And the Moment Lingers On - DCBB - 2/6
Part 2
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He’s back in the city before he wants to be. Sam’s safe back home this time though, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about him. He knows he’s going to have to let his brother get used to the unsavory parts of their life sooner or later, but for now he just wants the kid to stay home and read his books.
He’s here for food, mostly. They farm when they can because eating is a luxury to the angels, and so the price of necessities are inflated, but it’s been harder and harder to get to their fields recently. More of them being hunted down. People leave camp in the morning and just never come home again. Nothing’s been public, but it’s their job to have ears everywhere. And from the sound of it, there’s some new initiative up to hunt them down.
Never publicly, of course, since the angels like to maintain their image of innocence and peace. Maybe, Dean figures, some of them are actually like that, but those ones don’t ask any questions either, are satisfied as long as they don’t have to see any of the violence. He doesn’t think that makes them any better.
But at least their camp is protected. He doesn’t know how exactly, but his father and Bobby assure him it is, that it can’t be found unless the person knows the way. And he trusts them. If they say it, then he’s safe.
He knows some others don’t quite see it that way. But their hideaway holds pretty much of all the humans still around in these parts, and if there is some secret initiative to kill them all, clearly, the angels haven’t found it yet. And those bastards have all the weapons. So the fact they’re all alive should be good enough proof for anyone.
He ducks his head away from a guard that passes by and heads for the stand he’s looking for, bread, maybe, and some vegetables, but not too many. Meat, if he can afford it. Maybe just the scraps...
As he’s thinking though, a hand falls on his shoulder and for a moment his instinct is to run, but the voice is an unfamiliar one and the angel who stops him isn’t a guard, just some kind of official, too well dressed and weaponless to really seem any kind of danger but Dean keeps his defenses up.
“Yeah?” He asks, trying to sound unworried, but his eyes dart around, figuring out all the nearest exits in his mind.
“It seems we’ve run a few hands short in our preparations.” There’s a haughtiness to the tone, as though the man wouldn’t be speaking to Dean otherwise and Dean isn’t really sure who put this guy on the celebration committee, because man does he look unhappy. “And we need a few more of you Mud - I mean, you humans to lend a hand. And you seem,” The other eyes him. “Competent enough. We would just need you to put up some tents, tend to the performers, help with the Ceremony of the Wings.”
But Dean’s not really listening, he’d sort of tuned out the moment the other opened his snobbish mouth. “Yeah, no thanks.” He pulls away. “Not really my -”
“We pay.” The words cause him to pause. “200 silver.” And that’s, yeah, that’s more than three times the money he’d made performing. “And food for tonight and tomorrow.” The smugness kills him, it really does, because this angel knows he has him, that he actually can’t turn down this offer. But to admit that he’s starving and he’s poor and he’ll play their good little helper because of it...it’s just at the limit of what his pride can take.
“Fine.” He grits out, facing the angel once more and the other gives him a tight smile.
“Excellent. My name is Uriel. You may call me Sir.”
--
The next morning brings sounds of trumpeting and excitement and Castiel lays in his bed and wishes he could drown it all out. More than anything, as the trails of laughter and the scent of food rise into his small room, he wishes he could go out there, be with them. See, feel, live. But he knows he can’t. Lucifer forbids it, Lucifer says it’s dangerous, that he’s an outcast, that he’d be hurt. And still, all he can see down there is joy and all he has up here are his unfeeling carvings and his loneliness.
“Well now, there’s a glum look for a day like today.”
He sits up at the sudden voice; turns around to see an angel standing there, one he doesn’t recognize, but whom is looking at him with a cheery smile, though Cas can see a slight unhappiness glinting in his eyes. When he sees Cas watching though, the trace of it disappears and there’s nothing but the grin.
“Who…who are you?” He asks, Lucifer does not allow guests and he has no wish to be even more in trouble than he is already. He watches the other look around the small room, head shaking to himself.
“Oh me?” Gabriel shrugs, “Just looking for big bro.” He’s never actually laid eyes on his brother’s little hide-away, only knows that a long time ago, he ended up in Lucifer’s charge and has been living here ever since. But it’s so bare. He snaps his fingers and there’s a comforter on the bed suddenly, drapes billowing out over the glassless windows. Better.
Castiel meanwhile, is eyeing the changes with something like horror. “I really don’t think that you should…” Gabe doesn’t get to hear the end of the sentence though, because a burst of sound echoes up from the festival, and the scrawny, little, thing gets such a hungry look in his eye, he can’t help but call him on it.
“The door is right there, you know. Your feet still work don’t, they?” He casts a critical gaze on the angel, but aside from the wing that’s missing, he seems well enough.
“Lucifer does not allow it.” Is the quiet answer he gets, and he rolls his eyes, his brother, ever the kill joy. “All the men are to report and stop me… if I attempt to leave.”
But, if Lucifer forbids it, it’s not exactly his place to interfere, not directly anyway, and since the runt is still eying the decorations like they’re poisonous snakes, he waves his hand and makes them disappear. His brother isn’t here clearly, and it’s no skin off his back how this goes either way. But before he leaves, he smiles down at Cas. “My brother’s no ray of sunshine, but he’s not God either. Find another way.” He winks and disappears - let the other do what he will with the sentiment.
Another way - the words echo through Castiel’s ears and starts to pace around the room, something about the meeting making him feel stronger, the new presence a reminder that Lucifer is not the only being in the world. There is, he thinks, another way, but he hasn’t tried it in a long while, doesn’t know if he can even still ..He was a lot lighter the last time he’d tried to hover down, when he was younger and he didn’t understand the sudden solitude, and he never made it all the way down.
But he so sorely wants to go. Perhaps it’s worth just one more attempt at leaving. The same reckless excitement from yesterday comes flooding back little by little, heart beating faster again, face flushing. He understands why he has to stay up here, he does. But just one day. That’s all he wants. It’s not so much.
And as he heads for the ledge something else catches his eye, the sun glinting off a shining pot of paint and beneath it a roll of fabric. It’s what he uses to make the wings for his tiny angel replicas. And Lucifer, being Lucifer, ensured that the materials were expensive and almost perfectly matching to the real thing. He can make himself a wing, a folded one, in any case, and if he covers it with his cloak, at a glance, no one will know, especially not with the hustle and bustle of the day. He’s made so many small ones before...he knows he can do this.
Excitement rushing through his veins, Castiel forces himself to sit and concentrate and deftly it takes shape under his fingers, fabric and wire and glue twisting together. He works until from what he can tell, the wing seems as though it could pass as a particularly strange, but all the same real one. With a few more twists of wire, he manages to attach it to his shirt and walks around until he’s confident it will stay in place. The added weight on his shoulder seems odd to him, unusual. He stops short as he catches sight of himself in the sliver of mirror that hangs next to his bed. For once though, the reflection is whole. It takes his breath away. For once he doesn’t look odd or freakish. He just looks as he should, as an angel should.
If only it were real.
The creation has taken him quite a while though, and if he wants to be back safely before the sun sets, he shouldn’t waste any more time looking at himself in the mirror. Instead, he grabs ahold of his cloak and makes his way over to the ledge, stands on it, takes a deep breath, and jumps.
--
He doesn’t fall to his doom, nor does he take off in wondrous flight. Instead, his one wing shoots out and he awkwardly hovers in the air, something just a little more controlled than falling, managing to keep him aflight until he makes it to a statue a level below him. There he stops, his heart pounding in his chest, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. But he’s exhilarated. Dizzy laughter falling from his lips. One ledge, he did it. He can do it, he can get down. He’ll see the festival. With a terrifying jolt in his stomach, he tries it again, lowers himself to a balcony, just a little farther of a jump than the statue had been.
But he reaches that easily as well, even if his wing is straining. It’s clumsy, and unsteady, but it’s enough. It’s enough and that’s what matters.
Slowly, though with a little more confidence as he hits ledge after ledge, Castiel manages to to flutter down until he’s found himself on the ground behind the cathedral. Out, free, he almost can’t believe it as he looks around him. No walls, no locks. He can just, he can walk. Even though suddenly there’s something frightening about it all, about the vast expanse, about how loud the crowd roars in his ear as he pulls on his cloak and starts walking. He pushes that aside and takes step after step.
Today, today he is perfect.
--
It’s kind of a boring gig to be honest. Since he finished putting up the tents late last night and then made sure everything was clean and organized and crap, there hasn’t really been much for him to do. Apparently they need him to be the token human at some wing event, but whatever, seems easy enough to do, a bunch of angels pointed out to him that he has to drag onstage. He snorts to himself. He kind of wishes he could bail, get back home already, but Dad and Sam are used to unexpected detours coming up, so he’s sure they won’t be too concerned. And for now, he’s getting paid to pretty much stand around, lean against some tent, watching in half interest and half disgust as the ceremonies drag on.
The angels mostly just sweep around him. A couple send him sidelong glances, but on the whole he’s pretty much empty space, so it’s kind of strange when he feels someone’s gaze on him and he turns to find one of them looking at him curiously. As though he’s just about the most fascinating thing in the goddamn world. He can tell it’s an angel because of the strange bumps in his cloak, but more than that, they just don’t make humans that pretty.
He’s slim and elegant, a little pale, but the large blue eyes are what get Dean. Beyond that there’s something innocent about him, something that both the preening angels and the jaded humans he usually sees lack. He looks adorably lost in the mass of motion around him, but curious at the same time, even though he shies away when anyone gets too close. Scared and exhilarated, some childish happiness exuding from him as though all his dreams are coming true. Dean can’t remember the last time he’s seen anyone look like that. But it draws him.
Wait. What the hell is he doing though; he should not be checking out an angel. He hates them anyway, right? Even though a certain aggravating blonde has crept into his thoughts every now and again. But he knows better, he does. Sleeping with an angel is the quickest way to get in a fuckload of trouble. But he’s the one who was looking at Dean, and still is. And maybe he should step forward, just to see what’s going on there, it’s not like it could do that much harm.
But before he manages, Uriel is there, dragging him towards the center stage, and he’s pushed onto it with a grimace. Two hundred silver he reminds himself, food for a month, things they need, flowers for Risa that don’t come with dirt from someone’s garden. It’ll be over in a second.
He forces himself to stay in place as Uriel drones on about the majesty of an angel’s wing and how they are a “sign of one’s great strength and elegance.” His mind starts to wander again and finds himself searching out Blue Eyes in the crowd. He’s there, watching with that same rapt excitement and Dean smiles to himself.
“And the human we have to properly display the angel’s majesty against one so low, please human, bring up the chosen angels.”
That’s his cue. It’s hard not to roll his eyes, but this is it, he does this and he’s done. He makes his way into the crowd and escorts the chosen angels up to their places. But as he turns to grab the last one, he finds himself standing next to the odd one instead. Hell, he looks so happy clapping along for the other ones, maybe this will make his day.
“Hey,” He says, grabbing his hand, “Come on.”
The angel looks at him, confused, but as all eyes turn to him and there’s scattered applause in the audience, he follows, looking all around him, his fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist hard, almost not letting go once they reach the stage. But Dean slips out of the grip, takes the cloak off him, and yeah, those are nice enough, and backs away into his corner.
From his vantage point, he can see Lord High and Mighty seated at the center of the crowd on a large throne and for a moment something like shock passes through the judge’s eyes, but then it twists into something sinister. Dean takes a step further back into the shadows, drops his eyes back to the proceedings, the sooner he get out of here the better.
Uriel has been holding up each angel’s wings for inspection and the audience has been clapping their approval and finally, finally he’s reached Dean’s angel.
For a moment, everything is great, one wing gets held up and it’s pretty spectacular, black and large and the angel seems to enjoy the approval of the crowd, the clapping and cheering, but then Uriel reaches for the other and he looks at it kind of strangely for a moment, but goes to pull it straight like he had with all the others. As soon as his fingers touch it though, the expression darkens and suddenly, he yanks, hard. And the wing... it...pops off, crumples in his fist. Dean blinks, not sure what he’s seeing, and neither is the crowd apparently, because a dead silence fills the air.
The hiss starts not too long after that and it’s angry. The angels suddenly reminding Dean of a snake pit he’d almost fallen into once, coiling, ready to strike. The worst part is the damn angel hasn’t even realized, is just smiling shyly out at the crowd, looking pleased, and he has no idea that the angry muttering, the wave that’s about to crash into him, is going to be awful. Dean does though, and there’s an unexplainable urge to protect the damn thing. Maybe it’s because that stupid innocence reminds him of Sammy, maybe because he knows in a way this is all his fault.
But before he can move to so much as try and warn him, someone’s reached up and grabbed the angel right off the stage, other arms snatching up as well, manhandling him away roughly. Hands grabbing at his shirt, at his hair, dragging him through the dust. And he can hear the surprised yelps, turning panicked, as the slight creature tries to struggle away. But he doesn’t have a chance. Dean pushes down into the crowd, tries to get to him, because this is so damn wrong, sick. It’s too thick though, and suddenly he sees the other resurface on a different platform, forced to kneel in front of Lucifer’s stony gaze as ropes come out of nowhere to bind him down.
“Deceiver.” A guard yells, sharply backhanding the bound angel, the slap echoing across the now silent square. With a sharp tug, the other’s shirt comes falling from his shoulders, the wire he’d used to keep the fake wing attached falling to the ground. “It is forbidden for a human to masquerade as an angel.” And he’s yanking sharply at the other wing now, sword out, trying to pull it loose, but it doesn’t give.
“How did you manage to get this one to stay?” The question is roared out, and Dean pushes closer to the stage, anger settling in his stomach now. If they can’t fucking see that’s an angel they’re all damn blind, and he knows they’re a sick fucking entitled lot, but to do this to one of their own. He shouldn’t have pushed the other up.
Guilt twists in his stomach as he nears the stage and sees the other almost crying now, bared back trembling as the guard continues to twist at the wing. He’s looking up, begging for Lucifer to help him. Dean has no idea why the fuck he’s doing that, the way he sees it begging to Lucifer is like begging to the devil himself, but the cries cut through him. Predictably the judge is doing nothing but watching.
And then the guard has the sword waving in front of the angel’s face and the angel is screaming, begging him not to, but it’s too late and the sword goes flying into the wing, blood dripping down from the gash, the angel going almost catatonic, shaking and flailing against the bounds and begging and Dean can’t, he can’t watch this.
“Fuck, it’s real.” He hears as he moves forward and the crowd ripples again,murmurs of “Real?” “What is it?” “Monstrous.” whispering around him.
“ABOMINATION” Someone yells and something, Dean isn’t quite sure what, gets thrown towards the center of the stage, the crowd awakened once more like an angry creature, spluttering and breathing smoke. More yells and taunts, but he can’t hear them anymore because he’s finally to the stage where the poor thing is cowering, pocket knife in hand, and he bends down next to it. Ignores the outrage of the crowd.
“Hey,” He reaches out quietly, his hand settling slowly on the angel’s back, soothing. Careful, like with a frightened animal. And immediately blue eyes are on him, wide and scared, tears tracking down them. He moves his hand from his back to his cheek and with the other brings the knife closer. The angel flinches away when he sees it, becoming if possible smaller, but he uses it anyway, cuts the ropes and frees the other’s hands from behind his back. The angel stays frozen as he does, but it only takes another second before he has an armful of the cowering creature. “I’m so sorry,” He whispers in the angel’s ear as the crowd roars and he tucks him closer into his body. He’s sorry he pulled him up here, he’s sorry the angels are all fucking bastards.
In front of him Lucifer stands, outraged. “You?” He snarls at Dean, recognition brewing there, and yeah that’s probably not a good thing. “What is the meaning of this?” He should run, shouldn’t risk crossing Lucifer a second time, but something holds him in place.
“You’re all fucking hypocrites.” He grinds out, pulling the angel protectively to his body. “You’re the fucking monsters. Look at him.” He sneers at Lucifer. “I’m glad this makes you feel all high and mighty. So much for justice and purity, huh?”
“You disobedient wretch.” Lucifer growls at him, his eyes narrowing, “You dare speak like that to an angel. Step away from him. I won’t tell you again.”
But Dean has always kind of sucked at following orders so he doesn’t move, just wraps his arms tighter around the pitiful thing and tries not to think about how happy he was before. Fucking glowing. That’s all gone now, he knows, and it won’t come back, not the same.
“Seize him,” Lucifer growls, but at the same time tiny voice whispers in his ear and it takes him a moment to understand where it’s coming from.
“Go to the Cathedral.” The angel’s voice cracks and fades but he makes it out anyway. “Call for Sanctuary.”
The Cathedral, he looks up as he sees the guards moving towards him, it’s not far, and he’s faster, he knows he is.
“I’m sorry,” He whispers again, but the angel is right, he has no other choice, he has to get home, he can’t die here. So he takes his chances and jumps into the crowd, ducking under arms and bowling over men and women as he rushes, the pursuers at his heels.
It’s a good thing they’re weighed down by armor and he’s used to running for his life because there are so many steps to race up, and he only just makes it through the ornate doors before they do.
“Sanctuary.” He huffs out as they storm in behind him. “I ask for Sanctuary.”
The angels look at each other, uncertain, and then go rigid and part as Lucifer enters himself, a sword drawn. Dean straightens; pulling his shoulders back and his head up to meet the mocking gaze head on.
“Sanctuary.” He repeats defiantly.
The angel chuckles twirling the sword in his fingers and steps closer. “Sanctuary is for angels.” The sword rises up sharply and then falls, Dean refuses to shut his eyes.
“Stop.” A voice calls through the room, Lucifer’s sword pausing inches above Dean’s head. Dean’s chest rises and falls, but he doesn’t dare turn his head an inch.
“Lucifer, you would not dare to spill blood in this Holy Space. It is forbidden. Even for you. Your brother would have you banished for this.” The priest moves into view, his arms crossed, tall and old, even Lucifer shies away at his words. There’s power thats emanating from him, ancient and threatening. “Your father would be furious. There would be uproar.”
For a long moment, the sword hangs threateningly against Dean’s neck, but the it drops away, Lucifer sheathing it again with a sharp motion. “Fine.” The other hisses furiously, eyes narrowing down at Dean again. “You have your Sanctuary. But step one foot outside this cathedral and I shall have your head.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean drawles back, with more bravado than he feels. Because he can’t stay here, he has to get out.
Lucifer laughs and turns away. “I’ll be waiting. Enjoy your prison.”
--
Lucifer pauses angrily outside the doors and snaps his fingers at his men.
“You are to guard the doors day and night. He is not to leave without my knowledge.”
He’s about to disappear and then as an afterthought.
“And do bring that mess back up to his room.”
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