Chapter 8 – Chain Reaction
Phanuel stood in the middle of a barren field, awaiting his Master's appearance. His ancient vessel was pulsating with light. The Archangel of Judgement and Penance had been soaking up all of the energy from thousands of humans, making deathbed confessions, and performing atonements to loved ones.
Phanuel knew that The Event had not been God's doing, of course, because their Father had abdicated years ago, leaving The Office to the wrong individual. That was why the Earth was in such a sorry state right now. If Phanuel had been familiar with the human saying that it took the breaking of some eggs to make an omelet, he would have heartily agreed. Humans and their man-made structures were the eggs, and once the desired conclusion of his Master's plan was reached, the new regime would be the omelet.
The key players in the ultimate chess match were nearly in their places, and at the end of it all, Phanuel's liege would take his rightful place in the Kingdom of Heaven. There would be no one left alive to contest the ascension, whether by blood, or through succession.
Plants sprung from the soil and opened up into beautiful flowers as Phanuel's Master made his appearance. The Archangel dropped to his knees, but he was ordered to rise.
"I want you to go to the state of Tennessee," Phanuel was instructed. "Castiel's wife must not be diverted from her journey. Then, I want you to delay the Winchester humans. It appears they may cross paths with her before all three reach the Caribbean. That cannot happen."
The Archangel said nothing, but his forehead wrinkled. "What?" his Master sighed impatiently.
Phanuel knew that he shouldn't, but he blurted out: "Why are you so concerned with the female, and two humans? None of them can harm you."
The instant he'd said it, the underling cringed. But there was no reprisal. Instead, his Master wore a thoughtful expression.
"Of course they cannot harm me," the ancient and powerful entity said haughtily. "But their arrival in the new Babylon will set off the chain reaction. Events must occur in the proper order, or my careful planning will unravel. Do as you are told. And..."
"Yes, Exalted One?" the Archangel said nervously.
"If you ever question me again, I will cast you down to Hell myself," his Master said calmly. He snapped his fingers and every blossom in the field turned black, then disintegrated. "Now, go. I will not tell you again."
Phanuel vanished immediately, and the ancient entity who had precipitated The Event smiled thinly. That was more like it: fearful obedience. Perhaps he would let his servant in on more elements of the plan, as events progressed. There didn't seem to be much doubt that once the last two fell, the Office would be his, at last.
The Archangel checked in on Gail first, since she was the first one his Master had mentioned.
What Phanuel saw was unremarkable. Castiel's wife was walking alone, just south of the city called Nashville. The Winchesters were some miles away to the north, but Phanuel could see that it was indeed possible that the humans and the Angel would cross paths. It was his job to see that didn't happen.
The silence was eerie to Gail. She had just walked through the American home of country songs without hearing one note of music. Granted, she had never really liked the stuff, but hearing it would have been preferable to the ominous quiet.
Because the atmosphere was so still, she heard the hoofbeats long before she was able to spot the source. They were coming from behind her. Gail waited a couple of minutes for the horses to approach, and then she turned around.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing: a team of six horses, pulling a covered wagon. There was an attractive young woman holding the reins, encouraging the horses along. When she saw Gail, though, she slowed down.
"Friend, or foe?" the woman asked pertly, showing Gail the gun. She smiled wryly. "I really hope it's the former."
Gail smiled back, although she felt a pang in her stomach. It was ironic: if she had her Angelic powers right now, that gun would be just a piece of tin to her. This woman didn't seem like she wanted to shoot Gail, but why take the chance? She introduced herself, spreading her hands out to show she was unarmed.
"Hi, I'm Joyce," the young woman said. "Can I give you a lift? Where are you headed?"
Gail's lips twitched as she climbed up onto the wagon bench. The last time she'd been on one of these, Dean had been cursing Cas out for choosing such an old-fashioned means of transportation in the bitterly cold temperatures of rural Russia.
"I don't think you'd believe me, if I told you," she answered Joyce.
Her new acquaintance's eyebrows rose when Gail admitted that she needed to get to the Caribbean. "I don't think these guys can swim that far," Joyce wisecracked, looking at the horses, "but I've got a suggestion for you. I'm headed for New Orleans, and I'm pretty sure the lady I'm going to see there will be able to help you out. How about it? I have to admit that it's been pretty lonely out there on the road. Scary, too. Do you know how to defend yourself?"
Gail laughed. "You could say that," she replied, nodding. She took her Angel blade out of her pants pocket, showing it to the girl. "I'm combat-trained."
Joyce regarded her for a moment. "Army?" she finally said.
The Angel was still smiling. "In a manner of speaking."
Joyce paused once again, and then she sighed. "Fair enough. We just met." She sighed again. "Although, I guess those kinds of things don't matter any more, do they?"
"What kinds of things?" Gail asked her, curious.
"Professions," her companion said succinctly. Then, after another pause: "Just so you know, I used to be a hooker, before everything went sideways. I'm not proud of it, but I had to make a living somehow. I was hungry, and I needed a place to live, and-"
Gail held up her hands. "I'm not judging you, Joyce. You don't have to explain anything to me. Really, it's OK."
The young girl was crying now, but she had no idea why. For that matter, she didn't know why she'd told this woman about that. There was just something about her, something that had made Joyce want to confide in her. She'd even given Gail her real name.
Impulsively, Gail opened her arms, and Joyce hugged her. The young woman was trembling. Gail felt sorry for her. Angel or not, who the hell would she be to pass judgement on anyone who'd had to do such an unpleasant thing just to stay alive?
Gail gave the girl one more reassuring pat on the back as they came out of the embrace. "Let's go to New Orleans," she said, smiling at Joyce. Her new friend pulled on the reins, and the horses started to move.
"Have you read any good books, lately?" Gail quipped, and Joyce laughed.
Phanuel was absent for the meeting of the women, because he had teleported himself to the place where the Winchesters were, instead. The humans were approaching the Angel's location a little too quickly for his liking. His Master had said it was imperative that they were kept away from Castiel's wife, for the time being.
The Archangel couldn't help but wonder what there was about these individuals that seemed so important. Wasn't Vincent the entity they should be most concerned about? He was powerful, and unpredictable. His Master didn't seem at all worried, however. "The Man of Lawlessness will be felled by a mere breath," he had told Phanuel.
Who was Phanuel to argue? So far, everything that was supposed to happen had happened. It was a small matter to delay a couple of humans.
"How's our ammo holding up?" Sam asked his brother, unaware of how prophetic his question would turn out to be.
"Why? Are you hungry again?" Dean retorted. "OK, but remember, it's your turn to clean and cook Bambi, next."
Sam opened his mouth to make a smartass remark, but instead, he looked around at their surroundings. "Do you hear something?"
Dean slowed his horse to a walk. "Yeah," he replied. "It sounds like-"
Before he could finish his sentence, a half-dozen animals emerged from the bush.
"Wolves," Sam said quietly, and Dean swore under his breath. The sounds they'd heard had been growls.
Sam dismounted slowly, reaching for his gun. He was focusing on the pack of wolves, but he could also sense Dean's incredulous expression. "I don't want them to go for the horses," the younger Winchester explained. "Remember Red Dead Redemption?"
Dean's mouth twitched. That was a video game that he and Sam used to play, sometimes. Red Dead, as they'd called it, was set in the Old West. Knowing how much Dean liked playing cowboy, Sam had bought the game for Dean's birthday a few years ago. The object of the game was to ride around on horseback and cope with outlaws and wild animals while trying to accomplish missions that the game's programming set out for the player. Both brothers had enjoyed it, but Dean had an unfortunate habit of losing his game horse to all manner of wild animal attacks. Sam would tease his brother about riding a sacrificial horse, and they would both laugh.
But now that they were living the Red Dead existence for real, Dean realized that Sam was right. He eased off his horse, gun in hand. "You go left, I'll go right," Dean instructed his brother.
Cas was sitting cross-legged on a blanket as Yusuf donned his prayer shawl. One by one, the villagers gathered around the men as Yusuf opened his well-worn copy of the Good Book.
"Is there any particular passage you would like me to read, Masih?" the man asked Cas, bowing his head.
Castiel frowned. He appreciated these humans' show of gratitude for all the healings he had done there, but this was starting to seem all too familiar. Yusuf had called Cas "Messiah" in his native tongue, even though the Angel had repeatedly asked him not to. It had been the same thing in Africa, when he and his extended family had been fighting Lucifer's death squads. Cas could only imagine what Gail would have to say about this.
"No," he replied. "Just...resume where you were." Although Cas objected to being called "my Lord" and "Messiah", he was sensitive enough to respect the villagers' beliefs. To refuse to take part in their nightly Bible session would be rude.
Yusuf cleared his throat. "A reading from Ephesians," he announced.
Cas listened quietly, but when he realized the subject matter of the lesson, he grew uncomfortable again. The text varied slightly depending on the translation, but generally, the Book of Ephesians made reference to "Slaves and masters", and "wives submitting to their husbands in all things". His heart sank. Was that ancient, outdated verbiage still being used? Were people teaching their children that this was the way things should be?
Cas's mind wandered as Yusuf continued to read. He could just imagine what Paul and Gail would have to say about this whole passage. Once Castiel left this place, he should summon Paul and receive a report. No; not "summon". That wasn't the right term to use. They were both Angels, of equal standing. Weren't they?
Cas had been so lost in thought that he wasn't aware of what was actually happening around him. But now, Cas realized with a feeling akin to panic that one of the women was placing a basin full of soap and water on the ground beside his feet, preparing to wash them.
"No!" Cas exclaimed, jumping up. "'If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself'."
"That's from Galatians," Yusuf said meekly, hoping his reading hadn't displeased the Saviour. "Would you like me to read that, instead?"
"You don't understand," Cas said, frustrated. "A slave is no better than his master, nor his master, from the slave!"
"Yeah, well, that's admirable enough, but I wish you wouldn't look at me when you say it," Paul quipped, appearing suddenly in the middle of the circle of townspeople.
Several of the men drew weapons and advanced on Paul, but Cas raised one hand, and they stopped in their tracks.
"It's all right," Cas told the humans. "This is Paul. He's an Angel of the Lord, just as I am."
Paul strolled over to where Cas stood. "It's nice to see you helping some people of colour," he said dryly, adding, "although I'm hoping this isn't Africa, all over again." Paul glanced at the woman who had been preparing to wash Castiel's feet and he let out a low whistle.
"I must take my leave," Cas said quickly. "Thank you for your hospitality."
The Angels teleported to a country road a dozen kilometres away, and Cas waved his hand over the dirt. An instant later, a ball of fire hung there. Paul looked at Cas, impressed. "Since when are you able to do that?" he asked, curious.
Cas shrugged. He didn't really know. Ever since that night in the barn, he had found that there were a number of things he could do that he couldn't, before.
"So, why'd you summon me?" Paul said. There was a note of irritation in his voice. He had been helping a group of men chop down trees for firewood in the area of Frank and Jody's settlement, enjoying the physical exercise and easy cameraderie with the humans. That was something Paul had largely missed out on during his existence. When he'd been in Heaven, making friends had been next to impossible. As the son of an elitist and intimidating Archangel like Raphael, Paul had found that the other Angels avoided him in droves. Then, when Paul had snuck down to Earth, he'd thought he had discovered a group of like-minded people he could call his friends. But all he had truly discovered were angry, militant people of colour who'd believed that violence and bloodshed were the answer. And as for Hell, its populace came as advertised. There were no such things as friends in Hell, only co-conspirators.
Ever since Castiel had brought Paul back into the fold, though, the young black Angel had noticed a significant improvement. He had an exciting and vibrant wife, a stepson, and a circle of friends of different races who felt more like family. And now, he had been accepted by humans, too.
Paul owed Cas a great deal, which was why he tended to put up with more of his father's killer's b.s. than he would anyone else's. Still, there were limits. He and his human friends had been swapping stories and off-colour jokes as they worked, and Paul had been enjoying himself immensely. But then had come the deep, sonorous voice in his head: "I summon thee, Paul." Crap. That tone, and the old-timey way it had been phrased, was reminiscent of how Raphael used to call his son, whenever Paul had done something of which his father disapproved. Which had been nearly all the time.
"I didn't summon you," Cas responded, confused. "I merely-" He bit off the sentence. It was true that he'd thought of the word "summon", but...
"Anyway, what do you want?" Paul sighed, trying to move their conversation along.
"Have there been any developments?" Cas asked the young Angel, attempting to hide his own puzzlement.
"No Demon activity, if that's what you mean," Paul answered him. "Nothing sinister at all. Frank's still telling bad jokes, Suzanne's belly is growing by the day...you know, the usual. Oh, there's one bit of news: Sam and Dean hit the road."
"What? Where did they go?" Cas said, surprised.
Paul shrugged. "Dunno. Bobby said they were getting restless. Wanted to get out there and help people. Just like you, but minus the foot-washing."
Cas's mouth tightened, but he said nothing. Sarcasm notwithstanding, Paul hadn't said anything that was incorrect, had he? What was Cas doing? Helping humans, or helping himself to their love and praise?
A more sensitive, sympathetic individual would have read the agonized expression on Cas's face, and chosen their next words carefully. Paul, however, was not that individual.
"What the hell is the matter with you, Cas?" the young Angel said bluntly. "It's great that you're getting out there, helping humans. Our Father would be happy about that. But what about your own damn family? What about my little Boo, heading to the islands to throw down with Vincent all by herself? At least she's got some company on the way to New Orleans."
"How do you know where she is, and what she's doing?" Cas inquired curiously.
Paul let out an exasperated breath. "How the hell do you think, Cas? I've been tracking her, just like I used to do. The question is, why aren't you with her?"
"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," Cas murmured.
"Awww, that's a pile of crap, and we both know it," Paul retorted. "There's something going on with you, Cas, and it's no good. Don't bother paraphrasing the Bible to me. My father used to do the same thing. He'd cherry-pick the verses he liked, and ignore the others. I know you, Cas. You're a lot of things, but you ain't no company man. You never have been."
"Do you have anything else to say to me before you return to your wood-chopping?" Cas said tonelessly.
Paul paused. He'd never told Cas what he had been doing when he'd received the summons. Or had he? "Yeah; as a matter of fact, I do," Paul stated. "If you stay on this path, you're going to lose everything and everyone you ever loved, Cas. Listen to what I'm saying. I know what I'm talking about."
Then Paul vanished, leaving a pensive Castiel behind.
"Where are all the dead bodies?" Joyce wondered aloud. She and Gail were moving at a brisk pace now, although they would have to take a rest stop soon.
Gail looked at her companion, who half-shrugged. "I mean, don't get me wrong," Joyce went on. "I'm glad we haven't seen that many. But, realistically, there should be a lot more, shouldn't there?"
The Angel shook her head slowly. She'd been wondering about that too, throughout most of her journey. Where WERE they?
Unbeknownst to the women, there were two otherworldly entities who had been cleansing the Earth of all the corpses.
First, there was Bobby. As the occupant of the High Office of Heaven, he felt that it was his job to dispose of the fallen with dignity and compassion. Also, there was decay and subsequent disease to be considered. There were still sizeable pockets of human beings who were adapting pretty well to their altered circumstances, and they didn't deserve to be subjected to the sight and smells of others who had not been as fortunate.
Then, on the opposite side of the spectrum, there was Phanuel's Master. The architect of mass human destruction had been clearing corpses as well, but for a much more nefarious purpose. The fresh, undiseased bodies had been farmed out to Vincent, for use in his voodoo rituals. Waste not, want not.
Soon, without the filth that the pollution caused by humans and their "progress" caused, the Earth would return to the lush, pristine landscape of Biblical times, the ancient entity realized. And, really, how appropriate would that be?
Gail suddenly shivered, and Joyce took that as her cue. "That's it; we're stopping," the young woman said decisively, pulling on the reins. "The horses need a rest, and I think we do, too."
Dammit. Well, she couldn't expect humans and animals to have the same kind of stamina as Angels, Gail thought. She could build a fire while Joyce and the horses rested. She had been enjoying the warmer temperatures of the South, but for some reason, the breeze was going right through her today.
Once they'd stopped, Joyce rooted around in the wagon for a minute. "Here," she said to Gail, producing a couple of fur coats.
Gail's heart sank as her companion handed her one of the coats. "Are those real?" she inquired.
Joyce smiled, shrugging hers on. "Oh, yeah," she replied. "Mine's mink; yours is ermine. Nice, eh? These'll keep us warm. Just don't ask how I got them."
Gail put the coat on slowly, feeling sick. Another broken promise. Great. Sorry, Liz, she thought sadly, picturing her friend expressing her aversion to fur coats. Gail had vowed that she would never wear one, out of love and respect for her deceased friend. She'd stuck to it, too, even in the icy cold temperatures of Eastern Russia.
Compromising one's principles was a slippery slope, wasn't it? Just look at poor Joyce, and what she'd had to do to survive. Who knew what Gail might have to do to get her powers back?
As Joyce settled down in her sleeping bag by the fire, Gail feigned sleep. But it was occurring to her now that she had absolutely no leverage with Vincent. None. Why should he give her powers back to her? Because she asked him to? Yeah. Right. Guys like Vincent never did anything nice for anyone else. What would he want from her?
Logically, Gail was of no use to Vincent whatsoever without her powers. It was a bit of a Catch-22, wasn't it? She forced herself to think like her father. He would probably want her to join him. Then, after she pledged allegiance, he would restore her powers. But what was to stop her from reneging? It was easy to lie. There was no way Vincent would be stupid enough to just take her word for it. No; he would want some sort of demonstration of her loyalty.
She was nuts. It was one thing to show courage in the face of your enemies, but it was another thing altogether to serve yourself up on a platter, and then hand them the carving knife.
Maybe once she and Joyce got to New Orleans and parted ways, Gail should go to that cemetery and look up her old pal, Marie Laveau. On the other hand, that probably wasn't the best idea. Last time the two of them had faced off, Marie had been prepared to hand Gail over to Alice, to be sacrificed as another nail in Vincent's coffin.
Wait. Wait, just a minute. Although her mind was trying to wander down the garden path now, wondering if Alice was still a threat, Gail put the brakes on. She realized that she knew someone else who lived in New Orleans, someone who might turn out to be the leverage sge so desperately needed.
Compromising one's principles was indeed a slippery slope.
Now that Gail was proceeding to New Orleans and the Winchesters were still heading towards Florida, they had missed each other by quite a few miles.
Sam and Dean were fine, of course. A pack of wolves was a threat to be wary of, but they had faced far worse creatures. At least wolves could be killed by ordinary bullets, not some unpronounceable incantation from a book of lore that was as old as dirt, and twice as boring.
The brothers had moved in front of their horses, but there had been no need for such heroic measures: one more growl from the wolf pack and the horses had turned tail and run in the opposite direction. Sam had nearly cracked up laughing at the look on Dean's face.
The brothers opened fire immediately, before the wolves could charge them. Sam killed one, and wounded another. The better marksman, Dean killed two instantly, but it took him two shots to kill the third. By that time, the unharmed wolf had charged Sam, knocking him to the ground. Sam was able to wrestle the wolf just long enough for Dean to rush over to where they were. The older Winchester had yelled at Sam to turn his head and then Dean put the barrel of his gun to the wolf's temple and fired twice. That act of his had saved Sam's life, but it had also necessitated a subsequent side trip to the nearest stream to get them cleaned up. There, they had found their horses, waiting for them.
"Why the long face?" Sam had said to his horse, petting its nose.
Dean barked out a laugh. Then, as the brothers disrobed to wash up, Dean had remarked that their horses were the smarter pair. He and Sam had laughed and laughed, like that was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.
After they'd rested for a while, the Winchesters continued on in the direction of Florida, not knowing just how close they had come to finding Gail.