The Stolen Man - Part II
Castiel stares at Sam, wondering at the confusion in his voice.
Then illumination comes, and he wonders how he could have been so stupid as to not have realized how Sam was playing him. It hits him all at once, how unspecific Sam's threats were, how he didn't list any particular grievances. What strange behavior that would be for a man who has no qualm about listing his life's problems.
He steps back from Sam, who relaxes against the wall. His face is open, expression curious.
"You," he begins, and then he stops, not sure what to say. He can feel fury crackling through his veins, so potent that he thinks that if he were to go and find Raphael right now, he would be able to defeat him using nothing but sheer rage. "You knew nothing."
Sam cocks his head. He doesn't seem bothered at all by Castiel's epiphany. "Not really. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to see that there was something wrong with you, but… Crowley?" He shakes his head. "I never saw you as the type to work with a demon, but… And did you say that you brought me back?"
"I regret it more with every passing second," Castiel grits out. Sam seems mildly amused by that, and that infuriates him. Sam has no right to find any of this entertaining; does he not realize everything that's at stake? Can't he see that his brother is trapped, that Castiel is fighting a losing war, that whatever friendship Castiel built with the Winchesters is essentially gone now, and that that revelation is more painful than it has any right to be?
"You're pretty pissed," Sam notes, and that is amusement in his voice, there's no question about it. He steps forward, and Castiel refuses to move back, because he's already given this… this human too much leeway. He won't break now. "I kinda like it."
Before Castiel can contemplate the meaning of that, Sam is touching him - a hand on his cheek, then on his chest, and then, before he can react, Sam is pushing him back onto the bed not scattered with driftwood.
Castiel blinks. Sam is straddling him, his eyes dark and almost feral. "You want this, Cas? 'Cause I sure do." Sam leans in and bites down on his neck, sucks the skin so that Castiel can feel is bruising.
The fury, temporarily quelled by his shock, rages up once again. "This is abominable," he snarls, and he flips Sam over easily so that it's him on top, so that Sam is pressed beneath his body. "You have no understanding of what you're doing - no understanding of what you want-"
Beneath him, Sam is grinning, and Castiel knows desperately that he should be getting up and flying away; he should be working out some other way to get Dean from Oberon's grasp, but this feels like a contest of strengths against Sam, and it feels like something that he has to win. He knows that a better angel wouldn't even entertain thoughts of staying, but he is far from the angel that he should be, and he can feel rage deep in his core where he should be feeling nothing but devotion to his Father-
Sam grabs his tie and tugs him down, presses their lips together in a violent gnash of teeth and tongue, and Castiel knows that he won't leave now, because to leave would be to lose, and that isn't something he can do right now.
He can feel Sam's erection pressing into his leg, and he can also feel his form responding in a similar way. It's not the first time Castiel has felt that; he is very old, and he has been on Earth time and time before this, but it is the first time that he has done something other than ignoring the bodily response until it goes away.
"Do you like this?" Sam asks, grinding himself up against Castiel. His hands are on Castiel's hips, slipping under his belt, digging bruises into his skin. "Fuck, you gettin' off on this, Cas? D'you like it rough?"
Castiel snarls some wordless response back at that and presses down against Sam's body. The desperate friction is good, satisfying in some way that he has never experienced. He reaches back, balancing on his legs, and grabs Sam's arms. He pulls them away from where they are exploring Castiel's own skin, and instead pins them above his head. "You have no control over me - I am the one with power-"
"I know things now," Sam replies. He's still thrusting up, but Castiel arches his body up so that Sam can no longer reach. That gets him a growl from Sam, and his eyes darken even more. "'bout Crowley - 'bout you bringin' me back-"
"I'll take those from you," Castiel replies. He can no longer rub against Sam, a trade for taking away Sam's ability to thrust against him. It's frustrating and unsatisfying, and he doesn't like it, but he doesn't know how to proceed from here, how to get what he wants while denying Sam the pleasure that he seeks.
"What, you're gonna brainwash me?" Sam laughs, and suddenly he's rearing up and flipping Castiel over, suddenly he has Castiel's arms pinned above his head using the strength of a single hand to keep them there. Castiel knows that he could move, but Sam's other hand is deftly undoing his pants, and suddenly he doesn't want to get up, and it's in that precise moment that he knows he's lost the fight, that Sam has got him beat. "Not gonna work. I'll just…" his hand is tight around Castiel's cock, jerking him off roughly. "…remember again…"
Sam has resumed his thrusting again, not bothering to unclothe himself. Castiel feels the rough drag of Sam's jeans against his half-off suit pants, notes how the movements are almost in time with those of Sam's hand. He pushes his head back against the pillow, shoving his length into Sam's fist.
He comes a moment before Sam does, an overwhelming feeling enveloping him as his semen coats Sam's hand. Sam's thrusts against his leg become slow and stuttered. Castiel closes his eyes and lets the aftershocks of his orgasm wash over him while Sam grinds down against his thigh.
Sam collapses next to him a moment later, his breath coming out quickly. "That wasn't bad. For a virgin," Sam says.
Castiel closes his eyes, and as he lies there, cock out and limp against his skin, a soulless human in bed next to him, he realizes what he needs to do. It's as if the sex has cleared his mind, like losing control to a human has made it all explicitly clear, what he needs to do to ensure that he keeps power next time.
He rolls over onto his side, cleaning himself up with a thought. Sam catches his eye a moment before Castiel reaches out and presses a hand to his forehead, knocking him unconscious.
Castiel stands up and stretches his wings. He has far to go tonight.
"You had visitors earlier," Oberon says casually to him. His left hand rests on Dean's back, as it usually does, casually toying with the elaborate vines weaving over his chest, marking him as… servant to the fairy king.
The words don't really register at first. His mind is hazy these days, half because of the general effect of Fairyland, and half because of the wine that Oberon frequently tips down his throat. Dean swallows it obediently, because he knows that was part of the deal. He does what Oberon wants, and in… nine months? Ten? He's not really sure, but in less than a year, he'll be out and Sam will have his soul again. He thinks of that every time Oberon asks things of him that turn his stomach and make him want to be back in a squalid motel with no one for company but a body shaped like his brother.
In any case, what Oberon says eventually reaches him. He blinks and risks a glance up at Oberon, parting his lips just so to make himself look especially innocent. The king doesn't like it when he talks, but he likes looking at his eyes, so Dean thinks this will be okay.
Oberon catches the gaze and smirks. His fingers dance through Dean's hair as he lounges on his throne and sips at his wine. "Mmm. An angel, by the name of Castiel? And a soulless… thing. Your brother, if I'm not mistaken."
The words don't make sense to him. Sam is on Earth; Castiel is fighting a war in Heaven. Dean is in with the fairies to serve out his deal. That's the way things are, and Oberon must be mistaken. Or, more likely, he's deliberately messing with Dean's mind, trying to plant in these ideas that don't really make sense.
Dean looks back down at the green field. Less than a year, he reminds himself, although the concept of time seems hazy and unreal in this land.
"I told them off," Oberon says from above him. Dean hears and pretends to listen; in reality, the words go in one ear and slide out the other. He's got a high tolerance for alcohol on the other side of the veil, but here? A sip and he's shitfaced. And he's expected to take a hell of a lot more than just one gulp.
So Oberon natters on and Dean looks at the grass and at the trees, and at the other fairy men and women at the rave of the moment. He doesn't think much of anything, until something crashes in the distance and Oberon bolts up, and Dean realizes that maybe things are wrong.
"What-" the king begins, his pale face twisted in an expression of fury. He doesn't have time to finish, though, because there's a sharp breeze, and then another figure is standing at the end of the field. Even from the distance, even before he starts striding forward with all the fury of an avenging angel, Dean recognizes Castiel.
"What do you think you're doing, Son of Yahweh?" Oberon coolly asks as Cas draws nearer. He's sat back down in the throne by then, but his shoulders are tense.
Dean runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth and tastes the flavor of fermented juices. He wonders if he's imagining all of this.
"I have come for that which I asked for earlier," Castiel answers, manner just as frosty. "I want Dean." He looks at Dean only briefly, mind apparently more occupied with the fairy king.
Oberon laughs. "And why should I give him to you, pathetic little thing as you are?"
Castiel looks at Oberon, tilting his head. Dean's vision swims for a moment, but it clears, and he realizes something that maybe he should have picked up on before: this Castiel doesn't seem… right. He's smiling in a way that he shouldn't be, and his wings are out behind him, two giant shadows that dwarf Oberon's. And his coat is covered with dark splatters that can only be blood. "Because I am neither pathetic nor little, King of Fairies."
He lifts his hand. From behind Dean comes a great cracking sound, like that of a giant tree falling over. Forgetting himself, Dean turns around and glances up, and what he sees chills him to the bone.
The throne is splitting and crumbling, and the ground is shaking with the efforts of roots reforming themselves. Wood splinters off and falls to the soil. The elaborate carvings and incredibly-detailed engravings are just gone.
Oberon is screaming something in the fairy's tongue to Castiel, and there are smaller fairies rushing at him, but he doesn't care. He just stands there with his hand extended, a small smile on his face.
When he's done, the throne is nothing more than a pale stump in a barren patch of dirt. Oberon sits upon it, his face drawn with anger and shock. Dean still kneels, but now his heart is pounding with something very much like hope.
"I want Dean," Castiel repeats calmly. "But I believe there is something else I need to do before we take our leave."
Power is thrumming through Castiel's veins - no, not power. Souls. Monster souls, thousands upon thousands; a considerable portion of those ever sent to their grave by hunters or others.
It isn't everything that Purgatory could have offered him, but the alphas that he tortured (the sources of the blood that splatters his jacket in Rorschach patterns) told him that he needed the blood of a Purgatory creature to open it up all the way, and he didn't know where he could find one of those. A few more slices, and he had learned that Alpha blood was an acceptable, if less potent, substitute.
The rest had fallen in place quickly. It was December 10th, and there was an eclipse going on above him as Castiel painted the sigil on a cliff in the northern reaches of Alaska. He said the words and he felt the power enter him; he swallowed it, and when he had taken everything that he got, he flew.
Now he stands in Tir na nOg, feeling every bit a god. Oberon stands among the splinters of his throne with Dean, kneeling naked by his side, is looking up with hopeful eyes. It reminds Castiel of how he pulled him from Hell; he had looked like that back then, too.
"You're mad!" Oberon snarls, his wings fluttering spasmodically around him. "You think that you can just walk in and threaten me? Destroy that which is mine? You've doomed your cause forever, Castiel."
Castiel smiles. He doesn't do that very often, but it feels somehow… right. "I don't think I am the doomed one, Oberon." He glances up at the fairies fluttering around Oberon. A twist of his thoughts, and they turn to colored dust that rains down around their king. "If I were you, I would be more concerned for my own welfare."
He doesn't pay attention to Oberon's response, though the fairy certainly gives one. Instead, Castiel turns his concentration to the first thing that he came here to do.
The grass is the first thing to go. Castiel strips the glamour off of it like a carpenter pulling up a rug. The magic dies beneath his strength. The green gives way to dry brown dirt, the only thing ever there.
The souls inside of him sing as Castiel works, unmaking the land around him. It's a place of glitter and glamour, where rocks look like jewels and rotting fruit seems fresh and succulent.
Castiel takes it all apart. He splits open trees that were dying from the inside, and he reveals the moss that hung from their trunks for thorny, choking vines. He cracks open the rolling surface of Tir na nOg as if it were a fragile eggshell, as if it were nothing.
The sidhe cluster around him, drawing in to their center and their king as the land they live in gets torn apart. Castiel deals with them last of all.
Their deaths are quick; it isn't as though it brings him pleasure to kill them. Castiel lacks sadism. It's just that the fairies, as weak as they are now, could one day band together and prove to be menaces. If he leaves a mess, it could come back to bother him one day.
And so Castiel kills all of them - the small, colored ones that make up Oberon's guard; the redcaps; the elves; the dwarves; and the ones who simply are - vaguely human, intensely beautiful. They cry out as their bones turn to ash, as their lives become unwoven.
He leaves Oberon for last.
By the time everything is done - the vines chaining Dean burned away, the fields and forests turned to wastelands, and Oberon's remains completely indistinguishable from those of every other fairy who ever lived - the sky above Castiel is completely black. Night has fallen on Tir na nOg.
Castiel bends down and takes Dean's hand, pulling him to his feet. He smiles softly at the astonished look on his face. "Hello, Dean."
Dean blinks, and a motel room, completely indistinguishable from any other he's been in over the years, swims into view.
He's naked, lying next to a bed. That's the first thing that hits him.
The memories are second, though, and they're pretty damn powerful. A sudden rush - Oberon, his deal, Castiel coming in, his hand thrumming with something decidedly not angelic as he pulled Dean up -
A noise from the other bed makes Dean start. He looks up, squinting. "Sam?"
His brother is just waking up, apparently. He's naked, lying in mussed sheets, though as far as Dean can tell, there's no prostitute in the room or anything.
"The fuck is going on?" Sam asks him, sitting up. "Castiel…?"
There's something… off about the whole thing, but Dean's mind is still hazy from the fairy wine, still muddled from switching dimensions. "I, uh. I don't know." He fell unconscious on his own, he recalls, almost as soon as Castiel had taken hold of him. And that's the last he remembers of the angel.
"I don't know," he tells Sam. He manages to stand up, pushing up against the bed, and then he promptly falls back down onto the mattress. Wood snaps beneath him, and okay, Dean is kind of curious about how that got there. "Last I know…"
He trails off as it hits him, how Castiel had ruined the land. He remembers how Castiel had seemed barely affected by all the death and destruction, by how he had been killing an entire population. Genocide, Dean thinks sickly.
"How did you get here?" Sam asks. He sounds more confused than concerned, and that kind of hurts Dean, even though he knows that it shouldn't.
"Castiel. He-"
Dean doesn't get a chance to finish. Castiel stumbles into the room. He's coated in blood and ashes and his wings are out large behind him, but that doesn't matter - what Dean cares about is the ball of light in his hands, shining impossibly bright. He automatically shields his eyes, but his heart is leaping, because some part of him automatically knows what - who - that is.
"What's going on?" Sam asks Castiel. Something like fear shines on his face. He knows, Dean thinks, what's coming. He knows that he's going to die now, be gone from this world forever.
Dean feels sorry for him for half a second, because he is a real, breathing creature with his own real memories. He lived, and now he's going. Dying. There's something kind of sad about that, even if Dean can't really bring himself to mourn.
Castiel pins Sam down easily, not even touching him. Sam is shouting and struggling, but it doesn't mean anything, because Cas is apparently superpowered or something.
"It's okay," Castiel says soothingly, looking into Sam's eyes. Dean catches a glimpse of the angel's face, and it's… frightening. It's holy, like he's about to give some sort of benediction. Except Castiel isn't that sort of angel, so why would he look like that?
It isn't Castiel, Dean thinks as he watches his fist thrust into Sam's chest cavity, resouling him. It's someone, something else, and he doesn't like it.
His head is pounding, and he feels dizzy and unsteady. He closes his eyes for a moment, listens as his brothers screams fade into whimpers and then stop entirely.
"Dean?"
He opens his eyes. The thing that looks like Castiel is standing over him, still smiling that same holy smile. "I brought Sam's soul back from Hell, and repaired it too. When he wakes up, he will be okay."
"Who are you?" Dean asks. His tongue feels heavy, and black spots dot his vision. He reaches a hand out blindly, grazes the edge of Castiel's trench coat. "You aren't… not Cas…"
"I am." Castiel frowns, touching Dean's hand as if that will reassure him. "Don't you see, Dean? I'm strong now. I can go; I can defeat Raphael..."
"No." Dean shakes his head vehemently, clutching on to the angel's grip. "Whatever you did; whatever you've done with him; change it. Bring him back."
"I can't." The thing that looks like Castiel withdraws, a stricken expression on its face. "There isn't enough time; if I went to Raphael, the eclipse would be gone…"
"You're not him." Dean falls back onto the bed, closing his eyes. "Go. Get out."
The words lack force, but they must work anyway, because there's a flapping of winds, and Dean assumes that means that it's gone, whatever it was. He doesn't really have time to think about any of it; the next thing he knows, his consciousness has slipped away and he's lying on the bed in a pile of wooden shards, dead to the world.
Soft sounds reach Sam's ears as he stirs, feeling sensation in his toes for… well, for the first time in a long time. His mind is hazy and clouded, the effects of a thousand different dreams still lingering in his brain.
"Sam?" Dean's voice, loud and clear. "Sammy! Cas, I think he's wakin' up."
He heard footsteps, and then Castiel's unmistakable tones. "Sam? Can you hear us?"
Sam tries to answer, but his tongue is dry weight behind his even drier lips, and he ends up just making a sort of "mrph" sound. With effort, he manages to open his eyes.
Dean stands next to him, the real Dean, Sam knows instantly. His expression is one of intense relief, and as Sam attempts to sit up, he's there in a minute, his hands on Sam's shoulders, gently helping him up into an upright position. "Hey. Hey. You've been out for almost four days, man. Take it easy. Cas, get him some water?"
Castiel nods and disappears. There's no sound of running water from the bathroom, Sam notes absentmindedly. Whatever water he's getting, it's not going to be discolored and filled with flakes of rust.
He licks his lips, trying to get some moisture into them, but it's ineffective. He glances up at Dean, trying to convey all of his questions with a look.
Dean, being his older brother, understands. "How much do you remember?"
Sam closes his eyes, and it all comes back to him, smooth images flickering across his mind like a 'Welcome Back' PowerPoint for his soul. He remembers seeing Dean with Lisa, and deciding not to interfere. He remembers hunting on his own, and killing people when they got in the way, and he remembers finding his cousins and his grandfather. He remembers rejoining Dean, and finding Castiel again. Then comes how he lost Dean, how he went to Fairyland to get him back, how-
A small whimper emerges from his throat at the memory of Castiel writhing beneath him, naked. Dean is at his side in an instant; Sam can feel his hands hovering near his shoulders. "Sam? Hey, you okay?"
Sam nods and tries to talk for a second time. Squinting up at Dean (the curtains are drawn, but the light filtering in through them is still bright on eyes that have been shut for half of a week) he rasps out, "Wha' happened? How'd you get back? My soul?"
Dean's face clouds over and he steps back. "Castiel. He-"
He's saved from having to repeat the details by Castiel's sudden reappearance. He's carrying a crystalline glass, which he almost presses up to Sam's lips. A glare from Dean stops that idea in its tracks, and he hands the cup over to Dean, who holds it steady for Sam.
Sam drinks the water as slowly as he can force himself to; it's still at a speed faster than it ought to be. The water is cool and clear, and it takes away a bit of the fuzzy feeling in his mind. "Start from the beginning," he says to Dean and Castiel when the glass is half-empty. "How long have I been out? Four day?"
"Almost," Dean replies. "You've been kinda in and out of it for the past twelve-or-so hours. Kept waking up, moaning, and going back to sleep. That sort of thing.
Sam nods. Before he can answer, though, Castiel speaks up. "How do you feel? You're not - no visions, no headaches, nothing?"
"Um." Sam feels himself redden as he looks at Castiel and remembers how undone he had become while they were in bed. "No. I mean, I just woke up, but I feel pretty good."
Castiel gives a short nod. "And what do you remember of Hell?"
Sam frowns and carefully sifts through layers of memories that feel like they happened to someone else. There are bits and pieces buried deep down, flashes of red, the feeling of flames slowly peeling away his skin… he shudders. "I remember a bit," he says slowly. "About Michael and Lucifer, and Adam. What it was like…"
He trails off, but only for a moment before he pulls himself together. "I don't think I remember everything, though. I mean, I couldn't really be sane if I did, right?"
"In all likelihood, no." Castiel looks relieved, and it's only then that Sam really notices how worn around the corners he is. His shirt and tie are more disheveled than normal, and there's a tired air to his face, one that shouldn't be there.
Sam leans back against the thin pillows. "So. What happened? Last I remember…" he makes a vague motion with his hand, and then says quickly, "And then, Cas, you were resouling me. What happened in between that?"
Dean and Castiel look at each other. Dean snorts. "You can take this one, Cas."
He turns away from Castiel, pacing the length of the room.
Castiel looks at Sam. His eyes look incredibly ancient, which shouldn't be surprising considering that he's a couple of millennia old, but… well, they aren't usually like that. "Sam. I… I am so, so sorry for what I did."
And then he begins talking, and Sam listens to the story of Purgatory, and Oberon, and genocide. Of going to Hell for Sam's soul, and not being able to reach Adam; how he repaired Sam's soul as best he could, using the power provided to him from thousands of other souls.
He finishes with how Dean had begged him to give back the souls, and how there hadn't been time for him to do both that and kill Raphael. The choice that he made is blatantly obvious.
Sam nods, taking it all in. Castiel's left out how they slept together, he notes distantly. He's happy about that; although Dean might know - he came back from Fairyland when Sam was still unconscious, he remembers; when Sam was still lying naked in a mess of sheets, which really doesn't leave much to the imagination about what had been going on moments before - it seems like it's something that's best left unacknowledged. One of those things that'll maybe just go away if it's ignored. "So you killed all of the fairies?"
Castiel looks away. "Yes."
Sam imagines that there will be cosmic repercussions for that. Surely a species can't be wiped out without something, or someone, noticing? But he files that away as something to talk about later. "And Raphael?"
"He's still out there," Castiel says reluctantly. "Crowley as well. I… I strongly doubt I'll be able to build up any other alliances to fight them."
"You have us," Sam says automatically. His head is starting to get fuzzy again; his eyelids are getting to be heavy, yet still the words come out automatically. There's a lot of crap for them to deal with, a lot between he and Castiel and Castiel and Dean, but… well, that can be dealt with. It can be. They've come this far, they can go on a little bit further.
He slips back against the pillows, eyes falling shut. The fairies are all dead, and that's maybe not good - that's horrible, maybe - and there's still an archangel with a vengeance out there, but Dean is here, safe, alive, and himself, and Castiel is more with them than he has been in months. As he falls asleep, Sam thinks that things could be far worse than they are right now. It shouldn't be much comfort, but he'll take what he can get.
