(Star Trek/SPN) Salt of the Earth Pt. 4 for normalhumanbein

[aurilly]

...

Salt of the Earth: Part Four

...

San Francisco City Aquatics Center and Aquarium, San Francisco, California

Stardate 2260; September 14; 1302 Hours

"Of course I never was the poster child for restraint." Focalor shrugged and turned the blade over in his hands. Spinning it casually between his fingers. before bending over Abaddon's back, pulling her wing out further, drawing the clay blade along the freshly made wound, hewing deeper into the joint around the wing then freezing it as the blood bloomed.

Abaddon jerked once but made not noise, the muscles in her shoulders and the wing trapped in Focalor's grip flexed but there was no more reaction from her than that. The archdemon sighed loudly.

"You're far too quiet, little dove." Focalor hummed. "Only ever get noise out of you for one of these."

Focalor swung the clay blade around to the back of the wing in his grip, dug it into the quick of a feather and yanked it free, fresh blood bursting from the new gap.

Abaddon wailed in agony. The same warbling, wild noise that pitched out of humanity. Dean felt the drum of his ear hum, a fresh trickle of blood bubbling down his jaw and along his throat. Behind him McCoy and Kirk doubled over, slapping hands over their ears, blood flowing through, unused to the cries of angels. Castiel flinched, staggering only slightly and his own blossom of blood rippled down the side of his face from his ear.

Just as quickly as it started the cry died, echoing and ringing in their ears. Abaddon gave a few wet, lurching coughs, shivered violently before going still and silent again.

Focalor spun the dislodged feather between his fingers, the quill making a noise like a blade spinning through the air, humming. Focalor held it out towards Dean.

"Want it?" he asked coyly.

Dean's face twisted, he flipped the knife, catching it by the tip before hurling it with all his force towards Focalor. The knife sank hilt deep into the archdemon's shoulder, Focalor barked in pain jerking and letting go of Abaddon's wing. The wound around the knife crackled, hissing and popping with energy, leaving Focalor panting heavily and lips curled in a snarl.

"Straight to business then?" The pale creature growled, breath and narrow chest heaving. "It's going to take more than the pig sticker, to do it, Dean-o."

Castiel stepped up to the Hunter's side, the Sword flashed in his hands.

Hissing and rasping for air, Focalor grinned. The wild, manic gleam flashing in his icy eyes. "That’s more like it."

The archdemon lunged towards the Hunter and outcast angel. Dean swung the gallon of holy water around, slopping it over the demon. Focalor balked, staggering back with a snarl of pain as the blessed liquid rolled off his frame in thick billows of steam.

Dean and Castiel sidestepped, drawing away from the two Starfleet officers and Abaddon. Focalor shook himself like an over large dog, hesitating to get his bearings before throwing himself back at Dean. Tackling the Hunter around the midsection and slamming him into the flooded floor, sending the gallon container rolling. Castiel launched himself at Focalor, crushing his shoulder into the archdemon's side and bowling him, head over end, off Dean and across the floor.

Kirk hesitated, looking for a gap to enter the fight when McCoy grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

"Bones-"

"Help me!" McCoy jerked his head towards Abaddon. The Antistratigos was twitching, her muscles and breathing hitching. The way her wings, crumpled and ragged, hovered over her Abaddon looked like some song bird crushed into the earth. She gave small jerks, her eyes fixed on the fight and trying to crawl into the fray.

McCoy was a doctor, a healer, it was so deeply trained into him it was his nature. Seeing the broken and twisted form rang deep in his soul. He wanted to mend the wounds, knit the flesh back together and wash the blood away. Make her whole, even if she wasn't human. He treated xenos often enough, what difference was an angel?

Kirk hesitated before nodding and following on McCoy's heels. The doctor crouched low, trying not to draw attention to himself as he slunk around to Abaddon's side. He hesitated before gingerly brushing his fingers across the she angel's bicep. McCoy felt Kirk crouch next to him.

The she angel's eyes whipped around, looking at them in curiosity, considering and studying them.

"Easy." McCoy's voice died for a moment, looking at the ancient and glazed pools of viridian. He struggled, trying to draw up some form of bedside manner. "Easy. I'm Leonard McCoy. I'm a doctor. I'm goin' to-"

"Cut the formalities, son. Pull the spike out. Turn me loose." Abaddon rasped in a deep southwestern drawl.

"The spike?" McCoy asked, his eyes drifting towards Abaddon's pinned wing.

"Ya think I'm lyin' here 'cause I enjoy the view? It's forged of the steel and fire of Hell itself. As long as it's in I'm bound here. Little more than meat for carvin'. Ya must pull it free."

"Alright." McCoy rasped and slunk around Abaddon, kneeling next to the pinned wing to inspect the spike. The thing was three inches wide, possibly a foot long but only three or four inches protruded from the top of the wing. The surface was icy and discolored with frost, marking embossed deep in the steel. It was driving straight through bone, flesh and feather. The dark feathers were slick with frost and the congealed remains of frozen blood. Her back was raw and torn, mutilated. "Aba..." McCoy choked stumbling over the angel's name. "Abaddon, it's in too deep. Too much damage. It's not safe-"

"Son, this ya must do. Do what ya need. Carve, tear, break, pull our feathers but ya have to pull it free," Abaddon rasped.

"Damnit. Alright. Yer the boss, don't mind me, I'm just a medical professional," McCoy growled and gingerly settled his palms onto the wing around the spike and the wound. He tried not to flinch at the hitch and flex of flesh and feather under his touch and the jerk of her shoulders.

"Jim. I'm goin' to need ya to pull it out. Just grip it low and one solid pull, get it out clean." McCoy commanded, in his element and command took over. The blonde nodded and slunk over. He had to take up Focalor's place, straddling her hips and lower abdomen. His weight slipped, colliding with the Antistratigos. The she angel twitched.

"Sorry." Kirk scrambled to get away, lift his weight without jostling Abaddon.

"It's alright, James," the Antistratigos croaked, letting out a gasp through a bubble of blood that burst at her lips into a pink froth.

"Christ, yer bleedin' in yer lungs." McCoy moved away from the pinned wing.

"The spike. Nothin' else matters, son. Pull it free." Abaddon twisted her neck, flicking her eyes over to the fight across the room as Dean yanked the knife free from Focalor's shoulder then turned the blade to slash across the archdemon's forearm, laying the flesh open to the bone and forcing the creature to break his grip on Castiel's throat. "Now. Son."

"How... how did you know my name?" Kirk asked, balancing himself carefully, trying to keep his weight off her.

"I'm the Angel of War. I've had a hand in the makin’ of each soul that sees battle," Abaddon gurgled softly. "Now, pull it free."

"Okay. Okay." Kirk sounded a little unsettled but bent himself over her. He reached towards the spike, wrapping his hands around the steel only to jerk back, hissing in pain.

"Jim-"

"It burned, alright?" The blonde snapped back, wringing his hands.

"Cold," Abaddon rasped. "Lucifer's fire."

"Jim. We don't have time for this." He flinched when from somewhere behind him Castiel cried out, Dean barking his name, a splash and clatter of metal. The outcast had dropped the Sword.

Abaddon twisted, arching her neck painfully and twitched. Her muscles jerking as she tried to roll over, get to her feet, get to the fight, reacting to the cries of her brother and favorite soldier. Her free wing stretched, the gaps without feathers bursting with fresh blood in the small struggle.

"Pull it free. Now. Son, pull it free." Abaddon spit pink froth and fresh blood; she was shaking hard now, desperation in her eyes.

"Jim-"

"I got it." Kirk's voice was muffled as he tugged the borrowed hooded sweatshirt over his head. He draped then twisted it around the spike before wrapping his hands into place, only feeling the slightest bite of cold. McCoy's fingers twitched, feeling the warmth starting to fill the small space between the fabric, his hands and the wing. He felt the feathers go slick with melting frost and blood.

"Ready?" McCoy asked as Kirk steadied himself and nodded. "Alright. Pull."

Kirk levered, tightened his grip and gave a single, solid yank on the spike. It lurched, jostling slightly, only moving a fraction before going still again. The fabric and Kirk's grip slipped, the blonde toppling backwards into Abaddon with a sickening crunch, the fragile bones of her free wing and ribs bending and snapping under his weight.

Abaddon let out a snarl of agony, shaking violently, choking on her own hitching breath and frothy blood. Kirk quickly lurched up, practically rolling away, unintentionally ripping into the Antistratigos' raw and mutilated back on the way, earning a smaller grunt no less full of pain.

"Oh God." The blonde was pale and shaken, his skin and jeans streaked in the angel's blood.

"It's nothin'," Abaddon grit out. "Pull the spike free. Now." Another bark of pain from Castiel from across the room making her wings shiver.

"Abaddon-" McCoy rasped, pale himself and unsure.

"Sufferin' done now is rewarded later. Have no fear and take my strength. But it has to be done now. Pull it free," she commanded, her voice resonate and painful.

McCoy hesitated for a second but Kirk lunged forward, wrapping bare hands around the spike, hissing and gritting his teeth and pulled hard. The spike shifted, grinding and twisting but stayed firmly lodged.

"Bones," Kirk rasped, snapping the doctor from his trance. McCoy wrapped his own hands in place over the young captain's pulled with him. The cold of the steel and ice bit ruthlessly into their flesh, eating it away. They twisted and jerked the spike, jostling it and pulling it inch by inch from the pinned wing and bench.

Abaddon twisted, rolling halfway onto her stomach, muscles twitching and breath shaking in her lungs.

The two Starfleet officers took a breath and heaved and the spike came away with a crackle of breaking ice. The wing snapped free, bowling them both off their feet and into the flooded water. Abaddon rolled and launched off the surface of the bench in a flash of russet, the wings heavy with ice and frosted blood.

Focalor's head snapped up from where he had Castiel pinned into the floor by the throat, strangling and trying to drown the outcast angel in the frigid water. Dean was trying to get back to his feet, his boots and hands slipping on the iced glass of the tank and the flooded floor.

Focalor snarled, curling his lips and broke his grip on Castiel to meet Abaddon. The collided like two forces of nature with sounds of snapping bone and tearing flesh. Abaddon's wings cut through the air, balancing her as she landed double fisted blows into the larger form of Focalor, striking him across the face and kicking out his knees. The archdemon retaliated, slamming his shoulder up into her gut and grabbed a hand full of feathers, yanking on them hard; only two came free in his hand and the warbling cry of pain shattered lights over head. She over balanced and Focalor shoved hard, throwing the Antistratigos into the frigid water on her mutilated back, pinning her down with a boot in her throat.

As the archdemon started to speak Castiel launched himself onto Focalor's back, wrapping arms around the pale throat and yanking back with all his strength, legs twisted around the archdemon's waist. Focalor snarled and staggered under the weight as Castiel drove the knife between the creature's ribs. The archdemon barked in pain, this wound, like the last one, sparking and crackling with power, Focalor arched, twisted and snarled.

Castiel tightened his choke hold. Focalor snorted, reached around and wrenched the knife free, bucking the outcast off and planting the blade into his abdomen as he stumbled. Castiel let out a wet gasp, staggering back before collapsing to the flooded floor.

"Cas!" Dean barked and shoved himself away from the tank to the smaller man's side. Castiel scrambled, grabbing a handful of Dean's shirt as blood started to bubble in his throat.

"Pity," Focalor sighed. Dean bared his teeth at the archdemon and drew Castiel closer, shadowing him protectively. Castiel gasped wetly and yanked Dean closer, his grip turning white on the shirt. "He was a pretty thing."

Dean's eyes stayed on the archdemon for a few long seconds before they flicked down to a flash of silver in the water. The Sword. Focalor's eyebrow raised, twisting to follow Dean's gaze.

"Go..." Castiel croaked and the Hunter didn't hesitate, breaking away, dashing passed the archdemon, sliding through the water. He snaked the Sword and flung it across the floor. Focalor dived for the Sword, rolling in the flood. The slender, silver weapon kicked up a spray, Abaddon lurched to her feet, hooking a boot under the Sword and hiked it into the air.

Focalor barked in rage and threw himself at the Angel of War. Abaddon spun the Sword once and braced it, flaring her wings as she drove the point into the archdemon's chest, impaling him between ribs and through the lung.

Focalor staggered to a stop. Looking slightly surprised down at the Sword. Abaddon planted her weight and shoved it a little deeper before giving the archdemon a slight shove, pushing him back and away from her. Focalor tilted his head down at the Sword, lifting a hand to graze it, he was wild eyed and a rattle of laughter crept from his chest before it died and the archdemon's knees gave way, collapsing to kneel before the Angel of War.

Abaddon straightened herself; tattered wings stretching up and out to their full span. Under the mutilated and freely bleeding flesh her spine arched and pulled straight. Focalor's head rolled back and he looked up at her, another small outburst of mad laughter trickled from his lips as bubbles of blood expanded and popped in his mouth. The laughter died and the archdemon looked up at Abadddon.

"He told me I could come Home after twelve hundred years. I was an angel..." He smiled, blood dribbling from his lips. He looked up Abaddon almost pleadingly. "Sister... forgive me."

Abaddon breathed out her nose, tilting her head away from the archdemon. "No, brother. Ya want redemption find someone else. I cain't grant it."

Abaddon side stepped around the creature as Focalor slumped slightly before crumbling into the frigid water, a flicker of light illuminating his skeleton for a moment before it passed.

Dean had already retreated back to Castiel, pulled the smaller, shivering man into his lap and chest, trying to stem the flow of blood from his gut. The outcast angel was panting and heaving, eyes starting to glass over. His fingers were dug into Dean's blood and water soaked shirt.

Abaddon stumbled, hitching steps until one knee crumpled under her and she dropped to the flooded floor near them. She shifted awkwardly to be closer before calling over her shoulder. "Son. On yer feet. Quick now."

McCoy was this trying to work warmth back into his hands. He hesitated at Abaddon's command.

"Son. Now." The Angel of War barked and McCoy scrambled to follow the order, dragging Kirk after him. He moved automatically, creeping around to kneel in the water next to the wounded man. He gingerly pushed Dean's hands away and pulled up Castiel's shirt, inspecting the wound as best he could with the fabric pinned in place by the blade. His heart hitched and sank.

The blood was dark, nearly black. McCoy lightly swept his fingers through it, testing the viscosity.

"It's a liver shot," the Hunter rasped.

The doctor looked up at the knowing eyes of Dean; the haunted pools of green were dull, sick with guilt and loss, past and present. He shivered, making Castiel gasp and whimper as he was jostled slightly.

"D-Dean..." he choked, blood coloring his lips and teeth, his voice choking. "Sister..."

"Be still, Castiel," Abaddon chided, her voice was starting to take on that tone. That low coaxing timber that soothed soldiers as they passed on into the next world.

"Don't." Dean spat, tightening his grip on the outcast angel. "Abby. Don't you dare."

"Quietly, Dean," the Antistratigos soothed. "He is a healer-"

"I cain't fix it," McCoy rasped. "If I had somthin' to work with. Anythin'. I could do somethin' but it's too severe... I cain't."

"Ya are not totally without resource." Abaddon's low coaxing tone continued, moving to light a hand on the medical officer's shoulder. "I have a little power to heal. It's not my forte; I'm not a creator by nature. While I have it, I know not how to use it. I can lend ya this. All ya have to do it tell it what to do, tell it how to fix it."

McCoy looked at Abaddon blankly, not completely comprehending what was being said to him.

"This is much to ask of ya." Abaddon stilled for a moment, racked with a few lurching coughs, smearing away a lather of pink froth from her lips. "But this is my brother, son. I'll not let him die. Can ya do this? Act a conduit?"

McCoy's attention twitched sideways, Castiel's head had fallen back into Dean's shoulder, exposing the long curve of his throat, skin already paling with the loss of blood.

"Hurry up then, damnit," McCoy snarled and jumped slightly when he felt Abaddon's small hand press into the small of his back, urging him closer to Castiel. The Angel of War reached around and pulled the knife free, a new wash of blackish blood gurgled to the surface as the she-angel pushed the sodden fabric away from Castiel gut.

"Christ!" McCoy snapped and rushed to put pressure to the wound. Abaddon caught his hand, nearly crushing it with unnatural strength.

"Don't touch, son." Abaddon guided him until McCoy's hand was poised over the wound. So close he could feel the heat coming off in hitching gasps, gurgling blood and spilling free. He wanted desperately to close that last few centimeters, press down into the wound and stem the flow.

"He'll bleed out-"

"Castiel has existed for millennia as one of the Host and centuries more as somethin' little more than human. Believe that he is strong enough to hold out. Now, ya must be still."

"All this stuff I 'must' do for ya...." McCoy growled his hand and shoulder twitching until Abaddon's grip moved. It slid gingerly to his wrist, rolling to the underside until her palm was pressed into his pulse at his inner wrist and the tips of her fingers were flush against the center of his palm. Her hand between his and Castiel's wound.

"I wouldn't lead ya astray, son. Ya aren't mine but I’ll treat ya as one." Abaddon assured.

"How am I supposed to treat him without touchin' him?" McCoy snapped, through Castiel's half lidded eyes he saw the azure blue was fading, starting to turn milky. He wasn't going to last long.

"Ya need only tell it what to do. Tell me what to do. It's yer knowledge that's needed, not yer hands. Close yer eyes."

McCoy huffed but dropped the argument when Castiel shook violently. The doctor shut his eyes tightly.

"Quietly now, son," Abaddon breathed in his ear and McCoy felt the pulse of the Antistratigos against his forearm. It was slower than natural. McCoy focused on it, listening and lulling away with the beat until he was sure that his own heart was matching the tremble of it. Slow. Slow enough to be considered dead. Would Abaddon kill him, she was a creature of destruction... The beats stayed slow and even, they never stopped. The beat wasn't irregular, just... sluggish... he wasn't sure of it was typical of an angel or damage done by the archdemon. McCoy shuddered at the thought of Focalor, cold started to flow over his spine.

He's dead.A foreign warmth rushed aggressively to push back the cold. It flooded through him roughly, almost harshly. McCoy flinched. The words seared across his mind in the midst of a bonfire flooding his veins.

The doctor tired to jerk away but stilled himself when the grip on his wrist tightened fractionally; reminding McCoy there was a physical world. The bonfire reluctantly flickered down to broiling embers, a coaxing fire. Casting back the shadows and drawing McCoy closer. It wasn't comforting; it was harsh, rough and scorched the edges of himself. It was there to protect him but it made it clear that it would swallow him up if the need came.

Apologies... The words licked and nipped at his mind, leaving a lingering pain behind. Like a bad sun burn. I've been told by my kin that I'm less than gossamer... it's not in my nature to be light handed.

"I'm not made of glass."

He spoke the words, McCoy knows it, felt them molding and spilling from his lips in a croaked whisper but they seemed detached, far away from the harsh warmth and Abaddon humming in his thoughts.

Granted yer blood is stronger than most, son, ya are still a fragile thin' to me...

The scorch of warmth pooled at the base of his neck, heavy, almost a collar of weight; the hollow of his chest suddenly felt packed tight, like his ribs are shrinking around his organs. Not painful but uncomfortable, until the warmth seeped down into his core and McCoy felt like he's not alone in his skin anymore and the thing taking up space was rubbing him raw from the inside.

He shifted uncomfortably, inside and outside his skin. His voice cracked softly, mumbling and maybe a little slurred. "What happenin' here... are ya possessin' me..."

Ya cannot be taken as a vessel. If ya could have I would have asked for yer permission.

"I... don't understand..."

My Grace, what little of that can heal, I'm giving over to yer power for a time. Now use it.

"How-"

The burn in his chest flared, stripping the bone from his ribs. He senses, feels, the wound more than he sees it. It's all around him. Alien and familiar all at once.

Command it.

McCoy shook a little under the crush of heat and power and destruction that wasn't Abaddon, just the failing flesh and organs of a creature that was and wasn't human. It's like being surrounded by a forest fire. He swallowed hard and felt the slight pressure of fingers tips in his palm. It's so detached and far away he has to actually think about it to make it into this formless space.

He breathed in, filling his lungs, realizing that he hasn't drawn air since shutting his eyes. The air's cold, biting and warms slowly against the heat in his chest. He let the air back out. He focused on the sense of the wound.

It's deep, fatal and carved into the liver. Warm and wet, gurgling and bubbling, hotter with shock and fever. The slim and delicate veins were ruptured and seizing.

"Stop."

He had barely breathed the word and the heat in his chest twisted slightly. The veins stilled, taught and straining for a moment before relaxing, slumping and the flow stopped.

It's a shock that he's heeded so quickly. But this is surgery of a kind and McCoy has never faltered in surgery. He licks his lips, chapped and cracked in the cool air.

"The walls need repair..." In an instant the walls and thin tissues are knitting together. "... new blood."

It rushed through the veins, blossoming in rapid fire from marrow and bone and flushing through the systems.

It became a blur, McCoy lost sense of himself in the wound, intimacy of it as he slid billions of cells through his fingers like sand, pausing to will health into damages ones. He muttered, mumbles in incomprehensible strings of whispers that echo and hum around him. The soft tissues of the liver, the damaged muscle all knitted together with a thought, he worked outwards repairing the thick cords and sinews of shredded abdominal muscles, he laid in the slim layer of fat, finally the ever thinning layers of skin, smoothing it and leaving it only flushed with new blood, discolored with irritation, sealing closed the injury.

He breathed again, drawing in air as it nipped at his lungs, cooling the cavity of his chest as the ache and burn of foreign power and consciousness started to bleed away from him.

Well done

...

Sunlit Days Motel, San Francisco, California

Stardate 2260; September 15; 1903 Hours

"He didn't even leave you a scar."

McCoy's eyelids flickered, slitting them open to dim light and the soft, eerie chatter of rain still falling, muffled by walls and windows, steel and drywall. It takes a few long seconds for the heaviness of unconscious sleep to fade from him.

It was warm and dry, blessedly. It was almost enough to send the doctor back into sleep. He felt like he hadn't been dry for weeks, the bitter cold of Focalor’s water and ice left a raw taste in his mouth. He was on his side, half curled around his core. Face was pressed into a pillow that smelled like ozone and coffee, not the bitter freshness that went with the pillows of a Starfleet bunk. The fabric of the comforter under him was warm from his own body heat but not soft. It was rough and scratched slightly against his hands and forearms.

"Dean-"

"C'mon, Cas, this was one of the ones you want something left over." The Hunter growled softly. "That was the Griffin back there. One of three. I mean you cannot honestly tell me you're not a little pissed you don't have a memento? There are angels that wouldn't have survived that-"

"Dean. I barely survived it."

A silence hung that was irrupted by a soft snort that was familiar. Somewhere in the room, probably nearer than the Hunter and outcast angel, Kirk was sleeping in an uncomfortable position. A chair probably, it was the same snorting noise the young captain made when he was sedated in sickbay or fell asleep at his desk working.

"Still could have left you something..." Dean grumbled.

"Dean, do you honestly think you moaning about me not having a scar is going to make you feel any better about Abaddon?"

McCoy stiffened.

"Abby could have done it," Dean snapped, tension filling the air. It almost sounded like he was defending and convincing himself. "She could have."

"Angels are not perfect Dean. You of all should know that."

"She's the Antistratigos, Cas-"

"Yes. She is. A warrior. Not a seer or a judge, most certainly not a healer. It's an ugly way to say it but Abaddon is a destroyer, not a creator, not meant to stave off death. At most she could have spared me the pain."

"She didn't need to friggin' rub wings with the guy. He's a goddamn Nephilim."

Castiel sighed loudly but didn't come McCoy's defense. "Angels are limited creatures Dean... in some ways more limited than humans."

Dean grumbled something in response then went quiet. McCoy listened intently; there was only a little shuffling and the soft clink of metal and rustle of clothing. It sounded like packing. McCoy relaxed again shifting a little on the bedspread. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious. He was exhausted, and unconsciousness was not sleep, it wasn't restorative.

He felt all his bones were aching, his joints especially and it felt as if his chest cavity was empty all together. He sighed quietly and shifted his hands, then stopped. He moved the right again, twisting his wrist and flexing it. The skin pulled oddly. It felt tighter and thicker than it should have been. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable... but a sense of wrongness was there. McCoy lifted his head and twisted his hand into his sight and went rigid.

It was a print... a hand print.

Seemingly small and delicate, a woman's hand, wrapped around his wrist and overlapped across his palm. The flesh was discolored, pale white in some places and red in others, puckered and tender with new scarring. It was laid perfectly into place where Abaddon had held him before.

A hand print was branded into his skin.

The room was filled with the sound of snapping wings.

"I didn't mean to leave a mark on ya."

His eyes snapped up to where the petite, russet haired woman sat on the edge of the bed across from him. Her skin and hair was clean, free of blood and ice, her pallor didn't look hypothermic but didn't have the flush of health. The clothing had been in ribbons the before were untouched. Her hair tied back into place and the glaze of pain was gone from her brilliant green eyes. There was no sign of the wings across her back and the only remains of the ordeal was marks of raw flesh, looking like second degree burns across her exposed skin.

The sigils and symbols Focalor had carved into her lingering.

"What passed between us shouldn't have been strong enough for a mark. Marks are only laid in deep excess of power, but... I was... not in the best state of mind and ya do carry the blood. It must have been enough."

McCoy's eyes dropped to Abaddon's mark, flexing his hand, pulling at the brand. It didn't hinder movement, wouldn't stop him from doing his job. He sighed and let it drop back to the bedding.

"I expect if I tried a dermal regenerator on it, it wouldn't change."

"A mark is laid by the heat of an angel's Grace. It's not exactly... a common scar." Abaddon blinked lazily.

The doctor sighed again before letting his eyes flit across the sigils raw on her skin. "I can fix those."

Abaddon's head cocked to the side before she looked down and lifted one arm, inspecting the burn on the bicep, before letting it drop and turning her attention back to McCoy.

"No. Ya cain't. These wounds are too deep. They were made on my true self. They'll only be painful for a little while longer."

The doctor stiffed and carefully pushed himself up. He glanced over Abaddon's shoulder and saw Kirk freshly awake, curled awkwardly in a semi-plush chair pushed into a corner between the wall and a small bedside table. The young captain was paying close attention, staying quiet and still.

"Yer in pain?" McCoy asked, bristling at the idea.

Abaddon looked at him calmly, her lisp twitching in a 'not-smile'. "Ya truly are a healer... yer fit for yer callin'... Dean. Castiel, join us."

A grunt and to quickly the Hunter and outcast angel stepped around the short divider between the two beds and the small kitchenette and den. It seemed only fair they had listened to his conversation with the Antistratigos, he'd listened to theirs.

Dean moved instantly to sit next to Abaddon, Castiel sat himself at the end McCoy's bed, giving the doctor a graceful and appreciative nod. Kirk unfolded himself from the chair and stepped around to sit between Castiel and McCoy.

"So?" Dean prompted.

"Ramiel is pleased. I only spoke to him for a moment, he feels justified-"

"He know you almost got killed? That Focalor sniffed you out and was carving into you like you were on the goddamn rack?" Dean snarled.

"Who's Ramiel?" Kirk asked, drawing his legs up to cross on the edge of the mattress.

"An Archangel." Castiel hummed quietly. “The three angel's slaughtered by Focalor were in his Legion. He commissioned Abaddon to dispose of him."

"Was he?" Dean growled.

"He was made aware." Abaddon assured moving to light a hand onto the Hunter's collar squeezing once before settling her grip back to the edge of the mattress. Dean's sharp viridian eyes narrowed, no calm coming over him.

"Mike going to do something about it?" he asked coldly. Abaddon sighed and Dean's temper snapped. "Damnit Abby!"

"Such favoritism-" She started.

"Everyone knows you're Michael's favorite! Maybe if he actually treated you like the soldier you were you wouldn't have those scars!" Dean barked.

"Dean," Castiel warned and the Hunter calmed, flashing his teeth unhappily.

"The Host is at civil war enough." Abaddon rasped heavily out her nose. "Pittin' the Stratigos for my sake against Ramiel would split us further. I cain't take much more infightin'."

She let out an exhausted sigh into the quiet. "There's more. I have spoken to Assiel... or more or less my report happened in his presence."

"Assiel?” Dean cocked his head.

"One of the great Healers in Heaven." Castiel's eyes flicked to McCoy then back to Dean and Abaddon. "What happened?"

"I told him what happened, why they wanted ya, son. Told him what ya did for me. He knew yer name but nothin' of yer blood line. I was obliged to tell him." Abaddon sighed and dipped her head slightly.

Dean looked at the posture, the strain on Abaddon's face and hardened. "Assiel disowned him, didn't he?"

Castiel paled slightly and looked as if he was going to be sick, Abaddon sighed again and nodded her head before lifting a hand to rub along her jaw.

"Possibly before I'd finished talkin'."

Dean snorted in disgust and Castiel wrung his hands, it was unsettling and McCoy felt his stomach bottom out. "What does that mean?"

"You've been left for dead." Dean muttered, running a hand through his cropped hair. "By the one thing that's supposed to always protect you."

McCoy swallowed dryly. "Why?"

The noise was pleading and tired, full to the brim without comprehension.

"Among my kin, ya are considered an abomination. Nephilim. Ya are like an animal to us, devout, loyalty and acts of compassion aside."

The doctor slumped back against the headboard of the bed, not quiet understanding what he'd been told. Abaddon spoke before the shock settled in.

The Antistratigos spoke softly. "I took him."

Dean and Castiel blinked in surprise, Kirk looked tense and confused and McCoy rubbed his fingers over the puckered flesh of the brand around his wrist and across his palm.

"What?" He asked dumbly.

Abaddon lifted her chin slightly. "I'm not well versed in healin', I'd probably be more of a hindrance than a help. I'm used to lettin' my soldiers seek peace than patchin' them up to send them back out. But I’ll do justice by yer nature, and hope ya’ll forgive me for my deficiencies. And I’ll protect ya with everythin' I have. As I have every soldier in my charge since Father breathed life into man."

McCoy listened, his head dipped towards his chest and eyes heavy. When he spoke his voice was hard and bitter. "Why? I'm an abomination."

Kirk puffed to speak, gritting his teeth but he deflated when Abaddon continued speaking.

"Ya've already forgotten I touched yer soul?" The Antistratigos pushed herself up to stand, settling her hands in the small of her back and lifted her chin to look down at him. "Forgotten that I found ya fit to lend my Grace to ya? Trusted my brother's life to ya? Do ya honestly believe I would do this to an 'abomination'?"

McCoy lifted his eyes; it was an honest question, not sarcastic. Abaddon's head was cocked slightly, eyebrows arched upwards and confusion in her jade eyes.

"No." McCoy rasped quietly.

Abaddon nodded in approval. "Ya bare my mark; I took ya as one of my charges. These are thin's I don't regret. If ya are in need of me to explain myself further, ask me-"

"No... no I think I get it..." McCoy rubbed the brand across his wrist and palm. Abaddon nodded again.

Dean cleared his throat and rubbed his palms together. "I guess we were due for a field medic anyway... won't have nightmares about Croatoan so much... “

McCoy stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Ya want me to Hunt?"

"Oh Hell no. Like I said. You're an atomic bomb. You stay in space where if you detonate it’s just a vacuum and pretty colors," Dean snorted and bent to snag a pair of jeans just peaking from under the bed, rolling them around his hands and stalked back towards the small table under the window. The Hunter and outcast angel's gear was spread out. Clothes and weapons being divided and checked before being tucked away. Dean dumped the jeans in canvas bag and started sorting the laundry out again, pulling out stray knives or bullets when they surfaced in the clothing.

"Ya aren't fit for the Hunt. For our War. Ya have yer own place, ya turned as my charge doesn't change that." The Antistratigos hummed. "Ya ain't a soldier, son, yer a doctor."

The way she said it was an almost pitying noise, like she can't understand there are sane and worthwhile creatures in the world that don't want to wage war.

She suddenly went rigid, her head tilting to the side as if listening. Castiel and Dean fixed their eyes on her and for a second McCoy doesn't understand until he heard it, too.

Humming, whispering all around him, flooding his senses and drowning out the world. The shrill cries of some swallowed up the choirs of others. Orders and commands overlap praises and warnings and prophecies as the angels sing, crying out from where they are on earth and in a different plane of existence. The ringing pitched in McCoy's ears and he didn’t completely understand what he's hearing, he didn’t understand the orders.

"Gotta go?"

Dean's voice snapped him out of his trance and he shook his head slowly, grinding his palms into his shut eyes, shaking a little as he calmed his breathing and tried to fight back a headache thrumming in his skull.

Next to him Kirk shifted a little. "Bones?" He asked quietly. The doctor only shook his head tiredly.

"Yes. And ya, too," Abaddon agreed. "Midael, a Lochagos, believes he's scented out brother."

Dean and Castiel stiffened before nodding curtly.

"Let us know Abby. We're going to head back up north." Dean looked at Castiel for confirmation. The diminished angel dipped is head in agreement. "Probably back to Colorado or maybe Washington."

"I'll look for ya there." Abaddon twisted and settled her gaze on Kirk. "James."

The blonde captain straightened a little.

"I'm goin' to speak with Nemamial and request that he takes a moment to acquaint himself with ya a little more personally, ya seem like a charge that's goin' to need some... supervision.”

Kirk's head cocked to the side. "Wait... you're not... whatever you are for them-" He motioned at the other three in the room. "-you're not that for me?"

Abaddon only looked back at him calmly.

"But you said you made me-"

"I had a hand in yer makin', James. There are others that have influenced yer soul. But no, yer not my direct responsibility. Nemamial's stead are fighters with just causes, yer his charge. Dean and Castiel have met him; they can assure ya that the two of ya will get along famously. Nemamial is referred to as... a spitfire, I think is the right term. But Nemamial is in my Legion, another of my Lochagos so yer not strayin' too far from me."

Kirk considered her words before nodding in agreement. "When will he come by?"

"Don't set your watch by angels, they're always late," Dean muttered, shrugging one shoulder as he stuffed clean clothes haphazardly into his duffle. "Or sometimes really, really early."

McCoy looked up, rubbing the last of his headache as Abaddon took a step towards him, looking down with her ancient viridian eyes a mix of concern and interest, she spoke quietly. "I expect, as a creature of creation, yer goin' to have a need for more affection and light handlin' than most of my charges."

The doctor snorted and started to speak but he went very still and quiet when the small but unnaturally strong hand settled on his head, fingers threading in his chocolate locks. Another moment and Abaddon dipped and pressed a chaste kiss to his hair.

McCoy shut his eyes and felt ever muscle relax at the touch, a benediction, a seal of her protection. He let out a shuddering breath when Abaddon pulled away, her hand slipping through his hair as she went before it settled into the small of her back.

"I'll not try to change yer nature to suit me better, but do one favor, a mercy for my Grace and soul?"

McCoy nodded mutely.

"If ya are given the chance... slay me a dragon."

McCoy felt his brow furrow; confusion clouding his already overwhelmed mind, the sound of feathers cutting through the air filled the room and where Abaddon had stood was empty.

"She's serious, you know?"

McCoy's eyes moved to look at Dean. The Hunter was toying with his engraved Colt 1911.

"If, by some miracle, you get a shot at one, kill her a dragon. She asked me and Cas to do it, too."

"She... she actually wanted you to kill a dragon for her?" Kirk asked, his eyebrows raised. Dean and Castiel nodded. "I would not do well in your world."

"Understandable." Castiel hummed quietly and gingerly picked up his battered copy of Watership Down and tucking it away in his duffle.

"I'm not sure if it's a loyalty or worthiness thing but it's like her only 'quirk' so, whatever." Dean shrugged, "If you're interested we could help you find one-"

"No... no. If I get the chance." McCoy traced the brand on his wrist and palm all too aware that it was going to become a habit. "If I get the chance, but I'm not goin' to go huntin' a dragon."

"Suit yourself," Dean muttered. "Get yourselves together and we'll drop you off at the campus on our way out of town."

...

Starfleet Academy Campus, San Francisco, California

Stardate 2260; September 15; 2043 Hours

The rain was tapered off. Softened to a steady drizzle. The water warmer than it had been. McCoy watched it for a few minutes through the glass of the antique muscle car. He only hesitated to look up into the structures of the Starfleet Campus before unlocking his door.

The creak of metal and leather as McCoy and Kirk climbed carefully out of the back seat of the Impala was foreign. Dean and Castiel followed suit. The outcast angel scribbling something on the back of a scrap of paper. Castiel moved around to speak to Kirk, holding out the scrap of paper and smiling gently when the young captain made some wolfish remark.

McCoy shifted and lifted his attention to Dean as the Hunter moved to his side, hands slid deep into the pockets of the old leather jacket. He looked old. Ancient. But they all looked like that. Castiel and Abaddon and this Hunter. McCoy wondered if he'd look that way soon, listening to angels and knitting people half his age back together, baring the weight of a Nephilim heritage and a she-angel's print branded into his skin.

"Listen, Doc-"

"Leonard," McCoy said quietly and slipped the tips of his fingers into his jeans pockets. "I'm Leonard."

The Hunter looked at him for a minute before extending his hand. "Dean."

The medical officer wrapped his own large and sure hand around one just as scarred and just as nimble, the puckered flesh of the brand trapped between them. It was a meeting of worlds, the old healer and the older warrior, creator and destroyer.

The light rain soaked their hair and the shoulders of their clothes, sending a shiver through muscle and bone.

"He'd be dead without you." Dean's grip slipped and fell back into his pocket, McCoy mimicked him. Dean looked back over his shoulder following Castiel's movements as he explained something to Kirk. "He's already died once because of me, come close too many times ... but this last time... it was too close. Abby was talking to him like he was going..."

Dean let out a shuddering sigh and twitched a shoulder unhappily. McCoy stayed quiet, he could tell it was hard for Dean so he let the Hunter speak without pressure or prompt... at least not from him.

"He'd go to Hell if he died..." It was said quietly, painfully. "He'd go to the Pit and what Focalor did to Abby would look like a smack on the back of the hand... You saved him... you and Abby, it was something... I couldn't do..."

Dean lifted his head until tired, jade eyes met McCoy's hazel ones.

"Thanks..." His voice was rougher, lower and grit, damaged,

"Yer welcome," the doctor responded evenly. "The two of ya look like ya've been through Hell, stitchin' each other up, 'spect ya set yer own broken bones?"

Dean's lips quirked slightly, he looked tired but amused. "Yep. And put in dislocated joints."

McCoy snarled and shuddered. "Neanderthals."

Dean snorted softly and ran a hand through his hair. Looking up as Kirk and Castiel stepped over, the two men in light conversation as Kirk tucked the slip of paper into his pocket. The blonde moved around to stand next to the doctor.

"It's going to be weird, trying to get back to normal-" Kirk shrugged his shoulders hunching them.

"Don't try," Dean sniffed. "Normal doesn't exist for you guys anymore... it's easier if you just don't try."

McCoy nodded grimly and Kirk shifted uncomfortably.

"Take care guys." Dean lifted his hand in a twitching wave before settling it back into his pocket.

"I highly doubt this'll be the last time we see each other," Castiel assured with a dip of his head.

…

END

Prompt:
-torture
-immortality
-screwing with time