A/N - As promised, part 2.
Two days later Dean got back to the bunker.
He had to fight down an impulse to summon Crowley instantly, and instead forced himself to take the time to re-paint the devil's-trap. Sarah's comments about "the King of Hell was in your basement?" and "he can't step over paint?" had been a keen reminder of how critical it was to make sure Crowley was safely contained. They'd gotten way too casual, Dean realized, having Crowley right downstairs in the basement like that. And now, with Sarah in the picture...
Just to be on the safe side, Dean hobbled downstairs first thing, right after parking the VW, to repaint the entire devil's-trap. He went over every part carefully with fresh paint, making sure every line was clean and unbroken. This required some awkward crawling on the floor on his hands and knees (which was surprisingly painful— his ankle got bent into all kinds of bad positions), but Dean got it done.
Then he added some more wards on the walls and door, just to be on the safe side.
He limped painfully upstairs to wait while the paint dried.
There were a couple hours to kill now. Obviously the thing to do, while Dean waited, was to prepare for the next road trip. The road trip that Dean would be starting tomorrow, to go pick up Sam and Castiel, once Crowley told him where they were.
So he took a look at the VW. On the drive home it had become clear that the VW was more damaged than Dean had realized originally. In addition to the blistered paint, innumerable other problems had cropped up, caused not only by the fire but by that hair-raising drive through the falling trees. A couple windows were cracked, two taillights had been busted by a falling branch, the whole engine seemed to be clogged with soot and nearly overheating (the heater kept blasting out hot air), and the shocks and struts had taken a pretty severe beating from that memorable careening-up-on-two-wheels moment.
Should he take the Impala instead?
Dean went over to the Impala. It was dusty! Unbelievable! Unacceptable! The Impala was dusty! He wiped it down at once, running a damp cloth all over it with tender care till it was back to its usual beautiful gleaming, and then he got in the driver's seat and set his hands on the wheel.
God, it felt good. Back in the Impala.
The garage door was open, so Dean ended up just driving the Impala right on outside. Just for a little outing while he considered what to do next.
He roared it down a long empty Kansas road, rolling the window down, letting the icy wind pour through the car. It felt fantastic; oh, that speed, that power! The way the Impala leapt forward eagerly at his slightest command. This was what he was supposed to be driving. Dad's car... Baby.
But then Dean glanced over at the empty passenger seat, and a memory leapt to the fore. It was a memory from years ago, of Castiel, after his first failed attempt to find God, after the hilarious whorehouse night and the confrontation with Raphael. Right afterwards, Cas had come along with Dean in the Impala. Things hadn't been so good with Sam then and Sam had been off somewhere on his own, so Cas had sat in the front. Right there in the passenger seat.
He must have been wanting a friend, Dean thought now, glancing over at the empty seat. He must have been wanting somebody to talk to.
Because, why else would Cas have come in the Impala? Dean hadn't really thought this through at the time, but, looking back on it now, it was kind of unusual that Cas had chosen to come along. Because, he'd still had his wings. Cas hadn't had any particular plans for anything to do next with Dean, and he could have easily flown away, to wherever he'd wanted to go.
Instead, he'd come along with Dean.
Then Cas had asked Dean about Sam. And Dean had said, like an idiot, that Dean enjoyed being alone.
Castiel had vanished instantly. Leaving Dean alone, just as Dean had requested.
Just as Dean was now. Empty Impala; no Castiel, and no Sam.
Empty Impala.
It suddenly wasn't so fun to drive.
And Cas's wings still won't fit, thought Dean now, glancing around at the empty car. When I find Cas, if I'm in the Impala I won't be able to bring him home. His wings won't fit.
He turned around at once, hanging a rough U-turn, and drove the Impala back to the bunker and right back into the garage. Where he clambered out, gave it a loving pat, and shook a tarp out over it to keep it safely free of dust. Later, once Cas and Sam were back, then Dean would figure out a way to modify the Impala so that Cas's wings could fit. Later. But for now... Bringing Sam and Cas home safely were top priority. And Cas's wings needed to fit.
He turned back to the VW.
Dean spent a while assessing the VW's various issues, adding more engine coolant, changing the air filter (indeed it was full of soot), fixing the taillights. Then he took a critical look at the blistered, burned paint. It really was pretty conspicuous.
Dean stepped closer and fingered one of the blistered areas, cracking off some of the peeling, charred baby-blue paint. It came off in a big sheet, and he was startled to see a different paint color underneath. The van had been tan colored once. Light brown. Somebody'd repainted it baby-blue later.
Tan-colored... it was sort of a familiar color... a tan-colored VW van... where had he seen that sort of vehicle?
A little bell rang in the back of Dean's mind.
Dean grabbed his crutches and limped back to the library where his laptop was. In just a few minutes of online snooping, using the VW's vehicle-id number, he'd dug up its entire history. It had passed through several owners in Nebraska, but, turned out, it had actually been originally sold here in Kansas. In fact it had gone through a couple owners in Kansas.
Including a transaction in Lawrence, Kansas, in May of 1973. It had been sold by a dealership called Rainbow Motors.
Dean stared at the entry for a moment before it clicked.
Lawrence, Kansas. April, 1973. A young John Winchester, walking around the lot of a used-car dealership called Rainbow Motors, just about to buy a tan-colored VW minivan. Until a man he'd met in a diner that morning convinced him to take a look at a certain black Chevrolet Impala instead
Dean stared at the vehicle history report for a while, and then shut his laptop, limped slowly back to the garage to the VW, and put a hand on its door. He walked all the way around it, trailing his hand along the edge, thinking, I don't believe it.
This was the van Dad almost bought. Sam and I could've grown up in this VW, instead of in the Impala.
Maybe it had been supposed to be in the family all along.
It had found its way home to him in the end, though, hadn't it? Or to the Winchester family, anyway. For it was registered to a Winchester now. To Cas T.L Winchester.
And Cas T.L. Winchester loved it. Cas T.L. Winchester was going to want it re-painted.
It seemed to be a painting day. Dean taped up all the VW's windows and the chrome, and spent the next hour scraping off all the blistered paint. Then he sat on an overturned bucket and looked at the van a while, thinking about colors. But there was really only one choice.
Black. Gleaming ebony black. Like the Impala, of course. But it wasn't just because of the Impala. The VW had to be black because it had been burned, just as Cas's wings had once been burned. The van had been burned while Cas had once again been trying to fly Dean out of fire to safety.
Cas had said he wore the black feathers as a "badge of honor." So Dean would paint the van black too. And Dean would be driving Cas's beautiful black van, the same color as Cas's magnificent flight feathers, when he found Castiel again.
Before starting the painting, Dean decided to pull all the stuff out of the van, just to make no stray flecks of paint got on anything. The mattress came out, the blankets, the pillows... and Sam's and Cas's stuff.
He got both their bags out, heaping them up on the garage workbench and trying very hard not to spend any time dwelling on anything, and then he lugged out the box of Sam's books. Sarah had really tidied everything up quite well, in the days that she'd had the van, and all the books were neatly lined up in the little box. But when Dean set the box down on the workbench and got a good look at the contents, he was a little disturbed to discover that The Physiology of Angels wasn't in the box with all the other books.
Dean's forehead creased with worry as he looked down at the books. He'd been intending to bring The Physiology of Angels along on his next road-trip, the road trip he'd be starting tomorrow, when he would be heading out to pick up Cas and Sam. Dean had been planning to finally read the whole thing cover to cover at last. For one thing, it had occurred to him that good ol' Knut Schmidt-Nielsen just might have run across some intel about how to contact lost angels. Or how to help them molt, or how to help them steer. Or something. Anything. Sam had been read it already, of course... but Sam was (temporarily) not here.
And maybe, just maybe, Schmidt-Nielsen might also have something about what it meant if an angel offered you a feather.
Dean checked the box again, looking at each book cover carefully. No Physiology of Angels. He even emptied the whole box, taking all the other books out, to see if The Physiology of Angels might be lying on the bottom of the box. Nope; it definitely wasn't in the box. Dean got a little desperate then, and started ripping through the whole van and all the bags, looking for the book. It wasn't anywhere in Sam's duffel, it wasn't tucked under the front seat (where Sam sometimes stuck things), it wasn't in Cas's bag either, it wasn't in the first eight cubbies that Dean looked through. But finally, when Dean got to the back of the van, to the cubby at the very back that had all of Cas's maps, Dean pulled out the maps and, at last, there was a book! A thick, black, leather-bound book! Dean pulled it out.
The Physiology of Angels! There it was! Not lost at all! Dean gave a sigh of relief, clutching it in both hands.
He flipped the book open and riffled through the pages, just to assure himself it was all right. It fell open instantly to a section near the back, where Dean discovered a torn piece of paper wedged into the pages.
Dean plucked out the folded piece of paper, looking at it curiously. It seemed to be a torn-off corner of one of Cas's maps, and it was folded around something. He turned it over and saw "Dean" written on one side the paper. Cas's handwriting.
Dean unfolded it, and a four-inch black feather fluttered out of the page to the floor.
Dean scrambled to snatch it up, his hands suddenly shaking. Cas's feather. It was Cas's feather. It was Cas's alula-feather. It was the feather Cas had offered.
Dean looked back at the paper and found something scrawled on the inside. Cas had been writing in a hurry, and it was barely legible, but it was definitely Cas's handwriting. All it said was:
Yours if you change your mind
Dean stared at it for a moment before he remembered. That last moment by the VW, parked by the footbridge at the music camp. Dean and Sam had been pinning the "portable banishing-sigils" to each others' backs, and Dean had glanced back at Cas afterwards to see that Cas had been stuffing the leftover maps, and a book, THIS book, into this very cubby. In fact... that's exactly when Cas had glanced up at him with that cryptic look. That strange expression that had seemed so charged, so wistful, so full of... something... that Dean had felt compelled to walk over and grip Cas on the shoulder and tell him "We'll be all right."
Dean looked back and forth between the feather and the note:
Yours if you change your mind
Dean knew he was missing something.
Finally he thought to glance down at the page Cas had tucked the feather into. Cas had stuck it way in the back of the book, in the middle of a chapter Dean had never looked at before. A little heading at the top of the page said "Ch 11 - Behavior and the Expression of Emotion."
And right there in middle of the page was a section titled "The Gift of a Feather."
Dean sat down slowly on the rear bumper of the van, clutching the feather in one hand and the book in the other, as he read:
The Gift of a Feather
Angels may on rare occasions offer an alula-feather to a companion. This act has particular significance for angels, and it is related to the molt.
Recall that full molt occurs once a year and involves replacement of all flight feathers during a period of a mere two weeks (see Chapter 6). During a full molt, the angel is rendered flightless, is typically in a weakened state, may be in fever, and often cannot even stand. Isolated angels that must go through molt alone are very vulnerable. Therefore, most angels turn to their closest and most trusted ally for assistance and protection during molt.
The first sign of impending molt is the first feather that drops from the wing. This is always one of the alula-feathers, as the alula-feathers suffer heaviest wear and are the first to be replaced. A tradition has therefore evolved wherein one angel offers an alula-feather to a particularly trusted companion. It signifies, at once, a request for assistance during the coming molt, a statement of deepest trust, and an offer of mutual assistance in the future.
The longest alula-feather of a seraph carries additional meaning. Only seraphs have two (not just one) alulas, the longer alula being unique to seraphs. No other class of angels has this second, longer alula. The longest feather of this alula is a unique size and shape (four inches long, with an asymmetrical vane) and thus it is a token of a seraph's self-identity. As such, it has power in certain acts of magic; it can even transfer life-force. Rarely, it may be presented to the elder races to confirm that the feather-owner is in fact a seraph. Even more rarely, it may be offered to a companion. The gift of the longest alula-feather signifies not only the traditional offer of mutual trust and support during molt, but has a further connotation that the seraph is offering his entire self. It is an act of deep affection and it is a rare gesture, one that a seraph may do only once or twice in a lifetime, if at all.
The gift of an alula-feather is one of the two acts of greatest emotional significance that an angel may do. The other, as already explained (see previous section), is the preening of another angel's feathers at the back of the head, the area that is most difficult to preen alone; this, too, is a gesture of trust, respect, and deep affection.
It is notable that both these two gestures of trust and affection involve feathers. This is yet another indication that angels are, in their very essence, in virtually everything they do, creatures of flight.
Dean was huddled over the book by now, barely breathing as the words sank in, clutching the precious alula-feather tight in one hand. He read the whole section over and over till it was burned into his mind, till the words were swimming in front of his eyes. But another image was vivid before his eyes as well: the memory of Cas slowly pulling his hand back, saying, "Of course. That's what I thought that's what you'd say. Just thought I'd check."
Cas must have just scribbled this note right afterward, when they'd finally gotten to the parking lot. He'd scribbled the note and tucked the feather in the book.
He'd known they were facing possible death. He'd meant it to be something Dean might find later.
Dean looked at the note again, barely able to see it through his blurring vision:
Yours if you change your mind
Dean fumbled the book aside, and placed the feather in one palm, very gently, hardly daring to breathe, suddenly terrified he might damage it if he handled it too roughly.
It was four inches long. The feather-shaft was way over at one side; surely that was an "asymmetrical shaft"? There was even still some dried blood on the root of the feather, from when Cas had torn it out.
Another memory, unbidden, rose to the surface: a memory of a night in Tennessee, when Cas had glanced up at him in the motel room saying, "Schmidt-Nielsen? You've read that book?" And Dean had said, "Well, the parts about feathers."
Cas thought I'd read all the parts about feathers, thought Dean numbly, staring at the little feather. It had suddenly become more precious than gold, more valuable than diamonds. It had become, in an instant, the single most precious thing Dean possessed. He gazed at the glittering black feather, running the fingers of his other hand along it very lightly, his breath tight in his throat, as he realized, Cas thought I knew what the feather-offer meant.
But I didn't know... and I turned it down.
A few hours later Dean was back in the dungeon, his eyes still red-rimmed, crouching in front of the freshly re-painted devil's trap. The Physiology of Angels was on the table behind him. Dean had tried to look through it for any hints about contacting angels, but had found himself totally unable to concentrate very much— unable to do much of anything except stare at the little feather, actually. He'd finally buttoned the feather into his pocket, closed the book, and had managed to gather his wits together enough to decide to go ahead with summoning Crowley.
Dean sliced his palm open yet again, and he spoke the summoning incantation.
Crowley appeared right away, in a dramatic flourish of red smoke that seemed to now include a festive circle of little white sparklers around the outside. They shot showers of bright white sparks all over the room.
Crowley beamed at Dean as the sparklers fizzled out. He said, "Like my new entrance? I thought I'd upgrade a little. Shock and awe, you know— it's so important to get off on the right foot." He glanced down at some of the fizzling sparklers and said, "Are the sparklers too much? Not too lowbrow, are they? Though I guess that would be right up your alley."
"I need your help," Dean confessed abruptly, suddenly feeling way too tired to go through Crowley's usual game of sarcastic banter. "I need to find Sam and Castiel."
Crowley glanced to the side. He suddenly seemed to be having some trouble meeting Dean's eyes. Instead, he turned in a little circle. and looked all around the room, as if inspecting all the walls and corners of the dungeon was suddenly of great interest, and finally he stamped out a few sparklers that were still fizzing.
He slowly brought his eyes back up to Dean's. "Gee, Dean, whatever happened to Sam and Castiel?" he asked at last, all bland concern.
He knows exactly what happened, thought Dean instantly. Was Crowley in on it? Was he working with Calcariel? What's he up to?
"You already knew, didn't you?" said Dean. "What, were you watching or something? Wait—" A piece fell into place and Dean said, amazed he hadn't thought of it before, "You knew Calcariel was alive! Didn't you! Back when I made that deal to find Cas's grace! You knew. You knew! And you didn't tell us!"
Crowley shrugged, spreading his hands wide. "You didn't ask. Yes, Calcariel's alive. The sky is blue. Two plus two is four. Is there anything else incredibly obvious that is escaping your attention?"
Dean said, with an exasperated sigh, "How did I forget how much I hate you?"
"I don't know, alcohol poisoning maybe?" said Crowley cheerfully. "They say it kills brain cells. Anyway, so what was the problem again?" He made a show of glancing at his watch.
"You know perfectly well," said Dean, struggling to keep his cool. "Sam fell into a burning forest. Cas flew off into... well... he might be lost in space."
"Lost in space. Heh... Danger, danger, Dean Winchester!" Crowley said, starting to wave his arms around like the robot from Lost in Space. "Danger, danger..."
Dean gave him the fiercest glare he was capable of.
"Hey, don't give me that look," Crowley said, lowering his arms. "You're the one who stuck me in this dungeon for months on end watching old TV reruns."
"Can you find them or not?" growled Dean.
"Well... we might have a problem. Neither of those two are really all that easy to locate. Your brothers' got those pesky sigil things all over his ribs, remember?"
Dammit. Crowley was right. Sam (and Dean, actually) still had the rib-sigils Cas had given him years ago.
Dean took a breath and forged on with, "But what about Cas? You cut a deal with Ziphius, to find Calcariel. I know you did. I know you can find angels when they get lost in space."
"Danger, danger—" Crowley began, starting to wave his arms again, but he subsided after another nuclear-grade glare from Dean. Crowley sighed, folding his arms in front of chest, and said, "You know, Dean, you really used to be more fun than this. Yes, I did sell Ziphius a spell. My best locator spell. But that spell won't work for Castiel."
"Why not?"
"That one-winged flightless wonder of yours is just as hard to locate as your galumphing moose brother. Sam's got the sigils on his ribs, and your pet angel has a sigil tattoo to match. He had the inane idea of getting an Enochian tattoo to block location spells. Didn't he ever show you?"
Goddammit. That tattoo. Dean had somehow managed to block that out of his mind.
Maybe Crowley really couldn't help?
Dean had been certain Crowley could help.
Crowley had to help. Crowley had to be able to find them.
While Dean was trying to regroup, Crowley's eyes began wandering all over the room again, and eventually he noticed a certain book on the table behind Dean. Before Dean could cover it up, Crowley caught a glimpse of the author's name.
"Schmidt-Nielsen!" Crowley exclaimed, with a wide grin. "Now that's a name I haven't seen in a while. Is that Thermoregulation in Hell? That was a classic, I tell you, really shook up the field." Crowley twisted his head sideways to read the title on the book's spine, and his face fell as he said, "Oh... no, it's just that angel book, isn't it? Not dear Knut's best work, I'm afraid. He didn't really get the best advisors he could have. I'm really not all that fond of the illustrations, either, to be honest." Dean snatched the book up and clutched it to his chest protectively, as if Crowley's gaze could somehow contaminate it, and Crowley said, eyebrows raised, "Dean, are you actually trying to read that book? I must point out, it's more than half an inch thick— a few grades above your reading level, don't you think? If you run into trouble with all the big words, don't forget there's a glossary at the back! Though... Hm..." Crowley frowned thoughtfully and added, "I suppose you'd have to know how to spell to be able to look up words in the glossary. That won't work in your case, will it? But I'm sure you can surmount that handicap if you really work at it—"
To Dean's everlasting shame, he heard himself actually start to beg, saying, "Please. Can you help me find them?"
But Crowley was just rambling on now with his usual series of barbed insults, saying, "Here's what I recommend, just start in the glossary with the A's, go one word at a time, don't panic, and take your time. You might be able to understand some of the two-syllable words. Normally I really would recommend Thermoregulation in Hell, but it might be over your head—"
"Can you help me or not?" Dean interrupted. "Do you know any way to track them down?"
Crowley dropped the act and looked directly at Dean, his face suddenly an unreadable stony mask. "You really are desperate, aren't you," he said at last. "Such an opportunity! But... alas for me..." A theatrical sigh. "Your brother and your angel are hidden to the spells that I know, and I don't know any way to track them, and that's the truth. So, as much as I'm salivating at the chance to get my hands on that twisted, delightfully guilt-ridden soul of yours, the plain fact of the matter is, I can't make a deal if I can't give you what you asked for. Sorry, chum; them's the rules!" He gave Dean a wide grin.
Crowley couldn't help.
Crowley couldn't help.
This had been Dean's best idea.
It had been Dean's last hope, actually. Not to put to fine a point on it.
"You can go," muttered Dean, still holding the angel book tight with one hand. His other hand had drifted somehow to the breast-pocket that held the precious feather. His leg was aching suddenly, and he felt so tired that he couldn't even bear to look at Crowley's irritating, hateful face. Instead he stared at the floor, waiting for Crowley to disappear. And trying his hardest not let Crowley detect the wave of sinking despair that seemed to be dragging Dean's heart down into his boots.
But Crowley didn't leave. Instead he said, "You look a little glum, Dean. Hey! Here's something that might cheer you up! I might not have the spell you want, but I do seem to have a flaming sledgehammer. I haven't found exactly the right taker for it, so I'm putting it on sale! I could let it go for just three human souls. Bargain price! It's a real beauty, too—"
"I said, you can go," said Dean, scowling at him.
"You drive a tough bargain," said Crowley appreciatively. "Okay. Just for you— absolute lowest I can go is two souls."
"What is this, Pawn Shop Of Hell?" growled Dean.
"Oh," said Crowley, his eyes widening. "Oh, my. That's an idea. That's an idea. Pawn Shop Of Hell... Hey... Wait!" Suddenly he was bouncing on his toes with excitement. "It could be a tv show! And I've got just the title!" He spread both hands theatrically in front of him, and announced in a portentous voice, "Hell's Pawn!"
Crowley beamed at Dean, looking absolutely delighted with himself. "Get it? Get it? Hellspawn! It's a play on words, Dean, don't hurt yourself there trying to figure it out. Hell's Pawn! Ha! This has real potential! Hell's Pawn... maybe I could pitch it to the History Channel? It's so much classier than TruTV, don't you think?" Now he'd started to get a dreamy, distant look on his face. "Hell's Pawn..." he murmured, starry-eyed. "Featuring... Crowley, the King of Hell." He began framing an imaginary scene with his hands, swiveling around the room as if checking out the dungeon's potential as a TV set. "Best I can do, for that angel's tear," he said in an artificially gruff, stagey voice to an imaginary camera, "is a soul and a half. So sorry, but, angel's tears are a dime a dozen nowadays. But! Toss in that bloody angel-feather that I see in your hand there and we just may have a deal!"
Dean roared "Get LOST!" Crowley just laughed, but he did finally vanish, though still posing in front of the imaginary TV camera and muttering potential script lines to himself.
Another festive shower of sparklers went off as Crowley disappeared, and then Dean was alone.
Absolutely alone.
A/N -
I got so excited by the "Hell's Pawn" idea that I almost wrote to Jeremy Carver just to tell them that they really need to work that into season 10 somewhere. Can't you just see it? Crowley as a reality-tv pawnbroker, fielding questions about ancient angelic and demonic items? Getting into all kinds of trouble on the way? (pretty sure it would make a better spinoff than Bloodlines)
And... ahhhh, poor Dean, now at last you know what the feather means. And the nibble on the back of the neck, too. (AO3 readers, you might remember a tag I put on this fic long ago about "depressed Dean", and also a phrase in the fic description about the fic getting "lonely." Well... here we are. Hang in there.)
Thanks again for all your support. Next Friday I am flying cross-country to my friend's memorial so I am not sure of my writing schedule, but if I can get another chapter up I will.
If there was something you especially liked in the chapter, a line or an image or an idea, please let me know! I love to hear from you.