Hey guys, thanks for all the amazing comments and compliments. You are all amazing! So, for your enjoyment:
CHAPTER 7: Know the rules, then break the rules
Ilchester, Maryland. 1972
Azazel smiled, satisfied that he had put the fear of... well, never mind. The eight nuns seated so politely, almost shyly, in the pews behind him, would never know quite what hit them.
"So, uh, if any of you gals are the praying type..." he began, smiling happily at the blatant irony. Blink, and the homely brown eyes of the priest he was wearing switched to the iridescent, marbled yellow cat's eyes that was his signature visage. He hefted the knife in one hand, keeping it hidden from sight until he was ready. Which was now. Slowly, savouring the thrilling taste of carnage waiting to be unleashed, he began turning around.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw. Instead of quivering nuns, quaking in their ridiculous habits, he was faced by a man with spiky dark brown hair, piercing blue eyes and a stoic expression on stubbly cheeks that gave the demon pause. And he was wearing a suit and trench coat.
"You're not a nun," Azazel pointed out, snickering in what would have been seen as a good-natured priest-chuckle.
"Clearly," the mysterious man replied, voice not quite deadpan. Azazel frowned, hints of merriment still on his face, the sweet feeling of impending destruction by his hand still coursing through the possessed body. And then the frown turned to full-fledged horror, and Azazel reared back, appalled that his prior idea of descending the steps leading to an altar dedicated to Heaven was now substituted with the realization that said altar was keeping him from moving back further. Or running away.
"You are not allowed to do this! How did you find me?" Azazel snapped, doing his level best not to sound as afraid as he felt. The priest's whiny, pitiful voice was no help. Belatedly he realized the nuns were still there, but they were frozen, and not from shock. This was petrified-frozen, the kind that spoke of cosmic power interfering with time. Or placing select individuals outside of it.
"Prior notification," the blue-eyed man returned. Azazel slowly slid to one side of the altar, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. The demon knew an angel when he saw one. Even if this particular specimen defied all the usual tells. For a start, this was no human vessel disguising the holy aspects of its angelic parasite. If Azazel focused, he could 'feel' the divine retribution emanating from this...shape, before him. How strange, he mused: an angel in a meat suit that wasn't actually a meat suit. The angel remained where he was standing, the gimlet gaze not leaving Azazel's face either.
"So He's taking a hand, is that it?" Azazel sneered. It was hard not to be a demonic dick about everything, and that included laughing in the face of danger, possibly death. With a sneers and baiting sarcasm. "That's against the rules."
"Rules He made, and rules He most certainly can bend, if the end justifies the means," the angel replied.
"And you call yourselves just," Azazel grated, twisting the word. "Where is the justice in this?"
"You imply that Heaven is bogged down by its own presets. Rules which your kind have never had a problem in exploiting for your own use, or side-stepping. Heaven is not impressed, so, in this instance, you are wrong."
"On what grounds?" Azazel challenged. He was almost to the edge of the altar now, and almost ready to duck and run. Ditch the priest meat and lie low for a while. This was definitely a crimp in the master plan.
"We know of everything, Azazel," the angel said, his voice devoid of emotion. Except for the troubling little hint of annoyance, which, according to terrified whispers from demons fortunate enough to have seen an angel-demon encounter, was a prelude to destruction. Inappropriate, considering the viewpoint, that Heaven had a word for mayhem and carnage which only applied to their actions: smiting. "We know of your plans, to speak to Lucifer. We know you wish to free him. We also know how Lucifer will instruct you to proceed."
"Deloreans... bad form, unfair advantage," Azazel spat contemptuously, knowing he was moments away from finding out if he was powerful enough to face an angel. At least it wasn't an archangel, he thought blackly. That kind of encounter was something every demon feared, and with good reason. Luckily that particular brand of over-the-top firepower was nowhere in sight. Even so, very few demons, even ones as old and crafty as Azazel, would willingly go head-to-head with even the lowest-level soldier angels. Which this one probably was. The stoic expression and emotionless words spoke of that purpose, rather than counter-byplay and banter-before-death, usually associated with more powerful individuals. That this angel knew of their plans, and even the ones which Azazel himself didn't know, was 'slightly' troubling. Someone was messing with time, and even if demons could have accomplished swinging the temporal tango, they would have only done so with a lot of preparation. Evil with no direction only lasted so long, after all.
"No more talking," the angel said, and took a step forward. Azazel held up both hands as he executed a quick move away from the altar, finally, placing a lot more empty space around himself. Space to move, very quickly, in case things got too hairy.
"Whoa, whoa! Let's think about this, shall we? I mean come on; surely springing Lucifer from his cage is cause for celebration for all of you?" Azazel tried. The angel regarded him like a bird would a particularly fat, problematic worm. "This world has been ruined by humanity, and we can fix it! He can fix it!"
"He will fix it. Not the he you are thinking of, by the way. Your argument has been heard before," the angel said after a moment, while Azazel was slowly placing more distance between himself and the potentially lethal adversary confronting him. This was probably the part where the angel would try and smite him. Instead, the angel cocked his head askance, and an imperceptible little smile crossed his face. "The outcome of your efforts have already been witnessed, and prevented."
"What?" Azazel asked, thrown for a curveball with that statement.
"After you've killed these eight devout believers, you will speak to Lucifer. He will instruct you to release Lilith from the pit, who will then set the plans in motion to free him," the angel listed. Azazel goggled, but it was merited. He himself hadn't known what Lucifer would have said to him. It had all been about hearing Lucifer's voice, receiving instructions. But of course the angels would know this... already been witnessed, and prevented. "And Heaven does not bargain with the filthy residues of tortured humanity, like yourself."
That was it. That was the cue. Azazel reared back as the angel reached for him. Up-chuck reflexes engaged and he roared free of the priest.
He got about halfway through the escape plan before he heard ancient Enochian reverberate through the convent, spoken with the surety of equally ancient prowess and power. This wasn't just a soldier angel, he realized, as he was catapulted fully back into the priest. Who fell backwards to land squarely on his ass, and was already scrambling on heels and hands to get away from the very resolute-looking angel. This was not working. Damn it, he had a job to do! Steeling himself, he got to his feet and began laying punches into the angel.
The angel danced back nimbly, dodging and weaving away from Azazel's punches, sidestepping neatly and with a precision that horrified the demon. He had heard the stories, seen – millennia back, or so it felt, when he was still fairly fresh in his demonic embodiment – the results of when demons went up against angels. Even the soldiers were fearsome, and there was no way to kill them, only expel them. Suddenly the angel's right hand closed against his throat, and the blue eyes shone with determination.
No, not like this!
Dredging up memories of all that he had been through, all that he had learned, Azazel recalled what he had been taught, if he should ever run across the divine powers that seemed to be completely indifferent to the plight of humanity, and equally uninvolved with things that transpired on earth. A spell, to punch the angel from its host.
"Omnipotentis Dei, potestatum inv –" he began, the mention of the Holiest twisting his mouth and scalding his senses with the perversion of his utterance. But the angel's other hand balled into a fist and delivered a mind-numbing blow. To a human, of course, and Azazel was far more powerful than a simple human. Still, the blow snapped his mouth shut, broke his nose. A part of him was glad he didn't have to go through with casting the particular incantation. It was heavy-duty stuff, and he'd never done it before. Never had a chance to. Still, this was bad. Especially with the angel leaning in close, face still devoid of emotion, even if the words conveyed a very precise delivery of 'that was really stupid of you'.
"If I had a vessel, that might have worked," were the actual, grating words, and Azazel tried to shy away further from the angel. He screamed when the angel's other hand returned, this time in a vice-like grip on his forehead, the fingers splaying. He felt the angel's power, felt it course from that immovable grip and into Azazel's vessel. It was fire, burning to expel him. More, to destroy him, utterly, as easily as a weapon like the Colt could. An end, even when death itself in most forms held no horror for something like Azazel.
Enraged by this unforeseen turn of events, Azazel fought back with every shred of his ability, pushing back. He barked a little laugh as he saw the angel frown in concentration, then finally felt the pressure release him from its grip. He sagged, almost exhausted, but he couldn't resist lording over his triumph. His survival.
"Was that as good for you as it was for me?" he jeered. The angel threw him backwards, his body breaking against the altar. Azazel rose to shaky feet, regarding the angel.
"A pitiful effort towards your famous last words," the angel replied, startling the demon. A bit humorous for one of these unfeeling beings, he thought.
"You already tried once," Azazel stated, shrugging. He was feeling a bit more confident now. "Were you not trying hard enough?" He was ready when the angel stormed him again. What he wasn't prepared for was the sudden jolt of pain he felt, coming from his chest. He looked down, frowning, shocked, at the haft of a dagger, sticking from his chest. Right over his heart. And, by the feeling of it, in his heart. Light and energy crackled around the embedded blade, and Azazel felt himself weaken, with more than just fatigue. This was him being robbed of his senses, his abilities, his being. He knew it. And he knew the knife. He knew who had it. So, the future had happened already, because Lilith would never have parted with it for just any reason. Ruin, ruin, everything was in ruin because of one stupid angel!
"My success in this matter was preordained," the angel whispered, and Azazel did not miss the satisfaction that rolled from the words.
"Others will pick up what I've left over!" Azazel rallied one last time, feeling oblivion explode in excruciating pain throughout his body. A final darkness was closing in.
"No, they won't," the angel replied, and it was the last thing Azazel heard before he left all possible worlds for the final time.
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Castiel watched the light flare from the priest's eyes, watched Azazel get obliterated. He hadn't expected the demon to be powerful enough to resist the standard smiting, but all things considered, Azazel had always been craftier and more capable than he was given credit for. The angelic expulsion ritual should have been way above his pay grade, and yet the demon had somehow managed to begin rattling it off, even if it had discomfited him to do so.
He spared a moment for the priest, slumped in death before him. Yes, the knife killed most things, and it invariably killed the host. But this time, Castiel knew it would be different. With the eight nuns still petrified behind him, he raised his eyes heavenwards and prayed.
"Father, let Your infinite mercy be shown. Let Your unmatched Grace manifest. For what I have done, I beg forgiveness. Let not this death be seen as necessity." And then he waited. God had sent him here, to undo one thing that could immediately solve everything. The rest was a matter of faith, and Castiel had come way too far to give up on his faith in his Father at this stage. He trusted that, whatever God intended, it would be just, merciful, and above all, generous in its benefits.
Suddenly the priest jerked awake, taking in gulping breaths, and Castiel closed his eyes, letting his essence reach towards Heaven in praise and thanks. He looked down at the priest, who was staring at him with a mountain of terror oozing from every pore. Castiel smiled, this time with genuine compassion and concern, as he extended one hand to the priest. Who looked at it with zero enthusiasm.
"Don't be alarmed, child of My Father. I have come to deliver you."
"Deliver me?" the priest shuddered, then recalled what had happened, just a few hours back. Diligently putting out the candles, meditating on the solace of being alone, conversing with God in the small hours of the morning. The black smoke, throwing wide the doors to this chapel and entering him, filling his thoughts with unimaginable horrors and visions of destruction, torment, hell... "Is it..."
"I have expelled the demon from your body. It will trouble you no more," Castiel said. It will trouble no one, ever again.
"Are you an... an angel?" the still-shaking priest asked. He took the proffered hand and allowed Castiel to drag him to his feet, as awe washed across his face.
"Yes," Castiel said, then touched the priest's forehead with two fingers, freezing him as similarly as the nuns. Castiel sighed. His task was complete. The rest was up to God. But first...
The sound of wings gently disturbed the otherwise silent scene. Then priest and nuns unfroze from their induced state, staring around wildly, knowing that something happened, but not exactly what it was. The priest absent-mindedly rubbed a spot on his chest, right over his heart, wondering what had happened, recalling nothing of the last couple of hours.
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Lawrence, Kansas. 1983
He reappeared, nearly eleven years ahead of where he had been.
This was Lawrence, Kansas, and he was standing just outside a white house, in the middle of suburbia, beneath a tree on the front lawn, where no one would quickly pick out his presence. And he was invisible to prying eyes, so the point was moot.
So this is where it happened, Castiel mused, taking in the sight. He focused on what was happening inside, easily picking up everything. Mary Winchester had just tucked six-month old Sammy into his cot, and Dean was leaning forward, saying goodnight with a kiss to his baby brother's forehead. At that moment, John Winchester leaned against the inside of the doorframe to Sammy's nursery, and Dean ran into his waiting arms as Mary smiled, first at the father-son duo, then at the newest addition to their happy family.
Castiel waited a couple of minutes for the happy gathering to disperse, off to bed, then willed himself into the house, still invisible, and approached the cot in the nursery. He looked down at the baby below him. Sam had just fallen asleep, his infant mind awash with so many unintelligible yet breathtaking colours and ideas that it made Castiel smile. Who would ever have thought that such a precious, beautiful thing could ever have become the person destined to be Lucifer's vessel?
"Not this time around," the angel whispered, and placed a hand on the baby's forehead. Sam didn't wake up from the touch. In fact, he seemed to grow even more restful, and Castiel smiled wider. "Let's give your parents one night's uninterrupted sleep for a change." They'll have their hands full with you soon enough. A mere thought, and he was inside Dean's room. The adorable four-year old lying there, limbs reaching in every direction, sprawled in the happy state that only a child could ever enjoy, was a far cry from the Dean Winchester Castiel had come to know and admire. Castiel placed a hand on Dean's forehead, just as he had with Sam, willing peace, comfort and contentment through the touch. "Your deeds will never be forgotten, even if you might never know that you accomplished them."
Castiel was next to Mary's bed, watching the beautiful mother of the two legendary Winchesters, quietly slumped in a pose of weary rest. Castiel could see everything of the two boys in her. Dean's fair complexion lay there, asleep, and Castiel could also sense the very best of her nature, and connect it with the idealism, compassion and selfless empathy for others, that Castiel had encountered in Sam's mind, even as the youngest Winchester had struggled through the worst of demon blood withdrawal, and after.
John Winchester had passed out in front of the television, slouched over the edge of the sofa as images from the screen flitted across his face. Strange to see him, so relaxed, unaware completely of the horrors he had fought before. In the father, Castiel saw Dean's strength and resolve; the very things that Heaven had sought for to host the archangel Michael. He saw Sam in John's cast, in the darker skin tones and angular features, even as he knew that Sam's multi-hued, changeable green eyes would stare at him from John's face, were the man to open his eyes right now. It was in these small, superficial things that Castiel could truly appreciate how well his Father had planned, when it had come down to the Winchesters, and people like them. It was as if He knew exactly what rested in every one of His children, waiting to be unleashed in His service, if the need arose. Sending a quiet prayer for the continued protection of all the Winchesters, Castiel left the Winchester home, and Kansas, and 1983, behind him.
Alright, I changed my mind; chapter 8, coming soon! And it will probably be the final one this time. Until then, hope everyone likes this. For now, I'll leave you with this little acronym:
TBC
