The ninth circle, a 'Frontierland' coda
This last episode got me thinking about the multi-purpose uses of a human soul... which led, of course, to writing about it. So, this is sort of coda to 'Frontierland,' though it has little to do with the episode. It's sort of about souls, but they only play a small part. In reality, this is about brothers, friends and duty.
Beta work by jackfan2 , who, I don't know how, still finds the will and the time to waste on my stuff. All remaining mistakes are mine.
THE NINTH CIRCLE
"Choose, Castiel," the voice echoed across the empty space, raising and shattering glass as it went.
"I choose to do what is right," the angel said without wavering. In his hands, the shiny sword that was the only weapon capable of killing one of his brothers and sisters, was steady. Ready to kill. "I will not let Raphael destroy all of our Father's work!"
"You cannot do what is right without us," the other said. His figure was as imposing as his voice, four pairs of wings fluttering behind his back. Some fluttered in amusement; some looked menacing. One pair was made of pure fire, a sparkle of creation itself. "And I am not Raphael."
It was the only thing lighting the room and the warriors scattered around, ready to fight.
"I have Heaven's weapons," Castiel pointed out. It was, as Dean had once told him, the only ace up his sleeve.
"We are Heaven's force," the other reminded him.
Archangels were the most fearsome power in Heaven; Castiel knew that. And he was merely a watcher, a guardian angel that had learned the importance of freedom and was willing to fight for it.
"Choose Castiel," a choir of all the archangels' in their midst demanded of him. "Do you wish to be one of us... or one of them?"
Castiel lowered his sword, all the angels standing by his side following his lead. "I wish to be free."
~º~
The versatility of whiskey was a thing to be admired, even by those who lacked the taste for the drink itself.
It was perfect to drown your sorrows and grief.
Perfect for mourning.
Perfect for forgetting.
Perfect for mustering up courage.
Perfect for celebrating.
It seemed to the three men drinking in Bobby's kitchen that they had been doing way too much of the first four and not nearly enough of the last. This time was different, however. This time they were celebrating.
"Here's to Mommy dearest," Dean, already on his merry way to being well drunk, called out with his glass up in the air. "May the ashes of the Phoenix destroy her sorry ass and we never see her motherfucking self ever again!"
"Here, here!" Sam and Bobby said in unison. They raised their glasses to join Dean's in an ill coordinated cheer that resulted more in spilled drink than an actual clashing of glasses. Dean wasn't the only one well and truly pissed drunk.
"You boys really think this is gonna work?" Bobby felt compelled to ask. It was more of a slur, but drunks always speak the same language and the boys understood the question well enough. Far too well, in fact; it was almost enough to sober them up on the spot.
This Mother of all was one powerful bitch, and all they had against her was, literally, a pile of dust. And that wasn't even taking into consideration how they had gotten their hands on that pile of dust.
When Bobby had started to hunt, a lifetime ago, the hunting business was all about blood and guts and sheer dumb luck. Now... now they had time traveling and packages from the past, sent by long dead, famous hunters, being delivered at their doorsteps.
Times had truly changed.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Bobby," Sam offered, picking up the bottle of Jack Daniels to refill Bobby's glass. The older man was clearly not drunk enough if he was still thinking that hard. "For now, lets just celebrate the fact that we have a shot at killing her."
"I'll drink to that!" Dean hurried to agree, emptying his glass and going for the bottle in the same breath.
Dean had lost his cowboy hat somewhere in between one 'bottoms' up' and the other and he had taken off the long duster because he was 'sweating like a fat man's butt crack on a hot summer day'. However, he refused to let go of the handmade shirt and vest, as well as the boots that almost reached his knees.
Despite the fact that it was heart warming to see Dean that excited and happy about something, Bobby had eventually told him to take those damn spurs off or they were gonna be shoved so far up his ass that Dean would hear them every time he swallowed. Damn things were giving Bobby's headache a headache.
"To Bobby," Dean said, raising his glass one more time. At the speed he was going, Sam and Bobby were pretty sure that he'd be raising his glass in honor of the doorknobs in about thirty minutes. "To Bobby, without whom we'd be forced to stay in the wild, Wild West, become blacksmiths and invent fridges so that we could have cold beer!" he called out, thrusting his glass up. "Damn... if we'd stayed there a little bit longer, we could've invented the fridge and be rich men..." he added, looking sorrowful.
"If we'd stayed any longer, you'd have become a walking billboard for STDs, that's what you'd have become," Sam added with a laugh. "I don't think Darla would've taken no for an answer a second time..."
Dean visibly shivered, remembering his close call with herpes-lady. Then again, maybe he could 'invent' the Acyclovir and become a national hero.
"Not to mention that I would have had the soul probing from hell for nothing, you dimwits," Bobby offered with a smile.
Watching Dean, sliding across the floor of his office like he was doing the longest touchdown of history, closely followed by Sam, who almost took the angel off his feet, was the best sight that Bobby had seen all day long. Well worth the feeling of having his spine ripped apart and pulled out through his nose.
"To Cass," Dean called out again, sloshing whiskey all over himself with a grin. "Our private little DeLorean... may his army of rugrats catch every feathery assfu-"
"Dean," the deep voice, way too sober to belong to any of the men present in that room, cut through Dean's words. "We need to talk," Castiel announced, his figure stiff and unmoving from the doorway where he stood.
Dean froze with his glass still in midair, not sure if he should finish the cheer or drink it dry. It hadn't escaped any one's notice the way Bobby had recoiled from the angel's presence as soon as he'd made himself known or the way the angel seemed to be having a certain difficulty meeting their eyes.
"We're celebrating, Cass," Dean explained needlessly. He felt like he should explain, since the angel looked more haggard now than the last time he'd seen him only a couple of hours before, and here they were, getting drunk and having fun.
From the tone of Castiel's voice, Dean knew that more trouble was brewing in Heaven. "Grab a bottle and join us," he offered honestly. It would be good for the angel to relax a little bit once in a while.
"I don't have the time or the luxury to become inebriated, Dean," Castiel said, his voice sounding vaguely recriminating of the three hunters' actions. "I am in urgent need of your assistance."
"Okay, Cass," Dean said without a blink as he set his still full glass on the floor. The angel's words had an instantaneous sobering effect on him.
Other words, Rachel's words, the few that they had exchanged with Castiel's lieutenant, had actually hurt. Her accusation that the only time they called for Castiel was when they needed something from him had hit too close to home, specially after having heard the same thing from Bobby not that long ago. They had made Dean feel like a low-life who took advantage of his friends, and that was something that deeply disgusted him. He'd do anything to prove to the angel and himself that he wasn't that sort of person.
"What can we do for you, Cass?" Dean asked.
Contrary to what was to expected, Castiel seemed to recoil from Dean's honest offer, looking more like he'd been slapped in the face rather than having just been offered assistance.
Seeing the look on the angel's face, Dean realized that, whatever the reason he'd come to them, it was more than trouble. It was important for the angel. "Just ask, Cass... if we can help, you know we will."
The angel looked green around the gills, as he looked at each of the men in that room. At one point or another, he had touched each of those souls; he'd come to know of those men down to their core. He knew what each of them was made of.
"My rebellion against Raphael has hit an insurmountable barrier," Castiel started, walking further inside the room, his back to the three hunters. "Raphael is and always will be an archangel. His power comes from being at a higher level in the celestial chain of command. There is nothing I can do about that."
"So, how have you been managing to fight him so far?" Sam asked.
"Numbers, strategy, resources," the angel numbered the tactics he'd been using to keep himself one step ahead of the archangel. "But those suffice no more. I need to stand in equal terms with Raphael if I expect to harbor any chance of finishing this fight."
Bobby's eyes were nothing but slits on his face, watching the angel carefully. "Bring him down a notch or give yourself a promotion?" he asked, figuring those were the only two options.
"By becoming an archangel myself," Castiel explained. "Or at least, as powerful as one."
The silence that settled over the room was enough to hear the faulty faucet in the up-stairs bathroom, pinging its monotonous symphony of one note.
"How is that even possible?" Sam cut in the uncomfortable silence. "I mean, do you get promotions, are you born as one... how does that even work?"
"To our Father, everything is possible," Castiel said, looking lost and mournful as he always did when he mentioned God. "But in this particular case, there is a way."
"And lemme guess, "Bobby chipped in. "That's where we came in."
Castiel nodded, his eyes finding Dean's and latching on. "I need to share the soul of a powerful vessel, an archangel's vessel. It is the only way my powers can match those of an archangel."
Sam and Bobby saw the way Castiel was looking at Dean and knew exactly who Castiel had in mind. The realization left them all painfully sober and dreadfully aware as to the weight of his request; Dean's eyes locked on the angel, studying him. Sam looked helplessly from his brother to Cass and back again.
"Isn't there any other way?" Bobby asked, his face ashen. His own experience on tampering with souls was still too fresh on his mind and once Castiel asked, he knew that there was no way Dean was going to say no.
Castiel hung his head, refusing to meet their eyes once again. To anyone watching, the angel looked nervous, ill at ease with what he was doing and saying. "Human souls are our last connection to our Father. If there were another way, I would not be asking this of you. The experience is... not something that I would wish to see a friend experience," he said, looking into Dean's eyes.
Dean swallowed hard. He remembered all too well the first time he'd seen Castiel touch a person's soul. He could still hear that poor kid's screams...
And then seeing the same being done to Sam, not just once, but twice... it had been as painful for him as it had been for his brother.
And while he'd not witnessed Bobby's experience with the whole soul-touching thing, he had seen how shook up the older hunter had been. Dean would never be able to thank him enough for what he had done.
And somehow, soul-sharing managed to sound a lot worse than any thing that they had ever seen before. It sounded invasive and brutal and not something that anyone would do lightly.
"Why not me?" Sam asked. After all, he had been the one who had said yes to Lucifer, the one who had actually housed an archangel for any length of time. Dean was the one who had managed to resist.
"No!" Dean snapped, his voice commanding, determined. Sam turned his confused gaze fixed on his brother.
"Why not?" Sam practically shouted back, his voice edging on panic. "Why should you be the one doing this when we're both vessels for archangels? I mean, I'm a viable choice too, right Cass?" he asked, turning to look at the angel.
"Sam," Dean growled, his warning tone a reminder that these were questions Sam shouldn't be asking. "Death's wall to trap all the crap that happened to your soul downstairs isn't bulletproof, you know that, right?"
Sam met his brother's gaze, seeing the way Dean needed him to back down on this, the way Dean needed him to be safe and take care of himself. Couldn't Dean see that Sam wanted exactly those same things for his brother as well?
"Your soul is still too fragile to risk doing this," Castiel said, agreeing with Dean. "You would not survive the sharing."
"And Dean?" Sam demanded to know. The angel had just said that it wasn't exactly a walk in the park. "Will he be okay?"
Again, Castiel seemed to hesitate before answering, his eyes turning sad as he looked at the trust mirrored in Dean's face. "It will be less damaging for him."
Dean rubbed his hands, a show of eagerness that wasn't fooling anyone. The fact that they were ice-cold had little to do with it. "Good thing I'm already drunk then," he announced cheerfully. "How do we do this?"
"It is better if you are seated," Castiel said solemnly.
Dean took a deep breath and picked the chair nearest to him. Rather than having a dulling effect, the alcohol seemed to have heightened his senses, making him hyper-aware of everything around him. Dean could feel the flat, hard wood under his ass and pressing against his spine as he sat back; he could feel Sam's gaze, burning into his back as Dean waited patiently for Castiel to do his thing; he could hear Bobby fussing over the drawings, searching for something.
He hated being the center of attention like this. It made his skin crawl and his hair stand on end, like the air was charged with electricity and he was a light bulb ready to be lit.
It wasn't fear; Dean could feel his heart beating inside his chest, pounding steady and calm. He trusted Castiel with his life; this wasn't even close to being that dramatic, just the soul's equivalent of donating a pint of blood. Just that. He could do that.
Castiel had rolled up his sleeves, both arms, Dean noticed, and was looking closely at the cowboy outfit that Dean still wore. "You are wearing too much clothing," Castiel pointed out. "It would be easier if your chest were bare."
Dean's eyebrow raised, all three hunters looking at the angel.
"Never needed to do that before," Bobby pointed put.
"I have never done this before," Castiel confessed. "I would rather take no risks."
Just his luck. Dean sighed and started unbuttoning, first the vest and then the shirt he had underneath. The white metal of the sheriff's star pulled the vest down and Dean carefully removed it. Maybe it was a sign of being older; maybe Sam was right when he said that Dean had a thing for the Old West, but it had felt good to be wearing such a symbol of authority and respect, even if it had been for just a couple of hours.
The white tee-shirt was the only thing that he hadn't acquired in the old west. Dean pulled it up, feeling the cotton stretch across his chest. "What now?"
"Here, bite this," Bobby said, thrusting a piece of wood to Dean's hands. It was long, circular and smooth, like the broken piece of a chair's leg. Seeing Dean's puzzled look, Bobby shrugged. "When he did it to me, I bit so hard on the damn leather of my belt that my teeth got stuck in it. Trust me, this is better."
Dean nodded, grabbing the stick of wood awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with it just yet.
"Are you prepared for this?" Castiel asked, looking downcast, as if he expected Dean to back out now. As if he hoped Dean would back out.
Dean gave him a nervous smile, hoping to reassure his friend that he was okay with what was about to happen. Castiel had, after all, given them so much. It was only fair that he would help him at least with this.
"Careful, I'm ticklish," Dean said with a wink before placing the stick between his lips and biting down.
Castiel took a deep breath, his gaze looking up at the expectant eyes of both Sam and Bobby. "It would be best if you grabbed his arms. This will be... unpleasant," the angel warned.
Sam and Bobby looked pale and haggard as each grabbed one of Dean's arms, holding him back at the shoulders. Under so many hands and trapped in the chair as he was, Dean seemed small, vulnerable, even if he was amongst friends.
Castiel's eyes landed on the man he called friend, brother. The human who had been his charge and had become so much more. The true precursor of where Castiel found himself now. "Forgive me," he whispered.
Before Dean could do more than look confused at Castiel's words, the angel thrust both hands inside the hunter's chest, fingers diving in a hidden pool of light.
Despite his best efforts, Dean bucked from the chair. Only Sam and Bobby's hold kept him seated.
It felt like nothing Dean had ever felt before.
No. It felt like something Dean had felt before but had made himself forget. It felt like he was under Alastair's knife all over again. It felt like he had never left.
Stop
It was the same breath-taking sensation of nerve endings being rubbed raw, exposed and laid bare before fire consumed them.
Please, stop
It was the same skin crawling feeling of being eaten alive by lightning bolts and being pushed under the weight of a entire ocean.
This isn't right
Dean could feel Castiel's touch the same way he had felt the demon's blade, cutting deep and making him bleed freely, like his blood was worthless and made to be spilled over nothing. Even so, Dean let him do it, reminding himself that Castiel needed this to become stronger, to fight for them.
I'm falling
How necessary it was didn't diminished in any form how terrifying and tormenting it was. Agony in its purest form, like he was being turned inside out. The knowledge that it was a friendly hand doing it only made things worse. Dean couldn't fight it, wouldn't let himself fight it. He could only endure and hope that it would be enough.
Sam watched in distress as Dean's nostrils flared at the first sign of pain, as his breaths started to become faster and shallower, as Dean's teeth bit into that stick until he was sure they would shatter. Dean's veins, corded like pulled ropes, stood out on his neck and forehead, like his blood was trying to get out, to escape.
Castiel had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. It felt like this had been going on forever, but the angel was giving them no signs of letting up.
When Sam was sure that Dean was going to pass out from the built up tension alone, Dean opened his mouth and screamed. The stick covered in spit and blood, fell to the floor with a clatter that no one heard.
Dean threw his head back, thrashing for release from that chair, from their hold, the back of his head colliding over and over with Sam's stomach. Sam's breath hitched inside his chest and he felt his eyes water as he saw his brother's face.
Dean's face was covered in sweat, tears pooling in his opened eyes as he stared vacantly upward, seeing something else that wasn't Sam. He looked terrified.
And that was it for Sam.
"That's enough!" Sam shouted, throwing a pleading look in the angel's direction. It was hard to hear anything above the sound of Dean's screams
"Stop this!" Bobby's twin bawl sounded almost simultaneous, as both men reached their endurance for seeing Dean in pain.
Castiel, however, wasn't looking at either of them. His eyes still closed, his face lit up from within, he looked as far from human as they had ever seen him.
"Cass, YOU'RE KILLING HIM!" Sam exploded, letting go of Dean's arm and moving forward to physically shove the angel away from his brother.
It wasn't necessary.
Castiel opened his eyes a second before Sam could touch him, the blue iris replaced by a tone of green that was eerily similar to Dean's. When his hands reemerged from Dean's body, they left bloody imprints behind.
Goodbye
"It is done," Castiel simply said, before disappearing in a flutter of wings.
He never saw the way Sam and Bobby looked at each other, anger in their eyes for what had just happened; he never saw as Dean's eyes slid closed and his body listed sideways, his fall barely broken by Sam's quick reflexes.
Castiel was long gone by the time Dean curled in around himself and started rocking back and forth on the floor. He wasn't there to see the tears finally fall from the hunter's eyes, the way Dean's mouth moved in soundless pleas of escape and forgiveness.
Castiel was long gone... but he knew exactly what he had done.
~º~
"We are angels, Castiel," the archangel reminded him. "We are creatures of one allegiance only, but one allegiance we must have. If you wish us to fight for your cause, you must prove to us that your allegiance lies with us."
"And how do you propose I prove such a thing?" Castiel demanded, defiantly stepping closer to the archangel.
"You have grown too attached to your human charges... you go so far as to call one of them your brother," the archangel spat, his fiery wings expanding visual spectacle of his displeasure. "Choose Castiel, who you want your brothers to be."
Castiel hung his head in defeat. He cared for Humanity in ways that none of his brothers could truly understand. And yet, here he was, reluctant to sacrifice one for the safety of billions. "I will not kill him," Castiel whispered, more of a prayer than a demand. They all knew he was in no position to demand a single thing.
"Then do worse," the archangel said, his hand reaching out and clutching Castiel's shoulder in compassion. "Betray him."
the end