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spn fic: the mouth of god
Title: the mouth of god
Pairing: Castiel, Metatron, implied Castiel/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,400
Summary: "You'll never get away with this," Metatron says.
Notes: Spoilers for 10x17.
[AO3]
the mouth of god
"You'll never get away with this," Metatron says.
"You're in the backseat of my car, in handcuffs," Cas replies, leaning on the gas. "I did get away with it."
Metatron huffs. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
Cas focuses on the road, unwilling to rise to the bait. The angels will have come for Bobby by now, which means they already know what Cas has done. They can only leave heaven through the gate, and they'll need to find a car and a vesseled angel capable of driving it. If Cas is lucky, it will take them a full day to start looking for him.
Sam is moving east with Metatron's grace, so Cas drives south, following I-90 as it cuts through the Crow Indian Reservation. Sam had suggested Cas use Rufus Turner's cabin, assuming it still stands, but Whitefish is too remote, too far away from Lebanon. It's almost five hundred miles in the wrong direction, and Cas will need the Winchesters again before this is over, probably at short notice.
"You really left your friend Singer in a tight spot," Metatron says.
Cas shifts uneasily, a muddy, brownish feeling crawling into his chest. He reminds himself it had been necessary, that Bobby had known the risks when he agreed to help. Hannah leads the host now; he is stern in his own way, but his time on earth softened him toward humanity. Cas doubts that Bobby will truly be hurt, but it's a cold comfort, leaves a dark, dissatisfied taste in the back of his mouth.
+
He stops for gas just over the Wyoming line; it's well after midnight, and the sky is heavy, the handful of stars listless, nearly shrouded by clouds. He has grown accustomed to living on the road this last year, but he misses flying, the subtle shifts in reality created by his intent. Dean insists there is freedom on the open road, in starting in one place and working toward a new destination, but it pales beside soaring high above the earth, arcing across a brilliant sky. His wings are less than a shadow these days, but he can still feel them against his back, weighing him down as they hang uselessly from the joins of his shoulders.
Inside the store, Cas pays for the gas with a credit card Sam gave him, and he picks out a few things for Metatron -- a bottle of water, a banana, a package of beef jerky, two protein bars. Metatron sneers when he tosses the plastic sack in the backseat, turns to face the other window.
"No thanks."
"Don't bother trying to starve yourself."
"Or what? You'll force me to eat?"
"If I must," Cas says, climbing into the car. He catches Metatron's eyes in the rearview mirror, waits for the yellow burr of irritation to pass before he continues. "Besides, we both know it would only be a ruse. You don't want to die like this."
"Like what?"
"Human."
+
"You can't hide from heaven forever."
They're in Colorado, the sun rising as they wind through the farmland just north of Fort Collins. The interstate is starting to fill with cars; the horizon is burning pink and gold.
Cas leans his elbow against the window, drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't need to do it forever."
He should probably find a new car, since Hannah and several other angels are familiar with this one. Dean taught him how to steal cars once, his voice gruff but patient as he explained which makes and models were easiest, which wires to twist beneath the dash. He wishes he'd paid closer attention; it hadn't seemed important then.
"They're going to find you. They always get their man."
"It would be better for you if they didn't."
Metatron snorts. "Are you kidding me? A heavenly prison cell is way better than the back of this smelly rat-trap."
"They imprisoned you because you were an angel," Cas says, easing off the gas as a car cuts in front of him with little room to spare. "As a human, you mean nothing to them."
"You underestimate how vindictive those bastards are. They'd give me my grace back just so they could take me back upstairs."
"Your grace is hundreds of miles from here. Killing you would be faster and easier than finding it."
+
"They'll never let you back in, not after this," Metatron says. He's in the front seat now; ten miles back, he tried to open one of the rear doors. "That Hannah might've had a soft spot for you before, but this stunt --" he whistles through his teeth "-- wow."
Cas shrugs slightly, unable to deny it. His feelings for Hannah are a confused jumble of purples, mottled like a bruise; he had been a good friend, had helped Cas when no other angel would. Cas regrets betraying him this way, but he didn't have a choice.
"Of all the stupid things to do, falling in love with a human. You could've at least picked one with a little less baggage."
Anger stabs through Cas red and hot; only deepens when his fist slams into Metatron's jaw.
+
"I'm hungry," Metatron whines, just as they approach Byers. "And I want real food this time, not junk from the gas station."
Cas finds a diner just off the interstate, the kind of place Dean would call a greasy spoon. It has a seedy, plasticky feel, smells strongly of frying oil and burnt bacon. Metatron orders a waffle with whipped cream and a cup of coffee that he heaps with sugar and milk.
"So, he says, a few bites in, "have you started to rot yet?"
"No."
"Won't be long, now. I imagine it hurt like the devil last time." Metatron shudders dramatically, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. He has whipped cream on his chin. "Your vessel burning from the inside like that."
Cas leans across the table, taps his finger on Metatron's plate. "You'll have difficulty eating that if I knock out some of your teeth."
"All right, tough guy. A word of advice, you should be nicer to the person who knows where your grace is."
"I'm not worried."
Metatron sips his coffee, cradling the cup in both hands. "You're awfully sure of yourself, considering Sam Winchester isn't here to shoot me."
"I don't need Sam Winchester to shoot you." Cas leans back in the booth, the cheap vinyl squeaking loudly against his shoulders. "I have something you want."
"How do I know you'll give it back?"
"Maybe I won't," Cas says, his thoughts a dark, uncomfortable orange as he remembers the first days after he fell, the hunger and the cold, the confusing barrage of human emotions and sensations. "Maybe I'll abandon you like you abandoned me."
"You wouldn't," Metatron says, a nervous flicker in his eyes. "You don't have it in you."
"You'd be surprised what I have in me these days."
+
Byers is a very small town, but there's a motel just a few blocks away from the diner. It has the same grimy, unwashed feel, but after studying his maps, Cas decides it's as good a place to stop as any. Byers is due west of Lebanon and less the four hundred miles away; if trouble arises, he can meet the Winchesters at a halfway point along US 36.
"I want to know about the Mark of Cain," Cas says, sitting in the chair across from Metatron's bed. The back of it brushes curtains thick with cigarette smoke and dust.
"I already told you, I don't know how to remove it. It's old magic -- old, and extremely powerful. God could do it, but good luck finding him. Lucifer could probably manage it, but – you know. He's a little indisposed at the moment."
Cas doesn't flinch, but something rust-black and dangerous shifts inside him.
"Holy crap," Metatron barks. "You're actually considering it." A hysterical laugh bubbles in his throat. "Dean Winchester is -- it's unbelievable. Is there anything you wouldn't do for him?"
"No," Cas says honestly. "There isn't."
Pairing: Castiel, Metatron, implied Castiel/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1,400
Summary: "You'll never get away with this," Metatron says.
Notes: Spoilers for 10x17.
[AO3]
"You'll never get away with this," Metatron says.
"You're in the backseat of my car, in handcuffs," Cas replies, leaning on the gas. "I did get away with it."
Metatron huffs. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
Cas focuses on the road, unwilling to rise to the bait. The angels will have come for Bobby by now, which means they already know what Cas has done. They can only leave heaven through the gate, and they'll need to find a car and a vesseled angel capable of driving it. If Cas is lucky, it will take them a full day to start looking for him.
Sam is moving east with Metatron's grace, so Cas drives south, following I-90 as it cuts through the Crow Indian Reservation. Sam had suggested Cas use Rufus Turner's cabin, assuming it still stands, but Whitefish is too remote, too far away from Lebanon. It's almost five hundred miles in the wrong direction, and Cas will need the Winchesters again before this is over, probably at short notice.
"You really left your friend Singer in a tight spot," Metatron says.
Cas shifts uneasily, a muddy, brownish feeling crawling into his chest. He reminds himself it had been necessary, that Bobby had known the risks when he agreed to help. Hannah leads the host now; he is stern in his own way, but his time on earth softened him toward humanity. Cas doubts that Bobby will truly be hurt, but it's a cold comfort, leaves a dark, dissatisfied taste in the back of his mouth.
+
He stops for gas just over the Wyoming line; it's well after midnight, and the sky is heavy, the handful of stars listless, nearly shrouded by clouds. He has grown accustomed to living on the road this last year, but he misses flying, the subtle shifts in reality created by his intent. Dean insists there is freedom on the open road, in starting in one place and working toward a new destination, but it pales beside soaring high above the earth, arcing across a brilliant sky. His wings are less than a shadow these days, but he can still feel them against his back, weighing him down as they hang uselessly from the joins of his shoulders.
Inside the store, Cas pays for the gas with a credit card Sam gave him, and he picks out a few things for Metatron -- a bottle of water, a banana, a package of beef jerky, two protein bars. Metatron sneers when he tosses the plastic sack in the backseat, turns to face the other window.
"No thanks."
"Don't bother trying to starve yourself."
"Or what? You'll force me to eat?"
"If I must," Cas says, climbing into the car. He catches Metatron's eyes in the rearview mirror, waits for the yellow burr of irritation to pass before he continues. "Besides, we both know it would only be a ruse. You don't want to die like this."
"Like what?"
"Human."
+
"You can't hide from heaven forever."
They're in Colorado, the sun rising as they wind through the farmland just north of Fort Collins. The interstate is starting to fill with cars; the horizon is burning pink and gold.
Cas leans his elbow against the window, drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't need to do it forever."
He should probably find a new car, since Hannah and several other angels are familiar with this one. Dean taught him how to steal cars once, his voice gruff but patient as he explained which makes and models were easiest, which wires to twist beneath the dash. He wishes he'd paid closer attention; it hadn't seemed important then.
"They're going to find you. They always get their man."
"It would be better for you if they didn't."
Metatron snorts. "Are you kidding me? A heavenly prison cell is way better than the back of this smelly rat-trap."
"They imprisoned you because you were an angel," Cas says, easing off the gas as a car cuts in front of him with little room to spare. "As a human, you mean nothing to them."
"You underestimate how vindictive those bastards are. They'd give me my grace back just so they could take me back upstairs."
"Your grace is hundreds of miles from here. Killing you would be faster and easier than finding it."
+
"They'll never let you back in, not after this," Metatron says. He's in the front seat now; ten miles back, he tried to open one of the rear doors. "That Hannah might've had a soft spot for you before, but this stunt --" he whistles through his teeth "-- wow."
Cas shrugs slightly, unable to deny it. His feelings for Hannah are a confused jumble of purples, mottled like a bruise; he had been a good friend, had helped Cas when no other angel would. Cas regrets betraying him this way, but he didn't have a choice.
"Of all the stupid things to do, falling in love with a human. You could've at least picked one with a little less baggage."
Anger stabs through Cas red and hot; only deepens when his fist slams into Metatron's jaw.
+
"I'm hungry," Metatron whines, just as they approach Byers. "And I want real food this time, not junk from the gas station."
Cas finds a diner just off the interstate, the kind of place Dean would call a greasy spoon. It has a seedy, plasticky feel, smells strongly of frying oil and burnt bacon. Metatron orders a waffle with whipped cream and a cup of coffee that he heaps with sugar and milk.
"So, he says, a few bites in, "have you started to rot yet?"
"No."
"Won't be long, now. I imagine it hurt like the devil last time." Metatron shudders dramatically, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. He has whipped cream on his chin. "Your vessel burning from the inside like that."
Cas leans across the table, taps his finger on Metatron's plate. "You'll have difficulty eating that if I knock out some of your teeth."
"All right, tough guy. A word of advice, you should be nicer to the person who knows where your grace is."
"I'm not worried."
Metatron sips his coffee, cradling the cup in both hands. "You're awfully sure of yourself, considering Sam Winchester isn't here to shoot me."
"I don't need Sam Winchester to shoot you." Cas leans back in the booth, the cheap vinyl squeaking loudly against his shoulders. "I have something you want."
"How do I know you'll give it back?"
"Maybe I won't," Cas says, his thoughts a dark, uncomfortable orange as he remembers the first days after he fell, the hunger and the cold, the confusing barrage of human emotions and sensations. "Maybe I'll abandon you like you abandoned me."
"You wouldn't," Metatron says, a nervous flicker in his eyes. "You don't have it in you."
"You'd be surprised what I have in me these days."
+
Byers is a very small town, but there's a motel just a few blocks away from the diner. It has the same grimy, unwashed feel, but after studying his maps, Cas decides it's as good a place to stop as any. Byers is due west of Lebanon and less the four hundred miles away; if trouble arises, he can meet the Winchesters at a halfway point along US 36.
"I want to know about the Mark of Cain," Cas says, sitting in the chair across from Metatron's bed. The back of it brushes curtains thick with cigarette smoke and dust.
"I already told you, I don't know how to remove it. It's old magic -- old, and extremely powerful. God could do it, but good luck finding him. Lucifer could probably manage it, but – you know. He's a little indisposed at the moment."
Cas doesn't flinch, but something rust-black and dangerous shifts inside him.
"Holy crap," Metatron barks. "You're actually considering it." A hysterical laugh bubbles in his throat. "Dean Winchester is -- it's unbelievable. Is there anything you wouldn't do for him?"
"No," Cas says honestly. "There isn't."