Discordance, 1/3(?) [Supernatural, Castiel]
Title: Discordance
Author: Kel
Rating | Genre: PG-13/T, bordering on M for horror imagery and violence | Gen/horror/action/whatever I cram in it
Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth.
Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven’s war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.
“Toll for the brave - The brave! that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore.”
-William Cowper
He had hoped that his days of being hunted were over, that he could be the hunter this time around. He shouldn’t have been so naïve and he knew full well that relaxing - even the tiniest fraction, as he had - could be fatal. Almost was, this time around. Castiel flicked blood off the short silver sword he held and rolled his neck, a habit he’d picked up from his days as almost-human. The shadows across the floor were lengthening; evening had come upon him more quickly than he’d expected. Apparently (and even his thoughts held a wry tone) time had a way of slipping by when one was fighting to survive another day.
The house was a mess, but that was to be expected after three angels had fought there. Castiel reached down and pulled an end table back to its original position, then sifted through the papers that had been dumped when it was overturned. What he wouldn’t give for just one venture for information on missing weapons to go smoothly. This one, of course, had not; he shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone was after Heaven’s missing weapons. For just a moment, what was now familiar anger and disappointment welled up in Castiel. He’d hoped for so much better from the angels. Blind faith had its disadvantages, Castiel reflected as he perused the torn envelopes and crumpled letters. It could and often did lead to bitter, bitter disappointment.
Castiel put the sheathed the sword and knelt, hands smoothing out a crumpled letter on the end table. It looked like nothing special, with no header and written in a hand that held no elegance. Castiel’s brow furrowed as he read and he finally just snorted and carefully folded the letter. He was fairly certain the letter referenced a few things he’d been looking for, but he couldn’t be completely sure. He slipped the letter into an inside jacket pocket. He could take it to someone who understood the thing. The language, he understood; the intent was beyond him. Still kneeling, he looked around the dim and blood-splattered room. The people who had lived in this house were dead - torn apart by madness that Castiel was fairly certain came from a heavenly weapon - but perhaps what they left behind would provide some insight.
The rest of the letters were nothing; they simply seemed to be demands for money for services rendered and contained none of the keywords Castiel had been looking for. He dropped them on the end table and pushed to his feet. The dull ache that had settled under his left shoulder blade sharpened as he straightened. Castiel didn’t wince, but he did allow brief, intense irritation cross his features. That had been a close hit, far too close for Castiel’s liking. He’d twisted at the last moment and the silver blade had slid into his back at a sharp angle. The wound wouldn’t heal quite as quickly as he’d like, but it was to be expected, nor was it a problem. He’d just have to be more aware of his surroundings in the future; he refused to be ambushed again. Carefully, he rolled his shoulder, feeling the blood well as the edges of the gash pulled. Wonderful. It would heal, though, before too long.
Something just brushed the edges of his perception; Castiel stood still and straight, sluggishly bleeding wound forgotten. He was on edge, after being rather forcefully reminded that angels still wanted his head. Raphael’s vessel may have been destroyed, but he was still fully capable of giving orders. Castiel unsheathed his sword quietly and waited. He could afford patience here; whatever it was, it was coming closer. He half-turned to face it, sword spinning in his hand, and was met with nothing.
That couldn’t be right.
Castiel took a half step backward, eyes narrowed as he looked at the spot where his senses screamed something should be. It couldn’t be. His sense were never that wrong. He gave the open doorway a wary look before letting his gaze wander across the room.
It was the same: broken coffee table, up-ended recliner, a couch torn by an angelic blade. Two of his brethren lay among the torn flesh of what had once been human. Dried, flaking blood decorated the far wall, arcing in a broad, splattered crescent across a family photo that, amazingly, still hung straight. Dust hung in the dimming sunlight. It was calm, still, and yet Castiel perceived something moving through the debris.
Castiel traded his sword to his left hand and picked up what was left of a table lamp with his right. Angelic senses were screaming at him and yet he couldn’t see well enough to pinpoint the intruder. He waited; he’d sense it when it moved and he doubted it would out-stubborn him. When it moved, somehow slinking over debris that should be disturbed in its wake, Castiel snapped into action. He threw the lamp - because he refused to throw his only real weapon - and blinked in surprise when his sight and his senses continued to war with each other. It seemed the lamp simply crashed to the floor. Castiel, however, heard something very different. An otherworldly growl filled the room, sharpening to a harsh snarl. Claws slid across the tarnished wood floor. Castiel stepped sideways, putting his back toward the wall, and brought the sword to guard.
Something was lying to him and he rather thought it wasn’t angelic senses. So what was trying to blind him here?
And then he couldn’t spare the time to think about it anymore. Claws scraped against the wooden floor and that constant growling became a roar. Castiel, his blade reversed, dropped into a crouch and swung his arm up in front of him. He felt the heavy weight hit the blade, felt it try to drive him back, felt it straining against his arm, but saw absolutely nothing. No, that wasn’t quite true. He knew it was there, could almost make out the lines of its body but it was as if his human vessel’s senses simply refused to see what his angelic senses were seeing. It was more than simply troubling, to know something could interfere with his perception in such a way.
Later, he’d think on it, when this thing wasn’t trying to claw past his arm to take off his head.
Castiel grunted, managed to plant his foot in the place where the floor met the wall, and shoved forward. Whatever it was went tumbling backward; Castiel could hear it skidding across the floor. Heard claws scraping for purchase. Even heard it growling and snarling as it rolled. No debris in the house moved, though, and none of the dried blood (or fresh, in the case of his dead brothers) was disturbed. Castiel didn’t bother trying to follow; it would be a fool’s errand now. Confused and warring senses gave him conflicting information, and the presence seemed to flicker in his consciousness. For a moment, he thought he saw it clearly - sleek black skin, diamond-hard claws, a mouthful of teeth, and dead yellow eyes - but it was gone again in that moment.
It didn’t come back.
Brow furrowed, Castiel straightened, sword still hanging loosely from his fingers. Nothing should have confused him quite like this thing did. His gaze drifted to the torn bodies. According to police reports (and Castiel was sure he knew of a few of his brothers and sisters that would look at him askance for bothering to rifle through such reports), these people had turned on each other. Unexpectedly brutal for a family that stood as pillars in their neighborhood, this sort of crime would have rocked even the foundations of a far less stable community. Now, though, he gave the bodies a closer look. Perhaps something less human had murdered these people.
His senses were still on overdrive when he knelt beside what was left of the nearest body. He found himself wrinkling his nose at the smell. It didn’t make him nauseous; it never would, but he found it unpleasant. The sights and the sounds - the ripped flesh, pools of blood and torn organs, the way the toe of his shoe slipped a fraction on something that should never be stepped on, the squelching beneath his heels - did not bother him. They never did. It was always the smell that affected him; it was negligible, barely noticeable, but enough to make an impression.
Castiel balanced his sword across his knee and reached down to grasp the dead girl’s wrist. She had been young, barely on the cusp of adulthood. Blonde, a glance at the tufts of blood-matted hair told him, and meticulous about her appearance.
“Alice,” Castiel murmured. Her name, according to the police reports. She’d hated the name but refused to say much about it, since she’d been named for her grandmother. He pulled her wrist up, barely paying attention as the bones in her forearm grated and twisted at the movement. What had once been neatly manicured nails were shorn and ragged. Blood and tissue that weren’t hers coated her hands and wrists. Castiel wasn’t exactly well-versed in forensics, but the police reports had indicated that these weren’t defensive. They didn’t look it. For all appearances, this family had torn itself apart, quite literally, with no help from hellbeasts that evaded even an angel.
Castiel sat her wrist back down, shook blood from his fingers, and, still crouching, looked up. Almost absently, he took the hilt of his sword, and then rested his wrists on his knees for a moment. What he wouldn’t give for more information here. Or - here he snorted - a better understanding of human forensics. To his eyes, which were admittedly not that reliable right now, that beast didn’t do this.
So why was it here now?
Castiel stood. He closed human eyes and simply let himself feel. For a moment, the world was his; he felt everything. A prayer brushed against him there, a desperate plea for encouragement there, peace and fear and desperation mingled together, a heady cocktail that had him lifting his chin in determination as he sorted through it all. That… that was too much. How in the hell had that happened? He was spread too thin, hearing too much, seeing everything. Castiel struggled to narrow his scope, to remind himself that he stood in a modest home in western New York.
Sensation after sensation rolled over him, unending and relentless. Desperation. Anger. Hate. All-encompassing rage mingled with love and jealousy. It overwhelmed him. It left him clawing for purchase, trying to pull back, trying simply focus on the one thing he’d been looking for. He needed… He needed… What did he need?
The river. The lake. The flatlands on the edge of the lake. The rushing falls. The traffic in the city. The towering structure the overlooking the falls. Focus. Focus. Castiel shoved the overwhelming, too-many sensations aside as best as he was able and looked into the falls. Heard the rushing sound.
It wasn’t enough. He needed a smaller focus.
His focus shifted. There was a woman standing at the bridge, her fingers curling tightly around the railing. Hopelessness. A man, full of nothing but despondency, walked behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. A peal of laughter rang out, sharp and grating and so damned happy. It would be that girl’s only happy moment for some time to come.
Castiel’s perception widened again, overwhelmed by the sheer humanity pressing in on him from all sides. In desperation, he clawed for the water again and the roar of the falls was too much like the mad cries of a man drowning in rage. Castiel felt his own panic giving way to anger; when he spoke, his voice held command. Not fear. Never fear.
Stop.
And it did.
The falls were silent, still, in that moment. Castiel stood amidst a suddenly still maelstrom, surrounding by emotion he’d only begun to understand. Anger, rage, desperation, determination, friendship, loyalty, betrayal… and fear. Fear everywhere, all around him, threading through it all. Touching him. Surrounding him.
He raised a hand, reaching through the muddied emotion and toward the falls. A single drop, part of the spray floating in the air, hung before him. He just brushed it, and then stared at it on the tip of his finger. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, reveling in the single, simple feel of water on his fingertips. Castiel turned then and ran his fingers through the still falls.
And it all moved again.
Castiel snapped back to himself, physically recoiling at the sensation. He bent forward, hands on his knees, and simply breathed. He didn’t need to, not really, but he’d found that the act of focusing on something so very simple had a profound effect upon mood. In this case, distress would be eased. Hopefully. This was strange and so very new to him, but then, Castiel specialized in finding his way through new things.
Physical sensations were identified and cataloged quickly and without pause: vessel’s heart beating too fast, heavy weight settled on his chest, pressure behind his eyes that could perhaps be the beginning of a headache, darkness rimming the edges of his vision. Senses still on overdrive, Castiel straightened and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now he could at least filter out extraneous human prayer and emotion. His brethren’s incessant chattering was certainly not helping him right now though.
Why were they so loud?
The pressure behind his eyes turned to throbbing. There was a part of him that marveled at how much he wanted his brethren to be silent when, once upon a time, he’d suffered through their silence. Liwet and Tabris fought again, so loudly that it was all Castiel could hear in that moment - and he welcomed it. So be it if fighting helped him focus; he’d take it. Sophia taught temperance and Castiel had a moment when he snarled at her intervention.
In that moment, attention was on him.
Angels didn’t express emotion, not like humanity, but Castiel could still feel the waves of confusion and not-concern that settled on him. On the heels of the angels’ attention came the tumultuous storm of human emotion. Beyond that lay the earth itself: rushing rivers, pounding rain, predator and prey, life. Just life in all its loud, chaotic glory.
Its weight drove Castiel to his knees, one hand clapped over an ear, the other sliding in the blood coating the floor. His vision swam, darkness pushing in from the edges. Ghostly figures surrounded him, weaving through the debris and blood before him. Some screamed. Some cried. Some simply spoke. None were silent. He squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to shut out something; maybe if he couldn’t see the torn open corpses, he couldn’t hear their souls screaming.
The sheer volume overwhelmed him. It reached a crescendo, until it wasn’t a collection of separate noise anymore; just one impossibly loud, tangible roar. Castiel ground his teeth together, swallowed hard against the pressure that had turned to pain behind his eyes, and curled his fingers on the floor. Blood flaked under his blunt nails.
Cas?
Oh, God. Oh, Father, not another voice. Somewhere, dimly making its way through the roaring, one simple voice cut through it all. A familiar voice, with a familiar nickname.
Dunno if you’re still listening…
Oh, he was. He was. He heard it all. He heard too much. The voice faded in and out, lost and then rising again from the chaos.
…think we got a lead…
Castiel’s hand drifted from his ear to his forehead. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, hoping in vain that he could ease the pain there. Dean; he should listen. He was trying to listen. It… hurt to listen.
Flamingo Motel in Erie, if you still need directions.
He shouldn’t go now. There was an unspoken rule, one Castiel did his level best to abide by and one he’d never broken: He did not show up in anything less than able and willing to help the Winchesters. That’s how it was and how it would always be.
And, yet…
Castiel grunted and nearly pitched forward as wave upon wave of humanity living life, angels fighting over their right to live that life, and the earth itself teeming with activity crashed over him. It was tangible, physical, pressing down on him until he wasn’t sure he could draw a breath under the crushing weight. He dropped his hand to the floor, fingers desperately roaming until he found his silver sword. Something cold and sinewy brushed his wrist, something else - ghostly hands - settled on his shoulders and pushed. He could hear them speaking, hear growling and snarling coming ever closer. His hand tightened around the sword.
He couldn’t stay. Not like this. He’d go, find a place to be alone, regroup, and then find the Winchesters.
Castiel, eyes still tightly shut, lashed out, his sword flashing in a tight arc around him. He was silent as he moved, unwilling to add to the chaos. He went to move, to fly away, and found himself caught. Unable to focus enough to even find where he was going, Castiel instead stumbled backward and latched onto the only location he could think of.
Erie. Erie. Erie. Not far. Be there soon. Erie. Erie.
He flew blindly, still clutching his sword.
--
“You sure about this?”
Dean’s grunt could hardly be called an answer, but Sam took it for what it was: Don’t question your older brother, numbnuts.
Sam threw him a look and settled into the passenger seat of the Impala sullenly. “I’m going to assume that you at least have some idea about this. I mean, honestly, Cas didn’t give us a lot of information on Heaven’s missing weapons.”
“It’s a working theory.” Dean’s voice was tight, and Sam huffed at him.
“It’s only been a couple hours, man. He has a war.” Sam’s voice dropped an octave on the last word, fingers rising to give Dean his best impression of Castiel’s air-quotes.
Dean glanced at him, his gaze absolutely withering. “You almost sound like you’re trying to be encouraging.” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean shook his head once and went back to watching the road. “You’re mistaking anger for worry.”
Once upon a time, Sam might have called him on that, but today he just shrugged. There were many things Dean was, but Sam was actually fairly certain that he was simply angry this time.
Dean kept speaking. “He asked us to be on the lookout for these things. You’d think the bastard would bother answering when we actually have information.” Dean maneuvered the Impala through tight right turn into a shopping center, grimacing at the close quarters and snarling as another driver cut him off. Unable to turn the car quite sharply enough to avoid an impact, Dean stepped on the brakes, rocking the entire car, and gave the other driver a heavy glare. “Dude. Are you kidding me?” And then he inched the Impala forward anyway, not even bothering with the horn and letting the big, black car speak for him.
Yeah, Dean was in a bad mood. Sam rolled his eyes heavenward and sat back for the long haul on this one. It would end badly if the other driver didn’t back off in the next, oh, three seconds or so. Perhaps the other driver actually had a modicum of sense; he backed his Hyundai off and allowed Dean to continue his right turn. The driver of the Hyundai opened his window and his mouth; Dean very casually flipped him off and kept driving.
“Feel better?”
“Shut up, Sam.”
Sam shut up for all of five seconds before he spoke again. “You hitting the drive-thru or what?”
“I’m dropping you off at the grocery store. You’re getting stuff. I’m getting food and then picking you up.”
“And so help me if I’m late?”
“You got it.” Dean stopped the Impala at the door of the grocery. “Don’t forget the beer,” he muttered as Sam unfolded his tall frame from the passenger side of the car. “And we need a couple more things of salt; we’re running low.”
“Dude. I know.” Sam pushed the door closed. “I even have a list.”
For a moment, Dean was silent, not even looking in Sam’s direction. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and glanced at Sam. “Just get the stuff.”
“Get a burger,” Sam returned, “before you get hungry enough to be pissy.”
Dean didn’t answer; he put the car in gear and drove away, making his way toward the closest fast food he could find. Looked like Burger King for them. Finest dining in Erie, he was sure. The restaurant - if one could really call it that - sat in the corner of a plaza across the street from the grocery store. Dean pulled up to a stoplight, leaned back against the seat, and drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for green. He grunted, sighed, and shifted, then finally peered up at the sky through the windshield.
“Seriously, Cas? You gonna leave me hanging here?”
A horn sounded behind him and Dean jumped, blinking at the light. Oh, green. For a moment, he was inclined to just sit there and let the guy who’d honked at him stew but Dean wasn’t big on waiting for the sake of making someone else wait. Why punish himself? He was hungry, goddamn it. He hit the gas, wheels spinning as he rocketed across the intersection. The Impala spun around when he was in the parking lot across the street, back end spinning around as Dean expertly guided it to a harsh stop. He didn’t bother getting out yet; he had a conversation he had to continue and hell if he wanted to walk into Burger King while talking to himself.
“Calling Castiel. Earth to Castiel. You wanna answer yet? I got something you need to look into. You remembering that conversation we had? You know, where I told you to fucking answer me when I called you. Yeah, that one. Well, start answering, you bastard. I can’t leave this godforsaken town until you get down here and look into this.”
Dean waited. Just… waited. He was met with silence. Not that he expected much else. With a grunt, Dean shoved his door open and made his way toward the restaurant. Maybe they’d get back to the motel and find Castiel waiting on them; he’d given the angel the room number in his earlier prayer.
Still felt damned weird to pray to Castiel.
Dean was reaching for the door when the low voice echoed behind him.
“It was not my intention.”
Heart attack, meet Dean Winchester. His hand clenched around the door handle and Dean very deliberately took a deep breath. One of these days when the angel did that, Dean would turn around and deck him one. Probably hurt himself in the process but hell if Castiel didn’t deserve it. “What wasn’t?”
The answer was, for once, rather prompt. “To leave you hanging.”
Dean glanced over his shoulder at Castiel, eyebrows rising at the admission. That was almost an apology and probably the closest he’d ever really get from the angel. “Car.” Later, he’d ask. He might even comment on that more rumpled than normal look Castiel was sporting.
Castiel cocked his head to the side, his eyes sliding over to the Impala just a few spaces away.
Dean sighed, then elaborated. “Wait by the car. Sam and I haven’t eaten yet today and hell if I’m delaying food just because you decided to show up now.”
For a moment, Castiel was still - and looked beyond unimpressed, judging by the flat look he gave Dean - but then he turned to the Impala and made a show of settling in to lean against the quarter panel. Dean snorted and walked into the restaurant.
Castiel was left to wait. It wasn’t long, though; for as much as Dean was annoyed with Castiel delaying, he didn’t want to return the favor. A few burgers and fries to go in hand, and Dean made his way back to the Impala. He didn’t say a word as he jerked his door open and dropped the bag of takeout in the seat. He straightened and finally took a good long look at Castiel, just in case.
He’d never admit to being worried, but like Sam had said, mockingly or not, Castiel was in a war. One checked on buddies in war, didn’t they? Something like that. Hell if he knew. At any rate, Castiel was looking rumpled: his ever-present coat was a tad askew, his tie just a little looser than normal. He was leaning against the car, rather than standing stiffly, and he had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked tired. Dean hadn’t seen that since those days before Lucifer went back into the Cage.
“So what kept you?” Dean asked, tone light. He knew from experience; if he started in on Castiel now, there’d be an angel zapping out in a huff and they’d have to start this all over.
Castiel looked up, blinking slowly, and gave Dean an unimpressed glare. “It hasn’t been three hours.”
“You admitted that you left me hanging. Wasn’t your intention, remember?”
Rather than argue the point, Castiel simply tore his gaze from Dean and looked up at the sky, eyes blank. “I was near; gathering information on what might be a piece of the Staff. Raphael’s followers had apparently heard of it too.”
Dean nodded slowly. That did explain some things, especially if those ‘followers’ had taken it upon themselves to delay Castiel. “Speaking of, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. We picked up a few cases here that we thought might be related to the Staff.”
Castiel’s gaze sharpened at that. “Tell me.”
Checking his watch, Dean shrugged. “We’re in room 12 at the Flamingo. Meet us there in twenty minutes and we’ll compare notes. I gotta feeling that if we’re all following leads on the Staff, there’s probably something worth looking into around here.”
Castiel pushed himself off the car and nodded once. “Twenty minutes.”
“Don’t be late this time.”
Castiel didn’t answer; he’d already zapped out.
--
Sam was annoyed. Beyond simply annoyed, really, but there wasn’t really much he could say or do about it, all things considered. Dean had gone to bitching about the brand of salt he’d picked up and that was the point where Sam threw up his hands, snagged the burger Dean had for him, and proceeded to stuff his face, sitting half-sprawled on one of the beds in the dimly lit motel room. Sam let the silence go for all of about three minutes before he spoke. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
He was rewarded with a glare. Sam raised a brow and simply took a bite of his burger. He knew this game; he played it just as well as Dean did. Dean only snorted at him and checked his watch.
Things were silent for a moment before Dean bit out a curse and slammed what was left of his burger down on the table.
“Uh, Dean?”
Dean wasn’t even looking at him when he spoke. “It’s been almost an hour.”
All right. Now Sam was officially confused. He swallowed the last of his burger and straightened. “Hour since when?”
This time, Dean turned to face him. “Ran into Cas while I was getting burgers. Told him to meet us here in twenty minutes.”
Frowning, Sam crumpled up his wrapper and tossed it over toward the table. It skittered across the tarnished wood and fell to the floor on the other side. Dean was angry, that much was plain. Sam was skipping anger and going straight to worry. “You told him what we had?”
“Told him we had a lead on a weapon,” Dean snapped. “He was pretty insistent we talk.”
“He say anything about holding us up?”
This time it was Dean mocking Castiel. “It wasn’t his intention to keep us waiting.”
Sam stood up and made his way across the room. As he bent to pick up the wrapper he’d tossed, he hummed quietly.
“What’s with the thinking noise?”
Sam shrugged, picked up the wrapper, and straightened. “He didn’t say what kept him?”
Dean echoed the shrug. “He mentioned something about investigating a piece of the staff. Said he was near, but nothing more.”
There was silence for a moment before Sam spoke again. “You think the same thing held him up?”
Dean sat heavily, as if Sam’s question had completely drained him. “You saying something?”
“I’m saying it’s a piece of the staff. That thing’s pretty powerful.”
Silence again, before Dean opened his mouth. “Cas said Raphael’s goons heard about it, too.”
“So he’s late, he’s following some lead about a powerful weapon, and Raphael’s goons are somewhere around.”
“You know, if you’re gonna say something, you might as well just say it.” Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You worried?”
Sam snorted. “I’m just saying, man. There’s a lot out there could have held him up.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever it is, I’m getting sick of waiting.” Dean reached forward and tapped a finger against the paper he’d laid on the table earlier. “He can find us. We’ve got a job to do. I wanna look at this place.”
Sam made a face. “Gotta wait until it’s dark. I am not waltzing into a high profile crime scene in the light of day.”
“Especially not after regular business hours?” Dean snorted. “Can’t believe those officers suspected us of being frauds when we showed up after five.”
“We were frauds, Dean.”
“Just goes to show. We work harder than the actual FBI.”
Sam let that go and made a show of turning the paper towards him. “So. Cas?”
“Can damn well find us on his own. He’s late. He can deal.” With that, Dean stood, grabbed his jacket and keys and made his way for the door, hardly waiting for Sam to catch up.
It was Sam who sent up the prayer this time, a whispered message of an address as he closed the motel door.
--
Castiel was lost.
He thought he’d had it under control, when he’d finally found the Impala parked in a plaza in mid-town Erie. It had taken a few jumps to get there, even just from Niagara Falls. At one point, Castiel had completely overshot Erie. He thought maybe he’d landed somewhere in Ohio - he wasn’t exactly sure. It had been at that point, though, that his vision had stopped swimming. Vision still edged in darkness, Castiel finally made it to Erie and, without any actual direction anymore, simply scanned the town for the tell-tale presence of the Impala.
He hadn’t been surprised to find it parked outside a restaurant, all things considered.
He’d been so damned weary when Dean had ordered him to meet in twenty minutes. Part of him had wanted to take a seat in Dean’s car and simply hitch a ride to the motel. He couldn’t quite say he was exhausted or actually tired. He had energy. He had power. He just… couldn’t seem to keep everything under control.
Something like that. He couldn’t quite explain it. One minute, everything would be too loud, overwhelming him with the sheer volume of feeling. The next, there would be nothing. It was disorienting. Wearying. Castiel had once, upon waking in a hospital, felt pain and weariness overwhelm him; at that time, he’d wanted nothing more than to give in to the human desire to find a quiet, small room and do absolutely nothing. He had been rapidly approaching that point again when he’d finally found the Impala and Dean.
And then Dean had sent him off. Maybe Castiel had just been too weary to argue the point. Maybe he simply didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t quite up to standards. Whatever it was, Castiel had just left, without a word. Twenty minutes wasn’t long to wait, not to a being who was immortal anyway.
He’d planned on spending the time in a field, looking out over the lake. What he hadn’t expected was the dizzying rush of nothing that overtook him while he was traveling.
He fell.
There was nothing graceful about his landing. The thought that he was lucky enough to actually land with minimal injury crossed his mind in the second between stumbling on the ground and knocking his shoulder hard against a wall. He hissed, eyes shut tightly as his hand skated across the rough wall. Brick. An outside wall, most likely. For a moment, he stayed there, hunched against the wall. His fingers curled against the brick, its rough edges thrown into sharp relief as he concentrated on them. The pain in his knees - from the shock of the landing - was harsh and so very real. Healing already, though, but it was as if Castiel’s consciousness simply decided to focus on the pain, unbidden.
The brick scraped lightly against his palm as he pushed himself up. His other hand came up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need rest. He wasn’t in pain. He just… He just didn’t know.
Judging by the pressure behind his eyes, though, he might have to re-evaluate his condition. He’d had the dubious honor once last year to endure the very human affliction called a migraine. It had left him snappish, irritable, and utterly unable to stand the smallest pinprick of light. For the time he’d been holed up in Bobby Singer’s house with it, every creak of the wheelchair had him snarling. This felt like it was shaping up to be worse.
He dropped his hand, risked opening his eyes, and stilled completely. Darkness no longer simply rimmed his vision; it invaded his vision. For a long moment, Castiel stared at where he knew his hand was, mind insisting that he should be seeing it. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and then let his hand fall open again - and saw none of it.
That was… disturbing. Castiel took a deep breath and let his eyes drift closed. Wasn’t helping him to keep them open anyway. He kept his hand against the brick wall, letting the feel of it ground him. He had other senses; if his eyes weren’t going to cooperate, that was worrying, but it wasn’t anything that would keep him from functioning.
(Somewhere inside his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean’s said “Dude, you’re rationalizing. Welcome to the human race.”)
It hit Castiel suddenly: nothing came to him. No prayers. No sense of the living. No movement. Senses that had been on overdrive just a few short minutes before were suddenly gone, as if they’d just been turned off. No warning. No reason. Castiel’s eyes flew open and he started when nothing greeted him. For a moment, he’d forgotten.
It took everything in him not to slip away in that moment. His fingers flexed against the brick; he brought up his other hand and pressed it flat against the wall. Convincing himself not to immediately fly away was… difficult. He had nowhere to go, no frame of reference for where he even was and one brick wall in front of him was not helping. He was not flying blind, not again. He might do worse than stumbling into a brick wall.
But the urge to flee was far more pervasive than he thought it would be. Castiel had felt fear before, had felt it sharply when Lucifer had turned on him in those final moments last year. He’d felt despair and hopelessness and felt faith slipping away. He’d felt abandoned and he’d often wondered why he should even continue forward but he wasn’t sure any of that held a candle to what he was feeling right now. He never would have thought that a lack of feeling could bring with it such emotion. He had no frame of reference for this; even slowly fading Grace still left him able to sense the things around him.
Castiel’s fingertips scraped the rough brick. He huffed a breath and turned, pressing his back against the wall. At least he could still feel that. Given the way things were going, he wasn’t sure how long that would last. Bitter amusement welled in him at that. When had he become so fatalistic? He swallowed; he had to control this. All of this. He couldn’t let panic - that’s what it was and he marveled a little at it - rule him now. Castiel forced himself to take stock of everything: his own vessel, the things around him, everything in his reach.
He took a moment, cataloging each racing heartbeat, each shallow, panting breath, and each tremor that shook his frame. Control himself first and perhaps he could bring the rest into focus. It was a vain hope and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could begin to hope to change and control just yet. Breathing first. He remembered that, from those first few hours of hazy awareness in the hospital. He remembered a nurse’s gentle, low voice as she coaxed him to slow desperate breaths. Her voice had been husky, torn by years of cigarettes, but not unpleasant. He let that memory engulf him and let those simple words fall over him again.
In. Draw a breath through a closed throat. Don’t force it. Wait for the hitch and try again. Eventually it would come. Hold. Close his eyes, his mouth, relax. Simply hold the air in his borrowed lungs for a beat, then… Out. Lips parted slightly, muscles as relaxed as he could manage. Don’t let it go in one puff of frantic breath; simply let the air move naturally. Again. Try again. Again and again until he didn’t have to force air into his lungs through hitching breaths. Castiel could almost feel the feather-light touch on his brow again and hear the words whispered with a hint of a smile. Good job. Now keep going like that. You’ll be fine.
His breathing slowed, his heart calmed, and Castiel sighed. Whatever that was, he was never going through that again. That anxious wave was still there, barely held back by a thin veneer of determination. He could feel it lurking there and it was almost a relief. At least he could feel something. He pushed back against the wall, then shifted and called his sword into his hand. He would not be defenseless. Wherever he was and whatever was going on, he would not be defenseless.
And now… Castiel sighed and straightened. Now, it was time to figure out just what was gone and what he could still rely on. He scraped the tip of his sword against the brick, exhaling steadily when he heard the rough sound of the blade against brick. The overwhelming weight of nothing was lifting slowly, but the darkness stayed. The quiet stayed. Sound, though, started filtering in. Slowly, Castiel knelt, carefully keeping the sword in contact with the wall. He needed to feel it, needed to be grounded somehow, and that would do it. It would have to, for now. He reached out with his free hand; his hand was steady when his fingers threaded through grass.
The grass was overgrown, but not badly so, and wet from last night’s drizzle. Castiel pulled his hand away and shook the water droplets from his fingers. A light breeze just touched him, a chilled caress over his cheeks and forehead. He could smell the lake in it and, a moment later, the faint sound of gentle waves lapping the shore came to him. Outside, then, and probably not far from where he planned on spending those minutes waiting. By that logic, Erie should be just to the south, slightly west.
That flood of anxiety crashed over him the very second he entertained the thought of flying there. Castiel straightened, his logical mind slowly overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of shifting without feeling. He couldn’t stay here, though. He had no other option. That didn’t mean he wanted to, though. Castiel drew a deep breath, steeling himself. Short jumps, perhaps, would do what he needed. He shouldn’t overshoot that way and, if he was careful and slow, he might be able to avoid unfortunate landings.
Probably wouldn’t, in any case, but he was trying to rationalize here. Rationalization never really made sense.
"Hey!"
The shout jolted him from his thoughts. Castiel half-spun towards the voice, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The sword’s tip scraped along the brick wall. Apparently, it drew the attention of Castiel’s visitor.
"What the hell…"
That’s all Castiel heard. He stepped forward and flew.
TBC::
Any and all comments are loved and appreciated.
Author: Kel
Rating | Genre: PG-13/T, bordering on M for horror imagery and violence | Gen/horror/action/whatever I cram in it
Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth.
Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven’s war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.
“Toll for the brave - The brave! that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore.”
-William Cowper
He had hoped that his days of being hunted were over, that he could be the hunter this time around. He shouldn’t have been so naïve and he knew full well that relaxing - even the tiniest fraction, as he had - could be fatal. Almost was, this time around. Castiel flicked blood off the short silver sword he held and rolled his neck, a habit he’d picked up from his days as almost-human. The shadows across the floor were lengthening; evening had come upon him more quickly than he’d expected. Apparently (and even his thoughts held a wry tone) time had a way of slipping by when one was fighting to survive another day.
The house was a mess, but that was to be expected after three angels had fought there. Castiel reached down and pulled an end table back to its original position, then sifted through the papers that had been dumped when it was overturned. What he wouldn’t give for just one venture for information on missing weapons to go smoothly. This one, of course, had not; he shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone was after Heaven’s missing weapons. For just a moment, what was now familiar anger and disappointment welled up in Castiel. He’d hoped for so much better from the angels. Blind faith had its disadvantages, Castiel reflected as he perused the torn envelopes and crumpled letters. It could and often did lead to bitter, bitter disappointment.
Castiel put the sheathed the sword and knelt, hands smoothing out a crumpled letter on the end table. It looked like nothing special, with no header and written in a hand that held no elegance. Castiel’s brow furrowed as he read and he finally just snorted and carefully folded the letter. He was fairly certain the letter referenced a few things he’d been looking for, but he couldn’t be completely sure. He slipped the letter into an inside jacket pocket. He could take it to someone who understood the thing. The language, he understood; the intent was beyond him. Still kneeling, he looked around the dim and blood-splattered room. The people who had lived in this house were dead - torn apart by madness that Castiel was fairly certain came from a heavenly weapon - but perhaps what they left behind would provide some insight.
The rest of the letters were nothing; they simply seemed to be demands for money for services rendered and contained none of the keywords Castiel had been looking for. He dropped them on the end table and pushed to his feet. The dull ache that had settled under his left shoulder blade sharpened as he straightened. Castiel didn’t wince, but he did allow brief, intense irritation cross his features. That had been a close hit, far too close for Castiel’s liking. He’d twisted at the last moment and the silver blade had slid into his back at a sharp angle. The wound wouldn’t heal quite as quickly as he’d like, but it was to be expected, nor was it a problem. He’d just have to be more aware of his surroundings in the future; he refused to be ambushed again. Carefully, he rolled his shoulder, feeling the blood well as the edges of the gash pulled. Wonderful. It would heal, though, before too long.
Something just brushed the edges of his perception; Castiel stood still and straight, sluggishly bleeding wound forgotten. He was on edge, after being rather forcefully reminded that angels still wanted his head. Raphael’s vessel may have been destroyed, but he was still fully capable of giving orders. Castiel unsheathed his sword quietly and waited. He could afford patience here; whatever it was, it was coming closer. He half-turned to face it, sword spinning in his hand, and was met with nothing.
That couldn’t be right.
Castiel took a half step backward, eyes narrowed as he looked at the spot where his senses screamed something should be. It couldn’t be. His sense were never that wrong. He gave the open doorway a wary look before letting his gaze wander across the room.
It was the same: broken coffee table, up-ended recliner, a couch torn by an angelic blade. Two of his brethren lay among the torn flesh of what had once been human. Dried, flaking blood decorated the far wall, arcing in a broad, splattered crescent across a family photo that, amazingly, still hung straight. Dust hung in the dimming sunlight. It was calm, still, and yet Castiel perceived something moving through the debris.
Castiel traded his sword to his left hand and picked up what was left of a table lamp with his right. Angelic senses were screaming at him and yet he couldn’t see well enough to pinpoint the intruder. He waited; he’d sense it when it moved and he doubted it would out-stubborn him. When it moved, somehow slinking over debris that should be disturbed in its wake, Castiel snapped into action. He threw the lamp - because he refused to throw his only real weapon - and blinked in surprise when his sight and his senses continued to war with each other. It seemed the lamp simply crashed to the floor. Castiel, however, heard something very different. An otherworldly growl filled the room, sharpening to a harsh snarl. Claws slid across the tarnished wood floor. Castiel stepped sideways, putting his back toward the wall, and brought the sword to guard.
Something was lying to him and he rather thought it wasn’t angelic senses. So what was trying to blind him here?
And then he couldn’t spare the time to think about it anymore. Claws scraped against the wooden floor and that constant growling became a roar. Castiel, his blade reversed, dropped into a crouch and swung his arm up in front of him. He felt the heavy weight hit the blade, felt it try to drive him back, felt it straining against his arm, but saw absolutely nothing. No, that wasn’t quite true. He knew it was there, could almost make out the lines of its body but it was as if his human vessel’s senses simply refused to see what his angelic senses were seeing. It was more than simply troubling, to know something could interfere with his perception in such a way.
Later, he’d think on it, when this thing wasn’t trying to claw past his arm to take off his head.
Castiel grunted, managed to plant his foot in the place where the floor met the wall, and shoved forward. Whatever it was went tumbling backward; Castiel could hear it skidding across the floor. Heard claws scraping for purchase. Even heard it growling and snarling as it rolled. No debris in the house moved, though, and none of the dried blood (or fresh, in the case of his dead brothers) was disturbed. Castiel didn’t bother trying to follow; it would be a fool’s errand now. Confused and warring senses gave him conflicting information, and the presence seemed to flicker in his consciousness. For a moment, he thought he saw it clearly - sleek black skin, diamond-hard claws, a mouthful of teeth, and dead yellow eyes - but it was gone again in that moment.
It didn’t come back.
Brow furrowed, Castiel straightened, sword still hanging loosely from his fingers. Nothing should have confused him quite like this thing did. His gaze drifted to the torn bodies. According to police reports (and Castiel was sure he knew of a few of his brothers and sisters that would look at him askance for bothering to rifle through such reports), these people had turned on each other. Unexpectedly brutal for a family that stood as pillars in their neighborhood, this sort of crime would have rocked even the foundations of a far less stable community. Now, though, he gave the bodies a closer look. Perhaps something less human had murdered these people.
His senses were still on overdrive when he knelt beside what was left of the nearest body. He found himself wrinkling his nose at the smell. It didn’t make him nauseous; it never would, but he found it unpleasant. The sights and the sounds - the ripped flesh, pools of blood and torn organs, the way the toe of his shoe slipped a fraction on something that should never be stepped on, the squelching beneath his heels - did not bother him. They never did. It was always the smell that affected him; it was negligible, barely noticeable, but enough to make an impression.
Castiel balanced his sword across his knee and reached down to grasp the dead girl’s wrist. She had been young, barely on the cusp of adulthood. Blonde, a glance at the tufts of blood-matted hair told him, and meticulous about her appearance.
“Alice,” Castiel murmured. Her name, according to the police reports. She’d hated the name but refused to say much about it, since she’d been named for her grandmother. He pulled her wrist up, barely paying attention as the bones in her forearm grated and twisted at the movement. What had once been neatly manicured nails were shorn and ragged. Blood and tissue that weren’t hers coated her hands and wrists. Castiel wasn’t exactly well-versed in forensics, but the police reports had indicated that these weren’t defensive. They didn’t look it. For all appearances, this family had torn itself apart, quite literally, with no help from hellbeasts that evaded even an angel.
Castiel sat her wrist back down, shook blood from his fingers, and, still crouching, looked up. Almost absently, he took the hilt of his sword, and then rested his wrists on his knees for a moment. What he wouldn’t give for more information here. Or - here he snorted - a better understanding of human forensics. To his eyes, which were admittedly not that reliable right now, that beast didn’t do this.
So why was it here now?
Castiel stood. He closed human eyes and simply let himself feel. For a moment, the world was his; he felt everything. A prayer brushed against him there, a desperate plea for encouragement there, peace and fear and desperation mingled together, a heady cocktail that had him lifting his chin in determination as he sorted through it all. That… that was too much. How in the hell had that happened? He was spread too thin, hearing too much, seeing everything. Castiel struggled to narrow his scope, to remind himself that he stood in a modest home in western New York.
Sensation after sensation rolled over him, unending and relentless. Desperation. Anger. Hate. All-encompassing rage mingled with love and jealousy. It overwhelmed him. It left him clawing for purchase, trying to pull back, trying simply focus on the one thing he’d been looking for. He needed… He needed… What did he need?
The river. The lake. The flatlands on the edge of the lake. The rushing falls. The traffic in the city. The towering structure the overlooking the falls. Focus. Focus. Castiel shoved the overwhelming, too-many sensations aside as best as he was able and looked into the falls. Heard the rushing sound.
It wasn’t enough. He needed a smaller focus.
His focus shifted. There was a woman standing at the bridge, her fingers curling tightly around the railing. Hopelessness. A man, full of nothing but despondency, walked behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. A peal of laughter rang out, sharp and grating and so damned happy. It would be that girl’s only happy moment for some time to come.
Castiel’s perception widened again, overwhelmed by the sheer humanity pressing in on him from all sides. In desperation, he clawed for the water again and the roar of the falls was too much like the mad cries of a man drowning in rage. Castiel felt his own panic giving way to anger; when he spoke, his voice held command. Not fear. Never fear.
Stop.
And it did.
The falls were silent, still, in that moment. Castiel stood amidst a suddenly still maelstrom, surrounding by emotion he’d only begun to understand. Anger, rage, desperation, determination, friendship, loyalty, betrayal… and fear. Fear everywhere, all around him, threading through it all. Touching him. Surrounding him.
He raised a hand, reaching through the muddied emotion and toward the falls. A single drop, part of the spray floating in the air, hung before him. He just brushed it, and then stared at it on the tip of his finger. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, reveling in the single, simple feel of water on his fingertips. Castiel turned then and ran his fingers through the still falls.
And it all moved again.
Castiel snapped back to himself, physically recoiling at the sensation. He bent forward, hands on his knees, and simply breathed. He didn’t need to, not really, but he’d found that the act of focusing on something so very simple had a profound effect upon mood. In this case, distress would be eased. Hopefully. This was strange and so very new to him, but then, Castiel specialized in finding his way through new things.
Physical sensations were identified and cataloged quickly and without pause: vessel’s heart beating too fast, heavy weight settled on his chest, pressure behind his eyes that could perhaps be the beginning of a headache, darkness rimming the edges of his vision. Senses still on overdrive, Castiel straightened and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now he could at least filter out extraneous human prayer and emotion. His brethren’s incessant chattering was certainly not helping him right now though.
Why were they so loud?
The pressure behind his eyes turned to throbbing. There was a part of him that marveled at how much he wanted his brethren to be silent when, once upon a time, he’d suffered through their silence. Liwet and Tabris fought again, so loudly that it was all Castiel could hear in that moment - and he welcomed it. So be it if fighting helped him focus; he’d take it. Sophia taught temperance and Castiel had a moment when he snarled at her intervention.
In that moment, attention was on him.
Angels didn’t express emotion, not like humanity, but Castiel could still feel the waves of confusion and not-concern that settled on him. On the heels of the angels’ attention came the tumultuous storm of human emotion. Beyond that lay the earth itself: rushing rivers, pounding rain, predator and prey, life. Just life in all its loud, chaotic glory.
Its weight drove Castiel to his knees, one hand clapped over an ear, the other sliding in the blood coating the floor. His vision swam, darkness pushing in from the edges. Ghostly figures surrounded him, weaving through the debris and blood before him. Some screamed. Some cried. Some simply spoke. None were silent. He squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to shut out something; maybe if he couldn’t see the torn open corpses, he couldn’t hear their souls screaming.
The sheer volume overwhelmed him. It reached a crescendo, until it wasn’t a collection of separate noise anymore; just one impossibly loud, tangible roar. Castiel ground his teeth together, swallowed hard against the pressure that had turned to pain behind his eyes, and curled his fingers on the floor. Blood flaked under his blunt nails.
Cas?
Oh, God. Oh, Father, not another voice. Somewhere, dimly making its way through the roaring, one simple voice cut through it all. A familiar voice, with a familiar nickname.
Dunno if you’re still listening…
Oh, he was. He was. He heard it all. He heard too much. The voice faded in and out, lost and then rising again from the chaos.
…think we got a lead…
Castiel’s hand drifted from his ear to his forehead. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, hoping in vain that he could ease the pain there. Dean; he should listen. He was trying to listen. It… hurt to listen.
Flamingo Motel in Erie, if you still need directions.
He shouldn’t go now. There was an unspoken rule, one Castiel did his level best to abide by and one he’d never broken: He did not show up in anything less than able and willing to help the Winchesters. That’s how it was and how it would always be.
And, yet…
Castiel grunted and nearly pitched forward as wave upon wave of humanity living life, angels fighting over their right to live that life, and the earth itself teeming with activity crashed over him. It was tangible, physical, pressing down on him until he wasn’t sure he could draw a breath under the crushing weight. He dropped his hand to the floor, fingers desperately roaming until he found his silver sword. Something cold and sinewy brushed his wrist, something else - ghostly hands - settled on his shoulders and pushed. He could hear them speaking, hear growling and snarling coming ever closer. His hand tightened around the sword.
He couldn’t stay. Not like this. He’d go, find a place to be alone, regroup, and then find the Winchesters.
Castiel, eyes still tightly shut, lashed out, his sword flashing in a tight arc around him. He was silent as he moved, unwilling to add to the chaos. He went to move, to fly away, and found himself caught. Unable to focus enough to even find where he was going, Castiel instead stumbled backward and latched onto the only location he could think of.
Erie. Erie. Erie. Not far. Be there soon. Erie. Erie.
He flew blindly, still clutching his sword.
--
“You sure about this?”
Dean’s grunt could hardly be called an answer, but Sam took it for what it was: Don’t question your older brother, numbnuts.
Sam threw him a look and settled into the passenger seat of the Impala sullenly. “I’m going to assume that you at least have some idea about this. I mean, honestly, Cas didn’t give us a lot of information on Heaven’s missing weapons.”
“It’s a working theory.” Dean’s voice was tight, and Sam huffed at him.
“It’s only been a couple hours, man. He has a war.” Sam’s voice dropped an octave on the last word, fingers rising to give Dean his best impression of Castiel’s air-quotes.
Dean glanced at him, his gaze absolutely withering. “You almost sound like you’re trying to be encouraging.” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean shook his head once and went back to watching the road. “You’re mistaking anger for worry.”
Once upon a time, Sam might have called him on that, but today he just shrugged. There were many things Dean was, but Sam was actually fairly certain that he was simply angry this time.
Dean kept speaking. “He asked us to be on the lookout for these things. You’d think the bastard would bother answering when we actually have information.” Dean maneuvered the Impala through tight right turn into a shopping center, grimacing at the close quarters and snarling as another driver cut him off. Unable to turn the car quite sharply enough to avoid an impact, Dean stepped on the brakes, rocking the entire car, and gave the other driver a heavy glare. “Dude. Are you kidding me?” And then he inched the Impala forward anyway, not even bothering with the horn and letting the big, black car speak for him.
Yeah, Dean was in a bad mood. Sam rolled his eyes heavenward and sat back for the long haul on this one. It would end badly if the other driver didn’t back off in the next, oh, three seconds or so. Perhaps the other driver actually had a modicum of sense; he backed his Hyundai off and allowed Dean to continue his right turn. The driver of the Hyundai opened his window and his mouth; Dean very casually flipped him off and kept driving.
“Feel better?”
“Shut up, Sam.”
Sam shut up for all of five seconds before he spoke again. “You hitting the drive-thru or what?”
“I’m dropping you off at the grocery store. You’re getting stuff. I’m getting food and then picking you up.”
“And so help me if I’m late?”
“You got it.” Dean stopped the Impala at the door of the grocery. “Don’t forget the beer,” he muttered as Sam unfolded his tall frame from the passenger side of the car. “And we need a couple more things of salt; we’re running low.”
“Dude. I know.” Sam pushed the door closed. “I even have a list.”
For a moment, Dean was silent, not even looking in Sam’s direction. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and glanced at Sam. “Just get the stuff.”
“Get a burger,” Sam returned, “before you get hungry enough to be pissy.”
Dean didn’t answer; he put the car in gear and drove away, making his way toward the closest fast food he could find. Looked like Burger King for them. Finest dining in Erie, he was sure. The restaurant - if one could really call it that - sat in the corner of a plaza across the street from the grocery store. Dean pulled up to a stoplight, leaned back against the seat, and drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for green. He grunted, sighed, and shifted, then finally peered up at the sky through the windshield.
“Seriously, Cas? You gonna leave me hanging here?”
A horn sounded behind him and Dean jumped, blinking at the light. Oh, green. For a moment, he was inclined to just sit there and let the guy who’d honked at him stew but Dean wasn’t big on waiting for the sake of making someone else wait. Why punish himself? He was hungry, goddamn it. He hit the gas, wheels spinning as he rocketed across the intersection. The Impala spun around when he was in the parking lot across the street, back end spinning around as Dean expertly guided it to a harsh stop. He didn’t bother getting out yet; he had a conversation he had to continue and hell if he wanted to walk into Burger King while talking to himself.
“Calling Castiel. Earth to Castiel. You wanna answer yet? I got something you need to look into. You remembering that conversation we had? You know, where I told you to fucking answer me when I called you. Yeah, that one. Well, start answering, you bastard. I can’t leave this godforsaken town until you get down here and look into this.”
Dean waited. Just… waited. He was met with silence. Not that he expected much else. With a grunt, Dean shoved his door open and made his way toward the restaurant. Maybe they’d get back to the motel and find Castiel waiting on them; he’d given the angel the room number in his earlier prayer.
Still felt damned weird to pray to Castiel.
Dean was reaching for the door when the low voice echoed behind him.
“It was not my intention.”
Heart attack, meet Dean Winchester. His hand clenched around the door handle and Dean very deliberately took a deep breath. One of these days when the angel did that, Dean would turn around and deck him one. Probably hurt himself in the process but hell if Castiel didn’t deserve it. “What wasn’t?”
The answer was, for once, rather prompt. “To leave you hanging.”
Dean glanced over his shoulder at Castiel, eyebrows rising at the admission. That was almost an apology and probably the closest he’d ever really get from the angel. “Car.” Later, he’d ask. He might even comment on that more rumpled than normal look Castiel was sporting.
Castiel cocked his head to the side, his eyes sliding over to the Impala just a few spaces away.
Dean sighed, then elaborated. “Wait by the car. Sam and I haven’t eaten yet today and hell if I’m delaying food just because you decided to show up now.”
For a moment, Castiel was still - and looked beyond unimpressed, judging by the flat look he gave Dean - but then he turned to the Impala and made a show of settling in to lean against the quarter panel. Dean snorted and walked into the restaurant.
Castiel was left to wait. It wasn’t long, though; for as much as Dean was annoyed with Castiel delaying, he didn’t want to return the favor. A few burgers and fries to go in hand, and Dean made his way back to the Impala. He didn’t say a word as he jerked his door open and dropped the bag of takeout in the seat. He straightened and finally took a good long look at Castiel, just in case.
He’d never admit to being worried, but like Sam had said, mockingly or not, Castiel was in a war. One checked on buddies in war, didn’t they? Something like that. Hell if he knew. At any rate, Castiel was looking rumpled: his ever-present coat was a tad askew, his tie just a little looser than normal. He was leaning against the car, rather than standing stiffly, and he had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked tired. Dean hadn’t seen that since those days before Lucifer went back into the Cage.
“So what kept you?” Dean asked, tone light. He knew from experience; if he started in on Castiel now, there’d be an angel zapping out in a huff and they’d have to start this all over.
Castiel looked up, blinking slowly, and gave Dean an unimpressed glare. “It hasn’t been three hours.”
“You admitted that you left me hanging. Wasn’t your intention, remember?”
Rather than argue the point, Castiel simply tore his gaze from Dean and looked up at the sky, eyes blank. “I was near; gathering information on what might be a piece of the Staff. Raphael’s followers had apparently heard of it too.”
Dean nodded slowly. That did explain some things, especially if those ‘followers’ had taken it upon themselves to delay Castiel. “Speaking of, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. We picked up a few cases here that we thought might be related to the Staff.”
Castiel’s gaze sharpened at that. “Tell me.”
Checking his watch, Dean shrugged. “We’re in room 12 at the Flamingo. Meet us there in twenty minutes and we’ll compare notes. I gotta feeling that if we’re all following leads on the Staff, there’s probably something worth looking into around here.”
Castiel pushed himself off the car and nodded once. “Twenty minutes.”
“Don’t be late this time.”
Castiel didn’t answer; he’d already zapped out.
--
Sam was annoyed. Beyond simply annoyed, really, but there wasn’t really much he could say or do about it, all things considered. Dean had gone to bitching about the brand of salt he’d picked up and that was the point where Sam threw up his hands, snagged the burger Dean had for him, and proceeded to stuff his face, sitting half-sprawled on one of the beds in the dimly lit motel room. Sam let the silence go for all of about three minutes before he spoke. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
He was rewarded with a glare. Sam raised a brow and simply took a bite of his burger. He knew this game; he played it just as well as Dean did. Dean only snorted at him and checked his watch.
Things were silent for a moment before Dean bit out a curse and slammed what was left of his burger down on the table.
“Uh, Dean?”
Dean wasn’t even looking at him when he spoke. “It’s been almost an hour.”
All right. Now Sam was officially confused. He swallowed the last of his burger and straightened. “Hour since when?”
This time, Dean turned to face him. “Ran into Cas while I was getting burgers. Told him to meet us here in twenty minutes.”
Frowning, Sam crumpled up his wrapper and tossed it over toward the table. It skittered across the tarnished wood and fell to the floor on the other side. Dean was angry, that much was plain. Sam was skipping anger and going straight to worry. “You told him what we had?”
“Told him we had a lead on a weapon,” Dean snapped. “He was pretty insistent we talk.”
“He say anything about holding us up?”
This time it was Dean mocking Castiel. “It wasn’t his intention to keep us waiting.”
Sam stood up and made his way across the room. As he bent to pick up the wrapper he’d tossed, he hummed quietly.
“What’s with the thinking noise?”
Sam shrugged, picked up the wrapper, and straightened. “He didn’t say what kept him?”
Dean echoed the shrug. “He mentioned something about investigating a piece of the staff. Said he was near, but nothing more.”
There was silence for a moment before Sam spoke again. “You think the same thing held him up?”
Dean sat heavily, as if Sam’s question had completely drained him. “You saying something?”
“I’m saying it’s a piece of the staff. That thing’s pretty powerful.”
Silence again, before Dean opened his mouth. “Cas said Raphael’s goons heard about it, too.”
“So he’s late, he’s following some lead about a powerful weapon, and Raphael’s goons are somewhere around.”
“You know, if you’re gonna say something, you might as well just say it.” Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You worried?”
Sam snorted. “I’m just saying, man. There’s a lot out there could have held him up.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever it is, I’m getting sick of waiting.” Dean reached forward and tapped a finger against the paper he’d laid on the table earlier. “He can find us. We’ve got a job to do. I wanna look at this place.”
Sam made a face. “Gotta wait until it’s dark. I am not waltzing into a high profile crime scene in the light of day.”
“Especially not after regular business hours?” Dean snorted. “Can’t believe those officers suspected us of being frauds when we showed up after five.”
“We were frauds, Dean.”
“Just goes to show. We work harder than the actual FBI.”
Sam let that go and made a show of turning the paper towards him. “So. Cas?”
“Can damn well find us on his own. He’s late. He can deal.” With that, Dean stood, grabbed his jacket and keys and made his way for the door, hardly waiting for Sam to catch up.
It was Sam who sent up the prayer this time, a whispered message of an address as he closed the motel door.
--
Castiel was lost.
He thought he’d had it under control, when he’d finally found the Impala parked in a plaza in mid-town Erie. It had taken a few jumps to get there, even just from Niagara Falls. At one point, Castiel had completely overshot Erie. He thought maybe he’d landed somewhere in Ohio - he wasn’t exactly sure. It had been at that point, though, that his vision had stopped swimming. Vision still edged in darkness, Castiel finally made it to Erie and, without any actual direction anymore, simply scanned the town for the tell-tale presence of the Impala.
He hadn’t been surprised to find it parked outside a restaurant, all things considered.
He’d been so damned weary when Dean had ordered him to meet in twenty minutes. Part of him had wanted to take a seat in Dean’s car and simply hitch a ride to the motel. He couldn’t quite say he was exhausted or actually tired. He had energy. He had power. He just… couldn’t seem to keep everything under control.
Something like that. He couldn’t quite explain it. One minute, everything would be too loud, overwhelming him with the sheer volume of feeling. The next, there would be nothing. It was disorienting. Wearying. Castiel had once, upon waking in a hospital, felt pain and weariness overwhelm him; at that time, he’d wanted nothing more than to give in to the human desire to find a quiet, small room and do absolutely nothing. He had been rapidly approaching that point again when he’d finally found the Impala and Dean.
And then Dean had sent him off. Maybe Castiel had just been too weary to argue the point. Maybe he simply didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t quite up to standards. Whatever it was, Castiel had just left, without a word. Twenty minutes wasn’t long to wait, not to a being who was immortal anyway.
He’d planned on spending the time in a field, looking out over the lake. What he hadn’t expected was the dizzying rush of nothing that overtook him while he was traveling.
He fell.
There was nothing graceful about his landing. The thought that he was lucky enough to actually land with minimal injury crossed his mind in the second between stumbling on the ground and knocking his shoulder hard against a wall. He hissed, eyes shut tightly as his hand skated across the rough wall. Brick. An outside wall, most likely. For a moment, he stayed there, hunched against the wall. His fingers curled against the brick, its rough edges thrown into sharp relief as he concentrated on them. The pain in his knees - from the shock of the landing - was harsh and so very real. Healing already, though, but it was as if Castiel’s consciousness simply decided to focus on the pain, unbidden.
The brick scraped lightly against his palm as he pushed himself up. His other hand came up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need rest. He wasn’t in pain. He just… He just didn’t know.
Judging by the pressure behind his eyes, though, he might have to re-evaluate his condition. He’d had the dubious honor once last year to endure the very human affliction called a migraine. It had left him snappish, irritable, and utterly unable to stand the smallest pinprick of light. For the time he’d been holed up in Bobby Singer’s house with it, every creak of the wheelchair had him snarling. This felt like it was shaping up to be worse.
He dropped his hand, risked opening his eyes, and stilled completely. Darkness no longer simply rimmed his vision; it invaded his vision. For a long moment, Castiel stared at where he knew his hand was, mind insisting that he should be seeing it. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and then let his hand fall open again - and saw none of it.
That was… disturbing. Castiel took a deep breath and let his eyes drift closed. Wasn’t helping him to keep them open anyway. He kept his hand against the brick wall, letting the feel of it ground him. He had other senses; if his eyes weren’t going to cooperate, that was worrying, but it wasn’t anything that would keep him from functioning.
(Somewhere inside his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean’s said “Dude, you’re rationalizing. Welcome to the human race.”)
It hit Castiel suddenly: nothing came to him. No prayers. No sense of the living. No movement. Senses that had been on overdrive just a few short minutes before were suddenly gone, as if they’d just been turned off. No warning. No reason. Castiel’s eyes flew open and he started when nothing greeted him. For a moment, he’d forgotten.
It took everything in him not to slip away in that moment. His fingers flexed against the brick; he brought up his other hand and pressed it flat against the wall. Convincing himself not to immediately fly away was… difficult. He had nowhere to go, no frame of reference for where he even was and one brick wall in front of him was not helping. He was not flying blind, not again. He might do worse than stumbling into a brick wall.
But the urge to flee was far more pervasive than he thought it would be. Castiel had felt fear before, had felt it sharply when Lucifer had turned on him in those final moments last year. He’d felt despair and hopelessness and felt faith slipping away. He’d felt abandoned and he’d often wondered why he should even continue forward but he wasn’t sure any of that held a candle to what he was feeling right now. He never would have thought that a lack of feeling could bring with it such emotion. He had no frame of reference for this; even slowly fading Grace still left him able to sense the things around him.
Castiel’s fingertips scraped the rough brick. He huffed a breath and turned, pressing his back against the wall. At least he could still feel that. Given the way things were going, he wasn’t sure how long that would last. Bitter amusement welled in him at that. When had he become so fatalistic? He swallowed; he had to control this. All of this. He couldn’t let panic - that’s what it was and he marveled a little at it - rule him now. Castiel forced himself to take stock of everything: his own vessel, the things around him, everything in his reach.
He took a moment, cataloging each racing heartbeat, each shallow, panting breath, and each tremor that shook his frame. Control himself first and perhaps he could bring the rest into focus. It was a vain hope and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could begin to hope to change and control just yet. Breathing first. He remembered that, from those first few hours of hazy awareness in the hospital. He remembered a nurse’s gentle, low voice as she coaxed him to slow desperate breaths. Her voice had been husky, torn by years of cigarettes, but not unpleasant. He let that memory engulf him and let those simple words fall over him again.
In. Draw a breath through a closed throat. Don’t force it. Wait for the hitch and try again. Eventually it would come. Hold. Close his eyes, his mouth, relax. Simply hold the air in his borrowed lungs for a beat, then… Out. Lips parted slightly, muscles as relaxed as he could manage. Don’t let it go in one puff of frantic breath; simply let the air move naturally. Again. Try again. Again and again until he didn’t have to force air into his lungs through hitching breaths. Castiel could almost feel the feather-light touch on his brow again and hear the words whispered with a hint of a smile. Good job. Now keep going like that. You’ll be fine.
His breathing slowed, his heart calmed, and Castiel sighed. Whatever that was, he was never going through that again. That anxious wave was still there, barely held back by a thin veneer of determination. He could feel it lurking there and it was almost a relief. At least he could feel something. He pushed back against the wall, then shifted and called his sword into his hand. He would not be defenseless. Wherever he was and whatever was going on, he would not be defenseless.
And now… Castiel sighed and straightened. Now, it was time to figure out just what was gone and what he could still rely on. He scraped the tip of his sword against the brick, exhaling steadily when he heard the rough sound of the blade against brick. The overwhelming weight of nothing was lifting slowly, but the darkness stayed. The quiet stayed. Sound, though, started filtering in. Slowly, Castiel knelt, carefully keeping the sword in contact with the wall. He needed to feel it, needed to be grounded somehow, and that would do it. It would have to, for now. He reached out with his free hand; his hand was steady when his fingers threaded through grass.
The grass was overgrown, but not badly so, and wet from last night’s drizzle. Castiel pulled his hand away and shook the water droplets from his fingers. A light breeze just touched him, a chilled caress over his cheeks and forehead. He could smell the lake in it and, a moment later, the faint sound of gentle waves lapping the shore came to him. Outside, then, and probably not far from where he planned on spending those minutes waiting. By that logic, Erie should be just to the south, slightly west.
That flood of anxiety crashed over him the very second he entertained the thought of flying there. Castiel straightened, his logical mind slowly overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of shifting without feeling. He couldn’t stay here, though. He had no other option. That didn’t mean he wanted to, though. Castiel drew a deep breath, steeling himself. Short jumps, perhaps, would do what he needed. He shouldn’t overshoot that way and, if he was careful and slow, he might be able to avoid unfortunate landings.
Probably wouldn’t, in any case, but he was trying to rationalize here. Rationalization never really made sense.
"Hey!"
The shout jolted him from his thoughts. Castiel half-spun towards the voice, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The sword’s tip scraped along the brick wall. Apparently, it drew the attention of Castiel’s visitor.
"What the hell…"
That’s all Castiel heard. He stepped forward and flew.
TBC::
Any and all comments are loved and appreciated.