Hello! Welcome to Wiener Hut. What can I get for you today?
Your body. I am an angel of the Lord and I need to use it to save the Word of God from being auctioned off to the King of Hell but first I need your consent. Please, say yes to being my vessel. It'll only be temporary.
...Uh, sir, have you been drinking? We just sell hot dogs here, hence the name "Wiener Hut". And, until 5 o' clock my body belongs to them.
Oh. I can wait thirty minutes.
Riiight. Can I get you a chilly dog while you wait?
No, thanks. Angels of the Lord don't require food. I'll just sit here quietly.
I'm so done. They don't pay me enough for this.
“God damit” she cursed under her breath as she fell out of the sky straight onto someone, at least she was out of hell, for now …she ignored her pain and opened her sore eyes to an angels face “it can’t get any worse” she thought staring him in the eyes awrkwardly, “Meg, nice to meet you” Meg said casually still lying on top of him
[I’m sorry, this was clearly just the best way for me to approach you. No better introduction than making Sammy break down in tears.] He pressed his face into her shoulder, trembling silently in her arms.
//Oh honey this is totally fine. No need to apologise. I always need more Samandriel in my life.
“Shhh…It’s ok sweetheart.” She turned him into a small fledgling so as better to hold and comfort him. She kissed his head gently and started to hum an old enochian lullaby.
Her heart pounded as she kept running through the abandoned streets her vessels bare feet aching, her wings were wounded and unusable so flying wasn’t an option.
And all because of those damn demons and their pack of hell hounds coming after her “oh father why does trouble always come my way” she breathed annoyed, stopping for a second to look around and find a place to hide as rain began to pour from the sky. Suddenly fining herself surrounded by grinning demons and a couple of hell hounds she cursed under her breath slowly pulling out her angel knife “come get me you low life!”
One more shot, one more glass, one more barstool…it all began to blur together. The only good things about his new humanity was his new alcohol tolerance, or lack thereof really. Castiel downed shots with the best of them until his body rejected everything he put into it, and he woke up alongside a face he didn’t recognize.
Castiel staggered along from one bar to the next, the days blurring together as he huddled inside his coat, constantly fighting back the anguish inside him. All his family, all his brothers and sisters…he’d just wanted to make things right. He wished he could run, find an end, something, but as Naomi so cleverly put it, he couldn’t even die right.
He stole a few hundred dollars here and there, pawned Jimmy’s watch and wedding ring, and found himself in a diner one morning, sipping black coffee just to feel like some semblance of himself again.
His mind was buzzing with the task he was set on. His head, heavy. And he had to cut himself off from heaven. Entirely. He wasn’t even sure Dean’s prayers would reach him – and the thought pained him, but his hands were firmly curled around the tablet during his whole travel. It was there, sitting on his lap where he could feel it.
There he was, depending on touch, and smell and human matters of orientation. He got out of the bus at some stop which name he liked – Topanga Canyon – and where no one else was getting out of the big vehicle. This had been the way he had been traveling through the entirety of the country, from stinking, slow, loud, annoying, mass-transporting vehicle to the other.
He glanced up at the trees. A resort was close. A village. Nature. Castiel liked it here. But he knew he couldn’t remain. So he started walking, off the road and into the forest, keeping close to the small pathway to the village, where he would be able to watch the people and maybe find a next stop to travel to.
But as he wandered through green, and the perfect silence of nature, that wasn’t really silence if you listened closely, he heard a rustle of wings that didn’t belong to a friendly bird. Immediately on alert, he spun around……….to see his younger sibiling’s face. “Samandriel.” he breathed, regret and guilt immediately seeping back into the pit of his stomach. He had killed him. Was he there to haunt him? Could angels haunt their murderers? His arms wrapped tighter around the tablet, and he took a few quick steps back. “Your entire presence is impossible.” he said, stiffly and stopped so he didn’t stumble over fallen twigs.
Like You've Seen a Ghost | Samandriel and the Metatron
There wasn’t much that could really, truly wear out the Metatron. Spending an entire night crafting and carving and placing whatever wards he had to in order to keep his family safe, apparently, was one of those things. He should have been delivering the amulets, but instead he sat on a park bench in one of the quieter corners of America and watched the clouds go by.
The empty space where the voices of his brothers used to be was like a scratch on the roof of your mouth. You know that if you just leave it alone it will settle faster, but you can’t stop poking it with your tongue. The Metatron couldn’t stop re-opening the connection, probing at the muddied sensations that gave him vague locations and moods for his brothers, but nothing else. It was like poor-quality TV without any sound. Proximity to the angels in question helped, which is why he paid special attention to a signal that was coming in more clearly than the others. The Metatron focused on the sensation. What he felt made him sit up, eyes wide, as though he’d been punched in the gut.
No. No, it can’t be.
He vanished from sight, re-appearing closer to the sibling. The closeness only confirmed his suspicions, but he still couldn’t believe it. No, but you… “Brother?” he called to the figure standing not too far away. “S-samandriel?”
“What’s he done this time?” he asked quickly, tone somewhere between concern and annoyance.
“Wow, thought you’d know first.” Dean relaxed against the frame of the door he was standing in. “Sprained his ankle.” he explained then, exhaling in annoyance. “Not too bad, but gotta heal before he can go out on a run like this one.”
He works at this coffee place where Castiel goes sometimes. Random days really so no one can notice a pattern and figure out why he’s really there because they all know its not for the coffee.
All he does is buy his drink and sit with it. That’s all. With maybe a little gratuitous watching of the baristas. After all they are quite skillful. And if he happens to watch Sam more, his name badge says Sam, then there’s no foul there, is there?
His order is always hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. Unless Sam serves him, then it’s just hot chocolate. He’s always just a little too nervous to ask for them.
Like today, he just sort of grins and mutters, “Hot chocolate.” Some day he’ll say a bit more. Some day.
Samandriel glanced down at the rapidly spreading blood-spot on his shirt, head tilted slightly to the side in silence for a moment.
“…good aim,” he said eventually, otherwise seeming unaffected.
Lucy was speechless for a moment. “I-I just shot you, probably even hit some vital organs, and all you have to say is ‘good aim’?” She asked, slightly hysterical. He wasn’t supposed to be just standing there. He’d been shot. He should have been on the floor, nearly dying!
It’s his own heartbeat that drives him crazy. When he’s forced to press his ear into the pillow at night and hears it’s lonely thud- thud- thud- he can’t think straight. It’s awful. It’s all consuming to be reduced to a simple sound like that. And it conjures the images. A flash – the demon he’s tortured today, it’s open rib cage, beating heart and flash – himself, strapped to chains and being torn open to grow back together like an obscure flicker book. Tonight it’s the same and each time the leader closes his eyes and tries to relax it’s there, over and over again.
He gives up on sleeping and sits up, staring at the opposite wall, and the window. It’s deep in the night and he probably slept one or two hours already, just to startle. His forehead is laced with sweat, so he swipes it off with the back of his hand and gets up, leaving his cabin to pee somewhere and look for a distraction, something to do, or something else to stare at than his own four walls. The air outside is warm and aggravatingly still. Dean wants a cool breeze, but he gets none, his feet bare on the grass. The light in Castiel’s cabin is still burning, he can see it through the window. Doesn’t mean too much, though. And he doesn’t want him to see him either, eyes red and tired, face worn out. He looks at the light for a moment though and just stands there, watching it.