem to be having difficulty creating more garish threats,” Cas told him simply. “I like the apple,” he said, nibbling at a speck of pie on his fork.
Crowley let his head drop into his arms. “You're just playing the drooling loony this time,” he muttered, putting his head up. “You fooled me. You do it so terribly well.”
“I'm curious. Why do you continue to underestimate me?” Cas asked. “And more importantly, underestimate the Winchesters?”
Crowley frowned and sniffed the air, his expression quite abruptly turning to one of shock. “Are you actually with that repulsive Winchester boy now?” he whispered.
Cas tilted his head. “I wonder if you realize how your tone makes you sound … jealous.”
“I take it back. You are a raving bedlamite.”
“Thank you.”
Crowley’s operatic mannerisms had faded and fallen away. He looked at Cas, now sounding grave. “You can't be serious. Castiel. He's a mortal. Your sick idea of a romance is spending the next fifty years watching him shrivel up and die? And then what? Throw yourself on my mercy? Because I won't make it quick.”
“I'm sure you won't.”
“Won't make you human, you know. Nothing will make you what you want to be. You're a creature. A monster. Like me.”
Cas set down his fork, pushing his plate back just a fraction. He met Crowley’s eyes. “You're right. I am a monster. I just hope to my Father I am not like you.”
Crowley’s glance was shrewd. “Your Father flew the coop a few centuries ago, or didn’t they distribute the memo to dodgy angels third class harboring delusions of grandeur?”
Cas looked far away. “My Father speaks to me. But I was not always so adept at listening for Him.” He shook his head sadly.
“Well then listen to the sound of my voice, Sparkles. I’m going to win this time. I’m going to have it all, all the tablets and the prophet to boot. I’ll have various Winchesters roasting on an open fire, and you over my knee. Where you belong.”
Cas’s eyes grew big. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? You knew it was a trap….”
“Of course I knew.”
“But you walked in anyway. Crowley. It doesn’t have to be this way….”
“Yeah, it does,” Crowley snapped, his eyes darkening, the straightforward manner suddenly shed like an extra skin. “I’m not one of your penitents looking for redemption. I’m a bloody sociopath. I don’t have it in me.”
“Crowley-“
“When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day. Now EAT YOUR FUCKING CAKE!”
“It’s a cherpumple.”
“Fuck you.”
The door banged open and Dean came striding into the room.
He stopped short.
“I smell a Winchester!” Crowley howled.
“What the hell happened to him?” Dean asked Cas. “Pun intended.”
The reason Crowley had to rely on his sense of smell was that he was actually sitting around backwards in his chair. He seemed unable to turn around although he was struggling.
“Crowley has been trying out various spells in order to escape, Dean,” Cas explained. He was chewing delicately at a morsel of pie. “I don't think that particular one worked out right.”
“No, me neither, Cas,” said Dean. He leaned over and, with a thumb, rubbed a bit of cherry filling that had gotten into the corner of Cas's mouth.
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Cherry,” said Dean, licking off his thumb.
“Will you two kindly QUIT FLIRTING so I can go on my massive killing spree?” pleaded Crowley.
“He also consumed his pie too rapidly,” Cas confessed to Dean. “I believe it has given him dyspepsia.”
“Just fucking finish, Castiel,” sighed Crowley.
Cas looked at Dean, who nodded. Cas picked up his plate and unceremoniously crammed the entire remainder of the cake into his mouth. He swallowed, and then delicately dabbed his chin with a cloth napkin.
Crowley suddenly whipped around in his chair. His face was cherry pie red, and he was pouring off sweat. He breathed hard. “Finally!” he cried, leaping to his feet.
“Want the recipe?” smiled Dean, pulling out a tablet and pushing it across the table to Crowley.
“What is this, another bloody tablet?” asked Crowley, snatching at the stone. He hefted it with both hands, squinting at it.
The door banged open again.
“I am Ruth, Acting Guardian of the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar, three hundred twenty-second of the blood,” said Ruth, who was pointing her swords in Crowley’s general direction.
“Oh spare me the rousing speeches!” groused Crowley, thunking down the tablet. “I know who you are, Merida. And why the hobnail boots?” he raved, pointing at her feet. “Is there a grave shortage of women’s footwear, or do you fancy prancing around like a goth construction worker?” Ruth grinned. Crowley turned back to Cas. “Is the aim now to annoy me to death, angel?” he barked at Cas, who stifled a burp.
“Excuse me,” said Cas.
“Kevin’s mom, Crowley,” said Dean. Cas rose and stood beside Dean.
Crowley stared at them. “You’ve cost me an afternoon. I’m going to take it out in Tran fingers and Tran toes. And maybe Tran ears. And eyes.”
Dean nodded to Ruth, who pointed a sword at Crowley’s neck.
Ruth glared down the sword. “Crowley. Yield … or die.”
Dean felt Cas suddenly, quietly, grip his fingers around Dean's forearm. His lips were very close to Dean’s ear. “Remain calm,” he whispered. Dean frowned.
“Fuck off,” Crowley told Ruth.
Ruth shook her head. “They never listen.”
“’Tis a pity,” said Bibi, who had just appeared beside her.
The room had darkened considerably. Vibhishana had not appeared alone: instead, there were … things. Dean couldn't really say he saw them, more like he sensed they were there. They weren’t really in the room, but seemed to be ever darting just out of the corner of his eye. They wriggled and writhed. They moaned. And rustled. And crackled. And slithered. They were not things that should be seen in daylight, nor on earth. Abominations. Desecrated, cursed things.
Dean shuddered, and felt Cas’s hand tighten on his arm. Dean had seen a lot of horrible things in his life: many things no mortal man ought to have seen. But he struggled to fight down the sick feeling in his stomach, and the rising sense of panic. He did not want to be in this room. He wanted to flee.
“I am here by your side,” Cas was whispering. “I will not leave, Dean.”
“Yeah, good thing,” muttered Dean.
“Vibhishana,” said Crowley.
“Greetings, Self-Styled King of Hell,” countered Bibi, giving a slight bow.
“You have no place here. This is not your fight,” Crowley told him.
Bibi looked thoughtful. “Mmm. My uncle might tend to disagree there, mate.”
Crowley looked furious. “Tell Yamaraja he can bite me,” he spat.
“I think he might take great pleasure in that.” Bibi’s teeth were white.
Crowley looked around. There was something else reflected in his eyes now, something besides rage and annoyance. The King of Hell looked frightened. “Take your pets and get out of here,” Crowley blustered.
“Give back Mrs. Tran,” said Dean, trying desperately to keep the tremor from his voice.
“Oh, thanks for that, Mr. One Note,” said Crowley.
“Do. Or don’t. Ain’t no matter to me,” said Bibi. “My pets are getting peckish.”
The writhing and rustling increased. The creatures pressed into the room, sniffing and fork-tongued-licking at it, hungry.
Cas was going to break his arm, Dean thought, but he stayed absolutely still. He was trying to distract himself by calling to mind another time when Crowley had seemed frightened. He honestly couldn't remember.
There was a soft sigh in the corner of the room as Mrs. Tran appeared. She looked around, disoriented. Then Ruth had her at the elbow.
“This isn't over,” Crowley growled at Bibi, the sound emitting from deep in his throat. Then he turned to glower at Dean and Cas and, with a fain whiff of sulfur, he was gone.
“Oh, I hope not, mate,” said Bibi, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope not.” And then he too faded, along with the other presences. Light and air returned to the room.
Dean heaved a sigh, looking down at his hand. He was trembling.
“Come on, Kevin and Garth are waiting. And we got pie!” said Ruth as she dragged Mrs. Tran from the room, grabbing the tablet on the way.
“Mrs. Tran. Speechless,” said Dean, who realized Cas was still gripping him. “That's only the second time I've seen that.”
“Are you all right?” Cas asked, his voice a little rough.
“I been better. Is that why you wouldn't tell me what you and your buddy Bibi were planning to pull?”
“We weren't certain we could do it. Bibi's family has been at odds with Crowley in the past. It was not clear they would openly oppose him, however.”
“You trust the guy?” asked Dean. He leaned back on the table, crossing his arms.
“You … wish my opinion, Dean?” There was a spark of hope in Cas's eyes.
Dean shrugged, but didn't drop his gaze. “That's why I asked.”
Cas wrinkled his brow and stood silent for a long moment. “Yes. I think we can trust Bibi. As for the other Lords of Hell....”
“You think we need them?”
“They would prove … useful.” Cas nodded, but it seemed, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean leaned over towards the cake and took some of the frosting on a finger.
“You should have a piece! It's pretty tasty,” said Cas.
Dean stood up wearily and heaved a sigh. “No, I think we should go make sure the Trans are situated first.” He made to go towards the door, but Cas reached out to touch his shoulder.
“Dean?”
“What?”
“I have been thinking about something. The reason I was meditating the other day. I had wondered why you wanted me to get the anti-possession tattoo. And why you do not feel comfortable telling Sam about us.”
“Cas, it's just like I told you!”
Cas shook his head. “No, I don't think that's the reason. At least, I don't think that's the full reason.”
“Well what's the reason, then?” Dean snapped, his voice sounding too harsh.
“You suspect I will leave you.”
Dean started to speak, but halted. His eyes darted to the floor. He stood silently for a moment, biting his lip. “Cas. Everything leaves me. My mom. My dad. Bobby. Sam can barely stand to be with me. He's gonna leave after we finish with the tablets.” He looked up. “And you. Even you … let me go.”
Cas now had Dean by the shoulders. “Dean. I am here now. I will not go. You do not need markings on my back, but if that is what you wish, we will do it.” He traced a line across his chest. “Property of Dean Winchester. Uh, fuck off.” He winced at the curse, and Dean had to smile.
But Dean had had enough of chick flick moments for the afternoon. “C'mon,” he urged. They walked back over through the yard, to the church, using a side door. Garth was sitting in a pew, one arm, as well as his jacket, around Linda Tran's shoulders. “No, y'all gotta listen to me from now on,” he was muttering to her.
Kevin and Ruth were hunched over the altar, and Ruth was typing on a laptop. “No, you can't say that!” Kevin scolded.
“Hey,” said Ruth, looking up at Cas and Dean. “I need to borrow the Trans for the afternoon, if that's OK? Kevin was gonna help me write my personal essays!”
“You can't say your hobbies include beer and stabbing people in your med school application!” said Kevin.
“Should I call them avocations?” she asked him.
“Your brother is out in the car, Dean. Said he had to make a phone call?” Garth told him. Dean cracked a smile, imagining his brother needed some space from the Trans or Garth or being offered a beer every five minutes. He signaled to Cas, and they both left the church through the front door.
Sam was leaning against the Impala, no cell phone in sight.
“Ready to hit it?” he asked.
Quite suddenly, Dean gripped Cas's arm. “No Sam,” he said, glancing nervously at Cas, and then back to his brother.
Sam leaned against the car again, and tilted his head in a very Cas-like manner.
Dean glanced at the angel once again, and then plowed ahead. “Cas and me, we got something to tell you....”
Sam grinned.
Cas looked up from the book he was reading as Dean began to snore against his chest. He put a fond hand through his human’s hair and, as Dean wriggled and began to drool on Cas’s midsection, he turned back to his book.
He glanced back at the page, and then blinked in confusion at the sudden flash of strong white light. He covered his face, and turned to shield Dean. But Dean was no longer there.
Cas brought his arm down and peered around.
The white room.
He was standing in the white room again.
His vessel’s heart started to hammer in his chest. It all came rushing back, all of the pain and confusion.
Naomi, sitting behind her desk, hands clasped, perfectly buttoned up, stared him up and down. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re out of uniform,” she quipped.
Cas looked down. He was still wearing only a borrowed pair of Dean’s sweatpants. He was silently grateful he had thought to pull on anything at all. He gulped and looked back to Naomi.
“Report,” she stated.
Though every fiber of his being screamed no, Cas felt the words pouring out of him. “Crowley attempted to secure the cooperation of the prophet once again by kidnapping his mother. The Winchesters coordinated with the tablet’s guardian and her ally to prevent this.”
“You should have eliminated the mother by now. She’s nothing but a drag on the mission.”
“I don’t want to be here,” said Cas. He wriggled uncomfortably. The raw tattoo on his back had begun to itch again.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Castiel,” snapped Naomi. “It’s your fault we have been brought so low as to use … spies.”
Cas blinked. Although he could never remember what happened in the white room after he had been returned to earth, once he was called, every encounter shone with crystal clarity. And he definitely could not recall Naomi threatening to lose her perfect composure like this before. “You aren’t happy about this either,” he stated.
“That has no relevance to your mission.”
“What is my mission?” Cas felt something: it was something straining at his grace. He hadn’t noticed it before.
“Castiel. We rescued you from Purgatory at a great cost-”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued-“
“So I will tell you what to do, and you will do it.” Naomi was quickly recovering her preternatural calm. If he could keep her talking just a while longer.
“If we could-“
“You will return to where you where you were, and you will remember nothing. Nothing. Now!”
“Cas?”
Cas shuddered. How had his book gotten on the floor?
“Cas!”
“Dean,” said Cas, leaning over to grab the book.
“Man,” said Dean, rubbing his eyes and pulling Cas close. “You look like you had a nightmare. But you don’t dream. Did you have one of those … things?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cas! You know you can talk to me. About anything.”
“I would talk to you if there was anything to talk about,” Cas grumbled. He paused, trying to force himself to calm down. Yes, there was obviously something amiss. Dean said that he would sometimes blank out for a brief moment, and then have no memory of the incident. “Yes, I think I had a … thing,” he admitted.
“Wonder if it’s, you know, from all the Purgatory stuff.”
Purgatory? “Yes. Something to do with Purgatory,” said Cas. He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s late. You need to get back to sleep.” He gently pushed Dean’s head back into his chest.
“Mmmm, angel pillow,” muttered Dean. And then his breathing got slower and slower.
But Cas didn’t go back to his book. He put the book down on the end table and grabbed his cellular phone. He went to the web application, and typed in, “sociopath.”
Naomi sat at her desk, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“A little … fraught, my dear,” came a voice from behind the two-way mirror.
“I am doing my best for you, sir. Always.”
“We don’t want that dirty little hippie running loose in heaven again, ranting about free will and all that other nonsense.”
“No, sir. Have you-“
“What? Spit it out, woman.”
“Has there been any news … of Samandriel?”
“Another traitor!”
“Sir?”
“If there were news, I would tell you. Now, silence, my dear. Let us get to work….”
