#like castiel getting an old ancient book from the past that used to be sam's favorite book and sam is confused but ends up liking it a lot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

poptod · 4 years ago

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The Old Gods

Description: Jack has to get close to a powerful suspect. Jack also ponders upon his humanity.

Notes: genuinely didnt meant for this to get so long, my apologies, i just like writing conversations bc i never get to have them. also! I hate myself so much for writing supernatural fanfiction in the good year of our lord 2021. its not my fault, it was the only show i could watch with my cousin that we both liked. anyway! lmk if you like it i could do a part two WC: 11k

The nearest library could hardly be called a library. A more accurate description would be a collection of books––a small collection––that could be read freely but never taken from the library itself. There was little need within the Winchesters to visit the library, considering they had one in their home filled with mythical lore, but the records of Kansas and neighboring cities and states were detailed thoroughly in the nearest library.

Jack knew a great many things; inherent natures and laws of the universe, the experience of power and of fear, both before him and within him. Many things he'd seen deserved to be feared, exposing him to dangers often unheard of amongst regular children.

Three months into existence, however, Jack liked to think he knew more than he did when he was born. This was because he'd spoken to more people, experienced more things, and learned select things about his mother, his father, his family, and strangers. Still, there were things that puzzled him––the age of the world was clear in his mind (4.543 billion years, four months, 22 days, 6 hours, and 52 seconds) but how humanity progressed into what they now were astounded him.

"Humans started as... these creatures with unending curiosity," Castiel explained to him, his hands folded neat in his lap but hidden by his too-long trenchcoat sleeves. "Ceaseless innovation. They started without language but they always had kindness. I think.. that's why God favored them, at least at first."

"So... kindness is a form of.. intelligence?" Jack asked slowly, his brow furrowed tight as he stared past his father.

"I believe so," he said, shifting in his seat. "Kindness drove these animals to building homes, to conversing with one another, to creating a better world for descendants they would never know. It's quite beautiful, actually."

"Am I a part of that story?"

Only half-human, only half-alive, only half the story, belonging to nothing concrete. Jack wasn't really human, leaving him alone in his species.

"Yes," Castiel said without hesitation.

Civilization first started off in a number of areas. The first book Jack found dealt with the fertile crescent northeast of Africa, where Mesopotamia brought forth a number of societies, of cultures, meshed together over the course of thousands of years. Sumerians were one of the first to build their cities, creating writing, the wheel, and the plow in their haven apart from the unpredictable and often violent wild.

But no––the next book Jack found stated that Jericho was the oldest city, west to the fertile crescent near the shore of the Mediterranean and the Dead Sea. The citystate was independent from any other power, often becoming abandoned from raids only to return to high populations, as humans flocked back to the spring water that still poured from inside the earth to this day.

Over the rest of the day spent in the nearest library, Jack learned there was no single spot in which civilization was created and then spread from. The Nile in Africa brought forth Egypt, the Indus river in Pakistan birthed the Harappan civilization, and the two rivers Yellow and Yangtze in China created the first asian cities. From there villages, towns, and cities spread like mold across the earth's surface, eventually bringing humans to inhabit every continent and nearly every environment known on earth.

There were far too many things to know, and the strain of reading on his eyes eventually forced him to retire for the day. He hardly understood anything yet, but the librarian was understanding as to his prolonged stay, and wished him a good evening when he left. He beamed a bright smile despite the strange pain growing behind his eyes, and waved good-bye.

Dean gave him painkillers when he got back to the bunker after Jack thoroughly (and unnecessarily) described his headache.

"Humans are... strange," Jack said, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning over an empty bowl of cereal.

"Not wrong, but, care to elaborate?" asked Sam, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, a newspaper and pen in his hand.

"Castiel said you created the first cities out of a desire to.. to protect each other, and to keep yourselves safe. And then the first thing you do when you meet other cities is to go to war with them."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, leaning back as he set the newspaper aside. This would take a little more concentration than a passing ear.

"People are scared by things they don't know," Sam began only to be cut off.

"Why?"

"They don't know if it's dangerous. You didn't trust us, at first, either. We didn't know whether to trust you. Remember?"

"Oh," Jack said softly.

"Yeah. But you're right," he said with a long sigh. "It's strange. We're... strange."

"Are humans inherently good?"

"I don't think anyone is inherently good," Sam said, and Jack straightened his posture, suddenly confused by his claim. "Every person – every thing, every living thing has – has the capacity for good and evil. It's really just up to the individual to decide which side they want to give into."

"Am I a good person?"

"First off, you're not really a person," said another voice from the doorway.

Sam and Jack both turned at the same time, meeting the eye of Dean, who had yet to change out of his bathrobe despite it being 2PM.

"Second off, you haven't been alive long enough to be a good person," he continued as he entered, an empty coffee cup in hand.

"Dean –" Sam began, only to be cut off.

"What? It's the truth."

The coffee machine buzzed loudly once Dean pushed a few of the buttons, setting his cup beneath the nozzle. He muttered something to himself before turning back to the kitchen table.

"Anything strange in the paper?" He asked, leaning against the counter.

"Maybe," said Sam.

He grabbed the paper again, delving into the details of a nearby missing persons case that soon faded out of Jack's state of mind. His thoughts were still absorbed in his existence, in his beginnings, and how they compared to the beginnings of humans. At least with angels he knew everything; that was how angels were born. Knowing everything.

Jack remained seated at the table when Sam and Dean left, still stewing in his thoughts that he imagined would never go away. It was half an hour later when the two brothers returned, this time fully dressed, and packed up on their way to the car.

"We've gotta go find some local records," Dean said.

"So we're headed to the library," Sam finished, and the two gave each other odd glances at the coincidental synchronicity.

"I was there a couple days ago," Jack said, suddenly perking up. "Can I come with you?"

"Sure, just don't get in the way," Dean said with a dismissive hand, already leaving the doorway.

Sam pursed his lips, letting out a bitter, almost apologetic chuckle before he followed.

He liked the middle seat. It didn't have a seatbelt, but he wasn't sure what seatbelts were for anyways, and the middle seat allowed him easy access to see both of the Winchesters. Dean never spared a glance in his direction while he drove, but Sam offered awkward, curt smiles.

Technically Jack could just fly to the library in an instant, but the drive into town was pretty, lined with the colors of autumn. Recently winds had taken up a more brisk edge, marking the absence of birds that flew in packs overhead. He scooted to one of the window seats, craning his neck awkwardly to look up and out of the glass, grinning at the ravens flying through the orange and gold trees.

The librarian showed the three men where the records were kept, directing them towards missing persons cases when they requested it. While Sam and Dean thumbed through the records, Jack returned to ancient history books, studying art and images from Vedic India.

There, amongst the carvings printed on soft paper, he found something rather odd. He stood from his position on the floor, still staring intensely at the print as he walked over to the table Sam and Dean sat at.

"Hey Jack," Sam said as he sat down, gently placing the book on the table. He scanned Jack's hunched posture before he asked, "something up?"

"I found something... strange," he said, his brow still knotted neatly above curious eyes.

"Yeah well, join the club, kid," Dean said with a groan, wiping his face with his hand.

Jack opened his mouth to ask what they'd seen, but Sam answered before he could speak.

"There's been repeated attacks, kind of," he said, waving his hand vaguely. "Once every ten years a couple of kids go missing. Always two kids, always on the same day of the year."

"And another anomaly," Dean said, reaching over to a stack of papers and slapping them on the table in front of Jack.

Big, black words displayed the newspaper title, and below it, the date of publishing. January 4th, 1967. The main article dealt with a concert happening in a nearby city, and the image printed with it displayed a number of concert-goers, most of them in their teens or early adulthood. Hidden behind several other people, a familiar face appeared––the librarian. Unhindered by time.

"Is that..."

"Big boots over there?" Dean asked, pointing with his thumb in your general direction.

You were sorting through a stack of books, but as Jack looked down, he found you were wearing rather large boots. The ends of your pants drowned in them.

"Do you think they're related?" Jack asked as he turned back to the Winchesters.

"Possibly," Sam said with a nod. "Bit early to tell. But, uh..."

Sam trailed off as his eyes focused on something past Jack's shoulder. He, as well as Dean, turned to meet your eyes that quickly darted away once all three of them were looking at you.

"I think I have an idea," Sam said.

Dean and Jack curiously tilted their heads to the side at the same time, though when Dean noticed that, he fixed himself immediately.

"I think they have a thing for you," he said in a much quieter voice.

"Me?" Jack asked, pushing his finger into his chest.

"Yeah. You could get a little closer and see if something's up."

"Are you seriously setting up Jack with a fuckin' demon, for all we know?" Dean asked flatly, earning an odd look from Sam, who had never heard Dean protest putting Jack in danger.

"Dean, Jack's dad is a demon-angel thing. I don't think it's a big deal," he said.

That seemed to shut the older Winchester up.

"Hm," Jack hummed as he debated the idea. "I also found something strange."

"Oh, right," Sam said, clearing his head with a shake. "What was it?"

"It was also... the librarian," he said with a deep frown. "In one of the books."

He pushed forward the textbook, opening it to reveal the page in which he'd found your face. The stone expression was remarkably similar to your traits, from the curve of your nose to the positioning of your eyes, and the small, polite smile on your lips.

"I found it in the history section," Jack explained. "It says it's from Vedic India."

A quick Google-search later, Sam was reading out the age of Vedic India.

"According to this it says the Vedic age was approximately around 1500 to 800 B.C., so... about 2,500 years ago."

"Wow, this fucker's old," Dean snorted.

Sam shot him a look over the top of his computer screen.

Having found the information they were looking for, the Winchesters began to pack up their belongings and their scribbled notes, shoving them into their bags or into their many-pocketed coats. Jack, on the other hand, prepared himself for talking to you, hoping his ineptness towards social situations with humans wouldn't be too obvious. He swallowed through the knot in his throat, taking a shaking breath in an attempt to steady himself.

It didn't work.

"Dean, what am I supposed to say to them?" He whispered when they were already approaching the front desk, his palms growing sweaty.

"I don't know, their job or something? Something normal," he very unhelpfully advised.

"Thanks for letting us stay for the day," Sam said with a polite smile, handing back one of the printed out records you'd fetched for them from beneath your desk.

"Not a problem. You keep quiet. I like that in a reader," you said, smiling back as you glanced between the three of them.

None of them moved, and your expression turned to mild confusion. Dean had to jab Jack in the side to get him to speak. He opened his mouth to protest, but Dean motioned something to Sam, and the two of them quickly left for the car, leaving Jack alone while they 'situated' themselves.

"I, um..." Jack started before he was ready.

The silence felt wrong, but the silence after saying something was much, much worse. Whatever came into his mind first would have to be what he said.

"I like your job," he said, keenly scanning your expression for any hint of your thoughts.

You paused, clearly taken back for a moment, before you broke out into a chuckle, looking down to your hands as your face flushed.

"I like it quite a lot, too," you said with a grin, looking back up at him. "I've always been interested in becoming a librarian. Granted, I didn't quite imagine it in Kansas, but it is pretty here."

"Where did you imagine it?"

"Greece, actually," you chuckled, and he smiled as well, his heart thumping with a sudden haste. "I was heartbroken to hear the Library of Alexandria was burned down."

"The Library of Alexandria?" He repeated, tilting his head to the side again.

"Haven't heard of it?" You asked.

He shook his head gingerly. Was he supposed to?

No matter––you explained in full what the Library of Alexandria was, when it was created, when it was burnt, and the loss it caused amongst human society. He listened intently, frequently asking questions you were happy to answer. When Jack glanced out the library window, he found the impala gone, and realized Sam's plan had, in a way, worked.

"Are there.. any books about the library?" He asked once you completed your short story.

"Yes, but I don't want to hold you folks up –"

It was then you looked out the window as well, finding the two large men had abandoned the smaller.

"Oh where'd they go?" You said in a curious, high voice.

"Don't worry about that, I... have a bus," he said, earning a strange look. "I am... I ride buses."

A beat of silence passed.

"So the Library was in Greece?" He asked, and your earlier mood returned.

You brought him––with much excitement––to one of the rows in the library filled with simple textbooks for primary school kids. Other rows of your well-tended library were occupied by old books, their bindings worn and frayed at the edges from continuous use. Pages were turned yellow and were soft beneath his fingers, but despite their age they were rather hard for Jack to read and understand, meaning his discovery of children's comprehensible textbooks was a giddy one.

Jack wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be looking for when it came to you. What counted as suspicious? You continued to speak with him even after the sun set behind mountains, that could be a sign you were trying to gather information on him, as well. That could also mean you liked him. Was your friendliness suspect?

"- and the Phoenicians were really only called that by the Grecians. The name came from the purple dye that they're famous for, some root word for 'purple people' in Greek is Phoenicia," you explained, moving your hands expressively despite the fact that Jack's eyes were set dead on the textbook on the floor in front of you. Paragraphs of words surrounded modern depictions of ancient people and their art.

"So what was their actual name?" He asked as he looked up to you.

"Canaanites. From the land of Canaan."

"... you know a lot," he said, looking back to the page as you chuckled.

"It's just memory," you said with a shrug.

"Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you know anything about mythical creatures?"

Surely this would reveal something, Jack thought––you might react poorly, in which case you could be the monster, or you might react in complete knowledge, which... could also mean you were the monster.

"A little," you said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"I have an interest, in myths and monsters," he said, almost smiling again.

"Oh man, I have a show you're going to love."

Far in the back of the library, a hollow, steel door led to a small break room, the carpet inside being a dark, scratchy grey against his palms when he sat down. There were no chairs in the room, but an old TV sat on a cheap cart plugged into the nearest, bare wall. On the opposite side of the TV was a dull blue counter that stretched from the door to a window covered by plastic shingle curtains.

You snatched the remote off the counter, pressing a large, red button that had the television buzzing to life loudly. The screen sparked, static radiating around it as a thin line of white brought life to a Netflix loading screen.

After several minutes of waiting for Netflix to load and then typing a title into the search bar, a show called Myths and Monsters was before him. He let out a laugh as he realized what had sparked the connection––he'd literally spoken the title.

Would an ancient being or monster know how to work a TV?

Castiel could work a TV.

Kind of.

The first episode began to play and you took a seat beside Jack, crossing your legs neatly beneath you. A few minutes in, rain pattered lightly on the roof, followed by sudden winds that battered the now pouring rain against the window. Jack watched through the side of his eye as you smiled at the change in weather.

That was suspicious.

Late in the evening, when night darkened the land and heavy thunderclouds darkened the sky, he left the library. He stood in the threshold between the warm light on your desk in the otherwise dark room, and the falling rain outside. Yellow-orange streetlamps illuminated the sheets of rain and the nearby bus stop, but you still stopped him, holding the door open as you both stood motionless in front of one another.

"I have a car, I can drive you home," you offered, gesturing over your shoulder to a door in the back that led to a private parking lot behind the library. "I'm not sure if the bus runs this late."

Extended time with you would be good, and he imagined your face illuminated by dim dashboard car lights would be better than good––great. Beautiful. You had wonderfully warm features. But you couldn't know where he lived for a number of reasons; if you were the monster, that was giving away a hiding place, and if you weren't, you would wonder why he lived in such a strange place.

"Thank you, but it's alright," he said. "I like the rain."

A small smile stretched across your plush lips.

"So do I," you said, and the two of you bid good-bye, retreating into your respective dark.

He gave a thorough rundown of the events proceeding after Sam and Dean left, and the three of them––Sam, Dean, and Castiel––listened closely. Dean already filled Castiel in on the rest of the case, and the two brothers were eating at the long table in the bunker's library.

They stared at him in silence when he finished.

"Sounds like a regular kid," Sam finally said.

"Ah don't be so sure about that," Dean said, raising a single brow. "What did you say the monster probably was?"

"A – a fae, or something," he said.

"Fae's good at lying," Dean pointed out, earning a reluctant nod from Castiel.

"He's right. Fairies are remarkably good at acting," he said in his low, grating voice.

"So... what next?" Jack asked.

"We'll keep looking into the case more, and you can probably ask the librarian out on a date," Sam suggested, earning an agreeing remark from Dean. "You can keep them distracted while we search their house."

"Do we know where they live yet?" asked Dean.

"No, but it shouldn't be too hard to find out," Sam said.

Jack watched the brothers for a moment, his mind emptying of answers as to what a 'date' was.

"What's a date?"

"Oh Christ," Dean muttered, moving immediately to his feet and leaving the room.

Sam let out an exasperated sigh at his brother, turning to Jack to explain what a date was, what were appropriate date activities, and how he should act when asking you out and when being out with you.

"Okay," Jack said with a nod despite not really understanding. "What are dates for?"

"They're between people who are interested in.. getting to know each other," Castiel said as he took a seat beside Sam across from Jack.

"So... like when Dean and I went driving."

"No. Not like that," Sam quickly said. "Not like that at all. If – if a guy is interested in a girl, like interested in having her be his girlfriend, then he might ask her out on a date. It's a romantic thing."

"The librarian does seem to be interested in you, from what I’ve heard," Castiel said with a pointed look in Jack's direction.

"I think you've got a shot," Sam agreed, nodding.

Jack thought for a moment before he said, "okay."

A few days later––Dean insisted he only try a few days later, saying anything less was damaging his honor––Jack returned to the library, lighting up when he found you were still working at the small front desk, your nose buried in a large box full of papers. Large, round glasses were hanging off the tip of your nose, and you pushed them up to your eyes when they slipped further off.

The door clicked softly shut behind him when he entered, scanning the room as if there was another reason he was there. You watched him the whole time, continuing to when he approached you, something obviously on his mind.

"I was wondering..." he trailed off, losing himself in your bright, expectant eyes. When he realized he'd fallen silent, he added the first thing that came to mind––a lie. "... if you could show me where the... books are."

You chuckled before you said, "which ones?"

"Maps," he said, smiling as he came up with something actually substantial.

Of course, it wasn't asking you out, but at least it was talking to you. He would have to do that later, though he supposed he'd have to do it that day or he would be disappointing the Winchesters and Castiel when he came back to the bunker without even trying to complete their orders.

"We don't really have a maps section, but I might be able to help you if you tell me the time and place you're looking for," you suggested for him, and he nodded slowly.

"Yes. Please."

"So what are you looking for?"

"Oh. Right, uh.. Greece and Mediterranean," he said, repeating subjects from the last time you'd spoken.

"Mediterranean sea?"

He nodded.

"What year?" You asked.

"Uh..." he drew another blank, "two... hundred."

You seemed reluctant to ask the next question, but it was necessary; "before christ or after?"

"... before."

"Alright," you said with a soft snicker, moving around your crowded desk area and towards the bookcases.

Your stride slowed as you approached a certain shelf, shifting up onto the tips of your toes to reach the highest books. Jack thought of offering his help, but he wasn't much taller than you––if at all––and he didn't know which books to get down.

Four thick books ended up in your arms, and you heaved them over to the nearest table, letting them thump down heavily. You spread them out, flipping rapidly through the pages till you found the proper maps you seemed to have memorized within each of the books.

"This one's about 900 BC to 200 AD, so it's got a bit wider of a range. Includes the bigger cities. This one is.. 1500 BC to 300 BC, so a little bit within range, has a lot more cities," you said, moving from one textbook to the next while Jack stared at you, enamored by your plush lips.

He barely even noticed that you finished your explanations, nor your quick words mentioning you should probably return to your studies and leave him to it. But he reached out on instinct, grabbing your wrist and tugging gently, convincing you to turn back to him. Your eyes, still bright, retained that same patient expectancy as his previous evening with you.

"I... could you talk to me?" He asked, oblivious to the implications read clearly by you.

"About what?" You asked in return as you stepped subtly closer.

"About fairies."

You paused, your eyes widening slightly.

"The ones from Celtic folklore or... like modern media fairies?" You asked slowly, slinking down into a seat you situated to face him.

He did the same, his feet planted firmly on the floor as he watched you, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Just... the oldest versions of fairies."

You nodded, again slowly as you pursed your lips.

"Well the oldest mentions of them in literature actually comes from ancient Greece, from the Iliad, by Homer," you began, immediately using your hands expressively as you spoke. "Those weren't Celtic fairies, though. Greeks considered creatures like satyrs and such to be fairies, as well, so... generally fairies and the fae as we think of them now came from Ireland and Scotland."

"Where are they?" He asked with a head tilt.

You stuttered for a second, your eyes flying across the room until you stood, returning to the shelves. He watched with much humor as you read the book titles at a frightening pace, fingers flipping over the bindings till you pulled one down.

"Here, world map," you said, and though he didn't notice, you didn't comment on the oddity of not knowing where Scotland and Ireland were. Almost everyone knew where those two countries were; or, at least, the general area.

"In Ireland fairies are seen as simply... mythical people. Great warriors and poets, or witches, they're all considered part of the fae in Celtic culture. In Scotland, though, fairies are more dangerous, essentially being creatures that feed off humans in one way or another," you continued. "Like... banshees, those are Scottish, and jack o' lanterns."

"Jack o' lanterns?"

He'd heard of banshees before; they were mentioned a few times by the Winchester brothers.

"Not like the Halloween pumpkins," you said, but when you were met with further confusion, you slowly said, "...and you don't know what those are either, do you?"

He shook his head reluctantly.

You spent the next two, whole hours talking to him, going over any question he had no matter how much you thought he should've known the answer to begin with. Jack relaxed into that feeling, into that ease, while suspicion grew in your own mind. There was no one of his age and stature that didn't know the questions he posed. Still, you found yourself unable to pin any such wariness of manipulation onto such a polite boy.

Engrossed fully in whatever you had to say and rarely speaking himself, Jack absorbed a number of facts about the fae. About their trickery and mischief, about their magic, how different species had different thoughts on humanity. Considering the lengths you knew about other subjects, none of what you told him occurred to him as suspicious. You seemed, again, to be a dedicated––but human––scholar.

When at last he exhausted his questions, both on and off topic, he began a build-up of courage. Asking someone out for a case should've been much easier than this, or at least that's what he thought. Dean mentioned he'd done similar things for other such cases.

Jack's face scrunched up in deep thought despite the silence between you.

"Are you alright, Jack?" You asked.

"Oh. I'm... fine," he said, nodding his head in a way that didn't convince you all that well. "I – I wanted to ask you something."

You nodded, gently helping him along.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but... you.. interest me, and.." he trailed off once more. It was difficult to tell a lie that was technically the truth. "I was wondering if you wanted to go with me. On a date."

He expected a number of things from you––perhaps anger, perhaps embarrassment, perhaps shock, but you just chuckled, leaning back in your chair. His brow furrowed at your odd reaction. Were you laughing at him?

"Was that what you wanted to ask me when you first came in?" You said through your giggles, your soft skin glowing in the warm, early evening light.

"... yes," he said, huffing out his own chuckle as his eyes fell to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," you said with a grin. “You’re the one who had to listen to me ramble.”

"So.. will you..?"

"Yeah," you chuckled, nodding. "I enjoy your company as well."

A smile made a permanent home on Jack's face as he returned to the bunker, his official mission having been successfully completed, and his hands still burning with the touch you left as he walked out the door. While most of the town smelled like baking pies and cinnamon cider, the bunker carried no such warmth, and smelled more like rotting leaves than anything else, though Sam lit a couple apple candles in his room. The scent filled part of a long hallway.

He found his fathers all sitting on a single couch, facing a television that had some sort of film playing on it through the static. Jack silently stepped round the nearest chair, taking a seat beside them, and watching on intently. A soft, high note hummed from the speakers.

Red, ratted curtains pulled way for sunlight streaming through dust-filled air. The wooden windowsill had a vase in which a single, molted flower sat, most of its petals having fallen off long ago. But that wasn't where the camera stopped; it halted above the image of two women tangled in sheets similarly worn down as the curtains were, requiring many patches over large holes. One had their face pressed to the other's neck, her nose nudging a sharp jawline owned by still sleeping eyes. Their limbs were knotted tight together, chest to chest, and a quiet, sleepy melody humming out of the smaller's pale lips.

Jack frowned. He'd never seen two people so physically close together. The nearest thing he'd seen was Dean and Castiel hugging, and even that was reserved in a way. This was pure trust––pure peace, and he found himself wondering if it was entirely fictional, or if such happiness could really exist in the world that at times felt poisoned.

Maybe it did exist if you found a way to smile that brightly.

He earned a whole other course of schooling once he announced their plan was successful. Dean clapped him proudly on the back, shooting a dirty grin that Sam countered with clean praise. Even Castiel seemed to be proud. Jack beamed at that, his heartbeat now pounding at the thought of three days from now; when he had planned the date.

In the meantime, the brothers stayed up for most of the night, though they looked much worse for wear that morning than Jack after he stayed up with them. Researching faes was actually a little easier than a lot of other monsters––there were many articles about them, and a deeply-engrained fear of changeling children had led to thorough documentation on the fae realm and its inhabitants. Jack was still a little slow at typing, so Sam captained the computer research, while Jack sped through the books in the bunker's library. Dean looked through articles and stories in newspapers searching for any hint of where they children might be kept if they weren't immediately killed.

The more he read about fairies, about their habits, their composure, and their lies, the less he could picture you as one. Originally a fairy brought to mind someone beautiful and fair, or someone like you, with dazzling eyes that could stop an archangel in their step. But the sharp teeth and wicked, wirey hair didn't sound at all like you. He'd felt your hands––once brushing over his––and there were no claws or stinging sensations that lingered in your touch. Still, the Winchesters probably knew better than him, and he pushed the feeling aside.

In the next evening, after Dean took a long day nap, Sam and Dean set to packing up their tools and tricks once more, tossing them into the back of the impala with the rest of the permanent fixtures. Jack watched as they did this, his hair still neat and clean despite not sleeping or washing up for two days.

"Can I come with?" He asked in the politest voice he could manage.

They were headed off to the library under the cover of night. After hearing about several back rooms Jack noticed during his time there, a reasonable question was posed––was there more information you could be hiding?

"Uh –" Sam began, only to be cut off by Dean saying –

"No. If we get found, that's fine, but if you're with us, we lose your relationship with her."

Before Jack could reply Dean climbed into the drivers seat, followed by Sam clambering in beside him. He had issues getting into the car at times. The engine stuttered to life, and Sam waved good-bye through the windshield as they pulled and drove the car away.

Jack frowned, his brow knitted together again.

"Bye," he said, but he was the only one to hear it.

Castiel would be back soon. He decided waiting in the library would guarantee he'd see Castiel as soon as possible, something he desired, as there were a number of new questions he wanted to pose to the elder angel. Thousands of years his senior, Castiel must've had answers––some sort of insight to some strange impulses, or simply comfort against 'wrong' thoughts.

Technically your library was private, meaning others weren't allowed to take your books away from the building, but you allowed him to take something home under the assurance of a guarantee. He would return it next time he saw you, a promise that clearly meant a lot to you going by the ease that overtook you when he said 'okay' with a signature, sweet smile. The only reason you leant the book to him was because it contained information you considered thought-provoking, thoughts about how humanity evolves, and how technological advances could change the actual anatomy of the human mind. Some of the claims seemed to him to be a bit of a reach, but others brought him interesting points.

The metal latch on the door let out a resounding click as the door swung open, Castiel standing behind with wild hair and a stunned look about him. He flung the door shut before running down the stairs towards Jack.

"Have they gotten back from the library yet?" He asked as he approached.

"No, they left..." he glanced at the clock, "a couple hours ago."

"Hmm," Castiel grumbled. "That's a long time for them."

"Should we go help them?" Jack suggested, setting your book aside as he stood straighter in his chair.

"No, we'll give them some more time. See what happens," he said before he set off, jogging into the hall.

Jack sighed as he slumped back into his seat, almost mourning the death of an easy excuse to go see your library. And Castiel left before he could ask him anything. Dean had a point, though––if they were caught and he was with them, that would ruin your relationship entirely, and that was something he, for some reason, despised.

It took another hour and a half before Sam and Dean were waltzing back in from the garage, tossing their duffel bags aside and shucking off warm, autumn jackets to side chairs. Something must've given away their presence, as Castiel was quick to reenter the main room.

"How did it go?" He asked.

"Like shit," Dean said, not even bothering to stop as he passed Castiel.

"We didn't find anything," Sam clarified. "Whole place was clean."

"Well.. maybe it's at their house," Castiel said almost gingerly, turning to keep his ever-vigilant eyes on the elder Winchester. "All the tools and... stuff."

"Yeah, that's what we're hoping," Dean said as he disappeared into the hallway.

"When did you say your date was again?" Sam asked, turning to Jack, who blanked for a moment before he answered.

"Two days from now," he said.

"Alright, well... we'll see what happens," he said with a nod, setting his hands on his hips. "Hopefully find where they might be hiding the kids."

Dean reentered with a bottle in hand, taking a quick swig as he settled down into one of the cushier chairs.

Jack's heart sped when his fingers began to fidget together, squirming restlessly in front of him. Questions still lingered on the edge of his mind, and answers from anyone would do him well, though he was well aware Dean would probably be reluctant to offer any advice to him.

"Could I ask you some questions?" He asked in the general direction of Cas, who happened to be standing right beside Dean. Castiel opened his mouth to answer.

"Sure," Dean said before he could speak. Castiel promptly shut his mouth after that.

"I know this shouldn't get in the way of the case, and it won't," Jack said as he took a seat opposite Dean. He and his brother shot each other glances. "I just have strange... thoughts, when I am around the librarian. Impulses, kind of."

Dean, who had raised the bottle to his lips, paused at those words and set it down instead, a decision that shocked both Sam and Castiel.

"What kind of impulses?" He asked in a flat voice.

"I want to... eat them," Jack said slowly, his brow furrowed deeply as he looked at the ground. When he looked back up, all three men were staring at him.

"You want to what??" Castiel asked.

"Like.. put my mouth on them...?" He tried.

"Wait – you mean kissing?" Sam asked as he shifted his weight between his feet.

"N... no, I don't think it's that," Jack said, though he was growing even less sure of himself with how they continued to gawk at him.

"You want to make out with the fairy?" Dean asked with a look that screamed 'unbelievable'.

"Maybe?" was the best answer Jack could offer.

Dean sighed, rubbing his face tiredly with his free hand.

"I don't want to.. encourage these thoughts," Castiel said, "but they might help on your date."

"So I should kiss them?"

"Maybe at the end of it," Sam suggested.

"And... how do I kiss?"

"Fuckin' –" Dean muttered under his breath as he stood, leaving the room with annoyance in his scowl.

The three of them––Jack, Sam, and Castiel––watched Dean round the corner and disappear.

"Ignore him," Sam said.

Sam, with some help from Castiel, patiently re-explained the happenings and ongoings of dates, from conversation topics to activities often done on dates. Sam assured Jack that he needn't do anything dramatic, over the top, or especially original, since Jack 'wasn't actually going on a date,' a phrase that made him a little sad for a reason he couldn't identify.

A bouquet of chocolate roses lay in his hands, the neon and florescent lights of the convenience store flickering and buzzing above him. Sam insisted a good way to start a date was with a gift––conventionally flowers, but the second Jack saw the chocolate roses he was entranced. He'd never seen candy in the shape of something real. Surely you would be delighted by the art, as well. Sam was less sure than he was, but allowed him to buy it with a chuckle, muttering something about how he wouldn't need to get chocolates anymore.

"Now remember," Sam began as he adjusted Jack's collar, "blood-soaked iron is what kills them, but since we don't have that right now, I think iron should hurt them."

"Forks, fire pokers, metal pipes... those usually have iron in them," said Dean.

"And if you get into a fight, just get out of there," Sam finished.

"No hanky-panky, either," Dean said.

"Dean," he hissed, slapping his brother's arm.

"What's hanky-panky?" Jack asked, furrowing his brow.

"Nevermind, just––be safe, have fun," Sam said with a smile, patting his shoulder.

The brothers dropped him off at your house before circling the block in search of a good vantage point. He took a shaky breath as he climbed your steps, soon rapping his knuckles on the plain, wooden door. It was a bit of a task trying to swallow, but he managed to push past his tight throat and put a smile on his face.

Footsteps sounded, growing closer until the door opened, revealing your wide eyes and the olive green silk you wore, draping elegantly from your chest down to your feet. A heavyweight scarf rested upon your shoulders. The warm light of the hallway behind you illuminated the loose strands of your always messy hair, but the sight still had his lips parting as he gasped softly. He felt suddenly out of place in his simple button-down, pants, and everyday jacket, shifting his weight almost uncomfortably as he found himself at a loss for words.

"You look... really nice," he said rather awkwardly, gesturing vaguely to your outfit with a dopey smile.

"Thanks," you said, chuckling. "You look nice too."

He stared for another moment before he suddenly remembered the chocolate and foil roses in his hands.

"I got these for you," he said as he handed them to you, scanning every inch of your reaction. "Sam told me to get flowers, but I think this is better, ‘cause then you get to eat them."

"You actually can eat roses! They just don't taste very good," you giggled, fixing your hair as you took them, a blushing smile still on your face. "I do like chocolate more, though."

"Oh, good," he said, his shoulders finally falling from their tense position. "I hope you don't mind walking. I don't know how to drive."

"I like walking, actually," you said as you walked past him, trotting down the front steps of your house. He followed along, his soft brown hair flopping like a puppy's ears over innocent eyes. "I like taking walks at night, but I don't take them a lot. It's kind of dangerous."

"Why?"

"A lot of people aren't very nice, or they're down on their luck and make poor decisions. I don't want to get hurt or mugged just because I like wandering around."

"Why would someone hurt you? You're such a nice person," he said with a frown.

"That doesn't mean anything," you laughed softly.

Food wasn't a particular attraction of Kansas, but few things were. The amount of restaurants in town was high, most of them serving a very similar menu containing lots of meat, barbecue, pie, and sometimes funnel cake. None were all that classy, so Jack took you to a place that Sam recommended––a nearly 24 hours open cafe whose kitchen was always open, and who hosted quiet, live jazz on select evenings.

You and Jack spoke of a number of things while you walked, none more interesting than any of your previous conversation topics, as you seemed to want to stay on the topic of him as a person rather than the history you usually rambled about. You asked who Sam was, which he explained as one of his fathers, at which point you asked who the second was. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should tell the truth or formulate a more normal-person lie.

"I... my mother died in childbirth," he said, his voice uncharacteristically low and quiet, murmuring with the sureness of his trust in you. "My father, Castiel, takes care of me, with his brothers, Sam and Dean."

"Oh. I'm sorry," you murmured, and he opened his mouth to give the usual speech––it's alright, I've gotten used to it––but you continued with, "it's an honorable way to die."

He paused to absorb your words. No one had ever said that before.

"Yeah," he finally said. "I guess you're right."

"So what's your father like?"

He sucked in a breath, forced to once again decide between a truth, a half-truth, and a lie. Like with most things, he took the middle road.

"My genetic father isn't... I don't talk to him," he said.

"Oh."

"But Castiel is good. He always tries to do what's right. I'm still trying to learn about this whole.. being-alive thing, from him."

"I think we all are," you chuckled.

You ended up ordering for him when you finally got to the cafe, standing in line for only a few minutes before you were looking for a table. He had trouble understanding the menu, often asking you what things were, and eventually you had to gently push him on to let the next people in line have a turn. If this bothered you, it didn't show.

Piano and saxophone played in time with one another, their rhythms and melodies dancing around the beat of the drummer. Scant, warm light shone from above, illuminating the haze of clouds drifting from smokers, most of whom stood in the corner, nursing the embers as they watched the musicians play. Jack tapped his foot to the beat against the dark oak floor.

You joined him a moment later, two coffees in hand and your coat draped over your arm.

"Have you ever been here before?" You asked as you took a seat, casting your jacket over the back of the chair after you set the coffee down.

"No, I don't really get out much," he admitted.

"How come?"

"I don't.. really have friends," he admitted, again, though this time much more reluctantly. He'd heard that generally people respected you more if you had friends.

"That's alright," you said, leaning back with a soft smile made only more alluring by the dim, red and orange light. "I've found it's more fun to stay in than to go out sometimes. Everything becomes the same after a while. You can drink at home, you can dance at home, sing, host parties..." you sipped from your steaming cup, ".. so, obviously, I don't go out much either."

"You have friends, though?"

"Not really," you chuckled, glancing down. "Books last longer than conversation, generally."

"Then... why talk to me?" He asked, attempting to meet your eye with that knot still tucked into his brow.

"Because you came to me."

Soon your conversation was halted by a server bringing out your food. You made sure to thank him as he left, before hungry eyes settled eagerly upon your funnel cake. Unwrapping the napkin, you set the orange cloth on your lap, revealing your silverware. Jack followed your lead, copying your motions near exactly down to you rubbing your hands together excitedly.

He'd never tried funnel cake before, leaving him to melt as he took his first bite.

"Good, isn't it?" You chuckled through a full mouth.

He nodded ardently.

The crowd began to thin halfway through your meal, turning thick conversation to quiet murmurs confined to singular tables in corners and shadowed areas. Jack still had yet to find anything incriminating about you, an answer that led only to other questions, ones that flew wildly around his head.

You didn't seem human––at least, not entirely. There were things you said that hinted to something else, a knowledge within that was a little too wide for the lengths of a human mind. That and your soul; what he could see of your soul was strangely colored, florescent holographic, and warped far more than normal people's usually were––almost as warped as Sam and Dean's souls now were. Bright, yes, but warped. Something had happened to you.

But there was nothing bad within you. Darkness tinted the edges, the edges so often scraped by the world around you––the world around both of you––but the center within, where your heart emanated, was clear. It was actually rather beautiful; you were rather beautiful.

He wished he could tell you without seeming strange.

"What do you think about most, Jack?" You asked, pulling him away from his thoughts.

He instantly stuttered, as what he'd been thinking about was you, but he couldn't say that.

"Just.. uh, my, uh.. my place in the world," he said, tapping the end of his fork on the old wood table.

"Like your job, or your purpose as a human?" You asked as you sipped from your third refill of coffee.

"My purpose, sort of," he said, his eyes flickering to the ground. "I have a lot of responsibility. My father thinks I'm very powerful."

Was that giving too much away?

"What does he want you to do?"

"He wants me... to stay alive," he said, earning a soft chuckle from you that had a smile spreading across his own face. "I think he wants me to be safe and happy."

"That's a wonderful goal," you said with a grin. "And there are so many ways to achieve that."

So far he'd only found ways to achieve the opposite––how to antagonize the world by existing, how his grandfather wanted him dead, how his genetic father would use him for any power grab he posed. If you wanted to feel at risk of dying at any moment, he knew a thousand ways to do it.

"I haven't really found any," he said quietly.

You paused before you asked, "do you want my advice?"

He nodded, hesitantly at first, but sure of himself when you smiled softly.

"Always be kind to others. Mind your own business unless someone is getting hurt, and if you have to get your hands dirty, do it for only a second. Then get the hell out of there and wash yourself clean for the next hundred couple years," you said.

There it was again. A hint of something more. In passing conversations Jack heard from strangers, no one spoke like they lived history. Not like you did. And he'd wager no historian spoke with the sense of memory that you did.

"Anything specific make you realize that?" He asked, unable to stop himself from chuckling.

You looked his age––sometime in your 20's––but you spoke like an 80 year old. Something about that facade appeared humorous to him. He also looked your age––sometime in his 20′s––but he spoke like a 10 year old far more than he liked to admit.

"Family drama," you said dismissively. "I've been steering clear for a while now."

Did fairies have families?

Well, if you were a fairy, you could just be lying then.

Jack frowned. If Dean or Castiel were here, they would know what to say and think.

"I understand," was what he said instead.

The impala was still parked near the house by the time Jack was walking you home, a sight that nearly sent him panicking. Sam and Dean wouldn't want him to do that. So he clenched his fists in his pockets, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly as he tried to slow his pace in a way you wouldn't notice.

But you did. Of course you did.

"You alright, Jack?" You asked, matching his pace.

"Yeah, I just..." what was something normal to say? Something he could back up – "I meant to ask you something, but I didn't ever... find the time to."

"What was it you wanted to ask?"

He shivered as a brisk wind picked up, the dry, orange leaves on the edges of the sidewalk passing quick by his feet in the breeze.

"Do you think everyone feels this lost in life?" He asked, barely audible above the wind.

"There's a little bit of you in everybody, just like how there's a little bit of everybody in you. You're capable of the same things that a murderer is just as you are a... a hero, or a martyr," you said, taking time to think before you spoke. "Humans are remarkably similar, you come to see after a while. And even Gods face these questions, these wonderings of their origins and their purpose, if their creations are everything they're meant for or – or if they're doing something wrong, and they should be doing something else instead."

He continued to stare at the ground as you walked slowly side by side, brought out of his intense expression by something soft flopping over the back of his neck. His heart thrummed as you stopped him there, turning him to face you, and looking him in the eye as you fixed your scarf on his shoulders. The effect was instantaneous––his shoulders relaxed and the stress fell from his brow, absorbed in the warmth of your gesture.

"Whatever you're going through," you gave him a pointed look, telling him silently to not deny this truth, "is worse and better than what other people go through. It may not be the best but it's probably not the worst."

Your advice, though insightful, didn't mean much considering his problems had to do with the continued life or prompt execution of the entire universe by a bitter, old man. But the main point remained; there were more painful deaths than his, just as there were better ways to die than he would or will. He may not be facing the best circumstances, but they could be much worse, and the fact that normal humans often asked the same questions he did was more of a comfort than he thought it would be. Perhaps he really was connected to his mother in that way.

The steps creaked beneath your shared weight as you both approached the front door of your house. You opened the door, stepping partway through the threshold before you turned to him, hesitation lacing your open mouth.

Behind you, Jack managed to spot two shadowed figures running across the hallway towards what he presumed to be a back door. His eyes widened imperceptibly and he pursed his lips, quick averting his gaze back to you.

"You're special, Jack," you said quietly, scanning him with a careful look. "Don't let bad circumstances own you. You only get so much time in this world."

"You're very kind," was all he could managed to respond with. "Thanks for... going out with me tonight."

"Of course. I like talking to you."

"I'm glad you do," he said with a sheepish chuckle, one you mimicked as you fixed your hair.

"I'll see you again soon?"

"Yes, I – oh," he interrupted himself, remembering your scarf still enveloping him, "this belongs to you."

"Don't worry about it," you said, taking his arms and settling them back down to his sides. "It's kind of cold out tonight, and I'm assuming you're walking home... aren't you?"

"... yeah," he lied, blood rushing to his face at the thought of taking a piece of you home.

"Then I'll get it back another time," you said, smiling.

You hesitated to close the door again, and instead you gingerly moved forward, raising yourself to press a single, soft kiss to his cheek, the edge of it just barely touching his lips. His mouth parted in surprise, but before he could say anything you shut the door.

He walked back to the impala completely starstruck.

"I don't think they're dangerous," Jack said, restating what he'd said earlier to Sam and Dean on the drive home––he just couldn't see you as suspicious. Strange, yes, but not murderous.

"If what you say is true, though, then this is quite likely a fae," said Castiel as his eyes flickered from Jack to Sam and Dean.

"See? Facts are facts, kid," Dean said, pointing to Castiel with a smile.

"Hexbags, crystals, actual photos with them from, like, 1890? And the amount of plants," Sam continued with a slight shudder.

"How many plants were there?" Castiel asked, frowning sternly.

"Too damn many," Dean answered for him. "The point is, we gotta interrogate that thing."

"They didn't do anything wrong!" Jack said, his voice tripling without his knowledge.

Everyone in the room reacted accordingly––stiff postures and sharp breaths as the golden light faded in his eyes.

"Jack..." Castiel began hesitantly, his voice quiet and low.

He barely uttered out an 'I'm sorry,' before he turned and left, disappearing down the hallway and into his room.

It took him nearly a whole day to leave his room, having spent most of the time alone to brood and ponder over his actions, and whether or not he was being manipulated by a fairy creature. He couldn't deny the fact that there was a chance he was wrong and he was under your control, thus landing him with the only sane decision, somehow; trust Sam and Dean.

Silence surrounded him as he padded through the bunker, headed towards the kitchens after not eating for nearly 24 hours. Technically he could live without food for much, much longer than that, even without sleep, but it wasn't a particularly pleasant experience.

When he reached the kitchen he also found it empty. In fact, the whole bunker sounded empty, leaving all the cereal for him. He smiled.

Sam and Dean returned before Castiel did, though after their return they hid away doing 'private business' in the basement area. Jack tried to ask what it was they were doing, but Dean curtly brushed him off, sending him back upstairs to go clean up the mess they left in the kitchen after a quick, midnight dinner.

As he was scrubbing the dishes, a door lock clattered in the distance, marking Castiel's return. Now that the fort was manned again, he could sneak off to see you in the morning. Castiel informed him that showing up at people's houses at midnight could be seen in a very bad way. He knew you wouldn't judge him, but he still didn't want to embarrass himself, and it was only a few more hours to wait till dawn.

He could fly. He could also ask Sam or Dean to drive him (while he could also ask to drive Baby, he knew the answer would be an ardent no), but the grey clouds promised rain, and the smell of rain hitting the leaf-covered earth pleasured his mind. With your scarf wrapped around him, he could avoid the cold as well.

His feet were a little tired by the time your library came into view, though still warm in the crisp air from fuzzy, woolen socks. The frayed edges of your scarf fluttered about chaotically in the wind as he noticed something rather odd––the library wasn't open. None of the lights were turned on, the chairs were still atop the tables, and you were nowhere to be seen. He had left the bunker a little early, but you always opened by 5AM at the latest, and it was 8 now.

For several minutes he hadn't a clue as to what to do, meaning he stood motionless in silence in front of the glass door, his head tilting slowly to the side in confusion. Maybe you woke up late––that would explain it. You were perfectly safe in your bed, dozing after a good night's sleep, completely unharmed.

But things rarely worked out so easily for Jack. Your home was empty, no sign of your disappearance left as your shoes, jacket, keys, and wallet were still left by the front door. In a sudden panic at the thought of your absence, the world around him flickered for a split second before he appeared in the bunker's war room. Knowing the usual fate of the people he cared about, you were probably being hurt, perhaps kidnapped by the actual fae who'd been killing the children, or lost of your own volition in a forest you wandered too far into.

"Castiel." Jack grabbed the angel's coat sleeve, stopping him on the way to the stairs. "I went looking for the librarian and they're missing."

"Missing?" Castiel repeated with a grimace. "Did you check the library and the house?"

"Yes, I couldn't find them."

"They might be headed for the children," he said, sending a pang through Jack's heart that he ignored.

"Is... is there a way to track a fae?"

"There's no spell I know of," Castiel said, his gaze falling to the floor as he scanned his mind. "But if it's a magical creature, it may carry a sort of... a sort of scent."

"A scent?" Jack furrowed his brow, wondering if something could carry your scent.

Something you'd been around a while. Something like your books, or your bed, or –

Jack jumped after he realized he was still wearing your scarf which, despite its' time with Jack in his room, still smelled of you. He shoved it into Castiel's arms, but he only gave him a confused look.

"It's their scarf," he explained.

Castiel spared him from the embarrassment of explaining how he'd gotten it.

He held the crumpled scarf in his hand up to his nose, intaking a deep breath with closed eyes. Jack hadn't ever heard of this kind of tracking, which was odd since he inherently knew most things about angels, but he would never distrust his father. What he did distrust was the churning feeling in his chest, as though a curved knife had impaled itself in him and twisted slowly through his skin.

Doubts pervaded both angels almost immediately as Castiel followed the trail. It led near to the stairs, but took a harsh turn and went into the hallway, leading them further into the bunker.

"Are you sure this is theirs?" Castiel asked as they hurried down the hall.

"Positive," he said, earning a sigh and a nod from Castiel.

They continued, this time less sure of themselves, as the scarf continued to lead them through the bunker, trotting down stairs till they landed in the base floor. Here the walls, ceiling, and floor were made of thick cement, allowing their footsteps to echo around the empty halls.

Jack picked up the pace and Castiel followed, running after the trail that ended right in front of the dungeon door. The torture room door, where monsters were locked up, and sometimes friends as well. A sort of fury was boiling in his blood despite his earlier acceptance of the Winchester's plan. Keeping you here in secret was never something he agreed to.

Without even fully realizing it, Jack was wrenching open the handle, the door whizzing open and slamming against the wall with a resounding crack. There, in the center of a pentagram, you were bound to a chair with thick, iron chains, your molted form flanked by Sam and Dean. The latter carried a knife in his hand, one covered in dripping blood. Sam whirled around at the sound of the door opening, meaning he was the first to see Jack's glowing eyes, and the suddenly panicked expression on Castiel's face.

"What are you doing to them?" Castiel growled with wide eyes, taking long, quick steps over in front of you. Without hesitation he undid the restraints, letting you fall down to the floor.

"Cas, they're a fae," Dean said, his tone stern and curt.

"No, they're not," Castiel replied, his own voice equally as sure. "I can't.. blame you, for not knowing this. You're only human. But it's obvious to me."

Sam opened his crossed arms, waiting for the angel to explain himself. Meanwhile, Jack regained his composure after being shocked by Castiel's actions, and made his way over to you, kneeling at your side. You'd been cut in a few different places––nothing too grievous, at least not by Winchester standards––and drops of your blood painted streaks down your sweaty skin.

"They're an Old God," Castiel finally said, but the words were followed by silence.

"We're just supposed to know what that is?" Dean asked gruffly.

"I thought your brother might," he said in a quiet voice.

Dean unfolded his arms, shifting his weight as he cast a glance to his brother.

"Old Gods are... ancient deities created by wandering bands of hunter-gatherers in your past. They got their power from their worshippers, not from Chuck, which... made them very different, to say the least," Castiel continued, still keeping his voice soft as he raised his hand above several of your wounds, stitching the skin back together with his grace.

"I've heard of hunter and gatherers," Jack said as he recalled some of the books in your library. "They wandered in bands of around 50 to 100 people."

He earned several unimpressed stares.

"Well – if they got their power from worshippers, how's this one still alive?" Sam asked after a moment of silence.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted. "I've never met this one before."

"Okay, just because they're not a fae doesn't mean they aren't the one that killed those kids," Dean said, interrupting their short conversation.

The iron knife still twirled in his hands; the only weapon against fairies. Jack kept a close eye on it as they spoke.

"An Old God would never hurt a human," Castiel said with such an intensity that no one had any choice but to believe him. “And besides,” he turned back to you, “they would’ve lost their powers long ago when humans stopped believing in them.”

Your eyes listed open while you lay in Jack's hold, the swirling image of your friend coming lazily into view.

"... Jack?" You mumbled, struggling to keep your eyelids up.

His gaze shot down to you, eyes widening at the sight of your movement.

"Hey," he said softly, hushing you when you tried to speak. "Are you okay?"

You mustered your strength to nod.

"I'm assuming you're an agricultural God," Castiel said after a moment of watching the two of you interact. "You look to be around 12,000 years old." He looked up to Dean and Sam. "That's how old agriculture is."

"Yeah, I know," Sam scoffed, but Dean remained silent.

"Do I really look that old?" You asked, laughing through your slurred words.

"Your soul does," Castiel answered.

You hummed weakly in response, drifting back into unconsciousness, your body going limp in Jack's arms.

Jack healed what remaining injuries you had, using it partway as an excuse to touch you. His palms set flat on the cuts, and with you far off in your dreams, you didn't feel the burn or the relief of his healing. He thought first to bring to his room to lay you on his bed, but Sam gently suggested that you should be put in one of their many spare bedrooms.

Castiel and the Winchesters attempted to take his mind off of you, but it wasn't long before he was back at your side, waiting for you to wake up again. He scanned your body constantly with his mind, searching for any hidden injuries he might've missed the first time around. The case remained unsolved, the children still missing and the culprit unknown. Your disqualifying left the Winchesters with no more suspects, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to worry about a creature that wouldn’t strike again for another ten years when you wouldn’t wake up to his voice calling your name.

It took hours until you stirred again, eyes fluttering into a half-open state as they fell to Jack. He had his head hung low, his elbows leant on his knees, and his hair drooping in front of his face.

"I was created in Turkey," you rasped out through a dry throat.

At the slightest sound his head shot up, eyes widening with a spark upon seeing your soft smile.

"It's a country, by the way," you mumbled, correctly assuming Jack didn't know the country, and only knew the bird. "At a place they call Gobekli Tepe, now. The people of the land would... would gather there, and share their cultured seeds, and the magic needed to make them grow."

"Magic?"

"Simple water and sunlight," you said with a weak chuckle. "It was magic to them. Everything was."

You fell silent before you said, "I miss them."

"Were they different? From people now?" Jack asked.

"Very," you nodded assuredly. "But there are some people, nowadays, that remind me of them."

He chuckled quietly. Warmth spread from your touch when you reached forward, just barely gracing his hand with yours. He took the initiative, entangling your fingers together, and watching intently as your thumb ran over the back of his hand.

"You are a new God, aren't you?" You asked, narrowing your eyes curiously, with no sense of hostility.

"I'm... I'm a nephilim. Lucifer's son, actually, but I promise I'm not like him," he said, gripping you tighter.

"A nephilim?" You asked with a frown.

"The son of an angel," he clarified.

It was the first time he was able to tell you something you didn't know instead of the other way around.

"I've never heard of angels."

His brows raised in surprise.

"Really?" He asked.

"I haven't really kept up with the world as of recent. When did angels first appear?"

"I... don't know," he said after wracking his brain and finding no answer. "Castiel might know."

"Castiel.. Castiel, that was your father, right?"

"Yeah. The good one," he said, earning a chuckle from you that brought a blush to his face.

"He is another God?"

"Another angel, yes," he nodded. "(Y/N), I... I have so many questions for you."

"About what?" You asked skeptically, giving him a playful glare.

"About humans, mostly," he said. "I mean, I've already been asking you questions, but now I know you have a lot more answers than I thought."

"Yes, well, I do keep my memory stored in a mushroom," you muttered beneath your breath.

Jack frowned. Was that normal?

"Can you tell me about them?" He asked, just barely masking his eagerness.

"My people?"

He nodded, and you smiled softly, your eyes glazing over as you recalled thousands of years past.

#jack kline x reader #supernatural #spn #jack kline

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twobirdsonesong · 4 years ago

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et oravit - destiel fic

Title: et oravit Pairing: Castiel / Dean Winchester Rating/Length: G / 2k Summary: Dean has a lot of feelings about Cas being back.

[AO3]

It’s one thing that Cas is back (flesh blood bone and still full of grace); it’s another that he’s back. Back home. A body in the world again.

Dishes in the sink, clothes dumped next to the ancient washer instead of inside, the scent of cheap shampoo slinking into every corner of the bunker. He’s home, in Dean’s space, and Dean doesn’t know where to go from there.

***

Dean doesn’t know what he expects to happen, after Jack sets the world to rights, after everyone comes back to them. Nearly everyone.

It takes Cas longer, much longer to walk into the library on a misty morning than Dean can almost bear.

And Dean had waited, checking every cellphone he owned for a call, a text; standing in the open doorway and staring at the stars for a sign; checking every blog, every source, every radio for a word of anything out of the ordinary. Even giving that goddamn telescope-geoscope fucking thing a few kicks in hopes it might let him see more, to look a little farther. But there was only the weight of disappointment and hopelessness to be found.

And then Cas is there, edging into the library almost furtively, as though unsure of his welcome. As if the front door hadn't just opened for him.

Sam is the first to notice him - Dean too drunk to read the book on metaphysical translocation in front of him, let alone spot the reappearance of the only thing that mattered. Matters.

“Cas!” Sam shouts, shoving out of his chair so quickly it clatters to the floor and spins three feet away. Cas disappears behind Sam, caught up in a hug so unyielding it might have broken a regular man. But Cas has never been a regular man.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, voice as low as ever, full of the weight of the settled universe.

Dean stands - barely - legs weak and knees shaking. Unsure of his own sight, swimming in a week’s worth of liquor. “Cas?”

And then he pukes on the floor.

***

The days pass, slowly and too fast all at once. Morning, noon, and night sliding around the clock. Days of Cas living in the bunker full time, sleeping in his old room, walking around with bedhead and a frown before coffee. He eats Dean’s cooking with enthusiasm and puts his dishes in the sink without rinsing them. He wears sweatpants and doesn’t turn off the lights when he leaves a room. He smells like sparking ozone and drugstore soap and it sets Dean’s nerves alight. Every minute, every day.

He is safe and alive, present and real and solid. A human body full of grace. Unshackled from Heaven and Chuck and choosing the bunker all the same. Choosing Dean.

Dean watches him. He watches from doorways and gives him space. Gives himself space, really. He thinks he’s owed it. Cas’ words tumble around his brain, replayed over and over, as soon as Dean wakes until he falls into restless sleep.

I love you.

Just him, Cas had said. Only to him. In the final moments of his last life. No guile. No qualifications. Just a fact. A basic truth.

And Dean knows it. A year ago, six months ago, a different Dean might have pushed it away, might have denied it, might never have thought about it again. Locked it away with the other horrors and nightmares that scar his life. But he’s not that man anymore, hasn't been that man in a whilte. He’s died and returned and survived too many times - too many lives - to go back to that place.

But that doesn’t mean he knows where to go from here, doesn’t know what to do with it.

He had meant to say me too. He had meant to say I love you more than death. He had meant to say anything at all, but then Cas was gone and the words sat like stale whiskey and broken hope in his throat.

And now he can’t say anything at all.

***

Dean stares blankly at his keyboard, chin resting on his palm. Ostensibly he’s looking up how to grow vegetables in Kansas, but really he’s listening for Cas.

“You should talk to him,” Sam says. Not for the first time and certainly not the last.

“Shut up,” Dean responds, thoughtlessly. It’s a reflex. Defensive. And he knows it, but it’s the easiest thing to say.

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop. Eileen is next to him, leaning her cheek against his shoulder as they check the wires for hunts. Jack may have fixed the earth, but this earth still comes with monsters. Fixed doesn’t mean perfect, and it doesn’t mean paradise.

Eileen’s hands move in a quick burst that makes Sam laugh.

“I don’t know what that meant but I know it ain’t nice,” Dean grouses. He’s been studying ASL, but it’s slow going. Mostly because he’s too distracted by the worn and dog-eared copy of Dante’s Inferno Cas left in the den, and the coffee cups in every room, and the trench coat draped over the back of the chair in Cas’ room Dean can see whenever he walks past the open door.

Cas had returned wearing it. The first one. The one Dean sees him in when he closes his eyes, when he dreams late into the morning. Cas had returned as Dean remembered him the clearest: bright-eyed, striking, too beautiful to be human. No black goo dripping from his hair, no wounds marring his remade flesh, no blood staining the ground. Just Cas. A fucking angel.

“Jack,” Cas had said with the slightest shrug when Dean and Sam had continued to stare. As if that was enough to explain the pure miracle of his return. Maybe it was.

And now, now Dean spends the days tracking Cas’ movements around the bunker, making sure he’s eating enough, that he remembers how to use the remote control, that he’s still there.

I love you.

It haunts Dean at two in the morning when he thinks he can hear Cas shifting restlessly in his own room. And it lifts him in the afternoon when Cas offers him the sweetest, toothiest smile in the galaxy at the coffee Dean offers him without being asked.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean grumbled. Cas didn’t. But he smiled.

“If you don’t talk to him,” Sam continues, still not looking at Dean. He doesn’t have to. “I will.”

“You won’t.” It’s not a threat and Dean doesn’t have it in him to try and make it one.

Cas shuffles into the library, yawning and cracking his neck. Dean’s heart pushes against his ribcage at the sight of him, loud enough he’s sure Cas can hear it. It should embarrass him, should terrify him. And it does. But it also thrills him, because it’s allowed. Cas said it was.

“Hey Cas,” Sam greets.

“Sam,” Cas nods. He looks at Eileen and signs as he speaks, “Hi, Eileen.”

And then his gaze lands on Dean.

Dean feels it in his toes. His gut. The ends of his hair. It’s the same crackling intensity as when Cas first walked through the door of a dark barn in the middle of nowhere, the lights bursting overhead at the sheer power of him. The grace he somehow contains in the remade body of an accountant.

Dean doesn’t see Sam and Eileen get up, but he notices it when they’re gone.

Bastards, he thinks, but he’s grateful nonetheless. He doesn’t need an audience for this.

Cas is wearing his old slacks, but a plain white undershirt that might have belonged to Dean once. It makes Dean warm all over, makes his chin slip off his palm. Makes him want to run from the room and leap into Cas’ arms.

“Morning, Dean.”

Dean has to clear his throat before he can respond. “Hiya, Cas.”

There’s something in Cas’ eyes, maybe. Dean isn’t sure. It’s too hard to look at him for too long, even now. Maybe especially now, when it feels like Cas can ready his every thought.

Cas slides into Sam’s vacated chair and frowns at the laptop still open on the table. “Are we looking for a hunt?”

“Yeah, uh, Sammie thought he found something. A-”

“Vampire nest,” Cas finishes for him, still looking at the screen, tapping a few keys with his fingers. “in Canton.”

“Ohio?”

Cas grunts in assent. The furrow in his brow is so familiar Dean feels it in every one of his old, tired bones.

Dean picks at the knees of his jeans, shifts in his chair. Fights the urge to run. “Sam and Eileen can handle it,” he says. And they can, Dean knows it, they’re more than capable. But he could also use some time alone with Cas, just them, just enough to figure out what comes next without a peanut gallery watching his - their - every move.

Cas looks up, looks over the laptop at Dean, and his eyes are as piercing, as fathomless as ever. More human than ever. They hold Dean in place and draw him closer. “Yes, I imagine they can.”

Dean loses whatever he thought he might say next and lapses into hunched silence.

He knows what he wants, what he really wants. Cas in the bunker, in their home. Cas in the kitchen while he’s cooking breakfast, soft and sleepy at the table and willing to eat anything Dean rustles up. Cas leaving his dirty fucking socks in the laundry room and never putting the cap back on the toothpaste. Cas in his bed. Cas in his life like he was never supposed to be, but always has been. Defiant.

But what is he supposed to say? What does he do? Now. When the rush of fear and confusion and adrenaline has passed. Now, when it’s quiet in the bunker and so many of ties holding him - them - down have been cut loose.

Cas is there. Cas is home. And what is free will worth if he doesn’t use it?

Dean licks his lips, clenches his fists, takes a deep breath that does nothing to calm his heavy-racing heart.

“Me too,” he mumbles, staring at his own computer and seeing nothing.

I love you. I do. I love you. I have for longer than I know. Longer than God. I didn’t need you to die to realize it I already knew.

“I do, too,” Dean says, louder, clearer. His pulse is pounding in his ears so loud that if Cas responded he wouldn’t hear him.

When he drags his gaze up, Cas is looking right at him. Staring, really. At him, and not through him. But he must see Dean’s heart nonetheless - so visible it feels through his skin and bones.

Cas tilts his head, questioning, and Dean wants to strangle him. To kiss him.To ask him to marry him. He’s going to make Dean say it, say it out loud, and Dean can see what the rest of his life is going to be like in that moment.

“I do, too,” Dean says, louder now. Clearer. “I love you. You have to know that.”

A smile starts in Cas’ eyes and grows to his lips. “I did. I do.” It sounds like a prayer.

“Okay.” Dean ducks his head, his own grin threatening to completely overtake him. “Okay, then.”

He doesn’t hear Cas move, but suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder and another under his chin, gently turning him and tilting his head up and they’re kissing. In the bunker, on earth. Not in a dream, not under possession. Just them. Just Dean and just Cas. Kissing soft and slow, knowing there is at least the rest of their lives ahead of them. And then whatever comes after.

“Okay then,” Cas parrots, still smiling against his lips, his fingers light against Dean’s jaw. “Okay.”

#destiel #destiel fic #supernatural #spn #deancas #emily writes fic #well I haven't used that tag in a fucking long time #please enjoy?#I forgot how much I love writing tbh

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who-ya-gonna-call-winchesters · 5 years ago

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A Learning Experience - jack kline x reader

Sam and Dean Winchester leave their little sister behind on a hunt to be a glorified babysitter for a certain nephilim. Y/n introduces Jack to a bunch of new things like pancakes, grocery stores and chick flicks. A few harmless questions arise. Fluff.

Word Count: 2,154

masterlist

If anyone had told you a couple months ago that you would be babysitting Lucifer’s son while your brothers went out hunting without you, you would have laughed in their faces. But that was then and now you were cooking breakfast for two in the bunker’s kitchen balancing your phone against your head with your shoulder.

“Real nice move, assholes. A note. What a nice way to tell your sister you’re abandoning her”, you hissed.

“We’re not abandoning you, Y/n, it’s just a couple weeks. Jack isn’t ready to come with us and he shouldn’t be left alone”, Dean replied, “According to Sam.”

“Are you keeping the knives away from him?”, Sam asked in the background.

“I did not realize that was something I had to do but I think I’ll lock them up now”, you said.

“He’s not gonna hurt you, I’m worried about him hurting himself.”

“Great, so you abandoned me with a suicidal nephilim in a bunker that no one knows about.”

“It wasn’t my idea”, Dean grumbled.

“Shut up, De, I know you don’t like him but he’s just a kid”, you rolled your eyes.

Your oldest brother laughed, “You two are like the same age if you don’t wanna get technical-”

“Which”, Sam interjected, “is why I think it’s a good idea you stay with him at home. You can teach him stuff and make sure he takes care of himself.”

“I’m literally a babysitter. You guys owe me big time when you get back”, you said.

“Something I’m sure you won’t let us ever forget.”

“Goodbye, Dean”, you hung up the phone and plated the last of the pancakes.

After setting the table you cleared your throat and called out for Jack in your best mother hen voice. It echoed around the empty bunker for a few moments before you heard footsteps approaching and a head of blonde hair poked in from around the door frame.

“Yes, Y/n?”, Jack asked.

“Sit your ass down and eat, breakfast is ready”, you gestured towards the pancakes on the table.

“What are these?”, he asked, staring at the pancakes after he sat down.

You stared at him, “Are you kidding? They’re pancakes, you’ve never had pancakes before?”

He shook his head.

“Well, these are the best breakfast food in the whole world. I don’t really know how to explain them better than that”, you said, putting a couple on his plate and passing him the bottle of syrup, “I think, you’ll like them. You can put syrup on them if you want…”, You watched in abject horror as he drowned his pancakes in the substance before digging in.

Jack grinned through a mouthful of food, “These are good. I like pancakes.”

You laughed, “I’ll make them for you every morning as long as you don’t tell Sam about the amount of sugar you just ingested.”

Jack nodded, “Deal.”

After a couple days of making three square meals a day for a nephilim that seemingly never got full, especially of your pancakes, you had to make a trip to the grocery store. Syrup was at the top of your shopping list but you were running low on other actual essentials and you didn’t know if a nephilim could actually eat unhealthily but Jack was half human after all and Sam might appreciate you putting a salad into the boy.

You knocked on the door to his room, in between yours and Sam’s incase anything were to happen, and stuck your head in. He was reading, something you encouraged considering how many pop culture references your brother used, besides Harry Potter was a classic and you were showing him the movies as he gradually finished each book. Which was surprisingly quick before you realized that Jack didn’t sleep nearly as long as you did.

“Hey, Jack, you wanna get out of here for a little while?”

He looked up at you in confusion, “Sam and Dean said it would be best for me to stay here.”

“Well, I don’t see those dummies anywhere now, besides we need more food. It’s just a quick run to the store. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to though”, you said.

He shook his head and stood up, “No, I’ll come with you.”

“Cool.”

It really was supposed to be a quick trip to the store until you learned just how much food Jack had never had before.

“Do you normally get this much food?”, Jack asked, looking over the nearly full shopping cart.

“Living with Sam and Dean? Yes. But we’re getting a lot of stuff I don’t usually buy. It’s high time you lost your mac and cheese virginity”, you said as you examined the tomatoes.

“What is that?”, he asked tilting his head in a very Castiel esque manner, which you found absolutely adorable.

What? Mac and cheese? It’s kinda in the name, just macaroni and cheese-”

“No, virginity.”

You think you probably rivaled the tomatoes in how red your face was, “It’s uh…like when you’ve never done something before. But it’s just a metaphor, normally virginity pertains to um”, you paused. You really did not want to give Jack the sex talk in the middle of the produce section.

“Intercourse?”

You breathed a sigh of relief, thank god. Wait…

“How do you know what that is?”

“I saw something on Dean’s laptop-”

“Dean showed you porn?”, you hissed.

“Not exactly, it was just there”, Jack said nonchalantly.

You shook your head and put the tomatoes in the cart before dragging Jack off towards the registers. That was enough for today’s outing.

After about a week, you two had finished all eight Harry Potter movies and had moved onto the rest of Dean’s vast collection of movies. Over the course of your time alone with Jack you had learned he was a huge cuddler. The first time you had sat down on the other side of the couch, he pulled you closer by the second act. Not that you minded, Jack was warm and it kept the chill off, the bunker was drafty. It was only for that reason. Not because you were developing a huge crush on Satan’s son.

Tonight you were watching some romantic chick flicky movie you didn’t even know Dean owned. Well, Jack was watching it. You were nose deep in your book with one hand curled in Jack’s hair as he rested his head on your lap.

“They’re supposed to be in love, right?”, Jack asked.

“Yeah, that’s kinda the whole point of the movie”, you said, not looking up from your book.

“Then why is he hurting her?”

That got your attention, you looked up at the screen. The guy in the movie was pushing his female love interest up against the wall and gazing into her eyes with an intense smolder that made you shiver a little.

“He’s not. It’s kinda meant to be romantic. It’s building sexual tension”, you replied as the pair on screen started making out. “See? Now they realize they’ve been in love the whole time.”

Jack turned to look up at you, “How do you know when you’re in love though?”

“I don’t know, you feel all tingly and happy when you’re around someone you love. You really like spending time with them, I guess. These are some loaded questions. Haven’t you been watching the movie?”

Jack flushed, “I wasn’t really paying attention to some of it.”

You shrugged, “You didn’t miss much, most chick flicks are all the same anyway.”

The end credits rolled down the screen a few minutes later and you closed your book. Jack looked like he had zoned out again as you continued to play with his hair. He was probably tired. Even nephilim had to burn out at some point.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed. You look like you should too”, you suggested, pushing a few stray stands of blonde away from his forehead.

“Maybe. I’ll only wake up in a couple hours anyway. Can I stay up longer? I want to watch another movie”, he said, sitting up to let you up.

“Go ahead. I’m not your mom, you can stay up late if you want. Just don’t start Star Wars without me.”

Being a Winchester meant very few nights of peaceful sleep, luckily tonight was just the usual nightmares of being torn apart by various monsters. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before. So when you woke up in a cold sweat, you shook off the fear and decided to grab a drink before going back to sleep. The clock read 3:00 AM in big red letters, so you had only been out for a few hours.

Jack’s bedroom door was shut when you walked past, so you assumed he had turned in sometime after you. You crept down to the kitchen as quietly as possible to avoid waking him. You grabbed a drink of water and checked your phone for any notifications, nothing from the boys yet but they weren’t supposed to be home until next week due to complications according to their last call. From somewhere down the hall you heard a floorboard creek. If Jack had woken up you would have heard his door, the hinges in the bunker weren’t exactly well oiled. The hairs stood up on the back of your neck and you set your glass down silently.

The hall was dimly lit but there was no sign of anything that could have made the noise. You sighed. You were just on edge from that nightmare, the bunker was decades old if ever there was the time to use the “house settling” excuse it was with this ancient building. You turned the corner back down your hallway and was suddenly slammed up against the wall. You let out a gasp that would have turned into a very loud scream if your eyes hadn’t met a pair of blue ones.

“Jack”, you breathed, “You scared the shit out of me.”

Jack stared you down silently. His grip on your wrists was tight and it made you wonder if he knew just how tight. His gaze was intense almost like…

“You can ease up a little bit there, tiger”, you whispered and his eyes softened along with his grip.

“I’m sorry. Did I actually hurt you?”, he asked nervously.

You shook your head, “I think I’ll live. What are you doing?”

His cheeks turned red, “In the movie, you said this was romantic.”

Oh. Now it was your turn for your cheeks to heat up.

“Jack...”

“I feel tingly and happy when I’m around you, Y/n”, he said sincerely, “You said that means I’m in love.”

“You’ve never been in love before, Jack. Love is more than just tingly feelings. It’s something that you have to figure out and learn on your own”, you explained.

“You don’t love me?”

That damn near broke your heart. You shook free one of your hands and caressed his cheek softly. “Jack, I like you way too much than I should already and could well be on the road to loving you. But I don’t want you to think you’re in love with me just because I’m one of the only people you’re around-”

He shook his head, “I’ve seen other people though. No one has ever made me feel like you do. I thought there was something wrong with me but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels good, like pancakes or grocery shopping or you playing with my hair.”

Forget being on the road, you had reached your destination. You were definitely in love with Lucifer’s son. His eyes bore into yours and you couldn’t take it anymore. You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. His hands landed on your hips as you threaded your fingers into his hair. The kiss was hot and messy, that was the only indication that this was Jack’s first time doing something like this. Of course he would also be a perfect kisser. You pulled away after a few more moments, breathing harshly.

Jack beamed at you, “Can we do that again?”

You laughed, “Yes, Jack. But maybe after a couple hours of sleep.” You swore he was pouting.

“Can I stay with you tonight?”, he asked, “I heard you earlier, you had another nightmare.”

“Did I wake you?”

He shook his head, “No, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

That’s why you had heard creaking, it really was Jack moving around.

If anyone had told Sam and Dean Winchester a couple months ago that they would come home to find their little sister cuddled up to Lucifer’s son in bed, they would have laughed in their faces. But that was then and now Dean was looking absolutely mortified and about to blow as Sam dragged him out of the doorway so as to not wake them up.

#spn #supernatural #jack kline #supernatural jack #jack kline x reader #jack kline x y/n #fluff #supernatural fluff #one shot #supernatural one shot

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drsilverfish · 6 years ago

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The Scapegoat - Speculative Musings on S14′s end (Moriah)

The Scapegoat by William Holman Hunt 1854-5

As we know, the final episode of S14 (14x20) is titled Moriah, which, in the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) is the place (possibly a mountain and possibly a mountainous region) where Abraham (as set out in Genesis) took his son Isaac as if to sacrifice him to God.

@mittensmorgul @profound-boning and @prairiedust have already been talking about the significance of Moriah here:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/184043640359/prairiedust-mittensmorgul-profound-boning

One of the fascinating things about the Akedah (the Binding of Isaac) is that it has been interpreted in several ways, two key ones for SPN being:

1) Abraham testing God

(putting pressure on God to intervene to save an innocent)

2) God testing Abraham’s faith

(that God would intervene or would resurrect his son)

Both of these are of interest to the narrative of Supernatural.

14x17 Game Night specifically stages a conversation between the angels, Anael and Castiel, about God’s intervention, or non-intervention, in human affairs.

Anael castigates God for being non-interventionist, whilst Castiel wishes to point out that, sometimes, God has intervened, even as he directly seeks God’s intervention (for help with his adopted Nephilim son) via Joshua’s copy of the Samulet to (it would as yet appear) no avail.

I’ve been musing on why the quote from the New Testament, which poor old whammied Donatello rasps out, whilst being messed about by Nick as a kind of prophet-radio conduit to Lucifer in The Empty, is, anachronistically, in Ancient Hebrew, rather than Greek (which scholars agree was the first written language of the New Testament, as opposed to the Biblical Hebrew of the Old Testament):

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour…” (Peter 5:8 King James Bible)

Perhaps because SPN has always, more overtly, drawn on the Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament, and apocrypha like The Book of Enoch, whilst leaving its (abundant) Christ imagery largely in subtext.

And Moriah, and thus the story of Abraham and Isaac, is very much a story of the Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament.

Let’s back up a bit, and consider the Jewish tradition of the scapegoat, as set out in Leviticus.

Here is a discussion of this ritual, from a Jewish perspective:

https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/leviticus-161-34-the-scapegoat-ritual/

God tells Moses, to tell his brother Aaron, to approach the Ark of the Covenant (but not to get too close or he’ll die) and to bring two goats, as part of a sacred act of ritual cleansing and worship.

@shirtlesssammy should be excited about this, as they were discussing Castiel in relation to the Ark of the Covenant here:

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/183969680699/castiel-and-the-holy-grail

From Leviticus:

16:7. Aaron shall take the two he-goats and let them stand before the LORD at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting;

16:8. and he shall place lots upon the two goats, one marked for the LORD and the other marked for Azazel.

16:9. Aaron shall bring forward the goat designated by lot for the LORD, which he is to offer as a sin offering;

16:10. while the goat designated by lot for Azazel shall be left standing alive before the LORD, to make expiation with it and to send it off to the wilderness for Azazel.....

So, one goat is a blood sacrifice for God, and as for the fate of the other goat?:

6:21. Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites, whatever their sins, putting them on the head of the goat; and it shall be sent off to the wilderness through a designated man.

16:22. Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities to an inaccessible region; and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness....

Some Jewish scholars, apparently, see one goat (the blood sacrifice) as for God and the other (the scapegoat) as for Satan (Azaezel), indeed some argue Satan IS the scapegoat. Whilst some Christian scholars see the scapegoat, cast into the wilderness to carry the sins of the tribe, as an allegory for Christ.

One goat for God and one goat for Satan - we can see how that can be mapped onto the supposed “destinies” of the Winchester brothers, as sacrificial humans on the altar of the Apocalypse - one for Heaven (Dean as the Michael vessel) and one for Hell (Sam as Lucifer’s vessel).

This is really interesting, in relation to Moriah, because in fact Abraham had two sons (who were half brothers) Ishmael and Isaac. Ishmael was sent into the wilderness (like the scapegoat) where he and his mother encountered an angel, whilst Isaac almost had his blood ritually spilled for God (like the blood sacrifice goat).

Cain and Abel are sometimes mapped onto these two goats too (Abel as the blood-sacrifice goat and Cain as the scapegoat).

And Dean and Sam have themselves been mapped by the SPN narrative previously, during the Mark of Cain narrative of S10, onto Cain and Abel.

Dean was, after all, told by John Winchester (sometimes a narrative mirror for God) that if he couldn’t save Sam, he’d have to kill him. And indeed, when Sam was in the Pit with Satan (after the events of 5x22 Swan Song) Dean was effectively “in the wildnerness”; his year of lost grieving trying to live “a normal, apple-pie life” with Lisa and Ben.

Sam as the blood sacrifice goat and Dean as the scapegoat.

However, because Dean has also, since Mary’s death, been a substitute parent to Sam (parentification) we can also view Dean as mappable to Abraham and Sam as mappable to Isaac.

This parentified relationship was foregrounded, once again, in 14x17, when Sam almost died from a bloodied wound to the head (thanks to Nick) (i.e. he took the role of the blood sacrifice goat) and his (almost) last words to Dean were, “My whole life, you put me first,” (acknowledging Dean as the scapegoat, who has had to bear the weight of the sins of others, namely of their parents).

With me, thus far? Sam and Dean, sacrificial goats, fathers and sons, God and Satan, faith and doubt, sin and expiation?

Now, how does all this map into the story of Jack the Nephilim, as well as the Jungian themes of the season?

Jack, we know, functions as a mirror for all of Team Free Will.

He is the son of Satan by “blood” and he is the son of Castiel, Sam and Dean by love. He now contains within him elements of Heaven (AU!Michael’s grace) Hell (Lucifer’s parentage and, possibly, Lucifer’s control from beyond the grave via Nick’s blood spell) and Earth (his human parentage and soul from Kelly Kline).

He is a trinity: Heaven, Hell and Earth; Castiel, Sam and Dean; Father, Son and Holy Ghost; a hunter, a Winchester, the son of Lucifer.

Jack is also now the embodiment of the question of fate vs free will which epitomises Supernatural. Is he “fated” to be evil, as the son of Lucifer, or does he still have the free will to choose his path, thanks to his Team Free Will adopted fathers?

Now we come to the two goats - Jack looks as if he is being set up to embody both - the blood sacrifice goat (he has now been explicitly linked to his father Lucifer via a blood spell) and the scapegoat, because the Winchesters all seem to be reaching the assumed conclusion (without unequivocal evidence) that Jack no longer has a soul.

Here’s where the Jungian themes of the season kick in.

This season has been a season in which TFW have been confronted by their shadow-selves, meaning, in a Jungian psychological sense, the repressed (both negative and potentially positive) aspects of themselves.

Dean has been confronted by AU!Michael wearing his face (representing his repression/ control).

Castiel has been confronted by The Shadow wearing his face (representing his sense of worthlessness).

Sam looks as if he is going to be forced to confront Lucfier, who has worn his face before, once again (representing his isolationism and rebelliousness).

Control (power), sense of worthlessness (anxiety about being loved) and isolation/ rebelliousness - we can see all of these manifesting in Jack the Nephilim, adopted son of TFW.

Now, one of the psycholgical consequences of NOT confronting one’s shadow self, is projection, or the scapegoating of others (see how this all ties together?):

“When we scapegoat, we project what is dark, shameful and denied about ourselves onto others. This “shadow” side of our personality, as Carl Jung called it, represents hidden or wounded aspects of ourselves, “the thing a person has no wish to be,” (Collected Works, Vol. 16) and acts in a complementary and often compensatory manner to our persona or public mask, “what oneself as well as others think one is.” (Collected Works, Vol. 9).”

https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/transcending-the-past/201703/how-facing-our-shadow-can-release-us-scapegoating

It looks as if a whole lot of projection is about to go down amongst Team Free Will (4x18 Absence promo) at least, in as much as we can take anything too concrete from next week’s promos, given how partial a picture these can paint!

Dean, Sam and Castiel have each travelled down the road to darkness, which they fear Jack is travelling now, themselves, in the past. Dean has been a torturer in Hell, on his way to demonhood after selling his soul. He has also been a demon enslaved by the Mark of Cain. Sam has been addicted to demon blood and on his own way to demonhood as a result, and he has been soulless (having been resurrected without his soul by Cas and Crowley). Cas has imbibed the Leviathan from Purgatory, become Godstiel and Levi!Cas, and slaughtered many of his angel bretheren in Heaven.

If they cannot acknowledge their shadow-selves, they will end up projecting them onto one another and onto Jack. They will scapegoat one another and their adopted son.

So the question is, who will be sacrificed on metaphorical Mount Moriah?

Will it be Jack, embodiment of them all?

Will it (finally) be the parentification between Dean and Sam (as it needs to be for their both their psychological growth)?

And how will God answer all his wayward sons?

Added editor’s note: Here is a good article on the idea of “The Adversary” (who later developed into Satan) in the Hebrew Bible:

https://www.haaretz.com/archaeology/.premium.MAGAZINE-do-jews-believe-in-the-devil-1.6588731

You can read my previous Jungian-themed meta on the season here:

1) The Shadow 14x08

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/180906003584/the-shadow-14x08

2) 14x09 The Spear (Jungian Decoder Ring Edition)

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/181122764984/14x09-the-spear-jungian-decoder-ring-edition

3) Jung and Dean’s Journey Towards Self-Integration in 14x11 Damaged Goods

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/182299438269/jung-and-deans-journey-towards-self-integration

4) Ouroboros in Prophet and Loss (14x12)

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/182486474324/ouroboros-in-prophet-and-loss-14x12

5) A Pearl of Great Price - 14x13 Lebanon

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/182660472289/a-pearl-of-great-price-14x13-lebanon

6) The Serpent and the Egg: Snake and Eye Symbology in 14x14 Ouroboros

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/183327000184/the-serpent-and-the-egg-snake-and-eye-symbology

7) Another Alchemical Easter Egg in 14x14

http://drsilverfish.tumblr.com/post/183388134889/another-alchemical-easter-egg-in-14x14

#Supernatural #SPN meta #Meta #SPN spec #14x18 #Absence #14x20 #Moriah #Jung in S14 #SPN as Biblical fan-fiction #Team Free Will #fate vs free will #Jack the Nephilim #faith vs doubt #Chuck Shurley #The sheep and the goats #14x17 #Game Night

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hanneswrites · 6 years ago

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it’s been so, so long (chapter 4)

Chapter Title: Lay my head, under the water; Aloud I pray, for calmer seas

Pairings: Sam Winchester/Gabriel | Dean Winchester/Castiel | background Crobby

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.8k

Chapter Summary: Dean-centric chapter with a bit of focus on both DeanCas and Bobby/Crowley. || Feathers are found and decisions are made.

Three Weeks Later

Dean sat at the kitchen table, twelve individually spaced black-as-night feathers laid out before him as he thumbed through the yellowed pages of a somewhat-ancient text on trickster gods. His eyes kept blurring, not quite able to read the words in front of him, but his fingers turned the pages all the same. The night outside is loud--crickets singing and the far-off sound of cars whirring past on a rural highway. Bobby had headed off to catch some shut-eye a few hours ago. Sam was in the living room, searching for something on his laptop with the television going at a low hum. This should feel normal. Should feel good, even. Sammy was safe, Bobby was alive and well, and the world wasn’t ending. Or, at least if it was, he didn’t know about it. Cas wasn’t here. Cas hadn’t been here in a few weeks. Almost a month. And there was a heaviness in Dean’s stomach, a constant breathlessness in his lungs. It didn’t feel right without Cas here.

Chilled night air drifted in from the open kitchen window, tugging lightly at the pages of the text he hadn’t been able to focus on for hours. Dean closed the book and let his eyes slip shut.

It was colder, all those nights ago. A bit muggier. They were hunting a pack of werewolves, trying to get back into the swing of things after dealing solely with the apocalypse for close to a year. The pack was active near Bobby’s house, so they settled down, enjoyed the comforts of having their own bedrooms for once. Hunting werewolves would be a walk in the park, almost ingrained in them by now, like riding a bike. And yet, as Sam and Bobby both eventually surrendered to sleep, Dean sat at the kitchen table, guns laid out, meticulously cleaning and checking and reassembling. Castiel was beside him, sitting too close, his knee resting against Dean’s thigh as he stared out the window. If they weren’t alone, maybe Dean would have told him to move.

An hour passed, and Dean had cleaned all of the guns he had brought in with him. The clock on the stove read 2:18am and Castiel was still beside him. His hand was on Dean’s arm, stilling his hand before he could move to start cleaning the first gun for a second time.

“It’s clean.” Castiel said, and Dean relented, though Castiel did not move his hand. They stayed like that for a few minutes, bile rising up into Dean’s throat as his heart beat quicker and quicker until Cas took his hand away. He started on the first gun again, and Castiel’s hand moved to his thigh, warm even through the thick, lined fabric of his jeans. Cas didn’t say anything else that night, but he stayed with him until morning, got up from his chair around 8am and started a new pot of coffee.

People always talk about realizing you’re in love like it’s some grand event. Like it washes over you when you least expect it, like a grand romantic gesture would suddenly have you struck head-over-heels for someone. And Dean was sure that for some people, that may be how it happened. But loving Castiel? Realizing that he was in love with Castiel? Felt like breathing. Felt like laughing. Felt like something that had always been there. Felt like home . It was nights like these, nights where his anxiety, his paranoia overwhelmed him and made him feel like he couldn’t breathe, that really nailed the coffin. Soft reassurances, warm comfort, no pushing, no prying, just letting him work through it on his own, but still there if he felt he needed help.

They returned home from the hunt without injury and Castiel guided him to his room, settled him down on his bed and told him to sleep. He did not protest when Dean pulled him down into the covers with him, apart from pausing to slip off his shoes before curling around him and entwining their fingers together.

Dean jolted back into awareness as Sam shuffled into the kitchen, the old, worn-down floorboards creaking beneath his feet, coffee mug in hand and a golden feather sticking out of the pocket of his robe. Groggily, Dean wondered if Sam was aware that the feather was there. They seemed to show up in the oddest of places; places where they shouldn’t be able to be without someone having noticed them being placed there. Every day there seemed to be a black feather tucked away somewhere Dean knew it hadn’t been the previous day. They hadn’t talked about it, but Dean knew that the same thing was happening with Sam. Golden feathers hidden away in his clothes, his shoes, his bed. Each feather Dean saw was less pure-gold and more of a shining amber, though he was half-sure that may be his mind playing tricks on him. They had been cooped up in Bobby’s house all week, reading text after text, poring over websites on angel feather lore, only to find nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just the odd historical reference to wings as a whole, or whackjobs on religious forums talking about how “angel feathers were messages from God himself” or “it means He is near”.

“Find anything?” Sam’s voice was rough and Dean got a sudden, unbidden urge to pour some honey in Sam’s coffee.

“Nope.” Dean said, snapping hsi book shut. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to will the drowsiness from them.

“Same here.” Sam said. He recoiled as the coffee touched his tongue, nose scrunching up in bitter distaste.

“Is that coffee still showing up?” Dean asked. If they weren’t in this situation, if Cas was still here, if the threat of not knowing where he was or if he was hurt wasn’t looming over him like a reaper, Dean would probably have teased Sam about getting addicted to trickster coffee. Probably would have been more concerned about it, really. In all reality, they didn’t actually know where the coffee was coming from or what exactly was in it and Dean probably should be more concerned about that.

“Yeah. Every once in a while. Less and less though, lately.” Sam said, and then gestured to the feathers Dean had laid on the table, “More feathers?”

“Every day now.”

“Anything new?”

Dean looked at the feathers, touching his fingertips to the edge of the one that had arrived just this morning.

“Hot--eh--”

“GedUnPaDonGonGraphUr.”

“ Dean.”

“ Bond.”

Shaking his head, Dean chuckled softly, “Just a bunch of broken syllables, my name, and the word ‘bond’.” Dean could see Sam perk up at “bond”.

“That’s...interesting.” Sam paused for a moment, “You know, you’ve been getting a lot more feathers than I have.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe the feathers have something to do with a bond? You and Castiel would obviously have a stronger one...for a variety of reasons. It would make sense that Gabriel and I would have a weak bond. But…” Sam trailed off, eyebrows knitting together. A minute passed and Dean was growing impatient. He wanted this to be done; he wanted Cas back.

“But? Out with it, Sammy.” Dean snapped.

“Have you been receiving anything other than feathers? Noticing anything missing from your room? Feeling anything strange?” Sam asked, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to bring this up.

“No?” Dean answered.

Sam hummed and took out his phone, scrolled through something and eventually put the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, Crowley.” Sam said, and Dean’s blood ran cold in his veins.

-=-=-=-=

Crowley appeared in the living room about 30 minutes later, hellhound in tow, smiling like a goddamn child on christmas morning.

“It’s been much too long, darling.” Crowley drawled, eyes focused intently on Bobby. The old hunter sighed and flopped down on the couch, downing the rest of the beer in his hand.

“You saw me this morning, ya old bastard.” Bobby said, expressly trying to ignore all of them. Dean frowned, moving more toward the center of the room, inching in between his surrogate father and the demon.

“Love you too, Robert.” Crowley grinned wider and then turned to face Sam, “What’s so special that you needed to call me in, Moose? It’s not like you to call me up for just an evening chat.”

“Cas is missing.” Sam said, “Do you know anything about angel feathers?”

Crowley considered them for a moment, eyes searching for something in Sam’s face before snapping himself up a glass of whiskey.

“Get into a scuffle with your boyfriend and he goes missing, so naturally, ask the king of hell to track him down and solve all your problems, eh?” Crowley smirked, focus now shifted to Dean.

“ Crowley.” Bobby all but growled from the couch, and Crowley chuckled.

“Angel feathers are pretty powerful stuff. They have traces of grace in them. There was a saying in hell, back when I was first recruited, that said something along the lines of: if you need to kill an angel, stab a feather through their heart. Not sure if that’s true, but always worth a shot.” Crowley said, absently patting what Dean assumed to be the hellhound.

“Anything about communicating through them? Leaving messages? Clues?” Sam asked.

“Back in the day some angels used them to convey messages to humans in their charge without having to physically manifest.” Crowley said. He sat on the couch next to Bobby, shooing the hunter’s legs out of the way so that he would have enough room.

“Could you use Darla to find him?” Bobby asked as something seemed to nuzzle into his lap.

“Hellhounds aren’t really equipped to find angels. Not enough scent to them.” Crowley said.

“What if we got some of Cas’ feathers?” Bobby said.

“Uhm. Ex cuse me?” Dean said, “We’re not using a hellhound to track down Cas.” Sam shot him a look, like he should keep his mouth shut and Dean glared back. There was no way in hell he’d he giving one of Cas’ feathers to Crowley, let alone a fucking hellhound.

“Maybe. No promises.” Crowley continued, ignoring Dean in favor of leaning back into the couch, refilling his empty glass with another snap of his fingers. “It’s been a while since you invited me onto a case. If I help you, what do I--”

Bobby cut him off, “You get to be invited back, idjit.” Bobby folded his feet into Crowley’s lap and Crowley huffed in defeat.

“ Fine.” Crowley grumbled.

Tagged: @archangelgabriellives

#sabriel #samgabe #sam winchester #spn #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #my fanfic #hannes writes #2018 #it's been so so long #wip

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67midnightwriter · 6 years ago

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Ketch and Release - Chapter Three

A/N: It feels so good to get this out! We’re really starting to pick up now, and I can’t wait for y’all to read this. Thanks to the beautiful @sculptorofbeginnings for the beta!

Warnings: General Angst Warning

W/C: 2,105

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

The water at the bottom of the tub turned brown as Y/N scrubbed a week’s worth of grime from her body. As the dirt circled the drain, the water was tinted pink from blood still seeping from day old wounds reopened by the steam. She winced as she cleaned them, calculating which ones might need stitched and which ones would close on their own. She scrubbed her skin until the small bar of hotel soap was gone before closing her eyes and resting her forehead on the shower wall, but there were some things she couldn’t scrub away.

Y/N drank half the whiskey in her med kit before she even began to sterilize her wounds. It burned over her tongue and down her throat, providing a momentary distraction from the images flashing through her mind. It calmed her enough to steady her hand, so she focused her mind on her wounds, sewing them as much as possible, applying ointment and covering them with gauze. She eyed the leftover whiskey but decided against it. She loaded up her gear, grabbed the keys to her truck, and headed to check out.

She stopped for coffee at a diner in Lawrence, unsure what had brought her here. Maybe she had been chasing better memories, simpler times. She looked around the room and tried to remember the good times this diner held: sharing half a pie with Dean on the barstools, talking research with Sam in the booth in the back, Bobby bringing her down to visit with the boys and John for her 13th birthday. The memories were gone as fast as she could conjure them, pushed away by the scream still ringing in her ears, the sound of flesh being torn from bone.

She jumped when her cell phone rang, nearly spilling her cup of coffee. She let it ring for a few moments, taking a few deep breaths and mentally preparing herself for a lecture from Dean. She answered without checking the caller I.D., warily pressing the phone against hear ear. There was silence at first, and then Castiel’s deep voice.

“Y/N?”

“Castiel?” She sat up a bit straighter, the worry evident in his voice.

“Where are you?”

“I…” She sighed, slumping again. “I’m in Lawrence.”

“I need you to meet me at the bunker, please.”

He hung up before giving any more explanation, but the worry had sent the wheels in her head spinning once more. She left some money on the table for her coffee and walked out, trying her best to leave behind the failed hunt.

When Y/N got to the bunker the Impala was sitting in the garage, the engine ticking as it cooled down. She grabbed her hunting bag and walked into the kitchen, chewing her lip as she went. Castiel was sitting in at the map, his forehead cradled on the heels of his hands.

“Cas? Where’s Sam and Dean? What’s wrong?” Cas looked up at her, and the look in his eyes sent her bag thudding to the floor.

“They’re gone.”

Y/N stalked over to the liquor cabinet, snatching out a bottle of Jack. Her emotions were running high, making her head spin. She couldn’t think straight, her hands were shaking, and her body was begging her for sleep. The whiskey burned as she drank from the bottle.

“So let me get this straight, you left them?” She slammed the bottle back on the table, causing the glasses to rattle.

“I didn’t leave them, Dean told me to go! I was taking Kelly-”

“Oh yeah, the woman who is delivering the antichrist and is now on the loose, no thanks to you.”

“It’s not my fau-”

“Save it Castiel. I guess neither of us can do anything right.”

Y/N grabbed the bottle of whiskey and headed off to her bedroom before Castiel could say anything more. She sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, letting the tears run down her face, taking a drink for every scream that echoed in her brain.

The shrill ring of a phone pulled Y/N into a throbbing consciousness. She groaned, holding her head with one hand and steadying herself with the other as she kicked the empty Jack bottle across the floor on her way to the desk. Loose papers fell and fluttered to the floor as she dug through the drawers searching for the phone, desperate to stop the sound.

“Hello?” She croaked when she finally found it, holding the phone away from her ear as she answered.

“Y/N? Is… is that you?”

“Yeah,” Y/N cleared her throat. “It’s me.”

“Oh thank God. We need your help, please. We thought it was just one werewolf… but it’s a pack. We’re in over our heads.”

“Maybe I’m not the bes-”

“We heard you were working on a quiet, long range weapon. We need it. We’ve lost two already trying to get close. They have captives.” The line went silent as Y/N closed her eyes. The events of the last 48 hours blurred past her mind, and she sighed.

“Where are you?”

“Louisiana. I can text you our coordinates.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ketch hated the American south. The sun beat down on his leather jacket relentlessly, causing beads of sweat to run down the sides of his face underneath his helmet. The tires of his bike chewed at the miles before him, but he would be elated when the job was done and he could head the other direction, back to air conditioning and away from the abomination known as sweet tea.

His foul mood was forgotten when he pulled off the highway and rolled to a stop next to an ancient yet pristine powder blue pick up truck. It was clearly a hunter’s, and he hated it. It stood out, it was inefficient, and it was gaudy. He shook his head as he hid his bike. He had strict orders; take out the werewolf pack if the American hunters haven’t yet, and if the American hunters are there, observe how they hunt. Do not interfere unless the American hunters fail.

Ketch turned and eyed the truck again before taking the parts of his gun out of his bag and assembling them; judging by their transportation alone, it would only be a matter of time before he was cleaning up another mess.

The cabin wasn’t hard to find. He could hear the hunt before he crested the hill, the sounds of broken glass and the screaming of captives echoing in the otherwise silent forest. He was walking around the perimeter, looking for a good place to scout from, when he caught a glimpse of her through the back window. He hid himself behind a tree and shouldered his gun so he could use his scope to see.

Y/N was by herself in a room with three wolves, and two more lay dead on the ground. She was bleeding, her face was smeared with a mix of sweat and blood and dirt, but her teeth were clenched in determination, fear nowhere to be found. They surrounded her, fangs out and jaws snapping, and she returned a toothy grin of her own. Ketch watched as she stabbed one and pivoted to stab another, stumbling when her blade caught and she was drug down as the wolf collapsed.

The third jumped and pinned her to the floor. Ketch waited for the other hunters to help her, but they were ushering humans out of the front, running toward the road. He waited for her to scream, but she didn’t make a sound. Ketch’s orders replayed through his head as he watched the wolf lean in, drool dripping from his mouth down onto her neck.

The werewolf’s body convulsed as the bullet tore through his brain. Y/N jumped at the sound of breaking glass and flipped as soon as the pressure on her shoulders was released. The body slumped to the floor and she looked out the window for the source of the shot. She caught a glimpse of leather as it ducked behind a tree, but before she could get a better look Alicia burst into the room, ready to join the fight.

“Y/N!” She rolled the werewolf the rest of the way off so that Y/N could get up. “Y/N are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Did you get everyone out?” Y/N stood up and wiped her hands off on her jeans before collecting her knife.

“Yeah, Max is taking them all back to town.”

“Convenient of him to leave us to clean up.” Y/N toed the head of one of the bodies with her boot, grimacing as it rolled limply.

“Burn pile?” Alicia asked, pointing to a can of gas behind her.

“Burn pile.” Y/N agreed with a grin.

The light was fading when they made it back to Y/N’s truck. She threw her hunting bag in the back, pausing when she turned to walk back to the cab. She tilted her head and knelt down.

“Is there a problem?” Alicia asked as she leaned in the doorway.

“No, no everything is fine.” She studied the motorcycle tracks for a few more seconds before standing up and flashing a smile at Alicia. “Let’s go home.”

When Y/N got back to the bunker, Cas and his truck were gone. The Impala sat untouched in her spot in the garage, a silent reminder of the issue at hand. She leaned against her truck and looked at the Impala, chewing her bottom lip while the wheels in her mind began to turn. She walked inside, started a load of laundry, made some dinner, and got to work.

She was in the library on her laptop when Cas walked in. She was surrounded by take-out boxes and dirty dishes, open notebooks and pens, books and sticky notes. Her hair was unbrushed, her shirt dirty, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

“Y/N.” She jumped when Castiel said her name. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Cas.” She put her laptop down and stretched before standing up and walking over to him. “I’m sorry. Sam and Dean, that’s wasn’t your fault. I never should have blamed you for that.” Cas smiled softly at her before looking at the floor. “I’m looking. I’m searching everywhere, but I keep hitting dead ends. It’s like chasing a ghost. They’ve been gone-”

“Six weeks, two days, and ten hours.”

“We’ve got to find them. Until then, we just keep doing our best.”

“Are we though? Are we doing our best?” Y/N froze, her eyes widening as the buried memory of a little girl who would never return home forced its way back to the front of her brain. “Did you hear about the murders in Lancaster, Missouri?”

“No…”

“Women. Throats ripped out, blood drained.”

“Vampire.”

“I tried. I drove into town, I asked around. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I couldn’t find it. Three more women died and I couldn’t… I ran.”

“Let’s go back. You and me.”

“No, you were right. I can’t do anything right.”

“Cas…” Y/N reached to pull him into a hug, but he turned and walked away.

She turned and looked at the library, all the progress she wasn’t making. She felt like she had circled the internet twice, exhausting every lead, and she had nothing to show for it. She closed her laptop, cleaned up the room a bit, and headed to shower and pack. Lancaster just made its way to the top of her to-do list.

The phone rang while Y/N watched the vamps body burning. She tossed the dirty rag from cleaning her machete on to the fire as she answered.

“Hey Cas. Don’t worry about that vamp. I took care of it.”

“Y/N… It’s Dean. He called.”

“I’m on my way.”

“What are we getting into?” Y/N asked as Castiel climbed into her truck.

“I’m not sure.” Castiel buckled his seatbelt as the truck lurched forward.

“We should call in backup.”

“I may have an idea.”

Y/N recognized the Bentley instantly. It gleamed in the glow from her headlights as she threw the truck into park. She turned and looked at Cas with a raised eyebrow.

“This is your backup plan?” Castiel met her gaze and wordlessly stepped out of the truck. They walked to the front of the truck, and Y/N looked up into the face of her valiant one night stand. A grin crawled across his face.

“Hello Annie.”

Next Chapter

Tags:

The Whole Enchilada: @impala-dreamer @sculptorofbeginnings @curly-haired-disaster @rideandwritethings @adoptdontshoppets @supernatural-idjit-95 @team-free-will-you-idjits-67

Ketch and Release: @cinnamonrollsforlife @time-travel-bouqet @cutelittlepurplesouls @armieggedon @marianita195 @cloverhighfive @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @liv-the-artist @chloesamxoxo @probably-writing-something @ambx2

#supernatural #Supernatural Fan Fiction #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #ketch #ketch x reader #arthur ketch x reader #angst #fanfiction #SPN #spn fic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #Arthur Ketch #reader insert

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phantomwarrior12 · 6 years ago

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Almost There

@revwinchester @gabriel-monthly-challenge @archangelsanonymous @archangel-with-a-shotgun @archangelgabriellives @warlockwriter @ttttrickster

Prompt: His brisk walk came to a stop, and he frowned as the sound of crunching leaves echoed on the path behind him.

Word Count: 1,865

Summary: Sometimes revenge has to be delayed in order to save the ones we love.

Warnings: Swearing (nothing you ain’t seen in the show), angst, a dash of fluff at the end if you squint really hard, reader dead

A/N: Hey folks!

Once again, this fic was the results of the @gabriel-monthly-challenge, y’all are amazing and I love you for holding this event every month and inspiring so many writers like myself to write!

Wondering what on earth is happening and how the hell did we end up here? Read Chapter 1: Will I? and Chapter 2: Rain Storms and Memories.

There’s a lot of angst in this one (not as much as chapter 2, but still a decent amount), so, enjoy!

~ Phantom

Reunions (Part 4)

-----------------

He hates the woods. He hates how little room there is to fly. He hates the crunching leaves beneath his feet.

He never used to. So many things--dear Father--so many aspects of creation remind him of you.

He pauses, casting a glance towards a clearing to his right, eyes drifting across the branches of thin, elegant leaves fluttering in the breeze. He scowls at the weeping willow, a pang of guilt as he swallows the lump in his throat.

He's lost in thought and suddenly there's a snap of the twig behind him. He whirls, hand raised and ready to smite on sight.

"It's not everyday an archangel scours all of Earth and threatens Hell just to find little old me."

Gabriel straightens, hand dropping to his side, "So, you're the dumbass she couldn't finish ganking."

The demon gives a light shrug, almost too nonchalant for Gabriel to handle, "What can I say? I'm one of the best."

"Let's see how that luck of yours serves you now, because unfortunately for you, Crowley gave you up without much of a fight. Almost sounded relieved to get rid of you." Gabriel smirks, taking some trace of satisfaction from the sickened look on his face.

"The King feels threatened, especially after Abaddon and Lucifer." A flash of black orbs, "He's not ready to face the facts. He's washed up. Useless. He's not what's best for Hell!"

Gabriel scoffs indelicately, if he weren't running on rage and grief, he might have even indulged the demon's complaints before smiting him.

"I don't care about your hellish politics. I don't care about who the hell you are. I'm here to settle a score."

"Oh? Who did I take?"

Gabriel unsheathes his angel blade, admiring the tip for a moment before redirecting his gaze to the demon, "My girlfriend. She was--is a hunter."

"So, just bring her back. You're an archangel, after all." His eyes dart between the blade at the eerie expression etched into Gabriel's features.

"Oh, I would, except, my mojo isn't going to be enough. You see, your sorry ass is the reason she's upstairs and I can't see her. So, for this little spell we're using, we need your blood."

He's begun to feel nervous, bravado and arrogance abandoned long ago as the archangel circles him, admiring the glimmering silver in his hands.

"I'll give you all the blood you need." It's a nervous laugh, "no need to smite me."

Gabriel snorts, "Oh, we're way past smiting, my friend. First, I'm going to take the blood we need." He rolls the angel blade in his hand, wrist flexing, "then, we're going to pay a visit to the Winchesters' dungeon where they have all sorts of fun toys."

The demon shudders, the tip of the angel blade grazing between his shoulder blades, "Come on, angel, I--"

A snap of the fingers and the demon is thrown against a tree, pinned in place by grace as Gabriel paces closer.

"Don't angel me. You knew what you were doing when you killed her."

"I didn't know who she was! If I'd had known she was some archangel's whore, I never--"

A rush of air and Gabriel's blade is to the demon's throat, "Why don't you go ahead and finish that sentence?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice, one rarely drawn forth from the mild-mannered archangel.

His eyes dart from the blade to the archangel's scowl, shaking his head quietly, terror in his eyes.

"That's what I thought. Don't try to smoke out." Gabriel jerks the demon cuffs from his jacket pocket, slapping them on his captive's wrists.

The snap echoes in the demon's ears before they're inside the Men of Letters' bunker, drawing the attention of Sam and Rowena, who simultaneously glance up from the Book of the Damned.

"You got him."

Gabriel gives the demon an abrupt shove forward, angel blade at the ready when he whirls around, seething hatred and fear all at once.

The archangel isn't fazed, merely spins their captive back around and allows Sam to catch hold of his arm.

"Of course, I did. Is that everything on the list?" He moves past Sam, coming to stand beside Rowena and scour the pages of the ancient text as if he could actually read it.

"Everything but the archangel grace," Rowena returns, anxiously aware of the archangel's questionable stability, both psychologically and physically.

Gabriel nods, "I'll give you that when we actually start the spell."

She nods, starting after Sam and their demon captive, leaving Gabriel quiet and alone in the library.

Whisky orbs drift across ancient writing, unable to comprehend, yet intent upon doing something--anything to drown the prominent sense of uselessness eating away at his soul.

He'd give anything to cradle you in his arms once more, to hear you laugh, to see you smile. He'd give anything, and that included his very life.

Unfortunately, there were no deals to be struck, no whimsical snap of the fingers that would enable your immediate return--even the plan they'd come up with carried no small amount of danger.

It was a risk he was willing to take--he knew that if your roles had been reversed, you wouldn't rest until your angel was safely home, enveloped in your warm embrace.

He can almost feel your fingertips trailing along his spine, warm and affectionate just as you had always done, ghosting over the ridged bones attaching powerful wings to his skeletal structure. He can almost feel your hands tenderly combing gold away from his eyes--when he closes his eyes, your smile, your warmth--it's all he can see, all he can feel. The sensations are almost enough to elicit a quiet shiver, but when he turns, there's no one there--phantom or not.

And it drives the stake ever-further into his fracturing heart. You haunt his every dream, a tormented scream begging him to save you or the two of you wrapped beneath blankets, a mess of tangled limbs and passionate kisses that always end gruesome.

He blinks and he's inside your room, your body in a sort of suspended animation that Rowena assures him will keep it preserved until he can retrieve your soul. He hovers near the edge of the bed before cautiously taking a seat close to you, an anxious energy coming in waves off the archangel.

His fingers reach out, brushing lightly across frigid, porcelain skin, the tears pooling anew in the corner of his eyes.

"I'm gonna get you back, I promise." He doesn't dare disturb your frame, too frightened he'll damage something delicate.

This is where Dean and Castiel find him, gazing longing down at your body, tears slipping unnoticed down his cheek.

"Gabriel."

His eyes snap up, blood shot eyes landing on the duo in the doorway.

"We're ready." Dean gives a short nod towards the dungeon.

"Right," Gabriel stands, scrubbing away the trails of salt down his skin, allowing one last glance down at your still form. He isn't sure how, but he musters the strength to leave the room.

"The demon is still alive. If this doesn't work the first time, we'll need more of his blood--"

"--it'll work. It has to." Gabriel interjects, finishing quietly as they moved through the compound."

"I'm going to gut each and every single one of you, your souls are going to burn for eternity in Hell! Then I'm going after Crowley, he's going to feel my wrath for betraying me! Your archangel--he's gonna be last! I'm going to--"

"Going to what?" Dean challenges with an amused smirk, noticing the color drain from the demon's face as his eyes settle on the skeptical archangel in the doorway.

"Going to get himself smited ahead of time," Gabriel retorts, tilting his head threateningly.

The demon settled quietly into his seat, eyes shifting to the floor, frightened into silence by the intense glower of the two angels in the room.

"That's what I thought." Dean strides the rest of the way into the room, casually lifting the angel blade from the assortment of tools on the table, "we ready?"

"We've got the demon blood, just need some archangel grace." Sam returns, nodding to Gabriel.

"You heard the man," Dean holds the blade out to Gabriel, who quietly accepts.

Whiskey orbs flicker over to the demon, who wisely chooses not to meet his gaze. The snap echoes through the dungeon and for a split second, the Winchesters worry he smited the demon. It isn't until all eyes turn back to their captive that they notice the mystical gag.

"Don't want any unwelcome additions to the spell," he remarks offhandedly, refocusing his attention on the blade in his hand.

Dean shrugs, the signature Winchester, fair enough expression crossing his features before he moves to stand beside Sam.

Gabriel's face contorts in pain as he harvests the grace, every nerve screams, every ounce begging to heal the wound in his neck. He only gives in after a small amount of grace trickles into the vial, shoving the glass towards the witch and brushes a thumb over the slit to close it.

After a moment's examination, Rowena nods her approval and turns to begin the spell.

"Are you all right?" Castiel lays a hand on his big brother's shoulder, noting the diminished color to the archangel's skin.

Gabriel offers a shaken nod, "I'm fine, I just--" he rubs at his eyes, as if doing so will chase away the nightmares, as if he can banish the exhaustion with a mere brush of the knuckles, "I didn't realize how much I was relying on grace to keep me going."

"Here, sit down," Sam takes his other arm, pulling a chair over and helping him reluctantly into the seat.

"I need to--"

"--sit." Castiel pushes the weakened archangel back into his chair. "You're no good to Y/N if you're too drained to help her."

"He has a point, dear. The spell will have to be combined with your powers in order to bring her back." Rowena interjects with a pitying look, "the spell will take a few hours to reach full potential. You need to rest or you'll be no good to any of us."

Gabriel glances between the four faces leveled on him, defeat seeping into his frame, "Fine," he finds the strength to stand with no small help from Castiel, "but as soon as that spell is ready--"

"--we'll come get you, now go to bed." Dean waves him off, turning back to the book and bowl on the table.

It's a short nod, laced with impatience and anxiety, but he has no choice. He has to wait just a little while longer to cradle you in his arms, to kiss you until your lungs beg for air, to fulfill his promise.

It isn't until he's resting once more in his room, gazing down at a photograph of the two of you lying in a bouncy house that he dares to utter the words he's murmured every night since you'd passed.

"I'm going to get you back, sugar. I promise."

------------------

Part 4

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ezilyamuzed · 7 years ago

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There’s no place like home- part 11

Summary: The reader has had a unique gift all her life. While considering it a curse, she discovers the identity of her real father after her mothers passing. Journeying towards her new life, she finds herself thrown within the Winchester’s world. Is it her destiny?

Setting: End of season 13. This takes place after episode 13.18. Flashbacks are italicized.

Warnings: Language. Some angst, fluff, drama- a typically SPN episode. POV may switch after certain sections.

A/N: Some more big reveals coming your way as we continue along the journey on the yellow brick road. Something newer to the series at the end- someone’s first person point of view that gives a little more light to the story that is still unfolding!

Any grammatical mistakes are all my own, because I am human. Remember all comments and feedback are welcomed! If you want a tag in future posts regarding this series or other writings please send an ask! As always thank you for reading! Enjoy!

*Y/M/N= your mom’s name

Series Masterlist

Dean stood patiently alongside his brother while waiting for Y/N to gather up a couple of items that she would need for the trip after he himself changed out of the monkey suit. They had quickly explained that it wasn’t always easy digging through the archives at the Bunker, since it was complied of a vast collection from past generations. She had no clue what she was about to walk into. Who knew if they would even find anything about their moms there? They had dug through it before and never saw mention of Mary anywhere. Dean couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that there was something else Y/N was looking for. He kept it quietly to himself as Sam looked over towards him with inquisitive eyes.

“Well?”

“Not now Sammy,” Dean mumbled, knowing very well that his brother was interested in the events of the evening. He didn’t want to bring any of it up, not when she was like this. When Y/N was clearly on edge with herself, almost like she didn’t want to be in her own skin. What had happened in those few minutes that she had left him? More importantly, was there anything he could do to help her?

Y/N came out of her bedroom with a fully stuffed duffle bag. For a hunter, she did not pack lightly. Sam grabbed it from her as she turned off all the lights in the house before walking out with them, securely locking the door behind her. She had changed herself now into stretchy yoga pants, sneakers and an oversized hoodie with her hair tossed up in a messy bun on top of her head. She looked like she was ready for bed, but the glare in her eyes stated that she was ready to get down to business. She crawled herself into the backseat of Baby while Sam and Dean moved to the trunk to place her things in carefully amongst their own.

“What are we doing Dean?” Sam whispered.

“Whatever she needs us to do,” Dean sharply replied while moving himself to the driver’s side. He shifted himself in while adjusting for the long ride. He looked into the rearview mirror at Y/N, putting earbuds in her ears, resting her head along the door with her legs stretched out. She was not in the mood for talking. Dean sighed, hoping that she could find some rest back there while his brother seated himself next to him. The rumble of Baby’s engine ignited as they took off, heading once more to the place they called home.

An hour had passed before Sam turned his head towards the backseat, motioning to Dean that Y/N had fallen asleep. Dean nodded and turned the music on just low enough to muffle out their voices if she were to happen to wake up.

“So what happened tonight? Everything seemed fine considering when you left,” Sam coaxed while still watching to see if Y/N was affected by their sounds.

“It was Monster’s Ball there Sammy, and not the one with Halle Berry,” he firmly stated, glancing back into the rearview mirror. “We walked in and she started mumbling off a grocery list of all the uglies around us. They fucking work there dude.”

“Like a cult of the supernatural?” Sam asked while the flicker of an off road light shined on his now widened eyes.

“I don’t know exactly what it was,” Dean stated while gripping Baby’s wheel with his hands tightly. “Whatever they were doing there, they didn’t act normal. I mean they all acted…friendly.”

“How did you know what you were talking to?”

“Y/N,” he simply replied. “You should have seen her Sammy, the way she mingled among them while subtly letting me know what was around. Bobby would have been proud the way she was able to place herself amongst them like she had no clue what they were or what they could do.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well,” Dean chuckled. “Then we danced. There was a moment there where it almost felt like everything else kind of drifted away. I think something spooked her though, because she left just as soon the song ended. When she came back she asked about Jack.”

“She knows? How?”

“No clue,” Dean replied. “Something there must have told her. My biggest thing is what and why.”

“And now all of this with mom and hers…”Sam mumbled while glancing off to the road ahead.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “Whatever is going on we need to help her. We need to get Mom back.”

Sam nodded his head in agreement, while Dean repositioned himself in the seat again. It wouldn’t be that much longer before either Y/N woke up, or they arrived at the bunker. Dean couldn’t help but to feel the dread in his stomach lingering as they continued on their long journey.

_______________________________________________________

You had dozed off a little in the backseat while Dean drove you to their home, the once home of men who fought what hid amongst the people. You woke up a little out of your sleep and heard them speaking to each other. Dean telling Sam about the dance that still gave you butterflies. You stayed silent as they continued talking. You were confused when he said that they were going to find a way to get their mom back from another world. How exactly were they going to do that with the Nephilim on the other side as well? You slowly again drifted into deeper sleep while pondering over how it could be possible. You were awoken by the gruff voice of Dean, informing you that you had arrived.

You sat yourself up to look out the window. It was approaching dawn, but the scene from the old picture was alive right in front of your eyes. This was it. This was home. Sam and Dean led you inside where the brilliance of the rooms left you breathless. It was a spectacular sight of history all neatly placed along sturdy shelves. The scent of the ancient pages of the books filled your senses reminding you of when you would lay in your mom’s office as a child. Everything was just so…familiar.

As your gaze shifted throughout your surroundings, in the corner of your eye a blinding blue light surrounded a dark haired man in a tan trench coat approached into the room from another. He had piercing blue eyes as he looked into you, almost like he was baring into your soul.

“Y/N,” Sam announced. “This is Castiel.”

You moved closer to him, as he watched you intently. Anger quickly rose within you while you remembered everything that the boys had told you about him along with what Claire had told you only a few days earlier. How he was the cause of some of the major fuck-ups that had occurred in the world, including now Lucifer’s release, and how he had torn the young girl’s family apart. Nothing could had stopped it as you quickly drew back your fist and punched him hard, right into his chest knocking him down to the ground. There was shock in his eyes as you heard Dean laughing to your side.

“Yeah, sorry buddy,” Dean laughed while moving to help him up. “She is not a fan. Be glad that is all you got.”

“What are you?!?!” Cas grimaced while not breaking his stare.

“Pissed off,” you snapped back annoyed. “Is there a reason why he is here?”

“We thought he might be able to help. Maybe he knew something about your past.” Sam confessed.

“Well no Angel has been able to tell me anything before. They are all dicks and I do not want to be anywhere near him,” you ordered while moving yourself to climb the winding stairs towards the outside.

The three of them watched quietly as you slammed yourself out the heavy door into the cool morning air. The sun was rising even higher now and you could hear the wildlife amongst the leaves awakening from their slumber. This place really was a sight to behold as you washed your hand along the greenery feeling the morning dew on your palm. You heard the shifting of gravel coming up besides you, but you decided to ignore it. Whomever or whatever it was, you didn’t care anymore.

“Y/N,” Sam’s voice rang into your ears. “Look, none of us really know what to do here. We have been trying for months to find a way to get back there, to save our mom and Jack. We had one, but…it’s gone now.”

“What was that?” you found yourself asking, keeping your focus on the intricate details of the leaves.

“An archangel’s grace,” he sighed. “Gabriel. We were able to use some of his, but it wasn’t enough to keep the rift open, before he left us.”

You let a low chuckle when you heard the name. “Yeah, he doesn’t stick around long.”

You turned your head towards to a bewildered Sam. He shifted nervously where he stood while looking for the right wording to his question.

“How do you know Gabriel?”

“That ancient asshole?” you laughed. “Let’s just say we have some history.”

________________________________________________________

It had happened again. While walking along the busy amusement park, holding your mother’s loving hand you saw a different light surrounding the person who stood just a few feet away from you. This one was yellow, almost like a golden honey surrounding his skinny frame, different than the soft white of the others surrounding him. You pulled your mother’s attention to it, but she just brushed off your 6 year old cries telling you to just ignore it. That’s what she always did. Even as far back as you could remember, when you she tucked you in tightly and told her that you loved when her light shined a little brighter, because then you knew she was happy. Her light though had quickly shifted, as she told you to ignore it, that it was nothing to be bothered with. Anytime since, when you had seen a different color amongst the busy people, she would pull you tightly to her, while leading you away. Your frustration was growing with her actions. Your mind was curious, why couldn’t you know more?

Sitting alone on the swing in your backyard that your dad had hung on a tall branch, you dragged your feet into the dirt while wondering what exactly was wrong with you that made her light slowly dim down and why did so many people not believe that you could see it surrounding everyone’s faces except your own. Were you a freak?

An almost blinding light appeared before your young eyes, making you squint away at the sight. It was almost like staring into the sun. The light dimmed down some, just enough for your eyes to focus on the smiling man that stood in front of you.

“Be not afraid for I bring you good news!” he exclaimed before breaking out into hysterical laughter. “Wow, I haven’t said that in almost 2,000 years.”

“W-who are you,” your little voice squeaked.

“My name is Gabriel,” he stated before giving you a bow. “and you, my dear, are something special.”

______________________________________________________

“Everything alright out here?” Dean’s voice erupted while breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Just peachy,” you smiled firmly. “Is wings gone yet?”

“You know, Doc,” he stated while moving closer to you. “He might have done some wrongs, but he is a good guy to have by your side.”

“Give him a chance,” Sam added while agreeing with his brother.

You took in a deep breath before letting out a sigh. Everything else seemed to want you on their team, why not add an angel to the mix?

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes while moving past them back to the bunker’s doors. “Let’s get started.”

Leading Y/N into the smaller room where most of the archives, Dean watched as she moved gracefully in front him. Noting all the small details and craftsmanship that had become their home. He saw a smirk of appreciation rise to her lips, that even though they had turned it into a home, it was still well preserved in what it had once been.

“There is my room right there. Sammy’s is a couple doors down,” Dean stated while moving past his door. She stopped and smiled before reaching for the doorknob.

“Oh I have to see this,”she grinned while pushing it open.

Inside were just the few things he had been able to collect throughout the years. A couple of records, some clothes neatly hung up or folded neatly within the wooden dresser, and a simple kept bed. His simplistic room, that was his escape from it all. She moved forward, only smiling more at the guns display along the walls. She stopped herself by the nightstand where a few scattered pictures laid, only to pick them up, observing them carefully.

“Yeah, so I have to say that I probably have the best bed in the joint,” he said nervously while seating himself on the edge. “It’s memory foam. It remembers you.”

She let out a little chuckle while glancing over at him biting his lip. “I don’t think anything could ever forget you, Dean.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile that wanted to form as she went back to the photos in her hands.

“Your mom is pretty,” she spoke softly while noting the photo of 4 year old Dean posing with his mom. “You look so innocent there and happy.”

“Yeah well, that was before everything.”

“This is Sam and you with Bobby right?” she asked while holding up the photo of the two smiling boys embraced with the proud old drunk. Dean let a slight smile appear in the corner of his lips while nodding. “He looks like he loved you two very much.”

“Yeah, he did in his own way. He went out of his way so many times to help us for as long as I can remember,” Dean replied while moving up to stand directly to Y/N’s side. “He would have loved you too you know? If he would have known.”

She turned her face to his, only inches apart while she looked up through her lashes. “Do you think he could have known and just didn’t want me?”

His let his finger slowly move up her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. “There’s no way anyone could ever not want you.”

Dean hesitated, looking into her eyes that were tired and tearful. He wanted to move his lips to hers and tell her that everything was being okay. In this world? This life? It was never just going to be okay. The sound of his heart was steadily beating in his ears, as he dropped his hand down from her face.

“Why don’t you go ahead and get a couple of hours more of sleep in here,” he suggested while moving back to the door. “I’ll get Sam and Cas to help me start looking. If you need anything, just shout for us okay?”

He could see the hesitation in her face, but she nodded her head, watching him move out the door and gently closing it tight. Breathing in a large breath of air to calm his nerves on the other side, considering the exhaustion that ran through him mixed with the urgency of everything bubbling around him.

“Dammit, Mom,” he whispered to himself. “What is going on?”

________________________________________________________

I sat patiently adjacent to Arthur as he noted which building we were supposed to enter. Seeing how deep the Men of Letters ran within America was the vital task that he had be given, that I had agreed to accompany along. Even after all these years, I knew this country far better than he ever would. A fancy GPS might give you the general directions, but the familiar roads were the ones you listened to. That was what my dad always told me.

“Mary, when we arrive in there to see the professor, let me do the talking,” he informed me with a serious nature instilled in his voice.

“Arthur, I really don’t know what you are going to find,” I replied with a smile. “The Men of Letters died off ages ago.”

“So you would think,” he commented. “There are still legacies alive that may remember things or have information that will be useful to us.”

“You want to recruit them don’t you?” I asked in surprise. “Just like what you did with me, and what you are trying to do with Sam and Dean.”

“We can only get stronger in numbers, Mary.”

I nodded my head as he led the way inside a tall stone covered building to the ajared door of the office of a young professor. Her youthfulness reminded me of my own many years ago, a little spunk rising within her as she spoke. I was filled with bewilderment that Arthur had chosen to talk to her, after unsuccessful attempts to reach her mother. He hadn’t told me much about her, just that their historians had found a lineage that needed thorough investigation.

Calmly believing that this whole ordeal was pointless, that was when I saw her. Her face in a silver frame, protected by a simple piece of glass. The girl I had once called sister, Y/M/N.

Her story had been tragic when my father brought her home to us that warm August night. She clung tightly to the worn doll as my father explained that she would be staying with us, at least until they could figure something out. We had quickly became the best of friends, finding comfort in each other as the adults would whisper things that would give anyone else nightmares. She was brave, and I had admired her for it. Only two months had gone by when she was adopted by another family that was a few states away. My father explained that it was for the best and that getting as far away from Kansas as she could was the only way he could ensure she would survive.

We had kept in touch though, writing letters back and forth in secret once we were old enough and I had found her address tucked away within my father’s journal. She ended up growing up pretty normal, considering her start. Losing your father, the only family she had ever known was one thing, but even before she could walk she had lost both her mother and sister tragically. Often within her letters she would state how no matter what, she would find out what had happened to all of them and make them proud. I would cry for her, knowing that the life of a hunter fueled by revenge never ended without heartache for the ones they loved.

I was only a few months pregnant with John’s baby, my angel Dean, when I heard the knock on the door. Standing there shaken to down to her core, was her familiar face, still youthful after so many years. I wrapped my arms around her as she cried into me.

“I didn’t know where to turn to,” she sobbed. “I have no one else in this world. Mary,…. I’m pregnant.”

“You are family,” I had smiled. “You will always have a home with us.”

She had pulled herself away, surprised by my own swollen belly that hid underneath my blouse. I gently rubbed by hand across it. “Our family can grow up together.”

Those months spent with her had went by too quickly, she had been my rock and I was hers. John was as supportive as he could be, but trying now to support two women with growing bellies was straining on him. She tried to help out, finding part time work at the local university within the library. Books filled with history had always been her passion. Her passion is how she had met the mysterious love of her life that had led her now back home to me. Finishing another semester at college, she had fallen quickly for him. The rest of the story? I will probably never know.

In no time I was welcoming Dean into the world on that cold January night. I don’t know how I could have gotten by those first few months without her, as John was always called to the garage, often leaving me with another tireless night with my playful angel. She would pick him up and rock him to sleep, often humming to him her favorite tunes. There were times when she thought she was alone that I heard her praying that her sister’s curse would not pass down to her unborn child. I kept what I heard a secret, even from John. He wouldn’t of understood.

A few months later she welcomed her own joy. A beautiful little girl, Y/N. She was just as adventurous and playful as Dean, often making her voice well heard over his. I would often watch as they laid together on the little blanket on the living room floor, sometimes their little fingers would touch while they looked at each other in silence.

It was summer when I came home from the store carrying Dean in my arms. John was bringing in the groceries for me when I had noticed she was gone. Taking baby Y/N with her, she had only left a note that said, “There is no place like home.” I wanted to find her and bring her back, but I had to be there for John and Dean. They needed me, and I had never saw her again. Until now, as I looked at that photo had sitting alongside others of smiling faces.

As Arthur continued talking to the young girl sitting across the wooden desk from me, everything from my past had flooded back. I found my words spilling out, confirming what I already knew. This was a now grown up Y/N sitting in front of me, the little girl whom I considered my family that I had swore to protect all those years ago. Arthur had quickly interjected when she questioned who the men of letters were. The fact that she looked puzzled by the name, only gave me a sense of relief that she was kept in the dark of everything her family had endured. Wanting to hold her tightly again, like I had done when she was only a few weeks old, I knew it was only for the best to just walk out the door along with Arthur. She had grown up to be beautiful and intelligent, with her whole life still ahead of her. There was no way I was going to allow my world to find its way into hers. I had to say goodbye forever right then, as I turned to her with tears held back.

“Take care, Y/N.”

Keep reading to part 12

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spidermansangeliscastiel · 7 years ago

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Default Settings(part 1)

It was a quiet day in the bunker, books spread out over the table and empty beer bottles collecting at each chair. Since Dean’s gotten back all he can do is think about Michael and the unspeakable things his body was used for over the course of he past few months. Dean needs revenge.

Presently, Sam is nodding off to a land of peace and slumber when Dean walks into the library carrying a tray of cleanly sliced pie and a couple more beers. Cas raises his gaze from the ancient book in his lap to Dean’s green eyes. If Dean had been like this when they first met, Castiel would have been worried and would have searched for a way to lighten Dean’s mood, but since then he has watched as Dean has ventured down far greater paths of disparity and darkness(the most extreme being his quest to remove the Mark of Cain) so he chooses to ignore it. As long as he can see the light in those green eyes he will simply do the research and complete the tasks that Dean, so nicely, requests of him.

“Where’s the kid?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow as he sets the tray down over a stack of papers, pulls out the closest chair, and takes a seat.

“He’s checking storage for some files on angel warding,” Cas replies, shifting in his chair.

“Perfect,” Dean smiles as he manuvers a bite of pie into his mouth, “We need to re-ward this place. I don’t want a single winged asshole to be able to get in here,” he continues with his mouth full.

“Dean,” Cas states. He stares directly at Dean in a slightly frustrated, but mostly encapsulated by Dean’s forgetfulness way.

“Oh,” he realizes, “sorry Cas I forget sometimes, you’re just such a polar opposite from him.”

“I wouldn’t say polar opposite,” Michael says slyly, appearing behind Dean. Sam shoots up from his book-turned-pillow at the rush of air brought on by Michael’s great wings.

“I see you got your old meat suit repaired,” Dean says after leaping up and taking a moment to breathe and formulate.

Michael is in the vessel that he occupied in Apocalypse World, he had gotten it healed and strengthened while in Dean after Jack ripped it apart. “Why shouldn’t I reoccupy my favorite vessel.”

“Ouch,” Dean hisses, “Whatchya tryin to do there Mikey? Hurt my feelings?”

Dean moves out from behind his chair and towards. He inched towards the archangel with all the confidence of an indestructible man.

“What are you doing here?” He questions, now face to face.

“I’m here to prove something to you.”

“And what would that be?”

Michael pauses, “That you’re a hypocrite. You hunt me down, you don’t even realize the stranger you have in your own home.”

Dean squints a bit and raises one eyebrow- confused.

“E la terro” Michael hisses. And with that he’s gone.

Dean turns and looks around at Sam and Cas’ equally confused expressions, “What the hell was that?”

“What did he mean ‘the stranger in your own home’?” Sam ponders aloud.

“The thing he said sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it,” Cas looks down at the books on the table, grasping for memories of Enochian incantations, not even realizing that the brothers have stopped cold in their tracks and are staring at him.

“What was that?” Sam asks, not braking eye contact.

“What?” Cas responds, now looking up at the boys.

“What did you just say?” Dean persists.

Cas is confused, “I said: The thing he said sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it,” he states slowly. Sam and Dean look at each other for a moment then Sam has a realization.

“Cas,” he begins, “are you speaking Enochian?”

“No I’m speaking English what are you talking about?” Cas exclaims in protest, but as he does he feels his lips moving in different forms than are necessary to form the English language, his tongue rolls and his voice coos over the words Et laan threnoif rrinkalin meshin.

Fear sets into Cas’ brain as panic bursts within him as he recalls the spell that Michael hissed before he zapped away and it’s effect on angels: It’s a default settings reset button.

#supernatural #spn #spnfanfic #sam winchester #dean winchester #cas #castiel #michael #enochian #season14 #destiel

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nealcassatiel · 8 years ago

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1. Allen Ginsberg, Castiel, and Buddhism: the similarities between Ginsberg and Cas

In THIS POST I discussed the links between the famous Beat literature novel On The Road and how Sal Paradise (Jack Kerouac) and Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) were inspirations for Sam and Dean, and that Neal Cassady was very similar to Dean Winchester. So Kerouac and Cassady were huge figures within the beat generation, however another key figure was Allen Ginsberg. At the end of that post I discussed the on-off sexual relationship between Neal Cassady and Ginsberg which I will continue to discuss here. In this post I am going to discuss how Ginsberg can be linked to Cas and what this means.

I am going to split these series of metas/discussions into a few parts. This one will be about Cas and Ginsberg. I will then go on to discuss Cas and Buddhism in another post. And then will narrow down into discussions of Buddhist theology and its links to Cas’s arc. This first post will have to be rather general. Allen Ginsberg has been my main research focus for 6 years and I have spent the past 4 years studying Buddhism. It would bore you if I made these posts ridiculously detailed, so I will just be fairly general. If anyone would like to know more, ask more specific questions, get reading lists, or ask me to back up my assertions with sources then I am more than happy to do so. But seeing as this is tumblr and I won’t be submitting this to an academic institution, my citations will be few and far between.

Irwin Allen Ginsberg was a 20th Century American poet, born in 1926 and died in April 1997. He was a leading figure of the beat generation of writers who were most prominent in the late 1950s and early 1960s. The Beat Generation of writers include Jack Kerouac (who wrote On The Road), Neal Cassady, William Burroughs (who wrote Naked Lunch), Allen Ginsberg, and others including Gregory Corso, Gary Snyder, Diane DiPrima, Michael McClure (side note, I once met Diane DiPrima and Michael McClure and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that. It was amazing. I talked to McClure about when he shouted poetry at some lions. I digress). Ginsberg’s most famous peom is Howl which became infamous after it was banned due to it being too crude and so there was a huge obscenity trail which Ginsberg won in the end. Ginsberg was gay and fell in love with Neal Cassady (who is Dean Moriarty in On The Road). Ginsberg was brought up Jewish but became a Buddhist in the 1950s. He was a founding father of the countercultural movement and the hippie generation. He was esoteric in his views on spirituality.

Ginsberg met Kerouac and Burroughs during his studying at Columbia University in NY. Neal Cassady rolled into town and they all became great friends. In comparison to Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, Ginsberg was more nerdy, bookish, quiet, reserved. Whilst Jack and Neal looked like jocks, Ginsberg with his glasses and dark brown hair and non-sports physique was very different.

(Neal is 2nd to left in white t-shirt, Allen is next to him)

In Supernatural, Sam and Dean are the original protagonists and Cas comes along later and is not the classic All-Amerian jock-looking male protagonist. Like Allen, he is less stereotypically masculine. An interesting thing to note about his introduction is that from the outset it is not specifically Christian. Whilst Dean and Bobby find out at the end of the episode that he is an angel, they first cover the barn in symbols from many different faiths. Whilst this might be a reach, from what we see from Cas as the seasons progress, he has never been spiritual purely in a Judeo-Christian way. Rather, he is introduced in a set covered in symbols from many faiths and then throughout the seasons he is linked to Buddhism and general multi-faith esotericism and humanism. His growing distance from stance Christian/Angel dogma shows that his faith has always been more esoteric and less dogmatic than the other angels. Ginsberg was a man who combined many different faiths. He was brought up Jewish but from the late 1950s onwards he turned to buddhism and also had an interest in Christianity (notably Gnostic Christianity). One of Ginsberg’s (arguably best) poems is Kaddish and uses the Jewish mourning ritual prayers as it’s structure. Whilst it is easy to think of Angels as being Christian, much of the great spiritual texts which discuss angels (including most of the ones detailed in Supernatural) were in ancient Judaic texts such as The Book of Enoch and texts which are Judaic but are also shared within The Old Testament.

Cas also heads towards Dean’s book and immediately looks through it. So he is also being set up as an intelligent/bookish being. Like Ginsberg in the 40s and 50s, he is dressed in rather smart clothes that contrast against the rugged styles of Sam and Dean. He seems like an outsider to their group, like Ginsberg.

Ginsberg watched and listened in many situations, and when he met Jack and Neal and Burroughs at Columbia he was almost entranced by these people and found them alluring. Cas is also like this in some respects, in that he is intrigued by Sam and especially Dean (however I am not saying this to disregard the agency of either Cas or Ginsberg). Ginsberg also spent much of his life helping his close friends. He was the one who managed to get On The Road by Kerouac and Naked Lunch by Burroughs published. Ginsberg worked tirelessly as their free publishing agent in order to help them and would continuously send them money if they were in need of it. Ginsberg’s long-time partner, Peter Orlovsky had many struggles and Ginsberg dedicated much of his time to helping him. Both Cas and Ginsberg go to extraordinary lengths in order to help those close to them with costs them both. For Cas, he leaves heaven, is cut off from his family, and goes through huge struggles in order to help Sam and Dean. For Ginsberg, he lost huge amounts of money, had drug addict friends steal from him, his health declined due to spending too much energy helping those around him.

I will now discuss the links between Ginsberg and Cas which are apparent most notably in The End. The episodes of most relevance to my broader discussion of Ginsberg, Cas, and Buddhism are the episodes that include endverse!Cas, crazy!cas, homeless!cas, and Emmanuel. In these instances, I find Cas to be more human, or at least less angel. When Cas diverts further from being an Angel then these similarities come to light. I think that who Cas really is is stifled by the strict rules and laws of the angels, and when he is most free from these we see not necessarily his humanity (though of course we see this), but who he is as a real individual. Of course, we see the similarities between these versions of Cas and humanity, but it is important to note that we see him as an angelic being who is also an individual, and his individuality and his choices become concretised when he is furthest from angel laws and rules. Being a human is all about choice, and we know who we are by the choices we make. But we know who we are as an individual by the choices we make, so when Cas has the freedom to make his own choices then we see him as a true individual, or at least as a condensed version of his individual thoughts and ideas.

The End (5.04)

In this episode, Cas is first seen in a large bedroom full with buddhist iconography with Eastern music playing. There is a close up shot of a statue of The Buddha, so this is obviously important to note within this episode.

But with regards to this discussion of Cas and Ginsberg, the importance isn’t just that Cas is surrounded by Buddhist symbols. This specific relevance to Buddhism I will go into later when I discuss Buddhism and Cas. But let’s stick to why this episode is important with regards to the links between Cas and Ginsberg. Since the late 1950s, Buddhism had become an important part of Ginsberg’s spiritual and literary life. He took his Buddhist vows in 1972 and continued to practise meditation until his death (although his views on spirituality weren’t confined to Buddhism as he grew up Jewish and mixed Judaism with Gnostic Christianity into the mix of his own spirituality – he referenced his personal multi-theology during interviews shortly before his death where he said that, as Whitman says he contains multitudes. Both Josh Pederson and Stephen Prothero argue that Ginsberg and the Beats were not constrained to one religious doctrine, although Prothero does note that Buddhism ‘did inspire more of them more deeply than any other. (Stephen Prothero, On The Holy Road: The Beat Movement as Spiritual Protest (217)). Ginsberg was of great importance in bringing Buddhism into the mainstream in the 1960s. Ginsberg was a forefather of the hippies, and this point cannot be understated. The beats and their spontaneous prose, their drinking, their drugs, their sex, their freewheeling lifestyle were the precursor to the hippie generation, but if one person from the beat generation was most important to the hippies of the 1960s, it was Ginsberg. Anyone who was of any importance in the 1960s countercultural hippie movement in America knew Ginsberg. Ginsberg was the ‘prototype hippie’ (Peter Conners, White Hand Society: The Psychedelic Partnership of Timothy Leary & Allen Ginsberg, 200). Ginsberg was highly active within the protest movements of the 1960s. He was an advocate for LSD and along with Timothy Leary, they were the people who brought LSD into the mainstream. Ginsberg was also an advocate of free sexual attitudes and took part in orgies. Many of the ogies he was involved in were tantric, and combined sex with Buddhist teachings in order to use sex to open people’s consciousness’s and join them together with everyone else (I remember a particular incidence when this happened on a trip with the poet Gary Snyder). Ginsberg took a great deal of drugs. His first drug experience was at the dentists when he took nitrous oxide, and then he started to smok pot with his fellow beats, then took benzadrine, amphetamines, mushrooms, LSD (he was one of the people to take it before it was a popular drug in the 60s and then after taking it turned major musicians on to the drug and wrote about it, and gave speeches about why people should take it in order to expand the consciousness. If anyone is interested, the poem Wales Visitation was written whilst he was on acid and I highly recommend it), and he also drank a lot. He was a huge advocate for weed and spent tireless hours building a case about why it should be legal.

Ginsberg was a key figure in the protests of the 1960s such as the Vietnam protests in Berkeley, the National Democratic Conference in Chicago in 1968 during which he lead a crowd of 10,000 people in mantra chanting to try and get them to chill their beans, he was a key speaker at the Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park (that was the event where acid tabs were handed out freely to the crowd, Timothy Leary uttered his famous phrase ‘tune in, turn on, drop out’, and Ginsberg lead the crowd in more mantras and Buddhist music and poetry). So he was not just a poet. He was FOUNDING FATHER OF THE HIPPIES. The hippie OG. The hippie parent. The hippie guru. He was a hippie before hippies were a thing. Ginsberg was not just Buddhist, he was a hippie Buddhist. He took drugs, had orgies, and was a guru to the countercultural movement and his followers. Sound familiar? This is the dialogue between Dean and Cas in The End;

‘What’s with the drugs, the orgies, the love guru crap?’ (Dean to Cas)

‘What are you a hippie?’ (Dean to Cas)

‘What? Are you stoned?’ ‘Generally, yeh.’

‘In this way you will reach a fragment of total perception. Just one compartment in that dragonfly eye of group mind. Now, the key to this total shared perception is… it’s surprisingly physical… Why not get washed up for the orgie.’

(Cas to the group of women in The End). This speech could have been something Ginsberg would have said. In his essay ‘Dialectics of Liberation: 27th July 1967’ he declared that everyone should ‘have a unitive experience’, ‘an experience of One, of all of us being one’ (Dialectics of Liberation, 7-8).

So Cas is not just seen within this episode as having Buddhist leanings, more accurately, the Buddhist symbols that surround him are important within themselves but also act as a signifier to the other clues about who he is. He is a orgy loving, Buddhist, drug taking, love guru, pot smoking hippie. When Ginsberg first encountered the beats including Neal Cassady (aka Dean Moriarty), he was straight edge, Jewish, bookish. But by the 1960s he was a drug taking, sex loving hippie (although please don’t take this to mean that by the 1960s he was some sort of ruinous character, rather that he had loosened up a great amount on how wild a life he was living). So both Cas and Ginsberg go through these arcs. And if Cas is being shown to be a Buddhist hippie? Ginsberg is the original hippie.

Cas is also styled like Ginsberg from the 1960s. After his trip to India in 1962, Ginsberg returned and dressed in cotton Indian clothes, and images of him wearing these clothes circulated and became a mainstay of hippie style.

(Peter Orlovsky and Allen in India in 1962)

(Ginsberg in India in 1962)

Camp Chitaqua

There’s also something to be said about the Camp Chitaqua in The End. I don’t know if anyone has written about this, but its namesake seems to be Camp Chatauqua (on the Wikipedia page it shows a promotional brochure for the 1917 Cam, by CASS lake… mmmhmmm).

So Cam Chatauqua was an adult educational movement popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in rural America. It brought entertainment and culture to communities with speakers, teachers, musicians, entertainers, preachers, and specialists of the day. They were fairly Christian events, with Christian lectures occurring at each camp. Interestingly, some people have noted that the teach-ins during the 1960s protests were a successor of these camps. I say this is interesting because the 1960s protests were lead by either the New Left or the Hippies (or both, as they overlap a lot), and so lots of hippie gatherings and protests had Camp Chatauqua style lectures. One that I remember in particular was the 1964 Free Speech Movement protest on Berkeley Campus where they sat in the corridors of one of the main administration buildings and students gave lectures on politics or general things until they all got dragged out by police, beaten, and arrested. Anyway, these camps were influential to the protest tactics of the hippies – just something to note seeing as we’re discussing hippies at this point.

Neal Cassady (Dean Moriarty) and Allen Ginsberg

I covered this kind of in my post about SPN and On The Road. So Neal Cassady became friends with Ginsberg during the 1940s whilst Ginsberg was at Columbia University. Ginsberg fell in love with him and they had sex and continued to have sex on and off until at least the mid-1950s, but remained great friends until Neal’s death in 1966. Neal denied any homosexual leanings to many people within his life, had many girlfriends and a few wives. But Ginsberg and Cassady made vows to each other to love each other, and they were very close, but ultimately Neal didn’t want to be Allen’s partner and their sexual relationship ended some time before his death. Allen spent most of his life with his long-time partner Peter Orlovsky and their relationship was fraught and incredibly complex but that’s another story for another time.

But seeing as Dean Winchester and Neal Cassady are similar, and seeing how (if we’re looking for who from the Beat Canon Cas is) Ginsberg is similar to Cas, the fact that Neal and Allen were in a relationship (of sorts) can be transferred to Dean and Cas.

(Allen and Neal)

Conclusion

OK, so these are my starting thoughts on this discussion. I think the main thing I realised whilst rewatching The End wasn’t the Buddhism (which is why I watched it to begin with). Rather it was how Buddhism was used as a signifier of Cas’s hippieness, or how Cas uses sex, drugs, and Buddhism, and discusses consciousness and how all of this speaks to him as a Ginsberg-like figure.

I will continue discussing Ginsberg within these posts but I’m next going to focus specifically on Cas and Buddhism on my next post! Feel free to ask any questions about this and I will continue going over all my academic books and notes and add more to these discussions :)

#Cas x Ginsberg #supernatural and the beats #my supernatural discourse #supernatural meta #cas meta #human!cas #the end #supernatural season 5 #season 5 meta #castiel #cas #cas x buddhism #cas x spirituality #cas x ginsberg x buddhism #supernatural discourse

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stusbunker · 6 years ago

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Weddings and Other Holy Deals

For Better or Worst: Chapter One

Featuring: Sam Winchester x Emery Simmons-Winchester (OFC)

Setting: Mid Season 14 AU

Word Count: 1675

Summary: Sam finds an unlikely solution to the Michael problem in Dean’s head. His soon-to-be wife has her own side of the deal with the powers that be.

^*^*^

Jan. 20, 2019

Somewhere beyond the neatly trimmed lawns and the perfectly timed sprinkler systems, over a wide porch with a loveseat swing and past a storm door with etched glass, slept a Winchester. It was not a normal place for this Winchester, Sam for clarity’s sake, to be upon waking. But this wasn’t a usual day, for the hunter or anyone honestly. Though he had lived another day like this one, the excitement and anticipation he felt as he rolled over and saw his clock face shining back at him was unmatched. Today, Sam Winchester was getting married, and if he knew anything it was the best decision he had ever made. That things would only get better after today. Rare is certainty in life, which was why Sam held fast to his and began the life-changing day.

Across town, Bandit woke his bride. Bandit is her dog, soon to be their dog, a Setter mix that loved to herd. Emery Simmons had always been an animal person, but Bandit was a surprise blessing from her former life. She hadn’t asked to bring him along, though as there wasn’t much she had left, she supposed it was a perk to balance her expectations. She roamed through the short-term rental, contemplating the dress that had been left for her as she made herself a cup of tea. Bandit demanded a walk and a bout of catch in the park, which Emery accommodated, unhurried by the little preparations for the small ceremony. They weren’t going to start without her, after all.

Sam had exercised, showered and shaved by ten o’clock. He had another three hours before the service was scheduled, idle hands met a replaced contact list in his phone. He didn’t know any of these people yet, well he knew one. With little else to bide his time, Sam hit the old rotary phone icon below the smirking face.

“Whoa, when did they futz with our phones?” Emery asked, spinning around with Bandit’s leash before tucking her phone beneath her ear.

“Dunno, it’s weird right?” Sam stared at the tux bag hanging in the bedroom. Their bedroom.

“Creeptastic, actually. What’s up?” She sounded worried, maybe she was distracted. Sam was overthinking her tone and almost forgot to answer her.

“I didn’t have anyone else to call?” Sam offered, sitting at the end of the bed, huffing at himself with a sad smile. “Forget it, I’ll let you get back to your, stuff.”

“Hey, I’m just out for a walk, you’re not bothering me. Sam?” His name came out heavy, like she was reminding herself who she was marrying. He didn’t blame her. There was a scuffle on her end of the line before she groaned. “No, Bandit, no!”

Sam’s forehead shot to its full height. “Is that— are you walking a dog?”

“Uh, yesssssss? Is that going to be a problem?” Her sudden defensiveness made him grin, the image of her struggling with a leash warmed Sam from head to toe.

“Not at all, the opposite really. I love dogs.” He understood why she was anxious; they barely knew each other, it was a bit soon for a potential first fight.

“Well, good, shit, had me panicking there for a minute.” The conversation lulled as she reached the porch, each stumbling over small talk before she looked at the clock on the microwave. Sam was starting to pace, but the relief that there would be someone else in the house with them made it seem less scary somehow. They said their goodbyes and Sam decided he better eat before the nerves resurfaced. He quickly fried some bacon, out of habit, and tossed together a smoothie. Everything he could possibly want stocked in the fridge and cupboards; they had done their due diligence, apparently.

Two and a half hours later, Emery was hiking up the church steps, dress bent over her elbow and simple veil trailing behind her loose curls on a winter breeze. She had never had a lot of friends, but today was a day when a female entourage would have come in handy. She thought about her mother and how she would have worried over her hair until it needed to be reset. She sent up a silent prayer to her, telling her that she was finally making an honest woman of herself. Adding a few choice words that would have had them both pursing and posturing before breaking down into fits of giggles. God, did she miss her. She smiled quietly, opening her eyes and the heavy glass door.

The church was cavernous and quiet and after countless trips inside hallowed walls, Sam was able to appreciate the architecture and the scale of the ancient organ pipes. The minister seemed confused, but accommodating, given the last-minute organization. Sam stood at the end of the aisle, hands in his pockets, the ring box lightly brushing against his thigh. A blast of sound curled throughout the space, nimble fingers flying over aged keys as the timeless march stopped Sam’s heart. This was it, a pact fulfilled. He inhaled, swallowed, and turned to face his future.

Emery hated heels, but given the size of her husband, she may have to learn to live with them. The dress was forgiving at least, the gentle satin flowing as she glided down. Tried to glide. There was no one to give her away, no one at her elbow to keep time with, no onlookers to slow down for, no photographer to capture their faces as they saw each other for the first time. This moment was theirs alone, shy and appreciatively sacred. He smiled at her without teeth, dimples mesmerizing as she lost her rhythm, strolling to him out of the step-halt-step that was expected of her. None of that mattered anyway.

She shook her head and smiled back, licking her lips as she remembered the minister was waiting for her. Carefully she stood in front of Sam, toes of her white slippers lining up with his reflective black shoes. A small bouquet of orchids clutched in her right hand, her left petting her skirts as she tried to rub off the sweat.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here-,” the ceremony began. They echoed the scripted vows, eyes locked on each other in hopeful promise. Cautiously optimistic was too naïve for these two, humble veneration too romantic. They stood as strangers, forging a partnership to save those dearest to them. It was a contract that required both of their souls, willfully shared and bonded before Heaven and Earth. Samuel Winchester took this woman, Emery Simmons as his lawfully wedded wife. And she him. For better or worse.

Two days prior

Two days and a series of choices prior, stood the other Winchester in an underground fortress, three hundred fifty miles due East. Dean was in his bedroom, staring at Death, or Billie, if we’re being technical. Which we should, being the time jumps and all. Billie handed him the last remaining outcome of his life on Earth. The book, once one of countless possibilities, remained his sole option from world ending calamity. That was until Sam burst in, with a very stern angel on his heels.

“Dean! Listen, so—Naomi thinks she can help us. Help you, with Michael.” Dean looked from Death to his brother to the psychotic bureaucrat, the exhaustion heavy in his eyes and on his heart. Puppy dog’s hopeful eyes barraging him with an innocence he hadn’t had to let down gently in ages. Dean felt, unabashedly, like the oldest soul in the room. The women regarded each other, silent conversation earning only an audible hum from the former Reaper.

“Interesting. Dean? I think you need to hear them out. I’ll be in touch.” Billie nodded to Naomi and vanished before Sam could get a word in. No one mentioned how these beings, especially the angel, entered the Bunker. A place lauded as being the securest on the planet, had conveniently become a haven for all sorts of unmentionables.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” Dean sighed, perching on his bed as he listened to the latest hair-brained scheme. That night, after hours of arguing, endless curt responses from Naomi and rebuttals from Castiel, Dean agreed to leave with her. Before Naomi whisked him away, she shared a pregnant glance with Sam.

“We’ll be in touch,” the platinum blonde angel replied curtly. The air was suffocating with tension, Dean tried to get Sam’s attention and Cas glared at his former puppet master.

“Wait, what am I supposed to leave like there isn’t something else going on here?!” Dean bellowed at Naomi, who looked like the cat that got the cream, rolled her eyes.

“Boys, one thing at a time, please?” She gestured to a corner of the library, where a glowing pattern had appeared on the old tiles.

“How’d you—” Cas stared in awe as a portal to Heaven opened before their eyes.

“This is a one-way, temporary portal, Castiel. Don’t try to stowaway or the deal, all of the deals are off. Do I make myself clear?” Naomi glared at each man like a field trip chaperone. The men nodded, but Dean’s jaw worked over all of his unanswered questions. The pounding in his head intensified the moment Naomi arrived, which almost, was a relief. It meant Mikey knew something was happening and his suspicion was enough to swing Dean’s vote.

“Alright boys,” Dean sniffed. “See you on the other side?” He shook Cas’s hand before pulling him into a brief hug. Sam stood waiting, an arm up and one underneath, they embraced as equals. Another risk, another potential goodbye.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, bitch.” Dean chided, giving Sam a knowing smirk.

“Too short a list, jerk,” Sam tossed back, as Dean took Naomi’s hand like the kid forced to partner with the teacher in dance class. The portal swayed and flickered, the angel and the hunter pulled skyward, though Heaven was much farther away than the instant transport suggested.

“Sam?”

“Not now, Cas.” Sam stormed off, thumbing through his phone, needing to make some calls.

^*^*^

Read On: A New Normal

#for better or worst series #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x ofc #s14 au #sam x emery #simwin

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stunudo · 7 years ago

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Natural Minds Bunkered

A Crossover Fan-fiction

Featuring: Spencer Reid and Dean Winchester Setting: Season 9 (both shows)

After “I’m No Angel” in Supernatural and “Route 66″ in Criminal Minds

A/N: Another follower celebration crossover! This is the third installment of my boys teaming up. You can read where they Meet and when they Chat. I am so sorry that this took so long, but it will be followed up shortly when I hit 400. xoxoxo Stu

Dr. Spencer Reid knew he shouldn’t be taking a day off while Hotch was on the mend. But everyone had to go to the dentist and other doctors sooner or later. He left his physical and checked his phone. Four missed calls from Garcia, he hit the call back button without a second thought.

“Boy Wonder, there is a case that has been brought to our attention. Victims in multiple states, cause of death is super icky and the unsub or unsubs are speeding up.”

“Alright, Garcia, I hear you, do you need me back to meet the team?” Spencer liked the break, but he felt most useful while part of the BAU.

“That’s just it, I think there are locals on it, according to the detective I spoke to.” Garcia’s voice was building up to something.

“Well, let me know when they call us in then?” Spencer didn’t know why she was calling him before they were cleared to aid in the investigation.

“You see, well, when I asked for the agent on the case. I got the name Dean Thorogood. Reid, there is no Agent Thorogood in any of our databases.”

“Did the locals give you a description?” Spencer’s mind floated back to a diner and a pair of surly hunters.

“Yeah, and, if you don’t mind me asking. Why is your gambling buddy pretending to be a federal agent. I mean, he can swing it, but I just want to make sure the big bads are stopped, you know?”

“Thank you for calling me Garcia, especially before alerting Hotch and the team.” Spencer checked that his Go-bag was in his trunk. “Can you ping Dean’s phone for me? So I can catch up with him before he gets in the unsub’s path?”

“Reid, you know I want to help, but after this, I’m out. I can’t be breaking laws. You know for not work related things, it is against my arrangement.” Garcia was typing away, but the worry coated her words.

Spencer nodded and sighed. “I know Garcia, you’ve already done so much. Thank you for your discretion.”

“Be safe, my smart one.”

Dean knew he would always do whatever he could to save Sam. He had turned Castiel away to ensure that the angel internally healing his little brother, Ezekiel, would continue with the arrangement. Doing so tore a hole further into his deeply scarred heart. Castiel was his best friend, he was the only being he loved almost as much as he loved Sam. But that was it, almost. Dean had made his choice, protecting Zeke and therefore Sam. Now that Cas was human, he felt the raw emotions that came with the dismissal. Dean just couldn’t dwell on that. So he coped how he always had, he drank and he hunted.

Spencer didn’t want to drive to Kansas if he could help it, but Dean wasn’t answering his phone. Spencer didn’t take it personally considering the last time he had badgered Dean with phone calls the motive was completely selfish. Luckily, he had some airline miles to utilize so he saved himself fifteen hours in the car. He secured a rental car and headed out into the plains, towards Lebanon.

Sam was recovering; he was energetic and exercising again. His moods were damn near enthusiastic. Dean tried not to get his hopes up, because if Zeke and Sam were ready to separate, the angel would let him know. Right? Dean knew most angels were dicks. Castiel had proven himself countless times, but no other angel had given much thought to humans. Except for Anna, but she was gone.

Dean needed Zeke and therefore this tenuous arrangement had been formed. He didn’t like it, but saving Sam was his job. Since he was five years old this was the soul purpose to his life: Dean looked after his brother. While Sam was out on his morning run, Dean rolled over in his bed and tried to focus on the screen’s clock. 7:42am, why was the skinny Fed calling this time? Dean ignored the call, falling back into a mind-numbing sleep.

Spencer pounded on the dense steal door with the side of his fist. Dean wasn’t answering and he wasn’t sure where they entered their underground garage from the street. The autumn air was crisp and clean compared to the Capital. Spencer waited for seven minutes and forty three seconds before the grating of the lock pierced the quiet morning. Dean opened the door a crack, his sleep mussed hair and hooded eyes clear indicators of the hangover he battled.

Spencer’s doe eyes waited while the hunter grunted a greeting and let him inside. The bunker was nearly identical to how Spencer remembered it. Though there were more bottles strewn about the large research tables than in May. Dean ambled down the old stairs and plopped into one of the many scattered chairs. “So what is it this time, Doc?” Dean didn’t even look at his guest, he just closed his eyes in exhaustion.

“You tell me, Dean. Garcia has you as lead agent in a string of gruesome deaths throughout the Midwest.” Spencer was excitable and growing impatient with the grouchy man.

“Oh, yeah, well. I can’t say that they are over, but they didn’t get their target.” Dean muttered his admission and kicked his heels onto the table.

“People died, Dean. Why don’t you let the professionals handle the serial killers?” Spencer’s voice was forceful. “Can you tell me anything about the unsubs that can help my team?”

“Spencer, look man, I wish I could. But unless your “team” is prepared to fight the host of heaven. I am not bringing them into this.” Dean’s eyes were wide now.

“Angels? Angels are killing people?” Spencer’s clever mind was balancing the possibilities with the one angel he had met before. “Was it him? Castiel?”

“No, it wasn’t Cas. It was a whole lot of dicks who were after Cas though.” Dean’s mouth pouted, his hands clasped in his lap. Then Sam huffed in, removing the ear buds from his head.

“Hey, Dean didn’t say anything about you stopping by...” The taller man’s eyes were wary of the FBI agent. They were both in much worse shape when they first met. Spencer shrugged and gave a short wave to Dean’s brother.

“So if any other victims show up internally liquefied; I am to assume it was Angels?”

“Pretty much.” Dean stood, lazily. “The real FBI got wind of the ass hats tailing Cas.” Sam nodded, watching the exchange between Spencer and Dean.

Spencer had found his way into the bunker kitchen and made a fresh pot of coffee. He felt oddly comfortable rifling through the Winchester’s cabinets for sugar and mugs. Keeping busy was better than waiting for Dean to get over his hangover and whatever he was hiding from everyone else. Spencer might not be a macho tough guy hunter like Dean and Sam, but he could profile the emotional stress off of them quicker than Dean could make a nerd joke.

Their fridge was filled with beer and take out containers. The cabinets had a decent amount of instant macaroni and cheese and ramen noodles, bachelor essentials it appeared. Out of nowhere a sleep deprived Asian kid slumped in and headed toward the coffeemaker. It was still brewing so he just stood there and stared at it, in what Spencer assumed was a drug induced stupor.

“Hello? I’m, uh, well, not friends exactly. I know Dean. My name is Reid, Dr. Spencer Reid from the, uh, actual FBI.” Spencer’s quiet voice didn’t garner any reaction from the young man, barely older than a teenager. “Hey, man, are you alright?”

Kevin grunted an acknowledgement of Spencer’s introduction. Sam strolled in, hair wet from the shower. “I see you found Kevin and that Kevin found the coffee?”

“This is Kevin Tran?” Spencer understood immediately, this guy had been predestined with prophetic powers. According to Dean, it was a miserable fate that wasn’t fortune telling as much it was a translating endeavor. Words emerged in mumbles from the sleep deprived man’s mouth in multiple ancient tongues. Kevin, barely upright at the aged kitchen counter, fell asleep standing. Once the pot finished brewing the shrill beeping broke him from his trance.

“Thanks, Garth.” Kevin muttered indignantly.

“Kevin?” Sam’s deep voice beckoned to the prophet. “Kevin, this is Spencer Reid, man.”

Spencer continued to watch the exchange quietly, waving slightly at the gifted young man with curiosity flashing in his chocolate eyes.

“Wait, didn’t you go to Cal Tech?”

“You’ve heard of me?” Spencer was surprised, but past unsubs knew of him as well.

“Dean talks about you. He said if it wasn’t for the angel-dicks I could have had a future like you got.” Kevin seemed slightly angry, but wariness was more forthcoming. “Do you really have three PhD’s?”

“Yeah, uh, yes, I do.” Spencer admitted.

“How are you at dead languages?” Kevin’s features were nearly transformed, a spark spreading through his desolate form.

And so Spencer Reid spent the day working with Kevin Tran in the abandoned bunker of the annihilated Men of Letters translating the Angel Tablet. Deciphering the word of the Judaeo-Christian God.

Dean Winchester spent the day nursing a hangover and praying that their prophet didn’t catch a glimpse of the angel hiding inside his brother. And that the Fed didn’t notice the King of Hell locked in the dungeon.

“It’s a hexagonal cypher. We know four of the languages, but I cannot fathom what the other two could be.” Spencer rubbed his eyes, it was closing a midnight. Kevin grunted and pinned another note to his stack of post its along the old drafting table. Sam had helped for awhile, grabbing lore books or grabbing more caffeine. After six hours of attempted conversation, the younger Winchester gave up and let the true geniuses work.

Dean was finally coherent, he had taunted Crowley in secret earlier and felt rather smug about it. He was checking news sites and avoiding the other inhabitants of his hideaway all together.

“Hey.” Sam approached, rolling up the sleeves to his flannel.

“Hey.” Dean retorted under his breath. “There something going on in Memphis, but right now its low-level neighborhood watch stuff. Should keep an eye on it.”

“K, but do you think we should go out on a hunt? Now? I feel good, but we can’t leave Kevin, especially alone with Crowley.” Sam supposed.

“Does the geek know he’s here?”

“I don’t know, man. But eventually he will and we both know that Spencer likes answers.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem then, right now we deal with what we have in our laps.”

“Sure.” Sam’s brows arched, and then his face froze. The angel known as Ezekiel began speaking. “Much like the angel, Castiel, I do not feel safe with this prophet and agent here.”

“Zeke? I’m doing everything I can to keep you hidden. But there is no way I am kicking them out when their minds could crack this thing.”

“Is it wise to bring such evil into your home, Dean? Or are you so unaffected by the lengths you mess with the higher beings?”

“Higher beings? Zeke, you’re doing me a favor, so I’m not going to directly insult you. But Angels and Demons are all in the same category in my head these days, in the bag labeled Dicks.”

Just then Spencer made his way back into the central part of the bunker near the reference shelves.

“Dean? I’m really sorry, but I just got a case. I have to head to Tennessee to meet with my team.” Spencer was tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“You driving or flying, Doc?” Dean side-eyed Sam’s body, ensuring that the hiding angel went back to his room.

“Garcia already booked me a flight from Topeka. I’m heading out now.”

“Thanks, Spencer, Kevin really needed someone like you on this.” Sam was back, his voice genuine.

Spencer lips frogged and nodded, slipping his messenger bag over his shoulder.

“I guess, see you later?” Spencer waved.

“Not if we see you first...” Dean muttered, spinning the laptop to show Sam the breaking news. The brothers shared a weathered nod of agreement. They had a case too.

To Be Continued...

@cherry-loves-fanfic @imagicana @blakendores @gubl-oser @hanny-writes-spn @ilovehuntersinflannel @milkandcookies528 @there-must-be-a-lock

#Criminal Minds #supernatural #criminal minds fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean fanfiction #spencer fanfic #spencer reid #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn x cm #cm x spn #spn #cm fanfiction #season 9 #reid #dr reid #sam and dean

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maximumsuckage · 7 years ago

Text

Dreamscape, part 2

Link to Part 1: https://maximumsuckage.tumblr.com/post/167175722147/dreamscape

Description: Sam, Dean, and Jack discuss the Norse death goddess Hela. Across the country, a werewolf child turns up dead.

Word Count: 3125

A/n: I am so so so sorry if I ruin this by adding more, but tis the season of NaNoWriMo and this is the closest thing I've had to a plot in ages, so I don't care if it's fanfic and not original. lemme know if anyone is interested enough to be tagged in updates, no worries if nah

“So lemme get this straight.” Dean wrapped his fingers around the coffee mug as he looked down at the book Sam had dropped in front of him. “You have a dream about our old dead buddy the Trickster, only he’s a giant crazy monster, and he tells you some crap and sends you on a quest to find his freaky death goddess daughter to be the Jedi Master to your freaky angel padawan?”

Sam let out a slow breath. “No, Dean. I mean, yeah, but you’re ignoring the point here. Jack isn’t the first archangel offspring. It makes sense… we knew Gabe was Loki. I just never realized he was Loki. Like, the actual god. He had a whole life outside of Heaven…” He trailed off, looking down at the book, not for the first time wondering at how little they actually knew. “And he wasn’t a giant crazy monster. He was an archangel. Without the vessel.”

Dean waved a dismissive hand and sipped his coffee. “Whatever. So monster Gabe wants you to find his freaky death goddess daughter. And what, exactly? We don’t exactly have a great record with pagan gods.”

“Yeah, but Dean, this could be an opportunity.” This was pointless. They were going in circles, still, like they had been for forty minutes already. “I know that it’s a risk, but-”

“But nothing.” Dean gestured with the mug of coffee. “We’ve already dealt with Death himself. We’re not getting the attention of one of his death god lackeys too. Mr. Miyagi the kid yourself, fine. But if we get her attention and she gets pissed…”

“Then we take her out too.” Sam stood. “We’ve taken out stronger things than-”

“Than an archangel Nephilim? An archangel Nephilim who’s had thousands of years to hone her powers?” Dean raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee. “Look, I get it. The kid’s not all bad. Might grow up to be a superhero. Who knows? But we do know that a goddess named Hell is not someone we want to tussle with.”

“Hel with one L, not two.” Sam pointed. “Or Hela, in this translation.”

“Hela then.” Dean paused. “Wait, wasn’t that the bad guy in that new Thor movie?”

“Well-”

“That settles it. No. If she scares Thor, then I don’t want to deal with it. Wherever she’s holed up, she can stay there.” He downed the rest of his coffee, made a face at the dregs, and got up. “Come on. We’ve got a werewolf to catch.” Without letting Sam have time for another word, he left the kitchen, heading back towards his own room.

“I have a cousin?”

Sam jumped at the voice. Jack definitely shared that little trait with Castiel. He glanced at the direction Dean had vanished in, and sighed. He had no idea how long Jack had been listening, and lying would only upset him. “We’re not sure,” he decided on, sitting down and pushing the book towards him. “I had a dream about Gabriel- your uncle- and he told me to look for this goddess, who, according to the lore, is his oldest daughter.”

Jack pulled the book closer and studied it, his eyebrows creased together. “Gabriel,” he said slowly. “He was in the Bible. He told Elizabeth and Mary that they were pregnant. He is good.” He glanced up at Sam, worried. “Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was good.” Sam decided that they didn’t need to get into the semantics of good when it involved the Trickster. He’d come over to their side in the end; right now, that was what mattered.

“Was?” Jack caught the past tense, head tilting in that painfully familiar way.

“Lucifer killed him.” He decided not to sugar-coat it, just ripping off the metaphorical Band-Aid. “Gabriel was stalling so we could save people. He knew he was going to be killed.” He paused, figuring somebody didn’t go through the work of filming a pornographic suicide note if they didn’t know they were going to die. “He loved your father to the end, I think. He attacked Lucifer, but now that I think about it, I don’t think he could have killed him, even if he had the ability to.”

Jack looked back down at the book, considering the information, filing it away in what he knew of the world. “But, he had children. This goddess is my cousin.” He touched the picture, running his finger down the sketch. One side of her was a young lady, lovely if stern, while the other side was a garish image of rot and desiccation. That didn’t seem to bother Jack, whose impression of the world was still fresh and new.

It had, however, bothered Dean, who, when Sam had first set the book down, made a comment along the lines of, “this zombie freak your new girlfriend?”

“We don’t know that for sure yet,” Sam was quick to point out. “Gabriel didn’t give me anymore information…” Because he was too busy trying to bite my lips off, but Dean and Jack don’t need to know that and why the hell was he doing that anyways I’m not into him I’m straight straighter than Dean anyways like maybe we were friends at the end but only barely and… “and we don’t even know if she’s alive, or good or evil, or if she’s even his daughter. Sometimes the lore gets mixed up over time, and things aren’t usually that accurate.”

Jack tilted his head. “But it says here that she was.”

“Yeah, but that was written by humans.” Sam settled in for a lecture on mythology, which could either go very smoothly or would throw Jack into a mental tailspin. “A lot of the lore we have is based on old stories. A long time ago, they were just told word of mouth. Like… like I’m telling you right now. And to keep people’s interests, storytellers would exaggerate.”

“Exaggerate. A small lie. To make it bigger than it really is.”

Sam made a small agreeing gesture in his direction, not sure if Jack had read the dictionary or if Dean had covered that particular lesson. Probably Dean, exaggerating away all the carbs he was drinking to hide the still-raw grief. “So if every storyteller exaggerates the story a little bit, and then the inflated version gets written down…”

“It might be completely different from the truth?” Jack looked up at Sam, hopeful, and Sam found himself smiling.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Jack nodded and looked down at the picture again, considering it through this new lens. “But Gabriel is my uncle. That’s not exaggerated. And he does know her, because he told you to find her in a dream.” He looked up at Sam, hopeful. “How hard would it be to find her?”

“Well, I don’t know, and Dean’s scared of her. He doesn’t want us to find her and then it turn out that she’s the bad guy.”

“Why would my uncle be friends with a bad guy?”

Sam really did not want to get into the gray morals that seemed to permeate Gabriel’s pagan lifestyle, and thankfully, he was saved by Dean’s walking in. “Case,” he said pointedly. “Wolf clan. New York.” He looked over at the book, then pointed at the image. “Bad guy,” he said to Jack, like that settled it. “You guys ready to go?”

Jack nodded, hopping up, eager to please Dean. “Yes. I had my bag packed last night. And I didn’t forget extra underwear and socks this time.”

Dean frowned. “Extra? You had extra last time.”

Jack grinned, pleased. “Yes, for myself. But I packed for you both as well. When you wear the same pair of socks every day, it gets-”

“We get it.” Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the car.

Sam, for lack of a better response, patted Jack on the shoulder. “Thanks, bud. What would we do without you?”

“Probably stink,” he said, dead serious, and followed Dean, a spring in his step at being useful to his guardians, like a puppy. A wolf puppy, Sam reminded himself, one that was loyal, but could bite.

A week previous

Fairpoint, New York, was a pleasant little tourist trap in the Adirondacks, somewhere beyond Old Forge. A main road led visitors to a plethora of family owned motels and campgrounds, winding through little shops owned by kindly retired folk or kids in their twenties irritated at being forced to take over the family business. A lake nearby allowed for swimming or sailing, though it was quiet now that the season was beginning to turn. This time of year, the draw was the beautiful shades of red and yellow and gold that graced the ancient trees, and hiking trails winding through the surrounding mountains allowed tourists the opportunity ample opportunities to soak in the autumn aesthetic.

The only issue was the werewolves. Those townsfolk who had lived there for more than a generation knew about them- the clan out in the woods, who feasted on deer and moose and bear and avoided civilization like the plague. That was the original purpose of the village, after all. Keep the werewolves in the wilderness, away from the more human haunts. For a long while, the wolves had been quiet, and only the occasional foray into town for medicine or booze by one of their runners told the old folk that they were still active.

But that had all changed when a child turned up dead.

He was not one of Fairpoint’s- he was branded by the mark of the wolves, a symbol like four claw marks slashing the shoulder, and he was thin and gaunt, buried in a shallow grave that was unearthed by the excessive rains. It would have been ignored by the local cops, who, as a rule, kept only to Fairpoint business, except for the fact that it was a clear murder: his heart had been ripped from his chest cavity. The organ was missing.

It had to be a wolf, because no fox or coyote or bear would simply take the heart and run, and besides, attacks by wild predators were excessively rare, saved generally for foolhardy hunters (real hunters, with deer and stuff- they had no idea about Winchester-type hunters) who got between Mom-bear and cub. The thinness was a problem as well- though many wild populations were thinning, white-tailed deer refused to stop breeding, and their population boom allowed not only food for ticks, but for the wolves as well. Any children glimpsed traipsing through the woods were well-fed, bordering on chubby if not for all the running and playing they did, so a dead child whose ribs were clearly visible?

That was foul play, for sure.

So, it was with a great deal of nerves that Sheriff Harry Baldwin found himself hiking through the woods, sweating despite the autumnal chill, cop car left behind at the deepest hunting cabin he could drive to. His twelve-gauge was slung over his shoulder, heavy now that he had to hike with it, and shot shells clinked in the pockets of his jacket. The gun was only for protection from bears though. He didn’t fear the wolves. His family had been there for ages, and he had the feeling there had been a bit of interbreeding- every time the full moon rolled around, he felt peckish for bloody burgers. It was a craving he didn’t share with anybody, but a very real craving nonetheless, and he liked to imagine the wolf blood in him (even if it was imaginary) made him a better cop.

There was a stitch in his side by the time he heard a howl that clearly came from a human throat and not a coyote, and he leaned against a tree, panting. “Hey,” he called out to the trees, knowing one of the wolves was there, even if he couldn’t see them. “It’s me. Sheriff Baldwin. I need to talk to Alpha Melissa."

A wolf warrior stepped out. She was a pretty girl, curvy with big eyes and an easy smile, wearing a deerskin jacket over a Doctor Who t-shirt and skinny jeans. “Officer Baldwin! Hi! If we knew you were coming, we would have sent a truck out for you. What’s up?” Before he had time to respond, she darted off, and then returned with a bottle of water that she offered out.

He took it gratefully, draining it in a few moments, and then wiped his mouth. “I’m here on business, Charlotte. I need to talk to Melissa.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah, of course. I’ll call a ride to town. Seriously, next time you need to come out here, just call one of us.”

A few minutes later, Harry was on the back of an ATV, clinging desperately to the waist of Travis, another wolf warrior who was a few ranks higher than Charlotte. Harry wasn’t exactly sure how the ranking worked here, as the wolves were an independent nation it seemed, yet still had access to ATVs and Poland Spring and, apparently, Doctor Who. Harry never asked. He figured, that was their business and his business was Fairpoint.

The town itself blended into the surrounding forest, log cabins trailing wood smoke into the sky. A group of barefoot kids were playing soccer in a clearing that served as the town square, laughing and occasionally snarling at each other with teeth too long and sharp for a normal child’s mouth. Occasionally, there would be a splash of blood on the hard-packed earthen ground, but that only drew more laughter. Several deer were hanging from a pole, blood dripping into buckets on the ground. Their glassy eyes seemed to watch Harry as he dismounted the ATV, waiting for the warrior to lead him to the pack leader.

“Wait here,” Travis said sharply, and disappeared into the largest of the cabins.

Harry obeyed, but it was with a frown. He had spoken to Melissa many times. She was older, a calm leader, giving off the vibe of a Victorian era queen rather than a werewolf pack leader roughing it in the woods. Never had she kept him waiting. When he became sheriff, she had arrived in Fairpoint for the ceremony herself, congratulating him personally, and after that they had struck up a professional relationship that seemed to border on more than friendly (or at least, so Harry hoped. He may have had a teensy crush on the pack leader).

But never before had he been commanded to wait for an audience.

One of the children was on the ground, crying. Somebody had yanked one of her pigtails too hard, and now a few of the boys were jeering at her. Harry took a step closer to break it up, but then the smallest of the girls snarled as she intervened first, her face twisting, hackles raising, hands twisting and breaking into claws with an audible snapping of bones. The boys raised a laugh at her as well, but then the beast-child leapt forward, throwing the biggest boy to the ground with a thump. He tried to change as well, but she slashed him across the face, and he stayed down.

Harry stood, frozen, watching as the smallest hopped off the largest and walked over to the bullied girl to pull her to her feet. The boy on the ground sat up, the scratches on his face already healing, and snarled at her, but it was weak and small and ignored. The girl was alpha, and both knew it.

“I’m goalie!” she declared, human again, sprinting towards the two sticks that comprised the goal. With that, the fight was forgotten, and the game was back on.

“Sheriff Baldwin?”

Harry turned away from the kids to the familiar voice of Melissa, the pack leader. Middle aged, with a few scars across her face suggesting old triumphs, she exuded the aura of a warrior, despite her torn jeans and sky-blue sweater. Harry always felt a little subpar next to her, aware that maybe he should put in some time at the gym and maybe avoid the pastries Sally Parr, the town administrator, brought in every morning. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

She gave him a thin-lipped smile and gestured for him to come inside. He followed, grateful to get off his aching feet.

“Whiskey?” she asked once he had been seated in front of her desk, which was little more than a homemade table.

He waved it off. “I’m on the clock. I’m here to talk about a murder. A child, about ten, was found a few miles outside of town by a hunter. Poor kid was starving before he died. Heart ripped out of the body. Coroner hasn’t told us whether it was taken out before or after he passed.”

Melissa’s brow creased as she turned back to the desk, a small glass of whiskey in her own hands. That was new. Harry had never seen her touch a drop of alcohol in all the time that he knew her. Although, granted, it was more phone conversations than anything else.

“Shit,” she said, and all hope that she didn’t know about the murder flew from Harry’s mind. He hoped they weren’t going dark. He had no idea what they were supposed to do if the wolves went dark. That was on him, but half of Fairpoint didn’t even know about the wolves, so how would they fight-

Melissa drained the whiskey like it was water. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” she murmured, gazing at the golden drops clinging to the side of the empty glass. “I prayed that it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Come to what?” Harry leaned forward. “Melissa, if any of your guys did this, you know I can’t protect you. This whole settlement is already illegal. If there’s murder too…”

She stood, slamming fingers that broke and twisted into claws into the wood of the table. Splinters of wood flew to the floor. “They are not my guys. Not anymore.”

“Mel?” He tested out the nickname cautiously. “Something’s going on. Tell me what’s going on so we can prevent anyone else from turning up dead.”

Now her teeth were elongating, and her voice dropped to a growl that resonated within Harry’s chest. “A strange wolf came. He corrupted some of our youth- now they wish to summon him.”

“Him who?” Harry sat back a little, trying to remain calm in the face of the half changed alpha in front of him. “Mel, calm down, okay? We’re friends here. I want to help.”

She glared at him, normal cocoa-brown eyes now feral yellow, and then took a breath. “Him,” she repeated, forcing her voice back to its normal register. “The original Wolf. Fenrir himself.”

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