Chapter 7: Shark Jumping and You

Eli's eyes went immediately to the mountain, green and sleeping. "Pompeii?" she asked, her voice squeaking.

"Don't worry. Vesuvius will not erupt for almost another hundred years." She turned to stare, open-mouthed at him. "The year is what you would call 10 BC; in the Roman Empire it is known as Year of the Consulship of Maximus and Antonius, or year 744 Ab urbe condita." He hesitated. "I am sorry for not asking your permission before I…"

He was cut off by Eli flinging herself into his arms, a move that would have bowled over a human but instead just left him slightly stunned and marveling at the familiar weight wrapped around his body. "Thank you!" she cried into his shoulder. After a moment she pulled back, her eyes shining. "This is amazing! I'm back in time! It's 10 BC. And I didn't even need a TARDIS!"

"I…" he started, wrinkling his brow. "I do not understand that reference, but I am glad that your reaction is a positive one." He wrapped his arms around her, briefly, an impromptu hug, tucking her head under his chin, and then the moment passed and he let her go.

Eli sat up, crossing her legs and facing him. "Why are we here?" she asked eagerly. "Why the past? Do you have a mission?"

He shook his head. "I merely needed time." She stared at him, confused, so he elaborated. "In the present, the war is constant. It is all-consuming. I cannot afford to step away from it for even one day. But you and I…we needed time. I dragged you into this world, into immeasurable danger, and simply left you there. If for only a few days, I wanted to be able to talk with you. Explain things: this battle, who you are, what it all means. You deserve that."

"Hence, 10 BC," she said with a small smile. He nodded.

"Now, there is no war. We can rest, and when we are finished I can return to the exact moment that we left, to continue the fight." He paused, lost in his own thoughts. "I…I believe that I needed this. I am more human than the other me was; despite my power I am prone to mental exhaustion, depression, loneliness. I needed a respite, if I am to keep on fighting."

"But why now? Why Pompeii?"

"This place…" he murmured, resting his chin on his clasped hands and staring pensively at the city below. "At this time, it is overlooked by Heaven. It has not the historical ramifications of Rome, nor the theological impact of Israel and Jerusalem. We will find no angels here to question our presence."

"Thank you," she said softly, touching the sleeve of his trench coat. He turned to look at her with those unfathomable blue eyes. "Thank you, for everything."

"For destroying your life?" he asked cynically. "For ripping you from everyone you've ever loved and putting you in danger? For asking of you that which should never be asked, to remember another life, become someone that you are not?"

"For believing in me," she said, and he started, surprised. "For giving me a purpose." She turned away from him, tucking one loose strand of yellow hair behind her ear, her voice so soft it was almost unheard. "You saved my life."

That was something that Eli would say. Castiel felt love and pride well in his chest, the first hope that the decisions he made had not been the wrong ones. She was, underneath it all, still Eli. Untrained, innocent, naïve, and in over her head, but still Eli.

"Come," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "Let us go into the city."

She went with him, as she always did.


Pompeii was lovelier than Eli could have imagined. They entered through a towering arch, and were immediately ensconced in a rush of humanity: carts and animals; women with aquiline noses and shining dark hair wearing flowing dresses ranging from a mud-earth color to rich reds and blues; men in tunics and short hair, clean shaven, with lean, muscular bodies; children darting underfoot; stands with fresh fruits and vegetables hawking their goods. Graffiti lined the walls in a language that Eli couldn't read, sometimes accompanied by stick figures and vulgar drawings. The streets were paved, straight and even, and raised slightly so that rain and mud flowed through the gutters instead of over the population's heels. They moved through the crowds, catching glimpses of swimming pools, amphitheaters, even wide stretches of walled-off grass where lithe young men were tossing balls and exercising.

"This city is very modern for its time," Castiel said into Eli's ear, his hand on the small of her back as he directed her through the streets. "There are many aqueducts, and some houses and inns even have running water, piped from underground. There are banks and theaters and law courts, and since this is a port city, trade and wares from all around the world."

"It's beautiful," she breathed, then glanced at Castiel with a look of consternation. "But aren't we standing out a little bit?" She gestured to their attire and her blonde hair.

"We will change as soon as we acquire lodgings," he promised her. "Do not worry. This may not be Rome, but it is a port town. They are used to strangely dressed arrivals with odd-colored hair."

They arrived at a large square, a fountain burbling merrily in the middle, with stands winding snakelike throughout the whole thing. "Macellum, the great market," Castiel murmured into her ear. He took her hand and led her into the mess; she had the impression of a jumble of items, carpets and paintings and tiles and furniture, cooking utensils, religious figurines (some of them distinctly phallic-shaped), spices, wine, meat, fish, vegetables, jewelry, and clothing.

This was where they stopped, Castiel stepping forward to converse in smooth, foreign syllables with the woman selling bolts of material and simple, ready-made tunics. She scrutinized Eli, her nose wrinkling at the sight of her unbound hair, jeans, and tattered sweatshirt, then turned back to Castiel and began what sounded like an argument. He raised his voice to match hers, going back and forth with her until both of their hands were waving and they were nearly yelling. Then quite abruptly she swooped down to get something from a lower shelf, wrapped it in paper and set it down on the counter. He picked it up, laid three coins (though Eli had no idea where he had acquired them) onto the table and the deal was done.

"What was that all about?" she breathed as they continued down the streets, the package tucked under his arm. Castiel glanced down at her.

"Bargaining. A typical custom in this area: arguing for the sake of lowering the accepted sales price."

"What language were you speaking?"

"A bastardized form of Latin."

"Do you speak every language?" she asked, curious.

He glanced down at her. "Of course."

On impulse she took his arm and leaned into it, letting him lead her once again through the cramped rows of stalls. They stopped several more times, each culminating in an argument and the deposit of goods on the wooden table. When they emerged, almost spat-out from the press of bodies and scent of herbs and meat, into the now-calm streets, Eli found herself laughing with breathless disbelief.

"Where to now?" she asked, arms piled with packages. He took some from her and balanced them precariously on one arm as the other tentatively looped through hers.

"There is a hotel, on the outskirts of the city," he said, his low voice calmer and more pleased than she had ever heard it. "Archeologists will one day call it The Grand Hotel Murecine. We will find lodgings there."

"I came here once, you know," she murmured, casting her eyes around. The sun was just starting to set, glazing the world in reds and oranges, light glancing off of the red tile roofs as street vendors packed up their stalls and families rushed home for dinner. "With my parents. I was only, oh, about twelve. We walked the ruins. There was a mosaic on the floor of a house, of a dog on a leash, and you could buy these little rip-off mosaics of it from cheap vendors outside of the city." She laughed a little, something dazed in her tone. "And now I can meet the man who owns that house, maybe even see his dog. Walk the streets that will one day be buried under ash and dirt, killing…killing everyone."

"It has to be," Castiel reminded her gently. "What will happen cannot be changed."

"I know," she said, smiling bravely up at him. "And it won't happen for almost a century. I'm just saying, it's…oh, I don't know. Surreal. Really, really surreal."

They reached the edge of the city, passing through another towering arch as the sunset faded into pale blue twilight and the air started to smell more of night flowers than dust and body odor. Suddenly it was quiet, the only sound that of their footfalls, the only light the candles shining from the large, graceful building Eli assumed to be the hotel, about half a mile away.

"Why did you bring me here, Cas?" she asked quietly. The cobblestone street had turned to an unpaved path, her sneakers raising little clouds of earth as she walked. "Really. Why this, why Pompeii, now, and not some backwater town in some unimpressive time, if you just wanted to rest and talk. Was it to impress me? Seduce me? Push me closer to saying yes to your sigil?"

Castiel almost jerked his arm away, but she held onto it, signifying that her questions held no malice. "No," he said vehemently, then paused, thinking. "I just wanted you to be happy."

"Oh," she said, at a loss for words. The minutes ticked by. "Well, now I feel like shit."

"For what?" he asked, tipping his head at her in the fading light, his eyes dimmed to near-black.

"For doubting you."

"Don't. It was smart." A beat. "We are here."

"Oh," Eli said again, but this time it was awestruck.

They were standing in front of a huge complex, stone buildings smoothly rounded, candles shining from every window and clustered around tables where small groups of people sat in the hot summer night, the ground thick with climbing flowers and shrubs. Around them danced fireflies, flickering through the air like incandescent stars.

"We're married," Castiel said suddenly, and she looked at him in surprise. "At least, that's what our story is. So that we can rent a room together without any…talk."

"Of course," she said, blushing. "Lead the way."

The room was simple, with a large bed of stacked rushes lined with goose down, a small armoire, and a bowl for washing. The bathroom was outside but attached to the building, just a seat and an urn for collecting waste. Eli inspected it thoughtfully, wrinkling her nose, and returned to the room to find Castiel opening the packages and laying them on the bed.

"There are clothes and basic necessities for now," he said softly, as if someone in the room was sleeping. "But more are being made and will be delivered here by tomorrow evening."

"You're handling yourself pretty well in this time period," Eli commented, jumping on the bed and surveying him with thoughtful eyes. "Better than in our own, I'd say."

"I was on earth more frequently in this time," he said, sitting delicately next to her. "We all were. We are ten years from a very important time in theological history."

"Hm," she said. "So is there another you on earth now?"

He shook his head. "I won't come down for another forty-three years."

"Who is here?" she asked, yawning.

"Just the Watchers. They will not bother us." He touched her shoulder. "Sleep. It has been a trying day."

"Stay with me?" she asked, stretching out on the bed in her jeans, too tired to even slip her sneakers off.

The room went dark as he blew out the candle. "Always."


Being back in time was more awkward than Eli had imagined it to be. She didn't speak the language or know the cultural norms, bathing was done in communal bath houses, and urine was apparently collected to help make dye.

She struggled with the dress Castiel had purchased; it was all folds and ties, apparently simple but she could barely figure out where the arm-holes were. She finally emerged from behind a scrim, reasonably secure in the fact that the material would not fall off at any moment.

Castiel tilted his head. He was in a long belted tunic and sandals, and looked surprisingly comfortable in the clothing. "I believe that your head is where your arm should be."

"Oh, blow me," she snapped, but struggled into it the correct way, letting him help her. Her head and arms finally in the proper place, she felt him straighten the folds with careful hands, and a shiver ran through her whole body.

"Are you cold?" he asked, worried. She shook her head, stepping away and fiddling with her slim belt.

"No. Hey, wasn't there a knife in one of those packages?" He found it for her and she eyed it carefully; it was small and easy to hide. "Actually," she said pensively. "Before we go out, I have an idea."


Castiel had asked, rather solicitously, if she wanted to see the city, but Eli just wanted to talk to him. "That's the reason we're here, right?" she asked as they walked the dirt path out of the hotel in the hot sunlight. "So that we could talk, not so that this could turn into an episode of Doctor Who."

The late morning found them sitting on the same hillside that Eli had woken up on, staring down at the city, Vesuvius letting out small, lazy tendrils of smoke into the air.

"Tell me about the past," she asked, fingers idly playing with a four leaf clover.

"The city was founded…"

"No, no," Eli said, laughing. She crossed her legs and stared at him earnestly, knees nearly touching his. "I mean your past. Tell me about it."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Why?"

"Because I want to know more about you," she said simply. "Didn't I want to before?"

"Of course," he said automatically. "But we were always running and…it is rare, in this timeline, for anyone to ask me…anything. Nonexistent."

"So talk," she said, nudging him with her knee.

He was silent for a long time, squinting into the wind. When he finally spoke it was with a softer rasp, almost a whisper. "We aren't born. We weren't, and then we were. We were told that before us there had been only God, and that it was a lonely universe, and he wanted children. Something of his own.

"Michael was the first of us. God spoke a word, and he was. God spoke all of our names, carefully, one at a time. He made each of us in joy and love."

Castiel threaded his fingers through the grass, the sun beating down on his pale face. "The earth was beautiful and empty. We were happy, but it was a static happiness, without change. We were, in essence, warriors without a war, soldiers without orders. So we bickered. Even before humans, we fought.

"There was only us. Our names were all we had to distinguish us, names and rank. We were a collective, each touching the other. We existed with and in each other. I'm sorry, but it's hard to explain. It was beautiful."

"Go on," she murmured when he fell silent.

"With humans came our own individuality; I think, on some level, we modeled ourselves after them. We were defined by them: those that hated them, and those that loved them. Those who worshiped them as our Father did, and those that saw them as animals and slaves. We looked into them, and saw a reflection of ourselves. It only grew worse when we started to take vessels, confined in separate forms for the first time ever.

"Some went mad. Some could only exist as a collective. Some fell. Many followed Lucifer, blindly, because it seemed that without even trying the human race was destroying the angels merely by existing.

"The truth is, the wars didn't end with Lucifer. We fought his followers for centuries. Angels continued to fall, or lose faith." He hesitated, as if revisiting some dark memory. "Angelic war isn't like human war. There is no rest, or sleep. The only way we can kill each other is when we are in a vessel, so Heaven is like a…like the inside of a computer, constantly running up information, darting through time and space, trying to overtake your enemy. It's a game of wits: You know that you must get your enemy into a vessel to defeat him, but to defeat him you must also be in a vessel, leaving you vulnerable. Without a strong central command, everything fell to chaos. Especially after Father left, we followed his generals, because in the tangled snarl of information that is our version of war, we could not exist without orders. Like pawns on a chessboard, we let someone else set us up, because from our vantage point we could never see the whole game."

He stopped again, dropping his head. Impulsively, Eli took his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. "So what happened then?"

Castiel looked up; there was something like relief shadowed in his blue eyes. He began to talk, hesitantly at first, then stronger as time went on. He talked, and talked, and talked, for the first time in what felt like forever, and it was as if something heavy rose from his shoulders and vanished into the hot summer sky.


Days passed, and there was barely a quiet space between them. After a while Eli started to fear her voice going hoarse, and even Castiel's already husky voice was showing strain.

"When I was a kid my dad used to take me to the outdoor shooting range every Saturday morning," she said while choosing a bright cluster of grapes from a stand. "We didn't have outdoor equipment so he stuffed tissues in my ears."

"That doesn't seem very safe."

"It was fine," she said dismissively. "He was always very careful with me. I used to shoot tin cans off of a fence and he acted like it was the best thing in the world. I think that's why I'm so okay with all the shooting that seems to be going on with the Winchesters. Guns remind me of … home."

"Certainly not an average childhood," he said, smiling slightly. She beamed.

"No, but it was mine."

Another conversation, three hours later.

"Apparently my parents were really religious before I was born, but when I was growing up the only time I'd ever go to church was Christmas Eve mass with my mom. I thought it was so beautiful; we'd hold candles and sing, and the whole place would smell of incense and wax."

"Did you believe?"

"I did when I was a kid. There was some unspoken tension in my house when it came to God… guess it makes sense now." She sighed, running her fingers along the edge of a fountain, feeling its spray touch her face. "I always believed in that sort of indefinable something, not a person but a presence beyond comprehension."

"That is true," he said, brushing a leaf from her hair. She unconsciously leaned into him.

"Not it's not. He is definable… He's your Dad."

"It doesn't mean what you believed is not true."

Another conversation, the next morning during a breakfast of crusty bread and porridge.

"My Father didn't intend for a religion to be built around Him. He wanted faith, not dogma."

"People are desperate to believe. They cling to rules because it makes them feel safe," Eli said, spooning porridge into her mouth. He rumpled his eyebrows.

"Why?"

"Because they're afraid." He stared at her, so she clarified. "Of death. Everyone's afraid, Cas. Religion makes them feel better."

"That's not its purpose."

"I know. But that's the way it is."

That afternoon, by the amphitheater.

"I've always thought string theory proves the existence of God more than negates it."

"It does."

An hour later, walking across cobblestoned streets searching for the house with the dog mosaic in the entranceway. "I do watch television," he was protesting. "I have seen that Doctor Sexy program that Dean so enjoys."

"Doctor Sexy? Oh man, Cas, we have got to get you hooked on some better shows."

"It is rather compelling."

Seventy-two minutes after that, sitting in the amphitheater and watching the young men throw javelins.

"So what's the endgame?" Eli asked, feeling the sun warm her face, bringing out her freckles until they flared orange across her nose.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked. He was watching her with that tipped-head, contemplative look she liked so much.

"Well, if I remember. Will we just…keep fighting the forces of darkness?"

He hesitated. "Before…you were an angel."

"An angel?" she asked, eyes widening. "What…how?"

"You have a grace, one that exists independently from your body, one that you have to accept. If you become an angel again, you can go to Heaven. Fight in the battle. And no one will ever be able to control you by any means."

"Oh," Eli said, fiddling awkwardly with the edge of her tunic. She felt a little sick.

"Though I do not know how to acquire such a grace," he continued obliviously, squinting into the distance, the wind ruffling his dark hair. "I don't know where to start."

Eli propped her chin in her hands and watched the lithe young men jog around the track, feeling inexplicably relieved.

Four hours later, watching the sun set from a small restaurant.

"If I wanted to leave, could I?" Eli asked, sipping surprisingly cold water from a mug. "Go back to regular life."

Castiel folded his hands under the table, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Of course. Do you want to?"

"No!" she exclaimed, then broke into a grin. "I just wanted to make sure I could."

That evening, before bed.

"You are not beholden to this, Eli," he said seriously as she washed her face in the basin. "No one is forcing you to stay."

"I just…" She sighed and patted her face with a cloth before sitting on the bed. "I just want to make sure that you want me here for me, not for her. Are you desperate to have her back?"

He sat down on the bed next to her. "I miss her," he admitted. "She was very strong, and stood by me when no one else would. But you must stop thinking of her as a different person. She is you, whether you accept the sigil or not. You merely have some different memories."

"But…"

"Remembering won't change you. It couldn't. If you forgot a year of your life, do you think it would drastically change who you are?"

"It's more than one year, Cas."

"It's just time," he said evenly. "Just experiences. Your heart is the same."

She took a deep breath like she wanted to say something else, then abandoned it and stood to blow out the candle. "'Night, Cas."

"Goodnight, Eli," he said, and stayed until she was asleep.


It happened the next day. They were walking down a side street when Castiel suddenly stopped and narrowed his eyes, looking sharply to the right.

"What is it?" Eli asked, backpedaling. He let out a low breath.

"Demons. A nest of them. Powerful, and not far from here." He hesitated. "I do not want to draw attention to myself, but…"

"You can't leave them," she said firmly. "Go."

"You…" he said, looking at her with worry and admiration. She shrugged.

"I'll meet you back at the hotel later." He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. "I promise I won't get into trouble. I'll just pop in somewhere and get a drink and go back to the hotel. Okay?"

"Yes," he said, gripping her hand momentarily. "Be safe."

"You…" she started, but he was gone. "…too."

Eli snooped around in the markets for a while, but found the lack of communication draining. Finally she found herself at a small, nondescript bar, dim and cool even in the middle of the day, and went in. There were only two other patrons, hunched over a table in the corner, so she took a seat at the bar and resigned herself to making hand gestures at the relatively cute bartender.

He asked her something in rapid Latin, to which she shook her head.

"Sorry, I don't speak your language," she said plainly, and pointed to a bottle on the wall with the exaggerated movements she had learned meant give me that.

The bartender didn't move, merely scrutinized her with warm, laughing brown eyes. "Well," he said finally. "I guess I'll just have to speak your language then, won't I? What'll it be?"

Eli gaped at him. Not only was he speaking flawless English, he was also speaking modern, American English, exactly like she did. "How did you…" she started. "Who are you?"

"Just a bartender," he said breezily. "With a penchant for languages. Name's Gaius. Now, you just gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna drink, Blondie?"