Salt and Burn
Aug. 30th, 2013 02:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Salt and Burn
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Cas, Kevin, Sam, Dean, Crowley
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through S8. No beta.
Word Count: 5200
Summary: Sam and Dean go out on a job, leaving Cas and Kevin demon-sitting in the MOL bunker. But something might be slightly amiss.
Notes: Notes at the end.
“Routine salt and burn,” said Kevin, crossing his arms and bouncing slightly up and down on his heels.
Body language indicating confidence, edging on smugness. Cas studied him, as one would a museum specimen, cataloging each micro-expression. It was difficult now, not having a window into human souls. Not that it had easy before. Humans were … difficult.
“We’ll be back,” said Dean, hoisting a shotgun jauntily over his shoulder while Sam threw armaments into his bag. Demon bomb here, salt rounds there, la la la. Both exuded self-assurance, but of a more casual sort.
“I could go with you, Dean-“ Cas mumbled. In voice and body language he communicated not even a smidgen of confidence.
“Or you could stay here. I vote, stay here,” said Dean, eyeing Sam. Sam’s face didn’t change, but when he met Dean’s glance, somehow, something passed between the brothers. They had already discussed this.
“Dean-“
“You heard Kevin, right?” asked Dean, gesturing over at the young man. “Routine salt and burn. Routine. Normal. Boring. Well, normal for us, but anyway, you get the drift. We’re gonna go out and do a routine job, and hopefully, no pesky fallen angels trying to smite our asses. Like remember, the last time?”
“Dean.” It felt like begging. But Cas pushed on anyway. “I want to be useful.”
“Yeah. Well, then start with the dishes. Or the laundry pile! Or, you know, go do some damn research.” The last was like an afterthought.
“Dean-“
Dean stepped into his space, backing Cas up against a couch. “Sit!” he bellowed. Almost against his will, Cas found himself collapsing down onto the furniture. Dean leaned over, thick finger in Cas’s face. “Stay! Good angel!” He backed off slightly and then, with a small smile, reached out and patted Cas on the head, further mussing his hair.
Kevin smirked.
“We’ll be back in a couple days,” Dean told Kevin as Sam shouldered his bag and strode out. “Keep your nose clean. And….” Dean inclined his head towards Cas, and Kevin frowned and nodded.
The door slammed shut.
“I’m not an angel anymore,” Cas sighed, more to himself than anything else.
“Hey, Sephiroth!” said Kevin. “You heard the boss man. Stow the emo. You’re on dishrag duty.” Cas flinched as something landed in his lap. He picked it up, scowling. It was a damp sponge.
He looked up at Kevin, who shook his head and left.
“Yeah, told you he was skeevy,” said Kevin.
Cas wiped his hands on a dishrag. Kevin was sitting up on the table, beside a veritable mountain of books, talking into a cell phone.
“Really? Really?” Kevin continued. “Ha!”
Cas hung the dishrag on the back of one of the chairs and picked up a book, leafing through it. His fingers, worn smooth from the dishwater, fumbled with the pages.
“OK, yeah, I’ll hold down the fort.” Kevin’s eyes flicked over to Cas. “Yeah. Sure, Dean. Bye.” He turned to look at Cas. “That was Dean,” he said. Unnecessarily, from Cas’s point of view. There had been something else to this interchange, some human valence Cas was missing.
Kevin hopped down from the table to peer over Cas’s shoulder. The picture showed a watercolor painting of an umbrella with bulging eyes and a long pink tongue. “You’re researching yokai,” Cas commented.
“We think Skeevy Dude is some kinda shaman. We’re thinking possessions, but we’re not exactly sure how he’s been doing it.”
“This is a lot of books.”
“Yeah,” Kevin preened. “I figured out the ol’ MOL filing system. I’m calling it the Drooly Decimal system,” he chuckled.
Cas remained impassive.
Kevin sighed. “Anyway. I grabbed everything I could find. Obviously can’t use that one. Except for looking at pictures, I guess. There’s some fugly dudes in there.”
Confused, Cas flipped the book closed. He tried to work it out in his head. “Oh. You can’t read Japanese?” The Tower of Babel reared its ugly head once again, he thought.
To his surprise, Kevin huffed and rolled his eyes and basically vamped all the indications of being upset. Actually, it was a surprise, but not much of a surprise. Castiel found he had an almost boundless capacity to annoy humans. “I’m not even gonna justify that with an answer,” Kevin said, bristling. “It’s Kevin Tran, not Kevin Miyamoto. Geez.” He yanked the book out of Cas’s hands. “Look, I got work to do. It’s time, why don’t you go feed Mr. Cranky?” He stalked off – he had a talent for doing that – muttering about racist damn angels.
Thoughtfully, Cas opened another book and leafed through it. Then he shut it and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, is that all we have left to guard the goods? Haunted shell, angel used to live here?”
Cas remained silent. He had found that was the best strategy to counter Crowley’s usual flood of insults and sexual innuendo.
He stepped carefully over the salt line at the door and entered the cell.
“Boyfriend out on a great mission, then?” asked Crowley as Cas sat the tray of food down on the floor.
Cas stared at Crowley, assuring himself that the demon king was bound by the devil’s trap-inscribed chains. He backed up a little and sat down on the floor opposite him, cross-legged, tilting his head. “You’re referring to Dean.”
“Who else?” asked Crowley, leaning forward to grab the tray. He probably didn’t technically need nutrition. Cas thought it was probably the Winchesters’s way of keeping tabs on him. Or perhaps they were using a good cop/bad cop scenario. This begged the question of who would remain willing to play “good cop” to Crowley.
“You could just ask about Dean’s whereabouts. You’re obviously curious.”
Crowley paused, his hands all over the cheeseburger Cas had just given him. “Decent burger. You’re not the chef that Dean is, but you’re learning.” He nodded his head. “Those are his jeans you’re wearing.” He made a show of sniffing the air. “You can tie me down but you can’t fool the nose. Eau de Winchester.”
Cas didn’t answer, instead picking at the hole in the knee.
“Still intending on growing up to be a big demon hunter?” Crowley was licking his fingers.
“My vessel is already an adult. And I am several millennia old. As you well know.”
“You’re not as dim as you pretend. I know that pretty fucking well.”
Cas side-eyed Crowley. “I think hunting is an honorable pursuit.”
“Well, business is gonna be booming then, sport.”
“How do you mean?”
Crowley sat back rubbing his stomach. He emitted a belch, and grinned. The cat, post-canary.
“What did you mean, Crowley?” Cas persisted.
“You blazing idiot. You can’t be wearing your Judeo-Christian blinders too tightly to see I’m not the only one wants to be CEO of hell in this post-Morningstar economy. Time was, I kept all the pretenders in line. But now?”
“Abaddon?”
“Abaddon is the least of them.” Crowley narrowed his eyes, dabbing his chin with a paper napkin. “With the poorest fashion sense.”
“Who else?”
“Oh, I get it. I’m supposed to do your work for you now? Pick up a book once in a while, why don’t you?”
“Not much of a reader.”
Crowley hooted. “Oh, great. Master of a thousand languages, speaker of none.”
Cas bristled, all the while cursing himself for letting Crowley have an effect on him. “My Father made me with what knowledge I require.”
“Your Father? Who also made Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, Naomi, Metatron, that lot?” Crowley ticked off on his fingers. “They all perfect too? Or were they just all rush jobs?”
“I’ll take your tray,” said Castiel, who was suddenly up on his feet.
Crowley blinked up at him. Cas wouldn't have sworn to it, as the light in the cell was kept dim, but he thought he saw a brief expression of fear pass through the demon's features.
He bent down to pick up the tray. He stopped. Crowley had sprung forward, as far as his chains would allow, and was gripping the other end. “Cas. You know and I know. What's most important to me is saving my own foul skin. It's always been that way.”
Cas clutched the tray, his eyes locked with Crowley's.
“I'm, uh, sorry if I insulted your brothers and sisters.”
Cas wrenched the tray out of Crowley's hands. “No you're not.” And then he left the room, locking the door behind him.
“Intestinal parasites commonly enter human hosts either via undercooked food, or, as is common in developing nations, contaminated water….”
“Ewwwww! How can you watch that stuff?”
Cas glanced up from the television’s soft electronic image to see Kevin standing in the doorway, noshing from a Chinese takeout carton. He picked up the remote control and clicked on the appropriate button to lower the volume. “I find human bodies to be intriguing.”
“Yeah, but dude, True Life Tales of the ER?” Kevin asked as the actor playing medical personnel dropped some kind of writhing worm-like creature into a plastic cup. He crammed some fried rice into his mouth, speaking around the food. “Dat’s grossh.”
Cas gestured towards the TV with the remote. “This patient was carrying around a bundle of Ascaris lumbricoides in his small intestine, unbeknownst to him.”
“Isn’t there something better on?” Kevin crossed the room to plop down beside Cas on the couch.
“Unfortunately, we only have basic cable here,” said Cas, who, though naïve as to the ways of the human race, had learned a thing or two about television.
Kevin set his carton of food on the coffee table and wandered over to the television. He knelt down to poke at the device hooked up underneath. “Do they got any DVDs? Oh my god!” He stuck his hand into the wide slot at the front, face pasted with disbelief. “This is a VCR? Who has a VCR?”
“I believe there is a box of tapes located there as well,” said Cas helpfully.
Kevin pulled out the dusty box, muttering to himself. “What did I expect? Guy’s got a cassette deck in his car.” He rummaged through the tapes, rejecting them one by one. “The Best of Busty Asian Beauties? Great job, Kevin, you're bunking with a gaggle of racist pricks.”
“Dean likes that one,” Cas offered.
“Yeah, I bet he does.” Kevin tossed the tape back in the box and drew out another one. His eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I didn't know this was even on tape. All right, so we got one cool thing here.”
“What is it?” Kevin extracted the tape from the cardboard carton, which he lobbed towards Cas, who snatched it out of the air. “Great Yama is Coming,” he read.
“I saw it like, once, when I was a kid. Kinda sorta based on Journey to the West. But no one here understood anime at the time, so it flopped. My mom took me to see it. It was in the theater. But the place was only half filled.” Juggling a couple of remote controls, Kevin finally got the video image to show up on the monitor. He let out a little whoop and went to sit down once again next to Castiel.
A bouncy theme song began. Cas thought he recognized the singer.
“Why is that pig wearing eyeglasses?” he inquired once the action started.
“Shhhh!”
More images flashed on the screen, and after a while, some of the cartoon animals began to sing. Cas had more queries, but kept them to himself.
And then the images fluttered, pitching and yawing.
“God dammit!” Kevin sputtered, flying towards the television. He cursed some more, punching buttons on the VCR. “Aiii! It broke the tape. Stupid VCR.” Standing up, he gave a kick and then stormed after the room.
Cas regarded the food carton, still sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and sampled a bite. “Not bad,” he told himself.
Of all the human conditions Cas had been subjected to in recent months, dreams were one of the things that puzzled him the most. He knew even as he was walking along the corridor that this must be a dream. Even if it was terribly realistic. He could feel the cold floor under his bare feet, and see the vapor his breath made.
He came to the room the Winchesters had set aside for viewing television, and sat down on the couch across from the set, reaching automatically for the remote control. The TV buzzed on, to static. Just what he would have seen if it was still hooked up to view Kevin's broken video tape.
This puzzled him. Why was he reliving such a minor incident? It really seemed sort of arbitrary. When he was an angel, if he'd been asked about dreams, he would have pictured them as something like what went on inside the wild and frantic television cartoons Dean liked. This seemed awfully grey and uninventive by comparison.
The television monitor suddenly fizzled, as if it were short-circuiting. And then, to Cas's surprise, something crawled on out. It was a character from the short piece of the animated movie he had watched, the pig wearing human clothing and eyeglasses.
“You should probably go back inside,” Cas told it, gesturing with the remote control.
The pig stood up proudly on its hind hooves. “I have a proposal.”
“I'm not interested. You need to go back.”
The pig adjusted its eyeglasses, staring down its snout at Cas. “You're a pathetic thing.”
“Probably. Now, get back before I put you back.”
Cas was standing up. Funny, he didn't remember standing. But then again, this was a silly dream. He should probably fly, or loop the loop, or float on air. At least that would have been interesting!
The pig glared through its little spectacles. And then it fizzled, and disappeared back into the television.
Cas shook his head and, making sure to turn off the dream-VCR with the dream-remote, wandered back to his bedroom.
“He has … how many weasels?” Kevin was chuckling. Cas gathered up the breakfast dishes, noticing that Kevin had dirtied quite a few of them. “Well, I thought it was a routine salt and burn. Hey, don't taze me, bro!” Keving giggled. “Dude, I am definitely not laughing with you, I'm laughing at you.”
Cas noticed the Japanese books hadn't been put away, but were still out on the table.
“Get this,” said Kevin, snapping the phone shut and shoving eggs in his mouth. “They go to see the skeevy dude, and he's like an animal collector or something. It's like an episode of Hoarders, with cages and fur flying all over the place.”
“What kind of animals?”
Kevin shrugged. “Dunno. Some kinda ferrets or something. Why?”
“Something I heard once.” Cas shook his head.
“Sort of funny.”
“So, you were wrong about this being a routine job?” asked Cas.
Kevin’s face fell. “Whatever. Don't you have angel business? Feeding the demon. And the laundry pile is getting big.”
Cas picked up one of the books. “Were you not going to use the Japanese books?” he asked.
Kevin's face transitioned from variable clouds to thunderstorm in a second flat. He dug something out of his pocket and tossed it angrily on the table. “Here. It's a quarter. Go buy a fucking clue.” And with that, he picked up his plate and stormed out of the room.
Cas stared at the coin. He shrugged. He flipped it. “I'm not an angel anymore,” he muttered.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Cas had looked up from where he was fixing the salt line outside of the cell. He emptied the bag, and tossed it aside for the moment. They needed more salt. Sam and Dean must have taken a good supply with them on the hunt.
Crowley stared down at the bowl of stew. He tugged at his chains. “Don’t you feel it, Cas? Come on, there must be some part of you that’s still in tune with the spheres, or whatever the fuck you angel wankers followed?”
Cas stepped over the salt line. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just take it out of here.”
“Cas. Fuck your stew. There’s something going on.”
“If you’re bored, you could start by making that list of known demons for the Winchesters.”
“Cas!”
“The bunker is well protected.” Cas stooped down and snatched the tray. He started out of the room, but then stopped.
He turned around. “Crowley. What do you know about … weasels?”
“Weasels?” Crowley looked shrewd. “Are you sure they’re weasels, mate?”
“What do you mean?”
Crowley only glared.
“I’ll be back later. To check whether you’ve regained your appetite.” Cas shut and locked the door, and then carried the tray back into the kitchen.
“Crowley didn’t finish his dinner.”
Kevin looked up from where he was sitting doing research. The books were now neatly divided into two piles: the English books on one side, Japanese and other non-English books on the other. “Demons don’t eat,” he supplied. He looked at the stew, sniffing the air. “Hey, that’s a whole bowl!” To Cas’s surprise, Kevin snatched the stew and began to wolf it down. “Crowley’s an idiot,” he smacked, happily stuffing his face with meat and potatoes.
“Crowley seems to believe he is in danger.”
“Eh. He’s faking.”
“Have you talked to him lately?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Kevin, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “No. I don’t go in that room. Dude’s bad news.”
“But don’t you think-?“
“He’s fucking with you man.” Kevin pointed to his head. “Fucking with your head.” Kevin’s cell phone rang, and he grabbed it. “Hey Dean! Hey, hold on a sec.” He held a hand over the phone. “Cas, how long has it been since you've gone to the supermarket?”
“Since before they left. As you know, I don't drive.”
“We're out of bread. And lunch meat.”
“Really? I thought we had a lot.”
“You're not paid to think,” said Kevin, gulping Crowley’s stew, flashing a beef-y grin.
“It's a long walk. Into town,” Cas noted.
“It's a nice day.” Kevin went back to the phone. “Yeah, Dean.” He looked concerned. “Wait, coming back already? I don't think that's a good idea. Let me explain....” He wandered out of the room.
Cas shrugged and ambled into the kitchen. He poked his head in the fridge and then looked at the pantry. It was true: they were running out of a lot of items. He glanced into the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. The garbage was also full.
It never ends, he thought. He grabbed the bin liner and pulled. It seemed really heavy. He poked at one of the objects inside. It was smooth and cylindrical. He opened the bag and pulled it out. A container of salt. He bounced it in his hand. A sealed container of salt. That was weird. “Kevin-“ he started, but then remembered Kevin has disappeared somewhere in the great maze that was the bunker, as he tended to do when he talked to Dean.
He extracted the package of salt and sealed off the bag. And then he went back to the dining room to clear up the dirty dishes Kevin had left on the table.
Kevin’s books were still spread all over the place, dishes piled on and around and underneath them.
Cas brushed bread crumbs off of one of the books. He looked over in the direction Kevin had wandered off to. There was no one in sight.
The dryer hummed. An ex-angel sat upon it, reading a very old Japanese book. All languages were really one language. He often wondered why humans couldn't see this.
He came to a page, and stopped. He frowned, as if puzzling something out, long fingers tapping on the illustration.
Cas hopped off the dryer and, still staring at the page, walked off. This action would cause one of Dean's favorite T-shirts to shrink about half a size, a consequence for which he would catch hell later.
And then Dean would loan him the T-shirt. Permanently. Because it didn't fit any more.
He came to a locked room. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door, wandering inside, being careful of the salt line, still gazing at the book.
“It's not feeding time yet,” grumbled Crowley. “Why are we conversing?”
Cas sat down on the floor across from the demon. “What do you know about tsukimono?”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Mmm. A little like a demons. But not. Why? You have a snake? Or a fox? Oh.” Crowley’s eyes went wide. “You have a fox, don’t you?”
“Kitsune. Yes. Or it could be … a pig?”
Crowley huffed, tugging at the chain around his neck. “Yes. It could be bloody anything. Snake, umbrella, bloke with an eye up his arsehole. Oh, don't look at me, look in the book. That's the trouble with that lot. Too damned open ended, if you ask me.”
“I am. Asking you.”
“What are you asking me?”
Cas sat back, closing the book. “The Men of Letters. Were they like Kevin?”
“Cranky little shits with delusions of grandeur?”
“They were Americans.”
“Everybody's American. These days. Not like in my time!”
Cas tapped the book. “What if they had the library, but didn't use it. When they were building this place. What if they couldn’t read Japanese?”
“Then they wouldn't ward against tsukimono. Because they were a bunch of smug little wankers.”
Cas was standing up. “I need to get to the supermarket.” And then he was out the door.
“Hey, you never brought me my second breakfast!” Crowley yelled after him, rattling his chains.
“Dean. You and Sam need to get back here.”
“Put down the phone.”
Normally, Cas wouldn't have heeded Kevin, but he was holding one of the ceremonial swords the Men of Letters had on display.
Or rather, the thing that was inside Kevin was holding a sword.
“Cas? What the hell?” came Dean's voice. “We stopped for lunch. We'll be there in twenty minutes. Gotta eat, dude. Can't you guys wait?”
“Put the phone down,” Kevin repeated.
“No,” said Cas, though it was unclear if this was meant for Kevin or Dean. He took a step back, as Kevin took a step forward. “You’re inside him. Like a parasite.”
“That's a terrible analogy. You're lucky you're an angel. You would have totally bombed your SATs.”
“Why? Why are you here?”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Isn't it pretty freaking obvious? I mean, duh.”
Cas nodded. “You can't get past the salt line.”
“Yes. That’s been a problem. But it doesn’t matter anymore. You can.”
“I won't.”
“Why do you want him alive, anyway? It's not as if you're best bros!”
“I won't klll Crowley for you.”
“Oh? Then what if I do … this?”
And now the sword was at Kevin's throat. The yokai formed Kevin’s face into a grotesque grin.
“You'd lose your host.”
“I'd find another. You guys aren't terribly smart. Stop!” he shouted as Cas stepped forward. The blade dug into Kevin's neck. One drop of blood seeped out and ran lazily down his neck.
“Don't!”
“Or what?”
Cas suddenly stood very tall, clenching his fists. “Get out of him,” he ordered.
Kevin cringed back.
“Now!” snapped Cas.
Kevin dropped the sword. It fell with a metallic clatter on the floor. Then he sunk to his knees, his eyes rolling back. He moaned, and fell over.
Then he fizzled. A sound of static electricity. A burning smell.
And something crawled out of him.
Cas stared, and then stepped back. “You're.... You're not a hungry ghost.”
“Oh, good,” said the figure. It was vaguely humanoid, with too-wide eyes and a short snout.
A pig snout.
The figure adjusted his glasses.
“Enma,” said Cas.
“You're not as stupid as the Winchesters at least.” He looked back at Kevin, scooping up the sword. He stretched and flexed, casually twirling the sword. “Good to be out of there. Was getting confining. Now, do I kill the pitiful former angel first, or the pitiful demon king? It's a dilemma. But, I think you'll agree, a good one to have.”
Cas glared at him. “Not if I kill you first.”
“I'd like to see you try.”
“All right.” Cas bowed deeply. Enma, as if compelled, returned the bow.
And Cas was running.
“Shit!” Enma took a beat, and then started after him.
Cas first fled to the kitchen. He grabbed the container of salt from the counter, frantically laying down a salt line in the doorway. And then he took off running while Enma stopped short, fuming. It would take the demon a while to find the other route.
Cas skidded into the room with the television. He punched the VCR’s on button, and then hit the eject button. There was a whirring sound. And nothing happened. He clicked the button again, and again.
He heard footsteps.
Cursing, he yanked the VCR’s electrical cord from the wall and started running with it, Enma on his heels. He took the first staircase and ran, thinking only of getting as far away from Crowley’s cell as possible. He turned corners, left and right, hoping to throw off his pursuer. Then, deep in the bowels of the bunker he chose a door at random and ducked inside. Gripping the VCR, he fumbled for a light switch. He flicked it on. He was in some kind of storage room. Of course it couldn't have been an arsenal.
The door didn’t have a lock. He pushed a shelf up against the door, looking around for an electrical outlet.
Something pounded against the door.
He pushed aside some bags of rice and plugged in the VCR. He tried the eject button, but it didn't work any better than in the television room.
The door banged and banged. It edged open.
He grabbed a screwdriver from one of the shelves and jammed it into the video slot, frantically trying to get the video out.
The door inched open.
Tossing the screwdriver away and cursing to himself, he picked up the VCR and threw it against the wall, smashing it. He knelt down beside it, prying it apart with his bare hands.
The door was almost open now.
He extracted the video, looking around everywhere. He grabbed a bottle of thick, gooey motor oil off another shelf. He tossed the video on the floor and poured oil all over it.
The door pounded.
Fumbling, Cas pulled a book of matches from his pocket.
The pounding at the door turned to a crash.
Cas flicked the match. It smoldered.
Running footsteps.
Cas rolled aside at the last moment. There was a terrible pain in his side.
There was screaming.
He let go the match.
There were shouts. Footsteps.
Gunshots.
Burning plastic.
A voice. Was it Dean?
Was it...?
Cas’s eyes flew open. He bolted upright, gasping.
There were hands on him, pushing him downwards. “You’ll rip your stitches. Cas! Quit fighting me, man! I’m here! You’re all right! You’re all right….”
Dean.
He stopped struggling and squinted down to survey his own body. There was a big bandage up his right side. He traced a hand over it.
“Don’t,” said Dean, pulling Cas away, more gently this time. “Sam was up all night getting those stitches right.”
“Oh. Stitches. Oh!” His eyes flicked up, over to Dean.
Dean settled down, sitting on the bed next to Cas. There was a chair pulled nearby, and a book splayed open down on the floor, as if it had been thrown there. “How much do you remember?” Dean asked, leaning over to scoop up the fallen book.
Cas relaxed slightly. He was still breathing hard, and his heart rate was elevated. He noticed a slick film of damp sweat over his body. “Not much,” he admitted. “I was trying to burn the tape.”
“The weasel farm dude wasn’t a shaman. We think he was just actually another possessed guy. We think. Whatever had gotten in here, Sam got him with salt rounds, and then he flamed out when you burned that videotape. Damn, we almost blew it this time.”
Cas leaned back. The stitches tore into his side. He winced, and Dean’s hands were on him again, holding him up, shifting a pillow behind his back. “Human bodies…” Cas muttered. “I was wrong. I was wrong too, Dean. I thought it was a yokai. It was a god! A king of hell.”
Dean chuckled softly. “Yeah. We always seem to end up in the worst case scenario thing, don’t we?”
Cas’s eyes were wide. “Kevin! How is he? Is he-?”
“He’s fine! Just fine. He had a stomach ache, 'cause I guess he ate us out of house and home, but we force fed him Pepto Bismol. He said you exorcised that demon from him. How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I yelled at it.”
Dean grinned. “Oh, and we burned the rest of the video tapes in that box. Just in case.”
Cas nodded. “Even Busty Asian Beauties?”
“Yeah. Even that.” Dean looked wistful. He studied Cas for a moment. “So, how did you figure it out? About the videotape, I mean?”
“I think.... I think it tried to get to me too.”
“Really?” Cas nodded. “Why did it take Kevin instead?”
“Kevin's a prophet. It's possible he's just more naturally … receptive.”
“And you? Hard-headed?”
That gave Cas pause. “Perhaps.” Cas glanced around. “Dean. This is your room.”
Dean ducked his head. Was it a blush? “I wanted to…. You know….”
“Watch over me?”
Dean was staring at the floor. “There was a lot of blood. A lot! Sam got you patched up, and you were semi-conscious, but then we stuffed you full of pain killers. For a while.” Cas nodded. “So, you hungry?”
“Is there any food?”
“Yeah. We went to the store. Though Kevin's not eating again for a while. I'll get you some tomato rice soup.” Dean stood up.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll have to take extra care. Crowley … warned me. There are other gods of hell now, fighting for control.”
“Just what we need. 'Cause we don't have enough shit from the angels.”
Cas nodded sadly.
“Look, next time we go out on a job? We’ll bring you along. I mean, when you’re up to it.”
“That’s all right with Sam?”
“Sam wanted to take you this time. But I insisted. It got a little heated, I guess.” Dean shrugged. “You’re not the only one who’s hard-headed. But, we’ll talk about it.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I drive the car?”
“No. No fucking way.”
They smiled at each other.
“I’ll go get the soup,” said Dean.
Cas nodded as Dean left. He noticed his book still open on the bed.
He picked it up. And started to read.
xxxxx
Notes: Enma (who’s also known as Yama) is the king of hell in Buddhist tradition, but his role is quite different from Lucifer. Yama is more of a judge. Kevin’s video is loosely based on Alakazam the Great, which was a flop because it wasn’t terribly good (despite all the celebrity voices). I’ve substituted Yama for the monkey king, who was the lead character of that movie.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Cas, Kevin, Sam, Dean, Crowley
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through S8. No beta.
Word Count: 5200
Summary: Sam and Dean go out on a job, leaving Cas and Kevin demon-sitting in the MOL bunker. But something might be slightly amiss.
Notes: Notes at the end.
“Routine salt and burn,” said Kevin, crossing his arms and bouncing slightly up and down on his heels.
Body language indicating confidence, edging on smugness. Cas studied him, as one would a museum specimen, cataloging each micro-expression. It was difficult now, not having a window into human souls. Not that it had easy before. Humans were … difficult.
“We’ll be back,” said Dean, hoisting a shotgun jauntily over his shoulder while Sam threw armaments into his bag. Demon bomb here, salt rounds there, la la la. Both exuded self-assurance, but of a more casual sort.
“I could go with you, Dean-“ Cas mumbled. In voice and body language he communicated not even a smidgen of confidence.
“Or you could stay here. I vote, stay here,” said Dean, eyeing Sam. Sam’s face didn’t change, but when he met Dean’s glance, somehow, something passed between the brothers. They had already discussed this.
“Dean-“
“You heard Kevin, right?” asked Dean, gesturing over at the young man. “Routine salt and burn. Routine. Normal. Boring. Well, normal for us, but anyway, you get the drift. We’re gonna go out and do a routine job, and hopefully, no pesky fallen angels trying to smite our asses. Like remember, the last time?”
“Dean.” It felt like begging. But Cas pushed on anyway. “I want to be useful.”
“Yeah. Well, then start with the dishes. Or the laundry pile! Or, you know, go do some damn research.” The last was like an afterthought.
“Dean-“
Dean stepped into his space, backing Cas up against a couch. “Sit!” he bellowed. Almost against his will, Cas found himself collapsing down onto the furniture. Dean leaned over, thick finger in Cas’s face. “Stay! Good angel!” He backed off slightly and then, with a small smile, reached out and patted Cas on the head, further mussing his hair.
Kevin smirked.
“We’ll be back in a couple days,” Dean told Kevin as Sam shouldered his bag and strode out. “Keep your nose clean. And….” Dean inclined his head towards Cas, and Kevin frowned and nodded.
The door slammed shut.
“I’m not an angel anymore,” Cas sighed, more to himself than anything else.
“Hey, Sephiroth!” said Kevin. “You heard the boss man. Stow the emo. You’re on dishrag duty.” Cas flinched as something landed in his lap. He picked it up, scowling. It was a damp sponge.
He looked up at Kevin, who shook his head and left.
“Yeah, told you he was skeevy,” said Kevin.
Cas wiped his hands on a dishrag. Kevin was sitting up on the table, beside a veritable mountain of books, talking into a cell phone.
“Really? Really?” Kevin continued. “Ha!”
Cas hung the dishrag on the back of one of the chairs and picked up a book, leafing through it. His fingers, worn smooth from the dishwater, fumbled with the pages.
“OK, yeah, I’ll hold down the fort.” Kevin’s eyes flicked over to Cas. “Yeah. Sure, Dean. Bye.” He turned to look at Cas. “That was Dean,” he said. Unnecessarily, from Cas’s point of view. There had been something else to this interchange, some human valence Cas was missing.
Kevin hopped down from the table to peer over Cas’s shoulder. The picture showed a watercolor painting of an umbrella with bulging eyes and a long pink tongue. “You’re researching yokai,” Cas commented.
“We think Skeevy Dude is some kinda shaman. We’re thinking possessions, but we’re not exactly sure how he’s been doing it.”
“This is a lot of books.”
“Yeah,” Kevin preened. “I figured out the ol’ MOL filing system. I’m calling it the Drooly Decimal system,” he chuckled.
Cas remained impassive.
Kevin sighed. “Anyway. I grabbed everything I could find. Obviously can’t use that one. Except for looking at pictures, I guess. There’s some fugly dudes in there.”
Confused, Cas flipped the book closed. He tried to work it out in his head. “Oh. You can’t read Japanese?” The Tower of Babel reared its ugly head once again, he thought.
To his surprise, Kevin huffed and rolled his eyes and basically vamped all the indications of being upset. Actually, it was a surprise, but not much of a surprise. Castiel found he had an almost boundless capacity to annoy humans. “I’m not even gonna justify that with an answer,” Kevin said, bristling. “It’s Kevin Tran, not Kevin Miyamoto. Geez.” He yanked the book out of Cas’s hands. “Look, I got work to do. It’s time, why don’t you go feed Mr. Cranky?” He stalked off – he had a talent for doing that – muttering about racist damn angels.
Thoughtfully, Cas opened another book and leafed through it. Then he shut it and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, is that all we have left to guard the goods? Haunted shell, angel used to live here?”
Cas remained silent. He had found that was the best strategy to counter Crowley’s usual flood of insults and sexual innuendo.
He stepped carefully over the salt line at the door and entered the cell.
“Boyfriend out on a great mission, then?” asked Crowley as Cas sat the tray of food down on the floor.
Cas stared at Crowley, assuring himself that the demon king was bound by the devil’s trap-inscribed chains. He backed up a little and sat down on the floor opposite him, cross-legged, tilting his head. “You’re referring to Dean.”
“Who else?” asked Crowley, leaning forward to grab the tray. He probably didn’t technically need nutrition. Cas thought it was probably the Winchesters’s way of keeping tabs on him. Or perhaps they were using a good cop/bad cop scenario. This begged the question of who would remain willing to play “good cop” to Crowley.
“You could just ask about Dean’s whereabouts. You’re obviously curious.”
Crowley paused, his hands all over the cheeseburger Cas had just given him. “Decent burger. You’re not the chef that Dean is, but you’re learning.” He nodded his head. “Those are his jeans you’re wearing.” He made a show of sniffing the air. “You can tie me down but you can’t fool the nose. Eau de Winchester.”
Cas didn’t answer, instead picking at the hole in the knee.
“Still intending on growing up to be a big demon hunter?” Crowley was licking his fingers.
“My vessel is already an adult. And I am several millennia old. As you well know.”
“You’re not as dim as you pretend. I know that pretty fucking well.”
Cas side-eyed Crowley. “I think hunting is an honorable pursuit.”
“Well, business is gonna be booming then, sport.”
“How do you mean?”
Crowley sat back rubbing his stomach. He emitted a belch, and grinned. The cat, post-canary.
“What did you mean, Crowley?” Cas persisted.
“You blazing idiot. You can’t be wearing your Judeo-Christian blinders too tightly to see I’m not the only one wants to be CEO of hell in this post-Morningstar economy. Time was, I kept all the pretenders in line. But now?”
“Abaddon?”
“Abaddon is the least of them.” Crowley narrowed his eyes, dabbing his chin with a paper napkin. “With the poorest fashion sense.”
“Who else?”
“Oh, I get it. I’m supposed to do your work for you now? Pick up a book once in a while, why don’t you?”
“Not much of a reader.”
Crowley hooted. “Oh, great. Master of a thousand languages, speaker of none.”
Cas bristled, all the while cursing himself for letting Crowley have an effect on him. “My Father made me with what knowledge I require.”
“Your Father? Who also made Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, Naomi, Metatron, that lot?” Crowley ticked off on his fingers. “They all perfect too? Or were they just all rush jobs?”
“I’ll take your tray,” said Castiel, who was suddenly up on his feet.
Crowley blinked up at him. Cas wouldn't have sworn to it, as the light in the cell was kept dim, but he thought he saw a brief expression of fear pass through the demon's features.
He bent down to pick up the tray. He stopped. Crowley had sprung forward, as far as his chains would allow, and was gripping the other end. “Cas. You know and I know. What's most important to me is saving my own foul skin. It's always been that way.”
Cas clutched the tray, his eyes locked with Crowley's.
“I'm, uh, sorry if I insulted your brothers and sisters.”
Cas wrenched the tray out of Crowley's hands. “No you're not.” And then he left the room, locking the door behind him.
“Intestinal parasites commonly enter human hosts either via undercooked food, or, as is common in developing nations, contaminated water….”
“Ewwwww! How can you watch that stuff?”
Cas glanced up from the television’s soft electronic image to see Kevin standing in the doorway, noshing from a Chinese takeout carton. He picked up the remote control and clicked on the appropriate button to lower the volume. “I find human bodies to be intriguing.”
“Yeah, but dude, True Life Tales of the ER?” Kevin asked as the actor playing medical personnel dropped some kind of writhing worm-like creature into a plastic cup. He crammed some fried rice into his mouth, speaking around the food. “Dat’s grossh.”
Cas gestured towards the TV with the remote. “This patient was carrying around a bundle of Ascaris lumbricoides in his small intestine, unbeknownst to him.”
“Isn’t there something better on?” Kevin crossed the room to plop down beside Cas on the couch.
“Unfortunately, we only have basic cable here,” said Cas, who, though naïve as to the ways of the human race, had learned a thing or two about television.
Kevin set his carton of food on the coffee table and wandered over to the television. He knelt down to poke at the device hooked up underneath. “Do they got any DVDs? Oh my god!” He stuck his hand into the wide slot at the front, face pasted with disbelief. “This is a VCR? Who has a VCR?”
“I believe there is a box of tapes located there as well,” said Cas helpfully.
Kevin pulled out the dusty box, muttering to himself. “What did I expect? Guy’s got a cassette deck in his car.” He rummaged through the tapes, rejecting them one by one. “The Best of Busty Asian Beauties? Great job, Kevin, you're bunking with a gaggle of racist pricks.”
“Dean likes that one,” Cas offered.
“Yeah, I bet he does.” Kevin tossed the tape back in the box and drew out another one. His eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I didn't know this was even on tape. All right, so we got one cool thing here.”
“What is it?” Kevin extracted the tape from the cardboard carton, which he lobbed towards Cas, who snatched it out of the air. “Great Yama is Coming,” he read.
“I saw it like, once, when I was a kid. Kinda sorta based on Journey to the West. But no one here understood anime at the time, so it flopped. My mom took me to see it. It was in the theater. But the place was only half filled.” Juggling a couple of remote controls, Kevin finally got the video image to show up on the monitor. He let out a little whoop and went to sit down once again next to Castiel.
A bouncy theme song began. Cas thought he recognized the singer.
“Why is that pig wearing eyeglasses?” he inquired once the action started.
“Shhhh!”
More images flashed on the screen, and after a while, some of the cartoon animals began to sing. Cas had more queries, but kept them to himself.
And then the images fluttered, pitching and yawing.
“God dammit!” Kevin sputtered, flying towards the television. He cursed some more, punching buttons on the VCR. “Aiii! It broke the tape. Stupid VCR.” Standing up, he gave a kick and then stormed after the room.
Cas regarded the food carton, still sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and sampled a bite. “Not bad,” he told himself.
Of all the human conditions Cas had been subjected to in recent months, dreams were one of the things that puzzled him the most. He knew even as he was walking along the corridor that this must be a dream. Even if it was terribly realistic. He could feel the cold floor under his bare feet, and see the vapor his breath made.
He came to the room the Winchesters had set aside for viewing television, and sat down on the couch across from the set, reaching automatically for the remote control. The TV buzzed on, to static. Just what he would have seen if it was still hooked up to view Kevin's broken video tape.
This puzzled him. Why was he reliving such a minor incident? It really seemed sort of arbitrary. When he was an angel, if he'd been asked about dreams, he would have pictured them as something like what went on inside the wild and frantic television cartoons Dean liked. This seemed awfully grey and uninventive by comparison.
The television monitor suddenly fizzled, as if it were short-circuiting. And then, to Cas's surprise, something crawled on out. It was a character from the short piece of the animated movie he had watched, the pig wearing human clothing and eyeglasses.
“You should probably go back inside,” Cas told it, gesturing with the remote control.
The pig stood up proudly on its hind hooves. “I have a proposal.”
“I'm not interested. You need to go back.”
The pig adjusted its eyeglasses, staring down its snout at Cas. “You're a pathetic thing.”
“Probably. Now, get back before I put you back.”
Cas was standing up. Funny, he didn't remember standing. But then again, this was a silly dream. He should probably fly, or loop the loop, or float on air. At least that would have been interesting!
The pig glared through its little spectacles. And then it fizzled, and disappeared back into the television.
Cas shook his head and, making sure to turn off the dream-VCR with the dream-remote, wandered back to his bedroom.
“He has … how many weasels?” Kevin was chuckling. Cas gathered up the breakfast dishes, noticing that Kevin had dirtied quite a few of them. “Well, I thought it was a routine salt and burn. Hey, don't taze me, bro!” Keving giggled. “Dude, I am definitely not laughing with you, I'm laughing at you.”
Cas noticed the Japanese books hadn't been put away, but were still out on the table.
“Get this,” said Kevin, snapping the phone shut and shoving eggs in his mouth. “They go to see the skeevy dude, and he's like an animal collector or something. It's like an episode of Hoarders, with cages and fur flying all over the place.”
“What kind of animals?”
Kevin shrugged. “Dunno. Some kinda ferrets or something. Why?”
“Something I heard once.” Cas shook his head.
“Sort of funny.”
“So, you were wrong about this being a routine job?” asked Cas.
Kevin’s face fell. “Whatever. Don't you have angel business? Feeding the demon. And the laundry pile is getting big.”
Cas picked up one of the books. “Were you not going to use the Japanese books?” he asked.
Kevin's face transitioned from variable clouds to thunderstorm in a second flat. He dug something out of his pocket and tossed it angrily on the table. “Here. It's a quarter. Go buy a fucking clue.” And with that, he picked up his plate and stormed out of the room.
Cas stared at the coin. He shrugged. He flipped it. “I'm not an angel anymore,” he muttered.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Cas had looked up from where he was fixing the salt line outside of the cell. He emptied the bag, and tossed it aside for the moment. They needed more salt. Sam and Dean must have taken a good supply with them on the hunt.
Crowley stared down at the bowl of stew. He tugged at his chains. “Don’t you feel it, Cas? Come on, there must be some part of you that’s still in tune with the spheres, or whatever the fuck you angel wankers followed?”
Cas stepped over the salt line. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just take it out of here.”
“Cas. Fuck your stew. There’s something going on.”
“If you’re bored, you could start by making that list of known demons for the Winchesters.”
“Cas!”
“The bunker is well protected.” Cas stooped down and snatched the tray. He started out of the room, but then stopped.
He turned around. “Crowley. What do you know about … weasels?”
“Weasels?” Crowley looked shrewd. “Are you sure they’re weasels, mate?”
“What do you mean?”
Crowley only glared.
“I’ll be back later. To check whether you’ve regained your appetite.” Cas shut and locked the door, and then carried the tray back into the kitchen.
“Crowley didn’t finish his dinner.”
Kevin looked up from where he was sitting doing research. The books were now neatly divided into two piles: the English books on one side, Japanese and other non-English books on the other. “Demons don’t eat,” he supplied. He looked at the stew, sniffing the air. “Hey, that’s a whole bowl!” To Cas’s surprise, Kevin snatched the stew and began to wolf it down. “Crowley’s an idiot,” he smacked, happily stuffing his face with meat and potatoes.
“Crowley seems to believe he is in danger.”
“Eh. He’s faking.”
“Have you talked to him lately?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Kevin, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “No. I don’t go in that room. Dude’s bad news.”
“But don’t you think-?“
“He’s fucking with you man.” Kevin pointed to his head. “Fucking with your head.” Kevin’s cell phone rang, and he grabbed it. “Hey Dean! Hey, hold on a sec.” He held a hand over the phone. “Cas, how long has it been since you've gone to the supermarket?”
“Since before they left. As you know, I don't drive.”
“We're out of bread. And lunch meat.”
“Really? I thought we had a lot.”
“You're not paid to think,” said Kevin, gulping Crowley’s stew, flashing a beef-y grin.
“It's a long walk. Into town,” Cas noted.
“It's a nice day.” Kevin went back to the phone. “Yeah, Dean.” He looked concerned. “Wait, coming back already? I don't think that's a good idea. Let me explain....” He wandered out of the room.
Cas shrugged and ambled into the kitchen. He poked his head in the fridge and then looked at the pantry. It was true: they were running out of a lot of items. He glanced into the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. The garbage was also full.
It never ends, he thought. He grabbed the bin liner and pulled. It seemed really heavy. He poked at one of the objects inside. It was smooth and cylindrical. He opened the bag and pulled it out. A container of salt. He bounced it in his hand. A sealed container of salt. That was weird. “Kevin-“ he started, but then remembered Kevin has disappeared somewhere in the great maze that was the bunker, as he tended to do when he talked to Dean.
He extracted the package of salt and sealed off the bag. And then he went back to the dining room to clear up the dirty dishes Kevin had left on the table.
Kevin’s books were still spread all over the place, dishes piled on and around and underneath them.
Cas brushed bread crumbs off of one of the books. He looked over in the direction Kevin had wandered off to. There was no one in sight.
The dryer hummed. An ex-angel sat upon it, reading a very old Japanese book. All languages were really one language. He often wondered why humans couldn't see this.
He came to a page, and stopped. He frowned, as if puzzling something out, long fingers tapping on the illustration.
Cas hopped off the dryer and, still staring at the page, walked off. This action would cause one of Dean's favorite T-shirts to shrink about half a size, a consequence for which he would catch hell later.
And then Dean would loan him the T-shirt. Permanently. Because it didn't fit any more.
He came to a locked room. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door, wandering inside, being careful of the salt line, still gazing at the book.
“It's not feeding time yet,” grumbled Crowley. “Why are we conversing?”
Cas sat down on the floor across from the demon. “What do you know about tsukimono?”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Mmm. A little like a demons. But not. Why? You have a snake? Or a fox? Oh.” Crowley’s eyes went wide. “You have a fox, don’t you?”
“Kitsune. Yes. Or it could be … a pig?”
Crowley huffed, tugging at the chain around his neck. “Yes. It could be bloody anything. Snake, umbrella, bloke with an eye up his arsehole. Oh, don't look at me, look in the book. That's the trouble with that lot. Too damned open ended, if you ask me.”
“I am. Asking you.”
“What are you asking me?”
Cas sat back, closing the book. “The Men of Letters. Were they like Kevin?”
“Cranky little shits with delusions of grandeur?”
“They were Americans.”
“Everybody's American. These days. Not like in my time!”
Cas tapped the book. “What if they had the library, but didn't use it. When they were building this place. What if they couldn’t read Japanese?”
“Then they wouldn't ward against tsukimono. Because they were a bunch of smug little wankers.”
Cas was standing up. “I need to get to the supermarket.” And then he was out the door.
“Hey, you never brought me my second breakfast!” Crowley yelled after him, rattling his chains.
“Dean. You and Sam need to get back here.”
“Put down the phone.”
Normally, Cas wouldn't have heeded Kevin, but he was holding one of the ceremonial swords the Men of Letters had on display.
Or rather, the thing that was inside Kevin was holding a sword.
“Cas? What the hell?” came Dean's voice. “We stopped for lunch. We'll be there in twenty minutes. Gotta eat, dude. Can't you guys wait?”
“Put the phone down,” Kevin repeated.
“No,” said Cas, though it was unclear if this was meant for Kevin or Dean. He took a step back, as Kevin took a step forward. “You’re inside him. Like a parasite.”
“That's a terrible analogy. You're lucky you're an angel. You would have totally bombed your SATs.”
“Why? Why are you here?”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Isn't it pretty freaking obvious? I mean, duh.”
Cas nodded. “You can't get past the salt line.”
“Yes. That’s been a problem. But it doesn’t matter anymore. You can.”
“I won't.”
“Why do you want him alive, anyway? It's not as if you're best bros!”
“I won't klll Crowley for you.”
“Oh? Then what if I do … this?”
And now the sword was at Kevin's throat. The yokai formed Kevin’s face into a grotesque grin.
“You'd lose your host.”
“I'd find another. You guys aren't terribly smart. Stop!” he shouted as Cas stepped forward. The blade dug into Kevin's neck. One drop of blood seeped out and ran lazily down his neck.
“Don't!”
“Or what?”
Cas suddenly stood very tall, clenching his fists. “Get out of him,” he ordered.
Kevin cringed back.
“Now!” snapped Cas.
Kevin dropped the sword. It fell with a metallic clatter on the floor. Then he sunk to his knees, his eyes rolling back. He moaned, and fell over.
Then he fizzled. A sound of static electricity. A burning smell.
And something crawled out of him.
Cas stared, and then stepped back. “You're.... You're not a hungry ghost.”
“Oh, good,” said the figure. It was vaguely humanoid, with too-wide eyes and a short snout.
A pig snout.
The figure adjusted his glasses.
“Enma,” said Cas.
“You're not as stupid as the Winchesters at least.” He looked back at Kevin, scooping up the sword. He stretched and flexed, casually twirling the sword. “Good to be out of there. Was getting confining. Now, do I kill the pitiful former angel first, or the pitiful demon king? It's a dilemma. But, I think you'll agree, a good one to have.”
Cas glared at him. “Not if I kill you first.”
“I'd like to see you try.”
“All right.” Cas bowed deeply. Enma, as if compelled, returned the bow.
And Cas was running.
“Shit!” Enma took a beat, and then started after him.
Cas first fled to the kitchen. He grabbed the container of salt from the counter, frantically laying down a salt line in the doorway. And then he took off running while Enma stopped short, fuming. It would take the demon a while to find the other route.
Cas skidded into the room with the television. He punched the VCR’s on button, and then hit the eject button. There was a whirring sound. And nothing happened. He clicked the button again, and again.
He heard footsteps.
Cursing, he yanked the VCR’s electrical cord from the wall and started running with it, Enma on his heels. He took the first staircase and ran, thinking only of getting as far away from Crowley’s cell as possible. He turned corners, left and right, hoping to throw off his pursuer. Then, deep in the bowels of the bunker he chose a door at random and ducked inside. Gripping the VCR, he fumbled for a light switch. He flicked it on. He was in some kind of storage room. Of course it couldn't have been an arsenal.
The door didn’t have a lock. He pushed a shelf up against the door, looking around for an electrical outlet.
Something pounded against the door.
He pushed aside some bags of rice and plugged in the VCR. He tried the eject button, but it didn't work any better than in the television room.
The door banged and banged. It edged open.
He grabbed a screwdriver from one of the shelves and jammed it into the video slot, frantically trying to get the video out.
The door inched open.
Tossing the screwdriver away and cursing to himself, he picked up the VCR and threw it against the wall, smashing it. He knelt down beside it, prying it apart with his bare hands.
The door was almost open now.
He extracted the video, looking around everywhere. He grabbed a bottle of thick, gooey motor oil off another shelf. He tossed the video on the floor and poured oil all over it.
The door pounded.
Fumbling, Cas pulled a book of matches from his pocket.
The pounding at the door turned to a crash.
Cas flicked the match. It smoldered.
Running footsteps.
Cas rolled aside at the last moment. There was a terrible pain in his side.
There was screaming.
He let go the match.
There were shouts. Footsteps.
Gunshots.
Burning plastic.
A voice. Was it Dean?
Was it...?
Cas’s eyes flew open. He bolted upright, gasping.
There were hands on him, pushing him downwards. “You’ll rip your stitches. Cas! Quit fighting me, man! I’m here! You’re all right! You’re all right….”
Dean.
He stopped struggling and squinted down to survey his own body. There was a big bandage up his right side. He traced a hand over it.
“Don’t,” said Dean, pulling Cas away, more gently this time. “Sam was up all night getting those stitches right.”
“Oh. Stitches. Oh!” His eyes flicked up, over to Dean.
Dean settled down, sitting on the bed next to Cas. There was a chair pulled nearby, and a book splayed open down on the floor, as if it had been thrown there. “How much do you remember?” Dean asked, leaning over to scoop up the fallen book.
Cas relaxed slightly. He was still breathing hard, and his heart rate was elevated. He noticed a slick film of damp sweat over his body. “Not much,” he admitted. “I was trying to burn the tape.”
“The weasel farm dude wasn’t a shaman. We think he was just actually another possessed guy. We think. Whatever had gotten in here, Sam got him with salt rounds, and then he flamed out when you burned that videotape. Damn, we almost blew it this time.”
Cas leaned back. The stitches tore into his side. He winced, and Dean’s hands were on him again, holding him up, shifting a pillow behind his back. “Human bodies…” Cas muttered. “I was wrong. I was wrong too, Dean. I thought it was a yokai. It was a god! A king of hell.”
Dean chuckled softly. “Yeah. We always seem to end up in the worst case scenario thing, don’t we?”
Cas’s eyes were wide. “Kevin! How is he? Is he-?”
“He’s fine! Just fine. He had a stomach ache, 'cause I guess he ate us out of house and home, but we force fed him Pepto Bismol. He said you exorcised that demon from him. How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I yelled at it.”
Dean grinned. “Oh, and we burned the rest of the video tapes in that box. Just in case.”
Cas nodded. “Even Busty Asian Beauties?”
“Yeah. Even that.” Dean looked wistful. He studied Cas for a moment. “So, how did you figure it out? About the videotape, I mean?”
“I think.... I think it tried to get to me too.”
“Really?” Cas nodded. “Why did it take Kevin instead?”
“Kevin's a prophet. It's possible he's just more naturally … receptive.”
“And you? Hard-headed?”
That gave Cas pause. “Perhaps.” Cas glanced around. “Dean. This is your room.”
Dean ducked his head. Was it a blush? “I wanted to…. You know….”
“Watch over me?”
Dean was staring at the floor. “There was a lot of blood. A lot! Sam got you patched up, and you were semi-conscious, but then we stuffed you full of pain killers. For a while.” Cas nodded. “So, you hungry?”
“Is there any food?”
“Yeah. We went to the store. Though Kevin's not eating again for a while. I'll get you some tomato rice soup.” Dean stood up.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll have to take extra care. Crowley … warned me. There are other gods of hell now, fighting for control.”
“Just what we need. 'Cause we don't have enough shit from the angels.”
Cas nodded sadly.
“Look, next time we go out on a job? We’ll bring you along. I mean, when you’re up to it.”
“That’s all right with Sam?”
“Sam wanted to take you this time. But I insisted. It got a little heated, I guess.” Dean shrugged. “You’re not the only one who’s hard-headed. But, we’ll talk about it.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I drive the car?”
“No. No fucking way.”
They smiled at each other.
“I’ll go get the soup,” said Dean.
Cas nodded as Dean left. He noticed his book still open on the bed.
He picked it up. And started to read.
xxxxx
Notes: Enma (who’s also known as Yama) is the king of hell in Buddhist tradition, but his role is quite different from Lucifer. Yama is more of a judge. Kevin’s video is loosely based on Alakazam the Great, which was a flop because it wasn’t terribly good (despite all the celebrity voices). I’ve substituted Yama for the monkey king, who was the lead character of that movie.
