Sam's arm pulsed hot with the stinging burn of whiskey, his teeth gritting against the repeated poking of the needle as he pulled the thread through his skin. He'd been working on sewing up the gash in his arm for nearly fifteen minutes—what felt like an eternity—and he still wasn't finished.
"Shit," he hissed as the needle slipped out of his blood-caked fingers for the second time in a row.
He glanced over to Dean who was lying still on his bed—fresh bandages wrapped around his wrists, ankles, back, and forehead—his breaths shallow and pained. Castiel had appeared in the room briefly, not long after they got back, to ask them about the attack in the church and to check on Dean. He had offered to heal what Alastair had done to Dean, but Dean had refused. Sam watched with frustration as Dean reprimanded the angel for not doing his job before sending him away.
Even though Dean had refused the healing, Sam still wasn't sure if Dean needed to go to the hospital. He couldn't tell how much of Dean's pain was from his wounds opening up and how much of it was from the beating Alastair had given him.
"How you holding up?" Sam asked. He winced as he pulled another stitch through his skin. He took a large gulp from the whiskey bottle, wiping up the blood that ran down his arm with a dingy bath towel that was quickly becoming more red than white.
"Peachy," Dean rasped. He turned his head toward Sam, watching as he began to pull the final stitch through his skin. "Ya know… I could take care of that for you, if you want." His words sounded more like a plea than a suggestion.
Sam stopped mid-stitch, his eyes locking on Dean. This wasn't first time Dean had offered to heal him. There was his bruised rib in Michigan, a vampire bite in Tennessee, and a sliced arm in North Carolina. Dean offered to heal them all, but Sam had always refused.
The idea of Dean healing him had never sat right with Sam. He didn't feel worthy of it and the very idea scared him. He was scared that Dean couldn't heal him. Couldn't fix him. Dean not being able to heal him, more than anything else, would prove to Sam that he couldn't be saved. That he was beyond redemption.
"No. I got this." Sam turned his gaze away from Dean as he finished pulling the thread through. "You need to rest." After tying it off with his free hand and teeth, he poured the last of the whiskey over the wound, hissing sharply at the burn.
Dean scoffed, looking away. He shifted on the bed, his movements stilted and slow, before growing quiet once again.
Sam had just finished pressing a gauze pad to his shoulder when Dean sat up on his bed with a gasp, gently pressing his back against the headboard.
"I saw you kill Alastair." Dean's voice was calm, but it had a note of anger to it.
"Dean, listen." Sam sighed, picking the bloody bath towel up from his bed. "I didn't have a choice. He was gonna kill you and—"
"What I don't get is how you did it. I mean, all of five minutes before, he tossed you clean through a stained glass window like you were a Raggedy Ann doll." Dean pulled his silver flask out of his leather jacket and took a sip from it, wincing at the taste. He looked down at it for second before he closed it, shoving it back into his pocket. "What changed?"
Sam's jaw clenched. He knew he had blood on his face when he rescued Dean. He had tried to wipe as much of it off as possible while he ran into the pastor's office, and he did it again in the Impala when Dean wasn't looking. He even washed his face when they got back to the motel room. He thought Dean wouldn't notice it since he was so out of it from the beating and his wounds, but he'd been wrong.
"I got lucky, I guess." Sam shrugged. Standing up from his bed, he began walking towards the bathroom, folding the bath towel repeatedly between his fingertips. He only got a few steps away from his bed before Dean spoke again.
"I saw the blood, Sam." Despite its strain, Dean's voice carried across the room.
Sam stopped, turning around. "What?"
"The blood on your face," Dean repeated, narrowing his eyes. "And it smelled an awful lot like sulfur."
"Dean, that wasn't—"
"—Demon blood?" Dean's voice shook with anger and fear as he swung his legs around off the side of his bed, his eyes locked on Sam. "You're drinking demon blood? That's how you're yankin' demon's outta people?" Dean pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, pulling his fingers down his face. "I thought you were off the reservation with that psychic bullshit, but this? Do you have any idea what you're doing?" He winced in pain as he stood up from the bed, leaning against the bedside table to steady himself.
"I'm trying to protect you,Dean." Sam's voice was desperate. "I'm trying to help you."
"How?" Dean snapped. "By turning yourself into the fuckin' Antichrist?"
"I'm trying to get strong enough to kill Lilith. I'm trying to stop her from breaking the seals. I'm trying to stop the Apocalypse," Sam said, eyes narrowed. "If what happened today with Alastair is any indication, you're sure as hell not strong enough to fight her. And what happens if Lilith does break the final seal? What then? You think you can take on Lucifer? You can't even handle a demon, Dean. Ruby thinks—"
"Ruby?" Dean scoffed. He shook his head. "She's got you by the fuckin' nuts, Sam. She's playing you for a chump and you're falling for it." Dean ran his hands tensely through his hair. "Tell me Sam, after everything that's happened. After everything that's happened to me, how the fuck could you ever think this was a good idea?"
Sam's fists clenched. "What's happened to you is why I'm doing this," he yelled. "You were dead, Dean. I was trying to bring you back."
"Well someone else beat ya to it," Dean snapped.
"Yeah." Sam's voice was blunt. "That's the problem."
Dean blinked. "What?"
Sam paused. "You were stuck in Hell for months, Dean. Four months and I couldn't do anything about it. Then suddenly, you weren't." Sam breathed deeply, his voice shaking with anger. "You came back because an angel pulled you out of Hell. Resurrectedyou because God commanded it. Because you're the Messiah." Sam was quiet for a second. He chuckled bitterly. "Things you always scoffed at and called bullshit. Things you always scoffed at me for believing in. Those things are what saved you. You're a part of them and you're still scoffing at them."
Dean watched him for a moment, furrowing his brow. "Man, you really are jealous, aren't you?" Dean shook his head. "Tell me Sam, would you want this?" He ripped the bandages off of his wrists and held them in front of him. His eyes narrowed sharply. "Would you wanna go through this?"
Sam stared down at the circular bruises, crusted with half-drying blood, on his brother's wrists. "Yeah. I would." Sam glared, looking back up at Dean. "And I wouldn't treat like a burden like you do. I'd see it for what it actually is."
"Yeah? And what's that?"
"A blessing," Sam spat.
"This is a blessing?" Dean scoffed warily, glancing down at his wrists. "Every time I fall asleep, I dream of getting crucified. Every night. On Fridays, I lie in bed bleeding, in agony, for eighteen hours straight." Dean's voice shook with anger and fear. "I walk around on a daily fuckin' basis feeling like my body's gonna explode at any second because I've got the universe under my damn skin. You want that Sam? Because Isure as shit don't. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy."
"Dammit, Dean! Don't you fucking get it?" Sam gritted out in frustration. "You're saved. You're the most saved person on the planet and you don't even wanna be." He pressed his palm to his temple. "Every time I have to watch you heal someone or get visited by an angel—Hell, just being in the car with you, smelling those goddamn roses—I'm reminded of how damned I am."
Dean lowered his hand back down, his fists clenched.
"I can't ever be saved, Dean. I've got this evil thing inside of me that I can't get rid of. This evil was forcedupon me. It killed our mom and ruined our lives." Sam's eyes filled with tears. "The only way I can make that better, the only hope of salvation I have, is by making some good come out of it whichever way that I can. If that means drinking blood in order to get demons out of innocent people, then so be it."
Dean remained quiet. He lowered his eyes to the floor, pinching his lips, his eyes closed shut for just a moment before he looked up again, locking his gaze squarely on Sam. Dean limped over to him, his fists clenched.
Expecting a punch, Sam took a swing at him first. Dean dodged it and grabbed him by the forearm. Dean opened his clenched hand, nearly slamming his palm down on the side of Sam's head.
Sam froze at the touch, his eyes going wide with shock. "D— Dean?"
The only thing Sam could feel was the press of Dean's fingers to his temple.
Dean placed his other hand to the opposite side of Sam's head, squeezing it as he pressed down harder. His teeth clenched and a groan fell from his lips. His fingers trembled against Sam's hair as blood began to trickle from the corners of his eyes.
Nothing happened.
"Dean!" Sam barked. He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and pushed him roughly away. "Dean, stop!"
Stumbling backwards, Dean's eyes went wide and he took a sharp breath. He gaped at Sam for a moment before he looked down at his trembling hands. His body stilled as he stared down at them, his face washed pale in terror.
Dean wiped the blood from his cheeks, his expression hardening. Without a single word, he turned and headed over to his bed where he grabbed his jacket. He shoved his feet into his boots and walked over to the door.
Dean couldn't heal him. He couldn't purge the demon blood from his body. Dean couldn't save him. Sam sat down on the edge of his bed in shock, staring blankly at the ugly wallpaper on the motel wall. He didn't see Dean leave the room. He only knew Dean left by the slam of the door.
Dean had failed his brother.
When Dean placed his hand upon Sam's head, no heat coursed through his body. For the first time since he'd begun healing people, there was no fire. No electricity. Nothing. Just cold and pain. Pain that Dean was sure would have led to his wounds reopening if Sam hadn't pushed him away.
The small swirls of black smoke that he had felt swirling through Sam's veins had remained unchanged. The smoke had fought off the heat. It suffocated it. Snuffing it out like dirt kicked onto a fire's embers.
He slammed the door shut as he marched out of the motel room. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Dean stopped and looked at the bar across the street. He briefly deliberated going over there before he turned his gaze over to the far side of the building. Quiet and vacant, away from the motel patrons in the parking lot.
Dean rounded the corner of the building. Panting, he began kicking the wall, hard and repeatedly, cursing himself until his boots had made a sizable hole in the cheap plaster. Finally, he turned back around, pressing his back against the wall as he slumped down onto the frozen pavement, his arms wrapped around his bruised ribs. Tears began to stream from his eyes; he wiped at them forcefully, relieved to see that they were no longer red.
Dean sat in silence for a while, crying with utter abandon, until finally his blurry eyes lifted up to the overcast sky.
"Help me," he pleaded, his voice shaking. "Help me. Please."
Dean waited for what felt like forever, waiting, hoping for a reply. But there was nothing. No booming voice like thunder. No pillar of smoke or burning bush. No blowing wind. Not even a dove. Only silence. Utter and complete silence.
A heavy breath left Dean's mouth as he lowered his head back down. He wiped the tears from his eyes and dug his hands into his hair.
Then the sound of flapping wings filled the air. Dean rose from the pavement with some difficulty and turned the corner, setting his eyes on the angel standing in the middle of an empty parking space.
"Is this supposed to be some kind sick joke, Cas?" He narrowed his eyes. "I can heal cancer. I can bring people back from the dead! But I can't purge demon blood from my own goddamn brother?" His voice shook as it rose.
"Don't blaspheme Dean," Castiel warned cautiously.
"Fuck my language, Cas!" Dean spat, taking a step forward. "Why can't I fix Sam?"
Castiel sighed deeply, taking a couple of steps closer. "Purging demon blood from a human being is extremely difficult." He paused. "Near impossible. Not even angels possess the power to do it."
"So you're saying I'm not strong enough." Dean's voice cracked.
Castiel shook his head. "That's not at all what I'm saying, Dean."
"Yeah, it is." Dean's voice was blunt. "I'm supposed to be God, right? Logos? Deus Filius? Alpha and fuckin' Omega? I should be able to heal Sam, no problem."
"The Son has certain restrictions, Dean." Castiel pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, that's one of them."
"Then tell me how to do it."
"I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?" Dean asked.
Castiel didn't answer him.
Dean shook his head, turning away from Castiel. He was quiet for a long moment. "So… is it true? Did I—" The question caught in his throat. "Did I break the first seal?" His guilt ridden voice was just above a whisper.
Castiel paused reluctantly. "You did."
Dean shook his head, rubbing his eyes.
"From the moment your soul entered Perdition, we fought to get you back, but you were very heavily guarded. Ultimately, we couldn't get to you in time." Castiel's voice was permeated with sadness. "The fact that I managed to pull you out before your soul was irrevocably damaged was nothing short of a miracle."
"Why the fuck did you even bother?" Dean blinked tears away from his eyes, turning back around. "I broke the first seal. I jump-started the damn Apocalypse. I'm the reason the world is doomed to shit. Why didn't you just leave me there? Why did you bring me back?"
"It's not blame that falls on you Dean, it's Fate. You're the only one who could have broken the first seal." Castiel's voice was honest and soft. "This isn't the first time seals have been broken." He paused. "When Jesus lived, we were also on the path to Armageddon. His death is what reset the seals."
Dean's chest heaved. He closed his eyes briefly, knowing what Castiel was going to say before he even said it.
Castiel locked his gaze on Dean. "The Lamb reset the seals. The Lamb must be the first to break them."
Dean walked over to one of the benches sitting on the sidewalk and sat down on it, shaking his head again. "It doesn't matter. I still broke the damn seal. I still broke in Hell." Dean's voice cracked sharply. "I— I can't do this, Cas. I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong enough to heal Sam. I'm not strong enough to keep my shit together in The Pit. I'm not strong enough to fight Lucifer. You gotta find somebody else."
"There is no one else, Dean. Our fate rests with you."
Dean scoffed wearily, biting his lip as he stood up from the bench. He walked over to one of the motel's support pillars and leaned against it, lifting his head up to the sky. "He's not giving me a choice, is He?" His salt-caked eyes squinted against weak sunlight.
"No." Castiel lowered his gaze to the pavement. "Believe me, Dean; more than anything, I wish that you didn't have to go through this." His voice was apologetic, guilt-ridden.
Dean lowered his gaze to Castiel, furrowing his brow. He watched the angel for a moment before he turned his gaze to the Impala, sitting at the end of the parking lot. Taking a deep breath, Dean marched over to her.
"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, following behind him.
"What I shoulda done months ago. Hell, what I shoulda done the moment you told me about this whole Messiah thing in the first place."
When he reached the Impala, Dean popped open the trunk, grabbing one of his duffle bags from it. He pulled the contents out of it and replaced them with a first aid kit, a spare pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks, and basic toiletries.
Castiel watched him carefully as he packed. "Are you prepared for that?" Concern laced his question.
"Nope." Dean shrugged, not looking up from his packing.
"Are you frightened?"
"I'm scared shitless. But like you said, I don't have a choice." He tied a wool army blanket to the top of his duffle bag and then looked up, meeting Castiel's gaze. "The one choice I know I do have is to not sit on my ass."
After he finished packing his clothes, Dean pulled his leather jacket off and put on a hooded sweatshirt and his warmest winter coat. He placed his wallet and the flask into the coat before he folded up his leather one, placing it carefully in the back of the trunk. The last things Dean packed were his handgun, a silver knife, a container of salt, a bottle of holy water, and John's journal.
"I'm gonna make myself stronger." Steel tinged Dean's words. "And I'm gonna stop this damn Apocalypse before it even begins and I'm gonna fix Sam."
"I told you Dean. You can't fix Sam." Castiel's voice was cautious.
"Yeah?" Dean chuckled, closing the trunk with a thud. "Watch me."
Dean quickly scribbled a short note on a piece of paper. When he finished writing, he folded the note and placed it between the Impala's wiper blades. His eyes flickered to the motel room for a second before they turned back to the Impala. Dean stared at her for a long moment before he gave her a couple pats to the hood.
Dean took a deep breath. He shot Castiel a nervous look as he stepped away from the car. "So, which desert you would recommend, Cas? Sonoran or Mojave?"
"Ideally, the Jordan." Castiel's voice was simple as he walked over to him. "But he's a God of the wilderness. If you're going to try to find Him, Dean, you'll find Him in the wilderness."
Dean nodded. "Thanks, Cas." A weary smile spread across his face as he gave Castiel a pat on the shoulder.
With that, Dean walked away.
He didn't look back.
Castiel watched Dean as he made his way slowly down the side of the road with his thumb out. The street was bustling with cars, but not a single one stopped or slowed down or gave Dean so much as a glance. Soon the sound of feet, light and delicate, walking on the frosty sidewalk filled Castiel's ears. The steps were followed by the voice of one of his sisters.
"What are you doing Castiel?" she snapped, her voice panicked and angry.
Castiel turned his eyes, setting them on Anna.
She had once been his field commander, the leader of his garrison. Castiel had always trusted her. She had seen him through many campaigns and missions. But she had also rebelled. She had hacked her grace out and fell to Earth where she was reborn as a human. Castiel watched her as she grew up the daughter of a church deacon in the Milton household. Despite the standing order to find her and bring her in, Castiel never told his superiors where she was. That was until Uriel found her grace, giving him no choice but to apprehend her.
Dean had helped get her grace back. Dean had also protected her by standing up to him and Uriel when they had been sent after Anna.
Anna had been Dean's second display of disobedience to Heaven's will. The second time he said "no" to an angelic order. The second time of many.
The last time had been when Dean healed Aleah, the young girl with Leukemia. He and Uriel had appeared to Dean just as he was leaving the hospital. They told him that the child's death was preordained and that such actions would draw the wrong sort of attention to him. Dean responded by curing a young woman with AIDs and a Vietnam veteran with stage four esophageal cancer.
Castiel's voice feigned indifference towards her. "I'm watching over my charge."
"You call letting Dean go out into the world like that alone "watching over him"?" Anna cocked an eyebrow. "He's not safe."
"I know that." Castiel turned his gaze back to her. "But Dean needs to do this."
"No, he doesn't." Anna shook her head. "We've asked far too much of Dean already." She paused. "If Lucifer is released, we'll be asking the impossible of him. Dean will have to—"
"I know what he'll have to do, Anna. It's Our Father's Will. It's not our place to question Dean's destiny." Castiel paused. "Perhaps you're letting your sympathies… your feelings for Dean get the better of you."
Half of the seals had been broken already. Castiel knew what would happen if Dean wasn't purified by the time the last seal was broken. He knew just as well what could happen if Dean became a spotless Lamb before the final seal was broken. What his sanctified body and soul had the power to do when it was pure and whole again. He knew what his siblings would force Dean to do if he didn't start following their orders.
"What Dean and I did when I was human has nothing to do with this and you know it, Cas." Anna glared. "And even if it did, what about your own sympathies? The Flood. Sodom and Gomorrah. Isaac. The First Born of Egypt. The Canaanites. David and Bathsheba's infant. How many times have you questioned—disobeyed—direct orders?" Anna watched him carefully. "How many times have they had to reprogram you?"
Castiel grew silent.
"You're alive right now because I convinced Raphael to spare you after what you did the last time." Anna paused, her face softening. "After what you tried to stop." Her voice turned sad.
"Yes. And look at what I caused. A civil war in Heaven. Our banishment from the Earth."Castiel clenched his fists as he faced her. "Jesus refused to fight, Anna. He refused to listen. There was no other choice. He had no other choice. The fact that he was killed means that his death was ultimately His Father's Will."
Anna shook her head. "You don't believe that. You didn't believe it then and you certainly don't believe it now. What the angels did—whatwe did—was wrong. You know that better than anyone. From the moment Jesus climbed out of the Jordan River, you never left his side. You walked with him to Golgotha." Anna glanced down the road, looking at Dean. She watched him climb into the backseat of an oil truck before she turned her gaze back to Castiel. "Please, Cas. You have to stop this before it goes too far," she pleaded, grabbing his hand.
"No." Castiel shook his head, pulling his hand away. "I can't— I won't go through that again. I won't witness that again. All that blood. All that pain. All that sorrow. Centuries later and I can still hear him crying." He paused, bowing his head slightly as he shut his eyes. "Watching Dean relive it is difficult enough."
"I know." Anna sighed. "But putting Dean on a path to fulfill his destiny won't prevent that from happening again."
Castiel opened his eyes. "Maybe not." He looked at her again. "But if I do nothing, if I don't put Dean on this path, then I will be condemning him to death."
"Dean could become a Son more dedicated and obedient to Him and His Will than Michael and some of our siblings would still find fault in him simply because he's a man. A human. Either way he'll die, Cas." Anna took a deep breath, shaking her head. "What happened today shouldn't have happened. Two of our brothers were stationed near that church. They should have been protecting Dean."
"They were. I selected them myself." Castiel's voice was blunt. "Alastair must have killed them."
Anna paused, thinking for a long moment. "Demons didn't kill those angels. If they did, we would have known it." She took a couple of steps down the sidewalk before she stopped and turned back around. "Where was Uriel stationed this morning?" Her face was serious and her voice leading. "When was the last time you saw him?"
Castiel's body stiffened, anger spreading across his face.
Without a word, he began to walk away from Anna.
Castiel's feet touched down inside the church's now-deserted vestibule. The stench of sulfur, smoke, and blood washed over him as he landed. It had almost completely overtaken the scent of roses, but he could still smell it, ever so faintly.
Silently, he made his way past spatters of blood, police tape, and chalk body outlines through the vestibule and to the sanctuary. His angel sword tucked into the sleeve of his trench coat.
Walking into the sanctuary, he found Uriel standing up near the pulpit, pacing around it. His footfalls were silent against the carpet.
"Castiel." Uriel let out an annoyed breath as he went about inspecting the area. "I see you finally decided to join me."
"Why did you do it, Uriel?" Castiel's voice carried through the sanctuary as he marched down the center aisle. "Why did you try to kill Dean?"
Uriel turned around, his gaze judgmental. "I didn't try to kill Dean." He paused, shrugging, as he walked down the steps of the pulpit. "Alastair was working with Lilith. He already wanted to kill Dean. I simply gave him the opportunity by removing those who would prevent Alastair from trying."
"Our siblings," Castiel snapped.
Uriel shook his head and sighed. "And I only killed them because they refused to join me."
"Why?" Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Why are you doing this?"
"You know why Castiel." Uriel scoffed as he walked around the front of the sanctuary. "Dean won't listen to us. He hasn't listened to us from the moment you pulled him out of Perdition. It was bad enough when he wouldn't let us take care of Samhain and Anna. But now he's refusing to follow even the most basic of orders we give him. He's making scenes in churches and healing whomever he pleases. People that were never supposed to be healed. Dean's proven himself to be just like The Nazarene: a self-righteous liability that we will have to pay for. So I took matters into my own hands."
"So you went against our mission." Castiel glared. "Again."
Disgust washed over Uriel's face. "I never went against our mission. I did what we had been ordered to do. What the rest of our garrisonrefused to do because of you. Because of your unfortunate preoccupation with the Nazarene, with Dean, with all those mud monkeys," Uriel hissed. "Once again, you can't see that getting rid of the Messiah is for Heaven's benefit." He started to march down the aisle.
Castiel watched Uriel for a second. "If Dean dies with his soul in the state that it's in right now, Lucifer rises without anyone to oppose him. We lose this battle before it's even begun. Tell me Uriel, how does that benefit Heaven?"
Uriel stopped. He paused for a long moment before he turned back around. "Because if Dean dies, then there is nothing standing in Lucifer's way." He grinned. "Not even Michael."
Castiel froze.
"Do you remember our brother? Do you remember how glorious he was? How powerful he was?" Uriel's voice was filled with awe as he walked slowly back down towards Castiel. "Think of how much better Heaven would be under his rule."
Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I remember Lucifer being cast out of Heaven because he was full of pride and envy. Because he refused to bend the knee when Our Father demanded him to."
"To the humans, Castiel," Uriel spat. "He saw them for what they really are: deceitful, murderous, rebellious apes. And Lucifer was right. We gave them paradise and they tossed it away. They were handed this planet and they've turned it into filth. They've killed themselves over land and the words in our books that aren't even true begin with."
"They were created in His image." Castiel shook his head. "They are Our Father's greatest creations."
"They are a failed experiment," Uriel hissed, frustration and anger tingeing his voice. "They are corrupted. They were corrupted the moment Cain picked up the jawbone of an ass and ran his brother through with it. They're not worthy of our adoration. They're not worthy to bear God's power and call Him Father."
"You're wrong."
"Am I? Think about it Castiel. Can you reallypicture Dean Winchester sitting at the right hand of Our Father's throne? Judging the living and the dead?" Uriel chuckled bitterly. "The idea is laughable."
"That's not your decision to make, Uriel."
"I'm not the only one who feels this way, Castiel." Uriel smirked. "Why do you think I'm still alive?"
Castiel's eyes narrowed. In one quick motion, he punched Uriel, sending him crashing into a row of pews.
Uriel lifted himself out of the pile of broken wood and barreled towards Castiel. He grabbed him and tossed him onto the stage, taking the pulpit and some chairs with him as he slid across the floor.
"We are sheep, Castiel! Our superiors—Zachariah, Naomi, Raphael, even Michael—they're only following Dean because they've been ordered to follow him. They'll think nothingof nailing Dean to a tree if it comes to it. Just like the Nazarene. Tell me, are you prepared to bear his cross as well?"
Castiel lifted himself up off the floor the stage, spitting blood from his mouth. "It won't come to that." He pulled his sword from the sleeve of his trench coat. "Not again. Not while I'm alive."
He thrust his sword, but Uriel managed to dodge it, knocking it out of his hand as he pinned Castiel against the back wall of the stage, just below the choir loft.
"Dean will die, Castiel. One way or another," Uriel hissed, punching Castiel in the face. He pulled his own sword out of his jacket, hovering it just above Castiel's chest. "I'm almost tempted to let you live. Just so you can watch yourself fail again."
Uriel was just about to thrust the sword downwards into Castiel's chest when Castiel heard the sound of wings, followed by a gasp. He watched as Uriel's eyes went wide, his vessel stiffening. The tip of an angel blade protruded out of the front of Uriel's throat.
Anna stood behind Uriel, Castiel's angel sword clutched tightly in her hand.
In one quick motion, Anna pulled the blade out. Uriel collapsed to the floor with a deafening scream as a bright white light spread out from his mouth and eyes. Grace emanated from his body, exploding with a sudden burst of energy that completely flooded the sanctuary with blinding white light.
When the light dissipated, Uriel's body lay motionless on the floor of the stage; a pair of charred black wings spread out under it.
Anna took a few steps closer to him, offering him her hand.
Castiel grabbed it, lifting himself off the floor.
As soon as he was standing, he let go.
January 27, 2009.
Abilene, Kansas.
Sam climbed out of the Impala, setting his eyes on Ike's Place, a small bar a mile off of Interstate 70. Walking inside, Sam heard the opening cords to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man" —classic rock with hints of country and bluegrass—and took a deep breath. Taking in the smell of stale beer and greasy food, he went up the bar counter where an older waitress was scrubbing the countertop with a dishrag. Sam cleared his throat. "Hi. Are you Martha Johnson?"
"I am." The waitress nodded, looking up at him. "And you would be?"
"Sam Phillips. I write a blog on the paranormal." Curiosity and concern laced Sam's voice. "I'd like to talk to you about what you saw here yesterday."
"Sure." The waitress chuckled, tossing the rag onto the counter. "What I saw was an act of God. That's the best way I can describe it."
Sam's eyes shifted. He paused awkwardly. "What happened exactly?"
"Well, a man walked in. Young. Drifter type. Handsome thing. But he looked like he'd hit ten miles of bad road. Tired and sick lookin'. Kid had nothing on him but the clothes on his back and a beat up duffle bag. The odd thing was he ordered nothing 'cept a glass of wine in a low ball glass. Nursed the thing for a full hour too." Martha recounted, leaning against the countertop.
Sam nodded.
"Brett, our bartender, started talkin' to him. He said the man had "The Look" and wanted to make sure he was alright. You see, Brett was a sergeant in the army. He did two tours in Iraq. Got half his face burned up in an IED explosion. He knew the signs like the back of his hand." She pointed over to a picture of a young man dressed in an army T-shirt; a burn scar covered the left side of his face and neck.
Sam turned his gaze back to the waitress. "So what happened then?"
"They spoke for a little while. Then the man finished his drink, left a huge tip, shook Brett's hand, and left. "Next thing I know, I hear Brett yelling. I run over and see him staring into the mirror behind the liquor shelves, tears running down his face." Martha paused, her voice turning into a low whisper. "His scars were completely gone. Not a single trace of them left." She gestured over to the other side of the bar.
Sam turned to see Brett, the same man in the photograph, surrounded by a group of what Sam assumed were the bar's regular patrons, his face now completely healed.
"What about the man?" Sam swallowed hard. "What happened to him?"
The waitress shrugged. "Last I saw him he was hitchin' a ride on a semi-truck, headed west."
"Did he mention where he was going?"
Martha shook her head. "Nope."
Sam smiled at her sadly. "Well thank you for your time, ma'am. That's all I needed to know." With that, he turned and left the bar, heading back to the Impala. He climbed in, shutting the door with a squeak as he leaned his head against the back of the seat.
He sat there quietly for a second until a female voice broke the silence.
"So?" the voice sighed out. "No dice on your brother, I'm guessing?"
Sam turned his gaze over to Ruby, who was sitting with her feet propped up on the dashboard of the car. "No," he grumbled, pushing her feet off the dash. "He's long gone." Sam's hand lingered on her calf before he moved his fingers away from her, running it through his hair.
Ruby shifted in her seat, facing Sam. "You know Sam, I'm no expert on your brother, but I'm guessing that if Dean wanted you to find him, you would have by now."
"I know." Sam's eyes narrowed. "I just want my brother back." He paused, his hands gripping tightly around the steering wheel. "How much longer until I'm strong enough to ice Lilith?"
Ruby contemplated for a moment, staring at him. "Not much longer. You already turned Alastair into a pile of broken bones." Ruby shook her head. "But you're really outta practice. Before you can even think about going after Lilith we've gotta train you up. I'm talking boot camp, Sam."
"Good. Then let's get started."
Ruby scooted over with a lustful grin, climbing into Sam's lap. She kissed him deeply. Sam grabbed two fistfuls of her hair, pulling her roughly to him. She moved back, removing her shirt and taking her knife out of her pocket. She ran it over the skin just above her collarbone. Bright red blood streamed down her bronze skin and Sam glanced up at her, his eyes darkening as he pressed his mouth to her skin, biting down hard against the wound.
The sound of Ruby's gasps and moans as he drank her blood helped Sam forget that the Impala's cabin, for as many times as he and Dean had cleaned it, still reeked of roses. For once, he couldn't smell them at all.
January 30, 2009.
Ulysses, Kansas.
Dean rested his head against the cool window of a pickup truck's passenger seat. He stared with half-open eyes out at the empty fields of grass along Kansas Highway 25. Frost covered and gray, the landscape was utterly void of life for miles in any direction.
The truck's cabin reeked of diesel fuel and Lucky Strikes, and the speakers blared nothing but Hank Williams, but Dean didn't care. The last five days had been comprised of nothing but long stretches of walking interspersed with the occasional ride in a semi or pickup along the highway and state roads. At night, Dean squatted in sheds or barns, and the occasional storm cellar.
Dean hadn't eaten anything. Though he was hungry, his hunger—ever so slowly—was starting to go away.
Dean didn't know where he was going. He had only a basic route of away and that was it. Maybe he'd go out to the badlands of Montana or the deserts of New Mexico. Maybe he'd wander around Death Valley. Maybe he'd go nowhere at all.
He was afraid of what would happen if he couldn't get stronger. He was equally afraid of what would happen if he did.
Then Dean saw it.
A wooden building, painted white, set back on a deserted road made of little more than dirt and gravel, barely even a road at all.
A church.
When the truck got closer, Dean could see that the paint was chipped, exposing rotted wood; its windows were boarded up. The church's congregation was long gone, likely uprooted by the dust bowl seventy years earlier, but the county nevertheless was seeing to its upkeep as a place of historical significance.
It offered shelter from cold and seclusion. It was sanctified ground which brought with it safety and, as Dean was hoping, communion with the divine. It was everything Dean wanted, everything Dean needed. It was perfect.
Dean glanced over at the truck driver, Tom, an elderly man pushing near eighty. He had offered Dean a ride completely unsolicited back in Lakin. Dean had learned through conversation that as a young man, he'd gone to jail for stabbing a man in a bar fight. "Hey, this is where I get off."
"You sure 'bout that, boy?" Tom asked in a thick Oklahoma drawl, cocking an eyebrow. "There ain't nothin' out here."
"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Positive. Thanks for the ride."
Tom pulled the truck over and Dean climbed of the cab. The cold air attacked him, but soon it faded. With each step Dean took closer to the church, he could feel the heat course through his veins, blazing strong. By the time Dean pried its door open, his entire body felt as though it were awash in flame.