#Or thinking he's in charge when the prophet and vessel of murder informs him they *might* spare him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thysparrowsdrew · 3 years

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full draft of chapter 3! (albeit in need of major line edits)

In a room at the nearest Motel Six, freshly-painted warding sigils drying on the walls, Margarita sits on one of the two beds and bows her head in prayer. “Holy Ishim the Angel, Holy Kadmiel the Angel, Holy Jehoel the Angel, hear this prayer. Benjamin and Castiel need to speak with you about a danger to the flight. Starting frequency is 428.934KHz; hopping algorithm is Roadhouse three-point-one; seed is five-nine-gimel-zayin. Amen.”

Even for practiced angels, frequency hopping requires concentration: In the back of her mind, Benjamin goes quiet with focus, and Castiel, seated at the room’s table with Sam and Dean, stares unblinking into the middle distance. (The table’s fourth chair sits empty.)

“Did she say Roadhouse?” Dean asks Castiel, his voice suddenly hoarse.

Castiel doesn’t acknowledge the question.

“He can’t really hear you right now,” says Margarita. “Neither can Benjamin. We humans are alone for a little while.” She remembers the twenty-first book of the Winchester Gospels, and she offers a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Yes, I did say Roadhouse. Angel radio, as you call it, wasn’t built for privacy. Your friend Ash Miles invented the first frequency hopping algorithms-- a way for Raphael’s enemies to speak without him listening.” Of course, Raphael’s army adopted use of their own algorithms not long after his opponents-- but it was a war of unequal strength, and secrecy advantaged the weak more than the strong.

Sam blinks in surprise. “I never knew he was involved in that.”

“Oh, he was more than involved. He was a key part of the war effort. Without his help, we’d have lost in the first month.”

“So you were one of Cas’s soldiers?”

Margarita’s expression shutters. “Vessels aren’t soldiers. We’re wielded by them.”

“Now that’s some bullcrap,” says Dean. “It’s your body on the line, ain’t it? If you’re in the war, you’re in the war.”

Margarita’s breath catches. She reminds herself that this is Dean Winchester she’s speaking to; she can’t be surprised he blindly stumbled into a minefield and detonated half the charges. “Dean, I know you mean well, but you really don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I was the freaking Michael Sword; I think I--”

“You don’t understand what you’re saying,” Margarita repeats, in a tone that brooks no argument. Castiel was Benjamin’s general, not hers. Benjamin’s friend, not hers. Benjamin’s betrayer, not hers. Soldiers bled and died under Castiel’s banner of free will, and in victory, he spat on all of them: I thought the answer was free will, but I understand now. You need a firm hand.

After Castiel proclaimed a new day on Earth and in Heaven, Benjamin returned to Margarita in a panic, his thoughts nothing but bone-deep terror and a clamor of need to hide need to hide. For three days, he was unable to speak. All he could do was show fragments of memories: the killing fields, the blackened grass, the speech. Benjamin remembers the speech as it happened, but Margarita remembers it like a broken phonograph, jumbled and skipping and repeating. Every word is seared into her.

She wasn’t Castiel’s soldier. She can’t have been.

And the part she hates most of all: She’s right. Vessels bled alongside soldiers, died alongside soldiers, but soldiers were soldiers, and vessels were vessels. She went into every battle knowing a simple fact: If she died at the hands of the enemy, only one name would be spoken of, and the name would not be hers.

After a minute of no one speaking, Dean tries to crack the tension. “You do a great scary nun voice,” he says. “You ever teach at a Catholic school?”

Sam smacks his brother’s arm.

Another minute, and Benjamin and Castiel break from the trance. /Ishim is alive,/ Benjamin tells her, while Castiel relays the same information out loud to the Winchesters. /He’ll meet us here in four hours. Jehoel was killed this April, Kadmiel last September./

Two years ago, unable to stomach any more news of his siblings using their vessels to murder each other, Benjamin started blocking every frequency except Heaven’s emergency frequency and the flight’s distress signal frequency. It doesn’t surprise Margarita that this is the first they’ve heard about the deaths, but-- /April was six months ago. Why didn’t Castiel already know?/

/He asked Ishim that same question. Ishim said he thought Castiel wouldn’t care./

/Wouldn’t care? That’s what Ishim came up with?/

/I know. Ishim managed to find the one thing in the universe Castiel is innocent of./

/It’s a miracle. You could write crimes on a dartboard and throw with your eyes closed, and nine times out of ten, you’d hit a true accusation. But Ishim went with wouldn’t care./

Margarita tunes back into the Winchesters’ conversation. “--Jehoel,” Sam is saying. “Do we give their vessels a call?”

“Benjamin and I don’t know their names,” says Margarita. “All we know is that they both took new vessels after the Fall. Castiel?”

“I don’t either.”

“Did Ishim say where they were killed?” asks Sam. “The police reports might have the vessels’ names.”

“Kadmiel was in Porto Alegre,” answers Castiel. “Jehoel was in London.”

Sam pulls a laptop from his bag. “We’ll start with Jehoel.” He sets the laptop on the table -- at an angle where Margarita can see the screen, if she leans to the left -- and gets to work. In just a handful of minutes, he has full access to Scotland Yard’s databases. Margarita wonders if this is a new skill, or if the prophet Chuck Shurley neglected to mention it. Sam types, pauses, types again, and announces, “I got three homicide cases from April where the police report mentions wings.”

“How do we know which one is Jehoel?” asks Dean.

“You won’t,” says Castiel, “but I can identify her from her wings.”

“Like fingerprints?” asks Sam.

“Like a nametag.”

Sam pulls up a picture from the crime scene. “Is this her?”

Margarita leans to the left. She doesn’t recognize the vessel -- a stocky white man, middle-aged, light-haired -- but Benjamin can read the wings. /Gamliel,/ he says.

“No,” says Castiel. “That’s-- This doesn't make sense. Those are Gamliel’s wings, but he died in Sirjan eight years ago, trying to save the forty-sixth seal.”

“He survived,” says Margarita. “We saw him three years ago.”

Gamliel was a widely-respected commander known for his exceptional dedication to his troops. For a moment, Castiel looks like he might argue against the idea that Gamliel could be a deserter, but then he turns to Sam and says, in a rougher voice than before, “The next one.”

“Wait,” says Margarita. “What was his name? The vessel.”

“Do you think he’s part of this?” asks Sam.

“No, but his name should be spoken. He’s owed that.”

“This says it was, uh, Blake Harris.”

“Thank you.”

In the year after the Fall, Margarita and Benjamin spent hours every day searching the Internet for new vessel killings. Benjamin said that he needed to see them, needed to know that at least one angel would remember the human toll. He says the same thing now that he used to say after each news article: /I will remember him./

Sam loads a picture of the next case’s crime scene. “Jehoel,” Castiel says, at the same time Benjamin says, /That’s her./

“Says her name was Abigail Dupont,” Sam reads.

“Here’s hoping she has some answers,” says Dean.

Again, they prepare the spell; again, Castiel gives his blood before Benjamin can offer; again, Castiel speaks the incantation. “Hello, Abigail,” he says to the bubbling bowl.

“Hey, Mysterious Voice From The Ceiling. I don’t think you’ve been in this dream before. This was a fucking awesome concert, and they’re gonna do Misery Business soon, so if this is about to turn into a nightmare, can you just wait a little? Like ten minutes? I really love that song.”

“You aren’t dreaming.”

“No offense, but I’m pretty sure I am.”

“Do you remember what happened on the night of April third?”

“What are you, a cop?”

“I’m an angel.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, dude, but I already said the big Y-E-S to somebody else, and I don’t wanna kick off some game of angelic musical chairs by switching. You’re gonna have to keep looking. Uh, I guess you can stick around for the rest of the concert, though, if you want? I bet listening to hymns all the time gets pretty boring.”

“I’m not interested in taking you as a vessel. Even if I were, you wouldn’t be able to serve as one in your current state.”

“Jesus Christ. Whoever taught you guys reverse psychology needs to be shot. My current state? Is that supposed to make me want to prove you wrong? Oh no, Mr. Random Holy Jackass says I’m not good enough, how will I--”

“Your current state is dead, Abigail.”

A long silence, and then, “Fuck.”

“My condolences.”

“Yeah, well, eternal Paramore concert. Can’t complain too much, I guess. What’s your name, Mystery Angel?”

“Castiel.”

“Double fuck. Is this an end-of-the-world thing?”

“No.”

“It’s just, from what I’ve heard, when you’re involved, it’s usually an end-of-the-world thing. Or it turns into an end-of-the-world thing.”

“It isn’t an ‘end-of-the-world thing’. I’m trying to find the angel who killed you and Jehoel.”

“You mean psycho eyepatch lady? Jehoel said she wasn’t an angel.”

“She wasn’t? What was she?”

“A human. That’s what Jehoel said, anyway.”

Castiel draws a sharp breath. “How did a human kill Jehoel?”

“Oh, it was super freaky. It was like eyepatch lady was carrying angel kryptonite. Jehoel tried to throw eyepatch lady back with her mind -- it’s super cool that angels can do that, by the way? -- but anyway, this time, it did jack shit. Eyepatch lady didn’t budge. She was all, ‘Your little angel tricks won’t work on me, Jehoel.’ And then we got stabbed. Y’know, I always thought if I got stabbed, it’d be from mouthing off to the wrong person? That’s what my brother used to say. But it was just ‘cause somebody wanted to murder the angel living in my head.

“Hurt like a bitch when it happened. It was funny, some dude tried to stop her, and eyepatch lady was all, ‘I don’t want to hurt humans.’ Guess I didn’t count, huh?”

“You did count,” says Benjamin, firmly. “You were still human. What was done to you was wrong.”

“Oh, hey, Mystery Angel Number Two. I like the way you think. What’s your name? Any other angels on the line, or is it just you two?”

“My name is Benjamin. Castiel and I are the only angels here.”

“Cool. Anything else you wanna know?”

“Can you describe her?” asks Castiel.

“White, thin, long red hair. Uh... Five foot six. Early forties, maybe? The eyepatch was black. Over her right eye. Right when you’re looking at her, not her right.”

“When she attacked you, did she use any incantations?”

“Nope. Not one. I asked Jehoel if she was a witch, and Jehoel said she wasn’t.”

“Did she have any inhuman abilities other than immunity to Enochian magic?”

“If she did, she didn’t use ‘em on us. Oh, wait! Shit. I remember now. She has a husband. I guess he’s a demon or something? Jehoel called eyepatch lady ‘Akobel’s human wife.’”

Castiel and Benjamin both straighten in alarm. “You’re certain Jehoel said Akobel?” asks Castiel.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“And the woman,” says Benjamin. “You’re certain she had red hair?”

“I mean, not red red. Not like a firetruck. Natural red, like, uh, what’s her-- Amy Adams. Is that helpful?”

Akobel’s red-haired human wife. Margarita saw Lily Sunder only once: standing with Akobel on the porch of their home in Orono, Maine, looking down with fear at the flight of angels on her doorstep. Go back inside, Akobel had told her, as though human-built walls could delay Heaven’s justice. /Ishim’s report of her death seems to have been greatly exaggerated,/ says Benjamin, with little humor. Out loud, he says, “Very much so.”

“Thank you for your help, Abigail,” says Castiel.

“No problem. Hey, when you find the psycho, kick her ass for me, okay?”

The blood stops bubbling.

“Who’s Akobel?” asks Sam. “The way you two reacted, it seemed like you know him.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. Inside Margarita’s head, Benjamin is similarly silent.

“Uh, guys?”

“They’re talking to Ishim,” says Margarita. “They want to know how Lily Sunder is alive when Ishim killed her over a century ago.”

“That’s the woman’s name? Lily Sunder?”

Margarita nods, mentally thumbing through the metaphorical pages of the mission briefing. To most angels, especially before the Fall, vessels were simply weapons to be wielded. Sharing mission details with one was like talking to your blade: not forbidden, exactly, but odd and likely indicative of a deeper problem. Benjamin was different. Before each mission, he always shared the briefing in full, and he always offered a choice.

“Lily Sunder was a professor of apocalyptic literature who learned how to summon angels,” says Margarita. “She summoned Akobel, married him, and knowingly birthed a nephilim. Akobel successfully concealed his crime for five years. After Heaven became aware, the flight was sent to kill the nephilim and render justice unto its parents. Mirabel executed Akobel, with--” she falters, remembering her hand’s inhumanly strong grip on Ephram Sunder’s arm, only letting go when his body went limp “-- with Benjamin and Castiel’s assistance. Ishim executed, or claimed to execute, Lily and the nephilim.”

“He took mercy on Lily,” says Castiel, rejoining the conversation. “Only Lily.”

/Mercy on a human?/ asks Margarita. /That doesn’t sound like the Ishim we knew./

/He believed Akobel corrupted her into mothering the nephilim. After recent events, he now believes the opposite./

“Cas,” says Sam, “you guys, uh...”

Dean’s eyes are hard. “You killed a five-year-old, and now the mom’s gunning for revenge. Can’t say I blame her.”

“We completed a mission,” says Castiel.

“Some mission.”

“When nephilim come into their power, entire worlds die. It was horrific, but it was necessary. It was right.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“Wait,” says Sam. “Sister Margarita, you said a century ago? Even if Ishim let her live back then, how is she alive now?”

“Rowena’s older than that,” says Dean.

“Rowena’s a witch. Lily’s human.”

“Ishim believes she made a pact with a demon,” says Castiel. “A deal to grant her youth and immunity from our powers.”

/Castiel would know about working with demons, wouldn’t he,/ says Benjamin, unable not to.

“What, like a crossroads deal?” asks Dean. “That’s a hell of a long time for a demon to wait to collect.”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “And Lily’s waited a long time, too. This all happened a century ago, right? But the first death was in 2015. Why not sooner?”

The answer is obvious. Benjamin tries not to make it sound like an accusation: he keeps his tone neutral and his eyes on Sam as he says, “Our wings.” Before Castiel can respond, he continues briskly, “Akobel’s vessel, Ephram Sunder, might know something about this demon pact. We should speak to him.”

Dean looks skeptical. “You think he’ll want to help us stop his wife from getting revenge for their kid?”

“The spawn was Akobel’s, not Ephram’s. To knowingly sire a nephilim is one of the few crimes against Heaven that outweighs serving as a vessel. Ephram’s soul ascended after Akobel’s execution. Had he consented to the union, his soul would have gone elsewhere.”

Dean and Sam blanch at the implications. “Shit,” says Dean. “So for six years, this guy was...”

“And Lily was aware of her husband’s true nature throughout their marriage. Do you still doubt Ephram will want to help us?”

Sam shakes his head.

For the third time, they prepare the spell: glyphs, blood, holy oil, sage, myrrh. Benjamin speaks the incantation.

Nothing happens.

They wait.

Nothing continues to happen.

“Maybe you got the wrong name?” asks Sam.

Castiel shakes his head. “That was the name we received in our briefing.”

“Well, maybe they got the wrong name.”

“I doubt it,” says Benjamin. “The ancien régime made many mistakes, but not this type of mistake.”

Knowing what he needs to do next, Margarita says, /It’s okay. I’ll be fine./

/I hate it, but it’s our best option here. If we were closer to the portal--/

/You would take me with you. I know. But you’re right; with the cards we have, this is the best play we can make. You’ll be safe from Lily there, and I’ll be safer here./

“You think someone’s trying to keep Ephram from talking?” asks Sam.

“I think something is very wrong here,” says Benjamin. “Ishim and I will investigate in Heaven. We’ll leave the Earthly investigation to you.”

“Hold on,” says Dean. “You’re just gonna run off to Heaven and leave Cas here?”

“My presence on this plane makes Margarita a target, and until we know how to counteract Lily’s powers, I’m unable to defend her. I will not allow her to come to harm because of me.”

“I understand,” says Castiel, with a glance at Dean.

“Maybe she doesn’t want you to leave,” says Dean, not really speaking to Benjamin. “Maybe she wants you to stick around even though it’s dangerous. Did you think about that?”

/Oh, for God’s sake,/ says Margarita.

/Oh, for Father’s sake,/ says Benjamin. “Margarita agrees with me that this is our best course of action. We discussed it using these fascinating little things called ‘words.’ They’re a new invention; you might not have heard of them.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it with an audible click. Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Sam’s expression is a long-suffering plea: See what I have to deal with?

Warmth floods Margarita’s veins as Benjamin fills them with enough extra grace to heal nearly any injury. /One Phoenix Down./

/I’ll try not to get impaled by any one-winged angels while you’re gone./

The joke falls flatter than the Tower of Babel. /Please. Please, stay safe. If anything happened to you because of this, I... I couldn’t.../

/I’ll be safe. Go. Te esperaré./

/Volveré a ti./ Benjamin tilts back her head, pours out of her open mouth in a radiant cloud of shimmering blue-white, and disappears into a vent.

#prayer of the possessed tag

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