A/N: Thank you for all your kind reviews; they never fail to bring a smile to my face. Interestingly enough, a couple of you mentioned thinking that the story would be over soon – but I'm not letting go of you guys' heartstrings just yet! Enjoy the chapter!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me
When asked, many people would define the word "good" as something positive or pleasing, an adjective in the sense that everyone more or less could tell when something good was being done or conversely, when something not good was being done, seeing as it was often easiest to describe a concept by what it did not entail. It was also a noun in the sense that there were those who devoted their entire lives to searching for and chasing after good, oftentimes without knowing what the hell they were trying to hunt down.
There were the learned men of old, the Platonists, who counted something as good in and of itself, good only because of its consequences, or because of both aforementioned categories. The Chinese philosopher Mo Tzu looked upon objects and practically everything else as beneficial in varying degrees according to their usefulness – which was probably why his teaching phased out of everyday life in ancient imperial China; there weren't many who liked to be considered evil simply because of their idiocy or incompetence. Goodwill was apparently dished out upon all of mankind regardless of whether they deserved it or not in that season of jingle bells and crazed shopping when children wrote to the mythical fat jolly man in a red suit (also known as the marketing tool of Coca-Cola), wishing for socks filled with candy or presents under a dead tree for which they extolled their own praises and virtues.
Yes, it was indeed an odd word, chock full of endless connotations ascribed to it and all the small print hidden within its simple four letters. Surely it would've been interesting to note how many people throughout history had tried going about how to solve this dilemma of good and given us worksheets with gold star stickers and a big smiley face alongside the Crusades, the Final Solution, and the Geneva Convention. After all, someone had to think they were good, right?
Um, not so much, actually. So apparently "good" was a greatly relative term as well, situational to the highest degree and most effective in getting every moral-minded individual's panties in a twist every now and then. Try getting a priest of philosopher to tell you the meaning of the word and then you would have found the most effective way to render a grown man speechless before they plunged into a tirade of contradictions and claims making no sense whatsoever. Was it any wonder then, that those without such limitations were truly the ones better off?
Black and white always had its varying shades of grey in between though; one just had to know where to look. Like the serpent who hadn't technically been lying when he nudged Man and Woman to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Like the people who crossed their fingers behind their back as they let slip the little white lies that surely wouldn't hurt anyone. What about the pair of brothers who had no day jobs and had to resort to credit card fraud or breaking and entering in order to continue protecting supposedly good people who could actually be more terrible than the belly to the ground monsters they fought against? Or the older sibling who had deliberately forsaken his little brother out of love and as part of a contract contrived with motivations more nefarious than anyone knew?
Sociopaths wouldn't have had any such difficulties about what to do, and neither would those whom we put away for fear of being menaces to society have faltered in the yes and the no or choosing the most effective course of action. Strangely enough, those whom society had locked away for mental instability sometimes saw the clearest out of us all, for a conscience was the heaviest weight that shackled one's soul for all time.
And that was why Meg knew it always paid to be bad.
Technically, she's been good lately though, in a rather loose definition of the word. She'd been following her lord and master's instructions down to a T and doing everything he asked of her without question, carrying out every command to the very letter. Ain't that funny. She never knew that obeying would be so beneficial. The demon girl pulled a face that would've cause a baby to burst into terrified sobbing. The word was like acid, even just in her mind, because of its implications of servility and because it was just too close to something nauseatingly holy.
Well, regardless of what fun she'd had with her boy toy, Meg was indeed a selfish little bitch, and she knew it. Lucifer's strict instructions had been to leave the angel alone; now that he was literally a shell of frayed nerves barely tangled together, the Devil wanted time to slowly wear the angel down by doing what the Father of All Lies did best. Honestly, it was the same with humans and demons alike: the older ones never really got used to utilizing the technologies of here and now, and they always adhered to the tradition of the tried and true ways, even if said ways took for-fucking-ever. After being locked away in Hell for quite some time, it appeared that Lucifer too had yet to get with the times. From experience, Meg knew that such a process would take weeks, maybe even months – and she wasn't known for being patient.
She wanted more.
And going down on any idiot with a Y chromosome and extra organ between his legs just wouldn't do anymore, because while they were fine as mere appetizers, a growing girl's got to have her share of a filling meal. They just couldn't cut it anymore, the baby-faced virgins or the bad boys who liked to think they knew how to be adventurous in bed; not even her favorite demon fuck buddies could even compare to the heady sweetness of a creature of amazing power tied down and absolutely pliant beneath her dominance. No one could.
Well, there was one particular individual who could light that raging inferno of lust quicker than little clipped wings here, but that was because he oozed pure sex in every literal meaning of the phrase and that was a bit unfair. And since she'd never had the chance to sample the Lord of lust, she just had to improvise. Of course, he wouldn't be too pleased when he found out she'd gotten her hands on his fallen little fuck toy first, but Meg certainly wasn't against sharing. The possibility of a threesome actually was rather intriguing and she'd heard of all the many things Belial could do; after all, considering all his expertise…
Her fingers skimmed over the keypad, irreverently punching in a code that popped open the locks to the high security solitary confinement cell and with a smirk of victory, the demon twisted the door handle and sauntered into the room, closing the door securely behind her. Muffled, padding footsteps brought her over to the patient curled up in a tight ball on the floor, rounded with his knees drawn up to his chest and tucked under his chin, eyes wide and staring blankly at the far wall. Well hey there, pretty angel boy.
Meg wedged the toe of the stupid ugly standard issue penny loafer under the motionless man's ribs (they stood out like sharp, jagged ridges against the billowing white sheet of the shirt and she really had to resist the urge to make them snap with a sharp kick of the foot) and shoved the form carelessly over onto its back. "Miss me?" She purred in a voice that would caused the Pope to recant his vow of celibacy.
And got no response.
"Or did you miss this?" The golden amulet gleamed weakly in the otherwise dark cell, cold and silent and now nothing more than a cheap trinket whose significance had faded along with everything else in the belly of Prowers County Psychiatric Ward. Even that garnered no response; for all intents in purposes, Castiel the angel of the Thursday could've been dead.
That was alright, though. I'll just have to work extra hard, won't I? Meg smirked, straddling the hollow inward curve of the other's abdomen, licking her lips. Extra hard…now there's an idea. She ran manicured nails down the sides of the patient's face, tracing the significantly sharper jut of his jaw and effectively making the near-three weeks worth of growth vanish, teeth latching onto the pale newly clean-shaven skin hard enough to bruise, to mark, to brand-
Because when this demon girl wanted something, she wasn't the type to sit around waiting for it. She simply pounced, and took whatever she damn well pleased.
Oh, but just you wait, Leonard. I'm gonna show you a nocturnal orgy that'll have you screaming for more.
As it moved steadily down the road at a respectable forty-five miles per hour and matching the speed limit exactly, it was clear that there was something different about the car.
It was a Bentley, but no one had ever seen a replication built like it before, not even those who had too much time on their hands and chose to spend said time poring over makes and models instead of romancing the wife who was having an affair with the friendly mailman who'd suddenly become very, very friendly indeed. Any spectator would've sworn that the car was black, but it was a darkness deeper than that of the surrounding night, a streak of inky ribbon winding and turning smoothly into the parking lot like the graceful whisper of a snake through grass, leaving a chilly trail in its wake. The headlights shone with the grainy quality of an old movie projector, injecting a definite sense of mystery into the air, and when the engine's soothing rumble faded into nothingness, the car seemed to shift somehow, ripples undulating across the metal framework and over to the driver's side door that opened and produced the owner of such a rare and beautiful find.
But upon laying eyes on the man, no one would've been able to remember the slightest detail about the stupid car.
There were some men who were hunky eye candy, plain and simple as that. Then there were the adorable yet dorky ones, the ones who were merely attractive but paled in comparison to the others of their kind who were often likened to Greek gods. Some men were cute in the way a puppy or baby was cute, and still others were too striking to be called anything but downright handsome. And yet none of them held a mere candle's flame to this man, who was – and there was no other way to put it – fucking gorgeous.
The sole of the Berluti Rapiécés Reprisés touched pavement soundlessly and yet with definite purpose, and had the still night a complimentary soundtrack, it would've been the low growl of a foreboding crescendo, an imperial march and prelude to the burning of Rome – regal, tragic, but majestic and awe-inspiring all the same. A crown of thick raven hair styled to perfection and with nary a single wave out of place enhanced the glow of a pair of cool jade eyes that stared intently at the front door of the mental asylum, peering through the mortar and brick in search for that which lay within.
The car door shut on its own with a firm click and the man stepped closer, and into the glow of an overhead streetlamp. A finely made coal black suit slimmed nicely over an obviously well toned physique and it seemed to suck and absorb all the surrounding light, wrapping its wearer even deeper in shadow. From above, the light bulb shattered in a shower of sparks, culminating with the waves of darkness that seemed to emanate from man's very and beneath the veneer of unflappable calm.
A flame flickered in the sudden darkness, although the lighter could not be seen, and the man put the cigarette to his lips, walking forward – more like sauntering, actually – with all the cool grace of a movie star of Hollywood's Golden age, like a hero returning the victorious conqueror of his enemies. He was stepping foot on the battlefield once again, this time to reap the spoils of war. There would be no taking of prisoners.
Not tonight.
This was one badass GQMF right here, ladies and gentlemen, and his name was Belial the fallen angel, Second Prince of Hell, and the Lord of lust. As of right now, he was on his way to claim what rightfully belonged to him. And no one, neither angel nor demon was going to deter him from collecting his prize.
Maximum security prisons boasted of high guard towers and perimeters of barbed wire, blinding spotlights, and eagle-eyed patrolmen who kept watch at all hours of the day and night. Sadly (as was the opinion of some of the members of the board, anyway), Prowers County had neither the adequate funds nor a budget expansive enough to cover such features for its psychiatric ward, and it was too bad, really. Had the campus indeed been outfitted with state of the art security measures, then surely at least someone would've seen the cherry black-topped '67 Impala pulling into the back entrance of the compound, announcing the entrance of the last actors for the night's feature presentation with a low rumble.
Look who's finally arrived, and not a moment too soon.
Lucifer sat back in satisfaction as the final players for the tragic production moved into position: the grim-faced driver emerged with fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of a knife, the glyphs on the amber blade glowing in the scant moonlight, serrated sawback teeth bared and thirsty. His face was pale in the way those convalescing from a terrible illness appeared, but his steps were steady; determination had etched its lines deep into his face. This one would undoubtedly be taking the part of the guilt-ridden leading man seeking redemption.
And here came his dear brother, the perpetual sidekick – but who could nonetheless steal the show when the time came (Lucifer smiled here, because that time was coming very soon) – who'd been riding shotgun and was actually now hefting a shotgun up in capable hands with practiced ease. If only the young man would only reach deep into that fire of hate smoldering low in the belly of the beast; that would certainly best any weapon conceived by the mind or fashioned by mortal hands. The Morning Star surveyed his vessel with keen and thoughtful eyes, neither a director nor a composer of the events to come; merely a rapt member of the audience to the impending confrontation about to be displayed in real time.
It really was interesting, though, how this situation happened to be working itself out. Lucifer had always known there was something special about young Castiel; what he had not expected was for all the pieces to fall into place so perfectly. Of course he was the Great Deceiver and Schemer, but of course everyone needed a break once in a while. In this day and age, with all sorts of technology invented for the sole purpose of reducing labor and the need to get one's hands dirty, sometimes it felt like many had forgotten the good old-fashioned values of hard work. Nevertheless, kicking back and relaxing while everyone came to him (or rather to the angel) like ants swarming a picnic was nice. After all, running an Apocalypse was rather difficult.
Who would have known that imprisoning a mere foot soldier would be like knocking over that first domino?
The trap was set then, the chain started; now the selfish, ignorant demon girl had deliberately gone against his orders as he knew she would, his not-so-loyal second in command had come to do exactly what he was meant to do (Belial could have willed himself here immediately after learning of the location, but he had driven the distance in an effort to remain unnoticed. He was a creature of habit, though – habits Satan knew all too well), the Winchesters were here to save the day, per usual (or so they hoped), and – why hello there, sister. Lucifer arched an eyebrow at the translucent beauty of the soul of the angel of joy, invisible as she trailed along behind the two hunters. This was a bit of a new development, but in her permanently weakened state, there was very little Ramiel could do should an all out battle ensue; she wasn't as powerful as she'd once been, and would never be again. And yet here she was, ever the doting, protective sister to her young beloved brother; her love was pure and chaste and yet more intimate than any human emotion put into words – more unconditional than a mother's love for her child, more eternal than a lover's promise, far deeper than any contract.
How very interesting. A wry smile twisted the corner of his lips as the Devil thought of the other former kinsman whose longing to be near his fledgling was nearly as tangible as the beating of a human heart. Although there were no such labels or assignments among the Host, every single soul in both Paradise and Perdition knew to whom he, she, or it would answer if they dared to harm Gabriel's little brother. How very interesting indeed.
A deal made could not be broken; such were the cosmic rules and regulations drafted and set in place by the great Powers that Be, and neither archangel nor demon could break a contract once it had been made. The proof of the covenant made between the Lord's Herald and the fallen Morning Star existed in the weak pulse of Castiel's wounded, fragile, soul – that which so many were striving to claim on this night that should've been dark and wild and stormy to fit the occasion, but instead held an air of stillness. Of anticipation.
The world was holding its breath. The Devil was not.
Lights. The flashlight held aloft securely in Dean's left hand cast eerie shadows as he and his brother made their way through the underground maze of the decrepit level of the psychiatric ward's basement, stealthily making their way upwards to where their friend was being held captive.
Camera. Belial's vision was tunneled, focused down along the length of a long hallway, single-mindedly headed toward the temptation that had driven the mighty seraph to fall, toward the only object of the Lord of lust's desire; his angel ripe for the taking.
…And action.
The angels were singing again.
It was beautiful, the noise that surrounded him and drew him up in its embrace, full and perfect and utterly amazing because it was the first and only thing he'd been able to sense in days – or maybe weeks; or years, perhaps. Time seemed to be a never-ending stream of fluid nothingness, stretching its fingers that always brushed but never touched, on and on into the depths of infinity.
At first the melodious chorus came and went so swiftly that he'd been shocked to have noticed anything breaking through the shroud of silence; it'd taken a while for him to register that he'd indeed heard something, and even longer to discern what it had been. Each individual strand of the Song, each voice culminated to something that was so glorious it almost brought tears to his eyes, tears that surely would've fallen if he remembered (or even knew) how to cry.
He wasn't quite sure how to explain how he knew they were the voices of angels, or what angels actually were because the truth was, he didn't even really know himself. After all, he was just a man and here he was, simply existing and nothing more. But he did know that it felt like being a part of something far greater than his mind could comprehend, and that it just felt right to assume that. More than that, it all felt familiar, somehow, like he too had once been one among a whole body instead of being cut off from everyone and everything outside and inside of himself. To be a member of the Host.
What would it be like to be an angel? He wished he knew.
"That's it," Meg cooed, sliding her hands down along cool skin, running the tips of her fingers lightly along the waistband of the other's pants. "Come on, Leonard…" Sure this was a celestial warrior of Heaven and blah blah blah, and sure, he was just a bit unresponsive after she'd jammed an ice pick into his brain, but hey – he was human now, right? And that meant having a corporeal constitution and all the little ticks and natural reflexes that went with it. So, according to the manual of the human anatomy, if one pressed here, the party should start relatively soon.
The demon girl licked her lips because oh, it'd been so long since she had a filling meal – and let the PETA people rant and rave, but the meat was the only real good part – and who would refuse this buffet of opportunities and excitement?
She'd never gone down on an angel before and, well…there was always a first time for everything, right?
Meg arched her back in the long, lazy stretch of a predator after catching an elusive prey, and beneath the skin of the young woman the darkness of a demonic soul rippled in mounting pleasure, building up a rabid want for the carnal gratifications of the flesh, a greedy obsession to break and shatter and consume until there was nothing left. Her fingernails dug crescent-shaped grooves into already bruised skin and she writhed like a cat in heat, a sultry growl ripping out of her throat. If you don't give it to me, I'll just have to take it myse-
BANG.
The metal paneled door reinforced by a security code and five sets of locks slammed open, bouncing so hard off the wall that the plaster beneath the padded softness cracked and the molecules bonding together the steel frame scattered as the door wrenched off its hinges, no match against the low growl of a wolf marking its territory, an alpha male claiming his dominance in a thousand different demonic tongues all spitting and hissing and gnashing out the same demand no human would have been able to comprehend: "HANDS OFF, WHORE."
Said whore barely had the time or breath to shriek as she catapulted and cartwheeled madly and literally head over heels through space, careening slowly and painfully through each particle of nitrogen and oxygen, felt fragments of carbon dioxide and helium wedging their knife-sharp edges in through her pores and choked on the acid of neon and hydrogen because it didn't matter what area demons specialized in; at the end of the day, agony was the name of the game and torture was an art form perfected upon throughout the stretch of eternity. So, if one of the members of the upper echelon of Hell was pissed off at you, and if the Second Prince of Hell wanted you to experience the pain of crashing into each and every air molecule, then by God above or by the Devil below (well, not really, since Lucifer was actually topside now) – you felt it.
All of it.
People said silence was golden, and a wise man had two ears, two eyes, and one mouth was supposed to listen and observe twice as much as he spoke. Talk was cheap and those who indulged in flapping their lips were fools and would amount to nothing, and so it went on and on. Interesting that for a topic concerning the virtues of being tight-lipped and taciturn, there was an awful lot of superfluous discussion about it, and everyone wanted to have their say about the importance of not speaking. As for Sam, he just wished his elder brother would just say something already and stop acting like a mute wax figure come to life and heading down the creepy hallway wearing a look that clearly said I'm going to fuck you up a la House of Wax, or whatever that movie was called.
Dean hadn't spoken a word since they peeled out of the motel parking lot, armed to the teeth with holy water and salt and, on Sam's part, no earthly clue what the hell the plan was going to be, if there even was a plan. There'd only been a cryptic "we're going to take those fucking bastards down" and some righteous stomping into the underbelly of the psychiatric ward.
Sam Winchester was six foot four inches, and a good two hundred and twenty pounds; he'd hunted down monsters and hellspawn and combated his own personal demons before – and he definitely was not scared of the dark, especially since he'd grown up knowing exactly what went bump in the night and how to blow the sons of bitches away with a round of rock salt or a well-aimed strike of a blade. But maybe it was the fact that he was still a bit unsteady on his feet after Dean broke nearly every single traffic rule in existence in getting over here (it was a miracle no one saw them, but then again Sam wasn't sure if he believed in miracles anymore) combined with not knowing exactly how he and his brother were going to break an angel out of this prison of a labyrinth that was making his stomach twist in slight unease.
"Dean?" His brother grunted in response and Sam felt his right eye twitch in minor vexation. "Dean."
"What, Sam?"
The younger Winchester opened his mouth again to reply, but Dean's voice was sandpaper against rough and uncut granite, recently hewn from the heart of the Earth and in no mood for stupid questions from worried little brothers; he wisely decided against it and shook his head. "Never mind."
It was seeping into his surroundings now, something dark and heavy, crackling with a shadow of even deeper darkness and definite presence – whatever it was, he felt it leeching into his skin and for the first time in days, was able to feel something.
Fear.
He still didn't know his name or where he was or the why or how of anything else, but he could taste the acidity of sharp and sour terror rising in the back of his throat, bubbling up from his empty stomach. Claws of panic were unsheathed and raking down the barren walls of his mind; he dredged up the will to move but wasn't sure if his limbs obeyed or just floundered weakly. The coolness of sheets pressed against his face now and he tried to make himself smaller and smaller or just invisible to the point of disappearing into the mist of nothingness forever.
The touch of fingers colder than oblivion scalded his skin, shooting streams of liquid steel through him and down to his bones, sucking dry all the marrow of life and replacing it with the cool ooze of a poisonous honeyed voice that cut and slashed and sliced through the insubstantiality of the man. "Long time no see, my little pet." A thumb stroked his temple, and he trembled; there was a sharp zing of sparks in his otherwise mauled brain. "Look at me when I speak to you, dear Cas."
Cas. Who or what was that and why did it seem to mean so much? From this stranger it meant nothing, less than nothing. But from some back corner of his dimmed and restricted power of recall, the word glimmered. Shifting and tensing, he drew in a shaky breath in the silence because he could no longer hear the melodious voices of the angels above – and he opened his eyes.
The bellow hit the air like the clashing of a thousand cymbals and the simultaneous collision of a million gongs, shattering the air and reverberating through the threads holding together the fabric of existence.
Oh, fucking hell – Dean knew that sound, he knew it. It was a sound off the frequency and wavelength charts and one unutterable from the throat of a mere mortal, a howl not of this Earth, one that could only be a byproduct of Hell. It had not been a dark and stormy night before, but now it was as the mental ward's top of the line fire alarm started shrieking bloody murder and blaring for all it was worth at the first detection of smoke from the basaltic and brimstone and the sulfur of the Abyss, as the wrath of the Second Prince of Hell thundered out across the grounds and the hunter was off, without a spare glance either backwards or even forwards, launching himself up stairs and through doorways only as cold terror curdled his heart within his chest. "CAS!"
Sam cursed mentally, long legs kicking into rapid motion as he sought to follow the weave and bob of Dean's flashlight up ahead lest he lose the other, because getting lost in a mental hospital would really suck-
Shit! He pitched forward as his shins slammed into something hard and unforgiving at however fast he'd been running (maybe about fifteen miles an hour, or at least that's what it felt like) and he simultaneously bit his tongue, windmilled his arms wildly for balance, and glared down at whatever it was that had tripped him. The hell is that – a friggin' bathtub? The shotgun skirted out of his hands and across cold concrete; he grappled for it and was back up on his feet in seconds.
"DEAN!"
The younger Winchester tripped up a flight of stairs and burst into a random hallway, nearly colliding with a sea of people as water started spraying down from above, scanning the sea of white for a familiar olive green military jacket or the glint of an amber knife, all the while attempting to hide the shotgun behind his back. Mentally unstable individuals plus the presence of a weapon and multiplied by demons and loud noises equaled one hell of a clusterfuck that he'd rather not get into right now. His voice was drowned out in the chaos of the panicked and confused voices of bleary-eyed patients and staff members who were trying to keep about themselves a certain measure of calm and failing miserably. "DEAN!"
Dean was nowhere to be seen.
Goddamn it!
The sludgy black gloom permeating through the room with slow relaxation and the steady ease of the Indians circling the Cowboys whipped into a tight coil of an emotion he couldn't name or possibly place with his inept state of mind, a nebula of roaring rage so unbound and expansive that it was spilling over. And though he hadn't moved on his own for the past days or weeks or whatever, his response was a knee-jerk reaction; a natural reflex hardwired even into a man half dead and more than nearly all the way delirious from torment and solitude.
He didn't know how or why, but the intensity of the fear that gripped him was terrifying in its power, and there was only one thought and one action he could put to this sea, this flood, this deluge of all-consuming, swirling nexus of evil: run.
The hunter vaulted up the stairs, crashing through the door and it felt too familiar, too strangely like he'd done this before once and a hundred times. His steps moved faster though, more frantic and anxious because if there was one thing Dean hated, it was déjà vu – especially when he couldn't remember if it was an eerie coincidence foretelling a good or bad outcome.
It pounded in his brain. Neurons suddenly snapped together like north and south poles on a magnet edged together millimeter by millimeter until they finally clashed and closed the space in between; his atrophied muscles jerked in response- and he ran. Stumbling and tripping over his own feet, crashing into both immovable objects that stood in his path and those that propelled him in every which direction, his fingers scrabbled desperately along smooth walls in vain for a sense of ground.
People were screaming because of frustration and anger, because of confusion and the fear and the paranoia that came along with it; some of the patients were yowling along with the fire alarm just because they felt like it. Dean pushed and shoved his way through the crowd, throwing elbows here and spinning random dark-haired strangers around by the shoulder, looking for one pair of familiar blue eyes, looking desperately for his friend. "Cas!"
His hands touched others like him – lost, wandering, and filled with fear, albeit not for the same reasons – and they ignored him, shoving him away like a nuisance to be ignored in favor of their own wellbeing, and once again, he was alone. Although now surrounded by many, he still barreled on through the darkness alone, and the presence was closing in on him again, closer and closer; he ran for his life and for sanity though he had none, ran because it was all he could do.
"Cas?" Wrong person, too tall. No, too fat. Castiel didn't have a limp. "Cas!" The angel wasn't here. Dean could've swore Meg was keeping him on this level unless the bitch had already moved him or done something else to warrant – No. Not going there. His mind spun wildly and invented wild possibilities of Castiel getting rescued by his dick brothers or Lucifer finally growing a heart and a soul like the Grinch who stole Christmas and goddamn, his head felt like it was going to freakin' explode the way his eyes kept bouncing back and forth from person to person like a pair of ping pong balls. "CASTIEL!!"
He was going to find the stupid featherbrain, and he and Sammy were going to patch up the mess those bastards had made of Cas's wings, and soon Cas would come around and get on with searching for God and being his usual serious self with no shreds of humanity involved because that was what had brought the angel of the Lord down to the terrifying level Dean had witnessed – humanity. Cas would stand there ramrod straight and stare quizzically with those too blue sapphire eyes of his that couldn't have ever belonged to any human and everything would be alright.
"CAST-oof!"
The man that ran into him full speed was so slight that he actually bounced off of Dean's frame, but with such force that he knocked a grunt out of the hunter. When the elder Winchester reached out to reflexively steady him, he could feel the sharp knobs of the man's elbows and the uncontrollable trembling in the woefully thin frame and the hands that reached up to grip at his arms as the man's knees buckled and he lifted his head – and Dean stared. Holy fucking sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
"Cas."
There is a moment in time when all things seem to not necessarily stop, but slow down. One's heartbeat reverberates in one's ears as the brain takes in flashes and images of real time slowed down to millisecond by millisecond frames that then become ingrained on the back of one's eyelids forever. People always claim that this is when miracles happen, when the nonbelievers finally see the light and for one glorious instant the blind can see. It's in times like these, that, without the aid of hallucinogenic drugs or other mind altering substances, one can reach out both forwards and backwards through the space-time continuum to touch moments and snapshots, when memories come rushing forth like a deluge of unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects.
Moments like these are rare.
Three weeks ago...
And as the hunter looked into the horribly bruised, spiderwebbed network of blossoming blues and purples beneath the pale skin stretched tightly over the renegade celestial being's gaunt face, as the Righteous Man opened his arms to catch the falling angel of the Lord, as Dean gazed into the blank, vacant, grotesque mess of purple-black irises and pupils that should've been a brilliant sapphire blue he sank to his knees, arms folding around his angel, his friend, his fault.
Two weeks ago…
He saw the hippie, stoned love guru of 2014 looking out at the world with razor-sharp edges of a broken smile and emptiness in his gaze, he saw the angel Castiel standing in a barn and displaying the glory of his shadowed wings; he saw faith and love and fierce devotion before the pain and heartbreak swept it all away. He saw the future and the past, the present and what could never be and what had already happened: tragedy and victory, Heaven and Hell, angel and demon, Cas and Dean.
Days five, four, three, two, one ago.
They said that in this moment, the blind could see and the mad saw clarity.
Ramiel's lips upon his forehead were brands of holy fire and love; Castiel's grace flared in unparalleled shock as the demon Belial descended upon him in a different kind of kiss; the eyes of the Righteous Man burned with disbelief and suspicion that flamed emerald as he plunged the dagger into the heart of the angel of Thursday; LEONARD of the nocturnal orgies; the foul hands that roamed everywhere; Sam Winchester did not mean this, he was being deceived and misled; Lucifer had ascended; Gabriel, Gabriel, BROTHER PLEASE; I love thee, little brother.
"Cas."
That was his name. Castiel. That is my name. This is the elder Winchester, the Righteous Man, and my charge. Dean is here. His fingers found the fabric of a shirt directly of the strong beat of a steady heart, over the soul he could no longer metaphysically sense, but would know anywhere – in the fires of Hell, on the long stretch of a highway in the middle of North America, in the depths of a mental asylum. They twisted and held tight, because nothing else mattered right now. His sightless eyes seemed to be leaking moisture, salty sorrow and pain and relief that someone cared. Dean is here.
Dean looked up from where he knelt on the cold linoleum floor in about an inch and a half of standing water, the blaring of a fire siren in his ears and with disgustingly taupe colored walls rising up on either side and stretching out down an hallway that seemed to go on forever, barely holding a terrified, sobbing angel of the Lord together in his arms. He looked up, and saw the Lord of lust at the other end of the hallway, terrible and great and magnificent in his wrath, advancing forward as he radiated power and darkness like the fetid stench of too much perfume.
"The name is Belial, Dean Winchester…"
"Dean!" Hazel green eyes shifted direction and glanced upwards toward his shoulder; he had to crane his neck because the Sasquatch sure was tall. Sammy's here. How did he get here? "Dean, snap out of it, goddamn it!" Bang. Bang. The rounds of rock salt weren't working. But of course they wouldn't. This was Hell's Second Prince, and he would not be deterred so easily. Bang.
There was a small hand on his arm, another one on Cas's head, fingers threading through the damp dark locks. Dean's gaze swung to the side in amazement, watched the little girl who called herself Joy cup the sides of the angel's face with both hands and lift his heavy head with infinite care, like a mother and child. He let her.
"Dean, take Cas and go!" Bang.
Sam was going to run out of cartridges soon because they were freakin' melting before even touching Belial's suit –which wasn't even wet from the water – as the demon drew closer, emerald green eyes now blazing with all the fury and authority of Hell behind them, spiraling wildly outwards from an epicenter of boiling will and want and outrage. Yet all Dean could do was watch as Castiel cried out unintelligibly with garbled words and grabbed for the little girl's hand, as her big doe brown eyes watered her nose turned red as it scrunched up, as she pressed gentle lips to Castiel's forehead in a gesture of beautifully genuine love.
"DEAN!" Sam yelled, his voice a desperate holler.
"Sister," Castiel stuttered, voice weak and barely audible above Belial's demonic roar that put dragons to shame.
The angel Ramiel let fall a single tear of sorrow from the soul of a creature created for joy, and stared the Righteous Man in the eye, speaking only one word. "Go." The Winchesters and their temporary charge slipped through time, space, and reality through plaster, concrete walls, and air to land outside a '67 Impala parked in the moonlight.
White light exploded in Prowers County Psychiatric Ward, magnesium combined with sulfur and something that sounded like a thousand bells split the night sky in two as the little girl stood her ground against the advancing demon, the angel of joy unfurled her ruined wings in poor protection against the being who destroyed them in the first place, and a sister willingly sacrificed herself for her little brother, then-
Utter silence.
A/N: Sorry if this chapter was a bit confusing. I was trying to twist a whole new perspective out of thin air; hope it explained just a bit of the odd time frame. Just an FYI, this week is going to be hell week in regards to real life though; too much work to do in the shortest month of the year. I'll be taking a one to two week hiatus then. Hope this rescue scene is what you guys were looking for; please review!