thursdays_angel | (no subject)

(no subject)

It is time.

It comes as no surprise to Castiel that Dean has quickly grown impatient, wanting answers. Wanting to understand why he had been brought back from Hell. Answers that Castiel had not been able to give to him in a small patch of decimated forest in Illinois.

Logistics had had to be seen to. A vessel claimed. And, well, Heaven operates on its own timetable.

Dean will learn that soon enough.

Castiel contemplates the barn, standing at the far edge of the empty field. He can feel the faint itch of protective magic, a wise if unnecessary precaution. No demon will trouble this place tonight. It does, however, give him pause from simply appearing within the building. How many times has he been told? It unnerves people to be snuck up upon? A valuable lesson to remember in a time like this, when there is trust to be gained.

So Castiel lets his wings carry him across the field slower than he otherwise might, to the bare patch of dry earth before the doors. He pushes them open and walks inside.

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It's quiet.

Too --

Dean shuts that thought off, keeping himself busy by twirling a knife in one hand.

It's better than pacing. Better pretty much because it keeps Bobby from giving him too much of a stinkeye, but still. Dean'll take it.

He'll also take skipping the heart attack he almost gets from the sudden -- and pretty goddamn loud -- clattering of the roof shingles.

The fact that the lights pretty much start exploding after that doesn't do him any favors, either.

"Yeah, that definitely ain't just the wind."

Now if he could just fucking see whatever's coming through the door --

The electrical system in the barn doesn't take well to the presence of an angel, and sparks shower down as Castiel walks inside.

It does nothing to slow his stride. Nor does the mosaic of talismans, sigils, and devil's traps on the walls and floor. His eyes flit to either side for a moment, appreciating the work that has gone into it. But only momentarily.

Castiel's main focus is on the man standing in the center of it all.

Standing and firing his shotgun right in the -- guy? is it a guy? it sure looks human-shaped, but that doesn't mean shit -- guy's face.

Well, his torso.

The fact that one shot doesn't seem to be doing it for him makes Dean's stomach sink like a stone.

At least he's got the knife to fall back on.

He's very good with knives.

The gunshots are....perturbing.

If Dean does remember Castiel, from Hell or from Milliways, it does not seem to be with anything that resembles fondness.

Castiel wonders a bit if his work has yet to be cut out for him.

There is another man there. Another hunter.

Castiel ignores him. Just as he ignores the knife in Dean's hand.

Neither is relevant at this time. He is here for one specific purpose.

And that purpose is currently glaring at him with what looks like a considerable amount of hostility.

Hostility's got nothing on Dean, right here and right now.

Well, hostility and a metric fuckton of creeped the hell out.

Because --

Look. Dean doesn't back down from shit. Demons, shapeshifters, pissed-off gods -- been there, done that, bought the frickin' T-shirt.

But this guy.

This guy's something else, Dean knows that to his bones. He'd have known it even without what happened to Pamela, but that just makes him doubly sure.

But burning eye-sockets or no, his only job now is to make sure this meeting doesn't end well, not for either of 'em.

You know.

If he can.

"Who the hell are you?"

He doesn't remember, then.

That may well be a blessing, Castiel thinks. He had forcibly dragged Dean out of Hell, depositing him at the End of the Universe while the poison had ebbed from his mind and spirit.

This is a chance to start fresh.

Castiel attempts to sound friendly and reassuring. As he has learned to do in Milliways. (Of course, it's Castiel. It takes a pretty finely tuned ear to hear it.)

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

That tells him everything he needs to know, doesn't it?

The one who --

No.

Just. No.

There's a burst of white noise in his head -- deja vu much?

"Yeah. Thank for that."

Distantly, Dean's aware that he should maybe mean that. But he doesn't. He can't.

He's not supposed to be here, today or ever. And maybe that's why he decides to get up close and personal with whatever-the-hell's come to visit.

You'd think the demon-killing knife stabbing in, smooth like butter, would make him feel better about the whole situation.

Guess what? It doesn't.

The knife blow is delivered with enough force to crack the sternum.

Not problematic. Merely an interesting observation.

A more relevant observation is the fact that this meeting is not going especially well.

Perhaps, Castiel thinks, attempting to be friendly is a miscalculation. Dean, from what he has observed, does not necessarily respond best to overt gestures of friendship.

A business-like approach may be what is called for here.

And if there's one thing Castiel can be, it is business-like.

Without a flinch, and hardly a breaking of gaze, Castiel pulls the knife out of his chest and drops it to the ground.

Well, fuck.

Dean's companion, the older man, has been standing just outside of Castiel's line of sight. Which is not to say that Castiel is not aware of what he is doing, even if he has not been bothered to acknowledge his presence.

He catches the crowbar halfway through the arc it is cutting toward his head.

Castiel uses the bar to pull the other man in close enough to lay two fingers against his forehead. The metal clatters loudly on the concrete as he slumps into unconsciousness.

With that small matter taken care of for the time being, Castiel turns back to Dean.

"We need to talk, Dean. Alone."

Bobby's down. Shit, Bobby's down, he dropped like a frickin' stone.

What the hell is this guy?

Why does Dean feel like he can feel those fingers on his own forehead.

Why the hell does that feel like relief?

Good thing for Dean his mouth is on autopilot.

"I've gotta say, dude, if that's supposed to be a pick-up line, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say 'no' right now."

He takes another second to look at this whatever-the-hell he is, then starts heading toward Bobby.

Because if Bobby's dead, ain't nothin' gonna save this asshole.

Nothing.

Castiel's brow furrows slightly in confusion.

Dean is hiding behind bravado. Castiel knows enough to see that. He is just uncertain how to respond to it.

But he can see Dean's concern for the older man. He makes no move to stop him from going to him. In fact, he takes a step or two away to give him room.

Once Dean ascertains that the other man is fine, they can carry on. There is time enough for that.

Castiel idly shuffles through the notes and diagrams laid out on the makeshift table nearby, and gives Dean a moment.

Dean almost closes his eyes when he feels Bobby's pulse, strong and steady under his fingers.

Okay.

That's one disaster crossed off the list for today.

One disaster so far, anyway.

Guess it's time to go on to the next one.

"What the fuck was that, asshole?"

Castiel does not look up from the papers. He is busy examining a protective emblem that seems to be a hybridization of ancient Zoroastrian and Tibetan traditions.

Clever.

"He will sleep for a time," he replies. "It is best if we speak only among ourselves for now."

"He has not been harmed."

"Yeah, like I think you'd know a concussion if it bit you on the ass."

Considering how much damage that knife did -- yeah, Dean's not gonna bet on how much know-how this guy could possibly have.

"I mean, if that knife didn't make a dent -- "

It burns that he's got to ask the question, because four times out of ten the answer's gonna be full of bullshit, but ask it he does.

"What the hell are you?"

He'll stand up again in a second. Really he will.

Edited 2011-01-06 01:38 (UTC)

Castiel does not respond to Dean's assessment of his diagnostic abilities.

He knows that the other man isn't hurt. Convincing Dean is not a priority at the moment.

Castiel leaves off his examination of the papers and turns his full attention back to Dean.

"I'm an Angel of the Lord."

Some people would be shocked.

Some people would be awed.

Some people would be afraid.

Dean's just pissed. Well, okay. Pissed and afraid.

Thank God -- or something -- that he's used to that.

"Yeah, pull the other one. Angels don't exist."

This? Is an argument that Castiel has become very familiar with thanks to Milliways.

And it is a subject that he does not have the time, nor the inclination to patiently debate right now.

Dean will simply have to learn to accept the quick way.

"You should show more faith."

Especially in the face of all he has seen.

Castiel allows the physical form that houses him to shift slightly. Only a small bit, but enough that the exposure of his true form sends the electric current in the building shuddering and flickering again.

And enough to cast the shadows of his wings on the wall behind him for a brief moment.

The sudden lightning and thunder from out of the blue is almost -- almost -- weirder than the wings.

Dean's hackles, which have never quite gone done, go back up again.

Angel or super-demon or whatever the fuck this guy is, ain't none of it good.

"Faith. Right. You think faith's gonna do Pamela any good? After what you did to her eyes? Fuck that shit."

Castiel grimaces a bit in consternation.

He doesn't even mean to. But he does regret what had happened to the psychic, even though he cannot claim full fault for it.

"I warned her not to spy on my true from. It can be overwhelming to humans. Damaging. As you saw."

"She was persistent. She would not turn back."

Free will. It has its bad side as well as good.

"What, and you couldn't just leave?"

It a reflex, saying that.

"Or, I dunno, frickin' tell her she'd end up with charbroiled eyeballs."

Castiel's head tilts to the side.

"No."

She had sought him out on an astral plane. Things are not so easily disguised there.

"I regret that she was hurt. But there are more important matters to address now."

"Like why the hell the light show?"

He looks up at the still-swinging light fixtures.

Because, really dude?

Really?

"To tell you why you have been raised from Hell and returned to Earth."

Unless Castiel is a fool--and he is relatively certain that he is not--Dean will want to know.

"And you thought waiting this long was gonna, what, make it go down easier?"

Wow, talk about not understanding --

"Wait a second. Was that -- was that you at the gas station? And the motel? With all the -- "

He waves his hand to encompass everything, especially all the broken glass.

That pissy expression doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon.

(The scared ain't going anywhere, either, but he's not thinking about that.)

Castiel nods.

Again, looking a little sheepish.

"Yes."

He had tried. And had been a little surprised when his initial attempts had failed.

"I made and error. Certain people can perceive my true form, hear my true voice. I thought that you would be one of them."

"I had to take a form you could comprehend. It took more time."

A form Dean can comprehend?

He gives the angel -- Castiel -- a quick once-over. Just to see what the guy thinks Dean can comprehend.

"Yeah. I can kinda see that. You build it from the ground up, or something?"

Because from where he's standing, it kinda looks that way.

Or at least he can pretend it looks that way. Because the other options --

Oh, Dean. Only God alone can form life from clay.

Castiel looks down at himself. It is still a marvel to him. That his vessel is identical to the form that God had given him to wear at the End of the Universe. Down to the socks and tie and coat.

He had even found his pen and notebook in the pocket.

"No. This is a vessel."

Yeah, that'd be one of the other options.

Fuck.

"So you're turning some poor sap into a holy tax accountant?"

His fingers itch to pick up the knife again.

"He screamin' in there?"

Dean remembers the screaming.

God, but he remembers the screaming.

Castiel has no idea what taxes may have to do with this matter.

His head tilts again, as if he is regarding Dean. Or possibly as if he is listening to a faint noise.

"No. He is acclimating."

Angels to not pillage human bodies. They are not demons.

"He is a devout man," he assures Dean. "He actually prayed for this. I told him what it was that I needed of him."

"He agreed. It was his choice."

Dean's laugh is sharp, harsh.

"That's what they all say."

It's never true.

"So tell me, who are you, really?"

There is not much secretiveness in Heaven.

There is some. It is not a completely foreign concept. But, by and large, angels are a straightforward breed.

Castiel certainly is. And he does not quite know how to handle persistent disbelief.

"I told you."

He is not sure what Dean expects the truth to be. Or what he hopes it will be.

"And I'm calling bullshit."

He'd do more than just call bullshit, but the knife didn't work, and Dean's fresh out of mystical weapons.

Or banishing spells.

"Why would an angel pull me out of Hell?"

Castiel steps closer.

Dean cannot harm him. And he is reasonably certain that the man is too angry to bolt from fear.

"Good things do happen, Dean."

Castiel has watched the Winchesters. Dean has been the cause of good things. Lives saved.

Why would he think that good could not come to him?

Dean huffs out a sharp breath.

It's not anything close to a laugh.

"Long as your name ain't Winchester, sure."

He's seen it, but from the outside looking in.

Except when Sam --

Never mind.

"Next you're gonna be telling me you've got a bridge you need to offload."

Castiel had prepared himself for difficulty.

He had not quite anticipated this degree of difficulty.

"What is it?"

He would seem to be talking to himself rather than to Dean.

Castiel takes another step closer. And then another.

His eyes are fixed on Dean's as if the answer he is looking for is etched on Dean's retinas.

It isn't. He actually has to look far deeper than that.

Dean flinches.

He manages to keep it from being a physical flinch, but only by the barest skin of his teeth.

"What's what, asshole?"

Weak, Dean.

Weak.

Castiel pays no mind to the insulting posturing.

He is intent on what is behind it.

His eyes widen slightly at what he sees.

"You don't think you deserve to be saved."

Castiel is honestly taken aback. He may even sound so.

Does he think souls get pulled out of Hell by mistake?

Yeah, Dean is not touching that statement with a ten foot pole.

A fucking mile long pole would still be too short.

Time for an end-run around everything.

"Why'd you do it?"

He can't wait to hear this bullshit answer.

This is one question Castiel knows how to answer. With utter and complete certainty. So much so that his voice might almost be pulled up from the bedrock far below.

"Because God commanded it."

"Because we have work for you."

And as his Father commands it, so shall it be.

"Uh huh."

Yeah.

Dean can already tell this one is gonna end badly.

Right now, he almost can't even say he'd mind.

Castiel nods slightly, once.

He still sees doubt in Dean. But there is nothing he can do right now to allieviate it. Better, then, to let him have some time to think about what he has been told.

Besides, Castiel had come here tonight for one very specific purpose. To tell Dean why he is back. And he has done that.

"We will speak again, Dean. Soon."

And with that he is gone.

Now Dean gets to be the one to wake Bobby up and figure out how much to explain.

Great.

Add that to the list of things Castiel's got to answer for.

Edited 2011-01-06 04:19 (UTC)

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