Seven Hells, Part 9 of ?
Jan. 22nd, 2013 03:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Seven Hells, Part 9 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 careen 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 an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. And thank Zeus for that.
“Where the blazes were you?” demanded Naomi.
The white room. Cas looked around. Breathe, he told himself. Get your breathing under control. It all came slamming back, the memories of the white room. Breathe. Remember.
They had been through this before. “You couldn’t locate me?” asked Cas. He felt it, again: the tug on his grace.
“That’s not what I asked,” said Naomi, her hands clasped together, her customary unflappable mien shot to hell. She was trying not to tremble.
“You were unable to locate me. And this upset you?” said Cas. Keep her talking.
“I’m not upset.” But Naomi looked upset.
Cas's back, right about where he had gotten the wing tattoo, had started to prickle. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is there something wrong with your vessel?” he asked Naomi. “Your forehead is covered in perspiration.” Yes, there was something foreign hooked into his grace. He slowed his heartbeat and extended his senses.
Naomi’s face was impassive, but doubt swirled in her. “I want a report. I don’t think you understand the importance of your mission. We have a missing angel on our hands.”
“Missing? Who? And … how could something like that happen.”
“There has been….” Naomi blanched, as if she was revealing too much. “It doesn’t matter. I need to keep in touch with your current status.”
His back ached, like when the tattoo was new and raw. Words started to spill out. “The Winchesters-” But they were choked off. His eyes blazed. “You don't own me, you know.”
“Castiel. Pay attention.”
He wasn’t coming here willingly. They were pulling him back by his grace. A hook, that’s what it was. A hook, planted inside him. He needed to tell Dean. Tell Dean.
His back was on fire now. An ache blazed down his shoulder blades, and fired down his spine. His grace tugged him forward, but the tattooed wings tore him back. He was trapped. He was being pulled apart.
“Castiel?”
'You can't hold me. Not against my will.”
Naomi’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”
An angel sword flashed.
Naomi leapt towards him.
A flurry of wings.
And then was blood. And blackness. And Dean kneeling over him.
“He's resting comfortably,” said Odin.
“You sound like a fucking doctor,” Dean told him.
“Dean,” said Sam, gripping his brother's shoulder. Dean had hit his speed dial button to Valhalla the instant Cas lost consciousness. A small party of Odin's soldiers, still on high alert after the demon invasion, had brought all of them up to Asgard. Cas, though, had not awoken nor said anything since raving about angels on the church steps. And Dean was pretty much beside himself.
Odin laughed. “I'm just relaying what my own healers and shamen are telling me. Now, I know you're nervous, but as far as any of my people can tell, he's not in any immediate danger.”
“So that was … someone else's blood on his coat?” asked Sam.
Odin frowned and leaned against the corridor. “No. It was his. And damned if anyone can tell me why a tattoo mark would suddenly start to hemorrhage.”
Dean threw up his hands. “How the hell did he get injured standing on the church steps in broad daylight?”
“You know it's a supernatural injury of some kind,” said Odin. “Something to do with his magic. My healers, unfortunately, aren't experts in angel comings and goings. I thought to call in another party. If that's square with you?”
“You got an angel doctor? Sure,” said Dean.
“Something like that,” said Odin. He inclined his head down the hallway. “Would you like to check in on him?” Dean nodded and Odin led him to a door guarded by two rather intimidating Valkyries. Sam noticed with some alarm that his brother paid the warrior women almost no mind, and didn't even attempt to flirt. Dean must be terribly upset. The sentries stood aside, and they entered a bright sunny room, where Cas seemed to doze peacefully in a large bed. Dean was instantly sitting in the chair at the side of the bed, tentatively putting a hand on Cas's forehead. “You're okay, buddy. I'm here.” He frowned. They had cleaned off the blood, and Cas looked white as a sheet. Dean noticed with some agitation that Cas was now dressed in a while hospital gown.
“You kept his clothes, right?” asked Dean. Odin smiled and pointed to where they had been neatly folded on a shelf. “I'll bring up some of his pajamas,” said Dean. “So he doesn't have to wear those.”
Odin looked puzzled, but said, “All right, if that's what you want, I'm sure it will be fine.”
Sam motioned to Odin, and the two walked towards the opposite end of the room. “We've got another issue. Ruth isn't guarding her tablet any more. They've got some … teenager in charge.”
“Yes,” said Odin. “There have been some changes. But I sincerely believe all will be well, Sam.”
Dean looked up from Cas's bedside. “Wait, you knew about this, Odin?”
Odin nodded. “Yes. Personnel have been shuffled around. And Ruth and Bibi … they’re keeping the news to themselves for now.”
“What news?” asked Sam.
Odin didn't answer immediately. He glared at the floor for long moment, and then finall looked up to meet Sam's eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. I can tell you, you boys have stumbled into a very big, very dangerous situation.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of our specialty,” sighed Dean, holding one of Cas’s limp hands in his.
“Can we at least talk to Ruth?” asked Sam.
Dean nodded. “That’s right. Bibi is buddies with Cas. I think he’d like to know he’s hurt.”
Odin stared at the brothers for a long time. “I am hesitating because I'm not sure I should get you boys mixed up in this.”
“Odin, I think we’re already up to our asses!” said Dean. “And Cas is … you said you don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”
“Can I ask you something, Dean?” said Odin softly. “Now, the tattoo artist you went to….”
“She was just a human, if that’s what you’re implying,” spat Dean. “Not a demon, or a witch, or anything like that. I would have spotted it. Cas would have spotted it.”
Odin nodded. “Of course. But you were the one who asked him to do it?”
Dean was silent.
“Dean?” prompted Sam. “You made him do this?”
Dean glared at Sam. “So what? It’s not as if he did it against his will.”
“No one is accusing you of anything, lad,” said Odin. “We won’t know the full story until he wakes up.”
“If he wakes up,” Dean moped.
“What are you getting at, Odin?” asked Sam.
Odin scratched under his chin. He was staring at Dean. “Sometimes, in my experience, actions have … unintended consequences.”
“You think the tattoo ended up as something more?”
Odin turned to Sam. He was smiling. “I think your brother doesn’t know his own strength. I'll have some of my men escort you to meet with Ruth, if that's what you'd like.”
“Dean?” asked Sam.
“I'm not doing much good here,” said Dean.
The man wearing the suit knelt down on the church steps. He trailed a finger through the bloodstain drying in the sun. He contemplated the red on the tips of his fingers, his face an emotionless mask.
“His blood?” asked his companion, who was also wearing a suit.
The first man regarded his fingers. “Yes. Definitely Castiel's vessel.”
“And then the trail goes dead?”
“Yes.”
The second man spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “They say- They say he got away.”
“Impossible. No one gets away.”
The second man glared up into the sun. “Naomi's not gonna like this.”
The first man stood up. “It's not Naomi I'm worried about.”
They exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable.
And then they were there no more.
Dean looked around nervously. London. Ruth and Bibi were in London.
“Hey, I recognize this place. I've seen pictures. I think this is the theater district,” said Sam, looking around.
“Yeah, a dark alley in the theater district,” said Dean, who did not like to be zapped around, even if it was Cas doing the zapping. But he especially hated being zapped around if it was not his favorite angel behind the wheel, so to speak. Their escorts, who were needed back at Valhalla, had split almost immediately. “What the hell. And why was Odin being so damn squirrely about this?”
“I thought he was your favorite new buddy?” asked Sam. Dean glowered at him. “Hey, he could have made us fly here on a plane.”
Sam spotted a young couple walking by: a tall, dark-skinned man, and an elegantly dressed redhead. The woman looked their way, and suddenly broke into a run, waving her hand rather inelegantly. “Hey! Sam and Dean! Over here!”
“Ruth?” asked Dean, as she went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Uh, you look … good.”
Ruth pecked Sam on the cheek and then looked down at her shoes. She was wearing high-heeled pumps. Ruth giggled, holding up a foot. “Oh, yeah. I had to learn to walk again. But they're cute, right?”
“They're quite lovely, dear,” said Bibi, who extended a hand to shake Sam and Dean's. “It's good to meet you blokes again. May I assume this isn't what you might call a chance encounter?”
“No, it isn't,” said Dean. “We got trouble, and we wanted to tell you in person. Cas has been injured, so Odin-”
“Oh, not the angel!” said Ruth, one hand over her mouth.
“Cas? I hadn't heard,” Bibi put in. He looked between Sam and Dean. “Is it serious?”
“It might be. We're not really sure.”
Bibi gripped Ruth’s hand, looking grave. “We’ve got healers in my pantheon. If there’s anything I can do....”
“Thanks. We left him up with Odin in Valhalla for now.”
“Odin will look after him,” Bibi assured them. “He's a good man.”
“The point is,” said Sam, “You must have heard about the attack at Valhalla?”
Bibi shook his head. “Yama Uncle told me about it. Crowley's gotten bolder. Wanker.”
“We're worried Crowley is gonna make a move on the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar,” said Sam.
Dean nodded. “Yeah, we went to the church and ran into … Isaiah?”
“That little punk,” grumbled Ruth.
“Now, don't be ungracious, love,” Bibi chided. “The man has a different … style.” He rolled his eyes, obviously not entirely pleased by it all.
Ruth stomped a high-heeled foot, sending a lock of red hair cascading out of its barrette. “He's an arrogant little prick. He's gonna end up like the rest of my male relatives: on a slab.”
Bibi turned to Sam and Dean. “We're worried too, mates. Since we heard about the attack by demons up at Valhalla, I've been trying – we've been trying – to keep an eye on the tablet, though the current Guardian ain’t much on cooperation, if you get my drift. It's still part of my duty within my family to secure its safety.”
“So, we don't need to worry?” asked Sam, who sounded unconvinced.
“We got it, don't worry,” said Ruth. “Hey! But since you're here, maybe you could come to the theater with us!”
Sam looked at Dean. “Uh, we don't wanna intrude....”
“Nonsense! You guys look like you could use a laugh, and I've heard it's hilarious!”
“We don't have tickets,” said Dean.
Ruth pulled two tickets out of her purse. “Wanna see a trick?” She flicked them, and suddenly they were four tickets.
“How did you do that?” said Dean.
Sam looked around in alarm. “Hey. Do you smell sulfur?” Indeed the dark alleyway where they had met to talk was suddenly crowded with black-eyed interlopers. They did not look friendly.
“More Crowley creepy crawlies. Great. This is just great,” grumbled Dean, who didn't appear to think it was great at all.
“Oh, crap,” said Ruth. “I have orchestra seats to see Book of Mormon, you douche bags!” she shouted, waving the tickets.
“We’ll take care of them, love,” Bibi assured her.
“Hey. Winchester. Where's your little angel boyfriend?” taunted one of the demons.
“Off sharpening his sword on your buddy's skull,” said Dean.
“Really? I heard he fainted.” His demon buddies laughed.
Bibi whipped out a bejeweled saber and separated the demon's head from his body. “Wanker,” he muttered.
The demon's stopped laughing then. And they were off.
One demon made the mistake of grabbing Ruth from behind. She came down hard on the guy's instep with one high heel, sending him screaming in pain, and then she tossed another spike-heeled shoe at another demon. Her aim was deadly: it got him in the eye, and he went down shrieking.
But there were a lot of demons, and only four of them. Dean beheaded a guy with his Purgatory axe, but soon found himself flung against the alley wall when two guys rushed him. He landed with a clatter on some trash bins, his axe having flown from his hand. A demon found it, and held it poised over Dean’s neck.
But then Ruth was in the center of the pack, shouting, “Hey, wanna see a trick?”
A demon snorted.
And then there was another Ruth, twin swords out, standing next to Dean’s would-be assassin. And another Ruth hovered by where Sam fought two demons. And yet another Ruth, between Bibi and a demon. All in all, there were a dozen Ruth's, surrounding the pack of demons who were left. All of the Ruth's stood poised with her two swords, murder in all of her eyes.
“Which one is real?” one demon asked another.
“That's simple, boys,” chuckled Bibi. “All of them.”
And that was the end of the demons. Sam and Dean stared in disbelief at the carnage. Sam had witnessed Ruth going after demons in the church that one time, but that had been … only one of her.
“What the fuck?” breathed Sam as another demon head popped off and went rolling.
One Ruth in the middle, the one who had yelled, appeared to shudder, and then she was back to a single individual.
Sam bent down to help Dean to his feet. “Ew! I got demon eye goo on my heel!” Ruth whined. Bibi handed her a handkerchief.
“Uh, Bibi,” said Dean. “Dude. Your girlfriend?”
“Fiancee,” Bibi told him helpfully. Dean stared. “Ah, yeah, that,” said Bibi, as Ruth came to stand next to him. “Since giving up her role as Guardian, Ruth has gotten a sort of a … promotion.”
“But you gotta come to see the show with us now,” Ruth insisted, pushing a lock of hair back into her clip. “And then we could talk over dinner!”
The northern sun streamed through the window, casting a warm yellow sunlight across the room. But Castiel remained abed, unaware of this.
A dark-haired woman sat at his bedside, staring down at him.
“Is he still sleeping?” asked Odin from the doorway.
“Angels don't sleep,” the woman told him.
“His friends were worried-”
“Seraphim are tough little motherfuckers. He'll be all right.”
“You think it's magic, then?” asked Odin, slipping into the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed.
“His grace has been wounded.” She traced a line down Castiel's chest with two fingers.
“You can't use your magic?”
“Angel blade wound. It's beyond my powers.” She looked up, finally seeming to catch the worried tone of Odin's voice. She spoke more softly this time. “Time will heal him. His friends don't need to worry.”
Odin gazed out the window. “Whatever did this to him-”
“Powerful. Very powerful.”
“Your warding – you think that will hold?”
“My warding will hold. For now. But angels are stubborn sonofabitches. I should know.”
And they stood in silence for a time.
“There isn’t enough food to eat, hasa diga eebowai,” sang Ruth, scooping up paneer with her naan bread.
After having dragged the brothers along to the London production of The Book of Mormon, Ruth decided that they needed to go out for a curry.
In Jaipur. Which happens to be in Rajasthan, India.
“London is just too bloody expensive,” Bibi had huffed before whisking them all off here. Sam wasn’t entirely certain what he had expected, but probably nothing like this. It looked like Venice, or at least the pictures he’d seen of Venice: a gorgeous city built along canals.
Sam was fine with it. He figured it was less likely that any demons who were after them could track them down on the other side of the world, and Bibi seemed to know everybody in the city. That was how they'd scored this table at the outdoor restaurant right beside a peaceful waterway, looking across a still lake towards a lovely palace built out on an island.
Besides, Sam had felt slightly underdressed all evening, there in his front row seats at the Wales theater. But here at dinner, Bibi had shrugged out of his jacket to drape over Ruth's shoulders, and loosened his tie, and Ruth had finally given up on her elaborate hairstyle and kicked off the high-heeled shoes. Bibi affectionately brushed a lock of her red-blue hair away from the pakoras. And you could see the moonlight on the water and everything smelled like exotic spices. Sam sat and toyed with his basmati rice and wondered why he’d spent the past few years of his life racing between Omaha and Kansas City when this place existed in the world. Had anyone in this entire city known the apocalypse was looming just a few short years ago?
“This is pretty,” said Sam, feeling awfully inadequate.
“This is where I proposed,” Bibi told them.
“Though I proposed first,” said Ruth.
“That didn't really count.”
“You proposed, Ruth?” asked Sam.
Bibi laughed. “First time we met, I smote a half dozen demons and she said, 'Marry me.'”
“That's romantic,” said Dean, who was toying at a dish that definitely wasn't a hamburger, though it was awfully tasty.
“People are starving on the street, hasa diga eebowai,” Ruth sang.
“What did you boys think of the show?” Bibi asked.
“I hadn’t been to a real Broadway musical before,” Dean admitted. “Well, I guess it wasn’t Broadway. But that was fucking hilarious.” He looked down at something unidentifiable but delicious on his metal plate. “A fuck you God song? I wish Cas could have seen it….” He frowned and nudged his plate away, suddenly not so hungry.
“Awww, I’m sure he’ll be OK,” said Ruth, pushing a tureen of steaming tikka masala towards Dean. Unbidden, she started to ladle more food onto Dean’s plate.
“Angels are pretty tough customers, it’s true,” said Bibi. “You want to tell me more, Dean? About his injury? You said Odin thought it was magical?”
“His new tattoo was bleeding,” said Dean. “And I guess I sort of browbeat him into getting it done. I didn’t realize it would have an effect … like that.”
“And the tattoo artist? I take it she wasn’t dodgy in any way?”
“We’ve already been through this,” Dean snapped, suddenly realizing what it was like for all those people he and Sam had interviewed over the years.
“Sorry, mate. Only trying to help.”
“I know. No, there was nothing skeezy about her. She was really talented.”
“Skeezy,” Bibi repeated, obviously relishing the word.
“And you wanted him to get it because…?” asked Ruth, who was now piling Dean’s plate with cheese-stuffed potatoes.
Dean flushed. “It’s just…. It’s silly.” But now Bibi, Ruth and Sam were staring at him. Dean put a hand over his chest. “A few years ago, he marked me up, well, he marked both of us up, me and Sam, so the angels couldn’t see us any more. So I have Enochian scrawled all over my ribs.”
“Oh, warding symbols! Nicely done!” smiled Bibi.
Ruth paused in filling up Dean's plate. “Ooo, Bibi! Do you think the tattoo worked the same way!”
“Anti-angelic warding?” said Bibi.
“He was raving about angels,” muttered Dean. “Just before he….” Dean swallowed hard.
“I’ve never heard of a human who could manage such a thing though,” said Bibi, who was studying Dean.
“It has the hallmarks of reciprocal warding magic,” said Ruth.
“Dean’s not a shaman, dear,” Bibi pointed out.
“But they’re in love!” gushed Ruth, grabbing Dean’s arm as Dean apparently attempted to slide underneath the table and perhaps melt into the patio.
Sam, albeit reluctantly, decided to go to bat for his flushing brother. “So you think the wing tattoo – it was somehow protective?”
Bibi nodded. “That’s a working theory. Like I said, we’ll need to wait ‘til he wakes up. And if it was protecting him from something worse, you need to have a think about that.”
“Don’t worry, Dean. We'll bring Castiel the show soundtrack!” Ruth promised. “Hey. You know, the missionaries reminded me of the angels,” said Ruth. “With the badly-fitting suits and no sense of humor?”
“Now, you know that’s stereotyping,” chided Bibi.
“The missionaries, or the angels?” laughed Sam.
“I tend not to laugh at folks who could smite me,” said Bibi, taking a cigarette case from his vest pocket.
“You know I’m smite-proof,” laughed Ruth.
“Yeah, but, Ruth, in all seriousness, what’s up with the power up?” asked Sam.
“So, Odin didn’t tell you?” asked Bibi, exhaling a fragrant smoke. He and Ruth exchanged a glance. Both Sam and Dean shook their heads.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stirred her tea. “Soooo, the monks showed up a couple weeks ago. With Isaiah. I knew sooner or later I’d be knocked out of a job, but I didn’t expect it quite so soon. He’s still a little on the young side.”
“Dude’s barely out of diapers,” grumbled Dean.
“We think the powers that be weren’t too happy about our Ruthie confronting Crowley like that,” Bibi put in.
“We got you fired?” asked Sam.
Ruth nodded.
“Well, it isn’t the worst we’ve done,” sighed Dean.
“It’s OK, I’m cool with it,” said Ruth. “But I was out of a job, and you know, we’re getting married soon.”
“Wouldn’t have looked good. My family is a bit … traditional,” said Bibi.
“But has it happened,” said Ruth. “Bibi's Auntie Kali told us that Odin had a job opening….”
Dean stood in the middle of the hallway in Valhalla, arms crossed, glaring at Odin. “Ruth is Loki? She’s the new Trickster?”
Odin nodded. “Well, yes, is the short answer.”
“I think we’re looking for a long answer, Odin,” said Sam.
The god sighed. “I thought it was best you boys see for yourselves. Bibi went a little out of his head and proposed marriage, and his family is very traditional. It was a complicated situation, but to make a long story short, he's hard-headed, and his folks don't go in for these mixed marriages. Given the dangerous times, I didn’t want to see a rift develop over this. As it happened there was an opening in my pantheon, and as she had been relieved of her duties as Guardian of the Tablets....”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “So you knew?” asked Dean.
Odin scratched the back of his neck. “To be honest, I may have had a part in it.”
Dean glowered. “What the hell, Odin? We trusted you.”
“Yes.” Odin looked back and forth between them, as if he was still deciding on something. “And now I am going to entrust you with something. This is a very dangerous secret, but seeing as we are now working on the same side, and I feel confident you boys can handle yourselves in a fight, I think I ought to share it with you. Come.” Odin began to lead them down yet another of Valhalla's endless corridors. Sam looked out the windows and watched as a small party of horsemen rode up outside.
The corridor took a turn and another turn, and Sam started to get the feeling of running in circles, although they didn’t seem to be retracing their steps. Finally they were near a darkened doorway with many sigils painted around it. Odin took out a key and, reciting some words that sounded more Latin than Norwegian, opened the lock and bade them to enter, carefully shutting and locking the door behind them.
The lights snapped on. Dead center of the room there was an object propped up a dark wooden plinth.
“Holy shit,” said Dean, drawing nearer. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Wait. You've got a tablet too?” asked Sam.
Odin nodded gravely. “Yes. It's not technically mine of course, though it is currently under my protection.”
“Like I told you, Sammy, you pick 'em up at 7-11.” Dean heaved a sigh. “So, are you telling us because you need this translated?”
“Actually, no, that work has already been done. An … old friend.”
Dean frowned at Odin. “OK. From what Cas tells us, there's only one prophet at a time. So who do you know who speaks tablet?”
“Well, look at this! So many attractive men in one little room. Odin, are you holding out on me?”
Dean turned with a start. He hadn't heard the door open, but there was definitely a new person in the room. She emerged from the shadows of the doorway. She was wearing a riding outfit – jodhpurs and high boots – and her dark hair was a mussed and her cheeks flushed, as if she had just come in from an outing. Dean’s first thought, seeing the black hair and striking blue eyes, was of Liz Taylor in that horse movie – National Velvet?
And his second thought: a realization really. Despite the casual manner, there was something piercing about her glance, and something about her presence that made the small hairs on his arms stand up. “You're not human,” Dean told her.
“Oh, sharp and handsome. Nice!” She grinned and, stripping off a riding glove, extended her hand.
“This is Sam and this is Dean,” said Odin. “The Winchesters.”
“Pleased to finally meet you boys,” she smiled, shaking Dean's hand, and then Sam's. She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve gathered quite a reputation.” Her gaze was intense. And she didn't seem to blink.
“Uh, I didn't catch your name?” said Sam. She was standing uncomfortably close, staring up at him.
She threw a questioning look at Odin, who nodded. She inclined her head at him and stepped back. And suddenly the room darkened, thunder crashed somewhere outside, and a great pair of shadowy wings stretched out on the wall directly in back of her. Dean gulped. He'd seen Cas do this before, but it always gave him shivers. But this was like Cas, only tenfold. The presence was almost too much for the tiny room.
“I’m Metatron, Voice of the Lord God,” she said very matter-of-factly. And then she shrugged, and the room was back to normal. “Or at least I was. I’m recently retired,” she told them.
“Let's go somewhere we can talk,” grinned Odin.
“And maybe get a drink?” asked the Voice of the Lord God. “I’m fucking parched.”
“You know what I like?” said Crowley.
The demon minions arrayed around the conference table in the darkened room held their collective breath. All eyes involuntarily drifted towards the messy pile of what looked like SpaghettiOs: all that remained of a former colleague.
“I'll tell you what I don't like. I don’t like looking at Powerpoints,” said Crowley. “I have the man who invented this crock of viper entrails confined in one of the lowest circles. And you know how he’s being punished?” There were shaking heads. “He has to watch a Powerpoint presentation! Over and over and over. Until the end of time!”
The minions nodded, as everybody strove to keep their eyes fixed on the table, the floor, the SpaghettiOs, anything but making contact with the currently incensed demon king.
“I don’t like Powerpoints. You know what I do like?”
Many heads shaking.
“Smiting things!”
The heads stopped shaking and began quavering.
“What I wanna know is,” Crowley continued, leaping up to smack the hated Powerpoint diagram with an angel sword, “why is this graph going downwards? We want the number of damned souls in hell going up, up and up!” He emphasized each “up” with a smack of the sword, leaving several stabs in the projection screen.
“We think it was a one-time occurrence, sir?” ventured a very brave or very stupid minion.
“And why is that?” yelled Crowley, getting right into the unfortunate idiot’s face.
“Well, we think it was due to the threatened Mayan apocalypse. A surfeit of souls, especially from the Americas, ended up in Xibalba.”
“Americans are too stupid to spell Xibalba! How could they let their immortal souls end up in the Mayan afterlife?”
“You know. Publicity,” ventured another demon.
“Publicity?” snapped Crowley, his tongue luxuriating in the word.
“Can’t buy it,” replied the demon.
“Why are we not meeting our monthly quota of souls?” said Crowley again. “And why did we get our asses handed to us by Odin? He's a pagan god, people. He's still thinks catapults are nifty!”
“It's Odin, sir, but a brand new incarnation,” ventured a minion.
“Yeah, this guy has an Olympic gold medal!” echoed another.
“An Olympic gold medal. Well why didn't he stay on the damned Wheaties box where he belongs?” Despite his current temper tantrum, Crowley had to admit, he felt better than he had in weeks. His head was clear, and he didn't itch. Much. Smiting minions and oatmeal baths seemed to agree with him. Despite stupid Norse deities who didn't know when to retire to death metal album liner notes.
“I don't think any of you possesses the faintest understanding of the gravity of our situation. This is not a time to be left short of souls. The Winchesters, stupid and pointless wastes of Salvation Army surplus that they are, have allied themselves with a bunch of potty pagan pretenders and that ratty half-mad seraph. And they are holding the tablet! My tablet!”
“We’ve tried to eliminate them, Sire. But the Guardian. There’s something … wrong with her.”
Crowley shot his shirt collar. “Well of course there is. And she wears reprehensible footwear. Do none of my enemies maintain even the most minimal level of aesthetic taste?”
Crowley’s associates exchanged worried glances. Would there now be smitings for dress code violations, they wondered?
A demon minion had just entered the room. He looked absolutely terrified. “Your Majesty,” he quavered.
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, what is it now? Come on. Spit it out.
“Your Highness. We’ve been robbed.”
And then the minion trembled no more.
As he was now a pile of ashes on the floor.
Crowley fumed. “Well, don’t just sit there! Somebody bring me another minion to tell us what this first idiot was trying to tell me?”
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 careen 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 an alliance of pagan lords of the underworld, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: This is an AU storyline, which fundamentally diverges from what they’re currently doing on the show. And thank Zeus for that.
“Where the blazes were you?” demanded Naomi.
The white room. Cas looked around. Breathe, he told himself. Get your breathing under control. It all came slamming back, the memories of the white room. Breathe. Remember.
They had been through this before. “You couldn’t locate me?” asked Cas. He felt it, again: the tug on his grace.
“That’s not what I asked,” said Naomi, her hands clasped together, her customary unflappable mien shot to hell. She was trying not to tremble.
“You were unable to locate me. And this upset you?” said Cas. Keep her talking.
“I’m not upset.” But Naomi looked upset.
Cas's back, right about where he had gotten the wing tattoo, had started to prickle. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is there something wrong with your vessel?” he asked Naomi. “Your forehead is covered in perspiration.” Yes, there was something foreign hooked into his grace. He slowed his heartbeat and extended his senses.
Naomi’s face was impassive, but doubt swirled in her. “I want a report. I don’t think you understand the importance of your mission. We have a missing angel on our hands.”
“Missing? Who? And … how could something like that happen.”
“There has been….” Naomi blanched, as if she was revealing too much. “It doesn’t matter. I need to keep in touch with your current status.”
His back ached, like when the tattoo was new and raw. Words started to spill out. “The Winchesters-” But they were choked off. His eyes blazed. “You don't own me, you know.”
“Castiel. Pay attention.”
He wasn’t coming here willingly. They were pulling him back by his grace. A hook, that’s what it was. A hook, planted inside him. He needed to tell Dean. Tell Dean.
His back was on fire now. An ache blazed down his shoulder blades, and fired down his spine. His grace tugged him forward, but the tattooed wings tore him back. He was trapped. He was being pulled apart.
“Castiel?”
'You can't hold me. Not against my will.”
Naomi’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”
An angel sword flashed.
Naomi leapt towards him.
A flurry of wings.
And then was blood. And blackness. And Dean kneeling over him.
“He's resting comfortably,” said Odin.
“You sound like a fucking doctor,” Dean told him.
“Dean,” said Sam, gripping his brother's shoulder. Dean had hit his speed dial button to Valhalla the instant Cas lost consciousness. A small party of Odin's soldiers, still on high alert after the demon invasion, had brought all of them up to Asgard. Cas, though, had not awoken nor said anything since raving about angels on the church steps. And Dean was pretty much beside himself.
Odin laughed. “I'm just relaying what my own healers and shamen are telling me. Now, I know you're nervous, but as far as any of my people can tell, he's not in any immediate danger.”
“So that was … someone else's blood on his coat?” asked Sam.
Odin frowned and leaned against the corridor. “No. It was his. And damned if anyone can tell me why a tattoo mark would suddenly start to hemorrhage.”
Dean threw up his hands. “How the hell did he get injured standing on the church steps in broad daylight?”
“You know it's a supernatural injury of some kind,” said Odin. “Something to do with his magic. My healers, unfortunately, aren't experts in angel comings and goings. I thought to call in another party. If that's square with you?”
“You got an angel doctor? Sure,” said Dean.
“Something like that,” said Odin. He inclined his head down the hallway. “Would you like to check in on him?” Dean nodded and Odin led him to a door guarded by two rather intimidating Valkyries. Sam noticed with some alarm that his brother paid the warrior women almost no mind, and didn't even attempt to flirt. Dean must be terribly upset. The sentries stood aside, and they entered a bright sunny room, where Cas seemed to doze peacefully in a large bed. Dean was instantly sitting in the chair at the side of the bed, tentatively putting a hand on Cas's forehead. “You're okay, buddy. I'm here.” He frowned. They had cleaned off the blood, and Cas looked white as a sheet. Dean noticed with some agitation that Cas was now dressed in a while hospital gown.
“You kept his clothes, right?” asked Dean. Odin smiled and pointed to where they had been neatly folded on a shelf. “I'll bring up some of his pajamas,” said Dean. “So he doesn't have to wear those.”
Odin looked puzzled, but said, “All right, if that's what you want, I'm sure it will be fine.”
Sam motioned to Odin, and the two walked towards the opposite end of the room. “We've got another issue. Ruth isn't guarding her tablet any more. They've got some … teenager in charge.”
“Yes,” said Odin. “There have been some changes. But I sincerely believe all will be well, Sam.”
Dean looked up from Cas's bedside. “Wait, you knew about this, Odin?”
Odin nodded. “Yes. Personnel have been shuffled around. And Ruth and Bibi … they’re keeping the news to themselves for now.”
“What news?” asked Sam.
Odin didn't answer immediately. He glared at the floor for long moment, and then finall looked up to meet Sam's eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. I can tell you, you boys have stumbled into a very big, very dangerous situation.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of our specialty,” sighed Dean, holding one of Cas’s limp hands in his.
“Can we at least talk to Ruth?” asked Sam.
Dean nodded. “That’s right. Bibi is buddies with Cas. I think he’d like to know he’s hurt.”
Odin stared at the brothers for a long time. “I am hesitating because I'm not sure I should get you boys mixed up in this.”
“Odin, I think we’re already up to our asses!” said Dean. “And Cas is … you said you don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”
“Can I ask you something, Dean?” said Odin softly. “Now, the tattoo artist you went to….”
“She was just a human, if that’s what you’re implying,” spat Dean. “Not a demon, or a witch, or anything like that. I would have spotted it. Cas would have spotted it.”
Odin nodded. “Of course. But you were the one who asked him to do it?”
Dean was silent.
“Dean?” prompted Sam. “You made him do this?”
Dean glared at Sam. “So what? It’s not as if he did it against his will.”
“No one is accusing you of anything, lad,” said Odin. “We won’t know the full story until he wakes up.”
“If he wakes up,” Dean moped.
“What are you getting at, Odin?” asked Sam.
Odin scratched under his chin. He was staring at Dean. “Sometimes, in my experience, actions have … unintended consequences.”
“You think the tattoo ended up as something more?”
Odin turned to Sam. He was smiling. “I think your brother doesn’t know his own strength. I'll have some of my men escort you to meet with Ruth, if that's what you'd like.”
“Dean?” asked Sam.
“I'm not doing much good here,” said Dean.
The man wearing the suit knelt down on the church steps. He trailed a finger through the bloodstain drying in the sun. He contemplated the red on the tips of his fingers, his face an emotionless mask.
“His blood?” asked his companion, who was also wearing a suit.
The first man regarded his fingers. “Yes. Definitely Castiel's vessel.”
“And then the trail goes dead?”
“Yes.”
The second man spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “They say- They say he got away.”
“Impossible. No one gets away.”
The second man glared up into the sun. “Naomi's not gonna like this.”
The first man stood up. “It's not Naomi I'm worried about.”
They exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable.
And then they were there no more.
Dean looked around nervously. London. Ruth and Bibi were in London.
“Hey, I recognize this place. I've seen pictures. I think this is the theater district,” said Sam, looking around.
“Yeah, a dark alley in the theater district,” said Dean, who did not like to be zapped around, even if it was Cas doing the zapping. But he especially hated being zapped around if it was not his favorite angel behind the wheel, so to speak. Their escorts, who were needed back at Valhalla, had split almost immediately. “What the hell. And why was Odin being so damn squirrely about this?”
“I thought he was your favorite new buddy?” asked Sam. Dean glowered at him. “Hey, he could have made us fly here on a plane.”
Sam spotted a young couple walking by: a tall, dark-skinned man, and an elegantly dressed redhead. The woman looked their way, and suddenly broke into a run, waving her hand rather inelegantly. “Hey! Sam and Dean! Over here!”
“Ruth?” asked Dean, as she went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Uh, you look … good.”
Ruth pecked Sam on the cheek and then looked down at her shoes. She was wearing high-heeled pumps. Ruth giggled, holding up a foot. “Oh, yeah. I had to learn to walk again. But they're cute, right?”
“They're quite lovely, dear,” said Bibi, who extended a hand to shake Sam and Dean's. “It's good to meet you blokes again. May I assume this isn't what you might call a chance encounter?”
“No, it isn't,” said Dean. “We got trouble, and we wanted to tell you in person. Cas has been injured, so Odin-”
“Oh, not the angel!” said Ruth, one hand over her mouth.
“Cas? I hadn't heard,” Bibi put in. He looked between Sam and Dean. “Is it serious?”
“It might be. We're not really sure.”
Bibi gripped Ruth’s hand, looking grave. “We’ve got healers in my pantheon. If there’s anything I can do....”
“Thanks. We left him up with Odin in Valhalla for now.”
“Odin will look after him,” Bibi assured them. “He's a good man.”
“The point is,” said Sam, “You must have heard about the attack at Valhalla?”
Bibi shook his head. “Yama Uncle told me about it. Crowley's gotten bolder. Wanker.”
“We're worried Crowley is gonna make a move on the Tablet of Nebuchadnezzar,” said Sam.
Dean nodded. “Yeah, we went to the church and ran into … Isaiah?”
“That little punk,” grumbled Ruth.
“Now, don't be ungracious, love,” Bibi chided. “The man has a different … style.” He rolled his eyes, obviously not entirely pleased by it all.
Ruth stomped a high-heeled foot, sending a lock of red hair cascading out of its barrette. “He's an arrogant little prick. He's gonna end up like the rest of my male relatives: on a slab.”
Bibi turned to Sam and Dean. “We're worried too, mates. Since we heard about the attack by demons up at Valhalla, I've been trying – we've been trying – to keep an eye on the tablet, though the current Guardian ain’t much on cooperation, if you get my drift. It's still part of my duty within my family to secure its safety.”
“So, we don't need to worry?” asked Sam, who sounded unconvinced.
“We got it, don't worry,” said Ruth. “Hey! But since you're here, maybe you could come to the theater with us!”
Sam looked at Dean. “Uh, we don't wanna intrude....”
“Nonsense! You guys look like you could use a laugh, and I've heard it's hilarious!”
“We don't have tickets,” said Dean.
Ruth pulled two tickets out of her purse. “Wanna see a trick?” She flicked them, and suddenly they were four tickets.
“How did you do that?” said Dean.
Sam looked around in alarm. “Hey. Do you smell sulfur?” Indeed the dark alleyway where they had met to talk was suddenly crowded with black-eyed interlopers. They did not look friendly.
“More Crowley creepy crawlies. Great. This is just great,” grumbled Dean, who didn't appear to think it was great at all.
“Oh, crap,” said Ruth. “I have orchestra seats to see Book of Mormon, you douche bags!” she shouted, waving the tickets.
“We’ll take care of them, love,” Bibi assured her.
“Hey. Winchester. Where's your little angel boyfriend?” taunted one of the demons.
“Off sharpening his sword on your buddy's skull,” said Dean.
“Really? I heard he fainted.” His demon buddies laughed.
Bibi whipped out a bejeweled saber and separated the demon's head from his body. “Wanker,” he muttered.
The demon's stopped laughing then. And they were off.
One demon made the mistake of grabbing Ruth from behind. She came down hard on the guy's instep with one high heel, sending him screaming in pain, and then she tossed another spike-heeled shoe at another demon. Her aim was deadly: it got him in the eye, and he went down shrieking.
But there were a lot of demons, and only four of them. Dean beheaded a guy with his Purgatory axe, but soon found himself flung against the alley wall when two guys rushed him. He landed with a clatter on some trash bins, his axe having flown from his hand. A demon found it, and held it poised over Dean’s neck.
But then Ruth was in the center of the pack, shouting, “Hey, wanna see a trick?”
A demon snorted.
And then there was another Ruth, twin swords out, standing next to Dean’s would-be assassin. And another Ruth hovered by where Sam fought two demons. And yet another Ruth, between Bibi and a demon. All in all, there were a dozen Ruth's, surrounding the pack of demons who were left. All of the Ruth's stood poised with her two swords, murder in all of her eyes.
“Which one is real?” one demon asked another.
“That's simple, boys,” chuckled Bibi. “All of them.”
And that was the end of the demons. Sam and Dean stared in disbelief at the carnage. Sam had witnessed Ruth going after demons in the church that one time, but that had been … only one of her.
“What the fuck?” breathed Sam as another demon head popped off and went rolling.
One Ruth in the middle, the one who had yelled, appeared to shudder, and then she was back to a single individual.
Sam bent down to help Dean to his feet. “Ew! I got demon eye goo on my heel!” Ruth whined. Bibi handed her a handkerchief.
“Uh, Bibi,” said Dean. “Dude. Your girlfriend?”
“Fiancee,” Bibi told him helpfully. Dean stared. “Ah, yeah, that,” said Bibi, as Ruth came to stand next to him. “Since giving up her role as Guardian, Ruth has gotten a sort of a … promotion.”
“But you gotta come to see the show with us now,” Ruth insisted, pushing a lock of hair back into her clip. “And then we could talk over dinner!”
The northern sun streamed through the window, casting a warm yellow sunlight across the room. But Castiel remained abed, unaware of this.
A dark-haired woman sat at his bedside, staring down at him.
“Is he still sleeping?” asked Odin from the doorway.
“Angels don't sleep,” the woman told him.
“His friends were worried-”
“Seraphim are tough little motherfuckers. He'll be all right.”
“You think it's magic, then?” asked Odin, slipping into the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed.
“His grace has been wounded.” She traced a line down Castiel's chest with two fingers.
“You can't use your magic?”
“Angel blade wound. It's beyond my powers.” She looked up, finally seeming to catch the worried tone of Odin's voice. She spoke more softly this time. “Time will heal him. His friends don't need to worry.”
Odin gazed out the window. “Whatever did this to him-”
“Powerful. Very powerful.”
“Your warding – you think that will hold?”
“My warding will hold. For now. But angels are stubborn sonofabitches. I should know.”
And they stood in silence for a time.
“There isn’t enough food to eat, hasa diga eebowai,” sang Ruth, scooping up paneer with her naan bread.
After having dragged the brothers along to the London production of The Book of Mormon, Ruth decided that they needed to go out for a curry.
In Jaipur. Which happens to be in Rajasthan, India.
“London is just too bloody expensive,” Bibi had huffed before whisking them all off here. Sam wasn’t entirely certain what he had expected, but probably nothing like this. It looked like Venice, or at least the pictures he’d seen of Venice: a gorgeous city built along canals.
Sam was fine with it. He figured it was less likely that any demons who were after them could track them down on the other side of the world, and Bibi seemed to know everybody in the city. That was how they'd scored this table at the outdoor restaurant right beside a peaceful waterway, looking across a still lake towards a lovely palace built out on an island.
Besides, Sam had felt slightly underdressed all evening, there in his front row seats at the Wales theater. But here at dinner, Bibi had shrugged out of his jacket to drape over Ruth's shoulders, and loosened his tie, and Ruth had finally given up on her elaborate hairstyle and kicked off the high-heeled shoes. Bibi affectionately brushed a lock of her red-blue hair away from the pakoras. And you could see the moonlight on the water and everything smelled like exotic spices. Sam sat and toyed with his basmati rice and wondered why he’d spent the past few years of his life racing between Omaha and Kansas City when this place existed in the world. Had anyone in this entire city known the apocalypse was looming just a few short years ago?
“This is pretty,” said Sam, feeling awfully inadequate.
“This is where I proposed,” Bibi told them.
“Though I proposed first,” said Ruth.
“That didn't really count.”
“You proposed, Ruth?” asked Sam.
Bibi laughed. “First time we met, I smote a half dozen demons and she said, 'Marry me.'”
“That's romantic,” said Dean, who was toying at a dish that definitely wasn't a hamburger, though it was awfully tasty.
“People are starving on the street, hasa diga eebowai,” Ruth sang.
“What did you boys think of the show?” Bibi asked.
“I hadn’t been to a real Broadway musical before,” Dean admitted. “Well, I guess it wasn’t Broadway. But that was fucking hilarious.” He looked down at something unidentifiable but delicious on his metal plate. “A fuck you God song? I wish Cas could have seen it….” He frowned and nudged his plate away, suddenly not so hungry.
“Awww, I’m sure he’ll be OK,” said Ruth, pushing a tureen of steaming tikka masala towards Dean. Unbidden, she started to ladle more food onto Dean’s plate.
“Angels are pretty tough customers, it’s true,” said Bibi. “You want to tell me more, Dean? About his injury? You said Odin thought it was magical?”
“His new tattoo was bleeding,” said Dean. “And I guess I sort of browbeat him into getting it done. I didn’t realize it would have an effect … like that.”
“And the tattoo artist? I take it she wasn’t dodgy in any way?”
“We’ve already been through this,” Dean snapped, suddenly realizing what it was like for all those people he and Sam had interviewed over the years.
“Sorry, mate. Only trying to help.”
“I know. No, there was nothing skeezy about her. She was really talented.”
“Skeezy,” Bibi repeated, obviously relishing the word.
“And you wanted him to get it because…?” asked Ruth, who was now piling Dean’s plate with cheese-stuffed potatoes.
Dean flushed. “It’s just…. It’s silly.” But now Bibi, Ruth and Sam were staring at him. Dean put a hand over his chest. “A few years ago, he marked me up, well, he marked both of us up, me and Sam, so the angels couldn’t see us any more. So I have Enochian scrawled all over my ribs.”
“Oh, warding symbols! Nicely done!” smiled Bibi.
Ruth paused in filling up Dean's plate. “Ooo, Bibi! Do you think the tattoo worked the same way!”
“Anti-angelic warding?” said Bibi.
“He was raving about angels,” muttered Dean. “Just before he….” Dean swallowed hard.
“I’ve never heard of a human who could manage such a thing though,” said Bibi, who was studying Dean.
“It has the hallmarks of reciprocal warding magic,” said Ruth.
“Dean’s not a shaman, dear,” Bibi pointed out.
“But they’re in love!” gushed Ruth, grabbing Dean’s arm as Dean apparently attempted to slide underneath the table and perhaps melt into the patio.
Sam, albeit reluctantly, decided to go to bat for his flushing brother. “So you think the wing tattoo – it was somehow protective?”
Bibi nodded. “That’s a working theory. Like I said, we’ll need to wait ‘til he wakes up. And if it was protecting him from something worse, you need to have a think about that.”
“Don’t worry, Dean. We'll bring Castiel the show soundtrack!” Ruth promised. “Hey. You know, the missionaries reminded me of the angels,” said Ruth. “With the badly-fitting suits and no sense of humor?”
“Now, you know that’s stereotyping,” chided Bibi.
“The missionaries, or the angels?” laughed Sam.
“I tend not to laugh at folks who could smite me,” said Bibi, taking a cigarette case from his vest pocket.
“You know I’m smite-proof,” laughed Ruth.
“Yeah, but, Ruth, in all seriousness, what’s up with the power up?” asked Sam.
“So, Odin didn’t tell you?” asked Bibi, exhaling a fragrant smoke. He and Ruth exchanged a glance. Both Sam and Dean shook their heads.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stirred her tea. “Soooo, the monks showed up a couple weeks ago. With Isaiah. I knew sooner or later I’d be knocked out of a job, but I didn’t expect it quite so soon. He’s still a little on the young side.”
“Dude’s barely out of diapers,” grumbled Dean.
“We think the powers that be weren’t too happy about our Ruthie confronting Crowley like that,” Bibi put in.
“We got you fired?” asked Sam.
Ruth nodded.
“Well, it isn’t the worst we’ve done,” sighed Dean.
“It’s OK, I’m cool with it,” said Ruth. “But I was out of a job, and you know, we’re getting married soon.”
“Wouldn’t have looked good. My family is a bit … traditional,” said Bibi.
“But has it happened,” said Ruth. “Bibi's Auntie Kali told us that Odin had a job opening….”
Dean stood in the middle of the hallway in Valhalla, arms crossed, glaring at Odin. “Ruth is Loki? She’s the new Trickster?”
Odin nodded. “Well, yes, is the short answer.”
“I think we’re looking for a long answer, Odin,” said Sam.
The god sighed. “I thought it was best you boys see for yourselves. Bibi went a little out of his head and proposed marriage, and his family is very traditional. It was a complicated situation, but to make a long story short, he's hard-headed, and his folks don't go in for these mixed marriages. Given the dangerous times, I didn’t want to see a rift develop over this. As it happened there was an opening in my pantheon, and as she had been relieved of her duties as Guardian of the Tablets....”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “So you knew?” asked Dean.
Odin scratched the back of his neck. “To be honest, I may have had a part in it.”
Dean glowered. “What the hell, Odin? We trusted you.”
“Yes.” Odin looked back and forth between them, as if he was still deciding on something. “And now I am going to entrust you with something. This is a very dangerous secret, but seeing as we are now working on the same side, and I feel confident you boys can handle yourselves in a fight, I think I ought to share it with you. Come.” Odin began to lead them down yet another of Valhalla's endless corridors. Sam looked out the windows and watched as a small party of horsemen rode up outside.
The corridor took a turn and another turn, and Sam started to get the feeling of running in circles, although they didn’t seem to be retracing their steps. Finally they were near a darkened doorway with many sigils painted around it. Odin took out a key and, reciting some words that sounded more Latin than Norwegian, opened the lock and bade them to enter, carefully shutting and locking the door behind them.
The lights snapped on. Dead center of the room there was an object propped up a dark wooden plinth.
“Holy shit,” said Dean, drawing nearer. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Wait. You've got a tablet too?” asked Sam.
Odin nodded gravely. “Yes. It's not technically mine of course, though it is currently under my protection.”
“Like I told you, Sammy, you pick 'em up at 7-11.” Dean heaved a sigh. “So, are you telling us because you need this translated?”
“Actually, no, that work has already been done. An … old friend.”
Dean frowned at Odin. “OK. From what Cas tells us, there's only one prophet at a time. So who do you know who speaks tablet?”
“Well, look at this! So many attractive men in one little room. Odin, are you holding out on me?”
Dean turned with a start. He hadn't heard the door open, but there was definitely a new person in the room. She emerged from the shadows of the doorway. She was wearing a riding outfit – jodhpurs and high boots – and her dark hair was a mussed and her cheeks flushed, as if she had just come in from an outing. Dean’s first thought, seeing the black hair and striking blue eyes, was of Liz Taylor in that horse movie – National Velvet?
And his second thought: a realization really. Despite the casual manner, there was something piercing about her glance, and something about her presence that made the small hairs on his arms stand up. “You're not human,” Dean told her.
“Oh, sharp and handsome. Nice!” She grinned and, stripping off a riding glove, extended her hand.
“This is Sam and this is Dean,” said Odin. “The Winchesters.”
“Pleased to finally meet you boys,” she smiled, shaking Dean's hand, and then Sam's. She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve gathered quite a reputation.” Her gaze was intense. And she didn't seem to blink.
“Uh, I didn't catch your name?” said Sam. She was standing uncomfortably close, staring up at him.
She threw a questioning look at Odin, who nodded. She inclined her head at him and stepped back. And suddenly the room darkened, thunder crashed somewhere outside, and a great pair of shadowy wings stretched out on the wall directly in back of her. Dean gulped. He'd seen Cas do this before, but it always gave him shivers. But this was like Cas, only tenfold. The presence was almost too much for the tiny room.
“I’m Metatron, Voice of the Lord God,” she said very matter-of-factly. And then she shrugged, and the room was back to normal. “Or at least I was. I’m recently retired,” she told them.
“Let's go somewhere we can talk,” grinned Odin.
“And maybe get a drink?” asked the Voice of the Lord God. “I’m fucking parched.”
“You know what I like?” said Crowley.
The demon minions arrayed around the conference table in the darkened room held their collective breath. All eyes involuntarily drifted towards the messy pile of what looked like SpaghettiOs: all that remained of a former colleague.
“I'll tell you what I don't like. I don’t like looking at Powerpoints,” said Crowley. “I have the man who invented this crock of viper entrails confined in one of the lowest circles. And you know how he’s being punished?” There were shaking heads. “He has to watch a Powerpoint presentation! Over and over and over. Until the end of time!”
The minions nodded, as everybody strove to keep their eyes fixed on the table, the floor, the SpaghettiOs, anything but making contact with the currently incensed demon king.
“I don’t like Powerpoints. You know what I do like?”
Many heads shaking.
“Smiting things!”
The heads stopped shaking and began quavering.
“What I wanna know is,” Crowley continued, leaping up to smack the hated Powerpoint diagram with an angel sword, “why is this graph going downwards? We want the number of damned souls in hell going up, up and up!” He emphasized each “up” with a smack of the sword, leaving several stabs in the projection screen.
“We think it was a one-time occurrence, sir?” ventured a very brave or very stupid minion.
“And why is that?” yelled Crowley, getting right into the unfortunate idiot’s face.
“Well, we think it was due to the threatened Mayan apocalypse. A surfeit of souls, especially from the Americas, ended up in Xibalba.”
“Americans are too stupid to spell Xibalba! How could they let their immortal souls end up in the Mayan afterlife?”
“You know. Publicity,” ventured another demon.
“Publicity?” snapped Crowley, his tongue luxuriating in the word.
“Can’t buy it,” replied the demon.
“Why are we not meeting our monthly quota of souls?” said Crowley again. “And why did we get our asses handed to us by Odin? He's a pagan god, people. He's still thinks catapults are nifty!”
“It's Odin, sir, but a brand new incarnation,” ventured a minion.
“Yeah, this guy has an Olympic gold medal!” echoed another.
“An Olympic gold medal. Well why didn't he stay on the damned Wheaties box where he belongs?” Despite his current temper tantrum, Crowley had to admit, he felt better than he had in weeks. His head was clear, and he didn't itch. Much. Smiting minions and oatmeal baths seemed to agree with him. Despite stupid Norse deities who didn't know when to retire to death metal album liner notes.
“I don't think any of you possesses the faintest understanding of the gravity of our situation. This is not a time to be left short of souls. The Winchesters, stupid and pointless wastes of Salvation Army surplus that they are, have allied themselves with a bunch of potty pagan pretenders and that ratty half-mad seraph. And they are holding the tablet! My tablet!”
“We’ve tried to eliminate them, Sire. But the Guardian. There’s something … wrong with her.”
Crowley shot his shirt collar. “Well of course there is. And she wears reprehensible footwear. Do none of my enemies maintain even the most minimal level of aesthetic taste?”
Crowley’s associates exchanged worried glances. Would there now be smitings for dress code violations, they wondered?
A demon minion had just entered the room. He looked absolutely terrified. “Your Majesty,” he quavered.
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, what is it now? Come on. Spit it out.
“Your Highness. We’ve been robbed.”
And then the minion trembled no more.
As he was now a pile of ashes on the floor.
Crowley fumed. “Well, don’t just sit there! Somebody bring me another minion to tell us what this first idiot was trying to tell me?”
