Chapter Text
Abandoned buildings stand like ghosts, haunting the once-bustling streets with their empty shells. Despite the humans’ attempts to blanket the world in concrete and tar, nature is working its way back through the foundations. Signs of life spring through the cracks, and small creatures scuttle away as he walks past.
The warehouse door is heavier than it looks, swollen tight in the frame. It opens with a jarring metal-against-metal screech that vibrates down into his bones. Solid concrete walls cage him, and he finds only two points of entry. This is fine when you can step between planes and relocate within the blink of an eye, but that is not an option. Not anymore. Not with defunct wings.
Three people stand in the center of the cluttered space as Castiel winds his way through the discarded boxes and broken equipment littering the floor. Standing at the front of the trio is a man dressed in a new suit. The other two flank his sides, a man and woman dressed not nearly as formally as their leader.
“Cass-tee-el,” the leader of the group says, stretching out his name like it is unfamiliar in his mouth.
By human standards, the man would be considered handsome with a roguish smile and a sharp jawline. But the blackened soul leaking out through his eyes gives away his true nature.
“Astaroth.” Castiel stops ten feet away.
“You’re a lot taller than I thought you’d be.” The demon runs a hand over his meticulously styled hair to smooth it down—swept to the side and gelled in place. The action is unnecessary. He still looks ridiculous.
Cas resists the urge to roll his eyes and tell him exactly how much taller he really is. This isn’t the first time he’s encountered a comment like this. A symptom of being around the Winchester brothers, no doubt. But he doesn’t want to engage with this being longer than necessary. “Do you have the Grimoire?”
“Do you have the ashes?”
“I do.” Castiel taps his front left pocket, where the remains of the burning bush lay in a jar. It once contained the power of God, but is now completely inert. Castiel has no idea what the demons want it for. He should be more concerned about handing it over, but he has other priorities. The spell he needs is reported to be contained within The First Grimoire.
The demon’s lips spread wider into a mocking smile. “So, here’s the thing.” Astaroth steps forward, and the other two demons step out diagonally. The movement is familiar, Castiel having used it himself many times before. He knows where this is going and he lets out an annoyed sigh. “I don’t actually have the book anymore.”
Seeds of disappointment settle in his stomach as his only solid lead threatens to disappear. He pushes that aside, needing to be sure. “Seems unlikely that you simply lost The First Grimoire. A highly valuable object like that? Did you let someone steal it from you? I thought you were supposed to be ‘formidable’?”
It might not be in the best interest of his safety to taunt the demon—three-on-one is not great odds—but he needs to save Jack from the Other World, and this lying piece of shit is not going to stand in his way.
The smirk drops from the demon’s face, and his voice drops into a deep laugh. “That bitch will wish she never took her first breath. But, as for you—“ A door squeals open, and without looking back, he knows his odds of getting out of here alive have significantly dropped. Maybe he should have asked Dean for help. “Asmodeus has been looking for you.”
Two demons lunge at Castiel from either side of Astaroth. With a flare of grace, he brings his angel blade into this plane. It drops into his waiting palm. He steps back and to the side, dodging the first. The second gets within reach and he slams his palm into his forehead, erasing the blackened soul with pure, white energy.
The female grabs his arm, as if she stands a single hope of stopping him. He swivels on the spot, plunging the blade into her stomach. A crackle and spark of red light spill from her eye sockets as she, too, is sent to the empty. During the brief moments his blade is sunk deep within the woman’s vessel, something sharp slices across his arm. Blood streams from the wound, soaking his shirt before his grace flares, sealing the skin.
He spins around and notices three new demons have entered the warehouse. Four against one and he has already used his grace three times. He turns and runs towards a rack of shelving, trying to buy himself some time.
“Remember, we need him alive,” Astaroth’s voice echoes around the vast empty space of the warehouse.
Someone grabs his arm, and he spins, slamming his blade into their vessel. The blade is still lodged in the body when a fist collides with his face. He stumbles back into the shelves, loose debris falling around him. Without his blade, it turns into a fistfight. One demon has an angel blade, but he hesitates at the back.
They exchange blows—face, stomach, arms, Castiel copping the worst of it. His body is aching, but he holds his grace back, not wanting to waste it on non-lethal wounds.
A blow lands on his left cheek, and he drops to the floor. Just in front of him is dead demon number three, Castiel’s angel blade still lodged in his chest. He scrambles, trying to find purchase against the dusty floor. His foot catches, and he lunges forward. The blade is within reach when someone grabs his foot and pulls him back.
He rolls, lashing out with his free leg, kicking them square in the face. Momentarily stunned, they drop their hold on his leg. Cas lunges once again towards the body on the ground, and this time his fingers wrap around the handle. He turns and catches demon number four by surprise, jamming the blade up through his chin. Its body lights up, screams pouring from his lips before his full body weight drops directly on top of him.
A loud silence fills his ears as Castiel realizes he is now pinned between two dead bodies, his blade jammed uselessly between the body on top and his stomach.
A slow clap, timed with heavy footsteps, rounds the corner and down the aisle until Astaroth is standing in front of him. He stares down Castiel with a serene smile. “That was quite the show. But I think your luck might have just… run… out. Get him up, Dmitri. Mind the blade.”
Dmitri drags the body off Castiel—his blade still jammed in the guy’s skull. He is unable to pull it out and soon finds himself face-to-face with another angel blade, this one held by Astaroth. “Uh, uh, uh. I know I am not allowed to kill you, but I have always wanted to know if an angel could regrow a limb—like a lizard.”
Astaroth places the tip of the blade just under his shoulder. He makes eye contact with Castiel, before slowly pushing it forward through his trench coat, jacket, shirt and into his skin. The muscles in his shoulder contract before snapping and popping. Pain lances through his body as the blade twists in place, burning like a hot poker directly to his soul.
Castiel screams, calling out for help he knows is not coming. He tries to recoil but can’t move, caught between the concrete floor and the other demon. Astaroth pulls the blade from his shoulder and wipes the blood off on Castiel’s trench coat—seemingly satisfied with disabling his left shoulder for now.
Cas covers the wound with his hand and applies pressure. His shoulder screams at him to heal it, and he allows a small amount of grace to flood the deepest parts of the wound, stemming the blood flow and reducing the pain to clear his head.
His grace is running low, and he needs time to recover back to full power. He also needs to retain enough to smite a demon or two. He’s not going to go down without a fight.
“What do you want with me?” Cas asks as he is forced to his feet. The other demon has Castiel’s blade jammed against his back. Astaroth stows his blade before producing a pair of handcuffs the Enochian engravings visible in the dim light of the warehouse. Cas eyes them, knowing his grace will be rendered completely useless if they get them on his wrists.
He is starting to think this meeting was not his best idea.
Different scenarios play out in his mind as he considers his options. He is currently weaponless and about to be powerless, but he needs to rescue Jack. He has already abandoned the boy once, dying at the hands of Lucifer, but he would rather be useless than dead.
Defeated, he raises his wrists.
CRACK!
The sound of a thick pane of glass cracking bounces around the walls of the abandoned warehouse, startling the three occupants.
The distraction is all Castiel needs as he spins around, knocking the angel blade out of the demon’s hand. It skitters across the floor. Castiel raises his hand and kills the demon, blinding light spilling from his palm.
Before the body hits the floor, another blade is pressed into his lower back. Astaroth wraps his arm around Castiel’s throat, placing him in a choke hold. One-on-one is much better odds, and all he needs is to get his hand to the demon’s forehead.
“Don’t even think about it,” Astaroth says, his voice strained.
Castiel starts raising his hands out in front of him when the arm snaked around his neck suddenly jerks away.
“What the—“
Astaroth jumps back, and to Cas’ amazement, a small orange animal is running up the demon, winding its way up his legs and torso. The demon tries to push it away, but the animal is quicker, dodging his attempts with its lithe body.
Castiel lunges for the blade, wrenching it from Astaroth’s hand. It slips through his fingers. He is distracted, thanks to the animal.
“Get off me—“ the demon screams as the animal begins to slice at the man’s face. The cat, it appears to be, runs its sharp claws over the demon’s face, and blood runs down the man’s chin.
Castiel grabs one of the demon’s wrists and twists it roughly behind him. The blade pokes into the soft flesh at the small of his back. He ignores the screaming pain in his shoulder as he brings his other hand up and places it on Astaroth’s forehead, wrenching his head backwards at an awkward angle. His grace threatens to surge forward, to smite the demon in his grasp, but he holds it back.
A fleeting thought about the cat and its safety flashes through Cas’ mind—it has disappeared from sight—but he refocuses on the demon, now at his mercy. “Where’s the book?” he growls into the demon’s ear.
“I will never—“ His words cut off as Cas slides the blade through his clothing and into his lower back. The demon screams and struggles to get away, but the angel tightens his grip.
“Tell me who took it!” He doesn’t wait for an answer. His eyes glow blue and he delves deep into the demon’s soul. With the mention of the book fresh in his mind, the memory comes to the surface quickly.
Horizontal logs line the room but don’t stop the chill of the night air from creeping inside. A fire crackles in a stone hearth, battling to keep the room at a livable temperature. Judging from the furniture and house architecture Castiel guesses it is early 1700s, but there is no way to pinpoint an exact date. Castiel is looking through the eyes of a man sitting by the fire reading a book, and without looking at the cover, he knows it is the First Grimoire.
A flash of light whites out the memory, and the book slips through his fingers. When the vision returns, a figure is hobbling away, the book in her hand. ‘Turn around. Turn around,’ he thinks. He needs to know more.
She hesitates at the door before finally turning to look at the demon as if she needed him to know who has bested him. The wrinkles on her face shift into a triumphant grin, and her bright blue eyes sparkle with mirth. She tucks her hair back into her scarlet robe before ducking around the corner, out of view.
One name flashes through his mind—Creighton.
He pulls out of the memory and returns to the warehouse. With no further need for the demon, he pushes the blade in and up, making sure to deliver the fatal blow. The remnants of his darkened soul crackle and scream against the quiet of the warehouse before the body slumps to the ground.
Castiel drops his head forward, and closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. What a fucking disaster. His body aches as bruises bloom under his skin—his cheek from the sucker punch, his shoulder from the stab wound, his ribs, back, and legs from various punches and kicks. Wisps of grace swirl inside, wanting to help, but he holds back, redirecting it to simply stow his blade.
Little wet licks break the silence, and he finally opens his eyes. Sitting on the floor, amongst the rubble and dirt, is a cat. It licks its paw before swiping its head and large ears, as if trying to get rid of any traces of the demon. Castiel doesn’t blame it.
When the cat finishes cleaning itself, it places both feet back on the ground and looks up at Cas. It tilts its head to the side, copying what Cas realizes he is also doing. The two stand still, looking at each other until the cat breaks the staring contests and walks cautiously towards him.
Cas squats down and reaches out his hand towards the feline. The animal stretches its neck and sniffs at his fingers. Its whiskers twitch before brushing its face along Castiel’s fingers.
“Hey, buddy,” Castiel says, in a quiet voice, trying not to startle the animal. “Thanks for your help today.”
The cat looks back up at him before rubbing the other side of his head against his hand. Cas turns his hand over and strokes the top of its head, over its dark auburn fur, flattening one of its ears. The cat arches into the touch, directing his hand down his neck and over his back. A smile lights Castiel’s face as the animal makes its way between his feet, rubbing on his pant legs and letting out a small purr.
“Probably not the smartest move, attacking a demon like that. You could have gotten yourself hurt.”
The cat lets out a curt meow as if dismissing his words. Castiel chuckles. When it stops rubbing against him, it sits down on its back legs, staring back up at him with large green eyes—the color familiar.
Its fur is soft and clean, and its body is not skinny. But its neck is bare, showing no signs of a collar. “Where is your owner?”
The cat replies with a sad meow and glances over at the far corner of the warehouse. There is nothing there but a stack of empty boxes. Castiel pushes on his legs and stands up, trying to decide what to do next. He could leave the animal here, the cat seems to be in pretty good health, so it’s either doing a good job of looking after itself or has only recently run away from its owner. It is a beautiful cat. Surely someone is missing it.
With his decision made, he turns towards the door, leaving the cat behind him. To his secret delight but outward frustration, the cat lopes along beside him, his little legs running fast to match Castiel’s step. He keeps walking. “You should make your way back home, little one. Your master is probably missing you.”
The cat says nothing, continuing to prance along next to him.
Sunlight pours in as he opens the warehouse door and steps outside. He holds the door open for the cat, not wanting to trap him in there, unable to get home. Its fur takes on a bright orange glow in the afternoon light, highlighting black stripes along its body. It is a beautiful cat.
Castiel walks up to his gold Lincoln Continental and squats down again to pet the cat. “Off you go. Back home,” he says, giving a dismissive gesture to the cat with his hand. The cat looks up at him, blinking slowly like he has no idea what Cas is saying. Of course, he doesn’t understand you. He’s a cat. “I can’t take you with me. I don’t have a home,” he growls in frustration. “Go on, get!”
It sits there, unmoving.
Castiel huffs out an annoyed breath. If the cat won’t leave, then he will have to. He can keep an eye out for it as he drives away to make sure it doesn’t get under the wheels.
He opens the front door to his car and is just about to sit down when an orange blur darts between his legs, and up onto the driver’s seat, before continuing to the passenger side. Castiel freezes for a second, looking into his car with amusement as the green-eyed cat stares back at him with a what ya gonna do about it now kinda look.
A groan rumbles from his throat as he slides into the driver’s seat, glaring at the stubborn animal. He rubs his hands down his face. The cat curls up on the seat, laying his head down on his front paws, before turning his gaze on Cas like they have been friends for years, and this is what they do when they get in the car.
“What am I going to do with you?” Castiel says, not expecting an answer, but gets a meow in return that sounds almost like home?
Cas shakes his head and starts the car. Heaven has not been home for many years, and he is definitely not going to bring the cat back to the bunker.