A/N

English is not my native language, but this chapter was betaed by TheWorldBookGirl!


Chapter VI


Dean frowned in thought as he worked on the rock salt rounds. The Witnesses were rampaging above them in Bobby's house while they hid in the man's newly-built panic room. This was good. The safety of the panic room gave Bobby time to figure out what was happening.

Suddenly Dean stopped, his hand freezing midair as he gave another shell to Sam. Talk about the Seal of the Witnesses began circulating among his siblings. One of the high-ranking angels informed the others that it had been broken. Dean frowned; he knew that it wasn't in Heaven's interest to stop Lucifer from rising, at least as far as the highest order was concerned, but this was honestly ridiculous. The seal had been broken for three days now, and they only shared the news now?

"Dude!" Sam bristled as he grabbed the shell from his older brother.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled.

The younger Winchester shot him a worried glance. "You alright?"

Dean stared at his brother. Sam's face slowly swam out of his sight as his mind wandered to Lucifer and the impending Doomsday again. He just didn't get it. Father loved humanity, probably more than the whole Angelic Host, so why create plans to destroy it? They weren't even the reason why God left Heaven, as some of his siblings believed. Michael was there when He departed, His last words shaking the foundations of his beliefs.

"Humans' souls are the purest and most amazing form of creation," God had said, his tired features brightening with that tender smile that Michael hadn't seen in millenniums. "I wish you all could see them as I do. A soul can conquer its destiny, Michael. Just lean closer and listen. It will tell you how."

That's why the oldest archangel did what he had – ripped his grace out and fell to the plane of mortals to be born as a human, to be bestowed a soul of his own, as close as an angel could get to it. Such an un-Michael thing to do, really, but he wanted to understand, to grasp his Father's words, or he probably would have ended up going crazy like Lucifer did.

That didn't help to put a reason behind the Apocalypse however it still made absolutely no sense.

"Dean?"

Michael's eyes focused on Sam's face again, and he didn't need to lean closer to his soul to hear what it was saying. It simply screamed, loud and clear, to protect him, to keep Sammy safe. Such a pure and beautiful soul, tainted for the mere purpose of becoming the skin for his fallen brethren to wear. His Father wanted him to listen to the human's soul, well, he was listening to one. And that was such a strange feeling for the primordial archangel, but nothing, be it angel, demon or any other creature, would touch so much as a hair on his baby brother's head. Not on his watch.

Sam's anxiety rose as Dean just kept staring mutely at him with a strange look in his eyes that he couldn't identify. The young man's brow wrinkled with worry, his hazel-green eyes shifting to the side and meeting the identically troubled gaze of Bobby.

"Dean?" Sam called out again as he reached to touch his brother's hand.

"Yeah, I'm just—" Dean cleared his throat, "—just thinking. What with all the angels suddenly fluttering around and the crazy ghosts." He absentmindedly waved a hand up and down. "Heaven and Hell, and all that jazz in between."

Sam winced at the mention of Hell. After a brief moment, his lips curled into a tight half-smile. "Don't think too hard, you're gonna hurt yourself," he joked, trying to rid of the uneasiness churning in his gut.

Dean put on his bitchface, making Sam's half-smile widen into a full grin. "Speaking from experience?" Dean retorted with a smirk. "Pretty sure I can handle it. I'm not a delicate wallflower like you, Samantha."

Sam shook his head, muttering, "You're such a jerk."

"And you're such a bitch."

"If you two idjits done with your heart to heart," Bobby interrupted their bickering with a fond exasperated grumble. "I have something." He tapped at the thick tome with his pencil. "The symbol you saw, the brand on the ghosts – it's the Mark of the Witness."

"Witness?" Sam asked in confusion. "Witness to what?"

"The unnatural. None of them died what you'd call 'ordinary deaths'. See, these ghosts – they were forced to rise. They woke in agony," Bobby explained. "They're like rabid dogs, and it ain't their fault. Somebody raised them… on purpose."

While the hunter talked, Dean approached his table and peeked at the book. Damn, Bobby was so good; it truly was amazing. Dean took a few moments to admire the man's ability to find literally any kind of information. Without Bobby Singer, the country's hunter population would have probably been reduced by half, if not more.

"This is a sign, boys," Bobby continued grimly.

Sam stopped next to his brother, folding his arms in front of him and frowning. "A sign of what?"

The older man heaved a heavy sigh before he leaned against his chair and looked up at the two siblings. "The Apocalypse."

An uncomfortable silence settled after that revelation. Sam glanced at Dean, then back at Bobby. "As in… biblical Apocalypse? End of the world?"

"Yea, that's the one," the older hunter agreed. "The Rise of the Witnesses is like a mile marker."

"Okay… So, what do we do now?"

Dean snorted. "We stock up on toilet paper." The other two men fixed him with incredulous stares, and the fallen archangel raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Sam gave a frustrated sigh. "This is serious, Dean."

"Of course, dude! Nothing is more serious than the Armageddon. That's why I'm being practical here. You're gonna thank me, believe me."

A small, genuine smile that graced his baby brother's lips, even if it was short-lived, was the goal Dean was trying to achieve, and he grinned in success.

"Before ya start your conquest to monopolize the toilet paper, boy, we need to deal with our friends up there," Bobby said, waving a hand and tapping his notes with his pencil. "There's a spell to send the Witnesses back to rest. Should work... And I think I have everything we need at the house."

"Alright!" Dean exclaimed with more cheerfulness than the situation required. "Let's do it!"


Sam flew up the stairs two at the time and rounded the corner, zeroing in on the closet door at the end of the hallway. He quickly swept the narrow surroundings with his eyes. Nothing was out of order. He strode forward, gripping his shotgun tightly, ready to use it at any given moment.

Sam reached the closet without any incident and promptly started searching for the red hex box, pushing linens out of the way.

"Sam."

The hunter spun around, fluidly lifting his weapon at the same time, the finger on the trigger… and froze. It seemed that something sapped his strength with lightning speed, because his hands started to shake and the shotgun suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

She stood at the other end of the hallway, looking exactly the same as before, just as beautiful as Sam remembered her to be. A long white dress gave her a regal, ethereal air, so pure and innocent, her long golden hair framing her pale face like a bright halo. Even the small birthmark between her eyebrows was still in its place, and Sam recalled how she hated that it was slightly off center and how he had kissed it over and over again, telling her how perfect she was…

"Jess…" Sam breathed.

The ghost smiled, and the hunter's gun slipped from his limp fingers and clattered loudly on the floor. It was Jess. The woman he truly loved, the woman he lost, the woman he killed…

"Sam," Jess said softly, slowly walking forward until she was right in front of him, and, God, Sam could swear he could smell that familiar scent of strawberry and mint shampoo, which was beyond the bounds of possibility because Jess was dead, dead, dead, dead, burned on the ceiling of their bedroom. He knew he should grab the shotgun, put a salt round through her head, and bring that box to Bobby.

But instead of doing any of that, he only whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I know you are, baby," Jess replied, her voice quiet and soothing. She cupped the hunter's face with her cold hands and looked into his eyes. "But that doesn't change the fact what you did to me." She was still smiling as her hands moved down and stopped on his chest. "Doesn't mean that it wasn't your fault."

Sam gasped as one of her petite hands pierced his skin, slender fingers sliding between his ribs, tearing his flesh and sending waves of agonizing pain throughout his body.

The ghost's smile vanished and her expression twisted into a snarl. "Your 'sorry' doesn't give me back my life, Sam!" she yelled, pushing her hand further.

And with crisp clarity, Sam realized that she was right, that he agreed with her whole-heartedly, that even if he could do something, he wouldn't. He'd screwed up once and Jess, the love of his life, had paid the price. He'd screwed up again and Dean was torn to shreds by hellhounds and dragged to Hell, where he was tortured for forty years.

He deserved this, all of it. They were his sins, after all.

Blackness threatened to overtake his consciousness when Sam heard someone calling his name in the distance.

"Sam!" Dean skidded into the hallway, almost crashing into the opposite wall. As soon as his frantic gaze landed on his brother and Jess, his eyes widened. "Shit. Hold on, Sammy!" he cried out, already sprinting towards the two. Once he was at an angle where he could shoot his shotgun without hitting Sam, he didn't waver in the slightest.

The ghost dispersed. Sam breathed in a painful gulp of air before collapsing where he stood.

"Sam?" Dean was instantly next to him, quickly inspecting the wound on his chest. He put his hand under his brother's chin, lifted his head up and brushed a stray hair away to see his eyes. "Sammy? You hear me?"

"I'm sorry, Dean…"

That was definitely not what Dean had expected to hear, and he frowned in confusion. "Dude, it's not your fault that the ghost jumped you."

"No, not that," Sam fervently shook his head and gripped Dean's jacket, seemingly trying to shake him and make him understand what he was saying. "You went to Hell for me… I… I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey, look at me, Sam!" Dean tapped his brother's cheek to force him to look at him, and once Sam did, Dean caught the gaze of his regretful, hazel-green eyes and held it. "That was my decision, you hear me? You can't be responsible for other person's decisions. But if you want forgiveness, I forgive you, Sammy. For everything." A faint smile tugged at Dean's lips as he made a quick motion of brushing his thumb across Sam's forehead. "And my word on this matter carries a lot of weight." He maneuvered himself so that he could haul his little brother's gigantic frame up from the floor. "Now, come on, kiddo, snap out of it. We need to help Bobby to put these poor souls to rest."

"Yeah, alright," Sam muttered, too exhausted to argue. Dean just didn't realize what he had done, what he was – the freak with a demon blood in his veins – and how truly unworthy he was of his forgiveness.


-few hours later-

Dean woke with a start. Something slipped from his lap and tumbled onto the floor with an expensive-sounding clunk, but the archangel ignored it, trying to figure out what had woken him and when he'd fallen asleep in the first place.

It was still in the middle of the night. The house was shrouded in darkness. The only light came from a single bulb outside the kitchen window that emanated a ghostly light, giving the room an eerie aura.

Dean was lying on the couch in Bobby's study where Sam was supposed to be sleeping, while he'd chosen to crash on the sleeping-bag next to it. He willed his brains to remember how he ended up here asleep. He was browsing the Internet on Sam's laptop, searching for any kind of sign of the archangel's grace, and he actually found a promising lead. He must have dozed off then.

"Crap…" Dean cursed. He reluctantly glanced down and there it was – Sam's laptop just lying there with some plastic pieces scattered around it. Dean swung his legs out and rubbed his face. Oh, Sam would be pissed and would probably throw a bitchy tantrum about how–

"Wait," the archangel murmured. Something was not right here. He looked around, pulling his eyebrows together. "This is…" Dean peeked over the door frame into the kitchen and saw Castiel leaning against the cupboard and flexing his still healing wings, waiting.

Dean dropped his head in his palms with a sigh. A dream. Well, at least it wasn't the nightmare drowned in blood, soaked in Hell's stench, and full of screams of the damned. What happened back downstairs, all those long forty years of torture, it never really fazed the archangel, but during sleep, his human consciousness took over and had its fun with him. Michael was surely not going to miss it once he wouldn't need to sleep anymore.

Dean stood up and walked into the kitchen. "Castiel," he greeted the younger angel.

"Excellent job with the Witnesses."

"Thanks." Dean eyed his angelic brother, subtly glancing at his wings when one of them shuddered and Castiel grimaced.

Some of the black feathers laid misaligned and several of them appeared to be broken. They were starting to loosen up already – Castiel was going into molt to clean his wings from all the tainted, damaged, and decaying plumage. That was the only way to purify one's grace, even if the process was an uncomfortable and quite often painful ordeal.

"You don't look too hot," Dean noted, his voice laced with concern.

"I do not feel heat or coldness," the angel replied coolly.

The hunter snorted in amusement. "No, I mean that you look tired," he clarified.

Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side and stared intently at the human in front of him, curious and analyzing. "You are worried about me," he observed, a frown settling on his features like he didn't know what to do with this information.

"Uh… Well… We're buddies, right?" Dean replied with a smile. "You saved me from Hell, and I'm gonna help st– do whatever your boss wants me to do." He paused. "Speaking of Hell… I don't think I said this yet." Green eyes met the blue ones. "Thank you."

Castiel seemed startled by such sincere words, clearly not expecting them. "I was merely fulfilling my duty," he said, but a tiny upward curve on his lips showed how truly pleased he felt because of Dean's gratitude. "But you are welcome."

The hunter leaned next to the angel and after a short companionable silence spoke, "Bobby says that we're dealing with the Apocalypse."

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "That is why we are here, walking among you for the first time in two thousand years." When he didn't hear any comment, he continued, "The Rising of the Witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals. Those seals are being broken by Lilith."

"What will happen when the last seal breaks?"

There was a brief pause before Castiel shifted so that he could gaze straight into human's eyes to convey how grim this whole situation was. "Lucifer walks free."

Dean schooled his expression into a neutral one, because now wasn't a good time to ponder on his failure to save his rebellious brother. Definitely not. "And angels are here to stop this from happening."

Castiel nodded.

"I guess this seal was broken. How are the others doing?"

"Some we will save, some we will lose." The angel turned his head to the side, as if he couldn't look Dean into the eyes any longer, and glared at nothing in particular. "We are trying, but our numbers are not unlimited."

The hunter hummed before putting forward another question, "How many of you are down here?"

Instantly, Castiel looked deflated and even wearier. His shoulders sagged and his wings drooped. "Not enough," he admitted quietly.

Dean's lips twitched down in a small frown.

Michael had been gone for at least a few centuries. Granted, he had left half of his grace up there to conceal the absence of Heaven's ruler. The lower circles of his siblings wouldn't notice, but Raphael definitely had. It would be in his best interest to stall and put everything on hold to do just that until Michael was found.

But none of that was apparently happening. That made no sense.

It meant that Raphael either didn't know that Michael was gone, and the whole Angelic Host was in for a big nasty surprise, or his fellow archangel had plans to somehow win against Lucifer by himself. Raphael knew his capabilities; he was not an idiot. He was not strong enough to do that. He had to have something, some kind of ace up in his sleeve…

Dean paled as the thought struck him like Raphael's lightning. The younger archangel had half of Michael's grace at his arm's reach. Unprotected, raw grace that would give him an edge he needed against Lucifer or anyone else, for that matter.

But Raphael wouldn't dare to do it, would he? It was just an assumption. Raphael wouldn't steal half of his essence just to fulfill some stupid prophecy, right?

The possibility of his younger brother's betrayal stung more than a knife through his heart ever could.

"Dean?"

A feather-light touch on his forehead and Castiel's grace carefully reaching for him jolted Dean out of his bubbling panic and his eyes snapped back to the angel's face. A face that was an inch or so from his own. Talk about an incomprehension of the personal space. "Dude," he grumbled, stepping back.

"You need not fear," Castiel said, observing the hunter closely. "We shall prevail."

"Yeah…" Dean flashed a wobbly grin, then glanced at the fridge, wondering if the content was the same in the dream as it was in reality. More likely, this was a dream projection created by Castiel, a space and time between dream and reality, so some parts bound to be real. With a shrug, the archangel opened the door and peeked inside. "Want a beer?" he asked, briefly looking back at Castiel.

The angel seemed puzzled, his brow furrowing in a humans-are-confusing way. "I do not require an alcoholic substance."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you talk like that, you certainly do," he stated as a matter-of-fact. He picked up two bottles, uncapped them, and offered one for his sibling.

The latter took it cautiously like the bottle would attack him at any given moment and stared at it in bafflement. After a few seconds, he took a small experimental sip.

The fallen archangel grinned wide and bright at the expression on the younger angel's face – something between disgust and wonder. "So, how is it?" he inquired, amused.

"It tastes like molecules."

Dean couldn't help it – he melted into a fit of laughter.


Dean woke up slowly and lazily, tasting the bitterness of beer on his tongue. Realizing that he was sleeping on the couch as he had been in the dream projection, he carefully patted around his lap. When he didn't feel Sam's laptop anywhere on him, he dared to open one eye and look around.

The laptop was sitting safely on Bobby's desk.

"Thank goodness," Dean mumbled, blowing all the air out of his lungs in a relieved sigh that that particular part was only a dream. He threw an arm over his eyes and frowned underneath it.

If he was right about Raphael's plans, Dean needed to pick up a speed in the search of his grace pieces. The assimilation of other angel's grace into your own was feasible, especially for the archangel. It still was a dangerous process, so Raphael would not risk absorbing Michael's grace right now when Lucifer was still in his cage. Dean himself couldn't take in that half at the current moment either – his vessel wouldn't be able to survive. That's why he needed to collect the other four pieces before doing that. The lead he found was worth checking out.

Dean heaved himself up and quickly scanned the room, searching for Sam. He couldn't leave his youngest brother right now, not when he was so fragile after seeing Jess again and almost getting killed by her, but he also didn't know how to explain why he wanted to check this out without making Sam suspicious.

This hide-and-seek game was a pain in an ass.

Dean walked to the kitchen. The sun was just rising and it was still fairly dark outside. A figure sitting on the front porch stairs caught his attention and he squinted to see who it was.

Sam.

He grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and stepped outside. The wooden floor of the porch creaked quietly under his boots, but Sam didn't glance back to see who was coming from behind, his eyes never leaving the far-away line of the forest's edge.

Brilliant hues of orange and gold coated the wide expanse of sky where the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon.

"Sammy," Dean called softly. His brow furrowed lightly as the haunted hazel-green eyes turned up to meet his gaze. He didn't make any comment, instead offering the beer to him. Sam took it with a distant 'thanks', but showed no signs of wanting to drink it.

Dean sat down next to his youngest brother, not too close to be crowding his personal space, but enough that his shoulder brushed over Sam's. "Have you slept?" he asked carefully.

Sam stiffened and his hold on the bottle tightened. A handful of emotions flashed through his features before the walls of defenses suddenly slammed into place.

The archangel observed him, wanting nothing more than to wipe that expression clear off of his face, to lighten his burden, to give him what he truly deserved. He wanted to ask Sam how he felt, how he could help. The urge to shake Sam and scream at him until he believed that none of that was his fault, that Jess wasn't his sin to carry, that everything that had happened to them was a deliberate plan to steer Winchesters towards this exact point.

Yet, Dean said nothing. Words were useless in this situation, because Sam was Winchester through and through, and the Winchesters never shared their aches and pains. They were always "fine", and even when the weight of the world threatened to crush them, the Winchesters never agreed to divide it with the others.

So, Dean stayed silent. He shifted his eyes away from his baby brother and settled them on the horizon. After a moment, he felt the tension slowly bleeding out of Sam's shoulders, his stiff muscles relaxing, and his walls cracking.

Minutes ticked away as they just sat there on Bobby's porch, their drinks untouched.

Sam eventually lifted his hand and rubbed his face tiredly, then brushed his fingers through his hair. "I just… I really haven't expected to see her," he confessed reluctantly.

"Those spirits weren't in their right mind, Sam."

"I know, I know," the younger hunter hurriedly said before sighing. "Doesn't mean that what she said isn't true."

"Sam–"

"God, I hope she's safe now," he interrupted, and the archangel let him. "I hope she's up there… You know, in Heaven. Angels exist, Hell exists, so Heaven should be real too, right?"

Dean frowned, stealing a glance towards his brother. He was surprised to see that Sam was staring at him with pleading eyes, waiting for a confirmation of his theory. "Heaven is real, but…the Witnesses, they, uh, they don't return to Heaven."

Sam's eyes widened and his face drained of all the blood. "W-What?" he croaked out, his voice full of pure horror.

"The souls that are raised as Witnesses are marked by the spell. They don't go back to Heaven, instead, they get reborn and move through the reincarnation cycles until their souls are cleansed from any residue of that spell," Dean explained. A small smile tugged the corner of his lips up as he added, "After nine months, Jess will be screaming her newborn's lungs out somewhere in this world."

Sam blinked. "How do you know that?"

"Castiel told me," the archangel lied smoothly. "He visited me in the dreams."

A scowl etched onto the younger Winchester's features as he relaxed a tiny bit and stared at the beer in his hands. "That's a good thing, right?" he asked after a moment. "The reincarnation?"

"Well, life is not always only smiles and the sunshine, more often than not, it sucks," Dean stated honestly. "But humans have a lot of good things too. Classic cars. Showers. Metallica. Beer. Sex." He smiled an easy grin before his expression softened into a fond look as he gazed at Sam. "Family."

Sam ducked his head down, suddenly feeling awkward and embarrassed, a bit of red dusting his cheeks. The way Dean had said that, with so much love and affection, spread the warmth throughout all his chest and seeped into his very soul.

Even if he was so unworthy of that kind of devotion.

"Jess will be fine," Dean assured. "And this Apocalypse will not interfere with her new life, because we're gonna stop it." He lifted his beer. "Together."

Sam's lips curled into a small smile. He brought forward his own bottle and clinked it into Dean's. "Together."


A/N

I just wanted to pop up again and say that angels in my story will be much more powerful than they are in the original show. Humans and demons won't be able to handle them with such ease, especially archangels. Also, wings, 'cause I'm a wing freak lol So, yes, my angels have feathery wings and they will be a big part of their social expressions. However, wings are not fragile, they're used as weapons in angel fights.

One more thing, I might leave Hendrickson alive, just because I have this plot in mind for the future. I know I wrote AU from season 4, but can we simply ignore the ending of that particular episode and pretend that Lilith did not visit the police station after boys left?

Well, leave a comment what's your opinion on this :)