Amorphous, Part 1
See Master Post for disclaimers, warnings, etc.
----David Siegel spent his afternoon reading over the old texts he had hidden away in a back room. It had been so long since he’d studied Kabbalah properly, and he needed to ensure that this worked perfectly.
Once he was satisfactorily prepared, he sent his associates home and closed down the temple, claiming a private concern that needed resolving. It was only partly a lie.
When they were gone, and all the doors locked, he began to prepare the ritual. It was simple enough - gather sufficient earth to build a man-sized model, shape it into the form of your choosing, and bless it with the proper prayers. The actual trick of it was your own worthiness - if he had not learned enough, or was not considered able by the Lord, then nothing would happen. But if he was, then…
He built the figure two heads taller than himself, and wider in the shoulder than is found in humans. As he built, he murmured what the untrained ear would hear as nasal, lilting song. His prayers grew louder in tone and more songlike in quality as he continued, until he was speaking clearly enough to be heard from the other side of the temple. With some difficulty, he reached up to form the curve of an ear, the deep set of an eye, the flat bridge of a nose.
When the form was as complete as he needed it to be, he drew three letters into the head of his creation, saying, “Then the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”
He stepped back and waited.
For a minute, there was only silence. Then, with a harsh gasp, the clay figure opened its mouth, and breathed. Then it spoke. In gravelly Hebrew, it asked, “What am I?”
David stumbled over his own tongue. His knowledge of Hebrew was strictly religious, but he managed to create a coherent statement. “You are a creation of Earth, made by my hand as Adam was made by the LORD God.”
“What is my purpose, O Creator?”
“You are to… to find a man, and bring him to me.”
“What man is this?”
He opened his mouth, but had no words. He didn’t know anything about the man he was trying to find.
Then a voice behind him said, “He is a traveler, and a warrior. He is a man important to Heaven.”
David turned around, shocked, to see a balding man in a dark suit. He smiled unpleasantly at David.
In unaccented English, he said, “Hello, Rabbi Siegel.”
“Do I know you?” he asked cautiously, looking to see if any of the doors had been opened.
“No. But I know you.” He stepped closer to David, then turned his head to stare at his creation. “And, more importantly, I know what you’re doing.”
David swallowed thickly. “I… I don’t-”
The stranger rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t try to lie to me, you’re wasting your time. You’re only trying to find Dean Winchester because I told you to.”
He paled. “What?”
He smiled thinly. “I’m Zachariah. The angel who talked to you in a dream? Showed you what Dean Winchester looks like?” He raised his eyebrows, faking surprise. “None of this ringing a bell?”
“I-”
“No, I get it,” the angel said, stepping closer to the clay creature. “You didn’t want to believe it was true. A lot of people don’t. But then you saw him, didn’t you?”
David swallowed and nodded. “Two days ago.”
“And you didn’t know how to find me. So, instead, you made this.” Zachariah waved a hand over the clay figure. “You know, sometimes you humans do things that are surprisingly intelligent.” Covering clay eye sockets, he switched to yet another language, full of harsh syllables and glottal stops.
An intense white light streamed out between Zachariah’s fingers, so bright David had to look away. When the light dissipated and David could look at the angel again, he had pulled his hand away, leaving the clay behind… changed. Hardened.
“That should do it,” Zachariah said, satisfied. He glanced at David, grinning more enthusiastically now. “No offense to your design, but it was a bit too… malleable. This will work much better for our needs.” He smacked the creature on the shoulder, saying, “Get to it!”
Obediently, it turned on its heels and walked towards the nearest exit. The doors flew open with a wave of Zachariah’s hand, and with wet, squishy footsteps, it left.
David stared at the prints it left behind. Those would stain the floor. He looked up to the angel, wordlessly asking.
Zachariah shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, David; it was either the head or the feet, and the head’s the important part.” He waved, saying, “We’ll be in touch,” and then he was gone.
After a moment spent not thinking about the insanity of his day, David went to get a mop and bucket with shaking hands.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic Ocean, another angel (and part-time bookshop owner) had the feeling that something very wrong was about to happen.
Becky stopped there, gaping. “Chuck!” she said breathlessly. “Is this - is this what I think it is?”
On the webcam, Chuck frowned slightly. “Is what what you think it is?”
“This angel,” she said, “The bookstore owner across the Atlantic?”
“Oh.” Chuck’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that’s probably what you think it is.”
“You mean-?”
Chuck sighed, covering his face with a hand. “I’m never going to get this one published,” he complained, voice muffled. “I barely got away with including Crowley, but this? This is just too obvious.”
Becky tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t help it.
She squealed.
Chuck dropped his hand, staring blankly at her.
Becky giggled nervously. “Sorry.”
----
----
AMORPHOUS
A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last few months of the second
age of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with:
“Supernatural” by Carver Edlund
ALSO KNOWN AS:
The Winchester Gospel of the Prophet Chuck
AND
“Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Compiled and edited by gladdecease
Illustrated by angelicfoodcake
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Supernatural Beings
Zachariah
(An Angel on the side of Heaven.
Also, kind of a dick.)
Aziraphale
(An Angel on the side of Humanity,
and part-time rare books dealer.)
Castiel
(A Rebel Angel on the side of Humanity.
Lacking a sense of humor.)
Crowley
(A Demon, whose frequent double-crossing has left the
question as to which side he is on Unanswered.)
Humans
Dean Winchester
(A Hunter and the Vessel of the Archangel Michael.)
Sam Winchester
(A Hunter and the Vessel of the Archangel Lucifer.)
Chuck Shurley (A Prophet)
Becky Rosen (A Fangirl)
David Siegel (A Rabbi)
ADAM (The Antichrist)
Full Chorus of Bewildered Policemen, Curious Newscasters,
and other Busybodies poking their noses into Certain Events.
And:
A golem
----
----
Several Weeks Later…
----
As far as Dean was concerned, this was all God's fault. He started all of this mess with that whole “Let there be light” “And there was light” “And it was good” business. The universe could have started itself up on its own, and then God could have left it alone, and then this pattern of over-involvement/no involvement/what do you mean, “He left Heaven?” would never have happened. Then the angels (who wouldn't have existed anyway, without God) wouldn't have decided to force the Apocalypse, and Dean's life probably wouldn't suck so much right now.
So yeah. Everything was God's fault. Dean planned on telling Him that, just as soon as Sam got him out of this latest mess. In the meantime, swearing quietly under his breath (or not so quietly at the top of his lungs) was working alright as a substitute for direct confrontation.
“God damn it,” Dean said, turning a sharp right down an empty side street. The Impala's tires squealed in protest, and Dean absently rubbed a hand apologetically across her dashboard. He glanced up at the rear view mirror and froze at the sight of a large, humanoid figure walking down the street he'd just turned onto. Swearing under his breath, he sped up and turned onto another street. The car he cut off honked angrily at him, but Dean had other things to worry about. He turned again on the next crossroad he found, hoping that driving in circles would be enough to hold it off.
The next road he turned on to lead into a development, though, so Dean had to back out and find another street. He didn't want this thing getting anywhere near houses. Just being in a town was bad enough, but he couldn't outrun this thing on the open road for long.
After a few more turns Dean was back on track, driving on the small streets between abandoned warehouses and stores with dirty windows and neon signs reading “Not Open”, that giant thing a small black smudge in his mirror. If he could keep this up for another few hours, he'd be safe. Sam would figure it out by then. Dean's shoulders slumped as he sighed, forcing himself to relax. If his brother could spend hours figuring out what this thing was, he could spend a few getting the damn thing turned around. He turned left, and all the stiffness he'd just gotten out of his shoulders came back with friends.
It was a dead end.
He backed out quickly, getting back on the street he'd been on before, but the delay meant that what once was a small blob in his rear view mirror had become a recognizable figure again. It was getting way too close for Dean's tastes, but he if he drove into another dead end it would get a lot closer than that. He checked down a tiny street between two large buildings, saw light at the end, and turned.
Half way down that street, a bulky dumpster rested against one of the walls. On any other street, this wouldn't be a problem for Dean, but in this tiny alley he couldn't get the Impala past it. Grumbling under his breath, Dean switched into reverse, starting what looked to be a way more than three-point turn. With a bit of maneuvering, he got the car turned around, just in time to see something that made his breath catch in the back of his throat.
It was there, at the end of the alley, close enough to see the carvings on its forehead. It wasn’t moving; it didn’t need to. It knew, and he knew, that it had won. It had taken the creature weeks to do it, but it had finally found him.
Slowly picking up the bag he'd left in the seat next to him, Dean turned off his car. Pocketing the keys, he murmured, “Sorry, baby,” and threw open his door. Duffel smacking heavily against his back, Dean ran down the alley, gaining as much distance over the creature as he could. It stayed still for a long moment, before taking long, deliberate steps forward. In the thirty seconds it took Dean to get to the end of the alley and turn the corner, it had already inspected and abandoned the Impala, leaving the poor car covered in a thick layer of mud.
“God damn it,” Dean panted, running towards the one thing he thought might stop it.
Most of the docks were rotten and abandoned, the river long since given up as a useless mode of travel. Still, there were one or two docks that, for whatever reason, had a small boat tied to the end. Reaching one, it was the work of a minute to untie the rope keeping the boat from floating off. Jumping into the freed boat, Dean was glad that it hadn't taken longer - he could see it walking towards the river now. As the boat drifted into a current, Dean sighed deeply. He was safe, for now.
Then his phone rang.
Dean dug the phone out of his bag and answered with a confused, “Hello?”
“You're not safe, Dean.”
“What?” Dean double checked the caller ID. Unknown number. Female voice. Had he given his number to a chick in a bar recently? He couldn't remember. “Who is this?”
“A friend.” Dean snorted. “I'm on your side, I swear,” she insisted.
The sad thing was, at this point he didn't really have any other option besides believing her. If she was lying - well, he was already screwed as it was, couldn't get much worse. If she wasn't, though… He had to take that chance. So he listened, however reluctantly, as she continued.
“It's going to follow you into the water. You have to get to the other side, and wait for help there.”
“The hell I am,” Dean said. “If I stop for even a minute, that thing's gonna get me. I'm safer in…” He trailed off. The creature was standing on the dock he'd taken off from, looking down at the rope he'd untangled. Without hesitating for a second, it stepped off the dock and dropped into the river like a stone.
Dean swallowed.
He was suddenly very aware of how muddy the water was. How he wouldn't be able to see anything approaching the boat from underwater. How surprisingly long that thing's reach could be, given the right motivation. Moving to the back of the boat, Dean found a rudder and started steering towards the far shore.
“Dean?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, you want to help me? Fine. I'll get over to the other side, and your help had better already be there.”
“He will be.”
Something about her voice was definitely familiar. The breathy tone, the enthusiastic conviction, the high pitch, all of it rang a bell in the back of his head. If he could just figure out where he knew her from…
The boat shuddered to a stop as it hit the shore. Dean stumbled a little, regaining his balance, and then climbed out of the boat. Getting some distance between himself and the river, he said, “Okay, I'm there. Where's your guy?”
“Right behind you, probably,” she said, giggling, and that clinched it. His jaw dropped. He knew that giggle, he knew that voice, and now he knew where he knew it from. That creepy fangirl. The fucking Supernatural convention. Of all the people -
“Becky?” he asked disbelievingly.
But then there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, and everything - her giggling over the phone, the clean scent of water and earth, the sight of a giant waterlogged creature climbing out of the river, even the hand on his shoulder - vanished.
The soaking wet thing took long, soggy steps, until it stood where Dean had been until only a moment ago. It waited there, patiently, for a few seconds, as if for some invisible signal. After a moment it tilted its head, filtering the new information, and then walked off in a new direction.
Not coincidentally, several hundred miles from that riverside, in the very direction the creature was now walking, Dean had just appeared in someone's living room.
It wasn't a new thing for him, though the Hello Kitty throw pillow on the couch was different.
----
Castiel was in London. He had been investigating an unusual presence somewhere in the country, and found himself in the capital city's west end area, staring at a bookstore. It didn't have the same strange feeling he was investigating to it, but all the same there was an odd presence here as well. He considered entering, and wondered if what the Winchesters had once told him about “Breaking and entering” still applied when something supernatural owned the bookstore.
Deciding to err on the side of risk, he attempted to open the door, and found his efforts repelled. Strange. He tried to appear on the other side of the door, but instead appeared in the very different bookstore next door. The owner did not look up from his magazine at Castiel's entrance, though when he walked up to the desk he did raise an eyebrow at the manner of his dress. Deciding not to comment, the man said, “Can I help you?”
“What do you know about the owner of the bookstore next door?”
The man frowned. “What, Mr. Fell? He's an alright guy; a bit froofy, but not bad. He doesn't come in here a lot, of course. Prefers his books to ours. Keeps to himself.”
Castiel tilted his head. “Froofy?”
“Yeah, froofy. You know…” The man made a vague hand gesture, giving up when it became clear that Castiel did not, in fact, know. Several other euphemisms led to the same result. Finally, he gave it up completely, saying, “Ah, never mind. It's not important.”
Brow still wrinkled with confusion, Castiel asked, “Do you know if… Mr. Fell is in today?”
“Probably not. He's been taking off a lot lately. Ill family, I figure.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
Leaving the bookstore, Castiel walked back in front of Mr. Fell's bookstore. Frowning at the locked front door which refused to open, he muttered a string of Enochian words under his breath, and reached out to try the knob again.
His phone rang.
Pausing, Castiel glanced between his pocket and the door. A known curiosity, and an unknown - danger? news? Given the short list of people who had access to the number, it was probably a request for help.
Sighing, he pulled out his phone and answered it. “Yes?”
“Cas, it's me.”
“Hello, Sam.” Castiel watched passerby, noticing that no one seemed to notice either him or the bookstore. Their eyes seemed to move straight from the pornographic bookstore on the right to the building with blocked windows on the left. That was interesting. ”What is it?”
“I don't know,” Sam said. ”Something's been following us - following Dean, actually - and I've been trying to figure out what it is, but I'm not coming up with anything. I could really use your help.”
Castiel looked up, stared at the white and gray cloud cover. He would have to return here later, then. ”Where are you?” As Sam rattled off the name of their newest residence, Castiel looked through the display windows of the storefront. If he squinted at just the right angle, he could almost read the title off the spine of a few books. A number of the names were unfamiliar to him, and appeared to be cheaply made novels. Farther back, though, he thought he saw a book with a cover that wasn't laminated paper. Or leather. That was older than leather. He squinted. If he could just -
“Castiel?”
Sam's voice shook the concentration out of Castiel. ”What?”
“You okay? You sound a little-”
“I'm fine. I'll be there in a moment.” Snapping his phone shut, Castiel focused in on the Motel 6 Sam had specified, and soon was there. Sam was staring at his phone. Dean was… not there. ”Where's Dean?” Castiel asked. Sam jumped, just a little, and turned to face Castiel.
“Cas, hey,” he said. ”Since this thing's been following Dean, we thought he probably shouldn't stay in one place for long. He's driving around town, somewhere.” He motioned Castiel over to the desk where he sat. A number of newspaper clippings were spread out on the table, with additional articles open in web browsers on his computer. ”I've been looking through these, and trying to find some reference in lore, but nothing seems to use mud as a weapon. Nothing vengeful, at least, and this thing looks like it's been following Dean for weeks.”
Castiel picked up one of the more recent clippings. ”Mud?” The article was about a break-in at a diner in Kentucky that had resulted in no money stolen, a great deal of property damage to their tables, and a thick, dark mud caked on almost every surface.
“Uh, yeah, it's the only thing these places have in common, besides Dean having been there.” Sam pointed to the picture included with the article, at a spot that was particularly coated in mud. ”I mean, right there? That's where Dean was sitting at that diner two weeks ago.” He looked to Castiel for a reaction, adding, “Weird, right? What kind of thing can pinpoint your location so long after the fact?”
Castiel made a noncommittal noise, looking over the other articles. Diners, motels, even roadside gas stations - they all had the same story. A break-in nobody noticed, leaving the place coated with mud. “Have you seen the creature at all?”
“No, and that's the really weird thing,” Sam said, turning back to his computer. “Nobody's seen the thing. None of the investigations into these break-ins have had a single witness, not even one spouting off stuff that sounds delusional.”
“That's very… interesting.” Putting down the clippings, Castiel leaned over Sam's shoulder to look at the computer screen. “What's this?” he asked, pointing at a picture of another muddy scene - this time with an unusual indentation in the mud. Sam scrolled down the page to reveal a caption under the picture: Footprint of Break-In Perpetrator.
“It's supposed to be a footprint the thing left behind,” Sam said. He frowned, pointing at a piece of plastic in the corner of the picture marked at regular intervals. “But if this ruler's anything to go by, that foot's way too big to be human. That's gotta be, I don't know, a foot and a half, maybe two feet long?” He glanced at Castiel, who was frowning at the footprint. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“It might,” he said. He tried to remember - what had Dean said? The angels were going to Christian sects for assistance. Was it possible, then, that they had gotten in contact with members of other Abrahamic religions? If so, they could have turned a creation of the earth from its intended purpose. It would explain the mud, and the superhuman size. But Sam was looking at him curiously, and Castiel reminded himself that this was all conjecture if he couldn't find a connection. “Sam, I know this may be hard to remember, but before this creature began following you, did you and Dean speak to a rabbi?”
“A rabbi?”
“Yes.”
“Like, the Jewish version of a priest, kind of rabbi?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” Sam thought this over. “I'm not sure. It's not like they wear the outfit outside temple, or anything.” Castiel huffed, still focused in on that footprint. Sam frowned. “Cas, what's a rabbi have to do with this thing? In my experience, rabbis are tiny old guys. Not the kind of person who can leave that size footprint.”
“The creature is not a rabbi,” Castiel said. Sam rolled his eyes, barely resisting making a comment. “Under the right circumstances, a rabbi can create new life from the earth. I'm not certain, but I believe that might be what happened here.”
Opening a new web page, Sam started searching his general sources for references to rabbis. “And when you say 'new life', you mean…?”
“The rabbi takes a clay sculpture, shaped by the rabbi's hands, and performs such rituals on it that it becomes a living creature. And, to an extent, sentient.”
“A living clay statue?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Castiel said, wandering away from the desk. He sat down on the far bed, watching the television Sam had left on with an absent-minded curiosity. “It's called-”
“A golem?” Surprised, Castiel nodded, glancing at Sam. He was reading over a different website, silently mouthing words that looked important. Castiel turned back to the television, keeping an ear focused on Sam in case he brought up something of interest. He wasn't particularly interested in television in general, but Dean and Sam paid enough attention to news programs that he thought it was worthwhile to look into them. This one was starting by commenting on the unusual weather being experienced world-wide. An apocalyptic omen, if they knew what they were looking for, but so few people did.
“So,” Sam said, and Castiel's attention drifted away from the news anchor, who was talking about a political figure doing something immoral. “A rabbi creates a golem, and it obeys his commands? Like a glorified servant?”
“More or less,” Castiel said. “There have been times when a golem was created for protective purposes - to keep the rabbi's followers from harm. But usually they are made to serve.”
“Then what's the point of them?”
“What is the point of robots?” Castiel asked. “They serve a purpose so a human doesn't have to; they're stronger and faster, so they do the job better. And their creator feels a sense of pride in their efforts. It's not every rabbi that has learned how to create life.” Sam hummed in the back of his throat; it was an agreeing sort of sound, which Castiel decided meant his point had been proven. He turned his attention back to the news, and found himself unable to look away.
“So, if this rabbi is working for Zachariah, you think the golem's been ordered to find Dean?”
“No,” Castiel said. He could hear Sam shift in his seat, surprised. Nodding at the television screen, he said, “I think the golem has already found Dean.”
“What?” Sam asked, jumping out of his chair. He sat down next to Castiel on the bed, and watched the news program unveil the answer with wide eyes.
“…it seems that the muddy break-in perpetrator who's been crossing the country has left his mark here in Riverton.”
“That's right, Susan. Police are on the scene now, in downtown Riverton, where the perpetrator's characteristic muddy prints have been left on a car abandoned in an alley off of Front Street. We're still uncertain as to why the perpetrator has broken his habit of actually breaking in to his targets - it might be that this car has some significance to him that we aren't aware of.”
“Police say they'll be able to tell after they've cleared the mud off the car, but estimate it will take a few hours to get the car cleaned up. We'll have more on the story then.”
“In other news, is your house really safe from carbon monoxide? More after the break.”
As the news went to a loud, cheesy commercial, Sam shared a worried glance with Castiel.
----
----
Further inspection of the room showed that the Hello Kitty pillow wasn't alone. There was another pillow shaped like a cat, one of some chick with ridiculously red hair and freaky looking eyes, and one with a cross-stitch that read, “Saving people, hunting things: the family business.” And a large poster of the cover of Chuck's first book. He turned his head sideways and squinted at it. Was that supposed to be him, or Sam? It looked like that guy on romance novel covers - what's his name, Fabio, or something. Probably supposed to be Sam, he decided. The guy had long hair. Not long like Sam's, admittedly, more like girl hair long, but knowing Chuck he wasn't very specific with the descriptions.
“…n!” Dean would have ignored the sound, but he jumped a little at the echo coming from his waistline.
His phone was still on. He lifted it to his ear.
“Dean!”
And winced. “You don't have to shout, Becky. I'm not deaf.”
“Oh. Sorry,” she said. “I was just making sure you were okay. You weren't responding,” she added pointedly.
“Well sorry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Next time somebody pulls an Angel Express on me without warning, I'll try to remember to keep my phone against my ear.” He blinked, turning around. “Speaking of, where is the guy? I know he's not Cas, or this would have been a hell of a lot simpler.”
Becky was silent.
“Becky?”
“I, uh,” she said, the echo growing louder and more distinct. “I thought he was with you.”
“Well clearly, he's not,” Dean said. He frowned; now he could hear his own voice echoing. “And what's wrong with my phone? I keep hearing an echo.”
“That's what happens when you're close enough to the other phone for it to pick you up,” Becky explained, definitely not over the phone. Dean spun around, and there she was, phone in one hand, suitcase in another.
He didn't know why he was so surprised.
“This is your place?” he asked, waving a hand around the room. She nodded, hanging up her phone. Dean hung up his and stuffed it in his pocket, trying to think of something to say. “It's, uh, nice? I guess.”
“Thanks.” She sat down on one of the couches, looking up at Dean expectantly. He glanced around, found nothing to catch his interest, and sat down on the other couch, carefully moving the Hello Kitty pillow out of his way. The couch sagged, and he sank back a little farther than he'd intended to. He shifted around to find a more comfortable position, pulling his phone out of his pocket when it started poking at his leg kind of painfully. By the time he found a better spot, he was uncomfortably aware of Becky's eyes still on him. His ears hot, he snapped, “What?” She quickly averted her eyes, a muttered apology on her lips.
Dean waved it off. “Forget it,” he sighed. Then, looking around: “So, do you have any way of contacting your angel, or are we just going to sit here awkwardly until this thing finds me again?”
Becky shrugged. “He contacted me,” she explained. After another moment of avoiding staring at him while obviously wanting to, she asked, “How did you know he was an angel?”
“I've flown Air Angel enough times to recognize a trip,” Dean said. “What I don't know is who is he? Have Sam and I met him before?”
“I doubt it,” said a decidedly male, British voice on Dean's right. Dean jerked up in his seat, automatically fumbling for his leg knife, turning to face the new appearance. When he caught sight of the guy, he stopped. The angel was in a middle-aged guy's body, blond and pudgy, wearing the kind of bowtie Dean associated with really stuffy librarians. He smiled slightly, and said, “Hello, Dean. It's a pleasure.”
Dean stared. “Sure it is,” he said shortly. “And you are?”
“Aziraphale,” the angel said. “I'm sorry for running off on you, but someone nearly broke into my shop. I had to check the wards, and thought you could use a moment to recover.”
“Your shop?” He glanced at Becky, who was looking kind of ecstatic at the moment. “Angels have shops?”
Becky frowned at him. “You've obviously never read Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett,” she said, in a very disappointed, superior-sounding tone. The names apparently had some great meaning for her, but they weren’t ringing any bells in Dean's head.
He looked at her blankly. “Should I?”
“About that,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “Could you apologize to your prophet fellow about that? We never expected that it would be so popular.”
Becky smiled, mood jumping around like a kid hopped up on sugar. “Sure!” she said, giggly. “I don't think Chuck will mind much, though; he wasn't going to try to get any more published, anyway.”
Dean looked between them. “Those guys - they're prophets?”
“Only when they write something together,” Becky said, looking at Aziraphale with something like glee in her eyes. “It's why they haven't written anything together since - that book is complete.”
“Well,” the angel said, shaking his head, “Not really complete. Adam's part in things is done, but others of us are still involved, as you can see.”
Becky nodded. “Obviously.” She stood up, and Aziraphale took that as a cue to stand up as well. Feeling kind of dumb sitting next to a cat pillow, Dean was more than happy to get up himself. “Well,” Becky said. “I guess this is it.”
“I believe it is,” Aziraphale said.
Pointing at her suitcase, she said, “I'm gonna go stay with Chuck for awhile, until you guys beat this golem. So, um, good luck! And,” she added, turning to Dean. “Could you say 'hi' to Sam for me? I know he's doing okay, and I'm doing great with Chuck, but I think it's good to remind him that people still believe in him.”
Dean closed his eyes, resisting an overwhelming desire to smack his head against a wall. He really hated the Supernatural books. But when he opened his eyes, Becky was still there, looking hopeful and excited and… oh, what the hell ever. “Sure,” he grunted. Her smile widened, and it became a real struggle to not roll his eyes.
“We had best be off, then,” Aziraphale said, low and close to Dean's ear. Dean twitched, and took one long step away from the angel, turning to face him with a hand raised between their bodies.
“Do I need to have the personal space conversation with you too?” he asked, and Aziraphale snorted, muffling a laugh behind his hand.
“That will hardly be necessary,” he said. “I'm not like your friend Castiel; I've been on Earth, among humans, for as long as there have been.” He reached out and grabbed Dean's shoulder while he was still trying to process that, waving goodbye to Becky with his free hand. He squeezed down, and once again Dean lost all sense of sensations. The last thing he heard before everything disappeared was the faint, tinny noise of a phone ringing.
Becky pulled out her phone, watching a magazine flutter open and closed in the wake of the angel’s disappearance. “Hello?” Walking out of the room, she smiled to herself. “Oh, hi Chuck!”
A tinny voice started berating her.
Rummaging around in her cabinets, she said, “Look, I know you told me not get involved anymore, but Aziraphale called me. I could hardly say no to him, you know - he’s my favorite character in Good Omens.”
Pulling out a box of cookies and a bag of chips, she continued, “I know the golem’s going to come here now, Chuck - my apartment’s between Riverton and London. But it’s okay, it won’t get here for awhile, and I was thinking of taking a trip anyway.” Stuffing her snacks into a bag and looking into her refrigerator, she asked, “Where? Well…”
The tinny voice over the phone got louder.
“Do you not want to see me, is that it?” Tossing some drinks into her bag, she said, “You aren’t the only person I know, you know - I could go visit anyone I wanted! I just thought…” She waited for the tinny voice to finish speaking, then added, “I miss you, Chuck. We never get to see each other, and I thought this might be a good time for us…”
The tinny voice sighed, and reluctantly agreed.
“Really?” Becky grinned. “Great! I’ll be there in four hours, tops!” She hung up, spinning around her kitchen happily. Chuck was such a good boyfriend when he put his mind to it.
Grabbing her snack bag and her suitcase, she walked out of her apartment, only going back for a moment to grab her keys. She locked the door, then on second thought left it open. She didn’t need to see what the golem would do to locked doors when Zachariah wasn’t there to open them for it.
Humming, she walked over to the elevator, nodding at a guy she didn’t recognize - probably a new renter - as he left. He nodded back politely, and walked slowly down the hall.
Only once the elevator had shut, and was headed to the parking level with Becky inside, did he turn around and quickly run into Becky’s apartment. Closing the door quietly behind him, Crowley searched the apartment with a careful eye.
Most of it was junk, but you never knew with Chuck’s fans - what they thought was a Supernatural collectible could actually be something of value. And, more importantly, Dean Winchester had just been here. Never knew what he might accidentally leave behind. Like his car - the absence of which would have made tracking the Winchesters a hell of a lot harder, if Crowley hadn’t nicked his coin before the police could find it.
A phone started to ring.
Not the house phone, though. A cell, somewhere. Crowley followed the sound to the couch, and found a small phone wedged between the cushions. Someone hadn’t been very careful about where she left her things, it seemed.
He pulled the phone out, and raised his eyebrows at the Caller ID. Wrong “she”, then. Though, this could come in handy soon, if the angel had done what Crowley thought he’d done…
Ah, who was he kidding? Aziraphale had definitely gone and gotten himself involved. The idiot.
Putting the phone on silence, Crowley slipped it into his pocket and left the apartment.
----
Sam hung up with a frustrated sigh. “He's not picking up,” he said unnecessarily. “Are you getting anything?”
Castiel shook his head, still listening to the dial tone. “Nothing.” Sam sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. Hanging up his phone, Castiel approached him. “Sam,” he said cautiously. “If Dean has been captured, all is not lost. We can still find Zachariah, get to him before he convinces Dean to say yes.”
Sam laughed bitterly. “Zachariah?” he asked. “The last time I saw him, he ripped my lungs out, Cas. How am I supposed to stand up to that?”
“You won't have to,” Castiel said. “I've stolen Dean from under his nose before. I can do it again. I just need to know where he is.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Sam demanded. “Cause last I checked? Dean not answering his phone means he can't tell us where he is.”
Castiel looked at his phone contemplatively. “Remind me how this cell phone GPS works again? I think I might be able to use it.”
Sam snorted. “I doubt our phone plan gets service on the Heavenly Plane.”
“It doesn't,” Castiel said, having had some experience with the concept. “But Michael cannot enter a vessel in Heaven. Dean has to be on Earth.”
Slowly getting up, Sam nodded. “Alright. I'll find a site that can pick up GPS signals. We'll see what I can find.” He turned on his computer, tapping his foot anxiously while it booted up.
“Sam,” Castiel said hesitantly. Sam glanced at him, and whatever Castiel was going to say left his head. Instead, he was left with the words, “Thank you,” which sounded stilted and awkward, even to him.
Sam shrugged. “He's my brother. I'm just glad you can help.” The computer up and running, he turned his attention to finding the proper website.
Castiel looked around the room for something to do, and came up with nothing. Not that he had nothing to do, exactly. He could continue his search for God. Or maybe return to London, investigate what strange creature had taken up residence in that bookstore and warded it beyond his understanding. Or look into the omens the news anchor had commented on some time ago.
He could do any of those, or a hundred other useful things, but he found himself preoccupied.
Dean was in danger, and that seemed to take precedent.
Considering his phone again, Castiel flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. Scrolling through a few screens, he picked a name out of his contacts list and dialed.
He listened to the dial tone ring and ring, and quietly hoped that Dean would pick up this time.
----
Part 2
----David Siegel spent his afternoon reading over the old texts he had hidden away in a back room. It had been so long since he’d studied Kabbalah properly, and he needed to ensure that this worked perfectly.
Once he was satisfactorily prepared, he sent his associates home and closed down the temple, claiming a private concern that needed resolving. It was only partly a lie.
When they were gone, and all the doors locked, he began to prepare the ritual. It was simple enough - gather sufficient earth to build a man-sized model, shape it into the form of your choosing, and bless it with the proper prayers. The actual trick of it was your own worthiness - if he had not learned enough, or was not considered able by the Lord, then nothing would happen. But if he was, then…
He built the figure two heads taller than himself, and wider in the shoulder than is found in humans. As he built, he murmured what the untrained ear would hear as nasal, lilting song. His prayers grew louder in tone and more songlike in quality as he continued, until he was speaking clearly enough to be heard from the other side of the temple. With some difficulty, he reached up to form the curve of an ear, the deep set of an eye, the flat bridge of a nose.
When the form was as complete as he needed it to be, he drew three letters into the head of his creation, saying, “Then the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”
He stepped back and waited.
For a minute, there was only silence. Then, with a harsh gasp, the clay figure opened its mouth, and breathed. Then it spoke. In gravelly Hebrew, it asked, “What am I?”
David stumbled over his own tongue. His knowledge of Hebrew was strictly religious, but he managed to create a coherent statement. “You are a creation of Earth, made by my hand as Adam was made by the LORD God.”
“What is my purpose, O Creator?”
“You are to… to find a man, and bring him to me.”
“What man is this?”
He opened his mouth, but had no words. He didn’t know anything about the man he was trying to find.
Then a voice behind him said, “He is a traveler, and a warrior. He is a man important to Heaven.”
David turned around, shocked, to see a balding man in a dark suit. He smiled unpleasantly at David.
In unaccented English, he said, “Hello, Rabbi Siegel.”
“Do I know you?” he asked cautiously, looking to see if any of the doors had been opened.
“No. But I know you.” He stepped closer to David, then turned his head to stare at his creation. “And, more importantly, I know what you’re doing.”
David swallowed thickly. “I… I don’t-”
The stranger rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t try to lie to me, you’re wasting your time. You’re only trying to find Dean Winchester because I told you to.”
He paled. “What?”
He smiled thinly. “I’m Zachariah. The angel who talked to you in a dream? Showed you what Dean Winchester looks like?” He raised his eyebrows, faking surprise. “None of this ringing a bell?”
“I-”
“No, I get it,” the angel said, stepping closer to the clay creature. “You didn’t want to believe it was true. A lot of people don’t. But then you saw him, didn’t you?”
David swallowed and nodded. “Two days ago.”
“And you didn’t know how to find me. So, instead, you made this.” Zachariah waved a hand over the clay figure. “You know, sometimes you humans do things that are surprisingly intelligent.” Covering clay eye sockets, he switched to yet another language, full of harsh syllables and glottal stops.
An intense white light streamed out between Zachariah’s fingers, so bright David had to look away. When the light dissipated and David could look at the angel again, he had pulled his hand away, leaving the clay behind… changed. Hardened.
“That should do it,” Zachariah said, satisfied. He glanced at David, grinning more enthusiastically now. “No offense to your design, but it was a bit too… malleable. This will work much better for our needs.” He smacked the creature on the shoulder, saying, “Get to it!”
Obediently, it turned on its heels and walked towards the nearest exit. The doors flew open with a wave of Zachariah’s hand, and with wet, squishy footsteps, it left.
David stared at the prints it left behind. Those would stain the floor. He looked up to the angel, wordlessly asking.
Zachariah shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, David; it was either the head or the feet, and the head’s the important part.” He waved, saying, “We’ll be in touch,” and then he was gone.
After a moment spent not thinking about the insanity of his day, David went to get a mop and bucket with shaking hands.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic Ocean, another angel (and part-time bookshop owner) had the feeling that something very wrong was about to happen.
Becky stopped there, gaping. “Chuck!” she said breathlessly. “Is this - is this what I think it is?”
On the webcam, Chuck frowned slightly. “Is what what you think it is?”
“This angel,” she said, “The bookstore owner across the Atlantic?”
“Oh.” Chuck’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that’s probably what you think it is.”
“You mean-?”
Chuck sighed, covering his face with a hand. “I’m never going to get this one published,” he complained, voice muffled. “I barely got away with including Crowley, but this? This is just too obvious.”
Becky tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t help it.
She squealed.
Chuck dropped his hand, staring blankly at her.
Becky giggled nervously. “Sorry.”
----
----
AMORPHOUS
A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last few months of the second
age of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with:
“Supernatural” by Carver Edlund
ALSO KNOWN AS:
The Winchester Gospel of the Prophet Chuck
AND
“Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Compiled and edited by gladdecease
Illustrated by angelicfoodcake
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Supernatural Beings
Zachariah
(An Angel on the side of Heaven.
Also, kind of a dick.)
Aziraphale
(An Angel on the side of Humanity,
and part-time rare books dealer.)
Castiel
(A Rebel Angel on the side of Humanity.
Lacking a sense of humor.)
Crowley
(A Demon, whose frequent double-crossing has left the
question as to which side he is on Unanswered.)
Humans
Dean Winchester
(A Hunter and the Vessel of the Archangel Michael.)
Sam Winchester
(A Hunter and the Vessel of the Archangel Lucifer.)
Chuck Shurley (A Prophet)
Becky Rosen (A Fangirl)
David Siegel (A Rabbi)
ADAM (The Antichrist)
Full Chorus of Bewildered Policemen, Curious Newscasters,
and other Busybodies poking their noses into Certain Events.
And:
A golem
----
----
Several Weeks Later…
----
As far as Dean was concerned, this was all God's fault. He started all of this mess with that whole “Let there be light” “And there was light” “And it was good” business. The universe could have started itself up on its own, and then God could have left it alone, and then this pattern of over-involvement/no involvement/what do you mean, “He left Heaven?” would never have happened. Then the angels (who wouldn't have existed anyway, without God) wouldn't have decided to force the Apocalypse, and Dean's life probably wouldn't suck so much right now.
So yeah. Everything was God's fault. Dean planned on telling Him that, just as soon as Sam got him out of this latest mess. In the meantime, swearing quietly under his breath (or not so quietly at the top of his lungs) was working alright as a substitute for direct confrontation.
“God damn it,” Dean said, turning a sharp right down an empty side street. The Impala's tires squealed in protest, and Dean absently rubbed a hand apologetically across her dashboard. He glanced up at the rear view mirror and froze at the sight of a large, humanoid figure walking down the street he'd just turned onto. Swearing under his breath, he sped up and turned onto another street. The car he cut off honked angrily at him, but Dean had other things to worry about. He turned again on the next crossroad he found, hoping that driving in circles would be enough to hold it off.
The next road he turned on to lead into a development, though, so Dean had to back out and find another street. He didn't want this thing getting anywhere near houses. Just being in a town was bad enough, but he couldn't outrun this thing on the open road for long.
After a few more turns Dean was back on track, driving on the small streets between abandoned warehouses and stores with dirty windows and neon signs reading “Not Open”, that giant thing a small black smudge in his mirror. If he could keep this up for another few hours, he'd be safe. Sam would figure it out by then. Dean's shoulders slumped as he sighed, forcing himself to relax. If his brother could spend hours figuring out what this thing was, he could spend a few getting the damn thing turned around. He turned left, and all the stiffness he'd just gotten out of his shoulders came back with friends.
It was a dead end.
He backed out quickly, getting back on the street he'd been on before, but the delay meant that what once was a small blob in his rear view mirror had become a recognizable figure again. It was getting way too close for Dean's tastes, but he if he drove into another dead end it would get a lot closer than that. He checked down a tiny street between two large buildings, saw light at the end, and turned.
Half way down that street, a bulky dumpster rested against one of the walls. On any other street, this wouldn't be a problem for Dean, but in this tiny alley he couldn't get the Impala past it. Grumbling under his breath, Dean switched into reverse, starting what looked to be a way more than three-point turn. With a bit of maneuvering, he got the car turned around, just in time to see something that made his breath catch in the back of his throat.
It was there, at the end of the alley, close enough to see the carvings on its forehead. It wasn’t moving; it didn’t need to. It knew, and he knew, that it had won. It had taken the creature weeks to do it, but it had finally found him.
Slowly picking up the bag he'd left in the seat next to him, Dean turned off his car. Pocketing the keys, he murmured, “Sorry, baby,” and threw open his door. Duffel smacking heavily against his back, Dean ran down the alley, gaining as much distance over the creature as he could. It stayed still for a long moment, before taking long, deliberate steps forward. In the thirty seconds it took Dean to get to the end of the alley and turn the corner, it had already inspected and abandoned the Impala, leaving the poor car covered in a thick layer of mud.
“God damn it,” Dean panted, running towards the one thing he thought might stop it.
Most of the docks were rotten and abandoned, the river long since given up as a useless mode of travel. Still, there were one or two docks that, for whatever reason, had a small boat tied to the end. Reaching one, it was the work of a minute to untie the rope keeping the boat from floating off. Jumping into the freed boat, Dean was glad that it hadn't taken longer - he could see it walking towards the river now. As the boat drifted into a current, Dean sighed deeply. He was safe, for now.
Then his phone rang.
Dean dug the phone out of his bag and answered with a confused, “Hello?”
“You're not safe, Dean.”
“What?” Dean double checked the caller ID. Unknown number. Female voice. Had he given his number to a chick in a bar recently? He couldn't remember. “Who is this?”
“A friend.” Dean snorted. “I'm on your side, I swear,” she insisted.
The sad thing was, at this point he didn't really have any other option besides believing her. If she was lying - well, he was already screwed as it was, couldn't get much worse. If she wasn't, though… He had to take that chance. So he listened, however reluctantly, as she continued.
“It's going to follow you into the water. You have to get to the other side, and wait for help there.”
“The hell I am,” Dean said. “If I stop for even a minute, that thing's gonna get me. I'm safer in…” He trailed off. The creature was standing on the dock he'd taken off from, looking down at the rope he'd untangled. Without hesitating for a second, it stepped off the dock and dropped into the river like a stone.
Dean swallowed.
He was suddenly very aware of how muddy the water was. How he wouldn't be able to see anything approaching the boat from underwater. How surprisingly long that thing's reach could be, given the right motivation. Moving to the back of the boat, Dean found a rudder and started steering towards the far shore.
“Dean?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, you want to help me? Fine. I'll get over to the other side, and your help had better already be there.”
“He will be.”
Something about her voice was definitely familiar. The breathy tone, the enthusiastic conviction, the high pitch, all of it rang a bell in the back of his head. If he could just figure out where he knew her from…
The boat shuddered to a stop as it hit the shore. Dean stumbled a little, regaining his balance, and then climbed out of the boat. Getting some distance between himself and the river, he said, “Okay, I'm there. Where's your guy?”
“Right behind you, probably,” she said, giggling, and that clinched it. His jaw dropped. He knew that giggle, he knew that voice, and now he knew where he knew it from. That creepy fangirl. The fucking Supernatural convention. Of all the people -
“Becky?” he asked disbelievingly.
But then there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, and everything - her giggling over the phone, the clean scent of water and earth, the sight of a giant waterlogged creature climbing out of the river, even the hand on his shoulder - vanished.
The soaking wet thing took long, soggy steps, until it stood where Dean had been until only a moment ago. It waited there, patiently, for a few seconds, as if for some invisible signal. After a moment it tilted its head, filtering the new information, and then walked off in a new direction.
Not coincidentally, several hundred miles from that riverside, in the very direction the creature was now walking, Dean had just appeared in someone's living room.
It wasn't a new thing for him, though the Hello Kitty throw pillow on the couch was different.
----
Castiel was in London. He had been investigating an unusual presence somewhere in the country, and found himself in the capital city's west end area, staring at a bookstore. It didn't have the same strange feeling he was investigating to it, but all the same there was an odd presence here as well. He considered entering, and wondered if what the Winchesters had once told him about “Breaking and entering” still applied when something supernatural owned the bookstore.
Deciding to err on the side of risk, he attempted to open the door, and found his efforts repelled. Strange. He tried to appear on the other side of the door, but instead appeared in the very different bookstore next door. The owner did not look up from his magazine at Castiel's entrance, though when he walked up to the desk he did raise an eyebrow at the manner of his dress. Deciding not to comment, the man said, “Can I help you?”
“What do you know about the owner of the bookstore next door?”
The man frowned. “What, Mr. Fell? He's an alright guy; a bit froofy, but not bad. He doesn't come in here a lot, of course. Prefers his books to ours. Keeps to himself.”
Castiel tilted his head. “Froofy?”
“Yeah, froofy. You know…” The man made a vague hand gesture, giving up when it became clear that Castiel did not, in fact, know. Several other euphemisms led to the same result. Finally, he gave it up completely, saying, “Ah, never mind. It's not important.”
Brow still wrinkled with confusion, Castiel asked, “Do you know if… Mr. Fell is in today?”
“Probably not. He's been taking off a lot lately. Ill family, I figure.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
Leaving the bookstore, Castiel walked back in front of Mr. Fell's bookstore. Frowning at the locked front door which refused to open, he muttered a string of Enochian words under his breath, and reached out to try the knob again.
His phone rang.
Pausing, Castiel glanced between his pocket and the door. A known curiosity, and an unknown - danger? news? Given the short list of people who had access to the number, it was probably a request for help.
Sighing, he pulled out his phone and answered it. “Yes?”
“Cas, it's me.”
“Hello, Sam.” Castiel watched passerby, noticing that no one seemed to notice either him or the bookstore. Their eyes seemed to move straight from the pornographic bookstore on the right to the building with blocked windows on the left. That was interesting. ”What is it?”
“I don't know,” Sam said. ”Something's been following us - following Dean, actually - and I've been trying to figure out what it is, but I'm not coming up with anything. I could really use your help.”
Castiel looked up, stared at the white and gray cloud cover. He would have to return here later, then. ”Where are you?” As Sam rattled off the name of their newest residence, Castiel looked through the display windows of the storefront. If he squinted at just the right angle, he could almost read the title off the spine of a few books. A number of the names were unfamiliar to him, and appeared to be cheaply made novels. Farther back, though, he thought he saw a book with a cover that wasn't laminated paper. Or leather. That was older than leather. He squinted. If he could just -
“Castiel?”
Sam's voice shook the concentration out of Castiel. ”What?”
“You okay? You sound a little-”
“I'm fine. I'll be there in a moment.” Snapping his phone shut, Castiel focused in on the Motel 6 Sam had specified, and soon was there. Sam was staring at his phone. Dean was… not there. ”Where's Dean?” Castiel asked. Sam jumped, just a little, and turned to face Castiel.
“Cas, hey,” he said. ”Since this thing's been following Dean, we thought he probably shouldn't stay in one place for long. He's driving around town, somewhere.” He motioned Castiel over to the desk where he sat. A number of newspaper clippings were spread out on the table, with additional articles open in web browsers on his computer. ”I've been looking through these, and trying to find some reference in lore, but nothing seems to use mud as a weapon. Nothing vengeful, at least, and this thing looks like it's been following Dean for weeks.”
Castiel picked up one of the more recent clippings. ”Mud?” The article was about a break-in at a diner in Kentucky that had resulted in no money stolen, a great deal of property damage to their tables, and a thick, dark mud caked on almost every surface.
“Uh, yeah, it's the only thing these places have in common, besides Dean having been there.” Sam pointed to the picture included with the article, at a spot that was particularly coated in mud. ”I mean, right there? That's where Dean was sitting at that diner two weeks ago.” He looked to Castiel for a reaction, adding, “Weird, right? What kind of thing can pinpoint your location so long after the fact?”
Castiel made a noncommittal noise, looking over the other articles. Diners, motels, even roadside gas stations - they all had the same story. A break-in nobody noticed, leaving the place coated with mud. “Have you seen the creature at all?”
“No, and that's the really weird thing,” Sam said, turning back to his computer. “Nobody's seen the thing. None of the investigations into these break-ins have had a single witness, not even one spouting off stuff that sounds delusional.”
“That's very… interesting.” Putting down the clippings, Castiel leaned over Sam's shoulder to look at the computer screen. “What's this?” he asked, pointing at a picture of another muddy scene - this time with an unusual indentation in the mud. Sam scrolled down the page to reveal a caption under the picture: Footprint of Break-In Perpetrator.
“It's supposed to be a footprint the thing left behind,” Sam said. He frowned, pointing at a piece of plastic in the corner of the picture marked at regular intervals. “But if this ruler's anything to go by, that foot's way too big to be human. That's gotta be, I don't know, a foot and a half, maybe two feet long?” He glanced at Castiel, who was frowning at the footprint. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“It might,” he said. He tried to remember - what had Dean said? The angels were going to Christian sects for assistance. Was it possible, then, that they had gotten in contact with members of other Abrahamic religions? If so, they could have turned a creation of the earth from its intended purpose. It would explain the mud, and the superhuman size. But Sam was looking at him curiously, and Castiel reminded himself that this was all conjecture if he couldn't find a connection. “Sam, I know this may be hard to remember, but before this creature began following you, did you and Dean speak to a rabbi?”
“A rabbi?”
“Yes.”
“Like, the Jewish version of a priest, kind of rabbi?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” Sam thought this over. “I'm not sure. It's not like they wear the outfit outside temple, or anything.” Castiel huffed, still focused in on that footprint. Sam frowned. “Cas, what's a rabbi have to do with this thing? In my experience, rabbis are tiny old guys. Not the kind of person who can leave that size footprint.”
“The creature is not a rabbi,” Castiel said. Sam rolled his eyes, barely resisting making a comment. “Under the right circumstances, a rabbi can create new life from the earth. I'm not certain, but I believe that might be what happened here.”
Opening a new web page, Sam started searching his general sources for references to rabbis. “And when you say 'new life', you mean…?”
“The rabbi takes a clay sculpture, shaped by the rabbi's hands, and performs such rituals on it that it becomes a living creature. And, to an extent, sentient.”
“A living clay statue?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Castiel said, wandering away from the desk. He sat down on the far bed, watching the television Sam had left on with an absent-minded curiosity. “It's called-”
“A golem?” Surprised, Castiel nodded, glancing at Sam. He was reading over a different website, silently mouthing words that looked important. Castiel turned back to the television, keeping an ear focused on Sam in case he brought up something of interest. He wasn't particularly interested in television in general, but Dean and Sam paid enough attention to news programs that he thought it was worthwhile to look into them. This one was starting by commenting on the unusual weather being experienced world-wide. An apocalyptic omen, if they knew what they were looking for, but so few people did.
“So,” Sam said, and Castiel's attention drifted away from the news anchor, who was talking about a political figure doing something immoral. “A rabbi creates a golem, and it obeys his commands? Like a glorified servant?”
“More or less,” Castiel said. “There have been times when a golem was created for protective purposes - to keep the rabbi's followers from harm. But usually they are made to serve.”
“Then what's the point of them?”
“What is the point of robots?” Castiel asked. “They serve a purpose so a human doesn't have to; they're stronger and faster, so they do the job better. And their creator feels a sense of pride in their efforts. It's not every rabbi that has learned how to create life.” Sam hummed in the back of his throat; it was an agreeing sort of sound, which Castiel decided meant his point had been proven. He turned his attention back to the news, and found himself unable to look away.
“So, if this rabbi is working for Zachariah, you think the golem's been ordered to find Dean?”
“No,” Castiel said. He could hear Sam shift in his seat, surprised. Nodding at the television screen, he said, “I think the golem has already found Dean.”
“What?” Sam asked, jumping out of his chair. He sat down next to Castiel on the bed, and watched the news program unveil the answer with wide eyes.
“…it seems that the muddy break-in perpetrator who's been crossing the country has left his mark here in Riverton.”
“That's right, Susan. Police are on the scene now, in downtown Riverton, where the perpetrator's characteristic muddy prints have been left on a car abandoned in an alley off of Front Street. We're still uncertain as to why the perpetrator has broken his habit of actually breaking in to his targets - it might be that this car has some significance to him that we aren't aware of.”
“Police say they'll be able to tell after they've cleared the mud off the car, but estimate it will take a few hours to get the car cleaned up. We'll have more on the story then.”
“In other news, is your house really safe from carbon monoxide? More after the break.”
As the news went to a loud, cheesy commercial, Sam shared a worried glance with Castiel.
----
----
Further inspection of the room showed that the Hello Kitty pillow wasn't alone. There was another pillow shaped like a cat, one of some chick with ridiculously red hair and freaky looking eyes, and one with a cross-stitch that read, “Saving people, hunting things: the family business.” And a large poster of the cover of Chuck's first book. He turned his head sideways and squinted at it. Was that supposed to be him, or Sam? It looked like that guy on romance novel covers - what's his name, Fabio, or something. Probably supposed to be Sam, he decided. The guy had long hair. Not long like Sam's, admittedly, more like girl hair long, but knowing Chuck he wasn't very specific with the descriptions.
“…n!” Dean would have ignored the sound, but he jumped a little at the echo coming from his waistline.
His phone was still on. He lifted it to his ear.
“Dean!”
And winced. “You don't have to shout, Becky. I'm not deaf.”
“Oh. Sorry,” she said. “I was just making sure you were okay. You weren't responding,” she added pointedly.
“Well sorry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Next time somebody pulls an Angel Express on me without warning, I'll try to remember to keep my phone against my ear.” He blinked, turning around. “Speaking of, where is the guy? I know he's not Cas, or this would have been a hell of a lot simpler.”
Becky was silent.
“Becky?”
“I, uh,” she said, the echo growing louder and more distinct. “I thought he was with you.”
“Well clearly, he's not,” Dean said. He frowned; now he could hear his own voice echoing. “And what's wrong with my phone? I keep hearing an echo.”
“That's what happens when you're close enough to the other phone for it to pick you up,” Becky explained, definitely not over the phone. Dean spun around, and there she was, phone in one hand, suitcase in another.
He didn't know why he was so surprised.
“This is your place?” he asked, waving a hand around the room. She nodded, hanging up her phone. Dean hung up his and stuffed it in his pocket, trying to think of something to say. “It's, uh, nice? I guess.”
“Thanks.” She sat down on one of the couches, looking up at Dean expectantly. He glanced around, found nothing to catch his interest, and sat down on the other couch, carefully moving the Hello Kitty pillow out of his way. The couch sagged, and he sank back a little farther than he'd intended to. He shifted around to find a more comfortable position, pulling his phone out of his pocket when it started poking at his leg kind of painfully. By the time he found a better spot, he was uncomfortably aware of Becky's eyes still on him. His ears hot, he snapped, “What?” She quickly averted her eyes, a muttered apology on her lips.
Dean waved it off. “Forget it,” he sighed. Then, looking around: “So, do you have any way of contacting your angel, or are we just going to sit here awkwardly until this thing finds me again?”
Becky shrugged. “He contacted me,” she explained. After another moment of avoiding staring at him while obviously wanting to, she asked, “How did you know he was an angel?”
“I've flown Air Angel enough times to recognize a trip,” Dean said. “What I don't know is who is he? Have Sam and I met him before?”
“I doubt it,” said a decidedly male, British voice on Dean's right. Dean jerked up in his seat, automatically fumbling for his leg knife, turning to face the new appearance. When he caught sight of the guy, he stopped. The angel was in a middle-aged guy's body, blond and pudgy, wearing the kind of bowtie Dean associated with really stuffy librarians. He smiled slightly, and said, “Hello, Dean. It's a pleasure.”
Dean stared. “Sure it is,” he said shortly. “And you are?”
“Aziraphale,” the angel said. “I'm sorry for running off on you, but someone nearly broke into my shop. I had to check the wards, and thought you could use a moment to recover.”
“Your shop?” He glanced at Becky, who was looking kind of ecstatic at the moment. “Angels have shops?”
Becky frowned at him. “You've obviously never read Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett,” she said, in a very disappointed, superior-sounding tone. The names apparently had some great meaning for her, but they weren’t ringing any bells in Dean's head.
He looked at her blankly. “Should I?”
“About that,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “Could you apologize to your prophet fellow about that? We never expected that it would be so popular.”
Becky smiled, mood jumping around like a kid hopped up on sugar. “Sure!” she said, giggly. “I don't think Chuck will mind much, though; he wasn't going to try to get any more published, anyway.”
Dean looked between them. “Those guys - they're prophets?”
“Only when they write something together,” Becky said, looking at Aziraphale with something like glee in her eyes. “It's why they haven't written anything together since - that book is complete.”
“Well,” the angel said, shaking his head, “Not really complete. Adam's part in things is done, but others of us are still involved, as you can see.”
Becky nodded. “Obviously.” She stood up, and Aziraphale took that as a cue to stand up as well. Feeling kind of dumb sitting next to a cat pillow, Dean was more than happy to get up himself. “Well,” Becky said. “I guess this is it.”
“I believe it is,” Aziraphale said.
Pointing at her suitcase, she said, “I'm gonna go stay with Chuck for awhile, until you guys beat this golem. So, um, good luck! And,” she added, turning to Dean. “Could you say 'hi' to Sam for me? I know he's doing okay, and I'm doing great with Chuck, but I think it's good to remind him that people still believe in him.”
Dean closed his eyes, resisting an overwhelming desire to smack his head against a wall. He really hated the Supernatural books. But when he opened his eyes, Becky was still there, looking hopeful and excited and… oh, what the hell ever. “Sure,” he grunted. Her smile widened, and it became a real struggle to not roll his eyes.
“We had best be off, then,” Aziraphale said, low and close to Dean's ear. Dean twitched, and took one long step away from the angel, turning to face him with a hand raised between their bodies.
“Do I need to have the personal space conversation with you too?” he asked, and Aziraphale snorted, muffling a laugh behind his hand.
“That will hardly be necessary,” he said. “I'm not like your friend Castiel; I've been on Earth, among humans, for as long as there have been.” He reached out and grabbed Dean's shoulder while he was still trying to process that, waving goodbye to Becky with his free hand. He squeezed down, and once again Dean lost all sense of sensations. The last thing he heard before everything disappeared was the faint, tinny noise of a phone ringing.
Becky pulled out her phone, watching a magazine flutter open and closed in the wake of the angel’s disappearance. “Hello?” Walking out of the room, she smiled to herself. “Oh, hi Chuck!”
A tinny voice started berating her.
Rummaging around in her cabinets, she said, “Look, I know you told me not get involved anymore, but Aziraphale called me. I could hardly say no to him, you know - he’s my favorite character in Good Omens.”
Pulling out a box of cookies and a bag of chips, she continued, “I know the golem’s going to come here now, Chuck - my apartment’s between Riverton and London. But it’s okay, it won’t get here for awhile, and I was thinking of taking a trip anyway.” Stuffing her snacks into a bag and looking into her refrigerator, she asked, “Where? Well…”
The tinny voice over the phone got louder.
“Do you not want to see me, is that it?” Tossing some drinks into her bag, she said, “You aren’t the only person I know, you know - I could go visit anyone I wanted! I just thought…” She waited for the tinny voice to finish speaking, then added, “I miss you, Chuck. We never get to see each other, and I thought this might be a good time for us…”
The tinny voice sighed, and reluctantly agreed.
“Really?” Becky grinned. “Great! I’ll be there in four hours, tops!” She hung up, spinning around her kitchen happily. Chuck was such a good boyfriend when he put his mind to it.
Grabbing her snack bag and her suitcase, she walked out of her apartment, only going back for a moment to grab her keys. She locked the door, then on second thought left it open. She didn’t need to see what the golem would do to locked doors when Zachariah wasn’t there to open them for it.
Humming, she walked over to the elevator, nodding at a guy she didn’t recognize - probably a new renter - as he left. He nodded back politely, and walked slowly down the hall.
Only once the elevator had shut, and was headed to the parking level with Becky inside, did he turn around and quickly run into Becky’s apartment. Closing the door quietly behind him, Crowley searched the apartment with a careful eye.
Most of it was junk, but you never knew with Chuck’s fans - what they thought was a Supernatural collectible could actually be something of value. And, more importantly, Dean Winchester had just been here. Never knew what he might accidentally leave behind. Like his car - the absence of which would have made tracking the Winchesters a hell of a lot harder, if Crowley hadn’t nicked his coin before the police could find it.
A phone started to ring.
Not the house phone, though. A cell, somewhere. Crowley followed the sound to the couch, and found a small phone wedged between the cushions. Someone hadn’t been very careful about where she left her things, it seemed.
He pulled the phone out, and raised his eyebrows at the Caller ID. Wrong “she”, then. Though, this could come in handy soon, if the angel had done what Crowley thought he’d done…
Ah, who was he kidding? Aziraphale had definitely gone and gotten himself involved. The idiot.
Putting the phone on silence, Crowley slipped it into his pocket and left the apartment.
----
Sam hung up with a frustrated sigh. “He's not picking up,” he said unnecessarily. “Are you getting anything?”
Castiel shook his head, still listening to the dial tone. “Nothing.” Sam sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. Hanging up his phone, Castiel approached him. “Sam,” he said cautiously. “If Dean has been captured, all is not lost. We can still find Zachariah, get to him before he convinces Dean to say yes.”
Sam laughed bitterly. “Zachariah?” he asked. “The last time I saw him, he ripped my lungs out, Cas. How am I supposed to stand up to that?”
“You won't have to,” Castiel said. “I've stolen Dean from under his nose before. I can do it again. I just need to know where he is.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Sam demanded. “Cause last I checked? Dean not answering his phone means he can't tell us where he is.”
Castiel looked at his phone contemplatively. “Remind me how this cell phone GPS works again? I think I might be able to use it.”
Sam snorted. “I doubt our phone plan gets service on the Heavenly Plane.”
“It doesn't,” Castiel said, having had some experience with the concept. “But Michael cannot enter a vessel in Heaven. Dean has to be on Earth.”
Slowly getting up, Sam nodded. “Alright. I'll find a site that can pick up GPS signals. We'll see what I can find.” He turned on his computer, tapping his foot anxiously while it booted up.
“Sam,” Castiel said hesitantly. Sam glanced at him, and whatever Castiel was going to say left his head. Instead, he was left with the words, “Thank you,” which sounded stilted and awkward, even to him.
Sam shrugged. “He's my brother. I'm just glad you can help.” The computer up and running, he turned his attention to finding the proper website.
Castiel looked around the room for something to do, and came up with nothing. Not that he had nothing to do, exactly. He could continue his search for God. Or maybe return to London, investigate what strange creature had taken up residence in that bookstore and warded it beyond his understanding. Or look into the omens the news anchor had commented on some time ago.
He could do any of those, or a hundred other useful things, but he found himself preoccupied.
Dean was in danger, and that seemed to take precedent.
Considering his phone again, Castiel flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. Scrolling through a few screens, he picked a name out of his contacts list and dialed.
He listened to the dial tone ring and ring, and quietly hoped that Dean would pick up this time.
----
Part 2