Another Day in the Life Chapter 9, a supernatural fanfic

Fuji, Fiji, and Blind Faith

Disclaimer: No named characters belong to me. I'm allergic to writing OCs I also realized recently that drinking, sexual conduct, and profanity doesn't exactly fit under the K+ category. My bad.

The thing about blood magic was that it had no time restrictions. It wasn't a "once in a blue moon" type ritual, so just because Sam couldn't do it the one night didn't mean that the temptation didn't remain, that he didn't wake up every day and have to make the decision all over again. It was beginning to wear on him, and made him wish for a black-and-white situation, a damn normal hunt more than anything else in the world.

Which is why when Visu, the woodsman Sam had spoken to before climbing Mt. Fuji, had alluded to troubles in the area regarding tengu-demons, Sam had leapt at the opportunity to do some bona-fide ganking, if only to pull his mind away from his more transcendental concerns. The irony of tengu-hunting serving to achieve this end was not lost on him, and he supposed that his life had really grown convoluted, if the supernatural was truly his only remaining tie to reality.

And indeed, his tengu-demon case, despite being in a foreign country, looked pretty straightforward. It turned out that the tengu were not former ghosts, as some of the legends had lead Sam to believe, but run-of-the-mill demons with a motif: possessing women in order to win the souls of local priests. It was a more creative spin on the standard "kiss and deal" routine, Sam had to admit, for the priests never even realized what they were doing with their souls when they succumbed to the charms of the possessed, and unfailingly attractive, women. It was neat, clean, and horrifying in its simplicity. He looked forward to ending the operation.

Sam didn't even have to worry about being rebuked for deviating from his primary mission, for God hadn't contacted the prophet in eons. For the last three tablets Sam had received no guidance, and indeed there was not even a sign that the deity was still alive, other than the fact that every tablet Sam acquired mysteriously disappeared almost as soon as it was retrieved. He began booking flight tickets to get from location to location; a risky move for his credit card scams, but one that had to be made, if he wasn't going to be shipped around the world on the God-express anymore. He had begun to resent His absence, and wondered, not for the first time, whether there was an ulterior motive behind His rekindled interest in the survival of the planet. Sam couldn't discern the workings of the deity's mind, couldn't get a reading on him like he could with most, and this made him irritable. He grew increasingly suspicious of the way God had portrayed himself to him upon their first meeting. What are the chances that this really is the guy from fourth period protecting his science project? If that were the case, why didn't he intercede during the Apocalypse?

But even with his doubts, Sam did intend to carry out the task he was assigned, because all indications showed that there was something awful going on, and it likely did have to do with the Word. He couldn't very well refuse to help when billions of lives were at stake. He just wished he could be sure of what he was doing. After Lillith, he had difficulty believing in anything he couldn't confirm himself, and this was no exception.

It occurred to him that Crowley might have been of some assistance in figuring out what God was up to. If he'd enlisted his help in this regard, rather than outright intimidating him… it might have been a more fruitful venture. Why couldn't he have thought of that before?

In a moment, his tengu-demon hunt turned into something less black and white. Crowley's lackeys were likely tracking God's movements, Sam knew. Crowley's self-preservation instinct ensured this. And with his newfound intimidation factor as a Prophet of the Lord… he might be able to "inspire" some information out of them.

Crowley chartered a jet to Fiji once formalities Downstairs concluded, eager to enjoy the privacy of his beachside manor. It was one of his nicer hidey-holes topside, if not quite as luxurious as the one he had situated in Jerusalem.

The meeting had been a disaster. The thing Crowley most hated about demons_ besides the extraordinary lack of imagination which afflicted the majority_ was how very like attack dogs they were. The only way to keep them in line is to either set them on someone or scare them into submission; and ever since the Castiel-Leviathan fiasco, Crowley was looking less like a handler and more like a meal to his underlings Below. He liked to believe he had it under control, but since the God-crisis began, dissention in the ranks only grew, and Crowley's influence was beginning to fray at the edges. So it was with extreme reluctance that he broke his generalized non-interference policy and called a conference with some of the most powerful demons in Hell to talk about recent game-changers.

"I don't see why the Winchester man should be avoided," Damien, former Duke of the Sixth Circle said lazily, twirling his finger through the non-substance substance of Hell with practiced nonchalance. Crowley privately suspected that he was the leader of the larger part of the opposition in Hell, which was precisely the reason he was made into one of Crowley's trusted confidants, when he should have been killed long ago for being a prick. "He is neither a hindrance nor a help, now that the irate angel and the Leviathan have both been taken out of circulation."

"He's working with a bigger player, I told you," Crowley hissed, pointedly ignoring the sharp looks his other inferiors were giving him with the not-so-subtle mention of the Castiel-Leviathan debacle. He couldn't keep Damien from gaining sympathizers, perhaps, but he could certainly keep from acknowledging them. "It would be grade-A stupidity to kill him before we know exactly how he factors into the equation. If our intelligence were living up to its name, maybe it would be keeping closer tabs on the Winchester instead of allowing him to make alliances without my knowledge."

Mudgett, Former Head of Torture and Current Leader of Intelligence, looked briefly guilty, but he schooled it expertly into an offended expression before anyone could notice. It was true that he spend the majority of his time amassing followers in the growing resistance movement against Crowley, rather than actually doing his job. He had been nursing a grudge ever since Crowley had reorganized Hell into "a more efficient pattern," ousting all of the torturing positions in favor of the simple containment process and frustration of a line. Crowley claimed that this allowed more manpower to be mustered into "proselytizing," but he seemed to forget that most demons were inherently sadistic, and enjoyed personally inflicting pain on the souls of Hell. Particularly Mudgett.

"One begins to wonder if you are not simply in league with the Winchesters," Cain boomed accusatorially. He was one of the few traditionalist Lucifer-logic demons Crowley couldn't afford to kill on his first go-round, mainly because he had the good sense to betray his former master, when everyone believed he was slated to be his next-in-command. His support was too great a boon for Crowley to eliminate him, which is exactly the way Cain had played it to happen. It looked more and more as if he was vying to wrest control from the King of Hell, if Damien didn't get to the crown first. "You give them your blood, your protection, your knowledge… these are not the actions of a King of Hell; these are the actions of a friend. If I remember correctly, it was even their assistance which allowed you to come into your exalted station. To what degree, then, are you repaying that debt? How many decisions regarding Hell's future are made by humans?"

A collective gasp was quickly stifled by every demon in the room. Crowley grit his teeth. "You know what the circumstances were," he growled. As much as he hated dipping his hand in with the traitors that were his minions, he preferred it infinitely to the looming doom which God represented. Once he got himself out of that predicament, then he could destroy Cain for so impetuously implying that he was a human-lover. Damien at least possessed enough reserve to stop short of outright insubordination. "But it is of no matter. The Winchesters are no wild card; they are not experienced in subterfuge, or motivated by self-interest. Therefore, it should be advantageous to watch the next moves of the Winchester. If by the movements of this pawn we can discern the intentions of the enemy, it is all the better for us to remain discreet."

The other demons in the room were visibly impressed by Crowley's sudden eloquence, unhampered by his usual humor and double-entendre. More importantly, the whisper of danger underneath his words made them remember, for a moment, why they decided to let him lead Hell in the first place. Cain was growing purple in the face, and Damien looked as if he was about to doze off. Mudgett, seeing that his chances at advancing his own agenda were slipping away, decided that, at long last, it was time to speak.

"I believe Cain has raised a significant point," he said, flinching as he realized that he had shown his true colors. He was reasonably confident his own support base was substantial enough to render Crowley impotent, but this didn't prevent him from breaking out into a cold sweat when the demon turned in his direction. To keep from having to look at him, Mudgett spoke to the room at large. "Crowley has specialized in the makings of contracts for centuries, seducing even creatures of power with his words. If we are to believe him, we must look to his actions rather than his presentation, and what he proposes now boils down to this: Once again a human, a hunter, no less, will be marked out of bounds. What does this action say about our King?"

"DO YOU THINK NOW IS THE TIME FOR A BLOODY REVOLUTION?" Crowley shouted. He had lost his temper and recognized his opposition, but he could see now that failing to do that would only make him look more incompetent. Or traitorous. "THERE IS MORE AT STAKE HERE THAN YOUR AMBITIONS AND PETTY FEUDS!"

Mudgett gulped audibly, as the other demons shifted uneasily in their seats. No other objections were raised, and the meeting was concluded hastily. They would do as Crowley instructed. Mudgett fully realized that his chances of survival were dependent now on how well he did his job, so he organized an intelligence party to gather information on God's movements.

Crowley had the sudden urge to get very, very drunk.

"Absinthe. Verte." Crowley croaked as he walked inside his long-neglected, but nonetheless impressive house in Fiji. He wasn't sure if he was even speaking to anyone, but the drink appeared in his hand within a few moments.

"I've had some good memories with you," he cooed, sitting down heavily in an armchair. He could set up the sigils later. 1988 was the last time he'd tasted this particular concoction, and he'd been in France, then.

The path no longer twisted, but the walls on both sides of the pass swelled and closed around Castiel like a cage. He felt somehow suffocated, and the feeling of not being able to fly away sent cold jolts of panic down his spine. He thought it would help if with each step it didn't get darker, and darker. And other emotions, ones stirred up by his conversation with Dean, roiled around his ankles, not able to be named or comprehended by the still-alien intellect of the angel.

In an attempt to restore his usual, inner calm, he conjured up a thought: the same one that had once saved him from Lucifer's torment, before it was twisted and bent into his own unique brand of madness. He thought of himself where he was, then, his relation in size in the world, the cosmos, and finally the large organism that was the universe itself. What are my concerns compared with that of the universe? To God, I must seem to be nothing more important or predictable then a bee, so why must I imagine my fears to be any larger?

It worked; he could feel his fear seeping away, unable to feed on him when he shrank himself down to size. Utterly composed, he reflected if this wasn't the primary problem of people and angels: thinking they were so much greater than they were.

It was some time, and pitch dark before their journey ended. Castiel couldn't see anything, so when Dean stopped, he continued, almost knocking him over.

"Hey!"

"I am sorry," Castiel apologized. "I didn't know you stopped."

"Must've been daydreaming pretty heavily there, fella," Dean laughed easily. "I was right there in front of you, how could you not see?"

It took some time, but Crowley was finally able to get himself into that state of lucid drunkenness he so appreciated, back at absinthe's conception. It tasted like licorice on his tongue, and slid down his throat like green ambrosia. It was beautiful, it was just what he needed, it was…

"I see you're taking full advantage of your off time," a timorous tenor voice said. Crowley's eyes were pulled upwards to the youthful face of the prophet he had formerly kidnapped.

He glanced at his empty glass, then back at Kevin. "I thought this wasn't hallucinogenic," he said.

Castiel's eyes were milky, as if heavy cataracts had materialized over them. After briefly freaking out, Dean led him over to the side of the small cave entrance, so that he could feel the wall, and began pacing.

"There's no reason to be concerned," Castiel said, tranquility oozing out of his voice. It rankled Dean; he didn't like to feel as if he was the only one worried about the situation. "Doubtless this has something to do with being on the Cornice of Envy. Are there any instructions for proceeding?"

Dean had found another rough drawing on the wall ahead, but it made even less sense than the first one. It didn't look like it belonged there, either, which made Dean wonder if the drawings weren't some strange Underground Railroad for monsters looking to get out of Purgatory. Or someone playing a sick joke. Inscribed underneath a picture Dean couldn't begin to figure out, were the words they have no wine. Which wasn't exactly helpful.

"Nothing helpful, but it's really made me long for a drink," he said, sitting down beside the blind angel, and leaning in to make sure his words were heard. "Times like this, I'd usually just start drinking until something came to me or I passed out. Didn't really have a preference which came first. Sometimes Sam would join me for a bit. I miss that." He sighed.

There was silence for a while. "You miss your brother," Castiel said, finally. He sounded sad.

"Yeah. I do." This was an understatement. There was a Sam-shaped hole in his gut, and it hurt like anything. Dean felt all wrong without a Sam-presence in his life, and he couldn't even begin to explain it, although he had the feeling that Castiel understood. That was the comforting thing about him.

"I wish… I wish I could help."

Absinthe had the odd effect of making Crowley happy, so when God revealed himself to be possessing the body of the kid Crowley had imprisoned and tortured… Crowley didn't freak out. He didn't brace himself for some Almighty smiting.

He smiled.

"Lovely to see you," he said, indicating for God to sit down in a nearby armchair. "I don't suppose you just dropped by… for a visit?"

God didn't sit down. He looked at Crowley like he was an extremely interesting insect he had just pinned to a board. "I came with a proposition."

"You know," Crowley slurred only slightly. "You know I've learned recently… that it's never a good sign… when someone comes to you with a pro-proposition."

"So… Envy," Dean said, munching idly at some berries he'd managed to forage on the smaller cornice. No one said they couldn't take a break while they figured things out. "How'd you get that?"

"I believe that Purgatory is laid out according to what are called the Seven Deadly Sins. It follows that after Pride, the most severe of the crimes, would come Envy."

Dean mulled this over for a minute. It seemed strange to him that the most severe crimes were nearest the bottom. "So you're saying you're blind because you're like, Obadiah Stane? I get that some angels have more wings than you, but still…"

Castiel chose to ignore the pop-culture reference. He'd gotten to the point where he realized that his ability to communicate actually wasn't handicapped by lack of knowledge in those areas, however Dean tried to make him feel otherwise. He also thought it prudent not to remind Dean that all of the angels he knew of were dead. "I've never coveted the wings of my superiors."

"What, then?"

Castiel threaded his fingers together uneasily. "I don't think you'd understand. It's a… soul."

Negotiations went surprisingly smoothly. God said that he could smite Crowley at any time, told him to keep his nose out of his business, yada yada yada. This was all expected.

But here was the kicker: Providing Crowley abided by the terms of their contract, he also granted all demons full immunity from the interference of hunters.

"So this is what? Job?" Crowley asked, incredulity working past his drunken stupor. He had blankly listened to all of the deity's demands, but this…

"Lucifer was my son," God said pointedly.

Crowley was feeling brave. "I can understand why you don't want my lot interfering in your affairs, but, might I ask, why not simply blast us all away? Save a lot of trouble, that."

God favored him with a pitying glance. "What can I say? I… keep my son's drawings on the refrigerator."

This didn't ring true for Crowley. No, if that were the case, then God wouldn't be so concerned about keeping Crowley from prying, would he? There was something else going on, but there was no harm in making his operations idiot-proof, getting rid of the hunter factor. Besides, he'd already found the obvious loophole.

"Sure. No demon operatives spying into your Plan, full immunity for us. Why not."

They drank to the deal. Or, more accurately, Crowley drank, and God vanished. Crowley wasn't bothered; he knew heavenly forces didn't have an ounce of decorum.

He felt oddly eager, in spite of the fact that he would have to call another meeting in Hell with the new information, and his new plan. The new challenge presented him was so bright and promising… he could forget his back-stabbing subordinates entirely, with this. This looked good.

Downing another drink, Crowley began to sing.

Oh, Crowley boy, the pipes the pipes are calling…

"Ooh, Takahashi-sensei," the woman said, in between a stream of profanity and lewd, suggestive words. Her bosom was pressed against the priest's face, and he was visibly overcome.

Moving down and pressing a kiss into his neck, she murmured. "Are you willing… to relinquish your soul… for this… right now?"

With a hardly controlled scream of lust, the priest responded to her provocation, ravishing her with kisses, allowing his hands to trail down the sides of her body.

Yes yes yes yes, he said, whenever he had time to breathe. It should have been a more difficult decision to make, but it was so easy, when Miyu-chan was obviously so willing…

Sam burst into the room, demon-killing knife in hand. With a feral snarl, the possessed Miyu whirled to face the hunter, leaving a flushed and confused priest wide-eyed on the floor.

Then Sam disappeared.

With a shrug and a smile, Miyu turned back to her prey, ripping his soul out of his body. It was so much easier this way, without complicated long-term contracts, without all the desperate running and hiding when the human's time ran out.

Sam, back at the base of Mt. Fuji, was raging.

You can't pull me out like that! I'm on it, I'm doing what you asked me to! There are people dying down there; it's kind of an immediate concern!

People have died since the Beginning.

There was nothing more after that, but every time Sam tried to leave the mountain, he was brought right back. Finally, with a scream of rage, he began to climb, so that he could retrieve one of the godforsaken tablets he had grown to hate, and get as far away from Japan as possible.

"Last I remember, you didn't really care much about souls," Dean said sourly. "You didn't seem to think Sam needed one."

"I never had a soul," Castiel agreed. "I thought he would be healthier without it. I was wrong."

"You've never been eager to be human, either."

Castiel sighed. This was going to take some explaining. "No, but not for the reasons you think. My Grace is what has bound me to my siblings, what has made me useful, and much of the time, I genuinely… enjoy being what I am. But Dean… I've watch humans for millennia_"

Not very closely, Dean thought. Otherwise you'd have known about The King.

"_and souls afford a human things that an angel can never have. They… have a unique energy, they generate their own Heavens, they're resilient, beautiful. Different."

Dean tried not to think about how creepy it was that his friend craved souls. It brought back a few unpleasant memories. "Well," he said awkwardly.

"And occasionally, they bind together, and… wait."

Castiel's face seemed to be alight with some secret knowledge, which immediately made Dean suspicious. "What?"

"You and your brother… you shared a heaven when you died, correct?"

"Yeah." What's your point?

"That happens sometimes, and only with… with soulmates. Souls spend their entire existences looking for their other half. Do you understand?" Castiel's hands were waving around a little in the air, as if to emphasize his words.

"No…" Dean remembered, vaguely, Ash saying something along those same lines. He had dismissed it at the time.

"You always miss your brother when you're separated, but it's… more than usual. I know. I believe I can fix that." Castiel was beaming. It was worrisome.

"How's that?"

"If your souls are bound together, then you won't ever feel separated. In fact, you could remain in contact, a sort of empathetic link, if you will. It might even help us find a way out of here."

Crowley still sent his operatives to watch Sam Winchester, because there were no rules against that. Until he found that there were. Then he saw it: There was no advantage to his side through the deal with God, it was God's advantage being played, both ways. By doing away with interaction between demon and hunter, he was double-ensuring that his plans weren't meddled with.

Damn iiiit…

But it was okay. Crowley still had a plan. It just required the involvement of a trustworthy third party. He wondered how he was going to convince the other demons this was the best course of action.

Castiel had tried to explain how what he proposed was indeed possible. "Souls are free moving," he said. "The only way to trap a soul is to convince it that it's been trapped. There would be no Hell if souls knew they were free. It's surprisingly easy to free a couple of souls, and bind them together."

Dean had difficulty wrapping his mind around it. "Wait, if souls are so easy to free, why can't I just fly out of Purgatory?"

"I understand there are certain benefits to having your soul attached to your body."

So here they were, Castiel all sunny at the idea of permanently fixing his separation-anxiety, and he was getting more flustered by the minute.

"Cas, I… I don't want to be permanently welded to my brother." Dean said, flinching. He knew how strange his words sounded. In many ways, it was exactly what he wanted, but it wasn't something he could do. Ever.

"I don't understand. You'd feel much happier. Complete."

Dean closed his eyes, longsuffering. "I know, and I get that it would be helpful to us, but… that kind of thing is permanent, Cas. And I… I want to be me, still, sometimes. All me, not Sam-and-Dean, together. Know what I mean?"

"Not really." Again, that strange sadness.

"I can't do it. Thank you, I'm… sorry… but I can't."

Dean turned to him then, his eyes looking strangely bright when before they were clouded. "If there was anything…"

Inexplicably, a P vanished from his forehead and a pass opened up behind them, and they fell backwards onto the first steps.

A/N: Sorry, no Sam smiling yet. He's too pissed. However, if you visit this lengthy link, you will behold his famous puppy eyes, which exhort you to review this chapter. Do you really want to deny that face? Do you?

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