Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke.
Dean woke with a strangled scream lodged in this throat, heart banging triple time against his ribs. His body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he sat up stiffly, running his fingers through his short hair as he gazed wildly around the interior of the motel room, wide and unblinking eyes drinking in the ugly paisley wallpaper and the dingy grey carpet.
From the other side of the room there came the sound of slow, steady breathing that was occasionally interrupted by the rattling of the A/C before it grew quiet again. Dean sat there for a moment feeling lightheaded and now somewhat dizzy by all the oxygen he was forcibly drawing into his lungs. Sam was snoring peacefully in the other bed and at that moment what Dean wanted to do more than anything else was to go over and peel back his brother's eyelids just to ensure that there were no flecks of yellow in his those dark brown eyes filled with gentleness and kindness that belonged to Sam.
But he didn't. Instead, the elder Winchester exhaled slowly and stood, bare feet pattering softly against the rough carpet as he moved across the room and slipped out the door.
Outside, Dean leaned his forearms against the rusted railing with white peeling paint, hanging his head low, breathing a bit more normally now but still unable to fully relax. I thought Sam was the one with the weird powers; since when have I been able to do this freaky psychic stuff? And what does it mean?
Ah, the million dollar question. With a sigh, Dean raised his head and uplifted his eyes to the fading stars. Try as he might, he couldn't drive the bloody image of Castiel's chest being ripped open from his mind; nor could he stop hearing the sound of the angel's dying gasp resounding in his ears.
"It's up to you now, Dean."
The air smelled sweet with the dew of a new day and Dean stayed there for who knew how long, head bowed in the grey light of the dawn. Somehow it didn't seem quite right to just forget about what he had seen and just go back to sleep. He doubted he would be able to close his eyes for a while now for fear of having another crazy dream.
What did he mean that it's up to me? Was it a warning? A remote memory that was just the byproduct of his head screwing around with him, or some crazy hallucination brought on by last night's combination of greasy food and scotch? I knew that hotdog looked too suspicious to eat…
He hadn't seen the holy tax accountant in a while now, not since… since Anna left, actually. Even as a pang of bitter loneliness hit somewhere deep in his chest, he pushed it down and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Of course neither he nor Sam really kept tabs on the angel because Castiel often popped up out of nowhere whenever it suited him or the big guy upstairs, so going a couple of weeks without turning his head and jumping out of his skin when he saw the angel suddenly sitting there nearby shouldn't have unnerved him as much as it was doing right now.
He's an angel for crying out loud. Warriors of the Lord, or whatever. The holy tax accountant can take care of himself. But even as he thought this, another section of his mind protested, and quite adamantly at that. A dull ache was starting to form behind his eyes and Dean groaned quietly, thumping his forehead twice against the railing of the motel's balcony.
Unbidden, an image of Sam floated into his mind, standing there with that eerily familiar yellow gleam in his eyes, demonic chants dropping from his lips like perverted prayers and he lifted his head, squinting into the rays of the rising sun. Sammy, what am I going to do with you? What's going to happen to us?
It wasn't as if he'd forgotten about Lilith and the sixty-six seals; it wasn't as if he'd forgotten about the apocalypse. After all, anyone who forgot about being dragged out of the Pit itself four months after his death by an angel who then told him that the heavenly beings of the cosmos had work for him to do had to be pretty stupid. And while he hadn't gone to college like Sam had, Dean liked to think that he was a pretty smart guy.
No, it wasn't because of absent-mindedness that he and Sam seemed to be turning their attention away from the task of preventing the end of the world and choosing instead to check out their old high school or stopping a siren. But seriously though… with no word or direction from the angels, how were they supposed to determine which of the six-hundred potential seals were under pressure to be broken next?
It's not my job to worry about them and their freakin' apocalypse, Dean thought, annoyed that he was losing sleep over it all. They were the one who pulled me out of Hell because they supposedly had work for me or something-
"I pulled you out of Hell and I can throw you back in."
Damn it Cas, get out of my head! Angrily he turned back toward the room and bumped directly into Sam's chest.
"Dean?" His brother yawned, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily. "What're you doing out here? Everything alright?"
"Yeah… yeah, everything's fine."
Sam was worried.
Dean had barely touched his breakfast. Most of the time, even when they were little, practically no one could get him to stop stuffing his face. Dean was the stereotypical guy- as far as Sam knew, most everything in his brother's life could be traced back to food, women, or hunting. The last part was one thing extra than what other guys focused on, but that was just about the only difference. Even when faced with the chance of having an impossible wish granted, what did he wish for? An Italian foot-long with jalapeños.
This, however, was not the typical Dean. Sitting there, swirling his own piece of pancake around in the sugary sweet fake kind of maple syrup, his jaw very nearly fell to the floor when without casting one look at the cute waitress who was clearly flirting with the two of them, Dean sent the rest of his plate back without even asking for a takeout bag. The elder Winchester had once shaken him like a rag doll (literally) when he tried sending his plate back with food still on it and then proceeded to explain to him the great cardinal sin of leaving unfinished food on his plate.
"You sure you don't want anything else, hun?" The waitress was addressing him now and Sam gave her a quick friendly smile.
"No thanks. Could we get the check please?"
"Sure thing, sweet."
Sam turned his attention back toward his brother who was scrubbing wearily at his face. "Dean?" The other didn't respond, only stared even deeper into his drink. "Dean!"
"Huh?" Dean looked up- and immediately wished he hadn't done so. The sun was slanting across the town's landscape, cutting the street into fragmented strips of light and reflecting across the street signs and in through the diner's glass windows, falling across their table.
Sam's eyes were yellow in the sunlight.
Damn! Dean shook his head hard and mentally slapped himself across the face. "I'm fine." He blinked and then again Sam was reached back to stab Castiel through the chest viciously with the piece of metal he held in his hand- "Aren't we looking for a demon, Sam?" he asked loudly, enunciating very clearly as if he had suddenly gone deaf. Abruptly he rose from the red vinyl seats, gulping down the rest of his drink. "Let's get to work."
Keeping one eye warily on his brother, Sam threw a few dollar bills on the table and followed Dean out of the diner, worried but sensing his brother's reluctance, chose not to press the issue. Dean, what's going on with you?
He backed away slowly, pressing a hand to the most recent of his injuries, a gash that ran across his vessel's abdomen that was quite superficial but large nonetheless. His clothes were torn from the amount of damage done and now they flapped around his frame like stray crows in the wind that swept over the field. The moon lit down upon them, a silver spotlight upon the remote battle that no one save for its participants knew of.
There was a hiss to his left and Castiel turned quickly, wary of the horde of demons that kept pressing closer, their total number impossible to guess. He could have simply left the cornfield for a safer place and left the demons to do what they would in the humans they were possessing, for he was already weary. He could have done so, but such an action would be akin to retreating from battle conditions when warriors of the Lord were never to back down, never to surrender to the most unclean or his army of fallen followers.
Even if he had been given the choice to escape, Castiel quite consciously knew that he would never have abandoned the Father's children to be enslaved as such. He had once told Dean that they were works of art and as they stood before him now, possessed and used as tools for demonic pleasure, he felt not disgust but only great compassion.
One young girl lunged forward, her neat blonde hair mussed and formerly innocent blue eyes now darker than the Pit itself. Hannah Brunelle. The name rang out clearly in his ears. She had a mother and a father, a newborn younger brother and she loved to finger-paint pictures of her family. She wanted to be a singer when she grew up and everyone always told her she had an angelic voice.
None of this was evident in the way she advanced toward the angel in the brown trenchcoat and blue tie, hissing and almost snarling. Castiel could see the warped, twisted features of the demon behind the little girl's face and though she lunged for him, small fingers scrabbling at his throat, the angel caught her easily and pressed his palm to her forehead gently, driving the demon out while handling little Hannah with the utmost care.
The demon screamed in agony as it was driven out of its vessel and the girl went limp in Castiel's hold. The angel tenderly put her down on the ground, sensing the possessed man behind him just as two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle landed on his back and pulled him down into the dirt, where they swarmed onto him like vultures devouring their kill.
"You ready?"
Dean didn't answer, only jerked his head sharply in a semblance of a nod and stepped out of the Impala, shutting the door quietly and heading for the trunk. Sam followed; taking the shotgun and the several vials his brother offered him. Dean armed himself and started up walkway to the front door, which was lined with twin rows of carefully pruned rosebushes and a white picket fence. It looked like something out of a scene in Pleasantville, and it freaked him out. It was wonder demons chose the suburbs as a place to hide; they fit right in along with all the other crazily perfect families here.
Several loud knocks rang out as fist hit wood. Once, twice, three times.
Footfalls approached and presently the large, teak door swung inward and opened to reveal Simon Barger, a middle aged typical breadwinner of his family. Strongly built and obviously fit, the man's smiling face revealed nothing amiss- but the overwhelming smell of sulfur did.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
There was no one at the door. Simon frowned slightly and stuck his head slightly outside for a closer look to see if it was just the damn neighborhood kids again playing ditch the doorbell-
-when the blast of a shotgun erupted in his chest and the demon fell back, screeching in a demonic language only it knew and trying to (unsuccessfully) wipe away all the granulates of salt that covered its vessel. Shrieking it fell back, cowering away from the door and the still-smoking barrel of the shotgun and the grim-faced man who held it.
Dean brought the butt of the shotgun down hard upon the demon's back and with a swift move slammed the barrel into its face. He looked to his left into the kitchen and saw Simon Barger's pregnant wife and six-year old son, lying dead on the floor with their throats slit. We're too late. His anger rose with the increasing pools of crimson and he let his fist do the talking for him, finding some sense of satisfaction at feeling cartilage give way under his hand. "You sick son of a bitch."
"Dean!" Sam called, sounding stressed. "Look out!"
Suddenly then he found himself being flung across the hallway into the living room and he grunted in pain when his back connected solidly with something and he fell to the ground, glass and pieces of shattered china fell around him like droplets of rain. Looking up from his position on the floor he saw that Sam had been slammed up against the wall and the demon was on his feet, scrutinizing his brother closely.
"Sam Winchester," he sniffed, looking unimpressed. "What does he want with a dirty half-breed like you? Azazel always had his quirks but there's nothing special about a freak like you…"
Sam struggled against the invisible hold, eyes straying down toward Ruby's knife that had fallen to the floor when he had defied the rules of physics and flew across the room. He concentrated as best as he could, drawing into himself and tapping into the reserve of darkness that he'd stowed away in the corner of his mind and away from his consciousness. Come on, you can get out of this; just focus…
A harsh slap to the side of his head stunned him and he opened his eyes to see the demon wagging a finger at him as if reprimanding an impudent child. "Tsk, tsk. None of that now. I haven't even gotten to have my fun with your brother over there. We're old buddies, you know. Got acquainted real well during his time down there in Hell-"
Simon pinned Sam in place and turned to hound on his target and was met with a wave of holy water splattering all over his face and he howled aloud like a dying banshee, steam curling up from his vessel's face and twisted like grey snakes in the air before disappearing. He had the upper hand but instead of picking up Ruby's knife and putting an end to the demon Dean stood there stupidly for a minute, mind flashing back to seeing Castiel's grace held captive in Alastair's hand, melting away and fading away, evanescent.
"Dean!" Sam yelled. What the hell are you staring at?
Dean's head snapped to the side with the force of the punch and he reeled backwards but mind now intact. As the demon loomed over him he scrambled for the dagger and was rewarded for his vain efforts with a kick to the ribs. He resisted the urge to curl into a fetal position and instead turned his back on the demon, reaching into his pocket and unscrewing the top of his father's canteen.
The demon reached forth to grab Dean's shoulder in order to haul him up but suddenly backed off. "What's that?" he hissed uneasily and all of them looked down at Dean's bare arm, the shirtsleeve having been torn off in the fight and the now-exposed raised red ridges in the shape of a handprint branded onto the hunter's bicep. "Got an angel perched on your shoulder?" he sneered, fear apparently no more and he stooped once more to get a hold of his punching bag.
Sam, now released due to the demon's inattentiveness, leapt forward with the grace of a cat and plunged the dagger directly in the demon's back. Dean grinned his thanks and accepted his brother's hand as he rose, looking with disdain at writhing, convulsing demon on the floor.
"Yeah, actually."
Charles's face twisted grotesquely but a deep guttural cackle flew from his throat along with the blood the leaked from his mouth. "Not for long…"
Dean's stomach clenched and even Sam drew in a sharp breath. "What does that mean?' He grabbed the demon by the front of his white, starched button-down shirt and glared into the black eyes when he got no immediate response. "Tell me, damn you!"
Even in the throes of death, the demon snorted in superiority at the human's idiocy. "We'll be having fun with him down in the Pit. You should join us."
"Go to Hell," was the caustic response. Charles smirked.
"He had a pretty face, your angel. Who knows what might-" His taunt was cut off by an ear-splitting shriek as Dean viciously pulled the knife swiftly out of the dying demon's back and plunged it into his brain. A funnel of black smoke rose from the gaping wounds and the elder Winchester stood there, rage etched into every line of his face, watching the evil being die.
Sam was watching his brother worriedly and he took in the tense posture, every tight muscle in Dean's rigid stance and the way his jaw worked furiously. "Dean?" he said tentatively and the response was curt as Dean turned sharply and left the house, slamming the door on his way out.
"Let's go."
Castiel's hand rose to block the oncoming swing of the tire iron without even turning his head as he pressed his palm to the forehead of another possessed human, this time a young man in a dark business suit complete with sweater vest and tie. Eric Forrester. The angel gently let him down onto the ground as another demon was returned to its proper place in Hell.
Castiel.
He heard the whisper in his mind, brushing feather light against his senses and he felt the presence and turned so fast his motions were invisible to the human eye…but still wasn't fast enough. A hand slammed against Castiel's forehead and excruciating pain exploded in the form of stars behind his eyes and felt like a hot iron spoke lancing through his temples; the angel's knees buckled and he fell into the dirt ungracefully, head landing hard against a rock, spiraling into the merciless clutches of the state between dying and waking.
The demons stepped forward cautiously, wary of the powerful angel even as he lay on the ground in unconsciousness. A pale hand extended forth, gently tracing slim fingers down Castiel's cheek, caressing the angel's face. "Oh Castiel," the smooth voice chuckled. "How admirable, noble, and yet incredibly simpleminded you are. Blind faith in your Father till the end." The fingers stopped playing across the skin and lingered on his lips and a sigh was heard. "And what an end you shall have…" The slim digits snapped suddenly, bringing the demons to attention. "Take him away."
No one was there to see the man being dragged away through the cornfield, no on was there when an angel of the Lord was betrayed into the hands of evil.
A/N: Please review! I could really use your encouragement and ideas too!! I'm open to anything, as this story is still developing…suggest something and I might add it in!