A smirk tugged the corner of Saint Dymphna's mouth upwards. "Bobby Singer, my, it's been a while, hasn't it?"
Bobby's eyes narrowed, "The hell does that mean?"
"Oh, Bobby," Saint Dymphna circled the old man. Leila's body was small, fragile, but Saint Dymphna radiated uncontrollable power despite the petite frame she embodied. "A broken household torn apart because of an abusive father, tsk, tsk, tsk," Saint Dymphna pouted to feign sadness, "You told yourself you'd never have kids. You never gave yourself the chance to not be like the Ed Singer, the shell of a man," She waved her hand downwards and towards Bobby, "And yet, here you are, already halfway there. Throwing back the bottle you vowed only to throw away. Two adopted sons, on the verge of their own extinction, putting themselves in the line of fire, just as you did to protect your mother. I'm your savior, Bobby. The one that made the changes, that got rid of him for good."
"I did that myself, and damn you to hell if you think you can take that away from me," Bobby replied. He wanted to shoot her, to stab her, to attempt an exorcism even though he knew it wouldn't work. He wanted Saint Dymphna gone, because anyone who compared him to his father was not allowed to be near his house.
"Sobering words from an old drunk," Saint Dymphna replied.
Frozen in place, Bobby was only snapped back to the reality in front of him when a hand was placed on his shoulder. Castiel walked in front of him, eyes never leaving Saint Dymphna. "You need to get out of her."
"Oh, but she's so fun," Saint Dymphna replied, rolling her wrist as she looked herself over. "Broken vessels are the best vessels. The ones who hate themselves more than they hate having you take them over. Conquer them. Castiel, the things you could do if you just let the world do its thing."
Bobby hadn't had the chance to look at the Saint until that moment. And it was heartbreaking. Scars littered her exposed arms, fresh scrapes deepening the crevices cut into her flesh. Green eyes were bloodshot from an obvious lack of sleep, Bobby was surprised the poor girl, whether a Saint or not, didn't pass out from exhaustion. Deep purple bags dug into her under eyes like they were paying for real estate on her cheeks. There was no doubt in Bobby's mind that under her torn baseball shirt were ribs that protruded from her pale skin, she looked like months had passed since her last full meal. Bobby's heart shattered as he realized how young her features were. She was just a kid. Unassuming, not asking for anything as she was hurled into a world she knew nothing about.
Dean had called Bobby a handful of times, from various rundown motel phones across the country, at all hours of the night during their time without Leila—at which time, Bobby didn't even know the name of the girl Dean was talking about. Hell, for the longest time, Bobby hadn't even been able to get out the question of who the girl was because Dean had been ranting and crying and cursing himself out for being so stupid. When he finally managed the question, Dean couldn't get the answer out, it was too hard for him. Throughout the calls, Bobby had assured Dean that what happened wasn't his fault; because usually when Bobby got those calls, it was almost never the Winchesters' fault, spare an apocalypse or two. It wasn't until that moment that Bobby realized why she had meant so much to Dean. She was just a kid. Taken from home, and Dean had sworn he'd never bring someone else into hunting, but there she was.
In the middle of his cursing over the phone, Dean would always say the same things. I'm so sorry, to which Bobby would tell him that's what he's here for. I didn't mean to, and Bobby would say no, you didn't, it was a mistake. Dean would curse louder, because he wasn't allowed to make mistakes. But everyone made mistakes, even the great Dean Winchester. It happened sometimes, because they were only human.
Bobby got calls from Sam sometimes, too. Asking what Dean had called about, asking if his brother was okay. Sam had cried, too, but at one point the calls stopped coming. Because while Sam had overcome his denial, Dean never had. The older Winchester couldn't let himself heal, couldn't rid himself of the guilt tearing him apart from the inside out. Numb was the only feeling Dean let himself have, because it was how Leila's body felt at the bottom of—what was it, a river? A river.
"You kill people who are suffering and broken," Castiel replied, "That's hardly the world working how it should be."
Saint Dymphna's eyes flashed red—dark like the blood of a wounded soldier, wishing for God to just take him and spare him from his misery. "You're missing the big picture, Castiel. Why I work wonders for people all over, from Vancouver to Venice, Calabasas to Crawley. Around the world, the people are suffering. They're begging for a savior to come take them from the terrors of their everyday lives. I'm doing God's work, I'm showing them their path. I'm being merciful."
"You're murdering them," Elijah replied. "Killing them in cold blood, all these innocent people who are crying for help, and you call that mercy?"
"Oh no, dear," Saint Dymphna looked at the young angel, a smile on her face, "They're murdering themselves. I just help them pull the trigger."
"You're a psycho bitch," Harry blurted out. His eyes widened when he'd realized he hadn't just said that in his head. Nearly falling over, he jumped when Saint Dymphna snapped her head to look at him. "Um, hi, I'm Harry."
"Dude, did you seriously just say hi, I'm Harry?" Ed asked.
Saint Dymphna raised her hand towards the Ghostfacers, pushing in outwards towards them. Both men went flying backwards, groaning as they hit the ancient-looking but still miraculously sturdy kitchen walls and fell to the floor. Safe to say that both their heads had clocked the wall and they were out cold. She looked back to Castiel, who drew his angel blade.
"Don't make me do this," Castiel warned, though he didn't know if his words were towards the Saint or towards himself—he wasn't sure he could do it, should he find himself needing to.
Castiel twirled the angel blade in his hand, as if trying to tell himself that yes, it's still there. Though he didn't want it to be. Anything but this reality was what he wanted. Gabriel should be there with him, not stirring a spell that won't even be ready because Dymphna was there then and not later. And, as bitter as it felt, Gabriel was right, they needed the Winchesters, not some amateur hunters who stumbled their way into the mess at hand. Sam and Dean would have known what to do, how to act. They could've distracted Saint Dymphna for twenty-four hours while the spell brewed, rather than distract her for twenty seconds like the Ghostfacers had.
It was times like these that Castiel needed his older brother Michael. Even Lucifer would have been beneficial. Castiel needed someone so bloodthirsty, so far from humanity that they would be able to kill someone using a seventeen-year-old girl as a vessel just because she was destroying the world around them. Castiel knew that sometimes, things didn't work out the way they wanted. Maybe the spell was wrong, maybe he was given no choice.
Yet, something inside of him was screaming at him to not harm Leila—it's not her fault.
That voice was right.
It was Castiel and Gabriel's fault, not Leila's. They were the ones who'd roped her into being the vessel, not knowing the consequence of their actions. Of course the Saint had hidden her away from them in an angel warded house. She wanted to isolate her, keep her away from anyone that cared about her wellbeing. Make her think no one cared and break her, bit by bit. Taking away the angels was one thing, but hiding from the Winchesters, the ones who vowed to hunt down and kill every demonic being hidden in the depths of the United States? That confirmed Castiel's every fear.
Before the killing began, Castiel hadn't told the Winchesters that Leila was alright—because from the moment she'd said yes, she hadn't been. Saint Dymphna didn't wait for Gabriel or Castiel to turn their back on her before she began to act out. No, as soon as Saint Dymphna had entered Leila, the angels had known they made a mistake. It had taken them months to track her down to Georgia, where she hid away from them to keep Leila to herself and torture her by letting her think that no one in her life before cared. Castiel could only imagine how being torn apart piece by piece truly felt, and he wouldn't forgive himself for letting Saint Dymphna take over Leila, even if their spell somehow worked.
"Oh, but I know you won't," Saint Dymphna smiled. "You don't want to hurt little miss Connors, do you?" She laughed. It was a short, quick laugh. Teasing Castiel for his own decisions, letting him know that he'd failed and showing him how great it made her feel. "I'm in her head, Castiel, do you want to know what she thinks of the world around her? How helpless she was that night on the bridge? How no one, not even the Winchesters, could save her?"
"Listen here, and listen close," Bobby spoke up, finally unfrozen from where he stood behind Castiel. It was one thing to take over an innocent teenager, it was another to insult his adopted sons when all they had done was help people. "The Winchesters ain't a part of this. They do everything they can to help people, and you do everything thing you can so their work ain't worth a damn. You better get the hell out of that poor girl before I pump her lungs full of angel blade and you rot in hell."
"Tempting," Saint Dymphna replied. "I had other plans, though. Maybe a rain check?"
Bobby snatched the angel blade from Castiel, only to be held back by the angel, who spoke a soft, but cautionary, "Bobby."
"Courage from Mr. Singer," Saint Dymphna clapped slowly, "Colour me impressed. But don't try your luck, sweet Castiel won't let you hurt me. Isn't that right?" Castiel swallowed hard, balling his fist at his side. Bobby looked at Castiel, jaw tightening. Saint Dymphna smiled, "We all talk about how brave the Winchesters are, but we never talk about their pet angel who tries to be just like them. Bravery and stupidity are both very human traits, Castiel. Are you sure you're not going soft?"
"Wouldn't want him to mercy kill you," Elijah strode in front of where Bobby and Castiel stood, puffing his chest out slightly as if to try and convince himself he was the one in charge, "Now, would we?"
"Ah, Elijah," Saint Dymphna pouted, feigning her sadness, "It'd be such a shame to kill someone so young. So... full of potential. I wish I'd gotten to you first, oh," she pursed her lips, "You could've been the sweetest little follower. Helped me make the world a better place."
"I don't follow murderers," Elijah replied. He wished his voice didn't shake when he spoke. He wished it didn't quake like the Earth on the day of reckoning. He wished it hadn't cracked because murderer only begun to describe what Saint Dymphna really was. Mostly, he wished it hadn't faltered because he knew Leila was in there, deep down, seeing someone who was trying to save her fail to speak strongly; like he knew he was signing his own death certificate, but he had to try anyway.
"But you follow God?" Saint Dymphna asked, raising her eyebrows as she held her hands out to her sides. "I came here not to harm you boys, but to offer you a spot on the team. Stop brewing whatever spell you think might save the girl and join me in a position where you can be with her always. And while you're there, help me clean up the world."
"There ain't a damn thing wrong with this world except people like you," Bobby said, swallowing hard. "The people you've killed had lives. They had families. They were somebody's brother, sister, daughter, son, mother, father, husband, wife. They were someone. And you led them down a path where they don't get to see that there's a light at the end of the tunnel. How in the sam hell are you a saviour? A patron saint who doesn't help? That's no saint to me."
"Who's really the bad guy here, Bobby?" Saint Dymphna asked.
"You, you damn hag," Bobby answered. "Who the hell else's to blame?"
"You've got to change your way of thinking, Bobby. So close-minded you are," Saint Dymphna pointed to him, "That'll get you killed." She walked around the trio, who all eyed her carefully. Her hands were behind her back—business meeting casual, not end of the world as they knew it formal. "When you used to pray for someone to help your mother, do you know who that came to? 'Cause I can sure as sugar tell you it wasn't angel radio. You wanted someone to listen to you, hear what you had to say. Deal with your father accordingly. I was there for you, I showed you the path."
"I killed my father because he was a son of a bitch," Bobby said. "Not because some self-righteous saint told me to."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Saint Dymphna spoke as if each word was calculated; chosen to pull just the right strings. Bobby knew what it was like to want to put a bullet in his head, and it was carefully chosen words that had talked him out of it and made him want to stay. She spoke as if she said one thing wrong, she was going to be finished. "You needed someone to tell you to pull the trigger. Someone to give you just that little," Saint Dymphna's hand pinched the air, before making it explode the air around it, "Push to make you do what needed to be done. I was that push for you, Bobby. And look what came out of that."
"My mother never spoke to me again. Said I was damned for what I'd done," Bobby replied. "Don't tell me it made my life better when I keep losing the only people I care about."
Saint Dymphna's smirk faltered—but only for a second. Like she'd known she chose the wrong words, but no one had jumped off the bridge yet. She still had a chance to talk them down—to make them take her side. "You speak like the Winchesters weren't the greatest thing to happen to you. That seeing them be happy couldn't take you off the edge."
"Those boys are the greatest thing to happen to me," Bobby confirmed, "But they were too broken to be saved by the time I got to them. If they were to make me truly happy, they would've quit hunting and lived a normal goddamn life. Sam'd be a lawyer, Dean a mechanic. Don't act as if I've done anything to make their lives better, I just pulled them further into hunting, and that's on me and John. Nothing you do can change that."
The air in the house was thick—a mixture of dust, the permanent smell of old liquor, and the feeling of depression weighed everyone down. From the moment Saint Dymphna had arrived at the Singer scrapyard, everyone's greatest failures had begun to seep into their minds. Like a nightmare on the edge of a dreamscape, just waiting for its turn to play. Castiel felt Leila's grief on the river's edge, and still insisted on what he thought was best for her, which turned into his greatest failure of them all—giving a willing vessel to the Saint that was destined to turn evil. Bobby's chest ached, as if the bullet he'd lodged in between his father's ribs had come back to take him too.
Bobby finally understood why Castiel refused to tell the Winchesters about Leila. Because not only was she his greatest failure, but to tell them was to bring them into the hurricane. To bring them face to face with their regrets and their worries and their failures. To bring the Winchesters to Saint Dymphna was to give her all the power she would ever need, because no one hated themselves as much as the Winchesters did. No one had ever defied so many odds, just to watch the people around them drop like flies. No one held guilt like a Winchester did, and Saint Dymphna fed off human nature—she wanted them to feel like they weren't worth the world because if they truly believed they didn't belong on it, she won.
There was no doubt in Bobby's mind that if the Winchesters had been involved, Dean would be lying in a puddle of his own blood and brains. Because Dymphna would have promised him that Leila would be safe, and Dean would do anything to have less red on his ledger. Castiel couldn't tell the Winchesters because the Winchesters were the only ones that could give Saint Dymphna the power she needed, while still believing they were doing the right thing.
Saint Dymphna smiled, "And you would do anything for those boys, wouldn't you?"
The Ghostfacers slowly stirred to life. Elijah, feeling desperate, had almost breathed a sigh of relief. There was no doubt they were dazed and confused, but Elijah was simply relieved that there was two less bodies on his pile from the entire Saint ordeal.
Footsteps.
Heavy footsteps that were louder than anything Saint Dymphna had been able to muster in Leila's body, but still quiet enough that she hadn't noticed them in her efforts to convert Bobby to her way of thinking. Castiel heard it before he smelt it, the faint sizzle followed by the stench of six-week-old leftovers and fresh sewage.
A smell far too strong to be ignored, Saint Dymphna turned just in time to have a bottle shatter on her forehead, a mixture of crimson red blood and what looked like molten sludge dripped down her temples, coating her lips the liquids. Bright white light shone from where the bottle had cut, Saint Dymphna screeching like a banshee on a dark night in Ireland. Her body fell to her knees, fingers stretched wide as if she were about to be crucified. Her vessel shook as if she was having a seizure, she violently grabbed her throat.
Screaming, her arms flew out to her sides, head tilted back. Eyes and hands shone with the same blinding white light coming from her forehead. Growing brighter and brighter, the five men shielded their eyes from the light. Seconds later, the screaming stopped, and the light was gone. The frail body fell to the ground.
First looking to what Castiel hoped was Leila, even with the bloody forehead. He could at least heal that. But Castiel frowned, where had the bottle come from? He looked in the direction, seeing a familiar blonde he'd never been happier to see before—his brother.
Gabriel stared down at the body, hand tucked into his pocket like he hadn't just killed one of the most powerful beings Castiel had ever seen. "Avada Kedavra, bitch."
*****
[A.N.] I really hope you enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it. I've really renewed my inspiration for these characters, and if I do say so myself, this is one of the best chapters I've written in this series. Let me know what you think in the comments below, and vote & fan if you enjoyed!
The final chapter will be posted on the 23rd. A Christmas oneshot on the 24th (that ties it books 1.5 & 2 together). And the prologue of THE ANGEL OF ANXIETY will be posted Christmas Day. Happy holidays!
- Thalia