Chapter Seven

A few hours earlier…

Chuck Shurley sighed, half-wishing he were home with his cat and his desktop. Instead, he was in France. Well, an amalgam of a tiny piece of France -or was it Wales?-situated near the actual country only because Daddy and Space-Time had eloped and seen that it was Good.

Castiel the Fearless Leader was cute, in a way. 4000 years old, and he still had no clue what a hot dog was or how to get the best deal on airplane tickets. Hell, he hadn't even slept with anyone. Ever. Knowing Sam and Dean, they'd soon be taking care of that after all this blew over. Nevertheless, that boy sure could lead an army. All three of them were very good boys. Good men.

Suddenly there was a buzz in the pocket of Chuck's 501s. He stuck his bony hand in, pulled out his cell and whistled as the text message screen flashed, frying his eyes for a moment.

When the glare cleared, he made out a few letters, sent from Gabriel's hot pink glitter iPhone…

CG4TARDISGTGBB.

Okay. So Gabriel liked texting a little too much.

'Castiel gone for TARDIS. Gotta go. Bye bye.'

So, Jimmy Doe-Eyes had finally gone to five-finger discount the Time Lord and his Ship. Castiel certainly had panache, especially since he and Lucifer had come up with a plan to trap Shub Niggurath before anyone else had. Life with Sam and Dean had really loosened him up for the better.

With a smile, Chuck stuck his cell back in the pocket of his jeans. It was nice and cool here. Made him glad he'd worn the white today; a ribbed white tank, a thin white Havana flowing open and inviting over that… white jeans ending in clean, bare feet. It was kind of sad that no one had cottoned on except Gabriel. And Lucifer, of course. But eh. Water under the bridge. And over and through and between with a splash of vodka, as the Doctor would say. He was going to have to meet the man in this new regeneration, once he'd finished his task here. This place was a crossroads, a limbo anchored in the bones of the Monastery of Nematon. It was a mid-way locale where the Host of Heaven and the Horde of Hell could meet their enemy and trap the Old One. That way, Shub Niggurath would finally die, or at least get that spanking he'd been gunning for. Well, that was the plan, anyway.

If he didn't get another call in, oh… five… four… three… two… seconds! Oh, BINGO! It was time to instigate the next part of the plan; the part that involved his naked feet and the mile and a half of shattered skeletons that lay between him and his destination. It was a long, crunchy road. Good thing he had friends in high places. And he had endured a lot already for humankind. Why not a little bit more? It would be his pleasure. Besides, he was getting off easy. The hard part would be convincing the Doctor to play the pig. Poor Castiel. Chuck didn't envy him.

All that bone; the molecular structure of the bone cliff beneath Nematon had soaked up so much death… it prevented even demonic transport… no, he had to walk over all of it, every inch… spill his blood and pain into every shard, every bit of bleached and calcified dust, all the way to the Heart of the Veil. It would attract the tentacled things outside, slow them down, buy time until things at angel central began to heat up. With any luck, the brothers Winchester had returned with the Émigré manuscript by now and were hassling the archangels with it. What he was doing here, now, it was important. A backup plan in case the Doctor could not be found. Because the Great Old One would never bother with the diluted blood of a mere Vessel when he could have a Time Lord's. Gallifrey's children had once been winged, after all. And some had said the Doctor carried the pure blood of the Old Ones in his veins. Oh yes, Cas, Dean and Sam…the Three Amigos would try and use the TARDIS to get Chuck out, if they thought they had to. Once they found out who… He nearly laughed at that, the picture erupting in his mind of all four archangels, Michael, Lucifer, Raphael and Gabriel, each at a corner of the Time Lord's ship, toting it like packages at Christ's Mass under the sturdy death glare of Castiel's deep blues. And if the Doctor caught wind of the rescue mission, it would be the four Musketeers all over again. But regardless of the Doctor's wishes, they had a duty to keep 'Uncle Metatron' far away from France.

Chuck smiled wanly as the first of the bone shurds sliced through his feet. Then he took another step. And another. Just a kilometre and a third to go. And there were scratching sounds behind him. Soon he would have to run.

Well there it was.

Quiet, stalwort, strangely unconventional Cas had truly gotten a chance to play Fearless Leader this time. And from Gabriel's messages, everyone was surprised at how well he was doing. He'd never been playing at anything.

Thank God for Thursdays and cats.