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alchemyaliceTitle: On the Wings of War
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, possibly Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but probably long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are discreet. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Dean had taken to almost lucid dreaming, the smear-edged anxious sort of dreams of the exhausted insomniac that shouldn’t be getting dreams at all, not memorable ones anyway. They were all lurid colors and rough edges, livid with childhood memories distorted by hellscapes. So this silent parking lot, with its rain soaked asphalt and blown out street lights? This was different.
“Dean.”
Dean turned even while he didn’t feel himself doing so. He startled.
Michael was right there, close to him, wearing John Winchester’s young body, but his eyes were ringed with gold. He searched Dean’s face with an unfathomable expression, one Dean had never seen before. There was so much silence.
Dean had forgotten what dreams with Michael were like. It had been a while, ever since he’d put the ring on his finger. Damn it, he should have noticed that sooner, though with everything else happening it would have been nigh impossible. But yeah, it had been a while. And now things were different.
Dean realized suddenly that his wings were still there, still following him into his dream state, and had his self-concept actually slipped that much? He felt like Sam would have a lot of concerned and sympathetic expressions for that.
Michael was still looking at him.
Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “So,” he said cautiously. “I’m thinking you might have a problem with these.”
He shifted the wings slightly, enough to draw attention to them. Michael’s gaze flicked up to them, darkened, and then came back down.
“I think my problem is probably minor when compared to yours,” he said finally.
Dean exhaled. He’d half expected just more stretching silence, or maybe righteous anger. Not this strange contemplation by a presence that seemed to fill in the air, all the cracks around him, pressing him.
“Even if I said yes now,” Dean said, after a beat. “You couldn’t. Right?”
“Did you do it?” Michael asked, still sounding raw in the deadly quiet. “Was this your plan?”
“Dude. No,” Dean said, as vehemently as he could. “Something got to me. I dunno what. Believe me, while I still have no desire to be your meat suit, this was definitely not on my list of alternatives.”
Michael closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he reopened them, the gold seemed dimmer, tarnished.
He said, with a voice that sounded eviscerated, pulled from him forcibly, “I don’t. I don’t know what to do.”
Dean…had nothing to say to that. He thought numbly, so this is what an angel looks like when he loses his faith.
“Divine plan is in ruin,” Michael said, turning away. “It has been from the beginning of this. I should have seen the signs of it; nothing has been as it was written. Have your war for free will, Dean Winchester. You’ll hear no more from me.”
He took three steps into the dark and Dean said, “Wait.”
Michael stopped, shoulders hunched, angelic presence receding into him like he was shrinking.
“Your Father’s creation is about to go to shit,” Dean said. “And you’re gonna walk away?”
“What choice do I have?” Michael looked at him. “My vessel has been turned into an abomination. Either my Father is dead or has stopped caring about his creation and its future. In either case, my purpose has ended.”
“Well thanks, Nietzsche,” Dean snapped. “That’s real cheery. But don’t you think if God’s dead, that he’d want you to look after his stuff?”
Michael sneered. “He left it in the hands of my brother and your tainted self.”
“Your brother hasn’t got it yet. And he doesn’t have to have it ever. And I may be tainted, but I’m still partly human, and more than partly on humanity’s side. You could help us.”
Dean didn’t really know why he was bothering. The guy had brought mental agony on him for weeks before this, ever since Cas took him and Sam back to the seventies. But Michael was a broken soldier now—it was clear through the cracks in his expression and the way his steps had faltered, no longer marching to the beat of discipline.
Dean could relate. Hell, more than being one, he seemed to amass the type around him like some sort of collect-them-all set.
He said, very carefully, “You don’t…just because you don’t have orders, doesn’t mean you don’t have a purpose.”
Michael stared at him, as if he wasn’t sure whether Dean was real or not. Then he said, “Good night, Dean.”
And Dean woke like he’d been drowning, the dream lingering over him like a cloak of cobwebs.
It was better that he not get anyone’s hopes up yet. Especially not his own. That had been one of the most fragile conversations he’d ever had, and to even think about it again felt like a violation of trust.
But he found himself for the first time hoping that Michael would come back.
God, the irony was killing him.
It was still only just dawn, with the sun reaching with tendrils of light over a dim black and green horizon. Dean wondered why Michael had come back to talk to him, after leaving him during transformation. It could have been a power interference thing, or maybe just the fact that he was changing who he was…he didn’t know, and those were stupid guesses, but it was just unsettling, though that wasn’t anything new.
With the knowledge that sleep wasn’t coming back to him any time soon, he got up and stretched his wings, weirdly thankful that he was sleeping in the panic room now because at least when he stretched he wouldn’t knock over everything in a twenty foot radius. He’d been feeling less clumsy with them ever since Cas had taught him how the things worked, at least on the metaphysical level. They seemed more natural, and wasn’t that just all kinds of weird and disturbing. But when he stretched they moved independently from his arms, and they didn’t flail, they just arced back and then around, rotating inwards to pull at the long lines of muscle. And they were so new that they didn’t even pop and click like the rest of Dean’s joints, which made him feel oddly young again. And man, anything that made him feel like he hadn’t spent forty years in Hell got extra points from him, even when it also prickled with alien-ness at his back.
Tucking them back close to him again, he went upstairs to make coffee. Castiel was already at the kitchen table, a series of atlases spread out. “Dude, you’re gonna want to move those to the living room once everyone else is up,” Dean said. “Kitchen table’s no place for work.”
Castiel nodded, absorbing this new information without comment. Dean came around to look over his shoulder. “What are you marking off?” he asked.
“Potential churches that could be used to build the gate,” Castiel answered. “Unfortunately, there are many that meet the basic criteria.”
“And what criteria is that?”
In a strangely human gesture, Castiel ticked them off on his fingers. “Blessings by one of the archangels. Sigils of holy protection in the architecture, which are common in every church built before the 17th century. Genuine relics are helpful, but not required. And finally, geographical advantage.”
“Okay. So how many does that leave us?”
Castiel gestured widely at the atlases. “Everything I have marked. I’m now calculating which groupings of seven would create the most ideally shaped gate.”
“Okay,” Dean said, because this was Cas and Sam’s area of expertise, and not his in the least. “You want some coffee?”
The angel waved him away with an impatient hand. Dean snorted softly to himself, and went about brewing himself a cup. As the machine began to percolate, he leaned against the counter and let his wings brush the floor. “So, Michael’s back,” he said.
Castiel stiffened and turned. “What did he say to you?” he asked.
“He…not much. He, um. He kind of reminded me of you, actually. When you started doubting.”
“Michael is doubting?” Castiel tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “That seems unlikely. He is, and ever has been, the dutiful son.”
“Yeah, a dutiful son that just got smacked in the face with a ruined vessel and an even more ruined Apocalypse.” Dean gestured at himself. “I mean, I know my dad messed me up and did some pretty dubious shit to me, but even he was willing to go to Hell for me in the end.”
“And so Michael has contacted you again. What do you think he wants this time?”
“Dunno. But I told him that if he wants to talk, he can. It’s messed up, man. I can’t believe I’m offering myself up like some sort of psychotherapist. He’s still a dick, so far as I can see.”
Castiel looked conflicted for a long moment, his atlases forgotten. Then he said, “I think it’s a good thing, what you did. It would be easy for us to not forgive him, or any of the others, for not questioning their faith sooner. That you are willing to…it seems right to me. It assures me further that I have picked the correct side in this conflict.”
Dean never knew what to say to shit like that, so he chose to ignore it. “Well, just don’t tell the others about it for now, all right? I don’t want to worry them, and we’ve got enough over our heads already without even more angels coming out of the woodwork.”
“You have my word,” Castiel said gravely. Then he glanced briefly back at his maps. “You will search out Pestilence today?”
“Yeah. You coming with?”
“I should. My resilience to disease is still stronger than yours, despite my current condition. I believe that would be of help.”
“Definitely, dude. We’ll always want you around.”
Dean was not thinking about the connotations of that. It’d just slipped out; it didn’t mean anything. Castiel smiled very slightly anyway.
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean drank his coffee down, the brew strong and scalding in a way that would make Sam cringe and whine and put milk and sugar in by the tablespoon like the girl he was. Dean sighed. It felt like a good day. Or at least, a different one.
As the sun rose, Bobby rolled into the room, grunted at Dean as an order to get him coffee, and set about clattering around with pots and pans. Dean poured more coffee into a mug from the drying rack and handed it over.
“Sam up yet?” he asked.
“He went out last night,” Bobby said, after taking a fortifying sip. “Said he’d be back soon.”
“Where?” Dean asked sharply.
“Didn’t say. There he is, though.” Bobby nodded at the screen door, through which the Impala was visible, pulling up in front of the house in a crunch of gravel.
Sam unfolded himself from the driver’s side, and then the passenger door opened.
“Oh hell no,” Dean growled. So much for that good day.
“What precisely does Samuel think he is doing?” Castiel said quietly, evenly, and that just sounded goddamn dangerous.
Outside, Sam made a ‘stay’ gesture at Crowley with one hand, and then walked up towards to porch. Dean banged out through the screen door to meet him.
“What the ever living fuck, Sam?” he hissed, wings rising and flaring automatically, arching even taller than Sam. Sam stepped back, hands raised.
“I can explain.”
“You had better.”
“He gave me his number after the Colt,” Sam said, pulling the slip of paper out of his pocket.
“Not the first time a demon’s hit on you, Sam,” Dean snapped.
Sam glared. “Not funny. He said if we were gonna keep changing the rules of the game, he can help. He wants out of Hell, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if we keep fucking up the status quo. So for all intents and purposes—“
“The enemy of my enemy and shit? Are you gonna buy that a second time, Sammy?”
“Look, you don’t have to believe me,” Sam said, looking like he he’d been slapped. “I haven’t told him anything except the bare bones of our situation, so you can talk to him, test him, do whatever you like. Hell, take Cas with you, scare the crap out of him, I don’t give a shit. I just think we need the odds as much in our favor as possible if we’re making you a general or whatever.”
He took a breath. “I needed to do something for you, man. This whole thing is exploding in our faces and—“
“And so you got me a demon,” Dean cut him off. He took a deep breath and let it out hard through his nose. “A-plus for effort, Sammy, but a serious F-minus for execution. Jesus, you could have at least told me before making that kind of call.”
“And then you wouldn’t have let me make it at all,” Sam said flatly. He looked incredibly tired all of a sudden, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as his shoulders slumped. “Just…talk to him. I’ve been out all night and need some coffee.”
“What were doing in all that time?” Dean said, just a touch bitterly. “Take you all that time to drive to this guy or did you two spend some quality time, too?”
“Ew, Dean. Do not even go there.” Sam slammed into the house and sat heavily at the kitchen table. He didn’t dare look at Bobby. He didn’t need to, though.
“What the fuck did you expect, boy?” Bobby said. “Get back up off your ass and get me another cup while you’re getting your own.”
Sam sighed, and did as he was told. Castiel gave him a measured look, and then went out to Dean.
From the porch, Dean watched Crowley brush particles of dust off his immaculate suit and generally look unconcerned with life, the universe, and everything. “This stinks, Cas,” he said, without turning.
“I agree; your brother’s approach to finding help is proving particularly….”
“Consistent?” Dean suggested. “Idiotically consistent?”
“Are you going to come over and chat with me, or do I have to start charging the salt lines?” Crowley called, sounding infuriatingly smug.
Dean growled, and before Castiel could move, he’d disappeared and reappeared right in front of Crowley’s face.
“You’ve got a fuck of a lot of nerve coming here,” Dean said, poking Crowley in the chest. “After what happened with the Colt—“
“Hey, I thought that would work,” Crowley protested.
“You got my friends killed for it,” Dean cut him off, and then he was pinning the demon to the Impala with one sharp spine from the shoulder of his wing. The tip rested on the knot of Crowley’s tie.
Crowley raised his eyebrows, a flicker of fear crossing his expression before smoothing out. He looked up at Dean’s wings and frowned in vague consternation. “You’ve quite an affinity for those,” he said. Slowly, he raised one hand and tapped gingerly at the claw at his throat. “Are you certain you’ve never had wings before? Oh yes, of course you did.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“In hell,” Crowley said, rather blithely, considering. “You get off the rack, you start ripping into some souls yourself, you start earning your wings. Shattered, broken down things, unfortunately, but still wings, you know. It’s the way things work. Or haven’t these new ones felt a bit familiar?”
Very slowly, Dean withdrew. Castiel said lowly, “Dean, is this wise…?”
“This is the same deal, right?” Dean said bluntly, not taking his focus off Crowley. “You’re out for yourself, and we just happen to be the best way of increasing your chance of survival at the moment.”
“Got it in one,” Crowley said, with a bright smile. “I’ll stab you in the back first chance I get, but for now, I think you boys are on the right track. Especially if you’ve got an archangel on your side.”
“Sam tell you about that?”
“Nah, I figured that bit out for myself. Been wondering what the wayward Messenger has been up to, lately. Now, are you gonna let me into your happy family for a time, or should I pack up and go?”
“Dean,” Castiel growled.
“Yeah?” Dean said, upraised spine still poised with a direct trajectory into Crowley’s skull. Crowley seemed well aware of it. “What do you think, Cas?”
“I think he killed Ellen and Jo,” Castiel answered, voice rough and stony.
Dean curled his lip, and didn’t disagree. Crowley looked between them.
“Look,” he said. “You want to know about the Horsemen’s army, right? Because apparently you’re taking the reins on that, correct, Winchester? I can help with that. I have Hell’s perspective on that. I can also tell you at least three of the locations you’ll need to find the churches in.”
“What do you know of the seven churches?” Castiel asked, hawk-like.
“I know that Lucifer’s going to start trying to find them and desecrate them as soon as he figures out his Horsemen aren’t doing their jobs anymore,” Crowley answered. “And I know that he’ll probably find that out as soon as you go after Pestilence. And when was that going to happen? Oh yes. Today. So today he’s finding out, and he’s going to start laying waste, probably starting in Marrakech.”
“Marrakech,” Castiel murmured. “Yes. All right.”
Dean watched as the angel shifted focus almost seamlessly, once again letting his battle-readiness show through in that way that was always startling and just a little terrifying. “Guess you’ve got his vote,” he said dryly. “Come on in, then. I’ll tell Bobby to ease off the holy water.”
***
“We’re going to have to split up if we want to both get Pestilence and prevent Lucifer from desecrating the churches.”
“I’ll call Gabriel,” Sam said.
“You have his cell?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“We’re moving up in the world,” Dean said. “What do you know about the Horsemen’s army?”
“Other than being 200 million strong? I’ve never seen them. But then again, no one but Death has.” Crowley helped himself to a cup of coffee, and was about to take a sip when Sam cleared his throat. He stopped and looked at Bobby. “You make your coffee with holy water?” he demanded. “Seriously?”
“I don’t have a Brita filter on the sink because I care about minerals, idjit,” Bobby grunted. Crowley eyed the filter on the faucet with distaste.
“Charcoal filters…and rosaries. Lovely. What was I saying?”
“The army,” Dean said impatiently.
“Right. Only Death knows for sure. But I’ll tell you one thing: Even Lucifer can’t control them. He tried, when all of this started. That was the reason he raised Death in the first place—to get him to channel all that power to him. But Death just outright told him no—no angel, fallen or otherwise, could control it. It’s not in the army’s nature to follow anything except Horsemen. Or, apparently, human/Horsemen hybrids.” He eyed Dean significantly. “It’s a good look for you, by the way. Very fire and brimstone, without the fire. Hell-lite, if there is such a thing. Maybe even Hell-chic. I’ve heard there’s a market for that.”
Sam sank down in his seat, feeling his face burn with transferred embarrassment. Dean glared at him and then turned back to Crowley. “No commentary, thanks,” he said eventually. “What, other than my apparent Horseman-like qualities, is going to give me control over these things?”
“Will,” Crowley said simply. “Your desire to do battle, or whatever else you intend to make the army do. If the Apocalypse was still going as planned, Death would be marking all of those who would be swept away—two-thirds of the earth, for those of you keeping track—and with will alone, proclaiming those marked thusly destined to die. And then the army would sweep all of them away. As it is now, though, you’ve got to define what you want, and bring them to heel with that idea. And no, it won’t be as easy as it sounds.”
Dean grunted. “Didn’t sound so easy to begin with.”
“Yes,” Crowley agreed, with some appreciation. “They’ll want to know why they aren’t instructed to kill. Because that’s what they were made for. You’re essentially telling a tank not to crush the grass as it goes over to blast some other target into oblivion.”
“And the target is its best friend,” Dean murmured. “Got it.”
“I don’t envy you,” Crowley said, for the first time looking entirely serious. “But if you can do it, I’ll owe you a favor. And as a rule, I don’t owe anyone favors.”
“Kiddos! How’s it hangin’?” Gabriel said from the doorway.
Sam snapped his phone shut. “We have to multitask,” he said, “So we need your help.”
Gabriel looked abruptly less enthused, and a lot more wrathful. Sam followed his gaze, and winced as he saw where it landed. “Entailing what, precisely?” he said, voice going low with an underlying hum of electric energy. “And what is he doing here?”
Sam’s eyes darted to the windowpanes that began to tremble slightly.
“Gabriel,” Crowley said, with a cautious nod. His eyes were flashing between normal and black. “Been a while.”
“Still hanging around crossroads?” Gabriel asked.
Crowley shrugged, but he looked small. “It’s what I do.”
The archangel looked at Dean. “I hope you’re not trusting him.”
“Not a chance,” Dean said shortly.
“He says he knows three of the Seven Churches,” Castiel said.
Gabriel looked at him in surprise. “Truly? How?”
“I hear things,” Crowley said.
Sam could almost imagine Gabriel’s wings rising in threat. “I hope you hear well, then,” the archangel said, and he did in that instant look his part, an angel of justice. He seemed to fill the room.
“I wouldn’t lie,” Crowley said, shrinking back slightly. “Not when it could kill me.”
Gabriel cocked his head for a moment, eyes still narrow and harsh. But then he eased, and the thrum in the air seemed to fade, so cautiously Dean cleared his throat.
“Pick one,” he said, “Preventing Lucifer from church bashing, or going after Pestilence.”
“Pestilence,” Gabriel said immediately, tearing his attention away from Crowley. Crowley looked more than slightly relieved.
“What, no tearful reunion with your brother?” Dean snarked.
“You want my help, don’t push me,” the archangel snapped. “I choose Pestilence. Who’s coming with me?”
“I am,” Crowley said, though very reluctantly. At Gabriel’s glare, he added, “Working with you lot, I want to be as far from Lucifer as possible. Not exactly in his good books, see?”
“Right, Sam, you’re going to need to go with them to keep them in line,” Dean said, not liking it. “That leaves Cas and I on church duty.”
Sam wasn’t thrilled, but he nodded anyway.
“I’m not liking this asymmetry,” Gabriel said musingly. “Bobby, you should go with Castiel and Dean.”
Bobby glared at him. “Are you blind?” he growled. “’Cause I got this slight problem—“
“Do you?” Gabriel said mildly.
Dean and Sam both froze. Bobby just blinked slowly. Then he shifted in his wheelchair. Kicked away the footrests.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathed.
Bobby stood. A bit waveringly, but he stood. He looked at Gabriel, jaw working silently. Then he said, “Thanks. You couldn’t have done that sooner?”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Humans and your unreasonable demands,” he complained. “Can we go now?”
Dean looked at Sam, staring at him hard. Sam placed a hand pointedly on the handle of Ruby’s knife, tucked into his belt. Dean nodded slowly.
“With any luck, Pestilence will cooperate, now that a deal has been made,” Castiel said. “Nevertheless, exercise caution.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “You guys, too.”
“Portland, wasn’t it?” Gabriel said lightly. “See you later, alligators.”
Unceremoniously, he jabbed two fingers into Sam’s forehead, and they both disappeared. Crowley grimaced, and followed in a huff of air.
“This doesn’t seem smart,” Dean remarked.
“When does anything you boys do seem smart?” Bobby said.
“We should go,” Castiel said. “Marrakech is large, it may take several tries to locate the precise church that must be protected.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, okay. Who do you wanna ride with, Bobby, me or Cas?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Bobby grunted. “I’m riding with the one who’s had more than a week of driving lessons.”
Dean swore he saw Castiel’s mouth curve into a smirk as he reached out with requisite fingers. Snorting softly himself, he stretched his wings back and pulled.
Chapter Eight.
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, possibly Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but probably long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are discreet. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Dean had taken to almost lucid dreaming, the smear-edged anxious sort of dreams of the exhausted insomniac that shouldn’t be getting dreams at all, not memorable ones anyway. They were all lurid colors and rough edges, livid with childhood memories distorted by hellscapes. So this silent parking lot, with its rain soaked asphalt and blown out street lights? This was different.
“Dean.”
Dean turned even while he didn’t feel himself doing so. He startled.
Michael was right there, close to him, wearing John Winchester’s young body, but his eyes were ringed with gold. He searched Dean’s face with an unfathomable expression, one Dean had never seen before. There was so much silence.
Dean had forgotten what dreams with Michael were like. It had been a while, ever since he’d put the ring on his finger. Damn it, he should have noticed that sooner, though with everything else happening it would have been nigh impossible. But yeah, it had been a while. And now things were different.
Dean realized suddenly that his wings were still there, still following him into his dream state, and had his self-concept actually slipped that much? He felt like Sam would have a lot of concerned and sympathetic expressions for that.
Michael was still looking at him.
Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “So,” he said cautiously. “I’m thinking you might have a problem with these.”
He shifted the wings slightly, enough to draw attention to them. Michael’s gaze flicked up to them, darkened, and then came back down.
“I think my problem is probably minor when compared to yours,” he said finally.
Dean exhaled. He’d half expected just more stretching silence, or maybe righteous anger. Not this strange contemplation by a presence that seemed to fill in the air, all the cracks around him, pressing him.
“Even if I said yes now,” Dean said, after a beat. “You couldn’t. Right?”
“Did you do it?” Michael asked, still sounding raw in the deadly quiet. “Was this your plan?”
“Dude. No,” Dean said, as vehemently as he could. “Something got to me. I dunno what. Believe me, while I still have no desire to be your meat suit, this was definitely not on my list of alternatives.”
Michael closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he reopened them, the gold seemed dimmer, tarnished.
He said, with a voice that sounded eviscerated, pulled from him forcibly, “I don’t. I don’t know what to do.”
Dean…had nothing to say to that. He thought numbly, so this is what an angel looks like when he loses his faith.
“Divine plan is in ruin,” Michael said, turning away. “It has been from the beginning of this. I should have seen the signs of it; nothing has been as it was written. Have your war for free will, Dean Winchester. You’ll hear no more from me.”
He took three steps into the dark and Dean said, “Wait.”
Michael stopped, shoulders hunched, angelic presence receding into him like he was shrinking.
“Your Father’s creation is about to go to shit,” Dean said. “And you’re gonna walk away?”
“What choice do I have?” Michael looked at him. “My vessel has been turned into an abomination. Either my Father is dead or has stopped caring about his creation and its future. In either case, my purpose has ended.”
“Well thanks, Nietzsche,” Dean snapped. “That’s real cheery. But don’t you think if God’s dead, that he’d want you to look after his stuff?”
Michael sneered. “He left it in the hands of my brother and your tainted self.”
“Your brother hasn’t got it yet. And he doesn’t have to have it ever. And I may be tainted, but I’m still partly human, and more than partly on humanity’s side. You could help us.”
Dean didn’t really know why he was bothering. The guy had brought mental agony on him for weeks before this, ever since Cas took him and Sam back to the seventies. But Michael was a broken soldier now—it was clear through the cracks in his expression and the way his steps had faltered, no longer marching to the beat of discipline.
Dean could relate. Hell, more than being one, he seemed to amass the type around him like some sort of collect-them-all set.
He said, very carefully, “You don’t…just because you don’t have orders, doesn’t mean you don’t have a purpose.”
Michael stared at him, as if he wasn’t sure whether Dean was real or not. Then he said, “Good night, Dean.”
And Dean woke like he’d been drowning, the dream lingering over him like a cloak of cobwebs.
It was better that he not get anyone’s hopes up yet. Especially not his own. That had been one of the most fragile conversations he’d ever had, and to even think about it again felt like a violation of trust.
But he found himself for the first time hoping that Michael would come back.
God, the irony was killing him.
It was still only just dawn, with the sun reaching with tendrils of light over a dim black and green horizon. Dean wondered why Michael had come back to talk to him, after leaving him during transformation. It could have been a power interference thing, or maybe just the fact that he was changing who he was…he didn’t know, and those were stupid guesses, but it was just unsettling, though that wasn’t anything new.
With the knowledge that sleep wasn’t coming back to him any time soon, he got up and stretched his wings, weirdly thankful that he was sleeping in the panic room now because at least when he stretched he wouldn’t knock over everything in a twenty foot radius. He’d been feeling less clumsy with them ever since Cas had taught him how the things worked, at least on the metaphysical level. They seemed more natural, and wasn’t that just all kinds of weird and disturbing. But when he stretched they moved independently from his arms, and they didn’t flail, they just arced back and then around, rotating inwards to pull at the long lines of muscle. And they were so new that they didn’t even pop and click like the rest of Dean’s joints, which made him feel oddly young again. And man, anything that made him feel like he hadn’t spent forty years in Hell got extra points from him, even when it also prickled with alien-ness at his back.
Tucking them back close to him again, he went upstairs to make coffee. Castiel was already at the kitchen table, a series of atlases spread out. “Dude, you’re gonna want to move those to the living room once everyone else is up,” Dean said. “Kitchen table’s no place for work.”
Castiel nodded, absorbing this new information without comment. Dean came around to look over his shoulder. “What are you marking off?” he asked.
“Potential churches that could be used to build the gate,” Castiel answered. “Unfortunately, there are many that meet the basic criteria.”
“And what criteria is that?”
In a strangely human gesture, Castiel ticked them off on his fingers. “Blessings by one of the archangels. Sigils of holy protection in the architecture, which are common in every church built before the 17th century. Genuine relics are helpful, but not required. And finally, geographical advantage.”
“Okay. So how many does that leave us?”
Castiel gestured widely at the atlases. “Everything I have marked. I’m now calculating which groupings of seven would create the most ideally shaped gate.”
“Okay,” Dean said, because this was Cas and Sam’s area of expertise, and not his in the least. “You want some coffee?”
The angel waved him away with an impatient hand. Dean snorted softly to himself, and went about brewing himself a cup. As the machine began to percolate, he leaned against the counter and let his wings brush the floor. “So, Michael’s back,” he said.
Castiel stiffened and turned. “What did he say to you?” he asked.
“He…not much. He, um. He kind of reminded me of you, actually. When you started doubting.”
“Michael is doubting?” Castiel tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “That seems unlikely. He is, and ever has been, the dutiful son.”
“Yeah, a dutiful son that just got smacked in the face with a ruined vessel and an even more ruined Apocalypse.” Dean gestured at himself. “I mean, I know my dad messed me up and did some pretty dubious shit to me, but even he was willing to go to Hell for me in the end.”
“And so Michael has contacted you again. What do you think he wants this time?”
“Dunno. But I told him that if he wants to talk, he can. It’s messed up, man. I can’t believe I’m offering myself up like some sort of psychotherapist. He’s still a dick, so far as I can see.”
Castiel looked conflicted for a long moment, his atlases forgotten. Then he said, “I think it’s a good thing, what you did. It would be easy for us to not forgive him, or any of the others, for not questioning their faith sooner. That you are willing to…it seems right to me. It assures me further that I have picked the correct side in this conflict.”
Dean never knew what to say to shit like that, so he chose to ignore it. “Well, just don’t tell the others about it for now, all right? I don’t want to worry them, and we’ve got enough over our heads already without even more angels coming out of the woodwork.”
“You have my word,” Castiel said gravely. Then he glanced briefly back at his maps. “You will search out Pestilence today?”
“Yeah. You coming with?”
“I should. My resilience to disease is still stronger than yours, despite my current condition. I believe that would be of help.”
“Definitely, dude. We’ll always want you around.”
Dean was not thinking about the connotations of that. It’d just slipped out; it didn’t mean anything. Castiel smiled very slightly anyway.
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean drank his coffee down, the brew strong and scalding in a way that would make Sam cringe and whine and put milk and sugar in by the tablespoon like the girl he was. Dean sighed. It felt like a good day. Or at least, a different one.
As the sun rose, Bobby rolled into the room, grunted at Dean as an order to get him coffee, and set about clattering around with pots and pans. Dean poured more coffee into a mug from the drying rack and handed it over.
“Sam up yet?” he asked.
“He went out last night,” Bobby said, after taking a fortifying sip. “Said he’d be back soon.”
“Where?” Dean asked sharply.
“Didn’t say. There he is, though.” Bobby nodded at the screen door, through which the Impala was visible, pulling up in front of the house in a crunch of gravel.
Sam unfolded himself from the driver’s side, and then the passenger door opened.
“Oh hell no,” Dean growled. So much for that good day.
“What precisely does Samuel think he is doing?” Castiel said quietly, evenly, and that just sounded goddamn dangerous.
Outside, Sam made a ‘stay’ gesture at Crowley with one hand, and then walked up towards to porch. Dean banged out through the screen door to meet him.
“What the ever living fuck, Sam?” he hissed, wings rising and flaring automatically, arching even taller than Sam. Sam stepped back, hands raised.
“I can explain.”
“You had better.”
“He gave me his number after the Colt,” Sam said, pulling the slip of paper out of his pocket.
“Not the first time a demon’s hit on you, Sam,” Dean snapped.
Sam glared. “Not funny. He said if we were gonna keep changing the rules of the game, he can help. He wants out of Hell, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if we keep fucking up the status quo. So for all intents and purposes—“
“The enemy of my enemy and shit? Are you gonna buy that a second time, Sammy?”
“Look, you don’t have to believe me,” Sam said, looking like he he’d been slapped. “I haven’t told him anything except the bare bones of our situation, so you can talk to him, test him, do whatever you like. Hell, take Cas with you, scare the crap out of him, I don’t give a shit. I just think we need the odds as much in our favor as possible if we’re making you a general or whatever.”
He took a breath. “I needed to do something for you, man. This whole thing is exploding in our faces and—“
“And so you got me a demon,” Dean cut him off. He took a deep breath and let it out hard through his nose. “A-plus for effort, Sammy, but a serious F-minus for execution. Jesus, you could have at least told me before making that kind of call.”
“And then you wouldn’t have let me make it at all,” Sam said flatly. He looked incredibly tired all of a sudden, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as his shoulders slumped. “Just…talk to him. I’ve been out all night and need some coffee.”
“What were doing in all that time?” Dean said, just a touch bitterly. “Take you all that time to drive to this guy or did you two spend some quality time, too?”
“Ew, Dean. Do not even go there.” Sam slammed into the house and sat heavily at the kitchen table. He didn’t dare look at Bobby. He didn’t need to, though.
“What the fuck did you expect, boy?” Bobby said. “Get back up off your ass and get me another cup while you’re getting your own.”
Sam sighed, and did as he was told. Castiel gave him a measured look, and then went out to Dean.
From the porch, Dean watched Crowley brush particles of dust off his immaculate suit and generally look unconcerned with life, the universe, and everything. “This stinks, Cas,” he said, without turning.
“I agree; your brother’s approach to finding help is proving particularly….”
“Consistent?” Dean suggested. “Idiotically consistent?”
“Are you going to come over and chat with me, or do I have to start charging the salt lines?” Crowley called, sounding infuriatingly smug.
Dean growled, and before Castiel could move, he’d disappeared and reappeared right in front of Crowley’s face.
“You’ve got a fuck of a lot of nerve coming here,” Dean said, poking Crowley in the chest. “After what happened with the Colt—“
“Hey, I thought that would work,” Crowley protested.
“You got my friends killed for it,” Dean cut him off, and then he was pinning the demon to the Impala with one sharp spine from the shoulder of his wing. The tip rested on the knot of Crowley’s tie.
Crowley raised his eyebrows, a flicker of fear crossing his expression before smoothing out. He looked up at Dean’s wings and frowned in vague consternation. “You’ve quite an affinity for those,” he said. Slowly, he raised one hand and tapped gingerly at the claw at his throat. “Are you certain you’ve never had wings before? Oh yes, of course you did.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“In hell,” Crowley said, rather blithely, considering. “You get off the rack, you start ripping into some souls yourself, you start earning your wings. Shattered, broken down things, unfortunately, but still wings, you know. It’s the way things work. Or haven’t these new ones felt a bit familiar?”
Very slowly, Dean withdrew. Castiel said lowly, “Dean, is this wise…?”
“This is the same deal, right?” Dean said bluntly, not taking his focus off Crowley. “You’re out for yourself, and we just happen to be the best way of increasing your chance of survival at the moment.”
“Got it in one,” Crowley said, with a bright smile. “I’ll stab you in the back first chance I get, but for now, I think you boys are on the right track. Especially if you’ve got an archangel on your side.”
“Sam tell you about that?”
“Nah, I figured that bit out for myself. Been wondering what the wayward Messenger has been up to, lately. Now, are you gonna let me into your happy family for a time, or should I pack up and go?”
“Dean,” Castiel growled.
“Yeah?” Dean said, upraised spine still poised with a direct trajectory into Crowley’s skull. Crowley seemed well aware of it. “What do you think, Cas?”
“I think he killed Ellen and Jo,” Castiel answered, voice rough and stony.
Dean curled his lip, and didn’t disagree. Crowley looked between them.
“Look,” he said. “You want to know about the Horsemen’s army, right? Because apparently you’re taking the reins on that, correct, Winchester? I can help with that. I have Hell’s perspective on that. I can also tell you at least three of the locations you’ll need to find the churches in.”
“What do you know of the seven churches?” Castiel asked, hawk-like.
“I know that Lucifer’s going to start trying to find them and desecrate them as soon as he figures out his Horsemen aren’t doing their jobs anymore,” Crowley answered. “And I know that he’ll probably find that out as soon as you go after Pestilence. And when was that going to happen? Oh yes. Today. So today he’s finding out, and he’s going to start laying waste, probably starting in Marrakech.”
“Marrakech,” Castiel murmured. “Yes. All right.”
Dean watched as the angel shifted focus almost seamlessly, once again letting his battle-readiness show through in that way that was always startling and just a little terrifying. “Guess you’ve got his vote,” he said dryly. “Come on in, then. I’ll tell Bobby to ease off the holy water.”
***
“We’re going to have to split up if we want to both get Pestilence and prevent Lucifer from desecrating the churches.”
“I’ll call Gabriel,” Sam said.
“You have his cell?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“We’re moving up in the world,” Dean said. “What do you know about the Horsemen’s army?”
“Other than being 200 million strong? I’ve never seen them. But then again, no one but Death has.” Crowley helped himself to a cup of coffee, and was about to take a sip when Sam cleared his throat. He stopped and looked at Bobby. “You make your coffee with holy water?” he demanded. “Seriously?”
“I don’t have a Brita filter on the sink because I care about minerals, idjit,” Bobby grunted. Crowley eyed the filter on the faucet with distaste.
“Charcoal filters…and rosaries. Lovely. What was I saying?”
“The army,” Dean said impatiently.
“Right. Only Death knows for sure. But I’ll tell you one thing: Even Lucifer can’t control them. He tried, when all of this started. That was the reason he raised Death in the first place—to get him to channel all that power to him. But Death just outright told him no—no angel, fallen or otherwise, could control it. It’s not in the army’s nature to follow anything except Horsemen. Or, apparently, human/Horsemen hybrids.” He eyed Dean significantly. “It’s a good look for you, by the way. Very fire and brimstone, without the fire. Hell-lite, if there is such a thing. Maybe even Hell-chic. I’ve heard there’s a market for that.”
Sam sank down in his seat, feeling his face burn with transferred embarrassment. Dean glared at him and then turned back to Crowley. “No commentary, thanks,” he said eventually. “What, other than my apparent Horseman-like qualities, is going to give me control over these things?”
“Will,” Crowley said simply. “Your desire to do battle, or whatever else you intend to make the army do. If the Apocalypse was still going as planned, Death would be marking all of those who would be swept away—two-thirds of the earth, for those of you keeping track—and with will alone, proclaiming those marked thusly destined to die. And then the army would sweep all of them away. As it is now, though, you’ve got to define what you want, and bring them to heel with that idea. And no, it won’t be as easy as it sounds.”
Dean grunted. “Didn’t sound so easy to begin with.”
“Yes,” Crowley agreed, with some appreciation. “They’ll want to know why they aren’t instructed to kill. Because that’s what they were made for. You’re essentially telling a tank not to crush the grass as it goes over to blast some other target into oblivion.”
“And the target is its best friend,” Dean murmured. “Got it.”
“I don’t envy you,” Crowley said, for the first time looking entirely serious. “But if you can do it, I’ll owe you a favor. And as a rule, I don’t owe anyone favors.”
“Kiddos! How’s it hangin’?” Gabriel said from the doorway.
Sam snapped his phone shut. “We have to multitask,” he said, “So we need your help.”
Gabriel looked abruptly less enthused, and a lot more wrathful. Sam followed his gaze, and winced as he saw where it landed. “Entailing what, precisely?” he said, voice going low with an underlying hum of electric energy. “And what is he doing here?”
Sam’s eyes darted to the windowpanes that began to tremble slightly.
“Gabriel,” Crowley said, with a cautious nod. His eyes were flashing between normal and black. “Been a while.”
“Still hanging around crossroads?” Gabriel asked.
Crowley shrugged, but he looked small. “It’s what I do.”
The archangel looked at Dean. “I hope you’re not trusting him.”
“Not a chance,” Dean said shortly.
“He says he knows three of the Seven Churches,” Castiel said.
Gabriel looked at him in surprise. “Truly? How?”
“I hear things,” Crowley said.
Sam could almost imagine Gabriel’s wings rising in threat. “I hope you hear well, then,” the archangel said, and he did in that instant look his part, an angel of justice. He seemed to fill the room.
“I wouldn’t lie,” Crowley said, shrinking back slightly. “Not when it could kill me.”
Gabriel cocked his head for a moment, eyes still narrow and harsh. But then he eased, and the thrum in the air seemed to fade, so cautiously Dean cleared his throat.
“Pick one,” he said, “Preventing Lucifer from church bashing, or going after Pestilence.”
“Pestilence,” Gabriel said immediately, tearing his attention away from Crowley. Crowley looked more than slightly relieved.
“What, no tearful reunion with your brother?” Dean snarked.
“You want my help, don’t push me,” the archangel snapped. “I choose Pestilence. Who’s coming with me?”
“I am,” Crowley said, though very reluctantly. At Gabriel’s glare, he added, “Working with you lot, I want to be as far from Lucifer as possible. Not exactly in his good books, see?”
“Right, Sam, you’re going to need to go with them to keep them in line,” Dean said, not liking it. “That leaves Cas and I on church duty.”
Sam wasn’t thrilled, but he nodded anyway.
“I’m not liking this asymmetry,” Gabriel said musingly. “Bobby, you should go with Castiel and Dean.”
Bobby glared at him. “Are you blind?” he growled. “’Cause I got this slight problem—“
“Do you?” Gabriel said mildly.
Dean and Sam both froze. Bobby just blinked slowly. Then he shifted in his wheelchair. Kicked away the footrests.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathed.
Bobby stood. A bit waveringly, but he stood. He looked at Gabriel, jaw working silently. Then he said, “Thanks. You couldn’t have done that sooner?”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Humans and your unreasonable demands,” he complained. “Can we go now?”
Dean looked at Sam, staring at him hard. Sam placed a hand pointedly on the handle of Ruby’s knife, tucked into his belt. Dean nodded slowly.
“With any luck, Pestilence will cooperate, now that a deal has been made,” Castiel said. “Nevertheless, exercise caution.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “You guys, too.”
“Portland, wasn’t it?” Gabriel said lightly. “See you later, alligators.”
Unceremoniously, he jabbed two fingers into Sam’s forehead, and they both disappeared. Crowley grimaced, and followed in a huff of air.
“This doesn’t seem smart,” Dean remarked.
“When does anything you boys do seem smart?” Bobby said.
“We should go,” Castiel said. “Marrakech is large, it may take several tries to locate the precise church that must be protected.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, okay. Who do you wanna ride with, Bobby, me or Cas?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Bobby grunted. “I’m riding with the one who’s had more than a week of driving lessons.”
Dean swore he saw Castiel’s mouth curve into a smirk as he reached out with requisite fingers. Snorting softly himself, he stretched his wings back and pulled.
Chapter Eight.
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Date: 19 Jun 2010 14:50 (UTC)guiltingtalking to people over Team Free Will side, it's Dean. Love that he's getting hang of the wings and the tiny tidbit from Crowley that Dean had wings in hell was intriguing.You put Crowley and Gabriel together! Ever since 5.19, I've been wondering how would it be if Gabriel survived and be on Team Free Will and work with Crowley. There'll be snark to be had, I hope? :)
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Date: 20 Jun 2010 08:58 (UTC)no subject
Date: 19 Jun 2010 22:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 20 Jun 2010 08:56 (UTC)\o/
Date: 20 Jun 2010 09:42 (UTC)Gabby healing Bobby without fanfare was frightening in its ease. (and Wow Bobby is with Dean and Cas in church saving!)
Crowley is so great, it would have been a shame not to have him snarking everyone.
Oh and Dean? Pinning the demon with a claw wing? That was awesome and the image made me shiver! (and the bit with the broken wings in Hell? It's something so sad and heartbreaking... but also very interesting. I wonder...)
Anyway that was awesome and I congrulate you for beeing able to make all these characters alive here!
Winged Golden Tiger
Re: \o/
Date: 20 Jun 2010 11:54 (UTC)no subject
Date: 20 Jun 2010 19:23 (UTC)no subject
Date: 20 Jun 2010 21:43 (UTC)no subject
Date: 20 Jun 2010 22:37 (UTC)no subject
Date: 20 Jun 2010 23:19 (UTC)no subject
Date: 21 Jun 2010 17:11 (UTC)Dean's interaction with Michael is completely mad of WIN. If anybody could manage to convince (another) archangel of anything, it'll be Dean. The dynamic will be fascinating. And I love how quick Dean is to grasp things, and that you're showing his intelligence. Sam's the super-brain, okay, but Dean has never been dumb.
In short: LOVE THIS. WANT MORE.
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Date: 21 Jun 2010 20:43 (UTC)Dean is a very smart guy, when it comes down to it. If he wasn't he'd never pull off half the cons he does. And writing him with Michael is so exciting. I'm so glad you're enjoying, and more is on its way!