(Star Trek/SPN) Salt of the Earth Pt. 1 for normalhumanbein
Title: Salt of the Earth
Author: theplanetmary
Fandoms: Star Trek/Supernatural
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, the Impala (YES! She's a character too!); Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy
Paring: pre-slash Dean/Castiel
Rating: R (for torture)
Word Count: 30,458 (total)
Spoliers: Blanket spoilers for aired SPN episodes up to 5.04: The End; Star Trek XI movie
Warnings: an AU Future!fic; contains torture and some all male slashyness...
Disclaimer: Star Trek and Supernatural belong to their respective creators.
Summary: "It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils since we have invented them..." - East of Eden ; John Steinbeck
A/N: There's some weird terminology here so here's a translation:
These are the titles of ranks in the Greecian Army (I've applied them to the Host's ranks)
1. Ypolochagos - Lieutenant
2. Lochagos - Captain
3. Tagmatarchis - Major
4. Antistratigos - Lieutenant General
5. Stratigos - General
Concerning the OFC: Abaddon is often found in lore in Heaven as the Angel of War or in Hell as the Angel of Destruction, it evidently swings both ways and while Abaddon is a pretty heavy hitter, upside or down, but it's not in such a high ranking position as Lieutenant General. The version of Abaddon used here is designed entirely by yours truly, she more on the Heavenly side.
Concerning the Archdemon: According to religious lore Focalor is one of the three Archdemons of Hell but also stands as a Duke with thirty Legions of demons and spirits at his command. He has power over wind and sea and is loyal only to Lucifer and only hesitates at his command. He is referred to as and appears as a griffon.
...
Salt of the Earth
"It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we have invented them…"
East of Eden; John Steinbeck
...
Salida, Sawatch Mountain Range, Rocky Mountains, Chaffee County, Colorado
Stardate 2260; September 12; 0635 Hours
...
Some reward...
He may have been born into this... who the Hell was he trying to convince, he'd seen it himself. Seen his grandsire and granddam... seen his dam... seen it with his own eyes.
He'd been bred into this. It ran as strongly in his blood as the instincts did in his muscles, it was a much a part of his being as the scars in his hide or the print branded into his shoulder.
The clay of his very being was molded for this, twisted and made for the Hunt and the War and to bear the weight of The Host's General, every last cell was designed for his lot in life.
It didn't mean he wanted to do it for centuries at a time...
Some reward...
Dean Winchester glanced up from his map, a real, honest to God map, not some damn downloaded PADD images. Dean let his fingertips trail across the inked and dyed surface of the fiber paper as he straightened; he liked the simplicity of the sensation, the reality of it instead of intangible pixels.
Dean arched his back, letting the sound of his muscles pulling and bones popping ring in his ears. All the sounds he associated with age and the bone deep ache that never left him these days, no matter how much he drank or how much sleep he got. He sucked in a deep breath of air, it was cool and crisp and made the ache in his lungs and ribs a little sharper.
He watched as a slight framed man hesitated to allow a few civilian patrons cross in front of him to the fuel stop. The man was small, compact and solid. His mousy brown hair was ruffled and stuck up in all odd directions; it gave him a 'just-rolled-out-of-the-passenger-seat' look. The man's skin was only slightly tanned, as if his pallor was so fair it refused to color. He was dressed so similarly to Dean they could have been living out of the same duffle. Jeans that collected into ripples of folds at his ankles over scarred hiking boots, a pale blue tee shirt and a cobalt plaid flannel that was a size or more to big, even with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His wrists were heavy with strands of colored glass and metal beads and around his throat was a silver chain and crucifix.
The most startling feature of the slight man was his eyes. They were a pure azure blue that Dean has seen change into a soft cerulean or harden into steel grey or at the worst of times turn into planes of sheer ice. They were not the eyes of some mortal, they were innocent and so pure it was painful to look into them, yet so wizen and sorrowful the ache tripled, ancient and inhuman.
The man carefully balanced two large cups made of throw-away paper in his hands. In the cooling air Dean could make out the curls of heated steam slipping through the secured lids. The man started across the parking lot, his strides even and soundless save for the gentle clink of glass and metal at his wrists. The man's pace never quickened but his attention turned from his surroundings to Dean as he approached until the space between them had closed.
"Black." He offered one steaming container. Dean noticed the slim string and printed paper tag peaking from under the lid of the other. It fluttered slightly in the air.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean rasped. Even his own voice sounded foreign to him, broken and cracked after the botched mop up a few years back and his voice box had been crushed. Dean let his fingers brush over the inside of the other man's wrist, catching a single flutter of his pulse and feeling the same simplicity and reality of warm flesh under his hand.
It was good to have a few things real and solid. Things he could touch to either assure or reassure himself. Things that needed him and that he needed. Things that grounded him in the world that moved so fast and bright and loud and was so... full it was surreal.
Castiel was one of them. Castiel had been with him since the beginning... at least that's what the diminished angel told him. Told him that Castiel had been there at Dean's conception and was there for every breath he took; then, now and in the years to come, Castiel swore to be at his side.
Castiel was real. Real as the smudge like bruises under his eyes, real as the engraved Colt 1911 pressed into the small of his back, real as the ache in his muscles and lungs and heart, real as the crisp air and the map he'd been poring over. Real as cool, black metal of the Impala sliding against his spine as he leaned back into her fender and hood.
"You're welcome, Dean." Castiel sipped at his own container.
"And thanks for not trying too hard to get me to drink that herbal, cleansing crap." Dean motioned at the fluttering paper tag and string hanging from the other drink. That was Castiel, always trying to pour the cleanse down his throat, fill his stomach with leafy greens and fat frees and sugar lesses.
Dean must have gone soft in the last few years because Castiel got what he wanted more often than not, stupid lingering, purist, tree hugger, harm no living thing angelic philosophy.
Some of the diminished angel's mojo must have decided to flare and Deans thoughts must have crossed behind those azure eyes as Castiel only nodded, with a twitch of lips in that not-really-there smile.
"At least it's not replicated food," Dean muttered somewhat sourly and drank deeply from the container of black coffee, one of his last stands against Castiel's purism.
Castiel made no more than a soft sound of agreement, not quite enough gusto to call it a grunt. The reaction is human enough that Dean figures the flicker of power had fled the angel again. They came and went so easily now, like skipped heart beats or temperamental hiccups. Little flickers of what Castiel once was that deteriorates slowly but steadily as time passes. Dean can't help but notice it matches his own flickering gains and losses.
Like the humanity that he never noticed before was seeping out of himself and into the semi-Fallen and a little of Castiel's old power leeched into him. It's not a lot, just enough to notice. Enough to scent the sulphur lingering in the air after a demon or catch glimpses of the blinding light at the edge of the sun that may or may not be an angel blinking into existence.
Dean sighed quietly, leaning heavily back against the Impala and let his head dip towards his chest, his viridian eyes droop until they're half lidded and he's letting his age catch up to him for a moment, letting the ache blur together and the cool in the air start to bite into the exposed skin of his forearms and throat and face. His hands warmed only by one wrapped around the coffee and the other tucked into the edge of his jeans pocket.
"Dean..."
He knew that tone, knew that request in a single word and he sighed loudly, blinking his eyes open and looking around them.
"I like Colorado," Dean rasped, looking around almost longingly. And next to him Castiel went quiet, waiting for Dean's nostalgia to fade. He looked around that small fuel stop perched on the edge of the great spine of mountains. The Rockies, still untouched and left to roam wild thousands of feet above. Sloped walls of green that match the color of his eyes, rolling walls of clouds that perch on the peaks. The air always cold, always biting and forcing one to breathe. Really breathe. When the snows comes, deep and quiet and cleansing. It's so quiet and so still but so alive and wild and free it hurts.
Dean refuses to be called religious and on occasion, in passing, Castiel could get away with calling him 'spiritual'. But Dean could not help but looking into the Rockies, surrounded by green and blue and purple peaks and hear the echoes and feel the feral, ancient, power of them; he could not help calling this place one of the Cathedrals of the World.
Castiel's words not his. That made them no less fitting. These places so untouched and remote and peaceful that Dean actually forgot.
Dean wondered idly if the Grand Canyon was the same way. There were so many... offworlders there now. Dean had never seen it untouched, never seen it raw and watched the sun rise over the edge of his long beloved fantasy sanctuary before he heard that the government had negotiated to let some of the xenos stake claims in one of the basins. That the climate and heat and the landscape was suited to them. That it was logical and practical for them to make a stead there and the government, after centuries of protecting and saving and cherishing the Canyon gave it to them for good relations.
"Not all of." Castiel cut into his thoughts, another passing flicker of mojo. "Only part of a southern basin. Only a few acres-"
"That was too much, Cas," Dean snarled. Bitterness flooding him like a poison. "The Canyon was ours. The Canyon was mine."
Castiel only cast his eyes away and looked towards the frosted peaks of the Rockies, giving Dean a moment to settle himself, draw himself back, to wonder why he cared at all. It had always been a fantasy, a dream, something that was so normal and so real and so raw that Dean wondered if he avoided it just to have that one goal. That the day he watched the sun rise on the Canyon he was done and he could breathe his last.
Then he got his reward and they gave the Canyon to them.
At least there was still Colorado. And Montana and the Dakotas and Wyoming. Most of the offworlders were warm weather species and that suited Dean just fine. It kept them away from Yellowstone and the Rockies, the Badlands and the Lakes.
Dean let another tired sigh slip from his lips. "Where this time, Cas?"
"San Francisco." The sapphire eyes turned to meet jade ones. Dean almost growled, almost showed his teeth to the diminished angel.
"Are you doing this on purpose? Last time it was Dallas and the time before that it was Fresno."
"I don't pick the Sites, Dean. It's where He leaves His fingerprints." Castiel's voice stays the same quiet and calm that it has been for years and Dean sighs heavily again. Giving one last look towards the Rockies before nodding and turning to sweep the map off the hood of the Impala and moved to the driver's door. Castiel steps around the front of the Chevrolet and towards the passenger seat. They drop into the supple leather, letting it mold to their forms and swing the doors closed in simultaneous groans and thuds of metal impacting with metal. The low, rumbling roar of the engine draws the attention of the few site seers in the parking lot as Dean, Castiel and the Impala rumble onto the mountain roads, climbing down towards the highways.
...
Doctor Leonard McCoy sighed, a long and low pass of air dribbling from his chest and passed his nose. He lifted a large hand and let it settle over his eyes, taking the pressure and added darkness in stride. It alleviated some of the pain bobbing behind his eyes.
He breathed deep and slow and tried to forget the feeling of intestines and blood slipping over the plastic of surgical gloves. He tried to imagine the smell of Spanish moss and magnolias and wishes he was sweating because it was the humid air of Mississippi or Louisiana around him and not the climate controlled dorms of Starfleet Campus.
He wished he could go back to that homeland. Back to where his bloodline fed back to before the Civil War and still ran strong in most of the state, where he could go to Church in the dawn of Sunday mornings and eat crawfish pie until his stomach burst, where it was white kid gloves and lazy porch fans. Where a good Southern lawyer could win him back his daughter and he could teach her the Cajun French and Zidaco lulled them all to sleep alongside the bullfrogs.
Where he didn't have to worry about crew men coming back in ribbons and fear of being blown up or having his cells scattered across the universe. Where the biggest problem could be a long time feud with the neighbors or waking up to a gator in the yard and your dog or cat missing.
He didn't flinch when the door to his temporary dorm slid open and an over large ball of energy and blond hair hurtled into his barren room, the idle slosh of liquid in a glass container echoing with it.
McCoy suppressed a sigh and stayed still, hoping that the much younger man might realize he'd treaded in on McCoy and an afternoon nap and maybe, just maybe he'd turn and leave.
"Bones! Up! Let's go!"
He refused to move. Refused to make a sound. If he faked it long enough the kid would get bored and find someone else to play with. Some other ear to sink his milk teeth into and tug and tug until the older dog snapped.
He felt the mattress dip with weight as the younger man climbed up onto the bed and stood, not sat, not knelt, stood over him and bounced a little. "Bones! Now! That's an order!"
He was a doctor after all, he had the patience of Job, he'd just spent hours on end elbow deep in a man's gut. He could wait for this youthful energy to run its course.
"LEONARD!"
"WHAT!?!" McCoy shot up and roughly shoved the younger man spilling him onto the floor with a startled yelp and thud and the sound of something heavy and weighed down rolling across the floor. "Goddamnit Jim! What do ya WANT?!"
After a second the ruffled spikes of a blond head peeked over the edge of the mattress. It was followed by a pair of sharp blue eyes and a slim, square jaw. The young man was solidly built, wide shouldered and chested, he was tall, lithe and long limbed. Fine feature enough to be called handsome and self assured enough to be called a playboy. He wore a pair of jeans and simple black under armor shirt that made it clear the boy had only stripped the outer layers of his uniform and sliding a pair of jeans on before rushing to find him.
James Tiberius Kirk's wide blue eyes looked a little startled and a little amused, he quirked his lips into a half smile. "C'mon Bones, we've got to get down town."
"Since when did I agree to go anywhere with ya?" McCoy drawled and growled in his low, Southern dialect.
Kirk's face fell slightly and he blinked, cocking his head at McCoy in confusion. "Bones? Seriously? You don't want to go? This is your kind of thing."
"What are ya talkin' 'bout?" McCoy growled. Kirk's brows knit together then realization crossed his face.
"You haven't heard. You told me, you had that surgery this morning," Kirk muttered.
"Yes Jim, I've been in surgery all morin'. So go away-"
"No Bones! You have to come! You're going to lose your shit! They're actually calling it a miracle! A friggin' miracle complete with angels and God and everything!" Kirk's face is plastered with a wild grin. "I mean it looks more like a battle field or something, bodies all over the place, but... screw it let's just go! I bet we'll get all access clearance for being Starfleet and saving the Earth and everything."
Kirk bounced to his feet and snatched up the bottle of amber liquid that had rolled under McCoy's desk.
"Ya want me to go to midtown San Francisco; drinkin' with ya to look at some massacre they're callin' a miracle?"
"Now! Let's go!"
...
Dean eased the Impala carefully into a strip of empty curb and parked, cutting the rumbling engine and letting the quiet settle around him until he opened the door and the crush of city noise and people buried him in the sureality again. He took a deep steeling breath and looked towards the passenger seat poised to speak but hesitated when he saw Castiel curled up against the door, asleep.
He did that a lot. Slept. And it seemed sound and dreamless sleep. It was as if he was making up for the thousands of years of his creation that was all waking, all awareness. The oblivion seemed to suit Castiel.
"Cas. C'mon." Dean reached over and gently nudged the smaller man's shoulder, letting his hand slide up to settle in the curve of his collar bone and squeezed. Castiel jerked, nearly cracking his head against the window, he looked around, blinking his eyes in a daze. His breath hitching irregularly, the laptop open on his lap jostling and tipping, only saved when Castiel grabbed it.
For a moment there was nothing but humanity in those eyes. Dull and listless and lacking the purity and ferality of an angel. Dean drew back, giving the smaller man room.
"Easy. Take it easy," Dean coaxed, easing his cracked voice into a quiet, gentle tone.
"W... where are we?" He rasped.
"San Fran," Dean assured, settling his hands on the wheel.
"Why?"
Dean felt his stomach bottom out and a rock settle low in his gut. He hates when this happens. It’s not often but every once in a while Castiel wakes with the glazed look of humanity in his eyes. Dean calmed himself internally and breathed, focusing and detaching himself to do this right.
"What's your name?" He asked gently.
"Cas... uh... Cas... Cas something..."
"Castiel. Your name is Castiel," Dean reminded him, slowly trying to coax him on.
"I was... I was fighting..."
"There was a war. We fought in it. We're still fighting it."
"Dean. Winchester. And Sam."
Pain constricts his throat to a point he almost can't breathe at the mention of his younger brother but he forces past it because as much as he loved and still loves Sam, Castiel is the one that needs him now. The one that's still with him.
"Right. What else? I know you know, I know it's there. Keep talking."
"I'm not human..."
"Angel. You pulled me out Hell." Dean roughly tugged his suit jacket off and shoved up the crisp white sleeve of his dress shirt, exposing his bicep and the brand marked into his shoulder. The perfect shape of a handprint, long healed and starting to fade a little. Castiel stared at the brand for a moment before gingerly laying his palm across the mark, their positions making it impossible for him to slot his fingers into place but he covered the burn with his own hand.
Dean feels something twist in the hollow of his chest, rubbing itself against the backside of his carved ribs. He stayed still until Castiel's hand slid from his arm.
"I rebelled."
"Yeah. You did. To try and stop Lucifer and stop Sam, remember?" Dean pressed as Castiel's eyes cleared and his breathing evened. "We're cleaning that mess up. The dicks want us to do it. But... they're going to get tired of us someday and we're both going to die-"
"-and I'll go to Hell."
Dean's teeth slid together. "Which is why we're trying to find the Big Man, get you a pardon before that happens."
"I… I'm sorry, Dean." His voice was calm now.
"It's alright, Cas. It's not like you can help it or you're doing it on purpose. Just as long as it keeps coming back to you." He straightened his shirt and tugged his suit jacket back into place before flipping open the glove compartment and pulled out the cigar box, flipping it open and allowing Castiel to root into the cache of badges and paperwork until he extracted a small, modern badge declaring him a member of FBI. Dean picked out a matching one and they slipped them into their pockets.
"Ready?" Dean asked and Castiel nodded as they slipped out of the Impala, Castiel tossing the lap top onto the passenger seat and swung their doors closed and stepping around the Impala. They fell into perfect step with each other and started for the congestion of people... and not people. He glanced at Castiel, looking too much like that first year they met. In a suit and the tan trench coat sweeping behind him.
At least Castiel was a better FBI agent now, the man couldn't bring himself to lie, it wasn't in his nature but they balanced it out. Dean did most of the lying and Castiel did most of speculation and questioning. It worked and it got the job done, though Dean didn't expect this Site to be much different than the others.
He steeled himself for starting to cut into the crowd. "Alright! Move aside! Move! Let's go!" He barked and shoved his shoulder into what looked like an Orion or at least a half breed. Castiel close on his heels.
"C'mon! Let's GO! FBI!" Dean snapped louder and slowly the crowd crushed back and away, making enough room for himself and Castiel to step up to the yellow caution laser and the officer standing watch over it. The crowd grumbled in interest and dissent.
"Can I help you?" The mechanized officer asked in a chattered, inhuman voice. At least the Five-Oh was easier to deal with these days. Machines were only as smart as the people that programmed them. And while the geeks and freaks that built the friggin' things probably won Nobel Prizes, they weren't officers. A real police officer would have given him a little trouble, wanted to see his badge up close and questioned him, the machine only looked... or at least he think it looked at the flash of a badge, listened to the false names he gave for himself and Castiel, before disengaging the yellow laser and letting them onto the closed off scene and cranked the boarder back up after them.
Sometimes... Hell who was he kidding, almost all the time, newer wasn't better. Castiel and Dean surveyed the Site carefully, looking over the cracked and up heaved pavement, noting the human investigators and control personnel. Vehicles, personal and metro that were either flipped over or half crushed by the force of what had happened at the Site. He notices a few dead civilians but not many, whatever had happened had been powerful enough to chase them off as well as blast the glass from every window in a mile radius. He’d been nervous about the Impala's tires rolling over the debris.
He was sure they would have considered it a terrorist attack, it was a big city and desperately close to the Starfleet Campus, who wouldn't want to take that out, especially after that whole Nero cluster practically decimated them. It was weird to hear about a pandemic threat that he actually hadn't been involved in or expected to stop. That had been some blonde kid named Kirk's job.
And he'd done it. Well... and got intergalactic recognition for it. No one seemed to bring up to him over and over again that he hadn't saved that other planet, to lay the pressure on and guilt him into continuing...
Must be nice not having angels haunting you like a bad infection.
But they'd been calling the Site a miracle, seemed like religious freaks had gotten there first instead of the sociopathic conspirtists. Made sense because it did happen on the steps of the oldest church in the city. The great, stone cathedral towered over head, the single circular stained glass window in the front the sole survivor of the blast.
"It was a battle."
When was it wasn't? Dean looked over his shoulder at Castiel. The former angel's eyes were fixed on the twisted and broken form of a slender framed Asian man, his eyes half closed and he looked almost peaceful save for the fact that he looked pale and sickly, his skin a frosted blue and lips purple... as if he'd drowned in very deep water.
But like it was will all the corpses of angelic vessels there was no blood, only the burned shadow of wings scared into the asphalt.
"Iophiel. A scholar," Castiel said quietly and crossed to where the body laid, Dean following at a distance and standing protectively near when Castiel knelt next to the dead man and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.
They may have all been dicks and looked at him with disgust and only didn't kill him because they believed they'd punished him enough by stripping him and leaving him to rot among humans... leaving him with Dean... and used him like a cheap homing device to track Dean but they were still his family, his brothers and sisters and Castiel mourned the loss of every angel.
And there were three here. Dean looked towards the cracked and crumbling stairs where another angel lay dead, cold and blue like the Asian man. That angel, a slender, pretty black woman with a mass of curly black hair. The shadow of her wings spread akimbo on the stairs and looked larger than Iophiel's had been, maybe she was a higher rank.
"There, Nuriel." Castiel motioned towards the woman on the stairs. "The angel of hailstorms. And Aftiel an angel over the twilight hours..."
Dean blinked in surprise at the third body some yards away. The vessel had clearly been a half breed, Andorian, maybe... it was hard to see the human genetics bleeding through the pale blue skin and white hair. Since when were xenos devout, true-believers? Dean shrugged one shoulder and dismissed it. Military changed their camos to the landscape, guess angels were keeping up with the 'brave new world' theory. Didn't matter anyway, it wasn't the vessel that mattered, it was the angel. The Andorian hybrid had the same imprinted shadow of wings around him.
"More of your old Garrison?" Dean asked. "Angel on angel crime?"
Castiel's Garrison had gone rouge in the first year, turned to follow Uriel and Lucifer. The only angels who refused had been slaughtered, except for Castiel. The rouges weren't quite angels and they weren't quite Fallen; they ran in a pack like mercenaries and made it their business to act in Lucifer's name and kill any loyalist angels they crossed.
"No... What did this was very old... it came from very deep in the Pit." Castiel said quietly. Dean stiffened.
"Thought only angels could kill other angels. You telling me that Hell's got a new big bad that can clip the Host's wings?" Dean felt the tension winding between his shoulders.
"No. This was the work of an angel."
That didn't relax Dean at all. "One of the Fallen?"
"One of the first to follow Lucifer into the Pit. Nothing else is this strong save for an Archangel."
"Great... last time it was a Fallen both of us almost died!" Dean bent and hissed his dissent to Castiel. "And that town still got wiped off the map."
"I am well aware of what happened, Dean. I was present." Castiel deadpanned.
"Well this is just peachy... don't think they'll want to handle it themselves? Leave us out of it? Revenge and all that? It did just ice three angels."
Castiel didn't reply, he didn't know, obviously, wasn't like he was still tuned into angel radio. Even when he was still part of the Host they didn't tell the Angel of Thursday much. Dean sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.
"Can you tell which one?"
"Possibly a Watcher... " As he spoke Dean twitched nervously because in those long night hours that neither he nor Castiel could sleep the diminished angel had told him about the First War in Heaven, told him the names of the Fallen and his brothers and sisters still aloft and all their steads. Dean knew these names, knew who they were as intimately as Castiel had known them before their Fall into the Pit. He knew what they meant.
And none of it was good.
Castiel continued speaking quietly when a human investigator stepped passed them. "... Arakiel... maybe Samyaza. If it not a Watcher it is Focalor."
Dean went very still. "The Griffin?"
"It is probable."
Dean let out a shuddering breath and buried his hands into his hair, tugging at the short strands before letting them slide down and grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. He let out a shaky, broken noise before steeling himself. "What about your dad?"
"Father was here." Castiel shrugged one shoulder. Dean nodded, he felt the hum, the electricity in the air that crackled in the wake of something more powerful than angels. More feral.
"I do not believe He was a part of the conflict. Merely in the vicinity felt the deaths of these three and came when it was done to mourn them. Lay His hand on them-"
"So he's long gone," Dean sighed.
"Yes." The sound came like an arrow being pulled from a wound. Sickly and pained. Castiel looked numb and tired. It was already getting harder and harder for Castiel to bounce back from each near miss. It was a bucket of ice water down Dean's spine when he considered that Castiel might not rebound one day soon. That his faith might finally crack and that shadow of a creature Dean had seen, been shown, might pop up. The Castiel's whose pupils were dilated with narcotics and alcohol and voice full of jokes but no humor.
Dean shook himself. No. It wouldn't happen. He rubbed his eyes. "Alright... so let’s figure out what's so important that they had a brawl here. Bet you pie it has something to do with the church."
"A relic, maybe... or a soul inside." Castiel rose to his feet and fell into step with Dean, walking along the edge of the lasered off area towards the steps of the cathedral.
"Lotta noise for just one soul."
"There have been longer and louder battles for singular souls before." Castiel cast him a look.
"I know. I know. A Legion of Heaven made war on Hell for forty years for me, I got it already." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "You're not a part of the club; you don't have to guilt me."
"Sometimes it seems necessary," Castiel responded back and Dean rolled his eyes. "Dean, let us tread lightly. I am unsure if it has moved on."
Dean only nodded and let his hand slide around to the small of his back and graced over the Colt 1911 tucked into his waist band. It wouldn't do much damage against a Fallen, but a sure shot in the eye might slow it down enough to get away. Might...
Dean and Castiel carefully climbed the ruined steps of the cathedral, both taking special attention to avoid stepping on Nuriel or the imprinted shadow of her wings. Dean had nearly flinched every time he saw an investigator or first responder walk casually across the wing imprints, their heels digging into the stained asphalt.
They could show some kind of respect.
The Hunter and the diminished angel crossed into the shadow and much cooler air of the cathedral, it was void of personnel, obviously cleared and considered unremarkable. It looked pretty typical to Dean. The rows of carved wood pews, large stone stands supporting ornate metal basins full of water. There were tall support beams made of carved stonework and wrought precious metals in the shapes of cherubic angels and flowers. The walls had the Stations of the Cross of painted plaster and gilded frames. Crucifixes and gaping holes were there had been stained glass windows. The floor was littered with colored glass and splintered wood. Further along there were alcoves of Covenants, one with a massive marble statue of the Virgin Mary and the other a similar statue depicting Saint Patrick, the alcoves were surrounded by tables supporting rows of prayer candles, most snuffed out from the blast.
The marble statue of Christ had a real wood cross as it towered over the Alter at the front of the old church, gilded gold and silver wrought into the design. Dean glanced up at the dais but drew his attention away as he and Castiel carefully walked along the middle aisle. Their boots echoed in the empty space.
Both kept their eyes scanning, roving trying to pick out the forgotten relic that may have been left in the middle of combat, or maybe someone hiding under a pew at the sound of holy warfare. Halfway down the aisle Dean sighed aloud and settled his hands on his hips.
"Looks like a bust Cas... thing must have got away with what he wanted," Dean muttered then tensed at the sound of feathers cutting through air. He and Castiel spun on their heels and braced for a fight but relaxed at the sight of the petite woman standing at the end of the pews. She was small and slender and stood at a military at ease position. Her hands folded in the small of her back.
Her hair was a russet color like dried blood and her eyes a brilliant and sorrowful viridian that was near Dean's own eye color, enough so that she looked kin to him. She had a pretty heart shaped face that was marred by the ugly, jagged remains of a scar running from her hairline, down over an eye and to the corner of her mouth. She wore a fitting black tank top and a pair of military camo cargos of gray, black and white. They were tucked into laced up combat boots. There was a watch around her wrist and a slim chain supporting a set of military dog tags around her throat.
"Abaddon," Castiel breathed and the she-angel's lips quirked up just slightly.
"Hey fellas," she drawled in a southwestern accent. She physically relaxed and started towards them.
"Hey Abby," Dean greeted and she gave him a slight and genuine smile.
Abaddon. The Angel of War and Michael's right hand girl. The one angel, other than Castiel, that Dean had a remote fondness for. Abaddon was a soldier, she'd been made on the battle field with a cut of Michael's Grace. Abaddon made sense, she was bound to her work, her position in upholding the laws of war in all its forms and she followed the orders laid out before her by the only angel that ranked higher than her in her Legion, Michael. In the archangel's absence Abaddon controlled his Legion, she was intimately familiar with each angel in her secondary command, from the grunts right up to the Ypolochagos, Lochagos and Tagmatartchis. And she commanded them to their nature, solid and stead fast and if Dean had an Antistratigos he had to follow he could hope they would be like Abaddon. She never asked more of them than she was willing to give herself. This was probably why she stood as Michael's Antistratigos, his Lieutenant General. And while she was an excellent leader and warrior she did not act blindly, like any well trained soldier she thought for herself and all her commands and orders rung with the concern and consideration of the welfare of her soldiers.
Dean remembered the first time Abaddon came to him and Castiel. She'd actually knocked on the motel door and bargained shameless for five minutes of Dean's time and in those five minutes, Dean's hand poised over a blood banishing spell, Abaddon had earned a little of his respect and a little of his acceptance. It was obvious that Michael had sent her himself to talk to Dean, to 'show him how angels really were' and make amends for the bad examples Uriel and Zachariah had been and to see if she could gently coax Dean into standing as Michael's vessel.
She won more of his respect when after his first refusal she did not persist and in all the time that she had continued to come to the Hunter and diminished angel she never asked it of him again and only spoke on the matter if Dean himself brought it up.
Dean constantly told Castiel that once he'd gotten his mojo back to get his ass transferred into Michael's Legion and Abaddon's command.
"Guess you've already heard." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head slightly at the Antistratigos.
"Ya know I can feel the vibrations of every battlefield as it comes into existence. Otherwise I would not have heard of it for some time, they were a part of Ramiel's Legion. They'll mourn bit longer. I expect ya already have a theory?"
"A Fallen, freed from very deep in the Pit. One of the Watchers-" Castiel provided.
"Or Focalor... Cas thinks that if it's not one of the Watchers then it’s him."
Abaddon let out a sigh that sounded too much like a warrior exhausted of combat. "If it is the Griffin then we have a very big problem."
That's was how Abaddon won Dean's loyalty. We. When the term had first blossomed from the Angel of War Dean had sneered, thinking it was another detached reference, when they said 'we' it meant their mess, Dean's job to run clean up. When Abaddon said ‘we’ she meant we. Dean had nearly lost his voice in shock when Abaddon went along with them on that first mission, step for step, and took Dean's orders. When Abaddon came to them with a mission or Hunt that needed attention she went with them, stayed at their sides, fought with them and protected them when she could and used the word we in sincerity.
Dean let a sigh of relief slip through his teeth and Abaddon's lips quirked.
"Ya expected to deal with somethin' like this completely alone did ya?"
"It's been turning out to be one of those days, Abby." Dean rubbed a hand through his hair and let his shoulders slump slightly.
Abaddon's head tilted until Dean was faced with the scarred side of her visage. The brilliant jade eye was slightly clouded, half blind. Dean never understood why it was that she turned the damaged part of her sight on him in moments like this. Was it meant so be some kind of metaphor of Justice or deeper sight? Was she even really lacking the sight in the damaged eye, or was it just the vessel and Abaddon could easily see beyond it?
"As are the times, Dean," Abaddon said gently, her tone coaxing and soothing; like the sounds of a soldier easing a fallen comrade into oblivion of death. "As all soldiers have seen."
"They're more often than not, Abaddon." Castiel spoke just as quietly, almost pleadingly.
"I know... but ya must go on-"
"For how long, Abby!?!" Dean barked suddenly, his voice echoing in the cathedral, rattling the last of the colored glass. "It's been two hundred and fifty years! What's the point!?"
"Ya honestly believe I agreed with this?" Abaddon growled, her hackles rising and the very stone of the cathedral shivered. "No soldier is meant to face combat for eternity. Not the worst of them... and most certainly not one of the best. Ya were not meant for this Dean. What they have done to ya is unjust. I had never known my kin could be cruel, ya cain't imagine the shock it was. I never wanted this for ya..."
Dean's eyes narrowed, looking at Castiel for a moment before casting his jade eyes back to the she-angel. "What the Hell does that mean, Abby?"
"Dean. I have had a hand in the making of all creatures that will or would see battle. Charlemagne, Richard the Lionheart, Dwight Eisenhower, David Pataerus, Christopher Pike, some of my greatest works and designs. Then there was Alexander and never had I come so close to perfection before... and yet Michael came to me baring this thin', this gentle, flutterin' creature that was never meant for the field of fray. Laid it before me and told me, 'make me a soldier to rival yer Alexander... make me a soldier fit to carry my wings'... I pounded the steel of that soul for a thousand years, laid into it bits of my own Grace, drenched it in Bloodlust and Loyalty, poured into it Instinct and Wisdom, laced its heart with gold sparks of Michael's Sword. I fostered it and molded it, never once changin' its original nature until it was fit and bore it onto a small angel that I knew not the name of..."
Abaddon's eyes cast towards Castiel and the sapphire eyes bored into viridian, lifting his chin.
"... The seraphim on whose day he would be born. Told him the name of a bloodline strong enough to turn out the soul. I warned him, as I warned Michael, that the soul was-"
"Was not meant to be long of the world." Castiel spoke quietly and carefully, repeating words long dulled with age. "Thirty, possibly forty years and it was meant to be done. His spirit would not hold beyond that. Thirty or forty years and he must come Home."
Abaddon nodded, blinking slowly, almost lazily. Tilting her head so the glazed and clouded eye was turned towards them. "And yet... yer spirit never faltered, never wavered. Not even in Hell. Not when they laid this curse on ya. Dean, ya have surpassed anything I would have ever expected of ya... or of Alexander."
Dean felt a very slight flush cross his cheeks, making the faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose stand out. It'd been a long time since he'd been praised by anyone other than Castiel. Not sincerely. Hearing it from Abaddon, someone he actually respected, it... it was different... especially when he was compared to Alexander the Great.
The Angel of War often mentioned Alexander, talked about his tactics and intelligence, his hand and mind for war and conquest. She never fully praised the ancient warrior, more spoke of him in passing or quoted him. While the Antistratigos never spoke before of her hand in creating Alexander, or in Dean for that matter, it was clear that she'd had a fondness for Alexander.
"The sin of Pride does not remotely cover what I feel for ya."
The words were a shock so deep that Dean paled.
"Ya must go on, Dean. Hold fast. Ya have not faltered this long. This... injustice that has laid on ya was meant to break ya Dean, break yer mind, body and will. Hold fast."
Dean swallowed a deep breath before letting the air slip from his chest with a hollow rattle before nodding jerkily. And Abaddon nodded her own approval and cast her eyes towards Castiel, having some silent, heartbeat long conversation with the diminished angel before the azure eyed man dipped his head.
Dean cleared his throat in the awkward hesitation. At least it was awkward for him. Experience was more than the Hunter needed to know that angels didn't take to the world the same way humans did. Things like awkward moments and personal space didn't compute. They were beings made of pure power and energy, they shared thoughts and Grace as easily as humans shook hands. The closest thing they came to real intimacy was the brush of wings. Castiel had described it as kin to something like sharing breath and blood and souls all at once and that it wasn't done lightly.
"Well, after that little reveal what the Hell do we do about this Fallen?" The Hunter grumbled and ran a hand through his hair.
"It would seem the wisest course of action is to be positive of its identity, could lead to an explanation of what exactly it was that was needed so badly, that it crawled its way out of the Pit." Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Can you tell who it was, Abaddon?"
"No. It's freshly out of the Pit, the scent of Hell is too thick on it to know which Watcher it may be. Let's pray it’s not Focalor. Yer both bone weary. Go. Rest. I'll see if Ramiel knows or if there was a survivor of this battle that can describe it; I'll be back when I have the name."
"Thanks, Abby." Dean sighed and slumped a little. The Antistratigos dipped her head slightly as the two squeezed passed her and started back down the aisle between pews and shattered glass. Castiel faltered and twisted.
"Sister?"
Abaddon cocked her head to look over her shoulder at him.
"You know He was here."
The Angel of War only blinked lazily once and dipped her head slightly before turning away from him. Castiel watched her back for another moment before following Dean dutifully out of the cathedral.
…
On to Part 2...
Author: theplanetmary
Fandoms: Star Trek/Supernatural
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, the Impala (YES! She's a character too!); Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy
Paring: pre-slash Dean/Castiel
Rating: R (for torture)
Word Count: 30,458 (total)
Spoliers: Blanket spoilers for aired SPN episodes up to 5.04: The End; Star Trek XI movie
Warnings: an AU Future!fic; contains torture and some all male slashyness...
Disclaimer: Star Trek and Supernatural belong to their respective creators.
Summary: "It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils since we have invented them..." - East of Eden ; John Steinbeck
A/N: There's some weird terminology here so here's a translation:
These are the titles of ranks in the Greecian Army (I've applied them to the Host's ranks)
1. Ypolochagos - Lieutenant
2. Lochagos - Captain
3. Tagmatarchis - Major
4. Antistratigos - Lieutenant General
5. Stratigos - General
Concerning the OFC: Abaddon is often found in lore in Heaven as the Angel of War or in Hell as the Angel of Destruction, it evidently swings both ways and while Abaddon is a pretty heavy hitter, upside or down, but it's not in such a high ranking position as Lieutenant General. The version of Abaddon used here is designed entirely by yours truly, she more on the Heavenly side.
Concerning the Archdemon: According to religious lore Focalor is one of the three Archdemons of Hell but also stands as a Duke with thirty Legions of demons and spirits at his command. He has power over wind and sea and is loyal only to Lucifer and only hesitates at his command. He is referred to as and appears as a griffon.
...
Salt of the Earth
"It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we have invented them…"
East of Eden; John Steinbeck
...
Salida, Sawatch Mountain Range, Rocky Mountains, Chaffee County, Colorado
Stardate 2260; September 12; 0635 Hours
...
Some reward...
He may have been born into this... who the Hell was he trying to convince, he'd seen it himself. Seen his grandsire and granddam... seen his dam... seen it with his own eyes.
He'd been bred into this. It ran as strongly in his blood as the instincts did in his muscles, it was a much a part of his being as the scars in his hide or the print branded into his shoulder.
The clay of his very being was molded for this, twisted and made for the Hunt and the War and to bear the weight of The Host's General, every last cell was designed for his lot in life.
It didn't mean he wanted to do it for centuries at a time...
Some reward...
Dean Winchester glanced up from his map, a real, honest to God map, not some damn downloaded PADD images. Dean let his fingertips trail across the inked and dyed surface of the fiber paper as he straightened; he liked the simplicity of the sensation, the reality of it instead of intangible pixels.
Dean arched his back, letting the sound of his muscles pulling and bones popping ring in his ears. All the sounds he associated with age and the bone deep ache that never left him these days, no matter how much he drank or how much sleep he got. He sucked in a deep breath of air, it was cool and crisp and made the ache in his lungs and ribs a little sharper.
He watched as a slight framed man hesitated to allow a few civilian patrons cross in front of him to the fuel stop. The man was small, compact and solid. His mousy brown hair was ruffled and stuck up in all odd directions; it gave him a 'just-rolled-out-of-the-passenger-seat' look. The man's skin was only slightly tanned, as if his pallor was so fair it refused to color. He was dressed so similarly to Dean they could have been living out of the same duffle. Jeans that collected into ripples of folds at his ankles over scarred hiking boots, a pale blue tee shirt and a cobalt plaid flannel that was a size or more to big, even with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His wrists were heavy with strands of colored glass and metal beads and around his throat was a silver chain and crucifix.
The most startling feature of the slight man was his eyes. They were a pure azure blue that Dean has seen change into a soft cerulean or harden into steel grey or at the worst of times turn into planes of sheer ice. They were not the eyes of some mortal, they were innocent and so pure it was painful to look into them, yet so wizen and sorrowful the ache tripled, ancient and inhuman.
The man carefully balanced two large cups made of throw-away paper in his hands. In the cooling air Dean could make out the curls of heated steam slipping through the secured lids. The man started across the parking lot, his strides even and soundless save for the gentle clink of glass and metal at his wrists. The man's pace never quickened but his attention turned from his surroundings to Dean as he approached until the space between them had closed.
"Black." He offered one steaming container. Dean noticed the slim string and printed paper tag peaking from under the lid of the other. It fluttered slightly in the air.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean rasped. Even his own voice sounded foreign to him, broken and cracked after the botched mop up a few years back and his voice box had been crushed. Dean let his fingers brush over the inside of the other man's wrist, catching a single flutter of his pulse and feeling the same simplicity and reality of warm flesh under his hand.
It was good to have a few things real and solid. Things he could touch to either assure or reassure himself. Things that needed him and that he needed. Things that grounded him in the world that moved so fast and bright and loud and was so... full it was surreal.
Castiel was one of them. Castiel had been with him since the beginning... at least that's what the diminished angel told him. Told him that Castiel had been there at Dean's conception and was there for every breath he took; then, now and in the years to come, Castiel swore to be at his side.
Castiel was real. Real as the smudge like bruises under his eyes, real as the engraved Colt 1911 pressed into the small of his back, real as the ache in his muscles and lungs and heart, real as the crisp air and the map he'd been poring over. Real as cool, black metal of the Impala sliding against his spine as he leaned back into her fender and hood.
"You're welcome, Dean." Castiel sipped at his own container.
"And thanks for not trying too hard to get me to drink that herbal, cleansing crap." Dean motioned at the fluttering paper tag and string hanging from the other drink. That was Castiel, always trying to pour the cleanse down his throat, fill his stomach with leafy greens and fat frees and sugar lesses.
Dean must have gone soft in the last few years because Castiel got what he wanted more often than not, stupid lingering, purist, tree hugger, harm no living thing angelic philosophy.
Some of the diminished angel's mojo must have decided to flare and Deans thoughts must have crossed behind those azure eyes as Castiel only nodded, with a twitch of lips in that not-really-there smile.
"At least it's not replicated food," Dean muttered somewhat sourly and drank deeply from the container of black coffee, one of his last stands against Castiel's purism.
Castiel made no more than a soft sound of agreement, not quite enough gusto to call it a grunt. The reaction is human enough that Dean figures the flicker of power had fled the angel again. They came and went so easily now, like skipped heart beats or temperamental hiccups. Little flickers of what Castiel once was that deteriorates slowly but steadily as time passes. Dean can't help but notice it matches his own flickering gains and losses.
Like the humanity that he never noticed before was seeping out of himself and into the semi-Fallen and a little of Castiel's old power leeched into him. It's not a lot, just enough to notice. Enough to scent the sulphur lingering in the air after a demon or catch glimpses of the blinding light at the edge of the sun that may or may not be an angel blinking into existence.
Dean sighed quietly, leaning heavily back against the Impala and let his head dip towards his chest, his viridian eyes droop until they're half lidded and he's letting his age catch up to him for a moment, letting the ache blur together and the cool in the air start to bite into the exposed skin of his forearms and throat and face. His hands warmed only by one wrapped around the coffee and the other tucked into the edge of his jeans pocket.
"Dean..."
He knew that tone, knew that request in a single word and he sighed loudly, blinking his eyes open and looking around them.
"I like Colorado," Dean rasped, looking around almost longingly. And next to him Castiel went quiet, waiting for Dean's nostalgia to fade. He looked around that small fuel stop perched on the edge of the great spine of mountains. The Rockies, still untouched and left to roam wild thousands of feet above. Sloped walls of green that match the color of his eyes, rolling walls of clouds that perch on the peaks. The air always cold, always biting and forcing one to breathe. Really breathe. When the snows comes, deep and quiet and cleansing. It's so quiet and so still but so alive and wild and free it hurts.
Dean refuses to be called religious and on occasion, in passing, Castiel could get away with calling him 'spiritual'. But Dean could not help but looking into the Rockies, surrounded by green and blue and purple peaks and hear the echoes and feel the feral, ancient, power of them; he could not help calling this place one of the Cathedrals of the World.
Castiel's words not his. That made them no less fitting. These places so untouched and remote and peaceful that Dean actually forgot.
Dean wondered idly if the Grand Canyon was the same way. There were so many... offworlders there now. Dean had never seen it untouched, never seen it raw and watched the sun rise over the edge of his long beloved fantasy sanctuary before he heard that the government had negotiated to let some of the xenos stake claims in one of the basins. That the climate and heat and the landscape was suited to them. That it was logical and practical for them to make a stead there and the government, after centuries of protecting and saving and cherishing the Canyon gave it to them for good relations.
"Not all of." Castiel cut into his thoughts, another passing flicker of mojo. "Only part of a southern basin. Only a few acres-"
"That was too much, Cas," Dean snarled. Bitterness flooding him like a poison. "The Canyon was ours. The Canyon was mine."
Castiel only cast his eyes away and looked towards the frosted peaks of the Rockies, giving Dean a moment to settle himself, draw himself back, to wonder why he cared at all. It had always been a fantasy, a dream, something that was so normal and so real and so raw that Dean wondered if he avoided it just to have that one goal. That the day he watched the sun rise on the Canyon he was done and he could breathe his last.
Then he got his reward and they gave the Canyon to them.
At least there was still Colorado. And Montana and the Dakotas and Wyoming. Most of the offworlders were warm weather species and that suited Dean just fine. It kept them away from Yellowstone and the Rockies, the Badlands and the Lakes.
Dean let another tired sigh slip from his lips. "Where this time, Cas?"
"San Francisco." The sapphire eyes turned to meet jade ones. Dean almost growled, almost showed his teeth to the diminished angel.
"Are you doing this on purpose? Last time it was Dallas and the time before that it was Fresno."
"I don't pick the Sites, Dean. It's where He leaves His fingerprints." Castiel's voice stays the same quiet and calm that it has been for years and Dean sighs heavily again. Giving one last look towards the Rockies before nodding and turning to sweep the map off the hood of the Impala and moved to the driver's door. Castiel steps around the front of the Chevrolet and towards the passenger seat. They drop into the supple leather, letting it mold to their forms and swing the doors closed in simultaneous groans and thuds of metal impacting with metal. The low, rumbling roar of the engine draws the attention of the few site seers in the parking lot as Dean, Castiel and the Impala rumble onto the mountain roads, climbing down towards the highways.
...
Doctor Leonard McCoy sighed, a long and low pass of air dribbling from his chest and passed his nose. He lifted a large hand and let it settle over his eyes, taking the pressure and added darkness in stride. It alleviated some of the pain bobbing behind his eyes.
He breathed deep and slow and tried to forget the feeling of intestines and blood slipping over the plastic of surgical gloves. He tried to imagine the smell of Spanish moss and magnolias and wishes he was sweating because it was the humid air of Mississippi or Louisiana around him and not the climate controlled dorms of Starfleet Campus.
He wished he could go back to that homeland. Back to where his bloodline fed back to before the Civil War and still ran strong in most of the state, where he could go to Church in the dawn of Sunday mornings and eat crawfish pie until his stomach burst, where it was white kid gloves and lazy porch fans. Where a good Southern lawyer could win him back his daughter and he could teach her the Cajun French and Zidaco lulled them all to sleep alongside the bullfrogs.
Where he didn't have to worry about crew men coming back in ribbons and fear of being blown up or having his cells scattered across the universe. Where the biggest problem could be a long time feud with the neighbors or waking up to a gator in the yard and your dog or cat missing.
He didn't flinch when the door to his temporary dorm slid open and an over large ball of energy and blond hair hurtled into his barren room, the idle slosh of liquid in a glass container echoing with it.
McCoy suppressed a sigh and stayed still, hoping that the much younger man might realize he'd treaded in on McCoy and an afternoon nap and maybe, just maybe he'd turn and leave.
"Bones! Up! Let's go!"
He refused to move. Refused to make a sound. If he faked it long enough the kid would get bored and find someone else to play with. Some other ear to sink his milk teeth into and tug and tug until the older dog snapped.
He felt the mattress dip with weight as the younger man climbed up onto the bed and stood, not sat, not knelt, stood over him and bounced a little. "Bones! Now! That's an order!"
He was a doctor after all, he had the patience of Job, he'd just spent hours on end elbow deep in a man's gut. He could wait for this youthful energy to run its course.
"LEONARD!"
"WHAT!?!" McCoy shot up and roughly shoved the younger man spilling him onto the floor with a startled yelp and thud and the sound of something heavy and weighed down rolling across the floor. "Goddamnit Jim! What do ya WANT?!"
After a second the ruffled spikes of a blond head peeked over the edge of the mattress. It was followed by a pair of sharp blue eyes and a slim, square jaw. The young man was solidly built, wide shouldered and chested, he was tall, lithe and long limbed. Fine feature enough to be called handsome and self assured enough to be called a playboy. He wore a pair of jeans and simple black under armor shirt that made it clear the boy had only stripped the outer layers of his uniform and sliding a pair of jeans on before rushing to find him.
James Tiberius Kirk's wide blue eyes looked a little startled and a little amused, he quirked his lips into a half smile. "C'mon Bones, we've got to get down town."
"Since when did I agree to go anywhere with ya?" McCoy drawled and growled in his low, Southern dialect.
Kirk's face fell slightly and he blinked, cocking his head at McCoy in confusion. "Bones? Seriously? You don't want to go? This is your kind of thing."
"What are ya talkin' 'bout?" McCoy growled. Kirk's brows knit together then realization crossed his face.
"You haven't heard. You told me, you had that surgery this morning," Kirk muttered.
"Yes Jim, I've been in surgery all morin'. So go away-"
"No Bones! You have to come! You're going to lose your shit! They're actually calling it a miracle! A friggin' miracle complete with angels and God and everything!" Kirk's face is plastered with a wild grin. "I mean it looks more like a battle field or something, bodies all over the place, but... screw it let's just go! I bet we'll get all access clearance for being Starfleet and saving the Earth and everything."
Kirk bounced to his feet and snatched up the bottle of amber liquid that had rolled under McCoy's desk.
"Ya want me to go to midtown San Francisco; drinkin' with ya to look at some massacre they're callin' a miracle?"
"Now! Let's go!"
...
Dean eased the Impala carefully into a strip of empty curb and parked, cutting the rumbling engine and letting the quiet settle around him until he opened the door and the crush of city noise and people buried him in the sureality again. He took a deep steeling breath and looked towards the passenger seat poised to speak but hesitated when he saw Castiel curled up against the door, asleep.
He did that a lot. Slept. And it seemed sound and dreamless sleep. It was as if he was making up for the thousands of years of his creation that was all waking, all awareness. The oblivion seemed to suit Castiel.
"Cas. C'mon." Dean reached over and gently nudged the smaller man's shoulder, letting his hand slide up to settle in the curve of his collar bone and squeezed. Castiel jerked, nearly cracking his head against the window, he looked around, blinking his eyes in a daze. His breath hitching irregularly, the laptop open on his lap jostling and tipping, only saved when Castiel grabbed it.
For a moment there was nothing but humanity in those eyes. Dull and listless and lacking the purity and ferality of an angel. Dean drew back, giving the smaller man room.
"Easy. Take it easy," Dean coaxed, easing his cracked voice into a quiet, gentle tone.
"W... where are we?" He rasped.
"San Fran," Dean assured, settling his hands on the wheel.
"Why?"
Dean felt his stomach bottom out and a rock settle low in his gut. He hates when this happens. It’s not often but every once in a while Castiel wakes with the glazed look of humanity in his eyes. Dean calmed himself internally and breathed, focusing and detaching himself to do this right.
"What's your name?" He asked gently.
"Cas... uh... Cas... Cas something..."
"Castiel. Your name is Castiel," Dean reminded him, slowly trying to coax him on.
"I was... I was fighting..."
"There was a war. We fought in it. We're still fighting it."
"Dean. Winchester. And Sam."
Pain constricts his throat to a point he almost can't breathe at the mention of his younger brother but he forces past it because as much as he loved and still loves Sam, Castiel is the one that needs him now. The one that's still with him.
"Right. What else? I know you know, I know it's there. Keep talking."
"I'm not human..."
"Angel. You pulled me out Hell." Dean roughly tugged his suit jacket off and shoved up the crisp white sleeve of his dress shirt, exposing his bicep and the brand marked into his shoulder. The perfect shape of a handprint, long healed and starting to fade a little. Castiel stared at the brand for a moment before gingerly laying his palm across the mark, their positions making it impossible for him to slot his fingers into place but he covered the burn with his own hand.
Dean feels something twist in the hollow of his chest, rubbing itself against the backside of his carved ribs. He stayed still until Castiel's hand slid from his arm.
"I rebelled."
"Yeah. You did. To try and stop Lucifer and stop Sam, remember?" Dean pressed as Castiel's eyes cleared and his breathing evened. "We're cleaning that mess up. The dicks want us to do it. But... they're going to get tired of us someday and we're both going to die-"
"-and I'll go to Hell."
Dean's teeth slid together. "Which is why we're trying to find the Big Man, get you a pardon before that happens."
"I… I'm sorry, Dean." His voice was calm now.
"It's alright, Cas. It's not like you can help it or you're doing it on purpose. Just as long as it keeps coming back to you." He straightened his shirt and tugged his suit jacket back into place before flipping open the glove compartment and pulled out the cigar box, flipping it open and allowing Castiel to root into the cache of badges and paperwork until he extracted a small, modern badge declaring him a member of FBI. Dean picked out a matching one and they slipped them into their pockets.
"Ready?" Dean asked and Castiel nodded as they slipped out of the Impala, Castiel tossing the lap top onto the passenger seat and swung their doors closed and stepping around the Impala. They fell into perfect step with each other and started for the congestion of people... and not people. He glanced at Castiel, looking too much like that first year they met. In a suit and the tan trench coat sweeping behind him.
At least Castiel was a better FBI agent now, the man couldn't bring himself to lie, it wasn't in his nature but they balanced it out. Dean did most of the lying and Castiel did most of speculation and questioning. It worked and it got the job done, though Dean didn't expect this Site to be much different than the others.
He steeled himself for starting to cut into the crowd. "Alright! Move aside! Move! Let's go!" He barked and shoved his shoulder into what looked like an Orion or at least a half breed. Castiel close on his heels.
"C'mon! Let's GO! FBI!" Dean snapped louder and slowly the crowd crushed back and away, making enough room for himself and Castiel to step up to the yellow caution laser and the officer standing watch over it. The crowd grumbled in interest and dissent.
"Can I help you?" The mechanized officer asked in a chattered, inhuman voice. At least the Five-Oh was easier to deal with these days. Machines were only as smart as the people that programmed them. And while the geeks and freaks that built the friggin' things probably won Nobel Prizes, they weren't officers. A real police officer would have given him a little trouble, wanted to see his badge up close and questioned him, the machine only looked... or at least he think it looked at the flash of a badge, listened to the false names he gave for himself and Castiel, before disengaging the yellow laser and letting them onto the closed off scene and cranked the boarder back up after them.
Sometimes... Hell who was he kidding, almost all the time, newer wasn't better. Castiel and Dean surveyed the Site carefully, looking over the cracked and up heaved pavement, noting the human investigators and control personnel. Vehicles, personal and metro that were either flipped over or half crushed by the force of what had happened at the Site. He notices a few dead civilians but not many, whatever had happened had been powerful enough to chase them off as well as blast the glass from every window in a mile radius. He’d been nervous about the Impala's tires rolling over the debris.
He was sure they would have considered it a terrorist attack, it was a big city and desperately close to the Starfleet Campus, who wouldn't want to take that out, especially after that whole Nero cluster practically decimated them. It was weird to hear about a pandemic threat that he actually hadn't been involved in or expected to stop. That had been some blonde kid named Kirk's job.
And he'd done it. Well... and got intergalactic recognition for it. No one seemed to bring up to him over and over again that he hadn't saved that other planet, to lay the pressure on and guilt him into continuing...
Must be nice not having angels haunting you like a bad infection.
But they'd been calling the Site a miracle, seemed like religious freaks had gotten there first instead of the sociopathic conspirtists. Made sense because it did happen on the steps of the oldest church in the city. The great, stone cathedral towered over head, the single circular stained glass window in the front the sole survivor of the blast.
"It was a battle."
When was it wasn't? Dean looked over his shoulder at Castiel. The former angel's eyes were fixed on the twisted and broken form of a slender framed Asian man, his eyes half closed and he looked almost peaceful save for the fact that he looked pale and sickly, his skin a frosted blue and lips purple... as if he'd drowned in very deep water.
But like it was will all the corpses of angelic vessels there was no blood, only the burned shadow of wings scared into the asphalt.
"Iophiel. A scholar," Castiel said quietly and crossed to where the body laid, Dean following at a distance and standing protectively near when Castiel knelt next to the dead man and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.
They may have all been dicks and looked at him with disgust and only didn't kill him because they believed they'd punished him enough by stripping him and leaving him to rot among humans... leaving him with Dean... and used him like a cheap homing device to track Dean but they were still his family, his brothers and sisters and Castiel mourned the loss of every angel.
And there were three here. Dean looked towards the cracked and crumbling stairs where another angel lay dead, cold and blue like the Asian man. That angel, a slender, pretty black woman with a mass of curly black hair. The shadow of her wings spread akimbo on the stairs and looked larger than Iophiel's had been, maybe she was a higher rank.
"There, Nuriel." Castiel motioned towards the woman on the stairs. "The angel of hailstorms. And Aftiel an angel over the twilight hours..."
Dean blinked in surprise at the third body some yards away. The vessel had clearly been a half breed, Andorian, maybe... it was hard to see the human genetics bleeding through the pale blue skin and white hair. Since when were xenos devout, true-believers? Dean shrugged one shoulder and dismissed it. Military changed their camos to the landscape, guess angels were keeping up with the 'brave new world' theory. Didn't matter anyway, it wasn't the vessel that mattered, it was the angel. The Andorian hybrid had the same imprinted shadow of wings around him.
"More of your old Garrison?" Dean asked. "Angel on angel crime?"
Castiel's Garrison had gone rouge in the first year, turned to follow Uriel and Lucifer. The only angels who refused had been slaughtered, except for Castiel. The rouges weren't quite angels and they weren't quite Fallen; they ran in a pack like mercenaries and made it their business to act in Lucifer's name and kill any loyalist angels they crossed.
"No... What did this was very old... it came from very deep in the Pit." Castiel said quietly. Dean stiffened.
"Thought only angels could kill other angels. You telling me that Hell's got a new big bad that can clip the Host's wings?" Dean felt the tension winding between his shoulders.
"No. This was the work of an angel."
That didn't relax Dean at all. "One of the Fallen?"
"One of the first to follow Lucifer into the Pit. Nothing else is this strong save for an Archangel."
"Great... last time it was a Fallen both of us almost died!" Dean bent and hissed his dissent to Castiel. "And that town still got wiped off the map."
"I am well aware of what happened, Dean. I was present." Castiel deadpanned.
"Well this is just peachy... don't think they'll want to handle it themselves? Leave us out of it? Revenge and all that? It did just ice three angels."
Castiel didn't reply, he didn't know, obviously, wasn't like he was still tuned into angel radio. Even when he was still part of the Host they didn't tell the Angel of Thursday much. Dean sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.
"Can you tell which one?"
"Possibly a Watcher... " As he spoke Dean twitched nervously because in those long night hours that neither he nor Castiel could sleep the diminished angel had told him about the First War in Heaven, told him the names of the Fallen and his brothers and sisters still aloft and all their steads. Dean knew these names, knew who they were as intimately as Castiel had known them before their Fall into the Pit. He knew what they meant.
And none of it was good.
Castiel continued speaking quietly when a human investigator stepped passed them. "... Arakiel... maybe Samyaza. If it not a Watcher it is Focalor."
Dean went very still. "The Griffin?"
"It is probable."
Dean let out a shuddering breath and buried his hands into his hair, tugging at the short strands before letting them slide down and grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. He let out a shaky, broken noise before steeling himself. "What about your dad?"
"Father was here." Castiel shrugged one shoulder. Dean nodded, he felt the hum, the electricity in the air that crackled in the wake of something more powerful than angels. More feral.
"I do not believe He was a part of the conflict. Merely in the vicinity felt the deaths of these three and came when it was done to mourn them. Lay His hand on them-"
"So he's long gone," Dean sighed.
"Yes." The sound came like an arrow being pulled from a wound. Sickly and pained. Castiel looked numb and tired. It was already getting harder and harder for Castiel to bounce back from each near miss. It was a bucket of ice water down Dean's spine when he considered that Castiel might not rebound one day soon. That his faith might finally crack and that shadow of a creature Dean had seen, been shown, might pop up. The Castiel's whose pupils were dilated with narcotics and alcohol and voice full of jokes but no humor.
Dean shook himself. No. It wouldn't happen. He rubbed his eyes. "Alright... so let’s figure out what's so important that they had a brawl here. Bet you pie it has something to do with the church."
"A relic, maybe... or a soul inside." Castiel rose to his feet and fell into step with Dean, walking along the edge of the lasered off area towards the steps of the cathedral.
"Lotta noise for just one soul."
"There have been longer and louder battles for singular souls before." Castiel cast him a look.
"I know. I know. A Legion of Heaven made war on Hell for forty years for me, I got it already." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "You're not a part of the club; you don't have to guilt me."
"Sometimes it seems necessary," Castiel responded back and Dean rolled his eyes. "Dean, let us tread lightly. I am unsure if it has moved on."
Dean only nodded and let his hand slide around to the small of his back and graced over the Colt 1911 tucked into his waist band. It wouldn't do much damage against a Fallen, but a sure shot in the eye might slow it down enough to get away. Might...
Dean and Castiel carefully climbed the ruined steps of the cathedral, both taking special attention to avoid stepping on Nuriel or the imprinted shadow of her wings. Dean had nearly flinched every time he saw an investigator or first responder walk casually across the wing imprints, their heels digging into the stained asphalt.
They could show some kind of respect.
The Hunter and the diminished angel crossed into the shadow and much cooler air of the cathedral, it was void of personnel, obviously cleared and considered unremarkable. It looked pretty typical to Dean. The rows of carved wood pews, large stone stands supporting ornate metal basins full of water. There were tall support beams made of carved stonework and wrought precious metals in the shapes of cherubic angels and flowers. The walls had the Stations of the Cross of painted plaster and gilded frames. Crucifixes and gaping holes were there had been stained glass windows. The floor was littered with colored glass and splintered wood. Further along there were alcoves of Covenants, one with a massive marble statue of the Virgin Mary and the other a similar statue depicting Saint Patrick, the alcoves were surrounded by tables supporting rows of prayer candles, most snuffed out from the blast.
The marble statue of Christ had a real wood cross as it towered over the Alter at the front of the old church, gilded gold and silver wrought into the design. Dean glanced up at the dais but drew his attention away as he and Castiel carefully walked along the middle aisle. Their boots echoed in the empty space.
Both kept their eyes scanning, roving trying to pick out the forgotten relic that may have been left in the middle of combat, or maybe someone hiding under a pew at the sound of holy warfare. Halfway down the aisle Dean sighed aloud and settled his hands on his hips.
"Looks like a bust Cas... thing must have got away with what he wanted," Dean muttered then tensed at the sound of feathers cutting through air. He and Castiel spun on their heels and braced for a fight but relaxed at the sight of the petite woman standing at the end of the pews. She was small and slender and stood at a military at ease position. Her hands folded in the small of her back.
Her hair was a russet color like dried blood and her eyes a brilliant and sorrowful viridian that was near Dean's own eye color, enough so that she looked kin to him. She had a pretty heart shaped face that was marred by the ugly, jagged remains of a scar running from her hairline, down over an eye and to the corner of her mouth. She wore a fitting black tank top and a pair of military camo cargos of gray, black and white. They were tucked into laced up combat boots. There was a watch around her wrist and a slim chain supporting a set of military dog tags around her throat.
"Abaddon," Castiel breathed and the she-angel's lips quirked up just slightly.
"Hey fellas," she drawled in a southwestern accent. She physically relaxed and started towards them.
"Hey Abby," Dean greeted and she gave him a slight and genuine smile.
Abaddon. The Angel of War and Michael's right hand girl. The one angel, other than Castiel, that Dean had a remote fondness for. Abaddon was a soldier, she'd been made on the battle field with a cut of Michael's Grace. Abaddon made sense, she was bound to her work, her position in upholding the laws of war in all its forms and she followed the orders laid out before her by the only angel that ranked higher than her in her Legion, Michael. In the archangel's absence Abaddon controlled his Legion, she was intimately familiar with each angel in her secondary command, from the grunts right up to the Ypolochagos, Lochagos and Tagmatartchis. And she commanded them to their nature, solid and stead fast and if Dean had an Antistratigos he had to follow he could hope they would be like Abaddon. She never asked more of them than she was willing to give herself. This was probably why she stood as Michael's Antistratigos, his Lieutenant General. And while she was an excellent leader and warrior she did not act blindly, like any well trained soldier she thought for herself and all her commands and orders rung with the concern and consideration of the welfare of her soldiers.
Dean remembered the first time Abaddon came to him and Castiel. She'd actually knocked on the motel door and bargained shameless for five minutes of Dean's time and in those five minutes, Dean's hand poised over a blood banishing spell, Abaddon had earned a little of his respect and a little of his acceptance. It was obvious that Michael had sent her himself to talk to Dean, to 'show him how angels really were' and make amends for the bad examples Uriel and Zachariah had been and to see if she could gently coax Dean into standing as Michael's vessel.
She won more of his respect when after his first refusal she did not persist and in all the time that she had continued to come to the Hunter and diminished angel she never asked it of him again and only spoke on the matter if Dean himself brought it up.
Dean constantly told Castiel that once he'd gotten his mojo back to get his ass transferred into Michael's Legion and Abaddon's command.
"Guess you've already heard." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head slightly at the Antistratigos.
"Ya know I can feel the vibrations of every battlefield as it comes into existence. Otherwise I would not have heard of it for some time, they were a part of Ramiel's Legion. They'll mourn bit longer. I expect ya already have a theory?"
"A Fallen, freed from very deep in the Pit. One of the Watchers-" Castiel provided.
"Or Focalor... Cas thinks that if it's not one of the Watchers then it’s him."
Abaddon let out a sigh that sounded too much like a warrior exhausted of combat. "If it is the Griffin then we have a very big problem."
That's was how Abaddon won Dean's loyalty. We. When the term had first blossomed from the Angel of War Dean had sneered, thinking it was another detached reference, when they said 'we' it meant their mess, Dean's job to run clean up. When Abaddon said ‘we’ she meant we. Dean had nearly lost his voice in shock when Abaddon went along with them on that first mission, step for step, and took Dean's orders. When Abaddon came to them with a mission or Hunt that needed attention she went with them, stayed at their sides, fought with them and protected them when she could and used the word we in sincerity.
Dean let a sigh of relief slip through his teeth and Abaddon's lips quirked.
"Ya expected to deal with somethin' like this completely alone did ya?"
"It's been turning out to be one of those days, Abby." Dean rubbed a hand through his hair and let his shoulders slump slightly.
Abaddon's head tilted until Dean was faced with the scarred side of her visage. The brilliant jade eye was slightly clouded, half blind. Dean never understood why it was that she turned the damaged part of her sight on him in moments like this. Was it meant so be some kind of metaphor of Justice or deeper sight? Was she even really lacking the sight in the damaged eye, or was it just the vessel and Abaddon could easily see beyond it?
"As are the times, Dean," Abaddon said gently, her tone coaxing and soothing; like the sounds of a soldier easing a fallen comrade into oblivion of death. "As all soldiers have seen."
"They're more often than not, Abaddon." Castiel spoke just as quietly, almost pleadingly.
"I know... but ya must go on-"
"For how long, Abby!?!" Dean barked suddenly, his voice echoing in the cathedral, rattling the last of the colored glass. "It's been two hundred and fifty years! What's the point!?"
"Ya honestly believe I agreed with this?" Abaddon growled, her hackles rising and the very stone of the cathedral shivered. "No soldier is meant to face combat for eternity. Not the worst of them... and most certainly not one of the best. Ya were not meant for this Dean. What they have done to ya is unjust. I had never known my kin could be cruel, ya cain't imagine the shock it was. I never wanted this for ya..."
Dean's eyes narrowed, looking at Castiel for a moment before casting his jade eyes back to the she-angel. "What the Hell does that mean, Abby?"
"Dean. I have had a hand in the making of all creatures that will or would see battle. Charlemagne, Richard the Lionheart, Dwight Eisenhower, David Pataerus, Christopher Pike, some of my greatest works and designs. Then there was Alexander and never had I come so close to perfection before... and yet Michael came to me baring this thin', this gentle, flutterin' creature that was never meant for the field of fray. Laid it before me and told me, 'make me a soldier to rival yer Alexander... make me a soldier fit to carry my wings'... I pounded the steel of that soul for a thousand years, laid into it bits of my own Grace, drenched it in Bloodlust and Loyalty, poured into it Instinct and Wisdom, laced its heart with gold sparks of Michael's Sword. I fostered it and molded it, never once changin' its original nature until it was fit and bore it onto a small angel that I knew not the name of..."
Abaddon's eyes cast towards Castiel and the sapphire eyes bored into viridian, lifting his chin.
"... The seraphim on whose day he would be born. Told him the name of a bloodline strong enough to turn out the soul. I warned him, as I warned Michael, that the soul was-"
"Was not meant to be long of the world." Castiel spoke quietly and carefully, repeating words long dulled with age. "Thirty, possibly forty years and it was meant to be done. His spirit would not hold beyond that. Thirty or forty years and he must come Home."
Abaddon nodded, blinking slowly, almost lazily. Tilting her head so the glazed and clouded eye was turned towards them. "And yet... yer spirit never faltered, never wavered. Not even in Hell. Not when they laid this curse on ya. Dean, ya have surpassed anything I would have ever expected of ya... or of Alexander."
Dean felt a very slight flush cross his cheeks, making the faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose stand out. It'd been a long time since he'd been praised by anyone other than Castiel. Not sincerely. Hearing it from Abaddon, someone he actually respected, it... it was different... especially when he was compared to Alexander the Great.
The Angel of War often mentioned Alexander, talked about his tactics and intelligence, his hand and mind for war and conquest. She never fully praised the ancient warrior, more spoke of him in passing or quoted him. While the Antistratigos never spoke before of her hand in creating Alexander, or in Dean for that matter, it was clear that she'd had a fondness for Alexander.
"The sin of Pride does not remotely cover what I feel for ya."
The words were a shock so deep that Dean paled.
"Ya must go on, Dean. Hold fast. Ya have not faltered this long. This... injustice that has laid on ya was meant to break ya Dean, break yer mind, body and will. Hold fast."
Dean swallowed a deep breath before letting the air slip from his chest with a hollow rattle before nodding jerkily. And Abaddon nodded her own approval and cast her eyes towards Castiel, having some silent, heartbeat long conversation with the diminished angel before the azure eyed man dipped his head.
Dean cleared his throat in the awkward hesitation. At least it was awkward for him. Experience was more than the Hunter needed to know that angels didn't take to the world the same way humans did. Things like awkward moments and personal space didn't compute. They were beings made of pure power and energy, they shared thoughts and Grace as easily as humans shook hands. The closest thing they came to real intimacy was the brush of wings. Castiel had described it as kin to something like sharing breath and blood and souls all at once and that it wasn't done lightly.
"Well, after that little reveal what the Hell do we do about this Fallen?" The Hunter grumbled and ran a hand through his hair.
"It would seem the wisest course of action is to be positive of its identity, could lead to an explanation of what exactly it was that was needed so badly, that it crawled its way out of the Pit." Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Can you tell who it was, Abaddon?"
"No. It's freshly out of the Pit, the scent of Hell is too thick on it to know which Watcher it may be. Let's pray it’s not Focalor. Yer both bone weary. Go. Rest. I'll see if Ramiel knows or if there was a survivor of this battle that can describe it; I'll be back when I have the name."
"Thanks, Abby." Dean sighed and slumped a little. The Antistratigos dipped her head slightly as the two squeezed passed her and started back down the aisle between pews and shattered glass. Castiel faltered and twisted.
"Sister?"
Abaddon cocked her head to look over her shoulder at him.
"You know He was here."
The Angel of War only blinked lazily once and dipped her head slightly before turning away from him. Castiel watched her back for another moment before following Dean dutifully out of the cathedral.
…
On to Part 2...