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stusbunker · 5 years

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Known: Angels are Assholes

A Supernatural DARK Fan-fiction

Summary: Chloe faces what was following her in the woods. Dean gets a monologue, before going darkside and all knifey on some angels. Crowley toys with our reader. Cas squints in confusion. Somebody wakes up and somebody doesn’t until they’re gone.

Warnings: Suggested child rape (past, unfounded), blood, feelings, mind-fuckery, revelations, character death. This chapter is super long.

Series Masterlist

The clouds rolled in behind her as CC came to a stop in her usual spot, kitty-corner from the porch. Her bike had been miraculously refueled once she found her way back to it. The fog of the subconscious haven thinning as she put her boots on the ground and faced the figures looming in the shadows. She opened her mouth to call out but thought better of shouting at bits of her past. They’d find her anyway.

She stepped through the trees, letting the path unwind itself as she faced what she needed to know. Now that she was focused and no longer running the opposite direction, it all started to come together. Her granddad kneeled along the bank of a dusty river, strong hands timidly comforting a young girl, who was visibly shaking in her sparkling new school clothes.

“It’s alright, my Falling Star,” his voice was low, but CC recognized the nickname he had given her mother. The child whimpered and shook her head, an infant’s cry broke through the forest’s peace.

“I didn’t mean it now,” was all she heard her mother say.

As Chloe turned to look for the baby, she found a weathered neighborhood sidewalk, houses in need of paint jobs and new shutters stretching before her in every direction. A long sedan with police lights on the roof parked in front of a yellow Cape Cod with wooden siding. A woman with oversized glasses held a file in her arms as she talked to CC’s granddad, her mother and her watching them from the front porch. She hadn’t remembered her mother ever being that young, small and nearly fragile.

“Mr. Longfellow, we understand that the original complaint is unfounded, given the child’s other genetic markers, but there has still been a crime committed. Please, let us put the bastard away.”

“I know you mean well, ma’am. But my Candace is fine and we came here for a job, we won’t be staying long enough for any investigation. Thank you for your time.”

“Sir, if you’re protecting someone—,” the officer spoke for the first time. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and he visibly flinched when her granddad’s eyes fell on him.

“The only ones I am protecting is those girls, now get. We’re done here.”

CC stepped forward, wanting to ask what the social worker was talking about and possibly glimpse the blood tests that must have been among her paperwork. But her mind held her in place until the memory faded and she found herself on another street, sleet-slick and freezing. She saw the old station wagon fish tail and the driver try to over-correct, completely losing control and wrapping the car around an old oak tree.

“Chloe!” Her mother screamed against the static of falling ice crystals.

“Mama?” Chloe was frozen watching her mother limp around the hood of the car to get to her.

“It’s okay, doll-baby, it’s okay,” Constance reached her hand in through the shattered passenger side window, to touch CC’s forehead. “You’re going to be fine.”

But she lost consciousness, the blood flowing through her hair as her mother continued muttering in Tsėhésenėstsestȯtse. Then she saw it, the blue magic flow from her mother and coat her in a golden light.

“You can’t die. You can’t die. You can’t die. You’re going to be fine.” Constance inhaled and then fell against the untouched edge of the tree’s trunk, her strength leaving her as she joined her daughter in unconsciousness. The sirens came an hour later, the back roads impassible, but miraculously the woman and the young girl were found in stable condition. CC didn’t even know they had ever been in an accident.

The darkness followed her to the small back bedroom in Montana as she saw her barely teenaged self staring at the ceiling. The argument wafted through the walls like a television left on.

“You’re just going to leave her? Clean up your own mess,” her granddad spat.

“That’s not fair. She’s safer with you, you know that. There are things that I need to do, that only I can do.”

“Yeah, you do too much of that and they’ll find you. They aren’t stupid, Constance. You shine like a beacon and they will follow you home,” his voice was desperate, Chloe couldn’t remember ever hearing him sound so worried.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t come back.”

There was an agonizing pause.

“Maybe not.”

Chloe didn’t realize it, but both versions of her wiped at the same tears of betrayal with the heels of her hands.

“It’s okay, child, just relax now,” Missouri’s voice was soothing, despite her own skepticism. CC opened her eyes, she was in the memory this time, not looking at it from the outside. “Well, this is a new one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” CC heard herself say it but had more pressing questions at the moment. She began to speak over herself, “What’s happening Ms. Mosley?”

“Girl, you’re going to have to slow down, I can’t hear all of you at once.”

“All of us?” CC remembered eyeing the corners of the room as if this woman was seeing things.

“I’m not the one asking if she’s crazy, so don’t you go thinking ill of those helping you, Chloe Cathleen,” Missouri snipped.

“Yes, ma’am,” CC said in unison with her past self, Missouri always had a natural command of respect and if she wasn’t shown it, she demanded it.

“Now, you’re gonna come back here, in a good long while, but I hope what I say now makes sense to you,” her dark eyes lingered, a burden near pity overtook the psychic’s soft features. “You are a miracle, made unique and uniquely made, but that also means you need to be careful. It’s like you have a glowing vacancy sign on the front door, next to the one screaming there’s nothing to see here. It gets confusing. But know this, you need to fortify your own house, because certain guests are welcome, but most are not.”

“Thanks?” CC’s past self said through squinted eyes, but her current-self locked onto Missouri’s weighted stare, certain she had sensed her the entire time.

A voice sounded behind her and Chloe suddenly remembered who had told her about Missouri in the first place.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” John’s easy grin turned sour when he saw the confusion on CC’s face. “Hey, everything okay kiddo?”

CC nodded, the grief of seeing Dean’s father again brought up the events that had led her to Missouri’s front door. Her granddad’s death and knowing she would have to face her mother again after years apart. “Yeah, or, it will be, in a good long while,” CC parroted Missouri.

“Somethings are like that,” John patted her back and walked her to his massive truck. “Where to? Dean’s got something in Illinois this weekend, but we could probably salt and burn things faster without him, what’d’ya say?”

CC smiled at the offer, but thought better of tagging along with the Winchesters, especially without Sam. “Just take me to Bobby’s, or close enough for me to hitch there,” CC corrected, seeing the tension roll in as John’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Thanks, though.”

*^*

May 13, 2014

The Bunker

Dean stalked down the hallway passed his room, ignoring Sam who lingered in front of his own bedroom door. The infirmary was the only place that made sense to keep CC, so that’s where he headed as soon as they got home. Dean hadn’t wanted to put her back in her old room, not after he gutted it. They had her on a simple cot, jacket set on the back of a chair and an old quilt from her truck tucked around her chest. Her gun and her knife rested easily on small bedside table. She never moved, still in a state close to sleep, her heart beat and her lungs expanded, but she never woke.

Dean watched her and chewed over the spreading numbness inside him. Between the two of them, they were a butchered collage of folk stories, each broken parts of different tales, cursed and waiting to be saved or charging the castle and any monsters that stood in his way. He was on a narrow path, one down, two boss fights to go in the grand saga of the Mark of Cain. Dean was alight, focused, up until he tried to start talking.

“Hey, Cease,” Dean’s voice caught in his throat. “I, uh, well, I ganked Abaddon. It was pretty unreal, actually, but yeah, put her down for the count this time.”

Dean had done his fair share of talking to the unconscious, especially if one counted the time spent praying to Cas, listening to his own voice wasn’t as uncomfortable as it should have been. He settled on to the empty cot next to CC and balanced his elbows on his knees.

“You know I had a feeling, about you, about that thing inside you. And I know it was there longer than that day at Magnus’s. But I didn’t say anything, because, hell, who am I to judge, right? But it was worse than I thought, I thought it was just a chip on your shoulder after that case in North Carolina, but I was wrong, and for that, oversight, I apologize.” He shifted and he cleared his throat, “But, I don’t know why I’m sorry. Am I sorry because I missed the obvious? And never tested you? Or because I let you in and got hurt? What exactly is my fault here because I’m used to taking it all on and I can’t really feel it. Any of it. I’m just pissed and the only thing I want to do is the job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He stood up, energy gnawing at him once more. His voice grew angrier, no waver to his jaw and no moisture in his stern eyes.

“So that’s what I’m going to do. Because I owe you that much, even if it’s not going to bring you back. I am going to gut that black-eyed bitch.”

The certainty hummed along his veins like a tuning fork, vibrating in the key of Cain and the decided fates of his enemies. Blood and destruction his new anthem. Gone was the righteousness and purpose that had carried him this far. Inside, his soul flickered.

He continued to watch CC on the cot, thoughts and memories warring with the need to move. Luckily, Cas called, giving him the excuse he needed, allowing him to walk away.

*^*

The Bunker

Tail end of Stairway to Heaven

“Cas, you just gave up an entire army for one guy,” Dean explained across the table. “No, there’s no way you blew those people away.”

Castiel didn’t realize how much he needed to hear Dean say that, to know that his friend believed in him once again. “Do you really think that we three will be enough?”

Dean gave Cas a company smile. “We always have been.”

Cas cautiously watched Dean as footsteps approached from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Guys!”

“I’m not here to fight,” Gadreel announced with his hands up. Dean locked on to the fugitive angel, his sights set, and his senses primed. Gadreel spoke pointedly to Cas as Sam challenged his honor, but Dean wasn’t listening, he was busy keeping the Mark in check. Then it happened, an olive branch, an opening to add to their numbers. To strengthen and inform their dwindling resolve. Dean reached forward with his lesser hand, extending hope, if a tenuous partnership. The moment their palms touched and their eyes locked, Dean knew. He didn’t hesitate, he swung, blade teeth up, slicing Gadreel hip to collar bone, a broad seam of grace gaping in his chest.

Sam dove for him, but it was already done. Dean pushed on, the Mark craved more, it demanded death. Both Cas and Sam had to hold him as bestial grunts escaped his lips, he wouldn’t be stopped, not yet.

They listened to him, but still left him in the fortified space behind the storage in 7B, the dungeon. There was that other thing they needed Cas’s help with and after Gadreel had escaped, however bloodied, they took the five minutes and headed deeper into the Bunker.

“I can’t believe she was possessed this whole time,” Cas muttered, hand drifting inches above Chloe’s body.

“What? You knew? How long?” Sam spat as he loomed overhead, head tipped, watching every motion of the angel’s fingers.

“Since Nebraska, since the fall, Sam. She, the demon, almost ran me over with her truck,” Castiel explained, huffing against the flickering grace inside him.

“And you didn’t think to tell us?!”

“Dean wasn’t exactly willing to lend me an ear, I suspect it had to do with hiding, who he thought to be Ezekiel, from the other angels, who were hunting me.”

Sam settled back on his heels, processing what that meant for his brother and CC and their, situation. “It’s been a rough year, I’m sorry. But, is she going to wake up?”

“I don’t know, probably. But there are layers to her mind that I can’t get through. She isn’t just dreaming, and she’s not an empty vessel. I don’t think... I don’t think she’s human, Sam.”

Sam froze, “Well, what the hell is she then?”

“Nothing I have ever seen before.”

“Any idea?”

“Some sort of hybrid, when I search her mind it literally tells me she is human, nothing extraordinary.” Cas’s brows pitched up, hoping Sam understood.

“Someone put that there to hide her.”

“More than one person did this.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“No, if she did, she wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place. She probably has no idea who or what she is.” Cas stood up, eyes still on the sleeping woman before them. “Or what she can do.”

*^*

A Demonic Massage Parlor, The Tropics

“You see, Y/N, there are perks to working with the throne,” Crowley muttered into the towel that held his face. The demon working him over was wearing an unnaturally beautiful vessel, every detail coiffed for seduction. Which she used to her advantage as she whispered poorly veiled taunts of demonic unrest.

Graciously, your vessel had died from cardiac arrest shortly after you walked him away from harassing the woman at the bus stop. You couldn’t have bothered letting him live much longer anyway, his mind was two parts alcohol, one-part abuse and a few too many pinches of misogyny. But he had means, even after his license had been revoked, so you kept on his identity and found your way back to being Crowley’s gofer.

The male demon who had been assigned your massage was too busy lusting over the one trying to get in good with the King. You kept having to move his hands as he worked. He was not utilizing his vessel’s muscle memory, at all. The entire scenario wasn’t much of a perk, it was more of one more thing to endure in order to stay on Crowley’s good side. You hummed in agreement, the deep voice still uncomfortable in your throat.

The walls began to shake, and you rolled your eyes at the bimbo’s obvious statement.

“Sir, I believe you’re being summoned.”

The next thing from her lips sent a pitfall through your gut.

“It’s a Winchester.”

You had no idea how she knew who was on the other end of the spell, perhaps it was an acquired skill or an enchantment to the room placed for her own protection. Either way, you remained quiet as Crowley waved the help off and dressed himself.

“Sir?”

“What? You want me to give your regards?”

“I’d rather you didn’t mention me at all.”

Crowley watched you with a slight distaste, “Fine, just don’t let Tarisette clock out, just yet.”

You nodded, rolling over as the man’s large gut shifted uncomfortably to the side. You really needed a new vessel and a plan.

*^*

She hadn’t seen her in eleven years, hadn’t even spoken in five, but her mother was just as beautiful and menacing as she had ever been. She remembered this conversation because it was the one that changed her life.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Words that were the perfect greeting for someone like Constance Collins to her estranged daughter, Chloe forced a chuckle. Playing tough, her past-self spoke, but she now watched her mother’s wandering eyes, the telltale fear and alarm of a trapped animal. She was scared of her, not just what else could find her. Find them.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on out there?!”

“No, Mama,” both of her replied, the past defiantly, the present sadly.

The edge wore off, maybe it was reliving it, but Chloe had let go of her anger with her mother somewhere between there and now.

“The angels are everywhere, you need to be careful,” Constance mumbled, stepping closer to her daughter, her hand coming up to brush away a strand of hair mindlessly. As if they were familiar enough for such intimacies.

“Is Gram’s angel back?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t heard that name, but we need to be careful. They will find you if they need to.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Me, they’ll kill on sight.” The fear resurfaced in those chilling words, nearly apologetically.

Chloe turned and faced the bright and unnervingly blue eyes of a weaselly business man.

“Chloe is it?” The man’s voice was nasally but pressing.

“Maybe, depends on who’s asking.” She wasn’t in her body, but this memory wasn’t that old, she had seemed to have travelled sequentially thus far. The missing memory set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. She watched herself talk to the weird man, confusion burning through her.

“Someone who knows your family, on your grandmother’s side.” He lost all pretense as two more angels stepped behind her past self.

“What do you want from me?”

“Relax, we just need to run a few tests, you won’t remember a thing.”

The scene changed, but she still hadn’t returned to her part in the memory.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“The Contingency?”

“What about her?”

“She’s waking up.”

“Well, knock her back out. She isn’t going to tweak herself.”

Chloe couldn’t see most of her body, only a strip of arm behind the angels surrounding her. The room felt like a surgical bay, pure white with lots of metal. A spare bed and what looked like dental equipment remained untouched on a side table. The metal rods looked long enough to pierce both ears, simultaneously. As soon as she arrived, she returned to the street with the presumptuous man.

“You can call me Zachariah. Do me a favor? Reach out as soon as you hear from those Winchesters again.”

“Uh, sure thing,” Chloe pocketed the business card, and before she turned to go the guy vanished. Figured, good thing she never intended to help the creeper in the first place. She crossed her arms over her chest recalling how she hadn’t been able to shake the sense of Déjà vu for a week.

There were ridges along the ground that rose and fell with each new memory, the woods cracking open and rearranging as she navigated the path toward her decision. She watched them sink and settle, unaffected by the new topography she walked on. After an hour or twelve, she came back to the clearing that held her Granddad’s cabin, spotting him eyeing her through the sun-bleached curtains.

She stomped toward the small house, feeling the anger and frustration churn with each step. He could have said something, anything, years before. This wasn’t just on Mama, this was on the Old Man too. She tried to center herself, tried to hold back the rage and the betrayal their secrets created. CC failed at composure, never one to tip toe into an argument.

She yanked the storm door open and stepped inside, eyes like saucers at the state of her granddad, her words sticking behind the latch in her throat.

“There’s our girl,” his voice fell flat, the mutilated side of his face rippling as he clenched his jaw.

“I guess this look is better than the bull elk,” CC mumbled as she took the familiar course to the battered sofa. “Let me have it, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. I’m not here to speak for the dead.”

“So, what are you here for then?”

“The choice.”

“Right, well, I want to wake up, figure out just what she got me into.”

“That’s not what you need to decide.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What do I need to decide?”

“Whether you are going to go back to life as a human, forgetting everything you’ve seen and losing all those burdens and pain from years in the dark.”

Chloe stilled, though her hand reflexively worried the handle of her knife, worn and familiar beneath her callused hands.

Her granddad’s corpse continued, “Or, you go back. With all of the hard truths and the responsibilities of one brought into being by a simple childish wish from a being who had yet to grow into her powers or place in the universe. You can go back knowing who and what you are, but that comes at a terrible cost. For Heaven’s eyes will never be far from you now and the minions of Hell will seek you out as a fortress against the light.

Either way, you wake up. But, first, you must choose.”

His beetle black eyes watched her, the emptiness threatening to consume her as CC realized the elk was her true family. He never wanted her to come here, but now that she had; the choice must be made. Knowing she wouldn’t die wasn’t so reassuring anymore, and twisted laughter erupted from her chest. The part of her mind that became her worst memory watched her, unwavering.

As she closed her eyes, CC inhaled.

And chose.

CC opened her eyes, dragging in a deep breath through her nose as her body protested her every shift. She pulled her hands into fists and clenched her back through the clammy shivers of waking up. The air was cold and stale, a raw discomfort reassuring her that she was back in her body. She appeared to be with the Winchesters, there wasn’t any other place she could think of that had brickwork like theirs. She sat up and looked around, scanning the abandoned sick room. CC stood, staggering on pins and needles, and clumsily took her knife and her gun. Carefully, she made her way down the hall. Every room was empty, or locked. Every room until the one she remembered. CC almost missed him, he was below eye level after all. But she found him, off to the side and flat on his back. Dean.

Dean sticky with blood and unnaturally still.

Dean.

Dead.

No.

“No.”

She stumbled from her perch in the door frame, reaching the edge of the bed to fall beside Dean. She grasped at his shirts, shaking him.

“What did you do?! Damnit Dean,” she howled, voice cracking from lack of use. She slapped him, the cold skin of his cheek stung as she fell face first against his pillow and fissured. This was not the reality she fought to get back to, she wanted to go back. But there were no more memories to seek out and now there would be no new ones made. Not with Dean. Her arms clutched to his face, pulling him up, his bulk anchoring her as she sobbed. Nothing felt connected, rage, guilt, grief flowed into a noxious mix and Chloe had to step back. Hurling all over the floor as her body rejected the trauma as much as her mind had.

Once the putrid yellow liquid had emptied itself, she focused. Where the hell was Tweedle Dum?

“Sam!” CC walked backwards, keeping her eyes on Dean’s body as if he would disappear at any moment, just another nightmare she needed to pass through. “Goddamn it, Sam, where the fuck are you?!”

She was still crying but clutching the door knob and shouting through the cavernous Bunker had given her some slight release. If anyone was going to hear her, it wasn’t going to be misunderstood for more than it was. There was a faint rumble and the sound of doors closing.

“Sam?” CC’s voice broke and she whispered to herself, “Oh, Maheo’o, please. He’s okay. He has—”

Sam rounded the corner, dirty and mystified.

“—to be.”

They fell at each other, Sam tucking his gun in his belt before his arms could hold her to his chest, keeping her upright. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”

She felt his words more than she heard them, her head clouded, ribcage unhinged and gaping. She kept looking over her shoulder, watching Dean’s body, but Sam turned them both away, unwilling to let her dwell on it like he had, the entire drive home.

“What happened?”

Sam swallowed. “Metatron.”

Angels. Of course.

She nodded, trying to remember everything she could about what they had been hunting last. “But what about Abaddon? And Crowley? How long have I been out?”

“Yeah, well, hey are you alright? Do you need anything?” Sam held her at arm’s length, taking in her eyes and her steadiness. “Because I was going to summon Crowley, make him fix this. Since he was the one that started this whole suicide mission with the Mark of Cain.”

“Suicide? Sam, what are you talking about?”

Sam sniffed. “Oh, Chloe, tell me you know. That you--”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, dumb ass.”

Sam almost laughed at that, inhaling with a mirthful pout. “Let’s get you some water and then how about we see what we can do?”

“How can we just leave him like that?”

Sam gave her a sad smile. “We’re not going to. Let’s go.”

Sam led her to the kitchen, keeping his right arm over her shoulders, at the ready should she lose her balance. But he needed her there more than she ever could.

“Finally,” Crowley muttered as he watched Sam and the empty vessel slink off together.

*^*

This was new. It was as if a seatbelt had been strapped to his soul, barring him from escaping the wreckage that was his body. So much for meeting his new Reaper and getting the spiel that was once reserved for Tessa. He tested the barriers of his body, unsure what would happen if he couldn’t crossover. Would he go vengeful? Was Sammy going to have to go full blowtorch on his ass? He started to separate, slipping from solid to gas and back to liquid as the darkness pulled him apart. He folded in on himself, twice, twenty, two thousand times until he was frayed and knotted and mangled beyond belief. The unscratchable itch remained the same, the Mark the source, but not the remedy. Dean stretched, reaching out to gain control in a space only he could navigate. It was disgustingly fragile to him now. Everything felt, lesser. It still reeked of humanity and its pathetic mortality.

Then he heard him, Crowley. That smug bastard really could spin yarns, but Dean wasn’t convinced, yet. He settled back, as easy as slipping into an old flannel, finding his arms and toes and all the other places he liked to control. Once Crowley made his true offer, Dean knew what he sold to be true, or as available as any other fate to him now.

And so he opened his eyes to bask in their shared damnation.

Next Chapter: Too Good to Be True

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