11/28/2016 - I know, I'm a bad person, I haven't updated in sort of forever. Unfortunately writing this fic takes actual research on Star Trekkie stuff and it takes up a lot of time. The Buffy crossovers are easier only because I know most of those episodes backwards and forwards. But anyways, now classes are done and it's time to go back to getting lost in space!
Anyways, thank you 332249, princessbinas, missmeow1968, PsykoJinx, psychee, PineappleoftheLordAssbutte (that is an awesome name, btw), , Crowley (0_o), EddBlackheart, and LII for the reviews! And if you favoriters and followers leave a couple of words you get fluffy bunnies!
Castiel woke up once on the way to their destination, but the Vulcan-demon had been prepared and immediately put him under again. The next time he was awake, he found himself handcuffed lying on the ground with an angel trap drawn underneath his body.
"I'm not certain why," came a smooth, haughty voice, "but the Vulcan was quite insistent that they draw that decoration on the floor before you were to be left alone."
The seraph eyed the edge of the sigil as he shuffled himself to a sitting position. Across from him, leaning against some shipping containers, sat the Cardassian he had attempted to rescue. Castiel looked around and discovered they were in a cavern modified for storage with the only exit being up a flight of steel stairs and through a heavily armed human.
He was chagrined to discover that the sigil was not drawn, it was carved into the stone. The burnt edges made him think that it was done with one of their light guns. "I'm trapped and powerless," Castiel stated.
"By a picture?" the Cardassian asked, incredulous.
"Yes. Unless you have some way of breaking these lines."
"Nothing comes to mind, particularly since they used a phaser to create that little piece of art. I must say, I do like the symmetry of it."
"It is not art, it is a sigil meant to trap beings such as myself."
"And what would that be?" The other man scoffed at himself. "Please forgive me, where are my manners? I am Gul Dukat of Cardassia. And you are…?"
"Castiel," the seraph replied absently as he vainly tried to summon the gun the human was holding. He sighed in frustration. The trap was worse than a circle of holy fire; at least in one of those he could still access his celestial abilities.
"That's it? Just 'Castiel'? No rank, no family name? I thought you humans were so fond of these labels."
"I am not human and I have neither of those designations."
"Oh? Then what are you?"
From what Compy had told him, the Cardassian people were antithetical towards religion, to the point where they viewed those that were devout (like the Bajorans) as backwards and inferior. Castiel didn't think this Gul Dukat would believe his origins as a direct descendant from God. "I am just… not human."
"He is an angel," announced the Vulcan-demon as she descended the ladder. "A being of Heaven who is very, very far from home."
As expected, Dukat rolled his eyes. "Heaven? As in that nonsense about a better place after you die? What sort of idiot do you take me for."
"A very large one," commented the armed human who had followed the demon. Dukat gave him a smug smirk.
The Vulcan-demon stood in front of the sigil and knelt before Castiel. He stared stoically back at the thing, its naturally hideous features layered over the mildly handsome ones of the vessel it possessed. "They do not believe me," the demon said, her voice loud enough to echo through the cavern. "Therefore it is logical for me to prove to them what you are. I wonder," she continued, her voice so quiet as to make their conversation private, "if I were to engage a blood sigil, I wonder where you would go?"
The truth was, Castiel had no idea. His many transgressions, up to and including the slaughter that had transpired while powered by the souls of Purgatory, had made Heaven a place where he was unwelcome. Whether the angel was barred completely was questionable, as was the reception he'd receive if he did suddenly appear on his brother's and sister's doorstep. The best thing to do was to discourage the demon from trying.
"It is possible," Castiel said casually, not bothering to lower his volume, "that I would be sent only a relatively short distance. After all, we are far from Earth. You know, an angel landing on Earth's surface causes great destruction." He leaned in and bared his teeth. "Are you so very certain that I won't come crashing through your little cave?"
"Enough!" the human snapped. "We can't risk it, Sakonna."
The demon's eyes flashed momentarily black, its vessel's features twisting in anger. Then proper Vulcan impassivity reasserted itself and she stood to address the human. "Very well. I will begin the mind meld with the Cardassian."
Dean ended up not going with the Commander. For one, Bitchy Bajoran was coming as second in command; for another, the thing they called a runabout was horrendously small. The last thing the hunter wanted was to be trapped in what was basically a closet with the vitriolic woman. Unfortunately the doctor was also on the crew, ostensibly to ensure the health of the Cardassian the Maquis had kidnapped, robbing Dean of one of the few people on the station that he tolerate.
After making some excuses about being unused to twenty fourth century travel, the hunter went back to wandering the Promenade. It was later in the evening and most of the shops were closed. Dean ended up in Quark's where, to his relief, the proprietor was busy running the weird roulette-like game in the center of the bar. He ordered another one of the Cardassian ales and was then flummoxed when he was asked for payment.
"I've got him," said Miles O'Brien as he sat next to the hunter. The Ferengi bartender nodded and left the bottle and two glasses.
The Chief eyed the drink apprehensively. "You like that stuff?"
"Strong and smells like shit," Dean answered as he poured two portions. "Just the way I like it."
The two men raised glasses and clinked them together. Miles took a small sip and made a face while Dean chugged his down. Eyebrows raised, the Chief watched the hunter pour himself a second glass. "Didn't realize twenty-first century taste buds were that desensitized."
"I've had worse."
Miles chuckled a little before braving another sip. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. You did a good job yesterday on that door. We were banging around in there for nearly a bloody hour before you showed."
"Thanks."
The Chief pointed around the room. "This station's actually a big mash of Cardassian, Bajoran, and Federation technology. Cardassians scuttled the thing when they abandoned it and we're still picking up the pieces. My wife's been complaining that I'm missing too many dinners with my little girl."
Little girl? For a moment Dean was surprised that the officers would bring their children to a place that had exploding ships and political kidnappings. Not to mention random cranky time travelers showing up on their doorsteps. Then again, maybe all this conflict was just an anomaly that had cropped up since he and Cass had dropped in.
After taking another tongue-scorching sip, Miles continued. "Would you be willing to come on as part of my repair crew? You'd be able to cover the cost of your drinks by yourself at least."
Dean blinked at him. "Don't I need to be wearing one of those Starfleet bodysuits to work here?"
"Normally, yes. But I found a loophole specific to Deep Space 9. We register you as part of the Bajoran militia instead of Starfleet. Doubt you want to go through all that training to get this." The Chief gestured down at his black and yellow uniform.
"Militia? I'd be part of their, what, backwoods army?"
"Sort of, but not really. It's highly unlikely you'd ever get called to the battlefield, but you'd be beholden to Bajoran laws and regulations."
Dean grimaced and made Miles laugh. "Don't worry. You wouldn't be under Major Kira; you'd answer to me."
"Oh thank God," the hunter mumbled as he drank.
"So what do you say?"
Dean was conflicted. Being part of someone's militia, much less one from an alien planet, didn't seem very appealing. The Chief had said it was "highly unlikely" that the hunter would be called to the battlefield, but that still left a sliver of a possibility. Then again, it wasn't as if he wasn't experienced in combat. He looked mournfully down into his empty glass. Being able to pay for his own drink, at least ones that didn't come from the replicator (which tasted slightly weird), was also a plus.
There was also the factor that doing a job would at least keep him occupied. A small purpose, but a purpose nonetheless. Not so lofty as Cass' self-imposed guardianship against demonic activity but he'd at least be of some use to his hosts.
One problem needed to be clarified. "What about this trial thingy?" Dean asked.
Miles peered at him. "You really think they'll find you guilty?"
"Only if they're dicks."
"Then we shouldn't have a problem."
"All right," said Dean as he stuck out a hand. "You got a deal."
The Chief beamed and vigorously shook the hunter's hand. "Soon as the Major and the Commander return we'll get it all official-like and you can get started." He clapped Dean on the shoulder and rose to take his leave.
From somewhere, Dean honestly had no idea where, a Ferengi appeared in the space Miles had vacated causing the hunter to jump and curse. "The hell you want?"
"Is-Is it true?" asked the man.
The stranger was, if Dean was any judge, smaller-eared than most of the other of his kind around the place. Unlike Quark, however, this one's mannerisms reminded the hunter of a beaten dog. The association made him ease up his tone. Slightly. Out of all the new races Dean had encountered the past several days the Ferengi had made him the most leery. "Is what true?"
"Did Chief O'Brien offer you a job? Even though you are not part of Starfleet?"
"Guess so."
"Wow," the man drawled, his eyes shining with admiration. "I'm Rom. I do a lot of the repairs here in the bar. You must have done something really special."
"I just repaired a freaking door. Why the hell is everyone so impressed?"
Rom let out an appreciative noise. "The Cardassian door technology is somewhat incompatible with Bajoran sensors. I have to fix the doors up in the Holosuites sometimes," he added abashedly.
"Holosuite?"
"Oh, that's right! You're the time traveler!" The Ferengi whipped his head back and forth before furtively whispering, "Want to see one?"
Intrigued, and fairly certain Rom had no ulterior motives, Dean followed the man up the stairs. What he'd thought were alcoves for clandestine meetings ended up being deep-set pairs of swishing doors. He could hear, very faintly, a wide variety of sounds coming from the ones they passed. From that one came what sounded like a sparring session with wooden implements. There was a party of sorts coming from that one. And from that one were the unmistakable sounds of an orgy in full swing.
They stopped at the doors at the end of the hallway. Rom glanced over at the orgy room as he was pressing buttons and, shamefully, admitted, "Uh… I haven't gotten around to fixing the sound dampeners on that one. Don't tell my brother, please!"
"Who's your brother?"
"Quark," the Ferengi stated fearfully. He then scuttled into the open doors. Apprehensively, Dean stepped in after him.
And was absolutely dumbfounded.
They were standing on a small, beachside clearing, where a regular old wooden picnic table sat. A river was rushing by at a speed just this side of terrifying. A kayak that Dean could have bought from the local sports store was laid carefully in the sand, its oar sticking out of the seat.
The hunter backed up and looked behind him. A verdant forest, its insides invitingly glowing with dappled sunlight, stretched along the shoreline. When he turned around he realized that there was a mountainous rock face paralleling the green.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
"Did you want a female?" Rom inquired.
"What? No!" Dean wiped a hand down his face, belatedly remembering the ship's translation abilities didn't extend to his vulgar colloquialisms. He walked into the sand and felt grains crunch under his boots. When he knelt to touch the river, cool water lapped over his fingers.
"It's one of Chief O'Brien's programs," explained Rom. "I-I-I think he calls it… kai-yay-ing?"
"Kayaking," Dean corrected absentmindedly.
The hunter took a handful of sand and let the grains sift through his fingers. His mind was in complete turmoil. It was all well and good to say he had accepted the fact that Dick Roman had thrust him hundreds of years in the future, it was another to have the fact thrown in his face. This was his Earth with his period artifacts. Dean could have driven five miles from Bobby's cabin and found a spot just like this.
Sam could be sitting on that table, a cooler full of beers on the seat. He could be making one of his maudlin speeches about feelings or the meaning of life or something equally nonsensical. Oftentimes Sammy would get angry because he thought his brother wasn't listening. But he was. Dean was always drinking in the sound of his (big) little brother's voice, happy in the knowledge that the Winchesters would always be together, that there would always be wooden picnic tables with beer and talk.
Except there wouldn't be. Sammy was gone, his irradiated bones buried who knows where. The Impala wasn't sitting over there, Bobby's cabin was probably mulch, and everything he'd even known and loved was just gone, gone, gone.
"Turn it off," Dean demanded.
"A-Are you sure?" Rom asked tentatively. "I could find another—"
"I said, turn the fucking thing OFF!"
The Ferengi jerked in surprise and stuttered, "C-C-Computer end p-p-program." Abruptly the riverside rest spot was gone and a room of black squares appeared. Hesitantly, Rom asked, "Are you okay?"
Dean gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with unshed tears. Now was not a good time to break, not when Cass was in the clutches of some demon. "I'll be fine," he mumbled. As he stood, he gave the Ferengi his best carefree smirk. "Hey, how about next time you show me something like whatever's going down next door?"
Relieved, Rom smiled back. "Uh, sure! Only if you promise to put a good word in with Chief O'Brien for me."
"Not a problem, dude." Dean clapped the man on the shoulder and led them both to the door. "Just make sure no, like, tentacle beasts or whatever."
"I'd be more worried about Klingon females."
"What for?"
"I hear that if no one breaks a bone then it's not considered a good time."
"Yeah, let's call those chicks level five. Humans can be level one."
Dean was close to cracking, he was sure of it. He just needed to hold on a little bit longer so he could rescue his friend.
Commander Sisko, Major Kira, and Doctor Bashir returned the next day, and their news wasn't good.
The Commander had discovered that his Federation classmate, Lieutenant Commander Calvin Hudson, was now an integral member of the Maquis and had no intention of returning to his former duties. On top of that, an Admiral had arrived and took Sisko to task for allowing Gul Dukat to be kidnapped. Necheyev then insinuated that Odo was incompetent and that the Maquis merely needed to be coaxed back to civility.
A member of the Cardassian Central Command, Legate Parn, also arrived and placed the blame for the Federation settlers' unrest squarely on Gul Dukat's shoulders. Sisko smiled through the lies and decided that if the Central Command wanted Dukat dead then Benjamin definitely needed him alive.
Dean, who was on the way to visit Julian, watched the arrest of Quark on illegal smuggling charges. The hunter had never heard so many pathetic excuses spat out so quickly.
Apparently Quark had facilitated the sale of some extraordinarily destructive materiel. Discovering their location became paramount. As soon as O'Brien managed to calibrate the Maquis ship's possible route, Sisko called in Doctor Bashir and Odo for another trip.
They were stepping through the landing pad's doors when Dean came streaking around the corner. The Commander lifted an eyebrow at him. "I thought you weren't going to step foot in one of our 'space traveling closets,' Mr. Winchester."
"Yeah, well, changed my mind." Dean looked around uneasily. "Where's bitc–uh, Major Kira?"
"She'll hold the station until we return." Sisko's tone became brisk. "If you're coming with us, then we need to go now. Every second we waste brings the possibility of more lives being lost."
Dean drew a bottle out from inside his jacket. "Okay to bring liquids on board?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Odo wondered curiously.
"Guess there's no TSA here to make me take off my shoes and probe my ass for bombs. I'm good to go."
The Commander nodded and the four men boarded the Rio Grande runabout. O'Brien had charted five possible planets that the Maquis could have taken Dukat. All they had to do now is figure out which one it was before these skirmishes became a full blown war.