NOT ABOUT ANGELS
CHAPTER FOUR: KAMIKAZE
Working a case wasn't easy.
Not only did I not have a suit, or a fancy fake FBI badge to flash at whomever attempted to obstruct investigation. Even when I showed up at the scene with a notepad and my phone recorder, claiming to be a freelance investigative journalist, the cops still wouldn't give me any information. They wouldn't even believe I was over twenty-one, much less twenty-seven until I showed them my license. I had one of those typical baby faces with little definition—all dimples, cupid lips, and even a button nose. It was the first thing anyone judged me by, and I was used to being called cute and girlish, despite a blatantly curvy and fully developed womanly figure.
The result?
No one took me seriously.
The side benefit?
Everyone underestimated me.
Which was a good thing, because that meant I could get away with a lot. Everyone assumes someone who looks like I do is innocent and rule abiding. But I had to do a lot of things I'm not proud of to move up in my line of work. It's just the way this sick world works. And once I'd exhausted all my options when it came to forcing my way into the investigation, I resorted the tried and true method of flirting the information out of a young, impressionable officer by the name of Gary.
All it took was a bit of positive attention and a stroking of the ego. Gary was so forthcoming after that, he even showed me some of the case file photos. And what I saw had my memory bursting with color. The girl. I couldn't remember her name, but I could remember her talking with Castiel. She could clearly be identified as a dead angel by the manner of how she'd died. Anyone normal would think it was the fact that she'd flown through a windshield with glass stuck in her face, and several broken bones including an open fracture wound. But that wasn't what killed her.
No, that stab wound and the black pits where eyes used to be were clearly the work of an angel blade.
In the end, when I left the police station, I could only conclude that Castiel was heading north up the highway. That, and I was positive I was on the right trail when I stopped at a laundromat and found some very familiar—not to mention bloody—clothes abandoned in a washer. I took them with me when I left, freshly washed with the rest of my borrowed clothing, though those bloodstains were probably going to need to come out with peroxide if they were going to come out at all…
I started checking the homeless shelters next, and stumbled upon a few more dead angels—or maybe not. Two priests were killed at a shelter, and this time no amount of cajoling or flirting could get the police to let me in on the investigation. All I knew was that their eyes were burned out. More angel deaths, or smiting, I couldn't know for sure without further investigating.
Either way, after I reported my findings to Sam and Dean, I was left at a bit of a loss. The trail had gone cold. Not only that, but my GPS was acting up on me, and I didn't know where the hell I was now. I was bouncing my head on my steering wheel, wishing—praying—that just one thing would go right for once. I leaned back and covered my eyes with my hands, blacking out the setting sun that glared in through the reflective tinted windows of the Mustang.
"Where are you, Castiel...?" I muttered into the ether.
It was then that a piercing pain I usually ever only associated with the loathsome angel tablets sent a shock through my synapses. I groaned pitifully at the monster migraine, reaching out a flapping hand, feeling around for my phone. I'd try the GPS again, set it to look for a nearby pharmacy in this twisty-turny backasswards city. But another pulse of pain sent me reeling forward, and I knew I had to find some Advil or something soon or my head was going to explode. GPS or no GPS, I needed to get to a convenience store pronto.
Amazingly, as I pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, my head started to feel the slightest bit better. It still hurt like a mother, but the throbbing was becoming bearable. It was strange though, I thought, as the sun quickly sunk beyond the tall city buildings. There was an odd ringing in my ears that seemed more familiar, and different than common tinnitus. And as I drove through the city, I noticed it appeared to get louder the closer I got to the east side.
As I continued to have no luck with the GPS, throwing it aside in frustration, something Kevin said at the bunker came back to me.
Sometimes, with this Prophet stuff, you just gotta follow your gut.
I almost slammed on the breaks in my sudden urgency to turn around. And that's certainly what my gut was telling me. Which was weird, because let me just say, I've never had the best sense of direction, and that's a fact. But everything in me was telling me to go back the other direction, and I took the next turn to round the block without hesitation. The next compulsion came just as suddenly, and my headache pulsed again with a nasty throb.
Right.
Turn left.
Go around.
Through there.
I was now the driver everyone on the road hated. Weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and blowing my horn, that was until the area became sparser and seedier looking. With shady looking characters on every corner, it almost made me want to lock my doors out of paranoia for carjacking. I almost passed the alley with the shadows moving in it, just because every other alley in this godforsaken place was crawling with suspicious shadows. But something told me to stop, and I'm glad I did.
Lo and behold, there was Castiel, whole and hale...
Only he appeared to be fighting for his life.
He was being cornered by two angels with shining silver blades. He was holding his own, but when he barred his blade to hold off the other angel's downstrike, he was thrown off balance and shoved into the filthy wall of the alley. His own blade flew out of his hand on impact. Seeing victory, the other angel zeroed in for the kill, but Castiel moved his unprotected hand up at the last second to block the blow once more. The resulting spray of blood and cry of pain was like a bucket of ice cold water over my head.
My stomach flipped over, and I began to panic, muttering a mantra of, "Oh god. Oh god. What do I do? What do I do?"
In the end, the answer came to me without needing to think.
I just turned the Mustang into the alley and floored it. Castiel's two assailants had only enough time to look up in startled shock for about a second at the sound of screeching tires before I plowed into them like a wrecking ball, sending them careening down the other end of the alley. It was a good thing I was wearing my seatbelt though, because I probably would've went flying out the windshield after them. It felt like running into a brick wall at top speed, and I knew I'd probably dented the bumper horrendously with that stunt, but that was the least of my worries. I shook off my disorientation quickly, because I had no other choice.
Reaching over clumsily to fling the passenger door open, I shouted at the bewildered Castiel, "Get in!"
He hesitated for a heavy moment, a look of misgiving on his face as he eyed me with a wary frown. But the other angels were stirring—we both knew this wouldn't keep them down for long—and he only lingered long enough to sweep up his fallen blade before hurrying to follow my 'gentle suggestion.' We both knew there was no time for questions or motives, and he swung the door shut even as I was shifting the Mustang into reverse, backing out of the alley at top speed with another screech of burning rubber. Neither of us said a word as I deliberately ran about ten stop lights and blatantly disregarded traffic laws. But I could feel his piercing blue eyes digging into me the entire way out of the city, still 'following my gut,' as Kevin put it, as fast and as far away from the ringing in my ears as I could.
And then his voice rumbled out in that low gravelly tone he was so well known for with the question of the ages.
"Who are you?"
My eyes darted to him and the angel blade he was gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white, strategically angled in a way that would be a straight shot up and under my ribcage.
Swallowing tightly, I nodded in an attempt at civility, and answered shortly and simply with, "Hadley." At the narrowing of his droopy eyes, I gestured quickly to glove compartment and said, "There's a phone. In there. Call Dean. He'll explain everything."
I hoped…
Castiel slowly reached into the compartment and retrieved said phone, still refusing to let go of the angel blade, even though his hand was clearly injured and bleeding through the cracks of his fingers. Ouch... He quickly dialed the number by heart and held the phone to his ear, still not taking his wary eyes off me.
"Dean," he greeted shortly with a slight tinge of relief in his voice when the hunter picked up on the other end. His shoulders dropped, and he may have eased up just a little on the blade, but I couldn't be sure.
His eyes focused on me with a little more intensity at something Dean said, and he answered with a firm, blunt, "Yes." Then, quite shocked, he remarked, "A Prophet?"
At that I rolled my eyes, reaching over and gesturing for the phone impatiently. Castiel relinquished it a little uncertainly, but once I got ahold of it, I set it on speaker.
Instantly, I snarled, "What did I say about that, Dean?! You're not going around, spreading it to everyone you meet, are you? It's not exactly something I'd like to become common knowledge!"
"Cool your tits, Kamikaze—it's just Cas," the hunter retorted in a typical surly manner.
"Sure, whatever. Don't call me that," I huffed, tossing the phone up on the dashboard. "Look, can you just explain things so he doesn't stab me in the fucking face?"
"How did you even find him?" Dean countered. "Last I heard, you were at a dead end, Nancy Drew."
My lip curling in displeasure, I explained, "I think it was something to do with my Prophet thing. The angels...I could sense their mojo or something—gave me one hell of a headache."
"So...what? You're like a prophetic angel detector or something?" he summarized bluntly.
"Apparently…" I grumbled back, rubbing circles on my temple and glaring stormily out at the road ahead of me.
"Awesome," Dean said after turning that over in his head for a few seconds. "This is good. We can use that."
"Oh, yaaay..." I muttered scathingly.
"Yeah, think about it," I heard Sam butt in on the other line. "The angels are after Cas. If you can sense them coming, with a little strategic navigation, you can have them running around in circles while you're making your way back to the bunker."
"Yeah...about that," I grumbled despondently, "Something's screwed with my GPS. I have no idea where the fuck I'm going."
"As long as it's away from angels, you're in the clear," Sam assured.
"Yeah, and Cas knows the way—Don't'cha, Cas?" Dean pointed out.
"My sense of direction is still intact, yes," the defunct angel replied grimly, flexing his injured hand with an almost intrigued sort of scrutiny. "If nothing else…"
"Well, we're glad you're okay," Sam remarked candidly.
"Yeah, welcome back, bud," Dean seconded that with enthusiasm, then added on a little grudgingly, "...You did good, kid."
It took me a second to realize that last bit was directed at me, and when I did, a pleasant feeling of surprise bloomed in my chest.
I couldn't even stop the smile from entering my voice as I reminded him, "Once again, twenty-seven years old—not a kid."
"Whatever," he disregarded flippantly, and I couldn't even work up enough motivation to be annoyed with him when he started barking out orders. "You two head back to the bunker. We'll meet you halfway, and then we can talk about your crazyass plan to trump the King of Hell, Hadley."
"It's not crazy—just a little...mindlessly dangerous, with the rather large probability of it biting me in the ass..." I muttered, trailing off, and pointing out defensively, "Look, at least I have a plan! What, were you just going to leave him chained up in your basement indefinitely?"
"Kinda plannin' on it, yeah," he confirmed matter-of-factly. "It's not like he doesn't deserve it."
Couldn't argue with that.
"True. But do we?"
"Much has happened since I've been gone…" Castiel reflected soberly on all he had gained from the conversation.
"You don't even know the half of it," I remarked emphatically.
"I don't," he agreed, looking at me a little puzzledly.
I returned it with a slightly exasperated look of my own, and as if Dean could see the exchange transpiring right in front of him, he laughed, "Yeah, he does that. Take good care of our boy, gunslinger girl."
"Fuck you, Dean."
"Up yours, Hadley."
Disgusted, I shut the phone off speaker and shoved it at Castiel. "Here, you talk to him. I just can't even..."
As they discussed travel plans over the phone, I merely followed Sam's directive in getting as far away from the ringing headache of angel mojo as humanly possible. I had no idea where I was going, I just drove furiously in the opposite direction until Cas hung up, and silence once again smothered the enclosed space of the vehicle.
"Well?" I prompted him shortly. "Which way, Sacajawea? Don't leave me hanging here."
"You're not hanging from anything," he pointed out astutely, giving me that cocked-headed, puzzled look again.
I sighed heavily, rephrasing, "that's correct. However, I am waiting in terrible suspense—not unlike the feeling of hanging from a noose with one's lungs screaming for relief—for you to give me directions." I smiled with forced patience. "Does that clear a few things up?"
Understanding lit up in his eyes like a Christmas tree, and he answered, "Oh. Of course." Obligingly, he detailed, "Sam and Dean wish to meet us at a dinner in Illinois to discuss tactics."
"Okay…sounds good." I nodded slowly eyeing the green highway signs for pointers, relieved to see I was headed in the right direction, which also happened to be heading away from the Angels, although… It seemed as if they were always on the edge of my senses, just managing to keep dogging our trail…
Frowning, I looked to Castiel and queried, "Got any ideas about how to throw the hounds off our scent? I think they're still following us somehow."
His eyes narrowed. "I was afraid of that." He frowned and explained, "I know of a way to 'throw them off the scent,' but it will cost us a fair amount…"
"Not an issue," I assured, and reached into my jacket pocket to toss him the wallet full of scammed cards. It was when he fumbled quite spectacularly with a sharp intake of breath that I looked at him closely for the first time…
Clearly, he was exhausted. His dirty clothes looked to have been fished out of a dumpster somewhere, and it was only due to the fact my window was all the way down that I hadn't noticed the stench of them earlier… His hair was greasy, and his eye bags had bags under them, not to mention he was now cradling his injured hand against himself, and was evidently not doing well with his pain threshold—though, admirably, he had not voiced a single sound of complaint.
A strong feeling of remorse nearly overcame me for how insensitive I was acting. I looked away and merged into the next exit.
"Never mind all that right now..." I told him softly. "Let's get you taken care of first."
"I'm fine," he rasped and attempted to sit straighter as if that would somehow prove it. Judging by the grimace on his face, even that effort proved challenging.
I merely stared him down out of the corner of my eye with a stern look until he gave in with a reluctant nod.
I checked us into a somewhat nicer motel than the ones I'd bunked at on my way to Indiana. I figured Castiel deserved it after all the shit he'd been through these last few days. He really was taking it all like a champ, I thought—which just made me feel worse for him. While he was in the shower, I made a quick run to the convenience store and a halfway decent fast food chain for some hydrogen peroxide and a hot meal respectively.
I managed to get the bloodstains out of the clothes I found at the laundromat, and actually made it back to the room right as I heard the shower head shut off. Perfect timing? Or just a really long shower? I was willing to bet on the former. Were I in his shoes, I probably would have spent a good portion of it contemplating whether or not to attempt at drowning myself...but then again, that's just me.
When he emerged from the steamy washroom wrapped in a hotel robe with his dumpster diver suit under one arm, I shook my head at him.
"Hey, throw those stinky things out—I come bearing gifts." I tossed his old clothes onto the second bed and watched his expression change from glum resignation to pleasant surprise.
"How did you find them?" he asked incredulously.
I shrugged, my lips curling ironically when I admitted, "sheer, dumb luck?"
"Thank you," he said sincerely, running a hand over the old familiar threads almost reverently. Hell, after being forced into the dumpster suit, I'd probably feel the same about any clean clothes.
"Don't thank me yet—I'm not through with you." I patted the space next to me on the bed. "Sit. Let's take a look at that hand."
He gave me a longsuffering look, but complied with no other protest. I winced in sympathy at the damage, and dabbed at it gently with a peroxide soaked cotton ball from the Mustang's meager first aid kit. It probably wasn't the best nor the gentlest choice of antiseptic, but it was what I had.
I sighed and shook my head.
"This is definitely going to need stitches...but hopefully plasters will hold it over until we reach Sam and Dean. They'll fix you right up in no time, I'm sure."
The angel didn't answer. Only stared at the red gash on his palm like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Frowning with an overabundance of concern, I placed a careful hand on his shoulder and asked softly, "...Castiel? Are you alright?"
He tore his eyes away from his wounded hand then, transferring that unfathomable gaze to sweep every corner of my face, finally admitting, "I'm...overwhelmed."
Join the club.
I was unable to help but smile brightly at him. I couldn't contain a huff of laughter either.
But at his troubled frown, I merely shook my head and remarked, "let me guess—you feel completely out of your depth. You feel lost and confused, like you've been tossed into a completely different world with no chance of ever returning to where you were, or the way things used to be. Like you'll never be home again." I sighed. "Furthermore, you wonder if home is even worth going back to."
If possible, his intrigued expression only deepened, and he voiced, "You really must be a Prophet. I didn't believe it at first. All the Prophets who ever were, or ever shall be, are known to angels, and I did not recognize you…" His eyes scanned my face yet again, as if hoping to find some sort of answers there, and he asked, "How is this possible?"
Again, I laughed softly and shook my head. "Trust me, I've asked myself that question more times than I can count in the past few days…"
Castiel's face was grim as he ventured, "I assume you were called after Kevin… This is terrible news." His frown was somber but painted a picture of reluctant acceptance as he asked, "how did he meet his demise?"
Once again, I laughed, and explained, "Oh, no. Kevin's not dead. You'll see him when we get back to the bunker." Castiel's almost permanently baffled expression only solidified further, and I smiled sympathetically. "It's a long story. Here—" I handed him a bag with a burger and fries "—you eat something, and I'll help catch you up to speed. Agreed?"
He regarded the offering dubiously, but the awful noise his stomach was making at him seemed to settle the matter in his mind, and he nodded in resigned sobriety. "Agreed."
And so I caught him up with current events, including Crowley's largely unwanted presence at the bunker, Sam and Dean's account of the return of Abaddon, the Knight of Hell, and her quest to usurp the missing King, and on top of all that, a gateway to another reality and its unwilling admit-one.
"And you were the Prophet from your reality. Yes, I see now. It makes sense," Castiel nodded to himself surely.
"Heh, that would make more sense, however…" I contradicted, "God was the one who made me a Prophet."
"Yes…" The angel's brow furrowed once more in confusion. "God made all the prophets."
"No," I shook my head, explaining, "you don't understand, Castiel—God only made me a Prophet after I got here."
He choked so violently on a fry at that admission, I was afraid I was going to have to perform the Heimlich.
After that mini-crisis, Castiel, gawked at me for a second, and said, "Just to clarify, you're implying that our Father appeared before you and personally blessed you with his heavenly gift."
"In a dream, yes. No implications here, just cold hard facts," I muttered unhappily. "And I wouldn't call it a gift—I'd say it's more of a giant problem..."
"But you saw him," Castiel persisted avidly. "He spoke to you."
"Yes," I answered slowly and concisely. "He said he's a little concerned about random rifts to other realities opening up in the world he made, and spitting people, such as myself, out. Only he doesn't think it's random, so he's made up his mind to conduct some kind of cosmic investigation."
I decided to leave out the bits about book deals, and cat blogs. I was afraid it might actually make Castiel's head explode. He looked close enough to spontaneous combustion as it was.
He took several deep, calming breaths before pointing out, "I once spent a very long time looking for him. Praying for his help. He did not answer then, nor did he seem concerned that the world he made was tearing itself apart..." He took another breath, evidently striving to keep a level head, before continuing, "You're one of the very few who have spoken with him in a millennia. You may know him better than anyone on Earth, at the moment. For all that, in your opinion, why do you suppose he is choosing to involve himself now?"
I frowned. To be perfectly honest, I had thought about this many times already. I still didn't know why he chose to appear to me—even if it was only in my dream. He didn't seem the sort to care lightly about the individual. So then I could only assume, that it was less to do with me personally, and more to do with the situation surrounding me. He'd said it himself. The rifts were a serious concern, even to higher beings like himself… And I think I had a few theories about why.
"Castiel...something I think you should understand is that despite popular opinion...God is far from perfect. And he may have lit the spark of life in this world, but since then, it's taken on a will of its own, and he can't always fix everything with a snap of his fingers," I explained, reluctantly playing God's advocate. "I think...the reason he didn't come to aid you in the fight against Lucifer is because...well, he still can't stand to face the favorite son that he needed to lock away."
At that, Castiel's expression took on a thoughtful, contemplative look as he considered that possibility. I didn't know if I was right or not, but considering what I knew about Chuck, and his relationship with Lucifer, it was my best explanation for his behavior during the would-be apocalypse. But that's not what Castiel asked.
"As for why he's chosen to involve himself now, with the rift…" I continued, my eyes going dark as I examined the tacky motel carpet beneath my toes contemplatively. After a moment, I met Castiel's eyes again and answered gravely, "I can only assume he's trying to stop reality from unwinding itself." At his daunted gaze, I shrugged sheepishly. "I could be completely off, so...use your own best judgement. But...it seems to me like the only reason important enough at the moment for him to come out of retirement is a scenario where not only do we cease to exist..." I paused solemnly, "...but so does he."
Castiel's face was grave as I presented my grim theory, and he asked, "Have you shared this with Sam and Dean yet?"
I shook my head no. "I figured they've got enough to deal with as it is without adding bigger problems to their plate. And it's still just conjecture at this point. There's really not much any of us can do, I don't think, unless God decides to let us in on what's really happening...which honestly seems unlikely." I grimaced with a shrug. "One thing at time, right?"
"Right..." Castiel sighed, frowning in thought as he considered my side profile carefully. "I have one more question."
I turned to face him fully with a valiant effort at a smile, though it probably ended up looking incredibly forced. "Sure. What's on your mind?"
"Why make another Prophet?" he wondered critically. "There's only ever been one at a time. It makes very little sense…"
I shrugged again and shook my head. "It seemed like a spur of the moment kind of affair. I already knew a good bit about the future—a future anyway, our realities are non-linear and this one is portrayed as a TV show in mine, as crazy as that sounds—and he doesn't know if he'll be able to send me back since there are so many…" I trailed off a little at that dreadful prospect, biting my lip sharply to stop it from shaking. A bit bitterly, I continued, "I don't know, Castiel. He said something about the Prophet bloodlines dying out, and that if I never ended up going home, I could start a new one, and that could be my 'purpose' here…"
"Breeding a new line of Prophets?" he mused with dawning comprehension.
"Yeah…" I muttered, the bitterness growing in my voice. "Breeding."
Castiel nodded unthinkingly, unable to sense the anger brewing in my chest.
"It's a worthy purpose, and a distinguished legacy to leave," he began brightly with a naive sort of optimism that ended up sparking my temper.
"Yeah, one I never asked for," I snarled back. "Oh, and one more thing—who would ever want to bring a child into a fucked up world like this?"
He seemed to be a little struck speechless as he fully grasped the concept that a kid would inevitably have to be involved in the forming of said legacy. More importantly, my kid. And I'd been through enough hell in the past few days that I couldn't even contemplate condemning someone to it for an entire lifetime. It was wrong, and nobody seemed to consider the consequences involved in any of it except for me.
And now Castiel, apparently, who was beginning to take on a thoroughly abashed, pink cheeked countenance.
"I didn't think about that…" he admitted ruefully.
"Yeah," I muttered with a reconciled sort of shrug. "Nobody ever does. God certainly didn't." I rolled my eyes. "And doesn't. He seems to have a lot of trouble wrapping his head around the fact that actions have consequences. The greater the action, the greater the consequence. And creating a bloodline—a life? Or in God's case, life itself?" I shook my head. "The consequences are endless..." I concluded bleakley with a grim smile at the carpet, "I'm just part of the collateral damage."
Eventually, after a length of contemplative silence, I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Castiel's blue eyes filled with a profound look of understanding.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.
My eyes took on an understanding of their own, and I nodded gravely.
"Me too..."
Hey! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Lots more action next time, and Sam and Dean catch up :)
Let me know what you think!
Reviews help with the writing process :)
