Chapter 4 – A Question of Self
"Angels," the Sheriff said flatly. "Angels?"
A part of Scott shared the Sheriff's incredulity, but he ignored it firmly. Angels weren't that much of a stretch from demonic kitsune spirits, right? It wasn't that crazy.
"This is insane," Isaac muttered, and apparently the Sheriff wasn't the only skeptic in the group.
Argent raised an eyebrow at Isaac. "More insane than everything else you've been through?"
"Actually, yes," Isaac responded sardonically. "Angels don't even compare to everything else we've been through. But I get your point so, please, continue."
Argent turned back to the group at large, and Scott noticed that Malia's expression had become hopeful. "That's good, right?" she asked. "Angels are the good guys, so that means that Stiles will be okay, that he's being taken care of."
Argent shook his head in response, and Scott grimaced internally. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. "Not according to my contact. Granted, all of this is third-hand information, but according to the story I was told they're definitely not the good guys."
"What do you mean?" the Sheriff asked, voice tight. When Stiles first disappeared, he had held himself together admirably, but as the months wore on without progress, the strain had begun to show. The lines on his face cut a little deeper, his frame appeared gaunt, and his eyes had lost their normal hint of humour. It was another failure to add to Scott's plate; he knew that Stiles would be counting on him to look after the Sheriff, but this wound was something that he couldn't heal.
"Remember those natural disasters we had a couple of years back?" Argent asked, and yeah, Scott remembered. It had been right before he had been bitten, and while Beacon Hills had been relatively spared, he could still recall feeling the aftershocks from nearby earthquakes. "Apparently that was actually a sign of the apocalypse. As in, the biblical kind."
Even Malia managed to look incredulous at that bombshell, and only Lydia seemed unsurprised, nodding her head as though she had almost expected this. Argent continued, "Hunters tend to run in different circles, and my family has never been heavily involved in hunting demons, so I only just found out about this recently. From what I understand, Lucifer had been released into the world, and two hunters managed to stop him at the last minute."
"Lucifer." Isaac repeated. "The devil. And, what, his legions of demonic forces?"
"More or less, yes," Argent replied. "Demons aren't that unusual, actually, and they've been emerging more and more frequently in the last few years. I've only come across one or two myself, and usually I was able to hit them with Holy Water for long enough to escape. There's a number of exorcisms out there that work, too. In light of recent events, I'll have to give you one of them in case you do run across any."
"What does this have to do with Stiles?" Malia asked, cutting him off.
"Because the angels were instrumental in releasing the devil," Argent explained. "They were working with the demons, and they wanted the apocalypse to happen. So if Stiles really has been possessed by an angel, then he may not be as safe as we hope."
Scott's stomach sank, and he felt his last grasp at optimism fall out of reach. "What can we do?" he asked, speaking up for the first time.
"Not much," Argent admitted, "but there's a few tricks we can use if we have the chance. Angels are incredibly powerful and not much stops them, but I've gotten hold of some Holy Oil which can be used to trap them, and there's a symbol that you all should memorise. Paint it on a wall in blood, and you can blast the angels far enough away that it takes them a while to get back."
"That's it?" the Sheriff asked, desperate. "No exorcism, no way to force them out?"
Argent shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm sorry," he said. "But while demons have been around a long time, angels are still new to the playing field, and hunters haven't figured that out yet. We're working on it, I promise, and you'll be the first to find out when we do."
A tinny melody cut into the air, and the group as a whole reflexively fumbled for their phones. It was the Sheriff's that was ringing, and he swiped a finger across the screen, bringing to his ear with a gruff greeting.
Everyone was silent, listening as the Sheriff's heart rate picked up as he frowned, his stance changing as he readied himself. "I'll be right there," he said quickly, hanging up the phone and grabbing his jacket.
"Sheriff, what is it?" Scott asked quickly, before he could leave.
The Sheriff turned to the group, lips pressed together tightly. "Somebody found a mutilated body in the woods. I'll call when I know more."
The door slammed behind him as he left, and Scott's stomach churned. This was it. Whatever angel had taken Stiles had been true to his word, and the Dread Doctors had disappeared months ago. Now, though, it looked as though the peace was coming to an end.
Dean exhaled loudly, glancing over to where Sam was pulling himself to his feet with a groan. There was a shallow cut on his cheek that was slowly oozing blood, but otherwise Sam seemed to be in one piece.
That was more than could be said for the last half dozen people who had crossed paths with the ghost they were hunting. The victims had been so brutally murdered that Dean had spent most of the last week arguing with Sam that it couldn't just be a ghost. Sure, there were cold spots and ominous noises in the night, but ghosts didn't typically leave body parts scattered over suburbs.
Still, Sam had managed to dig up a local story about a man and his daughter who were accidentally killed in a chainsaw accident, and Dean had managed to make no less than twenty references to Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the last two days alone, so it wasn't all bad. The ghost had predictably been living in an abandoned farmhouse, and sure enough after a bit of digging and Sam being thrown through one window by the angry spectre, they had stumbled across a photo album of the ghost's little girl resting in a drawer.
The album crackled merrily at Dean's feet, flames giving off an oddly comforting warmth. "Ready to get out of here?" he asked, shouldering his shotgun and stepping toward Sam. Sam nodded, absently rubbing the side of his head with a wince.
"What was that?" Dean frowned, reaching out to turn Sam's head to the side. Sam smacked at his hand, but Dean pressed firmly, searching until he found the wound.
There was a laceration on Sam's scalp, from his temple to just behind his ear. It was fairly deep, but thankfully there was no bone on view. The edges were gaping, though, and Dean released Sam a huff. "You're going to need stitches," he informed him, ignoring Sam's exaggerated flinch at his words.
"Do I get a real doctor, or your tender mercies?"
"Hey, I'll do a better job than the docs and you know it," Dean replied, slightly offended. He'd had plenty of practice at suturing, and at least they had some recently-pilfered local anaesthetic on hand. Sam didn't know how good he had it.
Nudging Sam's shoulder, Dean prompted him to head toward the door. The sun was sinking low in the sky, but with any luck they'd have time to fix Sam's wound and eat at a respectable hour. He was watching Sam's steps, making sure that they were steady and in a straight line, so he didn't even notice that a shadow fell across the doorway until Sam came to an abrupt halt.
Glancing up, Dean's eyes widened and he dropped his shotgun, reaching into his jacket pocket for Ruby's knife. Before him stood a tall man, lean to the point of being skinny, and his eyes were completely obscured by black. He was watching them with a half-smile on his face, and Dean's skin crawled.
"What do you want?" Dean asked, stepping forward and placing himself half in front of Sam. There was a bit of an art to it, shielding his brother without making it obvious enough for Sam to kick up a stink, but he'd perfected it long ago.
"I want the honour of capturing the Winchester brothers," the man replied. His smile broadened. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist looking into these deaths. Scattering the limbs was a nice touch, if I do say so myself."
Well, okay then. Apparently this demon was a touch crazy, not to mention narcissistic. Dean rolled his eyes, not cowed in the slightest, and raised the knife in front of him. "We don't look very captured to me. Is this your plan? Talk us to death?"
He felt Sam shift behind him, and glanced over his shoulder. Sam had his back to him, eyes fixed on a second demon who had slipped through the back door. Great.
Dean growled softly. It had been a long day, Sam needed to get his wound fixed, and there was a pub in town that boasted that it sold the best burgers in the state, and Dean hadn't even had a chance to try them yet. These demons were pissing him off and they hadn't even done anything yet.
Finally catching Sam's eye, Dean cocked an eyebrow in question. Sam gave a slight nod, and that was all the agreement Dean needed.
He heard Sam take off behind him as Dean raced toward the demon blocking the front door. The man stepped to the side, but Dean saw it coming and moved to meet him. He swung his left hand in an arc toward the man's head, but the demon ducked underneath, rushing forward to tackle Dean around the waist.
The force took him off his feet, and Dean's breath knocked out of him as his back hit the floorboards and Jesus Christ he was getting too old for this. Kicking, he felt a swell of satisfaction as his foot connected with the demon's knee, and twisted sideways to manoeuvre out from underneath him. He hadn't quite made it when he spotted a fist swinging toward his face, and managed to jerk his head out of the path just in time. Using the momentum, Dean rolled slightly onto his side, freeing up his right arm. He thrust upward with the knife and felt the telltale give as it slid cleanly into the man's flesh between his ribs, and a second later there was a flash of red as the man yelled out, before finally falling silent.
Pushing the corpse off him, Dean scrambled to his feet and looked across the room. Sam was struggling with the other demon, brandishing an angel blade that they had collected at some point. He was more than holding his own, with the demon covered in multiple deep cuts on his limbs and clearly unwilling to come within arm's reach.
Dean circled behind him, and could almost feel the demon's rising panic as it tried to keep them both in view.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Dean threatened. "You tell us why we're running into demons so often and we'll give you a clean death. You hold back, and I'll make sure it's painful enough that you wish you were back on the rack. I learned from Alistair, you know. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."
The demon's face was pale, and when Dean looked closely he could have sworn he was trembling. Man, they really had been cornered by Hell's least fearsome. He should have a word with Crowley, tell him that his soldiers had lost their touch.
"Okay, I'll talk," the demon said weakly, raising his hands. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked as incredulous as he felt. Seriously? Man, Crowley would be disgusted if he could see this.
"Alright, then talk," Sam ordered. His blade was steadily pointed at the demon's neck, and Dean saw the demon eyeing it warily as he spoke.
"There's a hit out on you," he said, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"There's always a hit out on us," he countered. "Tell us something new."
"No, this is for real," the demon protested. "There's a new queen in town, and she wants you dead. She's discovered a way to increase her power, and she's promising to share it with those who do her right. Every demon is desperate to get in her good books; after all, a bit of power can mean a world of difference in Hell."
There was a sensation of foreboding building within Dean, and when he looked at Sam he knew he was thinking the same thing.
"What's her name?" Sam demanded.
The demon's eyes flicked back and forth between them, and he hesitated. Dean grunted, tilting his knife, and the message went through loud and clear as the demon swallowed nervously.
"Her name is Abaddon."
Well, fuck. Of course it was.
There was anger brewing in Dean's chest, and fortunately he had an outlet for it right in front of him. The demon was staring at Sam, so he didn't even see it coming when Dean took two steps forward and buried the knife to its hilt in the demon's back. Red flashed before him, and he yanked back on the knife and didn't watch as the body fell to the ground.
Instead, he looked at Sam. His face was twisted into a strange expression, and Dean knew he probably didn't look any better.
Fallen angels were fighting each other, Cas was practically human, Crowley was going insane, and now this. It was never going to end.
Holy fuck, he hurt.
That was his first thought as his eyes slowly opened. The pain was all over – his limbs ached dully, his head throbbed, and his abdomen was a swirling pit of fire.
He grunted, and managed to roll onto his side with a groan of pain. There was a sting in his arm, and he blinked down to see a cannula tracking into his vein, a bag of fluid slowly running through it. Why was there a cannula? Raising his head to take in surroundings, he was faced with a small room painted in off-white, a silent TV above him.
Hospital, the word floated to him, and he relaxed a little into his bed, head swimming and suddenly exhausted from the effort of moving.
He lay there for a while, gradually becoming more awake, which unfortunately brought with it a keen awareness of the many tubes running through his body; down his nose, out of his abdomen, into his bladder. The one in his nose was rubbing harshly against the back of his throat, and he felt an irritating urge to pee that he knew must be somehow due to the one in bladder. Suddenly annoyed, he raised a hand to the tube in his nose and ripped off the tape that was securing it. He pulled, gagging slightly as it slid against his throat, and felt a small swell of satisfaction as it slipped out easily. Glaring, he threw it on the floor as far away from the bed as possible.
The door opened, and he looked toward it mulishly, preparing his argument even before the nurse entered. He was not having that thing put back in.
The nurse who entered was a middle-aged, motherly figure, kind eyes set in a lined face, and when her eyes met his her face lit up with a bright smile. "Well hello there," she said lightly. "Good to see you awake again."
"Again?" he responded, and he coughed as his throat scratched. Ow. He tried to swallow, but his tongue was paper-dry, and all it did was exacerbate the pain.
"Oh, you poor thing, it's been a while since we last cleaned your mouth, it's bound to be dry. I can't let you drink just yet, but I can give you some water to wet your tongue, if you'd like?"
He nodded, and she held a glass and straw to his mouth, cautioning him once more as he was tempted to down the lot. He sipped carefully, and felt instant relief as his mouth soaked up the fluid. Dear god, that was much better.
Realising she hadn't answered his question, the nurse put the glass down and spoke gently to him. "You're in the hospital," she started, and he refrained from rolling his eyes. She was just being kind, easing him into it, he knew, so he let her continue without interruption. "You've been here a few weeks, and you've been pretty out of it the whole time. At first you were asleep for most of the day, and just recently you've been waking up for short periods, although I don't think you really knew where you were. Today, though, it looks like you've turned a corner."
Her voice was overwhelmingly optimistic, and his stomach churned as he settled back against the sheets. What the hell had happened to him? He grasped for a memory, but nothing came to mind. He was distracted from his thoughts as the nurse continued to speak.
"We've been feeding you through a tube, which I notice you've managed to pull out yet again." She seemed more amused than annoyed, so he didn't bother to try to look abashed. "Seeing as how you're awake now, though, we'll get the Speechies in to see how you swallow, and with luck we may not need to put it back in."
Thank god for small mercies. "What about the tube in my bladder, and my stomach?" he asked.
"They'll have to stay in a little longer," the nurse said gently. "We'll need to make sure you're staying awake properly this time before taking out the bladder catheter, and the stomach one is up to the surgeons. You had some internal bleeding when you first came in, and you've had two separate surgeries since you've been here. The last one was just two days ago, and they normally like to leave the drains in for a few days afterward to make sure there's no blood or fluid collecting in your belly. Better out than in, I'm afraid."
He wasn't sure he shared the sentiment, but he didn't think he'd have much luck convincing her otherwise so he let it go for now. Questions were racing through his mind, so he picked one at random and asked, "Why do I feel so weak?"
Her face was sympathetic as she replied. "Oh honey. Like I said, you've been here a few weeks, and you've been lying in bed pretty much that whole time. It's common for people to become weak after not moving for a while. You may end up needing some rehab before you go home, we'll see."
He nodded in reply. That made sense, he supposed, although the thought of having to stay in hospital was giving him some undue anxiety.
His nurse's face had turned to one of curiosity and she sat down next to him. "I've got a question for you, now, kiddo," she started. He raised his eyebrows, gesturing her to continue. "You arrived on our front doorstep with no ID and no one has come to claim you. We've got you down as a John Doe, but now we should be able to get you in the system properly. So, what's your name, honey?"
He hesitated. His mind swirled, grasping for a response.
He had been so distracted with catching up with his situation that he hadn't even noticed earlier. Somehow, he knew what a hospital was, and a nurse, and he could identify the TV although with a jolt of shock he realised that he couldn't for the life of him recall any shows. He looked at objects around the room and names for them came to mind, and he instinctively knew how to drink through a straw.
But that was it. He knew there must be more, but he strained his memory and came up blank. God help him, but life as he knew it was ten minutes long and constrained to four walls.
The nurse was waiting for a response, and he licked his lips nervously before replying.
"I don't know."