All the Way Home
Summary: Castiel goes back in time to save the Winchesters from a particularly nasty nature goddess, but who will save him? Takes place during non-specific season. Two-shot Christmas fic (hurt followed by fluff).
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural…Darn.
Warning: Some violence, gore, and character deaths (but not permanent!)
Chapter 1: And Since We've No Place to Go
Snow had already been steadily falling for over an hour by the time Castiel drove up in his beige Lincoln. He parked across the street, coasting over the new precipitation with a purring engine and the dampened thud of tires packing down soft flakes.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful…
A well-known carol inexplicably drifted through his thoughts as Cas exited his car.
The Men of Letters bunker sat in the side of the hill like some ancient stronghold, oblivious to the silence and the thickening pearl carpet coating its walls.
The angel was terribly late.
Sam and Dean had been expecting him around 8 PM at the latest, and it was now close to midnight. But gas stops had to be made, and traffic was slow to begin with. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.
And then the snow had stalled the flow of traffic even more, and Castiel had given up all hope of being punctual.
Hastily, Cas picked up two small, wrapped parcels and slammed his car door shut, sliding a bit in the ice as he crossed the street to the bunker. An unexpected flutter of excitement raced through him. He would be spending a holiday with his closest friends, and they had convinced him to take the entire next day off.
An entire day off from other-angel-avoidance, end times research, and relentless solo hunting. Not to mention a day off from working at the Gas-n-Sip, an establishment he had resorted to working at part-time at to pay for car fuel.
It was going to be unlike anything Cas had experienced since living semi-permanently on Earth: a day of rest.
Then Castiel got to the bunker's entrance and stopped.
The front door was wide open.
"Sam? Dean?" he called tentatively and nudged the door further ajar with the toe of his shoe to peer inside.
What he saw made him drop his presents on the side of the doorstep.
The floor of the foyer was covered with blood.
Human blood.
No.
With a flick of his wrist, the silver angel blade slid into his palm. He stepped cautiously inside and peered down the staircase.
Castiel sucked in his breath.
He didn't notice the silver tufts of tinsel curling around the banister like a shiny snake. He didn't notice the cheery multicolored lights strewn haphazardly across the ceiling in the main hall. He didn't notice the Christmas tree decked with glinting ornaments, and a gold star on top, at the base of the stairs.
What he saw was red, and it was thick and fresh, and it was everywhere.
Blood. Too much blood to belong to just one person. Too much blood for a person to lose and still be alive. The coppery scent of it was still cloying and cut through the perfume of fir and cinnamon. It competed with another smell that Castiel only recognized through his time spent working at a human job, performing menial labor.
It was the putrefying stench of garlic and coffee grinds, moldy leftovers and spoiled milk.
Garbage.
The angel's stomach churned. He couldn't breathe. Castiel stumbled outside, into the fresh air, and he nearly tripped getting down the steps. Then he fell to his knees, and a strangled sob escaped from his throat, from Jimmy's throat, from the vocal chords that could never express the sorrow of an angel. But the noise was piercing and echoed down the quiet street.
Snowflakes fell silently on his face and clothes, coating them in a fine powder, and all Castiel could think about was that the two people he loved most in the world were dead.
The angel stood after a moment. He pivoted back to the bunker, and an unpredictable (yet completely viable) solution popped into his mind. One thing was clear: Sam and Dean would not die tonight. Not as long as he was still alive. Not as long as he was still blessed with the ability to travel through time.
The servant of the Lord closed his eyes and tapped into a pervasive hum, a note that embodied the sound of time. He dipped his hands into that writhing mass, and, like a whirlpool, spiraled through waves of iridescent oceans until he came out the other side like a newborn.
Castiel staggered and leaned against something smooth and round for support. It was a streetlight, and it shone upon a quiet street in Lebanon, directly in front of the bunker.
The angel felt his head ache and vision swirl. Blood trickled from his nose, and he wiped it away absently with the back of his hand, turning his attention to the sky. It was growing darker, filling with clouds. No snow yet, but soon…
Good, his muddled brain thought. Now I wait.
He guarded the entrance to the Men of Letters fortress behind a bush. Perhaps he should have warned Sam and Dean—somewhere in the bunker right now, expecting him, decorating, preparing a meal. But Castiel didn't want to involve the Winchesters. Time travel was tricky enough; the fewer the variables, the better.
It was better for them not to know. Better to have this night unspoiled. If he could succeed, that is.
Castiel waited, but he didn't have to wait for long.
She arrived with the snow, and she was beautiful. Her dress was emerald green, her hair the color of a raven. She carried a cream-white sack, slung over her shoulder, and she floated as she walked, like any goddess would. Castiel shivered when he saw her.
It was worse than he feared.
Angel blade still in hand, Castiel stepped from the shadows into the hazy yellow glow of the streetlamp. Over head, small flakes began to drift down, sleepy and peaceful.
"Perchta."
She was nearly at the bunker's threshold when his voice stopped her. She turned around slowly, and her smile lit up the darkness.
"My quarrel is not with you, angel."
She was about to turn around when Cas said, "I will not allow you to harm my friends."
She smiled again, teeth wide—unnatural.
"Your friends thought they had killed me. They thought I was the ghost of some poor girl, and they salted and burned her bones. But I am no ghost, and I am raging."
Castiel trembled at her power yet held his ground. "What happened?"
Perchta looked down, lost for a moment. Perhaps she wasn't expecting a sympathetic ear. "They cut down the forests. All the trees—they're dead. And it's a celebration, they say. They declare this slaughter a holiday."
Castiel stepped closer, his voice low and gentle. "This happens every year, Perchta. Every year, the trees get cut down, and you forget, and you become angry. But the trees will grow back. They always grow back."
"No!" she screamed, and the wind rustled with the sound. "No—I will have vengeance. Those two tried to stop me from my kill, albeit unsuccessfully, and they will pay like all the others."
As she spoke, the goddess of nature began to shrink in stature, and her dark brown hair showed streaks of grey. Her elegant gown began to appear dirty and rumpled, matching the increasing number of wrinkles standing out on her face. She was morphing into the form she took every winter—the old hag.
Perchta cackled as she opened her bag, which was now a plastic sack, and the sickly stench of waste wafted through the snow.
"See? This is what humans create. It's what they are. So I'll stuff them with it, like a turkey, until they get their fill!"
Castiel lunged at the goddess. His angel blade bore down and thrust at an angle. Screeching, Perchta dodged his attack and kicked him in the side, sending the angel sprawling across the dusted concrete. Castiel ignored the way his head spun and immediately picked himself up, trying to for another go. This time, however, the goddess produced a thick blade that shone black, like obsidian. He managed to knick her leg before she whirled away from him, exerting a tremendous amount of power for such a small frame. The angel's blade flew from his grasp and landed several feet away, burying itself in the accumulating snow alongside the road.
The angel grunted and raced towards his blade, but Perchta delivered a quick succession of punches to his face, bringing him to his knees. The angel moaned, spat blood, and got a better grip on the goddess. He threw her aside roughly. She landed against a telephone pole, denting it, and it gave Castiel the chance to limp towards his weapon.
It wasn't in his hand five seconds before an iron grip tightened around his wrist, causing bones to snap painfully. Castiel screamed as he looked fearfully into the goddess' green eyes, glowing in the sickly light of the streetlight. Her teeth glistened, stained and pointed, and she brought her blade down.
It pierced his left shoulder, which caused Castiel to cry out again and for brightness to pour from the wound like a spotlight. Following the traces of grace came blood, and a lot of it, rolling in thick waves down his shredded coat, flecking his blue tie.
But it was only Perchta's penultimate blow. As she brought her black blade up again, she said, "Back to the trees, the earth, the sky…"
Castiel closed his eyes and imagined those words as the last Sam and Dean would ever hear, her piercing green eyes the last image they would ever see. He had failed them.
He froze in a flinch, expecting the fatal blow to land, but nothing happened.
When he opened his eyes, Perchta's own green orbs were wide and glassy, her mouth open in a silent scream of pained surprise. Castiel was just as bewildered as she was until he looked down and saw the demon blade protruding from her chest.
Her green eyes flashed once more, like a flickering candle flame, and her body disintegrated into fine grey particles, like ash, that blew away with the next snow flurry.
The King of Hell stood in Perchta's place, still holding onto his weapon.
"Bit far from the alps," he said dryly.
Castiel could only manage a choked, "Crowley…" in greeting. He wiped gore from his mouth, and his vision faded in and out. Light from the streetlamp behind Crowley framed the demon's head in a gauzy halo, and the angel wondered if he was dreaming.
"Hello, feathers," Crowley growled. The demon blade disappeared in his hands, and he turned his collar up against the snow. Is this a normal angelic tradition—hunting goddesses on Christmas Eve?"
Castiel brought a hand to his shoulder wound and winced. His shoulder stung, and his right wrist throbbed, most likely broken. He tried sitting up and found it was too much effort.
"N-no. I went back in time to save Sam and Dean from Perchta. She…She had killed them."
"I see," said Crowley, his eyes showing only a bare minimum of interest. He sniffed around the frozen scene. "Looks like she would have killed you too if I hadn't been in the neighborhood."
Castiel blinked and bled.
"You're welcome, by the way," Crowley grumbled. The demon rolled his eyes when the angel didn't respond and offered Castiel a hand up. The Lord's servant accepted with his left hand and groaned, stumbling into Crowley as he tried to regain his feet. His head swam again, and he felt bone-tired.
"Thank you," Castiel said slowly.
Crowley sighed, supporting the angel upright, as if this entire ordeal was becoming tedious. "Honestly, I'm not sure why I keep saving you. Not like it does me any favors…" He eyed the battered angel warily, as if Castiel was going to collapse at any moment.
"Well… Aren't you going to heal yourself?"
"Yes…" Castiel pocketed his angel blade and stepped unsteadily away from the demon, swaying on his feet. "But first I have to return to my time. Time traveling has always… drained me… Must use my remaining energy for the journey back…"
The demon made a "tch" sound. "Are you sure that's wise in your condition? I'm not entirely convinced a snowflake wouldn't knock you over."
Castiel frowned. "It is too dangerous for me to stay any longer than I have. I do not want to risk hurting the future. I must go back to just after I originally left and not run into myself. Whatever power I still possess then, I will use for healing… But it will take time…"
The demon nodded and began to walk away. "Happy Christmas, angel."
His form disappeared just past the lamppost, leaving falling snow in his wake and a set of footprints that abruptly stopped.
The snow began to come down in thicker flakes that cut through Castiel's clothes, and he shivered. His vision darkened, then cleared, and he concentrated on pooling his energy into one purpose: getting back to his present.
Castiel closed his eyes, dipped into the ever-changing tide of time, and lost himself in its eternal and continuous ebb and flow.
He slammed into the white-covered cement about a block from the bunker. Castiel moaned and rolled over, feeling for the broken bones in his wrist. Blood poured from the wound in his left shoulder, and fresh blood flowed from his nose. He coughed and produced more red stuff that stained the snow beneath him.
For a moment, Castiel's sight fuzzed out, and he almost gave into the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness, but then he remembered the Winchesters. He had to make sure they were safe.
Castiel staggered to his feet and began to walk, slowly and stiffly, toward the bunker, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and wait for the dizziness to abate. Determined, he walked on despite his injuries until he was less than a half a block there, and then his knees buckled.
TBC
A/N: Ohhhhh nooooo! Whatever will happen to poor Cas? And YAY for Crowley! I don't know why, but Cas/Crowley interaction always gives me the feels.
Thanks SO much for reading and reviewing! Virtual frosted sugar cookies of gratitude for everyone!