SPN Fic: Bleodsian (Gen, PG)
Title: Bleodsian
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG
W/C: 2,600
Disclaimer: Not mine. I promise I'll put them back where I found them when I'm done. Maybe.

a/n: Thank you to innie_darling for the sharp-eyed beta. Set well after 4x10. Speculation, because I had this theory, but no spoilers. Title is the Old English word for the sprinkling of blood during pagan rituals, and the origin of the word "blessing."

Summary: Sam and Dean have a job to do. Some outside interference complicates things.



They didn't need Ruby to find this nest of demons, holed up in the old Pine Tree Hotel. Ruby hadn't been around for a few weeks, which made Dean nervous, because as far as he knew, Ruby's thing was hanging around Sam, and if she was off doing something else, it couldn't possibly be good. At least if she was around, he could keep an eye on her.

The hotel had been abandoned for years, a sagging hulk of a place with a long porch and cupolas and a gazebo out on the overgrown lawn.

"There's six," Dean said, boots skidding against the frozen dirt as he ducked back down next to Sam in the ditch out behind the hotel. "All in the dining room. If you move in through the kitchen, and I go in through the front, we should be able to pin them down."

Sam pulled the pump-action shotgun out of the duffel bag, while the faint white flurries of snow swirled over their heads. The light was almost gone, their breaths rising in the cold air to mingle with the pale flakes. It wasn't even proper snow, wouldn't stick to the ground—and Dean had been looking forward to some. Snowball fights, the chance to drop handfuls of icy slush down the back of his brother's neck. Everything covered in white, clear and silent beneath the starlight (no heat no screams no lurid splashes of blood and fire).

Rock-salt rounds in the guns, rope in his knapsack, flasks of holy water tucked into their jackets next to the folded pages of The Rituale Romanum, at least they had those. Dean pulled out the magic knife, handed it to Sam.

"This thing's a last resort, right?" Sam said, taking it with just a shade of firmness on the last word, as if he was worried Dean might've changed his mind.

"Shit, Sam, would you quit with the finger-wagging? Yes. It's a last resort. We immobilize them, and when they're trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys, we exorcise them, one by one. Nobody dies."

"Let's do this," Sam said.

They kept their heads down, loping across the hotel grounds, crossing paths of broken flagstone. The paint was peeling off the walls, and half the upstairs windows were broken. Place that like ought to be haunted, but instead of a straightforward spook, he had demons. Dean was sick of demons. What he really wanted to do was blast a ton of rock salt through a spirit, watch its form go poof. It was satisfying, simple, no actual human body to worry about.

He didn't want to have to watch anything bleed tonight.

*

There were more than six.

Idjits, Bobby would say. Dean could almost hear him. Maybe they should've invited Bobby along on this. No, they definitely should've invited Bobby along on this. He could hear his father's voice too, chewing him out about proper reconnaissance and triple-checking the territory and the ways that supernatural things were sneaky.

Dean hated to admit it, but Ruby would've been useful too; according to Sam, though, she showed up when she felt like it, and didn't use a cell phone.

They did okay, at first, because really, he and Sam were freakin' excellent at this by now. Two demons were struggling furiously on the floor, their host bodies tied up. They screamed curses, threatening to flay the skin from their bones.

"Yeah, yeah, and devour our entrails. Heard it before. Shut up," Dean said, blasting another one with rock salt as he advanced. It would hurt like a bitch, and bruise, but the poor possessed bastard would live. The guy fell, hunched over and still.

Sam started the ritual on the first one while Dean spun-kicked the fourth, knocking the woman into the wall. He tried not to notice details, like the pale, skinny dude with the awesome tattoo on his lower arm, or the woman's long blonde braid, how her body moved like a dancer's, or the wedding ring on the bearded guy's finger, how he probably had kids wondering where he was. The important thing was to do the job.

It would have all worked fine, if there really were only six. But there were four more, holed up someplace he and Sam hadn't known about to check it, a remote attic room upstairs, or maybe in a sub-basement, sacrificing cute little bunny rabbits or something.

The four appeared in the doorway, eyes black. One of them smiled, head tilting to one side in that way that seemed to be demon-speak for you are so completely fucked. Then they lunged, one grabbing Sam, another grabbing Dean, pulling him off the one he was in the middle of tying up.

Sam crashed into a table, knocking it over as he fell to the floor. A big guy who looked like he lifted cars to work out had Dean's shoulders pinioned in his large hands. The broad face, which might be friendly if the meatsuit was in charge, grinned in a predatory way. Dean felt himself flying through the air. He struck a table and tumbled hard to the floor.

Cloth tore as something sharp caught him across his stomach, the pain making it difficult to breathe. He looked down and saw that the broken leg of an overturned wooden chair had just about sliced him open.

Big guy grabbed him by his jacket, yanked. He heard Sam shout his name, and then the big guy started to cough. He dropped Dean, staggering back before black smoke started to pour from his mouth.

When Dean looked around, he saw black smoke emerging from two of the other meatsuits, and faster than Dean had seen before. Sam was on the floor propped up on one elbow, eyes closed, his other hand outstretched with the palm flat.

Dean had never seen Sam do that. So many, all at once. Never.

The remaining possessed bodies slumped to the floor, one by one after the dark smoke poured out of them.

Sam's face was twisted in a grimace, but he let out a sigh, opened his eyes, and the lines of his face relaxed. No nose-bleed. He lowered his hand, then started to push himself up. "Dean, are you okay?"

He didn't feel okay. Light-headed, in fact. Dean kept his fist clenched against the wound, the blood greasy over his fingers. But he'd live, and crap, he was still trying to wrap his mind around what Sam had just done. Fuckin' Ruby and her Jedi training sessions.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm—"

There was a rush of wind, and the room went darker for a moment. When the dramatics were done, Castiel and Uriel stood with the unconscious bodies at their feet.

"Samuel Winchester," Uriel said, just as Sam got to his feet. "You were warned."

"Yeah, well, things are a little different down here in the trenches," Sam said, his voice tired but defiant.

Dean reached up and grabbed the edge of the nearest table. Castiel, his hands in the pockets of that stupid trenchcoat, looked small next to Uriel. His glance went to Dean and stayed there for a long time.

"They were outnumbered." Castiel turned back to Uriel, speaking slowly, as if he wanted to be sure to explain this right.

"You know what hangs in the balance, Castiel. The boy is becoming a greater liability with each passing day." Uriel took a step towards Sam, whose jaw jutted in a familiar, obstinate way as he took a step back.

Uriel seemed to tower over him, but then, Uriel seemed to tower over everybody.

Maybe Dean was imagining the large shadow that rose around him.

"You have got to be kidding me." Dean got himself to his feet. "We go up against ten demons, and you do squat to help, but now you show up and want to gank my brother? You son of a bitch."

"The risks have become too great," Uriel said. He was answering Castiel, not Dean, didn't even look his way. It was like Dean hadn't said a word.

Not that Uriel seemed greatly interested in listening to Castiel, either. Without waiting for an answer, Uriel lifted his hand and took one stride that was too swift to be human. His hand clamped around the spot where Sam's neck and shoulder met. Sam gasped, struggling to pull free of Uriel's grip.

"Uriel…" Castiel stepped forward, while Uriel raised his hand towards Sam's face.

Dean's vision was going dark at the edges. His legs felt wobbly and the warmth of blood was spreading over his side and he wouldn't be in time, there was no way he'd be able to move quickly enough—

"No."

With one word, Castiel gave Dean back the whole world.

The angel's hand closed around Uriel's wrist. Castiel had to reach up to do it—but he didn't pull, or strain. The touch wasn't to make Uriel release Sam by force; Dean doubted Castiel could make him do that. Castiel wedged himself between Uriel and Sam, and for a moment the three seemed interlocked, like one of those metal ring puzzles.

"Castiel, what are you doing?" Uriel's voice was cold and deep as graves.

"Samuel can control his powers," Castiel said. "He will learn. And there will be other… consequences if you turn him to dust. You know what we're trying to accomplish here."

Uriel let go of Sam, who ducked out of reach and stumbled away, leaving the two angels facing each other. Maybe it was the blood loss talking, but it looked like the two men grew larger, too large for the dining room with its stained, cracked ceiling.

Dean blinked away the fog in his vision, and Uriel and Castiel were back to their usual size. Sam was bending over Dean, gripping his shoulders.

Another rush of wind went through the hotel, along with the flicker of a dark shadow. When it was done, Castiel stood by himself.

Dean's vision was dimming again.

Shit, it would be really humiliating to fucking pass out in front of the fucking angel. Dean bit down on his tongue, the pain jolting him back to sharpness.

"Okay, Dean, you're going to be fine," Sam said, shrugging out of his jacket. He slung Dean's arm across his shoulders. "We'll get you out to the Impala and I'll patch you up." He let go of Dean a moment, folded the jacket into a square, and pressed it against Dean's side. "Hold this there," Sam ordered.

"Ooh, I love it when you get bossy." Dean pressed his hand against the jacket. He winced as they took a step. With Sam holding him up, they made their way out of the dining room. Dean heard Castiel's steps, crunching over the debris on the floor, following them.

"What about them," Dean asked, jerking his head back towards the unconscious people.

"I'll call it in," Sam said. "Get an ambulance out here."

"No hospitals." Dean tried to steady his breathing. He didn't want to frighten Sam with how much his side hurt with each step.

"Not for you, you jerk." Sam's grasp tightened. "I mean, not unless this is worse than it looks. If it doesn't stop bleeding—"

"It's not that bad, Sammy."

He was startled when Castiel hurried past them, held the hotel's front door open.

*

Sam finished the stitches, poured disinfectant over the wound. Dean reached up to grip the edge of the Impala's roof as he sat on the back bench, the door open to give Sam easy access. The interior light flooded out into the winter darkness, illuminating Castiel, who stood watching.

Dean wondered why Castiel was still hanging around.

"Hey," he said to the angel, as Sam finished and began to put away the first-aid things. "Why'd you do that?" Dean asked, buttoning up his flannel shirt against the chill.

"Do what?" Castiel said.

"Stand up to Mister Grumpy like that. Weren't you all, either you stop it, Dean, or we will?" He swallowed, tugging down the sleeves of his shirt and feeling like he was baiting a possible rattlesnake, but he was almost past caring. He'd had it with angels and their enigmatic, contradictory bull crap. The back of his brain muttered that Castiel had just saved Sam and he should consider saying thanks.

Sam shot Dean a warning look, but he stayed quiet, bending to slide the first aid kit back into its place under the bench.

"I feel that Uriel was too hasty," Castiel said, adjusting his coat as if its weight made him uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on Dean. "Uriel sees things a certain way. He is not…wrong. Sam must rein in his powers. However, there is more at work here."

"Then why don't you fill us in?"

"When I told you to stop it," Castiel said, his breath rising in the cold air that promised more snow, "it wasn't just to keep Sam from bringing about events that would be disastrous."

Behind Dean, Sam had stilled. Then he climbed out of the car on the other side.

"It was to keep Sam alive," Castiel went on, glancing away towards the dark silhouette of the tree line, fingering a button on his coat. "Uriel and I disagree on the importance of that particular goal."

"Wait. Hold on a second. Since when do you give a fuck about my brother?" Dean was out of the car, moving towards Castiel.

"At first I feared Sam would let his powers get out of his control. Now I am not so sure." Castiel nodded. "He is part of the bigger picture."

"Oh, yeah, that clears up everything." Dean itched to grab the angel by the lapels and shake him. "Thanks a lot." Dean called back over his shoulder, "Doesn't that clear up everything, Sam?" He heard his brother let out a soft snort of derision.

"The blood mingling with Sam's is not demonic in origin," Castiel said.

"Say what now?" Dean burst out at the same time as Sam said, his voice flat with shock, "What?"

Castiel's shoulders twitched with what might have been a shiver. He leaned his head back to look up into the murky dark sky. A few snowflakes started to fall, caught in the light from the Impala. Then he lowered his head, his gaze moving from Dean to Sam. "Azazel was not a human soul that became a demon."

Behind him, Dean heard Sam's breath catch, knew that Sam had somehow seen the pieces click already.

"And?" Dean said irritably, hating that he was the last one to get the joke, and pretty damn sure he didn't want the punchline.

"Azazel was a rebel angel," Castiel said, as the snow started to fall more thickly, swirling over the dark field where the Impala was parked. "A follower of Lucifer. He was banished to hell with the others, and there he became like a demon, but he was still an angel, if a twisted one." Castiel's lips pressed together and he swallowed. He took a breath, and his face became unreadable, neutral, the lines of his forehead smoothed. "The blood that mingles with Sam's own is angelic in origin," he said, each word distinct and clear and deliberate.

Dean had to lean back against his car for support. His side throbbed.

"That makes no sense," Sam said, his voice rising. His hand curled into a fist. "None of it. Why—" Sam broke off. There were too many whys.

"The power you have now, to pull the demons out, is only the beginning. Even if you keep the powers contained, they could lead to other events that would be disastrous. Azazel was preparing you, Sam." Castiel leaned forward a little, as if needing to see Sam more clearly. "He wanted you to use his gifts."

Dean turned around to face Sam, saw his own bewilderment mirrored back in his brother's stare across the Impala.

"What events?" Dean turned back towards Castiel.

But he'd already heard the sigh of wind, already knew that all he'd see was empty field, with the snow swirling thickly against the blackness.

~end