Monkey Man (Part 3 of You Got the Silver)
Mar. 6th, 2013 05:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Monkey Man (Part 3 of You Got the Silver)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Fallen!Cas
Warnings: Cursing. No beta, so if minor spelling errors cause a twist of the panties, you might need go go commando baby.
Word Count: 2,000
Summary: Cas continues to deal with being almost sort of human, and Dean gets annoyed with some local graffiti artists.
Notes: This was supposed to be a one-shot!!!
Cas stood next to the kitchen sink, twisting his wrist and glaring smite-fully at the faucet.
“You still trying to use the Force?”
This produced a deep, grievous frown. “I still possess some power. This is known. But I am currently unaware as to how to access it. All of it. I believe it would aid us, Dean. In our work.”
“Yeah, sure Cas. And you wouldn’t have to crawl around in the mud with the rest of us monkeys?”
Cas looked aggrieved. “I find no shame in being human, Dean. Although I will admit I don’t care for being itchy. But it is a just … consequence for my many actions.”
“So you do admit being human is a punishment? You know, I remember when you used to call humans works of art.”
“They are!”
“But not, ‘We are,’”
Cas shrunk, chin to chest, angry and frustrated.
Dean leaned over and cranked the faucet. The water suddenly poured into the sink and rattled down the drain. “Look, for what it's worth, I don't think turning on the hot water tap with the awesome power of your mind is gonna get us too far.”
Cas studied Dean, who had been carrying a bucket of turpentine and some rags. “What are you doing?”
“Eh. Those vandals hit us again last night. Little fuckers. Wish I could catch them and wring their necks.”
“Dean….”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking. When you and … Sam came upon this place, it had been deserted for a number of years? Decades even?”
Dean idly twirled a paintbrush. “Yup, the Men of Letters eggheads had pretty much flown the coop. Why?”
“The entrance: at that time, was it marred by graffiti?”
“No, not a mark! I think these guys exist just to fuck up my life.”
Cas seemed far away. “Can I see?”
“Sure. It’s just outside. Why? What do you think, Cas?”
“I don’t know.” Cas accompanied Dean outside, where, indeed, several bright hues of spray paint now marred the front entrance to the bunker-like headquarters of the Men of Letters cult.
“Son of a bitch. It gets worse every time.” Still grumbling and vowing terrible revenge, Dean crouched down and began to pry open the can of turpentine.
“Dean, wait a moment.”
“What?”
“These symbols: they seem … familiar somehow.”
“You recognize the tags? Good! Let’s hunt the little shits down and kick their asses.”
Cas was at the door, tracing the markings with a long-fingered hand. “I believe they may have magical significance, Dean.” He scratched the rough stubble under his chin. “I can’t seem to recall what it is though.”
“You’re not going fifty first dates on me, are you Cas?”
“What?” Castiel had turned all the way around, his voice almost, but not quite, breaking.
Dean pointed to his head and circled his index and middle fingers around in the universal gesture for insanity. “Can’t remember all you remember any more?”
“It’s … frustrating. Like my lack of access to my power.”
“Don’t sweat it. Everybody has their off days. Let's get this crap off the door, and then we'll go inside, get a beer….”
“No, wait. There may be a way.” Cas stood up straight, squaring his shoulders, and cast a hand towards the door. “Stand back, Dean.”
“Wait, why am I standing back if you’re right up close?”
“Blowback.”
“Cas, don’t-“
But Castiel was already staring down the door, barking out some kind of invocation in a language Dean recognized as Enochian. Nothing happened for a beat, but then, accompanied by an impressive whooshing noise, the markings on the door flared up, glowing like St. Elmo’s fire.
“Cool,” was all Dean had time to say, because then there was a sound like a distant crack of thunder, the ground underfoot trembled and bucked, and then a blast, like someone had just set off a small bomb in their doorway. Cas was thrown backwards, and Dean leapt to catch him.
Dean stood for a moment, breathing hard, holding his arms around Cas’s waist, watching as the smoke to cleared.
The door was completely clean.
“Whoa,” said Dean, carefully setting a somewhat singed Cas upright. “Well, that sure saved us on paint remover.”
“But who was it?” asked Cas. “Who made the markings?”
“Dude, looks like you just erased the evidence,” said Dean, smiling and waving a hand at the pristine doorway.
“Son- Son of a bitch!” said Cas.
Dean's face bloomed into a grin. “Look, that's enough explosions for one morning. We’ll go inside, get you cleaned up, and then we’ll hit the books to figure out your magical markings. You know, the old-fashioned way. Okay?”
Circadian rhythmicity was a human trait that had so far eluded the former seraphic being, Castiel.
Dean didn’t pay this particular aspect of his friend's existence much mind: it was good enough for him as long as Cas remembered to eat occasionally and didn’t nick an artery while he was shaving. To be honest, Dean had never been one to place a high value on sleep. Time enough when you’re dead, he always said.
It did mean that Cas rarely ended up slumbering in an actual bed. On the contrary, what the former angel found to be appropriate nap time surroundings seemed more fitting to a family pet, if Dean had ever owned a family pet. On various occasions Dean had found him collapsed under the dinner table, or nestled along an empty bookshelf in the library, or that one time, curled up on the hood of the Impala. Cas had explained that it was warm up there while the engine block cooled. Fortunately, this had been a mild summer’s day, but this had invoked a stern warning from Dean regarding bedding down outside.
Cas appeared to like sleeping while riding in the car, and would often doze off contentedly when they drove back after a successful hunt. He snored, but it was a soft, comforting snore, almost like a sigh.
This was why Dean was not terribly surprised to find, at three am when he shuffled out to the kitchen for a drink of water, Cas lying prone, stretched out up on the counter among dirty dinner dishes and a few dusty books. After a moment's pause and reflection, Dean grabbed a mug from the drain and filled it with tap water.
“Gadgad.” It was a soft sound, like a moan.
“You … have a sudden interest in Lady Gaga?” asked Dean, sipping his water.
“Dean.”
“Yes?”
Cas was sitting up on the counter, rubbing his eyes. He always woke up as if the concept of sleep still eluded him. “I'm an idiot Dean.”
Dean leaned his butt against the counter and drank his water. “Yeah, Cas, you're a real moron.”
“I should have remembered.”
“Cas, just asking, but exactly how many days has it been since you've slept?”
“What? I don't remember.”
“Then, just a suggestion, but maybe it would be good if you, you know, slept somewhere a little less … kitchen counter-y?”
Cas had slipped off the counter and was holding Dean by his lapels. “Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong!”
Dean paused a beat to let that sink in. “You wanna order out Chinese?”
“I should have known their signatures.”
“And who are Chin Guard and Yucca Plant?”
“Gate gods, Dean.”
“Gate gods?”
“Gate gods!”
Dean stood stock still for a moment. He put down his mug, feeling his heart beating. “Gate. As in gate. Like, go in and out of a gate.”
“My invocation spell must have worked after all. Well. One of them, anyway.”
“Heh. Maybe the one where you turned your hair blue? That was cool.” The awesome azure hue that was apparently blowback from the spell had quickly faded, unfortunately. And Cas of course hadn't understood any of Dean's many hilarious David Bowie jokes.
“Gate gods,” said Cas, who slumped back on counter, head drooping, eyes blinking. “They found us.”
“Well, good work,” said Dean, putting an arm around Cas's waist and hauling him back up to a standing position beside him. “And you know what we're gonna do to celebrate?”
“No Dean.”
“Memory foam!”
“Memory foam, Dean?” Cas was now half-stifling a yawn.
“It remembers you. You'll see! Trust me.”
“I'll be here on the left.”
“Wait, why do you always get the left?”
“Because the left is my side!”
“You could share.”
“There are only two sides: how could we share? Besides, we look more intimidating this way.”
“Let me look at you. Nope, you don't look intimidating to me. Not at all.”
“What if I held a stare, like this?”
“You just look peevish, Yuchi.”
“Can we please get down to business, Qin?”
“All right, all right, enough!” said Dean, who had just hopped out of the bushes, Cas right behind him, to confront the two gate gods quarreling at the front door. “And keep those fucking spray cans where I can see them.”
“Oh, goodie, it's the humans!” said Yuchi, the darker of the two. “Now we can fight!”
“Look, do we really have to fight?” asked Dean. “Can't we just talk it out?”
“No, we have to fight,” said Yuchi. “That's the way things are done.”
“I'm just.... I'm already sore, and I'm not in the mood.”
“You started it,” Qin, the paler of the two, told him. “You're the one waving a gun at us.”
“You've been tagging my home! You're lucky I didn't just shoot you two on sight.”
“Dean!” said Cas.
“Seraphim!” said Qin, his eyes shining at Cas. “I get to fight the Seraphim. Pretty please? I let you go on the left.”
“I always go on the left,” said Yuchi.
“It's Seraph,” said Cas.
“What?” asked the gate gods.
“Seraphim is plural. And there is only one of me.”
“Hmpf! Gramma nazi.”
“Correct grammar is important. Learn some Hebrew,” said Cas.
“Cas....” cautioned Dean.
“Okay, Mr. Smarty Angel!” said Qin. “Let me hear you say something in Mandarin!”
Cas was standing very close to the door god. “Cao ni ma.” Qin was suddenly wielding a sword instead of a spray can.
“Okay, Cas, I take it you didn't just tell him to have a nice day,” said Dean. “Look, that was your fault, you asked him to speak Chinese!”
Dean heard it before he felt it: the crack of a whip. And quite suddenly, he was no longer holding his gun.
Qin grunted, a blade glinted, and Cas and Qin crossed swords.
Dean looked over to where Yuchi now held both a whip and Dean's gun. “Oh, goddammit, why does it have to be Indy Jones?” grumbled Dean.
“What is an indeejonez?” asked Yuchi, who let out a yelp as Dean stepped forward and smacked him in the jaw before he could once again crack the whip. “That wasn't gentlemanly!”
Dean punched Yuchi in the gut, and then looked over approvingly as Cas kicked Qin in the balls and took his sword. Dean clobbered Yuchi again, grabbed his whip, and wound it around Yuchi's neck.
“You got yours, Cas?”
“Yes, the Seraph got his,” Cas called, holding both swords crossed at Qin's neck.
“Nit-picker,” muttered Qin.
“Look,” said Dean, “I know how these things work. We need your help. And now you have to help us.”
Qin and Yuchi heaved dramatic sighs and rolled their eyes at one another.
“What?” said Dean.
“Not gonna happen,” Yuchi told him, shaking his head.
“Wait, why not? We defeated you!”
“Let them talk, Dean,” said Cas.
“What you're gonna ask, it's big,” said Yuchi.
“The biggest,” said Qin.
“So you're gonna have to talk to the big boss,” said Yuchi.
“The big boss?” asked Dean.
“I think I know who they mean,” said Cas.
“Can you bring him to us?” asked Dean.
Qin and Yuchi exchanged a glance. They started to laugh.
Both gods disappeared with a pop. There was a rush of wind, and the door started to glow. The wind died and, as Cas and Dean watched, strange markings appeared once again all over the door.
“Son of a bitch! Those bastards tagged us again!” said Dean, waving his hands in frustration.
“Dean, it's all right,” said Cas. “I think I know who we need to talk to now.”
“But we just spent a month trying to conjure these two guys. Wasted a month.”
Cas was sticking Qin's sword as well as his own into his belt. “We'll go inside now, Dean. We will drink alcohol together. And then we'll embark on research. Uh, old-fashioned research.”
Dean's face edged into a smile. He reached out and grabbed Cas's shoulder. “You're right. When you're right, you're right.” And so, side by side, they opened the door, and entered. “We gotta clean up that shit too,” said Dean, touching the markings the gate gods had made. “I’ll go get the turpentine.”
They crossed the threshold.
The overhead lights sparked and flickered.
But there were no overhead lights. There could be no overhead lights.
Because they were now standing outside in a strange, windblown landscape, amid ruined, alien architecture.
Dean, his gun already drawn, looked back at Cas, who had his sword at the ready.
“Cas?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Fallen!Cas
Warnings: Cursing. No beta, so if minor spelling errors cause a twist of the panties, you might need go go commando baby.
Word Count: 2,000
Summary: Cas continues to deal with being almost sort of human, and Dean gets annoyed with some local graffiti artists.
Notes: This was supposed to be a one-shot!!!
Cas stood next to the kitchen sink, twisting his wrist and glaring smite-fully at the faucet.
“You still trying to use the Force?”
This produced a deep, grievous frown. “I still possess some power. This is known. But I am currently unaware as to how to access it. All of it. I believe it would aid us, Dean. In our work.”
“Yeah, sure Cas. And you wouldn’t have to crawl around in the mud with the rest of us monkeys?”
Cas looked aggrieved. “I find no shame in being human, Dean. Although I will admit I don’t care for being itchy. But it is a just … consequence for my many actions.”
“So you do admit being human is a punishment? You know, I remember when you used to call humans works of art.”
“They are!”
“But not, ‘We are,’”
Cas shrunk, chin to chest, angry and frustrated.
Dean leaned over and cranked the faucet. The water suddenly poured into the sink and rattled down the drain. “Look, for what it's worth, I don't think turning on the hot water tap with the awesome power of your mind is gonna get us too far.”
Cas studied Dean, who had been carrying a bucket of turpentine and some rags. “What are you doing?”
“Eh. Those vandals hit us again last night. Little fuckers. Wish I could catch them and wring their necks.”
“Dean….”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking. When you and … Sam came upon this place, it had been deserted for a number of years? Decades even?”
Dean idly twirled a paintbrush. “Yup, the Men of Letters eggheads had pretty much flown the coop. Why?”
“The entrance: at that time, was it marred by graffiti?”
“No, not a mark! I think these guys exist just to fuck up my life.”
Cas seemed far away. “Can I see?”
“Sure. It’s just outside. Why? What do you think, Cas?”
“I don’t know.” Cas accompanied Dean outside, where, indeed, several bright hues of spray paint now marred the front entrance to the bunker-like headquarters of the Men of Letters cult.
“Son of a bitch. It gets worse every time.” Still grumbling and vowing terrible revenge, Dean crouched down and began to pry open the can of turpentine.
“Dean, wait a moment.”
“What?”
“These symbols: they seem … familiar somehow.”
“You recognize the tags? Good! Let’s hunt the little shits down and kick their asses.”
Cas was at the door, tracing the markings with a long-fingered hand. “I believe they may have magical significance, Dean.” He scratched the rough stubble under his chin. “I can’t seem to recall what it is though.”
“You’re not going fifty first dates on me, are you Cas?”
“What?” Castiel had turned all the way around, his voice almost, but not quite, breaking.
Dean pointed to his head and circled his index and middle fingers around in the universal gesture for insanity. “Can’t remember all you remember any more?”
“It’s … frustrating. Like my lack of access to my power.”
“Don’t sweat it. Everybody has their off days. Let's get this crap off the door, and then we'll go inside, get a beer….”
“No, wait. There may be a way.” Cas stood up straight, squaring his shoulders, and cast a hand towards the door. “Stand back, Dean.”
“Wait, why am I standing back if you’re right up close?”
“Blowback.”
“Cas, don’t-“
But Castiel was already staring down the door, barking out some kind of invocation in a language Dean recognized as Enochian. Nothing happened for a beat, but then, accompanied by an impressive whooshing noise, the markings on the door flared up, glowing like St. Elmo’s fire.
“Cool,” was all Dean had time to say, because then there was a sound like a distant crack of thunder, the ground underfoot trembled and bucked, and then a blast, like someone had just set off a small bomb in their doorway. Cas was thrown backwards, and Dean leapt to catch him.
Dean stood for a moment, breathing hard, holding his arms around Cas’s waist, watching as the smoke to cleared.
The door was completely clean.
“Whoa,” said Dean, carefully setting a somewhat singed Cas upright. “Well, that sure saved us on paint remover.”
“But who was it?” asked Cas. “Who made the markings?”
“Dude, looks like you just erased the evidence,” said Dean, smiling and waving a hand at the pristine doorway.
“Son- Son of a bitch!” said Cas.
Dean's face bloomed into a grin. “Look, that's enough explosions for one morning. We’ll go inside, get you cleaned up, and then we’ll hit the books to figure out your magical markings. You know, the old-fashioned way. Okay?”
Circadian rhythmicity was a human trait that had so far eluded the former seraphic being, Castiel.
Dean didn’t pay this particular aspect of his friend's existence much mind: it was good enough for him as long as Cas remembered to eat occasionally and didn’t nick an artery while he was shaving. To be honest, Dean had never been one to place a high value on sleep. Time enough when you’re dead, he always said.
It did mean that Cas rarely ended up slumbering in an actual bed. On the contrary, what the former angel found to be appropriate nap time surroundings seemed more fitting to a family pet, if Dean had ever owned a family pet. On various occasions Dean had found him collapsed under the dinner table, or nestled along an empty bookshelf in the library, or that one time, curled up on the hood of the Impala. Cas had explained that it was warm up there while the engine block cooled. Fortunately, this had been a mild summer’s day, but this had invoked a stern warning from Dean regarding bedding down outside.
Cas appeared to like sleeping while riding in the car, and would often doze off contentedly when they drove back after a successful hunt. He snored, but it was a soft, comforting snore, almost like a sigh.
This was why Dean was not terribly surprised to find, at three am when he shuffled out to the kitchen for a drink of water, Cas lying prone, stretched out up on the counter among dirty dinner dishes and a few dusty books. After a moment's pause and reflection, Dean grabbed a mug from the drain and filled it with tap water.
“Gadgad.” It was a soft sound, like a moan.
“You … have a sudden interest in Lady Gaga?” asked Dean, sipping his water.
“Dean.”
“Yes?”
Cas was sitting up on the counter, rubbing his eyes. He always woke up as if the concept of sleep still eluded him. “I'm an idiot Dean.”
Dean leaned his butt against the counter and drank his water. “Yeah, Cas, you're a real moron.”
“I should have remembered.”
“Cas, just asking, but exactly how many days has it been since you've slept?”
“What? I don't remember.”
“Then, just a suggestion, but maybe it would be good if you, you know, slept somewhere a little less … kitchen counter-y?”
Cas had slipped off the counter and was holding Dean by his lapels. “Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong!”
Dean paused a beat to let that sink in. “You wanna order out Chinese?”
“I should have known their signatures.”
“And who are Chin Guard and Yucca Plant?”
“Gate gods, Dean.”
“Gate gods?”
“Gate gods!”
Dean stood stock still for a moment. He put down his mug, feeling his heart beating. “Gate. As in gate. Like, go in and out of a gate.”
“My invocation spell must have worked after all. Well. One of them, anyway.”
“Heh. Maybe the one where you turned your hair blue? That was cool.” The awesome azure hue that was apparently blowback from the spell had quickly faded, unfortunately. And Cas of course hadn't understood any of Dean's many hilarious David Bowie jokes.
“Gate gods,” said Cas, who slumped back on counter, head drooping, eyes blinking. “They found us.”
“Well, good work,” said Dean, putting an arm around Cas's waist and hauling him back up to a standing position beside him. “And you know what we're gonna do to celebrate?”
“No Dean.”
“Memory foam!”
“Memory foam, Dean?” Cas was now half-stifling a yawn.
“It remembers you. You'll see! Trust me.”
“I'll be here on the left.”
“Wait, why do you always get the left?”
“Because the left is my side!”
“You could share.”
“There are only two sides: how could we share? Besides, we look more intimidating this way.”
“Let me look at you. Nope, you don't look intimidating to me. Not at all.”
“What if I held a stare, like this?”
“You just look peevish, Yuchi.”
“Can we please get down to business, Qin?”
“All right, all right, enough!” said Dean, who had just hopped out of the bushes, Cas right behind him, to confront the two gate gods quarreling at the front door. “And keep those fucking spray cans where I can see them.”
“Oh, goodie, it's the humans!” said Yuchi, the darker of the two. “Now we can fight!”
“Look, do we really have to fight?” asked Dean. “Can't we just talk it out?”
“No, we have to fight,” said Yuchi. “That's the way things are done.”
“I'm just.... I'm already sore, and I'm not in the mood.”
“You started it,” Qin, the paler of the two, told him. “You're the one waving a gun at us.”
“You've been tagging my home! You're lucky I didn't just shoot you two on sight.”
“Dean!” said Cas.
“Seraphim!” said Qin, his eyes shining at Cas. “I get to fight the Seraphim. Pretty please? I let you go on the left.”
“I always go on the left,” said Yuchi.
“It's Seraph,” said Cas.
“What?” asked the gate gods.
“Seraphim is plural. And there is only one of me.”
“Hmpf! Gramma nazi.”
“Correct grammar is important. Learn some Hebrew,” said Cas.
“Cas....” cautioned Dean.
“Okay, Mr. Smarty Angel!” said Qin. “Let me hear you say something in Mandarin!”
Cas was standing very close to the door god. “Cao ni ma.” Qin was suddenly wielding a sword instead of a spray can.
“Okay, Cas, I take it you didn't just tell him to have a nice day,” said Dean. “Look, that was your fault, you asked him to speak Chinese!”
Dean heard it before he felt it: the crack of a whip. And quite suddenly, he was no longer holding his gun.
Qin grunted, a blade glinted, and Cas and Qin crossed swords.
Dean looked over to where Yuchi now held both a whip and Dean's gun. “Oh, goddammit, why does it have to be Indy Jones?” grumbled Dean.
“What is an indeejonez?” asked Yuchi, who let out a yelp as Dean stepped forward and smacked him in the jaw before he could once again crack the whip. “That wasn't gentlemanly!”
Dean punched Yuchi in the gut, and then looked over approvingly as Cas kicked Qin in the balls and took his sword. Dean clobbered Yuchi again, grabbed his whip, and wound it around Yuchi's neck.
“You got yours, Cas?”
“Yes, the Seraph got his,” Cas called, holding both swords crossed at Qin's neck.
“Nit-picker,” muttered Qin.
“Look,” said Dean, “I know how these things work. We need your help. And now you have to help us.”
Qin and Yuchi heaved dramatic sighs and rolled their eyes at one another.
“What?” said Dean.
“Not gonna happen,” Yuchi told him, shaking his head.
“Wait, why not? We defeated you!”
“Let them talk, Dean,” said Cas.
“What you're gonna ask, it's big,” said Yuchi.
“The biggest,” said Qin.
“So you're gonna have to talk to the big boss,” said Yuchi.
“The big boss?” asked Dean.
“I think I know who they mean,” said Cas.
“Can you bring him to us?” asked Dean.
Qin and Yuchi exchanged a glance. They started to laugh.
Both gods disappeared with a pop. There was a rush of wind, and the door started to glow. The wind died and, as Cas and Dean watched, strange markings appeared once again all over the door.
“Son of a bitch! Those bastards tagged us again!” said Dean, waving his hands in frustration.
“Dean, it's all right,” said Cas. “I think I know who we need to talk to now.”
“But we just spent a month trying to conjure these two guys. Wasted a month.”
Cas was sticking Qin's sword as well as his own into his belt. “We'll go inside now, Dean. We will drink alcohol together. And then we'll embark on research. Uh, old-fashioned research.”
Dean's face edged into a smile. He reached out and grabbed Cas's shoulder. “You're right. When you're right, you're right.” And so, side by side, they opened the door, and entered. “We gotta clean up that shit too,” said Dean, touching the markings the gate gods had made. “I’ll go get the turpentine.”
They crossed the threshold.
The overhead lights sparked and flickered.
But there were no overhead lights. There could be no overhead lights.
Because they were now standing outside in a strange, windblown landscape, amid ruined, alien architecture.
Dean, his gun already drawn, looked back at Cas, who had his sword at the ready.
“Cas?”
“Yes.”
“I think we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
