Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Angels were beings of function rather than emotion. This allowed them to remember everything despite their infinite existence without going mad. Exceptional angels existed who shunned this, which led to the creation of Naomi’s office. It was true for Castiel, who had fallen, had occupied a single vessel longer than most angels (barring Gabriel, who has not changed his since the Vikings walked), and had been seraph, human, god, then malakh.

So to cope without being broken, to remember without remembering the loss, Castiel had fractured some of his grace and planted it around some of his father’s creations. Castiel had buried one shard of it beneath the bench where he’d confessed his worst sins and told the Righteous Man that he was not a hammer. And though he broke his grace, he visited to remember.

Castiel touched down in his favorite place. Always hoping that though it had been long since forgotten, this would be where he would find the Righteous Man against all odds.

But it was still empty, his favorite bench surrounded by tall grass. The park was now filled with rusted metal. The humans have moved on from the suburbs and have long since built their cities inside enormous towers to expand, learn and find a place to keep their exponentially growing numbers. Only the immortal, ancient, and undying have seen the bench.

Unfortunately, one such immortal waited for him in this place. He couldn’t change his routine and abandon his favorite spot despite its predictability. One of his sisters, her wings tucked away while inside a vessel manifest on the mortal plane, was standing patiently while he regarded her. It must be urgent. Since the Gates of Heaven had accepted Heaven’s children back into its folds, angels have been reluctant to leave their respective circles.

“Castiel,” she said in the severe tones that marked her as one of Raphael’s garrison before the Second Fall, “you are being summoned.”

Since becoming the Caretaker, no one summoned him anywhere. As long as he attended the Throne and ensured it was bright, shining, and perpetually waiting for its owner, his brothers and sisters left him to his own devices. Being the Caretaker was vastly tedious work because his Father had not deemed it worth his time to hold court in the Throne of Glory for eons. The Caretaker of the Throne served a purpose when Metatron locked Heaven, but without an occupant, the title was mostly useless.

Gabriel was managing his circle, and after a few centuries, Raphael, who had grown back from the Void of being smote, had also resumed his post.

Gabriel was the right sort of contrast to Raphael’s seriousness. Castiel had forgotten how archangels worked in pairs; Lucifer and Michael were a matched set before the First Fall. Gabriel encouraged Castiel to govern Aravoth, the Seventh Heaven. So, Castiel was in a throne room without a ruler, surrounded by cherubim, seraphim, and ophanim.

Castiel unfurled his wings and flew, touching down in the Throne Room and genuflecting in front of the empty Throne. He turned towards his captain, Selaphiel, his summoner. The angel who has been given dominion over Thursdays. Castiel’s role as Caretaker did not exempt him from the garrison’s separate hierarchies. Castiel waited for his orders.

 “You have been without a charge for more than a thousand years.”

Archangels gave souls to Guides. He has not been a Guide since he lost the Righteous Man. Not since he was brought into the garrison under Anna (whose angelic name has been stripped off the records after she ripped her Grace and was Born).

“They have not entrusted me with those duties since my First Death.”

There was a beat of silence as Selaphiel regarded him carefully. “We are entrusting this to you now.”

It is against an angel’s nature to protest, disobey, or challenge. Yet, he took that defiant and deliberate step forward. The act of rebellion was beginning on his lips.

“It is time for you to live again, Castiel.”

“I am not worthy of this trust,” Castiel argued. He still had work to do. He still hadn’t found Dean. Castiel felt a dull pain in his chest. He rubbed the leather band on his wrist, its surface rough from constant wear. Threaded through it was Dean’s old ring, the one he had used to pop open beers, the metal dented and scratched from the bottles.

“You are worth second chances, Angel of Thursday,” His captain intoned, with steel in his voice that showed both conviction and his right. “But that isn’t why you’re disobeying, is it?”

Castiel took a deep breath; he hadn’t known that others had noticed where he had spent his time. He was looking. He seemed forever doomed to constantly searching for impossible things, didn’t he?

“We have not seen his soul for decades. Is it not time to set your sights elsewhere?” Selaphiel asked.

“The Righteous Man has been my responsibility since I raised him from perdition. I have cared for Dean Winchester since I rebuilt him from bone and sinew.” Castiel shook his head. “I cannot just leave him.”

“You will be on Earth, Castiel. Is that not what you want? To be where he is, so you can look?”

Hunter pulled up a shirt from where he’d discarded it in the middle of the fast frenzy in what was probably his victim’s guilty pleasure and what was a somewhat routine hunt for him. He spared a moment to rub his fingers against the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache that he was bound to get from the guilt his conscience muttered.

But he’d long since known when he’d been old enough to pull souls from the unsuspecting, what manner of souls he was willing to tarnish, and what souls he would leave alone.

“Hey lover boy, what’s the rush?” the redhead asked from the rug, trying to pull him back.

There was a twinge of annoyance because though he’d deceived her into falling into bed—or floor—with him, he’d been clear that it was a one-night stand. “Don’t you have a fiancé to get back to?”

She recoiled a little at that. Her willingness to cheat on the fiancé earlier meant she had no moral high ground. If she left the douche bastard, then even more soul-bright for Hunter. “Can’t I have your number?”

To cheat with him repeatedly? “No.”

That had never been his style. Besides, there wasn’t anything in it for him. Tarnish a soul too much, and it was useless as a bargaining chip. Take it whole, and he’d send the soul straight to a crossroads demon for the standard ten-year contract. He’d only sent one soul to a Crossroads demon in his twenty years stealing soul-pieces. He vowed never to do that again.

Abaddon wasn’t really into the whole Crossroads thing. Good thing Crowley was still lurking in Hell’s underground. What kind of fucked up life did he have to consider Crowley the lesser evil?? Goddamnit, where is my shoe?

It was then that Hunter noticed his illicit one-night stand dangling the missing item from one of her fingers. He snatched it from her wordlessly, dressing up and preparing to leave. She trailed her fingers against his right shoulder, caressing his birthmark before he flinched and shot her a glare.

“You want to stay awhile?” she asked conversationally, watching him from under her eyelashes. Hunter thought she might just be hoping to get lucky, but then he’d watched her for weeks. It was a hunt, one of the easiest types of hunts. She was just lonely. She was also marrying a class-A douchebag, so what did he know?

“Got something to do, lady,” Hunter muttered as he opened a vial in his pocket. With a flash and a quick sharp pop, it filled with a bright soul-piece, and the woman was unconscious.

Hunter tugged his shirt down, secured the soul-piece shut, and walked away. He looked back at the redhead. She’d fallen artlessly on the floor. He grimaced. There was his goddamned conscience acting up again.

He pulled her up from the cheap rug and laid her in the middle of the motel bed, kissing her forehead softly. “Sorry, it’s for family.”

Hunter slapped down the soul-piece in the middle of the bar’s counter. Pharzuph, the fallen angel he was, snatched it up appraisingly, lifting it against the light and eyeing the soul glow critically. The bartender of Crowley’s Inferno, flipped the long blond hair that fell over his shoulders so it wouldn't get in the way of the evaluation.

Hunter could never get the differences in the glow between soul-pieces he brought. There were plenty depending on whether the soul-piece was willing or if Hunter had taken it because his victim had lied or cheated. The seven cardinal sins were always shinier. Things that went against the Ten Commandments always earned more, but Hunter could never get himself to tempt a poor soul for that.

“This is barely enough for a month’s rent, boy,” Pharzuph criticized, showing off forearms that bulged from his too-tight shirt as he put the soul-piece away.

Hunter seethed internally. He was fucking twenty-six, getting called boy by every other person could give him issues. Of course, every other person he knew was a long-lived demon older than a hundred, so what did he know? “Much less feeding that worthless soul you’re protecting.”

Hunter knew his victim had been on the verge of cheating when he’d entered the scene and tempted her. Urging her to kill the bastard fiancé might have gotten him a brighter soul-piece, an entire soul even, but that would have earned her a one-way ticket to Hell. He wasn’t that heartless. Not yet. Although he was born under Inferno’s shadow and raised by demons, he had an indestructible sense of right since birth. He had no idea how it happened.

Pharzuph gave him a sharp look as if he could read Hunter’s thoughts. He turned the collar up of his leather jacket, its studs glinting in Inferno’s lights. “You’d best wield that pretty face of yours to earn your keep, human, else we’d just be riding that meat suit and do nasty things with it.”

“You just want some of this ass,” Hunter challenged. Although he couldn’t imagine bumping uglies with Pharzuph. He could have done without that mental image. Pharzuph was attractive enough with blond hair, the dark-blue gray of storm clouds for eyes, and always, always radiated sex. No matter what gender. Hunter had watched the fallen angel turn an utterly straight man into a night of debauchery once. And Pharzuph looked like a man’s man, bulging muscles with multiple tattoos inked into his skin and tight jeans that Parzuph would have needed both a lack of oxygen and food to get into. Pharzuph clearly knew what he was doing.

“I should take that up as a challenge, boy.” Pharzuph’s eyes glittered with the warning, but he inclined his head towards the right into the double doors leading to the back area, including Hunter’s rooms and their boss’ office. “But Boss wants you.”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, then. He gave Pharzuph one careless grin before ducking into the boss’ hallway. By the time he’d entered Crowley’s L-shaped office and stood before the King of the Crossroad’s desk, he had wiped the smirk off his face.

Crowley had vials suspiciously resembling Hunter’s collected soul-pieces. Goddamnit, it was a performance review. Hunter hated those. This had sneaked up on him abruptly.

“Take a seat,” Crowley said, motioning to the chair in front of him. Crowley had the most uncomfortable chairs inside Inferno. Mainly because it amused him to see people who visited him fidget under his gaze.

“I’d prefer to—“

“Take a seat.” The chair moved without Crowley laying a hand on it.

Hunter didn’t want to wait before Crowley started flinging demon powers around and strapped him to the goddamn chair. Hunter took a seat. Go self-preservation, one point for you. Hunter cleared his throat. “Hey, boss, what’s up?”

“You’ve been underperforming,” Crowley said as he touched the vials of glowing soul-pieces on his table.

“I’ve been doing a long-haul plan,” Hunter corrected. If anything, Crowley appreciated long-term planning. Of course, Hunter still had to come up with this long-haul plan of his.

Crowley steepled his fingers and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Hunter. Hunter felt his brow sweat a little. Kings have broken on that gaze. “You know why I took you on, Hun, right?”

Crowley knew how to pick his nicknames, Hunter thought with mild distaste. He couldn’t protest the name, or Crowley would keep mocking it. Better to let it pass. “Mom got captured and killed by demons in Inferno, fortunately?”

Hunter, in fact, did not remember his mother. His earliest memories were living in Inferno’s broken rooms with an equally broken soul of his roommate. They had given him the name “Hunter” because his mother was a hunter, and the soul he was bunking with was a hunter, so Hunter he was. That and the entire Winchester Gospels had started a new religion. It amused the demons to call him that.

“You proved you’re one of the freak humans who could get a soul. You’ve even evolved to a point that you could take pieces of it instead of a whole. Even Death couldn’t break off pieces. I keep you because you’re useful. ”

Underneath those words was the threat that Hunter would be out of a job and out of a roof over his head if he ever stopped being useful. That is if he even survived the encounter alive. More importantly, he’d get the soul he was protecting thrown back into Hell, and he wasn’t willing to risk that. The job and roof were not a problem. Hunter was a survivor. He’d survive being homeless and broke, but he couldn’t abandon the only family he’d ever known.

“Yeah, well, I fly under Abbadouche’s radar. All your red-eye demons get under her scrutiny, and they get killed. Violently and irrevocably,” Hunter pointed out, another truth that Crowley couldn’t deny. Of course, it wasn’t a good idea to point out Crowley’s weaknesses to his face. Hunter was just full of brilliant ideas today, wasn’t he? “I’m a human harvesting souls. She’s got bigger fish to fry.”

“You getting cocky, Hun?” Crowley asked, his eyes narrowed.

Careful. Careful.

“I’m just saying, Boss.” Especially since Crowley is the underdog in this entire vote for Hell business that has been going on for longer than Hunter has been alive. Abaddon was cutting a swathe of blood across Hell, winning over demons with her fist. Crowley whispering for votes was losing because she was killing anyone who disagreed. She was ruthless that way.

Crowley said nothing, and Hunter resisted the urge to fidget. Crowley respected those who could hold their own against him. Being in a demon clan was worse than being in the Mafia. At least if he got dead with the mob, Hunter was sure he’d be done. There was no done with demons. If he died on them, he was sure he’d blackened his soul enough to earn him a few hundred years on the rack. He sincerely did not want to test the theory. Hunter’s solution had always been: to keep himself fucking alive.

“Hey, boss, do you ever see my soul?” Hunter asked, mostly because he was curious but also because it would break the silence, and he did not have a brain-to-mouth filter.

Crowley gave him an honest-to-goodness laugh. Hunter was on the fence about laughing. “What? You think you can pay for your debt by selling your soul? If you want a real appraisal while it’s in your body without a contract, you need a feather-duster. Although I doubt that you’ll get close enough with one to become chatty, what with the sticks up their asses.”

Well, at least Crowley had answered the question. It was probably why demons took souls rather than piecemeal as Hunter can. Not that demons took souls in pieces pre-Abaddon purges. But since it was more dangerous for red-eyed monsters, if the Queen of Hell noticed soul-stealing, contract-wielding, then pieces it was. Hunter gave Crowley a grin. “Well, I’ll tell you if I meet up with one, then.”

“If only I could be a fly on that wall. I would watch just to see if you can charm your way out of their smiting spree.” Amusement over Crowley’s eyes steeled. “This is a business. I am trying to take over Hell, do your part and you won’t get stranded. Git.”

With the audience over, Hunter found himself staring at the closed office door. Damnit, he hated it when demons moved him out of place. It was unnerving as hell to be standing after his muscles remember sitting. Hunter sighed as he backed away. Right, performance review over. Moving on.

Hunter lived in a cramped, windowless room at the back of Inferno. It had a bed, enough porn to satisfy lonely nights, and an old LCD with which he could load those ancient TiVos. He was still catching up on those ancient Game of Thrones when he had time. Not that he had a lot.

His roommate was in, disheveled, but mostly whole. His day of absence equated to about four months in Hell. Hunter picked up an unopened glowing vial, which he usually kept on his person. It was a soul-piece he saved from the others, dipping his fingers in and smearing it across his roommate’s cuts. His roommate glared at him, causing Hunter to almost spill the rest of the vial.

Hunter glared back. “John, you’re not seriously going to refuse treatment. You almost said yes the last time.” What Crowley was trying to accomplish, Hunter had no idea. According to the Winchester Gospels, Crowley wasn’t pro-Apocalypse. He was just plain pro-Crowley. Having John Winchester back in the rack didn’t seem like a pro-Crowley move.

Hunter’s roommate had been in Inferno for ages. The only family Hunter ever knew was John, but Hunter had never discovered how they had captured John’s soul.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it, boy,” John growled, eyeing the vial like the plague. Maybe it was. Hunter’s history with demons altered his perspective.

“Look, I seriously take enough of that ‘boy’ crap from the demons. I have a name—“

“What you have is what those black-eyes gave you, Dean,” John growled.

“Yes, because you insist on calling me some saint’s name. Could you please move on?” Hunter said, patiently capping his soul-piece and hiding it in his pocket. “I ain’t a saint, John.” 

“You have your anti-possession tattoo?” John asked urgently.

Hunter sighed and lifted his shirt. He’d gotten it on his left hip to match the Enochian ones on his right. An angel-script protected him so that nobody could soul-stare at him. Having been in the soul business for so long, he knew soul-farmers must be hidden from angels. “You’re worse than my father.”

“You never knew your father—“

“Call me boy one more time and I’m leaving you here,” Hunter threatened, pulling his shirt down and throwing himself on the bed. He needed some shut-eye and a bottle of top-notch whiskey but loathed drinking. He couldn’t touch a bottle without throwing up. He must have angered the gods of whiskey in a previous life. That or he’d died on a binge.

There was a stretch of silence, and Hunter opened one eye cautiously. John wasn’t creepily staring at him, but his head was hung low in sorrow. “I dunno, son, I think it’s time that you moved on from this. I will manage well on my own. I have been managing.”

That got Hunter shooting up from his bed. If John had been corporeal, he would have shaken him by the shoulders. Damnit, self-sacrificing ghosts will be the end of him. “They want you for something John, they want you to spill blood in Hell, right? I’ve read enough of the Winchester Gospels to know they believe you’re the Righteous Man. So yes, I might be in a crappy place right now, but you ain’t breaking the seals. Not on my watch.”

John had told Hunter once that they crammed him up in Inferno because intermittently, Abaddon raids the rack. Crowley didn’t want anyone to know he had John Winchester because, hello, ace up the sleeve. Hunter’s room was the only option for a ghost. Conversely, it was also the only room they could keep a human baby in. Most of the rooms held demons that would eat a baby alive. It was how John had ended up half-raising Hunter.

Which is why John kept projecting Dean over to Hunter. Hunter allowed the old man to do it most days. “Dean” wasn’t the worst thing to be called. God knows John Winchester kept enough baggage for both of them. “John, stop. If you don’t want treatment, then at least get some pretend shut eye until the next round of torture.”

After Hunter’s last soul-mark, the entire cheating on her husband slash fiancé slash significant other left a sour taste in his mouth. So he’d ended up in one of the Biggerson chains spread across the Tower Cities, leaned against the corner booth, and just observed.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing gut feel of being a farmer, but he had no choice. It’s not like he could get another profession amid a demon-run brothel slash soul-factory. It was a wonder the demons didn’t get him addicted to their soul-drug concoctions or make him sex-starved. He’d seen a few humans that those had lured. He had Crowley to thank for sparing him from that, at least. They said he had touched his mother the moment he was born, and Crowley stood in awe as a fraction of her soul went into him before she died. It was why Crowley had kept him alive. He was a businessman, and souls were the currency of Hell.

He’d cleaned up some, gotten one of the ancient tablets he’d mostly refurbished, pretended to read one of those old greats he dug up in those free internet libraries, got a cup of coffee that he would refill perpetually, and waited for a mark.

He varied his hunting locations to avoid being noticed. Picking up marks in a single bar got him made almost instantly. He would also switch up his vices occasionally to keep finding new targets.

Something distinctly non-honey trap and more pride or greed, maybe. Hunter stayed away from wrath. That got people dead quickly. Admittedly, with his skill set, it was always easier to go with envy and lust.

That was where he met little Jack, with his weirdest, great baggy nanny…whatever.

Jack was probably around seven to ten, with reddish curls that might earn him the name carrot top, almost out of childhood, losing chubby cheeks. Freckles dusted his nose, and his dark gray eyes stared up at Hunter for a few seconds. Then, as if deciding something, he slid into Hunter’s chosen booth and silently stared at him.

That wasn’t even the most absurd thing. The kid’s parent, a man with short dark hair combed back neatly, finishing with stubble, slid into the booth next to Jack. He tucked the trenchcoat that had flared out neatly into the seat. Usually, parents would apologize for their kids. No, this dude just waited until the kid was seated in the booth comfortably and boxed the kid in.

Hunter stared at them for a few minutes in disbelief before clearing his throat. “What?”

The kid gave him a toothy smile, a complete set of pearly whites, which told Hunter that he was a cared-for child with enough dentist visits and would probably be missed if Hunter up and decided to take him.

“I’m Jack. You looked like you needed a friend.”

What Hunter needed was a mark. An honest-to-goodness mark that would fill his soul quota for a month. Jack’s age made him a potential kidnap victim if he tested positive for a soul-shard, but his weird dad-attachment made it impossible.

Hunter raised his eyebrow and made a swift hand motion towards his tablet so that it would close on its own before looking around Biggerson’s. Admittedly, Biggerson’s was a family place. Hunter came here in search of a sloth shard or a vulnerable child to lure into drug addiction. He wasn’t picky, but Hunter drew the line at kids that barely reached his hip.

“Dunno, kid, I don’t think I’m the type of friend your dad would approve of,” Hunter cautioned, nodding towards the guy in a suit under the weird trench coat that had accompanied the boy.

Jack’s eyes rounded before he looked at his companion. “I told you he was special!”

“Indeed.” The voice caught Hunter off guard. His voice was rough and gritty, cracked like dry earth in a drought. Hunter looked at the guy to find his intense stare had transferred from the kid to Hunter. “You can see me.”

“Dude. You’re a six-foot tall guy in a flasher coat. I’d be seriously missing a few points in the observation department if I couldn’t fucking see you,” Hunter said, annoyed.

Trenchcoat-dude raised an eyebrow, then comically raised his hand to flag one of the multitudes of waitresses that refilled Hunter’s table with coffee. Once that didn’t work, the guy stood up, marched toward a random server, and actively pointed in Hunter’s direction. All the while, the waitress who’d been serving Hunter ignored the dude’s crazy antics. She walked up to Hunter, leaned her hip against his table, and leaned down to give a flirty smile while topping up his mug.

“Who’s the kid?” she asked, eyeing Jack sideways, presumably deciding if the kid was worth the trouble of getting Hunter away. But Candy—as her nametag proudly proclaimed—wasn’t the type of soul Hunter was looking for, either.

“You ain’t gonna see what that dude wants?” Hunter motioned to the guy in the trenchcoat with his head. “He’s been trying to grab your attention for a while now.”

“What, dude?” Candy asked in the puzzled tones of the genuinely lost as she turned towards where Hunter was pointing. She shrugged and gave Hunter a weirded-out look before backing away slowly with her carafe of coffee. “You need to lay off the caffeine.”

As soon as the man slid into his seat, Hunter threw trenchcoat a fistful of salt he’d gotten when Candy was talking to him. It earned him an annoyed look from the man and strangled laughter from Jack.

“I am not a ghost,” the man muttered while dusting off the salt.

“He’s my Guardian!” Jack announced as he leaned forward, elbows on the table and chubby cheeks resting on his fists. “Everyone important has one.”

Hunter felt the beginning of a headache as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He needed a mark, not a kid with his guardian scaring away his game. “Look, kid—“

“Jack, I think what he wants to say is: we need to leave.” The man in the trenchcoat said softly to his young charge.

Jack’s brow furrowed as he turned towards the adult. “This is where we are supposed to be. Now. We’re meant to see him today, Cas. I just—” The kid got frustrated, as if he couldn’t form the words he wanted to say, and looked up helplessly at his guardian, Cas.

“He’s warded,” Cas told his charge and Hunter’s eyebrows lifted quickly. An unseen guide that can detect wards. Who was this Cas dude, and what exactly was he? What was this kid that needed this guy’s protection? More trouble than they’re worth, for starters. “I’m sorry for taking up your time.”

“Warded!” Jack’s eyes lit up, and he leaned closer to Hunter. “Could I see? My first confession is coming up and my mom wants me to choose a Word for my protection and my penance.”

A Word for protection and penance meant that the kid belonged to the Church of the Hunter’s Cross. Which doubly meant that Hunter should not associate with the kid at all. Because if there was one thing about the Cross, it meant that down the line, this kid had a hunter’s upbringing and a hunter’s family. They might not be actively hunting, but he probably had a grandfather or a cousin twice removed who was actually a hunter.

Hunter had gotten his tattoos free from the church because he knew their words were Enochian sigils burned into flesh. They worked, and he was not turning down a free tattoo. That and he refused to get it from a demon.

“Dude,” Hunter reprimanded as Jack dodged down the table and scrambled up to his seat, trying to guess where the tattoos were.

Cas furrowed his brow at the exchange. “Jacob.”

The boy stopped as if suddenly realizing he had trespassed over multiple social boundaries. “Sorry, Cas.”

Cas gave a short, cordial nod towards Hunter, and the boy sheepishly turned towards him and mumbled a weak apology. “It’s just that it’s him, Cas. He’s important.”

“Look, kid,” Hunter said in exasperation. “I don’t know where you’re getting these vibes, but I’m practically a nobody. Go back to your playground.”

The kid moved out of the chair and gave him one last look before taking Cas’s hand. “We’ll meet again, sir.”

As soon as the kid was gone, Hunter decided that prey was decidedly short that day, and he’d move on to one of his other haunts while the kid was still there.

“This was your long-haul plan? I approve.”

The only thing that saved Hunter from jumping in surprise at Crowley’s sudden appearance was years’ worth of facial training, demon desensitization, and an awful lot of luck.

Say what now? Hunter wanted to utter because he was decidedly not getting anywhere with any program. Hunter gave Crowley his best blank look. Unless they’re in your body, demons can’t read your mind. It was unlike angels who could read freaking minds unless you have the handy Enochian on your hip. He should revisit the Cross and thank them for the tattoos profusely.

“I do love myself a wee minor prophet, and getting the trenchcoat into the deal is a sweetener as well.” Crowley clasped his hands together as he leaned forward to look at Hunter and narrowed his eyes. “Unless you didn’t know that and just stumbled onto the prophet of this age and his guardian angel. The somewhat newly anointed—give or take a few thousand years—Keeper of the Throne.”

The only word associated with Cas, trenchcoat, and guardian angel was an obscure angel reference in the Winchester Gospels. Hunter didn’t understand how he got involved in this mess. He was a virtual nobody in the entire demon slash mob hierarchy. He shouldn’t be getting fun-freaking-tastic angels and prophets dropped into his lap.

“I know what Cas and the kid are,” Hunter protested. But actually, no, he didn’t. Ever since the Winchester Gospels started to have a cult following, a lot of the masses had named their children Castiel, and some of those children grew up to become trenchcoat-wielding freaks. Seeing someone in a trenchcoat named Castiel didn’t usually bring to mind an angel. The angels haven’t actively meddled in human affairs since the Second Fall with the closing of the Gates. They had their problems.

Reading the Gospel of Chuck was tricky because Chuck was born in the age when information was free, and Chuck wrote himself into it. Four years after it came out, there were so many stories based on the gospel called—and Hunter just cringed to think of it—fanfiction that even scholars found it challenging to separate what were actual Words of God and which were merely very, very good imitations.

Religions devoted entire sections of religious studies to argue if Chuck simply was a prophet or God singing the kumbaya. Hunter didn’t care to believe one or the other.

The Gospel of Chuck, together with a later published Gospel of Kevin, comprised two of the books in the canonical gospels of Winchester. Between those two books was the Epistolary of Castiel, and the Winchester gospels finally finished with the Epistolary of Samuel. That was more than enough for a non-hunter to know, period. The only reason he knew that was because he needed to learn a bit of the religion to get his protection tattoos.

Maybe he should go and actually finish reading those goddamned books. Pleasing the hand that tried not to choke Hunter to death might earn him a break the next time there was a lull in the entire soul-harvesting thing.

“I’m sure,” Crowley said dryly, eyeing Hunter speculatively.

“Any special requests, boss?” Hunter asked because there was simply no way to be subtle around Crowley. The human picked up the coffee cup and pretended to sip. Keeping his hands occupied prevented fidgeting and panic, which Crowley did not appreciate.

“I need a fragment of the boy’s soul. The entirety of it would be better.” Crowley drummed his fingers against the laminated tabletop, eyes narrowed. “Getting me the angel’s grace would be bloody brilliant. Souls, whether prophetic or not, are a dime a dozen. Grace, on the other hand, is more difficult to get than virginity from a nun.”

Grace. What did Hunter fucking know about grace? Zilch, that was what. Where the hell can he acquire that knowledge without giving up something he deems irrevocable? Hunter gave out a low whistle. “Sure, boss, whatever you want, I can give.”

“I appreciate a good boot licking when I see it,” Crowley murmured with a satisfied sigh. “Wear more plaid, try to deepen your voice, you don’t look Winchester enough. You lack the symmetrical face and those goddamned pouty lips. But you’ll do. He’s not going to expect a replica. That’s not how reincarnation works.”

Hunter almost inhaled the coffee he was pretending to sip. “What? John mistakes me as his son more often than not already.”

“That’s the idea, you wanker.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That trenchcoat has one weakness: Dean Winchester. The last intel I received was that his soul is lost on earth because he got reborn, for whatever reason running around in that little squirrelly mind of his. You’ll do as a copy. That little soldier has always had a stiffy for Winchester. He will want to believe, and he’ll believe any copy.”

“With a bit of skepticism. We’re not talking about Mulder here. He’s an angel of the Lord,” Hunter pointed out, putting down his cup of cold coffee before there were more mishaps.

“Those gits are programmed to believe.” Crowley tapped on Hunter’s old tablet, which lit up once before going back to sleep mode. “That is your poison, isn’t it? Selling the lie? Go sell the goddamned lie.”

Crowley disappeared right after saying those words. Hunter scrambled to hold the tablet, his eyebrow rising, when he finally found what Crowley had given him. An entire section worth of the Winchester gospels. He opened one file, and his eyebrow rose further. It contained creative insults littering the margins of the kind the former King of the Crossroads was known for. Those side notes included a lot of commentaries that the usual Bible didn’t contain, presumably helpful to sell the con.

Hunter shoved the tablet into one of the larger pockets of his coat. He had his next mark. Good to know.