TABULA RASA
Katherine-E-Kora
PROLOGUE
An overwhelming and oppressive darkness ripped at the seams of the world. Buzzing, vibrating drones, piloted by men behind toggle-sticks and big red buttons, clotted the noontime sky. Their net was thicker than blood; so thick that it blacked out the sun. For fifteen whole minutes, the land below grew icy cold. Passerby in the streets looked up in terror and saw their own breath, billowing outward in cottony clouds of opaque suspension.
When the end came, not everyone was surprised. The great majority were; those dwelling in the large, ignorant cities and those who pushed away the signs with their upturned noses.
It was a busy day for the Men of Letters.
In a sprawling bunker laid shallowly into the Kansas countryside, the whole universe was alight—alight on electrical boards, alight on an interactive tabletop map, alight in loud reds and greens and oranges, alight in the form of stridently sounding sirens that lined every hallway and wall. Men in suits emblazoned with their initials gripped the edges of chairs wordlessly, nothing but pension in their expressions.
Down the hall and to the right, another man in a different suit clutched his wife's hand as she cried out in pain at the end of her first labor; the first of two, and certainly the most eventful.
Above ground, the first bombs began to drop. The woman clenched her teeth. The bunker rattled and shook; glass fixtures spattered on the floor. A young man, his dark hair wild and disheveled, walked tensely into the room of the man and his pained wife. Hell shone bright in his blue eyes. His hands grasped tightly onto the thin air, forming white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"John," He directed at the man, "Mary, somebody, tell me what to do. Nobody else is listening to me, John. We're almost out of time."
John gripped his wife's hand tighter as another contraction hit her, in sync with the bombs that bombarded the land above. Mary's jaw unlocked and she let out a light-shattering scream. Somewhere deep in the recesses of the bunker, an engine kicked on and the emergency lighting spurred to life, bleary and dim. The man with the hellfire eyes flinched, the hem of his too-long overcoat shifting with the slight motions of the rolling bunker. He braced himself against the doorframe.
"John," He loudly repeated, "We're running out of time!"
The man John spared his onlooker a withering, steely glare.
"I know, Castiel," John roared, "But this is more important to me! Can't you see that? You want to do something? Fine, Castiel, protect Mary!"
Castiel narrowed his eyes, hesitating. Another gaggle of men herded a small group of women and children down the hall behind him, and the supposed leader of this group stopped at the doorway and nodded to John Winchester, who nodded back and, sparing Mary and apologetic and passionate kiss on the forehead, shoved Castiel out of the way and went back to work.
Having no other choice, Castiel braved the uneven ground and pulled up a chair next to Mary's bedside. He robotically replaced the air in his grip with her pallid hands. They were surprisingly weak, and her pulse pumped low and glowering beneath her frigid skin. Between pants, she let her head fall to Castiel's side of her pillow, and fixed him with a dying gaze of her own. Castiel rubbed her hands distractedly.
"Thank you, Cas," Mary breathed, "John can be a little harsh sometimes. He's under a lot of stress right now."
"We all are," Castiel gruffly replied.
Another barrage of contractions hit her, effectively breaking off their conversation into little more than perforated, agonized groans and tears. Castiel lowered his head and let his spirit run through her—through their hands. A soft glow. Mary sighed in relief, collapsing tiredly onto the sweat-stained bedspread. Her breathing evened out.
John returned to the room and the two new parents held him in their arms for the first time. Castiel stood and watched, returning to his place near the door. Most of the alarms around the bunker had calmed down at this point, replaced with a soft, dull crying. Fresh pink mouth open wide, tiny fists lashing out at the air. A wet flop of muddied blonde hair dirtied its skull. Castiel narrowed his eyes.
"Dean," Mary cooed as John helped her sit up and hold the newborn in her arms, "His name is Dean."
John nodded. A glow of youth had sparked in his eyes, bright and eager, at the sight of his first son. A boy, would you imagine it! If only the world were a better place, he would teach this child all about being a proper man, about all the finer things in life. How to fix a car, how to swing a bat, how to please a woman, how to respect the people you loved.
But instead, the glow in his eyes quickly faded. John sighed and turned away from his wife, raising his gaze to Castiel once more in a gesture of torn-up defeat.
He sighed, "Castiel, there'll be another attack in five minutes. And it won't be long before we're discovered here and you'll have to burn out again."
"I realize that," Castiel shot back, "You don't have to remind me."
"But, I need you to promise me something," John earnestly pleaded, "Please, protect my wife and son."
He agreed.