"Not a—" Sam cut himself off. "What do you mean, he's not a dog? You just called him a hound."
And there was no way Forrest could be anything but a dog. Sam had made sure of it, and Bobby had made double sure. He had no reaction to silver, devil's traps, angel warding, holy water, or any of the other tests that the combined paranoia of two experienced hunters could dream up.
"Not a hound," Castiel corrected. "The hound. It may have taken the form of a dog, but that is no animal. That is the Hound of Heaven."
"Hound of Heaven?" Dean frowned. "No. No way. Bobby's place is warded against angels."
"The Hound is not an angel," Castiel said, shaking his head without looking away from Forrest—who, for his part, was ignoring the entire conversation and once again straining against the leash, looking west. "Though it is of Heaven. Angel warding won't guard against it. Nothing can—that's the point of the Hound. If it appeared to the Prophet, then it will follow her until her work is finished, or she dies."
"So he's, what? A heavenly guard dog?" Dean said skeptically.
"No," said Castiel solemnly. "The Hound is not a protector. It's meant to serve as a reminder—to bolster the will of the faithful, and to restore the faith of the doubtful. It doesn't guard. It follows."
"That's insane," Sam said, voice rising. "I mean—we found him at an animal shelter."
"The Hound appears in the form it will be accepted," Castie said simply. "For others it was a dove, or a raven. Even if you had not sought it, the Hound would still have found her. That's what it does. Now, I suggest we follow it."
Which was how Sam and Dean found themselves trailing Bobby's truck in the Impala, where an angel sat in the passenger seat with the Hound of Heaven in his lap, instructing Bobby where to turn based on the dog's body language. Dean's knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, and Sam didn't bother asking if he was alright. He already knew the answer.
It was bad enough that Cass was in danger and they hadn't even known about it, but even now they were still flying in the dark. All Bobby had told them was that this guy was some kind of spell master who used to know their grandfather, and for all that he'd promised that they'd get the whole story once they found Cass, it still rankled. Sam couldn't help thinking that they wouldn't even be in this situation if Cass would just trust them enough to tell them everything. But she didn't, and apparently Bobby agreed because he hadn't told them anything, either. And now they were flying blind, going up against a witch powerful enough to knock Bobby on his ass and disappear into his very own pocket dimension.
Sam knew from the set of his brother's jaw that the only thing keeping his anger inside right now was that Cass was still in danger. Once they got her back, both her and Bobby would be in some deep shit.
Sam couldn't muster the same anger. He was angry—angry, and hurt, and disappointed all at once. But all of that was dwarfed by his barely-restrained panic. Ever since the call from Bobby he'd been edgy, and the feeling had only gotten worse. The hours-long car ride to get to Kansas was pure torture. Sam had called Castiel no less than ten times, trying to get the angel to just pick up and zap them where they needed to go already.
This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen. Not to Cass, anyway. She wasn't a hunter. She was supposed to stay in Bobby's ridiculously well-warded house, where it was safe. Sam had promised that he wouldn't let anything happen to her—promised it ages ago, back when she first realized she was stuck here, back when the worst thing that had happened to her was him yanking her across dimensions. Sam remembered her wincing, the doubtful look on her face as she told him he didn't think it was a promise he could keep. He had made it anyway. He had meant it.
He'd lost count by now how many times he'd failed. Since then she'd been attacked by demons, angels, and ghosts. She'd literally gone to Hell and back to save him, and then Sam had gone and kick-started the Apocalypse anyway. And now, now she'd been kidnapped by what had to be the most powerful witch they'd ever dealt with—and they wouldn't even have been able to find her if Sam hadn't somehow managed to screw up getting her a normal dog.
He couldn't lose her. The thought of trying to stop the Apocalypse without her, of never seeing her run down the stairs at Bobby's place or bite her lip while she read, of never hearing her call him Stanford again—
He didn't want to think about it.
Cuthbert Sinclair was becoming less and less tidy with each ritual that failed. His hair was slightly mussed, his jacket shed, his bowtie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Of most concern to Cass was the manic smile on his face, which only seemed to grow wider with each failed attempt.
She had tried to reason with him, of course. Listing out all the reasons it was a bad idea to keep her and reminding him that Henry Winchester would be very disappointed in this sort of behavior when he eventually arrived from the future. Sinclair had mostly pretended not to hear her, and eventually she'd given up the effort. She'd just have to hope that Bobby would be able to find her.
"That's the fifteenth ritual you've tried," she said, still sulking in a chair with her hands bound.
"And I have a dozen I've yet to try," he said brightly. "And if all that fails, I'll engineer a new one myself. I really must thank you, Miss Holmes. I haven't had a challenge like this in decades."
"You're not welcome."
Sinclair paused at that, straightening. "Speaking of unwelcome…" He flicked his wrist at a large mirror which hung in the library. The glass rippled briefly, and when it stopped the mirror no longer showed a reflection of the room. "Friends of yours?"
The image in the glass showed Bobby, Sam, Dean, Castiel, and to Cass's surprise, Forrest wandering down a dark hallway. Castiel was holding his leash, allowing Forrest to lead the way. Cass couldn't help the jolt of concern—the others were in danger too, of course, but they knew it. Forrest didn't. He was just a dog. Why the hell had they brought him?
Sinclair was studying her reaction. She pulled herself together and said quickly, "Those are Henry's grandsons, and they're the only thing tying him to the future, so unless you want your friend lost forever—"
"Spare me the dramatics, please," he said easily. "I'm not going to kill them." He paused, eyeing her carefully, then seemed to make a decision. "I'm just going to see what they're made of."
"I don't like this," Dean said, not for the first time.
Forrest had led them to a clearing outside of a town less than an hour away. At Bobby's prompting, Sam and Dean had loudly declared their names to thin air, saying that they were Henry's grandsons and they wanted to talk to Sinclair. The whole thing had felt utterly ridiculous until a misty white portal had appeared in the center of the clearing. Now the four of them were winding their way through endless identical hallways, Forrest pulling Castiel in seemingly random directions on a taut leash.
"Just stay sharp," Bobby said tensely. He was holding his angel blade at the ready. They all were, since Cass had warned them that Sinclair was likely to send monsters to attack them.
As if summoned by the thought, several doors burst open around them, vampires shooting out of each one and lunging for them from all directions. Sam was almost glad—it wasn't Sinclair, but at least he could take out his nervous frustration on something. By the time he'd taken the head off the nearest vampire the others had been dealt with, leaving four headless bodies scattered on the floor of the hallway.
Dean nudged one of them with his boot distastefully as they passed. "What kind of a freak keeps vampires in a zoo?"
Another door opened further ahead down the hall. Sam and the others tensed, bracing for an attack, but none came. Cass rushed out of the room and closed it quickly behind her, looking out of breath but otherwise fine. She glanced each way warily, then caught sight of them and visibly sagged with relief. Sam felt some of the tension in his chest unwind.
"Thank God you're here," Cass said, starting towards them. "Are you guys okay?"
Castiel stepped forward. In one swift, fluid motion, he drove his blade into Cass's ribs. Cass choked, her pale eyes wide with pain, and then she collapsed hard to the floor as Castiel jerked his blade free.
Sam didn't make any sort of conscious decision—one moment he was watching Cass's body fall to the ground, and the next he had the angel up against the wall with his own blade at his throat. Castiel looked unconcerned, mildly annoyed, and entirely unrepentant.
"Calm down, Sam!" Bobby tugged Sam backwards, careful to stay out of the way of the blade. "That was just a shifter. What part of monster zoo did you not understand?"
Sam sagged, the rage leaving him as soon as it had come. He glanced at the body on the floor again and immediately regretted it, because he knew shifters kept their latest shape after they died and it still looked like Cass had been stabbed in the heart, her eyes wide with pain and horror. He swallowed hard and looked away.
"Oh."
"Maybe give us a warning, next time," Dean suggested lightly, looking at Castiel. "You know, just so we're prepared for the mental image of you stabbing our friend to death."
Castiel frowned. "It seems unlikely that such a circumstance would happen again, considering—" He cut himself off, turning narrowed eyes on a door down the hall.
"What?" Dean asked, following his gaze. "What is it?"
"That door just unlocked."
"No monsters rushing out of it, though," Dean noted. "How much you wanna bet that Sinclair's behind that door?"
They approached cautiously. Bobby stowed his angel blade in favor of his gun and motioned for Sam and Dean to do the same. "We'll have to be quick. We give him time to talk, we lose."
Sam nodded, gun at the ready. One last look between them, and then Castiel kicked open the door.
Everything happened very quickly after that. Bobby got his gun up first, locking onto the dark-haired man across the room and firing a shot in the dead center of his chest. Sam fired less than a second later, could hear Dean firing too. None of the shots landed. In the next moment Sinclair had sent them all hurtling back into the wall, their weapons dissolving away into sand.
"Bobby!" Cass cried out in concern, and for all that he was now trapped and weaponless Sam was still relieved, because Cass looked panicked and frazzled and her hands were bound up in some sort of silver shackle, but she was alive. A second later she blinked, looking utterly baffled at the fact that, without Castiel to hold his leash, Forrest had walked over and contentedly lay down on her feet without so much as a whimper over all the gunshots.
"Now, it's very rude to try to murder a man in his own study," Sinclair scolded lightly. He spoke with the sort of mid-Atlantic accent Sam had only ever heard in old movies.
"You kidnapped our friend," Dean ground out, his tone clearly conveying who he thought was the rude one here.
Sam decided to ignore Sinclair entirely for the moment. "Cass? You alright?"
A familiar look of incredulity flashed across her face. "I'm fine," she stressed, and then bit her lip, glancing between him and Sinclair with evident worry.
"So," said Sinclair, strolling forward to peer at him and Dean. He did not appear at all distracted by the effort it must be taking to hold three humans and an angel up against a wall like this. "You're Henry's grandsons." He clapped suddenly, looking delighted. "Today really is my lucky day. First I collect a seer unlike anything I've ever encountered, who tells me Henry's alive, and now I have just what I need to rescue him from his botched time travel spell." He paused and shot a considering glance in Castiel's direction. "Not to mention whatever you are."
Turning his attention back to him and Dean, Sinclair produced a small knife from somewhere in his waistcoat. He considered the knife, then each of them, before ultimately taking a step closer to Sam.
"Stay the hell away from my brother," Dean said, voice rising. Sam did his best to keep his eyes on Sinclair, even though he could see Cass moving out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what she hoped to do against a powerful witch with no weapons and her hands bound, but Sam wasn't about to call Sinclair's attention to her if he could help it.
"What's the knife for?" Sam asked, more to keep Sinclair distracted and talking than anything else.
"Relax," Sinclair chided, rolling his eyes. "I'm just going to take a little bit of blood. You won't even miss it." Then, without turning around, he called, "Stay right there, Miss Holmes, or my hand might slip. I do have a spare, after all."
Cass froze immediately. Sinclair brought the knife up to Sam's left palm and sliced it open, collecting the blood in a bowl which zoomed toward him from the table with a careless gesture. Sam figured there must have been some sort of enchantment on the blade, because the cut barely stung and it bled more than it should have.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, working hard to keep his voice level as he watched his blood accumulate in the bowl. There were a lot of nasty things a witch could do with your blood, and he was trying not to think of all of them.
"Weren't you listening?" Sinclair shook his head. "I'm rescuing your grandfather from the void. Try to keep up."
He swept across the room then, returning to the large table and pouring what looked like ink into the bowl, mixing the substance with Sam's blood. From there he crossed to a blank wall, dipping his fingers into the mixture and painting arcane symbols with practiced efficiency. Sam watched tensely as Sinclair finished and stepped back to survey his work. Then, very quickly, Sinclair drew the blade across his own palm and pressed his hand to the sigil with a muttered spell.
There was a flash of light, and then Henry Winchester stumbled into the room.
Sam couldn't help but stare. He'd never known any of his grandparents, and his dad had never had anything good to say about Henry Winchester. All Sam knew was that his grandfather had walked out on his grandmother when his dad was still a young kid—and now Sam was pretty sure he knew why.
Henry was young, in his late twenties or early thirties at most. Sam could see bits of his dad's features in his hairline and the set of his eyes, though Henry was paler and narrower than John Winchester had ever been. With his neat hair and tidy suit he had the look of a professor, or a librarian.
After stepping out of the wall Henry frowned, spinning quickly in place before his eyes landed on Sinclair.
"Bert?" He somehow managed to sound both startled and relieved at the same time before glancing quickly around the room. "Where's John?"
"You should close that before an angry Knight of Hell pops out and murders us all," Cass said to Sinclair, watching the still-swirling portal warily.
Henry blanched at that. "I was followed?" He, too, looked at the portal with horror. "Bert, Abaddon—"
Sam didn't recognize the name Abaddon and he'd never heard of a Knight of Hell, but clearly the words meant something to Sinclair because he yanked his hand away from the portal. With a harsh gesture the doorway was gone, along with all traces of the blood sigils which had powered it. That done, Sinclair stepped away from the wall and clasped Henry's shoulder with the hand which wasn't covered in blood. "Not to worry, Henry. She's all taken care of."
Henry stared at him uncertainly. "Taken care of? Are you sure?"
"Positive. She's trapped in the rift in time and space you opened with your spell, without any exit to speak of," Sinclair explained patiently, guiding Henry towards one of the chairs surrounding the large table in the middle of the room. "Sit down, Henry. Have a drink. You've come a bit farther than you intended."
Henry sank into the chair reluctantly, frowning. "How do you mean?"
"Henry?" Dean said incredulously. Sam was honestly a little surprised he hadn't spoken up sooner. "Henry Winchester?"
Henry sat up in response to his name, finally taking in the four of them still pinned to the wall with obvious confusion. He didn't answer Dean, instead asking Sinclair, "Who are all of these people?"
Sinclair pressed a glass of brandy into Henry's hands and gestured as he made introductions. "These two are your grandsons—John's boys. This young lady here is Cass Holmes, who may or may not be some type of seer. That one is called Bobby, and I have no idea what this one is, but he's putting up a doozy of a fight against my holding spell." His eyes lingered on Castiel for a long moment, then swept over to look at Forrest, who'd once again laid down directly on top of Cass's feet. "I'm not too sure about that dog, either."
Sam didn't think Henry had actually caught much of that explanation. "Grandsons?" He repeated, voice strained. "No—that's not possible. Where's my son? Where's John?"
Sam couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He'd clearly never meant to leave John behind, and now… "I'm sorry, Henry," Sinclair said, sounding genuinely regretful.
Henry shook his head in mute denial. Dean, pulling no punches, said harshly, "Dad's been dead for two years."
"No," Henry breathed. His knuckles were white around the delicate glass Sinclair had handed to him "No! The spell should have brought me straight to him…" Taking in Sinclair's pitying expression, Henry rasped, "Just how far forward have I come?"
"Spell casting never was your strong suit, was it?" Sinclair sighed regretfully. Henry waited. "You've jumped forward about 50 years."
Henry flinched. He waited a moment longer, maybe hoping that Sinclair was joking, but then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Truly?" Sinclair nodded. Henry looked horribly lost, dragging his eyes over the occupants of the room once more. He frowned, finally taking in everyone's relative positions, the glares on Sam and Dean's faces, and the shining metal cuffs around Cass's wrists. "Just what exactly is going on here? Why are you holding my… my grandsons against the wall?"
"They broke into my house and tried to shoot me," Sinclair said breezily.
"You kidnapped Cass!" Sam protested, more disbelieving than angry now. Henry looked between Sam and the cuffs around Cass's wrists, which she obligingly held up so they shone in the light, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Bert?" Henry questioned, eyes still on the cuffs.
"Miss Holmes has been… requisitioned," Sinclair said carefully. "She's not natural, Henry; it's for the greater good, believe me."
Sam was shocked to see that Henry looked somewhat mollified by this explanation. Cass noticed and scowled, addressing Henry directly. "I'm one hundred percent human. And your friend here also threatened to kill Sam, literally a minute before you came through the door."
Sinclair scoffed. "I did no such thing."
Dean growled, "You said the knife might slip and you had a spare!"
Henry looked between Sam and Dean, then to Cass, then finally to Sinclair. His eyes narrowed. "Let them down, Bert."
"Henry, be reasonable," Sinclair sighed. "You don't understand the situation."
Henry was not so easily persuaded this time. "Did you or did you not abduct this woman without her consent?"
"I told you—"
"Cuthbert."
Sinclair's lips twisted. "Alright, fine. Yes. I did."
"And these people—including my grandsons—are here to retrieve her?" Henry pressed.
"To be fair, I'm almost sure that that is not a person," Sinclair said, gesturing at Castiel.
"Yes, they are," Cass interjected, responding to Henry's question. Then, viciously, she added, "He also set four vampires and a shapeshifter on them."
Henry blinked at her, then turned to Sinclair, clearly waiting for a denial. When none came, Henry's face slackened with horrified amazement. "What has happened to you? Let them all down this instant."
"Henry—"
"This instant!"
Sinclair scowled, but with a wave of his hand Sam, Dean, Bobby and Castiel were freed from the wall. As they regained their feet, the cuffs around Cass's wrists transformed once into a gleaming silver knife, which clattered to the ground. She was rushing over to them even before the knife had fallen, raking her eyes over each of them in turn.
"Are you all alright?"
"We're fine," Sam said immediately, looking her over just as carefully. "Are you?"
"Fine," Cass echoed. Sam reached for her, wanting to see for himself, wanting to see that the cuffs-turned-knife hadn't harmed her at all. Her brows raised in surprise as he gently took hold of her wrists, but she didn't pull away, letting Sam turn them about and trace his hands over her skin. There was nothing to find, though—the skin wasn't even red or irritated.
"I'm not the one who's bleeding," she reminded him, catching Sam's hands and turning them palm-up. She frowned at the sight of the cut on his palm, which had stopped bleeding but was still bright red.
"I've had worse," Sam said, unconcerned. Cass looked up at him, and while her lips were twisted in disapproval her eyes were bright with relief.
He felt the same way. The relief of seeing that she was alright, after the tension of the last few hours and then the horror of watching the shifter wearing her face collapse to the ground—it was nearly overwhelming. He didn't want to let her go, didn't want to let her out of his sight again. He hooked his fingers against hers and pulled her a step closer, eyes darting to her lips—
"Since the situation appears to be in hand," Castiel interrupted, drawing Cass's attention. Sam closed his eyes painfully as he was forcibly reminded that they had company. "I should be going."
"Of course," Cass said immediately, extricating her hands from Sam's. "Go ahead. Thank you for coming, Castiel." Castiel nodded at her once, and then, to her clear puzzlement, at Forrest. Then he vanished.
Sinclair made a noise somewhere between interest and distress, eyes locked on the space Castiel had previously occupied. "What was that?"
"None of your damn business," Dean said flatly. "Now make us a door out of this mad house."
"Hold on just one moment," said Henry. "No one is going anywhere until I get some answers!"
Dean frowned at him, caught between wanting to get away from Sinclair and wanting an explanation for everything that had just happened. After a moment the desire for answers won out. "Alright, fine. Cass?" He turned to her expectantly. "You wanna catch us up on what's going on?"
Cass sighed and pressed her fingers into her temples. "Yeah, okay. You're not gonna like it, but okay." She narrowed her eyes, jabbing a finger in Sinclair's direction. "But first—you. Swear you're not gonna pull anything else shady."
"On my honor," he said agreeably, looking a bit smug.
Without missing a beat Cass snapped, "You have none."
Sinclair's lips twitched in what looked like repressed amusement. Putting on an offended air, he said, "I will be on my best behavior."
Cass still eyed him doubtfully. Henry leaned forward and implored, "Miss Holmes, please."
"Okay." Relenting, Cass pulled up a chair at the library's massive table. By unspoken agreement Sam took the chair to her left and Bobby took the one to her right, flanking her. Dean sat next to Sam and Sinclair sat next to Henry on the other side, his smile sharp with anticipation. Cass took a deep breath, seemingly bracing herself. When she spoke, she didn't look at Sam or Henry or anyone else, instead speaking to thin air somewhere past Henry's shoulder. Sam braced himself, too, because it was never a good sign when Cass began to avoid eye contact.
"Alright, so the situation is this: Sam, Dean, this is your paternal grandfather. He is a member—now kind of the only member—of a secret organization called the Men of Letters, which is kind of like what would happen if hunters were a bunch of librarians and scientists instead of…" She paused uncertainly.
"Brutes?" Henry suggested.
"Hey!" Dean barked, clearly taking offense.
Sam, having already almost gotten used to the idea that Henry was his time-traveling grandfather, found himself stuck on the concept of a secret organization of hunter-scholars. Henry, meanwhile, seemed to take as much issue with Cass's wording as Dean had with his. "But the Men of Letters are much more than librarians!"
"Oh, hush, Henry," said Sinclair, clearly enjoying himself. "Let the girl talk."
"The reason he is the only member is because Abaddon, who is an ultra-powerful demon and one of the Knights of Hell, slaughtered all the other members in the late 1950s," Cass powered on. Her eyes were moving side to side a little, Sam noticed, as if she was actually visualizing and reading her notes. "Henry escaped, as you can see, by performing a spell which was supposed to take him to your dad, but—well, you see the results."
"And Abaddon?" Dean asked warily. Cass looked to Sinclair for an answer. Sam guessed that what had happened today was so far off from what she'd seen that she didn't know how to respond.
Sinclair waved a hand carelessly. "Stuck in a curve of space-time with no escape."
"Which is frankly an improvement, considering what would have happened," Cass said, visibly relaxing at Sinclair's confident explanation.
"What would have happened?" Sam asked, morbidly curious.
"She'd have followed Henry through the door and killed him," Cass said simply, her eyes dark. "You two—well, mostly Dean, to be honest—would make some impeccably bad decisions in an attempt to kill her and almost destroy the universe as a result." It was a deliberately vague answer, and under the circumstances it set Sam's teeth on edge.
"Surely you exaggerate," Sinclair said, not a little condescending. "The world, maybe, but the universe?"
Cass narrowed her eyes at him and repeated flatly, "The. Universe."
Sinclair looked a little unsettled by that, but brightened quickly. "Well, then. I appear to have done you all a favor."
"Yeah, thanks," Cass said insincerely. "Your reward is that Dean doesn't kill you for trying to do to him what you just tried to do to me."
Sam shot her a startled look at that, but Cass didn't catch it, still glaring at Sinclair. Henry frowned at her. "What did he try to do to you?"
"He's a collector," she said disdainfully, gesturing at the opulent decorations and mystical artifacts scattered about the room. "He wanted to 'collect' me."
"Bert," Henry chided.
"You can hardly blame me, Henry, as a scholar. If the girl is a seer, she's not like any other that's ever been recorded. She ought to be studied!"
"If anyone oughtta be studied here, buddy, it's you," Dean said. Then, with only marginally less irritation, he said to Cass, "So this is the big family secret you've been keeping from us?"
Cass hesitated, biting her lip. Her eyes darted guiltily from Dean to Sam, then away. Sam's heart sank.
"Cass?"
Bobby sighed. "You might as well tell 'em now and get it over with."
So Bobby knew, too. Sam watched as Cass folded her hands on the table and studiously examined her fingernails, avoiding his and Dean's eyes. All in one breath, she said, "You've got a half brother, his name is Adam, he turns eighteen in about a month."
It took a second for those words to process. Then, it hurt. That she knew something like that and kept it from them on purpose, that she didn't trust them with that knowledge—it hurt more than Sam could have anticipated.
When he caught his breath, all he could manage was a shocked, "We have another brother?" And then, with effort, "And you didn't tell us."
"You're joking." Cass flinched at Dean's tone, but she dared to glance up and meet his glare. "What kind of soap opera bullshit is this? And how were we even supposed to find out about it? I mean, Dad couldn't have known."
Cass winced again and looked away. "Dad did know," Sam realized aloud, and he wanted to be surprised, but he couldn't. He huffed bitterly. "Dad knew, and he never told us. Not even on his deathbed."
"No way," Dean denied firmly. "I don't believe it. You've told us some crazy shit before, Cass, but this is where I draw the line."
"She's not lyin'," Bobby said wearily. "I looked him up. His mom's a nurse—apparently she fixed John up after a hunt and one thing led to another. He doesn't look too much like John, but with Henry here I can kind of see the resemblance."
If Bobby said this in the hopes of calming Dean down, he didn't know him as well as he thought he did. Voice rising, Dean said to Cass, "You told Bobby about this, but not us?" Then, whirling on Bobby, "And you! How could you not have told us the second she told you? How long have you known about this?"
Bobby didn't falter under Dean's glare. "A month and a half. And would you stop glaring at her? We were going to tell you, but it seemed like an unnecessary complication right now seeing as we're still trying to stop the Apocalypse."
Dean did not look at all satisfied by this reasoning, and Sam wasn't, either, but they were both distracted when Henry echoed, "The Apocalypse?"
"The first several seals of the 66 seals holding Lucifer in his cage have already broken," Cass explained tiredly. "That's the whole reason I met up with Cuthbert here in the first place. We're hoping if we can break the final seal before the other preceding seals break, we can stop the Apocalypse. That means killing or curing Lilith, but we have to find her first, and none of our tracking spells have worked. I figured the master of spells over here might have an easier time of it."
"I really have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, haven't I?" Henry murmured. He turned to Sinclair. "Well, Bert? Can you track her?"
"I can track down anyone and anything," Sinclair said confidently. Cass scoffed, and he amended, "That said, it's tricky. I tried a dozen different spells over the last few hours and none of them have worked. I'll give the demon this—she's well-warded."
"How long will it take you to track her successfully?" Henry asked, frowning.
"A few weeks, maybe," said Sinclair. "Possibly more, if I have to invent a new spell. If I had some blood, or better yet, her true name, it'd be a different story, but as it is there's hardly anything to work with."
Cass tapped her fingers on the table thoughtfully, then asked, "Would that timeline be at all improved if you had access to the bunker?"
"Bunker?" Henry and Sam repeated in unison. Sam exchanged a quick, awkward glance with his grandfather before turning his attention back to Cass.
"The central location where the Men of Letters keep all their secrets," she explained. "Books, records, lore—everything."
"Certainly it would help," Sinclair allowed. "But it's a moot point. I designed that warding myself, and not even I can get in without the key."
Cass shook her head once. "Henry's got the key in his pocket."
Henry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Do I?" With a look of realization he fished a small, engraved wooden box out of the inner pocket of his jacket. "Is that what this is, then?"
"It is," Sinclair confirmed, looking at the box rather greedily.
"Great," Cass said briskly, clearly wanting the conversation to end. "Any other pressing questions before we go open that time capsule?"
"Yes!" Henry cried, tucking the box away again. Cass wilted a little in her seat. "Just how exactly do you know all of this? Bert said you're some sort of seer, but he's right, you're not like any seer I've ever heard of—and who was that other fellow, the one who vanished?"
Cass glanced at Sam, Dean, and Bobby in turn. Bobby shrugged minutely, leaving the decision up to her. With another suspicious glance at Sinclair, she addressed Henry. "Can you guarantee your friend here isn't going to try to abduct me, or… experiment on me, or anything?"
"I would not allow it," Henry promised, even as the question seemed to do nothing but increase Sinclair's interest. Sam didn't care for the way he was staring at her.
"I'm from an alternate dimension where all of this is a television show," Cass said frankly, revealing more of the truth than Sam had expected. "It's why I've only seen one version of events."
"She's also a Prophet of the Lord," he added quietly, staring challengingly at Sinclair. "So if you do try to harm her, you better be prepared to deal with an archangel."
Cass nodded, confirming that point. "The 'other fellow' was Castiel. He's an angel."
"An angel," Henry repeated, amazed.
"Fascinating," murmured Sinclair. "Tell me, how does someone from an entirely different universe—someone who has, unless I am mistaken, never had a real prophetic vision in her life—become a Prophet in this dimension? As I understand it, it takes a lot more than simply seeing the future to be considered a Prophet."
Everyone at the table turned to Cass, interested to know her answer to that question. "Dunno," she said blandly. "God and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. Now, can we go?"
"I still have so many questions," Henry said uncertainly.
"Why don't you ride with Sam and Dean?" She suggested, not looking at either of them to see what they thought of this proposal. "You guys can… talk, and I can answer whatever questions you still have when we get there."
"Whoa, hang on—" Dean pointed a finger at Sinclair. "He is not allowed in my car."
"It's him or Forrest," Cass said without sympathy. "There's no room for more people and a dog in Bobby's truck. Speaking of which—why the hell did you bring him? He could've gotten hurt!"
"Yeah." Sam hesitated. "About that…"