Firstly, I want to thank my-spirit-animal-is-the-impala for the inspiration (Go look at his/her stories!) and letting me use their idea.
On to business: this will be AU. There will be no Annabeth (she never existed, AT ALL) because if there were, I would have to write romance, and I'm no good at writing romance. This said, I'm not writing romance, just so you know. Even if I do ship people (not saying who!;) ), I am no good at writing romance, sorry. There will be familial-ness, but again, NO ROMANCE!
Just to be clear, this is not cannon. Just so you know!
It will start while Dean is in hell and Percy is in Tartarus (in this AU he's there alone). Timelines are tricky so I'm just saying it's 2001. Percy is born in 1984, Dean in 1972, Sam in 1976.
Percy: 17 years old
Dean: 29 years old
Sam: 25 years old
Disclaimer: These are not mine. Obviously. If they were, i would be to busy flying around in my jet-pack-powered, light-blue, hovercraft Dolorian (with cup holders ;D) to care about writing fanfiction.
Dean's POV
Dean watched as a man appeared in the summoning circle. He had a trench coat on, and an ordinary face complete with nondescript brown hair. The man stared at them all, no expression showing on an utterly blank face. He was likely a monster. Who else would show up in a summoning circle. The man's eyes were a light blue, and were trained straight on Dean. Dean felt a shiver go down his spine at those eyes. He couldn't see anything in them (and he'd always sort of seen the signs of feelings, or thinking in another's eyes, so why not this man-no thing- because it couldn't be human with those eyes). He would never say it aloud, but they scared him. Then the monster turned his gaze to Sam, and all of Dean's protective-older-brother instincts flared. He lunged forward and stabbed the guy right in the gut with his dagger. The monster half coughed but still didn't show any emotion.
Blood dripped down the thing's abdomen as he finally spoke, "My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord. God has work for you, Dean."
Dean stared, horrified, as Castiel pulled the knife out of his stomach and dropped it to the ground, before healing before his very eyes. The others had been stunned into silence as well, and a surge of disbelief and anger swept over Dean, pulling him relentlessly into thoughts he didn't want to think.
He knew there was no way what Castiel was saying was true. If there was a God, where was he when Dean's mother was killed, and sent his father into a craze of vengeance that had ruined their childhood, and their lives, or when Sammy had told him, at age five, (when Dean was nine and trying to keep him innocent of the horrors of the world, and had hidden Sam's Christmas present, from Santa, it said on the tag, in his bag) so matter-of-factly, that Santa Claus didn't exist, because magic was evil (and Dean's heart broke and if there was a God, where was he then?).
Dean couldn't believe in religion, because if there was an all-powerful being, who was good and kind and loving, why was the world such a mess? Why was his life such a mess? Why?
There was only one possible answer. This "angel" was lying. There was no god. There couldn't be.
Castiel had disappeared directly after he spoke, and now they were off to Boise, Idaho on a hunt. Dean (tried to) put the "angel" out of his mind and got ready for what looked to be a demon. But he couldn't completely forget those ominous words Castiel had spoken, "God has work for you, Dean." Well, Castiel had to be a monster, and maybe his pack/coven/whatever wanted to turn Dean to the dark side and get him to work for them or something? He really had no idea, but he knew he wasn't going to fall for it (whatever it was...).
Castiel's POV
Castiel pushed a surge of pity and regret back. They were weak emotions, and angels didn't feel emotion. However, he knew Dean was going to have a hard time of it, but he still delivered the message Michael told him to give. Well, of course he did, Michael was always right. Michael was God's Chosen ruler of heaven. This he knew, but it still felt wrong, and he didn't know why. It shouldn't feel wrong. He shouldn't feel, at all, period. What was wrong with him? Was he dysfunctional? Yet... was is right to give such a burden to two the young brothers?
Castiel cut himself off from such blasphemous thoughts abruptly. What was he thinking, he asked himself harshly. He was being an idiot. The humans had to get involved in this mess, God commanded it of them, and who was he to question that! The treacherous voice in the back of his head whispered, "And who is God to tell them to do this?"
Castiel shoved those thoughts away violently, trying to deny what he inwardly knew was true. He did the only thing he knew how to do, he shoved his emotions deep, deep inside him, and went on as if everything was alright, ignoring the sound of his already broken heart shattering.
Percy's POV
Percy was in the city of Boise, Idaho. He was tracking down some monster. He wasn't quite sure what yet. A man had been killed, found mauled and bloody (and Percy could feel memories of how he found his parents, gory and slashed, rising up to his skull through tears in his throat). Ten years before, the man, George Brent, mysteriously become a spectacular, amazing artist. His fame was the reason this death was such a topic for the press. Also, the mystery shrouding his death. He'd lived alone, excepting hired help that only worked during the day. His house was a fortress, with the newest and best security, laser beams, alarms, alligator death pits (just kidding on that last one).
He'd been killed in the middle of the night by what appeared, by the claw marks, to be some huge predator, like a bear, however, experts were saying the way his body was attacked pointed to a pack of unbelievably huge dogs. The video cameras which would've shed light on the situation had been turned off as if by a ghost at 11:59 pm and had been reawakened at 12:01, one minute past midnight.
Percy could've used the mist pretty easily to get people to think he was some sort of detective and let him into the house. But he didn't, because it reminded him of how many times the gods had manipulated him and how really, it was all the same in the end. And he knew that if he let himself do this -to stop deaths!- then soon it would be, "I just have to sacrifice one boy -to save the world!" And Percy wouldn't let himself be a god like that. So, he made a fake ID, FBI style.
He went to the house, which was surrounded by yellow tape and police officers milling around, and walked up to one lady who seemed to be in charge.
Percy lied glibly, "Hello, officer. My name is Nathan Morris, FBI." At this point he held up the totally fake, yet hopefully believable ID. "I need to see the scene of the crime."
She glanced at the ID before replying, "Yes sir, right this way." Percy could feel a telltale twinge in his gut, and he knew she was trying to suck up to him to get a promotion, or a good word.
He sneered under his breath and when she turned back to look at him with a, "Sir, are you alright?" He plastered on a fake smile and kept walking up the huge driveway and through gold encrusted doors. She led him through a gaudy maze of marble and crystal chandeliers.
As they got closer to the site of death, Percy could feel an aura that sort of reminded him of the Underworld. There were two other guys standing around the bloody, white tiles that were, he guessed, the place where Brent had been mauled. He swallowed, and tried to forget how he found his parents -bloody walls and carpet, gore and skin splattered everywhere, and the bodies... his mother had had her eyes gouged out and her limbs cut off and Paul had been clawed and bitten and tossed around until he bled out and Percy had found them and this was the same and he couldn't take it -and he shoved it away ruthlessly, knowing he couldn't afford to start crying in the middle of his investigation. Later, he would scream and sob as much as he needed to in the hotel room.
One was tall with long-ish hair and the other was short with short hair. Their backs were both turned to him.
"Sir, here are your FBI colleagues. Good luck in finding the murderer!"
Then she left, leaving Percy and two Winchester brothers, who were all thinking along the lines of, "Oh sh*t! The real FBI!"
The taller one turned towards Percy first, holding out an ID with the name Drew Warren on it. He mumbled, "Hello agent, I'm Drew Warren."
Percy was scared out of his mind, but managed to pull out his own ID, and murmured, "Hello Agent Warren, I'm Nathan Morris."
Then the second agent turned around, ID in his hand, and Percy recognized him. But that wasn't what made Percy jump- it was the fact that the place he'd seen the man in was the Fields of Punishment, Tartarus.
Dean's POV
Dean was examining the blood traces, trying to find out how big of a pack of hellhounds had been let loose on Brent, when he heard two sets of footsteps. He kept staring at the blood, even as they got closer.
Then he heard the words that he had nightmares about, but had never heard in person.
"Sir, here are your FBI colleagues. Good luck in finding the murderer!"
Dean's only thought was, "Sh*tting fudge! We're busted!"
Sam turned around and fake introduced himself as Dean readied the gun in his pocket, preparing to disable this guy. To his complete surprise, the agent bought it! Nathan Morris introduced himself and Dean slipped the gun back in his jacket before grabbing his ID and turning around and showing it to the man.
Then he saw Nathan Morris's face. He knew that face, but he couldn't remember where from. Nathan Morris jumped, and shock spread across his face. Morris apparently knew him too. Then it hit him. This was the man he'd seen in hell.
Firstly, I want to thank all my favoriters, followers, readers, and reviewers! You guys are awesome!
I really want to address my reviews (that asked about stuff), which I will try to do every time!
Guest said:
The show had thousands of pagans in it and hundreds of pantheons. Hell should be a raging inferno compared to Tartarus. The Angels should be able to take on any threat that Percy went through and not break a sweat.
Yes, I get that (and thanks for pointing it out so I could address it :) ), but I was sort of thinking along the lines of what enigmatic pencil reviewed- I want them to be equal in power so it's a bit more interesting. Sorry if I don't follow the Supernatural universe, but I feel like also, Hell and Tartarus are basically the same thing, but through different lenses. I remember right the -I think- first PJO book, when Percy and Co. are in the Underworld and some dude going to the fields of Punishment calls it Hell because he's Christian and that's what he believed and Grover or someone said something like, "It's the Underworld, but other people see it as other things, like a super-powerful Mist or something..." Long story short, in this fic they're the same thing just seen differently by people of different beliefs.
Other reviewers, thanks for the encouragement!
Okay, so Castiel is really messed up right now. He both represses his emotions, believing them "weak," and thinks Michael (and all his other superiors) are always right, doing God's bidding, and infallible. He will get better, promise.
Next chapter: More on Castiel, and continuing the cliff hanger!
OK, sorry I feel like this chapter is really short (like half of it is in bold) but I couldn't take it any further (and ruin my cliffhanger) so I'll try to make my next one longer! Thx guys!