I went over this again and again and I still sort of hate the way it came out, but I figure it isn't going to get much better. I hope it's okay.
(Check below for my excuses and stuff)
7/Dean
"You've got to be kidding me."
The angel stared at Dean in a comically frustrated fashion from across the table, the muscles under the skin of his jaw tight. "I am not…kidding you," he said, obviously perturbed by the unfamiliar term. Dean didn't break eye contact, but somewhere over Castiel's shoulder he caught sight of his insufferable brother smirking.
Dean looked down at the address scrawled on the paper in neat script. He had never seen Castiel's handwriting before. He supposed when you've got a brain personally engineered by God, you don't need to write much down. It was small and wavy, meticulous like a girl's would be. He met Cas's blue gaze again. "This is where Little Miss Sunshine lives." He sighed when he saw zero change in Castiel's expression. It was nothing but expectant. "Okay, Cas."
"Good," the man murmured. He picked up the discarded pen in his slender fingers and put the tip to the napkin. "In order for me to search the residence, you need to break the sigils keeping me out. There are not many with this kind of…rigor." He slid the napkin back to Dean, who saw only scribbles but took it anyway.
He tucked it into his jacket pocket as he shrugged it on. "We'll take care of it," he assured, scooping his keys from the table. "Any word from your buddies?"
"No," Castiel answered. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. "They'll have warded against me now. But I don't believe they're much closer to deciding on their next step."
Gods were as bitchy as they were irritating, and Dean didn't bet much on them coming to a decision soon either. "Let's keep it that way," he said. He caressed the key to his car with a forefinger as he thought. "We'll check out this place. You—"
"I'll keep vigil." With that serving as a farewell, Dean found himself looking at a vacant chair.
He closed his mouth on the rest of his sentence. Clearly the situation was getting the better of him.
Dean was careful to keep the engine's growling purr to a minimum as they pulled up to the Jackson house twenty minutes later. It was deserted enough that he had little concern about someone recognizing the Impala across the street, let alone the two men inside.
The Dodge in the driveway and the illuminating lights of the house signaled that it was, unfortunately, occupied. From where the brothers sat across the street, they could see no obvious angel proofing. Through a worn pair of binoculars, Annabeth Jackson could be seen pacing back and forth in front of the window, a phone pressed to her ear. She looked agitated.
Sam was gnawing on his bottom lip in the passenger seat. "Think she's a demon?"
Dean shrugged. A higher-level hellcat with connections would know the Enochian and Latin required in keeping the supernatural out. He reasoned that if Annabeth really clawed her way topside just to surround herself with humans, she'd have to be a hell of a lot smarter than the average demonic scum. Then again, he'd been fooled before.
Taking advantage of the silence, Sam spoke. "Alright, so I dug up some more on these apples. They pop up all over ancient lore—used for power plays, love spells, war, you name it. According to the old legends, if you saw one of these, you were nailed. You'd gouge your eyes out to hold one."
Castiel had told them as much. "Let's hope they're not in there, then." Dean checked the barrel of his shotgun, then slid it back in place with the reassurance that it was full. He eased up in the driver's seat to feel for the press of his flask and a handful of extra shells in his pocket. "You distract her, I'll hunt down the angel scratching." Sam nodded with little opposition. For this, Dean was grateful. He didn't have much of a desire to put himself in that house.
They had just split up at the walkway; Sam ducking to the flanks of the house, Dean heading for the door, when a shrill scream slashed through the silence. The brothers shared a single, panicked look before they leapt up the porch steps, kicking in the door with guns in hand. Sam darted in to check the first room—empty, he signaled. Dean swung around and barged into the kitchen to find Annabeth, pressed up against the counter. She gave a cry of surprise. She was white-faced; at her feet lay a shattered glass. She sputtered upon seeing him. "Agent Charles?"
"What? What is it?" He ducked past her with the safety off, checking the windows and the outer door. They hadn't been touched. He spun around to face her. She was cradling a hand to her chest, eyes as wide as saucers. Dean stepped toward her, perhaps a little more menacingly than he intended, because she stiffened a little. "What?" he demanded.
"I saw a spider," she muttered miserably.
Dean closed his eyes. Across the kitchen, he heard the heavy creak of Sam pausing in the doorway. Simultaneously (and with much exasperation), they stowed their guns away. Sam crouched to gather the larger pieces of the broken glass in his careful hands. "It's just a bug," he said amiably.
Annabeth stared at him as though he were an alien. A very large, very shaggy alien. Dean cleared his throat. "Mrs. Jackson, this is my partner, Agent Sheen."
Sam smiled up at her before standing, and Dean had to blink. His brother was undoubtedly a giant, but next to Annabeth he looked positively monstrous. She, in contrast, looked like a delicate doll. The look in her stormy eyes shattered that illusion. "Okay," she said. "And what the hell are you doing?"
Shit. He hadn't thought that one through. He opened his mouth to let the first thought in his head roll off his tongue, but Sam came to the rescue. "We're your protection detail," he blurted. He dumped the shards into a trash can Dean hadn't even noticed.
Annabeth's expression flickered. "Protection detail," she echoed.
"We have reason to believe Katrina's disappearance could be the work of a known serial killer," Sam said, and hell if he didn't know how to improvise.
"I don't even fit her profile," Annabeth muttered. The corners of her mouth turned down.
Dean smiled his most persuasive smile. "Well sweetheart, we aren't taking any chances." Clearly, the use of sweetheart didn't go over well with her, but he ignored that. His attention was drawn instead to the red on her hands. "Are you hurt?" When he took her arm to examine the wound, she kept very still, as though he were a threat.
"It's just a nick."
It wasn't. Dean guessed she had cut herself on the glass. The resulting wound wasn't pretty. He leveled his gaze at her. "You got a first-aid kit?"
As he was dressing it, effectively keeping the potential demonic scum in one place, Sam caught his eye. The younger Winchester was standing in the doorway that led to the rest of the house. He raised his eyebrows, a question. Dean nodded affirmatively, and Sam disappeared.
Annabeth was looking at Dean with studious eyes. She didn't appear to be feeling any form of pain in her hand, very calm. "You really think someone's after me?" she asked quietly.
Dean ripped a piece of tape and used it to secure her bandage. "Hope not," he replied. He surveyed the kitchen. "Mind if I take a look around?" She shook her head, drawing her arm back to her torso. She seemed troubled; Dean didn't blame her. All the same, he made sure to keep one eye on her as he circled the immediate rooms.
Annabeth's kitchen seemed average enough. He checked each door and window; upon closer inspection, he found a small patch of scratches on the sill. Enochian. He scratched it out discreetly with a pocketknife. There was another on the front door, which he too marred. But there was no sign of sulfur, not on the floor or dusting cracks in the plaster walls or settled in corners of the windows. No scent, except for a beachy scent that made his nose itch. He returned to the kitchen to escape it. Like the walls of the living room, the fridge was dotted with photographs. The one closest to him featured a young Annabeth, and two dark-haired boys.
The taller one bore a not-so-coincidental resemblance to the man in Annabeth's photos; her husband Dean guessed. The shorter one looked strangely familiar… He squinted. The kid looked to be around twelve, thin and solemn. He was struck by a sudden memory: a dark graveyard, an angry ghost, a couple broken ribs and Sam bleeding on the ground. Most of all, a kid in black, no more than ten, who promptly burned the ghost away with a snap of his fingers.
You have violated your contract, he'd told the dead woman, in a voice like dead leaves. You will report to the Fields of Punishment and answer for your crimes before the council.
It hadn't made a lick of sense to Dean, but that didn't stop him from collaring the kid and holding him down while Sam doused him with holy water. Hey, asshole, he protested loudly. I just saved your life.
Dean wasn't impressed. When he demanded a name, the boy looked indignant. I'm Nico, he'd snapped, wriggling out of Dean's grip. I'm Nico, and I'm not a witch. The way he disappeared into the shadows didn't do much to support his claim.
"Agent?" Annabeth's voice shook him from his thoughts. She was standing behind him with a glass of lemonade in one hand, innocent as a doe-eyed child. He took it and sipped absently. It tasted sweet, with a hint of something sour. Too much lemon juice and not enough sugar, probably. He tapped the photograph with his free hand. "Who's this?"
He felt her step closer. She didn't answer right away. "Peter," she answered finally. "My husband."
He had the urge to rub at his eyes, suddenly overcome by a sluggish wave of exhaustion. God, what he wouldn't give for a beer and a nice bed right now… "No," he said instead. "The other one." He was vaguely surprised at how thick his tongue felt in his mouth. How hard it was getting to focus.
"Oh," Annabeth said, surprised. "That's Nicholas. Nick."
Dean frowned, sensing something off. "Which is it?" he tried to say, but his head was starting to spin, and his muddled brain suddenly connected the dots. The lemonade. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the tile with a crash. "What did you—what the hell?" he started to slur.
"Endymion dust," her voice was distorted and her face was too. "You'll just take a nice, long nap."
"You…bitch…" He was unable to form words, but not unable to fight. He lunged for her, the sedative's effects slow in overcoming his coordination. She sidestepped him easily, deflecting his blows before her hand came swinging up in a sharp slap that sent him stumbling.
"Sam!" he shouted through a lead tongue. He caught her next blow and held onto her fist with a weakening grip while she wrangled with his arm. "SAMMY!" he roared.
His brother skidded into view. Unlike his brother, he seemed to understand the entire situation in a matter of seconds. He made to intervene, but Dean waved an arm wildly. "I godder!" he slurred. "Get the—" he faltered, then settled for flapping an arm like a wing. Thankfully, Sam got it. He sped away to hunt down the remaining Enochian and, hopefully, rescue Dean using a feathered friend.
Dean turned back to the fight, which he realized he was going to lose. He harrumphed as Annabeth stole his air with a good punch to the sternum and one to the throat. He choked. She placed a hard kick to his knee, and he was falling. As his face met the cold tile floor, he found his mouth would no longer move. His eyes began slipping closed, and he panicked within the prison of his own body.
He watched helplessly as she snatched a backpack from an overhead cabinet (a pan clattered to the ground, barely missing Dean's nose) and made a beeline for the door.
Like Bigfoot in shining armor, his brother appeared in the doorway from nowhere. Annabeth skidded into him with a scream; quicker than Dean would ever give him credit for, he snatched up the ninety-pound girl before she could move.
Instead of kicking and screaming like Dean expected her to, she did her best to go boneless, almost managing to slip to the ground before Sam tightened his grip on her. Only then did she decide to really go for it. She threw the back of her head into Sam's nose, earning herself a muffled yelp. Then she flung her body weight forward, which combined with Sam's imbalance almost won her freedom. Well, maybe if Sam hadn't wrapped a very large arm around one leg to keep her trapped. "HELP!" she screamed. "HELP ME! PLEASE, I—"
A beige trench coat obscured Dean's view of her, and as Castiel quickly silenced her with a touch to the forehead, Dean's eyes finally slipped closed.
He was awoken by the feel of Castiel's cool touch banishing the delirium. Relief flooded him as feeling returned to his body. "Where the fuck were you?" he growled. He pushed to his knees, ignoring Sam's muffled snort. Annabeth was now strung haphazardly across the couch, as if she had been dumped there. She probably had. Her face was slack with unconsciousness. That made Dean feel better.
Castiel was cradling something in his arm, hidden by the bunched-up sleeve of his trench coat. Dean caught a glimmer of gold. "Securing the town. My apologies." Castiel raised Dean to his feet with a firm, one-handed grip. My apologies. Like he'd forgotten to pick up a carton of eggs.
Dean didn't bother to hide his glower, knowing Cas wouldn't pick up on it anyway. "You got the goods?" Castiel spared a glance down at the objects in his arms and nodded gravely. "Fantastic," Dean said. "Now you wanna explain what this is?" He waved a hand at Annabeth, cautiously guarded by Sam, who stood beside the couch.
Castiel turned his blue-eyed gaze on her. He tilted his head as if noticing her for the first time. Demeanor hardening, he strode over to her and sniffed delicately above her head. "Oh," he said in mild epiphany. He pulled back, regarded her for a moment. He stayed like that, grim and curious, before turning back to the inquisitive brothers. "You would call her a demigod in this language."
Okay, so don't hate me but things didn't quite go as planned. I wrote out this entire scenario that I worked on and fiddled with and eventually gave up on in utter frustration, and when I went to type it out, it turned out to be much too long for just one chapter. So, I've had to split it into two—which means you'll have to wait a little longer for the final gathering. Sorry about that, but since it's all scripted out and whatnot, it shouldn't be as long of a wait this time. (Sorry again.)
About the drug Annabeth used on Dean: Endymion was a shepherd in the good old days of Greece where gods were still playing hooky on Earth. The Titaness Selene (moon Titan) fell in love with him, but worried that his lifespan wouldn't last. Having learned from her buddy Eos's mistake (look that up, it involves transformations gone wrong), she cast a sleeping spell on him so he would slumber forever but never age. She managed to have fifty daughters by him, all as pale and beautiful as their mother and as sleepy as their father. The dust causes a temporary paralysis
[Also, really quick: the mention of the Winchesters' first encounter with little Nico di Angelo (which should be placed somewhere in that months-long period after Nico ran away from CHB due to what he considered to be Percy's betrayal) was originally supposed to be a lot longer. I cut it out to be more efficient, but maybe I should just make it a companion piece or something? It'd be short; a one shot, but I don't know. Just a thought.]
