Another Day in the Life Chapter 11, a supernatural fanfic

Suspicions, Spirits, and Satanism Part 2: Smoke and Scruples

A/N: By now you all know that I'm a horrible, horrible lazy person, who will be sent to the Sloth level when I die, and there set up a hammock and sunbathe. This being so, I call attention to last chapter, when God said he would "Confound their System." He actually meant "Confound their Standard Model." Please mentally substitute that in… I don't want to edit and re-upload when my computer has PMS…

…I hope it didn't hear that…

Bobby's eyes glowed scarlet reflecting the light of the smoke, which pulsed suddenly an unnatural reddish hue. A blast of force followed, knocking Dean and Castiel to the ground.

"Balls!"

Molly may have majored in physics, but as a Satanist she was a strong believer in Magic, which she, in fact, had at one point employed to seduce her thesis advisor. But it was the ritualized, emotional sort of magic that she believed in… the kind specified in the Satanic Bible. She didn't hold with the map-burning bird-entrails type of spells. She sneered at the concept of White Magic.

Which is why, when she followed the advice of the obnoxious little Fairy Fest witch and performed the location spell, she very nearly hurled in disgust when it succeeded.

She poked the charred remains of the map gingerly, as if she expected it to sprout legs and start performing an Irish jig.

"The hell's this Kansas boy doing in Greece?" she murmured.

"Fifty-two peaks," Sam breathed, his calf muscles tensing in anticipation. No, trepidation. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to check fifty-two peaks."

He spent the night in a random motel in Litochoro, hoping desperately that the gods would intercede on his behalf and he wouldn't have to cover Mt. Olympus.

It had been a lot of trouble, conjuring up a visa and making it to Greece, but Molly had done it, and she was thrilled with her ingenuity as she hadn't been since she'd gotten grade school report cards.

She spread her arms, gleeful. "I celebrate myself, and sing myself," she trilled. Walt Whitman. A passing Greek looked at her like she'd grown a second head.

"συγνώμη?" he said, inclining his head.

The feeling of euphoria faded as she realized she hadn't the slightest idea what he had said. She didn't know Greek. That was kind of a huge oversight, now that she thought about it.

Mantus, the only loyal one, for reasons no one cared to think about, pulled Crowley aside by the elbow, and hissed into his ear. "There's a problem. A severe problem. I felt you should be notified."

"What is it?" Crowley asked, teeth clenched together. He didn't like Mantus, and he especially didn't like Mantus's hand on his arm, but he didn't object; he had to keep the followers that he could. He certainly couldn't afford to make any more enemies.

"The soul imports. We believed that since Heaven hasn't been taking any more in, the previous distribution agreements were void, and we could take all the unclaimed souls floating about and bring them back here. Huge boost to the economy."

"I know that," Crowley sighed. "It was my idea."

Mantus squeezed his arm reassuringly, and Crowley resisted the urge to clout him. "That's the problem. There aren't any surplus souls, when there should be. Even our rightful souls are slipping through our fingers. They're all being taken somewhere, somewhere that isn't Heaven. Purgatory is still locked up. There's talk that it's you, bringing up a private soul-army to crush Damien. That's not the worst of it."

"Oh?" The kind of power required to pull the kind of trickery Mantus was talking about was phenomenal. Crowley was almost flattered he was the one being blamed.

"The others aren't buying your God story. They believe it's an engineered threat designed to scare them into complicity while you overrun Hell with human personnel. They think that you're planning on depriving them of their jobs… that you're outsourcing. Setting up a human intelligence network was the last straw. Mudgett wants you dead."

"I suppose Cain has been the most vocal with his doubts."

Mantus gave him a searching look. Something in it gave Crowley goosebumps, and not the good kind. "I don't think you realize… Cain and Damien are two peas in a pod. Cain is belligerent, we all know that, but he's also calculating. He's stirring everyone up just enough to fool them into thinking Damien's solutions are reasonable by comparison. And his solution right now is to have you demoted, to the status of an imp, in fact. Your regime …"

"…Is as good as over."

"No." Mantus's smile was ghastly. It had something to do with the unseemly flush creeping along his neck, Crowley was certain. "It's in danger. Killing either Cain or Damien outright is bound to spark a revolt, but…"

"What the fuck-"Dean gasped, on all fours. Castiel sprang up beside him, staring Bobby down like he thought he was Lee Van fucking Cleef. Bobby would have broken out into a cold sweat, if his current condition didn't render most biological functions unnecessary.

"What is going on?"

Bobby pointed vaguely towards the smoke. His eyes were dead, resigned. "That happens… when…"

Dean was on the alert now too, up on his feet and in a defensive position in a split second. "When what?" he asked, suspicion and horror only just beginning to manifest itself in his posture.

Bobby's mouth worked for a minute, opening and shutting soundlessly like a feeding goldfish. "Balls!" he repeated.

"Bobby…"

Holding Dean's wrist in a vice-like grip, Castiel began tugging. "We should run."

He didn't need to be told twice.

A lot of gesticulating and wordless screaming had managed to secure Molly another map, and, since she was now in the vicinity of Mount Olympus, she felt it high time to try another spell…

…It was with great relief that she found the man at the desk of the motel was a Muslim. She could speak Arabic, at least. "هل رأيت هذا الرجل?" she asked, placing a photo of Sam Winchester on the desk. Have you seen this man?

The man hardly glanced at the photo when his face darkened. His bared teeth glowed pearly white in the dim lighting of the room. "لماذا كنت تريد أن تعرف?" he said severely. "أنت زوجته?" Why do you want to know? Are you his wife? He obviously didn't want any trouble, or to involve himself in a domestic dispute.

She smiled, and tossed her head back scornfully. I am no one's wife, she thought."انه مدين لي المال," she said. He owes me money. The lie dropped smoothly from her tongue; in Arabic it sounded almost like a litany… hypnotic.

The man appeared to be eased by her response, and his intimidating grimace softened into a friendly grin. He told her the room number, and she went to make herself at home.

Sam knew that the Word had to be near Mount Olympus, he'd taken note of the sacred-mountain pattern and everything pointed there. But after three days of aimless roaming by day, and feverish research by night, he was beginning to feel discouraged.

Would it kill you to give me some direction?

On the evening of the fourth day, he trod wearily to his room, intending to get his things together and leave. The Word was obviously not anywhere nearby, and even if it was, he couldn't bring himself to give a damn. If God was concerned with saving the world, perhaps he could learn to accept that, but it was difficult when his attempts at saving lives here and now were continually thwarted.

He opened the door to his room and immediately flopped onto his bed, where he struggled to get his hiking boots off. It had been a long day.

"Hi."

A woman who looked half-dead stepped out from the niche in between the closet and the adjoining wall. She was in her mid to late twenties, he reasoned, her jeans were grimy and her eyes had purple, puffy bags underneath of them; she obviously hadn't slept in a few days. A spectacular whorl of red hair seemed to be trying to escape from her scalp.

Automatically, Sam's hands moved, pointing a shotgun level with her stomach. Firing wouldn't kill her, but it would hurt like hell.

"Hunter? Demon?" Sam asked, monotone. He was just so tired. Too tired to think, too tired to even care what this stranger was doing in what he thought was a locked room.

"Neither. I was sent by Crowley, though."

The oddness of the response caused Sam's eyebrows to knit together, and he lowered the shotgun. "Sit down," he said, glancing at the garish quilt on the bed opposing his.

It was strange, but then again, everything was strange lately. The pulsing, color-changing smog seemed to pursue them as they ran. Castiel had begun to tug Dean in the direction of the entrance they came through, but Dean resisted, Lucia's warning to not look back ringing in his ears.

And, contrary to all expectation, it sang. It sang hymns. It was terrifying.

Bobby kept on disappearing and reappearing, always a few meters ahead, waving his arm to urge them on. He seemed almost a will-o'-wisp, flickering in and out of sight, leading them, for all they knew, to a precipice. They followed him regardless.

Dean felt his knees were about to collapse under him when Castiel swerved to the right, seemingly straight into a stony wall. Instinctively, unthinkingly, Dean plunged in after him. Pure luck prevented him from banging his head as he sprinted into the narrow opening Castiel had passed through.

"We can't stay here long," Bobby said, his words a faint tickle in Dean's ear. There wasn't much room in the niche they had wedged themselves into; he and Castiel were pressed together, and where Bobby managed to fit in was a mystery. Or, Dean preferred to think of it that way. If he was breathing in ghost-Bobby, he didn't want to know. "It can seep in here any minute, and we'll have to move."

"What the fuck was that? Were we walking in a monster?" Dean asked, voice raising a few decibels. He also didn't like the idea of having wandered through the innards of a thinking creature.

Bobby gave a ghostly sigh. "No. That was unity."

"I believe an explanation is in order," Castiel intoned. Dean expressed his fervent agreement.

"I haven't been dead long," Bobby began. "Not dead dead, anyway. Here."

He paused for a moment, just long enough for Dean to realize that he felt very squished, and become very aware that he was right up against another guy, they were breathing each other's air, and probably Bobby…

He thought about inhaling Bobby's cap, and choked a little.

"It's sort of like a gelatinous cube."

"That's a tad contradictory, Bobby," Dean squeaked, trying to breathe shallowly. "Didn't you say it wasn't a monster?"

"Shaddep, idjit. Anyway, near as I can figure, the longer you're in the thing, the more likely you are to be absorbed into it. Spiritually, I mean. I think it's mostly made up of vengeful ghosts… sometimes, one or a few seem to materialize out of the mass, individualize I guess you could say, and throw rocks at it until they're absorbed again. Damn useless thing to do, but still."

"You're part of it." Castiel's voice was cold, but his breath ghosted warm and damp around Dean's face. "That's what was off."

"A little," Bobby admitted. "I'm out of it most of the time, but lately… in it, more."

"And it turned red because you escaped. It's after you."

"It could be after any one of us!" Dean protested, but Bobby cut him off.

"No, he's right. It goes bonkers whenever something it's absorbed decides to leave."

Dean took a moment to digest that. "Well, glad to have you back, anyway. What was it singing?"

"The Litany of the Lamb of God," Castiel responded. "In… unison. Interesting."

"Sorry?"

"Meekness and forgiveness. Unity. The opposites of vengeance and discord. Do you understand?"

"Wrath?"

"Exactly."

Dean groaned.

"What are you idjits getting at?"

Sam had remained utterly silent throughout Molly's entire story. When she finished, she flopped back onto the bed, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Huh," Sam said.

"Whaddaya mean, 'huh'?" she mumbled.

"What makes Crowley think I'll even tell you anything?" he said. He didn't mention that he was hoping Crowley would be the one to know what was really going on with God. "I'm on God's side, after all. Or He's on mine."

"Said you made an 'information for information' deal. The contract wasn't exactly specific."

Sam sighed. He should have seen that one coming. "Look, he can't take my soul. He can't send demons after me. All the monsters I know of want his head on a stick. What have I got to fear from backing out? You? You're not even a hunter."

One of her eyes popped open. "I could always poison you," she said. "It's not terribly difficult. And I know how to do some nasty magic."

Sam waved the shotgun around a little. "Please."

The eye shut again, and she burrowed into the covers. "He also mentioned something about hellhounds."

Always a loophole, wasn't there? "Fine," Sam said. "Okay. I'm dying to know what He's up to, anyway. I'll tell you what I know, and you're going to tell me whatever I ask. First, everything that they know, and whatever else I can think of. That's the deal, alright?"

"'M tired," she observed, yawning. "Sure."

Bobby, ever the problem solver, came up with a plan as soon as Dean finished explaining about the Levels. He said he'd seen a tunnel up ahead that probably lead to the next Cornice, but that no one'd ever made it there before being absorbed - or reabsorbed, as the case may be – by the SingingUnitySmoke. (1) But, he said, the smoke always paused for a while to devour an escaped soul. The obvious solution then, was for Bobby to delay the smoke while they made it to safety.

"So you don't have to run faster than the bear, so to speak… you just have to run faster than me."

"We can't do that!"

"It's a good idea, Dean," Castiel said thoughtfully. "Likely the best one there is."

"Shut up! We can… we can make it... without leaving anyone behind."

"No," Bobby said. "We can't. It's either one of us or all of us. I'm already a part of it, anyway. It's like …getting drunk, in there. You forget yourself, and it… hurts, to be brought back, now that I think about it. I was afraid of it and ran away from it before, but I think now…" His voice begged understanding, but Dean was in short supply of it.

"Bobby..."

"Don't Bobby me. We're doing this, like it or not."

He continued to argue, but Castiel's hand rose to his chest, and with a firm push Dean was back in the sunlight. Then he was yanked forward, his feet having to fly over the ground to keep from falling as Castiel sprinted in the direction Bobby had indicated.

Dean wasn't able to look back, but he could imagine clearly what was going on: Bobby, standing like a freaking statue while the smoke converged around him, consuming him…

He ran, and he sobbed.

"Wait," Molly said, as Sam packed his duffle in the morning. To his surprise, she had woken up before him in spite of her lack of sleep, and to his annoyance, she used the time to work on his laptop. "I don't think you were wrong about the Word being here. There's a nautical museum in this town, but one of the exhibits, strangely enough, came from Mount Olympus."

He stopped packing and came over to peer at the monitor. "It's a nautical museum," he said doubtfully. "I've checked everywhere that was a likely place to put something originally on the mountain. That wasn't one of them.

"I actually only looked at the site because it's the only museum here, and I was bored. But see, here, look… says that anchor there was made out of stone hewn from the mountain. It even has writing on it."

"Huh," Sam said, nodding. His eyes were distant. "I have an idea... I think it would simplify the matter of finding the Word, to both Crowley's advantage and my own."

Mantus shook his head. "Mudgett is making a lot of noise about wanting his intelligence back on the job, but no one's going to be happy to find they're operating under the orders of a human. You understand, this is exactly the kind of move that will jeopardize your position. It doesn't solve the soul problem, either."

Sometimes Crowley hated being King of Hell. It often felt rather like he was the nurse of a group of particularly nasty children.

There was a tunnel, but there was no exit. The tunnel was a dead end, an extended cave. For some reason, though, the smoke never followed them in. On the wall there was another drawing, done in what seemed to be white chalk to make it visible in the dark, but it was incomprehensible and there was no writing underneath so Dean just kicked it, again, and again, and again. Castiel hovered behind him, unsure of what to do.

"He was a good man," he volunteered, when Dean gave up on abusing his foot and sat down heavily, silent but shaking. He tried to be comforting.

"Don't talk to me. You piss me off."

"You're… angry," Castiel said. He wasn't sure about his diagnosis, but he could feel waves of negative rolling towards him.

"I am angry. I'm angry because you didn't do a damn thing to stop this. 'It's a good idea'? Really? If we just had… had more time, we could've come up with another plan. Any plan. But you… you shove me out there, and you leave Bobby…"

"There wasn't any other plan, Dean. Not one that would have worked. Not one that would have let everyone escape."

"So you're just so damn logical that you find it easy to leave a friend behind, don't you?"

Castiel looked at his hands.

"Don't you?"

"Yes." And that was the scary thing, wasn't it? When push came to shove, he had no scruples about sending people to die, or hurting others. It hurt him afterwards, but he kept on doing it, because whenever he fought he did it to win.

I wish I didn't have to fight, he thought, for the millionth time. I wish I could allow someone else to take the responsibility.

"I hate you," Dean whispered, turning his back.

And all of the sadness in Castiel turned into a vat of bubbling acid.

"I have to find it easy, Dean," Castiel growled. He was vaguely aware he had the man pinned to the wall, but he couldn't remember how it happened. "I have to find it easy, because if I hesitate, if I don't make the decision, then everything is lost. This isn't wanton cruelty. You would have been lost if Bobby didn't make his sacrifice. How dare you disrespect what he did?"

Dean's eyes were wide for a moment, but he seemed to remember himself, shoving Castiel back. The angel wasn't as strong as he used to be. "I'm not. But don't pin this on me, Cas. Did you even think this could have played out a different way? I could have stayed behind. Did you think of that?"

Castiel's silence was answer enough. "I didn't think so."

Then he was punched in the face. "Stop blaming me for not letting you kill yourself," Castiel said simply. Dean waited a moment, recovering, before tackling him, bringing him down to the ground, hard.

"So it's okay to let Bobby kill himself? Is that it?" He pressed a knee to Castiel's sternum, and tried not to think of how uncanny it was that he was overpowering an angel of the Lord.

"He'd already become a part of it. You heard what he said. If not… I would have stayed behind. Does that satisfy you?"

"No, it doesn't! At all! Why the hell do you keep doing things like this?"

Including himself. He'd tried to get to it several times before.

A/N: Don't dine and dash! I would love to hear from all of the wonderful, kind and amazing people who, for reasons unknown, are still reading this story! I love you all! You're like singing kittens and penguins covered with chocolate. That cool.