Author's note: *kkksssss* Good Evening, ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries. Welcome aboard and thank you for flying air Destiel *kkssss* We've got a good fic ahead of us…should clock in at about 30k or so *kkssss* Forecast seems to indicate a pleasant read, with fluff, space friendships, and only minor turbulence *kssss* postings should be once a week…we're not seeing any delays on the schedule so everything should be right on time *kkkssss* Comments are appreciated and thanks again for choosing mtothedestiel for your destiel experience *kkkkkkksssssssssss*
Sam Winchester was about to have the worst day of his life. He should have known, seeing as it was a Tuesday. Sam had never quite gotten the hang of Tuesdays. Really, if he'd stopped to think it over, he could have simply stayed in bed that day, where at least the end of the world would have been somewhat more comfortable.
The real piece of dramatic irony here was that Sam thought he was having a good day. Sam was a lawyer, fresh out of school and not yet pickled by cynicism, his zest for life only tempered by a tragic, but in terms of his development mostly atraumatic, childhood. This Tuesday in particular, Sam had just finished filing a large stack of paperwork, he was wearing his most comfortable and flattering suit, and later that night he was going on a dinner date with Jessica from legal aide, whom he'd been meaning to ask out for some time, and had only just worked up the nerve last week. Yes, all seemed right with Sam Winchester's world. Except, of course, for the unknown fact that in about an hour's time it was going to be demolished.
This might be a good time to talk about Castiel.
Castiel appeared to be a human male of slightly above average height and thoroughly above average good looks. Appeared is a key word in that sentence, because in actuality Castiel Novak (which is a brutal Humanization of an otherwise mechanically unpronounceable surname) was an alien from a non-corporeal race of beings known as Seraphs (no-relation to the seraphs of Earth's Judeo-Christian mythologies. Even with all the diversity of language in the Universe, there are bound to be a few homonyms.) Outside the boundaries of his chosen bodily form, Castiel resembled what a particularly close friend of his once called "the most kick-ass laser light show I have ever witnessed."
Castiel's humanoid manifestation was an exact carbon copy of one Jimmy Novak (no relation), an AM radio ad salesmen from Illinois. Castiel had replicated his genetic code during his first visit to Earth, selecting him based upon his generally well-groomed appearance, which promised him general anonymity with the slightly eased passage through life enjoyed by those just on the right side of good-looking. Jimmy had no idea that Castiel was borrowing his face, so to speak, and Castiel in his more secret moments had to admit that perhaps one good thing that had come of the Earth being destroyed was that Castiel no longer had to suffer the minor anxiety that accompanied the idea running into the man.
What was a Seraph doing approximately 42 light-years away from his home star cluster? In short: meditating. The Seraph talent for processing information is well-known throughout the Universe, leading to their frequent employment in bureaucratic organizations and research facilities. Castiel, more of a wandering soul than his brethren, still occasionally found himself wanting for a large pile of binary code to sort through and analyze, and thus for the last three month had relocated to Earth for a kind of working vacation. He would have most likely left much sooner if not for two things: 1) the accounting practices of human law firms turned out to be fascinating in the depth and breadth of their underhandedness, and 2) about two weeks after his arrival, Castiel happened to run into one Sam Winchester. The importance of the latter will make itself known in due time.
Castiel became aware of the imminent destruction of the Earth two months and twenty-nine days into his assimilation into human culture (assimilation being a relative term, as Sam and his co-workers still thought of him as "that one strange guy in Accounting who wears a trench coat to work every day in Southern California", but really they should all just be glad he hadn't accidentally burned anybody's eyes out). This was somewhat alarming, as Castiel was currently located on Earth, but equally so because the Earth was the home planet of Sam Winchester, who was soon to be very important to a person whose happiness was Castiel's number one priority. Thus, Castiel determined that action needed to be taken.
Sam was returning from a very satisfying business lunch, his Greek chicken salad sitting pleasantly in his belly when his trajectory down the busy sidewalk was brutally interrupted by a collision with the by no means delicate person of Castiel Novak. Distracted by a text from Jessica confirming their dinner plans, Sam would have found himself on his ass had Castiel not intervened with a deceptively strong but stabilizing grip on his bicep.
"Shit-sorry, I wasn't-" Sam apologized, before he caught the familiar, unnerving blue-eyed stare of one of his firm's accountants, "Oh. Castiel, right? Sorry, I didn't see you there."
"Sam Winchester," Castiel greeted, waiting for Sam to regain his balance before removing his hand, "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Why?" Sam asked, concern rising in his gut beside his lunch, "Is there a problem with the accounts? Have you talked to one of the partners?" Castiel waved him off, still looking agitated. The current of pedestrian traffic swerved around them, people giving looks the two tall men standing stock still on the side walk. Sam, prone to human self-consciousness, fidgeted under their stares, but Castiel seemed unperturbed.
"The accounts are fine," Castiel assured him, "They are, in fact, excellent, and fascinating. But they don't matter. I've been looking for you."
"What?" Sam asked blankly, "Why?" Castiel was a figure rarely seen out of the accounting offices, and still then hardly ever heard from. He seemed nice enough, and super dedicated to his job, but basically the only reason Sam remembered him was because of his unusual name, and because occasionally, on his rare jaunt down to finances to drop off a file, he'd caught Castiel's eye and seen that beyond the placid blue there was an otherworldly edge that was downright unsettling.
"Because," Castiel answered solemnly, "In about an hour the world is coming to an end, and you are too essential to be destroyed along with it."
Sam actually laughed. "Yeah, alright," he chuckled, "The end of the world? Did Brady put you up to this? Cause even for his standards, this is really-"
Castiel looked confused, then overly patient, like a teacher explaining something to a slow child.
"You think this is a human prank," Castiel stated.
"Well, yeah, Cas," Sam said, "Sorry Brady roped you into this, but we've had this little inter-office war going, and-"
"I don't know who Brady is," Castiel interrupted him, "But I am not here at his behest, nor is this some kind of joke. The obliteration of Earth is nearly upon us."
"Alright, come on," Sam insisted, a frown furrowing his brow, "Enough's enough."
"Clearly not," Castiel disagreed, "You may not believe it, but Earth is going to be destroyed. When my ship arrives I plan to take you with me-"
"Castiel-"
"- but until then, I suggest we imbibe copious amounts of alcohol, and wait for the inevitable blast wave."
Sam was beginning to gather with some discomfort that Castiel was not in fact joking. Being an extremely compassionate man (in the grand scheme of humanity, that is) he assumed Castiel was having some kind of episode, and offered to buy him a drink at the local bar.
Fact: Seraphs have the highest alcohol tolerance of any species in the Galaxy. The current drinking record is currently held by Anna of the planet Garrison, who in less than an hour absorbed forty two liters of Grace Vapor (the equivalent of 68 Jaeger bombs.)
Castiel was rapidly knocking back a row of shots.
"Maybe you should take it easy," Sam suggested.
"Do you remember your brother?" Castiel asked instead. Sam froze, not literally obviously, but in the sense of a complete mental halt that arises when a co-worker whom you barely know brings up the older brother who was abducted in your infancy and never found. The brother whose face haunts you to this day and whom you had made a particular effort not to mention in front of any of your professional friends.
"How do you know about him?" Sam demanded. Castiel took another shot.
"What if I suggested," Castiel continued, "That Dean, your brother, was not kidnapped and tragically murdered as you and your family presumed, but was actually at the age of four abducted by aliens?"
"I would punch you in the face," Sam replied honestly. Castiel considered this as he sipped his final hit of bourbon.
"Well, I am suggesting it," he declared at last, then, looking into the bottom of his shot glass, "I think I'm beginning to feel something."
Sam punched Castiel in the face.
Since it is well known to many people besides Sam that Castiel is not human, perhaps it is little surprise that he was uninjured, other than being knocked from his seat. Needless to say, Sam found it quite confusing.
"Ow," Sam cried, cradling his sore fist, "What in the hell?" Castiel rolled his eyes as he rolled nimbly back to his feet.
"'Hell' is only a human concept," Castiel informed him, with actual air quotes, "and it's about to be obliterated along with the rest of Earth, so there's no use bringing it up now."
"What are you?" Sam demanded, "How do you know anything about Dean?"
"I'm a Seraph, of the planet Eden," Castiel declared, with more than a hint of pride, "Honorary co-Captain of the Impala, your brother Dean's starship." For a moment that unearthly edge to Castiel's eyes, that unsettling glint that had gone unmentioned but for a few discomforted glances exchanged at the office, became dominant, eclipsing Castiel's blue orbs with a wash of golden light that made Sam want to cover his gaze from a sensation not unlike looking to long at the sun. Castiel smiled and blinked, and as quickly as the light had come it was gone, and Castiel was once again for all appearances an ordinary man.
Sam stared at Castiel blankly. Humans, it has been said, are not good at processing new information. Even the ones that went to Stanford.
"Aliens?" Sam asked at last.
"Aliens," Castiel confirmed.
"Aliens."
"Yes," Castiel said again, becoming a little concerned.
"You are from outer space," Sam repeated.
"I just said that," Castiel agreed, "Though really you could argue that we're all from space, if you wanted to wax philosophical."
"And Dean's alive. And also in space?"
"Yes," Castiel assured him, checking his watch, "Hopefully he will arrive soon to pick us up."
"In his space ship."
"Technically she's a starship," Castiel corrected, "Just so you know Dean's really sensitive about-"
"What is happening?" Sam shouted, hands twisting in his hair. The other patrons were staring curiously at the strange man in the trench coat and his tall, yelling companion. They were all going to be dead in a short time, so it didn't really matter, but Castiel didn't want their final moments of life to be stressful so he slipped the bartender a crisp one hundred dollar bill and asked him to furnish everyone with a very strong drink.
"I'm sorry about all the noise," Castiel apologized before leading Sam back out into the California sun with a hand on his broad shoulder.
"Cas, wait, stop," Sam insisted, "You have got to explain what's going on."
"It's not complicated," Castiel growled, catching more than one eye on the crowded sidewalk, "I'm not human. Your brother is alive, and hopefully we're going to meet him soon, because the Earth is about to be demolished to make room for an inter-galactic highway. Do you own a trench coat?"
"A trench coat?" Sam repeated, swiftly losing contact with his higher brain functions, "We live in California! Why the hell would I have a trench coat?!"
The trench coat, in actuality, has proven over the last several hundred years to be the most helpful and multi-functional tool in the space travelers arsenal. Besides its obvious sheltering function, keeping its wearer protected equally from the blazing triple suns of Vesta and the bitter winds of the ice planet Hoff, the trench coat is also a highly versatile storage and camouflage unit. It's large pockets provide space for provisions, weaponry, and light reading material, while it's innocuous but slightly sleazy reputation makes its wearer able to blend in to any social strata in the Universe, simply by flipping up their collar and looking shady, but not too shady. The excess mass, yet weather-proof nature of trench coat material also makes it an ideal tarp, tent, or, as the Seraph Castiel has come to prefer, a blanket under which to make slow and passionate love long into the wee hours of the morning.
"Humans," Castiel muttered under his breath, growing agitated as he checked his watch. Sam's mind was reeling. Castiel might as well have pulled out a magic wand and told him wizards were real for all he was able to process it. Aliens. Dean. The human mind has the very undesirable tendency to freeze up when faced with a truly dire set of information, such as the reappearance of your long lost brother, the existence of life on other planets, and the imminent destruction of Earth. It's generally agreed upon that this programming error is a serious oversight and whoever created those humans really should just do a recall before someone gets hurt. Castiel, who despite having spent more time with humans, on planet and off, than he ever could have predicted, was starting to lose patience.
"The world is coming to an end in less than two minutes," Castiel insisted, "We need to leave."
"I can't," Sam responded stupidly, "I have a date tonight."
Castiel's sure to be unintentionally humorous response was cut off when the blue California sky above them rippled. From the cloudless atmosphere emerged a gargantuan fleet of spaceships, phasing out of hyperspace in a terrifying and, admittedly, beautiful wave of opalescent color. The forms were awesome, perhaps in the sense that a kraken is considered awesome just before it crushes your ship with one snap of its mighty jaws. Sam gaped as Castiel scowled.
"Do you believe me now?" he asked with a pointed glare.
"Yeah," Sam squeaked, "Holy crap, yeah. You were saying something about leaving?"
With a pneumatic hiss the ships contorted, revealing massive banks of speakers. The dead silence was filled with high pitched feedback. The first screams filtered up from the crowded streets.
"Now, now," came a smarmy, crackling, voice, "That's not a winning attitude!"
"Shit," Castiel muttered under his breath.
"What?" Sam asked, eyes locked on the huge shimmering forms.
"That's Dick Roman, CEO of the Leviathan," Castiel informed him despondently, "Our chances of survival just dropped by thirty percent."
"Oh."
Leviathans, even amid the infinite genetic possibilities of the ever expanding Universe, are truly despicable creatures. Over thousands of years, the species has evolved to embody the two adjectives most reviled by sentient beings across the cosmos: bureaucratic and slimy. Large, black, worm-looking beings, they decimate any of the chaos and catharsis that normally accompanies a primordial beast with contracts, protocols, and committees. Even the drip of slime from their gaping, razor toothed maws is perfectly timed and symmetrical. The Leviathan have finally found their niche in the increasingly corporate machinations of the Universe, where their intimidating presence, business savvy, and utter lack of scruples have made them ideal for dirty work. They are efficient, disgusting, utterly without mercy, and excellent motivational speakers. In other words: abominations.
"Your planet has been selected for demolition," the voice, Dick Roman, Sam assumed, announced, "In order to make room for the Chuck Shurley Memorial Intergalactic Highway! With its completion, the eighth and eleventh sectors of the Universe will finally be connected, bringing in a new age of progress and communication between interstellar peoples! What a time to be alive!"
"What the hell?" Sam breathed, a sentiment echoed loudly by the approximately twenty million people living the in the greater Los Angeles area.
"I'm sorry," the voice continued, "Any grievances were to be filed with your Galactic town Hall by 14500 G.C.E at the latest! You know what they say: if you're not a shark, you're the tuna! Please remain calm and await your imminent vaporization!"
The speakers withdrew to be replaced by massive hologram screens with a one minute countdown in neon green symbols. With fifty-eight seconds left before the annihilation of Earth, Castiel began to rifle urgently through his pockets.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, one eye on the massive ships above and the other on the refuse that was tumbling out of Castiel's coat. There must have been receipts in at least five different languages, only one of which Sam could even say for sure was from Earth.
"Dean isn't here yet," Castiel muttered, "Which means we'll have to improvise."
With twenty-eight seconds until the end of the world, Castiel made a soft noise of triumph as he pulled a mess of wires vaguely formed into the shape of a hand, with what looked like a tiny calculator and a glass thumb attached.
"What's that?" Sam asked as Castiel slipped the device over his hand like a bizarre glove.
"It was a gift," Castiel informed him, pressing a complicated set of numbers into the keypad, "From a man I met on Betelgeuse 5. It's for hitchhiking. Hopefully it still works, I've never used it."
Sam hardly had time to protest before Castiel threw an arm around his middle and tugged him in with his inhuman strength. The countdown on the enormous screens had reached the single digits when Castiel thrust his thumb into the sky. The bizarre device on his hand lit up in a fluorescent tangle of color before a beam of light arced from the monstrous ships down to the ground and swallowed them up.
"Hold on tight!" Castiel shouted as Sam's senses were overwhelmed by a wave of light and sound. With a flash, the sidewalk vanished from beneath their feet, and with that, Sam Winchester left Earth, never to return.
