Perspectives
Chapter Six
Part One
'On the Border Line (Of the Edge)'
Read between the lines of what's fucked up and everything's alright - Check my vital signs and know I'm still alive - And I walk alone - Greenday
He lay gasping amongst the spongy undergrowth of the forest floor, heart pumping his life out of his body via the artery running through his left thigh, his skin cold and hot all at once as he crawled to what remained of the skinwalker, determined to finish the job before the job finish him once and for all. It had nicked him, low and fast before he could get the final shot off, his brain registering the hit several seconds after it happened, the white-hot flash of it buckling his knee even as he spun to squeeze off the lethal round, the skinwalker screeching its rage as it fell, its life gone even as it landed on the forrest floor, the last echoes of its cry reverberating through the trees as Dean folded beside it, lower half of his jeans already streaked with slick gore.
He struggled the short distance to its corpse, digging his salt and lighter fluid out of the inner pocket of his jean jacket, pain flashing across his face as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His heart raced madly against his ribs as the trees blurred above him, their leafy canopy pressing down to suffocate the air out of his lungs as he fought for every panted breath, leg singing muted fire up to his hip. Seconds later the skinwalker went up in actual flames, the dampness of the ground keeping the fire from spreading as it burned. He realized in a hazy, distant way that he needed to treat his wound before he bled out, but he couldn't seem to summon the strength or need to do so as he collapsed on his back, body tilted away from the roasting meat of his enemy on his right.
Get up...
'I can't,' he thought miserably, almost relieved when his skin started to go numb from shock. 'It's too hard, lemme alone..'
Dean...I can't do this without you - c'mon! Get up...
"No Sammy," he breathed, misery spreading the cold to his heart, each breath stuttering on its way to his lungs, the effort to breathe too much as the pain ate the flesh from his knee to his pelvis, leaving him boneless amongst the stink of mildewed leaves and peat moss. "You don't need me...you need...school."
For Dad, then - what will he do without you?
Sam's voice sounded desperate now, the edge of a plea making his tone harsh and colorless. Dean barked a weak laugh, trying to roll to his side and falling back again when even that proved too much for his battered senses.
"Dad...doesn't need m-me...Sammy," he groaned, right knee jerking and dancing reflexively with each hitched drag of oxygen. "N-no...no one...needs m-me...anymore. I could...I could just -"
Dean - please!
"Go...'way...S-saamm." He sighed, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment - just a moment. He just needed to rest - just a moment, then it would all be fine. "Lemme...'lone...J-job's...done - thasss all tha' m-mm..."
Get up! Get the FUCK UP!
His eyes snapped open, hardening in surprise and anger at being disturbed, upper half heaving upright even as he screamed a muted grunt to the suffocating canopy above. He wobbled in place, eyes looking for Sam even as he knew it was all in his head.
"Fuck, Sam -" he moaned, world tilting dizzily as he fought the urge to throw up, one hand digging instinctively into his injured leg, the shock of it sending a lightning flash of pain flaring to life behind his eyes as adrenaline flooded his system, the air suddenly too cool against his burning flesh. "Imma fucking gonna kick your ass you little shit, not letting...letting a man die in fuckin' peace."
He wheezed the last statement out between gritted teeth, eyes falling to the gore streaking his lap, almost surprised at the deep maroon wetness that leaked sluggishly from the cut - deep but small against the expanse of his jean-clad leg. He hissed at the pool of blood streaked all around him, pulling up his shirts and digging his knife out of his back pocket, knowing in a bleary way what he had to do.
Dean cut a portion of his undershirt away and ripped the material around the wound, exposing the throbbing ache of it to the humid air and shakily tied the strip of shirt above the gash, tightening the cloth as best as he could against his leg. He was gasping from effort as he tied a knot to hold it in place, other hand searching for a stick amongst the debris all around him on the forrest floor. It was going to be crude and messy, but it would save him until he got to the nearest ER - that was, if he even made it that far.
"Fucking kid," he grunted breathlessly. "Fuckin' crap I'll put myself through for you."
He found a thick (though rather short) branch of green wood, before hunting around again for a sizable rock, fingers landing against a suitable one in seconds. His grip was loose and slippery as he tossed it towards the flaming pyre that was at one time a skinwalker making sure he got it near enough for him to reach it, so it could be pulled out when it got good and hot, but close enough to the fire that it heated quickly.
'This...is gonna suck,' he thought grimly as he pulled his jacket off. He wrapped the thick material around his right hand, waiting a few more seconds before using the stick to knock the heated rock closer to himself, hoping he gave it enough time to get truly hot - or else he would have to do this trick again.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as he slid one end of the stick under the makeshift tourniquet, holding it with his left as he leaned (and almost face-planted) to grab the rock with his wrapped hand. He twisted the stick under the bandage to tighten the material around his thigh as he held the rock against the oozing wound that peeked darkly from the rip in his jeans, the surrounding skin pale and irritated-looking. He sucked in a trembling breath as pain rocked through him, the sizzle and smoke of his own flesh sweet and yet horrifying as he screamed his agony to the winking stars above the trees, hand never wavering as it pressed the pain deeper into his thigh, every muscle in his body taut and straining as he fought to stay conscious.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he gritted, tears of pain leaking out of his tightly squeezed eyes, rock finally dropping beneath his bent knee, fingers cramped and numb from the grip on the heated granite, singing relief when he unwrapped them and exposed their singed tips to the coolness of the open air. There was no one to hear him (except maybe the Sammy in his head) so he let out a few shaky sobs, the pull and grate of his ribs against his over-shirts a relief even as his skin tightened on his bones.
"Fuck you, Sammy," he rasped out after a few minutes of trembling grey, his fight to stay awake almost lost as he concentrated on deep, even breaths, the world spinning and yo-yoing around him for a few miserable seconds. And to think, he could have just died and spared himself the type of pain that only he-men put themselves through. "Fuck you anyhow..."
It took another fifteen minutes for him to pull himself to his feet, aided with a couple of M&Ms stashed in his pockets and a slug of holy water to wash them down with, the rest of the holy water being dumped over his wound as a preventative measure. Of course when he had done that, he had needed those extra five minutes to stifle his whimpers as the flesh smoked anew, his precaution smarter than he had previously thought.
When the world had finally righted itself again he pulled himself laboriously to his feet, unsure if his weight would hold him as he stilled halfway up, the world trying to slide away for a black moment as blood rushed back to his extremities. After a few bleary blinks he remembered the tourniquet and fumbled with the knot, tossing the stick away as he staggered to his duffle, noting the warm tickle of blood had virtually stopped, the combination of cauterization and holy water having done the job - for the moment anyhow.
The jeans (his favorites, too, of course) were ruined, though.
He spared one last glance at the burning pile of remains, shaking his head as he forced his duffle up over his shoulder, leaning against a tree for balance - hoping he could make that mile and a half to the car before dawn. He tilted his head up to the trees above, thanks in the watery smile that flitted briefly over his lips as he mentally prepared himself for the long hike, leg singing a protest at the very idea, a protest that went ignored as he took his first shuffling step towards the road, breathing through the pain that howled through him with each flex of muscle.
'Always was a pain in the ass there, Sammy...'
You're welcome, Dean.
A sigh in the surrounding trees, before it too melted away - leaving only the crackling mess of skin and bone to mar the peace that fell over the nighttime woods, the trees themselves seeming to contemplate the end of a reign of terror in the piled ashes once known as the Walking Death of Men.
0-0-0
7:22AM
"Dammit, Sam, we are not gonna discuss this! You said he's seen your face, so that right there will blow my cover! Just stay in the Impala and let me work the scam!"
"But I'll know if he's lying - c'mon Uncle Bobby, we've come this far together, don't leave me outta the loop here!"
They'd been having this same argument for the last few hours, the theme varied but the basic argument was still the same.
Bobby wanted to go in alone and Sam wanted to tag along when he went to question Birch. The biggest problem with that was the fact that Sam and Bobby both knew that Collins could identify Sam on sight. The slightly smaller problem being that the youngest Winchester didn't really seem to care. His need to find Dean was overriding the last bit of sense he had left, his desperation so vivid Bobby could swear he could taste it on the back of his tongue.
Sleep had been next to non-existent since they had found the plate numbers for the old man's truck. Try as he might, Sam hadn't been able to find a way to hack into the DMV records for Indiana, so Bobby called in a few favors and before you could say 'fuck me running' they had an address for one Birch Collins in Sellersburg, Indiana. Then came the big struggle of wills. They were both exhausted - completely wiped out from fear, uncertainty and lack of sleep and it had started to show as their tempers frayed, their nerves strained raw from the sheer tension of having the answers they needed, yet not having enough to actually run with. Out of self-preservation (and really Sam's safety and well-being if Singer was going to be stuck with him for such long periods in an enclosed space) the older man forced him to lay down for a few hours. They made the attempt but neither of them slept well, ever aware of the ticking clock and time running thin on them.
In the end they wound up calling someone who could pick up and hold onto Bobby's truck for the next few days before hitting the road, stopping only once outside of Bellevue to get gas for the Impala and coffee. Originally it took a bit of convincing to get Bobby to agree to take the Chevy. He was concerned about Birch spotting her and busting them both on the spot, but Sam had made a convincing argument that called a halt to there even being a conversation about it. If they found Dean, he would want to know where his girl was at, that simple. So though it still bugged Bobby in oh-so-many ways, they took her instead of Bobby's truck, Sam's logic (at least in this matter) sound and perfectly reasonable.
The Impala was a beautiful car, Singer actually loved riding in her - but she really stuck out like a sore thumb in a nest of pinkie fingers. Adding the fact they were trying to trick information out of a potentially hostile witness (a witness who had seen the car personally and knew the owner of said car) it just made their lines of bullshit that much harder to pull off with grace. Their result ratio was already dropping below marginal lines - but with Sam's proposal to throw himself into the mix and try to charm information out of Collins, well...Bobby knew for a fact that it would not just throw a monkey wrench in the works - it was heaving the whole damned tool-kit at the thing.
But trying to talk sense to a stubborn, desperate Winchester was like trying to pound your head repeatedly into a wall to recall a memory - stupid, impossible and flat-out pointless.
"Look, Sam - this'll be ten times easier if I go it alone. You perched over my shoulder like an over-grown vulture ain't gonna do nothin' but make him shut it and fast. I've got this covered, okay? You gotta trust me on this son, I've been doin' this a sight longer than you. I can get a feel for a potential witness, I can get the information we need - but in order to do that, I need you to sit tight and just wait it out."
"For how long, Bobby? What if he doesn't have anything useful - what if he -"
"Sam."
The young man deflated like an old tire, eyes shining with a deep weariness and regret, lips compressed as if to hold any potentially biting remarks at bay, but Bobby had known this kid since he was knee-high to a grasshopper - the tears were close, too close, and Sam felt he couldn't afford to give into them. To do so would declare Dean officially gone and neither one of them were willing to even entertain that thought.
Bobby waited him out as Sam breathed through the reprimand, the youngster's face pale, but composed, his fly-away bangs covering his eyes and any lethal shine of weakness there, his struggle to compose himself almost physical as well as mental. Finally, Sam raised his head, giving a sharp nod towards Singer to show he was giving in, his eyes too large and bright in the weak wash of daylight that bled over the horizon.
"Bobby, I..." He shrugged, mouth trembling as he took a tack from his brother's way of dealing, tilting his face away as though it would make his vulnerability harder to detect. "It's been over 25 hours, you know? I just...I missed him so bad when he...when he died - and I've done nothing but fuck things up since he's come back. I need...I need him to be okay - I need him to know that -"
"He knows, Sam," Bobby broke in, his own heart too heavy to hear those words. It would make this too real, too permanent - again, not something that they could afford to give into. "He's got to. But we'll...we'll find him, okay? We'll find him and you can tell him that personally."
Sam gave a watery laugh, right shoulder rising sharply as he tilted his face back in Bobby's direction, his smile twisted and broken across the jagged line of his lips. "Yeah and put him through the biggest chick flick moment ever? He'll ditch out again so fast his own head would spin."
"Naww, he'll just never let you live it down, 's'all," Bobby returned, his own smile crooked and thin. He felt old all of a sudden - old and tired.
'Damned Winchesters.'
He glanced towards the old farmhouse beyond the copse of scrubby trees, trying to rid himself of the feeling that they were too late, that Dean was far beyond the pull of them both, that he had done that unthinkable and left them behind, so much dust in his wake. He took a deep breath and gave himself a mental shake, shedding the personality of Bobby Singer in favor of pulling on the mantle of Special Agent Kayser, Division Supervisor.
"Wish me luck, hey kid?"
"G'luck, Bobby," Sam returned quietly, seeming small and childlike again - startling in a man his size, but with Sam...
"Keep trying him, will ya, boy?" Bobby asked softly, feeling that giving Sam something, anything to do would make this loss of control, of certainty easier for him to bear.
"Of course," Sam replied, looking slightly stung. He glanced at Bobby and whatever he saw in the hunter's face must have relaxed him, soothed his tattered nerves, understanding softening his voice. "I'll keep trying until I get him - just...just do what you can on your end, okay?"
Bobby nodded and dropped his hat in the passenger seat, smoothing his hair over and straightening his tie as he stepped away from the Impala, his manner instantly imposing and professional. Sam thought fleetingly how he was glad someone looking like Bobby did now hadn't come gunning for them over a year ago, but the pang of Victor's death erased that thought as quickly as it had come forcing him to swallow any smart remarks he could have made, regret like lead in the back of his throat. He plucked his cellphone out of his shirt pocket and hit redial as Bobby stepped away, trying for the thousandth time to reach his brother who seemed bound and determined to be unreachable, his sense of Dean and all that made him Dean slipping slowly away as he put miles between them.
'C'mon Dean,' he thought wretchedly. 'Just pick up the phone, dude - that's all I ask - just...pick up the damned phone.'
Bobby deliberately kept his thoughts blank as he approached Birch Collins' home, realizing that any preformed notions of the man would work against him instead of for him in the upcoming conversation. The key to gaining information was to act like you already had it - all you were doing was making the rounds (tedious but necessary) to corroborate what you had against what witnesses may have seen/encountered with the individual or situation in question.
It was moments like these when Bobby let the blasphemous thought creep in that he would have made a good agent (would have made a good officer) and gave himself the standard mental slap for thinking such things, just as he mounted the crumbling steps to Birch's front porch, his part unspooling in his mind even as he tried to tuck it away, keep it off of his face. He rang the bell, half afraid of electrical shock the damned thing was so worn and busted looking, and put on a bored and neutral face even as he took in the faded exterior of the old man's farmhouse, the paint long gone to peeling and disrepair.
A ripple of unease washed through him as he realized just how similar his own house looked compared to Collin's, the exterior in need of serious touch up and maintenance - but if he was a betting man (which he was) he'd lay good money that the inside was just as close and he found he had to suppress a shiver at the idea. Nerves made him impatient and he shuffled his feet, the faint sound of barking dogs doing nothing to set him at ease again (Rumsfeld still being sorely missed) as a wizened face peered through a crack in the door, brilliant grey-blue eyes pinning him to the spot, the shine of intelligence and the quick once over he was subjected to telling him this may not be the cakewalk he had originally thought, seventy-eight year old man or no.
"C'n I he'p ya?"
"Mr Collins? Mr Birch Collins?" Bobby droned, sliding his fake Federal badge out with a smooth, unconscious grace.
"Yep - no one else here but me. What can I do you for, Agent..."
"Kayser," Bobby said firmly, holding the badge where it could be read clearly before tucking it away again a few seconds later. "I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, Mr Collins."
He left it as more of a statement than a question, knowing that most civilians responded with an almost puppy-dog eagerness, afraid of having someone like a federal agent on their front porch, like it might besmirch their good citizenship in some way. It seemed Collins was going to be a tough baby, though, as he just shrugged, never budging from his position in his doorway, wily smile twinkling in his eyes as he took on a relaxed air, placing himself firmly as the 'agent's' equal.
Yup...a tough one.
"I guess you might...don't have anythin' pressing to do today, I s'ppose. Whatcha need there, officer?"
Bobby switched tactics, his manners becoming warmer as he pulled a photo of Dean from the same place he had gotten his badge, movements still smooth and sure as he brandished it just below the old man's nose, letting exhaustion leak into his eyes as he displayed the unflattering mugshot.
"This man has been seen in the area and we just wanted to see if any locals had come across him. A neighbor of yours was sure he had seen him near your dwelling and -" Bobby broke off his 'practiced' ramble at the sharp look he got from the old man, Collins opening up the door wider and stepping through it, his wiry frame almost intimidating as he took two steps towards Singer, eyes deep and assessing as though he had spotted a sure fire enemy but was deciding on how to handle the fact.
In other words, this was starting to go South - and fast.
"Well, I'll be damned," Collins whispered, eyes widening in recognition as he looked Bobby over from head to foot, a sudden smile splitting his face and making him seem much younger than his almost eighty years. "I'll be good God-damned - you..."
Bobby hesitated, taking a step back, half afraid of what Collins was going to say, but practically dying to hear him say it.
"You're Bobby Singer."
Okay. He hadn't expected that.
He clamped his mouth shut to keep his jaw from dropping to the dilapidated porch, taking another step back as Collins pushed closer, eyes practically eating him alive as he leaned in, merriment twitching the corners of his mouth.
"I'd bet a friggin' fiver right the hell now that you are!" Almost gleefully - as if guessing correctly won him a prize or something. "You are just as he described you...down to the last detail - well, except for the hat. I was expecting you to have a hat."
This last bit was tossed out in a muted grumble, almost as if the old man was talking to himself instead of to Bobby.
Forget going South. This never started anywhere near the middle if he was going to get caught out flatfooted like this before he even had five full sentences out of his own mouth between them. He went to reply, to bluster that he didn't know what the old fool was rambling about, when he was promptly halted by Birch's next set of words.
"Wellah - if you're here...where's Sam?"
Bobby sighed, shoulders slumping as he tucked the photo of Dean away, one hand rising to pinch the skin above his nose, ease the sudden headache that blossomed there.
"He's...he's down the road a bit. Didn't want to tip you off with the car. Had no idea my face alone would be a tip-off." He shrugged tiredly, trying to muster up a smile but coming up flat and empty as he realized that Dean had not only spilled the beans about them, but had probably paved the way for the ultimate stonewall.
"Ahhhh," Birch replied, those sharp eyes still assessing and assessing. "Smart move. Well, I might as well just go 'head and tell you - I'm not going to tell you where he is, where he is going or anything of the sort. I don't have to tell ya where we been, cause, well - you already know that, else you wouldn't be here now, wouldja?"
"I see..." Bobby returned slowly, dismayed that Birch was not only so quick on the uptake, but also surprised that he was going to hold out on them - he must surely know -
"I know how badly Sam there wants his brother back. I know it cause I could feel how badly Dean missed him, even though he needs time - ya know? Now, now," the old man chided, holding one hand up as thought to halt any protest that Bobby may have, cutting him off before he could start. "I'm not gonna tell ya cause I don't rightly know. I dropped that young man off on the side of the road somewheres, same kinda way I found him."
The look on his face said he dared Bobby to call him a liar - but Singer knew even as sure as he was that Collins was feeding him a mile-wide line of bullshit, there was no way he could call him on it. This didn't seem the type of man you wanted as an enemy and he knew if he pushed that's what he'd become, no matter what Dean had said. This old man had determined that there was only one side to be on and though he looked like he wanted to be friendly, to get to know the man Dean had told him about, it was Dean's side he was on and no one else's.
Whereas John could run off friend and foe alike, one as easily as the other, Dean had an uncanny ability to make friends anywhere he went. The only difference between him and Sam was that Sam knew he had that power (and could work it to his advantage) and Dean did not, his first reaction to most people being suspicion and the horrible fear that he'd be found lesser than those he saved. But when he did make a friend, they were instant, loyal and unshakable.
"Mr Singer -"
"Bobby, please - Mr Singer was my father," Bobby responded automatically, heart sinking as he realized their two steps forward were two steps way, way, wayyyy back.
"As it'll do ya - feel free to call me Birch," the old man said almost primly, his eyes sympathetic, warm even - but his demeanor unyielding. "I don't pretend to know what all has gone on between Dean and his brother. Dean and I had a pretty heated discussion on the matter, my opinion being family is family and one shouldn't run from 'em and while I can see where he might normally agree with me on that, he refused to be budged and his wishes are to be respected in my reckoning. Now, as I said, I don't know the whole tale, I'm sure I never will - but I know enough to say that I'm sure that young man has rarely had his way in life - doesn't seem the type to care much about his own-self to tell the truth - an' just b'cause of that and that alone, even if I did know where he was headed, I wouldn't tell you - nor Sam, out of respect for him. Do you understand, Bobby?"
Bobby sighed, wishing for his hat so he could cover what his eyes were thinking, but having to settle instead for kneading the back of his neck, tone resigned, his exhaustion and heartbreak at yet another dead end hard to keep at bay.
"Yeah...yeah, I do - can't say the same for Sam. I don't rightly know how I'm going to break this to him, you know?"
"I don't envy you that task there, Bobby," Birch said, but his voice remained firm even as he blinked apology at Singer. "But that ain't really my problem. I'm sorry I can't give ya' more - but...I picked Dean up close somewheres around here and dropped him off the same way. He asked me to pull over, let him out and we parted ways on a handshake. I don't really remember where I dropped him, but even if I did..."
Birch shook his head, backing up towards his door as he shrugged another empty apology in Bobby's direction.
Singer sighed, knowing exactly how much fun going back and reporting this to Sam was going to be, but grateful that Collins had even bothered to talk to him. He knew what a hard position the old man was in, Dean may not have placed him there (he may have very well done that himself) but he had been in that very same position too many times to count with the Winchesters. It was a matter of damned if you do, damned if you don't - and as much as he dreaded having to go tell Sam that they drove all this way for nothing, he understood where Birch was coming from all too well to just let it go like that.
"Well," Bobby drawled, halting Birch in his backward shuffle. "Thanks for talking to me Birch, I understand that you can't give me anything, but tell me one thing if you would. Did he...did he look okay? I mean, was he -"
"He looked tired," Twig supplied, knowing he could give Singer at least this much. "He looked tired and kind of - of spooked, but...I think he'll be okay. Ya'll just need to give him some time, you know? If Sam wants him back so bad, then maybe he oughta think on how he lost him in the first place. Though that advice is just like any other I guess, be taken with two grains of salt and whistle. Just...just have him think on that."
Birch stuck his hand out, manner almost shy as he smiled at Bobby, the twinkle back in his eyes as he regarded him with something akin to awe.
"It was really good to meet you though, Bobby," he said softly.
Bobby could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth, the old man's evident joy at meeting someone that Dean had known, a person that Dean had obviously talked about in great detail (and wasn't that nine kinds of flattering, really) obvious, even if he was giving that person news he didn't want to hear.
"Good to meet you, too, Birch," Bobby returned, relaxing as he gripped the other man's hand in a firm shake.
"No hard feelin's, then?"
"None from me, Birch...just, take this and keep in contact. If you hear anything - well...anything you can tell us - just..just call that number, okay?"
"Will do, Bobby - thanks," Collins replied, taking the proffered card and glancing at it before he pulled his wallet out, tucking the square of cardboard inside with a careful reverence. "Take care of Sam, will you - and take care of you, too. Hope one day we can meet again under better circumstances."
"I hope so, too," Bobby said - but he was talking to air, as Birch had already gone back inside his house, door closed firmly against Bobby and any hope he had of finding Dean anytime soon. To coin a phrase from that same individual, this whole situation sucked out loud - and here in the next few minutes, he could see it wasn't going to get any more fun.
Bobby made his way back down the crumbling steps, trying to come up with the best way to break it to Sam that they hit a dead end.
He still hadn't come up with anything good by the time he made it to the car just a minute later - and from the look on Sam's face he was expecting anything other than what Bobby had to say (which really wasn't much).
'Well,' Singer thought sarcastically, 'This day just can't get any better, can it?'
0-0-0
It was well that Castiel could remember that day - it was one that would be forever etched into his mind, easily recalled even if he lived eons like his brothers had before him.
He had been (and still was) very young yet, barely a millenia, his magick consisting of spell castings and incantations, runes and sigils. He had no ability to snap his fingers and alter the reality (or perception of such) in creatures around him. He had no ability to bring a dead man to life based on a mere whim, or shatter the earth with his war cry. He was no Arch-Angel by any stretch of the imagination - he was barely a regular angel, too young and squirming and new to even be worthy of the title 'Angel' or 'Messenger of God'.
So why he had even been Called...only the Lord knew that.
But his Superior, Anaiel said she would show him the ropes, that he would earn his stripes with this mission - so he left any puzzlement over his assignment to the wayside. If his General saw him fit for this task, then he would be so.
But when time came to lay siege to Hell's Gates (and for the first time since Lucifer and the Fallen had been sealed behind them) Anaiel was nowhere to be seen - and no one had any answers. Well, no answers that they would be willing to give a fledgling that had barely earned the right to look upon his Superiors, much less ask them stupid questions which were none of his concern. So even though his curiosity boiled behind his tongue, he stayed silent - and was sure to be where Anaiel assigned him. His General had asked that he be in the rear, covering the flankings of those who were to wage the War upon Lucifer's Realm, to observe, protect and shield his Brothers. This, he could do.
This position also gave him the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop.
While Castiel was not normally inclined to such sneaky tactics, his General (who had sent the alarm, drawn up the plans and called the Battalion) not being present was enough to force him to push beyond his comfort zone, to gather information in her stead. And what he heard was decidedly not good. Seems his Commander had blasphemed, had gone against Heaven's code of honor - and was forced to rip out her own Grace. Her Fate was now left to God and Castiel could only hope she was shown mercy for any transgressions against their Father and his orders (though what exactly she had done was still very much a mystery).
Of course, this left him to wonder if they would still be moving forward with her plans, but it seemed the garrison was all set. No one had stopped to question her previous orders and no one seemed to notice that she had included him, the youngest, the lowliest among them, to join in the fight. So he kept silent, wanting more than ever to honor her final commands (even as he was unsure whether those orders were completely righteous, almost fearing the taint of her actions to spill onto those around him) his excitement at this opportunity growing as the Battalion shifted ever closer to the First Gate of Hell's Dominion.
After that, it was a blur. It was a clash of Darkness and Light, Venom and Shadows melding, blending and falling away before the Warriors of Virtue, his brothers and sisters were fierce, their blows to the Enemy true and bold and while he knew time had passed (too much of it besides) it seemed that in a mere eye blink, they were There.
He wasn't told much about this Mission. He knew they had to rescue a Soul from the Domain of Hell, bring it back to dwell upon the Earth - and while this confused him (for wasn't Hell a holding point for those who had earned their way to Its torments?) he was prepared to do as he was commanded - to fight and free the Soul and bring it back. Of course, it wasn't him that was to grab that soul and wrest it from its captors - he was here to observe, to protect, to shield. He had fought as well as he could beside his betters and had actually made it to their destination, all the while hoping he had made his Father proud (hoping that his General would have approved his actions, once upon a time) but he hadn't dared to think that he would be forced to do the work of an Arch-Angel.
Amid the chaos and deafening cries around him, some from the fray, some from the denizen and their various torments, he saw the Soul they were to rescue.
"It's too late!" Achmiel boomed to his right, lance dancing too fast to be seen as he warded off the Guardians that fell upon Their Contingent. "He has been Turned!"
"Nonetheless," came the answer from afar, Ezchmel's voice clear and beautiful against the writhing wails that surrounded him, "our orders are clear!"
But how would any of his brothers and sisters be able to lay claim upon this Soul and raise it from this Perdition? The supply of angry demons and enforcers seemed never-ending - and the battalion's strength was waning against the onslaught - even now he saw Ichmekel falter, his wounds deep and his Grace flickering. He flew to his brother's side, his own lance out, his strikes swift (though less sure) as he tried to protect his weakening brother.
He succeeded long enough to get Ichmekel back to his feet, a feeling of panic, of being overwhelmed eating at the edges of his mind, knowing for sure that even if he earned the 'stripes' Anaiel had promised, he may not make it out to see that honor. He was willing to die for his brothers and sisters, for their Cause, for his Father - but he did not wish to die only to have the Mission fail because he was too young, too weak to aid them.
He turned to look at the Soul, Its beauty startling amongst the twisted, horrifying forms that surrounded It, a fierce, enraged look upon Its face, obviously confused and half-mad from the torments It had endured thus far. He wondered why Ezchmel insisted that it was too late - then he saw the weapon that It carried, the fine shine of damascus steel honed to a wicked edge clutched in one hand, Its stance declaring that It knew how to use that weapon and was more than willing to do so - but another form held it back, almost shielding it from the battle that raged around them.
Castiel gazed at the sight curiously, the Demon that kept their Charge from them silent and unmoving, his face a mask of rage and uncertainty - though he held himself (and the Soul) out of the line of battle, wings flared to keep the Soul from the sight-line of the Host. The gesture seemed intimate, even protective - and he was left to wonder why that was so, even as he fought a clear path to where the two stood, the mark of This Land shining weakly from the One they were to save.
He kept the line open, defending it for his betters to move in and claim what God had ordered them to this Land for, laying waste to those that would move to shift his stance, to oppose the might and force of Their Army. Uriel fought his way to Castiel side, his joy at this battle clear in the shine of his eyes.
"My brother!" Uriel shouted, parrying lethal blows from all sides as he approached, his war cry clearing paths that his lance could not. "My brother you have defended well! You have indeed earned your ranking amongst your Kin!"
"I live to serve God," Castiel answered in greeting. "Will you not take this task upon yourself, brother? End this battle and fulfill the Mission?"
But his question was unanswered as the battle suddenly shifted very much to Hell's side - two or three of his brothers faltering and falling as the seething mass of the damned tripled in number, their efforts to keep them from their goal refreshed with each new wave. The Demon that kept their Charge from the grasp of The Host turned his back to the fray long enough to speak quietly with the Soul, the Soul nodding in response, fear and awe sweeping Its features even as It prepared to do what was ordered of It (whatever that may be). The message that had been passed became clear as the Demon that had been standing over It plucked the weapon from the Soul's fingers before heading straight for the path Castiel had cleared - and thus Castiel and Uriel themselves.
Castiel let out a cry as the Soul retreated, heading further back into the Reaches of Hell, gaining speed as It traveled, Its form almost swallowed by the endless cavern they were in, intent on escaping into the Depths beyond -
All would be lost if It succeeded.
"Castiel!" Uriel cried desperately, his own grin of triumph and joy wavering as the onslaught continued to increase, his attention held between the Demon (and Overlord obviously) who threatened to split their ranks and the hordes that had redoubled their efforts to destroy the invading Contingent. "Stop him! You know what you have to do!"
"Uriel!" Castiel protested, fear now very much alive in his heart. He was not made for this! He was to shield, to protect - this was work for Arch-Angels, or for those of Uriel and Ezchmel's ranks. Not for a fledgling, not for an angel who had not even as yet been alive a full eon.
"Castiel! I Charge you!" Uriel cried, staggering as a descending sword clipped his mighty wings. Blood sprayed, frightening Castiel and freezing him in place. He was almost skewered by another sword, too frightened to even defend himself - but a quick chop from another one of his brothers kept him from being hurt.
He was going to make them all fail! He couldn't even do as originally Charged - to defend, to shield, to protect. This was too much, they asked too much of him - he was too young, too inexperienced -
"Castiel!" boomed Ezchmel from the depths of another wave of The Enemy. "Castiel! I Charge you!"
The cry went up all around - the very Halls of Perdition ringing with the sound, the sweet tones and silver, of light and grace did what the lances could not - knocking back the rank and file of the Enemy, scattering the weaker of those ranks, some demons unable to behold the True sounds of their presence, shrieking blackness and poison as they fell back into the waiting shadows, their screams mingling into voided echoes as the Things that lived within those Shadows devoured the weak and powerless of their numbers.
Castiel! I Charge you! We Charge you! We lay this Task upon you in the name of Our Father!
Suddenly, it mattered not that he was the youngest, the weakest, the least of them. It ceased to matter that he was afraid, that he was not as mighty or fierce as his Brethren. It mattered that they had Called him to the forefront of Their Mission (for the Mission itself was never his, even he was wise enough to comprehend) to take the Soul out of Hell's grasp and return it to the Land of the Living, amongst those who breathed and lived and died and prayed and sinned and multiplied. He had been Charged - the rest of his fears and reasonings and his very smallness mattered no longer. He was Tasked - and for the very lives of his brothers and sisters, he must Obey.
The Demon that approached halted at the Cry that rose around Him, the resonance of all those Angelic Voices seeming to slow him, even if it did not stop him completely. Castiel had little time to wonder at the Creature's strength of Will as he dodged around Uriel, sliding under the lance of Ezchmel as it descended, his focus now on the Soul that was intent on disappearing into the Depths as It was ordered by Its Master, never mind that said Master had now figured out who he was - and what he was about to do.
The Thing smiled Malice and Hatred at him, Its movements swift and wily as an eel as it moved to intercept Castiel, jealousy and rage slick and sinister on the stretched horror of Its Face.
"I shall kill you Small One," It hissed, the grate and shift of Its voice almost slowing Castiel as he made to dart past. The Thing -
'Alistair,' his mind supplied, the very essence of the Creature ripping through him like a venomous blade, shivering down to his core. 'Alistair - Dean's Lord and Master.'
- flowed toward him like silken Death, rows upon rows of sharp teeth descending to shred into his very Grace, claws reaching to rip his wings from his shoulders. He could feel the oozing, oily catch of them on his feathers and uttered a startled cry of disgust and terror, the touch only spurring him to move faster, rather than slow him down.
His brothers and sisters converged as one, stopping the Overlord from further movement and giving Castiel a way of escape - and much needed time - to run down their wayward Soul (Dean) and save him from himself. Castiel shook the feel of Alistair off of his wings, (very sure that if he had to endure that touch for as long as their Charge had, he would have been mad within days) barely pausing to admire the trap that ensnared that encircled the Demon. His Brethren's strength and surety renewed as Castiel picked up speed along his assigned course, Hell's Denizens too stunned to stop him as he barrelled in the direction the soul had melted toward, almost half afraid that he would lose him after all - and all of this would have been for nothing.
He spotted the Soul (Dean) after mere minutes, his essence shining out amongst those that conspired to hide It, the teeming masses of the Damned flowing to hide him from the Angel's eyes, even as they fell back, gibbering, his Grace and Light too much for them to bear the further he descended into their midst. He followed for what seemed his lifetime and several more besides, dodging, darting and striking at those who would hinder him, until at long last, there seemed to be no further ground to run in, the Soul (DEAN) spinning to face him, a snarl of fear and defiance twisting those (amazingly enough) beautiful features into something more akin to the Damned around him, madness and loathing permeating the air around him in putrid, gray waves.
The Soul was weaponless against that he considered an Enemy, his pseudo-skin layered gore from the other souls he had destroyed, his pureness flickering, faltering under the weight of his transgressions and Castiel almost stopped, almost begged off the Charge that had been laid upon him, so great was his own loathing, his own disgust and fear. How could this...this rabid THING be saved? How was that even possible?
But God had commanded it and so it must be. Who was he to know the mind of the Creator - he was just a lowly Angel with a terrific Charge laid upon him, one that was not fit for a creature that didn't even hold a Ranking.
But one that was laid upon him nonetheless.
Once the Mission was accomplished, then he could retreat back to being Castiel, the Daydreamer, the Weaver of said Daydreams and Musings - the lowliest angel of his Garrison. but until that time, he had to assume the mantle of Arch-Angel and raise this Soul from the depths of his Torment.
Though Castiel had to swallow back disgust and fear, the Soul (Dean) did not flinch, did not sway back from him as he reached out, his manner proud and unwavering even as his fear increased, his shoulders squared, braced for whatever Castiel planned to do -
- 'They have come to destroy me,' touched through Castiel's mind, hope and fear and relief dancing through the muted singing that was the core of the (Dean's) Soul. 'Just please make it quick -'
- and pity washed through Castiel as he laid his hand upon the Soul's shoulder, melding their flesh as he wrapped him in his Grace, preparing the Soul for Its Journey. Grace and Soul entwined, Dean's Fear, his Hopes, his Dreams, his Fierceness, his Love, his Loyalty - all that made him Who/What he was and is - shot through Castiel's Grace, Castiel's pity and disgust melting into an emotion more akin to awe, to Knowing as he looked deep into Dean - and saw that Spark, that inner light that was worth everything. Worth the Mission, worth the endless battle, the exposure to the Horrors that bled through Satan's Dominion. And he felt Dean look into him in return, his fear blowing away under Castiel's gaze, to be replaced with sorrow and the surety that the Host had made a grave mistake.
"Castiel," he breathed, shaking his head as the angel engulfed them both in the span of his wings. "This is wrong - I am wrong. It's too late - save your Garrison...save yourself. It's too late -"
"Never," the angel returned, smiling into the face of Dean's confusion and horror. He knew him now - down to his essence, down to his very last cell and he was fiercely proud that he was Charged to sheperd Dean back to Earth, he would fight for that Charge now, keep it jealous and close to himself if Challenged. "We have come for you, Dean Winchester."
"This is a mistake -"
"And that is why we have been Tasked with your Rescue - God needs a Warrior such as yourself, Dean. This is no Mistake. Our Father needs you Whole again, has Charged my Garrison with that Mission." Castiel hummed Grace and Forgiveness through the Soul of Dean Winchester, feeling the doubt and fear wash away under his patient gaze.
"We have come to Take you Home..."
With a strong, sure beat of his wings, Hell melted away to a mere Nightmare. He felt his brothers and sisters Rise alongside him, the Battalion moving as one as they removed Hell's Prize from Its dank and putrid clutches -
The Mission had been fulfilled - the rest was up to Dean.