Fic: Paper Ships 4/?
Title: Paper Ships 4/?
Author: yellow_pomelo
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket from S1 to the end of S5
Warnings: Nothing scarier than the show.
Word Count: ~5, 900
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
Summary: AU from late S5; Castiel wanders into a dusty little town. From there, he might just find his way back to that path between Point A and Point B he lost sight of.
Chapter Summary: It's Friday and Castiel goes out for a drink; it's the apocalypse and they've exchanged one team member for another.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It’s Friday again, and like every previous Friday spent in Two Guns, Castiel enters the Watering Hole bar. Once again he’s met with an amiable atmosphere and the heavy scent of alcohol and smoke, but this time he has names to go with the faces he sees, and one in particular draws his attention with a cheerful wave.
“Howdy, stranger,” Annie greets Castiel with a toothy smile as he seats himself at the end of the bar on what has become his regular stool, “What can I get for you tonight?”
Castiel returns her smile, though with significantly less enthusiasm, “The usual.”
“Comin’ right up, darlin’,” she winks, reaching under the bar and lifting his beer into view to complete her pun, clearly having predicted his time of arrival, choice of seat, and choice of drink.
Castiel’s smile warms, both at the joke that even he can tell is bad and the show of familiarity.
“So you really are gonna be a regular, huh?”
“It seems that way,” he replies, taking his beer and rolling it between his palms, “There isn’t much else to do.”
“Yup, but like I said before, you should go and talk to some of the others,” Castiel shoots Annie a sour look and she quickly continues, “I ain’t sayin’ you should find yourself a girl - I get that you’re still hung up on whoever - but having some more friends can’t hurt.”
Unfortunately, in Castiel’s case that isn’t strictly true. Having friends would mean having people around to observe his unusual habits and his inability to age.
But before Castiel can come up with another reason for his antisocial behaviour, a tall figure stumbles through the door that leads to the back rooms.
“Hey, Annie! I can’t find the...” Tom’s eyes skitter from Annie to Castiel in surprise, “Oh, hey Castiel.”
Castiel blinks wide eyes at the youth, “Hello Tom.”
“Hmmm, I see you’ve met Tomato here, then?” Annie grins from where she stands between them.
Tom turns to scowl at her, “It’s Tom.”
“Yes, he purchased some books from Neilson’s,” Castiel answers Annie, and when she raises a brow in confusion, he adds, “I work there.”
“You’re the sucker old man Neilson hired?” Annie looks like she might laugh, “And here I was, worried that you might be a trouble maker, what with your lone wolf attitude - but if that old man can trust you with his books, I s’ppose I can trust you with my dear, sweet nephew,” she punctuates the endearment with a hard pinch to Tom’s cheek which the lad is unable to dodge.
“Annie, I’m not five anymore,” Tom huffs, rubbing his reddened face - obviously the origin of his nickname - mortified.
“Of course not,” she coos indulgently, “Now what did you come out front for?”
Tom crosses his arms like he might be the elder of the two, “I couldn’t find your books.”
“Oh, they’re in my room, but-“ Annie jerks Tom around by the arm as he starts to return to the back, “It’s way too early for you to be startin’ on inventory.”
“You shouldn’t let your work pile up,” Tom complains as his aunt manoeuvres him past the open end of the bar to shove him into the empty stool beside Castiel.
“Yeah, yeah, but the night’s still young and the two of you-“ Annie shoots a disapproving look between Castiel and Tom, “-need to learn how to have fun.”
“Should you really be pushing me onto some guy in a bar?”
“Aw, come on, Tom-ate-oh, Tom-at-oh,” Annie pouts as she reaches under the bar to grab something.
“Look at ‘im, he’s cute as a button; harmless as a fly,” she pokes a finger to the tip of Castiel’s nose, making him lean back in surprise while she slams a pack of orange juice onto the bar in front of Tom, “You’ll be fine, now stay there and let me get back to my other patrons.”
Then Annie saunters off to the other end of the bar, leaving the two of them bewildered in her wake.
It takes a moment for them both to regain their composure, Castiel rubbing at his tender nose and Tom scrunching his face like it might help disperse the redness, “Yeah, I’m sorry about her - and me. It’s not that I think you’re a bad person or something...”
Castiel shakes his head, grins, “It’s fine, she’s... nice, and I understand that you just want to finish your work.”
“Yeah,” Tom nods, thankful for Castiel’s understanding. Then he drags the pack of orange juice closer to him with mild embarrassment, turning it over to rip open the plastic and free the first juice box, “So, how’re you liking Two Guns?”
“It’s a quiet town,” Castiel peels at the packaging of his own drink as Tom pulls the plastic wrapped straw off the side of his carton.
“Yeah,” Tom agrees, slipping the straw from its wrap and stabbing it through the foil circle on the juice box, “Are you staying with a friend?”
“No, I rent a room at the inn.”
“Oh, I stayed there when a pipe burst here a few summers ago, but I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Tom draws a thoughtful drink from his box, swallows, “It was just too weird having my aunt sleeping in a bed next to me. Or maybe it’s cause she makes these weird smiley faces when she sleeps-“ Tom’s nose wrinkles and he twirls his straw between his fingers, “I dunno, it was just - weird,” he reiterates.
Then Tom shakes off whatever ‘weird’ he remembered and asks, “Are you comfortable there?”
Castiel sips slowly at his beer, not sure how to measure his comfort level at the inn. On one hand he’s having vivid and disturbing dreams, on the other hand the accommodations are clean and well kept. In the end he decides to focus on the physical aspects, “It’s better than many of the places I’ve stayed at.”
“Right, cause you travel a lot,” Tom nods, recalling their conversation in the bookstore, “So what places have you been to?”
Castiel cocks his head back, looking up at the ceiling as he lists a few, “India, Russia, Britain, Tibet, Egypt - all around the world, actually; visiting temples and holy grounds.”
Tom rests an arm against the counter so he sits sideways facing Castiel, “Was this a spiritual thing?”
“No. I was looking for my Father,” Castiel takes a sip from his beer.
“Your dad?” Tom frowns, “Did you find him?”
“No.”
“Oh... I’m sorry,” the boy dips his head down to his juice box - empty now.
“It’s not your fault,” Castiel takes a new carton from the pack and hands it to Tom.
The lad accepts the juice box with quiet thanks, then asks tentatively like he’s afraid he might accidentally touch another sensitive subject, “Well, of all the places you’ve been, which was your favourite?”
Castiel takes a long pull from his beer bottle, rolls the alcohol in his mouth and lets it trickle down his throat. He doesn’t know why he draws out the time before he has to respond when he already knows the answer, “I have to say I prefer being here.”
“Really?” Tom says doubtfully, probably thinking about all the wondrous architecture and breathtaking landscapes he’s seen in travel magazines and comparing them to the dusty towns and grey cityscapes he was born to.
Castiel smiles wanly at the boy beside him, “I didn’t realize until after, but I always preferred being in this country.”
“Why?” a puzzled twist to his lips.
“I had a... a friend,” Castiel brushes his thumb across his bottle, trying to wipe away the condensation beading on the glass, “He and his brother drove everywhere, helping people, and on occasion, I’d join them. Our work was dangerous and taxing, but somehow there were times that were... good.”
Castiel looks up from his beer to see Tom’s eyes round and guilty, thinking he must’ve stumbled onto another of Castiel’s sore spots.
And he has - but what part of Castiel isn’t sore? - so Castiel assures him with a small smile, “I haven’t seen my friend in years, but I’ve been talking to his brother and he seems to be doing well.”
“Oh, really? That’s great,” Tom relaxes a little, returning to his orange juice, “It’s good that you’re able to keep in touch with them.”
“Yes,” the irony is almost too much and it squeezes a breathy laugh from Castiel.
Tom doesn’t hear the note of bitterness in Castiel’s tone, and speaks around the straw in his mouth, “I have a friend that moved all the way to California. We used to be really close and we still talk sometimes, but there’re some things that you just can’t say long distance.”
“Such as?”
“Well... advice, I guess. I know she’s having some problems with this guy. I think he’s kind of a basta-bad influence, but he makes her happy... I don’t know. I just feel like it isn’t my place to say,” Tom drops his box of juice next to the empty one, using a finger at the base of each carton to slide them together, then apart, “I mean, I’m all the way in the East and she’s way in the West. But maybe - maybe I should say something?”
“I understand what you mean,” and Castiel does.
“Yeah, I know it sounds like teenage drama and crap, but...” Tom sighs, removing his hands from the bar and leaving the juice boxes pushed apart. He turns questioning eyes to Castiel, voice wavering, “Is what’s best for her the thing that makes her happy or the thing that makes her healthy?”
Castiel sets his beer down, in line with the juice boxes, each one separated by a foot of space, “If you’re hoping to draw from my experience, I’m sorry to say that I’m still trying to figure that out.”
***The three of them sit quietly around the kitchenette table, silent and unsmiling. Castiel would usually stand against a wall or hover in the back, but when they entered the motel room this time, they’d all automatically drifted to the circular table.
Bobby heaved himself into his chair as if the mobility in his legs was wearing off, and now he sits, sagging like an ancient tree that has weathered one too many storms. The lines on his face have even deepened in an imitation of bark, the coarse hair of his beard a nest of dried grass.
Dean walked slowly like a wraith across the tile, then dropped himself into his chair with a ramrod straight back - good posture Castiel has never seen Dean use. The difference between the way Dean sits and the lost look on his face is jarring - a wind-up soldier who doesn’t understand how he’s still marching forwards when his turn key’s been lost.
It’s like they’ve all been transformed over the short car ride to the motel and Castiel wonders how he appears to the others, but no one breaks the silence to comment on it. There are no inappropriate jokes from Dean or sarcastic remarks from Bobby. They simply sit and try not to look at the fourth chair - the empty chair.
Castiel never knew that absence could have such a great and terrible presence. Where he expected a void in the room, an empty hollow place, instead there is a massive weight. It’s a waterfall opening up from nowhere and everywhere, pounding down on the fourth chair, slowly flooding the room. But no one moves to get up and Castiel thinks it makes sense - what use is there in trying to escape when they’ve already drowned?
Dean is hit the hardest, but somehow there’s still a flickering in his eyes and Castiel doesn’t know if he’d prefer that light to be there or gone. False hope is a horrific thing that lets someone fly just those few miles more before they realize that they aren’t flying at all - the wax of their wings melted away ages ago and they’re merely being carried in the claws of the predator that caught them.
Sitting across from Dean, Castiel watches a frown grow on the man’s face as his expression slowly hardens. There’s still pain in his eyes, but it’s solid enough that Castiel isn’t surprised when Dean suddenly stands, pushing his chair back with a clack of wood on tile.
Dean stalks out the front door, leaving it open so Castiel can see him lean against the side of the Impala, cell phone against his ear and head bowed like he might be praying - ridiculous since not even Castiel prays anymore.
After a few minutes and a few words, Dean snaps his phone shut, grips the black plastic tightly against his chest before shoving it back in his pocket. Then he’s marching into the motel room, moving to stand behind his chair with eyes landing first on Castiel, then Bobby, then returning to Castiel.
“Four months,” Dean’s voice is rough like he was screaming into his phone instead of whispering, “Chuck said it’ll take at least four months for Heaven and Hell to get their shit together.”
Dean nods decisively like it’s the answer to some question, leaning forwards with hands braced on the back of the chair, “So we have four months to find another way.”
Castiel sees Bobby’s eyes slide shut and chin tip down in defeat from the corner of his eye, but his focus remains on Dean.
The determination Dean’s managed to scrounge up is plastered all over his body, shoring up the cracks that were visible just moments before as wraith-like steps and bloodshot eyes.
It’s a fragile patch job and Castiel is wary of breaking it, “There is nothing, Dean.”
“Fuck that-“ Dean slams a fist onto the table, making the beer bottles from yesterday jump, “There’s got to be!”
They stare at each other as if the solution is hiding on the other’s retinas, but of course it isn’t, and Dean’s eyes narrow with suppressed emotion. The man grits his teeth, mouth turning into something between a snarl and a wound before he tears away from the table, storming to the other side of the room so he can pace back and forth between the beds.
Castiel and Bobby watch him with matching expressions of fatigue - mental and physical - neither reacting to the danger posed by the animal caged in the motel with them until Dean suddenly stops.
Dean backtracks until he’s at the foot of the beds again then crouches down to pull his duffel out from under his bed, unzipping the top and throwing it open eagerly. He reaches inside, pushing socks and shirts aside before withdrawing his hand.
He’s holding a large tin box. It looks like it originally held biscuits, but Dean lifts it out with the grace he naturally adopts when he wields a gun, a knife - a weapon.
Castiel’s heart rate picks up. It’s a reaction he can’t explain, but his blood seems to know the reason.
He can hear his pulse beating in his ears like war drums sounding through a valley as his blood rushes away from his extremities, leaving his fingers cold and pale. His vision tunnels on the metal in Dean’s hands, taking in the green and white stripes printed on the sides, the smudges of engine oil, and the uneven bumps where tin seams were soldered shut.
Then there’s the press of Dean’s thumb against the dented lid, the wobbly sounds of sheet metal flexing as he pops the top off; reveals the curled edges of yellowed paper.
“Why do you have those,” it’s not a question.
Castiel had put those scrolls back on the shelf at the temple and he’d told Dean to leave them; had kept Dean within his sight for the rest of the excursion.
Yet here they are. Those scrolls.
In Dean’s hands.
“Look, Cas,” Dean says, pulling scroll after scroll out from the box and laying them on the bed, “I know you think these scrolls are bad news, but I don’t even care if they’re about the Bad News Bears - so long as they might help.”
Bobby shifts in his seat uneasily, picking up on the tension stiffening Castiel’s shoulders, “What the hell’ve you got there, boy?”
Dean runs a hand across the six rolls of ancient code laid side by side on top of the sheets. They look too large to have fit in Dean’s box, but Castiel isn’t sure if he’s seeing their true size or if they’ve been inflated in his eyes.
“We found them at that library we visited a few weeks ago,” Dean tells Bobby, eyes sliding over to Castiel, reading his reaction, “Cas doesn’t think we can use them, but I do.”
Castiel’s nostrils flare at the challenge in Dean’s words, “Dean - we didn’t have enough time before, and even four months may not be enough to translate them, let alone prepare whatever ritual is described,” Castiel says, reiterating one of the reasons he’d given Dean at the temple like it’s why he doesn’t want them here.
“Well what else is there, Cas?” Dean throws his hands up, voice rising, “You said it yourself - nothing. There’s nothing but this.” Dean slaps his hands down to the mattress on either side of the row of scrolls, “We’ve got to try. It can’t be any worse than sending Sam-”
He bites back his words, head ducking down to hide his face as his fingers curl into the sheets like claws.
It takes less than five seconds for Dean to compose himself again, lifting his eyes as if nothing happened, “Even if you don’t think it’ll work, just-“
Dean pauses, lets a breath shudder out like he’s searching for strength, but Castiel knows that he’s really chipping off pieces of himself - always so self destructive - offering them up to whatever will answer his cry.
“Please.”
And Castiel tells himself he should say no. He should trust his instincts to leave the scrolls alone because even if they aren’t evil, there is something inherently wrong about them. He should leave, get out of his chair and exit through the door like a human if he has to.
And when that doesn’t work, he tells himself it’s because he’s afraid of what Dean will do if Castiel ignores him.
But the truth is simple - Castiel never can deny Dean.
Not when Dean is looking at him like...
Castiel turns in his seat to count the tiles on the kitchenette wall, “The Goddess Kali may be of some assistance,” his shoulders slump, the fight slipping out of him, “We may seek her aid in translating the scrolls.”
He can’t see Dean’s reaction, but he hears gratitude in the sigh of fabric being smoothed out as Dean unclenches his hands from the sheets.
Bobby clears his throat as if he might be interrupting something, “You boys got any idea what you might need for whatever craziness you’re thinking of?”
Castiel glances at the older man, sees that Bobby’s mouth is pulled down in a frown - weary, but resigned to follow Dean wherever his plan might lead. And Dean fixes the older man with a relieved look, like he’d assumed that Bobby would be with him, but is glad for the confirmation.
“For the actual... ritual, we don’t yet know what materials we’ll need, but to contact Kali I will require your blood,” Castiel tips his chin towards Dean, “and we will need to visit a cremation ground and a cemetery.”
Dean nods, already packing the scrolls back into their box, “Is there a crematorium nearby or do we have to move?”
“There’s one a few blocks away, next to a morgue,” Bobby pulls himself stiffly out of his chair, adjusting his cap as he stands, “Shouldn’t be more than a fifteen minute drive, but what do you need from there?”
“Ashes,” Castiel pushes away from the table also, moves to the front door to wait for the others to get ready, “The presence of death.”
Dean looks up from the box in his hands, halfway between kneeling and standing up, “Do you mean reapers?”
“Reapers are not the only incarnations of death,” Castiel says, patient because he isn’t in any hurry to summon the goddess of destruction, “They appear in many forms to ferry the recently deceased to their places, but they also have shadows of sorts.”
When Castiel doesn’t continue, Dean glances at Bobby who turns to lift thick brows at Castiel. He prompts gruffly, “And?”
“These shadows often follow those who will soon pass on, then stay by the remains of the deceased for a while after,” Dean tucks his box under his arm and pushes them outside, locking the motel door behind them and motioning for Castiel to keep talking as they slide into the Impala, “It is why people sometimes have premonitions of death and why the world is not over run with ghosts.”
“Hang on,” Dean says, glancing to his side at Castiel as he pulls out of the motel parking lot, “I thought ghosts happened because of... you know, they go mad or something from sticking around on Earth instead of following a reaper.”
“Yes, but reapers do not wait indefinitely for spirits to make their choice,” Castiel peers uneasily out the windshield, watching each traffic light turn green as they approach, as if encouraging their plan of action, “It often takes more than a few weeks for spirits to relinquish their lives. These shadows can act as a path for them to follow when their reaper is no longer attending to them.”
“Oh...” Dean runs his fingers over the top of the steering wheel thoughtfully, “That makes sense.”
Bobby grunts from the back seat, either a noise of question or a complaint about the lack of leg room in the back, but Dean answers anyways, “There was this one case in Nevada along highway 41. This girl, she didn’t know she was dead and kept reliving her last night, but when we... when she finally realized what happened she managed to move on, even though it didn’t seem like a reaper took her.”
“You sayin’ it’s that light at the end of the tunnel?” Bobby says dryly.
“It’s possible that humans perceive it as such,” Castiel agrees, “And while reapers may leave these tunnels for spirits to walk through when they’re ready, they can also be used to communicate with those who have ties with death.”
“So we’re making a long distance call using a hotline of death?” Dean bobs his head to the side, mouth stretched skeptically, “That sounds pricey - are you sure my blood’s enough? I thought you meant a pint or two, but-“
“It will be enough,” Castiel interrupts, “If what you told me about your meeting with her is true, Kali will recognize you, and she will answer.”
The last few minutes of the car ride are silent, as is the process of breaking into the crematorium. While Castiel had offered to transport them all directly inside, Dean had refused, saying that he still hadn’t recovered from his previous strain and should be conserving the remnants of his grace for more important things.
Eventually, after searching most of the first floor, they make it into a narrow storage room adjoined with the incinerator room and find a large shelf of containers along one wall. But as Castiel takes down the nearest tub, Bobby lays a hand on his shoulder, “Do you need the ashes to all be from the same person?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll use just a bit from each container,” Bobby levels him with a stern stare. Unusual since the man normally finds meeting Castiel’s eyes awkward.
Castiel turns to check with Dean, sure that lengthening the time the process takes will bother him, but Dean’s eyes are fixed sadly on the shelf, scanning the names labelling each tub.
Castiel looks between the two men, noting how Dean stands without fidgeting and Bobby has removed his cap, and it occurs to him then what their concern is.
If he uses all the ashes from one container, there will be a family somewhere who will never know what happened to the remains of their loved one. It would be worse than torching bones since the family hasn’t even finished their burial rites yet. And while hunters might desecrate graves all the time or break into morgues to prod at bodies and take blood, there are some things about death they still respect - or more accurately, it is the living they respect; the ones who were left behind, as hunters themselves were left behind.
Since he is an intangible being, Castiel sometimes forgets what value is invested into physical things. To him, a body is an object different from a rock only in composition, but to a human, it is a person. Even dead, with soul departed, the remains are more than carbon.
“Very well,” Castiel’s gaze falls gently to the tub in his hand - Cohen, Emily - before he says softly¬, “We will need an empty container then.”
Dean’s already found one and taken it out from the cabinet by the door. He places the open tub on a table and Castiel carefully pries the lid off the container he holds; tips a tenth of the ashes out.
They take one tenth from ten containers of ashes before sealing the tub on the table and arranging everything as close to how they found it as possible. Then they make their way out of the crematorium the same way they entered and slide back onto the leather seats of the Impala to drive to the nearest cemetery.
The cemetery they find is relatively new and well cared for with manicured lawns of lush green grass and benign trees. The grave markers aren’t cracked, ranging in shape from the standard block to elaborate angels and the flowers laid upon the graves are fresh and neat. It’s not like the graveyards they normally visit, and Dean and Bobby eye the sturdy cast iron that fences off the area with caution.
They aren’t deterred and it takes almost no time for Dean to pick the lock of the front gate so the Impala can drive through, but they keep a closer eye out for any security and make sure to close the gate behind them - though they keep it unlocked - so as not to catch unwanted attention.
When they’re deep enough in the cemetery to have the illusion of privacy, they park the Impala and get out, Dean carrying a flashlight in one hand, the box of scrolls tucked under his other arm. Bobby makes a move to bring a weapon, but at Castiel’s warning, he grudgingly leaves his shotgun behind. They all know it wouldn’t be of much use, but like Dean’s ivory handled colt, the shotgun is an extension of Bobby that he feels uncomfortable without.
At Castiel’s direction, they search for the freshest grave possible that has a flat headstone. Bobby finds one with a pinkish granite slab and Castiel nods in approval before getting down on his knees, turning the grave dirt with his fingers. His eyes scan the darkness for the slight flicker in the fabric of the physical plane that would confirm the presence of a death’s shadow.
He finds it, a slight wavering in the darkness under a nearby weeping willow, and sets to work.
He starts by laying an unbroken circle of ash over the stone, drawing in the light of Dean’s flashlight, and then fills it with sigils and shapes also lined in ash. The whole time, he breathes the names of the symbols in the language of death - anchor, arch, hourglass - whispers shaped by his angelic tongue and not that of his vessel; he traces his fingers through the fine grey powder.
When the design is complete, he gestures for Dean to come closer, words continuing to flow silently from his unmoving mouth - lion, palm, oak - Dean hands his flashlight off to Bobby and rolls up his sleeve before slipping a knife from his belt.
Castiel takes the knife from Dean, glancing once at the shadows which seemed to have lengthened before meeting the man’s eyes. He pulls Dean’s arm over the circle of ash and cuts a long gash into the flesh of his forearm making Dean wince, though he doesn’t shy away, green looking trustingly down at Castiel.
Blood wells up in a shining red stream, drawn by gravity over the curve of muscle and down to the tombstone where it spots the grey dust with colour. The impact of each drop sends up the lightest puff of powder which swirls delicately under the beam of the flashlight - sword, shell, laurel - seeming to quiver in time with the syllables men cannot hear.
As Dean’s blood pools inside the circle of ash, the shadow under the weeping willow begins distorting violently enough that both Dean and Bobby notice. Bobby takes up a defensive position, holding the flashlight like a club as its light flickers and dies. But Dean’s arm is still held by Castiel, so he remains stooped over the headstone, eyes trying to penetrate the dark that the flashlight couldn’t.
It’s not until all the symbols - torch, swallow, snake - in the circle have been washed out by Dean’s blood to create a red mirror that the willow’s shadow finally settles.
Only it doesn’t return to being just a shadow, instead there’s a nothingness into which the air rushes, generating a howling wind that breaks the circle of ash and frees Dean’s blood to run in wild patterns down the sides of the grave marker.
There’s the hissing of snakes like the rivulets of blood have come to life.
The scream of jackals as the night is devoured by a deeper darkness.
Then there’s a voice that’s speaks with no sound.
An answer to their call.
Dean Winchester
And the wind rushes back in reverse, whipping out and stripping leaves from trees. It rakes through the grass and pushes into the three of them, a force the men have to brace themselves against which makes the loose ends of their clothing flap out and Bobby’s cap shift sideways.
From the darkness melts a shape that might be the silhouette of a woman, skin of blackest ink and eyes red fire, but then it steps out from under the willow and Castiel sees what Dean must have seen at the motel where the gods gathered - a beautiful woman with shining black hair, red shirt and black skirt clinging to graceful curves; high heeled feet treading soundlessly.
The glint of reflective eyes and the hush of scales through grass.
Om Kreem Kalikayai Namah.
Castiel breathes out, angelic and human voice united.
Black eyes glide from Dean to land on Castiel, “Another angel,” Kali considers him darkly as the night stills, voice smooth and almost human, “But much better mannered than your brothers, I see.”
Castiel brings himself to his feet, hand still wrapped around Dean’s wrist. He tugs Dean closer, pulling a square cloth from the pocket of his trench to tie around the cut on Dean’s arm, eyes never leaving Kali.
The goddess watches without comment, but Dean shoots Castiel an annoyed look, trying to yank his arm back. He doesn’t succeed until Castiel is finished wrapping the wound, and then Dean steps back to face Kali, voice strong in the quiet that has returned to the graveyard, “We need your help.”
“You seek my help when you’ve handed Lucifer his true vessel?” Kali’s tone is calm, but the shadows slither with her words, “Lucifer who has killed my peers and seeks to claim a world that isn’t his.”
Bobby shifts warily, knowing his makeshift club is useless but unwilling to put it down. The corner of Dean’s jaw ticks once with nerves, but he says stubbornly, “Yeah, I’m asking.”
Kali’s eyes narrow and Dean continues before she can refuse him, “I know what you’re thinking, but we were trying to lock Lucy back up. It just-“ Dean’s fists clench and unclench, “-it didn’t work. But this isn’t over. We’ve got at least four more months.”
“Four months?” the shadows retreat.
“Yeah, according to the prophet - and we all know how those flying dicks are sticklers for the book.”
Kali hums to herself as she begins circling the trio of men in the graveyard like she’s looking to pick out the weakest in the herd, “And what is it you need me to do?”
Dean relaxes at the interest Kali shows - and Castiel wants to snap at him to keep his guard up, but he doesn’t interrupt, knowing the goddess’ distaste for angels. He lets Dean speak for them, “We have some scrolls that might be important, but we can’t read them - they’re coded and we don’t know the languages used.”
Dean takes his box out from under his arm, popping off the lid as he does and revealing the rolls of vellum which appear bone white in the dim moonlight.
Kali’s eyes widen briefly and Castiel thinks she must recognize them, but she gives no further sign.
“Will you help us?” Dean asks again.
The goddess steps towards Dean until only the box separates them, then reaches up with one hand to trace a pointed red fingernail along the edge of the man’s jaw, scratching a thin white line onto his skin, “There are... conditions I will require you to meet.”
Dean’s eyes remain locked with Kali’s and he doesn’t back away, but Castiel takes a step closer, his vessel’s teeth grinding slowly.
“I accept,” Dean says, and both Bobby and Castiel choke on their breaths.
“What?” Bobby turns to look at Dean incredulously, but Dean ignores him.
Kali smiles, pleased, “You haven’t heard the terms yet.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Dean speaks carelessly, like he’s talking about dividing a weekend to-do list, “Whatever your conditions are - I accept.”
“Dean, at least-“ Castiel starts to say, but Kali interrupts him.
“Calm yourself, angel. My requirements are simple-“ Kali’s eyes flash at Castiel before returning softly to Dean, “-only a blood oath and the condition that the scrolls stay with me. I promise you that these scrolls have the power to remove the Devil from our midst, but I will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it, and you will do what is needed without objection.”
It sounds too much like a Deal and a thousand scenarios that Dean could be placed in run through Castiel’s mind, most of them unpleasant. And the same thoughts must occur to Dean because there’s the first sign of hesitation in the twitch of a finger on the tin box.
But Dean shakes it off, pushing the box of scrolls towards the goddess. Determined, he says for the third and final time, “I accept.”
Kali takes the box, looking at Dean with a mixture of pride and resignation - a mother sending her son to war.
In his strength of will and his acceptance of whatever may come, Dean has proven himself an ideal child of Kali, and as Castiel expected he has earned her favour. But standing with Bobby, watching Dean remove the blood soaked wrapping from his arm to give to Kali, Castiel doesn’t listen to the oath she recites for Dean to repeat. He can only hear his own thoughts circling around the question of what it really means to be blessed by the goddess of destruction.
He fears.
tbc
***
Notes: I don't know diddly about mythology. Everything is fiction inspired by things I read on the internet.
Om Kreem Kalikayai Namah.
"Praise and adoration to Mother Kali, Destroyer of Illusion."
Kali's mantra
And if anyone's wondering, the 'symbols' Castiel was naming are supposed to be figures commonly found on headstones.
Author: yellow_pomelo
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket from S1 to the end of S5
Warnings: Nothing scarier than the show.
Word Count: ~5, 900
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
Summary: AU from late S5; Castiel wanders into a dusty little town. From there, he might just find his way back to that path between Point A and Point B he lost sight of.
Chapter Summary: It's Friday and Castiel goes out for a drink; it's the apocalypse and they've exchanged one team member for another.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It’s Friday again, and like every previous Friday spent in Two Guns, Castiel enters the Watering Hole bar. Once again he’s met with an amiable atmosphere and the heavy scent of alcohol and smoke, but this time he has names to go with the faces he sees, and one in particular draws his attention with a cheerful wave.
“Howdy, stranger,” Annie greets Castiel with a toothy smile as he seats himself at the end of the bar on what has become his regular stool, “What can I get for you tonight?”
Castiel returns her smile, though with significantly less enthusiasm, “The usual.”
“Comin’ right up, darlin’,” she winks, reaching under the bar and lifting his beer into view to complete her pun, clearly having predicted his time of arrival, choice of seat, and choice of drink.
Castiel’s smile warms, both at the joke that even he can tell is bad and the show of familiarity.
“So you really are gonna be a regular, huh?”
“It seems that way,” he replies, taking his beer and rolling it between his palms, “There isn’t much else to do.”
“Yup, but like I said before, you should go and talk to some of the others,” Castiel shoots Annie a sour look and she quickly continues, “I ain’t sayin’ you should find yourself a girl - I get that you’re still hung up on whoever - but having some more friends can’t hurt.”
Unfortunately, in Castiel’s case that isn’t strictly true. Having friends would mean having people around to observe his unusual habits and his inability to age.
But before Castiel can come up with another reason for his antisocial behaviour, a tall figure stumbles through the door that leads to the back rooms.
“Hey, Annie! I can’t find the...” Tom’s eyes skitter from Annie to Castiel in surprise, “Oh, hey Castiel.”
Castiel blinks wide eyes at the youth, “Hello Tom.”
“Hmmm, I see you’ve met Tomato here, then?” Annie grins from where she stands between them.
Tom turns to scowl at her, “It’s Tom.”
“Yes, he purchased some books from Neilson’s,” Castiel answers Annie, and when she raises a brow in confusion, he adds, “I work there.”
“You’re the sucker old man Neilson hired?” Annie looks like she might laugh, “And here I was, worried that you might be a trouble maker, what with your lone wolf attitude - but if that old man can trust you with his books, I s’ppose I can trust you with my dear, sweet nephew,” she punctuates the endearment with a hard pinch to Tom’s cheek which the lad is unable to dodge.
“Annie, I’m not five anymore,” Tom huffs, rubbing his reddened face - obviously the origin of his nickname - mortified.
“Of course not,” she coos indulgently, “Now what did you come out front for?”
Tom crosses his arms like he might be the elder of the two, “I couldn’t find your books.”
“Oh, they’re in my room, but-“ Annie jerks Tom around by the arm as he starts to return to the back, “It’s way too early for you to be startin’ on inventory.”
“You shouldn’t let your work pile up,” Tom complains as his aunt manoeuvres him past the open end of the bar to shove him into the empty stool beside Castiel.
“Yeah, yeah, but the night’s still young and the two of you-“ Annie shoots a disapproving look between Castiel and Tom, “-need to learn how to have fun.”
“Should you really be pushing me onto some guy in a bar?”
“Aw, come on, Tom-ate-oh, Tom-at-oh,” Annie pouts as she reaches under the bar to grab something.
“Look at ‘im, he’s cute as a button; harmless as a fly,” she pokes a finger to the tip of Castiel’s nose, making him lean back in surprise while she slams a pack of orange juice onto the bar in front of Tom, “You’ll be fine, now stay there and let me get back to my other patrons.”
Then Annie saunters off to the other end of the bar, leaving the two of them bewildered in her wake.
It takes a moment for them both to regain their composure, Castiel rubbing at his tender nose and Tom scrunching his face like it might help disperse the redness, “Yeah, I’m sorry about her - and me. It’s not that I think you’re a bad person or something...”
Castiel shakes his head, grins, “It’s fine, she’s... nice, and I understand that you just want to finish your work.”
“Yeah,” Tom nods, thankful for Castiel’s understanding. Then he drags the pack of orange juice closer to him with mild embarrassment, turning it over to rip open the plastic and free the first juice box, “So, how’re you liking Two Guns?”
“It’s a quiet town,” Castiel peels at the packaging of his own drink as Tom pulls the plastic wrapped straw off the side of his carton.
“Yeah,” Tom agrees, slipping the straw from its wrap and stabbing it through the foil circle on the juice box, “Are you staying with a friend?”
“No, I rent a room at the inn.”
“Oh, I stayed there when a pipe burst here a few summers ago, but I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Tom draws a thoughtful drink from his box, swallows, “It was just too weird having my aunt sleeping in a bed next to me. Or maybe it’s cause she makes these weird smiley faces when she sleeps-“ Tom’s nose wrinkles and he twirls his straw between his fingers, “I dunno, it was just - weird,” he reiterates.
Then Tom shakes off whatever ‘weird’ he remembered and asks, “Are you comfortable there?”
Castiel sips slowly at his beer, not sure how to measure his comfort level at the inn. On one hand he’s having vivid and disturbing dreams, on the other hand the accommodations are clean and well kept. In the end he decides to focus on the physical aspects, “It’s better than many of the places I’ve stayed at.”
“Right, cause you travel a lot,” Tom nods, recalling their conversation in the bookstore, “So what places have you been to?”
Castiel cocks his head back, looking up at the ceiling as he lists a few, “India, Russia, Britain, Tibet, Egypt - all around the world, actually; visiting temples and holy grounds.”
Tom rests an arm against the counter so he sits sideways facing Castiel, “Was this a spiritual thing?”
“No. I was looking for my Father,” Castiel takes a sip from his beer.
“Your dad?” Tom frowns, “Did you find him?”
“No.”
“Oh... I’m sorry,” the boy dips his head down to his juice box - empty now.
“It’s not your fault,” Castiel takes a new carton from the pack and hands it to Tom.
The lad accepts the juice box with quiet thanks, then asks tentatively like he’s afraid he might accidentally touch another sensitive subject, “Well, of all the places you’ve been, which was your favourite?”
Castiel takes a long pull from his beer bottle, rolls the alcohol in his mouth and lets it trickle down his throat. He doesn’t know why he draws out the time before he has to respond when he already knows the answer, “I have to say I prefer being here.”
“Really?” Tom says doubtfully, probably thinking about all the wondrous architecture and breathtaking landscapes he’s seen in travel magazines and comparing them to the dusty towns and grey cityscapes he was born to.
Castiel smiles wanly at the boy beside him, “I didn’t realize until after, but I always preferred being in this country.”
“Why?” a puzzled twist to his lips.
“I had a... a friend,” Castiel brushes his thumb across his bottle, trying to wipe away the condensation beading on the glass, “He and his brother drove everywhere, helping people, and on occasion, I’d join them. Our work was dangerous and taxing, but somehow there were times that were... good.”
Castiel looks up from his beer to see Tom’s eyes round and guilty, thinking he must’ve stumbled onto another of Castiel’s sore spots.
And he has - but what part of Castiel isn’t sore? - so Castiel assures him with a small smile, “I haven’t seen my friend in years, but I’ve been talking to his brother and he seems to be doing well.”
“Oh, really? That’s great,” Tom relaxes a little, returning to his orange juice, “It’s good that you’re able to keep in touch with them.”
“Yes,” the irony is almost too much and it squeezes a breathy laugh from Castiel.
Tom doesn’t hear the note of bitterness in Castiel’s tone, and speaks around the straw in his mouth, “I have a friend that moved all the way to California. We used to be really close and we still talk sometimes, but there’re some things that you just can’t say long distance.”
“Such as?”
“Well... advice, I guess. I know she’s having some problems with this guy. I think he’s kind of a basta-bad influence, but he makes her happy... I don’t know. I just feel like it isn’t my place to say,” Tom drops his box of juice next to the empty one, using a finger at the base of each carton to slide them together, then apart, “I mean, I’m all the way in the East and she’s way in the West. But maybe - maybe I should say something?”
“I understand what you mean,” and Castiel does.
“Yeah, I know it sounds like teenage drama and crap, but...” Tom sighs, removing his hands from the bar and leaving the juice boxes pushed apart. He turns questioning eyes to Castiel, voice wavering, “Is what’s best for her the thing that makes her happy or the thing that makes her healthy?”
Castiel sets his beer down, in line with the juice boxes, each one separated by a foot of space, “If you’re hoping to draw from my experience, I’m sorry to say that I’m still trying to figure that out.”
***The three of them sit quietly around the kitchenette table, silent and unsmiling. Castiel would usually stand against a wall or hover in the back, but when they entered the motel room this time, they’d all automatically drifted to the circular table.
Bobby heaved himself into his chair as if the mobility in his legs was wearing off, and now he sits, sagging like an ancient tree that has weathered one too many storms. The lines on his face have even deepened in an imitation of bark, the coarse hair of his beard a nest of dried grass.
Dean walked slowly like a wraith across the tile, then dropped himself into his chair with a ramrod straight back - good posture Castiel has never seen Dean use. The difference between the way Dean sits and the lost look on his face is jarring - a wind-up soldier who doesn’t understand how he’s still marching forwards when his turn key’s been lost.
It’s like they’ve all been transformed over the short car ride to the motel and Castiel wonders how he appears to the others, but no one breaks the silence to comment on it. There are no inappropriate jokes from Dean or sarcastic remarks from Bobby. They simply sit and try not to look at the fourth chair - the empty chair.
Castiel never knew that absence could have such a great and terrible presence. Where he expected a void in the room, an empty hollow place, instead there is a massive weight. It’s a waterfall opening up from nowhere and everywhere, pounding down on the fourth chair, slowly flooding the room. But no one moves to get up and Castiel thinks it makes sense - what use is there in trying to escape when they’ve already drowned?
Dean is hit the hardest, but somehow there’s still a flickering in his eyes and Castiel doesn’t know if he’d prefer that light to be there or gone. False hope is a horrific thing that lets someone fly just those few miles more before they realize that they aren’t flying at all - the wax of their wings melted away ages ago and they’re merely being carried in the claws of the predator that caught them.
Sitting across from Dean, Castiel watches a frown grow on the man’s face as his expression slowly hardens. There’s still pain in his eyes, but it’s solid enough that Castiel isn’t surprised when Dean suddenly stands, pushing his chair back with a clack of wood on tile.
Dean stalks out the front door, leaving it open so Castiel can see him lean against the side of the Impala, cell phone against his ear and head bowed like he might be praying - ridiculous since not even Castiel prays anymore.
After a few minutes and a few words, Dean snaps his phone shut, grips the black plastic tightly against his chest before shoving it back in his pocket. Then he’s marching into the motel room, moving to stand behind his chair with eyes landing first on Castiel, then Bobby, then returning to Castiel.
“Four months,” Dean’s voice is rough like he was screaming into his phone instead of whispering, “Chuck said it’ll take at least four months for Heaven and Hell to get their shit together.”
Dean nods decisively like it’s the answer to some question, leaning forwards with hands braced on the back of the chair, “So we have four months to find another way.”
Castiel sees Bobby’s eyes slide shut and chin tip down in defeat from the corner of his eye, but his focus remains on Dean.
The determination Dean’s managed to scrounge up is plastered all over his body, shoring up the cracks that were visible just moments before as wraith-like steps and bloodshot eyes.
It’s a fragile patch job and Castiel is wary of breaking it, “There is nothing, Dean.”
“Fuck that-“ Dean slams a fist onto the table, making the beer bottles from yesterday jump, “There’s got to be!”
They stare at each other as if the solution is hiding on the other’s retinas, but of course it isn’t, and Dean’s eyes narrow with suppressed emotion. The man grits his teeth, mouth turning into something between a snarl and a wound before he tears away from the table, storming to the other side of the room so he can pace back and forth between the beds.
Castiel and Bobby watch him with matching expressions of fatigue - mental and physical - neither reacting to the danger posed by the animal caged in the motel with them until Dean suddenly stops.
Dean backtracks until he’s at the foot of the beds again then crouches down to pull his duffel out from under his bed, unzipping the top and throwing it open eagerly. He reaches inside, pushing socks and shirts aside before withdrawing his hand.
He’s holding a large tin box. It looks like it originally held biscuits, but Dean lifts it out with the grace he naturally adopts when he wields a gun, a knife - a weapon.
Castiel’s heart rate picks up. It’s a reaction he can’t explain, but his blood seems to know the reason.
He can hear his pulse beating in his ears like war drums sounding through a valley as his blood rushes away from his extremities, leaving his fingers cold and pale. His vision tunnels on the metal in Dean’s hands, taking in the green and white stripes printed on the sides, the smudges of engine oil, and the uneven bumps where tin seams were soldered shut.
Then there’s the press of Dean’s thumb against the dented lid, the wobbly sounds of sheet metal flexing as he pops the top off; reveals the curled edges of yellowed paper.
“Why do you have those,” it’s not a question.
Castiel had put those scrolls back on the shelf at the temple and he’d told Dean to leave them; had kept Dean within his sight for the rest of the excursion.
Yet here they are. Those scrolls.
In Dean’s hands.
“Look, Cas,” Dean says, pulling scroll after scroll out from the box and laying them on the bed, “I know you think these scrolls are bad news, but I don’t even care if they’re about the Bad News Bears - so long as they might help.”
Bobby shifts in his seat uneasily, picking up on the tension stiffening Castiel’s shoulders, “What the hell’ve you got there, boy?”
Dean runs a hand across the six rolls of ancient code laid side by side on top of the sheets. They look too large to have fit in Dean’s box, but Castiel isn’t sure if he’s seeing their true size or if they’ve been inflated in his eyes.
“We found them at that library we visited a few weeks ago,” Dean tells Bobby, eyes sliding over to Castiel, reading his reaction, “Cas doesn’t think we can use them, but I do.”
Castiel’s nostrils flare at the challenge in Dean’s words, “Dean - we didn’t have enough time before, and even four months may not be enough to translate them, let alone prepare whatever ritual is described,” Castiel says, reiterating one of the reasons he’d given Dean at the temple like it’s why he doesn’t want them here.
“Well what else is there, Cas?” Dean throws his hands up, voice rising, “You said it yourself - nothing. There’s nothing but this.” Dean slaps his hands down to the mattress on either side of the row of scrolls, “We’ve got to try. It can’t be any worse than sending Sam-”
He bites back his words, head ducking down to hide his face as his fingers curl into the sheets like claws.
It takes less than five seconds for Dean to compose himself again, lifting his eyes as if nothing happened, “Even if you don’t think it’ll work, just-“
Dean pauses, lets a breath shudder out like he’s searching for strength, but Castiel knows that he’s really chipping off pieces of himself - always so self destructive - offering them up to whatever will answer his cry.
“Please.”
And Castiel tells himself he should say no. He should trust his instincts to leave the scrolls alone because even if they aren’t evil, there is something inherently wrong about them. He should leave, get out of his chair and exit through the door like a human if he has to.
And when that doesn’t work, he tells himself it’s because he’s afraid of what Dean will do if Castiel ignores him.
But the truth is simple - Castiel never can deny Dean.
Not when Dean is looking at him like...
Castiel turns in his seat to count the tiles on the kitchenette wall, “The Goddess Kali may be of some assistance,” his shoulders slump, the fight slipping out of him, “We may seek her aid in translating the scrolls.”
He can’t see Dean’s reaction, but he hears gratitude in the sigh of fabric being smoothed out as Dean unclenches his hands from the sheets.
Bobby clears his throat as if he might be interrupting something, “You boys got any idea what you might need for whatever craziness you’re thinking of?”
Castiel glances at the older man, sees that Bobby’s mouth is pulled down in a frown - weary, but resigned to follow Dean wherever his plan might lead. And Dean fixes the older man with a relieved look, like he’d assumed that Bobby would be with him, but is glad for the confirmation.
“For the actual... ritual, we don’t yet know what materials we’ll need, but to contact Kali I will require your blood,” Castiel tips his chin towards Dean, “and we will need to visit a cremation ground and a cemetery.”
Dean nods, already packing the scrolls back into their box, “Is there a crematorium nearby or do we have to move?”
“There’s one a few blocks away, next to a morgue,” Bobby pulls himself stiffly out of his chair, adjusting his cap as he stands, “Shouldn’t be more than a fifteen minute drive, but what do you need from there?”
“Ashes,” Castiel pushes away from the table also, moves to the front door to wait for the others to get ready, “The presence of death.”
Dean looks up from the box in his hands, halfway between kneeling and standing up, “Do you mean reapers?”
“Reapers are not the only incarnations of death,” Castiel says, patient because he isn’t in any hurry to summon the goddess of destruction, “They appear in many forms to ferry the recently deceased to their places, but they also have shadows of sorts.”
When Castiel doesn’t continue, Dean glances at Bobby who turns to lift thick brows at Castiel. He prompts gruffly, “And?”
“These shadows often follow those who will soon pass on, then stay by the remains of the deceased for a while after,” Dean tucks his box under his arm and pushes them outside, locking the motel door behind them and motioning for Castiel to keep talking as they slide into the Impala, “It is why people sometimes have premonitions of death and why the world is not over run with ghosts.”
“Hang on,” Dean says, glancing to his side at Castiel as he pulls out of the motel parking lot, “I thought ghosts happened because of... you know, they go mad or something from sticking around on Earth instead of following a reaper.”
“Yes, but reapers do not wait indefinitely for spirits to make their choice,” Castiel peers uneasily out the windshield, watching each traffic light turn green as they approach, as if encouraging their plan of action, “It often takes more than a few weeks for spirits to relinquish their lives. These shadows can act as a path for them to follow when their reaper is no longer attending to them.”
“Oh...” Dean runs his fingers over the top of the steering wheel thoughtfully, “That makes sense.”
Bobby grunts from the back seat, either a noise of question or a complaint about the lack of leg room in the back, but Dean answers anyways, “There was this one case in Nevada along highway 41. This girl, she didn’t know she was dead and kept reliving her last night, but when we... when she finally realized what happened she managed to move on, even though it didn’t seem like a reaper took her.”
“You sayin’ it’s that light at the end of the tunnel?” Bobby says dryly.
“It’s possible that humans perceive it as such,” Castiel agrees, “And while reapers may leave these tunnels for spirits to walk through when they’re ready, they can also be used to communicate with those who have ties with death.”
“So we’re making a long distance call using a hotline of death?” Dean bobs his head to the side, mouth stretched skeptically, “That sounds pricey - are you sure my blood’s enough? I thought you meant a pint or two, but-“
“It will be enough,” Castiel interrupts, “If what you told me about your meeting with her is true, Kali will recognize you, and she will answer.”
The last few minutes of the car ride are silent, as is the process of breaking into the crematorium. While Castiel had offered to transport them all directly inside, Dean had refused, saying that he still hadn’t recovered from his previous strain and should be conserving the remnants of his grace for more important things.
Eventually, after searching most of the first floor, they make it into a narrow storage room adjoined with the incinerator room and find a large shelf of containers along one wall. But as Castiel takes down the nearest tub, Bobby lays a hand on his shoulder, “Do you need the ashes to all be from the same person?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll use just a bit from each container,” Bobby levels him with a stern stare. Unusual since the man normally finds meeting Castiel’s eyes awkward.
Castiel turns to check with Dean, sure that lengthening the time the process takes will bother him, but Dean’s eyes are fixed sadly on the shelf, scanning the names labelling each tub.
Castiel looks between the two men, noting how Dean stands without fidgeting and Bobby has removed his cap, and it occurs to him then what their concern is.
If he uses all the ashes from one container, there will be a family somewhere who will never know what happened to the remains of their loved one. It would be worse than torching bones since the family hasn’t even finished their burial rites yet. And while hunters might desecrate graves all the time or break into morgues to prod at bodies and take blood, there are some things about death they still respect - or more accurately, it is the living they respect; the ones who were left behind, as hunters themselves were left behind.
Since he is an intangible being, Castiel sometimes forgets what value is invested into physical things. To him, a body is an object different from a rock only in composition, but to a human, it is a person. Even dead, with soul departed, the remains are more than carbon.
“Very well,” Castiel’s gaze falls gently to the tub in his hand - Cohen, Emily - before he says softly¬, “We will need an empty container then.”
Dean’s already found one and taken it out from the cabinet by the door. He places the open tub on a table and Castiel carefully pries the lid off the container he holds; tips a tenth of the ashes out.
They take one tenth from ten containers of ashes before sealing the tub on the table and arranging everything as close to how they found it as possible. Then they make their way out of the crematorium the same way they entered and slide back onto the leather seats of the Impala to drive to the nearest cemetery.
The cemetery they find is relatively new and well cared for with manicured lawns of lush green grass and benign trees. The grave markers aren’t cracked, ranging in shape from the standard block to elaborate angels and the flowers laid upon the graves are fresh and neat. It’s not like the graveyards they normally visit, and Dean and Bobby eye the sturdy cast iron that fences off the area with caution.
They aren’t deterred and it takes almost no time for Dean to pick the lock of the front gate so the Impala can drive through, but they keep a closer eye out for any security and make sure to close the gate behind them - though they keep it unlocked - so as not to catch unwanted attention.
When they’re deep enough in the cemetery to have the illusion of privacy, they park the Impala and get out, Dean carrying a flashlight in one hand, the box of scrolls tucked under his other arm. Bobby makes a move to bring a weapon, but at Castiel’s warning, he grudgingly leaves his shotgun behind. They all know it wouldn’t be of much use, but like Dean’s ivory handled colt, the shotgun is an extension of Bobby that he feels uncomfortable without.
At Castiel’s direction, they search for the freshest grave possible that has a flat headstone. Bobby finds one with a pinkish granite slab and Castiel nods in approval before getting down on his knees, turning the grave dirt with his fingers. His eyes scan the darkness for the slight flicker in the fabric of the physical plane that would confirm the presence of a death’s shadow.
He finds it, a slight wavering in the darkness under a nearby weeping willow, and sets to work.
He starts by laying an unbroken circle of ash over the stone, drawing in the light of Dean’s flashlight, and then fills it with sigils and shapes also lined in ash. The whole time, he breathes the names of the symbols in the language of death - anchor, arch, hourglass - whispers shaped by his angelic tongue and not that of his vessel; he traces his fingers through the fine grey powder.
When the design is complete, he gestures for Dean to come closer, words continuing to flow silently from his unmoving mouth - lion, palm, oak - Dean hands his flashlight off to Bobby and rolls up his sleeve before slipping a knife from his belt.
Castiel takes the knife from Dean, glancing once at the shadows which seemed to have lengthened before meeting the man’s eyes. He pulls Dean’s arm over the circle of ash and cuts a long gash into the flesh of his forearm making Dean wince, though he doesn’t shy away, green looking trustingly down at Castiel.
Blood wells up in a shining red stream, drawn by gravity over the curve of muscle and down to the tombstone where it spots the grey dust with colour. The impact of each drop sends up the lightest puff of powder which swirls delicately under the beam of the flashlight - sword, shell, laurel - seeming to quiver in time with the syllables men cannot hear.
As Dean’s blood pools inside the circle of ash, the shadow under the weeping willow begins distorting violently enough that both Dean and Bobby notice. Bobby takes up a defensive position, holding the flashlight like a club as its light flickers and dies. But Dean’s arm is still held by Castiel, so he remains stooped over the headstone, eyes trying to penetrate the dark that the flashlight couldn’t.
It’s not until all the symbols - torch, swallow, snake - in the circle have been washed out by Dean’s blood to create a red mirror that the willow’s shadow finally settles.
Only it doesn’t return to being just a shadow, instead there’s a nothingness into which the air rushes, generating a howling wind that breaks the circle of ash and frees Dean’s blood to run in wild patterns down the sides of the grave marker.
There’s the hissing of snakes like the rivulets of blood have come to life.
The scream of jackals as the night is devoured by a deeper darkness.
Then there’s a voice that’s speaks with no sound.
An answer to their call.
Dean Winchester
And the wind rushes back in reverse, whipping out and stripping leaves from trees. It rakes through the grass and pushes into the three of them, a force the men have to brace themselves against which makes the loose ends of their clothing flap out and Bobby’s cap shift sideways.
From the darkness melts a shape that might be the silhouette of a woman, skin of blackest ink and eyes red fire, but then it steps out from under the willow and Castiel sees what Dean must have seen at the motel where the gods gathered - a beautiful woman with shining black hair, red shirt and black skirt clinging to graceful curves; high heeled feet treading soundlessly.
The glint of reflective eyes and the hush of scales through grass.
Om Kreem Kalikayai Namah.
Castiel breathes out, angelic and human voice united.
Black eyes glide from Dean to land on Castiel, “Another angel,” Kali considers him darkly as the night stills, voice smooth and almost human, “But much better mannered than your brothers, I see.”
Castiel brings himself to his feet, hand still wrapped around Dean’s wrist. He tugs Dean closer, pulling a square cloth from the pocket of his trench to tie around the cut on Dean’s arm, eyes never leaving Kali.
The goddess watches without comment, but Dean shoots Castiel an annoyed look, trying to yank his arm back. He doesn’t succeed until Castiel is finished wrapping the wound, and then Dean steps back to face Kali, voice strong in the quiet that has returned to the graveyard, “We need your help.”
“You seek my help when you’ve handed Lucifer his true vessel?” Kali’s tone is calm, but the shadows slither with her words, “Lucifer who has killed my peers and seeks to claim a world that isn’t his.”
Bobby shifts warily, knowing his makeshift club is useless but unwilling to put it down. The corner of Dean’s jaw ticks once with nerves, but he says stubbornly, “Yeah, I’m asking.”
Kali’s eyes narrow and Dean continues before she can refuse him, “I know what you’re thinking, but we were trying to lock Lucy back up. It just-“ Dean’s fists clench and unclench, “-it didn’t work. But this isn’t over. We’ve got at least four more months.”
“Four months?” the shadows retreat.
“Yeah, according to the prophet - and we all know how those flying dicks are sticklers for the book.”
Kali hums to herself as she begins circling the trio of men in the graveyard like she’s looking to pick out the weakest in the herd, “And what is it you need me to do?”
Dean relaxes at the interest Kali shows - and Castiel wants to snap at him to keep his guard up, but he doesn’t interrupt, knowing the goddess’ distaste for angels. He lets Dean speak for them, “We have some scrolls that might be important, but we can’t read them - they’re coded and we don’t know the languages used.”
Dean takes his box out from under his arm, popping off the lid as he does and revealing the rolls of vellum which appear bone white in the dim moonlight.
Kali’s eyes widen briefly and Castiel thinks she must recognize them, but she gives no further sign.
“Will you help us?” Dean asks again.
The goddess steps towards Dean until only the box separates them, then reaches up with one hand to trace a pointed red fingernail along the edge of the man’s jaw, scratching a thin white line onto his skin, “There are... conditions I will require you to meet.”
Dean’s eyes remain locked with Kali’s and he doesn’t back away, but Castiel takes a step closer, his vessel’s teeth grinding slowly.
“I accept,” Dean says, and both Bobby and Castiel choke on their breaths.
“What?” Bobby turns to look at Dean incredulously, but Dean ignores him.
Kali smiles, pleased, “You haven’t heard the terms yet.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Dean speaks carelessly, like he’s talking about dividing a weekend to-do list, “Whatever your conditions are - I accept.”
“Dean, at least-“ Castiel starts to say, but Kali interrupts him.
“Calm yourself, angel. My requirements are simple-“ Kali’s eyes flash at Castiel before returning softly to Dean, “-only a blood oath and the condition that the scrolls stay with me. I promise you that these scrolls have the power to remove the Devil from our midst, but I will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it, and you will do what is needed without objection.”
It sounds too much like a Deal and a thousand scenarios that Dean could be placed in run through Castiel’s mind, most of them unpleasant. And the same thoughts must occur to Dean because there’s the first sign of hesitation in the twitch of a finger on the tin box.
But Dean shakes it off, pushing the box of scrolls towards the goddess. Determined, he says for the third and final time, “I accept.”
Kali takes the box, looking at Dean with a mixture of pride and resignation - a mother sending her son to war.
In his strength of will and his acceptance of whatever may come, Dean has proven himself an ideal child of Kali, and as Castiel expected he has earned her favour. But standing with Bobby, watching Dean remove the blood soaked wrapping from his arm to give to Kali, Castiel doesn’t listen to the oath she recites for Dean to repeat. He can only hear his own thoughts circling around the question of what it really means to be blessed by the goddess of destruction.
He fears.
tbc
***
Notes: I don't know diddly about mythology. Everything is fiction inspired by things I read on the internet.
Om Kreem Kalikayai Namah.
"Praise and adoration to Mother Kali, Destroyer of Illusion."
Kali's mantra
And if anyone's wondering, the 'symbols' Castiel was naming are supposed to be figures commonly found on headstones.