Author's note: So everyone voted and here it is, as it's own standalone. This was to be a drabble-style oneshot for my "These Wicked Precious Things" fic, but morphed into its own animal.

This badboy has a soundtrack, people. And it REALLY spawned this thing into what it is today and I highly recommend you give it a listen. It fits how I imagined this going down to a T. The track is "Exodus" by Two Steps From Hell.


Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook? Or press down on his tongue with a cord? Canst thou bore his jaw through with a thorn? Will he make many pleas to you? Will he speak to you soft words? Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons or his head with spears?

Lay thine hands upon him; remember the battle—do no more. Behold, the hope of a man is in vain; he is laid low even at the sight of him. None is so fierce that dare stir him up. Who then is able to stand before him?

Do not keep silence concerning his limbs, or his mighty strength, or his comely frame. Who would come near him with a bridle? Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror. His back is rows of shields, shut up together as with a seal. Scales so near to another that no air can come between them. Out of his mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire leap forth. Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out a cauldron or burning rushes. His breath kindleth coals, and in his neck abides strength, and terror dances before him. His heart is hard as a stone. When he raiseth himself up, the mighty are afraid; at the crashing they are beside themselves.

Though the sword reaches him, it does not avail, nor the spear, the dart, or the habergeon. He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee; for him slingstones are turned to stubble. Clubs are counted as sticks; he laughs at the rattle of javelins. On earth there is not his like, a creature without fear. He sees everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride.

He [the Leviathan] is the first works of God; let he who made him bring him unto death.

Book of Job

-Whomsoever unleashes the beast can destroy him-

The deserted parking lot feels like a battlefield today.

The air itself is electrified. Low hanging, dark cloudbanks serve as omens. Litter skips across the blacktop with the wind that steadily gains velocity. The whole city has been evacuated.

Bomb threat. Radioactive warfare. Sam is still too good at lying to law enforcement. Dean is with him now, elsewhere, destroying the leviathans' research center and the operation therein. Meg is… wherever she is. Running seems the only wise option.

But all that dissolves from his mind. His vision tunnels with driven purpose, the occasional raindrop contrasting the grim set of his face. Castiel strides forward with detached confidence, the tails of his recently reunited trenchcoat billowing behind him.

Dick Roman is already there, uncharacteristically alone—or what had once been Roman. There is a falsely pleasant smile planted on the face of his human guise and it reminds Castiel of the serpent. Except having Lucifer inside his head had been forgettable compared to this.

"Well." Roman stands, impeccable in a suit. He eyes the angel up and down upon approach. "If it isn't my old meatsack. The very conduit who brought us into this world."

Castiel stops a few feet away, remembering this leviathan specifically as it had clawed its way up into his mind months ago. "You'll be returned to Purgatory, you black stain. I'll send you myself." Thunder rumbles overhead, and it's strange because the forecast was for sunny skies. "You came because you believe you have nothing to fear."

Roman's lips tug apart in a self-righteous smirk. "I am a businessman. It would be rude not to hear you out."

"The Winchesters requested that I keep you distracted."

A knowing glance. "But that isn't why you're here."

"No, Richard Roman. Or whatever it is you're called. I'm not here to stall you."

Smile sliding off his face, Roman at last displays a flash of emotion. A warning, a spark of anger. The world around them darkens. "You're a foot soldier, angel. Weaponless, with no friends to aid you."

"I don't need a weapon. And my friends are setting fire to all your best laid plans as we speak."

Lips curl into a disdainful sneer. A flicker of twisted anticipation. "You're no match for me."

"It's time we found out."

She doesn't know why she's followed him. She should be getting the hell out of here, putting this forsaken city in her rearview mirror, but instead she stays. Cutting leviathans and all manner of creatures as she goes, Meg runs for him. He's the only beacon she knows.

Boots catching on the tar, she arrives in time to see the fight has already begun. She watches the cloudhopper pull the Leviathan into the mother of all headlocks. Roman's face is screwed up, teeth bared in a grimace of fury as he struggles.

Castiel was going to pull the damn thing's head off with his bare hands.

She has his blade again—not even needing to resort to her previous means of subterfuge, much to her disappointment, in order to get it. He'd just given it to her. Now she wishes he'd kept it for himself, but the angel sword won't do much good against a leviathan anyway. When more come, Meg fights them off. She's really no match for them all, no more than he is a match for the king, but they need to die and no one else is gonna do it.

The clouds above are gathering, blotting out sunlight and throwing the lot into shadows. Castiel has a split lip and a gash at his hairline, spilling blood all down his face. Roman's visage is a parody of horror, covered in black goo that oozes down his neck from various injuries. Meg can't watch for long. She's arrived with an entourage after all and, pointless or not, keeps cutting into leviathans with the gleaming alloy in her hands.


She hears her name and spins around, seeing the oldest Winchester sprinting adjacent to the scene, tank of sodium borax slung over his shoulder. She catches the one he tosses to her, joining in the foray against the other Big Mouths who've showed up.

Disgusting chompers, Meg thinks hotly, intent on wreaking damage. "Where the hell is Sasquatch?" she demands, because two on twenty is a little ridiculous and they could use a third.

"On his way!"

The factory has been wiped off the face of the map.

Gusts of wind shove at their backs, making them struggle. Rain pelts their faces at erratic intervals. Meg feels the bones of her wrist crack under the sudden grip there, but she twists around and transfers the blade, beheading the thing with her left. She crushes the head under her heel, kicking it aside. There's blood in her eyes and black stains on her clothes. Dean is already favoring a shoulder and a leg.

Another dared glance to the main event.

"Cas!" the best friend yells; it's a question and a protest. This wasn't the plan.

The angel is bleeding light now from somewhere under his collar, the dim glow of it showing through his shirt. Meg buries her anxiety beneath layers of indifference and self-preservation. Finish him already, Clarence. Before he finishes you.

A heavy sound fills the chorus of battle then, like the sails of a ship being unfurled, only greater. The whump of air resonates across the darkened sky. Meg does a double take. Then a triple take.

"Holy mother of…"

Around the two battling forces, stark, stretching shadows veer around them, curving, reaching. Blotting out sparses of residual daylight. The silhouettes shimmer, light caught in their nebulous depths, as they gain corporeal form. But nothing is so glorious, so magnificent, as the sight of those two massive black wings which finally appear and cut through the air like separate blades. Not shadows themselves, but the actual physical manifestations of the angelic appendages. Gleaming onyx feathers glisten in what little light remains, refracting it back. She's never seen anything like it, hardly able to believe she'd once thrilled at the idea of tearing out those wings herself.

They arch and stretch, rush forward, bracing like a shield against attack. Their movements flow, as he flows. As he summons the storm around them. Pretty as a comet. Meg fights, the image of her angel's revealed glory burned into her memory and providing the touchstone she needs.

In response to the heavenly gloves being torn off, the Leviathan becomes a truly hideous creature. Enough to put her own inner disfiguredness to shame.

Roman's entire form blackens like hardened lava, slick like oil and sprouting dozens of rows of spines in a terrifying transformation. He grows in height, limbs gaining chiseled muscle mass, clothing shredding where joints become too solid and bulky. Claws sprout from every finger until they are like a dragon's talons. Rows of teeth fill a massive maw, unhinging to reveal more. Eyes bleed to volcano red. Castiel, still in vessel form, nonetheless has become a display of pure light. Every inch of him glows white. The vibrant blue pools of his eyes shine brightly, so much so that the color nearly drains of them completely.

Two ancient, timeless beings, one of light and one of the purest darkness.

"We need to get the hell out of here!" Dean bellows, yanking on her arm.

But Meg is riveted to the scene unfolding, and will not budge. "Stay and watch the fireworks, Deano," she breathes in reverence at what she's seeing. The terrible beauty pulls at her like a magnet and she doesn't think she could leave even if she desired to.

Even the other leviathans lax in their violent efforts, watching on in awe, their expressions ranging from anticipation to fear.

Claws skitter on tar, gaining purchase and attacking with a ruthlessness more destructive than even Lucifer himself could ever claim. Castiel checks every attack, radiating wrath and determination. He catches the thing that had only minutes ago been a man by the joints; jaws snap viciously in his face before he wrestles it to the ground in an angelic deathgrip. Bones are crushed and rent from ligaments. The only remaining human form suffers relentless abuse despite the upper hand, but refuses to bow.

It's a power struggle. The angel collides with the perversion from Purgatory, a burning star attacking a black hole. Throws himself headlong into his own doing—this is the monster he'd set free. The ground shudders beneath the two opposing forces, a quaking in the earth rising up as wrath is unleashed. The Leviathan rips and tears, darting it's head like a snake, razor-edged fangs bared and gnashing. Castiel meets blow for blow, freezing wind yanking at his clothes, trenchcoat billowing around him.

Claws tear at flesh. Grace burns through a reptilian hide.

Dean himself is a mouthpiece to revenge, slaying his way mercilessly through the horde. Slimy, ooze-slicked body parts fly every which way until he can no longer keep track. Just keep cutting. If they can remove Roman, the remainder would crumble. It has to.

Feathers rake through gigantic appendages; Castiel feels shafts crush and bones snap as he slips free. Immense wings push off, launching him back at his target. With each rain of feathers shaken loose by attack, they are luminous for a beat before dulling. They drift downward, forgotten amid the fight, plumes charcoaled by the forty years besieging Hell in search of the Righteous Man. This is the truth of their appearance with no Grace to cloak and restore them.

Claws rake across the angel's chest. A piercing blast of sheer noise rips from his throat.

Meg's weapon drops and she presses both hands to her ears at the agony.

Castiel's true voice.

It makes her teeth vibrate in her skull, and the beast inside her instinctually recoils at the heavenly assault. But while she is still standing, the Leviathan is convulsing on the ground. The attack had been meant for it, whereas she and Dean merely stagger at the violent intrusion on their eardrums. It rocks all other creatures except them and Sam, as he arrives. She is still a thing of evil, but he has spared her. Thanks, Feathers, she wills his way.

Another thunderclap of sound rips the air and ears are sent ringing. The Leviathan's ungodly screech is the answering reply, a truly horrible sound. The sound of nightmares.

The fight is reaching a climax, the only uncertainty being the outcome itself.

The beast hurls itself upright, fury and madness creating a maelstrom in its eyes. "I am the most terrifying thing this limited cesspool of Creation has ever seen!" the Leviathan roars, human voice distorted by the disfigurement of his literal form. "I was first of the beasts! What are you, Castiel?"

Castiel squares himself, wings spread to their mightiest span. A crack of thunder pierces the veil of battle. Every light in the lot and neighboring streets blow out, raining down showers of sparks and a cascade of glass.

Lightning wreathed at his back, blue eyes afire, he replies to the beast, "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Author's Note: Every time you don't review... a Leviathan eats a poodle.

...Hmm. That might actually be incentive to neglect the review button completely...

J/k, J/k... I love the poodles. ;)