aerilex

Title: The Stillness, Chapter 9- The Smoldering
Author: Aerilex
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Friendship/Pre-slash
Rating: PG
Characters: Balthazar, Dean, Sam, Castiel, Eve
Word Count: ~1,610
Disclaimer: Still own nothing recognizable.
Warnings: AU from 6x15, but expect to see mentions from the rest of the season
Summary: Balthazar investigates and plots. Castiel burns.
A/N: Um. So. I’m back! Sorry guys, had to deal with a little trip to the ER there for a minute because apparently, this year? I’m not supposed to go out-of-doors. I had to visit the ER for an overnight observation due to heat exhaustion a few weeks ago and for treatment around severe sun poisoning/heat exhaustion this time. Sorry for the wait, and the lack of length. The chapters got a little meh on where they wanted to break there for a minute. Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

Balthazar searches the places he can reach on the borders of the Between like an angel possessed with the purpose of his assigned mission. He searches everywhere, casts out a web of Grace to seek any signs of Castiel because he has to find him, he absolutely must.

In the back of his mind, beating a tattoo into his thoughts, the word Arisen stirs. Balthazar resolutely ignores it, making a Winchester-toned effort at denial and quite possibly giving the boys a run for their money.

When he runs out of places to search and is still awaiting news from the other search parties he’s assigned, Balthazar checks on the warded room from which Castiel had vanished. His younger brother would have chided him for not paying closer attention to the room before—Castiel is nothing if not thorough and inquisitive, a perfect tactician on the battlefield and a decent tracker when need be. Castiel would have searched that warded room relentlessly until he found the fatal flaw that allowed for the breach into the most sacred protected regions of Heaven. No, not fatal—Balthazar won’t let himself think that way. There isn’t any proof that Castiel had been killed, Balthazar is confident that no one would want to kill the leader of the rebellion in Heaven outside Raphael.

Arisen…

Oh, blast it all.

Balthazar shakes himself and focuses on the wards coating the walls. He stares at the runes until his vision blurs, but he can find no errors in the careful inscriptions of his eldest brothers’ names and the protective spells cast from them. Castiel had been looking over his shoulder, after all. Whatever had breached these alls had not done so because the wards were wrong.

So. That narrows down the possibilities a fair stretch.

There aren’t many creatures old enough or powerful enough to contend with the might of the angels. Fewer still that can temporarily neutralize warding sigils that bear the names of the archangels, Heaven’s mightiest and most powerful. Balthazar tries not to think of the implications as he turns his attentions to his next clues—the weapons. The celestial items had been left behind in the angelic snatch-and-grab. That they are so valuable to any who wield them and were left so thoughtlessly does not escape Balthazar’s notice. He ignores the chill that sweeps through his Grace as he wonders why anyone would ignore such a quantity of power to focus on Castiel.

It doesn’t matter anyway, Balthazar knows. He can’t do anything for Cassy if he can’t bloody find him.

Balthazar takes his time and examines each weapon closely. He recalls that Castiel had mentioned using a weapon to resolve the battle with Raphael’s soldiers when they had ambushed him. Balthazar seeks the small metallic cylinder that contains the Perpetual Flame, organizes the other weapons into hidey-holes he twists out of ether and Grace as he makes his way through them categorically. When Balthazar finds the cylinder hidden beneath a wispy, silver shroud, he snatches it up with a triumphant, “Aha!”

The moment his Grace comes into contact with the Flame’s mystical presence, something inky and dark curls around the edges of his essence. He feels it to his core like a poison, twisting inside him and making him roil with illness. It tastes of brimstone, has the same bitter burn as hellfire.

Balthazar throws the cylinder as though the Flame it holds is digging into his flesh. It is that very instant that he understands—and in this same instant, Dean Winchester calls out to him.

Balthazar, you sonuvabitch! Get your feathery ass down here right the hell now!

Balthazar catches his breath, gathers his wings up to hold him, and shifts sideways into flight.

He hasn’t even fully gotten his wings folded before the elder Winchester is on him, clenching fistfuls of his dark jacket as though the little hunter can actually harm the angel.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean demands hotly. “You should have told us!”

Balthazar doesn’t budge when Dean tries to shove him. He, unlike Castiel, doesn’t care if the fool does himself any injury while trying to subdue an angel. Ignoring Dean as he starts ranting again, Balthazar risks a glance about the room beyond them.

Sam is standing near the desk, palms up in a partially-placating, partially-pleading manner as he tries to reason with his boorish, pigheaded brother to please let the angel go before he decides to kill you, Dean. There are a number of books strewn over the dusk and the threadbare little sofa, all of similar origin. Balthazar doesn’t need to see their contents to know what the Winchesters have found. He’d suspected the same thing ever since Dean had mentioned the Phoenix.

Balthazar finally gets fed up with the annoying little pipsqueak hanging off of him and flicks Dean in the chest, effectively sending him stumbling backwards several steps into Sam’s awkward hold as the younger brother catches his senior in an awkward heap of limbs. Balthazar isn’t in the mood to laugh at the picture they paint.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs to himself, and because it just feels do damned inadequate, adds, “Bugger, blast, and bloody bollocks!” It’s out there now, no use in hiding from it. Balthazar feels the weight of Dean and Sam’s angry, curious stares as he thinks aloud, “They’re going to do it. They’re actually going to—they’ve already started.”

He feels numb, disconnected. He feels lost and alone and wonders how long Castiel has been feeling this way, wonders how his brother never noticed the poison being slowly fed into his Grace. For a moment, he fights the urge to almost blame Castiel, for surely he must have noticed something.

Balthazar startles when he realizes that the answer is staring him in the face. He growls as holy wrath fills the void the hellish poison had left in the core of him. The Winchesters tense and ease away as he stalks toward them, leaning neatly into a predatory stance.

“If it weren’t for you two,” Balthazar scowls. “If he weren’t your damned guardian. He’s my brother, he’s the best of us all! This shouldn’t be happening to him.”

“You’re blaming this on us?!”

And Dean is outraged, of course. Poor little Righteous Man, too scared of his feelings to take ownership of any of them and too damned proud to worry for anyone that doesn’t hold the name Winchester, or perhaps Singer. Balthazar has no pity for him. This time it’s Balthazar’s brother in need of help, Balthazar’s brother who’s alone and hurt and being made into something else, something so entirely other—

“I have to find him,” Balthazar says. “There’s only one more place I can think to look.”

“Where?” Dean asks, because Dean is too damned foolish to realize when things have gotten bigger than him. Dean is a small picture human, he has some trouble seeing beyond his own little world unless something threatens it.

Balthazar tries to remember even one measly little reason his brother is so fond of these humans—then realizes he only needs to remember that for whatever reason Cassy is fond of them and it would hurt him if Balthazar smote the hell out of the pair this minute. He forces his vessel to take several deep breaths as he begins to plot. He is no Gabriel, and for a moment he wishes his elder brother were here because Gabriel had always been a much cleverer schemer than Balthazar. Castiel is clever, and a damn sneaky little bastard when he wants to be, but he has always lacked the certain brand of mischievous ingenuity necessary to be a proper, playful Trickster as Gabriel had become. Balthazar needs Crowley for this, and hopes that he can contact the demon and that Crowley has at least found something in his search.

“Wait here,” Balthazar says, belatedly realizing Dean has started talking again. “I’ll return shortly,” he adds, and ignores the sharp curse thrown after him as the current of air pulls him into the ether.

~ ~ ~

The colors fade like the sensations had before. The only reality that remains is red flames and gray ash. Burning, scorching heat fades to emptiness and the hollow void. Gray, gray like the world of emotions colored black and white, coated in the ash and dust of rusted magic and goodness.

Don’t cry out. She’ll be upset again. Mustn’t make her upset again. Mustn’t mustn’t mustn’t.

“Oh, angel. Why do you resist?”

Try to keep fighting, Cas.

Keep fighting, have to keep fighting. Mustn’t listen, mustn’t upset her. But keep fighting, keep fighting.

The inferno roars so loud inside.

Gray and red blot out the colors again. Lifeless, empty, void. No Father, no angels, no humans. Alone with just her.

Gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, green.

…Green?

Green, in the eyes. Color them green, flecks of hazel gold teasing the edges of each pupil. Bow the legs, cock the mouth for a quirk of mirth. Spackle the face with freckles—hide the one on the inside of the left knee, just under the arch. Heal the flesh until it is infant-fresh again. Rebuild the body to house the soul, pure and golden. Don’t drop the soul, though it struggles. Drag it from the knives and razors and chains and chooks, lift it from Perdition. Raise it from the shadows tainting it, clean it in Grace and light and love.