Feather (Household Objects, Chapter 6 of 7)
Title: Feather (Household Objects, Chapter 6 of 7)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: R (yes, really, don't read at work)
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (yep, it’s here folks); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing.
Word Count: 6600 (this chapter), 35,000 total.
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a weird tiki take on it. And kindly pay attention to the individual chapter ratings, as there is some NSFW material here.
The ’67 Chevrolet Impala introduced Positraction, a limited slip differential.
Castiel, his head deep in the car’s magnificent V8 327 engine, paused for a moment in his work to contemplate mankind.
This creation, of course, was nothing compared to the wonders wrought by the Lord, his Father. And yet, with all their eons, what had His other children, the angels ever accomplished? This car was a small feat of engineering, assuring you would not slip when traveling over ice.
Humans amazed him. Sometimes.
“You should have come to me sooner, my feathery friend!”
Castiel sighed at the unmistakable sound of Crowley’s unctuous voice. He slowly extricated himself from the engine block, straightening up to look the demon in the eye.
“We could trade. Your good wing for … something nice,” grinned Crowley as Castiel wiped the grease from his hands on a rag.
“So, you know I'm grounded,” said Castiel, who began to insert his tools into the cloth holder.
“Everybody knows, mate. You’re the talk of the town.”
“Who exactly is everybody?” asked Castiel, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, I know. And that’s like alerting the media. So they have you working as their grease monkey now?” he smiled as Castiel ran an arm over his grimy forehead.
“Dean says if I’m to drive the car, I should learn elementary maintenance principles.”
Crowley made a big show of surveying the engine. He wrinkled his nose. “You’re a Winchester chauffeur now?” he vamped, hand dramatically to his head. “I always thought you were simple. Blimey, do you have any idea what you are? You should be the one with a driver. And you in the back with a bunch of showgirls with big tits.”
Crowley suddenly hopped back as Cas let the hood fall. “Hey, you nearly got me nose!”
“And you are asking for my wing,” said Castiel. He frowned. “What use to you is an angel wing, anyway?”
“What use to me? Well, you know me, I am merely a middle man in all of this,” Crowley hedged.
Castiel collected his tools and proceeded silently over to a workbench set up under an awning. Crowley followed him.
“What about a feather or two, then? Not doing you any good, now is it?” asked Crowley.
“You want to pluck me?” asked Castiel, setting his tools on the workbench.
“Well, I assume you could pluck yourself. Or maybe have a certain Winchester do it, know what I mean?”
Castiel turned to Crowley. “No. I do not know what you mean. Why don't you explain the reference?”
“Don't get your wings up at me!” grumbled Crowley.
Castiel squinted at Crowley and then, without a word, pointed upwards.
“Fucking...” sputtered Crowley, looking up at the devil's trap painted on the underside of the awning. “You fucking feathered wanker!”
Castiel said something to Crowley, and then started to walk off.
“What was that? Was that Enochian?” asked Crowley.
“I just wished you a very itchy and disruptive molt,” smiled Castiel.
“Oh. You'll have to teach me that one. Are you coming back?”
“At some point. It is now my dinnertime.”
“Well. Could you at least bring me some cheese toast? And maybe a spot of tea? Tell Bobby none of that Lipton crap!”
Bobby had set up a card table outside. They had brought a folding chair for himself, and one for Crowley.
Dean, Sam and Castiel gathered around as well.
“You know, I’m not going to dash away if you release me from the trap,” sighed Crowley. “I came to talk.”
“I kept Zachariah out here for two days. And never brang a chair. Consider yourself lucky, demon,” grumbled Bobby, pouring out a shot for Crowley.
“Is this rotgut?”
“Yeah. It’s rotgut,” said Bobby, downing his own shot.
“Well, when in Rome,” mused Crowley, who tossed back his own. He rolled it around in his mouth, and then held out his glass for another.
“Crowley, what’s up with the demon angels?” asked Dean.
“Now, Dean, wrap your tiny simian brain about this: if I had any idea - any scrap of an idea - would I be sitting in a foul junkyard drinking battery acid? Or would I be frolicking in triumph?”
“You really got no idea?” asked Bobby.
“Amongst other things, the blighters are now extinguishing my minions. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get good minions these days?”
“Nothing more than what you’ve done yourself,” said Sam. “Why the vengeful mood?”
Crowley’s eternally cool demeanor suddenly turned dark. “When I find them, I will kill them. But first I will pluck their wings, feather by feather.”
“Crowley?” asked Castiel. “What is wrong?”
The demon, who was now literally shaking in anger, looked up at Castiel. He slammed down his shot glass. “The foul beasts injured Aloysius.”
“What the actual fuck is an Aloysius?” asked Bobby.
“Hellhound,” said Cas.
“Big fucking enormous hellhound,” added Dean.
“You can’t imagine,” said Crowley, putting an agitated hand through his hair, “the pained look on his sweet face, the pleading of his coal red eyes.”
“Is he, um, alive, Crowley?” asked Sam.
Crowley sighed, and Bobby poured him more whiskey. “He has a badly broken leg. But, he will survive. To chew on the bones of those bloody buggers.” Crowley breathed hard for a time, and then seemed to master himself. “You said…. You said Zachariah was here?”
“He sought our assistance,” said Castiel.
“They wanted help from a broken angel?” asked Crowley.
“Pot. Kettle. Black,” said Bobby.
“I do not fully understand it either,” Castiel confessed.
“I thought you bloody angels were behind all this!” said Crowley.
Castiel smiled bitterly. “You probably comprehend better than I the machinations of my brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, you were always too damned pure for heaven,” said Crowley.
“Crowley,” said Bobby, “you heard something, you tell us. We can’t go avenge your damned dog if you leave us in the dark.”
Crowley looked shrewd. “I have heard there is some kind of squabbling going on within heaven's senior management.”
“Eh, when are angels not backbiting?” sighed Bobby.
“No,” said Castiel. “Actually, it is unusual that there would be dissension within senior management. There is much wing-biting, of course, but they customarily present themselves to the outside as a united front.”
“What’s the issue this time, Crowley? They all want corner offices?” asked Dean.
“They are those, or so I have heard, who are not pleased with the continued domination of the archangels.”
“No. That’s impossible,” said Castiel.
“Well, you can’t argue, those boys have caused some mischief these past few years, Cas,” said Bobby.
“The archangels speak directly to the Lord, our Father,” said Castiel.
“One has to admit, they've been getting some mixed messages of late,” said Crowley.
“Still, you always defer to the archangels,” said Castiel. “That is absolute.”
“Oh, like you did with Lucy? And Raphael?” asked Bobby.
“But I’m…. I’m not like the others,” said Castiel.
“So, my best buddy Zach, is he pro-arch or anti-arch? Or just biding his sweet fucking time?” asked Dean.
“No bloody idear,” said Crowley.
“Well, Crowley” said Bobby, grabbing a knife from the workbench. He climbed up on his chair and scraped a hole in the devil's trap painted up on the awning. “It's been real.”
“Thank you for sharing this appalling liquid substance,” said Crowley, who stood up. “You find the blokes who hit my Aloysius, and I'll bring you a case of the good stuff. Hell, I'll bring the distillery and set it up on the grounds!”
“Crowley. One more thing,” said Castiel. “You never told me what you would do with my wing?”
“Your what?” asked Bobby. “Crowley, what are you up to?”
“Oh, the wing would go to a very … select clientele,” said Crowley.
“Yes?” urged Castiel.
“Demonic, strictly,” said Crowley, who was looking away, as if slightly embarrassed. “There are those of my kind who believe they may gain power by, as it were, having a little barbecue?”
There was a slight pause. “Ewwww!” said Dean, as the realization hit him.
“Oh god! They snack on holy hot wings?” asked Sam.
“Yes. Never did anything for me. But, I am just a crossroads demon, not a food critic. At any rate, good day,” said Crowley, who was gone in a whiff of sulfur.
“That? That is just gross!” said Dean.
“It is worrisome,” said Castiel. “If it is true, then the beings who injured me have only become more powerful in the meantime.”
“Meaning we need to figure this shit out,” said Bobby.
“I need to think on this,” said Castiel, who headed off.
Castiel stretched out his broad wings, and then reeled in pain.
He was sitting, true formed, in the middle of some lovely but deserted rolling hills. It wasn't terribly far from Bobby's, as he didn't currently get around terribly well, but far enough for solitude. He had thought the isolation would do him some good.
His injured wing throbbed. It seemed like it burned from shoulder out to the tip of his primary feathers.
But he stretched and flexed, stretched and flexed.
At first even the slightest motion had caused him crippling pain. Even though his bones were mended, the muscles and tendons around them remained weak and delicate.
Now there was the joyful sense of life coming back to the damaged tissue, the healthy newness flushing it out. But combined with searing pain.
He sat back, tears in his eyes.
It had gotten better. But it was often excruciating. And exercising the wing, as Bobby had suggested, was awfully boring.
And despite his efforts, he was still weak and nearly flightless. Castiel was an eternal being, and so had the patience of the eons. But it was vexing now, when his powers could have come in useful, to find himself sidelined. He wondered, not for the first time, about leaving the Winchesters for the duration, although he still had no idea where he might go to. Perhaps Gabriel had a place? But then he would call to mind Bobby’s warning about what would happen if Sam or Dean were injured or killed in his absence.
He set himself to flex and extend once again.
His mind drifted again to the morning’s conversation, if only to keep his mind off the pain. Who would have thought a monster like Crowley would have a soft spot for that ridiculous hellhound? On the other hand, it was worrying that Crowley, too, appeared caught unawares of the scheming. And doubly worrying that the mysterious creatures might be gaining power through their assassinations
.
That was probably why Castiel, distracted by worry and hurt, did not sense the creatures until they were nearly upon him.
He gulped, fighting down his terror. He recognized them, but found he did not know them. The one vaguely resembled a bird, although it had four wings. The other, larger one looked like nothing as much as a stone gargoyle, although obviously it was many times bigger. It had six wings, Castiel noted, so it was probably a seraph, one of the most powerful heavenly messengers.
The odd thing was, despite ten wings among the two, neither seemed to fly terribly well. It wouldn't have been anything a civilian would have noticed, but the big one seemed unstable, and the littler (or less big) one seemed to be putting in way too much effort. Indeed, when Castiel looked closely at their wings, they seemed a bit ratty, as if both were experiencing a rather painful molt.
“Oooo, little bird, little broken bird!” said the smaller one as it landed.
“Brothers,” said Castiel quietly. He was determined not to show fear.
“We are not brothers,” rumbled the bigger one, who seemed (to Castiel) to quite nearly topple over as he landed.
“Can I pull his wings off this time? Can I? Can I? Oh, we’ll make him squeal,” chirped the littler one.
“Why would you want to do that?” asked Castiel. “I am angelkind, like you.”
“We are not angels,” said the bigger one. “And we are not kind.”
“I am Castiel.”
“We know we know we know,” said the littler, eager one.
“And you are…?”
“What is wrong with this one? Is he stupid?” asked the smaller, flappy one.
“I am Arstikapha,” growled the big one. “He is Yetarel. We are your doom.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of that. Who is and is not my doom,” said Castiel. He was imagining himself right now screaming in pain, his wings ripped from his body. But he thought it best to keep them talking. He didn’t have any other plan, and truly, he didn’t have much hope.
“You don’t get to choose,” babbled Yetarel. “He doesn’t get to choose. Can I pull his wings off now? Can I can I?”
“Why do you need to ask him?” Castiel asked Yetarel. “Why don’t you just do what you please?”
“Shut up, thing! Shut up shut up!” said Yetarel, suddenly putting a pair of clawed hands on his head where Cas assumed his ears were.
“Yes, go and tear his wings off,” said Arstikapha. “I said… You dumb shit.” He reached over and pulled Yetarel’s hands off his ears. “I said go get his wings, idiot!”
Castiel looked down. As it had so many times the past weeks, the magical katana had shown up in his hand. Oddly enough, it had scaled up in size for his true form. He wondered who the human magician had been who enchanted it: despite his fear, he thought that they had done an awfully good job.
Knowing he must look a trifle ridiculous against these monsters, Castiel nonetheless held out the sword. Yetarel swiped at him, but then, to Castiel’s utter surprise, the bird-like angel reeled back, clutching a claw to him.
“He has a pointy! Oh, Arstikapha! He used a pointy on me! I stuck my claw! The little birdie stuck my claw.”
“You fucking idiot,” grumbled Aristikapha.
“Get the fuck away from him, bitches!”
The ground shook, as it often did with the arrival of an archangel.
“Oh, what now?” rumbled Arstikapha.
“Gabriel,” whispered Castiel, who never in his long life expected to be so grateful about seeing his often obnoxious older brother.
“Nobody fucks with my baby brother!” proclaimed Gabriel, who looked very spiffy in his six-winged true form. “Nobody but me, that is. And certain sexy human hunters. But no matter!” He held up his angelic flaming sword. “Who’s first to be skewered today, gentlemen?”
Arstikapha and Yetarel shared a look. A very nasty look.
“Arch wings. We feast on archangel wings today,” grinned Arstikapha.
And then their eyes - which didn’t look terribly nice on a good day - suddenly switched to a shiny liquid black.
“What the fuck?” asked Gabriel, who looked slightly fazed.
“Gabriel! Watch out!” yelled Castiel. But they were both upon him. Castiel heard the snap as one broke Gabriel’s flaming sword over his knee, and then the crunch of breaking bones.
To the end of his life, which was a long one, Castiel had no idea why he did what he did just then. It was probably pure desperation.
“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he screamed. And his voice, to his own surprise, caused the entire valley to shake. Arstikapha and Yetarel looked up in surprise. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was all Cas needed. He was small, but he was quick. Though it hurt like hell, he was over on Gabriel in an instant, clinging to the bigger archangel, and then, with every scrap of magic left in him, he jumped.
Dean Winchester had just settled down for the Dr. Sexy MD season 4 finale. He had all the requirements: plenty of cheap beer, a large meat lover’s pizza, and a ginormous bowl of hot buttered popcorn. And he had just chased away anyone else who might possibly dare to go near the TV remote control with threats of great bodily harm. He had just sat back on the couch seeking the perfect spot to situated his ass when his lap was suddenly filled with not one but two falling angels.
As this defied several laws of physics, all three persons ended up toppling from the couch, upsetting pizza cartons and beer bottles.
“Help us!” pleaded Castiel.
“Castiel?” said Dean. “What the fuck? Is that … Gabriel?”
Gabriel didn’t reply, but only moaned. Dean and Castiel wrestled him onto the couch.
“What in blazes-?” demanded Bobby, who had decided he needed to intrude on the stupid doctor show viewing party when his entire house had just shaken like an earth tremor. “Jesus, is that Gabe?”
Castiel was kneeling next to Gabriel, his hands entwined with those of the semiconscious archangel. “I was in my true form,” Cas whispered, so quietly Bobby and Dean needed to lean in to hear. “I was exercising my injured wing, as Bobby advised me. And the two - the two demonic angels - surprised me. They would have killed me, but Gabriel showed up. He saved my life.”
“Well…. Shit,” said Dean.
“Damn, Cas,” said Bobby. “I never reckoned you’d be vulnerable like that. I nearly got you killed.”
“It’s all right, Bobby,” whispered Castiel.
“Is Gabriel OK?” asked Dean.
“He is badly injured. I am pretty sure they broke two of his wings.” Castiel cleared his throat.
“Two?” asked Bobby. “How many has he got?”
“Gabriel is of the seraphim. He has six wings,” whispered Castiel.
“And what happened with your voice?” asked Dean.
“I don’t know. I shouted at them. I have never shouted so loud,” said Castiel, now barely audible.
“Baby bro has a voice like a foghorn. I always said,” muttered Gabriel. He put a hand on Castiel’s cheek and smiled up at him.
“Gabriel?” said Castiel. But the archangel seemed to slip out of consciousness.
“So I take it he’s out of commission until he’s mended?” asked Dean.
Castiel started to speak, but then held his throat and just nodded.
“Well, I hate to be a dick, but I am runnin’ out of extra bedrooms for wounded supernaturals,” Bobby told them.
“He will have my bed,” Castiel rasped. He nodded to Dean, who helped him carry Gabriel out of the living room and up the stairs to the room Castiel had been sleeping in.
Bobby watched them go.
“What the fuck just happened?” asked Sam, who had just run in, breathless, from outside.
“Bobby Singer Goddam Memorial Hospital for Broken Supernatural Critters just admitted a new patient,” sighed Bobby, who was attempting to pick up pizza cartons.
“Who?”
“Gabriel. Got not one but TWO busted wings,” said Bobby, holding up two fingers.
Sam smiled wryly. “I know I shouldn't, but you know what I just thought?”
“Really big shoebox?” asked Bobby.
“And a-”
“Hot water bottle,” Bobby finished.
The two men grinned at each other.
Castiel cleared his throat and looked uncertainly at the rather gigantic, steaming mug Bobby had placed before him.
“Go on,” urged Bobby. “Drink your damn tea.”
Castiel sniffed at the witches' brew. “Does this contain alcohol?” he whispered.
“It's got Lipton tea, bee's honey, a squeeze of lemon, and just a dash of whiskey. The good stuff!”
“Precisely how much constitutes a dash?” rasped Castiel.
“Drink!” ordered Bobby.
Castiel obeyed, taking a healthy sip. He immediately began coughing.
“Will put hair on your chest!” promised Bobby, slapping the angel's back. Castiel coughed some more and looked extremely dubious, but continued to sip at the concoction.
“How is Gabe?” asked Bobby.
“Quietest I've ever seen the Trickster,” said Dean.
“I think I need to get a hotel room,” sighed Sam.
“What?”
“I'm sleeping in a house with Mamie LaRue and the fucking Trickster?” said Sam.
“Gabriel did save my life, Sam,” said Castiel.
“Yeah, I know, Cas,” said Sam. “Sorry, dude.”
“You recall anything useful, Cas?” asked Bobby.
“The two are Arstikapha and Yetarel,” said Castiel. He coughed, and Bobby waved at the tea, so he took another sip.
“How the heck do you spell that?” asked Sam, opening his laptop.
“Unfortunately, I only know in Enochian.” choked Castiel. “I do not know them. I believe they were among the first of the fallen. I was.... I was young at the time.”
“Not much out there,” said Sam, who was still tapping away at his laptop.
“There is one other strange thing. The magical sword,” said Castiel. “It appeared for me, as it has.... It injured Yetarel.”
“Well, it is a sword,” said Dean. “It’s got a pointy part!”
“But the two easily broke Gabriel's archangel sword!” said Castiel. He choked, so Bobby urged him drink more tea. Castiel downed another gulp, which left him a little cross-eyed.
“You can break those things?” asked Dean.
“I’d never heard of such a thing,” sighed Bobby.
“Neither had I,” admitted Castiel.
“You think 'cause your sword was man-made?” asked Dean. Castiel nodded, held his throat, and pointed to Dean.
“Might be useful,” said Bobby.
“Hey! You know who might know about that,” said Dean. “Buckley Jones!”
“Oh, god, not that burnout again,” sighed Sam.
“Aw, c’mon Sammy! He’s a rock legend!”
“Guy couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a GPS,” grumbled Bobby.
“He knew about my cool doll!” said Dean.
“And he almost got us killed in the desert. After he almost drowned Cas!” Sam pointed out.
“Look, it's worth a shot. Unless you're getting the answer from your Tumblr!” said Dean.
Sam looked guilty and closed his laptop.
“My brother is a 14 year old girl,” tutted Dean. “Come on. It's getting late, so we'll go out first thing tomorrow.”
Castiel threw a pillow and blanket onto the couch, and then sat down heavily. He blinked as if he was having trouble focusing his eyes.
He perceived an ongoing problem with the floor in Bobby's house. It seemed resistant to remaining stationery tonight.
“How's Gabe?” asked Dean.
“He's, uh, resting,” said Castiel, scowling at the floor. He got up, a bit unsteadily, and leaned over as if to spread out the blanket. But the floor lurched again, and he overbalanced, and would have fallen, had not Dean caught him.
“Whoa! What are you doing?” asked Dean.
“I will sleep on the couch tonight!” rasped Castiel, who somehow did not feel all inclined to extricate himself from Dean's arms. “So Gabriel will have my room.”
“Oh, I don't think so,” grinned Dean.
“Why not?”
“Why not? God has given me a drunken angel, and I'm supposed to let you sleep out here?”
“I'm not drunk!” protested Castiel, who followed this statement with a very loud hiccup. He stared at Dean, looking mortified.
Dean slowly lowered himself and Cas to the couch. “No, of course you're not.” He leaned Castiel back and kissed him. “And your voice doesn't sound at all sexy like that, either.”
“Like.... Like what?” whispered Castiel, who followed with another hiccup. He was trying to focus his thoughts, but they all seemed to run into a scenario in which Dean slowly peeled off all his clothing. He opened his mouth slightly to enjoy the feel of Dean's tongue in his mouth, and shifted to let Dean run a hand under his shirt.
“Hey! What are you kids up to?” yelled Sam.
“I'm molesting an angel,” Dean yelled back.
“Oh,” said Sam, who was standing there, hair dripping wet, a towel draped around his waist.
“You manage to avoid Mamie?” asked Dean.
“Yeah. Bobby covered up all the bathroom mirrors.”
“That's good.”
“It makes shaving a fucking pain,” said Sam, rubbing his chin. “Anyway, I'm headed for bed. Bobby set me up a cot downstairs in the panic room. That place is warded against anything!”
“We're going to bed too. In a minute,” said Dean, who was wrestling one of Cas' legs around himself.
“I think we are going to have sexual relations,” explained Castiel.
“Oh. Well, if you do, could you guys move it to a bedroom? I sit on that couch,” yawned Sam. “G'night.”
“Dean, I don't know if this is a good idea,” said Cas once Sam had wandered off downstairs. Dean's hands seemed to be everywhere. Castiel tried to remember how many hands humans were supposed to have. He looked at his own hand and counted to five. Five! No, wait, that was fingers.
“Hmmmm?” asked Dean, running a hand down Cas' thigh.
“I can't remember … what to do. I'll do something wrong.” Dean pushed himself back. “What if I don't please you?” asked Cas.
“Where is this coming from?” asked Dean.
“My brain, I think,” said Castiel. “Though I think all my blood's gone to my dick by now.”
“OK, whatever Bobby put in that tea he gave you?” said Dean, rising up and pulling Cas up with him.
“Yes?”
“We gotta get him to make a bigger batch next time.”
Cas hiccuped. Dean half carried him upstairs to the bedroom, and then dumped him on the bed as Cas desperately tried to recall which item from Gabriel's extensive library of pornography best suited this occasion.
“Come on. Just lay back,” Dean urged. Castiel's hands didn't seem to function for things like unbuttoning or unzipping right now, but Dean more than made up for it, and Cas found that very quickly they were both naked. Yes, this seemed to be going better than the last time already Castiel thought approvingly. Everything seemed slightly too fast or too slow.
“Damn, you're flexible,” Dean was muttering.
“Is that good?” Cas inquired. He was on his back, one leg slung over Dean's shoulder, looking up, behind himself, hands grasping for something - anything - to grip. Muscles he had never used, nerves that had never fired before. Sex was crazy. An utterly crazy stupid thing to do. How had he never done this before?
And then he heard a familiar sound, as Dean thrust into him once again. The human sexual climax. Yes, he had done it right, it was OK. And he hadn't done much more than let Dean touch him.
“Are you OK?” Castiel asked after Dean had pulled out and tossed away the condom and then slid up right next to him for a nice kiss. “Was that OK?”
Dean laughed, and Castiel's heart tightened. “I should be asking you,” said Dean. “It was all OK. Really. More than OK. And besides, you're drunk. That means you don't have to worry about it.”
“Oh,” said Castiel. Because he did worry. He would remember that rule.
“Come on now. Come right here,” said Dean.
“We're not done?” asked Castiel, who was now worried again.
“We're gonna do you. Come on.” Dean had leaned back onto a pile of pillows, and Castiel allowed Dean to pull him into his lap. Dean had put something on his hands, and then started to touch him. Cas squirmed.
“Come on, relax, you're drunk,” murmured Dean, now nuzzling Castiel's neck. But Cas wasn't. Not any more. Somehow, Dean's touch was like an electrical current. Cas was suddenly back in sharp focus. It was like exercising his damaged wing: every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire. The intensity of it. He wanted to cry out, but his voice was still in shreds. His entire body stiffened, and he felt a thrill, like when the angels were attacking. He was flying the Impala across a canyon, praying for his life, and falling, his wing breaking. He was drowning.
He was....
He was...
His body bucked.
Slowly, his breathing came back to normal, and he was lying in Dean Winchester's arms, being kissed on the neck, tears flowing freely. He gasped, his thoughts flicking away like so many little fireflies.
“Dean?”
He felt something in his hand. A Kleenex.
He brought it up to his face, and blew his nose.
He felt Dean spasm wordlessly. There was another Kleenex. “Uh. This one to wipe up,” said Dean carefully.
“Oh.”
“Cas?”
“Yeah?”
“You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You are.”
Castiel froze.
Well.
That sounded positive.
Castiel leaned over the front seat of the car. “I believe I had too much of Bobby's remedy tea last night,” he said, rubbing his head.
“I think you had exactly enough to drink last night,” grinned Dean.
“Have we found him yet? Jockley Bones?” asked Castiel, rubbbing his muzzy head.
“Buckley Jones,” smiled Sam. “And, yeah, Bobby's home remedy is powerful stuff.”
“What was that?” asked Castiel, suddenly leaning back.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “OK, Cas, every time you say that, something fucked up happens.”
“I’m sorry, Dean. Should I not say that any more?”
“No, just…” started Dean. They had just reached the park. It was not a pleasant day this time. In fact, the weather looked quite threatening. “Let’s get a few things out of the trunk before we pay Buckley a visit, yeah?” said Dean as he turned off the ignition.
“Uh, I think you’re right,” said Sam.
Dean poked at the little kachina doll that was hanging from the mirror. He looked at it for a moment, and then grabbed it and stuffed it in a pocket. “You’re coming too, pal,” he said.
It was looking grim outside, with storm clouds on the horizon.
“Uh,” said Sam. “Does this remind anyone else of a really dumb horror movie?”
“Oh, you mean like when there’s a swarm mutant piranha, or a killer shark or a giant crocodile in the lake, so everybody goes for a swim?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, that one.”
“So, let’s go for a swim!” grinned Dean.
“Yeah, I thought he’d say that,” grumbled Sam.
“Come on! We’re as genre savvy as anyone. We just stay far away from the mutant crocodile, or whatever, and we oughta be fine.”
“Sure, sure,” said Sam. “You got a gun?”
“And a pointy thing,” said Dean, nosing around in the Impala’s trunk. “You want something deadly, Cas? We got holy water grenades, rock salt guns….”
Castiel held up his sword.
“Oh, I didn’t see you bring that,” said Dean.
“I didn’t,” said Cas.
The two looked at each other. “We’re screwed, huh?”
Cas simply nodded. They decided to set up around the same barbecue pit they had used previously, as it was a safe distance from the lake, as well as any swarm of killer tuna that might lurk within. The wind had picked up, so the three stood around the bowl of various magic odds and sods, trying to shield it while Dean clicked his lighter and cursed.
“I swear, you’re worse than Bobby,” grumbled Sam.
“It’s not the easiest thing to light up myrrh in this weather! Myrrh doesn’t kindle!”
“What was that?” asked Cas.
“And you quit saying that!” said Dean.
“Sorry,” said Castiel.
“Uh, is it just me,” said Sam, “or are lakes not supposed to have a tide?”
All three turned to see the lake. Without warning (other than Cas’) the water level on the near shore had suddenly drained away a considerable amount.
“OK,” said Dean. “This is when in the horror movie some idiot walks down and looks in and gets his eye stabbed or something.”
“Whoa! Watch out!” shouted Sam. Quite suddenly, the water came rushing back. It swiftly overfilled the lake, and began surging up, towards the three men.
“Uhhhhh. Think we should run?” asked Dean.
“Did you bring a boat?” asked Sam.
“No!”
“Then … run!” shouted Sam.
They took off towards the parking lot, and higher ground. But the water seemed to speed as it climbed up the hill and, as he was the unlucky one in back of the pack, it knocked Dean from his feet. He tried scrambling to his feet in the mud, but just as he was reaching for something to grab on to, he felt something grip his ankle, and he was dragged under the now receding water.
“Dean!” yelled Sam.
“I’ll get him!” said Castiel, who turned and ran back into the water.
“Shit,” said Sam, who was standing next to the Impala. “Mutant piranhas for sure.”
The water was bloody freezing and murky as hell. Dean, as Castiel had before him, tried prying at the hand around his ankle, but had no better luck. He was starting to panic and running out of air when, like a guardian angel (because, let’s face it, that’s what he was) Castiel suddenly appeared and once again amputated Buckley’s hand, slicing through neatly with the sword.
Dean immediately started to kick upwards, and Cas was just in back of him, but suddenly Cas disappeared. Dean, his lungs burning, forced himself to turn around.
It was Buckley, but he seemed to have turned into some kind of multi-armed mutant lake monster. Castiel, caught in his iron grip, was slashing at his gripping hand, but as soon as he sliced through it, Buckley would just grow another arm and grip him tighter. The angel slashed frantically, but only seemed to get more tightly entangled. Buckley was starting to look like a bunch of seaweed with dozens of hands snaking out.
Dean desperately kicked for the surface, his lungs burning. He burst out of the water around where the barbecue pit had been located. Sam was there immediately.
“Gotta go back down! It’s got Cas!” Dean gasped.
“Shit! What do we do! Our guns won’t work under water.”
Dean suddenly felt something in his pants pocket. He dug out the kachina doll. “Come on buddy! Help us!” he told it.
Almost immediately a huge gust of wind blew past Sam and Dean and shot through the still receding waters. It was like a biblical epic movie: to Sam and Dean’s astonishment, the waters were blown all the way back to their normal level. There was a figure down below at the lakeside. He looked tangled up in seaweed.
“Cas!” yelled Dean. They hastened down to the wet and bedraggled figure. To Dean’s utter relief, as soon as he had him in his arms, Cas began choking, and then he turned over and retched up what seemed like half of the lake bottom.
“You all right?” asked Sam.
Still out of breath, Castiel only nodded.
“And see, you learned another human trick! Barfing!” grinned Dean.
Dean didn’t believe he had ever seen the angel actually roll his eyes before.
And then the nest of seaweed began to writhe. “Hey, it’s Buckley!” said Sam.
“Whoa,” said Dean. “Mutant rock star. That’s a new one.” He rooted around in the tangled mess to find where Buckley’s face was located.
“Dudes…” came a moan.
“Buckley! Trying to drown our angel again. Not cool! Seriously not cool!” scolded Dean.
“Sorry, bud! I didn’t mean to!” whined Buckley’s ghost.
“Why the fuck, man! Why the fuck!” raved Dean.
“I was totally tripping! I must have smoked some bad shit, dude.”
“How in hell does a lake monster smoke?” Sam asked one in particular.
“Where did you get the stuff?” asked Dean.
“There were these two dudes….”
“Let me guess,” said Sam. “A big one and a tall one!”
“Hey, that’s the dudes! Those two dudes. Bad dudes. Whoa.”
“Can you pull yourself together?” asked Dean.
“I dunno dude! Your angel kinda smote my ass!”
“You tried to drown Dean!” hollered Castiel, who was up on his feet, his sword pointed at Buckley.
“Whoa!” said Buckley.
“It's OK,” said Dean, pulling Castiel back.
“Nothing personal, bro!” said Buckley, who was sort of assembling into a human-shaped figure again, although he seemed to be lacking a limb here and there. “Whoa,” he said, lifting a body part from the mud, “did I always have two left feet?”
“They were angels,” said Sam.
“Hey, yeah, they were angel dudes. Only they didn't have the totally sparkly aura like your bud. They were all like, creepy and dark.”
“But you took drugs from them anyway?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, dude! They said they had good bud!”
“Can you tell us anything else about them?” asked Sam.
Buckley Jones, who had nearly reassembled himself, minus maybe a part or two, looked contemplative. “They were sick dudes, yeah.”
“Sick? Sick meaning cool or something?” asked Sam.
“No dude! Sick meaning sick. Like they'd been, you know, injured. You know, like that dude!” said Buckley, pointing a stump at Castiel.
“A broken wing?” asked Castiel.
“Yeaaaaaah! Broken angels. Hey, whoa,” said Buckley, “Here's my hand. Hey, anybody need a hand!” he laughed, reattaching it. “Well, I gotta hit it, bitches! Catch you on the flip side!” said Buckley, who was suddenly not there any more.
“Geez. What a douche,” said Dean.
Sam smiled and clapped his brother on the back.
“I do not understand it,” said Castiel. “I had noticed that the two who attacked me flew ineptly. But I do not see how they could continue flying in that state. I can barely move my wing.”
“Maybe the demonic possession strengthens them?” asks Sam.
“Possibly,” said Cas. “It's just....”
“What, Cas?” asked Sam.
“Nothing. I need to think on this.”
“How 'bout we stop for breakfast somewhere along the way,” offered Dean, starting to walk towards the car.
“Will there be pancakes?” asked Castiel, eyes full of hope.
“Yeah, and we can have them with maple syrup.”
“Actually, I think I prefer blueberry syrup,” Castiel confessed.
“What!” said Dean. “Well, then you can't be my friend any more.”
“Oh,” said Castiel, stopping dead, and crossing his arms.
“Hey I didn't mean-” started Dean.
“Well, if you are no longer my friend, this means you can no longer steal my toast, as you have in the past,” said Castiel, wagging a finger.
“Heh, he's got you there,” said Sam, who started to walk to the Car with Castiel.
“What! Wait, that wasn't stealing, that was a mistake!” protested Dean.
“You were supposed to share!” Castiel called back.
“Dean's just greedy,” Sam told Cas.
“I can't help it if he eats slow!” said Dean, going through his pockets. “Hey! I think I lost the car keys in the lake.”
“I still have my set,” said Sam, jingling his keys.
“Shotgun!” yelled Castiel.
“I did not steal that toast. I only borrowed it,” grumbled Dean, as he hurried along after them.
This entry was originally posted at http://tikific.dreamwidth.org/116890.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: R (yes, really, don't read at work)
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (yep, it’s here folks); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death
Warnings: Cursing.
Word Count: 6600 (this chapter), 35,000 total.
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a weird tiki take on it. And kindly pay attention to the individual chapter ratings, as there is some NSFW material here.
The ’67 Chevrolet Impala introduced Positraction, a limited slip differential.
Castiel, his head deep in the car’s magnificent V8 327 engine, paused for a moment in his work to contemplate mankind.
This creation, of course, was nothing compared to the wonders wrought by the Lord, his Father. And yet, with all their eons, what had His other children, the angels ever accomplished? This car was a small feat of engineering, assuring you would not slip when traveling over ice.
Humans amazed him. Sometimes.
“You should have come to me sooner, my feathery friend!”
Castiel sighed at the unmistakable sound of Crowley’s unctuous voice. He slowly extricated himself from the engine block, straightening up to look the demon in the eye.
“We could trade. Your good wing for … something nice,” grinned Crowley as Castiel wiped the grease from his hands on a rag.
“So, you know I'm grounded,” said Castiel, who began to insert his tools into the cloth holder.
“Everybody knows, mate. You’re the talk of the town.”
“Who exactly is everybody?” asked Castiel, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, I know. And that’s like alerting the media. So they have you working as their grease monkey now?” he smiled as Castiel ran an arm over his grimy forehead.
“Dean says if I’m to drive the car, I should learn elementary maintenance principles.”
Crowley made a big show of surveying the engine. He wrinkled his nose. “You’re a Winchester chauffeur now?” he vamped, hand dramatically to his head. “I always thought you were simple. Blimey, do you have any idea what you are? You should be the one with a driver. And you in the back with a bunch of showgirls with big tits.”
Crowley suddenly hopped back as Cas let the hood fall. “Hey, you nearly got me nose!”
“And you are asking for my wing,” said Castiel. He frowned. “What use to you is an angel wing, anyway?”
“What use to me? Well, you know me, I am merely a middle man in all of this,” Crowley hedged.
Castiel collected his tools and proceeded silently over to a workbench set up under an awning. Crowley followed him.
“What about a feather or two, then? Not doing you any good, now is it?” asked Crowley.
“You want to pluck me?” asked Castiel, setting his tools on the workbench.
“Well, I assume you could pluck yourself. Or maybe have a certain Winchester do it, know what I mean?”
Castiel turned to Crowley. “No. I do not know what you mean. Why don't you explain the reference?”
“Don't get your wings up at me!” grumbled Crowley.
Castiel squinted at Crowley and then, without a word, pointed upwards.
“Fucking...” sputtered Crowley, looking up at the devil's trap painted on the underside of the awning. “You fucking feathered wanker!”
Castiel said something to Crowley, and then started to walk off.
“What was that? Was that Enochian?” asked Crowley.
“I just wished you a very itchy and disruptive molt,” smiled Castiel.
“Oh. You'll have to teach me that one. Are you coming back?”
“At some point. It is now my dinnertime.”
“Well. Could you at least bring me some cheese toast? And maybe a spot of tea? Tell Bobby none of that Lipton crap!”
Bobby had set up a card table outside. They had brought a folding chair for himself, and one for Crowley.
Dean, Sam and Castiel gathered around as well.
“You know, I’m not going to dash away if you release me from the trap,” sighed Crowley. “I came to talk.”
“I kept Zachariah out here for two days. And never brang a chair. Consider yourself lucky, demon,” grumbled Bobby, pouring out a shot for Crowley.
“Is this rotgut?”
“Yeah. It’s rotgut,” said Bobby, downing his own shot.
“Well, when in Rome,” mused Crowley, who tossed back his own. He rolled it around in his mouth, and then held out his glass for another.
“Crowley, what’s up with the demon angels?” asked Dean.
“Now, Dean, wrap your tiny simian brain about this: if I had any idea - any scrap of an idea - would I be sitting in a foul junkyard drinking battery acid? Or would I be frolicking in triumph?”
“You really got no idea?” asked Bobby.
“Amongst other things, the blighters are now extinguishing my minions. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get good minions these days?”
“Nothing more than what you’ve done yourself,” said Sam. “Why the vengeful mood?”
Crowley’s eternally cool demeanor suddenly turned dark. “When I find them, I will kill them. But first I will pluck their wings, feather by feather.”
“Crowley?” asked Castiel. “What is wrong?”
The demon, who was now literally shaking in anger, looked up at Castiel. He slammed down his shot glass. “The foul beasts injured Aloysius.”
“What the actual fuck is an Aloysius?” asked Bobby.
“Hellhound,” said Cas.
“Big fucking enormous hellhound,” added Dean.
“You can’t imagine,” said Crowley, putting an agitated hand through his hair, “the pained look on his sweet face, the pleading of his coal red eyes.”
“Is he, um, alive, Crowley?” asked Sam.
Crowley sighed, and Bobby poured him more whiskey. “He has a badly broken leg. But, he will survive. To chew on the bones of those bloody buggers.” Crowley breathed hard for a time, and then seemed to master himself. “You said…. You said Zachariah was here?”
“He sought our assistance,” said Castiel.
“They wanted help from a broken angel?” asked Crowley.
“Pot. Kettle. Black,” said Bobby.
“I do not fully understand it either,” Castiel confessed.
“I thought you bloody angels were behind all this!” said Crowley.
Castiel smiled bitterly. “You probably comprehend better than I the machinations of my brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, you were always too damned pure for heaven,” said Crowley.
“Crowley,” said Bobby, “you heard something, you tell us. We can’t go avenge your damned dog if you leave us in the dark.”
Crowley looked shrewd. “I have heard there is some kind of squabbling going on within heaven's senior management.”
“Eh, when are angels not backbiting?” sighed Bobby.
“No,” said Castiel. “Actually, it is unusual that there would be dissension within senior management. There is much wing-biting, of course, but they customarily present themselves to the outside as a united front.”
“What’s the issue this time, Crowley? They all want corner offices?” asked Dean.
“They are those, or so I have heard, who are not pleased with the continued domination of the archangels.”
“No. That’s impossible,” said Castiel.
“Well, you can’t argue, those boys have caused some mischief these past few years, Cas,” said Bobby.
“The archangels speak directly to the Lord, our Father,” said Castiel.
“One has to admit, they've been getting some mixed messages of late,” said Crowley.
“Still, you always defer to the archangels,” said Castiel. “That is absolute.”
“Oh, like you did with Lucy? And Raphael?” asked Bobby.
“But I’m…. I’m not like the others,” said Castiel.
“So, my best buddy Zach, is he pro-arch or anti-arch? Or just biding his sweet fucking time?” asked Dean.
“No bloody idear,” said Crowley.
“Well, Crowley” said Bobby, grabbing a knife from the workbench. He climbed up on his chair and scraped a hole in the devil's trap painted up on the awning. “It's been real.”
“Thank you for sharing this appalling liquid substance,” said Crowley, who stood up. “You find the blokes who hit my Aloysius, and I'll bring you a case of the good stuff. Hell, I'll bring the distillery and set it up on the grounds!”
“Crowley. One more thing,” said Castiel. “You never told me what you would do with my wing?”
“Your what?” asked Bobby. “Crowley, what are you up to?”
“Oh, the wing would go to a very … select clientele,” said Crowley.
“Yes?” urged Castiel.
“Demonic, strictly,” said Crowley, who was looking away, as if slightly embarrassed. “There are those of my kind who believe they may gain power by, as it were, having a little barbecue?”
There was a slight pause. “Ewwww!” said Dean, as the realization hit him.
“Oh god! They snack on holy hot wings?” asked Sam.
“Yes. Never did anything for me. But, I am just a crossroads demon, not a food critic. At any rate, good day,” said Crowley, who was gone in a whiff of sulfur.
“That? That is just gross!” said Dean.
“It is worrisome,” said Castiel. “If it is true, then the beings who injured me have only become more powerful in the meantime.”
“Meaning we need to figure this shit out,” said Bobby.
“I need to think on this,” said Castiel, who headed off.
Castiel stretched out his broad wings, and then reeled in pain.
He was sitting, true formed, in the middle of some lovely but deserted rolling hills. It wasn't terribly far from Bobby's, as he didn't currently get around terribly well, but far enough for solitude. He had thought the isolation would do him some good.
His injured wing throbbed. It seemed like it burned from shoulder out to the tip of his primary feathers.
But he stretched and flexed, stretched and flexed.
At first even the slightest motion had caused him crippling pain. Even though his bones were mended, the muscles and tendons around them remained weak and delicate.
Now there was the joyful sense of life coming back to the damaged tissue, the healthy newness flushing it out. But combined with searing pain.
He sat back, tears in his eyes.
It had gotten better. But it was often excruciating. And exercising the wing, as Bobby had suggested, was awfully boring.
And despite his efforts, he was still weak and nearly flightless. Castiel was an eternal being, and so had the patience of the eons. But it was vexing now, when his powers could have come in useful, to find himself sidelined. He wondered, not for the first time, about leaving the Winchesters for the duration, although he still had no idea where he might go to. Perhaps Gabriel had a place? But then he would call to mind Bobby’s warning about what would happen if Sam or Dean were injured or killed in his absence.
He set himself to flex and extend once again.
His mind drifted again to the morning’s conversation, if only to keep his mind off the pain. Who would have thought a monster like Crowley would have a soft spot for that ridiculous hellhound? On the other hand, it was worrying that Crowley, too, appeared caught unawares of the scheming. And doubly worrying that the mysterious creatures might be gaining power through their assassinations
.
That was probably why Castiel, distracted by worry and hurt, did not sense the creatures until they were nearly upon him.
He gulped, fighting down his terror. He recognized them, but found he did not know them. The one vaguely resembled a bird, although it had four wings. The other, larger one looked like nothing as much as a stone gargoyle, although obviously it was many times bigger. It had six wings, Castiel noted, so it was probably a seraph, one of the most powerful heavenly messengers.
The odd thing was, despite ten wings among the two, neither seemed to fly terribly well. It wouldn't have been anything a civilian would have noticed, but the big one seemed unstable, and the littler (or less big) one seemed to be putting in way too much effort. Indeed, when Castiel looked closely at their wings, they seemed a bit ratty, as if both were experiencing a rather painful molt.
“Oooo, little bird, little broken bird!” said the smaller one as it landed.
“Brothers,” said Castiel quietly. He was determined not to show fear.
“We are not brothers,” rumbled the bigger one, who seemed (to Castiel) to quite nearly topple over as he landed.
“Can I pull his wings off this time? Can I? Can I? Oh, we’ll make him squeal,” chirped the littler one.
“Why would you want to do that?” asked Castiel. “I am angelkind, like you.”
“We are not angels,” said the bigger one. “And we are not kind.”
“I am Castiel.”
“We know we know we know,” said the littler, eager one.
“And you are…?”
“What is wrong with this one? Is he stupid?” asked the smaller, flappy one.
“I am Arstikapha,” growled the big one. “He is Yetarel. We are your doom.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of that. Who is and is not my doom,” said Castiel. He was imagining himself right now screaming in pain, his wings ripped from his body. But he thought it best to keep them talking. He didn’t have any other plan, and truly, he didn’t have much hope.
“You don’t get to choose,” babbled Yetarel. “He doesn’t get to choose. Can I pull his wings off now? Can I can I?”
“Why do you need to ask him?” Castiel asked Yetarel. “Why don’t you just do what you please?”
“Shut up, thing! Shut up shut up!” said Yetarel, suddenly putting a pair of clawed hands on his head where Cas assumed his ears were.
“Yes, go and tear his wings off,” said Arstikapha. “I said… You dumb shit.” He reached over and pulled Yetarel’s hands off his ears. “I said go get his wings, idiot!”
Castiel looked down. As it had so many times the past weeks, the magical katana had shown up in his hand. Oddly enough, it had scaled up in size for his true form. He wondered who the human magician had been who enchanted it: despite his fear, he thought that they had done an awfully good job.
Knowing he must look a trifle ridiculous against these monsters, Castiel nonetheless held out the sword. Yetarel swiped at him, but then, to Castiel’s utter surprise, the bird-like angel reeled back, clutching a claw to him.
“He has a pointy! Oh, Arstikapha! He used a pointy on me! I stuck my claw! The little birdie stuck my claw.”
“You fucking idiot,” grumbled Aristikapha.
“Get the fuck away from him, bitches!”
The ground shook, as it often did with the arrival of an archangel.
“Oh, what now?” rumbled Arstikapha.
“Gabriel,” whispered Castiel, who never in his long life expected to be so grateful about seeing his often obnoxious older brother.
“Nobody fucks with my baby brother!” proclaimed Gabriel, who looked very spiffy in his six-winged true form. “Nobody but me, that is. And certain sexy human hunters. But no matter!” He held up his angelic flaming sword. “Who’s first to be skewered today, gentlemen?”
Arstikapha and Yetarel shared a look. A very nasty look.
“Arch wings. We feast on archangel wings today,” grinned Arstikapha.
And then their eyes - which didn’t look terribly nice on a good day - suddenly switched to a shiny liquid black.
“What the fuck?” asked Gabriel, who looked slightly fazed.
“Gabriel! Watch out!” yelled Castiel. But they were both upon him. Castiel heard the snap as one broke Gabriel’s flaming sword over his knee, and then the crunch of breaking bones.
To the end of his life, which was a long one, Castiel had no idea why he did what he did just then. It was probably pure desperation.
“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he screamed. And his voice, to his own surprise, caused the entire valley to shake. Arstikapha and Yetarel looked up in surprise. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was all Cas needed. He was small, but he was quick. Though it hurt like hell, he was over on Gabriel in an instant, clinging to the bigger archangel, and then, with every scrap of magic left in him, he jumped.
Dean Winchester had just settled down for the Dr. Sexy MD season 4 finale. He had all the requirements: plenty of cheap beer, a large meat lover’s pizza, and a ginormous bowl of hot buttered popcorn. And he had just chased away anyone else who might possibly dare to go near the TV remote control with threats of great bodily harm. He had just sat back on the couch seeking the perfect spot to situated his ass when his lap was suddenly filled with not one but two falling angels.
As this defied several laws of physics, all three persons ended up toppling from the couch, upsetting pizza cartons and beer bottles.
“Help us!” pleaded Castiel.
“Castiel?” said Dean. “What the fuck? Is that … Gabriel?”
Gabriel didn’t reply, but only moaned. Dean and Castiel wrestled him onto the couch.
“What in blazes-?” demanded Bobby, who had decided he needed to intrude on the stupid doctor show viewing party when his entire house had just shaken like an earth tremor. “Jesus, is that Gabe?”
Castiel was kneeling next to Gabriel, his hands entwined with those of the semiconscious archangel. “I was in my true form,” Cas whispered, so quietly Bobby and Dean needed to lean in to hear. “I was exercising my injured wing, as Bobby advised me. And the two - the two demonic angels - surprised me. They would have killed me, but Gabriel showed up. He saved my life.”
“Well…. Shit,” said Dean.
“Damn, Cas,” said Bobby. “I never reckoned you’d be vulnerable like that. I nearly got you killed.”
“It’s all right, Bobby,” whispered Castiel.
“Is Gabriel OK?” asked Dean.
“He is badly injured. I am pretty sure they broke two of his wings.” Castiel cleared his throat.
“Two?” asked Bobby. “How many has he got?”
“Gabriel is of the seraphim. He has six wings,” whispered Castiel.
“And what happened with your voice?” asked Dean.
“I don’t know. I shouted at them. I have never shouted so loud,” said Castiel, now barely audible.
“Baby bro has a voice like a foghorn. I always said,” muttered Gabriel. He put a hand on Castiel’s cheek and smiled up at him.
“Gabriel?” said Castiel. But the archangel seemed to slip out of consciousness.
“So I take it he’s out of commission until he’s mended?” asked Dean.
Castiel started to speak, but then held his throat and just nodded.
“Well, I hate to be a dick, but I am runnin’ out of extra bedrooms for wounded supernaturals,” Bobby told them.
“He will have my bed,” Castiel rasped. He nodded to Dean, who helped him carry Gabriel out of the living room and up the stairs to the room Castiel had been sleeping in.
Bobby watched them go.
“What the fuck just happened?” asked Sam, who had just run in, breathless, from outside.
“Bobby Singer Goddam Memorial Hospital for Broken Supernatural Critters just admitted a new patient,” sighed Bobby, who was attempting to pick up pizza cartons.
“Who?”
“Gabriel. Got not one but TWO busted wings,” said Bobby, holding up two fingers.
Sam smiled wryly. “I know I shouldn't, but you know what I just thought?”
“Really big shoebox?” asked Bobby.
“And a-”
“Hot water bottle,” Bobby finished.
The two men grinned at each other.
Castiel cleared his throat and looked uncertainly at the rather gigantic, steaming mug Bobby had placed before him.
“Go on,” urged Bobby. “Drink your damn tea.”
Castiel sniffed at the witches' brew. “Does this contain alcohol?” he whispered.
“It's got Lipton tea, bee's honey, a squeeze of lemon, and just a dash of whiskey. The good stuff!”
“Precisely how much constitutes a dash?” rasped Castiel.
“Drink!” ordered Bobby.
Castiel obeyed, taking a healthy sip. He immediately began coughing.
“Will put hair on your chest!” promised Bobby, slapping the angel's back. Castiel coughed some more and looked extremely dubious, but continued to sip at the concoction.
“How is Gabe?” asked Bobby.
“Quietest I've ever seen the Trickster,” said Dean.
“I think I need to get a hotel room,” sighed Sam.
“What?”
“I'm sleeping in a house with Mamie LaRue and the fucking Trickster?” said Sam.
“Gabriel did save my life, Sam,” said Castiel.
“Yeah, I know, Cas,” said Sam. “Sorry, dude.”
“You recall anything useful, Cas?” asked Bobby.
“The two are Arstikapha and Yetarel,” said Castiel. He coughed, and Bobby waved at the tea, so he took another sip.
“How the heck do you spell that?” asked Sam, opening his laptop.
“Unfortunately, I only know in Enochian.” choked Castiel. “I do not know them. I believe they were among the first of the fallen. I was.... I was young at the time.”
“Not much out there,” said Sam, who was still tapping away at his laptop.
“There is one other strange thing. The magical sword,” said Castiel. “It appeared for me, as it has.... It injured Yetarel.”
“Well, it is a sword,” said Dean. “It’s got a pointy part!”
“But the two easily broke Gabriel's archangel sword!” said Castiel. He choked, so Bobby urged him drink more tea. Castiel downed another gulp, which left him a little cross-eyed.
“You can break those things?” asked Dean.
“I’d never heard of such a thing,” sighed Bobby.
“Neither had I,” admitted Castiel.
“You think 'cause your sword was man-made?” asked Dean. Castiel nodded, held his throat, and pointed to Dean.
“Might be useful,” said Bobby.
“Hey! You know who might know about that,” said Dean. “Buckley Jones!”
“Oh, god, not that burnout again,” sighed Sam.
“Aw, c’mon Sammy! He’s a rock legend!”
“Guy couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a GPS,” grumbled Bobby.
“He knew about my cool doll!” said Dean.
“And he almost got us killed in the desert. After he almost drowned Cas!” Sam pointed out.
“Look, it's worth a shot. Unless you're getting the answer from your Tumblr!” said Dean.
Sam looked guilty and closed his laptop.
“My brother is a 14 year old girl,” tutted Dean. “Come on. It's getting late, so we'll go out first thing tomorrow.”
Castiel threw a pillow and blanket onto the couch, and then sat down heavily. He blinked as if he was having trouble focusing his eyes.
He perceived an ongoing problem with the floor in Bobby's house. It seemed resistant to remaining stationery tonight.
“How's Gabe?” asked Dean.
“He's, uh, resting,” said Castiel, scowling at the floor. He got up, a bit unsteadily, and leaned over as if to spread out the blanket. But the floor lurched again, and he overbalanced, and would have fallen, had not Dean caught him.
“Whoa! What are you doing?” asked Dean.
“I will sleep on the couch tonight!” rasped Castiel, who somehow did not feel all inclined to extricate himself from Dean's arms. “So Gabriel will have my room.”
“Oh, I don't think so,” grinned Dean.
“Why not?”
“Why not? God has given me a drunken angel, and I'm supposed to let you sleep out here?”
“I'm not drunk!” protested Castiel, who followed this statement with a very loud hiccup. He stared at Dean, looking mortified.
Dean slowly lowered himself and Cas to the couch. “No, of course you're not.” He leaned Castiel back and kissed him. “And your voice doesn't sound at all sexy like that, either.”
“Like.... Like what?” whispered Castiel, who followed with another hiccup. He was trying to focus his thoughts, but they all seemed to run into a scenario in which Dean slowly peeled off all his clothing. He opened his mouth slightly to enjoy the feel of Dean's tongue in his mouth, and shifted to let Dean run a hand under his shirt.
“Hey! What are you kids up to?” yelled Sam.
“I'm molesting an angel,” Dean yelled back.
“Oh,” said Sam, who was standing there, hair dripping wet, a towel draped around his waist.
“You manage to avoid Mamie?” asked Dean.
“Yeah. Bobby covered up all the bathroom mirrors.”
“That's good.”
“It makes shaving a fucking pain,” said Sam, rubbing his chin. “Anyway, I'm headed for bed. Bobby set me up a cot downstairs in the panic room. That place is warded against anything!”
“We're going to bed too. In a minute,” said Dean, who was wrestling one of Cas' legs around himself.
“I think we are going to have sexual relations,” explained Castiel.
“Oh. Well, if you do, could you guys move it to a bedroom? I sit on that couch,” yawned Sam. “G'night.”
“Dean, I don't know if this is a good idea,” said Cas once Sam had wandered off downstairs. Dean's hands seemed to be everywhere. Castiel tried to remember how many hands humans were supposed to have. He looked at his own hand and counted to five. Five! No, wait, that was fingers.
“Hmmmm?” asked Dean, running a hand down Cas' thigh.
“I can't remember … what to do. I'll do something wrong.” Dean pushed himself back. “What if I don't please you?” asked Cas.
“Where is this coming from?” asked Dean.
“My brain, I think,” said Castiel. “Though I think all my blood's gone to my dick by now.”
“OK, whatever Bobby put in that tea he gave you?” said Dean, rising up and pulling Cas up with him.
“Yes?”
“We gotta get him to make a bigger batch next time.”
Cas hiccuped. Dean half carried him upstairs to the bedroom, and then dumped him on the bed as Cas desperately tried to recall which item from Gabriel's extensive library of pornography best suited this occasion.
“Come on. Just lay back,” Dean urged. Castiel's hands didn't seem to function for things like unbuttoning or unzipping right now, but Dean more than made up for it, and Cas found that very quickly they were both naked. Yes, this seemed to be going better than the last time already Castiel thought approvingly. Everything seemed slightly too fast or too slow.
“Damn, you're flexible,” Dean was muttering.
“Is that good?” Cas inquired. He was on his back, one leg slung over Dean's shoulder, looking up, behind himself, hands grasping for something - anything - to grip. Muscles he had never used, nerves that had never fired before. Sex was crazy. An utterly crazy stupid thing to do. How had he never done this before?
And then he heard a familiar sound, as Dean thrust into him once again. The human sexual climax. Yes, he had done it right, it was OK. And he hadn't done much more than let Dean touch him.
“Are you OK?” Castiel asked after Dean had pulled out and tossed away the condom and then slid up right next to him for a nice kiss. “Was that OK?”
Dean laughed, and Castiel's heart tightened. “I should be asking you,” said Dean. “It was all OK. Really. More than OK. And besides, you're drunk. That means you don't have to worry about it.”
“Oh,” said Castiel. Because he did worry. He would remember that rule.
“Come on now. Come right here,” said Dean.
“We're not done?” asked Castiel, who was now worried again.
“We're gonna do you. Come on.” Dean had leaned back onto a pile of pillows, and Castiel allowed Dean to pull him into his lap. Dean had put something on his hands, and then started to touch him. Cas squirmed.
“Come on, relax, you're drunk,” murmured Dean, now nuzzling Castiel's neck. But Cas wasn't. Not any more. Somehow, Dean's touch was like an electrical current. Cas was suddenly back in sharp focus. It was like exercising his damaged wing: every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire. The intensity of it. He wanted to cry out, but his voice was still in shreds. His entire body stiffened, and he felt a thrill, like when the angels were attacking. He was flying the Impala across a canyon, praying for his life, and falling, his wing breaking. He was drowning.
He was....
He was...
His body bucked.
Slowly, his breathing came back to normal, and he was lying in Dean Winchester's arms, being kissed on the neck, tears flowing freely. He gasped, his thoughts flicking away like so many little fireflies.
“Dean?”
He felt something in his hand. A Kleenex.
He brought it up to his face, and blew his nose.
He felt Dean spasm wordlessly. There was another Kleenex. “Uh. This one to wipe up,” said Dean carefully.
“Oh.”
“Cas?”
“Yeah?”
“You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You are.”
Castiel froze.
Well.
That sounded positive.
Castiel leaned over the front seat of the car. “I believe I had too much of Bobby's remedy tea last night,” he said, rubbing his head.
“I think you had exactly enough to drink last night,” grinned Dean.
“Have we found him yet? Jockley Bones?” asked Castiel, rubbbing his muzzy head.
“Buckley Jones,” smiled Sam. “And, yeah, Bobby's home remedy is powerful stuff.”
“What was that?” asked Castiel, suddenly leaning back.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “OK, Cas, every time you say that, something fucked up happens.”
“I’m sorry, Dean. Should I not say that any more?”
“No, just…” started Dean. They had just reached the park. It was not a pleasant day this time. In fact, the weather looked quite threatening. “Let’s get a few things out of the trunk before we pay Buckley a visit, yeah?” said Dean as he turned off the ignition.
“Uh, I think you’re right,” said Sam.
Dean poked at the little kachina doll that was hanging from the mirror. He looked at it for a moment, and then grabbed it and stuffed it in a pocket. “You’re coming too, pal,” he said.
It was looking grim outside, with storm clouds on the horizon.
“Uh,” said Sam. “Does this remind anyone else of a really dumb horror movie?”
“Oh, you mean like when there’s a swarm mutant piranha, or a killer shark or a giant crocodile in the lake, so everybody goes for a swim?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, that one.”
“So, let’s go for a swim!” grinned Dean.
“Yeah, I thought he’d say that,” grumbled Sam.
“Come on! We’re as genre savvy as anyone. We just stay far away from the mutant crocodile, or whatever, and we oughta be fine.”
“Sure, sure,” said Sam. “You got a gun?”
“And a pointy thing,” said Dean, nosing around in the Impala’s trunk. “You want something deadly, Cas? We got holy water grenades, rock salt guns….”
Castiel held up his sword.
“Oh, I didn’t see you bring that,” said Dean.
“I didn’t,” said Cas.
The two looked at each other. “We’re screwed, huh?”
Cas simply nodded. They decided to set up around the same barbecue pit they had used previously, as it was a safe distance from the lake, as well as any swarm of killer tuna that might lurk within. The wind had picked up, so the three stood around the bowl of various magic odds and sods, trying to shield it while Dean clicked his lighter and cursed.
“I swear, you’re worse than Bobby,” grumbled Sam.
“It’s not the easiest thing to light up myrrh in this weather! Myrrh doesn’t kindle!”
“What was that?” asked Cas.
“And you quit saying that!” said Dean.
“Sorry,” said Castiel.
“Uh, is it just me,” said Sam, “or are lakes not supposed to have a tide?”
All three turned to see the lake. Without warning (other than Cas’) the water level on the near shore had suddenly drained away a considerable amount.
“OK,” said Dean. “This is when in the horror movie some idiot walks down and looks in and gets his eye stabbed or something.”
“Whoa! Watch out!” shouted Sam. Quite suddenly, the water came rushing back. It swiftly overfilled the lake, and began surging up, towards the three men.
“Uhhhhh. Think we should run?” asked Dean.
“Did you bring a boat?” asked Sam.
“No!”
“Then … run!” shouted Sam.
They took off towards the parking lot, and higher ground. But the water seemed to speed as it climbed up the hill and, as he was the unlucky one in back of the pack, it knocked Dean from his feet. He tried scrambling to his feet in the mud, but just as he was reaching for something to grab on to, he felt something grip his ankle, and he was dragged under the now receding water.
“Dean!” yelled Sam.
“I’ll get him!” said Castiel, who turned and ran back into the water.
“Shit,” said Sam, who was standing next to the Impala. “Mutant piranhas for sure.”
The water was bloody freezing and murky as hell. Dean, as Castiel had before him, tried prying at the hand around his ankle, but had no better luck. He was starting to panic and running out of air when, like a guardian angel (because, let’s face it, that’s what he was) Castiel suddenly appeared and once again amputated Buckley’s hand, slicing through neatly with the sword.
Dean immediately started to kick upwards, and Cas was just in back of him, but suddenly Cas disappeared. Dean, his lungs burning, forced himself to turn around.
It was Buckley, but he seemed to have turned into some kind of multi-armed mutant lake monster. Castiel, caught in his iron grip, was slashing at his gripping hand, but as soon as he sliced through it, Buckley would just grow another arm and grip him tighter. The angel slashed frantically, but only seemed to get more tightly entangled. Buckley was starting to look like a bunch of seaweed with dozens of hands snaking out.
Dean desperately kicked for the surface, his lungs burning. He burst out of the water around where the barbecue pit had been located. Sam was there immediately.
“Gotta go back down! It’s got Cas!” Dean gasped.
“Shit! What do we do! Our guns won’t work under water.”
Dean suddenly felt something in his pants pocket. He dug out the kachina doll. “Come on buddy! Help us!” he told it.
Almost immediately a huge gust of wind blew past Sam and Dean and shot through the still receding waters. It was like a biblical epic movie: to Sam and Dean’s astonishment, the waters were blown all the way back to their normal level. There was a figure down below at the lakeside. He looked tangled up in seaweed.
“Cas!” yelled Dean. They hastened down to the wet and bedraggled figure. To Dean’s utter relief, as soon as he had him in his arms, Cas began choking, and then he turned over and retched up what seemed like half of the lake bottom.
“You all right?” asked Sam.
Still out of breath, Castiel only nodded.
“And see, you learned another human trick! Barfing!” grinned Dean.
Dean didn’t believe he had ever seen the angel actually roll his eyes before.
And then the nest of seaweed began to writhe. “Hey, it’s Buckley!” said Sam.
“Whoa,” said Dean. “Mutant rock star. That’s a new one.” He rooted around in the tangled mess to find where Buckley’s face was located.
“Dudes…” came a moan.
“Buckley! Trying to drown our angel again. Not cool! Seriously not cool!” scolded Dean.
“Sorry, bud! I didn’t mean to!” whined Buckley’s ghost.
“Why the fuck, man! Why the fuck!” raved Dean.
“I was totally tripping! I must have smoked some bad shit, dude.”
“How in hell does a lake monster smoke?” Sam asked one in particular.
“Where did you get the stuff?” asked Dean.
“There were these two dudes….”
“Let me guess,” said Sam. “A big one and a tall one!”
“Hey, that’s the dudes! Those two dudes. Bad dudes. Whoa.”
“Can you pull yourself together?” asked Dean.
“I dunno dude! Your angel kinda smote my ass!”
“You tried to drown Dean!” hollered Castiel, who was up on his feet, his sword pointed at Buckley.
“Whoa!” said Buckley.
“It's OK,” said Dean, pulling Castiel back.
“Nothing personal, bro!” said Buckley, who was sort of assembling into a human-shaped figure again, although he seemed to be lacking a limb here and there. “Whoa,” he said, lifting a body part from the mud, “did I always have two left feet?”
“They were angels,” said Sam.
“Hey, yeah, they were angel dudes. Only they didn't have the totally sparkly aura like your bud. They were all like, creepy and dark.”
“But you took drugs from them anyway?” asked Dean.
“Yeah, dude! They said they had good bud!”
“Can you tell us anything else about them?” asked Sam.
Buckley Jones, who had nearly reassembled himself, minus maybe a part or two, looked contemplative. “They were sick dudes, yeah.”
“Sick? Sick meaning cool or something?” asked Sam.
“No dude! Sick meaning sick. Like they'd been, you know, injured. You know, like that dude!” said Buckley, pointing a stump at Castiel.
“A broken wing?” asked Castiel.
“Yeaaaaaah! Broken angels. Hey, whoa,” said Buckley, “Here's my hand. Hey, anybody need a hand!” he laughed, reattaching it. “Well, I gotta hit it, bitches! Catch you on the flip side!” said Buckley, who was suddenly not there any more.
“Geez. What a douche,” said Dean.
Sam smiled and clapped his brother on the back.
“I do not understand it,” said Castiel. “I had noticed that the two who attacked me flew ineptly. But I do not see how they could continue flying in that state. I can barely move my wing.”
“Maybe the demonic possession strengthens them?” asks Sam.
“Possibly,” said Cas. “It's just....”
“What, Cas?” asked Sam.
“Nothing. I need to think on this.”
“How 'bout we stop for breakfast somewhere along the way,” offered Dean, starting to walk towards the car.
“Will there be pancakes?” asked Castiel, eyes full of hope.
“Yeah, and we can have them with maple syrup.”
“Actually, I think I prefer blueberry syrup,” Castiel confessed.
“What!” said Dean. “Well, then you can't be my friend any more.”
“Oh,” said Castiel, stopping dead, and crossing his arms.
“Hey I didn't mean-” started Dean.
“Well, if you are no longer my friend, this means you can no longer steal my toast, as you have in the past,” said Castiel, wagging a finger.
“Heh, he's got you there,” said Sam, who started to walk to the Car with Castiel.
“What! Wait, that wasn't stealing, that was a mistake!” protested Dean.
“You were supposed to share!” Castiel called back.
“Dean's just greedy,” Sam told Cas.
“I can't help it if he eats slow!” said Dean, going through his pockets. “Hey! I think I lost the car keys in the lake.”
“I still have my set,” said Sam, jingling his keys.
“Shotgun!” yelled Castiel.
“I did not steal that toast. I only borrowed it,” grumbled Dean, as he hurried along after them.
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