Sacrifice 1/6

Nov 09, 2019 21:09


Author: a_dean_girl
Artist: beesareawesome
Rating: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Kevin, Castiel
Warnings: Minor character death (implied), child abuse (implied), angst, but also schmoop
Spoilers: None
Summary: Sam and Dean are out on the road cleaning up God's mess (again) when they get an unusual email about a potential case. Meanwhile, Cass told Sam and Dean he was leaving and no one has heard from him since...except that Sam keeps having these dreams.

A/N: I struggled with this story a lot. When I first began writing, I picked Hawaii for a variety of reasons, but as I continued writing and learning I realized I wasn't entirely comfortable with ripping apart another culture's mythology and beliefs and sewing them back together to suit my needs. However, I had already reached the point in the story where going back was impossible if I was going to meet deadlines. So I apologize in advance for any offense the story might give native Hawaiians. This story does not portray their myths, legends, religious beliefs, or culture accurately, nor is it intended to.


Pain.

Sharp and shining, the ache in his shoulders the most intense but still not able to cut through the fog in his mind, not entirely. He lifts his head, wobbly and weak, and recognition dawns.

He’s in the nest. That’s what they call it, anyway, because for millenia angels have been born with wings, ever since humans decided they should. The flesh and bone they’re hatched with is, in essence, a secondary egg sack, reabsorbed within a few hours or days at most, feeding their grace and giving them strength. There are two other eggs here, and a scattering of broken shells, a far cry from the vast numbers Castiel remembers from his birth and past rebirths.

Castiel shouldn’t be awake, not yet. He’s only been in torpor for a few weeks at most he thinks. Not the months he is owed. That he needs. Something has dragged him from his shell, forced him back to consciousness far sooner than was ever intended. He needed rest, time to recuperate, time to regenerate his grace, time someone has stolen from him--instead he can scarcely think through the lassitude of interrupted torpor.

The presence of another touches his mind and his wings unfurl on instinct, rising out behind him. They’re ragged and torn, much as they’d been before he entered torpor, and he staggers under their weight.

“Why?” he asks, voice raspy and hoarse. “Why did you wake me so soon?”

“We have need of you.” Calm, cool, what he has come to associate with feminine, though angels have no gender. “The Great Machine is dying, as you know, because of the angels you slaughtered. We cannot afford to lose you to torpor.”

“But my grace is depleted,” Castiel argues indignantly. “I must rest if I am to continue--”

“You are the strongest of us that remain.” Light floods the room as the true form of the angel is revealed, but it flickers weakly. Fluctuates as though the angel before him is struggling for control. “We cannot allow you your allotted time, not when everything we hold dear, everything we fight for, is at stake. You will give your grace to power the Machine so that others--those who have given nearly everything--may come to their rest.” The form wavers and splits into three separate beams. “We will escort you to the eternal fire.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head frantically, anger and horror giving him strength. “No. I won’t.”

Rage echoes through the room, through his mind, hot and fierce. “You brought this upon us all! You chose to murder your brothers, you chose to put us all in danger. You will take your place.”

Castiel screams as the other angels surround him, stripping him of his solid form with brutal efficiency, but he cannot shake them off. His true form breaks free, solid and unwavering, a towering wave of light that is still dwarfed by the cold, pale glow of the eternal fire--the pillar of grace that powers all of heaven, maintaining the boundaries and borders and defenses of billions of innocent, beautiful souls. Half a dozen shapes float in the light, weightless and beautiful, wings and arms outspread as the weight of human belief overwhelms their true forms. Castiel screams again, fights against his brothers in a last desperate attempt to escape before he’s thrust into the torrent.

******************************************************

Dean yawns, sipping from the cup of coffee in one hand, his other hand rubbing the short bristles of his hair lazily. He slaps Sam on the shoulder as he passes into the shabby motel bathroom, startling him out of his research reverie.

“Coffee,” he grunts, handing Sam the cup. Sam takes it absently, making a face at the unsweetened, bitter taste but swallowing obediently before handing it back. Dean finishes the cup and tosses it into the wastebasket in the cramped bathroom. They both miss the coffee machine in the bunker when they’re on the road, but Dean thinks he misses the huge locker room style bathrooms even more.

Sam sits back with an audible sigh when he hears the shower come on, chewing his lip as he tries to make heads or tails of what he’s reading. After the third time through, he shakes his head and stands up to start packing. He’ll talk to Dean about it when he’s done in the shower, but in the meantime, two things are clear--they need to get home as soon as possible and it’s his duty as a little brother to tease the hell out of Dean over this.

Dean picks up on Sam’s mood as soon as he comes out of the bathroom. Sam’s clearly anxious about something--he’s been chewing on his lip again, and he’s hunched over his laptop the way he does when his stress levels are high and the tension makes his back ache. He also found time to get breakfast while Dean was in the shower, and it’s all Dean’s favorites--a dead giveaway.

Still, there’s nothing Dean likes better than a good repression. If Sam wants to talk, he will. Until then Dean’s perfectly content to keep an eye on him and wait.

“So something’s come up.” Sam waits until Dean has a mouthful of breakfast burrito before he decides not to make Dean wait. Like the good big brother he is, Dean grins at him with a mouthful of well-chewed bright green and red peppers and onions before raising a questioning eyebrow.

Sam, predictably, turns his own shade of green before continuing. “I got an email about a potential case--sent to the email address I set up for the Lebanon branch of the Men of Letters.”

Dean sits up and swallows, putting down his breakfast to listen. “Well, that’s kind of what we wanted it for, right? Sort of put out feelers, get a little more organized?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, but this is a little weird. Apparently there are other American branches besides ours, and they don’t seem to be aware that this branch of the Men of Letters is defunct. The email is kind of a ‘nice to see you’ve joined the 21st century, sorry it’s been seventy years since we talked, by the way something’s come up’ sort of thing.”

“So what’s the catch?” Dean asks bluntly. No point in beating around the bush at this point, and Sam’s guilty expression tells him there is indeed a bush being beaten here.

“Well...this Men of Letters branch is in Hawaii.” Sam sneaks a glance at him from under the bangs he doesn’t have anymore, unconscious gesture that Dean shouldn’t find adorable but he does. Sam’s still his baby brother, he’s allowed.

Dean’s good mood evaporates. “Hawaii?”

Sam snickers at Dean’s half panicked expression, but doesn’t make him suffer long.

“Don’t worry, there’s no need for airplanes or boats...unless you’re willing to go on a tropical vacation? You know, sandy white beaches, palm trees, sunscreen everywhere...the perfect getaway.” Sam’s dimples flash as he teases, but Dean’s pretty sure Sam doesn’t even know how wistful he sounds. He feels like a chickenshit asshole for the way his stomach drops and his hands want to shake at the thought of getting on another plane, but he doesn’t think he can do it.

“Well, since Cass has gone walkabout or whatever it was he said he was doing, how are we going to get there without a plane or a boat?”

“We don’t have to,” Sam says, and turns the laptop to face Dean. He points to a line in the email he’d been reading.  “They’re coming here. In fact, they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Here? Tomorrow? What the hell?” Dean sounds as surprised as Sam felt when he read the email.

“Well, to Lebanon. I only just found out.” Sam shrugs helplessly. “They were pretty upset when I told them that all of the senior members are dead and the entire bunker is in the hands of a couple of untrained Legacies.”

“Yeah, well. If they were that upset they should have picked up the damned phone sometime in the last seventy years,” Dean grouses, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I guess we’d better start with what the hell is going on and why their hunters--since they apparently have them--can’t take care of it themselves.”

“They sent me a file,” Sam says, relieved that Dean is willing to help--not that there was any real doubt. That’s just who his brother is, and Sam loves him for it. He opens the folder where the info is saved then stands, stretching. “You look it over while I’m in the shower, then we’d better get going. We’ve still got a ways to go before Lebanon.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean says distractedly. He misses Sam’s fond smile--Dean bitches about research, but loves learning and problem solving and helping people, so it’s no surprise to Sam that he’s already engrossed in the unusual case. Sam stretches again, cracking his back and earning a muttered gross, Sam from Dean and leaves him to it.

Once they get on the road, Dean immediately brings up the case. “So let me get this straight. There are literal dragons in Hawaii--”

“They call them mo-o,” Sam corrects, hoping he’s pronouncing it right.

“Right,” Dean says. “Dragons. And they think that someone stole a baby dragon and brought it here to the continental US?”

“That’s what they said. And they’re calling on us, as the branch of the Men of Letters closest to where they think it's being hidden, to help them get the baby back before the parents start really wreaking havoc.” To Sam’s surprise, Dean’s lips curve up in an excited grin.

“Dragons. Real dragons. Like, the big fire--”

“--water--”

“--breathing kind of dragon. I wonder if this kind hordes treasure, too?”

Sam shakes his head, smiling. There’s no telling what will catch Dean’s imagination, but Sam’s glad he’s happy about taking on this case. “It doesn’t seem like it, from what I’m reading. But I’m sure the Hawaiian hunters will fill us in on the details.”

The miles slip away. Dean puts on his favorite cassette after the radio station craps out, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along with his favorite parts. Sam reads everything he can find about Hawaiian dragons and spirits, enjoying the companionable silence. They stop for lunch eventually at a Chinese restaurant Dean remembers from the last time they were out this way, and Sam grumbles a bit over the lack of healthy options as befits his role of little brother. Their waitress brings them free ice cream on the house, she says, beaming at them, and Dean just enjoys it--he stopped grumbling about random people mistaking them for a couple years ago.

Back on the road, Sam pulls off his overshirt and tucks it under his head so he can doze comfortably. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, and grins to himself, waiting for Dean’s ritual warning not to get face prints or drool on his baby. But it never comes, and instead Sam dozes off to the light brush of Dean’s fingers on his shoulder and the quiet sounds of soft rock coming from Baby’s speakers.

Cold. That’s the first sensation Sam recognizes. Bitter, bone shattering cold that somehow doesn’t touch his skin at all. The second is despair, because Sam knows this feeling. He’s been here before. The Cage, the Pit--whatever you want to call it, Sam knows when he’s in the presence of an angel’s raw grace. He tries to move, tries to scream, but he can’t, he’s caught--held like a fly in amber, only cold. So very cold.

Sam wakes with a scream fighting to escape his clenched teeth. Dean’s guiding the Impala into the bunker’s underground garage--thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have noticed Sam’s nightmare. Sam shudders again, eager to leave the cold of his nightmare for the warmth of home.

They spend the next few hours getting reacquainted with the bunker. They’d been out on the road for longer than they’d intended by a couple of weeks, one case bleeding into another as they painstakingly track down the remaining monsters from Chuck’s temper tantrum, and now there’s a bit of a mess to clean up in the kitchen. The bunker mostly keeps itself dusted and germ free, but apparently it draws the line at removing takeout Darwinism and milk that’s three weeks out of date from the refrigerator. Dean makes a food run into town and Sam changes the sheets in the guest bedrooms, and it’s all so domestically blissful that Sam’s face feels permanently stuck in a ridiculous grin.

It’s a quiet night, even after Dean gets back, with all his accompanying bustle and noise and life. Dean lights up any room he’s in, simply by existing, and Sam loves him for it, and for the way he draws Sam out of his thoughts. They go over the case again after they eat the pizza Dean had brought back with him, and when Sam checks his email again there’s another message from the Hawaiian Men of Letters, letting Sam and Dean know that they’ll be in Lebanon around 10am the next morning. Sam commandeers Dean’s assistance in digging out a few books he thinks might be helpful, but neither of the feel up to reading that night and they both turn in.

Sam misses the sound of Dean breathing in the bed next to him. He’d never admit it, Lucifer himself couldn’t drag that confession out of him, but it’s true, especially after weeks of sharing a motel room again. He tosses and turns and punches his pillow into a dozen different shapes, praying to a god he hopes won’t answer for a dreamless night’s sleep before he finally drifts off.

He wakes up to an unfamiliar voice echoing through his room. “LKMOL, this is HMOL preparing for landing. Do you read? Repeat: LKMOL, this is HMOL preparing for landing. Please respond if you can hear us.”

Sam hears a frazzled “What the fuck?” from the direction of Dean’s room as the message repeats, and it suddenly dawns on him what he’s hearing. There’s a ham radio set in one of the rooms near the library and Sam stumbles in that direction, trying to shake the sleep from his brain.

Dean’s there ahead of him, already speaking into the radio in a voice full of low, controlled panic. “Look, I’m telling you there is not an airfield at the Lebanon Men of Letters facility. There may have been in the past but there’s nothing but overgrown field now!”

“Understood, LKMOL. Please go to the control room and wait for instructions.”

Dean throws his hands up, releasing the mike. “Jesus Christ, Sam--these idiots are going to kill themselves. Stay here--no, get your phone so we can talk. I’m going to the control room.”

Sam runs back to his room for his phone and returns, seating himself where Dean had been just before. “HMOL, this is LKMOL. We’re in the control room awaiting instructions. Proceed.” He dials Dean’s number and puts his phone on speaker.

The mike crackles back to life immediately, and even through the static Sam thinks he hears relief. “Copy, LKMOL. Sitting dead center of the command panel, look to your left. There should be a button marked GARDEN. Press that button, please.” There’s a pause, and the voice comes back, this time definitely amused. “Then go outside and take a look at your overgrown field.”

“Did you get that, Dean?” Sam lets the mike drop, waiting anxiously for Dean’s response. He’s sure the HMOL can make it to another airfield if they have to, but this whole situation has him on edge.

“Got it,” Dean says from the doorway. “Come on, let’s go find out what the hell is going on.”

Sam follows Dean outside, around to the back of the bunker--and runs into Dean’s back when he stops abruptly.

“Dean, what--” Sam says in annoyance, but what is completely clear even before he finishes speaking.

There’s no more field. It’s just...gone. Instead, there’s a short, neatly maintained runway and a building that’s probably a hanger.

“What the fuck,” Dean breathes, and then Sam hears it--the buzz of a small plane or jet coming in closer.

“I have no idea,” Sam admits, tugging on Dean’s arm. “But I”m thinking we should probably get off the runway.”

Dean snaps out of his daze abruptly. “Yeah, no shit.” But instead of heading back to the relative safety of the bunker to wait for their guests, he heads straight for the newly revealed hanger. Sam sighs and jogs along behind him. The door is unlocked, and Dean steps through cautiously, but it’s a fairly typical garage--just built to airplane scale. They don’t have time to do much other than ogle it for a few moments before the buzzing from the plane begins getting louder. Sam stands in the doorway and watches in fascination as the plane touches down across the airstrip and roll towards them, startling when Dean grabs his arm.

“Over here, Sam,” he says, tugging on Sam’s arm, and Sam follows as the entire wall he was leaning against shakes and shudders and starts to move like a giant garage door. “They’re gonna want that in here, not sitting out in a field.”

The plane slows but continues to roll majestically toward them, nosing through the opening as Sam and Dean watch. It’s quieter than Sam would have expected, especially in an enclosed space, and he finds himself holding his breath in anticipation as the door on the side of the aircraft opens and a man with blonde hair and fair skin looks out.

“Little help here?” he says, pointing at the ground, and it takes a moment for Sam to realize the door is a dozen feet in the air.

“Oh, right,” he stammers, and nudges Dean, who is not so subtly eyeing the engine closest to them. Together they find and wheel the mobile staircase over to the door, holding it in place when neither of them can figure out how to make it latch in place.

“Thanks, man,” the stranger says with an easy smile, and they begin to disembark.

Half an hour later everyone is seated around one of the big tables in the bunker.

“I guess introductions are in order,” Dean says, breaking the ice. “I’m Dean Winchester and this is my brother, Sam. He’s the one you were emailing.”

Sam nods as everyone looks at him, hating the focused attention.

An older woman to Dean’s left speaks up.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sam and Dean. Everyone in the hunting community has heard of you and the incredible things you’ve done. My name is Ailani Kane, and this is my team.” She goes around the table, introducing each team member.

“Susan Kelikolio, our magic and lore expert. Michael Jameson, our weapons expert and pilot. And Kerr Tanaka specializes in magic, both theory and use. Now, I hate to be impolite, but we have very limited time in which to find the child. She needs to return to her mother soon, within the next week if possible.”

“Of course,” Sam says reassuringly. “Whatever we can do, we will. What do we need to know?”

“Sam’s our research guy,” Dean interrupts, holding up a hand. “It’s his favorite thing. I’m a little more practical. You guys were in the air a long time, what can I get you to drink?”

Sam smiles gratefully at Dean. He doesn’t mean to forget his manners, but he doesn’t get this kind of opportunity very often.

Turns out beer is good for everyone, and Dean returns from the kitchen with a cooler full of ice and beer in short order to find Sam next to Susan poring over a file with Kerr on the other side. Dean hands out the green bottles and passes around an ancient churchkey, watching as each of their guests opens their bottle and takes a drink--all except Ailani, who politely declines both the bottle and the bottle opener. Sam has that look he gets when he’s learning, transcendently happy and in his element. No need for Dean to bring him into this before he has a handle on it, so Dean turns to Ailani and Michael instead.

“Looks like Sam has things under control--how about I show you to your rooms? There’s plenty of space here, singles and doubles, whichever you prefer.”

“We’ll all take singles if you don’t mind,” Ailani says, standing with a bit of effort. “And I would like to rest after our flight--I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Right this way,” Dean says with a grand gesture. “To your right, you’ll see the library. Further down that hallway is the kitchen--there’s not too much in there, Sam and I were out on a case when you emailed--but you’re welcome to whatever we have.” He pauses to open a door. “The rooms are a bit sparse, but hopefully adequate.”

“This will be fine, Dean. Thank you.” Ailani enters the room and sits on the narrow bed with relief. “Michael, would you please bring my bag down a bit later?”

“Of course, Ailani.” Michael’s tone is respectful, almost deferential. He bows slightly before turning back to Dean with a smile. “I’m headed back to the plane, would you mind giving me a hand? For the most part, my job comes a little later, once we figure out who or what needs to go down.”

Dean laughs a little. “I hear you--the only good research is Sam’s research. I’d much rather take care of the tactical and practical end of things. They’re probably going to be at this all day, so I can help you guys get settled in, no problem.”

Sam looks up as Dean passes through the room with the pilot--Michael, Sam thinks his name is. They’re both relaxed, talking animatedly, and Sam smiles softly to himself when he hears the word horsepower in the midst of their chatter. He basks quietly in Dean’s faith, the knowledge that Dean trusts him to find out what they need to know about the case while he vets these strangers who’ve taken up residence in their home. The warmth settles around his heart as he returns his full attention to the woman next to him, doing his best to absorb this new information and fit the pieces together with what he already knows.

“Alright, so I have to know,” Dean says casually as he and Michael cross the former field, now a runway. “Where the hell was all this hiding?”

Michael laughs. “It’s a spell, powered by the bunker. Now that we’re here and have a better handle on the situation, I’m pretty surprised that it was still up and running.”

“Yeah, Sam and I are still getting acclimated. It’s been a big change from living on the road, that’s for sure, and it’s not like there’s an instruction manual.” Dean pushes up the door to the hanger, gesturing for Michael to go first. “So how did you know there was an airfield here? And what to do?”

“Well, all these old installations are pretty much the same. A few customizations here and there, but the basic layouts generally match up.” Michael climbs the stairs into the plane, raising an eyebrow when Dean stays on the ground. “This airfield was put in not long before everything went quiet.”

“About that…” Dean catches the pilot’s case Michael tosses down to him, sets it out of the way just in time to catch the next one. “What the hell is up with that, anyway? You guys, the Brits--no one thought it was weird when the Lebanon guys just stopped answering the phone?”

Michael sticks his head out the door, waving to Dean to come up. “I want to run a few diagnostics since I’ve got the time. Come on up and take a look.”

Dean feels his stomach turn, beer sloshing queasily at the thought. He thinks about Sam’s wistful expression when he talked about taking a vacation, looks up at Michael, waiting expectantly. The first step is always the hardest, he thinks, and puts his foot on the bottom step.

Sam isn’t sure how long they’ve been hunched over the table, just that his back is starting to ache the way it does right before Dean usually smacks him on the shoulder and tells him to stand up, move, breathe. Dean’s not here this time to remind him, but Sam sits back and stretches anyway, just in time to see Dean walk through the door with a stack of pizza boxes.

“Break time,” Dean announces cheerfully. “Michael told me what everyone likes--he went to get Ailani, he’ll be back in a few.”

Sam watches Dean’s face as he talks. He’s probably the only person in the world who would notice the way Dean’s eyes tighten and the way he flinches ever so slightly when he says Michael, but Sam sees it, and when Michael comes back with Ailani, he speaks up.

“Thanks--Michael, is it? Can I call you Mike?--I really appreciate you helping Dean out with lunch.” Sam smiles, genuinely grateful and hoping he’s not being too obvious.

Michael looks briefly puzzled, glancing at Dean then back at Sam before returning his smile. “No problem. Most people call me Jameson, which is fine by me.”

“I think we’ve got some Jameson in the library,” Dean muses, eyes gleaming. He backtracks when he sees Sam’s stern expression, grinning sheepishly. “Maybe later, though.”

Chapter 2
https://a-dean-girl.livejournal.com/5094.html

sam and dean, dean winchester, child death (implied), supernatural, sam winchester, schmoop, dragons, angst, child abuse (implied)

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