Chapter 39 — The Fox and the Hound

"Tell me what I'm watching, here."

The TV that hung on the wall in Dean's office played footage of a biological terror attack in DC. Men and women in white hazmat suits milled around a metro station, spraying and taking samples and doing whatever the hell else doctors do when someone sets off a suitcase full of anthrax in a public place. Probably not much of a precedent for it, all things considered.

"Do—do you know what anthrax is, my King?" Kayce asked carefully.

He'd never get tired of hearing that. King. Heh. "Do I look like a fucking idiot? Yes, I know what anthrax is. But why are you showing me? What do I care?"

"Because this wasn't your average terrorist," Kayce informed him, adjusting his glasses. "I wanted to inform you as soon as it occurred, but you've been...difficult to locate over the past week."

Dean offered no response. Yes, he'd been MIA, but none of his hench-demons needed to know that he had been sat outside the bunker for the past week, waiting. Watching. Stalking the perimeter with the intention to find any minor crack or flaw in the warding that he could exploit in order to gain access, or better yet, a mistake made by Sam or Castiel that would allow him to slip inside and say hello to his little brother.

He'd been shit out of luck, and his patience had finally dried up enough that he'd returned to the mansion. The Men of Letters had spent dozens of years and untold resources locking that baby up so airtight that no one had a hope or prayer of getting in uninvited, including him. And unfortunately, Sam would probably see through any ploy to get through the front door. Their run in outside of Magnus's compound had put a fine point on it; Dean wasn't going to have a change of heart anytime soon. There was no heart left to change.

"Skip to the part where you tell me what the hell is going on," Dean demanded.

"Here, let me..." Kayce took out his tablet, which had been tucked beneath his arm, and typed a few things. A moment later, he held it up for Dean to see.

"Youtube, what—wait a minute," Dean narrowed his eyes at the video. Grainy security cam footage of a guy Dean didn't recognize with a briefcase, no doubt the offending anthrax purveyor, and... "I'll be a son of a bitch. Zeke. Gadreel. Whatever."

"Yes. Gadreel was present when Dardariel released the anthrax."

"So this was an angel thing? Why would they bother? And was it Cas, or Asmodel?"

"We've established a source inside Heaven, finally," Kayce shared, closing out the video and setting his tablet on Dean's desk. "Apparently Asmodel has gained control of the Reapers, and he's formed them into squads. Rapture Squads, is what their calling them."

"Bet Death just loves that. So what's the point?"

"That's not yet clear, but I have a few theories. I think they may be trying to draw out and capture Castiel, so they can summarily execute him and the resistance will fall, or, alternatively, they're trying to wipe out the humans. Bring on their own apocalypse, since they can't seem to find the Horsemen Rings anywhere."

"Why not just nuke the whole planet and be done with it, then?" Dean asked, crossing his arms.

"Because there aren't any angels strong enough to build a new world out of the ashes. No one wants nuclear winter, even Heaven."

"So, instead, they're just trying to wipe out the humans. Clean slate."

"More or less. Or..."

"Or?"

"My source is of the belief, from various chatter that she's caught, that the Rapture Squads are trying to catch God's ever-wandering eye. Make Him return to 'fix things'. The celestial equivalent of a tantrum to get a parent's attention."

"And who's your source?"

"She's inside Castiel's camp, but she monitors communications. Angel radio is her domain. She hears things. Useful things."

"Well, ain't that just lucky." Dean rolled his eyes. He had an inkling that his definition of useful and Kayce's definition of useful were two wildly different things, but he decided not to voice his doubts. "Can your source tell me where Cas is right this second? Because that would be pretty damn helpful."

"By all accounts, he's running interference on the Rapture Squads with Gadreel. From what I hear, he's trying to find Azrael and Samael in an attempt to try to negotiate with them," Kayce explained succinctly.

Okay. Better than nothing. "Azrael and Samael? Azrael's the angel of death, right?"

"Yes, and no. She isn't the only angel of death. Samael is as well. They're...twins. As much as angels can be, anyway. Some of the oldest, created by God at the same time, for the same purpose."

"The first Reapers," Dean said.

"Yes. Supposedly a gift from God to Death — to help lighten his workload. But that's largely conjecture."

"Doesn't really matter to me either way, unless you know where they are. If Cas is lookin' for them, I want to find 'em first. Then just sit back and relax until he catches up." Dean flexed his hand, reflexively wanting to draw the Blade at the thought of going head to head with Cas again. Next time he met Cas, he wouldn't lose. Sure, an angel would always pack a little more punch than a reasonably tough human or a typical vacant monster, but Dean knew he was stronger.

He just had to hope that whenever they next met, Cas wouldn't have that fucking necklace that saved him last time.

"We need to make contact with a Reaper. I may be able to do that for you, given time," Kayce said, tucking his tablet away. "Is that how you would like me to proceed?"

"The fuck do you think?"

If the other demon was annoyed, he didn't show it. "Of course, my King. I will move quickly."

"Good."

Kayce made to leave the room, but Dean called after him, stopping his slimy assistant in his tracks. "What's the word on the prophet hunt? That Bart dick bring back anyone yet?"

"No, not yet. I can inquire as to his progress."

"Do that too. And if he hasn't made any...get him to come back here." Dean tapped the Blade's handle. "I've got something for him."

A stiff nod from Kayce, and the demon was gone.

Dean shook his head, stifling a growl in his throat. "I need to fucking kill someone."

"Are you sure that this is it, Gadreel?"

"As sure as I can be, brother."

Castiel felt...uncomfortable, in their current surroundings. To say the least. They were at a bar in Detroit called The Mad Viking, and the large, two story establishment was populated utterly by large, bearded men and sunken-eyed, leather-clad women. Head tattoos and open-carries abounded. Together, Castiel and Gadreel could level the place with a thought, but that was beside the point. This was not his element, nor was it Gadreel's. They both stuck out like sore thumbs.

"Perhaps we should have brought Sam with us," Cas said, doing his best to talk over the heavy metal music blasting from speakers all around the bar. "I feel as though he could navigate a place like this with far more grace than us."

"Should we go get him, then?"

Cas shook his head. "It would be ideal to have him here, but if we say the wrong thing, this could go very poorly. I would prefer Sam not to be caught in the fallout if we misstep."

"Understandable." Gadreel nodded.

"So, which Reaper was it that you spoke to?"

"Dumah. We captured her during another attempted biological attack, this time in Memphis. She cracked under very little pressure and told Hannah and myself where Azrael and Samael typically spend their time—I suspect she was more or less forced into joining Asmodel's movement by the other Reapers. Her...heart did not seem to be in it, as the humans say," Gadreel replied.

"We must be grateful for that much." Cas pressed further into the bar, past the initial door crowd, and every eye was on he and Gadreel. "Do we have any idea what Azrael and Samael's current vessels look like?"

"Dumah did not mention. When was the last time you saw them? Perhaps they'll be inhabiting the same vessels."

"I haven't seen either of them in a long time. The Reapers were neutral during the civil war in Heaven, and before that, our paths rarely crossed. It's been at least a hundred years since I've seen Azrael, Samael even longer," Castiel replied. "They have always been eccentric, however, so hopefully they won't be difficult to spot."

"Do you truly think we can negotiate with them?"

"I have to be willing to try. I can't tell the people who wish to follow me that killing our brothers and sisters is not the answer, and then proceed with only violence. Diplomacy comes first."

"And if that fails?"

Cas shook his head. "Then I don't know." He pointed to a staircase guarded by a bouncer that was roughly Sam's height and double his weight, with an orange beard reaching halfway down his torso. "That seems to be some kind of VIP area. If they're here, that's likely where we'll find them."

Gadreel swung his head around, confused. "Do you not see any sign of them here?"

"If they are anything like I've heard, the ground floor wouldn't be good enough for them. They've always prided themselves on being some of the oldest angels, they..." Cas fumbled to find the right words to describe his elder siblings. "Gabriel liked them. A lot."

Gadreel was old, older than both Cas and the angels they were searching for, but not so old as to predate archangels. And Gabriel had been a bit of a black sheep since birth.

Gadreel nodded in perfect understanding. "I see."

Cas approached the bouncer. He cleared his throat. "Hello there." He pulled out his fake FBI badge. "I'm afraid you'll need to let me pass. I have business with some of your, uh. VIPs."

The bouncer didn't seem impressed. I really should have brought Sam. "You got a warrant for something, Agent Rihanna?"

"...No."

"We need to speak to Samael and Azrael. Immediately," Gadreel said, and Castiel suppressed a sigh. Straightforward tactics rarely worked with humans. He'd found that out the hard way one too many times.

The bouncer's crossed arms and cross expression were immutable. "Get the hell out of here. I know a fake badge when I see one. You don't look like cops, you look like idiots."

"This is getting us nowhere." Gadreel put two fingers against the bouncer's head, and he fainted immediately, collapsing in a boneless heap to the ground.

"Gadreel!" Cas hissed.

"Hey, what the hell? What did you do to Barry?" someone called from behind them.

"GET 'EM OUT OF HERE!" roared another voice.

Cas and Gadreel swung around, and found that several of the bar goers were approaching them. Some of the particularly enormous ones. A man with an eyeball tattoo on his bald scalp dropped a half-sized titanium bat out of his sleeve.

"I think you need to leave," said the man with the baseball bat.

Gadreel looked at Cas nervously. "Brother...?"

Castiel rolled his eyes. Of course this couldn't have gone smoothly. "What's the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound?" He grabbed the titanium bat out of the tattooed gentleman's hands and snapped it in half, throwing it at his feet. Under normal circumstances, the gesture would intimidate most humans enough to encourage them to leave.

Apparently their current circumstances were't normal. The man tackled Cas around the waist without hesitation and barreled him straight through a table. Glasses and steins shattered, spraying beer everywhere. There was a surge of movement, some cheers, and then he and Gadreel were swarmed by dozens of people wanting in on the action. Before Cas was even fully back on his feet, a bottle of Maker's Mark (a favorite of Dean's) was shattered over his head. Blood and whiskey dripped down into his eyes, and he extended a hand blindly to blast away at least some of the attackers. They went flying into the liquor shelves behind the ground floor's main bar, and glass broke in a hail of shards.

Meanwhile, Gadreel had been pulled up onto the surface of the bar proper, and was taking punch after punch from the man with the head tattoo. Cas grabbed the man by the shoulder, whirled him around, and smashed his fist into his temple at a high enough speed to knock him unconscious.

Arms wrapped around Cas's neck and pulled him down in a flash. He wrestled with his newest assailant, a woman with a Harley Davidson jacket and a switch-blade, and just barely managed to scream to Gadreel, "Don't kill any of them!"

"I'd be more worried about whether we're gonna kill you or not, sweetie," the woman spat, breath reeking of tobacco. She jammed her switch-blade into his shoulder, and he flinched. It didn't hurt, per se, but it wasn't comfortable either. He needed to end this before it go too out of hand, but anything that would put the entire rioting bar out of commission would be lethal, undeniably.

Cas managed to wrangle the woman into a headlock and tightened until he'd knocked her out. Back on his feet, he fought through the crowd menacing Gadreel, throwing punches and elbows to try to take some of the heat off of him. The bases of broken bottles from behind the bar seemed to be a favorite weapon now, and Gadreel had already accumulated a variety of nasty gashes across his vessel's chest.

A pool cue went sailing past Cas's ear, narrowly missing him. He whirled around in time to catch the next one aimed at his head. The man who threw it was very short, very wide, and covered in a variety of piercings of somewhat grotesque nature. Cas gritted his teeth and clobbered the man over the head with the end of the pool stick, sending him down to the ground.

A shotgun blast sounded, and Cas looked down at his chest, now soaked in blood. He rolled his eyes. "This degenerated quickly," he muttered.

He turned to see the bartender, a thin, rat-like man who stared at him with wide eyes. "What the fuck!?"

Gadreel picked that opportune moment to smash a glass beer pitcher across the bartender's face. He collapsed in a heap. By that point, the bar had emptied, and everyone that remained was either thoroughly knocked out or on the floor, groaning. A few stragglers fled out the door when they realized that Castiel had taken buckshot to the back without so much as a wince.

Gadreel steadied himself on the bar, panting and bleeding. "Human determination is...impressive."

High, pure laughter rang out from the upper balcony. "You can say that again!"

Cas and Gadreel looked up as one. Leaning on the balcony railing were a man and a woman, nearly identical, aside from their visible gender indicators. Raven-haired and olive-skinned, with dark, laughing eyes and cruel smiles. The man's hair was gelled and spiked, and the woman's hung long, nearly down to the small of her back. They were similarly dressed to the rest of the bar's patrons, black and leather, studs and spikes.

"Hi Castiel," greeted the man. "It's been a long time. You're looking about as boring as ever. I have to give you points for that fight, though—that was hilarious."

"Samael," Cas said. The angel of death hadn't changed his vessel, only his aesthetic. "Why would you not interfere? We didn't come here to fight humans. We wanted only to speak to you."

"This was a lot more fun, don't you think?" asked the woman, who was undoubtedly Azrael.

"No!" Gadreel spat, blood dripping down his chin. "It was not!"

"Who's this killjoy?" Azrael asked, narrowing her eyes at him. She seemed taken aback. "...Gadreel? I'd heard you were out of the slammer, but I didn't think you'd be hanging out with Castiel, of all angels. Do you guys just bond over how everyone else in Heaven wishes you were fucking dead?" She twittered out another high laugh.

"They're worse than I remember," Gadreel murmured to Castiel.

"When you see that much death, you grow very distant from your right mind," Castiel replied, before speaking up. "Come down here so that we can talk. We won't fight you, we want only to negotiate."

A moment later, Azrael and Samael reappeared on the ground floor. Samael nudged one of the unmoving patrons out of the way with his boot. "Negotiate? Negotiate what?"

"You can't let this continue, the Reapers mass-murdering humans...your entire creation was predicated upon maintaining the natural order," Castiel began, reciting what he had planned in his head the entire time they'd been searching for Azrael and Samael.

"Natural order?" Samael snorted. "Says the angel that's been killed and brought back so many times that I've lost count. Try again."

"What does killing humans accomplish? It will not make God return," Gadreel pressed.

"Who cares about God?" Azrael countered, hand on her hip. "Look, if you think we let the Rapture Squads happen because we're ready for some kind of revolution and we think this is gonna fix the universe, you're wrong. We let it happen, because we don't care. The angels will probably all kill each other off before they manage to even put a dent in humanity, anyway."

"You...don't care?" How could they not care? How could humanity's fate—and Heaven's—mean so little to them? They were beings made for a singular purpose, how could they just...

"Buck their programming?" Castiel jumped at the sound of Dean's voice next to him. The hallucination of his friend hadn't made an appearance in a few hours, and Cas wished he would have picked a more opportune time to drop in. Dean looked at Cas, faintly amused. "I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you're not the only angel that looked around at how things were and said 'no'. I think Gabriel had gone pro with that before you were even a—a fledgling, or whatever angel babies are called."

"Angel babies isn't really—" Cas began, but snapped his mouth shut. The twin angels of death both cocked their heads at him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "What I meant to say is, how could you stand idly by and let this happen? If you don't want the Rapture Squads to continue systematically executing the human race, all you need to do is say a word. All of the Reapers are subservient to you."

Samael just shook his head, treading behind the bar among the shattered glass. "Why even argue about this, Castiel? Humanity is nothing more than a successful virus clinging to a speck of mud, floating in the middle of the great vast Nothing. I don't believe that God is going to come back. I don't believe in anything anymore." Samael snatched a bottle of gin, pouring himself a shot. He knocked it back without hesitation. "Heaven's broken, the angels are dying, and humanity? Insects. They live a bit, they die, and there's no mercy in any of it. So if they get squashed at a greater rate than usual—what the hell skin is it off of my nose?" He poured himself another shot. "Or yours, for that matter?"

"He's right," Azrael agreed, lounging on one of the few bar-stools that remained standing. "Why even bother, Castiel? Haven't you been trying to make the world a better place for the past like, decade? How's that going?" She tilted her head and grinned. "Just how many humans died from you trying to fix things? Probably more than the Rapture Squads have killed, I bet."

"I am trying to atone—" Castiel began, but Samael cut him off.

"Atonement is bullshit. Virtue's just an honorable form of stupidity. And if you haven't learned that by now, I think these next months are going to teach you just fine," Samael took his second shot. He set the bottle on the bar. "So have a drink with us, Castiel. You too, tall, dark, and brooding," he said, nodding at Gadreel. "Have a drink, and toast the end of it all. It's the only mercy left."

"I don't think you're gettin' anywhere with this guy, Cas," Dean said. "Seems like kind of an asshole."

He wasn't always like this, Cas said to Dean within the confines of his own thoughts, Neither was Azrael. I don't understand what changed them.

"The Fall seems like a pretty good candidate," Dean offered with a shrug of one shoulder. "Changed a lot of angels. Not all for the best."

Cas's eyes flicked between Azrael and Samael. "Then why bother to live at all? What is the point of life if it is truly as meaningless as you suggest?"

Azrael just giggled and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Hedonism, duh."

Samael lifted his bottle proudly. "The drugs are good. The booze are good. The sex is good. The food isn't even half bad. We enjoy what we can, while we can. So, cheers to the end of the world as we know it!" He tipped the bottle back into his mouth, taking a deep drink. He slammed it back down on the counter and smacked his lips. "It's the only mercy we'll ever get."

Gadreel looked at Cas, helplessly. He knew the other angel wanted him to say something, anything, to convince the twin Reapers to help them, but...

"Sometimes you just know a lost cause when you see one," Dean said, and Castiel echoed him out loud to Gadreel.

Gadreel shook his head, jaw rigid. "No, I will not accept that. You could stop the slaughter! If nothing matters, why not help us?"

The twin angels wore mirror smirks. "It's more fun to watch you squirm," Azrael provided.

Gadreel made to go after her, but Castiel wrapped his hand around his brother's bicep, halting his progress. "This isn't a fight we would win," he said firmly. "Come on...we're wasting our time here." He dragged Gadreel towards the door, and they stepped back out onto the busy Detroit street. Sirens wailed in the distance. Likely someone had called after hearing the gunshots from within The Mad Viking.

"Come back anytime!" Samael called out cheerily as the door swung shut behind them.

Cas tightened his hands into fists at his sides. "I..." He stared down at his feet. "I don't know what to say."

Gadreel seemed similarly at a loss. He threw his hands up in the air, a surprising display of emotion. "How can they be so callous?"

"They ain't the first angels to just tap out of the shepherd gig," Dean said. "You're gonna have to dismantle the Rapture Squads the hard way. Hunt them down, man. You don't have another option."

Cas carded hands through his hair, his vessel's pulse growing erratic. "No matter where I turn, there is nothing but death. I have to do something. Too many humans will die if we don't rip this movement out at the root." But what could he do? If Azrael and Samael would not budge...

"What do you suggest?" Gadreel pressed. "Suffice it to say, I think diplomacy has failed."

Cas froze. What if I was stronger than them? What if I could stop them? Stop them, and...fool their followers into thinking they were not gone, but had given the order for them to cease the Rapture Squad attacks. "I..." He laid his hand against his chest.

"Cas, I don't like that look," Dean said, taking a step closer to him, and God, how could he still smell him? Feel the heat radiating off of him due to his proximity? How could a hallucination, or a fragment, rather—a minuscule fragment of Dean's own soul—how could it be so vibrant? So real?

He braced himself, and shoved a hand inside his own chest, wrapping his hand around the ring he knew was buried there. He pulled it out, glistening red, a few shotgun shell fragments alongside it, resting in his palm.

"Brother..." Gadreel watched him with apprehension.

Cas slid the ring on his finger.

"Cas!" That was Dean's voice. Wasn't it always?

He went down to one knee. The effect was instant, the—the indescribable strength. He went in a breath from one soldier to a thousand, to feeling as though he had an entire army within himself. It was like the hell souls he'd taken in before, but yet...older. Older, and without so much anger. No. There was purpose, and an aspect of blood-lust, but no black rage.

"I know what I have to do. Stay here."

He rose, and went back into the bar.

Gadreel waited, trying to ignore the flashes, the screams from within the bar. The blood splatter on the window. Trying to ignore the growing unease in the pit of his vessel's stomach. When the police arrived, he laid gentle fingers on the two patrol officers' foreheads. They slept in their car in the alley next to the bar, causing no trouble to their mission.

Five minutes later, Castiel emerged from the bar, soaked in crimson. He had Azrael's still form over one shoulder, and Samael's over the other. His expression was inscrutable.

"I have an idea," Castiel said simply.