Supernatural- "The Law of Conservation of Energy" (Ch 3)
Three
Dean is obviously unhappy when they appear in Bobby’s living room again, shoulders hunched forward and scowling because hey, that had been an enormous waste of time and money. Castiel seems as nonplussed as ever beside him.
“Not good, huh?” Bobby murmurs, after he takes one look at Dean’s troubled expression.
“Not good when all we’ve got is something that might freaking make Cas explode again,” Dean grunts, and doesn’t feel like elaborating any more than that.
“According to Death it would only a possibility,” Castiel reminds him, while Sam looks between the two of them in confusion. “If we take the necessary precautions as he warned us to, I might not.”
“But you might,” Dean throws back, articulately.
“What are you talking about, Dean?” Sam finally asks, watching carefully (and kind of judgmentally, if Dean is perfectly honest), as Dean stalks into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle of whiskey. It’s ten in the morning. Five o’clock somewhere.
When he reemerges from the kitchen, everyone is still looking at him all expectant like. He sighs. “Death says that for Cas not to turn into a giant mushroom cloud on us, he has to rip out his grace. Which gives him exactly zero lines of defense against Raphael and Crowley when they come gunning for him while we look for the bits of Gabriel scattered all over the who knows where. Oh, and these bits might make him explode anyway.” Dean runs a hand over his face as he says this, the whiskey bottle clutched tight in his fingers as he plops down on the couch beside his brother. He takes a long drink before speaking again. “Whatever. I didn’t like that idea anyway. I mean, what if Cas got taken over by the ghost of Gabriel or something? That would suck.”
“Gabriel is no longer alive, Dean,” Castiel answers, looking sideways at him like he’s trying to find out where Dean’s sudden concern is coming from. “His grace is nothing more than energy. He very likely does not have the power to influence it in such a state. If he did, I imagine he would seek to resurrect himself.”
Dean hunkers down in his seat and tries not to be hurt whenever Cas looks at him like he doesn’t expect Dean to give two shits about him surviving so long as they win this. “Yeah, well I say it’s not worth the gamble. Human Cas, exploding Cas, Gabe Cas, or otherwise,” he says, and pointedly avoids the telling looks Bobby and Sam both give him when he says that. Instead, he stares right at the angel, who still looks like he’s thinking thinky things about the problem at hand that hopefully have nothing to do with why certain people would like for him to stay intact, regardless of what else may happen. “We’ll find another way. There’s gotta be more than one option, right?”
Sam considers this. “Well, I mean, Cas isn’t the only angel who doesn’t like what Raphael’s doing. Can’t we enlist Balthazar or that Rachel girl to watch our backs while Cas is graceless?”
Dean scowls. “Options that don’t involve having to rip our angel apart,” he reiterates hotly, because that is the important part of this equation. Bobby’s eyebrows dart up as he mouths “our?” to Sam. Dean notices it because they aren’t exactly subtle, but roundly ignores them and turns back to Cas, who has drifted slightly closer to the couch now, though he keeps a certain distance, kind of like a puppy that got yelled at earlier and still isn’t sure whether or not it’s forgiven. The image simultaneously amuses and horrifies him for how fucking endearing it is, so Dean covers it up by taking a very long pull from the bottle.
“Rachel is dead,” Cas says eventually, eyes still glued magnetically to the tops of his shoes and sounding like he doesn’t want to elaborate on what happened to his friend since the last time she’d fluttered in to pinch hit for the boss. Dean gets a sinking feeling in his stomach that has him taking another mouthful of Bobby’s whiskey, fast enough and hard enough for the older hunter to glare at him and tell him to take it easy on the supplies before lunch.
Dean clears his throat. “Well, we’ve still got that smarmy bastard Balthazar in the game, right? He have anything else hidden away in the heavenly arsenal that can give you a boost?”
The angel gives him a dubious expression, and okay, Dean knows that’s reaching considering it was probably be the first place Cas looked for help, all things considered, but at this point Dean is not beyond checking their lists twice or whatever. “I think if he did have such a thing in his possession, he would have already offered it to our cause, given the circumstances,” Castiel intones after a beat, and good to know that even when he’s rocking the kicked puppy vibes, he can still break out the good old human sarcasm when he really wants to. Dean frowns at him. Castiel frowns back.
“We’ll keep looking. In the meantime, you two can go ahead and unbunch your panties,” Bobby barks after a minute, and tosses Dean a book before his staring contest with Cas can get too intense. Dean manages to catch the book instinctively, but keeps his eyes on the sulking angel the entire time anyway.
Cas sighs heavily and looks away first, which makes Dean feel a small thrill of triumph, however petty it might be. “I will summon Balthazar and consult with him on what can be done,” the angel tells Dean after two deep breaths and another intense perusal of Bobby’s floor.
Dean grunts in satisfaction as he opens up Bobby’s book and settles down onto the couch more comfortably. “Well all right then.” Pause. Then, carefully, “We’ll find something, Cas. We always do.”
Cas nods once, stiffly. “We will.”
And then disappears in a flurry of wing beats while Sam looks at Dean like he wants to ask if giving up on his good idea is really a good idea.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, without having to tear his eyes away from the text.
Sam’s mouth shuts with an audible snap.
Bobby just snorts and calls them both idjits under his breath.
*****
Castiel lands deep in the junkyard some moments later, beside the broken husk of a rusted Escalade raised on blocks and the mechanical remains of a Focus that have been warped from sun and wind and rain in this manmade metal graveyard. The skeletons and stories of the broken vehicles glint dully in the waning sunlight against his periphery, flashing moments of brilliance and the tales of lifetimes in miles as he stalks by them. A crumpled sedan to his left killed two drunken teenagers going to prom, crushing them to pieces against the tree they had driven into on one night of youthful negligence. A battered old Volvo that had been the first car of three generations of humans in the same family sits to his right, lovingly cared for and handed down from descendant to descendant until it simply would not move anymore, or was no longer worth the cost of replacing. Before him is a vehicle first manufactured in Japan, created amongst sleek robotic arms designed to usurp human workmanship, touted for compact design and ultimate convenience a decade ago, now rotting in the South Dakota sun and wind after it had been stolen multiple times and then scrapped for parts. All these histories are made apparent to him simply by laying eyes on the empty shells of the cars, and in them he sees much his own story at once, a vehicle used to get from one place to another by two beloved humans, wrecked time and time again, scarred and broken down, flipped and crashed and turned throughout the length of the journey as he fought to take them to wherever it was they wished to go. He will be discarded soon enough by them as well, he thinks, as these vehicles had been before him. But he is determined not to let it be a story of falling to the wayside, of becoming useless in the service of the humans under whose care he resides.
Castiel has long ago resigned himself to the fact that it he will likely die in Heaven’s civil war. He has accepted it as a necessary loss if it means that the Earth which Dean fought so hard to protect will continue on. If it means that Dean and Sam can continue on.
This chance they have now, the mission to retrieve the shards of Gabriel’s broken grace, is the most tactically sound approach he has come upon in this war yet, even more so than Purgatory. He and all others of his acquaintance know very little of what truly lies beyond Purgatory’s gate. Souls of course, but perhaps more than that at once, perhaps too much. To reassemble an archangel’s grace and use it to defeat Raphael will protect the Earth from the likes of Eve again, will keep the door closed to Purgatory’s angry denizens and the possibility that they will decide to fight back against the demons and the angels who would use them for their own means. If Castiel is to die in the process, what does it matter? He has died so many times already that it is no longer a novel or intimidating thought.
Broken glass crunches under his shoes as he looks up at the setting sun with a strange feeling of equanimity. He leans against the hood of a crippled Charger that might yet be salvaged, if only Dean or Bobby remembers it in time.
“Balthazar,” he says next, barely a whisper above the gentle, early summer breeze in the air. He does not need to be loud to know that his voice carries over thousands of miles, grace guiding the words from one corner of the globe to another and beyond.
The quiet displacement of air behind him lets him know that he has been heard. His friend has arrived.
“I suppose I should be disappointed in myself for not assuming that this is the place you’d disappeared to these last few days,” Balthazar says by way of greeting, wings settling behind him as he comes to stand at Castiel’s side. Castiel studies his brother for a moment, allows a warm feeling of affection for this angel overtake him in that time, because it is something he has needed and has not let himself feel since he’d begun this war, especially since he had watched Rachel die on the ground at his feet what seems like eons ago.
“I need your help, Balthazar,” Castiel intones when that moment of warmth has passed, as Balthazar settles on the hood of the car beside him.
Balthazar’s answer is to scoff good-naturedly, to lean back against the hood of the Charger and stare directly at the sun just because he can. “We’ve played this song and dance already, Cassy. Unless, of course, you don’t consider the past few months I’ve been working with you particularly helpful.”
“I am very thankful for your help these past few months,” Castiel tells him honestly, and looks at his reclining brother out of the corner of his eye. “However, my next request might require more of your attention than all the others before.” Pause. “Combined.”
Balthazar whistles. “You know I’m not particularly good at paying attention,” he jokes, though he sits up straight on top of the Charger’s hood now, the easygoing smirk on his face not quite hiding the concerned lines around the edges of his vessel’s eyes. It is strange sometimes, how expressive these human skins can make an angel seem.
As Castiel studies Balthazar he can feel Balthazar studying him back just as intently, waiting for another bomb to drop, another order to be given. It is nowhere near as simple as save the Titanic this time, however.
“Balthazar, I need you to assume my command,” Castiel breathes eventually, and Balthazar balks at the words, physically recoils at the thought of fully shouldering Castiel’s enormous burdens. His brow furrows, making his vessel seem much older than it is.
“What did those two muscle-bound ape men convince you to do this time, Cassy?” he asks hotly, looking at his brother in a simultaneously pitying and exasperated manner. “You do know you’re not actually their lapdog don’t you? Despite how much you let yourself be.”
“I am making this decision on my own, Balthazar,” Castiel assures him, tone darkening somewhat with that old righteous anger, that same entitled sensation of no one understands but me that led him here in the first place. He bites it back when he feels it roiling up inside him, threatening to overcome reason. Nothing has made him a murderer of his own kin more than this feeling. He cannot fall prey to it again. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “I have come to the conclusion that it is the best course of action, brother.”
“And you always know the best course, don’t you?” Balthazar sighs as his shoulders slump in defeat, more out of fondness for Castiel than agreement with any of his hair-brained ideas. “Of course I’ll do what I can to help you, Cassy, but you know I never had the patience or the same head for strategy that you did. I’ll be a piss-poor leader.”
Castiel feels his lip curl upwards slightly, his own fondness for this brother easing away the indignation earlier at being called Dean’s lapdog. “Thank you.”
Balthazar nods. “That’s it then? Take over the war effort? Control the armies? Paint a giant target on myself for Raphael to concentrate on? What will you be doing in the meantime, my dear?”
Castiel glances up at the fading sunlight, the last rays bleeding away at the edges into a vast orange sky as late afternoon crawls to early evening. He takes a deep breath and places the palm of his hand against his own chest. “I will be doing everything that I can,” he reassures Balthazar, and feels the tips of his fingers begin to dig into his vessel’s skin.
Balthazar stares. “Cassy, what are you doing?” he asks, sliding off the Charger’s hood in order to take a step towards his brother, hand outstretched but paused between action and inaction because he is unsure whether to help Castiel or to stop him.
“Stop, my dear, and think,” Balthazar intones. “Whatever Winchester wants you to do, it’s not worth it; the last few times you’ve bowed to that hairless ape’s whims you exploded, Cassy. Twice. Tell me I don’t need to remind you about that.”
“This has nothing to do with what they want me to do, I promise you that,” Castiel tells him, somewhat ironically. As it is, Dean is most likely to take this as yet another betrayal of his trust, another sign of Castiel going behind his back. Luckily, Castiel is also becoming inured to that, has borne the wrath of it once and will continue to do so if it means Dean is alive to be angry at him.
He takes a deep breath, feels the tips of his fingers break through flesh and dig towards bone. “It is the only way, Balthazar.” He stops to smile reassuringly at his brother, despite the pain. “Don’t be concerned for my sake. In my time with the Winchesters, the one thing I have learned as certainty is I must always fall before I may rise.”
Balthazar still seems wary, but the statement causes him to snort slightly, while the finality in Castiel’s tone causes him to back off. They have known each other for a very long time now, longer than the Earth has been alive. Castiel understands these actions to mean that Balthazar knows that he cannot stop this, only ameliorate it, should he choose to help.
And he does. He always does.
Eventually, Balthazar sighs in resignation and takes another step backwards. “Fall before you rise, is it? Well. That’s just how you roll, I suppose,” he murmurs, voice softening.
Castiel is not sure why, but the words seem appropriate when he hears them. “Yes,” he repeats, and feels the flesh and bones of Jimmy’s body give way under the tearing motion of his hand until it turns into something deeper, something far more painful. “This is just how I roll.”
He tries not to scream as he rips out his grace.
*****
“I still think it’s the best choice we have, Dean,” Sam mutters, even as he forces himself to comb through an obscure book of faerie lore hoping all the things that creepy little Leprechaun had told him a few months ago means that the wee folk actually do possess useful things that give them the right to be unimpressed by the angels. So far that’s all a big bowl of squat and tiny Leprechaun lies, but not from lack of thorough checking on Sam’s part.
“I don’t like it,” Dean persists without bothering to elaborate, jaw set and eyes as stubborn as ever.
Sam sighs. “Yeah but you can’t explain why you don’t like it. I mean, it makes sense. If he can’t stop Raphael now, even with his powers, how is him being temporarily human any different? At least if he falls then we’ll have a legitimate chance of getting Gabriel’s grace. If he keeps his and tries to stuff Gabriel’s in there with it Death as good as said that he’d die.”
Dean hesitates, looking squirrely on the couch, and Sam can already tell that it’s one of his brother’s illogical gut instincts, something that Dean seems to have inherited from Dad but that Sam had never been particularly gifted with when faced with a crisis of do-or-die. He’s always been more about looking over the options and choosing which one is best based on careful reasoning. Granted, he doesn’t always make the right choice in that respect, but at the time the possibilities are presented to him he likes to think he picks the best one there.
Dean sucks at that kind of compromise. Sam stares at his brother intently and wonders if Cas has ever gotten Dean to capitulate by doing this at him really hard.
“Just forget it, Sam,” Dean grunts. Sam very nearly rolls his eyes.
“Well so far, all I’ve found is some crazy article about how fairies take in the virility of a first born son-and I don’t even know what that means- to make it so they can hide their treasure from winged goblins. I don’t know if they mean angels or actual winged goblins.” He sighs and tosses the book aside, giving Dean a telling look. “You got anything?”
Dean shifts again. Glares. “Nothing yet. But we’ll find something eventually. Just gotta keep at it, Sammy.”
Sam looks at Bobby, who just shrugs back at him helplessly. “I also got a recipe here for what looks like first born stew,” he drawls, and makes everyone wince.
“Great,” Sam starts, running a hand through his hair and thinking his idea is still the best idea they’ve had so far by about ten billion points. Why does no one listen to him? He’d only been wrong that one time, okay. One. You think he’d have lived it down by now, but obviously not. “So we still have nothing.”
Before Dean can get on his case about all the bitching and negativity, a flutter and a thud signal the arrival of an angel.
A voice that is definitely not Castiel’s signals that it is the arrival of the wrong angel.
“Oh I’ve got something for you here, you stupid pink monkeys.”
All three hunters spring to their feet at the irate sound of Balthazar’s voice, Dean jumping with particular force when he sees the slumped, bloody, and very unconscious form of Castiel draped around the other angel’s shoulders.
“What’d you do to him?!” Dean demands, leveling a gun at Balthazar like that will do anything.
Balthazar glares. “I think the better question is, what did you do to him?” the angel answers in impatient accents, though he takes the effort to rest Castiel on the couch in a surprisingly gentle motion. “I don’t understand it. And from the idiotic expression on your face, it’s obvious that you don’t either. Which just makes it even more ridiculous.”
Dean is too caught up with fretting over Castiel to answer in his own defense (or do much of anything at all), which make Sam and Bobby the only ones to notice when Balthazar starts patting around in his coat pockets for something, looking like he’d accidentally misplaced a very important item that he needs right the fuck now. Sam hopes it is not a sword or any other angel-thing-that-kills-humans-out-of-spite-while-they’re-too-busy-staring-at-unconscious-Cas-like-a-tortured-Twilight-hero.
The lines in Balthazar’s brow relax a little when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for a second later, and Sam feels his mouth go inexplicably dry when the angel ends up not pulling out a sword or any other sharp killing instrument, but a small, glowing vial on a long black cord instead. The light in it almost hurts Sam’s eyes to look at directly and he forces himself to squint, even as he instinctively takes a step back from it when Balthazar holds it up.
Dean swallows, finally tearing his eyes away from Castiel. He seems to have no problem looking directly at the vial. “Is that…”
“Yes, you stupid little dust mote,” Balthazar snaps, voice booming righteous disdain and somehow, still sounding as human as it ever has as he clasps his hand tightly, almost protectively, around the vial. “It’s exactly what you think it is. And he wanted you to have it. Insisted, actually. You know, in between all the screaming.”
With that, Balthazar tosses the vial of Castiel’s grace at Dean, who catches it two-handed, holding it tight in his fingers as some of the color drains from his face. Balthazar just sneers at him. “For some crazy reason, he thinks that so long as it’s the three of you, you’ll be able to pull off this impossible idea of yours and ride off into sunset directly afterwards.”
Sam balks. “So that’s it then. He really did it.”
Balthazar scowls at him before straightening his jacket again, like he can’t end this conversation with the stupid clay apes fast enough. He does pause however, to look down at the slumped ex-angel on the couch for a moment longer. “Call me when he wakes. Not before.”
He disappears without another word.
Which is good, because Sam has no idea what else they might have talked about under these circumstances.
Across the room, he hears Dean curse Castiel’s goddamned stupidity and reckless behavior under his breath the minute Balthazar disappears.
But even still, that same goddamned stupid recklessness doesn’t stop his brother from crouching down and touching a hand to the side of Castiel’s face.
Even from where Sam is standing he can see that Castiel’s breathing is even, if a little bit shaky. Dean’s is-unsurprisingly- exactly the same as the angel’s.
Sam coughs and finally looks away when Dean sets his jaw and deliberately loops the cord holding Castiel’s grace around his neck. When he huffs in irritation and proceeds to meticulously arrange the angel in a more comfortable position on the couch, Sam thinks it means that his plan is still on after all.
Which is great, because as Sam watches Dean shove a pile of books aside and proceed to dig around for a blanket to cover Cas up with, he can’t help but think that his older brother is obviously going to be useless for any more research for the rest of the day.
Castiel’s grace glows just a little bit brighter against the dark green of Dean’s shirt.
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