Chapter Five

"I told you wouldn't be able to comprehend the possibilities of coalescence through temporal construction, Dean. It's over your head."

Castiel sighed, not because the Winchesters could not understand his explanation, but because he was weary. The Doctor was sleeping in the next room, and his Vessel was still adjusting to the weight of the Time Lord's unborn child. It had been a precaution, he reasoned. And that precaution had been a necessary buffer against the strain of teleportation through time-space. The logic was simple enough. The Time Lords of Gallifrey had altered themselves artificially in order to lessen the strain of travel through Time and Space, but angelic vessels needed no such enhancement. He and the Doctor had both passed out upon returning, yes, but he was resting now. And his human friends Dean and Sam had returned from their mission with the Émigré Manuscript in their… grubby little hands.

Dean Winchester snorted. "What are you saying, Cas? You think I'm too stupid to get it that you fucking zapped the Old Man and brought him here? Come on! Sam here made me watch Star Trek reruns when we were kids. This is bullshit, and I need pie."

Castiel looked up, his mind nudging in wonder at the little life growing in his borrowed flesh. "That is a… first class TMI, Dean," he murmured, suddenly keen to let his eyes slide closed. "And no blaspheming. It is not… not good for the child."

"Oh what do you care, Castiel, it's not like it's your kid," Dean teased, slapping the angel lightly on the back.

Swaying suddenly, Cas held firm to the edge of the seat and steeled himself, his free hand splayed across his temporary girth.

" Woah, hey, hey Cas! Take it easy. Your nose is bleedin' again. But good for you. You just made a joke involving a pop culture reference."

Dean watched his brother Sam walk barefoot into the little stone room, quiet and reverent, his big hands full of clean white cloth and a pillow. That brought a genuine smile to his face. Sam had always been the sensitive one.

Together they helped their angel lie back down on the fainting couch, taking turns wiping away the weak streams of blood that sometimes dribbled from his left nostril. Hopefully it would stop soon… even some of his lesser-ranked kin were stealing concerned second glances now and again through the carved windows.

"Damn it, Sam, you see that? He's bleeding again."

"The room is spinning," Cas murmured, opening his stormy blue eyes just long enough to lock on their faces. Then he closed them again, took a necessary breath, and was still. "…I… I think it will happen very soon. Even in This our Hour, there is still dissent, if minor. Some believe I should be out –there- leading the Host, instead of concealing the Doctor's child from Shub Niggurath. They want me to abort her. I will not. She was conceived on Thors Day, and so she is my charge. Besides, the Doctor is needed at full strength for the reconnaissance mission to find the Son of God. My eldest brothers are here, Michael, Raphael, Gabriel. Even Lucifer works to keep the walls from tumbling." The Angel paused, resting for a moment to ease the lingering weakness and the shortness of his breaths, then continued. "Dean. Sam. You are my friends, and you have been invaluable. When I think of what could have happened if you had not gone to retrieve the Émigré, I…" He paused, blinked, then sank his head back into the curves of stuffing and fabric.

"Aw Christ, Sam. Poor bastard's asleep already. He's too damn pale; I keep telling him he should eat more Cheetos." Dean was light about it, but truthfully, it hurt to see the angel weak after three good years of his being a BAMF.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances over Cas's sleeping form, then carefully unfolded a length of white cloth and placed it over him like a blanket.

"I'm tellin' you dude, he's fucking Linus. Everyone knows that Linus was God in Peanuts. I mean, Cas fuckin' zapped the TARDIS here without any help and went all kangaroo meets seahorse on us."

Almost instantaneously, Castiel's brows furrowed, and he moaned in his sleep.

Sam grinned, his own eyebrows raising a little as he lifted one of the dark, icy bottles he'd stuck behind the couch to his lips, then offered the other to his brother.

Dean took it, popped the thin serrated lid with his ring, and tipped it back. "At least he's not sucking his thumb like you used to."

With a growl, Sam bitchfaced. Everyone was worried. So was he. So was Dean. "I don't like this, Dean. It's a bag o' dicks, and it's supersized."

Dean set his beer down and reached over to feel the sleeping angel's forehead, then heaved a deep sigh and tucked another blanket around him, pulling it to his neck.

"Yeah. And we thought Lucy sucked ass."

Suddenly a tidy crash resounded from one of the adjacent rooms. Gabriel was back, and he'd landed, of all places, in the Doctor's lap?

"… oh now would you look at that. Castiel is cute when he's unconscious. Who would have guessed. I'm thinking 'Three Amigos.'"

"Sod off, Gabriel. That one only worked on Helen of Troy because she was bi. And an alien. Besides, I'm a married man with a baby on the way, technically. Now stop fidgeting and let me see where it hurts."

"You're the one who's wearing a bowtie. I think that hurts enough. And you boinked the Virgin Queen, as I recall."

"Bowties are cool. What? Oh good gravy don't say that out loud! People will hear! And that was I'm-angsty-and-I-don't-care-because-I-just dumped-my-girlfriend-and-I'm-about-to-die sex. Doesn't count."

They could almost hear Gabriel smirk from the other room as the Doctor looked the Archangel's slowly sealing wounds up and down. "You and who else's army, Uncle Metatron?"

Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Had the Doctor just said…

Helen of Troy? Really? Shit Jesus save Hellfire.

As they gazed down at Cas, a shadow fell across the small door which led to the Doctor's room.

"You don't say? Well damn." Jack Harkness said to no one in particular, his face hot and pale with intent as he stood in the old stone frame, blocking all the light. He swallowed, adam's apple limping like a broken bobber as he fumbled in his long blue coat.

With a sigh he raised his Webley, angled it just so…

"Meet me at 42nd Street, kids!"

The shiny barrel fit like a glove in his mouth, just like before. But it was too late.

Behind him, a piece of tentacle dropped from his hair, preventing his arm from tensing, his hands from pulling. If it tasted him… if it tasted him that alone would be enough to bring the Old One through. It could not happen.

But there, dazed and dreaming on the wide, white couch, his pregnant body nestled in snowy robes, the youngest Archangel shoved up on one arm and Spoke a name in his true voice, wringing salty blood from human ears.

Like the Buddha in Repose, Jack thought with a smile as warmth spilled down over his neck.

A shot rang, scattering birds from the tops of their sanctuary, a temple built around a crashed Vimana stuck in the icy slopes of Bhutan's mountains. Invariably, brains rained over the room, and as they did that small piece of grey tentacle glowed white with the flaming lick of Castiel's Word, then dropped to the stones of the floor, burning to nothing as all Jack's pieces crawled backwards in time, toward each other, knitting in the afterglow of Holy Fire.