SquidgeWorld Archive

The hunter settled back against the hood of the car bringing the Styrofoam cup of coffee to his lips. His breath hitched in a sigh and he blew across the glossy black liquid cooling it enough that the burn on his lips and tongue wasn’t unbearable. These days he was happy for the pain, happy to feel anything at all that reminded him he still existed, was still fighting the good fight. Especially since so many weren’t, so may lives gone by the wayside. Bobby had been the first, then Sam and then…

He didn’t finish the thought, wouldn’t finish it, but he settled the cup between his knees picking up the white cardboard box sitting on the hood of the car beside him.

His fingers idly stroked over the rough pebbled surface of the box. The yellowing cellophane tape wrapped around it, holding the sides together, closing the lid. It crackled beneath his fingertips, small bits and pieces flecking off, glittering against his skin. He brushed a thumb over the faded lettering on the white mailing label affixed to the top of the box, still protected by the aging tape. Yet he refused to read what was written there, refused to acknowledge what was inside the box.

With another sigh the hunter clasped the box tightly against his chest for a moment then carefully walked around the side of the car opening the passenger side door and gently placing the box in the seat. Next to the .45 he habitually kept close beside him, and close beside the aging bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The bottle listed to one side, cap still firmly affixed, a thin layer of dust marring the shoulders and lid of the bottle. He never drank the whiskey, barely even looked at it not since…He sighed remembering.

The two figures huddled around the pool table in a broken down old bar. The room was humming with activity, packed to the walls with people. Sitting beside Dean Castiel had never felt so in touch with humanity.

The human took the angel’s hand in his bending down closely to inspect the pale skin, the dark blue veins running beneath the surface, fine hairs standing out from contact with the other man. The angel offered his charge a faint smile as Dean shoved a glass into his hand.

“Here drink this.”

Castiel hesitated, “I don’t think that would be appropriate. My vessel did not imbibe.”

“Imbibe!” Dean snorted incredulously, “Come on…man up. This’ll put hair on your chest.”

The angel sighed glancing down at the crisp white dress shirt clothing his vessel, “I believe that he has some hair on chest already. It is sufficient.”

“Dude, too much information,” Dean said rolling his eyes. “Just drink it.”

The angel acquiesced lifting the glass. The liquid inside was tart, and burned like fire. He gasped wanting to spit the drink out but unwilling to look less than a man in front of his charge, his friend. Castiel felt tears springing to his eyes. Finally, the horrid stuff was down his throat and he turned on the hunter with an accusing expression on his face. But Dean’s face was alight with pleasure, a big grin stretching his lips and the angel could not find it in himself to be angry.

Taking a sip from the cup the hunter found the coffee cool enough that he could chug the contents then carefully pick his way around the cement picnic table at this rest stop. Without a map he knew where he was, one of dozens such places that he had been in the last few months, the last few years.

He had slept here last night, the empty rest area meager protection from the beasts that haunted the darkness. But it was also built on a Cherokee burial site and therefore hallowed ground; there were rules after all. And one of them was that where the faithful laid to rest no evil could be done.

It seemed odd that now, when so many years before it had been all but ignored, this particular rule was being respected. No need to salt and bury the deceased unless they had not been laid to rest. And with the war on-going there were thousands of newly dead for the forces of darkness to possess, when they didn’t go after the living that is. So the hunter had rested here, weary of heart and soul, bone tired from endless fighting.

He had dreamt last night, one of the good ones. One of the dreams of times past when there was no solitary nameless hunter but an us. A him and me. A Dean and Castiel. Now sitting on the hood of the car with the cup of almost tasteless vending machine coffee cradled in his palms he thought back on the dream and gave a little huff of laughter.

“Dean,” a voice whimpered in the darkness. A soft breath against skin and the movement of strong limbs. Two bodies twined together on the broad surface of the bed.

“Hush,” a voice whispered in return. “Let me love you.”

“I thought you did love me,” Castiel had replied and now Dean laughed. His eyes caught the deep blue eyes of his companion, his brother in arms, his angel.

“No, let me make love to you,” Dean said. And Castiel had consented and now his hunter, his comrade, his charge, became his lover.

Grimacing the hunter angrily crushed the cup in his clenched fist, feeling the last dregs of the liquid slide over his fingers; dampen the fabric of the flannel shirt he wore.

With a final brush of fingertips to the box he tossed the mangled cup in the overflowing trashcan besides the table and walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side door.

Glancing at the sky the hunter sighed again. The apocalypse had come, but Hell on earth had been a more figurative thing than anyone fighting the war had thought. The sky over head was dim, pale yellow haze hanging over the horizon. Pollution was out of control, and the faint scent of sulfur clung to everything.

At least today there was no acid rain although the weather was erratic at best. In one place the sky could be almost blue and in another the yellow mist could be so thick that it was impossible to see through. A scrap of poetry he remembered from somewhere floated into the hunter’s consciousness, ‘So this is how the world ends not with a bang but a whimper…’

Well, the world was certainly whimpering now.

The engine turned over as smoothly as the day the car came off the assembly line, and the black behemoth climbed onto the remains of the freeway. He drove west for an hour before he hit the first massive accident site. When the final Seal had been broken and Lucifer rose waves of violence swept the surface of the earth. Massive riots and localized warfare had broken out in many cities. Some places were almost completely destroyed. Los Angeles was pretty much gone, and New York was a tomb. Someone had gotten a hold of several missiles and the landscape was dotted with barren wastelands through out the mid-west.

This traffic jam appeared to be the result of one of the riots, maybe road rage, maybe an honest to goodness traffic accident turned to mass rage and destruction. With and few well placed bumps and nudges the hunter got most of the cars off the road and cleared a path for himself. The Impala purred as the big engine kicked into overdrive, and tires ate up the highway.

A few miles past the wreck the air got so thick and the smell of sulfur so overwhelming he had to pull the car over to the shoulder and wait until it cleared. He didn’t cough, the windows rolled tight against the encroaching clouds of pollution. As he waited his mind wandered, and maybe he even drifted into a light sleep, but his mind conjured an image long past.

Castiel sat in the passenger side seat of the car watching as Dean maneuvered around a rough spot in the road. The car bumped and the human grimaced, “Got to treat the old girl right. She’s a special lady after all.”

The angel cocked his head, “Lady…you speak of this automobile as if she is a friend.”

“She is a friend, has been all my life.” Dean said softly not glancing at the other figure in the seat. His voice hitched and Castiel felt pity for his lover, knowing full well that Dean was thinking of Sam. Sam who should be sitting here and not the angel. Suddenly a thin smile broke on Dean’s face and the angel felt his own mouth turning up in response.

“I should teach you how to drive her.”

Castiel shrugged, “I don’t really need to learn. My wings are far faster.”

But the angel paused knowing full well that whatever the hunter asked of him he would do. So a few miles and a little time later Castiel was sitting behind the wheel of the car with Dean tight-lipped and white-knuckled beside him panting like he had just ran a marathon.

Finally, the angel pulled the car to a halt, “Was that good?”

Dean sighed, the tension in his shoulders draining away like water running through a sieve. “Pretty good for a first try, we’ll work on it.”

Then Dean’s hands were wrapped in the collar of the angel’s coat tugging him across the seat practically into the human’s lap. The angel didn’t balk at being manhandle because Dean’s mouth and hands were doing things to him. Things that made the angel hot and horny. And that had been the end of the driving lessons for that day. But Castiel did learn what the backseat was good for.

The air cleared and with a weary groan the hunter started the car again. The car hummed over the concrete and in a little time a sign for a diner appeared just before the next exit ramp and he pulled the car off the highway onto the side street. The car bumped over a rough patch in the road, and he made a quick right into the gravel and dirt parking lot.

The building was old, decrepit, a throw-back to a long gone era. But it was also the first open business that the hunter had seen all morning so he was happy for that. Carefully locking the car doors he trudged across the lot and pushed the front door open.

Inside the diner was clean and welcoming. There were several wood picnic tables with padded benches in the center of the room, and a long counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. The hunter pulled out one of the gleaming metal barstools and settled at the counter. Picking up the menu he smiled at the girl who appeared at the kitchen door. She grinned at him.

“Hey, first customer of the day.”

Quickly she retrieved a pot of coffee from the machine beside the kitchen door and strolled to his side. He flipped the white ceramic mug over watching as she filled it with steaming liquid. When she had set the pot back on the burner she tugged a small white paper pad out of her pocket and tapped a pencil against it.

He didn’t even look at the menu, “I’ll have the burger combo. Rare and no ketchup.”

Her nose wrinkled, “I don’t know about rare. You can’t be sure of the quality of the meat anymore. Maybe medium, okay.”

He nodded even though the quality of the meat really didn’t worry him all that much.

He ate quietly watching the spotty television reception fizzle and clear as the wind shifted. There was no cable anymore, most of the time they were lucky if there were any stations on the air at all. Still the news was showing, although it was a pale reflection of what the news would have been in the past. Mostly social news with periodic weather forecasts that tended to neglect the thick clouds of poison gases, and sulfur that hung in the air.

After he finished his meal he wandered to the cash register shoving a hand in his pocket. The hunter produced a few crumpled bills carefully unfolding them and working them flat. The girl looked at the cash in his hand frowning. “I don’t think I’m supposed to take that. I mean there was a news story a few days ago about a system of debits and credits.

Don’t you have a number?”

As if to illustrate the girl raised her arm shoving it at him and he could see the black barcode tattooed across her wrist. His own wrists were securely covered by the too long arms of the too large brown leather jacket he was wearing. Cocking his head he shrugged.

“I don’t remember anything about that. I’ve been on the road, and I’ve missed the news lately.” He stood there a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes wide and shining. It was funny how, after years of using fake credit cards and hustling pool, good honest cash was suspect now.

She shrugged again smiling coyly at him, and he shot her a blinding grin. The girl shivered, “Well, I think that they are gonna make folks get them. You’d better find a place and get registered.”

“I will, I’ll do that.” He said shoving the bills at her and she rang up the bill. “Keep the change.”

She smiled at him, “Okay even if it’s just for the sentimental value, you know.”

There was a man standing beside the Impala when he went back outside. He paused hand lifted as if to casually scratch his head, but his hand kept moving swiftly, smoothly to the knife hung in a sheath between his shoulder blades. When the man turned to face him walking across the front of the car the hunter grunted a quick greeting.

“Howdy,” the man replied stiffly, and the hunter was relieved when the man’s eyes didn’t go inky black. He stared at the car then turned, middle-aged, careworn, exhausted. “Sure is a nice ride you got here, boy. It’s an old one, eh?”

“’67,” the hunter said with a hint of pride in his voice. The man nodded hand dropping to the glossy smooth surface of the hood. He frowned at the greasy fingerprints on the finish, but waited until the man moved away before letting his hand drop to the car’s hood, thumb idly wiping at the prints until they faded away.

There was a noise behind him and the hunter whirled hand resting against his hip. A faint rustling caught his attention and then a tall, dark clad figure was standing beside the car. He snarled at the angel, “Uriel.”

“You have to stop this. The war is over, in case you haven’t noticed it. We lost.”

“We haven’t lost, you just gave up.”

Uriel shifted rising to his full height, “It is done. You just need to admit it. The Boy King is no more and Lucifer is risen. There is nothing left to fight for.”

The hunter spat a curse, “Look,” he said pointing to the tiny patch of blue sky straining to break free of the dull yellow haze. Then he made a vague gesture at the diner, the green grass springing up in between the broken asphalt, the red brick and shiny glass windows. “All this, all this is what’s left to fight for.”

“It is time to admit defeat.”

“No, not as long as there are a few of us left who fight on. We’re not done yet.”

Uriel glowered, “I am telling you this is over. You will do as you are told.”

Growling he reached into the passenger side door of the car. There was a hex bag sitting on the seat beside the whiskey bottle and the gun. For a brief minute he considered going for the gun, but that wouldn’t do any good. So the hex bag it was. Quickly he unfurled the top and fisted a portion of the herbs inside. With a quick flick of the wrist he hurled the herbs into Uriel’s face, “Get lost,” he snarled.

The magic in the herbs was failing but still potent enough to do its job. The angel’s body flickered then faded as the powder hit him spreading his essence out. It was a temporary fix at best. Uriel was a persistent bastard and he’d regroup and be back.

He put six hours and three hundred miles between him and the diner before he got too tired to go on. Pulling the car off the highway again he found the half-burned remains of a Motel Six. There were still some rooms that were untouched by the fire and a few cars gathered in the parking lot. A light burned in the office window and he approached the door with caution. An elderly lady was sitting at the desk, and she silently pushed an old fashioned ledger across the chipped Formica counter watching as he signed a name. She didn’t ask for ID and didn’t make a fuss about the wrinkled bills he shoved at her. Without a word she flipped a key at him, and the hunter walked out into the cool night air.

There were a few others walking through the parking lot. From the scant clothing and thick make-up on the two young ladies it wasn’t hard to see how they earned a living. The younger of the two looked to be no more than twelve, and that hurt him. Hurt him more than he thought it would or more than he thought it should. But no more than any of the other filth and decay he saw every day. After all the entire world was going to hell.

He warded the doors and windows with blood from a jar. It was old, brackish and half clotted but enough was still liquid that it still served its purpose. The sigils were neat, crisply drawn and he didn’t skimp on the protection charms. Still he felt vaguely uneasy as the night skies darkened, and he could feel the movement of demons all around him. He walked back to the car. Taking his bag out of the backseat, he gathered the cardboard box and the .45. The bottle of Jack he left on the seat although he was sorely tempted.

In the room he dumped the duffle on the floor, and gently placed the gun and box on the bedside table. He didn’t bother turning on the TV. There wasn’t anything on that he didn’t already know anyway. The world was going to hell, slowly…one inch at a time.

The shower was cold, but that didn’t bother him, and he lay down on the bed dressed in boxers and a tee-shirt staring up at the ceiling until he felt himself dozing, but sleep just wouldn’t come. Sighing he slid a hand down his chest, slipping his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, but his cock remained thoroughly uninterested and he couldn’t muster the strength to care. It was hard to feel passion now when he had once had real passion.

Dean panted groaning as he thrust forward. The angel shuddered beneath him and Castiel let out a sigh as if he had been holding his breath for a long time. They shifted bodies twined together struggling for release. The angel was the first to reach his peak, and the human followed soon after.

Afterwards they curled around each other under the blankets listening to the wind outside the window. Dean was quiet and Castiel didn’t push him to speak, knowing that the human was hurting still from his brother’s betrayal. Sam may be absent from the room but he was never far from Dean, even now when it was too late.

So the angel did what he could to soothe the blow, keep his hunter alive and fighting because that was all they had now, a never ending war and each other.

A sound at the door brought him from an uneasy sleep to full wakefulness. Rolling off the bed he grabbed the gun, and stumbled toward the window. There was a figure out on t he walkway just in front of his room, standing just beside the front of the car, but he knew the shadowy presence almost as well as he knew himself. With a grumbled curse he grabbed his jeans and hustled into them before retrieving the .45 from the bed.

The door swung open more forcefully than he intended, caught by the wind. With a sigh the hunter stormed out of the room. Stalking to the car he confronted the dark figure lips twisted into a grimace, “Uriel…I should have known.”

“I came to tell you one last time, that it is done. You should give up now, there is nothing more of this fight left.”

“The last time I looked this was my choice, my fight to win or to lose. You stay out of it.”

“I’m warning you; don’t take that tone with me. All this doesn’t matter, can’t matter any more. You can’t win this.”

“Well, as long as a few of us are left to fight we can try.”

Uriel made a noise deep in his throat, then scowled. “It won’t matter anyway. Nothing will change the fact that they are all dead... that he is dead. It has been so long now. You have to stop. Let it go…Castiel.”

The End