FIC: Ride The Skies 1/?

[dollarformyname]

Story Title: Ride The Skies
Author: dollarformyname
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Rating: FR15
Warnings: Language.
Timeline/Spoilers: Set post Point Of No Return for SPN; pre-series for DA. It's 2010 in both 'verses, but I'm pretty much taking DA characters and plopping them into the SPN 'verse, so there's no Pulse.
Summary: The Apocalypse is nigh, spirits are low, and Castiel is helping, he totally swears. It's gonna be a long night. Humor/drama.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and Dark Angel belong to Eric Kripke, James Cameron, and other people who aren't me.
A/N: This is all pathsforme 's fault. :) It's an on-the-fly kinda thing and unbetaed. Proceed at your own risk.


***FINALE-SPOILERY A/N: I'm pretending Adam wasn't a perfectly viable vessel that would basically make Dean's entire reason for being resurrected null and void, and Castiel wasn't turned human. K? So, it's AU from 5.18. ***

-:-
 

—PART ONE—

Dean blinks. “You—“ His mouth hangs open, the rest of the words refusing to form as he stares with blank incomprehension at the messy sprawl of limbs and trenchcoat on the sagging bed.

“You did what?” Sam finishes for him.

Castiel's palm smacks over his scrunched eyes as he lets out a ragged moan. “I took preventative measures,” he says grumpily, hand-spidered face angled up at the ceiling.

“But you—“ Dean's eyes round off for a second as he pushes out a loud breath, plops his ass down right where he stands and lands in a chair by pure luck. He swipes a slow hand over his mouth and aims a faraway stare at the floor. “Cas, you can't just go around kidnapping people,” he says carefully.

Their renegade angel has graduated to outlaw. A drunk and disorderly outlaw who uses his unearthly powers to make liquor store clerks unconcerned with his plundering of their stock because they're busy sleeping, and who holds small children for ransom.

“I'm fairly certain I can,” Castiel corrects tonelessly, rolls sluggishly onto his side to burrow his face into the scratchy pillow, limbs flopping over with the rest of him as an afterthought. “Because I did.”

Sam heaves a weary sigh, slouching heavily against the bathroom's doorframe and feeling that irrepressible urge to collapse much like his brother. But for some reason he feels like one of them should stay standing, if only because it helps radiate disapproval better. It always worked for Dad, anyway.

Sam palms his face, shaking his head at relating Cas to someone who needs parental reproach. How far the mighty have fallen.

A few days after blowing himself away in that warehouse where all the crap with Adam and Zachariah went down, Cas called them from the asscrack-of-nowhere Texas, and grouchily inquired as to their whereabouts. He flew in a little bloodied and confused, then immediately resumed drinking. It's been over a week and he's barely torn himself away from the bottle to breathe the air, so Sam's having a hard time figuring out just when and how he managed the frame of mind to pull off something like this. The why is also a big concern, but Castiel seems to think it's some universally understood concept and isn't all that keen to educate them.

“Dean, we gotta take 'em back,” Sam mutters, can't believe he actually has to plot out the least disturbing method for returning angel-napped children. God, he just knows they're going to end up on the wrong side of some bars again. “Their parents are probably freaking the fuck out.”

Dean's sigh borders on an exasperated snort as he's undoubtedly realizing the same thing. “Jesus, dude, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Not about Jesus,” Castiel informs him seriously, watery gaze aimed in the general vicinity of the dingy curtains fluttering above the chugging air unit. “They don't have any parents, but you are feasibly correct in that someone is 'freaking the fuck out.' They deserve it, however, so you needn't concern yourselves with it.”

Sam is distractedly impressed with the angel's ability to annunciate so precisely considering how flammable his veins have to be right now. He's not making a hell of a lot of sense, but his words are crisp and clear.

“Where are they?” Sam asks, trying to prepare himself for the confrontation with a couple of hysterical, tearful and snot-congested midgets.

There will likely be screaming and indecipherable babble, possibly tiny fists in unpleasantly sensitive places if he can't convince them he's not a terrifying giant coming to eat them. He's aware he's not the most comforting image in the eyes of those so low to the ground, especially if they're already traumatized by a winged kidnapper with eighty-proof breath.

Castiel flips onto his back again and just stares, eyes cinched into bleary lines that are trying too hard to focus, and it takes a while for Sam to realize the staring is actually an attempt at glaring, but the angel's too wasted to execute it as well as he usually can. “If I reveal their location, you will return them to their jailers,” he deduces, clearly not on board with this idea. “That would be counterproductive.”

“Counter—“ Sam's huff has the potential to send unsecured objects airborne as he tosses his hands up.

“I help you,” Castiel states for the record, so damn cranky lately. “I have lost count of how many times I've whisked you out of your own disasters. I have committed treason, subterfuge, blasphemed and merrily carried your not-insubstantial forms across timelines, all for the benefit of your cause. I continue to help by foiling the latest nefarious plot, and you know what would be nice? A thank you. Thank you, Castiel, for being so helpful. This helping that has smashed your life-long beliefs into kindling? It's lovely. We're sorry for yelling at you because we are too dense and self-absorbed to understand your methods.”

He levels them with a sour expression, waiting to have the latter repeated back to him, and Sam's torn between laughing, being offended, and simply letting him know in no uncertain terms that all his god-blessed marbles have been lost to the ether.

Dean, it seems, has opted for the latter.

“Okay,” Dean says with authority as he jolts back to his feet, his sharp clap ringing around the room. “You have officially fuckin' lost it, and you know what that means? That means I gotta be the bad guy now.” Sam smirks at how his brother manages to sound so persecuted. “That means your feathered ass is grounded. No more booze, no more flitting around unsupervised until you're dried out. This here's an intervention, and how fucked up is it that I'm the one saying this?” he directs the last at Sam, who just shakes his head again.

Castiel levers himself up on his elbows with great, grunting effort, squints at them in puzzlement. “Your incessant ignorance is unsettling. What part do I need to reiterate with careful deliberation, and how often?”

“Uh, the part where you nabbed a coupla innocent little kids for no damn reason?” Dean drawls, brows nestled up in his hairline. He flicks a worried glance to Sam, obviously wondering how it got this bad in such a short time.

Sam's busy keeping track of the wordy insults. So far Cas has called them sloppy, fat, ungrateful, slow and stupid. He's just waiting for Dean's unrefined musical tastes or the Impala's unnecessarily pompous roar to come up.

The angel's face clears, like he sees the error of his ways now and this can all be corrected with a little heart-to-heart. He flops back down and immediately regrets it if his anguished moan is any indication. “I had a perfectly valid reason,” he assures, flaps a hand at them as if to say, there-there now, all better.

“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean growls, officially pissed off. “Where'd you stash 'em?”

Sam's grateful his brother's taken on the no-nonsense tone of do-not-fuck-with-me-right-now, because out of the two of them, Cas is more likely to listen to Dean when he gets all authoritative. It's not anything to moan about, just the way it is given the hell stuff and their ability to relate to each other over deadbeat Dads. And having your personal angel-guard kick the ever-living shit out of you when you're being a complete moron only strengthens these bonds, apparently. They both seem to think Sam needs constant looking after too, no matter what they say about how much he's grown up, and it's like he's been saddled with two older brothers half the time. That might be something to moan about, but now's not really the time.

Castiel makes a gurgling sound of irritation, eyes pinched shut against the world again. “I'll tell you if you promise not to take them back.”

Sam and Dean make no such promises, simply combine their glares on an oblivious angel, who's maybe not so oblivious as he seems to feel it despite his lack of sight at the moment.

“I found one hiding in the woods of Montana, living off of what he hunted,” Cas blurts out, fed up with their persistent lack of getting it. “He's been alone and on the lam for over a year. The other was imprisoned in the facility that manufactured him, brainwashed and tortured daily just like all the others. It's possible there was some smiting that led to open cages and flaming machinery, but it's a bit foggy, so when I say you can't take them back, I mean you can't take them back. If you drop them anywhere near a uniform, you will be executed instantly for even knowing about them.” He blows out a breath and cracks an eye open, looking vindicated. “Does this nullify your asinine desire to undo all of my hard work?”

Dean cocks his head and kind of sputters for a moment, absorbing what he's just been told and trying to figure out if it's in any way reliable. Sam stops fighting his urge to sit and moves to the vacant bed, lets his knees give out so his ass collides with the squeaking mattress.

“I, uh, I think,” Sam stammers as Dean plops back down into his seat. “Um, I think you need to start over, Cas.”

He's still stuck on the smiting thing, and that is always so messy. Sam really wishes the angel would learn the concept of sharing his alcoholic spoils.

Castiel heaves a put-upon sigh and rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, the picture of adolescent intolerance for his completely un-hip parental figures. Sam half-expects an ohmigod, you guys are sooo lame to come groaning out, but instead he says, “I saved them,” tone abruptly weighted with longing as he levels them with a somber gaze. “I can still save people.”

Even if my father won't—unspoken but heard all the same.

“Alright, man,” Dean says, spreads his hands out to indicate he's willing to listen. He looks uncertain of what to do with them after that, lets them clap down over his knees and sags into the hard-backed chair, rubs his eyes and prepares to be blown away. “Tell us the whole story, from the beginning.”

-:-

PART 2

Comments

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Lol. Demand met. I keep getting distracted but it's way too early for being awake. Or late, since there was no sleeping. Glad you like it so far. Some stuff will be answered, some stuff not, as I don't plan to get too in-depth with it. It's all over the course of a single night, so... *shrugs* That's just how it came out.

[pathsforme.livejournal.com]

I think we should let Castiel and Illyria in the same universe. It would be hilarious, the things they says sometimes... Doubt they would be friends, but you never know. Neither Cas, nor Illyria ever do wha you expect them to do.

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Oh, damn. You're gonna play merry hell on my ADHD muse, aren't you? *flees rabid bunnies* ;)

[longbca.livejournal.com]

-climbs into your brain and sits cute Castiel plushie there along with a Illyria plushie and climbs out- Think oneshot outtake for Hit or Misplace where Castiel appears...

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

*plush-Castiel smites you* Be smited! Er, smooted? Smitten? Well, you're annihilated, at any rate. No more feeding the muse. It is already morbidly obese. ;)