Disposable Heroes

by BlackIceWitch

S9 WARNING! There are spoilers contained within this story! This is the sequel to Silver for Charon, beginning with the ending of that story and incorporating all the episodes of S9 as it goes, reimagined and expanded in the same way. No slash. Reviews are deeply appreciated, comments are always welcomed.

37. Chapter 37 And All The Angels Sang

Chapter 37 And All The Angels Sang

---

Lebanon, Kansas. Next morning.

Sam looked up at the footsteps in the hall, shoving the folder he'd been reading under the pile and grabbing a book. He flipped it open and stared at the pages without seeing them.

"I was glad to see the coffee made," Noah said as he walked down beside the tables, both hands wrapped around a fragrantly steaming cup.

Feeling like an eight-year old almost caught stealing cookies, Sam relaxed and pushed the book aside, picking up his mug of coffee and nodding agreement.

"I was – uh – looking at the stuff Dean brought back from Saint-Clare's," he said, retrieving the hidden file.

Noah's gaze narrowed a little on him, and he got the impression the old man hadn't missed either his tension or the fact that the file was under a heap of other stuff.

"A lot of surprises in there, I would imagine?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, sipping his coffee and looking back at the file. "Way too many."

It'd been a surprise to find the order had been recording a history of the Winchesters and the Campbells, going back several hundred years. A surprise to him. When Dean had passed him the files the previous evening, he'd gotten the impression that Dean hadn't been shocked by the discovery – and more surprisingly – hadn't seemed to care about it. He'd handed them over, along with the notes Noah had been making on what they'd found out about the Mark and gone up to his room.

The files, Sam had found, reading through them, were detailed. Or they had been. The Winchester family had been active in the order since the fourteen hundreds, each generation producing a son and on several occasions, a daughter as well, to be initiated and study what the order had called then, the Shadow World. Fortunes had been made and lost by the family, but that dedication had gone on unbroken and undiminished.

The Campbells had been hunters for around the same length of time, perhaps even longer. Douglas Campbell being the first of the clan to come to the order's attention, in 1523. The history of the man had reminded Sam of his maternal grandfather. Douglas had been a man of organised thoughts and fiery passion. He'd built an impregnable keep to hold his extended family and villagers in safety, married a woman whose formidable intelligence had been matched by her talents for healing and had trained all those under his protection in the ways of the creatures that haunted the fells and dales of the highlands by moonlight or darkness.

The disappearance of Henry Winchester, following the attack in 1958, Benoit, Kansas, has raised speculations on the possibility of his involvement in the initial breach of security for the Kansas Chapter. For that reason, it was resolved that no contact will be made with his son or wife, and that both shall be under a watching brief.

Sam turned the page, brow furrowing as he re-read the next entries.

John William Winchester, son of initiate, Henry Emerson Winchester (HEW889212. Disappeared in 1958. Presumed dead), has shown little inclination to the life of a scholar. He has sought discharge from the Marine Corp on completion of his tour of the Asian conflict and returned to Lawrence in March, 1973.

Two messengers have also been reported in Lawrence. The first appearance was shortly before Winchester returned, in January 1973. The second, and we now believe the more important visitation, several weeks after his return to the town, in April 1973. Our contact in Lawrence (HEW889212 Case Notes: PD Nathaniel J. George. See Add.1 for original reports and contact details) has provided reports and photographic evidence that appear to point to the possibility of a union between John, and the only daughter of Samuel Campbell, Mary. Further investigation is required.

April, 1973. Add.2 Omens in Lawrence and surrounding farming communities, specifically Talon's Crossing and Haleyville. Crop blight. Thunderstorms. Magnetic and electro-magnetic fluctuations. Insect swarms. Five people killed. (Add.3 Two of the five victims of the demon incursion were Samuel Isaac Campbell and Deanna Marion Campbell. (JWW889213 File Case Follow up: Mary Campbell left the town with John Winchester immediately following the funeral. Contact notes that on their return, five years later, they were already married. John Winchester bought a half-share in the local garage; Mary was employed by J. D. Harricott in sales. See file for details)

May, 1973. Lawrence contact advises that fourteen people have been murdered brutally in town since Mary Campbell departed. All were known to the Campbells, close friends or relatives. (Add.4 for complete list of victims) It is the opinion of contact that most were tortured before death; body mutilations and fire were used to hide the fact.

Sam flipped to the back of the file. The list was there. Addendum 4.

Horace and Charlene Denkmann, Lawrence, KA

Gladys Buchanan (nee Campbell), Lawrence, KA

Barry Hardecker, Lawrence, KA

Robert Campbell, Haleyville, KA

Edward and Florence Campbell, Lawrence, KA

Dr Michael Ward, Lawrence, KA

Beverly Whitman, Lawrence, KA

Lydia Walsh, Haleyville, KA

Francine Horowitz (nee Dalton), Lawrence, KA

David and Kathleen Wallace, Lawrence, KA

Iris Bogart, Haleyville, KA

Most of those on the list he'd checked out himself, back in '07. As Ruby'd said at the time, Azazel had been thorough.

June, 1973. A further thirty-one deaths have been investigated, in relation to the incident of April 1973. All were related to the Campbell family, in either a close genetic tie or a personal one and as with the victims in Lawrence and the immediate surrounding area, most of those later exhumed and examined by our specialists determined torture, in many cases of an unheard-of nature, preceded death, in some cases for more than a week.

(JWW889213 Case Note: Contact was authorised to conduct a wider search for possible victims. Report stated that more distant relatives and those who have not been in contact with the family for more than five years continuously were not targeted. Note: This implies an incomplete knowledge of family and history. Investigation proceeding.)

May, 1980. Questions arise from the extremely systematic wiping out of anyone that Mary Campbell might have seen or gone to for help. The order was not able to ascertain her whereabouts until she and her husband returned to Lawrence and resumed residence there.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Sam looked up at Noah, aware that the legacy had been studying him.

"Why were they tortured?" he asked.

"We presumed it was to get Mary's location," Noah said. "Mary was a trained hunter. It is not unlikely that in those first few years, she kept John and herself on the move, warded and guarded and out of sight. Certainly, the order could not pick them up."

"Why did she go back to Lawrence?"

"That is a more difficult conjecture." Noah scratched a brow as he dropped his gaze to the file. "As you can see, the order had not been watching for them. The only reason their return to the town was even noticed was that when John purchased the house, his name came up through a routine property search, which the firm was monitoring."

"No interviews were done?"

"The order's original contact in Lawrence, a private detective, died before they returned," Noah said. "It's in his file. At some point, a decision was made not to keep adding to the detailed records of the hunter families and since Henry's disappearance meant your father had not been educated about the order, no one was keeping an eye on him either."

"Not until 1979," Sam said flatly.

"Yes." Noah inclined his head. "The firm began to check hospital records and was able to gather data independently for some time."

Pushing the Campbell folder aside, Sam leaned on the table. "Why didn't they warn us, Noah? My father, at least? Someone had to have seen it coming?"

Sighing, Noah said, "In truth, I don't know what happened, Sam. The order – it was precisely for events as these that the order was originated, that information was collected and studied. To stop them before they could affect the population at large."

"Then what the hell happened?!"

"We're just men," Noah said. "And limited by ourselves, our personal troubles and the changes that were sweeping the world at the time – it's a poor excuse, but we dropped the ball and never got it back. Membership had been declining, although not, I believe, from a lack of applicants, but from an internal attitude that I still can't explain. Your family – the others who were used – were the ones who suffered from those upheavals."

"I read your notes," Sam said, gesturing at the pile on the table. "All I was, all I ever was, was just bait?"

"No, Sam," Noah told him firmly. "The keys to the cage were specific. Neither Heaven nor Hell could have produced them on their own. They collaborated – and this is also conjecture, my own belief – as soon as Heaven realised that the bloodlines from the Watchers could be manipulated into creating the necessary men. But they couldn't meddle on the levels required on this plane and Azazel was Fallen, one of their own."

"Did my mother have to die?"

"I think so." Noah looked around the quiet room. "A demon can enter a house, kill everyone in it and slip out, all in such silence that the neighbours would never hear a thing. The death of your mother drove your father on his path, ensured that you and your brother would be raised in a different environment, raised to be fighters. Hunters. Strong enough to do what was needed."

But ol' yellow eyes didn't send me back to be your friend. No, we could tell we were starting to lose you. You were becoming a mild-mannered, worthless sack of piss. Now, come on. We couldn't have that. You were our favourite. So I hooked you up with a pure, sweet, innocent piece of tail. And then I toasted her on the ceiling.

Brady's voice came back to him, the demon jeering at him. Everything had been clear then, clear as a pane of glass. The only thing that could've stopped the express ride was the one thing his brother couldn't do.

But it wasn't all our fault, was it? No, no, no, no. You're the one who trusted us. You're the one who let us into your life, let us whisper in your ear over and over and over again. Ever wonder why that is, Sammy? Ever wonder why we were so in your blind spot? Maybe it's because we got the same stuff in our veins and, deep down, you know you're just like us. Maybe you hate us so much because you hate what you see every time you look in the mirror. You ever think of that?! Maybe the only difference between you and a demon ... is your hell is right here.

He had thought about it. Had driven himself nearly crazy thinking about it. He'd tried to figure out why he'd let it happen, what'd been missing in him, what had been driving him to ignore Dean and what his gut had told him was right and keep going, on and on, thinking that good intentions were enough.

"Sam, you might have seen the crossroads in retrospect," Noah said, his voice more gentle than Sam had heard it before. "It doesn't mean they were obvious when they came up."

Heaving out a long breath, Sam looked at him. "They knew what Dean would do," he said, hearing his brother's voice again … don't get mad at me. Don't you do that. I had to. I had to look out for you. That's my job …

"They knew what I would do too," he added softly. "Knew what I'd feel, how I'd react, knew who I was."

"No," Noah contradicted him sharply. "No, they knew how to create the events that would push you in a certain way, Sam. They didn't know who you were. Only that people react emotionally first, intellectually second. That was how they got Dean. It was how they got you. They created the situations that would hit the hardest and then they increased the pressure until you had to make a decision, right or wrong."

Letting his gaze fall, Sam gave a small nod. It's not all you are, he told himself forcefully. Not all that you could be.

Making an effort to push the thoughts aside, he reached for the thicker file next to the books. "So, uh, these have all the information we have on the Mark now?"

Noah said, "Yes, that's all of it."

"Is there a way to get rid of it?" Sam asked. "After he's killed Abaddon?"

"There might be," Noah hedged, looking at the books beside him. "It could just be a matter of pretty word-games, but God gave the Mark to Cain – he did not give it to Dean."

Sam's brow furrowed up instantly. "That makes a difference?"

"Of course," Noah said, his eyes widening. "At its most basic, the Mark is a curse and a job. A curse that is not directed at the intended target can be lifted. And the job was not given to Dean, though through circumstances of fate, he was both worthy and capable of doing that job." He rubbed at his brow again, his eyes losing focus. "I have a feeling that alone will come back on Cain somewhere down the line, but for our purposes, it could definitely work in our favour."

"But Saint-Clare said –"

"The Mark cannot be removed, yes, I heard him too," Noah said, his tone a little acerbic. "But Saint-Clare, although a skilled magician, was very far from knowing everything about everything, my dear boy, and in this case, I doubt if he bent his mind to the problem in any detail."

Sam stared down at the file for a moment, then tapped his fingers on it. "What about the rest, that the Mark drives the bearer?"

"Dean would know, better than the scholars who wrote that, or either of us, how the Mark is working on him," Noah said, gulping down his coffee and setting the cup on the table with a mild sigh. "I don't have hard evidence, Sam, but I do believe that things like this – the Mark, the First Blade – they are meant to adapt to those who carry them. When Cain was cursed, he fled, at first. An outcast, a wanderer, friend to no one and cared for by no one. That in itself acted on him, drove him to take his life with the Blade. And along with his deal with the devil, that put him squarely in Lucifer's hands."

"This doesn't say how he went from becoming a demon to becoming a Knight," Sam said uneasily. "And Cas said that the Knights were all fallen angels."

"That is the accepted lore, everything we know about it," Noah admitted. "No one – except Cain, I presume – knows how that happened or why."

"Did the other bearers become Knights? Demons?"

"We don't know."

Scowling at the legacy, Sam said, "There's too goddamned much we don't know."

"It's always been the way," Noah agreed mildly. "But Sam, you have to remember, for hundreds of years, things have been – relatively – unremarkable. Perhaps that's the why the order began to withdraw, more and more. What's happened in the last thirty years, it's unprecedented and was completely unexpected. The collusion between Heaven and Hell, the rising of the devil, the Apocalyptic signs, an archdemon here on our plane and the falling of the angels … the order was unprepared – and yes, we failed in our duties to humanity, and to your family."

Spilt milk, Bobby's gruff voice said in Sam's mind. Long past too late for might've-beens now.

"These, uh, files were put together by a – a B. Delaney," Sam said, pulling the folders that dealt with the Mark together. "Some of them are pretty recent. Is Delaney still with the order?"

Noah nodded. "Bethany works for the firm, actually. She's not a legacy, more of a specialist in certain fields of, uh, study. Aleksai can give us a contact number. Why?"

"We've been on the back foot the whole time," Sam told him, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "Dean said – he told me – he said we could use the information here, the things we've learned to make a difference, but there's too much."

He looked around the library, with its tall and silent stacks, waving a hand vaguely toward the shelves.

"There's too much," he repeated, his voice rising slightly. "The history – the lore – how're we supposed to go through all this?"

Noah scratched his brow. "Well, you weren't," he said gently. "The Legacies were picked to study the histories, to study the lore and to find the patterns, to see the joins and where things were still missing."

He got up from the table. "Sam, you and your brother need help here," he continued, pacing down the length of the table, stopping at the end and swinging around to look at the younger man. "And more than just one tired old man. Once, this place held eight fully trained and experienced men and women, and four more in training. Once, there would have been other cells to call on for help."

"Can we, uh, ask them for help now?" Sam asked, looking at Noah's drawn face.

"I don't think so," Noah said, sitting down again with a slump. "I've been trying to contact the Boston cell for two weeks now, and there's no response. I haven't been able to get hold of Aleksai either, although the firm is still operational. Dean said Aleksai had called. Said that the order was compromised. That was the last we heard about it."

"Can we take a look?" Sam suggested, glancing at the doorway to the stairs. Dean might not want to spend time chasing down the order's problems, he realised belatedly.

"Perhaps, when there's more time," Noah agreed. "But for right now, we have a lot of work to do."

---

Sleep, when it'd come, had been empty and peaceful, Dean thought, sitting on the edge of his bed, hooking the jeans lying on the floor with his toes and revelling at the lack of tension in his body. Didn't happen that often and he had a feeling that Noah's brew'd had something to do with it. He wasn't going to bitch about it.

So what? You're judge, jury and executioner now?

Shoving his feet into his boots, Dean left out a slow exhale and stared down at the laces. The Mark looked for justice, Bethany'd said. Cain had told him it would force him to right wrongs, to avenge those who couldn't do it themselves. On the surface, that didn't sound so bad. It wasn't so far from what a hunter did, wasn't so far from what he'd done his whole life.

But deeper down … deeper down, he wondered when it would change. In the dreams that had come with the Mark and the First Blade, dreams of Cain's life, there hadn't been justice or vengeance. There'd been wholesale slaughter, cities razed and burned to the ground, people running and screaming from demons rising through the cracks in the earth that appeared with every one of Cain's footsteps.

Cain had been Lucifer's, he told himself uneasily. Sent to the pit for a long time. Tortured and turned. That wouldn't happen to him.

He tugged the laces tight and tied them and walked out of the room fast, heading for the kitchen.

---

On the counter, the coffee pot was almost full, hissing very quietly to itself and he grabbed a mug, pouring a cup and sucking down a mouthful on the way to the fridge.

You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst thing is for my children to be raised into this like I was. No, I won't let it happen.

The cup slipped between his fingers, sloshing a little of the hot liquid over his hand and he put it down, wiping his hand on his shirt as he leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.

At the time, he'd been reeling from the realisation that his mother had been raised a hunter. Later on, after he'd found out the reason for the demon and the poisoning of his little brother and all those jagged pieces that'd fit together in a puzzle that had come close to breaking his heart, he'd realised that Mary had never told her husband what'd happened. Never even warned him.

He'd tried to kid himself that she'd meant to. Or that she'd thought she would be able to take care of it without his father ever knowing. Or that maybe, when they'd run away from Lawrence and life went on, and time went on, and nothing happened, she'd just … forgotten. Thought it was a bad dream, something to put behind them. In the end, he couldn't keep lying to himself about her. When a demon kills your father in front of you, it's not something that can be forgotten. And Yellow Eyes hadn't tried to wipe her memories then, as Michael had done later. He could understand her not remembering anything after that, but John Winchester had been oblivious to her life and what had happened to him and to Samuel in 1973. He'd thought Mary's father had died of a heart attack.

For most of his life, he'd held an image in his heart, or someplace deep in his soul, inviolate and protected. An image of his mother and the short time he'd had with her. The unfairness he'd felt, that he'd had something of a childhood with his parents and Sam never had, had been a powerful driver in his efforts to give Sammy everything he could and to protect him for as long as he could.

That image, and the ones he had of his father, and of his brother, had slowly but surely been shattered and broken, one by one, over the years. Sam had told him plainly that what he wanted was his own life. John had been lying to him the whole time, about everything that'd been important, he thought … the demon's plans, his half-brother, lies and omissions that'd tainted so many of his memories he had trouble looking back and seeing what he'd once had. And then Cas had dumped him back in time, not just once but twice, and he'd seen his mother make a deal. Seen her try to pretend it hadn't happened. Seen his father, standing and smiling in their new house in Lawrence, pleased to meet Mary's distant cousins and oblivious to what she'd known was coming.

His family, whom he'd fought so hard and for so long to protect, had been undermining the memories that'd sustained him for a long time now.

He pushed the thoughts aside, picking up his cup and gulping another mouthful. It didn't matter. Not any more. He'd made his choices and he'd live with them or die from them, so long as he took the archdemon with him.

Pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge, he set them on the counter and reached for a half-used loaf, picking up the knife. The knife sliced downwards and the world disappeared, his body stiffening as … fire rolled across the ceiling and he saw her, mouth open and screaming but no sound, just her eyes wide in panic and agony. He saw his father's face, frantic, desperate; shouting at him to run, don't look back, just RUN! And he smelled the burning, sweetish and acrid at the same time, filling his nose and making him want to hurl.

Darkness hit him again, disorienting and directionless.

He wasn't a little boy anymore. Or in Lawrence. The hospital room was only just warm and his father's words had chilled him and then he heard Sam's shout and for a second, he'd known … then it'd gone and he'd tried so hard to tell himself it couldn't be but the gun had gone and he was alive, healed, and he couldn't lie to himself forever.

Black.

He stood in the dirt and gravel parking lot, staring at the smoking and charred ruins of the building, knowing in his heart if he hadn't listened to Sam, if he'd never come here, it would still be standing. Those blackened bodies he could see under the broken rafters, they would still be alive.

BLACK.

Pamela's blood flowing from the stomach wound, spreading out across her shirt to stain the bed linen.

BLACK.

Ellen's face, drawn but determined as he'd looked back, her arm wrapped around her daughter.

BLACK.

Rufus.

BLACK.

Bobby.

Guilt is a burden of choice.

The voice was Bobby Singer's, roughened with years of whiskey, sour to hide his emotions.

You kin pick it up, or you kin let go. That's up to you.

BLACK.

A dim room, grey walls. A mattress on the floor. Lying on it, hands chained behind her back, a woman with red-gold hair turned over, blood and bruises livid along arms and neck and face.

BLACK.

They died for us.

It was hardly a whisper in his mind, something breathless, something he couldn't bring himself to say any louder, even when there was no one else to hear it.

They died doing their jobs. Tha's all. You didn't kill 'em. You didn't ask 'em to get in the way or put their lives on t'line. They chose to do that. They don't belong to you.

The old hunter's logic bounced off him. He didn't want to hear that. In some way he couldn't understand, he couldn't hear it. Couldn't let go.

They'd be alive if they'd never known us.

Mebbe, mebbe not. They were all in the business and the odds against get higher as time goes on.

You are chosen.

I'm not strong enough.

---

Sam walked along the hall, his empty cup in one hand. Their family had been picked out, long before Azazel had seen Mary Campbell and decided she was ideal for his plans. Long before John Winchester lost his father and his path was turned from learning to be a legacy of an ancient order to becoming a soldier and mechanic. The histories were not complete, not by any reckoning, and a lot of what was written in them could've been a scholar's speculations. But Cas had been right about one thing. There never had been any choice for any of them, and it was never going to be over. Not really.

He remembered the tall man, standing in the house of Isaac Bass, commanding his grandson's golem. The Thule Society had never heard of them, but had known hunters before. He wondered if that was significant. The little they'd learned of the secret organisation of necromancers and black mages seemed to suggest that they'd been around a long time, maybe using different names, different guises as their spells allowed them to live centuries. Maybe, somewhere, there was a genealogy, of man and angel and the bloodlines the angels had insisted were so –

Coming around the doorway, Sam stopped dead at the steps leading down into the kitchen, staring at his brother. Dean stood by the counter, his expression blank, his eyes dark, blood gushing from his hand, pooling and spilling over the bench and onto the floor, the loaf he'd been slicing stained a bright red from top to bottom with it.

"Dean!"

How long had he been standing like that, Sam wondered disbelievingly as he took the steps in one long stride and grabbed his brother's wrist, applying pressure and feeling a flux of relief when the blood flow was reduced.

"Dean!?" He looked around and reached over to the sink for a dishcloth, wrapping it around the bleeding hand. "Dean, c'mon, snap out of it!"

Dean blinked rapidly, his pupils contracting and expression returning to his face as he looked first at Sam and then down at the hand Sam was binding. "What the –!?"

"My question," Sam cut him off tersely, dragging him over to the sink. "What the hell happened?"

For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of panic in the dark green eyes, thought his brother might just tell him, then it was gone and when Dean turned to look at him, his expression had smoothed out to a neutral scowl.

"I got this," he said, pulling away from Sam's hand and twisting the tap. "I don't know what happened," he added a moment later, unwinding the dishcloth and looking at the clean edges of the wound. "I … must have, uh, I don't know … blanked out."

Sam looked down at the pink-stained water, swirling down the drain. "Is it the Mark?"

"I don't think so," Dean replied, his tone careful. "Didn't have anything to do with death or Cain or demons."

"Dean, you know, I get that we don't have what we did, uh –" Sam said hesitantly, leaning over to get a clean cloth from the cupboard beside him as Dean turned off the tap. He passed it over and looked at the blood, slowly drying on the counter and dripping onto the floor. "The trust, that's gone and I know why, I do, but you gotta let me help –"

Winding the dry cotton around his hand, Dean's mouth lifted to one side slightly. "Sam, this isn't about –"

"Just – wait, okay?" Sam turned to look at him. "Hear me out."

Shrugging with one shoulder, his brother leaned against the sink and waited.

"You remember what I said to you, in the church?"

As Dean ducked his head, Sam saw his brows draw together. "C'mon, Sammy, we went through that –"

"Yeah, we did, but it didn't change how that felt, not to me," Sam interrupted, unsure if it was the best tactic right now, but unable to come up with anything else. He needed to say this and he needed his brother to hear it – not when he was dying or Dean was dying but just straight out. "I still don't have those memories back straight. I don't know if that's 'cause of what Crowley did, or what happened when I backed out of the trial, or what, but they're, uh, flaky, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean said, chewing on the corner of his lip. "Which is why we don't need to keep –"

"I remember the confessional." Sam drew in a deeper breath. "I had to get it right or the purification wouldn't work; it was in Thompson's notes. I had to look at what I'd done, all of it, and accept and understand why I'd done those things. I had to or the blood would burn through me instead of being burned out."

"Sam –"

"No," Sam said, his face screwing up. "No more excuses. Not ever. It wasn't the blood, it wasn't Ruby, it wasn't being without a soul and it wasn't even Crowley, a lot of the time."

He watched as Dean ducked his head, hiding his expression.

"Dean, that was me," Sam said quietly. "Those were all me. My choices. My judgements. My decisions."

"No one's perfect."

"No, no one is," Sam agreed readily, sucking in another breath. "I thought I'd paid for what I'd done, in the pit. When the memories came back. I convinced myself that was over, it was done, gone, forgiven. But I never forgave myself. And I never forgave you – for being right."

Dean's gaze snapped up to his, his mouth dropping open. Sam held up a hand to forestall him.

"I don't know when it got so important," he continued, shaking his head. "You know, uh, to see you approve of what I'd done, or acknowledge it somehow. I don't think it was one thing or another. I just know that all the crap I'd told myself, about paying my dues and being okay, that was just crap. When you got yourself out of Purgatory, when I saw you in the cabin …"

"Don't –"

"Don't what?" Sam asked, his chest hitching a little. "Don't tell how it was? How it still is?" He shook his head. "I can't do that anymore. I'm sick of it. Sick of finding excuses and sick of not being who I tell myself I am."

"C'mon, man, this doesn't help anyone."

"It helps me," Sam countered belligerently. "I had to face what I'd done in that confessional and that was real. It got screwed up again when – when Gadreil killed Kevin. I know that now. It shouldn't have been able to be screwed up, Dean. It should've stuck. But it didn't."

He looked down at his brother's hand, his gaze drifting to the scar that sat just under Dean's elbow on the inside of his forearm. "I had good intentions. But you … you were the one who knew what was right. And what wasn't. And you knew, the whole time, that you were going to have to pay for everything you did."

"Not this time," Dean said, following his gaze down to his arm. "I knew it'd be bad, but I had no fucking idea how bad."

"You aren't alone."

Dean looked up at Sam, then looked away. "I know."

"I won't let you down again."

"Sam – you know what? That – don't say that, okay?" Dean turned away. "It's like tempting fate or something."

"I won't."

"You wanna help?" his brother asked, turning back and waving his non-injured hand at the food on the counter. "Make me something hot and a hundred percent grease while I fix this up. Okay?"

Seeing the rigidity of Dean's shoulders as he turned to the kitchen door, Sam knew he'd gotten too close to his brother's walls. He didn't regret it, he told himself as he pushed off the sink and looked at the carton of eggs and strips of bacon lying next to the stove. And he'd keep pushing, when he could. One day, his brother was going to see that he did believe in family.

---

Bishop's Falls, Utah

The call throbbed in his vessel's blood, pounded insistently against his consciousness. The angel followed it, turning off the highway without hearing the blare of horns from the cars behind him, taking the first cross-street and then the county road, winding past derelict factories and a disused auto lot, through several miles of empty, dusty desert, finally pulling the Continental over against a chainlink fence surrounding a lot of empty, graffitied buildings and a big hunk of nothing. Castiel got out of the car, his attention following the focus of the frequency, leaving the vehicle with the door wide open and the keys hanging in the ignition.

My brothers and sisters. I am here. We can be reunited. We can return home.

Lies, he thought, under that siren song. But still he was driven to follow it. The power of the Horn could be channelled through many devices. Earth. Air. Water. The molecular structure of the body he inhabited. The bodies all angelkind were wearing now.

Crossing the cracked and weed-infested concrete parking lot, he looked up at the buildings. Squat and square, the military style was obvious and his brows drew together as he saw the symbols stencilled onto the walls.

He walked past the first building, turning the corner automatically as the call pulsed with increasing urgency through his nervous system, and heading for a smaller, grey single-storey structure. He was aware that his reactions were largely being controlled by that call, that he couldn't stop himself from walking faster, or slow the beat of the heart in his chest.

When he reached the door, he pushed it open and turned left down the featureless concrete corridor without pausing, the click of his shoes echoing in the confined space, advertising his approach.

He should have called Dean or Sam, he thought, walking faster as the frequency oscillated through his blood. Should've told them … something … of what he was doing.

The corridor turned right and he kept walking. The long halls were featureless, grey concrete. Occasionally, at an intersection or turning, there were large stencilled numbers or letters or symbols. The base had been decommissioned a while ago, dust settled thickly over the floor, over the recessed and dark light fittings above him.

Cas, this – this other grace, is it damaging you?

It was, he knew. It was more than being an imperfect match. It had been stolen. He had killed to get it. It was tainted with his crimes and it burned against him, minute by minute, second by second, eating its way through his essence and his connection with his vessel. He was briefly reminded of the old folk tale, from the far north. The little mermaid who'd walked in pain to have her legs. He was walking in pain and he wasn't sure how long he'd last – or how much worse the pain would become.

At one time, he had been a seraph – ranked, a soldier of God, serving humanity and his brothers and sisters with obedience. He could not now say that of himself. He had disobeyed. Wilfully. Knowingly. He had chosen evil, believing his intentions were righteous. He had killed. He was not human. He was not an angel either, he thought.

Just because you can do what you want, doesn't mean you get to do whatever you want!

Dean had been right. He'd been a child. Powerful and impotent, both at the same time. He'd thought he was doing the right thing, at first. Then he'd told himself he was doing the only thing he could. And at the end, he'd tried to convince himself that the results justified the means, even when he saw what it would cost.

And that had only been the first of a series of poor decisions. Poor judgements. How was it angels had such an abundance of pride and arrogance, he wondered distractedly, and so little humility. For a species created to obedience, it was a contradiction.

We can be united. Return home. Don't be afraid. We are all angels.

The corridor turned left and dead-ended. The call was coming from beyond the door at the end. Cas walked up to it and pushed, surprised and suspicious when it swung open.

The room was large, longer than it was wide, part of it hidden by an angled wall halfway in. The scents that hit him as he stepped through the doorway were immediate and strong. Burned flesh. And the desert-dry smell of oleum sanctum Jerusalem. At the far end, he saw the sigil that covered the wall, glowing and pulsing in the same frequency that had led him to it. He recognised it immediately. The sigil of the Horn of Gabriel. The only sigil that could speak to every angel within its range. The Horn had been lost. Gabriel was dead. Cas wondered who had placed the sigil and how they'd activated it.

Walking into the room, he stopped as he saw the bodies.

The floor was scorched into a circle, and most of the bodies lay within it, three-dimensional sculptures of pure ash, the broken and torn wings of his brothers and sisters charred into the concrete beneath them. The circle had been a trap, he thought, walking around its edge slowly. Somehow, it had turned inwards, burning them whether they remained inside or had tried to flee.

A massacre.

He turned away and walked to the sigil. At the base of the wall, a fire had burned and Cas squatted by the beaten golden bowl that sat in the middle of the charcoal and ashes. He moved his hand over the burned contents and they flickered with images of what they once had been. A feather. The tiny skeleton of a fae. A crystal cut with many facets. Leaves. Roots. A flower. They disappeared when his hand dropped back to his side.

Pulling out his phone, he took a picture of the sigil and of the spell castings below it. He sent both to Sam's phone, dialling the number as soon as they'd gone.

"Sam?"

"Cas, where are you?" Sam's voice sounded a long way distant.

"In Utah," the angel replied, staring at the wall. "I've found something."

"Hang on, I'm putting you on speaker," Sam said. "Your photos just came through."

"Good."

"What the hell is that?" Dean's voice was clear. His friend sounded tired, the angel thought.

"The sigil of the Horn of Gabriel," Cas replied.

"Thought Gabriel was dead."

"He is," Cas said. "And the Horn is lost. The sigil can focus some of its power, however. Enough, I believe, that when combined with another spell, it can be used to call angels to it."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line and the angel could almost envisage the look passing between the two brothers.

"So, this is like – like an APB for angels?" Dean asked.

Cas' face screwed up a little at the reference. He wasn't sure what the man meant. "It sends out a signal to angels," he said uncertainly. "It's a lure. Bait. For a trap."

"Do you know what was in the spell bowl, Cas?" Sam asked.

"The feather of a gryphon. Bones of a fae. A multi-faceted amethyst crystal. Twigs from a beech tree. The leaves and flower of belladonna."

"A summoning spell?"

"It would appear," Cas agreed. "This is not the way an angel would do it."

"No," Sam agreed, his voice thoughtful. "It's a human spell. It worked?"

Glancing at the bodies behind him, Cas let out a sigh. "Yes."

"Any idea of why someone would be summoning angels?" Dean asked.

"It would appear to kill them," Cas told them. "But the spell was still active when I arrived here, and no one has appeared."

"Maybe a trap-line?" Dean speculated, his voice fading as another buzz sounded in the background.

"Uh, Cas, if someone's trying to wipe out angels, should you be there on your own?" Sam asked, the echo-y quality of his voice disappearing.

"I'm fine, Sam," Cas said, not entirely sure of that. "Can you find the origins of that spell?"

"Yeah, I'll –" Sam paused for a moment, and the angel heard a low-toned debate go on in the background. "Uh, where are you, exactly?"

"Bishop's Falls, Utah."

"Motel? Room number?"

"Uh, Carlyle Motel, room sixty-three."

"Right," Sam said. "I'll be there in about ten hours."

"Sam, that's not –"

"Gotta go."

The call cut out and Cas looked at the phone in his hand. He hadn't wanted to keep dragging the brothers back into his quest to find Metatron. Dean was searching for Abaddon and he needed his brother's help. He slid the phone back into his pocket and started to stand.

The noise was only slight, a faint rustle of fabric against fabric. Cas was rising and turning, his sword singing as it blocked the blow from the woman's weapon, sweeping it aside and out of her hands.

"Wait!" she cried out. "Stop! Please!"

"You tried to kill me," the angel pointed out mildly, leaving the sword tip resting against her throat. The vessel she wore had been slashed, open wounds across the left side of her face, over her chest and forearms. Long dark hair was stringy and matted and her skin was bruised and sunken under the coating of dirt.

"I thought – I thought you were – the other one," she said, stumbling backward and falling. "The one who did this?"

Cas let the sword drop as he followed her gaze. "What happened here?"

"There was a call – the Horn called us, to go home," she told him with a fast glance at the wall. "But it was a trap."

"Laid by who?"

"He didn't tell us tell his name," she said. "And I – I didn't recognise him. I don't think anyone who came here did. He said we could go home. He said that a great war was coming, and those who fought for the new ruler of Heaven, who were loyal and obedient to him … could return to Heaven."

"Metatron?"

"Some of our brothers thought so," she admitted. "The choice was to pledge fealty – or remain. We didn't see the trap until it was too late."

"The fire turned inwards?"

She nodded. "Perhaps half of those who came joined with him, and he spoke an incantation and lit the circle, and the flames rose and fell on everyone inside."

"How did you survive?"

"I was – standing – there," she said, pointing to a pillar a little outside of the circle. "I threw myself backward when the flames rose. Two of his … followers … tried to kill me, but he called them back and they disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Cas looked at her.

"Teleported elsewhere," she said, nodding at his expression. "An angel with full power. With his wings."

Or an angel restored by his master, for services rendered, Cas thought narrowly.

"You are Castiel, aren't you?" she said, and he returned his attention to her warily. "I was – I was with Bartholomew's force when you killed him. Not," she added sourly. "from my own choice. My name is Hannah."

"Yes, Hannah. I am Castiel."

"Have you come to lead us?"

The raw hope in her voice forced him to turn away. Lead? Him? Leading was the last thing he would ever attempt to do again.

"No," he said, trying what he'd seen Dean do so many times, take the emotions she'd conjured in him and push them down deep. "I am no leader."

He turned back, feeling the stiffness of his expression. "How many angels are looking for guidance now?"

She shook her head. "When Bartholomew fell, we tried to keep going for a while. Then we were attacked, by Tyrus' group and we fled. I came here with six others," she told him, glancing at the circle and its mounds of ash. "They are dead, their songs no more."

"Metatron will want to rally the remnants of Malachi and Bartholomew's groups, for himself," Cas mused, half to himself. He wondered what the Scribe had planned. "You should run. Now. Find as many as you can and warn them of this."

"Save myself?" she asked, stepping closer to him and smiling. "Instead of fighting to go home?"

He frowned at her. "There is no way home."

"Then we have no hope at all."

He looked down at her as she took another step closer, lifting her hand. He felt the tips of her fingers against his forehead and then there was nothing.

---

Lebanon, Kansas

Dean closed his phone, turning and looking at his brother.

"That was Colin," he said, walking back down to the situation room. "A bunch of hunters are heading for his place. Want to know what the hell is going on with the godsquad."

Sam's brow furrowed. "What about Cas?"

"You'll have to figure out what's going on with that spell," Dean said, looking distractedly around the room. "Put Noah to work."

He turned to look back at his brother. "Where is Noah, anyway?"

"Uh, upstairs. Top level," Sam told him. "He's trying to find more information on the Abaddon."

"Well, get him to find where that spell came from," Dean said, swinging around and heading for the stairs. "We got angel factions and loose nukes all over the place and it might – just might – help if some of our side know what the hell they're dealing with."

He walked out through the library quickly, and climbed the stairs to his room, wondering if splitting up was going to be a good idea. The dream – and then the–the–whatever it'd been in the kitchen suggested that he might not be fit to fly solo right at this minute.

Not a job, he told himself, pushing open his door and leaning over to grab the duffel from the floor and toss it onto the end of the bed. Just a drive, an info dump on people who needed as much as they could get, and he'd meet Sam wherever when he was done.

He walked to the closet and pulled out a couple of shirts, veering to the chest of drawers to extract tee shirts and a clean pair of jeans on the way. The gear bag was already in the trunk, everything in it clean, oiled, loaded and ready to go.

He needed some time, he thought, shoving the clothing into the bag and looking around the room. Time to think. Not rushing, it was about eleven hours to Pine Bluff, and the road had always been the best place for him to get crap straight in his head.

Picking up the bag, he swung it over a shoulder and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him and heading for the staircase. The first thing he had to get straight, he decided, walking down to the library, was what they knew about the angels who were still out and about. There was only a single faction left intact, but a lot of rogues roaming around. He had six angel swords, gathered up from various past confrontations, still in the trunk. The other three were in his workshop. He frowned as he realised he needed to give Colin a heads-up on the melting technique and how to make angel-killing bullets from those six.

---

Sam watched his brother walk out of the library and let out a long exhale. Dean wasn't comfortable around the angel anymore, he knew. He couldn't trust him any longer and it'd made every encounter awkward and formal.

He smiled a little when he realised they'd changed positions almost diametrically from the first few months they'd known the angel. Then, it'd been him who found Cas difficult to relax around, feeling his disapproval, his doubts, and Dean who'd been prepared to take the warrior of God at face value, believing against all evidence to the contrary that one of God's servants must be good. In spite of the other betrayals, in spite of Cas' own uncertainties, Dean had been proven right. When it'd counted, the angel had gone to bat for them, had disobeyed and tried to help.

Sitting there, he realised he was still thinking of himself before anyone else. Cas'd tried to reassure him about himself, about what they could do to stop the latest world-ending and he hadn't even thought of giving the angel some reassurance about his brother. He wasn't even sure that Cas wanted any such thing, he thought, with a slight grimace. Maybe the angel had become as used to disappointing Dean as he had and didn't need to know the exact reasons for his brother's withdrawal.

Or knew them already.

Sam, if anybody else – and I mean anybody – pulled that kind of crap, I'd've stabbed them neck, on principle!

Somehow, Dean had forgiven the angel again, he thought, remembering the worry in his brother's eyes when Cas'd failed to make the bunker in a reasonable time frame. Somehow, they'd found a way to patch things back up when they'd been trying to get Gadreil out of him. But in the last few months, since his brother had taken on the curse of Cain and begun to withdraw from everything, it'd seemed, those patches had started to fall apart.

The very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!

The things that had bitten too deeply into Dean were too many to count, he thought, eyes closing at that memory. Had the Mark seemed like a fitting punishment for his brother, he wondered? Had Dean wanted something that would isolate him? Keep him from reaching out for the things he'd once wanted?

I want Dean to have a home.

His father had said it in an agony of loss, driven by despair, and it'd been true, Sam thought. The one thing his brother wanted more than anything else was a home. A family. Connections that let him remember what it was he fought for.

Connections he'd lost. Was still losing. Kevin. Garth. Cas … and him. It didn't really matter if Dean was losing those connections or only thought he was, Sam realised with a frown. He'd said it. He believed he was poison to everyone. And now, the Mark was giving some kind of credence to that belief. Strengthening it. Reinforcing it.

He ran both hands through his hair, pushing it back in a sharply restless gesture. He didn't know how to convince Dean that he wasn't. Didn't know any more how to get through the walls and barricades and fucking minefields.

Even if he did, he realised, there wasn't time. Whatever Gadreil was doing was by Metatron's command and between the leaderless factions and the civil war in Hell, there wouldn't be any time.

Noah could research the spell, he thought, getting to his feet and walking to the elevator in the corner. He'd meet Cas and they could check the law enforcement databases, figure out if it was a trap-line, or if Gadreil was killing randomly.

---

Bishop's Falls, Utah

The GPS coordinates confirmed the location and Sam looked at the compound again, brow furrowing up as he took the radiation symbols that were stencilled on each of the buildings. The notice on the front gate, now hanging dispiritedly from one hinge, stated the silo had been decommissioned in 1963. It was up for sale.

Not surprising it hadn't been snapped up, he thought, pushing the gate back with a teeth-aching screech of metal over the cracked concrete. Not too many who'd overcome the instinctive reaction to the symbols that'd terrified the nation for too many years.

The EMF squawked softly in his pocket as he walked toward the buildings, getting stronger when he veered away from the closest and headed for the one behind. The angels, like demonkind, left a residue of electro-magnetic energy fields, even in their vessels. Not much of one, he thought, a little bitterly, but traces usually remained for a few days.

He stopped at the heavy steel door and looked at the line of shadow along the jamb. Someone had been in here. The rusted chain and its accompanying padlock hung loosely from the welded steel handle. Sam tucked the gauge back in his coat and drew an angel sword from the inside seam, his fingers closing tightly around the cool haft. He pushed the door open and stepped into darkness.

"Cas?"

Inside was black. There were no outside windows, no skylights or even vents that hadn't been baffled and bagged. It was, after all, a containment system, he thought, frowning as he dragged his flashlight out and flicked it on.

Along the drab concrete walls, the base's warnings and safety notices were the only things he could see. He looked down the long corridor and started to walk, unwilling to call out again. He thought Cas'd meet him at the motel in town, but the angel hadn't been there and the clerk at the desk said he hadn't seen him since the night before. It might be nothing, he told himself, walking a little faster, his footsteps echoing very faintly. Or, it might be something.

Gadreil was working for Metatron.

Sam still found it hard to believe that the scribe could be managing the events of the last year on his own. He'd been … more simple-minded than that, he thought. Ranting about his books and the worlds of escape he could find in them. He'd hidden his bitterness, he considered, remembering the room in the empty hotel in Ignacio. Hidden it so well they'd left Kevin with him …

… and if the angel had wanted the prophet dead, he'd had a lot of time and opportunity to kill him then …

Shaking his head, Sam pushed the contradiction aside. It wasn't just Metatron and it wasn't just Abaddon and Crowley, he thought. All of them had their own motivations, none of them had motivations big enough. And there was precious little coincidence in their world.

The corridor joined another, forming a tee. Sam pulled out the EMF, moving it in a slow half-circle. The needle jumped a little higher to the right. He turned and walked that way, eyes narrowing as he saw the hall end in a larger room.

He turned the corner and stared at the bodies, untidily sprawled in the beam of his flashlight, crumbling and burned, all the way through, from the look of it. At least a dozen people were there, he thought, taking a step further into the room, the light splashing over the walls and stopping on the sigil that was painted at the end of the room.

The Horn of Gabriel. It was the image Cas'd sent via his phone.

"Cas?"

He walked past the bodies and stopped at the wall, crouching and pointing the flashlight's beam over the charred remains on the floor. He couldn't see anything identifiable in the ash and blackened lumps and he wondered briefly how Cas had known what was in the spell.

"Cas?" he called out again, straightening and rising to look around the room. "CAS!"

His voice echoed against the hard surfaces, booming back at him. The angel wasn't here.

Walking back to the bodies, Sam looked down, seeing a viscous residue on the floor. It arced beneath some of those lying there. A circle, he wondered? Of holy oil, to trap and kill those the spell had drawn here? How powerful had the spell been that they'd walked into their deaths so willingly?

A flash of Abaddon's vessel, burning under the oil he'd thrown at her, rose in his mind and he turned away. Cas'd told them that holy oil burned them completely, vessel, celestial wavelength and all.

At the corridor, he hesitated, looking back. Cas had to be somewhere around here. The angel was erratic, but not an idiot. Chewing on the corner of his lip, Sam considered his options. They'd agreed to meet at the motel, and he could check local and national databases from there, see if there'd been any other mass murders like this one flagged yet. Cas might've just gone to check on something else. Might be waiting for him at the motel right now.

If he was, he thought, as he turned away and started down the corridor, they could probably source the ingredients of the spell. There were a few esoteric suppliers still in the country.

---

Four hours later

Sam looked around the silent motel room and pushed the laptop aside. No angel.

Four other massacres had taken place, over three states, in the last week. New Hampshire, Kentucky and Oklahoma all had flagged reports and the feds had updated their databases with the information as well, allocating the cases once the familiarities had been noted.

Picking up his cell, Sam called the detective in charge in Oklahoma, staring at the stark crime scene photographs on the screen as he waited to be connected.

"Detective Lavelle, help you?" a harsh voice barked out of the speaker.

"Detective, this is Special Agent Forbes," Sam said. "I'm calling about the massacre."

"Right, Agent," the detective responded, his voice dropping a little and his tone resigned. "What can we do for the FBI?"

"I'd like to see the crime scene and any evidence you guys have collected?"

"We sent everything to the local office, as soon as the case came up on the –"

"I know, Detective," Sam cut him off, gently. "I'll be there in three hours. I just want to see if the location matches the others."

"Whatever you need, Agent," Lavelle said tiredly. "We'll have the reports ready."

"Thanks."

Sam cut the call and glanced at his watch. He could leave the Dart and get a flight. He'd call his brother on the way.

---

Pine Bluff, Arkansas

The long, low building glowed with light in the semi-darkness, the Impala's headlights flashing over a dozen cars and trucks parked out the front. A full house.

Nosing the car into a free slot, Dean stopped the engine and leaned back in the seat, wondering what the hell he was going to tell the people inside. After the last five years, he thought they'd be able to cope with the idea of angels and demons, but the scope of what was happening, the fucking breadth of the mess, was harder to explain.

Under the bandage, his hand itched, the order's salve accelerating the healing. He leaned over to the glove box and pulled out the small box, flipping it open one-handed on the seat beside him and pulling out a clean rolled bandage.

It was another thing he wasn't sure he should be talking about, he thought, absently unwinding the wrapping from his hand. Cain'd told him the Mark would help him see, but the only things he'd seen so far was the long list of his mistakes and he didn't need to go over those again.

Sam's impromptu but heartfelt speech, in the kitchen, that'd thrown him more than even the visions and what he thought they were about.

When he'd gone to Palo Alto, it'd been with the intention of having Sam at his back while they'd looked for their father. Sam'd been crystal clear that he wouldn't go on with him, that his life – the interview, Jessica, studying the law – those things were what he'd wanted. Jessica's death had turned all that over on its ear and when they'd finally left, with no leads on what'd happened and Sam needing their father even more than he had, he'd been relieved.

That relief hadn't lasted all that long.

By the time they'd hit Toledo, it was already apparent to him that Sam was following in John's footsteps, right down to wanting to making every encounter personal and face-to-face, not talking about the nightmares that were keeping him from sleep. It'd gotten worse in Rockford. And, he thought, taking the keys out of the ignition and opening the door, it'd kept on getting worse.

Sliding out and shutting the door, he walked to the rear and popped the trunk, grabbing the two canvas duffels and shutting the lid.

He'd made the deal because he could not fail again. Couldn't face it. Couldn't imagine how he could ever possibly live with it. It hadn't been much later, when he'd recognised that the tiredness he'd felt, that bone-deep and aching weariness, hadn't just sprung out of losing his father and friends. Some of it had been from the feeling he couldn't protect Sam from Sam.

After everything I've done for this family, I think I'm entitled. Truth is, I'm tired, Sam.

He hadn't been tired of living. Just of doing the job that he'd done since he was four. That he'd seen he would never be able to do right. He'd felt good, in a ass-backward kind of way because he'd done his bit. Sam was alive. The rest was on his little brother.

It'd taken nearly another six months before he'd figured out that he'd fucked up in a major way, leaving Sam to fight Lilith alone – or worse – with Ruby. And a bit longer than that to realise that he hadn't wanted to die. Hadn't wanted to cut his life short, no chance to do or see or feel the things he'd once dreamed of, those private and carefully hidden dreams he'd told no one.

He stepped up onto the porch and walked along the covered path to the residence behind the office. The door swung open, and Colin looked at him, a slow grin forming as he cocked his head toward the interior.

"'Bout time," he said laconically. "Thought you'd be here a couple of hours ago. You started driving like an old man or something?"

"Roadwork," Dean told him. "You haven't got anything better to do than wait around for me?"

"Hannah was the one complainin'," Colin said with a shrug. "I couldn't care less if I didn't see your ugly mug."

"Liar," a female voice said from behind him, as his wife stepped past and looked at Dean. "Come on, I got a room for you, you can dump your gear there and give me a hug."

Dean pushed good-naturedly past Colin, hearing the older man's grunt as the gear bag swung accidentally into him, and followed Hannah into the house. The room was a part of the motel rooms, but not to let. He dumped the bags in the clean and sweet-smelling bedroom of the small suite, smiling a little at the chocolates on the pillows of the king-sized bed.

---

Two hours later

The meal was as good as he remembered, Hannah's cooking leaning toward her Italian mother's tastes. Wiping his mouth, Dean leaned back and looked around the table.

Twist and Dwight had made it, both discussing something intensely with Coop; Riley was talking to Yolanda while Tom seemed to be a part of a discussion on vampires, between Andreas, Traci and Nico. He'd nodded to the girl when he'd seen her, getting a small nod in return. She looked healthier, he thought. More settled. Not running on her nerves as much.

On the other side, he recognised Mike Cohen and Jeff Brenner, better known as Mutt and Jeff, even when he'd been a teenager and hunting with his father; Michel and Colette, the slender Creole woman arguing with Hannah about something in an incomprehensible mix of languages, Colin watching them indulgently. Hank Thompson and two others he didn't recognise filled out the remaining seats, too far down the table to hear what they were saying.

Most of them knew what the story was, he considered. The angel factions were scattered not only across the country but the world, and the demons trapped and interrogated had been only too ready to talk of the civil war in Hell, between the archdemon and the King, not giving much useful information but pretty damned open about the split in the underworld's leadership. No one had mentioned a sword.

He'd told them about the holy oil and the angel swords, had talked to Colin about finding anyone who could work the swords into bullets, and had given them a head's up on the likelihood that there was another enemy behind the obvious ones, one that'd been around a while and was used to hiding in plain sight. Dwight and Hank had both heard of the Thule Society. None of the others had.

In return, he'd heard a lotta crap he really wished he hadn't. Something big had gone down in Chicago. Two hunters had gone there, neither had returned or been heard from since. Four hunting families – hell, entire family networks – had been targeted and destroyed – by demons, Dwight'd said. Demons had been seen in ever-increasing numbers in Vegas, Atlantic City, in Macao and Shanghai, Moscow and Venice. The number of holy rollers and tent preachers in the southern states had quadrupled, more or less overnight. The monster populations seem to be in a state of fluctuation, rising and falling and moving around completely out of their usual patterns.

He'd wondered if the order had anything to do with those things, feeling his paranoia growing. Yavoklevich was still silent and any chance of them meeting the other still operational cells were nil right now. Noah had told him not to mention the order to the hunters. He'd baulked at that, knowing how much easier it would make their lives with the backup, but the legacy had been vehement. Not yet, he'd said. Dean looked at the faces of the men and women sitting around the table and felt a flush of guilt. He could see Noah's argument – if the order'd been compromised, if the firm had, it would only give them more targets. It still felt like the wrong thing.

Getting to his feet, he stretched and walked away from the table, out of the dining room, heading for the front door, needing some fresh air.

---

He stood on the broad concrete walkway and looked around restlessly, the clean air filling his lungs but having no effect on the sense he had of time running out, that he should've been moving. Doing something.

He hadn't told them about the Mark, and none of them had seemed to be affected by it. It seemed a good enough indicator that they were focussed on something other than rage and death.

Behind him, the door opened and he turned his head, seeing Hannah step through and close it behind her.

"How bad is it going to get?" she asked him bluntly, walking to stand beside him at the porch's rail.

He looked up at the night sky, speckled with its millions of stars. "Bad. Metatron is trying to start a war, we think. Between the angels. Abaddon wants to bring Hell to this plane, get as many demons up here as she can." He looked over his shoulder at the door.

"And this – Thule – this sorcerer, in the background," Hannah prompted. "What is known of him?"

"Not much," Dean told her. "Not enough."

"We're too few for a war, Dean."

"Not enough to even make keeping track of all the players do-able," he agreed readily.

"Then what's the plan?" she asked.

It was a helluva good question, he thought. If they could get a handle on what Metatron – or the man behind him – was planning, they might be able to circumvent it. If he could find Abaddon and kill her, that would leave Hell back in a state of chaos, and under Crowley, not likely to attempt an immediate overrun of the earth. If they could use the bunker's tracking table, they might be able to find Gadreil and get some payback for Kevin. If they got a hit on the facial recognition software scanning the globe's available data sources … they might be able to locate the fucking Thule … if. If. If.

"Keep your heads down," he said to her. "We need to locate the angel factions. Need to know where demons are getting out. We need intel, most of all, right now."

She nodded, exhaling quietly then turning to look at him. "Dean – how are you doing? You and Sam?"

He ducked his head, feeling her compassion flow over him. He couldn't accept it. Not in the middle of what they were facing. Maybe, somewhere down the track he'd be able to.

"We're okay, Hannah," he told her, not quite meeting her eyes when he said it. "You know, just about the same as usual."

"Last year –"

"Last year," he cut her off, his voice dropping a little. "Last year there was a load of crap going on. It's, uh, it's better now."

She laid her hand on his arm, very lightly. "This life, what we do, it makes it hard sometimes to remember what's important," she said softly. "Hard to remember that trust is possible. But – you have friends, you know? If you need them."

He couldn't look at her. Her hand lay just below the Mark, curled gently around his forearm. It wasn't the curse he thought it would be. Maybe it wasn't a curse at all, he considered, glancing back at her as the silence stretched out.

"I know."

---

Sam called an hour later and Dean listened to the update, brows drawing together.

"Hang on a sec," he told his brother, turning to Colin. "You know of anyone in Utah who would stock gryphon feathers?"

Colin looked up, surprised. "Uh, yeah, Iain still runs that place in Ogden, doesn't he, Hannah?"

She nodded. "You and Sam met him four years ago," she reminded Dean. "When you needed the ingredients for the demon-tracking spell. He's still there. The new age store."

"Oh, yeah. Uh, thanks," he said, lifting his cell. "Sam, you get that? Iain. Ogden. Yeah. Alright, it'll take me about twenty."

He cut the call and shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Looks like we might have a lead on Metatron's errand boy."

"No," Hannah said firmly. "You sleep first. I'll wake you in four hours. You're not turning around and driving again tonight."

He opened his mouth to argue with her, and saw Colin shake his head discreetly, closing it again as he realised he'd be completely tapped out by the time he got there if he didn't at least try for some shut-eye now.

"Whatever you say," he said to Hannah, his mouth lifting a little at one side.

She nodded abruptly and turned to her husband. "We were going to restock Dean's supplies, remember?"

Colin sighed and got up from the comfortable armchair, stretching and catching Hannah in one arm as she walked past him. "You're too bossy," he said to her, holding her close.

"Not nearly enough," she retorted, smiling as she freed herself.

---

I-70 W, Colorado

The sun had moved to the other side of the car by the time the highway started to bend southwards.

Even with two good meals and four hours of solid, dreamless sleep, Dean could feel the effort of the last few days eating at him again. Sleep when you're dead, he told himself acerbically, deliberately loosening his grip on the car's wheel.

The hunters had been surprised he was taking off so soon. If he'd had a choice in the matter, he acknowledged privately he wouldn't've minded staying for another couple of days. It'd been a long time since he'd done that, sat with people he knew, some well, some not so much, listening, talking, eating Hannah's lip-smacking meals and drinking to be sociable, instead of to forget.

In the pocket of his coat, his cell buzzed, and he reached in, glancing at the screen.

A. Rockwell. Number unknown.

Letting out a frustrated breath, Dean lifted it.

"You're supposed to be following Abaddon," the voice – male, smooth, accentless – said on the other end of the line. "Stay focussed."

"Find her yourself if you want her so bad," Dean snapped, his free hand clenching on the wheel. "She's off the board – so's Crowley. I haven't got a single fucking lead on either and while you're on the line, where the hell is Bethany?"

"Abaddon's looking for the First Blade," Rockwell said sharply. "And Crowley. If she finds either of them, it will be too late."

"Too late for what?" Dean asked. He knew what the archdemon was looking for. "Who the hell are you?!"

"Do your job, Winchester."

The call cut out and Dean restrained the desire to throw the phone at the window. Instead, he glanced down at the screen, bringing up the log and sending it to Yavoklevich's direct number. Who the hell cared more about Hell than what Metatron was up to, he wondered, shutting it down when the file had been sent and shoving it back into his pocket.

Rockwell hadn't even bothered to try to answer the question about the consultant, he realised a moment later. An image flashed into his mind–a woman with short, red curls, tied on a mattress; and he blinked it away, knowing without knowing how he knew that it was her, that whatever'd happened after she'd gotten out of the car in Price, they'd got the drop on her and wherever she was now, he wasn't going to be able to do anything about it. The lawyer'd said they knew she was missing, were looking for her. Could she give them information on him? She didn't know much more than the firm already did, he thought.

Can't you see? I'm poison. People get close to me they get killed, or worse. I tell myself I help more people than I hurt and I tell myself that I'm doing it for all the right reasons – and I believe that – but I can't – I won't – drag anyone into the muck with me, not anymore.

Except that he still was. It wasn't the Mark. He wasn't cursed. His exhale gusted out over the wheel as he thought about that. Or, if he was cursed, it'd happened a helluva long time before he'd taken on Cain's brand.

"Maybe they'll do alright," Sam had said, as they'd walked out of Victor's house. "Maybe they can hunt and have a real life."

He'd disagreed with his brother then and nothing that'd happened since had changed his view. In Cicero, the djinn had found him. Crowley'd found them again at Battle Creek – hell, Crowley'd found most of the people they'd spent their lives saving and had snuffed them out with as little effort as blowing out a candle. Jodie'd nearly lost her life. Garth was a werewolf. Irv, Pete and Abe had all died because Abaddon had been after him and Sam … he didn't need to go on, did he?

Sam might've right, about them being different from other hunters, because their family had been targeted. It didn't change the fact that people had short life-spans around them, that they died bloody.

You've always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I—anyway, I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy.

He swallowed at that memory, dragged back from god-knew-where he'd buried it. It seemed like a thousand years ago. Another lifetime.

He'd wished he'd been able to not feel the bonds around him. Not feel the responsibility that drove him. To the life. To his family. His father. He'd let Sam go so easily back then, knowing it was the right thing – the only thing he could do. A sacrifice had to be made freely. Being under duress negated the meaning.

The feeling that billowed up inside of him was suffocating, all-encompassing, and for a moment he lost sight of the road, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, darkness surrounding him. His chest ached. His heart thundered against his ribcage, as if attempting to escape. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.

Then it was gone, and he opened his eyes, relieved to see the road and the lanes were just where they'd been. Sweat dripped down his face and he wiped an arm over it, the sleeve of his coat darkened. Felt like he'd just run up a fucking mountain, he thought, blinking rapidly.

It could've been a side-effect of the Mark. Or the lack of sleep. Or not being sure of what the hell he was doing. Could've been a lot of things. He didn't think it was any of them.

A glance at the odometer told him he had another three hundred miles to go. Sucking in a deep breath, he leaned forward, one finger stabbing at the tape in the deck. At once, the raw music filled the car's interior and he felt his pulse slow down, his breathing ease. This was how it'd always been, he thought vaguely, turning the volume up a bit.

---

Ogden, Utah

"We're too late," Sam said, pushing open the door, his foot coming down on a broken glass owl.

"Check," Dean told him, glancing back at the street. "I'll close up."

Sam nodded absently as he moved cautiously inside, sliding his feet along the floor to push the debris out of the way. Behind him, Dean pulled the roller shutters down over each of the windows, dragging the blind over the glass door as he stepped back inside and closed and locked it. He flicked on his flashlight, playing the beam over the wall and reached out for the light switch, hitting it with one hand.

Under the four banks of warm-white toned overhead lights, the damage looked a worse, he thought, surveying the smashed display cabinets, nose wrinkling up at the unlovely mixture of scents; crushed incense, the sharpness of the powdered herbs and preserved fungi, a dusty scent that evaded definition until he saw the drift of feathers surrounding an emptied drawer.

Like most of the people peripherally involved in their world, Iain's real business had been hidden behind a façade of normality. Semi-normality, Dean corrected himself, stepping over a bunch of books aimed at those who required a blueprint to self-help.

On the other side of the counter, Sam was kneeling in the middle of a pile of debris. "Someone got into his stock – his real stock," he said, glancing up at his brother.

Dean nodded. "Got a sample box of feathers over here."

Sam got to his feet, brushing off his knees absently as he looked around the store. He saw what he was looking for a moment later.

"Dean," he said, gesturing at the inconspicuous hole in the room's cornice.

"That's my boy," Dean muttered. Behind the counter, there was a narrow door and he headed for it.

"Locked," Sam said, trying the doorknob and pushing his gun and flashlight into his coat pocket. He pulled out his picks and dropped to one knee, sliding the pick and wrench into the lock and feeling through the pins.

A soft click rewarded him and he stood, tucking the picks back into his pocket as he opened the door, forehead wrinkling up a little as he felt the weigh of it.

Iain's body swung into view, hanging from the back of the door. His eyes were blackened and filled with blood; a rust-coloured thread had spilled from his mouth to soak into his shirt.

"Dammit," Sam breathed, looking at the corpse.

"How long?"

Looking at the blood, Sam frowned. "Three, maybe four hours."

"Sonofabitch's long gone," Dean said, looking past the body to the short hallway. There were two other doors further down. He stepped through the doorway and tried the handle of the first. It too was locked. Huffing an impatient exhale, he pulled the wallet containing his picks from his coat and slid them in.

The door opened into a narrow room positioned directly behind the wall and the store's counter. Dean gave a low whistle as he looked in.

The 'mirror' that backed the shelves on the other side, behind the counter, was two-way. Thin light showed a camera positioned to take in most of the store, and on the other wall several monitors flickered in the gloom, showing different angles.

"Let's see what we can see," he murmured, walking in and hitting the lights. Behind him, Sam looked around.

"There," he said, pointing at a keyboard and walking over to sit down in front of it. He looked at the dark monitor on the desk and tapped a key, and the monitor came to life, a menu of options appearing.

Leaning on the desk beside his brother, Dean watched Sam enter commands and change the settings of the security program, stepping back as his brother waved a hand at the screen beside him.

Video began to play, showing the main area of the store in front of the counter, the back of Iain's head as he turned to look at the customer coming through the front door. The time-stamp in the corner of the screen showed twelve past ten, mid-morning and congruent with Sam's estimated TOD.

Sam's breath hissed in as the customer moved past a rack of paperbacks and into view. Beside him, Dean recognised the face of the man who walked up to the counter.

"Gadreil."

Sam looked at the program's options and tapped another key. The jingle of the door closing came through the computer's speakers.

"Good afternoon," Gadreil said, stopping in front of the counter.

Dean's eyes narrowed. The angel was still wearing the vessel he'd met him in, the bartender from NY state. In jeans and the hooded jacket, he could've been anyone.

"It's afternoon?" Iain's voice said, the back of his head moving to one side.

"I require the feathers of a gryphon," Gadreil continued, glancing down at the glass-topped counter and back to Iain. "The bones of a fae. A mirror-cut amethyst. Whole belladonna."

"Just what you see, pal," Iain said, gesturing to the display. "I got some crystals, herbs, got some feathers from some rare birds –"

On the monitor, the angel smiled coolly. "The sigil of Chamuel adorns your premises, hunter. It is a sign to those who know, that what they seek may be found within."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"The feathers. The bones. The crystal and herb."

"Yeah, alright, alright, don't get your panties in a twist," Iain said, leaning out of frame to retrieve a box from beneath the counter. "I got three gryphon feathers left, won't get more for another month. Changed suppliers and I don't know what that dude's on but it's like he's never seen a calendar."

"Three will be sufficient," Gadreil said.

"Here, two amethysts. One's a princess; the other one's mirror," Iain told him, looking up. "And I can give you the belladonna, but sorry, man, no fairy bones. Had some chick in here last week, took my whole year's stock – said she was summoning rodents."

He shrugged, pushing forward another couple of trays. "I told her, you know, for vermin, powdered cat bones are just as good–"

The angel's hand whipped over the glass counter, closing around Iain's neck and tightening. "You are lying."

"No–" Iain squeaked, his fingers scrabbling at the hand cutting off his air.

The store-owner seemed to convulse in the angel's grip, his hands lashing out, no longer trying to prise the fingers from his neck, fingers curled into claws and slashing at Gadreil's face. Leaning closer to the screen, Dean saw the gleam of perspiration covering Gadreil's face as smoke rose from Iain's head. He saw a splash of blood hit the counter.

The angel released the body, looking down. "I've been taken in by those far more practised in deceit than your kind," he said softly.

He walked around the counter and lifted the body, moving out of frame.

"Here," Sam said, as he cued up the footage from the two other cameras that monitored the store, fast-forwarding to the time-stamp of the main film, and typing in the command to play it.

One showed a wide-angle shot from the opposite corner of the room and they saw Gadreil lift Iain's body onto the hook behind the door and leave it open. The second showed a different room; filled with shelving, stacked full of boxes, bags, bottles and jars, lining the walls. Gadreil strode into it and began to pull out every item, glancing at them and throwing them behind him onto the floor. He stopped at one, smiling coldly and putting the contents into his jacket pocket, then continued until he found the other items he'd been looking for. Dean caught the glitter of a handful of faceted stones as they disappeared into the angel's jacket.

"Look at that," Sam breathed, leaning closer to the store-room monitor and moving the mouse to rewind a few frames.

Dean leaned closer as well, eyes narrowing. He watched Gadreil pull something out of his pocket, a flutter of cloth as the angel wiped over his face with it. They watched as he pushed the cloth back into his pocket, turning away, and the cloth fell out and onto the floor.

"Yahtzee," Dean murmured, straightening and heading out the door.

He returned a minute later, the cloth held fastidiously by one corner. "Tell me we can track him with this."

Sam nodded. "That and the image," he said, getting up as the printer spat out a still close-up of the angel from the film. "We need a pendulum and a silver bowl."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Dean remarked, looking over his shoulder at the strewn contents of the store.