Seven Hells, Part 13 of 16
Jan. 31st, 2013 05:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Seven Hells, Part 13 of 16
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 skip merrily off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: none have rainbow eyes nor sparkle, but if that annoys you, you’ve been warned. Also, no beta, though I promise I know the difference between “lay” and “lie.”
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. Also, I’m pretty sure this is going to end up at 16 chapters, unless they poof up too much in the final edit and I need to make another split.
“So, you're certain?”
Nergal sat back in his chair, grinning and worrying a fingernail with a sharp silver emery board. “I attended the funeral. I witnessed the funeral pyre. The Lord of Naraka is dead.” He spoke the last with what he sincerely hoped was a portentous intonation, equal to the gravity of the announcement.
Crowley too sat back behind his desk, swirling his glass of scotch, looking, as he so often did, crafty. “So, the Hindu hell is currently running with a situation vacant at the head?”
“Yamaraja was an ass,” sniffed Nergal, the focus of whose entire fierce consciousness was currently directed at a hangnail on his ring finger.
Crowley's featured etched a smile. “There's one billion Hindus, Sunshine. How many Babylonians you spotted out there lately?”
Nergal bristled, his attention briefly diverted from his cuticles. “I haven't forgotten our bargain, Crowley. When this is over-”
Crowley made a big show of heaving an impatient sigh at the uppity pagan. “Yes, yes, you've been a great little turncoat, and you'll get the keys to Naraka.”
“I want the kingdom, not just the keys,” snorted Nergal, who was rather used to dealing with detail-oriented demons.
Crowley feigned disappointment. “We'll have it tattooed on your forehead, Dove. Now. What about the Winchesters?”
The emery scratching ceased for the announcement. “Dean Winchester … is dead.”
“You're sure?”
Nergal reared at the implied contradiction by the obviously stupid, stupid demon. “My sources say he was struck with an angel blade.” Which, of course, settled it.
Crowley waved his glass, splattering whiskey everywhere, and screamed, “But DID YOU SEE THE BODY?” As Nergal was a foreigner, and it had been scientifically established that shouting at foreigners worked.
“Well.... No,” the god admitted, putting away the nail file. “But it's no matter. My sources are infallible.” Said sources being a teenager who was late for Calculus class and his toddler brother. Details….
Crowley thumped his whiskey glass down on the table, spilling enough liquid in the process to pool under the glass and, in the fullness of time, produce an unattractive little ring on the antique desk, for which he would surly smite two or three underlings. “Nergal. Pumpkin. Didn't you already attempt to kill the Winchester ninnies once before? Now tell me, how did that go? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR SHOES?”
“I have dead skin on my heels!” said Nergal, who had slipped off a sandal, and was now brandishing a pumice stone.
“Not in the office. I just cleaned the carpet.”
“What about the angels?” taunted Nergal, sullenly fixing a heel back in its strap.
“Don't worry about the angels. Worry about Dean Winchester. My pets will make short work of those feather-draped bores.”
Nergal regarded his newly buffed nails. “The Leviathan? You barely control them.”
Crowley found he suddenly felt a great need to smite something. Anything. “I have the situation well under control thank you.” Quietly as he could his hand strayed into a desk drawer.
Nergal smiled. “And here is something you didn't know about Dean Winchester.”
Crowley froze, his hand around the revolver inside his desk drawer, wondering if this supposed information was worth the frustration of not shooting Nergal in the head with a silver bullet. “Yes?”
“My sources tell me that Dean Winchester's soul is not in heaven.”
Crowley took his hand off the gun and closed the drawer. Now this – this was interesting. A dozen possibilities zinged through his mind. “Why wouldn't it go to heaven?”
“Some say he's been consorting too closely with pagan gods of late. You know, the likes of me. Bringing down the property values, and all that.”
“But if Captain Ducklips didn't make it to heaven … where the hell did he go?”
“Exactly.”
Crowley glared at Nergal, who rose to leave.
“Anyway, I need to get back. Erie must be wondering where I am.” And then Nergal was gone, leaving only the slight whiff of sulfur and a fine spray of downy feathers.
“I need to get the damned carpet cleaned again,” Crowley sulked. He summoned a lackey, who appeared in his office. “I need to go through our intake with a fine-toothed comb. Have any Winchesters shown up in recent times?”
The lackey rolled his eyes. “Winchesters. Who can tell? Those people drop like flies.”
“Get to the DMV. Check the records….”
“And then they leave. They come, they leave. After all we’ve done for them, nice pleasant spot on the torture rack, or prime real estate in the cage.”
“Just check the records for Winchesters? Oh, and the carpet-“ But the lackey had already popped out, tutting over ungrateful Winchesters. “Fuck me,” grunted Crowley, pouring himself another scotch.
Sam awoke, not entirely certain where he was.
Not that it mattered.
He climbed out of the Impala's back seat, yawning and shaking off sleep. He scrounged around on the floor and found a half-filled plastic bottle of water, and used that to brush his teeth.
It was cold, so he struggled into another layer of clothing, started the car, and began to drive. He needed to drive. To get somewhere. Somewhere away from where he was.
His mind drifted, trying to remember how long it had been since that day. His consciousness couldn't even wrap around what had happened, what he had lost. The emptiness. He stepped on the gas and drove, aching to get away. Sam had barely eaten, and only slept when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He couldn't stop. He just couldn't stop.
The sky darkened. Thunder rolled. The rain came down, slow at first, and then more and more, drumming on the window, bathing the world in slopped water.
And there it was, the same place it always was, no matter where he turned or how long he drove, darting out onto the roadway before he could stop. And Sam was too damn sleepy and distracted and lost and sad to avoid it.
“Dean!” he screamed. Too late. Too late....
He gasped, suddenly thrown into the passenger seat as the car jerked madly left, and then careened around back right, the tail fanning out. He turned in shock, swiveling around to peer out the rain-soaked back window. Watching the surprised figure that the car had miraculously managed to avoid hitting, standing on the roadway, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
He turned to the driver.
“Hello Sam.”
“Cas?”
“This is a recurring dream of yours, Sam?” asked the familiar trench coated angel, who was now, preposterously enough, driving the car.
“How did you know?” asked Sam.
“I don't sleep, as you know. Some weeks ago, when you fell asleep in our room, I heard you crying out during one of your dreams. I know it was rude, but I was … curious. And wanted to help. However, at the time, I didn't know how to operate a motor vehicle. When your brother taught me, it occurred to me that this intervention might be helpful.” He glanced over at Sam, and then directed his eyes back to the road, every inch the responsible driver.
Sam’s mind reeled. What was this supposed to mean? “I’m sorry: your room? Why would you have a room Cas, you don’t sleep? In fact, you don’t drive, you don’t do anything. You’re dead!” And he, Sam, was now riding beside an angel ghosts. Did angels have ghosts?
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
Cas drove in silence for a while. The rain had thinned out, down from a torrent to a light patter. “But you didn't answer my question.”
“About my dream?” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Yeah, pretty much. Only … sometimes I hit Dean. Sometimes I hit you. Sometimes I hit the dog, like I did in real life. Or Bobby. Kevin. Amelia....” His voice choked.
Cas nodded but didn't reply. As the sun shown, Sam glanced out the window and noticed they'd somehow gone from a northern rainforest to a Southwestern looking desert landscape. “Are you doing this Cas?”
“I am.” Sam got the side glance again. Cas looked serious. “Sam. This is very important and we may not have much time. You are being held prisoner right now. By a group of angels. I need to know if there's anything – anything – that you can tell me about where you are being held.”
Sam stared at Cas in disbelief. “When did I get myself captured by angels? Did this happen after we ganked Dick? What the hell?”
“Sam, do you remember anything after … this incident? Hitting the dog?”
“I remember meeting Amelia.... She wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why I dream about her. Sometimes.” He frowned at Cas. “You're dead. My brother is dead. Everybody is dead.”
“No, Sam. Dean and I were in Purgatory.”
“Purgatory?”
“Yes. There’s no time to go into more detail. We escaped. And we are currently trying to hunt down more tablets before Crowley and the angels get to them.”
“Oh. Like Kevin's Leviathan tablet?”
“Yes, exactly.” Cas pulled the car over to the side of the road, and they emerged, under the hot desert sun. Sam stretched. It was the first time in days he could remember being warm. “I need your help now, Sam. And you are the only one who can help me. Please. I realize you are in a bad state of mind right now-”
“You don't understand. I don't think you can understand.” Sam put a hand through his hair, noticing but not caring that he was fighting back tears. “No offense. I just don't think you can understand. When Dean was gone before – when the Trickster killed him, and then when he went to hell – I lost it, Cas. I just snapped. Looking for him, trying to get him back, it just pushed me into a terrible, terrible place. I set off the apocalypse, Cas! The freaking apocalypse.
“And this time they’re all gone. You’re gone. Bobby is gone. My mom and dad. Everybody. I just didn't wanna become … that guy again. I don’t wanna hurt anybody this time. I’m running away. But I think I’m running away from myself. So I'll go. I'll go and I'll drive and I'll drive and I'll drive.”
“I know how you feel, Sam. I feel very … lost now, myself. Sometimes.”
Sam struggled to let his mind catch up. What Cas was telling him seemed familiar. But he suddenly realized there was something off about the angel. “Did something happen to Dean?”
A look of pain washed across Cas's features, and then was gone. “Dean is safe. Your brother is safe, with me. He was … injured. But he'll get better. I promise.”
Sam looked pale. “Dean is hurt?”
“Dean is recovering. Sam. We had a confrontation with the angels. Dean was injured, you were taken. I'm trying to set things right. But I need one thing from you. Please try to focus. Try to be aware of your surroundings. If you can tell me anything you think might help, meet me here. Can you remember that?”
“Meet you … here.”
“Yes. Get in the car and come here. I'll be waiting. Remember Sam. Please remember.”
Cas was sitting on a couch near a fireplace in Valhalla when he came back to himself.
“How did it go?” asked Odin, who was sitting nearby.
Cas unfolded his legs from the lotus position and sighed. “Bobby Singer used to have an expression: that worked like Vietnam.”
“You talked to Sam?”
“Yes, but he was … distracted. He is trapped inside a troubling recurring dream, of his time after his brother and I were transported to Purgatory.”
“Well, we tried.”
Cas tried to shake off his misgivings. He looked towards Odin. “I assume there's no change....”
“I would have woken you up for that. But we have a visitor.” Odin nodded, and Cas got quickly to his feet to greet his guest as Odin excused himself.
Cas shook the god’s extended hand. “Bibi! I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance to speak with you, after…. I am sorry. For your loss. Yamaraja. He was a good friend.” His brain scrambled, trying to think of what a friend should say or do.
“My uncle. He doesn't wanna be brought back,” said Bibi sadly.
Cas stood for a moment, at a loss, and then gestured for Bibi to sit down. He realized that he remained inept at sensing what was appropriate in social encounters, but guessed that his friend wanted to talk.
Bibi seated himself on one of the couches next to the fireplace. “He made out a will. Yamaraja did. We read it, and he said his soul had grown weary of the constant cycle of death and rebirth.”
Cas nodded, stunned that he had guessed right on what social gesture was called for. He forced himself to pay attention to Bibi's words. “I understand. Yes.” He nodded, remembering his own painful experiences with resurrection. “That kind of thing … it grows tiring.”
“He said he wants me to take over charge of Naraka, Cas.”
Cas narrowed his eyes, surprised. “You will be the King of Hell?” He thought it over. “Yes. You are the logical choice for that.”
“I am bloody scared shitless! To take that on? At this time?”
“Yamaraja was a good man, and a wise one. He made a good decision.”
“Wish I had your confidence about this one.”
A thought struck Cas. “You are going to marry Ruth? How is she…?”
“Oh, Ruthie is glorying in it!” said Bibi, a slight smile now tracing his features. “She’ll be a right queen of hell.” He was silent for a moment. “So, how's Dean? Any change?”
“He is the same.”
“I'm sorry.” Bibi leaned forward, his voice low. “Seriously, mate, I had no idea Odin and Metatron and them had him in mind to join the pantheon.”
Cas shrugged. “Me neither, to be honest. But I am currently more concerned with Sam. I found him, in his dream.”
Bibi blinked at Cas. “You can dream walk? Man, that's a fantastic power.”
“It's an angelic ability.” Almost without his bidding, his worries began to pour out. “I believe they have him trapped him in some kind of recurring dream cycle. They may mean to break him. His sanity.” Cas cringed at his own words, remembering with a shudder his own treatment at Naomi’s hands.
“What the hell? Angels are wankers. No offense.”
“None taken. I have an idea, but I may need your help. I have been putting a lot of effort of late into studying Crowley. His condition.”
“His condition?” That merited a grin. “Did Namtar zap him with plague or something?”
“Namtar has been doing nothing but watching of late,” Cas confessed. “If I can tempt Crowley into another meeting, I believe we can exploit it.”
Bibi smiled. “Screwing with that mad bugger Crowley? I’m in.”
Dean awoke, not completely certain where he was.
He sat up, regarding his hands with astonishment. How had he never noticed them before? They were … stunning. He held one up to the light, gazing at the fine musculature, the delicate tendons, the fragile bones. He was suddenly aware of each particular molecule in the elegantly folded proteins, all of the efficient enzymes, the long, twisted strands of DNA.
He sat up, putting his bare feet to the cold stone floor, amazed at the signals firing up his neurons. He stood and stretched.
Sunlight streamed into the window, the photons scattering on the walls. He pulled in a breath, pleased by the exchange of oxygen with carbon dioxide across his thin alveolar membranes.
He looked up.
She brought in a tray filled with lunch into the room formerly occupied by the angel. The human was there now. Not that he was likely to be awake. He was probably still dozing, or unconscious, or whatever state he was in. She would leave the tray, and then pick it up again in an hour. It would probably remain untouched, but they wanted someone checking on him more than anything.
She was surprised, therefore, to see that the bed was no longer occupied. The cover was all bunched up, but there was nobody in there. She looked around, now mildly curious. There didn't seem to be anybody in the room. But she was sure she had heard something creaking.
There was a groan, and suddenly, a face appeared, inches from her own.
“Hello.”
The tray crashed as it dropped to the floor, and she fled the room.
“Inias?”
Cas had just appeared in the middle of a diner in Clark Fork, Montana.
“Castiel!” said Inias, throwing back his hoodie.
Suddenly the middle-aged waitress who had been standing nearby lunged for Cas, her angel blade glinting against the neon lights. She found herself pinned and disarmed by Bibi.
“Hello, Meg,” said Cas, turning to look at her.
“You know this demon?” asked Bibi.
“We've met,” said Cas, tilting his head.
“We've shared spit!” grumbled Meg.
“I'm sorry, Castiel,” said Inias. “Really, really sorry.”
Cas waved a hand at Inias. “No need. Meg can be … protective. So this is your new cause, Meg?” He gestured, and Bibi let her go, although, much to her annoyance, he kept the angel blade.
“Slim Shady here helped me escape Crowley. But got my meatsuit blown up in the process.”
Cas smiled. “That must have been harrowing.”
“And he won't let me grab a decent looking one.” Looking very annoyed she pulled at the waitress's apron.
“I take it you've met Vibhishana?” Cas asked Inias.
“Yes, Bibi-”
“My friends call me Bibi. You can call me Vibhishana,” grumbled Bibi, casually picking at a fingernail with the angel blade. “So you're working for Crowley now?”
“No. Not at all,” said Inias, putting up his hands. “Please let me explain. I went to Hell some time back. I was looking for a friend. Another angel. Rumor has it that Crowley is holding him. And ... torturing him. I didn't find him, but I did find Meg. And, well, she can be very persuasive.”
Cas stared at his brother. “Crowley is holding an angel? That's strange. I heard the same story from Naomi. I thought she was lying.”
“You've encountered Naomi?” asked Inias, his eyes wide.
“I've heard she's quite a bitch,” said Meg, who appeared to approve the whole thing.
“Yes, you would find much to admire about her, Meg,” Cas told her. He shook his head. “I escaped from Naomi. But I don't have time to explain now, unfortunately. I came here today because I need your help, Inias.”
“You need my help,” breathed Inias.
“Oh, quit acting like a starstruck little girl,” sassed Meg.
Inias, who seemed quite expressive for an angel, looked more than a little driven to distraction. “Meg, please-”
“Besides, he's taken.” Meg leaned over and, before Bibi grabbed her back, took a deep sniff of Cas. “Boy is he taken! You even smell like a Winchester.”
“Thank you,” said Cas, which only made Meg glower.
“You've- You've taken a mortal lover, Castiel?” asked Inias.
“Of course, hasn't everybody?” asked Bibi. “It's the new black, mate.”
Cas, who didn't understand the reference, smiled anyway. “Inias. Dean said that you uncovered the Ghost Tablet.”
“We did,” said Inias, as he and Meg exchanged a glance. “We have, or rather, Crowley has an object.”
“Eh. One of the tchotchkes he had lying around from his crossroads days,” said Meg.
It was Cas and Bibi's turn to exchange a glance. “So, he has located the tablets?” asked Cas with some alarm.
Meg smirked. “Calm yourself, Clarence. Not unless the guy has wised up. Which I doubt will happen any time this century. He has it, but he and his bozos have no clue what it does.”
“So, we need to get inside Crowley's headquarters,” said Cas. Bibi nodded grimly.
“We will help you. In any way. Of course,” said Inias.
“What? Am I the only one in this room in possession of brains?” asked Meg. “Crowley will turn you boys into feather dusters.”
“You're still afraid of Crowley, Meg?” asked Cas.
Meg huffed and suddenly seemed to get very interested in something on the floor. “What? No, of course not. He's an annoying little Scots dirtbag who's got too big for his kilt.”
“Then you'll help?”
“What's in it for me, Mr. Eagle Scout?” asked Meg, hooking a thumb at herself.
Cas considered. “What if I said I could get your, uh, vessel back?”
Meg leaned over towards Cas again, staring at him. “You don't have the mojo to do that.”
Cas raised his eyebrows. “I don't....”
Meg wrinkled the elderly waitress's brow. “All right. I'm in. But I want my angel sword back.”
“When we complete the mission,” said Cas.
“Fucker,” said Meg. She cocked a hip. “Tell me, I get in my good meatsuit, do I stand a chance?”
Cas smiled, and there was an actual warmth to it. “You never had a 'chance.' Dean is my one true love.”
Meg glowered. “God damn, he's a fucking fairy princess.”
“Meg,” said Inias with no little irritation. “I think you've occupied that vessel long enough now.”
“Yeah, my varicose veins are acting up anyway.” Meg threw her head back and belched black smoke.
Inias opened the clasp on a small locket he wore, and, as the waitress sunk to her knees, the smoke congealed inside. He shut the locket and went to check the pulse on the unconscious waitress. “Another of Crowley's treasures,” he told Bibi and Cas, tapping the locket.
“Seems a good place for that one,” grumbled Bibi.
“We'll be in touch,” said Cas. He nodded and in a wingbeat, he and Bibi were returned to Valhalla.
“So, let me get this straight, Cas,” said Bibi as they stood by the fireside in the same sitting room they had left a few minutes earlier. “You got both that demon girl and that angel to fancy you?”
Cas blushed. “It's.... Well.... Yes. I suppose?”
“And Dean?”
The pink cheeks turned crimson. “Crowley said … I have 'sex appeal.'”
“Crowley too? You are something,” grinned Bibi, patting Cas on the shoulder.
“Cas! You're back!” said Odin, who had just rushed into the room.
“What is it?”
“Dean, you need to come down from there. Right. Now.”
“Why?” asked Dean, who was now swinging from the light fixture by his knees while chomping on the bacon burger the servant had dropped. He seemed rather adept at this whole eating upside-down business.
“Because.… Because I said so,” Cas told him.
“You gave my servant a fright,” urged Odin. “So, why not come down and be friendly?”
Dean jammed the burger into his face and hopped down, cat-like, his feet landing right in front of Cas. He took the burger from his mouth, and then leaned over and took a long sniff of the angel. “You smell familiar.”
“I'm Cas. Castiel. And how can you smell anything over that bacon cheeseburger?”
“With mushrooms,” Dean commented, waving the burger. “But you didn't know that. Did you. DID YOU?”
“This one definitely needs to go easy on the mushrooms,” muttered Odin.
Cas tried again. “Dean. I realize this is difficult. But we need you to focus. The angels have your brother in captivity. They … have ... Sam.”
“Sam? Sam? Aw! Why do I always have to take care of Sam. He can take care of himself. I wanna play video games.”
An angel appeared in the doorway.
“Lady angel!” said Dean, leaping over to where Metatron was standing and taking a deep whiff. “Pretty!”
Metatron ignored him, walking into the room right past Dean. “I should have been there.”
“Mets-”
“I should have been there, Odin.”
Odin shook his head. “It's too dangerous. If Azrael catches your scent....:
She stood, arms crossed, and watched as Dean leapt on top of the bureau and crouched there, munching on his burger. “Dangerous? We lost Yamaraja, we lost Sam Winchester, and now look at this one! He wasn't ready.”
“You picked him, Mets.”
“You did?” asked Cas, turning to face her.
Metatron stood her ground, looking at Castiel and Odin in turn. “When he was ready to bear the burden. You told me yourself he didn't even talk to his brother. Doesn't take an idiot to know what that means.”
“He told me,” said Cas softly.
Metatron's face softened. “Well, of course he did. Of course he did.”
“You had no time, and you had to make a choice, Cas,” said Odin. “And we'll figure this one out.”
“I think there is someone who might be of help. To Dean,” said Cas.
“Call him then,” said Odin.
Cas sighed as Dean hopped up to swing from the chandelier once again. “In the meantime, I think we need to move on Crowley. We need to find the angel tablet.”
“Are you completely certain you didn’t mean Adam Winchester?” rasped the clerk, her voice the demon spawn of unfiltered cigarette smoke marinated in the cheapest rotgut whiskey.
Crowley sighed and cast an impatient glance around at the slow-moving lackeys of the Department of Manifestations and Visitations, where the records of every single incoming soul were kept, everything scratched out laboriously by quill on parchment. The lines here, as everywhere nowadays in hell under Crowley’s administration, were inconceivably long and moved at the pace of a snail struggling uphill against a windstorm. Crowley had played the “King of Hell” card and cut to the head, only to come up against the unstoppable force of Agrat Bat Mahlat, queen of the demons, and assistant vice manager of the DMV, GS level 147,666.
Civil service demons. As it turned out, there was nothing worse in the universe.
Crowley had already smitten four or five different minions he’d sent down to interrogate her. There was another who’d gotten lost in line somewhere along the way.
“Dean Winchester,” he said for what seemed the thousandth time. “I am looking for Dean. His soul should have come in within the last few days.”
Her face disappeared into a vast sea of wrinkles as she studied the parchment before her. “Henry Winchester?”
Crowley looked heavenward. Angel wankers, he thought. “I don’t even know who that is! Dean Winchester. D-E-A-N.” How many damned dead Winchesters could there possibly be, he thought.
“John Winchester?”
Oh, that tore it. “He’s not even here! He escaped! Under a, uh, previous regime,” Crowley was obliged to note.
The much-furrowed brow was trained towards Crowley. “He has not escaped. It would have been noted.” She tapped the parchment with her quill.
Crowley’s fury bubbled with double trouble. Up until the instant he was distracted by a cheery, “Hey, boss, it’s time for your oatmeal bath.”
“What?” demanded Crowley, turning on the demon lackey, who was also his longest surviving personal chef. His anger crested and then, oddly enough, receded. “I am feeling a little itchy,” he mused.
“Yeah. Stress will do that. Yeah.”
Crowley spared a last glower at Agrat Bat Mahlat, who stiffly ignored him, and walked out with his chef. “You think they’d be able to locate one soul. One soul, Pierre.” The man wasn’t really named Pierre. In fact, he probably wasn’t even French. But Crowley thought that was a good name for a chef.
The two exited the sliding doors of the beige, neon-lit confines that comprised the central bureaucracy of the underworld and instead walked abreast down the refreshingly dark sulfur-scented caverns of Hell proper.
“Ah, the DMV, yeah,” said the chef who wasn’t really Pierre. “Nobody can find nothing there. Yeah. It’s always been that way. You wanna find a soul, it might as well be lost.”
Crowley had a thought. Since it was him, it was a very evil thought.
“I just had an idea, Pierre,” he said. And he grinned.
The baseball sailed an impossible distance through the air, whistling up, way up high, up over where Cas and Ninazu sat at a picnic table, quietly coloring in the young god's book. A wolf sitting at their feet looked mournfully upwards, while its brother galloped along, following the ball's path.
“I got it! I got it!” hollered Namtar, who had to run back what looked like a good half mile to catch Benny's impossible throw. “I got it!” he yelled happily as, indeed, and to the trailing wolf's utter disappointment, he snatched the ball out of the air. “Catch, Dean!” he yelled as he wound up and threw another, equally ridiculously long pitch.
“Damn, this is the most fun I've had in decades,” laughed Benny, sitting down at the table across from Castiel and Ninazu. The vampire rubbed his shoulder, winding his arm around as if making a slow pitch. “Can't remember the last damn time I threw a ball around. I mean, really threw a ball around. I always have to hold back, since I was changed, so folk won't think there's something funny going on.”
“Thank you for coming up here, Benny,” said Cas stiffly.
“My pleasure, man.”
“Dean is having problems … adjusting.”
Benny chuckled. “What we been through, Cas? Lucky we all ain't all gone batshit royale with cheese.”
Cas nodded.
“You might think of taking the angel stick out of your ass and tossing the ball around with us,” said Benny.
Can wrinkled his nose. “I am … coloring. With Ninazu.”
“Son of a bitch!” Dean growled from very, very far off as the throw eluded him, sparking the wolf to go chasing into the woods after it.
“I want a dog!” yelled Namtar, who really didn't need to yell, as he had just plopped down on top of the picnic table.
“Well, why don't you ask your mom and papa?” asked Benny.
Namtar rolled his eyes. “We've asked and asked and asked. No animals of any kind where we live.”
Benny nodded. “Yeah, kid, your neighborhood … kind of sucks.”
“It totally sucks! There's nothing but rocks and feathers.”
“Well, then it's lucky you can come up here and visit with your Uncle Cas.”
Cas turned towards Benny, his eyes wide. “I am not a biological relative to these children,” he told Benny seriously.
Benny grinned. “Naw, it's what you call adults you like.”
“Oh.” Cas looked down at Ninazu, who enthusiastically nodded. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask about your stepfather, Namtar. Nergal-”
Namtar huffed. “Nergal just believes what I tell him. Dean's dead and we're all totally upset.” Little Ninazu gave this a nod as well.
“And Dean’s soul…?” prompted Cas.
“Got lost somewhere.”
“It was fortunate for us that you spotted your stepfather visiting Crowley,” said Cas.
“My stepdad is sort of smart. But he’s also sort of stupid sometimes,” said Namtar.
“That’s the way it is for a lot of us grownups,” laughed Benny.
“Hey, Namtar, check this out!” Dean bellowed. The ball went sailing overhead, a frenetic wolf in hot pursuit.
“You not gonna go chase the ball, pal?” asked Benny, giving the moping wolf lying under the table a good scratch.
“That one is Freki,” said Cas. “He has developed an affection for Sam, and can't understand why he isn't around.”
“You can tell that?” asked Benny.
“Yes.” Freki rested his chin on Cas's thigh and looked up, wolf eyes great pools of sadness.
“So for the rescue, you waiting for Dean to quit being … sick?” asked Benny.
“Dean is fine!” said Namtar.
Cas stared at Namtar. “What do you mean?”
“If Dean was sick, my brother would heal him.”
Cas squinted at Ninazu, who was silently coloring. “Even if he's sick....” he said, and pointed to his own head.
“Oh, yeah, he does that too. But Dean's really okay, right?” Namtar asked his brother. Ninazu nodded enthusiastically.
“Namtar! Get your godly little ass over here and throw the ball!” Dean wailed. “I'm tired of playing with the wolf! It's a freaking drool machine!”
Namtar jumped up to go play. Cas sat and stared.
“You got an idea, don't you, angel?” asked Benny. “I can see them wheels a-turning.”
Cas shook his head, as if to banish the thought. “It's probably foolish. And it will be dangerous.”
“Friend, those are always the best ideas!”
Cas sat back, running a hand through Ninazu’s hair. “We would need to test it out first, I think.”
She walked up and down International Highway 99, dressed in a day glo miniskirt, tube top, and some ridiculously high platform shoes. She had long blonde hair, which she whipped around with a great flourish every so often.
It was either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on your point of view. This stretch of highway was usually dotted with young women, but for some reason, there weren't very many other girls plying their trade here. Maybe it was the rumors about the man in the white van. Girls had gone off with him, and never returned.
He seemed to like blondes.
This girl must have been new, as when a white van pulled up nearby, she sauntered right on over to it. The driver parked the van, and got out to talk with her. He was big: much bigger than she was, and burly, with huge, muscular Popeye-like forearms. They chatted for a while about services and prices.
And then suddenly, he had her by the throat. A needle flashed....
And he found himself flat on his back, gasping for breath after having been kicked in the throat.
The girl wrenched open the side door on the van. “So, this is a serial murderer Van of Doom?” she asked brightly, peering around inside. “Hey, cool.” She grabbed him by the collar and easily tossed him into the back of the van. She pulled off her wig and tossed it in the back along with him. “Itchy,” she explained, scratching her hair, which was red with the tips dyed blue. “You just sit tight, we're going for a ride!” And then she slammed the door shut, got into the driver's seat, and drove off.
“I don't understand where I am,” the girl stammered. She was blonde – a real blonde – and couldn't have been much more than sixteen years old.
“We're FBI,” Cas told her confidently, flashing Agent Hammett's badge. The picture didn't seem to match his face, it was of some guy with freckles, but he flashed it quickly. “Special division. I just need to you to verify that the individual we have in custody is in fact the man who kidnapped you. The one you told us you managed to escape?”
She nodded grimly, looking in wonder around Rufus's cabin. She showed a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt, probably what got her into the white van.
“Don't worry, Agent Ulrich will be at your side at every moment,” Cas assured her, indicating Bibi. The god gently took her elbow and led her down the basement steps.
“You're sure dressed nice for an FBI guy,” the girl told Bibi.
“Oh, thank you, love. This one was custom made. I'm … very particular about my FBI uniform.”
She gasped as she spied the man tied to the chair with electrical tape seated in the dark basement. “New interrogation techniques,” Bibi muttered.
“Do not be afraid,” Cas told her. “He is unconscious now. He cannot see you.”
The girl stumbled forward, trembling, and gave the man a good once-over in the dim light. “Yes, that's him. That's definitely him.” She began to weep.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Cas, as Bibi patted her on her back. “You have been very brave. Agent Ulrich, kindly escort our witness back home.”
“What will happen to him?” she asked Cas, her eyes filled with tears.
“Don't worry,” said Cas. “We will never let him harm anybody again. Thanks to you.”
She sniffled and nodded and, as Cas watched, Bibi escorted her back out of the basement. Cas turned and stared at the man in the chair.
“How's it going, Agent Hammett?” asked Ruth, who was suddenly standing at his side. “I want an FBI badge!” She was still dressed in her day glo miniskirt.
Cas looked at her curiously. “You received a new outfit instead,” he told her dryly.
She grinned. “Oh, I forgot.” She snapper her fingers, and returned to her normal black outfit, although she continued to wear the blonde wig. “Hey, you know, it just might be true that blondes have more fun!”
“I wasn't aware of that truism,” said Cas. “As for our suspect,” he added, nodding at the man tied to the chair, “he is off the charts on the psychopathology checklist, although he is remarkably uncooperative as a test subject.”
“A lot of items on that inventory. I think I'd be uncooperative.”
“Be that as it may, I think we have verified he is indeed afflicted with psychopathology, and that he is guilty of committing illegal acts. Now for the next step....”
“Hey, Namtar!” said Ruth, waving up at the stairs as the two boys entered. “Hey Ninazu!” The little god ran down the stairs and jumped into Cas's arms. “Hey, you got yourself a friend,” remarked Ruth.
“Now, you see this person, Ninazu?” asked Cas. The boy nodded. “He seems to be sick.”
Ninazu nodded and wriggled out of Cas's arms.
The sergeant at the desk looked left and right, and then, with the touch of a finger, muted the sound on his iPhone.
Star Wars Angry Birds was just so fucking addictive.
He looked up in annoyance as the burly man appeared at his desk. He hit pause, and noticed the guy was crying his eyes out.
“All right, sir. Can you tell me what the problem is.” The burly man sniffled. “Were you mugged, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“I've done some terrible things. Terrible things!”
Oh, great, a drunk, thought the sergeant. Just what I need when I've almost got the high score. “Yes, sir. I'm sure it's not that bad.”
“It is! It is! I've kidnapped and murdered twenty-two women!”
The sergeant set his phone down. “Um. I'm sorry?”
“I tortured and murdered young girls,” wailed the man. “They were prostitutes. I thought no one would care. But I care!” He lunged forward to grab the sergeant by the lapels. “I care!”
“Oh boy,” thought the sergeant.
“You guys knit me a new meatsuit just so fucking Crowley can blow it up again?”
As Benny, Cas, and Inias watched with varying levels of amusement, Meg found herself gripped by the collar and pulled downwards to face a furious archangel.
“Demon. Kindly do not. Refer to my creation. That way,” snarled Metatron.
“Uh. Okey-doke,” said Meg, now nose to nose with Metatron. The angel kept her grip tight for a long moment, and then released the demon, sending her stumbling backwards.
“Crowley reduced your old body to atoms. I had to go flying all over the universe to reassemble it. And you know what? I broke a nail!” She thrust up her hand in Meg's face.
“Uh. Sorry?”
Metatron gave Meg one last glare and then stomped out of the room. “I'm going riding,” she grumbled.
“Boy, angel PMS or what,” muttered Meg.
“Meg,” said Inias. “This body isn't a rental, remember. It's a rare gift.”
“Oh, and I'm supposed to be all dewy-eyed that I get to be a real girl? Knock it off, Lord of the Locket.”
Inias looked over at Cas, who shrugged. “Demons.”
“A woman should have a little spirit to her,” chortled Benny.
Meg glared. “Get back in your box, Incisors, before I sharpen my stake on your heart.”
Benny howled with laughter. “First off, wooden stakes don't work, Morticia. And second, I ain't got a heart. And thirdly, as my Mama use to say, there is spunky, and then there is just damn unpleasant.”
“What is up with Crackerbox, here?” Meg asked Cas. “You boys needed to fulfill your hayseed quota after Bobby tanked?”
“Benny is my friend,” said Cas. This got a glance and then a small smile from Benny.
Meg turned to Inias. “Something stinks here, Inias, and it isn't just Undead Burl Ives here. Why him and no Winchesters? Why aren't you hanging off your boyfriend, Cas?”
Cas smiled. “Meg, I am going to do something you probably have little experience with. I am going to tell you the truth.”
Meg looked appropriately shocked.
“We had a confrontation with some angels. The same ones I think that Inias is fleeing from. One of our friends … was killed. They captured Sam. And Dean was injured. He is still recovering. And now I believe they are torturing Sam....”
“I- I would bet they are, Cas,” said Inias quietly.
Cas winced. “The angels demanded we turn the angel tablet over to them. As we do not presently have it, we need to go dig it up.”
“You're not going to give it to them, are you?” asked Inias.
“Over my charred flight wings,” Cas vowed. “But I suspect they are searching for it as well. I will not forfeit Sam's life over this. We must find it, and we must find it soon.”
Meg snorted. “Yeah. Your story has touched me to the bottom of my cold, cold heart. Now, after we're done, you give me the locket of doom and my angel-smiting sword, and I'm off.”
“That's acceptable, Meg,” said Cas.
“Good, 'cause I don't want anybody getting the idea I'm signing up to join Super Friends or any crap like that.”
“We don't have that idea,” said Cas. Meg got up and sauntered out of the room, although she made no mention of going riding.
“Castiel,” said Inias. Cas turned to look at him. “You're with- You're with Dean Winchester now, correct?”
Cas looked puzzled, but Benny clapped him on his shoulder and laughed. “You wanna crack at that one? Brother, you don't know what you're in for.”
“I like … a challenge,” said Inias, who left the room to hurry after Meg.
Benny grinned. “I think she's still got a little shine on for you, Cas.”
Cas looked thoughtful. “Once, when no one wanted anything to do with me, including Dean, she watched over me. I don't want to fool myself about what she is. But I believe I do owe her a debt.” He turned to face Benny. “She has committed some terrible crimes. Against my friends.”
“We've all got blood on our hands. For some of us that's pretty damn literal. Looking back, I probably deserved to have my ass chucked into Purgatory.”
“I deserved to be there,” said Cas. “I probably shouldn't be here now.”
Benny laughed. Cas gazed at him. “And what the hell is Dean supposed to do? It's pretty clear you're the one for the dumb son of a bitch.”
“He deserves better. A human. And, what was it? A fence composed of wooden slats?”
“White picket fence? That what he wants?”
“It's what Sam wants.”
“Yeah, his brother. What does Dean want?”
Cas looked at Benny, and then looked away. “We need to prepare for the meeting with Crowley.”
Sam blinked.
After Cas’s visit, he had gone back to the dream about driving the car, but he had somehow managed to calm himself down. And the memories had come back, though slowly at first. Somehow, Dean was back from Purgatory, and he would get Sam out.
He had been unable to find Cas’s desert location, so instead, when he had a mind to, he pulled over by the side of the road to look at the stars for a little while.
Sam definitely didn’t remember getting out of the car and into this room, however. It looked like a dentist’s waiting room or something. Only there were no People magazines. He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around.
There was a rush of wingbeats, and suddenly a buttoned down woman was sitting behind the desk across from him.
“Oh, good,” said Sam. “You need to restock your magazines.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked. She folded her hands, gripping them together. Sam, who had interrogated hundreds of witnesses, was no slouch at picking up on body language, even of the “emotionless” angelic sort. She hadn’t even really said anything, and she was already lying.
Sam realized he had two options, either chill out and play along, or go poke things with a stick.
Sam was a great stick-poker.
“Naomi, right? So, am I still dreaming, or is this real?”
She shifted her features to a sort of Pan Am smile: one that got nowhere near her eyes. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Meaning it does,” said Sam.
This merited a micro-expression. It was a tiny reaction, just the movement of a few small muscles, but Sam had seen it.
And then the forehead smoothed out again. “Sam. We need your help.”
“Cool. I’ll give you my cell phone number.” Sam stood up, as if he intended to leave.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Naomi, an undercurrent of menace behind the blinding smile.
“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t, but you’re an angel, and I’m not,” said Sam, who found himself smacked down into the chair. “Look, Naomi, that’s rude. Tell your boss, I'm not impressed.”
He got a tiny brow wrinkle this time. She probably didn't want to mention the guy pulling the strings. Interesting. “Sam, I don’t think you understand. We have a very dangerous situation.”
“You have no idea,” grinned Sam, leaning forward. “See, you’ve kidnapped me, meaning you’ve pissed off the one guy in the universe that you don’t wanna piss of, my brother, Dean.”
It wasn’t just a micro-expression this time. Yeah, this chick was nervous.
“Look, Naomi. Who’s behind the one way glass? And, why is he too chickenshit to come out and talk to me himself?”
There was a flash. Sam hid his eyes, and then looked around.
He was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala.
He shrugged, got out and checked the trunk.
There was beer. Good. Sam popped the top and leaned back, staring at the stars. “Sam 1: Angels 0,” he muttered, sipping his beer.
“Is there just a vast holding room somewhere crowded with unkempt angel boytoys?”
Cas and Inias exchanged a glance. Cas shrugged. “I never understand half of the things Crowley says. It was probably intended as some kind of insult.”
Inias regarded the crossroads demon and self-proclaimed King of Hell with frank curiosity. Then he looked back at Cas. “He would insult angels?”
“I believe it speaks to a kind of insecurity.”
“Insecurity? Isn't that sort of shotgun psychology?” asked Inias.
“He is genuinely obsessed with his supposed sexual prowess,” Cas told him.
Inias turned to give Crowley another once-over.
“Damn you, Sparkles. I will not stand her and be insulted by an angel boy band.”
“I agree,” pouted Meg, who stood between Cas and Inias. “Can we get this over with?”
Crowley glared at Meg. “You, sunshine, are not gonna have it over with any time soon.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you'll tie me up with my intestines and flay my skin. You know, you might have taken a lesson from Alastair. At least he was creative.”
“All right, much as I hate to agree with the Queen of Deadpan, can we get this over with?” Crowley barked. “I assume you and Justin Timberlake here want Dean Winchester's immortal soul as part of the deal.”
Inias started to reply but instead winced when Cas stomped on his foot. “Why would I want Dean’s soul?”
“Because it’s missing, you ingrate. Don’t pretend with me. That’s why you called this meeting.”
“That is a supposition,” said Cas. “But I had something bigger in mind.”
“What? So soon to abandon your human pet? Have you gone mad … again, Castiel? In which case you could have at least brought more honey.”
“Did you like it?” asked Cas, a smile edging at his lips.
Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. I'm a tea drinker. What of it? GET TO THE POINT.”
“We want the angel tablet.”
“Yes, so do I. And when I inevitably get it, I will rejoice in sewing your wings together with catgut. But I don't have it.”
“No. But you have an artifact that will lead us to it.”
Crowley scowled at Castiel. “So, that's what you have in mind? Much as I enjoy the idea of melting away this one's insides,” he said, indicating Meg, “this doesn't seem like a fair deal.”
“There isn't any deal. You will give us the artifact.”
“I knew it. Last time I deal with a shifty seraph. You realize I have this place surrounded by my demons?”
Cas opened up his trench coat to reveal a small, winged child clinging to his side.
“What the hell, Cas? Are you budding off cherubs now?”
“Ninazu,” said Cas. “Heal him.” The boy literally flew towards Crowley, all sticky little hands.
“What? Wait! NO!” Crowley shrieked, and sunk to his knees at the toddler glommed onto him.
Meg snorted. “Crowley? Has a girlie scream? That, boys, was well worth waiting for.”
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 skip merrily off into an AU and never return. There are OCs here: none have rainbow eyes nor sparkle, but if that annoys you, you’ve been warned. Also, no beta, though I promise I know the difference between “lay” and “lie.”
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. Also, I’m pretty sure this is going to end up at 16 chapters, unless they poof up too much in the final edit and I need to make another split.
“So, you're certain?”
Nergal sat back in his chair, grinning and worrying a fingernail with a sharp silver emery board. “I attended the funeral. I witnessed the funeral pyre. The Lord of Naraka is dead.” He spoke the last with what he sincerely hoped was a portentous intonation, equal to the gravity of the announcement.
Crowley too sat back behind his desk, swirling his glass of scotch, looking, as he so often did, crafty. “So, the Hindu hell is currently running with a situation vacant at the head?”
“Yamaraja was an ass,” sniffed Nergal, the focus of whose entire fierce consciousness was currently directed at a hangnail on his ring finger.
Crowley's featured etched a smile. “There's one billion Hindus, Sunshine. How many Babylonians you spotted out there lately?”
Nergal bristled, his attention briefly diverted from his cuticles. “I haven't forgotten our bargain, Crowley. When this is over-”
Crowley made a big show of heaving an impatient sigh at the uppity pagan. “Yes, yes, you've been a great little turncoat, and you'll get the keys to Naraka.”
“I want the kingdom, not just the keys,” snorted Nergal, who was rather used to dealing with detail-oriented demons.
Crowley feigned disappointment. “We'll have it tattooed on your forehead, Dove. Now. What about the Winchesters?”
The emery scratching ceased for the announcement. “Dean Winchester … is dead.”
“You're sure?”
Nergal reared at the implied contradiction by the obviously stupid, stupid demon. “My sources say he was struck with an angel blade.” Which, of course, settled it.
Crowley waved his glass, splattering whiskey everywhere, and screamed, “But DID YOU SEE THE BODY?” As Nergal was a foreigner, and it had been scientifically established that shouting at foreigners worked.
“Well.... No,” the god admitted, putting away the nail file. “But it's no matter. My sources are infallible.” Said sources being a teenager who was late for Calculus class and his toddler brother. Details….
Crowley thumped his whiskey glass down on the table, spilling enough liquid in the process to pool under the glass and, in the fullness of time, produce an unattractive little ring on the antique desk, for which he would surly smite two or three underlings. “Nergal. Pumpkin. Didn't you already attempt to kill the Winchester ninnies once before? Now tell me, how did that go? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR SHOES?”
“I have dead skin on my heels!” said Nergal, who had slipped off a sandal, and was now brandishing a pumice stone.
“Not in the office. I just cleaned the carpet.”
“What about the angels?” taunted Nergal, sullenly fixing a heel back in its strap.
“Don't worry about the angels. Worry about Dean Winchester. My pets will make short work of those feather-draped bores.”
Nergal regarded his newly buffed nails. “The Leviathan? You barely control them.”
Crowley found he suddenly felt a great need to smite something. Anything. “I have the situation well under control thank you.” Quietly as he could his hand strayed into a desk drawer.
Nergal smiled. “And here is something you didn't know about Dean Winchester.”
Crowley froze, his hand around the revolver inside his desk drawer, wondering if this supposed information was worth the frustration of not shooting Nergal in the head with a silver bullet. “Yes?”
“My sources tell me that Dean Winchester's soul is not in heaven.”
Crowley took his hand off the gun and closed the drawer. Now this – this was interesting. A dozen possibilities zinged through his mind. “Why wouldn't it go to heaven?”
“Some say he's been consorting too closely with pagan gods of late. You know, the likes of me. Bringing down the property values, and all that.”
“But if Captain Ducklips didn't make it to heaven … where the hell did he go?”
“Exactly.”
Crowley glared at Nergal, who rose to leave.
“Anyway, I need to get back. Erie must be wondering where I am.” And then Nergal was gone, leaving only the slight whiff of sulfur and a fine spray of downy feathers.
“I need to get the damned carpet cleaned again,” Crowley sulked. He summoned a lackey, who appeared in his office. “I need to go through our intake with a fine-toothed comb. Have any Winchesters shown up in recent times?”
The lackey rolled his eyes. “Winchesters. Who can tell? Those people drop like flies.”
“Get to the DMV. Check the records….”
“And then they leave. They come, they leave. After all we’ve done for them, nice pleasant spot on the torture rack, or prime real estate in the cage.”
“Just check the records for Winchesters? Oh, and the carpet-“ But the lackey had already popped out, tutting over ungrateful Winchesters. “Fuck me,” grunted Crowley, pouring himself another scotch.
Sam awoke, not entirely certain where he was.
Not that it mattered.
He climbed out of the Impala's back seat, yawning and shaking off sleep. He scrounged around on the floor and found a half-filled plastic bottle of water, and used that to brush his teeth.
It was cold, so he struggled into another layer of clothing, started the car, and began to drive. He needed to drive. To get somewhere. Somewhere away from where he was.
His mind drifted, trying to remember how long it had been since that day. His consciousness couldn't even wrap around what had happened, what he had lost. The emptiness. He stepped on the gas and drove, aching to get away. Sam had barely eaten, and only slept when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He couldn't stop. He just couldn't stop.
The sky darkened. Thunder rolled. The rain came down, slow at first, and then more and more, drumming on the window, bathing the world in slopped water.
And there it was, the same place it always was, no matter where he turned or how long he drove, darting out onto the roadway before he could stop. And Sam was too damn sleepy and distracted and lost and sad to avoid it.
“Dean!” he screamed. Too late. Too late....
He gasped, suddenly thrown into the passenger seat as the car jerked madly left, and then careened around back right, the tail fanning out. He turned in shock, swiveling around to peer out the rain-soaked back window. Watching the surprised figure that the car had miraculously managed to avoid hitting, standing on the roadway, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
He turned to the driver.
“Hello Sam.”
“Cas?”
“This is a recurring dream of yours, Sam?” asked the familiar trench coated angel, who was now, preposterously enough, driving the car.
“How did you know?” asked Sam.
“I don't sleep, as you know. Some weeks ago, when you fell asleep in our room, I heard you crying out during one of your dreams. I know it was rude, but I was … curious. And wanted to help. However, at the time, I didn't know how to operate a motor vehicle. When your brother taught me, it occurred to me that this intervention might be helpful.” He glanced over at Sam, and then directed his eyes back to the road, every inch the responsible driver.
Sam’s mind reeled. What was this supposed to mean? “I’m sorry: your room? Why would you have a room Cas, you don’t sleep? In fact, you don’t drive, you don’t do anything. You’re dead!” And he, Sam, was now riding beside an angel ghosts. Did angels have ghosts?
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
Cas drove in silence for a while. The rain had thinned out, down from a torrent to a light patter. “But you didn't answer my question.”
“About my dream?” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Yeah, pretty much. Only … sometimes I hit Dean. Sometimes I hit you. Sometimes I hit the dog, like I did in real life. Or Bobby. Kevin. Amelia....” His voice choked.
Cas nodded but didn't reply. As the sun shown, Sam glanced out the window and noticed they'd somehow gone from a northern rainforest to a Southwestern looking desert landscape. “Are you doing this Cas?”
“I am.” Sam got the side glance again. Cas looked serious. “Sam. This is very important and we may not have much time. You are being held prisoner right now. By a group of angels. I need to know if there's anything – anything – that you can tell me about where you are being held.”
Sam stared at Cas in disbelief. “When did I get myself captured by angels? Did this happen after we ganked Dick? What the hell?”
“Sam, do you remember anything after … this incident? Hitting the dog?”
“I remember meeting Amelia.... She wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why I dream about her. Sometimes.” He frowned at Cas. “You're dead. My brother is dead. Everybody is dead.”
“No, Sam. Dean and I were in Purgatory.”
“Purgatory?”
“Yes. There’s no time to go into more detail. We escaped. And we are currently trying to hunt down more tablets before Crowley and the angels get to them.”
“Oh. Like Kevin's Leviathan tablet?”
“Yes, exactly.” Cas pulled the car over to the side of the road, and they emerged, under the hot desert sun. Sam stretched. It was the first time in days he could remember being warm. “I need your help now, Sam. And you are the only one who can help me. Please. I realize you are in a bad state of mind right now-”
“You don't understand. I don't think you can understand.” Sam put a hand through his hair, noticing but not caring that he was fighting back tears. “No offense. I just don't think you can understand. When Dean was gone before – when the Trickster killed him, and then when he went to hell – I lost it, Cas. I just snapped. Looking for him, trying to get him back, it just pushed me into a terrible, terrible place. I set off the apocalypse, Cas! The freaking apocalypse.
“And this time they’re all gone. You’re gone. Bobby is gone. My mom and dad. Everybody. I just didn't wanna become … that guy again. I don’t wanna hurt anybody this time. I’m running away. But I think I’m running away from myself. So I'll go. I'll go and I'll drive and I'll drive and I'll drive.”
“I know how you feel, Sam. I feel very … lost now, myself. Sometimes.”
Sam struggled to let his mind catch up. What Cas was telling him seemed familiar. But he suddenly realized there was something off about the angel. “Did something happen to Dean?”
A look of pain washed across Cas's features, and then was gone. “Dean is safe. Your brother is safe, with me. He was … injured. But he'll get better. I promise.”
Sam looked pale. “Dean is hurt?”
“Dean is recovering. Sam. We had a confrontation with the angels. Dean was injured, you were taken. I'm trying to set things right. But I need one thing from you. Please try to focus. Try to be aware of your surroundings. If you can tell me anything you think might help, meet me here. Can you remember that?”
“Meet you … here.”
“Yes. Get in the car and come here. I'll be waiting. Remember Sam. Please remember.”
Cas was sitting on a couch near a fireplace in Valhalla when he came back to himself.
“How did it go?” asked Odin, who was sitting nearby.
Cas unfolded his legs from the lotus position and sighed. “Bobby Singer used to have an expression: that worked like Vietnam.”
“You talked to Sam?”
“Yes, but he was … distracted. He is trapped inside a troubling recurring dream, of his time after his brother and I were transported to Purgatory.”
“Well, we tried.”
Cas tried to shake off his misgivings. He looked towards Odin. “I assume there's no change....”
“I would have woken you up for that. But we have a visitor.” Odin nodded, and Cas got quickly to his feet to greet his guest as Odin excused himself.
Cas shook the god’s extended hand. “Bibi! I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance to speak with you, after…. I am sorry. For your loss. Yamaraja. He was a good friend.” His brain scrambled, trying to think of what a friend should say or do.
“My uncle. He doesn't wanna be brought back,” said Bibi sadly.
Cas stood for a moment, at a loss, and then gestured for Bibi to sit down. He realized that he remained inept at sensing what was appropriate in social encounters, but guessed that his friend wanted to talk.
Bibi seated himself on one of the couches next to the fireplace. “He made out a will. Yamaraja did. We read it, and he said his soul had grown weary of the constant cycle of death and rebirth.”
Cas nodded, stunned that he had guessed right on what social gesture was called for. He forced himself to pay attention to Bibi's words. “I understand. Yes.” He nodded, remembering his own painful experiences with resurrection. “That kind of thing … it grows tiring.”
“He said he wants me to take over charge of Naraka, Cas.”
Cas narrowed his eyes, surprised. “You will be the King of Hell?” He thought it over. “Yes. You are the logical choice for that.”
“I am bloody scared shitless! To take that on? At this time?”
“Yamaraja was a good man, and a wise one. He made a good decision.”
“Wish I had your confidence about this one.”
A thought struck Cas. “You are going to marry Ruth? How is she…?”
“Oh, Ruthie is glorying in it!” said Bibi, a slight smile now tracing his features. “She’ll be a right queen of hell.” He was silent for a moment. “So, how's Dean? Any change?”
“He is the same.”
“I'm sorry.” Bibi leaned forward, his voice low. “Seriously, mate, I had no idea Odin and Metatron and them had him in mind to join the pantheon.”
Cas shrugged. “Me neither, to be honest. But I am currently more concerned with Sam. I found him, in his dream.”
Bibi blinked at Cas. “You can dream walk? Man, that's a fantastic power.”
“It's an angelic ability.” Almost without his bidding, his worries began to pour out. “I believe they have him trapped him in some kind of recurring dream cycle. They may mean to break him. His sanity.” Cas cringed at his own words, remembering with a shudder his own treatment at Naomi’s hands.
“What the hell? Angels are wankers. No offense.”
“None taken. I have an idea, but I may need your help. I have been putting a lot of effort of late into studying Crowley. His condition.”
“His condition?” That merited a grin. “Did Namtar zap him with plague or something?”
“Namtar has been doing nothing but watching of late,” Cas confessed. “If I can tempt Crowley into another meeting, I believe we can exploit it.”
Bibi smiled. “Screwing with that mad bugger Crowley? I’m in.”
Dean awoke, not completely certain where he was.
He sat up, regarding his hands with astonishment. How had he never noticed them before? They were … stunning. He held one up to the light, gazing at the fine musculature, the delicate tendons, the fragile bones. He was suddenly aware of each particular molecule in the elegantly folded proteins, all of the efficient enzymes, the long, twisted strands of DNA.
He sat up, putting his bare feet to the cold stone floor, amazed at the signals firing up his neurons. He stood and stretched.
Sunlight streamed into the window, the photons scattering on the walls. He pulled in a breath, pleased by the exchange of oxygen with carbon dioxide across his thin alveolar membranes.
He looked up.
She brought in a tray filled with lunch into the room formerly occupied by the angel. The human was there now. Not that he was likely to be awake. He was probably still dozing, or unconscious, or whatever state he was in. She would leave the tray, and then pick it up again in an hour. It would probably remain untouched, but they wanted someone checking on him more than anything.
She was surprised, therefore, to see that the bed was no longer occupied. The cover was all bunched up, but there was nobody in there. She looked around, now mildly curious. There didn't seem to be anybody in the room. But she was sure she had heard something creaking.
There was a groan, and suddenly, a face appeared, inches from her own.
“Hello.”
The tray crashed as it dropped to the floor, and she fled the room.
“Inias?”
Cas had just appeared in the middle of a diner in Clark Fork, Montana.
“Castiel!” said Inias, throwing back his hoodie.
Suddenly the middle-aged waitress who had been standing nearby lunged for Cas, her angel blade glinting against the neon lights. She found herself pinned and disarmed by Bibi.
“Hello, Meg,” said Cas, turning to look at her.
“You know this demon?” asked Bibi.
“We've met,” said Cas, tilting his head.
“We've shared spit!” grumbled Meg.
“I'm sorry, Castiel,” said Inias. “Really, really sorry.”
Cas waved a hand at Inias. “No need. Meg can be … protective. So this is your new cause, Meg?” He gestured, and Bibi let her go, although, much to her annoyance, he kept the angel blade.
“Slim Shady here helped me escape Crowley. But got my meatsuit blown up in the process.”
Cas smiled. “That must have been harrowing.”
“And he won't let me grab a decent looking one.” Looking very annoyed she pulled at the waitress's apron.
“I take it you've met Vibhishana?” Cas asked Inias.
“Yes, Bibi-”
“My friends call me Bibi. You can call me Vibhishana,” grumbled Bibi, casually picking at a fingernail with the angel blade. “So you're working for Crowley now?”
“No. Not at all,” said Inias, putting up his hands. “Please let me explain. I went to Hell some time back. I was looking for a friend. Another angel. Rumor has it that Crowley is holding him. And ... torturing him. I didn't find him, but I did find Meg. And, well, she can be very persuasive.”
Cas stared at his brother. “Crowley is holding an angel? That's strange. I heard the same story from Naomi. I thought she was lying.”
“You've encountered Naomi?” asked Inias, his eyes wide.
“I've heard she's quite a bitch,” said Meg, who appeared to approve the whole thing.
“Yes, you would find much to admire about her, Meg,” Cas told her. He shook his head. “I escaped from Naomi. But I don't have time to explain now, unfortunately. I came here today because I need your help, Inias.”
“You need my help,” breathed Inias.
“Oh, quit acting like a starstruck little girl,” sassed Meg.
Inias, who seemed quite expressive for an angel, looked more than a little driven to distraction. “Meg, please-”
“Besides, he's taken.” Meg leaned over and, before Bibi grabbed her back, took a deep sniff of Cas. “Boy is he taken! You even smell like a Winchester.”
“Thank you,” said Cas, which only made Meg glower.
“You've- You've taken a mortal lover, Castiel?” asked Inias.
“Of course, hasn't everybody?” asked Bibi. “It's the new black, mate.”
Cas, who didn't understand the reference, smiled anyway. “Inias. Dean said that you uncovered the Ghost Tablet.”
“We did,” said Inias, as he and Meg exchanged a glance. “We have, or rather, Crowley has an object.”
“Eh. One of the tchotchkes he had lying around from his crossroads days,” said Meg.
It was Cas and Bibi's turn to exchange a glance. “So, he has located the tablets?” asked Cas with some alarm.
Meg smirked. “Calm yourself, Clarence. Not unless the guy has wised up. Which I doubt will happen any time this century. He has it, but he and his bozos have no clue what it does.”
“So, we need to get inside Crowley's headquarters,” said Cas. Bibi nodded grimly.
“We will help you. In any way. Of course,” said Inias.
“What? Am I the only one in this room in possession of brains?” asked Meg. “Crowley will turn you boys into feather dusters.”
“You're still afraid of Crowley, Meg?” asked Cas.
Meg huffed and suddenly seemed to get very interested in something on the floor. “What? No, of course not. He's an annoying little Scots dirtbag who's got too big for his kilt.”
“Then you'll help?”
“What's in it for me, Mr. Eagle Scout?” asked Meg, hooking a thumb at herself.
Cas considered. “What if I said I could get your, uh, vessel back?”
Meg leaned over towards Cas again, staring at him. “You don't have the mojo to do that.”
Cas raised his eyebrows. “I don't....”
Meg wrinkled the elderly waitress's brow. “All right. I'm in. But I want my angel sword back.”
“When we complete the mission,” said Cas.
“Fucker,” said Meg. She cocked a hip. “Tell me, I get in my good meatsuit, do I stand a chance?”
Cas smiled, and there was an actual warmth to it. “You never had a 'chance.' Dean is my one true love.”
Meg glowered. “God damn, he's a fucking fairy princess.”
“Meg,” said Inias with no little irritation. “I think you've occupied that vessel long enough now.”
“Yeah, my varicose veins are acting up anyway.” Meg threw her head back and belched black smoke.
Inias opened the clasp on a small locket he wore, and, as the waitress sunk to her knees, the smoke congealed inside. He shut the locket and went to check the pulse on the unconscious waitress. “Another of Crowley's treasures,” he told Bibi and Cas, tapping the locket.
“Seems a good place for that one,” grumbled Bibi.
“We'll be in touch,” said Cas. He nodded and in a wingbeat, he and Bibi were returned to Valhalla.
“So, let me get this straight, Cas,” said Bibi as they stood by the fireside in the same sitting room they had left a few minutes earlier. “You got both that demon girl and that angel to fancy you?”
Cas blushed. “It's.... Well.... Yes. I suppose?”
“And Dean?”
The pink cheeks turned crimson. “Crowley said … I have 'sex appeal.'”
“Crowley too? You are something,” grinned Bibi, patting Cas on the shoulder.
“Cas! You're back!” said Odin, who had just rushed into the room.
“What is it?”
“Dean, you need to come down from there. Right. Now.”
“Why?” asked Dean, who was now swinging from the light fixture by his knees while chomping on the bacon burger the servant had dropped. He seemed rather adept at this whole eating upside-down business.
“Because.… Because I said so,” Cas told him.
“You gave my servant a fright,” urged Odin. “So, why not come down and be friendly?”
Dean jammed the burger into his face and hopped down, cat-like, his feet landing right in front of Cas. He took the burger from his mouth, and then leaned over and took a long sniff of the angel. “You smell familiar.”
“I'm Cas. Castiel. And how can you smell anything over that bacon cheeseburger?”
“With mushrooms,” Dean commented, waving the burger. “But you didn't know that. Did you. DID YOU?”
“This one definitely needs to go easy on the mushrooms,” muttered Odin.
Cas tried again. “Dean. I realize this is difficult. But we need you to focus. The angels have your brother in captivity. They … have ... Sam.”
“Sam? Sam? Aw! Why do I always have to take care of Sam. He can take care of himself. I wanna play video games.”
An angel appeared in the doorway.
“Lady angel!” said Dean, leaping over to where Metatron was standing and taking a deep whiff. “Pretty!”
Metatron ignored him, walking into the room right past Dean. “I should have been there.”
“Mets-”
“I should have been there, Odin.”
Odin shook his head. “It's too dangerous. If Azrael catches your scent....:
She stood, arms crossed, and watched as Dean leapt on top of the bureau and crouched there, munching on his burger. “Dangerous? We lost Yamaraja, we lost Sam Winchester, and now look at this one! He wasn't ready.”
“You picked him, Mets.”
“You did?” asked Cas, turning to face her.
Metatron stood her ground, looking at Castiel and Odin in turn. “When he was ready to bear the burden. You told me yourself he didn't even talk to his brother. Doesn't take an idiot to know what that means.”
“He told me,” said Cas softly.
Metatron's face softened. “Well, of course he did. Of course he did.”
“You had no time, and you had to make a choice, Cas,” said Odin. “And we'll figure this one out.”
“I think there is someone who might be of help. To Dean,” said Cas.
“Call him then,” said Odin.
Cas sighed as Dean hopped up to swing from the chandelier once again. “In the meantime, I think we need to move on Crowley. We need to find the angel tablet.”
“Are you completely certain you didn’t mean Adam Winchester?” rasped the clerk, her voice the demon spawn of unfiltered cigarette smoke marinated in the cheapest rotgut whiskey.
Crowley sighed and cast an impatient glance around at the slow-moving lackeys of the Department of Manifestations and Visitations, where the records of every single incoming soul were kept, everything scratched out laboriously by quill on parchment. The lines here, as everywhere nowadays in hell under Crowley’s administration, were inconceivably long and moved at the pace of a snail struggling uphill against a windstorm. Crowley had played the “King of Hell” card and cut to the head, only to come up against the unstoppable force of Agrat Bat Mahlat, queen of the demons, and assistant vice manager of the DMV, GS level 147,666.
Civil service demons. As it turned out, there was nothing worse in the universe.
Crowley had already smitten four or five different minions he’d sent down to interrogate her. There was another who’d gotten lost in line somewhere along the way.
“Dean Winchester,” he said for what seemed the thousandth time. “I am looking for Dean. His soul should have come in within the last few days.”
Her face disappeared into a vast sea of wrinkles as she studied the parchment before her. “Henry Winchester?”
Crowley looked heavenward. Angel wankers, he thought. “I don’t even know who that is! Dean Winchester. D-E-A-N.” How many damned dead Winchesters could there possibly be, he thought.
“John Winchester?”
Oh, that tore it. “He’s not even here! He escaped! Under a, uh, previous regime,” Crowley was obliged to note.
The much-furrowed brow was trained towards Crowley. “He has not escaped. It would have been noted.” She tapped the parchment with her quill.
Crowley’s fury bubbled with double trouble. Up until the instant he was distracted by a cheery, “Hey, boss, it’s time for your oatmeal bath.”
“What?” demanded Crowley, turning on the demon lackey, who was also his longest surviving personal chef. His anger crested and then, oddly enough, receded. “I am feeling a little itchy,” he mused.
“Yeah. Stress will do that. Yeah.”
Crowley spared a last glower at Agrat Bat Mahlat, who stiffly ignored him, and walked out with his chef. “You think they’d be able to locate one soul. One soul, Pierre.” The man wasn’t really named Pierre. In fact, he probably wasn’t even French. But Crowley thought that was a good name for a chef.
The two exited the sliding doors of the beige, neon-lit confines that comprised the central bureaucracy of the underworld and instead walked abreast down the refreshingly dark sulfur-scented caverns of Hell proper.
“Ah, the DMV, yeah,” said the chef who wasn’t really Pierre. “Nobody can find nothing there. Yeah. It’s always been that way. You wanna find a soul, it might as well be lost.”
Crowley had a thought. Since it was him, it was a very evil thought.
“I just had an idea, Pierre,” he said. And he grinned.
The baseball sailed an impossible distance through the air, whistling up, way up high, up over where Cas and Ninazu sat at a picnic table, quietly coloring in the young god's book. A wolf sitting at their feet looked mournfully upwards, while its brother galloped along, following the ball's path.
“I got it! I got it!” hollered Namtar, who had to run back what looked like a good half mile to catch Benny's impossible throw. “I got it!” he yelled happily as, indeed, and to the trailing wolf's utter disappointment, he snatched the ball out of the air. “Catch, Dean!” he yelled as he wound up and threw another, equally ridiculously long pitch.
“Damn, this is the most fun I've had in decades,” laughed Benny, sitting down at the table across from Castiel and Ninazu. The vampire rubbed his shoulder, winding his arm around as if making a slow pitch. “Can't remember the last damn time I threw a ball around. I mean, really threw a ball around. I always have to hold back, since I was changed, so folk won't think there's something funny going on.”
“Thank you for coming up here, Benny,” said Cas stiffly.
“My pleasure, man.”
“Dean is having problems … adjusting.”
Benny chuckled. “What we been through, Cas? Lucky we all ain't all gone batshit royale with cheese.”
Cas nodded.
“You might think of taking the angel stick out of your ass and tossing the ball around with us,” said Benny.
Can wrinkled his nose. “I am … coloring. With Ninazu.”
“Son of a bitch!” Dean growled from very, very far off as the throw eluded him, sparking the wolf to go chasing into the woods after it.
“I want a dog!” yelled Namtar, who really didn't need to yell, as he had just plopped down on top of the picnic table.
“Well, why don't you ask your mom and papa?” asked Benny.
Namtar rolled his eyes. “We've asked and asked and asked. No animals of any kind where we live.”
Benny nodded. “Yeah, kid, your neighborhood … kind of sucks.”
“It totally sucks! There's nothing but rocks and feathers.”
“Well, then it's lucky you can come up here and visit with your Uncle Cas.”
Cas turned towards Benny, his eyes wide. “I am not a biological relative to these children,” he told Benny seriously.
Benny grinned. “Naw, it's what you call adults you like.”
“Oh.” Cas looked down at Ninazu, who enthusiastically nodded. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask about your stepfather, Namtar. Nergal-”
Namtar huffed. “Nergal just believes what I tell him. Dean's dead and we're all totally upset.” Little Ninazu gave this a nod as well.
“And Dean’s soul…?” prompted Cas.
“Got lost somewhere.”
“It was fortunate for us that you spotted your stepfather visiting Crowley,” said Cas.
“My stepdad is sort of smart. But he’s also sort of stupid sometimes,” said Namtar.
“That’s the way it is for a lot of us grownups,” laughed Benny.
“Hey, Namtar, check this out!” Dean bellowed. The ball went sailing overhead, a frenetic wolf in hot pursuit.
“You not gonna go chase the ball, pal?” asked Benny, giving the moping wolf lying under the table a good scratch.
“That one is Freki,” said Cas. “He has developed an affection for Sam, and can't understand why he isn't around.”
“You can tell that?” asked Benny.
“Yes.” Freki rested his chin on Cas's thigh and looked up, wolf eyes great pools of sadness.
“So for the rescue, you waiting for Dean to quit being … sick?” asked Benny.
“Dean is fine!” said Namtar.
Cas stared at Namtar. “What do you mean?”
“If Dean was sick, my brother would heal him.”
Cas squinted at Ninazu, who was silently coloring. “Even if he's sick....” he said, and pointed to his own head.
“Oh, yeah, he does that too. But Dean's really okay, right?” Namtar asked his brother. Ninazu nodded enthusiastically.
“Namtar! Get your godly little ass over here and throw the ball!” Dean wailed. “I'm tired of playing with the wolf! It's a freaking drool machine!”
Namtar jumped up to go play. Cas sat and stared.
“You got an idea, don't you, angel?” asked Benny. “I can see them wheels a-turning.”
Cas shook his head, as if to banish the thought. “It's probably foolish. And it will be dangerous.”
“Friend, those are always the best ideas!”
Cas sat back, running a hand through Ninazu’s hair. “We would need to test it out first, I think.”
She walked up and down International Highway 99, dressed in a day glo miniskirt, tube top, and some ridiculously high platform shoes. She had long blonde hair, which she whipped around with a great flourish every so often.
It was either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on your point of view. This stretch of highway was usually dotted with young women, but for some reason, there weren't very many other girls plying their trade here. Maybe it was the rumors about the man in the white van. Girls had gone off with him, and never returned.
He seemed to like blondes.
This girl must have been new, as when a white van pulled up nearby, she sauntered right on over to it. The driver parked the van, and got out to talk with her. He was big: much bigger than she was, and burly, with huge, muscular Popeye-like forearms. They chatted for a while about services and prices.
And then suddenly, he had her by the throat. A needle flashed....
And he found himself flat on his back, gasping for breath after having been kicked in the throat.
The girl wrenched open the side door on the van. “So, this is a serial murderer Van of Doom?” she asked brightly, peering around inside. “Hey, cool.” She grabbed him by the collar and easily tossed him into the back of the van. She pulled off her wig and tossed it in the back along with him. “Itchy,” she explained, scratching her hair, which was red with the tips dyed blue. “You just sit tight, we're going for a ride!” And then she slammed the door shut, got into the driver's seat, and drove off.
“I don't understand where I am,” the girl stammered. She was blonde – a real blonde – and couldn't have been much more than sixteen years old.
“We're FBI,” Cas told her confidently, flashing Agent Hammett's badge. The picture didn't seem to match his face, it was of some guy with freckles, but he flashed it quickly. “Special division. I just need to you to verify that the individual we have in custody is in fact the man who kidnapped you. The one you told us you managed to escape?”
She nodded grimly, looking in wonder around Rufus's cabin. She showed a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt, probably what got her into the white van.
“Don't worry, Agent Ulrich will be at your side at every moment,” Cas assured her, indicating Bibi. The god gently took her elbow and led her down the basement steps.
“You're sure dressed nice for an FBI guy,” the girl told Bibi.
“Oh, thank you, love. This one was custom made. I'm … very particular about my FBI uniform.”
She gasped as she spied the man tied to the chair with electrical tape seated in the dark basement. “New interrogation techniques,” Bibi muttered.
“Do not be afraid,” Cas told her. “He is unconscious now. He cannot see you.”
The girl stumbled forward, trembling, and gave the man a good once-over in the dim light. “Yes, that's him. That's definitely him.” She began to weep.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Cas, as Bibi patted her on her back. “You have been very brave. Agent Ulrich, kindly escort our witness back home.”
“What will happen to him?” she asked Cas, her eyes filled with tears.
“Don't worry,” said Cas. “We will never let him harm anybody again. Thanks to you.”
She sniffled and nodded and, as Cas watched, Bibi escorted her back out of the basement. Cas turned and stared at the man in the chair.
“How's it going, Agent Hammett?” asked Ruth, who was suddenly standing at his side. “I want an FBI badge!” She was still dressed in her day glo miniskirt.
Cas looked at her curiously. “You received a new outfit instead,” he told her dryly.
She grinned. “Oh, I forgot.” She snapper her fingers, and returned to her normal black outfit, although she continued to wear the blonde wig. “Hey, you know, it just might be true that blondes have more fun!”
“I wasn't aware of that truism,” said Cas. “As for our suspect,” he added, nodding at the man tied to the chair, “he is off the charts on the psychopathology checklist, although he is remarkably uncooperative as a test subject.”
“A lot of items on that inventory. I think I'd be uncooperative.”
“Be that as it may, I think we have verified he is indeed afflicted with psychopathology, and that he is guilty of committing illegal acts. Now for the next step....”
“Hey, Namtar!” said Ruth, waving up at the stairs as the two boys entered. “Hey Ninazu!” The little god ran down the stairs and jumped into Cas's arms. “Hey, you got yourself a friend,” remarked Ruth.
“Now, you see this person, Ninazu?” asked Cas. The boy nodded. “He seems to be sick.”
Ninazu nodded and wriggled out of Cas's arms.
The sergeant at the desk looked left and right, and then, with the touch of a finger, muted the sound on his iPhone.
Star Wars Angry Birds was just so fucking addictive.
He looked up in annoyance as the burly man appeared at his desk. He hit pause, and noticed the guy was crying his eyes out.
“All right, sir. Can you tell me what the problem is.” The burly man sniffled. “Were you mugged, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“I've done some terrible things. Terrible things!”
Oh, great, a drunk, thought the sergeant. Just what I need when I've almost got the high score. “Yes, sir. I'm sure it's not that bad.”
“It is! It is! I've kidnapped and murdered twenty-two women!”
The sergeant set his phone down. “Um. I'm sorry?”
“I tortured and murdered young girls,” wailed the man. “They were prostitutes. I thought no one would care. But I care!” He lunged forward to grab the sergeant by the lapels. “I care!”
“Oh boy,” thought the sergeant.
“You guys knit me a new meatsuit just so fucking Crowley can blow it up again?”
As Benny, Cas, and Inias watched with varying levels of amusement, Meg found herself gripped by the collar and pulled downwards to face a furious archangel.
“Demon. Kindly do not. Refer to my creation. That way,” snarled Metatron.
“Uh. Okey-doke,” said Meg, now nose to nose with Metatron. The angel kept her grip tight for a long moment, and then released the demon, sending her stumbling backwards.
“Crowley reduced your old body to atoms. I had to go flying all over the universe to reassemble it. And you know what? I broke a nail!” She thrust up her hand in Meg's face.
“Uh. Sorry?”
Metatron gave Meg one last glare and then stomped out of the room. “I'm going riding,” she grumbled.
“Boy, angel PMS or what,” muttered Meg.
“Meg,” said Inias. “This body isn't a rental, remember. It's a rare gift.”
“Oh, and I'm supposed to be all dewy-eyed that I get to be a real girl? Knock it off, Lord of the Locket.”
Inias looked over at Cas, who shrugged. “Demons.”
“A woman should have a little spirit to her,” chortled Benny.
Meg glared. “Get back in your box, Incisors, before I sharpen my stake on your heart.”
Benny howled with laughter. “First off, wooden stakes don't work, Morticia. And second, I ain't got a heart. And thirdly, as my Mama use to say, there is spunky, and then there is just damn unpleasant.”
“What is up with Crackerbox, here?” Meg asked Cas. “You boys needed to fulfill your hayseed quota after Bobby tanked?”
“Benny is my friend,” said Cas. This got a glance and then a small smile from Benny.
Meg turned to Inias. “Something stinks here, Inias, and it isn't just Undead Burl Ives here. Why him and no Winchesters? Why aren't you hanging off your boyfriend, Cas?”
Cas smiled. “Meg, I am going to do something you probably have little experience with. I am going to tell you the truth.”
Meg looked appropriately shocked.
“We had a confrontation with some angels. The same ones I think that Inias is fleeing from. One of our friends … was killed. They captured Sam. And Dean was injured. He is still recovering. And now I believe they are torturing Sam....”
“I- I would bet they are, Cas,” said Inias quietly.
Cas winced. “The angels demanded we turn the angel tablet over to them. As we do not presently have it, we need to go dig it up.”
“You're not going to give it to them, are you?” asked Inias.
“Over my charred flight wings,” Cas vowed. “But I suspect they are searching for it as well. I will not forfeit Sam's life over this. We must find it, and we must find it soon.”
Meg snorted. “Yeah. Your story has touched me to the bottom of my cold, cold heart. Now, after we're done, you give me the locket of doom and my angel-smiting sword, and I'm off.”
“That's acceptable, Meg,” said Cas.
“Good, 'cause I don't want anybody getting the idea I'm signing up to join Super Friends or any crap like that.”
“We don't have that idea,” said Cas. Meg got up and sauntered out of the room, although she made no mention of going riding.
“Castiel,” said Inias. Cas turned to look at him. “You're with- You're with Dean Winchester now, correct?”
Cas looked puzzled, but Benny clapped him on his shoulder and laughed. “You wanna crack at that one? Brother, you don't know what you're in for.”
“I like … a challenge,” said Inias, who left the room to hurry after Meg.
Benny grinned. “I think she's still got a little shine on for you, Cas.”
Cas looked thoughtful. “Once, when no one wanted anything to do with me, including Dean, she watched over me. I don't want to fool myself about what she is. But I believe I do owe her a debt.” He turned to face Benny. “She has committed some terrible crimes. Against my friends.”
“We've all got blood on our hands. For some of us that's pretty damn literal. Looking back, I probably deserved to have my ass chucked into Purgatory.”
“I deserved to be there,” said Cas. “I probably shouldn't be here now.”
Benny laughed. Cas gazed at him. “And what the hell is Dean supposed to do? It's pretty clear you're the one for the dumb son of a bitch.”
“He deserves better. A human. And, what was it? A fence composed of wooden slats?”
“White picket fence? That what he wants?”
“It's what Sam wants.”
“Yeah, his brother. What does Dean want?”
Cas looked at Benny, and then looked away. “We need to prepare for the meeting with Crowley.”
Sam blinked.
After Cas’s visit, he had gone back to the dream about driving the car, but he had somehow managed to calm himself down. And the memories had come back, though slowly at first. Somehow, Dean was back from Purgatory, and he would get Sam out.
He had been unable to find Cas’s desert location, so instead, when he had a mind to, he pulled over by the side of the road to look at the stars for a little while.
Sam definitely didn’t remember getting out of the car and into this room, however. It looked like a dentist’s waiting room or something. Only there were no People magazines. He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around.
There was a rush of wingbeats, and suddenly a buttoned down woman was sitting behind the desk across from him.
“Oh, good,” said Sam. “You need to restock your magazines.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked. She folded her hands, gripping them together. Sam, who had interrogated hundreds of witnesses, was no slouch at picking up on body language, even of the “emotionless” angelic sort. She hadn’t even really said anything, and she was already lying.
Sam realized he had two options, either chill out and play along, or go poke things with a stick.
Sam was a great stick-poker.
“Naomi, right? So, am I still dreaming, or is this real?”
She shifted her features to a sort of Pan Am smile: one that got nowhere near her eyes. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Meaning it does,” said Sam.
This merited a micro-expression. It was a tiny reaction, just the movement of a few small muscles, but Sam had seen it.
And then the forehead smoothed out again. “Sam. We need your help.”
“Cool. I’ll give you my cell phone number.” Sam stood up, as if he intended to leave.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Naomi, an undercurrent of menace behind the blinding smile.
“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t, but you’re an angel, and I’m not,” said Sam, who found himself smacked down into the chair. “Look, Naomi, that’s rude. Tell your boss, I'm not impressed.”
He got a tiny brow wrinkle this time. She probably didn't want to mention the guy pulling the strings. Interesting. “Sam, I don’t think you understand. We have a very dangerous situation.”
“You have no idea,” grinned Sam, leaning forward. “See, you’ve kidnapped me, meaning you’ve pissed off the one guy in the universe that you don’t wanna piss of, my brother, Dean.”
It wasn’t just a micro-expression this time. Yeah, this chick was nervous.
“Look, Naomi. Who’s behind the one way glass? And, why is he too chickenshit to come out and talk to me himself?”
There was a flash. Sam hid his eyes, and then looked around.
He was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala.
He shrugged, got out and checked the trunk.
There was beer. Good. Sam popped the top and leaned back, staring at the stars. “Sam 1: Angels 0,” he muttered, sipping his beer.
“Is there just a vast holding room somewhere crowded with unkempt angel boytoys?”
Cas and Inias exchanged a glance. Cas shrugged. “I never understand half of the things Crowley says. It was probably intended as some kind of insult.”
Inias regarded the crossroads demon and self-proclaimed King of Hell with frank curiosity. Then he looked back at Cas. “He would insult angels?”
“I believe it speaks to a kind of insecurity.”
“Insecurity? Isn't that sort of shotgun psychology?” asked Inias.
“He is genuinely obsessed with his supposed sexual prowess,” Cas told him.
Inias turned to give Crowley another once-over.
“Damn you, Sparkles. I will not stand her and be insulted by an angel boy band.”
“I agree,” pouted Meg, who stood between Cas and Inias. “Can we get this over with?”
Crowley glared at Meg. “You, sunshine, are not gonna have it over with any time soon.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you'll tie me up with my intestines and flay my skin. You know, you might have taken a lesson from Alastair. At least he was creative.”
“All right, much as I hate to agree with the Queen of Deadpan, can we get this over with?” Crowley barked. “I assume you and Justin Timberlake here want Dean Winchester's immortal soul as part of the deal.”
Inias started to reply but instead winced when Cas stomped on his foot. “Why would I want Dean’s soul?”
“Because it’s missing, you ingrate. Don’t pretend with me. That’s why you called this meeting.”
“That is a supposition,” said Cas. “But I had something bigger in mind.”
“What? So soon to abandon your human pet? Have you gone mad … again, Castiel? In which case you could have at least brought more honey.”
“Did you like it?” asked Cas, a smile edging at his lips.
Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. I'm a tea drinker. What of it? GET TO THE POINT.”
“We want the angel tablet.”
“Yes, so do I. And when I inevitably get it, I will rejoice in sewing your wings together with catgut. But I don't have it.”
“No. But you have an artifact that will lead us to it.”
Crowley scowled at Castiel. “So, that's what you have in mind? Much as I enjoy the idea of melting away this one's insides,” he said, indicating Meg, “this doesn't seem like a fair deal.”
“There isn't any deal. You will give us the artifact.”
“I knew it. Last time I deal with a shifty seraph. You realize I have this place surrounded by my demons?”
Cas opened up his trench coat to reveal a small, winged child clinging to his side.
“What the hell, Cas? Are you budding off cherubs now?”
“Ninazu,” said Cas. “Heal him.” The boy literally flew towards Crowley, all sticky little hands.
“What? Wait! NO!” Crowley shrieked, and sunk to his knees at the toddler glommed onto him.
Meg snorted. “Crowley? Has a girlie scream? That, boys, was well worth waiting for.”
