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Balthazar hadn’t expected the knife that killed him. Straight-laced Castiel, stab him in the back? Then again, Castiel always had been a bit of a bastard, even going against Heaven to avert the Apocalypse, so—perhaps he’d been a little short-sighted. Banked too much on his dear friend’s sentimentality.
Well. Lesson learned.
Not that there was anything he could do about it, being dead.
Until he wasn’t, and there was.
#
The Rebellion’s headquarters—a rather large, nicely appointed house Balthazar had acquired when Castiel tried to base them out of a barn of all ridiculous things—stood empty when Balthazar checked, relegated to walking the final three hundred yards since the warding remained intact.
Just as well no one was there, since he wouldn’t have been welcome. Being killed as a traitor tends to put something of a damper on the rest of a beings relationships within the organization. It bothered him, however, that he hadn’t been able to sense another angel since he’d materialized on earth, wearing the same meatsuit he’d died in (miraculously undecayed and lacking a human occupant) and with no clear idea how much time had passed.
He’d since learned the date. Almost ten years had passed. Humans continued to crawl across the earth, so Rafael hadn’t managed to fulfill his plans. Presumably, that meant Castiel’s plans had been successful. Of Castiel, however, he’d seen no sign. Nor had he been able to find the Winchesters. Without Castiel’s wayward influence and example, would the rest of Heaven have retreated behind the Gates, leaving humanity to bumble blindly to their ultimate destruction?
He didn’t think so. Naomi, certainly, had been too meddlesome to allow the humans their autonomy. Or the angels.
Balthazar stood in the middle of the basement, the tile and cinderblock exactly as he’d last seen it. The desk where Castiel had been when he’d entered remained against the wall, the map still spread across its surface. He could almost believe no time at all had passed.
You rang, Cas?
Apparently, we have a Judas in our midst.
Castiel? Are you alright?
You’ve always got little old me.
He didn’t examine the tangled feelings that arose, close and stifling, from the memory. What was the point, after all? The past was gone, and with it all of the principal actors. Besides, he’d known death to be a possibility when he’d betrayed Castiel. He’d known, even as he gave Dean Winchester the location of his woman, that it wouldn’t matter to Castiel that they were trying to keep him from making a mistake, were looking after him. He’d known. So whatever he felt, here, now, didn’t matter a whit. Castiel was gone, Balthazar, somehow, the last angel standing.
#
The first time around, Balthazar chose Easter, PA for the irony. Had anyone asked, he would have told them he chose Los Angeles for the great beaches and business opportunities. After all, where better for an angel to rebuild their retirement portfolio and live in the lap of luxury than a city where everyone wanted something and the competition between them was fierce?
(He might have, also, somewhere in the back of his mind, considered he might be able to find some other angels in the City of Angels.)
(Too bad all he found were demons.)
Every shitty sequel, after all, rehashed the plot from the original. He’d just have to find a new way to grant their desires without the Heavenly weapons to do the dirty work for him.
#
Somehow, twelve fit and feisty beauties in his bed—and his hot tub, his pool, on the floor—didn’t hold the same decadent satisfaction it once had.
He blamed Castiel, naturally.
#
Dressed like the locals, which tended closer to hippie than suit and trenchcoat (thank God), Balthazar popped into a local, hole-in-the wall coffee shop for an Affogato which he ate with the provided tiny spoon as he walked, senses cast out like a net.
“This is my shot,” said the brunette with thick-rimmed glasses, clutching her phone to her ear and the purse strap crossed over her breast. “I can’t pass it up, even if I have to do something—less than comfortable. I might not get another chance.”
“—don’t know why you’re being like this,” from a tall man wearing gray slacks and a forest green button-down with the sleeves rolled up. “I told you, she meant nothing—”
“—find him?” asked one of the two men seated on the bench beside the fountain, the words nearly drowned out by the rush of water. The scent of sulfur accompanied the words, carried on the wind with the smog. Not men, then—demons.
“No,” answered the other, a weedy, dweeby basement-dweller with zits on his chin and forehead.
“What about the Winchesters? Word is, they’re looking for it, too.”
The basement-dweller pulled a face. “Even the Winchesters know better than to come to Los Angeles. This is our city.”
“The boss wants our eyes peeled—”
“They’re peeled!”
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what he’ll do to you if he finds out the Nephilim was in your sector, and you let it escape.”
The scent of sulfur strengthened, expanded, like a squid shooting ink. Too bad it didn’t provide the demon the same protection. “I’m looking for him, I swear! It won’t get away.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
“Mom, I promise,” said the girl passing him going the other direction, wearing blue jeans and a cut-off jersey, battered guitar case slung over her back. “I’m doing fine.”
#
See, thing that bothered him about the whole business—besides dying at the hand of his friend and captain instead of the enemy—was that with Michael and Lucifer in the Cage, God so hands-off He might as well have been KIA, Rafael supposedly dead, and Castiel mincemeat, who had the juice to resurrect him? And why?
Not that he cared, really. It just felt vaguely like the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head.
#
On the other hand, Balthazar wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d done that already, thanks, got the knife in the back and the souvenir tee-shirt to commemorate the experience. Whatever had suddenly taken an interest in him ten years later certainly hadn’t showed up to claim credit yet.
Whoever had pulled him from the great nothingness of whateverthefuck, they didn’t appear to have any further interest in him. He was ok with that.
He lived, now. That was the important bit.
#
As a distraction, because the wine, women, and drugs weren’t doing it (fast cars were still abhorrently slow compared to flying, and thus a waste of everything), he sold a businessman on a bad deal, made a couple million on the stock market, got a couple struggling actors roles they wouldn’t have landed otherwise, purely out of the goodness of his beating heart, and toppled a few execs who had weird-looking faces.
Left his mark, as it were, and didn’t think about Dean Winchester, or Castiel.
#
“Lucifer is gone,” one demon gleefully told another.
“He’ll be back,” the other answered grimly.
Like it had happened before.
#
Balthazar walked with purposeful steps, enjoying the light breeze even if it carried with it the scent of car exhaust and demon. The combination proved somewhat less abhorrent than either was individually.
Or his new resolve granted the illusion of a lessened impact.
Either way, he followed the basement-dweller zit factory with a bounce in his step along the downtown sidewalk, past a variety of storefronts for everything from food to footwear, looking at the various gaudy storefronts with passing interest, until his quarry veered left at a particular establishment.
A bookstore. Small, independently owned, judging by the simplistic sign and modest storefront. Not where he would have laid odds on finding a demon. He’d have said music store, but he guessed the kids got their “devil music” online, now.
Balthazar closed the distance with a flap of his wings, catching the door just before it snicked closed, and slipped inside.
“Damon?” the basement-dweller called, oblivious to Balthazar moving behind him. If dead demons were all he’d been after, he’d have buried the blade in his defenseless back and laid in wait for his friend to investigate. If he’d wanted to be boring. “You in here?”
“Lock the door behind you!” The new voice floated, throaty and female, from somewhere in the back of the store, appealing in a way the meatsuit’s current occupant definitely wasn’t.
Without even looking around (not that Balthazar was still behind him to be seen), the basement-dweller reached back and twisted the lock. The deadbolt thudded home with the fire-prickle burn of a demonic circuit closing, whatever magic they’d used to ward the place—which appeared to neither force Balthazar out, seriously harm him, nor alert the demons to his presence, making it essentially useless—snapping into place. Then the basement-dweller wound through the shelves, angling to the left with the familiarity of someone who’d made the same trek many times.
And who didn’t expect work at the end of it.
“Don’t you ever have any customers?” Basement-dweller plucked a random book off the shelf, thumbed quickly through the pages while walking, and put it down somewhere else without looking. A self-satisfied smiled curved the demon’s lips when he stepped around the corner of the bookcase.
Balthazar, having taken a different route, had an excellent view of Damon’s displeasure. Despite being ugly as sin on the inside (literally), the woman Damon wore had a good figure, auburn hair gathered at the nape of her neck, and showed spunk at odds with her basic skirt and button-up with turquoise cat’s eye reading glasses. Definite MILF material, if she wasn’t possessed by a demon. Balthazar had standards.
“Don’t you come in here with that attitude and expect to get laid.”
“So you have useful information for me, instead?” Smug looked imminently punchable on the young, pimple-ridden face. “You’ve located Lucifer, perhaps? Or the Nephilim? Or maybe you’ve claimed new souls for Hell?”
Damon’s cheek twitched.
“No?”
“Shut up.”
In a flash, Basement-dweller snatched up a book and threw it, following quickly after. Damon dodged the book, but not the basement-dweller, who pinned them bodily to the bookshelf at their back with his forearm pressed against their throat. “Remember who you’re talking to, slug.”
Instead of fear, as Balthazar had expected, Damon’s gaze narrowed. “A low-life, third-tier manager who can’t hold down a real beat stuck in a dead-end post for the rest of forever?”
Balthazar wouldn’t have thought that described any burb in Los Angeles, but Basement-dweller surged forward with his teeth bared like the barb had found its target. “Watch your mouth.”
“You love my mouth.”
“Only when it’s put to better use.”
When Basement-dweller shoved Damon to the floor, then grabbed their hair and pulled them into position at crotch level, Balthazar moved into the open. “Is it the thrill of almost getting caught that gets your rocks off, or do you really want an audience and just can’t find anyone to oblige?”
Basement-dweller stumbled back like he’d been burned, leaving Damon to sway off balance on their knees. “You!” he snapped.
“Practiced that, did you?”
The demon opened his mouth.
Balthazar could have used the angel blade to burn the demon out, buried it in the pissant’s chest before he’d even realized Balthazar had moved. Unfortunately—fortunately?—stabbing didn’t really send the message he intended.
His palm pressed firmly to Basement-dweller’s forehead, ignoring—for the moment—the copious layer of grease. A moment’s focus, then the demon’s breath left him in a scream. The body writhed, trapped and helpless, as Balthazar’s power burned through the mortal shell, the heat and purity consuming the demon utterly.
It took seconds. Balthazar kept his eyes on Damon for the duration.
“Angel,” the other demon breathed, something like awe hidden under the terror—which, weird.
“Sweetheart, if you’re going to start with pet names, you should buy an angel dinner first.”
“I—”
Balthazar planted his palm against their forehead and pushed his power through their body. They didn’t scream as loudly as the basement-dweller, and Balthazar almost felt bad when he released what was left.
From the ground, both figures stared toward the ceiling, the sockets where their eyes had been burned raw and empty. The cause would no doubt confound the locals, but Balthazar felt confident it would get the Winchesters’ attention, especially since these two were bodies four and five.
He added glyphs to the ones already on the walls, then unlocked the door and stepped outside. A heartbeat later, he’d disappeared from mortal sight.
#
Balthazar had considered simply asking for a status update from Heaven. Had he not been believed dead (and determined to remain so). That method boasted several downsides, however, the first being his lack of knowledge regarding the current leadership in Heaven. Enquiring with management, particularly if either Castiel or Rafael held the topmost position, would be disastrous.
Second, he had previously stolen the Weapons of Heaven, absconding with them prior to using them in a civil war against his fellow angels. The fact he’d hadn’t stolen them for that purpose but to portion out and sell to mortals could, conceivably, be seen as the worse offense. It was entirely possible management would want to do something about that if he raised his pretty head into firing range.
Third, and the hardest to work around, especially considering he’d been so long out of touch, Heaven had a horrible track record regarding information sharing. He could ask until he was blue in the face—an impossibility for angels, since they didn’t need to breathe—and if management decided to withhold the information, the universe would die before he learned anything useful.
For those reasons, Heaven remained—rather less than ideal.
#
While the local monkeys ran around collecting whatever minutia they thought would help from the crime scene, Balthazar marked time with two pairs of twins, only bouncing out to stop the bookstore owner’s son or nephew or whoever from putting the store on the market—for the moment—and ended up taking a tumble with the real estate agent, so—
Win-win.
#
After three days, Balthazar felt less sanguine. He strongly considered the merits of finding a demon whose meatsuit was—more high profile. Watching Sam and Dean try to puzzle out how they were connected would surely be worth the headache from bamboozling the humans. And killing the demons. Which, while holding a certain appeal, also sounded like work; work that would draw more attention than he wanted.
Fortunately, the ping came through before he did something foolish.
#
Certain he knew both who he would find and the situation he’d be dropping into, Balthazar flew directly to the scene of the crime, landing approximately ten feet from the being examining the glyph (well, one of them) that Balthazar had left behind.
Neither Sam nor Dean would have noticed his presence before he’d had a chance to gain his bearings and judge their banter, but the dark-haired being in a horribly familiar trenchcoat turned as soon as he’d touched down, wings snapped-to against his back.
“Castiel?” The only saving grace Balthazar could find was that Castiel gawped back, every bit the stupid ape Balthazar felt sure he resembled.
“Balthazar?”
Balthazar pulled a smile onto his face despite the surprise. It felt strange, off-kilter. “Don’t tell me you’re hunting, now. Bit Byzantine for the high ruler of Heaven, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve heard of slumming it, but—” Well, Castiel never had been particularly smooth with the ladies, had he? Nor overly concerned with appearances.
“No—yes—” Castiel grimaced, then continued impatiently. “No, I’m not the high ruler of Heaven. Yes, I’m hunting. There is no ‘slumming’” –complete with dorky finger air quotes—“involved. How are you here? Did Jack wake you?”
Balthazar wasn’t sure Castiel knew he’d stalked forward, but Balthazar side-stepped his approach just the same, tension crawling up his spine the closer his former friend became. “Jack? Who’s Jack? Cas, really. You of all angels know that sometimes, when an angel has been particularly naughty and bought the farm because of it, God decides to reward them with a sequel.”
“God is back?” Castiel demanded, somehow becoming more intense. “You’ve seen Him?”
“Seen Him?” Balthazar echoed, the incredulous laugh escaping with his spine as he caved and retreated from Castiel’s single-minded approach. A neat side-step put a chair between them, which finally drew Castiel up short. “No one’s seen Him since he fucked off after creating the universe.”
The tense, closed-off, almost guilty expression that carved Castiel’s face drew Balthazar up short.
“You’ve seen Him?”
The other angel grimaced. “We did. But he left, again, possibly for good. He—” Castiel sighed, blowing air quickly through his nose. “It’s a very long story. One I don’t particularly have time for. Are you sure you haven’t seen Jack?”
“Again, I ask, who’s Jack?”
“What about the Empty?”
Balthazar narrowed his eyes, confused and irritated. “Oh, no. No. You stabbed me in the back, Castiel. You get to answer my questions first.”
Despite the guilt darkening Castiel’s face, he didn’t retreat. The little bastard never had. “Balthazar, I don’t have time for this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m looking for something.” Castiel turned back to the glyph, even going so far as to take a step toward it before refocusing on Balthazar. “A boy. Teenager. He’s lost and in trouble, and I must find him before somebody else does.” Narrow-eyed, Castiel aim his suspicion. “You’re sure you haven’t seen him.”
“Him?” Balthazar echoed. Based on Castiel’s expression, the other suspected him of being deliberately obtuse. Balthazar sorely wished he was.
“Jack.”
He planted a hand on his hip solely for Castiel’s benefit. “We’re in Los Angeles, Castiel. I’ve seen a number of young men. Many of them have been lost and in trouble. Some of them have even had someone looking for them. Can you be more specific?”
“This one’s different. Special.”
Unhelpful, Cas. Never let it be said Balthazar couldn’t return the favor. He smirked. “Why, Castiel, are you playing hide the salami, you cradle-robber you? I knew you had it in you. Or maybe it’s in him?”
“No!” Castiel growled, lunging forward (but not going past the chair, not slipping between the planes to stab Balthazar in the back). The other stopped just in front of the chair, close enough to reach out and touch him, but he didn’t. His hands clenched into fists. “He’s under my protection, Balthazar.”
“Lucky boy,” Balthazar murmured on autopilot. “Think you might benefit more from the other thing, though. You seem a bit tense.”
No more at ease, Castiel nevertheless rocked back on his heels. Some of the threat he’d carried with him dissipated. Balthazar’s borrowed (traitorous) heart climbed down out of his throat. A trenchcoated arm swept toward the glyph. “I take it this was your handiwork.”
“Hm. I admit I expected the Winchesters. Are they not still around?”
“They are.” Castiel’s intent gaze traveled once again around the bookstore, then he seemed to draw his thoughts back to the present. “Well. If Jack’s not here, I’d better get on my way.”
“Sure,” Balthazar answered, not that an answer had been required, because Castiel barely grimaced at him before turning on his heel. Even the Winchesters would have offered an “It was good to see you,” no matter how insincere.
Balthazar blinked twice, distracted from his pique, because Castiel had turned on his heel to head for the front door.
“Er—Cas.”
The other angel paused, fixing him with a look rife with impatience.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Jack.”
“Right, but—” Tact failed him. Then again, when had he ever worried about tact? “Aren’t you going to fly?”
“No,” Castiel answered, unequivocal as the word of God. Damned uncommunicative—
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t.” Castiel didn’t wait for Balthazar to request an explanation, simply flexed, pulling his wings from where they’d been mantled, and stretched them towards the wall, giving Balthazar an unobstructed view of the burned and mangled ruin they’d become.
A shiver passed up his spine. “. . . Did Raphael?”
“No.”
“Then. . . ?”
Silence. A sigh. “I made a mistake. All of Heaven paid for it.”
#
There was no point sticking around once Castiel left. No point dogging an angel who didn’t want to talk to him.
But at least Castiel no longer wanted him dead.
#
Of course, that couldn’t be the end of it. Then Balthazar discovered he couldn’t settle. Questions bounced around his head:
What kind of mistake could mangle Castiel’s wings like that? Could maybe have done the same to everyone?
Who had rule in Heaven?
What happened with God? Why did He leave, again? (Would he ever come back?)
What happened to Rafael? To the other angels that should have been on earth or babbling over angel radio?
Who was Jack? What made him so damned important?
#
Admittedly, in his weaker moments, Balthazar had imagined his meeting with Castiel going somewhat differently.
The location never really factored, but he had always pictured it occurring indoors. He would have known Castiel was there, would have expected him. Castiel wouldn’t have known he was there, or even alive.
Then he would’ve stepped out. “Hello, Castiel,” he would have said. “I bet you weren’t expecting me.” Maybe he would’ve said something else. But Castiel would’ve been surprised. Would’ve been horrified. Would’ve been guilty.
Castiel wouldn’t have reacted fast enough when he felt behind him and—not stabbed him in the back. Balthazar hadn’t ever wanted Castiel dead. But he wouldn’t have minded slicing a rent in that ridiculous trenchcoat to remind Castiel that he could have.
#
The house Balthazar had claimed in Los Angeles boasted ten thousand square feet and was a single-story, sprawling monstrosity with an open floor plan and enormous windows. Somehow, even bathed in sunlight in the largest room in the place, the walls still felt like they were closing in. He couldn’t stop seeing Castiel’s ruined wings. Couldn’t stop imagining the same fate.
He threw himself into distractions, but none of his little luxuries distracted for long. When they stopped working, he flew.
He went to Florence for a tour of the Palazzo Pitti. He went to Greece for the Taramasalata, then stayed to tour the Acropolis. He went to the Alps, jumping from Liechtenstein to Monaco, then to France for their crepes. He could, so he ate the crepes perched atop the Eiffel Tower, giving the tourists a grin and wave when they noticed him. He left when they called rescue. He almost stuck around to see if he gave the helicopter pilot a heart attack when he disappeared.
He considered, and discarded, asking Castiel. But he’d already tried that, and the blighter had left.
The Winchesters remained incommunicado. They’d changed their habits since he’d grudgingly helped them circumvent Castiel’s plans. The numbers they’d used were out of service.
He couldn’t go to Heaven.
That left him—where? Bouncing around Earth’s greatest tourist attractions looking for a clue.
Surely, there was some way to contact the Winchesters. Something he hadn’t thought of. A friend, maybe?
He felt sure the Winchesters had had friends—some other Neanderthal apes that had been of a like mind, but he only remembered one. Singer’s house had long burned down and out, a weathered, broken mess that no one had attempted to fix or tear down. It didn’t bode well for the house’s owner still being alive.
Oddly, it made the prospect of visiting Heaven more appealing.
#
He hadn’t expected to find the Gates closed. It took him a long time to find the single door that yet opened.
#
Heaven stood empty.
Oh, not completely. The place still thrummed with the bulk of human souls, to be sure. But the angels—only a handful of angels remained, spinning out the remainder of their rapidly shortening lives to keep Heaven running.
Even Naomi, he imagined, wouldn’t be able to spin that loss to a positive. Certainly not when the lights, the very structure of Heaven, shuddered through the uneven dips in power. Asariel stared straight ahead while she preceded him through Heaven’s halls, pretending not to notice.
The Naomi Asariel led him to still looked put-together, still carried herself like a being who expected her orders to be followed, but she also looked tired. Old, almost, in a way angels had never been meant to.
His momentum stalled out just inside the door. Asariel closed it behind him, leaving him with Naomi.
“Balthazar.” The emotions which flashed across her face would have been fascinating (not least because he hadn’t been sure she had them) if he’d been able to read them before they were locked back behind Naomi’s impassive mask. “Come to steal something else?”
Balthazar buried his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans, the better to hold his meatsuit in place, and let a careless grin form on his mouth. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much left.”
The energy chose that moment to falter, dropping them momentarily into darkness.
“There’s not,” Naomi answered, blunt in a way that took him by surprise. “What do you want?”
He thought about dissembling, beating around the bush, working his way up to it, but—what was the point? If Naomi wanted to tell him, she would. If she didn’t, no conversational trick was going to tempt it from her. He shrugged. “What happened?”
“To the angels?” Noami lifted an eyebrow, waited for his nod. “We died, Balthazar. There are twelve of us left. Did you know? Twelve.”
Even with the reality stark before him, he couldn’t fathom it.
“Thousands died at Castiel’s hands, alone, after he swallowed the souls from Purgatory. The power went to his head. Should we forgive him for it? Hundreds more died when Castiel helped Metatron close the Gates of Heaven and forced the angels from their home. An accident, we’re supposed to believe. A mistake.
“More died in the petty squabbling that followed with Heaven’s angels fracturing among different factions. Can you guess how many died at Castiel’s hands? How many the mortals he’s chosen time and again over his brethren have killed? Would you have killed him if you’d had the chance?”
Would he? “Would you?” he asked.
Naomi smiled, a gentle curl of lips and crinkling of eyes that ended up equal parts maternal and patronizing. “There are twelve of us left, Balthazar. Total. In Heaven, on Earth, there are twelve. Thirteen, now. Should I reduce that number by one because of the past?”
“He’s not exactly contributing to Heaven’s upkeep, though, is he?”
“And you are?” Naomi challenged. “He might yet return, when the Winchesters are dead. Heaven might last that long.”
It wouldn’t. Not when the heft of it already felt so thin.
“Well then, I believe I’ve answered your question. Was that what you wanted to hear?”
“Well—”
“Then perhaps you can answer a question of mine,” she interrupted. “How did you come back?”
He wished he had an answer for her. For all of them. Balthazar spread his arms in an expansive shrug. “Divine intervention?”
“God?” Naomi scoffed. “He left. No return date. No forwarding address. No phone number. So whoever, or whatever, resurrected you, it wasn’t Him.”
Who did that leave?
She looked at him sharply, like she might have heard the thought. “I don’t suppose we could convince you to stay?”
“I—can’t.” The plain white walls, the endless corridors, the press of power, the horrible flickering—it itched down his spine, through his wings, worse than his Los Angeles abode had.
Naomi nodded like that had been the answer she’d expected. “Then perhaps you can do me—us—all of Heaven—a favor.”
“I could try.”
“Find the Nephilim. I believe Castiel and the humans call him Jack. When you find him, don’t kill him. Bring him here. You’ll want to use your words. The last angels who went after him didn’t come back.”
#
There hadn’t been a Nephilim on earth in a hundred years or more. Heaven had seen to that. Of course both Heaven and Hell vied for control of that power.
He carefully didn’t think about Castiel’s interest. Of a power-drunk Castiel slaughtering his brothers and sisters.
#
Balthazar stopped looking for—anything, after that. Neither side—not Heaven, which had always been so stifling and out of touch; not Castiel, who’d betrayed him, maybe betrayed them all—appealed to him. Best not get involved. So he traveled. Did what he wanted. A waitress in Soho. A little bit of industrial sabotage—pretty much everywhere. Earth had no shortage of douchebag businessmen that could stand to be brought down a peg or two, and he did enjoy creative justice. Chaos. Burned out a pesky little virus in Wuhan, just because he could and he was there.
Absolutely did not do any soul searching, and not just because angels didn’t have souls.
Which, of course, meant he finally ran into Castiel’s favorite apes on his way to see a supplier about a relic.
#
He could admit—to himself, and himself alone—that landing in a moving car was harder than Castiel had always made it look. Fucking show-off.
#
Balthazar settled into a slouch in the corner of the backseat, behind Sam, quietly enough he had a moment to process the quiet between the brothers (strange, that, or maybe not; maybe they just argued with everyone else these days) before Dean glanced in the rearview mirror.
The elder brother jumped, a full-body flinch that wrenched the car in a sharp swerve, with a curse. In response, Sam whipped around, feet braced in the footwell, knife gripped in his right hand. He stopped when he saw Balthazar. Apparently, they (or at least Sam) still considered him an ally even ten years dead.
Sam relaxed back into the seat, then seemed to register who he was, his double-take almost as good as Dean’s. “Balthazar?” he asked, looking like he thought he might be hallucinating.
Dean still clutched the wheel, white-knuckled. “Don’t frigging do that! Man, I thought we were done with this crap. Frigging angels.” He smacked the top of the steering wheel with his left hand, shifted position. Glared through the rearview. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Thought you would have learned by now to watch that cholesterol intake,” Balthazar answered without moving, mostly for the way Dean ground his teeth together.
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Yes, quite. Aren’t you?”
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, the pair apparently thrown by his agreement. Though not enough to wipe away Dean’s ire, it seemed. His glare stayed in place. “So why aren’t you, then?”
“No idea,” Balthazar admitted easily. “It’s quite the mystery. Has the forces of Heaven and Hell stumped. But I’m not here to talk about that.”
“Why are you here?” Sam asked, surface reasonably. He’d put his back to the door, left arm hooked over the seatback, to look at Balthazar more comfortably.
“Castiel.”
The pair exchanged another glance, sharper than the first—wary, protective. Dean said, “What about him?” in exactly the tone his frown suggested.
“So you still trust him.”
“Of course we still trust him.”
They hadn’t, when last he’d seen them. “Even though he betrayed you. Even though he slaughtered his people. Even though he forced your people and mine to coexist as they’d never been meant to.”
Dean didn’t drop his gaze, so Balthazar didn’t, either, not even when Sam said, “Balthazar—ok, look. Cas, he—he made some mistakes. Some terrible mistakes, even. But we’ve all been there. And he’s worked hard to make them right. He’s learned from them. And—” A glance at Dean. “—he’s had our backs when it counted.”
“Even when it cost him,” Dean added, pointed and defensive. Typical Dean Winchester. “So, yeah, he’s family. What’s your point?”
Maybe there’d been too much water under the bridge for them to make the connection. Maybe they were simply too blinded by their conception of family to consider it, or just too blind, period. Maybe he was overreacting. But when he’d come across the pair in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, he’d realized he needed to know.
Balthazar sat forward, arms braced on the back seat, forcing Sam to drop his or get intimate. The great ape retreated to his side of the car. “My point, Dean Winchester, is that he’s currently hunting a Nephilim. I don’t know if your tiny brain can comprehend this, but the Nephilim are very powerful—”
“—And you’re worried Cas has something planned, something like swallowing the souls from Purgatory.”
Well, they’d always joked Sam was the smart one. The younger brother’s gaze stayed soft and liquid, even as he shared another talking look with Dean.
“Yeah, well,” Dean grumbled, gruff instead of hostile, and Balthazar credited that to Sam, “we’re not. Only dumb thing Cas is doing these days is trusting people who don’t deserve it.”
Sam sighed the sigh of the put-upon who’d had this argument before. “Dean, we still don’t know anything yet.”
“Yet.”
“Dean—”
“Know what?” Balthazar interrupted, not of a mind to let them talk around the point indefinitely.
Dean turned to peer into nothing out the driver’s side window. Sam glanced between him and Balthazar, conflicted, but theoretically willing to share, so Balthazar caught his eye.
“What don’t you know, Sam?”
“Whether or not Jack’s gone Dark side,” wasn’t what Balthazar expected him to say, namely because there shouldn’t have been any other option. Nephilim were powerful, dangerous, destroyer of worlds. They couldn’t help it any more than they could control it, which was why they had to be destroyed. That Naomi had wanted him to take the Nephilim to Heaven simply underscored how dire was the need in Heaven.
“Well, yes—Nephilim,” he reminded them. Though it was possible they didn’t know. Dear, lovely Cas might not have told them.
“No,” Sam countered. “We already found out Heaven lied about why the Nephilim needed to be destroyed. And having powers doesn’t mean he’s going to go evil, Dean. He’s a good kid.”
“It’s not about the powers, Sam! This isn’t about you.”
“He doesn’t have to make his father’s choices. You know that.”
“Ah—” Balthazar interrupted. “Speaking of fathers—” Castiel had, after all, been mighty protective when he’d confronted Balthazar about Jack, which struck a particular tune in light of the recent conversation. “—what exactly is Castiel’s stake in this?”
“None of your business,” Dean growled, before the brother-talk had even properly concluded. “How do we even know you’re you? You could be a—”
“He should know, Dean,” Sam countered.
“—a revenant.”
“Angels don’t throw ghosts, Dean.”
“Or a siren!”
“You’re telling me your deepest desire is Balthazar.”
Dean sputtered. “No! I’m just saying we don’t know the thing in our backseat is really Balthazar.”
“Because so many creatures have the ability to just appear in the backseat.”
Disgruntled, Dean turned his glare on Sam. “Besides, Balthazar would be your fantasy.”
Sam rolled his eyes and turned deliberately to face Balthazar. “He’s—Jack—he’s Castiel’s son.”
Right—no more believable now that’d heard it from someone else and not just in the darkest suspicions in his mind. “You’re telling me Castiel—dour, rule-obsessed, stick-up-his-ass Castiel did the nasty with a human woman. Castiel?”
“Well, no. It’s—he’s—”
“Spit it out, Sam.”
“Shut up, Dean.”
Balthazar leaned a little closer. “Not to impugn your education or experience, but you do know a certain intimacy is needed to create a baby, right? See—first, a man and a woman have to—”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Balthazar sat back as Sam raised his hands, face flushed. “Yes, I know how to make a baby. It’s just—he—” A calming exhale. “Lucifer is the biological father. But Jack chose Castiel to be his—his father-father.”
“His father-father?” Dean echoed, eyebrow raised in familiar mockery, not that Balthazar could appreciate the humor.
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Lucifer sired a Nephilim,” Balthazar checked, somewhat blankly.
“But Jack considers Castiel his father,” Sam repeated quickly, like that could brush aside the fact that one of the most powerful angels in the world had created a being that would be more powerful than him. And Jack going “dark side” was a concern. Of course it bloody well was. “He even brought Castiel back to life after Lucifer killed him.”
And that little tidbit of information, Balthazar would unpack later. Death and resurrection aside, the last Balthazar knew, Lucifer had still been locked in the Cage. Neither Winchester rushed to tell him how Lucifer had killed Castiel. “Please tell me Lucifer is still locked in the Cage with Michael.”
Dean shook his head, worryingly unconcerned. “Nah, but he’s gone. We kicked his ass into an alternate reality.”
“An alternate reality.”
“Apocalypse world,” Dean said, like that explained anything or made it better. “No way he’s getting back from there.”
At the moment, Balthazar wasn’t sure he was getting back from here. He cut his losses.
#
Between one thing and another, it felt rather like he’d woken up in an alternate reality, considering how much had changed (and not changed) since he’d last seen it. Particularly when Michael turned up in Amsterdam wearing Dean Winchester.
But at least he knew his lines.
#
He couldn’t believe he missed when Castiel called him, out of the blue, to a motel the Winchesters wouldn’t have been caught dead in, wild-eyed and anxious—though, granted, it had been Castiel’s impression of wild-eyed and anxious, so he’d been extra stiff while he’d paced, and extra frowny—to say, “Jack has a crush. What do I tell him about girls?”
Or even the time, months later, when a crushed, lost Castiel, had summoned him to a graveyard and announced, “Jack’s dying. I don’t know what to do.”
No one would ever accuse Balthazar of having good advice, but he thought Castiel had at least felt better by the time he’d left. Balthazar certainly had.
He didn’t know what it meant that Castiel didn’t call him, now, though part of him was relieved.
#
Somehow, the world didn’t end but Apocalypse Michael did.
Suddenly, Balthazar didn’t know what to do, left at loose ends.
#
He wasn’t sure what had drawn him to the grounds outside the “Bunker” the Winchesters et al had claimed until he saw the Nephilim waiting for him, wearing a t-shirt that had to be the Winchesters’ influence, slacks that had to be Castiel’s, and with his hair neatly cut and combed, posture impeccable and fairly uncomfortable-looking (which, again, all Cas).
The Nephilim smiled when he approached. “Hello, I’m Jack. Are you Balthazar?”
“Guilty as charged. And, hey, since you’re here and I’m here, do I have you to thank for being once again among the living?”
The Nephilim cocked his head, nose scrunched as he thought. “I don’t know. I’ve only recently figured out how to use my powers. I don’t altogether remember what I did—before. It’s possible.”
“Huh.” It didn’t change much of anything, that answer. Wouldn’t have, even if it’d been an unequivocal yes. Balthazar eyed the Nephilim curiously, not especially sanguine about seeing the kid’s soul and Grace existing side-by-side. “So. To what do I owe this unconventional social call?”
“I’m sorry,” the kid (because he was a kid, poise and gravitas aside) answered gravely. “I’d have used the phone, but I don’t have your phone number, and I don’t think Castiel does, either.”
“Ever heard of angel radio?”
The Nephilim smiled again. “I have. I don’t like it.”
Balthazar supposed he could give him that.
“Castiel won’t reach out to you,” the kid countinued, “because he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and because he’s afraid, but I hope you’ll want to stay and talk. Castiel said you were one of the best angels he’d known. I’d like to get to know you, if that’s ok. I don’t know very many of Castiel’s friends.”
The implication, presumably, being that the same wasn’t true for Sam and Dean’s friends. But, then, it was somewhat difficult to introduce someone to beings who were dead. “Does Castiel know you’re out here?”
“No. And he doesn’t know you’re here, either. It’s ok if you don’t want to.”
The weird thing was: he kind of did. He didn’t have many friends left, either, not even with what Jack had done to fix Heaven, and none who shared as much history as he did with Cas.
Jack tilted his head again, looking like a curious bird, like maybe he’d caught part of Balthazar’s thoughts. “Would you like to come in?”
It would mean putting up with the Winchesters, and possibly with anyone they or Jack had brought around. It would mean repairing his relationship with Cas, maybe working their way up to casual conversations that didn’t involve panic calls, and maybe more panic calls. Maybe some of them would come from Jack, or the Winchesters.
Which wasn’t something he was sure he wanted.
Jack watched him patiently, tiny welcoming smile curling his lips.
“What the hell,” he decided, sweeping gesture prompting the Nephilim to lead the way, and he fell in step beside Jack, their pace easy. He could make Castiel squirm, insult the apes, teach Cas’s kid a thing or two his stick-in-the-mud father wouldn’t. Could be entertaining for a while. It didn’t have to be forever, just because it looked like the earth might keep spinning awhile longer. “Please tell me there’s alcohol.”
“Of course.”
Castiel spotted him first, surprise giving way to something that looked pleased. “Balthazar.”
It absolutely wasn’t home. But it maybe wasn’t as far as he’d have liked to believe.