Named {PART TEN}

[mclachland]

When they get to Bobby's, Sam's on him like shit on Velcro, monster arms wrapped around him and squeezing the stuffing out of him. Over Sam's shoulder are about two-hundred people, all milling about the inside of the house, poking curiously at the pictures on the walls, the knick-knacks on the mantle, studying. They're angels. All of them, angels, wide-eyed and curious at the bounty of human emotional attachment to stupid shit.

Sam lets him go and Dean just gives him a look, because what the fuck. Sam smiles. "You can thank Gabriel. When we discovered the Leviathan was a fake, he rounded up his garrison and brought them here. They're with us, Dean. We have a garrison."

" -- of angels who won't stop touching my things!" Bobby roars from somewhere. "What -- Put that down, you asshole, that was my wife's! Gabriel, you sonuvabitch, tell your people to stop putting their grubby fingerprints all over my house!"

"Cut them some slack," Gabriel answers blithely, and Dean struggles to see him through the sea of vessels. "Most of them have never been to the mortal plane. This is a big deal for them! Like Christmas! Look, we even get a fat guy with a beard!"

Something shatters, and Dean tries to quell the pounding of his heart. A whole garrison on their side. Not that two-hundred angels will do much against the hordes of Heaven, but it's something. It's more than they've ever had.

Sam grips his shoulders hard, trying to capture Dean's attention, but Dean's too focused on watching Castiel introduce Becks and Rose to a gaggle of angels by the fireplace. Castiel looks up, meets Dean's gaze, and inclines his head with a small smile. It's a 'hey, remember that time we had sex and it was awesome?' smile. Dean really likes that smile.

"Dean? Dean! Hey, so, what happened? Gabriel said that Anna has orders to kill you," Sam says quietly, anxiously, loud enough to be heard over the din but soft enough that none of the other angels will hear it. They don't need to incite a riot over one of their own trying to kill another.

He nods, reaches up, and clasps Sam's arm. "She did. But we used a trusty Angel Be-Gone spell and sent her ass packing. Dude, did you know that wasn't the first time she's been human? She's been down here, like, a hundred times."

Sam's eyebrows crawl up his forehead. "What?"

"Yeah, every time she gets horny, she comes down and fucks some dumb sap." Which makes him the dumbest sap of them all. All those other people and she was still shitty in bed. In car. Whatever. "Never mind that. She came there to charge us with treason, because we're all supposedly BFF with Lucifer."

"But Lucifer never rose."

"That's not what they told her, or the rest of Heaven. Someone's pulling the strings, Sam."

He opens his mouth to tell Sam exactly who he thinks it is, but Castiel comes to stand at his side, their hands brushing again. As soon as the would-be war ends before it even begins, he's taking Castiel to fucking Maui for a week and they're going to spend the whole time in their hotel room, testing the limits of biology and what two guys can do together. Guy and angel. Shit, they might need two weeks.

"It astounds me," Castiel says, surveying the room with a pinched mouth, "how many of them did not see that Heaven was so corrupt. How blind and deaf they were to the rot."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Every sound ceases, voices falling away, and Dean turns to see Gabriel perched on the back of the couch, one leg drawn up and the other dangling comfortably. He points at Castiel, expression dark.

"I wouldn't go casting stones just yet, bro. Don't forget, not too long ago you were as blind, deaf and ignorant as they were. You were them. So, what, you think rebelling in the eleventh hour excuses you from all the times you blindly followed Heaven's orders?" Gabriel snorts. "It doesn't. You joined the game just as late as we all did."

Castiel says nothing to refute that, just lets the silence fester and drag up every memory Dean has of Castiel from his grand entrance in the barn to the moment he sliced his arm and started drawing a map of his own fall from grace.

"I'm the one that gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

"Just so you understand why I can't help."

"I'm not a hammer, as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here."

"The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it."

"I'll hold him off! I'll hold them all off!"

He turns and meets Castiel's gaze, blood rushing in his ears.

"Rejoice, favored one, and do not fear, for your prayers are heard, and I have finally found you."

I finally found you.

I found you.

Dean whirls on Gabriel and shouts, "He pulled me out, against orders! He came for me in Hell!"

There's a minute of dead silence, and then the two-hundred angels in Gabriel's garrison explode. They shout, they gasp, they point at Castiel like he's either the second coming or the Devil himself, and Gabriel glowers at him from his place on the couch.

"He was the first to do something, to open his eyes and see that even Heaven was wrong," he says, neck so tight that he's probably going to strain something as soon as this is all over. A hush falls over the room, the angels whispering quietly while still being able to hear his tiny human voice.

Bobby steps into the room, silent, watching, and Dean catches his gaze. Bobby nods, and Dean takes it as permission, as encouragement, to continue.

"You all know why an angel gets sent to Hell," he says to the room at large, and all of their eyes fall on Castiel, who stands stiff and awkward at Dean's side. "He had orders. Special, rare orders. For me. But instead of following through, he cut me loose and got me out, even knowing that he could be killed for it. He did it anyway."

Gabriel is surprisingly silent and tight-lipped, which is a really good look for him. He should use it more often. Like, always.

"So as far as I'm concerned, Gabriel," Dean sneers, eyes scanning the room and making sure all attention is on him. "He's nothing like them. And he's totally excused for all the times he followed Heaven's orders, because he disobeyed the one that really counted."

They're all looking at him now like he's the Bill Pullman to their alien-fighting civilians and they're waiting for him to make a speech worthy of July 4th.

Fuck it. He's got the attention of a garrison of angels, and he has a few things to say. Might as well say them now.

"Okay, look," he says loudly, standing tall and proud. Or, hoping that's what he looks like. Sam's still twelve feet tall behind him. "I know none of you want to be here. You've been spoon-fed this notion that all humans are mud-monkeys and imperfect and stupid, and you know what? It's absolutely true. It is. We suck. Humanity's awful. While you're sitting on your clouds and jamming on your harps, we're down here killing each other and raping and being prejudiced and destroying the planet and burning shit down and kicking puppies. I won't lie. We're not a pretty race.

"But that's Humanity. As a whole. As one race, we're dumb and panicky, and we do stupid shit in God's name. But that whole is made up of individual people -- and individually, we're actually not so bad.

"Six months ago? I would have said that Heaven was paradise, that it was everything I've ever read and heard about, and more. Guess what? As a whole, Heaven's not that much different than Humanity. Killing, and being prejudiced, and destroying the planet, and burning shit down, and probably kicking a puppy or two. But individually, hey, you're not so bad."

He glances at Castiel, who stares back with soft eyes.

"On Earth, when the guys in charge have been doing things they're not supposed to, when they're saying one thing and then doing another, when they're lying to the people? It's time for a regime change. Sounds to me like something's rotten in Heaven, and it isn't Gabriel's sense of humor."

Gabriel flips him off, but he's gazing at Dean with something like pride.

"You've been lied to. I don't know why, but there it is. Jesus Christ, our lord and savior, our homeboy, was murdered, but not by Lucifer. Old Lucy's everyone's scapegoat, isn't he? Something bad happens, well, must've been the Devil's work. This time, it can't be blamed on him. Someone in your department tried to pull a fast one and cover up the deed by staging a war. And they almost got away with it."

He sucks in a breath, dizzy, and pushes on. "These past few days, we busted our asses trying to find the dick that ganked Christ so they could be brought to justice. Even though that dick isn't Lucifer, it doesn't change the fact that justice needs to be brought down on someone's head. So, I'm asking you now, all of you, to leave the Heaven mentality behind and start being individuals. And I'm asking you, as individuals, to stand with us. Don't fight in the make-pretend war. Stand with us, and we'll find the sonuvabitch that did this."

There should be a snappy final line, something that hooks them and sends them into a frenzy, morale so high that it should be illegal. But he's got nothing. It's not even the 4th, or else he'd bow out with the Independence Day thing.

They're not in a frenzy. They're not even applauding. They're staring at him like he's that guy in every city, wearing a sandwich billboard and handing out pamphlets about the Apocalypse, like they want to just walk by without making any kind of eye-contact.

"I thought it was good," Sam mutters behind him, and Dean snorts. He can always count on Sammy for support, in all his endeavors. Except when succubus mayors and Slim Jims are involved.

"Well, I never claimed to be a good public speaker," Dean says with a shrug, turning around to face Sam. Becks, Rose, and Mora are standing there too, hard-faced and supportive. His little rag-tag team of college girls; the hordes of Heaven ought to be trembling.

Castiel places a hand discreetly on the small of his back. "It was enough. It was more than enough. Thank you, Dean."

He leans back into Castiel's touch and ignores Sam's pointed look. There's nothing to see here, nothing to make a fuss over. He's just boning the coolest angel in all existence, that's all.

"Not to bring the party down," Mora says, eyes flashing black just once. It must be some kind of unconscious thing. Usually the black eyes come out when demons want you to know what they are. It's a fashion statement. But Mora doesn't seem to notice. "But do we even have a plan? You just asked a garrison of angels to rebel against Heaven and bring down the insider who killed Jesus. Except you didn't actually name anyone, so we're all going into this blind."

"Yeah, Patton," Gabriel drawls, throwing a jovial arm around Dean's shoulders. Castiel takes his hand away, stepping back, and that just isn't on. But Gabriel won't let go of him, clinging like a limpet, or a drunk asshole. "So, fearless leader, what's the sitch?"

Bobby takes the opportunity to push past a couple of angels and stalk over to Gabriel, his face red with anger. Dean's pretty sure the beard cache of weapons is going to come into play any second. "What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't house two-hundred of your people! This place ain't hardly big enough for these three."

Castiel blinks, but looks pleased at being included.

"This is the thanks that I get for handing you an entire garrison on a silver platter? What do you want from me? If they leave, they'll be slaughtered. You've got some good wards here. We're safe for the time being." Gabriel shrugs, then gestures out at the angels all milling about. "Besides, I like the kitschy feel. It's got a very 'my wife left me and took my truck and my dog' atmosphere about it. It's a good place for my boys and girls to learn all about the beauty of Humanity." Gabriel grins and Bobby looks like he's going to take a handful of Gabriel's hair and use it as leverage when he slams that weasely face into the floor.

Dean sighs. "Look, I didn't have a specific plan in mind. All I know is, your boy Metatron is behind it."

The room explodes in a maelstrom of shouting and pointed fingers that shows no signs of stopping. Which is fine. He can wait. Not like there's a war coming or anything. Oh, wait.

"That is a false accusation!" An angel wearing the face of a thirteen-year old snarls, eyes darkening in rage and offense. "I should kill you where you stand for even insinuating that the Voice would ever --"

"Rope it in, Charoum!" Gabriel shouts, and the other angel falls silent. "All of you shut the fuck up! Listen to the guy for a second!"

Dean shoots Gabriel a look that hopefully conveys gratitude. "I don't know why we didn't see it sooner; no one who smiles that much can ever be trusted. Don't you people watch movies? It's always the unassuming, happy ones."

Castiel stares at him and Dean hopes that devastated glint in his eye is because he once again fails to understand Dean's references. It's been one hell of a week for Castiel, and the losses keep on coming. He can't imagine what it's like to lose faith and trust in someone like the Metatron, especially considering that he hasn't voted in an election ever, and he isn't quite sure who the current president is. It's never factored into his life, so there was no reason to keep track of it. The president is a distant figure, hardly anything like what the Metatron represents. It doesn't get any higher than the Voice of God. It's not a position that one takes in hopes of progression.

And since God stopped speaking a while ago, it seems like the Metatron got bored and a little power-hungry. But that's hardly a reason for killing the Savior of Mankind, or for declaring a war on Hell. Or, fuck, for trying to kill the prophesied Righteous Man.

"Okay, so, we want to bring him down." Sam says, echoing Dean's earlier words.

Dean shrugs. "I guess? Seems like the thing to do."

Bobby looks at him incredulously. "It does."

"Tell you what!" Gabriel announces brightly, removing his arm from Dean and tossing it around Bobby's shoulders. "Let's have an arts and crafts night! I bet you've always wondered how angel armor is made. We can have a competition to see who can make the best. Winner gets... my undying love and devotion, I guess."

Sam stares. "We are so fucked."

"Fuck you, General MacArthur." Gabriel sniffs. "I think it's a great idea. It'll keep the kiddies busy while we come up with a plan of action. We have, after all, about a day and a half before the big dance number."

Rose clears her throat and raises her hand, like she's in school. "Do we have the materials to make angel armor? I mean, not that I know what you guys wear, but I doubt it's anything that could be found around here." She glances at Bobby and her eyes go wide. "No offense. I meant, uh, on the planet."

Gabriel only grins. "You let me worry about that. And Bobby? Pull out all the macaroni and paper plates you got -- we're gonna make art."


There are two-hundred soldiers of fucking God sitting in various states of repose in Bobby's house, lining the walls, sitting on the floor, on the stairs, in the halls, all making chest plates out of "stars and unicorn spooge and faerie dust", or whatever Gabriel had said. In the center of the living room, surrounded by angels, Becks is explaining the benefits of a double stitch over a cross-stitch, because she used to be a theater major with a concentration in Costume Design and she picked up a few things. One of the angels asks her a question, but from where Dean's standing in the doorway he can't hear it.

The kitchen's pretty free, one or two angels leaning up against the counters and trying to shape something out of what looks like steel. Their vessels' faces are scrunched in concentration as they try to navigate their stuff with fingers that don't belong to them.

Castiel is seated at the kitchen table, silently gluing macaroni to paper plates as Gabriel makes a noodle face out of his, babbling on about how Neanderthals really are a subset of Homo sapiens, and didn't die out, but rather bred with modern day humans to the point that they went extinct and their skeleton variations were lost as modern humans dominated.

Castiel doesn't sound or look very interested, and Dean has the brilliant idea to take him by the tie, lead him upstairs and into his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind them. That's about a million times better than fucking arts and crafts, and he's about to make the argument for it when Sam waves at him from the back door, lifting a beer in invitation. Bobby's already out there, sitting on the back steps.

"Dude! Do you want to get us all killed? Get the fuck back inside!"

Sam only grins. "Dean, what do you take us for? The wards were extended. We just needed some air."

Sighing, he makes his way across the kitchen, nodding at the two angels as they look up from whatever it is they're doing to bow their heads at him, and stops at the table. He peers over Castiel's shoulder to see the masterpiece, which turns out to be some kind of symbol. Made out of rigatoni. Go team.

Gabriel's is of boobs, not a face. Classy. The proud grin on Gabriel's face says he agrees wholeheartedly. "I'm gonna stick it on the fridge when I'm finished."

Rolling his eyes, Dean runs his fingers across the sweep of Castiel's shoulders as he walks out the door, grinning in victory at the shudder he drags out of Castiel. He really can't wait to go again. If handjobs were that hot, then the real thing might kill him. And sleeping with someone who's so intense that if he's not wearing some kind of protection -- Kevlar, maybe -- then he might not see daylight? That's exciting.

Cool air hits him the second he walks outside, rolling like sweet relief across his cheeks. He hadn't realized how hot it was in there, how much body heat was being generated. Bound to happen, especially with two-hundred angels crammed in there together, not to mention all the hot air that Gabriel puts out on a nearly constant basis. He closes his eyes and sighs, all the tension dropping out of his shoulders to ride the night breeze across Bobby's backyard.

Sam uncaps a beer and hands it to him, clinking the necks of the bottles together out of habit before taking a swig. Dean follows suit and rolls it around in his mouth, liquid gold washing over his tongue, bitter and rich. He doesn't recognize the brand, but it's some decent stuff.

"So, anyone else feel like we're going to our deaths?"

Dean snorts. "You mean besides every day of our lives?"

He gets a grunt from Bobby for that.

They sit in companionable silence, sipping their beers and looking up at the sky. Out here, pushed away enough from civilization, there are so many more stars in the sky. In places, the stars are in thick streams, like rivers, and he has to remember that every single one of those things is a whole star, bigger than the sun, bigger than anything, except for the Apocalypse going down on a tiny, insignificant planet.

There must be other planets out there. Sam loves to show him NASA's daily photo, usually of a galaxy or some funky thing out there in space that's too far away to really care about. If it's just them, just the blue-green speck called Earth, then what was the point in making the rest of it? There has to be other planets out there, maybe even with life. If there's life out there, do the angels know about it? Or are there a different set of beings responsible for it? Are they at war?

A guy could go nuts from all of it.

"Is this how you pictured the end of the world?" Dean asks against the mouth of his beer, tilting his head to look at Bobby and Sam.

From his place on the first porch stair, Bobby shrugs and takes a swig. "Not really. For one, I thought there'd be less macaroni art."

Sam laughs and Dean grins, and for a moment it's just like old times. Shooting the shit between hunts, talking and drinking, recounting old tales and personal exploits. Some of the stuff Bobby and Dad got up to. It's home.

"Nothin's ever cut and dry," Bobby says with a sigh. "But the war between Heaven and Hell… I'd always assumed that if I lived to see the end of days, it would be. Black and white, good against evil. I'll admit to being surprised that the Metatron's… not playing for the home team, so to speak. Just wish we knew why."

Dean runs his tongue along the glass, catching the faint sheen of perspiration and licking it up, eyes still on the sky. He feels so small out here. There are angels inside making armor and weapons, gearing up for the most convoluted fight in the history of history, and he's staring like a turkey at the sky, feeling tiny and sorry for himself.

"So here we are," Sam murmurs, following Dean's gaze. "At the end of the world."

"Hard to believe." Dean tilts the bottle to catch the last dregs of his beer, then wings the empty bottle out into the darkness. It shatters somewhere, an explosion of sound, familiar from years of Dean being thrown through windows. "Fuck. What am I even doing?"

"You're doin' what's right, idgit," Bobby snaps, face hard in the dim starlight. "Jesus Christ was murdered because Heaven's corrupt as Hell, and you're doing what ought to be done. What no other angel would've done."

He wishes he hadn't thrown the bottle. At least he would've had something to do with his hands. "Raguel would have."

Sam jumps in, "Well, considering that he's been MIA for a long time, I wouldn't bet on it. Or on Gabriel, or on anyone else. Cas's the only one who did anything -- you said so yourself. It took a mud-monkey to step up to the plate."

"I shouldn't have to." He really shouldn't have thrown that bottle. "It shouldn't be my problem."

"But it is. It's all yours now, Dean." Sam shrugs. "Hey, could be worse. We could be hunting your run-of-the-mill werewolf every month. At least this isn't boring."

"Yeah, that's my cue to go back inside. Do you even hear yourself when you speak, Sam?" He closes the door on Sam's laughter, his heart lighter than it had been when he first stepped outside. Raguel's name, bled into the walls, seems to flare when he walks back inside, washing over him in welcome. Nifty.

The kitchen table holds only one occupant now, and Gabriel doesn't even look up at Dean from where he's painstakingly placing elbow macaroni into a tessellation on the back of a paper plate. Dean really wants to kick the leg of the table as hard as he can.

"Don't even think about it," Gabriel sings, head bent over his project. "I'll cut off your feet."

"Well, that's gonna make things awkward."

"We'll get you a nice wheelchair, and you can roll into battle." Gabriel shoves his hand into a Barilla pasta box and comes out with a handful of fusilli, dropping it into a pile. He takes one and sticks it to the outside rim of the plate. "You know, I get why they have crazy people do this in therapy. I haven't been this relaxed since… Probably the fortieth time I killed you. The falling desk was genius, if I do say so myself."

Oh yeah, good times.

Gabriel glances up at him and rolls his eyes before going back to his project. "Don't even give me that look. You don't remember a thing."

"But Sam does." There are times when Dean plugs in an electric razor, and Sam gets this look of bone-chilling fear that sets Dean's teeth on edge. "So, what happened with the Leviathan?"

Gabriel snorts, but his shoulders go stiff. "The weapon used to specifically kill the Leviathan had no effect. Not that we had any reason to kill it, since the only thing it was doing was making waves. Some surfers off of Revere Beach were probably happy, though." A piece of fusilli breaks between his fingers and he reaches for another one. "Bobby started chanting something -- I can't even remember what -- but it stripped the thing of the illusion, and suddenly two-hundred angels were fighting a kelp bed and some sparrows. A trick."

"Wow, bet that stung."

"There was a certain poetic justice to it," Gabriel agrees, "but my tricks always had a point, a lesson. Oh, sure, they're funny as hell, but I've got my reasons. This? This had all of Heaven's power behind it, leading us all on this futile chase. I received word that War had been sighted, but no trace of him could be found, and then Sam told me about your brilliant theory… So, we packed it in and came back here, because once the word got out that we were onto Heaven's little game? It'd be curtains."

Gabriel hunches in on himself, folding up until his shoulders brush his ears, and he looks like a little kid whose mother left him at a sitter's and never came back. "Heaven was never perfect, but it wasn't… it was never this corrupt, subversive thing. When Jesus was around -- man, you would've gotten the biggest kick out of him. He was the funniest soul I'd ever come across, and I'm including myself so you know the guy was a laugh riot. The jokes he knew were epic -- some literally, and they'd take an eternity to tell but you'd be in stitches the entire time, and when he finally would get to the punch line you'd near die of laughter."

Dean purses his lips and thinks of Castiel, who'd considered Jesus to be his one and only friend. "You were close to him?"

"Nah, not as much as your little angel lost. Jesus was always talking about Castiel, how curious he was, how fascinated by everything he was. The littlest angel with the largest capacity for… everything. And Castiel, from what I remember, used to follow him around like a puppy, always ready to perform a new trick or fetch something for him. Sometimes, they'd sit at the edge of the world and just watch. You gotta feel for him, you know, losing so much in such a short time. And picking up emotion along the way? I'm surprised he hasn't cracked and started eating the furniture." Gabriel looks up again, shoulders relaxing, and a large smile breaks out across his face. "Well, he's got you, I guess. Not really a fair trade-off, if you ask me, but to each his own and all that."

"And we'd been so close to having a moment, too," Dean simpers, reaching out and flicking the pile of elbows, scattering them all over the table.

Gabriel groans in annoyance. "Wow, dick move."

"Where'd he go?"

"Upstairs, to bed. Widdle baby was sweepy." Gabriel flashes him a grin of pure, adulterated sin. "Bet he loves your wake up calls, though."

Gross. "Hey, nice chat, Gabe. Let's not ever do it again."

He passes the same two angels from before on his way out, nodding to them as he goes, but he stops in the doorway, curiosity taking its hold. He turns.

"Gabriel?"

"Mm?"

"What's God like?"

Gabriel looks up from his macaroni, confused, brows curved up in uncertainty. "I don't know. Never met Him."

Oh, because that makes sense. "But you're an archangel. Isn't your shtick that you stand before God?"

"No one's ever seen or spoken to God. No one except the Metatron and Raguel. Even the archangels don't have that honor. I could have passed Him a million times on the street and never recognized Him."

Dean stares. "Then how do you know your orders are legit?"

Gabriel holds his gaze for a long moment, his beady eyes dark and solemn, before he looks away, back to his macaroni. "Faith."

"Wow. And look where it got you."

He leaves Gabriel there alone at the kitchen table, macaroni the only thing to keep him company. Let him sit on it, think about how Castiel had been in the same position not too long ago, doubting and fearing that doubt, reevaluating his faith.

Let him be a little bit human for a while.



There is a carnival. A ferris wheel. Popcorn on the ground. Laughter and the bells of music.

The Ferris wheel looms over every ride in all creation, lit up against the sky, slowly turning to a predetermined rhythm. The cars hanging from it sway as they travel around, colored blue and green and yellow and red.

He doesn't want to go up, but he has to.

The man from before is in the operator's booth, pointing up to the top of the ride. It's up there!

Dean waits in the short line, because no one believes in the Ferris wheel anymore, and it isn't long before he's getting into a car, a blue one. The ride starts, slow and impersonal. He grips the plastic seat.

It breaks the pinnacle, and there's a flash of white in between a spoke and the drive rim. There it is!

As he nears it, he gets as close to the edge as he can and reaches out, just missing it, sliding past it for another go-round. At the bottom, the operator smiles and waves as he goes by.

He misses it the second time.

If you're afraid of the edge, then you'll never get it. The operator waves at him again.

The car reaches the top and he steels himself, sticking one leg out of the car to give him some more distance. His heart pounds and he's terribly scared, but everything depends on him grabbing it before the ride is over and someone else does.

Holding onto the car, he reaches out again, stretching as far as he can, and closes the tips of his forefinger and middle finger around a white edge, snatching it as the ride bumbles on.

He falls back into the car. He has it.

He turns it over.

It's a list of names.

His name is at the bottom, after Jesus Christ's. His is the last on the list.

The ride stops and the operator is waiting for him.

Do you understand now?

Do you understand, Dean?

Next

Comments

[laura-trekkie.livejournal.com]

I'm just trying to picture Bobby's house filled with 202 angels, a handful of humans and one demon. Where has he put them all? And still Dean's room is empty (except for Cas *g*)!

I shall be interested to see how the macaroni art becomes armour! Surreal o.O

Some lovely character moments- Dean's speach and his defense of Cas; Dean, Sam and Bobby having a moment alone like it used to be; Dean and Gabriel managing a mostly civil conversation.

And once again, Dean's weird dream is there to finish things off. What's with the list? What does it mean that Dean's is right next to Jesus'?

Laura.

[cotymundi.livejournal.com]

Hmmm. I'm getting that it's a hitlist and that Dean is obviously next. Fits with what has happened so far. I love the way you describe the dreams and I love that this one is set in a funfair. It's very atmospheric and reminds me of "Something Wicked this Way Comes", one of my most favourite books. I'm so happy that you wrote the stuff where Dean publicly defends Cas, because so much fic I read has him embarrassed about him and why the hell would he be? Dean seems to have discovered that integrity is the biggest turn-on and that's about right. I don't know why, but I love all this Cas sleeping as well; it's not about the nookie, I think it's more of a vicarious wish to tuck him up with his teddy and sing lullabies (well, I'm probably a bit twisted). It looks like you've got all bases covered. Question: is Dean's assumption that the evil perpetrator is the Metatron just process of elimination/default, or does he have solid evidence? Hunch? Couldn't still be Raguel, one assumes, because then the wards wouldn't work? JC can't have done a John Stonehouse?

[quenderra.livejournal.com]

GAH! Cliffhangar! I need to be getting to bed. ... maybe one more chapter.

[aceofannwn.livejournal.com]

*cackles with glee*

[destielfan06.livejournal.com]

Like I said In My Last 2 Comments
The Build Up is the Best part of This Fic It really Is.
On to my favorite Part of the Fic!!!!!! !
And The Image of Bobby's Place being filled to the Brim with Angels,A Demon and Three College girls one of which is a angel who chose to stay on earth.
Love it So Much<3

[kellyanne77.livejournal.com]

I literally yelled with triumph and flung my arms up in the airn with victory when Dean named that snake Megatron as the douche behind it all!

And, no I don't understand, other than it seems that Dean's name is next on a hit list :(

[kellyanne77.livejournal.com]

*Metatron. Fuck. Lol. I must have been unconsciously channeling Sam.