A/N: Briefly: This is partly an explanation chapter. Buckle your seatbelts, ladies and gents. Also: once again I thank my dear friend Mana Walker. She helped me map out a good chunk of plotline for this little project! The next chapter especially. Therefore, I bid you adieu, and thanks for those lovely reviews and reads. :)
-chaoswalking
Under your stars tonight
And I am so overwhelmed
By a thousand broken wings.
A thousand broken wings.
"Broken Wings" by Flyleaf
In a space-less, too-hot motel room, Castiel turned to stare hard into the eyes of his ex-boyfriend. They were cold as brass.
"Angels," he said, incredulously. His mind was a faulty machine–it was sending him pictures of Balthazar, images and words and long lines of dialogue, but he could not fully transmit them into belief. He was numb. Frozen. The shock would bite him suddenly as he stood there. Any minute now.
"Well, I suppose the analogy's a bit flawed," Balthazar said. He wasn't leaning away. His breath was too warm on Castiel's face. "I mean, yeah, it'd be marvelous to be all 'holier than thou', but c'mon. Don't tell me those healing powers don't feel great after a rough day."
Castiel jerked back a little.
"Healing...Balthazar what have you–"
Balthazar suddenly slammed his hand down on the wall behind them, impatience written on his face.
"Dear God, Cassie," he laughed. It was strained. He bit his lip. "You really are slow today."
He gazed past Castiel's head, at the (now lopsided) painting of the angel woman. Her eyes were still glazed and obedient. They shone slightly, reflection from a neon sign outside. It unnerved Castiel, but Balthazar stared at it in sudden hunger.
He paced back a little, pushing his hands deep into his blazer pockets. Always with the expensive clothes, Castiel remembered. It sent a little jab of painful memory into his numb mind. (Malfunction detected, it said. Shutting down.)
"You see, we're special," Balthazar began. Castiel was trying to sort it all out in his head. His palms were dry and cold across the texture of the wall, and suddenly he could feel every pinprick of wayward plaster into his flesh. Things were too bright. Things were too suddenly warm. He blinked once, twice. "We're the ones Heaven and their pals chose. Daddy's favorites, you could say." He grinned.
Balthazar sidled over to the door. It was so casual, so careful, Castiel almost didn't notice that he was blocking the knob, snapping the lock until the dull sound of cheap, flimsy metal snapping filled the hot room.
"But Daddy had a problem, see. His first prototype...well, it confused him. Didn't go as planned. A false start, sort of. What is it, that all the movie guys say?" He paused, then chuckled pleasantly. "Ah. Jumped the shark."
"Balthazar, I don't understand," said Castiel, and as soon as he said it his heart jumped again and all he could see was an empty porch, a shattered coffee mug. Heaven knocking on his door. "What are you talking about? Why are you even here? Anna said...Anna..."
Balthazar looked slightly irritated. He put his hands into his pockets again, and this time, the sharp edges of a gun strapped under his blazer was clearly visible.
"That doesn't matter, don't bloody interrupt me!" He sucked in a deep breath. Ground his teeth. Took a step back towards the wall, the painting, and Castiel. "Anyway, other experiments followed. Successful ones. There was Virgil, he could jump space and time, even universes if he felt like it. Gave him a pill to do that. Then there was Samandriel. Oh, he was good at disguises. Looks friendly enough, but that little bugger could kill at," he paused. Laughed. "Well, killing."
Balthazar was close again. Castiel was awake. His hands scrabbled to find something, anything to protect him from the silver glean of the concealed weapon.
(His ex-boyfriend looked slightly saddened.)
"Heaven made a few hundred of these prototypes. Out of humans. But the best by far, well! They saved them for last."
He motioned at the painting again, and this time when Castiel turned to look, he felt something sharp collide with his face. A knife. It made hims tumble back, slam into the wall, dizzy with the sour tang of his own blood on his tongue.
"Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart," Balthazar said. "But it'll clear up in a sec, I promise."
Sure enough, when Castiel lifted his hand from his cheek, he felt the skin shift under his palm, the atoms and molecules literally knitting themselves back into a recognizable shape. The pain faded. Anger, suddenly vivid, swelled in his chest.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
"What's the matter, Cassie? Winchester got your tongue?"
That was it. Castiel crashed forward, forcing his fist towards the same face he'd woken up next to for the last chunk of his life. It hit with a satisfying crunch, the bone snapping underneath his hand.
Balthazar stumbled back. Held a palm to his face. He looked vaguely annoyed.
"Ouch," he said, loudly, before straightening. His face, like Castiel's, was completely and utterly devoid of any injury.
Casually, he pulled the gun from his blazer. Casually, he aimed it as Castiel's head.
"As I was saying," he continued, looking slightly bored. "We're goddamned perfection in a monkey suit. Michael, he was the eldest. He could kill with a touch. Raphael manipulated minds, which did quite well for him in the investigating business. And I can do anything I want, 'cause baby is my power sweet!"
Castiel was fighting back the urge to do something, anything. He wanted to be vicious. He wanted to lash out and jerk Balthazar's head from his neck. He wanted to be embraced by him again, hear his voice, tangy with an accent, in his ear again.
Not this false voice. The other Balthazar. The one he left on a porch in the dead of day.
"I create things, sweetheart. I spin webs. Massive webs. I caught you in one, just like I'm going to catch the Winchesters. It's easy, really. A few lies, some manipulation."
"Stop it." Castiel forced on a stoic facade. He'd done it for years, yet it hurt to do it now. "Just tell me what they–" he paused. "What Heaven did to me."
And now Balthazar smiles.
"Not just you, my dear Castiel."
He smiled.
"Your whole family."
...
Balthazar watched as Castiel collapsed. It wasn't an obvious change–a slight widening of his eyes. A slight part in his lips. He swayed a bit, caught himself, swayed again.
It was satisfying to have cracked the unbreakable heart.
"Gabriel?" The words came out choked and low, strangled from his throat. "Gabriel what the–"
"Lucifer," Balthazar blurted out. He shook his gun, his "Angel's Blade" in excitement (and the hilariousness of the name fed him like a drug). "Lucifer too. But he kind of broken. Malfunctioned. Rebelled. And that annoying twit of a brother you call Gabriel was a failure in the end, too. But not you. You were perfect."
He laughed again, took a step forward. Like clockwork, Castiel shifted to the side, trying to keep a fair distance.
Balthazar found it amusingly pitiful.
"No. Stop saying that, Bal. This is insane. You...we...we loved each other!"
"You loved a lie!" He can't help but shout it. His nerves were on fire. He wanted desperately to shoot the Blade, embed a bullet somewhere. Not Castiel. Maybe Dean Winchester, or his brother. Maybe a wall. "You were modified in a shiny little Heaven cubicle just like me, and you were my first assignment and I made you believe everything because I'm good at what I do."
A tic of frustration grew in him. He half expected Castiel to tilt his head and frown, the same way he used to when Balthazar got a question wrong while watching Jeopardy, or when Balthazar forgot to bring home ingredients for dinner.
He rather liked that head tilt.
He shook his head, mentally cursed himself. He was too caught up, too stuck in his role.
He did not love Castiel Novak.
He pointed his gun at Castiel Novak's (perfect) face, and smiled the same smile he'd given the day they met.
"But that's all over now. Now you're just part of my web, Cassie dear, and this time we're catching bigger flies."
Castiel's eyes darkened in a moment of realization. A flicker of panic that sent Balthazar into an odd mixture of jealousy and satisfaction.
He was going to catch the Winchesters.
...
Dean didn't stop to think until he was fifty miles out in Jo's new truck, the windows rolled up. He'd forgotten to ask Ellen where exactly Sam was, and some cold feeling about that roiled in his gut. The guy at the bar–did he have something to do with it?
However, a disappearance okay'd by Ellen was a rare thing. He swallowed his fear momentarily, and focused back on the road, his knuckles white on the wheel. He'd go get his little brother after he figured out where the hell Cass put his Baby.
Dean clenched his teeth, pushing his foot down harder on the gas pedal. He didn't know exactly where Cass had stopped (if he stopped at all) but he figured the guy hadn't gotten far. It was night. It was raining. And Cass wasn't the experienced runaway like Dean was. He had to have stopped at one of the cheap motel along the straight-as-an-arrow American highway.
Sure enough, three motels down he found Baby. Still clean, unmarked, with a light dusting of rain on her hood and trunk. Dean let out a whoosh of relieved breath, slapping the wheel in victory.
"Oh, thank God," he muttered. "Jesus, Cass. Gave me a freakin' heart attack."
He pulled into the space nearest the Impala, resisting the urge to hug the car downright. Instead, he pulled the keys from the truck's ignition, and cracked the door open. It was still raining (slightly) and he was glad he remembered to bring his leather jacket. Cass' trench-coat lay on the back seat of the truck, ready to be returned to it's rightful owner. After Dean kicked said owner's ass, of course (and maybe kissed him too).
Dean walked the short distance to the motel office. Inside, a spindly man snored at the desk. A broken air conditioning unit whirred on the sill of a filthy window, and a single fly milled aimlessly about the room.
Dean slapped a hand on the counter.
"Hey," he snapped. The man jerked awake, his glasses flying off his face. Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, hi. I'm lookin' for my friend. Checked in last night?"
The man blinked sleepily.
"What?" he mumbled, fingering his glasses.
Dean shifted impatiently. He was getting too old for this shit.
"My friend. About yea high. Dark hair?" Dean motioned with his hands.
"Oh! Oh, the funny one. He looked a bit off when I saw him, prob'ly came from the bar down the street if you ask me–"
"Yeah, great, what room's he in?" Dean cut over the man's rant. He was in a hurry. He had a brother to catch up with, and hopefully a beer with breakfast to look forward to.
"42."
"Right." Dean threw a ten on the counter. It fluttered before landing next to a wad of stiff pink gum. "Thanks."
...
There was a problem with room 42. Dean knocked on the door (maybe a bit harder than necessary).
"Hey Cass, I know you're in there. C'mon, man. It's me." He waited. Tapped his fingers against his knee anxiously, frustrated. "Dean. It's Dean, Castiel, open the damn door!"
No reply.
"Jeez...do I gotta do everything by myself?" Dean muttered as he leaned back, scraping through his pockets for a bobby pin. He was going to pick the door. Cass better be sleeping, or else he better be prepared for a good old fashioned punch in the face.
Before he got the pin in the keyhole, however, there was a noise within room 42.
A gunshot.
...