SPN fic: Two-Timing Double Team
If Dean were a rhetorical kind of guy he’d be asking himself why Castiel bothers to show up only when he’s got bad news to deliver, but he tends to leave that emo-crap to Sam. Still, “there’s a demonic assassin on your trail,” is no kind of proper greeting, and the angel has even skipped his customary polite ‘hellos’. Way to end an already crappy day.
“Well, who is it? And, most importantly, how do we stop them?” Dean asks, wearily, because he doesn’t put it past Castiel to leave them with only a uselessly cryptic warning.
But Castiel keeps his cool and answers immediately, “You will not need to do anything. Stay in this room, put up your usual protection, and go to sleep. Act as though you are unaware of the danger. Meanwhile I’ll patrol at an appropriate distance.”
“You want us to play bait?” Sam interjects, slightly offended.
“You’re going to guard us? Perch on our shoulders, so to speak?” Dean mocks, delighted for a chance to tease the mighty soldier-of-God.
“I assure you, you will not be in any danger,” Castiel intones in his gravelly voice, eyes already looking past them to God knows where, “I am perfectly equipped to deal with this problem. Just please do not split up tonight. I’d rather keep a tight perimeter.”
Dean throws his hands up and sits on his bed. It’s not like he’s the one with the weird nocturnal activities. He’s only a little surprised Cas hasn’t taken the opportunity to throw in some ‘or else’ clause.
Sam digests the information with tight, short nods, jaw working in annoyance. “Are you sure about this, Castiel?”
“Very.”
Right on cue, an ear-splitting thunder cracks seemingly right over their heads, rolling on for several seconds, light so strong it pushes past the already drawn curtains. It is immediately followed by the sound of torrential rain pouring like buckets from the sky.
Castiel turns from them and opens the door. Thunder and lighting beat out a constant rhythm, and the sheets of rain are so thick that the far side of the motel’s parking lot is virtually invisible. The sun has already set an hour ago, and the darkness is all-encompassing.
“You’re gonna go out and patrol in that?” Dean whistles. “Uh, don’t get struck by lighting or anything.”
Castiel turns and frowns like that’s a very weird notion -and it probably is- and calmly walks out into the downpour. Within moments, he is swallowed by the night.
oooo
They make do with what they manage to scavenge from the vending machines in the lobby and set up turns for watches throughout the night, because guardian angel or not they haven’t survived this long without watching their own backs; they end up staying awake though, both of them, the whole time. There’s a demon assassin on the way, sleep well! What the hell did Castiel think was going to happen?
Around two a.m. the rain stops. A little after six, before sunrise, there’s a knock at the door. Sam and Dean get a jolt of adrenaline and get ready to deal with anything, but it turns out to be just Castiel.
“Since when do you knock?” Dean says, putting down his shotgun. Sam keeps a hold on Ruby’s knife, just to show that he was armed with that, in any event.
“Since you were both awake and ready to tear into anything coming into the room. I thought this might be less... perturbing for you. I guess it wasn’t.” Castiel looks like he’s been swimming all night. His clothes are so water-logged they’re sagging and dripping in steady rivulets on the carpet. His hair is also plastered down, almost to his eyes. But, aside from soaking wet, he doesn’t look particularly bothered or even tired.
“So, have you caught it?” Sam takes a few steps forward, coming to stand next to his brother.
Castiel cuts his eyes away, tilting his head, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s the most human gesture either of them has ever seen him doing, and it takes them a moment to notice that suddenly the angel isn’t wet anymore. Even his hair is standing back up as usual. “I have repressed the attack, but the demon has slipped my grasp. I have to report back, and decide what to do.”
“Whoa, whoa, so the assassin is still out there?”
Castiel smiles. A little. Maybe. There is a definite quirking of the corner of his mouth. “Rest assured, it’s in no condition to attempt this again. Not anytime soon.”
The Winchesters share a look. It’s only a flicker of the eyes, but it’s enough for Castiel to disappear before they can get more answers out of him.
Which leaves them with a load of trouble they’ve got to fence for themselves. As usual.
oooo
They check out in a hurry, they drive all day, and when they finally stop some fifteen hours later they find Castiel waiting for them in the empty house they’ve chosen for squatting, which is both kinda reassuring and pretty terrifying at the same time.
He looks different, too. The most eye-catching thing is the coat, which is black instead of the usual tan, even though the make and the cut are the same. But it’s the stance that catches Dean’s attention. He’s leaning against the far wall, hands deep in his pockets, with an insouciant air that he’s never seen on the angel.
“Who are you?”
The stranger smirks. “Good catch. You’ve already made me, huh?” He pushes off the wall and saunters lazily towards the brothers.
Dean is quick enough to nail the bastard with a good splash of holy water across the face, and Sam immediately raises his hand. The stranger, unfortunately, merely blinks through the dousing and slaps Sam’s hand down with a sharp whack.
“I thought we’d warned you not to do that, Sam Winchester,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and now that he’s so close to them they can see that his eyes are no longer blue like Castiel’s, but bottle green.
“Y- you’re an angel?” Sam stammers, horrified and taking several steps back.
“Name’s Azreal,” he replies, relaxing his stance and turning to regard Dean curiously, “and you must be Dean. I’ve heard so much about you. About the both of you.” He pats Dean’s cheek once, not quite affectionally, and he chuckles as he walks over to a lone table with one chair, where he sits down. On the table.
The house is small, partially furnished and empty, a victim of recent hard times.
“Where’s Castiel?” Dean asks, because buddy angel or not, this doesn’t bode well.
Azreal leans back on his elbows, kicking one foot back and forth. He’s a lot more animated than either Uriel or Cas, who are always so economical with their movements. “Oh, tracking, hunting, killing,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands, “little Castiel is awfully good with all the stealthy stuff. Particularly when he’s not burdened with mortal flesh. I’m just...” he pauses to consider, tilting his head in a familiar way, “I’m just house-sitting for him. Well, meat-sitting.”
“So... you guys share vessels?”
“Nah,” off the brothers’ looks, Azreral jumps down from the table and approaches them again. “Have you ever tried stepping into a dead body? It’s nasty, and I’m keeping it warm for him; it’s what big brothers are for. Besides, I told him I’d personally keep an eye on you two, and I doubt you’d have appreciated it if I came in my true form. Humans tend to find it a little overwhelming,” he snickers, like the idea of burning eyes out is funny. Since neither Winchester replies, he sighs condescendingly. “Don’t be such sour pusses. I’ve brought beer! We’ll share stories. I’ll tell you about the time I told Castiel he had to investigate the sewers for demonic activity and you’ll tell me what you two have been up to lately. And remember that I can tell if you lie,” he winks and points, pistol-like.
Strangest angel they’ve ever seen, but then they haven’t exactly seen a great many of them. They follow him through to what’s supposedly the kitchen, where sure enough they find two six-packs waiting on the counter, the only piece of furnishing present. Azreal picks one up and hugs it to his chest, then he motions the boys to take the other. “Go on, it’ll be a long night,” he sing-songs, strutting back to the front room, “I hope you’re good at cards, because I need to brush up my game. You humans keep changing the rules every time!”
“Do you think we should trust him?” Sam whispers out of the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Dean whispers back, “but it looks like we’re stuck with him until Castiel comes back.” He grabs the beers and follows the angel.
They find Azreal standing in front of a mirror, alternatively making faces and preening. “Oh, I could work with this,” he mutters, titling his head back and forth. The Winchesters just stare. Then he turns to them, yanking on his own tie. “What is this?” He demands, holding the blue fabric away from his body.
“It’s a tie,” Sam offers numbly.
Azreal shakes it a bit, almost strangling himself in the process. “But what does it do?”
“It usually matches Cas’ eyes,” says Dean, because never mind changing a coat, changing eye color freaks him out. Quietly.
Azreal looks taken aback. “Does it?” He asks, his curiosity very similar to Castiel’s. “Like this?” He continues, passing his hand over the tie from knot to tip and changing the color to bottle green. “You humans get hung up on the strangest things...” He sits down on the ground, back to the wall, and cracks open a bottle of beer.
The Winchesters share a silent look and then they both sit down on the other side of the small room, opposite the angel. Looks like they’re sharing the one other six-pack, but that’s good. They’re both so tired that neither can guarantee they’ll last through even half a bottle.
“So,” Azreal drawls lazily, tipping his head back against the wall and pinning Sam with one of those patented angel-intense stares, “offed any good demons lately?”
oooo
“... so then I say to Castiel: ‘little brother, it’s too dangerous for you! The gutters are full of lust-crazed succubi, they’re going to eat you alive! I’ll go instead’, which obviously gets him all riled up, because Castiel is nothing if not the brave little volunteer, and he’s all ‘I’ll have you remember I crossed the Pit itself’, and- say, I think I might have overestimated this body’s bladder.” Azreal stops his rambling story, squinting suspiciously at his fifth bottle. It’s the loud belch, though, that wakes Dean all the way up again.
Dean blinks sleepily, straightening half-heartedly from the slump he’s fallen in after his first bottle. Sam has unwisely soldiered on through a second bottle and he’s completely out for the count, mouth open and drooling on Dean’s shoulder. Falling asleep sitting on the ground against the wall wasn’t a good idea, and they have the angel to thank for it.
“Why’dje drink so much anyway? I can’t believe you guys get that thirsty...” Dean mumbles in reply.
“We don’t. Actually we don’t need food or water like you do. And it’s sort of an unspoken rule that we don’t waste our time indulging in any of it, but Castiel’s going to be back sooner or later, and I want to leave him with a finer understanding of the inner workings of the human body. He’s such a workaholic, he has no idea.” Azreal pokes at his own belly, then frowns unhappily at his lone remaining bottle. “I’m going to have to get more beer,” he sighs.
“You and Cas... you guys sound pretty close,” Dean prompts before Azreal decides to take back the three left over bottles he’s given the Winchesters. Those are payment for their suffering, and they’re going in their cooler as soon as Dean can move again.
“Well, yes, of course! We’re brothers,” Azreal states with quite a bit of condescendence.
“I thought you angels were all Brothers.”
“We... are,” he sputters, sitting up and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his bended knees, “but Castiel is my little brother, he’s... oh!” Azreal looks at Dean, comprehension dawning on his face, “a human would not understand. There are no words in mortal language to explain this.”
“No, I get it,” Dean huffs, pretty much fed up with the ‘superior’ attitude, “he’s younger, you feel responsible for him.”
Azreal shakes his head. “We’re ageless. I told you your language is unequal to express it.”
“Right, so you’re like twins? Is that it?”
Azreal purses his lips, mulling over the concept. “I suppose that would be as close as you could come to understand it, yes.” He takes one last swig of his bottle, then gets up, and leaves the room.
Dean sneezes, dislodging Sam from his shoulder and half-waking him, which is just enough for them to crawl to their respective duffels and get their blankets out. Going around looking for beds that are probably not even there is just too much trouble. Besides, they’ve already slept half the night on the floor.
Sam throws his blanket over his shoulders without unfolding it, which means that Dean has to do it for him or endure the huge freak gurgling like a vat full of phlegm sitting right next to him in the car the next day.
He falls asleep the moment he settles down again, hearing the vague snatches of a wordless hymn coming from somewhere further inside the house: Azreal has found the bathroom.
oooo
Sam dreams that he’s eating. He’s really hungry, but he’s also aware that he’s asleep and the burger in his hand isn’t going to satisfy him. Now that he’s aware that it’s all fake he can’t even taste it anymore. But he can still smell it.
Sam opens his eyes. It’s dim, late cloudy morning, he needs to take a piss and there is the unmistakable smell of industrial fried chicken in the house. Also, a pair of low, murmuring voices.
But when he sits up he spots Dean, still soundly asleep, in the same room with him, and unless Azreal has started talking to himself... the muffled giggle that floats to him is unmistakably female. Damn. There’s somebody else here.
Sam gets up quietly and follows the sounds and the smell. The house is small, and he doesn’t have to look far. In what is probably supposed to be the guest bedroom he spots Azreal sitting high on the back of the only piece of furniture there, an Ikea couch. Next to him, on the cushions proper, is a girl. A young woman, wrapped up in a too large leather jacket and a pair of shoes so old they’re coming apart on her feet.
She hasn’t noticed Sam, but Azreal turns and stares wordlessly at him the moment he darkens the threshold, so Sam has no choice but to come in.
“Don’t be afraid,” Azreal soothes the girl when she startles at the new presence, “this is Sam. He slept here tonight, but he and his brother will be gone before the day is over, right Sam?”
Surprised, Sam only nods. It didn’t sound threatening, and they weren’t planning on staying anyway, but-
“This is Peggy Sue,” Azreal introduces her, taking her hand in both his, warmly, “the most beautiful girl this side of the Boardington river. She needs a place to stay and I told her this house was just waiting for the touch of a fair lady.”
The woman cuts her eyes towards the angel for a moment, clearly enjoying the compliment even though she doesn’t believe it, and then she stares at Sam full on, defiant and frightened at the same time. She’d be an ordinary, plain girl if it weren’t for the red stain marring almost half her face. Sam can’t tell if it’s a birth mark, or an allergic reaction or even, god forbid, an injury, though what could do something like that? Acid? No, it looks a little uneven, but not in a melted way-
“Azreal said I could stay,” she says, challenging but obviously worried, “he didn’t say he was kicking you guys out.”
It snaps Sam out of his surprise. “He isn’t,” he replies firmly, “we only stopped for the night, so... uh, welcome, I guess, Peggy Sue.” He grins, knowing it displays his dimple and feeling the need for every ounce of charm at the moment.
She stares at him a moment longer, waiting for him to make some comment on her face, angling it so the red mark is fully visible, but Sam stays silent. “Well then, thanks, Sam. To you and your brother. But if you call me Peggy Sue again I’ll have to hurt you. It’s Peg,” she smiles, a real, sunny smile.
Sam flusters for a moment, pointing at the angel, who has a huge shit-eating smirk on his face.
Peg looks at him, and Azreal displays a charming smile of his own, blowing her a little kiss, which makes her giggle shamelessly. “He found me a free house. He can call me twiddle sugar pumpkin pie if he wants to.” The gaze she turns back to Sam is open and friendly as she digs in her pocket and produces a deck of cards. “Say, Sam, since we’re all getting to know each other, fancy a little game?”
ooooo
Peg hustles Sam for a ‘friendly’ fifty bucks before Dean wakes up and finds them. He then proceeds to berate Sam for his poor card skills and challenges Peg right out to a match to win the money back. After Azreal’s unrepentant flirting and Sam’s continuous embarrassment, it’s Dean’s let’s-cut-the-bullshit approach that draws out the biggest smile she graces them with.
Sam and Azreal leave them, engrossed in some two-person variation of Omaha Hi-Lo, and wander back to the living room where the brothers slept. They didn’t exactly unpack the night before, but Sam starts fretting with their stuff anyway, getting it all ready to leave.
“You told her your real name?”
Azreal shrugs. “I told you, and that’s a lot more dangerous. Peggy Sue won’t do anything with it. And no, I didn’t tell her your surname, so stop fussing.”
Sam bristles, but he forces himself to be friendly. Angels being dicks to him and Dean is nothing new. At least Azreal got them beer. “How’d you meet Peg?” He asks, because he’s been wondering and none of his guesses seem plausible.
“Oh, out,” Azreal replies, making a dismissive gesture with his hands, “I wanted more beer, and you two fell asleep before I could get these out,” he fishes in the inside pocket of the jacket and produces his own worn-out box of cards. It looks antique and possibly valuable. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I needed to brush up on my game,” he continues seriously, taking the cards out, “and Peg was kind enough to explain the current rules... and then some. I had nothing to give her in return, so...” he shrugs, opening his arms expansively.
“That... was nice of you,” Sam says haltingly.
“I can’t be beholden to a human,” Azreal says dismissively. “Oh, by the way, you’ll want these back.”
He tosses something to Sam who catches it midair. As soon as his hand closes around it, he recognizes it: it’s the keys to the Impala. Dean’s Impala. Oh God. “You- you took Dean’s car?? You drove it? He barely lets me touch it! Are you insane??” He gulps, stopped in his tracks by Azreal’s smirk: of course the angel of the freaking Lord isn’t afraid of what Dean might do to him if he finds out.
“Don’t worry, I parked it exactly as it was. He won’t notice.” Azreal starts shuffling the cards, one handed, leaning against the frame of the door-length window and gazing out.
Sam watches his profile, and it strikes him how easily he could pass for a human, without the stiffness or the awkwardness of his fellow angels. “You are very different from your Brothers,” he ventures, hoping he doesn’t give offence.
Azreal smiles to himself. “Our duties shape us. Uriel is... a specialist, appropriate for giving a loud and clear message. Castiel is a warrior of stealth. Not many angels would be able to walk into Hell, let alone get away with a damned soul, Sam, and I don’t say that just because he’s my little brother. In truth, I do not think I’d be able to. I fight a different war: I’ve walked among the humans... I’ve walked among the demons. I gather information. It is a vital part of our fight, and I know the might of my Brothers, and yet every time I still regret not accompanying them to the front lines.”
“Well, why don’t you?” Sam blurts out, “if you want to fight they should let you...” he trails off.
Azreal has gone so still it’s almost frightening. “I have my orders,” he says flatly, slowly turning his head and pinning Sam with a cold, flat stare. “I do not have the luxury of free will, nor do I have the illusion of Death to free me from the consequences of my actions. God commands me, for eternity. It is my only reason for being.”
Sam nods, averting his eyes, but inside he’s back to feeling the same disappointment he felt the first time he met the angels. Azreal reaches out with his hand and cups his cheek, making him face him and tugging him to take a step closer. “I do not believe you to be beyond redemption, Sam Winchester- otherwise you would be dealing with a very different type of angel,” he smiles wanly, then holds up the deck of cards so Sam can see the bottom one. It’s an elaborate ace of spades.
Sam jerks back, heart thumping in his chest. “It’s easy for you angels to pass judgment on us, but we don’t have the luxury of direct godly guidance. We have to try and do good, and hope it’s enough.”
Azreal doesn’t react, just stares at him, solemn and serious. For the first time Sam truly sees him as an angel, an ancient, supernatural, powerful being. “You have received guidance, more than once. Just because it is not the advice you wanted to hear, it does not make it any less sound.”
Sam clenches his jaw and looks away. When he turns, still without a suitable retort in mind, he finds that Azreal is simply gone.
ooooo
First time they see hide or feather of an angel is five days later.
Without any word on the status of the demonic assassin, the brothers decided to head straight for Bobby and his impenetrable panic room. Nothing’s happened so far, and the uneasy tension around the house has Dean almost wish the bastard would finally make a play for them. It doesn’t help that Sam’s been moodier than usual, or that Dean only managed to win back twenty bucks off Peg and then he kept them for himself as a fine.
So when Dean spies a tan trench coat from the kitchen window, he’s not sure what to even hope for anymore.
It’s undoubtedly Castiel this time. He’s standing outside, facing the front door with his chin tucked down and his eyes boring into Bobby’s house, and it makes Dean’s heart quicken that he can recognize him just by his stare. It’s scary and weird, is what it is.
He’s pretty sure that Cas has seen him at the window, but he makes no move to come inside, so Dean goes out to him.
“You knocked?”
“No.” He looks more disheveled than usual. The tie is hanging even looser, and the shirt is untucked and missing a button. The colors, Dean is pleased to notice, are back to their usual.
“Why didn’t you come in?”
Castiel cuts his eyes to the side, taking in the whole junkyard at a glance. “There are wards. I think Robert would prefer I didn’t break them.” And damn, but Dean is a little touched by the gesture.
“You needn’t worry anymore about the demon hunting you. I took care of it,” Castiel continues gravelly, not noticing Dean’s stare or simply ignoring it. “I meant to inform you sooner, but I’ve been busy. I don’t know when I’ll be done.”
Dean slowly pivots around. Now that he thinks about it... “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
Castiel nods.
“Right. So, huh, thanks for the- you know. With the demon.”
Castiel nods again. It was actually easier with Azreal. At least he talked (and talked and talked...).
“You ok? You look pretty ruffled.”
Castiel blinks, and this time Dean has the distinct impression that the angel is pointedly not looking down at his rumpled clothes. “I had a... misunderstanding. Regarding one of my assignments.”
Dean looks him up and down. “Right. We met Azreal, you know?”
Cas’ eyes go very, very wide. The hands, hanging loosely at his sides, twitch.
Dean smiles. This is almost worth the aggravation of that night, plus the fact that he’s sure the damn angel did something to the Impala, not that he has any proof. He reaches out and adjusts Castiel’s blue tie, tightening the knot so that it’s back to it’s usual position. “Don’t worry,” he says magnanimously, patting the angel on the shoulder, “there’s one in every family.”
“Well, who is it? And, most importantly, how do we stop them?” Dean asks, wearily, because he doesn’t put it past Castiel to leave them with only a uselessly cryptic warning.
But Castiel keeps his cool and answers immediately, “You will not need to do anything. Stay in this room, put up your usual protection, and go to sleep. Act as though you are unaware of the danger. Meanwhile I’ll patrol at an appropriate distance.”
“You want us to play bait?” Sam interjects, slightly offended.
“You’re going to guard us? Perch on our shoulders, so to speak?” Dean mocks, delighted for a chance to tease the mighty soldier-of-God.
“I assure you, you will not be in any danger,” Castiel intones in his gravelly voice, eyes already looking past them to God knows where, “I am perfectly equipped to deal with this problem. Just please do not split up tonight. I’d rather keep a tight perimeter.”
Dean throws his hands up and sits on his bed. It’s not like he’s the one with the weird nocturnal activities. He’s only a little surprised Cas hasn’t taken the opportunity to throw in some ‘or else’ clause.
Sam digests the information with tight, short nods, jaw working in annoyance. “Are you sure about this, Castiel?”
“Very.”
Right on cue, an ear-splitting thunder cracks seemingly right over their heads, rolling on for several seconds, light so strong it pushes past the already drawn curtains. It is immediately followed by the sound of torrential rain pouring like buckets from the sky.
Castiel turns from them and opens the door. Thunder and lighting beat out a constant rhythm, and the sheets of rain are so thick that the far side of the motel’s parking lot is virtually invisible. The sun has already set an hour ago, and the darkness is all-encompassing.
“You’re gonna go out and patrol in that?” Dean whistles. “Uh, don’t get struck by lighting or anything.”
Castiel turns and frowns like that’s a very weird notion -and it probably is- and calmly walks out into the downpour. Within moments, he is swallowed by the night.
oooo
They make do with what they manage to scavenge from the vending machines in the lobby and set up turns for watches throughout the night, because guardian angel or not they haven’t survived this long without watching their own backs; they end up staying awake though, both of them, the whole time. There’s a demon assassin on the way, sleep well! What the hell did Castiel think was going to happen?
Around two a.m. the rain stops. A little after six, before sunrise, there’s a knock at the door. Sam and Dean get a jolt of adrenaline and get ready to deal with anything, but it turns out to be just Castiel.
“Since when do you knock?” Dean says, putting down his shotgun. Sam keeps a hold on Ruby’s knife, just to show that he was armed with that, in any event.
“Since you were both awake and ready to tear into anything coming into the room. I thought this might be less... perturbing for you. I guess it wasn’t.” Castiel looks like he’s been swimming all night. His clothes are so water-logged they’re sagging and dripping in steady rivulets on the carpet. His hair is also plastered down, almost to his eyes. But, aside from soaking wet, he doesn’t look particularly bothered or even tired.
“So, have you caught it?” Sam takes a few steps forward, coming to stand next to his brother.
Castiel cuts his eyes away, tilting his head, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s the most human gesture either of them has ever seen him doing, and it takes them a moment to notice that suddenly the angel isn’t wet anymore. Even his hair is standing back up as usual. “I have repressed the attack, but the demon has slipped my grasp. I have to report back, and decide what to do.”
“Whoa, whoa, so the assassin is still out there?”
Castiel smiles. A little. Maybe. There is a definite quirking of the corner of his mouth. “Rest assured, it’s in no condition to attempt this again. Not anytime soon.”
The Winchesters share a look. It’s only a flicker of the eyes, but it’s enough for Castiel to disappear before they can get more answers out of him.
Which leaves them with a load of trouble they’ve got to fence for themselves. As usual.
oooo
They check out in a hurry, they drive all day, and when they finally stop some fifteen hours later they find Castiel waiting for them in the empty house they’ve chosen for squatting, which is both kinda reassuring and pretty terrifying at the same time.
He looks different, too. The most eye-catching thing is the coat, which is black instead of the usual tan, even though the make and the cut are the same. But it’s the stance that catches Dean’s attention. He’s leaning against the far wall, hands deep in his pockets, with an insouciant air that he’s never seen on the angel.
“Who are you?”
The stranger smirks. “Good catch. You’ve already made me, huh?” He pushes off the wall and saunters lazily towards the brothers.
Dean is quick enough to nail the bastard with a good splash of holy water across the face, and Sam immediately raises his hand. The stranger, unfortunately, merely blinks through the dousing and slaps Sam’s hand down with a sharp whack.
“I thought we’d warned you not to do that, Sam Winchester,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and now that he’s so close to them they can see that his eyes are no longer blue like Castiel’s, but bottle green.
“Y- you’re an angel?” Sam stammers, horrified and taking several steps back.
“Name’s Azreal,” he replies, relaxing his stance and turning to regard Dean curiously, “and you must be Dean. I’ve heard so much about you. About the both of you.” He pats Dean’s cheek once, not quite affectionally, and he chuckles as he walks over to a lone table with one chair, where he sits down. On the table.
The house is small, partially furnished and empty, a victim of recent hard times.
“Where’s Castiel?” Dean asks, because buddy angel or not, this doesn’t bode well.
Azreal leans back on his elbows, kicking one foot back and forth. He’s a lot more animated than either Uriel or Cas, who are always so economical with their movements. “Oh, tracking, hunting, killing,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands, “little Castiel is awfully good with all the stealthy stuff. Particularly when he’s not burdened with mortal flesh. I’m just...” he pauses to consider, tilting his head in a familiar way, “I’m just house-sitting for him. Well, meat-sitting.”
“So... you guys share vessels?”
“Nah,” off the brothers’ looks, Azreral jumps down from the table and approaches them again. “Have you ever tried stepping into a dead body? It’s nasty, and I’m keeping it warm for him; it’s what big brothers are for. Besides, I told him I’d personally keep an eye on you two, and I doubt you’d have appreciated it if I came in my true form. Humans tend to find it a little overwhelming,” he snickers, like the idea of burning eyes out is funny. Since neither Winchester replies, he sighs condescendingly. “Don’t be such sour pusses. I’ve brought beer! We’ll share stories. I’ll tell you about the time I told Castiel he had to investigate the sewers for demonic activity and you’ll tell me what you two have been up to lately. And remember that I can tell if you lie,” he winks and points, pistol-like.
Strangest angel they’ve ever seen, but then they haven’t exactly seen a great many of them. They follow him through to what’s supposedly the kitchen, where sure enough they find two six-packs waiting on the counter, the only piece of furnishing present. Azreal picks one up and hugs it to his chest, then he motions the boys to take the other. “Go on, it’ll be a long night,” he sing-songs, strutting back to the front room, “I hope you’re good at cards, because I need to brush up my game. You humans keep changing the rules every time!”
“Do you think we should trust him?” Sam whispers out of the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Dean whispers back, “but it looks like we’re stuck with him until Castiel comes back.” He grabs the beers and follows the angel.
They find Azreal standing in front of a mirror, alternatively making faces and preening. “Oh, I could work with this,” he mutters, titling his head back and forth. The Winchesters just stare. Then he turns to them, yanking on his own tie. “What is this?” He demands, holding the blue fabric away from his body.
“It’s a tie,” Sam offers numbly.
Azreal shakes it a bit, almost strangling himself in the process. “But what does it do?”
“It usually matches Cas’ eyes,” says Dean, because never mind changing a coat, changing eye color freaks him out. Quietly.
Azreal looks taken aback. “Does it?” He asks, his curiosity very similar to Castiel’s. “Like this?” He continues, passing his hand over the tie from knot to tip and changing the color to bottle green. “You humans get hung up on the strangest things...” He sits down on the ground, back to the wall, and cracks open a bottle of beer.
The Winchesters share a silent look and then they both sit down on the other side of the small room, opposite the angel. Looks like they’re sharing the one other six-pack, but that’s good. They’re both so tired that neither can guarantee they’ll last through even half a bottle.
“So,” Azreal drawls lazily, tipping his head back against the wall and pinning Sam with one of those patented angel-intense stares, “offed any good demons lately?”
oooo
“... so then I say to Castiel: ‘little brother, it’s too dangerous for you! The gutters are full of lust-crazed succubi, they’re going to eat you alive! I’ll go instead’, which obviously gets him all riled up, because Castiel is nothing if not the brave little volunteer, and he’s all ‘I’ll have you remember I crossed the Pit itself’, and- say, I think I might have overestimated this body’s bladder.” Azreal stops his rambling story, squinting suspiciously at his fifth bottle. It’s the loud belch, though, that wakes Dean all the way up again.
Dean blinks sleepily, straightening half-heartedly from the slump he’s fallen in after his first bottle. Sam has unwisely soldiered on through a second bottle and he’s completely out for the count, mouth open and drooling on Dean’s shoulder. Falling asleep sitting on the ground against the wall wasn’t a good idea, and they have the angel to thank for it.
“Why’dje drink so much anyway? I can’t believe you guys get that thirsty...” Dean mumbles in reply.
“We don’t. Actually we don’t need food or water like you do. And it’s sort of an unspoken rule that we don’t waste our time indulging in any of it, but Castiel’s going to be back sooner or later, and I want to leave him with a finer understanding of the inner workings of the human body. He’s such a workaholic, he has no idea.” Azreal pokes at his own belly, then frowns unhappily at his lone remaining bottle. “I’m going to have to get more beer,” he sighs.
“You and Cas... you guys sound pretty close,” Dean prompts before Azreal decides to take back the three left over bottles he’s given the Winchesters. Those are payment for their suffering, and they’re going in their cooler as soon as Dean can move again.
“Well, yes, of course! We’re brothers,” Azreal states with quite a bit of condescendence.
“I thought you angels were all Brothers.”
“We... are,” he sputters, sitting up and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his bended knees, “but Castiel is my little brother, he’s... oh!” Azreal looks at Dean, comprehension dawning on his face, “a human would not understand. There are no words in mortal language to explain this.”
“No, I get it,” Dean huffs, pretty much fed up with the ‘superior’ attitude, “he’s younger, you feel responsible for him.”
Azreal shakes his head. “We’re ageless. I told you your language is unequal to express it.”
“Right, so you’re like twins? Is that it?”
Azreal purses his lips, mulling over the concept. “I suppose that would be as close as you could come to understand it, yes.” He takes one last swig of his bottle, then gets up, and leaves the room.
Dean sneezes, dislodging Sam from his shoulder and half-waking him, which is just enough for them to crawl to their respective duffels and get their blankets out. Going around looking for beds that are probably not even there is just too much trouble. Besides, they’ve already slept half the night on the floor.
Sam throws his blanket over his shoulders without unfolding it, which means that Dean has to do it for him or endure the huge freak gurgling like a vat full of phlegm sitting right next to him in the car the next day.
He falls asleep the moment he settles down again, hearing the vague snatches of a wordless hymn coming from somewhere further inside the house: Azreal has found the bathroom.
oooo
Sam dreams that he’s eating. He’s really hungry, but he’s also aware that he’s asleep and the burger in his hand isn’t going to satisfy him. Now that he’s aware that it’s all fake he can’t even taste it anymore. But he can still smell it.
Sam opens his eyes. It’s dim, late cloudy morning, he needs to take a piss and there is the unmistakable smell of industrial fried chicken in the house. Also, a pair of low, murmuring voices.
But when he sits up he spots Dean, still soundly asleep, in the same room with him, and unless Azreal has started talking to himself... the muffled giggle that floats to him is unmistakably female. Damn. There’s somebody else here.
Sam gets up quietly and follows the sounds and the smell. The house is small, and he doesn’t have to look far. In what is probably supposed to be the guest bedroom he spots Azreal sitting high on the back of the only piece of furniture there, an Ikea couch. Next to him, on the cushions proper, is a girl. A young woman, wrapped up in a too large leather jacket and a pair of shoes so old they’re coming apart on her feet.
She hasn’t noticed Sam, but Azreal turns and stares wordlessly at him the moment he darkens the threshold, so Sam has no choice but to come in.
“Don’t be afraid,” Azreal soothes the girl when she startles at the new presence, “this is Sam. He slept here tonight, but he and his brother will be gone before the day is over, right Sam?”
Surprised, Sam only nods. It didn’t sound threatening, and they weren’t planning on staying anyway, but-
“This is Peggy Sue,” Azreal introduces her, taking her hand in both his, warmly, “the most beautiful girl this side of the Boardington river. She needs a place to stay and I told her this house was just waiting for the touch of a fair lady.”
The woman cuts her eyes towards the angel for a moment, clearly enjoying the compliment even though she doesn’t believe it, and then she stares at Sam full on, defiant and frightened at the same time. She’d be an ordinary, plain girl if it weren’t for the red stain marring almost half her face. Sam can’t tell if it’s a birth mark, or an allergic reaction or even, god forbid, an injury, though what could do something like that? Acid? No, it looks a little uneven, but not in a melted way-
“Azreal said I could stay,” she says, challenging but obviously worried, “he didn’t say he was kicking you guys out.”
It snaps Sam out of his surprise. “He isn’t,” he replies firmly, “we only stopped for the night, so... uh, welcome, I guess, Peggy Sue.” He grins, knowing it displays his dimple and feeling the need for every ounce of charm at the moment.
She stares at him a moment longer, waiting for him to make some comment on her face, angling it so the red mark is fully visible, but Sam stays silent. “Well then, thanks, Sam. To you and your brother. But if you call me Peggy Sue again I’ll have to hurt you. It’s Peg,” she smiles, a real, sunny smile.
Sam flusters for a moment, pointing at the angel, who has a huge shit-eating smirk on his face.
Peg looks at him, and Azreal displays a charming smile of his own, blowing her a little kiss, which makes her giggle shamelessly. “He found me a free house. He can call me twiddle sugar pumpkin pie if he wants to.” The gaze she turns back to Sam is open and friendly as she digs in her pocket and produces a deck of cards. “Say, Sam, since we’re all getting to know each other, fancy a little game?”
ooooo
Peg hustles Sam for a ‘friendly’ fifty bucks before Dean wakes up and finds them. He then proceeds to berate Sam for his poor card skills and challenges Peg right out to a match to win the money back. After Azreal’s unrepentant flirting and Sam’s continuous embarrassment, it’s Dean’s let’s-cut-the-bullshit approach that draws out the biggest smile she graces them with.
Sam and Azreal leave them, engrossed in some two-person variation of Omaha Hi-Lo, and wander back to the living room where the brothers slept. They didn’t exactly unpack the night before, but Sam starts fretting with their stuff anyway, getting it all ready to leave.
“You told her your real name?”
Azreal shrugs. “I told you, and that’s a lot more dangerous. Peggy Sue won’t do anything with it. And no, I didn’t tell her your surname, so stop fussing.”
Sam bristles, but he forces himself to be friendly. Angels being dicks to him and Dean is nothing new. At least Azreal got them beer. “How’d you meet Peg?” He asks, because he’s been wondering and none of his guesses seem plausible.
“Oh, out,” Azreal replies, making a dismissive gesture with his hands, “I wanted more beer, and you two fell asleep before I could get these out,” he fishes in the inside pocket of the jacket and produces his own worn-out box of cards. It looks antique and possibly valuable. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I needed to brush up on my game,” he continues seriously, taking the cards out, “and Peg was kind enough to explain the current rules... and then some. I had nothing to give her in return, so...” he shrugs, opening his arms expansively.
“That... was nice of you,” Sam says haltingly.
“I can’t be beholden to a human,” Azreal says dismissively. “Oh, by the way, you’ll want these back.”
He tosses something to Sam who catches it midair. As soon as his hand closes around it, he recognizes it: it’s the keys to the Impala. Dean’s Impala. Oh God. “You- you took Dean’s car?? You drove it? He barely lets me touch it! Are you insane??” He gulps, stopped in his tracks by Azreal’s smirk: of course the angel of the freaking Lord isn’t afraid of what Dean might do to him if he finds out.
“Don’t worry, I parked it exactly as it was. He won’t notice.” Azreal starts shuffling the cards, one handed, leaning against the frame of the door-length window and gazing out.
Sam watches his profile, and it strikes him how easily he could pass for a human, without the stiffness or the awkwardness of his fellow angels. “You are very different from your Brothers,” he ventures, hoping he doesn’t give offence.
Azreal smiles to himself. “Our duties shape us. Uriel is... a specialist, appropriate for giving a loud and clear message. Castiel is a warrior of stealth. Not many angels would be able to walk into Hell, let alone get away with a damned soul, Sam, and I don’t say that just because he’s my little brother. In truth, I do not think I’d be able to. I fight a different war: I’ve walked among the humans... I’ve walked among the demons. I gather information. It is a vital part of our fight, and I know the might of my Brothers, and yet every time I still regret not accompanying them to the front lines.”
“Well, why don’t you?” Sam blurts out, “if you want to fight they should let you...” he trails off.
Azreal has gone so still it’s almost frightening. “I have my orders,” he says flatly, slowly turning his head and pinning Sam with a cold, flat stare. “I do not have the luxury of free will, nor do I have the illusion of Death to free me from the consequences of my actions. God commands me, for eternity. It is my only reason for being.”
Sam nods, averting his eyes, but inside he’s back to feeling the same disappointment he felt the first time he met the angels. Azreal reaches out with his hand and cups his cheek, making him face him and tugging him to take a step closer. “I do not believe you to be beyond redemption, Sam Winchester- otherwise you would be dealing with a very different type of angel,” he smiles wanly, then holds up the deck of cards so Sam can see the bottom one. It’s an elaborate ace of spades.
Sam jerks back, heart thumping in his chest. “It’s easy for you angels to pass judgment on us, but we don’t have the luxury of direct godly guidance. We have to try and do good, and hope it’s enough.”
Azreal doesn’t react, just stares at him, solemn and serious. For the first time Sam truly sees him as an angel, an ancient, supernatural, powerful being. “You have received guidance, more than once. Just because it is not the advice you wanted to hear, it does not make it any less sound.”
Sam clenches his jaw and looks away. When he turns, still without a suitable retort in mind, he finds that Azreal is simply gone.
ooooo
First time they see hide or feather of an angel is five days later.
Without any word on the status of the demonic assassin, the brothers decided to head straight for Bobby and his impenetrable panic room. Nothing’s happened so far, and the uneasy tension around the house has Dean almost wish the bastard would finally make a play for them. It doesn’t help that Sam’s been moodier than usual, or that Dean only managed to win back twenty bucks off Peg and then he kept them for himself as a fine.
So when Dean spies a tan trench coat from the kitchen window, he’s not sure what to even hope for anymore.
It’s undoubtedly Castiel this time. He’s standing outside, facing the front door with his chin tucked down and his eyes boring into Bobby’s house, and it makes Dean’s heart quicken that he can recognize him just by his stare. It’s scary and weird, is what it is.
He’s pretty sure that Cas has seen him at the window, but he makes no move to come inside, so Dean goes out to him.
“You knocked?”
“No.” He looks more disheveled than usual. The tie is hanging even looser, and the shirt is untucked and missing a button. The colors, Dean is pleased to notice, are back to their usual.
“Why didn’t you come in?”
Castiel cuts his eyes to the side, taking in the whole junkyard at a glance. “There are wards. I think Robert would prefer I didn’t break them.” And damn, but Dean is a little touched by the gesture.
“You needn’t worry anymore about the demon hunting you. I took care of it,” Castiel continues gravelly, not noticing Dean’s stare or simply ignoring it. “I meant to inform you sooner, but I’ve been busy. I don’t know when I’ll be done.”
Dean slowly pivots around. Now that he thinks about it... “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
Castiel nods.
“Right. So, huh, thanks for the- you know. With the demon.”
Castiel nods again. It was actually easier with Azreal. At least he talked (and talked and talked...).
“You ok? You look pretty ruffled.”
Castiel blinks, and this time Dean has the distinct impression that the angel is pointedly not looking down at his rumpled clothes. “I had a... misunderstanding. Regarding one of my assignments.”
Dean looks him up and down. “Right. We met Azreal, you know?”
Cas’ eyes go very, very wide. The hands, hanging loosely at his sides, twitch.
Dean smiles. This is almost worth the aggravation of that night, plus the fact that he’s sure the damn angel did something to the Impala, not that he has any proof. He reaches out and adjusts Castiel’s blue tie, tightening the knot so that it’s back to it’s usual position. “Don’t worry,” he says magnanimously, patting the angel on the shoulder, “there’s one in every family.”