The Game of God: Day 152 - part 4
The Game of God: Day 152 - part 4
The stench of that small Kansas town's all over your overcoat, Angel.
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— Day 152, continued —
In what was once a suburb of the town that became Ichabod, Castiel finishes his work and steps back to wait. Unsurprisingly, his wait is minimal.
When the demon appears, wearing the body of an attractive twenty-five year old woman in the least practical dress possible for a Kansas winter, her “So how can I help you…” overly sultry and obviously not sufficiently practiced, cuts off when she sees him. “Castiel?”
Bemused, he watches a Crossroads demon stumble over her own six inch heels and almost fall into a drift of snow, wondering idly if Hell has the equivalent of a ‘FBI’s Most Wanted’ posted in the Pit with his name and picture of his human form on it. This reaction is becoming far too common.
“Good afternoon,” he says as she straightens. The damp hem of her dress dries instantly, but the carefully seductive expression is apparently irretrievable, wide brown eyes flashing to black in an endless succession that could very possibly induce nausea if viewed for too long. Very new, he thinks, tilting his head as he studies the blackened ruin of her true face behind the flushed skin of this body’s cheeks when she faces him, and goes still as their eyes meet.
They stare at each other for several long moments before she finally straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Here to make a deal?”
“Run along, pet,” another voice says as Crowley joins her, giving her a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll discuss how one deals with Fallen angels at a more convenient time.”
As he reaches for her arm, she jerks back just beyond his reach before spinning to face him, and this time, the towering heels are no impediment at all. Demons can move far more quickly than humans, but she’s far too new to have learned how to use a human body again, and this is her first since her own. One delicate fist snaps out in a blur of speed, and while Crowley has sufficient time to move, it doesn’t help; she makes contact where he appears again, where she aimed in the first place.
Castiel thinks, throat tight: so something new can happen in Hell after all.
Crowley staggers but recovers quickly, and before Castiel even realizes what he’s doing, he’s standing between them.
“No.” To his surprise, Ruby’s knife is already in his hand. “I’m having a terrible day and very little time to waste before it gets much worse. You can discipline your subordinates another time.”
Of everything he’s ever done, however questionable, this very may well top the list: standing between the King of the Crossroad and one of his demons holding a weapon with every intention of using it. Dean’s reminder was startlingly timely. The choices he makes may be his own, but the consequences will always be shared, and this a truly terrible choice. Yet, he can’t bring himself to move.
Crowley cocks his head, looking at him in mild interest. “You think I won’t kill you, Castiel? Or did you forget that inconvenient mortality of yours?”
Behind him, he hears her low growl, the sound raising the hair on the back of his neck. He doesn’t wonder anymore how a human could ever rise from the rack, knowing what they become. The obscenity of believing there’s anything like a choice has never been more clear than in the demon behind him that was once a hunter.
“I know I’ll kill you,” he answers. “Here or in Hell: at this moment, I’m not particular on the location.”
“Very well,” Crowley says after a slightly too-long pause, sounding bored. “She’s released without penalty. This time. I’m certain it won’t be the last.” He smiles, all teeth, as she emerges warily, eyes fixed on Crowley with something between a demon’s obedience and a hunter deciding the best place to plant a knife. He waves a hand. “You may go.”
She flinches, skirt fluttering around her legs, but she doesn’t move, staring at him with black-filmed eyes. Crowley’s smile flickers. “Go. Now.”
Castiel doesn’t need to look to know she’s gone; Crowley stares at the space she occupied for a long moment before turning his attention to Castiel, expression smoothed into practiced amusement.
“This is a surprise,” he says, tilting his head. “Whatever can I do for you, Castiel?”
“I want to make a deal.”
“Oh.” Crowley’s smile widens. “You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say that.”
Dean nearly drops the box in surprise, blinking at nothing.
“Dean?” he hears Christina ask worriedly as he drops it on the desk, all attention turned inward. It takes him no time at all to find it; that tiny sliver of Cas is there, but pulled thin and lengthening, like an unspooling thread.
Ignoring Christina, he concentrates as it grows longer, thinner, the desire to grab it and jerk it back nearly unbearable; the only thing that’s stopping him is he doesn’t know what that means or how to do it.
With an almost physical jolt, it stops; Dean takes one breath, then another, but it doesn’t unspool further. Relieved, he relaxes, wondering what that sound is and abruptly realizes he’s looking at Christina, who’s snapping her fingers frantically in his face. “What?”
“I’m only agreeing to this,” Crowley tells him, sinking into the plush comfort of an elegant mahogany chair on the other side of an unusually large fireplace, “because while your bloody Brother put whatever passes for your soul off limits, he can’t do anything about lesser trades, and I’m very curious what you think you have to offer.”
Seated in an identically comfortable chair, Castiel studies the elegantly appointed room with disfavor. The gold-flecked cream of the walls, rich glow of hardwood floors, and casual scattering of elaborately woven rugs between each piece of gleaming furniture aren’t offensive in themselves and yet the urge to destroy all in his sight is nearly overwhelming. Tilting his head back, he eyes the graceful sweep of the chandelier above them before gazing into depths of the wide granite fireplace, focusing more cheerfully on the number of burning logs as the faint strains of an invisible cello haunts the room like the most depressingly mundane ghost in all of history. He can’t think of anything that could improve this room as much as setting it on fire and salting the still-smoldering remains.
Salt first, he decides finally, turning his attention back to Crowley, then burn. Dean seemed to like the barbecue that was served at the celebration, and there’s no time like the present to learn how to make it.
“That’s interesting.” Pride, he reflects, can be an extremely inconvenient character trait, especially when it seems to trump both logic and even simple expedience. “When did he do that?”
“Right before he started a sixty-six years and counting sulk.” Crowley raises a hand and a glass of wine materializes, the color the exact shade of blood the moment before coagulation. Fire might help that, too, he thinks idly. “He kills Dean Winchester but fails to claim his soul for Hell, or yours for that matter; anyone else might ask about his sense of proportion. Me, I’m betting it’ll be another few decades before he allows himself to take consolation in the fact he won the Apocalypse and rules both Hell and Earth.”
“He’s never dealt well with disappointment.”
Crowley inclines his head. “Can I get you anything? Wine, cheese, a decent meal?” He wrinkles his nose, giving Castiel a lingering once over with something unsettlingly like appreciation. “Really, Castiel, didn’t anyone explain how to care for a human body properly?”
“They tried.” He thinks of Dean with an almost physical pang of longing. “Only recently, however, did it occur to me to listen.”
“Only you.” Raising the glass in a mocking toast, Crowley takes a drink. “So before we get any further; what, exactly, is it that you’re offering?”
“What you’re going to tell everyone when we’re done,” he answers. “That I summoned you at the Crossroads and offered to make a deal. All of Hell being aware that you succeeded where Lucifer failed should be sufficient to offer in trade.”
Crowley snorts. “While admittedly a lovely thought, what use would that be to me? You’re not that important, Castiel.”
“To the King of the Crossroad demons and heir to Lilith? That’s possibly true,” he admits. “Unless you don’t plan to resign your position immediately, of course.”
Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“My mistake,” Castiel answers pleasantly, settling more comfortably into the rich brocade. “So there’s no need to revisit how less than ten minutes ago, I watched a demon who has never known a human body other than her own use the first one she acquired after rising from the rack in a successful attack on you. Excellent, you’re aware of the problem.”
Crowley’s expression darkens. “One time—”
“One punch in a body not her own after rising from the rack after twenty-five years on it,” he elaborates. “I can count. Though that wouldn’t be a problem if you could control her. Which you can’t.”
“I can control her,” he answers shortly, but once again, that flicker, there and gone. “She’ll learn. They all will.”
“That’s what they said about Dean Winchester, and I don’t need to remind you how precarious Alistair’s control was becoming before I claimed his soul.” Crowley’s expression darkens. “When I decided to deal with you, I thought all I had to offer was a very useful way to sow dissent among my erstwhile Brothers and with any luck increase their misery in my existence. Apparently, I have a great deal more and didn’t know it.”
“Exactly what is it that you’re offering again?” Castiel tilts his head, fascinated by the slowly spreading web of cracks in Crowley’s glass from the pressure of his fingers. “So far, this interview is rather mundane, so if you’ll get to the point….”
“She rose as a demon and is bound to you,” he says. “But if you think I don’t know the value of that particular soul in Hell, you must be stupider than you seem to think I am. There is no possible way my Brothers could have missed it, which means they don’t even know she exists here yet. You’re hiding her, and I’d ask why, but as it’s for someone else, that question is best left to them.”
“Who do you think—”
“Her master. You weren’t the one who broke her on the rack, and she belongs to whoever did. Her obedience isn’t by right of ownership but fear alone, and not much of that. If anyone else saw what I did today, they’d know it as well.”
The glass shatters, spilling wine over Crowley’s hand and staining the starched white perfection of his shirt.
“I’d ask why you were willing to take her when she would never be yours, much less conceal her within the Crossroads, but I don’t actually care. What concerns me is what price I can put on the information that there’s dissension in the ranks of the Crossroads and what exactly it is that’s sowing it so well. Off the top of my head, I can think of five demons and two of my Brethren who would allow me to name my own price for the opportunity to destroy you. All of them,” he adds maliciously, “would also appreciate the cachet inherent in succeeding with the last member of the Host on earth, which you have yet to do.”
Crowley doesn’t answer, which for the moment is satisfaction enough.
“I think that it may be time to discuss the terms of my silence,” he adds. “I’d like some coffee first, however. Four cream, four sugar, and do you have available something called ‘Kona’?”
“Are you sure?” Christina asks worriedly, following him as he retrieves his coffee cup and finishes the (cold) contents in a gulp.
“I’m fine—stop that!” he says, outraged when one hand lands on his forehead as she looks at him intently. “What the hell?”
“No fever,” she says, evading his attempt to slap her hand away and holding up three fingers. “How many—”
“Don’t even,” he warns. “What was that about?”
“Standing there like you had a, I don’t know, stroke or something!” she answers hotly, crossing her arms. “What was I supposed to think?”
“Do stroke victims usually stand around?”
“No idea,” she answers, glaring at him. “This is you; you do stuff like this.”
Blinking at her, he wonders if maybe he is having a stroke or something. “What?”
“Weird two week fever from a brownie bite,” she answers reasonably, cocking her head to peer at him before nodding and turning back to yet another box of maps. “Who does that? You.”
Dean sputters for a minute as she serenely finishes stacking it with the others. “You can’t hold that against me forever.”
“I converted to three religions those two weeks,” she answers grimly as he retrieves the last box from the Volunteer Services and sets it with the others. “One we made up.”
He leans a hip against the desk. “What’s it about?”
“I was really drunk,” she admits. “But I’m Carrier of the Thing, and before you ask, I don’t know what that is either.” Catching sight of his face as she tightens the dark red ponytail at the base of her neck, she asks, “What?”
“Calculating the probability of Chitaqua housing the top one percent of the weirdest people in the world.” She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I gotta do something, stick around and make sure no one gets into trouble or slips in the shower on the third floor?”
She nods. “Where you going?”
“Just over to….” He stops himself at the attentive look on her face. “I can go wherever I want.”
“You can,” she agrees, nodding.
“Exactly. Just over to Admin, in case anyone needs me—someone’s going to follow me, aren’t they?” She nods again. “No.”
“Yes, sir.”
He almost leaves it there but— “I’m serious. You want what happened to Sean to be you?”
“I like my team,” she says unanswerably, raising three fingers together with a solemn look. “I’m not following you. Scout’s honor.”
Every so often, Dean has to admit (to himself) that his militia can outthink him; this isn’t one of those times. “You’re not going to follow me?”
“No,” she answers promptly.
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know.” Christina has the grace to flush. “None of us know, Dean. So we can’t tell you when you ask.”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. If I see ‘em….”
“They’ll be subtle,” she promises. “Have fun!”
“Whatever,” Dean mutters, going out the door of the Situation Room and stepping onto a colorful mosaic floor in an enormous white room scattered with massive Corinthian columns reaching toward a ceiling so distant it might as well be the sky, dotted with endless tiny bursts of lights like the outlines of constellations.
He stops short, blowing out an annoyed breath: this goddamn building. “I knew it.”
“It was a surprise when we finally got through, believe me,” Crowley says, enjoying his third glass of wine and apparently unaffected by the less than ideal beginning of their (what could be loosely defined as) contractual relationship. “Be set on fire at the border or a bloody migraine of a backlash when summoned: it was awful.”
Sipping the coffee from a surprisingly large mug, Castiel reflects wistfully on peanut butter cups and Kona coffee; it’s a terrible idea to develop a taste for things there’s little possibility he’ll be able to acquire again.
“So you want me to believe all this is a coincidence?”
“Obviously not, since it’s not true.” Finishing the glass, he regards Castiel in barely hidden amusement. “I was beginning to worry we’d fall behind schedule. More than we already are, in any case. Would you like more coffee?”
Castiel reminds himself that not only is patience a virtue, he’s usually very good at exercising it. “Let’s start at the beginning, then: who created the barrier and how?”
“Don’t know,” Crowley answers airily. “Next?”
He’s enjoying this, Castiel realizes; much more unsettling is the fact that he’s enjoying it as well. Their first meeting—or rather, Dean’s, as Castiel can’t pretend he was participating in more than in being in the same room—gave him little idea of Crowley in more than generalities and a sense of vaguely hostile amusement. Crowley is extraordinarily pleasant for a demon, as well as charming. He supposes the latter would be a job requirement; the former, however, generally isn’t a feature of any demon he’s ever met.
“If the barrier has been such an inconvenience, why was it created in the first place?”
“It should be obvious enough, I think,” Crowley answers, pausing to refill his glass, this time in a showy stream of wine from mid-air. Sipping it, he nods to himself before returning his attention to Castiel. “You do realize all this posturing was pointless? We’re on the same side in this.”
“That much I guessed. What I’d like to know is why.”
“The Apocalypse’s still in progress, Castiel, but only as long as Dean Winchester walks the earth. This time around, like to keep it that way.”
He stills, cup forgotten in one hand. “Dean Winchester died by Lucifer’s hand five months ago.”
“Convenient, that,” he agrees, studying his glass critically. “No other way to get the upgrade to one who could actually win.”
A few minutes of looking around tell him two things: one, this is a really goddamn big room, and two, if there’s a door, he can’t find it.
He gives up trying to reach the far walls after only a few tries; no matter how long he walks, it’s pretty obvious he’s never gonna get there, time to move on. Coming back to where he started (the only wall that doesn’t make a break for it, which he assumes means something), he watches in surprise as black lines begin to appear on the starkly white stone, curving into shapes before his eyes, brilliant color following in long streaks, and stepping back, he watches five pictures form one by one, scenes torn from mythology and brought vividly to life.
Demeter in her tattered grey cloak, hood thrown back to reveal hair the color of ripe wheat, face drawn in lines of suffering as she walks through snowy, winter-barren fields after her daughter Persephone was stolen by Hades; Clytemnestra weeping over Iphigenia’s body while Agamemnon stands over them, holding a sword still dripping with their daughter’s blood; Hecuba of Troy kneeling before the half-open cask that holds the dismembered remains of her son, slain by the King of Thrace when Troy fell; Medea in Corinth, dry-eyed and rigid, her children clinging to her skirts as Jason abandons her for marriage to the daughter and heir of the King; and finally, one he doesn’t recognize at all.
It’s a room, white-plastered walls decorated with simple, stylized frescos, but a longer look reveals the inspiration of an artist in each line, the completed designs slowly baked into the plaster itself, and that implies the kind of wealth you build over generations. What furniture he can see follows; sharply angled, high-backed chairs, low sofas cushioned with unforgiving horsehair, simple tables of citrus wood, a single, unadorned urn of water surrounded by rare Alexandrian glass goblets. An older woman in a simple black woolen dress and palla, thick black hair streaked heavily with white pulled into a severe bun, is seated, rigidly erect, in a chair, while a man with matted grey hair and wearing dirt and blood streaked armor, kilt edged with dried mud, waits on one knee, red-plumed helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, head bowed.
Despite her age—she’s gotta be pushing sixty at least, Dean thinks—it’s impossible to think of her as old; the dark olive, fine-boned face is ageless, but the dark eyes are what strike him, still and expressionless, but it’s an illusion, hiding something beneath he can’t quite define.
Seated to her left is a middle aged woman, dark brown hair set in a softer series of rolls and face more square, but the dark lashed brown eyes marks her as the woman’s daughter, and so does the impassive expression. To the right are two younger women, a thirtysomething brunette, darkly pretty, and a delicate twenty-something blonde, spectacularly beautiful despite red-rimmed blue eyes sunk in bruised shadows as she clutches a baby against her chest.
“…domina, they threw his body to Father Tiber,” the man rasps, exhaustion written into every line of his body. “We searched, but they—”
He cuts himself off as the blonde woman begins to wail over the child in her arms. Another woman appears, head bowed submissively, waiting for the older woman’s nod before going to take the child and bearing it away.
The older woman nods. “Tell me the rest.”
“Opimius offered a rich reward to whoever brought him Gaius Sempronius’s head,” he says, looking from red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “Domina, you must begin preparations immediately; his property is forfeit and goes to State auction, and—”
“Where will we go?” the sobbing woman wails, and the older woman turns to look at her, expression impassive as the brunette wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders. “What will we do, left without succor—my husband dead and disgraced, his body defiled, his shade lost….” The words trail into helpless sobs.
“See to Licinia, Claudia,” the older woman says tonelessly, and Claudia eases Licinia to her feet, catching her when she staggers, skirts akimbo. Turning to her daughter, she inclines her head in unmistakable command. “Please assist her, Sempronia.”
Sempronia rises to her feet, inclining her head before assisting Claudia to steady Licinia as they leave the room. As Licinia’s wails fade into silence, she looks at the man again, gesturing toward the couch. “Rise and be seated.”
A man with a tray materializes from nowhere, waiting for the woman’s nod before going to the man as he gets unsteadily to his feet. He waves away the plate but takes the contents of the goblet at a gulp before dropping onto the edge of the couch, and a sharp gesture sends the man with the tray away.
The man on the couch glances toward the doorway that the younger women used. “She is a weak reed to support you in your time of need, Cornelia. You would do well to return her to her father’s hand.”
“It is her nature,” Cornelia answers. “What blame can be attached to her when she is as she was born? She pleased my son—” Her voice checks for a moment before the iron control returns. “And so she pleases me. She has nothing else of him but their child; should I take that from her, too?”
“Mother and child both, and Claudia Pulchera as well. It might be safer,” he says deliberately. “For you.”
The dark eyes leave the door to fix on him. “How long until the Senate summons the courage to send a messenger to inform us of its decision?”
“Not long,” he answers grimly.
“Then there is no time to waste,” she says. “I will need you to arrange escort for me to Rome.”
“Cornelia,” he says quietly. “Gaius’s property is forfeit, as is Licinia Crassa’s dowry and the property of all those who followed your son—”
“Licinia is my responsibility,” she answers flatly. “As Sempronia is my daughter, so are she and Claudia, and she is mother of the only living heir of the Gracchi. I won’t abandon them.” Her mouth tightens infinitesimally. “My agents will be informed to attend when the property of my son’s friends goes to State auction. The dependents of those that suffered in his service must be cared for. I’ll see to that first—”
“Do you not understand?” the man interrupts, getting to his feet. “Three thousand died without trial, their descendants proscribed, and Opimius builds a temple on the Concord in honor of his brave slaughter; no one is safe!”
“Does Rome make war on women?” Cornelia asks, and Dean winces from the edge in her voice.
“Rome is war, domina,” he answers bluntly. “Opimius grows swollen with pride and power, more by the day; thus far, your name has not been added to the lists, but I would not trust in the Senate’s mercy. The daughter of Africanus might be overlooked, but not the mother of the Gracchi. The sister perhaps, but the wives and children of Tiberius and Gaius, never.”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, eyes distant. “The villa at Misenum is mine; I will send them there.” He looks startled. “My father was no fool, Publius; my dowry is in my hand for the length of my life and passes to my s—my heirs only at my will upon my death. My husband provided for me to the limits of the lex Voconia, and whatever you may think, Gaius knew the danger of what he embarked upon. He transferred what property he could to me for the sake of his daughter. The State cannot take what it has no right to claim.”
He raises a wry eyebrow. “I don’t think they care.”
“Then they must be reminded,” she answers. “That is why I must go.”
“Cornelia.” Reaching for her hand and he meets the icy gaze without flinching. “The Senate means to teach the People their place; they want no reminders of your sons to remain. The Gracchi are done; there are none who will speak for them.”
“There is me.” She pulls her hand away and rises to her feet, and the man looks startled; despite the several inch difference in their heights, she seems taller. “And I am not done. Sempronia can oversee the move to Misenum in my absence. Arrange the escort; we leave at dawn.” She shakes her head, and the man closes his eyes, nodding. “Now leave me and take your rest as you will. Inform my household that I will not be disturbed.”
After a moment, he bows, boots echoing on the mosaic floor as he vanishes out the door. For a long time, Cornelia doesn’t move, as expressionless as a statue before slowly, she takes two steps and sinks to the floor as if her legs refused to carry her further, palla sliding from her shoulders and dark skirts pooling around her. One arm pressed tight against her belly, she doubles over, one hand snapping out to brace herself against the floor, and Dean has a single, searing glimpse of her face. Cornelia is silent, but it fills the room, barely broken by the almost inaudible, drowning gasps for breath, grief indistinguishable from physical pain.
Starting toward her, he stops short, fingers touching cool stone; it’s only a picture again, a woman’s private agony like an insect trapped in amber, on display for any to see. It’s obscene.
“Mater took me to her tomb when I was eight years old,” a voice says, and Dean turns to see a woman standing beside him. Despite the light brown hair and smaller build, the dark olive complexion and dark, black-lashed eyes are Cornelia’s. Almost as if in deliberate contrast, however, her hair is elaborately arranged, diamond drops hang from her ears and decorate the heavy gold necklace, bracelets, and rings that sparkle on her fingers. Even the floor-length gown is a more elaborate version of Cornelia’s, the long sleeves split from shoulder to wrist and held together with a series of tiny diamond clasps, but the color is like a photo negative in blinding white. “Cornelians aren’t burned; alone among Rome’s families, their bodies are left intact after death.”
Dean opens his mouth and closes it. “Not the question I even knew existed to ask.”
“She was the embodiment of what every Roman woman should be,” the woman continues, eyes fixed on the fresco. “She bore twelve children, but only three survived to adulthood, and one alone outlived her, and on her husband’s death refused all suitors for her hand. Her virtues were numerous: patience, strength, endurance, chastity, fidelity, self-sacrifice, fecundity…the list goes on. She was all of them, some they created wholesale just for her. The ideal Roman wife and mother. Women left offering at her tomb all the time, hoping to gain her virtue by proxy, I suppose.” She looks at him, eyes dancing. “I hated her on concept.”
Despite himself, Dean bursts into laughter.
“I made up my mind then and there that all she was I would never be,” she continues, the ghost of laughter in her voice. “Mater often wondered if she’d birthed a changeling, and I can’t in fairness blame her.”
Turning away from the fresco, she frowns, and when he follows her gaze, he sees the walls are lined with scenes, Cornelia in each and every one: from a chubby, sexless infant in arms to a too-solemn girl debating a stunned-looking tutor while an elderly man who resembles her looks on in pride; an adolescent in shades of pink formally offering her hand to a middle aged man in a whitened toga who smiles on her with a pleasure not paternal at all; a young woman instructing her eldest son and daughter, a babe asleep in a cradle nearby; white-faced and impassive in unrelieved black receiving callers at the death of her husband. Not pretty, no: tall and angular, her features are too irregular, but he doubts anyone who met her ever saw anything but the wide brown eyes, sharp intelligence and warm humor both.
“The past is part of us, though, no help for it,” the woman beside him says softly, and Dean turns to look at her. “And it doesn’t necessarily have to be our own.” Tilting her head, she peers up at him for a moment before extending a small hand. “This is how you do it now, right?”
Rolling his eyes, he takes it and raises his eyebrows; despite the soft, uncallused skin and manicured nails, her grip is firm. “Dean Winchester, and let me guess—I don’t get a name from you?”
“I only have the one right now,” she says apologetically as she withdraws her hand. “It’s complicated, but—”
“Names have power,” he says casually and notes her surprise in satisfaction. “Answer to the wrong one—” Crap, Cas didn’t actually tell him what happened then. “Bad shit happens.”
“If you’re not careful, you could end up as someone else entirely,” she says seriously, which he assumes is indeed bad shit from her expression. “True names are even worse; to know the name is to have claim to that which acknowledges it as their own. Seems small,” she admits. “One person, a ten, a hundred who know your name and thus claim you in it, that’s nothing. But thousands? Millions? Billions? Each one with an idea of their own of who you are; it’s hard to keep your own when you could be any or all of them.”
Dean frantically reviews what she said to see if he missed something (like the part that made sense); he didn’t. “What?”
“Well, aren’t we an idea to ourselves?” she asks reasonably. “What we think we are? It’s hard to see someone else’s idea of us and not wonder if they’re right.”
“A better idea?” He can almost hear Alison’s voice: people are so much better than they think they are. People are people, and sometimes they’re goddamn idiots about it. “Worse.”
“Worse,” she agrees, blowing out an annoyed breath. “Also, if they don’t know your name—”
“They can’t find you.”
She looks at him sharply, and for a moment, he sees something in the brown eyes; a glimpse of golden light falling over the banks of a wide river, a half-completed boat the size of a yacht being built by dozens of hazy figures, others drawing up in lines at the shores, kilted and armored in silver steel, eyes fixed on something across the river he can’t quite see through an uneasy mist
“Or even know you exist,” she agrees, staring up at him intently and he’s jerked back into the present. “You’re much taller than I expected.”
Right. “Okay?”
“Just impressed,” she explains. “That’s rare in my experience.”
Impressed: sure, it’s for his height, but it’s not like it happens enough (read: ever) that he won’t take what he can get. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she says with a mischievous smile before looking around the room, taking in the pictures spreading across the walls. “It’s here somewhere, but where…”
“What?” he asks, trying to make out the subject of each, but the pictures are blurred, as if seen through thick glass, impossible to resolve.
“If I knew that,” the woman answers wryly, “this would be much easier. My time is limited, and she lived a very long life.”
Every time he looks, there are more pictures, though the walls don’t get any bigger or the pictures smaller. Yeah, this might take a while. “You need help?” After several long moments of silence, he looks at her and sees her staring at him, head tilted. “What?”
“You mean that,” she states, mouth twitching. “I apologize; I suppose you really do have to experience it to believe it.”
In the back of his mind, Dean’s vaguely aware something weird is going on, but he can’t get over how many pictures there are and they’re not stopping yet, fitting themselves between others in some logic that’s beyond him. This could take forever, literally. “Yeah, of course I mean it.”
“I may take you up on that,” she says, grinning at him before pointing out a door against the opposite wall between two of the pictures. That wasn’t there before. “You can use that one. And don’t forget your coat; you dropped it by the front desk earlier and they hung it up for you.”
“Thanks,” he answers, but hesitates as he reaches for the handle, eyeing the pictures. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling at him, and he opens the door into the empty front room—lobby? Do militias have lobbies?
At the front desk, Jeremy (still looking bored) tries to straighten in a semblance of attention. “Dean. You need anything?”
“I’m good,” he assures him, starting toward the front door before stopping short and turning back around. “Hey, where’d they hang up my coat?”
Crowley pauses to take in his expression before taking a sip.
“Don’t take it so personally,” he continues in mocking sympathy. “Yes, your charge, all of that, but he couldn’t do it and proved it by dying before he could get the job done even with the Colt. The new version had to be protected somehow when he arrived, at least until you could get him up to snuff.”
This must be what humans mean when they speak of living their worst nightmare.
“Not that I have any intention of speaking out of school,” he hears Crowley say over the roar in his ears. “Ask me what you like: all I know is yours. It certainly took you long enough to figure it out.”
It takes two tries for Castiel to manage to speak. “How was he brought here?”
“That, I don’t know. Double blind contract, you see. Wouldn’t know who or how even if I wanted to.” His smile widens. “What? Humans and angels made a mess of the Apocalypse; someone had to step up. We were all that was left to get the job done.”
“Demons made a contract to stop Lucifer?”
“So I assume, but there’s no way to find out who else signed even if I wanted to. Need to know information only, and the only thing I need to know is my part.”
“A double blind contract,” Castiel says slowly. “You don’t know who you signed with, who holds it now, who else signed, or even what would be asked of you in the terms until they need to be fulfilled, and you’re restricted from even trying to find out or remember if you do?”
“Bit more complicated than that,” Crowley demurs. “But in essence, yes. I do my part, everyone does theirs—whoever and whatever that might be—and the contract is satisfied once Lucifer is caged or dead while Dean Winchester is still alive and well on planet Earth.”
And he once thought that he and Dean made terrible contracts. “And you signed it?”
“Of course, considering the alternative.” Crowley frowns in his half-empty glass before returning his attention to Castiel, sullen red flickering in his eyes. “I think you can guess why.”
He can; even claiming the Throne of Hell wouldn’t justify this risk. “Lucifer wants to purge Hell as well as Earth.”
“Just so. Not that your Brothers are terribly enthusiastic about the idea, but all of them together can’t equal him, even if they were capable of thinking of rebellion. Angels,” he adds, making a moue of distaste, and to his surprise, Castiel finds himself echoing it. “What can you do? Besides, they know he won’t kill every angel left in Creation; at least one of them will have to survive to keep him company, you know. Prostrate themselves beholding his glory, whatever melodramatic archangels go in for these days.” His expression darkens. “Bad enough that: Hell is vast and Lucifer’s grasp of its geography is weak at best; we know how to survive in places where even an archangel would hesitate to tread. Reality, though: that’s a different story altogether. Unmaking all of Creation: no one wants that. Except apparently the only one who can pull that off.”
“That…” Castiel belatedly gulps the remainder of his coffee before setting the cup aside. “That happened after Dean arrived here again.”
“Confirmation that I made the right decision, then.” Crossing his legs, one foot balancing neatly on his knee, he shrugs. “The terms are unusual, I grant you, but double blind has its advantages. What I don’t know—what I can’t know—can’t be told, now can it? That goes for everyone who signed.”
“Except whoever holds the contract,” he answers incredulously. “I assume they know there’s a penalty for breaking it, but—”
“You would make a terrible Crossroads demon,” Crowley observes. “Though at this moment, you make a much worse angel, former or not. This is contract, Castiel; making the terms isn’t something you trust to any but a professional, and it doesn’t come more professional than the Crossroads. I’m not sure what offends me more; the very idea you’d think I’d sign with an amateur, or I’d sign without knowing all the terms first, no matter what the contract specified I would remember afterward.”
He should have guessed. “You wrote the terms.”
“I’m the King of the Crossroads. I wouldn’t sign anything I didn’t write myself.” He sighs noisily, resting his head on one hand. “I’m not new at this. The contract is fulfilled only when Lucifer is caged or dead while Dean Winchester is still alive and well on earth; there’s no limit on how long it takes for that to happen.”
“You’re all bound to this contract indefinitely?” Death, in this case, wouldn’t necessarily be a dealbreaker, and the sheer number of definitions ‘dead’ can encompass is staggering enough; that this might encompass all of them is—he supposes ‘unusual’ would usually go here, but he’s not sure there’s a word for this.
“Didn’t put in a clause for that,” Crowley says thoughtfully. “Perhaps I forgot.”
Castiel stares at him, at a loss for words.
“End of reality, that might break it,” he continues, turning his glass and watching the wine gleam, the flickering light of the chandelier picking out hints of ruby and vermilion with each rotation. “Certainly nothing less. This is our last chance, Castiel. This gets done, I made sure of it. I don’t need to remember the terms to know how I wrote it.”
Against his own better judgment, he’s unwillingly impressed. He doubts anyone—even Crowley—could write an unbreakable contract, but it might be far, far easier to fulfill the terms—and more pleasant—than attempting to find a way out of it. Assuming anyone was so foolish as to actually desire the continuance of Lucifer’s ascension and guarantee of their own (probably horrific, even by the standards of Hell) death.
“I assume regaining the memory of who you wrote it for as well as the unexpunged details of the contract were part of the terms.”
Crowley grins at him, pleased. “In big, bold letters, even. I must admit, Apocalypse and end of all things aside, finding out the whole is very high on my list of reasons I’m hoping it works out. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before in all time, and trust me on this one, I’d know.” He gives Castiel a sidelong glance. “For that matter, so would you.”
“No,” he confirms obediently, and Crowley stretches in his chair, satisfied as an overly indulged cat. “It’s new.” There seems to be a lot of that going around.
“That it is.” Crowley waves a hand. “Anything else?”
“You said that Dean’s presence here—alive at the time of Lucifer’s caging or death—is one of the terms. Does that mean he’ll be sent home when the contract is fulfilled?”
“Homesick, is he?” Crowley makes a tut-tut sound—Castiel hadn’t realized that was a real thing that people, or demons, did—before taking another lazy drink. “I couldn’t tell you. Whoever brought him here may know that part of the terms, along with how they managed it at all.”
“That does lead to the question of who has that kind of power.” Crowley nods agreeably. “Since, unless I miss my guess, no one does, and that’s just to start. Provided whoever arranged this didn’t somehow get Lucifer to sign the contract as well, which strangely enough, isn’t the least likely possibility at the moment.”
“Not impossible,” Crowley allows. “Wouldn’t put it past him to do it in a fit of spite against—who knows what could have offended him this time, spacetime itself? I can’t tell you, though. Anything else?”
“The Church where a group of demons introduced a new kind of human sacrifice two and a half years ago?”
Crowley blinks, looking genuinely confused. “No, nothing there.”
“Six of yours were trying to finish it in Ichabod two weeks ago with the help of several human helpers.”
“Ah, yes, I do remember something about that. Only two reported back, however.” Crowley peers at him, smiling with unmistakable approval. “I wasn’t particularly surprised when I found out the reason: Castiel his very self and a tiny band of freedom fighters show up just in time to fight six demons and a small army of Croatoans and leave nothing alive when they leave. Not that I’d expect anything less from Chitaqua; they were trained by you, after all.”
“I killed only two; another member of Chitaqua killed one as well,” Castiel says evenly. “Dean took care of the last one himself.”
Crowley starts to answer before hesitating, frowning at him. “Say again?”
“Dean killed one of them,” Castiel says. “Along with greater than ten Croats in a confined space filled with terribly vulnerable children.”
Crowley straightens. “He was there?”
“He was there,” Castiel confirms. “Dean Winchester, the only person who can stop the Apocalypse and imported here for that specific purpose, was the only armed adult available to protect a daycare of children, among them the ones your demon wanted, and did I mention there were Croats?” He pauses for a moment of bitter satisfaction as the color drains from Crowley’s face. “Dean assured me that the demon didn’t recognize him, and that was on the edge of possible only when we thought it wasn’t part of a plan that requires he remain alive.”
“Then I owe you both thanks for disposing of them for me,” Crowley says softly, eyes flickering red before he makes a visible effort to relax. “If it helps, I disposed of the other two when they returned, of course. Castiel, you must understand that certain precautions must be taken. My demons are bound to me, but they aren’t under contract. I couldn’t risk sending anyone to earth who might recognize him, not after all the trouble we took to keep Kansas incommunicado.”
“One recognized me, however. Oddly enough, it wasn’t my name but visual confirmation on seeing my face.”
“Fallen angel?” Crowley snorts into his glass. “Between your Brothers pouting over you remaining behind—and in a human form at that—and your dramatics over the last few years, you are something of a popular topic of conversation.”
“My name, Crowley.” He deliberately didn’t consider this, but it’s possible. “Are my Brothers trying to unmake my name?”
“Yes, several times over the last two years,” he answers. “It’s failed, every time faster than the time before, if that tells you anything; it doesn’t me, but it is amusing to see their utter bafflement. Hell is the only place that will even pretend to respond to their efforts now, and as I said, it doesn’t take. I don’t see the point myself; they can’t erase you from any plane of existence at this late date, and they don’t even have the Host to formally disavow you.” He shakes his head at the folly of angels, which Castiel (much relieved) can’t help but agree. “Why didn’t they, by the way? Surely on their way out the door they could have taken the time to do so.”
“So I’m a source of gossip in Hell?”
“It’s not as if there’s much in Hell that’s new.” Crowley grins at him conspiratorially. “I must admit, I always liked you for the effect you have on your Brothers. It’s rare to see them so upset, and you do it with so little effort.”
“I live to provide them irritation.” Castiel catches himself before he joins in Crowley’s low laugh, recalling himself to the subject. “How long do you think Dean’s presence can be hidden here?”
“It should have ended with the barrier falling, but it seems an extension is needed,” Crowley answers. “What have you been about anyway—you’ve had almost five months with him. You may hate everything, but Dean Winchester—any of them—that gets your attention. You’d burn the world to keep him safe just on principle, and the only safety for him here is to be ready for this, and apparently, he’s not. We can only do so much; take some responsibility for your charge, Castiel.”
Castiel’s amusement fades. Not prophecy, fate, or the Host’s greatest efforts, could make Dean do what he didn’t want to do; it seems the art of manipulation truly is best practiced by demons after all.
Also, someone is watching them, and doing a not entirely inadequate job at it. That bears panic at a more convenient time. “What makes you think he’s not ready?”
“Not the one who made that decision,” Crowley answers, sitting back. “Again—”
“You don’t know.” He’s already very tired of that answer. “You know what’s happening in Ichabod now, I assume.”
“Lucifer’s sulk has to end sometime, or so I assume,” Crowley says. “Eventually, he’s going to come back to complete his conquest and realize the reset button has been pressed on the Apocalypse. The barrier is the only way to hide Dean’s existence as well as protect him until he can protect himself.”
“At the cost of two thousand human lives.”
“More than that, but it’d be cheap at ten times the price,” Crowley tells him. “You are—or were—an angel, Castiel; don’t pretend a horror you don’t feel. You’ve killed more for far less reason.”
“So you’re aware of what is being used to accomplish it?”
“I haven’t seen it myself, if that is what you’re asking,” Crowley answers, and that flicker again: it must chafe to have such limits placed on his knowledge. “Quite new, I understand.”
“You were human once—”
Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Castiel.”
“I don’t expect you to sympathize with your former species, so I’ll put this in terms that you’ll understand. I saw the whole of it. I remember it. And I can read it. There’s no limit on how many can be used in a single sacrifice.”
“So I understand,” Crowley agrees with fading hostility. “The design seems to prize quantity over quality.”
“It was designed to that purpose. The only limitation is practical: the size.” Crowley’s expression remains unchanged, but even from his chair, Castiel can see him swallow. “A town? A state? A country, perhaps, might be difficult, but considering the amount of power that can be gained, there’s no reason not to try. Drawn once and closed, it’s done; all that’s left to do is kill those who entered it before it was closed. Humanity and Lucifer have been engaged in competition for humanity’s destruction for eons; I don’t think adding demons as another competitor will increase their chances for survival.”
“You make it sound more tempting with every word,” Crowley remarks, amusement returning. “What’s to stop me from using it myself?”
“Other than the continuance of humanity is how you acquired that body you wear, not to mention an endless supply of future minions? As well as the entire point of being a Crossroad demon?” Crowley looks ostentatiously unconvinced. “Should my Brothers discover it, they’ll purge Hell themselves to assure it’s never used again, especially since they can’t use it—yes, that part surprised me as well—but it occurs to me that there’s a more personally gratifying option.”
“You do like personal gratification, or so I’ve heard,” Crowley murmurs. “Made something of a lifestyle of it.”
“’I withhold my heart not from any joy’,” he quotes. “With the potential of so much power at stake, you’ll all be far too busy killing each other to get it or stop someone else from using it to ever get around to doing anything with it and purge yourselves. In which case, the wisest course is to offer it to every demon I know, make popcorn, and see which one comes first.”
“You ‘pop’ popcorn,” Crowley corrects him absently. Castiel files that away for future reference; knowledge is never wasted, after all. “You think that’s possible?”
“It’s not simply possible; it’s inevitable,” he answers. “You’re King of the Crossroads; temptation isn’t a mystery to you. Which you know perfectly well, so I have no idea why you’re baiting me on what you worked out as soon as you found out about its existence. It’s as much a threat to you as to my Brothers. Especially,” he adds deliberately, “to whoever might sit on the Throne of Hell once Lucifer is defeated.”
“I was merely exploring hypotheticals,” Crowley admits, raising his eyebrows in tacit acknowledgement. “You do realize I can’t do anything about it being used to remake the barrier? That it’s happening is all I know.”
“When your contract is fulfilled, you’ll know both who held it and who signed it as well as the terms,” he replies. “Give me the names of those involved in this aspect and I’ll do the rest. Provided I survive that long, of course. And we win.”
“Of course,” Crowley agrees smoothly. “If I had information like that, there’d be a price.”
Sometimes, it feels like he’s been propositioned by everyone and everything but a genuine Crossroads demon (he doesn’t think anything so far today counts, as he’s fairly certain that Crowley’s been desperate to tell someone about his brilliance, even if he can’t remember it). Now would be an excellent time to add to his collection. Especially the King: it’s a pity he can’t ever tell Dean about it. From Dean’s cryptic comments before they parted today, he has the feeling Dean wouldn’t understand.
Not that he’s stupid enough to actually make contract, of course, but no reason not to at least enjoy the experience. “What would be your terms?”
Crowley makes an effort to look thoughtful, as if he’s considering anything but the most obvious option. “You, true form, soul, whole and entire. Payable in fulfillment of winning the Apocalypse, of course. Lucifer’s ban won’t be enforceable from the Cage, even should he survive, and I’ll sit on the Throne of Hell, so it will be my choice whether it should be enforced.”
“You’re that confident you’ll ascend to the Throne?”
“Yes, and I hope you appreciate the honor being bestowed upon you.”
“To be tortured for eternity by the King of Hell himself,” Castiel muses. “However will I bear the anticipation?”
“Please, like I’d go through this much trouble simply for fodder for the rack.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Being in Hell would be an advantage in this case; that’s where you’ll probably find every name on the contract. Agree now, and I’ll throw in this: I’ll help you to do it whether or not I’m sitting on the Throne by that time.”
Castiel opens his mouth to ask if he could also be supplied with regular shipments of coffee when he realizes that his mind is droning a quiet negation, has been, hardly even a feeling but now growing stronger. When he tries again, it abruptly spikes in intensity, like the low hum of electrical wires, pushing against his skull insistently as if to tell him how to answer because there’s not another one.
“Castiel?” Crowley asks, voice muffled beneath the slowly growing negation; with a start, Castiel tries to think of negation’s opposite and utterly, utterly fails.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Crowley looks as surprised as he feels. “You mean you won’t.”
Actually, no; he can’t, not even in mockery. That’s—new.
“Could we delay this conversation for another time?” He examines the limitations; the verbal delay causes a dark, unhappy buzzing he can feel vibrating against the back of his ears, but the pressure eases incrementally. “Otherwise, the answer is no.”
It stops, gone as if he’d imagined the entire thing. “No, not at this time.”
“You might want to…” Crowley looks down at his glass, swirling the contents before starting to raise it and stopping, abruptly setting it on the table beside him. Legs crossed, he turns his attention back to Castiel with a serious expression on his face. “You’re in the contract.”
Knocking on the door perfunctorily, Dean pokes his head inside Alison’s office. “Hey, you…have someone in here.” And it would be Lourdes, of course. Noak’s mayor and probably not his biggest fan at the moment.
“How observant of you,” Alison says, rolling her eyes. “Come in, Dean, and close the door. In theory, I’m unavailable and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He really wants to say no, but he’s not gonna flee before the Alliance mayors. “Lourdes,” he says, nodding and trying not to blink at the long, dark yellow sweater, intricately embroidered, and brown skirt nearly reaching the floor, cut up one side to reveal elegant boots without even water stains. Tall and thin, dark skin flawless, hair in a complicated knot of braids at the back of her neck, she looks like she’s about to go to a really nice party and not an Alliance meeting in a room that’s missing key parts of its (okay, hideous) tile floor. A party for supermodels or something: who looks that good naturally? “How’s it going?”
“Good, thank you,” she says, adding just enough ice to remind him she’s just being polite.
“Does the meeting have a dress code or something?” he asks before he thinks better of it and gets twin glares when actually, he was being serious (mostly). “Just saying, should I tell Vera and Joe….you look nice.”
Alison shuts her eyes with a pained look, and wow, he didn’t realize Lourdes could be less impressed with him, but look at that. “Thank you.” Her voice softens in genuine concern as she asks, “How is Castiel? Has he recovered from the events yesterday?”
“Good.” Dean tries not to wince. “He’s okay, thanks. I’ll tell him you asked.”
She nods, turning toward Alison and smiling. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”
“Tell Claudia to go ahead and start without me,” Alison says, and they exchange a look he really hates before Lourdes passes him on her way out, closing the door with a deliberate finality like she’s washing her hands of him. Or he could be reading into it.
Pushing back from the desk, Alison sighs, eyeing him. “Tell me you weren’t trying to be charming.”
“Shut up.” Dropping into the chair across the desk, he rubs his face tiredly. “They all hate me, don’t they?”
“I’m sure they’ll cut you some slack for the entire ‘boyfriend attacked in the mess’ thing,” she says encouragingly. In contrast to Lourdes’ careless elegance, Alison has her hair bundled up with a pencil stuck through it and has added a worn, hideously green plaid flannel on top of the even more hideous red one she wore earlier today, which argues she’s maybe colorblind because even Dean knows that’s not recommended as a winter look for anyone, ever. With the glasses—which have been bent at least a couple of times since he first met her and now stay on her face by the grace of God (and he means that; there’s no other explanation)—the Executive Secretary to the Apocalypse is out in full force today. “When the memory of the meeting’s faded a little.”
“Like you wouldn’t have thrown a fit if it were Teresa,” he says sullenly, knowing he sounds six years old and not caring.
“Which is why they’ll let it go,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Lourdes’ sister Wendy is a witch and her husband is doing his apprenticeship with her, and she and I aren’t the only people in that meeting who had personal reason to not like it. Just saying, you’re scary.”
“I’m not.”
She rolls her eyes before focusing on him abruptly. “Where’s Cas?”
Yeah, that’s what he thought. “You stalking him?” She raises her eyebrows. “You know what I mean!”
“I’m a psychic,” she says succinctly, leaning her chin on one hand. “When he’s in town, I can’t avoid knowing about it, whether I’m blocking everyone or not. He’s special like that.”
Right, and he gets that (mostly). “But not like this.” Then, because he can be fair, “This about the mess?”
“That didn’t help.” Scowling, she leans back in her chair, regarding him over the width of the desk, and Dean fails to maintain even fake hostility in the face of her genuine worry. Cas wasn’t wrong about Dean’s biases here (though Cyn isn’t what he’d call case in point; she’s got issues and a team leader for an ex, for fuck’s sake), but he can think of much worse ways to judge people than how they treat Cas, and he doesn’t mean just not having the five percent reaction (with new and improved homicidal tendencies attached). “That shouldn’t have happened, Dean.”
“Alison—”
“But if it had to,” she continues relentlessly, “I should have known about it when it happened, not after the fact. What’s the point of being a psychic if I can’t even tell when my friends are being mobbed by crazy people?”
She’s kind of got him there. “He’s checking the cow trails or something for Chitaqua,” Dean tells her and sees her relax. “In case they’re stuck in the snow or being chased by cows, no idea.” Alison winces. “Seriously?”
“You ever been chased by a cow?” He shakes his head. “Don’t mock it until you’re jumping fences trying to get back to the jeep at an Olympic-qualifying time.”
He wouldn’t have stopped the laughter even if he could have (which he couldn’t), which is why he’s bent over and gasping breathlessly under Alison’s helpless glare. With an effort, he manages to straighten, but luckily (Alison looks really unhappy with him) the door opens abruptly before she finishes opening her mouth.
“Alison?” Tony says hopefully, glancing at Dean briefly and not commenting (though his mouth twitches). “You have a minute?”
Alison, he’s pretty sure, is counting to ten. “Sure,” she says, as Tony closes the door, her expression smoothing into surprise as he takes the chair beside Dean. “What’s up? Got the thing with the plant—doing its thing?”
“Yes,” Tony says, tossing a folder on the desk and resting his ankle on the knee of his other leg as he sits back. “Mostly.”
Alison checks her paging through the folder (with a blank look). “What? Not enough power?”
“Power isn’t a problem,” he assures her. “That plant was meant to run the entire county with change to spare; it’s old, but it’s solid. The problem is….” He visibly pauses, probably realizing the limits of his audience. “Okay put it this way: power plants are delicate flowers and too much power is as much a problem as too little, especially when it comes to load.”
“How much or little everyone is using at any given time,” Alison says confidently but he doesn’t miss her watching Tony and trying not to look relieved when he nods. “Because—it… the amount has to stay stable and not—jump up and down or something?”
Tony thinks about it. “Close enough. We got Third through Fifth up okay because I had time to test it and adjust for the load, but that was supposed to be temporary. No way can I just bring up Sixth, Seventh, and Baltimore and hope for the best; best in this case is blowing out every fuse we got. For that matter, we’re having one hell of a time keeping it up with the current load distribution; it’s not gonna last much longer.”
“Right,” Alison says, and it’s only the way she stills that he can tell she’s bracing herself, already mentally trying to work out how to fit (much) greater than twenty thousand people on possibly three streets. “So—”
“I have crews getting ready now,” Tony says. “I’m going to bring the grid down.”
Alison straightens so fast Dean’s back aches, but that also may be because he did the same thing. “What?”
“When it’s down, I’m going to have crews repairing the connections to the grid from Sixth, Seventh, and Baltimore and check and recheck all the rest,” he continues, clasping his hands over his flannel-covered belly. Despite the serious expression, Dean gets the feeling he’s kind of enjoying this. “This is where you come in; I need you to get the generators to the priority areas and hooked up, then give the order to have everyone unplug everything and keep it unplugged until I bring the grid back up.”
Alison’s eyes fix on a point in the middle distance. “All nine streets?”
“Every goddamn building that isn’t marked red,” he confirms. “We don’t have time to go out and cut each building out individually, so the only ones we’re going to do are the ones we know can’t be used and can’t even risk going in to check for leftover lamps or someone’s two year old cellphone still stuck in the wall. For the rest—every room has to be checked, basement to attic and make sure the central heat or whatever is turned off. We’ll throw the breakers on every building not in use, but we can’t count on that working across the board.”
“Or we risk blowing out the grid,” Alison says, focusing on Tony. “I remember that speech.”
“It’ll take about an hour to bring it all the way down,” Tony says. “We’ll reboot the system and watch the dials as we bring it up street by street. That way, something blows, it won’t take out the entire grid and we can fix it and start over. Best case scenario, from down to up, four hours.”
“Worst case?”
Tony makes a face. “Neither Walter nor I were full time electrical engineers in a past life, and everything we know we learned on the job. We did a lot of workarounds to bring it up and keep it up, and some of them I still don’t know why they work, only that they do. So—”
“I mean, are we going to blow up?” she clarifies. “Giant Ichabod-shaped fireball, anything like that?”
Tony cocks his head, thinking carefully. “May blow out the grid and live the rest of our short lives like our cavepeople ancestors, but no. Ichabod definitely won’t blow up.”
“Oh, thank God,” she says, falling back in her chair. “No problem then. How long do you need before you start?”
“The storm’s hitting at midnight, but it’ll still take a couple of hours to get too shitty to work,” he says, getting to his feet. “Ten is the latest I want to risk, and earlier is better. I gotta get back: still got a lot of prep to finish up. You need me, or…?”
“We’ll be ready,” Alison says, smiling at him. “Pick up a couple of meals from the mess for you and Walter before you go in case you get stuck out there, okay? And get a walkie-talkie from the patrol office.”
“Just give me a mind-poke if you’re worried,” Tony advises her, circling the desk and squeezing her shoulder before starting for the door. “See you later, Dean.”
“Yeah,” he says belatedly, but the door’s already closing. Turning toward Alison, he sees her looking into the middle distance again, customary frown in place. “Alison?”
After a long moment, she seems to drag herself back into the room, blinking at him slowly. “Have you ever,” she starts, “had a terrible idea, and the more you thought about it, the worse it was, but—”
“Just makes you want to do it more,” Dean finishes for her, sighing. “Yep.”
“I want to dissolve the perimeter line; let everyone inside who can pass the wards. We can’t control it much longer, may as well start what’s going to happen anyway on our own terms.”
Dean jerks himself upright: holy shit. “What?”
“And call in the patrols,” she continues, warming to theme. “All of them. Put everyone to finishing relay setup, get the generators to the infirmary, the daycare, the mess, and—oh, the old YMCA on Fifth that Amanda’s been working on, that’ll work, it’s huge. We can use that as a warming station. Seal up the buildings as best we can; not a lot are weatherproofed, but four hours should be fine—let’s say six, lying for a good cause never hurt anyone, avoid panic if Tony and Walter are delayed.”
“You’ll be unprotected,” Dean says, even knowing she knows that. The barrier is coming down, fuck knows what’s waiting for just that; if there was ever a time to double or triple the people on perimeter, this would be the time.
“Not much they can do in a blizzard anyway,” she answers practically. “Abominable snowman wants attention, he’s gonna have to wait in line. I need to—fuck my life, that goddamn meeting—”
“Started what, twenty minutes ago? I was going to ask if you were going,” he lies (at least the asking her part), which earns him the ghost of a glare, but he can’t really get over how terrible this idea is—God, so terrible—but he likes it. Even better, it might just work. “Tell Claudia to handle it; you can tell her what they need to do so she can tell them, save some time.”
“Right.” She gets to her feet, scowling at nothing, and he swallows back the comment she’s not careful, her face is gonna freeze like that. “Dean—crap, I didn’t even ask what you needed. Can it wait?”
“No,” he answers and her face falls. “What are your orders?”
Alison’s expression dissolves into bewilderment. “What?”
“I got some free time,” he drawls at her baffled expression. “What do you want me to do? Anytime you’re ready.”
“You.” He widens his eyes and nods exaggeratedly; sure, it’s an emergency, but sarcasm is an all-occasion kind of thing. “Happen to have any ideas?”
“Not yet,” he admits, getting to his feet as she retrieves her coat; the idea right now is make sure Alison isn’t wandering around town alone with everyone else too far away to help if anything goes wrong. “I’ll get some, though. Anytime now.”
“You’re with me,” she says, rolling her eyes as on her way to the door. “First stop: Volunteer Services to warn them what’s gonna hit them when the perimeter line is dissolved, then city services for the generators, then patrol. Try and keep up.”
Dean snorts, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. “No problem.”
“Me.” Crowley nods shortly. “By name?”
“True name, all your known names,” Castiel stills, and Crowley smiles in satisfaction, “ranks, positions within the hierarchy—interesting reading there—and the whole confirmed by bloody sigil, therefore true.” He looks at Castiel with something not unlike admiration. “Took considerable time to get through it all, and even I didn’t know most of it, and that’s the parts I could read. You’ve been very busy for an angel from the ranks, Castiel; your work ethic is to be lauded, though obviously, your Brothers didn’t appreciate it.” He tilts his head, eyes boring into Castiel. “Do you even know how many times the Host—”
“When I Fell, my memory became mine by natural right,” he interrupts. “No one else in existence should know more than I did before that moment, however, and I certainly didn’t sign it!”
For a horrified moment, he thinks of the church. Even at his least optimistic (and most drunk, stoned, or high) he doesn’t think he’d sign a double-blind contract with anyone in Hell and erase his own memory with divine or demonic assistance as part of the terms. Before he can begin to panic, he remembers what Crowley said: the barrier had to be replaced because they’d expected Dean to be ready and he apparently failed to meet their expectations. Never in his entire existence has he been so grateful for his own incompetence; surely if he was contracted for this, he would have done a better job of it. For that matter, if they wanted someone competent, he certainly wouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice.
“No, nothing like that. It was someone covering all their bases very thoroughly when it comes to you.” Crowley hesitates, looking uncharacteristically indecisive before he settles himself, brown eyes meeting his. “You were put up in auction.”
“Auction?” Of all the things he’d expected to hear—and that’s a very long list—that wasn’t anywhere on it. “In Hell?”
“Come one, come all,” he confirms. “Place your bids, take your chances, pick up your brand new soul or equivalent on the way out. Or the guarantee of getting it, in any case.”
“Not that I object any more than anyone faced with eternal suffering, but….” He searches Crowley’s face for a sign of deceit. “Lucifer’s proclamation would be enforced by Hell itself.”
“Serendipitously enough, it happened before Lucifer set the ban. Auction is contract; can’t change that after the fact.”
“How unbelievably fortunate that was,” he answers blankly. “There’s also the small matter that I’m still alive and also not in Hell. Even souls bought in contract don’t go to auction until payment comes due.”
“Irregular, I’ll grant you,” Crowley admits. “Perfectly legal, however; it’s been done before, if you remember.”
“When Dean made contract, I remember.” He never truly believed there was any other possibility for him once his mortal life was ended; oblivion was a pleasant fantasy, but it was only that. Falling meant damnation without hope of forgiveness, even if it were possible for him to regret it, and he long ago accepted that his existence would never be anything but suffering until the end of time in the bowels of Hell at the hands of his former Brothers. He’s not certain demons are an improvement, but at least his suffering will offer endless variety in how it’s inflicted.
Speaking of that, “How were my Brothers brought to agree….” Crowley looks dramatically remorseful. “They didn’t know. How?”
“It wasn’t a terribly inspiring lot up for grabs at the time,” he explains, reaching for his wine glass again and tilting it toward him encouragingly. Glancing at the table beside him, Castiel sees his mug has been refilled and picks it up to take a long drink; it’s a pity he can’t risk asking for something stronger. “I suppose they didn’t feel like showing up that day. Odd, that.”
“Serendipitous indeed.” While he has no desire to spend infinity in unspeakable agony on the rack instead of being the prime entertainment for his Brothers’ lack of imagination, there’s a certain sense of satisfaction in his Brothers discovering that demons had been able to claim him before they could. Pride can be so inconvenient: force him to submit, torture him, even destroy him, all quite in order, kept in the family and far from the vermin of Hell they believe they rule; allow a Brother, even Fallen, to be claimed and tortured on the rack before the eyes of common demons, never. If they were capable of apoplexy, it would occur en masse; he almost wishes he could see their faces when they find out. “They won’t like that.”
“Once it’s done, too late, so sorry, here’s a lovely door for you to see yourself out.” Crowley matches Castiel’s smile. “Your Brothers can stamp their feet all they want; if they wanted you, they should have been there to claim you.” He takes a long drink, looking pleased with himself. “As I said, irregular but quite legal. Payment not due until arrival, of course. Try not to die anytime soon, Castiel. You are a very expensive pet.”
And he thought this couldn’t get more surreal. “You.”
Crowley smiles, spreading his arms wide. “Me.”
“No one’s ever broken an angel on the rack of Hell.”
“No one’s ever put one on the rack to try. It’d be interesting to see what would rise, wouldn’t it?” Crowley chuckles softly, as if he’s hearing Castiel’s screams already. “Besides, do you even qualify as an angel anymore?”
“Fascinating as that question is, it doesn’t matter. When my Brothers discover I’m in Hell, they’ll take the necessary steps to claim me, which would be, in case you’ve forgotten, killing you and possibly purge Crossroads altogether.”
Crowley scowls. “I know that, thank you very much. Wouldn’t be enjoyable for either of us—well, you less than me, of course.”
“I can think of several ways to help with that,” he offers politely. “Would you like a list? Alphabetical or categorical?”
Crowley’s expression sours further. “I can already see this will be lovely. Don’t fancy you as my only company, either, but I suppose that’s still better than none at all.”
“Your only—” Crowley slumps further, eyes fixed despondently on the wall behind him. “What was the price?”
“Going rate for one Fallen angel, slightly used, very mortal? Crossroads, whole and entire. The bidding was ridiculous; once in an infinity opportunity, no one wanted to miss it. Except your Brothers, of course: pity, that.” Crowley’s expression sours further when Castiel bursts into laughter. “Highest price on a single soul—or what passes for that where you’re concerned—since Dean Winchester went on the block, and that cost Alistair everything but the Pit itself.”
“I almost wish I could’ve been there,” he answers honestly. “Did you leave with your pants or did—”
“I’m going to invent all new ways to use the rack just for you,” Crowley interrupts venomously, finishing his glass in a gulp. “Stuff those wings of yours and hang them on my wall.”
“I’m flattered, of course. If you find them, do tell me where they were. I’ve wondered about that myself.”
“This is why Alistair died without an heir, you know,” Crowley continues morosely, finishing off his glass in a single gulp. “Should have known better: all that effort he put into Dean and he couldn’t even keep him after. Don’t let it go to your head. It was in the contract. Had to win it, any way I could.”
“You don’t know why?”
“Not even a hint.” The red-glazed eyes focus on him, and Castiel stills, amusement fading. “Must be a reason I agreed to it, however,” he continues cryptically. “The rack’s only a tool; there are other ways, and I know them all. Depends on how long I get to keep you.”
Carefully, Castiel sets the mug aside before he drops it, hands dropping to the arms of the chair to hide the tremor; suddenly, this starts to make sense. “You’re buying me for someone else.”
“Buyer has first claim to service,” he says almost absently, focus intensifying; it feels like oil slicking every inch of his skin. “I get that much, before and after the rack—”
“There won’t be an after.”
“—but no touching allowed. I’m not even allowed to try.” His expression darkens, mouth curving in a bitter smile. “No better way to show me my place, I suppose. The only reason I was given the job was that I was the only one who could afford to outbid every demon in Hell.”
“If you give your claim to someone else before my Brothers find out…” He trails off, startled at the impulse.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “They’ll kill me for the presumption of claiming you at all. They’ll have to hurry, though; when I step down, most of Hell will be after me, and they’ll have my own former demons helping them find me.” Shaking himself, he straightens, reaching for his now-full glass and taking a drink. “I might need to call on your service then. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
He doesn’t point out it won’t be optional, and not just because he’ll be bound to Crowley. It won’t be new to be hunted; in Heaven and on earth, there’s no reason it shouldn’t continue in Hell. All he needs is Limbo and Purgatory to have a complete set.
“Why did you sign it?” Crowley doesn’t answer. “I understand wishing to avoid a purge of Hell and earth, but not when it’s probable you won’t survive to enjoy it.”
“Tell me something I don’t know!” he snaps before taking a breath, expression smoothing over. Straightening in his seat, the urbane smile returns. “However, I did write the contract before I signed it. I apparently knew what I was doing when I did it.”
“You’re sure you’re the only one that decided the terms?”
Crowley’s smile changes, curving into something more genuine as he relaxes into his chair. “You’re worried about me? Really?”
“Since I’m apparently intimately involved in your fate after my death, all things are possible.” Crowley tips his head in acknowledgement. Reaching for his own cup, he stops himself, startled to realize he almost forgot why he was here in the first place. “About the barrier—”
“We’re on that again?” Crowley complains. “Have another cup. What do you think of the coffee?”
“I’d like a pound or two if you have it. Later,” he says firmly as Crowley opens his mouth to offer terms. “How long—”
“Why does it matter? Now that you know, you can take the proper precautions. Chitaqua’s wards are well-nigh unbreakable—how did you do that, anyway? As a demon, I take offense at their existence, of course, but the entertainment value of Lucifer’s reaction pays for all.”
“We’re in Ichabod,” he answers, bewildered. “I—”
“I meant to ask about that,” Crowley interrupts. “What are you doing there now? I’d get home, no time to waste.”
Castiel stares at him in growing alarm. “We can’t leave.”
“Of course you can. Get in your little SUV, use this new invention they call ‘roads’….”
“We can’t leave,” he snaps. “Can’t, unable to do so, incapable without the power of teleportation or flight, neither of which I have access to at this time. The roads are impassable due to the probability that the entire state of Kansas is heading to Ichabod as we speak.”
Crowley stills. “What?”
“Those coming to Ichabod outnumber us by several orders of magnitude, so every road in is filled, and while the recent blizzard makes extended foot travel questionable, they’re certainly trying.” Finally, Crowley seems to understand. “Even if the roads were passable, our vehicles…” He pauses, trying to remember how Amanda put it. “Disney World. The parking lot, but without the colored lines….”
“Bloody Hell, I’ve seen it.” It’s the worst possible time to wonder what the King of Crossroad demons was doing at Disney World—many crossroads, yes, but under a great deal of regularly repaired asphalt and cement, not to mention people—but he just stops himself from asking. To his bewilderment, however, Crowley’s alarm begins to subside. “That’s unexpected.”
“You didn’t know?”
Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Of course not. That wasn’t in the terms.”
“You can’t even remember them,” he counters, aware of a slowly growing chill. “How would you know—”
“I’d know; that would be the point of having a contract at all.” Crowley relaxes back into his chair, but Castiel doesn’t miss the flicker of uncertainty. “This isn’t my doing, Castiel.”
“We think the human infiltrators in Ichabod were responsible for the influx,” he says carefully. “You expect me to believe their actions in Ichabod on behalf of the Crossroads are unrelated to this?”
“No, but that doesn’t make it true,” Crowley answers. “The circle was untested; confirming its existence and that it was functional was the only goal. Despite what you may think—or I, for that matter—humans can, on occasion, fulfill their own desires with the application of a sufficient work ethic—”
“I have endless faith in human ingenuity, but at their current level of technology, reality states failure is a given when it involves personally delivering thousands of maps throughout the state of Kansas in a three day timeframe.” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Occam’s razor. I see no reason to assume a second group of demons was creeping around Kansas when yours were creeping there already.”
“Creeping? Really, Castiel.” Taking a drink from his glass, Crowley sighs. “Do you have any idea why your infiltrators, as you call them, would send everyone to Ichabod?”
“The barrier is falling,” he starts. “I’m assuming telling them about that was how your demons convinced them to make contract in the first place.”
“The backlash might be unpleasant, but certainly not dangerous in itself,” Crowley says meditatively. “At least, not yet. So why would they—”
“The same reason the contract they made specified their children remain in Ichabod,” he answers, watching Crowley carefully. “Did it never occur to whoever made the barrier that its existence would practically guarantee unwanted attention—”
“Why does it matter?” Looking put-upon, Crowley sighs. “Castiel, and I do deeply hate saying this, so consider this proof of my sincerity: you, of all people, shouldn’t have a problem getting back to Dean in Chitaqua and the safety of the wards.”
Castiel thinks: why am I enjoying this? And this part most of all. “Dean’s in Ichabod.”