Chapter 35 – Friends in Unholy Spaces
Cas was forced out of Sam at a spectacular speed, flying backwards across the length of the garage. He dimly noticed in the rush that Gadreel had been thrown clear across the room as well, though he failed to land as smoothly as Cas, skidding once he hit the concrete and leaving a bloody smear behind.
Cas had just barely regained full control of himself when Sam – or whatever force was truly possessing Sam – yanked him back to his feet and slammed him into the nearest car.
Cas slid down the hood, dazed, a sizable dent left in his wake.
"Well, this is bad," Dean chimed, appearing at Cas's side, kneeling down next to him. "And I'm not just saying that because he's banging up a 1951 Bel-Air. Just what the hell is inside that thing?"
He didn't really have time to respond to that ever-important question, as Sam fisted his hand into Cas's hair and preceded to bash the back of his head off of the Bel-Air's right headlight, shattering both the glass and most likely the back of Jimmy's skull.
Sam's face had transformed into an unrecognizable mask of rage, eyes still glittering that inhuman cerulean. Cas attempted to blast Sam away, but the Grace he exerted to perform the action seemed to evaporate, and Sam didn't even budge. Thankfully, Gadreel chose that moment to grab Sam by the collar and lift him bodily off of Cas.
Palm glowing with a powerful supply of Grace, Gadreel seemed intent on smiting the Stone, however ridiculous the idea seemed. Almost instantly, the very energy he produced was sucked out of his hand and into the Stone.
The Stone glowed viciously, and Sam grinned, face contorting in ways it wasn't meant to. "Go ahead. Try all you like. It won't get you anywhere."
"It absorbs anything you throw at it," Dean realized, eyes widening. "Angel mojo is just gonna pump up its juice."
"It absorbs energy," Cas said aloud, for Gadreel's benefit. He jumped back to his feet, ignoring the pounding in his head. He was already starting to heal, but it still made thinking far more difficult than it needed to be. He stretched out his arm, and his angel blade dropped out of his sleeve. Gadreel mirrored the action on Sam's opposite side.
"What do you intend to do?" Sam growled. "Kill him?"
"If we must," Castiel replied with a grimace. He made eye contact with Gadreel, trying to gauge if the other angel had a plan, or if he felt as helpless as Castiel. The Stone would either absorb or repel anything remotely angelic aimed its way, and trying to break it off had not worked thus far.
Sam took the brief opportunity to snatch the front of Cas's tie and swing him into Gadreel, sending them both crashing to the ground in a heap.
"You can't kill him, dude. He's a Winchester," Dean said, dogging after Cas as he rolled off of Gadreel with a wince. "Sure, Gadreel could pop him back to life, but what if something snatches up his soul in the meantime? Or– or what if that Cintamani thing doesn't let him die right? What if it makes it so you can't bring him back?"
"I don't know what else to do," Cas muttered, helping Gadreel to his feet and just barely blocking an oncoming blow from Sam, who showed no signs of stopping his pursuit of the two of them.
"Perhaps we can reach Sam. Help him to regain control," Gadreel said, and Cas was grateful his response to Dean could apply to both the hallucination and Gadreel.
It was the best chance they had. Cas swept Sam's feet out from underneath him, and his possessed friend lost his footing. Cas dropped to his knees, pinning Sam by the sternum with one hand while holding his angel blade to his throat with the other. It felt awful to even be in this position with Sam. He never wanted to hurt the hunter, but he needed to maintain some kind of advantageous position, given whatever monster lurked behind the crystalline surface of the Cintamani Stone.
"Sam, I know you're in there. You have to fight the power of the Stone. Follow the sound of my voice. Cast it out. Cast it out just as you cast Gadreel out, and Lucifer before him!" he encouraged, voice loud and clear. If Crowley of all people could draw Sam's psyche to the surface, surely Cas could as well.
Sam grabbed the angel blade, by the blade. He squeezed, and blood coursed from his split open palm and fingers, tracing down the tight lines of his forearm. The Stone glowed again, no doubt siphoning off the power of the Heavenly weapon.
"Every second, more of his soul becomes mine, just like all who have adorned themselves with the Cintamani Stone in the past. I have the souls of thousands locked within me, and he will be no different. I grow ever more powerful, and the humans will never be wise enough to refuse what I can grant them. He wants me, what I can provide. Deep, deep down, he wants it, and oh, I'll give him everything his heart could ever fathom. He'll never forsake me, not so long as Dean Winchester remains a demon, and everyone he has ever loved remains dead."
"Bullshit! That's bullshit!" Dean exclaimed from behind Cas. "Sam would never let himself be a puppet to a– a fucking rock. He's in there, and he's fighting." Dean seemed to freeze for a moment, eyes growing distant before he spoke again, with sudden determination. "Cas. You gotta grab him. Grab him by both shoulders and look him dead in the eye, okay?"
"I can't drop my angel blade–"
"You gotta trust me, Cas!" Dean begged. "I know every damn part of you thinks I'm some mini-trip to wonderland, or what-the-hell-ever, but I'm real enough to save my little brother, you got that? Now do it!"
While he and Dean had butted heads often in their friendship, Dean had that tone – that one particular tone of voice, so ferocious, so commanding. The kind of tone that made Cas think that yes, Dean was the most fitting vessel for Michael.
It made him undeniable.
The angel blade fell to the ground with a clatter. Cas gripped Sam by both shoulders and met his eyes, his distinctly un-Sam-like eyes. And lo and behold, he felt...something...pass between them, and he could no longer detect the hallucination of Dean beside him.
"Keep holding onto him, Cas," he heard a distant murmur from Dean, like the shadow of the hunter was calling to him from the end of a very long tunnel.
He didn't think that he could let go, even if he had wanted to. His fingers drove divots into Sam's biceps, and he felt himself trembling, like these fixed points between himself and Sam were the axis upon which the world turned, and to release him would be to send them both careening out into space. Sam gritted his teeth, rage radiating off of him as tremors ran up his arms, like he was trying to escape Cas's grasp, but his muscles refused to obey.
"Dean, whatever you're doing...keep doing it."
"That's the plan."
Sam's mouth opened for a moment, then seized up. His eyes snapped shut, back arching.
"Fight, Sam. You can do it," Cas reassured him. "No matter how strong the Stone is, it isn't stronger than you." And he believed that. He really did.
Sam's mouth went to open again, and this time, the hunter completed the movement, albeit haltingly. "C-Cas?" Sam managed, and his eyes peeled apart ever-so-slightly, revealing gray instead of the Stone's brilliant shine.
"It's me, Sam, it's me."
"I–It's so strong–"
"You're stronger!" Cas urged, and he felt like he had chorused it with Dean.
Sam's back arched further, a dramatic foot off of the ground, and he screamed. Blue light encapsulated him, giving every line of his body an eerie glow. The Stone was fighting to maintain its control.
But it was losing.
In a flash, Dean stood behind and above Sam. "He's got it," he said, expression worried but far calmer than before. "He's fighting that thing, and he's winning."
Cas made to continue encouraging Sam, but he was cut off by a blinding white light. Cas pinched his eyes shut reflexively, and he leaned away from the intensity of it, feeling a coarse, sickly heat wash over him. "What–!?"
Sam jerked underneath him, a small gasp escaping the hunter. The light faded out, slowly but surely. Cas blinked rapidly, trying to restore his sight so he could determine what exactly had just happened.
"Who are you?" Gadreel demanded.
"The relevant angel in the room already knows who I am," drawled a terrifyingly familiar voice.
Vision finally cleared, Cas turned his head. Next to Gadreel, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, stood Death.
"Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!" Crowley slammed the payphone back into its cradle repeatedly, the sound of plastic smacking against plastic acting as the one and only balm to his rage. He'd been calling the same number for the past two hours, hoping for something, anything from the other side...but for all he knew, his last remaining "friend" had switched numbers, or had gone dark.
Or gone dead...but surely Crowley would have known, considering his claim on his old friend's soul.
There were a select few places throughout DC that he could go to search further, but he doubted the outing would yield any results. No one on the planet knew how to disappear like–
"Crowley."
Crowley turned, finally releasing the payphone, surprised that his fingers hadn't left indents behind. By the curb, next to a sleek black Lexus, an imposing African man waited, arms crossed, expression wary.
"Dembe," Crowley didn't even try to mask his relief. "Did you miss me?"
Dembe stared at Crowley with open loathing. He opened up the Lexus's backseat door wordlessly.
"Why thank you," Crowley smirked at the significantly taller man, suddenly painfully aware of the amount of damage Dembe could do to him, if so inclined. Bastard was built like a bloody mountain and a half.
Crowley slid into the leather interior, the door shut behind him, and he was met with exactly the man he'd been looking for.
"Mr. Crowley," greeted Raymond Reddington, taking off his fedora. "I hadn't expected this. A call from you, but not from 666...it doesn't take much for me to assume that something's gone sideways, correct?"
"Always astute, Raymond. Sideways is...putting it mildly. My kingdom..." Oh, a thousand eloquent ways he could put it. Paint a most beautiful picture of how exactly he had buggered himself straight into human exile. He could go on for hours, analyzing each step he had made to find himself right here, left with nothing but the faint hope that a man whose soul he no longer held as his own would help him for no reason other than ever-fading nostalgia.
But he was tired. Being human had that effect on him – exhausting, and pointless.
"is lost," Crowley finished unspectacularly, a sigh escaping him. "Rather dastardly business, all that. I won't bore you with the details. Point is, I've got a bargain to strike, and precious little time to do it. You'll hear me out, I trust. For old time's sake."
"I would never deny myself the spectacle of you coming to me to beg my help in your darkest hour," Raymond drawled, leaning back in his seat with practiced ease, casually draping one leg over the other. Oh, the bastard had been waiting years for this, Crowley was sure of it. Biding his time until he was finally, finally in a position of power over him, much like he was in a position of power over most of the rest of the world.
Raymond Reddington was an international criminal of the highest repute, known as the Concierge of Crime by the news media and most law enforcement agencies. While he acted as a CI for the counter-terrorism branch of the FBI, he still was up to a great menagerie of his own tricks, and was nothing if not self-serving.
Many years ago, Crowley had found himself in the fortuitous standing to make a deal with Reddington, when he'd just been an ex Navy-man wanted for treason, rather than the monolithic, head of an ungodly profitable, world-wide empire that he was now. Crowley had saved a little girl's life, and in return, Raymond had surrendered himself as a servant.
In other words, up until the point that Crowley had lost his demonhood, and therefore all of his soul claims, Raymond Reddington had been his piece on the board to manipulate as he pleased – including the man's enormous amount of resources and contacts.
"Oh, I think you may be leaning towards the over-dramatic," Crowley replied, trying to keep his face impassive and cling to what little remained of his pride.
"I've already seen my darkest rooms, Mr. Crowley, and I know what a man looks like when he's trapped in his. The most pertinent part of that observation being the word man." Raymond narrowed his eyes at Crowley. "You're human now, aren't you?"
Crowley didn't know whether his facade had truly become that weak, or if Raymond had learned his face far too well over the past however-many years. "Seem to be, yeah," Crowley said, deflated, most of the bravado dropping from his voice. "Bit on the outs with Heaven, and Hell, and the Winchesters...prospects aren't particularly sunny, admittedly. You may be the last friend I have left."
"So, what exactly are you proposing, old friend?" Raymond asked, cocking his head to the side.
"Help. For me, and a girl. Name's Veronica Whitaker. Navy Chaplain. I need her and me out of the country, put up somewhere we won't be found, with all the proper fake documents thereof."
"A girl?" Raymond seemed surprised at that. "I always assumed you tended towards the more masculine sex."
"It's not like that," Crowley said. "And for the record, I don't limit myself in that area. That would be unbearably boring. She's a prophet. 24/7 God Vision. She sees things, valuable things, and while there's more than a few nasty things that want my head, every chess piece on the board is itching to get her in a cage for their own uses."
Raymond seemed to consider this information. He took in a deep breath. "Tell me, Mr. Crowley, after all these decades of sugar-coated enslavement, why should I help you at all?"
"You think I'm not offering you anything in exchange? Darling, you can take the demon out of the Crossroads, but you can't take the Crossroads out of the demon."
He wasn't sure that quite made sense, but he rolled with it, anyway.
"Help me now, and when I take the throne back, and I will, I'll release you from our deal. No direct route to Hell when you die, no indentured servitude. And, if I can't find a way to return to my former position, I'll at least take out the demon that my contracts have by default shifted to."
Now, there were two bordering on falsehoods in his terms; Crowley, for one, wasn't sure he would ever be a demon again, given that the only path was paved with brimstone. And two, he wasn't entirely sure who was in charge of his contracts, now. Dean, through some incomprehensible fuckery, had inherited the crown, but Bartimaeus technically stood as the King of the Crossroads.
So, who owned Raymond? Well, that was a problem for later. Once he secured passage out of the country for himself and Veronica, he could worry about fulfilling the promises he made, one way or another...and with perhaps a loophole or two mixed in, for good measure.
"No contract, no demonic magic...I'm simply taking you on your word here, is that about the size of it?" Raymond asked.
"My word stands on its own."
Raymond laughed heartily at that. "Let's be honest here, Mr. Crowley. You want something for what is likely to be nothing."
"That's not–"
Raymond lifted his hand. "How does Stockholm sound? Or maybe Gothenburg, somewhere in the archipelago?"
"Either/or," Crowley responded dismissively, brow furrowing. "What is this, if not a bargain? Charity? For the King of the Hell?"
"I'm a monster, Mr. Crowley, but even monsters can be kind...and I don't know this young woman you're travelling with, but if she needs protection, I'll offer it. I think having a prophet in my debt could be quite useful."
Whoring out Veronica's Sight for safety seemed...distasteful...but if it got them out of Dodge sooner rather than later, so be it.
"When do we leave, then?" Crowley asked, hoping to speed the conversation. He didn't truly think Raymond would change his mind, but he still didn't want to allow him the chance, either.
"Tomorrow. 6am, private air strip halfway between here and Norfolk. Dembe will give you the address. Any information you'll need will be on the plane," Raymond relayed decisively. "I suppose we don't have to kiss on it this time around?"
Crowley bounced his eyebrows. "I never said that."
Raymond snorted. "I think I've kissed enough demons for one lifetime."
"Your loss." Crowley paused, unsure of what to say. "You won't regret this," he told Raymond, the closest the Concierge of Crime would ever get to a thank you from him.
"I doubt I will. Safe travels, Mr. Crowley."
Dembe opened the door again, and Crowley got out without complaint. Dembe quickly wrote down the address of Raymond's airstrip, begrudgingly passing it to Crowley.
"I bet you're just praying that this plane goes down, hmm? Finally take me out of the game for good?"
Dembe watched Crowley with unyielding eyes as he shut the Lexus's door behind him. "Cockroaches rarely die so easily."
"Death?" Cas went rigid. "What are you doing here?"
"Untwist that hideous trench coat, Castiel, I've not come to reap you...though there's time for that yet," Death replied, in the same monotone drawl that characterized his chosen voice. He reached into the depths of his tattered traveling cloak and removed the Cintamani Stone. "You've heard of children running with scissors? To allow you three to keep this would be children running with nuclear weaponry. This is dangerous enough in the hands of an empty-headed, typical human. A Winchester, or an angel? I simply haven't the time or interest to clean up that mess."
Cas looked quickly back to Sam. His eyes were closed. Still breathing, but no sign of consciousness.
"To answer your next two questions, yes, Sam is alright, and no, you may not attempt to use the Stone to save Dean. Though really, what's the point? Seems you're rather stuck with him," Death observed, arching a single eyebrow at him.
"He can see me, too," Dean said, standing next to Cas once more. "Believe I'm real, yet?"
"He's quite real, Castiel. You're not the only one who left a mark when you rose Lazarus."
Gadreel, utterly lost, looked to Cas. "Of what does he speak, Castiel?"
"I..."
"And, this is where I depart," Death interrupted.
"Wait!" Cas took a faltering step forward. "Is there anything you can–"
"No," Death shut him down. "I'm afraid you are quite on your own with this one, Castiel." Death paused for a moment, after stowing the Stone back in his cloak. "Hard to believe though it may be, you don't need my help. You're practically sitting on top of your only solution."
And with that, Death vanished.
A/N: I don't own the character of Raymond Reddington, or Dembe - they're characters from NBC's The Blacklist. Those of you have read my work in the past know that I'm a big fan of cameos, but for those who don't, I thought I'd give a heads up. If you've any more interest in Crowley's ties with Red, check out my crossover fic, Mr. Crowley. Lots of gratitude for all of the support & love so far!