Western Rising 12/?
A/N: Refs to sexual violence.
*
“So tell me,” said Crowley to Lydia, having gotten her away from the van for a moment whilst Liam checked the oil, and the kids were fed, “How’s a smart girl like you end up in a place like this?”
“Accident of birth,” she returned dryly. Cerberus was sitting next to her, panting happily. She scruffed his head. “But you,” she studied Jack. “You’re not a Ghost.”
Crowley raised his eyebrows.
“I mean you weren’t always a Ghost,” she said, raising a hand to shield her eyes. “You don’t talk like one. You don’t move like one.”
It was always better to let people think they’d come to ideas on their own. She was sitting on a boulder with her hands in her lap, and Crowley was standing, pretending to consider the horizon.
“You were State,” she guessed. “A soldier.”
“A soldier, yes,” Crowley smiled. “Not State.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Not everyone supported Leviathan, my dear.” That was true.
Lydia frowned, lines cutting deeply into her forehead and mouth. Crowley wondered how old she was. One could never tell, with these things. The way they lived.
“So you were…exiled?”
“I loved the Resistance,” Crowley closed his eyes briefly - not long enough to lose any control of the situation, just enough to signify pain. “But some of us….lost our way. Prepared to do anything to see the end of the State. I understand that burning. I do. The State must fall. But not at the price of innocent lives.” Silently, he applauded himself.
Lydia bit her lip.
“I wish to God there was a way I could go back,” he went on. “If I had the leverage. Something to…offer.”
Yes, it was always best when they thought your ideas were their own.
“How would the Resistance feel,” said Lydia carefully. “About a gift?”
“The Council is usually open to bribery.”
“Alright.” Lydia made her move, stood up and grabbed his arm. “Sam is one of them. Their Weapons. Chuck said he was bioengineered, and they want him back. Suppose we give them him.”
“Amnesty for life, I would say,” Crowley grinned. “At the very least. More likely a position of power for both of us.”
Lydia was nodding. “The State killed my family,” she said rapidly. “A dirty bomb.”
“We may never get a better chance than this to do something with our lives,” Crowley said.
“Or to have a life,” Lydia looked at him like he was a little crazy.
“Well, that too.” Crowley pretended to consider. “It’s the right thing to do. But it will be dangerous. Not everyone on the Council believes in the Weapons program.”
“Do you know anyone who does for sure?”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
Lydia blew out her breath. “I have nothing here. Nothing to live for.”
Crowley waited.
“How would we do it?” She raised her eyes to him. He smiled.
* * *
Sam frowned as the engine made another groan of protest. He believed he knew where they were going. Not exactly, but near enough. The direction was correct. Jack, who was driving now, frowned:
“Gonna have to stop again. Go under the hood.”
“Alright,” sighed Sam, and ducked to get out of the car -
- when he stood up again, Jack stood on the other side of the vehicle with a gun aimed casually at his head.
“Not so fast, squire,” he said. One of the children made a stifled sound - Sam turned to see Lydia with both guns held ready, one aimed at Sophia’s head and the other into the cluster of children. The dog was crouched low beside Jack, staring at Sam and flashing his fangs in solidarity with his master.
“Lydia,” Sam appealed.
“Nobody has to get hurt here,” she said with difficulty.
Sam sought within himself, gauging his reserves of power.
“Try anything,” said Jack calmly, “and you’ll be dealing with brains splattered all over the interior. I’m reasonably sure you can’t manage two things at once. Attack me, she shoots them. Attack her, I shoot you. Got it?”
“What do you want?” Sam asked tightly.
“Oh, what I always want,” Jack smiled, wolf-like: “Self-advancement.” He casually laid a hand on the dog’s flank.
“You’re a Weapon,” Lydia broke in. She spoke rapidly: “Chuck said so. We’re gonna hand you
over to the Resistance, so they take us in. Or take me in. Take Jack back.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Well there goes the mystery and style,” he muttered. “By the way, you can call me Crowley,” he said in his normal voice. “Jack was a pseudonym and I’m rather sick of it.”
One of the children sobbed. Sophia said, “shh, shh,” urgently, her dark eyes wide and fearful as she glanced from Sam to their assailants. Sam blew out his breath.
“Look,” he appealed. “Don’t be stupid. The Resistance won’t take you back. One mistake and you’re done. They’ll execute you.”
“Sam Sam Sam,” Jack - Crowley - smirked. “Don’t be so modest. You really have no idea of your own value. In some quarters.”
“If I go with you, what happens to them?” Sam indicated the group in the back of the truck. “You just leave them here to die?”
“Not at all,” Crowley said, mock-offended. “I am not a barbarian, sir. You come quietly, and Lydia here will take the rats on to the Base. She knows how to read a map. There, they’ll report the tragic news of our noble deaths on the journey. Of course, should they implicate otherwise, she’ll blow their brains out,” Crowley shrugged.
Sam’s mind raced. If he could separate Crowley and Lydia, he’d only be up against one gun. He could possibly pull something like he’d done with Christian. If he said no, Crowley could just kill them all now.
“Alright,” he said finally.
“Excellent.” Still aiming the gun with one hand, Crowley produced a pair of handcuffs with the other. “A little trade I made back in town,” he said casually. “Hands out.” Lydia turned her gun on Sam while Crowley cuffed him. “A steel alloy,” Crowley went on, “Known to have a certain - dampening effect - on psychics.” Sam’s heart sank. He had no idea whether that was true or not. But he’d learned enough about his abilities to know that if he doubted them, they wouldn’t work. They came from a place of conviction. The psychological trickery of the cuffs was more than sufficient. Mouth curling in a sneer, he held his wrists out. Crowley cuffed him with a click.
“Kill ‘em,” he ordered Lydia, with a gesture of his head towards the hostages.
“What? No!” Sam exclaimed, as Sophia sobbed openly and the baby started to cry.
“But, I thought,” Lydia wavered. Crowley rolled his eyes, impatient.
“Oh come off it woman,” he snapped. “You didn’t really think I was going to leave a liability.” He was still aiming a gun at Sam’s head, and Sam tried for all he was worth to summon his powers, but nothing happened. He closed his eyes, heard Lydia breathe, and the screams of the hostages cut off abruptly in burst of fire. He felt sick.
“That’s more like it,” said Crowley with satisfaction, and Sam had no warning before something hard and blunt came down on the back of his skull, he saw stars briefly, and then darkness.
* * *
“So they’re well out of cell phone reception, but as a courtesy, the General says that Briggs can write a farewell letter to his wife before they execute him. So he writes, ‘this is to let you know, I was shot yesterday at blah blah blah’, figuring by the time she reads it, he will be. The pardon comes through at the last minute. He gets home, the poor bastard, and walks in on her with her new husband, getting down to business. He draws his gun, shoots them both, and was executed the next day.” Dean slid his eyes across to Castiel. “True story.”
Castiel smiled a little bit, whether at the anecdote or something inside his head. They were hanging out at a crossroads a mile or so from the Base, a convergence of dirt tracks used by the Ghosts for trade. They had a selection of guns from the storeroom, having selected the best for themselves and put the rest aside for barter. All the guns in the world were no good if you didn’t have anything to fire. They also needed more food. But the roads had been quiet for most of the morning, and the one truck that had passed by wanted no business.
“You know Sammy doesn’t like to hear this stuff,” Dean went on. “About the army. Hey, Cas, did they do something to your brain to make you like this? I mean, physically?” He was long past expecting an answer. He’d discovered it was pretty much impossible to offend Castiel, which made him excellent to talk to, though he wasn’t much for returning any kind of conversation.
“Not specifically,” said Castiel, and Dean raised his eyebrows.
“I am not - I was unable to withstand ordinary measures,” said Cas quietly. “I am not strong.”
“Hey,” Dean frowned. “You rebelled against the State’s groupthink. That’s pretty strong if you ask me.”
Castiel smiled sadly.
Dean returned his eyes to the horizon. After a moment, he nudged Castiel with the butt of his gun. “Truck,” he said. Then: “No - 4x4,” a moment later. Castiel frowned and stood up straight, suddenly. His finger curled reflexively on his trigger, and for an instant Dean had a glimpse of the soldier he must have been once.
“They’re not Ghosts,” Castiel said grimly. “We need cover.”
As the vehicle came closer, Dean recognised the dark sleek lines of a Resistance carrier. It was small - designed for stealth missions, and probably held four people including the driver. He gestured with his gun to a patch of trees several meters back from the side of the road. He and Cas made silently for them. as the cars approached, Dean could make out the emblem of the Resistance sprayed large on the driver-side door of the lead car: a circle containing an abstract bird rising out of a ball of flame. Phoenix. It stirred up an old hatred, deep in him - for everything he now knew and despised about the State, his hatred for the Resistance was at a more visceral level. It had damned his own family, after all.
“What d’you think?” he said to Cas.
“No doubt they have much that would be of value to us,” Castiel said without expression.
“Shoot out the tyres?”
“That would seem to be the most sensible option.”
The car trundled into their line of fire. Dean glanced at Castiel briefly. He barely had to signal. In tandem, they raised their guns, sighted, and blew out both tyres on the near side of the carrier. With a screech of metal the vehicle lurched to one side, tipped, and Dean caught a glimpse of the driver, a pale man, desperately fighting with the wheel. The carrier went over anyway, metal crunching, and Dean heard a scream. The windows were of course bulletproof, and they didn’t have the kind of ammo that would pierce it. Conversely, the car’s inhabitants couldn’t fire back at them. but the driver’s door window had displaced on impact, and Dean was out of the cover and firing into his face before he’d had the chance to recover from the crash. The front passenger was out cold, bleeding from a head wound on collision with the far window, but Dean put a bullet in her brain just in case. Castiel was at his shoulder, and to Dean’s mild surprise, he wrenched open the back door and quickly dispatched the passengers. One attempted to return fire, but his bullet clanged harmlessly off the door frame.
Smoke rose in the quiet for a second.
“Grab the stuff,” Dean said. they took weapon first, including a pleasing three boxes of ammo, then bottled water, dehydrated rations and med kit. Dean watched Cas out of the corner of his eye. All his movements were quick and practiced, face expressionless. He was - good at this. Dean shook himself. What had he been expecting? You didn’t forget a life’s training in a couple of months.
“Nice job,” he clapped Cas on the shoulder, and could’ve sworn that the look Cas returned was almost dry.
The bounty endeared Cas to the Ghosts who’d been sitting on the fence, and even Hamid gave him a wary nod a he sorted through the new ammo. It was late, and they shortly retired to their bunks. Dean tried making conversation for a while, to no avail, so he said,
“Well, I guess I’ll try going to sleep now. Gonna turn the light off, okay?”
Pause.
“Okay. G’night, Cas.” Dean clicked the torch off. Sleep was evasive. He was restless, and he missed Sam - he was worried but not panicked, because he could hardly expect them yet, and if anything terrible had happened Chuck would probably have picked up on it. He was also, frankly, frustrated. The day’s adrenalin was still in his system. He hadn’t had sex in close to three weeks, had barely even jerked off due to the constant proximity of Ghosts, and it just wanted natural for him. He wanted Sam, first, and he wanted sex with Sam, second. It wasn’t refined, but that was who he was. He’d never apologized for it. He slid his eyes across to Castiel, who appeared still and breathing evenly, and slid his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. His dick was on board with this plan already, which was actually pretty gross, considering that Sam could theoretically be….in trouble right this moment, but hell, you didn’t live as a Guard then a Ghost without a decent ability to compartmentalize. He closed his eyes and stroked his thumb over the head of his dick, summoning an image of Sam’s mouth, his throat and torso. A small sound escaped him - he hurriedly glanced over at his roommate, but Cas had not stirred. He started to move his hand rhythmically, keeping his wrist loose, in time to a series of images derived from his last time with Sam (and one flicker of that girl from that time on deployment just before Hell). Co-ordinating his thumb with the movement of his wrist made an efficient job of it. Hardly a world-shaking orgasm, but enough of an endorphin burst that he could sleep afterwards. His eyes closed, and he shifted away from the unpleasant wetness of cooling semen. Fuck it, he'd deal with it later.
Blank. Indeterminate time passed.
He came awake as a shadow fell over him, and before he knew what was happening, he had one hand beneath the pillow whipping out his gun, cocked the trigger and aimed it in front of his face -
- straight between the unnaturally blue eyes of his roommate, which were wide with surprise. Dean blew out his breath.
“Jesus, Cas, what the fuck are you doing?!” his heart was trip-hammering and his voice sounded more breathless than he would like. Then he had time register the rest of it.
Castiel was completely naked.
“I almost blew your brains out,” Dean waved the gun. He sat up, shoving Cas off him unceremoniously. Cas knelt on the floor in in a pile of twisted sheets, and blinked. And ew. There was jizz on those sheets.
“What - why were you in my bed?” Dean demanded. A creeping dread at the corner of his consciousness. ‘This isn’t then’. Dean was the one in control of this situation. He had the fucking gun.
“I thought….didn’t you….” Castiel hung his head. “I thought I was supposed to.”
“Oh, for….” Well, this was disgusting. On so many levels. “Look,” Dean blew his breath out.
“No, wait, get dressed first. We’re not having this conversation with you naked.” Castiel got up hurriedly, making no attempt to cover himself, but Dean looked away whilst he put some clothes back on. Dean had made him shower and change on his second day at the compound, even donated a couple of items of clothing. “Sit down,” Dean said. “Over there,” he pointed to the bunk. That still gave Cas the advantage of height over Dean who was using the bedroll, but at least it put space between them.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that one of your old commanders put that in your head - or used it as some kind of punishment.” He spoke rapidly, distancing himself from the meaning of the words. “But I’ll tell you this one more time: I am not here to punish you. I have a - I’m in a - I’m with someone. Committedly. He’ll be here soon. So - none of that. Just - keep to your side of the room. Got it?”
Castiel looked stricken and was refusing to meet his eyes. Dean felt like an asshole.
“I’ll go,” Castiel said abruptly and stood up, wrapping the t-shirt around himself and grabbing his backpack from under the bed. He started to dress in day clothes.
“Wait wait, what? Go where?”
“Away,” said Castiel guiltily. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean-“
“Oh, Jesus,” Dean said. “Look I get that that stuff can - mess you up. And that sometimes you feel like you’re - like you have to.”
Castiel stared at him, frozen in the act of putting on one shoe.
“Look,” Dean blew out his breath. “Once I had a CO….Zachariah. He was pretty high up in the State and all, and he….thought it was his prerogative. Treated us like his bitches. Well, me.” That was more than he’d ever said to anyone, Sam included. “And that was bullshit. Okay? You don’t have to do anything for anyone.”
Castiel continued to stare at him. Dean wasn’t getting any more explicit.
“Maybe it’s time we got separate rooms,” he said. “People trust you well enough.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“Well - no.” It was true, Dean realized with surprise. He’d kind of gotten used to having the guy around. “But I thought you might want to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh. Okay. Alright then. Just - stay over there.”
“I will. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just go to sleep.”
His heartbeat refused to return to normal speed for a long time after that.
Part Thirteen
A/N: WTF I wrote Destiel? Kind of. This isn’t even my shiiiiip. I blame Castiel for this. This degree of one-sidedness is totally canonical. He just looks at D all the time like Y WON’T U LOVE ME LIKE I LOVE YOU.