Strange Truths (5/5)
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Master Post || PDF || Art Post
They arrive somewhere barren when the world stops spinning. It’s vast and empty, but neither desert nor tundra, like a vacuum at the end of the world.
Castiel can already sense the graces that are here: millions of them, billions perhaps, trapped beneath the ground, unable to escape, their strength being sapped. The guilt in him triples as they walk down the path they’ve landed on, and the sensation grows stronger. He thinks he can hear phantom voices crying. Ahead, at the end of the road, something white and large glimmers.
As they near it, the outline becomes clear: it’s a cage, a huge one made of bars that are not substance but grace solidified. Metatron’s perhaps, or some of the stolen angels’ coagulated together. The locks are literal, large and unyielding, six of them scattered across the front of the expanse. They’re far apart in and of themselves, but the whole of the bars stretches onward, out past where the human eye can easily see. Balthazar shifts uneasily behind him, and even the Winchesters seem affected by the place, though they cannot truly understand.
When they are close enough, they can see the dark emptiness that stretches down underneath, a void Cas knows is filled with the angels, a hole he must empty. Rage fills him for a moment, but dies. It is useless to be angry, he is going to fix this now, and he will right all the wrongs that have been committed. At the edge of the ground he pauses, hesitating. Only he and Balthazar can go beyond this point, but he does not wish anyone to cross with him. This is his doing, his burden to bear.
Sam wordlessly pulls him into a hug, and then Balthazar follows suit, he lingers in the touch of the other, the warmth he can’t bear to lose suddenly. He feels wet tears that are not his own brush his cheek and he clings. With Balthazar too, there are words he wishes to say, moments he thinks they might have shared. But now is not the time for that. Instead he pulls back and turns to Dean, the other standing there motionless. For a moment Cas thinks that this will be their parting, the grand finale, but then Dean makes a sound like he’s choking and pulls him in, holds him tighter than he has before, tighter than the arm slung around his shoulder outside strip bar in some empty town, tighter even than the hug in purgatory. It’s as though his very life depends on it, and Castiel really, truly, hopes it does not.
“I am sorry.” He manages to say, but Dean shakes his head.
“I…” He pauses over the words. “I’ll miss you.” He says finally, but Cas thinks he hears something different in the words.
“And I you.” He murmurs, his voice almost a whisper, and then he’s turned, making his way to the start of the cage. At his first step, he thinks he might fall, but the structure, even the holes, support his weight. With a heavy heart, he walks. The farthest first, he thinks, as he surveys them, lined up in two rows of three, horizontal to the ground he just stepped off of. So that…so that if he survives this, it will be easy to return. He shouldn’t be thinking like that, but he is.
It’s farther than it looks, a labored walk which feels as though it goes on forever and stretches empty before him, but finally he reaches the lock. It’s a smooth circle surrounding the bars, with no clear opening or place for Cas to try and pull it off. When he touches it, it sparks though, the iciness that runs against his hand turning to fire.
What you are, what you were, what you might have been.
Hannibal’s voice echoes through his mind and he thinks perhaps he understands. He will have to share with it all these things, will have to give them up so that the cage will open for him: a sacrifice, an eye for an eye. Well, he hadn’t thought this was going to be easy.
What you were, the voice rings again in his mind. Fitting, that he should start these trials with his past, the endlessness of it matching this place. But what can he offer? He thinks of the years in heaven, the years before Dean and the apocalypse and humanity. The lock glows but only barely. No, it wants something deeper, something meaningful to consume. His mind settles on Balthazar, at last, on the times they’d spent together before his existence was populated by many. It had been only Balthazar who had cheered him, who had made their long campaigns and missions bearable. The metal scalds hot in his hand, but doesn’t give.
Together they’d shared their immortal reality, Balthazar had stood for him in heaven when no one else had, had missed him, when no one else had, had been happy to see him. He shudders out a breath, a memory creeping out to him of them flying around together, Balthazar settling next to him on a lonely cloud and asking why he wouldn’t play. He’d reached out with is grace gently, with his hands and his being and his wings, and they’d flown together. So long ago now, and yet he still rememb - the memory snaps harshly, pulled for him as though by a vacuum as everything shudders at his feet, with a great tug, he pulls at the lock and it comes free. He feels empty somehow, a sudden weakness buzzing through him, but he tries not to think of it. Of what he has just lost, instead he climbs to his feet and moves to the next one.
Another memory of his past, then. This one comes easily, comes from a glowing soul whose light seeps even through the taint and corruption that coats it, even through the filth of all of hell. The soul who is beautiful as he gazes upon it, a sudden curiosity seeping through him that has never left, a sudden desire to know it, to know more about the others that walk the earth. He’d found Dean and he’d gripped him and he’d pulled him home. And with that, he’d made his own home, though he hadn’t known it.
The pull comes quicker than he expected this time, the lock yanks free with barely any effort, but it takes more away from him, it holds his whole past in his grip. He can still remember it, if he thinks, but it seems farther somehow, removed, no longer solely his own. He wonders if he will live long enough to have lost it completely. He hopes that he will not.
When he arrives at the middle locks, he feels almost numb to the idea of giving everything up, kneels on the cage bars and summons to mind images of the four of them, his new family, one that he’s chosen for himself, all around him. Balthazar sprawled on a bed, teasing Dean, Dean growling, but grinning at Cas, Sam at his laptop shaking his head at all of them, and he, Cas, at the center, surrounded by them, linked to them in a way that perhaps does not replace the links he has lost, but augments them, makes his loss more bearable. The image fades and the lock clatters away, he can barely stand this time, but finds his way to his feet eventually, limping over to the fourth lock.
The memory that comes to him is of a different sort this time. His first successful hunt, a spirit that had been plaguing an elderly woman, the scent of smoke and ash flooding him, the click of his lighter as he dropped the fire into the body, the cold of the winter night. The flush of success as the spirit vanished, the way Dean had looked at him, bright eyed and triumphant, as though all was forgiven. He’d felt strong that night, alive…human. The lock falls, and he falls with it, whimpering as nausea courses through him. His teeth are chattering suddenly and he feels ill - as though he’s been plunged into a pool of icy water and can’t find his way out. His lungs are straining. He crawls over to the next lock.
The future, the words blearily play through his mind, and it is very, very, difficult to imagine his future right at this moment where he can feel death playing on his shoulder, lingering as he waits for him to find his end, but he has to, he reminds himself as he coughs, blood splattering the clean surface of the bars, trickling into the abyss. He has to.
He summons up an image of peace in his mind, it’s not quite with form, but it’s a feeling, an end he longs for that holds no more unhappiness, only ease and peace. The phantom images of Dean, Balthazar and Sam walk through the feeling, it surrounds them, coats them, warms them all like a thick blanket. He longs to stay in the dream, wants to never leave it, and he can, something in the cage whispers to him, he can stay here, he just has to crawl away, to step off the bars and he’ll be whole again, will be free to search out that point, to live it, to live it with the people he loves.
“No.” He says hoarsely, his throat ripped raw by the magic, no.
He forces the memory into the lock and it breaks for him. He can see the rest of them from here, can see the last lock, and he’s so close - but, he totters, trying to make himself crawl, but the bars skim the skin from his knees and his palms, he groans with pain, pushing himself forward, but pausing every few inches with the agony. It’s so far away, he can’t, the blackness bursts in and out of his vision, he won’t be able to make it.
He sees Balthazar lean in to say something to Dean, both of them grim faced, and then Balthazar has stepped onto the cage, grimacing as though slapped, but ignoring the way the spell tries to push him off. He’s an angel with a human soul, he’s as much right to walk the bars as Cas.
He kneels down next to him, arms going around Cas’s body, blue eyes are watering with a mixture of pain and emotion. “Hey darling.” He murmurs, pulling the other closer, Cas’s rests his shoulder against Balthazar, in too much pain to speak. “I don’t think it will let me finish this for you, but I won’t leave you here to struggle.”
Cas tries to protest, tries to make him leave, but he’s too weak, in too much pain. The ground leaves him and Balthazar’s holding him, bringing him towards the last lock.
“I love you.” He moves his lips numbly instead, and Balthazar nods, his hold tightening. “I love Dean too.” He adds. “Will you tell him, will you tell him for me please?” That Dean should never know suddenly feels too terrifying, more than this, more than death. “You have to.”
Balthazar kisses his forehead and only nods again; for once words have failed him. He holds Cas for another moment after he sets him down, kneeling at his side, arms wrapped around him, their heads tucked together. Balthazar’s shaking, he realizes blearily. Then an “I love you too,” whispers against his hair and Balthazar retreats. Cas watches him go, watches him lean in to murmur something to Dean, before curling his fingers tentatively around his shoulder, the distance between them lessening. They’re both watching him.
With effort, he brings his hand up to touch the final lock, his fingertips barely skirting the edges. One more image of the future and he won’t have to hurt anymore, and they’ll all be gone. He’s sorry, he would tell them if they could hear, sorry that he’s leaving them and they love him and he loves them. Sorry that this image, whatever it is, won’t come to pass. His eyes fall shut.
In the darkness of his mind he finds a house, it’s small, but cozy, pictures filling every corner, sunlight spilling across the floor as he enters it. Laughter rings through, louder as he walks, turns the corner and little girl comes running up to him, her hair streaming behind her, the giggling still edging her turned up lips.
“Hi daddy.” She murmurs as she rushes to hug his leg.
“Hi sweetheart.” He murmurs, and the whole world crashes around him.
He can feel the graces of all the angels streaming away as his soul seeps out, thousands of them flooding up around him, and then more and more, their light brightening up the emptiness of the place, they sound like they’re singing, for a moment, he can feel them inside of him, feels a part of them as they rush past, like shooting stars once more, but in joy this time, in freedom, rising up the heavens where they belong.
They’re leaving though, leaving him and he has nothing inside, his mind empty, his vessel empty. His heart begins to slow in his chest and he feels like he’s falling, drifting down and down, slowly into the abyss. He welcomes it - what is he but darkness. His vision blurs, then leaves him, and he feels himself breaking at the seams.
And then a hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him up.
Hannibal finds himself somewhere he has not been in a very long time. The peculiarity of all that has changed and all that has not strikes him immediately. But he has not come here to reminisce, merely to do a job and return to where he would very much rather be. Not to his cell of course, he is quite finished with that, but to less of a geographically grounded location.
He has always prided himself on being one who does the jobs that need to be done though, so this must come first.
Metatron lurks exactly where he thought he might, in the great throne room. Always was a power hungry, sniveling, little thing. He might have disposed of him long ago, if the other had not been held in such high esteem. But the past scarcely matters now. The pathetic angel has been very rude, very rude indeed and there is much that must be done about that.
“Hello brother,” he greets politely as he walks into the room. They have no physicality here of course, but the space becomes whatever its inhabitants imagine it to be, and he is content with his human form at the moment. “It is pleasant to see you here.”
Metatron starts at the greeting, tensing, and then jumping outright, moving so his back hits the great throne he is sitting onL a little rat being stalked by a snake. Hannibal is calm in front of him. Metatron only panics.
“What are you, but you can’t be, I -“
“Miscalculated, yes. But don’t worry.” Hannibal’s smile is generous, easy. He has had so many simple mortal kills in the last decades, so many of the apes who were just ready to lay at his feet and die. A great part of him longs for this challenge. “You will not regret it for very long.”
A smash of power comes at him from nowhere, but he dodges easily. It is an amateur opening move, a mark of one who is unfocused and out of practice in the ways of battle. Metatron is a glorified scribe and librarian, little more.
“You took what was not yours to take.” He sends a flurry of his own powers at the throne, feeling the proverbial muscles stretch. He has not used his abilities in so long they are almost intoxicating, tempting him with their strength. But he must remember: a job and no more. He is unhappy here; this is not the place for him. Using his powers is not the same as using his skills or his strength. There is no art to it, only brute strength. And his brothers will be coming shortly, if little Castiel manages to do what he has set out to. He must be gone by then.
Another shock of power dances across the room and then another. Relentless, he doesn’t stop until the thrown is destroyed and Metatron isforced away from the chair.
“That is not yours to sit on.” He points out, the tone in his voice casual - only a tiny beat of excitement creeps in, unavoidable with the use of his grace. He has fallen out of practice and it controls him, but only a little. Not like it does the others.
Metatron fights back. He’s not powerless after all, just pathetic…and occasionally lucky. A strike hits Hannibal’s shoulder and he winces, the burn searing through his jacket.
“It is now.” Metatron tries to keep the fear out of his voice, the powerful angel that should be fallen with the rest of them is here now, oh and he wants to kill him, no big deal. He can handle this. He managed to get this far, didn’t he? No one thought he could, everyone counted him out, but here he is. And they’re, they’re all locked away.
The other doesn’t so much as blink and the next current sends Metatron to the floor. “I should think that you would prefer I kill you. You see…” There’s mirth in the deadened eyes. “they are coming, all of them, very shortly and I would not want to be the one who would witness the host’s rage. At least I -“
Metatron tries to scrabble away but Hannibal pins him to the ground, a strength in his hands that comes unexpected. “I am merciful. I have come to deliver this end to you, so you do not have to suffer a crueler fate.”
The long fingers reach down, tugging the necklace from Metatron’s neck free and smashing it on the floor. A thin, dim, grace rises slowly from it, hesitating a moment and then flying away. Hannibal has confidence that it will reach its destination. One cannot live sustained on nothing, after all. Castiel is very lucky that Will approved of him. Otherwise, Hannibal might have left him to die. Or…perhaps he would not have.
In his moment of musing, Metatron tugs himself free and the energy that explodes across his chest is quite unexpected. It burns through him, a poison seeping into his skin, and for a moment, he writhes there, pain something he is unfamiliar with. It’s almost curiosity that fills him, rather than dread, and when he moves, his joints aching, the newness of the sensation attracts him. But he doesn’t have time to explore his weaknesses just now, they do not stunt him from completing his aim and little else matters. He summons the sword to his fingers with a blink.
With a growl, his hair whipping around his face, he rushes at Metatron, speed unrivaled, and buries the knife deep in his throat.
“Goodbye.” He murmurs with an inclination of his head and then he disappears from the place without a second glance.
Cas lays across Dean’s lap, Balthazar kneeling next to him. The other is freshly re-angelified, twinkling along the edges and everything, but that doesn’t matter to Dean, not if he can’t heal Cas. It doesn’t seem like it matters to Balthazar either. He keeps trying, but there’s loss already fresh in his eyes. It’s because there’s nothing there to heal, they both know it. But Dean keeps holding Cas, and Balthazar keeps trying.
He can feel the other slipping away from his fingers, the breaths are barely there anymore, and the other’s heart beat is slipping, too slow, too erratic. Sam has moved away, has given them all distance, but Dean doesn’t like that, doesn’t need it cause Cas isn’t gonna die.
“Hey.” He says uselessly to the other, his fingers dragging through his hair. “Hey, come on, wake up. This isn’t cool.”
Balthazar sneaks a glance at him for a moment, and Dean can see the angel’s face is tear stained, but neither of them say anything to each other.
The sky that was moments ago lit up like a Christmas tree has faded into its dim nothingness again - which is only appropriate, Dean thinks, but then his next thought is that Cas deserves better than to die here and that sets off the denial chain of thought all over again. No, it doesn’t get to happen here, not like this, not now after everything has been going so damn well, and it’s not fair. This was supposed to be just another hunt, not some big epic show down for the angels, and fuck, no he is not crying. He doesn’t do that. No. And yet the tear slips out.
They’re so caught up in their grief, all of them, that the small ball of light creeps down from the sky unnoticed. It’s weak, curled in on itself and the light blinks in and out here and there, but it determinedly crosses its way down to the small group that’s settled next to the end of the world. It’s not whole on its own, not anymore. It needs a heart to wrap around, emotions to blend with. It’s not the same grace it used to be, but it’s still strong, still stubborn.
Balthazar notices it first, feels it thrumming in time with his own, and he looks up and finds the light; the only brightness against the dark, endless, sky. He thinks for a terrifying heartbeat, that he’s only imagining it, but it comes close, surges with light as it nears them. There’s a warmth that surrounds it, a familiarity and a friendship, it nudges by him and he feels Cas.
It hovers over the all but lifeless body for a moment, but then, as though deciding something, floats upward to settle in front of Dean. He looks up at it with watery eyes, and then they widen, his fingers reaching out as though to stroke it, a half laugh coming out of him when it nuzzles back against him. With a small bounce, it shifts away, flinging itself back into Cas.
For a moment, an explosion of light erupts and sight and sound stop altogether. When everything starts to move again, Balthazar shifting beside him, Sam breathing behind him, he looks frantically around. What he finds is Cas standing straight, perfectly unharmed, an angel once more, smiling down at him.
“Hello Dean.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever gotten off the ground faster, pulling the other into a hug, half laughing, half crying into his shoulder
Will paces in his kitchen as he waits. The alarms have already gone off, and Jack is beside himself. But, as far as anyone knows, he’d been asleep in his bed when Hannibal escaped, all records of his presence there erased, and so he hasn’t been bothered much. There’s nothing he can do.
But he’s anxious for different reasons. Everything’s changed suddenly, and he’s not sure what he thinks, not sure what he wants, but he’s fairly certain he’s going to have to decide and soon.
He paces until the fluttering of wings tells him that time is up.
“Will.”
Hannibal greets him, and Will can see his shirt is singed, that there’s something careful about the way he holds himself. The shorter man wanders closer idly, fingers reaching out to brush the wound.
“I thought you were untouchable.” He murmurs, looking up. He takes a breath, but doesn’t move his hand. Hannibal stands very still.
“It will heal.” He answers after the silence has stretched. “All things do, eventually.”
There’s a question to his voice, but he’s Hannibal and so he won’t ask it, waits for Will to tell him what he will.
“Are you going to leave?” Will asks after a moment, something catching in his voice.
Hannibal appraises him. “Should I be doing so?” He returns the question with a question, Will’s hand still lingers on his shoulder.
“Everyone knows your face.” The younger man shrugs his shoulders, he can imagine Hannibal does not want to be hunted, wants his freedom.
“Then I will find a new vessel.” A crinkle of laughter fills the words as he says them, as though he knows the response that is coming, and Will doesn’t disappoint.
“No.” He shakes his. “No, this one is you. I - I like this one.” There’s more power to the words now, something more solid, a bit more certain, though the leap has not yet been made.
“Then I will make them forget.” Will looks outraged for a moment, but then he shakes his head, relenting.
“Just your face.” He says. “Not what you did.” It is important, to Jack, to the victims, to their families, that the actions not be simply erased. Just because Hannibal has the power to do so, just because it’s what Will wants, doesn’t mean that it’s what should happen.
Will shifts for a moment and then asks, because it matters, it does. Despite everything that he thinks he’s realized, it matters. “Will you kill again?”
Hannibal ‘s eyes find his and they stand there for a moment, locked. Will wonders if the other might kill him after all, if he’s pushed too far, but then low chuckles meet his ears.
“I think, perhaps, we might work something out.”
The trail of bodies starts to become suspicious after the fifth one. They’re demonic possessions, clearly, the demon burned out of the body, still lying on the devil’s trap that held it in place. But demonic possessions don’t usually go hand in hand with missing organs. It’s not always the same ones either, the heart one time, the kidney and lungs the next, the liver, the tongue. It’s an assortment more for the kitchen than the supernatural, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion who is behind it.
They summon Hannibal into the middle of a holy fire ring one afternoon after the sixth body is discovered, though the hunter has a sneaking suspicion he only came because he deigned to. Hannibal watches them all with raised eyebrows. Cas texts Will the location from his spot on the couch.
“You might have called," is all the angel says at last, and Balthazar, whose arm is wrapped around Cas’s shoulder, looks up at him and grins.
“You know.” He tells Dean. “I have half a mind to swap you out with him. I think I quite like him.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but ignores him. “You’ve been eating corpses.” His voice is accusatory, but already resigned. He had to do this because he can’t let it slide, but he doesn’t really expect to get very far.
“I have been recycling, yes.” Hannibal steps close to Dean, ignoring how the flames jump at his movements. “It was a compromise, and one that was certainly not made for you. They are dead either way, and I do not kill them. Your opinion of it or of me is yours to have.”
A growl comes from the hunter. “ think it’s gross.” He declares and huffs back to the couch, not freeing Hannibal from the flames, he shoves Balthazar over and sits between the two, his arms sliding over the back of the couch.
“Well.” Hannibal responds, relaxed as ever, not asking to be freed. “I shall take that well worded sentiment under consideration. Though, you might be interested to know, I imagine you might do better in a nice savory pie than what I mentioned previously.”
Dean blanches, and Hannibal chuckles. Cas moves to lean more comfortably against Dean.
It takes Will ten minutes to get there, and he’s got his annoyed face on. Cas sends him an apologetic look, but Dean only shrugs.
“You shouldn’t eat people.” He tells Will. “This is what you get for having a boyfriend angel who eats people: you get to drive half an hour to come pick him up. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Will douses the fire, muttering to himself, pausing as Hannibal leans in to murmur something in his ear. He chuckles lowly at the words and turns to the rest of them.
“He says we’d like to invite you to dinner, and that you owe us.” They walk towards the door together. “For them.”
Dean snorts, not dignifying the invitation and then reaches for the remote and flips the TV on. Hey, his life maybe is fucking weird, but at least he’s not as fucked up as those two. Cas sprawls against him as he chooses something at random and Balthazar comments on his utter lack of taste.
Yep, everything is pretty damn good.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Master Post || PDF || Art Post