A/N: I am officially done with fall term of freshman year! My brain needed a little time to recover, which is why this chapter is a bit late. But thank you all for your patience and your reviews! This chapter is a bit different from the others, but I hope it's still enjoyable!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel and Belial belong to me
The statistics stated that six out of ten working individuals hated their jobs. What those surveys often left off though, was the tail end of the sentence: "hated their jobs with a burning passion." In a country where the streets were supposedly paved with gold, Americans sure had an odd way of turning their dream into a goddamn nightmare. Interestingly enough, any cubicle-dwelling, eight to five breadwinners who arrived back home after braving the battlefield of rush hour traffic to their wife and two point five kids and one dog would describe their paid positions of regular employment with one word: Hell.
Ha. If only they knew.
In a lot of ways, Hell was like any well-oiled machine, any finely tuned institution that ran along smoothly with its own set of rules and regulations; part family of organized crime, part multi-million dollar enterprise with cutthroat pacts made at crossroads, contracts sealed with a deadly kiss in place of signing on the dotted line or firm handshakes. Although there was no real sense of a caste system set in brimstone, it wasn't really true to say that the realm of eternal damnation was nothing but chaos and agony in flames that never died; quite the contrary, actually. The paper pushing peons knew when to keep their heads down in flogging away intently at the pitiful bastards stretched out on the racks in front of them and whenever they sensed the faintest traces of opportunity to move up the chain of command they pounced, pandering to their superiors, the members of the big guys entourage and the pimps, lifting their heads like the hellhounds that howled at the upper crusts of the Pit because just like anywhere else, being at the bottom rungs of the food chain sucked ass.
For their part, the higher ups, the lieutenant generals, and favorites of the big bad Prince of Darkness himself knew how to keep their subordinates working…generally. The weaker ones usually fell from the limelight but the shrewder ones knew the most important secret to keeping their position up at the top, and it wasn't an aristocracy at all. Lucifer's first and his second in command had to work just as hard as the others in order to prevent insurrection – and it was hard, keeping all of those ambitious little ducklings in a row. Those who'd managed to stay at the top had gotten good at sealing their positions by rearing their truly hideously ugly sides and attacking those who dared to encroach upon their territory, all claws and teeth and merciless, brutal savagery.
It was a lot like scaling the corporate or social ladder anywhere in the world; the only difference was that the Abyss dealt in souls instead of money or other so insubstantial as worldly possessions – that, and the fact that their father and CEO had been locked away by his Father for the better part of…forever, actually. And, well, that just made Lucifer's release and immediate ascent all the more glorious.
For most, anyway.
The shadowed figure moved swiftly down the sidewalk and toward the high-rise condominium, long-legged strides exuding an odd, stealthy grace but resounding with repressed anger. As he drew nearer to the well-lit entranceway, the doorman took in the crisp, expensive Italian silk shirt stained a dull copper, the crimson still embedded under manicured fingernails, and the neatly pressed pants drenched in blood from the hemline up to the knee – but none of it was as terrifying as the expression on the man's face.
Malthus gulped audibly. Certainly, while the countenance wasn't that of a maniacal serial killer (because that, he who was among one of the many earls of Hell could handle with ease) or filled with the thousand-yard stare of holy righteousness that all the angels' meat suits seemed to wear, the demon was scared shitless.
He shouldn't have been afraid; he was a commander of legions who deferred to his superiors as to where to send them and he was as efficient in battle as the weapons he made. But Malthus dared any demon besides their lord and master to not feel fear when taking in the sight of the Second Prince of Hell advancing forward, soaked in the blood of slain angels and leaving a trail of crimson footprints in his wake, with just the slightest hints of annoyance tightening his features.
While he'd always been loyal to those above him, even deigning to work as the private assistant to several of the foremost chiefs of Hell, Malthus knew how to play the game well enough. He was young by demon standards (only a thousand or so years, in fact), but through some clever strategy and a couple rounds of stabbing his peers in the back and in the face, he'd managed to land himself the most lucrative and highly coveted position of being a part time personal concierge and part time unofficial handler to Lucifer's right hand man.
The Lord of lust kept most to himself, but over the past few hundred or so years, Malthus had learned when to keep his mouth shut, when to leave the other alone in very much the same way he now knew that the faintly visible irritation translated into terrible fury underneath the exterior and reflected in his superior's cold, dead eyes. The last unfortunate idiot who unwisely suggested that his master simply "forget about your blue-eyed, feathered Scarlett O'Hara and let me find you another slut" had gotten himself wasted in such a manner that all of Hell heard his agonized screeching for days on end and so the demon straightened, swallowing nervously as he tried to stutter out a greeting. "Good eve-"
"Piss off." Came the growl in reply as the man stormed into the lobby and the demon snapped his jaw shut so quickly that he nearly bit off his meat suit's tongue and nodded, a quick, nervous jerk of the head before disappearing into the mist.
The finger that jammed against the button for the top floor in the elevator left a smudge of crimson whorls and swirls; the sanguine evidence of holy celestial beings who'd been exterminated like roaches. The angels fought viciously in their own right and were damn hard to kill; if you stepped on one, it was like the egg sack exploding from the insect's abdomen – fifty more came to take its place, the tenacious little bastards. It was a tedious job; impossible for those who had neither the means nor the abilities and not entirely effortless for those who did, because of the fact that one had to be extremely thorough when dealing with Heaven's soldiers.
And a thankless chore, to boot. Belial scowled dignifiedly at Thomas Hartley's disheveled reflection in the golden metal plating, reaching up to smooth back a stray strand of dark hair away from his face; his eyes traveled to the dried rust-colored smears on his hands, to the blood still caked in the lines of his palms and the wrinkles of skin drawn over knuckles and joints. The fallen angel usually didn't like getting his hands dirty when disposing of his former brothers and sisters, but Vehuiah had been especially difficult to take down, proving just as strong as he'd been in the Battle of Heaven oh so long ago. And while tearing the seraph's meat suit's heart out of his chest wasn't exactly the Lord of lust's style, it had provided distraction long enough for him to burn the angel's grace into nothingness.
Pity. Belial flicked his fingers once and the congealed blood flaked into pieces, cracking and falling to the floor like snowflakes. He cast a disdainful glance down at his ruined attire. The shirt had cost a fortune, and he quite liked the pants too, not to mention the Russian calf shoes which were undoubtedly ruined and already starting to crack at the edges from their wearer wading through too much blood. Any other demon would've undoubtedly been in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy, basking in the victory of just having wasted the better part of a quarter of an entire garrison of angels, and yet at this particular instant, the Lord of lust wasn't just a little…miffed.
In the past few months since their head honcho's ascent, the demons scattered all over the globe and in the Pit below had been partying it up like college kids in the Bahamas over spring break. After all these were the days of miracle and wonder, right? Lucifer now walked the Earth and it was a good day to be bad. And in the beginning, that's what the Devil's right hand man thought too.
There were a great many differences between the Second Prince of Hell and the Morning Star himself, the first being that contrary to what many thought, Belial really had no great desire to destroy his former kin. Not that ending the feather-brained bastards broke his heart either, he'd been perfectly fine with just letting them be; the only one among their number he really had a bone to pick with was the archangel who'd ripped his wings from his back because yeah, he was still pretty sore about that. Sure, he enjoyed a bit of S & M now and again, but having your prick of an elder brother twist off two appendages that were attached to your shoulder blades by countless tendons, nerves, and several hundred tiny bones? That really didn't do much to stimulate the libido.
The second was their very dissimilar points of view because while they were brothers and allied together once for the common goal of changing around the order of Heaven's management, their motives surely were as same as night and day. Honestly, what was so bad about humans anyway? True, they were bumbling, mindless idiots half of the time, utterly useless the other half and overall less than nothing compared to their counterparts in Heaven, but if for nothing else, God's favored children of dust were so much fun. And more than that, the little hairless apes were self-sufficient. Call it free will or whatever tickled your fancy, but Belial found it rather relaxing to just sit back and watch as humanity tore itself apart, never having to do more than whisper a temptation now and again, set off a war here and there with a well-timed lie or two. Lucifer had actually gotten off easy, once the whole bit with the forbidden fruit was done and over with; mankind went to Hell even with Satan rotting away in his cage. God, on the other hand, had to imprison Himself in mortal flesh and come down from Heaven with a mission of unconditional love and mercy and forgiveness – only to be crucified by the ones He'd come for the sake of saving (that was another thing Belial appreciated about humans, their penchant for the ironic and humorous).
Not that there was anything particularly terrible about donning a meat suit. One just had to know how to pick and choose the right one. Humans were actually quite ingenious creatures, absolute naturals at doing the nasty and indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. There had been the delights of Sodom and Gomorrah, the so-called unspeakable vice of the Greeks, the dirty underground harems of Victorian England filled with women just bursting out of their corsets with sexual repression, the playgrounds of the Wild West overflowing with wide-eyed, broken little soiled doves who reminded Belial so very much of the feathered, blue-eyed little brother he'd been promised (and actually had yet to be reimbursed with) – yes, the Lord of lust had indeed learned how to enjoy himself over the past couple millennia, regardless of Lucifer's presence or absence.
But there were always those who sought to resurrect their lord and master and once the whispers of the sixty-six seals started, once Belial heard of Lilith somehow managing to escape from where she'd been stuck neck-deep in the Pit; he knew the days of rest and relaxation were over. Truth be told, he would've much rather simply let things stay the way they were – but while the Lord of lust was simultaneously the Lord of lies, Belial was nothing if not loyal. After all, getting the Morning Star out of his cage was the only way for the bastard to finally fulfill his end of the deal after countless ages, right? Tit for tat, loyalty through the ages in exchange for the guarantee of one innocent little brother. Right?
But of course, I forgot that Lucifer is an insufferably egotistical, moronic little shit who couldn't care less about anyone else so long as he gets to see the world burn. Instead of things getting easier after Lucifer rose, now he had angels breathing down his neck at all hours of the day and night and had already gotten some rather nasty bruises and bumps from Mr. High and Mighty Lord's messenger who could just go and stick his stupid trumpet up his lily-white ass.
Agile fingers working to loosen the knot at the demon's throat paused for a moment and Belial frowned thoughtfully; where had Gabriel gone, exactly? He hadn't heard anything through the grapevine about the archangel since-
Belial's face darkened spectacularly; he stripped the tie away with brute force, noting with vague interest the tooth that bounced out of where it'd apparently gotten stuck somewhere in the complicated Windsor knot (must've been from when Muriel's pretty little face met that brick wall at seventy miles an hour), scowling as the elevator doors opened with a slight 'ding' to reveal the darkened interior of the spacious penthouse. A drink, he really needed a drink. Toeing off his ruined shoes and kicking them into a corner, Belial flicked on the lights-
"Hello, brother."
Ramiel loved her brothers and sisters; that much was evident and did not necessarily bear repeating. Out of all of the Father's creations, the angel of joy was the closest personification of the complex, everlasting love of El Shaddai (Christ the Son didn't count, because of "the Word being flesh but also being with God in the beginning" – and yeah, everything about the Holy Trinity was a bit complicated) and as God Almighty delighted in all with equal affection, Ramiel knew that playing favorites was something she ought not to do – but she really couldn't help it. Amongst the vast works of the Father's hands, of all the members of the Host, one brightly shining soul in particular had always occupied a special place tucked away in the corner of her heart and surely, Ramiel thought, surely the Father must have spent just a bit more time in carefully creating the wonder of an angel known as Castiel.
The demon bounced, actually bounced when he hit the ground, rolling for perhaps a bit longer than necessary, just anxious to get as far away from the frightening creature of holy light and righteous indignant fury. From across the way, a small sandaled foot stomped down hard upon another demon's chest with a 'crack' as the woman's sternum split cleanly in two and she screamed, writhing as the demon within was sent back to Hell.
She remembered back to when he'd been created, remembered how it had been like the birth of an entire galaxy; but millions of exploding stars could not have compared to the innumerable strands of pure innocence and goodness woven together into an incredible fire and zeal for service within the precious soul that had started singing aloud in joyous harmony with the rest of the Host almost before it left the hands of God. Ramiel had heard the whisper of her newly made brother's name first, and when she had reached out to touch him, the angel of joy recalled Castiel's grace easily molding into her hands as no other had done before. His soul pulsed warmly against her being, with the same trust as when he'd been resting in the embrace of the Most High and Ramiel surprised herself when an odd tug of protection in her own soul bloomed in response.
Almost selfishly then, she had shielded her little brother from all others as she drew him close to unfold the burning light of his flawless grace and to smooth out the damp, matted mass of feathers twitching as the glory of Heaven shone through them for the first time, stroking each wing out evenly and whispering words of welcome and peace and safety into Castiel's soul-
"Awaken and rejoice, son of the Most High. You have been intimately and wonderfully made for the honor and glory of Almighty God our Father."
He'd raised his head for the first time at his sister's voice, revealing bright blue eyes that drowned Ramiel in a vast sea of gratefulness, faith, and adoration so incredible that had angels lungs or a need to breathe, surely her breath would have been stolen away. "Hello, Castiel," the angel of joy whispered in a voice meant for no one save for the little brother she held in her arms. "I am Ramiel, the daughter of joy."
"Ramiel?" The lesser angel's voice was nothing so spectacular as his sister's; in fact, in comparison to the angel of joy's melodious chords, Castiel's tinny little whisper was actually rather cacophonous. But Ramiel practically glowed at the sound of her name tumbling from her little brother's mouth: his first word. "Sister?" His fingers, small and so very fragile, left trails of flaming brilliance as they traced the contours of his sister's grace, memorizing her down to her innermost being and it was then that Ramiel knew, for the first time, the true meaning of the bottomless depth of the Father's love. "My sister."
And while the declaration of ownership hadn't been necessarily correct (since the angel of joy rightfully belonged to no one but the Lord) she hadn't bothered correcting him.
Brown eyes turned a blinding, pure white for an instant, pouring from the vessel's eyes and mouth. The strength of the Lord won out over any force from the realm below though, and the angel turned, swiping one hand across the empty space, fingers clawing at the air and the six foot five, two-hundred fifty pound man was driven down into the concrete by an invisible force, vertebrae of his neck shattered into a thousand pieces. An unearthly howl rent the air and black smoke funneled up toward the sky, dissipating into the sunlight as one of Hell's more prominent earls learned the hard way how not to attempt exorcising a rather vexed emissary of Heaven.
Setting Castiel out on his own to navigate the orders of Heaven and to explore the wide stretch of the many halls of the firmament was difficult, for by then Ramiel loathed to leave her little brother alone, fearful for his wellbeing. However, no sooner had she released him then did Castiel immediately gravitate toward the one whom his soul saw as the most beautiful of all the sons of fire and thus the most worthy of emulation – not Lucifer, in all his brilliance nor Michael, bathed in glorious might, and not Belial for his undeniable splendor – but Gabriel, the powerful archangel who sat in the esteemed position at the left hand of the Almighty.
The messenger archangel was nearly as different from the rest of the Host as Castiel was, exuding a quiet authority whereas others of the same caliber surely would have reveled in barking orders. But then again, there were very few of the same caliber as Gabriel and Ramiel had been delighted for Castiel, for in peering into the haze of what could be, the angel of true vision had seen the maturations of a deep bond between archangel and little brother. The only problem was that Castiel had been so shy, oh so unsure of himself and unaware of his own luminescence, therefore Ramiel had continued to keep watch over him, even after it had become apparent to all of Heaven that Gabriel had developed a deep fondness for this lesser little brother.
And yet even the combined efforts of the angel of joy and the messenger archangel had been unable to fully shield Castiel from one of their own. Ramiel always looked back upon that moment when she'd requested to speak to Belial about a truly disturbing darkness she'd seen corroding the edges of his grace with a shudder, unable to forget her former brother's disconcerting words ("Of course I love little Castiel") and even now, her ruined wings trembled at the mere thought of the fallen angel. The Lord of lust's savage and bestial lechery for her little brother was one of the few notions that could make Ramiel's soul flare hot in simultaneous terror and anger, terrible fury quite uncharacteristic for the angel of joy. Even when confined to the higher orders of Heaven and more or less removed from the rest of her kin after Belial's vicious attack and due to her permanently weakened state, she always remembered how Castiel's small fingers had once moved across the shimmering orb of her grace, remembered his first words of strangely vehement possessiveness that somehow held no trace of selfishness, memorized the warmth of his soul.
Joy barely flinched when a charging demon inhabiting the shell of an adolescent boy managed to get in a long, shallow swipe across her face with a penknife. Calmly, blinking away the blood trickling into her eyes, the little girl took two steps forward and with one swift upward thrust, plunged her sword into the boy's skull. Her gaze was cool, impassive as the demon screeched in torment and his host crumpled to the ground, dead.
Although Ramiel knew of Heaven's true intentions from the very beginning (and in reality, it was truthfully the greatest act of mercy the Host had ever carried out since their Father's absence: the advent of Paradise), she'd still prayed fervently for Castiel's wellbeing upon the news of his descent into the Pit for the sake of rescuing the Righteous Man and rejoiced when the lesser angel returned, slightly worse for the wear but holding his charge tightly against his form, surrounding the battered soul with his grace – even going so far as to shield him from Zachariah and his other superiors, very much like the way Ramiel had held him close upon his first entrance into existence. And while the information Ramiel bore knowledge of concerning Dean Winchester was a bit scant in details, it was at this instant that she knew she'd just forever lost one small, irrecoverable part of her little brother to this sinful creature of dust who had broken the first seal.
Had she been envious? Perhaps just a little, she would have to confess, for Ramiel was no liar. Bitter? By no means. But had she been worried? Yes. The realization had been somewhat frightening, for Ramiel knew for a fact that no son or daughter of sanctified flame had ever loved any human so deeply, so purely, so very much like their Father did – devotion without idolatry, affection far from infatuation, admiration and respect without worship; it was beautiful and amazing, and oh so very dangerous.
The angel of joy loved the human race as it was her duty to do so; the difference was that Ramiel never felt anything as strong or true for the mortals below as she did for her own kindred. What she felt when Castiel faced down one of the foremost Dukes of Hell on his own and subsequently sounded trounced the demon (Heaven seemed brighter that day due to her beaming smile for she'd been so very proud) was definitely different from the joy she infected the people of Israel with when the shepherd boy triumphed over Goliath the Philistine; the overwhelming pleasure that thrummed through the entire Host as their Song swelled in glorification of the Son's birth with Gabriel in the lead was clearly worlds apart from the tears of happiness that streamed down the cheeks of a new mother. And though she had no sense of distaste for mankind whatsoever, Ramiel would most certainly admit to not particularly caring too much for the creatures who had torn her family apart because yes, she'd once loved Lucifer as well as every single member of the Host who'd fallen out of the Lord's favor.
Thus, it had been out of concern for her little brother's sake that Ramiel spoke to Zachariah about Castiel's worrying and questionable sympathies for his charge, confident that the other commander would keep watch over his subordinate when the angel of joy could not. She'd felt the gradually tightening tendrils of doubt and confusion streaking across Castiel's consciousness, spiraling this way and that across his soul and had not known what to make of it but trusted Zachariah – an error she resolved to never make again.
When Ramiel felt the lesser angel's soul bleeding pain and the sorrow of utter hopelessness, the angel of joy had been a blur, descending through the orders of Heaven faster than even the soldiers of the Lord could comprehend because Castiel needed her, she had not expected to see Zachariah arrogantly pretending to play God. But what had burned through her grace, stronger than the foundations of the firmament and more terrible than eternal death was nothing compared to the claws of despair that nearly tore her soul in two when she felt her little brother's soul explode and smolder into the void of oblivion.
Ramiel moved toward the final remaining demon who was cowering against the side of the building and doing a very poor job of trying to melt into the brick wall. Stooping down low, she twisted Joy's tiny fingers in the front of the demon's white uniform and hoisted him up off of the concrete, faces inches apart; angel and demon close enough to be drawing the same breath into their respective vessels' lungs. The cut had long knit itself back together and the image of a little girl bearing down upon the grown man would have been amusing had not it been for Ramiel's next words. "Heed my words, spawn of the most unclean," the daughter of light's voice was low, threatening. "For I shall say them but only once."
Sunlight cut through the fog and mist, briefly throwing the shadows of partially destroyed wings against the ground, great arches of tragic ruin curving out from the child's back and the demon whimpered, but the angel had no pity for her former fallen brother. Castiel had already been destroyed once but was resurrected and though now exiled, Ramiel knew she had been given another chance to protect the little brother whom she loved – and this time, she would stop at nothing to restore to him just a fraction of all he meant to her.
And if doing so required disregarding Heaven's decree; if it called for deception and collaboration in disguise with Michael's reluctant vessel and Lucifer's true receptacle, then so be it.
Sam watched his brother stealthily out of the corner of his eye, pretending to research and letting his fingers dance randomly across the keys for extra effect. Dean sat sullenly on the bed, propped up against two pillows and sulking as he flipped rapidly through some trashy magazine raging about the evils of high-waisted jeans and Lady GaGa's latest "edgy" outfit that looked so weird (not to mention uncomfortable; how did the woman manage to sit down in some of those ridiculous getups?) that it made some of the things the hunter had seen in the course of his thirty years on Earth seem downright normal. Between being reduced to choosing between reading about gossip and fashion or dying of boredom and having Sam fuss over him like a mother hen (yes, he knew the younger Winchester was keeping a hawkish eye on him even though Sammy was trying to be discreet about it), Dean didn't know if he would make it out of this fiasco with his dignity intact.
Of course he wasn't to keen on lounging around like a static bump on a log, doing basically nothing worthwhile, but after the recent scare in the parking lot…
"Dude, seriously? Stop it, Sammy. I'm fine."
"Dean, I don't care if you could jump over the moon right now." Sam's words were tight and clipped, his movements sharp and jerky as he mechanically collected the panoply of books spread out across Dean's bed and dumped them on his. "Stress and sleep deprivation are two causes of non-epileptic seizures and since I know for a fact that there's nothing wrong with your head, you are going to take a break. No research, no worrying, just rest."
He was simultaneously annoyed, slightly guilty, relieved, and then subsequently angry – annoyed at Sam's totally unnecessary coddling, guilty at having to have his little brother worry over him like this, a bit relieved because it did feel like the space between his ears was stuffed with cotton, and then angry at himself. How could he afford to drift off to dream land and saw logs when Castiel was still MIA? Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Sam cut him off quickly, pointing to the bed like a parent lecturing their child who was begging for five more minutes in front of the TV, please.
"We're not arguing, and this is not up for discussion. Sit. DOWN."
In the end, it had taken an interesting combination of Sam's high intensity sad, pleading gaze and his best bitchface to coax Dean into giving in, although the elder Winchester would still maintain it was because he was a bit tired and not because of his inability to say no that particular wounded expression.
There should be laws against letting people make that face. He scowled down at the glossy pages with speech bubbles screaming out about how some singer Barbie look-alike had finally broken up with her lying, cheating bastard of a husband and who the fuck cared. It was a bit astounding how oblivious everyone and their mother was about the friggin' Apocalypse, but Dean guessed they couldn't be blamed. Not really. It didn't seem like Lucifer had pulled out the big guns yet, 'cause most of the world was still standing and didn't look like World War III had just been declared. Rolling his eyes in disgust, he pitched the magazine across the bedspread and flicked a quick glance at his watch. Maybe he could convince Sam to let him go get some food. Is four-thirty too early for dinner? He glanced over at his brother and when Sam narrowed his eyes in response, he heaved a frustrated sigh and flopped backwards onto the bed, head sinking into the pillows.
It wasn't like he thought of the convulsive fit as nothing to worry about; Dean rather liked having completely control over his own limbs and sense of motor coordination and he preferred not feeling like he was on an acid trip, thanks very much. The seizure had scared him too, although more because of what he felt and saw while going into spasms against the dirty pavement, what he was now sure had been currents of electricity running through his body, and the sight of demons standing over him, faces twisted into maniacal grins of amusement.
Castiel was an angel of the Lord, an overwhelmingly powerful and sometimes freakin' scary soldier of holiness, infinitely wise and knowledgeable of a great many things – and who, even after repeated shouting, wheedling, and blatant threatening, still didn't quite get the concept of personal space. And honestly, after a year of knowing the guy, a year of the other stepping so close that Dean could smell ozone and see his own reflection in those expressional blue eyes that said everything the stoic face didn't, a year of yelling at the dicks with wings while one angel stayed behind to soothe the hunter's troubled sleep and to keep nightmares of Hell away just because; after a year of caring without knowing it, of almost losing Sam and seeing a bleak future, after already having lost Cas once to an archangel – Dean really didn't mind all that much anymore. He'd gotten used to the strange flashes of memories that weren't his, images of places he'd never been and of experiencing surging currents of emotions he'd never felt, pain that stemmed from the brand forever sealed into his skin in the shape of an angel's hand, so much that what actually came across as strange in the aftermath was feeling nothing there after those final torturous moments writhing at Belial's feet on the convent floor as Lucifer rose, after experiencing Castiel's death.
Following the angel's miraculous resurrection, Castiel had confided in Dean about the mysterious restoration of his grace (another fact he credited to God) and had contritely apologized for inadvertently causing his charge any pain through this strange bond they seemed to share, promising that he would seek to "correct" it. The elder Winchester hadn't bothered bringing up the fact that without this useful connection between the two of them, as freaky as it was, one or both of them probably would've already died and stayed dead before now. What Dean saw and felt in those moments of being bonded to a creature who was among those who called Heaven home, who had the power to see both ways throughout the spectrum of time was awesome and terrifying, beautiful and horrifying – but all the same, time and time again the visions had led him to Castiel.
Well fuck it all then, 'cause Dean too had seen both what had already been and what was to come, and although he hadn't the ability to change the past, he knew he sure as hell was going to change the future he saw. So he would willingly take the pain and the darkness, the bizarre and the insane to find his friend. And sure, that was weird, being more concerned about a distorted hallucination seen in a moment of brief neuronal malfunction than his own health – but so was searching for an angel who was looking for God and just so happened to run into the Devil instead.
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Lucifer raised you?"
Almost unconsciously, Dean's hand slipped under the pillow beside his head, fingers gently brushing over the feather stowed away safely underneath. He cast his brother a sideways glance, but Sam seemed to be in full geek mode and for real this time, tapping insistently at the keys and starting at the screen with an intensity usually reserved for laser beams. Quietly the elder Winchester shifted, turning slightly sideways to conceal the plume from view as he pulled it out from its hiding place. It was great to have his brother actually on board with wanting to find the angel instead of just grudgingly going along with it because Dean wanted to, but still.
He ran gentle fingers over the length of the vane, amazed at its satiny smooth surface, at the almost velvety feel. The feather in and of itself was probably one of the thousands that made up the pair of wings, but Dean couldn't help but marvel at the fragility of the single quill. It slid against his calloused fingers like a piece of silk as he turned it over and over in his hands, the fine barbs tickling slightly against his palms. How was it possible for something so weightless and fragile to hold up a being of such supernatural and unbelievable might?
Sam would probably know, being the nerd he was. If he asked, the kid would probably start rattling off some lecture from long ago about wind currents and flight patterns and who knew what else, but for some reason, he hadn't asked Sam and Dean knew that he would never let spill that he'd found one of Castiel's feathers and was now sleeping with it under his pillow and going around throughout the day with the quill tucked securely in the inner pocket of his jacket, if the icy knot in his chest was any indication.
He wasn't ready for Sam to make fun of him for being such a girl about this just yet.
A weight of despair sunk into Sam's stomach as the hopeful lead he'd picked up about a missing man about the same age and with the same physical characteristics as Castiel's meat suit led smack dab into a dead end; his shoulders actually hunched upon their own accord and he exhaled slowly through his teeth, the sound almost deafening in the sudden quiet. Well, that's not normal. He glanced up, fingers stilling for the first time in about ten minutes; in that time he hadn't heard so much as a peep from Dean: neither loud complaint nor sighs of exasperation and as soon as he saw that his brother's back was turned toward him, the younger Winchester knew why.
There were basically two types of intelligence possessed by mankind: the kind amassed and stored up in the mind of scholars, and the kind learned by those who had naught but their wits – and since he just so happened to fall into both categories, Sam Winchester certainly wasn't stupid. Far from it, actually, cause one didn't get into Stanford on a full scholarship and know how to live life under about five different aliases without getting caught by being an idiot. He knew of the feather Dean kept hidden under the pillow, having seen it when the elder Winchester had been in the shower and Sam had been searching for where Dean put Castiel's phone, thinking that maybe the recent call log could've told them something they didn't already know.
Dean wasn't exactly a slob per se, but he'd never really been able to keep anything hidden from his little brother due to his rather interesting choice of arranging what very few personal possessions he owned – skin mags, the numbers and names of countless faceless girls scrawled down on sheets of loose leaf paper or on the back of receipts, that silver knife the elder Winchester had come to think of as his own, and some other objects Sam really wished he'd never found. And while he didn't find the phone this time around, as soon as Sam had seen the feather lying underneath the askew pillow, ever barb flattened and straightened out by gentle fingers, having been placed there so carefully, he immediately knew where it had to have come from.
He felt kind of guilty for keeping the other from soldiering on in efforts to locate the angel, but Sam knew Dean would work himself down to the bone and after seeing his brother's limbs thrashing at odd angles, head smashing backwards hard as green eyes rolled upwards, the younger Winchester refused to allow Dean to push himself further. Neither of them would be of any use to Castiel half-dead with exhaustion. And besides, Sam reasoned with himself, I think I've gotten the hang of how to attempt summoning-
Suddenly, from right on the other side of the motel's thin walls, the unmistakable sounds of fluttering filled the silence. Dean jackknifed up off the bed with a great creaking of the springs, spinning around to face the door with unnatural grace, his hand reaching for the gun on the bedside table when a hysterical scream sliced through the air, a high-pitched wail of fear.
"The hell-" Sam jumped to his feet, fingers curling around the handle of Ruby's knife that lay on his bed and the Winchester brothers burst out of the room, nearly knocking the door off its hinges to the sight of a man dressed in a white uniform of some sort, looming over a familiar-looking little girl who lay sprawled on the ground, pale face upturned and wet with tears, features pinched in fear.
Without thinking, Dean stepped forward and emptied a round into the man's back, mindless of the consequences; all he knew was that this bastard was about to rip away the innocence of a child be it by death or molestation or whatever other sick perverted intention and the very thought sent rage exploding in his chest and rocketing through his veins, streaming down his arm that lifted the gun and into the fingers that fitted around the trigger and squeezed.
"DEAN!" Sam hollered above the gunshots and the little girl's terrified scream, the horror at his brother's actions turning into a different kind of dread when the man rotated sharply, completely unaffected by the freshly-pumped holes in his back, eyes a flashing obsidian shade. Muscles tensed, honed by years of experience and the younger Winchester threw himself boldly at the demon, one forearm ramming into the man's stomach in an improvised tackle and barely managing to direct the fall away from the girl who was scooting away, plunging the blade into the man's chest and deep into the heart.
Whoa. Dean's eyebrows jumped upwards involuntarily at the other's quick reflexes and impressive attack; there was no doubt that in another lifetime, Sam could've made an impressive linebacker. Such a move usually signaled the end of a regular old hunt, and Dean would go over and help his little brother off the ground, thumping the Sasquatch on the back in congratulations as they stumbled back to wherever the Impala had been parked out back, pretending not to lean on each other in accordance to the severity of their wounds. At the current moment though, the elder Winchester had his arms awkwardly full of a crying little girl who'd rushed to him after scrambling out of the way of danger and was now doing a fine impression of an octopus, clinging to him, tears wetting his shirt as she hiccupped against his shoulder with small shuddering breaths. Um. "Hey, little-" Wait. What's her name again? Joy? "Joy?" Dean tried quietly, and the mussed little brown head lifted, huge watery eyes staring at him from behind messily tousled hair. "Are you okay?"
Her lower lip trembled and Dean panicked for an instant, eyes scanning the parking lot wildly and resting on Sam, who standing on his own, looking a little sore but none worse for the wear. Someone was going to find two grown men with guns, a rapidly cooling body, and a freaked out crying child suspicious sooner or later, and where the hell were her parents, anyway? Oh, right. Never had a mom and the deadbeat Dad is…what was it? Gone? Shifting the light weight on his hip, Dean shrugged helplessly when Sam lifted an eyebrow questioningly, gaze sliding past to the fallen demon-
Hold it. His eyes narrowed, and Dean stepped closer to the body. "Turn him over, Sam," he instructed quietly, because he knew that face paired with that uniform and the logo he could now make out, had seen it only once before but had memorized the image, had seen it the black eyes staring mockingly down at him as he (as Castiel?) convulsed uncontrollably, comfortingly pressing Joy's head against his shoulder again when the girl shifted because who knew how traumatized she already was and she didn't need to be seeing this anyway.
Ramiel twined Joy's skinny little arms around the hunter's sturdy torso and leaned against his chest, sighing quietly as her cheek pressed comfortably against the soft fabric of his checkered shirt. It was surprising, how similar his embrace was to Michael's, compared to when the Lord's foremost warrior had scooped his injured sister up in strong arms and flew homeward with his burden of wounded joy.
And for the first time then, the angel of joy saw just a sliver of the goodness in Dean Winchester that had led her little brother to disobedience and exile, felt just a bit of the brightness Castiel always saw in the soul of the Righteous Man.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lucifer asked conversationally, leaning almost casually against the wall. Belial grit his teeth, eyes raking up and down his brother's meat suit disapprovingly because God damn you Lucifer, the oriental rug the Devil was getting his dirty footprints all over hadn't been cheap.
"Certainly." Thomas Hartley's molars gnashed together in what must've been a painful manner, if the way the demon riding around in his skin bit out the words was any indication. "Far. Too. Long. Brother." For fuck's sake, he really needed a drink.
The Morning Star watched with some amusement as Belial more or less stomped across the marble floor and toward the bar, turning his back on the other and slamming a tumbler down onto the countertop, fuming. His brother seemed to have done well in his absence, Lucifer noted, making a name for himself as the prince of decadence and extravagance, master of falsehoods and Lord of lies. The other seraph had always been a powerful and skilled warrior as well as an instrumental ally, simultaneously loyal and not overly ambitious – but intelligent, and thoroughly knowledgeable of what he wanted.
Lucifer knew he would have to tread carefully with this one.
In a breath, the Devil shot through space and time to land directly in front of his subordinate, watching with some interest as Belial barely gave the casual display of power a glance, too busy tossing back what looked like glass after glass of Jack Daniels without a moment's pause for breath. "Aren't you going to offer me something?"
Go fuck yourself. Belial was aware of the less than impressive image he presented, with the vulgar language more reminiscent of a simpleton than Hell's second prince and the way he threw back the alcohol, like a drunkard. Perhaps he would take up smoking; that always seemed to exude an air of sophistication. "You don't drink," he snarled, fingers clenching tightly around the tumbler and turning to face the other fallen angel, who wore a bemused look. Belial forced himself to take a deep breath, to maintain at least a small shred dignity for appearance's sake. "Why are you here, Lucifer?"
The Devil shrugged nonchalantly, an oddly human gesture. "Am I not allowed to pay a visit to my own brother and oldest friend?"
And now it was Belial to flare up, composure shattering violently; the Lord of lust blinked out and back into the transcendental plane, standing so close to the Son of Perdition that the demon could see the former angel's grace burning, burning through his temporary vessel's thinning skin. "Do NOT take me for a fool, Lucifer," he hissed softly, all deadly and corrosive acid oozing under the surface. "You have no friends; only tools and instruments for your sad little scheme for world domination that has yet to come to fruition, even after getting sent to the timeout chair for the better part of eternity."
"Your accusation is…scathing," Lucifer said slowly, with a thoughtful blink and in a tone that made it seem as if he was saying 'The sky is blue. Humans are mindless, hairless apes. I will smite you with my brain'. "But I suppose, not without truth."
"You-" The tightly strung spider web's thread of Belial's dangling composure snapped with the realization; the glass he held shattered and the demon shoved his superior against the wall, but with far less force than both of them knew he could've used. A corner of Lucifer's mouth quirked upward; it was always rather amusing to see his brother just lose it. The Mid-Atlantic Rift had been formed when the Lord of lust flew at the Lord's messenger archangel in a blind fury and had gotten tossed into the foaming waters below. And Mount Vesuvius? That had been Belial as well, throwing a fit when Gabriel once again stole his little brother safely away from the fallen angel.
"DARE you question my loyalties, serpent?" Belial raged, arm pressed against the other's throat. As Lucifer was the most powerful of the sons of fire, there was no doubt that the Morning Star could've wiped the floor with his brother, with any brother, but at the present moment Belial was far beyond caring. The all-consuming rage that had been bubbling and festering at the demon's core for the past few months came exploding to the surface, spitting sparks and curses, hurling an accusation in seven demonic tongues all at once- "When you yourself have not held true to your word-"
"You speak of Castiel." Well, that was one thing that had not changed. Belial my brother, you remain so sadly predictable.
"DEAD!" Belial bellowed viciously. "Wasted by Raphael before I even had the chance to take him-" The Lord of lust was seeing red, and not in a good way when Lucifer chortled suddenly, vibrations in his meat suit's throat rumbling out amusement, but also a note of warning.
"Why are you angry at me, Belial, when I was the one who resurrected your precious little Castiel, and can deliver him to you yet?"
He soundlessly approached the brightly burning soul perched lightly next to the furthest gates of Heaven, closest to the realm of Creation below, watching every stirring of the small and unimpressive muted grey wings, noting every changing dimension of the lesser angel's grace with a shiver – and with every single flicker of light captured in this little brother's opalescent sapphire eyes, Belial felt a tug of an unknowable yearningin the core of his being.
Castiel was not mighty in any sense of the word; he lacked power and strength and experience, and his commanders saw him as inept, skills few and far in between. And yes, while the young one had been able to capture not only his attention but that of Gabriel's as well, Belial's mind darkened in confusion, for he did not know why, just exactly why he found himself drawn to this weakling of one of the sons of fire. And yet the more the seraph tried to comprehend the lure, the more insistent the longing in his soul became, like a physical burn that seared slowly across his grace until he wanted nothing more than to reach into his being and tear it out, fling it away, and replace it with nothing but Castiel, all of this little brother, only overwhelming blue eyes and the embers of purity.
Ramiel seemed to notice the shift in him as well and Belial always maintained the opinion that this sister had always been too intrusive for her own good; didn't she know that prying into every detail of other's souls was simply mannerless? She was nowhere to be seen now though, so Belial reached forward toward what he saw, felt the scorch of the unspeakable ache in his soul, and took.
The lesser angel glanced upwards at the hand upon his shoulder, countenance bright and curious, but otherwise unchanged from moments prior. Clearly he knew nothing of Belial's position or title, and the seraph felt a sense of pleasure at the anonymity. "Castiel, is it?" He received a polite, guileless nod in reply and shook his wings loose; the arches curved over the other, effectively hiding the smaller being from sight, for no one had the right to look upon Castiel, no one but Belial alone. "And what are you doing?"
"I am looking after our Father's creations," Castiel answered softly, shy but bright. He turned, interested eyes peering through the borders of the firmament and down below. "Fish of the sea, beast of the air and of the ground…they are all so wonderful," he breathed, and Belial stepped closer, close enough to feel the joyful ripple of Castiel's grace. "But none so glorious as Man and Woman."
"Do you favor them?" The seraph queried in low tones, hand sweeping up gently along the smooth curve of his little brother's neck.
"They were made in His image," the blue eyes were earnest when they turned upon him, unknowing or unaware of just what they did to Belial, how those bottomless orbs twisted his core into distortion. "They are beautiful and our Father commanded us to love them."
Belial's fingers were tracing up along the slope of Castiel's jaw, stroking back and forth, when the words pierced through him, and suddenly the seraph knew. He no longer wanted Castiel to fill his soul; he wanted to take this brother away to be his and his alone forevermore, he wanted Castiel's thoughts to be on none but him, he desired to take all of the lesser angel and to strip his grace down to the flaming nucleus, and then Belial would crush the blazing orb for himself.
"Do you realize that you are beautiful, Castiel?" He murmured, watching Castiel's grace shudder bashfully at the praise; the seraph reached out with his other hand to grasp, to rent and slash and plunge within the beauty trapped between the walls of his wings, to mark Castiel as his – and all that suddenly, his hand was crashing against the breastplate of a far different brother and Belial took a step away from Gabriel's glorious visage, his wings folding smoothly against his back.
The messenger archangel had always been able to appear amongst his kin with the most fluid elegance and swiftness, but his splendid might was nothing to overlook, either. Strangely enough it was only when standing next to or near Gabriel that Belial always felt a certain awareness of his own limitations, never with any of the other archangels or seraphim. But in this instance, Belial would not relent, he would not submit to his elder brother when Castiel unquestionably belonged to him.
"Do not be discourteous, Gabriel." Castiel was standing behind the archangel and a bit off to the side after having been swept apart there by Gabriel's enormous wing, soul's light diminished in slight confusion and it would've been so easy to just stretch out and take him. "Surely you know our Lord disapproves of avarice." Belial's gaze was fixed upon his prize and the seraph reached out-
-only to be blocked by Gabriel's silver wing. The archangel's soul was expertly cloaked from inquisitive eyes and he spoke quietly, but with evident authority. "Thou forgetest thy place, Belial."
The something of tightness and unnamable want that had been coiling tightly in the seraph erupted at the admonishment, fracturing in cracks of sparking flame and tongues of spitting lightening. Belial's crimson wings rose high above him, spread out to their widest length and for one revealing moment, his beautiful face of fiery haze burst into charred ashes of disfigured and ghastly misshapenness.
Throughout this breathtaking display of outrage, Gabriel stood silent and stoic, unafraid – but the same could not be said for the one who stood behind him, another witness to this rare display. Grace folding in upon itself nervously and shaking in terror, Castiel's wings beat once to bring him to Gabriel's side, pressing closely against the archangel's towering frame. While he might not have known the reason behind the seraph's fury, Castiel was reacting in the only way he knew how in a moment of fear, seeking out comfort and safety in hiding behind his elder brother's enormous silver wings.
Belial saw this and the anger funneled down into a vise, smoldering dangerously. When Gabriel glanced down at the quivering mass of little Castiel clutching at his robe, the archangel cast not only his wing, but a strong arm around his little brother – and Belial folded himself backwards and out of sight, rocketing blindly throughout the open places of the firmament at the obvious rejection. He tore across space and Heaven, through Creation until at last the seraph's mighty wings gave out and he collapsed, dazed but still choking on the smoke of desire and fury swirling in his soul.
"Hello, brother."
Glancing upwards, Belial gazed upon the brilliance of Lucifer the bright Morning Star, and finally tore his grace out; hurling it down into the abyss to take back that which rightfully belonged to him.
They were awesome and stunning, beauty beyond compare, breathtaking and…quite comfortable, as well. Castiel tilted his head, grace shimmering in awe and fascination as he ran his fingers through his brother's silver wings. When an arm that had wielded sword and carried trumpet curved around him in a solid and secure hold, the lesser angel merely leaned further into the embrace, pressing his cheek against the silken surfaces, mystified and in wonder, yet still perfectly at ease.
It was the flicker of amusement, adoration and tenderness through the archangel's soul that caused Castiel to pull away sharply, embarrassed and timidly bowing his head. Who was he to be leaning upon he who sat at the left hand of the Almighty? The other silver wing, thrumming with gracefully contained power was amazing gentle when it crooked and a long flight feather slid underneath Castiel's chin, lifting his face until his eyes met Gabriel's, full of warmth and love. "Hello, Castiel."
Wonders of wonders, the messenger archangel knew him by name! Castiel's soul sang for joy and without further ado he leaned back into his elder brother's comforting embrace, the terrifying spectacle of Belial's anger fleeing his mind. The light of Heaven shone through the feathers that surrounded him and Castiel reached out to grasp them-
"Where are you, Leonard?" Meg dipped a hand into the frigid water and flicked her fingers, laughing when the liquid caught the dazed and drugged angel in the face, making him sputter incoherently. The demon girl leaned over the side of the tub, tiptoeing her fingers across the surface of the water and then down beneath, brushing against numb, freezing flesh in a playful, teasing manner.
"Come on, angel boy. Let's see if you can get it up without your super-charged Heavenly steroid juice."
A/N: Okay. Whew. Long chapter. Hopefully everyone was able to keep up! Ramiel is certainly the talented little actress, isn't she? And question: who's got dibbs on being the favorite villain now, Lucifer or Belial?
Well, I won't be able to update anytime soon, due to the mad rush of shopping for gifts and the mandatory family time (and besides, something tells me that you guys won't like reading a bunch of angst while trying to sing Joy to the World). So, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays or Happy Winter Solstice, and I'll see you all in 2010! Until then, please review!
P.S. I say this very tentatively, but I do have the desire to write something fluffy and Christmas-y related, maybe a one-shot with some of the OCs or the Winchester boys and Castiel? If you like the idea, prompt me!