Devils And Gods

Warnings: blasphemy (God-as-Chuck, and all the things that come with it), swearing, violence, violent imagery, gore, slash for later chapters (both f/f and m/m), as well as het

Pairings: I'm intending Dean/Castiel. Other than that, it's being played by ear so far.

Spoilers: Everything up to season 6, episode 11 (the mid-season finale).

Notes: Title taken from the Tori Amos song of the same name. This is my first Supernatural fic, and I wasn't actually going to post it... at least not yet. But a friend of mine convinced me otherwise, so here we are! Please let me know what you think. I'm rather nervous. Part 2 of the first chapter will be posted tomorrow.

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Two figures of light pierce through the afternoon skies, speeding towards one another with all the wrath of the heavens behind them. As they collide, lighting crackles in white-hot arcs through the clouds, stirring angrily. A storm seems inevitable.

A sharp thunderclap rolls over the mountains below. People stare upward, mouths gaped and their eyes sparking in wonder, but in the sky, a shriek is released from one of the figures, something alien and high-pitched that makes them clap their hands over their ears in pain.

The shriek is cut-off abruptly. A lifeless body tumbles towards the Earth, its speedy decent whistling in the atmosphere before it slams into the ground, and the impact bursts a mushroom cloud of flame, smoke and uprooted shrapnel that roars across the landscape, temporarily blocking the afternoon sun.

The people scream, fleeing, and those closest are silenced abruptly as they're swallowed by the growing fireball.

The other figure, dark and hovering in the sky, frowns sharply at the destruction below, its face deformed with sorrow.

"I'm sorry, brother," the figure mutters. "But you should have known it would end this way."

It vanishes with the flutter of unseen wings.

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Sammy's curled up in Bobby's guest room under a huge pile of blankets. He drags in deep, reassuring breaths, but otherwise hasn't twitched since Death had shoved his ragged soul back where it was supposed to be.

Leaning against the door frame, Dean can't help but perceive him as the tiny little boy he used to patch up, train, and take care of during all the times that Dad hadn't been there. Sammy had been so tiny, back then. Not helpless-Winchesters never were-but tiny, and in need of reassurance, brotherly hugs, and all the things that Dean had sneered were too girly for his tastes.

In that little boy's place is the too-tall, too-strong, too-big man that Sam had grown into after he'd set off college, their father's harsh words echoing at his back like a pulsing wound. But maybe Sam had been better off in the long run. He's big enough now to defend himself during all the times that Dean has failed to be the big dependable brother the world expects him to be.

And Sam must be getting used to that.

Death had left some hours ago with one last terrifying glance at Dean. He'd mentioned souls again, his black eyes glimmering with a strange urgency, and Dean shivered, averting his gaze away. Death clearly found him intriguing-fucking Death, which was somehow even worse than the angels-and wasn't that just the story of his life.

And Death had left in the whisper of a cool breeze. Bobby stared at the space he'd vanished and then looked to Dean, the older man's face drawn pale, clutching a rifle, his breath stifled in the back of his throat. It was the same look Bobby had worn when the angels started interfering with their lives, when Sam went demon blood junkie, when Lucifer walked the Earth, when Armageddon seemed to be upon them, and everything-everything-about the Winchester family was revealed to be preordained in effort to fuck over humanity.

Uncomfortable though it'd been in parts, Dean longs for the days when their biggest worry was finding Dad and dragging Sam away from the fiery inferno of Jess's bleeding corpse fused to the ceiling. But even that had been planned from the start. It's enough to make him sick, and lately, he can't stop thinking about it.

Bobby trudges down the hall, clapping a hand on Dean's back. "No change?"

"Nah," Dean says, and turns to give Bobby a shrug. "Maybe it's for the best. He hasn't slept for over a year. Not since-"

Dean wince, then, abruptly taken by the mental image of both his brothers tumbling down into the Pit, and he knows this isn't over yet. Sammy's safe now-as safe as he'll ever be with his soul so thoroughly destroyed, Death had to build a wall in his mind to block the memories of Hell resurfacing-but Dean will most likely die trying to bring back Adam. That's how it works, how it's always worked (whether or not he wants to begrudge his grandfather the same thing), and maybe he won't come back this time. But when they're safe... when they're finally safe, and Dean's job is finished... well, he's starting to think of it like an extended vacation. Death, that is, assuming he actually stays that way this time. There's really no point without Lisa and Ben anymore, and he's a shit hunter now. It'd be nice to see Ellen and Jo again. If he goes up instead of down. Christ, he's crossing his fingers for Heaven.

It probably doesn't matter-Cas would kick his ass six ways from Sunday if Dean gave up like that (did it before), and Heaven doesn't sound like much of a party anyway these days. Point being, his life fucking sucks no matter which way he looks at it.

But at least Sammy's safe.

Bobby, oblivious to Dean's thoughts, is looking through the doorway at Sam's scruffy mop peaking from just below the covers. Bobby's eyes seem to glimmer, and then he sighs something that sounds far older than it should. "Kid'll be fine, Dean, and anyway, there's nothing you can do about it right now. You should rest. Been a helluva day."

With that, Dean looks at Bobby again, noting the bruises mottling his neck and a suspicious lump on the side of his head. Sam 2.0 had done a number on their surrogate father. "Speaking of which. What the hell was that patricide shit about?"

Bobby shrugs at him, though his eyes darken at the memory. "You know that bit. Had to do with keeping the soul out. Don't know where the hell he'd got the notion-"

"He got it from someone else. Had to, he came up with it too quickly." Dean slides out of the doorway and away from Sam. Bobby follows him, and they both head down the stairs and towards the front of the house. "He must have summoned someone for advice. Crowley's dead, I doubt he'd deal with Meg, and Cas would never... so that leaves..." Dean's eyes widen, and he pauses in his tracks. "Balthazar? Shit."

Bobby's confused for a moment, and then he recalls Sam's summary of the events some weeks ago. "That sonuvabitch trading the weapons of Heaven for souls?"

"Yeah. Things didn't go very smoothly for any of us last time around. It doesn't make sense he'd help Sam."

"Unless Sam threatened him," Bobby mutters, rubbing at the bruises on his neck again.

"Or Balthazar thought it might be amusing. He seems the type. Bit like Gabriel that way. Or Crowley."

"Damn," Bobby mutters, and finds an overstuffed chair. He collapses into it with a weary groan, swiping a hand across his forehead. "S'what we need, someone else with a shitload power finding an interest in us."

"I know," Dean mutters, thinking of Death again. He thumps down in the chair next to Bobby and grabs the remote from the TV stand. He sets his dirty boots on the coffee table, and Bobby glares at him. Dean rolls his eyes, and for a moment, the air is warm with family again.

But then he turns on the television.

Castiel's battered and bruised body is being pulled on a gurney into an ambulance truck. Dean feels himself become disembodied with shock as he watches it happen on screen, unable to breathe. Beside him, Bobby curses.

"-Jimmy Novak, suspected for a series of murders in Pontiac, Illinois. He's the sole survivor so far from this area, and police are saying his previous allegations and this attack are completely unrelated. His family has been contacted, Mark."

It's a news cast, and Mark Browning, the hour's anchorman, gives the young brunette sympathetic eyes.

"Wow. How bad is the damage, Sofie?"

The reporter stands before an ambulance driving Castiel (and Jimmy) to a hospital. The text on the bottom of the screen reads: DUPREE DEVASTATED BY LARGE METEOR STRIKE.

Marie gestures to the apparent destruction surrounding her. "Very bad, Mark. It looks like most of the city has been leveled, and the death toll is still rising, especially in this area where the city was hit directly. Dispatchers have been called from as far as Montana, and many victims from surrounding areas are being transported between Gettysburg and Mobridge, where there are better means of care. The hospital here is still standing, but-"

Dean is out of the chair and marching towards the weapon's cabinet before Bobby can say a word. The older man walks after him, begging reason. "Dean, wait a minute. You can't just go marching in without a plan-"

He ignores Bobby's protests as pulls a rifle from the cabinet and grabs a large box of shells, his eyes skimming over the other guns and lingering on an old machete. "Raphael must know he's there, Bobby. It's a huge bullseye on Cas's back, even without the cops, and you heard her. Jimmy's family's involved now, which means they're flying in. If nothing else, Cas would want us to protect them. I've gotta go now."

"What about Sam?"

He pauses, glancing at Bobby and then the stairs to Sam's room, but only for a moment. Then he's swiping his duffel from the couch and adding the box of shells to his collection. In the bag's contents, something shiny catches his eye, and Dean pulls out the angel-killing dagger etched in Enochian that Cas had given him after turning human last year. He'd said it used to be Uriel's sword, and the angel's face had been creased with pain at the remembered betrayal and subsequent death of his closest brother. Cas had given it to Dean because he hated the sight of it.

But Dean likes the feeling of it in his palm. Uriel's sword is warm to the touch and it vibrates slightly on contact, as if itching to tear into the grace of another angel. He wonders if that's the last remnant of Uriel left behind, bloodthirsty with forgotten rage, or the weapon itself fitting entirely too comfortably in the hunter's grip.

It doesn't matter either way.

"You take care of Sam," Dean says, zipping the duffel bag again. "I'll take care of Cas."

"Be careful, boy." Bobby's got that wobbly look on his face, like he's trying his best to keep the stiff upper lip, but is failing miserably out of worry for the safety of his two would-be sons. "You come back, or Sam an' I'll kick yer ass."

Dean mock-salutes, the screen door banging like gunshot behind him. He feels Bobby's eyes follow him in the Impala until he drives off out of sight. He tries not to think about Sam, or Adam, or anything but Cas.

Then he slips in some Zeppelin on the tape deck, and tries not to think about anything.