For the people who want to accept Castiel as their personal saviour, perhaps you could refer to yourselves as Castoffs? Castanuts? Castrators? Cassettes? Casanovans?
CHAPTER THREE
"How are you doin' in there, Dean?" asked Bobby, cocking his head and frowning thoughtfully at the vase in front of him.
Sonofabitch!" came the reply from the kitchen.
"Do I even want to know?" sighed Bobby.
"The tray in the oven was hot when I grabbed it," griped Dean.
"Gee, who'da thunk it?" gasped Bobby theatrically.
Sam looked up from the tablecloth he was ironing. "Gruesome isn't he? Fumbles at your head like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle."
"There have been times when I've wanted to bang both your heads together, son," Bobby informed him, frowning at his arrangement.
"It's your damned oven gloves' fault," complained Dean, "They're threadbare, and about as useful as a baconburger at a bar mitzvah. I burned my finger!"
"Oh, you poor baby, here, let me drop what I'm doing to dry your tears, kiss your booboo, bathe it tenderly and sing you to sleep as I knit some new ones," tut-tutted Bobby.
"Or would you like me to wash your dick, you little shit," added Sam.
"Gee, don't go overboard on the whole sympathy thing," grumbled Dean. "So, what now?"
"Go get the box from under the stairs," instructed Bobby, "The one marked 'Good Crockery'."
"I hear and obey," Dean bowed deeply and headed for the stairs, while Sam set the table.
"Bobby," he said carefully when he returned, "Bobby, this teapot is..."
"Very good quality, more than a hundred years old, and irreplaceable," finished Bobby. "Be careful with it."
"Well, I was going to say 'remarkably pornographic for something you'd take out to have tea with an important visitor and also astonishingly ugly," Dean went on, carefully unloading the box, "But... er, why is there a bunch of sticks in the middle of the table?"
"You really are a simple creature, aren't you?" Sam rolled his eyes.
"Son, I don't expect you to have any appreciation of Wedgewood porcelain or Japanese aesthetics," humphed Bobby, "So go make yourself useful, and put the pastries in the oven."
"Some people might think that inviting Death to afternoon tea was somewhere between ridiculous and suicidal," asserted Dean.
"Well, if you can think of a better idea, now is the time," Bobby grumped, "Now run over to the Widder Widderspoon and ask for an egg laid today."
"Why do I have to go?" whined Dean. "She's a creepy old cat lady. She looks at me. Hell, she looks at you, Bobby. You should let us salt and burn her..."
"And make sure you're back in time to get the pastries out," Bobby instructed.
"Those who are tardy do not get fruit cup," Sam added pointedly.
"I'm going, I'm going," Dean complained, "But if I burn my hand again because of your terrible oven glove, it's on you."
By the time the various tidbits had been prepared, the room had been arranged, and an egg and two sticks had been procured, Bobby pronounced himself satisfied.
"Okay, let's get this shindig on the road," he decided, putting on a large, red, pointy hat with a wide brim. A subtle motif of bananas was embroidered around it.
"Nice hat," commented Sam.
"Very nice," agreed Dean, "Very Professor McGonagall."
"Part of the rite," shrugged Bobby, "A present from the guy who told me about it. Mostly the 'requirements' are observed for tradition's sake, and to deter dabblers. In reality, you can work this with just a couple of things, but however you do it, for some reason it only works if you wear a pointy hat." He gave Dean the once-over. "I'm pretty sure I instructed you to put on a clean shirt."
"This is clean!" insisted Dean. "It is clean... ish."
"Laundered sometime in the last year would've been nice," Bobby muttered, as he began to recite the ancient pan-dimensional ritual.
It was one of the most anti-climactic workings since ten-year-old Sam's earnest yet doomed effort to get Brussels sprouts to undergo mitosis, which, according to Dean, would've been even more disappointing if it had succeeded.
"Okaaaaay, so... now what?" asked Dean, looking around.
"You check the pastries, and we wait for a reply to our invitation," replied Bobby. "Oh, and get the kettle boiling."
They waited. They waited some more.
After a while, nothing continued to happen.
Sam sighed. "So what are you gonna try next? Cheese?" he asked.
"Give it time," instructed Bobby, "After all, he's a busy... anthropomorphic personification. He may be right in the middle of something, something big. After all, Godstiel hasn't managed to put up toffee walls everywhere yet."
"Actually, it was a routine purging in North Korea," said a well-spoken voice from behind them. "Darling Leader, or whatever they're calling this one, was not happy when his latest phallic display to the rest of the world was a lot funnier than it was intimidating."
Bobby and Sam spun around. Death sat on the sofa, patting Jimi, who offered a paw in greeting.
"Thank you for your kind invitation, Mr Singer," Death went on, "Are those chocolate chip cookies I detect on the table?"
"Uh, it was very good of you to drop in," Bobby said, removing his hat. "They are chocolate chip. Dean made them. Would you like something to go with them?"
"Coffee? Tea? Me?" asked Sam.
"Oh, tea would be most welcome, thank you," Death smiled, as Sam goggled in disbelief then fled for the kitchen.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation, Mr Singer?" asked Death. "I suspect it wasn't just to impress me with your facility in the practise of ikebana."
"Bobby, please," Bobby replied. "And no, it's not. I'm pretty sure you're already aware that we have a problem here."
A sudden cry of "OW! Sonofabitch!" came from the kitchen. Death cocked an eyebrow.
"Well, if you would care to shoot him, I will see that he is removed directly," he suggested. "Otherwise, there are a number of finishing schools in England or Switzerland that might be prepared to take on the challenge, although you might have to offer danger money..."
"There are days when I'm tempted," Bobby rolled his eyes, and Death actually smiled, "But no. I'm referrin' to our new, improved, low-fat, high-fibre, would be deity, Castiel."
"Ah yes, young Castiel," mused Death, "God lite. Not as much god, but better for you, presumably." He cocked his head. "I believe he is currently issuing Commandment 10wiii. Something about pizza..."
"I don't want to know," griped Dean, coming in with a plate of small savouries, Sam following with the teapot on a tray, "Unless it's a declaration that thin crust is an abomination unto his holy taste buds."
"What we need to know," Bobby frowned at Dean, "Is what happened when he opened up that Purgatory gateway. And, for preference, how we go about stopping him, undoing what's happened to him. What we need to know is, what is his weakness?"
"Eef eet bleeds, wee can keel eet," nodded Sam, pouring the tea.
"Oh, yeah," interrupted Dean, "There's also the slight technical difficulty with Channel Sam – he's been stuck on a movie marathon since our new god demanded our worship."
Death peered keenly at Sam, who smiled back sheepishly. "Oh dear," he muttered, "It looks as though your ambitious little friend has... knocked a hole in the wall. What Sam is experiencing is flashbacks from his time in the Cage."
Dean looked flabbergasted. "You mean... they watched movies?"
"Amongst other things," Death shrugged, accepting his tea from Sam. "And before you ask, no, I cannot rebuild it. Poking at it would make it worse. And there were less pleasant things than Keanu Reeves movie marathons that went on there," he added ominously. "There were... Lucifer's personal letters." They all looked suitably appalled.
"It's official, I'm never sleeping again," announced Sam.
"Great," griped Dean, as Sam handed him a coffee, "So, how do we stop him?"
Death took a small pastry, and bit into it thoughtfully. "These are very good," he pronounced. "You have hidden talents, Mr Winchester, if a somewhat foul mouth and irritatingly arrogant demeanour. And while I am grateful to be invited politely to tea, and I am inclined to sympathise with your predicament, I might also be amused to hear why you think I would act to assist you in this matter."
"Because from your perspective, Godstiel is a tantruming brat, and what he's doin' is against the proper order of things," Bobby told him promptly, as Death watched him shrewdly. "And we know that you have no tolerance for celestial brats. I'm guessin' that Mr Anti-Entropy is messin' with things on a cosmic scheme in ways he doesn't understand. All actions have consequences. I'm guessin' that Darling Leader's purge was just the tip of the iceberg that's now driftin' into your shipping lane."
Death savoured the last of his pastry, and selected a mini quiche. "You are wasted as nursemaid to Winchesters The Elder and The Younger, you do know that?" he smiled. "This is also very good, Dean, next time I require canapés for a formal function, I shall definitely consider retaining your services." He finished his quiche. "Bobby, you are indeed correct. What the foolish young fledgling is doing is... not right. It is, as you put it, not within the proper ordering of things. There's a reason that his Father did not go around intervening in corporeal affairs."
"So, what exactly did he do?" pressed Bobby.
"Not wishing to sound overly dramatic, he has... swallowed a large number of souls from Purgatory," Death informed them, "As you have already surmised, souls can be a source of power. Unfortunately, he has also ingested some other inhabitants, things called Leviathans. Some of The Almighty's earliest creations. Let us just say that they are... not nice."
"How not nice?" asked Dean.
"Oh, the usual, for extremely powerful, selfish, angry, greedy, arrogant organ-eating monsters who seethe with resentment and raging homicidal hatred towards the human race that they see as utterly inferior to themselves while dreaming constantly of escaping to subjugate humans to the status of a convenient and compliant food source herd," Death waved a hand dismissively. "That sort of not nice. Not nice enough for their Father Himself to lock them away where they could never escape to wreak havoc upon His squishy organic mortal children."
Dean looked thoughtful. "So, first time around, He build Lore, then He realised His mistake and He made Data?" he ventured.
Sam facepalmed. "Chicolini here may talk like an idiot, and look like an idiot, but don't let that fool you: he is an idiot."
Death smiled indulgenty. "Actually, Sam, your brother has, unexpectedly, come up with an astonishingly good analogy," he smiled. "Well, they're all swirling around inside Castiel, powering his delusions of godhood. Unfortunately, he is not nearly as secure a storage facility as Purgatory." He nibbled delicately at a cookie. "Perhaps, Dean, you may think of it as feeding your brother a dozen 'Volcano Special' burritos, followed by a 'Nuclear Fission' enchilada washed down with a 'Megadeath' Hot Sauce smoothie with added halapenos. Sooner or later, they will find a way out."
"God's tits," breathed Bobby in alarm.
"So, can you help us?" asked Dean. "What can we use to shut him down? An angel sword? A Meat-Lovers with extra cheese and anchovies? A phaser set to stun? A tanker of Pepto-Bismol? What?"
"There is no weapon that can damage him," confided Death regretfully.
Sam looked exasperated. "What the hell are we supposed to use, man? Harsh language?"
Death looked thoughtful. "I believe that he may in fact be willing to come to you," he suggested. "He is, after all, new to godhood, and is experiencing some... difficulties."
"What sort of difficulties?" asked Bobby.
"Well, for a start, he is having some trouble coming to terms with the adulation that he thought he craved," Death told them. "For example, did you know that in France and several French-speaking countries in Africa, despite his constant attempts to discourage it, a small but growing cult of drinking sewage for purposes of spiritual purification has taken hold?" He looked slightly annoyed. "It has kept my Reapers much busier than anticipated in last century's strategic planning. Not to mention the number of elderly people with shellfish allergies..."
"Er, no, I didn't know that," Bobby replied, looking slightly green.
"Well, you are the only humans he can approach without having them fall on their knees, attempt to exorcise him, attempt to blow him up or claim to be carrying his holy child via the miracle of an immaculate conception," Death went on. "Perhaps if you extend a polite invitation to him, as you did to me, he may grant you an audience, since he was so keen to be worshipped by you." He pulled a fob watch from a pocket. "Oh, dear," he sighed, "I really must be going. So much toffee. Their pancreases just cannot handle it..."
"What? Wait!" yelped Dean, "So, we get him here, then what?"
Death smiled. "Perhaps hold his hair out of the way and make soothing noises whilst rubbing his back gently, if you are feeling inclined to act like his friend. Thank you for your company and the refreshments, gentlemen, good day." With a very small inrush of air, he disappeared.
"Gah!" Sam burst out in frustration, yelling at the empty air, "Why do you have to be such a wanker?"
Bobby looked thoughtful. "I think he may have given us more info than you think," he said.
"So, what do we do?" asked Dean.
"Just what Joe Black suggested," shrugged Bobby, "We invite Castiel over for a break from the cultural incomprehension, and offer him somethin' instead of askin' for a new car or a bigger dick. We profess our love and devotion, and ask for an audience to worship him unostentatiously, in private. If he's feeling a bit... queasy, we ask him about it."
"Then what?" snapped Dean.
"Well," grinned Bobby, "You bein' the one with the 'profound bond', I guess you get to decide whether you want to hold the bucket, his hand or his hair."
"Great, just great," grumped Dean. "All right. We pray to Cas, we adore him from afar, then we... do whatever. I'll just go put my boots on."
"Er, if we're gonna do any prayin', we can do it in here," Bobby pointed out.
"Yeah," agreed Dean, "But if this goes south and we all end up dead, I want to have something really solid on my feet, because my first act as a dead person will be to kick Death in the nuts."
Ooooh, that was a longer one. *frowns* Have any of the Denizens been praying to Cas?
Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Bringing You Delightful Nibblies On The Tea Tray Of Life!