It was pitch black; Dean and Harry paced through the same 40 square yards in the wild. Dean had driven recklessly all the way to the 100-mile Wilderness in Maine, where he had popped from Purgatory. His anxiety at the return of those he had lost or sent was weighing on him like a heavy stone.
A huge flash of light and jolt of sound shattered the calm of the wilderness and Sam and Ron were stumbling, panting in the brush. Harry and Dean tore towards them. Dean pulled Sam into a tight embrace as Harry caught his friend in his arms, holding onto him tightly. After a moment or so, they released the recently returned, smiling with watery eyes.
"Purgatory, right? A real garden spot, ain't it?" Dean smiled looking from Sam to Ron.
"Yeah," they said in unison.
"Did you get them out?" Harry asked.
"Only Bobby," Sam said heavily, cradling his arm. No one spoke.
"I tried to get Benny but... a bunch of vamps popped up and he used himself as bait to get us out," Ron said, his voice thick with guilt.
"Listen, Dean, I get the feeling that even if that didn't happen, he didn't want to come back, you know? I'm sorry," Sam said with sincerity.
Dean nodded darkly, his fears realized. He shook his head and looked to change the topic.
"How'd Bobby hold up down there?" he ventured.
"He's good," Sam said smiling, content that his brother wasn't angry, "All things considered. Ornery as ever."
"As he should be. Let's put that old man where he belongs."
They all nodded as Sam rolled up his sleeve gingerly. He pulled the knife blade across his already healed arm, muttering in Latin as warm blood dripped on soil. Blue light started to ooze from the wound and drift skyward. Suddenly a toxic looking black and red smoke seemed to wrap around and hold down the blue lights of Bobby's soul.
"Hello, boys," Crowley purred from the shadows.
The eyes of the King of Hell shifted up to the dancing shadows in the sky. "Bobby Singer - I'd know you anywhere," he purred.
"Let him go, Crowley. He doesn't belong in Hell," Dean snapped.
"He does if I say he does. He's inflicted untold damage on my kind. From where I sit, actually, Hell's too good for him."
Anger sparked in the brothers eyes and without thinking, they charged the demon. With a flick of his hands, the Winchesters were slammed into the huge tree trunks behind them, suspended in the air, twisting painfully. Rushing to aid their friends, Harry and Ron whipped out their wands squaring off against Crowley.
"Let them down," the blood smeared Ron growled.
"Really?" he said with doubt across his face. "Boys I am a little beyond magic tricks."
Harry set his jaw hard and flung the tip of his wand toward the black clad man, "Expelliarmus!" Crowley paused for only a moment in his leisurely stroll towards them.
"Ohh, that tickles," he said, a silky menace in his eyes. Harry and Ron swallowed hard; Ron slowly raised the hand still holding the other short knife he had slashed his way through Purgatory with.
"That won't do much better darling," Crowley said, eyeing the blade. Not moving, trying to think of what to do, Harry and Ron stood helpless as the brothers were held against the trees. Suddenly Crowley became distracted; the red and black cloud of Bobby's soul that had been slowly moving toward the earth was now flashing blue and white rays of light and slowly moving back up.
A middle aged woman in a neat pants suit appeared in the shadows. When Crowley saw her, he rolled his eyes.
"Let me see if I've interpreted the situation correctly. The Winchesters have freed an innocent from Hell, to which you are wrongfully trying to return it," she stated matter-of-factly.
"Siding with them, Naomi? You don't know those two. Before they're done, we'll both be locked away," Crowley said, dropping all pretense and staring hard at the angel.
"I'm just hoping they lock you away, dear. The rest I'll figure out," she said confidently.
"Bureaucrat. You're fighting outside your weight class."
Her eyes flashed dangerously as she held her hand out toward the demon.
"Don't call me a bureaucrat!" and in a flash the King of Hell had disappeared and the brothers dropped coughing and sputtering to their knees. They all looked up as Bobby's soul, bright white once again, glittering in small circles ascending higher and higher until it was no longer visible.
"I told you you could trust me," she said darkly before disappearing in a flutter of wings.
Confused, Sam stood up but Dean shook his head avoiding his brother's inquiries for now. Nodding Sam fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a small piece of parchment with scribbled writing on it. After muttering the Enochian phrase, red-yellow light surged under Sam's skin and he fell to his knees, gasping. The pain was like melting from the inside out. It subsided slowly but never really went away, he felt like there was a hot core right through the middle of him making him nauseous and dizzy.
Slowly he got to his feet, assuring the worried faces around him that he was fine. But as they returned to the bunker, he knew in his heart that he was the furthest thing from okay.
They all spent the next few days healing and recovering in the safety of the bunker; all but Sam. He didn't seem to get better, in fact, as each day passed he seemed to get worse. He wasn't eating at all. Blood was constantly coming from his lungs. His balance was practically gone. Deeply worried about him, Dean took to checking in on him and did everything he could to try and help his brother. But Sam's sole focus was on finishing the trials which is why he spent so much time with Kevin pouring through his notes. Only having half the tablet seemed to be slowing the prophet down but he never stopped, still working hard to figure out how to close the gates of hell.
It was at the end of the second day that Sam jumped from his seat, clutching a sheet of paper staring at it excitedly.
"I... I know that symbol," he slurred pointing to the little shape. Kevin peered over at the paper.
"Yeah... it is everywhere. It comes up every time Metatron makes a note... I guess it is like his signature," and Kevin scooted back over to his papers.
"But I've seen it before. I mean, it was a long time ago, it was one of my, uh, humanities courses at Stanford. It was an overview of Native American art — I think it's a petroglyph," Kevin looked back at the symbol thinking about his schooling as Sam stumbled to the shelves of the library, pouring over the spines for the book he needed.
Hermione had taken to spending time researching with them; partly because Castiel was still on the come and go trying to make sure Naomi was left in the dark about where he was. She had listened to their conversation and although she didn't recognize the symbol, she got up and walked over to Sam. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on the words; trouble standing really.
"Sam... Can I help?" she offered slowly and as the youngest Winchester whipped around, he stumbled back and luckily fell into one of the library chairs. Realizing that he wasn't even in a state to stand back up, he smiled and nodded as the young witch asked what to look for and set about scanning the books.
Not long after, as she and Sam were each leafing through books that Sam had said might have more information, he stood up sharply and staggered over to the table, slamming the book he was looking at hard on the top of the wood.
"Here. It belonged to a tiny tribe in Colorado, more of a— a clan, really. It says here they held onto their scrap of mountains when all the other tribes fell to the white men. So this glyph was a territorial marker — closest translation: "messenger of God"," Sam slammed his hand on the table to emphasize his point to Hermione and Kevin. They stared at him a little doubtfully. "Messenger of God, guys, come on! We have to go there!" and in his excitement, he lost enough of energy he was forced to sit quickly in the chair that Kevin had vacated.
"On that hunch?" Kevin said incredulously.
"I mean it - go get Dean. He will see why we have to go."
"You can barely function, man. And we are going to drive all the way across the country on this?" Dean had not been the supportive force Sam had bargained on. Ron and Harry had come to the sound of raised voices and were listening to the conversation.
"Dean, I'm only gonna get worse. I mean, until Kevin can figure out what the third trial is, this is something! I mean, I say we go to this messenger of God who wrote it in the first place," enthusiasm flooded Sam's face. Looking from one brother to another, Kevin spoke.
"I don't even know if I can figure out the third trial without the other half of this tablet," his words were heavy. It seemed like ages ago that the brothers and Castiel had rescued Kevin from the clutches of the King of Hell. But in an attempt to scare Crowley, Castiel had nearly burned up and accidentally smashed the Demon Tablet into two pieces.
The air was thick with doubt and tension. Sam wanted desperately to move forward with the trials and no matter what anyone else thought, this seemed like a tangible lead to him. Dean just felt doubt; doubt in this lead, doubt in Kevin's ability to crack the tablet, and doubt in Sam's ability to complete the trials, let alone survive them. The trio waited anxiously. Deep down, they knew the feeling of venturing on wisps of hope and they would have traveled to the edge of creation with Sam if he thought it would help. But they loved and trusted Dean, understanding the fierce protectiveness he had for his brother.
"So you think this Metatron is hiding out in the mountains with a bunch of Indians?" Dean asked.
Sensing hope, Sam answered energetically, "Yeah! Yeah, I do! And you're not— you're not really supposed to say Indians, it's... We should go," Sam stood slowly walking to his room with Dean and the trio staring after him.
Hermione stood in her room, debating with herself. Finally she caved.
"Cas!" and nearly before she had finished the syllable, the angel fluttered into her room, smiling warmly. Despite the fact that she had just seen him this morning when he had popped in, she hugged him tightly, smiling happily. He held for a long moment, lost in her warmth and smell.
"Hi," she said in the silly voice that she still sometimes used with him.
"Hi," he replied, eyes glittering like diamonds.
"How's angel dodgeball going?" Hermione asked, adopting some of the sarcastic Winchester vernacular. It warmed Cas that much more.
"Fine. I was "spotted" outside of some very well-warded, ancient runes just off the coast of South Africa. That should keep them busy for a while."
"Great. Listen, Sam found something and we are headed to Colorado..." as she explained the conversation of the afternoon, Castiel's eyes widened in shock.
"He thinks that it is Metatron... Scribe of God Metatron? At a Native American Reservation in remote mountains?" and that same doubt that everyone but Sam felt at least a little piece of mingled with Castiel's voice. Hermione nodded, smiling.
"Yeah - I know it sounds crazy but Sam really thinks it could be something. I'm planning on going with them..." her voice tapered off. Anytime she had gone on a hunt with the brothers, Cas had come with her. But running toward the Scribe of God who could have a hard line to heaven was not a car ride Castiel could come on. The worry in his eyes gave her butterflies.
"Do you want me to come?" he offered, already knowing her answer.
"No!" she almost yelled knowing the danger it could cause for the angel that held her heart. "I just wanted to let you know..." really she had wanted to see him again. She felt guilty anytime she called him just to see him; after all, he was trying to keep the bunker off heavens radar. Looking timidly at the floor, she glanced up at him only to see that dazzling smile that meant he knew exactly why she had called.
Like the weirdest family road trip imaginable, Sam and Dean sat in the front of the Impala with Hermione, Ron, and Harry tucked in the back. Kevin had stayed behind, still worrying about the demonic voices he was hearing and determined to find all the information on the tablet that he could.
Leaving with the sunrise, they stopped for lunch along the way and rolled into the parking lot of the hotel near the reservation in the middle of the afternoon. It wasn't much to look at, older than any of them and seemingly empty. There was an air around the place that made it feel like time had dropped that hotel out of nowhere and left it there.
"Nice place," Dean snapped as they entered the front doors and went up to the desk. After booking a couple of adjacent rooms, they left the surly, quiet manager and headed to the rooms. Sam seemed to be stumbling more than usual, squinting his eyes like there was a loud noise.
"Can you guys hear that?" he asked a little louder than he needed to. After some incoherent attempts to argue, the group forced Sam to rest while they canvassed the hotel, museum and other little spots around where they were, searching for any sign of the Scribe of God.
A few hours later they met up back at the hotel room where Sam was not sleeping. Ron was the last one to roll in. The others were spread out on chairs and bed tops drinking from cold bottles and crunching on cheap vending machines snacks. Ron threw himself on the bed, stretching out next to Hermione who was sitting cross legged, a bag of gummy snacks in her hand.
They exchanged the information that they had collected. Harry found out they were the first visitors to this place since 2006. Dean relayed an interesting story about a "mighty leader" who kept the tribe here. He said he would protect them and in return, they were to make offerings, offerings of stories. Hermione had seen a picture in the trading post that had looked nearly identical to the manager that had checked them in.
Still mulling over the details, trying to find some thread of a lead to go on, they heard a loud thud in the hall. Furrowing his brows, Ron hopped up and headed to the door. As he peered down the hallway he flew out of the door toward the body lying prone on the carpet. He crashed to his knees next to an unconscious Sam. Pulling him onto his lap, he felt his face. His skin was burning up and sweat was pouring off of him. Ron didn't need to call for the others, they were already around him. Flicking her wand faster than anyone saw her draw it, Hermione magicked Sam quickly back into the room.
"Bath tub," Dean barked and she glided him into the old ceramic tub. Dean bent over his brother. "We need to cool him down," he said tensely.
Pointing at the tub, she said, "Gelidas Aguamenti!" and water with ice cubes started filling the tub from the bottom. Once it was nearly to the top, she lowered her wand. Still Sam didn't move. Dean rubbed his face and his legs, trying to get his brother's body temperature normal without him giving frostbite.
After several tense minutes, Sam started gasping and tried to leap from the tub only to crash back into the icy water.
"He's here, Dean. Metatron is here, I know it, I can hear him," Sam gasped as he stood slowly, wrapping the towel that Harry held out to him around his shoulders.
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked.
"All I know is that I'm connected to it somehow," Sam chattered.
"What, like you got a link to him, like a prophet?" Dean asked, concerned.
"I don't know! I just know he's here. Metatron is here," Sam said sternly.
"Here where?" Hermione questioned.
"I can show you. I can show you. The manager. He was delivering books to him - that room down the hallway on the left, all the way at the end," Sam said.
"Makes sense... stories," Hermione said looking at the oldest Winchester.
After Sam warmed up and changed clothes, the five of them ventured into the hall. Dean's eyes never left his brother.
"I should be taking you to the ER," Dean said.
"They can't do anything for me. You know what will fix this," Sam was quiet for another long moment, "You know, the longer this goes on, the more that starts to change or happen. Like I've been remembering things, little things, so clearly—"
"Like donkey rides?" Dean chuckled.
"You know, Dean used to read to me," Sam said to Hermione who was walking close to the unsteady hunter, "When I was little, I— I mean, really little, from that— from an old, uh... Classics Illustrated comic book. You remember that?" he added looking at his brother. Dean shook his head quickly.
"Knights of the Round Table," Sam continued talking to anyone listening, "Had all of King Arthur's knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and— and light streaming over his face, and— I remember... thinking, uh, I could never go on a quest like that. Because I'm not clean. I mean, I w— I was just a little kid. You think... maybe I knew? I mean, deep down, that— I had... demon blood in me, and about the evil of it, and that I'm— wasn't pure?" Sam rambled on as they walked down the long hallway. Hermione looped her arm through Sams, placing both her hands over his forearm to comfort him. Soft tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he smiled at the young witch and looked to his brother, desperate for him to say something.
"Sam, none of that was ever your fault," Dean spoke clearly and firmly.
"But you know what Dean... these trials... they're purifying me..." he said mystically. As they came up to the end of the hallway, it was empty.
"They were here, the— the— the books, the boxes! They— they're gone!" Sam gasped. Dean approached the door at the very end and gave a small push. It swung inwards silently.
The door swung inward quietly and the five standing just outside it stared at one another, doubting the wisdom of just plunging into who knows what. Shrugging, Ron sidled his way in. They followed him and were met with an interesting sight. Towers of books lined every inch of this little apartment. Stacked higher than even Sam was tall, some seemed old, others new. But there had to be thousands of stories in this room.
"Who're you?" Suddenly a middle aged, curly haired portly man appeared from behind one of the stacks, leveling an old shotgun at them.
"Metatron?" Dean stammered. He turned to look at Harry and Sam. "This is Metatron? Him?" In a flash the man was suddenly blocking their path to the front door.
"Sit down," he gestured towards a ratty looking sofa and the five squeezed onto it, looking at one another curiously.
"Who sent you?" he questioned briskly.
"No one, we came on our own," Hermione started quickly. Sam was squinting like the room was hard to see and covering his ears from a sound none of them could hear. She was looking at him nervously.
"I'm Harry, Ron, Hermione, Sam, Dean," Harry said, pointing at each person in turn down the couch.
"Do you work for Michael? Or Lucifer?" he barked, still pointing the weapon at them. Dean looked confused and unsure at the others on the couch.
"Michael and Lucifer? Are you kidding? Those dudes are in the deep fryer," Dean snapped looking at the little man. He looked confused.
"Yeah. We put them there ourselves," Sam half-shouted.
"What about Gabriel? And Raphael?" Metatron probed, still not convinced.
"Dead," Dean said. "You really don't know any of this?"
"I've been very careful," Metatron said, his finger still hovering over the trigger.
"Can...can you turn that down?" Sam shouted, holding his head like he was trying to keep it from flying apart.
Metatron wavered a moment, "Turn what dow— oh. You're resonating," and on that, he lowered the gun.
"Resonating? What does that mean?" Ron asked.
"You've undertaken the trials. You're trying to pull one of the great levers, aren't you? You're pretty far along, too. You get that far along, you start resonating with the Word. Or with its source on the material plane. With me," and the chubby little man smiled.
The gun finally went down, and a careful conversation started. They discovered that, although Metatron was the scribe of God, he was just an angel, not an archangel. So when God went on... sabbatical, as he called it, the archangels stepped in and he fled. He knew quite a bit and was afraid of what methods they might use to get that information. Dean had a hard time believing he could just shut himself up here and have no idea of what was happening in the world. Ron and Harry were very uncomfortable with the way he talked about humanity, like they were performing monkeys that he had enjoyed reading about over the centuries. Hermione steadily grew more and more concerned for Sam. After a particularly long spiel from the angel, Sam seemed to snap. Rising to his feet in a storm, he grabbed the lowered end of the shotgun and rested it just above his heart.
"You know what? Pull the frigging trigger," he yelled.
"What?" Metatron asked, shocked.
"Pull the freaking trigger, you cowardly piece of garbage," Sam growled.
"Whoa, whoa Sammy," Dean said but Sam was already rising and squared off against the little man.
"All the time you've been hiding here, how much suffering have you read over? Humanity's suffering! And how much of it has been at the hands of your kind?!"
"Stop. Stop!" Dean shouted, pulling his brother back.
"You want a story? Try Kevin Tran's story. He was just a kid. He was a good, straight-A kid, and then he got sucked into all of this— this angel crap. He became a prophet of the Word of God. Your prophet!" Harry yelled, trying to distract the angel and the brothers alike. Harry had gathered enough from the brothers' conversations and from snippets with Kevin to know that he resented his role; a role that seemed to be Metatron's fault.
"Kevin Tran, the prophet?" Metatron asked.
"Yeah, he has been busting his butt, trying to decode your nonsense in order to slam the gates of Hell shut. He has lost everything - I mean everything. And a fat lot of help you have been," Dean snapped. Metatron looked curiously at them for a moment, thoughts turning in his mind.
"Okay," Metatron said. The five sitting on the couch looked at one another curiously.
"Okay?" Hermione ventured.
"I'll help. I wrote the tablets. I know the next step in the trial. I'll help," and he smiled in an awkward way.
Sam and Dean exchanged looks, clearly this was too easy to be kosher.
"You really intend on closing the doors of Hell?" Metatron probed again, looking serious.
Sam made a face that showed it wasn't even a question.
Metatron told them what he remembered, about what the third trial to close the gates of hell involved. Doubt oozed through the listeners; it seemed impossible. When they asked questions for more specifics, Metatron was infuriatingly elusive, seeming to enjoy holding the power of knowledge.
After some time, they realized they had gathered all that they could from this isolated angel. They made to take their leave and as Metatron watched them drive away from his hotel, the smile that played across his lips would have dumped doubt on everything they had just heard from him.
Eager to return to the bunker and hit the grind stone to try and shake out how to do this, they had left the hotel as soon as they had finished with Metatron. Sam was incredibly grateful to be away from the deafening sound that came from the Scribe. They drove straight through the night, Dean very accustomed to long trips. It was the middle of the morning when the door to the garage of the bunker creaked open.
Exhausted, they poured into the library. Kevin came sprinting into the room, clutching the demon tablet, looking breathless.
"Iknowthelastone," he said in a slur of sound.
"Whoa, dude, slow down. We have news too but by all means," Dean said slowly, gesturing to the excited Prophet.
"I...know what... the last... trial is," he said beaming pride. But seconds later, he looked defeated when no one reacted to his spectacular triumph.
"Cure a demon," Hermione said sympathetically. Kevin looked astonished and they quickly explained about the hotel, the angel, and what they had learned about the third trial.
It was in the next few seconds that they were again taken by surprise. Castiel appeared in the middle of the library, feet from Hermione, sprawled on the ground. He was badly beaten with brilliant bruises blossoming across the chest exposed under his ripper collar. There was also blood leaking from what looked to be a bullet wound in his stomach, although the wound looked as if someone had dug around in Castiel's flesh.
"Hermi-one," he sputtered weakly and within the breath she was on her knees by his side. Three years ago the sight of anyone, let alone someone she loved, in such a state would have rendered her panic-stricken. But after the war she had lived through, not to mention other things, blood and bruising didn't bother her. All her focus was on what to do, how to help. They carefully lifted him onto one of the library tables and set to work cleaning up his wounds. Hermione tried every magical remedy she had. She got the bleeding to stop but the hole wouldn't close and the flesh wouldn't fuse together. So she bound it as best she could, hoping that angels healed.
Once his wounds were clean and bound, she gave a twist with her wand and Castiel's body lifted from the table and floated down the hallway towards Hermione's room. He settled gracefully onto the covers. Unsure of what to do until the angel woke, the others tried to make themselves useful. Hermione never left the chair near the bed.
Hours passed before he awoke. Blinking rapiding, his body visibly relaxed when he saw Hermione's smiling face and felt her warm hand rest on his forehead.
"Shhhh…" she softly purred.
With his eyes still closed, he stumbled through a recount of what had happened. He told her how Naomi had found him. As she'd had her lackeys set in on him, Crowley had shown up with bullets made of angel blades, which explained why his wound wasn't healing. It had been enough to scare Naomi off but not the angel restraining Castiel, who was working for Crowley. But luckily Crowley had gotten a phone call and Cas had managed to dig out the bullet and shove it into the eye of the angel to make his escape.
After recounting his day, his eyes drifted closed again and Hermione kept a hold of his hand, keeping a leash on her growing fear.