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newtothewaywardparty · 6 years

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The Ghost of an Idea 6

A/N-So, I’m still very new to writing fan fiction, and I’m not 100% on the formatting, etc. But the last thing I would want to do is inadvertently hurt someone. So some warnings. If you are familiar with the Dickens source text, you’ll know, this chapter is the worst because it has to be the bleakest vision of the future that inspires the character change. So I had to be really, really mean to our boys. I based the vision of Cas on Future!Cas but bleaker. So: implied drug abuse, multiple sexual partners, dubious consent, vampire/blood play, Dominant tones (not like consensual loving D/s dynamic but like Cas is an abusive asshole) I don’t like it but I had to make it so horrible Dean wouldn’t like it either!

Also this is the most explicit thing I’ve ever written and it’s a) horrible and b) not that explicit, but probably a Mature rating? Rated R? YMMV (do the youths on the interwebs still say that?)

Also, it’s like the chapter where Scrooge sees what happens when he dies so, like, major character death? But the good news is, it’s short and it’s temporary (’cause it’s like a dream/vision) and the happy stuff is coming up next! That said, I probably didn’t catch all possible warnings in this series. Proceed with caution. On with the story!

Read Stave One: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 1

Read Stave Two: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 2

Read Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 1

Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 2

Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits

Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits

Billie stalked across the field towards Dean, her face grim. Silent, she stopped an arm’s length from him. Dean swallowed nervously. “So...ghost of Christmas future?” he asked. Billie nodded once, tersely. Wordlessly, she turned and strode away.

Dean hustled to follow, finding himself strangely unnerved by Billie. He had been in her presence before, but their little ‘talk’ then had been more collegiate. Something about her manner during this rodeo had Dean’s legs trembling in her presence. She was clearly not Billie, here for a chat. This was Death, and don’t you dare forget it, mister.

“C’mon, Billie,” Dean attempted weakly. “I never expected the silent treatment from you, of all the women in my life.” The lame attempt at humor fell like a stone in the freezing air.

Billie halted so suddenly Dean found himself running into her black leather duster. She turned enough for him to see the whites of her eyes. She jerked her head once, urging him on.“Fine,” Dean muttered. “Let’s get this show on the fucking road” he said, and followed her without further question.

As they walked, the surrounding wheat field stubble grew and transformed until they walked through the interior of a dive bar. Dean looked at the row of barstools, occupied by plaid-and-boot-clad hunters. Some at the long wooden bar he recognized, others were strangers.

Billie stopped near a cluster of three men near the jukebox. A stained glass light above them shed a beam of light that made their features harsh and grotesque. Dean drew close to listen.

“No,” said a large man with numerous chins. “I don’t know much about it, either. I just know he’s dead.”

“When did he die” asked a young man with olive skin and a teenager’s scruff.

“Last night, I believe.”

“What got him?” asked a third, taking a long draw from the mug of beer in front of him. “I thought he’d never die.” The ginger hunter’s milky eyes were beady and deep-set, and shifted side to side as he spoke.

“Same,” said the first man, with a yawn.

“What happened to all his gear?” asked the young teen, greasy black hair obscuring his greedy eyes.

“I haven’t heard,” said chins, yawning again. “Left it to his brother, I guess. He didn’t leave it to us. That’s all I know.” The gathered hunters laughed weakly. “In any case,” the big man continued. “It’s gonna be a small wake.” He looked around at the gathered audience, flushed with the attention he was now receiving. “Who’d go to it? Unless the drinks are on the house? Amiright?”

“I don’t mind going if there’s food,” admitted beady eyes, who had a narrow jaw and a prominent blonde brow, “but I think their pet angel and its freak kid’ll be there.” Another laugh met this proclamation.

Dean balled his fists. What a bunch of assholes, talking about Cas and Jack like that. “Enough.” Dean firmly said. “I’ve seen the damn movie. It’s not a mystery who they’re talking about. You can skip the dramatic cemetery reveal. I just don’t see why I should care what these losers think, anyway.”

Billie fixed him with another mute stare and beckoned with a perfectly manicured nail on her hand not holding the scythe. Dean shuddered under her stare, then shuffled along behind her with trepidation.She led them down a sour-smelling damp hallway to the bar’s bathrooms, which transformed around him to the tiled hallways of the bunker. All the rooms’ doors were open, and strange voices echoed throughout the hallways. Anxious, Dean quickened his pace, but ground to a sudden halt when he entered the library.

Dozens of hunters had invaded their bunker. Boxes were strewn about with writing in marker on them, writing which Dean recognized as Sam’s. Weapons covered the table, each with a tag attached. A pile of clothes sat in one corner, plaid shirts, jeans, and shoes all laid out in neat rows on a blanket. A large poster advertised Men of Letters artifacts and magical items, with photos and list prices, while the actual items remained locked safely away.

In the milling crowd disinterestedly handling his personal stuff, Dean spotted his gargantuan brother, face still as he walked through the crowd. As he moved among the other hunters, he occasionally stopped to answer a question, or accept a word of sympathy, a hand on the arm, or an exchange of cash. His eyes remained distant, never meeting anyone else’s directly. Dean could see Sam’s jaw muscle twitching intermittently from across the room.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. His skin broke out in a thin sheen of cold sweat. “Sam?” he asked, hoarsely. “Why would you do this, Sam?” Dean grabbed Billie’s arm. “What the fuck, Billie?!” He tried to turn her to face him, but her face was as cold and still as stone. “Why is Sam selling my stuff?”

Billie actually opened her mouth to reply, but just then a terrible thought pierced Dean like an icicle through his heart. He sprinted, faster than he had ever humped it through the woods at night on a hunt, to the bunker’s garage.

He crashed through the door, his legs protesting and chest burning. There sat Baby, sleek and black. A silver-haired female hunter sat smugly in the driver’s seat, running her hand appreciatively across the dash. Outside the open door, a line of hunters were waiting for their chance to check her out. Dean approached, heartsick, until he was close enough to read the sign on her windshield. “$18,000 OBO” read the sign, again in Sam’s hand. Dean craned his neck, searching the garage. All the cars and motorcycles had similar signs. What. The. Fuck.

Dean shuffled back through the hall, heedless of the hunters and Billie. On autopilot, his feet carried him to the kitchen, where he had always found comfort. No strangers sullied this sanctum. Cas and Jack were there, though. They were huddled around a large table in the middle of the room where a body lay covered with a white sheet. Cas’ face was drawn and seemed paler than normal. Jack’s was open and caught between curiosity and confusion.

“But why is Sam leaving the bunker?” Jack was asking.

Cas pinched his nose between his long, beautiful fingers. “He’s grieving, Jack. The other times Dean…” Cas took a deep breath, then continued. “Sam wants out of the life. This is the end of the road for him.”

Jack cocked his head searchingly towards Cas. “And what about us?”

Cas’ shoulders slumped. He didn’t answer. Jack drew a breath to ask another question, but just then Cas slipped his trenchcoat off his shoulders. His mouth a grim line, he grasped the two tails and split it cleanly in two.

Jack’s face registered the same shock Dean felt. Cas did not relent. He used his angelic strength to rip the trench into long shreds. He then took the strips of fabric and bound the body on the table. He started with the feet and worked his way up. He didn’t pause in his work. When he reached the corpse’s head his hands hesitated, hovering over the sheet with tenderness. For a second Dean feared seeing his own dead body, but Cas pulled away at the last second. With resolve, he tied the head and torso with the last strips of his tattered tan garment.

Dean turned away from the scene, cheeks wet. He remembered doing the same for Cas, not so long ago. Billie materialized in the kitchen doorway. She crooked a single finger and Dean followed her, feet fumbling as his vision blurred with tears.

The bunker hallway dissolved into a darkened living room. Peeling floral wallpaper exposed moldy plaster. Piles of unidentifiable fabric lay in heaps on rough floorboards. A small camp stove sat, cold, in the middle of the room. Dean had never been here before, but he recognized it instantly. This was a nest.

Dean’s senses shifted into high alert, despite not really being here-here. He was in hunter mode, alert for danger. So he wasn’t startled when a figure shambled into the room. It was Cas, but not as Dean had ever known or seen him. The closest approximation Dean could think of was the future vision of 2014 Castiel he had seen at Camp Chitaqua. This Cas wasn’t all crystals and hemp-oil and linen, though. He was bearded, with long hair, and dressed in ratty jeans with a dirty t-shirt. He clutched a bottle of tequila in one hand and twirled a knife in the other. His eyes were unfocused, restless, and he looked around the room a bit as if searching for something before flopping into an orange corduroy recliner.

Cas was still for so long, Dean was sure he had passed out or nodded off, at the very least. But when a figure slunk in the back door to the kitchen, Cas’ eyes opened instantly. Now alert and gripping his knife at the ready, he looked every inch of the warrior of heaven he had once been.

“That was a waste of time,” said a woman, shrugging out of a ankle-length down coat. She unwrapped the scarf covering her face and head and shook out her brown braids. She looked Cas up and down scathingly. “I see Vernon’s still not back.” Cas narrowed his eyes at her. She returned his glare and anted up an eyebrow raise of her own. “Heaven’s all abuzz,” she continued in a breathy tone that reminded Dean uncomfortably of Meg. “Seems Jack’s been busting heads among the grey suits, working his way up the ladder.”

Cas took a long draw of tequila, wincing at the burn before acknowledging her words. “Kid’s not my problem anymore.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, pulling a mustard-yellow sweater off smoothly over her head and tossing it onto one of the piles on the floor. “But it seems he thinks your his.” She unbuttoned her jeans and pulled those off as well. Dean’s mouth feel open at her casual disrobing; their obvious intimacy. She stood in a black camisole and greying cotton underwear, hands on her hips as she regarded Cas. He studiously ignored her. “He’s getting closer. I’d hate for him to find out where you are.” she added, not at all sounding sorry about that prospect.

Cas finally looked into her eyes. “I’ll give you what you want, Mariah.” His voice was cold and harsh.

She nodded, looking eager now. She walked up to him and stood in the vee between his spread legs. He raised his hands and rested them on her thick thighs. “But my price remains the same.” Cas said simply, voice soft yet somehow threatening. Dean found himself recoiling at the veiled threat in the words.

Mariah’s mouth fell open. “I’m the one doing you a favor!” she protested. “You give me some grace, and our brothers and sisters, including your freak stepson, can’t sense you.” She popped out a hip, indignant.

Cas gave her a predatory smile. “And the fact that you, a graceless, fallen angel on the cusp of death, need my borrowed grace to survive…” he trailed off, raising both hands in a shrug. “That’s just a bonus?” He slumped back in the chair. “No. I don’t think so. Payment’s the same. If you want it, work for it.” His voice was hard, the syllables clipped.

Mariah’s eyes burned him, but she sank to her knees in front of him, hands on his jean-clad thighs. She mouthed at his fly and Cas’ eyes fluttered shut. He slugged more liquor as she inched his zipped down and began drawing his cock out into the frigid air of the abandoned house.

Dean stood frozen in place, unable to process the scene in front of him. Cas was so desperately broken. So cruel. At the same time, this was the first time Dean had seen Cas’ cock and it was distracting as hell. He was simultaneously aroused and heartbroken and scared. Whatever was going on here, Cas was clearly not okay. Dean wanted to help, but knew this was just a vision; what could he do?

The sounds of Mariah’s blow job became even more distracting when Cas’ moans of pleasure joined them in the silent night air. Dean actually closed his eyes and grit his teeth to prevent becoming more turned on than he already was. This was not the time or place. Luckily, the proceedings were soon interrupted by another party entering the little clubhouse of horror.

“Honey, I’m home!” called a cloying voice. A tall man with light brown hair entered the room, and looked entirely unfazed at the scene of Cas and Mariah in flagrante delicto. “I cannot believe you two started the Christmas party without me!” Cas’ eyes flew open and he gave the man a withering look. Mariah pulled off with a soft pop and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Don’t start, Vern. He’s in A Mood,” she pouted, sitting back on her heels. The intruder shrugged, flinging off his leather jacket.

“I told you not to mention that stupid pagan rip-off fake commercial holiday to me,” Cas said haughtily. His words were harsh but there was no fire behind them. In fact, he seemed to regard Vernon with something approaching affection, taking in his long, bowed legs and lightly freckled cheeks in a weighty stare. Cas didn’t seem embarrassed at his erect cock sticking out of his jeans.

“Whatever” scoffed Vernon. He pitched his voice conspiratorially to Mariah. “He gets like this every year. It’s because of Dean.” This last word stretched into a few singsong syllables. Mariah looked interested.

“Was that his name?” She reached a hand forward to touch Cas’ thigh again, almost tender, but he shoved her away, pretty harshly, in fact, which surprised Dean. Cas was staring at Vernon. Dean gulped. He expected Cas’ eyes to burn blue, for this Vern to get smote into the next county, but no angelic light burned bright. Instead Cas growled, “I told you I never wanted to hear that name come out of your fucking mouth ever again.”

Vern gave Cas a cocky smile. “Guess you’d better shut me up, then,” he said, his suggestive intent crystal clear. Faster than Dean’s eyes could track, Cas rose from the chair without warning and crossed the distance to Vern in a couple of quick strides, shoving him back on a mattress littering the floor. Dean’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Cas just absolutely wrecking Vern, hands and mouth all over him. It would be hot as hell if it weren’t disturbing and wrong and sad. After a few moments, Mariah walked over to join them on the mattress, the three of their bodies entwining in a routine that was clearly well-practiced. Dean couldn’t stand this. He pressed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, trying to block out the sounds of wet skin slapping together, the moans and grunts from the dirty pallet on the floor. He felt cold metal at his jaw and opened his eyes. Billie’s scythe rest along his face. She did not look absent of compassion as she used the blade to nudge his face back toward the scene in front of him. Why did she want him to watch this? What kind of sick fuck did she take him for?

Just then, Vern opened his mouth, which was was pressed against Cas’ neck, and Dean understood what he was still meant to see. Dean caught a flash of two rows of sharply pointed teeth just before Vernon clamped down on Cas’ neck, drawing blood. Dean darted forward on impulse, fists balling instinctively to beat the vamp off his angel. The flat of Billie’s blade rest against his chest as she yanked him back with it, freezing his body in place with her power. Seconds later, Cas climaxed with a guttural groan and a blue flash of grace shifted from him to both Vern and Mariah, and they followed suit.

As the three lovers sunk, limp, away from one another into the mattress, Dean turned away once again, sickened. Dean had his answer now. He had always protected his own heart. He knew how to survive loss and grief. He never thought about how Cas would respond; how he would cope with a broken heart.

Dean’s eyes found Billie’s and he whispered, “undo this.” He took her black leather lapels in his hands, dug his fingers in and begged. “I don’t care about my own life, but you can not do this to Cas.”

Billie shook her head slowly. “I didn’t do this to him, Dean. You did.”

Dean sank to his knees in front of Death, still clutching her coat reflexively. “I promise. I’ll do right by him, Billie. I won’t hide anymore.” Dean realized he was shouting desperately. “I’ll try. I’ll be brave. I’m not afraid anymore.” Dimly, he realized he was sobbing rather than speaking. He leaned his head forward to rest it on Billie’s feet, but his head hit the ground, and her jacket was empty in his hands. Dean lifted it to his face, repeating “I’m not afraid anymore,” over and over again, until he realized the material wasn’t worn leather but the scratchy faded blue acrylic of the motel bed’s blanket.

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