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alchemyaliceTitle: Dies Irae, or Something
Author:AlchemyAlice
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, possibly Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Season 5
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Riffing on stuff that isn’t mine.
Summary: It starts with headaches, and it ends in a clusterfuck. So, business as usual, Apocalypse-wise.
I.
This is how it goes down, okay? It starts with headaches, and it ends in a clusterfuck. Dean remains of the opinion that God must have been on some truly perilous substances to come up with it.
But, in the beginning, as it were: The apocalypse isn’t really going well.
Not that it could, not without stopping of course, but it isn’t going well in any sense of the term; they aren’t making progress on how to stop Lucifer, and Ellen and Jo hang over them like spectres no matter how thoroughly they’d been salted and burned in the inferno of their heroic end. There are too many casualties with not enough vengeance, and that’s enough to make the whole thing look like it’s crumbling into dust and sifting through their fingers.
The Winchesters have been holed up for a week now, trying to gather some semblance of knowledge or strength, but so far they've only managed to track a laundry list of destruction on the nightly news that lay as testament to both how cruel and how petty Lucifer is being. The attacks are unpredictable, both in scale and location, leaving the hunters rudderless. Barring a miracle, Dean really doesn’t know how they’ll even begin to take action again.
And then on top of that are the headaches.
They’d started about four days after Death rose. They hadn’t come on gradually either; one evening Dean had been just peachy, and the next he can’t sleep it hurts so much. Painkillers do practically nothing, and while a fifth of Jack can knock him out for a few scarce hours, the ensuing hangover, if anything, exacerbates the problem. Sam had started looking for curses online that could explain it, and Bobby’d begun a preliminary search his in library, but it was to no effect whatsoever, and eventually Dean just told them to stop and concentrate on what was more important—namely, Lucifer and why the goddamn Colt didn’t work on him.
Dean's just going to have to get used to the feeling of several daggers making exact incisions into his frontal lobe. Hell, at least he’s had practice with that, both literally and figuratively.
He’s standing on the porch, nursing a beer and staring at the graveyard of cars when a shadow falls across him, blocking the lamp on the porch. He turns and finds Sam leaning in the doorway. He looks worn, his posture even worse than usual. “Um. Bobby’s making some dinner, if you’d like some,” he says. His voice sounds scratchy, like he hasn’t been using it for a while.
Dean could eat, especially if it’s Bobby’s cooking. “Yeah, sure,” he says. He follows his brother inside, where Bobby is puttering around in his wheelchair. He’s now grown adept at both getting around the first floor of the house and clotheslining anyone who gets in his way. They eat in relative silence, both out of discouragement and respect for the awesomeness of Bobby’s limited but effective cuisine. Dean notices that his brother has kept the lights in the house low, which he appreciates. Bright lights and stabbing pains in his head don’t really mix.
After they’d sat back from the table and started gathering dishes, Bobby says, “So having gone through my entire library, a task I’m not keen on repeatin’ ever again, I might add, I’m thinking that Michael’s sword is the only thing that’s gonna kill Lucifer. It’s the only thing more powerful than the Colt on this plane.”
“Thought I was the sword, Bobby,” Dean says, plucking another beer out of the fridge, his first long before cast into the recycling bin. Maybe this one would numb him enough.
“Zachariah might’ve been over-interpreting,” Sam says, raising a cloud of suds in the sink as he scrubs a pan formerly filled with casserole. The pan hits the sink with a clunk, and Dean winces. Sam looks over his shoulder at him, and takes on the expression of a wounded puppy. “Sorry, Dean.”
Dean shrugs, waves a hand for him to continue, and sits gingerly on the edge of the sofa. They have enough things to feel guilty about without apologizing for the small stuff as well. Even though said small stuff is currently drilling resounding echoes into his temple.
Sam says, “The sword is known as an object, generally, not a person. But, y’know, the line between objects and people seem to get a bit blurred with him.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The problem’s finding it,” he continues. “Michael’s sword hasn’t been heard from since Enoch. It could be buried in Israel for all we know.”
“The location doesn’t matter, once we know it,” Dean says. “Cas’d get us there, so long as his angel mojo holds out.”
“Yeah. But then we probably have to pass the measures taken to protect it. If it really exists on this plane, it’s been sheltered enough for even some of the archangels not to know about it.” He dropped the pan into the drying rack and started on another. “I imagine Michael’d know where it is,” he adds dryly. “We could always ask him.”
“And I think I can predict what he’d say,” Dean snorts, “’Why sure, I’ll tell you where it is, once you let me play puppet master in your meat suit!’”
“Yep, sounds about right.”
“How ‘bout some useful suggestions, boys?” Bobby cuts in. “Just for variety’s sake.”
Sam sighs. “I got nothing. I’ve been trying to track the thing down for days now, but the lore is too wrapped up in biblical nonsense and contradictions to actually be useful.”
“Yeah, I imagine there’re a number of things lost in translation,” Dean says briefly. He heads back out to the porch to drink and avoid the sharp sounds of dishes being put away.
Michael remains on his mind. It isn’t like he’s rethinking the whole vessel deal. He’ll keep saying no until he’s blue in the face. He’s damn tired of being pushed around by celestial beings, and if this one thing is in his power to control, then he is going to exercise that fucking power as much as he can. But something Sam’d said remains on his mind. Michael’s knowledge, if not his probable douchebaggery, would be awfully valuable to have.
The slight huff of the sudden displacement of air at his side makes him blink slowly. He waits for Castiel to say something, and when he doesn’t, he shrugs.
“How’s the search for God going?” he says.
“Slowly. I am ashamed to admit that my progress has been very limited.”
Cas has been in and out of Bobby’s since he’d dumped the Winchesters there after their encounter with Lucifer. Each time he returns he has less news to offer, his powers dwindling slowly but surely, his eyes standing out ever more blue against the darkening shadows beneath them. Dean doesn’t like watching the slow hollowing of the angel’s features, and feels a vague sort of directionless rage at a God who would cause it in the most faithful of his flock. “It’s all right, Cas,” he says gruffly. “You’re doing your best.”
“My best is not as good as it once was.”
“I hear that.” Dean looks back out at the sky. “Did you know him?” he asks, turning to look at the angel.
Castiel has perched himself on the railing in what looks like a seriously uncomfortable position, but which he apparently handles with ease. He looks over at his charge, expression customarily inscrutable.
“To whom are you referring?” he asks in turn.
“Michael. Did you know him. I mean, was he a cool dude? Would he take my body and screw around with it and leave me a drooling mess like Raphael’s vessel, or would he actually show some respect?”
“It’s not a matter of respect, Dean,” Castiel answers. “It’s more a matter of what he needs to do at the time. And how strong the vessel is. Archangels must have specific hosts. If they take others who cannot bear the burden, they will be damaged.”
“So I’m built for abuse. At least that’s nothing new.”
“You are strong, Dean. My father has made you strong.”
“You stopped me from becoming Michael’s vessel, though. Even though I was apparently made for it.”
Castiel exhales, and it’s a deliberate thing, an expression of exasperation more than any physical need to expel air from his lungs. “I did. You are a righteous man, Dean, and for that it pains me to see you occupied by another, no matter how powerful he can be within you. And if Michael should take Zachariah’s view of the war, then I cannot allow him in good conscience, as you well know, to take any vessel at all.”
Dean says, “You say the sweetest things, Cas.”
Castiel listens to the ensuing silence, and says into it, “I haven’t seen Michael since the last war.”
Dean rubs his temples, and it doesn’t help. “The last…? You mean, Satan’s war?”
The angel turns to look at him. “Yes. I do not know what he is like now. Whether he has changed. For all that the garrison knows of the archangels, he could be like Gabriel now.” He can’t hide the bitterness in his tone. “If he is, then we are lost.”
Dean spares a passing thought to Gabriel, now long gone from the ring of holy fire, probably still being a massive coward and doing his trickster thing. His lip curls in disgust at the thought.
“I didn’t say this before, but I think it bears observation,” Castiel continues, after a long moment, “That while Gabriel may be right in stating that the similarities between your family circle and mine—Michael’s, that is—you are not as similar to Michael himself as he made out. Michael is a strategist, a war commander; his plans are flawless and bloodless. You are not so cold. And because you are not, things will not be so…inevitable, while you still remain in control of your actions.”
“Well, they’re certainly feeling pretty inevitable right now, Cas,” Dean replies, and takes another swig of his beer. “But thanks anyway.”
After that, they don’t say anything else for a while. Dean digests the info Cas has given him with a little more intensity than usual. Something is itching to come together in his mind, but it isn’t quite fitting. The drilling going on in his head is making it hard to think. Castiel suddenly turns to him. “You’re in pain,” he observes, frowning. “You did not tell me.”
No point in denying it. “It’s a new thing, apparently. Know anything about it?”
“No,” he says slowly. “What you are experiencing is unusual and I do not know its origin. May I…?” he holds up two fingers towards Dean’s head. Dean automatically shrinks back, just a little.
“Depends on what you’re gonna do, man.”
“I will attempt to read your soul. If something is amiss, it will show.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “That sounds pretty fuckin’ invasive.”
Castiel merely cocks his head. “Dean, I have seen your soul bleeding and broken in the pits of hell,” he says in a tone he could have used to discuss the weather, “There is nothing about you that I have not seen, and thus any desire to hide yourself now would be redundant.”
And wow, Dean has never felt so simultaneously shamed and warmed. He ducks his head. “Right,” he says finally, though his voice comes out strained and low. “Yeah, all right. Do it, then.”
Castiel leans forward a bit so he can catch Dean’s down turned gaze. It’s a strangely human gesture, strangely sensitive as well, which makes Dean follow it in surprise. It isn’t until they’re in full eye contact that Castiel places the requisite two fingers on his brow and frowns in concentration.
Dean waits. Castiel’s fingers are cool against his brow, and he feels the slight static jolt of the angel’s presence passing between them in a sizzling moment.
Then suddenly the connection snaps, and Castiel pulls back suddenly, as if burned. “Dean,” he says, and is that worry in his voice? “There is something inside you.”
Dean feels all of the muscles in his body tense. “What, like a possession?” he asks sharply.
“No. Not that, nor a creature, nor anything else. But Dean,” and here he reaches out as if to touch Dean again, but then thinks better of it at the last moment, “It is bright. It shines in you like it’s bursting to get out. It is…” He shrugs helplessly, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen an angel lost for words. It’s not particularly comforting.
So he says, “Wow, no bursting please, thanks. How ‘bout you tell me what it actually is?”
“I cannot say,” Castiel replies, shaking his head. “It does not want to yet be known.”
“Well fuck that, I’m not waiting around for it to be ready,” he stomps up the last two steps of the porch and heads inside. “Bobby! What shines super bright and gives a host body bitchtastic migraines?”
“The hell’re you talking about, boy?” Bobby grumbles, rolling himself into view. He looks over Dean’s shoulder, and snorts. “Oh, it’s you. D’you have something to do with this, angel?”
“I certainly do not,” Castiel answers, stepping inside behind Dean, hovering at his shoulder. “I would never do anything to harm Dean. I merely gave my impressions of what may be causing his pain.”
“Right, and he says it’s bright and shiny and bursting and I do not like that last adjective,” Dean snaps. “What’ve you got?”
“Technically that was a verb,” Sam says, looking up from his laptop.
“Shut up, not helpful,” Dean says without looking at him. Bobby rolls his eyes and then his self over to the bookshelves.
“If you’re so damn eager all of a sudden, do it yourself. Here,” he tosses an old and slightly mouldering tome in Dean’s direction. “You can start with that.”
“Didn’t you look in there when you were first offering to look?”
“Yeah, but maybe you’ll find something I missed.”
“Bobby, I’m running on empty and my head feels like it’s been cracked open like an egg. Twice. What makes you think I’ll be able to even read for more than two pages?”
Bobby huffs and heads off into the other room for another beer.
“We could find a psychic,” Sam offers. “Have Missouri take a look at you, if you’re up to the trip.”
“She would be unable to sense anything more than what I already have,” Castiel says. He looks carefully at Dean. “Dean. How long has this been occurring?”
“’Bout a week, now.”
“And it is worsening?”
Dean winces, and realizes that he’s less willing to lie to Cas than he is to Sam. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You never said that before,” Sam says worriedly. “You said it’s been the same ever since it popped up.”
“No point in stating it if there’s nothing to be done about it,” Dean growls.
“Dean, we cannot allow this to go on, if we are to be in solidarity against Lucifer when the time comes,” Castiel says. He pauses, and then says slowly. “Barring interactions with powerful demons, the only beings that could provide greater help than I would be those that outrank me.”
“Archangels?” Dean snorts. “Yeah, great idea. Because we get along so well with all of them.”
A knock sounds on the open door. They all turn.
“I believe that’s my cue,” Gabriel says, smirking, leaning in the jamb like he belongs there. He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”
Part Deux
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Date: 23 Jan 2010 10:00 (UTC)Off to click the link to part 2....
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Date: 26 Jan 2010 06:17 (UTC)“Right, and he says it’s bright and shiny and bursting and I do not like that last adjective,” Dean snaps. “What’ve you got?”
“Technically that was a verb,” Sam says, looking up from his laptop. *sporfle*
“Barring interactions with powerful demons, the only beings that could provide greater help than I would be those that outrank me.”
“Archangels?” Dean snorts. “Yeah, great idea. Because we get along so well with all of them.”
A knock sounds on the open door. They all turn.
“I believe that’s my cue,” Gabriel says, smirking, leaning in the jamb like he belongs there. He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I come in?” Hee! I <3 Gabriel, and it would be just like him to randomly show up like that!
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Date: 26 Jan 2010 23:58 (UTC)Laura.
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Date: 7 Feb 2010 16:32 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Feb 2010 05:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Feb 2010 07:02 (UTC)LOLing forever.
<3 <3 <3
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Date: 24 Nov 2011 21:38 (UTC)I really love the little snippets of Bobby in this, and Sam feeling guilty over making noise while washing the dishes. You take some very in character moments and remarks and use them to lighten up the fic, which is quite impressive given that everyone is grumpy.