A/N: I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews (200+, wow!), and take this time to issue a WARNING: A couple of paragraphs in this installment are going to be legitimately rated M. Just thought I'd throw that out there, but I hope you guys still enjoy the chapter!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me
There are those types of men everyone knows, part smooth-talking Casanova and part rough and tumble Indiana Jones, mixed in with a bit of mischievous charm and devil may care attitude that sends the hearts of women young and old everywhere a flutter. They were the ones in high school with varsity jackets, the heart-melting sports or vintage cars and the pick of any girl in the entire student body, those who made it in the real world with silver tongues and pearl teeth, with their wit and charisma, if nothing else. Envied by their companions and praised by their superiors, they became idealized as champions of the skilled and talented few who spoke, lived, and breathed confidence – it was the name of the game, and these men had mastered it as boys and turned it into a fine art that defined nearly every angle of their existence
Equally loved and loathed, very few of their critics and admirers knew or understood the truth behind these Great Gatsby figures, of how they carried and performed the act so very convincingly that sometimes even they believed it themselves, believed that a grin and flattering word could fix anything, even the terrible emptiness some of them held deep within; for others it was the fear of failure because all knew that the higher they climbed, the further the fall. When faced with real crises and disaster, the charm withered like a dying flower and each became as mute and helpless as everyone else, for while it was possible to fool the human mind and sense of perception (and even oneself), no veneer held fast against the crushing wave of tragedy and despair.
It has to be broken in three places or else it might tear through the skin or puncture a lung. Hang on, Cas. It'll be over soon. Just one more.
Dean was gritting his teeth together that his jaw was beginning to ache and it seriously was a wonder his molars weren't cracking apart because goddamn it, this sucked. If he'd thought hearing an angel's true voice was bad, this – listening to Castiel shrieking in a dozen different languages as he pleaded and gasped for breath – this was much worse. We're helping him. This is for his own good. Cas will understand. Yeah, and Lucifer would miraculously see the error of his ways and put himself in the time out corner for the rest of eternity, and then he and Sam would settle down with nice girls, move into suburbia and join the PTA. Like hell.
"Easy there, it'll be over soon," he murmured to no one in particular, because Sam didn't look like he was focusing upon anything other than the grueling task set before him in the form of a thrashing nearly fallen angel, and Cas didn't seem capable of listening to anything. "Breathe, just breathe." And it was almost more of a reminder to himself; the angel was definitely going to have even more bruises from where the hunter was holding him back so tightly, but all Dean could do was set his jaw, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, and pray for Cas to understand as Sam, brow knit together and face contorted in a pained expression the elder Winchester had only seen once before, in a small chapel and bathed with the unholy light signaling Lucifer's eminent ascent-
Crack.
Castiel went limp against him with the third hard strike of the heel of Sam's palm against his clavicle, chest heaving with sobs and gasps of air dragged up from the gut that displayed raw pain untainted by embarrassment or restraint. The younger Winchester snatched his hand away as if burned and Dean could see the rapid up and down bob of the other's Adam's apple, could see the glistening of tears that Sam wasn't trying to hide and his heart sunk because he'd only been trying to protect both his friend and his brother, was that too freakin' much to ask for?
"Dean…" It was a whisper, barely more than an exhalation of air, a moan resounding with something Dean couldn't discern and he swore, quiet and full of self-loathing as he gently tipped Castiel's head back to check his pulse –
-and Cas flinched away from him.
He could've endured a fist in the face from Sammy a thousand times over, could handle getting pummeled into the dirt by stunt double demons all around; hell, he'd even stared the Devil in the eye and dared the son of a bitch to waste him – and none of it ploughed into him with more forceful or sickening realization than a creature of righteousness jerking away from his touch with a soft cry of fear, voice trembling with the sting betrayal. He'd even turned the little brother he swore to protect into isolation and drove him to siding with a demon because that was the only way Sammy felt worth something, he'd landed the closest father figure he had into a wheelchair, and wasn't this just the icing on top of the cake of failure? Numbly, all he could do was sit there with an armful of now apparently unconscious angel who'd done more with one simple flinch than forty years in Hell or all of Heaven's persuasion could ever manage. After all, it was only the simplest and most straightforward way of saying that Dean Winchester was so hopeless of a fuck up that he couldn't even handle not turning everything he touched into ash or dust or a broken heap of ragged edges that would never mend.
"We-" Sam cleared his throat abruptly and bent his shaggy head, swiping swiftly at his face with the back of his hand. "We should…" he gestured at the bruises already beginning to form along Castiel's collarbone, now broken and mangled under the skin, standing so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to move away. "I'll go get…get the gauze so we can…"
Can fix the mess I made. Castiel was a dead weight against him as Dean slowly maneuvered out from where he'd been sitting against the headboard and instead propped the angel there in his place, aiming to be as gentle as possible with fumbling fingers and hands heavy with guilt. I'm sorry, Cas. The IV snagged abruptly on a rumpled section of the sheet and the hunter caught it with a lurch of fear turning his stomach, remembering the way Castiel had screamed bloody murder the first time they'd touched the needle to his skin, a pinprick and a flash of pain next to the other countless needle scars, and he was perfectly fine with not having to do a repeat again, thanks.
"Dean?" His head snapped up, eyes tearing away from aforementioned scars and then there was Sam and a bundle of gauze nearly hidden in the palm of his hand. "Can you or should I…um…"
It was almost funny, because the last time he'd witnessed Sam so speechless had been close to twenty-five years ago, when the kid was still learning how to talk, because Sam always had something to say, some useless fact to spout off about starving kids in Africa or this weird sigil and that potential case in Bumfuck, mid-Western USA. Keyword being almost, since laughter was pretty fucking far from his mind at this point in time. "Give it to me, Sammy," he heard his own voice saying, watched as his hand stretched outward for the gauze because it was painfully clear that Sam was this close to having a guilt-ridden, nervous breakdown and Dean had always tried to best to do right by his brother no matter how many corners it meant having to cut or how much it hurt, and he wasn't about to stop now.
Nearly half an hour, clumsy butterfingers, and a half-decent splint later, Dean was wrenching open the motel room door and stomping out into the parking lot with barely a backwards glance, Alastiar's oily voice ringing in his head – Good boy Dean, make them squeal and sing, make them scream for mercy…yes, I do think I'll like you – and seeing nothing as he stumbled toward the car in a haze, needing to get away from the friend he'd let down in the most terrible of ways.
"I need your help…because you are the only one who will help me. Please."
So focused was the hunter in making a less than graceful yet hasty, desolate retreat that he failed to catch glimpse of the imprint of an invisible paw in the mud, failed to see the silk handkerchief that once might have been white drifting to the parking lot's gravel surface, failed to hear a hellhound's low whine of satisfaction and relief of having found its prey.
Malthus stepped forward cautiously, sniffing the air again for good measure and the hellhound cocked its head slightly, the dark hollows that served as eyes following the Impala as it roared out into the road and away from the motel in apparent escape. Prince Belial would be pleased with this turn of events, he was sure of it.
And so it was in the end that everyone saw how seldom those blessed with great confidence had the courage or the self-assurance to endure, to press forward, and continue on. Funny how things turned out that way, wasn't it?
She had never been one easily rendered speechless; no, it took a great deal to rattle or stun the usually levelheaded and unflappable Head of Pediatrics. Her ability to stay calm in a crisis was partly what made her such a successful physician because someone had to stay strong when telling grief-stricken parents that their baby was going to or had already passed away, and perhaps a part of that came from becoming very well acquainted with death at an early age, but then again, how else was one supposed to react when growing up surrounded by all the snipers and bombs and rockets of civil war-torn Beirut? She'd already resolved as a child to not to deign to become the victim, to never be the victim and as a result, Nisrine Abunasser was a resolute pillar of strength and composure in the eye of any tempest. She was a comforting presence to the sick without discrimination, a mother to those who had none, a soothing voice in the storm with the right words for every occasion.
But as of right now, backed up against her dresser at stupid o'clock in the morning in a knee-length chemise and staring at the stranger in her bedroom, all she could manage was a weak "What?"
"Prophetess," the man…angel…whatever said flatly, meeting her gaze squarely. "You are a channel for the vision of Heaven's will and have been chosen as a vessel for one of the most invaluable members of the Host."
I'm a…what? Her brain scrambled for a reasonable explanation, because while she'd never been the most devout keeper of the faith (working twenty hour days didn't nearly leave her enough time to sleep or even breathe much less pray five times a day) but she was a good person; she helped others for a living and gave to the poor regularly, fasted during the month of Ramadan and professed the Shahadah (There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet). So what if she hadn't yet been to Mecca? She was only thirty-four, give a girl a break. And since when did women start becoming prophets anyway? As far as she knew, the Muslim faith, like every other old time organized religion, was one of patriarchy. "A vessel?"
"Your blood intricately links your body to the angel of joy and true vision, and you are to stand as Ramiel's true receptacle for the battle at the End of all Ages."
Nisrine blinked, mind whirling. True receptacle? As opposed to a false container? The guy could have as well have been speaking Swahili or gibberish, because what the ever-loving fuck did that mean?
Snap.
Or maybe it wasn't a snap of the fingers, but it was audible enough to Nisrine's ears and in her mind; it sounded like a cracking tree branch or the sharp break of a bone and it felt like someone hooking a dead weight around her middle and jerking her out stomach, liver, and spleen out of her abdomen. It felt like someone was simultaneously trying to squeeze her skull into the thickness of a pancake and giving her brain freeze at the same time because she couldn't focus on what the hell was going on. Her ears rung with dead silence and the beat of her own pulse as she flew through time and space before touching down unsteadily with her bare feet on cold linoleum and breath wheezing in her lungs.
And of course, Mr. Cryptic Stranger Who May or May Not be an Archangel was standing there, arms folded across his chest and goddamn it, angel or not, Nisrine really wanted to clock him a good one, because as the world finally stopped spinning and she straightened with some semblance of control over her kinesthetic and vestibular senses, she found herself standing in the middle of the Pediatrics Ward in nothing but her freakin' cotton nightgown. What the hell is going on?
"Come."
Nisrine had never been good at obeying the orders of any man, just ask her father, three older brothers, and a slew of ex-boyfriends who'd all deemed her too headstrong for her own good, and so call it force of habit but she planted her heels, crossed her own arms and defiantly lifted her chin. But the "screw you" died on her lips when she saw where the man was walking, the room he was headed toward and that strange maternal instinct flared again, thrumming quietly but in a strong, steady, downright dangerous rhythm under the surface. It was the one that constantly reminded her of her ticking biological clock, the same one that made her rescue stray cats and dogs when she was a little girl, and the one that hammered out a tempo of don't touch my patients. "You-" Five long, rapid paces brought her sliding swiftly between the self-professed archangel of healing and the door to Jane Doe's room. She glared, daring him. "You leave my patient alone."
He cast the woman a fleeting glance before, with a flick of his hand, the archangel temporarily rearranged the molecules of wooden framework and pushed the vessel into the room without a single touch, driving her back against the wall and pinning her in place. As she flailed and struggled mutely, the archangel turned to the slight form of the little girl lying in the hospital bed, still and unmoving. "Sister."There was no reply and the archangel ventured closer, as close as the invisible and impenetrable barrier carefully formed by Gabriel's hand would allow. "Ramiel, awaken."
It was a command and a request rolled into one but the entreating order still elicited no response or movement and at that, electricity crackled throughout the air as sparks struck the sigil and the power of one brother struggling over another filled the room, one son of sanctified flame against the other. Nisrine's eyes grew wide in speechless astonishment; she gasped silently as she watched positive and negative charged particles split in two and collide against the stronger covalent bond of hydrogen and oxygen, spinning rapidly through space in attempts to reverse polarity and admit the archangel of healing into the sphere of the Herald's protection.
"Raphael."
The voice was unheard by the ears of mere mortals and it burned against Nisrine's eardrums like a flaming breath of air, whispering secrets indiscernible to those who sought them, and it continued to speak – inquiry, reproach, and a firm send-off – as Jane Doe sat up with fluid grace, brown eyes echoing with ages past and the promise of the future to come. At that moment she was not a little girl in a flimsy hospital gown far too large for her thin frame or a nameless patient among many; no, she was authority and kindness, both a younger sister well adored and a mother bestowing firm but gentle understanding upon all.
"You've been gravely weakened, sister." Raphael rumbled, a displeased whirlwind sweeping through a dry, barren desert. "Don't force my hand. You will return to Heaven." The winds of a raging tempest swelled into a mighty hurricane within the small private room, whipping and lashing at every available surface as if reaching for something, fingers determined to pluck every single stationary object from its place and toss it through space up to the sky, upwards to touched the stars and perhaps even reach Heaven.
Jane Doe's eyes narrowed.
Nisrine cringed as much as she could and hid her eyes in the crook of her arm and just waited for the entire building to come crashing down around all of their ears because that was what it sounded like. I'm going to die. I'm going to die and there are so many things I won't have ever done. Her heart sunk. She'd never been to Paris, never found a man worthy of her time or her heart; after years of looking after the precious darlings of others, she would never conceive or bear or hold a child of her own. And shit, she never did make that pilgrimage to Mecca either. Allaahu Akbar, ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah…
Then, just like that, with all the regrets and wishes and hopes that now would never come to fruition still swirling around in her mind, everything stopped and went still, literally frozen in time.
She looked up, limbs suddenly free again and the man (Raphael) was gone, but then again Nisrine didn't think she would've noticed even if he put on a top hat, vaulted on top of the serving tray attached to the table and did a tap dance, because little Jane Doe – Ramiel, her mind supplied now, Ramiel – was staring straight at her. And as much as Nisrine wanted to look away, she couldn't. When the angel of joy and true vision stared you in the eye, you didn't look away because besides the fact that something that wasn't human was effortlessly stripping away your skin-flesh-bones to gaze openly upon your soul with just a look, it was so much more than that.
Let those who have eyes, let them see.
The woman's irises contracted and then expanded, pupils full-blown as she looked and saw the creation of the galaxies and the birth of time, the start of everything that had ever come into existence through the Father's hands and the end of everything that went the same way; she saw the hellfire and brimstone raining down upon the entirety of humanity because the Lord promised to never again end the world with floodwaters; she saw Life and Death as opposites of the same whole working endlessly, constantly, and in unity. With one look, the angel Ramiel reached out and opened the eyes of her vessel's soul, opened them to the ever-stretching chronicle of the past and the many paths that led forward into thousands of possible futures, each alterable by only a single choice; the tiniest waver in a will triggering and bursting forth with countless threads of new fates and fortunes and chance. Nisrine crumpled to the floor with a breathless whimper, shaking uncontrollably with the gravity of the visions and tears streamed down her cheeks as she gasped for air because it was too much to handle, too much to know, too much to have seen in so short of a flash of imagery and dream. Suddenly it all made sense now as the threads wove themselves together into a vision of destruction and despair; it was Yawm ad-Din and Armageddon, the Day of Judgment.
She'd just seen the end of the world.
"You have a choice, Nisrine Abunasser," Ramiel whispered gently, asking permission but not demanding consent at the same time. "You can help stop it." This current vessel was weakening and would not withstand the horrors and toil of the inevitable final battle upon Mount Megiddo; the fading little girl would not fare as the angel's true vessel would. "Will you become my vessel?"
Nisrine raised a tear-stained face, lifting her eyes to the glory of the angel who was struggling to contain a flaming orb of grace within the little girl's body, the little girl who would burn away soon, burn away like the rest of the world and crumble to a fine grey ash as the minions of the realm Below rose in triumph and dwelled in Hell on Earth forevermore. Choice? What choice? There was no tough decision to be made here.
Yes. Yes, I will.
Some wondered if the sightless had no vision because they could see further and father, deeper into worlds unknown, and by extension, into the veil beyond death. What did the blind dream of, with their sightless eyes? Perhaps they could see the beginning and the end, the reasons for being, and all that made life worth living to the fullest. Maybe they, like the dead, were privy to a trove of secrets carved out by the plasticity of the brain or possibly even by the finger of God.
They were not. He would know, because he'd already been there before, had stepped into the emptiness of oblivion with not even a shroud of darkness or sense of awareness, and he'd fought it. Fought with the strength he no longer possessed and a will that was practically nothing at all until his grace burst into flame and ignited the barrenness of his soul, stitching his essence back together again and he was brought back into a world of light and hope and faith for the Father that must've been the one to restore his soul.
The angel Castiel stood before him, a figure of righteousness and holy light, of obedience and cool impassivity and the strength in the name of the Almighty. His wings were white swatches of Heaven's glory, twenty-five feet across; his demeanor calm and his sword polished a burnished steel with the sanctified flame from the mouth of a Mighty and Wrathful God. He was beautiful and mighty, too bright to gaze upon with even blinded eyes for he was an angel of the Lord with no doubts or fears or thoughts of stubborn hunters with hazel green eyes who told him "don't ever change" or told him he was already dead. The angel Castiel was too perfect to exist in a world of sin and he tried to reach out, to urge him away, to warn him of deserting brothers and an absent Father, of a man who would call him 'Cas' and for whom he would forsake everything, who would call him his friend and then turn traitor and set upon him at his weakest.
Now he knew how the blind felt, what the blind saw, and it was far from death because hallucinations and dreams were real but unreal, like the friendship and trust pieced together by the fragility of hope and lies, both all too easily broken and left behind to rot after the expended usefulness…
And it hurt to see himself as he used to be; Castiel was dimly aware of the fact that his body was shaking, and it was truly his body now, and to own one's own body was to give permission to feel everything that went along with it so he embraced the pain freely, readily, since there was nothing else he possessed or could have anymore. There was no secret, no great unknown, no darkness – the only constant was the pain, and he cradled it to his chest with hands that were being torn to shreds and flayed to the bone, held it like a baby bird with broken wings and it hammered relentlessly against his consciousness, forcefully pushing away all else as it propelled him out of the mass of nightmares and drugged images of a blind man's imaginings – into the heavy weight and wheezing cough, the sharp stab of ice and pounding of pain. The darkness surrounded him still and the pain left him breathless, but able to focus, if only for an instant.
"Page paid, heeoa, aqlo li rit od ethrazi ol enay."
The words flowed into him like a stream of peace, the language of his kin of the Host above being spoken in a tongue rough and clumsy, unaccustomed to the words of celestial beings. He recognized that voice though, from where did he remember that tone and timbre?
"Restel od brin gono aqlo alsro ar heeoa ge bam."
There was guilt in his voice, the residue of a darkness that stained his soul and Castiel knew him suddenly, knew that this voice belonged to Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood.
"Umplif torzul mirc umadea." Sam gently closed the giant text and set Enochian: The Language of the Messengers of God on the floor where he sat. Castiel's breathing seemed a bit more regular now, slightly more at ease, but a furrow still creased his brow and after a moment of slight hesitance, the younger Winchester leaned forward nervously. He hadn't forgotten what happened the last time the angel was aware of his presence, if the shiner he still bore said anything about it. But Dean had left off to who knew where, and now it was just him. "Castiel?"
The angel's cheeks were flushed an unhealthy red, his skin was hot to the touch and Sam chest tightened in sympathy as he readjusted the ice packs placed strategically around the other's form, careful not to wake him lest there be a repeat performance of last night's disaster. He cast a glance at Castiel's bandaged clavicle, newly broken and set in its proper place. "He didn't want to do it," the younger Winchester found himself blurting out, fingers nervously smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle at the edge of the comforter. "We had to, Cas. Your bone had healed the wrong way and if we didn't do anything…" he cleared his throat. "You mean a lot to him, Cas. You're his friend. You know that Dean would never hurt you."
Dean Winchester, Michael's vessel. Dean Winchester, both stubborn man and generous of heart, compassionate and fierce and – "Dean."
Sam started, blinking in shock at the sound of his brother's name because Castiel hadn't stirred, hadn't opened his eyes, hadn't given any indication that he was awake. But as the younger Winchester waited with baited breath, the angel spoke again, a breathy whisper. "A good man."
"Yeah. Yeah, he is." A lump formed in Sam's throat because well…it was stupid, but of course Dean was a good man. He was Michael's vessel, wasn't he? The Righteous man. And although he wanted to deny it, the one thing Sam perhaps yearned for quietly and privately in the secret recesses of his heart and mind, was a chance to be recognized as the same.
"…Sam?"
He flinched at the sound of his own name and swallowed hard, waiting for the judgment well deserved. "Yeah. I'm here, Cas."
Sam Winchester, Lucifer's true vessel. Sam Winchester, repentant and whole of soul, pure of heart; a creature of the dust who had been born into sinful nature, but who worked for nothing but the welfare of others and the joy of those he loved. Like his brother, Dean.
Castiel spoke then, with more forceful strength and authority than he'd ever done before, and Sam found himself having no choice but to believe the affirmation: "You too, Sam." You too are a good man, Sam. You too.
The hospital had been usually quiet for the past couple of days. Medical personnel milled around and went about their everyday jobs; the building buzzed with the regular in and out flow of patients coming for their yearly checkups, filling up prescriptions, or inquiring about the availability of the latest H1N1 vaccine. Flu season was right around the corner and all things considering, Kindred Memorial Medical Center was having a pretty uneventful week. Doctors found the time for a coffee break, a couple of the interns had gone outside for a smoke, and the nurse at the front desk had her head bent studiously over the New York Times crossword puzzle, trying to think of the five letter name of a Hungarian cube maker.
Everything was relatively free from disturbance, or as peaceful as a hospital could be. That is, until Kindred Memorial's Medical Center's resident little Jane Doe opened up her doe brown eyes, sat straight up in bed, and screamed to high Heaven.
At first, everyone had been in too much shock to do anything else but stare, all those years of honing lightning-quick judgments, response times, and medical school out the window because it wasn't the plaintive cry of a little girl's confusion or the well-known squall of discomfort, and thank God it wasn't a wild howl of pain – but it was just as heart-wrenching. It was the first time anyone in the small mid-western town's medical center had ever heard the wail of a soul that had been through the fiery destruction and yet lived to tell the tale, much less from the throat of a little girl.
"Rami! I want RAMI!!"
And as it was such, the mad rush began: two nurses to shush the child, a squadron of doctors who began running a battery of tests to determine what led to such a spontaneous recovery, and countless interns scurrying everywhere to attempt finding Dr. Abunasser, because Nisrine was the expert at dealing with hysterical patients. No one could find the Head of Pediatrics though, and that certainly was odd because Nisrine never missed a day of work, and several of the nurses had tried calling both her house and cell phone, with no answer. Suzanne, the nurse who worked the graveyard shift on the Pediatrics Ward, mentioned possibly having seen the doctor wearing what looked like a chemise and standing in the middle of the hallway long after Nisrine had gone home, or perhaps she hadn't had enough coffee and liked to be the center of attention with her wild tales.
Luckily though, the girl had quieted down after much cajoling, a big bowl of strawberry ice cream that was devoured with relish, a packet of crayons, and the blank side of an anesthesia consent form and was now humming quietly as she scribbled out a masterpiece of her own design. Five different doctors had already confirmed the patient to be of sound physical health, the only anomaly being that she spoke little for a seven year old girl, and that they attributed to the stressors of waking up in a strange new environment and perhaps even a little bit of posttraumatic stress disorder. After all, the question of what happened to land her at Prowers County Psychiatric Ward was still an unsolved mystery. Specialists, child services, and even a priest had already been called and were on the way, and yet none of this seemed to bother little Jane Doe who still didn't have a name, for when asked, she simply shrugged her skinny shoulders and scribbled harder with the red crayon, pursing her lips in concentration.
Naturally then, when one of the younger nurses entered with a tray of lunch (bologna and cheddar cheese on wheat with a side of sliced peaches and green Jell-O for dessert) and a cheery "whatcha drawin' there, sweetheart?", it had been a bit of a surprise when the little girl raised her head and solemnly replied with two grave words that carried much more gravity than she could muster.
"The End."
Dr. Harrison Tilden from the Psychiatrics Department now sat in front of the young patient, eyebrows furrowed as he inspected the series of drawings of stick people with giant jagged spike-looking scrawls extending from their shoulders and other objects that were unmistakably guns, the majority of the drawing covered in shades of Crayola's brick red, burnt orange, and orange red. The little girl was now sipping the remainder of her Jell-O through a straw, giggling in merriment as she did so and no, the doctor mused before returning his attention to the drawing, she certainly didn't seem to be experiencing any symptoms of psychological trauma. Other than the fact that she'd just spent about three hours drawing several different pictures that all looked like a seven year old's artistic representation of the fields of Gettysburg or the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.
"You think it's ugly."
He glanced up at the gaze that suddenly was far too serious for the little girl's face. "I'm sorry?"
"I know it's not very pretty," came the blunt reply. "But it wasn't pretty in my head, neither."
In her head…right then, scratch that about no psychological trauma. The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly and leaned forward. "No, it's…I just don't understand what you were trying to draw…?" he motioned, the universal gesture for someone to jump in and either prolong or complete the conversation, but she didn't seem to understand. Time for a change of tactics. "My name is Harrison, Harry for short," he said cheerfully, offering his hand. "What's yours?"
She took the extended hand, small fingers barely curling around his much larger ones. "Daddy called me his little princess and Mommy called me little missy, but only if I stepped on Fluffy's tail or ate too much candy before dinnertime." The brown eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if the next secret could be divulged to this young, friendly man in the white coat like so many of the others, before the fingers squeezed in apparent confidence. "But Rami called me Joy."
Well, Joy it is. "Okay, Joy. Do you know where your parents are?"
"Gone."
Harrison blinked at the matter-of-fact answer, at the nonchalant tone. Oh boy, child services were going to have a ball with this one. "Did they tell you where they were going?"
"No." Joy shook her head firmly, once. "When the monsters came, Daddy told me to hide in the closet, so I did. I waited a long time." Her gaze drifted downward and little fingers played with the edge of the hospital's frayed blanket. "It was dark and cold. I didn't like it." Her arms came up and wrapped tightly around her skinny frame; a shiver shook her shoulders. "I was scared," she whispered, and it was clear that she'd been so for a long time, but big girls didn't get scared so she never said so. For a moment she was not the hospital's resident Jane Doe or latest medical miracle, but simply a little girl reliving what must have been a traumatic experience and Harrison's heart went out to her because he couldn't imagine his little Emma Rose going through something even remotely like what was being described to him. "But I prayed, just like Mommy showed me. I prayed an' then Rami found me."
That name again. Rami. The doctor paused and weighed his next words, considering, because as of right now, it sounded like the police were going to have their hands full with this story too, what with the monsters, missing parents, and this mysterious Rami. Was it possible that Joy was a victim of a kidnapping and had developed a dangerous attachment to her captor? Sounds like Stockholm syndrome. And… he sighed heavily. A rape kit might be necessary as well. "Who is Rami? Is he a monster, too?"
Harrison was unprepared for the bubble of laughter that escaped the little girl's mouth and burst in the air, a bright giggle full of light and levity. "No, silly. Rami's an angel!"
Oh, an angel. Why didn't I think of that before.. "With a shiny golden halo and big white wings?" He pointed at one of the stick figures with the spiky shoulders that…could've been wings? Eh. Maybe? If he was wrong, he knew the little girl would correct him in a heartbeat, because his own daughter was like that too. …No, not that one, silly Daddy!
Joy scooted forward, eager to instruct her audience of one. "No, that's Cas-tel. Catseil?" She paused and scrunched her nose in thought. "Cas," she finally decided with a nod of finality, before pointing at a different figure, this one with black scrawls for apparently wings. "Rami's wings aren't white anymore; the mean monster burned them all up a long time ago." When Harrison said nothing in return, the little girl crossed her arms over her chest and half-glared, half-pouted. "But I don't care if they're not white or pretty. Rami took good care of me an' Mommy won't mind 'cause Rami takes good care of Cas, too!"
Of course. Rami wasn't and had probably never been external threat; this so-called angel was a manifestation of Joy's mind, a way for her young mind to deal with whatever hell she'd been through, whatever prompted her to draw pictures of stick figures with wings and guns scribbled over with the red of what Harrison was almost certainly positive was supposed to be blood. Rami was the strong personality in this tragic case of apparent dissociative identity disorder, the one who protected Joy and this other imaginary friend named Cas. The doctor resisted the urge to let his head sink into his hands because there was a lot more messed up with this little girl's head then they'd originally thought.
"I'm sure Rami did a fine job," he commented hurriedly, and Joy nodded, satisfied. She sat back and poked idly at the Jell-O with the straw, and both of them watched the gelatin wobble this way and that in silence for a few moments. In fact, it looked a lot like Harrison's mind felt right now, because he sure as hell had no idea what to do with this patient. Maybe…maybe she wasn't the first? Or maybe he'd been watching too many crime dramas, but before he could stop himself, the question slipped out. "Joy, who is Cas?"
"Cas is Rami's little brother. He's got pretty blue eyes. See?" She pointed with the end of the straw and indeed, the first stick figure had blue crayoned eyes. "I wanted a little brother too. But Mommy laughed and said 'we'llsee' and then Daddy got Fluffy. I didn't like him much 'cause he meowed a lot. Where's Rami?" she asked suddenly, Jell-O now abandoned, and turning those large inquisitive brown eyes upon him.
"I…" I'm screwed. "I'm not sure, Joy." The little girl's brow was crinkling, the corners of her mouth pulling downwards in displeasure, so he hastened to explain. "We didn't find anyone else but you in that hallway. Why were you there?" From the corner of his eye, Harrison caught glimpse of a nurse standing by the door and held up a hand; he knew Joy would stop speaking if another stranger abruptly entered the room. "Did Rami take you there?"
"Yes. We…we went to find Cas." Joy's fingers were fisting in the sheets as she stared intently at the far wall, frown growing even more pronounced in her attempts to recall what had happened. "The monsters took him too," she said suddenly in hushed tones, eyes going wide. "An'…an' the boys with the guns." She made an abortive movement to point at the drawing, the words tumbling out over one another now. "They were there to save him too, 'cause…'cause he's important…'cause Cas is their friend." Slowly, as if in a trance, the little girl raised a hand and pointed her forefinger and thumb in the shape of a gun. "Bang."
Harrison frowned. "Joy? What happened next?"
"Bang."
"Joy?"
Suddenly her muscles clenched in a spasm; her back arched up and her head was wrenched back as if an invisible hand was pulling her hair, her fingers clenched inward, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she shook uncontrollably, foaming at the mouth. Horrified, Dr. Tilden jumped up, leaping forward to push the patient back down onto the bed- "SHE'S SEIZING!!!"
"He's hurting him!!!" the little girl cried as she convulsed, thrashing against the many hands that were trying to pin her limbs down, screaming out in a voice that wasn't her own in a way that was both terrifying and heartbreaking- "The monster's hurting him!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Stop hurting Cas!"
He got back to the motel at half past I'm too fucking drunk to give a shit, staggering out of the Impala and bringing with him the unmistakable odor of booze, misery, and failure, because although he was sure his blood alcohol content was currently through the roof, Dean Winchester apparently couldn't even get drunk enough to forget anything, even when he was really trying his damn hardest to do so (although the complicated question of how both he and the car had gotten back both in one piece was still a mystery to him).
Why the hell do people get shit-faced, anyway? Dean tried to jam the key into the doorknob and missed, copper clanking clumsily on bronze. 'Cause drinking a depressant when you're depressed makes sense. He jabbed at the door again, unsuccessfully trying to unlock it. Makes sense just like not saying yes, like Cas bein' a friend, like why it has to be me and Sammy and our planet that has to burn 'cause of friggin' dicks. Oh yeah, all of that made perfect sense. And for a moment he stood there, musing over something about brain cells and dying, over those who were already dead and those who were going to die in a rain of hellfire and flame at the hand of Sammy in a god-awful white suit – fuck. I'm not drunk enough for this. Finally, he inserted the key into the lock (turns out it had been upside down the whole time) and opened the door, stumbling into the small room that was rank with the stench of sweat, fear, and impending death.
Or maybe he was drunk. Dean blinked several times to stave off the fuzziness in his head, because he was sure that, when he left (ran, a voice that sounded too much like Alastair's mocked gleefully, ran like a scared little boy) Sam hadn't been sitting bedside keeping vigil with a pained and yet simultaneously strange look of peace on his face.
Or maybe he was just cross-eyed it was dull acceptance he saw, a look he was very sure mirrored his own.
Sam glanced up then, features rearranging into one of his epic and patented bitchfaces; this one was a mix between the 'where the HELL were you when we needed you, you idiot' one that Dean had learned way back when Sammy had been a teenager with emo issues and a chip on his shoulder the sizes of Stonehenge, and the 'I think we need to share and care and braid each other's hair' one that teetered dangerously on the verge of being in chick flick zone. But for all of the younger Winchester's infamous inappropriate girlishness at times, Sam had the good sense not to ask where his brother had been as the other moved past, and Dean didn't supply an answer.
He shucked his jacket and tossed the article of clothing on the other bed, kicking off his boots on his way to the bathroom while staring doggedly ahead because he didn't need to see the pale, still figure tucked carefully into the other bed on his uninjured side, didn't need to know how much Castiel's condition had deteriorated in two short hours (or however long he'd been gone), didn't want to be reminded of the clusterfuck they'd landed themselves into this time, one that didn't have a cheat sheet or owners manual saying exactly how to fix an angel of the Lord.
But that was just as well, because when the bathroom door slammed and he leaned his weight against the cracked ceramic sink, Dean gazed blankly at his reflection in the mirror and couldn't see anything besides the dead eyes of a man who had been pushed as far as he could go, a man who was at the end of his rope and couldn't tie a knot because it was fraying and unraveling under the weight of the end of the freakin' world itself. His reflection was the look on Sam's face when his older brother called him a monster; it was the blank stare of a fallen angel from behind a pile of absinthe and amphetamines and Vicodin to chase away the emptiness; it was the disbelief on Jesse's face when two strangers and a demon possessing his birth mother came to tell him he was the Antichrist.
Bzzzzz.
His knees shook at the unexpected noise and his fingers instinctively tightened on the edges of the sink but that must've not been very tight either or he must've blacked out because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor, back against the bathtub and for some reason, gazing blearily at the cell phone sitting on the ugly tile beside him. It vibrated once, twice, and then again, insistently, rattling against the floor: ten new messages. Christ. Really, Sammy? Well, the bar he'd sought refuge in while attempting to drink everything away didn't have reception, so it was no surprise that everything was flooding his inbox now. Hazily, Dean reached out with the clumsy fingers and punched at random buttons, squinting at the too-small text that flashed across the screen.
Cas is awake. Delete.
He's in a lot of pain. I think he's getting worse. Delete.
Should I up the morphine? Delete.
Dean, answer your damn phone! Delete.
He's asking for you. Dean's thumb hovered over the delete button on that one because as stupid as it was, a spark of hope flared at the words; maybe Cas didn't hate him after all, maybe they'd actually get through this one alive, maybe there was even a Cas says he forgives you in the remaining messages somewhere- "DEAN!!"
It was pure instinct.
He might have been drunk, but he knew that tone of Sam's voice, had heard the fear and desperation coloring his kid brother's frantic shout only a couple of times before and each time, it was a knife to the gut. Dean would be damned (again, he supposed) if anything got in between him and the other when Sammy yelled out for him like that, be it demon or angel or lack of motor coordination, and he barreled out of the bathroom, mind clear and sharp enough to put a bullet in the monster that was…that was…
Shit.
"Dean, help me!" Sam yelled over his shoulder as he grappled with the angel, and this wasn't any Jacob wrestling with nameless angel bozo number forty-three type deal – Cas was having a full out convulsive fit, a grand mal complete with wild thrashings of his limbs as muscles contorted and twitched at alarming speeds and odd angels. The cords in his neck stood out as his head jerked and he bucked a good half a foot off the bed with considerable strength for someone in his condition, eyes moving furiously under closed lids and from his throat came a sound Dean could only ever remember being ripped from his own throat in one long, continuous choking gasp during the thirty years he spent getting torn apart in Hell, a gasp he knew would soon turn into a full-fledged howl of pain.
The belt was unbuckled and off from around his waist in less than an instant and Sam understood, narrowly ducking one of the flailing fists that swung into the bedside lamp instead, sending it crashing it to the floor; with a whisper of apology and for forgiveness, the younger Winchester used his height and weight advantage to pin Castiel's lower body to the bed, one arm firmly pressed against the angel's sternum and the other reluctantly holding him down against the mattress as Dean wedged the belt between Castiel's locking jaws and grinding teeth. The angel continued to jerk spastically though, biting down upon the leather so hard that the corners of his mouth began to bleed, exhaling a low, pitiful moan.
"C'mon Cas, don't do this, c'mon…" Dean's voice was strained, his face grey and not just from the dimmed lighting in the room; his fingers met the wetness of tears on Castiel's cheeks as the angel's motions became more subdued under the stronger forces holding him down – shit, his fever's too high – and Dean nodded at his brother, a quick inclination of his head. That's enough. Let him go. Sam pulled away quickly and they moved to handle one shoulder each, gently easing their friend onto his stomach this time, knowing the torment the seizure must have placed on his back, moving him inch by inch. "Easy, easy," Dean muttered more to himself than anyone else, his own grip slippery with his own sweat and Castiel's tears, salty distress and guilt mingling together as one.
They'd gotten him onto his side, Sam propping the limp body that was more skin and bone than actual human up slightly against his own side – and Dean wondered what had happened in his absence, because the last time they tried something like that, the shit met the fan and became the best of friends – when a tremor passed through Castiel's woefully wasted frame. Dean knew he would rather wait for an hour and let his fingers grow stiff and legs go numb than go through a repeat of what just happened, so he paused, motioning for Sam to do the same as they waited for the residual shaking to subside.
It didn't.
The angel's abused back arched up and away from Sam with a full-throated scream at the sky, eyes snapping open like Pamela's after she lost hers. One hand shot upwards and fingers gripped tightly around Dean's neck, dragging him downwards with so much speed and urgency that the hunter lost footing and pitched forward, falling and spiraling madly down into Castiel's purple-black gaze full of everything he couldn't see-
-and he lay there, gasping, panting for breath and trying to ride out the unspeakable scorch of exploding stars inside his skull, his eyes caught sight of the man standing at the door, pinprick pupils contracting and expanding, latching upon the carefully ironed and pressed slacks with tapered seams and moving up to the starched white collared shirt and silken tie.
Dean froze in terror as a white handkerchief extended slowly toward his face, carefully wiping through the trails of blood that seeped sluggishly from his eyes as Belial, High Prince of Hell of and Lord of lust smirked down at him, the predator gazing down upon his helpless and vulnerable prey at the end of a chase that had already lasted thousands, millions, billions of years. "Well hello there, my little soiled dove."
The handkerchief was shoved in between his teeth and jerked tightly then; he tasted iron on his tongue and terror pounded out a sharp, jerky staccato against his ribs. Instinctively, the hunter knew that it was not his own fear, because every living being alive knew the flavor of its own fear, knew the particular rush of adrenaline and taste of bile and tightening of muscles as the sympathetic nervous system kicked into overdrive, and this wasn't his. It was one much more attuned to the demon's presence and besides, when the fuck did Belial start getting a hard on for him? No, Dean realized with a start and terrible, sinking dread – this was the keen and acrid taste of a being usually unused to feeling anything at all – this was Castiel's fear streaming through his consciousness and shrieking at a mad, frenzied pitch, screaming out to run, run, RUN.
"How about this- you watch, while I fuck him!"
He couldn't move though, could twitch a muscle and Belial's words from so long ago shot through his memory as he lay there, trapped in Castiel's mind and body as Belial's fingers closed around the waistband of the mental asylum's standard issue baggy drawstring pants and felt the terror reaching a pinnacle nigh unreachable by the senses of mere man alone, felt the descending spiral into self-loathing as fast and rough and painful as the Lord of lust making good on his promise to draw blood and ravage, to destroy and take until there was nothing left. And as the pain spiked through him again and again and again, Dean felt Castiel's soul flicker and curl into a hard knot of self-hatred and disgust, for who would ever care to touch a creature so fallen and defiled now?
"Gabriel?" The huff of breath puffed against his face and Castiel's voice was a timid whisper, hardly daring to hope but laced with the fear of rejection because obviously he knew what the other had just borne witness to and so now he wordlessly pleaded forgiveness for his filthiness from his brother. "Dean?" From his friend.
– and he ran.
Tearing away from Castiel's desperate hold, Dean burst out of the motel room and vomited a stomachful of beer and cheap whiskey out onto the gravel, retching and gagging and when there was nothing left to expel he dropped to his hands and knees, tears streaming down his face and dry heaving in vain attempts to strip away the horrifying nightmare he'd just experienced. Oh, God. Fucking hell. Christ Almighty…Cas, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
A flutter of torn wings against the currents of the wind, a whisper of a joyous song that never ceased, and he read the newcomer's grace with ease. "Hello, sister."
"Brother." She stepped gracefully up beside him on the furthermost ridge of the precipice, dark brown eyes turned toward the ocean as the grey ones of the archangel's vessel were also.
"Thou hast found and taken thine true vessel." A simple observation, weighed down with indescribable importance.
"Yes." The wind blew inland from the sea, whipping a cotton chemise about the slender figure of a woman with cappuccino colored skin and a fall of loose raven hair that waved in the breeze. "I thank you for your temporary measures of protection. My time has not yet come."
"And hast mine, Ramiel?" The man turned to face his companion, features world-weary and haggard. Anyone else would have merely seen a man who'd drunk too much of the bitter vinegar of life, but the woman's brown eyes pierced deeper, and even she started at what she found: uncertainty and fear. "Thou hast seen it, hast thou not?"
Ramiel hesitated, and put a comforting hand on the other's shoulder. "I have seen many things, Herald. The beginning and the end, the pacts and sacrifices, the fallen and the risen. I have seen many things." The words danced in the air, a whisper of promise and constancy that would never change in a world where battles were to be won and lost at the cost of both enemy and kin – I have seen many things.
"And Castiel?" There was a tremble in the voice that spoke for the Lord, barely perceptible, but there. "Tell me what thou hast seen of our brother."
"Castiel's mind and soul has already been twisted by the Deceiver's hand, yet now he mistakenly believes himself to have been taken by the hand of evil." And here the sorrow swelled, here the tears welled in the archangel's eyes and the angel of joy touched her brother's face gently, kindly, truthfully. "He needs his brother, Gabriel. Go to him."
A/N: Okay. Well…hmm. I think I ran into a rough spot about halfway through the chapter, and there was one other part that was particularly difficult to write, but I really hope I didn't offend anyone and if I did, many sincere apologies. I'd like to say a big thank you to those who pitched their ideas; I'm looking into some of them and fleshing out possible outlines, and I'll let you guys know as soon as I decide on one. Translations of Enochian phrases are below; please leave a review!
Page paid, heeoa, aqlo li rit od etharzi ole nay: Rest always, son of light, in the mercy and peace of the Lord
Restel od brin gono aqlo alsro ar heeoa ge bam: That you may praise him and have faith in the promise that of son of light is not forgotten
Umplife torzul mirc umadea: Our strength shall rise upon strong towers