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♫ you shook me all night long ♫
“I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
Castiel didn’t reply. He continued looking down at the small, sad patch of earth which marked the not-so-final resting place of Dean Winchester, and willed it to move, but the soil remained resolutely undisturbed. The grave’s occupant should have resurfaced by now. It was, all things considered, not an auspicious start. Beside him, Gabriel was being less than helpful.
“Could you not, perhaps, resurrect him on the surface?” the archangel suggested. “Six feet under is a big ask.”
“The orders were to raise him in place.”
“You can’t even take the soil out?”
“It’s not permitted.”
Gabriel eyed the scrubby grass that had grown over the divinely-mandated earth, frowning a little. “That seems a little sadistic.”
Castiel looked at him with an expression that only someone who had known him for millions of years might possibly recognise as secretive agreement, then looked back at the obstinately motionless grave. “Those are the orders.”
“Fine, fine,” Gabriel said airily. “Still, surely you can sneak in a little help. Maybe loosen up the dirt a bit, make sure the lid is easy to break? He’s a strong boy, very muscular, that’d probably do the trick.”
Castiel nodded – much as he hated to take the advice, the orders did have a little scope for interpretation, and it was definitely worth a try. He rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and started again.
♫ you shook me all night long ♫
A hand thrust through the soil, followed by another. Slowly and arduously, Dean Winchester dragged himself from the earth and collapsed panting on the grass.
Pleased with his success, Castiel watched as his human charge got his breath back and surveyed the blasted trees around him. It had taken some effort to arrange them appropriately, since trees are not naturally inclined to do as they are told, even with persuasion methods usually carried out by meteor impact, but Castiel believed in doing his job to the best of his ability, no matter how tedious.
“Show-off,” Gabriel needled, rather less of this persuasion. “Trying to impress, are we?”
“Signs and portents are traditional.”
“True, true. He certainly won’t doubt your power.” There was a hint of mockery in Gabriel’s voice – he didn’t seem to be taking this seriously.
“It is important that he doesn’t,” Castiel replied, mildly irked and determined not to show it. “He must show the proper respect. He has an important role to play.”
“So I gather.”
There was that mockery again. Castiel ruffled his feathers irritably, wondering (not for the first time) why the archangel was even here. He wasn’t supposed to be involved in the mission. As far as Castiel was aware, he wasn’t currently in contact with Heaven at all. He appeared to be following Castiel’s progress purely for his own entertainment, and so far, his input was remarkably unhelpful.
Irritating as he was, however, his presence was not completely unwelcome. Being on Earth alone would be worse. Castiel was unsure whether this part of the mission had been given to him because he had performed too well or because he had performed too badly, but it certainly felt like a punishment.
With Gabriel trailing in his wake like an unusually opinionated shadow, Castiel followed Dean along the highway until he reached a deserted fuel station, where the man quickly gained entry and located water. So far he was coping well with his return to the world. He had spent four months of Earth time in Hell, more than enough to deprive an average human of anything approaching sanity, but Dean was clearly an unusually resilient human. Castiel could see why he was important.
Thirst now quenched, Dean found a wash basin in the back of the building and began to bathe, as humans tended to do. He splashed a little water on his face and pulled up his shirt to stare at his bare chest in the mirror, clearly baffled at being alive and whole. There was no evidence whatsoever of the manner of his death or the months his body had lain in the ground afterwards. Nor should there be. Castiel had done an excellent job.
Technically all the orders required was that Dean’s body be restored to its approximate state before the Hellhound had torn into it, but Castiel had seen no reason to stop at ‘adequate’. Dean was destined to be Michael’s vessel and he should be at his best. The accumulated damage from the man’s short but eventful life had been cleared away to leave flawless skin, every hair and freckle carefully returned to its correct location, covering a figure that would have pleased the sculptors of antiquity. Dean had, in short, never been in finer shape. Castiel doubted Michael would appreciate the effort, but the effort had been made nevertheless, and he was proud of it.
While Castiel admired the results of his hard work, Dean carefully rolled up one sleeve, wincing a little. This revealed something that caused Castiel to stare for a rather different reason. Sitting prominently on Dean’s shoulder was a large patch of raw, blistered skin, an unmissable blemish which had definitely not been there before his soul was returned to his body. It looked suspiciously like a handprint.
Gabriel peered at the burn, then turned his attention back to Castiel. “How did he get that mark?” he asked. His curiosity was tinged with amusement, as if he already knew that the answer was going to be entertaining.
Castiel shuffled his wings awkwardly. He had left no such mark on Dean Winchester’s body, he would surely know if he had. It must have come from the soul. Some unexpected consequence of its retrieval from Hell perhaps. Or perhaps it was some quality of the soul itself. It had shone brightly to Castiel in that otherwise dark and hopeless realm, which was helpful for its retrieval, but perhaps that unknown quality had complicated its return to its body. Castiel wondered whether the mark would last, and then wondered why the idea appealed to him.
“It wasn’t intentional,” he mumbled.
There was a brief silence. Castiel waited for Gabriel’s mocking response, disconcerted by how long it was taking to arrive. Unaware of either of them, Dean returned to the front part of the building in search of food.
“Castiel?” Gabriel said at last, watching him with equal parts disbelief and glee. “Did you call dibs on the Michael Sword?”
Castiel frowned at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t,” Gabriel said dismissively, making a strange flapping gesture with his hand. “You need to get out more, Cassie. Enjoy the local colour.” He pointed both forefingers at Dean, who was still collecting provisions. “But maybe not this local colour. Intentional or not, Michael probably won’t appreciate your pawprints all over his property.”
Castiel twitched irritably. If Michael didn’t want anyone else touching his vessel, Michael should have gone and retrieved it himself. Several members of Castiel’s unit hadn’t returned from the mission to Hell, and if the archangel had been present, perhaps they would. Then again, perhaps not – Castiel was no general, but he at least tried to keep his soldiers alive. Michael considered them all expendable.
Castiel set the line of thought aside as dangerously close to insubordination; unfortunately Gabriel must have noticed, because he was looking smug. “Oh I agree,” he said cheerfully, stealing a small package labelled ‘Twinkies’ from a nearby shelf. “But you know how he is. Best not get in his way.”
Castiel responded with a vague gesture that Gabriel would hopefully read as agreement, but which had plausible deniability. Criticising one archangel to another would probably be unwise, even one who was currently AWOL and not on speaking terms with most of Heaven. Gabriel’s current loyalties were unknown, and his self-imposed exile could always change. For all Castiel knew, he could be a spy looking for insubordinate angels in need of correction. Insubordination was not something Heaven took lightly.
“What’s next on your agenda?” Gabriel asked. He didn't sound like he was spying, but then spies probably didn't. It would defeat the purpose.
Castiel returned his focus to the task in hand. He didn’t usually have this much trouble maintaining it – this mission had clearly been very disruptive. “I am to establish contact with the vessel.”
“Makes sense,” Gabriel nodded. “So what’s the plan for that?”
“The usual way should suffice.”
“Huh. After the thing with the trees I was expecting something a little more showy.” Gabriel made himself comfortable and tore open the box of ‘Twinkies’. He waved towards Dean in a casual and slightly patronising manner. “Off you go, then.”
Suppressing the urge to make a gesture that would definitely translate to an eyeroll if he were currently in a vessel himself, Castiel attempted to make contact with Dean. Doing so gave him a jolt of nervousness that was utterly inexplicable– he had made himself known to vessels many times before, after all, this part of the mission was completely routine.
At first there was no response. Castiel raised his voice a little, and several electronic devices in the room activated. Dean did notice those – he could hardly fail to notice them – but instead of responding with disbelief or fear or awestruck reverence, as vessels usually did, he began to ward the room against evil presences. Strange. Castiel raised his voice a little more, wondering why this wasn’t working when it always had before.
The extra volume was a mistake. Dean covered his ears in obvious pain, and then every window in the building shattered one after the other, sending the terrified human scrambling for cover – not quite successfully. A large shard of glass came down on his head and the resulting spray was definitely arterial. Castiel surveyed the mess with a growing sense of embarrassment and a hint of something not unlike guilt.
“Well, that was certainly showy.”
Castiel could feel Gabriel’s grin without even looking. He sighed and started again. This was going to be a long day.
♫ you shook me all night long ♫
A hand thrust through the soil, followed by another. Slowly and arduously, Dean Winchester dragged himself from the earth and collapsed panting on the grass.
Castiel watched Dean reach the fuel station again, watched him bathe again, watched him discover the incriminating handprint. It hadn’t been possible to remove it. Then again, he hadn’t tried very hard – after all, it wasn’t important. Whatever Gabriel’s smug comments might imply.
His second attempt at contact went no better than the first in terms of property damage, but this time Castiel watched out for the glass and ensured none of the pieces were big enough to cause serious harm to Dean. Blasting the lethal shards into tiny glass cubes was curiously satisfying, but it very rapidly became clear that his efforts were causing nothing but pain, so he abandoned them and backed off. The stunned human pulled himself out of the debris and staggered outside into the sunshine.
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said to Gabriel. “He is a vessel. Why can he not perceive me?”
“Hmm,” Gabriel said, entirely unperturbed by the destruction and halfway through something called a ‘Butterfinger’. “Is this definitely the right guy?”
“Yes,” Castiel said immediately, and vehemently. The idea that he was supposed to bring some other soul out of Hell and leave this one behind sent a jolt of something odd through him, something he didn’t recognise or understand. It was of no consequence, however. There was no doubt that this individual was Dean Winchester the Righteous Man, the True Vessel of the Archangel Michael. Castiel had planned the mission diligently and had personally overseen it from beginning to end; there had been no mistakes. “The orders were very clear.”
“That would be a first,” Gabriel said under his breath. He flicked the now-empty food wrapper away and it fluttered to the floor, nestling unobtrusively amongst the debris. “Okay, so it’s the right guy. Perfectly reconstructed too, I can see you took great care over that.” He sounded amused, though Castiel didn't understand the joke. “Remarkable attention to detail.”
Castiel shuffled uncomfortably again. So he took pride in a job well done. What was so amusing about that?
“Maybe he can only hear Michael,” Gabriel mused. “Who knows? Dad isn’t exactly known for consistency.”
Castiel made another noncommittal gesture. Perhaps that was it. Unsure of what his next move should be, he watched Dean locate an abandoned vehicle outside, coax it into life, and drive away from the fuel station.
Castiel turned to Gabriel. “I need to follow him.”
“’Course,” Gabriel responded casually, while filling his pockets with food items. “Well, I have somewhere else to be. Specifically, Reno. Good luck with your vessel.” He made a gesture that was halfway between a wave and a salute, and definitely conveyed no actual respect. “Smell ya later.” Then he was gone.
Castiel sighed with relief. He was no wiser about what Gabriel had been doing here in the first place, but perhaps now he had left, Castiel would be able to concentrate again. This mission was most irritating, and the sooner he could finish it and leave, the better.
He set off after Dean, deciding not to attempt any further contact during the drive – that seemed likely to end badly. As it was, Dean drove six hundred miles without stopping to rest even once, and it took several interventions from Castiel to ensure the vehicle stayed on the road.
Given his illustrious destiny, Castiel had not expected it to be this difficult to keep Dean Winchester alive. The man had no respect whatsoever for his physical or mental limits and seemed to think he could get through any obstacle through sheer obstinacy. It was frustrating and fascinating in equal measure.
When the vehicle finally pulled up in some kind of vehicle storage yard, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. Dean was now in the company of another human who presumably cared about him, which should make keeping him breathing much easier. Humans generally looked after other humans they knew, which set them apart from angels and demons alike and gave them a lot of their otherwise meagre power. It was one of things Castiel found most interesting about them. Letting himself relax a little, he settled in to watch as Dean rapped on the door.
Ten seconds later a silver knife hit home and Dean slumped to the ground, motionless. Castiel sighed to himself. Gabriel would be insufferable about this.
♫ you shook me all night long ♫
A hand thrust through the soil, followed by another. Slowly and arduously, Dean Winchester dragged himself from the earth and collapsed panting on the grass.
Once again Castiel watched Dean’s trek along the highway, watched him bathe, watched him discover the handprint. This time there was no Gabriel to mock him, which was an improvement. He attempted contact again, in case the previous failures had been Gabriel’s influence, but the end result was much the same. At least Dean survived it.
This time around, Castiel successfully engineered a rest stop for Dean, and paid more attention when he finally reached the vehicle yard. It was the work of a few moments to guide the fight just enough for Dean to convince his acquaintance of his identity before any lethal blows could be struck, and after that point things were easier for a while.
Castiel spent the lull trying to work out how to make contact – he had never encountered this problem before. On every previous occasion, the vessel had been receptive. Of course, Dean was nothing like the other vessels he had been tasked with contacting. Vessels were devout, sometimes disconcertingly so; Dean had no faith and little hope. Vessels were obedient; Dean seemed determined to be as contrary as possible. Vessels were dull, useful but of no inherent interest beyond their purpose as instruments; Dean was, for some unfathomable reason, fascinating. Castiel considered asking for advice, but doing so would bring his lack of progress to Heaven’s attention, and that was not to be done lightly. The problem would be resolved soon. He just needed to find the right frequency, preferably away from anything that could shatter.
When the humans discussed the restoration of Dean’s body, Castiel listened with something approaching pride – it was nice to have his work appreciated. Their attribution of the event to demonic involvement was less pleasing. He was particularly annoyed about the handprint: the idea that a demon could lay such a claim was ridiculous, not that it constituted a claim of any kind of course, merely a currently-unexplained accident, but still, it was Castiel’s doing and no demon should get credit for it.
These things were of no consequence. Being on Earth was clearly bad for his sense of proportion.
Oblivious to his annoyance (and for that matter, presence), the men went on to discuss the whereabouts of Dean's brother, in whom Castiel had little interest. He had been sent to raise Dean and only Dean, and that was where his orders ended. Lucifer’s vessel was not Castiel’s problem, Michael’s was. Presumably Hell was courting the Abomination in their own preferred manner – he could hardly expect anything else. Wherever the man was would be crawling with demons, so it would be better for the success of his own orders if he kept Dean well away.
Unfortunately Dean had other plans. After a regrettably brief rest, Dean and his friend set out again, to find the one human whose presence was least helpful for Castiel’s mission. Why was this man such a pain in the alula? Why was he so difficult to communicate with? Why couldn’t he sit still and do as he was told like other vessels did? Why did Castiel not really want him to?
The men arrived at the abomination’s location a little after nightfall. There were indeed multiple demons in the younger Winchester’s vicinity; Castiel set about checking their locations and strength, ready to protect Dean from them should they choose to attack. What he didn't account for, however, was Dean’s brother stabbing him on sight. Why did these men keep trying to kill each other?
♫ you shook me all night long ♫
A hand thrust through the soil, followed by another. Slowly and arduously, Dean Winchester dragged himself from the earth and collapsed panting on the grass. Castiel followed him to the fuel station, tried not to stare at the handprint, and tried his best guess at a different frequency. He watched Dean lift himself out of the resulting debris and tried to keep a sense of perspective. If Dean’s treks to South Dakota and back happened to be accompanied by a small storm cloud, that was entirely coincidental.
When Dean and his friend arrived at Sam Winchester’s location, Dean was immediately attacked again. This time, with Castiel’s unseen assistance, they anticipated the attack and handled it successfully. Once again, the humans shifted instantly from animosity to camaraderie, as if friendly fire was both expected and readily forgiven. Castiel found this fascinating – a similar occurrence among angels would not end nearly so happily.
Lucifer’s vessel was not at all what Castiel expected. He had faith while Dean did not, and the irony was curious. He seemed every bit as righteous as his brother, though this didn’t seem to impede his willingness to keep the company of the damned. Castiel was unclear on why he wasn’t ordered to kill him, to deprive Lucifer of his preferred vessel and give Heaven the upper hand, but Castiel was not party to all the facts of the situation. Not that he was inclined to do so anyway: killing the younger Winchester would cause Dean considerable distress, and more importantly, would make the task of recruiting him much harder.
As it was, Dean seemed remarkably angry about being alive. He drank heavily and assumed the worst about his resurrection, and he hid his pain from his companions. He was cynical and self-destructive, and did not seem at all like the sort of human Heaven would choose as a divine vessel. Perhaps Gabriel had been right, and this was not the Michael Sword.
But then, the soul of the man… it was beautiful in a way few souls ever were, devout or otherwise. At least to Castiel. He was very sure that there was no other soul like it. It had to be the right one. There was no other explanation.
As Castiel waited for an opportunity to attempt to talk to Dean again, he wondered how best to do it. He couldn’t afford to try every available frequency, even just the ones that wouldn’t make Dean's head explode. When one of the humans suggested a psychic, it opened up new options: if he couldn’t talk to Dean directly, could he do so indirectly? It was worth a try.
...
The answer, it turned out, was ‘not if the psychic is someone who, when told not to look directly at the sun because it will blind them, does it anyway to find out if that’s true’. Castiel was glad he hadn’t tried to reveal his true form to Dean. As a vessel he should be safe, but as a vessel he should also be able to hear angels, and he clearly couldn’t. It would be a terrible thing to damage those eyes.
As he entered hour two of watching the humans wait for news of the psychic’s condition and considering the probability of them trying again with a different psychic – low, he suspected, given the outcome of the first attempt – his attention was caught by an unexpected flutter of wings. He looked around, braced for whatever remark Gabriel had for him this time. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Gabriel.
“Uriel,” Castiel stuttered. He stared at the angel in front of him, who was clearly both irritated and impatient. The other angel’s presence, normally appreciated, could mean nothing good.
“Castiel,” the other angel greeted him. He was currently in his usual vessel, having presumably come directly from another mission that Castiel was not party to and knew better than to ask about. His borrowed face was serious and impatient. “What is taking so long?”
How was he supposed to put this? ‘The vessel is impossible to talk to and unusually prone to being murdered’?
“There have been… complications.”
Uriel blinked slowly, absorbing the sentence with obvious reluctance. “Such as?” he said bluntly.
“He is unable to perceive me.”
“Curious. He is the vessel.”
Castiel counted his blessings that he would not now have to ask that question. He had been strangely reluctant to hear the answer.
“Why does this communication difficulty involve repeated resurrections?” Uriel asked, in a casual tone with steel underneath.
“There were some unfortunate incidents.”
“Unfortunate incidents,” Uriel echoed, pronouncing each syllable separately as if doubting they formed actual words. His tone was flat and unimpressed, but his wings were twitching gently as he spoke. The behaviour was familiar to Castiel – it meant that Uriel was tense and trying not to show it. That did not bode well for the mood of their superiors.
“These humans reacted badly to his return, Uriel. They assumed he was a revenant.”
“You should be more than capable of defending one human from another, Castiel. Kill them if you must. Only the vessels are important.”
Castiel considered pointing out that one of the deaths had been at the hands of the other vessel, or that killing any of Dean’s friends would probably not be conducive to obtaining his cooperation, or that it is very easy to criticise work someone else is doing. He decided all of these would be unwise.
Before he could answer, Uriel spoke again. “If you do not complete the objective soon, you will be taken off the assignment. And then it will be given to me.” The other angel drew closer to Castiel. His voice was low and menacing, but with a secretive and harried undertone; please, it said, do not make my day any worse. “I don’t want the job, Castiel. No more mistakes.” With another flutter of wings, he was gone again.
Castiel watched the space where Uriel had been, evaluating the conversation and his prospects. If he didn’t complete this cursed mission soon, the next visit would be far less pleasant.
“Whoo-ey,” said a familiar voice behind him. “Is everyone in your unit such a party pooper?”
Castiel turned to face Gabriel, wondering how much of the exchange he had overheard. “Uriel is very funny,” he said. “Usually.”
“Mm-hm. Sounds like it.”
Castiel sighed to himself. “What are you here for, Gabriel?”
Gabriel made a curiously non-committal facial expression and spread his arms. “I can’t take an interest in my little brothers’ work?”
“You never have before.”
“Eh, details.” Gabriel waved a hand dismissively, brushing off the question. “You’re doing great anyway. These bozos are just good at getting into trouble. They do it all the time. Makes them interesting.”
That information certainly hadn’t been in the mission briefing. Castiel frowned. “You’ve encountered them before?”
“Did I forget to mention that?” Gabriel replied innocently.
“Yes.” Castiel suppressed his annoyance. He had the information now. “Did those previous encounters give you any knowledge of how to handle them?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I was just dicking them around, really. They’re fun to mess with. Delightfully unpredictable.” Pointing his thumb lazily in the direction of the seating area, he looked smugly at Castiel. “See?”
Castiel looked back at the seats where Dean and his brother had been sitting, only to find empty space. “Wait, where did he go?” he said, against a rising panic. “When did he go?”
Gabriel shrugged, apparently disinterested. Castiel shot him a horrified look, then took off at speed to locate his wayward charge, leaving the archangel alone in the hospital.
There was a moment of awkward silence. “Oops,” Gabriel said to himself carelessly. Then he shrugged again, and broke into the vending machine.
~
Gabriel looked around at the remains of the demons on the diner floor, and gave a low whistle. “Feel better for that?” he asked.
Castiel did not.
The archangel circled the counter, hopping lightly over a charred corpse en route, and began to investigate the diner’s remaining supply of pies. “He died again, huh?” he asked, poking hopefully at something that claimed to involve caramel. “How many times is that now?”
“Five,” Castiel said irritably. “This man does not want to live.”
Gabriel’s head appeared over the diner counter like a meerkat with a very sweet tooth. There was a trace of pie filling on his nose. “No?”
“He sat in a room full of demons and dared them to kill him.”
Gabriel winced. “I think I see why he’s Michael’s.” He ducked below the counter again.
Castiel ruffled his feathers irritably. Castiel was getting fed up of Michael. The pretentious assbutt should go get another vessel, one that didn't run on stupidity and bravado and didn’t smile like that and didn’t keep dying. It was driving Castiel insane. Every time he watched this man shuffle off the mortal coil in a manner even more ridiculous than the last time, he got a little more furious. What's more, his superiors were aware of the repeated resurrections, and they were starting to question his competence. Castiel refused to get himself into trouble for a vehicle, even one with eyes that green.
Movement from the diner counter brought him to attention again. Gabriel had stood up, and was holding a half-full pie dish in one hand and a fork in the other. He was looking intently at Castiel, with an odd expression on his face.
“What?” Castiel muttered.
“Oh, nothing,” Gabriel said lightly, and clearly untruthfully. He stabbed the fork into the pie and dug out a large chunk of filling, holding it briefly in the air as his attention ricocheted between the food and the company. “I take it the communication thing’s still not happening?”
“No.” Castiel replied icily. He couldn’t remember ever having a mission go this badly. He was starting to take it personally. “I think he is causing problems on purpose.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,” the archangel responded. “He has form for that. So does the brother. You just gotta mess with ’em right back.”
“I am trying to complete a mission, not to amuse myself.” Castiel squinted suspiciously at Gabriel. “I thought you were going to Reno?”
“Didn’t pan out.” Gabriel said carelessly, with his mouth full. He swallowed and readied the fork again. “Anyway, I can go to Reno any time. This little escapade feels like a once-ever. Looking forward to seeing what you do next.”
The archangel grinned insufferably. Castiel glared back at him and left the diner without another word. He had yet another resurrection to perform, and Gabriel was getting on his nerves.
♫ you shook me all night long ♫
Having successfully guided his charge from grave to fuel station (still explosive) to the friend and the brother (both still murderous) to the psychic (still reckless) to the diner (where, having not lost track of him this time, Castiel had been able to ensure his survival), Castiel settled in at the hotel to await his next opportunity for contact. He ran through the previous attempts in his mind, looking for the flaw, the clue that would unlock a solution to this infuriating mess. He likely didn’t have long – with yet another resurrection on his slate, he would probably be relieved by Uriel at any minute, and then he would have to explain his failure to his superiors.
Time ticked past slowly, as Dean and his brother amused themselves separately in the room. They had fallen out over the diner incident, although this time there had been no violence involved. Dean was pretending to read in order to hide his inability to sleep. His brother was pretending to watch television in order to hide his desire to go elsewhere. Their friend was absent, but he could return at any time, and then Castiel would lose this chance.
With a little help from his recently appointed and somewhat frustrated guardian angel, Dean finally fell asleep. Shortly afterwards, the abomination sneaked out past his sleeping brother, no doubt to do something unspeakable with his infernal acquaintances. The third man had still not returned, and so, finally, Dean was alone.
Castiel steeled himself for another communication attempt. He'd been considering it for hours, and this time, he had it. This time, he knew how to do it. This time, it would work…
…or not. Once again, every piece of glass in the room shattered. Windows, lamps, bottles all burst into pieces. Too late, Castiel noticed the cracks forming in the ceiling – there was glass on that too. Why was there glass on that too? A particularly large shard pulled away and dropped like a guillotine blade before he could stop it, and Dean exited stage left for a sixth time. Castiel stared down at the bloody mess on the floor and seriously considered destroying the entire building out of sheer spite. Behind him, there rose a high, delighted, breathless laugh.
“You killed him with falling glass again?”
“I didn’t know it was there!” Castiel exploded. “Why would there be a mirror over a bed?”
Bafflingly, this made Gabriel laugh even harder; by this point he was practically rolling on the floor. Castiel glared at him. “Stop it! This is not funny!”
“Yes it is!” Gabriel squeaked hysterically.
“Why are they so fragile??”
“Oh brother, you have the worst luck,” Gabriel chuckled, finally starting to recover his composure.
Castiel grumbled to himself. Luck hardly covered it. At this point he would be unsurprised to discover that he was being undermined by God himself. Nothing was going right, however many times he tried, and the sight of Dean’s blood was more upsetting than it had any right to be. Was he condemned to watch this one strangely enthralling man die over and over again? What failure had he committed, to be given this punishment?
“Oh don’t look so glum about it.” Gabriel interjected. “I’ve killed this guy dozens of times. He’s very killable.”
Castiel glared at him.
“Oh c’mon, I always put him back. Here, this one’s on me.”
Gabriel snapped his fingers; moments later Dean was whole again and groaning. Castiel watched him stumble to his feet, feeling a mixture of relief and annoyance.
“You could have done that every time,” he said accusingly.
“Where would be the fun in that?” Gabriel said, insufferably. “You’re welcome, by the way.” He fumbled around in the debris on the hotel room table, casually flinging aside several slivers of mirrored glass that had made their way into the pile, and eventually unearthed a half-empty package labelled ‘Oreos’ from Dean’s gas station haul. “Why don’t you just suit up?” he mumbled, pulling one of the small brown discs in half and licking something white off the inside. “It’ll be safer that way. There’s plenty of schmucks around here who’d volunteer.”
Castiel began to retort, then stopped. Unfortunately, it was a good point. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done, but by now it was very clear to Castiel that ‘Dean Winchester’ and ‘the way things are supposed to be done’ were mutually incompatible. It had to be worth a try. What could go wrong?
♫ yeah you shook me all night long ♫
So it was that Castiel turned his attention to an easier target: obtaining a willing vessel. James Novak could hear him just fine, and was remarkably easy to persuade, and having physical form did make things a lot clearer.
Castiel arrived at Dean’s latest location, a disused farm building, feeling more confident than he had at any time since the beginning of this tedious and frustrating mission. James Novak was curled up happily in the back of his own head, radiating faithful adoration tinged with smugness and humming one of the more annoying hymns. It was starting to get on Castiel's nerves, but he couldn’t exactly object, given the service the man was providing.
Careful to put on a suitable show first (for signs and portents are traditional), Castiel threw back the doors and entered the building. At this point, he got his first look at Dean Winchester from within a human vessel, and an entirely unexpected complication presented itself.
~ oh no, he’s hot ~
Through human eyes, Dean was… beautiful. Castiel couldn't think of a better term. He’d known, of course, that the soul he was conveying had a fascinating quality to it that he couldn’t recall seeing in any other soul he'd encountered, and he’d known as he’d rebuilt the man’s form that it was a fine example of its type, but to see the combination as an embodied angel with access to a human endocrine system was frankly not fair.
Castiel tamped down a selection of very strange physical responses and tried to keep his mind on the job. Vessels were a mess of conflicting biological impulses at the best of times, which was only to be expected of a self-propelled microbial colony with delusions of grandeur, but normally they could be suppressed without much effort. Whatever was happening here was curiously resistant to being turned off.
Castiel allowed himself a moment to curse Gabriel for suggesting he acquire a vessel, and tried to focus on the mission. All that was required was to make contact and ensure that Dean was aware of his obligations to Heaven, and that would be far easier in this form. It would take minutes. All he had to do was get it over with, and then he could dispense with this ridiculous form and this ridiculous planet and leave it all to the likes of Gabriel, who actually seemed to like it here.
Dean chose this moment to unload a shotgun into his chest, which was really quite annoying. On the plus side, James Novak did abruptly stop humming. Castiel nudged him a little deeper into his own mind; humans tended to get upset about damage to their bodies, so it saved trouble all round if they slept through it where possible. If Novak took this peculiar sense of attraction with him, so much the better. Castiel did not have the time or the inclination to be a reluctant passenger in a human mating ritual.
Ignoring the projectiles bouncing off his chest (something which seemed to be having a very curious effect on Dean), Castiel took several more steps into the room. How should he introduce himself? “Be not afraid” was traditional, but seemed both underwhelming and likely to be met with more ordinance. Besides, Dean did not seem to be particularly afraid. Dean and his brother did not seem to know the meaning of fear. Or self-preservation.
Perhaps he should start with a basic introduction. Yes, that was probably safest. Trying to ignore the peculiar attraction, which Novak had inexplicably and annoyingly not taken with him, Castiel raised his vessel to what he hoped was a fairly imposing posture, and began. “I am—”
Suddenly there was a flutter of wings, and to Castiel’s horror, there was now a second angel in the room. Standing between him and Dean was Uriel, and he looked immensely annoyed to be there.
“Castiel,” Uriel said, in a voice which oozed irritation. “I have been ordered to take over from you on this mission. You have failed.”
“I have not failed,” Castiel protested, unexpectedly irritated. “The mission is in progress. You are interrupting.”
“Six resurrections and an intervention from an archangel,” Uriel said bluntly. “Who should not even have been involved. You do not consider this to be a failure?”
Behind Uriel, Dean dragged his eyes away from Castiel’s vessel – seemingly with some reluctance – to stare at Uriel. He scoffed loudly and turned his weapon on the other angel. “The hell is this ‘archangel’ crap? Who and what the hell are you?”
“Be quiet.” Uriel waved a hand at Dean, and the man froze on the spot. He turned back to Castiel, with a long-suffering sigh. “It is not difficult to control vessels, Castiel. This mission should be simple. You have always handled them competently before. Why is this one falling to me?”
Castiel tried to form an answer, but it was difficult to analyse the copious evidence for Uriel’s position while distracted by the sight of Dean’s face, frozen in an incredulous stare. It was not a pleasant sight, and the intervention riled him. This was Castiel’s mission and Dean was Castiel’s charge. What right did Uriel have to treat him in this manner?
A perplexed and slightly concerned look was spreading across Uriel’s face, but Castiel wasn’t watching. Over Uriel’s shoulder, he could see Dean’s friend as he stared at Dean in horror, reached out to touch his frozen face, stared at his own fingers for a moment, then turned slowly towards the angels. His hand slipped into Dean’s pocket and came back holding a knife, one that Castiel recognised as Hell-forged. It wouldn’t work on an angel, but Dean’s friend didn’t know that. The attempt he was about to make would be fatal, but not for Uriel.
The man advanced on Uriel from behind, as quietly as his shaking limbs would allow. He raised the blade. Instantly, Uriel spun to catch the man’s hand and in one fluid movement, held it high out of the way. For one brief moment he held the man in place, studying him like an interesting insect, and then he reached out his other hand towards the man’s forehead.
Watching events unfold, Castiel felt a rush of sudden clarity: the rest of his existence was laid out before him, as terrible as it was inevitable. Uriel would smite Dean’s friend, and that would be an unrecoverable error: under no circumstances would Dean agree to serve Heaven with his friend lying dead at his feet. Like his friend, he would turn on Uriel. Only his status as Michael’s vessel would protect him from the same fate, and it would not protect him from less lethal punishments, should he continue to refuse the duty. Which he would.
Castiel could not allow this to happen. He would kill Uriel to protect Dean, take his weapon to his brother to protect a mere mortal. He would be pursued by his brothers and sisters for this crime, would kill them too if it came to it. He would stand between Dean and all the forces of Heaven until their numerical superiority brought about the inevitable conclusion and Castiel was himself destroyed. For this man, this one, insufferable, green-eyed, fascinating human. It was senseless. It was absurd. Castiel found himself increasingly unable to consider any other end.
Perhaps there was still a chance to avoid it – to persuade Uriel to use a different strategy, one which might leave Dean more amenable. Castiel put a hand to Uriel’s shoulder to pull him away – only to realise that his efforts were unnecessary. Nothing was happening.
Uriel’s hand was on the man’s forehead, but no smiting was taking place, and it was not for lack of trying. Uriel took his hand away, irritated and confused. He let go of the man’s other hand, and it stayed where it was – the man was motionless, as frozen as Dean. Uriel took a step back from the man and began to turn around, all of his irritation replaced by apprehension.
From the door of the barn behind Castiel came a slow, sarcastic hand clap.
“Knock it off, Urinal.” Gabriel drawled. “Nobody likes a kiss-ass.”
“Sir,” Uriel said, with confused obeisance and mild concern.
“Sir,” Gabriel mimicked, in a high voice. “What did I just say?” He leaned casually against the wall of the barn and pulled another ‘Twinkie’ out of his pocket. He waved it in Castiel’s vague direction. “Now Cassie here, he has the appropriate amount of respect.”
Uriel frowned. “Si—” he began, then thought better of it. “Gabriel. I was not aware you were involved in this mission.” He glanced at Castiel as though wondering whether his colleague might know something he didn’t, then added, more quietly: “I was not aware you were involved in any mission.”
“What makes you think they’d tell you?” Gabriel smirked. “You’re mushrooms, comrades. Kept in the dark, fed nothing but crap.” He paused midway through unwrapping the ‘Twinkie’ to gesture at Dean. “I bet they even told you this monkey was important.”
Uriel ruffled his feathers. “He is the—”
“Michael Sword, yes, I know,” Gabriel said dismissively. “My dear big brother’s lucky pair of underwear for the big showdown. I like the green, it’s a nice touch.” He shrugged and shoved the ‘Twinkie’ into his mouth. “So what?”
Castiel stared at the archangel as he swallowed the food, barely chewing. So what? The final battle at the end of creation, and Gabriel’s opinion on it was ‘So what’??
“It is the fulfilment of Creation’s purpose,” Uriel intoned, right from the mission briefing. “The ultimate defeat of evil, the total victory of Heaven. There is no more important mission.”
Gabriel laughed, a short derisive bark. “You actually buy that bullshit? A bajillion years of business as usual and then suddenly there just has to be a blockbuster showdown? With these two assholes? Why them? Why now? Why Kansas? Dad been drinking again?”
Castiel exchanged a baffled glance with Uriel. “Gabriel, what is going on?” he said. “We have orders to liberate this man from Hell and bring him into Heaven’s service. We have lost brothers and sisters to the mission. Why would we do this if he were not important?”
“Castiel,” Uriel warned, “it is not our place to question—”
“Phooey,” Gabriel interjected. “Question everything.”
“But that would be insubordination—”
“Good. Upstairs could use a little insubordination.”
There was a short, scandalised pause. Uriel ruffled his feathers again, considering this answer. “Is this a test?” he said.
“A test?” Gabriel scoffed. “Boooring.”
Castiel tilted his borrowed head and scrutinised Gabriel. He narrowed his eyes in a suspicious squint. “Are you ‘dicking us around’?” he said, taking care to pronounce the quotes. Beside him, Uriel twitched at the disrespect, and took a step away from Castiel in anticipation of the archangel’s retribution.
Gabriel just laughed. “Always.” With a casual kick he pushed himself off the wall and walked past the angels to the frozen men. He pulled the knife from the man’s hand and returned it to Dean’s pocket. As an afterthought, he took the man’s cap off, flipped it and put it back on the wrong way around, then looked down thoughtfully at his shoelaces.
“Why?” Castiel said irritably.
Gabriel looked up again. “Why not? Better than waiting around for the family feud to kick off again. You think I’m looking forward to watching my brothers fight to the death?”
For a moment the two vessels’ eyes met, and Castiel almost flinched in surprise at the crack in Gabriel’s careless facade, showing, just for a moment, real pain beneath it.
“What a reward for being an obedient son, huh?” Gabriel said, tone of voice not matching those eyes at all. “What kind of a father would do that?”
The crack disappeared again and the archangel’s usual flippancy reasserted itself, though Castiel thought he could still see where it showed through, now he knew what to look for. In the back of his head, Novak twitched. He was dreaming about his family, the family whose safety had been the one condition of his service. Unable to stop himself, Castiel turned the thought over in his mind, comparing one father to another. Gabriel glanced at him again and his lips twitched just a little, this time in apparent satisfaction. Castiel wondered what he’d seen.
“Well, screw that,” the archangel declared. “I’m gonna stay right here and get my kicks where I can, for as long as I can. The end of everything can wait.”
“But the mission,” Uriel protested, clinging to a single point of certainty in what was shaping up to be a very confusing day.
After a moment’s consideration, Gabriel strode forward and slipped an arm around Uriel. He steered the baffled and weakly protesting angel firmly towards the door. “C’mon, Cassie’s got this. Let’s see if we can’t find that fun-loving joker that he assures me is in there.”
When they reached the door, Gabriel looked back over his shoulder at Castiel, and delivered what was unmistakably a sly wink. He turned away, returning his attention to the still-bewildered Uriel. “Now, what’s your opinion on five card stud?”
The door swung closed behind them.
As soon as they were gone, Dean and his friend revived, and both of them immediately pointed their weapons at Castiel again. Castiel sighed to himself. He supposed that persistence was a virtue, but he was beginning to feel that the line between persistence and stupidity was remarkably thin where these particular humans were concerned.
At any rate, both Gabriel and Uriel were finally out of the way, and he could get on with his introductions. He would be glad to see the back of this man with his mesmerising soul and irritating mannerisms and magnetic attraction to danger. He would be glad to see the back of these dangerous new thoughts and dangerous new feelings. He would definitely be glad to see the back of these peculiar new sensations.
Perhaps he would see Dean again on a future mission (no, he didn’t want that, really he didn’t, that would not be advisable). Perhaps he wouldn’t (it would be best if he didn’t). Either way, there was one thing he was completely sure of: this was the last time he would get himself into trouble for Dean Winchester.