Dean closed the church door behind him. He listened as it creaked loudly against the cold, dead air. One of the windows near the front of the church had lost its protective boarding, letting the weak winter light filter through, down into the chapel. It gave Dean just enough light to make out the faded bible verse painted on the wooden paneling above the pulpit stage, "'I am sending you out like sheep among wolves.' Matt. 10:16."
The dust-caked pews were painted white, chipped and rotted. Some had already collapsed with age. Walking down the aisle, Dean noticed the organ. It was covered in dust, but he could still hear it hum from the wind going through its pipes. The pews were covered with stacks and stacks of hardcover hymnals and bibles. They were water stained, and they looked as though they would fall apart if Dean picked one of them up.
But already, the musty stench of age and decay in the church had been covered up with the scent of roses. For the first time in months, Dean welcomed the scent. Closing his eyes, he breathed it in deep, allowing it to fill his lungs.
Finally he opened his eyes again as the air in the church began to thicken. It tingled and buzzed on Dean's skin, like static before a lightning storm. Dean closed his eyes, letting the smell and the heat radiate through him until finally he opened his eyes again.
Dean could feel Him.
He swallowed, walking further down the center aisle, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet.
"Father?" Dean called out. The word didn't sit right on his tongue as it echoed through the church. He glanced up towards the ceiling. "Listen, I'm not gonna leave this place until you speak to me. No angels. No bible-thumpers. Nothin'. Just you and me, mano-a-mano. You got that?"
God didn't answer Dean.
Just before reaching the pulpit, Dean stopped. He planted his feet firmly against the wooden floor, taking a deep breath, and didn't remove his eyes from the ceiling. "If you want me to stay in here and die, I can do that too."
Dean let his duffle bag fall off of his shoulder. Crouching down, he placed the bag on the floor and opened it, pulling out a container of salt, which he used to draw a circle around himself.
Once he was done making the circle, Dean placed the salt back in the bag and sat down on the floor, folding his legs.
He sat inside the ring for hours, waiting for a sign—any sign—but nothing happened. The only thing Dean heard was the wood of the building creaking from the strong gusts of wind. Twice, he heard a car pass by. Apart from that, the church was still. Quiet.
The light turned to a weak shade of yellow, then purple, then blue, until finally it disappeared, casting the church into total darkness.
Not long after night fell, Dean's eyes began to droop. He lay down inside the circle, wrapping the wool blanket around him, his legs curled up tight against his chest.
He was asleep within minutes.
Dean was awoken the next morning by a voice. It was one that he recognized, one that was soft and feminine, that he had often dreamt of.
"Dean?" The voice echoed throughout the church.
Dean opened his eyes slowly. He sat up to see Lisa standing beneath the entrance in the back of the chapel. She walked quickly down the center aisle, her eyes wide with worry.
"Lisa?" Dean rasped, standing up. "What the hell are you doin' here?"
"Getting you out of here," she said, her words blunt and panicked.
Dean paused, blinking at her. "How the hell did you even find me?"
"Sam called me, he said you ran off. He thought I could talk some sense into you, so he sent me here." She held her hand out to him. "Come on, Dean. Let's go."
"Sam doesn't know where I am." Dean paused for a second, looking her up and down.
Lisa's face dropped its worried facade. She sat down on one of the pews, and Dean's heart began to race.
Lisa didn't have a shadow.
"Why do you need to save world? Why do you think people need you to save them? Come with me, come back to me. I need you, Dean. Ben needs you." She paused. "I don't want Ben growing up without his father."
Dean's breath caught in his throat, his eyes shifting from the place Lisa's shadow should've been, back up to her earnest eyes. "I know what this is." He glared, taking a step back from her. "You're tryin' to trick me."
"Trick you with what, Dean?" she scoffed. "A home? A family? A normal life? Giving you back what was taken from you?"
"That's not my life, Lisa." Dean glared, shaking his head. "That's not supposed to be my life. It never was."
"Then what is supposed to be your life, Dean? Sacrificing yourself? Dying a bloody death? For what, a world that can't be saved? Because that's how this is gonna end, one way or another."
Dean didn't answer her.
"You've got one hell of a savior complex, you know that?" Lisa shook her head and sighed. "You've gotta save everyone but yourself." She stood up, taking a step closer to the circle. "You've done enough, Dean. Save yourself. Leave this place."
Dean shook his head. "I can't do that."
Lisa stepped over the salt line. "Yes, you can. I can help you, Dean, just stay with me." She wrapped her arms around him. "All you gotta do is nod your head and we can be in my bed, okay?" she whispered, leaning in to kiss him.
Dean's breath caught in his throat. He could feel her. He could feel her warm skin against his, smell her sweet perfume. She was so close he could feel her breath against his lips. She felt real. Involuntarily, Dean moved closer, but before her lips could touch his, he pulled away.
"No!" He stumbled back from her, shaking. With a blink, Lisa disappeared.
Dean's eyes moved wildly around the church, looking for her. He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He closed his eyes; he could still smell her sweet perfume, but after a moment that was gone, too, replaced by the smell of roses.
After a while, he fell back to sleep.
"What are you waiting for Dean?" He felt the putrid breath of the nasally rasp against his ear and shuddered. While the voice was menacing, the tone was light. Dean could barely hear it over the pleading sobs of the woman kneeling naked before him. "Cut her," the voice demanded.
Dean turned his head, setting his eyes on Alastair, who stood behind him, hovering. Slowly, his gaze lowered to the bloody knife held in his shaking hand, still marred with a nail wound in the center of the palm, his fingers barely able to grasp the blade's handle.
Dean froze, his body trembling. Tears filled his eyes. "N— No…"
"Cut her now, Dean!" Alastair grabbed him by the shoulders, his nails digging into Dean's flesh. "Cut her! Cut her, or so help me, I'll drag you back to that room and hang you back up on that fucking tree!"
With a cry, Dean raised the knife, thrusting it downward. His eyes snapped shut at the sound of the woman's bloodcurdling screams.
Dean awoke and found himself curled up on the floor of the church, quietly sobbing.
A few hours—maybe days—later, another voice sounded behind him, echoing through the chapel.
"Fucked up again, didn't you, boy?" Hard and deep, it was a gruff voice that never failed to make his heart race. This voice was familiar and terrifying, one that played in his head more often than his own. It was disappointment and anger and slurred words on drunken Saturday nights.
Dean sat up, turning in his circle of salt to see John leaning against one of the rotten pews. He moved closer and Dean fought the urge to stand up straight.
"Dad." His body stiffened, his eyes fixed, watching as John paced around the circle.
"I gave you one job, Dean," John spat. "One. Save your damn brother. And you couldn't do it. Instead, you got him killed. Then you made a deal to bring him back? How stupid do you have to be?" John shook his head, his expression scathing. "He would have been better off if you had left him dead, Dean. Because when you died, when you made your "heroic sacrifice", you left Sam alone. Left him open and vulnerable, easy prey to whatever demon would try to take him under their wing."
At John's words, bile rose from the pit of Dean's stomach. Dean looked down at the floor, swallowing thickly.
"While we're on the subject of Hell, Dean, was it really so hard for you to keep it together? Fuck, boy. I was in The Pit for a century and I didn't break. Not once. The thought never even crossed my mind. But you? The so-called "Lamb of God"? You caved in thirty. You fucked the entire world all to hell. Why, because you couldn't handle a little bit of pain?"
Dean shook his head, roughly wiping away the tears with the back of his hand. He couldn't meet John's stern gaze.
"Now Heaven's gotta waste their time cleansing you so you can actually be of some use to them," John scoffed, shaking his head. "Despite what you did, they still bothered to save you. They gave you a second chance and you've got the nerve to be a little shit to them? To deny them?" John cocked an eyebrow. "All they're asking of you is to be the Messiah you're supposed to be, the Messiah you need to be, and you can't even do that right. Why Dean? Because you don't want to?"
"No." Dean looked up at John. "No, Sir." His voice shook.
"Bullshit. Don't lie to me," John snapped. "You're having such a hard time with this because you're scared. Because you're a coward."
Dean's face hardened as his fists clenched. "I'm not a coward."
"Yes, you are. You're worthless, Dean." John glared. "You've been nothing but a disappointment to me. You always have been and you always will be. The only thing you're good for is cannon fodder." John glanced up to the ceiling. "I can only imagine what He thinks of you now."
"Shut up!" Dean rose from the floor, stalking towards John. He stopped right at the salt line. "Shut the fuck up! You're the one who couldn't take care of us! You're the one that pushed Sam away!" Dean narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "I was dying and you couldn't even be bothered to call. You were too fucking busy trying to get revenge for Mom to notice that you had two parts of her right there who needed you to be their Dad instead of their drill sergeant!"
John's fists clenched. "You little—"
Dean grabbed John by the jacket. "I was always there for Sam. Not you." Dean glared, his eyes sharp as daggers. "I was the one who made sure he got to school on time. I was the one who worked and hustled and whored my way through every shitty motel you dumped us at, all to make sure there was food on the table at the end of the day for Sam, even if that meant I went hungry! I was the one who was there for him, Dad!" Dean sneered. "You don't even deserve that title. I was more of a father to him then you ever were."
"That's right. You were." John nodded. He pulled Dean's hands off of his jacket; his hands were cold against Dean's wrists. John took a step back from his son and smirked. "And that's why you're gonna fail."
John vanished.
No sooner had John disappeared than another sound filled the church.
Behind him, a baby was crying and a woman was humming lowly, comforting it.
"Come and see him, angel," a woman said. Soft and gentle. It was a treasured voice that Dean had almost forgotten. "Come meet your little brother."
Dean turned his gaze to the other side of the church to find Mary sitting in the pew beneath the window. She was wearing a green hospital gown and had an infant in her arms, wrapped in a blue blanket. She was feeding him from a bottle.
Dean froze. "Mom?" He walked closer to her, his gaze locked on the baby in her arms.
"His name is Sammy," Mary whispered, almost like it was some kind of awe-inspiring secret. She looked up at Dean and smiled. "You're gonna be a good big brother for me and Daddy and help us take care of him, right?"
Dean swallowed and nodded. "Of course, mom."
"I know you will, Dean. You're such a good kid. My little angel."
Dean smiled at her as tears filled his eyes. He watched her for a long moment before his voice cracked angrily. "Why did you do it, mom? You're a hunter. Even if you wanted a normal life, you shoulda fuckin' known better. You… you should have protected us, mom. Why did you make that deal with Yellow Eyes?"
"I'm sorry, baby, but I had to save John. The same way I needed to die in that fire." Mary raised her eyes to him. "You needed to live this life, Dean. You needed to grow up a hunter. It had to happen that way, baby. You were destined for it." She smiled. "You've always been the Son of God, Dean. Since the moment I felt you kick in my belly. Even before that, really."
"You're telling me I was destined to learn how to fire a gun at the age of six? To kill a man at age twelve? To kill werewolves at fourteen? To have to watch those closest to me get ripped to shreds by monsters? And you're telling me that was my "destiny"?" Dean snapped.
Mary's face grew serious. "And if you had grown up safe and happy in Lawrence, you would have still ended up here, angel. You have always been the Messiah, and Sammy has always been… your opposite." Mary pulled the bottle back. When she lifted him up, Dean saw blood trickling down the side of his mouth.
Sam's eyes glowed yellow.
"No..." Dean shook his head. He backed away.
Mary and the infant disappeared in a burst of flame.
"No!"
Suddenly, John reappeared in front of Dean. But this time, his eyes also glowed yellow.
Azazel let out a hearty chuckle. "You know, the Son of God turning out to be the older brother of my VIP makes for such a nice conflict of interest, doesn't it? You're an insurance policy, Dean. And you've been so very helpful to me." Azazel grinned. "Still… I gotta admit… it's a good thing Heaven cloaked you. Otherwise, your mommy's sweet little ass wouldn't have been the only one burning on the ceiling."
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the glint of an angel sword at his feet on the floor. He reached down and grabbed it, thrusting it into Azazel's chest. He watched his body stiffen and glow before he yanked the blade out, pushing the body to the floor.
The sword and Azazel disappeared. The church was quiet. Utterly still. Empty. Dean was alone again.
Then the sound of clapping echoed throughout the church. Dean turned to find a balding man dressed in a suit standing in the center aisle.
"Bravo, Dean. Bravo."
Grace glowed around him. It was brighter and stronger than any Dean had seen before. Stronger than Castiel's or Uriel's or even Anna's.
"An angel?" Dean's question was frustrated and disheartened. "You did this?"
The angel nodded. "I did."
Dean sighed. "Wonderful." He paused, staring for a second. "So what was this, some kind of hallucination or something?"
"It was a test." The angel grinned. "And I'm happy to say that you passed."
"Great." Dean murmured sarcastically. He picked up his duffle bag and made his way down the aisle. "Well, I'm not really in the mood to deal with some dick angel right now so if you don't mind—"
"I'm not just "some dick angel", Dean," he raised his voice slightly. "I'm Zachariah. Castiel's superior."
Dean stopped dead in his tracks. "Zachariah?" He cocked an eyebrow, disgust filling his voice. "I've heard of you. You're the angel that was lying to that church back in Shawnee. You're the one who told them that I was gonna Rapture them."
"Oh, please. I never told them that." Zachariah chuckled. "They were just making assumptions based on their own theology and feelings of self-importance. They assumed I was talking about the Rapture. All I told them was that they were going to herald your Second Coming and that's exactly what they did. You revealed yourself to them. The preaching was a bit much, but you finally tapped into that righteous fury." He smirked. "In fact, if you hadn't gone into that church, you wouldn't be here right now."
"So you planned this whole thing?" Dean glared. "You let that church get attacked?"
"It's not the road that matters, Dean, it's the destination." Zachariah shrugged. "And you're exactly where we need you to be."
"Who's "we"?" Dean narrowed his eyes.
"Let's call it… Upper Management."
"Right," Dean scoffed. "And where exactly does "Upper Management" need me?"
"Up to snuff." Zachariah's words were blunt. "You've managed to beat most of your character flaws, shockingly enough. But you've still got to get that Hell grime off of your soul. Once you become the Spotless Lamb, you're going to ride into battle and lay waste to Satan and his army. Paint the ground red with blood. After that you're going to assume the throne and judge the living and the dead. So on and so forth."
Dean paused for a long moment. "And who says I want to do that?"
Zachariah blinked. "Excuse me?"
Dean nodded sarcastically. "I think I'm gonna have to pass on that whole, "bringing on Armageddon" thing."
"Oh, but that's why you're here, Dean-o," Zachariah scoffed. "Didn't you read the script?"
"Yeah. I have." Dean's words were blunt. "And from what I gather, I'm here to be a savior, not nuke the damn planet."
Zachariah's body stiffened with anger. "You can't make that decision, Dean," he warned, narrowing his eyes.
"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged, glaring. "I just did."
"Let's get one thing straight, right now. You're a human," Zachariah spat, his face inches away from Dean's. "All you are is a vessel, Dean. The Vessel. The sacred conduit of the Godhead, sure, but a vessel nonetheless. I can force you to do whatever I want and trust me Dean, if you don't stop acting like a petulant child, I will."
With a flap of his wings, Zachariah disappeared.
Dean stood in the aisle for a moment, giving the church a final glance before he flung his duffle bag over his shoulder and walked back out into the winter chill. Dean could see the morning sun rising to the east, just above the horizon. He walked towards it, his tired eyes squinting against the light.
The air was still thick and heavy. Dean could feel the static under his skin.
Dean could still feel Him.
February 17, 2009.
Murray, Kentucky.
Dean climbed the steps of the bungalow's porch, his feet shuffling against the century-old wood. It was an olive green Victorian, with a wide front porch and a big bay window, where Dean could see into the modest living room. It was a house Dean knew well, one that he was sure would give him some much needed hospitality.
With the exception of an occasional barn or unlocked shed, shelter had been a rare commodity the last two weeks. More often than not, Dean had found himself curling up beneath an overpass or behind a dumpster in an alleyway.
For a few days, Dean had been able to crash in the spare room of a farmhouse an hour outside of Dodge City. Andy, a man in his late forties with a bad hip and a failing farm, had offered Dean a place to sleep and a ride into Wichita if he'd fix his 1972 Chevrolet C10. Before Dean climbed out of the truck, he healed Phil's bad hip, curing him of his bone cancer.
While in Wichita, Dean found Joyland, a derelict amusement park he vaguely remembered John taking him and Sam to when they were kids. The park was also occupied by a teenage boy named Matt. Dean had discovered—after politely declining a proposition from the boy—that he had been living out on the streets for four months. His extremely conservative parents had kicked him out following their discovery that he and his best friend were actually romantically involved. His boyfriend had been shipped off to military school while Matt had been thrown out of his home.
Dean gave Matt the rest of his money and put him on a bus to Minneapolis so that he could live with a more understanding aunt. Before he left, Dean hugged Matt, telling him with the upmost honesty that there was nothing wrong with him. He also healed the boy's bad case of gonorrhea.
A few days later, Dean found refuge in a truck stop diner on I-44, just past Joplin, Missouri. The owner, Phil, had to catch Dean before he collapsed in the middle of the candy aisle from a spiking fever. He gave Dean a piping hot bowl of fresh chicken noodle soup and two grilled cheese sandwiches on the house and let Dean use their shower facilities. He even let Dean sleep for a couple of hours on the couch in his office.
As he left the truck stop that night, even though he was still tired and weak, he came to the aid of a scrawny prostitute who worked the lot, protecting her from a hostile client.
The last leg of Dean's trip was on Route 60, comprised mostly of walking and sleeping under highway overpasses. The one oil truck that picked Dean up some fifty miles west of the Mississippi River let him off at a Mobil station in Murray. Instead of trying to hitchhike as freezing rain began to fall around him, Dean remembered that Jacob Miller, a Lutheran pastor who had helped John and him out on a string of hunts while Sam was at Stanford, lived in the area. He decided to walk to Jacob's house for a visit, and hopefully, a bed to sleep in.
Walking under the roof of the porch, Dean sighed, relieved at the mere prospect of a hot shower and somewhere safe to sleep before he walked over to the door. He took note of the iron cross hanging above the sill, before he rang the doorbell.
A minute went by. Then two. Then three. Finally the door opened just wide enough to reveal a man in his late thirties wearing a black shirt with a white collar and a cross around his neck. He stared at Dean with a look of confused recognition.
Dean cleared his throat. "Hey Jacob," he rasped, giving the man a tired smile. "Long time, no see."
"Winchester?" Jacob paused, squinting his eyes. "Dean Winchester?"
"Yup." Dean nodded. "Sure is."
"Well, I'll be." Jacob chuckled, opening the door wider. "I barely even recognized you. How long has it been since I saw you last?"
"About six years." Dean shrugged. "That Rawhead job down in Brownsville."
"Right. April, ' and your old man saved my tail." Jacob nodded. "So what can I do you for?"
"Well." Dean cleared his throat. "I was passing through and I kinda needed a place to crash. If it's not too much trouble, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind putting me up for the night."
"Of course not. You can stay for a week if you like. Looks like you need it." Jacob looked him up and down. "What've you been up to?"
"Well… hitchhiking, mostly."
"Hitchhiking?" Jacob cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't lose that Impala of yours, did you?"
"No! No. She's fine—as far as I know anyway–it's just …" Dean paused awkwardly. "It's… a long story."
"Well, come in." Jacob let Dean into the house, quickly shutting the door behind them. "You actually came at a good time. The town's been waist deep in demons. They started popping up more and more about mid-September and we just haven't been able to keep up. Me and Susan have performed twenty exorcisms so far this month. Three this week alone, and it's only Tuesday." He shook his head, running a hand through his thinning hair. "We're prepping for one right now. The monster is possessing a young woman from my church. If you're up to it, we could sure use some help with it."
Dean placed his duffle bag down on the floor in the living room. "How bad is it?"
"Pretty bad," Jacob said wearily. "I counted seven demons in her so far."
"…Seven?"
Jacob nodded. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Well." Dean chuckled. "I can definitely help with that."
"Jacob, who was that at the door?" Susan, Jacob's wife, waddled into the living room, one of her hands pressed protectively against her stomach, the large swell making the purple fabric of her sweater tight.
"Don't worry, it's John Winchester's kid." Jacob gestured to Dean. "He's gonna help us with our little problem in the basement and he needs a place to stay for the night."
Susan looked at Dean for a second. "I'll say he does." She walked over to Dean and hugged him. "As soon as we're done taking care of that demon, I'm giving you a big bowl of that beef stew I've got going in the crockpot. You look like you could use a good meal."
"Not too big, I hope." Dean lingered in the hug for a second before pulling away. "If I let you, you'll give me the whole damn thing and you're the one who's eating for two." Dean grinned. "Mazel Tov on the kid."
"Thank you." Susan smiled. "We're due in April. We're changing the guest room over to a nursery right now so if you don't mind the smell of paint, you can sleep in there."
Dean nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He watched Susan run her hand over her stomach for a moment. "Is it kicking?" he asked.
"All the time. She never stops." Susan chuckled. "Would you like to feel?"
"I'd love to." Dean placed his hand gently against Susan's belly, letting the heat flow from his fingers as surreptitiously as possible. He felt the baby kick hard before he pulled his hand away. "You're not kidding." Dean chuckled. "She's gonna make one helluv— heck of a soccer player when she's older."
Susan glanced down at her stomach then looked back up at Dean, furrowing her brow. "Thanks..."
The three of them made their way down into the basement where an unconscious young woman with frizzy red hair, dressed in an oversized college hoodie and jeans, was tied to a chair. A devil's trap was painted on the floor underneath her and her clothes had scorch marks where holy water had touched her. She also had two stab wounds in her stomach.
As soon as Dean's feet touched the concrete, the woman snapped awake. Her eyes grew pitch black, locking squarely on Dean. She growled, low and vicious, her hands tightly gripping the armrests.
Jacob and Susan watched her for a second.
Warily, Jacob shifted his eyes over to Dean. "Why is she acting—"
"Don't worry." Dean stepped in front of Susan, extending his arm out. He looked back to them and nodded. "I'll take care of this." He made his way over to the woman.
As Dean approached, the demons began to laugh. "Well, if it isn't the famous Dean Winchester. The "Righteous Man" who managed to bust himself out of Hell. If we knew you were stopping by, we would have picked out a sexier meatsuit." The demons glared through the borrowed body. "Just so we could give you something pretty to look at while we rip your still beating heart out of your chest."
"Yeah?" Dean stopped a couple feet outside of the devil's trap. "Well, I'd love to see you try."
"Oh, Dean." The demons smirked. "You might think you're something special now that you've gotten your Super Mushroom, but you're about as threatening to us as a baby lamb."
"Right." Dean grinned; he watched the demons' hands, still gripped tightly around the arms of the chair. His voice boomed across the basement. "Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis legio diabolica—"
The demons' eyes went black. They started to scream, pushing into the back of the chair.
Dean paused, narrowing his eyes. "—Exorcizamus te."
Instantly, the woman's head jerked back and she let out of a bloodcurdling scream. Wave after wave of black smoke left her mouth. It dissipated into a burning, charred ring of sulfur and ash on the concrete as her body slumped over, motionless in the chair.
Dean walked over to her and gently placed a hand on top of her head. She gasped, lifting her head back up. Tears filled her eyes quickly as she started to sob.
"It's okay." Dean's voice was calm and reassuring. "You're gonna be alright." He quickly untied her and lifted her up out of the chair. He looked back at Jacob and Susan who were both frozen in shock. Walking past them, he shot both of them awkward glances as he carried the woman up the stairs to the front door.
"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked, opening the front door. He set her down onto the ground and she swayed a little before shaking her head. "Do you need someone to drive you home?"
"No. I— I'll be fine. I've got a cellphone." The woman took a step onto the porch. She turned and faced Dean, staring at him in awe. "Tell me are— are you—" Her voice shook. "Are you… Him?"
Dean paused for a second then nodded. "I am," he whispered.
The woman's eyes went wide. She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Lord," she said softly.
"It's no problem." Dean cleared his throat. "Just don't tell anyone what happened, okay? Pastor Jacob is a good man and I don't want him gettin' in trouble."
The woman nodded before she walked down the steps of the porch.
Dean watched her walk down the sidewalk, taking a cellphone out of her jacket pocket before he shut the door. As soon the door was closed, he heard the sound of two shotguns pumping.
"I knew there was somethin' up the moment I saw you on my porch," Jacob snapped. "Who are you?"
"And what the hell did you do to my baby?" Susan hissed.
Dean raised his hands up above his head. He turned slowly to find Jacob and Susan standing behind him, barrels pointed at him. "I'm Dean," he said with cautious honesty, eyeing the guns. "And your baby is fine. Better, in fact."
Jacob squinted. "No, you're not. "Dean" doesn't have the power to exorcise demons with just a few words, nor can he bring people back to life. I watched those demons stab Molly in her stomach and liver. You don't survive that. But you… you put your hand on her and suddenly she's awake and talking? Like it never even happened?" He watched Dean for a second and then chuckled. "You know, I heard a rumor you died last year. Somethin' about a crossroads deal. I thought it was just that. A rumor. But I guess I was wrong."
"You're right. I did make a deal and I did go to Hell." Dean shook his head. "But I'm no demon or hellspawn or anything like that."
"If you're not a demon then how did you getout of Hell?" Susan spat.
"I was saved from Hell."
"Saved by what?" Jacob glared.
"An angel." Dean's voice was blunt. "I'm sure you've heard by now that they're walkin' the Earth. Maybe you even heard of them speaking to people. Well, they're here because of me."
"Why?" Susan asked, slowly lowering her gun. "What do you have to do with all of this?"
Jacob did the same.
Dean paused, glancing between the two of them. "You noticed the smell the moment I walked in here, right? The smell of roses? Shit, I've been on the road for more than two weeks; I should smell like a fuckin' dumpster. It's the Odor of Sanctity. And that's not all." He watched Susan and Jacob. Once their guns were lowered, he moved his hands from his head. Dean rolled up the sleeves of his jacket and tugged on his sweatshirt, pulling them up just enough to expose the blood-marked bandages around his wrists. "I've also got these."
"...the Stigmata?" Jacob's eyes went wide. He looked at Dean for a moment. "What exactly are you trying to get at here, Dean?"
Dean took a couple steps closer to them. "I'm a man who was resurrected by Heaven. A man who exorcises demons with a single word, brings the dead back to life and heals the sick." Dean pursed his lips. "You're a pastor, Jacob, so I think you can understand what I'm getting at."
Jacob and Susan froze. They glanced at each other before turning their gazes back to Dean. "But you're John Winchester's boy." Awe tinged Jacob's words. "How can that be?"
"John's not my only father." Dean took a deep breath. "I have another Father and I'm here to do His work. Part of it is trying to stop the Apocalypse from happening."
"So..." Jacob looked at Dean with reverence this time. "You really are Him? Christ returned?"
"I am." Dean let out a warily chuckle. "Trust me, when I found out, I was about as shocked as you are."
Susan placed both of her hands over her belly; she stared at Dean for a long moment. "Well," she said, taking a deep breath as she took hers and Jacob's guns and put them next to the wall of the foyer. "That stew is still in the crockpot. How about we all sit down and discuss this more over lunch?" She took a couple steps closer to Dean and smiled. "I'm sure you're hungry."
Dean nodded. "Starving."
The three of them made their way into the kitchen where they sat down and ate. Even though it had no taste, Dean ate two full bowls of the stew. After dinner, Susan brought Dean into the half-finished nursery. One side of the room was painted bubblegum pink and rabbit themed, stark against the cream colored walls and simple daybed with a quilt on the other side of the room.
"Well, this is it." Susan shrugged. "Honestly, I feel sort of… bad putting you up in here, all things considered." She laughed awkwardly.
"Are you kiddin' me?" Dean shook his head, scoffing as he placed his duffle bag down on the floor. He glanced around the room. "A roof over my head? Soft, warm bed? Clean sheets? I couldn't ask for more. Really."
Susan nodded. She watched him for a moment, and then placed her hands on her stomach. "You said you… made Charlotte better. What did you heal exactly?"
Dean paused, reluctant. "A heart defect." He gazed at Susan. He watched her eyes grow wide and gloss over. "I kinda… sensed that something was wrong with her. When I put my hand on your stomach, that's when I figured out what it was."
"Thank you." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Jacob and me… we've been trying for years to have a baby. I don't know what—"
"It's okay. She's gonna be fine now. Don't worry." Dean walked over to Susan and hugged her. After she calmed down, he pulled away. "Can you promise me something, though?"
"Of course."
"Once Charlotte's born, I want you and Jacob to stop hunting. Don't raise her in the life. It's no way to raise a kid. I oughta know." Dean pleaded, "Please."
Susan nodded. "We will."
That night, before going to bed, Dean took the wooden bunny hanging on the inside of the nursery door and carved a devil's trap into the back of it.
The sleep Dean had in that bed was some of the soundest sleep he'd had in years. Not even his dreams of Hell could shake it. His sleep was calm for the whole time he stayed at the house.
In the evenings, Dean helped Jacob get rid of the rest of the demons in town and during the day he helped Susan set up the nursery. He made a toy box out of some wood crates he found in the attic. Dean left early Sunday morning, refreshed with a flask full of fresh consecrated wine, hitching a ride on a tractor-trailer headed for Chicago.
February, 26 2009.
Peoria, Illinois.
Dean had been walking into a grocery store early Thursday morning when the ache began, a sharp ache that radiated through the whole of his body. It stole what little appetite he had, weighing him down with heavy sadness. He knew the ache was merely a harbinger of things to come.
Various people were standing in the aisles with faded smears of ash on their foreheads and most of them had half-priced packages of fish in their carts.
Quietly, Dean ducked into the bathroom and wrapped bandages around his torso, forehead, wrists, and ankles. He pulled a black beanie over his hair before leaving the store, hoping the ache would go away, or at the very least, not get any worse.
By early afternoon, the pain began.
Dean was sitting in a coffee shop trying to sip from the free coffee the barista had given him—that sadly tasted little better than ash—when it started. Pulsing twinges of pain emanated inside each of the bruises on his back. Soon the twinges split them open, turning them into bleeding wounds. Soon after, the pain moved to the bruises circling Dean's temple as pointed pinpricks. After a while, they, too, ripped open his skin. Dean brushed his fingertips under the beanie, against the bandage around his forehead to make sure the blood wasn't seeping through the gauze.
Then, with a muffled cry that Dean tried to pass off as a cough, there was piercing agony in his wrists and ankles. It was pointed, throbbing, and caused tears to spring up in his eyes. As discreetly as he could manage, Dean stood up from the table and limped out into the street, looking desperately both ways, hoping to see a church. With any luck, he would be able to hide out there until the next evening, after he stopped bleeding.
A church would be warmer than an abandoned warehouse and even though he didn't like telling people about his wounds, if a priest or a minister found him there, they'd be far more likely to recognize the wounds for what they were. They wouldn't try to take Dean to a hospital, which would not only be fruitless, since medical care did nothing to the wounds, but would likely lead to him being stuck there for psychiatric observation.
Dean only had to walk a couple blocks until he came upon St. Mary's Cathedral. He had seen the steeples of it through a light haze of snow as he walked down the street from the coffee shop and made his way directly over to it as quickly as he could manage. It was majestic—old and gothic—with high steeples and a rose window in front.
Without any hesitation, Dean limped his way up the steps and through the vestibule and into the nave, wincing against the ever-increasing pain of his ankles. He found it nearly empty, populated only by a few parishioners, all of whom were focused intensely on their rosaries and confession penances.
Not long after Dean took a seat in a pew in the back left corner of the church he felt the hot sting of the skin of his wrist and ankles cracking open. The sting seemed to go even deeper, making the bones ache.
Dean did his best to keep himself distracted by looking at the stained glass windows or skimming through the hymnal and missal books. He avoided the Stations of the Cross paintings that lined the walls of the church. Occasionally, he listened in on the prayers of the people in the pews around him. They echoed through Dean's mind as much as his ears. Some, who seemed to be doing their yearly unloading of sins, were asking forgiveness. Other still were praying for loved ones.
Dean focused on details of the prayers, the names of loved ones and their illness, repeating them in his head like a mantra until little crackles of heat began to course through his veins.
"Are you alright, sir?" a voice asked, concerned.
Dean looked up, setting his eyes on a young nun dressed in a dark brown habit, standing next to his pew. "Yeah, I'm fine." He nodded, giving her a half-feigned smile. "I'll be even better tomorrow afternoon." Dean paused, his voice shaking. "Hopefully."
The nun gave him a quick once over before she turned and left. Dean watched her walk over to what looked like a Saint Michael shrine set in an alcove. When she emerged from it half an hour later, her gaze turned directly over to Dean. She stared at him for a second, then made her way up to the front of the church, genuflecting before she walked over to a side door.
One by one, the parishioners filed out of the church. As soon they were all gone and the church was empty, Dean lay down on the pew and closed his eyes.
Dean dreamed of whips, a crown of thorns, a heavy crossbeam across his shoulders that made him stumble onto brick pavement and sand. At one point in the dream, he felt the weight of the beam disappear as an arm wrapped tightly around his waist, holding him upright. Dean set his gaze on the man who was helping him, whom he assumed to be Simon of Cyrene. Simon shifted most of the beam onto his own shoulders, but Dean noticed he carried it with almost no effort. Dean could sense grace emanating from him. It was a grace Dean knew very well.
At least once, Dean swore he saw Simon's sad brown eyes change to blue.
A few hours later, Dean felt the nudge of a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find a police officer standing behind him. "Sir." The officer nudged him again. "You can't sleep in here."
"Really?" Dean winced, sighing.
"Yes. Really," the officer deadpanned. "If you need a place to sleep, you can walk to the homeless shelter downtown."
"Trust me," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "I ain't walking anywhere anytime soon."
"Get up," the officer ordered.
"I can't."
"Get up or I'll make you get up." The officer placed his hands on a pair of handcuffs. "Or I can bring you down to the station and you can sleep in a cell. How does that sound?"
Dean was about to retort when a voice rung out. "It's alright, officer." The nun that had spoken to Dean before made her way quickly down the side aisle and over to Dean's pew. "You don't need to bring him anywhere. I've already spoken to Mother Superior about him and we've agreed to take him in."
"That so?" The officer turned to her. "And who are you?"
"Sister Joan-Hubertus," she stated. "I'm one of the junior Sisters at the convent next door."
"Well, Sister." The officer chuckled. "Two parishioners called the station complaining about him and he's been giving me all manner of lip. I've gotta do something with him."
"This man is in pain. Can't you see that?" Sister Joan raised her voice slightly. "He doesn't need a cell, he needs a bed and some food. Two things we are more than willing to give him."
The officer cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"
"Positive," Sister Joan said bluntly.
"Fine." The officer sighed. "But I don't wanna get anymore complains about him squatting in here. You understand that?"
She nodded. The officer turned and walked out of the church.
"Man, I hate cops," Dean hissed, sitting up in the pew. "Thanks for getting him off my ass— I mean, uh, butt." Dean flung his duffle bag over his shoulder and limped his way out of the pew. "Sorry, Sister." He winced, half stumbling into the aisle.
Sister Joan chuckled, grabbing him. "It's not a problem. Trust me."
She wrapped her arm around Dean's waist and they began to walk down the aisle. Even though she was about a foot shorter than Dean, she was able to carry the brunt of his body weight, having little trouble walking him the short distance to the convent behind the church. She took Dean directly into the infirmary, where she sat him down on one of the three white-sheeted beds.
"Ya know, for a nun, you're pretty strong." Dean winced, pulling his jacket off.
"I've had lots of practice," Sister Joan said simply. She walked over to the counter to grab a first aid kit and a glass of water.
Even though her back was turned, Dean could see her bless the glass and quickly dip the end of her rosary into the water before she turned back around and brought it over to him.
Dean nodded, taking the glass from her. "Thanks," he rasped, chugging the water down.
Sister Joan watched him drink it. "You're welcome."
She nodded, removing Dean's boots. At the sight of Dean's bloodstained socks, Sister Joan froze. Carefully, she peeled them and the blood-soaked gauze off of Dean's feet and inspected the wounds.
When she had finished wrapping Dean's feet with fresh bandages, she then set her eyes on the blood that had started to stain the sleeves of his dark gray hoodie. She pulled his sleeves up, setting her gaze on the crimson marked bandages. Without a single word she rewrapped Dean's wrists. She did the same to his head and back.
When she finished wrapping Dean's wounds, she grabbed the first aid kit and the glass of water and made her way back over to the counter. She only made it a few steps before she looked into the glass, stopping for just a moment before she continued her walk to the counter. She put the first aid kit and glass down and crossed herself, her hands trembling.
Sister Joan turned and faced Dean. "You haven't noticed anything strange have you?" Her voice was calm, but Dean could hear a slight tremble in it. "The smell of rotting eggs? Strange people following you?"
"Not anymore more than I normally do." Dean shrugged. "I try to avoid demons as much as possible." He cocked his head to the side. "So you're in The Life?"
Sister Joan nodded. She folded her arms. "There's been a spike in demonic activity around here lately. Possessions. Electrical storms. It's gotten worse in the last month or so." She paused. "Probably because you're here."
Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. "So what's the deal with this?" He gestured to her habit. "Is this some case you're working?"
"No. Not anymore. " Sister Joan shook her head. "But it started out that way. A demon had been possessing one of the Sisters. Me and my older sister went undercover as Sisters here for a couple weeks and after the job was over I joined."
Dean cocked an eyebrow. "I've heard of clergy becoming hunters. I know some, in fact. But I've never heard of a hunter becoming a nun before."
"There should be more of us, honestly. You'd be surprised just how often convents are the sites of hauntings or demonic attacks." Sister Joan chuckled. "In the four years I've been here, I've probably hunted more monsters than I did out in the world."
Dean chuckled. "But what about the other side of it?" he asked. "Giving yourself up—no holds barred— to God? After everything you've seen, all the evil in this world." He shook his head. "How do you do that?"
"Faith is always something that came easily to me. I have it not in spite of everything I've seen, but because of it. The way I see it, you can't have darkness without light. I've seen enough darkness to believe that the light is out there." She shrugged.
"Ya know…" Dean looked down at his hands, smiling sadly. Already, blood had begun to seep through the gauze. "You remind me of someone."
"Who?" Sister Joan asked.
"Someone who probably deserves to be The Messiah more than I ever could," Dean scoffed, shaking his head.
Sam would have embraced being the Son of God with open arms the moment Castiel had told him. He would have had nothing but faith in what he was, unlike the doubt that always lingered in the back of Dean's mind.
Sam needed proof—any kind of proof—that he wasn't evil. It was something Dean couldn't give him.
"You know, of all the things I can do, all the people I've been able to save, I can't save him." Dean bit his lip, looking up at her. "Shit, Sister. I can bring a perfect stranger back to life, but I can't even do my one job: protect him."
"It sounds to me like you need some faith in yourself," Sister Joan said, concerned. She looked at Dean with hope instead of pity. "You're going to need it."
"I need faith in a lotta things, Sister." Dean nodded. "But I'm working on that. Trying to, anyways."
"Well, you've certainly come to the right place."
Sister Joan lifted Dean up from the hospital bed and out of the infirmary, taking him to one of the convent's dormitories. The room was small, containing little more than a bed and desk. The only décor the room had was a silver crucifix hanging on the wall next to the window and a woven area rug near the entrance with a Key of Solomon devil's trap painted on the floor under it. As soon as Sister Joan left, Dean lay down on the bed and fell sound asleep. He didn't wake again until the following afternoon.
March 6, 2009.
Peoria, Illinois.
Dean decided to stay at the convent. Though his wounds healed over by Friday afternoon, he assumed they would open up again the following Thursday and he didn't want to risk leaving the convent and ending up someplace where he was alone if that happened.
When Dean had woken up Friday afternoon, shortly after three, he heard a knock on his door. Sister Joan walked into his room bearing clean bandages and clothes and helped him into the bathroom where he took a shower. After Dean was washed and dressed, she helped rewrap his wounds and change his bed sheets before she walked him down into the dining room for a bowl of tomato soup and crackers that he barely managed to take even two bites from. Sister Joan then walked Dean over to the church where the priest, one of her cousins, said a quick mass for Dean and gave him communion.
To Dean's shock, the wafer and wine not only eased his pain, but managed to satisfy his hunger. When Sister Joan walked him back, Mother Superior told him he could stay for as long as needed to, so long as he helped around the convent and parish.
When Dean wasn't doing odd jobs around the convent, he spent his time alone in his room or sitting in the church, listening to people's prayers and looking at the artwork. Even after the Sisters figured out who and what Dean was, aside from occasionally calling him "Lord" or looking at him in reverence, they mostly left him to his own devices.
The church parishioners did the same. The only ones who ever acknowledged Dean were the children in the daycare room Dean volunteered to watch the following Sunday during mass and even then, they addressed him more with curiosity than awestruck reverence. One little girl named Nicole asked Dean if he could bring her pet gerbil back to life and a little boy named Anthony asked him why he looked nothing like the man in one of the paintings hanging on the wall.
Dean was sitting in the front pew of the church, the taste of blood still lingering on his tongue, when he heard wings flutter behind him.
"Hey Cas," he said quietly, looking over to the angel, now standing on the steps of the alter.
"Hello Dean." Castiel walked down the altar's steps, stopping right in front of the pew where Dean was seated. He watched Dean for a second. "You look… exhausted." Sympathy laced his words.
"Yeah, well, I spent the last month walking halfway across the country and the last eighteen hours feeling like I've been nailed to a tree." Dean shrugged, rubbing his hand over his thin forearm. He knew he looked terrible, but he was beyond caring. It was enough for him to just make it through the day. He didn't have to look good doing it.
Castiel paused for a moment as he glanced around the church. "We need to talk, Dean." His voice was serious.
"About what?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. He put the bible that Sister Joan had lent him onto the pew, and crossed his arms.
"About what you said to Zachariah."
"What about it?" Dean scoffed. "I told him I wasn't gonna go all Sherman's March on the Earth and I'm not. There's nothing to talk about. "
Castiel shook his head. "You can't do that, Dean."
"What?" Dean squinted.
"You are meant to fight Lucifer and his army, Dean," Castiel said bluntly. "You must do as you are fated to do."
"No, I don't." Dean stood up from the pew, his hands gripping tight around the front of it. "I'm not gonna nuke the planet. I'm gonna stop the Apocalypse, not cause it."
Castiel clenched his fists. His voice turned desperate and he took a step forward. "Dean you must understand, this is long foretold—"
"—Yeah? Well, fuck that! That's not what I'm here for. I know that," Dean spat, narrowing his eyes at Castiel. "And I'm not gonna let a bunch of asshole angels tell me otherwi—"
"—Dean, listen to me!" Castiel snapped, his voice shaking. "You must go through with this, do you understand me?"
Dean paused. "Why?" He scrutinized Castiel. "You told me once that you weren't a hammer, so why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I have doubts." Castiel exhaled sharply, his voice low and ominous, like the hushed rumble of thunder before a storm. "Because my siblings will make sure you go through with it and neither of us will like how they accomplish that."
Dean froze, his eyes shifting. "What are you talking about, Cas?"
"Angels are agents of Fate, Dean," Castiel said, almost at a whisper. He turned and looked briefly at the crucifix hanging up above the altar. "We ensure that it plays out how it is meant to." He paused. "One way or another."
Dean watched Castiel, glancing between the angel and the crucifix. "Jesus didn't go to the cross willingly, did He?" The question played on his tongue with fear as he stepped out of the pew and into the aisle.
"No." Castiel shook his head. "He didn't."
Dean froze. "What happened?"
Castiel didn't say anything.
"Tell me what happened, Cas," Dean demanded, taking a step closer to him.
Slowly, Castiel turned and faced Dean again.
"Jesus was supposed to be a Prophet and Messiah to His people. He was supposed to remove the yolk of Rome from their shoulders and take their pagan gods out of the Holy Land. Eventually, He was to help the Heavenly Host take back the Earth from various pagan pantheons." He took a deep breath. "But then Seals began to break, and that all changed. Instead, we needed Him to take up arms against the Morning Star." A sad smile played at the corner of Castiel's mouth. "Like you, He didn't want to destroy the planet. He was stubborn, and He refused to fight my brother. So instead of trying to force the matter, some of my siblings schemed to have Him crucified, knowing His sacrifice would reset the seals. They wanted Him killed for what they saw as rebellion. Jesus went to the cross willingly, only so far as it was the only choice He had to prevent the destruction of the world."
"You're telling me the angels ganked Jesus because He wouldn't obey them?" Dean swallowed. "How did they even get away with that? I mean, He would have outranked all of you, right?"
"Yes. But He was still part of Heaven's hierarchy and, more importantly, still human. They could enact angelic justice upon Him if His transgressions were deemed grave enough." Castiel glanced down at the floor. "Not all of us wanted vengeance upon Him. Most angels thought His death was necessary, that it was the Will of Our Father." He paused. "But not all of us. Most of my garrison tried to protect Him, myself especially."
Dean folded his arms. "And what came of that?"
"The last great angelic war and ultimately why we were barred from manifesting on Earth— until now."
Dean nodded. Quietly, he glanced over to the Stations of the Cross lining the church walls. His gaze lingered on the final one, Jesus being laid in the tomb, before he spoke again. "So." He took a deep breath. "After Jesus died, what happened? Did His death do anything besides reset the seals?"
Castiel nodded. "His sacrifice did a great deal, in fact. The moment He died, every hellgate on Earth closed—for a time—and any demon roaming the Earth perished instantly. Death, the Horseman, appeared to reap Him. When he appeared, all the dead in Jerusalem rose from their graves," he recounted. "That's one of the few details the gospels actually got right."
"And three days later?" Dean asked, his tone leading, turning his gaze back to Castiel.
"Three days later, His body disappeared from the tomb." Castiel's voice was mournful. "The Apostles made their assumptions and some of my siblings who still wanted to carry out His original mission took advantage of those assumptions with dreams and hallucinations. They did it again with Saul of Tarsus and finally with Emperor Constantine."
"So the resurrection." Dean cocked an eyebrow. "That never happened?"
"No."
"What happened to His body? Was it stolen?"
"No one really knows what happened to it." Castiel shook his head. "Not even the angels."
Dean pursed his lips. "Well, what about His soul?" He looked at Castiel warily. "It went to Heaven, right?"
"No. Jesus' soul never reached Heaven. I searched for it, desperately. I refused to fight in the angelic war. Rather, I roamed the Earth, looking for His soul, but I never found it. Eventually they forced me to return to Heaven." Castiel paused. "But I did see His soul again. Eventually. I stood in its presence for the first time in twenty centuries, five months ago." He locked his eyes on Dean. "When I pulled you out of Perdition."
Dean's body stiffened. He didn't say anything.
"Your soul has lived many times throughout history, Dean. Originally, it was the soul of Adam. Later, it became the soul of Noah, Isaac, Joshua, Elijah, Judah Maccabee, and then finally, Jesus. But only you and Jesus have had the distinction of bearing the soul and being The Son." Castiel paused. "I wasn't supposed to tell you this, Dean, but you need to know."
Dean closed his eyes. "So all these visions I've been having." He swallowed, opening his eyes again, blinking tears away. "They're memories?"
He'd suspected as much for a while now. The visions Dean had of the crucifixion were far too visceral, too intimate, too real to merely be an experience Heaven had bestowed upon him.
Over the months, other visions had begun to haunt him as well. He dreamt of the sunrise reflecting against cool lake waters and dry desert air, cold nights and warm fires, the rough touch of wood grain under his callused fingers. There were voices Dean recognized and knew the names of, even though he had never heard them before. At least twice, Sam had grumbled that he was being kept awake at night thanks to the Aramaic Dean mumbled in his sleep.
In the back of his mind, Dean had always known that the visions were, in fact, memories.
"You have a wall holding the memories back. It's cracking, and soon, it will crumble," Castiel said softly. He paused for a moment, watching him. "Even though it's the same soul, it's still your soul Dean. You've made it your own. You've shaped it with your experiences, the life you've led. It's always belonged to you."
Dean walked back over to the pew in silence, sinking into it. He stared blankly at the crucifix hanging on the wall and shook his head.
"You are worthy, Dean," Castiel insisted, watching Dean. "Even if you bearing the same soul weren't the case, you still would be."
Dean was silent for a while before he cleared his throat. "Yeah. I— I get that. This is my fate." He nodded to himself. His eyes didn't stray from the wooden and ceramic crucifix, painted in almost neutral hues of brown and white. The only color that popped out was the red paint on the feet, palms and forehead, stark against the near white pallor of the figure's skin. A larger streak flowed down from the figure's very noticeable ribcage.
The longer Dean looked at it, the more his wounds began to ache again. He clenched his hands against the pain. "But that doesn't mean it needs to end that way." He turned his gaze to Castiel, his breath shaking. "No angel is gonna hang me up to die on a tree, Cas. I'm not gonna let it end that way."
Castiel took a step closer to him. "Neither will I."