Smith and Wesson Hit the Road: Part One
Dean Smith swung out of the elevator and aimed a cheeky wink at the girls on the floor reception. The blonde blushed, the redhead giggled from behind her computer, and Dean grinned in return as he reached for his Blackberry. It was a good day. A winter sun shone, Sandover Bridge and Iron’s shares were up 2% from yesterday, and in these economic times, he would take what he could get. Dean’s mind was occupied partly by his new ad campaign, and partly by whether or not he could score a few more packets of that deep Brazilian roast for his Keurig as he made his way into his office.
Ah, Keurig.
It was the little things.
Despite the plaque on the door, the mahogany desk and the appealing city view, Dean Smith was a simple man, and he knew it. He was a man of circumscribed vision, not a politician or a revolutionary or a hero of any description. That being so, he was trying extremely hard not to think about the - the - ghost incident- with the tall dude from IT. Once the adrenalin had worn off, and the sheer horror of a bitch-slap to his worldview had begun to sink in, Dean set about the process of total denial.
There were plenty of sensible explanations. He was overworked; he hadn’t been seeing what he thought he saw; it never happened in the first place and on the odd chance if it did, it would never happen again. Dean Smith had no room for ghosts in his life. No ghosts, or disturbingly attractive, tall, health-club-fit-tanned-skinned-
Okay. Stop.
Dean was straight. Stress reactions were weird things. So Dean did his job and he happened to be extremely good at it. As Mr. Adler was the kind of man who rewarded ability, was paid generously. Dean liked money, or to be specific, he liked the things that money could buy: a nice apartment and financial security. He liked good food, good suits, good coffee and good sex; good heterosexual sex with women -
“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Adler, appearing in Dean’s doorway. He was frowning.
“Sir?” Dean gulped. When Zachariah Adler frowned, people got fucked. And not in the good way.
“I don’t like what I’m reading, Dean,” Adler said. Dean blanked, before he realized Mr. Adler was holding the business section of the Ohio Telegraph. His eyes dropped to the headline that screamed, “Roman Enterprises Acquires Reliant Steel” complete with a color photo of Roman and his gleaming sharklike grin.
“Crap,” Dean said.
“Reliant should have been ours,” Adler seethed, ignoring Dean’s response. “They felt Roman had more ‘face recognition and trusted American values.’” He punctuated each phrase with finger quotes. “Why don’t I have ‘face recognition,’ Dean? Isn’t that your department?”
“Well sir,” Dean said awkwardly. “You were voted one of Time’s most influential people of 2008-”
“I don’t care about 2008! That was last year! Keep up, boy!” Then his whole demeanour changed. Dean was used to these odd shifts - how Adler would go instantly from tyrant to confidante, even sympathiser. “It’s a tough job Dean. I know it is. But you’re the only one who can maintain the face of this company,” Adler smirked. Dean shrank back a little. “I’m counting on you, son. I don’t want to lose another asset to Roman. Don’t let me down.” When it suited him, Adler’s smile could be every bit as intimidating as his bête-noire’s.
“I won’t sir,” Dean choked out.
“Good! Keep this!” Adler chirped as he tossed the newspaper into the man’s lap. “Figure out what he’s doing and do it better. Oh, and Dean - corporate networking buffet on the fourth floor, 13:00.”
“Yes sir,” said Dean, “See you then.”
“Not if I see you first!” Adler pointed at him with another grin as he backed out of the office. Dean shook off the uncomfortable feeling his boss left behind and called up his event calendar.
“Hey, who’s the private eye?” Dean nudged Martin from finance and nodded at the new face. All the Sandover executives knew each other by name and there hadn’t been a great deal of turnover lately. Co-workers talked strategy and synergy between bites of salmon on whole-wheat, but the guy in the beige trenchcoat just stood there. Most of Dean’s colleagues were assholes and ordinarily he would’ve welcomed a little fresh blood, but this stranger stared at him with unnerving blue eyes and an intimidating grave expression.
“I talked to him earlier. Says his name is Castiel. I know, right?” Martin snorted. “Sounds like someone’s parents were hitting the herb a little too hard, huh? Maybe he rebelled against the hippie lifestyle.” They chuckled.
“So, what’s he doing here?” Dean asked.
“Dunno, he’s been hanging around advertising,” Martin shrugged. “Isn’t that your department? Adler trying to keep you on your toes or something? Up the competition?”
Dean narrowed his eyes at the stranger, who simply tilted his head to one side. “I dunno,” he said. “But, I’m gonna find out.” He grabbed a seltzer from the buffet and headed across the room.
“Hey,” he said shortly, offering his free hand, “Dean Smith, head of-“
“I know who you are,” he was cut off. Dean raised his eyebrows. So, he wasn’t the only one checking the competition out! The voice was not at all what he’d expected from the slight build, big blue eyes and pointed features: it was deep and surprisingly gravelly. Its owner made no move to shake Dean’s hand.
“Ooooo-kay,” Dean retracted his arm.
“I am Castiel,” said Castiel.
“So I hear. What kinda name is that, anyway? Swedish?”
Castiel frowned. “Dean, I bring urgent news for you. You are needed.”
“What? Is it Adler?” Dean glanced around in vague panic.
“No,” the frown deepened, and he actually reached out and touched Dean’s sleeve. “We have to talk. It’s not safe here. Come with me.”
“What? Where!?”
Castiel appeared to consider. “The men’s room.”
“Oh, hey, woah - no offense, but I don’t swing that way.”
“Swing - what way?” Blue eyes narrowed at him.
“Excuse me, this is an invitation-only event,” Adler swooped in with a frigid smile. “Who are you?”
“I am Castiel.”
“Alright, and what are you doing here?”
“I have business with Dean Smith.”
“Mr. Smith is engaged. Dean, do we need to talk about scheduling visitors during working hours?”
“Hey, I didn’t - I’ve never seen this guy before,” Dean held his hands up, defensive.
“Ah. In that case,” Adler gestured to a couple of security officers. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“You don’t understand,” Castiel looked troubled, almost - afraid. “It is urgent. The stakes could be greater than any of us know.” Adler’s eyes widened slightly. The beefy security guards were behind him now, making Castiel look small in comparison. Dean had a weird urge to protect the weirdo.
“Is that some sort of threat?” Adler asked slowly.
“Maybe.”
“Who the hell are you, exactly?”
Castiel raised wide eyes: “I am an angel of the Lord.”
Silence.
Then Zachariah laughed abruptly. “Ohhh boy. Now this is a casualty of modern stress. Joseph, Andre, escort this gentleman from the premises.”
“I assure you,” said Castiel, miffed, as one of the beefy guards put a hand on each of his arms, “That I speak the truth. I am unfortunately indisposed at the moment, but were I at full power you would not hesitate to believe me.”
Chuckles. Several execs had gathered to watch the spectacle. Dean felt bad.
“Shouldn’t we - you know - try to find out if someone’s responsible for him? Not just chuck him out on the street?” He tapped the side of his head in illustration of the poor sap’s unfortunate mental state.
“You got a keeper, boy?” Adler snapped.
Castiel looked sad.
“Alright, get him out of here,” Adler’s patience was clearly at an end. “And don’t think this breach of security’s going unnoticed. I want Harper in my office at 15:00, with a full report. Go.” He turned away.
Dean turned away too, but not until he’d caught a last glimpse of the nutjob’s weird, sad eyes, and briefly wished the bottle he still held contained something stronger than water.
In an apartment on the other side of the city, Sam woke abruptly from his afternoon nap. It was his one day off that week, and he’d been up late the night before - researching monsters. He tried to sleep but the dreams would not leave him alone. They had become more intense ever since he and Dean had fought Sandover’s ghost together. His dreams had evolved from ghost; now Sam dreamt of the monsters: snake-like things with gaping mouths like primitive sea creatures. He and Dean killed them by chopping off their heads. Yet somehow they just kept reforming. The dreams felt like traps - cycles that kept resetting themselves no matter what he did.
He woke up scared.
And then there was the other kind of dream, the kind that was disturbing in a whole new way. Sam was absurdly attracted to Dean Smith. The attraction itself didn’t distress him - Sam had known he was bi from the age of around fourteen - but their relative situations made it extremely awkward. For one thing, Dean was definitely straight: he’d told Sam to ‘save it for the health club’, after all. For another, he was an exec at the only paid job Sam could see himself doing in the near future - damn recession. Finally, Dean was….kind of a corporate douchebag, with his tailored suits and his silver Prius, his carb-free apartment in a yuppie district. He was basically the opposite of anyone Sam had ever been attracted to. And that was disturbing.
Part of Sam believed that there was more to him - that he’d seen another side to Smith in the midst of their adventure together. He’d given Smith his number and asked him to call, but he never had. Dean Smith, Head of Sales and Marketing, apparently had no further business with Sam Wesson, tech drone.
Sam sighed and turned over on the couch.
The apartment doorbell buzzed.
Surprised, he sat up. He wasn’t expecting anyone. With a quick glance in the mirror and attempt to force his hair into some kind of order, he
padded down the corridor and staircase. His visitor looked like some kind of evangelist, with his trenchcoat and tie and his over-earnest expression. Sam really wasn’t in the mood to for a come-to-Jesus spiel, and this might just be the first time ever he closed the door in someone’s face.
“You are Sam Wesson,” said the stranger.
“Uh…yeah?”
“I am Castiel. I have news for you.”
Oh, crap. Had one of these organizations gotten his name? Did he listen too long to the little old lady with the Watchtower brochure?
“You are required in the service of God the Father.”
“Look,” Sam sighed. “I’m really not interested, okay? I mean, good for you, you found God and all-“
His visitor frowned: “I have not found God. I am still looking. He has not been seen in Heaven for generations. I assure you though, when I have ascertained His whereabouts, I will alert you immediately.”
Sam blinked and surreptitiously felt in his pocket for his cell phone. Unless this guy was a secret ninja he could looked like Sam could take
him, but if he did turn out to be violent-crazy, he could be hiding a knife or something. Trenchcoats had a lot of pockets. “Uh….what church did you say you were from?”
The stranger glared at him: “No church. I have little time for your flawed religions. I am Castiel, an angel, formerly of the twenty-sixth garrison.”
“Right,” said Sam. “Well, I got a bunch of stuff to do, so…” he started to edge the door closed. The stranger made no attempt to stop him.
Sam latched the door and stood in the hallway for a few minutes.
The buzzer buzzed again.
Something was itching at Sam’s brain. He didn’t like the sensation. There was something familiar about the guy. That - feeling again. The one that had been tormenting him just before he approached Dean Smith. He thought he might be crazy but Sam knew on some deep level that there was more to this.
“If you’ll allow me,” Castiel’s voice was muffled by the closed the door. Sam re-opened it a crack but kept the chain in place. Castiel extended two fingers firmly and touched Sam’s forehead.
A cascade of images blinded him, dreams but infinitely sharper. It was him, and Dean, fighting the monsters, and Castiel was there, but he was different somehow. Powerful. In one image, violently bright and distinct, Castiel stood tall and extended behind him two shadowy, vast wings. Then a man in a business suit grinned, grinned, and his face became that of the monster until, sickly, he devoured a woman alive.
Castiel withdrew his fingers and Sam blinked, seeing stars.
“You and Dean Smith are called to defeat Leviathan,” said Castiel.
“What - what the -?”
“I will come in,” Castiel offered.
Sam unlatched the door and stepped back, still reeling. Castiel stepped into the hallway and looked around.
“Which way is your apartment?” he asked.
“Um,” Sam felt a little hysterical: “Shouldn’t you know that? Being an angel and everything?”
“I told you, I am cut off from Heaven,” Castiel snapped. “I have only access to the most limited of powers.”
“Woah,” said a new voice. Sam and Castiel both turned to see Becky Rosen standing on the front step, an eco-friendly shopping bag in one hand and a look of intense interest on her face. Becky was one of the more - colorful - denizens of the apartment complex. She lived half her life in a series of sexy supernatural cult novels, dividing the other half between trying to get published and seduce Sam.
“Um, hi, Becky,” said Sam nervously.
“What did he just say?” Becky narrowed her eyes at Castiel.
“Nothing,” Sam said quickly, at the same time as Castiel said:
“I an angel, cut off from Heaven, and have only access to the most limited of powers.”
“Bummer,” Becky sympathised.
Sam resisted the urge to pound his head against the wall. It just figured that Becky would accept all this at face value. He tamped down on the thought that, with her imagination, she might have been closer to the truth than any of them.
“Yeah, it’s….for a play,” Sam said loudly. “That is, we’re rehearsing. Lines.”
“In the hallway?” Becky frowned.
“This is no game,” Castiel frowned harder, and assessed Becky. “You are the apostle Rebecca Rosen. Your task is to record the coming events for future generations.”
“I am?!?” Becky practically squealed: “That’s so cool! Cos you know, I just got my second rejection letter in a month, which is such a downer. The publisher said I had a unique style, but my ideas weren’t marketable.” She made sceptical quotey fingers with her free hand and muttered something about the rampant hetero-biased repression of the publishing industry.
“Just - hang on a minute.” Sam winced. “Why don’t we all just -go up to my apartment. And talk about this,” he added quickly, seeking the excited look appear at once in Becky’s eyes.
“That would be acceptable,” Castiel inclined his head.
“Awesome!” said Becky and held up her shopping bag enticingly. “I have pink wafers!”
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were sitting in Sam’s apartment, cramped around a small table, whilst Castiel methodically consumed an alarming quantity of the wafers. Becky was watching in rapt attention, and Sam was at his computer terminal, scrolling through page after page of hits for the search term ‘Roman Enterprises’.
“So, tell me again why Dean and I have to defeat this guy,” Sam said.
“It is written,” said Castiel mysteriously.
“Written where?”
“In the Book of Life, one of the Seven Heavenly Scrolls.”
“And you’re absolutely sure that it’s talking about us?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Wow.” Sam turned around and blew his breath out. This was rapidly becoming overwhelming. He supposed, in abstract way, that he believed in God - and so - angels - but really in a semi-metaphorical, metaphysical metaphor way, you know? Not in the sense of a dishevelled guy in a trenchcoat sitting stiffly on his couch and methodically inhaling cookies. Still, he couldn’t deny it was nice to have some - well, ratification. That he was meant for more than this. ‘Most people who work in a cubicle think that, my ass’. Something suddenly occurred to him:
“Hey, what did you mean when you said you couldn’t find God? Can’t you just sort of…I don’t know, pray? Call on Him?”
Castiel shook his head: “He doesn’t answer. God is absent. Order in Heaven in maintained by the archangels. It was due to my disagreement with some of their - methods - that I was banished to Earth.”
“For how long?” Becky asked.
“Until I have redeemed myself in the eyes of my superiors,” Castiel said. “I hope that facilitating this mission to stop Leviathan will accomplish that.”
“Well, screw that!” Becky said, affronted. “You shouldn’t have to grovel and beg them to take you back! You said yourself, they’re not God. Just cos you have a mind of your own. Oh my God, this is gold.” With that, she grabbed a notepad of Sam’s off the coffee table and started to scribble frantically. “Hey, what are the archangels like? Are they dicks?”
Castiel looked miffed. “You should not speak of them lightly. Archangels are fierce. Absolute. They’re Heaven’s most terrifying weapon. Moreover, as none of them are currently in physical vessels to my knowledge, they bear no resemblance to male mammalian genitalia.”
Becky ignored him and carried on writing.
“Okay, so to stop Leviathan has taken the form of his guy, Dick Roman, whom we have to kill. But how do we do that? And how do we get Dean on board with it?”
“They are partly the same question,” Castiel said “The Scrolls say that Leviathan cannot be slain save by the destined warrior.”
“Which is us.”
“Well, it’s either you or Dean Smith who will strike the blow. I’m not sure.” For a second, Castiel looked abashed and thoroughly human. Becky and Sam both stared at him. “The Scrolls are extremely obscure, okay? The oracles speak in riddles.” The angel glared at them.
“So…couldn’t I just try, and if I fail we get Dean?”
“No. The Scrolls definitely speak of a pair bond, such as your Greek poets were wont to glorify.”
Becky started to hyperventilate, squeaking and fanning herself with one hand. Both Sam and Castiel regarded her uneasily, before she finally blurted out, “NOT MARKETABLE MY ASS!” and continued scribbling.
“Both of you are required to smite the Beast,” Castiel said to Sam. “But you also require a special sword.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Becky.
“And…what sword is that?”
“I don’t know,” Castiel said. Sam bit back a comment about how for an angel, Castiel wasn’t proving to be the fountain of all knowledge here. “But I know who does,” he went on. “One of my brothers, here on Earth. He is something of a collector of Heavenly weapons. But first,” he held up a hand to forestall more questions: “You must convince Dean.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I tried,” Castiel glared at him. “His superior caused some large men to evict me from the building. You must do it. He listened to you concerning the spectre, thus it is only logical he will follow your advice in this case too.”
“Yeah I hate to break it to you,” Sam said, “But we humans aren’t always the most logical of species.” He glanced askance at Becky, who raised her eyebrows in innocence. “But!” He dusted his hands of. “Okay. I’ll try. This is insane, and possibly suicidal, but….”
Becky paused with her pen hovering and made a ‘continue’ gesture. She had already run out one of Sam’s ailing Bics and grabbed a second one.
“...hunting that ghost was the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. It was crazy, but I finally felt….right. Like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.”
“You were,” affirmed Castiel.
“And if ghosts are real……” Sam shook his head, “Why not other things? Monsters and...and…angels. And God,” he added suddenly, startled. That one he wasn’t quite ready for.
“Good,” Castiel nodded his head. “Go to Dean. I will attempt to make contact with my brother.”
“How many of you are there?” Becky asked quietly.
“What?”
“How many angels? On Earth?”
“Now?” said Castiel. “Probably hundreds. For the first time in two thousand years, Rebecca, we are walking among you. God is absent, and there is turmoil on Heaven and Earth.”
Sam swallowed hard. Becky hugged the notebook to her chest.
“Yes?” said Dean immediately at the knock on his office door. He hastily closed the window on Minesweeper. His concentration was shot. He was expecting Adler, but the knock was wrong. It was soft - almost hesitant.
“Hi,” said Sam Wesson, peering around the door.
“I didn’t…have an IT problem,” Dean said.
“I know. That’s not while I’m here.”
“Oh, God. Look, come in,” Dean hastily gestured for Sam to enter before anybody caught sight, and close the door behind him. “I told you already: no more ghosts. I’m out of that.”
“It’s not a ghost.”
Sam looked anxious. It was bizarre on a guy who was actually taller than Dean, but he managed to look like a sad puppy, and Dean had to quash the urge to say something reassuring.
“You okay?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“Yeah. No. Can I…?” Sam gestured to the empty chair.
“Oh yeah, sure.” Okay, so Dean wasn’t a total jerk. But he did not want to associate with Wesson. Wesson’s company confused him on multiple levels, from the sexual to the metaphysical, and even now Dean was repressing the urge to just - put a hand on his shoulder. God this guy was just - damn it. He busied himself with getting Sam a glass of water.
“You’re in trouble?” he guessed, handing it over.
“I think we might all be in trouble.”
“I hear that. If Roman secures the Funakoshi deal our stocks are in the toilet.”
“Dean, Roman’s a monster!” Sam blurted.
“Well, he’s a businessman,” Dean mused. “We’ve all done things that are less than upstanding in the pursuit of prof-“
“No! Not like that! I mean he’s a literal monster, as in the supernatural being kind, the kind monster that eats people. It’s called Leviathan.”
Dean sat down hard in his desk chair.
“That…eats people.”
“Yes! Most of his people are monsters too. It’s a many-headed beast. That’s what Castiel was trying to tell you. We have to stop him.”
“Castiel? You mean the crazy guy in trenchcoat-“
“He’s not crazy. He’s an angel of the Lord. I’ve been dreaming about it. About us.” Sam frowned. “That sounded less weird in my head.”
“Right.” Dean leaned forwards with his elbows on the desk and pressed his index fingers to his lips. Deep in his stomach was a butterfly - singular - a lone creature flip-flapping with nervous excitement and curiosity. Sam - Wesson - was practically vibrating, very alive and very urgent.
Dean crushed it.
“Listen,” he said. “Maybe you should take a vacation.”
“What - but - “ Sam gaped. “You saw the ghost as well as I did! You know this stuff is real.”
“I - don’t know what I saw,” Dean said carefully. “We were both stressed. Plus the first few days on the Master Cleanse really mess with a person’s blood sugar. What I do know is this-” his resolve hardened - “I need this job. I am good at this job, in an era with very few fiscal opportunities. Maybe it’s different down there in there in tech support-“ that was low, and the guilt rushed in even as he said it, the shocked disappointment in Sam’s eyes like a punch to the stomach, “- but execs can’t afford a reputation as a crazy. So if you and this - Castiel - want to play monster hunters, go ahead. Leave me out of it.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
Dean logged onto his computer and started reading.
“You’re not like this,” Sam insisted. “This is a front. I know you care - I saw it.”
“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, I have a lot to do,” Dean indicated his screen.
“This isn’t over,” Sam said as he stood up.
“It’s over,” Dean replied.
Part Two