I'm sorry to be so long posting this chapter. I sent PMs to those of you who Fav and Alert this story so you already know my tale of woe-my crashing computer. The Geek Squad could not retrieve my data from the HD and so I had to rewrite the chapter. l hope that the rewrite is worth the wait.
I thank Sam's Folly for the great work she does in beta'ing for me. You're terrific!
Anything within this chapter that you recognize belongs to its rightful owner/creator, Kripke, SPN writers, Peter and Gordon for the song Woman.
Family Secrets: Prequel-Chapter Ten
Learning to Fly
Josh's crystal-blue eyes were so beautiful, his soft face framed with light hair. His soulful voice seemed to penetrate to the depths of her. She could feel her body react to the music and she was lost in it, floating aimlessly, lulled away into nothingness.
Woman do you love me?
Woman if you need me then believe me
I need you to be my woman.
His voice was velvet-soft in her ear, calming her, rocking her like a baby. Josh's calloused but gentle hands caressed her and she felt her body move against him in response. The pleasant feel of his warmth and the sweet spirit of his desire made her feel fluid, boneless, and it soothed her deep in her soul.
Woman do you love me?
Woman if you need me then believe me
I need you to be my woman.
Josh's voice changed. Suddenly it was dark and urgent, lacking the soulful depth of the singer. His blue eyes turned darker—angrier. Dark hair framed his face—Sam's face. The voice was no longer Josh's voice. It was Sam's, and his eyes pierced to her soul. She could feel her desire for him like fire—like burning flames licking up to devour her. His face loomed before her. His hands held her arms in a viselike grip. He was dangerous, but God help her, the scent of him filled her head, and she wanted to lean into him just that last little distance that separated them. She wanted to feel his lips on hers—his smiling lips that were taunting her and daring her, along with his perfect white teeth and beautiful dimples.
Woman don't forsake me.
Woman if you take me then believe me
I'll take you to be my woman.
She could feel the weight of his body pushing her down, covering her, surrounding her, blocking out everything but him—his burning-hot skin against her skin. Her hands slid along his body, her fingers exploring him and skimming over smooth hard muscles. She felt white-hot power flowing from him, searing into her body, and her own heat rose up to meet it.
She could feel the smooth glide as his hard body pushed into her, filling her, stoking her desire until her whole body hummed and burned in response. She heard his low moan when he held her to him and she felt him pulsing deep inside her. His voice echoed in her dream.
I'll take you to be my woman.
Alta gasped, bolting upright in bed, panting, lust burning her body. The wet sheet, soaked with her sweat, fell away from her. She was naked. Sometime during the night, she'd thrown off her sleep shirt. She looked down at her breast, tingling with desire, and felt the heat of that desire coiling low and deep. Her tongue ran along her dry lips. She slid her palms across her tight, hard nipples and sent sparks of fire directly to her core. The soft moan that escaped her lips seemed to fill the quiet room.
She slid her hands down her body, moving ever lower until she drove her fingers through her thick, dark hair and into her wet center. Her fingers slid through her own silky heat—so smooth—and she thought about the feel of Sam deep inside her. She circled her fingers around her begging nub. She felt his hard muscular body surrounding her, saw his dark, demanding eyes claiming her, and she shivered.
Alta lay in her bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was obvious she was not going to get Sam Winchester out of her punched out a joyless laugh. After the encounter on the firing range when she practically accused Sam of murder and then the way she acted like a lovesick schoolgirl over Josh, she was certain that whatever feelings Sam had for her were long gone.
A hot shower did Alta a world of good, and she responded to Gwyn's text that she should get her ass in gear and get to the compound. Apparently something big was happening. When she entered the common room, she nearly collided with Christian, but they both stepped back quickly enough that they didn't actually make contact. A low growl came out of Christian's angry face. She would have said she was sorry to anyone else, but she'd long ago gone beyond her limit of 'sorrys' with Christian. The two of them moved around each other, eying each other with disdain before Christian headed toward the far side of the room to work on munitions with Richard.
Alta poured a mug of coffee and joined Gwyn and Mark at a small table near Samuel's office.
"What's got Christian's shorts all in a wad?" Alta glanced back toward the group cleaning weapons and loading ammo.
"Samuel's had Sam holed up in his office all morning and Christian's been in a funk about it the whole time." Gwyn smiled. "Looks like your boyfriend has taken his place as Samuel's right hand."
"He's not my boyfriend," Alta hissed.
Gwyn eyed her, assessing her. "How'd the date go?" She smiled. "You look all calm and satisfied this morning."
Mark snorted, grinning.
"What is this? High School?" Alta snapped. "It wasn't a date."
"He took you out for drinks at a bar. It was a date," Gwyn patiently informed her cousin.
"Fine. Think what you want. You will anyway." Mark and Gwyn exchanged knowing looks. Alta rolled her eyes.
Sophia strolled in and sidled up to Mark, who reached his arm around her hips and drew her in close to him, kissing at her stomach and grinning up at her.
"What's going on?" Sophia asked.
"Appears there's gonna be a hunt. Something big." Mark answered.
"Sam and Samuel have been locked away in his office all morning. I'm thinking it has to do with the Furies," informed Gwyn. Then she looked at Alta. "The ones that like to have got Sam last time in the parking lot outside the Black Dog, when he was busy not being your boyfriend."
"Are you mad at me or something?" Alta watched Gwyn's features carefully. "Are you jealous?"
Gwyn flinched. "Of course not. Just trying to get at the truth."
"Let it go," Alta warned. She was not in the mood to be teased, and if Gwyn was jealous, if she did have feelings for Sam—worse, if Sam decided to return Gwyn's feelings—God help her. Alta did not even want to think about it.
The Impala had developed a rattle, and one thing Dean Winchester wouldn't abide was an unexplained rattle in Baby's engine. Whatever was causing the rattle must be investigated, found and fixed.
"Hand me a box wrench, would ya, Ben?"
"Um..." Ben shifted his soccer ball under his arm and squatted down beside Dean's toolbox. He stared at the assortment of tools and wondered which one was a box wrench. Maybe it should be square? Like a box?
Dean looked up and saw the puzzled expression on Ben's face. He walked over and knelt beside the boy. "Let me show you."
...
"Dean, hand me a box wrench, would ya?" John's voice floated over to his son from under the hood of the Impala.
Dean sat, butt on the cold floor and back against the paint-peeling wall of the workshop at Singer Salvage. Five-year-old Sammy sat beside him, huddled in the worn black jacket that Dean had outgrown last year. Sam's little fingers barely peeked out of the sleeves as he traced each word on each page of the book he was reading to Dean.
Sam knew all the letters and numbers by the time he was two. Dean had taught them to him, because Dean thought that everything he learned, Sam should learn too. Never mind that he was four years older than Sam and Sam was too young. It didn't matter, because Sam followed Dean everywhere, copied him, and did whatever Dean told him to do. So, Sam learned everything—colors, days of the week and how to read—right along with his big brother.
It started out with Dean reading to Sam. By the time Sam was three, he was reading along, and by the time he was four, Sam was reading by himself. But Dean instinctively understood that reading time was more than reading and stories. He came to realize that Sam craved the attention and the touch. He needed to be held and cuddled like any little one, and John wasn't very good at that. John was easily distracted away from his sons' needs. He was distracted by his own need—his obsession to hunt and find the thing that killed his wife, to find the thing that ruined all their lives. It was reading time with Dean that gave Sam the physical contact that he needed, and it never occurred to Dean that he needed that attention and contact just as much as Sam did.
"Dean!" John's voice cut through the air like a knife, and Dean sighed. Sam's hazel eyes gazed up at him through his tousled bangs. He was pressed in close to Dean, bodies seemingly meshed together even through the thick canvas jackets they wore. Dean's arm was wrapped around his baby brother.
"You keep reading," Dean said to Sam. He pointed to the Impala and their dad's body hanging across the fender, head buried in the engine. "I'll be right there. Right where you can see me."
"Okay, Dean," Sam's soft little voice answered.
...
"Okay, Dean. I think I got it. That was cool." Ben flashed a greasy grin at Dean. They'd spent the afternoon tuning up the Impala, and Ben learned hands-on not only what a box wrench was, but also a socket wrench, a valve cover, an intake manifold and a carburetor.
"Well, come on then. Let's take her out for a spin and listen to her purr."
"Can we go get pizza?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "That is your favorite food, ain't it?"
Ben grinned and nodded.
"How 'bout we go for a burger this time? Let's go wash up and let your mom know."
Dean took Ben to a diner downtown. No fast-food burgers for Dean. He wanted a burger freshly made, patted out thick and grilled to order. That was good eating, and he'd finally convinced Ben that it was way better than McDonald's.
"Mm-mm." Dean hummed his appreciation of the fat, juicy burger through a mouthful, while Ben dunked a french fry in ketchup.
"Hey Dean? Are you still a hunter?"
...
"I know why you keep a gun under your pillow. And I know why we lay salt down everywhere we go." Sam startled Dean with this revelation. He wasn't supposed to know. He was too young to know.
"No, you don't!" Dean spat angrily, as if he could make Sam somehow magically not know.
Sam threw John's journal on the nightstand between the two motel room beds. "I know what Dad does. He's a hunter. He hunts monsters. Monsters are real."
Dean stared at the journal and then at the frightened look on his brother's face. He thought he should deny it. Maybe he could make Sam believe that Dad wasn't a hunter and monsters weren't real because...because... Dean froze. How could he deny what Sam had obviously already read—what Sam already knew was true? He'd seen it in Dad's own handwriting. Dean couldn't make Dad out to be a liar.
"Are you gonna be a hunter too?" Sam asked.
"Yeah. As soon as I'm old enough." Dean sighed. He was proud. What could be better than to be a hunter like Dad? It's all Dean wanted. Dad was like a superhero. But Dean was touched by the look on his brother's face, and saying those words made Sam look as if Dean had slapped him. Sam's face changed from frightened to terrified.
"Don't! Don't leave me, Dean."
...
Dean chewed his mouthful of burger more slowly as he watched the questioning look on Ben's face. Ben's face wasn't frightened like Sam's had been, but Ben was older and didn't know the things that Sam had known long before he was fourteen.
"I'm a mechanic, Ben." Dean's answer didn't sound so sure, even to his own ears.
"I know, but are you still gonna hunt?"
"No, Ben. I'm not gonna hunt."
"But you're still gonna try to find Sam, right?"
Dean stared at the boy.
Ben didn't know. He only knew that Sam was gone. He didn't know what had happened, and so he'd filled in the blanks himself the best he could. Ben didn't know Sam was in Hell. He didn't know the sacrifice Sam had made for him, for Dean, for the world. Nobody knew. Dean placed his burger on his plate. He felt sick. His stomach rolled.
"Yeah. I'm still gonna try to find Sam." Dean's voice was rough and he swallowed hard. "I guess I'll always be a hunter...but...we're gonna be a family. I'm not gonna leave you and your mom."
Black eyes watched Sam—an aged face, pinched into a ponderous nose and a tiny little mouth. Harahel's coal-black hair hung loose off the left side of his head. He was far above the Campbell compound watching this little human drama unfold. The ancient angel was quite sure that whatever he could find out about Sam Winchester would prove useful to him, no matter who took the Seat of Power in Heaven, either Castiel or Raphael.
When Harahel saw Sam arming himself, it was evident that he was up to something. Harahel's tiny little mouth strained to make something resembling a smile. He flexed his dark wings. Wherever Sam went, Harahel would follow and when the time was right, he would hover over Sam and spread out his wings. Whatever ritual Sam was about to perform, whatever help he was seeking, Sam Winchester would not be heard by Heaven. Harahel would make sure of that.
Sam stood at the open trunk of the Charger. He checked his pistol and placed it in the back of his jeans. His mind was on the ritual they would perform tonight. He slid his silver butterfly into his pocket. It was doubtful that the small, elegant blade would be of use, but he liked to carry it, liked the feel of it. Somehow it seemed special. He put on a wide leather belt and hung his large machete from it. He gathered extra bullets and his rifle, checking to see that it was properly loaded.
The others had already left in Samuel's van, taking the long route by road that twisted around the edge of the Campbell property and through forest-lined country roads to an abandoned and forgotten warehouse. Sam had found the place one brightly-moonlit, restless night.
As he walked through the still, hot, late-afternoon woods to meet up with the clan, he felt a sudden chill, as if a dark cloud passed over him. He looked up into the bright afternoon sky.
"Castiel?" Once again—one more time—he called out to the angel. But there was no response. Castiel either could not or would not help him.
This was it. This was what Alta loved. It's what she lived for—hunting, and everything that went with it. Hunting for monsters was steeped in ritual and she loved the ritual of it as much as the actual kill.
The clan members for this hunt had been hand-picked by Sam and Samuel. Alta knew that the hunters they chose were considered to be the best. They were all going after the Greek Furies, the creatures that threatened to kill Sam.
The clan gathered at the back of Samuel's van as he and Christian passed out the weapons and ammo. Gwyn eased up beside Alta, looking deep into her cousin's eyes. She caressed Alta's cheek and tucked an imaginary stray hair behind Alta's ear. Both women had tied back their long hair.
"Are we good?" Gwyn asked. It was important that any ill feelings not come out on the battlefield.
"Always." Alta reassured her, and she felt Mark's gentle hand on her shoulder.
Alta had her Beretta, already loaded with silver bullets, so she declined the pistol that Christian offered her. In addition to a pistol, each hunter was given a rifle, a machete, and, for those who were skilled with it, a bow and arrows.
Alta watched Sam when he came out of the edge of the forest alone, a rifle over his broad shoulder and a long machete belted to his side. His face was drawn, deep in concentration, and she felt as if a shadow passed over them. Sam glanced up as he approached the hunters and a knowing look passed between him and Samuel, but he didn't acknowledge Alta or any of the other hunters.
They filed into the warehouse and positioned themselves according to plan in a large circle in the center of the main room. Samuel stood at the north of the circle and Gwyn at the south. Christian stood to Samuel's right and Donnie stood at the eastern point. Sophia was next in the circle between Donnie and Gwyn, and to Gwyn's right stood Alta. Mark stood at the western point, and between him and Samuel stood Moreene.
Each hunter watched silently as Samuel moved behind them, drawing a chalk circle around the outside of the hunters and enclosing them into what would become a sacred space. After the circle was complete, Samuel joined Sam in the center where Sam was squatting down, drawing an intricate pattern of symbols. His head was bowed and his hair fell forward, obscuring his face, but Alta could hear his soft deep voice as he chanted. When he finished, he placed a silver bowl in the center and filled it with herbs—yarrow, hyssop, vervain and oil of abramelin.
Sam took a large bundle of sage, tightly bound together so that it resembled a very fat cigar, and it the end of it, letting it flame and then blowing on it so that it smoldered and smoked. The sweet smell of the herb rose with the smoke as Sam carefully fanned it over Samuel's body, chanting softly a Latin incantation, a litany of purification. Samuel held out each of his weapons so that they, like himself, could be purified by the ritual.
Sam went to the other hunters and stood before each one, reciting the litany. Alta closed her eyes, breathed in the sweet smell, and felt Sam's voice rumble through her soul as he bathed her in the sacred smoke. When she held out her weapons to be purified, he briefly locked eyes with her. They were the same dark eyes of her dream—not angry, but so intense they sent a white-hot spark through her body. She let out a tiny gasp.
There was a tiny pull at the side of his mouth. Alta was unsure if it was the hint of a reassuring smile or if he was smirking at her weakness and God help her, she couldn't stop the blush that blossomed across her face.
The smoke from the sage filled the room in long white curls that floated upward toward the heavens, carrying the incantations with it. Samuel took the sage from Sam and began to recite the litany. Sam pulled out his gun, holding it out for Samuel to purify, then laid it on the floor at the southern point of the circle in front of Gwyn. He did the same with each of his weapons, one by one, laying them out in a row.
Each movement he made was thoughtful, slow and graceful. The hunters were all silent. There was only the low sound of Samuel's chanting. Sam stepped away from his weapons and walked with Samuel, unarmed, to the center of the circle.
It hit Alta like lightening, firing up her insides in panic. Suddenly it was clear. This was a ritual sacrifice. Each of the hunters had been purified and armed. Sam had been purified and disarmed. Sam was the sacrifice.
As it had been done for centuries in the distant past, the hunters were guarding the chosen one. They were supposed to offer up the sacrifice and watch the gods devour him. She felt sick. She glanced around at the faces of the other hunters and wondered if they knew. If this was real, Sam would be gutted or beheaded. Her hand wandered to the handle of her machete, and she gripped it tight. There was no fucking way.
Sam stood over the silver bowl of herbs. He was enveloped in the smoke from the sage as Samuel completed the process of purification and threw the burning sage into the herbs. Samuel's voice changed, becoming deeper, edgier, no longer the soft hypnotic chanting. Sam held out his hands and threw his head back, baring his throat.
Alta's eyes grew large, her heart began to race, and it was all she could do to hold back the gasp that threatened to escape her lips. As Samuel laid his machete against Sam's throat, she lost her battle of self-control. She shifted nervously and made one step forward before she saw Sam's hand rise toward her, palm out in an unmistakable gesture for her to stop. She stopped dead, sick with the sight of this ritual.
Slowly, with just the slightest of pressure, Samuel drew his finely honed blade across the bare skin Sam offered, the tender skin of his throat. Sam leaned forward, so that the blood flowing from the shallow cut fell on the smoldering herbs—the symbolic sacrifice. Alta blinked and swallowed hard. Samuel stepped back to his place at the north of the circle, and it began.
A cold shiver ran down Alta's spine when she heard hissing and rattling behind her. It was the unmistakable sound of snakes. She turned to see the floor beyond the circle writhing with a mass of serpents. Alta froze as her unreasonable fear of the slithering creatures rose up in her throat like bile, threatening to choke her.
"They can't cross the line," Mark yelled out. "They can't be on blessed ground." The hunters were safe within the circle, but they were trapped.
Alta turned back to the center and saw Sam standing alone. Smoke from the herbs curled around his body and he held out his empty hands, threw back his head, and offered himself up to the Furies.
There was a sound of beating wings, and the room glowed blindingly bright when the Furies appeared. Their shrill voices pierced through Alta's ears, and she fought to keep from falling to the floor and covering her ears to stop the pain that shot through her head. Instead, she pulled out her pistol and tried desperately to aim, but her eyes burned from the brightness and she couldn't focus through her tears.
The Furies shrieked and dived at Sam, their long, clawed hands ripping and tearing at him, just as they had done before when they attacked him. Alta saw him quickly duck to the floor, offering up his back and shielding his vulnerable stomach and chest. She locked her eyes on one of the Furies, following it up as it circled above for another dive at Sam. Pistol in hand, Alta could see it well enough. She had it in her sight when she heard the sudden, deafening roar of hundreds of wings. She was enveloped in a swarm of small, winged creatures all beating against her, nearly knocking her to the floor and throwing her aim off the Fury.
It was pure bedlam within the warehouse. Sam was crawling slowly toward his weapons as the Furies dive-bombed him repeatedly, claws ripping across his back. Christian stood over Samuel's hunched body, batting away at the swarm to protect the clan's leader. The younger hunters all batted at the little flying bastards and fired wildly toward the Furies through the swarm. None of them could take good aim and none of the bullets hit target.
Alta watched one of the Furies hover over Sam. As the small snakes slithered through her hair and framed her angry face, one giant snake slithered down the side of her body toward Sam. It's long, muscular body coiled around Sam's neck, jerking him up, pulling him higher, holding him defenseless as the other two Furies dived toward him, clawed hands reaching and eager to rip him apart.
Alta took off at a dead run toward Sam, batting her way through the swarm of little flying creatures. Sam clawed desperately at the snake's body that was tightening around his neck. She could see Sophia running toward Sam, machete drawn. The determined scowl on her face sent a chill through Alta.
Sophia jumped on Sam's back, reached up, and started hacking the snake in two. Its giant head curled up to bite her, but Alta had drawn her machete, and using both hands, she gave a mighty swing, putting all her power behind it to sever the creature's head.
The Fury shrieked as the snake fell limp, followed quickly by the dead Fury. The two women quickly ducked and slashed out with their machetes as the two remaining Furies attacked.
One of them grabbed Alta by her hair, curling its clawed hand around her ponytail and quickly lifting her high into the air. The pain that shot through Alta's head was so intense she could feel the burn of every hair pulling at her and she thought she knew what it felt like to be scalped. As her hands flew to her head, her machete clattered to the floor.
Alta could see the other Fury below her diving for Sophia, but it dropped quickly as Mark intercepted it with a stab of his blade directly into the creature's chest.
The snakes that surrounded the hunters were nearly gone, and the little winged bastards had thinned to less than a swarm. The hunters stood below Alta on the floor of the warehouse, all crowded around Sam and looking up at her. No one was able to get a clear shot. The Fury held Alta like a shield.
When Alta looked down at the hunters, she could see Sam. Blood flowed down his neck and soaked his shirt, which hung in shreds. It had been torn apart by the claws of the Furies. Blood stained the floor around him, and he leaned heavily on Donnie as he stared up at her.
The Fury growled and shook Alta hard by her hair. Alta screamed, but in spite of the intense pain, she grabbed her pistol, pulled it from its holster, and cocked it, aiming over her shoulder at the sound of the growl and firing.
The Fury let out a piercing shriek. Its clawed hand released Alta's hair, and she fell along with the dead Fury. She hit the floor rolling desperately trying to keep from re-injuring her foot. Somehow she managed to save her foot, but as she rolled to a stop at the feet of the hunters gathered in the center of the room, her head banged against the floor and everything faded to black.
"Morning."
Sam raised his head, quickly scanning the room. When his eyes fell on Alta, he laid his head back on the pillow and closed them. He was lying on his belly, face turned toward her. "You okay?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"I'm fine. Doc Carson wanted to keep me for observation, just in case I might have a concussion." She answered him from a small cot set up next to his hospital bed.
They were at the Campbell compound. If he didn't already know that, the stench of the ancient building would be a dead giveaway, although the infirmary also smelled of fresh antiseptic and the lingering odor of old blood.
Sam had lain quietly through what was left of the night after the hunt. He had been evacuated to the infirmary for Doc Carson's treatment. The doc had given him pain meds that made him groggy but didn't bring sleep. Sam had kept his eyes closed and steeled himself during the debridement of his wounds and the thirty-seven stitches, counting every one of them. He was glad when the treatment was finished up and he felt bandages covering his wounds.
Alta had assisted Doc Carson during the procedures. Sam felt her small, gloved hands on his back and heard the two of them talking as they worked together to treat his wounds. After about half the stitches were done, Sam realized he could feel the difference in Alta's fine stitches, the way she quickly but gently pushed the needle through his flesh. She used shorter pieces of thread, changing the needle more often so that it was sharp and pulled through faster and easier. Sam had done his fair share of stitches over the years. He began patching up Dean and his Dad after hunts when he was twelve, and he appreciated Alta's delicate hand.
Finally, he spent the rest of the night listening to Alta breathe the rhythmic breaths of sleep. He heard her turn and occasionally moan, and he listened to her quick, short breaths and watched the rapid movement of her eyes under closed lids when she dreamed. He knew the moment when her breathing evened out and her eyes stilled as she drifted deeper into dreamless sleep.
Alta broke into his thoughts. "I really think Doc just wanted someone else here to help keep an eye on you." There was amusement in her voice. "That way he didn't have to stay with you."
"Thanks," Sam conceded. "I saw you hit your head. Are you okay?" He slitted his eyes open to watch her now—awake.
"No concussion, but that bitch nearly snatched me bald. It hurt like hell!" Alta gingerly ran her hands through her hair. "You ever been hung by your hair? I think it's actually a couple of inches longer now."
"No, but I've been hung by a snake."
"Oh, yeah." Alta huffed out a small laugh. "Bet that hurt."
He snorted. "It wasn't fun." He pushed up on one arm, intending to turn to a more comfortable position, but as he did, he pulled on the stitches, and a searing pain ran across his back. He eased himself back down on the mattress.
Alta was quickly at his side. She brushed his hair from his face and then trailed her hand lightly down his back. She was so close that he could smell the scent of her, the faint smell of soap and the clean smell of her body—no flowery perfumes to mask what was natural. Sam liked that.
"Sorry. Don't try to get up yet. You need to take it easy."
"Yes." Doc Carson's booming voice came from the door as he entered the room. "You got a right healthy-sized gash on your back and one on your side. Lost a lot of blood before I could get to you."
Sam looked up into the crisp blue eyes of the doctor. "Thanks for your help."
"You'll be fine. No major organ damage. The wounds are all cleaned, but I've given you antibiotics along with fluid, just in case." He patted Sam's shoulder with one hand and ran the fingers of his other hand along the IV line that snaked it's way down from a half-full bag of fluid into Sam's arm. "Soon as this fluid has run in ya and you're hydrated, you'll feel better." Doc Carson gave him a half smile. "You'll be a little weak for a day or two." Sam grunted and the doctor nailed him with an intense stare.
"No hunting." The doctor waited for Sam's reaction. Sam didn't give him one. "Not for the next few days."
"When can I leave here?"
"You got a couple of hours to finish this fluid and then we'll just have to see how quickly you gain your strength."
"I'll be fine," Sam responded dryly.
Doc Carson patted Sam's arm. "Be patient son. You just finished a battle with a bunch of... what were they?"
"Greek Furies," Alta supplied. "Nasty creatures. Snakes all in their hair—"
"Yeah, well, you need a little downtime, both of you." He turned to Sam. "You stay in bed." His eyes rested on his patient for a moment, assessing him. "Do I need to sedate you? 'Cause I will."
Sam eyed the doctor grudgingly. "I'll stay."
"In bed. Resting." Doc Carson narrowed his eyes at Sam.
"In bed," Sam relented. "Resting."
Doc Carson turned his attention to Alta. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. You know what to watch out for." He eyed the IV in Sam's arm. "Call me if you need me sooner." He handed her a small bottle of pills. "Give him a couple of these if he needs anything for pain. I just put a little something in his IV. He should sleep."
Sam waited until he heard the door closing behind the doctor and he knew, once again, that Alta was the only one in the room with him. "Why are you here?" he said to her. "You're not hurt. You're not concussed. You're good to go."
She pulled a chair next to his bed so that she could sit and he wouldn't have to strain or twist his back to see her. "Someone has to keep an eye on you, Sam." Alta smiled at him, and Sam knew that it was the truth, simple and honest. Someone should watch him, and she did what needed to be done for no reason other than she was needed.
He gazed at her. Her dark auburn hair was draped around her shoulders, and her crystal-green eyes were looking back at him—so honest. He trusted her. She was the only person he knew that he trusted. He'd come to understand that when it came to Alta, what you see is what you get. She had no ulterior motives. She wasn't hiding anything.
"Thank you." He ran a finger along her face. He wanted her, but he reminded himself that even though he felt conflicting signals from her, she'd made it clear she didn't want him. It made him want her more.
"Do you work with Doc Carson often?"
"I used to." She tucked her hair behind her ear. He watched her blush, just a tiny hint of pink sneaking its way up her neck. "When I was younger, before I started hunting, I helped him all the time. He didn't want me to hunt. He wanted to send me to college, pre-med and then to med school. He said someone had to take his place and he wanted it to be me."
"You didn't want that?"
"I liked it. All hunters need to know battlefield triage." She looked away. "I guess I know more than most—better at it than most because of the time I spent helping the doc, but I wanted to hunt."
"You don't regret it?"
"No. I'm a hunter. It's what I am."
"You're a damn good hunter, Alta Campbell."
"Take it. The Seat of Power is yours. God-given." Balthazar couldn't understand Castiel's reluctance. "All of the angels believe this. They all believe that God himself saved you."
"He did," Castiel replied.
"Of course he did." Balthazar placed a gentle hand on Castiel's shoulder. "God meant for you to sit on the Seat of Power, and because God chose you, all of the Heavenly Host is yours to command. But you need to take power quickly, while the angels are in awe of you."
"No. This was all about free will. Why won't you understand this?" Castiel stared hard into his older brother's eyes. "I don't want to command them. I want to offer them free will. Each angel must choose his own path."
"Cas," Balthazar's voice was patient, as if he were speaking to a child about something far beyond his understanding, "the Holy Host is an army. The angels are soldiers. They must be led. They were made to follow and they will not be happy until they have a leader. That leader has to be you. You are God's chosen."
"No. He chose me for a different task."
"The Winchesters?" Balthazar's patience began to slip. "They've served their purpose. We are finished with them."
"No. We owe them." Castiel's crystal-blue eyes were determined.
Balthazar began to realize the battle of wills he would have with his brother. "We owe them nothing. They made their choices with their 'free will' and we have no further use for them."
"You're wrong." Castiel suddenly looked very sad. "We gave them little choice. We used them, drew them into the midst of our war and left them broken. What we did was not righteous."
"They're humans, Cas. Insignificant beings." Balthazar tried to reason with his brother. "They're useful for just a short time. The Seat of Power is for time without end. Raphael will not remain docile about this for long, and the angels will not remain in awe of you. The time is ripe. You must take power now. You are the only one who can keep Raphael from seizing power."
Harahel cleared his throat and approached the two angels reverently. Balthazar turned in irritation toward the approaching angel.
"I've found Sam Winchester," said Harahel.
Balthazar's irritation softened.
"He's on earth, living among his mother's people, the Campbells. He's hunting with them and he appears strong and healthy."
"That can't be," Castiel protested. "I would know if he were on earth."
"What? Why? Why would you know?" Balthazar looked incredulously at his younger brother—apparently his younger, foolish brother. "You didn't!" Balthazar was filled with pain and regret. "You didn't claim guardianship over him?" Balthazar had not planned for this. "How could you do that?"
"It was the righteous thing to do," Castiel responded softly. "He needed me. The Winchesters needed—deserved help. I believe that's what God saved me for."
Balthazar shook his head in denial.
Castiel raised his chin defiantly. "Sam Winchester is not on earth. I can feel him. I can hear his tortured soul crying in Hell."
Balthazar turned his gaze to Harahel. "Are you sure you saw him?"
"Quite sure," Harahel responded. He bowed up his tiny mouth under his ponderous nose, and his eyes narrowed and sparkled with amusement. "It seems that this Winchester is in both places. On Earth and in Hell."
"I've never heard of it. Is that possible?" Balthazar quizzed the older angel.
"Not for a human, but there are spells that could be used by something more powerful, something very much older and infinitely more powerful than humans. Perhaps an angel or a demon, maybe an ancient one or one of the pagan gods." Harahel's little mouth smiled. "I've never seen such a wonder as this either, but I would say that Sam Winchester is indeed split between Earth and Hell."
TBC