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spn_summergen2020-08-15 09:46 am
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Entry tags:
Anything, for zubeneschamali
Title: Anything
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zubeneschamali
Rating: T for violence and complicated morality
Word Count: ~3,900
Warnings: A couple of f-bombs, some violence, canon-typical torture is briefly mentioned.
Author's Notes: Thank you for the amazing prompts, zubeneschamali. I loved them all, but have been wanting to write this one in particular since the episode in question originally aired. The fic is canon divergent after 14x01, as requested by the prompt, but I've also disappeared some canon plot points I didn't care for. Anael isn't in the story, and I've assumed for my version that Michael wouldn't give up Dean's body without a fight.
Summary: Remember when Sam said any other demons who wanted to be King of Hell would have to go through him? What if the demons took that seriously?
------
The first demons come not to Sam, but to Castiel. There are three; two Castiel doesn't recognize and a third from the barbecue restaurant in Detroit. They approach at a Gas N' Sip outside Des Moines, sauntering up in a loose triangle while Castiel refuels his car in the cold October rain. The demon from the restaurant wears a fresh new meatsuit--jauntily seductive, with long dark hair, full lips, and jeans and a T-shirt poured onto her like a layer of paint--but underneath, her true face is easily recognizable; fanged and hideous, and completely unchanged.
Castiel drops his angel blade into his hand. "Leave," he says. "We have nothing further to discuss."
Restaurant Demon is eating potato chips from the mini-mart. She raises her hands with the harmless bag still ostentatiously in one and a single chip in the other, takes a step back, and grins. Her companions move to flank her, true countenances roiling like smoke, but their meatsuits too remain carefully nonthreatening. Their stances are open and their vessels' hands unweaponed and held at their sides. All three are in the middle of the lane between the pumps, outside the questionable shelter of the pumping islands' overhangs, and with the rain flattening their hair and soaking their clothing, they remind Castiel more of wet chihuahuas than of the supposedly fearsome adversaries Heaven's garrisons once fought.
"We're not here to cause trouble, Halo," the one from the restaurant says. "We have a lead on Michael. Thought after all that trouble you went through in Detroit for it, you might still be interested. But if not, hey, that's fine, we'll head on back where we came from."
"In exchange for what?" Castiel growls. The pump clicks off and he removes the nozzle from his tank. He's in no mood for social niceties. Last time he saw Restaurant Demon, he was handcuffed to a chair as bait for Sam, while she served his captor coffee.
"No exchange necessary, Castiel, I assure you. We heard Sammy boy's"--the demon to the left of Restaurant elbows her, and she clears her throat--"we heard Mr. Winchester's 'no deals' loud and clear."
"You expect me to believe you're offering this information out of the goodness of your hearts?" Castiel scoffs.
The demons exchange shifty looks.
"We want Michael gone just as bad as you do," Restaurant says. "And the Winchesters have a solid track record at offing you harps and feathers types. No offense."
Castiel rolls his eyes. "None taken."
At best, the demons have some agenda Castiel would disapprove of if he knew it; at worst it's another trap. But Dean is in danger and Sam is-- well, Sam is doing as one would expect with Dean missing and possessed. He's exhausted and angry and taking on too much responsibility and accepting too little help. If history is any guide, he's burning through his reserves of measured behavior fast.
"Tell me," he says.
------
The second group of demons comes to the bunker. Castiel is in the library reading online newspaper reports on his phone when Mary informs him.
"Hear that clanking noise?" she asks. She has a cut on her upper lip sustained during Castiel's rescue, and she's fresh from the shower; still barefoot and towel drying her hair. Dark circles bloom like bruises under her eyes. No one in the bunker is sleeping well. "That's a guy in the driveway throwing rocks at the door."
Castiel bookmarks the Duluth News Tribune despite its minimal utility thus far. Restaurant Demon--whose name it turns out is Suada, and whose number is now, annoyingly, in Castiel's phone--spun him a tale of corpses with burned out eyes in northern Minnesota, but although the papers report a Dangerous Serial Killer Still At Large!, he has yet to find any details regarding the victims' eyes.
He follows Mary up the war room staircase. Under the weak glow of a street light on the access road, where the bunker's first layer of warding starts, is a group of four men and a woman. Their nearly identical business suits blend into the night, but their dress shirts stand out like patches of snow. Their show of corporate conformity reads 'we used to be Crowley's goons' all over. Their true forms leak inky and formless past their meatsuits, darker than the surrounding air at midnight.
One of the men is indeed lobbing pebbles at the bunker door.
"They're demons. Crowley's old guard, it appears. They can't get close enough to knock," Castiel says, and goes back downstairs to find Sam. Ideally he should be in his bedroom sleeping, but Castiel is unsurprised to learn he is not.
He finds Sam kneeling on the dungeon floor in front of Nick, an open bottle of saline and a pile of used gauze pads discolored with pus and blood beside him. Nick is sitting on an army cot in the middle of the dungeon's bright red devil's trap, and Sam's head is bent to better see the knife injury piercing Nick's belly. Lucifer's misdeeds are not Nick's fault; Castiel knows this for the truth. But Sam's casual vulnerability, his position before a living image of Lucifer, even Nick's countenance itself all make Castiel's skin crawl.
"Sam, there are demons outside. Mary and the other hunters and I can take care of them," Castiel says. "There are only five. But I thought you might want to know."
Sam glances up at Castiel briefly and returns to his work. The shadows under his eyes are darker than Mary's, and the beard he hasn't bothered to shave since Dean was possessed is getting ragged and ill-kempt.
"Thanks, Cas. I'll be up in a minute."
"How long has it been since you've slept?"
Sam chews on his lower lip and tapes the edges of Nick's new dressing down. "They might know something important. I'm not that tired."
Sam is, of course, a liar. A Winchester's assurances they are fine are as meaningless as an umbrella in a hurricane. There is nothing to be done, however. Confrontation only makes them stubborner.
Sam packs his dressing supplies and exchanges a few encouraging words with Nick. On the way back up through the halls and past the kitchen, he stops to offer advice and debriefing to Jules and Maggie, who are recently back from a hunt, and to take a call from Ketch, who has failed to find the Hypersonic Whatever-it-was they were hoping could pull Michael out of Dean. By the time they exit the bunker, they have accumulated Mary, Jack, Bobby from the Apocalypse world, and several hunters Castiel only recognizes vaguely, all of whom follow Sam and Castiel out into the dark, unseasonable cold.
The demons have apparently been waiting impassively, as nothing except a cessation of rock throwing has changed. The five of them appear ready to sit down for a meeting on productivity, and Castiel, somewhat irrationally, finds he prefers Suada and her wet chihuahuas.
"What do you want?" Sam asks the demons.
The rock-thrower steps forward. His meatsuit is a portly middle-aged man with thinning hair and an unfortunate chartreuse tie.
"To kill you, obviously?" he says. "Sorry to disappoint though; next time I'll bring a fruit basket."
"Next time bring information," Sam replies.
Pebble Thrower loosens his abomination of a tie. "So, mano a mano then, Sam?" He nods his head vaguely in the direction of the Apocalypse World hunters. "No need to bring the kindergarten squad into it. I'd hate to see them get hurt."
Sam makes a scoffing sound. The bunker's warding prevent the demons from attacking but does nothing to hamper the hunters.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas--" he starts.
"Then you forfeit?" Pebble Thrower yells over Sam's words.
Sam breaks off.
"Forfeit?" he asks warily.
"Well, you did say the next King of Hell had to go through you. So here you are and here I am."
"You're kidding."
"I admit it seemed a little outrageous to me too. There are an awful lot of demons in Hell and only one of you. But Crowley respected you, so if you want to be Kingmaker, far be it from me."
"This isn't a game." Sam says. He advances towards the edge of the warding. Pulls Ruby's knife out of its sheath at the back of his belt.
"Did I say it was?" Pebble Thrower asks. He grins and makes a 'come at me' motion.
Sam charges. The fight is brief.
The remaining four demons smoke out.
----
The next demon comes alone. Sam kills it in the driveway while everyone else in the bunker argues over who should go to Duluth. Mary reads from a Facebook thread of rumors regarding the "serial killer's" habit of burning his victims eyes out, and Jack and the Apocalypse World hunters weigh in on the possibility of taking out Dean with Michael trapped inside him. When Sam comes back from his demon-killing, he looks grim.
"We'll call for backup if we find anything," he says. "You're with me, Cas. The rest of you take a breather."
Sam dispatches two more demons outside a diner in Mason City, Iowa, and a third in the parking lot of the Super 8 Wyndham Duluth.
"I must admit this wasn't how I thought the No More King of Hell thing would play out," Sam says ruefully as he pours a salt line across the threshold of their motel room door. "The timing's not the greatest."
"Your announcement may have been a bit impulsive," Castiel allows.
The corners of Sam's mouth drift up a bit. "I really don't like demons."
"Understandable. They are, after all, demons," Castiel replies dryly. "I believe you can be forgiven your distaste."
Sam huffs out the edge of a laugh, and Castiel takes it as a win. Sam hasn't been laughing much recently, even the small, fleeting version that's been his norm for years now, since the Cage.
"Okay, fair point," he says. He unpacks his meager toiletries and sorts through his weapons bag, laying guns and knives out on the table. He has somehow picked a motel with decor so remarkably boring it nearly loops around into being interesting again. Dean told Castiel once that the quirky mom n' pops he and Sam usually stay in are increasingly difficult to locate, and a sad sort of emptiness settles in Castiel's chest on realizing the beige carpet and knock off corporate wall art are the result of Sam being too distracted to care.
The truth is, if they do find Michael, Sam won't call for backup, and if they fight him alone, they're unlikely to win. They have no weapon that can kill him, and nothing stronger than regular angel cuffs to imprison him with. Sam's plan to weaken Michael enough so Dean can cast him out is a sound one, but the odds of Sam and Castiel accomplishing it without help are infinitesimally small.
"I really do hate them though, Cas. They're the basest parts of humanity, all rolled up and twisted into something even worse, and I--" He cuts himself off and sighs. Does that Sam-gesture where he cracks his neck and shakes out his shoulders to divest himself of a train of thought that's too painful to follow to the end.
Maybe Castiel should leave it alone. Or maybe Sam needs someone to talk to. It's difficult to say.
"Is this about something in particular, Sam?"
Sam shrugs, picks up a knife and his whetstone. "No, not really."
He sharpens the knife in confident, easy strokes, muscle memory sure, even when the rest of him is not.
"I just want Dean back, I guess."
He finishes up with the knife, grabs a second one and starts on that. "I don't know, Cas; I never do so great when he's in trouble. It's hard to tell if this is worse, or if I've forgotten and it only feels like it is."
"Because this time he's possessed?" Cas offers.
"Maybe," Sam concedes. He looks down at his hands. "Dean's stronger than I am though, and I got through it okay."
There are permanent worry lines etched at the corners of Sam's mouth and between his eyes. He's painfully thin and he seldom sleeps more than three to four hours at a stretch. He's worse now, with Dean gone; there isn't any doubt about that. But even at his best, okay lives on one side of the tracks and Sam and Dean live on the other. Castiel is still trying to decide whether or not to bring any of this up, when Sam amends his assertion.
"Mostly okay, anyhow."
----
The next morning, Sam interviews possible witnesses and Castiel touches base with the M.E. and examines the two remaining bodies that haven't been claimed from the morgue. The corpses both died from injuries caused by angel grace. And oddly, both turn out to have been vampires as well.
Sam hasn't had as much success as Castiel, but he did hear from someone, who heard from someone else, that a local high school student claims to have seen an explosion of blue light from inside an abandoned church. Since there's nothing more for Castiel to do at the morgue, Sam picks him up and they drive to Green Leaf Vape Shop, where the student--a skinny young man in ripped jeans and a Hawaiian shirt patterned with cannabis leaves--is working the shop's only register. It's a tiny establishment filled with black light posters, temporary tattoos, cheap knives and jewelry, and items allegedly intended for use with tobacco.
"I dunno, dude," the young man says, after Sam assures him the FBI has bigger fish to fry than any pharmacological habits he may or may not have. "Not an explosion, explosion. More like a really bright light out all the windows at once, except it was blue? I thought I heard a weird noise too; like an animal screeching or something? But I was pretty wasted, so maybe not."
"Were you able to see in the windows at all?" Castiel asks.
"Are you kidding? Hmm, let's see; stay in my car and smoke an additional bone or be the chick in the horror movies that always dies first?" He shakes his head sadly at Castiel's apparent stupidity. "Sorry, man. I was pretty far away and I sure as shit wasn't going any closer."
"You've been very helpful," Sam assures him. He hands the kid his phone. A picture of Dean leaning against the Impala's hood is on the screen. He's laughing, and looks younger and less careworn than he has for years. "Have you seen this man around, by any chance?"
The kid whistles. "Yeah, dude. He came in one day and looked at the knives. Is he like, that serial killer with the eyeball thing?"
Sam gives a vague non-answer. His color is poor and he looks as if he feels even more unwell than his recent norm. He hands the student a card marked 'Special Agent Page'. "If you think of something else, call any time, twenty-four seven."
The kid says sure thing and Castiel and Sam go out to the Impala and Sam drives them to a Gas 'N Sip. Castiel gets a coffee for himself and a salad for Sam. Sam spends a concerning amount of time in the restroom, and then they sit in the parking lot and talk about the case.
"The church next?" Castiel asks.
"He's probably not even there," Sam says. He pushes his salad around aimlessly with his plastic utensils. "We should split up again, dot our I's and cross our T's."
"We most certainly should not."
Sam makes a noncommittal sound and fails to eat.
"You know he's there, Sam."
Sam sighs. He boxes up his uneaten salad and takes it out to the overflowing trash bin and sets it on the top of the pile. He pulls them out onto Route 53. His hands are clenched white on the Impala's steering wheel.
"Listen Cas, if uh, you change your mind later and want to sit this one out," Sam swallows dryly, "please remember I'll still think of you as a friend."
Castiel has given no indication that he intends any such thing, and even on the Winchester scale of disasters, Sam's pronouncement feels ominous. Castiel's first instinct is to offer reassurance, but he finds himself settling for a grave head nod and a thank you, Sam.
They drive for a while in silence. The sun is setting, and the clouds as Sam makes a left into the Canosia Wildlife Management Area are spectacular, a palette of colors so varied and brilliant it's hard to believe a divine hand didn't paint it directly on the sky. The abandoned church that houses Michael is nearby by the standards of driving in America, but it's not in the park and there's no reason Castiel knows of for Sam and himself to be here.
Sam turns onto an unmarked, dirt access road. They creep along at the ten miles an hour the Impala's undercarriage will sustain through the ruts and patches of gravel until they crest a hill and bottom out into a grassy field packed full of people.
There are maybe a hundred of them, standing out there impassively in the dying October grass. Men and women and people of indeterminate gender. Fat and thin, old and young. A variety of skin colors, hair styles, and attire.
Every one of them is possessed.
"Sorry," Sam says as he brakes the Impala and throws it into park. "But we couldn't have won."
----
Castiel's first meeting with Dean Winchester was not an auspicious one.
"I have come to raise you from Perdition," he announced from the broken-down doors of Alastair's dungeon. "You will be redeemed, and righteousness will triumph over evil."
Dean threw back his head and laughed.
"Fuck righteousness," he said. Blood dripped off the edge of his knife. His form was still that of a human, but thick veins of darkness coursed through his soul. "Dunno what your issue is, dude, but I'm doing peachy right here where I am. Fly on back to the Pearly Gates and tell God or whoever I said thanks but no thanks."
He turned his back on Castiel, raised his knife to return to his work. The battered soul on his rack began to cry.
Castiel--to his current chagrin--was unmoved. He had a job to do; one for which he had been thoroughly briefed. He knew of Dean's weakness, and it was for that reason alone he said "your brother is in danger," though in retrospect, of course it was true.
Dean roared, his voice more like an animal's than a man's. He pushed over the table his instruments of torture were arranged on, and they scattered across the bloodied tiles. He threw his knife, and although he didn't seem to be aiming at anything particular, it nonetheless grazed Castiel's cheek before it bounced off the wall behind him and clattered to the floor.
"Fine!" Dean snarled. "Fucking fine! I'll go!"
Castiel sensed his victory, and felt sure he had done well. He would pull Dean from the Pit and redeem him.
He recognizes now the equation wasn't as straightforward as he assumed.
----
In Castiel's true sight, the field of demons is a writhing sea of red and black, an ocean of amorphous shapes brimming with teeth and claws and stingers. Some resemble the rotting corpses they've left behind, others mere clots of smoke and oil clinging to the meatsuits they inhabit.
Sam gets out of the Impala and slams the door behind him. Castiel follows.
A familiar shape steps forward; tight jeans, tight T-shirt, shoulder length hair. Today she's wearing a leather jacket too.
"Suada?" Sam asks.
The demon smiles winningly. "In the flesh," she chirps. "Well, technically someone else's flesh, but yup, guessed it in one."
Sam doesn't smile back. Castiel stands at Sam's shoulder, stunned.
Sam and Suada get down to logistical details, while the other demons wait patiently behind her. Sam will break whatever consecration remains on the abandoned church and the demons will follow him in. They'll distract and weaken Michael while Sam supports Dean in casting Michael out. It all reads to Castiel suspiciously like the demons are canon fodder, and it ultimately benefits no one but Dean and Sam, but there's no dissent from the assembled ranks. Clearly, this isn't the first they've heard of the plan.
"I got her number off your cell phone," Sam says. "We've been talking. Apologies are cheap, I know, but I really am sorry. I'm not a strong person, Cas. I can't lose Dean again."
Castiel should probably feel angry.
"We'll meet you at the church then," Suada beams. She looks up through her lashes at Sam and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. "Unless there's anything more at all I can offer..."
Sam's gaze on her turns sharp, and Castiel realizes it's not her true face alone that struck him as familiar.
"Why did you pick that meatsuit," Sam asks. Pleasantly.
"Do you like it?" She runs her hands down the front of her T-shirt.
"I do," Sam replies. His voice is cold and flat. "Did you pick it to remind me of Ruby?"
Suada's cheer falters for the first time. "Um, Ruby?" she asks, but the lie is obvious.
"I'm not angry," Sam says, and his lie is obvious too. Or at least it is to Castiel. Suada seems somewhat less sure. "In fact, I appreciate it. Before Dean stabbed her, Ruby told me I didn't need the feather to fly. I had the power in me all along. But a little extra help is always welcome."
"Sam," Castiel warns.
"It's fine, Cas. I'm fine." He turns back towards Castiel, and his eyes, for just a moment, are gold. "Ruby was right, and I've been practicing. It won't do me any harm now."
His expression is gentle, his tone almost diffident. "You could leave if you wanted. Or, do you want to wait in the car?"
Does he? He probably should.
But the plan is solid, at least if its only purpose is Dean's freedom. And this is how Sam and Dean have always been.
Once, Castiel thought there was something objective to fall back on that was surer than love. In the span of an angel's life, that time was a heartbeat ago. It seems much longer.
"No, I'll come with you, Sam."
Sam's face lights up, bright and sincere.
He turns back to Suada; less sincere by far. "And you're with me too?"
"Of course," she says.
More fool, she.
"I may need... quite a bit of your blood."
"That's fine." She still doesn't recognize her error. "Thanks for hooking us up, Halo."
"His name is Castiel," Sam corrects.
"And how about you, Sugar," she asks Sam, apparently convinced she'll be living though this encounter. "What do you want me to call you?"
Sam advances on her until he's crowded right up against her meatsuit's body. He grabs her wrist and grips it hard in his hand. His smile turns feral as he pulls out his knife and cuts a neat incision in her forearm. He bends his head and licks away the wine red line forming on her arm.
"Your Majesty will be fine."
Recipient:
zubeneschamali Rating: T for violence and complicated morality
Word Count: ~3,900
Warnings: A couple of f-bombs, some violence, canon-typical torture is briefly mentioned.
Author's Notes: Thank you for the amazing prompts, zubeneschamali. I loved them all, but have been wanting to write this one in particular since the episode in question originally aired. The fic is canon divergent after 14x01, as requested by the prompt, but I've also disappeared some canon plot points I didn't care for. Anael isn't in the story, and I've assumed for my version that Michael wouldn't give up Dean's body without a fight.
Summary: Remember when Sam said any other demons who wanted to be King of Hell would have to go through him? What if the demons took that seriously?
------
The first demons come not to Sam, but to Castiel. There are three; two Castiel doesn't recognize and a third from the barbecue restaurant in Detroit. They approach at a Gas N' Sip outside Des Moines, sauntering up in a loose triangle while Castiel refuels his car in the cold October rain. The demon from the restaurant wears a fresh new meatsuit--jauntily seductive, with long dark hair, full lips, and jeans and a T-shirt poured onto her like a layer of paint--but underneath, her true face is easily recognizable; fanged and hideous, and completely unchanged.
Castiel drops his angel blade into his hand. "Leave," he says. "We have nothing further to discuss."
Restaurant Demon is eating potato chips from the mini-mart. She raises her hands with the harmless bag still ostentatiously in one and a single chip in the other, takes a step back, and grins. Her companions move to flank her, true countenances roiling like smoke, but their meatsuits too remain carefully nonthreatening. Their stances are open and their vessels' hands unweaponed and held at their sides. All three are in the middle of the lane between the pumps, outside the questionable shelter of the pumping islands' overhangs, and with the rain flattening their hair and soaking their clothing, they remind Castiel more of wet chihuahuas than of the supposedly fearsome adversaries Heaven's garrisons once fought.
"We're not here to cause trouble, Halo," the one from the restaurant says. "We have a lead on Michael. Thought after all that trouble you went through in Detroit for it, you might still be interested. But if not, hey, that's fine, we'll head on back where we came from."
"In exchange for what?" Castiel growls. The pump clicks off and he removes the nozzle from his tank. He's in no mood for social niceties. Last time he saw Restaurant Demon, he was handcuffed to a chair as bait for Sam, while she served his captor coffee.
"No exchange necessary, Castiel, I assure you. We heard Sammy boy's"--the demon to the left of Restaurant elbows her, and she clears her throat--"we heard Mr. Winchester's 'no deals' loud and clear."
"You expect me to believe you're offering this information out of the goodness of your hearts?" Castiel scoffs.
The demons exchange shifty looks.
"We want Michael gone just as bad as you do," Restaurant says. "And the Winchesters have a solid track record at offing you harps and feathers types. No offense."
Castiel rolls his eyes. "None taken."
At best, the demons have some agenda Castiel would disapprove of if he knew it; at worst it's another trap. But Dean is in danger and Sam is-- well, Sam is doing as one would expect with Dean missing and possessed. He's exhausted and angry and taking on too much responsibility and accepting too little help. If history is any guide, he's burning through his reserves of measured behavior fast.
"Tell me," he says.
------
The second group of demons comes to the bunker. Castiel is in the library reading online newspaper reports on his phone when Mary informs him.
"Hear that clanking noise?" she asks. She has a cut on her upper lip sustained during Castiel's rescue, and she's fresh from the shower; still barefoot and towel drying her hair. Dark circles bloom like bruises under her eyes. No one in the bunker is sleeping well. "That's a guy in the driveway throwing rocks at the door."
Castiel bookmarks the Duluth News Tribune despite its minimal utility thus far. Restaurant Demon--whose name it turns out is Suada, and whose number is now, annoyingly, in Castiel's phone--spun him a tale of corpses with burned out eyes in northern Minnesota, but although the papers report a Dangerous Serial Killer Still At Large!, he has yet to find any details regarding the victims' eyes.
He follows Mary up the war room staircase. Under the weak glow of a street light on the access road, where the bunker's first layer of warding starts, is a group of four men and a woman. Their nearly identical business suits blend into the night, but their dress shirts stand out like patches of snow. Their show of corporate conformity reads 'we used to be Crowley's goons' all over. Their true forms leak inky and formless past their meatsuits, darker than the surrounding air at midnight.
One of the men is indeed lobbing pebbles at the bunker door.
"They're demons. Crowley's old guard, it appears. They can't get close enough to knock," Castiel says, and goes back downstairs to find Sam. Ideally he should be in his bedroom sleeping, but Castiel is unsurprised to learn he is not.
He finds Sam kneeling on the dungeon floor in front of Nick, an open bottle of saline and a pile of used gauze pads discolored with pus and blood beside him. Nick is sitting on an army cot in the middle of the dungeon's bright red devil's trap, and Sam's head is bent to better see the knife injury piercing Nick's belly. Lucifer's misdeeds are not Nick's fault; Castiel knows this for the truth. But Sam's casual vulnerability, his position before a living image of Lucifer, even Nick's countenance itself all make Castiel's skin crawl.
"Sam, there are demons outside. Mary and the other hunters and I can take care of them," Castiel says. "There are only five. But I thought you might want to know."
Sam glances up at Castiel briefly and returns to his work. The shadows under his eyes are darker than Mary's, and the beard he hasn't bothered to shave since Dean was possessed is getting ragged and ill-kempt.
"Thanks, Cas. I'll be up in a minute."
"How long has it been since you've slept?"
Sam chews on his lower lip and tapes the edges of Nick's new dressing down. "They might know something important. I'm not that tired."
Sam is, of course, a liar. A Winchester's assurances they are fine are as meaningless as an umbrella in a hurricane. There is nothing to be done, however. Confrontation only makes them stubborner.
Sam packs his dressing supplies and exchanges a few encouraging words with Nick. On the way back up through the halls and past the kitchen, he stops to offer advice and debriefing to Jules and Maggie, who are recently back from a hunt, and to take a call from Ketch, who has failed to find the Hypersonic Whatever-it-was they were hoping could pull Michael out of Dean. By the time they exit the bunker, they have accumulated Mary, Jack, Bobby from the Apocalypse world, and several hunters Castiel only recognizes vaguely, all of whom follow Sam and Castiel out into the dark, unseasonable cold.
The demons have apparently been waiting impassively, as nothing except a cessation of rock throwing has changed. The five of them appear ready to sit down for a meeting on productivity, and Castiel, somewhat irrationally, finds he prefers Suada and her wet chihuahuas.
"What do you want?" Sam asks the demons.
The rock-thrower steps forward. His meatsuit is a portly middle-aged man with thinning hair and an unfortunate chartreuse tie.
"To kill you, obviously?" he says. "Sorry to disappoint though; next time I'll bring a fruit basket."
"Next time bring information," Sam replies.
Pebble Thrower loosens his abomination of a tie. "So, mano a mano then, Sam?" He nods his head vaguely in the direction of the Apocalypse World hunters. "No need to bring the kindergarten squad into it. I'd hate to see them get hurt."
Sam makes a scoffing sound. The bunker's warding prevent the demons from attacking but does nothing to hamper the hunters.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas--" he starts.
"Then you forfeit?" Pebble Thrower yells over Sam's words.
Sam breaks off.
"Forfeit?" he asks warily.
"Well, you did say the next King of Hell had to go through you. So here you are and here I am."
"You're kidding."
"I admit it seemed a little outrageous to me too. There are an awful lot of demons in Hell and only one of you. But Crowley respected you, so if you want to be Kingmaker, far be it from me."
"This isn't a game." Sam says. He advances towards the edge of the warding. Pulls Ruby's knife out of its sheath at the back of his belt.
"Did I say it was?" Pebble Thrower asks. He grins and makes a 'come at me' motion.
Sam charges. The fight is brief.
The remaining four demons smoke out.
----
The next demon comes alone. Sam kills it in the driveway while everyone else in the bunker argues over who should go to Duluth. Mary reads from a Facebook thread of rumors regarding the "serial killer's" habit of burning his victims eyes out, and Jack and the Apocalypse World hunters weigh in on the possibility of taking out Dean with Michael trapped inside him. When Sam comes back from his demon-killing, he looks grim.
"We'll call for backup if we find anything," he says. "You're with me, Cas. The rest of you take a breather."
Sam dispatches two more demons outside a diner in Mason City, Iowa, and a third in the parking lot of the Super 8 Wyndham Duluth.
"I must admit this wasn't how I thought the No More King of Hell thing would play out," Sam says ruefully as he pours a salt line across the threshold of their motel room door. "The timing's not the greatest."
"Your announcement may have been a bit impulsive," Castiel allows.
The corners of Sam's mouth drift up a bit. "I really don't like demons."
"Understandable. They are, after all, demons," Castiel replies dryly. "I believe you can be forgiven your distaste."
Sam huffs out the edge of a laugh, and Castiel takes it as a win. Sam hasn't been laughing much recently, even the small, fleeting version that's been his norm for years now, since the Cage.
"Okay, fair point," he says. He unpacks his meager toiletries and sorts through his weapons bag, laying guns and knives out on the table. He has somehow picked a motel with decor so remarkably boring it nearly loops around into being interesting again. Dean told Castiel once that the quirky mom n' pops he and Sam usually stay in are increasingly difficult to locate, and a sad sort of emptiness settles in Castiel's chest on realizing the beige carpet and knock off corporate wall art are the result of Sam being too distracted to care.
The truth is, if they do find Michael, Sam won't call for backup, and if they fight him alone, they're unlikely to win. They have no weapon that can kill him, and nothing stronger than regular angel cuffs to imprison him with. Sam's plan to weaken Michael enough so Dean can cast him out is a sound one, but the odds of Sam and Castiel accomplishing it without help are infinitesimally small.
"I really do hate them though, Cas. They're the basest parts of humanity, all rolled up and twisted into something even worse, and I--" He cuts himself off and sighs. Does that Sam-gesture where he cracks his neck and shakes out his shoulders to divest himself of a train of thought that's too painful to follow to the end.
Maybe Castiel should leave it alone. Or maybe Sam needs someone to talk to. It's difficult to say.
"Is this about something in particular, Sam?"
Sam shrugs, picks up a knife and his whetstone. "No, not really."
He sharpens the knife in confident, easy strokes, muscle memory sure, even when the rest of him is not.
"I just want Dean back, I guess."
He finishes up with the knife, grabs a second one and starts on that. "I don't know, Cas; I never do so great when he's in trouble. It's hard to tell if this is worse, or if I've forgotten and it only feels like it is."
"Because this time he's possessed?" Cas offers.
"Maybe," Sam concedes. He looks down at his hands. "Dean's stronger than I am though, and I got through it okay."
There are permanent worry lines etched at the corners of Sam's mouth and between his eyes. He's painfully thin and he seldom sleeps more than three to four hours at a stretch. He's worse now, with Dean gone; there isn't any doubt about that. But even at his best, okay lives on one side of the tracks and Sam and Dean live on the other. Castiel is still trying to decide whether or not to bring any of this up, when Sam amends his assertion.
"Mostly okay, anyhow."
----
The next morning, Sam interviews possible witnesses and Castiel touches base with the M.E. and examines the two remaining bodies that haven't been claimed from the morgue. The corpses both died from injuries caused by angel grace. And oddly, both turn out to have been vampires as well.
Sam hasn't had as much success as Castiel, but he did hear from someone, who heard from someone else, that a local high school student claims to have seen an explosion of blue light from inside an abandoned church. Since there's nothing more for Castiel to do at the morgue, Sam picks him up and they drive to Green Leaf Vape Shop, where the student--a skinny young man in ripped jeans and a Hawaiian shirt patterned with cannabis leaves--is working the shop's only register. It's a tiny establishment filled with black light posters, temporary tattoos, cheap knives and jewelry, and items allegedly intended for use with tobacco.
"I dunno, dude," the young man says, after Sam assures him the FBI has bigger fish to fry than any pharmacological habits he may or may not have. "Not an explosion, explosion. More like a really bright light out all the windows at once, except it was blue? I thought I heard a weird noise too; like an animal screeching or something? But I was pretty wasted, so maybe not."
"Were you able to see in the windows at all?" Castiel asks.
"Are you kidding? Hmm, let's see; stay in my car and smoke an additional bone or be the chick in the horror movies that always dies first?" He shakes his head sadly at Castiel's apparent stupidity. "Sorry, man. I was pretty far away and I sure as shit wasn't going any closer."
"You've been very helpful," Sam assures him. He hands the kid his phone. A picture of Dean leaning against the Impala's hood is on the screen. He's laughing, and looks younger and less careworn than he has for years. "Have you seen this man around, by any chance?"
The kid whistles. "Yeah, dude. He came in one day and looked at the knives. Is he like, that serial killer with the eyeball thing?"
Sam gives a vague non-answer. His color is poor and he looks as if he feels even more unwell than his recent norm. He hands the student a card marked 'Special Agent Page'. "If you think of something else, call any time, twenty-four seven."
The kid says sure thing and Castiel and Sam go out to the Impala and Sam drives them to a Gas 'N Sip. Castiel gets a coffee for himself and a salad for Sam. Sam spends a concerning amount of time in the restroom, and then they sit in the parking lot and talk about the case.
"The church next?" Castiel asks.
"He's probably not even there," Sam says. He pushes his salad around aimlessly with his plastic utensils. "We should split up again, dot our I's and cross our T's."
"We most certainly should not."
Sam makes a noncommittal sound and fails to eat.
"You know he's there, Sam."
Sam sighs. He boxes up his uneaten salad and takes it out to the overflowing trash bin and sets it on the top of the pile. He pulls them out onto Route 53. His hands are clenched white on the Impala's steering wheel.
"Listen Cas, if uh, you change your mind later and want to sit this one out," Sam swallows dryly, "please remember I'll still think of you as a friend."
Castiel has given no indication that he intends any such thing, and even on the Winchester scale of disasters, Sam's pronouncement feels ominous. Castiel's first instinct is to offer reassurance, but he finds himself settling for a grave head nod and a thank you, Sam.
They drive for a while in silence. The sun is setting, and the clouds as Sam makes a left into the Canosia Wildlife Management Area are spectacular, a palette of colors so varied and brilliant it's hard to believe a divine hand didn't paint it directly on the sky. The abandoned church that houses Michael is nearby by the standards of driving in America, but it's not in the park and there's no reason Castiel knows of for Sam and himself to be here.
Sam turns onto an unmarked, dirt access road. They creep along at the ten miles an hour the Impala's undercarriage will sustain through the ruts and patches of gravel until they crest a hill and bottom out into a grassy field packed full of people.
There are maybe a hundred of them, standing out there impassively in the dying October grass. Men and women and people of indeterminate gender. Fat and thin, old and young. A variety of skin colors, hair styles, and attire.
Every one of them is possessed.
"Sorry," Sam says as he brakes the Impala and throws it into park. "But we couldn't have won."
----
Castiel's first meeting with Dean Winchester was not an auspicious one.
"I have come to raise you from Perdition," he announced from the broken-down doors of Alastair's dungeon. "You will be redeemed, and righteousness will triumph over evil."
Dean threw back his head and laughed.
"Fuck righteousness," he said. Blood dripped off the edge of his knife. His form was still that of a human, but thick veins of darkness coursed through his soul. "Dunno what your issue is, dude, but I'm doing peachy right here where I am. Fly on back to the Pearly Gates and tell God or whoever I said thanks but no thanks."
He turned his back on Castiel, raised his knife to return to his work. The battered soul on his rack began to cry.
Castiel--to his current chagrin--was unmoved. He had a job to do; one for which he had been thoroughly briefed. He knew of Dean's weakness, and it was for that reason alone he said "your brother is in danger," though in retrospect, of course it was true.
Dean roared, his voice more like an animal's than a man's. He pushed over the table his instruments of torture were arranged on, and they scattered across the bloodied tiles. He threw his knife, and although he didn't seem to be aiming at anything particular, it nonetheless grazed Castiel's cheek before it bounced off the wall behind him and clattered to the floor.
"Fine!" Dean snarled. "Fucking fine! I'll go!"
Castiel sensed his victory, and felt sure he had done well. He would pull Dean from the Pit and redeem him.
He recognizes now the equation wasn't as straightforward as he assumed.
----
In Castiel's true sight, the field of demons is a writhing sea of red and black, an ocean of amorphous shapes brimming with teeth and claws and stingers. Some resemble the rotting corpses they've left behind, others mere clots of smoke and oil clinging to the meatsuits they inhabit.
Sam gets out of the Impala and slams the door behind him. Castiel follows.
A familiar shape steps forward; tight jeans, tight T-shirt, shoulder length hair. Today she's wearing a leather jacket too.
"Suada?" Sam asks.
The demon smiles winningly. "In the flesh," she chirps. "Well, technically someone else's flesh, but yup, guessed it in one."
Sam doesn't smile back. Castiel stands at Sam's shoulder, stunned.
Sam and Suada get down to logistical details, while the other demons wait patiently behind her. Sam will break whatever consecration remains on the abandoned church and the demons will follow him in. They'll distract and weaken Michael while Sam supports Dean in casting Michael out. It all reads to Castiel suspiciously like the demons are canon fodder, and it ultimately benefits no one but Dean and Sam, but there's no dissent from the assembled ranks. Clearly, this isn't the first they've heard of the plan.
"I got her number off your cell phone," Sam says. "We've been talking. Apologies are cheap, I know, but I really am sorry. I'm not a strong person, Cas. I can't lose Dean again."
Castiel should probably feel angry.
"We'll meet you at the church then," Suada beams. She looks up through her lashes at Sam and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. "Unless there's anything more at all I can offer..."
Sam's gaze on her turns sharp, and Castiel realizes it's not her true face alone that struck him as familiar.
"Why did you pick that meatsuit," Sam asks. Pleasantly.
"Do you like it?" She runs her hands down the front of her T-shirt.
"I do," Sam replies. His voice is cold and flat. "Did you pick it to remind me of Ruby?"
Suada's cheer falters for the first time. "Um, Ruby?" she asks, but the lie is obvious.
"I'm not angry," Sam says, and his lie is obvious too. Or at least it is to Castiel. Suada seems somewhat less sure. "In fact, I appreciate it. Before Dean stabbed her, Ruby told me I didn't need the feather to fly. I had the power in me all along. But a little extra help is always welcome."
"Sam," Castiel warns.
"It's fine, Cas. I'm fine." He turns back towards Castiel, and his eyes, for just a moment, are gold. "Ruby was right, and I've been practicing. It won't do me any harm now."
His expression is gentle, his tone almost diffident. "You could leave if you wanted. Or, do you want to wait in the car?"
Does he? He probably should.
But the plan is solid, at least if its only purpose is Dean's freedom. And this is how Sam and Dean have always been.
Once, Castiel thought there was something objective to fall back on that was surer than love. In the span of an angel's life, that time was a heartbeat ago. It seems much longer.
"No, I'll come with you, Sam."
Sam's face lights up, bright and sincere.
He turns back to Suada; less sincere by far. "And you're with me too?"
"Of course," she says.
More fool, she.
"I may need... quite a bit of your blood."
"That's fine." She still doesn't recognize her error. "Thanks for hooking us up, Halo."
"His name is Castiel," Sam corrects.
"And how about you, Sugar," she asks Sam, apparently convinced she'll be living though this encounter. "What do you want me to call you?"
Sam advances on her until he's crowded right up against her meatsuit's body. He grabs her wrist and grips it hard in his hand. His smile turns feral as he pulls out his knife and cuts a neat incision in her forearm. He bends his head and licks away the wine red line forming on her arm.
"Your Majesty will be fine."