New SPN fic: The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show
Title: The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show, 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour
Rating: PG-13 for this part (Language, sexual references)
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Just because you're fallen, doesn't mean you can't fight demon crime. Set late Season 4: Spoilers up to 5.02.
In retrospect, leaving Cas watching The Professionals on a black-and-white motel box wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do: the ex (ish) angel had a tendency to take whatever he saw on television a factual documentary. But Dean had needed to get out for a while, and his last experience involving Castiel, booze and strippers and hadn’t ended well for anyone.
Sam was off - Dean wasn’t going to think about that, there were only so many things he could deal with at once, and the currently impending Apocalypse was forcing a re-arrangement of priorities. His brother was, after all, twenty-six - and by God, he remembered that age, the way he’d thrown it off as a casual assertion of authority the night he’d collected his brother from Stanford. Dean would never trust Ruby: and perhaps he would never completely trust that Sam was no longer accepting the dubious benefits of her diet-and-fitness regime. He didn’t know what was worse: the exorcisms, the blood thing, or the thought of them fucking each other, which thanks to Sam’s all-too-vivid narration, was apt to pop into his head without notice or permission. ‘Dude - too much information’.
“Being a hunter is somewhat like working for Criminal Investigations Five,” piped up Castiel, when Dean got back to the room on the ragged end of a tequila high, headache already threatening at the corners of his eyelids. The angel was sitting exactly as Dean had left him, neatly on the end of one of the bunks, head on one side in that weird bird-like posture of attention. The Professionals’ credits were still running: apparently the station had been showing a marathon.
“No Cas,” said Dean. “CI5 is made up. Being a hunter is real.” He sat down on the other bed.
“Agents Bodie and Doyle seem convinced that the organization is quite real,” Castiel said doubtfully, “As does their superior. It seems an effective counterforce to terrorist and violent crime in central London.”
Dean made a mental note never to let Cas get onto the internet.
“In any case,” Cas went on, “Hunters, like these agents, often operate in pairs, attempting to do good by confronting evil, even though they may sometimes doubt themselves and their weapons. They also seem to be very emotionally attached to one another, revealing it at moments of peril or suffering.”
Dean tried to turn the TV off, but the remote wasn’t working. “Agents Bodie and Doyle aren’t real either, Castiel. They’re actors. Or were actors: I think the little guy’s dead now. Anyway it’s a TV show. Dudes dress up, run around with fake guns, and get filmed to go on the screen. Look, can you go to sleep? Or just - lie down? And be like, really, really quiet for a bit?”
“Doyle never deserted Bodie for a female,” Cas observed.
“Castiel. Stop talking.”
“But then Bodie did not die, or go to hell.”
Dean pulled the pillow over his head, despite the fact he was both thirsty and needed a piss. He wondered what his chances of going to sleep ignoring both the demands of his body and his new fount of angelic wisdom were.
“It is possible that hunters also fornicate more frequently than CI5 agents.”
Dean pulled the pillow off his face. “Cas, if you don’t shut up within the next five seconds, I will kick you out on your ass.”
“But where would I go?” The ex-angel turned wide bright-blue eyes on the hunter. “I cannot reach my brothers and sisters.”
Really, that expression was too familiar. And too effective.
* * *
Castiel did not sleep: he could sleep, if he wanted to, but retained enough of his celestial nature that such time-consuming pursuits as sleeping and eating were rarely necessary. (He had, however, developed an alarming and curious penchant for the soft crunchy pieces of inflated corn humans coated with sugar and butter to ingest whilst they observed the television). Tonight he did not want to sleep, and wondered if he could turn the television back on very quietly without waking Dean. To his disappointment, the power supply had been cut off. He pressed his vessel’s hand to the screen and frowned, attempting to channel the residues of his angelic energy. Nothing happened. He attempted to not to be crushed: all things were as God willed them, he reminded himself sternly, and if it was part of the Plan that he return to the Host, he would do so. Otherwise, he must have patience.
Castiel sat cross-legged on the bed and meditated, watching Dean sleep. The hunter looked tired and angry, even now, but the essential bright nature which the angel had perceived even in Hell was evident to Castiel despite his new deficiency of Grace. It was becoming harder and harder to perceive the nature of humans just by looking at them, and he wondered sadly if his impression of his friend’s soul was only memory after all.
Castiel.
The vessel’s eyes widened, though he was unaware he had commanded them to. He would perceive that one anywhere.
Anna?
We must speak.
How - why do you commune with me? Is it not forbidden?
Suddenly Castiel was not in the room anymore. He felt shock. Communicating this way - the non-bodily way of the Host - used to be his nature and preference, and it was forming words through Jimmy’s mouth that required effort. Anna wasn’t using a vessel, and he felt tiny and soiled.
You fell. She didn’t seem surprised.
And you have your Grace again, he acknowledged.
This is an unprecedented turn of events. She had never been without a certain humour.
What is the Will? It was hard not to address her as his superior.
One of the seals is about to be broken.
The seals are breaking everywhere. He was surprised at his own despondent tone.
You can stop this one. Make Dean go St. Stephen’s Church. The demons are about to unearth the bones of an erring priest.
Why doesn’t the Host-
We can’t. Anna cut him off.You know our numbers are limited. I have to leave, Castiel. I should not be here.
But -
There was light, and then Castiel was back in the motel room. For the first time appreciated Dean’s profound discomfort at angelic intrusions into the human brain. He was not aware that time had passed, yet the light through the cheap, tatty curtains told him it was morning already. Dean was awake, standing as though he had just come in from the bathroom.
“You okay?” he said warily. “I don’t think I ever saw you dream before.”
“I am well,” said Castiel, feeling baffled. “But I believe that you and I must go on a mission together.”
Part Two
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour
Rating: PG-13 for this part (Language, sexual references)
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Just because you're fallen, doesn't mean you can't fight demon crime. Set late Season 4: Spoilers up to 5.02.
In retrospect, leaving Cas watching The Professionals on a black-and-white motel box wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do: the ex (ish) angel had a tendency to take whatever he saw on television a factual documentary. But Dean had needed to get out for a while, and his last experience involving Castiel, booze and strippers and hadn’t ended well for anyone.
Sam was off - Dean wasn’t going to think about that, there were only so many things he could deal with at once, and the currently impending Apocalypse was forcing a re-arrangement of priorities. His brother was, after all, twenty-six - and by God, he remembered that age, the way he’d thrown it off as a casual assertion of authority the night he’d collected his brother from Stanford. Dean would never trust Ruby: and perhaps he would never completely trust that Sam was no longer accepting the dubious benefits of her diet-and-fitness regime. He didn’t know what was worse: the exorcisms, the blood thing, or the thought of them fucking each other, which thanks to Sam’s all-too-vivid narration, was apt to pop into his head without notice or permission. ‘Dude - too much information’.
“Being a hunter is somewhat like working for Criminal Investigations Five,” piped up Castiel, when Dean got back to the room on the ragged end of a tequila high, headache already threatening at the corners of his eyelids. The angel was sitting exactly as Dean had left him, neatly on the end of one of the bunks, head on one side in that weird bird-like posture of attention. The Professionals’ credits were still running: apparently the station had been showing a marathon.
“No Cas,” said Dean. “CI5 is made up. Being a hunter is real.” He sat down on the other bed.
“Agents Bodie and Doyle seem convinced that the organization is quite real,” Castiel said doubtfully, “As does their superior. It seems an effective counterforce to terrorist and violent crime in central London.”
Dean made a mental note never to let Cas get onto the internet.
“In any case,” Cas went on, “Hunters, like these agents, often operate in pairs, attempting to do good by confronting evil, even though they may sometimes doubt themselves and their weapons. They also seem to be very emotionally attached to one another, revealing it at moments of peril or suffering.”
Dean tried to turn the TV off, but the remote wasn’t working. “Agents Bodie and Doyle aren’t real either, Castiel. They’re actors. Or were actors: I think the little guy’s dead now. Anyway it’s a TV show. Dudes dress up, run around with fake guns, and get filmed to go on the screen. Look, can you go to sleep? Or just - lie down? And be like, really, really quiet for a bit?”
“Doyle never deserted Bodie for a female,” Cas observed.
“Castiel. Stop talking.”
“But then Bodie did not die, or go to hell.”
Dean pulled the pillow over his head, despite the fact he was both thirsty and needed a piss. He wondered what his chances of going to sleep ignoring both the demands of his body and his new fount of angelic wisdom were.
“It is possible that hunters also fornicate more frequently than CI5 agents.”
Dean pulled the pillow off his face. “Cas, if you don’t shut up within the next five seconds, I will kick you out on your ass.”
“But where would I go?” The ex-angel turned wide bright-blue eyes on the hunter. “I cannot reach my brothers and sisters.”
Really, that expression was too familiar. And too effective.
* * *
Castiel did not sleep: he could sleep, if he wanted to, but retained enough of his celestial nature that such time-consuming pursuits as sleeping and eating were rarely necessary. (He had, however, developed an alarming and curious penchant for the soft crunchy pieces of inflated corn humans coated with sugar and butter to ingest whilst they observed the television). Tonight he did not want to sleep, and wondered if he could turn the television back on very quietly without waking Dean. To his disappointment, the power supply had been cut off. He pressed his vessel’s hand to the screen and frowned, attempting to channel the residues of his angelic energy. Nothing happened. He attempted to not to be crushed: all things were as God willed them, he reminded himself sternly, and if it was part of the Plan that he return to the Host, he would do so. Otherwise, he must have patience.
Castiel sat cross-legged on the bed and meditated, watching Dean sleep. The hunter looked tired and angry, even now, but the essential bright nature which the angel had perceived even in Hell was evident to Castiel despite his new deficiency of Grace. It was becoming harder and harder to perceive the nature of humans just by looking at them, and he wondered sadly if his impression of his friend’s soul was only memory after all.
Castiel.
The vessel’s eyes widened, though he was unaware he had commanded them to. He would perceive that one anywhere.
Anna?
We must speak.
How - why do you commune with me? Is it not forbidden?
Suddenly Castiel was not in the room anymore. He felt shock. Communicating this way - the non-bodily way of the Host - used to be his nature and preference, and it was forming words through Jimmy’s mouth that required effort. Anna wasn’t using a vessel, and he felt tiny and soiled.
You fell. She didn’t seem surprised.
And you have your Grace again, he acknowledged.
This is an unprecedented turn of events. She had never been without a certain humour.
What is the Will? It was hard not to address her as his superior.
One of the seals is about to be broken.
The seals are breaking everywhere. He was surprised at his own despondent tone.
You can stop this one. Make Dean go St. Stephen’s Church. The demons are about to unearth the bones of an erring priest.
Why doesn’t the Host-
We can’t. Anna cut him off.You know our numbers are limited. I have to leave, Castiel. I should not be here.
But -
There was light, and then Castiel was back in the motel room. For the first time appreciated Dean’s profound discomfort at angelic intrusions into the human brain. He was not aware that time had passed, yet the light through the cheap, tatty curtains told him it was morning already. Dean was awake, standing as though he had just come in from the bathroom.
“You okay?” he said warily. “I don’t think I ever saw you dream before.”
“I am well,” said Castiel, feeling baffled. “But I believe that you and I must go on a mission together.”
Part Two