Alexandria (Chapter 1 of 13)

[tikific]

Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.



“This is a bad idea.”

“Are you kidding? This is an awesome idea!”

Sam glanced skeptically over at his grinning idiot of a brother, perched up on the shining black hood of their vehicle like some kind of triumphant king on his gilded throne. And then he once again hoisted his binoculars and skimmed them over the barren landscape below. He fixed his eyes on a small, belching, motorized device stationed right in the middle of his field of view. The exact purpose of the machine was elusive, although if spitting smoke was its design, then it was doing an awfully good job.

“That's was a good idea. About the machine, I mean.”

Dean's eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but his smile was wide. “I read it in a book.”

Sam's eyes constricted in doubt. “What? You don't read.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Sammy. I'm a complicated guy. Anyway. It oughta call one. That's why this is so awesome. No more waiting around. Have them come to us for a change!”

“Yeah, but Dean, what if they're just minding their own business?”

“Oh, come on, Sammy! These things don't just mind their own business. They lurk! And slither! And tunnel. And fucked up shit like that.”

Sam shook his head, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “I still think we should have brought some guys for backup.”

“We're short-handed as it is, Sam. And besides, they'd just slow us down. We'll try this out, and then if it works, great!”

“And if it doesn't work?”

“Hey, maybe we'll find a bug's hoard.”

“Dean, I dunno about you, but I gave up believing in the Enemy's buried treasure chest back when I was six years old.”

“Six? A little late, Sammy, but you were always slow on the uptake. Wait! There! What's that?”

Sam turned and once again raised the binoculars. He futzed with the focus. Yes, there was definitely something happening. At first he thought it was just dust blowing in the wind. But then the picture clarified.

“Tentacles,” said Sam.

“Knew it!” Dean pitched forward, yanking the binoculars away from Sam.

“Hey watch it!” Sam yelped, pulling the strap off his neck where his brother was obviously trying to strangle him. He disentangled himself and then squinted off in the distance while Dean hogged the glasses. “It's just a little one,” he said.

“See?” said Dean. “And two of us, so we're golden. Come on!” And with that, he grabbed his sword and started step-sliding his way down the hill. Sam, still skeptical of the whole business, hefted his backpack and followed behind.

It had made its way over to Dean's bait and was hovering close. To Sam, it seemed somehow attracted to the acrid black smoke billowing out, as it appeared to be edging over closer, cautiously extending a couple of tentacle-like appendages to brush Dean's hacked-together contraption. The lore was that these things were attracted to the ancient internal combustion engines. But legend also had it that one glance of the things could drive a man mad. And that obviously wasn't so. Well, at least in Sam's case. He obviously couldn’t speak for his slightly deranged older brother.

The sounds of Dean's gas-farting machine grew louder as they descended. The creature continued its explorations of the device, seemingly oblivious to Sam and Dean. Was its back turned to them? Did these things even have a back? Sam paused while Dean drew nearer. This was the closest Sam had ever been to one where he wasn't absolutely shit-scared, running for his life. Roughly a football shape, a pointed oval, with lots of little legs along either side, and a whole sheaf of longer tentacle-like appendages sticking out at the one end. They sort of looked like mealybugs. Really, really big mealybugs. Like, crawl out of your nightmare and send you into a psychotic breakdown screaming your lungs out fucking mealybugs. He could see why folks called them crawly-bugs.

“Dean,” Sam hissed.

“What?” Dean froze and looked back over his shoulder, annoyance etching his features.

“I was just thinking … you know … maybe....”

“Maybe what?”

“Well, maybe we should just, you know, study the thing?”

Dean fumed, and Sam suddenly imagined black smoke curling out of his brother's ears. “Sammy,” he said softly, pointing his sword towards the creature. “Enemy. Blade. Like Dad always says, pointy end goes in first.”

Sam glowered. It was his turn to fume. “But Dean-”

There was a low rumble: one not caused by the motor. Both brothers looked around, confused.

“What was that? That's not-” But Sam's question answered itself as the ground on the far side of the mealybug thing began to swell up into little hillocks.

“Shit!” Dean took a long step backwards.

“It's a big one,” said Sam, who thought, okay, here comes the shit-scared running part.

“Out of here. Now,” said Dean. Both brothers did an about-face, only to discover the ground that had been in back of them was now rising into a series of very familiar mounds.

“We're surrounded,” said Sam. “It's directly below us!”

“Yeah, I get that,” said Dean.

“We're right over the maw.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what his brother's next words would be.

“RUN!”

Dean charged ahead, sword drawn, just as one of the large feeding tentacles broke through the ground and snaked out at them. Dean gripped his sword two-handed and swung. He managed to hit the tentacle right at the neck. With a snap, and the blade broke off and Dean was left clutching just a hilt.

“Fucking fuck!” yelled Dean, just in time to get clobbered by the swollen end of the tentacle. “Salt gun!' he managed to gasp as he fell.

The ground beneath their feet was beginning to tremble. It wouldn't be long. Sam was already reaching for the gun on his back. He pulled out a weapon that resembled an overly large double-barreled shotgun. He pumped once and fired, blasting out a white spray. The tentacle quivered and curled up against itself, as if in pain. Still holding the gun, Sam grabbed the back of his brother's shirt and yanked him to his feet, and they both began to high-tail it out of there as another giant tentacle and then another emerged from the rapidly crumbling ground around them.

Sam halted and fired ahead at another writhing monster appendage, and then it was Dean's turn to grab his brother by the back of the shirt and drag him along. They ran past the line of now a good half dozen extruded tentacles and started up the hill.

Sam yelped and fell flat on his face, snagged by one of the smaller tentillum twining its way around his ankle. Dean leapt towards his brother, ripping Sam's sword from its scabbard and hacking away at the worm-like appendage. There was a snap, and the tentillum burst out a gooey green liquid all over Sam's pantleg. The tentacle suddenly withdrew back into the sand. Dean dragged Sam to his feet, and they limped up the hill, not stopping until they'd reached the top.

They turned to watch. Sam noticed that the small creature had clambered onto one of the tentacles, wound around it in a manner that almost looked protective. There was a great low rumble, and the entire valley floor collapsed, as if it were being sucked into a sinkhole.

Then, with no more sound than a whisper, it was gone: tentacles, small creature, everything. It had sucked in Dean's contraption too, leaving only a crater in the sand.

The only noise was the wind.

“Damn,” said Dean. “Lost my bug lure. Now I'll have to make another one.”

“Ewwwww!” said Sam. “It got my pants.” He pointed down to where the splash of the creature's blood had now eaten a dozen holes in the bottom of his jeans.

“We'll get you new pants, whiner.”

“And what the hell do you mean, you're gonna make another one?”

“I mean I'm gonna make another one.”

“Why would you make another one?”

“It worked, didn't it?” He held up Sam's sword, he was still carrying.

“Dean!”

“Oh, shit.” Like Sam's pants, the blade had been damaged by the monster's blood. It now appeared that one edge was serrated. “Well, Sammy, look at it this way. Now you got a really big steak knife!”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, and the brothers limped towards the car.

Castiel paused. This was the critical step. This could make or break him.

He stepped back, scowling, wiping the rag wrapped around his wrist over his brow, a rivulet of sweat dripping down his bare chest.

The blade was in the forge, heating. Good Damascus steel: the best Castiel had ever worked with, he thought. He wouldn't have a lot of time. Spend too long on the words, and the blade could crack, and all your hard work would fly out the window. But you had to be careful with the words. Someone's life could depend on your magic.

He grabbed the tongs and, bracing himself, pulled the blade from the forge and set it on the anvil, where it glowed, hot and red.

He quieted his nervousness and, being careful with his grip on the tempered steel, thrust his left hand towards it, palm outward. He was very close: almost close enough to burn his hand.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, putting all his concentration on his work. He must be steel too.

The words came, second nature now. How many times had he repeated them, lying in his bed at night? This one was a spell of protection. Whoever wielded the sword would be safe from the blows of their opponent. He spoke softly and swiftly, carefully enunciating every syllable.

He opened his eyes to the flash: the blade had gone from red to white. He held his breath, feeling his heart beating. The steel seemed to shimmer and glow, the white light effusing its length, flashing the lovely layers he had painstakingly beat into metal, so many tiny etched lines, unique as a fingerprint.

And there it was, the faint susurration. The blade was talking. Yes, the spell was good. The spell was good.

Cas suddenly threw the an arm over his eyes. The light from the blade burst and suffused the room with the shine of ten thousand candles.

And then it was over.

Cas grabbed the tongs and tipped the sword into the oil bath, smiling at the sizzle. This was very good. His best! He let himself stop and smile, a small amount of pride bursting through. He had done well. Soon, his apprenticeship would be over, and he would make a fine swordsmith.

Startled, he turned to the sound of the door clattering open, and two boys tumbling in: a dark-haired teenager and a sandy-haired child or seven or eight.

“Castiel! How did it go, brother?” asked the older one, who was already smiling. He had obviously seen the light cast out from the spell.

“Inias,” Castiel scolded. “Samandriel. You know you're not supposed to interrupt when I'm working.”

Inias rolled his eyes good-naturedly and peered at the blade, still sizzling from the dip in the oil bath. “We saw the flash. Is this a good one?”

Castiel's small smile broke into a grin. “This is a good one. It's the best I've made.” His brother shared the grin. Castiel reached out and gripped the younger man by the shoulder. His head fell to the side, looking him up and down. “You'll be as tall as me soon.”

Inias stood up straighter. “You'll teach me everything you know? When you're a sword master? You're the best, Castiel.”

Castiel shook his head, although the grin did not fade. “I'm far from the best. Samandriel! What do you have now?”

Inias laughed and squatted down near the young brother who was watching something crawl back and forth on the floor. “His new pet.”

Castiel hunkered down to see the large spider legging back and forth between Samandriel's chubby hands down on the dusty floor. “Sammy,” he chuckled. “Still fascinated by bugs?”

“It's not a bug,” Samandriel told him. “It's a spider.”

“And you talk to this one?”

“Of course I talk to him,” Samandriel huffed. “He's very smart!”

“Smarter than most humans,” said Inias, repeating one of his little brother’s lines.

Samandriel set a somewhat crushed matchbox down on the ground. “Home, Felix!” he ordered.

“Felix?” Castiel mouthed to Inias, who shrugged. The spider obediently crawled into the box, Samandriel then crammed into a pants pocket. “That's impressive,” Castiel told his brother.

There was a small sound from across the floor: someone clearing her throat. Three boys stood up as one, turning around to behold the new party inside the shop, a tall officious-looking woman wearing the robes of a government official. “The door was left open,” she said. Her tone somehow managed to be half scolding, half apologetic.

“Naomi,” said Castiel, moving instinctively between her and his brothers.

“It's the annoying lady,” grumbled Samandriel.

“Shhh!” Inias told him, grabbing him and pulling him out of the way.

Naomi kept her gaze focused on Castiel. “Castiel. We have a new governor in the Kansas territory, and since your father is not presently available, he'd like to speak to you.”

Castiel glowered. Their father had gone out for some fresh air one night soon after their mother died. That had been three years ago. Naomi and the other busybodies on the town council had tried to break up Castiel and his brothers, and tried to take away the smithy. Castiel had refused. They were family, little and broken as it was, and the smithy was his birthright, even if he hadn't completed his apprenticeship when his father vanished. But it was one thing after another.

“What does he want to speak about?” Castiel asked. “Does he need a sword?”

“I don't think so, Castiel.”

“Then I have no business with him.” He turned his back on her and reached over to where his shirt was hanging on a peg. He threw it on and pretended to give a lot of attention to buttoning it up.

“Castiel, you need to speak with Metatron-”

“Metatron? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“I think he just wants to chat, Castiel.” Even with his back turned, Castiel could hear the carefully concealed impatience creeping into Naomi's tone. He was still young, but he was no fool. People like Naomi and this Metatron person didn't want to “chat.” They would hand over his business to a competitor, and rip apart his family.

“You think? You don't know?” Castiel turned back in time to see Naomi flinch. So, she was being kept in the dark as well.

“I'm certain everything will be all right. Stop being so stubborn, Castiel. You are an important part of our community.”

“So, are you gonna go?” Inias asked nervously as the three boys headed down the path through the forest to their cottage at the edge of Lawrence. It was dusk and many insects were just emerging to feed, so Samandriel had rushed ahead to chase them.

“It could be good for us, Inias.”

“In what way? And what the hell kind of name is Metatron?”

“Whoever this person is, I don't believe Naomi likes him.”

“Ohhhh,” said Inias. Castiel smiled. His brother was a bright kid.

“Who knows? I've heard tales from some of the sailors that the Enemy is afoot. Maybe he does want to order some armaments.”

“I could help you! If it's a big order.”

“Yes, you could.” They stopped outside their house. Castiel raised his arm, but then lowered it again. “Inias, why don't you say the words?”

Inias nodded eagerly, and as Castiel and Samandriel watched, raised his arm, palm outward, and carefully enunciated a few words in an ancient language. Abruptly several sigils painted on the door glowed with a soft yellow light. And then they faded. The door clicked open as the unlocking spell had its effect.

“Come on,” said Castiel. “We'll celebrate our big order.” They headed inside and, after Inias carefully re-drew the salt line over the threshold, closed the door behind them.

Naomi had said it was an important meeting, so Cas had taken a bath (with more-or-less hot water) the previous night and now wore his newest, itchiest shirt. He had half a mind to go meet Metatron the same way he customarily greeted Naomi these past couple years: still sweating and stinking from bending over the forge. But Inias had counseled a more sedate path. After all, if Naomi disliked him, this Metatron person might actually be all right.

He reached under his collar to scratch his neck, casting a glance out at the tide as he walked, hoping a view of the Narrow Sea would calm him. Some days, if it was clear, they said you could see all the way to the Isle of Arkansas on the eastern horizon. Cas had never seen it, and he didn't really have much use for sailor's tall tales.

He arrived at the villa, staring in wonder at all the commotion. Territorial muckety-mucks often moved around like head of a traveling circus, but this took the cake. Metatron had evidently taken over an entire villa (Castiel was unsure as to the proper owners, as he rarely got to this side of town). There were a number of horse-drawn wagons parked out back, and workers were still unloading crates. He wondered how long the governor intended to stay here. Lawrence was a moderate sized port, but most of their trade (well, what didn't get waylaid by the pirates) was with the peoples of the South, whom most of the territories regarded as only a step above the pirates.

Because of the hubbub he made it through the front courtyard and well into the house without being challenged. He paused in the high-ceilinged entryway for a moment, thinking to ask someone where to find Metatron, but curiosity got the better of him, and he instead chose a hallway more or less at random and wandered through.

Being careful not to get clobbered by any of the workingmen hauling heavy cartons, he ventured down the hall, peering into various rooms while trying his best to act nonchalant. Just a single room here was as big as his family's entire house. Strange to think all this space was being occupied by just a single man.

He paused before a doorway. Checking first up and down the hallway to make certain he wasn't noticed, he slipped inside a dimly lit room. He carefully picked his way between pile upon pile of books, stacked up nearly to the ceiling. It looked like they had unpacked the room, but left before they could fix them up on bookshelves. He picked up a volume with a red cover. It seemed to be some kind of spell book. Unlike many people in Lawrence, Castiel could read and write. His mother had read stories to him and his brothers every night before bedtime, and he had continued the tradition after she died. Their father had told them it made you a better smith if you could read books and not just rely on the lore your master passed down. This was fortunate, as when Castiel's father then departed, he had managed to teach himself many things about the craft by going through his father's small library.

But this was incredible: there seemed to be books on every topic here. And even some unimaginably old tomes here in this pile he was standing over. Castiel briefly wondered why a government official had books on magic, as it was little required for the job. But he didn't have long to ponder.

“Good choice! That book is among the rarest.”

Castiel nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned, clutching the crumbling volume to his chest.

“Now, don't break the spine,” chided the rumpled man who stood before him. Castiel, with shaky arms, held out the book to him, and the man took it with a sad smile, leafing through it. “This is a treasure. This is a book from before the Great Flood.”

“Really?” whispered Castiel. He tilted his head, wishing now he had had a longer time to look at the book. “I thought everything was destroyed.”

“Oh, no.” The man was still distracted leafing through his book. “There's a lot out there. If you know where to look.” He lifted his face to stare at Castiel. “And I know where to look. So, you must be the De Angelus boy.”

“Um. Yes. Castiel.”

“Good, good. I had wanted to talk to you. Very important stuff.”

“Yes? I'm important?”

“Critically important.” But the man didn't elaborate. Instead, closing the book and caressing it with his hand, he carefully placed it back atop one of the piles.

Castiel was silent for a long moment as the man gazed proudly at his pile of books. A sudden realization dawned on him. “You're Metatron.”

“I am Metatron. The Metatron.” He smiled at Castiel. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “I think I might have an omelet. I'm getting a little peckish.” Without waiting for Castiel's answer, Metatron bustled out of the room. Confused, Castiel hesitantly followed him. Metatron grabbed a book - seemingly at random - on the way out, and then led Castiel past much hustle and bustle of moving, down another long hallway and finally out to a balcony overlooking the sea. He seated himself at the table and began to leaf through the book spread open on his lap. Castiel, after standing flustered for a moment, finally sat unbidden in the chair opposite. Metatron reached up and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared, so rapidly that Castiel actually flinched. “Omelet,” said Metatron, making no indication whether this was for himself or for both of them. After pouring them both some cooled water from a pitcher, the servant whisked away without a word.

Castiel gazed off over the sea for a while, and then looked back at Metatron. He recognized some of the sigils on the binding of the book. “You're a magic user?” he asked.

“I find it to serve a purpose,” Metatron told him. “Now, to the matter at hand. So you are the sword maker serving this principality?”

“I am the sword master. Yes.”

“Not really a master, now are you?”

Castiel's cheeks colored. “Well, technically, I didn't finish my apprenticeship-”

“Then you are not the sword master. QED.”

Castiel straightened his back. “De Angelus Sword and Forge is my family business. As I have told Naomi-”

“Naomi?” Metatron's eyes drifted up to meet Castiel's, although he looked far away. “Yes, about that. Naomi is being replaced.”

“What?” For some reason, despite his great dislike for Naomi, the small hairs on the back of Castiel's neck started to prick up.

“Think on this. My territory is in need of a competent sword master, and she has demonstrated nothing but an extensive facility at the art of procrastination. It's disappointing, I tell you! The Enemy is afoot, and we can't afford to let our weakness show.”

Castiel's own thoughts drifted. “The Enemy? Yes. I've heard the rumors.”

“And of course you want your town protected. It's important for you. Your family. Your trade.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Castiel looked up distractedly as the servant placed a plate before Metatron.

The older man seized a fork and dug into his eggs, emitting a small moan of pleasure as he savored the first bite. It occurred to Castiel that he hadn't been given any food, but he was thinking more about the news that Naomi was gone. Perhaps, he thought, things were looking up for him and his brothers without Naomi constantly nosing into their lives. Perhaps Metatron could help him find a master bladesmith, and he could formally complete his apprenticeship.

“So, we are in agreement,” said Metatron.

Castiel blinked, coming out of his reverie. “Agreement?” He looked to his side. There were suddenly two servants standing on either side of his chair. They were big ones.

“We'll just get you out of the way, so we can bring in a real bladesmith,” muttered Metatron, who had returned to staring at his book while he continued to shovel omelet into his mouth.

“But, my brothers....”

“Don't worry. Your brothers will be taken care of.”

The servants each grabbed one of Castiel's arms. “What? Wait!” Metatron made a dismissive gesture, and the servants began to drag Castiel away, sending his chair tumbling down with a crash.

Castiel stamped down on one guy's instep hard with his heel. The guy cried out in pain and let go. The young bladesmith swiveled and sent an elbow into the other guy's gut. He doubled over. Castiel grabbed the chair and hit him over the head with it.

Then he whipped out his sword and pointed it at the first servant's neck. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“You did have to make this difficult, didn't you?” sighed Metatron. Not looking up from his book, he flicked up a hand and said some words.

Castiel gasped and grabbed his neck. He suddenly couldn't breathe. He fell to his knees, struggling for air.

And then the world went black.

The world swayed softly, back and forth, back and forth. It was slow and gentle, like a soft lullaby.

Castiel blinked in the sun. He smelled the ocean breeze, and his face relaxed into a gentle smile.

He sat up, stretching. Funny, but he couldn't remember falling asleep. And he seemed to have bedded down on some coils of rope. Groggy, he shook his head and looked up, off across the wide turquoise sea.

He gasped and shot to his feet, almost overbalancing, as the deck gently rolled with the undulating sea. Panic flooded him. He was on a boat, and the ship was rapidly making its way offshore.

In a split second, he made the decision. Castiel was a strong swimmer, but the boat was growing more and more distant from shore each moment he hesitated. If he tried it now, he could possibly make it back to land. Possibly. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of his brothers, dreading what Metatron meant to do with them.

He leapt for the rail, and then he was over, ignoring the surprised shouts coming from behind him.

The water was startlingly cold here, just off the shore, and the current was swift. He surfaced, spitting salt water, and began to swim, swift strokes and powerful kicks pushing him home. It wasn't far. Surely he's swum half this distance before: it would be no problem to push himself a little farther.

He became aware of a commotion behind him. Blinking in the briny water, he risked a look back over his shoulder. A boat. They had launched a small boat off the side: he glimpsed the flash of paddles as it skimmed his way. A shiver tore down his spine. He increased his speed, pushing himself, arms straining, heart pounding in his chest. Surely he could outrun them. He had to.

He heard them before he felt them. Raised voices, and the slap of oars. He dove down, slipping off below the waves in a random direction, trying to throw them off his trail, surfacing only when his lungs had begun to burn. He gasped for breath, only to find himself dragged down again by a great weight. His lungs half full of the salt sea, he thrashed, beginning to panic.

Just in time he was pulled back to the surface, and found himself entangled in a rope net, hauled up to the small boat like a fisherman's catch.

They rowed him back and dumped him on the deck of the larger craft, as if he was no more than a haul of salmon. He struggled to his feet, still choking on salt water.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going, minnow?” asked one of the big guys, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and yanking him up. Castiel, dripping wet, made to stamp on his foot, but these guys were evidently brighter than Metatron's servants. The guy twisted around, and Castiel found himself face-planted on the deck, one arm yanked up in back of him.

“He's not a minnow, he's an eel,” laughed another guy.

“Hey there now,” came another voice, accent ripe and smooth as a peach dipped in honey. “Now, that's no way to treat a guest.”

“He was trying to swim for it,” the crew member told him.

“Well,” said the voice, as the man behind it hunkered down close to Castiel. "You might not wanna try that again. My boys, they can smell your blood, and hear your heart beating right in that chest."

"I have to go!" Castiel pleaded.

“You wouldn't get very far in these waters, friend. If the sharks didn't snap your damned legs off, you'd end up crushed on the rocks and the gulls would have your sorry ass for a midnight snack.”

“My brothers! I have to get back to them.”

With a grunt, the man rose up and gestured to the sailors. Castiel was wrenched to his feet and came face to face with a broad, genial-looking bearded man. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Captain Benny Lafitte, and this here is my good ship, the Lovely Andrea.” He gestured, filled with pride. “Now, I got me a contract to see to your safe passage over these waters, and into the hands of some good friends in the South. So, why don't you just settle yourself down and enjoy my superior navigational skills?”

“You don't understand,” Castiel tried again. “I need to get back! Metatron tricked me!”

Captain Lafitte shared a glance with his crew men. “Yeah, he's been known to do that, brother,” he said softly. He straightened up. “But right now, we're on the job, and I have been mandated to bring your skinny haunches safely to the t'other side.”

“I won't go!” Castiel insisted, barging up so he was nose to nose with Benny.

The sailors made to grab him again, but Benny grinned and waved them off. He leaned in even closer to Castiel, so close the young smith could feel his warm breath. “So you see, it's like this.” He opened his mouth into a wide grin. Castiel heard a slight click, and became aware he was now staring upon two rows of razor-sharp fangs. He flinched back, but Benny caught him by the collar and drew him in closer.

“You're … you're a vampire.”

“Oh, a sharp boy. I like that. So let me explicate to you the present situation. If you don't find yourself inclined towards our accommodations abovedeck, we can just show you an alternative.” He leaned in close, and Castiel shut his eyes.

“I seen Swiss cheese with less holes. What the hellacious fuck were you idjits up to this time?” Bobby Singer held up Sam's sword - at least what was left of it - and glared at Sam and Dean. Sam at least had the decency to display a modicum of embarrassment, but Dean merely glared.

“We were, er, kind of baiting the Enemy,” Sam told him.

“Well, you dumb shits! Why would you go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Uh. It seemed like a good idea?” Sam shrugged and looked to his brother. Bobby turned his back on the Winchester brothers and walked across the roof to glare across the battlements into the desert wasteland that surrounded the fort.

“You at least find a bug's hoard while you were there?” Bobby grumbled. “Bring me some damned diamonds and rubies?”

Dean took a step forward. “Bobby, this was a success. We proved that the things are attracted to engines.”

Bobby rounded on him. “Boy, do you have a brain left in that head? Everybody knows the things are attracted to running engines! Now we are short on manpower, and our weaponry is a steaming pile of shit,” he added, holding up Sam's damaged sword. “And you get it in your fool head to go find the enemy and poke it with a damn stick?”

“Bobby,” said Sam.

“What do you think your daddy is gonna say when I tell him?”

Sam gulped, and even Dean looked contrite, if only for a short moment. But only a moment. “Bobby, the sword thing?” Dean ventured.

“Yeah.” Bobby tossed the sword to the floor where it clanged. “What about it?”

Dean and Sam looked at each other. “I got it taken care of,” Dean told Bobby.

Bobby glared. “You got it taken care of how? Oh, what did you do now?”

As it turned out, Captain Lafitte's idea of belowdecks accommodations was a small closet. Complete with a leg iron around Castiel's ankle.

“What if we sink?” he'd grumbled as the crew men chained him up.

“You better hope we don't,” the sailor had laughed, smiling with vampire teeth and hitching the key to his belt.

Castiel sat for a while and felt sorry for himself. There wasn't a whole lot in the room to distract him, just a piece of tarp for a bed, and a slop bucket they'd left in the corner for him to relieve himself. He had filled the bucket, but couldn't attract the crewman's attention to take it away despite repeatedly banging on the door.

He noticed a bag sitting on the floor opposite. He crawled over, squinting at it in the dim light. There was something sticking out of it.

Eagerly he grasped the hilt of his own sword and pulled it from the bag. He looked it over in wonder, and then opened the bag. It was his own clothing, and a few personal items. Castiel shivered. Metatron has evidently had his men go through Castiel's home before they'd sent him away. What had they done with his brothers? He carefully went through the bag, digging all the way to the bottom, tossing his clothing everywhere. But there was nothing there, nothing of value, just his own poor possessions. He sighed and, giving his leg iron a tug, sat back on the rough floor. And then he put his head in his hands and let himself have a good cry, there in the dark, furious tears falling from his eyes.

There was some kind of commotion in the corridor outside. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he cursed softly to himself and then started to toss his things back into the bag. It was then he saw the note crammed into a sock. He grabbed it crawled on hands and knees closer to the dim light from the porthole. He frowned. Scrawled out in messy letters was one word, “ALEXANDRIA.”

The commotion outside got louder. He crammed the odd note into a pants pocket and stood up to peek out the door. The door came crashing open and he was thrown back. The crewman who had chained him up paused in the doorway, and then fell forward face-first, a sword sticking out of his back.

Then a man Castiel didn't recognize appeared and pulled out the sword. Cas lunged for his own sword, lying by the bag, but got his leg iron tangled in the dead crewman and ended up sprawled on the floor. The stranger was at him. Castiel scrambled back, reaching for anything he could throw. His hand grasped the slop bucket. He tossed the contents at the swordsman, who reeled back, cursing, wiping the shit out of his eyes.

Quick as he could, Castiel kicked his leg and straightened out the leg chain. He threw it over the swordsman's head and pulled tight. The guy gasped and dropped his sword, falling to his knees. Castiel put a foot on his back and yanked. He struggled for a while, and then finally fell over, either dead or unconscious, Castiel couldn't tell, and didn't much care.

He grabbed the key off the dead crewman's belt and unlocked his ankle chain. And then, grabbing his own sword from his bag, he dashed out of the room and headed upstairs, hearing banging and screaming and shouting from what sounded like a terrific fight. He reached the main deck: it was a picture of utter chaos. Captain Lafitte's men had brought out swords and guns and were engaged in a huge, gory fight with another group of sailors. There was another vessel, a bigger one, now tied up alongside the Lovely Andrea.

This group appeared to be vampires too, so along with the usual sword wounds and gunshots a number of men had evidently resorted to biting each other. A big, wild-haired guy threw himself at Castiel, sword pointed and teeth barred, and was rewarded with a sword through his heart. He howled in pain. Usually that kind of blow wasn't enough to finish a vampire, but Castiel had forged his own sword with enough magic to cripple most anything.

Another man lunged for him, but Castiel stepped back and extended his hand, and muttered some words. His spell smacked the guy in the chest just right to send him stumbling backwards against the main deck's balustrade. Cas then punched him in the jaw hard enough to topple him overboard.

He made his way astern in time to catch Captain Lafitte ripping out a man's neck with his teeth. As his opponent fell, the captain reared up, blood dripping from his mouth, crazed look in his eyes. A man lunged at him, and the captain met him with his sword. But just as he was gaining the upper hand, yet another opponent crept up behind, raising his sword.

“Look out!” Castiel screamed. And then, before he even realized what he was doing, he dove at the man and with one clean blow, lopped off his head.

Benny stabbed his opponent, and then whirled around. Grabbing the fallen head by the hair, he hoisted it up and stared at Castiel.

“Christ on a cracker, boy.”

The deck was literally awash in blood. Most of the vampires had repaired themselves by now, but vampire magic didn't extend to washing bloodstains from clothing, nor swabbing pools of the stuff, now sticky and clotted, from the deck.

But Captain Lafitte didn't seem to attend to the blood. Instead, he was staring intently at Castiel's sword.

“No offense, brother, especially since you just saved my bacon, but how does a guy like you end up with a blade like this? Why didn't you tell me about this?” he asked nobody in particular in the crew.

“We didn't really look at his bag,” one of the crewmen muttered.

“Well, that's pretty damned obvious!”

“Captain-” Cas started.

“You can call me Benny. Think you earned it.”

Castiel bit his lip. “Benny. I made that sword. I'm a bladesmith.”

“You're an apprentice. I ain't never seen a blade stuffed with this kinda magic before. It's fucking intriguing, is what it is.”

“I am, technically, an apprentice. But only due to my father's … absence. Otherwise, I would have finished my apprenticeship by now. Sword making is my family business. Our family business. For generations.”

Benny leaned over and, to Castiel's surprise, handed him back the sword. “So, you got family back there you said?”

“I have two younger brothers. Inias and Samandriel. I don't know what's become of them.”

“Well, now. I can't take you back. That's something that just ain't allowed. But, I have a friend or two up North. It might not be beyond my capabilities to make certain inquiries. On your behalf.”

Castiel stared up at him. “You would do that?”

“On one condition. When you get where you're going, and you get yourself all set up, you go and make me a sword, one just like that one. Could you do that?”

Castiel regarded Benny for a while. “I made this last year. I could do better.”

“Well, that would be just fine. All right then. On your honor. I find out about your brothers, you get my my magical fucking sword.” Benny thrust out a large hand.

“Your honor … as a pirate?”

Benny laughed, a soft, merry rumble. “On my honor, as a vampirate.” Castiel extended a hand, cringing slightly at Benny's ice-cold grip. “Now,” Benny called, one paw gripping Castiel's shoulder, “Can we rustle up some real chow for my friend? Think he deserves a meal that ain't clotted.”

Castiel winced. But true to his word, Benny sent some of the crew scampering around, and before long, he had a very decent meal assembled of some savory meat (Castiel decided to not bother inquiring what kind, as he was hungry), sweet fresh fruits and even a bottle of wine. He puzzled at the fruit. He had seen the like before, but it was generally very expensive so he hadn't tasted anything like it in the years since his father had left.

After a time, Benny sat down opposite him. Castiel realized this room was probably supposed to be the captain's table, but as a vampire would have no use for such a thing, it looked like it had been used for storage.

“So how long have you been a pirate?” Castiel asked, not certain whether or not this was a polite inquiry.

“Since before your time. Nearly before the flood,” Benny laughed, reaching for the wine.

“You drink wine?”

“If I'm inclined. It don't do much to me no more, but I don't mind the flavor. Now that food,” he said, indicating Castiel's steak. “That stuff assaults my nose. Ain't worth it if it ain't fresh.”

Castiel nodded, and occupied himself peeling an orange. The scent was lovely. “So you remember the flood?”

“Well, I might be exaggerating a tad bit. I can honestly say I knew people who knew people who remembered this place as it was, just a stretch of dry land.”

“So, what happened.”

“Well now. They say it was the Enemy. But you ask me, it wasn’t the crawly-bugs: we brought it on ourselves. Nothing on this green earth dumb as a human.”

“But you're not a human,” Castiel pointed out, shoving an orange slice into his mouth.

“I was once. As were all of us.” Benny scraped his chair forward and put his thick forearms on the table. “Now, I gotta know, what do you know about the South?”

“Not much.”

“You ain't interested?”

“It hasn't been much of my concern.” He chewed orange pulp and mused about it. “There are the forts. The Seven. They protect us from the Enemy.”

“That's their stated purpose, yeah. But it's been my considered observation that they spend a decent amount of time fightin' amongst themselves.”

“I've occasionally caught wind rumors of internecine conflicts from sailors who've come ashore.”

“Ain't occasional. More like constant.”

“Isn't that against their code?”

“Code don't much matter when you're fifty miles from the nearest water hole that ain't poisoned.”

“I thank you for your interest, but it doesn't matter. I don't plan to stay long in the South.”

“Plans don't tend to last long in the desert. Now, I figure I owe you one, so I'm gonna give you some advice. I know you wanna look after your brothers, since you're an honorable guy. And it's good to have honor. But Metatron? Well, I've never had the pleasure, but I've heard tell of him, and he ain't such as you want for an enemy. Tricked out magic sword or not. You hear me, brother, you go where we take you, and you stay for a spell. There's not many I respect as far as I can throw their ass, not in the South, but these men, they're square. I can vouch for them.”

“On your honor as a vampirate.”

“On my honor as a vampirate.” Benny smiled through pointed teeth. “You sit tight for a spell, and I'll check around for your brothers. And there's a promise.”

A sailor entered, and Benny nodded at him. “We’re in sight,” he told Castiel.

The port, as it happened, was no port at all, but just a stretch of barren coastline, as far as Castiel could tell, absolutely identical to the other barren stretches of coastline along the South.

There wasn't even a dock, so, after bidding him farewell, and making him promise once again to craft the captain a sword, Benny sent Castiel off to be ferried to shore in a small rowboat. They cast him and his small bag of belongings on land with strict instructions to stay put. “Now, don’t go looking around for a bug’s hoard. You don't know whose territory you'll be wandering into, and besides, you'll definitely get lost.”

And then they rowed off, paddles slapping the water. Castiel, knowing not what else to do, waved goodbye.

The rowboat returned to the ship, soon weighed anchor, and then the Lovely Andrea set sail, silently retreating into the distance. Castiel watched until it became a speck on the horizon, and then, having nothing else to do, he watched some more.

The sun slanted low on the horizon. Castiel fished a jacket out of his bag and shrugged it on, rubbing his arms with the chill. And then he pulled out one of the oranges Benny had given him and started to peel it, more for something to do with his hands than any hunger. The food wouldn't last long if, as he feared, he had been abandoned here. They had also given him a canteen of fresh water, but he didn't like his odds walking in the sun.

He may have dozed, sitting there, coat wrapped around him, because when he looked up, it was like waking from a dream. A very tall figure now stood over him: big as a doorway, if there had actually been a door anywhere in sight.

Castiel was on his feet, clutching his sword, but the figure made no move towards his own weaponry: Cas could see he carried a rather ridiculously large rifle or shotgun on the back of his pack. Instead, after a pause, he unwrapped the dark headscarf that was hiding his face, and smiled with what looked to be genuine warmth.

“You're the De Angelus guy?” he asked, extending a hand.

Castiel nodded nervously, tentatively extending his own hand. “Castiel.”

“Castiel? It's a pleasure. I'm Sam Winchester. Welcome to the South!”

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