Alexandria (Chapter 2 of 13)
Please see the masterpost for warnings, summary, and previous chapters.
Inias bit his lip and watched his brother beside him on the floor, playing with caterpillars.
Abandonment. It was their lot in life.
Castiel had left for a meeting with Metatron, and that was the last they'd seen of him. Inias had waited eagerly for him to return, but then the day stretched into night, and he had gotten more and more nervous. That sick, sinking, utterly familiar feeling. Their mother had left them, and so had their father. Maybe Inias and Samandriel simply deserved to be abandoned.
And then the unsmiling men - Metatron’s men - had stormed into the house, thrown some of Castiel's things in a bag, and told Inias his brother was going some place far away. And they kept mentioning a word he had never heard before, Alexandria. Was that where they were sending Castiel? Inias had scribbled out the word as best he could and stuffed it into Castiel's bag when Samandriel had them distracted by his newest pet. Inias had gotten the note in the bag, though, unfortunately, Sam’s pet hadn’t survived the encounter.
He heard a shuffling of chairs and looked towards the dais. Naomi had come by the next morning to demand they come to the meeting. The town council was in a special session, and the agenda was what to do about two orphaned boys. Boys who happened to own the town’s only smithy. Inias felt his stomach lurch.
Naomi stood up in the center, looking impressive in her robes of office. There weren't a whole lot of people in the audience besides Inias and Samandriel.
Then the door opened, and a small, rumpled man entered. He carried a large, dusty old book. He marched all the way up and sat up right in the front row, but then he took out the book and began to read, as if he were slightly bored with the proceedings. Naomi, who quite suddenly appeared nervous, called everything to order, and then there was some droning about new business and old business.
And then Naomi said, “Regarding the De Angelus brothers....”
Inias felt he was going to be sick.
But now the rumpled man was on his feet, the opened book placed carefully on the chair beside him. “I have some new business,” he said.
“What is it, Metatron?” The council exchanged worried looks, and even Naomi looked flustered.
“I think this council has become redundant, so I'm here to give you your walking papers.” He smiled and tilted his head. The lower half of his face shaped a smile. “So to speak.”
One of the older, fustier council members spoke up. “We are not redundant.”
“Redundant? Is that what I said?” asked Metatron distractedly. “I'm sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say, obliterated.” And before anyone could object, he raised a hand, and, looking down at the book opened on the chair beside him, started to speak some arcane words. It sounded like the words Cas used in the smithy.
The room crackled with a familiar energy.
Naomi gasped, and then screamed, “No!”
Inias grabbed his brother, covering his eyes.
And then it was over, with nothing remaining but the smell of charred flesh.
“Now, Naomi, is it?” asked Metatron, who hopped up on the dais and went to stand before her. Inias held his breath as Naomi stood stock still, eyes wide. “I'm going to give you a choice...”
The journey took a full night and part of the next day.
Sam told him that it was easier to move during the night: it was cooler, and the stars were out to guide them. Castiel, who was too wired to sleep anyway, agreed. And so they had proceeded on foot, although he had no idea how Sam found his way through the drifting dunes.
He thought of the story his mother had read to him, so many years ago, about a boy and a girl who got lost in the woods, and thought perhaps he should have left behind a trail of bread crumbs. Or maybe orange peels. He didn't like the idea of going someplace when he didn't know the way back, and each step took him farther and farther away from his brothers. He reached into his pocket and, for the dozenth time, fingered the scrap of paper from his bag, the one with the word, Alexandria, scrawled out on it.
As for Sam, he had wrapped himself back up in his scarf - he called it a keffiyeh - and rarely spoke. He had at first asked Castiel a few questions about his sword making business, but then seemed to lose interest. It was just as well. Sam was one of the tallest men Castiel had ever met, so it was a job keeping up with his long strides, especially in the dubious footing offered by the endless stretches of sand dunes.
Once when they stopped, Castiel started to pour the accumulated sand from his boots, and Sam chuckled. “You can do that, but it'll just fill up again.”
“Was it always like this?” Castiel asked, not really expecting an answer. “Before the Great Flood?”
“From what I've heard, yeah, even before the Flood,” Sam told him. He spread his arms wide. “This used to be the Republic of Texas.”
“Teck-siz,” said Castiel, trying out the new word for size. Why hadn't he heard about this before? Maybe he had spent too much time with his nose in a book on sword making? “How did you come to live here, Sam?”
“What? My people have always lived here.”
“Oh. All right.” Cas peeled an orange. “Um. Are we close to our destination?”
“Yeah, I'm sorry, we're kind of taking the long way.”
“Are we avoiding … the Enemy?”
Sam chuckled. “Not really. We need to avoid walking through someone else's territory. They might not exactly be welcoming.”
Castiel didn't answer, but remembered what Benny had told him about conflicts between the forts.
Sam took a big pull of water and seemed to be looking Castiel up and down. “So, you're what, 21?”
“I am nineteen years old, Sam.”
Sam flashed a big smile. “Oh, okay, same as me!”
“You are nineteen as well?”
“Nineteen and still growing!” Sam boasted, taking the occasion to stand up. “Dean's pretty peeved. I wasn't supposed to be taller than him.”
“Dean?”
“My brother. Don't worry, you'll meet him.” Sam was now rummaging around in his own pack. He pulled out a black and white scarf. “Here. It's gonna be dawn soon. I'll help you put this on. You look like you've been spending a lot of time indoors.” Sam expertly twisted the scarf around Castiel's head and, with assurances that they were now close to the destination, they set off again.
Castiel finally set his tired eyes on his new residence some hours later. It was probably mid-morning, based on the position of the sun. The terrain had changed some miles back from endless sand to jagged and rocky. He was once again grateful that Sam had escorted him, as he reckoned he could have stumbled right by without seeing the fort, hidden as it was in the shade of two mountains. It had been carved straight out of the red stone of the cliffs. It was stunning.
“This is it. The Red Fort.” Cas canted his head to the side. The sandstone walls did carry a trace of reddish pigment.
Sam led him inside. Castiel’s feet were throbbing, and he was grateful for the cool, shady interior of the grand corridor. Sam greeted a number of people, and then he pulled aside a painfully skinny teenager and had a whispered conversation with him. Sam turned around to Castiel. “He'll take you to Bobby. Bobby will get you settled.” And then, before Castiel could object, Sam was striding off.
By this time Castiel was footsore and in desperate need of a long nap, so he followed the skittish teen without question. They wound through the labyrinthine structure, down this hall and that, and then up several flights up stairs, until finally they emerged into the sunlight, up on the roof. Castiel blinked in the bright light, and then stifled a yawn.
“What, you're bored already?” came a voice. And then there was the sound of chuckling. Castiel turned to address the one who had spoken to him, an older, bearded guy who was now glaring at him.
“Sorry,” Castiel muttered. He noticed there were several swordsmen hanging around, and all were staring at him.
“And what the blazes are you supposed to be?”
Castiel cast a glance at the teen who had brought him up there, but the guy appeared to be trying to disappear into a shadow. And then he faced the speaker. “I'm Castiel De Angelus. The bladesmith.”
“You're what?”
Castiel straightened up, although his back was aching. “I am Castiel De Angelus, the bladesmith.” The swordsmen continued to chuckle.
“Damn. I hollered for a dog, and they went and me a damn puppy,” groused Bobby. “Look, kid, I don't know what you are, but you sure as fuck ain't no master swordsmith.”
“I am,” stated Castiel. “I am Castiel-”
Bobby charged forward. “Do I look like I'm in the mood for an argument?” he snapped, pressing his face close to Castiel's. Castiel bit his tongue. “From now on, you're Castiel de Kitchen Staff, and I don't want to hear no backtalk. Comprende?”
Castiel gritted his teeth and nodded, while the men gathered on the roof continued to laugh.
“Go on, Garth. Get him out of here,” Bobby ordered the teen, who skittered out of the corner where he was hiding and tugged on Castiel's arm. Garth wasn't looking where he was going, and one of the men lounging by the stairs stuck out a foot to trip him. He nearly fell face first, but Castiel was quick enough to grab him by the back of the shirt and right him. Castiel then rounded on the guy who tripped Garth, pushing into his space and glaring at him. Even though the man had a few inches and about fifty pounds on Castiel he took a nervous step back.
“All right, idjits! Quit fucking around and form up!” Bobby yelled. “Garth, get Mr. Important Bladesmith out of my sight.”
Garth nodded and tugged Castiel towards the stairs as the men on the roof began to form up into rows.
Castiel, fuming, followed down the stairs. “You know,” Garth whispered, “That's Virgil. You shouldn't get on his bad side.”
“Why not?”
“He's one of the patrol officers now,” Garth huffed. “But he gets busted down to kitchen staff. Pretty often, too. He could make your life miserable. Believe you me.”
Castiel suddenly halted on the stairs. “So working in the kitchen is … a punishment?”
“Come on!” said Garth, grabbing at Castiel's sleeve. “We don't wanna be late.”
“And why not?”
“Because one guy you really don't wanna piss off is the chef!”
“So, the De Angelus guy.”
Dean glanced up at his brother. He was sitting in his office, feet up on his desk, drinking a beer. “The De Angelus guy?”
“Is a kid.”
“Is a kid?”
Sam pretended to look around. “Is there an echo in here?”
Dean twisted in his seat to face his brother, putting the beer to his lips. “The De Angelus guy is a kid.”
“Is that what I said?” Sam thumped down into the chair opposite Dean.
“How is he a kid?”
“Well, I was talking to him on the way here. It turns out the bladesmith - their father - took off, I guess. So he's been the one making the swords.”
“How the hell long has this been going on?”
Sam shrugged his wide shoulders. “I dunno. Years?”
“But what about those swords we've been seeing? Am I supposed to believe they were made by … some apprentice?”
“Doesn't seem likely.”
“No, it doesn't seem likely.”
“It must still be stuff left around from their father. I mean, I guess.” Sam shrugged.
Dean sighed. “So, basically, we're fucked.”
“Yeah. We're fucked.”
“Now who's the echo?”
Sam smiled.
Dean scratched his head. “So what did we do with the kid?”
“Bobby dumped him in the kitchen.”
“That'll work. If he's any good with a blade, he'll stab Crowley in the heart.”
Sam broke into a grin. “That won't work.”
“Why.”
“Crowley doesn't have a heart.”
Dean snickered.
“And what are you supposed to be?”
The kitchen was housed deep in the bowels of the fort, and it was utter chaos, with sweating, white-coated people running everywhere and flames flickering and occasionally whooshing off something being cooked flambé. The place smelled of carbon and damnation. Castiel, who had no fear of fire after so many years working over a forge, was intrigued to see that Chef Crowley was the only being down here who did not appear to perspire.
“I am Castiel.” He left off anything else, as he had no wish for another fight.
“And so, Castiel, why the blazes did you bring a sword to my kitchen?”
“Uh, they just brought him in, Chef,” Garth supplied.
Crowley's face flushed red. “WAS I TALKING TO YOU, GARTH?”
Garth cringed. “Uh. No sir.”
Crowley turned back to face Castiel. “Well?”
“I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”
“See that you don't. So, I don't suppose you have even the tiniest smidgen of experience working in a kitchen?”
“No.”
Crowley threw up his hands in supplication, nearly tripping a girl rushing by with a dripping colander. “What they make me tolerate! All right, listen well, Castiel. You are to come nowhere near my kitchen while we are doing anything close to meal preparation. Is that clear? I want you away from my kitchen. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I don't want to smell you! You are to come here, quieter than a little mouse, after the last person has been fed, and wash all of the dishes. All of them. And put them away. And never let me know that you were here, darkening my kitchen. IS THIS UNDERSTOOD?”
Castiel nodded. “Yes.”
“Then be back here this evening. But not before.”
“Yes.”
“Now, kindly get lost,” said Crowley, waving him off. Castiel, however, remained rooted to the spot. “Oh, what is it now?”
“I'd like to sleep for a few hours now, chef.”
“Yes I suppose standing here doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING is too taxing on your system.”
“I'll find him a bunk, chef,” said Garth, who was already tugging on Castiel's sleeve.
“See that you do,” grumbled Crowley. He rolled his eyes. “Why am I cursed to work with complete imbeciles?”
Garth led Castiel down a narrow hallway to the kitchen staff dormitory which, Castiel was delighted to learn, was also at this basement level, and was satisfyingly dark. Unfortunately, the only empty bunk was the one right by the door, and he learned, after stowing his meager possessions and finally bedding down, just why it was empty. Every time a staff member entered or left, they made a special point in slamming the door as hard and as loud as they could. Castiel endured an hour or so of this, and then, grabbing a pillow and a blanket, slipped underneath his bunk, and finally curled up there, on the cold hard floor, for a few fitful hours of exhausted sleep.
He was startled from his slumber by someone shaking his shoulder. He wearily crawled out from underneath his bed to see most of the other bunks were now occupied. Those who weren't snoring were busy shushing the unlucky guy who'd woken him up. Whoever it was, he was short and cranky as hell. “Aw, fuck off,” he grumbled, tossing a pillow back at the guy who'd just thrown it at his head. “Come on,” he rasped at Castiel. “Time for your shift. And Crowley doesn't take shit.”
Castiel rubbed his eyes and followed the kid back down the path to the kitchen. It was impossible to tell the time for sure, as there were no windows down here, but many of the lights had been dimmed, and barely anyone was around. The kitchen, far from the hub of chaos it had been this morning, was nearly deserted.
The boy stifled a yawn. “So the deal is, I bus, you clean. You don't leave 'til everything is sparkling. You dig?”
Castiel looked at the sink and nodded. The boy turned to leave. “And you are-?” Cas asked.
“I'm Kevin.”
“Kevin. I'm-”
“Dude, you're the new low man on the totem pole. That's all you are.” And then he was off. Castiel shrugged and began to fill a nearby sink with soapy water. He was amazed by the water pressure, and the heat of the water, was nearly scalding. The plumbing back in his hometown seemed crude by comparison.
Kevin soon returned with a tub full of scummy dishes. He unceremoniously dumped them in the sink and stalked off. Castiel soon lost himself in a rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing. He regretted that soaking in water would probably soften some of the hard-won calluses on his hands, but reassured himself this situation was temporary. Soon, he thought, Benny would come with news of his brothers, and he would return to the North.
“You're falling behind, dimwit.” Castiel was shaken out of his reverie by Kevin, who did not take kindly to being grabbed by the collar and having his head plunged into the dirty dishwater.
“What the fuck?” he sputtered when Castiel let him up. “Are you insane?”
“Potentially.”
Kevin stepped back, out of Castiel’s reach, and coughed. “Why did you do that?”
“My name is Castiel. I suggest that you employ it if you would like to communicate with me.”
“All right. All right. Castiel. I gotta go, get more of the fucking dishes.”
“Are we making any progress in that regard?”
Kevin slumped and put a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah. We're almost done with the dinner dishes. But then we gotta clean the pots and pans and that shit.” He waved his hand around the kitchen. Castiel looked around. The kitchen was chock-a-block with greasy pans and gooey pots. They were stacked seemingly everywhere. He sighed and nodded.
“It takes 'til dawn, usually,” Kevin explained. “Not that you could tell it was dawn in this shithole. You finish about when the prep people are coming in.”
“All right,” said Castiel, turning back towards the sink.
“That's it? 'All right?'” asked Kevin.
“Yes, all right?”
“I didn't wanna be here, you know. I was gonna be something else!”
Castiel grabbed a stack of dishes and handed them to Kevin. “Please place these in the appropriate cupboard, Kevin.”
Kevin frowned, but then did as he was asked.
“And what was your chosen career, Kevin?” asked Castiel, turning back to his chores.
“I'm gonna be a musician! I'm really good.”
“I'm sure you are. Then why are you here?”
Kevin grabbed more dishes from the drain. “My mom … she died.” His voice broke a little on the last word.
“Condolences. Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“Nope. It's just me.”
“I have two younger brothers.”
Kevin frowned. He stopped loading dishes and hopped up on the damp kitchen counter next to Castiel. “Oh! What happened to them?”
“I don't know.”
“Oh. Shit. Well. Sorry, dude.”
“I don't plan to stay here long. I am going go to find them.”
“I dunno, you know? It's not easy leaving here. How did they bring you here? Did you come by car?”
“By … what?” Castiel paused for a moment to stare at Kevin.
“It's like.... Oh never mind.” Kevin looked him up and down. “You're from the North, right?”
“Yes.”
“You'll see.”
Castiel stared for a moment longer, but as Kevin seemed disinclined to elaborate, he turned back to the dishes. “We walked here.”
“Yeah, well, you're not walking away. Not unless you have a guide.”
“Sam seemed to find the way.”
“Yeah, but the Winchesters were born here! Those guys know the territory like the backs of their hands. Guys like you and me, we wouldn't get far. We'd run out of water. Or get captured by another outpost. Or worse, run into the Enemy.”
“Is the Enemy around in great numbers, then?”
“Um....”
“What?”
Kevin picked at the frayed knee of his jeans. “Welllll, I've never really seen them. Or it. Or whatever. But I know they're around! Sam and Dean saw one the other day! I heard about it.”
“Sam and Dean are the Winchesters?”
Kevin goggled at Castiel. “You don't even know that? Yeah. They're in charge. Well, when their dad is gone. is most of the time, actually. This place has been operated by Men of Letters since.... Well, probably at least since the flood!”
“Men of Letters?”
Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation at Castiel’s obvious thick-headedness. “Dude, you can't tell me you haven't heard of them! They're a secret society.”
“If they're a secret society, how have you heard of them?”
Kevin rolled his eyes skyward. “Everybody's heard of them!”
“Pretend, then, that I am ignorant.”
“That won’t be hard,” Kevin muttered.
“Would you mind terribly bringing me some of those pots, Kevin?”
“Yeah, sure, man,” said Kevin, hopping off the counter. He brushed his slightly damp butt and grabbed an armload of frying pans. “So, you know there was the bad time. And the flood. And, um, I’m not sure if there was magic before, but there was magic. And the seven families. Or maybe it was twelve? Guess it depends on who’s telling the story. They built the Seven Sisters outposts to protect us! In the Republic of Texas, right north of Meh-hee-ko.”
“Meh-hee-ko,” Cas murmured.
“There were seven forts, but now there’s six. Um, I’m not sure if they used magic or not, but maybe. Anyway.”
“This is an intriguing story, Kevin.”
“Yeah! Like, everybody knows. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you it all in the North.”
“Yes. That’s surprising.” Castiel scowled as Kevin dumped a pile of cutlery into the sink. He extracted a cutting blade and held it up to the light. Dish suds scudded down the handle. “What is this supposed to be.”
Kevin emitted a giggle. “Dude. It’s a knife.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a knife. This is … shit.”
“Dude. Don’t tell Chef that!”
Castiel glared.
Deep within the bowels of the Onyx Fort, Lucifer sat, his feet up on the desk, and lobbed paper airplanes at the waste basket.
His office door opened and closed. He did not look up.
“My Liege,” came Uriel’s deep rumble.
“A little to the left, Uriel,” muttered Lucifer.
Uriel frowned, and then shuffled a fraction to the left. Lucifer let loose another paper airplane, nearly took Uriel’s eye out, before it fluttered and barely missed his waste basket. Uriel, for his part, stood stock still.
“God dammit.”
“My Liege, Lilith awaits.”
“So let her await. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Uriel stood still a moment more, and then crouched down to retrieve one of the paper airplanes. He patiently unfolded the creation, smoothing it out with his large hands. He cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. The dinner invitation from our good friends, the Winchesters.”
“Yes. It’s annoying. I want to go there and torment that traitor, Crowley, but I then we won’t be able to attack them for at least another month!”
“These gentlemen’s agreements are annoying,” Uriel tutted.
“The best chef in the Seven Sisters, and those rat bastard Winchesters stole him from me.”
“So. Are we attending?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucifer, standing up and stretching. “I’d much rather get eaten by a crawly-bug.” Uriel tossed the dinner invitation over his shoulder, and the two men exited the office and proceeded along a dark hallway and then down an equally dark staircase. “Does she have to do her scrying down here? I’d much rather watch from a nice deck. Maybe with a dancing girl on my lap.”
“You know what Lilith said about that?”
Lucifer emitted a snort. He was well aware of Lilith’s opinions about what she referred to as his “proclivities.” The woman badly needed to loosen up.
The found themselves in a dim, candle-lit room. A stunning blonde glared up at them. She sat at a round table with a shallow dish of a viscous red liquid in the middle.
“Does he have to be here?” she snapped, nodding her head towards Uriel. “He creates a negative energy.”
“Uriel is my second in command,” Lucifer supplied as he took a seat next to Lilith. “So, yes, he and his negative energy are here to stay.” Uriel smirked and took the seat opposite Lucifer. Lilith huffed a frustrated sigh.
“Is the virgin’s blood fresh today?” asked Uriel.
Lilith smiled. Even Lucifer felt a chill down his spine. “It’s perfectly fresh.”
They joined hands, and Lilith shut her eyes. The blood in the bowl began to bubble, and then the surface morphed into a distinctive shape: a small red-tinged replica of the Onyx Fort.
“Show me the Red Fort,” Lucifer told her.
Lilith nodded slightly. The small Onyx Fort shrunk down, and then seemed to roll off the edge of the dish. The image of rough terrain appeared, as if one was gliding over a red desert, and then finally the liquid in the dish formed an image of the Red Fort.
But then Lilith emitted a small cry and whipped her head back. The Red Fort too spun away, off the edge of the dish, and the image changed to more terrain, and then skimming over what looked like water.
“Lilith. What the hell?” asked Lucifer. “I said the Red Fort!”
“I don’t believe she’s in control now,” Uriel told him.
As Lilith began to pant and sweat, the image turned back to a coastline - but full of greenery, and less barren. Then the vision climbed up to a large, impressive building. The building grew in size, and then they were racing down some unfamiliar corridors.
They came to a room full of what looked like small stone obelisks. When you squinted at them, it began to appear that they were not stone at all, but stacks of books. There was a rumpled man standing there among the stacks, casually reading a book. He looked up as he spun into view. He was facing Lucifer, not Lilith.
“Greetings,” intoned Lilith as the figure’s lips moved. “I am Metatron. So nice to chat with you today.” Her voice was unnaturally low. Perspiration dripped down her forehead.
“Metatron?” asked Uriel.
Metatron’s red features formed a sneer. “Oh, very good, Lucifer, you have a pet parrot.”
“Don’t get snarky,” Lucifer told the image of Metatron. “That’s my job.”
“Oh, you’re not intimidated? That’s charming. You probably should be. But you’ve always been a bit of an idiot, haven’t you?”
“What do you want?” said Lucifer. “That’s my psychic you’re hijacking.”
“This won’t damage her. Much. And it’s what you want, not me. I’ve sent you a present.”
“That’s good. I love presents. Especially ones for me.”
“I’ve sent you a bladesmith.”
Lucifer and Uriel exchanged a glance. Now both men leaned forward, interested. “We’re listening,” said Lucifer.
“He’s with the Winchesters.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes. “If you’re sending him to me, why did he end up with the Winchesters? That’s not a very good gift.”
Metatron’s red image in the bowl glowered. “It was a fuck up,” Lilith intoned, her voice low. “He was given to the wrong pirates. And then we sent our pirates after him, but they screwed up as well.”
“Imagine,” cooed Uriel, “not being able to trust a pirate.”
“Silence, parrot.”
Lucifer gestured for Uriel to be quiet, and it was Uriel’s turn to fume.
“The boy’s name is Castiel. Of the De Angelus family.”
“I have heard of them,” said Lucifer, pressing his hands together. “And, why are you giving this gift to me?”
“I’m doing some … consolidation, you could call it, up here in the North. I need someone to do the same down South.”
“But why me?” asked Lucifer.
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“I’m a curious creature.”
Metatron sighed. “Just get the bladesmith. By cunning or force, I don’t care, though it seems you’re a little short on the former, so I’d recommend the latter. Now, I have some reading to catch up on.” Metatron’s eyes went back to the book, and suddenly his image in the blood was shrinking as if they were flying away from him. The building appeared again, and then the coastline, and then the red blood splashed as Lilith reared back, eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Uriel took out a handkerchief to wipe away a spot of blood from the bowl that had gotten on his lapel. Lucifer got up and gripped Lilith by the hair, bringing her head up. She was unconscious, foaming at the mouth. Lucifer let go her hair and her head lolled back.
“Perhaps the virgin blood wasn’t as fresh as she thought,” said Uriel.
Lucifer nodded towards the door, and they retreated, leaving Lilith sitting there. “The dinner invitation?” said Lucifer.
“Yes?”
“We need to dig it out of the waste paper basket.”
“What is this?”
“Uh. Chicken, Chef?”
Crowley glowered at the trembling sous-chef and held up the plucked pink carcass by one talon. “You would call this chicken?”
“Would I call this chicken?” repeated the sous-chef.
“What did I just ask you, moron? This is not poultry. It’s a bag of bones. A bag of bones!” But Crowley jumped back in mid-tirade and nearly dropped his non-chicken as suddenly a great pile of cutlery was dumped on the table before him.
“Do you call these knives?” Castiel demanded as he stepped boldly before the chef.
Crowley looked at the table, looked up at Castiel, looked back at the table, and then to the sous-chef he had been berating. “Is this a joke?”
“I assure you, this is no joke,” Castiel told him.
“Yes, I call these knives. Next question. And didn't I tell you to make yourself scarce?”
“These blades wouldn't cut through warm butter.”
“And what the bloody hell do you presume to know about blades?”
It happened in a split second: Castiel grabbed a cleaver and flicked it at the wall. It embedded in the door with a dull thrum.
Crowley and the sous-chef, as well as several other people who happened to be nearby, all stopped and gawped at the cleaver.
“I know something about blades,” said Castiel.
“Holy shit,” muttered Crowley, more to himself than anyone else. “I think I'm aroused.”
The door opened, and a tall green-eyed man poked his head inside. He looked at the cleaver and grinned. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Winchester,” grumbled the chef. “All right, everybody!” he shouted. “Get to your bloody jobs before I have the dish washer do another demonstration.”
Kitchen personnel scattered. Dean Winchester entered the room, and a small nervous man clutching a clipboard followed behind. Castiel continued to scowl at Crowley.
“You're the busboy?” Dean asked Castiel.
“I'm the dishwasher,” he deadpanned, not taking his eyes from the chef. “Do you have a whetstone?” he demanded of Crowley.
“That will improve things you think?” mused Crowley, who was now twiddling a carving knife.
“Your knives will still be shit. But they will be sharp.”
“Good enough for me. Will one of you idiots GET ME A WHETSTONE.” After a pause, there was a rustling, and at least three different people placed implements of various shapes and sizes on the table in front of Crowley. “Take your pick,” he told Castiel. Castiel grabbed a long sharpening steel and, pausing only to pick up a few of the knives, strode over to an empty station.
“I need to talk to you, Castiel,” said Dean, who followed along.
“You don't really have time for this, Dean,” said the nervous man behind him, who was now tapping his clipboard with a pen.
“I have time, Chuck. Don't freak.”
Castiel stuck the steel on the table, but did not apply any of the knives to it. Instead, he spread his hands around it and closed his eyes. Muttering a few words in a strange language, he scowled and gave his fingers a slight twitch. There was a crackle, and the steel sparked slightly. Castiel opened his eyes and grabbed one of the knives.
Dean blinked in surprise. “So, you use magic.”
“Yes, I use magic,” grumbled Castiel, who was already expertly scraping a knife along the magicked steel.
“We haven't been introduced. I'm Dean-”
“Winchester. Yes.” Castiel held up the knife, watching the blade flash in the kitchen light.
“Yeah. So anyway, the reason we brought you here-”
“You kidnapped me.”
“Well, technically-”
“Dean,” said Chuck, sotto voce. “Do I need to point out he has a knife? Actually, several knives?”
Dean hushed Chuck with a gesture. Castiel ran the knife up and down the steel again. “Uh. Is it sharp yet?” Dean asked.
Castiel reached over and tore a sheet of paper off Chuck's clipboard. While Chuck was still standing there, sputtering in protest, he ran the knife through it. It fell apart with barely a rip. “Yeah. Sharp.”
“Fucking A, Dean!” said Chuck.
“I wanted to ask you about your dad,” Dean persisted.
“What about him?”
“Well, when was the last you saw him?”
Castiel glanced at his hand, his fingers wiggling up and down as if he were counting down. “Approximately three years, two months, and eleven days ago.”
“Okay. And, you haven't heard anything since?”
Castiel finally looked up at Dean. He glared. “If I had, would I be here?”
“Maybe, maybe not?”
“I would choose to give up my inheritance to work scrubbing your filthy dishes?”
“Look, dude. I have responsibilities too! In case you haven't noticed, there's not exactly a whole lot of us, and we're keeping the Enemy at bay. And the swords my guys are using, they're not up to the job.”
“They're utter shit. I've seen them,” Castiel sniffed, turning back to his knives. “Worse than the cutlery.”
“Yeah, I'm real grateful for the opinion of a busboy.”
“I'm not the busboy. I'm the dishwasher.”
Crowley and a couple of sous-chefs now crowded around. “So what's going on with my knives?”
Castiel snatched a carrot off another counter and in a blur of metal had it diced.
“Excellent!” said Crowley. “My dear boy, you are no longer the dishwasher, you are hereafter and eternally on prep. Someone get him a station.”
“I was just up all night washing dishes,” Castiel groused.
“You can have nap time afterwards. I will even read you a charming bedtime story! All about a psychotic little cook. Julienning before play, we always say.”
“The other dormitory residents won't let me sleep.”
Crowley took a step forward. He reached out and cupped Castiel's face. “My lovely knife-happy boy, I promise, if you slice and dice for me now, I will personally go and murder every other single resident of that dormitory.”
Castiel stared for a moment. “All right.”
The sous-chefs, both of whom now shared a dormitory with Castiel, both shuddered.
“Are we done?” Castiel asked Dean.
Dean nodded and made his way out, Chuck hot on his heels. Dean stopped and once again admired the cleaver Cas had embedded in the door. He grabbed it on his way out. Chuck flinched back, but then kept up his pursuit as Dean hefted the cleaver.
“That was unproductive,” Chuck sniffed, keeping well back of the blade.
“The thing I don't get, I could swear some of those good swords we’ve been seeing are new.”
“And you seriously think Mr. Stabby Pants in there forged them, Dean?”
“Well.” Dean twirled the cleaver. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You're gonna lose a digit that way!''
Dean grinned an evil grin and let the cleaver spin around twice in his hand. Chuck actually gulped.
“Uh. We have a lot on the agenda,” said Chuck, eyeing the clipboard.
“I'm gonna go talk to Sam.”
“What?”
“I said I'm gonna go talk to Sam. I'll be back in a bit.” Dean flung the cleaver up into the air and turned up a staircase, leaving Chuck in the hallway looking up, terrified. The cleaver spun and came down and he cowered. But at the last minute, Dean stuck out a hand and caught it by the handle. And then he hurried on up the staircase, leaving Chuck fuming in the hallway.
Chuck looked up and down, and then put his hand into his jacket and pulled out a flask. He took a rather generous swig, and then continued on down the hallway.
The lights switched on in the dormitory, and Crowley marched in. All of the personnel, from busboy to sous-chef, stood at attention. Crowley, with Castiel following behind him, walked over to the bunk in the very back corner of the room.
“Who is here?”
“Uh. Me, Chef.”
Crowley ripped off the bedding and thrust it at the boy who's spoken. “Not anymore,” he told him. And then, nodding to Castiel, and giving everyone in the room a good glare, he strode out.
Castiel calmly laid his own bedding down on the corner bunk and then, being careful to take out the very long, very sharp knife he was now carrying, stuck it underneath his pillow, and then bedded down.
NEXT
Inias bit his lip and watched his brother beside him on the floor, playing with caterpillars.
Abandonment. It was their lot in life.
Castiel had left for a meeting with Metatron, and that was the last they'd seen of him. Inias had waited eagerly for him to return, but then the day stretched into night, and he had gotten more and more nervous. That sick, sinking, utterly familiar feeling. Their mother had left them, and so had their father. Maybe Inias and Samandriel simply deserved to be abandoned.
And then the unsmiling men - Metatron’s men - had stormed into the house, thrown some of Castiel's things in a bag, and told Inias his brother was going some place far away. And they kept mentioning a word he had never heard before, Alexandria. Was that where they were sending Castiel? Inias had scribbled out the word as best he could and stuffed it into Castiel's bag when Samandriel had them distracted by his newest pet. Inias had gotten the note in the bag, though, unfortunately, Sam’s pet hadn’t survived the encounter.
He heard a shuffling of chairs and looked towards the dais. Naomi had come by the next morning to demand they come to the meeting. The town council was in a special session, and the agenda was what to do about two orphaned boys. Boys who happened to own the town’s only smithy. Inias felt his stomach lurch.
Naomi stood up in the center, looking impressive in her robes of office. There weren't a whole lot of people in the audience besides Inias and Samandriel.
Then the door opened, and a small, rumpled man entered. He carried a large, dusty old book. He marched all the way up and sat up right in the front row, but then he took out the book and began to read, as if he were slightly bored with the proceedings. Naomi, who quite suddenly appeared nervous, called everything to order, and then there was some droning about new business and old business.
And then Naomi said, “Regarding the De Angelus brothers....”
Inias felt he was going to be sick.
But now the rumpled man was on his feet, the opened book placed carefully on the chair beside him. “I have some new business,” he said.
“What is it, Metatron?” The council exchanged worried looks, and even Naomi looked flustered.
“I think this council has become redundant, so I'm here to give you your walking papers.” He smiled and tilted his head. The lower half of his face shaped a smile. “So to speak.”
One of the older, fustier council members spoke up. “We are not redundant.”
“Redundant? Is that what I said?” asked Metatron distractedly. “I'm sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say, obliterated.” And before anyone could object, he raised a hand, and, looking down at the book opened on the chair beside him, started to speak some arcane words. It sounded like the words Cas used in the smithy.
The room crackled with a familiar energy.
Naomi gasped, and then screamed, “No!”
Inias grabbed his brother, covering his eyes.
And then it was over, with nothing remaining but the smell of charred flesh.
“Now, Naomi, is it?” asked Metatron, who hopped up on the dais and went to stand before her. Inias held his breath as Naomi stood stock still, eyes wide. “I'm going to give you a choice...”
The journey took a full night and part of the next day.
Sam told him that it was easier to move during the night: it was cooler, and the stars were out to guide them. Castiel, who was too wired to sleep anyway, agreed. And so they had proceeded on foot, although he had no idea how Sam found his way through the drifting dunes.
He thought of the story his mother had read to him, so many years ago, about a boy and a girl who got lost in the woods, and thought perhaps he should have left behind a trail of bread crumbs. Or maybe orange peels. He didn't like the idea of going someplace when he didn't know the way back, and each step took him farther and farther away from his brothers. He reached into his pocket and, for the dozenth time, fingered the scrap of paper from his bag, the one with the word, Alexandria, scrawled out on it.
As for Sam, he had wrapped himself back up in his scarf - he called it a keffiyeh - and rarely spoke. He had at first asked Castiel a few questions about his sword making business, but then seemed to lose interest. It was just as well. Sam was one of the tallest men Castiel had ever met, so it was a job keeping up with his long strides, especially in the dubious footing offered by the endless stretches of sand dunes.
Once when they stopped, Castiel started to pour the accumulated sand from his boots, and Sam chuckled. “You can do that, but it'll just fill up again.”
“Was it always like this?” Castiel asked, not really expecting an answer. “Before the Great Flood?”
“From what I've heard, yeah, even before the Flood,” Sam told him. He spread his arms wide. “This used to be the Republic of Texas.”
“Teck-siz,” said Castiel, trying out the new word for size. Why hadn't he heard about this before? Maybe he had spent too much time with his nose in a book on sword making? “How did you come to live here, Sam?”
“What? My people have always lived here.”
“Oh. All right.” Cas peeled an orange. “Um. Are we close to our destination?”
“Yeah, I'm sorry, we're kind of taking the long way.”
“Are we avoiding … the Enemy?”
Sam chuckled. “Not really. We need to avoid walking through someone else's territory. They might not exactly be welcoming.”
Castiel didn't answer, but remembered what Benny had told him about conflicts between the forts.
Sam took a big pull of water and seemed to be looking Castiel up and down. “So, you're what, 21?”
“I am nineteen years old, Sam.”
Sam flashed a big smile. “Oh, okay, same as me!”
“You are nineteen as well?”
“Nineteen and still growing!” Sam boasted, taking the occasion to stand up. “Dean's pretty peeved. I wasn't supposed to be taller than him.”
“Dean?”
“My brother. Don't worry, you'll meet him.” Sam was now rummaging around in his own pack. He pulled out a black and white scarf. “Here. It's gonna be dawn soon. I'll help you put this on. You look like you've been spending a lot of time indoors.” Sam expertly twisted the scarf around Castiel's head and, with assurances that they were now close to the destination, they set off again.
Castiel finally set his tired eyes on his new residence some hours later. It was probably mid-morning, based on the position of the sun. The terrain had changed some miles back from endless sand to jagged and rocky. He was once again grateful that Sam had escorted him, as he reckoned he could have stumbled right by without seeing the fort, hidden as it was in the shade of two mountains. It had been carved straight out of the red stone of the cliffs. It was stunning.
“This is it. The Red Fort.” Cas canted his head to the side. The sandstone walls did carry a trace of reddish pigment.
Sam led him inside. Castiel’s feet were throbbing, and he was grateful for the cool, shady interior of the grand corridor. Sam greeted a number of people, and then he pulled aside a painfully skinny teenager and had a whispered conversation with him. Sam turned around to Castiel. “He'll take you to Bobby. Bobby will get you settled.” And then, before Castiel could object, Sam was striding off.
By this time Castiel was footsore and in desperate need of a long nap, so he followed the skittish teen without question. They wound through the labyrinthine structure, down this hall and that, and then up several flights up stairs, until finally they emerged into the sunlight, up on the roof. Castiel blinked in the bright light, and then stifled a yawn.
“What, you're bored already?” came a voice. And then there was the sound of chuckling. Castiel turned to address the one who had spoken to him, an older, bearded guy who was now glaring at him.
“Sorry,” Castiel muttered. He noticed there were several swordsmen hanging around, and all were staring at him.
“And what the blazes are you supposed to be?”
Castiel cast a glance at the teen who had brought him up there, but the guy appeared to be trying to disappear into a shadow. And then he faced the speaker. “I'm Castiel De Angelus. The bladesmith.”
“You're what?”
Castiel straightened up, although his back was aching. “I am Castiel De Angelus, the bladesmith.” The swordsmen continued to chuckle.
“Damn. I hollered for a dog, and they went and me a damn puppy,” groused Bobby. “Look, kid, I don't know what you are, but you sure as fuck ain't no master swordsmith.”
“I am,” stated Castiel. “I am Castiel-”
Bobby charged forward. “Do I look like I'm in the mood for an argument?” he snapped, pressing his face close to Castiel's. Castiel bit his tongue. “From now on, you're Castiel de Kitchen Staff, and I don't want to hear no backtalk. Comprende?”
Castiel gritted his teeth and nodded, while the men gathered on the roof continued to laugh.
“Go on, Garth. Get him out of here,” Bobby ordered the teen, who skittered out of the corner where he was hiding and tugged on Castiel's arm. Garth wasn't looking where he was going, and one of the men lounging by the stairs stuck out a foot to trip him. He nearly fell face first, but Castiel was quick enough to grab him by the back of the shirt and right him. Castiel then rounded on the guy who tripped Garth, pushing into his space and glaring at him. Even though the man had a few inches and about fifty pounds on Castiel he took a nervous step back.
“All right, idjits! Quit fucking around and form up!” Bobby yelled. “Garth, get Mr. Important Bladesmith out of my sight.”
Garth nodded and tugged Castiel towards the stairs as the men on the roof began to form up into rows.
Castiel, fuming, followed down the stairs. “You know,” Garth whispered, “That's Virgil. You shouldn't get on his bad side.”
“Why not?”
“He's one of the patrol officers now,” Garth huffed. “But he gets busted down to kitchen staff. Pretty often, too. He could make your life miserable. Believe you me.”
Castiel suddenly halted on the stairs. “So working in the kitchen is … a punishment?”
“Come on!” said Garth, grabbing at Castiel's sleeve. “We don't wanna be late.”
“And why not?”
“Because one guy you really don't wanna piss off is the chef!”
“So, the De Angelus guy.”
Dean glanced up at his brother. He was sitting in his office, feet up on his desk, drinking a beer. “The De Angelus guy?”
“Is a kid.”
“Is a kid?”
Sam pretended to look around. “Is there an echo in here?”
Dean twisted in his seat to face his brother, putting the beer to his lips. “The De Angelus guy is a kid.”
“Is that what I said?” Sam thumped down into the chair opposite Dean.
“How is he a kid?”
“Well, I was talking to him on the way here. It turns out the bladesmith - their father - took off, I guess. So he's been the one making the swords.”
“How the hell long has this been going on?”
Sam shrugged his wide shoulders. “I dunno. Years?”
“But what about those swords we've been seeing? Am I supposed to believe they were made by … some apprentice?”
“Doesn't seem likely.”
“No, it doesn't seem likely.”
“It must still be stuff left around from their father. I mean, I guess.” Sam shrugged.
Dean sighed. “So, basically, we're fucked.”
“Yeah. We're fucked.”
“Now who's the echo?”
Sam smiled.
Dean scratched his head. “So what did we do with the kid?”
“Bobby dumped him in the kitchen.”
“That'll work. If he's any good with a blade, he'll stab Crowley in the heart.”
Sam broke into a grin. “That won't work.”
“Why.”
“Crowley doesn't have a heart.”
Dean snickered.
“And what are you supposed to be?”
The kitchen was housed deep in the bowels of the fort, and it was utter chaos, with sweating, white-coated people running everywhere and flames flickering and occasionally whooshing off something being cooked flambé. The place smelled of carbon and damnation. Castiel, who had no fear of fire after so many years working over a forge, was intrigued to see that Chef Crowley was the only being down here who did not appear to perspire.
“I am Castiel.” He left off anything else, as he had no wish for another fight.
“And so, Castiel, why the blazes did you bring a sword to my kitchen?”
“Uh, they just brought him in, Chef,” Garth supplied.
Crowley's face flushed red. “WAS I TALKING TO YOU, GARTH?”
Garth cringed. “Uh. No sir.”
Crowley turned back to face Castiel. “Well?”
“I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”
“See that you don't. So, I don't suppose you have even the tiniest smidgen of experience working in a kitchen?”
“No.”
Crowley threw up his hands in supplication, nearly tripping a girl rushing by with a dripping colander. “What they make me tolerate! All right, listen well, Castiel. You are to come nowhere near my kitchen while we are doing anything close to meal preparation. Is that clear? I want you away from my kitchen. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I don't want to smell you! You are to come here, quieter than a little mouse, after the last person has been fed, and wash all of the dishes. All of them. And put them away. And never let me know that you were here, darkening my kitchen. IS THIS UNDERSTOOD?”
Castiel nodded. “Yes.”
“Then be back here this evening. But not before.”
“Yes.”
“Now, kindly get lost,” said Crowley, waving him off. Castiel, however, remained rooted to the spot. “Oh, what is it now?”
“I'd like to sleep for a few hours now, chef.”
“Yes I suppose standing here doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING is too taxing on your system.”
“I'll find him a bunk, chef,” said Garth, who was already tugging on Castiel's sleeve.
“See that you do,” grumbled Crowley. He rolled his eyes. “Why am I cursed to work with complete imbeciles?”
Garth led Castiel down a narrow hallway to the kitchen staff dormitory which, Castiel was delighted to learn, was also at this basement level, and was satisfyingly dark. Unfortunately, the only empty bunk was the one right by the door, and he learned, after stowing his meager possessions and finally bedding down, just why it was empty. Every time a staff member entered or left, they made a special point in slamming the door as hard and as loud as they could. Castiel endured an hour or so of this, and then, grabbing a pillow and a blanket, slipped underneath his bunk, and finally curled up there, on the cold hard floor, for a few fitful hours of exhausted sleep.
He was startled from his slumber by someone shaking his shoulder. He wearily crawled out from underneath his bed to see most of the other bunks were now occupied. Those who weren't snoring were busy shushing the unlucky guy who'd woken him up. Whoever it was, he was short and cranky as hell. “Aw, fuck off,” he grumbled, tossing a pillow back at the guy who'd just thrown it at his head. “Come on,” he rasped at Castiel. “Time for your shift. And Crowley doesn't take shit.”
Castiel rubbed his eyes and followed the kid back down the path to the kitchen. It was impossible to tell the time for sure, as there were no windows down here, but many of the lights had been dimmed, and barely anyone was around. The kitchen, far from the hub of chaos it had been this morning, was nearly deserted.
The boy stifled a yawn. “So the deal is, I bus, you clean. You don't leave 'til everything is sparkling. You dig?”
Castiel looked at the sink and nodded. The boy turned to leave. “And you are-?” Cas asked.
“I'm Kevin.”
“Kevin. I'm-”
“Dude, you're the new low man on the totem pole. That's all you are.” And then he was off. Castiel shrugged and began to fill a nearby sink with soapy water. He was amazed by the water pressure, and the heat of the water, was nearly scalding. The plumbing back in his hometown seemed crude by comparison.
Kevin soon returned with a tub full of scummy dishes. He unceremoniously dumped them in the sink and stalked off. Castiel soon lost himself in a rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing. He regretted that soaking in water would probably soften some of the hard-won calluses on his hands, but reassured himself this situation was temporary. Soon, he thought, Benny would come with news of his brothers, and he would return to the North.
“You're falling behind, dimwit.” Castiel was shaken out of his reverie by Kevin, who did not take kindly to being grabbed by the collar and having his head plunged into the dirty dishwater.
“What the fuck?” he sputtered when Castiel let him up. “Are you insane?”
“Potentially.”
Kevin stepped back, out of Castiel’s reach, and coughed. “Why did you do that?”
“My name is Castiel. I suggest that you employ it if you would like to communicate with me.”
“All right. All right. Castiel. I gotta go, get more of the fucking dishes.”
“Are we making any progress in that regard?”
Kevin slumped and put a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah. We're almost done with the dinner dishes. But then we gotta clean the pots and pans and that shit.” He waved his hand around the kitchen. Castiel looked around. The kitchen was chock-a-block with greasy pans and gooey pots. They were stacked seemingly everywhere. He sighed and nodded.
“It takes 'til dawn, usually,” Kevin explained. “Not that you could tell it was dawn in this shithole. You finish about when the prep people are coming in.”
“All right,” said Castiel, turning back towards the sink.
“That's it? 'All right?'” asked Kevin.
“Yes, all right?”
“I didn't wanna be here, you know. I was gonna be something else!”
Castiel grabbed a stack of dishes and handed them to Kevin. “Please place these in the appropriate cupboard, Kevin.”
Kevin frowned, but then did as he was asked.
“And what was your chosen career, Kevin?” asked Castiel, turning back to his chores.
“I'm gonna be a musician! I'm really good.”
“I'm sure you are. Then why are you here?”
Kevin grabbed more dishes from the drain. “My mom … she died.” His voice broke a little on the last word.
“Condolences. Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“Nope. It's just me.”
“I have two younger brothers.”
Kevin frowned. He stopped loading dishes and hopped up on the damp kitchen counter next to Castiel. “Oh! What happened to them?”
“I don't know.”
“Oh. Shit. Well. Sorry, dude.”
“I don't plan to stay here long. I am going go to find them.”
“I dunno, you know? It's not easy leaving here. How did they bring you here? Did you come by car?”
“By … what?” Castiel paused for a moment to stare at Kevin.
“It's like.... Oh never mind.” Kevin looked him up and down. “You're from the North, right?”
“Yes.”
“You'll see.”
Castiel stared for a moment longer, but as Kevin seemed disinclined to elaborate, he turned back to the dishes. “We walked here.”
“Yeah, well, you're not walking away. Not unless you have a guide.”
“Sam seemed to find the way.”
“Yeah, but the Winchesters were born here! Those guys know the territory like the backs of their hands. Guys like you and me, we wouldn't get far. We'd run out of water. Or get captured by another outpost. Or worse, run into the Enemy.”
“Is the Enemy around in great numbers, then?”
“Um....”
“What?”
Kevin picked at the frayed knee of his jeans. “Welllll, I've never really seen them. Or it. Or whatever. But I know they're around! Sam and Dean saw one the other day! I heard about it.”
“Sam and Dean are the Winchesters?”
Kevin goggled at Castiel. “You don't even know that? Yeah. They're in charge. Well, when their dad is gone. is most of the time, actually. This place has been operated by Men of Letters since.... Well, probably at least since the flood!”
“Men of Letters?”
Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation at Castiel’s obvious thick-headedness. “Dude, you can't tell me you haven't heard of them! They're a secret society.”
“If they're a secret society, how have you heard of them?”
Kevin rolled his eyes skyward. “Everybody's heard of them!”
“Pretend, then, that I am ignorant.”
“That won’t be hard,” Kevin muttered.
“Would you mind terribly bringing me some of those pots, Kevin?”
“Yeah, sure, man,” said Kevin, hopping off the counter. He brushed his slightly damp butt and grabbed an armload of frying pans. “So, you know there was the bad time. And the flood. And, um, I’m not sure if there was magic before, but there was magic. And the seven families. Or maybe it was twelve? Guess it depends on who’s telling the story. They built the Seven Sisters outposts to protect us! In the Republic of Texas, right north of Meh-hee-ko.”
“Meh-hee-ko,” Cas murmured.
“There were seven forts, but now there’s six. Um, I’m not sure if they used magic or not, but maybe. Anyway.”
“This is an intriguing story, Kevin.”
“Yeah! Like, everybody knows. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you it all in the North.”
“Yes. That’s surprising.” Castiel scowled as Kevin dumped a pile of cutlery into the sink. He extracted a cutting blade and held it up to the light. Dish suds scudded down the handle. “What is this supposed to be.”
Kevin emitted a giggle. “Dude. It’s a knife.”
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “This is not a knife. This is … shit.”
“Dude. Don’t tell Chef that!”
Castiel glared.
Deep within the bowels of the Onyx Fort, Lucifer sat, his feet up on the desk, and lobbed paper airplanes at the waste basket.
His office door opened and closed. He did not look up.
“My Liege,” came Uriel’s deep rumble.
“A little to the left, Uriel,” muttered Lucifer.
Uriel frowned, and then shuffled a fraction to the left. Lucifer let loose another paper airplane, nearly took Uriel’s eye out, before it fluttered and barely missed his waste basket. Uriel, for his part, stood stock still.
“God dammit.”
“My Liege, Lilith awaits.”
“So let her await. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Uriel stood still a moment more, and then crouched down to retrieve one of the paper airplanes. He patiently unfolded the creation, smoothing it out with his large hands. He cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. The dinner invitation from our good friends, the Winchesters.”
“Yes. It’s annoying. I want to go there and torment that traitor, Crowley, but I then we won’t be able to attack them for at least another month!”
“These gentlemen’s agreements are annoying,” Uriel tutted.
“The best chef in the Seven Sisters, and those rat bastard Winchesters stole him from me.”
“So. Are we attending?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucifer, standing up and stretching. “I’d much rather get eaten by a crawly-bug.” Uriel tossed the dinner invitation over his shoulder, and the two men exited the office and proceeded along a dark hallway and then down an equally dark staircase. “Does she have to do her scrying down here? I’d much rather watch from a nice deck. Maybe with a dancing girl on my lap.”
“You know what Lilith said about that?”
Lucifer emitted a snort. He was well aware of Lilith’s opinions about what she referred to as his “proclivities.” The woman badly needed to loosen up.
The found themselves in a dim, candle-lit room. A stunning blonde glared up at them. She sat at a round table with a shallow dish of a viscous red liquid in the middle.
“Does he have to be here?” she snapped, nodding her head towards Uriel. “He creates a negative energy.”
“Uriel is my second in command,” Lucifer supplied as he took a seat next to Lilith. “So, yes, he and his negative energy are here to stay.” Uriel smirked and took the seat opposite Lucifer. Lilith huffed a frustrated sigh.
“Is the virgin’s blood fresh today?” asked Uriel.
Lilith smiled. Even Lucifer felt a chill down his spine. “It’s perfectly fresh.”
They joined hands, and Lilith shut her eyes. The blood in the bowl began to bubble, and then the surface morphed into a distinctive shape: a small red-tinged replica of the Onyx Fort.
“Show me the Red Fort,” Lucifer told her.
Lilith nodded slightly. The small Onyx Fort shrunk down, and then seemed to roll off the edge of the dish. The image of rough terrain appeared, as if one was gliding over a red desert, and then finally the liquid in the dish formed an image of the Red Fort.
But then Lilith emitted a small cry and whipped her head back. The Red Fort too spun away, off the edge of the dish, and the image changed to more terrain, and then skimming over what looked like water.
“Lilith. What the hell?” asked Lucifer. “I said the Red Fort!”
“I don’t believe she’s in control now,” Uriel told him.
As Lilith began to pant and sweat, the image turned back to a coastline - but full of greenery, and less barren. Then the vision climbed up to a large, impressive building. The building grew in size, and then they were racing down some unfamiliar corridors.
They came to a room full of what looked like small stone obelisks. When you squinted at them, it began to appear that they were not stone at all, but stacks of books. There was a rumpled man standing there among the stacks, casually reading a book. He looked up as he spun into view. He was facing Lucifer, not Lilith.
“Greetings,” intoned Lilith as the figure’s lips moved. “I am Metatron. So nice to chat with you today.” Her voice was unnaturally low. Perspiration dripped down her forehead.
“Metatron?” asked Uriel.
Metatron’s red features formed a sneer. “Oh, very good, Lucifer, you have a pet parrot.”
“Don’t get snarky,” Lucifer told the image of Metatron. “That’s my job.”
“Oh, you’re not intimidated? That’s charming. You probably should be. But you’ve always been a bit of an idiot, haven’t you?”
“What do you want?” said Lucifer. “That’s my psychic you’re hijacking.”
“This won’t damage her. Much. And it’s what you want, not me. I’ve sent you a present.”
“That’s good. I love presents. Especially ones for me.”
“I’ve sent you a bladesmith.”
Lucifer and Uriel exchanged a glance. Now both men leaned forward, interested. “We’re listening,” said Lucifer.
“He’s with the Winchesters.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes. “If you’re sending him to me, why did he end up with the Winchesters? That’s not a very good gift.”
Metatron’s red image in the bowl glowered. “It was a fuck up,” Lilith intoned, her voice low. “He was given to the wrong pirates. And then we sent our pirates after him, but they screwed up as well.”
“Imagine,” cooed Uriel, “not being able to trust a pirate.”
“Silence, parrot.”
Lucifer gestured for Uriel to be quiet, and it was Uriel’s turn to fume.
“The boy’s name is Castiel. Of the De Angelus family.”
“I have heard of them,” said Lucifer, pressing his hands together. “And, why are you giving this gift to me?”
“I’m doing some … consolidation, you could call it, up here in the North. I need someone to do the same down South.”
“But why me?” asked Lucifer.
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“I’m a curious creature.”
Metatron sighed. “Just get the bladesmith. By cunning or force, I don’t care, though it seems you’re a little short on the former, so I’d recommend the latter. Now, I have some reading to catch up on.” Metatron’s eyes went back to the book, and suddenly his image in the blood was shrinking as if they were flying away from him. The building appeared again, and then the coastline, and then the red blood splashed as Lilith reared back, eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Uriel took out a handkerchief to wipe away a spot of blood from the bowl that had gotten on his lapel. Lucifer got up and gripped Lilith by the hair, bringing her head up. She was unconscious, foaming at the mouth. Lucifer let go her hair and her head lolled back.
“Perhaps the virgin blood wasn’t as fresh as she thought,” said Uriel.
Lucifer nodded towards the door, and they retreated, leaving Lilith sitting there. “The dinner invitation?” said Lucifer.
“Yes?”
“We need to dig it out of the waste paper basket.”
“What is this?”
“Uh. Chicken, Chef?”
Crowley glowered at the trembling sous-chef and held up the plucked pink carcass by one talon. “You would call this chicken?”
“Would I call this chicken?” repeated the sous-chef.
“What did I just ask you, moron? This is not poultry. It’s a bag of bones. A bag of bones!” But Crowley jumped back in mid-tirade and nearly dropped his non-chicken as suddenly a great pile of cutlery was dumped on the table before him.
“Do you call these knives?” Castiel demanded as he stepped boldly before the chef.
Crowley looked at the table, looked up at Castiel, looked back at the table, and then to the sous-chef he had been berating. “Is this a joke?”
“I assure you, this is no joke,” Castiel told him.
“Yes, I call these knives. Next question. And didn't I tell you to make yourself scarce?”
“These blades wouldn't cut through warm butter.”
“And what the bloody hell do you presume to know about blades?”
It happened in a split second: Castiel grabbed a cleaver and flicked it at the wall. It embedded in the door with a dull thrum.
Crowley and the sous-chef, as well as several other people who happened to be nearby, all stopped and gawped at the cleaver.
“I know something about blades,” said Castiel.
“Holy shit,” muttered Crowley, more to himself than anyone else. “I think I'm aroused.”
The door opened, and a tall green-eyed man poked his head inside. He looked at the cleaver and grinned. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Winchester,” grumbled the chef. “All right, everybody!” he shouted. “Get to your bloody jobs before I have the dish washer do another demonstration.”
Kitchen personnel scattered. Dean Winchester entered the room, and a small nervous man clutching a clipboard followed behind. Castiel continued to scowl at Crowley.
“You're the busboy?” Dean asked Castiel.
“I'm the dishwasher,” he deadpanned, not taking his eyes from the chef. “Do you have a whetstone?” he demanded of Crowley.
“That will improve things you think?” mused Crowley, who was now twiddling a carving knife.
“Your knives will still be shit. But they will be sharp.”
“Good enough for me. Will one of you idiots GET ME A WHETSTONE.” After a pause, there was a rustling, and at least three different people placed implements of various shapes and sizes on the table in front of Crowley. “Take your pick,” he told Castiel. Castiel grabbed a long sharpening steel and, pausing only to pick up a few of the knives, strode over to an empty station.
“I need to talk to you, Castiel,” said Dean, who followed along.
“You don't really have time for this, Dean,” said the nervous man behind him, who was now tapping his clipboard with a pen.
“I have time, Chuck. Don't freak.”
Castiel stuck the steel on the table, but did not apply any of the knives to it. Instead, he spread his hands around it and closed his eyes. Muttering a few words in a strange language, he scowled and gave his fingers a slight twitch. There was a crackle, and the steel sparked slightly. Castiel opened his eyes and grabbed one of the knives.
Dean blinked in surprise. “So, you use magic.”
“Yes, I use magic,” grumbled Castiel, who was already expertly scraping a knife along the magicked steel.
“We haven't been introduced. I'm Dean-”
“Winchester. Yes.” Castiel held up the knife, watching the blade flash in the kitchen light.
“Yeah. So anyway, the reason we brought you here-”
“You kidnapped me.”
“Well, technically-”
“Dean,” said Chuck, sotto voce. “Do I need to point out he has a knife? Actually, several knives?”
Dean hushed Chuck with a gesture. Castiel ran the knife up and down the steel again. “Uh. Is it sharp yet?” Dean asked.
Castiel reached over and tore a sheet of paper off Chuck's clipboard. While Chuck was still standing there, sputtering in protest, he ran the knife through it. It fell apart with barely a rip. “Yeah. Sharp.”
“Fucking A, Dean!” said Chuck.
“I wanted to ask you about your dad,” Dean persisted.
“What about him?”
“Well, when was the last you saw him?”
Castiel glanced at his hand, his fingers wiggling up and down as if he were counting down. “Approximately three years, two months, and eleven days ago.”
“Okay. And, you haven't heard anything since?”
Castiel finally looked up at Dean. He glared. “If I had, would I be here?”
“Maybe, maybe not?”
“I would choose to give up my inheritance to work scrubbing your filthy dishes?”
“Look, dude. I have responsibilities too! In case you haven't noticed, there's not exactly a whole lot of us, and we're keeping the Enemy at bay. And the swords my guys are using, they're not up to the job.”
“They're utter shit. I've seen them,” Castiel sniffed, turning back to his knives. “Worse than the cutlery.”
“Yeah, I'm real grateful for the opinion of a busboy.”
“I'm not the busboy. I'm the dishwasher.”
Crowley and a couple of sous-chefs now crowded around. “So what's going on with my knives?”
Castiel snatched a carrot off another counter and in a blur of metal had it diced.
“Excellent!” said Crowley. “My dear boy, you are no longer the dishwasher, you are hereafter and eternally on prep. Someone get him a station.”
“I was just up all night washing dishes,” Castiel groused.
“You can have nap time afterwards. I will even read you a charming bedtime story! All about a psychotic little cook. Julienning before play, we always say.”
“The other dormitory residents won't let me sleep.”
Crowley took a step forward. He reached out and cupped Castiel's face. “My lovely knife-happy boy, I promise, if you slice and dice for me now, I will personally go and murder every other single resident of that dormitory.”
Castiel stared for a moment. “All right.”
The sous-chefs, both of whom now shared a dormitory with Castiel, both shuddered.
“Are we done?” Castiel asked Dean.
Dean nodded and made his way out, Chuck hot on his heels. Dean stopped and once again admired the cleaver Cas had embedded in the door. He grabbed it on his way out. Chuck flinched back, but then kept up his pursuit as Dean hefted the cleaver.
“That was unproductive,” Chuck sniffed, keeping well back of the blade.
“The thing I don't get, I could swear some of those good swords we’ve been seeing are new.”
“And you seriously think Mr. Stabby Pants in there forged them, Dean?”
“Well.” Dean twirled the cleaver. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You're gonna lose a digit that way!''
Dean grinned an evil grin and let the cleaver spin around twice in his hand. Chuck actually gulped.
“Uh. We have a lot on the agenda,” said Chuck, eyeing the clipboard.
“I'm gonna go talk to Sam.”
“What?”
“I said I'm gonna go talk to Sam. I'll be back in a bit.” Dean flung the cleaver up into the air and turned up a staircase, leaving Chuck in the hallway looking up, terrified. The cleaver spun and came down and he cowered. But at the last minute, Dean stuck out a hand and caught it by the handle. And then he hurried on up the staircase, leaving Chuck fuming in the hallway.
Chuck looked up and down, and then put his hand into his jacket and pulled out a flask. He took a rather generous swig, and then continued on down the hallway.
The lights switched on in the dormitory, and Crowley marched in. All of the personnel, from busboy to sous-chef, stood at attention. Crowley, with Castiel following behind him, walked over to the bunk in the very back corner of the room.
“Who is here?”
“Uh. Me, Chef.”
Crowley ripped off the bedding and thrust it at the boy who's spoken. “Not anymore,” he told him. And then, nodding to Castiel, and giving everyone in the room a good glare, he strode out.
Castiel calmly laid his own bedding down on the corner bunk and then, being careful to take out the very long, very sharp knife he was now carrying, stuck it underneath his pillow, and then bedded down.
NEXT