Fic: On Wings Of Steel 5/5 (Supernatural; Dean/Castiel, Steampunk AU, Explicit)
Title: On Wings Of Steel ( Art Masterpost)
Author: misachan
Fandom: Supernatural; Streampunk AU
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 4700
Content Notes: Explicit sex, violence, minor character death
Summary: They may serve on the same airship but Dean knows regular crew and the elite who wear the Seraphim Star aren't supposed to have anything to do with each other.
It's a regulation Dean's more than willing to break.
*
Dean crouched on the lip of the starboard aft deck, on the little flared projection that marked the airship's class. No one had hassled him and he'd been out there nearly ten minutes by his count; the deck was deserted even for this late into the shift and he hoped that had more to do with Balthazar or Jo and Ellen than luck. The way his luck had been running it was the last thing he wanted to have to count on.
Just looking over the edge pushed his stomach up into his throat. He couldn't see anything past the heavy cloud cover but he knew how high he was and his imagination had no trouble filling in all the details. He braced one hand against the deck as the wind picked up, that new flash of panic beading sweat all over his face and arms. He was going to hyperventilate. He couldn't hyperventilate. Cas was down there waiting, he told himself that over and over like a mantra.
It didn't help very much.
The wings were heavier than he'd expected. The harness dug into his shoulders; he'd sized it for Cas and his shoulders were a shade too broad for the apparatus to fit comfortably. But the wings worked. He'd run them through every test he could think of, no way would he hand Cas anything he wasn't one hundred percent sure of.
Well. Every test but one, he supposed.
Dean tried to silence the little voice reminding him that he had no idea what he was doing by taking one last inventory. He'd stolen a blunderbuss and two pistols from lock up; the big gun was strapped across his chest and he hoped it wouldn't throw off his balance too much. He felt better having it, though; it was loaded with all the stray bolts and screws and any other shrapnel he and Ellen had been able to scrounge. A blunderbuss was no good at much range but tore through anything in front of it; he'd seen the effects of one up close and personal in his time in the Fields. Nothing better to have at your side.
His hand drifted to the knife tucked into his belt. That had been a gift, although his stomach curdled when he remembered who had given it to him. Sam had asked him once why he'd kept it after Castiel had pulled him back to civilization and Dean hadn't been able to answer.
God, Sam was going to kill him for doing this.
Dean felt the deck rumble beneath him. He heard a muffled boom, then three more, a quick staccato boom-boom-boom. The fore deck chimney started belching thick smoke and the ship listed before the supplemental engines kicked in to right it. The klaxons blared on, calling the maintenance corps to duty and warning everyone else to stay the hell off deck.
Dean wished he'd told Balthazar to find some distraction that didn't involve breaking the ship but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. He guessed he had maybe two minutes, three at the most before someone noticed he wasn't down there with the rest of the crew.
Now or never. Dean inched closer to the edge, looking down into the endless gray clouds. The wind blew the acrid engine smoke into his eyes, forcing him to choke down a cough.
He couldn't do this.
Dean ducked his head, sitting back on his heels. He thought about Castiel down there in the cold, maybe hurt. Probably hurt. Dean knew all too well what it was like to be trapped in the Fields and know down to your bones no one was coming for you.
He opened his eyes. It was starting to snow.
Dean thought about Cas being found by someone with a sing song voice. Well, look what I've found.
Dean jumped.
In that first instant of sheer terror Dean almost forgot to extend the wings. Just at the lower edge of the cloud cover Dean snapped out of it and locked his arms straight, opening the wings full length. An updraft caught him and tossed him back high above the clouds, high enough to look down at the deck of the ship. The airship looked strange and surreal hanging in the air and Dean felt a little twinge of regret that he wouldn't see it again.
Then Dean looked back up at the stars. At the rate they'd been traveling Dean guessed they'd only gone a hundred miles, still a lot of ground to cover. He adjusted the left wing enough to catch another updraft and angle himself roughly southwest.
Then Dean locked the wings into place and dove.
The wind tore at his face, the wet snow hitting his skin like hard pellets. He'd forgotten to secure his goggles properly and they ripped off, flying high above as he plummeted. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and held on tight; after a mental five count Dean released the wings again and the momentum stop hit him like a canon shot. He opened his eyes and watched the landscape zipping along beneath him for a few horrifying moments, then he shook it off. No going back now.
Dean coasted for a minutes, then dove again, a shorter dive than the first. He couldn't see the stars anymore but he knew the terrain had been tattooed on his mind years before. He kept that pattern, coast -dive, coast-dive, coast-dive, until he thought he might be getting the hang of this.
Then he hit the tree line.
There weren't a lot of trees left in the Fields but Dean figured it would be his luck to hit a group of them now. He tucked the wings tight against the harness and put his arms up over his face as he crashed into the barren branches. Not that it helped much; one branch smacked him on the side of the head and he tasted blood in his mouth. Another caught him in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him; he barely had enough awareness to tuck into a roll as the ground rushed up toward him.
Dean was pretty sure he passed out after that. He came to a few minutes later covered in a thin layer of snow and fought the urge to just close his eyes again. After the usual back-to-consciousness wave of nausea Dean forced himself to sit up; he felt like one big ache and when he touched his face his hand came back bloody but there were no shooting pains and he could breathe without trouble. “Not bad for a first try,” he said to himself.
He tested the wings as he got back to his feet. One of the stabilizer rods had come loose but it only took a minute to ease it back into place and he'd lost a bolt from the right wing outer joint but the apparatus still moved smoothly. Definitely still flight worthy. Dean gave himself permission to gloat for just a second.
Dean examined the cluster of trees he'd crashed into and any doubts about where he'd landed faded away. There was a corpse tied to the biggest one, bound by his hands and his eyes gouged out. Dean guessed he couldn't have been dead for more than a day or two, even considering the cold; he examined the interrogation marks scored down the corpse's arms and could tell when that had been abandoned, when it had just become pain for pain's sake. That never took very long.
Dean supposed it had been wishful thinking to hope Alastair had gotten himself killed.
But he was close, this was proof of that. “Why don't you come out of there?”
He was running out of time.
***
After about another half hour Dean found the drop point. The snow was still light enough to outline the tracks in the muddy ground; Dean saw when the tracks branched off and followed what he hoped were Cas' tracks, keeping in mind the scenario Balthazar had laid out for him. Twice he lost the trail and found them again. Once other tracks surrounded them and Cas' turned into drag marks; Dean lost these in the building snow and went trekking off in their direction, but instead of finding the trail again Dean almost tripped over a dead enemy soldier.
Dean suspected what he would find before he turned the body over and smiled when he saw a single stab wound under the man's sternum, one that looked a lot like it had been caused by one of the short swords all the Angel Corps carried. “Dumb sons of bitches didn't even disarm him.”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
Dean spun around. A female soldier had snuck up within twenty feet of him without him even realizing it. She was wearing an officer's uniform but Dean didn't know her. “Why should I tell you?”
She leveled a pistol at his head, which Dean guessed was a fair response. “Let's try that again.”
Instead of answering Dean slid his knife out of belt, going slowly enough to make sure she could tell he wasn't going for one of the guns. “Recognize this?” he said, holding the knife up.
She took few steps forward when Dean didn't go for another weapon. After squinting at the knife for a few seconds she broke into a broad smile. “You're Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt like throwing up. “That's me.”
She lowered the pistol and Dean felt even worse. “You know there's a betting pool about whether you were coming back or not? Took your sweet time.”
“You want a job done right, it takes time.” His throat felt like a desert. “Who's your CO?”
“Doesn't me recognizing that,” she said, nodded toward the knife, “say that already? Being up with the birds all this time has made you slow.”
“Been gone a while. Things could change.”
“Not that much. Who'd you kill to get those?” she asked, gesturing toward Dean's wings.
“Built 'em myself,” he said, putting a snide tone to his voice.
“Yeah, sure you did,” she said, like they were sharing a private joke. “Good news is just falling from the sky tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” Now that she'd come closer Dean thought she looked a little beat up herself. “We don't run into too much of that.”
That was too much; her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You don't sound surprised.”
Dean made a show of rolling his eyes. “Just 'cause I've been in the sky doesn't mean I forgot how to track. What'd you do with him?”
Her expression fell; whatever she'd been hoping Dean would say, that wasn't it. “Funny story.”
Dean hoped to hell the hope pounding through him didn't show on his face. “You idiots lost him.”
“Let's say misplaced and leave it at that.”
“Alastair know?”
She didn't like that idea at all. “If the two of us move fast he won't have to.” She turned around, beckoning for him to follow.
Dean trudged through the snow after her, careful to unhook the blunderbuss enough so he could swing it up at a moment's notice. This wasn't much of a lead but Dean knew he couldn't complain. Beggars and choosers.
***
Dean had thought hearing Alastair's voice in his dreams almost every night would make the real thing easier. He was wrong. “Well, look what I've found,” he heard from behind, the voice coating him like oil.
It took a few seconds for Dean to get his locked up muscles to move enough to turn around. Fortunately, his new friend hadn't seemed to notice; she marched right up to Alastair, the flash of fear on her face smothered by a bright, fake smile. “Commander!” she said and Dean couldn't help wincing. That wasn't Alastair's rank, he didn't have a proper one, he operated out of the command structure. Dean wondered how recently she'd been promoted to this post. He guessed the high turnaround of junior officers reporting to Alastair hadn't changed since he'd been gone. “We were just....”
“Of course you were,” Alastair said, even that sounding like a threat. Dean finally forced himself to turn around and saw that Alastair was looking over her shoulder right at him, like she wasn't there. When Dean met Alastair's eyes the other man smiled. “What an interesting day this has been.”
“We have a good lead on the Angel....”
“Dean, would you kill her for me? I'd rather we get reacquainted in private.”
And to Dean's horror his hand started going for his knife almost before Alastair finished speaking. Back in the Fields an hour and he was already a breath away from killing again. “What happened? You lose your touch?”
Dean didn't really believe in praying but he couldn't help himself from praying for a little forgiveness as Alastair shrugged, stepped forward and slit the soldier's throat. “I suppose I do need the exercise,” he said, like they'd been talking about going for a quick jog.
All the same, Dean barely noticed the woman's body fall twitching into the snow. He was too busy staring at the silver short sword in Alastair's hand. “That's new hardware for you,” he said, putting every ounce of willpower into keeping his voice steady.
“Do you like it?” Alastair asked, holding it up. The only light was the dim glow of the medallion light Alastair wore and the sword still gleamed. “I found it in the snow bank. Someone must have dropped it.” All this time and Dean still could never tell when Alastair was lying. Then to Dean's surprise Alastair sighed. “Did you go native up there, Dean?”
Dean couldn't breathe. “What do you mean?”
Alastair sighed again, like a disappointed father. Dean's own father had looked at him like that more often than Dean cared to remember. “We had a plan, you remember. You were supposed to come home almost a year ago.”
“I wasn't ready.”
“No. I supposed you weren't.”
Well, Dean guessed there was no point in playing along anymore; he raised the blunderbuss, bracing the stock against the shoulder. “Where's the Angel?”
“I'm looking for it myself,” Alastair said, as unperturbed as if they were talking about his in a tent over a warm fire. “Come with me.”
Dean shook his head. “I'm not like that any more.”
“Oh Dean,” Alastair purred. “You were born like that. You know that, don't you? That's why we always got along so well.” He took two steps closer. “You remember what it was like before I found you, don't you? When everything here was hunting you? I took you in. I taught you my trade,” he said and it took everything Dean had to not throw up all over his boots. “Is that what you want to go back to? No one here will treat you as well as I did.” Two more steps closer. “Do you remember what you told me the night before that thing found you? That I didn't have to worry because this was home now. You said this was where you belonged.”
Dean pulled the trigger. “I know where I belong.”
He'd forgotten how blunderbusses kicked; he hadn't braced enough and the recoil knocked him flat on his back hard enough to knock his head on the frozen ground. He didn't quite pass out again but it took a few minutes for his vision to clear enough for him to get up. He staggered over to where Alastair had been standing and only found a bloody smear in the snow, bloody footsteps leading away in an uneven line. Dean had never seen anyone survive a blunderbuss hit but he couldn't find it in him to be surprised that Alastair might be the first.
He took a step forward to track Alastair down, finish the job, when a metallic gleam caught his eye. Dean crouched down and picked up Castiel's sword, brushing some of the snow off the blade. “Sorry, Cas,” he said, sliding the sword into his belt. “Got distracted.” Dean stood back up, staring down at the blood trail, then turned away and headed back into the snow.
***
He picked up the trail after about another half hour of searching. Dean could tell from the tracks that Cas had been in the cold too long; the tracks were weaving and he could see where Cas had fallen once. He thought Castiel might be trying to make for the cave where they'd spent that first night but he'd wandered off course, heading out into no man's land instead of what passed for safety. Dean picked up the pace; there were no real front lines this far into Perdition, just enemies everywhere. Cas had fought his way free once and Dean would be damned if he'd have to do that twice.
And then the trail stopped.
Dean felt panic freeze him colder than the storm ever could. The snow was falling fast enough now to obscure any tracks; even his own were being covered up almost as fast as he could make them. Dean wished he hadn't lost his goggles; the snow driving into his eyes made it almost impossible to see anything and measly light from his flashlight wasn't helping.
Time for more drastic measures. Dean pulled a flare out of his belt; this might bring every soldier in the area running but he needed the light. He cleared a circle of bare ground, lit the fuse and ran a few steps back. Bad as the blunderbuss could kick, it was nothing compared to being to near a fire flare when it went off. Dean watched the gear locks on the chemical compartments click open as the fuse burned down, then ducked as the warning siren shrieked like a tea kettle about to explode.
Then the fuse blew and flew into the sky, for two seconds lighting it up as bright as full noon. He could all but feel the attention of every soldier in the area focus on that glowing dot in the sky.
Dean didn't care. Just as the light started to fade he caught the glint of something metallic on the ground less than thirty yards away. Dean raced toward it, almost slipping in the now shin-deep snow. When he got close to enough to make Cas out all Dean could see was that he wasn't moving.
Dean went to his knees beside Castiel, brushing snow off him until he could feel for Cas' pulse. To Dean's relief it was thready and weak but there and Dean turned him over, trying to shake him awake. “Cas!” he said, checking him over. There was a livid bruise on his face and the wings were mangled, probably from when he'd been caught. Dean took out his knife and started to cut away the harness. “C'mon Cas, wake up.” Castiel answered with a weak groan and Dean took that as a victory. “That's good. That's good Cas, all the way now.”
Castiel's eyes blinked open just as Dean finished freeing him from the ruined wings. “Dean?” he whispered. “Is that...Am I dead?”
Dean couldn't help chuckling at that. “No, Cas, not yet.”
His brows furrowed together. “But you're...I must be.”
“Cas, I promise you, you're not. Try to move your hands, I need to see how frozen you are.”
Castiel managed to make them twitch, wincing like that hurt. “I'm hallucinating then,” he said, like he'd found the answer to a difficult equation.
Dean kissed him, Cas' lips icy under his own. “Convinced now?”
Castiel's brows just furrowed closer. “No?”
Dean shook his head. “I'll work on convincing you more once we're out of this blizzard. C'mon,” he said, pulling Cas up.
Cas blinked at him, like he was having trouble making Dean out. “Where did you get wings?”
Dean collapsed them down as far as they could go. “Made them for you, they're yours and you're welcome to them,” he said, hoisting Castiel over his shoulder. “C'mon.”
They got to the cave just as the storm built to a full roar, the wind pushing Dean in the last few feet. Cas groaned when Dean dropped him but he couldn't worry about that; he expanded the chemical fire pit and lit it, his nose wrinkling from the smell. The stuff reeked but gave off the same heat as a real fire without the upkeep and that was all Dean cared about. Once that was done Dean turned back to Castiel, starting on stripping off his wet uniform. “Shh, Cas,” Dean said as he started coming back around. “I gotta get this off, it's gonna make you colder.”
Castiel just stared at him, eyes wide. “This is a...a persistent hallucination.”
“Cas, I'm not....” Castiel leaned up and kissed him, his stiff hands trying to grab onto Dean's jacket. “What was that for?” Dean said, gently pushing him back.
Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look more confused. “Dreaming, so...what I always do then.”
Dean finished easing Castiel out of the wet clothes, sliding Cas' icy hands up against his skin to try to warm them up. “You can do that whenever you want from now on.”
Castiel was shivering hard and Dean moved him closer to the fire, finally getting around to unhitching the wings and shrugging out of his own wet clothes. “I'm supposed to be dead,” Cas said, looking at Dean like he was missing something important.
“Yeah, I got that impression too. Fuck that.”
“You saved me.”
“Yeah, well. Kind of owed you.”
Castiel closed his eyes. “I didn't mean now.”
Dean settled down next to the next to the heat and tucked Castiel against him, feeling him shiver and pretending he wasn't shaking just as hard for completely different reasons. “Rest and warm up,” Dean whispered. “You'll go back to making sense when you feel better.”
Castiel let out a little hrmff sound, like he would have argued with Dean if he'd had the energy. Instead he snuggled closer against Dean, his breathing going soft and deep even as his pulse strengthened. “That's right, Cas,” Dean said, reaching behind for one of the pistols. “You rest. This time I'll keep watch.”
***
Dean hadn't meant to fall asleep but when he startled awake long after dawn he realized he must have anyway. The fire pit was still going strong; those were usually good for about ten hours so Dean knew it couldn't be much past mid morning.
Dean also knew that he was alone: Castiel was gone, his clothes and the wings with him. Dean's own clothes were neatly stretched out by the heat to dry, every bit as meticulously as he would expect from someone in the military their entire life, which at least lowered the chances that someone had come in and grabbed Cas while they'd slept. He dressed and doused the pit, no need running down the charge if they didn't need to. “Cas?” he called out, deciding to take the chance.
“Out here, Dean.”
Dean ventured out and found Castiel sitting at the mouth of the cave, the wings Dean had built already strapped on. The storm had blown over and the sky was that almost painful blue that always came after the worst weather; the bright sun caught the steel and shone off it, exactly the way Dean had pictured it looking the entire time he'd been building them. Perdition was the last place Dean had ever expected to find something beautiful. Castiel caught him staring and tilted his head to the side in a question. “It's nothing,” Dean said, moving to sit beside him. “Didn't expect you to put them on so quick.”
“You said they were mine.”
“Didn't figure you'd remember all that. How do they feel?”
Castiel ducked his head in a way that was almost shy. “Like they were made for me.”
They sat together in silence for a few minutes, the knot that had started growing the moment he touched down here pulling tighter each second. “Everyone was right about me,” he finally blurted out, not able to look at Castiel. “All those rumors, they were true. I was supposed to be a spy. They let you take me.”
Castiel turned to study him for several long, excruciating moments. “No, Dean. I was right about you.”
Dean felt his mouth drop open. “Cas, I just told you I was working for the other side.”
Castiel shook his head. “No, you weren't. Not truly.”
“I don't...how do you know I'm not still playing you?”
That almost got a smile from Castiel. “Because if you are in fact still playing a game it's a very long and incomprehensible one. And because you're not.”
Dean didn't know why he still wanted to argue. It felt like he'd been let off the hook too easily. “I shot Alastair. I don't know if I killed him, but if I didn't he's gonna be pissed. Everyone's going to be out looking for me....”
“Dean, if you're trying to get me to abandon you here please stop.”
“I'm not. Just thought you might want to know what you're in for.”
“I'm well aware.” Castiel looked up into the empty sky, Dean knew looking for the airship that might never be there again. “I'm both dead and not. I don't...I don't know what to do now.”
Well, at least that was a question Dean could answer. “We fight, Cas. That simple. Where we are, all we can do is fight. And on that subject,” he said, pulling Castiel's sword out of its makeshift holster in his waistband, “I think you dropped this.”
The relief lit up Castiel's whole face. “Thank you.”
“Nah, no big deal. Your old wings are trashed, though. Balthazar said they'd be picked up, so we should avoid that whole area.”
If he'd been relieved about the sword that news looked like a hundred pounds had lifted right off him. “So he did make it back.”
“Yeah, and was he ever pissed off about it.”
Castiel nodded, almost looking like he was trying to picture it. “You didn't have to order me to care, Dean. I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to.”
Now it was Dean's turn to look away embarrassed. “You'd probably still be up there if you didn't.”
Castiel grabbed Dean's hand and squeezed. “I know where I want to be.”
Dean couldn't say anything to that for a good long while. “I want to know what's going on with me, Cas. Why they wanted Sam, why you got sent after me, all of it. I want answers.”
Castiel nodded. “Then we'll get some.”
Dean watched the sun glint off the unbroken snow. It was almost hard to imagine all of the horrors hiding under that. “It true I was the only person ever retrieved back from the Perdition Fields.”
Castiel nodded. “It is. No one has ever fought their way back once they've been lost the way you were.”
Dean grinned. That was exactly what he'd wanted to hear. “You ready to make history twice, then?”
Castiel squeezed his hand again. “As long as I'm not fighting alone.”
Dean couldn't help laughing at that. “Cas, that's something you never have to worry about.”
To that Castiel stood up, flaring the wings to full length and that glint back in his eye, the one Dean had first seen at the cave on a very different cold, stormy night. “Then let's get started.
- fin -
- Back To Masterpost -
- Back To Chapter 4 -
Author: misachan
Fandom: Supernatural; Streampunk AU
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 4700
Content Notes: Explicit sex, violence, minor character death
Summary: They may serve on the same airship but Dean knows regular crew and the elite who wear the Seraphim Star aren't supposed to have anything to do with each other.
It's a regulation Dean's more than willing to break.
*
Dean crouched on the lip of the starboard aft deck, on the little flared projection that marked the airship's class. No one had hassled him and he'd been out there nearly ten minutes by his count; the deck was deserted even for this late into the shift and he hoped that had more to do with Balthazar or Jo and Ellen than luck. The way his luck had been running it was the last thing he wanted to have to count on.
Just looking over the edge pushed his stomach up into his throat. He couldn't see anything past the heavy cloud cover but he knew how high he was and his imagination had no trouble filling in all the details. He braced one hand against the deck as the wind picked up, that new flash of panic beading sweat all over his face and arms. He was going to hyperventilate. He couldn't hyperventilate. Cas was down there waiting, he told himself that over and over like a mantra.
It didn't help very much.
The wings were heavier than he'd expected. The harness dug into his shoulders; he'd sized it for Cas and his shoulders were a shade too broad for the apparatus to fit comfortably. But the wings worked. He'd run them through every test he could think of, no way would he hand Cas anything he wasn't one hundred percent sure of.
Well. Every test but one, he supposed.
Dean tried to silence the little voice reminding him that he had no idea what he was doing by taking one last inventory. He'd stolen a blunderbuss and two pistols from lock up; the big gun was strapped across his chest and he hoped it wouldn't throw off his balance too much. He felt better having it, though; it was loaded with all the stray bolts and screws and any other shrapnel he and Ellen had been able to scrounge. A blunderbuss was no good at much range but tore through anything in front of it; he'd seen the effects of one up close and personal in his time in the Fields. Nothing better to have at your side.
His hand drifted to the knife tucked into his belt. That had been a gift, although his stomach curdled when he remembered who had given it to him. Sam had asked him once why he'd kept it after Castiel had pulled him back to civilization and Dean hadn't been able to answer.
God, Sam was going to kill him for doing this.
Dean felt the deck rumble beneath him. He heard a muffled boom, then three more, a quick staccato boom-boom-boom. The fore deck chimney started belching thick smoke and the ship listed before the supplemental engines kicked in to right it. The klaxons blared on, calling the maintenance corps to duty and warning everyone else to stay the hell off deck.
Dean wished he'd told Balthazar to find some distraction that didn't involve breaking the ship but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. He guessed he had maybe two minutes, three at the most before someone noticed he wasn't down there with the rest of the crew.
Now or never. Dean inched closer to the edge, looking down into the endless gray clouds. The wind blew the acrid engine smoke into his eyes, forcing him to choke down a cough.
He couldn't do this.
Dean ducked his head, sitting back on his heels. He thought about Castiel down there in the cold, maybe hurt. Probably hurt. Dean knew all too well what it was like to be trapped in the Fields and know down to your bones no one was coming for you.
He opened his eyes. It was starting to snow.
Dean thought about Cas being found by someone with a sing song voice. Well, look what I've found.
Dean jumped.
In that first instant of sheer terror Dean almost forgot to extend the wings. Just at the lower edge of the cloud cover Dean snapped out of it and locked his arms straight, opening the wings full length. An updraft caught him and tossed him back high above the clouds, high enough to look down at the deck of the ship. The airship looked strange and surreal hanging in the air and Dean felt a little twinge of regret that he wouldn't see it again.
Then Dean looked back up at the stars. At the rate they'd been traveling Dean guessed they'd only gone a hundred miles, still a lot of ground to cover. He adjusted the left wing enough to catch another updraft and angle himself roughly southwest.
Then Dean locked the wings into place and dove.
The wind tore at his face, the wet snow hitting his skin like hard pellets. He'd forgotten to secure his goggles properly and they ripped off, flying high above as he plummeted. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and held on tight; after a mental five count Dean released the wings again and the momentum stop hit him like a canon shot. He opened his eyes and watched the landscape zipping along beneath him for a few horrifying moments, then he shook it off. No going back now.
Dean coasted for a minutes, then dove again, a shorter dive than the first. He couldn't see the stars anymore but he knew the terrain had been tattooed on his mind years before. He kept that pattern, coast -dive, coast-dive, coast-dive, until he thought he might be getting the hang of this.
Then he hit the tree line.
There weren't a lot of trees left in the Fields but Dean figured it would be his luck to hit a group of them now. He tucked the wings tight against the harness and put his arms up over his face as he crashed into the barren branches. Not that it helped much; one branch smacked him on the side of the head and he tasted blood in his mouth. Another caught him in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him; he barely had enough awareness to tuck into a roll as the ground rushed up toward him.
Dean was pretty sure he passed out after that. He came to a few minutes later covered in a thin layer of snow and fought the urge to just close his eyes again. After the usual back-to-consciousness wave of nausea Dean forced himself to sit up; he felt like one big ache and when he touched his face his hand came back bloody but there were no shooting pains and he could breathe without trouble. “Not bad for a first try,” he said to himself.
He tested the wings as he got back to his feet. One of the stabilizer rods had come loose but it only took a minute to ease it back into place and he'd lost a bolt from the right wing outer joint but the apparatus still moved smoothly. Definitely still flight worthy. Dean gave himself permission to gloat for just a second.
Dean examined the cluster of trees he'd crashed into and any doubts about where he'd landed faded away. There was a corpse tied to the biggest one, bound by his hands and his eyes gouged out. Dean guessed he couldn't have been dead for more than a day or two, even considering the cold; he examined the interrogation marks scored down the corpse's arms and could tell when that had been abandoned, when it had just become pain for pain's sake. That never took very long.
Dean supposed it had been wishful thinking to hope Alastair had gotten himself killed.
But he was close, this was proof of that. “Why don't you come out of there?”
He was running out of time.
***
After about another half hour Dean found the drop point. The snow was still light enough to outline the tracks in the muddy ground; Dean saw when the tracks branched off and followed what he hoped were Cas' tracks, keeping in mind the scenario Balthazar had laid out for him. Twice he lost the trail and found them again. Once other tracks surrounded them and Cas' turned into drag marks; Dean lost these in the building snow and went trekking off in their direction, but instead of finding the trail again Dean almost tripped over a dead enemy soldier.
Dean suspected what he would find before he turned the body over and smiled when he saw a single stab wound under the man's sternum, one that looked a lot like it had been caused by one of the short swords all the Angel Corps carried. “Dumb sons of bitches didn't even disarm him.”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
Dean spun around. A female soldier had snuck up within twenty feet of him without him even realizing it. She was wearing an officer's uniform but Dean didn't know her. “Why should I tell you?”
She leveled a pistol at his head, which Dean guessed was a fair response. “Let's try that again.”
Instead of answering Dean slid his knife out of belt, going slowly enough to make sure she could tell he wasn't going for one of the guns. “Recognize this?” he said, holding the knife up.
She took few steps forward when Dean didn't go for another weapon. After squinting at the knife for a few seconds she broke into a broad smile. “You're Dean Winchester.”
Dean felt like throwing up. “That's me.”
She lowered the pistol and Dean felt even worse. “You know there's a betting pool about whether you were coming back or not? Took your sweet time.”
“You want a job done right, it takes time.” His throat felt like a desert. “Who's your CO?”
“Doesn't me recognizing that,” she said, nodded toward the knife, “say that already? Being up with the birds all this time has made you slow.”
“Been gone a while. Things could change.”
“Not that much. Who'd you kill to get those?” she asked, gesturing toward Dean's wings.
“Built 'em myself,” he said, putting a snide tone to his voice.
“Yeah, sure you did,” she said, like they were sharing a private joke. “Good news is just falling from the sky tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” Now that she'd come closer Dean thought she looked a little beat up herself. “We don't run into too much of that.”
That was too much; her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You don't sound surprised.”
Dean made a show of rolling his eyes. “Just 'cause I've been in the sky doesn't mean I forgot how to track. What'd you do with him?”
Her expression fell; whatever she'd been hoping Dean would say, that wasn't it. “Funny story.”
Dean hoped to hell the hope pounding through him didn't show on his face. “You idiots lost him.”
“Let's say misplaced and leave it at that.”
“Alastair know?”
She didn't like that idea at all. “If the two of us move fast he won't have to.” She turned around, beckoning for him to follow.
Dean trudged through the snow after her, careful to unhook the blunderbuss enough so he could swing it up at a moment's notice. This wasn't much of a lead but Dean knew he couldn't complain. Beggars and choosers.
***
Dean had thought hearing Alastair's voice in his dreams almost every night would make the real thing easier. He was wrong. “Well, look what I've found,” he heard from behind, the voice coating him like oil.
It took a few seconds for Dean to get his locked up muscles to move enough to turn around. Fortunately, his new friend hadn't seemed to notice; she marched right up to Alastair, the flash of fear on her face smothered by a bright, fake smile. “Commander!” she said and Dean couldn't help wincing. That wasn't Alastair's rank, he didn't have a proper one, he operated out of the command structure. Dean wondered how recently she'd been promoted to this post. He guessed the high turnaround of junior officers reporting to Alastair hadn't changed since he'd been gone. “We were just....”
“Of course you were,” Alastair said, even that sounding like a threat. Dean finally forced himself to turn around and saw that Alastair was looking over her shoulder right at him, like she wasn't there. When Dean met Alastair's eyes the other man smiled. “What an interesting day this has been.”
“We have a good lead on the Angel....”
“Dean, would you kill her for me? I'd rather we get reacquainted in private.”
And to Dean's horror his hand started going for his knife almost before Alastair finished speaking. Back in the Fields an hour and he was already a breath away from killing again. “What happened? You lose your touch?”
Dean didn't really believe in praying but he couldn't help himself from praying for a little forgiveness as Alastair shrugged, stepped forward and slit the soldier's throat. “I suppose I do need the exercise,” he said, like they'd been talking about going for a quick jog.
All the same, Dean barely noticed the woman's body fall twitching into the snow. He was too busy staring at the silver short sword in Alastair's hand. “That's new hardware for you,” he said, putting every ounce of willpower into keeping his voice steady.
“Do you like it?” Alastair asked, holding it up. The only light was the dim glow of the medallion light Alastair wore and the sword still gleamed. “I found it in the snow bank. Someone must have dropped it.” All this time and Dean still could never tell when Alastair was lying. Then to Dean's surprise Alastair sighed. “Did you go native up there, Dean?”
Dean couldn't breathe. “What do you mean?”
Alastair sighed again, like a disappointed father. Dean's own father had looked at him like that more often than Dean cared to remember. “We had a plan, you remember. You were supposed to come home almost a year ago.”
“I wasn't ready.”
“No. I supposed you weren't.”
Well, Dean guessed there was no point in playing along anymore; he raised the blunderbuss, bracing the stock against the shoulder. “Where's the Angel?”
“I'm looking for it myself,” Alastair said, as unperturbed as if they were talking about his in a tent over a warm fire. “Come with me.”
Dean shook his head. “I'm not like that any more.”
“Oh Dean,” Alastair purred. “You were born like that. You know that, don't you? That's why we always got along so well.” He took two steps closer. “You remember what it was like before I found you, don't you? When everything here was hunting you? I took you in. I taught you my trade,” he said and it took everything Dean had to not throw up all over his boots. “Is that what you want to go back to? No one here will treat you as well as I did.” Two more steps closer. “Do you remember what you told me the night before that thing found you? That I didn't have to worry because this was home now. You said this was where you belonged.”
Dean pulled the trigger. “I know where I belong.”
He'd forgotten how blunderbusses kicked; he hadn't braced enough and the recoil knocked him flat on his back hard enough to knock his head on the frozen ground. He didn't quite pass out again but it took a few minutes for his vision to clear enough for him to get up. He staggered over to where Alastair had been standing and only found a bloody smear in the snow, bloody footsteps leading away in an uneven line. Dean had never seen anyone survive a blunderbuss hit but he couldn't find it in him to be surprised that Alastair might be the first.
He took a step forward to track Alastair down, finish the job, when a metallic gleam caught his eye. Dean crouched down and picked up Castiel's sword, brushing some of the snow off the blade. “Sorry, Cas,” he said, sliding the sword into his belt. “Got distracted.” Dean stood back up, staring down at the blood trail, then turned away and headed back into the snow.
***
He picked up the trail after about another half hour of searching. Dean could tell from the tracks that Cas had been in the cold too long; the tracks were weaving and he could see where Cas had fallen once. He thought Castiel might be trying to make for the cave where they'd spent that first night but he'd wandered off course, heading out into no man's land instead of what passed for safety. Dean picked up the pace; there were no real front lines this far into Perdition, just enemies everywhere. Cas had fought his way free once and Dean would be damned if he'd have to do that twice.
And then the trail stopped.
Dean felt panic freeze him colder than the storm ever could. The snow was falling fast enough now to obscure any tracks; even his own were being covered up almost as fast as he could make them. Dean wished he hadn't lost his goggles; the snow driving into his eyes made it almost impossible to see anything and measly light from his flashlight wasn't helping.
Time for more drastic measures. Dean pulled a flare out of his belt; this might bring every soldier in the area running but he needed the light. He cleared a circle of bare ground, lit the fuse and ran a few steps back. Bad as the blunderbuss could kick, it was nothing compared to being to near a fire flare when it went off. Dean watched the gear locks on the chemical compartments click open as the fuse burned down, then ducked as the warning siren shrieked like a tea kettle about to explode.
Then the fuse blew and flew into the sky, for two seconds lighting it up as bright as full noon. He could all but feel the attention of every soldier in the area focus on that glowing dot in the sky.
Dean didn't care. Just as the light started to fade he caught the glint of something metallic on the ground less than thirty yards away. Dean raced toward it, almost slipping in the now shin-deep snow. When he got close to enough to make Cas out all Dean could see was that he wasn't moving.
Dean went to his knees beside Castiel, brushing snow off him until he could feel for Cas' pulse. To Dean's relief it was thready and weak but there and Dean turned him over, trying to shake him awake. “Cas!” he said, checking him over. There was a livid bruise on his face and the wings were mangled, probably from when he'd been caught. Dean took out his knife and started to cut away the harness. “C'mon Cas, wake up.” Castiel answered with a weak groan and Dean took that as a victory. “That's good. That's good Cas, all the way now.”
Castiel's eyes blinked open just as Dean finished freeing him from the ruined wings. “Dean?” he whispered. “Is that...Am I dead?”
Dean couldn't help chuckling at that. “No, Cas, not yet.”
His brows furrowed together. “But you're...I must be.”
“Cas, I promise you, you're not. Try to move your hands, I need to see how frozen you are.”
Castiel managed to make them twitch, wincing like that hurt. “I'm hallucinating then,” he said, like he'd found the answer to a difficult equation.
Dean kissed him, Cas' lips icy under his own. “Convinced now?”
Castiel's brows just furrowed closer. “No?”
Dean shook his head. “I'll work on convincing you more once we're out of this blizzard. C'mon,” he said, pulling Cas up.
Cas blinked at him, like he was having trouble making Dean out. “Where did you get wings?”
Dean collapsed them down as far as they could go. “Made them for you, they're yours and you're welcome to them,” he said, hoisting Castiel over his shoulder. “C'mon.”
They got to the cave just as the storm built to a full roar, the wind pushing Dean in the last few feet. Cas groaned when Dean dropped him but he couldn't worry about that; he expanded the chemical fire pit and lit it, his nose wrinkling from the smell. The stuff reeked but gave off the same heat as a real fire without the upkeep and that was all Dean cared about. Once that was done Dean turned back to Castiel, starting on stripping off his wet uniform. “Shh, Cas,” Dean said as he started coming back around. “I gotta get this off, it's gonna make you colder.”
Castiel just stared at him, eyes wide. “This is a...a persistent hallucination.”
“Cas, I'm not....” Castiel leaned up and kissed him, his stiff hands trying to grab onto Dean's jacket. “What was that for?” Dean said, gently pushing him back.
Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look more confused. “Dreaming, so...what I always do then.”
Dean finished easing Castiel out of the wet clothes, sliding Cas' icy hands up against his skin to try to warm them up. “You can do that whenever you want from now on.”
Castiel was shivering hard and Dean moved him closer to the fire, finally getting around to unhitching the wings and shrugging out of his own wet clothes. “I'm supposed to be dead,” Cas said, looking at Dean like he was missing something important.
“Yeah, I got that impression too. Fuck that.”
“You saved me.”
“Yeah, well. Kind of owed you.”
Castiel closed his eyes. “I didn't mean now.”
Dean settled down next to the next to the heat and tucked Castiel against him, feeling him shiver and pretending he wasn't shaking just as hard for completely different reasons. “Rest and warm up,” Dean whispered. “You'll go back to making sense when you feel better.”
Castiel let out a little hrmff sound, like he would have argued with Dean if he'd had the energy. Instead he snuggled closer against Dean, his breathing going soft and deep even as his pulse strengthened. “That's right, Cas,” Dean said, reaching behind for one of the pistols. “You rest. This time I'll keep watch.”
***
Dean hadn't meant to fall asleep but when he startled awake long after dawn he realized he must have anyway. The fire pit was still going strong; those were usually good for about ten hours so Dean knew it couldn't be much past mid morning.
Dean also knew that he was alone: Castiel was gone, his clothes and the wings with him. Dean's own clothes were neatly stretched out by the heat to dry, every bit as meticulously as he would expect from someone in the military their entire life, which at least lowered the chances that someone had come in and grabbed Cas while they'd slept. He dressed and doused the pit, no need running down the charge if they didn't need to. “Cas?” he called out, deciding to take the chance.
“Out here, Dean.”
Dean ventured out and found Castiel sitting at the mouth of the cave, the wings Dean had built already strapped on. The storm had blown over and the sky was that almost painful blue that always came after the worst weather; the bright sun caught the steel and shone off it, exactly the way Dean had pictured it looking the entire time he'd been building them. Perdition was the last place Dean had ever expected to find something beautiful. Castiel caught him staring and tilted his head to the side in a question. “It's nothing,” Dean said, moving to sit beside him. “Didn't expect you to put them on so quick.”
“You said they were mine.”
“Didn't figure you'd remember all that. How do they feel?”
Castiel ducked his head in a way that was almost shy. “Like they were made for me.”
They sat together in silence for a few minutes, the knot that had started growing the moment he touched down here pulling tighter each second. “Everyone was right about me,” he finally blurted out, not able to look at Castiel. “All those rumors, they were true. I was supposed to be a spy. They let you take me.”
Castiel turned to study him for several long, excruciating moments. “No, Dean. I was right about you.”
Dean felt his mouth drop open. “Cas, I just told you I was working for the other side.”
Castiel shook his head. “No, you weren't. Not truly.”
“I don't...how do you know I'm not still playing you?”
That almost got a smile from Castiel. “Because if you are in fact still playing a game it's a very long and incomprehensible one. And because you're not.”
Dean didn't know why he still wanted to argue. It felt like he'd been let off the hook too easily. “I shot Alastair. I don't know if I killed him, but if I didn't he's gonna be pissed. Everyone's going to be out looking for me....”
“Dean, if you're trying to get me to abandon you here please stop.”
“I'm not. Just thought you might want to know what you're in for.”
“I'm well aware.” Castiel looked up into the empty sky, Dean knew looking for the airship that might never be there again. “I'm both dead and not. I don't...I don't know what to do now.”
Well, at least that was a question Dean could answer. “We fight, Cas. That simple. Where we are, all we can do is fight. And on that subject,” he said, pulling Castiel's sword out of its makeshift holster in his waistband, “I think you dropped this.”
The relief lit up Castiel's whole face. “Thank you.”
“Nah, no big deal. Your old wings are trashed, though. Balthazar said they'd be picked up, so we should avoid that whole area.”
If he'd been relieved about the sword that news looked like a hundred pounds had lifted right off him. “So he did make it back.”
“Yeah, and was he ever pissed off about it.”
Castiel nodded, almost looking like he was trying to picture it. “You didn't have to order me to care, Dean. I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to.”
Now it was Dean's turn to look away embarrassed. “You'd probably still be up there if you didn't.”
Castiel grabbed Dean's hand and squeezed. “I know where I want to be.”
Dean couldn't say anything to that for a good long while. “I want to know what's going on with me, Cas. Why they wanted Sam, why you got sent after me, all of it. I want answers.”
Castiel nodded. “Then we'll get some.”
Dean watched the sun glint off the unbroken snow. It was almost hard to imagine all of the horrors hiding under that. “It true I was the only person ever retrieved back from the Perdition Fields.”
Castiel nodded. “It is. No one has ever fought their way back once they've been lost the way you were.”
Dean grinned. That was exactly what he'd wanted to hear. “You ready to make history twice, then?”
Castiel squeezed his hand again. “As long as I'm not fighting alone.”
Dean couldn't help laughing at that. “Cas, that's something you never have to worry about.”
To that Castiel stood up, flaring the wings to full length and that glint back in his eye, the one Dean had first seen at the cave on a very different cold, stormy night. “Then let's get started.
- fin -
- Back To Masterpost -
- Back To Chapter 4 -