Fic: Revelation Thirteen (2/2)
{Part I}
The causeway is nearly flooded from all the sudden rain, but Sam approaches nevertheless, hounds pawing the ground uncertainly as the keen and groan. It’s not just the salinity, Sam realizes. This lake has been blessed so intently, it makes even his skin crawl. It isn’t ideal, but this is the only way to lead his army to Perdition, so they’ll have to make due with the intense aversion or face an anger they would never seek to incur.
The hounds follow behind, gnawing greedily at the skin that seems to slough off their raw, exposed bodies. It’s a unique sight, watching a hellhound chew the meat off its own bones in an attempt to evade the holy waters of this lake. He hisses a command of obedience and watches as three sets of hollow skulls bow in unison, whimpering even as their great, vicious maws snap in place. These are war dogs, brutal creatures, but they aren’t stupid. They sense the danger here just like he does, and the sooner his legions make the journey from land to shore, the better.
The roiling impression of power tweaks Sam’s curiosity. Who could possibly be waiting for him at his final destination. Surely not Lilith -- he would’ve felt an evil as old as that coming from miles away, and there’s no way for her to leave Hell without the keys to her Gate, all six of which set holstered against Sam’s body like a comfort. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt, altogether more massive and intangible than he ever would have thought possible, but here he is, cantering towards Perdition with this outstanding presence pressing against his own.
The biting water laps at the shore and Sam can see the slope of the horizon coming closer into the view; the dim lights of the town casting shadows against the dark clouds hanging fatted with rain overhead. It’s the perfect cover really; his demons could lay in wait above the town until the precise moment Sam opens the final Gate, really to lay siege to Hell.
When Sam crosses the threshold between land and water, wagon ambling slowly behind, he feels that unknown presence swell and then recede as if trying to cloak itself from intruders.
Whatever it is, it knows Sam is here and knows Sam is waiting.
[-]
“What d’you mean it’s my duty? I didn’t sign up for shit.”
Colt’s insistence rattles the jailhouse almost as much as the storm does, but Castiel remains firm.
“This is your destiny. You are the man prophesied to forge the gun that turns the tide of war. This is the delicate machinations of fate -- you can’t refuse,” Castiel does his best to clarify, expression shifting between near sympathetic to vaguely exasperated.
“I can and I will. I made the damn gun for you, what else more d’you want from me? How the hell am I supposed to go out in the middle of the worst storm of the decade and gun down a man you say is the King of demons. D’you understand how goddamn crazy that sounds? And impossible?”
Castiel shakes out a sigh, thumbing over the gleaming barrel absently. So much power.
“Not just the King of Demons. This boy has capabilities that are absolutely unfathomable to even the most skilled human soldiers. His weaponry alone--”
“He’s armed?” It’s a useless interjection, one Castiel supposes is borne more of incredulity than curiosity, but he entertains the question nevertheless.
“Yes, he’s armed. The Boy King carries with him the Six Guns -- weapons forged by Lucifer and cast out into the world to sow discord amongst humankind before he was imprisoned in Hell by our Father,” Castiel explains, fingers tensing. Even now, Lucifer’s name withers on his tongue, filling him with such awe and aversion he can scarce control the shudder that creeps up his spine.
Colt’s mouth finds itself pursed into a deliberately thin line that Castiel feels is a very vivid sum of the man’s feelings, all things considered.
“That long pause was your cue to continue filling me in on the doomsday story, Sparky.”
Castiel bristles, wings twitching as distinct and invisible as they always have before he nods curtly and brushes his hand over the desk.
“It’s no secret that Lucifer refused to exalt the humans above his brethren and, in the end, he became quite embittered towards the species as a whole. Most only understand Lilith, the very first demon, as his work here on Earth, but Lucifer had many more dealings before our Father had Michael cast him into the Pit,” Castiel begins, the candle to his right springing to life.
“Lucifer is the second-born, the Morningstar. His power is only surpassed by our oldest brother, Michael, and God Himself. Beyond that, there is no being in existence that could match even a fraction of his power. Lucifer used his power to forge six weapons -- wicked, cruel things -- that would incite humans to war and rape, to murder and steal, things within their nature that Lucifer felt our Father overlooked -- things he felt they should be struck down for. When Lucifer was locked away, the weapons were scattered, changing as the times changed with them. What we now know as the Six Guns were once the Spear of Longinus and the Masamune, Lugh’s Spear, Kullervo’s sword -- all terrible, powerful weapons that guided men into doing great evil. In this time, the weapons are the Six Guns.”
The shadows on the desk dance with explanation, shifting from six little discs to swords and spears and daggers, attacking little shadow-hordes without prejudice.
“Each gun has a unique power -- a gift that Lucifer bequeathed in order to inspire men to seek them out. The first and weakest gun allows the wielder to fire a bullet with force akin to that of an artillery shell, it also grants him impossible strength,” he explains, candle drowning itself under Castiel’s vigilance.
“The second gun casts the throes of Pestilence. The third gun commands the flames of Hell and makes the wielder impervious to all fire, in damnation and on Earth. The fourth gun raises the spirits of every man, woman, or child you’ve ever slain to fight for you in battle. The fifth gun bequeaths the user with immortality so long as it’s fed the souls needed to power it.”
This is a story Castiel has never told and the gravity of the mission he’s handed down to Samuel Colt has suddenly hit him full-force. He shifts in his seat and looses another terse sigh as he looks up.
“And the sixth and final gun -- the most powerful of this demonic armory -- allows the one who wields it to see the future, to see the outcome of every victory and failure save that of their own death.”
Colt levels Castiel with a look as he slides the gun from the desk.
“And you mean to tell me that this gun, this gun that I managed to forge by some miracle, is supposed to defeat all of that?” His voice is quiet, almost unassuming, but Castiel can feel the agitation prickling the air.
“So it is written,” Castiel admits, voice quiet with an emotion so akin to shame he’s almost startled.
“Alright then,” Colt replies, loading the last of the bullets into place. He twirls it around his finger, shifts the barrel into his palm, and pushes the handle towards Castiel.
“Here you go.”
Castiel blinks owlishly, snapping from confused to utter denial.
“You don’t mean for me--”
“Oh, hell yes I mean for you. Lookie here, friend: that gun the good Lord Almighty saw fit to have me build? I built it! I didn’t sign up for fightin’ no war, I didn’t sign up for trying to gun down the goddamn King of Hell and his five legions, I didn’t promise I would go out there in the middle of God’s pissing match with his second-born to try and shoot a some hybrid hellspawn that’s got me outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and more than likely would break my neck with a crooked thought before I got within sixty paces of the bastard.”
“But God--”
“If I hear so much as a this-is-the-will-of-God from you, so help me I will shoot you with this thing myself. If God wants me to go out there and get myself killed for a war that ain’t got shit to do with me, then He can come down to the jailhouse and tell me so. And while He’s at it, He can take this goddamn gun, walk His omnipotent hide down to that church, and shoot this demon King Hisself.”
It’s as if Castiel saved up every ounce of expression from the time he was accepted into his vessel for this very moment when he does absolutely nothing but balk, eyes wide at Colt’s colorful use double negatives to form his resounding no. He doesn’t have time to form an articulate counterargument however; the sudden, intent presence gnashing at his senses draws his attention away entirely.
The Boy King has come to Perdition and he knows there is someone here waiting for him.
“Take the barge, gather everyone you can, and get as far into the water as you can. You’ll be safer there, even if you capsize,” Castiel demands, barking harsh as he snatches the gun from Colt’s outstretched hand.
“Go. Now.”
[-]
The town is utterly silent save for the storm churning outside, but it isn’t empty. All the citizens may have been evacuated, but Sam knows better, can feel the constant, steady hum of some unseen force lingering against the edge of his senses.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Sam calls between the crashing lightning. Tiles are torn from the roofs as the wind whips over, relentless and heavy, but no one answers -- not that he had expected them to to begin with.
The hounds are more aggressive now, hackles raised after their little tiptoe through the briny waters, and Sam pets at the great, heavy head of his most vicious in the pack.
This is the beginning of the end -- he’s known it for some time -- but standing here now, seeing the place where it’s all meant to happen, not in visions, but being truly here... Sam will soon be with his brother again, years of fighting, of torturing, of feeding on the damned, and conquering them with their own kind -- finally this will all be over.
Sam smiles, lets his hound bay to call the others forward, and presses on towards the church.
[-]
Sam Winchester has arrived. Castiel can feel the presence twisting and gnashing against his own even as it tries to settle into obscurity. The Boy King has made the journey to Perdition and now comes the time for him to open the Final Gate.
This is the beginning of the end, has been for such a long while that Castiel is almost relieved to know that this battle will be won or lost very soon. The fighting, the anticipation, the uncertainty will all be over. He settles down amongst the abandoned pews, feet kicking up the lonely dust and cracked hymnals.
This is a house of great power, but nothing that lends neither towards good or evil. A neutral force, as in nature, that Castiel doesn’t understand yet has all the commanded respect for. Suiting he thinks, when considering the damned secret harbored in the belly of such a blessed place. There will come a time when the history of Perdition and how it came into this world will be important, but that’s a story for another time. All that Castiel can consider now is that this is the end, in one way or another. That despite his best efforts, this ultimately wasn’t Colt’s duty, but his own.
It’s a unique experience, existing with an angel’s perspective. Things like time and space have never transpired in any sort of linear format. No, his lifeforce is one that exists simultaneously throughout every dimension and universe, forward and backward within the confines of God’s Grace.
As an angel, he can look forward and see every possibility borne of every decision he could have made make. He can see the spiritual trails left from choices already made and the ones he never considered. Castiel can see himself existing in a time when this war comes to fruition a hundred years from now, or a thousand years before. A time when he died during the First Great War, when Lucifer’s legion tore his Grace inside out and set him into the atmosphere as a supernova. He can stretch his essence out and see the moment when it was his destiny to pull the Righteous Man from Hell, and the infinite variations of Winchesters.
When it was Castiel’s duty to set brother on brother for the sake of the world. To absolve Sam and damn Dean. When Castiel in another mind chose to feed the boy with the demon blood straight from his own veins in order to burn out the taint that cradled his birthright. When he followed Dean Winchester into damnation and Lucifer drowned the world in flame. When Castiel gave up his Grace to fight in a war that could never possibly be won, and one boy made the ultimate sacrifice to save the world he never belonged to.
So many decisions, so many possibilities. So many variations of the same story. There’s a part of Castiel that wonders if this is his omnipotent Father testing his loyalties even in a world where he’s remained far from the Winchester’s influence. If this is his chance to absolve all the treason and blasphemy he committed in every other life. It occurs to him that he should be grateful for the opportunity, but the notion incites nothing save for the thrumming pang of agitation.
There’s a moment when all is silent, when the storm raging outside calms and Castiel feels the swell of tension at the edge of his awareness.
The doors swing open.
Castiel doesn’t turn in his seat to look. He doesn’t need to. Sam’s presence precedes him by miles and Castiel can smell the spicy, visceral curl of blood intermingling with the stink of sulphur in a way he hadn’t expected. It’s not Sam’s own corruption that colors him with the demon mark, but what he’s chosen himself to imbibe -- blood magick to strengthen his body, to help him carry the weight of the Throne.
Insects skitter over the lone aisle, spiders and beetles that march wildly in his wake as if he is their King too. Castiel listens for footfalls, waits for the harsh clap of boots to call his attention, but there isn’t any. There’s nothing but the rain outside and foraging bugs rattling paper.
Sam comes to the end of the aisle, sits parallel to Castiel in the pews off to the left, and Castiel can see his form taking up the whole of his periphery. He’s large, tall-statured and broad across the chest and shoulders as if the blood pounding in his veins had trained his body as it had his mind. He stands like a King, back drawn taut with the command of his confidence, but there’s something altogether feline about his body that feels almost disconcerting. For all Sam’s enormous build, he still moves like a warrior.
“Did you come here for absolution?”
The voice doesn’t ring out through the emptiness, but embraces it, a gentleness that would belie the cruelty that Castiel has trouble comprehending. He can feel Sam’s intent, the blinding shine of his soul, even at this distance. It pulses with duty, hope, vengeance. With a love so strong that it very nearly knocks the breath out of Castiel as he turns.
“I came here because this is where I’m supposed to be.”
There are votives burning near the altar, ones that weren’t lit before, but Castiel ignores them in favor of searching through the dim light to find Sam’s face.
“Would you be surprised if I said I was here for the same thing?” Sam chuckles, arms stretched out behind him as he leans back in the pew.
Castiel can see him now, the hazy outline of his face that slowly comes into clear view as he concentrates on seeing past the confines of these human eyes.
He’s angular, wolfishly so; high cheekbones that give way to a high forehead and long, shaggy brown hair. Castiel can still read the amusement on his face, the way it perks the narrow line of his lips upward in a way that he recognizes objectively as attractive. Everywhere Castiel looks, he sees evidence of Sam’s conquest; the little trinkets knotted around his neck, the bronze ornament hanging low on his chest, the bones and beads and charms braided into his unkempt hair and around his wrists and on his fingers. Despite that, there’s a softness here that Castiel perceives, even in such a fierce countenance, that startles him. A warrior given the mantle of a king, yet he is still truly a boy.
“Your reputation precedes you, Sam.” It’s just a gentle nudge, a quiet rasp that blends nothing at all like Sam’s voice had in the darkness.
For a moment, Castiel expects to see the smile broaden -- to take a new light and stretch slyly across the sharp lines of his features -- but it doesn’t. Sam stiffens instead, draws himself up to sitting, knees splayed between the pews.
“Then you know exactly why I’m here. You know who I am, and what I mean to do.”
There’s no ceremony in his words, no threat; just the simple, unassuaged truth that sounds as pained as it does certain.
“I’m not leaving my brother alone down there -- not when he did all this because of me.”
Something about the confession if far more intimate that Castiel cares to consider. This isn’t meant for him to know; the motivations of the enemy mean nothing when the world is at stake. He wonders if Sam might change his mind if he learned the truth of his destiny -- if he was told exactly why it was the handiwork of Fate that he was brought here under these circumstances.
Sam is the perfect culmination of so many wars, so many souls lost to Paradise and Damnation. This has always been the Grand Story that would unfurl as immaculately as it was conceived. Lucifer’s vessel, fostered by the demons would lead the boy into Hell to claim his Crown and, in doing so, the Morningstar would be set free.
Castiel can see the power jittering and swelling under Sam’s skin, sees the heat of it burnish Sam’s soul like a captive star. He’s perfect in all the ways Lucifer’s presence would demand. But Castiel can say nothing regarding Sam’s true purpose; he’s bound by the angels’ Covenant with God and it would be heresy even if he could compel himself to break it.
“I hope you can believe me when I say that I understand, truly, why you’ve come here. And it’s my sincerest regret that I can’t allow you to walk away from this.”
Castiel sighs, pushes himself to standing, and pulls the gun from the folds of his cassock.
“Men have tried to kill me with bigger pistols than that,” Sam warns, rising from his seat.
Castiel can properly gauge his size now and for the first time since taking a vessel, Castiel feels so very small in a uniquely physical way.
The space between them is fraught with tension, but it’s nothing as caustic as Castiel would have expected, not when they’re this close to the end. No, this simply rings with the anticipation of movement, the threat of assured danger, and Castiel drinks the moment in with all his higher sense.
Here they stand amongst the battered pews and crumbling devotions, before God and His holy house, in what should be the final battle between good and evil and yet Castiel feels more uncertain now than he ever has.
Why should Sam Winchester be killed for trying to save his brother from Damnation, when it was the agents of Fate and God Himself that orchestrated this grand story from the beginning. Why should this boy, who should be corrupted down to his very soul, still shine so brightly and be slain regardless?
Questions like this are the doorways to doubt, Castiel knows this like he knows the composition of the human body and all the dimensions spread between now and forever. Despite that, he still wavers. He still lets his thumb slide over the hammer without cocking it even when Sam takes a step forward into the light, bare feet silent on the ancient, wooden floor.
Castiel sees it then, the calculating gleam that he had missed in the darkness. Sam draws himself up to full height, shoulders stretching bronze and taut as he takes another step and then another. His eyes shine with a brutal sort of intelligence, one that Castiel had vastly underestimated, and no sooner has the light truly caught them that Castiel sees the Boy King in all his glory, staring back at him with his distinctly yellow eyes.
“With all this time I’ve spend around demons, killing and commanding them alike, never once have they been able to honestly tell me about what my brother faces in Hell,” Sam speaks as if he doesn’t understand his own words and Castiel nearly strains to hear him as thunder crashes overhead.
“Even Alastair, the Grand High Inquisitor, couldn’t begin to tell me what it was like for Dean. Can you believe that? A demon that has spent his every moment in Hell torturing others for a millenia, and he still can’t fathom the hardship that Dean has to live through, day in and day out. And for what? Because he was stupid enough to sell his soul for his little brother?” And when Sam laughs this time, it’s purely self-deprecating.
“If I can’t kill her, then I’m going down there to take my brother’s place.”
Castiel swallows -- a useless gesture, but he can do little else right now -- and lets his arm hang loosely at his side.
“How... how do you know that what you would lay siege to Hell for is still truly your brother?”
“I don’t. But, if anything, I think it’s safe to say this year has changed the both of us.”
Castiel feels as if he’s been dealt a harsh blow with some unseen weapon, a sudden force that rushes him and leaves him close to gasping air that he doesn’t truly need.
After all this time, after everything he’s been put through... God and Fate has conspired directly against Sam in an effort to do nothing but bring about an grand ending in one way or another, but Sam doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that he’s supposed to march straight into Hell, slaughter the First demon, and break the final seal on Lucifer’s Cage.
He doesn’t know that this journey has been nothing but an elaborate gambit to open the doors to the Apocalypse, or to end with him slain on the floor of an abandoned church. That either way, he’s doomed to bring about horrible, terrible things when his only true intention was to save his brother from a fate he didn’t deserve. When he is willing to take his brother’s place, even knowing that the suffering would be unimaginable and eternal.
Castiel presses the gun back into the folds of his cassock, eyes seeking through the darkness.
“What if there was another way?”
Sam slows, bows his head curiously to meet Castiel’s gaze.
“Such as?”
“What if an angel rescued your brother’s soul from damnation?”
The causeway is nearly flooded from all the sudden rain, but Sam approaches nevertheless, hounds pawing the ground uncertainly as the keen and groan. It’s not just the salinity, Sam realizes. This lake has been blessed so intently, it makes even his skin crawl. It isn’t ideal, but this is the only way to lead his army to Perdition, so they’ll have to make due with the intense aversion or face an anger they would never seek to incur.
The hounds follow behind, gnawing greedily at the skin that seems to slough off their raw, exposed bodies. It’s a unique sight, watching a hellhound chew the meat off its own bones in an attempt to evade the holy waters of this lake. He hisses a command of obedience and watches as three sets of hollow skulls bow in unison, whimpering even as their great, vicious maws snap in place. These are war dogs, brutal creatures, but they aren’t stupid. They sense the danger here just like he does, and the sooner his legions make the journey from land to shore, the better.
The roiling impression of power tweaks Sam’s curiosity. Who could possibly be waiting for him at his final destination. Surely not Lilith -- he would’ve felt an evil as old as that coming from miles away, and there’s no way for her to leave Hell without the keys to her Gate, all six of which set holstered against Sam’s body like a comfort. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt, altogether more massive and intangible than he ever would have thought possible, but here he is, cantering towards Perdition with this outstanding presence pressing against his own.
The biting water laps at the shore and Sam can see the slope of the horizon coming closer into the view; the dim lights of the town casting shadows against the dark clouds hanging fatted with rain overhead. It’s the perfect cover really; his demons could lay in wait above the town until the precise moment Sam opens the final Gate, really to lay siege to Hell.
When Sam crosses the threshold between land and water, wagon ambling slowly behind, he feels that unknown presence swell and then recede as if trying to cloak itself from intruders.
Whatever it is, it knows Sam is here and knows Sam is waiting.
[-]
“What d’you mean it’s my duty? I didn’t sign up for shit.”
Colt’s insistence rattles the jailhouse almost as much as the storm does, but Castiel remains firm.
“This is your destiny. You are the man prophesied to forge the gun that turns the tide of war. This is the delicate machinations of fate -- you can’t refuse,” Castiel does his best to clarify, expression shifting between near sympathetic to vaguely exasperated.
“I can and I will. I made the damn gun for you, what else more d’you want from me? How the hell am I supposed to go out in the middle of the worst storm of the decade and gun down a man you say is the King of demons. D’you understand how goddamn crazy that sounds? And impossible?”
Castiel shakes out a sigh, thumbing over the gleaming barrel absently. So much power.
“Not just the King of Demons. This boy has capabilities that are absolutely unfathomable to even the most skilled human soldiers. His weaponry alone--”
“He’s armed?” It’s a useless interjection, one Castiel supposes is borne more of incredulity than curiosity, but he entertains the question nevertheless.
“Yes, he’s armed. The Boy King carries with him the Six Guns -- weapons forged by Lucifer and cast out into the world to sow discord amongst humankind before he was imprisoned in Hell by our Father,” Castiel explains, fingers tensing. Even now, Lucifer’s name withers on his tongue, filling him with such awe and aversion he can scarce control the shudder that creeps up his spine.
Colt’s mouth finds itself pursed into a deliberately thin line that Castiel feels is a very vivid sum of the man’s feelings, all things considered.
“That long pause was your cue to continue filling me in on the doomsday story, Sparky.”
Castiel bristles, wings twitching as distinct and invisible as they always have before he nods curtly and brushes his hand over the desk.
“It’s no secret that Lucifer refused to exalt the humans above his brethren and, in the end, he became quite embittered towards the species as a whole. Most only understand Lilith, the very first demon, as his work here on Earth, but Lucifer had many more dealings before our Father had Michael cast him into the Pit,” Castiel begins, the candle to his right springing to life.
“Lucifer is the second-born, the Morningstar. His power is only surpassed by our oldest brother, Michael, and God Himself. Beyond that, there is no being in existence that could match even a fraction of his power. Lucifer used his power to forge six weapons -- wicked, cruel things -- that would incite humans to war and rape, to murder and steal, things within their nature that Lucifer felt our Father overlooked -- things he felt they should be struck down for. When Lucifer was locked away, the weapons were scattered, changing as the times changed with them. What we now know as the Six Guns were once the Spear of Longinus and the Masamune, Lugh’s Spear, Kullervo’s sword -- all terrible, powerful weapons that guided men into doing great evil. In this time, the weapons are the Six Guns.”
The shadows on the desk dance with explanation, shifting from six little discs to swords and spears and daggers, attacking little shadow-hordes without prejudice.
“Each gun has a unique power -- a gift that Lucifer bequeathed in order to inspire men to seek them out. The first and weakest gun allows the wielder to fire a bullet with force akin to that of an artillery shell, it also grants him impossible strength,” he explains, candle drowning itself under Castiel’s vigilance.
“The second gun casts the throes of Pestilence. The third gun commands the flames of Hell and makes the wielder impervious to all fire, in damnation and on Earth. The fourth gun raises the spirits of every man, woman, or child you’ve ever slain to fight for you in battle. The fifth gun bequeaths the user with immortality so long as it’s fed the souls needed to power it.”
This is a story Castiel has never told and the gravity of the mission he’s handed down to Samuel Colt has suddenly hit him full-force. He shifts in his seat and looses another terse sigh as he looks up.
“And the sixth and final gun -- the most powerful of this demonic armory -- allows the one who wields it to see the future, to see the outcome of every victory and failure save that of their own death.”
Colt levels Castiel with a look as he slides the gun from the desk.
“And you mean to tell me that this gun, this gun that I managed to forge by some miracle, is supposed to defeat all of that?” His voice is quiet, almost unassuming, but Castiel can feel the agitation prickling the air.
“So it is written,” Castiel admits, voice quiet with an emotion so akin to shame he’s almost startled.
“Alright then,” Colt replies, loading the last of the bullets into place. He twirls it around his finger, shifts the barrel into his palm, and pushes the handle towards Castiel.
“Here you go.”
Castiel blinks owlishly, snapping from confused to utter denial.
“You don’t mean for me--”
“Oh, hell yes I mean for you. Lookie here, friend: that gun the good Lord Almighty saw fit to have me build? I built it! I didn’t sign up for fightin’ no war, I didn’t sign up for trying to gun down the goddamn King of Hell and his five legions, I didn’t promise I would go out there in the middle of God’s pissing match with his second-born to try and shoot a some hybrid hellspawn that’s got me outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and more than likely would break my neck with a crooked thought before I got within sixty paces of the bastard.”
“But God--”
“If I hear so much as a this-is-the-will-of-God from you, so help me I will shoot you with this thing myself. If God wants me to go out there and get myself killed for a war that ain’t got shit to do with me, then He can come down to the jailhouse and tell me so. And while He’s at it, He can take this goddamn gun, walk His omnipotent hide down to that church, and shoot this demon King Hisself.”
It’s as if Castiel saved up every ounce of expression from the time he was accepted into his vessel for this very moment when he does absolutely nothing but balk, eyes wide at Colt’s colorful use double negatives to form his resounding no. He doesn’t have time to form an articulate counterargument however; the sudden, intent presence gnashing at his senses draws his attention away entirely.
The Boy King has come to Perdition and he knows there is someone here waiting for him.
“Take the barge, gather everyone you can, and get as far into the water as you can. You’ll be safer there, even if you capsize,” Castiel demands, barking harsh as he snatches the gun from Colt’s outstretched hand.
“Go. Now.”
[-]
The town is utterly silent save for the storm churning outside, but it isn’t empty. All the citizens may have been evacuated, but Sam knows better, can feel the constant, steady hum of some unseen force lingering against the edge of his senses.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Sam calls between the crashing lightning. Tiles are torn from the roofs as the wind whips over, relentless and heavy, but no one answers -- not that he had expected them to to begin with.
The hounds are more aggressive now, hackles raised after their little tiptoe through the briny waters, and Sam pets at the great, heavy head of his most vicious in the pack.
This is the beginning of the end -- he’s known it for some time -- but standing here now, seeing the place where it’s all meant to happen, not in visions, but being truly here... Sam will soon be with his brother again, years of fighting, of torturing, of feeding on the damned, and conquering them with their own kind -- finally this will all be over.
Sam smiles, lets his hound bay to call the others forward, and presses on towards the church.
[-]
Sam Winchester has arrived. Castiel can feel the presence twisting and gnashing against his own even as it tries to settle into obscurity. The Boy King has made the journey to Perdition and now comes the time for him to open the Final Gate.
This is the beginning of the end, has been for such a long while that Castiel is almost relieved to know that this battle will be won or lost very soon. The fighting, the anticipation, the uncertainty will all be over. He settles down amongst the abandoned pews, feet kicking up the lonely dust and cracked hymnals.
This is a house of great power, but nothing that lends neither towards good or evil. A neutral force, as in nature, that Castiel doesn’t understand yet has all the commanded respect for. Suiting he thinks, when considering the damned secret harbored in the belly of such a blessed place. There will come a time when the history of Perdition and how it came into this world will be important, but that’s a story for another time. All that Castiel can consider now is that this is the end, in one way or another. That despite his best efforts, this ultimately wasn’t Colt’s duty, but his own.
It’s a unique experience, existing with an angel’s perspective. Things like time and space have never transpired in any sort of linear format. No, his lifeforce is one that exists simultaneously throughout every dimension and universe, forward and backward within the confines of God’s Grace.
As an angel, he can look forward and see every possibility borne of every decision he could have made make. He can see the spiritual trails left from choices already made and the ones he never considered. Castiel can see himself existing in a time when this war comes to fruition a hundred years from now, or a thousand years before. A time when he died during the First Great War, when Lucifer’s legion tore his Grace inside out and set him into the atmosphere as a supernova. He can stretch his essence out and see the moment when it was his destiny to pull the Righteous Man from Hell, and the infinite variations of Winchesters.
When it was Castiel’s duty to set brother on brother for the sake of the world. To absolve Sam and damn Dean. When Castiel in another mind chose to feed the boy with the demon blood straight from his own veins in order to burn out the taint that cradled his birthright. When he followed Dean Winchester into damnation and Lucifer drowned the world in flame. When Castiel gave up his Grace to fight in a war that could never possibly be won, and one boy made the ultimate sacrifice to save the world he never belonged to.
So many decisions, so many possibilities. So many variations of the same story. There’s a part of Castiel that wonders if this is his omnipotent Father testing his loyalties even in a world where he’s remained far from the Winchester’s influence. If this is his chance to absolve all the treason and blasphemy he committed in every other life. It occurs to him that he should be grateful for the opportunity, but the notion incites nothing save for the thrumming pang of agitation.
There’s a moment when all is silent, when the storm raging outside calms and Castiel feels the swell of tension at the edge of his awareness.
The doors swing open.
Castiel doesn’t turn in his seat to look. He doesn’t need to. Sam’s presence precedes him by miles and Castiel can smell the spicy, visceral curl of blood intermingling with the stink of sulphur in a way he hadn’t expected. It’s not Sam’s own corruption that colors him with the demon mark, but what he’s chosen himself to imbibe -- blood magick to strengthen his body, to help him carry the weight of the Throne.
Insects skitter over the lone aisle, spiders and beetles that march wildly in his wake as if he is their King too. Castiel listens for footfalls, waits for the harsh clap of boots to call his attention, but there isn’t any. There’s nothing but the rain outside and foraging bugs rattling paper.
Sam comes to the end of the aisle, sits parallel to Castiel in the pews off to the left, and Castiel can see his form taking up the whole of his periphery. He’s large, tall-statured and broad across the chest and shoulders as if the blood pounding in his veins had trained his body as it had his mind. He stands like a King, back drawn taut with the command of his confidence, but there’s something altogether feline about his body that feels almost disconcerting. For all Sam’s enormous build, he still moves like a warrior.
“Did you come here for absolution?”
The voice doesn’t ring out through the emptiness, but embraces it, a gentleness that would belie the cruelty that Castiel has trouble comprehending. He can feel Sam’s intent, the blinding shine of his soul, even at this distance. It pulses with duty, hope, vengeance. With a love so strong that it very nearly knocks the breath out of Castiel as he turns.
“I came here because this is where I’m supposed to be.”
There are votives burning near the altar, ones that weren’t lit before, but Castiel ignores them in favor of searching through the dim light to find Sam’s face.
“Would you be surprised if I said I was here for the same thing?” Sam chuckles, arms stretched out behind him as he leans back in the pew.
Castiel can see him now, the hazy outline of his face that slowly comes into clear view as he concentrates on seeing past the confines of these human eyes.
He’s angular, wolfishly so; high cheekbones that give way to a high forehead and long, shaggy brown hair. Castiel can still read the amusement on his face, the way it perks the narrow line of his lips upward in a way that he recognizes objectively as attractive. Everywhere Castiel looks, he sees evidence of Sam’s conquest; the little trinkets knotted around his neck, the bronze ornament hanging low on his chest, the bones and beads and charms braided into his unkempt hair and around his wrists and on his fingers. Despite that, there’s a softness here that Castiel perceives, even in such a fierce countenance, that startles him. A warrior given the mantle of a king, yet he is still truly a boy.
“Your reputation precedes you, Sam.” It’s just a gentle nudge, a quiet rasp that blends nothing at all like Sam’s voice had in the darkness.
For a moment, Castiel expects to see the smile broaden -- to take a new light and stretch slyly across the sharp lines of his features -- but it doesn’t. Sam stiffens instead, draws himself up to sitting, knees splayed between the pews.
“Then you know exactly why I’m here. You know who I am, and what I mean to do.”
There’s no ceremony in his words, no threat; just the simple, unassuaged truth that sounds as pained as it does certain.
“I’m not leaving my brother alone down there -- not when he did all this because of me.”
Something about the confession if far more intimate that Castiel cares to consider. This isn’t meant for him to know; the motivations of the enemy mean nothing when the world is at stake. He wonders if Sam might change his mind if he learned the truth of his destiny -- if he was told exactly why it was the handiwork of Fate that he was brought here under these circumstances.
Sam is the perfect culmination of so many wars, so many souls lost to Paradise and Damnation. This has always been the Grand Story that would unfurl as immaculately as it was conceived. Lucifer’s vessel, fostered by the demons would lead the boy into Hell to claim his Crown and, in doing so, the Morningstar would be set free.
Castiel can see the power jittering and swelling under Sam’s skin, sees the heat of it burnish Sam’s soul like a captive star. He’s perfect in all the ways Lucifer’s presence would demand. But Castiel can say nothing regarding Sam’s true purpose; he’s bound by the angels’ Covenant with God and it would be heresy even if he could compel himself to break it.
“I hope you can believe me when I say that I understand, truly, why you’ve come here. And it’s my sincerest regret that I can’t allow you to walk away from this.”
Castiel sighs, pushes himself to standing, and pulls the gun from the folds of his cassock.
“Men have tried to kill me with bigger pistols than that,” Sam warns, rising from his seat.
Castiel can properly gauge his size now and for the first time since taking a vessel, Castiel feels so very small in a uniquely physical way.
The space between them is fraught with tension, but it’s nothing as caustic as Castiel would have expected, not when they’re this close to the end. No, this simply rings with the anticipation of movement, the threat of assured danger, and Castiel drinks the moment in with all his higher sense.
Here they stand amongst the battered pews and crumbling devotions, before God and His holy house, in what should be the final battle between good and evil and yet Castiel feels more uncertain now than he ever has.
Why should Sam Winchester be killed for trying to save his brother from Damnation, when it was the agents of Fate and God Himself that orchestrated this grand story from the beginning. Why should this boy, who should be corrupted down to his very soul, still shine so brightly and be slain regardless?
Questions like this are the doorways to doubt, Castiel knows this like he knows the composition of the human body and all the dimensions spread between now and forever. Despite that, he still wavers. He still lets his thumb slide over the hammer without cocking it even when Sam takes a step forward into the light, bare feet silent on the ancient, wooden floor.
Castiel sees it then, the calculating gleam that he had missed in the darkness. Sam draws himself up to full height, shoulders stretching bronze and taut as he takes another step and then another. His eyes shine with a brutal sort of intelligence, one that Castiel had vastly underestimated, and no sooner has the light truly caught them that Castiel sees the Boy King in all his glory, staring back at him with his distinctly yellow eyes.
“With all this time I’ve spend around demons, killing and commanding them alike, never once have they been able to honestly tell me about what my brother faces in Hell,” Sam speaks as if he doesn’t understand his own words and Castiel nearly strains to hear him as thunder crashes overhead.
“Even Alastair, the Grand High Inquisitor, couldn’t begin to tell me what it was like for Dean. Can you believe that? A demon that has spent his every moment in Hell torturing others for a millenia, and he still can’t fathom the hardship that Dean has to live through, day in and day out. And for what? Because he was stupid enough to sell his soul for his little brother?” And when Sam laughs this time, it’s purely self-deprecating.
“If I can’t kill her, then I’m going down there to take my brother’s place.”
Castiel swallows -- a useless gesture, but he can do little else right now -- and lets his arm hang loosely at his side.
“How... how do you know that what you would lay siege to Hell for is still truly your brother?”
“I don’t. But, if anything, I think it’s safe to say this year has changed the both of us.”
Castiel feels as if he’s been dealt a harsh blow with some unseen weapon, a sudden force that rushes him and leaves him close to gasping air that he doesn’t truly need.
After all this time, after everything he’s been put through... God and Fate has conspired directly against Sam in an effort to do nothing but bring about an grand ending in one way or another, but Sam doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know that he’s supposed to march straight into Hell, slaughter the First demon, and break the final seal on Lucifer’s Cage.
He doesn’t know that this journey has been nothing but an elaborate gambit to open the doors to the Apocalypse, or to end with him slain on the floor of an abandoned church. That either way, he’s doomed to bring about horrible, terrible things when his only true intention was to save his brother from a fate he didn’t deserve. When he is willing to take his brother’s place, even knowing that the suffering would be unimaginable and eternal.
Castiel presses the gun back into the folds of his cassock, eyes seeking through the darkness.
“What if there was another way?”
Sam slows, bows his head curiously to meet Castiel’s gaze.
“Such as?”
“What if an angel rescued your brother’s soul from damnation?”