Supernatural Fanfiction
Title: The Five Year Plan [2/5]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: AU after 'The End'. Dean/Castiel UST, Sam
Spoilers: Up to 5.04.
Warnings: Male on male sex, religious blasphemy, language. I like my sins big.
Word Count: 10,600 total
Summary: "Can you do it? Can you talk to God?"
Year Two
Cas, of course, was on board. This had been his focus ever since he got back from being splatted all over Chuck's kitchen, and if there's an image Dean never wanted to think of again, it's that. He had a few nightmares over the next year of hippie Cas offering him chips and bowl of something dark, red and pulpy. There were teeth in the bowl and hippie Cas was just laughing about letting it go, banging the gong, and 'having yourself some angel salsa.'
Dean always woke up before he could clock that damned smiling sonnvabitch.
It was Sam who had the problem. Sam who argued with Dean for three hundred and sixty four days straight about how this Plan was a lousy Plan. He argued with Dean about it in the car. He argued with Dean about it in the motel rooms they stayed in. He argued with Dean while they're fought monsters. He argued while they trekked to every holy and religious place they could think of in North America, looking for God - Sam was especially bitchy the day Dean gave in and they drove down to New Mexico to look for the Holy Flatbread. He argued before they went to sleep, and when they woke up. He argued at every damned meal, and if Dean hadn't started to lock the door, he'd argue with Dean while Dean was on the goddamned toilet.
After three hundred and sixty-four days, Dean had parsed Sam's objections to The Plan into a top five list.
1.They can't spend all their time running around the country trying to find God. God is God. God probably doesn't want to be found. He is not playing skee-ball, he is not talking to beloved country music star, and he's probably not talking to some teenage girl in Arcadia.
2.They should have a more proactive plan. Like finding the Colt. Finding the Colt is a solid plan, where they would be doing something with real effect and at the same time, they would have a weapon to kill the Devil. Kill Devil Good. Wandering Around Bad.
3.They can't keep hiding forever. Sooner or later the angels will find them or Lucifer will find them or something else bad with sharp teeth and a bad attitude will find them, but they will be found and they probably still wouldn't have spoken to God.
4.Man had been trying to get God to answer back for centuries. Yes, Dean was Michael's vessel and Sam was Lucifer's, but that didn't mean they got a free pass to communicate with God. Not even Cas got that, and Cas rebelled against Heaven and Hell. What made Dean think they were so special?
5.What the hell were they going to say to God, anyways?
Dean took Sam's arguments in stride. He knew there was in fact another Sam Winchester underneath the angry super-analyst who was coming fresh off a demon blood addiction, getting betrayed by his demon girlfriend, and bringing Lucifer to Earth. Why in the name Hell would Sam want to talk to God? God was probably going to smack his bitch ass for bringing about the end to all of God's good work. Dean could see that hint of fear every single time Sam brought up one of those tired old arguments. Sam was scared to find God, scared of what God would do to him, even more so than Lucifer. Dean, all things considered, couldn't blame him. That was why he manfully resisted the urge to shove a pillow over Sam's face and kill him in his sleep.
Still, it was starting to become touch and go by the time the end of the first year rolled around. Dean was starting to look at sticks, rocks, even ketchup bottles fondly as blunt instruments he'd use the moment Sam said, “Dean, if you would just listen … “
On the three hundredth and sixty-fifth day though, everything changed.
********************
The start of the second year was when Castiel had the Idea.
They were in a diner, and it was already turning out to be a lousy start of a lousy day. Lucifer, in typical, 'I'm a big evil whiny douchebag' behavior, had razed a town to the ground when he found out he had yet again been given the slip by the Winchesters. In response, Zachariah and the angels had flooded another town supposedly filled with demons in 'We're a bunch of feathery dicks' fashion.
Sam was tense. Dean wasn't much better, but that morning Castiel finally hooked back up with them after spending two weeks wandering around Florida, searching for a supposedly blessed fountain. He found it, but not God, and met with the brothers back in Denver with a gallon of water so holy it would turn a demon into what Dean could only call 'evil jelly'.
So not only was Dean glad to get his hands on something that turned demons into steaming piles of liquid badness, he had to admit it, he was glad to see Cas.
Truth of it all, it took everything in his manly power not to walk over and hug the feathery bastard, and cling on him like a frigging weed when Castiel appeared early that morning in their hotel room. Although Dean's face lit up, and he smiled like the sun for a whole three seconds, he was aware that it was 1. Way too homoerotic, and 2. Sammy was right there, and would pick up on the way too homoerotic.
Dean really needed to get laid, if hugging the angel was on his top ten list of sexually inappropriate things not to do in front of Sam.
So instead of touching, or getting touched by the angel, he took Castiel out for breakfast. It was their 'thing' - while Sam did his research, Dean would drag Castiel out to the nearest diner. It started off as lessons in making Castiel more accessible, but not too accessible. Dean spent a number of mornings glaring at waitresses who looked into Cas's blue eyes a little too long.
But … at some point, it just became the quiet moment Dean needed, every once and awhile. Just two hours, sipping coffee, talking to Castiel about all kinds of random shit. Like his favorite movies. Or the waitress who reminded Dean of the girl who told him he was a sorry loser when he was seventeen. Castiel, in turn would talk to him about the places he'd seen - the forests where God had touched down, the empty deserts and the churches overrun with roots and trees and time.
It was good - no, it was the best. Almost as good as all those hours driving along with Sam in his baby, singing songs at the top of their lungs. Just him, and Cas and the smell of fried things, and if Dean had to think of porno magazines while watching Castiel eat, well ...
That day it was pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. They were a serious favorite of Castiel's, and Dean made sure to order enough for the both of them. The angel's eyes gleamed, and one of those almost-not-quite-there smiles appeared. Dean met it with one of his own, and damn if just sitting down and having breakfast with his angel would have made the day not a total fucking wash - but Sam, for the first time in an entire year, joined them and fucking started arguing from the moment his ass hit seat.
It took a lot to ruin blueberry pancakes for Dean. That day, Sam did his damnedest.
It was about halfway through the meal, where Sam was fiercely on Argument #3, and Dean was looking at his butter knife and idly contemplating sticking it into Sammy's eye, when Castiel's fork poised in mid air over a mouthful of blueberry deliciousness. The angel looked thoughtful and said, perfectly timed when Sam took a breath, “Why don't we just ask Chuck Shirley?”
“I - what?” Sam stopped, altogether, brown eyes gone wide. Dean was so surprised by Sam's sudden silence after three hundred and sixty four days of bitchery, that all he did was blink between him and Castiel. The angel, sensing the pause, continued.
“Chuck is a direct mouthpiece of the Lord, our Father. It seems reasonable to assume that if anyone was to get a message to God, it would be the Prophet.” The fork finally dipped down, slid a piece of pancake through the syrup, and the angel raised it to his mouth.
Dean looked over to Sam, to have Sam look at him, both of them shocked into the, 'why didn't we think of that?' silence. Sam was the first to break it by scrubbing his hand through his hair, his voice slow as he thought of the first and only argument he could give an Angel of the frigging Lord, “I don't know, Cas. I mean, isn't Heaven feeding Chuck all the cues?”
Castiel slowly sucked his bite of pancake of his fork, chewed, swallowed, and licked his lips. Dean suddenly wondered if the latest issue of Fine Indian Beauties was available on-line. He licked his own lips and added, “Far be it from me to bust on the one decent idea we've had lately - but - yeah Cas, what about that shit? I don't want to go looking for God and walk right into a Heaven trap, full on Scooby Doo style. Y'know, 'I could have gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those pesky angels and that Prophet!'”
Castiel frowned in confusion as his fork dipped down again, but decided that continuing was obviously the better part of valor. “Heaven can turn such visions to their own advantage, but as I have told you before, it is from God's mouth to Chuck's mind.”
Dean tapped his fork on the table, considering it all. “And it goes from Chuck's drunken little mind onto the page.” He looked over at Sam, arching an eyebrow.
Sam seemed to be gnawing it over his own mind, then glanced over at Dean. “It's … a solid idea. I mean - at least we'll be going to the one place - one man - who can give us,” and here he rolled his eyes, “Honest to God answers.”
“Then it is settled.” Castiel said in that voice, as if it was written in stone. He looked over to Sam, his gaze intent. “Now may Dean and I enjoy our Breakfast Time?”
Sam had lifted his coffee to his lips, and was sucking down a slurp. He choked a little. “What? Your … what?”
“Breakfast Time. Where we enjoy many delicacies of the diner variety in peace and tranquility.” Castiel answered, his tone a little scolding. “You are killing our pancake buzz, Sam.”
“Your pancake -” Sam stared at the angel, then at Dean, who trying not to snort syrup up his nose. Sam scowled. “Dean. You're corrupting the angel through ...breakfast food?”
“What? No! Get your red silk panties out of their twist.” Now Dean was the one who glowered. “Breakfast just so happens to be me and my angel's meal, where I teach him that the innocent, pure joy of pancakes, sausage and eggs over hard.”
Sam's eyes narrowed, “Don't you mean, over easy?”
Dean frowned, “Isn't that what I said?”
“No you said -” Sam sighed, shaking his head a little. “Nevermind. Anyways, you two should hurry up and finish we can ...” Dean wasn't sure what kind of look Castiel was giving Sam, but he knew his was nothing more than a flat, angry scowl. Sam trailed off, looking from one to the other.
Dean gestured, pointedly, with his knife. “Did Cas not say that we're having our pancakes?”
“Yes, but-” Sam started to say, but Castiel cut him off.
“Did Dean not say that this is our time to bond?” Dean could hear the faint thunder in Castiel's voice, and he felt a measure of happiness about that.
“But the Apocalypse-” Dean watched through narrowed eyes as his brother looked helplessly from him, back to Castiel, who had a steely look on his face and a tilt to his jaw. Sam sighed and waved to the waitress. “Can, ah, wait. Apparently. Because it's pancake time.”
Dean smiled, put his knife to his pancakes, and nodded his approval. “You're learning, Sammy. You're learning.”
And for the first time in three hundred and sixty five days, Sam didn't say a single damned thing. Had Dean known that in five hundred and twenty seven days that would come around to bite him in the ass, he might have welcomed a discussion on Argument #5 with open arms.
************************
There was a short argument, post breakfast, about how they were going to get there. Dean wanted to take the Impala. Sam pointed out that if they wanted a fast getaway from any possible angel interference, the Impala was fast but Castiel was faster. They compromised in the end - the Impala got left just outside of town and Castiel would take them the rest of the way. To that end, Dean insisted Castiel travel with them in the car. As a show of trust, and brotherly love, Dean let Sam drive, while he spent the better part of the trip showing Castiel what good music was. Castiel listened aptly, and Sam chimed in a few times with bands he liked that Dean didn't, or music they both agreed was phenomenal.
Some time in the future, Dean would look back on this short trip as some kind of turning point - the beginning of a strong team that would go forth together, united under any circumstances. Right now though, his thought was that this, right here, was home -- with Sam at the wheel, a smile on his face that Dean hadn't seen in months, and Castiel leaned over the front seat, arms folded, chin propped up over his hands as he listened gravely to Led Zeppelin. Dean himself was half turned on the front seat, grinning as he switched tapes, singing along at the top of his lungs. His baby hummed at his back, and the road stretched on smoothly, not a traffic jam in sight. He had everything he needed, right in front of him.
They left the car, as planned, and Dean braced himself for the stomach-clenching-bowel-not-moving shift of space and time, knowing the moment he heard the flutter of feathers he could open his eyes and look forward a week of constipation meds. He expected all that, it was part of the angel program. He opened his eyes, knew that Castiel brought then directly into Chuck's living room, and he'd have to do with a yelping Prophet of the Lord.
What he was not prepared for is to be looking down the barrel of a .45, and Chuck yelling at the top of his lungs, “I TOLD YOU DICKS OF THE LORD - Oh hi, Dean.”
Dean swallowed slowly, looking at the wide black opening where the very deadly bullets came out. “Hi Chuck. Could you point the large firearm away from my face?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Chuck swiveled the gun away from Dean, gestured it in Sam's direction vaguely. “I wasn't expecting you guys for hours!”
“Chuck. Gun.” Sam said sharply, as he tried to move his taller body away from the swinging barrel. Apparently Sam was as nervous as Dean to see a gun in Chuck's way too inexperienced hands.
“Oh, don't worry Sam, the safety's on. See?” Chuck pointed, pulled the trigger, and then proceeded to put a slug right through Castiel's chest. There was a moment of silence where all four of them stared at the smoking hole in the angel's jacket. The tiny writer stared, swallowed, then finally found his voice. “Ah … that … wasn't supposed to ...sorry?”
Dean sighed heavily, grabbed the gun away from Chuck and flicked the safety on. He glared down at God's Prophet.“Good work, dumbass. You shot the only angel on our side.” He looked over his shoulder “Cas, you okay?”
The angel stuck his finger through the new smoking hole in his coat and wiggled it for a moment, before glowering at the writer, “Chuck Shirley, you realize the only thing shooting one my brothers will do is annoy him? Briefly?”
Chuck cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I was kind of hoping it worked like birds? Y'know, bang bang! And they flutter! Maybe I'd have to deal with some angel shit on the carpet afterwards?”
Sam, who Dean had handed the gun over to and who was wisely unloading it, raised an eyebrow. “...Chuck, if you shoot at a bunch of angels, they're not going to scatter like pigeons.”
“They're not?” Chuck asked weakly, looking from Sam, to Dean who nodded in furious agreement, and then over to Castiel, who merely flashed the hole in his shirt and lifted both of his eyebrows. “Oh. Well, that's good to know. Maybe I should get a bigger gun?”
“No!” Both Winchesters and the angel shouted, and Dean growled. “That is the bad idea of bad ideas - anyways! You said you were expecting us later? How could you be expecting us at all?”
Chuck gave him one of his own, 'are you stupid' looks, before holding up a sheaf of type-written papers. “Should I read you the argument you guys had over Sam interrupting your blueberry pancake date, or should we just get why you're here? And yeah, Sam, we probably don't have a lot of time. You guys are hidden from the angels but Cas? Still has a giant 'Kill Me' target on his back.” He pointed a finger at Castiel, “No more angel on my curtains. Seriously, the things I had to do to get this place clean again-”
Dean did not want to hear any of Chuck's cleaning, so he said gruffly. “Can you do it? Can you talk to God?”
Chuck heaved out a breath, one hand in his hair as he walked back towards his kitchen. “I'll be honest - I don't know. I mean, it's not like God's sitting down here and having a beer with me, while we chat about plot. For the longest time I just thought all this crazy shit in my brain was my brain not .. you know, you guys?” He exhaled. “Now I'm a Prophet - I'm your Prophet - angels are assholes, no offense Cas, Lucifer's wandering around for a year trying to climb into Sam the unpleasant way, and God's still jamming stuff in my brain and not really explaining why. God and I are not buddies. Most of the time it feels like God's raping me with a sandpaper condom - sorry, Cas, metaphorically speaking.”
Castiel looked about two seconds away of tempting Fate and archangels again, so Dean stepped between the angel and the Prophet, looking at him. “Chuck. You keep saying you want to help us - one way or another. Well, here we are, man. The way, the path before us, means we gotta see if the Big Wheel in the Sky is Turning. If we're going to be doing this on our own, I wanna know. If we're not, then I wanna know that too. And we're not asking you to do anything but … try. That's all. Try.”
He wasn't sure what was in his face, or in his voice, but suddenly Sam looked at him with a smile, Castiel looked a lot less like smiting and a lot like he was ready to put Dean on the 'Best Human Ever' pedestal again, and Chuck … Chuck was nodding his head, his voice soft, but getting stronger. “All right … okay. Yeah. I'll try. What information I can get you, from God? I will.”
“All right. Good.” Dean put his hands on his hips, and breathed out. Another piece into place. Another step forward. It wasn't all there yet, but it was forming, slowly.
Sam cleared his throat, and Dean dragged his gaze over to his brother. Automatically, Sam held his hand up, “Now before you, Cas, or even Chuck waves some chapter at me and calls me out for being the doomsayer - how are we even going to get this information? We can't keep popping in here - we're already putting Chuck in danger.” Sam's eyes slid over to Castiel. “Not to mention Cas. They find him here …”
Dean looked at Castiel, who was grim-faced once more, as he met Dean's eyes, and kept them there. Dean long ago realized the risk to them, if Castiel spent too much time with them. It hadn't sunk in how much danger Castiel was putting himself at, especially here. In the place that Dean suddenly realized, the angel died. Died.
It was only Chuck's cough that dragged Dean's eyes back to the prophet. Chuck gave him a strange look, and sighed, his face shifting through varying shades of fear, and a touch of shame. “I have a solution … but … you have to promise not to kill me.” He pointed a finger at Sam. “You too.” That finger swung back to Castiel. “Especially you. No smiting.”
Dean felt his jaw tighten, and he shot a look over to Castiel, whose chin had raised, blue eyes sharpening. He felt his gaze slide over to Sam, who hadn't taken his gaze away from Chuck's guilty expression. Sam's head tilted forward, and he moved towards the smaller man. “Chuck … what did you do?”
Chuck shifting his weight nervously, before he took a few steps back. Dean's suspicion rose, as the writer started to speak. “Listen, you guys have to understand - I live here, this is my home, and when the archangel came down … well, I'm not insured against acts of Heaven? And the house! The house was a mess, broken windows, and let me tell you? Macs may be the more reliable computer but those things are frigging expensive, man!” He swallowed, and took another step back, into the kitchen, as Dean, flanked by Sam and Cas, followed after him, “So I, uh, had to sell my talents... fruit of my labors … y'know ...”
Oh Fucking Hell. Dean closed his eyes, and closed them tight, gripping one hand at his side. “Chuck. You are not about to tell me that there are new Winchester books out there. You. Are. Not.”
He heard Chuck's nervous laugh, “No, no. Not books. Not … you know, hard cover, with paper books.” A pause. “But e-Books?”
“You … you .. you published the Winchester Gospels. On-Line.” Sam's voice rose sharply, “Refresh my memory, Chuck, but isn't that where our scary fangirls live?”
“Hey, heeeey, Becky isn't that bad. She sent me marzipan, after all. And she helped you!” Chuck protested, and Dean opened his eyes to find the writer flailing his hands a little.
“Chuck, she grabbed my nipple! I am not okay with - just how many copies of the new stuff has she bought?” Sam asked, eyebrows narrowed.
Chuck swallowed again and he was looking away as he muttered, “Twenty, or more, and some other merchandise from my store - but that's not the point, guys! The point is - you have an entire resource out there you can now be using. Here, let me show you.”
He went over to his Mac, obviously new, hit a button and opened a browser. He flipped over to one of his forum boards. “Look at this, guys. Links on lore, all kinds of lore, stuff about studying the End of Days … they discuss it, they argue it, they come up with all kinds of things.” He arched an eyebrow at Dean, “And they are all over the United States. One hellva underground network for a pair of hunters and a renegade angel, looking for God, right?”
“Huh...” Dean said, leaning over Chuck's shoulder to peer at the long list of subject topics. “Y'know, Chuck has a good point - I mean, these fans of ours do know our story inside and out, makes sense they'd do their homework on local legends and the like -” He paused, frowned, then grabbed the mouse from Chuck, “The hell is this - wing porn? Wing porn? They're giving us wings now?”
Chuck let out a strangled noise and Dean looked at him sharply. “Not, uh, exactly. More like - they're writing, talking, discussing … people who might have wings already. Y'know. Like angels. Like maybe one very specific angel.”
Dean stared at Chuck, then at his brother who is now on the other side of the prophet, his expression tightly bitch-faced. Both of them met eyes, then slowly turned towards Castiel, who had the most baffled look on his face. The angel's head bobbed to the side. “They write … pornography? About me?”
“You're a surprisingly popular character, Cas.” Chuck said, looking like he did not want to be having this conversation at all. He quickly closed the page before Dean could see who they were tossing Castiel into bed with. “You're the only angel that people seem to be empathetic to. I mean, c'mon. You pulled Dean out of Hell. You think Good Things should happen to him. You want Dean to have faith. So it makes sense that the fans want to get a closer look in your head …. and want to strip you naked and tie you to things so you can have sex. With people.”
Dean had to wonder why Chuck wasn't looking at him. Or why Sam was suddenly avoiding his gaze. He decided it was better to focus on Castiel, holding up his hand. “It's just fiction, Cas. It's kind of creepy, some of it, but they don't know us. They think we're not real.”
“But now, that's got to change. On a small scale, at least. Because let's be honest - I don't know if angels check my email but probably some religious guy at the CIA might. We need go-betweens, and no one else is gonna believe me but my readers.” Chuck slumped a little in his chair. “I mean,seriously, sometimes I don't even believe this crap, and I'm living it.”
Dean made a face, but the man was right. They needed people who weren't connected to the Winchesters personally - not hunters, definitely not Bobby or Chuck. Which meant, and man as funny as it was, he hated doing this to Sam, but - “Becky. One of them has got to be Becky. She already knows the score.” He pointed a finger at Chuck, “But the others gotta be vetted by me, Sam,” he glanced sideways, “And Cas too, if you're going for one of his … heh, fangirls. No more marizpan making crazies.”
“She's not crazy - she's just … really enthusiastic - and a devout fan who buys every book that comes out. Twice. Besides, she switched to brownies.” Chuck waved towards the cupboard. “She always makes extra, for you guys, if you wanna grab some.”
“She felt me up, Chuck.” Sam said sharply. “Felt me up and I know she squeezed a little too. I am not Charmins.” There was a pause, and Sam sighed as Chuck looked at him imploringly. “But … fine. Dean's right. We need her. Find us the others, Chuck.” His gaze meets Dean's, and Dean's heart swells because even Sam's, “It's part of the Plan,” is not as sarcastic as it could be and until this point, had been.
For that reason, Dean lets Sam have first pick of the brownies on their ride out of town. Castiel gets the second, because apparently starring in porn makes the angel all contemplative, and Dean's half terrified and half intrigued of what's going on in Castiel's brain.
He got the last pick, but was downright gleeful when he looked into the heart-shaped Tupperware container to see they had both left him the biggest, most moist brownies. That, in Dean's humble opinion, was nothing less than pure love.
*********************
A month later, after a rather brutal encounter with some vampires, the profiles from Chuck started flooding in.
Five months after that, Dean, Sam and Castiel had chosen their - well - chosen ones. They then spent a month chasing after the Colt when they got a solid clue from Bobby, so that gave Chuck more than enough time to plan a group meeting. By agreement, it was in a diner, and by silent agreement, all three of them came armed. Dean had of his favorite pistols, Sam had the Knife and Castiel had, well, Castiel.
Dean wasn't really sure what he could expect from fangirls. He kind of thought, with the kind of luck he'd had his entire fucking life, that they'd all be like Becky. Kinda nice, but weird. Really weird. And there might be some inappropriate touching going, which he'd let Sam handle on his own, because he was a big boy and he could disengage easily, but one of them started pawing at Cas and he was not going to be happy.
He had expected he would know them when he saw them - and he did. They were a large group of all women, of all different ages. Most of them were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, one or two of them was wearing something that made Dean's heart skitter sideways. Like one shirt that looked almost but not quite Sam's favorite flannel. One girl was even wearing his amulet - his amulet - and in what was obviously a prized possession, one of the girls at the end of the table had an exact replica of Cas's coat.
Dean thought, How the hell did they get this stuff?, and then he thought, Fucking Chuck!, then he sighed. Chuck told him this would happen. He knew to expect this. What he didn't expect was that they, well, they looked normal. One or two of them were even smoking hot, and he had to admit if he had run into them anywhere else he would have had a smile and a wink and maybe an invitation. The Asian girl with Cas's coat on was downright fucking adorable, for fuck's sake.
What he also didn't expect was that they would be fighting, laughing, chattering at each other. Like friends - but Jesus-fuck, of course they would know one another. They probably exchanged a million emails, had a million chats, probably got together and had fucking Supernatural bookclub conventions or other things that fans did. In fact, as they approached, he could hear them arguing logistics, for fuck's sake, on what would work better at keeping a demon at bay, line of salt or holy water to the face. A few of them were arguing the merits of a holy water gun. A holy water gun? Seriously?
He nearly told them he wasn't going to lug around a frigging Supersoaker filled with divine h20 when Becky shot up from her seat, eyes bright, braces gleaming, as she said in an awed voice, “Sam!” She glanced at Dean, “And your brother!” Then she stared, “... and the … and the angel.”
The women all fell silent, and Dean found himself staring at more than a half a dozen expressions of skepticism, distrust, faint hope, and awe. The women all exchanged looks with one another, before the one in the middle, who kinda looked like Reese Witherspoon's distant cousin, nodded them towards the table. “Take a seat … guys.”
Dean shot a look over to Castiel, then to Sam, before he sat himself down in a chair. Sam and Castiel took seats on either side of him, and there was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, before one of the older women, the one with a blue streak in her hair and the kind of look on her face that reminded Dean of his Dad, spoke in a crisp tone. “Listen up, boys. We've all talked about this, and while Becky may be all, 'Oh yes, Winchesters!', we are a little more that leery of three guys - two of them claiming to be the coolest hunters of all time, and c'mon, some guy crazy enough to claim he's an angel of the Lord. Not to mention our favorite author claiming he's a Prophet? You can see why we're kind of saying, I don't know, bullshit.”
Dean shared another look with Sam, and then over to Castiel, and then sighed. “Yeah, Ch- Carver said you might have this problem.” He nodded to the two of them, and all three of them pulled out sheets of paper that Chuck had set them up with. He nodded at Sam first.
Sam cleared his throat, and looked at the woman with the streak of blue hair, his brown eyes meeting her own, his voice that low, calm drawl he used when explaining something complicated in a easy-to-understand manner, or to someone who had gone through a terrible shock. Gentle, knowing. “Your name is Meg. When you were twenty-two, you were a bartender in Louisiana, and you sneaked out of your apartment in the middle of the night, so you wouldn't have to pay rent.”
Dean nodded, flipped open the piece of paper in front of him, and looked at the dainty redhead in front of him, the one with the extended earlobes, “Your friends call you MeL. Capital M, lowercase e, capital L. When you're scared, you bite your tongue. What most people don't know though is that for awhile, you were kinda afraid you were going to bite your tongue off.”
He glanced to Castiel, who neatly and methodically took out his piece of paper, focusing his gaze on the small Asian girl, his voice low and level. “Your name is Tracy, and you have girl wood for the Aston Martin Vanquish.” He frowned, then continued. “Which, if I am to be understood, is some sort of automobile.”
“That's a nice ride.” Dean leaned over to the sheet of paper, his eyes sweeping over the lines of one fine-ass vehicle. “For a Brit-car, anyways. It's kind of girly but it's got power under the hood.”
“How does a car give someone part of a tree?” Castiel's expression slid into the faintest of frowns as he looked over at Dean.
“Ah, heh. No, Cas, that's like ah, like a euphemism.” Dean grinned wide. “Y'know. For being …happy, down in your -”
“Dean.” Sam said sharply at his elbow, and Dean twisted around to face him, “You are not teaching the angel about -”
“Oh for chrissakes, Sam, he knows about that shit. He's frigging millenia old. I mean, mostly. He just doesn't know the slang.” Dean huffed, before he looked over his shoulder at Castiel, “Seriously dude, help me out here. Tell my super-prude brother that you know what happens when a guy gets … ” He trailed off when he remembered they had a table filled with women, skeptical women.
Who, except for Becky, stared at them. One of the girls, a curvy looking Amazon said slowly, “Oh. My. God.”
“See?” Becky looked downright smug. “I told you I wasn't having paranoid schizophrenic delusions!”
All the girls looked over at Becky, and as one said with an annoyed tone, “Becky.”, which seemed to be some kind of code for Becky to settle on down. Then the flock's head swiveled back to the Winchesters and the angel, so in time that Dean was almost unnerved to ask all of them if they wanted a sip from his holy water flask.
Then all at once, they exploded into a flurry of excited and bright-eyed questions at all three of them, rapid fast and some of them just downright disturbing; “Dean, what's the scariest thing you've ever fought? Scary for you. Like wad up your boxers, scary.” “Castiel, do you really not understand 'personal space' or is that just an excuse?” “Sam, what ever happened with those Barbies?” “Dean, what would you have done with your life if your father hadn't raised you to be a hunter?” “Sam, what kind of physical regime do you and your brother keep up with to stay in the shape you're in?” “Castiel - did you rebel for yourself or did you rebel for Dean?” “Dean, Sam, seriously, how do you feel about the angel?”
He tried raising his hands against the tide, but that did about as much good as duct tape on a leaking fucking dam. It was Castiel who got them under control, his voice like rough steel and his blue eyes blazing. “Ladies. Enough.”
They fell silent, some of them blinked at Castiel in total shock and scared amazement.
True diplomat that he was, Sam leaned forward, looking around with that 'oh gosh you know I'm an empathetic puppy-dog'. “We understand you have … a lot of questions, but those are going to need to be shelved. As, ah, you all know from your reading - we're trying to stop some seriously nasty things from happening, and we don't really have time to answer your questions - we've got too many of our own. Right now though, we're asking - hell, we're begging for your help.”
They grew quiet, these very different women from all over the country, and finally Mel spoke, her blue-green eyes shifting shades as she asked quietly, but with more firmness than Dean expected. “What do you need us to do?”
“Pass information.” Dean said firmly, putting his hands on the table, folded together as he looked at all of them. “We need information on what visions Ch - Carver sees. He'll pass it to you, you pass it to us. We'll work out a system as needed.” He inhaled, deeply, “We need information on what's going on where, and how, if possible. And … we need you find us the holiest place in the United States. Somewhere you can communicate with God. Literally.” He swept his gaze around them, swallowing a little, “I know it won't be easy - that it'll be pretty fucking hard -”
The curvy Amazon spoke then, cutting him off with a simple, “You know what's hard? I'll tell you what's hard. Finding the exact specs for how to rebuild a '67 Impala. That's hard, Mr. Winchester.”
Mel's mouth curved up into a knowing grin. “Trying to find the right phrase in Hebrew for an angel of the lord to say, that's hard.”
Reese Witherspoon's cousin piped up with a, “Trying to figure out what level of smart is a 174 on the LSAT? Hard.”
Meg smiled, tucking that dark hair behind her ear, that shining streak of blue hair that gleamed in the diner's light. Dean would remember the color of that streak for the rest of his life - electric blue. Meg's streak was electric blue, the day he met her - met all of them - the group that would be called the Inner Circle by the jealous fangirls. Who never really knew what the Circle were about, what they were really doing with all their conversations with Chuck, why they researched so hard and stayed up late nights and called Dean in the middle of the night, or Sam, or Castiel with a quiet, 'Hey, we think we got something'.
That's in the future. Days, months, years in the future. Right now there was only Meg's smile, as she pulled her laptop up; again, reminding him of his dad as she said firmly, “We're gonna get this started, because we already know hard and research. You guys do your thing. We got this.”
Dean sits back, watching them, because it's like fucking magic. A field of laptops fucking appear out of thin air like Castiel and just like that, they're working. Without another question, without another doubt. There's the murmur of quiet voices talking to one another, geeking out, and he saw that they were an intrusion more than they were a help. So he jerked his chin at Sam, tapped Cas once on the knee, and they all rose together, and moved silently towards the door. Dean looked back once, at the cluster of girls working hard, arguing logistics, and he felt it. The Plan. Clicking into place.
It felt good. Really fucking good.
They were halfway to the Impala, when one of the girls, Tracy, called out to them. She stood at the doorway to the diner, and when Dean turned around she got her balls up to walk across the way to them. Dark eyes behind solemn scholar frames looked up at him, at all three of them. He watched her swallow, then gather up her nerves to say, “You're real. You're really real - and that means …. this is the end of the world, isn't it? All that stuff that's happening in the news, that's not random. That's the Apocalypse.”
Dean couldn't say a word - not into the scared eyes of a young woman barely in her twenties. What could you say to that? So he just nodded his head, silently, back stiffening, jaw tight.
She looked at the ground, hugging herself, scared to Hell and Dean couldn't blame her. And right before he looked to Sam, to Cas, for something comforting to say, she looked up at him again. Her own jaw was set, and her expression was fierce, “You're going to stop it. Because you're Dean Winchester, and that's what you do.” She took a step back, looked hard at all three of them. “That's what you all do. You're the good guys.”
Dean swallowed himself, and the words just came to him. Simple, unvarnished words, gruff but true. “You're damned right it is, and we will.” He searched her face, repeating himself, for her benefit. For his own. “We will.”
She exhaled, nodded, then turned to walk back into the diner, her arms wrapped around her stomach but her small frame straight and certain. She believed him. They all believed him, and that weight hung on his shoulders like the world.
Beside him, Sam exhaled. “God, Dean, I hope you know what you're doing.”
“Have faith, Sam,” Castiel spoke then, low and intent, and when Dean turned to look at him, he found those blue-blue eyes on him, steady and true. The angel tilted his chin up a little, never looking away from Dean once as he finished with, “I do.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Note: Every fangirl portrayed here is someone I know who is a Supernatural fan - tracy_loo_who, brynwulf, bears_place, and many of my friends over at yo_gotham. This is my nod and thumbing of the nose at Kripke, all at once. We're not all Becky, sir, and I hope you remember that.
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: AU after 'The End'. Dean/Castiel UST, Sam
Spoilers: Up to 5.04.
Warnings: Male on male sex, religious blasphemy, language. I like my sins big.
Word Count: 10,600 total
Summary: "Can you do it? Can you talk to God?"
Year Two
Cas, of course, was on board. This had been his focus ever since he got back from being splatted all over Chuck's kitchen, and if there's an image Dean never wanted to think of again, it's that. He had a few nightmares over the next year of hippie Cas offering him chips and bowl of something dark, red and pulpy. There were teeth in the bowl and hippie Cas was just laughing about letting it go, banging the gong, and 'having yourself some angel salsa.'
Dean always woke up before he could clock that damned smiling sonnvabitch.
It was Sam who had the problem. Sam who argued with Dean for three hundred and sixty four days straight about how this Plan was a lousy Plan. He argued with Dean about it in the car. He argued with Dean about it in the motel rooms they stayed in. He argued with Dean while they're fought monsters. He argued while they trekked to every holy and religious place they could think of in North America, looking for God - Sam was especially bitchy the day Dean gave in and they drove down to New Mexico to look for the Holy Flatbread. He argued before they went to sleep, and when they woke up. He argued at every damned meal, and if Dean hadn't started to lock the door, he'd argue with Dean while Dean was on the goddamned toilet.
After three hundred and sixty-four days, Dean had parsed Sam's objections to The Plan into a top five list.
1.They can't spend all their time running around the country trying to find God. God is God. God probably doesn't want to be found. He is not playing skee-ball, he is not talking to beloved country music star, and he's probably not talking to some teenage girl in Arcadia.
2.They should have a more proactive plan. Like finding the Colt. Finding the Colt is a solid plan, where they would be doing something with real effect and at the same time, they would have a weapon to kill the Devil. Kill Devil Good. Wandering Around Bad.
3.They can't keep hiding forever. Sooner or later the angels will find them or Lucifer will find them or something else bad with sharp teeth and a bad attitude will find them, but they will be found and they probably still wouldn't have spoken to God.
4.Man had been trying to get God to answer back for centuries. Yes, Dean was Michael's vessel and Sam was Lucifer's, but that didn't mean they got a free pass to communicate with God. Not even Cas got that, and Cas rebelled against Heaven and Hell. What made Dean think they were so special?
5.What the hell were they going to say to God, anyways?
Dean took Sam's arguments in stride. He knew there was in fact another Sam Winchester underneath the angry super-analyst who was coming fresh off a demon blood addiction, getting betrayed by his demon girlfriend, and bringing Lucifer to Earth. Why in the name Hell would Sam want to talk to God? God was probably going to smack his bitch ass for bringing about the end to all of God's good work. Dean could see that hint of fear every single time Sam brought up one of those tired old arguments. Sam was scared to find God, scared of what God would do to him, even more so than Lucifer. Dean, all things considered, couldn't blame him. That was why he manfully resisted the urge to shove a pillow over Sam's face and kill him in his sleep.
Still, it was starting to become touch and go by the time the end of the first year rolled around. Dean was starting to look at sticks, rocks, even ketchup bottles fondly as blunt instruments he'd use the moment Sam said, “Dean, if you would just listen … “
On the three hundredth and sixty-fifth day though, everything changed.
********************
The start of the second year was when Castiel had the Idea.
They were in a diner, and it was already turning out to be a lousy start of a lousy day. Lucifer, in typical, 'I'm a big evil whiny douchebag' behavior, had razed a town to the ground when he found out he had yet again been given the slip by the Winchesters. In response, Zachariah and the angels had flooded another town supposedly filled with demons in 'We're a bunch of feathery dicks' fashion.
Sam was tense. Dean wasn't much better, but that morning Castiel finally hooked back up with them after spending two weeks wandering around Florida, searching for a supposedly blessed fountain. He found it, but not God, and met with the brothers back in Denver with a gallon of water so holy it would turn a demon into what Dean could only call 'evil jelly'.
So not only was Dean glad to get his hands on something that turned demons into steaming piles of liquid badness, he had to admit it, he was glad to see Cas.
Truth of it all, it took everything in his manly power not to walk over and hug the feathery bastard, and cling on him like a frigging weed when Castiel appeared early that morning in their hotel room. Although Dean's face lit up, and he smiled like the sun for a whole three seconds, he was aware that it was 1. Way too homoerotic, and 2. Sammy was right there, and would pick up on the way too homoerotic.
Dean really needed to get laid, if hugging the angel was on his top ten list of sexually inappropriate things not to do in front of Sam.
So instead of touching, or getting touched by the angel, he took Castiel out for breakfast. It was their 'thing' - while Sam did his research, Dean would drag Castiel out to the nearest diner. It started off as lessons in making Castiel more accessible, but not too accessible. Dean spent a number of mornings glaring at waitresses who looked into Cas's blue eyes a little too long.
But … at some point, it just became the quiet moment Dean needed, every once and awhile. Just two hours, sipping coffee, talking to Castiel about all kinds of random shit. Like his favorite movies. Or the waitress who reminded Dean of the girl who told him he was a sorry loser when he was seventeen. Castiel, in turn would talk to him about the places he'd seen - the forests where God had touched down, the empty deserts and the churches overrun with roots and trees and time.
It was good - no, it was the best. Almost as good as all those hours driving along with Sam in his baby, singing songs at the top of their lungs. Just him, and Cas and the smell of fried things, and if Dean had to think of porno magazines while watching Castiel eat, well ...
That day it was pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. They were a serious favorite of Castiel's, and Dean made sure to order enough for the both of them. The angel's eyes gleamed, and one of those almost-not-quite-there smiles appeared. Dean met it with one of his own, and damn if just sitting down and having breakfast with his angel would have made the day not a total fucking wash - but Sam, for the first time in an entire year, joined them and fucking started arguing from the moment his ass hit seat.
It took a lot to ruin blueberry pancakes for Dean. That day, Sam did his damnedest.
It was about halfway through the meal, where Sam was fiercely on Argument #3, and Dean was looking at his butter knife and idly contemplating sticking it into Sammy's eye, when Castiel's fork poised in mid air over a mouthful of blueberry deliciousness. The angel looked thoughtful and said, perfectly timed when Sam took a breath, “Why don't we just ask Chuck Shirley?”
“I - what?” Sam stopped, altogether, brown eyes gone wide. Dean was so surprised by Sam's sudden silence after three hundred and sixty four days of bitchery, that all he did was blink between him and Castiel. The angel, sensing the pause, continued.
“Chuck is a direct mouthpiece of the Lord, our Father. It seems reasonable to assume that if anyone was to get a message to God, it would be the Prophet.” The fork finally dipped down, slid a piece of pancake through the syrup, and the angel raised it to his mouth.
Dean looked over to Sam, to have Sam look at him, both of them shocked into the, 'why didn't we think of that?' silence. Sam was the first to break it by scrubbing his hand through his hair, his voice slow as he thought of the first and only argument he could give an Angel of the frigging Lord, “I don't know, Cas. I mean, isn't Heaven feeding Chuck all the cues?”
Castiel slowly sucked his bite of pancake of his fork, chewed, swallowed, and licked his lips. Dean suddenly wondered if the latest issue of Fine Indian Beauties was available on-line. He licked his own lips and added, “Far be it from me to bust on the one decent idea we've had lately - but - yeah Cas, what about that shit? I don't want to go looking for God and walk right into a Heaven trap, full on Scooby Doo style. Y'know, 'I could have gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those pesky angels and that Prophet!'”
Castiel frowned in confusion as his fork dipped down again, but decided that continuing was obviously the better part of valor. “Heaven can turn such visions to their own advantage, but as I have told you before, it is from God's mouth to Chuck's mind.”
Dean tapped his fork on the table, considering it all. “And it goes from Chuck's drunken little mind onto the page.” He looked over at Sam, arching an eyebrow.
Sam seemed to be gnawing it over his own mind, then glanced over at Dean. “It's … a solid idea. I mean - at least we'll be going to the one place - one man - who can give us,” and here he rolled his eyes, “Honest to God answers.”
“Then it is settled.” Castiel said in that voice, as if it was written in stone. He looked over to Sam, his gaze intent. “Now may Dean and I enjoy our Breakfast Time?”
Sam had lifted his coffee to his lips, and was sucking down a slurp. He choked a little. “What? Your … what?”
“Breakfast Time. Where we enjoy many delicacies of the diner variety in peace and tranquility.” Castiel answered, his tone a little scolding. “You are killing our pancake buzz, Sam.”
“Your pancake -” Sam stared at the angel, then at Dean, who trying not to snort syrup up his nose. Sam scowled. “Dean. You're corrupting the angel through ...breakfast food?”
“What? No! Get your red silk panties out of their twist.” Now Dean was the one who glowered. “Breakfast just so happens to be me and my angel's meal, where I teach him that the innocent, pure joy of pancakes, sausage and eggs over hard.”
Sam's eyes narrowed, “Don't you mean, over easy?”
Dean frowned, “Isn't that what I said?”
“No you said -” Sam sighed, shaking his head a little. “Nevermind. Anyways, you two should hurry up and finish we can ...” Dean wasn't sure what kind of look Castiel was giving Sam, but he knew his was nothing more than a flat, angry scowl. Sam trailed off, looking from one to the other.
Dean gestured, pointedly, with his knife. “Did Cas not say that we're having our pancakes?”
“Yes, but-” Sam started to say, but Castiel cut him off.
“Did Dean not say that this is our time to bond?” Dean could hear the faint thunder in Castiel's voice, and he felt a measure of happiness about that.
“But the Apocalypse-” Dean watched through narrowed eyes as his brother looked helplessly from him, back to Castiel, who had a steely look on his face and a tilt to his jaw. Sam sighed and waved to the waitress. “Can, ah, wait. Apparently. Because it's pancake time.”
Dean smiled, put his knife to his pancakes, and nodded his approval. “You're learning, Sammy. You're learning.”
And for the first time in three hundred and sixty five days, Sam didn't say a single damned thing. Had Dean known that in five hundred and twenty seven days that would come around to bite him in the ass, he might have welcomed a discussion on Argument #5 with open arms.
************************
There was a short argument, post breakfast, about how they were going to get there. Dean wanted to take the Impala. Sam pointed out that if they wanted a fast getaway from any possible angel interference, the Impala was fast but Castiel was faster. They compromised in the end - the Impala got left just outside of town and Castiel would take them the rest of the way. To that end, Dean insisted Castiel travel with them in the car. As a show of trust, and brotherly love, Dean let Sam drive, while he spent the better part of the trip showing Castiel what good music was. Castiel listened aptly, and Sam chimed in a few times with bands he liked that Dean didn't, or music they both agreed was phenomenal.
Some time in the future, Dean would look back on this short trip as some kind of turning point - the beginning of a strong team that would go forth together, united under any circumstances. Right now though, his thought was that this, right here, was home -- with Sam at the wheel, a smile on his face that Dean hadn't seen in months, and Castiel leaned over the front seat, arms folded, chin propped up over his hands as he listened gravely to Led Zeppelin. Dean himself was half turned on the front seat, grinning as he switched tapes, singing along at the top of his lungs. His baby hummed at his back, and the road stretched on smoothly, not a traffic jam in sight. He had everything he needed, right in front of him.
They left the car, as planned, and Dean braced himself for the stomach-clenching-bowel-not-moving shift of space and time, knowing the moment he heard the flutter of feathers he could open his eyes and look forward a week of constipation meds. He expected all that, it was part of the angel program. He opened his eyes, knew that Castiel brought then directly into Chuck's living room, and he'd have to do with a yelping Prophet of the Lord.
What he was not prepared for is to be looking down the barrel of a .45, and Chuck yelling at the top of his lungs, “I TOLD YOU DICKS OF THE LORD - Oh hi, Dean.”
Dean swallowed slowly, looking at the wide black opening where the very deadly bullets came out. “Hi Chuck. Could you point the large firearm away from my face?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Chuck swiveled the gun away from Dean, gestured it in Sam's direction vaguely. “I wasn't expecting you guys for hours!”
“Chuck. Gun.” Sam said sharply, as he tried to move his taller body away from the swinging barrel. Apparently Sam was as nervous as Dean to see a gun in Chuck's way too inexperienced hands.
“Oh, don't worry Sam, the safety's on. See?” Chuck pointed, pulled the trigger, and then proceeded to put a slug right through Castiel's chest. There was a moment of silence where all four of them stared at the smoking hole in the angel's jacket. The tiny writer stared, swallowed, then finally found his voice. “Ah … that … wasn't supposed to ...sorry?”
Dean sighed heavily, grabbed the gun away from Chuck and flicked the safety on. He glared down at God's Prophet.“Good work, dumbass. You shot the only angel on our side.” He looked over his shoulder “Cas, you okay?”
The angel stuck his finger through the new smoking hole in his coat and wiggled it for a moment, before glowering at the writer, “Chuck Shirley, you realize the only thing shooting one my brothers will do is annoy him? Briefly?”
Chuck cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I was kind of hoping it worked like birds? Y'know, bang bang! And they flutter! Maybe I'd have to deal with some angel shit on the carpet afterwards?”
Sam, who Dean had handed the gun over to and who was wisely unloading it, raised an eyebrow. “...Chuck, if you shoot at a bunch of angels, they're not going to scatter like pigeons.”
“They're not?” Chuck asked weakly, looking from Sam, to Dean who nodded in furious agreement, and then over to Castiel, who merely flashed the hole in his shirt and lifted both of his eyebrows. “Oh. Well, that's good to know. Maybe I should get a bigger gun?”
“No!” Both Winchesters and the angel shouted, and Dean growled. “That is the bad idea of bad ideas - anyways! You said you were expecting us later? How could you be expecting us at all?”
Chuck gave him one of his own, 'are you stupid' looks, before holding up a sheaf of type-written papers. “Should I read you the argument you guys had over Sam interrupting your blueberry pancake date, or should we just get why you're here? And yeah, Sam, we probably don't have a lot of time. You guys are hidden from the angels but Cas? Still has a giant 'Kill Me' target on his back.” He pointed a finger at Castiel, “No more angel on my curtains. Seriously, the things I had to do to get this place clean again-”
Dean did not want to hear any of Chuck's cleaning, so he said gruffly. “Can you do it? Can you talk to God?”
Chuck heaved out a breath, one hand in his hair as he walked back towards his kitchen. “I'll be honest - I don't know. I mean, it's not like God's sitting down here and having a beer with me, while we chat about plot. For the longest time I just thought all this crazy shit in my brain was my brain not .. you know, you guys?” He exhaled. “Now I'm a Prophet - I'm your Prophet - angels are assholes, no offense Cas, Lucifer's wandering around for a year trying to climb into Sam the unpleasant way, and God's still jamming stuff in my brain and not really explaining why. God and I are not buddies. Most of the time it feels like God's raping me with a sandpaper condom - sorry, Cas, metaphorically speaking.”
Castiel looked about two seconds away of tempting Fate and archangels again, so Dean stepped between the angel and the Prophet, looking at him. “Chuck. You keep saying you want to help us - one way or another. Well, here we are, man. The way, the path before us, means we gotta see if the Big Wheel in the Sky is Turning. If we're going to be doing this on our own, I wanna know. If we're not, then I wanna know that too. And we're not asking you to do anything but … try. That's all. Try.”
He wasn't sure what was in his face, or in his voice, but suddenly Sam looked at him with a smile, Castiel looked a lot less like smiting and a lot like he was ready to put Dean on the 'Best Human Ever' pedestal again, and Chuck … Chuck was nodding his head, his voice soft, but getting stronger. “All right … okay. Yeah. I'll try. What information I can get you, from God? I will.”
“All right. Good.” Dean put his hands on his hips, and breathed out. Another piece into place. Another step forward. It wasn't all there yet, but it was forming, slowly.
Sam cleared his throat, and Dean dragged his gaze over to his brother. Automatically, Sam held his hand up, “Now before you, Cas, or even Chuck waves some chapter at me and calls me out for being the doomsayer - how are we even going to get this information? We can't keep popping in here - we're already putting Chuck in danger.” Sam's eyes slid over to Castiel. “Not to mention Cas. They find him here …”
Dean looked at Castiel, who was grim-faced once more, as he met Dean's eyes, and kept them there. Dean long ago realized the risk to them, if Castiel spent too much time with them. It hadn't sunk in how much danger Castiel was putting himself at, especially here. In the place that Dean suddenly realized, the angel died. Died.
It was only Chuck's cough that dragged Dean's eyes back to the prophet. Chuck gave him a strange look, and sighed, his face shifting through varying shades of fear, and a touch of shame. “I have a solution … but … you have to promise not to kill me.” He pointed a finger at Sam. “You too.” That finger swung back to Castiel. “Especially you. No smiting.”
Dean felt his jaw tighten, and he shot a look over to Castiel, whose chin had raised, blue eyes sharpening. He felt his gaze slide over to Sam, who hadn't taken his gaze away from Chuck's guilty expression. Sam's head tilted forward, and he moved towards the smaller man. “Chuck … what did you do?”
Chuck shifting his weight nervously, before he took a few steps back. Dean's suspicion rose, as the writer started to speak. “Listen, you guys have to understand - I live here, this is my home, and when the archangel came down … well, I'm not insured against acts of Heaven? And the house! The house was a mess, broken windows, and let me tell you? Macs may be the more reliable computer but those things are frigging expensive, man!” He swallowed, and took another step back, into the kitchen, as Dean, flanked by Sam and Cas, followed after him, “So I, uh, had to sell my talents... fruit of my labors … y'know ...”
Oh Fucking Hell. Dean closed his eyes, and closed them tight, gripping one hand at his side. “Chuck. You are not about to tell me that there are new Winchester books out there. You. Are. Not.”
He heard Chuck's nervous laugh, “No, no. Not books. Not … you know, hard cover, with paper books.” A pause. “But e-Books?”
“You … you .. you published the Winchester Gospels. On-Line.” Sam's voice rose sharply, “Refresh my memory, Chuck, but isn't that where our scary fangirls live?”
“Hey, heeeey, Becky isn't that bad. She sent me marzipan, after all. And she helped you!” Chuck protested, and Dean opened his eyes to find the writer flailing his hands a little.
“Chuck, she grabbed my nipple! I am not okay with - just how many copies of the new stuff has she bought?” Sam asked, eyebrows narrowed.
Chuck swallowed again and he was looking away as he muttered, “Twenty, or more, and some other merchandise from my store - but that's not the point, guys! The point is - you have an entire resource out there you can now be using. Here, let me show you.”
He went over to his Mac, obviously new, hit a button and opened a browser. He flipped over to one of his forum boards. “Look at this, guys. Links on lore, all kinds of lore, stuff about studying the End of Days … they discuss it, they argue it, they come up with all kinds of things.” He arched an eyebrow at Dean, “And they are all over the United States. One hellva underground network for a pair of hunters and a renegade angel, looking for God, right?”
“Huh...” Dean said, leaning over Chuck's shoulder to peer at the long list of subject topics. “Y'know, Chuck has a good point - I mean, these fans of ours do know our story inside and out, makes sense they'd do their homework on local legends and the like -” He paused, frowned, then grabbed the mouse from Chuck, “The hell is this - wing porn? Wing porn? They're giving us wings now?”
Chuck let out a strangled noise and Dean looked at him sharply. “Not, uh, exactly. More like - they're writing, talking, discussing … people who might have wings already. Y'know. Like angels. Like maybe one very specific angel.”
Dean stared at Chuck, then at his brother who is now on the other side of the prophet, his expression tightly bitch-faced. Both of them met eyes, then slowly turned towards Castiel, who had the most baffled look on his face. The angel's head bobbed to the side. “They write … pornography? About me?”
“You're a surprisingly popular character, Cas.” Chuck said, looking like he did not want to be having this conversation at all. He quickly closed the page before Dean could see who they were tossing Castiel into bed with. “You're the only angel that people seem to be empathetic to. I mean, c'mon. You pulled Dean out of Hell. You think Good Things should happen to him. You want Dean to have faith. So it makes sense that the fans want to get a closer look in your head …. and want to strip you naked and tie you to things so you can have sex. With people.”
Dean had to wonder why Chuck wasn't looking at him. Or why Sam was suddenly avoiding his gaze. He decided it was better to focus on Castiel, holding up his hand. “It's just fiction, Cas. It's kind of creepy, some of it, but they don't know us. They think we're not real.”
“But now, that's got to change. On a small scale, at least. Because let's be honest - I don't know if angels check my email but probably some religious guy at the CIA might. We need go-betweens, and no one else is gonna believe me but my readers.” Chuck slumped a little in his chair. “I mean,seriously, sometimes I don't even believe this crap, and I'm living it.”
Dean made a face, but the man was right. They needed people who weren't connected to the Winchesters personally - not hunters, definitely not Bobby or Chuck. Which meant, and man as funny as it was, he hated doing this to Sam, but - “Becky. One of them has got to be Becky. She already knows the score.” He pointed a finger at Chuck, “But the others gotta be vetted by me, Sam,” he glanced sideways, “And Cas too, if you're going for one of his … heh, fangirls. No more marizpan making crazies.”
“She's not crazy - she's just … really enthusiastic - and a devout fan who buys every book that comes out. Twice. Besides, she switched to brownies.” Chuck waved towards the cupboard. “She always makes extra, for you guys, if you wanna grab some.”
“She felt me up, Chuck.” Sam said sharply. “Felt me up and I know she squeezed a little too. I am not Charmins.” There was a pause, and Sam sighed as Chuck looked at him imploringly. “But … fine. Dean's right. We need her. Find us the others, Chuck.” His gaze meets Dean's, and Dean's heart swells because even Sam's, “It's part of the Plan,” is not as sarcastic as it could be and until this point, had been.
For that reason, Dean lets Sam have first pick of the brownies on their ride out of town. Castiel gets the second, because apparently starring in porn makes the angel all contemplative, and Dean's half terrified and half intrigued of what's going on in Castiel's brain.
He got the last pick, but was downright gleeful when he looked into the heart-shaped Tupperware container to see they had both left him the biggest, most moist brownies. That, in Dean's humble opinion, was nothing less than pure love.
*********************
A month later, after a rather brutal encounter with some vampires, the profiles from Chuck started flooding in.
Five months after that, Dean, Sam and Castiel had chosen their - well - chosen ones. They then spent a month chasing after the Colt when they got a solid clue from Bobby, so that gave Chuck more than enough time to plan a group meeting. By agreement, it was in a diner, and by silent agreement, all three of them came armed. Dean had of his favorite pistols, Sam had the Knife and Castiel had, well, Castiel.
Dean wasn't really sure what he could expect from fangirls. He kind of thought, with the kind of luck he'd had his entire fucking life, that they'd all be like Becky. Kinda nice, but weird. Really weird. And there might be some inappropriate touching going, which he'd let Sam handle on his own, because he was a big boy and he could disengage easily, but one of them started pawing at Cas and he was not going to be happy.
He had expected he would know them when he saw them - and he did. They were a large group of all women, of all different ages. Most of them were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, one or two of them was wearing something that made Dean's heart skitter sideways. Like one shirt that looked almost but not quite Sam's favorite flannel. One girl was even wearing his amulet - his amulet - and in what was obviously a prized possession, one of the girls at the end of the table had an exact replica of Cas's coat.
Dean thought, How the hell did they get this stuff?, and then he thought, Fucking Chuck!, then he sighed. Chuck told him this would happen. He knew to expect this. What he didn't expect was that they, well, they looked normal. One or two of them were even smoking hot, and he had to admit if he had run into them anywhere else he would have had a smile and a wink and maybe an invitation. The Asian girl with Cas's coat on was downright fucking adorable, for fuck's sake.
What he also didn't expect was that they would be fighting, laughing, chattering at each other. Like friends - but Jesus-fuck, of course they would know one another. They probably exchanged a million emails, had a million chats, probably got together and had fucking Supernatural bookclub conventions or other things that fans did. In fact, as they approached, he could hear them arguing logistics, for fuck's sake, on what would work better at keeping a demon at bay, line of salt or holy water to the face. A few of them were arguing the merits of a holy water gun. A holy water gun? Seriously?
He nearly told them he wasn't going to lug around a frigging Supersoaker filled with divine h20 when Becky shot up from her seat, eyes bright, braces gleaming, as she said in an awed voice, “Sam!” She glanced at Dean, “And your brother!” Then she stared, “... and the … and the angel.”
The women all fell silent, and Dean found himself staring at more than a half a dozen expressions of skepticism, distrust, faint hope, and awe. The women all exchanged looks with one another, before the one in the middle, who kinda looked like Reese Witherspoon's distant cousin, nodded them towards the table. “Take a seat … guys.”
Dean shot a look over to Castiel, then to Sam, before he sat himself down in a chair. Sam and Castiel took seats on either side of him, and there was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, before one of the older women, the one with a blue streak in her hair and the kind of look on her face that reminded Dean of his Dad, spoke in a crisp tone. “Listen up, boys. We've all talked about this, and while Becky may be all, 'Oh yes, Winchesters!', we are a little more that leery of three guys - two of them claiming to be the coolest hunters of all time, and c'mon, some guy crazy enough to claim he's an angel of the Lord. Not to mention our favorite author claiming he's a Prophet? You can see why we're kind of saying, I don't know, bullshit.”
Dean shared another look with Sam, and then over to Castiel, and then sighed. “Yeah, Ch- Carver said you might have this problem.” He nodded to the two of them, and all three of them pulled out sheets of paper that Chuck had set them up with. He nodded at Sam first.
Sam cleared his throat, and looked at the woman with the streak of blue hair, his brown eyes meeting her own, his voice that low, calm drawl he used when explaining something complicated in a easy-to-understand manner, or to someone who had gone through a terrible shock. Gentle, knowing. “Your name is Meg. When you were twenty-two, you were a bartender in Louisiana, and you sneaked out of your apartment in the middle of the night, so you wouldn't have to pay rent.”
Dean nodded, flipped open the piece of paper in front of him, and looked at the dainty redhead in front of him, the one with the extended earlobes, “Your friends call you MeL. Capital M, lowercase e, capital L. When you're scared, you bite your tongue. What most people don't know though is that for awhile, you were kinda afraid you were going to bite your tongue off.”
He glanced to Castiel, who neatly and methodically took out his piece of paper, focusing his gaze on the small Asian girl, his voice low and level. “Your name is Tracy, and you have girl wood for the Aston Martin Vanquish.” He frowned, then continued. “Which, if I am to be understood, is some sort of automobile.”
“That's a nice ride.” Dean leaned over to the sheet of paper, his eyes sweeping over the lines of one fine-ass vehicle. “For a Brit-car, anyways. It's kind of girly but it's got power under the hood.”
“How does a car give someone part of a tree?” Castiel's expression slid into the faintest of frowns as he looked over at Dean.
“Ah, heh. No, Cas, that's like ah, like a euphemism.” Dean grinned wide. “Y'know. For being …happy, down in your -”
“Dean.” Sam said sharply at his elbow, and Dean twisted around to face him, “You are not teaching the angel about -”
“Oh for chrissakes, Sam, he knows about that shit. He's frigging millenia old. I mean, mostly. He just doesn't know the slang.” Dean huffed, before he looked over his shoulder at Castiel, “Seriously dude, help me out here. Tell my super-prude brother that you know what happens when a guy gets … ” He trailed off when he remembered they had a table filled with women, skeptical women.
Who, except for Becky, stared at them. One of the girls, a curvy looking Amazon said slowly, “Oh. My. God.”
“See?” Becky looked downright smug. “I told you I wasn't having paranoid schizophrenic delusions!”
All the girls looked over at Becky, and as one said with an annoyed tone, “Becky.”, which seemed to be some kind of code for Becky to settle on down. Then the flock's head swiveled back to the Winchesters and the angel, so in time that Dean was almost unnerved to ask all of them if they wanted a sip from his holy water flask.
Then all at once, they exploded into a flurry of excited and bright-eyed questions at all three of them, rapid fast and some of them just downright disturbing; “Dean, what's the scariest thing you've ever fought? Scary for you. Like wad up your boxers, scary.” “Castiel, do you really not understand 'personal space' or is that just an excuse?” “Sam, what ever happened with those Barbies?” “Dean, what would you have done with your life if your father hadn't raised you to be a hunter?” “Sam, what kind of physical regime do you and your brother keep up with to stay in the shape you're in?” “Castiel - did you rebel for yourself or did you rebel for Dean?” “Dean, Sam, seriously, how do you feel about the angel?”
He tried raising his hands against the tide, but that did about as much good as duct tape on a leaking fucking dam. It was Castiel who got them under control, his voice like rough steel and his blue eyes blazing. “Ladies. Enough.”
They fell silent, some of them blinked at Castiel in total shock and scared amazement.
True diplomat that he was, Sam leaned forward, looking around with that 'oh gosh you know I'm an empathetic puppy-dog'. “We understand you have … a lot of questions, but those are going to need to be shelved. As, ah, you all know from your reading - we're trying to stop some seriously nasty things from happening, and we don't really have time to answer your questions - we've got too many of our own. Right now though, we're asking - hell, we're begging for your help.”
They grew quiet, these very different women from all over the country, and finally Mel spoke, her blue-green eyes shifting shades as she asked quietly, but with more firmness than Dean expected. “What do you need us to do?”
“Pass information.” Dean said firmly, putting his hands on the table, folded together as he looked at all of them. “We need information on what visions Ch - Carver sees. He'll pass it to you, you pass it to us. We'll work out a system as needed.” He inhaled, deeply, “We need information on what's going on where, and how, if possible. And … we need you find us the holiest place in the United States. Somewhere you can communicate with God. Literally.” He swept his gaze around them, swallowing a little, “I know it won't be easy - that it'll be pretty fucking hard -”
The curvy Amazon spoke then, cutting him off with a simple, “You know what's hard? I'll tell you what's hard. Finding the exact specs for how to rebuild a '67 Impala. That's hard, Mr. Winchester.”
Mel's mouth curved up into a knowing grin. “Trying to find the right phrase in Hebrew for an angel of the lord to say, that's hard.”
Reese Witherspoon's cousin piped up with a, “Trying to figure out what level of smart is a 174 on the LSAT? Hard.”
Meg smiled, tucking that dark hair behind her ear, that shining streak of blue hair that gleamed in the diner's light. Dean would remember the color of that streak for the rest of his life - electric blue. Meg's streak was electric blue, the day he met her - met all of them - the group that would be called the Inner Circle by the jealous fangirls. Who never really knew what the Circle were about, what they were really doing with all their conversations with Chuck, why they researched so hard and stayed up late nights and called Dean in the middle of the night, or Sam, or Castiel with a quiet, 'Hey, we think we got something'.
That's in the future. Days, months, years in the future. Right now there was only Meg's smile, as she pulled her laptop up; again, reminding him of his dad as she said firmly, “We're gonna get this started, because we already know hard and research. You guys do your thing. We got this.”
Dean sits back, watching them, because it's like fucking magic. A field of laptops fucking appear out of thin air like Castiel and just like that, they're working. Without another question, without another doubt. There's the murmur of quiet voices talking to one another, geeking out, and he saw that they were an intrusion more than they were a help. So he jerked his chin at Sam, tapped Cas once on the knee, and they all rose together, and moved silently towards the door. Dean looked back once, at the cluster of girls working hard, arguing logistics, and he felt it. The Plan. Clicking into place.
It felt good. Really fucking good.
They were halfway to the Impala, when one of the girls, Tracy, called out to them. She stood at the doorway to the diner, and when Dean turned around she got her balls up to walk across the way to them. Dark eyes behind solemn scholar frames looked up at him, at all three of them. He watched her swallow, then gather up her nerves to say, “You're real. You're really real - and that means …. this is the end of the world, isn't it? All that stuff that's happening in the news, that's not random. That's the Apocalypse.”
Dean couldn't say a word - not into the scared eyes of a young woman barely in her twenties. What could you say to that? So he just nodded his head, silently, back stiffening, jaw tight.
She looked at the ground, hugging herself, scared to Hell and Dean couldn't blame her. And right before he looked to Sam, to Cas, for something comforting to say, she looked up at him again. Her own jaw was set, and her expression was fierce, “You're going to stop it. Because you're Dean Winchester, and that's what you do.” She took a step back, looked hard at all three of them. “That's what you all do. You're the good guys.”
Dean swallowed himself, and the words just came to him. Simple, unvarnished words, gruff but true. “You're damned right it is, and we will.” He searched her face, repeating himself, for her benefit. For his own. “We will.”
She exhaled, nodded, then turned to walk back into the diner, her arms wrapped around her stomach but her small frame straight and certain. She believed him. They all believed him, and that weight hung on his shoulders like the world.
Beside him, Sam exhaled. “God, Dean, I hope you know what you're doing.”
“Have faith, Sam,” Castiel spoke then, low and intent, and when Dean turned to look at him, he found those blue-blue eyes on him, steady and true. The angel tilted his chin up a little, never looking away from Dean once as he finished with, “I do.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Note: Every fangirl portrayed here is someone I know who is a Supernatural fan - tracy_loo_who, brynwulf, bears_place, and many of my friends over at yo_gotham. This is my nod and thumbing of the nose at Kripke, all at once. We're not all Becky, sir, and I hope you remember that.