So this is kinda late for a number of reasons: a) I've been working! b) my beta's been staying with me for a while and has been distracting me from writing c) we did this meme where someone gives you seven random actors and you make a TV show d) and then we did it again e) and again f) and then I liked one so much I wrote fic for it (I don't even know, what is this?)
Tl;dr - SORRY FOR THE DELAY AND HAPPY EASTER.
"I don't see why we can't stop for breakfast," Dean mutters as he hauls his bag into the trunk of his car, ignoring the fact that it's about four in the morning and pitch black out.
"Sooo," Sam says in a smooth tone as he dumps his bag next to Dean's, "anything happen last night?"
Dean frowns and slams the trunk shut, almost catching his brother's fingers. "No."
Sam just looks at him and Dean frowns because both of them knows he's lying, so he stalks off with as much dignity as he has left, to sit in the driver's seat so he can bitch at Cas and Sam for making them late.
Sam moves round to sit in the passenger side, and the two of them sit in silence waiting for Cas to emerge from the motel room.
Dean's face twitches (a little bit) when Sam begins to drum his fingers on the car window because he's leaving fingerprint marks, because he's a persistent little bitch who doesn't know when to give up, because Dean's a little bit nervous about going to get his soul, because he's nervous about going back, because he kinda doesn't want to go back, because he doesn't want to sacrifice his mother's soul, because he doesn't want to be in a place where he isn't in a relationship with Cas, because he slept with Cas last night and he's not entirely sure where this leaves them.
"Breathe," Sam says, a cross between amused and fond, "you look like you're going to have an aneurysm."
Dean ignores him, and starts the car instead because Cas has just climbed into the backseat and he doesn't want to have this conversation now or ever.
"So," Dean says, after a few moments of silence and they've reached the highway. He edges the car slightly past 70, "what kind of operation have we got going on here? Are we going stealth or-"
"Dean," Cas interrupts, "we are going to walk through the front door and either come out with your soul, or not at all."
"Oh," Dean mutters. "Fair enough then."
Sam pulls a face and then lies back in his seat so he can have a quick, pre-fight nap, "Regular day for the Winchesters."
"Turn left here," Cas says a couple minutes after they turn onto a narrow road.
"That?" Dean says disbelievingly, pointing at the dirt track, "That is a gap in a forest. That is not a road."
"I never said it was a road," Castiel replies, a touch of impatience coloring his tone, "I said to turn left."
"You know what?" Dean mutters, "Cars are built for roads. That is not a road and the car is not going down it. We will have to find another way: end of discussion."
"Do you or do you not want to get your soul back, Dean?" Castiel says quietly and reasonably.
There is a silence for a few moments as Dean realizes that he was just stalling for time, time to sort his man-feelings out from his man-pain, to figure out this thing he seems to have with Cas.
"Wow," Sam claps his hands together, "is it me or is the sexual tension in here really thick?"
Dean shoots his brother a spectacular unimpressed look and then hits the gas, "Shut up, bitch."
Sam rolls his eyes.
"How far down the road are we going?"
The undergrowth, on what Dean can only assume was once a road, is ridiculous. There's fences creating a path through fields and meadows, but it's been abandoned and what had once been a clear path is now carpeted with green. They really are in the back ass end of nowhere.
"Until you see the house." Cas says simply, "I will meet you there."
"Wait!" protests Dean, "You can't just…" He trails off.
"He's already gone hasn't he?"
Sam nods. "On the plus side, you and I can have that chat you've been avoiding."
Dean ignores him and presses the gas pedal harder.
"You can't ignore me forever," Sam says, twisting in his seat to stare Dean down, "sooner or later we're going to have to have this discussion."
"We're not actually." Dean interrupts.
"You can't put things off forever because you don't want to talk about them. That's not only ridiculous but the most childish thing I've ever head you say."
Dean stops the car and looks at his brother, amused for the first time in a long while, "Actually, we're here, but after we're rescuing my soul we can sit around and talk about as many feelings as you like." He steps out the car and walks around the trunk to pop it.
Suddenly, Sam's by his side at the trunk, face lit up, "Really?"
Dean snorts and picks up a shotgun, "No."
"You're such a jerk," Sam says, picking a sawn off shotgun (his favorite) up and putting extra ammo into his pockets. "I hate you."
Dean doesn't say anything, but pumps his shotgun; ready to take out any wayward demons.
"There's a clear path there," Sam says pointing to a gap in the undergrowth, "that must be the way the demons were getting in."
They climb through the gap in the fence, to the house, ready to kill some demons. Except they're all dead. The ground is littered with the bodies of about forty demons (all men, Dean is pleased to note, he really had hoped that the demons weren't getting desperate enough to use women and children) and they're just in time to see Castiel plunge his hand into last one's throat and rip it out.
"Huh," Dean says as he further into the clearing, "that was actually kind of handy."
Cas turns towards them and shrugs in a sort of, I know I'm amazing like that—but really I'm modest at heart, way.
"So what's left to do now?" Sam asks, fairly relaxed, resting his shotgun over his shoulder since he obviously doesn't need it any more.
Then, the front door of the house creaks open ominously.
"Well this guy has been watching too many Stephen King films ," Dean mutters. "That's a sign if I ever saw one ."
"Indeed," Castiel agrees, nodding, "the demon is waiting for you inside. I can sense it through the protections. I cannot get enter the house until he is dead."
"You can't just go in." Sam adds, "It's probably a trap."
Dean puts his shotgun down and starts emptying the rounds out of his pockets. "That's why I have a plan."
"Dean." The room is dark, the windows are curtained, and then a figure steps into the light so his face is visible. It's all a bit clichéd.
"And you are?" Dean shakes his head, "I don't really socialize with demons—but know thy enemy and all that."
"My name is Adrian."
Dean squints at him in the half light, "You look like a Bernard." The man has graying hair and a receding hair line. He's also too old to be having a mid life crisis and much too old to be seriously considering world domination.
Adrian gives him a long, slow look, "Means Dark One."
"No need to be so cheery." Dean shrugs, and then he realizes that the two of them are circling each other, like two animals preparing to fight. He forces himself to stop.
The silence between them is awkward, Dean doesn't understand why; usually he'd have ganked Adrian by now.
"So, Bernard, I hear you've been trying to kill me."
"The name is Adrian." The demon is looking slightly annoyed at this point.
Dean shrugs again, "Yeah, but you've been trying to kill me, so I think calling you Bernard is one of the nicer things I can christen you."
Adrian doesn't say anything to this but shrugs as if to say, yeah, he's got a point.
Dean's tone is now accusatory, and he slowly moves a little bit closer, "So you sent your little bitches to try and get me."
Again, Adrian shrugs, and that is beginning to annoy Dean now, "Don't send one to do a demon's job."
"I quite like you. I think, if you weren't a demon or you know, trying to kill me, we could have had something special."
"It is a shame."
"Yes." Dean agrees, steps closer again, and then pulls the demon killing knife out of his sleeve to gank Adrian.
Adrian steps out the way, grabs the knife with his bare hands and throws Dean into a wall.
"I like my life," Adrian says like that hadn't just happened and inspects his cuticles, "I'm a simple man. I have simple needs."
"Trying to kill me is simple?" Dean wheezes, coughing from the dusty floor.
Adrian sniffs, almost haughtily, "Nothing is ever simple with the Winchesters, especially you Dean, you're all too-" He pauses to consider his next word, "involved."
Dean seems to consider this for a second before he darts to the door and runs through the hallway, then out the house and onto the porch.
"You didn't think it'd be that easy to get away from me?" Adrian says, appearing out of thin air right next to Dean. "Did you?"
Dean stops running and turns from the edge of the porch, "Well no actually. You're the one that stepped into the Devil's Trap."
Adrian looks down at the trap drawn on the porch, outside the protections on the house, and swears softly.
Dean grins and Cas, solemn looking, walks forward to gank him.
The room in the basement is black. Solid concrete lines the floor, walls and ceiling. There are no windows and the door is made of reinforced steel.
"Sweet," Dean says, almost appreciatively, as he walks in, holding a flashlight so he can see where he's going in the pitch black. Sam and Castiel follow him.
His soul is sitting there, in the middle of a badly drawn chalk circle, in an opaque, glass urn.
Sam looks suitably impressed too.
He's walks to the centre of the room, towards his soul, mesmerized, so that he's just outside the pale outline chalked on to the floor. The urn reacts, vibrating slightly and prickles of white can be seen piercing the black of its container. It's beautiful and mesmerizing and compelling and Dean takes another step forward just wanting to get closer.
As soon as his left foot crosses the line, an invisible force sends him careering backwards and he's thrown into a wall.
"Why the fuck does this always happen to me?"
Cas's expression in unreadable but Sam looks a cross between amused and concerned. "Because you're a dumbass."
"Fuck you," Dean says grabbing the wall to stand up as he scrambles for his flashlight. He stands up, but his hand is wet.
"You have to see this," he says shining his flashlight on his fingers then at the wall.
There are a myriad of symbols, words and incantations in tiny gold lettering painted on to it. He reaches out to touch a section, rubs the word 'servo' off onto his fingers.
"Looks fresh," he says, but then a soft orange glow appears and the words write themselves back onto the wall and he steps backwards. "Well, I'll be damned."
Sam's eyes are wide with amazement as he wipes his fingers along a different section of the wall, smearing the symbol off and then watching draw itself back on, "This must have taken months."
"Yeah," Dean sighs, "they really wanted to kill me."
"I do not think they were trying to kill you." Castiel says, "I believe they might have discovered how important you were. It would have been easier for them to incapacitate you."
"Ahh, those demons," Dean says with an affectionate tone coloring his voice, "They're just so damn thoughtful. Maybe they should just send flowers next time if they're that bothered."
Sam coughs, "So how do we break it? I can't think of any rituals or incantations that could do anything like this – let alone a counter. I mean the words that Dean has smeared off with his grubby hands have just come back again."
"That is because it is of Old." Castiel has a very serious look on his face and Dean knows now is not the time to ask questions, "I need you to leave the room Sam, since what I'm about to do might kill you."
Sam's eyes flash with concern for his brother before he shines his flashlight on Dean's face, nods tightly, then disappears out the room, closing the door behind him.
It shuts ominously, and the room is much darker now they only have the one light. It feels sort of intimate; it's just Castiel, him and his soul in a room.
"What do we have to do?"
"I have to draw a sign of unity," Castiel explains as he walks off into the darkness, towards Dean's soul, "that's the only way we can reunite your soul to your body safely. I will act as the conductor, if you will."
Dean is trailing after the outline of Cas, "And Sam could have interfered with that."
Castiel forgets that Dean can't see as well in the dark as he can and nods, the movement is almost imperceptible, but Dean has spent a lot of time in the last few days staring at Castiel, so it does not go unnoticed.
Then, Castiel squats on the floor with a piece of chalk in his hand sketching out a circle, roughly the same size as the one that surrounds his soul, but drawn in such a place that the two will have a definite overlap.
Dean shines his light on the ground so that Castiel can see what he is doing, and they move around the room slowly.
Castiel stops at the edge of the circle which had thrown Dean across the room earlier.
"Dude," Dean says as he watches Cas stand up, "you can't draw the other side of the circle – how the hell is this going to work?"
Castiel hands Dean his coat, "You need to learn to have faith Dean. You forget that I am not human."
He bends back down to drag the chalk across the ground and steps over the threshold of the first part of the circle. It's obvious how much of a struggle it is for him to stay there. Before, it hadn't taken him long to mark out the first section of his circle, but now every step is a fight for him, beads of sweat roll off him, and Dean can see his shirt is getting wet.
By the time he has finished extending the circle back round, so that it crosses over the original one again, it is evident to Dean that Castiel is exhausted.
"Dude, you need to sit down," Castiel stumbles over the line, and Dean grabs his shoulders to prevent him collapsing; his skin is clammy and his breathing is rapid.
"I am fine Dean," Castiel says reassuringly, "it is tiring for this vessel. I am unaffected, it is simply frustrating because it would not take so long if I was in my true form."
It is then that Dean understands how powerful the demon really was. Because if Castiel could use his true form, he would – the guy is not patient to say the least, so if he can't use his power, that would mean that he too is bound to his vessel by the power of the sigils and spells on the room.
"Holy shit, Cas," Dean takes a step back from Castiel who has recovered slightly but still swaying, "it's too dangerous for you to be in here. If a demon comes it could kill you– you need to get out! This could be a trap!"
Castiel shakes his head and Dean wants to hit him.
"We will continue," Castiel says in a no-nonsense tone and although he sounds much better, Dean can't tell if it's real or faked. "Please stand in the middle of the circle."
Dean casts a concerned glance over Castiel, assessing how injured he appeared to be, before he finds nothing too worrying and heads over to stand in the center of Castiel's circle.
"You are not in the middle Dean," Castiel criticizes, "you need to move East nine inches."
"Right." Dean says sarcastically, because, he's in a room with no windows, "I'll get right on that. Because ILet me just ask my personal compass and I'll get right on it."
Dean imagines Castiel rolling his eyes, before he hears footsteps approaching him and he's suddenly face to face with Cas.
Castiel puts his hands on his waist – way too intimate, and moves him left a couple of footsteps before he stops, "Here. Do not move."
Castiel's breath is tickling his chin, and his gaze is deep and searching. Dean feels the blood draining from his head, and pinches his forearm to remind himself that now is not the time.
Then Dean blinks, or maybe Castiel blinks, but then he's gone, walking towards the point where the two circles overlap. This time, when he crosses the first circle, it's easier for him, Dean can tell – his shoulders don't tense and his movements aren't as stiff.
"Turn your flashlight off Dean."
Dean smiles quickly at Castiel, while he can, before he turns off his light and throws it into a corner.
Castiel starts chanting, his voice resonating throughout the room and Dean can feel it going through him, calling a part of his soul to awake. He's pretty sure Sam can hear it outside, even though the walls are lined with six inches of concrete.
"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium."
The temperature in the room starts to rise sharply, and suddenly, the urn is emitting this light which steadily gets brighter to the point where it's unbearable and Dean throws his arm across his face to protect his eyes.
"Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae Caelestis, satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute in infernum detrude. "
The glass that houses his soul shatters then, and Dean unbuttons his shirt with one hand to relieve some of the heat, but it doesn't work. He can hear his blood pounding thick in his ears, and there's this sudden pressure in the room—it's stifling.
"Amen."
The light gets stronger, if that's even possible and Dean gets hotter, thinking fuck it, and takes his shirt off while managing to keep a hand over his eyes for the most part. The silence after that point seems to stretch on forever, but Castiel's voice tentatively breaks it:
"Beatus exsisto vestri nomen…."
And even though his eyes are shut, he knows the white light is there, he's sweating profusely.
He feels light headed, the room is kinda tilting from side to side now, but the light isn't as bright now, so he opens his eyes.
And sees into his own soul.
"…in via venalicium per patientia."
Translation:
Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.
And Castiel's addendum:
Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering.