Let's Get Down To Business (To Defeat Hell) - [SPN Fic]
For annachuu, who requested a Dean/Cas Mulan AU where angels are forbidden from war and have to stay home with the womenfolk and do all them good wifely things, and Cas binds his wings and goes to war.
The first few paragraphs were typed on Twitter and DMed to her, and the rest of this part was done off-Twitter. Only one part so far. I'll keep working on it. With I'll Make A Man Out Of You playing in my head.
The soldiers come as Castiel sets the table for lunch. He stays inside the house, mostly, hovering at the doorway, watching as his father limps to the courtyard of their gated community. Castiel hopes, and he prays, surely his father's name will not be called. His father has given more than enough. He returned from the last war a broken man. Already, one leg is all but useless without a brace, and even with the cane, his limping gait is uneven and unsteady at best. If his father goes to war, Castiel knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that his father will never return. And so, Castiel grips the wooden frame of their doorway, old paint flaking in his hands, and he prays for mercy. He waits to hear a name he hopes will not be called.
"Robert Singer," intones the soldier, voice bored and flat and impatient.
And Castiel's world comes crashing down.
Despite his mother's protest, a dim, panicked shout in the background, Castiel pushes away from the doorway and barrels out towards the courtyard. He launches himself forward, not so much at his disabled father as at the official summons in his hands.
"No!" He cries out. "No, father, you cannot go to war! You can barely walk! If you fight, you will die.” Bobby fixes him with a disapproving glare that signals a 'talk' in the close future.
"Then I will die with honour and courage," Bobby says flatly. "Get back inside the house, Castiel.” He turns his attentions back to the recruiting officer and thanks him. Thanks him! Castiel cannot understand what his father is doing.
When the officer calls out another name, Castiel reaches out to help his father back home, but Bobby lurches away stubbornly. He hands Castiel his battered cane. "If you want to be useful, carry this," he says, lips pressed in a thin line. Shoulders back and spine straight, Bobby half-marches, half-limps back into the house, and Castiel can only follow behind him, the dusty, dented cane gripped tight in his fists.
Helplessness quickly grows into anger as Castiel watches his father stumble over their uneven lawn. By the time they are back in the house, Castiel is brimming with righteous fury and he slams the door shut.
His father whips around, or would, if the motion wouldn’t tip him right onto the floor. And the thought alone only bolsters Castiel’s rage.
“This is a suicide mission and you know it!”
His father’s brows, still dark against his white-streaked hair, furrow and Bobby roars, “You dishonour our family with talk like that, Castiel!”
Castiel is undaunted. This is not their first fight, and if Castiel has his way, it will not be their last either.
“Is honour so important to you, father, that you would martyr yourself for it? If honour is the coin of senseless warfare, we have honour enough!” He raises his father’s abandoned cane, waves it about as he rants. “Look at your legs, father! That is the price of your honour! But that is not enough! Now, it will cost you your life as well! Yours, and mother’s and Jo’s and min-“
His words are cut off by his mother’s palm striking his cheek.
“Your father may be a fool,” she snaps.
“Elle-“ His father is silenced by his mother’s piercing look, which is swiftly turned back upon him.
“But that’s no excuse for you to talk to him that way, Castiel Singer.”
“But mot-“
“Your father’s got a duty to the country, Castiel, whether we like it or not, and you know it. The law they passed calls for every family to enlist one man in the army. If your father doesn’t enlist, they’ll take our home and land, and throw your father in jail. You want that for all of us?”
“I’ll take his place, then!”
His mother sighs. “Castiel, we’ve had this talk before. You’re not a man, you’re an angel. Angels don’t go to war. Angels-“
Castiel grits his teeth. “Angels stay at home and watch over the household,” he parrots in an overly perky voice, an obviously false smile on his face. His tone and expression abruptly change. “Angels also protect their families, mother, and how will I be protecting father by letting him die?”
“Angels who abandon their families are charged with death, Castiel, and if you are gone, who will protect us?” Wearily, his mother takes his clenched hands in hers and peels his fingers from their death grip on the old cane. “After your father leaves, we will have even more need of you.”
Gently, she tugs him towards the kitchen, where his sister Jo is busy stirring pots and pretending not to hear them argue. “Come, if we leave Jo to the cooking, lunch will be ruined.”
Castiel slumps and follows his mother, because she is right. She always has been. Still, on the way into the kitchen, he looks back at his father, silhouetted against the afternoon light streaming through the windows. His father looks away, and Castiel vanishes into the kitchen to save lunch.
For some reason, my brain wishes for me to keep the formal-ish sort of tone/speech that would be appropriate for a Mulan fic. IDK why. Possibly because it's 5.30 am. Anyway, sleepytiems are now, so goodnight.
The first few paragraphs were typed on Twitter and DMed to her, and the rest of this part was done off-Twitter. Only one part so far. I'll keep working on it. With I'll Make A Man Out Of You playing in my head.
The soldiers come as Castiel sets the table for lunch. He stays inside the house, mostly, hovering at the doorway, watching as his father limps to the courtyard of their gated community. Castiel hopes, and he prays, surely his father's name will not be called. His father has given more than enough. He returned from the last war a broken man. Already, one leg is all but useless without a brace, and even with the cane, his limping gait is uneven and unsteady at best. If his father goes to war, Castiel knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that his father will never return. And so, Castiel grips the wooden frame of their doorway, old paint flaking in his hands, and he prays for mercy. He waits to hear a name he hopes will not be called.
"Robert Singer," intones the soldier, voice bored and flat and impatient.
And Castiel's world comes crashing down.
Despite his mother's protest, a dim, panicked shout in the background, Castiel pushes away from the doorway and barrels out towards the courtyard. He launches himself forward, not so much at his disabled father as at the official summons in his hands.
"No!" He cries out. "No, father, you cannot go to war! You can barely walk! If you fight, you will die.” Bobby fixes him with a disapproving glare that signals a 'talk' in the close future.
"Then I will die with honour and courage," Bobby says flatly. "Get back inside the house, Castiel.” He turns his attentions back to the recruiting officer and thanks him. Thanks him! Castiel cannot understand what his father is doing.
When the officer calls out another name, Castiel reaches out to help his father back home, but Bobby lurches away stubbornly. He hands Castiel his battered cane. "If you want to be useful, carry this," he says, lips pressed in a thin line. Shoulders back and spine straight, Bobby half-marches, half-limps back into the house, and Castiel can only follow behind him, the dusty, dented cane gripped tight in his fists.
Helplessness quickly grows into anger as Castiel watches his father stumble over their uneven lawn. By the time they are back in the house, Castiel is brimming with righteous fury and he slams the door shut.
His father whips around, or would, if the motion wouldn’t tip him right onto the floor. And the thought alone only bolsters Castiel’s rage.
“This is a suicide mission and you know it!”
His father’s brows, still dark against his white-streaked hair, furrow and Bobby roars, “You dishonour our family with talk like that, Castiel!”
Castiel is undaunted. This is not their first fight, and if Castiel has his way, it will not be their last either.
“Is honour so important to you, father, that you would martyr yourself for it? If honour is the coin of senseless warfare, we have honour enough!” He raises his father’s abandoned cane, waves it about as he rants. “Look at your legs, father! That is the price of your honour! But that is not enough! Now, it will cost you your life as well! Yours, and mother’s and Jo’s and min-“
His words are cut off by his mother’s palm striking his cheek.
“Your father may be a fool,” she snaps.
“Elle-“ His father is silenced by his mother’s piercing look, which is swiftly turned back upon him.
“But that’s no excuse for you to talk to him that way, Castiel Singer.”
“But mot-“
“Your father’s got a duty to the country, Castiel, whether we like it or not, and you know it. The law they passed calls for every family to enlist one man in the army. If your father doesn’t enlist, they’ll take our home and land, and throw your father in jail. You want that for all of us?”
“I’ll take his place, then!”
His mother sighs. “Castiel, we’ve had this talk before. You’re not a man, you’re an angel. Angels don’t go to war. Angels-“
Castiel grits his teeth. “Angels stay at home and watch over the household,” he parrots in an overly perky voice, an obviously false smile on his face. His tone and expression abruptly change. “Angels also protect their families, mother, and how will I be protecting father by letting him die?”
“Angels who abandon their families are charged with death, Castiel, and if you are gone, who will protect us?” Wearily, his mother takes his clenched hands in hers and peels his fingers from their death grip on the old cane. “After your father leaves, we will have even more need of you.”
Gently, she tugs him towards the kitchen, where his sister Jo is busy stirring pots and pretending not to hear them argue. “Come, if we leave Jo to the cooking, lunch will be ruined.”
Castiel slumps and follows his mother, because she is right. She always has been. Still, on the way into the kitchen, he looks back at his father, silhouetted against the afternoon light streaming through the windows. His father looks away, and Castiel vanishes into the kitchen to save lunch.
For some reason, my brain wishes for me to keep the formal-ish sort of tone/speech that would be appropriate for a Mulan fic. IDK why. Possibly because it's 5.30 am. Anyway, sleepytiems are now, so goodnight.