Part Two of Four. This was betaed by the lovely ~Sierra Nichole, she rocks! Worship her!
Summary: It wasn't real...
Salt of the Earth
"It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we have invented them…"
-East of Eden; John Steinbeck
Saint Patrick's Cathedral, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260,
September 13
0942 Hours
...
McCoy couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene. There was an ugliness, a raw pain in his gut over it. The shadows of feathers, pale blue of the dead's flesh. It was consuming but… there was a power here. A rippling effect, like after it all some great warmth had tried to heal the earth around the devastation.
Miracle...
It wasn't the right word. There were bodies, frozen and twisted on the ground. It couldn't be a miracle. People didn't die in miracles. The air wasn't torn from their throats and their lungs flooded, they weren't tossed onto the sidewalk and stairs of hollow ground were the pavement was blackened into the shapes of wings, like discarded tin toys.
The name did not fit. The spiritual creatures that looked on the scene first found no other name for the sight. But McCoy would not call it a miracle when life slipped away... much less, if he must believe the akimbo shadow wings, the lives of three angels.
McCoy swallowed thickly and stared at the slender Asian man, his neck snapped back into an odd angle, eyes glazed and half lidded a color of brown so dark and pure it was nearly black. He barely heard the hum of the yellow caution lasers or the crowd speculating around him.
"This ain't natural." McCoy muttered and Kirk choked slightly.
"Not natural? Course it's not, there's a bunch of dead angels on the ground." The blond sputtered and sniffed, rubbing his nose. His tone almost mocking on the word for the seraphim.
McCoy rolled his neck so he looked dead on at Kirk. "Little respect?"
"It's a hoax or something, Bones. Relax." Kirk shrugged and lifted his chin to see over the crowd and look towards the cathedral, a few moments of looking into the gaping wounds of broken windows and stone work of perched angels and demons a slight smirk crossed his lips. Kirk reached out, grabbed a handful of McCoy's sleeve and yanked, dragging the doctor after him.
The older man jerked back, breaking contact. "What?" he growled.
"C'mon, bet there's a way in through the back of the church." Kirk started to weave his way through the people.
"Jim!" McCoy snapped, reaching to try and catch the captain but only ended with a handful of Cardassian flesh. McCoy apologized absently before shoving after the other man. "Jim!"
"Keep up with me Bones!" Kirk barked back over his shoulder and broke from the crowd into a trot in the shadow of the cathedral. McCoy sprinted after him, grabbing the captain's shoulder and hauled him back.
"Jim! Stop!"
"C'mon, Bones." Kirk grinned, a lopsided quirk of his lips. "It's not like they roped it off."
"What is this, Jim?" McCoy snapped. "Why do you want into a damn murder site?"
"Technically, it's not a murder site yet." Kirk ducked away and jogged along the wall of the cathedral. McCoy hot on his heels. The captain stalked long until he found a propped open back door and a flight of stairs. Grinning wolfishly, Kirk danced his way down the stairs into the refinished basement and office level of the cathedral. The sound of his boots muffled by thick, wine colored carpeting. His steps slowed and he stalked along the plain, cream colored hall, quirking his eyebrow at the labels screwed into the plaster next to simple doors.
McCoy kept a clipped pace a step behind, the tension was wrought tight between his shoulders. There was a weight in this building, it was pressing in, down from all sides and threatening to swallow him up. Something was here... or had happened here... something far deeper and more powerful than the shadows etched into the asphalt and the old growth tree outdoors. The air was almost hard to breath; it tasted like heated metal and salt... like blood. The air tasted like blood.
McCoy felt deep in his gut the instinct to run, bolt and get away as quickly as possible. It felt as if the blessing that had been cast on this hallowed ground centuries before had been roughly and haphazardly ripped away. And whatever it was might still be in this once sacred place.
"Jim. Jim we need to get out of here. Somethin's not right." McCoy hissed, even as he acknowledged it the weight settled deeply on his chest and snaked around his throat, tightening and gaining weight.
"Bones, seriously. Stop being so paranoid. You think there's always something wrong..." Jim sighed and started up a set of stone and wood stairs that led in a slow spiral up into the main hall and floor. Kirk put his shoulder against the heavy wood of a door and shoved it open and stood back to let Bones into the preparation room that was only separated from the main hall by a thin wall and a door behind the alter. Jim trotted happily across the unremarkable room and through to the towering ceiling and ornate main room. McCoy dipped his head respectfully as he crossed the dais and quickly stepped down to the main floor and the aisle between the pews. Jim lingered, strolling casually under the depiction of Christ and his cross mounted on the wall.
Here, in the hall, McCoy felt his skin tightening and crawling and the weight tightened around his throat. He choked and broke into a fit of coughing at the suffocating weight of the shadows in the room full of light. The destroyed windows letting the sun filter through the dust motes and pulverized glass still hanging in the air.
It was here... might have stood in the very spot he was now.
"Bones? Bones?! Christ!" Kirk rushed down to his side, resting a hand lightly on McCoy's back. "C'mon Bones! Breathe!"
The doctor tried desperately to draw air back into his lungs but it only tasted and smelled of more blood and ash. He felt Kirk grip his arm and haul him around into one of the pews, forcing his back to straighten, taking some of the pressure of his torso and air rushed into his lungs. He choked on it, it still tasted like hot metal but at least it was moving through him.
McCoy's head fell back and he rasped, his throat aching and tight but he was breathing, his heart began to slow and calm.
"God, Bones. A panic attack?" Kirk's voice flickered, wavering slightly and he sounded unsettled. The doctor didn't quite register it; he focused on calming his heart and breathing. His mind was still spinning.
The sound of a set of heavy wooden double doors opening and footsteps echoed in the room. McCoy felt Kirk tense, his fingers tightening in his shoulder. He heard the draw of air, as if Kirk was going to call for help.
A new rush of power rippled over McCoy at his back, coming from the intruders. Blood rushed, thundering in his ears and his breathing hitched again. He wasn't sure if it was the corruption that had swallowed up the cathedral, but he wasn't taking any chances. McCoy grabbed a fistful of Kirk's flesh and shirt and hauled him down, sliding to the floor and pressing his back into the pew. He slammed his palm so hard across Kirk's mouth the captain's head snapped back and looked like he'd get whiplash.
McCoy figured he'd also have bruises, the way his fingers dug into Kirk's jaw. McCoy pressed his own hand over his mouth and nose, stifling his own breathing. His heart was thundering wildly, blood pulsing in his ears. He heard Kirk shifting and felt him twitching slightly but the smaller, younger man didn't fight him, only consciously tried to slow his breathing and twisted sideways to try and see over the pew.
"Looks like a bust, Cas... thing must have gotten away with what he wanted."
The voice was raspy, like a rattle filled with sand and broken gravel. It may have been deep and rich once but now was damaged beyond repair. McCoy shut his eyes and stayed still. In the quiet the sound of wings cutting through air echoed in the hall. There was a feeling of displaced air and a new, thicker and heavier weight settled in the atmosphere, a new presence burst into being. The smell of ozone overpowered the scent of blood.
There was a tense moment of silence then a breath and a second voice, low and raspy by nature, spoke.
"Abaddon."
McCoy's heart stopped cold in his chest. He knew that name. It rushed back to him from his childhood, sprung from the slender pages of the Bible about the end of humanity, about a world washed in fire and disease, about a second coming of the Great Fallen, the pages devoted to the apocalypse.
Abaddon. Abaddon the Angel of War. The Destroyer. Abaddon that flew on wings drenched in blood. Abaddon was in this room.
No...
McCoy squeezed his eyes shut, feeling salt and water prickling at the edges and he prayed, begged that the creature was only named for the angel. Maybe a xeno that had crossed the name by accident or it meant something else on a different planet.
"Ya know I can feel the vibrations of every battlefield as it comes into existence. Otherwise I would not have heard of it for some time, they were a part of Ramiel's Legion. They'll mourn bit longer..."
Oh God... no...
A tear slid down McCoy's cheek and he barely heard the rest of the conversation. More names dropped. Fallen. Watchers. Focalor. Castiel. Dean. The fear deepened, swallowing the doctor until he was near numb. He shivered violently, hoped and prayed he and Kirk were too small, to unimportant to be noticed as Biblical story after story slammed into him, long buried in the earliest days of his religious education. The books written about creatures that couldn't be; demons and shapeshifters, witches and ghouls and creatures that were made into plotless horror movies. They weren't real. They couldn't be real. They were only taught because they were a part of the Bible, you weren't supposed to take the apocalyptic gospel seriously, it was just the strange writings of a Prophet centuries ago that held enough weight to be put into the Book.
It wasn't real...
"Sister... you know He was here."
There was a ringing silence as the footsteps died away, McCoy felt Kirk shift, twisting but the doctor dare not move. There had been no departure of Abaddon.
For a long moment McCoy felt as if he would choke on his own bile. Then a single, slow and deliberate foot step echoed in the quiet.
McCoy felt his heart stop again and next to him Kirk went very still.
Slowly the creature started to weave through the pews, walking slowly up and down with only the sound of boots hitting stone. Each step was sent a shiver through McCoy until he felt like he was near convulsing. It came closer, almost strolling casually until they echoed from the space between their pew and the one behind it.
Keep goin'... please... keep goin'...
The steps stopped. Not a hitch or a hesitation, a full out stop. McCoy squeezed his eyes tighter shut and sat still and rigid. He daren't open his eyes, much less look up to where he knew the creature was looking down on them.
After a moment that lasted long enough for a single, terrified sob to slip through his clenched teeth and palm, then the steps resumed. Walking slowly behind them, so close McCoy could feel the heat through the wood of the pew into his back.
A sensation slid across his skull, sharp and solid and so real McCoy trembled.
It was feeling of a feathered wing tip dragging through his hair, crossing his crown and passing over his brow. He felt the quills of individual feathers tangle in his hair and eyelashes as they swept passed and just as suddenly as the sensation was there it was gone again.
The footsteps echoed, moving away until they stopped and the sound of wings stroking the air filled the hall and the weight of Abaddon's presence dissipated.
McCoy hesitated for a moment longer before choking out another half strangled sob before he slumped against the pew and tried desperately to breathe, his hands falling slack to the floor, damp with his own and Kirk's sweat and saliva.
"Bones? Bones? Easy, man, what happened? What was that all about? Who was that? Bones? McCoy, c'mon! Snap out of it!"
"True... Jim... " McCoy's teeth rattled as he shook through his recovery."Jim... every word of it was true..."
"What? What they said? You know what they were talking about?"
"The apocalypse..." McCoy rolled his head to the side and noticed a Bible abandoned in their pew, he stretched, drawing it near and pressing it to his lips.
"Apoca... like the end of the world?" Kirk rasped, McCoy could almost hear the younger man's skin paling in his voice.
Slowly and stiffly he flipped through the thick book, moving blindly through it towards the end then set it on the floor, the pages bent to the title and beginning of the last chapters. Kirk twisted his neck to read the titles.
"The Winchester Gospel?
…
Sunlit Days Motel, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260
September 13
1503 Hours
Castiel was sleeping again. Dean glanced at him, the smaller man curled up around his core. Castiel's arms were wrapped tightly around his stomach, fingers dug into his sides and knees drawn up. A battered and faded copy of Watership Down, spine long broken, open on the mattress near his elbow. Castiel's breathing was slow and even, soothing, a steady rhythm that for some strange reason reminded Dean that he's alive. Not the other way around.
Dean watched Castiel's back rise and fall, slowing his own breathing to make the rasps of his bunkmate in the silent room the only noise. A steady calming pattern in the crush of surreality around them.
Probably the reason why the sound of wings filling the rented room was so easy to hear. Dean barely blinked and the russet haired she-angel was perched lightly on the edge of the mattress at Castiel's back. She watched her sibling for a moment before stiffly and awkwardly reaching out to thread her fingers into the man's hair, combing through it with an efficiency that teetered stiltedly towards gentleness and affection. Castiel didn't stir and Dean turned back to the confining space of the bathroom.
Abaddon wasn't the best when it came to being comforting or light handed. She wasn't designed for it, literally. But sometimes she tried, tried to be gentle and soothing. It seemed kind of desperate when she did and Dean wondered if the Antistratigos was sick of being the Angel of War, that she'd like to resign to something like watching over rainstorms or librarians or whatever patron assignments they gave angels that weren't cut out for battle.
Dean felt a kinship for it, if that's what it really was. So when Xena the Warrior Angel sat on the edge of their mattresses and pet her brother's hair while he slept or politely borrowed the dog eared Stephen King novel from Dean to read the Hunter kept any comments to himself.
Dean finished brushing his teeth, swilled a mouthful of water and spit into the sink. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand then scrubbed the back of his hand across the thigh of his jeans before walking into the main room of the rented room.
"Got a name for us, Abby?" Dean asked in a hushed voice. He wanted Castiel to stay undisturbed as long as possible. He moved, soft footed, across to the spindly legged, metal table and chairs set up under the window. The laptop, ancient by standards, was open and humming quietly on one corner next to discarded wrappers from an impromptu brunch. Dean ghosted his fingers over the touch pad and the darkened screen blinked onto a search website. His hand poised over the keyboard and waited for a name he knew wasn't going to improve him mood. Didn't matter which one, he just hop-
"Focalor."
Damn
Dean's hand settled on the edge of the metal and turned white knuckled, the Hunter let out a breath, it was exhausted and broken, Hell it was almost painful.
"One of Ramiel's slipped away from the Griffin. He was too young to know Focalor but described him well enough." Abaddon continued quietly.
Dean sighed again. "Is he alright? The angel?"
"He'll heal. Near had a wing torn from him. More worried 'bout his mental state."
"Why?"
"It's not easy. Lookin' on the Great Fallen... much less one of the archdemons. Especially for the fledglin's, they're barely children."
"Glad to know things have gotten to the point you guys are using child soldiers." Dean snarled.
"They are young but they ain't helpless, Dean."
"Whatever Abby... is the Griffin like... a real griffin?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck and sank wearily into one of the chairs. "Am I going to need a broadsword or something?"
Abaddon only cast her jade eyes towards him for a moment before turning her attention back towards the door of the small room. It led out onto a narrow catwalk of the inn. Dean impulsively twisted and glanced towards the door, making sure that someone wasn't walking through it.
When he turned back, Abaddon was still sitting there. The Hunter actually felt a knot in his chest loosen. He was so used to angels disappearing when he turned his back, when Abaddon stayed or Castiel stayed it soothed him a little.
"Any clue why?" He asked, drawing her eyes to him.
"Why this city?" Dean nodded his head slightly. "Not sure. This city is utterly unremarkable."
Dean quirked his lips. That's how it worked most of the time. Big cities, renowned for art and architecture, famous figures and historical events didn't hold candles to pin pricks on the map when it came to importance. Gateways into Hell, places of angelic resurrection, battles, seals, the door to Lucifer's cage all were and happened in Nowheresville, America.
"Yeah." He agreed quietly.
"Other than a few souls with the potential to be vessels and a Nephilim, there's nothin' here... maybe it was the presence of our Father that drew him." She shrugged one shoulder.
Dean twitched at the word 'Nephilim', but typically the angelic half-breeds kept to themselves and stayed underground. He sighed and looked towards Castiel. "Abby... think we'll find him?"
"I hope ya do. I'll tell ya what, I'm sick of the civil war; I'm tired of fightin' my own kin."
Dean nodded, he remembered the Hell his life had been whenever the Winchesters were at each other's throats, especially when Dean was playing mediator... which was almost always. He sat in companionable silence with Abaddon and the sleeping Castiel for a moment.
"So what do we do?" Dean asked. The sound of Abaddon drawing deep breath lifted his eyes to watch the she-angel bend, reaching over her slumbering sibling and lift the battered book from the bedspread near Castiel's arm.
Dean's eyes drifted over the worn and faded image of a rabbit on the front as Abaddon absently turned to the first page.
"That is a difficult question, Dean." The Antistratigos murmured. "Focalor is... very old. Been in the Pit for a while. I have only looked in Focalor's eyes once, but never crossed steel or wings with him. I'm not sure he could be slain, even the possibility castin' him back is..."
The sigh sounded like one of Dean's own.
"He will not go quietly, Dean. If I'm the one to face him-"
"And that means?" Dean interrupted her, not liking the idea of any angel other than Abaddon accompanying the Hunt.
"Ramiel may make a blood claim, that Focalor spilled the blood of his Legion and his Legion will have the rights to him, then... I can do nothin'. I doubt it though. Ramiel is a dreamer, a diviner of visions; his Legion is made of... sandmen and seers."
If Dean didn't know better he heard a tinge of disgust and a twitch of envy in the Angel of War's voice.
"Ramiel will want blood, he is a soldier and an archangel but... he has lost some of his fiver and he'd happily pass the duty on to another, especially if he thinks if it'll get the job done cleaner and faster."
"You." Dean grumbled. "The Antistratigos."
Abaddon only lifted her hands, Watership Down held in one, and let them fall in a way that told of both defeat and acceptance. "And yet he is an Archangel and I'm only a seraphim, and I'm at his command. Even as The Stratigos' second."
The Stratigos. The General. Michael. Abaddon never used his name. Never said 'Michael', only called him The Stratigos. Dean figured it was out of respect, he didn't like the idea of anything holding fear over Abaddon enough that she refused to speak its name, Prince General of the Host or not.
"And I'll take on the duty. Though I fear Focalor'll rip out every feather I have."
Dean flinched at the bitter humor in Abaddon's voice.
"Then we fight smart." Dean ground out and quickly typed in the Fallen's name and pulled up as much information on Focalor he could find... it wasn't much. "How long before Ramiel decides?"
"A day. Maybe a little more. I doubt he'll go to The Stratigos askin' for my service. Probably just take it."
"And get you killed."
Abaddon shrugged one shoulder and looked down at the neat, small printed words of the first page of the novel in her hand and threaded the fingers of the other into Castiel's hair. Dean sighed heavily and turned his attention to the screen of the laptop and scanning the scarce information there with one viridian eye twitched back to try and keep an eye on the Antistratigos. His tongue itched to speak until he couldn't contain himself.
"You will have to admit, Abby, if we bag Focalor, we win forever."
"Until Lucifer." Abaddon wrinkled her nose just slightly as she turned the page of the novel and Dean felt himself deflating.
"Yeah... until Lucifer." Dean ducked his head slightly, gritting his teeth against the heavy silence he expected.
"After Lucifer then we win forever."
Dean's lips quirked at Abaddon's words.
...
Saint Patrick's Cathedral, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260
September 13
1334 Hours
Kirk had seen the doctor act and react to some of the highest stress situations in the known universe and never... never... had there been more than snarled curses, rolled eyes and complaints for a few hours to days afterwards.
Now... Kirk watched the older man tear through the shelves of antique, leather bound books, flipping them open and when they didn't yield what he was looking for tossed them impatiently to the floor with the sound of pages bending and spines cracking.
Slipping into a cathedral and walking around in its empty halls and spaces was one thing. It was rebellious but it wasn't dangerous, wasn't destructive. It may have lacked a little respect... but it wasn't tearing through the private, basement libraries bishops and monsignors, man handling books that were possibly centuries old.
McCoy hadn't been doing well from the second he stepped into the cathedral, the shallow breathing and pale pallor. Kirk had just figured it was a little of his fiend's southern raising getting to him, that all religious guilt taking hold.
The hyperventilating and panic attack had been frightening to a point it was sobering and Kirk's bottle of Johnny Walker Blue was still on the alter in the main hall. Then the panic at the intruders that Kirk was pretty sure were either delusional or fictional writers, all that talk about angels and a griffin, soldiers and legions and historical names, someone named Alexander and Pike's name, how the Hell had that slipped in.
That was another thing. Hell. They talked about Hell and the Pit and... well none of it made any sense.
But whatever it had been had pretty much turned McCoy catatonic at least for a little while, until they were all gone.
Now... now he was just in some kind of frenzy, Kirk sidestepped quickly to avoid a thick tome hurled roughly in at the general height of his knees. He was still holding the Bible, the pages turned to the Winchester Gospel. At least McCoy was acknowledging him, talking to him, whatever this... crisis was he wasn't too far gone. But what McCoy was telling him...
"Some guy named Chuck?"
"Charles. Charles Shurley."
Kirk tried not to short, gritting his teeth a little. "Chuck... wrote a bunch of stories about these two guys that started, then fought off the Apocalypse and monsters and... and the Devil... and they put it in the Bible?"
McCoy grunted, taking a little longer to flip through the pages of one book before dropping it heavily to the floor. Kirk actually flinched when the leather connected with the carpet.
"And you're telling me those two guys and the chick are the people in the story-"
"It's not a story. It's scripture... and it's true." McCoy's voice hitched and it sounded like he was having a hard time believing it himself. "I never understood it, it didn't have an end. They never finished it, Makes sense now, it didn't end. They're still huntin'."
The doctor snarled and shoved three books of his way at a time with a bark of a noise that sounded like frustration. Kirk started to speak then drew back. He probably shouldn't encourage McCoy. Maybe if he stood back and let it run its course McCoy would settle down enough that he wouldn't need a psych evaluation. The sounds of flipping pages and creaking leather stilled and Kirk instantly looked up. McCoy had paused; he was looking blankly at a page in the book in his hands.
Kirk waited, gritting his teeth against speaking and hoping that maybe this was the break, that whatever it was that had snapped the doctor had caught up to his senses and was pulling him back.
Five minutes crawled by and McCoy stayed still, searching over the page, his eyes dulled and glassy in the artificial light. Kirk swallowed and spoke carefully, hesitantly to his friend.
"Bones..."
The man flinched at the nickname, as if Kirk had slapped him, not spoken, and the book tumbled from his hands, spilling onto the floor with a crush of old paper. He looked up at Kirk, he looked stricken, his pallor paling even further, a shiver rippled through him.
"Why are they here?"
Kirk's head jerked slightly and he looked at McCoy helplessly. "I don't-"
"They're angels, Jim. Angels." He let out a shuddering breath. "They're not supposed to be here. They were only here... they'd only still be here 'cause... Lucifer...."
The last word was barely a crackle of a whisper. A panicky, flutter of a noise.
"Lucifer's still walkin' the earth..." The words were a shattered breath and Kirk couldn't help the shiver that raced through him. He shook it off, almost desperately, trying to get rid of the lingering chill the statement left.
"Bones, c'mon. You don't believe that. Lucifer? it's just a story. It's all a story-"
"Ya said ya looked at her! Ya saw her!" McCoy accused.
"All I saw was some red head with a scar all down the side of her face. She wasn't anything special, Bones. She looked at me then looked at you a little then walked away, that was it." Kirk pleaded and McCoy snarled at him before shoving passed the younger man and charging down the hall towards the back exit of the cathedral. Kirk stumbled and rushed to follow.
"Bones! Bones, c'mon, where are you going?" Kirk quickened his pace when the doctor did. "Bones! You have to snap out of this!"
McCoy only broke into a jog, bounding up the steps and breaking out of the cathedral, slowing once he stepped out of its shadow. He gasped, sucking in air like he couldn't breathe and braced his hands on his knees. Kirk rushed to grab one of his arms and helped ease the man down to the earth, sitting and hunching on the asphalt McCoy shivered and panted.
"Bones-"
"The smell. It got to be too much."
"The smell?"
"It smelled like blood. Every room, all the walls, the books... like they were painted with it."
"Blood. Are you sure?" All Kirk had scented in the cathedral was the drifted remains of burned incense, old books and cold stone.
"Blood and metal." McCoy rasped and seemed to be collecting himself, his breathing was slowing and getting steadier, calming. Kirk could feel his pulse slowing. "It felt like he was still in there."
Kirk hesitated. "Lucifer?"
"Focalor."
"The guy they were talking about? The one that killed all those people on the sidewalk?" Kirk asked, hoping he was wrong, this was getting too strange, to elaborate for the young captain.
The doctor nodded. McCoy leaned back, setting his hands behind him and tilting his head back, sucking in the air lacking the oppression that had been in the hall and basement rooms and offices. "He was there, there before the angels came, he'll come back... didn't find what he was lookin' for..."
Kirk crouched next to his friend, the physical signs of panic were faded, McCoy seemed calmer, lucid and was actually relaxing. But the speech, still centered around demons and angels and some war...
"Bones how do you know?"
The older man twitched his head to the side and looked towards Kirk out of the corner of his eyes before letting his head drop until his chin touched his chest. The doctor shoved himself up and buried his face in his hands, threading his fingers in his hair.
"Bones?"
"I can hear 'em, Jim." McCoy shivered hard. "I can hear 'em talkin'..."
...
Sunlit Day Motel, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260
September 13
1830 Hours
Dean blinked his eyes open slowly. He stayed still, listening to the world, drawing in the scents around him, assessing the confined space of their rented room.
There was a soft flutter of noise, a rhythmic steady chatter that seemed to come from all around him, but it was muffled by steel and plaster, glass and wall paper. The rumble was familiar and foreign at the same time.
Rain.
Dean couldn't remember the last time it rained. The world's climate was so altered since Dean's childhood that the common weather fluxes were all but nonexistent. The south and southwest looked like the Sahara. The Midwest was starting to look like scrub deserts but in the north it was still the north. Colorado and Montana, the Dakotas, they were still cool, still fresh with rain and snow. But for how long? Dean wondered if the day would come that he and Castiel chased the rain and snow into Canada and further. Rain this south, this far west, was rare.
Dean almost couldn't control the slight smile that played across his lips before he smothered it and rubbed a hand through his hair.
Carefully he rolled out of the bowed hollow of the mattress his weight and body heat had created. Socked feet hit the flooring soundlessly and the Hunter looked around the confined space. The copy of Watership Down was still on the other bed, Castiel boots neatly sitting at the foot of the bed.
Dean cocked an eyebrow and rubbing his jaw slunk around the room towards the sliding glass doors that led out to a narrow porch looking out on a small park next to the motel, he pushed back the simple, beige curtain made of thick cloth and slipped out onto the narrow ledge. The bottom of his socks dampening on the cement but most of the rain cast off by the porch above. As he walked passed them the Angel of War on his right and the diminished Angel of Thursday on his left looked up. They were perched precariously in the seats of a set of cheap lawn furniture. Castiel sat limber and loose, his legs folding into a tight lotus position in his jeans and a loose, light cotton shirt.
Abaddon had been sitting more primly but it looked like Castiel had talked her into propping her feet up on the narrow rail around the porch, her ankles crossed and she'd slumped down into her seat a little.
Castiel had his hands wrapped around one of the motel's mugs, it was steaming happily and the sweet scent of vanilla, cinnamon and spices lingered in the air. There was a second, identical mug sitting on the concrete next to his chair that told a familiar story. Castiel had brewed two cups of the tea, coaxed Abaddon into a few sips before she turned it over to her sibling to finish.
Abaddon's arms were folded lightly over her stomach, once she was sure of Dean her viridian gaze cast out to the world around them. The sky was dark, churning steel clouds that bubbled and rippled above. A steady sheet of rain was falling, soaking the heated asphalt. There was a bite of a chill in the air but it wasn't enough and Dean ached for the Rockies.
The hum of the steady rainfall filled his ears, drowning out the sounds of San Francisco. The smell of rain and wet cement was refreshing and Dean filled his lungs to near bursting. He stood for a moment before turning and leaning back against the rail so he faced the other two, folding his arms loosely over his chest.
Castiel looked up at him sorrowfully, hesitating a moment before offering him the mug of still steaming tea. Dean reach out and lightly lifted it from the smaller man's slim hands, brought it to his lips for a short draw of the warm liquid, then handed it back. Castiel accepted it and pulled the mug towards his chest.
Abaddon's eyes stayed looking out on the rain soaked city. Dean swallowed hard before speaking, his tone quiet but rough.
"When?"
"A few hours ago." Abaddon said quietly. "Ramiel made himself perfectly clear."
"Woke me up." Castiel murmured.
A beat of silence slipped through.
"I'll face Focalor."
Dean tensed. "You didn't say 'we' Abby."
"'Cause I'm goin' alone."
"No." Dean blinked and looked at Castiel, surprised that their voices had braided together so well. The pass of air that slipped through the Antistratigos' nose could have been considered a snort if it hadn't been so soft.
"Abby, you know there's no way in Hell me and Cas are going to skip out on this and leave you alone." Dean spat, bristling. "And yeah, you'll probably lock us in the bathroom or something. Fine. But you have a whole Legion to work with. Use 'em!"
"No."
"Abby-"
"No."
The artificial lights in the rented room burst in a crackle of glass and flash of sparked light. Dean and Castiel flinched instinctively, drawing back but Abaddon's eyes never left drenched skyline. A long tense moment hung between the trio before Abaddon's lips cracked open as she spoke, her voice low and the southern drawl deep and long.
"I could throw a thousand angels at Focalor... and they would all fall. He is an archdemon, Dean. He's one of our boogeymen." Abaddon drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll go alone and if it comes, then with my last breath I will take Focalor with me."
Dean and Castiel glanced at one another, tense and defiant of the Antistratigos' words. Dean grit his teeth and he felt some of his old resolve burn through his veins. There's no way that Dean was going to lose someone else. Castiel wasn't going to lose another sibling.
"Friggin' angels and their kamikaze morbidity." He snarled. "Abby, you want to give me a minute with Cas?"
The Angel of War looked up at Dean out of the corner of her eye.
"You're not going to stop us from helping you, Abby. So either you include us in your whole 'take him with me' plan or you get out and me and Cas work out how we're going to save your ass on our own."
The Angel of War's jaw locked, grinding and her nostrils flared in silent breath. Dean grinned, he could see her crumbling.
"Face it, Abby. Technically it'll be easier for you to keep us alive."
Dean grinned seeing the Antistratigos making one of her very rare surrenders, ones she only seemed to make for Castiel and himself. He glanced at the smaller man and felt his own lips twitch up at the approval and relief in Castiel's azure eyes; it spoke volumes of gratitude towards the Hunter.
"Now. The plan?"
...
Starfleet Medical Offices, Starfleet Academy Campus, San Francisco, California
Stardate 2260
September 13
2354 Hours
McCoy was scrubbing his hands through his hair and rubbing the waxy smudges under his eyes. He wasn't sleeping… again; the soft rumbled whispers of disembodied voices lapping against him like lazy waves. He tried to tell himself it was the sound of the rain. When it rained back home he could hear chattering in the drops of water.
This had stopped. It'd stopped when he was a child. This wasn't supposed to happen it'd been quiet for almost thirty years. He'd been alone in his head for thirty years. Wrapped around his wrists and fingers was a simple, wood bead rosary. They clacked quietly.
He sighed deeply and shakily, rasping each breath and calmed himself he focused on the noise, the sound of water running...
Wait
McCoy's head snapped up and he looked around. Rain didn't run. The gurgling, rippling noises were close, so close it felt like McCoy's ears were full of water. His heart lurched in his chest and he stiffly got to his feet, slinking passed the prone form of Kirk curled up on the edge of his bed.
The young captain had refused to leave him, stay up the whole night with him if he had to. Six hours in the alcohol in Kirk's system had caught up with him and the blonde had dozed off, leaving McCoy with the whispers and his own thoughts spinning wildly out of control.
The sound was coming from the small washroom of his dorm. His nerves strung tight McCoy slunk towards the door repressed a jump when it slid open obediently at his close proximity. McCoy felt his stomach bottom out, the small area of the floor was slick and wet, water was gushing from the narrow space of the sonic shower and pouring out in a steady fall from the sink. The doctor swallowed before gingerly stepping into the small space and looked around. He shivered violently once, the air was frigid. Every piece of metal in the room was frosted over and burning cold to the touch. McCoy stood back and watched as the mirror iced over, the air temperature dropping lower and lower until the glass cracked, making him flinch. There was a creaking and a groaning in the walls. For a second it drowned out the voices whispering around him.
McCoy shivered again and backed out of the small room, the water boiling out to follow him into his dorm, the warbling of pipes behind the walls following like the threatening growl of an unseen predator. The crushing weight of absolute fear and evil swallowed him up. The scent of blood started to flood into his nose.
"Jim..." McCoy rasped, he was shaking now.
Water. Water and ice. Focalor's choice of instrument. The pipes groaned loudly, near screaming in behind the metal and drywall. The air in the bunk was getting cold, metal was already icing over.
"Jim... JIM! Get up!" McCoy grabbed blindly for the younger man, gripping flesh and cloth he gave the captain a violent yank. Kirk yelped quietly and muttered something incoherent. "GET UP! We gotta get outta here!"
The sleep cleared from Kirk's eyes at the groaning inside the walls. "What the Hell is that noise?"
McCoy didn't let go of his fistful of flesh and fabric, hauling the smaller man up and dragging him towards the door. "Jim! Now!"
"Slow down there, boy. You're giving the impression that you're nervous."
McCoy whipped around at the strange voice, slinging Kirk to the side until the young captain was almost behind him.
The stranger lounged on the desk, leaning back on his hands and kicking his legs casually. His frame was long and limber, limbs thin enough that they looked far from strong. Dressed casually in a pair of faded jeans and a navy tee shirt that looked startlingly dark against his skin. The man looked like he could have been carved out of pale marble or maybe ice, as if he had never seen sunlight. Everything about his face was long and pointed, his hair was a blonde pale enough that bleached in the sun it could probably be white, tied back in a short pony tail. His eyes were a pale, glassy blue.
He looked young, or would have looked younger is his face wasn't twisted in an ugly grin that didn't look fit for a rabid animal. The taste of metal and sulphur bit at McCoy's senses, the room felt too small, like a stretched skin he was supposed to be wearing over his own. He was shaking hard.
"Then again-" The blue eyes rolled back into the man's head, exposing planes glassy white, pupiless and entirely inhuman, before they blinked back to the pools of blue. "-I supposed you have a reason to be."
McCoy slunk back, feeling Kirk move with him.
"Lookit you." The creature purred, a frantic grin crossing his face. "How did you hide? Almost forty years. Forty! Where were you?!"
McCoy flinched when the thing bounced off the desk and stalked forward.
"Went to your place of worship, and you weren't there. Seems like somebody fell off the wagon. Now, lookit you. All grown up. Little angelic half-breed just waiting to be plucked." The pale animal hummed in a coaxing way, clucking his tongue. "And a doctor! Oh the Boss will love that, especially when you start putting souls on the rack. You'll put Alistair to shame, rest his twisted soul!"
McCoy choked, swearing he could taste his own bile and blood trying to drown him. "Focalor..."
"Got it in one!" The archdemon barked in laughter making the two Starfleet officers flinch and cringe away. The manic grin on Focalor's face dimmed a little and his eyes darkened, sobering as he crept forward. "But... where did you learn that?"
His footsteps sloshed in the soaked floor, a terrible groan made the walls shiver and a loud rush of water filled the room, the seams of the wall bowed out and flooded as the pipe behind them finally gave way.
McCoy carefully forced Kirk back, maneuvering and trying to get towards the door.
"You... you sly old dog. You overheard something? There's somebody here that knows my name..." Focalor's narrow chest hitched and heaved in a sickly, hissing laughter. "Who? C'mon... fess up, old boy. Who was it? One of my old brothers or sisters right? One of the ones still aloft?"
McCoy flinched at every word but locked his teeth. He wasn't going to give away the names he heard in the cathedral. He shivered violently when Focalor tsked, clicking his teeth and grinned wildly.
"Oh now, mum the word, huh? I would rein in that courage and stubbornness for a little later. I'm not even going to start breaking you yet." Focalor leaned close and drew in a deep breath, literally scenting McCoy and Kirk. A stomach turning grin crossed the archdemon's face. "Touched by an angel huh?"
McCoy's stomach clenched. Abaddon's wing, it's run across his head and hair.
"Smells like Michael. Can't be. He won't say yes... must be his girl soldier." Focalor grinned knowingly.
Behind his back McCoy wrenched and twisted his hand and wrist, trying to shake free the rosary without making too much noise and attracting the archdemon's attention. Finally he felt the beads and threat pool in his hand. Before Focalor could take another step forward McCoy ducked, sinking and soaking the rosary in water and roughly flung it at the monster's face.
He didn't dare wait to see if it worked. McCoy hurled Kirk around, throwing him through the door and followed, sprinting hard down the corridor of the medical office's dorms with the sound of Focalor barking in pain and rage after them.
"Bones-"
"Just run! Don't stop!" McCoy gasped. They tore through the building, by passing the turbolifts to steak down emergency stairwells. On their heels the corridors flooded and froze as the pipes in the walls burst.
"What do we do!?" Kirk panted as they bolted through to the ground floor, streaked through the lobby and out into the Starfleet campus. In a matter of seconds they were soaked to the bone and chilled from the rain. McCoy thought wildly, grasping for some answer.
"We find Dean and Sam Winchester. We find them we find angels... maybe they'll help us." McCoy panted as they raced across campus and running for the downtown city limits.
"How do we do that?" Kirk snapped.
"Old habits." McCoy returned and quickened his pace to lead Kirk towards a small coffee shop a few hundred yards ahead; he hoped they had a communication unit.
A/N: Focalor SUCKS! Abaddon RULES!