2556/Stairway to Heaven (or the Subway)

Stairway to Heaven (or the Subway)
Date of Scene:	22 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel

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Dean Winchester has posed:
The Winchesters had agreed. Or, at least, Dean is reasonably certain they agreed. There had been a lot of beer consumed and he'd woken up on the floor. In the centre of one of the demon traps in their apartment. But he was pretty sure they agreed on this.

Of course, they hadn't agreed on where to call the angel-of-the-moment. Dean lead the way through their neighbourhood away form their home surrounded by Enochian wards. It'd be hard to pop into their apartment--even if called. So the pair of brothers had gone for a walk. Down the block. Around the street. And down a long set of stairs until they got to the subway station. The hub was busy, but there were always corners that were unoccupied. Once the pair find a quiet jut in the wall, he casts Sam a long look.

Green eyes find hazel. His eyebrows lift and he manages a vague laugh. "You know, out of all of the things we know lore on, this weirds me out." Despite the ritual to get Crowley. To draw others' attention. This unsettles him. Just a bit.

He inhales a deep breath, feeling like a total idiot. If he wanted to reach the angel, all he had to do was call. "Uh..." he looks up towards the ceiling of the station. "...Castiel?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam is at least acting like they agreed.

He stands with his hands in his pockets, a blue plaid shirt shifting his hazel eyes more to that same color today. Of course, any color is better than irises gone to jet black. "Dude," he says. "If this is the lore creeping you out you haven't read enough. Remind me to tell you about the Ritual of the Rat King sometime. A. Thing we never ever want to use. But I mean. I've read it. And it takes weird and gross? And makes a sandwich."

A simple meeting with Castiel wasn't nearly enough to inspire Sammy to take down those wards either. As it is, he's contemplating the subway station. Nobody's around, though Castiel might be in a moment. It's a prime opportunity really. He runs his fingers over the unoccupied wall thoughtfully.

Castiel has posed:
He'd said 'Just call me'...

If he'd been more versed in human ways, and had a better sense of humour, Castiel might have said just whistle. Followed it up with something of an amused, "You know how to whistle, don't you? Just put your lips together and blow.." But he wasn't that well versed, and most things human still left him more than slightly puzzled.

He'd said he'd come, though. Not only given his word, he'd put something of his mark upon them with that statement. In the realm of all things that might draw his attention from and away, they were now on that list, sitting somewhere near the top. If it were possible to hear, and make his way, he would.

...He just hadn't said how long it would take.

A train rumbles in and passengers get off. A new crowd pushes on by one another to get in the doors of the soon to depart cars, even as the station maintained a net flow of bodies. A sea of them milling about and ignoring the brothers. The train leaves. And still no Castiel.

The nearby clock on the wall, barred in with a metal grid to keep it from being stolen, clicked another minute.: 6:59.

Still no Castiel.

It's like those pauses of his. How he stands there motionless and almost looks through a person before he speaks. Like that.

7:00

From somewhere to the left, barely within sight, head canted slightly forward and at a bemused angle, watching them. Castiel. A rumble of sound in his chest that turns into a quiet, and clearly, even for him, amused, "You called?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's expression sours. "Dude. I eat sandwiches." Like nothing should be compared to things he wants to eat. Or could potentially want to eat. Or drink. After he says the name he stares vaguely at Sam in the space that grows between them. "We sure that guy was an angel? He could just be a crazy person. I'm sure the looney bins are full of," he whistles as he encircles his temple with his pointer finger, "thinking they're angels."

His arms cross over his chest. Impatience is his modus operandi. And when things aren't instantaneous he gets bored. "Speaking of sandwiches. We definitely passed an City Sandwich on the way here--" but as he turns his head again there's Castiel.

Dean's eyebrows draw together and he smirks. "Yeah. Not loudly, either. How does that work, anyways? People just say your name and you... hear it or something? Or is it being forced to go somewhere?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
"'Lo, Castiel," Sam says easily. He hasn't lost the edge of distrust entirely, but there is a smidge more friendliness. Then again, there's no weapon in his hand, so that might be an improvement. Where Dean is content to ramble-- and even to succumb to a touch of stomach-based ADD-- he is mostly focused. He pulls out a small orange paint marker and begins an act of public defacement. Which appears to be his favorite activity of late. It's tough to ward entire sections of cities. He certainly can't spend a lot of time and bandwidth trying to mess with warding against anything out there. But a simple alert ward, something which will tell the Winchesters-- well, Sam-- if anything supernatural passes within a certain radius of the thing? That's easy.

It's how he kept Stanford and several blocks surrounding it quietly safe while he went to school there. It was never entirely accurate to say he forgot everything he learned and knew. How could he? Of course. It didn't stop Azazel. Bypassing these things is child's play for higher demons, archangels, any mage worth his salt. But it's better than nothing.

Castiel has posed:
Each is regarded in turn as that faint amusement disappears and Castiel moves closer. It might be a public enough space that they won't be overheard, but still, there's no real need for raising voice. Not inviting curious stares or wanderers to pause just a little closer. He's noticed that humans who converse together form shapes. There's a maximum and minimum distance they're allowed. As far as he can tell there's a formula based on familiarity, and those who are not familiar don't hold extended conversations.

Then again, those who are not familiar don't follow one another down alleyways for less than nefarious purposes. That one he's only recently begun to understand..

It's Sam who draws the initial bulk of his attention, the younger brother warding the space they're gathered in. It's a mark he knows. Sufficient. Nothing spectacular, but esoteric enough to handle most things. If he's impressed, though, Castiel doesn't say. Merely arches a single crag of eyebrow and gives a considered half squint as Sam's form is checked out. The matter given a faint movement of shoulders that could be a shrug.. or could merely be the man getting more comfortable. It's hard to say.

"Sam."

His attention turns to Dean. "There are arcane metaphysics to the matter. Complicated. But essentially, yes. I hear you, because I have chosen to."

It's then that it seems to register where they are, Castiel standing erect and remarking, "The subway? Really?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
And suddenly Dean finds himself in a discussion about /arcane metaphysics/, inspiring easy compliance and a vague nod of the older Winchester's head, "...right." Like he understands. His arms drop to his sides and he fidgets with the collar of his grey plaid shirt. "So you make a choice to hear some voices over others. A bit elitist, isn't it? I mean, suggests that some voices are more important than others." He shrugs. "Guess seraphim aren't into equal rights."

His eyes tick towards Sam. Dean's general surliness fades some when he looks towards the subway. "Yeah, Cas, /the subway./ Why, you have a problem with subways?" His eyebrows lift expectantly. "Figured it was a place where we could talk without drawing too much attention."

His lips purse lightly. "Sam," he casts a look towards his brother, "and I want to understand more about angels." A long pause follows. It doesn't seem likely that a direct question will receive a direct answer, but he tries just the same, "Why on earth would Zachariah have visited us in the first place? Angels aren't exactly on Hunter-radar. Not really."

Sam Winchester has posed:
"And I'd like to know more about the factions you hinted at," Sam says evenly.

If he's out to impress that doesn't show either; he has a rather workmanlike air about him. He has adopted this neighborhood as his second home in his life. And as Dean's first. He will pay it back by offering more than the standard protection, more than 'we'll deal with it when something tips us off by killing someone.'

His concentration doesn't seem to break for asking the question. Sigils must be precise to work, and paint is unforgiving.

He's not going to defend the choice of the subway one way or the other, but he does shoot Castiel an earnest look. One that is still weirdly out of keeping with the scent of him. Someone with a gentle demeanor when he's not grifting someone, or pulling weapons on them.

Castiel has posed:
Dean is regarded with patient calmness, Castiel's hands shoved deep into his trenchcoat pockets. He barely seems to register the slight disparagement Dean casts his way, expression not changing an iota. Not even when he says, "I had expected someplace less.."

Castiel's attention is flicked back to the sigil Sam is drawing. He cants his head in a more than fractional manner, head tilted way to one side, following the long curling descender of the sigil, a hand coming up out of his pocket to scratch unkempt nails along his cheek in an unconscious gesture. His shoulders giving a slight shrug as he exhales what could only be considered something of a grunt of neither here nor there. Sam's work not found either wanting or worthy of commentary. And, all without seeming to recognize he's done this, the man's hand goes back into his pocket and he returns to his too erect, too still posture.

"It is a place where discussions happen. But not private." If he understands the protection factor of the choice for the brothers, he doesn't remark upon it.

Sam is told in a carefully measured gravel of tones, "We do not have time to discuss all there is. Suffice to say that humanity did not invent politics." Nor had they, Lucifer falling long before such things were known to man.

Dean, however, gets the closest thing to an actual answer for his troubles. "Would you care for the long answer?" His pause is long, but he doesn't wait for Dean's answer, merely continuing, "Michael wants you." Which may or may not be news to the older brother.. and totally bypasses what he knows of Sam.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"It's private enough," Dean counters while his eyebrows lift. "We like home to be home," admittedly they could've met in the Impala, but after his infamous ride with Crowley, he has no intention of summoning anyone into the car. While Sam goes about his work, Dean's feet shuffles against the pavement. His eyes scan the area for potential ears, but the angel's words have made him just a little self-conscious.

He's never really considered the ramifications of ears that may catch his words, mostly because this is his first home. Well, the first in a long time, anyways. And four year olds weren't known for concerns about eavesdroppers.

Not having enough time causes Dean to lift a single eyebrow in response. "Why? You have someone else call you?" His smile turns crooked.

But then gears are switched. /Michael wants you/. "...Who?" It's not that Dean doesn't know who the archangel Michael is. But it's so unbelievable that he would be on some archangel's radar that he doesn't remotely believe it. A grifter's smile tugs the corner of his lips while he finally plants his feet in one spot. He eyes Sam and then Castiel. And finally, he settles on, "Dude. Just assume I always want the long answer," Dean will live to regret this.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"For /what?/" Sam asks, almost on top of Dean's 'Who'. His eyes narrow to cool slits, and now he caps his paint pen. The work is complete, and he doesn't like what he's hearing. He shifts, crossing his arms, standing behind his brother as if his sheer size alone could defend Winchester the Elder from spiritual threats.

And rest assured, Sam is hearing a threat. Not from Castiel, precisely. But he remembers the smug, smarmy Zachariah just fine, and in his experience being 'wanted' by supernatural things doesn't ever end well for anyone.

His chin dips down towards Castiel. It may be safe to assume /he/ wants more details, too.

Castiel has posed:
It's with uncharacteristic swiftness that Castiel snaps, "That was the long version, you ass." Dean is given a scowl. Both vessel and angelic in agreement, it would seem, the gesture one of perfect harmony on the man, his entire body oriented in such a manner as to convey the *snap* and bristle of irritation. "We're in a subway station, do you see all the people!"

He says it like the brothers have suggested he announce the Heaven's plans over the loud speakers.. though even those might not suffice for dissemination of the words. The usual wont of such announcements a Charlie Brown teacher mumble of "wah-wah-wah".

Still, Castiel bristles. "Why do you think? It isn't for his taste in clothes." Not that Castiel is quite in a place to proclaim judgement on that front.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean looks over his shoulder in an effort to look at the people milling about the rest of the station, but only catches Sam's gaze. And in that moment, there's little question that his younger brother can see the shift. Genuine curiosity twists into anger, an emotion learned and achieved time and again. But it comes out contained. Measured. "You know, for an angel you're a real dick," he deadpans back to Cas. "Or maybe all angels are dicks. Zachariah was a dick," his eyes turn up to the ceiling. "Yeah, the two might be synonymous. Translation issues of the text or something." His lips purse. "Also, I prefer Dean to 'ass'. Just sayin'."

His take on the matter gets locked down. But snark wins the day, prompting an unceremonious roll of Dean's eyes, "Why? Is it the way I look out of them?" At that he actually smirks, but the edge in his voice probably gives away more to his younger brother than he intends. "Why would Michael even pay attention to me?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
@emit Sam Winchester can see the anger broiling in Dean, and he once again says, "Dean."

The tone is a little less urgent. This isn't a dangerous situation anymore-- at least, not in the same way. But in Sam's opinion, they're not going to get much information if they embroil themselves in anger here. Castiel may be their only source of information here, to say nothing of potential alliance.

"Castiel," he says, by way of reminder. "We know little of the Heavenly Hosts. A question which seems foolish to you may be simply our own next step in understanding."

Diplomacy when diplomacy is called for, that's Winchester the Younger. He makes soothing motions at the air, a series of gentle pat pats.

Castiel has posed:
The bristle softens a notch, but it doesn't fade. Castiel's body a slant of left hip and shoulder positioned slightly forward from the right, hands pushed to the limits of his trenchcoat pockets, forming an angry line much the way another man's jaw might clench, or the vein in his throat might pulse. His attention swivels from Dean to Sam, as Sam offers the diplomatic words, and back to Dean again.

"Is he for real?" The question a surprisingly human observation.

Castiel doesn't relax any, if anything, his body tenses in a manner that suggests another might be pacing. That the space containing him is too small. That the vessel wants to make wide hand gestures, even as the angelic struggles to get a grip on frustrations borne of millenia of watching this oh so fragile species push itself to the edge of understanding and back again. And worse, to the edge of its own destruction.

No wonder the Heavenly Hosts found them so disposable.

It's with an obvious effort that he pulls himself back from that. Drags himself from what he was, and what he left behind, and tries to form an easier answer, one with less accusation and frustration.

"You were chosen, Dean." The name said with a curtness that doesn't seem to be brought about by Dean's request, Castiel's features and attention too drawn and distracted for that. And still, STILL, he does not say what he knows of the other.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The spark behind Dean's eyes doesn't dissipate, even at Sam's efforts at diplomacy. Knowing full-well that the younger of the two likely has the right idea, Dean pivots towards the train, stepping back to let Sam deal with the particulars of navigating politics.

But then Castiel asks the question. Dean isn't convinced it's not rhetorical, but answers anyways. "Well if he's not, he's been an almost-always-present hallucination in my life for the last twenty-some years." He rakes his fingers through his hair and twists again, allowing his attention to be divided between this space and the next.

The last has his eyes turning back to the ceiling. The answer aligns with Zachariah's assertion that heaven had some plan for him. Absently, he rubs the back of his neck, and he wishes they'd summoned Castiel to the Impala. At least then he could be driving through all of this. "Why?" Time would suggest he had little to do with it. At fourteen he'd already been chosen. Evidently he hasn't yet managed to be unchosen.

Sam Winchester has posed:
'Is he for real,' Castiel asks, and a look comes over the face of one Sam Winchester. Nostrils flared, mouth tight, eyes faintly narrowed; his head cants to the side just so. It's not the same level of ire he displayed the other day. There are levels to this face he likes to make. But the irritation is there, silently communicated.

Sometimes keeping your mouth shut is the best diplomacy of all. He shifts, folds his arms, tilts his chin up and waits to see if the angel will answer the question. It seems Dean has been placed back into the driver's seat of these inquiries after all. It is, for the moment, for the best.

Castiel has posed:
And as quickly as it manifested, the irritation fades, the man's shoulders slumping forward as his chin drops, and his gaze refuses to meet either of theirs. There's a sense of sorrow and regret about the man. It's almost palpable. Even his hands relax their posture, so that the trenchcoat returns to merely oversized and not a statement of irritation.

Slowly, Castiel returns the blue of his gaze to Dean's green. "I wish I could say why. You were found suitable before you were even blessed with the breath of a soul."

Castiel's shoulders slump, completing the transformation to relaxed and beyond. "War is coming. I am sorry."

His gaze flicks up to Sam, for whatever reason - perhaps only because he is the diplomat. Perhaps only because of the two, he is the one where answers lie with the least ease. The one who bristles the most inwardly - Dean being all open planes and answers, trying hard to hide in shadows of deception, while being nothing more than easy truths. "I can not change that. I chose this, instead."

One can hear the sweeping gesture of hand indicating this vessel he inhabits; this humanity; the Fall from Grace. He does not make the gesture, but it is there. It rings through his words, and the sorrow with which he gives them.

Dean Winchester has posed:
While little makes sense in all of this, and even less makes sense around the notion of a war, a few things begin to click. Dean's head turns to Sam. "Crowley knew," Crossroads demons don't randomly show up at homes after loved ones have died. People summon them. Death deals aren't particularly common. He scrubs his face before, in an act of sheer resignation, dropping his hands to his side only to tuck them deeply within the depths of his SHIELD jacket.

There's little doubt in Dean's mind that Crowley is foiling some larger plan. Not that he wants anything to do with it. But the question that demands to be asked is one he doesn't really want the answer to. He was possessed. Alistair rode his body hard and even over a week later, the fear of it happening again continues.

"Suitable for what?" but the notion of being suited for something long before he really existed is enough to set Dean on edge.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Yes," Sam agrees.

He feels some empathy for the angel's sadness. It shows in his eyes. Some consideration for the magnitude of his choice. It softens his face, before distrust creeps in once again. Trust doesn't come easily to Sam, even though he might extend a gentle hand and keep his own counsel. He certainly doesn't like a damn thing he's hearing.

He doesn't seem to care that they're getting information about Dean's plight over his own. He's been wanting some of these answers since he was 10. He looks on with keen interest, frowning at all this talk of war. But he doesn't seek to negate what is said. Rather, he accepts it and just works it into his internal understanding.

Castiel has posed:
This time the gesture comes with a body echo. Shoulders rising and falling - but it's such a shortlived gesture. Barely a shrug. More a movement from the stance of irritation, to one where the body stands against all blows. Feet shoulder width apart. Shoulders back. Only his head betrays. Held at an awkward angle. One of inquisition. One of apology. Canted towards a shoulder, and telescoping any number of movements that don't come from the man. Instead, Castiel holds, letting his voice carry between them, the three; a triangle; the shape of stability. An irony in the face of what is to come.

"You know what, Dean." The angel's voice a slow rumble of eon upon eon. There is nothing but truth behind him. Dean knows. Should know. And still? He takes the time to explain, now, much as one might for a small child. "Vessels must suit the task. There is no accident in who is chosen. This was your Fate long before you were a breath of soul in the Lord's hands."

Again that sorrow. And something more. Behind it, behind his words, echoes of thunder. A deepness that goes beyond. Hints of all he was: a warrior of the Lord, his sword dedicated to time beyond measure in the service of All that Is. A depth of weight so heavy it hangs there between them all, the way the air sits when the dewpoint is hit. You can taste it. The damp begging for release.

And beyond that? A sorrow so deep it speaks of the beginning of all things. The knowledge that this life, this human life, is so fleeting a thing, and yet? Yet, they would use it. Snatch it up and turn it to ends that have no human meaning. Toss it aside and consider it nothing more than disposable. His sorrow goes beyond that. Defines him. In ways even he can't understand yet... makes him human.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The simplicity of the remark, the explanation, and the way in which it seems to tug at Castiel's features melts some of Dean's most base defences. His eyes train on the ground and he shuffle-paces once again, allowing the sound of his shoes against the cement to complain lightly with the sliding dirt, slippery beneath the smooth cement.

A puff of hot breath follows. It's not quiet. Breathing itself represents as a retort to the word 'vessel'. "Right," he finally manages. "I'm sure Michael would be keen for Alistair's sloppy seconds." His palms press against his eyes. And then, perhaps more pointedly, he observes, "I don't believe in Fate. Not for me. Not for Sammy. Nothing is Fated. No one is Fated." There. "But thanks. That clears things up." A bit.

While he hadn't asked when it had first come up, he circles back. "What War? And how does any of this have to do with any of that?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
"Yeah, I'm getting pretty against any and all entities that want to ride us like horses," Sam says wryly. "Though oh wait, I always was." He eye narrows thoughtfully, some thought occuring to him, but he keeps it to himself. "So you choose to break ranks," he says to Castiel. "Was that the whole plan? What's next for you?"

He again takes that protective stance behind Dean, as if he could ward off possessing forces by his mere presence. He can't. But he sure wishes he could.

Castiel has posed:
There's that long moment of consideration from Castiel. He stands there, still as stone, only his eyes betraying more than that. His pupils widen and contract in time with things that do not pass his lips. Even so, they convey much about him. Not just his sorrow. Or the compassion that he does not advertise, yet conveys regardless.. They betray the places where he stops to consider what he knows, and what he supposes. The moments of conjecture. The things he was not privy to, but prompted his choice nonetheless.

"It is not so simple," he says finally. "The vessel is not tarnished by the liquid within. You are what you are." Sill, he stops and considers again, then nods. "I do not think that was his reason. But he no doubt knows. You are.."

Again that pause. That thing that defines him. The way each moment is measured before he speak.. except when he is caught off guard and emotion is allowed past the sorrow. And even that, at times, defines him, the sorrow. The weight of his compassion leaving him nothing more than an apology for what he can not change, but only hope to steer past all finality. In the measuring of things, Heaven and Hell do not care for those who wear these mortal shells. They are not quite playthings, but they are only considerations in the final tally. Not in the measuring between. He, of all the angels, looks upon it differently. He sees the souls for more than a tallied worth - they are named and numbered. Each an expression. As unique as every moment of eternity. And worth this sacrifice.

"You were created for this." The words are simple, and without apology. Merely a thing that is. But here is where something shifts. The fabric pulsing around him - the place he has chosen in all that is - as he says in a voice so quiet, it is almost unheard, his tones a restless whisper, "But you do not need to acquiesce."

That. That is his rebellion. His choice. Why he wears this mortal flesh.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Between Sam's description of being against entities that want to ride them and Castiel's flowery description of angelic-possession, Dean just finds silence. His shoulders tense, his breathing slows, and he stares at the ground. His head cants to catch his brother's eye. Just the once. He doesn't have much to offer or much to return. He should come back with anger.

Instead, it just comes out as a critique. "That seems like a dumbs reason to create someone." His eyes actually roll. "Create a person just so some other person can occupy them some day into the future? It's stupid and a dumbass plan. Just create something good enough for the first person already." Yeah, the logic is definitely lost on him.

But with that said, he turns back to the notion of the vessel. "This vessel has been well-tarnished, Cas." He smirks at that. "Believe me. Down here we call that living."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Dean feels he's been well tarnished, and long discussions into the night have addressed some of that living. Sam, meanwhile, focuses on the final whisper. "Demons don't exactly ask for permission. Are you saying angels are different?" In keeping with his realization that wings don't exactly convey goodness, Sam feels the need to clarify. Zachariah, after all, didn't seem like the type who really wanted to do anything other than take what he wanted.

He should, he supposes, be grateful the angel inspired Dean to fight for his life against sickness and his own dark urges so man years ago. Sadly, this is tainted by the knowledge Dean wouldn't have been sick in the first place without their 'help.' On a cold winter Christmas when the heat went out briefly, when they were just two kids, alone.

But living. Definitely living.