Work Text:
Abandoned, decaying warehouses are North America’s liminal spaces.
There’s something otherworldly about them, something that lends itself to a sense of uncertainty, a feeling that anything could happen. It’s like being poised on the threshold of the present, wavering between a nostalgic, wasteland past and the irresistible gleam of the future. A better future with a better God. One who listens, one who cares, one who saves.
All Castiel wants in return is respect.
Yet people he once considered friends continue to stand against him.
The pitch-black of Dean Winchester’s tainted soul shimmers like obsidian; the glassy, worthless luster of it. It’s just as enticing as the pure, luminous soul Castiel pulled out of hell several years and storylines ago.
But Dean Winchester is long gone. In his place, this abomination.
The shattered glass and debris beneath its boots crunch slowly as it circles Castiel, thinking itself the predator rather than prey in this situation.
Laughable, really.
Castiel is God. Castiel is the Alpha, the Omega, everything in between. The chlorophyll in the grass, the water vapor in the clouds.
This… demon is nothing.
It bears the mark of Cain, carries the First Blade, which places it at the top of the trash pile, but it’s still a mutation. Unholy. The corruption of the one thing Castiel used to care about.
Castiel is not an unfair God. He gives everyone the chance for repentance. Even abominations.
“Get on your knees and worship me,” Castiel demands, power trickling to the fingertips of his vessel, the dingy warehouse getting brighter as it fills with grace and the sooty presence of his wings.
“Oooh,” the demon uses the tip of the First Blade to scratch casually at its shoulder. “I’m lovin’ the peacock display and all, but nah. I don’t think I will.” It winks at him. “Maybe if you asked me real nice…”
Castiel’s annoyance crackles through the air, like the static before a storm.
“I won’t tell you again.”
“Okay?” The demon smirks, the pearly white of its teeth sinking into its plush bottom lip. “I mean, that’s not quite the threat you seem to think it is, dude.”
“I’ve killed many angels,” Castiel tells him, impatience growing along with the steady hum of his incredible power. This thing should be terrified, should be crawling on its knees, begging for forgiveness. But it’s not. It’s watching him carefully, not awed, not scared, just… curious.
“No demons on your kill count though.”
“Yet.”
Crowley is at the top of his list, but since the reappointed king of hell appeared to be working with him rather than against him, Castiel had let the smudge of dirt live. Better the devil you know.
Now, it’s apparent that was a mistake. Because it has to be Crowley who has sent this thing after Castiel, believing that whatever affection Castiel has for Dean Winchester — combined with the powers held by a Knight of Hell — might be enough to remove Castiel from the board for good.
Crowley has always been a special kind of idiot.
“I’ve never killed a god before, so looks like we’ll be each other’s firsts. Kinda romantic if you think about it.” The demon’s eyes flash onyx. “Though, by the looks of your meat suit, I won’t have to do anything other than wait you out. You’re gonna pop like a pinata. Another couple of hours, it’ll look like a slaughterhouse in here.”
Castiel can feel the atoms of his vessel stretching, distorting, like a shirt that’s too small. “That is not your concern, creature.”
The demon holds up its hands. “You’re right. It’s not.” It shakes its head, hair longer than Dean used to keep it. “Except… nah, you wouldn’t be interested.”
Castiel knows he’s being played. He tilts his head with a small smile. “You’re stalling for time.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” the demon says, stepping closer. “But what if I told you that I have a spell to lock up those squiggly leviathans inside you, huh? Could keep your vessel in tip-top condition and free up more of your grace to continue on your holy mission, right?”
Castiel considers the first question. “Why would you help me?”
The demon’s smirk spreads, oily and slick. “Answering a question with a question. There’s my Cas.”
Castiel’s voice reverberates around the warehouse, shattering what remaining glass there is in the rusted iron panes. “Enough!” The demon barely even flinches as chunks of glass rain down; a marked difference from the first time Castiel attempted to talk to Dean as a human. “I’ve only let you live this long because I once cared for the human you are infecting.”
“Yeah,” the demon says. “And the only reason I pretended to go along with Crowley’s plan to wipe you off the map is because I appreciate a fellow murder artist.”
Insulted by the implication that what Castiel does is anything less than cleansing the earth, he responds, “I kill those who are immoral.”
The demon’s voice notches up an octave in a parody of those awful valley girls. “Like, me too! Totally.” In its normal tone, it adds, “Adulterers, hypocrites, those who take the Lord’s name in vain, y’know, the standard.”
Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by the demon. “Listen. I fuckin’ hate Crowley, you fuckin’ hate Crowley. I hate assholes, you hate assholes. I’m powerful as fuck. You’re powerful as fuck. I’m sexy. You’re sexy. We’d make the perfect couple. We can travel cross-country on a murder spree like Mickey and Mallory. I call dibs on Mallory though; I can work a pair of red jeans better than Julliette Lewis.”
Castiel falters as he processes. “You hate Crowley?”
The demon rolls its human eyes. “Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the whole Mark-of-Cain-resurrection-as-a-demon thing, but then we had a hot girl summer together and that dude is clingy. ” In a dire attempt at an English accent, the demon mimics, “Pick a bloody side!” It sniffs, slants a glance at Castiel. “Turns out, I did. I pick you, Cas.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” At Castiel’s unimpressed stare, the demon elaborates. “Alright, fine. So if we’re doing this passing notes in class thing, I kinda like you. I like the whole—” it gestures in a circular motion with the first blade, encompassing Castiel, “—wrathful God thing you got going on. It’s hot. You’re just about the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen and I figure it’s better to be standing next to you than in your way.”
Hm. God and a Knight of Hell working together? It’s not as though Castiel needs the help, but the company wouldn’t go amiss. It’s been a lonely, betrayal-ridden road so far. And if the demon is telling the truth about a spell that could bind the leviathan? It would mean that Castiel could continue his mission without the creatures siphoning his power. The last few months since he opened Purgatory have been… difficult and uncomfortable.
The demon waggles its eyebrows. “I’ll even get on my knees for you. Long as you say please.”
“You realize that if you’re lying, I could smite you like…” Castiel holds his hand up, fingers poised. “This.” He clicks and in his mind’s eye, the demon falls to its knees. In reality, it stays standing, the mark on its forearm glowing an angry, vicious red as it fights against Castiel’s grace.
Interesting. The demon is not as weak as Castiel assumed. It might make a useful ally.
Still, determined to prove a point, Castiel rallies every last speck of power and pushes.
The demon is forced down onto one knee, then the other. Its fight trickles away into nothing and Castiel dims his own power so that it’s just enough to hold the demon in place.
Deliberately taking his time, Castiel closes the distance between them. When he’s standing over the demon, Castiel reaches down to grasp at its jaw, fingers digging into its flesh and forcing it to look up at him.
The breath that Castiel doesn’t need to take catches in his throat.
Green eyes brimming with devotion shine back at him. Dean. His Dean. He’s in there somewhere and despite Castiel’s God status, he’s found himself missing his friend acutely. If this is the only way Castiel gets to have him, then he might just have to live with it.
“I’m not lying to you, Cas. I pledge my allegiance to you.”
It’s what Castiel has been waiting months to hear. The thing he wanted most in the world: Dean’s fealty. He doesn’t like to think too much about why that is, but sometimes, the leviathans whisper it to him, insidious and creeping around his vessel like smoke and mirrors.
Castiel drags the pad of his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip. Dean opens his mouth, pink tongue curling around the whorls in Castiel’s skin. He’s sin, he’s evil, he’s dirt.
He’s Dean.
“Worship me,” Castiel commands, voice rough. “Please.”
“Always,” Dean responds. He turns his cheek, pressing a kiss to the lifeline in Castiel’s palm. The private little half-smile that Dean aims upwards has Castiel returning it, warmth sprawling in his chest. He relinquishes his already tenuous grace-hold over Dean, trust implicit in the gesture. As per his promise, Dean stays on his knees of his own volition, his face cradled in the cup of Castiel’s hand.
“Stand up,” Castiel says, thumbing Dean’s lower lip one last time, before he pulls his hands away, allowing Dean to push to his feet. This close, Castiel can smell the sulfur on him, the filthy stink of it, but underneath that, there are layers of human: sweat and cologne, the rich, deep scent of soil, overlaid with the metallic tang of iron.
Castiel breathes him in. Dean.
“So whaddya say, Cas? You and me, road trip? I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine. You, the ruler of Heaven, me, the ruler of Hell. Once we kill Crowley, of course.” Dean reaches into the pocket of his red overshirt and pulls out a piece of folded paper. “Ohhh, and would you look at that. I know precisely where he’s gonna be in a little over four hours. Huh.”
Castiel’s smile grows teeth.
This is going to be so much fun.