Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (Part 2 of 3)
Title: Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Gabriel/Kali; Dean, Sam, Castiel, Nick, Gabriel, Bobby Singer, Harry Spangler, Ed Zeddmore, Kenny Spruce, Victor Henricksen, Michael, Kali, Joshua
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 23,000
Summary: When public defender Sam Winchester's new client show signs of demonic possession he calls on his brother, Dean, a reluctant member of the GhostFacers team, for help. But the brothers might have stumbled into a meltdown of celestial proportions.
Notes: Written for the 2012 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge. My grateful thanks to my betas, zsomeone and nugatorytm; and to hipokras, for a fun and creative art prompt.
Dean leaned casually against the Impala. “Hey, Cas,” he said. He looked around, as he always did, for a car. Or a bicycle. Or a hovercraft. He guessed the guy walked here? Cas had purposely asked to meet him in kind of a remote spot along a rural highway. Maybe dude was a serial murderer? Wouldn't be the craziest thing that had happened to Dean this week.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me today, Dean,” said Cas. The voice always made Dean crack a smile. Though since the encounter with the dancing ghosts, and Cas slamming him back against the wall, Dean's mind drifted to what that voice sounded like, hushed, close to his ear. He shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. This guy was a co-worker. No reason to mess things up.
“Okay, Cas, what's the big thing you gotta tell me?”
Cas nodded. He drew himself up. “Dean Winchester. Although I have presented myself to you in human form, I am not really a human.”
Dean squinted at Cas, trying to figure out the joke. If there was a joke. “Okay. I always suspected you were a man from Mars. Want me to take you to my leader?”
“What? Dean, please listen,” said Cas, who seemed absolutely and utterly serious. “I am an angel of the Lord. I am honored to reveal myself to you,” he added with a slight bow. He was silent for a moment, as if expecting something from Dean.
“What?” barked Dean.
“I said, I am an angel of the Lord.”
“Oh, blow me Cas!” said Dean. Cas looked utterly nonplussed. “Quit screwing around!”
“I am not certain how revealing myself to you is allegorical to sexual relations,” mused Cas, tilting his head like a dog asking for more treats.
“Cas…” Dean tried to control himself. “Look, you’re a nice guy, but are you off your meds or something?”
“I do not require medication, Dean. Nor do I need food nor sleep. As I told you, I am an angel.”
“No food…” Dean thought of something. “Wait! Hey, have you eaten today?” He squinted at Cas. He was a scrawny bastard, and he was looking particularly pale today.
“No. As I said, I do not require food.”
“That’s it, you’re probably just hypoglycemic or something. Come on,” he said, grabbing Cas by the arm. “I know a place. They have the best apple pie west of the Mississippi.”
“Have you actually sampled every other pie for comparison’s sake?” inquired Cas, who nevertheless obligingly got into the passenger seat and took off with Dean. They ended up in a diner located in the shadow of a water tower. Dean insisted Cas order coffee and a slice of apple pie.
“Cas, so what's this crap about being an angel?” Dean asked around a mouth full of flakey pastry.
“You do not believe me, Dean?” asked Cas, his eyes pools of sadness.
“There is no such thing as angels, Cas. I don't care what Roma Fucking Downey says.”
Castiel stared. He was rather good at staring. “Dean, I fail to understand,” he said. “You and I have encountered ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves, and other such creatures. Why can you not believe that angels too exist?”
“Aw, come on, Cas! Besides, if you think you're an angel, where are your little fluffy wings?” Dean made little flapping gestures with his hands.
“My wings are broad and powerful as one of your 747 jets,” said Cas, who sounded mildly offended.
“Wouldn't fit into the booth?” grinned Dean.
“They exist on another spiritual plane!”
“Cas, are you listening to yourself? Dude, I thought you were the one reasonable GhostFacer.”
“All right,” said Cas. He scowled and leaned forward, placing two fingers on Dean's forehead.
“What is that, a Jedi mind trick?” laughed Dean. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that he was now standing up.
And outside.
And the diner was gone.
And then Dean looked down.
“THE FUCK? Where the fuck are we?” he squealed. “How the fuck did we get here?”
“We are on top of the water tower,” sighed Cas who was standing beside him. “I conveyed us here. As I told you before, I am an angel of the Lord.”
“Cas, whatever the fuck you are, I'm not good with heights! How are we gonna get down?” asked Dean, edging back and frantically looking around.
“The same way we got up here, Dean. I will fly you.”
“You'll fly me? All right, Cas? First, that sounds kinda … kinky,” said Dean, as Cas' features screwed inward in puzzlement. “And furthermore, I am not good with flying either!” said Dean, who plonked down to sit cross-legged on the top of the tower, breathing hard.
“Dean, I am sorry,” said Cas softly, crouching down near him. “I.... I wasn't supposed to reveal myself to you at all. That is why I wanted some privacy for this conversation.”
“This is sure private,” muttered Dean.
“But I believe there is great danger, and I require your attention.”
“I'd be more attentive if I still had pie in front of me,” Dean protested.
Cas held out his hand to Dean. He was holding a slice of hot apple pie. With ice cream.
Dean momentarily forgot his fear. “Whoa, you can do that?” Cas nodded and handed over the plate. Dean glared at him. “So? Am I supposed to eat with my hands?”
Cas shook his head and handed over a fork and napkin.
“Hey, thanks,” said Dean, tucking the napkin into his collar, and then starting in on the pie.
“Now, please, Dean, listen to me! I believe your brother may be in great danger!”
Dean paused in stuffing his face. “Wait, Sammy? Are you sure.”
“Unfortunately, I am not certain, Dean.”
“Aren't angels supposed to know everything?” asked Dean, considering his fork. “What's the deal?”
“No, we are not omniscient. That is a power granted only to our Father.”
“So, what do you know?”
“The angel who is trying to possess Sam's client? I have come to believe that angel is none other than Lucifer.”
“Wait, Lucifer? You mean the devil? Horns and pointy tail and all that bit?” Dean asked, holding two index fingers up on top of his head like twin devil horns, and dripping a bit of pie on the top of the water tower.
“Yes. Lucifer. Although he does not have horns. Nor a tail.”
“But you said an angel?”
“Lucifer is a fallen angel, Dean.”
“Oh, right,” said Dean, forking up more pie. He hadn't been terribly attentive in Sunday School, as he had spent most of the time trying to look down Miss Periwinkle's blouse. “Great, my little brother is Satan's lawyer. So, what do we do?”
“I'm afraid there is little I can do,” said Cas sadly.
“What? Why not! You're an angel. Don't you have a big flaming sword you could jam up his ass?”
“Unfortunately, my orders are clear. I.... I wasn't even supposed to have revealed myself to you.”
“What were your orders?” Dean’s head cleared enough to consider things. “In fact, wait a minute, if you’re a mighty angel, why the heck are you wasting time with the GhostFacers? I mean, Ed and Harry? Come on! Don’t you need to go … I dunno … smite something? Or play the harp? Or smite something with a harp?”
Cas straightened his shoulders. “My orders arose from up high. I was to join the GhostFacers team, and then await the arrival of the Righteous Man. As foretold in the prophecy.”
“Oh. Uh-huh. Righteous Man. Who's that?”
Cas smiled shyly. “That's you, Dean.”
“WHAT?” asked Dean, spitting apple pie everywhere.
“You are the Righteous Man. As is written.”
“And what’s the Righteous Man supposed to do? And I bet it doesn’t involve eating pie and reading porn magazines.”
“You are fated to avert the apocalypse.”
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. This was getting to be too damn much. Cas was pretty cute when he tilted his head and blinked his baby blues like that, but come on. “Okay, okay, let's say I am the Righteous Man. So, what is my best angel pal supposed to do then?”
Cas paused for a moment, apparently making out who Dean’s best angel pal would be. He seemed to be pleased with the conclusion. “Um. I am supposed to … keep waiting.”
“WHAT!” Dean didn't spit pie this time, as he had stopped eating.
“And, um, I am supposed to watch you.”
“What, like when I'm in the shower?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.
Cas' face flushed cherry pie-red. “Dean. Believe me. You.... You don't want me to help you. I was supposed to intervene once before here on earth. And, to put it mildly, I messed up, very badly.”
“What happened?” asked Dean.
Cas was staring at the ground, looking crestfallen. “It was.... It was during the war. Your World War II. I was not in this vessel, I was in the guise of someone else, a Polish businessman named Vladislaus Sreginski.”
“Uh, is that a name of a crossword puzzle answer?” asked Dean.
“Anyway,” said Cas, “you can look it up. I let a lot of people....” Cas looked far away, and somehow, Dean couldn't bring himself to question him any further.
“So, in conclusion,” said Dean, “we got Satan in the House, and my friendly local angel can't do shit.”
Cas paused for a long moment, as he he were working something out in his head. He quite suddenly got a look on his face that, with anyone else, Dean would call “crafty.” “Dean I can... I am here for you, no matter what,” said Cas, looking around as if he might be overheard. “You are, after all, the Righteous Man, the one who was foretold. If you have need of me, just say my name. I will be there.”
“You mean like the Four Tops?”
Cas smiled shyly. “Castiel. Just say my name.”
“Dude! You're gonna think I'm crazy....”
Dean and Sam stared at each other for a long moment after greeting each other with the exact same words.
“Uh. Jinx?” said Dean. “What's your crazy-ass news?”
Sam sighed and sunk down into the booth opposite Dean, dropping his heavy satchel on the table. He put his head in his hands, sighing dramatically, and then looked up and waved a hand. “You first. I need my coffee.”
“Yeah, you're gonna need coffee,” said Dean, signaling the waitress.
“By the way, why didn’t you wanna meet at your favorite diner?” asked Sam. “The one with the pie?”
“Oh. Uh. Ended up sort of stiffing them last time. I kind of got abducted.”
“What?” asked Sam, running nervous fingers through his hair.
“By an angel.” The waitress thunked down two cups of coffee and both brothers jumped.
Sam leaned forward. “What angel? Anyone I know?”
Dean sipped his coffee, unprepared for a response that didn't involve heavy questioning of his sanity. “Uh, you know him. You just don't know he's an angel.”
“Who?”
“Cas.”
“Is an angel?” asked Sam, who seemed frozen, spoon hovering over his coffee.
Dean nodded. “GhostFacer Cas is really an angel named Castiel.”
“Well, okay, that makes sense,” mused Sam, who went back to stirring.
Dean screwed his face up at Sam, who seemed unperturbed. “Dude, you don't think I'm off my rocker?”
“What did he have to say? Angelically speaking?”
“You know how he said he thought your murderer was possessed by an angel?” Sam nodded. “Well, he got a name for me. Lucifer.”
Sam spat coffee across the table.
“Finally got a reaction,” said Dean, dabbing a napkin on his face. “Dude. Are you all right?”
“Man, you need to hear my weird thing then,” said Sam, who sat down his coffee, his hands trembling on the cup. “I got up at night. I told you I've been having trouble sleeping.”
“You need to pop a pill.”
“No. I don't need pills, Dean. Remember?”
Dean nodded. “Aw. That was way back in college, Sam. And you were with that tweaker, girlfriend, whatshername, Amethyst?”
“Ruby. And she wasn’t all to blame.”
“You’re better rid of her. And you’re not an addict, Sammy.”
“I have the personality. No pills. Anyway,” continued Sam, who wasn’t in the mood to bring up past disagreements, “I was in the kitchen and guess who showed up? Nick.”
“What? You sure it wasn't a dream or something?”
“No, because this is definitely not a dream,” said Sam, hauling something out of his messenger bag. He plopped a large leather bound volume on the table.
“Oh, cool,” said Dean, regarding the pentagram on the leather cover. “What is this, Ozzy Osbourne's biography or something?”
“It just appeared on my kitchen table! I looked it up on the internet. It's something called a grimoire.”
“That sounds spooky enough.”
“It's got stuff about how to raise demons!”
“And it just popped up in your house?”
“Yeah,” sighed Sam.
“Could Jess have-?” But Sam silenced Dean with a look. “What?”
“Jess hasn't been around. We're.... We're taking a break.”
“What, again?” moaned Dean. “Dude!”
“Man, I just don't wanna get into it now, okay? I've got too much else going on!”
Dean sized up his brother. He did look frazzled. And like he needed a haircut. But mostly frazzled. “So, you said Mr. Creepy popped up at your place too. Is he still there?”
“No, that was pretty brief. He didn't even say anything. I told him, 'Go away,' and he kind of popped out. Or, um, I might have screamed it. It was late.”
“What do you think we should do?” asked Dean.
“Well, I know Latin pretty well from law school, but none of this makes sense. It reads like a cookbook, only they're using stuff like wormwood and frankincense in the recipes. Maybe we could get somebody who knows more about it?” Sam proposed. Dean hefted the book. “Like, maybe one of your GhostFacer buddies?”
“Those guys can't tie their shoes in the morning,” grumbled Dean, who nonetheless took the book. “Look, I'll try, okay? We'll figure this out. Don't worry.”
“What the fuck do you idjits think you're doing?”
Dean took one look at the bearded guy, who was currently staring down both Ed and Harry, and immediately decided he liked the old son of a bitch.
Ed had asked for a “skeleton crew” (namely, he and Harry, Spruce the cameraman, and Dean) to meet him at the last minute at some abandoned property that was supposed to be harboring a particularly vengeful and (they hoped) telegenic spook: the ghost of a teenage girl. But after some B roll, and some of the usual GhostFacer fumbling, they had been interrupted not by ectoplasm, but by a human guy who seemed like a force of nature.
“You ruined the take!” squealed Ed.
“I'll ruin more than that!” the old fart hollered.
“Don't you know who we are?” snorted Harry.
The old man closed the distance between himself and Harry, going nose to nose, so close the frayed brim of his hat bumped Harry's forehead. “Yeah, I know who you clowns are. I seen you on my TV. Your idjit show is the reason I blew out my fucking screen with a shotgun!”
Harry gulped.
“Uh, you did what?” asked Ed, who had started looking nervous.
“You dumb shits! Going on television and telling any Tom, Dick or Britney Spears they can just grab some Morton's salt and go slay themselves a vampire. Do you know how many idjit's I've had to rescue recently just before they got themselves killed?”
Ed sniffed. “We always air a disclaimer not to try this at home.”
“Yeah? And how good you think that's gonna work with a bunch of drunk-off-their-ass teenagers?” asked the guy.
“Ed! Harry! We're losing the light again!” groused Spruce.
“Look, sir, we're getting a lot of money for this gig-” Ed began.
“Hunting ain't a gig, you dumb mother trucker! It's a profession. And you never take money for this! Never!”
“Guuuuys!” whined Spruce.
Ed nodded, and a chastened Harry fled the guy’s glower to come over to him. They conferred for a moment with Spruce. “Okay, look,” said Ed. “We not gonna get any more shots today. Why don't you take over from here Mr....?”
“Singer,” growled the old man. “I'm Bobby Fucking Singer, and you best not forget it.”
“Come on,” ordered Ed. “You too, Winchester.” Dean nodded, but lingered behind as Ed, Harry and Spruce fled towards their vehicles.
“Uh, Bobby was it?” Dean asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Who wants to know?” grumbled Bobby.
“My name is Dean Winchester.”
“Yeah, you with the idjit patrol, Dean Winchester?” snarled Bobby, inclining his head at the retreating GhostFacers.
“Well,” admitted Dean. “Sort of.”
“What the hell does 'sort of' mean?”
“Look,” said Dean, “this might seem kind of crazy-”
“Looking at you, I think it'll definitely be crazy, kid,” sighed Bobby, looking Dean up and down. Bobby Fucking Singer did not seem impressed.
“You said you were a professional at this?” Dean tried.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I've got a problem. A supernatural problem.”
“Oh! Supernatural! You wanna love charm for your girlfriend, boy?” grumbled Bobby, who turned and started to leave.
“No! This goes way up,” said Dean, running to intercept him. “We think we're tangling with Lucifer.”
“Lucifer, huh?”
“Yeah!”
“You one o' them, goth kids? I don't see no mascara,” scoffed Bobby.
“No....” said Dean.
“So you must be one of them heavy metal weirdos. I tell ya kid, take my advice, and quit spray-painting pentagrams and chanting for demons. You might not like what comes up.” And with that, Bobby Fucking Singer turned and stormed off.
“Shit,” muttered Dean as he saw Bobby climb into his battered old pickup truck and rumble away. “That didn't go well.” He stood and thought it over for a moment. The guy certainly seemed legit. Grouchy as all hell, but legit.
Dean nodded to himself and looked heavenwards. “Castiel? Hey, are you up there?” he asked. “I need you to come off your cloud!”
“Hello Dean.”
“Whoa!” said Dean, spinning around. “Well, that's quick service,” he added approvingly. “Have you been watching?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Okay, cool. The grumpy old guy? I want to follow him....”
When Bobby singer returned to his salvage yard, he was met by two men waiting beside a black Impala. One of them was the idiot headbanger he had just cussed out over on a job, and then there was another guy wearing a trench coat sitting on top of the car.
“Bobby,” said Dean. “I wanna introduce you to someone.”
“How the bloody hell did you kids get in here?” Bobby growled. “This is private property! I could shoot you if I had a mind to!”
“I don't think you'll have a mind to,” smiled Dean. “Bobby, this is my friend, Castiel. And he's an angel.” The guy in the coat hopped off the car and smiled blissfully at Dean when he was introduced.
“Why the hell would I wanna meet your damn boyfriend?” asked Bobby, to a very puzzled look from Castiel. “Look, I'll give you 'til the count of ten-”
“Cas,” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Water tower him.”
Cas shrugged and put two fingers on Bobby's forehead.
Dean leaned against his car and smiled smugly when Cas and Bobby blinked back into the scrap yard.
“Sooooo?” said Dean, smiling like the cat that had caught the cherub.
“Gimme a minute,” said Bobby, who was glaring at Cas. “I got a couple tests, to see exactly what kind of critter you are. You don't mind now, do you?”
Cas sighed and shook his head resignedly. In return, he got splashed with water from Bobby's flask. He blinked, shook his head, and the water disappeared.
“Okay, holy water, check,” said Bobby, who now tossed salt on Cas, who once again sighed and shook it off. “Gimme your wrist,” ordered Bobby. Cas, who seemed to know what was coming, rolled up his sleeve and gave his arm over to Bobby, who immediately slashed him with a silver knife.
“Ouch!” said Dean sympathetically. “Do you gotta do that?”
“It's all right, Dean,” said Cas. He waved his hand over the cut, and the gash disappeared.
Bobby stood back, hands on hips, and regarded Cas for a few moments, scratching his beard. He spoke to Cas, but in a strange language Dean decided was probably Enochian. Cas replied. Bobby raised his eyebrows, and they went back and forth a couple of times, culminating in Cas saying something and, Bobby roaring with laughter and slapping Cas on the back. Cas actually smiled shyly.
“What was that?” asked Dean.
“It was a joke, Dean,” explained Cas.
“Hey. Your friend is pretty damn funny!” said Bobby.
“He is?” asked Dean.
“It, uh, doesn't translate well from Enochian, I'm afraid,” Cas told Dean.
“Okay, so you got yourself a genuine angel. Now what?” asked Bobby.
“You understand, um, this is a secret?” Cas told him.
“He could get in big trouble with his bosses,” Dean explained.
“Yeah, I hate fucking bosses,” said Bobby sympathetically. “That’s why I only work for myself.”
Dean tried to summarize the last few days for Bobby, with Castiel adding occasional comments. They soon retired to Bobby's living room, which was absolutely packed with arcane literature. Dean grinned as Cas's eyes lit up, and then the angel often seemed distracted as he pottered around, trailing his long fingers along dusty book spines. Nerd angel heaven, Dean supposed. Cas had nice hands. Not that he was noticing or anything.
Dean pulled out the leather-bound volume that that shown up at his brother's residence. Bobby goggled.
“Well, why didn't you just show me this first thing, ya damn fools!” Bobby scolded.
“Uh,” said Dean.
“Can you identify it, Bobby?” asked Cas.
“Can I? This volume has been missing for centuries!”
“So it's a grimoire, or whatever the hell Sammy called it?” asked Dean.
“Kid, this ain’t just a grimoire. This here is the grimoire: the Grand Grimoire.”
“What's it supposed to be?” asked Dean.
“This is the book that supposedly had the conjurations to summon Lucifer himself,” said Bobby.
“Oh, shit,” said Dean, who exchanged a worried look with Cas.
Dean and Cas finally departed, leaving Bobby with the book, which he promised to research. They paused by the car. “You need a lift?” asked Dean. “Oh, right, you don't need a lift,” he muttered, somehow disappointed. He told himself he wanted to talk to Cas about Sam. Although, to be frank, he just wanted to talk to Cas. Period.
“You sure you’re not gonna get in trouble?” asked Dean, leaning up against the car. “I mean, telling Bobby?”
“Thank you for your concern, Dean,” said Cas sincerely “But I am sure of very little these days.” He experimentally leaned against the car as well. He was awkward, and a little too close, but Dean found he didn’t mind.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” And to that, Cas smiled a quick little smile that made Dean’s heart skip a beat or two.
“Dean, I am growing concerned,” said Cas.
“Well, Bobby seems on top of things,” said Dean.
“Nighttime is when Sam appears to be most vulnerable to visitations, isn't that correct?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.” But Cas was staring at him, as if he wanted Dean to figure something out. “Let's see. Maybe it would be better if I was to hang out with him? Tonight?” asked Dean.
“That is a good idea, Dean. And you remember...?”
“You'll come when I call?”
Cas nodded.
“Hey, this Righteous Man business rocks,” smiled Dean. So, evidently Cas was cool with the helping-but-not-really-helping thing. “I'll bring pizza,” Dean promised, getting into the car.
“As I've told you-”
“You don't need to eat. No. But you'll like pizza,” Dean promised. “Maybe we can catch some videos.” With a wave, he hopped in his car, immediately realizing that a night of pizza and videos sounded oddly like he had just made a date. Well, he thought. Oh well.
“A Satanic slumber party,” said Sam, watching as Cas painted sigils all over his living room. Dean had called the angel when they ordered the pizza, as he supposedly needed to check whether the guy was a vegetarian. Sam, who knew his brother quite well, wondered if Dean didn't have any additional motivations, at least judging from the way he and the angel stared all googly eyed at one another. Cas seemed very impressed with Dean for some reason. Maybe he was an insane angel? Or just one with really, really bad taste?
“Guess I'll never get my deposit back now,” Sam joked.
“Have some pizza!” Dean urged. “Hey, Cas! You should get a slice before it gets cold.”
The angel made a wry face, but paused in his work and curiously picked up a slice of pizza. He held it for a moment, regarding it as if it were some kind of science experiment.
“Come on. It won't bite you. As long as you bite it!” said Dean. Sam fussily handed Cas a cloth napkin, which the angel also regarded with some confusion.
“This is what my brother claims humans boil down to. Eating, drinking and.... Fornicating,” Cas concluded.
“That sums it up,” said Dean. “Wanna beer?” he offered, holding up a bottle. Cas frowned, but took it from Dean, giving it an experimental sniff.
“Tell your brother that's bullshit,” groused Sam.
“And how does your brother know, anyway, Cas?” laughed Dean. “He's another angel, right?”
Cas nodded, but then looked concerned. “Uh. He's been down here. A while.”
“Yeah?” asked Dean. “Doing what?”
“He is an, um, adult entertainment professional,” said Cas.
“What?” asked Dean, who exchanged a puzzled glance with Sam.
“I should get back to warding the house,” muttered Cas, who set down his beer and pizza and moved off.
“Hey, you didn't finish your beer!” Dean called after him.
“Dean, do you think this is really accomplishing anything, other than maybe winning an art show competition?” asked Sam.
“Sammy, you say this sucker tends to pop up during the witching hour, right?”
“He did a grand total of once. And I'm starting to think that was just my imagination.”
“But what about the book?”
“The book. Yeah,” sighed Sam.
“And....” said Dean, grinning and digging into his athletic bag. He brought out something.
“Dean, is that what I think it is?”
Dean guffawed, setting up the camera. “I ganked it when Spruce wasn't looking. It's supposed to capture spooks.”
“Lucifer isn't technically a spook.”
“He's a.... Uh. I dunno. Some five dollar word Cas probably knows. Hey, Cas!” he boomed. There was no reply. “Hey, Castiel, angel of the Lord! Get your feathery butt in here.”
“Dean!” said Sam.
Dean noticed it as well. He could see his breath.
“Oh, so you brought your big brother along tonight!” grinned Nick, who was now leaning casually against Sam's kitchen counter. A panicked Dean somehow remembered to tick on the camera.
“Will you protect little Sammy from the bad, bad monster?” Nick mocked. Sam blinked in surprise. He had never seen Nick like this. The man he knew as Nick Phosphoros was a shuffling wreck. This guy seemed … jocular.
Dean was standing. “Whatever the hell you think you are, you stay the fuck away from Sam.”
“Oh, I'm so scared! What will you do, Righteous Man? Call your little pet angel to flutter over and nibble on my ankles?”
“Cas?” asked Dean.
“Brother,” said Cas, who had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He was still clutching the cloth napkin Sam had handed him. He unfolded it on the table to reveal some kind of strange symbols, written in red ink. He slammed his hand down in the middle.
Nick had time to yelp, and then he was gone.
“We don't have much time,” said Cas, who was rolling down his sleeve.
“Dude, is this written in your blood?” asked Dean, holding up the napkin. Cas nodded. “That's pretty hard core!”
“I have banished Lucifer for a short time,” said Cas. “Sam. You need to gather your things. Despite my efforts, your residence is not safe. You need to go elsewhere, for the duration.”
“How long is 'the duration’?” asked Sam.
“Sammy, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Dean. “Come on. You can stay at my place.”
“But your place is a science experiment gone wrong!” protested Sam, wrinkling his nose. Despite this, he reluctantly went to get his suitcase. Dean grabbed the camera off the kitchen table and tossed it into his gym bag.
After a frantic round of packing, Sam and Dean had just gotten out Sam's front door with Cas and what Dean swore were way too many goddam suitcases - what was Sammy, a damn girl? - when they confronted a smirking, piggy-faced man, and two rather imposing guys at his side. They looked like bodyguards.
“Castiel? Tut tut. We need words about this!” said the little piggy man.
“Cas. Who is that douche bag?” Dean whispered to Cas.
“Zachariah,” Cas muttered. “My boss. Dean. Do as I say. Take Sam somewhere - anywhere - but here.” He started off, but Dean grabbed his arm.
“And what about you?” asked Dean.
“I'll.... I'll be in touch. Just get your brother away.”
“You busted, dude?” asked Dean.
“Just.... Just go,” urged Cas.
“Dude, what the hell is that growing in your shower?”
“I dunno,” laughed Dean as he entered his cluttered living room to find that Sam, who was sitting plopped on the couch in front of the TV, had vomited legal crap out all over the place. “Maybe I should grab one of my pipes, try to smoke it?”
“Gross, man,” sighed Sam, who already had piles of law books spread all over Dean's porn magazines on the three-legged coffee table. “And what the heck happened to this coffee table?” asked Sam.
“Here ya go,” said Dean, grabbing a stack of law books and shoving them under the legless corner.
Sam shook his head and continued writing on a yellow legal pad, big book open in his lap. “So. You hear anything from Cas?”
“No. Nothing today,” sighed Dean. There hadn't been filming with GhostFacers scheduled today, so he'd put in a full day at the garage instead. It had been wearying, but he had to admit, it was somehow relaxing to spend a day dealing with carburetors and differentials instead of freaky-ass shit.
“I just wanna know how long this is gonna last,” said Sam. “You leave me here another day, so help me, I'm gonna start cleaning.”
“No, not that,” joked Dean, who popped open a beer and thumped down on the threadbare couch next to Sam. “So, you show that video of Nick hanging out in your kitchen to Henricksen?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” sighed Sam, who was wearing sweat pants and a T shirt instead of his snappy lawyer suit.
“What do you mean? What happened?” asked Dean.
“I’m on administrative leave. Until further notice. I’m evidently, officially, the victim of stalking.”
“Oh. Henricksen explain how Nick got out of lockup and onto your kitchen table?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, that’s a very good question.” Sam shook his head. “The only reason I haven’t been reassigned from the case is there’s now not a lawyer in the department who will take it on.”
“Henricksen?”
“Including Henricksen.”
Dean grinned. He grabbed the remote control from under a law book.
“Hey, wait! I'm watching this!” protested Sam, who grabbed away the remote.
“What the hell is this?” grumbled Dean. Sam's entertainment choices were often lacking in cheerleaders and long in the “educational” bent.
“Pretty interesting, actually,” Sam told him. “It's a documentary about Vladislaus Sreginski. He was one of the 'righteous' during World War II.”
“Where have I heard that name before?” muttered Dean.
“You? No fucking clue where you woulda heard it,” chuckled Sam. “He was like a Schindler. Really weird case. Everybody says he was a complete jerk before the war, then the war came, and he rescued thousands of people. But then afterwards....”
“He went back to being an asshole?” asked Dean, who was suddenly, and weirdly, paying attention.
“Yeah, it was like he was in a fugue state or something! That's why they say he didn't get the same attention as Schindler, he made a lot of enemies after World War II ended. Even made some anti-Semitic remarks. Strange guy.”
Dean stared at the television. “That’s Cas!” he suddenly shouted.
“Uh, what? You’re calling Cas?” asked Sam.
“No! That's where I recognize the weird name. Cas told me he used this guy as his vessel during the war! But he messed up really badly somehow.”
“Huh. Well, he seemed to do ok here,” said Sam. They sat in silence for a time, the law book on Sam's lap forgotten, and stared at the History Channel, listening as the narrator raved about newly unearthed photos.
“Whoa!” said Dean, pointing to the television with his beer. “Did you see what I see?”
Sam had already clicked the remote. He wound back the show.
“There it is, there it is, hit pause!” said Dean. “No, wait. Forward. There!”
Both of them leaned forward and stared at the face of the Nazi officer. “Wow,” said Sam. “Is that…?”
“I think so. Yeah,” said Dean.
“Dean, with all respect, I shouldn't be here,” Cas apologized as he materialized near the moss-covered barbecue grill in Dean’s back yard.
“You're not supposed to help us, right?” asked Dean.
Cas gulped. “Yes, that's correct. That has been made abundantly clear,” he added, flicking his eyes upwards.
“Well, you're not helping us today. We're helping you!”
“What do you mean?” asked Cas, but Dean was already ushering the angel inside his house, carefully shutting the door behind them.
“Hey Cas!” said Sam, looking up from his laptop.
Cas looked around in confusion. He put his hands to his ears. “Something is wrong! I... I can no longer hear the host.”
“Cool, it works then,” said Dean.
“Bobby gave us some sigils to keep angels from spying on us,” Sam explained.
“Bobby did?” asked Cas. Sam and Dean nodded. “He is very clever. For a human.”
“Look, Cas, you told me during World War II you used some guy named Vladislaus Sreginski as your human ride?” asked Dean. He pointed to Sam's laptop, which had a picture of Sreginski up on the screen.
“He served as my vessel, yes,” said Cas sadly, reaching over to touch the picture. “It was.... It was my greatest failure.”
“But he saved thousands of people,” said Sam. “You saved thousands of people from the Nazi death camps.”
“Sam. Eleven million people. Eleven million souls, extinguished,” said Cas. “Jews, Romani, gays, dissidents....”
“But, you couldn't possibly save all of them,” reasoned Sam.
“I could have done better,” Cas barked at him, his eyes flashing.
“Look, Cas. Whoa, simmer down,” said Dean, holding Cas by the shoulders. “Anyway, look who we found at the concentration camp,” said Dean. “Show him, Sam.”
“These are newly unearthed photos,” said Sam. “Seem familiar?”
Cas stared. “That's....”
“Heinrich Himmler. And Zachariah,” said Sam.
“Your boss man,” said Dean.
Cas stared at the computer screen, his eyes wide. “You..... You can't be certain.”
“I was curious,” said Sam, clicking the mouse. “So I did some digging. Look at this photo from a Siberian internment camp.”
Cas blinked at the screen.
“And here's one from the genocide in Laos. Cambodia. This is from Ethiopia. Chile in 1974. Rwanda. It just goes on and on.”
Cas stared. So many mass killings. And it was the same, in every case. Many blurry photos, but all undeniably pictured the same person. Zachariah.
“Cas, dude,” said Dean. “I dunno, you ask me, if you got shit from old Zach about stuff you did as Sreginski, I don't think he was pissed that people died. I think he was pissed that you saved people.”
“From him!” chimed in Sam.
“Why would he…. I do not understand,” Cas muttered. “Dean I must…. I must go confront Zachariah with these accusations!”
“Whoa!” said Dean. “Hold on, before you flap off. Suppose you do confront Zach. What do you think will happen?”
“He will have a reasonable explanation,” said Cas confidently. He watched as Dean and Sam shared a skeptical look. “Or…. Or he will admit his perfidy!”
“Just like that?” asked Sam.
Cas sunk down on Dean’s ratty couch, looking a little lost. “What do you think I should do?” he asked the brothers. “I am a soldier, Dean. I have never excelled at bureaucratic infighting.”
“Well, it’s not every day I get asked for advice by an angel of the Lord,” mused Dean, sinking down next to Cas. “Is there anybody else you can talk to?” He glanced at Sam. “You mentioned you have a brother?”
“Gabriel!” said Cas, who perked up. “Yes, we should go seek his guidance!”
“Uh, we?” asked Dean.
Dean had managed to talk the increasingly frantic angel into driving instead of getting his ass flown all over the city. Dean had to admit flying was convenient, but it upset his stomach almost as much as flying in an airplane.
He paused outside the building, looking up at the blinking neon. “Holy Mother of God…” he began. “Cas, you weren’t lying when you said your brother works in the adult entertainment industry!”
“Why would I lie about such a thing?” asked Cas, who seemed a bit hurt at the notion.
“No, it’s just…. Not quite what I’d picture for an angel.”
“My brother has gone … a bit native over the centuries,” explained Cas, who hurried into the building as if he were a frequent visitor. Dean followed him in and through the main room, which was as you’d expect, lots of rowdy drinkers and girls writhing around on poles. Cas went through a door at the back labeled “Private booths.”
“Oh, no! No way!” said Dean who halted at the doorway to the booth. “You don’t have two dudes go into a booth together.”
“Come along, Dean. We haven’t much time,” said Cas, who gripped Dean tightly by the arm and dragged him into perdition. Once again, Dean was taken aback by how strong Cas was.
“Hey, I’m on my break!” came a voice.
“Gabriel!” said Cas. To Dean’s surprise, there was a guy behind a glass window, hanging out on a bed, eating taffy. There were candy wrappers all around him.
“Cas? You brought reinforcements?” Gabriel asked. He hopped off the bed and came up to the window. Dean noticed he was wearing the world’s worst fake mustache.
“You’re an angel?” asked Dean.
“Holy shit!” said Gabriel, tearing off the mustache. “You’re the Righteous Man! Cas, dude, you shouldn’t have brought him here.”
“Gabriel, we urgently require your assistance!” said Cas, just as the ground began shaking.
“Shit!” said Gabriel. “Did they follow you here?” The lights had started flickering, and Dean heard a distant tremble.
“Did who follow me here?” asked Cas, just as a bit of plaster from the ceiling hit him in the head.
“Cas-“ said Dean.
“Cas!” shouted Gabriel. “The back door! Run!” And then he disappeared.
Cas grabbed Dean’s arm, and began half dragging him out of the booth as the ground rocked and reeled. The lights flickered out, and then Dean noticed all was lit up by a weird glow.
“Cas, what-“
“Close your eyes, Dean!” Cas shouted as they reached the back door. Dean heard a boom as the building’s foundation cracked. And then Dean felt himself flung through the air. He landed hard on the pavement, and suddenly there was a weight on top of him.
He blacked out, maybe for a few seconds, maybe for an hour, but when he came too, he felt like he was being smothered.
“Are you injured,” Dean?” came Cas’ voice. Dean realized the weight on his back had been Cas, who was now rolling off of him. Dean took a big breath and pushed himself off the ground into a sitting position. He choked: there was a lot of dust in the air. He looked around. There were ruins surrounding him: presumably all that remained of the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique.
“What the hell was that? Was that Lucifer?”
“I don’t know, Dean,” admitted Cas.
“Where is he now?”
“Perhaps Gabriel has dealt with him. I have not sensed my brother’s presence since the explosion.”
Cas extended a hand, and Dean carefully got to his feet. He looked down at himself: everything seemed to be present and accounted for. And then he looked up at Cas, who had evidently taken the brunt of the impact: he was covered, head to toe, with dust, and was bleeding from a couple of bad cuts.
“Hey, you’re hurt,” said Dean.
“It’s not of import,” said Cas. “I will repair my vessel.” He closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate for a second, but then opened them, blinking in apparent confusion. He reached down and pulled up his shirt, and put his fingers on a deep cut in his side. He held up his hand, squinting in confusion at the blood that had seeped to his fingers. “Why didn’t that work?” he asked, more to himself than anything.
“Having trouble with the angelic batteries?” asked Dean, who suddenly had a mental picture of Cas hooked up to the Impala via jumper cables.
Cas looked around, although his eyes seemed to be out of focus. “I… I can no longer hear the angelic host.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think I have been cut off from them. Cut off from heaven’s power,” Cas whispered, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe it.
“Look,” said Dean. “I think we need to get out of here now.” Sirens had started to wail in the distance. “We’ll go back to my place, get you cleaned up, and figure this out. Come on.”
Cas nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, followed Dean to the car, shaking off plaster as he walked.
“Ow!”
“It's just iodine!” sighed Dean. “Come on,” he urged, reaching for Castiel's arm. After far too much bickering, the angel had been divested of his shirt and jacket, and now sat on Dean’s bed, holding his arm protectively over his wounded side.
“I do not like pain, Dean!” said Cas, stubbornly keeping his arm plastered to his body. “It is … unpleasant!”
“Don't be a damn baby!” Dean grumbled. He thought it over, grabbing once again unsuccessfully at Cas’ arm. “Look. Think of something else.”
“What else should I think about?” asked Cas, relaxing somewhat.
“I dunno. Hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.
Cas looked momentarily distracted, before snapping, “Dean! I am not supposed to think of things of that nature.”
“Oh, so there are hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.
“Why would you want me to think of- Ow!” Cas bellowed.
“There,” said Dean, who had many years of practice mending cuts and scrapes on unwilling individuals. “Bandage!” he ordered, holding up a dressing.
Cas glared, but this time voluntarily raised his arm so Dean could smooth the bandage over the cut in his side. “Consider yourself lucky you didn't need stitches.”
“You appear to derive some amount of enjoyment out of this,” grumbled Cas.
“Aw, I'll get you a lollipop. Okay. Now, leg!” said Dean, pointing at the cut on Cas's thigh.
Cas reluctantly scooted around on the bed.
Dean sighed dramatically. “Cas, no. You're gonna have to take off your pants.”
“What? No!” said Cas.
“Cas, TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!”
“Am I … interrupting anything?” grinned Sam from the doorway.
“Angels are pigheaded!” said Dean as he and Cas glowered at one another.
“Hey, guys, what's going on?” laughed Sam.
“We need to clean up his cut!” said Dean, pointing at Cas's leg.
“Your brother is a terrible exponent of the healing arts!” said Cas. “With…. With overtones of sadism!”
“I've never seen someone fuss so much over a fucking boo-boo,” said Dean. “What, you want me to kiss it?”
“Dean,” cautioned Sam, who caught Cas' look of utter horror. He signaled for his brother to shut the fuck up. He knelt down beside Cas, so that he was at eye level with the angel. “Cas,” he said softly. “Okay, look, I know you're upset that you've been cut off from the other angels and you're going through this. And, it sucks. What my brother is doing in his clumsy, awkward, fucked up way is trying to help you. And if you don't let Dean treat you, your leg will get infected and then they'll have to cut it off and then instead of flying you'll have to hop around and trust me, that will really suck.”
Cas peered at Sam, and then, steeling himself, nodded grimly. He got up, kicked off his shoes, and started to unzip his pants. Dust flew everywhere.
“Good!” said Dean. “And then we can get your ass cleaned up!” he continued, waving at the bathroom.
“Uh,” said Sam, who was not looking forward to that argument. “I'll go find him some clean clothes. Or whatever passes for clean in this place.”
“Just don't touch my Metallica T-shirt!” Dean hollered after him.
Sam returned from the laundry room some time later (as it took some time winnowing out his brother’s apparently elaborate system for separating clean from soiled laundry) to the sound of the shower running.
“Don't get your bandages wet!” Dean was yelling at the closed door.
Sam heard Cas mutter something, but he couldn't make it out. “I found some of your clothes. They might be a little big,” he told Dean.
“Don't tell me, tell Soapy McSoaperson,” grumbled Dean, pointing at the door.
The water shut off.
Sam went and rapped on the door. “Cas! It's Sam. I got clean clothes for you to try on!” he yelled.
“Okay, Sam!” came the answer. So Sam sauntered right into the bathroom, closing the door after him. Dean listened for a commotion, but heard nothing. Sam emerged a couple minutes later.
“Wait,” Dean whispered, “why is he okay with you but not with me?”
Sam laughed. “Maybe because I'm not always checking out his ass.”
“I wasn't checking out his ass.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “And … what if I was?” Dean added.
“He's an angel, Dean. Not a cocktail waitress!” grinned Sam.
“Look, if God didn't want me checking out his ass, why did He make it … so check out-able?” Dean asked waving his hand.
Sam was gearing up to answer this theological inquiry when the bathroom door opened and Cas emerged, looking somewhat like a drowned rat, hair dripping wet, and now wearing a loose-fitting pair of jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt.
And underneath the unbuttoned flannel, a Metallica T-shirt.
Dean flashed a look of fiery vengeance at his brother, who merely grinned. “Thank you, Sam,” Cas was saying.
“They're my clothes,” Dean rumbled.
“Thank you, Dean,” said Cas.
“Try not to bleed on them,” scolded Dean. As the opening chords of “Orion” blared from his pocket, Dean grabbed his cell phone. “Hey, Bobby, what’s up? Yeah? Okay, we’ll be there. Yeah, I’ll bring beer.” He looked at Sam and Cas. “Get your shoes on, angel. Bobby’s been able to crack that Ozzy biography book, and he says it’s interesting.”
“Who is Ozzy?” asked Cas.
“The only person Dean respects over James Hetfield,” laughed Sam. “I need to find him some clean socks in your laundry room of doom.”
“What’s wrong with my laundry room? It’s elegantly organized!” said Dean.
“Do you have Metallica socks, Dean?” inquired Cas as they made for the laundry room.
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Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Gabriel/Kali; Dean, Sam, Castiel, Nick, Gabriel, Bobby Singer, Harry Spangler, Ed Zeddmore, Kenny Spruce, Victor Henricksen, Michael, Kali, Joshua
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 23,000
Summary: When public defender Sam Winchester's new client show signs of demonic possession he calls on his brother, Dean, a reluctant member of the GhostFacers team, for help. But the brothers might have stumbled into a meltdown of celestial proportions.
Notes: Written for the 2012 Supernatural Reverse Bang Challenge. My grateful thanks to my betas, zsomeone and nugatorytm; and to hipokras, for a fun and creative art prompt.
Dean leaned casually against the Impala. “Hey, Cas,” he said. He looked around, as he always did, for a car. Or a bicycle. Or a hovercraft. He guessed the guy walked here? Cas had purposely asked to meet him in kind of a remote spot along a rural highway. Maybe dude was a serial murderer? Wouldn't be the craziest thing that had happened to Dean this week.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me today, Dean,” said Cas. The voice always made Dean crack a smile. Though since the encounter with the dancing ghosts, and Cas slamming him back against the wall, Dean's mind drifted to what that voice sounded like, hushed, close to his ear. He shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. This guy was a co-worker. No reason to mess things up.
“Okay, Cas, what's the big thing you gotta tell me?”
Cas nodded. He drew himself up. “Dean Winchester. Although I have presented myself to you in human form, I am not really a human.”
Dean squinted at Cas, trying to figure out the joke. If there was a joke. “Okay. I always suspected you were a man from Mars. Want me to take you to my leader?”
“What? Dean, please listen,” said Cas, who seemed absolutely and utterly serious. “I am an angel of the Lord. I am honored to reveal myself to you,” he added with a slight bow. He was silent for a moment, as if expecting something from Dean.
“What?” barked Dean.
“I said, I am an angel of the Lord.”
“Oh, blow me Cas!” said Dean. Cas looked utterly nonplussed. “Quit screwing around!”
“I am not certain how revealing myself to you is allegorical to sexual relations,” mused Cas, tilting his head like a dog asking for more treats.
“Cas…” Dean tried to control himself. “Look, you’re a nice guy, but are you off your meds or something?”
“I do not require medication, Dean. Nor do I need food nor sleep. As I told you, I am an angel.”
“No food…” Dean thought of something. “Wait! Hey, have you eaten today?” He squinted at Cas. He was a scrawny bastard, and he was looking particularly pale today.
“No. As I said, I do not require food.”
“That’s it, you’re probably just hypoglycemic or something. Come on,” he said, grabbing Cas by the arm. “I know a place. They have the best apple pie west of the Mississippi.”
“Have you actually sampled every other pie for comparison’s sake?” inquired Cas, who nevertheless obligingly got into the passenger seat and took off with Dean. They ended up in a diner located in the shadow of a water tower. Dean insisted Cas order coffee and a slice of apple pie.
“Cas, so what's this crap about being an angel?” Dean asked around a mouth full of flakey pastry.
“You do not believe me, Dean?” asked Cas, his eyes pools of sadness.
“There is no such thing as angels, Cas. I don't care what Roma Fucking Downey says.”
Castiel stared. He was rather good at staring. “Dean, I fail to understand,” he said. “You and I have encountered ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves, and other such creatures. Why can you not believe that angels too exist?”
“Aw, come on, Cas! Besides, if you think you're an angel, where are your little fluffy wings?” Dean made little flapping gestures with his hands.
“My wings are broad and powerful as one of your 747 jets,” said Cas, who sounded mildly offended.
“Wouldn't fit into the booth?” grinned Dean.
“They exist on another spiritual plane!”
“Cas, are you listening to yourself? Dude, I thought you were the one reasonable GhostFacer.”
“All right,” said Cas. He scowled and leaned forward, placing two fingers on Dean's forehead.
“What is that, a Jedi mind trick?” laughed Dean. Dean noticed with some puzzlement that he was now standing up.
And outside.
And the diner was gone.
And then Dean looked down.
“THE FUCK? Where the fuck are we?” he squealed. “How the fuck did we get here?”
“We are on top of the water tower,” sighed Cas who was standing beside him. “I conveyed us here. As I told you before, I am an angel of the Lord.”
“Cas, whatever the fuck you are, I'm not good with heights! How are we gonna get down?” asked Dean, edging back and frantically looking around.
“The same way we got up here, Dean. I will fly you.”
“You'll fly me? All right, Cas? First, that sounds kinda … kinky,” said Dean, as Cas' features screwed inward in puzzlement. “And furthermore, I am not good with flying either!” said Dean, who plonked down to sit cross-legged on the top of the tower, breathing hard.
“Dean, I am sorry,” said Cas softly, crouching down near him. “I.... I wasn't supposed to reveal myself to you at all. That is why I wanted some privacy for this conversation.”
“This is sure private,” muttered Dean.
“But I believe there is great danger, and I require your attention.”
“I'd be more attentive if I still had pie in front of me,” Dean protested.
Cas held out his hand to Dean. He was holding a slice of hot apple pie. With ice cream.
Dean momentarily forgot his fear. “Whoa, you can do that?” Cas nodded and handed over the plate. Dean glared at him. “So? Am I supposed to eat with my hands?”
Cas shook his head and handed over a fork and napkin.
“Hey, thanks,” said Dean, tucking the napkin into his collar, and then starting in on the pie.
“Now, please, Dean, listen to me! I believe your brother may be in great danger!”
Dean paused in stuffing his face. “Wait, Sammy? Are you sure.”
“Unfortunately, I am not certain, Dean.”
“Aren't angels supposed to know everything?” asked Dean, considering his fork. “What's the deal?”
“No, we are not omniscient. That is a power granted only to our Father.”
“So, what do you know?”
“The angel who is trying to possess Sam's client? I have come to believe that angel is none other than Lucifer.”
“Wait, Lucifer? You mean the devil? Horns and pointy tail and all that bit?” Dean asked, holding two index fingers up on top of his head like twin devil horns, and dripping a bit of pie on the top of the water tower.
“Yes. Lucifer. Although he does not have horns. Nor a tail.”
“But you said an angel?”
“Lucifer is a fallen angel, Dean.”
“Oh, right,” said Dean, forking up more pie. He hadn't been terribly attentive in Sunday School, as he had spent most of the time trying to look down Miss Periwinkle's blouse. “Great, my little brother is Satan's lawyer. So, what do we do?”
“I'm afraid there is little I can do,” said Cas sadly.
“What? Why not! You're an angel. Don't you have a big flaming sword you could jam up his ass?”
“Unfortunately, my orders are clear. I.... I wasn't even supposed to have revealed myself to you.”
“What were your orders?” Dean’s head cleared enough to consider things. “In fact, wait a minute, if you’re a mighty angel, why the heck are you wasting time with the GhostFacers? I mean, Ed and Harry? Come on! Don’t you need to go … I dunno … smite something? Or play the harp? Or smite something with a harp?”
Cas straightened his shoulders. “My orders arose from up high. I was to join the GhostFacers team, and then await the arrival of the Righteous Man. As foretold in the prophecy.”
“Oh. Uh-huh. Righteous Man. Who's that?”
Cas smiled shyly. “That's you, Dean.”
“WHAT?” asked Dean, spitting apple pie everywhere.
“You are the Righteous Man. As is written.”
“And what’s the Righteous Man supposed to do? And I bet it doesn’t involve eating pie and reading porn magazines.”
“You are fated to avert the apocalypse.”
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. This was getting to be too damn much. Cas was pretty cute when he tilted his head and blinked his baby blues like that, but come on. “Okay, okay, let's say I am the Righteous Man. So, what is my best angel pal supposed to do then?”
Cas paused for a moment, apparently making out who Dean’s best angel pal would be. He seemed to be pleased with the conclusion. “Um. I am supposed to … keep waiting.”
“WHAT!” Dean didn't spit pie this time, as he had stopped eating.
“And, um, I am supposed to watch you.”
“What, like when I'm in the shower?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.
Cas' face flushed cherry pie-red. “Dean. Believe me. You.... You don't want me to help you. I was supposed to intervene once before here on earth. And, to put it mildly, I messed up, very badly.”
“What happened?” asked Dean.
Cas was staring at the ground, looking crestfallen. “It was.... It was during the war. Your World War II. I was not in this vessel, I was in the guise of someone else, a Polish businessman named Vladislaus Sreginski.”
“Uh, is that a name of a crossword puzzle answer?” asked Dean.
“Anyway,” said Cas, “you can look it up. I let a lot of people....” Cas looked far away, and somehow, Dean couldn't bring himself to question him any further.
“So, in conclusion,” said Dean, “we got Satan in the House, and my friendly local angel can't do shit.”
Cas paused for a long moment, as he he were working something out in his head. He quite suddenly got a look on his face that, with anyone else, Dean would call “crafty.” “Dean I can... I am here for you, no matter what,” said Cas, looking around as if he might be overheard. “You are, after all, the Righteous Man, the one who was foretold. If you have need of me, just say my name. I will be there.”
“You mean like the Four Tops?”
Cas smiled shyly. “Castiel. Just say my name.”
“Dude! You're gonna think I'm crazy....”
Dean and Sam stared at each other for a long moment after greeting each other with the exact same words.
“Uh. Jinx?” said Dean. “What's your crazy-ass news?”
Sam sighed and sunk down into the booth opposite Dean, dropping his heavy satchel on the table. He put his head in his hands, sighing dramatically, and then looked up and waved a hand. “You first. I need my coffee.”
“Yeah, you're gonna need coffee,” said Dean, signaling the waitress.
“By the way, why didn’t you wanna meet at your favorite diner?” asked Sam. “The one with the pie?”
“Oh. Uh. Ended up sort of stiffing them last time. I kind of got abducted.”
“What?” asked Sam, running nervous fingers through his hair.
“By an angel.” The waitress thunked down two cups of coffee and both brothers jumped.
Sam leaned forward. “What angel? Anyone I know?”
Dean sipped his coffee, unprepared for a response that didn't involve heavy questioning of his sanity. “Uh, you know him. You just don't know he's an angel.”
“Who?”
“Cas.”
“Is an angel?” asked Sam, who seemed frozen, spoon hovering over his coffee.
Dean nodded. “GhostFacer Cas is really an angel named Castiel.”
“Well, okay, that makes sense,” mused Sam, who went back to stirring.
Dean screwed his face up at Sam, who seemed unperturbed. “Dude, you don't think I'm off my rocker?”
“What did he have to say? Angelically speaking?”
“You know how he said he thought your murderer was possessed by an angel?” Sam nodded. “Well, he got a name for me. Lucifer.”
Sam spat coffee across the table.
“Finally got a reaction,” said Dean, dabbing a napkin on his face. “Dude. Are you all right?”
“Man, you need to hear my weird thing then,” said Sam, who sat down his coffee, his hands trembling on the cup. “I got up at night. I told you I've been having trouble sleeping.”
“You need to pop a pill.”
“No. I don't need pills, Dean. Remember?”
Dean nodded. “Aw. That was way back in college, Sam. And you were with that tweaker, girlfriend, whatshername, Amethyst?”
“Ruby. And she wasn’t all to blame.”
“You’re better rid of her. And you’re not an addict, Sammy.”
“I have the personality. No pills. Anyway,” continued Sam, who wasn’t in the mood to bring up past disagreements, “I was in the kitchen and guess who showed up? Nick.”
“What? You sure it wasn't a dream or something?”
“No, because this is definitely not a dream,” said Sam, hauling something out of his messenger bag. He plopped a large leather bound volume on the table.
“Oh, cool,” said Dean, regarding the pentagram on the leather cover. “What is this, Ozzy Osbourne's biography or something?”
“It just appeared on my kitchen table! I looked it up on the internet. It's something called a grimoire.”
“That sounds spooky enough.”
“It's got stuff about how to raise demons!”
“And it just popped up in your house?”
“Yeah,” sighed Sam.
“Could Jess have-?” But Sam silenced Dean with a look. “What?”
“Jess hasn't been around. We're.... We're taking a break.”
“What, again?” moaned Dean. “Dude!”
“Man, I just don't wanna get into it now, okay? I've got too much else going on!”
Dean sized up his brother. He did look frazzled. And like he needed a haircut. But mostly frazzled. “So, you said Mr. Creepy popped up at your place too. Is he still there?”
“No, that was pretty brief. He didn't even say anything. I told him, 'Go away,' and he kind of popped out. Or, um, I might have screamed it. It was late.”
“What do you think we should do?” asked Dean.
“Well, I know Latin pretty well from law school, but none of this makes sense. It reads like a cookbook, only they're using stuff like wormwood and frankincense in the recipes. Maybe we could get somebody who knows more about it?” Sam proposed. Dean hefted the book. “Like, maybe one of your GhostFacer buddies?”
“Those guys can't tie their shoes in the morning,” grumbled Dean, who nonetheless took the book. “Look, I'll try, okay? We'll figure this out. Don't worry.”
“What the fuck do you idjits think you're doing?”
Dean took one look at the bearded guy, who was currently staring down both Ed and Harry, and immediately decided he liked the old son of a bitch.
Ed had asked for a “skeleton crew” (namely, he and Harry, Spruce the cameraman, and Dean) to meet him at the last minute at some abandoned property that was supposed to be harboring a particularly vengeful and (they hoped) telegenic spook: the ghost of a teenage girl. But after some B roll, and some of the usual GhostFacer fumbling, they had been interrupted not by ectoplasm, but by a human guy who seemed like a force of nature.
“You ruined the take!” squealed Ed.
“I'll ruin more than that!” the old fart hollered.
“Don't you know who we are?” snorted Harry.
The old man closed the distance between himself and Harry, going nose to nose, so close the frayed brim of his hat bumped Harry's forehead. “Yeah, I know who you clowns are. I seen you on my TV. Your idjit show is the reason I blew out my fucking screen with a shotgun!”
Harry gulped.
“Uh, you did what?” asked Ed, who had started looking nervous.
“You dumb shits! Going on television and telling any Tom, Dick or Britney Spears they can just grab some Morton's salt and go slay themselves a vampire. Do you know how many idjit's I've had to rescue recently just before they got themselves killed?”
Ed sniffed. “We always air a disclaimer not to try this at home.”
“Yeah? And how good you think that's gonna work with a bunch of drunk-off-their-ass teenagers?” asked the guy.
“Ed! Harry! We're losing the light again!” groused Spruce.
“Look, sir, we're getting a lot of money for this gig-” Ed began.
“Hunting ain't a gig, you dumb mother trucker! It's a profession. And you never take money for this! Never!”
“Guuuuys!” whined Spruce.
Ed nodded, and a chastened Harry fled the guy’s glower to come over to him. They conferred for a moment with Spruce. “Okay, look,” said Ed. “We not gonna get any more shots today. Why don't you take over from here Mr....?”
“Singer,” growled the old man. “I'm Bobby Fucking Singer, and you best not forget it.”
“Come on,” ordered Ed. “You too, Winchester.” Dean nodded, but lingered behind as Ed, Harry and Spruce fled towards their vehicles.
“Uh, Bobby was it?” Dean asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Who wants to know?” grumbled Bobby.
“My name is Dean Winchester.”
“Yeah, you with the idjit patrol, Dean Winchester?” snarled Bobby, inclining his head at the retreating GhostFacers.
“Well,” admitted Dean. “Sort of.”
“What the hell does 'sort of' mean?”
“Look,” said Dean, “this might seem kind of crazy-”
“Looking at you, I think it'll definitely be crazy, kid,” sighed Bobby, looking Dean up and down. Bobby Fucking Singer did not seem impressed.
“You said you were a professional at this?” Dean tried.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I've got a problem. A supernatural problem.”
“Oh! Supernatural! You wanna love charm for your girlfriend, boy?” grumbled Bobby, who turned and started to leave.
“No! This goes way up,” said Dean, running to intercept him. “We think we're tangling with Lucifer.”
“Lucifer, huh?”
“Yeah!”
“You one o' them, goth kids? I don't see no mascara,” scoffed Bobby.
“No....” said Dean.
“So you must be one of them heavy metal weirdos. I tell ya kid, take my advice, and quit spray-painting pentagrams and chanting for demons. You might not like what comes up.” And with that, Bobby Fucking Singer turned and stormed off.
“Shit,” muttered Dean as he saw Bobby climb into his battered old pickup truck and rumble away. “That didn't go well.” He stood and thought it over for a moment. The guy certainly seemed legit. Grouchy as all hell, but legit.
Dean nodded to himself and looked heavenwards. “Castiel? Hey, are you up there?” he asked. “I need you to come off your cloud!”
“Hello Dean.”
“Whoa!” said Dean, spinning around. “Well, that's quick service,” he added approvingly. “Have you been watching?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Okay, cool. The grumpy old guy? I want to follow him....”
When Bobby singer returned to his salvage yard, he was met by two men waiting beside a black Impala. One of them was the idiot headbanger he had just cussed out over on a job, and then there was another guy wearing a trench coat sitting on top of the car.
“Bobby,” said Dean. “I wanna introduce you to someone.”
“How the bloody hell did you kids get in here?” Bobby growled. “This is private property! I could shoot you if I had a mind to!”
“I don't think you'll have a mind to,” smiled Dean. “Bobby, this is my friend, Castiel. And he's an angel.” The guy in the coat hopped off the car and smiled blissfully at Dean when he was introduced.
“Why the hell would I wanna meet your damn boyfriend?” asked Bobby, to a very puzzled look from Castiel. “Look, I'll give you 'til the count of ten-”
“Cas,” said Dean. Cas nodded. “Water tower him.”
Cas shrugged and put two fingers on Bobby's forehead.
Dean leaned against his car and smiled smugly when Cas and Bobby blinked back into the scrap yard.
“Sooooo?” said Dean, smiling like the cat that had caught the cherub.
“Gimme a minute,” said Bobby, who was glaring at Cas. “I got a couple tests, to see exactly what kind of critter you are. You don't mind now, do you?”
Cas sighed and shook his head resignedly. In return, he got splashed with water from Bobby's flask. He blinked, shook his head, and the water disappeared.
“Okay, holy water, check,” said Bobby, who now tossed salt on Cas, who once again sighed and shook it off. “Gimme your wrist,” ordered Bobby. Cas, who seemed to know what was coming, rolled up his sleeve and gave his arm over to Bobby, who immediately slashed him with a silver knife.
“Ouch!” said Dean sympathetically. “Do you gotta do that?”
“It's all right, Dean,” said Cas. He waved his hand over the cut, and the gash disappeared.
Bobby stood back, hands on hips, and regarded Cas for a few moments, scratching his beard. He spoke to Cas, but in a strange language Dean decided was probably Enochian. Cas replied. Bobby raised his eyebrows, and they went back and forth a couple of times, culminating in Cas saying something and, Bobby roaring with laughter and slapping Cas on the back. Cas actually smiled shyly.
“What was that?” asked Dean.
“It was a joke, Dean,” explained Cas.
“Hey. Your friend is pretty damn funny!” said Bobby.
“He is?” asked Dean.
“It, uh, doesn't translate well from Enochian, I'm afraid,” Cas told Dean.
“Okay, so you got yourself a genuine angel. Now what?” asked Bobby.
“You understand, um, this is a secret?” Cas told him.
“He could get in big trouble with his bosses,” Dean explained.
“Yeah, I hate fucking bosses,” said Bobby sympathetically. “That’s why I only work for myself.”
Dean tried to summarize the last few days for Bobby, with Castiel adding occasional comments. They soon retired to Bobby's living room, which was absolutely packed with arcane literature. Dean grinned as Cas's eyes lit up, and then the angel often seemed distracted as he pottered around, trailing his long fingers along dusty book spines. Nerd angel heaven, Dean supposed. Cas had nice hands. Not that he was noticing or anything.
Dean pulled out the leather-bound volume that that shown up at his brother's residence. Bobby goggled.
“Well, why didn't you just show me this first thing, ya damn fools!” Bobby scolded.
“Uh,” said Dean.
“Can you identify it, Bobby?” asked Cas.
“Can I? This volume has been missing for centuries!”
“So it's a grimoire, or whatever the hell Sammy called it?” asked Dean.
“Kid, this ain’t just a grimoire. This here is the grimoire: the Grand Grimoire.”
“What's it supposed to be?” asked Dean.
“This is the book that supposedly had the conjurations to summon Lucifer himself,” said Bobby.
“Oh, shit,” said Dean, who exchanged a worried look with Cas.
Dean and Cas finally departed, leaving Bobby with the book, which he promised to research. They paused by the car. “You need a lift?” asked Dean. “Oh, right, you don't need a lift,” he muttered, somehow disappointed. He told himself he wanted to talk to Cas about Sam. Although, to be frank, he just wanted to talk to Cas. Period.
“You sure you’re not gonna get in trouble?” asked Dean, leaning up against the car. “I mean, telling Bobby?”
“Thank you for your concern, Dean,” said Cas sincerely “But I am sure of very little these days.” He experimentally leaned against the car as well. He was awkward, and a little too close, but Dean found he didn’t mind.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” And to that, Cas smiled a quick little smile that made Dean’s heart skip a beat or two.
“Dean, I am growing concerned,” said Cas.
“Well, Bobby seems on top of things,” said Dean.
“Nighttime is when Sam appears to be most vulnerable to visitations, isn't that correct?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah.” But Cas was staring at him, as if he wanted Dean to figure something out. “Let's see. Maybe it would be better if I was to hang out with him? Tonight?” asked Dean.
“That is a good idea, Dean. And you remember...?”
“You'll come when I call?”
Cas nodded.
“Hey, this Righteous Man business rocks,” smiled Dean. So, evidently Cas was cool with the helping-but-not-really-helping thing. “I'll bring pizza,” Dean promised, getting into the car.
“As I've told you-”
“You don't need to eat. No. But you'll like pizza,” Dean promised. “Maybe we can catch some videos.” With a wave, he hopped in his car, immediately realizing that a night of pizza and videos sounded oddly like he had just made a date. Well, he thought. Oh well.
“A Satanic slumber party,” said Sam, watching as Cas painted sigils all over his living room. Dean had called the angel when they ordered the pizza, as he supposedly needed to check whether the guy was a vegetarian. Sam, who knew his brother quite well, wondered if Dean didn't have any additional motivations, at least judging from the way he and the angel stared all googly eyed at one another. Cas seemed very impressed with Dean for some reason. Maybe he was an insane angel? Or just one with really, really bad taste?
“Guess I'll never get my deposit back now,” Sam joked.
“Have some pizza!” Dean urged. “Hey, Cas! You should get a slice before it gets cold.”
The angel made a wry face, but paused in his work and curiously picked up a slice of pizza. He held it for a moment, regarding it as if it were some kind of science experiment.
“Come on. It won't bite you. As long as you bite it!” said Dean. Sam fussily handed Cas a cloth napkin, which the angel also regarded with some confusion.
“This is what my brother claims humans boil down to. Eating, drinking and.... Fornicating,” Cas concluded.
“That sums it up,” said Dean. “Wanna beer?” he offered, holding up a bottle. Cas frowned, but took it from Dean, giving it an experimental sniff.
“Tell your brother that's bullshit,” groused Sam.
“And how does your brother know, anyway, Cas?” laughed Dean. “He's another angel, right?”
Cas nodded, but then looked concerned. “Uh. He's been down here. A while.”
“Yeah?” asked Dean. “Doing what?”
“He is an, um, adult entertainment professional,” said Cas.
“What?” asked Dean, who exchanged a puzzled glance with Sam.
“I should get back to warding the house,” muttered Cas, who set down his beer and pizza and moved off.
“Hey, you didn't finish your beer!” Dean called after him.
“Dean, do you think this is really accomplishing anything, other than maybe winning an art show competition?” asked Sam.
“Sammy, you say this sucker tends to pop up during the witching hour, right?”
“He did a grand total of once. And I'm starting to think that was just my imagination.”
“But what about the book?”
“The book. Yeah,” sighed Sam.
“And....” said Dean, grinning and digging into his athletic bag. He brought out something.
“Dean, is that what I think it is?”
Dean guffawed, setting up the camera. “I ganked it when Spruce wasn't looking. It's supposed to capture spooks.”
“Lucifer isn't technically a spook.”
“He's a.... Uh. I dunno. Some five dollar word Cas probably knows. Hey, Cas!” he boomed. There was no reply. “Hey, Castiel, angel of the Lord! Get your feathery butt in here.”
“Dean!” said Sam.
Dean noticed it as well. He could see his breath.
“Oh, so you brought your big brother along tonight!” grinned Nick, who was now leaning casually against Sam's kitchen counter. A panicked Dean somehow remembered to tick on the camera.
“Will you protect little Sammy from the bad, bad monster?” Nick mocked. Sam blinked in surprise. He had never seen Nick like this. The man he knew as Nick Phosphoros was a shuffling wreck. This guy seemed … jocular.
Dean was standing. “Whatever the hell you think you are, you stay the fuck away from Sam.”
“Oh, I'm so scared! What will you do, Righteous Man? Call your little pet angel to flutter over and nibble on my ankles?”
“Cas?” asked Dean.
“Brother,” said Cas, who had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He was still clutching the cloth napkin Sam had handed him. He unfolded it on the table to reveal some kind of strange symbols, written in red ink. He slammed his hand down in the middle.
Nick had time to yelp, and then he was gone.
“We don't have much time,” said Cas, who was rolling down his sleeve.
“Dude, is this written in your blood?” asked Dean, holding up the napkin. Cas nodded. “That's pretty hard core!”
“I have banished Lucifer for a short time,” said Cas. “Sam. You need to gather your things. Despite my efforts, your residence is not safe. You need to go elsewhere, for the duration.”
“How long is 'the duration’?” asked Sam.
“Sammy, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Dean. “Come on. You can stay at my place.”
“But your place is a science experiment gone wrong!” protested Sam, wrinkling his nose. Despite this, he reluctantly went to get his suitcase. Dean grabbed the camera off the kitchen table and tossed it into his gym bag.
After a frantic round of packing, Sam and Dean had just gotten out Sam's front door with Cas and what Dean swore were way too many goddam suitcases - what was Sammy, a damn girl? - when they confronted a smirking, piggy-faced man, and two rather imposing guys at his side. They looked like bodyguards.
“Castiel? Tut tut. We need words about this!” said the little piggy man.
“Cas. Who is that douche bag?” Dean whispered to Cas.
“Zachariah,” Cas muttered. “My boss. Dean. Do as I say. Take Sam somewhere - anywhere - but here.” He started off, but Dean grabbed his arm.
“And what about you?” asked Dean.
“I'll.... I'll be in touch. Just get your brother away.”
“You busted, dude?” asked Dean.
“Just.... Just go,” urged Cas.
“Dude, what the hell is that growing in your shower?”
“I dunno,” laughed Dean as he entered his cluttered living room to find that Sam, who was sitting plopped on the couch in front of the TV, had vomited legal crap out all over the place. “Maybe I should grab one of my pipes, try to smoke it?”
“Gross, man,” sighed Sam, who already had piles of law books spread all over Dean's porn magazines on the three-legged coffee table. “And what the heck happened to this coffee table?” asked Sam.
“Here ya go,” said Dean, grabbing a stack of law books and shoving them under the legless corner.
Sam shook his head and continued writing on a yellow legal pad, big book open in his lap. “So. You hear anything from Cas?”
“No. Nothing today,” sighed Dean. There hadn't been filming with GhostFacers scheduled today, so he'd put in a full day at the garage instead. It had been wearying, but he had to admit, it was somehow relaxing to spend a day dealing with carburetors and differentials instead of freaky-ass shit.
“I just wanna know how long this is gonna last,” said Sam. “You leave me here another day, so help me, I'm gonna start cleaning.”
“No, not that,” joked Dean, who popped open a beer and thumped down on the threadbare couch next to Sam. “So, you show that video of Nick hanging out in your kitchen to Henricksen?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” sighed Sam, who was wearing sweat pants and a T shirt instead of his snappy lawyer suit.
“What do you mean? What happened?” asked Dean.
“I’m on administrative leave. Until further notice. I’m evidently, officially, the victim of stalking.”
“Oh. Henricksen explain how Nick got out of lockup and onto your kitchen table?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, that’s a very good question.” Sam shook his head. “The only reason I haven’t been reassigned from the case is there’s now not a lawyer in the department who will take it on.”
“Henricksen?”
“Including Henricksen.”
Dean grinned. He grabbed the remote control from under a law book.
“Hey, wait! I'm watching this!” protested Sam, who grabbed away the remote.
“What the hell is this?” grumbled Dean. Sam's entertainment choices were often lacking in cheerleaders and long in the “educational” bent.
“Pretty interesting, actually,” Sam told him. “It's a documentary about Vladislaus Sreginski. He was one of the 'righteous' during World War II.”
“Where have I heard that name before?” muttered Dean.
“You? No fucking clue where you woulda heard it,” chuckled Sam. “He was like a Schindler. Really weird case. Everybody says he was a complete jerk before the war, then the war came, and he rescued thousands of people. But then afterwards....”
“He went back to being an asshole?” asked Dean, who was suddenly, and weirdly, paying attention.
“Yeah, it was like he was in a fugue state or something! That's why they say he didn't get the same attention as Schindler, he made a lot of enemies after World War II ended. Even made some anti-Semitic remarks. Strange guy.”
Dean stared at the television. “That’s Cas!” he suddenly shouted.
“Uh, what? You’re calling Cas?” asked Sam.
“No! That's where I recognize the weird name. Cas told me he used this guy as his vessel during the war! But he messed up really badly somehow.”
“Huh. Well, he seemed to do ok here,” said Sam. They sat in silence for a time, the law book on Sam's lap forgotten, and stared at the History Channel, listening as the narrator raved about newly unearthed photos.
“Whoa!” said Dean, pointing to the television with his beer. “Did you see what I see?”
Sam had already clicked the remote. He wound back the show.
“There it is, there it is, hit pause!” said Dean. “No, wait. Forward. There!”
Both of them leaned forward and stared at the face of the Nazi officer. “Wow,” said Sam. “Is that…?”
“I think so. Yeah,” said Dean.
“Dean, with all respect, I shouldn't be here,” Cas apologized as he materialized near the moss-covered barbecue grill in Dean’s back yard.
“You're not supposed to help us, right?” asked Dean.
Cas gulped. “Yes, that's correct. That has been made abundantly clear,” he added, flicking his eyes upwards.
“Well, you're not helping us today. We're helping you!”
“What do you mean?” asked Cas, but Dean was already ushering the angel inside his house, carefully shutting the door behind them.
“Hey Cas!” said Sam, looking up from his laptop.
Cas looked around in confusion. He put his hands to his ears. “Something is wrong! I... I can no longer hear the host.”
“Cool, it works then,” said Dean.
“Bobby gave us some sigils to keep angels from spying on us,” Sam explained.
“Bobby did?” asked Cas. Sam and Dean nodded. “He is very clever. For a human.”
“Look, Cas, you told me during World War II you used some guy named Vladislaus Sreginski as your human ride?” asked Dean. He pointed to Sam's laptop, which had a picture of Sreginski up on the screen.
“He served as my vessel, yes,” said Cas sadly, reaching over to touch the picture. “It was.... It was my greatest failure.”
“But he saved thousands of people,” said Sam. “You saved thousands of people from the Nazi death camps.”
“Sam. Eleven million people. Eleven million souls, extinguished,” said Cas. “Jews, Romani, gays, dissidents....”
“But, you couldn't possibly save all of them,” reasoned Sam.
“I could have done better,” Cas barked at him, his eyes flashing.
“Look, Cas. Whoa, simmer down,” said Dean, holding Cas by the shoulders. “Anyway, look who we found at the concentration camp,” said Dean. “Show him, Sam.”
“These are newly unearthed photos,” said Sam. “Seem familiar?”
Cas stared. “That's....”
“Heinrich Himmler. And Zachariah,” said Sam.
“Your boss man,” said Dean.
Cas stared at the computer screen, his eyes wide. “You..... You can't be certain.”
“I was curious,” said Sam, clicking the mouse. “So I did some digging. Look at this photo from a Siberian internment camp.”
Cas blinked at the screen.
“And here's one from the genocide in Laos. Cambodia. This is from Ethiopia. Chile in 1974. Rwanda. It just goes on and on.”
Cas stared. So many mass killings. And it was the same, in every case. Many blurry photos, but all undeniably pictured the same person. Zachariah.
“Cas, dude,” said Dean. “I dunno, you ask me, if you got shit from old Zach about stuff you did as Sreginski, I don't think he was pissed that people died. I think he was pissed that you saved people.”
“From him!” chimed in Sam.
“Why would he…. I do not understand,” Cas muttered. “Dean I must…. I must go confront Zachariah with these accusations!”
“Whoa!” said Dean. “Hold on, before you flap off. Suppose you do confront Zach. What do you think will happen?”
“He will have a reasonable explanation,” said Cas confidently. He watched as Dean and Sam shared a skeptical look. “Or…. Or he will admit his perfidy!”
“Just like that?” asked Sam.
Cas sunk down on Dean’s ratty couch, looking a little lost. “What do you think I should do?” he asked the brothers. “I am a soldier, Dean. I have never excelled at bureaucratic infighting.”
“Well, it’s not every day I get asked for advice by an angel of the Lord,” mused Dean, sinking down next to Cas. “Is there anybody else you can talk to?” He glanced at Sam. “You mentioned you have a brother?”
“Gabriel!” said Cas, who perked up. “Yes, we should go seek his guidance!”
“Uh, we?” asked Dean.
Dean had managed to talk the increasingly frantic angel into driving instead of getting his ass flown all over the city. Dean had to admit flying was convenient, but it upset his stomach almost as much as flying in an airplane.
He paused outside the building, looking up at the blinking neon. “Holy Mother of God…” he began. “Cas, you weren’t lying when you said your brother works in the adult entertainment industry!”
“Why would I lie about such a thing?” asked Cas, who seemed a bit hurt at the notion.
“No, it’s just…. Not quite what I’d picture for an angel.”
“My brother has gone … a bit native over the centuries,” explained Cas, who hurried into the building as if he were a frequent visitor. Dean followed him in and through the main room, which was as you’d expect, lots of rowdy drinkers and girls writhing around on poles. Cas went through a door at the back labeled “Private booths.”
“Oh, no! No way!” said Dean who halted at the doorway to the booth. “You don’t have two dudes go into a booth together.”
“Come along, Dean. We haven’t much time,” said Cas, who gripped Dean tightly by the arm and dragged him into perdition. Once again, Dean was taken aback by how strong Cas was.
“Hey, I’m on my break!” came a voice.
“Gabriel!” said Cas. To Dean’s surprise, there was a guy behind a glass window, hanging out on a bed, eating taffy. There were candy wrappers all around him.
“Cas? You brought reinforcements?” Gabriel asked. He hopped off the bed and came up to the window. Dean noticed he was wearing the world’s worst fake mustache.
“You’re an angel?” asked Dean.
“Holy shit!” said Gabriel, tearing off the mustache. “You’re the Righteous Man! Cas, dude, you shouldn’t have brought him here.”
“Gabriel, we urgently require your assistance!” said Cas, just as the ground began shaking.
“Shit!” said Gabriel. “Did they follow you here?” The lights had started flickering, and Dean heard a distant tremble.
“Did who follow me here?” asked Cas, just as a bit of plaster from the ceiling hit him in the head.
“Cas-“ said Dean.
“Cas!” shouted Gabriel. “The back door! Run!” And then he disappeared.
Cas grabbed Dean’s arm, and began half dragging him out of the booth as the ground rocked and reeled. The lights flickered out, and then Dean noticed all was lit up by a weird glow.
“Cas, what-“
“Close your eyes, Dean!” Cas shouted as they reached the back door. Dean heard a boom as the building’s foundation cracked. And then Dean felt himself flung through the air. He landed hard on the pavement, and suddenly there was a weight on top of him.
He blacked out, maybe for a few seconds, maybe for an hour, but when he came too, he felt like he was being smothered.
“Are you injured,” Dean?” came Cas’ voice. Dean realized the weight on his back had been Cas, who was now rolling off of him. Dean took a big breath and pushed himself off the ground into a sitting position. He choked: there was a lot of dust in the air. He looked around. There were ruins surrounding him: presumably all that remained of the Holy Mother of God Erotic Dance Boutique.
“What the hell was that? Was that Lucifer?”
“I don’t know, Dean,” admitted Cas.
“Where is he now?”
“Perhaps Gabriel has dealt with him. I have not sensed my brother’s presence since the explosion.”
Cas extended a hand, and Dean carefully got to his feet. He looked down at himself: everything seemed to be present and accounted for. And then he looked up at Cas, who had evidently taken the brunt of the impact: he was covered, head to toe, with dust, and was bleeding from a couple of bad cuts.
“Hey, you’re hurt,” said Dean.
“It’s not of import,” said Cas. “I will repair my vessel.” He closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate for a second, but then opened them, blinking in apparent confusion. He reached down and pulled up his shirt, and put his fingers on a deep cut in his side. He held up his hand, squinting in confusion at the blood that had seeped to his fingers. “Why didn’t that work?” he asked, more to himself than anything.
“Having trouble with the angelic batteries?” asked Dean, who suddenly had a mental picture of Cas hooked up to the Impala via jumper cables.
Cas looked around, although his eyes seemed to be out of focus. “I… I can no longer hear the angelic host.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think I have been cut off from them. Cut off from heaven’s power,” Cas whispered, shaking his head as if he didn’t believe it.
“Look,” said Dean. “I think we need to get out of here now.” Sirens had started to wail in the distance. “We’ll go back to my place, get you cleaned up, and figure this out. Come on.”
Cas nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, followed Dean to the car, shaking off plaster as he walked.
“Ow!”
“It's just iodine!” sighed Dean. “Come on,” he urged, reaching for Castiel's arm. After far too much bickering, the angel had been divested of his shirt and jacket, and now sat on Dean’s bed, holding his arm protectively over his wounded side.
“I do not like pain, Dean!” said Cas, stubbornly keeping his arm plastered to his body. “It is … unpleasant!”
“Don't be a damn baby!” Dean grumbled. He thought it over, grabbing once again unsuccessfully at Cas’ arm. “Look. Think of something else.”
“What else should I think about?” asked Cas, relaxing somewhat.
“I dunno. Hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.
Cas looked momentarily distracted, before snapping, “Dean! I am not supposed to think of things of that nature.”
“Oh, so there are hot angel chicks?” grinned Dean.
“Why would you want me to think of- Ow!” Cas bellowed.
“There,” said Dean, who had many years of practice mending cuts and scrapes on unwilling individuals. “Bandage!” he ordered, holding up a dressing.
Cas glared, but this time voluntarily raised his arm so Dean could smooth the bandage over the cut in his side. “Consider yourself lucky you didn't need stitches.”
“You appear to derive some amount of enjoyment out of this,” grumbled Cas.
“Aw, I'll get you a lollipop. Okay. Now, leg!” said Dean, pointing at the cut on Cas's thigh.
Cas reluctantly scooted around on the bed.
Dean sighed dramatically. “Cas, no. You're gonna have to take off your pants.”
“What? No!” said Cas.
“Cas, TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!”
“Am I … interrupting anything?” grinned Sam from the doorway.
“Angels are pigheaded!” said Dean as he and Cas glowered at one another.
“Hey, guys, what's going on?” laughed Sam.
“We need to clean up his cut!” said Dean, pointing at Cas's leg.
“Your brother is a terrible exponent of the healing arts!” said Cas. “With…. With overtones of sadism!”
“I've never seen someone fuss so much over a fucking boo-boo,” said Dean. “What, you want me to kiss it?”
“Dean,” cautioned Sam, who caught Cas' look of utter horror. He signaled for his brother to shut the fuck up. He knelt down beside Cas, so that he was at eye level with the angel. “Cas,” he said softly. “Okay, look, I know you're upset that you've been cut off from the other angels and you're going through this. And, it sucks. What my brother is doing in his clumsy, awkward, fucked up way is trying to help you. And if you don't let Dean treat you, your leg will get infected and then they'll have to cut it off and then instead of flying you'll have to hop around and trust me, that will really suck.”
Cas peered at Sam, and then, steeling himself, nodded grimly. He got up, kicked off his shoes, and started to unzip his pants. Dust flew everywhere.
“Good!” said Dean. “And then we can get your ass cleaned up!” he continued, waving at the bathroom.
“Uh,” said Sam, who was not looking forward to that argument. “I'll go find him some clean clothes. Or whatever passes for clean in this place.”
“Just don't touch my Metallica T-shirt!” Dean hollered after him.
Sam returned from the laundry room some time later (as it took some time winnowing out his brother’s apparently elaborate system for separating clean from soiled laundry) to the sound of the shower running.
“Don't get your bandages wet!” Dean was yelling at the closed door.
Sam heard Cas mutter something, but he couldn't make it out. “I found some of your clothes. They might be a little big,” he told Dean.
“Don't tell me, tell Soapy McSoaperson,” grumbled Dean, pointing at the door.
The water shut off.
Sam went and rapped on the door. “Cas! It's Sam. I got clean clothes for you to try on!” he yelled.
“Okay, Sam!” came the answer. So Sam sauntered right into the bathroom, closing the door after him. Dean listened for a commotion, but heard nothing. Sam emerged a couple minutes later.
“Wait,” Dean whispered, “why is he okay with you but not with me?”
Sam laughed. “Maybe because I'm not always checking out his ass.”
“I wasn't checking out his ass.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “And … what if I was?” Dean added.
“He's an angel, Dean. Not a cocktail waitress!” grinned Sam.
“Look, if God didn't want me checking out his ass, why did He make it … so check out-able?” Dean asked waving his hand.
Sam was gearing up to answer this theological inquiry when the bathroom door opened and Cas emerged, looking somewhat like a drowned rat, hair dripping wet, and now wearing a loose-fitting pair of jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt.
And underneath the unbuttoned flannel, a Metallica T-shirt.
Dean flashed a look of fiery vengeance at his brother, who merely grinned. “Thank you, Sam,” Cas was saying.
“They're my clothes,” Dean rumbled.
“Thank you, Dean,” said Cas.
“Try not to bleed on them,” scolded Dean. As the opening chords of “Orion” blared from his pocket, Dean grabbed his cell phone. “Hey, Bobby, what’s up? Yeah? Okay, we’ll be there. Yeah, I’ll bring beer.” He looked at Sam and Cas. “Get your shoes on, angel. Bobby’s been able to crack that Ozzy biography book, and he says it’s interesting.”
“Who is Ozzy?” asked Cas.
“The only person Dean respects over James Hetfield,” laughed Sam. “I need to find him some clean socks in your laundry room of doom.”
“What’s wrong with my laundry room? It’s elegantly organized!” said Dean.
“Do you have Metallica socks, Dean?” inquired Cas as they made for the laundry room.
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