Chapter 38 Sleight of Mind
Somewhere in Heaven
Cas lifted his head, looking around through slitted eyes. His head was throbbing slightly, his ears ringing. He was, he knew, no longer on the earthly plane.
He was seated in a comfortably upholstered armchair, his hands bound firmly to the broad arms, ankles tied to the base and a cord around his neck, fastened to something at the back of the chair, he thought, leaning forward to test it. The slip knot tightened after a couple of inches, loosened as he leaned back.
The room was impressive. Dark, polished wood panelling alternated with floor to ceiling built-in shelving, the lower sections with solid doors, the upper shelves protected by glass ones. Every shelf was filled, gold-leaf titling gleaming in the gentle light provided by a half a dozen lamps.
In front of him, a massive desk, covered in more books and with an old-fashioned Remington sitting in the centre, the high black keys and the typewritten sheet illuminated by a desk lamp beside it, took up most of one side of the room. To his right, a Victorian fireplace, surrounded by tiles and with a cheerily burning fire on the small grate, was flanked by bookshelves. To his left, a Chesterfield sofa, buttoned leather slightly worn, and a wing-backed armchair shared a standing lamp, an occasional table, also covered in books sitting under the lamp's glow.
It was, Cas considered, very similar to Crowley's study. Heavier on the reading material.
Would it kill you to read a book? Meg'd asked him as he'd bound the wound the demon had inflicted.
It might, he'd told her. With the right kind of spell.
He knew where he was. The borrowed Grace flared inside of him, automatically seeking the consolation of the Spheres, and he flinched as the disharmony between his wavelength and that of the Grace resonated in a sensation of pain along his body's nerve endings.
"That Grace is doing you no favours, Castiel."
Metatron's voice came from behind him and he kept his gaze fixed ahead as the scribe walked into the room.
"It's fine."
"No, it's not," the scribe said, walking around him and taking a seat behind the desk. "It's burning out, and you with it. I could ensure you were saved, you know."
Cas stared at him. Take his Grace, cast him from Heaven, leave him to fend for himself on the earthly plane, hunted and reviled by his brothers … and then save him? He pushed the incongruity aside.
"Why am I here?"
"You are here to witness the dawn of a new epoch, Castiel. A new age that will make what has come before look like bad movie advertising." Metatron stood up and walked around the desk, leaning back against it as he looked down at Castiel. "The evolution of our Father's creation, in all its glorious, bloody and agonising birth pangs."
Cas thought of the people he'd seen, over the months of being human, those in the last few and those in the times before. "Humanity is not ready to –"
"No," Metatron agreed, nodding his head. "You're quite right, they're not ready – and left to themselves, even under our most loving guidance, they will never be ready!"
He looked at the shelves to the side of the fire. "You've watched them, Castiel, over millennia. You've seen the patterns, their histories, repeat themselves, over and over, haven't you?"
The scribe didn't wait for him to answer. "You had to have noticed, as I did, that it's only in the most extreme adversity, the most dreadful circumstances, that they rise above their base natures and become the creations our Father thought they would be?"
Looking back at Cas, Metatron smiled. "So, on the earthly plane, Hell will rise. And angel will fight angel. And the humans will fall in their thousands, in their millions, in the cross-fire and they will learn that they are not at the top of the tree – they will learn that evolution demands sacrifice and courage – they will learn that the new God who will appear before them can be merciful and just, or blood-drenched and wrathful, just as He was in the Beginning."
"You?" Cas asked, glancing at the angel.
He had stood here, he thought uncomfortably, in the same place as the scribe, filled with the same delusions of grandeur from the power that had flowed through him, leaking out and pressing him, distorting his being and creating emotions that no angel should have been capable of.
The scribe's smile vanished and Metatron's eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't sound so surprised, Castiel. I will be God, and you will be the heretic Prince, leader of the factions, uniting them against the New Order and perishing in the attempt."
The scribe glanced over his shoulder at the typewriter. "As it written, so shall it pass."
Ogden, Utah
Sam looked through the binoculars at the warehouse, adjusting the field slightly.
"No sign of him yet," he murmured, the throat mike pressing against his larynx picking up his almost inaudible voice and transmitting it to his brother.
"He'll be back," Dean's voice said in his ear, his voice equally soft. "Got his setup all ready."
The pendulum had pinpointed the location of the warehouse and they'd spent the past hour moving carefully around the perimeter, Dean finally going in fifteen minutes ago to set their trap.
"What d'you see?"
"Gotta room, sigil painted on one wall," Dean whispered. "Nothing else there yet."
"Wait a minute –" Sam breathed, seeing the movement against the shadows of the building. "Showtime."
He stowed the glasses in his pack and pulled the mike and earpiece out, shoving them into his coat pocket. In his mind's eye, he could see the layout of the building, and he moved unhurriedly along the low roof, climbing down to the ground level and stopping under the reflected glow of a street light. He pulled his phone out, talking into it without dialling.
"Cas? We found it, but we need your help, man. Yeah, same location."
Behind him, he heard the faint scuff, turning and looking into the shadows that filled the spaces between the buildings. He started walking, heading deeper into the complex.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve … the seconds ticked off in his mind as he walked a little faster. Ten, nine, eight … almost there and he slowed abruptly, picking up the faint squeak of a sole over the concrete as the angel behind him stopped. He turned around, taking a step back as Gadreil emerged from the darkness and walked toward him.
"You should not have come after me, Sam," the angel said, a glint reflecting from the distant streetlights on the sword that dropped into his hand. "I am sorry to do this, but my orders –"
"Hey, douchebag."
Dean's voice was low and uninflected, several feet above them, and the angel's gaze snapped up as the lighter, its flame flickering, fell to the ground.
The flames leapt up, closing the circle faster than an eyeblink. In the centre, Gadreil's expression smoothed out and he dropped his gaze to look at Sam.
"What were you saying?" Sam asked, feeling his hands curl into fists and his chest tighten. Held fast behind walls and barriers, he saw Kevin's face, eyes burned out and bleeding. "Something about your 'orders'?"
Swinging down from the half-level he'd been lying on, Dean inserted himself between his brother and the angel. "Sam, grab the chains from the car."
For a moment, Sam didn't move, his eyes locked onto Gadreil's across the burning oil. Dean waited and Sam realised he was letting his emotions control him. He pulled in a deep breath and nodded sharply, turning away and heading back down the long corridor.
Twenty minutes later, Dean locked the last seal on the chains that bound the angel's hands behind him and the back of the iron chair, checking the tightness and straightening up. Under the chair and surrounding it, a circle and pentacle had been drawn in lamb's blood and powdered crystal. It was the strongest trap Cas'd known of, bound with the sigils of the Eighth Choir.
"How long have you been working for Metatron?" Sam snapped, pacing around the perimeter of the circle. "Where is he?!"
Gadreil looked at him. "I will not talk and you cannot force me."
"Yeah?" Sam stopped, his hand clenching around the hilt of the angel sword he was holding.
"I have seen you, Sam," Gadreil said, his lip curling up with distaste. "Have lived within you, tasted your shame and gagged upon your weakness. The purification changed nothing for you. You are still the devil's toy."
Dean was moving but not fast enough as Sam stepped into the trap and delivered a bone-crunching straight to the angel's face. He grabbed his little brother's arm as Sam drew back for another, hardly recognising his brother with the snarl that contorted Sam's features.
"Whoa." Pulling back on his arm, Dean swung Sam around to face him. "C'mon, take it easy."
"I'm alright," Sam said, pulling away.
"You are not 'alright' and you never will be," Gadreil said, his voice rising. "That I will tell you for free!"
Sam's mouth thinned as he walked away, and Dean glanced over his shoulder at the angel before following.
"Keep it up," he said shortly. "You're not that fucking valuable."
He walked to the other side of the room, stopping beside Sam. "You gonna be able to hold it together? He's going to throw a lot worse at you."
Sam looked down at the floor, shoulders hunched up. "I know."
"You cool?"
"No," Sam said, looking up. "But I won't react again."
"That's good enough," Dean said, turning back to the circle, pushing his doubt aside.
He wasn't sure Sam could keep to it. The angel had seen everything there was to see, while he'd been in his brother's head. He would know every weak spot, every pressure point, every crack and fissure.
"You know what that dick is doing, don't you?" Dean said, keeping his tone conversational as he faced the angel. "He threw of all you out and now he's bored, sitting up there on his own, no one to poke."
Gadreil looked at him expressionlessly.
"You gonna compound your first mistake with another one?" Dean asked, walking around the edge of the circle and drawing the angel's attention further from his brother. "See if you can wreck everything this time?"
He saw the muscle at the point of the angel's jaw jump a little.
"I have a question for you, Sam," Gadreil said, turning his head back to the younger Winchester. "The anger that fills you, that has boiled in you for months – tell me … are you angry you were saved? Or was it anger that you were possessed?"
Sam turned away and Dean lifted the point of the sword he carried, the light gleaming along the edges.
"Your brother did not want to trick you," Gadreil continued, raising his voice slightly when Sam stopped, his back to the circle. "He knew what you wanted and it tore him apart to have to choose for you, to have to hide me."
Dean looked at the angel, wondering what he was playing at. He saw Sam's shoulders drop as his little brother turned around.
"Why did you kill Kevin?"
Gadreil dropped his gaze. "I was under orders," he said. "As I have been my entire existence."
"Metatron's orders?" Sam asked. "Why would he want his own prophet dead?"
The angel lifted his head. "He killed them all. Every one of them. He wanted – he wants – the power the tablets hold." His lips stretched into a cold smile. "He made me kill your friend because he was your friend. Not just because he was the prophet. I was supposed to have killed your brother at the same time, but he – he hadn't specified that action and I did not think it was necessary." He looked from Dean to Sam. "Kevin knew. At the time, Kevin knew it was not you, Sam. I do not know if that makes your burden easier."
Sam looked away.
"So you're just the bunny in all this?" Dean asked, his expression sceptical. "No free will?"
"I gave my oath." The angel shook his head. "I have come perilously close to breaking it here. You can waste your time in trying to make me talk. You may kill me, but that is all I have to say."
"Yeah, sorry," Dean said, spinning the angel sword between his fingers as he walked around the circle and looked at Gadreil. "That ain't gonna happen."
"I have told you everything I can."
"I don't care about your oath, man," Dean told him. "I don't care about you. I got Heaven on one side and Hell on the other, and I need answers. And trust me, I know how to get 'em."
"Do you know what your brother's shame is, Dean?" Gadreil said, turning to look at Sam. "He told you of his confessed regret, didn't he? How afraid he was of disappointing you. He did not tell you of his shame – the shame that burns in him, even now – how much he loved the blood the demon gave him, how strong it made it him feel – powerful– he –"
This time Dean was fast enough to intercept his brother's attack, ducking to one side as Sam's fist whistled past his ear, bracing himself when Sam's chest hit his shoulder and arm, holding him back.
"Sam! Stop!"
"No!"
"C'mon," Dean grunted, pushing him back out of the circle, looking down to check the boundaries even as he did.
"That's not true!" Sam yelled, nearly deafening Dean with the volume.
"Okay!" He shoved his brother back further. "Okay, he's lying, like all of them, alright?"
Sam stood in front of him, his gaze locked onto the angel, his chest heaving.
"Sam." Dean looked at him. "Hey! Sam, you know he's looking for you to kill him, 'cause he knows I won't."
"Yeah." Sam's gaze shifted back to Dean, his eyes refocussing, his breathing slowing. "Yeah, I know."
"So, I need you to find Cas – find him and bring him here, so we can get into this dick's melon, right?"
Sam sucked in another breath and shook his head. "Dean – he's disappeared. I checked that whole town for him."
Dean pulled out his phone, bringing up the tracking app.
"The cell I gave him had the tracking on," Dean said, passing the phone to his brother. "He's still in Bishop Falls. We're not gonna get through to this asshole without some help. You with me on this?"
"I'm with you." Sam took a step back. "Uh, take me a couple of hours, round trip."
"I'll keep prodding," Dean said. "I don't think it'll do any good, but he'll have a lot less fight in him by the time you get back."
"It's not true, Dean," Sam said, turning away.
"Yeah, man. I know."
Watching Sam leave the building, Dean knew they were both lying. If there hadn't been some truth in what the dick'd said, Sam wouldn't've gone berserker. He turned around and looked back at Gadreil consideringly.
"Alright, asshole. Just you an' me now. Let's get into it."
Buckland, Georgia
"Fancy digs," Trade remarked to his partner, studying the huge brick house from a distance of half a mile.
"Ownership's buried in 'bout a million fuckin' subsidiaries of subsidiaries," Douglas told him. "Firm'll track it eventually – like, ten years from now."
They were lying prone on the ground, concealed in the undergrowth of a small wood that mantled the slope on the opposite side of the river from the house and estate, and had been there most of the day, taking shifts to watch the house with a variety of equipment and slapping at the insects that'd found them soon after they'd settled in.
"Alright, let's talk turkey," Trade said, rolling onto his back. "How d'you wanna do this?"
"They gotta a coupla aircraft sittin' in that shed, down behind barns," Douglas pointed out, rubbing a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. "Thought we might set a small diversion, get in, get her, get out again."
"Pie."
"Cake." Douglas nodded, taking the scope from his partner and looking through it. "We cross the river downstream. Wire up some favours, give ourselves about ten minutes to get along the bank, come up behind the house … boom. Everyone runs out, we run in."
"They'll have a few still inside," Trade countered. "There's twenty in total there."
"Yep. Probably leave five or six in the house, not counting the help."
"Point or tail?"
"Ah, tail, you're faster on the move," Douglas ceded generously, grinning as he heard Trade's disbelieving snort. "I'll grab the distressed damsel."
"Yeah, right."
"Catch some shut-eye before dark?"
"Think so."
Six hours later.
The room was completely dark, completely silent. But she could feel, even through the blur and drag of the chemicals in her system. Feel the panic going on someplace close. Feel the confusion.
She opened her eyes, seeing nothing but black around her. The 'cuffs bit into her wrists and she stretched her arms back, rolling onto her left side and feeling with her knee for the side of the thin mattress. It wouldn't be much height, maybe three or four inches at the most, but she thought it might be enough.
Wriggling awkwardly to the edge, she eased her legs off the mattress, breathing deeply for a few minutes then arched her back, freeing both arms from her own weight, balanced over a knee and her shoulder. She forced herself to bend a bit more, the 'cuffs almost over the curve of her ass as she strained harder, then they were sitting against her thighs and she slumped forward onto her knees, then rolled back onto the mattress, snatching both legs up, knees tight against her chest, feet tucked in. The cold metal scraped over the tendon at the back of her heels then slipped off, and she stretched out, a ragged exhale of relief gusting free. Her hands were in front of her now.
She got to her feet and moved forward cautiously, hands stretched out. Her fingertips touched the wall after three strides, and she moved sideways along it, fighting an urge to move faster, trying to move soundlessly at the same time as she tried to will her muscles into smoother action. She wasn't sure how long she'd been here, but the cramping suggested more than a couple of weeks.
The edge of the door slid under her fingers and Bethany stopped, reaching up and then down, looking for a hinge or a lock to tell her which way it opened. She was kneeling when she felt the slight bump of the hinge and she straightened, keeping her hands on the door as she crossed to the other side.
There was no light in the room. When they'd come in, it was with lanterns or flashlights, once with candles. Her eyes were too used to the darkness. Any kind of light was going to blind her, and she had to be ready for that, had to be ready to use her other senses, keep her eyes closed as much as possible until they began to readjust.
The strange ultrasense she'd been born with stretched out, past the material boundaries ordinary senses couldn't penetrate. In the darkness, images formed … flames leaping into the sky, men running. Closer, she thought, she saw darkened rooms, shadows moving through them, faint light on a long barrel and a flash from a metal edge, disappearing.
An empath, Dalgetty had called her, when her father had introduced her to the legacy in Boston. She'd read the history of her family. It was a not uncommon gift that ran through the female line. Several families in the order had shown manifestations in varying degrees of strength over the centuries. Her father had claimed, occasionally and in drunken bitterness, that it'd been her mother's gift, that fey and unnatural knowing that had caused him to fall for her.
It wasn't a powerful enough ability to have made her life difficult or to draw the order's attention. Yavoklevich had been the one to see its use. Sensitivity to the subject allowed her to track and access in a more subtle manner than any other kind of surveillance, and with use, it had become stronger, and she could direct it more precisely.
The door beside her flew open and she flinched back, unable to see the man standing in front of her. She felt for him without thought; a tangle of impressions returning – competence, hard-edged experience, impatience, covering deeper wells of humour, compassion and protectiveness. In her mind's eye, she saw him clearly, not tall but broad, the metallic flavour of a gun in one hand, no light because he had goggles over his face, ones that helped him see in the dark.
"Bethany Delaney?"
"Ye-yeah," she croaked, swallowing against the dryness of her throat. She hadn't used her voice in a while.
"Firm sent us," he said. "Time to go."
She nodded, and stepped forward, getting another wave of impressions as his hand closed around her wrist; sympathy, a slight awkwardness, a flash of something with warmth and regard, quickly buried.
"Got clothes in the car, ma'am," he said, and she shook her head, recognising the source of his feelings as she followed him through the door.
"Just get me out of h-here."
Heaven
"No great story is really great without tension," Metatron said, hands clasped behind his back as he paced between the desk and fire, the cashmere robe he wore fluttering around his legs. "And tension is created in conflict, between good and evil, between light and dark, between protagonist and antagonist …"
Cas tuned out the scribe's monologue, his attention focussed on what he could see of the room. On the desk, he could see the tablets, Demon and Angel. Both were glowing, very faintly, the markings on them flickering a little with light that appeared to be generated within the stone.
The power, he thought. His Father's power, held in greater or lesser amounts in everything He'd Created.
Between two untidy stacks of books on the other side of the desk, he could see a pile of objects, his eyes narrowing as he stared at them. Feathers of different types, and bones, handfuls of gems and bunches of herbs. Angels didn't use spells in the same way humanity did. They bent and cajoled the energy flows of the universe, neither needing nor wanting the sympathetic or symbolic magic required by the human subconscious to direct those forces. Had Metatron spent too much with humanity, he wondered distractedly?
"By understanding the weaknesses of the protagonist, the antagonist gains an advantage and both characters and plot are served …"
The angel's gaze scanned the room minutely. His Grace had to be somewhere here, he thought.
Metatron had created an imago of his desires. A fantasy of what he wanted. The writer's study, with its affectatious ambience of scholarly wisdom, curious artefacts and posed accoutrements, was a bubble of the scribe's internal vision, the last stage of his delusions. Everything he deemed necessary to become what he desired to be.
Cas sighed. The scribe, who had spoken to God, had sat by His side and taken down His Word, was undoubtedly insane.
"So we will come to the great battle – think of it, Castiel – the renegade angels, aligned with you, and the righteous Host, standing behind Me! The field will ring with the clash of sword meeting sword and the ground will be stained red for hundreds of years!"
"It … uh … sounds interesting," Cas managed to get out, blinking a little as he studied the angel. "The death of all the angels, then? As it was foretold in the prophecies of the Second War?"
"Oh, no!" Metatron looked at him in surprise. "No, a select few, of which you will be one, will return in victorious glory to Heaven. I don't want to bring down the Pillars, after all, just shake things up and ensure that His Creations – my Creations – know their place."
"Ah."
"You know," Metatron said, stopping beside the angel's chair and leaning close. "I can't entirely take the credit for all this."
Cas looked at him.
"I was embittered," Metatron said, looking around. "I can admit to that. I was exiled for no wrongdoing, and cast out of my home, my family taken from me and all sources of comfort and peace denied to me." His brows drew together. "I plotted and planned my revenge, down there. For more than two thousand years all I did was read to escape my misery and obsess over my plans to make them all pay for what had been done to me."
The scribe walked away from Cas, shrugging his shoulders. "I allowed my hatred to overwhelm me. Then something … wonderful … happened."
Cas watched him resume his pacing in front of the desk.
"A man approached me, in Colorado," Metatron said, slowing down a little, his expression becoming distant. "Not quite a man, not any more, but that's not important. This man refined my vision, Castiel. He showed me the way."
The necromancer Sam had spoken of, Cas thought, the certainty of it hitting him.
"What man, Metatron?"
"A man of extraordinary knowledge," the scribe said. "He – he told me that what I had written down had a greater power than just the words inscribed there," he continued, glancing at the desk and the tablets on it. "It seems … ludicrous to me now, that I wrote them and never felt it."
His gaze snapped back to Cas. "Doesn't it? I mean, really?"
Cas didn't know how to respond and he attempted to arrange his features into an approximation of interested curiosity.
"The prophet knew," Metatron mused. "It was an error – no, not so much as an error as a misjudgement, perhaps, on my part to have killed them all so quickly. I should really have questioned him first. Or at least one of them."
Cas flinched back slightly as the scribe swung around toward him again, arms flying out.
"But, no matter. What's done can't be undone. Forrester told me about the power and showed me how to get the tablets, and here they are, safe and sound." Metatron leaned on the arm of the chair. "My story will be the greatest ever told, Castiel. And so, I have a proposal."
"Angels do not make deals," Cas said, turning his head away from the scribe.
"Oh, dear, you still believe that lie?" Metatron pressed closer to the angel. "After seeing what you've seen? Knowing what you know? Raphael and Uriel consorting with Lucifer and his demons? Souls traded back and forth for leverage and power? And wasn't it you, my dearest Castiel, who made a deal with the King of Hell for half the souls in Purgatory?"
"That was a mistake," Cas said.
"It certainly was," Metatron agreed. "But this deal is better."
"Why me?"
The scribe smiled. "You know why I didn't kill you when I took your Grace? Why I gave you the opportunity to Fall and become human?"
"No."
"I like you, Castiel," Metatron admitted. "You have something – a certain style – a je ne sais quoi – about you that is surprisingly appealing. I thought that being human, for an extended time, a life-time as mortals count it, would do you some good. Give you a greater depth of understanding. And for the purposes of the plot, you have, more importantly, commanded a garrison under Michael and you have learned the value – and the consequences – of free will. It's all exactly right, you see? They will rally to your banner, and they will follow you into war – I'm certain of it."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to return to the earthly plane, unite our brothers and sisters and face me on the battlefield," Metatron said, enunciating each word clearly. "Humanity will see your forces crushed, and Hell's horde defeated by Me after that, and they will learn the proper humility and love I require."
"Fear does not inspire love, Metatron."
"Do I look like I care?"
Cas repressed the desire to tell the scribe the answer to that. "This man you speak of, Metatron, what is his goal in all of this?"
"Ah, yes." Metatron glanced around the room, as if expecting to see someone there, lurking in the shadows. "Well, he has his plans for humanity as well."
"What kind of plans?"
"In truth, I'm not sure," the scribe said, his expression darkening again. "Occasionally, I've had the feeling …" he trailed off, his eyes losing their focus.
Cas waited, wondering how great an influence the sorcerer could have over the angel that was drawing unlimited power from the tablets.
"I suspect he would prefer it if every angel and every demon was crushed from existence," Metatron murmured, barely audible as he stared at the rich Persian carpet under his feet.
That seemed more likely, Cas thought.
"But I have the power," Metatron continued, his face becoming animated again, eyes regaining focus on Cas and his voice strengthening. "The power of God, in fact. Should he prove to be a hindrance, it will be no effort to sweep him aside."
The angel felt a trickle of doubt. The scribe wasn't sane but his behaviour wasn't entirely his own, he thought. Under another's influence, he would be what his friend sometimes called a W-M-D.
He had an opportunity here, he realised reluctantly. He could, perhaps, guide Metatron's plan from within. Possibly enough to thwart it. And whatever goal the other had.
"I'm not a leader, Metatron," Cas said, letting his shoulders slump a little. "You've seen what happens when I try to be."
The scribe burst out laughing. "I know, but that's why it's perfect, don't you see? They like you. Some of them, hell, maybe most of them for all I know, believe in you, in what you tried and failed to do for them. I mean –" He shook his head, giving the angel a smiling shrug. "– there's no accounting for tastes, but they really do!"
Cas ducked his head, pretending to think it over. He could feel the soft singing in the background, the Spheres holding together, even this long and with the closing of the Veil. He didn't have that much time. A pang from the stolen Grace reinforced the thought.
"And I –" He looked back at Metatron, trying to force a sincere wistfulness into his voice. "I would have a place here, by your side?"
"Of course," Metatron confirmed, his gaze sliding away. "I need you, Castiel. I need you to be who you are."
That doesn't sound right. Dean's voice murmured against his thoughts and he agreed. It didn't. But it didn't matter, it was, as his friend also occasionally opined, the only game in town.
There was a knock on the door and Metatron looked over at the angel standing there.
"I'm sorry to interrupt. We have news. Of Gadreil."
The scribe nodded to her and looked back at Cas.
"I'll tell you what," he said genially. "I've got an errand to run downstairs. You take your time, think it over. We can finalise the details as soon as I'm back."
"I would need to be down there –"
"Yes, you will," Metatron cut him off firmly. "But all in good time. I want your deepest commitment, Castiel. Nothing else will do."
He vanished, and Cas let out his breath. He would have to convince him of that commitment. He wasn't sure he could. Lying now was no easier than it'd been when he'd met the Winchesters.
Ogden, Utah
"The hell are you protecting Metatron for?" Dean asked, looking at Gadreil.
The angel remained expressionless, his gaze fixed to the wall on the other side of the room.
"Cas told us about you, you know," Dean continued, wondering where the angel's cracks were. He couldn't read the sonofabitch easily, and he didn't know if that was a measure of Gadreil's personality – or if what he'd done in Hell had begun to dissolve, leaving him without those abilities.
"Told us you were entrusted by God to guard Eden, to make sure nothing happened to humanity, and you screwed up."
Gadreil blinked, the muscle at the point of his jaw twitching slightly. Dean saw it.
"I mean, you knew Lucifer, right?" he continued. "Knew he hated us, knew he was never gonna accept being in second place? But you let him in anyway."
The angel's head turned to him slowly, Gadreil's eyes hard and cold. "He was my brother," he said, each word coming out distinctly. "He promised me he only wanted to see them. I believed him."
Dean raised his brows. "Even after what he'd told everyone?"
"You believed in your brother, once, didn't you?" Gadreil said. "You believed him when he told you he'd stopped drinking the blood of demons? You believed in him even when he'd broken the last Seal and let Lucifer free."
Dean looked away. "Sam wasn't –"
"Wasn't what?" Gadreil bit out. "You spent your life believing in him, wanting it to be you two against the evil of the world, wanting to be able to trust in him – when were you ever able to do that?"
"He's made some mistakes, no more than I have –" Dean said, his expression hardening.
"Mistakes? No, they weren't mistakes, were they, Dean? They were choices. That's what you said to him," Gadreil continued. "And Sam wasn't choosing you, was he? He chose Ruby. He chose Hell. He chose soullessness. He chose Amelia and death – are you going to tell me that every one of those choices didn't break you apart on the inside? Because if you do, you and I know you'd be lying!"
Dragging in a deeper breath, Gadreil continued, "I lived in your brother – I saw everything and he would not trade his life for yours. He would not break a sweat for you."
"Yeah, he told me–"
"Did he also tell you that he always felt that way, Dean?" the angel asked. "Did he tell you how he sees you? Broken. Weak. Pretending to live by principles when the truth is that you are too afraid to take action for yourself? A coward, afraid to be on your own, afraid to face your fear? A scared little boy Daddy didn't love enough, afraid to fight, who would let everyone around die to keep pretending–"
Dean smiled and shook his head. "You been in my brother's melon and this is the best you could come up?"
The angel stared at him, eyes narrowed.
"You spent time watching humanity – were you only watching the little kids?" Dean asked. "C'mon, you got brothers. You know it goes."
You know why I didn't tell you about Ruby, and how we're hunting down Lilith? Because you're too weak to go after her, Dean. You're holding me back. I'm a better hunter than you are. Stronger, smarter. I can take out demons you're too scared to go near.
The memory flooded into him and he shunted it aside. Under the siren's poison, he knew it'd been all his brother. And, eventually, he'd understood why.
"Did you know sometimes Sam wishes you'd never come out of Purgatory?" Gadreil asked sharply. "He wishes you'd died in there, leaving him free of his family who have always been a millstone around his neck?"
"That how you felt about Lucifer?" Dean countered smoothly. "Wishing he'd just die in the cage and you never had to think about him again?"
"Sam hates you, Dean, far more than he could ever love you," Gadreil's voice rose, gaining volume. "He hates all that you are and all that you've done. He knows you were broken in Hell, that what Castiel pulled out was no longer his brother."
"Must've been hard, trusting your brother and then having Lucifer betray you and everyone else," Dean said, keeping his voice level, his face expressionless. "I'm guessing your dad had to be pretty pissed at you over that."
"As much as yours is, I have no doubt," Gadreil retorted. "Disobeying his final command, pretending your brother wasn't evil. Unable to do what had to be done."
"My dad was human," Dean said. "Just a human who'd been tortured for half his life over something he couldn't do anything about. Like my brother."
He watched the angel's head drop forward, hiding Gadreil's expression. Noah'd been right, he thought, rubbing the corner of his brow with a knuckle to hide his surprise. The Mark was just a tool. It hadn't jacked him up over Gadreil's taunts and it wouldn't, he realised. Nothing the angel had told him had come as a shock. Some of it had been exaggerated, but some version had been through Sam's mind, at one time or another.
He knew when Sam had stopped being able to see things clearly. Knew why too. There was nothing he could've done differently. Not then. Not even now, though he knew the load had been too heavy.
So, Dean ... I gotta thank you. You see, demons can't resurrect people, unless a deal is made. I know, red tape— it'll make you nuts. But thanks to you, Sammy's back in rotation.
It all could've ended at that moment, he thought. No Hell. No seals broken. No family. If he'd been able to let go – let Sammy go – and accept he'd failed.
"Lucifer was my brother," Gadreil said softly, speaking mostly to the floor. "I trusted him. I loved him. I thought he felt the same way as I did."
He lifted his head, meeting Dean's eyes. "I was wrong."
The silence between them stretched out, filled with too many things that couldn't be spoken out loud, couldn't be let loose, or acknowledged … or even thought too deeply about.
Then Dean nodded. "Yeah."
His vision darkened abruptly.
"God loves me best," the young man standing in front of him said, fists curled up, his expression contorted.
"Abel, you're not talking to God!"
The voice was familiar, yet not. Filled with anguish and anger, it echoed through his mind, and the young man blanched, taking a step back.
"You're jealous, Cain!"
Sorrow swamped him, his knees buckling under the feeling, arms pinwheeling to catch hold of anything to keep him from falling.
"No, my brother. I am not."
The bone rose and fell and he felt warm liquid spatter against his face, felt his chest tighten unbearably, and tears spill uncontrollably from his eyes.
Fighting his way free of the vision-memory-whatever-the-hell-it-was, Dean dropped to his knees, his eyes screwed shut, the angel sword clattering on the concrete floor. He dragged in a lung-filling breath, trying to force the images away – down – fucking anywhere but right in front of him.
It vanished as abruptly as it'd come on him and he crouched on the edge of the circle, supporting himself on a hand and one knee, his heart slowing down, the back of his neck prickling sharply with awareness of the angel's regard.
"You have sacrificed what you believe to be right, in order to get a certain job done?" Gadreil asked him, his tone sardonic.
Looking up, Dean nodded, pushing off and straightening up. "The difference being that I'm the only one who has to pay for what I've done," he remarked. "What you're doing is going to cost the world."
"Am I to break another vow then?" The angel studied him. "Proving myself to be worth nothing?"
"Anyone can make a mistake," Dean told him, letting out a gusty exhale. "Don't make the same mistake over and over again, man. You gotta chance to make it all right. Don't make out you don't see it and let it go by."
Gadreil turned his head away. "How can I know if I'm not betraying all that I hold dear anyway?"
"Because your brothers are suffering – and you can stop it."
For a moment, he thought he'd gotten through to the angel. Gotten past all the bull of obedience and loyalty the angels seemed to hang onto and somewhere that showed Gadreil could make the right choice, the right decision. Then Gadreil lifted his gaze, and Dean saw his mouth curl up, the indecision that'd been in the angel's eyes gone.
"Now I see what drives you forward. You know that your brother has turned from you. You even know why. You tell yourself it no longer matters." The angel's face tightened. "It would be ironic if it were not so pathetic. You turned from your service to God – and now you are attempting to reinstate yourself in His favour? Sacrificing yourself with that abomination? You no longer care about anything, do you? You aren't just ready to die – you actively seek it."
Dean felt his stomach knot up, the accusations hitting him. "You don't know anything about it."
"Sam was right," Gadreil said, a little wonderingly as he looked at the hunter. "Why should he care about you, when you care nothing for yourself, not if you live or die – and therefore care nothing for him? You are broken –"
"You already have the rep as the guy who fucked up everything," Dean cut him off sharply. "You wanna add to that? The dick who could've saved the world but decided not to?"
"– you are not a hero. You're not even a man. You are nothing–"
"Keep it up," Dean said, forcing himself to stay still, feeling his fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword in his hand.
"– no wonder you have cut yourself off from everyone who might see that wasteland that is all you have inside–"
The angel's head snapped back as Dean's fist hit the cheekbone, speed and weight and rage behind the left-handed cross. Gadreil stared up at the man, his mouth twisted into a one-sided sneer.
"Did you think they might finally love you? If you gave up everything for them?"
The next blow hit Gadreil in the mouth, lips mashed back against teeth, teeth cracking and shifting sickeningly in his upper jaw. He spat out the shards of tooth and a mouthful of blood, smiling redly at Dean.
"You're not afraid of death; you're afraid of life," he continued, the words indistinct as his mouth began to swell. "You are that scared little boy your brother sees – desperate for love, knowing you will never get it – knowing you don't deserve it – because you know, in yourself, you are a worthless, spineless–"
The sword flashed in the dim light as Dean lunged forward, reaction driving him. The Mark burned and pain exploded in his arm, stopping him with the tip of the sword an inch from the angel's throat.
Gadreil's head was tipped back, his eyes closed. Sonofabitch had done it, Dean thought, lowering the sword and stepping back, the burn ebbing away.
"NO!" The angel opened his eyes. "Do it! KILL ME!"
Dean shook his head, letting the angel sword fall to his side. "Forty thousand years, Cas said," he remarked, one brow cocked at the angel. "That's a helluva long time to sit around and think about what you did wrong. You give me some answers, and I'll kill you. You stay silent –" He looked around the damp warehouse, the abandoned machinery rusting to skeletal hulks in the shadows. "You can sit here for another forty – and rot."
He turned away, forcing himself to walk out of the room unhurriedly, to keep the tension that was stabbing him in the back of the neck and through his shoulders from showing. When he reached the far wall, and turned into the corridor that led to the offices and restrooms, he let the pretence slide off, stopping and leaning against the wall and wiping at the sweat he could feel beading over his forehead with his arm.
Angel bullshit, he told himself, straightening and walking the rest of the way down to the bathroom. He straight-armed the door and put the sword on the sink, pulling off his coat and dumping it on the skewed rolling cabinet next to the door, rolling up his sleeves. Like demons, there was just enough truth to ram the knife in, but it was twisted, out of context and plucked from those thoughts they could see and feel; not the real truth, just a clever version of it.
You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam – he's clearly John's favourite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you.
Leaning on the sink, he stared down into the grimy basin, sucking in breath after breath to loosen the bands of tension in his chest, through his shoulders and up his neck; to steady his pulse, hearing it booming in his ears.
I never loved you. You were my burden. I was shackled to you. Look what it got me.
Same shit, different douchebag. Zachariah'd had a better mouthpiece, but once the shock had gone, he'd recognised the tactic.
He twisted the tap, turning it until the water was rushing out in a thick torrent, and dipped his hands in, cupping them and bending to douse himself.
The one silver lining was that at least I was away from you. Everyone leaves you, Dean, you notice that? You ever wonder why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you.
He tried not to lie to himself, given the amount of lies he heard and told in a normal day. He'd wondered, alright. Had spent a lot of time wondering, what it was about him, or in him, making that happen.
The Mark tingled slightly, under his skin, and he looked down at the raised scar. It hadn't, he thought. Hadn't driven him on, hadn't goaded him into anger. It'd started burning when his control had snapped and he'd lunged forward to drive the sword into the angel's throat and stop him talking for good.
It seeks justice.
Having the worst things he thought about himself thrown into his face had not, he conceded, been a good enough reason to kill. Especially, he added, since the angel had been angling to get him mad enough to do it.
His knuckles were stinging, the bones aching and he drew in a deep breath. He had to figure out a different approach to Gadreil, he thought. He'd do worse to himself than he could to the angel if he kept up the hands-on approach.
Bishop's Falls, Utah
Sam pushed the motel room door open, stepping inside and kicking it shut behind him. There was no sign that the angel'd returned, he thought, picking up the cell phone from the nightstand and looking at the missed calls. Six of them, all from his brother.
Why'd he left? He'd been losing it, listening to the angel spill out the things he never wanted to think about again. Was it a solution to not be there, not know what Gadreil was telling Dean? Lies … and maybe truths?
The shiver that slid up his spine felt premonitory and he looked around, dropping onto the edge of the bed and staring at the wall.
I see a light at the end of the tunnel …
He had, for a while, last year. Before the trials had eaten up everything. He'd felt like there was a way to do what they had to do, with the resources they'd never had before, and to have something for themselves as well.
Had it just been the spell working on his mind that'd changed that, he wondered? Or had the reality of their situation finally asserted itself and snuffed out his hopes? Or, he considered, had there been no hope at all, really. Just the job and nothing else, for as long as he lived?
Absently, he pulled out the flask from his coat pocket and opened it, swallowing a mouthful of the sweet, dark liquid. The order's teas had squashed the effects of the looping spell, for the most part. Was what was left just him?
Dean had taken on a burden that could overwhelm him, he thought. It seemed like Metatron was going to set faction against faction in a war on earth. And Hell was rumbling under their feet, Abaddon's ambitions exceeding even Crowley's. Was it any wonder he was changing his mind about a better life?
It's like … I see a light at the end of tunnel … Dean'd said to him, after he'd guessed what his brother had done. He scowled at the flask, tipping it up and taking another sip before screwing it shut again. He'd told him it was hellfire.
It'd been months of searching and finding nothing after they buried Dean's body. Months in which he'd realised too many things, far too late. When Ruby had shown him how to turn it around, he knew he'd snatched at the chance to do something, with both hands, not once looking at what it was he doing, only caring that he could something.
Had he known, somewhere buried and deep inside, that the path he'd chosen had been the wrong one? He thought he had. If he'd been content with that choice, he wouldn't have been so angry with Dean, wouldn't have felt the stab of seeing his brother's disappointment in him every damned day.
But he'd never looked at it. Had tried to justify or rationalise it away. In the tiny confessional in the church, he'd admitted to that. He remembered the sense of peace that'd filled him afterwards. Peace and a strength – a determination – to complete the trials, no matter what the cost. He couldn't remember feeling quite that way before, not even when all that'd kept him going was the thought of Jess and how he would avenge her death.
There wasn't a noise or a movement, just the instant and overwhelming feeling of another presence, and Sam was standing, turning, aiming, the Taurus in his hand, firing off two shots before he'd even registered what he was firing at.
At the doorway, Metatron smiled, and looked down at the slugs. "I would've offered you a penny for them, but I didn't think it was worth it," the angel said. "Nice reflexes, by the way."
"What do you want?"
"Honestly? Telling you would take all night," the scribe said. "I have something of yours. And you have something of mine. I'm here to offer a trade."
"That's it?"
Metatron's brows rose. "That's not enough? You and your brother don't want Castiel back? He will be disappointed."
"An even trade?" Sam clarified, slipping his finger from the trigger reluctantly. It was a waste of bullets to fire at the portly angel, no matter how good it might've felt.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I'll make it easy on you. Here. Six a.m. tomorrow."
Glancing at his watch, Sam nodded. "Alright."
"Good." The scribe looked around the room disinterestedly. "Oh, and for the record, if you fail to show up? Castiel will die, and there won't be any more resurrections. Just the last song sung and nothing else."
He vanished and Sam slid the Taurus back into his pocket, pulling out his phone with his other hand.
Dean's voicemail kicked in after three rings and Sam cut the call, turning abruptly. It was three hours back to Ogden.
Ogden, Utah
Straightening, Dean stepped back from the angel, his knuckles swollen and throbbing, the angel's blood sticky over most of his hands, more from the cuts than the blows. Gadreil was lying on the floor, the chair overturned, his face blooming with bruises and smeared with blood, light leaking out in slivers from the multitude of slashes across his body.
"I can not tell you," he rasped, eyes closing, chest rising and falling raggedly. "I will – not – tell you."
Dean nodded, turning away. Same chorus he'd been hearing for the last four hours.
The bathroom was along the hall. He walked stiffly to it, rolling his shoulders, ruefully remembering how much work it took to do any kind of damage to angels.
He turned on the tap over the cracked and grimy sink, washing his hands under the cold flow then ducking his head into it. Under the noise of the running water, he didn't hear the low buzz of his phone.
"You know why Cas kept fucking up?" he'd asked the angel.
Gadreil had nodded tiredly. "We were made incomplete," he'd said. "Made to tend and to serve and to guide. Choosing our own path is fraught with error."
"You think Metatron is going to show you the same loyalty you've given him?"
"No."
The conversation came back as he straightened, wiping the water from his face with one hand. Like so many other moments over the last few hours, he'd thought briefly he was getting through, then Gadreil's face closed up again, and it was back to the manual labour.
He stared at his reflection in the spotted and peeling mirror above the sink.
The angel knew he was being used, he thought. Knew it, knew it was gonna lead someplace he didn't want to go, but he wouldn't break his word, the fealty he'd given the scribe. The most he'd let out was that Metatron's stairway to Heaven was portable-ish, and that he believed the scribe would let the angels back upstairs, if they gave him the same kind of loyalty.
The Mark had remained quiescent the entire time, he thought, picking up the soap and washing the rest of the blood from his hands. Whatever the angel had done or was doing, God's little beeper wasn't interested. And that, he realised, was consistent with the way the angel'd been behaving. Not evil. Misguided. At most.
Drying his hands, he picked up his cell, seeing three missed calls from his brother and a text message saying Sam was on his way back. He scrolled through the numbers in the address book and hit Call.
A bland voice informed him the number had been disconnected and he scowled as he put the phone back on the edge of the sink. It'd been weeks. Yavoklevich hadn't gotten back to him either.
He was turning the tap off when the phone buzzed, moving a little along the crazed porcelain rim. He picked it up.
Big A. Chasing Y. B
He looked at the ID. Number not found.
"Dean? DEAN!"
Sam's voice came from the open warehouse floor and Dean pushed off the sink, grabbing sword, cell and coat and turning for the doorway.
"Yeah, Sammy, here," he called out, walking down the hall.
"What happened?" Sam looked at him, glancing back over his shoulder at the unconscious angel.
"Well, he didn't talk," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Where's Cas?"
"He wasn't there – Metatron was," Sam told him, lowering his voice, and nodding back up the corridor. "He offered a trade. Cas for Gadreil."
"Why?"
"What?"
"He's so all-powerful, why wouldn't he just kill Cas and come and take Gadreil?" Dean stopped and looked at Sam. "He had no problem getting Kevin out of Crowley's hands, back on Garth's boat."
"I – I don't know," Sam said, brow furrowing. "Maybe he wants to talk?"
"Maybe he wants to get us all in the same room and smite our asses," Dean muttered.
"Look," Sam said, shaking his head. "It's probably a trap. I mean, it's pretty much certain to be a trap. But we're runnin' out of options and this is the only way I can see where we can get ahead of him – we'll know exactly where he'll be and we got a shot at trapping him."
"Where's he want to meet?"
"At the motel Cas was using, in Bishop's Falls."
"When?"
"Six a.m., tomorrow." Sam looked back down the corridor. "Will he be able to travel?"
Dean's mouth twitched up to one side. "He looks worse than he is."
"What about you?" Sam asked, looking at his hands.
"I got a workout," Dean allowed, shrugging. "I'm okay."
He ignored his brother's expression of disbelief.
"Alright, gimme a hand to get him into the trunk," he said, pulling his coat on and shoving the cell into the pocket, thinking aloud. "We'll get a room there, see if that dick wants to spring the trap. Take shifts. If he doesn't make a move, we'll give him a surprise when he turns up."
"Did he say anything at all?" Sam asked, turning with Dean and heading back to the warehouse floor.
"I'll fill you in when we get there," Dean told him. "It's kind of weird."
Bishop's Falls, Utah
Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly as he followed the black car off the highway and pulled into the small town for the third time in as many days. He was running on fumes and willpower, his body aching for food and sleep.
As he turned into the motel's almost empty lot, he remembered his surprise at seeing his older brother calm, not relaxed, but unworried, when he'd gotten back to the warehouse. Gadreil had taken a beating, but even at a distance, Sam had been able to see that the blows and cuts criss-crossing the angel's body had been deliberate, not emotional.
He stopped the Dart behind the Impala and waited as Dean got out and went into the office.
The Mark hadn't been acting on his brother. The thought slid in and Sam blinked at the taillights of the car in front of him. Unable to reach him on the cell, he'd spent the two hours driving back to Ogden in a fever of suspense, wondering if he'd find the angel torn to pieces and Dean driven to violence under its influence, but his brother had been significantly calmer about the interrogation than he had, he acknowledged unwillingly.
He looked up as the Impala's door clunked shut and it moved off ahead of him, turning left and parking in a slot at the far end of the lot. He followed and parked the Dart beside it, turning the engine off and getting out.
Dean threw a key across the roofs of both cars to him, before going to the rear door and pulling out the bags. Catching it, Sam tucked it into his pocket and retrieved his own gear from the rear seat, glancing across at the black car's trunk.
"We taking him out?" he asked.
Dean nodded. "Don't want to make it that easy for Metatron."
"Your room or mine?"
"I'll flip you for it," Dean said, a ghost of a smile Sam hadn't seen in years playing around his mouth.
He shook his head. "I'll take him."
Seeing the smile disappear, he added quickly, "I'll gag him and stick him in the closet. Then we can both sleep."
It took forty minutes to get the angel out of the trunk, into the room and installed in the closet, surrounded by the Enochian sigils of illusion and deflection, of ward and guard, and a circle of holy oil. Sam shut the closet door, and picked up the handful of menus on the room's small table.
"Chinese, pizza, burgers or barbecue?" he asked Dean.
"Pizza."
"I'll call."
"Good. I need a shower." Dean walked out through the room's connecting door as Sam picked up his cell.
An hour later
"The only time it kicked in," Dean said, wiping his mouth with a fistful of serviettes and crumpling them into the empty box. "Was when I let him get to me."
"What happened?" Sam asked, unable to help glancing at the knotted scar, visible just under his brother's rolled-up sleeve.
"Touched a nerve, and the sword was about an inch from his throat," Dean said, looking away. "The Mark, it, uh, it started to burn and stopped me, and it kind of crashed into me he'd said what he had to get me mad enough to kill him."
"But you didn't," Sam pressed, lifting his gaze to meet his brother's. "Because of that."
"Right."
"So … it can put on the brakes as well as stomp on the gas?"
"Seems like."
"Uh huh." Sam leaned back in the chair, reaching for his beer absently. "Didn't think it would work like that."
"Neither did I," Dean admitted, picking up his own beer and swallowing a mouthful. "Noah said something about it – we were talking about – something – spells, I think – and he said that the stuff we use, you know, summonings, banishings, all that junk – they're just tools. The good – or the evil – is in the people, not in the magic or the spell or the object."
"For some things, sure," Sam agreed. "Not for everything."
"No, guess not," Dean said. He rubbed absently at the Mark. "But maybe it is for this."
"Maybe," Sam said, not so sure of that. He couldn't get the image of his brother, stiff and shaking, the Blade dripping blood in his hand, out of his mind. Couldn't rid himself of the memories of his dreams, Dean wandering through devastation, his eyes dark and empty.
"You were going to tell me what he said?" He shook off the thoughts of the Mark and nodded his head toward the open connecting door.
"A lotta trash talk," Dean said, shrugging dismissively. "He said the doorway Metatron's using was, uh, transient – not portable, exactly, but not fixed to a location."
"That might narrow it down for Cas?"
"Yeah, maybe," Dean agreed. "Or for what we can look for in the library."
"You don't think we're gonna be able to hold him, when he gets here, do you?" Sam asked, recognising his brother's reluctance to put any faith into the idea.
Dean frowned, leaning forward to put his empty bottle back on the table. "He said he erased the warding when he got Kevin," he said slowly. "But he used a human spell to get the angels out of Heaven, and shut the doors."
He looked at his brother. "Tell you the truth, I can't get a handle on what he's doing at all. Cas told us that Heaven might have back doors, like Hell does, along the joins. But I didn't get the impression from –" He waved a hand toward the other room. "– that's what Metatron is using."
Sam nodded. "I agree. It's more like he's using something angels wouldn't normally think of. Or need."
"Right," Dean said, the frown deepening. "Why'd he want the tablets? What do they do for him? He wrote 'em down, he has to know what's in them, and he can't read them?"
"Maybe he's just keeping them away from us, from, uh mankind?" Sam suggested.
"What's the point?" Dean asked. "Without a prophet, they're no use to anyone."
Getting up and stretching, he shook his head. "We have any information on the tablets in the library? Or Noah know of anything we missed?"
"No," Sam said, getting up as well and picking up the empty pizza box. "He thought there used to be stuff, but it disappeared and I couldn't find anything about the tablets at all in Saint-Clare's place."
"Maybe 'cause that was one of the things he traded with the Thule to get his stay-young-forever spell?"
The mention of the Thule and the spell jogged something else for Sam. "You think he's collecting souls for that, don't you?"
Dean said, "According to Death and everyone else, the souls are what hold the power. For Heaven. For Hell. For everything. Little power plants that are self-regenerating. Abaddon might've been going on to up her numbers, but she's got no real chance of creating an army in a short time-frame. Metatron's got all the soul-power he needs …"
He trailed off, giving a one-shoulder shrug. "But this guy, you said he was collecting a lot of souls, right? So I gotta ask, what does he need that much juice for?"
It was a thought Sam really didn't want to go to sleep on. "I'll take first shift."
Dean nodded, looking at his watch. "Wake me at one."
6:05 a.m.
"He's late," Sam said, pacing beside the Impala.
Gadreil was back in the trunk, chained and warded. Nothing had happened through the night.
"Or, he's not gonna show," Dean said, looking at the oily gleam, barely visible on the rough black asphalt of the lot. The circle was big, laid out in front of the trunk. One match, he thought, and they'd have him.
"Oh, ye of little faith," Metatron said, standing at the front of the car.
Cas stood beside him and Dean noted dispassionately that he didn't look much like a prisoner.
"Standing on ceremony?" the scribe asked, looking around the lot. "Where's Gadreil?"
"Here," Dean said, leaning on the trunk. "Safe and sound."
"Somehow, I find myself doubting the 'sound' part," Metatron said, walking slowly toward them. "His cries rang through the aether, quite audible to some of us."
"He didn't want to talk about you." Dean shrugged.
"No, I don't imagine he did." Metatron stopped a few feet from them, his expression considering as he studied the hunter. "Not that it would bother you to prise whatever you could from him, would it, Dean?"
"Not at all," Dean agreed, his expression bland. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, flicked it and tossed it to the ground.
The oil caught instantly, the circle enclosing the scribe in flame. Metatron smiled at them.
"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," he said, looking around at the circle comfortably and holding his hands out as if to warm them. "But this is a new playing field, and you're going to have to get a lot more creative if you want to stay in the game."
Closing his eyes, he pivoted in place, lips pursed in a long exhale and the fire blown out at the touch of his breath. He looked at the trunk and it popped open, narrowly missing the back of Sam's head as he jumped to the side.
Dean looked at the trunk lid's underside, now clean and shiny, no sign of anything ever having painted across it, the cat's cradle of wardings against demons and angels gone, wiped clean.
Gadreil sat up. The chains that had bound him were gone. His vessel was unmarked, not even a spot of blood on his clothing, Dean saw, as the angel climbed out of the trunk and walked past him to stand beside Metatron.
"Why're you doing this?" he asked, turning to look at the scribe.
Metatron's face pinched up, his eyes narrowing spitefully. "Because I can, of course. Because someone has to take control of this pitiful little planet and make some real changes. Because you, and your brother, and your fine-feathered friend here, and all the spells and cantrips and secrets and lies you have locked away in your little clubhouse can't stop me." He took a step closer to them, the malicious expression dissolving into a broad smile. "But I am going to enjoy watching you try, Dean. You only get really on your game when the stakes are sky-high and they just couldn't be any higher right now."
Dean looked away, acknowledging the truth of that. He wondered briefly if the Blade could take out the scribe.
"I like the redhead, by the way," Metatron added in an afterthought. "I wouldn't get too fond of her, if I were you. She's not destined long for this world, I'm afraid."
Dean felt a flush of rage burn out from the Mark, the angel sword dropping down the length of his sleeve into his hand as he strode forward.
Metatron's eyes widened mockingly and he flicked his hand, the movement lifting and tossing the hunter back against the car. "Such a temper. I hope you can control it."
He disappeared as Dean got to his feet, Gadreil vanishing with him.
Dean wheeled around to stare at Cas. "What the fuck!?"
The angel nodded, his gaze dropping. "It's worse than that."
Sam paced up and down the angel's room. "So what you're saying is that tablets themselves are power sources? And Metatron's only going to get stronger?"
Cas nodded. "Metatron claims to not have known about the power held in the tablets," he said. "I'm not sure if I can believe that. He was there when they were written."
"Why take all this time to juice up on them then?" Dean asked, getting up from the small table and grabbing another two beers from the six-pack on the counter. "Sam."
He tossed one to his moving brother and Sam caught it, twisting off the top and swallowing a mouthful without breaking stride.
"I don't know," Cas told them. "It's possible he couldn't find them –"
"I thought he was the one who buried them?" Sam came to a dead stop halfway across the room and looked at the angel.
Shrugging, Cas said, "Sam, what happened after they were written – the archangels recognised the power of the Word, just in what it was going to mean for humanity. No more need for Heaven's guidance or Hell's threat. Metatron had already disappeared. It might be that those histories are still intact, somewhere in Heaven but I can't just –"
"Doesn't matter how he found the tablets," Dean interrupted. "What matters is that he's got two of them and nothing we have – or know of – is strong enough to trap him or touch him."
"Have you succeeded in making the angel bullets?" Cas asked.
Dean gave him a sour look. "Been kind of busy with other things. I got about a dozen made up and I handed the recipe around."
He rolled his shoulders, looking back at Sam. "We know there's a way into Heaven, something Metatron's jerry-rigged that can move around."
His brother nodded. "We can't track that, not until we find out how he's doing it."
"Alright," Dean said, finishing his beer and lobbing it into the trash can next to the counter. "Cas, you need to find those angels. Warn 'em, or get them to stop fighting each other or something."
"I'm not sure I can," the angel said doubtfully.
"Well, try." Dean looked from him to Sam. "I gotta find Abaddon. Before she finds Crowley and before she figures out where Crowley's stashed his power sink."
Sam looked at Cas. "What do you know about the Sword of Lucifer?"
The angel had paled a little, Dean thought as he watched Cas' gaze slide to the side.
"Not much," Cas said, looking at the floor. "Why?"
"Hell's power – the ability to control the power of the souls in there – seems to be connected with the Sword," Sam said, walking back to the table and grabbing a chair, sitting to one side of the angel. "We think Crowley got hold of it. That's why he got so much stronger so quickly."
"Abaddon's looking for it. Word is, if she finds it, even the Mark and the First Blade might not be able to kill her," Dean added, standing and swinging his chair around. He dropped back into it, arms resting loosely on the back as he looked at Cas. "What'd Metatron offer you, Cas?"
The angel was silent for a moment. "He's insane," he said, lifting his head. "He believes that the tablets will give him the power of our Father, and that he will be the new Creator – but he's combined that belief with some kind of delusional attempt to write a new history for mankind."
"What kind of history?" Sam asked.
"A war of angels and demons against each other, with humanity in between," Cas said. "He wants me to unite the angels down here and lead them in a battle against him."
"What?" Dean's brows shot up.
"I told you, he's insane," Cas said, with a disheartened shrug. "He – he seems to think that if he defeats the army of angels, and Abaddon in her attempt to bring Hell to earth, humanity will see him as God – and worship him. He told me he would return me to Heaven, but he was lying."
"Was the, um, wars against angels and demons his idea?" Sam asked, shooting a fast glance at his brother before looking back at Cas.
"No," Cas told them. "He admitted that. He said a man – a not-quite-human man – found him and suggested this course of action, telling him about the power held in the tablets."
Cas looked around suddenly, his focus zeroing in on the room's door. "Something's there."
Exchanging a glance with his brother as they got to their feet, Dean moved quietly to the door, his auto in his hand.
The knock on the door was sudden and loud and both brothers started slightly.
"C'mon, Dean, don't keep me waitin'!"
The voice came through the thin wood clearly and Dean rolled his eyes, reaching out to open the door.
Crowley stood there, the demon looking around furtively and pushing his way in past Dean.
"All together again, eh?"
"Where the hell you been?" Dean shut the door, turning and looking at the demon. "And where's the Blade?"
"The Blade is safe," Crowley told him. "And I've been in hiding, as you very well know."
He walked to the bed, sitting on the edge and looking around. "I haven't found Abaddon, but the good news is she hasn't found me either. She's ripping Hell to pieces, trying to fast-track hundreds of souls into demons." He snorted. "Fat bloody chance of that."
"Why?" Sam looked at him.
"How?" Dean asked at the same time.
"She pulled out all the old stuff," Crowley said with a disdainful sniff. "But it won't help. It still takes time to reroute the soul onto a new path, more time than she has."
"Metatron is planning on turning this plane into a battlefield," Cas said. "How will that affect her plans?"
The demon looked at him thoughtfully. "That would be a very bad idea. Right now, she hasn't got the power to open more than a few cracks. Given enough time, and the right incentive, she could get to work on opening the gates – and if the angels are killing each other, what better time to try it?"
"Yeah, well, we gotta deal with one impossible problem at a time," Dean said, moving across the room to stand next to Crowley. Sam got up and walked to the other side of the demon.
"What's on your mind, boys?" Crowley asked, belatedly registering their positions.
"The Sword of Lucifer," Sam said, lifting a questioning brow at him.
"Where it is, how you got it – and what you've got in place to stop Abaddon from finding it," Dean added, folding his arms over his chest.
Crowley looked from one man to the other, then let out his breath slowly. "It's safe," he said, his expression stubborn. "How I got it is a long story."
"We got time," Dean said, taking a step closer. "Let's hear it."
"Fine," Crowley snapped, looking from him to Sam. "Got anything to drink? Could die of fucking thirst waiting for hospitality from you two."
"There's beer –"
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Not the horse piss you drink." He turned to Dean. "You've got a bottle stashed somewhere, if I know you, and I do."
Shrugging, Dean leaned toward the end of the bed and hooked his duffel, pulling out a bottle. Sam walked to the kitchenette and grabbed glasses, setting them on the table.
The demon got to his feet and took a chair beside the angel. "It was just after Lucifer went into the cage," he said, picking up the whiskey as Dean poured the rest. "I looked around and took over, not meeting much opposition, but not really having much power either. I'd heard about the Sword, heard rumours of it from the daeva in the abyss."
Swallowing a mouthful, he continued, "I had to consolidate my position. Had to do it fast, before the more powerful laddies realised what was happening."
"How many were left?" Cas asked.
"None of the arches, not that I could tell then," Crowley said. "There were a few of the older ones still standing, but in the last days … well, they were scattered across the globe."
He leaned back in the chair, half-closing his eyes. "Then this magician showed up. Called himself Forrester. He offered me a deal," he said, opening his eyes and glancing around with a half-smile. "Me."
"Get on with it," Dean said impatiently.
Crowley rolled his eyes. "He knew about it. Knew where it was and how to get it, and what it would do." He finished the whiskey and held his glass out for more, exhaling melodramatically when Dean ignored the tacit request, and leaning across the table to pick up the bottle and pour himself another.
"He told me he'd tell me where to find it, if I'd guarantee my cooperation when he asked for it," he said. "Of course, I declined his help. Spent damned near a year trying to reorganise Hell and looking for it the whole time. Finally I gave in and contacted him, agreed to his terms and he told me where to find the Sword."
"It was," Crowley said, his voice dropping as he looked into his glass. "Everything he'd said it would be."
"You got stronger," Sam said, not really asking.
"Yeah, I'm still getting stronger," Crowley told him. "It's a cumulative effect, really. By the time you lads were slugging it out with the levis, I – I knew a lot more and I was a lot more powerful – and the upper hierarchy were showing some respect."
"We could still summon you," Dean pointed out.
"Then, yes," Crowley agreed. "Later, no."
"Why aren't you strong enough to defeat Abaddon?" Sam asked, frowning at the demon.
"She's not a demon." Crowley shrugged. "Not really. Under all that red hair and blackened, evil essence, she's still an angel, and even Lilith couldn't kill an angel."
"The archangels killed three," Cas said, his gaze involuntarily flicking to Dean. "Cain killed the others, with the First Blade."
"That's the story," the demon agreed.
"Did this guy – uh – Forrester – spring you from the bunker?" Dean asked.
Crowley nodded. "I don't know how he got in," he said quickly, seeing the hunter's expression darken. "But he knew where I was and he just turned up."
"What are you supposed to do for him?" Sam asked.
The demon scowled down at his empty glass. "He hasn't said. Yet."
Two hours later
Dean tossed the bags into the trunk, slamming down the lid.
Crowley hadn't told them much else about the devil's sword, aside from the fact that he was positive Abaddon would never find it. He wasn't sure why the demon had shown up at all, unless it'd been to feed them misinformation, a possibility Sam'd raised the second Crowley had disappeared. If misleading them was the goal, he didn't think the demon'd had done much of a job on it.
"Dean."
He looked around, seeing the angel standing beside the driver's door. "Yeah?"
"I wanted to – I – uh – was wondering how you're doing," Cas said. "With the Mark."
"Fine."
"Do you remember what you said to me, when I made the deal with Crowley?"
Dean looked at him, letting his breath out in a noisy exhale. "Yeah."
"You told me that the ends didn't justify the means," Cas continued, determinedly ignoring the hunter's exasperated look. "That things had to be done the right way."
"Get to the point, Cas."
"This – what you've done – it's not the right way," the angel said.
"There isn't any other way," Dean said, his voice clipped. "You know where playing by the rules got me? Nowhere. A lotta dead friends. A lotta evil sonofabitches roaming around like they own the place. So, save the lectures, alright? It's done."
"I want to help y–"
"Yeah, well, you can't," Dean cut him off sharply. "Go find the other angels, Cas. Warn them."
He turned away from the angel and slid into the car, starting the engine. In the side mirror, he saw his brother come of out his room, bags in either hand. He pulled out of the lot, leaving both of them behind.
He was getting sick of being told what a bad idea it'd been. There was nothing he could to change it now and he would kill Abaddon and rid them of at least one problem.
Arlington, Virginia.
The bluish light from the two open screens lit his face, shadows flicking over his features as he switched from window to window, his attention focussed on the images that appeared and disappeared.
His head was throbbing, a painful ache that beat in time with his pulse. He let go of the mouse and leaned back, looking around at the squalid room, noting with disinterest the stacked fast-food containers and empty cans covering most of the horizontal surfaces.
The firm had sent the files four weeks ago. Forrester had been in London and had returned to the US. He'd been searching every database he could access since then, trying to find a match.
He'd had no idea, he thought tiredly, no idea at all of what he'd signed himself up for when he'd taken control of his grandfather's creature and set himself on a path similar to the two men who'd turned up a year ago. All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing. He'd said it to them, seen it hit them the same way it'd resonated in him, had thought he was doing the right thing.
Aaron leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He knew he was doing the right thing. He just hadn't known how long it would take. Or how dangerous it would be.
On the floor were three boxes of his notes and files. Information gathered slowly and sometimes painfully over the past twelve months. The Thule Society was fragmented now, broken into dozens of smaller groups. He wasn't sure if they still communicated with each other, although when he'd started using the firm's financial tracking, he'd seen the names, the same names, on the boards and as directors of hundreds of companies and corporations. Hiding themselves in plain sight, faceless representatives of business and finance. The sheer numbers involved had staggered him. And almost all of the nested and impregnable corporate entities were legitimate. The IRS was not interested. Taxes were paid, correctly and on time, the doings of the companies of no further interest to them.
He'd noticed the patterns only recently and they were terrifying him. Biological research. Genetic research. Pathogen research. All above board on the surface. All holding the potential for cataclysmic disaster underneath.
On the right-hand screen the images stop moving. The file photograph was static, on the left side of the screen. Next to it, one of the captured images was blinking insistently, blown up to match the scale of the other. A three-quarter profile, the points of similarity were nonetheless all there, the software showing the match with small identifying circles. At the bottom of the screen the location and time-stamp appeared. Logan Airport. 18:07PM.
He looked at his watch. Less than an hour ago.
For a long second he stared at the image, shock befuddling his thoughts. Then he leapt up, shutting both laptops and scrambling around the low table to unplug them.
"Pack up, we've got a hit," he called out, and from the shadows of the other room, the figure appeared, monstrously disproportionate, the tiny head seated on vast shoulders, the slab chest straining at the over-sized shirt he'd insisted it wear.
"Where?"
"Boston." Aaron swung around, his eyes picking at the room. He had everything, he thought. "Less than an hour ago at the airport."
"Will we be in time?" the golem asked, bags held in his huge hands.
"I think so," Aaron said, forcing his doubts aside. They'd been close before and had lost the trail. But Boston was a city, full of cameras that could give them something, a lead, a direction … some kind of scent for the golem to follow. "Let's go."
Outside the room, the Landcruiser Troop Carrier was battered and dirty, tinted windows hiding the spacious interior. It was the only vehicle he could find that could hold all their equipment and the teratoid creature in some kind of comfort. He opened the rear door and handed the computers to the golem when it was seated, slamming the door shut and going around to the driver's side.
Eight hours, not counting the hopeless snarls of traffic he'd encounter in Boston, he thought, swinging up into the seat and starting the engine. As he pulled out, he dragged his cell from his pocket, hitting the speed dial for the firm. They might be able to get a pick up on the target more quickly.