Echoes and Airwaves

A Supernatural, Avengers Fanfic

"You don't stop being a soldier 'cause you got wounded in battle. No matter what shape you're in, bottom line is you're family." - Dean, 5.7

"Well, I hear differently. And if it's true, and if you are still set on the insane task of killing the Devil, this is how we do it." - Castiel, 5.4

THEN:

The fighting had stopped, for the moment, but the cacophony of prayers continued like desperate, angry waves breaking against the jagged shore of Castiel's mind. Some were louder than others with true Faith to magnify the call, and some were the whispers of Atheists in foxholes. She'd brought them into a time of War, where countries battled for dominance and smoke filled the sky from ever-hot ovens and it had been hard enough the first time around.

Before, Castiel had stood intangible, and watched as his Father's last, perfect, creations tore into one another. It had been a war unlike any other she'd witnessed. Yes, humans fought. Yes, humans killed. But, as Anna had whispered in a broken voice for just the two of them, those wars were brutal but full of passion. Straightforward. There was a underlying layer of humanity to the soldiers, and for all the death his reapers were mercifully swift. Sometimes those wars were fought in the name of their Father, and even if Castiel disagreed with the methods she could approve of the sentiment.

In hindsight, however, she wondered if the strategic happenstances of diarrhea during those many crusades hadn't been their Trickster of a brother playing favorites in the most embarrassing of ways.

Oftentimes Castiel had wondered if it had been this last world encompassing war that had broken Annael. Forbidden to do nothing as their flock wasted away, as bright, misguided souls fought. Weapons of great power and destruction were built, proving the potential of humanity, and if they had just been able to do something, anything, appear to those individuals with influence or even on the battlefields themselves? There once had been a time where they could have done such. Where it was expected. A standing order.

But, no, the Garrison did nothing. They had stood as still and silent sentries bearing witness because it had been their only way to honor the madness. She remembered Balthazar looking away, refusing to acknowledge the fighting. Uriel curling his lips as his lion's head rumbled in growing disgust. Rachel prayed. Castiel had watched. Watched her brothers-in-arms wear down as her Commander grew quieter and more contemplative.

For that humans were weak, cosmology speaking, short lived and narrow minded they could feel and they could choose. Free Will, the most precious of treasures. Freedom to follow. Freedom to lead. Freedom to make that choice.

"Mon dieu, mon dieu." Castiel's boots were covered in the rich, red mud that had been churned up by rain and bombs and marching, running feet. She stopped as a grasping hand clutched at her coat, pleas on bloodless lips. She stopped, because he shouldn't have been able to see her. No others even blinked at her passage. "Ange."

But there were always people; certain, special people with the power to perceive. She had thought Dean would be one of these people. Disappointing, and typical, to find one here and now on the verge of death.

There was a noose of golden thread around the man's neck. There were no orders, now, and all her careful, hesitant knocks on heaven's door had been met with hollow, empty echoes as if the Sacred Fields were all abandoned. He was bleeding out, but she could heal him. It was just her, and Loki, and the freedom to choose.

Frightening.

"I miss peanut butter." It spilled out of her mouth. Bobby had made her eat it by the container when she'd been so diminished she had needed to eat. It was only with her grace mere flickers that the taste had been able to pop along her tongue, roasted honey and nuts. Cartons of chocolate milk sipped while a shotgun sat in her lap.

"M'ange, je ne comprends pas."

"I once ordered the rewrite of history, and saved hundreds of lives." Castiel continued, eyes dropping to the fevered brow. He'd probably been mistaken for dead, and then left behind by the triage, but he was special. Faithful. Diluted as it was his blood saw her for what she truly was, picked out the hidden wings and bladed halo. She could save him. "A single action that spawned a thousand more. But, it was wrong."

She knelt down, took the Frenchman by the face and eased his pain away. He was destined to die here. It was not her place to change history. Dean had tried, many times, only to fall into the path laid out for him. Why had it taken pain and Death three times over to see it? Her eyes watered.

There was a special class of angel for this kind of work, but now there was only she and Loki.

Castiel pressed pointer and middle finger to the man's forehead, and watched the pain leak from clouding eyes.

The Trick would be in taking things slow, planning out for the future. Loki wasn't in the habit of thinking about the Long Game, not when decades could pass between bouts, but unlike his brother he learned from his past experience and mistakes. Pain was an excellent teacher, and he had seventy years with which to revise and plan and make contacts - contracts.

Already, in the turmoil that was War and distressed governments Loki had created or usurped several dozen identities. Some of those would, on official documents at least, marry and generate even more personages for Loki to wear like summer and winter wardrobes. Grizzled old men and dainty ladies, a handful of young girls for his little sister, and even youthful soldiers. Some he played out the role and used it to his advantage. He would need a strong, established base, and resources.

Assistance from the other realms would have to be kept minimal. For too long contact with Midgard had all but ceased, even the occasional raids from Alfheim to honor long-ago contracts had petered out in the past millennium. A sudden request or destination to or from the mortal realm would be an anomaly, something that might be talked about as a curiosity and attract unwanted, golden eyes. Only the most discrete of individuals would be possible allies, but such allies were usually bought, and so riches and resources it was.

The Norns would be a good bet. As xenophobic and secretive as they were, if he came to them in the right guise Karnilla could be bargained with. The quiet, long standing war she had with Odin regarding Baldur was well known and would only serve to help Loki's cause.

But first, before all that, his strongholds on Midgard had to be cemented.

How convent the power vacuum left behind by the Red Skull to be filled.

Small bites, Laufeyson. Small bites. Musn't be too greedy. Not yet. Loki smiled, painted lips pulling into a grin that was half madness, half seduction, and all intriguing. To the gaggle of criminals and mercenaries he appeared a woman, an illusory overlay of hard curves and soft breasts, clothed in the deep green of leathers sentimentality clung to. Of course if they tired to take liberties, if they touched him, the soft bending of light would dissolve and ruin his play, but such precautions wouldn't be a concern for long.

Already his studies into true transformation were progressing nicely, for if he could slip between two opposing races such as Jotun and Aesir on instinct why not male and female?

Loki's voice took on a musical cadence as he tapped his gun -overly large in his hands, with a long barrel perfectly suited to double as a club handle- against his crossed arms. "Why, boys, so long for you to confirm my words? Tut-tut. I wonder, how many of my men were lost to your clumsy operations?"

Loki watched as the men balked like peacocks with their feathers ruffled. Some eyed the line of his apparent body, others glared hate into his eyes unused to at chafing at the thought of being lead by a woman. Oh, but Loki couldn't wait till the sixties.

One of them, a man in dressed in civilian clothing with the carriage of an officer pinned her with a look of disdain. "I don't see how that concerns you. Shmidt may be dead, but his vision lives on. Cut off a Hydra's head and three more-"

"Flounder around like a stuck pig." Loki Silvertongue, Loki the Snake, hopped off the barrel he'd been sitting on. His eyes glittered, and his hips swayed in the hypnotic pattern of a cobra's head. "Shmidt disintegrated over the Atlantic. Zola under more locks and keys than a Lord's Daughter's virginity. As for Strucker, well, do you really plan to pine away like a devoted wife on the slim chance he survived the bombing? That he is in any condition to scrap together the frayed, confused heads of the Hydra?"

Sparks of dissent caught on the tinder of uncertainty.

Someone new spoke up. "He is our leader, so long as there is the smallest chance we owe our loyalty."

"No." Loki shook his head, long locks of inky black swirling. "You swore your loyalty to Hydra. With Strucker missing, I. Am. Hydra."

"You fucking snake! You planned this! You whore!" Weapons were drawn, of course. Loki expected it. Welcomed it. He danced in the chaos, whirled and fired his own gun. Lances of eerily family blue light -a light supposedly lost along with Shmidt- burst from the barrel and scattered the voices of dissent into so many drifting ashes.

It had taken days to painstakingly carve the tiny runes into the bullets, but the peons didn't need to know that.

Loki wrinkled his nose and stepped delicately around a wounded and moaning man. Light cut through the dreary warehouse like lasers spawned the newly born bullet holes. Hydra was scattered, factions confused, ripe.

"I have a few policy changes to instate," He commented, pleased that the illusion had held up during the firefight. "First, we are now offering dental! You Are Welcome! Secondly, this feud with the Five Families simply must stop, it is a pointless a waste of resources and time. Domination through cooperation! "

Nameless, faceless minions sorted themselves out, straightened into shaky salutes. What else could they do? Loki would just have to be sure to keep an eye on the more loyal, back-stabbing ones. He could use a personal guard; perhaps even set a detail for dear Cas? One Stark was enough trouble, but an entire clan of bright, nosey scientists…

"Hail Hydra! Madame Hydra!"

Ice crawled up through his veins, holding him in place even as he fell. He screamed without breath, straining lungs paralyzed by the grip of the cold, and the tears turned to misshapen pearls on his face. He was falling as Bucky had fallen, couldn't do anything but watch as Bucky fell, because no matter how hard he strained or called out he couldn't get any closer.

Bucky's hand reached for his, trusting, calm.

Bucky couldn't see the water below, how the glaciers curved like claws, and Steve couldn't warn him, couldn't save him-

He wasn't falling? Steve shuddered as the heat of the sun soaked into his bones, and instead of his uniform soft flannels and worn jeans wrapped his body. Wood of a dock creaked under his boots, and instead of a winter's wind howling in his ears like a pack of wolves the soft lapping of water chimed on the wind.

Steve dropped to his knees on the dock, the grain of the wood digging into his palms realer than any dream had a right to be. "I'm sorry, Bucky." For a moment, he'd thought he had died, and his failures trapped him in his own personal hell.

"No. You are not dead, Steven Rogers. Not for a while, yet."

A shadow fell over him, small. Sheepskin boots nudged into his sight, and his eyes followed them up to a girl with the bluest eyes. Blue like the cube that had killed his friends, killed Shmidt and ate through metal.

Steve shivered.

"They pray for you." The girl's voice was soft, and sad, and suddenly the blue of her eyes meant nothing. Her shadow stretched over him, not congruent with the size and shape of the child before him. But he felt safe, like something large and soft had wrapped around him. "I can hear them. So many. Little voices. Loud voices. Thrown away voices. They think you dead, others just missing. Still, they pray."

"Who, what are you?"

"A soldier." A half smile was granted him, but no answer. "I remember you, in flashes. Pieces of images. I can see into your heart. It hurts, but… I cannot save you. I'm sorry. Know that you are loved, know that they never give up on you. Know Peace."

Steve could see it, then, with the warmth of the dream sun lighting her golden hair like a halo and the invisible wings of down wrapping him. An Angel to lull him to sleep, to escort him to the other side, or to protect him from the nightmares?

She turned away, and he knew she was leaving even if her power to ward off the cold remained. His chance was slipping. "Wait!" He grabbed the sleeve of her coat.

She blinked at him, lowered her head apologetically. "I have to go, I'm sorry. It isn't time."

"I, I understand. I get it. Boy, do I get that the world does not revolve around me, but please. I have to… Bucky. Is Bucky-" He couldn't imagine the alternative. Wouldn't. But a little confirmation, that Bucky wasn't eternally falling, that he was safe and warm and out of this mess…

Those blue-blue eyes drifted, as if scanning for something, before her whole body shook and she stared down at him in solemnity. "He lives."

His heart leapt into his throat, and she was gone.

The water lapped at the dock. There was a fishing pole and tackle box where before there had been none.