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"So you say you're the Sheriff of Heaven, and you brought me back why, exactly?"
The gloomy man in a beige trenchcoat shrugs his shoulders, a tense gesture of discomfort, like his body is size too small for him, or something. John furrows his brows, blocking out the memory of many blazing eyes, sleek coils of fire engulfing him and pulling him away from the gray place of Nothing he was in. Whatever this creature is, he can't trust it, even if it says it is his sons' trusted comrade.
"God had commanded your presence on the Mortal plane," Castiel says, face tightly controlled, but there's something like annoyance in his flat dark stare.
"Why would he do that?" John stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, maybe hoping to find some kind of a weapon in it, maybe just 'cause it's comfortingly familiar in this new unfamiliar world. Though having a machete would be very comforting right now, he thinks.
"This knife you're thinking of won't work on me," the angel says quietly. He fishes a cell phone out from the trenchcoat's pocket, and stares at it as if it holds many confusing secrets. Maybe for him, it does. "Dean had stabbed me with one on our first meeting on Earth."
John carefully stops himself from asking what would kill an angel. Castiel throws him a displeased glance, but doesn't stop from fiddling with the phone. If not for the vague memory of his re-surfacing from the Nonexistence still prickling like icy needles in the back of his scull, John would probably make some comment about it.
"Dean." Castiel says, loud, and John tries to make out what the tinny voice on the other end says. "Yes. Here. Yes, Dean. All according to the plan. I'm sure, Dean."
The angel frowns, then a smirk, tiny but undoubtedly pleased, appears on his face. Only his eyes stay as alert and cold as they were.
"They soon will be here," the angel says. "And tomorrow, we will lay claim to the Purgatory."
John swallows the outraged 'what' that threatens to spill from his lips.
No, this is ridiculous. And crazy. Not to say, it sounds like trouble.
He starts pacing, not looking at the angel, who carefully lowers himself into the only available chair in the tiny room. (Lies, John registers every little movement of this Castiel thing, ready to fight back if needed. Turning your back to a possible enemy is the thing you can do if you're reckless in the knowledge of your power, like Castiel seems to be.)
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A quiet click of the door handle startles him awake. He turns to the angel, and finds him watching the door, alert and straight-backed, like a bird. (Bird comparisons, John thinks, would be funnier if angels had big feathered wings; is there a chance Bobby has a book about angels and ways to hunt them? John supposes he has to ask his sons about it. They'd know.)
The doors opens, and there's a flash of movement, almost impossible for a human eye to register, and there are two bodies lying struggling on the moth-eaten puce carpet.
It's over before he can interfere, a flash of bright, newly-made silver, and a blinding flash of otherworldly light, and Castiel is standing up, shaking off the corpse of a man from himself. His trenchcoat is immaculate, and his face is mournful, like he knew the angel (John just knows it was another angel, it's instinctual, and his assumptions almost always turn out to be right) and regrets his decisions. Castiel whispers something in the language John never heard before, and in a fraction of a moment, the corpse is gone.
"Who was he?" John asks, because gathering information is the best way to formulate the course of action.
"My brother," Castiel says curtly. "Sleep, John Winchester. Tomorrow you will need all of your strength."
He moves forward, and before John can say anything, protest or fight back, Castiel presses two fingers to his forehead. John feels consciousness escape him, feels his body going slack, and sees it in the dark light of the unborn morning: the angels eyes are dark blue of midnight sky, and there are shadows, like hot air, like tentacles of invisible fire, dancing around his scrawny body.
John's eyes close, and he dreams about many heads, limbs and eyes, countless eyes in the fire, staring at him, judging and heavy, and patient, eternally patient.
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Thank youuuuuuuuuu! :D
|Meduza|
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This pairing, or just Castiel and John together are so fascinating: both soldiers, both focused on their beliefs, and so, so different. Thank you for giving me the chance to see them in the same space!
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YES. YES. THAT'S WHY I OTP JOHN/CASTIEL SO BADLY. THEY WOULD WORK SO BEAUTIFULLY. SO BEAUTIFULLY.
|Meduza|
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