Chapter 2
June 29, 2012. Hyatt-Regency, Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt
Rolling onto her knees, Ellie looked up at the man standing at the open door. Egyptian, she thought, black hair and a neatly trimmed beard framing a lean, narrow face.
Possessed.
His eyes were black, corner to corner with no white showing. Sweat crawled down his face, the hotel uniform soaked in it. In his hand, a long, curved dagger gleamed under the downlight in the foyer.
"Where is our Lord!?" he demanded, striding into the room toward her. "Where hides the Lightbringer?!"
He stopped abruptly when he'd cleared the doorframe, his mouth dropping open then twisting up into a snarl.
Getting to her feet, Ellie winced as she wiped her hand across the trickle of liquid she could feel at her temple. The cut smarted.
"How did you find me?" she asked.
"You're lit up like the sun."
"Not to something like you," Penemue contradicted, walking across the room to stand beside Ellie. "Your master, perhaps."
He glanced down at the woman next to him. "You don't seem surprised."
"No. We ran into a few before I left the States." Ellie made a face. "And Dean sent a message. Demon signs spreading across the US. Looking for Lucifer, I thought."
"You thought correctly, it would seem," the Watcher said. He looked down at the rug on the floor, lifting a corner with the toe of his boot. A rusty-brown curve showed against the white tiled floor. "And prepared."
"Can't be too prepared," she said lightly, looking at the man inside the circle. "We don't really have time for this."
"No," Penemue agreed. He stepped forward and reached out, his hand gripping the possessed man's skull. "We don't."
Ellie saw his eyes brighten, in colour and intensity, as they stared into the black eyes of the man he held.
"Tell us everything," Penemue suggested softly to the demon.
Under the angel's hand, silvery light pulsed and the man's face contorted in pain, lips drawing back from his teeth, his eyes opening wide, the tendons in his neck contracting and hardening like wire.
"The Princes have returned," it gasped, it's voice rising as hands and feet began to twitch involuntarily. "Lucifer is free – hidden! Must! Find! Our! Lord! Nothing! Else! Matters!"
"Why were you sent after this woman?"
"She knows!" Its hands rose to clutch and flutter at the Watcher's arm. "They smelled her, out in the world! Two men! One woman! The prophecy, oh my Lord, my Lord, Lucifer, Lucifer-LuciferLuciferluciferluciferlucifer! Reborn! REBORN!"
The last word was a shriek, and they both smelled it at the same time, Penemue snatching his hand back from the demon as acrid steam and a bubbling ichor spilled from its mouth, through its nose and eyes and ears, the flesh superheated from the inside.
"What the –" Ellie took a step back as the body of the man ran and melted, the skeleton collapsing, flesh and blood blistering and charring and crumbling into ash in the circle.
The Watcher looked dispassionately down at the pile of grey and black debris in the centre of the woven silk rug. "This was more than possession."
Glancing at her watch, Ellie nodded agreement. "Seems like a good time to leave."
July 1, 2012. I-94E, Illinois
Dean eased the pickup into the flow of traffic bypassing the city, his stomach rumbling. The long hours on the road hadn't helped with the lack of sleep, or the anxiety that hummed at the back of his mind.
Sam'd called from a diner in Wyoming, his brother continuing to check the news and satellite data as he'd moved south and east. New hotspots, like those they'd seen when Crowley'd been searching for them – or Lucifer – or whatever the ex-king had been looking for, popping up in the southern states now. If the demons under Crowley were talking, it wouldn't take them long to remember Rochester'd been a place of interest, he thought.
For the past six hours, he'd felt the prickle at the back of neck, his Spidey-sense of something going wrong somewhere. It was faint, and it'd stayed that way. Could've been a subconscious reaction to the information Sam'd given him, he considered, changing lanes to get around a rig and sliding the pickup back into the middle lane automatically. Or it could've been something else.
When he'd crossed into Illinois and stopped for gas, he'd called Twist. The older hunter'd agreed to get hold of Dwight and Trent and meet him at Rochester. Had a heads-up from Ray the previous day, he'd said. Just a general alert. Demon watch.
Moving into the left lane as he caught a glimpse of a sign for a rest stop ahead, Dean wondered if Ray was getting much information on what was happening globally, as well as in the US. He took the off ramp and coasted down the incline to the big concrete lot, pulling into a parking slot in front of the restaurant. Going in, he ordered a burger and fries, a couple of takeout coffees, paying for them absently. His order arrived and he picked up the bag and tray, carrying them back to the truck.
Setting one coffee into the pickup's cupholder, he finished the food and washed it down with the second coffee, wadding up the trash and pitching it through the window and into the trash can to one side.
The geeky programmer would have to be able to see the rest of the world, he decided, pulling out his phone, and looking up the number Ellie'd given him. Ellie was out of the country often enough.
The phone rang out and he frowned down at the screen, double-checking the number and redialling. He heard a number of clicks on the line before it started to ring again, then it was picked up.
"Yeah?"
The line was crystal-clear and Dean swallowed at the small of rill of relief that loosened his fingers around the cell.
"Uh, yeah, Ray?"
"Who's this?" He could hear the suspicion in the man's voice clearly. He'd thought Frank was a paranoid sonofabitch, but Ray had him beat easily.
"It's Dean," he said. "Winchester."
"Who?"
"Uh," he hesitated, wondering if it was possible the guy was on something. He'd looked like the straightest of straight arrows. "Dean Winchester? We met – uh – at Whitefish, not long ago? Ellie's –"
"Oh, right. Dean. Yeah, right," Ray said, his tone morphing from brittle suspicion to expansive cheer instantly. "Sorry, man, it's been crazy here the last couple of days. Sure. Dean. Yeah."
"Right," Dean said, raising a brow at the phone in his hand. "Uh, I was wonderin' –"
"The demon signs, am I right? They're all over."
"Uh, yeah, got that," he said. "What I was wonderin' was if you can see what's going on, uh, outside the country?"
"Globally? Sure." Ray's voice faded for a moment, then came back strongly. "Did you want to know about anywhere in particular?"
"Uh, Egypt."
"Wow, mind-reader," Ray muttered, muted beeps audible on the line under his voice. "Yeah, I got a cluster-blip a few hours ago, Sharm el-Sheikh. I was going to call Ellie about it – she, uh, said she was gonna be in that region? – but it disappeared."
"Disappeared?" Dean's stomach lurched, the burger and fries gaining inexplicable weight.
"Well, yeah," Ray said. "I, uh, thought the demons had, you know, smoked out or something."
Or something, Dean thought, scowling at the dash. "What about – uh – Afghanistan?"
"Nope, nothing there." He heard a sharp exhale on the end of the line. "In fact, there's nothing but background clutter right through Eurasia right now. That's weird."
"Weird, how?"
"Uh, well, usually, there's quite a bit of activity in Asia and the Middle East – anywhere there's, uh, fighting, or trouble, but right now? Nada."
"You think they're all over here?" He grimaced at the parking lot, not wanting to get a confirmation on that prospect.
"Um. I don't know. It's looking like it," Ray said. "They like Memphis, for some reason. Signs around there've been growing like crazy."
Sam'd said the same thing, he thought. "What about Rochester? Indiana?"
"Not as much there," Ray said. "There's another mass in Pittsburgh."
"Uh, okay, thanks."
"Sure, anytime."
The line closed abruptly and Dean looked at the cell, hitting the End button.
A cluster-blip, Ray'd said, whatever the hell that was. That'd disappeared.
Maybe that'd been the reason for the low-grade prickle he'd been feeling, although it hadn't exactly gone away, he thought, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck as he stared down at the phone. His thumb circled the speed dial for Ellie. They'd agreed not to use the phones. It made things too easy for the levis. But this … this was different, damnit.
The cell shrilled in his hand, making him jump, his thumb hitting the call button hard enough to ache. "What!?"
"S'me," Sam's voice crackled in his ear. "Something wrong?"
"No," Dean said, dragging in a breath and shunting his tension aside. "What's going on?"
"Had to get further south," his brother said. "Probably take me another six hours."
"Okay." He glanced at his watch. It would put Sam's arrival roughly at the same time as Twist and Dwight, he thought. "Listen, uh, I called Twist and, um, Dwight. We're gonna need help with this."
"Sure." There was a pause on the other end, the line filled with a low hum. "You, um, heard anything from Ellie?"
"No."
He'd checked the forum twenty times in the last few hours. There'd been nothing on it. He'd told himself that a country like that would probably be hard to move around in, hard to find a communication network, but it'd all sounded like lame excuses and his subconscious was clocking overtime on all the possible things that could've happened. Could be happening right now.
"Dean? You alright?"
No. He wasn't. "Yeah, m'fine."
There wasn't anything his brother could do or say that would help. He heard Sam's deep exhale on the other end of the line.
"Just tired, man," he added. "Feels like I've been driving non-stop for three days."
"Uh huh."
"Be careful, alright?"
"Yeah, you too." The line cut out and he tossed the phone onto the seat beside him, his fingers reaching for the ignition key and starting the pickup.
Another couple of hours and he'd be at the hospital. Or nearby, anyway, he amended. The food was still sitting heavily in his stomach, and he looked at the coffee with distaste. He wanted a beer.
June 29, 2012. Gulfstream G280, fifteen minutes out of Sharm el-Sheikh
"How long will this take?" Penemue moved restively against the cream leather upholstery, his gaze on the window.
"About four hours," Ellie said, her eyes on the laptop's screen. "Give or take conditions."
"You were not surprised by the demon's appearance." The angel's tone was flat. "Nor by his lack of power."
She glanced at him. "No, I told you, we ran into a few lower level demons at home, a few days ago."
"What did you make of what he said?"
"I don't know," she said, gesturing at the laptop. "The only prophecy I knew of relating to the Winchesters was the one about the Seals and the Righteous Man."
"I too have not heard of any other," Penemue agreed.
"What happened between you and Father Monserrat?"
He sighed, leaning against the cabin's side. "Nothing personal," he said. "He contacted me, not long after Michael denied our request. He asked for my help – our help – at the monastery."
"With what?"
"It was, as you know, a period of great unrest," he said. "Not just Lucifer's meddling and the Horsemen, but throughout Heaven and across the earthly plane. The Others also took advantage of the troubled nature of the times, stirring up the populace, aiding the humans in their activities of terror. They were looking for things."
"Things?" Ellie tilted her head as she looked at him. "You mean artefacts? For rituals? Spells? Knowledge?"
"All of those," Penemue agreed tiredly. "They attacked the monastery and killed many."
"Father Monserrat would've understood –"
He smiled at her. "I doubt if the good monks of St Parisius could differentiate between one fallen angel and another, particularly when their blood was being let." He looked back at the window. "It wasn't the only place that was targeted. Many of the old libraries and keeps were looted and burned. Patrick told me what had been happening."
"Do you know what they're looking for?"
His brows pinched together and he waved a hand vaguely. "Omens, sigils, spells and black magic. They believe they can go home."
"To Heaven?" Ellie asked, surprised.
"They have convinced themselves of Raphael's lies," the Watcher said. "That God has forsaken all and Heaven is for the taking."
God, as Penemue well knew, was very much around, if keeping a low profile, Ellie thought. It was hard to believe his sons, even those that'd fallen in rebellion, didn't know it.
"Would they try to make an alliance?" she asked him. "With the archdemons? To put Lucifer back into power?"
His gaze returned to her, the startling blue eyes shadowed. "Yes, I believe they will try."
"Will it work?"
He shrugged. "I doubt it. The Fallen will not be looking to reinstate Lucifer in his full power."
"They won't?" Ellie asked. "Why not?"
"He had them for millennia, Eleanor," Penemue said. "Used them for sport, to assuage his frustration, his anger and boredom. There is nothing left of the celestial songs they once were, and their hatred for him is deeper than you could possibly imagine."
"Then why look for him?"
"Oh, they want him back," the Watcher said, a thread of amusement in his voice. "I have no doubt they already have a means and a plan to keep him under control, to use his power and the power of Hell's Throne." He shook his head. "But the Others? They were the angels who gave fealty to Lucifer and then ran to save their own lives when Michael seemed to be winning. The Fallen call them the Tainted Ones, did you know that?"
She shook her head.
"If they cannot find Lucifer themselves, they will lie and convince the Others that all is forgiven and they will throw them into the abyss when they have what they want."
"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," she ventured. "Let them destroy each other?"
His answering smile was flat. "It would be a simple solution, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, I somehow doubt they'd leave much of the earthly plane intact by the time they'd finished."
That wasn't in the game plan, Ellie thought. She wondered sourly if Hell's plans would disrupt the Leviathan.
"Why did Lucifer interfere with the Leviathan?"
"The same reason he's done everything," Penemue said, his tone impatient. "He thought he could use them to wipe out humanity."
June 30, 2012. Kabul, Afghanistan
Penemue followed Ellie through the press of the crowds, uncomfortable and jostled by the surging mob, irritated by the unfamiliar and constraining clothing he wore, assailed by the shouts and cries of sellers and buyers, the cacophony of scents and the rising heat, the late afternoon sun beating down into the enclosed and airless narrow street.
He drew in a deep breath as she turned down a narrow laneway, relief filling him when the crowd thinned dramatically and the shadows of the stone and mudbrick buildings cut the heat. The lane wound through an old neighbourhood on the steeply rising ground and as they climbed, he could see over the roofs of the buildings, the glittering snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush casting their long shadow down over half the city.
"Here." Ellie stopped at the mouth of the lane, drawing back against the wall, her clothing, hair and face hidden beneath a plain black burqa and chadri. He stood beside her, keeping a chaste distance.
"What now?"
"We'll get picked up, taken to the base." She glanced back down the lane. "They'll give us a ride to Qal-eh Wust."
The distinctive chug-chug of a diesel vehicle bounced and echoed from the high walls and Ellie turned toward it, pulling back the sleeve of her robe to check the time.
The Landrover that drew up next to the mouth of the lane was a military vehicle, the driver's camouflage uniform showing a discreet RAAF patch on one sleeve. Ellie opened the door, using it to hide her as she slipped out of the covering robes and headdress. She wadded up the clothing and shoving it into her bag as she climbed into the LPPV quickly. Penemue got in beside her.
"Nice to see you again, Miss Morgan." The sergeant driving flicked a glance at her, his accent broad Australian.
"Good to see you too, Bob. How's Margaret?" Ellie leaned back and stretched a little, feeling relieved that so far, at least, they were running to the schedule. "Keeping up with little Peter?"
"She's got two to keep up with now. We had a little girl last year, Rebecca." Bob's expression didn't change, but his voice was filled with pride. "Reckons she shouldn't'a married a soldier, no help with them."
"Congratulations!" Ellie grinned at him. She'd spent two weeks with them in Melbourne, after Michael had been killed, taking advantage of Bob's furlough to test a new range of weaponry. His wife, Margaret, had welcomed the help with their infant son in a different country. "Are you back in the UK now?"
He nodded. "Set up house in Wiltshire. It's handy."
"Well, you tell her from me, soldiers make the best dads, even if they can't be there all the time."
He smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "Major's got a plane waiting for you at the airfield. It'll take you to Fayzabad. Kabul is too far, stretches the Chinook's limits. It's down for an aerial survey of the area, just surveillance. So long as you don't take more than an hour, it'll pick you up and bring you back at twenty-hundred jay."
She nodded. "How's the weather?"
"Good at the moment. Thunderstorms in the area, low level warning. No snow forecast until tomorrow."
Ellie recalculated the times. An hour's flight to Fayzabad, half an hour to Qal-eh Wust. The Gulfstream would take them back to the States. She pulled out her phone and sent a text to the jet's pilot, giving their updated details.
June 30, 2012. St Parisius' Monastery, Qal-eh Wust, Afghanistan.
The sun had dropped below the level of the peaks when the Chinook landed in the dry meadow, sending dust flying in every direction.
"You got an hour," the pilot told her through the headsets they wore, twisting around and leaning out of his seat, one finger tapping his watch to make sure she understood. "You're not here, we have to go without you, understand?"
Nodding, she pulled off the headset and climbed down the ladder, her backpack bumping against her. She hit the ground and turned to the look at the long and twisting path and stairs that led up to the monastery. Getting up there would certainly relieve the stiffness of the last six hours of travel, she thought, heading for the crumbling stone gateway at the base.
When they reached the top, it was full dark, and only the monk standing by the thick, timber gates holding a wavering torch showed her where they were. One of the gates stood open a little and she grinned as she recognised the stout man in the black robes, the torch lifted higher and lighting his short grey hair.
"Very clandestine," Father Monserrat said, eyes crinkling up with laughter. "Cryptic emails? Helicopters under cover of darkness –?"
He stopped abruptly, humour vanishing and his eyes narrowing as he saw the man behind her.
"You are not welcome here."
Ellie glanced back at the Watcher. "He's a trusted friend, Father."
"Then you might need to re-examine the criteria of your trust, child," the monk said, his tone acerbic. "The fallen sons of God are not as they seem."
"Some of them, no," Penemue agreed, walking into the circle of light thrown by the flickering torch. "But we are not all evil, Francis."
"Perhaps not," the monk allowed unwillingly. "Trust is a commodity more and more difficult to come by these days. You will understand, I think, that I do not invite you inside."
Penemue inclined his head. "I understand. I will wait here."
Opening her mouth to argue further, Ellie closed it again. The Watcher had told her what he wanted. They were on the clock and she didn't have time to convince the monk now in any case. She followed Father Monserrat inside the gates.
The courtyard, paved in mismatched stone, was small and the monk pushed the iron and timber doorway to the building open, stepping inside and setting the torch into a bracket on the wall.
"It's good to see the monastery managed to escape most of the fighting, Father," she said, following him down the lit hallway.
"We are too far north, too hard to get to, I think. And we are Benedictine, neither Buddhist nor Islam, minding our own business yet in the international eye. Of course, a couple of times it was touch and go. Just as well the catacombs are vast." He looked over his shoulder at her. "But we have not been out of reach of all our enemies."
"I'm sorry." She stopped as he did, in the great hall that ran the length of the building.
"Four years since I've seen you, and then you bring a Watcher," he chided.
She returned his gaze steadily. "Penemue has kept his vows, Father, and what he needs – it's of great importance now."
"Always with you, it's of great importance. There is too much drama in your life, Ellie," he told her, his reproving tone only half-joking. His expression softened as he studied her. "You look happier, but I see new scars."
She gave him a wry smile. "Scars are the price of doing business, in my line of work, Father, but yes, I guess in all the ways that count, I am happier."
He lifted a brow. "That's it? I'm not going to get a full account?"
"Soon," she promised, mentally adding him to the list of people she needed to actually spend some time with, not just hit up for favours. "But not this time."
She glanced down the hall. "We're on a timetable, I'm afraid."
"Alright," he agreed reluctantly, folding his arms over his chest. "Your email was excruciatingly vague. What is this item you must have?"
"It's a collar, uh, a torc really." She looked hopefully at him. "Made of gold, with a fine design that is engraved right around the length. It might give the appearance of being Egyptian or Roman, but it's a lot older than that. It's two pieces, joined together at the back with a ball joint, allowing it to be opened."
His gaze dropped to the floor as he appeared to consider the description. When he lifted his head, it was to nod at her. "I know the piece. It is in the oldest room in the vault. Come on."
Turning down the hall, he walked briskly, his robe rustling over the stone floor. Ellie followed him to the end, her gaze rising involuntarily to the curving staircase as they passed by. For a month, she'd been up and down those stairs several times a day.
Father Monserrat glanced back at her without slowing. "And he wants it for?"
"Do you really want to know?"
He snorted, the small noise echoing faintly against the stone walls that had narrowed to either side of them. "I think I must, if I'm to let it leave here. It's four thousand years old, according to the British Museum."
Letting out a deep exhale, she said, "He needs it to effect a transfer of an angel's essence - frequency - whatever you want to call it, from an angel to a demon."
The monk stopped dead in front of her, turning and staring at her. "What?"
"You asked," she said, giving him a small shrug as she took his arm and pushed him down the corridor that led to the catacomb entrance. "It's a long story, but we have good reason to believe Lucifer rode out of the Cage in an empty vessel. When the soul was returned to the vessel, he was in there with it and he's been slowly regaining his strength through the vessel's soul."
"Are you talking of Samuel Winchester?" Father Monserrat asked, his brows raised. "He was the vessel of Satan, wasn't he?"
She nodded, unsurprised by his knowledge of those events. The Winchester name had been passed around even while Lucifer had been stirring things up. She'd wondered at the time if it'd been deliberate on the devil's part, or the work of something else. "Like I said, Father, it's a long story. Sam was raised without his soul. He was nearly a year without it, in fact."
"By what? Or whom?"
"An angel and a demon," she said. "They didn't realise – or maybe they did – they'd resurrected his body but not his soul."
"But his soul was lifted also?" The monk's expression was incredulous, and Ellie couldn't blame him.
"Yes, Sam's brother –"
"The Righteous Man," Father Monserrat interrupted, his gaze intensifying on her. "I read the prophecy, Ellie. He was the one you came here to save, wasn't he?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "He convinced the Fourth Horseman to retrieve his brother's soul and return it."
"Convinced Death, did he?" Father Monserrat smiled doubtfully, as if he wasn't quite sure whether to believe her or not. "How did he manage that little feat?"
For a moment, she felt light-headed, seeing it all through the eyes of someone who hadn't lived through it, hadn't felt or seen or heard those things firsthand. She shook her head.
"Well, believe it or not, he has a kind of relationship with Death," she said, with another half-shrug. "At least, that what it seems like."
A mutual respect, she'd thought when Dean had told her about the rings. She wasn't going to dwell on that, or speculate about it with the monk. It was one of the many things they hadn't really gotten around to talking about.
"A relationship with Death," Father Monserrat repeated in bemusement. "Alright. And Lucifer is back on this plane, in the body of his vessel but without his power – have I understood that correctly?"
"Ah, almost," Ellie hedged. "The angel, Castiel, took Lucifer into himself when it seemed as if Lucifer was trying to kill Sam. Lucifer doesn't appear to have much strength in his current state, perhaps that's a permanent thing, perhaps not."
Father Monserrat let out a gusting exhale. "This is – well, it's unbelievable."
Ellie grinned. "And you a man of God, Father, I thought you believed in everything."
He spread his hands apologetically. "Apparently there are things that strain even my pious credulity. So Lucifer is back on this plane – in the body of another angel? How will the torc help with that?"
She nodded. "He has control of the angel, Father. We need to get him out, transfer him to a person. Then it will be possible to contain or kill him with holy oil – Oleum Sanctum Jerusalem."
"Does that really work?" the monk asked, a wistful curiosity in his voice. "I've read about it, but I've never been sure if the stories are true or just the wishful thinking of their very human authors."
"Oh, yeah, it works," Ellie said, thinking of Uriel. "It will trap an angel – they cannot pass out of the flames. If they do, they burn."
They'd reached the end of the corridor and the door to the vaults was in front of them.
"Fascinating." Father Monserrat pulled out a ring of keys and opened the heavy wooden door.
Steps led down into the darkness. Under the monastery, and leading back into the mountain's core, miles of catacombs, tunnels and caverns riddled the ancient rock. The first monks had hid in them, with every invasion, every persecution. Father Monserrat took a lantern from the shelf beside the door and lit the oil. The warm yellow flame brightened and cast its light down the stairs.
"It's in the oldest room. Mind your step." He led the way down the roughly hewn stone steps, the light wavering along the walls.
Ellie followed slowly, matching her pace to his, although the seconds were ticking away in her mind, and she was acutely aware that if they were not back in the field in thirty-five minutes, they would be walking back to Kabul. The Chinook's schedule was strict. There was no leeway for hitchhikers at all.
The vaults were down on the fourth level of the catacombs, she recalled. Following Father Monserrat down the winding stairs, their centres hollowed with the passage of feet over centuries, she wondered if she'd ever have the time to come here and document their contents. The twisting tunnels widened occasionally, passing through caves and caverns made by nature and only smoothed by man. Deeper, she could hear an occasional chuckle of water, some subterranean river or stream that had done its work in the higher levels and pulled by gravity, continued to work its way through the soft rock stratum of the mountain.
Glancing at her watch again, she bit her lip as another ten minutes passed and they still hadn't reached the room. He slowed as they approached another slight widening of the tunnel, stopping at a iron-bound door. She waited, trying to curb her impatience as he unlocked it.
The room they entered was one of the natural caves, wide rather than tall. The floor had been smoothed out to an even surface and shelving built along the walls. Boxes, chests, drums and barrels, bags and baskets stood on the shelves and around the floor, piled haphazardly one on the other, giving a surreal impression of Aladdin's cave, full of unknown treasures.
Father Monserrat moved confidently through them, going straight to a small, enamelled chest, tucked among others on a broad shelf. He unlocked it and lifted the shallowly curved lid, holding it out to her. Ellie walked forward, looking in. On a cushion of black velvet, the torc gleamed softly in the lamplight. It was almost circular, tapered toward the small knob that formed the locking mechanism, the entire necklet marked with a very fine design, graven into the soft metal, its pattern sinuous and repetitive, almost hypnotic.
She lifted it out of the box cautiously. It was very heavy and the metal had the silken lustre of pure gold, an almost matt sheen under the oily yellow light of the lantern.
"Do you know why he needs it?" Father Monserrat looked down at it, his voice very quiet.
Ellie fought the urge to whisper back, clearing her throat and trying to speak in a normal tone. "He said he needs it to prevent Lucifer from being able to invade his consciousness, during the transfer."
"Do you believe him?" Father Monserrat's brows rose quizzically.
She looked into the old man's warm, brown eyes and saw his fear. From what the Watcher had told her of the attacks on the monastery, it was understandable.
"Yeah, I do, Father. No matter what the Others have done or are planning, Penemue has never once given me a reason to doubt. He is committed."
He nodded, turning away and replacing the box on the shelf. He picked up the lamp and led the way out, Ellie following slowly, the torc heavy in her hands. She hoped the Watcher's motivations were as he'd said. She couldn't face the thought of betraying the man ahead of her, after all he'd done for her.
As they reached the main floor of the monastery again, he stopped, turning to her. "Have you heard of the massacres, in the south?"
Opening her backpack, Ellie pulled out several squares of silk, wrapping the torc in them and pushing it to the bottom of her pack. "Only what the news has been reporting."
"That's the whitewashed version, for the masses," the monk said. "The reality is much worse."
"When was this?"
"A few weeks ago."
When Crowley was still King, and looking for an edge over the levis, she thought. "And now?"
"I'm not sure," he said, his expression troubled. "It's been quiet, but the blood that was spilled … it was – I'm almost sure they opened a gate."
"Have you been called on?"
He shook his head. "John was here, around the same time."
She frowned, looking down at her pack. Ray had said something about a hotspot, but that had been weeks ago. She hadn't heard from John or Patrick since getting out of Hell.
"There was a change of rulership in Hell, Father." She settled the pack securely on her shoulder, too conscious she had very little time to fill him in. "Crowley was killed. He was holding the Fallen with a spell. But it's likely they're free now. We'll have to wait and see if they are content to return to the old ways, or if they're going to try and push through here."
Father Monserrat straightened, brows knitting up. "If they align with the nephilim who have turned against humankind …"
"Yeah. Well, let's get Lucifer sorted out first," she said with a tired smile. "We'll worry about the rest when there's no chance he can regain his power. I'll let you know how we go." She leaned forward, kissing him lightly on both cheeks, then turned away, heading for the door.
"Ellie? Travel safe, child. God be with you," he called after her.
Ellie turned as she pulled open the heavy postern door in the building's larger gate. "And with you, Father."
Walking quickly through and pulling it closed behind her, she heard the locks turning and the iron bars sliding across.
Penemue came out of the shadows along the wall. "Did you get it?"
"Yep." She glanced at her watch. "We've got five minutes to get to the field."
July 1, 2012. Rochester, Indiana.
Dean stretched along the front seat of the pickup, knees bent and boots resting against the passenger door. He was too tall, he thought, as the position became untenable within a few minutes. Exhaling in frustration, he changed position to lean back against the driver's door, stretching his leg out along the seat. It was a little better.
His phone vibrated against his hip, and he opened his eyes, digging with one hand in his coat pocket.
"Yeah?"
"Got another message from Ellie," Sam said, sounding as loud and clear as if he'd been sitting in the car.
"What is it?" He gave up on the idea of getting comfortable enough to catch some sleep.
"Uh … All okay. Flight GS-280. Chicago ETA 1750. See you soon."
Leaning back against the door, Dean closed his eyes, his chest unknotting as the tension of the last three days began to unravel.
"You there?"
"Yeah," he said. "M'here, just – uh – yeah."
He could hear his brother's curiosity, pulsing at him across the airwaves as the silence on the line stretched out. He'd been worried for the last few days about Ellie but the laughable thing was, the really dangerous part of what they were doing hadn't even started yet. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he tried to focus on the conversation enough to defuse Sam's silent prodding.
"Where're you?"
"Springfield, Illinois." His brother's indrawn breath was audible, Winchester-speak for I won't forget this, it'll come up sometime. "I should be there in about five hours."
Dean looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Sam would be here by two. If he left at two-thirty, he'd easily make Chicago by five-thirty.
"Good. I'm in the woods, on the other side of the river to the hospital. I'll see you around two."
"Yeah."
He closed the phone, replacing it in his pocket.
A Watcher. A demon. A possessed angel. It sounded like the start of a really bad joke. He hoped like hell this was all going to work.
5.40 p.m. July 1, 2012. O'Hare International Airport, Chicago.
Dean walked down the concourse of Terminal 5, his gaze alternating between the growing crowd of people milling around the gates and his watch. The private lounge was to the left, and he pushed through the doors, relieved to see no one there. He might've been getting old, he considered, walking over dark crimson carpet and past a tasteful seating arrangement of pale grey club sofas and comfortable-looking armchairs to the broad expanse of windows that comprised the outside wall of the room, but too many people in one place made him uncomfortable.
He'd left Sam three hours ago, sitting in the same spot by the river, watching the hospital. They'd called Meg, told her they had a plan to help Cas. The demon'd sounded sceptical but willing. As soon as Ellie and her angel friend arrived, they could get back there and get it over with.
He was, he thought, getting more patient these days, but he had no problem admitting he didn't have the patience for this. The whole world was crazier than it'd been when the devil'd been playing Let's End It All; the problems he couldn't ignore were mounting up like bad fucking IOUs in a casino.
The airport's intercom squawked and a voice too low and muffled to be heard clearly mumbled something about some flight delay or other. Knuckling his jaw, the prick of stubble he hadn't had the time or inclination to shave when he'd left the last motel, in whatever the hell town that'd been, reminded him it'd been a couple of days since he'd managed a shower or even a few hours of decent sleep.
He slid another glance at his watch. 5.50. The airport was known for its delays, but the hell was the hold up with a private fucking jet? He walked around the spacious room again, pushing his hands into his pockets, wondering what the point of the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows was when you couldn't see the fucking plane you were there to meet. Middle of summer and they had the aircon up high and it was like friggin' Alaska in the private lounge.
"Are you waiting for a private plane, sir?"
He swung around, looking at the slender woman standing behind him. Ash-blonde hair cut into a symmetrical bob to her jawline framed a pretty face enhanced by flawless makeup. The pale grey, form-fitting silk jacket and skirt she wore was brightened by a white blouse with a crimson bow at the base of her neck, the outfit proclaiming her an employee of the company who owned the lounge. A photo ID clipped to one pocket confirmed it.
"Uh, yeah," he said, wondering if she was going to throw him out. In travel-worn and oil-stained jeans, boots, musky shirt and coat, he thought he might've looked out of place in the luxurious lounge. Her expression didn't suggest it. She was looking at him with a polite yet warm regard.
"GS-G280 landed twenty minutes ago, sir," she said, gesturing unhelpfully toward the windows which showed acres of unoccupied concrete and nothing else. "The passengers are being processed through B&C now. It won't be long."
"Right," he said.
"Would you care for a complimentary drink while you wait, sir?"
"Uh –" He looked at her closely, wondering if it was some kind of setup. Comped drinks for waiting for someone? It was tempting. A double would've taken the edge off nicely, but he had a long drive and the transfer of the devil from angel to demon waiting for him and he shook his head regretfully. "Nah – uh, no, thanks. I'm good."
"Well, if you're sure I can't get you anything …?"
He shrugged, his gaze cutting away. "M'fine."
"Then you have a nice day, sir."
He glanced back as she turned and walked away, heading for a glass door with a company logo on it. Under it, he made out the slogan; "Making Your Travel Experience That Much Better".
No kiddin', he thought, turning back to the window. He'd heard somewhere most airline hostesses were hired first on their looks and measurements, then on their intelligence. It looked like the whole industry followed that game plan. No argument a pretty woman was likely to be more soothing to an irate customer than a plain one, but then again, how irate could anyone get, flying around in a private plane, waited on hand and foot?
The heavy clunk on the other side of the room intruded and he turned, seeing the door open. Two men walked out, both in navy suits, dragging wheeled travel bags. Pilots, Dean decided, catching sight of their IDs, pinned to the pocket of their coats.
Behind them, another slender, pretty woman, this one brunette, but wearing the same immaculate grey suit as the blonde, locked the door open, giving him a view down the short corridor behind it.
The privileges and perks of enormous wealth disappeared from his thoughts as he caught sight of a flash of red, coming around the bend in the corridor. Taking a step toward the door, he stopped as he saw the man walking behind Ellie, a hand proprietarily on her shoulder.
The Watcher, he decided. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered with long, black hair drawn back and bound at the back of his neck, the guy looked to be in his early forties. Bright blue eyes were vivid against a deep tan, a trim black moustache and goatee further defined the strong jaw. He caught up to her and Ellie turned to look up at her companion, slowing down so that they walked close together as he bent to say something to her. He saw her face lighting up in a brilliant smile at whatever that was.
Didn't look like a fallen angel, he thought. More like a goddamned rock star.
"Why did I not need a – a passport? – to enter this country?" Penemue asked Ellie as they left the counter and walked toward the airport entrance.
"Do you have one?" she asked, glancing at him curiously.
"No."
That was something, she thought. "I asked a friend of mine to put a temporary visa and supporting documentation on the system for you," she told him.
The Gulfstream's connectivity capabilities were excellent and Ray'd messaged her when they'd been halfway over the Atlantic to let her know the Watcher's credentials had been massaged into the system. He'd already contacted Yure for the details he'd needed to put the appropriate application and rubber-stamping in place for the issue of a new US passport for Penemue. It would be delivered within a couple of weeks.
As they came around the bend in the corridor, the Watcher put his hand on her shoulder and she slowed down. "These boundaries of country and state are easier to manage when one has the power of Heaven with which to move around," he said.
Smiling, she couldn't argue. "I think bureaucracy was invented to keep us humble."
The door at the end was open, the grey and red private lounge visible through it. Hurrying, she saw Dean as she came through the door, her stride faltering when she noticed the lack of expression on his face, his gaze shifting from her to the man beside her.
He was pissed, she thought. It couldn't be helped. There'd been no way of bowing out of the side trip and relatively speaking, it'd all gone fine. They had what they needed. Drawing in a deep breath, she walked over to him.
"Hey."
It could only have been a couple of seconds, but it seemed longer as their eyes met and she caught a fleeting shadow; some doubt, or uncertainty, in his. Dropping her bag, she stepped close, her arms sliding around him, eyes closing as his scent surrounded her. He hesitated a fraction longer, then his arms encircled her. She lifted her head as he bent his, the kiss demanding, bruising her lips, hungry with an emotion she wasn't sure how to categorise.
Pulling back a little, she felt his grip tighten, then release her, whatever it'd been driving him gone as he looked down.
"Afghanistan, Ellie?" His face screwed up with exasperation. "Really?"
"Not by choice," she told him.
Taking another small step back, she turned to look at the Watcher. "Dean, this is Penemue. Pen, this is Dean Winchester."
The two men viewed each other warily, nodding in acknowledgement but neither offering their hands.
"It's interesting to meet the man who broke the Chains of Destiny," the Watcher said, inclining his head.
Dean glanced at Ellie, brows lifting slightly. "Uh, yeah, I had a lot of help with that."
Rolling her eyes, Ellie asked, "Where's the truck? We've been travelling for sixteen hours, could we get going?"
"Lot outside," Dean said, putting his arm around her shoulders and taking her pack from her, the gesture more than a little possessive, she thought, not sure if she should be annoyed or amused by it.
From Kabul to Cairo, she'd been on the phone or sleeping. Refuelling in Cairo then the last leg over Africa and the Atlantic, she'd managed to catch a bit more sleep, but the trip had been tiring and she wanted nothing more than all of this to be over. She needed a shower, food, a bed to sleep in. She wanted time with Dean, enough to reassure both of them that nothing had happened, or changed.
Leaving the Watcher to follow, they walked out of the airport and across the lot, and she didn't think she was going to get any of those things, not for a while, at least.
July 1, 2012. I-90S. Indiana.
"Demon signs, all over Montana, and spreading out, Sam said. Ray confirmed it yesterday." Dean kept his eyes on the road, but he was aware of her beside him, aware of the fallen angel pressed too closely against her on the other side.
At the back of his mind, there was a vague and irrational anger at the woman sitting next to him. His attempts to logic his way around it, or even suppress it, seemed to be making it worse.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her lift her hand, rubbing her knuckles over her eyes.
"Are they back in Rochester?"
"Doesn't look like it," he said. "There're a few, but more in Memphis, Pittsburgh, Dallas –"
He caught her sideways glance at the angel, and Penemue's nodded response.
"They can't see him, or even feel him, really," the Watcher said, his tone thoughtful.
"So, they're searching the same places Crowley was," she said.
"Yes."
"Who, exactly, are you talking about?" Dean flicked a glance at Ellie.
"The archdemons," she said.
"How much further to Castiel?" Penemue looked over Ellie's head at Dean.
"Just under two hours," Dean replied shortly. "What about the archdemons?"
"You need to tell Dean about the Others," Ellie said to the Watcher. "It's going to have an impact on everything."
Dean shot a wary look past her at the fallen angel. "What others?"
The angel stared through the windshield. "You know about the angels who fell? Who chose to live on earth with humankind?"
"Uh, some."
"Not all were chosen by God. Not all wished to teach humankind. Quite a few of them were … aligned ... with Lucifer's ideas."
"Yeah, that I've heard." Dean glanced down at Ellie. She was leaning back, her eyes half-closed. Her face was a little pinched, the fine white scars, and the scattering of freckles standing out.
"There were twelve, who Fell with their Grace, honoured to be chosen," Penemue said. "The Others, they fell to earth when Lucifer called them to fight. On the battlefield, when it became plain that Michael was winning, they fled. When Michael cast the Morning Star into the abyss, only nine of his army stood with him."
Frowning at the road, Dean nodded. "Yeah, the, uh, archdemons."
"Yes," the Watcher said. "The Others settled to the east, but they slowly returned, their numbers diminished. They were traitors, outcasts to everyone and everything. They were bitter and angry."
Sounded like most of the angels he'd met, Dean thought disparagingly.
"We, the Twelve, were – are – the Watchers; Irin we-qadishin, called by the oldest texts humanity wrote. We were tasked with teaching, guiding, helping humanity to progress to enlightment, to being able to evolve themselves." The Watcher exhaled, the sound laden with frustration. "But, even within the Twelve there was dissidence. Some thought humanity would never progress. Some found mortal life to be too hard, too difficult to bear."
He glanced over Ellie's head to Dean. "Azazel was such a one."
Dean stiffened at the name. Ellie shifted closer, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He glanced down and made an attempt to relax.
"In time, their discontent spread. They left us, joined the Others and forgot their origins."
"They forgot they were angels?" Dean asked.
"They forgot they were the sons of God," Penemue corrected him. "Forgot they'd been created celestial songs of harmony and obedience. They practiced abomination. Begat monsters. They infected the land and the people with wickedness and evil."
The Watcher's voice was deep, not quite as deep as his, but with a smooth timbre and a measured cadence. In his mind's eye, that voice conjured disturbing images, vivid and bright as if he'd seen or heard this before. He shook himself free of them, brows knitting up as he refocussed on the highway, on the feel of Ellie's thigh against his own.
"What happened to them?"
"God sent a Flood," the Watcher said, shrugging. "To wipe them out and the people who'd followed them and to cleanse the land of the residue of their practices." He glanced at Dean. "It was the last time He intervened in this world."
Dean nodded. He'd heard that too.
"Some survived. When you and your brother took Lucifer down, they realised the Morning Star had been their one real hope for the paradise on earth they'd been waiting for."
Dean's mouth twisted. "Lucky for us none of them met up with Raphael."
"Yes, it was," Penemue agreed seriously. "They probably already know Lucifer has been freed of the Cage for the second time. They will be looking for him."
"But you think that the, uh, archdemons are also trying to find him?"
"Oh, yes," the Watcher said. "They will want him back. Their power is considerable, but if the Others attempt to ally with them, they may be undefeatable. I'm not completely sure the Fallen would countenance such an alliance, but I have no doubt the Others will attempt it."
"Why – uh – wouldn't the archdemons want them?"
"The Nine fell with Lucifer. His personal guard, the angels that were most loyal to him. The Others are worse than traitors to them; they are betrayers of the most vile kind." Penemue shook his head. "The Fallen call them the Tainted Ones, and every one has been condemned to Grosb Cnila."
"Uh … yeah, okay." He wasn't sure he needed to know what that was.
"Penemue thinks the archdemons won't return Lucifer to power," Ellie said.
"What?"
"Lucifer tortured them, over and over, apparently, before Lilith was condemned to Hell," she elaborated. "They might be looking for some payback, or they might just want to keep him on a leash. Either way, if they make an alliance with the Others, it'll only to be find him. They'll probably renege on any deal."
"So," he said, consideringly. "What we should be doing is bringing all of them together and hoping they'll kill each other and save us the trouble?"
Penemue turned his head and smiled. "There springs the hope of the human soul."
Dean shrugged. "Just a thought."
"What we need to do is get of rid of Lucifer." The Watcher's smile vanished. "Without him, the Fallen will not have a leader."
"You think they'll just sulk in Hell and leave us alone?"
The angel shrugged. "There was never any love lost between the nine angels who followed Lucifer, you know. It was the Morning Star who bonded them, gave them a common cause."
"That cause still exists," Ellie said, her voice quiet. "Humanity still exists."
"True," Penemue admitted. "It is the one thing Lucifer and the Fallen have in common with the Others, the desire for the complete extermination of humankind."
"But not you." Dean slid a sideways glance at the Watcher.
"No," Penemue said, turning to look at him. "My brothers and I hold to our vows, Mr Winchester, as we have for three thousand years. We will always follow the Word of our Father."
He felt the press of Ellie's thigh against his, glancing down at her. She wasn't looking at him, but he could see the faint crease between her brows.
"These, uh, other fallen angels," Dean said. "They're still angels? How do we kill 'em without going toe to toe?"
"They fell without their Grace," Penemue told him. "They are mortal beings, flesh and blood, although still difficult to kill."
"They'll regenerate from any injury," Ellie added. "Unless you cut out their heart."
"So, we can't use anything long range?"
"We can," Ellie said. "But we'll have to follow up."
"So, like the levis?"
"Yeah," she said.
He glanced down at her again, seeing her eyes close, her head tip to rest against his shoulder. He hadn't had the chance to ask her about the blip in Egypt, he realised, shifting his gaze over her head to the angel – man – whatever the Watcher was – sitting next to her.
There were too many factions. Too many variables. It didn't seem all that likely any of them would sit still and wait for a tiny group of hunters to come and put an end to them. They'd be jockeying for power, for position, for the advantage and he had the bad feeling they'd already started, putting them on the back foot. Again.
Rochester, Indiana.
Sam watched the lightning flickering near the horizon. He'd been watching the storm for the last hour, and it seemed to be getting closer, although slowly. Storms were common enough in the state during the summer months, but this one made him uneasy. It didn't seem to be moving with the prevailing wind, and trying to find it on the weather site's radar, it looked a lot smaller than what he was seeing. It wasn't showing up on the lightning finder either, despite the roiling sheet lightning he was watching and the multiple strikes at the leading edge. Weather anomalies weren't unknown, he told himself, crossing his fingers superstitiously.
He looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. Barring flight delays, airport delays and traffic delays, Dean would be back in another thirty to forty minutes.
The temperature in the car dropped and his breath fogged. He turned around to the back seat to see Bobby materialising.
"Demons," Bobby said the word that Sam had been trying to avoid. He nodded unhappily.
"How do they know where Cas is? How'd Crowley know, before?"
"Maybe they can feel Lucifer? Some kind of sensitivity to trapped celestial frequencies? Who the hell knows, Sam," Bobby looked across the river, at the dark bulk of the hospital buildings. "Don't really matter. We're not going to be able to lock down that place, ya know, it's too damned big."
"Yeah. I know." Sam thought of the interior, of the wards and stairs and corridors. "We can shut off most of the psych ward. I've got salt in the trunk. The doors to the ward are steel."
"We need help, Sam. Call your friends." Bobby vanished.
"Yeah." Sam picked up his phone and called up his contacts. Dean'd called Twist and Dwight. They'd need more.
US-31 Indiana
Dean glanced at the clouds moving toward them on his right. Lightning flickered through them, multiple strikes and continuous sheeting deep within the bases. Penemue turned his head to watch them as well.
"We're going to have company."
The Watcher nodded, glancing down at the woman sleeping between them.
"That is inevitable." He stretched his legs in the confines of the passenger well. "You have everything we need for protection?"
"Yeah, we're loaded for bear," Dean said. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Watcher's hand move, brushing a strand of hair from Ellie's forehead. "We haven't been able to find a foolproof way to hide Ellie yet."
"No," Penemue said. "She is alight."
Something in his tone grated on Dean. "That mean you got nothing either?"
"Yes."
Fallen, possessed or active, angels weren't a lot of use, he thought.
"I was quite surprised to hear you'd survived the Apocalypse," the Watcher remarked, apropos of nothing.
Dean flicked a curious glance at him. "Didn't think it was that important."
"It was written the Righteous Man would die when Lucifer was killed or returned to the pit. " He could feel the Watcher's gaze, burning against the side of his face. "She was adamant it wouldn't happen."
Dean stared at the road. "Didn't hear that one."
"Most of God's tests require a sacrifice of some kind."
"Yeah, I guess giving up my brother didn't really count," Dean commented sourly. "Makes faith a tough gig,"
"It does," Penemue agreed. "But humanity and angelkind alike don't value what comes easily to them."
"Well, here I am," Dean said, wondering if the Watcher had a point. "Still kickin'."
There was a moment's silence between them, the pickup's cab filled with the low rumble of the engine and the road noise under the tyres.
"She didn't tell you, did she?"
"Tell me what?" Dean asked, the back of his neck prickling. There were too many things Ellie hadn't told him, too many things he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Things he'd never thought to ask, things she hadn't volunteered. The last conversation they'd had was still jangling in pieces in his head.
"My apologies," Penemue said, turning to look through the windshield. "I have spoken without thinking."
Penemue asked me to talk to Michael … he lost his temper and he told me about the Horseman's rings … from inside Hell, he said they could be used to get in … To get Sam out? Or me? If Michael lost? … fragments of the conversation jumbled in his mind. He hadn't pressed her. He hadn't wanted to know every detail. The ones she'd given him had been too much. He realised there'd been gaps in that recounting. Things she'd talked around without him seeing it.
"Yeah, you probably did," Dean said. "But you're not gonna leave it there."
The Watcher turned, his gaze dropping to Ellie. "I would not like to violate her trust –"
"What'd she do?" Dean asked, his voice deepening as he shot another glance at the man – angel – on the other side of the cab.
"She talked to God."
Dean scowled, his gaze flicking back to the road. "Yeah, see, I don't know what that means. You mean she prayed? 'Cos I have to tell you, we were all praying at that point."
"No. I don't mean she prayed." The Watcher shook his head. "I mean she died. She went into the Light, in order to talk to God. It was a risk."
Where the fuck'd all the air gone? He looked down at his hands, gripping the wheel so tightly that the bones stood out white under the skin. She died? She fucking well died? He thought of the small vertical scar that lay between her breasts. It was a knife scar and he'd never asked about it.
A risk? The Watcher's last remark replayed as he tried to stop thinking about the scar and what it lay over. You fucking think?
Gone for good. He forced air into his lungs and let it out again. She couldn't have gone to a goddamned doctor, like he did, someone who could have brought her back if … if …
"How d'you know this?" he snapped, cutting off the churning questions and accusations in his mind.
"She asked for my help," Penemue answered simply. "I couldn't drive the knife into her, but I stayed with her, prepared myself to burn her body if she failed. And I thought she would."
There was a flash through the room as the light doubled in power and he stared in disbelief as Ellie was held in the centre of that beam, the colour bleached from her hair, her face, as the light strengthened … I was there, Cas – who can survive an archangel's attack? You couldn't … I can't explain it, I don't know how it happened, but she is. I spoke to her twenty minutes ago … Cas, are you God? … That's a nice compliment. But no. Although, I do believe he brought me back. New and improved …
Memories, thick and painful, rocketed through his mind.
"I was surprised that God even listened," Penemue was saying and Dean blinked savagely at the road, forcing memory and emotion somewhere else. "He hasn't been listening, really, for a long time."
He doesn't think it's His problem, Joshua'd said. God is dead. Raphael had been filled with an expressionless certainty, the dark skin of his vessel burnished by the flames.
"I was more surprised He intervened at that time. Lucifer had been banished. The world had been saved, but perhaps it was your sacrifice that moved Him, as much as hers."
"Cas fixed me," Dean said, his voice flat.
The Watcher nodded. "And God brought him back to do so."
"You're telling me if she hadn't – hadn't – uh – talked to him, me and Cas'd be dead right now? And Sam'd still be flying soulless?"
"Every action has a reaction, Mr Winchester," Penemue said, his gaze dropping to the woman between them. "And consequences flow from those actions as surely as ripples flow from impact."
He leaned back against the passenger door. "It renewed my hope – that she had succeeded like that. That someone could still make Him listen … and act."
"This was, uh, in 2010?"
"Yes, in early spring."
When he'd been prepared to hand himself over to Michael, Dean thought bleakly. Well, it sure as hell explained why she hadn't been around, didn't it? His stomach was twitching, the tension knotting his muscles sending spears of pain up through his shoulders and neck and into his head. He focussed on the road, belatedly recognising the turn off to the bridge just ahead.
Just breathe. You can deal with this later. No distractions now. Just breathe, he repeated to himself as he turned onto the bridge, the truck bouncing slightly over the seams.
Against his side, Ellie stirred, lifting her head from his shoulder.
"We there?"
He nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.
The hell hadn't she told him?
He thought he'd made it clear he wanted – not wanted, but needed – to know about the big things, the things that would've changed everything else. Dying sure as fuck fell into that category, he thought, his hands strangling the wheel again.
She hadn't wanted to tell him about any of it. Hadn't thought it would help. He knew why. For Ellie, it was in the past. Done. Over with. It'd worked out and that was all that mattered. She didn't do post-mortems, and unless something funny'd happened on a job, she didn't do walks down memory lane. It was one of the things they had in common, but he couldn't keep taking these ambushing surprises about her.
He saw Sam's car, and pulled in alongside it, forcing himself to inhale and exhale steadily, trying to make it sound natural. It wasn't the right time or place to deal with it now.
Turning off the engine, he got out of the pickup without looking at either Ellie or the Watcher. The air in the lot was cool and faintly tinged with moisture and he sucked it down, feeling the bands of tension in his chest and throat gradually ease.
Sam got out of the Jeep and looked at him, his brother's brow furrowing immediately.
"What's wrong?"
Dean shook his head. "Let's get this show on the road."