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alchemyaliceAuthor: AlchemyAlice
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Season 5
Warnings: Further butchering of Revelations, and things taking a turn for the worse. I don't know where this came from, but apparently I can't not take the Apocalypse seriously. So yeah.
Disclaimer: Riffing on stuff that isn’t mine.
VII.
Sam glares for a long time at the bed in front of him. One full stomach later and he’s even more tired than he was earlier, the blood of the Leviathan still on his hands. But he just stands there instead.
“What’d that bed ever do to you?”
Sam turns, but only slightly. Enough to see Gabriel in the doorway. “You’re still here,” he says.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. You are astoundingly correct.”
Sam is tired. He sits on the edge of the bed. “What do you want, Gabriel?”
“Lucifer’s been hijacking your dreams, I hear.” The archangel leans against the doorjamb.
“Who’d you hear it from? Or are you just reading my mind?”
“Didn’t need to. You forget—I know the Morningstar. His style’s pretty predictable.”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Too bad. You’re going to give your location away soon enough, and we can’t have that.”
“I won’t,” Sam snaps. “I only tell him one thing, and that’s no. I’m not going to betray Dean or Bobby that way. Not again.”
“See, I may be on your side now, but I still don’t entirely believe you won’t,” Gabriel says conversationally.
“Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot for that.”
Sam feels like punching him, and almost does until he remembers how Dean had described his punch-up with Castiel in the green room (“He chose to roll with it, Sammy. He rolled with it, and it still felt like punching goddamn concrete”). So he gets up to slam the door in Gabriel’s smug face.
Instead of just blocking the door though, Gabriel grabs his shoulder and steers him forcibly back down onto the bed. And Sam? Sam is not used to being manhandled. Archangel or not, physically Gabriel’s fucking tiny compared to Sam, and yet here he is sitting him down like Sam’s six years old again and Dad’s about to give him a lecture.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam hisses as his ass hits the bed, and he’s now forced to look up at Gabriel as he stands in front of him, Sam’s shoulder still in his vise-like grip. Gabriel just studies him, ignoring his glower, instead just staring, unblinking, into Sam’s closed face.
“I won’t help you unless you ask for it,” he says, finally. And hell, Sam’s never really acknowledged the gravity in Gabriel’s voice, even without his full angelic power behind it, buried deep beneath all the smarm and levity. He’s an archangel, and it’s so easy to forget that sometimes, but now he is large and unforgiving and such a disappointment to the innocent faith of Sam’s youth. But such angels that he imagined as a boy would never take company with him. This is bigger, more terrifying, and far more real.
“I don’t need help,” he whispers, but his heart’s not in it.
Gabriel’s grip tightens until it hurts. “See, that? That’s why I don’t trust you,” he says, steely and harsh. “That’s why I don’t trust that you won’t say no. You have faith, and hope, and everything else your brother doesn’t have, that I don’t even fucking have, but it’s all couched in this belief that you know, instinctively, what’s right. You took on the Leviathan today, kid. And it was good. But this is a whole different ballgame. And you still think you can handle it, after everything that’s happened. That’s pride. Need I tell you what Lucifer’s greatest sin was?”
Sam looks away, looks down, anywhere but into Gabriel’s implacable eyes that seem to rub him raw every time he meets them with his own. “The last person I asked for help from was Ruby,” he says.
Gabriel takes his hand away; Sam’s pretty sure it’s left bruises. “So you have crap taste in friends,” he says, and all of a sudden he’s just the Trickster again: petty, abrasive, and obnoxious. “You need help, don’t go chasing after demons to give it to you. Jesus, even your dear old dad knew that, even if he didn’t always follow his own advice.”
“And so I should ask you, is what you’re saying,” Sam replies. There’s something sticking in his throat—he tries to swallow it down.
“Hellooo? What have I just been saying, bucko?”
“It’s a sad state of affairs when crap taste in friends doesn’t apply to a Trickster,” Sam points out.
“Yeah, well it’s a crazy world out there. Are you gonna ask me something, or do I have to wait until you fuck up again for you to actually get your head out your ass?”
Sam winces, and studies his hands.
“If Lucifer pays me a visit, could you give me some back up?” he asks, after a long moment. His voice comes out small.
“Sure thing, wuss,” Gabriel says, and he pulls up a chair by Sam’s bed and puts his feet up on the bedside table.
There’s a long silence, in which Sam tries to get comfortable and fails, knowing Gabriel’s eyes are on him. Then the archangel says quietly, “How’s your shoulder?”
Sam shifts. “It’s okay. Thanks.”
“The leg?”
“Fine.”
Gabriel nods, more to himself than to Sam, and Sam shifts one last time, and then sleeps.
***
As soon as Dean’s eyes close, and he feels that weird shift that isn’t just into sleep, it’s also into that strange apparently accessible part of his dream state, he asks, “Is it true?”
He looks over at Michael, who glows as he ever does. They’re again sitting as Dean and Castiel once had, what feels like eons ago. On their separate park benches, lines drawn.
“That you are the righteous man? Of course,” Michael says.
“But that I have to end it. You’re not the colonel—I am.”
Michael shifts. “You don’t need to worry about that. Things will happen as they are meant to.”
“Oh, that is bullshit. That’s something Zachariah could have cooked up,” Dean snaps. “Tell me the truth.”
“You’ll deal the killing blow, because I…I can’t,” Michael says, but there’s an edge to it now, an edge that Dean doesn’t trust. He doesn’t explain himself either. “But you know nothing of spiritual warfare, nothing of the struggle angels and demons have on the ground. I will lead those. You need me for those.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I probably do. But the way Cas was talking today, I got to thinking that I’ve been riding a little high lately.”
“It is always heartening to have allies,” Michael shrugs with a smile. He is being altogether too mild for Dean’s taste.
“Sure, sure. But I think I should make it clear, just in case it wasn’t before,” he says, eyes narrowed at Michael’s visage. “I may be playing my role, but the script’s mine. I’m in control. Got that?”
Michael snorts. “You can’t really have it both ways, Dean,” he says.
Dean snaps, “Hell yeah, I can. That’s why you only have partial control over my body. You may pop in from time to time, but you’re not burning me out.”
“I would never—“
“Yeah, ‘cause you like me so much.” Dean looks out at the playground. “You know, I was almost ready to let you run things. Today? Today felt good. Gathering up forces, setting up the angel radio on the right frequencies—I have no problem with you doing that. But push comes to shove, I’m gonna be the one to take the wheel. Cas reminded me of that.”
“I thought you didn’t want all this responsibility,” Michael says lightly. “Hasn’t it been your dream to be left alone?”
“Only if it’s not just me being left alone, it’s the entire earth, flaws and all,” Dean replies. “And if I truly believed that you people could deal with your shit off of my turf, believe me, I’d be happy to kick back and let you smoke Lucifer and whatever, prophecy be damned. But this is my backyard you’re playing in, and my people that are all dying around me, so whether I want this responsibility or not, I’m taking it.”
“Lucifer is my brother,” Michael says, but now there’s an edge belying his implacable expression. “Not yours.”
Dean is not cowed—they have set the terms on their agreement, and no amount of thrashing on Michael’s part will cause him to renege on them. This power over the archangel gives him a vague sort of brutal satisfaction. So he says, “Too bad, dude. Your fight plus my planet equals my fight. I may not be good at math, but I can calculate that just fine.”
Michael nods, slowly. “We’ll see, I suppose.” Then he smiles. “You remind me of someone I know well.”
Dean dreams no more.
***
The next day brings Aziraphale knocking on Dean’s door just as the sun is about to get fierce. “Pardon me,” he says, when Dean blearily opens the door, “But I do believe we have a problem.”
Dean looks down, and sees that the angel is wringing his hands mightily. A lead weight settles in his stomach. “What sort of problem?” he asks.
“You’d…” Aziraphale looks like he would really like to be pulling his hair out. “You had better come down and see for yourself.”
Dean nods, feels Michael slide tentatively forward, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lets him in. He feels like he should probably go a little easy on the guy, considering how their conversation went last night. So Michael goes downstairs with Aziraphale, and finds Crowley drumming his hands on the kitchen counter. He suppresses the impulse to smite.
“What is it?” he asks.
Sam is already awake. Gabriel and Castiel are with him. So is Chuck, along with a couple of the hunters. Chuck immediately winces and goes over. “Dean! I’m so sorry man, my whole sight thing hasn’t been working that great recently, what with you guys going off book, otherwise I would have…Dean?”
Sam turns, and his lips are pressed into a thin line of recognition. “Michael.”
Michael nods assent. He looks at Chuck. “If we’re still off book, then it’s likely we’re doing it right,” he says. “Did you see anything at all?”
“Well…bits of this,” Chuck flails nervously at the window. “But only minutes before it happened, and by then it was already going down, so I just grabbed Drew and Taylor here,” he gestures at the two discomfited hunters, “and made a run for it. I’m sorry, I tried—“
“You need to be safe,” Michael cut in smoothly, “Or you would have brought Raphael to our door. You did rightly. Now what is out there?”
“Right. I’m thinking Lucifer’s found us.”
“Is he here?” Michael asks sharply.
“No. But Meg is,” Sam says, and looks back out the window. “And she brought a friend.”
Michael finally steps towards them and looks out. “Oh hell,” he says, quite literally.
Meg stands outside, brown hair soft around her shoulders, and she’s leaning casually on…something. Sam can’t quite pinpoint what it is, it seems to shift in the light, at once hard and sinuous, sensual. It is large, as tall as a giraffe at least, and iridescent, but not in the way oil slicks are; instead, it shifts color like it wants to speak, it yearns. And it is the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen. He can barely tear his eyes away.
“So I’m thinking that’s the Dragon,” Gabriel says conversationally.
Michael nods. “That would be the Dragon.” He looks at Castiel. “Do you still have enough power to make the humans see truth?” he asks.
Castiel seems to swallow, but then he nods. Michael says, “Okay. Chuck, get Drew and Taylor here into the panic room. Sam, I need you and Castiel to get all of the hunters inside. Now. Gabriel and I can set up a line of protection in the walls, but not much farther—the Dragon is too strong for that.”
Sam nods, heads for the door, his eyes glued on the creature outside. “Wait,” Gabriel says, “You’ll need these.” He snaps his fingers. A pair of what appear to be tinted aviator sunglasses form in his hand.
Sam tears his gaze away to look incredulously at the archangel. “What, do I need to look like Top Gun for this, or something?”
“The Dragon is an idol,” Michael says, though he’s eyeing Gabriel’s glasses with some skepticism. “He seduces men into worship. You made them into aviators?”
“And aviators will stop me from worshipping?”
“Put them on,” Gabriel snaps. He looks at Michael. “What, defensive magic can’t look cool anymore?”
Sam does, albeit reluctantly. And then he sees, etched on the inside of the glass, endless miniscule inscriptions, most of which he can’t read for them being too close to his eyes. He looks back out at the window, expecting to see the Dragon in all its glory once more, but when he looks, he makes a retching noise, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh god. I think I just threw up in my mouth a bit,” he coughs, when he feels stable enough to open his mouth again. “Is that--?”
“The true appearance of the Dragon,” Gabriel nods. “Not exactly pretty, am I right?”
“Christ,” Sam says fervently.
“Use them to convince the others to come inside.” Gabriel reaches up and lays a hand across his forehead. Sam feels a jolt of warmth beneath his eyelids. “Now you don’t need them yourself. Go.”
Sam heads out the door, clutching the glasses to him. Meg watches him as he comes forward.
“Sammy! I was wondering when you’d come out and play,” Meg says, smiling. “Is Deano in there too? He shouldn’t hide like that. Or is he just sending you out to do his dirty work?”
She doesn’t bother hiding the black of her eyes, and Sam wonders whether that’s just him seeing her form properly through the glasses, or if she’s really just that confident.
It seems she has a right to be, though. Some of the hunters are awake, and they’re looking at the Dragon with slow-growing awe. Sam looks at them. “Hey,” he says cautiously to them. “You guys need to get inside the house. You’re experiencing a glamour, and believe me, you do not want to get any closer.”
Some of them turn. Sam pulls one of them, a bearded, weedy looking guy towards him. “Put these on, just for a second,” he says, handing over the aviators. “And then look.”
There’s a long hesitation, and then the hunter does it. He immediately rips the glasses back off and slaps them back into Sam’s hand. “What the fuck?” he says angrily. “What is that?!”
“Get others inside,” Sam growls. “Do it now.”
“Now now, Sammy,” Meg says in disappointment. “That’s just cheating. I don’t like cheaters.”
Castiel is approaching the hunters from behind, laying hands on their foreheads gently one at a time, moving on once they begin to gasp and cringe back. Now he looks over his shoulder. “Sam, look out!” he shouts.
Sam attempts to dodge, and is thrown thirty feet backwards into a truck for his effort. He hears his ribs creak, and curses. “Rude, Meg,” he snarls, pulling himself out of the bed of the truck, “To what do we owe the pleasure, anyway?”
“Oh, you know, just saying hi,” Meg answers, smiling pleasantly. “You never write. Also…” she steps back, and the Dragon moves with her. Behind him, at least twenty hunters are kneeling, looking up at the beast. Their faces are all the same, Sam realizes with a sickening jolt. They are the faces of adoration, of the kind one sees on the faces of the healed on televangelist shows. They are faces of mindless rapture. “No,” Sam whispers.
Meg looks over at the kneeling figures. She strokes a hand down the seething dragon’s flank. She speaks in the kindly voice of a kindergarten teacher. “If you love him truly,” she says to them, tossing her hair. “You’ll break the line.”
Wordlessly, the hunters move to the point where Sam knows Bobby has buried salt and iron six feet down. “Shit,” he says. He starts to run. “Castiel! Get as many as you can inside now! We need to put them all in the panic room if we can fit them!”
Castiel nods. Sam ducks and dodges to get back to where the hunters have mostly camped, and begins ushering inside as many as he can. He hears the door of the house slam open and Bobby’s voice shouting. “Get in here! Follow me, people, and don’t fucking look back!”
"There's an easy way of changing their fates, Sam!" Meg calls. "Say yes to Lucifer, and all of them see the truth of the Dragon!"
"No chance in hell!" Sam shouts, grabbing another hunter and spinning him around, pressing the glasses onto his face until he shrieks in realization. He pushes him towards the house. "I'm never saying it, Meg! What makes you think you're asking will be anymore effective than his?"
"Well I have so much leverage, now don't I?" she replies, raising a hand. Sam feels the power surge before he experiences it, throws himself to the side. "All these people, ready to lay down and die for their beautiful new god, Sam! All I have to do is say the word, and they turn their guns on themselves, you know."
Sam ignores her, he has to. He thinks of Gabriel inside, writing sigils across the walls in his own blood, and pushes more of the hunters into the house.
They get about ten inside, and then Sam grabs a blond woman in plaid and ratty jeans to spin her around and put the glasses on her, and instead of taking his lead, she swings wildly and catches him square in the jaw. “No!” She shouts, eyes ablaze. “Get back from me, blasphemer!”
“It’s not real, get inside!” Sam yells. He grapples with her, but she squirms away and runs for the salt line. The others left are doing the same, all of them falling to their knees, crawling towards the Dragon to lay themselves prostrate at its feet. Sam looks on them all, freezing in horror.
“It’s too late for her. Get back in the house, it’s over!” Castiel seizes his wrist, and all of a sudden they’re back in the living room, Sam still running; Gabriel catches him.
“You go beyond these walls now and Meg will kill you,” he hisses. “There’s nothing else we can do.”
Sam shakes his head, unable to look away at the figures now digging away with their bare hands at the salt line. He looks over his shoulder. "Dean?”
It’s Michael who turns, but his hands are shaking. “You must let me finish!” he says, and Sam can’t tell whether he’s speaking to him or to Dean inside him. “You let me finish the protection of this house, or else we’re all dead.”
The shaking subsides. Looking pained and grim, Michael finishes a series of sigils in blood across the walls, but as soon as his hand drops he’s Dean, and he’s kicking over a table. “Son of a bitch!” he shouts. “What the fuck happened out there?”
“She must have come during the night and brought the people on watch to her first,” Gabriel says, eyes fierce. “There’s nothing we could have done.”
“And so what, now we’re just gonna leave them there, doing the bidding of that hideous…thing?!”
“To try and heal them at this point would be to erase the mark of Satan from their souls, it cannot be done without time and resources we do not have,” Castiel says, touching Dean’s shoulder. Dean shrugs him off.
“This is bullshit. There has to be something we can do.”
“Well, why don’t you just ask Mike, then?” Gabriel snaps. “Oh wait, you were too busy throwing a tantrum to do anything of the kind.”
Dean lurches forward, and Sam makes a decision. He catches his brother’s arm before he swings. “We can’t do this right now, Dean,” he says urgently, before Dean can break away. “We have to plan. Okay? We’ll go back for them, but there’s other stuff to do now, okay?”
Dean looks at him slowly, and then grabs his wrist back. “Fine,” he says tersely. And then he’s Michael.
Michael is unnerved. He shakes his head slowly, and Sam can feel instinctively that he’s shaking out his wings as well, from the way the air in the room shifts slightly. “I’m sorry,” he says, and again, it was probably to Dean more than anyone else. He turns slowly to Bobby. “The hunters are all in the panic room?”
Bobby nods. “They’ll be safe as long as they’re down there.”
“Unfortunately, that won’t be for long, because we need them,” Michael says. Sam is reminded suddenly of Napoleon, the way the archangel is leaning over the table as if it depicts a battlefield. His eyes are flickering, calculating in the strange, bloodless way that would never be Dean’s even on his most ruthless days. He suddenly misses his brother intensely.
“The two other horsemen,” Michael says eventually. “Have we located them?”
“We’ve got a lock on Pestilence,” Crowley replies. “We think he’s in Nebraska, having his way with the crops. News says they’re turning black. Also, a shit-ton of locusts.”
“Right,” Michael nods. “We need to send some people to take care of that. I think the hunters can do it even with their depleted numbers, if they can find the point of his power’s concentration. They can look for a handkerchief, probably. Something that he can hold daintily up to his nose.”
“Seriously?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s pretty gay.”
“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says with disapproval. “That’s no way to speak of one of the Four.”
“Fair point, but they can’t hear me in here, can they?” Crowley pointed out. Then under his breath, “Creepy buggers.”
“To be fair, Pestilence always was strangely effeminate,” Michael says lightly, but his throat is tight. “That doesn’t make him any less dangerous though. If Kalaziel will agree to accompany the hunters, they should be able to overpower him. She’ll need to mark them for protection as well. Tribes of Israel or not, they need to be spared.”
“Shall I fetch them?” Aziraphale offers.
Michael nods, and then looks out into middle space as he sends out a request to Kalaziel. Dean, pushed down and deep in his anger and Michael’s firm request, feels the words thrum through him and out into the ozone, as if his whole body is being played like a cello. It wasn’t like that when he’d set up the link with Castiel, but he figures it’s because he’s speaking in English, not Angel, or whatever. He feels like he’s pacing, even though his body isn’t. Taut and bound, he sends out a message of his own. Cas?
Castiel looks sharply at Michael; Michael doesn’t notice.
Yes, Dean. He replies silently.
Are we doing the right thing now?
Castiel takes a long breath. I think…that this is the most right thing that we can do.
You’re sure.
No.
Castiel feels Dean withdraw from him, and his jaw tightens.
Dean looks out from his place in the back of currently-Michael’s eyes and feels a vague relief that Cas stays at his side, the very definition of an immovable object. He doesn’t attach any particular meaning to the feeling, still seething with guilt and rage that he presses viciously to the back of Michael’s consciousness. He notices with satisfaction that it makes the archangel’s hands tremble slightly.
“Aziraphale,” Michael says next. “What are the conditions at the Vatican?”
Aziraphale looked nervous. “Um. Mostly stable? At least, as stable it can be when the Pope dies.”
“Benedict is dead?” Michael raises his eyebrows. “Tell me, what’s the weather along the Mediterranean?”
“Um. Storm clouds. Lots of them. Possible chance of an electrical storm. Also, it’s over the entirety of the sea which…technically, shouldn’t be possible.”
Michael looks to his left, and Gabriel nods, disappears, and then reappears. He looks grim.
“Zachariah’s been busy. I think he’s trying to raise the Beast.”
“Isn’t Lucifer the Beast?” Sam asks.
“He’s been known as such at times,” Castiel says mildly, “But he is differentiated in Revelations from both the Beast and the Dragon, a text which, while highly inaccurate, does make a correct distinction in this case.”
“Both the Beast and the Dragon, I might add,” Aziraphale adds with some disdain, “Were supposed to rise before him.”
Gabriel waves a negligent hand. “You think any of this is gonna match up with what we expected? Hell no. This is what happens when everyone just gets tired of this shit and decides to get it over with. Mess with Divine Plan, and all of a sudden prophecy goes out the window.”
“I thought you were all about the prophecies,” Sam raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, and you were supposed to be all about being Lucifer’s meat suit. Guess we’re both full of surprises.”
Michael clears his throat. “Which is why, Sam, we are going to Las Vegas.”
“Seriously? When I was just refusing to go with Gabriel?”
“Indeed,” Michael agrees. “Because Meg just raised the stakes, and we need to move. And could there be a better Babylon anywhere?”
“Dubai,” Crowley says immediately.
The angels all look at him blankly. He says, “What?”
“Dubai may be the epicenter of stupid buildings that no one needs,” Gabriel says eventually, looking longsuffering, “But definitely not one of false idols. So yeah, I get it. Lucifer will take his stand in Vegas. But why go now?”
“To mess up the order of things further. And to stop Zachariah before he can start,” Michael looks at all of them equally, and Sam knows that this is the game plan, the final one, and he tenses because he wasn’t expecting all of it so soon, wasn’t really expecting any of it. It’s still practically dawn, and they’ve lost two-thirds of their hunters, and the Dragon lies at the gate. Sam feels sick.
Michael says, with growing certainty, “If he’s raising the Beast and the Dragon is already here, then he’s counting on getting everything else going as well. If he can’t do it in the proper succession, he’s just going to dot all the i's and cross all the t’s and hope for the best. Which would work, probably, except for how I have no intention of casting Lucifer into any lakes of sulfur or any of that. We’ll put him down permanently along with the rest of what this ridiculous Apocalypse has to offer.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard the word ‘ridiculous’ as an adjective for the Apocalypse before,” Sam comments.
“Yeah well, that’s ‘cause you ain’t been hangin’ around the badasses of this group long enough.”
Sam nearly sighs in relief. Dean has reemerged, and his game face, while a bit fractured, is firmly on. “We’ll fix that soon enough, it seems," he says, and looks out the window at the morning sun. He laughs humorlessly.
“Vegas. Sweet.”
Chapter Eight
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Date: 19 Jan 2010 21:02 (UTC)I feel Dean's frustration but then this is war.
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Date: 20 Jan 2010 07:32 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 20 Jan 2010 13:43 (UTC)no subject
Date: 21 Jan 2010 01:40 (UTC)Hence the Dean!Gleeface.
No, really, though, I do adore this; it's very well written and I'm quite looking forward to the next installment.
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Date: 21 Jan 2010 12:24 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 21 Jan 2010 12:25 (UTC)no subject
Date: 21 Jan 2010 06:57 (UTC)Kudos!
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Date: 21 Jan 2010 12:25 (UTC)no subject
Date: 22 Jan 2010 01:08 (UTC)OMFG yes. Dubai as Babylon would have been hilarious.
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Date: 22 Jan 2010 04:58 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 27 Jan 2010 10:13 (UTC)Laura.
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Date: 27 Jan 2010 22:13 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Feb 2010 05:53 (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 Jul 2010 02:30 (UTC)I've never read such a perfect description of Sam. Honestly, this just keeps going round and round my head because it just so bloody true. And that it came from Gabriel of all people? God - friggin amazing.
*reads on*
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Date: 13 Jul 2010 08:59 (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 Jul 2012 06:34 (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 Jul 2012 21:52 (UTC)