The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show, 2/?
Title: The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show, 2/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour
Rating: PG-13
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.
“It is rather odd time for a mission,” said Castiel, from Sam’s - from the shotgun seat of the Impala.
“Do I want to ask?” said Dean.
“Ask what?”
“Why it’s an odd time for a mission.”
“I do not know if you want to ask,” said Cas sadly: “I cannot perceive minds anymore.”
Dean blew out his breath and indicated a left turn, glaring as some jerk in an SUV pulled in tightlt to deny him access. The Impala wasn’t made for cities, or traffic build up. She attracted a lot of glances from suits on the sidewalk with briefcases: jealous, clearly, remembering dreams they’d harbored years before selling their souls to banking or IT industries. ‘It’s not a curse. It’s a gift’, Zachariah had said. It was hard to keep faith with this life, sometimes. But he was trying..
Sometimes, Cas reminded Dean of in Sam in kindergarten: curious, fond of long words, and prone to missing the non-literal side of two-person conversation. Dean couldn’t remember feeling innocent: but the brief, glasslike memory of Sammy’s naivety was shocking in clarity and sharpness. It left him angry.
Castiel claimed to be back in touch with the angels: or rather, they had contacted him, with notice of shit about to go down at the suburban Catholic church:
“How many demons?” Dean had asked, checking the stocks of holy water, rocksalt and iron.
“Anna did not say,” Castiel said.
“And you didn’t think to ask?”
“It was not my place,” said Castiel somberly.
“Why is it a non-atmospheric day, Cas?” Dean asked now. It wasn’t the ex-angel’s fault that he wasn’t Sam, and it wasn’t his fault he was indoctrinated.
“It is morning. The sky is light, and shows little chance of precipitation. Most missions are undertaken at night, and completed in heavy rainfall.”
Dean braked a little too sharply and silently apologized to his girl. He wasn’t going to get through to Cas with argument. He considered lifting a camcorder to demonstrate some effects trickery, but it didn’t seem worth the risk of the theft, and the tech stuff was more Sammy’s department anyway.
They left the main drag, and he coaxed the Impala through a network of lower-rise apartment buildings. She grumbled at the constriction and low speed, attracting more gawps now than jealous glances. Dean glared threateningly back at anyone who looked at her.
“That is the spire,” Castiel pointed. The grey stone tower was incongruous, stern and elegant, rising above the living places: obviously a relic from before the suburbs went to seed. Dean wondered what attendance was like these days.
“I ain’t parking her around here. Some scumbag will key her paint, or worse.”
“There is no time,” said Cas grimly, and suddenly that intent look was back in his eyes, the one that reminded Dean he was not quite human. Dean gritted his teeth and pulled into a sidestreet. His baby stuck out like a black gem, and he checked twice that no punk kids were eyeing her before he opened the trunk.
“Am I not to carry a gun?” Castiel asked, as Dean holstered a rock-salt loaded pistol.
“You know how to use one?”
“Yes.”
“I mean have you fired one before, not have you seen it on television.”
“Jimmy did.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I do not kid,” Castiel was deadly serious. “Several years ago a convicted felon with a history of violence was at large in Pontiac, Illinois. Claire was an infant at the time. Jimmy acquired the pistol and learned to use it in case he should have to defend his family.”
“Huh.” Dean’s eyebrows raised, and his esteem for Jimmy Novak raised a notch with them. “But I thought you said Jimmy was gone.”
“He is gone. I retain his muscle memory.”
“In that case, take this.” Dean handed him a simple revolver, one Sam had used as a teenager, and ignored the sadness it brought him. Here then. It’s loaded with rocksalt. Keep it concealed until we get there, and don’t do anything stupid.”
Castiel walked fast, impelled by a sense of urgency, and Dean kept up with him. They reached the church in less than ten minutes: a small neo-gothic structure, one spire, neglected angel statues on either side of the wooden door. A black iron padlock hung broken from the bolt. Dean cursed.
“They are here.” Castiel made to go in
“Hold up,” said Dean. “We don’t even know how many of them are in there.”
“That does not matter. This is our mission.”
“Yeah, missions don’t include walking in blind to get pointlessly killed.”
“Perhaps you are right,” the ex-angel considered what he had learned that day: “We should perform reconnaissance.”
“Okay. Anna said that the seal is a corpse, right?”
“Skeleton,” Castiel corrected.
“Whatever. Chances are the crypt is going to be in the basement if they had to get inside to it. You stay here - watch the door. I’ll head round the back and see if there’s a cellar door or something. Stay out of sight, and don’t take on anything you can’t handle.”
Dean was giving him a lot of orders. Still, Castiel supposed he had been a hunter longer, and for all the eons he had existed, Castiel had limited experience of this plane. He concealed himself behind one of the statues and waited, pistol aimed at the door.
Dean reappeared after a moment. “There are three,” he said. “They’re working on the incantations. Haven’t opened the tomb yet. We need to move fast.”
“It would be most effective,” Castiel said, “If we each approach and fire on them from one direction. One of us could shoot from the basement door, and the other from the outside entrance you food.”
Dean gave him a mildly impressed look. “That’s not bad.”
“It is a well-tested scenario.”
“Yeah? Well we’ll see. You take the outside shaft; I’ll take the interior. Aim for the chick with the chalice. I’ll take the bald guy. And remember salt won’t kill them. Take some of this.” He handed Cas a thin spool of stranded wire. “Galanized iron. We incapacitate ‘em with the salt guns till we can tie ‘em up with the wire. Then we get them in a devil’s trap for exorcism. Course it depends on how strong the demons are. Some can still put up a bitch of a fight after a plate of salted French fries.”
“What shall we do if we fail to incapacitate them?”
“Run. Or, die.”
Castiel felt the first twinge of apprehension. Being a mortal was hardly ideal, but it was better than not being.
“You ready?” Dean asked him. He nodded.
“Okay. The trapdoor is opposite the window, so you’ll be able to see me when we’re in position. You fire on my signal, not before.”
“Wait! What is the signal?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, I’ll just nod or something!”
It would have to suffice. Castiel wished they had walkie talkies, or at least some kind of code. But there was no time for that now. Agents had to rely on each other when lacking appropriate technology.
“I am ready,” he said, and stepped up to the door, as Dean disappeared around the back of the church.
Part Three.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour
Rating: PG-13
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.
“It is rather odd time for a mission,” said Castiel, from Sam’s - from the shotgun seat of the Impala.
“Do I want to ask?” said Dean.
“Ask what?”
“Why it’s an odd time for a mission.”
“I do not know if you want to ask,” said Cas sadly: “I cannot perceive minds anymore.”
Dean blew out his breath and indicated a left turn, glaring as some jerk in an SUV pulled in tightlt to deny him access. The Impala wasn’t made for cities, or traffic build up. She attracted a lot of glances from suits on the sidewalk with briefcases: jealous, clearly, remembering dreams they’d harbored years before selling their souls to banking or IT industries. ‘It’s not a curse. It’s a gift’, Zachariah had said. It was hard to keep faith with this life, sometimes. But he was trying..
Sometimes, Cas reminded Dean of in Sam in kindergarten: curious, fond of long words, and prone to missing the non-literal side of two-person conversation. Dean couldn’t remember feeling innocent: but the brief, glasslike memory of Sammy’s naivety was shocking in clarity and sharpness. It left him angry.
Castiel claimed to be back in touch with the angels: or rather, they had contacted him, with notice of shit about to go down at the suburban Catholic church:
“How many demons?” Dean had asked, checking the stocks of holy water, rocksalt and iron.
“Anna did not say,” Castiel said.
“And you didn’t think to ask?”
“It was not my place,” said Castiel somberly.
“Why is it a non-atmospheric day, Cas?” Dean asked now. It wasn’t the ex-angel’s fault that he wasn’t Sam, and it wasn’t his fault he was indoctrinated.
“It is morning. The sky is light, and shows little chance of precipitation. Most missions are undertaken at night, and completed in heavy rainfall.”
Dean braked a little too sharply and silently apologized to his girl. He wasn’t going to get through to Cas with argument. He considered lifting a camcorder to demonstrate some effects trickery, but it didn’t seem worth the risk of the theft, and the tech stuff was more Sammy’s department anyway.
They left the main drag, and he coaxed the Impala through a network of lower-rise apartment buildings. She grumbled at the constriction and low speed, attracting more gawps now than jealous glances. Dean glared threateningly back at anyone who looked at her.
“That is the spire,” Castiel pointed. The grey stone tower was incongruous, stern and elegant, rising above the living places: obviously a relic from before the suburbs went to seed. Dean wondered what attendance was like these days.
“I ain’t parking her around here. Some scumbag will key her paint, or worse.”
“There is no time,” said Cas grimly, and suddenly that intent look was back in his eyes, the one that reminded Dean he was not quite human. Dean gritted his teeth and pulled into a sidestreet. His baby stuck out like a black gem, and he checked twice that no punk kids were eyeing her before he opened the trunk.
“Am I not to carry a gun?” Castiel asked, as Dean holstered a rock-salt loaded pistol.
“You know how to use one?”
“Yes.”
“I mean have you fired one before, not have you seen it on television.”
“Jimmy did.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I do not kid,” Castiel was deadly serious. “Several years ago a convicted felon with a history of violence was at large in Pontiac, Illinois. Claire was an infant at the time. Jimmy acquired the pistol and learned to use it in case he should have to defend his family.”
“Huh.” Dean’s eyebrows raised, and his esteem for Jimmy Novak raised a notch with them. “But I thought you said Jimmy was gone.”
“He is gone. I retain his muscle memory.”
“In that case, take this.” Dean handed him a simple revolver, one Sam had used as a teenager, and ignored the sadness it brought him. Here then. It’s loaded with rocksalt. Keep it concealed until we get there, and don’t do anything stupid.”
Castiel walked fast, impelled by a sense of urgency, and Dean kept up with him. They reached the church in less than ten minutes: a small neo-gothic structure, one spire, neglected angel statues on either side of the wooden door. A black iron padlock hung broken from the bolt. Dean cursed.
“They are here.” Castiel made to go in
“Hold up,” said Dean. “We don’t even know how many of them are in there.”
“That does not matter. This is our mission.”
“Yeah, missions don’t include walking in blind to get pointlessly killed.”
“Perhaps you are right,” the ex-angel considered what he had learned that day: “We should perform reconnaissance.”
“Okay. Anna said that the seal is a corpse, right?”
“Skeleton,” Castiel corrected.
“Whatever. Chances are the crypt is going to be in the basement if they had to get inside to it. You stay here - watch the door. I’ll head round the back and see if there’s a cellar door or something. Stay out of sight, and don’t take on anything you can’t handle.”
Dean was giving him a lot of orders. Still, Castiel supposed he had been a hunter longer, and for all the eons he had existed, Castiel had limited experience of this plane. He concealed himself behind one of the statues and waited, pistol aimed at the door.
Dean reappeared after a moment. “There are three,” he said. “They’re working on the incantations. Haven’t opened the tomb yet. We need to move fast.”
“It would be most effective,” Castiel said, “If we each approach and fire on them from one direction. One of us could shoot from the basement door, and the other from the outside entrance you food.”
Dean gave him a mildly impressed look. “That’s not bad.”
“It is a well-tested scenario.”
“Yeah? Well we’ll see. You take the outside shaft; I’ll take the interior. Aim for the chick with the chalice. I’ll take the bald guy. And remember salt won’t kill them. Take some of this.” He handed Cas a thin spool of stranded wire. “Galanized iron. We incapacitate ‘em with the salt guns till we can tie ‘em up with the wire. Then we get them in a devil’s trap for exorcism. Course it depends on how strong the demons are. Some can still put up a bitch of a fight after a plate of salted French fries.”
“What shall we do if we fail to incapacitate them?”
“Run. Or, die.”
Castiel felt the first twinge of apprehension. Being a mortal was hardly ideal, but it was better than not being.
“You ready?” Dean asked him. He nodded.
“Okay. The trapdoor is opposite the window, so you’ll be able to see me when we’re in position. You fire on my signal, not before.”
“Wait! What is the signal?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, I’ll just nod or something!”
It would have to suffice. Castiel wished they had walkie talkies, or at least some kind of code. But there was no time for that now. Agents had to rely on each other when lacking appropriate technology.
“I am ready,” he said, and stepped up to the door, as Dean disappeared around the back of the church.
Part Three.