[fic] hell or high water (1/5)
Title: Hell or High Water
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam, various others
Spoilers: Up to 6.16
Warnings: Language, violence, gore, torture, potentially sensitive discussion of religion, non-explicit sexuality
Word Count: 25,000
Summary: Wherein Dean and Sam are killed by forces unknown (again), and Castiel is willing to do just about anything do bring them back. However, things aren’t quite as straightforward as they seem, and the civil war in Heaven reaches an unexpected climax when Raphael shows his hand. A story about faith, morality, and the ultimate cost of free will.
Notes: Written for ladyyueh as part of deancastiel’s Everlasting Birthday Challenge for the prompt: “Dean and Sam die but they’re nowhere to be found in Heaven/Earth/Hell. Cue BAMF Cas on quest to find them.”
Many, many thanks to the wonderful stellamaris99 for providing such a speedy and thorough beta on very short notice. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Hell or High Water
(0.)
Castiel knew the angel in front of him.
His name was Baradiel, and they had fought together in the First War.
Now, Baradiel was tethered to a makeshift rack -- a pool table of all things, wouldn’t Dean be proud? -- locked in his vessel with Enochian warding magic, Castiel’s sword speared through his shoulder. Blood and saliva foamed at his lips, a red froth that dripped down onto his suit lapels as he shook his head and laughed without humor and refused to answer Castiel’s questions.
Castiel was running out of patience.
“You know,” Balthazar drawled from where he was leaning against the bar, “I remember when you were the one being tortured, Cas. Up in Heaven rather than some scuzzy dive bar, granted, but Zachariah just kept on tearing into you. I begged him to stop, by the way; at least, I did until he told me to ‘hold my blaspheming tongue unless I wanted to be next’.” He shrugged. “Then you were on your own.”
He ran a finger idly over the rim of his Scotch glass. Castiel glanced at him, struggling to keep his irritation in check.
“What’s your point?”
Balthazar shrugged, sipped his drink. “Just making conversation.”
His tone was nonchalant, but Castiel knew his brother, and he could tell that Balthazar was uneasy. Castiel had tracked him to this bar to demand once again that he hand over the weapons he’d stolen when they had both become aware of another angelic presence, Baradiel spying on them. A short scuffle had ensued, over the course of which all humans had fled the establishment, but Castiel and Balthazar together had quickly overpowered Raphael’s agent.
Castiel wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword and pulled it free from Baradiel’s shoulder, feeling it scrape against the bone but encountering little resistance as the metal slid through gristle and sinew. The damage to the vessel was inconsequential; even a non-lethal wound, when inflicted with angelic weaponry, was enough to tear through Grace, and it was this that made it such an effective method of torture.
Castiel positioned the flat of the blade against the cheekbone of Baradiel’s vessel, just below the eye socket. The man looked to be in his early twenties, barely older than a child, with fair hair that reminded Castiel of Adam Milligan. Castiel did not wonder about the vessel’s family, about whether he was still present and conscious somewhere, a prisoner inside his own body. He did not have the luxury of pondering such things.
“What is Raphael planning?”
Baradiel spat in Castiel’s face, reddish liquid spraying his nose and chin. Castiel resisted the urge to wipe it away.
“You can torture me for all eternity; I won’t break the way that you did. I’m not weak like you. I would never betray my own kind.”
Castiel flicked his wrist upwards in a lightning-quick maneuver, the soft flesh around the eye orbital giving easily beneath the point of his sword as it drove in, the edge of the blade skirting behind the eye to sever the optic nerve before he drew it back. Baradiel’s scream came out as a gurgling rasp, bloody liquid slopping from his lips as the eyeball hit the floor with a dull plop, rolling away under a nearby table. Light began to leak from the empty socket as well as more blood and fluid; bright white and holy.
“Really, Cas?” Balthazar sighed exasperatedly. He sounded vaguely nauseous, if an angel could be such a thing.
“No-one’s asking you to be here,” Castiel snapped. Balthazar did not leave.
“Look at you, Castiel,” Baradiel wheezed. “No angel would resort to such barbarous methods. You’re no better than a demon.”
“I don’t want it to be this way. Please, brother, just --”
“We are not brothers. You Fell, for love of a human man, no less. You’ve fallen prey to sin, to envy and avarice and lust --”
“Now that’s almost certainly not true,” Balthazar interjected. “Cas here’s a prime example of Grade-A virgin if ever I’ve seen one.”
“Tell me,” Baradiel sneered, ignoring him entirely, “what would your Righteous Man say if he could see you now?”
It was a question Castiel had been trying to avoid: what would Dean think if he could see him now? Dean, who had spent a decade flaying souls in Hell but loved with a fierceness Castiel had never known before meeting him; who still believed Castiel to be the better of the two of them.
He had said as much one night during the Apocalypse, when they’d been working their way through a bottle of Bobby’s whisky, Dean running out of reasons to live and Castiel something more human than angel. Dean had slung an arm around his shoulder, slurring his words but speaking with a clarity he rarely possessed while sober, all traces of sarcasm and deflection removed.
“I don’t know if this is just the drink talking,” he’d said, “and you can’t tell Sam I said this or I’d never hear the end of it, but… don’t take your cues for being human from me. ‘Cause I’m kind of a fuck-up, and you’re… well, you’re good, Cas, real good, all pure and holy and shit. You’re better’n I deserve.”
Castiel wondered if Dean still thought that now, after the things he’d seen Castiel do these past few months, but it was ultimately irrelevant. Castiel was doing what needed to be done, though Dean -- obstinate as he was -- refused to see it that way. In some ways, the fact that their friendship was no longer what it used to be was a force for the better. Castiel’s feelings for the man were a weakness he could not afford.
And he was not like Zachariah, not like Alastair; his aim was not to break souls for the sake of remolding them into something new, and he did not take pleasure from the suffering he inflicted. If Baradiel had chosen to follow Raphael of his own free will, then that was his prerogative; Castiel was merely seeking to acquire information, in the most effective way he knew how.
“You really think you can win this war?” Baradiel demanded. His eye was beginning to grow back, a pinkish cyst forming in the gaping cavity, and he was smirking in spite of everything. “You’re nothing. You’re just a lowly foot soldier with ideas above his station, and Raphael will crush you. And when Michael and Lucifer are finished with those Winchesters you’re so fond of, their souls will be the first ones tossed back into damnation, where they and all their kind truly belong.”
Castiel reacted violently; almost before he was aware of moving, his sword was buried hilt-deep in Baradiel’s throat, and celestial light was flooding the room as his brother’s Grace burned itself out, ashen wings cutting through the thick sediment of dust to leave their imprint on the wooden slats.
The silence when Baradiel stopped screaming seemed too loud, though it was punctuated by Castiel’s breathing, harsh and ragged in a way that it shouldn’t be. He wiped the gore away from his face, and some detached part of him noted that his hand was shaking.
“Touchy,” Balthazar muttered.
Castiel could not look at him, and found he had no reply.
(I.)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam, various others
Spoilers: Up to 6.16
Warnings: Language, violence, gore, torture, potentially sensitive discussion of religion, non-explicit sexuality
Word Count: 25,000
Summary: Wherein Dean and Sam are killed by forces unknown (again), and Castiel is willing to do just about anything do bring them back. However, things aren’t quite as straightforward as they seem, and the civil war in Heaven reaches an unexpected climax when Raphael shows his hand. A story about faith, morality, and the ultimate cost of free will.
Notes: Written for ladyyueh as part of deancastiel’s Everlasting Birthday Challenge for the prompt: “Dean and Sam die but they’re nowhere to be found in Heaven/Earth/Hell. Cue BAMF Cas on quest to find them.”
Many, many thanks to the wonderful stellamaris99 for providing such a speedy and thorough beta on very short notice. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Hell or High Water
(0.)
Castiel knew the angel in front of him.
His name was Baradiel, and they had fought together in the First War.
Now, Baradiel was tethered to a makeshift rack -- a pool table of all things, wouldn’t Dean be proud? -- locked in his vessel with Enochian warding magic, Castiel’s sword speared through his shoulder. Blood and saliva foamed at his lips, a red froth that dripped down onto his suit lapels as he shook his head and laughed without humor and refused to answer Castiel’s questions.
Castiel was running out of patience.
“You know,” Balthazar drawled from where he was leaning against the bar, “I remember when you were the one being tortured, Cas. Up in Heaven rather than some scuzzy dive bar, granted, but Zachariah just kept on tearing into you. I begged him to stop, by the way; at least, I did until he told me to ‘hold my blaspheming tongue unless I wanted to be next’.” He shrugged. “Then you were on your own.”
He ran a finger idly over the rim of his Scotch glass. Castiel glanced at him, struggling to keep his irritation in check.
“What’s your point?”
Balthazar shrugged, sipped his drink. “Just making conversation.”
His tone was nonchalant, but Castiel knew his brother, and he could tell that Balthazar was uneasy. Castiel had tracked him to this bar to demand once again that he hand over the weapons he’d stolen when they had both become aware of another angelic presence, Baradiel spying on them. A short scuffle had ensued, over the course of which all humans had fled the establishment, but Castiel and Balthazar together had quickly overpowered Raphael’s agent.
Castiel wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword and pulled it free from Baradiel’s shoulder, feeling it scrape against the bone but encountering little resistance as the metal slid through gristle and sinew. The damage to the vessel was inconsequential; even a non-lethal wound, when inflicted with angelic weaponry, was enough to tear through Grace, and it was this that made it such an effective method of torture.
Castiel positioned the flat of the blade against the cheekbone of Baradiel’s vessel, just below the eye socket. The man looked to be in his early twenties, barely older than a child, with fair hair that reminded Castiel of Adam Milligan. Castiel did not wonder about the vessel’s family, about whether he was still present and conscious somewhere, a prisoner inside his own body. He did not have the luxury of pondering such things.
“What is Raphael planning?”
Baradiel spat in Castiel’s face, reddish liquid spraying his nose and chin. Castiel resisted the urge to wipe it away.
“You can torture me for all eternity; I won’t break the way that you did. I’m not weak like you. I would never betray my own kind.”
Castiel flicked his wrist upwards in a lightning-quick maneuver, the soft flesh around the eye orbital giving easily beneath the point of his sword as it drove in, the edge of the blade skirting behind the eye to sever the optic nerve before he drew it back. Baradiel’s scream came out as a gurgling rasp, bloody liquid slopping from his lips as the eyeball hit the floor with a dull plop, rolling away under a nearby table. Light began to leak from the empty socket as well as more blood and fluid; bright white and holy.
“Really, Cas?” Balthazar sighed exasperatedly. He sounded vaguely nauseous, if an angel could be such a thing.
“No-one’s asking you to be here,” Castiel snapped. Balthazar did not leave.
“Look at you, Castiel,” Baradiel wheezed. “No angel would resort to such barbarous methods. You’re no better than a demon.”
“I don’t want it to be this way. Please, brother, just --”
“We are not brothers. You Fell, for love of a human man, no less. You’ve fallen prey to sin, to envy and avarice and lust --”
“Now that’s almost certainly not true,” Balthazar interjected. “Cas here’s a prime example of Grade-A virgin if ever I’ve seen one.”
“Tell me,” Baradiel sneered, ignoring him entirely, “what would your Righteous Man say if he could see you now?”
It was a question Castiel had been trying to avoid: what would Dean think if he could see him now? Dean, who had spent a decade flaying souls in Hell but loved with a fierceness Castiel had never known before meeting him; who still believed Castiel to be the better of the two of them.
He had said as much one night during the Apocalypse, when they’d been working their way through a bottle of Bobby’s whisky, Dean running out of reasons to live and Castiel something more human than angel. Dean had slung an arm around his shoulder, slurring his words but speaking with a clarity he rarely possessed while sober, all traces of sarcasm and deflection removed.
“I don’t know if this is just the drink talking,” he’d said, “and you can’t tell Sam I said this or I’d never hear the end of it, but… don’t take your cues for being human from me. ‘Cause I’m kind of a fuck-up, and you’re… well, you’re good, Cas, real good, all pure and holy and shit. You’re better’n I deserve.”
Castiel wondered if Dean still thought that now, after the things he’d seen Castiel do these past few months, but it was ultimately irrelevant. Castiel was doing what needed to be done, though Dean -- obstinate as he was -- refused to see it that way. In some ways, the fact that their friendship was no longer what it used to be was a force for the better. Castiel’s feelings for the man were a weakness he could not afford.
And he was not like Zachariah, not like Alastair; his aim was not to break souls for the sake of remolding them into something new, and he did not take pleasure from the suffering he inflicted. If Baradiel had chosen to follow Raphael of his own free will, then that was his prerogative; Castiel was merely seeking to acquire information, in the most effective way he knew how.
“You really think you can win this war?” Baradiel demanded. His eye was beginning to grow back, a pinkish cyst forming in the gaping cavity, and he was smirking in spite of everything. “You’re nothing. You’re just a lowly foot soldier with ideas above his station, and Raphael will crush you. And when Michael and Lucifer are finished with those Winchesters you’re so fond of, their souls will be the first ones tossed back into damnation, where they and all their kind truly belong.”
Castiel reacted violently; almost before he was aware of moving, his sword was buried hilt-deep in Baradiel’s throat, and celestial light was flooding the room as his brother’s Grace burned itself out, ashen wings cutting through the thick sediment of dust to leave their imprint on the wooden slats.
The silence when Baradiel stopped screaming seemed too loud, though it was punctuated by Castiel’s breathing, harsh and ragged in a way that it shouldn’t be. He wiped the gore away from his face, and some detached part of him noted that his hand was shaking.
“Touchy,” Balthazar muttered.
Castiel could not look at him, and found he had no reply.
(I.)