black_sluggard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
black_sluggard) wrote2012-06-27 03:48 am
black_sluggard) wrote2012-06-27 03:48 am
Entry tags:
(Fic) Fools Rush In—Chapter Three
Title: Fools Rush In
Series: Quis Custodiet
Fandom: Castle, Supernatural (no canon knowledge necessary).
Genre: Angst, Mystery, Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cliffhanger.
Details: Slash, genre!crack, crossover, case!fic, AU, blasphemy, mythology abuse, spoilers.
Characters/Pairings: Castle―pre-Kevin Ryan/Javier Esposito, mentions of Kevin/Jenny and Javier/Lanie. Kate Beckett, Richard Castle. Supernatural―Bobby Singer, Claire Novak, Amelia Novak, mentions of others.
Wordcount: 2,986
Summary: When Javier Esposito went missing and the body of an unidentified woman was found in his apartment, Detective Kevin Ryan refused to believe the worst of his partner. Now, with the case threatening to go cold, he has embarked on his own investigation, determined to uncover the truth.
Notes: Early season 4 for Castle, and AU for season 6 of Supernatural, so spoilers up to there. Part of the "Quis Custodiet" AU crossover 'verse. Takes place a couple months after "'Aloha' Doesn't Mean 'Goodbye'" (SupernaturalxHawaii Five-0), but stands alone. In fact, I think this story is much better if read first.
Written for the July Ficathon on
ryanandesposito.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Epilogue
Chapter Three
When Claire called him late the next morning, she managed to give Kevin not one phone number, but three.
Two were dead ends, belonging to a pair of disposable cells whose contract, registered under the name Malachai Constant, had long since lapsed. The third was an unlisted land-line. It took him half a day, but he was eventually able to find an address—though only with the help of local PD, with whom he was somewhat less than honest.
The address belonged to a man named Robert Singer.
Kevin's debate with himself was hard-fought, but it was also short-lived. The drive from Chicago to South Dakota would have taken at least ten hours, which was easily ten hours more than Kevin thought he could stand to wait. The flight he booked to Sioux Falls, on the other hand, would cut his travel time to almost nothing, though it—like his last flight, his hotel, the rental car, and the second rental car he would need when he got there—meant dipping even further into his and Jenny's wedding funds. Kevin consoled himself with the fact that he could apologize to his fiance later.
Time was a luxury Javier might not have.
Singer ran a scrapyard way out in the sticks. As it came into view, Kevin briefly considered that coming alone might have been a mistake. The place was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, and towering stacks of junked cars completely obscured it from the road. It looked like something out of an old slasher movie, the kind of place bad things happened that nobody heard about, and broken-down newlyweds disappeared, never to be seen again. Truth be told, Javier probably would have kicked his ass if he even joked about going into a place like that without back up.
As he pulled slowly up the drive, Kevin promised himself that, once he got his partner back, Javier would be more than welcome to do just that.
He was nervous as he made his way up the steps. The peeling pain and trespassing signs only served to support the earlier B-movie vibe, but even without freaking himself out Kevin was painfully aware of how easily the encounter could turn hostile. He hadn't contacted Singer to tell him he was coming, of course—if the man was involved, the last thing Kevin wanted was to tip him off. The cursory look he'd given Singer's record before leaving Chicago listed a number of bizarre encounters with law enforcement. Encounters that, in light of the strange lead he was chasing, had set off all the wrong kind of alarm bells in his head. If Javier's disappearance really was linked to cult activity, there was no telling who else or how many might be involved. Better to try and catch Singer off guard with a few early questions, before he had a chance to contact any accomplices. Kevin could decide how to proceed from there.
Of course, the scrapyard was large enough, and well enough concealed that there really was no guarantee the older man was actually alone out here. Singer could have been sitting on some sort of crazy underground bunker, and no one would ever be the wiser.
The man who answered Kevin's cautious knock was in his late fifties or early sixties, heavy-set and solid, with a short, grizzled beard. With his flannels and stained jeans, the man wouldn't have looked out of place at any truck stop, garage or dive Kevin had ever seen. Still, there was a sharpness to his eyes which Kevin noticed almost instantly that would have set him apart almost anywhere. Those same eyes gave Kevin an appraising once-over that left him feeling like he'd already given too much away. At the very least, from the path of the man's gaze, he was aware that Kevin was armed.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Singer. I'm Detective Kevin Ryan," he said, showing his badge very quickly as he made the introduction, "I was hoping to ask you a few questions about a Missing Persons case I'm working on."
Though he had no authority out here, it wasn't precisely a lie. Kevin wasn't sure why, but that felt important. Still, though his eyes narrowed with suspicion, the man seemed rather unimpressed.
"You think I wouldn't notice that badge was NYPD?" Singer asked testily, "You're way the hell out of your jurisdiction, and we're done talkin'."
The foot Kevin shoved through the closing door probably wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made. For one, it was incredibly painful, and its presence in the doorway didn't exactly convince Singer to change his mind. Gritting his teeth as the door threatened to crush his foot, Kevin's mind grasped desperately for some other means to grab Singer's attention.
"Castiel," Kevin bit out.
And Singer did let up on the door, though his stare had turned hard and wary. The name had apparently done its job, and for better or worse Kevin had the man's attention. Taking another breath, Kevin took the chance he was given and forward.
"I'm trying to find Castiel," Kevin clarified, watching Singer's reaction carefully. "I think he might know something about my partner's disappearance. I need to find him."
And because he was watching so carefully, Kevin managed to see something that almost looked like pity briefly cross Singer's face. Looking him over a second time, the man let out a huff of breath before taking a step back from the door. It seemed like an odd sort of invitation, and Kevin let himself take it, following the man inside.
The interior of the house was as shabby and cluttered the outside, though there was a good deal more must than rust. Even in the entryway, books were stacked upon every available surface, overflowing into free-standing piles against the wall. The air smelled heavily of mildew and dust, smoke and herbs, and engine grease. Worth noting were the shotgun tucked quietly into an umbrella stand, and a bright-bladed knife shining dangerously from amongst the clutter on a small table. Yet it was neither of these with which Kevin found himself being confronted, as he was brought up short when Mr. Singer held out a small metal flask.
"Drink." Singer commanded firmly.
Touched with a stab of apprehension, Kevin eyed it warily.
"Look, I can't—"
"Don't try to bullshit me," Singer interrupted testily. "You ain't exactly on duty. Drink, or we don't talk."
Abandoning his protest, Kevin accepted the flask, taking a hesitant swallow. He was surprised when he tasted only water. Singer watched him closely, and after a few seconds slid past he took back the flask with a nod, seeming satisfied.
"Come with me."
Kevin followed Singer into a crowded, poorly lit study. In most places the peeling wallpaper was barely visible, obscured by shelves of books or maps or faded clippings. A moth-eaten brown couch sagged beneath a grimy bay window, and a large, battered desk sat before the empty fireplace. As Kevin's visual search cataloged the room, his eyes were drawn to the ceiling, and he found himself staring wide-eyed at the sight which greeted him. Dark, sharp lines inscribed on the aged plaster, running in intricate patterns to form a large circle. At least ten feet wide, it was interwoven with strange symbols and glyphs and it looked—
It really, really looked like something out of a freaking horror movie.
His uneasy reaction drew a faint snort out of the older man, pulling Kevin's attention back. Singer swung a chair away from a roll-top desk near the doorway, shoving it in front of the larger one. Shaking off his surprise, Kevin interpreted his nod as instruction and took the seat. Singer took a chair on the opposite side of the desk, somehow managing not to disturb any of the items arranged precariously on its surface.
"Now just what got you pointed my way?" Singer asked, cutting straight to the chase.
Kevin was quickly coming to realize that might just be the best way of dealing with the man overall.
"I got your number from Amelia Novak," Kevin began, "I used that to track you down."
Singer let out a grunt which sounded half-skeptical, but mostly just annoyed.
"And she just gave it to you?" Singer asked, plainly finding the notion unlikely.
"Her daughter gave it to me," Kevin admitted unhappily, "I know it wasn't the best move, but I was desperate."
Singer frowned, turning the fact over as though on its own it were something significant. Looking back on the encounter, Kevin felt it was entirely possible. Claire's whole manner during their interaction had felt strangely off. It was more than likely that Mr. Singer knew things about the girl and her family that Kevin did not. After a long moment of consideration, Singer looked at him again. And while his manner was still palpably guarded and calculating, it was somehow more inviting. Whatever decision Singer had been weighing in his mind since opening the door, Kevin felt for sure he had made it.
"Alright," he said, "Tell me about your missing friend."
As Kevin recounted the details surrounding Javier's disappearance, Singer took it in with ease, and Kevin couldn't shake an odd feeling of recognition. The man seemed to have little difficulty sorting the kind of information he was being given, a facility with handling evidence that was clearly practiced. Whatever else Singer was, it was painfully obvious that the mind collating the facts belonged to a detective.
It was when Kevin mentioned James Novak, and the fingerprints found at the scene that Singer began to pay particular attention, and the description of the body and the strange burns seemed to cement his interest. And when Kevin passed him a photograph of his partner—desperately, hopefully—his heart clenched as he noted Singer's darkening frown. The older man shook his head faintly as he placed the photograph on the table, reaching down to open a drawer in the desk beside him. He drew out a pair of short drinking glasses and a bottle of bourbon, blowing the dust out of both before he screwed off the cap to pour. Singer took a short swallow before he reached over to tap the photograph with his finger.
"I do know Castiel," Singer told him slowly, "and I've had a few of his Brothers pass through. I've seen your friend, and I can tell you what he's been up to, but you're not going to like it."
And just hearing it—that Javier was alive—was nearly enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs completely. With that thought echoing through his brain, it was difficult to even begin to think of anything else. It took Kevin a few tries to find the words to confirm it.
"He's alive? God is he— Is he okay?"
Singer didn't answer right away, thinking over his words as he moved the other glass in front of Kevin silently.
"Right now, I assume you're under the impression you're dealin' with some kind of evangelical cult," Singer ventured carefully, "Religious crazies that kidnapped your partner and left an awful mess behind when they did. Am I right?"
Though it was hardly a question, Kevin did manage a slight nod to confirm it was what he had come to believe—one which the older man met with unsurprised resignation.
"Well I want you to try and get that thought out of your head," Singer said, looking him in the eye. "I know you had to have broken a lot of rules to get this far, and something tells me you don't care if it'll help you find your partner. I respect that, so I'm going to give you the truth, and you can do with it whatever you will."
He punctuated the statement with a drink that drained the rest of his glass, tilting the bottle to refill it. He looked Kevin over once again.
"What do you know about angels?" Singer asked.
The question didn't surprise Kevin, even with its overwhelming seriousness. His conversation with Claire had prepared him, at the very least, to deal with people who took the topic very seriously indeed. But the fact was that he still had little to no information on the subject that was even close to useful. With Singer, Kevin thought it might just be best to admit that he was out of his depth.
"You mean like harps and halos?" Kevin asked, his flippancy a little nervous as he reached for the glass in front of him. "For surviving twelve years of Catholic school, apparently not much."
Singer's amused snort wasn't without sympathy.
"Well take whatever Hallmark card ideas you might have and throw 'em out." Singer said pointedly, in a tone that allowed no argument. "Angels—real angels—are insanely powerful, hard-assed warriors of God. And most of 'em don't hold a very high opinion of humans."
"There are exceptions," Singer amended after another swallow, "Castiel is one of them, and right now he and his Brothers are engaged in something of a civil war."
He paused, searching Kevin's face as though waiting for him to object. As long as Singer was talking, Kevin saw no reason to, though he felt under the circumstances some interaction might provide further encouragement.
"You're talking about the Apocalypse," Kevin observed, not going so far as to ascribe to Singer's beliefs, but feeling secure in his interpretation of them. He was surprised when the man shook his head.
"No, though that was the original idea," Singer told him. "Heaven and Hell had been gearing up for centuries for the final confrontation between Lucifer and the Archangel Michael, winner take all, and afterward it would have been Hell or Heaven on Earth. The angels were pretty confident they'd come out on top, but whichever way it went, the fight itself would have been be a disaster for the human race."
"No," said Singer softly, shaking his head as if even he had difficulty believing it, "The real problem is that all of that was supposed to have gone down over a year ago."
And Kevin couldn't hold back a short laugh at the idea. Singer didn't seem phased by his skepticism, however, so Kevin felt little need to disguise it.
"You're saying the world was supposed to end, only it didn't?" Kevin asked. "How?"
"Well I could tell you that long-ass story," Singer offered irritably, though he seemed less offended than merely annoyed, "Or I could skip it in favor of the part that concerns your friend. Which is it?"
Aware of how desperately everything hinged on the information Singer had to offer, Kevin fell silent, abandoning his brief digression a faint nod.
"Anyway," Singer continued, "Some of the angels were content that the resolution—or lack of—was the will of God, but there were others that felt things ought to have stuck to His original Plan. And the leader of those angels, Raphael, has been running a campaign to try and restart the doomsday clock toward our destruction, while Castiel is fighting to stop that from happening. But Raphael is older and stronger, and he's got more of Heaven and its Host on his side."
As Singer spoke, Kevin listened carefully, trying to understand. It was hard for him to do so without his rational mind attempting to write it off as insanity or the product of drink. While the latter was certainly possible, it all felt too coherent for that explanation to be likely. Kevin was hesitant to simply label him as crazy. Yet for all his indifference to Kevin's opinion, it was obvious that Singer's story was something he truly believed. There was a growing sense that his investigation had stumbled on a very bizarre new world. A comprehension of those who inhabited it and their mythology could prove crucial to finding his partner. Kevin tried to hold himself to that reasoning, and keep his disbelief respectfully silent...
Though his attempts to reason out how Javier fit into all this yielded only helpless confusion and despair.
"Cas needed help." Singer continued, the odd, familiar diminutive—for an angel, of all things—further cementing Kevin's difficulty categorizing this as some sort of religious mania.
"Now, according to him—and there's material in Enoch to support it, though he'd tell you it's an imperfect human account of events—millenia ago, God sent a group of angels to Earth called the Irin, or Watchers. God chose them because they were among his strongest soldiers, and because they loved humanity as He did, and He charged them with keeping an eye on us.
"Only some of them got a little too close," Singer said, with a definite, if odd, note of humor, "Some taught humans secrets our primitive little selves weren't supposed to know. Others took human wives, and a few of those wives bore children called nephilim.
"The way Cas tells it, the nephilim had human souls, but they also carried their fathers' connection to Heaven, and the combination made them dangerous. Supposedly, a single nephilim could defeat the entire host of Heaven with a thought, and there was fear that if they banded together, they might managed to challenge God himself. So while these nephilim were still infants, God sent the Flood to destroy them and the civilizations the angels had influenced. And as punishment, the Irin had their grace—their connection to Heaven—taken from them. They were exiled to Earth, scattered across history to be reborn in human form."
Singer paused, eyes searching Kevin's face for a moment, gauging his reaction, possibly deciding whether or not to go on. There was a painful sympathy in that gaze—or perhaps pity—and even without understanding why, seeing it left Kevin chilled.
"For the past four months," Singer continued quietly, almost softly, "Cas has been hunting down as many of the fallen Irin as he can, restoring their grace and recruiting them to his cause."
The older man finished his drink, looking down at the photograph once again.
"Now I don't expect you to believe me, so there's not a lot more I can give you...except a name."
He slid the photograph back across the table, tapping it one more time, and while Kevin could smell the alcohol on Singer's breath, the man's eyes were clear, and sane, and very, very sober.
"When I met your friend," Singer told him, "he was calling himself Chazaqiel."
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Epilogue
Series: Quis Custodiet
Fandom: Castle, Supernatural (no canon knowledge necessary).
Genre: Angst, Mystery, Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cliffhanger.
Details: Slash, genre!crack, crossover, case!fic, AU, blasphemy, mythology abuse, spoilers.
Characters/Pairings: Castle―pre-Kevin Ryan/Javier Esposito, mentions of Kevin/Jenny and Javier/Lanie. Kate Beckett, Richard Castle. Supernatural―Bobby Singer, Claire Novak, Amelia Novak, mentions of others.
Wordcount: 2,986
Summary: When Javier Esposito went missing and the body of an unidentified woman was found in his apartment, Detective Kevin Ryan refused to believe the worst of his partner. Now, with the case threatening to go cold, he has embarked on his own investigation, determined to uncover the truth.
Notes: Early season 4 for Castle, and AU for season 6 of Supernatural, so spoilers up to there. Part of the "Quis Custodiet" AU crossover 'verse. Takes place a couple months after "'Aloha' Doesn't Mean 'Goodbye'" (SupernaturalxHawaii Five-0), but stands alone. In fact, I think this story is much better if read first.
Written for the July Ficathon on
ryanandesposito.Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Epilogue
Chapter Three
When Claire called him late the next morning, she managed to give Kevin not one phone number, but three.
Two were dead ends, belonging to a pair of disposable cells whose contract, registered under the name Malachai Constant, had long since lapsed. The third was an unlisted land-line. It took him half a day, but he was eventually able to find an address—though only with the help of local PD, with whom he was somewhat less than honest.
The address belonged to a man named Robert Singer.
Kevin's debate with himself was hard-fought, but it was also short-lived. The drive from Chicago to South Dakota would have taken at least ten hours, which was easily ten hours more than Kevin thought he could stand to wait. The flight he booked to Sioux Falls, on the other hand, would cut his travel time to almost nothing, though it—like his last flight, his hotel, the rental car, and the second rental car he would need when he got there—meant dipping even further into his and Jenny's wedding funds. Kevin consoled himself with the fact that he could apologize to his fiance later.
Time was a luxury Javier might not have.
Singer ran a scrapyard way out in the sticks. As it came into view, Kevin briefly considered that coming alone might have been a mistake. The place was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, and towering stacks of junked cars completely obscured it from the road. It looked like something out of an old slasher movie, the kind of place bad things happened that nobody heard about, and broken-down newlyweds disappeared, never to be seen again. Truth be told, Javier probably would have kicked his ass if he even joked about going into a place like that without back up.
As he pulled slowly up the drive, Kevin promised himself that, once he got his partner back, Javier would be more than welcome to do just that.
He was nervous as he made his way up the steps. The peeling pain and trespassing signs only served to support the earlier B-movie vibe, but even without freaking himself out Kevin was painfully aware of how easily the encounter could turn hostile. He hadn't contacted Singer to tell him he was coming, of course—if the man was involved, the last thing Kevin wanted was to tip him off. The cursory look he'd given Singer's record before leaving Chicago listed a number of bizarre encounters with law enforcement. Encounters that, in light of the strange lead he was chasing, had set off all the wrong kind of alarm bells in his head. If Javier's disappearance really was linked to cult activity, there was no telling who else or how many might be involved. Better to try and catch Singer off guard with a few early questions, before he had a chance to contact any accomplices. Kevin could decide how to proceed from there.
Of course, the scrapyard was large enough, and well enough concealed that there really was no guarantee the older man was actually alone out here. Singer could have been sitting on some sort of crazy underground bunker, and no one would ever be the wiser.
The man who answered Kevin's cautious knock was in his late fifties or early sixties, heavy-set and solid, with a short, grizzled beard. With his flannels and stained jeans, the man wouldn't have looked out of place at any truck stop, garage or dive Kevin had ever seen. Still, there was a sharpness to his eyes which Kevin noticed almost instantly that would have set him apart almost anywhere. Those same eyes gave Kevin an appraising once-over that left him feeling like he'd already given too much away. At the very least, from the path of the man's gaze, he was aware that Kevin was armed.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Singer. I'm Detective Kevin Ryan," he said, showing his badge very quickly as he made the introduction, "I was hoping to ask you a few questions about a Missing Persons case I'm working on."
Though he had no authority out here, it wasn't precisely a lie. Kevin wasn't sure why, but that felt important. Still, though his eyes narrowed with suspicion, the man seemed rather unimpressed.
"You think I wouldn't notice that badge was NYPD?" Singer asked testily, "You're way the hell out of your jurisdiction, and we're done talkin'."
The foot Kevin shoved through the closing door probably wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made. For one, it was incredibly painful, and its presence in the doorway didn't exactly convince Singer to change his mind. Gritting his teeth as the door threatened to crush his foot, Kevin's mind grasped desperately for some other means to grab Singer's attention.
"Castiel," Kevin bit out.
And Singer did let up on the door, though his stare had turned hard and wary. The name had apparently done its job, and for better or worse Kevin had the man's attention. Taking another breath, Kevin took the chance he was given and forward.
"I'm trying to find Castiel," Kevin clarified, watching Singer's reaction carefully. "I think he might know something about my partner's disappearance. I need to find him."
And because he was watching so carefully, Kevin managed to see something that almost looked like pity briefly cross Singer's face. Looking him over a second time, the man let out a huff of breath before taking a step back from the door. It seemed like an odd sort of invitation, and Kevin let himself take it, following the man inside.
The interior of the house was as shabby and cluttered the outside, though there was a good deal more must than rust. Even in the entryway, books were stacked upon every available surface, overflowing into free-standing piles against the wall. The air smelled heavily of mildew and dust, smoke and herbs, and engine grease. Worth noting were the shotgun tucked quietly into an umbrella stand, and a bright-bladed knife shining dangerously from amongst the clutter on a small table. Yet it was neither of these with which Kevin found himself being confronted, as he was brought up short when Mr. Singer held out a small metal flask.
"Drink." Singer commanded firmly.
Touched with a stab of apprehension, Kevin eyed it warily.
"Look, I can't—"
"Don't try to bullshit me," Singer interrupted testily. "You ain't exactly on duty. Drink, or we don't talk."
Abandoning his protest, Kevin accepted the flask, taking a hesitant swallow. He was surprised when he tasted only water. Singer watched him closely, and after a few seconds slid past he took back the flask with a nod, seeming satisfied.
"Come with me."
Kevin followed Singer into a crowded, poorly lit study. In most places the peeling wallpaper was barely visible, obscured by shelves of books or maps or faded clippings. A moth-eaten brown couch sagged beneath a grimy bay window, and a large, battered desk sat before the empty fireplace. As Kevin's visual search cataloged the room, his eyes were drawn to the ceiling, and he found himself staring wide-eyed at the sight which greeted him. Dark, sharp lines inscribed on the aged plaster, running in intricate patterns to form a large circle. At least ten feet wide, it was interwoven with strange symbols and glyphs and it looked—
It really, really looked like something out of a freaking horror movie.
His uneasy reaction drew a faint snort out of the older man, pulling Kevin's attention back. Singer swung a chair away from a roll-top desk near the doorway, shoving it in front of the larger one. Shaking off his surprise, Kevin interpreted his nod as instruction and took the seat. Singer took a chair on the opposite side of the desk, somehow managing not to disturb any of the items arranged precariously on its surface.
"Now just what got you pointed my way?" Singer asked, cutting straight to the chase.
Kevin was quickly coming to realize that might just be the best way of dealing with the man overall.
"I got your number from Amelia Novak," Kevin began, "I used that to track you down."
Singer let out a grunt which sounded half-skeptical, but mostly just annoyed.
"And she just gave it to you?" Singer asked, plainly finding the notion unlikely.
"Her daughter gave it to me," Kevin admitted unhappily, "I know it wasn't the best move, but I was desperate."
Singer frowned, turning the fact over as though on its own it were something significant. Looking back on the encounter, Kevin felt it was entirely possible. Claire's whole manner during their interaction had felt strangely off. It was more than likely that Mr. Singer knew things about the girl and her family that Kevin did not. After a long moment of consideration, Singer looked at him again. And while his manner was still palpably guarded and calculating, it was somehow more inviting. Whatever decision Singer had been weighing in his mind since opening the door, Kevin felt for sure he had made it.
"Alright," he said, "Tell me about your missing friend."
As Kevin recounted the details surrounding Javier's disappearance, Singer took it in with ease, and Kevin couldn't shake an odd feeling of recognition. The man seemed to have little difficulty sorting the kind of information he was being given, a facility with handling evidence that was clearly practiced. Whatever else Singer was, it was painfully obvious that the mind collating the facts belonged to a detective.
It was when Kevin mentioned James Novak, and the fingerprints found at the scene that Singer began to pay particular attention, and the description of the body and the strange burns seemed to cement his interest. And when Kevin passed him a photograph of his partner—desperately, hopefully—his heart clenched as he noted Singer's darkening frown. The older man shook his head faintly as he placed the photograph on the table, reaching down to open a drawer in the desk beside him. He drew out a pair of short drinking glasses and a bottle of bourbon, blowing the dust out of both before he screwed off the cap to pour. Singer took a short swallow before he reached over to tap the photograph with his finger.
"I do know Castiel," Singer told him slowly, "and I've had a few of his Brothers pass through. I've seen your friend, and I can tell you what he's been up to, but you're not going to like it."
And just hearing it—that Javier was alive—was nearly enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs completely. With that thought echoing through his brain, it was difficult to even begin to think of anything else. It took Kevin a few tries to find the words to confirm it.
"He's alive? God is he— Is he okay?"
Singer didn't answer right away, thinking over his words as he moved the other glass in front of Kevin silently.
"Right now, I assume you're under the impression you're dealin' with some kind of evangelical cult," Singer ventured carefully, "Religious crazies that kidnapped your partner and left an awful mess behind when they did. Am I right?"
Though it was hardly a question, Kevin did manage a slight nod to confirm it was what he had come to believe—one which the older man met with unsurprised resignation.
"Well I want you to try and get that thought out of your head," Singer said, looking him in the eye. "I know you had to have broken a lot of rules to get this far, and something tells me you don't care if it'll help you find your partner. I respect that, so I'm going to give you the truth, and you can do with it whatever you will."
He punctuated the statement with a drink that drained the rest of his glass, tilting the bottle to refill it. He looked Kevin over once again.
"What do you know about angels?" Singer asked.
The question didn't surprise Kevin, even with its overwhelming seriousness. His conversation with Claire had prepared him, at the very least, to deal with people who took the topic very seriously indeed. But the fact was that he still had little to no information on the subject that was even close to useful. With Singer, Kevin thought it might just be best to admit that he was out of his depth.
"You mean like harps and halos?" Kevin asked, his flippancy a little nervous as he reached for the glass in front of him. "For surviving twelve years of Catholic school, apparently not much."
Singer's amused snort wasn't without sympathy.
"Well take whatever Hallmark card ideas you might have and throw 'em out." Singer said pointedly, in a tone that allowed no argument. "Angels—real angels—are insanely powerful, hard-assed warriors of God. And most of 'em don't hold a very high opinion of humans."
"There are exceptions," Singer amended after another swallow, "Castiel is one of them, and right now he and his Brothers are engaged in something of a civil war."
He paused, searching Kevin's face as though waiting for him to object. As long as Singer was talking, Kevin saw no reason to, though he felt under the circumstances some interaction might provide further encouragement.
"You're talking about the Apocalypse," Kevin observed, not going so far as to ascribe to Singer's beliefs, but feeling secure in his interpretation of them. He was surprised when the man shook his head.
"No, though that was the original idea," Singer told him. "Heaven and Hell had been gearing up for centuries for the final confrontation between Lucifer and the Archangel Michael, winner take all, and afterward it would have been Hell or Heaven on Earth. The angels were pretty confident they'd come out on top, but whichever way it went, the fight itself would have been be a disaster for the human race."
"No," said Singer softly, shaking his head as if even he had difficulty believing it, "The real problem is that all of that was supposed to have gone down over a year ago."
And Kevin couldn't hold back a short laugh at the idea. Singer didn't seem phased by his skepticism, however, so Kevin felt little need to disguise it.
"You're saying the world was supposed to end, only it didn't?" Kevin asked. "How?"
"Well I could tell you that long-ass story," Singer offered irritably, though he seemed less offended than merely annoyed, "Or I could skip it in favor of the part that concerns your friend. Which is it?"
Aware of how desperately everything hinged on the information Singer had to offer, Kevin fell silent, abandoning his brief digression a faint nod.
"Anyway," Singer continued, "Some of the angels were content that the resolution—or lack of—was the will of God, but there were others that felt things ought to have stuck to His original Plan. And the leader of those angels, Raphael, has been running a campaign to try and restart the doomsday clock toward our destruction, while Castiel is fighting to stop that from happening. But Raphael is older and stronger, and he's got more of Heaven and its Host on his side."
As Singer spoke, Kevin listened carefully, trying to understand. It was hard for him to do so without his rational mind attempting to write it off as insanity or the product of drink. While the latter was certainly possible, it all felt too coherent for that explanation to be likely. Kevin was hesitant to simply label him as crazy. Yet for all his indifference to Kevin's opinion, it was obvious that Singer's story was something he truly believed. There was a growing sense that his investigation had stumbled on a very bizarre new world. A comprehension of those who inhabited it and their mythology could prove crucial to finding his partner. Kevin tried to hold himself to that reasoning, and keep his disbelief respectfully silent...
Though his attempts to reason out how Javier fit into all this yielded only helpless confusion and despair.
"Cas needed help." Singer continued, the odd, familiar diminutive—for an angel, of all things—further cementing Kevin's difficulty categorizing this as some sort of religious mania.
"Now, according to him—and there's material in Enoch to support it, though he'd tell you it's an imperfect human account of events—millenia ago, God sent a group of angels to Earth called the Irin, or Watchers. God chose them because they were among his strongest soldiers, and because they loved humanity as He did, and He charged them with keeping an eye on us.
"Only some of them got a little too close," Singer said, with a definite, if odd, note of humor, "Some taught humans secrets our primitive little selves weren't supposed to know. Others took human wives, and a few of those wives bore children called nephilim.
"The way Cas tells it, the nephilim had human souls, but they also carried their fathers' connection to Heaven, and the combination made them dangerous. Supposedly, a single nephilim could defeat the entire host of Heaven with a thought, and there was fear that if they banded together, they might managed to challenge God himself. So while these nephilim were still infants, God sent the Flood to destroy them and the civilizations the angels had influenced. And as punishment, the Irin had their grace—their connection to Heaven—taken from them. They were exiled to Earth, scattered across history to be reborn in human form."
Singer paused, eyes searching Kevin's face for a moment, gauging his reaction, possibly deciding whether or not to go on. There was a painful sympathy in that gaze—or perhaps pity—and even without understanding why, seeing it left Kevin chilled.
"For the past four months," Singer continued quietly, almost softly, "Cas has been hunting down as many of the fallen Irin as he can, restoring their grace and recruiting them to his cause."
The older man finished his drink, looking down at the photograph once again.
"Now I don't expect you to believe me, so there's not a lot more I can give you...except a name."
He slid the photograph back across the table, tapping it one more time, and while Kevin could smell the alcohol on Singer's breath, the man's eyes were clear, and sane, and very, very sober.
"When I met your friend," Singer told him, "he was calling himself Chazaqiel."
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Epilogue
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This is so heartbreaking!