hearts are made of broken glass--chapter three (Cas/Crow, Supernatural, PG-13
Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter: 3/?? (updating every Monday)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2352
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter three
Castiel stood aloof from the drama unfolding before him, retreating behind the dimensional window he often employed when not wanting to be a part of events. Besides, his work here was done, he had given Fergus McLeod what he wanted, though he was strangely unconscious of it. Whatever cause and effect was determined from this moment forward was none of his concern.
But still, there was that horrible, terrible part of his self awareness that always got in the way, and it nagged at him now, forcing him to linger just a little longer, to observe and mentally record all that was taking place. Curiousity. It didn't just kill cats, it was a fatal flaw of angels as well, especially one who had worked so closely with humans, learning their strengths and many weaknesses, and if he was honest, revelling in them both.
"What job?" Fergus asked, confused.
The Bishop was nose to nose with him, and Castiel could see the closeness made Fergus highly uncomfortable, evident from the sweat at his temples, and his struggle to get free of his captors, who held him back with steel grips. "I gave you a red silk bag to bury," the Bishop said, his voice filled with an inner darkness Castiel was unfortunately familiar with. "What did you do with it?"
Fergus rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. That stupid bag." He nodded to his sewing table. "Sat on there for near a week before I got to it. Stank up the place, it did. I don't know what you paid for that, mate, but that kind of foul ain't worth it."
A vein in the Bishop's forehead pulsed, and he glared down at Fergus with murderous intent, his mealy mouth spitting out his words as though they were obscenities. "What did you do with it?"
"What any normal person would do, I punted it into a ditch, about a fortnight ago." He gave the Bishop his trademark sneer. "I know, you told me, 'Bury it under a full moon under some other crap I dont' remember because I wasn't listening'. It was a bloody bag full of rotten bones and some silly piece of paper, and you paid money for it because you're a fool. None of that shyte works. I know from experience." He winced as the Bishop made a move to strike him, his signet ring glinting in the gloom of the room. "Yeah, that's right. I prayed and prayed as a lad and it never got me nowhere. I got no deliverance from you, you sick monster, and that's when I knew the truth."
A hand went to Fergus's throat, and he seemed to shrink more from the touch than the threat of its squeeze. "What truth are you speaking of, blasphemer?" the Bishop hissed, his mouth a thin line, his eyes, black but still human, piercing through the near dark.
He does look like a monster, Castiel thought, taking in the harsh angles of the man's face, the cruelty apparent in every line. His evil was etched into him in thick, uncompromising shadows, and Castiel had to wonder, just to what purpose did this man take an orphan into his care. Castiel was habitually observant, and he knew this creature had not one shard of kindness in his soul.
To what purpose was that charity performed?
"You know damn well."
"Enlighten me."
But Fergus refused to talk, instead turning his head away from his accuser. The hand at his throat eased, and the Bishop crossed his arms, his red robe falling out from his sides in congruence with the flames of the fire behind him. "I am very disappointed in you."
Fergus scoffed. "Like that's something new."
"Yes. You have disappointed me before. And I have forgiven you, after the appropriate punishment was delivered upon your folly."
"Folly. Right. That's what you call it."
The Bishop glowered over him, his thin, sallow face betraying the deep hatred he had for his charge. He waved to his henchmen and they seemed to understand what this gesture meant as they kicked Fergus in the stomach, their fists pummelling him into near unconsciousness. When he was properly bloodied, they shackled him with large chains to his own sewing table, rendering him immobile. His arms and legs were brutally secured, the iron clasps cutting deep into his skin. Fergus struggled with what meagre strength he had left, the sweat on his brow dripping down the sides of his face, his eyes wide with terror, despite the continued bravado of his mouth.
"You could always try again. Drum up a few chicken bones and a blue bottle of piss, next time, it'll be cheaper and I'm sure it'll grab your devil's attention. Can't rightly say much for the fellow, if that's what he considers an invitation for a chat. Certain lack of class there, a lack of charm. I guess it's all about the company he keeps." Fergus gave the Bishop a defiant wink. "Says volumes about you, don't it?"
The Bishop leaned over him, his face so close Fergus turned his head, doing his best to avoid the spittle that erupted from his tormentor's foaming fury. "You are a vile, putrid worm. A piece of garbage from a Glasgow dung heap and nothing more. You couldn't even bury a bag of bones properly, you stupid little maggot. I waited at that crossroads, in the pouring rain, from sundown to sunrise, all for nought because of *you*!" He stood up, taking one of the long swords that belonged to his henchman, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. "I hear from the villagers that you are partial to getting soused in the ale house not far from here, and you have a habit of running from your tab. Intemperence does not become a man, Fergus. Nor does a prediliction for whoring, which from what I've been led to believe is your preferred method of payment with that disgusting, sweaty innkeeper, who was more than happy to tell me all about your special skills..."
"Jealous, are we?"
"...Now I hear you are consorting with devils..."
"That's old news," Fergus said. "Funny rumour, that. Wonder how that one got started?"
Castiel felt an uneasy wave of hatred flow from the Bishop to Fergus, and he knew the man was testing every boundary he could, and with this he may have tipped the balance. Fergus seemed to understand this, his jaw set as the Bishop weighed the sword in his aged grip, the man surprisingly strong for his advanced years. "You are going to learn a lesson I should have taught you from the beginning," the Bishop promised. His signet ring shone blood red against the reflections of the fire. He steadied his blade, testing its sharpness against the pad of his thumb. "Clearly, what is offensive must be cut out." The Bishop's dark, small eyes gleamed with a hunger for his victim's pain. "I will put it on display, as a constant reminder to all. This is the price paid for shameless fornicators."
All colour drained from Fergus's face. He fought against his restraints, blood seeping over the iron, rusted hinges mingling with his flesh. He shivered, his eyes so wide with terror there was a madness trembling within them. "You can't...You wouldn't!"
He had to stop this.
As an angel of the Lord, there was no way he could simply stand there and watch as this horrific act played itself out, regardless of what his assignment specified. Castiel pushed against the window of observation, but to his shock it remained static, refusing to budge. He shoved again and this time the corners of it clouded over, pushing him away from the events as they transpired, shutting him out. With this act Balthazar's paradox had been eradicted, and the past became impenetrable.
Across an indefinable chasm, Fergus's last gasp screamed into the grey in-between Castiel found himself in. A swathe of red poured across Castiel's consciousness in thick, clotting torture, ending only when the angel shouted against it, his own revulsion tearing into the murk with white outrage.
///
This was a problem.
Castiel did not like loose ends. Despite his messy appearance, he was a rather orderly being, one who liked events and outcomes to make perfect sense. What he had witnessed was, in his mind, a true travesty of justice. Crowley's original soul, the rather pleasant fellow known as Fergus McLeod, should never have suffered the consequences of a crossroad contract he hadn't sought out. That was the Bishop's doing, and he was the one Castiel tried to find within the many layers of Hell in an effort to put things right. There was an order to things that had to be followed, or else all would collapse into chaos. He'd learned that lesson himself all too well.
However, it became clear to Castiel, after countless searches through files and cross-referenced names, dates, locations and levels of torment, the man who had so cruelly ruined Fergus McLeod's pleasant evening was nowhere to be found. Considering the likelihood of the man becoming immortal had a specific probability ratio (four google trillion to one), logic dictated that the Bishop's soul resided somewhere not on Earth, and was perhaps hiding in some closet here in Hell, or perhaps under a rotted floorboard.
Architectural investigation proved fruitless, and Castiel impatiently checked his watch, his cell phone buzzing again with Crowley's annoyed text: 'If you are not back here within the hour you will be forced to enjoy a fantastic meal of five star Michelin quality accompanied by a bottle of Romane Conti. Don't make me order the raspberry chocolate mousse.' He thought about texting Crowley back, but he wasn't ready for the demon to know he had completed his tasks just yet. Instinct told him it was better his investigation be performed in secret.
Not having a proper name to go on was part of the problem. Though he had the region--Aberlour, Scotland--he had to narrow down the possibilities according to the variances of social title, and it irked him that he had to do a fair amount of guesswork in regards to actual identities. There was a decided lack of Bishops occupying the region, which further frustrated his effort. Giving up on Hell Occupants, he moved onto the section marked 'General Populace', which outlined the details of potential new squatters, both alive and dead, who were on the shortlist to stand in Hell's queue. Billions upon billions of names scrolled past his vision, and he was about to give up when one suddenly stood out. He scanned backwards a few thousand pages to find it once again.
"Octavius Corsicas. Inquisitioner. Region: Northern Scotland. Status: Deceased. Current Residence: --."
The simplicity of the description was what alerted him first. Most of the people on this list had fully detailed explanations for why they were on Hell's backburner, with point form notes detailing white lies, slothful behaviour, not recycling and watching Jersey Shore. He slid a fingertip across the Corsicas name in an effort to call up an image, and was immediately blocked from viewing it.
"Password protected file"
Hardly. If he squinted, he could see the Enochian script hiding just beneath the text, a clever enough code to fool demons, but not one he hadn't worked on before. Gabriel had been fond of these sorts of cuniforms, intensely complex designs that he would give Castiel to work out as a way to pass a celestial afternoon. This one was crude. For Castiel it was as though it were written in crayon.
He broke into it and the image slid out. An evil, familiar visage leered back at him, a detailed view of his current abode sending a curious shock of rage through Castiel's being.
His instincts had been correct, this was seriously, unquestioningly *wrong*.
He closed the file, replacing the Enochian code with something far more complicated. His cell phone buzzed again, and he ignored it, knowing it was Crowley who by now probably included a jazz CD and candles into the mix of a pleasant evening set to destroy this angel's hope for suffering. He would take it all back, Castiel was sure. With this kind of gift offered, only the dankest, most revolting dungeon would do.
///
Balthazar appeared uneasy as he stood beside Castiel, the grey nothingness of the In-Between slipping past and through them in a smoky haze. "I'm not comfortable with this," he said.
"You know I can't go in," Castiel said. "My brothers will destroy me for what I have done, as well they should. To be banished from Heaven is part of the atonement I must face. That does not mean, however, that I simply stand by and do nothing when there has been a serious breach of what is fundamental to Heaven's very existence." Castiel handed Balthazar a name, one which his celestial brother was loathe to take. "It is a cancer that must be removed."
"Are you sure about this?" Balthazar asked, nervously looking the name over. "Maybe he repented."
"Unlikely."
Balthazar scratched at his chin, still uncertain. "Are you sure this doesn't have something to do with your new best friend?" He glanced up at Castiel, who remained unbending. "Like you feel you owe something to a demon who gave you sanctuary? Really, Cas, it's not normal what you're doing to yourself. You made a mistake, a big one. But so does everybody, at some point. Going on a suffering bender in Hell isn't solving anything."
"Please do as I ask," Castiel said, a sense of desperation rising within him. "Get that thing out of Heaven." His icy gaze narrowed, filled with a smiting intensity. "Preferably in pieces."
Chapter: 3/?? (updating every Monday)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2352
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter three
Castiel stood aloof from the drama unfolding before him, retreating behind the dimensional window he often employed when not wanting to be a part of events. Besides, his work here was done, he had given Fergus McLeod what he wanted, though he was strangely unconscious of it. Whatever cause and effect was determined from this moment forward was none of his concern.
But still, there was that horrible, terrible part of his self awareness that always got in the way, and it nagged at him now, forcing him to linger just a little longer, to observe and mentally record all that was taking place. Curiousity. It didn't just kill cats, it was a fatal flaw of angels as well, especially one who had worked so closely with humans, learning their strengths and many weaknesses, and if he was honest, revelling in them both.
"What job?" Fergus asked, confused.
The Bishop was nose to nose with him, and Castiel could see the closeness made Fergus highly uncomfortable, evident from the sweat at his temples, and his struggle to get free of his captors, who held him back with steel grips. "I gave you a red silk bag to bury," the Bishop said, his voice filled with an inner darkness Castiel was unfortunately familiar with. "What did you do with it?"
Fergus rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. That stupid bag." He nodded to his sewing table. "Sat on there for near a week before I got to it. Stank up the place, it did. I don't know what you paid for that, mate, but that kind of foul ain't worth it."
A vein in the Bishop's forehead pulsed, and he glared down at Fergus with murderous intent, his mealy mouth spitting out his words as though they were obscenities. "What did you do with it?"
"What any normal person would do, I punted it into a ditch, about a fortnight ago." He gave the Bishop his trademark sneer. "I know, you told me, 'Bury it under a full moon under some other crap I dont' remember because I wasn't listening'. It was a bloody bag full of rotten bones and some silly piece of paper, and you paid money for it because you're a fool. None of that shyte works. I know from experience." He winced as the Bishop made a move to strike him, his signet ring glinting in the gloom of the room. "Yeah, that's right. I prayed and prayed as a lad and it never got me nowhere. I got no deliverance from you, you sick monster, and that's when I knew the truth."
A hand went to Fergus's throat, and he seemed to shrink more from the touch than the threat of its squeeze. "What truth are you speaking of, blasphemer?" the Bishop hissed, his mouth a thin line, his eyes, black but still human, piercing through the near dark.
He does look like a monster, Castiel thought, taking in the harsh angles of the man's face, the cruelty apparent in every line. His evil was etched into him in thick, uncompromising shadows, and Castiel had to wonder, just to what purpose did this man take an orphan into his care. Castiel was habitually observant, and he knew this creature had not one shard of kindness in his soul.
To what purpose was that charity performed?
"You know damn well."
"Enlighten me."
But Fergus refused to talk, instead turning his head away from his accuser. The hand at his throat eased, and the Bishop crossed his arms, his red robe falling out from his sides in congruence with the flames of the fire behind him. "I am very disappointed in you."
Fergus scoffed. "Like that's something new."
"Yes. You have disappointed me before. And I have forgiven you, after the appropriate punishment was delivered upon your folly."
"Folly. Right. That's what you call it."
The Bishop glowered over him, his thin, sallow face betraying the deep hatred he had for his charge. He waved to his henchmen and they seemed to understand what this gesture meant as they kicked Fergus in the stomach, their fists pummelling him into near unconsciousness. When he was properly bloodied, they shackled him with large chains to his own sewing table, rendering him immobile. His arms and legs were brutally secured, the iron clasps cutting deep into his skin. Fergus struggled with what meagre strength he had left, the sweat on his brow dripping down the sides of his face, his eyes wide with terror, despite the continued bravado of his mouth.
"You could always try again. Drum up a few chicken bones and a blue bottle of piss, next time, it'll be cheaper and I'm sure it'll grab your devil's attention. Can't rightly say much for the fellow, if that's what he considers an invitation for a chat. Certain lack of class there, a lack of charm. I guess it's all about the company he keeps." Fergus gave the Bishop a defiant wink. "Says volumes about you, don't it?"
The Bishop leaned over him, his face so close Fergus turned his head, doing his best to avoid the spittle that erupted from his tormentor's foaming fury. "You are a vile, putrid worm. A piece of garbage from a Glasgow dung heap and nothing more. You couldn't even bury a bag of bones properly, you stupid little maggot. I waited at that crossroads, in the pouring rain, from sundown to sunrise, all for nought because of *you*!" He stood up, taking one of the long swords that belonged to his henchman, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. "I hear from the villagers that you are partial to getting soused in the ale house not far from here, and you have a habit of running from your tab. Intemperence does not become a man, Fergus. Nor does a prediliction for whoring, which from what I've been led to believe is your preferred method of payment with that disgusting, sweaty innkeeper, who was more than happy to tell me all about your special skills..."
"Jealous, are we?"
"...Now I hear you are consorting with devils..."
"That's old news," Fergus said. "Funny rumour, that. Wonder how that one got started?"
Castiel felt an uneasy wave of hatred flow from the Bishop to Fergus, and he knew the man was testing every boundary he could, and with this he may have tipped the balance. Fergus seemed to understand this, his jaw set as the Bishop weighed the sword in his aged grip, the man surprisingly strong for his advanced years. "You are going to learn a lesson I should have taught you from the beginning," the Bishop promised. His signet ring shone blood red against the reflections of the fire. He steadied his blade, testing its sharpness against the pad of his thumb. "Clearly, what is offensive must be cut out." The Bishop's dark, small eyes gleamed with a hunger for his victim's pain. "I will put it on display, as a constant reminder to all. This is the price paid for shameless fornicators."
All colour drained from Fergus's face. He fought against his restraints, blood seeping over the iron, rusted hinges mingling with his flesh. He shivered, his eyes so wide with terror there was a madness trembling within them. "You can't...You wouldn't!"
He had to stop this.
As an angel of the Lord, there was no way he could simply stand there and watch as this horrific act played itself out, regardless of what his assignment specified. Castiel pushed against the window of observation, but to his shock it remained static, refusing to budge. He shoved again and this time the corners of it clouded over, pushing him away from the events as they transpired, shutting him out. With this act Balthazar's paradox had been eradicted, and the past became impenetrable.
Across an indefinable chasm, Fergus's last gasp screamed into the grey in-between Castiel found himself in. A swathe of red poured across Castiel's consciousness in thick, clotting torture, ending only when the angel shouted against it, his own revulsion tearing into the murk with white outrage.
///
This was a problem.
Castiel did not like loose ends. Despite his messy appearance, he was a rather orderly being, one who liked events and outcomes to make perfect sense. What he had witnessed was, in his mind, a true travesty of justice. Crowley's original soul, the rather pleasant fellow known as Fergus McLeod, should never have suffered the consequences of a crossroad contract he hadn't sought out. That was the Bishop's doing, and he was the one Castiel tried to find within the many layers of Hell in an effort to put things right. There was an order to things that had to be followed, or else all would collapse into chaos. He'd learned that lesson himself all too well.
However, it became clear to Castiel, after countless searches through files and cross-referenced names, dates, locations and levels of torment, the man who had so cruelly ruined Fergus McLeod's pleasant evening was nowhere to be found. Considering the likelihood of the man becoming immortal had a specific probability ratio (four google trillion to one), logic dictated that the Bishop's soul resided somewhere not on Earth, and was perhaps hiding in some closet here in Hell, or perhaps under a rotted floorboard.
Architectural investigation proved fruitless, and Castiel impatiently checked his watch, his cell phone buzzing again with Crowley's annoyed text: 'If you are not back here within the hour you will be forced to enjoy a fantastic meal of five star Michelin quality accompanied by a bottle of Romane Conti. Don't make me order the raspberry chocolate mousse.' He thought about texting Crowley back, but he wasn't ready for the demon to know he had completed his tasks just yet. Instinct told him it was better his investigation be performed in secret.
Not having a proper name to go on was part of the problem. Though he had the region--Aberlour, Scotland--he had to narrow down the possibilities according to the variances of social title, and it irked him that he had to do a fair amount of guesswork in regards to actual identities. There was a decided lack of Bishops occupying the region, which further frustrated his effort. Giving up on Hell Occupants, he moved onto the section marked 'General Populace', which outlined the details of potential new squatters, both alive and dead, who were on the shortlist to stand in Hell's queue. Billions upon billions of names scrolled past his vision, and he was about to give up when one suddenly stood out. He scanned backwards a few thousand pages to find it once again.
"Octavius Corsicas. Inquisitioner. Region: Northern Scotland. Status: Deceased. Current Residence: --."
The simplicity of the description was what alerted him first. Most of the people on this list had fully detailed explanations for why they were on Hell's backburner, with point form notes detailing white lies, slothful behaviour, not recycling and watching Jersey Shore. He slid a fingertip across the Corsicas name in an effort to call up an image, and was immediately blocked from viewing it.
"Password protected file"
Hardly. If he squinted, he could see the Enochian script hiding just beneath the text, a clever enough code to fool demons, but not one he hadn't worked on before. Gabriel had been fond of these sorts of cuniforms, intensely complex designs that he would give Castiel to work out as a way to pass a celestial afternoon. This one was crude. For Castiel it was as though it were written in crayon.
He broke into it and the image slid out. An evil, familiar visage leered back at him, a detailed view of his current abode sending a curious shock of rage through Castiel's being.
His instincts had been correct, this was seriously, unquestioningly *wrong*.
He closed the file, replacing the Enochian code with something far more complicated. His cell phone buzzed again, and he ignored it, knowing it was Crowley who by now probably included a jazz CD and candles into the mix of a pleasant evening set to destroy this angel's hope for suffering. He would take it all back, Castiel was sure. With this kind of gift offered, only the dankest, most revolting dungeon would do.
///
Balthazar appeared uneasy as he stood beside Castiel, the grey nothingness of the In-Between slipping past and through them in a smoky haze. "I'm not comfortable with this," he said.
"You know I can't go in," Castiel said. "My brothers will destroy me for what I have done, as well they should. To be banished from Heaven is part of the atonement I must face. That does not mean, however, that I simply stand by and do nothing when there has been a serious breach of what is fundamental to Heaven's very existence." Castiel handed Balthazar a name, one which his celestial brother was loathe to take. "It is a cancer that must be removed."
"Are you sure about this?" Balthazar asked, nervously looking the name over. "Maybe he repented."
"Unlikely."
Balthazar scratched at his chin, still uncertain. "Are you sure this doesn't have something to do with your new best friend?" He glanced up at Castiel, who remained unbending. "Like you feel you owe something to a demon who gave you sanctuary? Really, Cas, it's not normal what you're doing to yourself. You made a mistake, a big one. But so does everybody, at some point. Going on a suffering bender in Hell isn't solving anything."
"Please do as I ask," Castiel said, a sense of desperation rising within him. "Get that thing out of Heaven." His icy gaze narrowed, filled with a smiting intensity. "Preferably in pieces."