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Seven Hells, Part 7 of ?
Title: Seven Hells, Part 7 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 OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, you should probably go take a nice warm bubble bath and read something else.
Word Count: 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)
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: As will be blindingly apparent this chapter, my AU storyline fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. I apparently lack not only the talent but sufficient sadistic inclinations to function as a Supernatural scriptwriter. Oh well.
A few months ago....
“You just need to stop taking risks like that,” Dean cautioned as the motel room door opened.
“I only take such risks as are warranted for the completion of the job,” Cas told him, stepping in after Dean.
Dean slammed the door shut. “Cas, you know as well as I do that your powers have been acting funky since Purgatory-”
Cas heaved a very human-like sigh. “There is also an expression, Dean, you're not the boss of me.”
“I wish I was. I'd kick your feathery ass.”
Cas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I'd like to see you try.” He glanced around the room, seeming to sense something. “Where is Sam?”
Dean tossed his pack onto one of the room’s two beds where it wrinkled up the weird the purple and blue bedspread. “Off doing research. I told him it's a wild goose chase-”
“Should we go to pick him up?”
Dean wasn't looking at Cas. “Naw. He's hundreds of miles away. Picked up a rental car, staying a night. Or two.”
Cas was staring at Dean. “Is everything … all right?” It was something he wouldn’t have commented on, only a year or so ago.
Dean shook his head. “I think he just needed a day or so away. From me!” He looked over at Cas. “What about you? You staying?”
“I’ll leave if you require some time alone....”
“No. Jeez. I got this whole room to myself.” Dean gestured around at the amaranthine and indigo splendor which was his hotel room. “At least stay for dinner.” He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the bed next to his pack, and then sat down on the bed opposite.
“Angels don't require food, Dean.”
“I can't eat a whole pizza myself. If you can down a hundred burgers, you can have a slice. I mean, to be polite.”
Cas’s resolve softened. He didn’t want his friend to eat alone. That seemed … wrong somehow. “Well, I wouldn't want to be rude. I suppose.”
“Good. Let's get your coat,” said Dean, standing up and going for Cas's trench coat.
“Why should I remove my coat?” asked a very flustered Cas. Dean might as well have demanded he strip naked.
“Look, you're the one who wanted to be a hunter, right?” said Dean, yanking off the coat and tossing it next to his. “You should start learning how to at least fake being human. Humans don't sit around a warm hotel room in an overcoat.”
“I might prefer to keep my coverings intact in this particular hotel room,” Cas grumbled, eyeing the odd sea-themed wallpaper.
“Let's get the jacket too.”
Cas cooperatively held out his arms, but said, “Dean, you're already aware that I'm not human.”
“But other people don't know. The pizza delivery guy, right? Plus, it gets on my nerves when you always look like you're ready to get out the wings and fly off. There!” Dean tossed Cas's rumpled suit jacket on top of his coat, and then turned to Cas's wrist.
“And what are you doing now?”
“Rolling up your sleeves,” said Dean, carefully folding the fabric of Cas's dress shirt over and over. “Other arm. See, now you look like a human guy who's relaxing after a job.”
Cas regarded his little-seen forearms with great curiosity, and then spared a wistful glance his coat and jacket on the bed. It occurred to him that now he would have to gather up bits of spare clothing before he departed, and he wondered if this had in fact been one of Dean's motivations. Humans were awfully particular about goodbyes. Especially this human.
“OK, now what do we want on the pizza?” asked Dean who had a yellow phone book splayed out on the bed.
Cas came to stand beside Dean, and squinted at the page. “Hawaiian?”
“Are you kidding, dude?”
“No, Dean, I do not jest about pizza.”
“Well, anyway, it has pineapple. No fruits anywhere near a pizza! Who do you think you are, Sammy?”
“Aren’t tomatoes technically a fruit?”
“Cas.” There was a warning tone in Dean’s voice.
“It says here there are small sizes available,” said Cas, reaching over Dean to point at the page.
Dean slapped Cas's hand away. “Cas! I'm not getting a single serving pizza. Those are for losers.” They faced each other now, nearly nose to nose, over the phone book.
“There are apparently many subtleties to ordering a pizza, evidently,” said Cas, as they locked eyes.
“Yes. Now, here is the important question!” Dean leaned forward just a fraction. “Should we go with double pepperoni, or meat lover's?”
Cas tilted his head. “Meat lover's?”
“Good choice,” said Dean, twisting around to grab the phone. Cas hopped back as Dean nearly collided with him. While Dean called in an order, Cas picked up the remote control and turned on the television, hoping that this motel might have the Discovery Channel. He liked the Discovery Channel.
He was clicking around when Dean set down the phone and ordered him to stop clicking through channels and back up. The television ended up on a program with several doctors and nurses in a hospital setting. Cas immediately recognized that this did not depict occurrences at a real medical facility, but was rather a television melodrama which rarely showed views from space.
“It's the new Dr. Sexy MD!” said Dean with barely concealed glee. He kicked off his shoes and hopped back up on the bed that was not piled with coats and hunter gear, back resting against the headboard, patting the space beside himself. “Come on! Sit down. Let's watch.”
Cas remained standing. “I thought you didn't appreciate my viewing this program with you, as I asked too many questions.”
“C'mon Cas, it'll be fine.”
Cas looked skeptical, but sat down next to Dean, who barked out one word, “Shoes!” and then went back to staring reverently at the television. Cas bent over and carefully untied his shoes, pushing them underneath the bed and feeling anxious and half-naked. And then he took his place, leaning his back on the headboard beside Dean, stealing a quick glance at the hunter sitting beside him, so close he could smell his perspiration and hear every soft breath.
He folded his hands carefully in his lap and attempted to keep his questions to the minimum, although, for once, Dean didn't seem as annoyed as he usually was when his favorite show was interrupted. He was actually holding forth to Cas on the trials of Nurse Piccolo when there was a knock at the door.
“Pizza man!” said Dean, springing off the bed.
“Ask him whether or not he truly loves the babysitter,” said Cas distractedly.
“What?” said Dean as he opened the door.
Dean paid and grabbed the pizza box, and then flopped back down on the bed, placing the large flat box between them. “Oh. Hey. The pizza man and the babysitter. I get it. Cas. That's funny.”
Cas selected a small-ish slice of the meat lover's special, and then relaxed back against the headboard. They watched and snacked on pizza for a while. Following the last commercial break, Cas remarked, “There is one thing I fail to understand about this show.”
“Only one thing? What's that?” Dean had tossed the empty box on the floor and slid down to lie on his back, his head propped up on the pillow, hand on his full stomach.
“All of the doctors, nurses and patients are portrayed by exceedingly attractive actors. I know from visiting actual hospitals that this is not realistic.”
“Maybe not, but every movie, every TV show, every everything has good-looking actors.”
“Some of them have even undergone cosmetic surgical procedures in order to make their countenances more pleasing to the eye.”
“Well, we're not all as lucky as you, I guess,” said Dean, rubbing his belly.
“What do you mean? One glimpse of my true form is enough to burn out the eyes of most mortals.”
“I mean.... You know.... Your vessel, I guess.”
Cas glared down at his body, as if it had betrayed him.
“You gotta notice,” said Dean, somewhat painfully rolling over on his side to face Cas. “I mean, the girls that come talk to you when we're in a bar?”
“I had assumed they desired sexual relations.”
Dean chuckled. He ran his hand across the bedspread between them. Who had picked these colors? Someone on an acid trip? “But you never … try anything.”
Cas shrugged, and pulled his knees up to his chest, wiggling his toes and wishing for his coat to tug around himself. “Perhaps those women are not the persons with whom I would like to achieve intimacy.”
Dean appeared to parse sentence carefully. “So there is someone? Someone you'd like to … whatever.” He somewhat painfully pushed himself back up to a sitting position.
Cas, feeling Dean’s eyes on him, was staring defiantly at the television. “It’s not of import.”
Dean clicked the remote, and the TV picture vanished. He tossed the remote aside and scooted closer to Cas, who did not meet his eyes. “Cas, can we agree on something?” Dean’s voice was soft.
“What?”
“We've been through Purgatory together. I mean, after all the other shit, Purgatory. It's a fucking miracle that we're both out and OK. And, I don't wanna lose this, you and me, again. So, I think we should promise each other, no more bullshit. Ever. OK?”
Cas glanced over at Dean, but then continued staring at the blank TV screen. “You are saying no more lies?” Dean nodded. “But you're the one who taught me lies are essential for human interaction.”
Dean nudged closer. “Cas. You're right, yeah. But between you and me? No more lies. Understood?”
And then Dean’s hand was on Cas’s thigh.
Cas blanched. “I should go,” he whispered, swinging his legs off the bed.
Dean grabbed Cas's arm. “You don't have your shoes. Or your coat.”
“You … you did that deliberately.” He eyes met Dean’s, his feeling of stark terror echoed in them
Dean placed a gentle hand on Cas's face. “You don't need to be scared. Okay?”
“I am not scared, Dean,” said Cas. And then Dean was kissing him. Cas desperately tried to remember the pizza man and the babysitter, and what you were supposed to do, and where your hands were supposed to go, and what was up and what was down. He closed his eyes. But this was nothing like that time with Meg. It was nothing like anything else.
Dean had wriggled partially on top of him. He stifled a meat lover’s special-flavored burp. “I probably shouldn't have eaten so much pizza before we tried this,” he laughed.
Cas managed a small, fleeting smile.
“Aw, c'mon, Cas, you got pizza breath too.”
“I think I'm in love with you, Dean.” It just spilled out. Like the burp. Only maybe not as pizza-flavored.
Dean was smiling. “Tell me something I don't know.”
Cas thought about it. “You're an idiot?”
“I know that one pretty good too.” Dean lay back, grabbing Cas to pull him down, holding his own pizza-engorged stomach. “A greedy idiot.” Dean moaned. “No offense, dude, but you eat like a girl. Seriously, two slices?”
“You didn’t have to consume the entire remainder.”
Dean held his midsection. “I’m going to die. Vampires and vengeful spirits and wendigos, and the fucking apocalypse, and I died of pizza.”
“I probably shouldn't be doing this,” said Cas, frowning. He placed a hand on Dean's stomach. There was a soft glow, and then a sting.
“Ow! Oh, that worked!” said Dean, sitting up. “Awesome. Hey, you're better than Pepto Bismol.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean grinned and rolled over on top of Cas and began kissing him again. And it was all right. It was more than all right. Cas’s hands and mouth seemed to know what to do.
Cas pushed him back. “Is this what you want, Dean?”
Dean scowled. “You know, you interrupt a lot.”
“You love me?”
Dean sighed and rested his forearms on Cas's chest. “OK, we said no bullshit. I don't know. Honestly. I think about you all the time, even when you’re not here, and I want to do some really perverted things to your body. Is that gonna be enough for now?”
“Perverted things?” whispered Cas. His eyes went out of focus for a moment as he touched Dean’s thoughts. “Oh!” he said, snapping back to the present.
“Don't worry,” muttered Dean. “We'll work up to that one.”
The present day….
“Odin is dead. Lucifer killed him! I mean, I saw the body, Cas.”
Sam stood, arms defiantly crossed, staring down at Castiel, who was sitting awkwardly on the couch in Rufus’s cabin. Cas had just come inside, returned to the human world from afar, and was still wrapped up in his overcoat. Snowflakes clinging to his hair and his shoulders had begun to melt, leaving rivulets of water dripping down. He looked and felt disjointed and out of place.
“It does sound fishy, Cas,” said Dean, who was sitting beside him.
“Sam, what you saw…. It was a manifestation of Odin. In this physical plane.” Cas furrowed his brow with the effort of trying to pack a celestial truth into the crude tool that was the English language.
Sam shifted from foot to foot. “Your brother stepped on the manifestation’s head.”
Cas winced at the memory, although it was not his own. “Some of the pagan gods – not all of them, but some of them – are more … entrenched than that, Sam. I don’t fully understand it myself, as it’s something I think my Father didn’t fully anticipate.” He paused, cringing at his own words. The mere notion that his heavenly Father was not fully omniscient would have been enough to get Cas’s feathered butt kicked from the angelic ranks not too long ago. How far he had fallen….
“Is this what you were telling me about belief making different versions of Hell, Cas?” asked Dean.
“Yes, exactly!” Cas smiled gratefully at Dean. He was still not accustomed to making blasphemous remarks, even if they were completely true.
Sam actually snorted. “So Odin died and then the grand legion of Vikings brought him back?”
“You can’t argue that ancient Norse mythology is a pop cultural phenomenon of note among modern humans,” said Cas. “There are movies about Vikings, books, and your musicians write songs….”
“Hey, maybe Odin is a Viking metal fan!” said Dean brightly.
“Odin two-point-oh,” corrected Sam.
Cas nodded. “Yes. This is a new manifestation. He would have his memories and probably his powers intact. But he might possibly display new powers. And I’ve been told his personality is somewhat changed.”
Sam frowned.
“As you know, the death rebirth cycle is a prominent feature of many human religious philosophies, Sam,” Cas noted. “I might be an example.” He stared down at his hands, struggling for words again.
Dean shifted on the ratty couch, throwing an arm along the back. “It’s cool. We get it Cas.”
Sam heaved a sigh. “Dean. No, we don’t get it. I don’t get it. And this whole deal is getting me nervous. Look, you remember what happened last time we walked in on a group of pagan gods? The Elysian Fields?”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, eyeball soup.”
“Sam. I have met the new manifestation of the Hindu god, Ganesha.” Cas looked at Dean, his eyes pleading.
Dean studied Cas. “Last we saw him, dude was elephant chow.”
“And how did you wing that, Cas?” asked Sam, narrowing his eyes.
“He is one of Bibi’s relatives. He is the Lord of Hosts, widely regarded as the most altruistic of deities. They are not all monsters, Sam. I believe Odin too has benevolent intentions in this matter. I believe they all do: at least, the ones we are going to meet.”
“The warm and fuzzy lords of hell?” Sam raked an irritated hand through his hair. “Look, Cas, with all due respect, last time I took a meeting with your godly buddies I ended up with my ass dumped in the middle of a desert and had to be dragged out by … by a vampire.”
“I carried you out, Sam,” said Cas. “You were too heavy for Benny to bear all that way.” Sam looked annoyed. “And do not fear, I will remain at your side for this entire encounter.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas, we had Gabriel with us at the Elysian Fields. Look what good that did! And you know….” He gestured towards Cas. “He was an archangel. And you’re…. You know. Having trouble.”
Cas slumped.
“Sam’s got a point, Cas,” Dean said softly. “Where does Odin wanna hold this little powwow?”
“Valhalla. We will go up there and talk with him first before we arrange anything else.”
Sam didn’t hear any wings beating, be he would have sworn that Dean had teleported off the couch to stand before him, gripping his shoulders. “Sammy. Valhalla!”
“Oh, so now you wanna go party with head-banger Odin 2.0?” grumbled Sam.
“To fight the horde, singing and crying, Valhalla, I am coming, Sammy!”
Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder to the couch, where Cas was sitting and chuckling softly. “What’s so funny, Cas?”
“I…. I never realized this. Dean didn’t believe in angels. This is his religion.”
“My brother, the pagan,” sighed Sam while Dean leapt around the room playing air guitar. “And it will be just Odin.”
Cas nodded. “Yes, Sam. Odin and one other interested party.”
Sam scowled at his brother. “I thought you wanted to be a cowboy?”
“Dude, Viking is way up on the list. Or one of the Untouchables.” Dean moved over to the couch and started tugging on the angel. “Come on, Cas, you gotta get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”
“Angels are not susceptible to bronchial pneumonia, Dean,” Cas informed him, but let himself be pulled to his feet and divested of his coat and jacket regardless.
“We’ll toss a couple more logs on the fire and make some hot buttered rum,” said Dean, running to hang up Cas’s clothing.
“Uh. Thank you, Dean.”
While his brother danced his way into the kitchen, Sam stood in the corner, questioning his life choices. “Pagan gods,” he muttered to himself. “Skeezy motherfuckers.” And then he shuddered, though not from the cold.
The crowd rose as one to cheer the 8,532nd consecutive victory of the hellhounds over their opponents. Meanwhile, overlooked in an especially dark corner of the stadium, a small demon watched the King of Hell descend to the field to congratulate the great snarling beasts, indulgently handing out colorful little doggie bones.
Namtar wanted a dog. He thought it would be great if he and his brother could play fetch and take it for walks. But his stepfather had said no. Nergal was such an ass. Namtar really had no clue why his mother, Ereshkigal, put up with the fool. His mother told him he would understand, in time. He wasn’t so sure.
At any rate, she had sent him forth on these missions to Hell with strict instructions not to tell Nergal, so that was cool. He suspected that she was trying to keep them apart as much as possible. Seriously, the guy was talking about mustering an army against Crowley’s forces. It was madness: you could see that just by looking around here. All the gods mocked Crowley as a buffoon, as a pretender, but you could tell he wielded a buttload of power. Everybody, from the lowliest imp to the most fiendish archdemon, was scared shitless of the guy. And why not? He was capricious as he was mighty, seemingly only having a soft spot for the great hellhounds.
Crowley was moving off the field now. It was probably time for Namtar to go, as he was due in class in a few hours and still had a term paper left to write, but something caught his eye, and he was curious. Some kind of minion had come scurrying out of the stands and whispered something to the King of Hell, causing Crowley to storm off, through a different exit than the one he usually took.
Namtar used wing power to transport himself nearby. The trick was not to be discovered, which was really surprisingly easy down here. Even under Crowley’s iron fist, the place was pure bottled chaos. Namtar followed as Crowley and some of his retinue made their way through an unfamiliar series of corridors.
They finally reached a darkened area of hell where Crowley’s illusion of a gloomy modern office building was dispensed and instead wove their way through a series of what was frankly underground tunnels, each more crudely carved than the last. Namtar was becoming slightly anxious, as there were fewer souls down here, and so it was getting harder to follow them unobserved. Fortunately, there were a lot of twists and turns in the tunnel, so he kept himself concealed by the passageway itself as best he could. He considered turning back, but then Crowley and his lieutenants came to a door. Namtar hid behind an outcropping and peeked. It was a big, heavy door, at least a foot thick and big as the front end of a bus, and it and the frame were completely covered in warding signs, some of which Namtar knew, some of which were elusive.
And the giant door was cracked, all the way through.
Now that his eyes had adjusted, Namtar could see the bloodstains scattered on the floor and wall about the surrounding area. The last set of guards had apparently not been lucky. And … there was something else staining the floor. Some kind of viscous substance pooled there. It looked dark, and thick. The door had been hastily patched with what looked like iron, and there was also a white powder scattered around. Crowley was leaning over, talking to the guards in a low voice. He pointed to the reinforcing plates on the door, and the warding symbols, obviously asking for more of each of them.
Namtar watched with interest. Usually this kind of confrontation ended in at least one or two smitings, but to his surprise, Crowley completed his conversation and then stalked off, leaving all the other parties very much alive. He stood stock still as Crowley and his entourage strode by without paying him any mind.
He stood for a while, trying to control his breath, listening until the hushed voices had faded to nothing. He noticed there was only one guard left stationed at the door, a somewhat jumpy looking demon. Namtar considered for a moment, and then picked up some pebbles. He waited for the right moment, and then lobbed them over the guard's head, so they landed with a rattle up the corridor, in the opposite direction from where Namtar was hidden.
The guard started, and then, with a nervous look around, proceeded up the tunnel a few steps to investigate the noise.
Namtar crawled out from where he was hiding, and dipped a handkerchief into the weird substance pooled by the door. And then he scampered out of there before the guard saw him.
After he had put what he considered a comfortable amount of distance between himself and the broken door, he stood under the light, examining his handkerchief.
The stuff on the cloth: it was sticky and, even in the light, jet black.
It looked like tar.
Odin had a firm handshake: that much was true.
Sam wasn’t quite sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Odin was wearing a suit. An expensive suit, maybe even bespoke. It was definitely much better fitting than Cas’s rumpled holy tax accountant get-up: the angel looked especially disheveled standing beside the beaming god today just outside the front entrance to Valhalla. As for the Norse god, with all this talk of a new manifestation, the guy didn’t look like he was much more than forty, and his reddish-gold beard was short and looked freshly trimmed. His eyes were bright, the blue snatched from a summer’s day sky.
“Welcome to Asgard, Sam and Dean. About damn time I had you up in my realm!” he added, waving a finger at them. “I’ve heard you boys have decided to spend your eternities up in Heaven. Not that I’m knocking it, mind!” He cast a glance in Cas’s direction. “It’s just a little on the pale side compared to Valhalla! This is the true resting place for a warrior.” He stood back and waved an arm at his palace.
The colossal palace was constructed of a yellowy stone that made it appear golden in the slanting sun. It reminded Sam of a LEGO set he’d had as a kid. The rooftops shone golden as well: Sam had taken them as constructed from some sort of shingle, but now that he looked closely, he could see they were constructed of innumerable golden shields, all bound together. He thought darkly about godly building codes, and what happened if it sprung a leak: did they need to call one of the Lord of the Rings dwarf dudes to forge it back together?
“Uh, Odin, no offense,” said Dean, “but I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. I mean in terms of parsing out our eternal souls and stuff.”
Odin clasped Dean on the shoulder. “Of course you have a choice. Everybody has a choice! But look at me, being the rotten damn host. Come in, come in, out of the cold, and we’ll have a drink. Did you want a quick tour?”
“Did I?” gushed Dean as they passed through the massive, intricately carved front doors to enter the main hall. Two huge dogs roused themselves from the porch and padded after Odin. Sam realized with a start that they weren't Huskies, as he had first thought; they were wolves. Really fucking huge-ass wolves.
Cas followed without a word, sticking to Dean like a silent shadow. As for Sam, he stood in the gently falling snow and took one last nervous look around. Cas had blipped them here, so he had no idea really where he was geographically, but from the stubby, gnarled woods and low-slanting sun he guessed, if they were anywhere on earth, it was somewhere at a very high latitude. He frowned and then headed up the broad stone steps after his blissed-out brother.
Sam passed the broad threshold and stopped dead.
Holy fuck.
The lighting was soft and dim. After his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was because Valhalla apparently used glowing goddam swords as light fixtures. There must have been hundreds of these bladed sconces lighting up the walls of the main corridor. Underneath his feet was a rich, thick carpet. He had a sudden urge to pull off his boots to feel it beneath his toes. The walls were hung with a variety of artwork, ranging from ancient tapestries to some recognizable modern art works. He peered with wonder at a nearby canvas, and then scrambled to catch up with Dean and the rest of them.
“Hey, Odin, I don't wanna be rude, but isn't that a Munch back there?” Sam asked once he was in earshot.
Odin halted. He turned around and laughed. “The pastel of The Scream you mean? Cost me an arm and a leg and part of my immortal soul. A little morbid for my tastes, thank you, but very influential. And a countryman!” He beamed with pride.
“You're … Norwegian?”
“I'm incorporated in Liechtenstein. Tax purposes, you know. But, ja, jeg er norsk! Even served on my country's Olympic team. Now as I was telling your brother, you probably want to see the dining hall?”
“Yeah, definitely!” said Dean.
“Okay,” said Sam, who was feeling an itch to just go off on his own and scrutinize some of the artwork. He felt something brush his leg, and then looked down to see a giant wolf head staring up.
“Look at that. Freki likes ya!” said Odin, as Sam tentatively scratched the monster behind the ears. “Good, now I don't have to worry about you straggling behind. Freki will fetch you back. I'd swear that mutt is part shepherd. All right then, we'll take a detour through the hall. Not a mealtime, fortunately, or we'd waste the whole damn afternoon, toasts and the lot. Come along!” Odin began to march off down the corridor once again, Dean and Cas at his side. Sam followed along, glancing up at the wall from time to time, and now wondering how many storied artworks that had gone into “a private collection” could be found hanging here.
The hall had started to get noisier, and Sam started to see more personnel walking around. Odin took a turn and led them into a light-filled, cavernous room with high, arched ceilings, crammed full of long, wooden banquet tables. There weren't a whole lot of people in here, just about a dozen men and women clustered around one of the tables, eating and laughing and drinking from big metal flagons. To Sam's surprise they were all dressed more or less in modern, or at least Twentieth Century, clothing, even though the walls were bedecked everywhere with medieval swords and materiel. He was also curious to see the guys they were a mix of races and ethnicities: only one guy, a big blond, looked anything like the picture in his head of a Viking warrior.
They loudly greeted Odin, and then, after introductions and a lot of back-slapping a servant brought out a tray filled with more flagons of beer, and they had a quick drink (or two or three) before finally begging off and heading out of the dining hall.
Odin, who now had his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder, once again led them off through another long corridor.
“They didn't seem like how I pictured, you know, Vikings,” said Sam, who had loosened up somewhat after several toasts to the health of the king, their guests, immortal Valhalla, and various other things he couldn't not remember.
“Valhalla is and has ever been the place for noble warriors to rest after their time is come. That lot: they're a mixed bag of personnel from the Iraq War – both sides – the Toareg Movement from Mali, and the Libyan Liberation Front. There's always a conflict somewhere. That's something you can count on, knowing human history.”
“But you're new?” Sam pressed.
“A new iteration of me, you could say. But this lady is the original.” He pulled open a large wooden door decorated with many carved symbols, and they entered a most unusual room. It was astonishingly huge, like the dining hall, but as peaceful and still as that room had been bright and boisterous.
It took Sam's eyes a few moments to readjust before he realized there was an absolutely enormous ash tree growing smack dab in the center of the room. A pool of gently flowing water surrounded base of the tree. The room was actually two levels: they had entered on the first floor, and then up above was a mezzanine with an intricately carved wooden balustrade that wove around the tree's broad branches. If you looked up at the vaulted ceiling you could see stained glass windows spread around, dappling red and blue and green and yellow light on the room.
“Is that … Yggdrasil?” Sam guessed.
“Correct! Nice little place I come to collect my thoughts,” said Odin, his voice tracing echoes in the vast room.
“The tree has a name?” asked Dean.
“It's the center of Nine Worlds,” Sam explained.
“Nine worlds and seven hells,” muttered Dean, who didn't have much of a head for numbers.
Odin was yelling up at someone up above. “Hey! Darlin'! Don't come down! We'll come on up!” Sam looked up and noticed for the first time that there was a dark figure standing up on the mezzanine looking down at them.
They crossed to the main staircase and walked towards the woman who had apparently been awaiting them.
“Sorry we took so damned long, got distracted making toasts,” said Odin, kissing her cheek.
“Kali,” said Dean. “Hey, it's great to see you again.”
“Dean,” she said. “Sam.” She gracefully kissed each one on the cheek. “And you must be Castiel?” she asked, extending a fine hand towards the angel.
“Kali.” Cas hesitated. “I am … sorry. About Gabriel?”
“Oh, my dear,” she said, putting a hand on his cheek and giving him a kiss. “You have lost a brother as well.” Cas nodded glumly.
“Shall we sit?” asked Odin, pointing to a nearby bench. “This is my favorite spot of all. Anybody care for a drink?” Sam glanced over in surprise as a uniformed servant appeared at their side.
“Man, this is the life,” said Dean, leaning back with a whiskey after some attendants had brought a round of drinks and a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He held up a cucumber sandwich. “Look at this! They even cut off the crusts.”
Odin howled with laughter and slapped his own knee. “I must have you fellows up here more often.” He pulled a cigar from a slim box in his vest pocket and offered them around. Dean eagerly plucked one out, drinking in the smell, though Sam and Kali politely declined.
“Come on, you gotta try one too, Cas,” Dean urged.
Cas wrinkled his nose. “I don't smoke, Dean.”
“You gotta try this! It’s a Cuban. We taught you to drink, I'm gonna teach you to smoke.”
“Contributing to the delinquency of a celestial being, are you there, Dean?” asked Odin with a wink.
“I am afraid I even have a tattoo now,” Cas sighed. It was a big mistake, because between Odin and Kali, Cas found himself, to his abject embarrassment, disrobing to display his wings. Sam sat back, impressed. The eerie three-dimensional effect was especially effective in the Yggdrasil room's dim light.
“Well, I was going to display my own tattoo, but I fear you have made it pale in comparison,” Kali confessed.
Cas had shrugged back into his shirt and jacket, although his shirt was unfortunately one button off as well as untucked. “Hey, I wanna see,” Dean teased Kali. He stuck his own cigar in Cas's mouth and began to straighten up the angel's shirt. Cas puffed uncertainly on the cigar.
“So, I heard you boys paid a visit to Ereshkigal,” said Odin.
“And Nergal,” huffed Sam.
“I wouldn't pay that one much mind. A minor irritant who believes himself to be a … player.”
Sam was going bitchface mode at the memory. Even though Ninazu had cured his sunburn, he swore his back still itched. “Odin, he stranded us in the middle of a fucking desert, 100 miles from nowhere.”
“And you're here now, aren't you, drinking my liquor?”
Sam frowned. Right now he was actually drinking soda water. One of them had to keep a sober head.
Odin flicked some cigar ashes into an ashtray. “I’ll tell you boys our part of this. Since our friend Crowley declared himself King of Hell, he's been honing in on our territories.”
“He seeks some kind of syncretism,” offered Kali. “To create one out of many.”
Odin nodded. “The afterlife has always been and should always remain heterogeneous. That is my stand.”
“Souls are power,” said Dean. “Stands to reason he'd try to score more of them. By any means possible.”
“Now, I understand you folks have a weapon?” Odin asked.
“We have the recipe for demon bombs,” said Sam. “But I think you're interested in Metatron's demon tablet.”
“According to our prophet, uh, Kevin,” said Dean, who pulled a face at the mention of the name, “it has the recipe to lock the Gates of Hell. Forever.”
“I am not certain that would be a good idea,” said Kali.
Dean turned to her. “What?”
“A little point of contention,” said Odin, puffing on his cigar. “Go on, Kali. The boy should hear it.”
Kali nodded and adjusted her skirt. “It is as an ecology, Heaven, Hell, the earth. As there is good, there must be evil too, to oppose it. It is the essence of free will. Ever these elements shall battle.”
“I- I have to agree with her,” said Cas.
“Wait. Really?” said Dean.
“Dean, all of us have made great sacrifices for the sake of our free will. I would hate to do something like this without being aware of the repercussions.”
Dean frowned at Cas, but nodded. “You're with us on this, though?”
Cas shrugged. “I agree we need to get the partial tablet away from Crowley before he can effect a translation. But as for our next step, I'm not so sure.”
“I think we're all agreed on our next move, then?” asked Odin.
“Sure,” said Dean. “Gank that tablet McNugget away from Crowley.”
“And try to round up the other tablets before he can get his hands on them,” said Sam. He looked at Dean, who nodded. “We have a list.”
“So do we,” said Odin with a wink.
“Then, I guess we could compare them,” said Dean.
“I also have the names of some other … interested parties,” said Odin, pulling a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and handing it off to Dean. “You've already met Ereshkigal of course.”
“Yamaraja is my kinsman,” said Kali. “He is an honorable man.”
“Yeah, he's already helped us out,” Dean told her. “Loaned us some demons.”
Kali smiled. It made her lovely face radiant. She rose. “Sadly, it is growing late, and I must take my leave.” After a final round of goodbyes, she simply winked out.
“Ah,” said Odin. “Give me a smart, fierce woman! They're better than us, you know!” He began to walk towards the staircase. “That one was nearly my daughter-in-law. I'll regret losing Baldur ever damn day of my life, but I miss having that one in the family almost as much.” They exited the Yggdrasil room and returned through a doorway to Valhalla's broad corridors.
Sam's urge to ask why Baldur hadn't returned as well was postponed when several of the soldiers they had met in the dining hall all crowded up around Odin.
“We're going out for an evening ride, and wondered if any of you boys would like to join us?” asked one of the Touaregs with a broad grin.
Dean looked at Sam, his eyes bright.
“All right all right all right!” said Sam.
Odin and Cas watched as the soldiers escorted Sam and Dean towards the stables. “Make sure you give them some coats, boys! Remember, they're mortal!” Odin called after them.
“Can I ask you something, Odin?” asked Cas once the others were out of earshot.
Odin nodded. “Let's take a walk.” He led the angel on a pathway that would back to the hall. The river that had had formed a pool around Yggdrasil in the large room wandered out back of Valhalla along a rocky coast. It was lit in the dim winter sun by a series of glowing lanterns placed along the edge.
“This is … very peaceful,” said Cas, surprised at his own comment.
Odin continued walking upwards in companionable silence for a time, and finally paused at an overlook. “Look there.” Cas followed Odin's arm to see a small party of horsemen riding through the snowy fields down below. With angel eyes he could easily pick out Sam and Dean, the latter out leading the charge, Sam in the back of the pack but, perhaps even to his own surprise, smiling.
Cas's own lips pressed into a smile.
“You have it bad, don't you, son?” asked Odin. Cas sighed. It was fairly clear what the god was talking about.
“It's obvious?”
“He's a mortal.”
Cas frowned. “I am well aware of that.”
“He's aware too, if he's carving his initials in you.” Odin pointed to Cas's back.
“I'm a tree now?”
Odin nodded. “I've fallen for a mortal myself, a time or two, in my younger days. In my former incarnation.” He scratched his chin and studied Cas. “If you feel you need someone to talk to....”
“Bibi made the same offer.”
“Angels and gods: maybe we have a little something in common? Bibi is a good man.”
Cas arched an eyebrow at the god. “Bibi isn't trying to replace my Father.”
Odin didn't reply, but puffed on the remains of his cigar.
“You are, aren't you? Inviting the Winchesters to your afterlife?”
Odin gestured with the cigar. “I prefer to think of it as providing an alternative.”
“You mentioned your new incarnation,” said Cas.
“Yes.”
Castiel turned around to face Odin.
Odin gazed out at the land of Asgard. “Not only me. Kali's son is back.”
“Yes. I have met him.”
Odin raised an eyebrow. “I have heard he is … different. Well. At least one of us got our boy back.”
“Baldur?” said Cas quietly.
Odin shook his head. He frowned, and suddenly looked much older. “My son Baldur was a different situation. It's … complicated.”
Cas forced the words out of a dry throat. “And the Trickster?”
“Loki? You want complicated. Yeah, I see what you're getting at, kid....”
Cas's forehead creased. “I presume that ‘kid’ is a term of affection? It seems inappropriate. I am your elder by many millennia, Odin.”
“How long have you been in a human vessel?”
“I am doomed to ever repeat the same conversation with pagan gods?”
Odin grinned. “All right. I'll tell you about the Trickster. Or at least what I knew about Loki, my trickster.”
Cas nodded.
“We go back a long ways. Not as long as you, obviously….”
“I was quite young when Gabriel left Heaven.”
Odin nodded. “He changed. Over the years. He was always full of mischief, but it was more light-hearted to begin with. But he seemed to grow angrier and angrier, and more malicious, over the years. I barely saw him these past few centuries: he was too busy dealing out revenge for any imagined slight. I thought Kali would calm him down, but that seemed to be the last straw. I told Baldur not to get mixed up in that one, but my boy was stubborn.”
Cas nodded watching the party of horsemen below disappear into a thicket of trees.
“So when you ask about bringing back the Trickster, I guess the first question is, which one do you want?”
“Gabriel,” said Cas firmly. He frowned. He hadn’t known the sentiment until the words were out. “But I realize that is no longer possible. My father evidently regarded us as weaponry. And nothing more. When we die, we go nowhere at all. We are extinguished.”
“Now, with all respect to your Father, that’s not a way to treat a loyal soldier. Not a way at all,” said Odin.
Cas nodded, feeling a chill.
“Where were you?”
Cas blinked, disoriented, as he always was the first few moments when he was summoned by Naomi up to the white room.
He felt his new tattoo burning like hell. Focus. They had just returned from Valhalla, and Dean had decided they would spend a few nights at Rufus's cabin.
“Castiel!” said Naomi. “I need your report.”
“You didn't know where I was?” muttered Cas. Was Valhalla beyond their vision? That was interesting.
“What was that? Report.”
Cas felt himself being pulled as he always was. But there was another feeling too now.
His back was itching like crazy.
The words poured from his lips. “We still have not secured the other half of the demon tablet. The Winchesters are currently researching ways to undercut Crowley and thus force his hand.”
Naomi clasped her hands, and seemed to look around. “Have you heard anything about Crowley potentially holding … a hostage?”
Cas stared at her, wishing he could scratch his back. “A hostage? What kind of hostage?”
Naomi wouldn't look at him. “An angel?”
“How could Crowley manage to hold an angel? That's not possible.”
Naomi opened her mouth, and then closed it again. And then she said, “This meeting is over. As you were. You will remember nothing.”
“How could Crowley-”
“Cas.”
Snow was beginning to fall. They were outside Rufus's cabin in Whitefish, Montana.
Dean looked concerned. “Cas! Buddy, you okay?”
Cas looked at Dean, snowflakes falling clinging to his hair. “No, Dean. No. I'm not okay.”
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 OCs here: some I’ve invented, some I’ve ripped off from various religious mythologies, and some I’ve rebooted from the SPN canon. Also, no beta, so if you freak over that, you should probably go take a nice warm bubble bath and read something else.
Word Count: 90,000 (individual chapters are around 5,000)
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: As will be blindingly apparent this chapter, my AU storyline fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. I apparently lack not only the talent but sufficient sadistic inclinations to function as a Supernatural scriptwriter. Oh well.
A few months ago....
“You just need to stop taking risks like that,” Dean cautioned as the motel room door opened.
“I only take such risks as are warranted for the completion of the job,” Cas told him, stepping in after Dean.
Dean slammed the door shut. “Cas, you know as well as I do that your powers have been acting funky since Purgatory-”
Cas heaved a very human-like sigh. “There is also an expression, Dean, you're not the boss of me.”
“I wish I was. I'd kick your feathery ass.”
Cas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I'd like to see you try.” He glanced around the room, seeming to sense something. “Where is Sam?”
Dean tossed his pack onto one of the room’s two beds where it wrinkled up the weird the purple and blue bedspread. “Off doing research. I told him it's a wild goose chase-”
“Should we go to pick him up?”
Dean wasn't looking at Cas. “Naw. He's hundreds of miles away. Picked up a rental car, staying a night. Or two.”
Cas was staring at Dean. “Is everything … all right?” It was something he wouldn’t have commented on, only a year or so ago.
Dean shook his head. “I think he just needed a day or so away. From me!” He looked over at Cas. “What about you? You staying?”
“I’ll leave if you require some time alone....”
“No. Jeez. I got this whole room to myself.” Dean gestured around at the amaranthine and indigo splendor which was his hotel room. “At least stay for dinner.” He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the bed next to his pack, and then sat down on the bed opposite.
“Angels don't require food, Dean.”
“I can't eat a whole pizza myself. If you can down a hundred burgers, you can have a slice. I mean, to be polite.”
Cas’s resolve softened. He didn’t want his friend to eat alone. That seemed … wrong somehow. “Well, I wouldn't want to be rude. I suppose.”
“Good. Let's get your coat,” said Dean, standing up and going for Cas's trench coat.
“Why should I remove my coat?” asked a very flustered Cas. Dean might as well have demanded he strip naked.
“Look, you're the one who wanted to be a hunter, right?” said Dean, yanking off the coat and tossing it next to his. “You should start learning how to at least fake being human. Humans don't sit around a warm hotel room in an overcoat.”
“I might prefer to keep my coverings intact in this particular hotel room,” Cas grumbled, eyeing the odd sea-themed wallpaper.
“Let's get the jacket too.”
Cas cooperatively held out his arms, but said, “Dean, you're already aware that I'm not human.”
“But other people don't know. The pizza delivery guy, right? Plus, it gets on my nerves when you always look like you're ready to get out the wings and fly off. There!” Dean tossed Cas's rumpled suit jacket on top of his coat, and then turned to Cas's wrist.
“And what are you doing now?”
“Rolling up your sleeves,” said Dean, carefully folding the fabric of Cas's dress shirt over and over. “Other arm. See, now you look like a human guy who's relaxing after a job.”
Cas regarded his little-seen forearms with great curiosity, and then spared a wistful glance his coat and jacket on the bed. It occurred to him that now he would have to gather up bits of spare clothing before he departed, and he wondered if this had in fact been one of Dean's motivations. Humans were awfully particular about goodbyes. Especially this human.
“OK, now what do we want on the pizza?” asked Dean who had a yellow phone book splayed out on the bed.
Cas came to stand beside Dean, and squinted at the page. “Hawaiian?”
“Are you kidding, dude?”
“No, Dean, I do not jest about pizza.”
“Well, anyway, it has pineapple. No fruits anywhere near a pizza! Who do you think you are, Sammy?”
“Aren’t tomatoes technically a fruit?”
“Cas.” There was a warning tone in Dean’s voice.
“It says here there are small sizes available,” said Cas, reaching over Dean to point at the page.
Dean slapped Cas's hand away. “Cas! I'm not getting a single serving pizza. Those are for losers.” They faced each other now, nearly nose to nose, over the phone book.
“There are apparently many subtleties to ordering a pizza, evidently,” said Cas, as they locked eyes.
“Yes. Now, here is the important question!” Dean leaned forward just a fraction. “Should we go with double pepperoni, or meat lover's?”
Cas tilted his head. “Meat lover's?”
“Good choice,” said Dean, twisting around to grab the phone. Cas hopped back as Dean nearly collided with him. While Dean called in an order, Cas picked up the remote control and turned on the television, hoping that this motel might have the Discovery Channel. He liked the Discovery Channel.
He was clicking around when Dean set down the phone and ordered him to stop clicking through channels and back up. The television ended up on a program with several doctors and nurses in a hospital setting. Cas immediately recognized that this did not depict occurrences at a real medical facility, but was rather a television melodrama which rarely showed views from space.
“It's the new Dr. Sexy MD!” said Dean with barely concealed glee. He kicked off his shoes and hopped back up on the bed that was not piled with coats and hunter gear, back resting against the headboard, patting the space beside himself. “Come on! Sit down. Let's watch.”
Cas remained standing. “I thought you didn't appreciate my viewing this program with you, as I asked too many questions.”
“C'mon Cas, it'll be fine.”
Cas looked skeptical, but sat down next to Dean, who barked out one word, “Shoes!” and then went back to staring reverently at the television. Cas bent over and carefully untied his shoes, pushing them underneath the bed and feeling anxious and half-naked. And then he took his place, leaning his back on the headboard beside Dean, stealing a quick glance at the hunter sitting beside him, so close he could smell his perspiration and hear every soft breath.
He folded his hands carefully in his lap and attempted to keep his questions to the minimum, although, for once, Dean didn't seem as annoyed as he usually was when his favorite show was interrupted. He was actually holding forth to Cas on the trials of Nurse Piccolo when there was a knock at the door.
“Pizza man!” said Dean, springing off the bed.
“Ask him whether or not he truly loves the babysitter,” said Cas distractedly.
“What?” said Dean as he opened the door.
Dean paid and grabbed the pizza box, and then flopped back down on the bed, placing the large flat box between them. “Oh. Hey. The pizza man and the babysitter. I get it. Cas. That's funny.”
Cas selected a small-ish slice of the meat lover's special, and then relaxed back against the headboard. They watched and snacked on pizza for a while. Following the last commercial break, Cas remarked, “There is one thing I fail to understand about this show.”
“Only one thing? What's that?” Dean had tossed the empty box on the floor and slid down to lie on his back, his head propped up on the pillow, hand on his full stomach.
“All of the doctors, nurses and patients are portrayed by exceedingly attractive actors. I know from visiting actual hospitals that this is not realistic.”
“Maybe not, but every movie, every TV show, every everything has good-looking actors.”
“Some of them have even undergone cosmetic surgical procedures in order to make their countenances more pleasing to the eye.”
“Well, we're not all as lucky as you, I guess,” said Dean, rubbing his belly.
“What do you mean? One glimpse of my true form is enough to burn out the eyes of most mortals.”
“I mean.... You know.... Your vessel, I guess.”
Cas glared down at his body, as if it had betrayed him.
“You gotta notice,” said Dean, somewhat painfully rolling over on his side to face Cas. “I mean, the girls that come talk to you when we're in a bar?”
“I had assumed they desired sexual relations.”
Dean chuckled. He ran his hand across the bedspread between them. Who had picked these colors? Someone on an acid trip? “But you never … try anything.”
Cas shrugged, and pulled his knees up to his chest, wiggling his toes and wishing for his coat to tug around himself. “Perhaps those women are not the persons with whom I would like to achieve intimacy.”
Dean appeared to parse sentence carefully. “So there is someone? Someone you'd like to … whatever.” He somewhat painfully pushed himself back up to a sitting position.
Cas, feeling Dean’s eyes on him, was staring defiantly at the television. “It’s not of import.”
Dean clicked the remote, and the TV picture vanished. He tossed the remote aside and scooted closer to Cas, who did not meet his eyes. “Cas, can we agree on something?” Dean’s voice was soft.
“What?”
“We've been through Purgatory together. I mean, after all the other shit, Purgatory. It's a fucking miracle that we're both out and OK. And, I don't wanna lose this, you and me, again. So, I think we should promise each other, no more bullshit. Ever. OK?”
Cas glanced over at Dean, but then continued staring at the blank TV screen. “You are saying no more lies?” Dean nodded. “But you're the one who taught me lies are essential for human interaction.”
Dean nudged closer. “Cas. You're right, yeah. But between you and me? No more lies. Understood?”
And then Dean’s hand was on Cas’s thigh.
Cas blanched. “I should go,” he whispered, swinging his legs off the bed.
Dean grabbed Cas's arm. “You don't have your shoes. Or your coat.”
“You … you did that deliberately.” He eyes met Dean’s, his feeling of stark terror echoed in them
Dean placed a gentle hand on Cas's face. “You don't need to be scared. Okay?”
“I am not scared, Dean,” said Cas. And then Dean was kissing him. Cas desperately tried to remember the pizza man and the babysitter, and what you were supposed to do, and where your hands were supposed to go, and what was up and what was down. He closed his eyes. But this was nothing like that time with Meg. It was nothing like anything else.
Dean had wriggled partially on top of him. He stifled a meat lover’s special-flavored burp. “I probably shouldn't have eaten so much pizza before we tried this,” he laughed.
Cas managed a small, fleeting smile.
“Aw, c'mon, Cas, you got pizza breath too.”
“I think I'm in love with you, Dean.” It just spilled out. Like the burp. Only maybe not as pizza-flavored.
Dean was smiling. “Tell me something I don't know.”
Cas thought about it. “You're an idiot?”
“I know that one pretty good too.” Dean lay back, grabbing Cas to pull him down, holding his own pizza-engorged stomach. “A greedy idiot.” Dean moaned. “No offense, dude, but you eat like a girl. Seriously, two slices?”
“You didn’t have to consume the entire remainder.”
Dean held his midsection. “I’m going to die. Vampires and vengeful spirits and wendigos, and the fucking apocalypse, and I died of pizza.”
“I probably shouldn't be doing this,” said Cas, frowning. He placed a hand on Dean's stomach. There was a soft glow, and then a sting.
“Ow! Oh, that worked!” said Dean, sitting up. “Awesome. Hey, you're better than Pepto Bismol.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean grinned and rolled over on top of Cas and began kissing him again. And it was all right. It was more than all right. Cas’s hands and mouth seemed to know what to do.
Cas pushed him back. “Is this what you want, Dean?”
Dean scowled. “You know, you interrupt a lot.”
“You love me?”
Dean sighed and rested his forearms on Cas's chest. “OK, we said no bullshit. I don't know. Honestly. I think about you all the time, even when you’re not here, and I want to do some really perverted things to your body. Is that gonna be enough for now?”
“Perverted things?” whispered Cas. His eyes went out of focus for a moment as he touched Dean’s thoughts. “Oh!” he said, snapping back to the present.
“Don't worry,” muttered Dean. “We'll work up to that one.”
The present day….
“Odin is dead. Lucifer killed him! I mean, I saw the body, Cas.”
Sam stood, arms defiantly crossed, staring down at Castiel, who was sitting awkwardly on the couch in Rufus’s cabin. Cas had just come inside, returned to the human world from afar, and was still wrapped up in his overcoat. Snowflakes clinging to his hair and his shoulders had begun to melt, leaving rivulets of water dripping down. He looked and felt disjointed and out of place.
“It does sound fishy, Cas,” said Dean, who was sitting beside him.
“Sam, what you saw…. It was a manifestation of Odin. In this physical plane.” Cas furrowed his brow with the effort of trying to pack a celestial truth into the crude tool that was the English language.
Sam shifted from foot to foot. “Your brother stepped on the manifestation’s head.”
Cas winced at the memory, although it was not his own. “Some of the pagan gods – not all of them, but some of them – are more … entrenched than that, Sam. I don’t fully understand it myself, as it’s something I think my Father didn’t fully anticipate.” He paused, cringing at his own words. The mere notion that his heavenly Father was not fully omniscient would have been enough to get Cas’s feathered butt kicked from the angelic ranks not too long ago. How far he had fallen….
“Is this what you were telling me about belief making different versions of Hell, Cas?” asked Dean.
“Yes, exactly!” Cas smiled gratefully at Dean. He was still not accustomed to making blasphemous remarks, even if they were completely true.
Sam actually snorted. “So Odin died and then the grand legion of Vikings brought him back?”
“You can’t argue that ancient Norse mythology is a pop cultural phenomenon of note among modern humans,” said Cas. “There are movies about Vikings, books, and your musicians write songs….”
“Hey, maybe Odin is a Viking metal fan!” said Dean brightly.
“Odin two-point-oh,” corrected Sam.
Cas nodded. “Yes. This is a new manifestation. He would have his memories and probably his powers intact. But he might possibly display new powers. And I’ve been told his personality is somewhat changed.”
Sam frowned.
“As you know, the death rebirth cycle is a prominent feature of many human religious philosophies, Sam,” Cas noted. “I might be an example.” He stared down at his hands, struggling for words again.
Dean shifted on the ratty couch, throwing an arm along the back. “It’s cool. We get it Cas.”
Sam heaved a sigh. “Dean. No, we don’t get it. I don’t get it. And this whole deal is getting me nervous. Look, you remember what happened last time we walked in on a group of pagan gods? The Elysian Fields?”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, eyeball soup.”
“Sam. I have met the new manifestation of the Hindu god, Ganesha.” Cas looked at Dean, his eyes pleading.
Dean studied Cas. “Last we saw him, dude was elephant chow.”
“And how did you wing that, Cas?” asked Sam, narrowing his eyes.
“He is one of Bibi’s relatives. He is the Lord of Hosts, widely regarded as the most altruistic of deities. They are not all monsters, Sam. I believe Odin too has benevolent intentions in this matter. I believe they all do: at least, the ones we are going to meet.”
“The warm and fuzzy lords of hell?” Sam raked an irritated hand through his hair. “Look, Cas, with all due respect, last time I took a meeting with your godly buddies I ended up with my ass dumped in the middle of a desert and had to be dragged out by … by a vampire.”
“I carried you out, Sam,” said Cas. “You were too heavy for Benny to bear all that way.” Sam looked annoyed. “And do not fear, I will remain at your side for this entire encounter.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas, we had Gabriel with us at the Elysian Fields. Look what good that did! And you know….” He gestured towards Cas. “He was an archangel. And you’re…. You know. Having trouble.”
Cas slumped.
“Sam’s got a point, Cas,” Dean said softly. “Where does Odin wanna hold this little powwow?”
“Valhalla. We will go up there and talk with him first before we arrange anything else.”
Sam didn’t hear any wings beating, be he would have sworn that Dean had teleported off the couch to stand before him, gripping his shoulders. “Sammy. Valhalla!”
“Oh, so now you wanna go party with head-banger Odin 2.0?” grumbled Sam.
“To fight the horde, singing and crying, Valhalla, I am coming, Sammy!”
Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder to the couch, where Cas was sitting and chuckling softly. “What’s so funny, Cas?”
“I…. I never realized this. Dean didn’t believe in angels. This is his religion.”
“My brother, the pagan,” sighed Sam while Dean leapt around the room playing air guitar. “And it will be just Odin.”
Cas nodded. “Yes, Sam. Odin and one other interested party.”
Sam scowled at his brother. “I thought you wanted to be a cowboy?”
“Dude, Viking is way up on the list. Or one of the Untouchables.” Dean moved over to the couch and started tugging on the angel. “Come on, Cas, you gotta get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”
“Angels are not susceptible to bronchial pneumonia, Dean,” Cas informed him, but let himself be pulled to his feet and divested of his coat and jacket regardless.
“We’ll toss a couple more logs on the fire and make some hot buttered rum,” said Dean, running to hang up Cas’s clothing.
“Uh. Thank you, Dean.”
While his brother danced his way into the kitchen, Sam stood in the corner, questioning his life choices. “Pagan gods,” he muttered to himself. “Skeezy motherfuckers.” And then he shuddered, though not from the cold.
The crowd rose as one to cheer the 8,532nd consecutive victory of the hellhounds over their opponents. Meanwhile, overlooked in an especially dark corner of the stadium, a small demon watched the King of Hell descend to the field to congratulate the great snarling beasts, indulgently handing out colorful little doggie bones.
Namtar wanted a dog. He thought it would be great if he and his brother could play fetch and take it for walks. But his stepfather had said no. Nergal was such an ass. Namtar really had no clue why his mother, Ereshkigal, put up with the fool. His mother told him he would understand, in time. He wasn’t so sure.
At any rate, she had sent him forth on these missions to Hell with strict instructions not to tell Nergal, so that was cool. He suspected that she was trying to keep them apart as much as possible. Seriously, the guy was talking about mustering an army against Crowley’s forces. It was madness: you could see that just by looking around here. All the gods mocked Crowley as a buffoon, as a pretender, but you could tell he wielded a buttload of power. Everybody, from the lowliest imp to the most fiendish archdemon, was scared shitless of the guy. And why not? He was capricious as he was mighty, seemingly only having a soft spot for the great hellhounds.
Crowley was moving off the field now. It was probably time for Namtar to go, as he was due in class in a few hours and still had a term paper left to write, but something caught his eye, and he was curious. Some kind of minion had come scurrying out of the stands and whispered something to the King of Hell, causing Crowley to storm off, through a different exit than the one he usually took.
Namtar used wing power to transport himself nearby. The trick was not to be discovered, which was really surprisingly easy down here. Even under Crowley’s iron fist, the place was pure bottled chaos. Namtar followed as Crowley and some of his retinue made their way through an unfamiliar series of corridors.
They finally reached a darkened area of hell where Crowley’s illusion of a gloomy modern office building was dispensed and instead wove their way through a series of what was frankly underground tunnels, each more crudely carved than the last. Namtar was becoming slightly anxious, as there were fewer souls down here, and so it was getting harder to follow them unobserved. Fortunately, there were a lot of twists and turns in the tunnel, so he kept himself concealed by the passageway itself as best he could. He considered turning back, but then Crowley and his lieutenants came to a door. Namtar hid behind an outcropping and peeked. It was a big, heavy door, at least a foot thick and big as the front end of a bus, and it and the frame were completely covered in warding signs, some of which Namtar knew, some of which were elusive.
And the giant door was cracked, all the way through.
Now that his eyes had adjusted, Namtar could see the bloodstains scattered on the floor and wall about the surrounding area. The last set of guards had apparently not been lucky. And … there was something else staining the floor. Some kind of viscous substance pooled there. It looked dark, and thick. The door had been hastily patched with what looked like iron, and there was also a white powder scattered around. Crowley was leaning over, talking to the guards in a low voice. He pointed to the reinforcing plates on the door, and the warding symbols, obviously asking for more of each of them.
Namtar watched with interest. Usually this kind of confrontation ended in at least one or two smitings, but to his surprise, Crowley completed his conversation and then stalked off, leaving all the other parties very much alive. He stood stock still as Crowley and his entourage strode by without paying him any mind.
He stood for a while, trying to control his breath, listening until the hushed voices had faded to nothing. He noticed there was only one guard left stationed at the door, a somewhat jumpy looking demon. Namtar considered for a moment, and then picked up some pebbles. He waited for the right moment, and then lobbed them over the guard's head, so they landed with a rattle up the corridor, in the opposite direction from where Namtar was hidden.
The guard started, and then, with a nervous look around, proceeded up the tunnel a few steps to investigate the noise.
Namtar crawled out from where he was hiding, and dipped a handkerchief into the weird substance pooled by the door. And then he scampered out of there before the guard saw him.
After he had put what he considered a comfortable amount of distance between himself and the broken door, he stood under the light, examining his handkerchief.
The stuff on the cloth: it was sticky and, even in the light, jet black.
It looked like tar.
Odin had a firm handshake: that much was true.
Sam wasn’t quite sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Odin was wearing a suit. An expensive suit, maybe even bespoke. It was definitely much better fitting than Cas’s rumpled holy tax accountant get-up: the angel looked especially disheveled standing beside the beaming god today just outside the front entrance to Valhalla. As for the Norse god, with all this talk of a new manifestation, the guy didn’t look like he was much more than forty, and his reddish-gold beard was short and looked freshly trimmed. His eyes were bright, the blue snatched from a summer’s day sky.
“Welcome to Asgard, Sam and Dean. About damn time I had you up in my realm!” he added, waving a finger at them. “I’ve heard you boys have decided to spend your eternities up in Heaven. Not that I’m knocking it, mind!” He cast a glance in Cas’s direction. “It’s just a little on the pale side compared to Valhalla! This is the true resting place for a warrior.” He stood back and waved an arm at his palace.
The colossal palace was constructed of a yellowy stone that made it appear golden in the slanting sun. It reminded Sam of a LEGO set he’d had as a kid. The rooftops shone golden as well: Sam had taken them as constructed from some sort of shingle, but now that he looked closely, he could see they were constructed of innumerable golden shields, all bound together. He thought darkly about godly building codes, and what happened if it sprung a leak: did they need to call one of the Lord of the Rings dwarf dudes to forge it back together?
“Uh, Odin, no offense,” said Dean, “but I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. I mean in terms of parsing out our eternal souls and stuff.”
Odin clasped Dean on the shoulder. “Of course you have a choice. Everybody has a choice! But look at me, being the rotten damn host. Come in, come in, out of the cold, and we’ll have a drink. Did you want a quick tour?”
“Did I?” gushed Dean as they passed through the massive, intricately carved front doors to enter the main hall. Two huge dogs roused themselves from the porch and padded after Odin. Sam realized with a start that they weren't Huskies, as he had first thought; they were wolves. Really fucking huge-ass wolves.
Cas followed without a word, sticking to Dean like a silent shadow. As for Sam, he stood in the gently falling snow and took one last nervous look around. Cas had blipped them here, so he had no idea really where he was geographically, but from the stubby, gnarled woods and low-slanting sun he guessed, if they were anywhere on earth, it was somewhere at a very high latitude. He frowned and then headed up the broad stone steps after his blissed-out brother.
Sam passed the broad threshold and stopped dead.
Holy fuck.
The lighting was soft and dim. After his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was because Valhalla apparently used glowing goddam swords as light fixtures. There must have been hundreds of these bladed sconces lighting up the walls of the main corridor. Underneath his feet was a rich, thick carpet. He had a sudden urge to pull off his boots to feel it beneath his toes. The walls were hung with a variety of artwork, ranging from ancient tapestries to some recognizable modern art works. He peered with wonder at a nearby canvas, and then scrambled to catch up with Dean and the rest of them.
“Hey, Odin, I don't wanna be rude, but isn't that a Munch back there?” Sam asked once he was in earshot.
Odin halted. He turned around and laughed. “The pastel of The Scream you mean? Cost me an arm and a leg and part of my immortal soul. A little morbid for my tastes, thank you, but very influential. And a countryman!” He beamed with pride.
“You're … Norwegian?”
“I'm incorporated in Liechtenstein. Tax purposes, you know. But, ja, jeg er norsk! Even served on my country's Olympic team. Now as I was telling your brother, you probably want to see the dining hall?”
“Yeah, definitely!” said Dean.
“Okay,” said Sam, who was feeling an itch to just go off on his own and scrutinize some of the artwork. He felt something brush his leg, and then looked down to see a giant wolf head staring up.
“Look at that. Freki likes ya!” said Odin, as Sam tentatively scratched the monster behind the ears. “Good, now I don't have to worry about you straggling behind. Freki will fetch you back. I'd swear that mutt is part shepherd. All right then, we'll take a detour through the hall. Not a mealtime, fortunately, or we'd waste the whole damn afternoon, toasts and the lot. Come along!” Odin began to march off down the corridor once again, Dean and Cas at his side. Sam followed along, glancing up at the wall from time to time, and now wondering how many storied artworks that had gone into “a private collection” could be found hanging here.
The hall had started to get noisier, and Sam started to see more personnel walking around. Odin took a turn and led them into a light-filled, cavernous room with high, arched ceilings, crammed full of long, wooden banquet tables. There weren't a whole lot of people in here, just about a dozen men and women clustered around one of the tables, eating and laughing and drinking from big metal flagons. To Sam's surprise they were all dressed more or less in modern, or at least Twentieth Century, clothing, even though the walls were bedecked everywhere with medieval swords and materiel. He was also curious to see the guys they were a mix of races and ethnicities: only one guy, a big blond, looked anything like the picture in his head of a Viking warrior.
They loudly greeted Odin, and then, after introductions and a lot of back-slapping a servant brought out a tray filled with more flagons of beer, and they had a quick drink (or two or three) before finally begging off and heading out of the dining hall.
Odin, who now had his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder, once again led them off through another long corridor.
“They didn't seem like how I pictured, you know, Vikings,” said Sam, who had loosened up somewhat after several toasts to the health of the king, their guests, immortal Valhalla, and various other things he couldn't not remember.
“Valhalla is and has ever been the place for noble warriors to rest after their time is come. That lot: they're a mixed bag of personnel from the Iraq War – both sides – the Toareg Movement from Mali, and the Libyan Liberation Front. There's always a conflict somewhere. That's something you can count on, knowing human history.”
“But you're new?” Sam pressed.
“A new iteration of me, you could say. But this lady is the original.” He pulled open a large wooden door decorated with many carved symbols, and they entered a most unusual room. It was astonishingly huge, like the dining hall, but as peaceful and still as that room had been bright and boisterous.
It took Sam's eyes a few moments to readjust before he realized there was an absolutely enormous ash tree growing smack dab in the center of the room. A pool of gently flowing water surrounded base of the tree. The room was actually two levels: they had entered on the first floor, and then up above was a mezzanine with an intricately carved wooden balustrade that wove around the tree's broad branches. If you looked up at the vaulted ceiling you could see stained glass windows spread around, dappling red and blue and green and yellow light on the room.
“Is that … Yggdrasil?” Sam guessed.
“Correct! Nice little place I come to collect my thoughts,” said Odin, his voice tracing echoes in the vast room.
“The tree has a name?” asked Dean.
“It's the center of Nine Worlds,” Sam explained.
“Nine worlds and seven hells,” muttered Dean, who didn't have much of a head for numbers.
Odin was yelling up at someone up above. “Hey! Darlin'! Don't come down! We'll come on up!” Sam looked up and noticed for the first time that there was a dark figure standing up on the mezzanine looking down at them.
They crossed to the main staircase and walked towards the woman who had apparently been awaiting them.
“Sorry we took so damned long, got distracted making toasts,” said Odin, kissing her cheek.
“Kali,” said Dean. “Hey, it's great to see you again.”
“Dean,” she said. “Sam.” She gracefully kissed each one on the cheek. “And you must be Castiel?” she asked, extending a fine hand towards the angel.
“Kali.” Cas hesitated. “I am … sorry. About Gabriel?”
“Oh, my dear,” she said, putting a hand on his cheek and giving him a kiss. “You have lost a brother as well.” Cas nodded glumly.
“Shall we sit?” asked Odin, pointing to a nearby bench. “This is my favorite spot of all. Anybody care for a drink?” Sam glanced over in surprise as a uniformed servant appeared at their side.
“Man, this is the life,” said Dean, leaning back with a whiskey after some attendants had brought a round of drinks and a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He held up a cucumber sandwich. “Look at this! They even cut off the crusts.”
Odin howled with laughter and slapped his own knee. “I must have you fellows up here more often.” He pulled a cigar from a slim box in his vest pocket and offered them around. Dean eagerly plucked one out, drinking in the smell, though Sam and Kali politely declined.
“Come on, you gotta try one too, Cas,” Dean urged.
Cas wrinkled his nose. “I don't smoke, Dean.”
“You gotta try this! It’s a Cuban. We taught you to drink, I'm gonna teach you to smoke.”
“Contributing to the delinquency of a celestial being, are you there, Dean?” asked Odin with a wink.
“I am afraid I even have a tattoo now,” Cas sighed. It was a big mistake, because between Odin and Kali, Cas found himself, to his abject embarrassment, disrobing to display his wings. Sam sat back, impressed. The eerie three-dimensional effect was especially effective in the Yggdrasil room's dim light.
“Well, I was going to display my own tattoo, but I fear you have made it pale in comparison,” Kali confessed.
Cas had shrugged back into his shirt and jacket, although his shirt was unfortunately one button off as well as untucked. “Hey, I wanna see,” Dean teased Kali. He stuck his own cigar in Cas's mouth and began to straighten up the angel's shirt. Cas puffed uncertainly on the cigar.
“So, I heard you boys paid a visit to Ereshkigal,” said Odin.
“And Nergal,” huffed Sam.
“I wouldn't pay that one much mind. A minor irritant who believes himself to be a … player.”
Sam was going bitchface mode at the memory. Even though Ninazu had cured his sunburn, he swore his back still itched. “Odin, he stranded us in the middle of a fucking desert, 100 miles from nowhere.”
“And you're here now, aren't you, drinking my liquor?”
Sam frowned. Right now he was actually drinking soda water. One of them had to keep a sober head.
Odin flicked some cigar ashes into an ashtray. “I’ll tell you boys our part of this. Since our friend Crowley declared himself King of Hell, he's been honing in on our territories.”
“He seeks some kind of syncretism,” offered Kali. “To create one out of many.”
Odin nodded. “The afterlife has always been and should always remain heterogeneous. That is my stand.”
“Souls are power,” said Dean. “Stands to reason he'd try to score more of them. By any means possible.”
“Now, I understand you folks have a weapon?” Odin asked.
“We have the recipe for demon bombs,” said Sam. “But I think you're interested in Metatron's demon tablet.”
“According to our prophet, uh, Kevin,” said Dean, who pulled a face at the mention of the name, “it has the recipe to lock the Gates of Hell. Forever.”
“I am not certain that would be a good idea,” said Kali.
Dean turned to her. “What?”
“A little point of contention,” said Odin, puffing on his cigar. “Go on, Kali. The boy should hear it.”
Kali nodded and adjusted her skirt. “It is as an ecology, Heaven, Hell, the earth. As there is good, there must be evil too, to oppose it. It is the essence of free will. Ever these elements shall battle.”
“I- I have to agree with her,” said Cas.
“Wait. Really?” said Dean.
“Dean, all of us have made great sacrifices for the sake of our free will. I would hate to do something like this without being aware of the repercussions.”
Dean frowned at Cas, but nodded. “You're with us on this, though?”
Cas shrugged. “I agree we need to get the partial tablet away from Crowley before he can effect a translation. But as for our next step, I'm not so sure.”
“I think we're all agreed on our next move, then?” asked Odin.
“Sure,” said Dean. “Gank that tablet McNugget away from Crowley.”
“And try to round up the other tablets before he can get his hands on them,” said Sam. He looked at Dean, who nodded. “We have a list.”
“So do we,” said Odin with a wink.
“Then, I guess we could compare them,” said Dean.
“I also have the names of some other … interested parties,” said Odin, pulling a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and handing it off to Dean. “You've already met Ereshkigal of course.”
“Yamaraja is my kinsman,” said Kali. “He is an honorable man.”
“Yeah, he's already helped us out,” Dean told her. “Loaned us some demons.”
Kali smiled. It made her lovely face radiant. She rose. “Sadly, it is growing late, and I must take my leave.” After a final round of goodbyes, she simply winked out.
“Ah,” said Odin. “Give me a smart, fierce woman! They're better than us, you know!” He began to walk towards the staircase. “That one was nearly my daughter-in-law. I'll regret losing Baldur ever damn day of my life, but I miss having that one in the family almost as much.” They exited the Yggdrasil room and returned through a doorway to Valhalla's broad corridors.
Sam's urge to ask why Baldur hadn't returned as well was postponed when several of the soldiers they had met in the dining hall all crowded up around Odin.
“We're going out for an evening ride, and wondered if any of you boys would like to join us?” asked one of the Touaregs with a broad grin.
Dean looked at Sam, his eyes bright.
“All right all right all right!” said Sam.
Odin and Cas watched as the soldiers escorted Sam and Dean towards the stables. “Make sure you give them some coats, boys! Remember, they're mortal!” Odin called after them.
“Can I ask you something, Odin?” asked Cas once the others were out of earshot.
Odin nodded. “Let's take a walk.” He led the angel on a pathway that would back to the hall. The river that had had formed a pool around Yggdrasil in the large room wandered out back of Valhalla along a rocky coast. It was lit in the dim winter sun by a series of glowing lanterns placed along the edge.
“This is … very peaceful,” said Cas, surprised at his own comment.
Odin continued walking upwards in companionable silence for a time, and finally paused at an overlook. “Look there.” Cas followed Odin's arm to see a small party of horsemen riding through the snowy fields down below. With angel eyes he could easily pick out Sam and Dean, the latter out leading the charge, Sam in the back of the pack but, perhaps even to his own surprise, smiling.
Cas's own lips pressed into a smile.
“You have it bad, don't you, son?” asked Odin. Cas sighed. It was fairly clear what the god was talking about.
“It's obvious?”
“He's a mortal.”
Cas frowned. “I am well aware of that.”
“He's aware too, if he's carving his initials in you.” Odin pointed to Cas's back.
“I'm a tree now?”
Odin nodded. “I've fallen for a mortal myself, a time or two, in my younger days. In my former incarnation.” He scratched his chin and studied Cas. “If you feel you need someone to talk to....”
“Bibi made the same offer.”
“Angels and gods: maybe we have a little something in common? Bibi is a good man.”
Cas arched an eyebrow at the god. “Bibi isn't trying to replace my Father.”
Odin didn't reply, but puffed on the remains of his cigar.
“You are, aren't you? Inviting the Winchesters to your afterlife?”
Odin gestured with the cigar. “I prefer to think of it as providing an alternative.”
“You mentioned your new incarnation,” said Cas.
“Yes.”
Castiel turned around to face Odin.
Odin gazed out at the land of Asgard. “Not only me. Kali's son is back.”
“Yes. I have met him.”
Odin raised an eyebrow. “I have heard he is … different. Well. At least one of us got our boy back.”
“Baldur?” said Cas quietly.
Odin shook his head. He frowned, and suddenly looked much older. “My son Baldur was a different situation. It's … complicated.”
Cas forced the words out of a dry throat. “And the Trickster?”
“Loki? You want complicated. Yeah, I see what you're getting at, kid....”
Cas's forehead creased. “I presume that ‘kid’ is a term of affection? It seems inappropriate. I am your elder by many millennia, Odin.”
“How long have you been in a human vessel?”
“I am doomed to ever repeat the same conversation with pagan gods?”
Odin grinned. “All right. I'll tell you about the Trickster. Or at least what I knew about Loki, my trickster.”
Cas nodded.
“We go back a long ways. Not as long as you, obviously….”
“I was quite young when Gabriel left Heaven.”
Odin nodded. “He changed. Over the years. He was always full of mischief, but it was more light-hearted to begin with. But he seemed to grow angrier and angrier, and more malicious, over the years. I barely saw him these past few centuries: he was too busy dealing out revenge for any imagined slight. I thought Kali would calm him down, but that seemed to be the last straw. I told Baldur not to get mixed up in that one, but my boy was stubborn.”
Cas nodded watching the party of horsemen below disappear into a thicket of trees.
“So when you ask about bringing back the Trickster, I guess the first question is, which one do you want?”
“Gabriel,” said Cas firmly. He frowned. He hadn’t known the sentiment until the words were out. “But I realize that is no longer possible. My father evidently regarded us as weaponry. And nothing more. When we die, we go nowhere at all. We are extinguished.”
“Now, with all respect to your Father, that’s not a way to treat a loyal soldier. Not a way at all,” said Odin.
Cas nodded, feeling a chill.
“Where were you?”
Cas blinked, disoriented, as he always was the first few moments when he was summoned by Naomi up to the white room.
He felt his new tattoo burning like hell. Focus. They had just returned from Valhalla, and Dean had decided they would spend a few nights at Rufus's cabin.
“Castiel!” said Naomi. “I need your report.”
“You didn't know where I was?” muttered Cas. Was Valhalla beyond their vision? That was interesting.
“What was that? Report.”
Cas felt himself being pulled as he always was. But there was another feeling too now.
His back was itching like crazy.
The words poured from his lips. “We still have not secured the other half of the demon tablet. The Winchesters are currently researching ways to undercut Crowley and thus force his hand.”
Naomi clasped her hands, and seemed to look around. “Have you heard anything about Crowley potentially holding … a hostage?”
Cas stared at her, wishing he could scratch his back. “A hostage? What kind of hostage?”
Naomi wouldn't look at him. “An angel?”
“How could Crowley manage to hold an angel? That's not possible.”
Naomi opened her mouth, and then closed it again. And then she said, “This meeting is over. As you were. You will remember nothing.”
“How could Crowley-”
“Cas.”
Snow was beginning to fall. They were outside Rufus's cabin in Whitefish, Montana.
Dean looked concerned. “Cas! Buddy, you okay?”
Cas looked at Dean, snowflakes falling clinging to his hair. “No, Dean. No. I'm not okay.”