Title: Under the Sign of the Broken Mare
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, Sam, Pam, Jo, Bobby, various angels/demons. More will be introduced as the story putters along.
Spoilers: None, AU
Warnings: graphic death, terrible understanding of Victorian England and London geography, probably torture and murder and other unpleasant things in later chapters, glaring OOC-ness from everyone involved
Word Count: 2,000+ (this is a WIP; I have 10k atm, but will edit before I put it up)

A/N: I don't even know. I just have an abiding passion for Victorian gothic horror, and somehow that fused itself with my Supernatural obsession in my head. Short installments (I don't know why) *hangs head in shame*

Completely unbeta'd. (sorry)

The lamps were well-lit by the time Mr. Castiel Godfrey had decided to take his evening walk. That is to say, it was far past ten, at least; were it before ten, Mr. Godfrey would still be in bed, quite asleep. He had taken to sleeping during the day by accident some twenty years ago, and those who knew him became familiar with his peculiarities and were quite content to let him be. His acquaintances, however, were few indeed.

It was half-autumn to winter, and the fallen leaves were just beginning to clog the gutters with partially-rotted damp litter from the wintery rains that had started to fall. The night was dry but overcast, the rain of the day having besodden the cobbles, taking a great deal of the ring Godfrey was expecting from the clack of his hobnailed shoes. No matter; the timbre was different, but there was no mistaking the shine of the top-grain Italian leather in the gaslight of the street. His gate creaked as he pulled it behind him.

Few souls had the fortitude to venture out on nights like this, and thus Godfrey encountered few folk on his walk, and those he did were not the sort to which to tip one's hat in passing. Rather they scuttled past, bottle or some other in hand, eyes averted, the faint smell of ethanol lingering in their footsteps. Godfrey did not mind. Their company was frosty, but the mere fact that they existed was comforting to him. Another mightn't have seen such a thing as comfort in the gait and posture of such men, but their passing brought something of a smile to Godfrey. It was a smile few would have recognised as such, but nonetheless a smile it was.

His path through the city was winding, but eventually Godfrey's feet led him to a place as familiar to him as his own mother's hands. The alley was cramped, and the whitewash of the establishment was all but worn away, but the shuttered windows glowed with warm firelight that beckoned him from the autumn chill. A sign bearing a saddled mare—crudely painted with text none—hung above the lintel, rusted nails affixing it there that night as they had for many decades prior. Godfrey entered.

Memories flicked across his sight as he crossed the threshold of the room, and skittered away as fleetingly as they had appeared, back to the corners of the room. He blinked away the past and stepped into the present, drawing a three-legged stool close to the bar. He did not remove his hat. With a crook of the patron's finger the keep nodded his understanding, and laid down a glass tumbler for Godfrey, tawny port within. Godfrey quickly took it with a gloved hand and drunk the entirety of the liquid with one gulp.

'Where is the wisdom in drinking wine for breakfast?' said a voice from behind Godfrey. A hand steadied his shoulder as Godfrey moved to turn in his seat. 'Lesser men dine at regular hours, but you and I are not lesser men, are we old friend?' The owner of the voice and hand felt the man tense beneath his fingers at the word "friend". Silence fell in the Broken Mare. 'Then again,' the voice continued, 'You have always liked your sweeter wines at so early an hour. It never ceased to bemuse me as to reasons why you took girlish fancy to Vinho do Porto, despite its expense.'

'Winchester,' said Godfrey. It was no question, and was possibly the first word he had spoken in days. It had a heaviness to it that weighted the air and make the barkeep shiver slightly as he tried not to look at the two men. The singularity of the word balanced the prattle of the other man with even sobriety.

'Castiel,' said the voice amiably, as the owner pulled a stool to the bench. He was tall, with greying tussock-brown hair and a face that was deceptively young, at odds with his somewhat mellow voice, the voice of a man older than he appeared. He was well-dressed, but not flamboyantly so—simple, dark colours, akin to the clothes of Godfrey that would not have been far out of place twenty years prior. There was no hat in sight. 'It has been much too long, my dear man. I'm surprised you recognised me at all.'

Godfrey did not look at him immediately, but rather etched lines in the waxy bar with the severity of his stare. 'How could I not,' he said finally. His tone was curiously without inflection.

The man Godfrey addressed as Winchester merely gave a gesture that lay somewhere between a shrug and a sign of acknowledgement. 'Quite right,' he murmured.

It was then that Godfrey turned his gaze to the man directly. 'What do you want,' he said in the same edgeless voice. His tone may have been emotionless, but his eyes were burning with contained rage.

The man called Winchester, however, didn't see that depth, or if he did he paid it no heed. His eyes flickered to the keep, quickly around the Broken Mare, and finally to the door before coming back to Godfrey. For the first time his features wore an expression other than the mild-mannered geniality he had maintained since he'd stepped into the establishment. It was mild still, but held a tinge of something grim, perhaps even an echo of fear. 'Not here,' he said, standing. 'Follow me.'

Godfrey frowned then and, having placed a few coins on the bar, followed Winchester from the firelight of the Broken Mare, clear unwillingness in his tread.

The two men did not speak as one followed the other, and the quiet between them was almost painful. Winchester walked ahead with Godfrey behind, and the tension between them was tripwire-taut. Winchester's steps were steady as he led Godfrey through the streets, surety in his stance.

'Bow's?' growled Godfrey as they crossed the threshold into the cemetery. They had walked nearly a ha'mile, all the way from South Hackney.

'Softly-softly, Castiel,' said Winchester, head unturned. 'We would not want to wake the dead.' His dark overcoat blended in so well to the night that all Godfrey could make out was the dull shine of his blond hair.

Godfrey caught his arm and spun Winchester to face him, quick as you please. 'State your purpose, boy,' he said, his voice low and sure, but no less threatening for it. There were no lamps in the cemetery, yet Godfrey perfectly saw Winchester minutely arc one brow in reply. Curious—it was a habit he had forgotten. 'You appear from nothing after these long years, pull me to hallowed ground—why? What more could you possibly want from me?' It was the most Godfrey had spoken in a long time.

Winchester didn't say anything, but pointed across to his far left. 'Robert Singer.'

'Robert is dead?' said Godfrey.

A ghost of a smile crossed Winchester's face. He didn't reply, but pulled himself from Godfrey's grasp and strode over to a grave. It was no more that a couple of weeks old by the freshly-turned nature of the earth, and was marked only by a simple wooden cross. He drew a shovel from behind a neighbouring headstone and extended it to Godfrey. 'Would you do the honour, Castiel?'

'You're going to disinter him?' asked the other man, slight disgust lacing his voice. 'The dead should stay buried, Winchester.'

Winchester ran a hand through his light brown hair with a sigh. 'Fine. I shall do it.' He shrugged out of his chestnut-coloured overcoat and his jacket and laid them over a tall headstone a few steps away. Without further ado he rolled his sleeves and began to dig.

'Wait,' said Godfrey. 'Why are you doing this?'

Winchester stilled his shovel. His expression was impossible to read as he stared at Godfrey. 'No words can convey this. Not Bobby. This is something you must see in the flesh.'

If Godfrey was unsettled by this reply, he didn't show it. Rather he stood underneath the gnarled yew tree by the gravel path, still as rock, saying not a word.

For nearly three quarters of an hour there was no sound in the black night except for Winchester's exertion and his shovel moving the earth. He was surprisingly adept for a man digging in almost complete darkness; the sod was neatly piled to one side by the time his shovel hit a dull thud which spoke of the damp pine of a coffin. 'Castiel,' he said, gesturing to Godfrey. The man had not moved in all that time, not a hair. He had been so still anyone watching would have sworn he wasn't even breathing. Not that anyone was watching in such darkness. 'Please fetch me my coat.'

Godfrey did as Winchester bade. From a deep pocket the light-haired man withdrew a bundle of tapers and a few long matches. He handed his coat back to Godfrey. With a grunt he pulled the coffin lid free of the main box with the pointed end of the shovel head and threw both out of the grave. An overwhelming stench immediately permeated the air. Winchester wrinkled his nose slightly, and lit the tapers above the grave. It was not a full six-deep—it was barely four-and-a-half feet, if anything.

Godfrey blinked rapidly at the sudden illumination. The flames of the lit bundle were not over-bright, but from the gloom prior, it was almost blinding. It threw Winchester's face into sharp focus. 'Behold,' he said, gesturing down to the grave with the tapers. 'Mr. Robert Singer, our lord and master.'

The body that lay before the two men was not fully decomposed, but very clearly rotting. Its skin was a bluish-black, and its grey-brown beard and hair had partially sloughed off. But that was not of interest to the men, nor did it deter them in the slightest.

'Look at his face,' said Winchester in a low voice. 'Look at his eyes.'

Godfrey grimaced. But within his expression there was also just a sliver of fear. 'What eyes,' he said. 'They have been cut out.'

Winchester nodded. 'Exactly,' he said softly. 'His tongue too.'

Godfrey closed his eyes. 'Was he strangled,' he said.

'Yes. Before you ask, Cas, he was drained of most of his blood, and he is missing his heart and his left kidney. And see his arm here?' he said, pointing. 'Three parallel slices, seared to the bone.'

For the first time that night, Godfrey looked the other man directly in the eye. 'How do you know this.'

'I hear things, Castiel, things no-one else does,' he said. 'When his body was… found, I was contacted before his flesh was cold.'

Godfrey's lip curled. 'Yet you waited this long to tell me.'

Winchester kneed himself up out of the grave, eyebrows knit. 'It took me this long to find you, Castiel!' he said angrily. 'Last I had heard, you were living in Stepney, not Hoxton. I had, after all, never anticipated us meeting again under such circumstances. But do you now see why it became a necessity to find you?'

Godfrey turned away. 'I had hoped never to set eyes upon you again,' he said.

'Well likewise, friend,' said Winchester bitterly, leaning on the shovel. 'It has been twenty years. I had thought we were done, but clearly not. It has followed us even now.'

'There is no other explanation, then,' said Godfrey. It was again no question, but a statement of fact.

Winchester dropped his shovel on the ground. 'The evidence is incontrovertible. No-one else knew, save us both. There is no question.'

Godfrey dipped his head, his back still turned. 'What can be done now?' he said quietly. 'We just wait patiently to die? To be found by our own mistake?'

'Castiel, you would never surrender that easily,' said Winchester, scoffing slightly. 'The very idea is absurd. You cannot have changed that much. I have a plan, of sorts.'

Godfrey jerked back around at his final words. His own voice had lost a good deal of the emotionless edge, as if he was getting used to using it again. 'Of sorts? How exactly are we supposed to escape this?'

Winchester reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a heavily damaged piece of blotting paper and handed it to Godfrey. It bore a scrawled name, barely legible, written in brown ink. 'Pamela Barnes,' he said simply. 'We find Pamela Barnes.'