Dean, in the pub. (With the lead pipe?)stumblednotfellSeptember 20 2010, 03:55:59 UTC
Castiel hadn't heard from Dean, and he was more than a little worried. The complete lack of response wasn't a sign of anything good, he was certain.
Gramted, after his first experience of possession he didn't think anything in this place could be a sign of something good. Still, once inside the barracks, the logical place to look for Dean would be, he was certain, a place with alcohol. And if Dean wasn't there, the prospect of large quantities of alcohol was still incentive enough to investigate.
He made his way into the pub, his face drawn. He was staring directly ahead of him, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, and his hands were not shaking. Angels' hands didn't shake, after all, therefore, his hands couldn't be shaking. He ignored the feeling that there might be a flaw in his logic, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his (strangely unbloodied) trenchcoat.
"...Dean?"
No matter how he felt, he had to keep his mind on one simple thing: the pub would yield Dean, alcohol, or both. That would have to be good enough.
psh no way dean goes candlestick all the way.obiwanningSeptember 20 2010, 04:05:51 UTC
He knew that voice. He hoped to hell he knew that voice, because considering he still hadn't managed to find Sam, he could sure go for a familiar face right about now. Dean came out of the stock room, trying not to appear too eager to find out if he was right, keeping one hand clapped on the doorway as he stared out into the main area of the pub and had his suspicions confirmed. Cas.
"You son of a bitch," he shook his head -- despite the expletive, it was relief that filled his voice. If it was Cas that had brought him here, it meant they'd be able to get this goddamn lesson over with and leave and find Sammy. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he let go of the door frame, continuing into the main area and stepping closer to Cas. By the looks of it, he'd already partaken of the questionable quality alcohol that the place had to offer, but not enough to put a slur in his speech or a trip in his step.
"I knew this had your name written all over it. What's the deal, you got something you wanna tell me, you couldn't just say
( ... )
At the implication that he had done this, the muscles in Castiel's face tightened. It was the smallest motion, too subtle to be called a wince, but it was there nonetheless, just barely perceptible.
"I didn't do this," he said, a harsh edge to his voice which he hadn't quite intended. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets -- Where was the holy oil Molotov? he wondered, and then remembered that, of course, he had left it in the clearing, when that spirit had...
He resolved not to think about what the spirit had done, and reminded himself again that his hands weren't supposed to tremble.
"...Check your pockets, Dean. You should have one of these." He held up the communicator, then thrust his hand back in his pocket before a tremor could give him away. "I left a message."
It was the harsh edge of Castiel's tone that made Dean really take notice to the change in the angel's demeanor. He seemed … distracted. Shaken. It was like looking into a goddamn mirror, except for the fact that Cas wasn't supposed to look like that. He was supposed to be the one who had it under control, who was calm and collected and guided him. He was supposed to have to goddamn emotional capacity of a rock. Still, he kept from voicing it, but an apprehensive look made its way into his eyes anyway as he began to check his pockets.
The search led him to realize with a mildly frustrated look that something had happened to the EMF reader he knew had been brought with him, but he was too distracted in searching for the toy Castiel was holding up to care much about that for the moment. He'd deal with it later -- chances were it was up North somewhere by where Merlin had dropped 'em off
( ... )
"I can't 'just pop in', Dean. I can't 'pop' anywhere anymore." Castiel tried to sound patient and long-suffering, as he was certain Dean was used to, but for all his attempts to sound calmer, there was still a slight edge to his voice.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, forced himself again not to let his mind get caught up in the necessity of breathing, and continued.
"I'm from your future, and, to spare you the trouble of breaking that, let me just ask: what was the last thing you remember before coming here?"
Great. It was the fun future version of Castiel. Which was about as fun as the future version of Jo, apparently, and by the looks of them both, Dean didn't do a whole lot of succeeding in the next few months. It made it hard to bring himself to try, on top of all of the tiredness he'd felt before he'd seen where the road was headed. The end of it was more exhaustion. More hopelessness. More death. He ran his free hand over his hair, blowing out a heavy sigh through his lips as he tried to take it all in. It was a lot of information in a short period of time and he wasn't sure he was anywhere near qualified to deal with it. Unfortunately, he didn't seem all that well-equipped with options, either
( ... )
Alastair. Castiel had hoped that if Dean was far back enough to think he was still working for Heaven, that it had been before... that. Obviously, it wasn't, and there was only one word that Castiel could think of that adequately conveyed his feelings.
"...Crap."
He sighed. "No, it wasn't because of what happened to Uriel. It went higher than that. Deeper. It..." He shook his head. "Is there any alcohol in this place? This will require a great deal of explanation, and I would rather not recount all of it while completely sober."
Granted, it had taken prodigious quantities of alcohol to dull his emotions before, but that was before he exhausted his Grace. He had the feeling that it would take less, this time.
Oh, no. Oh, hell no, there was no way this was -- But, it was. Dean stared, dumbfounded, unable to process the reality that was undeniably before him. Between the flat expletive, however delicate of a word he chose, to the face that he'd legitimately asked Dean for alcohol, the hunter didn't know what to even do with himself. This was so undeniably not Cas that he felt himself go numb
( ... )
Castiel moved to the bar, taking the stool beside Dean and reaching for the bottle. Once, he would have mentioned the inadvisability of drinking something found in a dilapidated building, but in the end, alcohol was alcohol.
He opened the bottle and took an experimental swallow, then held the bottle up to stare at it with something that might almost be considered a grimace.
"...This tastes like urine smells." However, it did seem to be suitably alcoholic. He took another, longer drink, and set the bottle back on the bar between them.
"You did a great deal," he said. "Even when I had given up hope, you... surprised me." He stared at the counter in front of him. "No matter what else happened... Believing in you was the right choice." He meant that. Only Dean would make a stupid, suicidal last-ditch effort to reach Sam. Only Dean refused to give up, at the end.
"This is what you need to know, if we ever find a way to send you back: Heaven is not on your side. God's been absent for long enough that... My brothers just want it to be
( ... )
"Yeah, well, they're all outta bitch drinks. Maybe Sammy'll be able to help you out when we hunt --" Hunt was a bad word to use. Hunt was actually a legitimate possibility, now that there were other hunters here, and given what Sam was turning himself into. An unpleasant look drew itself over Dean's expression and it darkened. "When we find him. 'Til then, you make due with what we got." The fact that Castiel could even discern how liquor was supposed to taste had Dean's stomach churning, but he was trying not to focus on it. He was trying to just pretend that it was the alcohol taste that made Castiel cringe, not the fact that it tasted like shit and the seven million different kinds of bacteria that had probably crawled their way in over the past however long this damn town had been deserted for
( ... )
Castiel tried to remain quiet, but when Dean started going on about God...
"I tried," Castiel said. Nearly shouted, in fact, the words too harsh and too loud, but after all he had been through, the mention of his Father was too much. "God. Doesn't. Care."
For a moment, he was silent, his breath too loud in his ears. Then he went on, more quietly, but the words were still coming too fast, forcing their way past his lips in tense, diamond hard syllables. "After Lucifer was freed, I searched for Him. I had died. He brought me back. He saved you, saved Sam, got you away from Lucifer when the final seal was broken. I thought He would help us. I believed in--" The next breath hissed between his teeth, and he realized, belatedly, that his hands had clenched into fists on the bar.
"...He doesn't feel it's His problem," he said, biting off each word
( ... )
As soon as Cas snapped, Dean found his jaw snapping shut out of sheer surprise. There was absolutely no way this was the same Castiel who had pulled him outta the pit, stayed with him and helped him through trying to protect the seals. That Castiel was even-tempered, pulled together. Doubt was hard for him to manage, even on the strangest of orders, and he didn't feel that he even required full understanding of the why's. That much, Dean knew from Halloween. But, here was Castiel, staring him down like he was a heathen for assuming that God would help them.It was terrifying, and just the sight of how far the angel had fallen was enough to chill Dean to his very bones. More than that, though, he felt for the angel. Having your father disappoint you in a key way, constantly following his orders and seeking him out only to find he didn't need to be found … Dean slowly felt shock melt into understanding. He could only imagine the 'I told you so' that Anna had shoved in his face for it all
( ... )
"I never said it would be easy," Castiel told Dean, sounding almost reproachful. "I only said that you're not alone. I'm certain trust isn't easy right now, but..." He sighed. "I have seen you do incredible things, Dean. And Sam..." There was a pause, as he tried to decide just how much he should tell Dean.
"...Shortly before I came here, I saw Sam single-handedly rescue a large number of innocent people from a building where someone had triggered a Croatoan outbreak... And if not for him and Bobby, the infection would have gone nationwide in a matter of days. You're both capable of a great deal. More than either of you know right now."
He could tell Dean about the demon blood, and part of him thinks he should, but... He would talk to Sam first, try to convince him to be honest with Dean, to seek help for his addiction to demon blood. He just didn't know how successful he'd be in that attempt.
"Order does matter with certain seals. You had to break the first seal before any others could be broken. You're where it had to begin. And
( ... )
Somehow, while it was in no way surprising, hearing of Sam and Bobby's accomplishments with the croats both reassured and terrified him. Things had gotten bad enough that not only was there a Croatoan outbreak, but they'd had to handle it themselves. And Sam had done it without a second thought to the victims this time. Even if Dean hadn't been there to see it, he knew it was true from the tone of Castiel's voice and rescue wasn't the word for taking care of someone who got infected. The only way you could rescue one of the infect was to shoot the bastards in the face.
Still, Dean found it within himself to give an understanding nod as he worked over the information. It reminded him of how much he'd had to take in as far as new information went when he'd dug himself out of the shallow grave Sam had buried him in after forty years in Hell. Things had changed, irrevocably, and catching up was damn hard. It was a lot to take in. This prophet, the existence of a prophet, and the need for his whole damn mission to be revamped
( ... )
Castiel handed the bottle over willingly enough, listening to the rest of what Dean had to say without comment. When Dean asked how Lilith was killed, though, he shook his head.
"I believe you know already." It had been Sam, of course, using the demon powers Ruby had been training him in. "There may be another way, though: Lilith isn't the one who has the Colt. Her lieutenant does -- a demon by the name of Crowley. It won't work on Lucifer himself, but it might work on her."
Of course, Crowley wouldn't be likely to give it up so early in the game... Especially not when Sam had a way to kill Lilith. Still, it was more information than Dean had possessed before.
At the blatant reference to Sam and his freaky psychic whatever, Dean took and enthusiastic gulp from the bottle. God, it tasted like ass, but that was the farthest thing from his mind for the moment. In fact, the fact that it would probably be unpleasantly forcing its way back out of his esophagus in under an hour was nowhere near the same realm as his heavy thoughts for the time being, as painful as it promised to be when that time came. Instead, he was trying to pretend there was any way he could come to accept the idea of Sam using that shit
( ... )
Gramted, after his first experience of possession he didn't think anything in this place could be a sign of something good. Still, once inside the barracks, the logical place to look for Dean would be, he was certain, a place with alcohol. And if Dean wasn't there, the prospect of large quantities of alcohol was still incentive enough to investigate.
He made his way into the pub, his face drawn. He was staring directly ahead of him, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, and his hands were not shaking. Angels' hands didn't shake, after all, therefore, his hands couldn't be shaking. He ignored the feeling that there might be a flaw in his logic, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his (strangely unbloodied) trenchcoat.
"...Dean?"
No matter how he felt, he had to keep his mind on one simple thing: the pub would yield Dean, alcohol, or both. That would have to be good enough.
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"You son of a bitch," he shook his head -- despite the expletive, it was relief that filled his voice. If it was Cas that had brought him here, it meant they'd be able to get this goddamn lesson over with and leave and find Sammy. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he let go of the door frame, continuing into the main area and stepping closer to Cas. By the looks of it, he'd already partaken of the questionable quality alcohol that the place had to offer, but not enough to put a slur in his speech or a trip in his step.
"I knew this had your name written all over it. What's the deal, you got something you wanna tell me, you couldn't just say ( ... )
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"I didn't do this," he said, a harsh edge to his voice which he hadn't quite intended. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets -- Where was the holy oil Molotov? he wondered, and then remembered that, of course, he had left it in the clearing, when that spirit had...
He resolved not to think about what the spirit had done, and reminded himself again that his hands weren't supposed to tremble.
"...Check your pockets, Dean. You should have one of these." He held up the communicator, then thrust his hand back in his pocket before a tremor could give him away. "I left a message."
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The search led him to realize with a mildly frustrated look that something had happened to the EMF reader he knew had been brought with him, but he was too distracted in searching for the toy Castiel was holding up to care much about that for the moment. He'd deal with it later -- chances were it was up North somewhere by where Merlin had dropped 'em off ( ... )
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He forced himself to take a deep breath, forced himself again not to let his mind get caught up in the necessity of breathing, and continued.
"I'm from your future, and, to spare you the trouble of breaking that, let me just ask: what was the last thing you remember before coming here?"
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"...Crap."
He sighed. "No, it wasn't because of what happened to Uriel. It went higher than that. Deeper. It..." He shook his head. "Is there any alcohol in this place? This will require a great deal of explanation, and I would rather not recount all of it while completely sober."
Granted, it had taken prodigious quantities of alcohol to dull his emotions before, but that was before he exhausted his Grace. He had the feeling that it would take less, this time.
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He opened the bottle and took an experimental swallow, then held the bottle up to stare at it with something that might almost be considered a grimace.
"...This tastes like urine smells." However, it did seem to be suitably alcoholic. He took another, longer drink, and set the bottle back on the bar between them.
"You did a great deal," he said. "Even when I had given up hope, you... surprised me." He stared at the counter in front of him. "No matter what else happened... Believing in you was the right choice." He meant that. Only Dean would make a stupid, suicidal last-ditch effort to reach Sam. Only Dean refused to give up, at the end.
"This is what you need to know, if we ever find a way to send you back: Heaven is not on your side. God's been absent for long enough that... My brothers just want it to be ( ... )
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"I tried," Castiel said. Nearly shouted, in fact, the words too harsh and too loud, but after all he had been through, the mention of his Father was too much. "God. Doesn't. Care."
For a moment, he was silent, his breath too loud in his ears. Then he went on, more quietly, but the words were still coming too fast, forcing their way past his lips in tense, diamond hard syllables. "After Lucifer was freed, I searched for Him. I had died. He brought me back. He saved you, saved Sam, got you away from Lucifer when the final seal was broken. I thought He would help us. I believed in--" The next breath hissed between his teeth, and he realized, belatedly, that his hands had clenched into fists on the bar.
"...He doesn't feel it's His problem," he said, biting off each word ( ... )
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"...Shortly before I came here, I saw Sam single-handedly rescue a large number of innocent people from a building where someone had triggered a Croatoan outbreak... And if not for him and Bobby, the infection would have gone nationwide in a matter of days. You're both capable of a great deal. More than either of you know right now."
He could tell Dean about the demon blood, and part of him thinks he should, but... He would talk to Sam first, try to convince him to be honest with Dean, to seek help for his addiction to demon blood. He just didn't know how successful he'd be in that attempt.
"Order does matter with certain seals. You had to break the first seal before any others could be broken. You're where it had to begin. And ( ... )
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Still, Dean found it within himself to give an understanding nod as he worked over the information. It reminded him of how much he'd had to take in as far as new information went when he'd dug himself out of the shallow grave Sam had buried him in after forty years in Hell. Things had changed, irrevocably, and catching up was damn hard. It was a lot to take in. This prophet, the existence of a prophet, and the need for his whole damn mission to be revamped ( ... )
Reply
"I believe you know already." It had been Sam, of course, using the demon powers Ruby had been training him in. "There may be another way, though: Lilith isn't the one who has the Colt. Her lieutenant does -- a demon by the name of Crowley. It won't work on Lucifer himself, but it might work on her."
Of course, Crowley wouldn't be likely to give it up so early in the game... Especially not when Sam had a way to kill Lilith. Still, it was more information than Dean had possessed before.
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