Supernatural- "The Law of Conservation of Energy" (Ch 8)
Eight
A day later and Cas seems to be a million times better; whatever happened with the angel and Dean at Second Chances seems to have been good for him if not Dean, who is constantly bitching about the memory of the robo-people and the fact that everyone at the retreat had been judging him with their eyes like he’s the worst human being on the planet because they’d clearly misinterpreted all the crazy stuff Cas had been saying.
Statements like that are usually when Cas chimes in with something sickening and sweet about how awesome Dean is that then descends into some sort of meaningful staring contest, but right now Cas is testing the limits of his almost-half mojo and thus is not present to play his role of Guardian of the Eldest Winchester’s Ego. Apparently Cas can blink himself short distances now (shorter if he’s carrying a Winchester), and can pull out his sword from thin air again, which will probably be useful considering their lives and how they go. Well, at least Sam thinks it will be useful; every time Cas manifests it Dean is too busy looking sideways at it and muttering about how that isn’t Cas’s sword-not really- because it’s definitely Gabriel’s and he just knows even though they all look basically exactly the same.
“It is not Gabriel’s sword,” Castiel had assured him with all reasonableness. “It is an archangel sword. Gabriel is dead and thus no longer has any true belongings.”
“Well I don’t like it,” Dean had persisted.
Castiel had sighed, somehow infinitely patient when all Sam had wanted was to throw books at everyone else in the room that wasn’t him because he’s basically been the only one looking things up on this magical quest the entire time they’ve been on it. “This is a good thing, Dean,” Cas had insisted. “An archangel sword is significantly more powerful than those belonging to the foot soldiers.”
It had made-and still makes-sense to Sam. Castiel had popped out to test his new wings or whatever after that and now Dean is sitting on front of the TV, absently rubbing the vial of grace around his neck and complaining about how there’s never anything to watch on TV suddenly. Sam wisely doesn’t point out that all the shows are on hiatus except for some of the stuff on the USA network, and Dean isn’t allowed to watch any of that anyway, because he keeps wanting to try out Michael Westen spy techniques on hunts and it never goes their way because monsters don’t adhere to the same basic psychology that people do.
Anyway. It is while Dean is channel surfing and Sam is looking up strange phenomena east of Colorado because that is apparently the direction Cas’s partial powers are pulling him in when Balthazar pops in unannounced, looking slightly ruffled but otherwise in one piece, which Sam supposes means Raphael hasn’t slaughtered everyone on Cas’s side yet and isn’t yet ready to open the cage and destroy the world.
Dean jumps to his feet and curses at the sight of the unfamiliar angel. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be able to find us!” he protests, looking at Balthazar suspiciously.
Balthazar rolls his eyes at him. “I asked Bobby where you were.”
Dean frowns. “And he just told you?”
Balthazar smirks. “I’m sorry. I meant I asked Bobby where you were and then I read his mind. You all really do need to remember your list of angel powers, boys. This kind of mental deficiency isn’t really flattering to either of your characters.”
“I figured that’s what you did,” Sam pipes up, in his own defense.
Dean just glares. “What do you want, Balthazar?”
The angel who is very obviously not in a trench coat or in love with a Winchester sneers at Dean’s belligerent tone. “World peace,” he begins, eyes flinty. “A French prostitute with both male and female parts. To bash your head into a wall over and over and over again and not have Cassy pout at me about it afterwards. But those are off the list for the moment because I am busy commanding garrisons of my siblings in a war that I want nothing to do with. So for the moment, I suppose all that I want that is actually feasible is to see my brother. If you haven’t killed him that is. Again.”
Dean seriously looks like he’s contemplating punching the angel, which will not only get him a broken hand, but a smug Balthazar and what Sam surmises is a pouting Cas.
“He’s out flying,” Sam intercedes, before the manly pissing contest of who likes Cas best reaches even more stupid heights.
Balthazar’s eyebrows lift slightly at that. “So it’s working then? He’s… taking in the archangel bits without any problems?” he asks, and sounds genuinely relieved for a moment.
Dean seems to sense it too, and even if he can’t like the smarmy bastard, he can at least appreciate that he does have Cas’s best interests at heart. “Yup. Three down. Four to go,” he says brusquely, obviously unaware as his hand automatically goes up to brush against the vial of Cas’s grace.
Balthazar notices and frowns a little, stepping into Dean’s personal space so he can examine the vial more closely.
Dean scowls and takes a backwards step right away. It is much faster and more decisive than any of the times Sam has seen his brother do the same with Cas whenever Cas gets into his personal space bubble. Balthazar doesn’t seem to care though, hand darting out to pull the vial out from under Dean’s shirt.
“Hey!” Dean yelps. Balthazar ignores him, studying Cas’s grace carefully, brow furrowed, lips turned slightly downward in a thoughtful frown.
“What?” Dean demands after a moment, tone belligerent as the angel continues to ignore him in light of watching the small swirl of grace feebly rotating in front of him.
Eventually, Balthazar’s features soften just a bit around the edges. “Hello, pretty,” he says, voice soft.
Dean looks highly uncomfortable. “Uh…”
But then the grace in the vial gives a soft flare-of recognition, maybe-glowing brighter just for a brief moment at Balthazar’s gentle greeting.
Dean’s discomfort fades and he starts to get belligerent again, though in a wholly different manner this time. “What the hell was that?” he demands.
Balthazar sneers at him. “I thought I told you to take care of this,” he intones like he’s talking to a small, slow child, tracing his index finger along the glass between him and Castiel’s grace. “Were the words I used to big for you to comprehend?”
Dean, having enough of that, finally yanks the vial back on the cord and tucks it protectively into his shirt again. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?” he snipes back. “I haven’t let it out of my damn sight. I don’t even freakin’ poop without it.”
“Yes, and your pooping sessions have all been very nurturing, I’m sure. I mean look at your first attempt to take care of something.” He eyes Sam, and Sam immediately resents that statement. “Seems like the results of your best efforts are death, the end of the world, again. Wonderful.”
Dean and Sam both scowl at him now. “Well if we’re doing such a bad job, why don’t you take the grace? We don’t need it anymore.” Sam suggests.
“What? No way!” Dean balks and turns that scowl of his from Balthazar to Sam, like Sam is the bad guy here (again). Sam shrugs, because obviously, he has no idea what Dean expects from him here.
“Believe me,” Balthazar cuts in, sounding almost regretful, “if I could fulfill that function I’d take that from you whether you wanted me to or not. But Cassy insisted that you have it, and that means my hands are tied. The most I can do is despair when you take such poor care of all the nice things you get.”
Dean blinks, touching his chest where the grace sits against his skin. “What, so…I’m right, right? It looks kinda…different lately. I mean…smaller?”
Balthazar snorts. “Oh, so you did notice. I suppose that is something.”
“What does it mean?” Sam pushes, because he’d really thought Dean had just been being paranoid about the grace thing, like an overprotective first time parent freaking out every time their baby sneezes or something.
“It means that Castiel is destroying himself for you again. I hope you can appreciate it the what, third time around? Fourth?”
Dean’s expression flashes with an angry sort of guilt, the kind Sam knows means his brother’s more pissed at himself than he is with the asshole angel currently glaring at him. Balthazar seems to figure this out too because he pauses, sighs. “Just know, Dean, that if my brother is lost because of this, the world burns either way,” Balthazar murmurs. “Everything will be for naught.”
“Uh, we’re doing this so it won’t,” Sam interrupts. “Once Cas is powerful enough to beat Raphael it’ll be over. Won’t it?”
Balthazar turns to look at him with eyes like the kind people use when they pity a dumb puppy or see starving kids in Africa on the TV that they can’t actually help. “Right. Yes, life really is always that simple for you, isn’t it?” he drawls, and Sam is about to ask him exactly what he means except that there’s a flutter and a whoosh, or whatever that noise is whenever Cas appears.
Though this time it is accompanied by a bit of a stumble, as Castiel had apparently over-launched himself from wherever he’d just been, testing out the limitations on his newly gathered abilities.
“Balthazar,” Castiel breathes, when he sees his brother in the room, even as he braces against Dean to keep his balance on the landing.
“Castiel…” Balthazar murmurs, attention ripped from Dean and eyes going wider at the sight of his brother. He takes an involuntary step backwards, away from Dean and the other angel.
“Is something the matter?” Castiel asks, brow furrowing, eyes going concerned.
Balthazar shakes his head after a beat, looking a little disoriented. Sam is pretty sure if angels sweated, Balthazar would have nervous perspiration all over his face and neck for the strange eyes he’s giving Cas. “Er, no. I just… I didn’t recognize you right away, is all, Cassy,” he says, voice a bit rough, like he’s still kind of startled at whatever sight Castiel makes with his pieces of archangel grace. “It’s the new look for you, I guess. That’s uh…that’s nearly half, then? From the looks of things?”
“Yes, nearly,” Castiel answers, while Balthazar keeps looking at his chest like he dripped ketchup on his shirt or something and he needs to find the spot before the stain sets. “It is… strange, but please know that I believe this is our best chance to resolve our conflict with Raphael without further bloodshed.”
“Er…good. Great then,” Balthazar answers, forcing a smile even as he’s taking another step back, stumbling in a very un-angel like manner against the edge of one of the hotel room’s double beds.
“How is the war effort faring?” Castiel asks next, looking Balthazar over in turn. “You seem… worn.”
Balthazar’s awkward smile turns into more of a scoff at the reminder. “Worn? Yes, well, I suppose you could say that,” he drawls, running a hand through his hair. “I should really be getting back to the warfront too; it just never stops with our brothers. Father’s will this, Castiel’s resurrection that, humans are disgusting, paradise is nigh, blah, blah, blah; you know how it is. I just came to warn you.”
Dean steps in then, because clearly if there are dire warnings at hand, Balthazar should have opened with them instead of all the judgmental douchery he’d decided to go with before. “Warn us about what?”
Balthazar doesn’t bother acknowledging Dean again. “My sources are reporting that ever since you rescinded your little agreement with Crowley, he’s been courting Raphael, my dear. Rebounding pretty hard, from the sounds of things, chocolates, flowers, virgin sacrifices, the whole bloody nine yards. He’s even trying to sweet talk big brother with the same sales pitch he reeled you in with, from what I can gather. Split that purgatory cookie in half and share the chocolately goodness inside with his friends, or some such thing.”
Well that sucks. “What could teaming up with Raphael actually offer him in return?” Sam asks, puzzled. “I thought Crowley didn’t want the world to end.”
Balthazar shrugs. “Maybe once he gets half the power of purgatory the world won’t matter anymore. I don’t really care why he’s doing anything, to tell you the truth. All I know is that it’s a concerted effort now, children, and Cassy here is officially number one on both Heaven and Hell’s most wanted lists.”
Sam sighs. That definitely doesn’t help things; if Raphael and Crowley’s goons are after them it’s one thing, but if they’re working together instead of fighting each other along the way that’s another thing altogether. Sam definitely doesn’t want to imagine what kind of power Raphael will have if he and Crowley actually do crack open the door to Purgatory in the meantime either. “So what do we do?”
Balthazar does that stupid human face at him. “Despite how easy Cassy here made it seem, Winchesters, I’m drawn a little thin. I shouldn’t even be here, and I definitely can’t be part of your entitled royal we.” He turns back to Castiel then, reaching out like he wants to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder before pulling it back at the last minute, like he just can’t anymore.
“I er, I just wanted to give you the heads up to be a little more careful, brother. Seems like you’re quite the big deal item right now. The one force in the universe that can unite Heaven and Hell, or something.” He smiles a little at that, and Castiel answers in like, and Sam is pretty sure he sees Dean giving Balthazar an even bigger stink eye than normal when they do.
But then Balthazar is twitching like he’s getting some disturbing images broadcasted to him from angel radio, and after a moment, he nods at Cas a bit stiffly. “Right. I’m off then. Stay safe, Castiel.” That said, Balthazar gives Dean one more unreadable look before he disappears in a rush of air.
“Asshole,” Dean mutters, once he’s gone.
Castiel looks reproachfully at Dean. “It is through his efforts that we have the chance to pursue Gabriel’s grace at all, Dean.”
Dean looks shifty as he turns to Sam. “Speaking of, where’s the next piece, Sam?” he barks gruffly, because talking about Balthazar annoys the crap out of him and apparently the best way to deal with it is to make Sam do a lot of talking.
Sam tosses a few newspapers and magazines at his brother. “This is what I’ve got.”
Dean frowns at the High School Football Quarterly issue displaying a bunch of sweaty looking teenage boys in red jerseys. The caption across the page reads “St. Sebastian Saints Go For Gold Again!” while an older, hard-featured gentlemen stands off to the side, holding what looks to be a sizable trophy. “Football, Sammy? Really? I always thought you were more of a soccer kind of man.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I think I found us faith, Dean.”
As it turns out, it’s in the last place anyone would ever think to look for it.
It’s in Ohio.
*****
“Apparently the school’s football team got incredibly good in the last three years out of the blue, with the arrival of this guy,” Sam pauses to indicate the frowny dude on the front of the football magazine, “Coach Arnold Griffin. They’ve finally had winning seasons after consistently being in the bottom five percent of the national rankings in their division. They’re still early in the playoffs right now, but according to every major magazine and online football resource, they’re heavily favored to win state.”
Dean snorts from behind the wheel. “So what, every team that wins a state championship is doing it with some sort of miracle grace juicing the players? Doesn’t sound like what we’re looking for, Sammy.”
“It’s the only thing that fits, Dean,” Sam insists. “Plus, check this out.”
Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as his nerdy brother starts flipping rapidly through the magazine again. “They’ve got a school superstition. There’s a statue of St. Sebastian outside of the school and every game day, the entire team has to go and touch the statue’s feet and pray for victory. The principal is quoted here as saying ‘God rewards faith with victory.’ Which is exactly the sort of thing we’re looking for.” Sam flips a few more pages in the article. “Apparently when Coach Griffin first started working at the school, he’d go out and brush his hand over the base of the statue before each game. The first time he did that, they miraculously defeated the number two seeded team in their district. The second time he did it, they broke a twenty-five year losing streak for their homecoming game. Now it’s a pregame tradition to touch the statue for luck for all the players on all of the St. Sebastian sports teams.”
Dean holds up his hand to stop his brother before he can do any more fact finding. “Okay, okay. It’s worth checking out. Cas? What about you? Feel like the right direction?”
“Yes,” Castiel answers from the backseat, as he absently munches on a candy bar Sam had bought him at the last gas station. “I enjoy this,” he adds, apropos to nothing.
Dean winces at the sight of Cas noshing on candy through the rearview; Dean likes his Butterfinger as much as the next guy, but for some reason, the sight of Cas indulging turns his stomach slightly; maybe it’s the fact that he’s probably getting little orange crumbs all over the backseat or maybe it’s because it’s like the ghost of Gabriel possessing their angel or something. The grace around his neck seems to agree that things in the universe are generally out of place right now.
Cas, seeing that Dean is watching him intently through the mirror, pauses and offers the remainder of the candy bar to Dean. “Did you want some?” he asks, very considerately.
Dean finds himself saying yes just so he can finish it for the angel.
*****
“St. Sebastian and the grace of God have given us their football blessings,” Headmaster McCann explains to the college sports writers that Dean, Sam, and Castiel are supposedly posing as for the day. “We’ve been undefeated for as good as three years, barring that stretch of time that Coach Griffin had to take leave of absence, naturally,” the older gentleman prattles, as he takes the new arrivals past the impressive trophy display and towards the boys’ locker room. “But even without the coach, we still only lost one game, and a close one at that.”
“Yeah, we know all about that,” Sam assures the headmaster politely after about twenty straight minutes of his nearly indecipherable gushing. “Um, what we were mostly wondering about is the statue by the field? Do you think it would be okay if we went and took a look at it?”
Headmaster McCann smiles widely, cheeks ruddy with mirth. “Well of course! It’s right in front of the entrance to the field. I was going to take you boys by it anyway. It’s our pride and joy, you know.” He bustles ahead of them down the hallway at that, pure enthusiasm making up for short legs as he waves them on.
As they make their way past the lockerooms and the basketball gym, a couple of teenage boys in red and white uniforms bustle out, laughing raucously about something or other on their way to the field. Castiel pauses to let them pass when they don’t even notice him. They are large for their age and full of energy, and Castiel’s attention is drawn to one boy in particular who holds court at the center of the throng with his golden hair, his easy smile, and a swagger that reminds the angel of Dean’s. His jersey has the number seven written boldly across the back, and he holds a helmet easily under one hand while being flanked by another rather plain looking boy his own age, who is not quite as tall as Sam but much broader in the shoulders than the younger Winchester. The second boy carries himself as if he’s awkward in his own body, trying to shrink himself as they walk despite his massive size and potentially menacing presence.
“I’m telling you guys, I feel it,” the blond crows confidently, unmindful of how uncomfortable the larger boy beside him seems to be in his own skin. “Tomorrow night? My hundredth career TDP.”
“Yeah, if Cam doesn’t fall on you again,” one of the other members snorts, and the large, broad shouldered boy with the number seventy on his jersey starts in embarrassment.
Number seven scoffs. “Whatever, I could have all 240 pounds of him on top of me and still make a throw. Right, Cam?”
“Right, Darren,” number seventy answers quickly, voice low, shy.
“Jesus, Cam, sound less convinced,” the blond drawls. “You’re harshing my pregame buzz, assface. Some enthusiasm would be nice.”
Number seventy somehow shrinks even more on himself. “Sorry, Darren,” he says, and prompts the blond to roll his eyes.
“Whatever. Let’s go, or coach will make us run laps.” Number seven pauses to poke seventy in his slightly protruding gut. “I know how much you hate that, man.”
The others laugh and then the boys are off again, racing down the hallway and nearly bumping into the headmaster and Sam on their way out. It leaves number seventy alone in the hall for a moment, before he frowns and lumbers after his teammates, Castiel watching him curiously the entire time.
“Cas, you coming or what?!” Dean calls back do him from down the hallway, perched at the threshold of the door to the field and looking at the angel curiously. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Castiel answers, and goes to catch up.
*****
After Cas is finished dawdling in the hallways like a creeper, they finally make it outside to the lawn; the early Midwestern summer is already humid and gross with a thickness in the air that says it’s just going to get worse as they get to the tail end of May, right on the cusp of summer vacation. Dean can hear activity off in the distance that means kids are already practicing in the heat of the afternoon, the tennis team at the top of the hill, the track team drilling on the edges of the field, the cheerleaders going through steps by the bleachers. Directly in front of them is a rather imposing bronze statue of St. Sebastian, which the Headmaster stops and preens in front of like it is a favorite child. “Come, come, take a look,” he urges them happily, gesturing to the likeness and beaming with pride. “The namesake of our school and the saint who watches over each of our successes.”
“Saint of athletes, archers, soldiers. He was often appealed to during times of plague,” Castiel supplies absently, as he goes up to the statue and rests a hand on its feet, closing his eyes in preparation for some sort of freaky grace leakage. Dean feels the muscles in his chest tense instinctively when Cas touches the statue, waiting for that weird recoil the grace around his neck makes him feel whenever they manage to find a thread of Gabriel’s grace and yank on it like they plan on unraveling a sweater.
But nothing happens. Dean blinks in surprise.
“Yes, yes,” the headmaster continues absently, hands clasped together and raised towards the countenance of the saint. “A very strong man, St. Sebastian. A survivor.”
“He was shot full of arrows on Diocletan’s order and survived, only to publically denounce the Emperor in retaliation and subsequently beaten to death,” Castiel says unnecessarily, as he removes his hand from the statue with a frown. “Not a survivor necessarily, but a brave man despite his faults.”
The headmaster coughs. “Yes, well. Christianity was greatly persecuted in those days. He would not stand for the oppression, though.”
Castiel opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean steps in with a pointed, “Fascinating. So, the field is this way?”
“Oh, yes. The team should already be at work preparing for tomorrow night, as you saw, but I’m sure coach Griffin won’t mind speaking with you afterwards, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“We don’t mind at all,” Sam says kindly, while Dean and Cas drop back a little bit.
“Anything?” Dean asks under his breath, hand brushing the vial of grace under his shirt when he feels no reaction from it either way. “Your grace hasn’t really been talking much lately, man. Not unless we’re right on top of a new piece, anyway, and right now I got nothing.”
“Gabriel’s grace is here,” Castiel assures him, looking slightly puzzled. “I could feel its residue along the surface of statue, but the piece itself is either no longer there or I have so little faith left that I cannot draw it out properly.” His frown is a frown of disappointment, probably in himself, knowing Cas.
Dean looks thoughtful. “Hey, it took some effort to pull out the other pieces, right? We probably just need to sweet talk it out again. Find the right angle of attack, or something.”
“Hmmm,” Castiel answers, though doesn’t sound convinced. Dean isn’t entirely convinced either.
By then they’ve followed Headmaster McCann and Sam to the field, the bleachers are already full despite it just being a practice. Some parents are even taping their kids or just cheering them on as the players stretch and jump and mentally prepare for drills happening on the field. Dean recognizes the grizzled, stern-faced older gentleman from all the magazine articles standing quietly to the side, occasionally grunting commands and observing each of his players with a level of concentration Dean has only seen in Castiel when the angel is watching TV with Dean and trying to figure out what the hell is so intriguing about Dr. Sexy MD.
Cas seems to be watching the coach with interest too, which makes Dean curious, but it only lasts up until the coaches hustle the team back into rows on the field so they can do some awful looking spot drills.
“Well?” Sam asks them, once he’s managed to pry himself away from the headmaster’s effusive praise for their establishment. “Is it here or what?”
“It’s here,” Castiel tells him. “Somewhere.”
Sam looks at Cas curiously. “Okay. So, where, exactly?”
Cas twitches in that way that means he’s irritated with Sam’s stupid questions. Dean knows that face a little too well. “The air is teeming with faith, and for some reason I am unable to pinpoint the shard’s exact location. I worry that my faith is no longer strong enough to present a more amicable resting place to the grace than this school. I was unable to coax it out.”
Sam sighs. “Yeah, and making deals with demons probably doesn’t help the whole faithful servant thing either,” he throws out in, what Dean thinks, is a completely unnecessary manner. Castiel’s expression gets even more troubled as a result, and that doesn’t help anything.
“Whatever. We shouldn’t take it now anyway, because there’s going to be a game tomorrow night. It would suck if we jacked these kids’ mojo right before they’re supposed to play right?” Dean pipes up, throwing a pointed cut that out look to Sam when Cas isn’t watching.
“So what do you propose we do?” Castiel asks him.
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know, let’s investigate a little more. Maybe someone has a story or something that can help us pinpoint where the piece we’re looking for actually is. Looks like the statue’s just superstition or something.”
Sam sighs. “I guess it’s as good a plan as any.” Frown. “I thought Cas’s grace was supposed to be attracted to it. It’s not telling you anything?”
Dean shrugs helplessly. “Like I told Cas, it’s been pretty quiet since we got mercy. If it’s talking, it’s definitely not to me.”
Castiel eyes the spot on Dean’s chest where the vial is resting, just beneath his t-shirt. “Perhaps the proximity of the three pieces of grace we already have are confusing it,” he theorizes. “The spell we used was meant to help detect Gabriel’s grace. However, now that there are three pieces of Gabriel’s grace inside of me, maybe it is reacting to those rather than the loose shards we have not found yet.” He’s frowning like his grace has betrayed him or something, and Dean has to squash an impulse to tell Cas to lay the hell off of it, it’s doing the best it can.
Or he hopes it is, anyway, and the reason it’s not saying anything isn’t because of what Balthazar had been talking about when he’d popped in on them back in Colorado.
“Makes sense,” Sam answers Cas, before nudging Dean with his elbow and gesturing towards a man in a red Saints’ warm up picking up loose equipment on the sidelines. “There’s the assistant coach,” he murmurs, getting a glint in his eye that means he thinks it’s smarter to try and talk to the underlings and maybe work their way up from there. “Think we should try to get our first official interview?”
“As good a time as any, I guess,” Dean answers, and the brothers share a look before stalking forward towards the man holding a sack full of pads under one arm and what looks to be a basket of empty water bottles in the other.
*****
Castiel lingers behind for a moment, still trying to figure out some sort of pattern to the residue of faith he finds wafting through the air around them; he supposes that the air, like the waters of hot spring that had held the mercy shard, is capable of diffusing the grace’s influence, in fact, is supposed to, as Death had stated. He worries then, that this means the faith shard is close to being weak enough to reintegrate into Heaven. If it were to do that, this entire plan would be lost. He is not sure if that possibility is more troubling than the fact that his inability to draw out the shard might truly stem from his own complete lack of faith in his Father.
Meanwhile, he hears Dean’s voice rise above the general noise of the gathered audience, as he and Sam corner the man holding the very large box of water bottles.
Castiel follows, catching up until he is at Dean’s side and quietly watching the man do the mundane task of picking up after the players.
“Excuse me!” Dean calls out, friendly as ever. “I know you’re probably busy planning for tomorrow’s big game, but I was wondering if my partners and I could just get a quote for the article we’re doing on your team?”
“Uh, sure,” the hapless assistant coach manages, looking between one bright Winchester smile to the next and then to Castiel, who does not smile, but attempts to look less foreboding, as Dean had taught him to. “I mean, as much as I can,” the assistant adds, tearing his eyes away from Castiel’s intent stare. “Reckon you folks should be talking to Coach Griff about these things though…”
“Every part of a team is important, right?” Dean tells him smoothly. “Mostly, we just want to know what you think about the whole phenomenon with the statue and God blessing your team. We’ve got a lot of people telling us that it’s a sign from Heaven that your team is winning.”
The assistant coach frowns a little bit. “You boys sound like you been talking to Headmaster McCann.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t change. “It shows, huh?”
“Little bit.”
“So what, you don’t agree with the headmaster?”
The assistant shrugs. “I don’t know if I believe that God or the Saints are sitting up there, granting favor over something as simple as football. Great game, but still just a game in the grand scheme of things, right? Figure God and the angels and such all got more important things to worry about than whether or not we win or lose every Friday night,” he admits.
“So what do you think it is?” Sam presses, tone gentle in a way that suggests the other man can confide in him absolutely.
“Me? I think it’s the obvious stuff, really. We’re winning because of Coach Griffin and the players,” the assistant says simply. “It’s a lot of hard work and dedication to get you in a position to win a game, and then to actually win, it’s more than that. After that it’s about believing in yourself and your teammates, on and off the field, that pushes you over the finish line. Least, that’s what I was raised to believe.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t every team try do that?” Sam asks. “What do you think your team does differently that makes them actually win?”
“Pardon if this is kind of a rude, but I think our team just has more faith in each other than your average team. No question about it.”
Dean and Sam share a look, while Castiel wonders how a person who is not in tune with angelic grace can make such an accurate assumption.
“What do you mean more faith?” Sam urges.
“Exactly how it sounds, I guess. We just believe in each other.” Pause. Frown. “I mean, three years ago, originally, the know-it-alls who write the papers on these things predicted we’d come in second to last in our district and completely get phased outta state. All the reporters, all the scouts, they practically guaranteed it even before we’d even played a single game together. But Coach wouldn’t let anyone on the team listen to those prophecies; he guaranteed that they wouldn’t come true so long as we believed in our own selves and as long as we stayed together through whatever providence threw at us, we’d pull through despite the odds. All we gotta do is lean on each other when it gets too hard to stand on our own.”
“Heavy,” Dean says, after a minute, and the coach flashes him a rueful grin.
“Not really. I’m just rambling on, I guess. Short of it is, having faith in God and St. Sebastian and divine intervention are all well and good in their own way, but Coach always says that he believes God allowed humans to grow so plentiful so that they could have faith in each other as well, and not just in Him. Especially since people don’t ever get to speak to or see God while they’re alive. All we got for this lifetime is the people around us, right?” He pauses, scratches at his chin ruefully. “When you think about it like that, maybe the way we come together is the closest we’ll ever get to experiencing God on this mortal plain.”
“That’s… a really uplifting way to look at it,” Sam says with a small smile. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you,” the assistant says, and tips his hat before hustling off to take charge of a series of drills.
It leaves the three of them standing alone along the sidelines, just in time for Castiel to see the enormous hulk of number seventy again, as he stumbles over his own feet while trying to jog in place. Several of the other players laugh at him, some calling out “earthquake alert!” or “self-pancake!” in the process and making the boy flush with embarrassment. He gets up and starts all over again anyway, though, too determined to give up even in the face of such universal disdain.
Watching them like that, he is not sure if the assistant coach’s words coincide with what he is seeing amongst the team.
Why then, would faith choose this place, these people, to dwell amongst?
He isn’t allowed to let his thoughts linger on these things though, as Dean puts a guiding hand on the small of his back and nudges him up the stairs alongside the bleachers. Castiel, feeling something akin to frustrated despair, allows himself to be led.
*****
Sam’s attempts to talk to the coach after practice don’t yield much success except a reiteration of everything the assistant coach had already said, and then a brusque, almost Castiel-like dismissal when he excuses himself and the rest of his staff to the office so they can watch tape in preparation for tomorrow’s game. Cas and Dean are off together in the meantime, unsuccessfully interviewing a few of the players, though members of the faculty and some of the parents picking up their kids after practice eye the guy in the creeper trenchcoat who is staring a little too intently at their kids, which is what Sam is blaming Dean’s lack of success on.
“Nada,” Dean grunts afterwards, when they’re back out at the car. “All the kids just think touching the statue is a stupid superstition, but they do it because the headmaster and everyone else expects them to.”
Sam crosses his arms thoughtfully. “Yeah, the coach didn’t have much to say about the statue either, just that he started going out to the statue to pray for his daughter when she got sick, and people saw him and assumed it was for the games.”
Castiel tilts his head sideways, birdlike. “Did his daughter recover? If she did, perhaps we are looking in the wrong place for the grace shard. Perhaps the residue I detected on the statue was carried by the coach from his home.”
Sam shakes his head, having already taken that into consideration. “I don’t think so. His daughter died in the cancer ward at the children’s hospital two years ago.”
Dean winces. “Okay, then what? Because all I’m learning from this is that whoever’s in charge of faith needs some serious priority fixing.”
Sam doesn’t argue with that, but being angry about it isn’t getting them anywhere on the search. “Look,” he says, while Dean glowers into the middle distance a little, which is Dean’s other super power, (you know, the one that isn’t getting angels of the lord to do whatever he wants like he’s the Angel Whisperer or something). “The headmaster invited us to the game tomorrow night. He said we could even come sit on the sidelines to observe if want, if it would help us write the article. Maybe things change in an actual competitive situation? I mean, we just saw them practice a bit today and heard some nice sentiments from the faculty, but all of it was theoretical, right? Maybe the shard needs like, actual competitive juices to feed off of before we can find it.” He pulls the tickets the headmaster had given him earlier out of his pocket and waves them at his brother and his brother’s angel.
“Hmm,” Castiel murmurs, which isn’t encouraging or discouraging either way on its own, but when combined with the faint flicker of doubt in his eyes, Sam begins to wonder if Cas’s own faith really is shot to shit after all. That does not bode well for their plans if that’s the case. Either way, Cas doesn’t look like he thinks watching a football game will help them either way, and is about to say so until he catches Dean looking at the tickets in Sam’s hand out of the corner of his eye.
It’s just a flash of interest, really, barely there and gone again in an instant, but of course Cas notices- he always does when it comes to Dean-and after that, the decision is as good as made.
“Sam’s theory holds weight,” the angel concedes eventually, and it is a bald faced lie if Sam has ever heard one (and apparently he has, a lot of which have come from Castiel himself).
But Dean just says, “Sweet,” with some uncharacteristic brightness in his tone before grabbing and pocketing the tickets as they get back to the Impala. Once inside, he turns the engine on and declares that he’s starved, prompting Castiel and Sam share a look, one that Sam imagines has them giving each other mirrored expressions of resigned fondness. They climb in after him, and Sam hopes that an angel’s faith is as easy to restore as it is for Dean to bend an angel to his will.
Actually, they’ll probably be okay if it’s only half as easy as that.
*****
Football turns out to be a big deal in town and despite being an hour early to kickoff, the bleachers are already full when Dean, Castiel, and Sam arrive. Sam’s expression automatically falls when he realizes that they aren’t early enough to sneak another interview with the coach. Luckily, they get waylaid by the headmaster anyway, and end up getting to sit down at the end of the players’ bench with him as the team warms up on the field, the red-faced old man happily chattering into Sam’s ear about how this is the game with their cross town rivals the Romans, and how it’s really a big deal. Sam looks politely interested as the headmaster effuses at him about the historical appropriateness of a dramatic face-off between the Saints and the Romans, while Dean balances a box of nachos, a very large soda, and a giant foam hand with the Saints’ mascot emblazoned across it on his lap. Castiel folds his hands into his own lap and observes the players, the coaches, and the atmosphere in general, trying very hard to locate the point of origin that all this diluted faith is coming from.
In front of them, the players line up, pumping fists, banging chests, grunting and cursing and preparing themselves for their football. Castiel feels his eyes stray onto the familiar numbering of player seventy again, as he stands behind number seven just like always, quiet, thoughtful, just a little bit apart from the others.
“Jesus, Cam,” number seven barks when he sees number seventy standing outside the circle of his court, “what are you trying to do, jinx us? Get your fat ass over here, man.”
“Right, Darren,” Cam answers, and jogs over to the rest of the offense as they stand facing each other and pile their gloved hands on top of one another in a large, black-gloved heap.
“Crush them on three!” Darren shouts, voice going hard and serious around the edges in the blink of an eye, suddenly becoming a very different creature from the bright, carefree young thing Castiel had seen the day before, strolling down the hallway with his admirers and bragging about his exploits. He is a leader in this moment suddenly, somehow, one whom the others put their faith in to lead them to victory. “One, two, three, CRUSH THEM!” the boys all shout obediently as one, and then turn and secure their helmets, preparing for battle. Even Cam, bulky and uncomfortable in his own skin, seems fiercer now, when he is granted purpose.
Whistles blow and the game gets underway.
Beside him, Dean whoops in encouragement before turning to Castiel and rattling off some explanation of what is about to happen, using more terms than usual that the angel does not recognize.
“Kickoff, Cas,” Dean explains. “They flip a coin, winner elects to kick or receive, and then the receiving side gets essentially four tries to make ten yards until they either can’t or they get past that line at the end.”
Castiel isn’t sure what many of those things mean, but Dean is enthusiastically reciting them to him in his periphery as the coin goes up in the air, like his understanding of the game will somehow help them find the faith shard in the midst of all this chaos.
St. Sebastian wins the toss. They elect to receive.
From there, the match itself is interesting when he looks at it as a strictly regulated form of theoretical battle, each side adjusting to the other side’s strengths and weaknesses within the allotted time, trying to take advantage of those strengths and weaknesses in order to push through the enemy lines just a little bit more. Dean points out things like blitzes and sneaks and pass rushing that Castiel does not understand except that they are exciting somehow, to Dean and to most of the crowd gathered in the stands. It is with some admiration that Castiel understands what this game is doing the more he watches it, how it can serve as a means to mold arrogant, wild spirits like number seven-Darren-into charismatic leaders, and how the group mentality can give perpetual outsiders like number seventy-Cam- a sense of belonging when nothing else will.
But beyond that he does not understand why faith chose this place to settle, other than it is a religious institution and that the higher echelons of the school’s administration seems to believe that God cares about who wins a football game.
The faith that the assistant coach and the coach had both spoken of, faith in each other to win, seems sparse by his estimation of the events; from a technical standpoint St. Sebastian is the far superior team either from physical gifts provided by good genetics or hard work forced upon them by Coach Griffin and the collective expectation of their friends, parents, and teachers. Castiel knows that expectation can be a very motivating thing.
It reminds Castiel of how he had felt once, during the siege in Hell, as he and his garrison had fought their way into the pit in search of Dean’s soul. Despite the horrors that he had seen and the comrades that had fallen in the battle, Castiel remembers feeling a sense of surety, of belief that they would succeed, that they would find the Righteous Man and raise him from the fires of perdition. He’d had faith then, in God’s plan, in Heaven’s will. He was a part of something far larger than just himself. The expectation of everything coming to pass as it should had been strong in him in those harrowing battles, had given him strength to draw from even in the darkest corners of the pit. He wonders how he went from there only to end up the creature he is now, so bereft of faith that sensing the part of it that makes up the grace of an archangel-such an enormous, powerful grace-is difficult.
In the meantime, St. Sebastian scores something called a touchdown, much to everyone on their side’s delight, and Darren, being the one to throw the pass, parades himself back onto the sidelines like a king, waving to his accolades and generally looking magnificent in the hot lights of the field, while Cam sweats miserably behind him, tired and without any signs of contributing to the score besides the bruises Castiel can see forming on his arms, from impact after impact after impact with the players of the other team as he’d tried to give Darren the time and protection he had needed to complete his passes within the safety of what Dean is calling the pocket. From what Castiel can discern, Cam’s only purpose is to hold off the others until Cameron can rid himself of the ball.
Darren takes his claps on the back and his complements from his sidelined teammates while Cam trudges to the water cooler and starts drinking from the hose like some enormous, exhausted beast. He dribbles liquid down the front of his jersey and the sides of his mouth as he ingloriously slakes his thirst and no one notices except for Castiel. Darren and some of the others eventually make their way over again. Darren is the only one who eyes Cam with an unreadable sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
“Dude, you look like one of those wildebeest on the Discovery Channel,” number seven diagnoses after a beat, and some of the other players burst out laughing and slap Cam on his broad backside while Cam turns slightly red and apologizes. He steps out of Darren’s way and Darren’s expression is enigmatic for a moment before he takes his own drink with far more elegance than his teammate.
Castiel does not see faith behind any of their movements, just Darren’s sureness and Cam’s mindless deference towards Darren’s desire to win, because this hypothetical battle somehow means something important to them in the grand scheme of things.
In the meantime, the other team scores by kicking the ball through the giant pronged apparatus on the other side of the field, and minutes later Darren and Cam are putting their helmets on again in order to repeat the process as necessary: Darren to win and Cam to protect him until he does, with whatever means it takes to get him there.
Something inside of Castiel reacts with familiarity to this scenario as the offense takes the field. He pauses to eye Dean beside him, who is still juggling his ridiculous snack items while shouting at the top of his lungs in equal parts fury and joy.
This has been his sole purpose in the last three years; Dean’s safety, Dean’s success, Dean’s drive to survive in the face of whatever is thrown at them.
And like Cam, Castiel is covered in bruises and tired from his efforts. It is a thankless job, a tiring one, but despite it all, one that he cannot bring himself to give up for a greater meaning that he has yet to fully discern.
Beside him, Dean abruptly boos in outrage as a man in a striped black and white shirt screams something like “Face mask, ref! Face mask!” while others around him chant in agreement.
When Castiel focuses on the field again to see what has gone wrong, he sees Cam lying on the ground, twisted in pain on the sidelines where he had been thrown by an even larger, even fiercer looking boy wearing number sixty-seven in the colors of the opposing team. There are referees running around wildly, whistles blowing, little yellow knots of paper thrown all across the evenly cut and painted grass.
It is in that moment when something truly unexpected happens to Castiel; Darren, without warning, abruptly lunges forward from behind one of the men in black and white, plowing with a roar of righteous fury right into the immense frame of number sixty-seven, a boy perhaps twice his size and weight. Darren snarls furiously as he grasps sixty-seven’s jersey in his fists and shoves at him, suddenly transforming from the cool, charming prince to a feral guard dog, barking angrily in sixty-seven’s face. “You don’t touch him!” Darren shouts at sixty-seven fearlessly, and looks ready to fully attack when his other teammates pull him back fiercely, cursing and forcing him to calm down as a trainer jogs onto the field from the bench and crouches at an unmoving Cam’s side.
More whistles blow, penalties are called out, and Coach Griffin looks grim as he calmly tells Darren to take a seat at the end of the bench. Darren balks but obeys- a good soldier in the end despite his inner fury- and parks on the seat closest to where the trainers are helping Cam limp off of the field towards.
Castiel watches that instead, while the crowd continues to boo the referees’ decisions and the game goes on, the angel’s eyes trained on Darren as he surreptitiously moves himself further and further down the bench and subsequently, closer and closer toward the trainers and his friend. There is a complete loss of his earlier collectedness shining clearly in his young eyes as he waits for news. The sight of it touches something unexpectedly fierce and tender in Castiel’s heart.
“Just an ankle sprain,” Cam informs Darren when he meets his teammate’s eyes a moment later and catches him staring. Darren turns slightly pink and tears his gaze away.
“You dumbass,” he mutters back, though the relief in his voice as Cam finishes getting wrapped up and limps over to join him is palpable. “That dude was like three times bigger than you. What the hell were you thinking?”
Cam shrugs. “If he’s three times bigger than me he’s six times bigger than you, right?” he offers, with a self-deprecating smile. “I knew if I could hold him off a second longer, you’d be able to make that pass.”
Darren scowls. “Jesus, Cameron,” he mutters, and looks at the ground. “You’re such a fucking dumbass.”
Cameron leans back, and Castiel thinks he sees fondness in the larger boy’s eyes, despite the heated words Darren throws at him by rote. “Yeah,” Cameron agrees quietly, and claps Darren on the back of the neck. “You better cool off and head back out. We can’t win without you.”
Darren relaxes under his friend’s hand and bumps his shoulder into Cam’s with a sigh. “Of course we’ll win. No thanks to you, asshat.”
A moment and another series of whistles later, Coach Griffin finally nods at Darren, who puts his helmet back on and jogs out to the field. Cameron watches him go with a sense of certainty that makes something in Castiel spark with familiarity, with a nostalgia that reminds him of a park bench in October lifetimes ago.
From there, Darren plays with added ferocity, a vengeful kind of drive that is determined and unstoppable.
But it isn’t until he jogs by the sidelines and gives Cam a smile and a thumbs up that Castiel gets it.
It must show on his face because Dean nudges him with an elbow at that moment, even with his mouth still wrapped around the straw of his soda. “Dude, you just look like you saw the face of God or something,” Dean quips, looking curiously at him. He offers Castiel the rest of his nachos because, “You look like you could use them, man.”
Castiel takes them with a soft, “Thank you, Dean,” which earns him an odd look in return before Dean mentally shrugs and goes back to watching the game.
Castiel watches Dean now instead, and thinks that faith in God is something that he and Gabriel had both lost at one point, after countless millennia spent simply being soldiers who had believed in their Father and His plan. Perhaps Gabriel’s faith had chosen to come to St. Sebastian’s football program not because it is a religious institution but because it is a team that shows faith in one another in a very human way.
Theirs is not a faith in words, but faith in action. It is gruff and uncouth and ugly at times, but it remains steadfast despite these things, as unshakable as Cameron’s gaze is on Darren while the Saints storm into the Romans’ endzone one more time.
They are here for one another. There is no other act or speech that is more telling than that one act.
And Castiel realizes that despite everything, despite the lies, the betrayal, the cruel words and the arguments, Dean is here. Dean is still here.
Despite everything that could have torn them apart, Dean sits beside Castiel now- undertakes this mission and the burden of Castiel’s war-because he believes that together they can succeed.
There is faith here. When their Father abandoned them, Gabriel found his faith again-and Castiel has found his faith again-amongst the people their Father left behind. In retrospect, perhaps God had left all of his children exactly what they needed to continue on without him.
This humanity is truly God’s greatest creation.
Something warm begins to build around Castiel as he thinks that, as he looks at Dean cheering heartily beside him, and in that moment, Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
This time, it is not something he was simply made with, or that he always had. This time, it is not something to chase after and hope for and search every corner of the globe for, hoping that he will be able to look upon it directly and hold it in his hands. It is not something that can be found exactly where you expect it to be.
This time, it is simply a gift, one that comes with the warm presence at his side who is shouting obscenities at a high school football game and getting nacho cheese smeared on the outside of his jeans in the process.
This time, Castiel takes a deep breath and lets faith come right to him.
*****
Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye right after the third Saints’ touchdown; the way Castiel’s skin glows bright and white for a moment, the way he grunts and sways in the melee of the home team scoring and nearly falls flat on his face off the end of the bench.
Dean drops his soda and catches his angel while the band strikes up the St. Sebastian fight song, muttering, “Cas?!” out loud even as the grace dangling from around his neck recoils like it’s been struck by something when they touch. “Cas, what the hell?!”
Cas grunts something unintelligible amongst all the noise and Dean shakes him a little, which only makes his head loll onto Dean’s shoulder as he blinks blearily. It looks like he’s tripping something fierce, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated; Dean can feel the quiet, too-hot puffs of the angel’s breath on the side of his neck as he struggles to sit upright on his own power.
Cas eventually puts a hand on Dean’s leg and steadies himself, pushes himself back into some semblance of a slouch. “Dean,” he rasps, eyes impossibly bright as he stares at the older Winchester with the same sort of wonder he’d had back when they’d first met, when Dean had been trashing every one of his expectations left and right.
Dean’s free hand goes up to brush against the vial of grace against his chest. He swallows. “You got it?” he asks, looking around to see if anyone is watching them. They’re not, not in the face of the Saints widening the gap and closing out their victory, but part of him feels like he ought to make sure just in case. This feels private somehow; it always does when Cas insists on looking at him like that. “How? Where was it?”
“I remembered,” Cas says back, not breaking eye contact. “It has been here all along. Everywhere here.”
Dean had not really expected that answer. “What, you suddenly remembered you believe in God and it hit you?” he drawls, fidgeting a little now because Cas’s hand is still on his knee.
The corner of Castiel’s lip quirks up slightly, like the sarcastic tone Dean is taking with him is somehow warm and endearing. Maybe it is. Who knows with this crazy angel?
“I remembered that I believe in you,” Castiel answers without hesitation or preamble. “This is faith that never left me.”
Dean balks at that automatically, wants to pull away and sit on the other end of the bench right now because what the hell. Instead, his hand wraps around the black cord hanging from his neck more tightly as he stares back at the angel. “Uh,” he says, inarticulately. “Thanks?”
Castiel, still looking kind of tired from the melding or whatever, doesn’t make a move to stop leaning against Dean. “Even without God, even without Heaven, I am not alone,” he says mysteriously, and closes his eyes like he’s about to take a nap right the fuck now. “That means something.”
Dean just stares at the angel some more, while Sam finally pulls himself away from the headmaster’s euphoria to stare at his brother and Cas. “Uh… I miss something?” he asks, with a telling look at Dean and the angel pressed very close to his side.
Dean flushes slightly and glares. “Yeah, we got the piece okay. Wipe that stupid look off your face.”
Sam blinks, apparently forgetting the tableau angel and brother make for the moment when he hears the news. “What? Really? When? How?”
Dean shrugs helplessly, jostling Cas’s head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. He just glowed suddenly and bam, he says we got it.”
Sam studies the angel for a bit. “Yeah, okay. So…”
Dean nods. “Yeah.” He jostles Cas’s head on his shoulder a little more. “Dude. No napping at the big game, man.”
Castiel’s eyes flutter open and he regards Dean with mild irritation. “Very well.”
And then Dean blinks again and he’s inside the Impala, back where they’d left it in the school parking lot. Cas is in the front seat next to him, still leaning close and looking like he wants nap time and will smite anyone or anything that precludes him from that, while Sam sputters behind them, ostensibly for having been relegated to the backseat. Dean scowls at the bleary-eyed half-archangel currently breathing warm puffs of air against the side of his neck. “Little warning, next time, Cas?”
“I am tired,” Castiel responds, like that explains everything. “This shard was quite large.”
Dean frowns and wonders how a Cas who has regained his faith somehow seems less obliging than before. “Yeah, okay. I guess it wouldn’t have been fun to stick around and see the team suck now that we jacked their grace or whatever,” he admits, feeling inexplicably guilty about that as he reaches around Cas and into his pocket for his keys.
“They do not require it,” Castiel murmurs, voice slightly muffled by Dean’s shirt. “As long as they continue to have the same faith in one another as they do now, they will be victorious. I have faith in this because I have seen their configuration before.”
Dean looks down at that moment just as Cas looks up, and for a second the hunter wonders if Cas is trying to tell him something, except all subtle like.
But then Cas yawns, burrows in like Dean is his personal human pillow and closes his eyes, which results in a complete lack of cryptic subtlety.
Dean sighs and heads back in the direction of the hotel while Cas drools into his t-shirt like he owns it.
The grace around his throat buzzes at the proximity and Dean taps it a little while glaring down at the mess of angel snoozing against him. “You and me both,” he tells the grace irately, while Sam complains about leaving his favorite pen on the bench just now.
Dean just drives faster.
*****
Hours later, after the stadium has gone quiet after the joy of another overwhelming St. Sebastian victory, after the lights have been turned off and the parking lot has emptied and the cleaning crew finished picking up the litter, a rustle of paper amongst one of the many trash bags lined along the back of the school catches the night watchman’s attention, and muttering to himself about those damned raccoons getting into the concession leftovers, he heads over to investigate before the animals can make a mess that will have the janitorial crew bitching and moaning at him in the morning when they come in for their shifts.
When he gets there he sees no sign of animal life, though one of the black bags of garbage has been thoroughly trashed, fliers and confetti and nacho cheese smeared all over the pavement.
He curses and begins trying to pick some of it up before the wind catches it, and when he does, he hears something a lot like a dog’s snuffle to his immediate right; it is followed by a puff of putrid air and a curious grunt.
He turns his head immediately to catch the culprit but comes face to face with a lot of nothing in front of him. Belatedly, he realizes that he has fearfully crushed a half-filled container of nachos in his hand, making his skin slimy with cold, processed cheese. “What the…”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to see that box,” a voice tells him cheerfully from out of nowhere, and when he spins around he sees that a short man in a long jacket-a jacket much too heavy to be wearing in this hot weather-is walking down the alley towards him, dapper and English and looking far too clean to be a hobo digging around for a midnight snack.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the night watchman demands, shining his flashlight at the man. “This is private property, sir. You can’t be here.”
“Oh I’ll be out of your hair in just a second, love,” the man answers with a wink, and the night watchman shuffles backwards on instinct when he hears that distant, mysterious growling again. “I just want to see the little bit of treasure that Growley there found me.” The man stops to crouch and extends a hand towards the watchman’s immediate right. “Bring her here, lovely!” the man coaxes in sweet tones, like he’s trying to get a dog to come back to him.
Puzzled, the night watchman looks down to where the man is pointing, but as he does, he suddenly finds himself experiencing a sharp, excruciating pain in his right hand, the one currently clutching the half-eaten box of nachos.
When he looks down to find the cause of that pain is the fact that his hand is no longer there; what remains is only a bloody, gushing stump and the tip of a mangled bone.
He starts to scream.
Meanwhile, the strange Englishman in the large coat is patting some invisible creature and singing its praises while holding a human hand wrapped around a crushed box of half-eaten nachos.
The man studies it thoughtfully. “Good boy, Growley,” he murmurs, still in cutesy tones, if slightly darker now. “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy! Who wants a treat? You want a treat?”
The last thing the night watchman hears before an invisible weight alights on his chest and rips out his throat is, “Go get your treat!”
The bloody box of nachos is subsequently thrown beside his body in the aftermath.
The strange Englishman and his invisible dog move on.
BACK//NEXT// MASTERPOST