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alchemyaliceAuthor: AlchemyAlice
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Season 5
Warnings: The plot does not move forward. I really tried, but it failed--apparently, this was necessary before the shit really hits the fan. Sorry if this chapter sucks. Only guarantee is that some UST is resolved, but I am unfortunately physically incapable of writing porn. So, fail again. Also, possible severe butchering of Latin, because despite six years of study, I am the worst pseudo composer of the language ever. All corrections will be appreciated.
Disclaimer: Riffing on stuff that isn’t mine.
IX.5
They sleep only in snatches that night. Sam takes a brief nap in the early evening, in which he ends up telling Lucifer “wait until the trumpet, and I’ll come to you”, which Dean glares at him for when he reports it.
“What?” Sam demands. “You want me to tell him to fuck off, now that we’ve got him on the line?”
“No, I just—“
“Trust me, Dean. You said you would.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” Dean grumbles. Sam wonders if his brother has noticed that little bits of Michael’s speech patterns are starting to bleed into his. “Fuckin’ ow, Cas!”
Castiel is unperturbed. “You need to hold still, or this won’t work.”
Dean is lying on his stomach on the dining table, hugging a pillow beneath his chin. Castiel is sitting on him. On the table beside them, there’s an inkwell and a number of different sizes of needles. Castiel is applying a tattoo gun liberally to Dean’s shoulder blades.
“Why not just let Michael order Zachariah to do things our way, anyway?” Sam asks.
“Because if Zachariah finds out that Michael’s around, he won’t bother calling all the troops here,” Gabriel says. “And did you see his defiance when Dean asked about the possibility of Michael’s disapproval? We push him from that angle, and he’s just going to push back harder. Michael’s word is nothing against the belief in The Word. Raphael’s testament to that.”
“Fundamentalists, the lot of you,” Dean mutters. “Crazy, evangelical—“
Castiel digs in with the needle; Dean winces and subsides. A knock sounds on the door, and Sam goes to answer it. Jefferson stands in the doorway.
“Hey. We’ve set up posts around the major points of the spell matrix. The demons have been quiet, just waiting around, basically. Do you need anything else done?”
Sam looks at Dean, who shakes his head, so he turns back and says, “No, you’re done for the night. Try and get some sleep. Make everyone else do so as well, if you can. The garrison will keep guard.”
“Righto.” Jefferson chews his lip, and then looks measuringly at Sam. “How sure are we of this plan?”
Sam stares at him for a minute, and then says, “Pfft. Who knows?”
Jefferson looks enraged for a moment, and then laughs. “Oh, fuck you. I’m going downstairs to tell everyone that we’re screwed now.”
“Hey, it’s the Apocalypse, what do you expect?” Sam retorts. He closes the door on Jefferson’s retreating back.
“That did not sound to me like a recipe for high morale, Sam,” Castiel says, somewhat reprovingly.
“Nah. Morale isn’t what hunters need,” Dean says, his voice somewhat muffled by the pillow he’s leaning on. “They need gallows humor and a kick in the pants. Sam did right.”
“So can I see it yet?” Sam asks, meandering forward.
“It’s not done yet,” Castiel says. “But you can look at what’s been covered so far.”
Sam looks over Castiel’s shoulder to look at his brother’s back. “Jesus. This is pretty thorough.”
Winding outward from the arcs of muscle around Dean’s back and the outside of his spine are a vast array of black, calligraphic symbols. They interlock and shift from raised outlines to contrasting reliefs, stretching across his shoulders to grip across his upper arms in scrolls and curls. They look like wings, and they look like tribal war paint.
“It is what we would do for any angel about to sound the trumpets,” Castiel says briefly. “Though it has never been applied to a corporeal form. We have never done battle on earth, you see.”
“So this is gonna be an adventure,” Dean finishes.
“Where did you even find all of them?” Sam asks.
“Everywhere,” Gabriel says, popping M&M’s into his mouth. “They were folded into to time and space, waiting for the right moment. Normally they would have stayed hidden until all of the conditions Zachariah wants to instigate were met, but Michael’s always been very persuasive with the more ancient tools of the trade.”
“They know him,” Dean says, oddly solemn. “They recognized him from the Beginning.”
Gabriel nods.
“How long is this gonna take, Cas?” Dean asks. He’s finding that he’s keenly aware of Castiel’s weight on his lower back, which should be weird and uncomfortable, but mostly doesn’t bother him. The sting of the tattoo gun mostly distracts from it, and the angel’s hands are warm.
“Another few hours. Do you need to rest?”
“Nah, I’m good. Michael’s helping out.”
Black lines formed slowly across his back, chasing the contours of his ribs. Castiel’s hands remain steady and clinical, but Dean’s eyes drift closed. Sam looks away.
Gabriel makes a small noise, and gets up to go to the window. “Death is here,” he says, after a moment.
“It’s to be expected,” Castiel says. “He is the only truly eternal one of the Four.”
“And Lucifer called him here,” Gabriel says. He looks at Sam, “You told him about the Seventh Seal?”
Sam nods. “He said he’ll be awaiting its call. I’ll have to be with him when it sounds.”
Gabriel looks briefly distressed at that, but doesn’t say anything.
The evening is filled with the low buzz of the tattoo gun, and Sam flipping pages in a Vonnegut. The silence is more comfortable than it should be—Sam feels like there should be wrought tension, on the night before the world might end. But the quiet is easy, hypnotic. He sinks into it, letting words on the page take him away, cushioned on the sumptuous surrounds of the Bellagio’s amenities.
Hours later, the buzz ceases, and all of a sudden, it’s far too silent. Dean shifts, groans slightly at the pull of wounded skin. Castiel places a hand between his shoulder blades, wet with holy water.
“In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, in tempus belli et patientia eum corpum benedicto. In dies irae in tubum Genesa et potentiam Angeli advoco. Sanctus est unus tubum quisnam sanus. Beatus exsisto qui refero. Sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in bellum sanctam.” [1]
“Good improvisation,” Gabriel says with a raised eyebrow. “Think it’ll pass muster?”
“It will have to,” Castiel answers, taking his hand away. Dean shivers slightly at the release of contact. “Though perhaps you should do it, given my current status.”
Dean and Gabriel look at each other, and Gabriel shakes his head. “Nah, I think you got it.”
Dean gingerly lifts himself off the table, already feeling Michael pushing health over his skin and letting it scar over at a rapid pace. He chucks the pillow he’s been holding at Sam’s face. Sam splutters.
“The fuck, dude! I…woah.”
“What? Does it look cool?”
Sam stares. “Um. I can…”
“What?”
“You just…look different.”
The tattoos shine and slide like mercury to Sam’s eyes. They look like they could jump off Dean’s skin at any moment and become wings of their own.
“Ah,” Gabriel says, identifying Sam’s expression. “A side effect of the blessing.”
“What is it?” Dean asks.
“Those markings were never really meant to be worn by a vessel,” Gabriel explains. “Michael can wear them in his pure form, but on you…it’s like a direct portal to him inside you. He’s…well, he’s showing through, is what’s happening. Enough so Sam can see it.”
“So I’m guessing next time Zach sees me, he’s gonna know Michael’s around?” he says, after a second.
“Probably. I hadn’t counted on that,” Castiel says, somewhat apologetically.
“All right. We can deal. It won’t really matter much anyway, right? I mean, we blow the horn at dawn.”
“Zachariah will try to stop you. And if he sees you before that, he can order the Host back to their positions.”
“No. That at least, we can prevent.” Michael slips forward, and he adjusts his shoulders, feeling the weight of the tattoo. “We’ll need to start the flow through the streets. Gabriel, can you lead a small faction of the garrison?”
“Sure thing,” Gabriel nods. “We’ll go at half speed, really work it over.”
“If you can even get some of the demons to follow you, it should be quite potent. In the meantime, though, there are still a few hours to rest. Castiel, may I have a word?”
Castiel gives a brief nod, and they go out onto the balcony. Sam watches them go.
“Do you think he’ll—?”
“What? Hit your brother with a clue-bat?” Gabriel smirks, sitting on the bed next to Sam.
Sam rolls his eyes. “I was going to say, let Dean go, after all of this is done. I mean, if we make it through.”
“That’s a big ‘if’, first of all,” the archangel replies. “But if this thing works? Yeah, he will. We’ll all be going home, I imagine.”
Sam looks at him sharply. Gabriel is looking away from him, his face unreadable.
“You’d go home? After all this time?”
Gabriel shifts, and for a long moment stays deep in thought. Sam waits, and finally he speaks.
“I’m not a god, Sam,” he says, still turned away. “I never was. I know Him, I have spoken to him and basked in his presence. And I still walked away. I don’t really regret it—hell, the fun I had messing with you and your brother alone was worth it—but…I don’t want to be the estranged son anymore.”
And Jesus, can Sam relate to that. But it’s too late for him and John, and has been for far longer than a few short years. For Gabriel, though…he could go back. And Sam wants that for him. In fact, he’s shocked at how much he wants that for Gabriel, even though the thought of him leaving permanently also sort of makes his chest hurt at the same time.
…Oh Christ. He knows that feeling. He remembers it. Fuckin’ literary symmetry. He feels like somehow he can blame this on Chuck. And he’s totally going to, if he lives long enough to tell the prophet so. He takes a breath.
“You won’t be,” he says. “Your Father’s mercy is infinite, remember?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel huffs a laugh. “I’ve probably tried his patience, though.”
“You and me both, then,” Sam replies absently. He’s tallying now, all of the things that have happened since the Trickster entered his life and began wreaking havoc, counting up little signs and angles, the time they’ve been spending together this past week, all of the words Gabriel has given to him and shielded him with and the way they’ve saved him from Lucifer. And suddenly they all add up to the Leviathan that huge fucking spear of destiny or whatever and holy shit, if that’s not Freudian then Sam doesn’t know what is.
Let it never be said that Sam is a wishy-washy decision-maker. Even when he has the fleeting and vivid thought that if he does this, it may make everything hurt that much more in the long run. But hey, what long run, really? It’s the Apocalypse. Maybe, just maybe, he can even out his track record against Ruby this one last time.
“Look on the bright side,” he says tentatively. “At this point, one or two more small transgressions on your part probably wouldn’t even register.”
Finally, Gabriel turns, and quirks an eyebrow. “That’s true.”
He tries to keep it light, aims for cheesy. “So it’s the last night of the world, maybe. What do you want to do?”
But Gabriel seems to stiffen slightly, for once in his life not taking the joke, his wings pulling close. “A great many things, I imagine,” he murmurs.
Sam can feel the crackling of the archangel’s energy at his side, and he wants to reach out and touch it.
And okay, fine, if that’s how he’s going to play, fuck it. Dean may be verbally challenged, but Sam’s not. Sam’s the one who broaches the sensitive subjects, who decides when they need to talk. Right now there needs to be straightforward talking, followed hopefully by some equally straightforward action. Sam coughs, embraces the awkward and the ridiculous tremble of nervousness in his lungs, and says in a rush,
“So, if given the choice between putting me to bed for a few hours or taking me to bed—“
Gabriel chokes, and it looks like all of the muscles in his body have locked up entirely. “Samuel?”
“What, you thought Michael wasn’t going to tell me about the specific nature of your awesome spear of awesome?” Sam retorts, gaining momentum. Because Gabriel looks like he’s about to run, and he can’t, not when Sam’s in the middle of something so important, so he rambles on as fast as he can, “Because that was a pretty big gesture there, but clearly you weren’t going to actually let me know that it was, because maybe you thought I wouldn’t like it or something, but apparently I really would, considering I’m the one putting up with you most of the time and you’ve beaten me and fixed me and fucking claimed me in a dream and somehow made me better and oof—!”
Catlike, Gabriel cuts him off by landing heavily and yet rather bonelessly in his lap. Sam looks up at him, the wind completely gone out of his sails. “Um,” he starts, but his hands automatically find the juncture of the archangel’s hips, drawn to the heat of him.
“I have seen the world turn and experience billions of sunrises, billions of sunsets,” Gabriel says, and despite his languid posture his expression is that of a bird of prey. “I have seen empires rise and fall, and I have seen the limitless cruelty and heroism of mankind, Heaven and Hell alike. And even now, low as I am, I create what I want, when I want it. But you are something I cannot recreate. Do you understand?”
Sam exhales, eyes wide. “I think…maybe I do?”
Gabriel’s arms are resting on his shoulders, but now he brings up a hand to brush across his throat. Sam thinks about how easily the archangel could throttle him, how even now his touch is firm, unforgiving. And he thinks that he needs that coiling power to break him and put him back together correctly for once in his goddamn life, and not twist him more like the last time.
“You are what I would have been, had my faith been choice, and not breeding,” Gabriel says to him, eyes dark with growing fire. “You are what makes your kind my Father’s most beloved and his most blasphemous. You are what proves humanity is flawed, and what proves that you’re all worth it anyway. And you are not his best loved son…but neither am I. You would have me, as we are?”
If Sam was expecting anything (and he should know by now, really, that one could not expect anything from Gabriel without counting on being proved wrong) this wasn’t it. But he doesn’t recoil; his grip grows ever tighter, bruising. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this, if he’s ready for anything, really, but everything inside him from top to toe is screaming one thing, one feeling, one conclusion. And so the answer comes from him unbidden.
“Yes. As long as you want me,” and his heart nearly stops at how much he means it.
He feels the charge of supernatural wings folding around him, humming and electric and full. When Gabriel leans forward, he meets him.
***
Michael raises an eyebrow, and looks back at the closed doors to the balcony. Castiel waits.
“You wanted to speak to me?” he prompts, after a time.
Michael seems to come back to himself, and nods. “Yes. I…this plan. I believe that it will work. It must; I have never conceived anything stronger, and yet…Lucifer is ever unpredictable. And his traces upon Sam…disturb me. There is uncertainty in this battle that I do not like.”
“What do you wish me to do, then?” Castiel asks, and instinct somehow makes him lock up in waiting.
“The second trumpet. It shall bring destruction upon this earth,” Michael says, and he says the words like they are distasteful to him. Castiel suspects that the disapproval is Dean’s and not Michael’s, however. “It shall wipe out every demon that has every existed upon this plane, and every man that has sinned. If all is lost, and you are still standing…I entrust it to you.”
“I am not marked as a trumpeter,” Castiel points out, but he is stalling. Michael narrows his eyes.
“I can mark you as such. There is time.”
Castiel takes a deep breath. He remembers Dean telling him to do so when he was gearing up for something, and indeed he feels the tremors of his human body focus slightly, and lessen. “I…I would request that you do not ask this of me,” he says finally. He can’t look at Michael’s—Dean’s—face.
Michael cocks his head. “Why?”
“Because I cannot be responsible for the destruction of mankind.”
“There would be many still alive—“
“144,000,” Castiel retorts, and chances a glance up. Michael is standing stiffly now, holding Dean’s body in a way Dean never would. “That is the number written, is it not?”
“It is not exact. John had no concept of population inflation, after all. The Industrial Revolution alone has—“
“Michael. I cannot. Dean does not want us to.”
Michael studies him for a long moment, and Castiel feels stripped bare under the impossible presence of his brother. But then Michael just sighs.
“I will find another in the garrison.”
“I will try to stop them.”
Michael’s wings flare in anger, but then he reins himself in. “That is your prerogative.”
Chapter Ten.
[1] Translation: In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit, in a time of war and suffering I bless this body. In days of wrath I call on the trumpet of Genesis and the power of the Host. Holy is the one who sounds the trumpet. Blessed are those who answer. Let the standard-bearer, holy Michael, bring them into holy war. (The last sentence is borrowed and bastardized from the requiem mass.)