Not Until We Are Lost

This had not gone the way the angel had planned. Of course, he could not have planned for the variable of foreign, powerful beings transporting both him and his vessel out of time and space, nor for being confronted with a version of his vessel's brother who had no intention of keeping their deal. He had known that Castiel would be a problematic variable, and it was his own fault for not having managed to avoid him entirely. Perhaps he had gotten too comfortable with the feeling that Sam would protect him, that the others would hesitate before actually hurting the vessel in order to get to the angel inside.

Where he had failed was not the point. He was now without a vessel, and he was not strong enough to escape this reality without one. He had not been strong enough even with Sam as his vessel, but he had been growing stronger. He needed a vessel that he could control, force into submission, so there would be no more variables. One that was strong enough to hold him, but not strong enough to reject him.

The humanoids here were not properly human. Possession was... potentially possible, but not appealing. Most of the humans that were here were of different realities, and different bloodlines, which complicated things. But there was one...

Sam's son. From a different reality, but of the same blood, both in terms of human and demon. And both bloodlines were diluted, which might mean less strength to resist-- but still enough strength to hold him.

He circled the sleeping human invisibly, reaching into his subconscious as he dreamed. In the dream, he set the background of Sam's room as it had been when Rob was in it, and placed the boy in it.

Sam was lying in the bed, almost exactly as he had been when the angel had first encountered him in the hospital. Except he was awake, barely-- and he was dying, much more slowly and painfully for the fact that he was conscious. His body was emaciated and bruised, but his eyes were open, looking at his son. When he tried to speak he coughed instead, blood came from his mouth, which he feebly tried to wipe away and hide from the son standing at his bedside.

"Rob," he said in a hoarse whisper. Into the boy's head came the knowledge that his father was dying, the way knowledge comes in dreams. Sam looked like he was trying to say something else, but instead drew in a ragged breath.

And having set the stage, the angel waited for the boy's response.

( spoilers for SPN 9x09 )

Sam had mostly acclimatized to this whole situation. He was almost, but not quite, used to living in medieval times-- used to the strangeness of everything else, the individuals in their 'group' that approached him every once in a while. He was almost even used to the strangest part of all, the simple fact that he was not alone in his own head. The angel hadn't caused him any difficulty since the spectacle of healing Rose, and even that hadn't been purposeful, so far as Sam knew. Ezekiel was, for the most part, quiet and dormant and barely noticeable, except when Sam attempted to reach out to him, mentally.

Of course, it was impossible to forget that he was there. Sam's mind was accustomed to the practice of reminding him what was wrong in any given moment: for years it had reminded him that he was demon-blooded, and then it had very literally taken the task upon itself to remind Sam of his time in hell, through hallucinations of the devil. Now, it kept him aware of the angelic consciousness inside him, which manifested largely in the fact that Sam felt good. Really good, really healthy, for the first time in longer than he could remember. He knew that he wasn't actually as healthy as he felt; if the angel left him now, he might not die, but he'd certainly be a lot worse off. It was more the angel's energy that was keeping him running, and every time he realized that, it reined him in, kept him from feeling too optimistic about the situation. But so far, he had no real reason to complain. The angel was keeping to the agreement.

Until one day while he was out in the town, completely out of nowhere, he suddenly felt a surge of angelic energy rising inside him. He started to struggle, but all the angel did was turn his head, forcibly directing his attention to a person that was down the street. Still conscious, Sam realized that he was being allowed to see what the angel was seeing-- not for the first time, and he stopped struggling for a moment to try to process the information. Angelic sight showed much more than his mind was entirely able to comprehend, though he was so fascinated by it that he'd been trying. And now Ezekiel was showing him something without being asked, so there had to be something important.

The person was human, male, and from a point in time ahead of Sam's, as well as a different reality. But there was something... something that Sam's mind was having trouble processing, though whether that was a translation between human and angelic mental processes or because of simple disbelief, he didn't know. He was fairly certain of what he was seeing, yet he didn't believe it. His mind objected, trying to rationalize it away, that the angel must be mistaken, or that he'd misunderstood what he was being shown.

And he realized, belatedly, that the angel had retreated back into his subconscious, leaving him back in control of his body and mind and still staring at the boy-- man, really-- that stood about a hundred yards away. He was still too stunned by the experience to move for a moment, and then he attempted to pull himself together, before starting to walk in the other man's direction. There was really only one way to find out if what the angel was trying to tell him was true or not.

But once he got closer, he found that he had no idea how to begin this conversation. "Hi," he said, a little awkwardly, unable to help the way his gaze was still searching the man's face for clues, though there was a lot less information to be had when he was looking through his own, human eyes. Still... there was an unnerving resemblance, and although he was thoroughly unsettled by the implications of it, Sam was determined to persevere. "Sorry, it's just-- I saw you at the ball, and I have the strangest feeling that I should know who you are. Do you know me?"

The doors of the palace were thrown open. The grand ballroom was decked out with silver and blue decorations, crystal snowflakes hung from the ceiling and the palace entertainers played merry tunes to greet the guests. The aromas of the feast wafted out the door and down the street. The Queen herself sat at the head table with the princess at her side. The princess didn't look entirely happy at the moment, though there was speculation that she wasn't the sort to settle down and the Queen had been the one to decide that now was the time for the princess to narrow her sights to one single suitor.

Most of the kingdom turned up in their finery. From lords and ladies to peasants, all could be seen dining and drinking and after dinner, dancing.

Those that were the abductees had been invited as well. The Queen had even arranged with the aliens to keep one, should the princess decide that she fancied one of the group that had come to temporary fill the open job positions. Oh, it had taken some diplomatic posturing, but it was her hope that those from other worlds might hold her princess' attention more than those native to this one.

After dinner, the princess stood at the edge of the dance floor as a line of gentlemen were introduced to her. Those who attended had more than the princess to focus on, however. The minstrel strolled through the crowd as he played, and various other entertainers were stationed throughout the ballroom. Wine flowed generously, which resulted in some of the guests sliding towards entertainment themselves.

It was just so bright.

The Doctor stepped backward, as though to get away from the brightness of the square. It was day time and there were torches at the foot of the platform he stood on, which he quickly realized was a stage. Based on the dress of the people standing there, watching him, waiting for him to do something, the Doctor placed the time period in at least a rough era, and wished he could be more exact with at least a decade, but he could not. Not right this second. Not without using the TARDIS or the Sonic. Not without talking to these people.

"Come on, get on with it!" one of the onlookers shouted. It was a woman with a disapproving face. It seemed, based solely on her expression, that she thought the Doctor stupid.

As he turned to look behind him, the Doctor could not blame her.

A large banner hung behind him, serving as a backdrop for the stage, and it read THE MAGICKAL ACTS OF JOHN SMYTH THE ADEQUATE, with a set of times listed after.

Adequate? That wasn't a ringing endorsement, was it?

Still, the Doctor smiled broadly and decided to enjoy this. "Right then! Pressing on!"

He rubbed his hands together with something like glee. He reached into his coat pocket, noticing that it was an ornate coat, not his leather jacket, and well patched on the inside, as though he'd had it quite some time, and removed the Sonic Screwdriver.

"For my next trick," he said, smirking, "with this wand, I will make that banner back there accurate!"