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alchemyaliceTitle: On the Wings of War
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, eventually Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but very, very 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 neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
A/N: OH GOD I'M SO LATE YOU GUYS. I'm really sorry. Inception ate my brain, and then I was just generally slacker-ish. And now this chapter is kind of short as well. Hopefully I'm back on track now, but be warned, this is probably not the last time I'll be late; I have to finish my dissertation and then move to another city and real life is generally going to be insane for me in the near future. I'll try not to be too irresponsible, but just, you know, keep in mind that things are going to conspire to keep me from being productive with the story. The only promise I will offer is that I will never abandon it unfinished. It will absolutely get a kick ass ending. You have my word on that.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Sam watched from the couch as their expanded group of allies arrayed themselves around the living room. They were hardly comrades—Michael stood off by himself, Gabriel standing close to him but apart. Crowley oddly gravitated towards Bobby, who was sitting on the couch with Sam, while Dean and Castiel stood by the stairs. Dean’s wings were folded tightly, but Castiel was just close enough to brush one with his shoulder, the massive claw of it catching on the cuff of his trenchcoat. Dean didn’t seem to mind.
“So according to the seven holy points we’ve managed to secure, we’re gonna have a slight issue with actually getting to the crypt,” Bobby said. He jabbed a finger at the map on the coffee table. “Because this is where it’s gonna open.”
“Well shit,” Sam said blankly.
“Precisely,” Bobby agreed.
“That won’t be a problem,” Michael said.
They all turned to him. He blinked slowly. “You intend to use Death’s army to drive Lucifer back into the Pit, do you not? They will go wherever they are bidden, regardless of terrain.”
“Yeah, except don’t we have to be there too?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fairly certain you can fly, Dean Winchester.”
“Yeah, and Bobby and I can’t,” Sam interjected, annoyed.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you busy too,” Gabriel said with a humorless smirk.
Michael stepped forward, his gait narrow and fluid. “The gate is only one half of this story,” he said. “You have also to contend with the demons who serve Lucifer, and the beasts that he conjures in his wake.”
“Cheery,” Dean commented.
Michael glared at him. “Your levity is not helpful. There is still much to be done, especially since we are going against the prophecies, rather than with them.”
“So we’ve got the gate and the monsters,” Bobby summarized. “Who’s gotta be where?”
“That is going to depend, I’m afraid,” the archangel answered, “On Lucifer.”
“His move now?” Sam said.
Michael nodded. “I should like to speak to him.”
“We’ll give him a call and arrange a meeting,” Gabriel snorted.
“I’m aware that the actual act will not be easy,” Michael said coolly, “I was simply stating a wish.”
Dean took a second to appreciate the fact that Michael apparently did have wishes—had had them for a long time. He thought of Cas, whose only wish (until Dean) had been for obedience. “Until then,” he said, “I’m guessing we’ve gotta get ourselves ready for whatever Lucifer’s gonna try?”
“Four of the seven trumpets have been sounded,” Castiel said. “Leaving us with three possibilities on that front.”
“Two,” Michael corrected. He looked gravely at Dean. “The sixth of the seven has been…hijacked, as it were.”
“What, me?” Dean said.
“Death’s army, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “Revelations 9:17.”
“Okay, so only two possibilities. That’s pretty good odds for guessing, am I right?”
“Neither possibility is particularly appealing,” Gabriel replied. “We’ve got a choice between the rising of Abaddon and…” Then he stopped.
“And what?” Sam asked. A copy of the Bible was already open on his lap, and he glanced at it perfunctorily. “There’s an angel that’s supposed to come down and announce, what, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and the reign of Christ or something.”
“Yeah,” Gabriel said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Normally,” Michael said sardonically, “That would be Gabriel’s job.”
Silence met this pronouncement. Gabriel belatedly became aware that all eyes were on him. “I’m not gonna do it, obviously,” he said irritably. “Who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re the dude ordained by God to announce the destruction of everything,” Dean said.
“Yeah, well, I sort of gave my two weeks notice for that gig a couple of millennia ago, so relax.”
“So we’ve only got Abaddon to worry about, then?”
“As if that ain’t enough,” Bobby observed.
“Hardly,” Castiel said. “There will be plague upon the earth, and the rise of the two dragons, both of whom will have to be slain before one is given the chance to slay the other.”
“So that it can become an idol,” Sam said, nodding.
“And then, of course, we have the rest of the Host to contend with,” Michael finished. His expression was unreadable. “I suppose we can be glad for the fall of the Grigori, from that perspective.”
Sam, Dean realized, was making a list. And then at Michael’s words, began frowning at it. “What is it, Sammy?” he said eventually.
Sam grimaced as attention shifted to him. “I don’t…give me a second, I need to look something up.”
“Buddy, you don’t need to look anything up,” Gabriel said. “We’ve been alive since the beginning of time. Or almost, rather. We’re a hell of a lot better than Wikipedia.”
Sam made an indistinct gesture with his head that spoke of indecision and angst. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Just ask them, dude,” he said. “Anything you got is worth hearing.”
Sam looked up at him in surprise that melted into a worried sort of courage. Then he looked at Michael. “Our biggest resources at this point,” he said tentatively, “Are basically you guys, and Dean’s army.”
“And Dean,” Gabriel added. “He’s getting more useful by the day.”
“Thanks,” Dean said dryly.
“Other than death and mayhem, what can the army do?” Sam asked.
Michael blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Wow,” Gabriel said, “Did you take what I just told you as a challenge, or something?”
Sam tutted impatiently. “No, just…we have a lot to do, and the army is our largest advantage. We’re gonna need them to multitask.”
“That’s gonna take a hell of a lot of control on Dean’s part,” Gabriel said. “He’s the one who’s gotta keep them all in line.”
Sam looked at his brother, and said carefully, “He can do it.”
Dean sucked in a breath, and when he spoke his voice came out rough. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sammy. But what’re you actually thinking?”
“I’m thinking that without bringing in the cavalry, we can probably take on the dragons, and that’s about it.”
Michael grunted reluctant agreement. “We were never meant to fight them. It would be a struggle for so few angels to take them on, even archangels.”
Sam nodded. “Beyond that, Abaddon’s coming, so we’ll need the army for that. We also need the army for the plagues. And on top of that, you want a meeting with Lucifer. The army might be two hundred million strong, but three jobs at once? That’s spreading things pretty thin. But see, last time someone wanted to talk to us, they left us a calling card.”
“Death killed a few thousand people,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you want to do the same?”
“No, obviously. But there are some things already dying—or, well, not precisely dying—but if we can channel where that happens…”
“A calling card from Heaven,” Gabriel finished. “You want to direct the fallen Grigori to us as we go to take on the dragons.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “If they fall where we are, Lucifer will want to see what the hell’s going on. Meanwhile, he’ll be distracted from Abaddon, so Dean can go after him with the army.”
“And the plagues?” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow.
Sam grimaced. “We have no idea where they’ll come up, or when. They’re nothing we can plan for, so I vote we concentrate on these things first.”
Michael smiled. “You’re very good,” he said calmly. “I only suggest one minor change to your plan.”
The humans looked at him expectantly. He eyed them. “We open the crypt first.”
Dean coughed. “That’s a gate to Hell, isn’t it? What’re we risking letting out by opening it so early?”
Michael smiled. “Nothing Heaven can’t handle. And I presume we want their attention directed elsewhere, yes? This is the way to do it.”
“That sounds incredibly risky,” Sam commented. “And also a bit more Biblical than I’m comfortable committing to.”
The archangel spread his hands. “You must understand—Zachariah wants the world purged of humanity. Opening the gate could certainly lead to that. But, if Hell is the one to purge Earth, and not Heaven, then it will not take long after that for Hell on Earth to rise up and purge Heaven. Lucifer’s army cannot be underestimated, in that regard, which Zachariah knows well. And if he does not, then Raphael does.
“So you see, it is no more risky than any of the actions you and your brother have taken so far, Samuel,” he finished. “Believe me—it is my duty to measure such things.”
They absorbed it in silence, with even Gabriel looking uncharacteristically grave.
“So,” Dean said eventually, “Who wants to go swimming in the Atlantic with me?”
***
Dean and the three angels alighted on a steam ship making the slow crossing of the Atlantic—several hundred tons of machinery and metal and storage units drifting at a steady rate across calm waves. Dean looked out at the distant horizon line, where the sun was just beginning to drift down below its belt and send shivers of gold across the water. Other than the thrum of engines and low mutterings of the crew, it was eerily silent.
“We sure about this?” he said.
Castiel stood beside him and blinked. “It is better than any plan I have ever devised,” he said eventually. “Given the circumstances.”
Dean looked at him. “That doesn’t mean it’s a good plan.”
The angel smiled thinly. “Since when have you been a stickler for that?”
The laughter rose to his throat unexpectedly, and emerged as a harsh bark. Dean swallowed after it’s escaped, and said, “You’d tell me, though, if you thought it was a bad plan. If you thought there was something better, safer for everyone, not just us, that we could do.”
“I would,” Castiel said, with his usual gravity that always did manage to calm Dean, just a little. “Of course I would, Dean. But I’ve always considered you a better judge of that than I.”
“Yeah, well, dunno how long that’s gonna last.”
“You always underestimate yourself. It’s very irritating.”
When Dean looked over at him again, Castiel was watching him with a narrow sort of exasperation and fondness. It wasn’t a look he was really used to receiving. “Sorry,” he said, out of lack of anything else to say.
Castiel just shook his head, and whether that was dismissal or acceptance, Dean wasn’t sure. A few seconds later, though, and they heard the engine cut out, and the crew go suddenly silent. Michael and Gabriel emerged from the hold, climbing out of iron steps onto the deck.
“The crew’s been sent on vacation to Hawaii, and the ship’s been rendered stationary,” Gabriel said. “Your turn, bucko.”
“Right,” Dean said. “What’ve I got to do?”
Castiel turned to face him. “Take off your shirt.”
“Why, Cas,” he grinned. “You should’ve asked sooner, without all these people.”
Gabriel snorted. Castiel looked confused. Dean rolled his eyes and unlaced the slits at the back of his shirt before pulling it over and off, shaking his wings off in its wake. He watched Castiel draw out his sword and make a thin incision in his arm. The blood began to well immediately.
“Where’s that going?” he asked.
“On you,” Castiel answered, unaffected. “Among other things. Hold still.”
Swallowing hard, Dean obeyed. His touch diffident, Castiel began to write, long streaks of blood following the lines of Dean’s arms and torso. It felt warm and sickly against his skin, drying quickly in the sea air, growing itchy like tiny pinpricks on his nerves.
“This opens the gate?” Dean said finally.
“It grants you the power to do so,” Michael said. “The Enochian sigils are ordinance. You are being authorized to act under the authority of Heaven.”
“Considering what I am,” he said slowly, “Will that work?”
Gabriel just looked at him. “It was meant to work on the devil himself,” he said. “Moreover, it was meant to work on the Lamb.”
“And I’m one half of the Lamb, right,” Dean remembered. “Should Sam be here, then?”
“Not yet,” Michael said, expression strange and unreadable. “But eventually.”
Castiel’s expression was unreadable and closed. Dean tried not to think about that. To be honest, it was easy, with the strange slickness of blood sliding in unsettling tribal patterns across his skin, drawn hotly by the angel’s deft and clinical touch. He glanced downwards at the work being done, and sucked in a breath. “This is elaborate,” he commented.
Castiel finished a flourish along the indent of Dean’s hipbone. “We do not ordain those outside of the Host with Heaven’s power lightly,” he said. His fingers skated along Dean’s ribcage, and Dean shivered.
Then the angel stepped back.
Dean felt primal, covered in blood not his own, painted as if for battle. He could feel how his wings were stretching and flexing without his permission, imposing like a condor’s, the spines making fierce profiles against the cold metal of the ship’s deck.
“Our turn,” Gabriel said lightly, and pulled his own sword into existence. Michael did the same.
“What do I--?”
“Just stay where you are, Dean,” Castiel said, stepping back to stand flush against the entrance to the main station. “They will draw around you.”
Dean watched them do so, both archangels kneeling on the ground around him, swiping their blood-drenched fingers on rusted metal. They built concentric circles around him, runes unfamiliar, shapes powerful if unknown. Dean could feel lay lines falling across him, centering over him in ways he knew instinctively he wouldn’t have been able to see before War’s ring. They were pulled to him like static cling, following the signals of the runes and his own visceral wrongness. It disturbed and excited him both.
By the time the archangels stepped back, Dean thrummed with the energy of it; it tingled in his hands and made his blood itch in his veins. “Now what?” he managed to ask, as the wounds in Michael and Gabriel’s arms slowly closed.
“I think you probably know,” Michael said.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it. But Dean reached back and felt John’s Sword materialize in his hand, solid and warm and asking to be used. He pulled it forward, and with the hilt pointing down at the space beneath his feet, held it up above his feet.
“As soon as you feel the crypt open, scram,” Gabriel warned. “You’ll just get sucked in otherwise. This ship is about to become a black hole to the underworld.”
“Okay,” Dean said faintly, bracing himself amid the mess of bloody sigils, glancing at Castiel whose expression was one of odd pride and diffidence. “See you guys back in Montana, then.”
They all nodded, and then Dean was alone.
He looked down at the circles of blood he stood at the center of. He recognized vaguely the ancient symbols of the eye, and binding, and evil. He had a feeling that angels weren’t meant to draw these things, that they were dark in some indefinable way. He recognized that they’d drawn them anyway, because the gatekeeper was him.
He thought of the house in Montana, readying it in his mind. He pulled his wings back in preparation for flight.
He brought the sword down upon the ship deck like a killing blow, and felt the world groan.
Chapter Sixteen
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, eventually Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but very, very 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 neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
A/N: OH GOD I'M SO LATE YOU GUYS. I'm really sorry. Inception ate my brain, and then I was just generally slacker-ish. And now this chapter is kind of short as well. Hopefully I'm back on track now, but be warned, this is probably not the last time I'll be late; I have to finish my dissertation and then move to another city and real life is generally going to be insane for me in the near future. I'll try not to be too irresponsible, but just, you know, keep in mind that things are going to conspire to keep me from being productive with the story. The only promise I will offer is that I will never abandon it unfinished. It will absolutely get a kick ass ending. You have my word on that.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Sam watched from the couch as their expanded group of allies arrayed themselves around the living room. They were hardly comrades—Michael stood off by himself, Gabriel standing close to him but apart. Crowley oddly gravitated towards Bobby, who was sitting on the couch with Sam, while Dean and Castiel stood by the stairs. Dean’s wings were folded tightly, but Castiel was just close enough to brush one with his shoulder, the massive claw of it catching on the cuff of his trenchcoat. Dean didn’t seem to mind.
“So according to the seven holy points we’ve managed to secure, we’re gonna have a slight issue with actually getting to the crypt,” Bobby said. He jabbed a finger at the map on the coffee table. “Because this is where it’s gonna open.”
“Well shit,” Sam said blankly.
“Precisely,” Bobby agreed.
“That won’t be a problem,” Michael said.
They all turned to him. He blinked slowly. “You intend to use Death’s army to drive Lucifer back into the Pit, do you not? They will go wherever they are bidden, regardless of terrain.”
“Yeah, except don’t we have to be there too?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fairly certain you can fly, Dean Winchester.”
“Yeah, and Bobby and I can’t,” Sam interjected, annoyed.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you busy too,” Gabriel said with a humorless smirk.
Michael stepped forward, his gait narrow and fluid. “The gate is only one half of this story,” he said. “You have also to contend with the demons who serve Lucifer, and the beasts that he conjures in his wake.”
“Cheery,” Dean commented.
Michael glared at him. “Your levity is not helpful. There is still much to be done, especially since we are going against the prophecies, rather than with them.”
“So we’ve got the gate and the monsters,” Bobby summarized. “Who’s gotta be where?”
“That is going to depend, I’m afraid,” the archangel answered, “On Lucifer.”
“His move now?” Sam said.
Michael nodded. “I should like to speak to him.”
“We’ll give him a call and arrange a meeting,” Gabriel snorted.
“I’m aware that the actual act will not be easy,” Michael said coolly, “I was simply stating a wish.”
Dean took a second to appreciate the fact that Michael apparently did have wishes—had had them for a long time. He thought of Cas, whose only wish (until Dean) had been for obedience. “Until then,” he said, “I’m guessing we’ve gotta get ourselves ready for whatever Lucifer’s gonna try?”
“Four of the seven trumpets have been sounded,” Castiel said. “Leaving us with three possibilities on that front.”
“Two,” Michael corrected. He looked gravely at Dean. “The sixth of the seven has been…hijacked, as it were.”
“What, me?” Dean said.
“Death’s army, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “Revelations 9:17.”
“Okay, so only two possibilities. That’s pretty good odds for guessing, am I right?”
“Neither possibility is particularly appealing,” Gabriel replied. “We’ve got a choice between the rising of Abaddon and…” Then he stopped.
“And what?” Sam asked. A copy of the Bible was already open on his lap, and he glanced at it perfunctorily. “There’s an angel that’s supposed to come down and announce, what, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and the reign of Christ or something.”
“Yeah,” Gabriel said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Normally,” Michael said sardonically, “That would be Gabriel’s job.”
Silence met this pronouncement. Gabriel belatedly became aware that all eyes were on him. “I’m not gonna do it, obviously,” he said irritably. “Who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re the dude ordained by God to announce the destruction of everything,” Dean said.
“Yeah, well, I sort of gave my two weeks notice for that gig a couple of millennia ago, so relax.”
“So we’ve only got Abaddon to worry about, then?”
“As if that ain’t enough,” Bobby observed.
“Hardly,” Castiel said. “There will be plague upon the earth, and the rise of the two dragons, both of whom will have to be slain before one is given the chance to slay the other.”
“So that it can become an idol,” Sam said, nodding.
“And then, of course, we have the rest of the Host to contend with,” Michael finished. His expression was unreadable. “I suppose we can be glad for the fall of the Grigori, from that perspective.”
Sam, Dean realized, was making a list. And then at Michael’s words, began frowning at it. “What is it, Sammy?” he said eventually.
Sam grimaced as attention shifted to him. “I don’t…give me a second, I need to look something up.”
“Buddy, you don’t need to look anything up,” Gabriel said. “We’ve been alive since the beginning of time. Or almost, rather. We’re a hell of a lot better than Wikipedia.”
Sam made an indistinct gesture with his head that spoke of indecision and angst. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Just ask them, dude,” he said. “Anything you got is worth hearing.”
Sam looked up at him in surprise that melted into a worried sort of courage. Then he looked at Michael. “Our biggest resources at this point,” he said tentatively, “Are basically you guys, and Dean’s army.”
“And Dean,” Gabriel added. “He’s getting more useful by the day.”
“Thanks,” Dean said dryly.
“Other than death and mayhem, what can the army do?” Sam asked.
Michael blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Wow,” Gabriel said, “Did you take what I just told you as a challenge, or something?”
Sam tutted impatiently. “No, just…we have a lot to do, and the army is our largest advantage. We’re gonna need them to multitask.”
“That’s gonna take a hell of a lot of control on Dean’s part,” Gabriel said. “He’s the one who’s gotta keep them all in line.”
Sam looked at his brother, and said carefully, “He can do it.”
Dean sucked in a breath, and when he spoke his voice came out rough. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sammy. But what’re you actually thinking?”
“I’m thinking that without bringing in the cavalry, we can probably take on the dragons, and that’s about it.”
Michael grunted reluctant agreement. “We were never meant to fight them. It would be a struggle for so few angels to take them on, even archangels.”
Sam nodded. “Beyond that, Abaddon’s coming, so we’ll need the army for that. We also need the army for the plagues. And on top of that, you want a meeting with Lucifer. The army might be two hundred million strong, but three jobs at once? That’s spreading things pretty thin. But see, last time someone wanted to talk to us, they left us a calling card.”
“Death killed a few thousand people,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you want to do the same?”
“No, obviously. But there are some things already dying—or, well, not precisely dying—but if we can channel where that happens…”
“A calling card from Heaven,” Gabriel finished. “You want to direct the fallen Grigori to us as we go to take on the dragons.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “If they fall where we are, Lucifer will want to see what the hell’s going on. Meanwhile, he’ll be distracted from Abaddon, so Dean can go after him with the army.”
“And the plagues?” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow.
Sam grimaced. “We have no idea where they’ll come up, or when. They’re nothing we can plan for, so I vote we concentrate on these things first.”
Michael smiled. “You’re very good,” he said calmly. “I only suggest one minor change to your plan.”
The humans looked at him expectantly. He eyed them. “We open the crypt first.”
Dean coughed. “That’s a gate to Hell, isn’t it? What’re we risking letting out by opening it so early?”
Michael smiled. “Nothing Heaven can’t handle. And I presume we want their attention directed elsewhere, yes? This is the way to do it.”
“That sounds incredibly risky,” Sam commented. “And also a bit more Biblical than I’m comfortable committing to.”
The archangel spread his hands. “You must understand—Zachariah wants the world purged of humanity. Opening the gate could certainly lead to that. But, if Hell is the one to purge Earth, and not Heaven, then it will not take long after that for Hell on Earth to rise up and purge Heaven. Lucifer’s army cannot be underestimated, in that regard, which Zachariah knows well. And if he does not, then Raphael does.
“So you see, it is no more risky than any of the actions you and your brother have taken so far, Samuel,” he finished. “Believe me—it is my duty to measure such things.”
They absorbed it in silence, with even Gabriel looking uncharacteristically grave.
“So,” Dean said eventually, “Who wants to go swimming in the Atlantic with me?”
***
Dean and the three angels alighted on a steam ship making the slow crossing of the Atlantic—several hundred tons of machinery and metal and storage units drifting at a steady rate across calm waves. Dean looked out at the distant horizon line, where the sun was just beginning to drift down below its belt and send shivers of gold across the water. Other than the thrum of engines and low mutterings of the crew, it was eerily silent.
“We sure about this?” he said.
Castiel stood beside him and blinked. “It is better than any plan I have ever devised,” he said eventually. “Given the circumstances.”
Dean looked at him. “That doesn’t mean it’s a good plan.”
The angel smiled thinly. “Since when have you been a stickler for that?”
The laughter rose to his throat unexpectedly, and emerged as a harsh bark. Dean swallowed after it’s escaped, and said, “You’d tell me, though, if you thought it was a bad plan. If you thought there was something better, safer for everyone, not just us, that we could do.”
“I would,” Castiel said, with his usual gravity that always did manage to calm Dean, just a little. “Of course I would, Dean. But I’ve always considered you a better judge of that than I.”
“Yeah, well, dunno how long that’s gonna last.”
“You always underestimate yourself. It’s very irritating.”
When Dean looked over at him again, Castiel was watching him with a narrow sort of exasperation and fondness. It wasn’t a look he was really used to receiving. “Sorry,” he said, out of lack of anything else to say.
Castiel just shook his head, and whether that was dismissal or acceptance, Dean wasn’t sure. A few seconds later, though, and they heard the engine cut out, and the crew go suddenly silent. Michael and Gabriel emerged from the hold, climbing out of iron steps onto the deck.
“The crew’s been sent on vacation to Hawaii, and the ship’s been rendered stationary,” Gabriel said. “Your turn, bucko.”
“Right,” Dean said. “What’ve I got to do?”
Castiel turned to face him. “Take off your shirt.”
“Why, Cas,” he grinned. “You should’ve asked sooner, without all these people.”
Gabriel snorted. Castiel looked confused. Dean rolled his eyes and unlaced the slits at the back of his shirt before pulling it over and off, shaking his wings off in its wake. He watched Castiel draw out his sword and make a thin incision in his arm. The blood began to well immediately.
“Where’s that going?” he asked.
“On you,” Castiel answered, unaffected. “Among other things. Hold still.”
Swallowing hard, Dean obeyed. His touch diffident, Castiel began to write, long streaks of blood following the lines of Dean’s arms and torso. It felt warm and sickly against his skin, drying quickly in the sea air, growing itchy like tiny pinpricks on his nerves.
“This opens the gate?” Dean said finally.
“It grants you the power to do so,” Michael said. “The Enochian sigils are ordinance. You are being authorized to act under the authority of Heaven.”
“Considering what I am,” he said slowly, “Will that work?”
Gabriel just looked at him. “It was meant to work on the devil himself,” he said. “Moreover, it was meant to work on the Lamb.”
“And I’m one half of the Lamb, right,” Dean remembered. “Should Sam be here, then?”
“Not yet,” Michael said, expression strange and unreadable. “But eventually.”
Castiel’s expression was unreadable and closed. Dean tried not to think about that. To be honest, it was easy, with the strange slickness of blood sliding in unsettling tribal patterns across his skin, drawn hotly by the angel’s deft and clinical touch. He glanced downwards at the work being done, and sucked in a breath. “This is elaborate,” he commented.
Castiel finished a flourish along the indent of Dean’s hipbone. “We do not ordain those outside of the Host with Heaven’s power lightly,” he said. His fingers skated along Dean’s ribcage, and Dean shivered.
Then the angel stepped back.
Dean felt primal, covered in blood not his own, painted as if for battle. He could feel how his wings were stretching and flexing without his permission, imposing like a condor’s, the spines making fierce profiles against the cold metal of the ship’s deck.
“Our turn,” Gabriel said lightly, and pulled his own sword into existence. Michael did the same.
“What do I--?”
“Just stay where you are, Dean,” Castiel said, stepping back to stand flush against the entrance to the main station. “They will draw around you.”
Dean watched them do so, both archangels kneeling on the ground around him, swiping their blood-drenched fingers on rusted metal. They built concentric circles around him, runes unfamiliar, shapes powerful if unknown. Dean could feel lay lines falling across him, centering over him in ways he knew instinctively he wouldn’t have been able to see before War’s ring. They were pulled to him like static cling, following the signals of the runes and his own visceral wrongness. It disturbed and excited him both.
By the time the archangels stepped back, Dean thrummed with the energy of it; it tingled in his hands and made his blood itch in his veins. “Now what?” he managed to ask, as the wounds in Michael and Gabriel’s arms slowly closed.
“I think you probably know,” Michael said.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it. But Dean reached back and felt John’s Sword materialize in his hand, solid and warm and asking to be used. He pulled it forward, and with the hilt pointing down at the space beneath his feet, held it up above his feet.
“As soon as you feel the crypt open, scram,” Gabriel warned. “You’ll just get sucked in otherwise. This ship is about to become a black hole to the underworld.”
“Okay,” Dean said faintly, bracing himself amid the mess of bloody sigils, glancing at Castiel whose expression was one of odd pride and diffidence. “See you guys back in Montana, then.”
They all nodded, and then Dean was alone.
He looked down at the circles of blood he stood at the center of. He recognized vaguely the ancient symbols of the eye, and binding, and evil. He had a feeling that angels weren’t meant to draw these things, that they were dark in some indefinable way. He recognized that they’d drawn them anyway, because the gatekeeper was him.
He thought of the house in Montana, readying it in his mind. He pulled his wings back in preparation for flight.
He brought the sword down upon the ship deck like a killing blow, and felt the world groan.
Chapter Sixteen