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alchemyaliceTitle: On the Wings of War
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure, pairings to be decided
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but probably long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are discreet. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
Prologue
Chapter One
Sam woke up feeling odd, all of his nerves jangling like something had been watching him sleep. He pushed himself off his belly, wiping crusts of drool from the corner of his mouth, and looked over at Dean, who had managed somehow to twist the sheets into some sort of Gordian knot around his legs and feet.
He was still asleep, wearing his clothes from last night. He should look about as innocent as he always did in his sleep, which was alarmingly so.
He didn’t. He looked…dark.
Sam pulled Ruby’s knife out from beneath his pillow and looked at the clock. It was barely five in the morning. All of the salt lines were in place, and there was no smell of sulfur. Dean just looked dark. Like even though he was exposed to the same light as everything else in the room, something had changed in the contours of his body to make deeper and more numerous shadows. Sam's grip on the knife tightened.
"Dean?"
Dean made a grumbling noise and rolled over slightly. "'Mwhat, Sammy? 'S early."
"Where'd you go last night?"
Dean squinted at the dawn light and grimaced. "Bar. Ugh, Christ, didn't think I drank that much, but I feel like ass. Why?"
"Anything happen there?" Sam sat forward. He glanced at the tattoo on Dean's chest, but it looked the same as usual, no damage done, no breaks in the blackened lines.
Dean didn’t even think about it. The memory came forward as if put there last. "Nearly picked up this chick with a truly impressive set of knockers. Didn't, though." He finally managed to extricate himself from his sheets and sat up to peer at Sam in confusion. "What's this about?"
"You look different. Are you sure nothing happened?"
"Dude, I'm hungover and I didn't even get laid. At best, I'm probably just looking seriously disappointed." Dean wiped a hand over his face, and hauled himself out of bed. "I'm calling first shower, and you can't stop me."
Sam watched as he closed the bathroom door behind him. His grip stayed tight around his knife.
***
Dean eyed Sam warily over breakfast. The younger Winchester had been unwinding incrementally since they first woke up, but he still had that cautious, weirded-out expression twisting his face like he's hiding something. But this time Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t hiding anything--at least, not this time. After Sam had left the panic room that last time Dean had made it clear that he was going to make an effort towards trusting him so long as Sam didn't talk about it beyond just being generally honest about what was going on. It had been working out pretty well so far, and though occasionally Sam would get that constipated look, a few hours later he'd come clean about what was bothering him and as long as it wasn't about feelings, Dean tried to do his best and listen. So it wasn't that.
Besides, this wasn't quite the look of secret-hiding. This was the look of body-snatching, ghoul-sighting, shapeshifter-y suspicion. Which was just...odd.
"Dude, what's up with you this morning?" Dean said finally, as he sucked down his third cup of coffee. He felt sluggish with his hangover, and his shoulders felt sore for some reason, like he wrenched them.
Sam made conflicted noises for a few minutes over his scrambled eggs, until he gave up and said, "You look weird, Dean. You look different. And not hungover, or something, just...kinda off."
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Sammy."
"I don't know, all right? I just woke up this morning, something felt wrong, and when I looked over at you I had the sudden urge to fling holy water in your face."
"Glad you didn't, or we would have had to have some strong words."
"I'm serious, Dean."
"I'm not laughing, Sammy. Look, you can splash all the holy water you want on me when we get back, I'll even cut myself up on some silver if you like. But I guarantee you nothing happened last night."
"Well, you look weird. And it's weirding me out."
"I think you've reached your quota for use of the word 'weird'."
Absently, Dean rubbed his thumb along the base of his finger, like he was adjusting something. Sam followed the movement, but there was nothing there.
***
They were in upstate New York a week later, biding their time while Bobby looked for more Apocalyptic signs by investigating a possible Sumerian curse when Dean started to feel it. They were both in the library because between all the newspaper articles on possible deaths and on the museum where there was a whole wing dedicated to the Fertile Crescent, they're sort of swamped in data. Dean flipped through a couple of old archive books and then flexed his hand once, shooting it an odd look before continuing.
And then he did it again, a few minutes later.
Sam looked up on the third time with raised eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
Dean frowned. "I dunno, man. My hand feels kinda...off."
Two bookshelves behind them, a furious whispered argument erupted between a librarian and some kid from the local high school. Dean and Sam listened to it escalate and then die down. Dean snorted in amusement, and jerked his thumb at them. Sam smirked.
They forgot about his hand.
***
It was definitely a Sumerian curse.
Two days, and they're breaking into the museum through a basement window to burn a warrior's shield that apparently housed the souls of all the soldiers it protected. Said soldiers apparently took offense to not being buried with their corpses back in Mesopotamia. So now, yeah, cremation of whatever's left was definitely in order.
Dean brushed bits of broken glass off his shoulders and straightened. "Which way to these bastards?"
"Off to the left, down the hall," Sam said as he dropped in through the window. It really was a good thing they were upstate. Any closer to the city, and they'd be dealing with all sorts of ridiculous security. As it was, though, the museum was pretty small and outdated. They made their way down the hall.
The shield was nestled among some spears and urns behind glass casing. But that's the least of their worries.
As soon as they entered the hall, the warriors appeared. Ghostly sure, but more than capable of doing damage, if the mangled townspeople now residing in the county morgue were anything to show for it. Dean pumped his shotgun as Sam made a run for the shield.
"Better do this quick, Sam, or the cavalry is going to arrive and they won't be happy with us!" he shouted, putting a round of rock salt into the warrior advancing on his left.
"Doing the best I can, all right?" Sam yelled back, grabbing the fire extinguisher to break the display glass.
Dean let off another round, catching a second ghost in the chest, but then there's a third, a fourth, an eighth, and oh Christ this was not good.
Dean made a dive for their bag and the tin of rock salt, unscrewing the cap and backing into a corner. "Sam!"
"It's not burning, I'm gonna have to try another ritual!" Sam shouted, and then Dean didn't have time to call a warning before another ghost was throwing his brother across the room.
"Forget it, I'll do it!" he yelled, pulling the stuff he needed out of the bag once the salt line's down, pulling out an iron chain that he swung in a wide arc to mow the closest soldiers down. Snatching charcoal from the side pocket, he started drawing, left hand fidgeting while he laid down the sigils, listening to the crack of Sam's shotgun over his head.
Left hand fidgeting, as he laid down the palm leaves and stained them with blood.
"Dean?"
Left hand fidgeting, as the shots ceased.
"Dean."
He looked up to plan his mad dash to the shield that needed to be on fire as much as the pile of sacrificial detritus at the center of the chalk circle. And froze.
Sam was looking at him in unabashed confusion, looking at him and then at the ghosts who had ceased advancing on Sam and instead were turning on each other.
"Huh," Dean said, still rubbing at the base of his forefinger with his thumb. They watched for a few seconds in silence while the apparitions of ancient men tore each other apart, limb from limb, over and over. It was almost more haunting that it’s as bloodless as it was, just gray splatter that evaporated before everything was put back together again in an endless regeneration.
Sam saw Dean freeze up, his expression something a lot like recognition. Sam was pointedly not going to think about what his brother's recognizing.
"Dean, the ritual," he said, voice unsteady.
Dean tore his gaze away, and nodded. Went to the shield and plucked it out of the broken display case. He threw it on the circle and set the whole thing ablaze.
Still snarling and locked together in a hideous tableau, the warriors went up in a shower of sparks.
The silence was too unsettling to break it. Sam did anyway.
"We've gotta go, Dean," he said. "We're lucky the cops aren't here already."
Dean nodded, a bit vacantly, and they got the hell out.
***
"So," Sam said, when they got back to the motel, and thankfully no cops were on their tail. "What the hell was that?"
Dean shrugged. "No idea. Maybe there were too many manifesting at once? Got their wires crossed or something?"
"It's never happened like that before."
"Obviously. I'm just saying I dunno, Sam."
Sam sat heavily on the bed across from Dean. "You still look weird."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Seriously? You're still on that?"
"You tell me, Dean. You start looking weird and dark and all of a sudden the first supernatural baddies we come across start wailing on each other rather than us? There could be some sort of correlation--"
"Yeah, or you could be making shit up," Dean cut him off. "I'm fine, Sam. I've been fine all this time. I don't see what the issue is. Take the win for what it is."
Sam twisted his face up in disapproval, but didn't take it any further. There wouldn't be a point, anyway.
***
Four days later, Dean started to itch. He itched very specifically in two narrow bands along the edges of his shoulder blades, and he itched like a motherfucker. He started out just absently scratching at it, but after a day or so he's clawing at it every second he can, trying to restrain himself when Sam's around, but it's like as soon as he left the room he's practically ripping holes in his t-shirts to get at skin, and then rub that raw too.
Sam noticed. "Dude. Did you fall in poison ivy, or something?"
"No," Dean snapped, "I just...Christ. It's fucking uncomfortable."
"Lemme see," Sam said, looking concerned.
With a sigh, Dean pulled his t-shirt up over his head. He heard Sam suck in a breath.
"Holy fucking shit," Sam breathed. "Call Cas right now."
"What?" Dean said, "What is it?"
Sam rolled his eyes as Dean tried in vain to crane his neck around to catch a glimpse of his shoulder blades. "Look in the mirror, and then call Cas, for Christ's sake." His voice came out low and strained.
Dean, for once, listened to his little brother. He went into the bathroom and turned to look.
And then resisted the urge to gag.
His shoulder blades were mottled black beneath the surface, like the creepiest varicose veins gone ballistic beneath his skin. It looked rotten, angry where he's scratched, red and noxious. Dean felt the same revulsion he had when he'd gotten tonsillitis and hadn't known until he'd opened his mouth in the mirror and found those awful white spots at the back of his throat. He turned around almost immediately because he couldn't stand looking at it. He pulled out his cell and called Castiel.
"Yes, Dean?"
"Hey, Cas? You got a minute?"
"I have more than a minute available at the moment. Where are you?"
Dean rattled off the address and halfway through Castiel was four inches from his face and looking very, very concerned.
"Dean, what have you done?"
Dean immediately went on the defensive, because that's what he did. "What makes you think I've done anything? I just have this shit on my back and it itches and I don't know why--"
"Turn around," Castiel ordered, and Dean sighs and faces away from him. A moment later, Cas's hand came down gently on his right shoulder blade, and he wanted immediately to shift to make that light touch a savage scratch.
But Castiel just flattened his palm against Dean's back, and says, "Dean. I don't know what this is."
"Great. That's real helpful."
"You are changing. And I do not know what will be the end result."
"Even better. Can you make it stop?" Dean growled.
Castiel looked at him over his shoulder, implacable as ever. "Not without knowing what is causing the change."
They both exited the bathroom, and Sam looked at them expectantly. "Did you--?"
"No," Dean snapped. "We don't know what it is."
"Dean is undergoing a transformation," Castiel said.
Sam tensed up. "Into what?"
"Weren't you listening? We don't know," Dean said. His hands came together in that strange rubbing motion.
"You keep doing that," Sam said, jerking his chin in the direction of Dean's hands.
Dean frowned, and looks down. "'S nothing. I'm a bit tense right now. You know, about the giant black marks on my--"
"Wait, Dean," Castiel said, coming around to face him. "Let me see."
Wordlessly, Dean put out his hands and Castiel took them in his own. The angel flinched when his grip closed around Dean's left hand. "You're wearing something," he said. "Here."
He grasped Dean's forefinger, and squeezed. As Castiel let go, revealing the gold signet beneath his withdrawing thumb, Dean froze.
“Well, fuck.”
***
Dean was watching Castiel. There had been a lot of yelling after he’d remembered just how exactly he’d managed to do something more spectacularly reckless than usual. Castiel hadn’t been a participant in the yelling; that had mostly been Dean and Sam. Castiel, instead, had watched like he had actually turned into Spock, while Dean had turned into a alien specimen of great interest. And now Dean was watching straight back, because Sam had finally subsided with a lot of frustrated noises, and because Castiel was looking...diffident. "What're you thinking, dude?" he asked, after a few seconds.
“The night you decided to do this,” Castiel said slowly. “Did you talk to anyone in particular?”
“No. I think I'd…wait.” Dean thought about it. What he’d told Sam the morning after, about the busty chick. That hadn’t been right. He couldn’t even remember her name, or what he said to get her into bed. There was a whole lotta something there that he wasn’t remembering, a blank that stood out for its sheer lack of information.
He picked at it. It didn’t budge.
“I think…I think I’ve been wiped,” he said, after a second.
“’Wiped?” Castiel cocked his head, but Sam got it.
“You sure it wasn’t the booze?” he asked.
“Nah,” Dean replied, now more certain, “Different kind of blankness. This isn’t lost hours, this is just empty ones. A long gap of nothing, but no feeling of time loss.”
“That’s hard to pull off,” Sam said darkly. “You think she was working some mojo?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I mean, I may not be so bright, but I don’t randomly put major magical objects on myself just for funsies."
That took some of the wind out of Sam's sails. "Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right," he said eventually. "Okay, so we have some higher echelon bad guy who told Dean to put on the ring, but now that it’s on, do you think he’d know how to get it off?” he asked, turning to Castiel.
“Unlikely. There are very few beings in the universe who are familiar with the true nature of the Horsemen, and though this may have been a powerful influence peddler, it is doubtful he is one of them. But perhaps he would know what change would take place. After all, he would need a reason for impelling Dean.”
“Then what d’you suggest, Cas?” Dean said.
"I am thinking that I should perhaps call on someone who has greater expertise than I," Castiel said hesitantly. "But you may not approve of him."
"Dude, have I ever approved of your former pals?" he snorted. "Hit me. Who're you gonna call? And don't say ghostbusters."
Castiel raised an uncomprehending eyebrow, but then said, "Gabriel. I would call Gabriel."
Dean's face went utterly blank. Sam said, "Um. Why?"
"Because he is more powerful than I, and may be able to trace the influence further than I. And because he has undergone somewhat of a transformation himself, though perhaps not so drastically."
Sam frowned. "The earlier writings say the Horsemen were stars. Is that actually...?"
"That is accurate, yes, though they were not the incandescent forms that you are familiar with. But they were not spoken of a great deal in Heaven, so even I cannot give a detailed account of them. Gabriel can."
"I doubt he'll want to, though."
"Don't be so sure. He wants this war to be over." Castiel looked over at Dean significantly. "And we may have just changed the terms by which that will happen."
“Great.” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna powwow with a guy who killed me not once, but like eleventy-billion times.”
Sam looked even more upset than he was, but he didn’t say anything.
Into the silence, Dean let out a breath that’s a mix of irritation and trepidation. “Right,” he said finally. “What do we have to do to summon ourselves an archangel?”
Chapter Two.
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure, pairings to be decided
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but probably long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are discreet. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
Prologue
Chapter One
Sam woke up feeling odd, all of his nerves jangling like something had been watching him sleep. He pushed himself off his belly, wiping crusts of drool from the corner of his mouth, and looked over at Dean, who had managed somehow to twist the sheets into some sort of Gordian knot around his legs and feet.
He was still asleep, wearing his clothes from last night. He should look about as innocent as he always did in his sleep, which was alarmingly so.
He didn’t. He looked…dark.
Sam pulled Ruby’s knife out from beneath his pillow and looked at the clock. It was barely five in the morning. All of the salt lines were in place, and there was no smell of sulfur. Dean just looked dark. Like even though he was exposed to the same light as everything else in the room, something had changed in the contours of his body to make deeper and more numerous shadows. Sam's grip on the knife tightened.
"Dean?"
Dean made a grumbling noise and rolled over slightly. "'Mwhat, Sammy? 'S early."
"Where'd you go last night?"
Dean squinted at the dawn light and grimaced. "Bar. Ugh, Christ, didn't think I drank that much, but I feel like ass. Why?"
"Anything happen there?" Sam sat forward. He glanced at the tattoo on Dean's chest, but it looked the same as usual, no damage done, no breaks in the blackened lines.
Dean didn’t even think about it. The memory came forward as if put there last. "Nearly picked up this chick with a truly impressive set of knockers. Didn't, though." He finally managed to extricate himself from his sheets and sat up to peer at Sam in confusion. "What's this about?"
"You look different. Are you sure nothing happened?"
"Dude, I'm hungover and I didn't even get laid. At best, I'm probably just looking seriously disappointed." Dean wiped a hand over his face, and hauled himself out of bed. "I'm calling first shower, and you can't stop me."
Sam watched as he closed the bathroom door behind him. His grip stayed tight around his knife.
***
Dean eyed Sam warily over breakfast. The younger Winchester had been unwinding incrementally since they first woke up, but he still had that cautious, weirded-out expression twisting his face like he's hiding something. But this time Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t hiding anything--at least, not this time. After Sam had left the panic room that last time Dean had made it clear that he was going to make an effort towards trusting him so long as Sam didn't talk about it beyond just being generally honest about what was going on. It had been working out pretty well so far, and though occasionally Sam would get that constipated look, a few hours later he'd come clean about what was bothering him and as long as it wasn't about feelings, Dean tried to do his best and listen. So it wasn't that.
Besides, this wasn't quite the look of secret-hiding. This was the look of body-snatching, ghoul-sighting, shapeshifter-y suspicion. Which was just...odd.
"Dude, what's up with you this morning?" Dean said finally, as he sucked down his third cup of coffee. He felt sluggish with his hangover, and his shoulders felt sore for some reason, like he wrenched them.
Sam made conflicted noises for a few minutes over his scrambled eggs, until he gave up and said, "You look weird, Dean. You look different. And not hungover, or something, just...kinda off."
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Sammy."
"I don't know, all right? I just woke up this morning, something felt wrong, and when I looked over at you I had the sudden urge to fling holy water in your face."
"Glad you didn't, or we would have had to have some strong words."
"I'm serious, Dean."
"I'm not laughing, Sammy. Look, you can splash all the holy water you want on me when we get back, I'll even cut myself up on some silver if you like. But I guarantee you nothing happened last night."
"Well, you look weird. And it's weirding me out."
"I think you've reached your quota for use of the word 'weird'."
Absently, Dean rubbed his thumb along the base of his finger, like he was adjusting something. Sam followed the movement, but there was nothing there.
***
They were in upstate New York a week later, biding their time while Bobby looked for more Apocalyptic signs by investigating a possible Sumerian curse when Dean started to feel it. They were both in the library because between all the newspaper articles on possible deaths and on the museum where there was a whole wing dedicated to the Fertile Crescent, they're sort of swamped in data. Dean flipped through a couple of old archive books and then flexed his hand once, shooting it an odd look before continuing.
And then he did it again, a few minutes later.
Sam looked up on the third time with raised eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
Dean frowned. "I dunno, man. My hand feels kinda...off."
Two bookshelves behind them, a furious whispered argument erupted between a librarian and some kid from the local high school. Dean and Sam listened to it escalate and then die down. Dean snorted in amusement, and jerked his thumb at them. Sam smirked.
They forgot about his hand.
***
It was definitely a Sumerian curse.
Two days, and they're breaking into the museum through a basement window to burn a warrior's shield that apparently housed the souls of all the soldiers it protected. Said soldiers apparently took offense to not being buried with their corpses back in Mesopotamia. So now, yeah, cremation of whatever's left was definitely in order.
Dean brushed bits of broken glass off his shoulders and straightened. "Which way to these bastards?"
"Off to the left, down the hall," Sam said as he dropped in through the window. It really was a good thing they were upstate. Any closer to the city, and they'd be dealing with all sorts of ridiculous security. As it was, though, the museum was pretty small and outdated. They made their way down the hall.
The shield was nestled among some spears and urns behind glass casing. But that's the least of their worries.
As soon as they entered the hall, the warriors appeared. Ghostly sure, but more than capable of doing damage, if the mangled townspeople now residing in the county morgue were anything to show for it. Dean pumped his shotgun as Sam made a run for the shield.
"Better do this quick, Sam, or the cavalry is going to arrive and they won't be happy with us!" he shouted, putting a round of rock salt into the warrior advancing on his left.
"Doing the best I can, all right?" Sam yelled back, grabbing the fire extinguisher to break the display glass.
Dean let off another round, catching a second ghost in the chest, but then there's a third, a fourth, an eighth, and oh Christ this was not good.
Dean made a dive for their bag and the tin of rock salt, unscrewing the cap and backing into a corner. "Sam!"
"It's not burning, I'm gonna have to try another ritual!" Sam shouted, and then Dean didn't have time to call a warning before another ghost was throwing his brother across the room.
"Forget it, I'll do it!" he yelled, pulling the stuff he needed out of the bag once the salt line's down, pulling out an iron chain that he swung in a wide arc to mow the closest soldiers down. Snatching charcoal from the side pocket, he started drawing, left hand fidgeting while he laid down the sigils, listening to the crack of Sam's shotgun over his head.
Left hand fidgeting, as he laid down the palm leaves and stained them with blood.
"Dean?"
Left hand fidgeting, as the shots ceased.
"Dean."
He looked up to plan his mad dash to the shield that needed to be on fire as much as the pile of sacrificial detritus at the center of the chalk circle. And froze.
Sam was looking at him in unabashed confusion, looking at him and then at the ghosts who had ceased advancing on Sam and instead were turning on each other.
"Huh," Dean said, still rubbing at the base of his forefinger with his thumb. They watched for a few seconds in silence while the apparitions of ancient men tore each other apart, limb from limb, over and over. It was almost more haunting that it’s as bloodless as it was, just gray splatter that evaporated before everything was put back together again in an endless regeneration.
Sam saw Dean freeze up, his expression something a lot like recognition. Sam was pointedly not going to think about what his brother's recognizing.
"Dean, the ritual," he said, voice unsteady.
Dean tore his gaze away, and nodded. Went to the shield and plucked it out of the broken display case. He threw it on the circle and set the whole thing ablaze.
Still snarling and locked together in a hideous tableau, the warriors went up in a shower of sparks.
The silence was too unsettling to break it. Sam did anyway.
"We've gotta go, Dean," he said. "We're lucky the cops aren't here already."
Dean nodded, a bit vacantly, and they got the hell out.
***
"So," Sam said, when they got back to the motel, and thankfully no cops were on their tail. "What the hell was that?"
Dean shrugged. "No idea. Maybe there were too many manifesting at once? Got their wires crossed or something?"
"It's never happened like that before."
"Obviously. I'm just saying I dunno, Sam."
Sam sat heavily on the bed across from Dean. "You still look weird."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Seriously? You're still on that?"
"You tell me, Dean. You start looking weird and dark and all of a sudden the first supernatural baddies we come across start wailing on each other rather than us? There could be some sort of correlation--"
"Yeah, or you could be making shit up," Dean cut him off. "I'm fine, Sam. I've been fine all this time. I don't see what the issue is. Take the win for what it is."
Sam twisted his face up in disapproval, but didn't take it any further. There wouldn't be a point, anyway.
***
Four days later, Dean started to itch. He itched very specifically in two narrow bands along the edges of his shoulder blades, and he itched like a motherfucker. He started out just absently scratching at it, but after a day or so he's clawing at it every second he can, trying to restrain himself when Sam's around, but it's like as soon as he left the room he's practically ripping holes in his t-shirts to get at skin, and then rub that raw too.
Sam noticed. "Dude. Did you fall in poison ivy, or something?"
"No," Dean snapped, "I just...Christ. It's fucking uncomfortable."
"Lemme see," Sam said, looking concerned.
With a sigh, Dean pulled his t-shirt up over his head. He heard Sam suck in a breath.
"Holy fucking shit," Sam breathed. "Call Cas right now."
"What?" Dean said, "What is it?"
Sam rolled his eyes as Dean tried in vain to crane his neck around to catch a glimpse of his shoulder blades. "Look in the mirror, and then call Cas, for Christ's sake." His voice came out low and strained.
Dean, for once, listened to his little brother. He went into the bathroom and turned to look.
And then resisted the urge to gag.
His shoulder blades were mottled black beneath the surface, like the creepiest varicose veins gone ballistic beneath his skin. It looked rotten, angry where he's scratched, red and noxious. Dean felt the same revulsion he had when he'd gotten tonsillitis and hadn't known until he'd opened his mouth in the mirror and found those awful white spots at the back of his throat. He turned around almost immediately because he couldn't stand looking at it. He pulled out his cell and called Castiel.
"Yes, Dean?"
"Hey, Cas? You got a minute?"
"I have more than a minute available at the moment. Where are you?"
Dean rattled off the address and halfway through Castiel was four inches from his face and looking very, very concerned.
"Dean, what have you done?"
Dean immediately went on the defensive, because that's what he did. "What makes you think I've done anything? I just have this shit on my back and it itches and I don't know why--"
"Turn around," Castiel ordered, and Dean sighs and faces away from him. A moment later, Cas's hand came down gently on his right shoulder blade, and he wanted immediately to shift to make that light touch a savage scratch.
But Castiel just flattened his palm against Dean's back, and says, "Dean. I don't know what this is."
"Great. That's real helpful."
"You are changing. And I do not know what will be the end result."
"Even better. Can you make it stop?" Dean growled.
Castiel looked at him over his shoulder, implacable as ever. "Not without knowing what is causing the change."
They both exited the bathroom, and Sam looked at them expectantly. "Did you--?"
"No," Dean snapped. "We don't know what it is."
"Dean is undergoing a transformation," Castiel said.
Sam tensed up. "Into what?"
"Weren't you listening? We don't know," Dean said. His hands came together in that strange rubbing motion.
"You keep doing that," Sam said, jerking his chin in the direction of Dean's hands.
Dean frowned, and looks down. "'S nothing. I'm a bit tense right now. You know, about the giant black marks on my--"
"Wait, Dean," Castiel said, coming around to face him. "Let me see."
Wordlessly, Dean put out his hands and Castiel took them in his own. The angel flinched when his grip closed around Dean's left hand. "You're wearing something," he said. "Here."
He grasped Dean's forefinger, and squeezed. As Castiel let go, revealing the gold signet beneath his withdrawing thumb, Dean froze.
“Well, fuck.”
***
Dean was watching Castiel. There had been a lot of yelling after he’d remembered just how exactly he’d managed to do something more spectacularly reckless than usual. Castiel hadn’t been a participant in the yelling; that had mostly been Dean and Sam. Castiel, instead, had watched like he had actually turned into Spock, while Dean had turned into a alien specimen of great interest. And now Dean was watching straight back, because Sam had finally subsided with a lot of frustrated noises, and because Castiel was looking...diffident. "What're you thinking, dude?" he asked, after a few seconds.
“The night you decided to do this,” Castiel said slowly. “Did you talk to anyone in particular?”
“No. I think I'd…wait.” Dean thought about it. What he’d told Sam the morning after, about the busty chick. That hadn’t been right. He couldn’t even remember her name, or what he said to get her into bed. There was a whole lotta something there that he wasn’t remembering, a blank that stood out for its sheer lack of information.
He picked at it. It didn’t budge.
“I think…I think I’ve been wiped,” he said, after a second.
“’Wiped?” Castiel cocked his head, but Sam got it.
“You sure it wasn’t the booze?” he asked.
“Nah,” Dean replied, now more certain, “Different kind of blankness. This isn’t lost hours, this is just empty ones. A long gap of nothing, but no feeling of time loss.”
“That’s hard to pull off,” Sam said darkly. “You think she was working some mojo?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I mean, I may not be so bright, but I don’t randomly put major magical objects on myself just for funsies."
That took some of the wind out of Sam's sails. "Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right," he said eventually. "Okay, so we have some higher echelon bad guy who told Dean to put on the ring, but now that it’s on, do you think he’d know how to get it off?” he asked, turning to Castiel.
“Unlikely. There are very few beings in the universe who are familiar with the true nature of the Horsemen, and though this may have been a powerful influence peddler, it is doubtful he is one of them. But perhaps he would know what change would take place. After all, he would need a reason for impelling Dean.”
“Then what d’you suggest, Cas?” Dean said.
"I am thinking that I should perhaps call on someone who has greater expertise than I," Castiel said hesitantly. "But you may not approve of him."
"Dude, have I ever approved of your former pals?" he snorted. "Hit me. Who're you gonna call? And don't say ghostbusters."
Castiel raised an uncomprehending eyebrow, but then said, "Gabriel. I would call Gabriel."
Dean's face went utterly blank. Sam said, "Um. Why?"
"Because he is more powerful than I, and may be able to trace the influence further than I. And because he has undergone somewhat of a transformation himself, though perhaps not so drastically."
Sam frowned. "The earlier writings say the Horsemen were stars. Is that actually...?"
"That is accurate, yes, though they were not the incandescent forms that you are familiar with. But they were not spoken of a great deal in Heaven, so even I cannot give a detailed account of them. Gabriel can."
"I doubt he'll want to, though."
"Don't be so sure. He wants this war to be over." Castiel looked over at Dean significantly. "And we may have just changed the terms by which that will happen."
“Great.” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna powwow with a guy who killed me not once, but like eleventy-billion times.”
Sam looked even more upset than he was, but he didn’t say anything.
Into the silence, Dean let out a breath that’s a mix of irritation and trepidation. “Right,” he said finally. “What do we have to do to summon ourselves an archangel?”
Chapter Two.