Chapter Text
Four days. Four days of the worst rendition of Roadhouse Blues you’ve ever heard and Sam’s starting to wonder if this whole thing hasn’t been a longcon crafted by Lucifer to erode his sanity.
Life moves around them. Charlie disperses Garth’s contacts to check out the events pinging her algorithms. Not to mention her wiki. Or the new alerts she’s programmed into the table. Or her Lord of the Rings roleplaying chat? It’s not clear when she sleeps. With the tablet occupied Kevin enjoys a much-needed break, and Linda has busied herself with preparing for life “post-weirdos.” If Cas isn’t trying to convince Dean to eat worms (and getting nipped) he’s off recruiting angels. Somewhere in the dungeon Crowley has found himself on the bad end of autoplay.
And what’s Sam doing?
Holding hands with Gadreel.
Not—okay, that’s not what’s happening. It’s strictly business. With a little trial and error they discover that any touch will do so they share a corner each with one hand on the tablet and the phone. If their fingers don’t touch one another, their ankles do.
“Complete the circuit,” Charlie says.
“Get a room,” Kevin says.
“I’ll listen, should you want to use your headphones,” Gadreel says, flipping to the next page of his book on fey magic. It’s a tinny background noise turned as low as possible but Sam has to agree that it’s not fun anymore. Even Dean has hidden himself in his improvised home. Yeah, it’s just a large box. But with a flannel bed, various mole-safe vegetables, and an assurance he won’t fall off the table in a new escape attempt, Sam’s fine confining him there.
Can’t hold open Heaven’s hold line, research the Knights of Hell, and keep your brother from killing himself when you’ve only got one free hand.
They need more comfortable chairs. They need an explanation for why their connection can transcend dimensions. They need to stop fucking being around each other all. The goddamn. Time.
The healing. The soul sharing. The cuddling. Now this? And his dreams, too—Sam had politely declined Gadreel from the first night as he’d truthfully needed pure sleep. Two days later he thought he’d have to do the same, but that wasn’t Gadreel. That was his own brain inventing a classmate he’d never had that, lost in the humming depths of the Stanford library, reached for a book. And Sam had stepped close to help. Lights manila and titles foiled in gold. Shirts brushing. Back to chest. Gut shivering from a foreign thrill.
Space. Sam needs space.
Of course, that’s pretty low on the universe’s list of needs right now, so he sucks it up and plays footsie with an angel.
Studying with Gadreel is peaceful enough. He takes the time to be grateful that his body is simple disagreeable instead of waging war against itself. Cas was right. This is a good thing. He can talk without drowning and talk they do, trading theories and unraveling translations, but it’s more than that. It’s fun.
Legs kicked out to brush shins, Sam picks apart his late night snack and says, “Wait, wait, wait. Cas was a baby?”
“No, a fledgeling. We all were.”
“Like a baby bird.”
“That’s not a perfect comparison.”
“I thought angels popped into existence. Done.” If Dean can’t hear this, Sam makes a note to give him the full download once he’s back; he’ll want to know if Cas went through puberty. But right now the bunker is at rest. It’s him and Gadreel in the lowlight. “Isn’t that your whole thing? Immortality, perfection, God’s greatest warriors?”
Gadreel wets his lips and tries, “We may experience time differently, but we do experience it. Evolution and change… there are angels I’m sure who would say such things have no impact on them but at one time we were new. Now we hold memories. Scars. We’ve learned.” For as long as Sam’s known him, Gadreel has carried a cadence that’s impossible not to fall in step to. “Castiel was never an infant the way you were but he was young—one might even say pure—as we all were. Undergoing holy wars against the Leviathan and serving our Father in His Creation strengthened our wings. We grew,” Gadreel’s free hand flips in a light shrug. The other remains next to Sam’s on the tablet. “Before knowing the extent of our song, we were all fledgelings. The longer we have been, the greater our wings grow.”
Song. Wings. Sam itches with curiosity and knows that as giving as Gadreel is, there’s only so deep he can dig in one night. Midnight closes in. His nose scrunches and he tries not to sound too awkward, “So if you’re ‘old’—by angel standards—are your wings…”
“Large.”
Sam barks a laugh. Takes a hasty sip. Gadreel’s eyes narrow and he kicks up a brow, “This amuses you.”
“I’m sorry, sorry, I—“ Another laugh escapes him, “thought you were joking,” he lies, escaping to his beer.
“My wings are no joke, Sam,” Gadreel assures him. “Imprisonment did them great harm and the fall did me no favors, but as one of the oldest angels left my wings are among the most powerful. Castiel’s were built to be a soldier’s weapon but mine God crafted to cradle even Eden.”
God, he sounds so serious. It’s not the first time Gadreel has gotten up in arms about proving how capable he is so Sam knocks their knees and says, “No, I know. You have the biggest wings in town.”
Gadreel puzzles for a second. He slowly knocks his knee back into Sam’s. “You mock me?”
Sam snorts and returns the kick. “No, man. No. I just—thought you were making a dick joke. Imagining something big enough to ‘cradle Eden’ is, like, impossible.”
“A dick joke.”
That’s what Gadreel does when he’s asking a question. Sam looks around for help, finds no one, and breathes out a humor spoiling swiftly into panic. He pushes at the peeling bottle label. “Yeah, uhm. Using your wings as a metaphor for how big your dick is. To prove, I don’t know. How manly you are. It’s a human thing, you d—“
“I’m not a man. I have no dick.”
“Right, angels are genderless, s—“
“But this vessel’s does seem sizable enough to cradle Eden.”
Sam’s lungs break all over again. He flounders for air, stuck mid-bottle assault, and wonders what to do with that information. Wonders how Gadreel knows that, because it’s only when you’re hard that you really know how big your dick is, and when would Gadreel have ever gotten hard? Do angels… Has he been… when? In the theater room? Obviously humanity baffles him so it could be a bad metaphor. Or is he too angel to understand what his vessel needs. Swallowing hard, Sam looks up and realizes:
Gadreel is fucking with him.
Gadreel is fucking with him. Prim, self-satisfied little smile plastered right on his face and that quickly clears away the runaway train of has Gadreel jerked off in my jeans? Sam squints back and kicks him once more.
“You know,” he scoffs, “I think I liked you better when you didn’t know what a phone was. Dean’s been a bad influence on you.”
“And I have always liked you,” Gadreel responds.
That's not... Sam clears his throat and resumes their ankles-only position. “You thought I was a torture device.”
“Yes,” Gadreel sighs. “Hope. Quite painful, in the waiting.” He takes the hint and slides a book in front of himself, though he seems far from upset. Content. Proud of his funny little joke. He’s learned a lot in his short stint on Earth; what is it about him that makes him so keen on meshing with humanity when it took Cas an apocalypse to try a beer? Sam watches him. It’s still so hard to believe he’s really here, really on their side, really… easy enough to joke with and talk about life and all this crap. This is so much like the long nights spent with Jess studying for the LSATs. Only, those hadn’t had background music.
Sam asks, “Same thing tomorrow?”
Gadreel opens his mouth to answer, but someone else speaks.
“Niner-niner.” Crackling. “This is el Luchador seeking Jim. Over.”
Ash’s voice. Sam and Gadreel lock in surprise. The line repeats. “Niner-niner. This is el Luchador lookin’ for Jimmm. Over.”
Sam leaps to his feet and cranks the volume. Gadreel echoes the movement. One line from shoulder to foot they hunker over the phone.
“Niner-niner, this is el Luchador lookin’ for—“
“Jim,” Sam says. Loud, fast. “Jim, uh, Rockford. Niner-niner you have found Jim Rockford. Over.”
Static. Sam shares a moment of uncertainty with Gadreel. Lingo is always a risk. He checks the laptop—ensuring it’s still recording—and repeats, “Jim Rockford here. Over.”
“…something stuck to your shoe, Jim Rockford?” Ash asks.
Sam calculates. “My jailbird,” he answers. Then, when met with static, “And a laptop recording so we don’t miss anything. You’re not easy to find, Luchador.”
“You got it wrong, brother. I’m hard to miss.” That easy smile audible over the waves. “Sam. Good to hear you. Where’s Ken Doll?”
Dean is scrabbling against the cardboard and Sam nods for Gadreel to tip him out, still light on his feet because he’s talking to someone in Heaven! “He’s uh, he’s here,” Sam says. “Can’t talk right now. Ash, how is this happening?! We got your message. Well. Your song. Hold on—Charlie!” he hollers. “Kevin! Get down here! How the hell are you talking to us?”
“Told you I’d look into it. Once all the pinheads went down the drain, shit loosened up real good in Heaven. Found your little crack, plugged myself in, and waited.”
“Crack?” Gadreel asks.
“Ah, that must be you, jailbird. The infamous Gadreel. Crack’s in your old hole. Chunk missing from its defenses. Not a lot, but just enough for a worm to wiggle through. You two,” and Sam can see the fingers pointing between them, “have left your dirty fingerprints all over it. This thing is trained onto you like a bloodhound. Tell me.” Ash sniffs. “How’d you get my bat signal?”
“The tablet.” Sam gestures for the pajammed prophet to hurry up and pushes Dean off the tablet, his own nose scrunching at the gross tentacled one wriggling between his fingers. Such a pest.
“The Word of God,” Gadreel elaborates as Kevin joins them, “A stone on which the secrets of Heaven are carved. If Sam and I maintain contact while touching both this tablet and this cellphone, your signal remains.”
“You’re Ash?” Kevin interrupts.
The line empties. Sam jumps in, “That’s Kevin. He’s a prophet—our friend; he reads the tablet.”
“Yeah, I’m the one who's been hearing everything you send out. Seriously? Skrillex? ”
“Amigo, nobody deserves years of my playlists. You have my sincere apologies.”
Kevin seems a little stunned as he blinks away sleep. “Thanks. Well, this only started after the fall and got worse… two weeks ago?”
“Seventeen-ish days ago (Earth-time, that is) this hole flared like crazy.”
Gadreel straightens. He nods, thought wrinkling his brow. “This makes sense. If the crack is connected to both me and Sam, our proximity would be reflected in this… anomaly. Seventeen days ago, I touched your soul.”
“And again…” Ash burps. There’s audible typing. “Six days ago.”
“Right before we rescued Linda,” Sam thinks out loud. “The second time.” The second time you touched me, but that’s a weird thing to say. It checks out. Unsure how to feel about it, Sam shifts, “Ash. What’s going on in Heaven?”
“It’s empty. Angel radio’s on the fritz, but what I gather is there’s a new king of the hill. You know something about that?”
Gadreel’s body tenses. “Metatron.”
“So it was him, huh. I’ve pinged a few sources traveling with him but that’s it. The boss man and his mooks. Nobody out. Nobody in. Sam,” Ash’s tone dips. “I mean nobody. Not a single new soul in Heaven since.”
Fuck.
Kevin. “But people have been dying. That means…”
“Millions of ghosts, trapped.” Sam leans heavily on the table, giving up on his control of Dean who shimmies up to the tablet and squats there. Voiceless. Without rest. It’s a miracle ghosts haven’t already overwhelmed the world—most take years to fully materialize. But the numbers alone… “We have to fix this.”
“What’s your plan?”
Gadreel prompts Kevin with a look.
“There’s a spell in the tablet but I can’t figure it out. The music’s too distracting. It almost seemed like—it felt like the trials to close Hell. Same vibe,” Kevin says.
“Close Hell.” Ash hisses. Clkclkclk he types. “Phew. You boys have been busy.”
A pang of shame. “Yeah. We didn’t get that one done.”
“The honeydo list rolls on. Alright, prophet. Jump in the mosh and let me see what I can do.” They look at each other. Ash’s languid amusement, “Touch the tablet, kid.”
With no small amount of skepticism, Kevin does. He chooses to stand by Gadreel. After a few seconds the tablet begins to glow. Golden Enochian symbols radiate from the phone under their palms and—Kevin shivers—up through the prophet’s eyes. Sam feels… not much. A tingle like a fuzzy television. But he watches as Kevin’s face goes slack and his shoulders slump, worried, “Kev? You okay?”
The glow recedes.
“Radio’s off,” crackles Ash’s voice. “And your goggles are on. See this tablet of yours, it’s quite the beauty, I mean she is lettin’ me play. Talk about the core processor of the gods.”
Kevin comes to like he’s waking from a dream. “It’s silent,” his voice strained. “It’s all gone.”
For a beat Sam panics. All gone like he can’t help them anymore all gone? But then Kevin’s eyes land on the tablet and emotion returns to his face. Complete disbelief. Shaking, Kevin runs his fingers over whatever free space is left. Gadreel inches to make a little more room, bringing him further into Sam’s space as they hang on Kevin’s next words.
“I can read it.” He crumples. “I can read it, like it’s English. For as manifestations of His love, the Cherubim forever shall spread the seed of love, bringing together— it.” Kevin’s voice cracks. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Though Sam’s heart twists it’s Gadreel that Kevin looks up to with eyes glassy and wet. Gadreel who nods, soft and sad, confirming this is real, and if the emotion unfolding in the back of Sam’s skull isn’t jealousy, what is it? Ash rambles on, “Yeup. That should help you, help me, help Heaven. Listen, boys. My time? It runs thin: can’t keep this line up forever. I’ll gather all the intel I can while you dig into this spell. We’ll rendezvous in… ten days. Same time, same place.”
“Ash.” Sam refocuses. “How’d you do that?”
Ash hums, slurps. “Ahh, yeah. See. You’re thinking of this thing as a book. Nah, nah. What you got there is like a holy supercomputer. All you’ve been seeing is the screen—symbols and information—but she can run functions once you tap into the right channels. You still got wings on your team? Gadreel—Castiel?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, test ‘em both out. Given their holy coding an angel should be more compatible than a human. Don’t just read, now. Give it direction. Nobody ever wants to make a universal port… shit.”
“Shit?”
“Work on that spell. Find me in ten days. Time for me t—“
“Wait, wait.”
“Sixty seconds.”
Sam looks at the mole peeking over the edge of the tablet. “How do you know Jim Rockford?”
“Your daddy told me.” A sentence that nearly doesn’t make sense. Ash continues obliviously, “All the big pawns of Heaven were on lockdown: John and Mary Winchester, Joan of Arc, Job, you know the type. Self-sacrificers. Complicated relationships with the G-man. Lots of J's. Soon as the angels left, though.” An audible shrug. “Like I said. Babysitter’s gone.”
John and Mary Winchester. Sam remembers an old line about shared Heavens and soulmates. He shifts his weight against Gadreel’s side, suddenly feeling the real weight of it all as the words flinch through hope, “C-can I talk to them?”
Static. Then Ash sighs, “I’m sorry Sam, I can knock on their window—not invite them out to play. But I can share a message. Make it quick.”
Dean’s paws are on the tablet now. Nothing Ash can convey would ever match the well of missed time that has drowned their lives so he settles for, “Tell them we love them. We miss them.” A solid, careful grasp on his shoulder, and Sam feels a fire in his stomach he hasn’t in a long time because there’s more than the planet at stake. It's all of Heaven, too. People he wants to make proud. People who gave it all when he couldn't. “Tell them we’re going to make this right.”
“We will seek you out again in ten days,” Gadreel repeats.
“Til then, bitches.”
And the static clears.
———[:]———
A proper breakfast covers the table. Now that she’s here, there will be no more of this hot pocket energy drink crap. How quickly Kevin devolved! Is a few years of extortion, chaos, and torture really all it takes for her two decades of good parenting to wash away? Her son is translating the Word of God. He needs good nutrition.
As it turns out there’s more than one junk-addicted teenager in this base. Mothering one apocalypse avenger is hard enough as it is, but unfortunately, she can’t ignore the rest of them. The Scooby gang is equally responsible for keeping Kevin alive which leaves Linda no choice but to share the love. Today’s love? A hash of potatoes, onions, peppers and eggs. Hot coffee. Fruit. Still rumpled with sleep she slices off some apple, mulling over the idea of amnesia. Can you get your career back if you pull a Walter White? Oh, and she ignores Castiel as he once again fails to hack the mainframe.
“It won’t. Work.” The most he’s gotten is a flickering of runes (which is no longer exciting). His frustration is loud. Too loud. “I don’t understand. I held this tablet within my own body.”
Ew? Unsanitary...
“Take a break,” Sam suggests.
Castiel lays his hands on the tablet again and that’s about what she expected. He’s being greedy. Gadreel stares at him from down the table like a particularly disappointed teacher. Something’s off. If Sam can sense the storm brewing he doesn’t do anything about it. Instead he nudges more egg in Dean’s direction. Do they need to share the table with an animal? She looks down at the mole and scoots her plate closer to herself.
At least as a mole Dean doesn’t say stupid things. Not as attractive, of course. But less stupid.
Sam kicks up a conversation about investing for retirement. What does she recommend for someone who is, legally, dead? How do you start an account for someone else? Life insurance? It’s refreshing to talk about something relatively normal; Linda isn’t surprised at the notion that Sam’s college fund consisted of two hundred bucks he stole from his dad’s wallet and shares all she’s done to give Kevin a comfortable life. For now her son sleeps deeply. He deserves it. Once the angels are done playing the spotlight will turn to him.
“Ash said to give it direction. It is a super computer, one which can run functions. Are you giving it direction?” Gadreel parrots.
“I am giving it direction.”
“If you would allow me to try—“
“I have cared for multiple tablets, it shouldn’t b—“
“Your grace is not your own,” Gadreel paves over Castiel with a tone that’s finally abandoned its patience. Uh oh. “It festers within you, Castiel, I have felt this ever since you returned to us. The tablet does not want to connect to such corruption.”
Castiel forfeits the task in one harsh move. Lips thin enough to slice the tension, he storms off. Yikes. Linda’s eyes roll above her mug.
“It’s true,” Gadreel insists.
“True can still be rude,” Linda mutters.
“He was not sharing the tablet. The fate of Heaven should take precedence.” But he sounds a little less hot. Even saying, “I meant no offense.”
“Alright,” Sam slides the thing to Gadreel. “Then you do it.”
“Since it's so easy,” says Linda helpfully.
It takes Gadreel, oh, ten minutes to make the entire thing glow. Other than the clatter of silverware the table is quiet for another twenty of meditation and tablet whispering. Dean rips into his eggs with true animal ferocity. Pretty hysterical watching this toothy little thing vibrate its way through a yolk blob, even though it is nasty. Linda curses, swiping splatter from her robe.
Then a bomb drops.
Dishes shatter. Linda shouts. A jarring cacophony. Everything shoves the table groans her gorgeous breakfast is ruined because the mole isn’t the mole anymore—it’s human again. Dean! All six-plus feet of him sprawled on the wood with ketchup smeared over the most bewildered expression you’ve ever seen. Coffee trickles through Sam’s fingers as he pushes to a stand, shouting, “Dean!”
Linda swipes food from her pajamas, scowling. “You had to. On the table?”
Sam rushes to free his brother from breakfast. Shaky and squinting, Dean gags, “Ugh. Fuck.”
Slowly, everyone else clues in and clears Dean’s path—he’s about as coordinated as the blind—but Linda focuses on salvaging what she can of breakfast. Who knows when Charlie will escape her crypt but Dean’s going to want human food and Kevin still needs breakfast. Just because she’s not an angel doesn’t mean her work isn’t important too, you know.
Through the chaos only one thing is unbothered: Gadreel, tablet in hand, raises his chin with pride.
She daggers him with a look. “You made this mess?”
“Yes,” he says as Sam picks a pepper out of Dean’s hair.
She nods toward the wonderboys. “Then clean it up.”
———[:]———
The fellowship convenes.
No longer cute but showered, caught up to speed, and finally done rubbing his eyes, Dean says, “I thought Kevin’s whole thing was that he could read the tablet.”
Charlie says, “Sure, but now he can read it easily—don’t you want to sit?”
“You be on your belly for that long and see if you wanna sit,” Dean grouses.
“Shut up, please.” Charlie hasn’t known Kevin long, but she does sense the difference. That ‘shut up’ doesn’t sound half as grumpy as usual. At the head of the audience, he stands with a notepad in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear. Everyone—Linda, the angels and the brothers—waits. “So, Charlie and I are transcribing the whole thing but priorities, okay. There is a spell to reverse what Metatron did. A stronger one.”
“Stronger how?” Dean asks.
“Metatron kicked the angels out of Heaven, but he didn’t seal it. He still has a few doors open, like uh, like he just gated it off. This one seals it completely. No exceptions.”
“We want souls back in Heaven.”
“Right. Yes, this-this does that.” Kevin squints at his notes and reads, “And so it shall be that Heaven returns to the domain of Heaven, and the Earth the domain of the Earth. The two spheres most beloved by God once again in two undone only by His will. Uh, yadda yadda, the funnel goes up, nothing comes down.”
“Don’t ‘yadda yadda’ the word of God,” snorts Dean.
“Word for word,” Charlie agrees.
“Fine.” Kevin’s age shows as he reads quickly and with no small amount of attitude, “Two spheres in service of God once more made two only to be undone by His will. It is only His will which shall enact His judgement and His miracles upon the Earth. No longer will the angels of Heaven wander His Creation for they are summoned to tend Heaven as shepherds of the most divine flock, for His is the flock of the righteous and the worthy, created in His image to—it gets really self-absorbed here. Couple more lines… okay. All of His flock shall remain welcome to the arms of The Lord for none deserving will be denied His light, and it is in His arms that all Creation must lay its eternal rest. None shall leave His kingdom unless He decrees it so.”
Kevin pauses for effect.
“Everybody up,” he says. “Nobody down.”
She lets the words sink in. This spell means no angels, no resurrection, no magic healing. No more Cas, no more Gadreel. If she takes another tumble, it's truly lights out. Death saves down to zero. Does that even matter? You have to wonder. The afterlife is confirmed.
Castiel speaks first. “What will it cost?”
Kevin flips a few pages. “Fruit of The Tree. The… song of a nephilim? A human soul cleansed and willing. These are to be made one… blah blah, one servant of Heaven and one servant of the Earth will consume the mixture of the Heavens and the Earth and upon this sigil of seraphic oil,” Kevin holds up a drawing of a complicated symbol, “they shall ignite a fire to invoke the light of The Lord and say these words as one. And then there’s a pre-Enochian chant.”
Cas deflates. “That certainly is more complicated.”
Charlie asks, “Fruit of the tree. Which tree?”
“The Tree of Knowledge,” Gadreel supplies from his seat across Sam. Woah!
She says, “Oh, so, a pomegranate. If God wanted to take it easy on us, that is.”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t know what the hell a ‘song of a nephilim’ is?” Linda drones, taking Kevin’s notepad to scribble in the margins.
“A nephilim is the offspring of a human and an angel. I’m afraid Metatron and I killed the only one.”
“Maybe,” Charlie responds to Castiel, when what she wants to say is no way. Are these boys virgins? Apparently they are, the way they gawk, so she says, “What? Angels have been cruising down here for years with a huge influx of new hotties since the fall. You don’t think there’s a single one out there that hasn’t ‘lain with woman’? There are some freaks out there. Freaks.”
Sam poses an excellent question. “Say we do find one. How do we get its song, whatever that is?”
Castiel answers, “We take it.”
“An angel’s song is… hard to describe,” Gadreel says, and Charlie prepares herself for another NoYesBoth. “It is no object.”
“So what is it?”
“It… to say exactly w—“
“It’s like fate. Purpose.” Castiel stands somewhere behind Gadreel, ignorant to the irritation on his brother’s face. But Charlie sees it. Oops. “An angel’s song represents their place in the host.”
“But it is no object,” Gadreel repeats sternly, “To ‘take’ one’s song may not be possible.”
“It is,” Cas says. “If an angel can fall, a song can be taken. It’s the Tree of Knowledge that is the most concerning.”
“The only true fallen angel is Lucifer,” Gadreel refuses to be sidetracked. The girls are fightinggg, “And this was an act of God. We cannot force an angel to forsake their song. It’s blasphemy.”
Cas dismisses him, “Blasphemy holds little weight these days. You’ve missed a lot.”
“Hold on, we met a fallen angel, didn’t we? Not like Cas fallen but fallen fallen.” Dean slaps Sam’s shoulder for help on the memory. “Anna, redhead. Tried to kill us.”
Huh? Wait—she knows this one. The Song Remains The Same. Time travel, disintegrate their souls into non-existence, yeah. Juicy. Now non-existence, that’s scary. Charlie goes, “Hold on. How have we not talked about consuming a human soul?”
But Sam jumps in to return to the Anna topic, “Yeah, we did. She lost her memory. Wait—maybe Ash can help us with the tree.” And hestarts to tell Dean about the call again but Linda and Kevin are reviewing the verbiage and Gadreel stands to poke holes in Castiel’s unyielding certainty. Looking at Gadreel Charlie remembers the soul in a jar. No one’s listening to her though! Dean insists Anna definitely ‘laid with man’ and Sam’s calling him gross which, maybe, but then he starts talking about Gadreel’s staff—hello—the hall a new hub of discourse as ideas clatter from wall to wall in one great big ADHD nightmare.
Until Castiel snaps like bent metal, “Then perhaps you should supply the seraphic oil.”
Conversation withers. With vessels square and jaws tight the angels are two wrong steps away from throwing down their gauntlets, the lightest shine of grace in Castiel’s eyes.
“Woah,” it’s Dean with a hand out. “Put those rulers away.”
Sam tags in, “Guys, hey. Come on.”
Gadreel vanishes.
Charlie exhales.
Dean throws his arms out. “You wanna explain what the hell that was?”
Cas looks everywhere else, kicks Dean a dry, “No,” and vanishes too. Papers flutter to a silent stop.
Great! Just great. This is a huge bummer because that brainstorm was totally on fire. Nice things don’t last, do they, like a productive campaign sesh. The council disassembles with respective marching orders of study. Charlie is already plotting which data sets to recontextualize when Linda crosses her path.
“Kids,” she mocks, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Am I right?”
Linda (as Linda often does) seems wildly unimpressed. “Honey. You’re kids.”
Everyone’s walking away, leaving her gaping in the empty library. That’s it? Two boys have a hissy fit and the party’s over? Seriously, how did they ever save the world the first time. She looks around, alone, and whispers, “I’m twenty-eight.”
———[:]———
Surprising no one, Cas is in his room. Also unsurprising to Dean, the door is only mostly closed. He gives it a knuckle tap or two and says, “C’mon, mopey. Open up.” In the following seconds Dean can hear those molars grinding. He amends, “If you don’t talk to me, you’re gonna have to talk to Sad-Eyes Puppet-Therapy.”
Door creaks open untouched. Years later, and angel voodoo is still creepy.
It’s like someone shoved a nest of bees up a nun’s ass. Vibrating with irritation, wound too tight to do more than pace in half steps. The door closes as soon as Dean’s in and without lookin’ at him Cas says, “I am older than words, Dean. If you intend to lecture me, you should at least make it worth my time.”
Lecture? That’s only kind of why he came here. Dean puts his hands in his pockets and busies himself with inspecting the decor. Not that there’s much. It’s all dusty shelves and old belongings. Cas might’ve slept here as a human, but he sure didn’t make it a home. Jesus. Why does nobody else appreciate this place? Dean draws a line in the dust, hating it. “You not gettin’ along with the new baby, is that it?”
“The ‘new baby,’” air-quotes audible, “is arrogant.”
“The new baby saved Sam when you couldn’t. Saved my ass too.”
“He’s gotten too comfortable.”
That one might be a little on point. All gogoo gaga over his snot-nose little brother and for whatever reason it’s like Sam’s the only one who can’t see it. Dean pulls a watch off the shelf and wipes it off on his shirt. Why’s he here? To make the angels get along. Make them one big, nuclear-fallout family again. Fix it before it starts, Sam said before turning after Gadreel. This is nothing more than two kids buttin' heads. Couple of beers, a fist or two, and they can get back to fixing the world. Back to banishing Cas from this freakin’ realm. Dean runs his thumb over the watch’s silver etchings.
“Good.” Dean greets the incredulous glare with a shrug. “Took you how long to get comfortable with us? You once beat me bloody just to prove a point. Called Sam a, a… what was it. Mutation?”
It’s like radiation poisoning being on the other end of those eyes. The words peel from Cas as he finally looks down, “An abomination.”
“So Gabby’s a dick.” He spies a flinch of surrender at the nickname. It’s all he wants is to see Cas soften up, so Dean takes a few meandering steps closer. “Big deal. You were too. And now, after brewing in our bullshit-soup for a couple of years, you figured out how to play nice.”
Still a hard line in his shoulders but Cas isn’t buzzing anymore. “If I am more experienced, he should defer to me.”
“Defer? This ain’t an army.”
Castiel wavers the slightest bit. “No. But it is a war.”
Dean can feel the missing piece like a kernel in the tooth. “Cas,” is all he has to say.
“This—” Cas gestures vaguely to the bunker as a whole, “is… a… strike team. When I recovered my powers, when the angels Malachai and Batholomew kidnapped me, I did.” He interrupts himself for a beat of self-collection. “I did join an army.”
Oh. Shit.
Dean nods slowly as the gears turn. Cas. Soldier boy once again. The idea comes with a flood of hesitation, a nip of hope, and even more questions. “So it’s more than a Girl Scout troop. You did this all while I was stuck in that mole?”
“Yes. And yes. Our force is small, but we all agree: there can be no replacement for God. Not Metatron, not any other angel. There are even holdouts that want Michael's return, impossible as it is. I don't enjoy leading them. It's proving... hard. But the more angels we have on our side, the better our chances of defeating Metatron.”
“...So, you’re tellin’ me you could’ve been out there recruiting soldiers, but you still took the time to shove worms in my face?”
More surrender. Cas sighs like Dean’s the biggest idiot in the world, but he ain’t, because having a worm the size of a boa constrictor slap itself against you is close to Hell on Earth and he should know a thing or two about Hell on Earth. Dean makes a show of it, grumbling as he gives the watch a final polish and places it back on the shelf, “Oh well great. Only the freakin’ universe to fix and he’s out here playing Ratatouille on my ass. Those things? Terrible smell. I’m talkin’ wet meat horse shit kinda smell. Don’t ask me what that means, ‘cause it ain’t gonna make sense ‘til you’ve been in it.”
“Dean.”
“You ever had worms?”
“Dean, you needed to eat. Moles have among the most voracious appetites in the animal kingdom. Lettuce alone—”
“Thank you,” Dean interrupts sincerely, showing his palms. “Thank you, Cas, for the worms. You meant good.”
Finally Cas cracks. His shoulders slump in full. He sits on the bed—a remnant of humanity?—and Dean joins him on the edge.
“Y’got a lot on your mind,” he summarizes, “and I’m sure you don’t need some shiny asshole pokin’ at you. He’s new, Cas. Give him some time. Show him the ropes. Put him in his place if you need to but—and I mean this—don’t you fuckin’ scare him away. We need him, alright, Sammy needs him. Now I know you know all that already so I’m gonna ask you this and expect you to be a man about it.”
“I am not a man. Not, really.”
“Whatever, man,” Dean whispers. He clears his throat, tossing the notion aside, and pulls out louder, “What’s this really about?”
Cas looks at his hands. Then to the ceiling. Being human did him some good, Dean thinks, taking in old clothes still piled on a chair. Cas might not’ve made house but he did live here and the evidence can still be found. A half-full glass of water on the nightstand. A gun left on the dresser. Rumpled bedsheets beneath Dean’s hands that he smooths in the waiting.
“The grace I stole,” Castiel says, “is killing me.”
And dammit, that shouldn’t make Dean happy, but it does.
———[:]———
The roof is an empty place. Dry, cracked concrete. Old leaves and sparse weeds scuttle between defunct pipes. There is a gentle whisper drifting from the trees that cloak the bunker. All of this makes it a good place to think—one to let his frustrations be taken with the breeze. Sam’s arrival is felt before it’s heard.
“I should not have spoken so carelessly,” Gadreel says without turning, loud and direct. “You needn’t tell me. I will apologize to Castiel.”
“Great,” Sam says.
He must not understand the gravity of the situation. Gadreel angles just so, allowing Sam a sliver of his concern. “If he doesn’t surrender that grace or recover his own, he will die. Why ignore something so dire?”
Sam steps to his side and shares the view. He looks only mildly thoughtful yet his soul is in knots and Gadreel’s wings instinctively flex, as if ready to catch his ward. Sam sighs, “Yeah, I don’t think he is ignoring it.”
“Then why continue to suffer it?”
Sam sticks his hands in his pockets. “He has a job to do. Once we make progress on fixing Heaven, he’ll… make a decision.”
As they both must. Gadreel concedes in a softening tone, “That is a difficult decision.”
Sam sits and his long legs dangle. Being on top of that frozen wall had felt like being a single candle in the dark. Here, though, the world sprawls green and brown forever onward. What does this human see when he takes in God’s works? Does he find it both peaceful and overwhelming, as Gadreel does? Or is he so accustomed to the taste of Creation that he doesn’t hunger for it? Wanting to know Sam’s feelings is not unusual to him.
Feeling hesitant to ask is.
They have been exposed to each other in great detail; it’s a stark contrast from years of mystery. This has left Sam uncomfortable and encouraged him to retreat, the very opposite of what Gadreel wants. Were it his choice he’d want nothing more than to know Sam in his entirety. For now, he makes do with sitting beside him.
Together they listen to traces of birdsong. Every so often a squirrel rustles by. Sunlight bathes his vessel with life. It’s a lovely day to lean back and look at the sky’s finger-painted clouds; a lovely day to be down, looking up. If they stay here, will the problems lurking inside the bunker disappear?
It’s Sam who breaks the spell, “Like it or not, this is our best shot at fixing Heaven. You in?”
“I will do what it takes to restore Heaven and protect humanity.”
“Really? ‘Cause it kind of sounded like you were poking holes in the plan.”
…Is that so. Gadreel says, cautiously, “I merely sought answers.”
“Guess I can’t blame you for that.”
“And you, are you ‘in?’” Is this what Sam wants, to divide Heaven and Earth? Nevermore to see the angels. To force Gadreel back to Heaven, back to his home and his hell and to live among those who abandoned him? It’s hard enough for Gadreel to sort the feelings that exist for and from his own self. Throwing in another’s is infinitely more complicated.
“Yeah,” Sam says, “Of course I’m in. I might not like everything about it, but, we don’t get perfect solutions in this line of work.”
“No.” Gadreel returns to the view. “If it were perfect, we would not have to choose.”
Never to know the love of his brothers. Or never to know the love of Sam Winchester.
Sam doesn’t love him. He knows this, flat eyes on flat clouds. Sam’s love lives in Dean. Gadreel is not his family. There is no history of battle between them, no enduring friendship as Casitel offers. They are friends—this he does believe, skimming fondly through memories of late-night talks and soft smiles. They are even bound, in some way, with Gadreel knowing himself to be Sam’s champion. Such devotion as he feels is strengthened with every pulse of Sam’s radiant soul, every hint of praise, every shared pain. He knows himself to be important to the man.
But not to be loved by him.
If God remains He is the last to love Gadreel. What son would forsake his father for eternity? To abandon Heaven would forsake this miracle of a second chance. …Wouldn’t it? The memory returns of Sam in the saturated haze of twilight outside Death’s cabin. I should like to know you better, Gadreel had said. Never had he imagined their time would be so short.
“It’s your choice,” Sam says quietly.
It’s not one he wants to make.
“I tire of choices.” Before Sam can catch him Gadreel rolls, “Now you will tell me it’s a blessing to have the ability to choose. Though I agree, you should allow me my misery.”
Sam breathes a laugh and pushes at his hair, revealing more of his face. “They say humans make tens of thousands of decisions in a single day.”
Suspicion feels clear on his vessel. “That can’t possibly be true.”
“I want to say it was… twenty thousand? Something like that. It was psych class, it’s been a while.”
“Twenty thousand.” Impossible.
“Or more.” Taunting. Friendly.
“I have decided,” Gadreel states, wanting to see Sam’s soul unravel. “I don’t wish to be human.”
Sam laughs out loud this time. The hard lines relax. Good. His skill at making Sam laugh is improving.
Clouds drift overhead and through idle chit chat Gadreel allows himself to be tempted to lay down and watch the sky, trading stories of stargazing with ozone surfing. Anything to hear more of that voice. Kind. Curious. Intelligent. With tensions soothed they return to talk of the spell and while Gadreel has never fooled himself with illusions of innovation (a concept better fitting Balthazar or Gabriel), he can offer knowledge. Take his staff, for example. If Sam suggests spellwork to regrow it into a tree, Gadreel clarifies that such a tree would not itself be touched by God and likely a failure. Gadreel expands on an angel’s song, naming it a single part of the larger host’s harmony; it’s Sam who wonders if they can turn it into a ‘vinyl.’
With a belly full of baby-blue air Sam asks, “Hey, what was it Cas said that scared you off. Something about ‘providing the seraphic oil?’” This is an easy way to ruin a pleasant morning, so no, he does not want to discuss it. “I’m guessing it means a Seraph like you or Cas,” Sam offers. Pushes. Pokes. It turns out Sam’s blessings can be quite the curse when you’re the victim of his focus.
This is not something Sam will ignore; it’s too exciting. He hungers for knowledge of every kind but something this obscure will make him ravenous. What to reveal? The words barely come, as if forced through a too-small hole, “Castiel is no longer a Seraph and I doubt he has recruited any among his ranks. He may have said it in anger, but I’m afraid he is correct; this is an ingredient only I can provide.”
“Huh,” Sam says, “So, what is it?”
“Oil.”
Sam’s silence is a scalpel.
Remember, he tells himself sternly. This is not for you. Sam’s face painted in silver. Fireworks crackling in that already stunning soul. Hands caressing Gadreel’s own staff with the reverence of a sculptor. …If it’ll make Sam happy…
Beneath a lattice of clouds Gadreel finds strength in practicality, “In our true forms, an angel’s wings are cleaned and protected by an oil that our wings themselves produce. It’s a rare thing for an angel to groom another’s wings, but it is the… most effective way to stimulate oil production. With Heaven closed it would fall on me to manifest,” the word a rip in his calm, “my wings in conjuncture with this vessel. And, it would fall to another to groom them, to stimulate and collect the oil.”
Now he can truly feel the excitement. Oh, Sam is kind. None of their ragtag group has more composure. Any human would see only patience in Sam but Gadreel can sense the tidal wave of curiosity and faith welling greater and greater. But he doesn’t know. He can’t be allowed to know what Gadreel is truly thinking, so the angel pulls his wings closer. A ‘significant bond’ is too much for him to stomach; a mate’s would make him hate Gadreel entirely. How close, he wonders sourly, can he get without scaring Sam away? How much can he ask?
Sam props himself on an elbow but Gadreel does his best to imitate the tree trunks. Stiff. Blind. “Hey,” Sam says, “I get it. You told me before, it’s super personal. All we need to know is what’s relevant to the spell.”
Personal. Hilarious. “It’s not so simple.”
“Try me.”
Emotions wriggle like worms over his face. His feathers itch discomfort. Gadreel finally breaks, “In my time it was a bonding ritual, done only by angels who intend to share their song, tie their destinies, and devote themselves to one another. Soldiers who cannot survive alone. Partners who will forever orbit until their planets fail. Cherubs,” humor chipping hard off his teeth, “who wish to taste love for themselves. The intimacy—the vulnerability—of the act cannot be understated. Even as Heaven hangs in the balance I could force no angel to suffer such a bond with me. I am the one whose failures chased away our Father, Sam—I am the Devil’s very instrument.”
No angel will touch him—he does not want another angel to touch him—but none ever will. Who would shoulder the cost of being bound to a once-traitor? No matter how he redeems himself, Lucifer’s sulfurous stink penetrates too deep for something so intimate. If he saves Heaven and earns his redemption, there may be angels even excited to comb through his feathers. But as they stand now… there is no hope. Radueriel’s death still burns angry accusations up and down his vessel’s arms.
“I’ve been there,” Sam says. “Everyone thinking you’re the bad guy, but trust me. The right people will see past it.”
Gadreel tastes venom on his tongue, “Even if one were to overlook my past, my wings are fit for no one’s touch. Thaddeus has seen to that.” They grow stronger by the day. Almost fully functional, now, but it’ll be years before they’re fit for another’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. I know that feeling. There’s nothing really like it,” Sam says quietly, thumb worrying his palm. The move catches Gadreel’s attention. A tiny hook fishing him from his disgust.
“You think yourself broken?”
“What? I didn’t say that.”
Gadreel’s eyes tighten. “You prayed?”
“No. Are you reading my mind? Don’t—don’t do that.”
“You’re warded against it,” Gadreel’s voice drops curiously, “But you did think it?”
Sam huffs. “Yeah, kind of. There’s a lot more about me and my past that you don’t know yet.”
Gadreel copies his pose (he studies Sam’s body to do so) but amid a backdrop of swaying leaves he sets aside his selfishness, “In time you will tell me. But if ever you were broken, Sam, I see great strength in you, among many other admirable traits. If anyone thinks you're 'the bad guy' it only proves they haven't yet made your acquaintance.”
Sam ducks his face from view. A breeze brushes the hair against his neck, sun warm and air cool. Soul, distraught. Why does praise bother him so much? Before Gadreel can say more Sam stands and dusts off his jeans. It’s a pity. “Look, we’re meeting again before dinner to make a plan. How about we put you in charge of the oil. Figure out something that works for you, okay?”
Gadreel follows suit. This is an impossible task he’s been given. “And if no angel will suffer me?”
“Does it have to be an angel?”
No, only a willing partner. Emotion soars brighter and swifter than any comet. Could he mean…?
Sam sputters, “Hold on, you’re part of this too. What if you don’t want to ‘suffer’ someone else? There’s got to be another way. Always is.”
Oh. Yes, of course. Gadreel wills his grace to steel—locking away any weaknesses his vessel might betray—and chides himself for getting greedy. Stupid fledgling. All that Sam has already given him is more than enough. Even this beautiful morning spent above the Earth and below the sky has been a gift.
“What?” Sam asks gruffly.
“I was thinking of your insistence on ‘another way,’” Gadreel lies. “It was your brother’s insistence on ‘another way’ that saved your life. Are all humans so inclined toward invention?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean’ll do anything.”
As they all should. Gadreel will sacrifice what he must, too. If that means testing the sanctity of a grooming bond, so be it. “Then so will I.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. His soul dims. “Me too.”
Gadreel wants to ask. He starts to, concern syrup in his throat, but stops before the words can escape. If Sam wants to tell him, he will. The more Gadreel asks for the more he risks pushing Sam away and so he lets Sam go, returning to his post on the edge of the bunker.
———[:]———
They’ve forgotten him.
There’s no other explanation. In no world are the Winchesters intelligent enough to know what they’re doing, leaving him in the dark throes of endless slop like this, so Crowley comes again to the conclusion that they have simply forgotten him. Though, one must ask oneself which is worse: that they’ve suddenly become master manipulators? Or that their cromagnon skulls are somehow still too small to fit in a single crumb of Crowley.
Perhaps there really is intelligent life under those terrible haircuts.
The four bitches in New York have once again found themselves eating and gossiping—because all humans do is eat, gossip, and fuck—when there is a new noise. Footsteps. A metallic thunk. The room beyond his little hole is opened and Crowley squints as light bulbs pitter into grisly illumination.
It’s moose. And squirrel. Interesting.
“Boys,” Crowley purrs.
“Enjoying your TV-time?” Dean growls, oh so manly, oh so buff. Everything’s always an octave lower when this one’s around. Sam, at least, has a much subtler bravado. The tall one pauses the show and Crowley tries to hide his bliss. A moment of silence. Beautiful.
“It’s been delightful,” Crowley lies. Pain he got used to in Hell. Bad television was before his time. “And now you’ve returned… why. Surely you don’t have good news? If Abaddon were dead I imagine you’d have a big, girthy knife and a super soaker of holy water, but I see you’ve come unarmed.”
“Oh I don’t know about unarmed,” Dean says. He reveals a syringe. In it a deep, dark ambrosia. A super soaker would’ve been better. Crowley stifles it as best he can, but need grips him with force. Blood. It’s human blood, Sam’s, he can tell. Yes. It’s been days without a single drop and his veins feel so very, very sick without it. Like roots have climbed inside him. Crystallized sulfur crackling into poisonous dust.
Bollocks, he thinks. “Dean,” he says. “I always thought you a Big, and here you are betraying a hint of Samantha. Devilish.”
The idiots look at each other.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Crowley tacks. “I won’t bash your dreams of being a Miranda, even if you are quite the Charlotte.” It’s devastating. That is a devastating insult, but the fools are deaf, dumb, and blind—unfortunately not mute.
“Whatever, fruitcake,” Dean grunts.
“Abaddon,” Sam says. It’s always fun when Sam takes charge, puffing up his big big breasts. “You want her gone, right? So do we. Tell us how, Crowley, and we’ll give you more.”
Tempting. Well, it’s beyond tempting, but they don’t need to know that. Something about this deal strikes as too good to be true. What is the catch? Ah, yes, as he’d feared earlier. If Abaddon dies, Crowley himself is next in line for the chopping block. “Did mommy make it out alive?” Crowley asks.
“Abaddon,” Sam pushes.
He watches them closely and decides… yes, Linda Tran survived. Never would they release the prophet. Where is little Kevin and Mommy dearest now, he wonders. Within tickling distance?
“Hope you boys didn’t fall into any of my traps,” Crowley rambles, “Left some nasty ones. So sorry I forgot to mention it, Char. I hope you can forgive me.”
Need. Iron tang in the air. Crowley’s eyes flick to the needle before he can help it, this blasted body, seeing the gorgeous droplet trickle down the needle where Dean teases him with a smirk. Samatha, indeed. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
“I enjoy our games, boys, I really do. This whole playground bully scenario really flutters my hole, but I know as well as you do that the moment Abaddon dies, I’m next in line for a haircut.”
“Or we could just kill you now,” one of them says beneath the rush of whispers in Crowley’s ear. Need. Need. Want. So close, darling. Euphoria. Release. Emotions, remember those, love? Need, need, need.
“Really? I kind of like him.”
Crowley blinks, tearing his focus from the syringe.
“Crowley. Seriously?” Sam asks, as if Dean has suggested he enjoys the kiss of a leech.
“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “He’s grown on me. Kind of like a—like a wart.”
They speak to each other more than they do to him. What is this. Strategy? Play at friends only to betray him later? If only Crowley hadn’t done that whole bit a million times over. You know what they say about imitation and flattery. Even Castiel has already walked that road. Blood still in the air. Muscles in his thighs and buttocks firing, like he could lunge from the seat and make a grab at any second.
“Or, hah,” Sam laughs, “Remember that raccoon you tried to bring home?”
“I thought it was a cat,” Dean bites back. “It was supposed to be for you anyway.”
“It had mange, Dean.”
“Okay, so, an ugly cat.”
Crowley immerses himself in their ongoing banter like it’s a hot bath. Real human speech, not that bullshit playing endlessly on the laptop, and far more entertaining coming from these two. Why have they kept him alive for so long? Surely they don’t think he holds some secret they couldn’t find out. That is a terrible secret on its own. Crowley knows he is a wealth of knowledge, wit, and charm, but the Knights of Hell aren’t half as obscure as the rest of his portfolio. They’re not even the Princes. Or the Behemoths. Any angel old enough could turn up the First Blade if they wanted to.
So why.
They like you.
Treacherous whispers leak from the syringe as Dean waves it around during their conversation.
They hate you. Crowley frowns. They still haven’t killed you—they could have. They didn’t. Perhaps you’re not so detestable after all. How fun was it, destroying the Leviathans together?
“Hey. Tweaker.”
He surfaces from the rush without a hint of emotion. Curse it. They know. Dean flicks the syringe. “This is the deal of the century. You’re a lot of things, Crowley, but you ain’t stupid. Tell us how to kill Abaddon.”
Those boys could rip through Hell if they had the Blade. Could even turn some of the Hell Gates with it. No, it’s not an option. And bothering Cain… who knows what would happen to the delicate balance of human soul supply and demand if that wrecking ball were to be released. Kill Abaddon. Secure his safety. Keep the Winchesters neutered. Crowley thumbs through his memories of the horrid bitch.
Wait, maybe… yes, okay. He licks his lips and opens up the conversation. “Sam. In that quaint little one-star church where you and I… got to know each other. Great job closing Hell, by the way. If you were just going to give up I wish you hadn't wasted my time. Anyway. Abaddon had a host of grisly scars.” Sam does his little blink-step shuffle that means he’s remembering. Predictable boy. “A Knight of Hell is extremely powerful, but they are still a demon.”
Dean asks, “More powerful than you?” Brat.
“Apples and oranges,” Crowley sneers as pleasantly as he can. Why don’t they see him for what he is? “She can be wounded. Imprisoned, even. If Abaddon cannot be killed, we must lock her away.”
“That’s not good enough,” Sam says, though he doesn’t say it very cruelly. Sam is… baiting him. Yes?
“An Archangel can kill a Knight of Hell,” Crowley says. “Perhaps you should ask Michael to unretire. Oh, wait, you can’t. Because he’s locked away for forever and eternity. Not everything is what we want it to be, but I suggest you get comfortable with sucking it up if you ever want to achieve your goals.”
“And let me guess,” Dean says with a suspicious squint, “Only you know how to lock her up. Only you can hold the key?”
“I have plenty of experience. And I think you’ll find I am the most invested in keeping the bitch in her kennel.” Once Abaddon is locked away, Crowley will have all the time in the world to devise a plan that puts the power in his hands. Maybe she can even be reprogrammed. That’s a thought. Sam elbows Dean. Hm. These boys do have a plan to contain her. “What?” he demands.
Obviously they are hesitant to share but eventually Sam relents, coasting off a pressed breath, “We have done it before. Those scars, we… caught her in a devil’s trap and dismembered her while she was stuck in her vessel. It worked, until…”
“It worked,” Dean jumps in. “That’s all you need to know.”
Naughty, naughty boys. Crowley eyes them and regrets that he never got to see Dean’s torturing days. It must have been spectacular. In other life, he would have chosen Dean for his right hand. Crowley raises his chin and says, “Well, there you have it. Do it again.”
“What are you getting out of this?” Oh, Dean, it breaks Crowley’s non-existent heart that he had to go and be so righteous. The fantasy of their partnership plays out again. The suspicious dog to the cunning master. What could have been.
Crowley places the blocks neatly, because they’re stupid. “Without Abaddon, I am the uncontested leader of Hell. Without me, you have a power vacuum. There are greater forces out there than myself, than Abaddon, than Azazel. Ranks upon ranks of hellish foes that remain at rest because I keep Hell in check. Without me you don’t just have chaos. Without me, you invite a lineup of bigger, badder daddies to your doorstep.” Anger scratches the edges of his words and he grows bombastic, “I bait Abaddon. You dismember her. We spread her bits to the far corners of the Earth. I maintain the throne and you blubbering morons don’t summon the demons that give demons nightmares! Everybody wins!”
It’s a compelling argument. His patience grows thin.
“Why should we trust you?” Sam asks.
The fine iron thread of his patience snaps. “You never have and you never will. Big picture, imbeciles, think big! Beyond yourselves! It doesn’t matter if you trust me because you need me. When the archangels fell your precious Castiel almost deep fried the world, and even he was tempered by sentiment,” the last word a disgusting thing. “Imagine the danger posed by a Prince of Hell unburdened by morality. Imagine a million Auschwitz’s. Imagine blowing up the goddamn moon—I don’t care what analogy you need to see it but if you do not pull those misshapen heads from those tight asses of yours, you will lose. Your. Chance.”
Aggravating twats! Dangling that carrot in front of him and demanding a dance. It wasn’t long ago they cowered at the mere mention of his name. He gave them the colt. Gave them Eve! And Bobby’s legs, and Dick Roman, that ridiculous bone, he’s given them soooo fucking much and still they treat him like this!? Undeserving, is what they are.
Why do you care? whispers the back of his mind.
Crowley outlines the deal, “You will set me free. I will help you trap and shackle Abaddon for good and in return, Hell remains ruled by the devil you know. Now, waiter, my drink.” He raises his hands and flicks his fingers. Here, boy.
Without a word the Winchesters make their stupid faces at each other and divide. Sam collects his laptop. Dean sinks the needle into Crowley’s neck and oh, how it all falls into place like whisky after a long day of hard labor. Something vital. Something warm. Healthy, it feels, hydrating his veins.
A breath against his ear. Dean, whispering, “You think you’re Samantha, but you’re actually Carrie, you know that? Annoying is what you are. You ain’t half as clever as you think and I spend every moment in your presence waiting for you to shut the fuck up.”
They leave. They turn off the lights. Without the laptop’s chatter he slumps in his seat and cradles this old-new emotion like the precious thing it is. Sam Winchester’s blood taints him by the second. Anguish in a victim is a delicious thing. Crowley aches to find the taste just as alluring now that he's the meat being seasoned, too.