The Angel Harvest Chapter 2: SOS, a supernatural fanfic

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Act II: SOS

"Look, as far as I know angels don't actually have chicken wings," Dean said tiredly to the crisp blue sky. He wiped his greasy hands on a rag and took another swig of Johnnie Walker, feeling the alcohol buzz through his veins and warm him in the nippy November weather. He needed to spike his blood alcohol concentration to have this conversation. "If they're there, they're invisible and untouchable. I've only seen the shadows of their wings, or burnt outlines on the ground when they get ganked and deep fried."

There was a nasal hum, and Dean could almost picture the skinny hunter roll his sleepy Pinocchio eyes over his bulbous nose. "I dunno, my cousin was pretty sure the auction was for angel wings-"

Metal grated and screeched. Dean whipped around to see Sam noisily slide out from between two creaking stacks of pancake-d cars, loaded with paper bags and a look on his face as if he were approaching an easily-startled deer, and that annoyingly perpetual are-you-okay-let's-emote! gleam in his soulful hazel eyes.

Dean rolled his own and leaned to the side, making sure that his overly-concerned brother saw the open flip phone resting on the scratched trunk of the Impala.

Sam immediately relaxed and quirked an eyebrow as he handed Dean a takeout bag.

Garth, Dean mouthed. His hulking brother's delicate eyebrows raised and the corner of his lips twisted into a slight grimace. Dean shrugged in reply, tuning back into the monologue Garth was spouting.

"'Kay, so angels don't have wings," Garth affirmed, his voice tinny from the speakers cranked on high. "Then what do they look like? I've never seen one."

"Hey Garth. They look like you and me," Sam answered, rustling through his paper bags. "They're kinda like demons in the sense that when they want to walk the earth, they need a human vessel."

"But they have the manners to ask 'please, Mommy may I?' before they take the wheel, Rambo-Jesus-style," Dean said sarcastically before biting into the greasy diner burger. "Look man," he mumbled around a near-orgasmic mouthful of bacon and mayonnaise, "this case is a bust. Far be it from me to stop your cousin from hunting the world's most heavenly garlic wings, but they won't be available at a bar near you."

"…Do you think I can ask your or Sam's angel friend for more info?" Garth hesitantly asked, "not that I don't believe you, it's just that Darcy seemed pretty sure about this case."

Dean determinedly kept chewing even as Sam shot a concerned look his way over his organic rabbit food, keeping his gaze trained on glittering piles of wreckage lining the path. He kept chewing, although now it was like each morsel had caused him great offense, and he was taking pleasure in slowly masticating them to pulp, complete with squeaky cries of mercy from his jaws.

Sam rose to the plate, recognizing his brother's signature Denial-and-Repression look. "He's not with us anymore, Garth," he answered, forcefully casual. Despite himself, Dean's sense of humour kicked in when he noticed how comical his Sasquatch-sized brother looked, folding in half to reassure a tiny silver cell phone on the beat up car.

"Oh. Sorry man," the phone apologized, "uh, thanks for the info. I didn't know anyone else who knew an angel personally."

"No problem," Sam said in that convincing, soothing tone. Boy could therapy his way into every angsty chick's pants if he'd had a mind to use his superpower for himself one day. "Good luck with the hunts."

Dean knocked back the burger with more whiskey as Sam hung up the phone. "Angel wings?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Maybe it's just angels," Dean reflected absently as he scrounged in the bag for a fry. "They're an endangered species now, aren't they?" He chomped on a crispy end of starchy goodness before exclaiming, "dude, Victoria Secret Angels auction!"

A few soppy, wet green chunks spewed out from Sam's mouth as he snorted. "Dude. Porn. Reality. There's a difference-"

"Yeah, well, don't tell me you'd rather bust out Gabriel than a posse of Heidi Klums-"

"It's not really a question of preference-"

They laughed a bit, and quietly finished their meal. The sun dipped into the dusty fields beyond the scrap yard, throwing shadows from the blazing hedges of tortured metal, nostalgically reminding the brothers of how this place had been their personal labyrinth when they were younger. Dean mentally drew constellations from his favourite landmarks in the yard visible from the Impala, enjoying the subtle glow of the laugh and the whiskey, while determinedly ignoring the curdling soup of guilt gnawing at his gut since their escape from Sucro Corp twenty hours ago. There was the Fridge O'Death, where he'd found a decomposing hand in when he was eleven, the slight lump across the clearing marking a body, the bent car hood they'd scribbled on-

"Y'need anything?" Sam asked surveying his brother's handiwork on the Impala. It'd come a long way - it just needed the wheels back on and a new paintjob now. "I'm gonna head back to work."

"How's the e-library coming, O nerdy brother of mine?" Dean asked casually as he tidied up the garbage from his baby. The interior still smelled a bit like brake fluid, but at least everything looks alright.

Sam held up a rectangular package almost in exasperation, one end open to reveal a stack of papers inside. "I remembered Bobby squirreling this copy away at the diner. Got that and dinner with one stone," Sam slipped out a paper and frowned down at it. "Don't know how much use it's going to be though. Most of the printed angel lore is hokum." He looked at his overly-casual brother calculatingly, "I'm starting to think we should start writing down the things we know, sorta like Samuel Colt, y'know?"

"Yeah, too bad we can't actually verify the angel stuff," Dean muttered, sitting outwards from the passenger seat and knocking back a swig of Johnny. "All of the angels we've ever known are officially dead. Not shot-back-to-heaven-dead, more like an atheist's-game-over-dead." He clamped down, glaring back at the sun. "I never bothered to ask Cas when he was here." The words were small and easy to slip out while he burned the sun into his eyes.

"Hey, neither did I," Sam said, holding out a hand as if to try and break up the fight between Dean and Dean's Guilt once more. "There was always something going on, and Cas was crazy for the last couple months because of me. He was our friend-"

"Yeah, apparently that's what friends do," Dean interrupted bitterly. "They take an exploding monster to the face and get dragged into Eternal Freakshow Hell for you. Alone – with Dick fucking Roman. And y'know what? I never bothered to ask him how his fucking day went. What the hell an angel even does during the day, or, or if they all have fucking light-up fairy wings they get hunted and killed for-"

A shrill ding interrupted him and Dean seized the chance to emotionally clench up, cramming the torrent back down as he flipped open the phone, scanning the tiny, blue-tinged LED screen.

Sam bit his lip, seeing a flash of Cas in his thin white loony-bin uniform, draped in his overly large trench coat, bewildered and barefoot in Purgatory (which he imagined to be somewhat like Hell, but with more variety). Sure, Cas had a record for being resurrected, but it's not like he was dead when he fell into Purgatory – and since it was a realm unto itself, would it prevent Cas from returning to Heaven if he were killed in there? Or would he cease to exist? His throat tightened as he remembered Crowley's words, and wondered if Cas would respawn like in a videogame, forever being hunted by monsters.

The wind ruffled his hair and slipped chilly fingers down the back of his jacket, snapping him back to the dimming scrap metal landscape. He glanced at his brother, realizing that he hadn't moved a bit, still staring at the phone in his hand. "Dean?"

Mutely, Dean handed over his open phone. Sam seized it, recognizing the hints of alarm in his older brother and quickly scanned the screen.

It was a text message.

Sender: 1(617)xxx-xxxx ext. xxxx

Subject: -

Message:

CASTIEL SOS CASTIEL SOS CASTIEL SOS CASTIEL SOS