It ain't over
A/N: For Luna who's the best kind of enabler there is.
Warning: Completely unbetaed.
+ + +
+ + +Bobby
Bobby is a smart man, an experienced hunter, he has some of the most loyal friends anyone could ever have, an addiction to bad trashy tv and besides all of these superb qualities- Bobby also has a primo bullshit detector.
He’s not twenty five anymore, hell- he’s not even in his thirties anymore and despite still being very much male, Bobby can now see past the hormones blocking the sights of the Winchester men. He can see past the pretty eyes and the luscious bodies and the full blown smiles and what Bobby sees makes him pause.
They’re planning something, the girls- not necessarily together with the angels, having been seen huddling together a lot more often than strictly necessary for Bobby’s peace of mind while Castiel flies around the world looking for his absentee father and Gabriel does whatever it is he does that gets him so agitated whenever he comes back- popping M&M’s like crack.
They’ve also stepped up their training schedule and while it might have been amusing and interesting, seeing the very non-human girlies pounding the living daylights out of each other in his junkyard- it’s now become a little scary and worrying, seeing the intensity to which they afflict pain on one another’s bodies.
They’re preparing for war, and Dean and Sam’s daily pow-wows over the books, and their own training sessions are proof of that- but what these girls are doing, it’s nothing like what the others are.
Dean and Sam are fighters by nature, always have been, always be- it’s in their blood. They’ve been trained for war since they were young, they’ve been fighting daily battles since they could walk but what they’ve never managed to lose- despite the world’s and each other’s best efforts to kill it within themselves, is their hopeless sense of optimism.
They believe that despite the overwhelming odds, that despite the fact that almost all of the world is against them- they’ll win.
Even in his mopiest of moods, even during his weepiest moments- the core of Dean Winchester, that bright, flashing tick tocky organ of his that just won’t stop
believes that he’ll survive this. That he’ll get through it. Somehow. Most likely by the tails of his shirt and through sheer dumb luck, but Dean believes that they’ll survive. He has to.
Sam believes in his brother and Bobby knows that it ain’t healthy, it’s never been healthy- but those two boys will either survive this thing together, or little Sammy Winchester will give his everything to make sure that his brother gets through it. The amount of guilt that boy is carrying, half of it earned and the rest through the intense grudge that fate seems to hold against the Winchester family.
But those girls? Those ex-angels, dimension travelers- whatever
the hell they are- they’re scaring the shit out of Bobby. Because he’s sure that he’s the only one in the house that’s managed to look into one of their faces, into their eyes and truly
see what lay beneath the flirty smiles.
These little girls and no matter how old they may claim to be, older than Bobby’s ever dreamed
of being- they’re too young, too young.
Shit, he shakes his head, maybe they’ve managed to break past his defenses too.
And then he rounds the corner of his kitchen, about to walk into his living room when he sees the blonde one- the one with the ridiculous name, Buffy, doing push-ups on her fists, too fast for it to be normal. Bobby holds his breath, keeping his frame steady as he counts out one hundred before she switches to her fucking fingertips
, continuing in the same, steady rhythm.
“You’ve been watching us for a while,” she says and Bobby, as startled as he might be, still marvels at the fact that she’s not even breathless after doing something that would probably have left him half-dead, hugging the floor in brainless exhaustion.
“Yeah,” Bobby answers the non-question and then very sharply has to fight his urge to fucking flee
, none of that foolish ‘fight’ option for him-no sirree-Bob, as she uncoils from the floor and does some weird thing with her body that he hears the sound of several vertebra cracking and his brain goes to a bad place in regards to her bendiness.
“Why?” Buffy asks him and he knows better than to lie.
“Because I’m afraid,” Bobby admits the one thought that he hasn’t been voicing, that he hasn’t allowed
himself to voice. “I’m afraid to die, and I’m afraid of whatever it is that you’re all doing but-“ he pauses and realizes that this is true
, that his instincts are screaming at him-“ but I trust you. I don’t know your story and I’m sure that you’re hiding a great deal from us,” he says and smiles when she twitches slightly in a tell, aha! Not so perfect after all, Bobby thinks with not a small amount of glee and narrows his eyes- “but, whatever it is you’re doing, it’s going to work-right?”
Buffy stares at him for a good long moment, small and sharp- like a tiny burst of light in the darkness of his living room, before nodding decisively- “yeah… We hope it does…”
She walks past him without a second glance, only pausing beside him to say “thank you,” and when Bobby looks at her, mildly confused and a little wary, she continues and glances once at him with that carefully shuttered expression on her face, “for trusting us.”
“You’re welcome,” Bobby shrugs and when she walks past him, he turns and watches her go deeper into his life, aware that he’s just practically invited
the original source of chaos into his business.
It better work. Faith
Faith stands at the periphery of the wards at five thirty six in the morning, shivering slightly in her worn grey hoodie. Her hair is loose and she’s wearing a pair of Dawn’s cutoff Adidas pants. She’s barefoot.
She can smell the change in the air, that ephemereal feeling of the night bleeding into day, the starts burning a little brighter, a little sharper- as if aware that this is their last chance to shine in all their glory for the next twelve hours.
This time of day always reminds her of her brother. The Morningstar has always straddled that line between the first light of day and the last and truly striking effort of the darkness. Lucifer was the last of the stars burning into the creeping edge of the day, defiant and rebellious until the end- unwilling to go out without a blaze of glory.
This seems fitting. Symbolic.
The air shudders as something, or someone
rips through the atmosphere- through reality, a hand emerging first and then a tall, lanky body-dragging behind a-
“Azrael,” she mouths, feeling her heart pick up speed despite herself, start pounding treacherously in her chest. Logically, Faith knows that she’s never known Azrael in her current incarnation, has never served with him deep in the trenches, has never ridden to battle with him, fought with him.
Faith had never been Azrael’s friend but Raguel still remembers training him, still remembers joking with him. Still feels that sharp burst of pain and fear at seeing Azrael back Lucifer against Michael during one of their biggest fights.
“Raguel,” Azrael smiles and yet again Faith marvels at her brothers’ capacity to pick their vessels. The guy Azrael’s wearing looks to be in his early thirties, about six foot one with curly black hair and huge green eyes.
He looks like he’d have an accent.
“It’s good to see you again,” Azrael beams at her, this time using a British accent- the mind reading bastard, and lifts up the sad sack of a man that he’s carrying with one hand.
“You bastards,” the man wheezes with a wet sound at his every exhale and bloody bubbles on his lips, “you’ll never get away with this.”
Faith takes a moment to marvel at the fact that Azrael’s just damaged another angel’s freaking lungs
and shoots him a proud smile. He rolls his eyes in an amazingly human gesture but still looks reassured and somewhat gratified that his old commander’s proud of him.
“Really?” Azrael asks mildly and backhands the man while still holding him in place. The end result is a loud crunch and a nasty glare as the angel spits out about half the vessel’s teeth.
Faith would feel bad about damaging someone else’s body if she wasn’t sure that the poor vessel’s already dead, an empty husk just housing the endless burst of energy riding him.
“Fuckers,” says their captive, surprising a startled laugh out of Faith and a snort out of Azrael.
“Are they allowed to swear now?” Faith grins at Azrael, shooting him a conspiratorial glance.
He looks suspiciously innocent as he stares back at her, just a hint of his usual expression on his face- wicked and a little bit amused and so very familiar.
“You’ve been out of the game for too long,” Azrael comments with his trademark lack of subtlety, blunt like a hammer and just as persistent.
“Apparently,” Faith shrugs and crouches down beside the angel’s crumpled form.
With a critical eye, she takes in the bloody gashes on his vessel’s skin, the torn suit- all stained with blood that’s still pumping sluggishly out of the angel’s wounds. She uses her index finger to pull away the angel’s shirt and closes her eyes at the expected and yet so unwelcome reminder of her days in Heaven.
The chains are just as thick as she remembers them, they still gleam even without a source of light hitting their dull metal and the Enochian carved into them makes a barely distinguishable overlying pattern on their length. They’ve left deep, burning marks in the angel’s fat body, like criss crossing brands on his skin.
It’s not in her to laugh now that she sees the chains again, now that she knows perfectly well what the angel in front of her is dealing with. She remembers the pain
too damn well.
“Are you going to give in without a fight?” she asks him quietly and the angel looks like he appreciates the quiet dignity that she affords him in that moment, eyes widening in that recognition of their shared heritage, shared history.
He shakes his head. She expected that. She wouldn’t have talked either.
Faith looks up at Azrael, looks up at one of her own and sees her past reflected in him. He’s ageless, like all of them are and yet- unlike the dicks that’ve decided to turn Heaven into their personal little playground, Azrael still seems like him
. Endlessly amused and persistently violent, he’s still Azrael- until the end of time or until somebody faster finally gets the drop on him.
“I’ve missed you,” she tells him, honest and finally unafraid.
“I know,” Azrael smiles, “I’ve missed you too.”
He crouches beside her and she notices him playing with a blade, long and thin- it has familiar runes etched into the wickedly sharp point of it. The angel hisses in stark terror and tries to scramble away from them once he sees it and if Faith was feeling more magnanimous, she’d feel bad about what she’s about to do.
She doesn’t have time.
“You should come back,” Azrael says softly and cuts away at the vessel’s last vestiges of dignity, stripping away the suit jacket, the shirt, the tie until all that’s left is the blubber filled body of Zachariah’s lackey.
He’s shaking so hard now that his body’s flopping in the dirt of the junkyard. If Azrael had left him his voice, he’d be screaming now.
“We miss you,” Azrael continues and glances at her with those world-weary eyes of his, shining through the unfamiliar skin of the poor soul he’s sporting like a particularly fashionable jacket to the prom, “you should come back.”
It didn’t escape Faith’s notice that almost all of her company had fallen with Lucifer, had followed their leader into the depths of hell. She hasn’t allowed herself the opportunity to wonder over what she would have done in their place.
“I know,” Faith says and gives him a warm smile as he drops the Enochian blade into her hand, “but I need to finish this first.”
The angel’s eyes widen and he practically moans
in fear as he realizes what’s about to happen.
“Now,” Faith tells him offhandedly and flips the blade into the air, catching it swiftly mid-spin, “there are five basic torture groups,” she grins and hears Azrael’s huff of amusement behind her, “but for you
-“ she cocks her head, “we’ll stick with sharp.”Adam
“Gabriel was the one that taught me
,” Dawn says, still staring at her hands, like she’s wondering on what she’s doing. Her fingers are long, slender, elegant. Adam’s mom would have called them ‘pianist hands’.
“From the moment of my creation,” Dawn swallows a painful looking lump, “from the moment I came to be
, he was there- guiding me.” She looks up at him and again, for the thousandth time since he woke up and decided to stop listening to one angel and start listening to another, again- Adam blinks and thinks that her eyes are terribly blue. The same blue of Cas’s eyes, the same blue of Lucifer’s eyes- the eyes that sees in his nightmares, clear and sharp, so bright that it hurts to directly look at them.
“You have to remember,” Dawn continues, looking outside the veranda windows, into the junkyard, like she’s seeing something beyond them, beyond him
, “that I’m not like them.”
Adam notices that her hands are shaking, slight tremors are wracking her fingers even as her body sits tall and stiff at the table. Proud, is what Adam thinks whenever he looks at her.
“I’ve never seen God, I’ve never felt His presence. I don’t remember him as clearly as my brothers do,” Dawn shrugs, “maybe that’s why it’s a bit easier for me. By the time I was created, Michael was pretty much in charge. He was running things in Heaven then and Lucifer,” Adam jolts at the casual dropping of their greatest adversary’s name, “Lucifer headed the armies.”
“Fuck,” Adam breathes out, horrified at the thought that the world’s greatest enemy had also once apparently headed the biggest armies in creation.
“Yeah,” Dawn laughs and it sounds like a gunshot even as a sound in the distance makes him look up, look out the window, tense and worried but Dawn’s not doing anything and Adam pauses- sure that she heard, sure that she fucking twitched
at the sound, “he was also my big brother.”
“Were you,” Adam shudders
as he realizes that he’s definitely hearing something, but something’s stopping him from moving and he doesn’t know whether it’s a betrayal to his brothers or what
but all he knows is that he trusts that Dawn and her sisters will be the ones to end this. He’s seen Dean and Sam, has seen the fact that they’re hanging on barely by a thread and Cas is in the dark, obstinant and stubborn but still lost.
Adam might not have the training that his older brothers do, he might not have the years spent living under John Winchester’s strict regime- but what he has is good sense
The sun begins rising over the horizon and Dawn stops talking while Adam just sits beside her, watching the door.
“What you’re doing,” he licks his lips and looks at her, sitting still and waiting, “is it going to work?” Adam takes a breath and soldiers on, “is it going to save us?”
The moment stretches between them, thin and uncomfortable before the door swings open- an invisible wind blowing it in and Adam scrambles back, watching as an honest to god smile
spreads on Dawn’s face and Faith- dripping blood and gore and something that’s beige and chunky, practically floats
into the house.
“You got it,” Dawn breathes out and sobs in relief, wrapping her arms around herself, “you found it.”
And outside, at six thirty in the morning on a beautiful fall day with clear blue skies and singing birds perched in the treetops- lightning and thunder crash explode in a maelstrom.