Part Three of Four. This was betaed by the lovely ~Sierra Nichole, she rocks! Worship her!
... ... ...
Summary: It wasn't real...
... ... ...
Salt of the Earth
"It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we have invented them…"
-East of Eden; John Steinbeck
... ... ...
Sunlit Days Motel, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260;
September 13;
1032 Hours
Castiel lifted the small clay jar and Dean narrowed his eyes.
"The oil?" Dean wrinkled his nose, "Do you think it'll work?"
"Focalor was an angel-"
"Yeah but now he's an archdemon. That takes some serious corruption." Dean loaded a clip of silver tipped bullets into his engraved Colt 1911. "Might not be enough angel in him for it to hold."
"The nature of your creation doesn't leave you." Castiel responded and gingerly set the jar onto the metal table. "I would know."
Dean started to speak, his voice died when a rapid, almost panicked knock resounded from the door. The Hunter and diminished angel looked at one another, tensed and stiff. No one knocked. Occasionally Abaddon would, but she knew where they were already. Any other angel could just as easily track Castiel and find Dean, pop in when they wanted.
Demons were the same way.
Dean narrowed his eyes and cocked the Colt 1911 before nodding to Castiel. Carefully the angel slunk towards the door, hesitating long enough for another round of terrified knocking to rattle the metal. Gingerly Castiel reached out and typed in the code, unlocking the door and letting it slide back to the catwalk just outside their door.
Panting, wild eyed and soaking wet were two men. One older, his brown hair mussed and slicked to his head, his eyes were a sharp and terrified hazel, hands shaking. His framed was solid, center of balance low.
Over his shoulder was a taller, more lithely built man. Short blonde hair, darkened by rainfall, electric blue eyes confused and unnerved.
There were dressed nearly identical. Jeans and boots, embroidered polo shirt with the Starfleet logo on the chests. The older man in blue and the younger in gold. They were both shivering, unused to the cold of the rain and their pallor pale from shock.
"Dean? Dean Winchester?" The older man rasped, shaking harder. "Or Sam?"
Dean almost felt his muscles snap with tension. Castiel's face twitched in surprise and confusion before it twisted as the smell drifted across his nose. The scent of sulphur and blood, ash and metal washed over him and choked the outcast angel.
The smell of Hell.
Castiel reeled back, lips curling in a near growl. It was enough for the Hunter. Dean launched himself off the bed and swung the Colt up.
"Don't move!" He barked.
Both men seemed to jump out of their skins and back up as Dean advanced to put himself between Castiel and the strangers.
"They smell like the Pit." Castiel hissed. Dean tensed until he felt like a piano wire.
"Easy..." The older man rasped, shivering in the rain. "We're lookin' for help."
The blonde one narrowed his eyes, "Is that a projectile weapon?"
Dean's lips curled and he nearly growled, shifting protectively in front of the outcast angel. "It'll kill you just the same."
The blonde's jaw locked and he looked defiant lifting his chin slightly, blue eyes blazing. Dean's brow knitted together. This kid was familiar... he'd seen his face before.
"You're that kid..." Dean's tone sounded almost accusing. "Couple months back. The Romulan thing."
"Kirk." Castiel muttered behind him. "James."
"Yeah. That's me, want to put that down?" Kirk growled back and started forward, only stalling when the older man gripped his arm and pushed him back gently. Dean sneered at him, actually baring his teeth.
"Don't think you're in much of a position to be giving orders, captain." The Hunter spat.
"Please!" The older man rasped, shivering harder and both edging just inside the room. "Please... Dean? You're Dean, right?"
The Hunter narrowed his eyes and said nothing.
"I'm Leonard McCoy. And yer Dean Winchester. From the Gospel-"
"Christ." Dean snarled low in his chest. Another one, another religious lunatic that somehow got wind of him and Castiel. Sometimes they were harmless, but only sometimes. Dean kept his aim steady.
"When... when ya got separated, ya and yer brother. The third listin' under motels. Robinson. How ya always found each other. I know I'm right."
iDamnit/i... he needed to ditch these habits. "If you want some kind of autograph-"
"Ya think I want ya to exist!" McCoy snapped. "Yer just scripture and theology! Only came here 'cause there's no one else... "
Dean lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes at the two strangers before making a slight twitch of his hand. Castiel glared at the officers before side stepping and digging into his navy duffle and extracted an ornate, silver flask. It was carved and embossed with Enochian sigils.
Castiel turned it over in his hands once before tossing it to McCoy. "Drink."
The man narrowed his eyes. "I'm a doctor. I'm not goin' to take a swig of some random flask-"
"It's holy water. Drink it." Dean snarled.
McCoy narrowed his eyes, grudgingly unscrewed the cap and wafted the flask under his nose before slinging back a mouthful and swallowing it. Dean and Castiel watching warily for even the slightest flinch as Kirk followed McCoy's example.
"Satisfied?" McCoy growled.
"Why do you smell like Hell?" Castiel muttered. His azure eyes edged in steel and silver.
McCoy stumbled over his words for a moment before speaking. "Focalor..."
The wire of Dean's spine and strung across his shoulders snapped with a twang that Dean was almost sure everyone in the room heard. The Colt fell away and the two Starfleet officers visibly relaxed.
"Focalor?" Dean rasped.
"How do you know about him?" Castiel asked, cocking his head and moving forward to take the flask back, screwing the lid into place and retreating to Dean's side. McCoy seemed to really look at him for the first time.
"Sam?"
Dean flinched, almost biting his tongue. "He's Castiel." He snarled, nearly lunging at the stranger before the smaller man at his shoulder gripped his arm and gently pulled him back.
"Dean. Be still." Castiel's voice was low; a soothing tone that always calmed Dean. When the Hunter was on the brink of being undone and falling too far into violence. Pulling him back. It was the tone and voice that got Dean to sit still for the outcast angel to stitch him back together, it got him to put down the bottle of alcohol, got him to sleep, assured him that he wasn't back in the Pit.
And Dean stepped back, stilling and breathing out.
"The angel."
The Hunter and Castiel looked up to the pure looked of shock, fear and awe on McCoy's face.
"Not anymore." Castiel nudged Dean until the larger man sat on the edge of the nearest bed. "Now. How do you know of an archdemon?"
"We were there... in the cathedral. When you were talking to Abaddon... Abaddon. Christ! Focalor knows Abaddon's here!" McCoy looked like he was about to panic. "Ya have to warn her-"
"Whoa. Alright. First off Abby can take care of herself." Dean growled but he felt his hackles rise. He caught Castiel's eye, having a sharp conversation in that heart beat before looking back to the two Starfleet officers.
"Perhaps it would be best if you were given time to calm yourselves. Dry clothes and something warm to drink. Then you can explain everything." Castiel proposition, his hands up, pouring out pacification.
"There're towels in the bathroom." Dean's head jerked in the direction of the door as he bent to tug his green duffle towards him and extracted two slightly oversized hooded sweatshirts, one ash gray the other chocolate. "Here. Not lending you any jeans. Just leave the shirts on the rack to dry."
McCoy tiredly accepted one of the sweatshirts and stalked to the bathroom. Kirk hesitated before following the doctor's example, stripping off his soaked shirt. The young captain left the door open, not wanting to be trapped in the small room. Dean watched them go for a moment, waiting until he heard the officers speaking to each other in hushed tones.
He twisted and gave a sharp wave for Castiel to move, pulling from a sheath on his hip a silver knife and tossed it. The outcast caught the blade with a practiced movement then ducked around a small divider between the kitchenette and the larger space of the two beds and pseudo den. Castiel cast his eyes around the small area, settling on a plane of glass over the replicator.
Castiel didn't hesitate to slice into his forearm, a narrow gash that was only deep enough to draw a steady stream of blood. He bit his lip at the pain and dug his fingers into the flow, slicking his hands in the hot liquid and started to paint across the glass. The design came easily, the sigil was so like the blood spell that banished angels Castiel slowed himself to ensure he didn't mistakenly draw in the wrong symbols.
"Better?"
Castiel hesitated for a second at Dean's voice, stilling until another voice joined it.
"Yeah... kinda panicked." McCoy's low tones rumbled out to Castiel as he started drawing again, painting the wall with his blood.
"Kinda panicked?" Kirk scoffed. "Bones you've been having panic attacks and delusions all day!"
"Wait... 'delusions'?"
Castiel stilled himself again at Dean's inquiry.
"Yeah. The good doctor here's been hearing voices. If that Focalor guy didn't try and drown us three stories up-"
"Voices?" Dean's tone is sharp, wary and suspicious "What voices?"
Castiel tenses, his mind already running through those memories, that collection of information in his mind of overnight miracles and falling stars.
"Angels... only. I think... " McCoy rasped and sounds shaken. "Started a couple weeks ago-"
"A couple weeks ago! Bones! What the Hell! You didn't tell anyone?"
"They'da slapped me with restrictions, Jim! Locked me out! It woulda crippled my career!" McCoy snapped back. "All it did was keep me up. Always goin' on 'bout him not suckin' it up and givin' consent or about Abaddon goin' soft or this monster or that battle."
"Hey!"
Dean bark quieted the room, Castiel tensed.
"You said you know the Gospel?" Dean asked quietly.
"Learned it when I was young-"
"Any idea why you're tuned into angel radio?"
There was a lapse of silence that Castiel must have missed a soundless communication before Dean called to him.
"Cas? Around forty years?"
"None Dean." Castiel responded, and it was true. There had been no signs of an angel Falling in the time frame. His attention snapping back to the spell he was trying to write and that the wound in his arm was starting to clot. He rubbed it roughly, opening the flow again and drew in the next symbol. He tried not to focus too much on the silence that came from the Hunter just out of sight.
"You said Focalor actually came to you?"
"In my quarters. Froze my bathroom and flooded the place before he started chattin'."
"Yeah. What was with the water?" Kirk grumbled.
"Used to be Focalor's charge before he Fell. Ships, sailors and coastal towns were bull's-eyes for the bastard. Tell me what he said."
"Didn't make any sense-"
"Not to you, Doc. Tell me what he said." Dean pressed.
"He wanted to know where I'd been hidin', said that someone would be impressed I was a doctor, that it would put someone named Alistair to shame-"
Castiel clenched his teeth at the name, his mind was whirling. What was so special about a Starfleet doctor? Listening in to the Host was useful but it was a waste of Focalor's attention. An archdemon for one listener? It didn't make sense. Castiel carefully drew in the last symbol, a mark that stood for Abaddon's name, then slicked his palm with a thin coat of blood.
"He wanted to know where I'd learned his name-"
"You itold/i him about Abby?"
Castiel almost left off the blood work. The tone was reserved for prey only.
"He smelled her on me." McCoy rushed the explanation with his own growl. "I didn't say her name."
Castiel felt and heard Dean let out a breath at the same time as himself. There was no relief in it. Not yet. Castiel lifted his hand and pressed his bloody palm flat against the glass, completing the blood work.
For a second nothing happened, Castiel felt the hum and crackle of old, deep power, threading through his blood, the glass, over his hand and crawling up his wrist.
The glass cracked with an audible, bone rattling crunch and grind of the shards. Castiel yanked back, barely avoiding his hand being lacerated and watched as the still fresh blood froze solid, the glass frosting.
"No..." Castiel rasped and bolted around the barrier before Dean could call for him. "Dean."
The outcast angel choked on the hunter's name and a shiver ripped through his frame. The Hunter met eyes with Castiel for a moment, the viridian pools flooded with fear and pain, regret and confusion.
Then pure, undiluted rage.
McCoy barked in pain as he was slung around and slammed into the floor. Dean straddled his chest, the Colt 1911 pressed into his sternum and Dean's hand wrapped in a vice around the doctor's throat. Castiel reacted just as quickly, snagging Kirk's arm, rolling the larger man's weight and flung him into the wall, trapping an arm behind his back and Castiel leaned his weight in to pin the struggling blonde.
"What are you?" Dean snarled, lips curled at McCoy. "Don't lie to me!"
"I'm a doctor!" McCoy snapped back. "Chief Medical Officer on the Enterprise! That's it!"
"What does he want with you?" Dean spat.
"I don't know!"
"Think! He must have said something!" Only Castiel was able to catch the waver, the pleading just prickling at Dean's words.
McCoy stayed still, panting. Under Castiel's weight Kirk jerked and snarled a few curses but there was no give. Castiel had been trained, by Dean himself, how to handle someone that outweighed or was taller than him. Kirk was no challenge when the typical prey Castiel had to restrain were demon possessed humans or creatures like werewolves or shapeshifters. The outcast angel kept his head tilted, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye.
"I don't know, alright? I wasn't listenin' very well!" McCoy snarled, his own lips curled. "He was tryin' to drown me! Wanted me for somethin'-"
"Why?" Dean snarled. "Demons have reasons! Patterns! He wouldn't care unless there was a reason! What did he say? Did he say anything about the church?"
Castiel grit his teeth, Dean was fishing, looking for anything that could point to where Focalor was... where Abaddon might be.
"Just that he looked for me there."
"Why?"
"When I came to San Francisco it's where I went for a little while. Then he asked me where I'd been hidin' and called me an 'angelic half-breed'."
Dean jerked away from McCoy so fast it looked like he may have hurt his neck. The Hunter scrambled to his feet, keeping the Colt trained on the doctor. "You're a friggin' Nephilim?"
"What?" McCoy used the bed to pull himself upright. "No. No, they don't exist-"
"Think 'bout it Doc. You unusually good at your job? Nail all your deadlines? Friends think you're a little eccentric? You're tuned into the Heaven's NPR." Dean's muscles and stance twitched. Clear that he wanted to pace, prowl around McCoy but satisfied himself with stepping around until he was between the doctor and Castiel.
The diminished angel was more than grateful. Having his back to a Nephilim, even if it was one that wasn't aware of itself, was lethal.
"No... Nephilim. No. They're..." The not real dropped off the end of the sentence. McCoy shook his head hard in denial. "No..."
"If it fits, Doc. One drop run down the line's all it takes." Dean growled. "Doesn't matter how diluted the blood is."
"Get off me!" Kirk shoved hard, squeezing his knee between himself and the wall and kicked, over balancing himself and Castiel. The outcast angel pitched into Dean, the Hunter's reflexes fast enough to catch the smaller man and steady him. Kirk tumbled to the floor before scrambling back up and moving to McCoy's side. The doctor slumped down onto the end of one of the beds and buried his face in his hands. He let out a shaky breath.
"Face it, Doc. If anybody knows a Nephilim on sight its one of the Fallen." Dean snorted and slowly slipped the Colt 1911 back into the waist band of his pants. "Somebody in your family had a boner for exotics."
"What? Wh... are you saying Bones' part demon?" Kirk demanded.
"Angel." McCoy rasped into his palms. "Nephilim are bred out of ang... Fallen angels and humans."
"You're a friggin' atomic bomb, you know that?" Dean growled, stalking a step forward before Castiel pulled him back again when McCoy flinched, setting his jaw and refusing to look the Hunter in the eye.
"Dean, he's had nearly forty years to break on his own. If it was going to happen it would have." The outcast angel sighed. "The blood must be too thin. The only reason they'd want him anymore is potential or sentimentality. One of the Fallen may want his line under control, asked a favor of Focalor."
Dean sighed and agreed. "Yeah... and enough torture'll turn a girl scout into an animal."
"Torture? Okay, Bones let's get out of here, these guys are insane." Kirk growled to the doctor.
"No. Go if ya want." McCoy sat up and breathed deeply, calming himself. "Is that'll what happen? They'll torture me?"
"Until you pick up the knife, if what Focaor said is anything to go by." Dean shrugged one shoulder, his viridian eyes still hard and wary. "They've been looking for a new Chief of Torture for a long time, no one's panned out like Alistair did."
"They must have heard a rumor about you or drew attention to yourself and they've decided to... outsource." Castiel stepped forward, moving to stand nearer to the two Starfleet officers, trying to sound factual without being cold. McCoy's eyes tracked the blood seeping slowly and drying on his forearm and hand when he moved.
"Why?" McCoy nearly croaked.
"Like in Heaven and on earth, there is an order in Hell. Positions that need to be filled and upheld for the mechanics of it to work. Hell is not, and cannot survive, anarchy," Castiel's tone dropped to the point he used for victims and lost souls. "And like in any order, those positions are not easily filled."
"So when they get a lead on some schmuck that can fit with a little demon one oh one they jump on it." Dean growled. "I.E. you."
McCoy dropped his head into his hand and threaded his fingers into his hair.
"Relax, Doc." The Hunter snorted through his nose. "It's not like we're going to feed you to Focalor. Even if you probably gave Abaddon to him."
Castiel tensed. Dean only ever used the full names of angels when he felt pressure, fear, maybe even loss.
"That's not fair Dean." Castiel rumbled. "Leonard said he didn't give her name."
Dean only curled his lips flashing his teeth unhappily, before stalking into the bathroom and returning with a wet towel. He passed it on to the outcast angel before digging into his duffle for a small plastic box marked with a Red Cross sticker.
"She's probably dead." Dean muttered, as he dug out a spool of fine surgical thread, a needle and a roll of cotton bandaging. He ignored the narrowed and wary eyes of the doctor following his every move as he threaded the needle and bit it off as a good length.
"Focalor's more likely to be dead, Dean. If you think otherwise you've clearly not spent enough time with the Antistratigos." Castiel scolded half heartedly. Neither sounded like they believed themselves or each other. The outcast gingerly mopped up the blood from his arm and hand before moving to sit on the unoccupied bed. Dean followed him, kneeling next to Castiel as the smaller man offered his arm, just starting to seep blood again.
"What're ya idoin'/i?" McCoy barked suddenly as Dean moved to make the first stitch in Castiel's arm.
Both the Hunter and outcast angel twisted to look at him. "What' s it look like?" Dean snapped.
"Yer gonna sew him up?" McCoy choked on the words and at his shoulder Kirk's face wrinkled in surprise and disgust.
"Weird..." The blonde captain muttered.
Dean rolled his eyes towards Castiel before hunching over his arm and sliding the needle into flesh and, as gently as one could in the situation, sewed the wound closed. Castiel flinched a little from time to time but didn't move or make a noise. He was well aware of the looks of shock and disgust the two Starfleet officers had fixed them with.
Dean must have felt it as well, possibly more as he was the one making the neat little stitches. The Hunter tied off the thread and dipped his head, teeth neatly nipping through the fiber, lips just brushing the slightly inflamed skin of Castiel's forearm.
"That's what they said 'bout lobotomies and usin' maggots to clean out wounds, too!" McCoy barked. "He can get an infection and die in a matter of hours."
Dean rolled his eyes and sighed as he dug into his duffle and pulled out a large glass bottle that was three quarters full of bright amber liquid. As much as Dean would like otherwise that particular bottle of whiskey was reserved only for first aid. Castiel braced the damp and bloody towel under his arm and Dean poured a generous amount of the alcohol over the wound. The outcast angel let out a noise that sounded like a yelp or a whimper that was barely suppressed. The lights in the room flickered.
Dean gingerly swept the towel over the wound, mopping up the whiskey and smoothly unrolled and wrapped Castiel's arm with the gauze, smoothing the self-adhesive bandage when he was done. His fingers brushed the smaller man's pulse point as he went.
"I'm fine." Castiel sighed. McCoy looked pale, as if he'd slipped back into shock.
"Ya are insane." The doctor groaned, digging his fingers into his temples.
"Get the map." Dean sighed. "Let's see if when can corner this son of a bitch before he does some real damage."
The Hunter reached around his neck and unclipped a fine silver chain, pulling a medallion from under his shirt and passed it to Castiel. McCoy and Kirk tracked the exchange, catching the small motif of a feather over laid with a dagger and a sigil.
"What's that?" Kirk asked, cocking his head slightly.
"A medal made by Abaddon with her marks." Castiel pulling a map of the city from the pile of research and paperwork, carrying it to the small metal table and spreading it out.
"Angel low-jack." Dean growled, grabbing the large, black duffle tucked out of sight under Castiel's bed and tugged it towards himself. He quickly unzipped the duffle and started rooting through the arsenal in it. A bag of plastic and wood bead rosaries, the serrated blade and bone hilt knife that Dean refused to refer to as 'Ruby's knife', he gingerly pulled a cloth wrapped item from the depths of fire arms, knives and ammunition. He started stuffing them into a smaller, faded duffle bag to carry.
He carefully unwrapped the cloth to expose the ornate spike of solid silver.
"That's it isn't it?" McCoy asked. "The Sword of Lucifer."
The Hunter only grunted in response. The low tones of Castiel speaking in Enochian drew the attention of the other three. His back was turned and he held the chain and medallion carefully in one hand over the map.
"Yer goin' to kill him." McCoy said after a moment, talking over the low chanting.
"You want him alive?" Dean snapped, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rising as Castiel continued the soft chant. Dean's hand dug into the bag full of rosaries, rooting around until he extracted one made of a red wood. He thread it through his fingers then carried the string of beads around to the kitchenette and from the small refrigeration unit pulled a clear plastic gallon of water. He unscrewed the lid and dropped the rosary in with a murmur of Latin and closed the jug. Carrying it back to the chosen arsenal.
"Dean." Castiel turned and tossed back the medallion, Dean catching it effortlessly and looped it back around his neck. "In the south part of the city. A small neighborhood, personal residences."
"That's it?" Dean prompted. "Focalor's a show boater, it's cliché but is there something more up his alley?"
"Ya said the south side?" McCoy prompted.
Castiel nodded.
"City aquarium's 'round the south side." McCoy relayed quietly.
"That's more like it." Dean snorted and rooted into the duffle before extracting a small tin box. He opened it and pulled out a piece of pink chalk. The Hunter roughly climbed up on the bed nearest the door and stretched up to draw on the ceiling. "Listen. When we walk out lock the door and line the entry to both doors and the window with salt. It's in that metal canister."
Dean grunted as he dropped down, twisting his neck to make sure of the sigils and lines of the ward he'd drawn. He moved to the door to draw a different one on the back of the cool metal. Leaving thick lines of pink in the wake of his hand.
"You want us to stay here?" Kirk asked with a snort.
"Yep." Dean finished the last stroke and line of the ward on the back of the door and dropped the chalk back into the tin. He brushed his finger tips across his thigh, leaving a streak of pink on the dark blue. He picked up an old business card and a pen, scribbling a series of numbers on the back. "If we're not back in fifteen hours call this number. Ask for Mitchell. He's a local Hunter, might make the effort to save your asses as long as you keep it to yourself about being a Nephilim."
Dean tossed the card down and grabbed the small duffle and his old leather coat, slinging both across his shoulders. Castiel pulled on his own chocolate corduroy jacket. The thick collar of false fleece hugging against the smaller man's throat and stubbled jaw. He settled a sheathed silver dagger on his belt then gingerly hefted the Sword of Lucifer, holding it like a dangerous animal that was only just tolerant of his touch.
"You're ditching us? You seriously expect us to sit here?" Kirk barked, the young man's face was flushed. Dean stilled, his shoulders hunching for a second as he tried to calm himself before turning to look the blonde in the eye.
"Listen, astro boy, I've been doing this a very long time. Taking a civilian into a fight that involves not just any demon but an archdemon iand/i angels... it doesn't work out. So why don't you space cadets keep the theatrics and heroics for when you discover some talking slime in the Omega Quadrant and the publicists are falling over themselves to get to you?" Dean quirked his lips in a humorless smile and turned back to walk towards the door, where Castiel was standing patiently in the doorway.
"Focalor wants me-"
"Which is why you're not going within a mile of the bastard, Doc." Dean snapped over his shoulder with a harsh sigh.
"He'll know yer comin'. He'll guess or somethin', get it out of Abaddon-" McCoy stood.
"Abaddon would never give anything over to the Griffin." Castiel growled so harshly is seemed to surprise Dean. The outcast angel's eyes were planes of sheer ice, flashing dangerously.
"We could-"
"No." Dean and Castiel chorused, cutting off McCoy harshly as they slunk out the rented room, the door sliding back into place. The pink drawn ward on the back glaring at them harshly.
"Jim, we cain't just let 'em walk outta here." McCoy growled after a heartbeat.
…
San Francisco City Aquatics Center and Aquarium, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260;
September 13;
1145 Hours
Dean took point.
He always took point. Over two and a half centuries and that control, one of a few, was something Dean refused to relent.
Castiel was fine with it. Keeping to Dean's back gave the outcast angel his own sense of protecting the Hunter. Watching over his most vulnerable angle was important, a position that had been filled once and stood empty for too long until Castiel took it.
He stalked slowly on Dean's heels giving the Hunter the perfect amount of room to move, the space to act and react unhindered, but not so far as that Castiel couldn't quickly slip in to stand at Dean's back.
Dean moved gingerly, light footed, so much that he was near silent. In one hand the serrated knife, the bone hilt warm and pliable in the Hunter's grip. His other wrapped around the gallon of holy water, the rosary bobbing in the liquid.
It was relatively pointless now unless they threw it directly onto the archdemon. They were walking in ankle deep, icy water. The whole floor of the aquarium was flooded, water had been running out from under the door and lost to the rain. They were soaked, Castiel and Dean's hair darkened and plastered to their skulls, rivers of cold rain water trickling down the lines of their spines, their inner most layers of clothes under soaked jackets were warm against their skins, but heavy and awkward. Their jeans were different stories. The smallest tremors were racking through their frames, shaking their cores but they kept themselves still, moving no more than necessary.
That probably didn't matter either. Focalor most likely knew they were there.
The oil was useless, as was the holy water and any devil's traps they could have hoped to plant, it would wash away in the chilled flood lapping at their feet.
They had the knife and the Sword now. And neither would kill the archdemon. Not without a full fledged angel's power behind them. Another reason to pray that Abaddon was alive.
The aquarium was brightly lit, cast in ripples of pale blue and eerie shadows were the dark was able to hold out against the artificial lights. It was a labyrinth of a place of wide halls and towering, peaked ceilings. Enclosed rooms full of bubble tanks growing from the wall itself or cylindrical ones that stood like support beams for the ceiling. There was a lit tunnel of glass where large animals drifted lazily over head. Massive, open observation rooms with tanks that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and the length of the room. Each was filled to the brim with cerulean water, behind it an array of colorful corals, plant life and even more colorful fish and crustaceans, amphibians and mammals dozed or lazed around their habitats.
Neither Castiel or Dean had walked through an aquarium before, one of those many 'normal' events that simply didn't have room for in their hard, nomadic lives. Any other time walking through the rooms would have taken hours, the Hunter and outcast angel would have soaked in each display with a childlike wonder. No time. There was never time.
It was one of the massive, observation rooms that Dean and Castiel found the thick glass shattered, thousands of gallons still bubbling out onto the floor. But the fissure was not recent. The fish, either bobbing along in the ankle deep water or so large that they lay on the floor water flowing around them, were dead. Their eyes milky and mouths gaping but none gulped and heaved the way freshly landed creatures did.
Castiel carefully stepped over the still form of a Hammer Head Shark, his boot slipping slightly as it connected again with the flooded floor. Castiel hesitated before pulling his other leg after him. He carefully slid his grip down the Sword, balancing it better. He felt the silver hum under his grip, the weapon not pleased to be handled by a creature that was only an echo of angelic heritage.
Dean's normal, wall hugging stalk widened, side stepping to avoid bits of broken coral and dead fish. Their steps sloshed and slid, unsteady. It was frustrating. Not Hunter liked to be unbalanced, especially not on a Hunt like this one.
The quiet gurgling of water and grind of cracked glass was interrupted by a wail. The noise was a warble, a cry that only fringed on human, rising high enough that the lights over head flickered, one burst and a few planes of glass still clinging to the tank's frame cracked and shook. The noise was wrought of pure pain and rang long after it started, echoing and threatening to burst their eardrums. Dean actually felt a slight trickle of blood dribble down his jaw from his ear.
They froze, making far too much noise, as they scrambled until their backs were pressed against the slick glass. Realizing only then, with their spines and shoulders pressed into the surface, that the glass was frosted. The pair shivered hard from the cold and the noise as it died off.
The sound was that of an angel in extreme distress.
Neither could help the half breath of relief. Abaddon was alive... or at least whatever angel had made that noise was alive.
Dean looked over his shoulder and saw the fear in Castiel's eyes and his face pale. The smaller man had an idea or experience in what would cause that noise. It turned Dean's stomach, what Abaddon had said came back to him.
... he'll pull all my feathers out...
Dean grit his teeth and stilled, tilting his head and listening. Castiel was doing the same. Something was sloshing through the water. Steady and slow, cautious. They waited and the noise doubled for a second before falling into step again. Two. Dean dropped his head and tightened his grip on the knife, spinning it in his palm to a better grip.
Dean twitched his head and Castiel ducked low, stalking passed the Hunter and slipped into the shadows, his form melting away. Dean turned and stalked towards the sound of watery footsteps, shuffling his own feet to dull the sound. The steps were closer, coming from around the corner of a support beam. Dean crouched, pressing his back against the plaster and metal, balance low he waited, watching and listening until the shadow crossed the water. The Hunter sucked in a breath and lunged, slamming bodily into the intruder, hearing on the other side Castiel making the same move, syncing in perfectly with Dean.
Dean crushed the other into the pillar, a forearm across the throat and knee against the hip, Dean drew the knife back and froze. Terrified blue eyes looked back at him for a second before they hardened and the younger man shoved him back.
"Get off me!" Kirk snarled. "What's with you freaks and pin-"
Dean slammed his hand over the blonde's mouth and shoved him back hard enough that Kirk's skull cracked against the pillar. Dean grazed the blade warningly over the young Captain's throat,
Kirk's pale blue orbs widened, out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Castiel slowly extract himself and allow McCoy to pull away from the wall Castiel had crushed him into. Dean waited until he had the blonde's full attention before mouthing the word 'quiet'.
Kirk's eyes flicked towards McCoy before back to Dean and he nodded a fraction. Dean drew back, pulling the blade away. Before Kirk could solidify his stance Dean gripped his shoulder and shoved down, hooking a boot behind Kirk's knee and buckled the man's legs, shoving him down to sit in the frigid water. Kirk struggled for a second and eyed the knife hatefully when it drifted back.
Dean mouthed again 'stay', holding up a palm. He twisted and did the same towards McCoy. He flicked his hand to Castiel, motioning the outcast angel to follow. Dean only took three steps before Kirk started to get to his feet.
In a blur Dean drew the Colt 1911 still holstered against the small of his back and swung it to point at Kirk's face. The eerie broken light casting across the engraving on the nickel. Kirk narrowed his eyes at the firearm but before he could make a move either to rise the rest of the way or sit again the quiet was rendered apart again.
"Might as well them come along Dean-o!" The archdemon's voice echoed and chided, sing song in the building. "I'll be playing with them either way!"
Dean let out a distracted sigh and let his hands drop to his sides, head falling back.
"He probably knew we were here anyway, Dean." Castiel still whispered, but didn't try hushing his words.
"Yeah." Dean ground out and turned on his heel, "Stay close. Maybe you won't die." Dean snapped over his shoulder, making no attempt to hide his steps sloshing through the water. Castiel nodded the two Starfleet officers a head before falling into step behind.
"What are you doing here?" Castiel asked in his low rasp of a voice. "We told you to stay back."
"It's my fault that bastard's here-" McCoy growled.
"Don't flatter yourself." Dean snapped. "Focalor wouldn't get pulled out of the Pit for ione/i Nephilim. You're just convenient."
McCoy swallowed audibly. Kirk bristled at the mistreatment of his friend. "This is our city, Winchester. We're not letting a monster run wild."
Dean stilled, his shoulders hunching slightly before he twisted to lock eyes with the blonde over his shoulder. "You could Hunt for a lifetime with all the monsters that 'run wild' in this city."
A chill swept through Kirk and he barely suppressed a shiver at the cool detachment in Dean's voice. It was an exhausted noise, not a broken one, just the sound of a creature that had been stretched too thin.
Dean stalked a head, restless and itching for blood now that his approach had been blown. It wasn't the first time, nor likely to be the last that he'd lost surprise but it was unsettling, pure agitation, when it was stripped from him... which was becoming more and more frequent.
Maybe he really was starting to feel his age. Two hundred and eighty years alive not counting forty in Hell he was due up to lose a step or two. Dean snarled, rebelling against the idea. He couldn't lose a step, there were still lives depending on his own, especially now. He could hear them breathing, pacing close to his heels.
Then there was the one out of sight. Abaddon.
Dean's pace quickened, nearing a trot. Castiel kicked up his own pace in time, faster than the two Starfleet officers did. Their boots sloshed in the frigid water, lifting up to soak jeans at the knees.
Dean led the way down a darkened hall that opened up into another massive observation room. The walls dark and the room only lit by the light behind the giant plane of glass. The cerulean water was thick with pale yellow forms and long tendrils of blood red and gold. They drifted and pulsed, hundreds, possibly thousands of Sea Nettle Jellyfish. Their delicate bodies casting pale shadows in the drift and ripples of light filtering through the frosted glass.
"Amazing creature aren't they? They barely have nervous systems but they're one of the most populous creatures on this planet."
Dean didn't twitch at the words, only kept his eyes locked on the speaker in the center of the room.
There was a single, long bench, set away from and arched along the curve of the glass. The flat surface several feet off the ground and about four feet wide. Mid way along the bench Focalor had set up shop. The pale creature was drenched in blood, up to his elbows and all down his front, though the liquid looked congealed and stiff with an odd sheen to it, frosted on his skin. He knelt on the bench, straddling his prey at the hips and lower abdomen. There was a slight manic grin on his lips and a clay diving blade balanced in one hand.
Stretched out awkwardly, half on her side, was the form of Abaddon. The she angel was shivering, her skin pale and twitching with the soft sound of crackling ice. Her body was twisted, possibly broken, arms and hands slack. There was a blue, sickly tinge to Abaddon's lips and cheeks. Her neck was stretched and strained to look at them, her eyes glassy and exhausted but far from broken.
The Antistrigos was dripping crimson from sigils and symbols intentionally carved into her flesh, morbid tattoo work that marked the Angel of War with binding and weakening wards. The blood moved sluggishly, the same sheen to it and discolor that told testimony that the blood still oozing slowly from wounds was just this side of frozen. Her hair was torn loose and dripping both blood and slowly melting water. The noise a steady rhythm of drops adding to the flooded floor.
The only place of raw blood and flesh was her back. Focalor had worked deep and violent power and torn Abaddon's wings from her true form, molding them into reality and laying them across her vessel's shoulder blades and back, now misshapen with gore and twisted and bulging flight muscles no human was meant to have. The wings weren't large, each maybe three feet from where they joined the morbid birthing from her back to the longest pinion flight feather. The feathers looked sharp, more like the edges of knives, dark, as if they were only flitting between being made of shadow and flesh. A sleek red sheen that matched russet hair was over shadowed by a thin layer of frost and ice. One wing was pinned to the surface of the bench, a thick spike of steel and ice driven through the flesh and feather into the metal and wood. The other was clutched in Focalor's hand, his grip crushing the longest feathers ruthlessly and every time he shifted Abaddon winced.
The wing itself was missing several dominant quills, blood pooling fresh and freely from the gaps. The lost feathers floated sickly in the flooded water of the floor.
Abaddon searched out for Dean's eyes, when she couldn't draw the Hunter's attention from Focalor she sought out Castiel. The outcast's eyes flicked from her to the archdemon and back again. When Castiel met her gaze and held it Abaddon blinked once, slowly and lazily, the way she always did and Castiel breathed a little easier. Abaddon was in pain, possibly felt it in her true form, she'd probably been tortured for hours by the archdemon. She was hurt but she was far from broken. In her glassy viridian eyes were was a wildness, the wrath of war suppressed by the power wrought into the sigils carved into her flesh, binding her down and making her bleed.
Abaddon was muzzled and chained. They needed to break a link, snap the bindings and turn the war machine loose.
"Now this one. Bundles of nerves." Focalor grinned, flashing teeth and he gave the feathers in his hand a tug and drew the edge of the clay knife across the plane of her shoulder, making the first cut that could hew the wing from its place. The wound gurgled as blood bubbled to the surface, fresh and hot before Focalor bent and puffed a breath across the wound. Instantly the liquid slowed, cooling and stiffening, freezing in place. Abaddon lurched through the process but barely let out a noise passed a pained snort.
"Dean-o, I'm glad you brought the boy along. Makes my life just a tiny bit easier." Focalor grinned wolfishly. "Thisaway he gets a little lesson in breaking angels. His first lesson in fact. Now that's the way to start. That's class. Starting at the top. But let me warn you kiddo-"
The archdemon pointed the knife in McCoy's direction and the doctor couldn't repress a shudder.
"-we don't get treats like this often in the Pit." Focalor twisted the blade in his hand and lightly patted Abaddon's cheek. "Best to use 'em wisely and make sure they last. You can't let you get yourself all wrapped up in the exquisite delicacy that is an angel on the rack."
The archdemon seemed to be scolding almost; he grinned and obscenely slipped a few fingers into his mouth, sucking Abaddon's blood off his pale flesh before pulling them from his lips and licking the pad of his thumb.
... ... ...
A/N: One more part to go people.
