The Fallen's Sword
Synopsis: Death, War, Famine, and Conquest only mean one thing to the Winchester Brothers and they're all gunning for Sam. Can Dean save Sam before Lucifer claims his intended vessel thus bringing upon hellfire and the world's ruin? If so, will he be able to stop the angel's from carrying out their plan? Dark fic. LimpSam.
Disclaimer: As you all know, I do not own the characters, or the storyline. Just meddling with the bros…again. All places and new characters (e.g. the four horsemen) are made up. I have no idea what Kripke is up to or what he has in mind. So this is just what I came up with and is just an excuse for some action, drama, and a lot of limpage. Enjoy!
Setting: Story takes place after Season 5, Episode 4. This becomes an AU after that.
CHAPTER ONE
In the city, it began with a bright flash. It was closed followed closely by a tremendous rumble…and then there were screams.
An impenetrable cloud of dust hung over the city like a veil. Despite being a sunny day in Dawson Cove, the atmosphere was dark and suffocating. Shortly after, the cloud lifted revealing a gulf-sized crater carved in the ground. A black tarmac ran directly at the hole, the end scorched, red-hot and fragmented, leaning over the edge of the curve. Rock and rubble all formed around the outside of the crater. The various bushes, hooked streetlights, and sides of buildings were engulfed in flames. Several cars and buses lay on their sides, upturned by the blast. Screams of terror and cries for help first began in one section of the town square and then soon were everywhere.
Tens of dozens of people: men, women, and small children, covered in blood, dust, and burns fled through the streets; many elderly left to fend for their own. Broken, mangled bodies littered the ground. Dust, debris, and glass lay scattered all along the main street. The buildings and small shops on each side lay in ruins, some on fire. Others blown to bits with half of its vicinity's remains lying amongst the sidewalks. Over in the distance, a car explodes. Several more screams are heard over the blast and roaring of the flames.
In the midst of the pandemonium, a large bulky bald man, dressed like a guy from Sons of Anarchy with the leather jacket, jeans and biker boots, stood in the middle of the street. Personifying Captain Morgan with his foot perched on the bumper of an upturned vehicle, a malicious grin kept plastered over his face as he surveyed the scene, relishing in the chaos born. A moon-shaped rusty weapon hung loosely in his meaty hand.
His time has come.
The signs were in place.
He was the bringer of death.
A loud whistling sounded from above. He looked up and watched as another one of his fireballs, shaped like a comet with a great tail of smoke and fire behind it, fell to the earth. Another flash. Another rumble. And more screams ensued. His eyes kept open, unharmed by the flare of the blast; his smile widening at the rush of brimstone ash flushing past his vessel's body, tickling its flesh almost in a pleasuring way; its toxic stench enshrouding him whole.
This was his sandbox.
A weeping man came stumbling up to him. A business clerk it seemed, his glasses broken and askew with blood trickling down the side of his face, mumbling incoherently. He extended out his hands, begging for help. The bringer of Death merely sneered lifting his weapon, slicing off the top half of the man's head. The beggar went down with a loud thud, the severed portion of his head rolling away.
Death laughed.
This was his sandbox, and he has come to play.
Several hundred miles away in a little town called Ivory, it was a miserable wet night. Hail-like rains had begun to pour sometime in the middle afternoon, refusing to let up until late evening; afterward, leaving everything damp and cold. Every one of the two thousand and five hundred residents made their way inside. However, it wasn't the rain that had them leave. A seemingly unnatural darkness enveloped the area, making every person's skin crawl. An unpleasant feeling developed in their stomachs, coercing them to remain paranoid, and overly cautious.
Sam and Dean Winchester, however, hadn't minded. Nothing made their stomachs crawl. Nothing ever gave them a foreboding feeling. Nothing had ever seemed to faze them much as they had seen and done more than the average person can dream. Brothers to the end, the two through the good and the bad worked as a team combating supernatural fiends and foes. Stuck knee deep in the approaching Apocalypse, the brothers carried on with their normal routine: squatting in a dingy basic service motel room all day catching up on some late research and gun cleaning.
Sam, as usual, sat at a small reading table, hunched over and in much need of a caffeine break, skimming over the latest news reports of Dawson Cove. His eyes itched with fatigue, unable to blink. A deep pensive look bore over his features as he read and absorbed Intel about the destruction and chaos that transpired over the course of the week.
So far what Sam was able to conclude was probably more daunting than enlightening. It wasn't just Dawson Cove that mysterious and devastating disasters occurred in. A sudden famine broke out in Gilbee, Wisconsin. Many people either died of starvation or had to leave the town in search for other available supplies, resulting in becoming a Ghost Town. Theobourgh, Montana, a nice and civilized corn-manufacturing county, recently had been run over by cults and gang violence, turning the rural area into a war zone. So far thirty-three deaths have been accounted for, with the number increasing day by day. Other towns just like it within a five hundred mile radiuse have gone up in flames.
The most recent and disastrous was Dawson Cove. A small city, on the verge of expanding, had gone up in a mushroom cloud within a day. It was like a bomb had dropped in the center. Over a hundred have been reported dead. Chaos blossomed, people overwhelmed with panic, flooding the streets, prone to violence and murder. It was so sudden and the wreckage so vast. The authorities and volunteers were overwhelmed and worked endlessly in picking up the pieces. The cause of the devastation had yet to be determined.
The more Sam dwelled on the matter, the more he recognized the signs. One after the other after the other in a systematic sequence: the signs of the dawning End of Time took place. Each counting down to the minute Hellspawn and Hellfire was about to wreak holy Hell, ultimately in the Earth becoming one big roasting chestnut.
Guilt festered like an infected wound with the knowledge that it was he whom had started this inevitable end. It was he, the culprit whom pulled the trigger, because of his selfish desire to be the savior of the world. Instead he allowed himself to be hoodwinked into releasing Hell's overlord and warrior: Lucifer, the Fallen Angel, from his molten cage. Since unintentionally opening the gateway, not only had he unleashed the legendary Angel, but also opened the portal for which will allow Hell to be brought forth on the earthen plain thus invoking the spiral of events heralding the future's doom.
That was just his luck!
Only Sam—the good guy—trying to do the right thing, actually went in the wrong direction. Luckily his GPS started working again and he got back on track. But the damage was already done. It was his mess. He knew that. Since reuniting with his brother a second time, the two had been on route in tracking each and every sign, monster, preventative ritual they could find; anything to help resolve the upcoming debacle.
Now it was only a matter of where to start cleaning up. Either side of the celestial chain hadn't been helpful as to how to go about reaching redemption. So he kept at it, gaining as much knowledge as he could to be prepared. His gut instinct telling him there would be a great battle…and soon.
Dean, as usual, disinclined for news watching. The way he figured pouring over countless logs of celebrity life crises and more natural disasters, he was bound to end up in a straightjacket by the end of the week. Research was more of Sam's thing. It was a refresher to get back into the old routine. Kid brother deals with the books and tells where to shoot, and he pulls the trigger.
What Dean wouldn't give to go back to the old way? Times were different now. Sam was different. He was different. Thrown into the middle of a supernatural war will do that to a man. Known as outcasts with both sides gunning for you. It was an endless black road full of bumps and potholes. A deep anger billowed and churned in his heart, spreading like a deadly disease knowing that the Angels, the side he put forth his very little faith and trust, used him and his brother as pawns into invoking the end of the world. Situations like this only proved his father correct in trusting in yourself and your family…and no one else. Especially since now, he and his brother were chosen to be the vessels for the most powerful enemies on Earth: the Fallen Angel Lucifer and the Archangel Michael.
Instead of research for a new gig, Dean opted to clean all the artillery, oil the guns, reload them and update their Supernatural protection from both sides. There wasn't any room now days for careless slip-ups. Either side was less than compliant in letting them off the hook. Though that didn't mean they were completely invisible. Sooner or later, something was going to find them. And that's why clean and loaded weapons were better than gunk-filled unloaded weapons. You never know when Barney Badass was going to come knocking.
He looked up from sticking in the plush plunger into the barrel of the 12-gauge shotgun. "Anything?"
Without glancing back, Sam shook his head, suckling on his bottom lip. "Same old. Same old. And it's getting worse. The signs are everywhere man. It's coming down to the final straw."
"Oh goodie," Dean replied sarcastically sending a strained smile. Wiping down the barrel, he asked, "Anything on about what could be next, what we gotta watch out for?"
Sam gave a pointed look. "Don't you think I would have told you by now if there were?"
Dean bobbed his head, pursing his lips in mock-irritation going back to work. "Yeah. I guess you're right."
A few minutes later, Sam let out a large infamous Sammy Huff. "I don't know man. Everything is happening so fast. There could be hundreds of possibilities that can go down. First, we have these freakish natural disasters. Now we have people creating their own mess. It's just…I want to help clean this up, put an end to this, but how? Where do I start? I mean, who knows, tomorrow some dumbass in a meth lab could set off some sort of chemical nuke and we could all be blown to bits. There goes my mission," Sam said entirely frustrated.
Dean paused in his work, grimacing. "Don't say that. You never know where those bastards are and what they come up with. Let's be a little more positive, okay?"
That comment received a glare. "Sure I'll do that," Sam replied sarcastically with a bit of an edge, "Cuz everything is just so damn peachy. I talked to Trevor a little while ago on the phone and he said he skipped out of his own town because there was nothing he could do."
"When was this?"
"You were out getting lunch."
"Oh." Dean nodded, ready to go back to cleaning. But after seeing the distraught and growing despair written all over his brother's face, it was time to do a little 'Big Brother comes to the rescue with a speech' deal.
"Sam. I know okay? It's frustrating, I know," Dean interjected calmly. "Everything's not looking too good. But if we don't think about what we can do instead of trying to stop it all happening at one time, it's gonna kill us. So it's okay. I know its worth a couple of whiskey shots every night for…but we're doing the best we can. Think of it that way. It'll help you sleep at night."
The annoyed glare never faltered.
"Okay?" Dean urged.
Sam huffed. "Fine. And yes, you're right. I just hate having this helpless feeling, and instead all we can do is just pick up the pieces afterwards. It's not helping."
"Right," Dean agreed, "And I know how you feel. I've only looked after you for nearly thirty years. But like whoever said, it's gonna get worse before its gets better. The only thing we can do is just hang on tight and enjoy the ride."
"Whatever," Sam shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "Okay Dr. Phil, what's next?"
"Next? Hmmm, that's easy. Food. Shower. Sleep," Dean enumerated, counting off his fingers.
"All in that order?"
"Damn straight. Cheeseburger and fries are the main priority. Where've you been? Get with the program!"
"Sure, sure Ralph," Sam rose from his chair, stretching out the kinks in his back. Letting out a long yawn, he said, "All right. Are you making a run or am I?"
"I'm on cleaning duty. Sides' it's your turn," Dean responded, wiping down the barrel of the shotgun with a green terry cloth. "Keys are on the night stand. Be gentle with her. Don't forget to tuck her in."
"Whatever Jerk."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'll make it quick. As long as I stay off Angel Radar, we'll be fine –"
The television suddenly lost reception. Both boys glanced at the flickering screen, becoming suspicious. Next the entire motel room vibrated roughly. The lampshade fell to the carpet. Decorative pieces on the walls bounced off their suspenders, shattering on impact. The table jostled and scuttled across the carpeted floor. The lights flickered on and off resembling a dim strobe-light.
Something was coming.
Dean grabbed the only loaded shotgun off the bed. Sam raced to his side, taking out his Taurus handgun, each taking one another's flanks, preparing for the entity or entities arrival. A high-pitched ringing sounded, much like the ringing when Dean first experienced Castiel's presence. The boys covered their ears, grimacing at the shrill piercing; both emitting out small pained moans.
A second later, it was all over. The ringing, the roughhousing, all had stopped. The TV clicked back to normal with the presentation of the Dukes of Hazzard marathon. Still weary, the boys exchanged nervous glances. Yet glad the tornado was over with, it didn't help soothe their unease. No way would something have come and gone the way it did.
After a minute of nothing, each let out a long breath.
Then simultaneously the hairs on the back of their necks stood up.
"So sorry to have dropped in like this. Have I come at a bad time?" a spine-chilling familiar voice said.
Groaning, the brothers turned around meeting Zachariah once again. The same in his black suit, pink tie, and douchebag smile. Only this time he came alone, which was odd.
Dean turned his scowl on Sam, smacking him upside the head.
"What?" Sam grumbled.
"You dumbass! You just had to go ahead and jinx us, didn't you?" Dean turned to Zach, "How'd you find us?"
The owl-like eyes widened and the bobbing of the head started. Of course, an angel with an attitude! "You should be very careful about what you say in your phone conversations. You never know who just might be tuned in."
Dean scowled again at his brother, who shrugged. "And it was so nice having a dick-free night. What is it this time? More recruitment lines? Michael's running out of auditions?"
Zach shook his head, giving an amused shift of the lips. "It's always the same with you Dean. Still up on that high horse, I see? I just don't get it. Why do you choose to fight this? Many would have given their lives willingly for this opportunity. But it's all yours. It is your destiny."
"If Destiny is watching and allowing six billion people to be massacred while you fight over a planet just so you can have your Stepford paradise, then Destiny can kiss my lily-white ass."
"So you're willing to let others die, because you don't want our General to fight? Because you're afraid of being worn like a puppet suit?" the dick angel complained. "And you called us selfish pricks? Dean, it's game time. We're now on the final lap heading towards Judgment Day. There is still time. We can win this."
Sam eyed his brother earnestly, wondering what course of action his sibling was going to take. They both had their quarrels with Destiny. And who knew how each was going to fight it. Dean certainly was being quite the chipper about it, signaling his answer.
"Yeah well, it's a good thing I forgot my running shoes," Dean answered coolly. "The answer's still no."
"No?"
Dean was becoming flustered. "Do I have to spell it? If you're so gung-ho about this, then why doesn't the bastard himself come down and talk to me? Huh? If he can't, then why even bother? I said no."
That mischievous smile on Zach's face never changed. Dean couldn't help but notice that his eyes occasionally flitted off him.
Zach huffed. "Fine."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's it?"
"It's done. You spoke your decision."
"So it's over? No popping in from time to time. No more guilt-trips. You won't bother me or my brother about this ever again?"
"Yes," he smiled.
It all seemed surreal, that the angel was finally relenting. Especially this angel. Suspicious feelings walloped inside Sam, making him feel very uncomfortable. Then it struck him. "It's a trick."
Zach smirked. "Always were the sharp tack, weren't cha Sammy?"
Dean raised the shotgun up higher, threateningly. "What do you mean?"
The angel chuckled. "Sorry Dean. You missed your call a long time ago. I just wanted to see if there was still a chance. Guess not. And that's okay," his eyes roamed to Sam once more, "If we can't get what we want…then the only thing we can do is to keep Lucifer from getting what he wants."
Panic blossomed in his gut and he turned to Sam with a wide expression. Shit! The angel held up his fingers, ready to snap them, and no doubt take his brother with him as they had done so many times with himself before.
The douche angel never got a chance. The windows suddenly exploded from behind them. Both brothers covered their heads at the jettisoned particles and the wind blasting them forward. Thunderous hums from large car engines sounded and the next second large lightbeams shined through, cascading them all in a blinding light. Zachariah backed away frantic, screaming "Not all of them" before vanishing out of there.
His departure was not comforting in the least bit. Sam and Dean hadn't the slightest clue of what to make of it. The bright fluorescence all around the room made it difficult to see. Suddenly the sound of a revving engine occurred followed by the sound of squealing tires. The brothers looked on as a 05' White Mustang crashed through the front wall.
Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder and hauled ass to the bathroom at the backend of the room. "Go. Go!"
The mustang continued to run rivets into the living space, knocking over the adjacent beds, rolling over the mounds of splintered walls and broken furniture pieces. It revved once more toppling the broken bed pieces, as if it were in a Monster Truck Derby, coming to the door of the bathroom.
Inside the small box, hardly worth calling a bathroom, was a window. Sam hesitated; afraid his broad muscular shoulders wouldn't have been able to fit through. However, with his balls-to-the-wall brother behind, it wasn't a matter of if he could fit, it was a matter of how fast are you gonna squeeze through? Cuz one way or another his ass was going through. With a good push, Sam slid through the small opening with great difficulty, falling to the ground. Contrary to his exit, his brother glided through the small aperture in a matter of seconds. Once out of the room, they took off along the back of the building and the side of the woods.
Another crash sounded behind them. They glanced back to see the Mustang burst through to the outside covered in wall debris and bricks. Once it turned in their direction, other vehicles, other Mustangs, followed. The White Mustang's headlights turned on their running frames and its engine revved up.
The brothers ran fast, gaining a good distance due to their long strides. But soon the car caught up aiming to plow into their respective behinds. Sam, as a last-ditch effort, grabbed Dean by the hem of his shirt and pulled him into the edge of the woods. The Mustang skidded to a halt at the dense forestry.
In the woods and in the dark, it seemed perilous to sprint a marathon through. But it wasn't like they had a choice. On past the trees, slipping through the mud, barreling into unforeseen ground bushes and thorn pits, dodging spiderwebs, the brothers carried on like they had a purpose. Their pace had not slowed until rays of orange light shined through the scattered timberland. Trekking towards the lights, they found on the outskirts of the woods, a four-storied bricked office building with a huge perimeter fence stationed several hundred yards away. The light they saw was from a streetlight. Thank God for small favors.
"Come on," Dean said jogging forward.
Sam followed without a word. He looked all around, glancing up and down the road that led to it. He was a bit uneasy about their next destination, a feeling of dread sprouting. It was too late to turn back as his 'quick-like-a-bunny' brother seemingly hopped over the tall fence. Still quiet, Sam climbed and was over in the time needed.
Once on the other side, they took a look at the building and learned it had to be under reconstruction or renovation due to the CAT tractors and mounds of wooden materials. A long black cord ran, leading into a set of chained double-doors.
Dean figured that was his best bet. Setting his pace at a jog again, he pried the door open enough for his brother to fit through. "Come on. Go. Go. Go."
Sam complied ducking into the doorway. Dean glanced around at the outside first before entering. Before them was a long hallway with door-less rooms on each side. Inside was dark, the lighting from the outside giving off shadows; everything cloaked in grey, having a sinister quality. There was nothing but an eerie silence.
Gasping, Dean pointed, "This way…I think."
He didn't have a clue what they were doing or what they were going to do. Running seemed like the best option at this point in time. Turning into one of the rooms, the Winchester's decided to catch their breath. Their hands fell on their knees as they took huge starving pants.
Dean turned to Sam with a small smile. "I think—" he gasped, "I think we lost them."
"That's good enough…for me," Sam panted, nodding, straightening up to his full height.
He spoke too soon.
The wall behind them exploded in shambles with a deafening roar. A giant cloud of dust and debris hurled with enough force to send them both to their knees. The roaring settled along with the dust. In haste, Sam lifted his brother up ready to scramble out of there.
Suddenly a shearing pain shot through Sam's chest, beginning at his lower back. It stole his breath away. Slowly he drifted his gaze into Dean's eyes. Bright flecks of blood painted all across his brother's face, a deep look of horror plastered over it. He looked down to find a rusty sheath of metal protruding from his chest, just to the side of his lungs, the feeling of wood against his upper back. He instantly recognized what it was: a scythe.
In the following second, the metal tugged and Sam sling-shotted back through the imperfect hole. The scythe was connected to a chain yanking him through the rubble from the other fallen walls.
"SAM!" Dean cried racing into the hole his brother disappeared through, following the whizzing dust and pained yells.
Clutching the metal in his chest, Sam pushed to act against the tugging force. Blood bubbled from his mouth, staining his teeth, dribbling down his chin. He was sliding at an incredibly fast pace with Dean chasing after him calling his name.
Eventually he stopped. Pained and dazed, he quickly analyzed he was dragged to the outside of the building. A group of 340 HP 05' Mustangs surrounded him. There was no time to see who his enemies were before a chain was wrapped around his neck three times and he was lifted up onto his knees.
Dean never stopped calling Sam's name. He barged through the clearing, sliding along the gravel to a stop. With dread, he lowered the shotgun by his side. He was surrounded…and so outnumbered.
Four bright Mustangs in Red, White, Black, and Silver encircled them, all resting on top of the high security fence. Sitting among the tops were three men. To the right, a strongly built French man with dark wavy hair, devilishly black eyes, a leather jacket sat on top of the White car's hood. Faintly on his right cheek was the tattoo of an archer's bow. He held in his palm a keychain with a large arrow, swinging it around his finger. Ah, the room wrecker.
Beside him was another guy, sitting on top of the black Mustang. He was uniquely different than the first. Rather lanky, thin, balding, with a sickly hue. He wore a worn windbreaker jacket mix-matching it with frayed jeans, supporting an average poor person look. Contradicting his Average Joe look were flashy high-caret diamonds hung on each ear—the lobe of one ear hanging lower than the other, giving the earrings a sort of lopsided visage; kinda like a scale.
Dean's breath hitched at the following jackass not sitting on his vehicle. A strong, bulky bald man stood in front of the silver car, yanking and jerking on the chain around his brother's neck. The man who was all muscle hoisted Sam up to where he sat on his knees and jiggled him around teasingly. Sam scrunched his eyes, gritting his teeth, pushing against the object in his chest, simultaneously pulling at the chain around his throat. Dean narrowed his eyes. He remembered that particular weapon. Alistair used it to kill that one reaper, nearly killing Tessa with it too, had he not escaped and foiled the demon's plan.
Catching the last member of the foursome, recognition sparked as he recalled the apple-red hot-rod, the man's gangly frame, the glasses he was cleaning, the suit…and his most striking feature, his missing ring finger. It wasn't too long ago they encountered this guy.
Another pang shot through his heart as he instantly figured out who and what his foes were. And if he remembered correctly, what he ascertained from his research, these were the four…the four horsemen, the bringers of pestilence, destruction, chaos…the trumpeters of the Apocalypse. The leather jacket: Conquest; Average Joe: Famine; his lovely accountant friend: War. So Baldy with the scythe holding Sam up by his neck must be the last, the caller of doom…Death.
They were going down to the last dab detail, weren't they? Death and a scythe, how cute!
Another ill-acquainted thought occurred to him. According to Revelations, once the fourth, the last was called, or rather after he appeared, then Hell would follow, casting down tumultuous torrents of hellfire, scorching the earth. Zach was right. The finish line was in sight. And sooner or later everyone and everything was gonna need their two-million SPF sunblock. Great!
However, formally meeting the group wasn't the present problem. Dean refused to lose his cool, clenching his jaw tight at seeing his brother grimace at the strain. Blood smeared all along Sam's teeth, sliding fluently down the side of his mouth.
Dean stared them all down defiantly. He hadn't a clue of how to approach this problem...or even an iota on how to defeat them. It was hard taking on one, but all four? No wonder Zach hauled ass out of there like a scared kitten. So that left his only remaining weapon: sarcasm.
"War. Nice to see ya again buddy. You look great," he said to the accountant on the Red Mustang. The man gave a genuine smirk, still cleaning his glasses. Dean turned to the others. "Let me guess. V8s. Crappy economy-style fashion. Douchebag looks. I'd say Vegas money's on that you're the four. The four telemarketers for the Apocalypse. Just please do me a favor and don't bust out the trumpets. I've had enough cliché's for the day."
"D…D-Dean," Sam garbled painfully…and in irritation, still struggling at the chain.
At that, the big brother became slightly desperate. He fanned his hands out. "Okay look, you're not the only ones whose party list we're on. Any minute now, a firestorm of angels are about to come raining down. And they once they find you here, there'll be nothing but rolling heads, burnt tires, and a really big fireworks show. You might make it. You might not."
The three on the surrounding vehicles all glanced at the bald one, evidently signifying their leader.
Dean noticed this and continued, trying to have a chance. He had to try something else. The longer he stalled, the worse Sam appeared. "We all know how this is going to end. So why don't we just skip the whole middle plot and let him go, okay. Nothing has to happen. No blood feud or nasty parts scattering all over the place. Just let my brother go."
None of the four goons replied. They merely just stared with glee and triumph.
Glowering, Dean stepped forward. "I said…Let. Him. Go."
Death smiled, letting out a small chuckle as he lifted Sam up by another inch. Sam moaned with pain forcing Dean to take a step back.
"Dean," he said in a deep voice. "We've heard so much about you. And you haven't disappointed us yet."
He caught the worried glint marked in the man's eyes as he looked at his brother. His sloppy smile widened. "Oh don't worry. Didn't skewer any organs or vital parts if that's what's you're wondering," he jostled Sam some more to prove his point, "Just gotta borrow him for a bit. Lucifer needs to have a little chat with our VIP here. We'll try to keep him in one piece, we swear."
"No. Stop!"
"Sorry," the beefy guy cut in. His icy blue eyes beamed. "Orders are orders. It's Show Time and the boss needs his meatsuit. You've had plenty of chances. Time's up."
Dean's eyes widened. "NO!"
But it was too late. Sam's pleading look was the last thing he saw before the four horsemen and their vehicles were gone in a flash.
With his heart now pulsing in his throat, Dean took off at a dead sprint. He had to get to the car. He had to get to the motel. He had to do something.
"CASS…Cass!" He screamed.
The angel did not beckon to his calling. Still racing along the wet asphalt, he continued to call the angel's name until he was blue in the face.
