Fic: Revelation Thirteen -- Great Blind Sassy Exchange {Tumblr} (1/2)
Title: Revelation Thirteen
Author: drivebyagogo
Genre: Dark!Western AU (Weird West, if you will)
Characters, Pairing(s): Boy King!Sam/Angel!Priest!Castiel (though they aren't really paired in this story, per se), heavy mentions of Dean, Samuel Colt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7.5K+
Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, death, and vague depictions of demonic reaction to holy water.
A/N: Written for the Great Blind Sassy Exchange and the wonderful samspurpletoothbrush. Jay's prompt was:
"Western!AU - Slightly darker themed, set in the old west, boyking!Sam/priest!Castiel. Giving you free reign with this one :D". I based this loosely off the mythology found in the comic Six Guns. I hope you enjoy it, darling. It's been a pleasure to write (and my apologies for the unintended lateness D: )
Summary: When the Boy King finally lays claim to the Sixth Gun, the last key needed to open the Gates of Hell and set his brother's soul free, he sets a course for Perdition, a one-horse town in rural Utah that houses the doors to Hell. It's Castiel's duty to find the young Samuel Colt and compel him to craft the one gun that can turn the tide of war and stop the King of Hell from unleashing darkness on all the land.
"He will make himself like the Son of God, and set himself forward as king."
--Hippolytus
He arrives at sundown.
The year is heavy with autumn, days shivering forward into early twilight and sparse noons. He’s been riding for weeks now, not because he has to, but because a man on horseback is less likely to draw the same amount of attention as one appearing in a burst of warm, electric air.
He’s running out of time and the notion is as curious as it is distressing. On another plane, in his true form, the constraints of space and time barely register, but while on Earth, he must adhere to the path of the task handed down to him from the great Lord on high. He has three days to find the gunmaker Samuel Colt, three days to convince this man to take on the Father’s prophecy and build the gun that will turn the tide of war. He has three days to stop the five great legions of Hell and their Boy King before he sends them forth like a plague across the land and the whole world is torn asunder.
The island is little more than a spit of land in the middle of a desert sea. Perdition, they call it; a half-ruined settlement staked by the Benedictine monks some fifty years before it was summarily abandoned without a trace. The rolling hills and somber beaches seem to carry the same weight that Castiel has felt since this journey began. Something monumental is coming, and this place will be at the center of it all.
It’s suiting, he thinks. For all its harshness, there’s a fragility here that he can’t overlook. The population, human and animal alike, is dependent upon what little rain the Lord sees fit to bless them with and weekly travels across the wilted causeway to bring back barrels of drinking water. The people that take up life on the island are made of stubborn stock and, despite not knowing it, they’re afforded enormous protection against a great many evils in the land.
Places like Perdition spring up out of spiritual necessity. A single island surrounded by briney sea trapped in the impervious embrace of the salt flats acts as the strongest fortress against the untold evils of Hell and sundry and, truth be told, this story has long been prophesied. All the details fall into place, the expert handiwork of his Lord Father, and Castiel sees the evidence all around him. The Benedictine embellishments on every corner of every building, the blessings worked into flagstones and foundations. These people don’t know it, but their unsuspecting little town hums with a blessed sort of energy. It belies the truth, however. The wicked secret that lies hidden in the very heart of their home.
[-]
The desert is unforgiving. Sam has come to learn this in the time he was taken under Azazel’s wing and it holds true still, but the terrors of the cold wastes does nothing to startle him after the unrepentant evils he’s perpetuated and endured alike.
This night should feel like a victory. He marched his army across the scrubby lands of west Utah and opened the Fifth Gate; had the white-eyed demon Alastair take a knee and swear fealty before him and the four other high generals of Hell. He has taken the sixth gun, the last key to the final Gate, and soon it will be time to send his legions into Hell to tear Lilith from her throne and reclaim his brother’s soul.
The first gun has shown him this; given him an unfaltering view into the future that will be. Sam understands beyond any doubt that he will win this war, that he will shatter the final seals and open Hell. He will visit a wrath down upon Lilith’s head that Hell will never recover from, but beyond this, his future is uneasy as anyone else’s.
This night has been a triumph, but Sam finds himself uneasy for the first time since he made the decision to face Azazel in an armed duel and claim his birthright. There’s something on the rise, an unnatural storm stirring in the East, and Sam is headed right for the center of it.
In three days time, Halley’s comet will pass overhead and Sam will be in the belly of Perdition, perched before the Final Gate into Hell. Hard to think this road’s been such a long time coming. Two years since he was knifed down in Wyoming territory. Since Dean traded his soul for Sam’s own. Two years since Sam went to Ol’ Yellow Eyes and demanded his due, but not before slaying the other child made vicious and strong by the demon blood.
Azazel had laughed at him then, plucked at his sensitive nature and goaded him into attacking over and over again until Sam thought he might be struck blind from all the rage turning in his veins.
“My, my. Look at what a big boy you grew up to be, Sam. Your old man woulda been proud, if I do say so myself.”
It went on like that for hours, until Sam succeeded in the impossible; he shoved Azazel back with nothing but the force of his conviction. The demon stopped then, backed Sam into a corner until he could smell nothing but sulphur and everything but his shrinking periphery was filled with that sickly, marbled yellow.
“What is it you want, huh Sammy? S’all that pent up anger because Dean went and pawned his soul to give you one more chance? And lookit you, throwing all that good effort away for the hair of the demon that bit you? Tsk, big brother’d be ashamed.”
Sam could say nothing, jaw clamped so tight from Azazel’s will alone that he felt the bones popping out of place, but the intent was there. A venomous, filthy rage that welled in his gut so hard Sam could scarcely breathe.
“You. Dead.”
A thick, grinding gasp that Sam managed to spit between clenched teeth before Azazel let him loose with a wink.
“It’s that star-studded attitude that I really love, Sammy. So lemme tell you what I’ll do. I’m gonna let you live, oh yes. And I’m gonna train that sweet hide of yours until you’re good and ready to accept the gift I gave you.”
Sam made his decision then boxed in between the dead night and a demon. He knew what the others were capable of, even as mere shadows of the power they could’ve attained. That’s what Azazel was offering as he stretched forth his bleeding fingers and pressed them to Sam’s lips; power. Insurmountable, unfathomable power. Sam would take this curse if it meant there’d be a chance at taking this bastard out.
If John Winchester taught his youngest son anything it was “know thy enemy”.
[-]
In places like this, not many souls are willing to stay up past sunset; superstition runs rampant in these parts, more often for the better, and Castiel accepts the inconvenience with little more than a shake of his head. He’ll have to do his best to locate Samuel Colt, even if it means visiting the more unscrupulous places in town.
A house of ill-repute is easy to find in what Castiel is certain is the picturesque definition of a one horse town. All of Perdition is grave-quiet aside from the raucous sawing of a fiddle and the wild, braying laughter of all the inebriated humans residing therein. If Castiel is intimidated, his expression is stoic enough to wave away any attention from the patrons hanging against the awning posts. In truth however, the sight of so many overexcited people in such a small place does set him on edge; Castiel has very little experience with humans, and even less in a form not his own.
The doors swing open uneventfully and Castiel goes unnoticed at first, the women content to lean adoringly over rough shoulders while men sit around a battered table, tossing down bits of stiff paper in a way that Castiel recognizes abstractly as “poker”.
“Can I help you with a drink, Father?” There’s a man behind the counter calling his attention, gesturing for him to sit with a grin that is mostly toothless from what Castiel can see.
Father. Of course. He’s still wearing Jimmy Novak’s vestments, the long pleated cassock still dusty from days of riding that denotes his vessel’s position amongst the clergy. Castiel considers the man for a moment, calloused hand poised over an imposing bottle of dusky amber liquid, and finally shakes his head as he takes a seat tentatively. Jimmy Novak had the alcohol tolerance of a freshwater toad; Castiel is certain he wouldn’t appreciate an angel taking liberties with his body that wasn’t the explicit will of the Lord.
“No... thank you,” he manages, grasping at the worn bar top as he settles. This is not a place meant for the likes of him, he can feel that now as more and more eyes gravitate in his direction, the drunken, hazy pulses quickening momentarily before they die back down. Nevertheless, the bartender seems at ease, and Castiel does his best to steady himself on the wobbling stool.
“You look like a man on a mission, Father. What brings you to town?” It’s a fair enough question, Castiel supposes, one that he could answer truthfully instead of sowing more deceit as has been his recent, unwelcome tactic.
“I’m here to do the work of the Lord,” he replies evenly, fingers gripping the well-worn pine before him.
The bartender nods and shrugs with a quick roll of his shoulders,” Yeah, I figured as much.”
For a moment, it’s as if they’ve both caught each other in a lie when nothing but honesty as been spoken between them, and the intensity of the silence he’s met with stills Castiel into a pensive consideration.
“I’m looking for someone; a young man by the name of Samuel Colt. I was told he would be here.” There’s a ring of insistence in his voice that Castiel hadn’t intended on, but he does nothing to choke it down now that his intentions have been laid bare.
“Sam Colt? The sheriff? Now what business would the Lord Almighty have for Sam Colt?” The bartender smiles however, and sets down a glass. “You sure he’s your man?”
“Yes, it’s of the utmost importance that I speak to Samuel Colt. Do you know where I might find him?” He’s standing now, licking the salt and sand from his lips idly.
“Yeah, o’course. He hangs his hat down at the little jailhouse -- says it saves him the trouble of having to stock two whiskey cabinets.”
Castiel is nearly out the door before the bartender calls his attention one last time.
“Hey, Father! You’re gonna need this,” he tells him in a short bark of laughter, tossing a tightly corked bottle for Castiel to catch in his outstretched hands.
[-]
Castiel leaves his horse at the inn; a town as small as this one, it’d be hard to steal something and have it go unnoticed, and his concern for transportation has dropped below the negatives under the consideration that this is it. Months of searching for a vessel that could house him, of traveling, of following the progress of the Boy King and his ever-growing army has finally led him to his destination, and Castiel doesn’t have the wits about him to even bother with walking.
The jailhouse is quite possibly the only other fortified building on the island, still standing second to the somber church casting long shadows against the horizon, and Castiel finds it with a remarkable ease spurred by his own anxiousness. The sun has set on the third day. Two days left. Two days to forge the gun that will turn the tide of war. He has two days to convince this mortal man to take this gun and slay the Boy King before the whole world is forever cast in darkness. Castiel has never known an urgency like this in all his long life.
The door is barred, but it matters little to him now; Castiel passes through as if nothing but a thought made visible by some trick of the light, and finds himself in what could only be described as a poor meeting between an office and the sleeping quarters of a small child. The room isn’t empty, however. Castiel hears the deep, heavy breathing before he locates the source -- finds the vague outline of a human body shrouded in what appears to be a three week old newspaper from Salt Lake City. Castiel has just enough time to take a step forward before the floor creaks under the weight of his vessel, and then other before the steady cocking of a pistol calls his attention.
The young man raises his head, hat sliding back from its perch as he sits up just an inch.
“Mind tellin’ me what the hell you’re doing on the other side of a locked door?”
The gun itself doesn’t intimidate Castiel, but the conviction of the sleep-roughened voice does give him pause. It’s as if the whole of his preternatural being is on display -- this man knows he is not of this world and seeks not only to protect himself, but to do Castiel harm should the situation call for it.
“Are you Samuel Colt?”
“Depends on who’s askin’” the young man replies dryly, shifting back on the chair legs as Castiel hovers just a few short feet away. It’s a facetiousness and suspicion bred by months of dealing with outlaws and bounty hunters, but Castiel bristles nonetheless, wings puffing up to incredible heights despite their invisibility to this human’s eye.
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
“That so? Funny, I woulda pegged you for a priest.” It’s a comment that Castiel can only grasp as sardonic and something about that coils tightly in his chest.
This man is mocking him, and Castiel is at an utter loss for words.
“Now, back to why you’re--”
Lightning crashes in the distance -- one, two, three strikes that chase after each other until the blue incandescence throws the arching shadows of Castiel’s wings across the wall. It’s a small display, something employed by the battling ranks of the Holy Host as rapid dominance, but it’s enough, Castiel thinks, to convince the young Samuel Colt of his celestial origins.
There’s a pause, and then another as he finally wrests himself from his seat.
“Alright then. What the hell is an angel doin’ in the great Utah territory? I don’t suspect you’re here for the silver, though I reckon the Mormons will be tad upset to find the Almighty favors the Papists,” he smirks, holstering his gun as he leans back against his desk.
“This has nothing to do with the varying denominations of Christianity -- this is about the safety of the entire world as you know it. God as set forth a sacred commandment, Samuel Colt, one that you must abide for the sake of all mankind.”
Castiel extends a hand, whiskey swishing gently as he presses the bottle into the young man’s arms.
“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this.”
[-]
The presence of demons has tainted one aspect or another of Sam Winchester’s life from the very beginning; he lost his mother, his birth home, his fiancee, his father, and his brother all to fires of Hell. Even now, with these damnable guns holstered under his heavy duster, he can feel the influence of their mindless cruelty urging him in all different directions, begging for bloodshed with a silent nagging all their own.
Somewhere behind him, the wagon creaks, pulled along faithfully by his biggest hound. It’s covered in dust and war-torn, but the cargo is precious.
“You’ll need a body when you get back.”
This has been his life for so long; if it’s not one Gate, it’s another. It’s learning the secrets to unlock the doors to Hell, it’s getting a grip on his birthright and wrestling the biting need to drain every demon in his presence dry, but not before skinning them and tossing the hides to the hounds at his feet. This journey has made Sam into the man he never wanted to be, but to see this through, it’s the man he has to be. For the sake of his brother, these are the evils he’s willing to commit.
He’s seventy miles south of Perdition, close enough already that he can feel the distant hum of the Final Gate beckoning his arrival, but the sun has just barely started to peer over the horizon. Sam will make it there before midnight, that’s what his gun tells him. He’ll open the doors and raid all of Hell for his brother’s soul -- all he needs is for that one damn comet to soar across the sky at the height of its luminescence.
Sam has already sent his forces north, with orders to only advance at his word, but he knows it will do little good. They’ll press on as they please and be met with the caustic, impassable waters of the Great Salt Lake. The deep-set satisfaction is something Sam won’t deny, even now as he urges his horse onward, calling to his hounds to follow closely behind.
[-]
“You do realize that not even the hand of God hisself could forge a gun in a day. Magic or not, gunmaking don’t have anything to do with Genesis.”
Colt, as he insists on being called, has been stressing this argument for nearly three hours after he finally decided to wake up and listen to what Castiel had to say about the burgeoning war.
“Surely you’ve seen the signs -- demonic omens running rampant in all parts of the world. Even out here, you’ve caught matters of Apocalypse manifesting on your borders. A war is coming, Colt. A war that only you have the chance to stop.”
He insisted on coffee after that, an acrid scent that Castiel recognizes as quaint in a way that niggles at his higher senses. After three cups and another shot of whiskey, he seemed prepared enough to argue again.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you on your big mission to save the world, but facts is facts. It’d take me a year to make a gun that keen. Hell, even in a hurry, I’d still be pushin’ it at nine months,” Colt confides, spreading out the old newspapers across his desk.
“And you have less than forty-eight hours to make it so,” Castiel replies evenly, placing a hand against the heavy oak. “You have the blueprints, the schematics. You’ve built this gun in your dreams every night before you drink yourself to sleep. I can bring you the materials, I can temper the components, but this gun must be forged by your hand.”
The whiskey sloshes inside the bottle before Colt sighs and shakes his head.
“What are you waitin’ for then?”
[-]
They work.
It’s almost sedating, Castiel thinks. There’s a calmness that comes from rote handiwork like this, even if the gestures aren’t something inherently natural to his being. Colt instructs him during the tempering process, tells Castiel the exact temperatures to heat the flames, how many times the steel needed to be hammered and folded to yield materials strong enough to withstand the combustion necessary to fire a bullet.
He does this by hand instead of the usual implements, ignores the searing heat as he twists and flattens the metal until it sits at the perfect thickness. If Colt is bothered by Castiel’s technique, he says nothing save for a gruff affirmative in Castiel’s direction when presented with the carefully formed pieces.
“Nine months of work done in twelve hours. Where were you when I was trying to make a name for myself in Connecticut?”
There’s something amiable about this, almost uncharacteristically so, but Castiel accepts nevertheless, cooling the pieces down to room temperature with a thought.
“It would have gone much faster were I more informed in the arts of metalworking,” he informs, shifting around the table to allow Colt a better look at the assembled parts.
“It’s gonna take me a few hours to tool the gun to precision, buff away the imperfections and the like, but you’ll have it before sundown tomorrow,” Colt assures, pouring over the pieces with a keen eye.
It’s good news, Castiel thinks. The gun itself, even only partially completed, still hums with a certain power that belies its true nature. By the time Colt finishes his job, the weapon will have been assembled under the most paramount conditions, living up to its prophesied capabilities as the gun that will turn the tide of war.
He only hopes that the storm to the south will give them the time they need.
{Part II}
Author: drivebyagogo
Genre: Dark!Western AU (Weird West, if you will)
Characters, Pairing(s): Boy King!Sam/Angel!Priest!Castiel (though they aren't really paired in this story, per se), heavy mentions of Dean, Samuel Colt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7.5K+
Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, death, and vague depictions of demonic reaction to holy water.
A/N: Written for the Great Blind Sassy Exchange and the wonderful samspurpletoothbrush. Jay's prompt was:
"Western!AU - Slightly darker themed, set in the old west, boyking!Sam/priest!Castiel. Giving you free reign with this one :D". I based this loosely off the mythology found in the comic Six Guns. I hope you enjoy it, darling. It's been a pleasure to write (and my apologies for the unintended lateness D: )
Summary: When the Boy King finally lays claim to the Sixth Gun, the last key needed to open the Gates of Hell and set his brother's soul free, he sets a course for Perdition, a one-horse town in rural Utah that houses the doors to Hell. It's Castiel's duty to find the young Samuel Colt and compel him to craft the one gun that can turn the tide of war and stop the King of Hell from unleashing darkness on all the land.
"He will make himself like the Son of God, and set himself forward as king."
--Hippolytus
He arrives at sundown.
The year is heavy with autumn, days shivering forward into early twilight and sparse noons. He’s been riding for weeks now, not because he has to, but because a man on horseback is less likely to draw the same amount of attention as one appearing in a burst of warm, electric air.
He’s running out of time and the notion is as curious as it is distressing. On another plane, in his true form, the constraints of space and time barely register, but while on Earth, he must adhere to the path of the task handed down to him from the great Lord on high. He has three days to find the gunmaker Samuel Colt, three days to convince this man to take on the Father’s prophecy and build the gun that will turn the tide of war. He has three days to stop the five great legions of Hell and their Boy King before he sends them forth like a plague across the land and the whole world is torn asunder.
The island is little more than a spit of land in the middle of a desert sea. Perdition, they call it; a half-ruined settlement staked by the Benedictine monks some fifty years before it was summarily abandoned without a trace. The rolling hills and somber beaches seem to carry the same weight that Castiel has felt since this journey began. Something monumental is coming, and this place will be at the center of it all.
It’s suiting, he thinks. For all its harshness, there’s a fragility here that he can’t overlook. The population, human and animal alike, is dependent upon what little rain the Lord sees fit to bless them with and weekly travels across the wilted causeway to bring back barrels of drinking water. The people that take up life on the island are made of stubborn stock and, despite not knowing it, they’re afforded enormous protection against a great many evils in the land.
Places like Perdition spring up out of spiritual necessity. A single island surrounded by briney sea trapped in the impervious embrace of the salt flats acts as the strongest fortress against the untold evils of Hell and sundry and, truth be told, this story has long been prophesied. All the details fall into place, the expert handiwork of his Lord Father, and Castiel sees the evidence all around him. The Benedictine embellishments on every corner of every building, the blessings worked into flagstones and foundations. These people don’t know it, but their unsuspecting little town hums with a blessed sort of energy. It belies the truth, however. The wicked secret that lies hidden in the very heart of their home.
[-]
The desert is unforgiving. Sam has come to learn this in the time he was taken under Azazel’s wing and it holds true still, but the terrors of the cold wastes does nothing to startle him after the unrepentant evils he’s perpetuated and endured alike.
This night should feel like a victory. He marched his army across the scrubby lands of west Utah and opened the Fifth Gate; had the white-eyed demon Alastair take a knee and swear fealty before him and the four other high generals of Hell. He has taken the sixth gun, the last key to the final Gate, and soon it will be time to send his legions into Hell to tear Lilith from her throne and reclaim his brother’s soul.
The first gun has shown him this; given him an unfaltering view into the future that will be. Sam understands beyond any doubt that he will win this war, that he will shatter the final seals and open Hell. He will visit a wrath down upon Lilith’s head that Hell will never recover from, but beyond this, his future is uneasy as anyone else’s.
This night has been a triumph, but Sam finds himself uneasy for the first time since he made the decision to face Azazel in an armed duel and claim his birthright. There’s something on the rise, an unnatural storm stirring in the East, and Sam is headed right for the center of it.
In three days time, Halley’s comet will pass overhead and Sam will be in the belly of Perdition, perched before the Final Gate into Hell. Hard to think this road’s been such a long time coming. Two years since he was knifed down in Wyoming territory. Since Dean traded his soul for Sam’s own. Two years since Sam went to Ol’ Yellow Eyes and demanded his due, but not before slaying the other child made vicious and strong by the demon blood.
Azazel had laughed at him then, plucked at his sensitive nature and goaded him into attacking over and over again until Sam thought he might be struck blind from all the rage turning in his veins.
“My, my. Look at what a big boy you grew up to be, Sam. Your old man woulda been proud, if I do say so myself.”
It went on like that for hours, until Sam succeeded in the impossible; he shoved Azazel back with nothing but the force of his conviction. The demon stopped then, backed Sam into a corner until he could smell nothing but sulphur and everything but his shrinking periphery was filled with that sickly, marbled yellow.
“What is it you want, huh Sammy? S’all that pent up anger because Dean went and pawned his soul to give you one more chance? And lookit you, throwing all that good effort away for the hair of the demon that bit you? Tsk, big brother’d be ashamed.”
Sam could say nothing, jaw clamped so tight from Azazel’s will alone that he felt the bones popping out of place, but the intent was there. A venomous, filthy rage that welled in his gut so hard Sam could scarcely breathe.
“You. Dead.”
A thick, grinding gasp that Sam managed to spit between clenched teeth before Azazel let him loose with a wink.
“It’s that star-studded attitude that I really love, Sammy. So lemme tell you what I’ll do. I’m gonna let you live, oh yes. And I’m gonna train that sweet hide of yours until you’re good and ready to accept the gift I gave you.”
Sam made his decision then boxed in between the dead night and a demon. He knew what the others were capable of, even as mere shadows of the power they could’ve attained. That’s what Azazel was offering as he stretched forth his bleeding fingers and pressed them to Sam’s lips; power. Insurmountable, unfathomable power. Sam would take this curse if it meant there’d be a chance at taking this bastard out.
If John Winchester taught his youngest son anything it was “know thy enemy”.
[-]
In places like this, not many souls are willing to stay up past sunset; superstition runs rampant in these parts, more often for the better, and Castiel accepts the inconvenience with little more than a shake of his head. He’ll have to do his best to locate Samuel Colt, even if it means visiting the more unscrupulous places in town.
A house of ill-repute is easy to find in what Castiel is certain is the picturesque definition of a one horse town. All of Perdition is grave-quiet aside from the raucous sawing of a fiddle and the wild, braying laughter of all the inebriated humans residing therein. If Castiel is intimidated, his expression is stoic enough to wave away any attention from the patrons hanging against the awning posts. In truth however, the sight of so many overexcited people in such a small place does set him on edge; Castiel has very little experience with humans, and even less in a form not his own.
The doors swing open uneventfully and Castiel goes unnoticed at first, the women content to lean adoringly over rough shoulders while men sit around a battered table, tossing down bits of stiff paper in a way that Castiel recognizes abstractly as “poker”.
“Can I help you with a drink, Father?” There’s a man behind the counter calling his attention, gesturing for him to sit with a grin that is mostly toothless from what Castiel can see.
Father. Of course. He’s still wearing Jimmy Novak’s vestments, the long pleated cassock still dusty from days of riding that denotes his vessel’s position amongst the clergy. Castiel considers the man for a moment, calloused hand poised over an imposing bottle of dusky amber liquid, and finally shakes his head as he takes a seat tentatively. Jimmy Novak had the alcohol tolerance of a freshwater toad; Castiel is certain he wouldn’t appreciate an angel taking liberties with his body that wasn’t the explicit will of the Lord.
“No... thank you,” he manages, grasping at the worn bar top as he settles. This is not a place meant for the likes of him, he can feel that now as more and more eyes gravitate in his direction, the drunken, hazy pulses quickening momentarily before they die back down. Nevertheless, the bartender seems at ease, and Castiel does his best to steady himself on the wobbling stool.
“You look like a man on a mission, Father. What brings you to town?” It’s a fair enough question, Castiel supposes, one that he could answer truthfully instead of sowing more deceit as has been his recent, unwelcome tactic.
“I’m here to do the work of the Lord,” he replies evenly, fingers gripping the well-worn pine before him.
The bartender nods and shrugs with a quick roll of his shoulders,” Yeah, I figured as much.”
For a moment, it’s as if they’ve both caught each other in a lie when nothing but honesty as been spoken between them, and the intensity of the silence he’s met with stills Castiel into a pensive consideration.
“I’m looking for someone; a young man by the name of Samuel Colt. I was told he would be here.” There’s a ring of insistence in his voice that Castiel hadn’t intended on, but he does nothing to choke it down now that his intentions have been laid bare.
“Sam Colt? The sheriff? Now what business would the Lord Almighty have for Sam Colt?” The bartender smiles however, and sets down a glass. “You sure he’s your man?”
“Yes, it’s of the utmost importance that I speak to Samuel Colt. Do you know where I might find him?” He’s standing now, licking the salt and sand from his lips idly.
“Yeah, o’course. He hangs his hat down at the little jailhouse -- says it saves him the trouble of having to stock two whiskey cabinets.”
Castiel is nearly out the door before the bartender calls his attention one last time.
“Hey, Father! You’re gonna need this,” he tells him in a short bark of laughter, tossing a tightly corked bottle for Castiel to catch in his outstretched hands.
[-]
Castiel leaves his horse at the inn; a town as small as this one, it’d be hard to steal something and have it go unnoticed, and his concern for transportation has dropped below the negatives under the consideration that this is it. Months of searching for a vessel that could house him, of traveling, of following the progress of the Boy King and his ever-growing army has finally led him to his destination, and Castiel doesn’t have the wits about him to even bother with walking.
The jailhouse is quite possibly the only other fortified building on the island, still standing second to the somber church casting long shadows against the horizon, and Castiel finds it with a remarkable ease spurred by his own anxiousness. The sun has set on the third day. Two days left. Two days to forge the gun that will turn the tide of war. He has two days to convince this mortal man to take this gun and slay the Boy King before the whole world is forever cast in darkness. Castiel has never known an urgency like this in all his long life.
The door is barred, but it matters little to him now; Castiel passes through as if nothing but a thought made visible by some trick of the light, and finds himself in what could only be described as a poor meeting between an office and the sleeping quarters of a small child. The room isn’t empty, however. Castiel hears the deep, heavy breathing before he locates the source -- finds the vague outline of a human body shrouded in what appears to be a three week old newspaper from Salt Lake City. Castiel has just enough time to take a step forward before the floor creaks under the weight of his vessel, and then other before the steady cocking of a pistol calls his attention.
The young man raises his head, hat sliding back from its perch as he sits up just an inch.
“Mind tellin’ me what the hell you’re doing on the other side of a locked door?”
The gun itself doesn’t intimidate Castiel, but the conviction of the sleep-roughened voice does give him pause. It’s as if the whole of his preternatural being is on display -- this man knows he is not of this world and seeks not only to protect himself, but to do Castiel harm should the situation call for it.
“Are you Samuel Colt?”
“Depends on who’s askin’” the young man replies dryly, shifting back on the chair legs as Castiel hovers just a few short feet away. It’s a facetiousness and suspicion bred by months of dealing with outlaws and bounty hunters, but Castiel bristles nonetheless, wings puffing up to incredible heights despite their invisibility to this human’s eye.
“I am an angel of the Lord.”
“That so? Funny, I woulda pegged you for a priest.” It’s a comment that Castiel can only grasp as sardonic and something about that coils tightly in his chest.
This man is mocking him, and Castiel is at an utter loss for words.
“Now, back to why you’re--”
Lightning crashes in the distance -- one, two, three strikes that chase after each other until the blue incandescence throws the arching shadows of Castiel’s wings across the wall. It’s a small display, something employed by the battling ranks of the Holy Host as rapid dominance, but it’s enough, Castiel thinks, to convince the young Samuel Colt of his celestial origins.
There’s a pause, and then another as he finally wrests himself from his seat.
“Alright then. What the hell is an angel doin’ in the great Utah territory? I don’t suspect you’re here for the silver, though I reckon the Mormons will be tad upset to find the Almighty favors the Papists,” he smirks, holstering his gun as he leans back against his desk.
“This has nothing to do with the varying denominations of Christianity -- this is about the safety of the entire world as you know it. God as set forth a sacred commandment, Samuel Colt, one that you must abide for the sake of all mankind.”
Castiel extends a hand, whiskey swishing gently as he presses the bottle into the young man’s arms.
“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this.”
[-]
The presence of demons has tainted one aspect or another of Sam Winchester’s life from the very beginning; he lost his mother, his birth home, his fiancee, his father, and his brother all to fires of Hell. Even now, with these damnable guns holstered under his heavy duster, he can feel the influence of their mindless cruelty urging him in all different directions, begging for bloodshed with a silent nagging all their own.
Somewhere behind him, the wagon creaks, pulled along faithfully by his biggest hound. It’s covered in dust and war-torn, but the cargo is precious.
“You’ll need a body when you get back.”
This has been his life for so long; if it’s not one Gate, it’s another. It’s learning the secrets to unlock the doors to Hell, it’s getting a grip on his birthright and wrestling the biting need to drain every demon in his presence dry, but not before skinning them and tossing the hides to the hounds at his feet. This journey has made Sam into the man he never wanted to be, but to see this through, it’s the man he has to be. For the sake of his brother, these are the evils he’s willing to commit.
He’s seventy miles south of Perdition, close enough already that he can feel the distant hum of the Final Gate beckoning his arrival, but the sun has just barely started to peer over the horizon. Sam will make it there before midnight, that’s what his gun tells him. He’ll open the doors and raid all of Hell for his brother’s soul -- all he needs is for that one damn comet to soar across the sky at the height of its luminescence.
Sam has already sent his forces north, with orders to only advance at his word, but he knows it will do little good. They’ll press on as they please and be met with the caustic, impassable waters of the Great Salt Lake. The deep-set satisfaction is something Sam won’t deny, even now as he urges his horse onward, calling to his hounds to follow closely behind.
[-]
“You do realize that not even the hand of God hisself could forge a gun in a day. Magic or not, gunmaking don’t have anything to do with Genesis.”
Colt, as he insists on being called, has been stressing this argument for nearly three hours after he finally decided to wake up and listen to what Castiel had to say about the burgeoning war.
“Surely you’ve seen the signs -- demonic omens running rampant in all parts of the world. Even out here, you’ve caught matters of Apocalypse manifesting on your borders. A war is coming, Colt. A war that only you have the chance to stop.”
He insisted on coffee after that, an acrid scent that Castiel recognizes as quaint in a way that niggles at his higher senses. After three cups and another shot of whiskey, he seemed prepared enough to argue again.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you on your big mission to save the world, but facts is facts. It’d take me a year to make a gun that keen. Hell, even in a hurry, I’d still be pushin’ it at nine months,” Colt confides, spreading out the old newspapers across his desk.
“And you have less than forty-eight hours to make it so,” Castiel replies evenly, placing a hand against the heavy oak. “You have the blueprints, the schematics. You’ve built this gun in your dreams every night before you drink yourself to sleep. I can bring you the materials, I can temper the components, but this gun must be forged by your hand.”
The whiskey sloshes inside the bottle before Colt sighs and shakes his head.
“What are you waitin’ for then?”
[-]
They work.
It’s almost sedating, Castiel thinks. There’s a calmness that comes from rote handiwork like this, even if the gestures aren’t something inherently natural to his being. Colt instructs him during the tempering process, tells Castiel the exact temperatures to heat the flames, how many times the steel needed to be hammered and folded to yield materials strong enough to withstand the combustion necessary to fire a bullet.
He does this by hand instead of the usual implements, ignores the searing heat as he twists and flattens the metal until it sits at the perfect thickness. If Colt is bothered by Castiel’s technique, he says nothing save for a gruff affirmative in Castiel’s direction when presented with the carefully formed pieces.
“Nine months of work done in twelve hours. Where were you when I was trying to make a name for myself in Connecticut?”
There’s something amiable about this, almost uncharacteristically so, but Castiel accepts nevertheless, cooling the pieces down to room temperature with a thought.
“It would have gone much faster were I more informed in the arts of metalworking,” he informs, shifting around the table to allow Colt a better look at the assembled parts.
“It’s gonna take me a few hours to tool the gun to precision, buff away the imperfections and the like, but you’ll have it before sundown tomorrow,” Colt assures, pouring over the pieces with a keen eye.
It’s good news, Castiel thinks. The gun itself, even only partially completed, still hums with a certain power that belies its true nature. By the time Colt finishes his job, the weapon will have been assembled under the most paramount conditions, living up to its prophesied capabilities as the gun that will turn the tide of war.
He only hopes that the storm to the south will give them the time they need.
{Part II}