Chapter 5
11.30 p.m. July 4, 2012. St Louis, Missouri
Parking the Jeep a block away from the warehouse's address, Sam got out and walked around to the rear doors, pulling one open and unzipping the black, canvas gear bag that lay in the back. He still wasn't certain Ellie's motivation in putting him out of the main action hadn't been partly to short-circuit his older brother's protective instinct, and partly some plan cooked up between them to keep pushing female company onto him. He'd been trying not to acknowledge how much he was missing Tricia; her sharp intelligence and humour, her no-nonsense view of the world, the softer side he'd seen more and more as he'd healed under her care. The last text he'd had from her had been a week ago. Busy with the new cases, she'd said. Will call when there's time.
He pulled out a Remington pump and the double-barrelled sawn-off Dean usually gave Ellie, checking it was loaded and handing it to Carol. Lifting out a ten-pound bag of rock salt, he handed that to the girl as well, telling her she'd need to make a six-foot circle around the doorway when they got to the building. She nodded, tucking the bag under one arm, her eyes bright.
It wouldn't even make Lucifer hesitate, he knew, but if Meg'd called in reinforcements, it would give them some place to stand. Fitting the comms unit to her and adjusting his own, he wondered if Meg was enjoying the company of the devil as much as she'd thought she would.
"All that talk," Carol said, turning to look at the building. "About a war and genocide … do you really believe it'll come to that?"
Tucking another box of shells into his coat pocket, Sam nodded. Locked away, deep in the furthest corner of his mind, the devil's monologues still murmured and screamed, laughed and crackled with bitterness. He'd been bound and gagged, forced to listen to the fallen angel's endless litany of complaints and justifications, for what'd felt like a lifetime.
"Lucifer fell deliberately," he said to her. "He would've seen Heaven destroyed, every angel murdered, rather than acknowledge his father had loved humanity more than his sons."
Shutting the back door of the Jeep, he turned to her, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "The only thing he really wants is to wipe everyone out. He thought he'd be able to do it by defeating Michael, but that didn't work out."
"But you think he'll get his power back if the … um … archdemons can find him?"
Ellie did, Sam thought. "I don't know."
In those distant memories, the fallen angel had talked of a throne, a seat of power. Somewhere in Hell had been the impression he'd gotten from Lucifer's frequently pointless ramblings. A conduit to the billions of souls trapped in the pit.
"Doesn't it freak you out?" Carol asked, her enthusiasm gone. "All of this? It's so big."
Sam blinked. It was big. It'd been big for a long time now. "I, uh, try not to think about the big picture too much," he said. "Just this bit. Then the next, you know?"
Break whatever it is down to manageable chunks, Ellie's voice came back, another memory. Older. His brother strung up in a room and impatience beating a tattoo under his skin.
"That works?"
He gave her a one-sided smile. "Most of the time."
Trent pulled in behind him fifteen minutes later. The hunter got out of his car and took a bag from the rear seat, nodding to him and glancing curiously at Carol.
"We got the baby-sitting duty?" he asked, and Sam's mouth twisted up.
"Looks like," he said, relaxing fractionally. At least he'd be able to pass off protection to Trent if he needed to. "You ready?"
"Born ready," Trent agreed laconically.
Sam handed him the earpiece and throat mike and watched him slip the comms on, tapping his mike. "Can you hear?"
Trent nodded. "Five by five."
The hunter's voice came through his earpiece clearly and he nodded in satisfaction. They were out of range for the others; a deliberate factor, Ellie'd said, the tight effective distance to keep from being heard by any official or not-so-official listeners. They'd be in range once everyone was in the building.
It was hard to keep in mind that demons and the rulers of Hell weren't the only problem they were facing, he thought, waving the Remington in the direction of the warehouse and letting Trent take point. The levis weren't sitting on their hands. Every day that went by without interference to their plans was probably making the whole damned situation a lot worse.
One impossible problem at a time, Sammy, Dean's voice reproved gently in his mind. His big brother, not renowned for his patience, had that part of the job down cold. Something else Dean and Ellie shared, he realised. Most likely from lessons learned the hard way.
Dean looked up at the metal tower, the crane's motor and arm seeming a lot higher than he remembered from the morning's recce. It hadn't looked anywhere near this high on the satellite image either.
The angular struts would be easy enough to climb, he thought, so long as he didn't look down. It was the crawl along the crane arm he wasn't looking forward to. A thirty-foot drop to the concrete base. Probably wouldn't kill him, he decided. Just break both legs.
Two squares of yellow shone into the darkness from the building's side. Halfway along, same as before. The crane arm protruded into the building through a parking door, Ellie'd told him. Not the loading door that was four feet to the right and five times as big.
In black, her bright hair braided into a coronet and hidden beneath a dark knitted cap, she glanced at him, one brow lifting. "You okay?" she asked, her voice barely audible but the words clear through his earpiece.
"Yeah," he said, pulling on his gloves. "Fine."
"We've got one minute," she said, turning for the framework and starting to climb. Within seconds, it seemed, she was halfway up, her outline disappearing into the obscured tangle of black metalwork and grey shadow.
He drew in a deep breath and started after her, checking his hand and foot holds. The Benelli hung across his back, low enough, he hoped, to avoid snagging on the frame. The Colt was in his belt, fully loaded. He and Bobby'd spent four days on making the extra rounds, after getting out of Hell. He'd used a few at the hospital but he still had a box in his gear bag, and ten extras in his coat pocket.
Easing himself around the crane's cab, he swore inwardly as his hand slid from a greased pipe, heart rocketing into his throat as he swung one-handed out from the derrick's head and back in again. Ahead of him, Ellie had reached the arm and was tucking her gloves into her pockets.
Fuck. This wasn't even the hard bit, he thought, looking for a non-greasy handhold. There was still the fucking arm to get across yet. And, oh yeah, a demon to trick and trap. Ha ha.
"S'funny you didn't mention this when we were here earlier." Dean looked at the narrow steel frame of the crane's arm, his gaze dragged involuntarily down to the concrete below.
"Thought I'd surprise you." She reached up to the wire controlling the arm, feeling with her foot for the lower frame.
"I'm surprised." He watched her swivel around, both feet on the arm, balancing on the narrow frame. "Can I go with Twist now?"
There was a flash of white as she smiled in the darkness. Turning away, she began to crawl quickly along the struts, her small frame a fleeting shadow against the grey metal.
Huffing out a irritated exhale, he manoeuvred himself carefully under the motor and pulleys, hands gripping the struts tightly as his feet felt for anything solid to stand on. She made it look easy 'cause she was half his size, he thought sourly, following her across the drop.
At the other end, Ellie'd reached the narrow slot housing the business end of the hoist head. He stopped moving for a moment to see her twist herself around the arm and disappear into the darkness.
Something to look forward to, he thought, inching his way the rest of the way. A light flickered inside, Ellie's flashlight, shielded by one hand. He could see enough to pick the most likely place he'd fit through.
Arms extended in front of him, he tried not to think about the drop to the ground as he inched his way along the top of the arm and twisted his shoulders diagonally to get past the crane's hoisting block and jib wire. For a long moment, he was clinging onto the side of the damned thing, one foot feeling helplessly around for the lower part of the entry frame; shoulders, hands and arms taking his weight and complaining. A hand gripped his ankle, dragging it forward and he felt something solid under his foot. He transferred his weight thankfully and edged around the block.
"Let's not do that again," he suggested, wiping a hand over his face when he stepped down onto the floor.
Along one side of the upper floor, full floor-to-ceiling glass windows delineated the interior wall, overlooking the cavernous and mostly empty ground floor. On the other, offices or storage rooms took up the length of the building. The doors to them were solid, but he could see a thin line of light, halfway down the long, straight hall, shining obliquely over the floor.
He glanced at his watch. The others would be in place now, the circle poured out at the foot of the stairs. It was showtime.
He lifted a quizzical brow at Ellie and she nodded, moving ahead of him along the corridor.
She stopped by the door leaking light from its edges, shifting to the hinge side as he stepped in front of it. The lock was a cheap spring catch and he kicked, twisting sideways, his boot sole slamming into the door just above the knob with every ounce of his weight behind it. Door knob and lock broke free and the door flew open.
Ellie was inside before him, and he followed, scanning the room, the Colt in his hand. Meg was on her feet, backing quickly toward the other end of the room.
"Dean! What a surprise." The demon's gaze flicked from side to side.
Looking for a way out, Dean decided, or a weapon. It suggested she wasn't looking for a confrontation.
"C'mon, you're not really going to try to use those on me, are you?" Her gaze swung back to them, darting from the long, slender knife in Ellie's hand to the long-barrelled Colt he held. She laughed, but he thought it was a little forced.
"I thought you'd have remembered they can't do anything to me, Dean," she said, her voice changing, the pitch dropping, the timbre rounding, each word coming out more distinctly.
Dean's step faltered as he recognised the voice coming out of Meg's mouth, saw the demon's countenance alter at the same time, Meg's bright-eyed malice disappearing and the devil's heavy-lidded, contemplative expression taking over. The lids lifted and red light played around and through the demon's dark irises.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ellie moving forward, and he took a longer stride to keep even with her. Pay attention, he told himself. Do not fuck up.
"They won't kill you, but they'll kill Meg." Dean stared into the reddish eyes. The last time he'd been this close to the fallen angel, Lucifer'd pounded the crap out of him with his brother's fists. He shoved the tainted recollection aside. "No vessel, no return to power."
Lucifer laughed. "You think I need the demon or this meatsuit to live? Can't say the last couple of years have been fun, exactly, but they've been educational, Deano. Little Sammy's noggin was full of interesting information, and y'know, sometimes, I surprise even myself."
"That doesn't sound too hard," Dean muttered, and the demon grinned at him briefly, turning and focussing the red-rimmed eyes on Ellie.
"And this must be Eleanor," the devil said in a rich, slow drawl that made Dean's skin twitch. "We haven't met – formally – though my little housemate did try to fill in the blanks."
Meg shook her head, her gaze shooting to Dean. "He likes having plenty of hostages to fortune, doesn't he? Sometimes, more than he realises."
In his chest, Dean's heart gave an erratic beat, and he lifted the Colt, biting back his instinctive response.
"I've heard a lot about you," Lucifer continued, ignoring the movement as he stared at the red-haired hunter. "I have to say, you're smaller than I'd thought you'd be."
As she moved in a shallow circle around Meg to cut off any chance of the demon trying to get around her, Dean was relieved to see Lucifer's taunts weren't getting a response from her.
"You managed to annoy Raphael practically beyond reason," Lucifer added, stretching Meg's mouth out in a wide smile. "That alone gives us something in common."
Behind the demon, the doorway to the next room was open, and it threw a fast glance over its shoulder, backing through it. Dean kept the Colt's sight over its chest as Ellie followed. She was tight to the right of the door frame, out of his line. The next room had large, sliding windows along the interior wall, but only small, high windows near the ceiling in the exterior. The door leading out was at the end of the long room, closed.
He hurried through the open doorway, following the windowed wall as Ellie moved wide and took the external one.
"They tell me you're a spoiler. One of my Father's natural little monkey wrenches." Lucifer slowed down, his attention still on Ellie, the smile lingering but the expression in Meg's eyes cold and thoughtful. "Came very close to ruining our plans several times."
Ellie'd slowed as well, watching Meg indirectly as she kept on her flank. "Ah, well, you know the saying – if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again."
The demon threw back its head and laughed. "Oh, yes, that's what I'm doing."
Spinning around, Meg crashed through the last window pane beside the door, the glass exploding outward into the corridor, blood streaming from a dozen deep cuts as she clambered over the shards and bolted for the stairs to the ground floor.
Without hesitation, Ellie shot forward, vaulting through the opening and disappearing after her. Dean grimaced, seeing the scrap of black cloth against one upright dagger of glass. Sweeping out the long, upright pieces with the Colt's barrel, he let his coat slide down one arm and around his hand before he grabbed the frame and jumped through.
The demon leapt down the first section of metal steps and stopped on the half-landing as the hunters emerged from the shadows on the ground level, spreading out into a loose circle around the base of the staircase. Dean saw her face, white against the darkness behind her, as he caught up to Ellie and they descended toward the demon. Swinging around, Meg took the rest of the steps slowly, her gaze flitting from one face to another.
"A welcoming party," Lucifer said, stopping and clapping Meg's hands together when she reached the last step. "I'm flattered, but you really shouldn't've."
Dean exhaled as Meg stepped from the bottom riser into the circle. The demon pivoted in place, her eyes narrowed as she watched the nine hunters close up around her. Not one of them was looking at her, their gazes averted to one side or the other.
"Oh, Sammy! Long time no see." Lucifer's gaze locked onto Sam, the red light in Meg's eyes brightening.
On the far side of the circle, Sam lifted his eyes, his face expressionless. He moved forward with the others, tightening the circle.
"Of course, not that long, as some of us measure time, but it feels like a long time. But we were so close, I couldn't tell what was you and what was me."
"Light it," Dean said, flicking the lighter in his hand to life and dropping it.
Around the edge of the circle, the lighters fell onto the oil in unison and the flames rose instantly, casting umber and pewter shadows over the faces of the hunters. For a moment, in the clear, piercing light of the strengthening holy fire, Ellie thought she saw another face under Meg's features; masculine, unnaturally symmetrical, beautiful.
Meg's head cocked suddenly. The devil smiled, his aspect clear behind her face. "By the way, did I forget to mention I've got company coming tonight?"
Ellie felt it, at first, a deep vibration that reverberated through her bones, shrilled in her teeth and in the spaces in her skull. Beneath their feet the earth was moving – straining, she thought – and she stared disbelievingly at the demon. So much for Meg being smart.
"You called them?"
Lucifer shrugged. "Past time to be getting picky about my options," he said. "You know, poor little Meg really believed all that bullshit you filled her with."
"We didn't lie, Lucifer," Sam snapped, his face tight. "They won't hand it all back to you."
"You don't know that, my darling," Lucifer said, turning to look at him. "They were loyal to me from the beginning. And in spite of what you might've heard, they'll be loyal to the very end. They love me."
The rumbling noise became louder and more distinct, rising through the ground and increasing in pitch. To one side of the long warehouse floor, the concrete floor groaned, wide splits and fissures crackling through it. Puffs of grey and yellow steam escaped, writhing to the ceiling, bringing the pungent stink of brimstone.
"They're he-ere," Lucifer said, chuckling. "Happy Fourth of July!"
"Everyone get back!" Ellie yelled, waving her arms at the hunters surrounding the circle. "Get out! NOW!"
The moment of paralysing shock passed and they all turned, racing for the river door as the floor continued to creak and rumble on the other side of the holy fire circle.
"Oh, Eleanor?" Lucifer called out as she accelerated after Dean. She checked, throwing a look over her shoulder at the devil.
"You be sure to keep that child safe!" Meg's body danced around the edges of the burning circle.
Ellie swore inwardly, turning and running after Dean, already a few yards ahead of her.
From the corner of her eye, she Sam grab Carol's arm, his long stride hauling her across the floor. They were almost at the postern door, Trent a stride or two behind him. In front of her, Moses and Laney, Dwight, Garth, Marcus and Twist were sprinting for the big roller door, several yards ahead of Dean.
The blast wave hit her in the back, the air expanding, thrusting her forward. Perception altered as she was lifted and thrown – she glimpsed Dean's face, his mouth open but she couldn't hear anything; behind him, she saw the walls of the warehouse buckle and balloon outwards, as outlandishly surrealistic as a cartoon drawing – then she was landing, managing to keep her feet and stumbling erratically as outward explosive force knocked her forward. An arm flashed into her peripheral vision and a hand closed hard around her arm, yanking her back onto her feet.
Beyond the circle, Dean saw the floor turn red, clouds of steam boiling from the yawning crack. He turned and ran, realising seconds later that Ellie was no longer next to him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw her running, head down, and arms pumping, then a wall of pressure and heat hit him, effortlessly twisting him around and shoving him toward the open door. Peripherally, he saw Ellie stumble as the concussion outpaced her feet, and he braked, reaching out. His fingertips slid over her shirt before he managed to get one hand around her wrist, pulling her closer, stretching out his legs to keep them both upright as they ran for the back parking lot.
They were through the door, boots crunching on the gravel, when he threw another fast look over his shoulder. In the centre of the ground floor, a deep red light poured out of the ground, filling the interior of the warehouse, pulsing like the beat of a heart. Within the throbbing port-dark glow, several shapes were moving, indistinct, wreathed in shadow and steam.
He'd never seen them before, never even heard of them until recently, but he knew what they had to be. They surrounded the circle of fire and the flames died away, Lucifer stepping out. Three of the figures moved close to the devil. The other three turned outward, lifting their arms together. Jagged forks of black lightning arced from them to the walls of the building, the smell of burning metal, hot and acrid, filling the interior.
There was nothing flammable in the metal-framed and clad warehouse. They were going to blow it up anyway. The thoughts pushed and shoved at him and he lengthened his stride, his arm swinging around Ellie, dragging her in front of him as a second blast lifted him onto his toes, impelling him forward, the warehouse exploding behind them.
He hit the ground hard, rolling to break the impact. Metal and glass and plastic flew over his head, the night was lit up with fire behind them.
In every direction, the clanging, clattering, crashing noises of the warehouse's structure and contents hitting the ground and the hiss of steam as the superheated pieces hit the river beyond, were weirdly muted; a soundtrack with the volume turned way down. His ears were ringing, and he could feel liquid trickling down the side of his neck.
Getting to his knees, he stared around. He couldn't see Ellie, didn't know if she was ahead or behind him. The area around what was left of the building was littered with burning metal, the air noxious with the fumes of scorched earth and melting plastic. The flames filling the empty building were too bright to look at and he threw his arm over his eyes, squinting against the fierce light and heat, looking for any sign of movement.
Sam stopped as his arm sagged, yanked down by the dead weight. He looked down at Carol, her wrist held in his hand, lying at his feet. The last minute or two were blank. He could've sworn they'd been running.
Bending, he felt for her throat, fingers pressing into the side of her neck. A pulse beat there, strongly. His breath hissed out with the stabbing pain in his leg as he dropped to one knee. Must've been hit by something. The thought slid out of his mind as he pulled the girl closer, putting an arm around her back and leaning forward to slip the other under her knees. She wasn't heavy, but she was awkward, her head falling back over his arm, her weight shifting as he managed to get back on his feet. He turned and looked around.
He wasn't sure what had happened, only that for some reason the almost empty metal warehouse had exploded. At the back of his mind, something – some fact or knowledge - agitated. Something he remembered or didn't remember. It came to him as he reached the road.
The fuel depot. The huge tanks of gasoline and diesel.
Getawaygetawaygetaway. Staggering across the road, the command pounded insistently through his head. RunrunrunrunrunRUNRUNRUN!
Where was Trent? The lanky hunter'd been right behind him. Where were Dean and Ellie? He couldn't see properly, something was running into one eye. The car was four blocks away. Forcing himself into a shambling trot, he stumbled over the kerbs, veering from side to side. In his leg, a long metal shard prevented the muscle from expanding and contracting properly but he wasn't aware of it, couldn't feel it.
Where was the goddamned car, he wondered despairingly, the girl's body weighing him down.
Garth lifted his head. The night sky was full of light and shadow but eerily silent. He was on the road, he thought, frowning. Pushing himself to his knees, he saw the man in front of him, lying frighteningly still. He crawled closer, and his stomach lurched.
Dwight.
It was Dwight and there was something wrong with him. He lifted the older man's head, snatching his fingers away as a sharp edge sliced into them, bile and tears rising when Dwight's head bounced back onto the asphalt.
"Sorry, man, I'm sorry," he said, reaching out again. The fragment of metal gleamed in the red-gold light, emerging from the side of Dwight's skull, filling him with a disorienting sense of wrongness.
That shouldn't be there, Garth thought. Touching the other side of the hunter's head, and turning it gently toward him, he saw the lifeless eyes, open and staring. The contents of his stomach bubbled up his throat, burning and choking him and he turned away, ejecting the thin stream of bile onto the roadside, wiping his mouth when no more would come out.
Heat licked at him from behind and he crabbed around on his hands and knees, seeing the flames reaching up into the sky. On the other side of the warehouse was the Valvoline depot, he remembered. Big round tanks of fuel no more than a hundred yards from the inferno … he sucked in a deep breath, lurched to his feet and forced himself into a tottering run.
Twist rolled onto his hands and knees, wiping a hand over his face, wincing as the scrapes on his palm stung and prickled. Everywhere he looked, there were flames; incandescent light rippling, filled with roasting heat, the bitter and toxic smell of charred dirt and fried metal, glaring into his eyes. Next to him, Marcus lay bent in a way, he realised belatedly, the human body really wasn't designed for.
Hunkering back on his heels, he took a firm grip on Marcus' wrists and ankles, hoisting the other man over his shoulder, joints popping and cracking as he straightened slowly. His knees were smarting and he looked down. Over the ground, buckled metal mesh made a criss-cross pattern under his feet. Fence, he thought disconnectedly. Flattened now.
He headed for the road, the taste of burning metal in his mouth, the smell of his hair crisping on his scalp driving him forward. He didn't remember what'd happened. There'd been a push. From behind. Truck was on the next block over. Get to it, some part of his mind insisted. Now.
It was bad, but something worse was comin'. He wasn't sure what that was, but he was sure he needed to be a long way away before it got here.
Moses blinked as small fingers wiped away the gunk sticking his eyelids together.
"C'mon, baby, get on your feet," a familiar voice rasped in his ear. "Gotta get the fuck outta here."
He forced his eyes to open, wincing as the too-bright light sent an ice-pick stab through them into his brain. "Laney?"
She didn't look right, he thought blearily. One side of her face was shiny and red, all the bouncing curls flattened and matted against her skull.
"Wh-t'hell happened to you?" he asked. He thought he'd asked that, but he couldn't be sure. There was something thick and wrong with his mouth.
Shaking her head at him, she leaned back on her haunches and took his hand. "We're in trouble, Moses," she said. "Get on your feet. I cain't carry you."
He pushed down with his hand as she pulled up, a grunt breaking free of his throat as that movement sent a blinding bolt of pain from wrist through shoulder and into his chest. He could smell something burning, wondering uncomfortably if it was him.
"Wh-happened?" he asked again, when he was sitting.
"Explosion," Laney said, shifting her hold to the front of his shirt. "Get up, man!"
Rolling onto his knees as she tugged and pulled at him, he managed to get himself vertical. "S'plosion?"
He remembered the interior of the warehouse. Empty. Nothing but metal and concrete. There'd been nothing to explode in there. "Not makin' sense."
"No," she agreed tightly. "Move!"
Ellie rolled over, sucking air in painfully. She'd been propelled forward, flying almost, and had hit the ground on her hands and forearms, tucking and rolling to try and break the force of the collision. She hadn't even seen the tree behind her, but from the pain in her back and the lack of air in her lungs, it seemed reasonable to assume she'd hit it somehow. She could feel the muscles protesting as she sat up, but aside from the grazes and some minor pain, she seemed to be in one piece.
Glancing around, she saw Dean on his feet, ten or fifteen yards away. His progress was more sideways than forward but he looked like he was heading back toward the remains of the burning building.
Wrong. The thought was instant and panicky. Trap. Danger. Fire.
Shaking her head, she tried to force some kind of coherence to the disjointed thoughts, swallowing hard against the thick nausea that filled her throat with the movement. The formless, pulsing anxiety drove her to her feet, overriding everything else.
"Dean!"
She'd shouted – she knew she had – but she couldn't hear it. Stumbling toward him, tears of frustration ran down her cheeks at the lack of coordinated response from her body, her gait jerky and slow.
"DEAN!"
He swung around, his face scraped and bloody, bloodshot eyes widening as he saw her. Relief made her knees sag and she waved an arm, swinging around, her gaze darting back and forth across the rear lot.
The fire had reached the scrubby brush dividing the warehouse's lot from the neighbouring commercial business and as her eyes followed its progress, licking through the dried-up grass and jumping from canopy to canopy, the huge cylindrical shapes behind the woods lit up.
Memory returned and with it a breath-stopping wave of fear. Adrenalin surged and burned through her, wiping away pain and thought and she grabbed his arm as he reached her.
"RUN!"
Dean shook his head as he saw Ellie's mouth open and close, the reflex action almost sending him to his knees. Catching himself, he took a few steps toward her, looking down as his legs wobbled. He could hardly hear her over a loud and insistent ringing. He'd been looking for the source of the irritating sound.
She grabbed his arm, dragging him as she turned and headed down the slope and he followed, his feet seeming to find every hole and fallen branch and rock, barely able to stay on them. He wasn't sure why they were running, but he was willing to go where she led, if only his feet and legs would pick up their game and stop trying to send him to the ground. There was something wrong with his back too – or his chest – he couldn't keep the flashes of pain straight.
The river was in front of them; he could see the flames reflecting on the dark surface, and he slowed, tugging on the grip on his arm when he realised she wasn't going to stop. Her fingers dug in, pulling him down to the water, both of them falling in when the bank dropped away. The river closed over his head before he'd had a chance to suck in a deep breath.
WHUMPF! WHUMPF! WHUMPF!
Below the muddy surface, he saw the world explode in flames, brilliant light and smeary colour and a muted roar that even managed to drown out the ringing noise for a few moments.
He couldn't see Ellie ahead of him; even with that too-bright light. He could feel her hand, still clenched tight around his wrist. Nausea churned in his stomach and he registered a pounding in his head as she pulled him deeper. She was, he thought dazedly, kicking through the current, angling them downstream away from a fiery sky and a burning heat he could almost feel through the freezing cold river.
Tanks'd exploded. The thought drifted, nothing concrete to anchor it. He didn't know which tanks. He kicked out, legs feebly responding. His chest was aching. The muscles of his throat twitched. The breath he was holding was almost out of oxygen. He was going down in the water, losing heat and thought as the cold penetrated through the layers of clothing, to his skin, and deeper, taking strength from his muscles.
Ellie felt him sinking and kicked hard for the surface. She hoped they'd come down river far enough to be clear of the falling debris. The current here was somewhere in the vicinity of one and a half miles per hour; with any luck, they'd be out of range.
Breaking through to the air, she sucked down a deep breath, grimacing at the taint of the burning fuel that coated her tongue. She submerged again, dropping below Dean to lift his arm over her shoulder. He wasn't moving, and she rolled in the water as she kicked hard, twisting when they reached the surface, filling her lungs to keep them afloat and on their backs. Dean's mouth opened, his chest shuddering and expanding, eyes cracking open as the fresh air inflated his lungs.
In the brilliant, burning light of the fire, she could see the puckered white edges of the head wound above and behind his ear, washed bloodless by the river.
He started treading water, taking the drag of his weight from her, eyes focussing as oxygen filled his blood, pumped through his body. Ellie looked over her shoulder. The banks weren't more than ten or fifteen yards away and she tugged at him, drawing him after her as she kicked toward them. A moment or two later, he added his stronger kick to hers, and Ellie felt the soft river mud beneath her fingers and knees, letting Dean go and crawling up out of the water to the dry bank.
Dean followed, collapsing onto his shoulder and grunting with pain when he reached her. He was alive. They were both alive, she thought tiredly. She hoped it would be the same for everyone else.
Turning his head, Dean hawked back and spat the taste of river and acrid fuel from his mouth. His head was still aching, but feeling was slowly returning to his limbs. He could hear again, he realised, registering the guttural roar of the fire upstream, the sound of sirens and fusillade of bangs and crashes as more of the depot caught alight.
He turned back at the tap on his shoulder, lifting a hand and rubbing at his eyes when Ellie leaned over him. The movement brought a sharp stab of pain, somewhere behind his shoulder and a grinding sensation in his chest.
"Can you hear me?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
His voice sounded raw, too high and as if he'd been eating glass. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he tried again. "You alright?"
"Cuts and bruises," Ellie said, sitting up. "You've got a bad cut on your head."
"S'plains the pounding," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "T'hell happened?"
"It wasn't a trap – at least, not for us," she said, rubbing the inside of her wrist over her temple. "Meg called the archdemons, stripped her warding. The warehouse exploded and that," she added, turning to look at the conflagration up the river. "took out the fuel tanks at the depot."
Getting stiffly to her feet, she held out her hand. "We have to get going. Get back and find the others."
He took it, digging his bootheels into the soft bank and letting her pull him up. Nothing felt like it was working right, his joints creaking and his arms and legs heavy and unresponsive. Probably the cold of the river water, he decided, taking a few steps. The aches'd work out once he got going. His head was sore, and he reached up to the cut, flinching at the sting when he touched it.
Looking up the river at the fire raging along the buildings, he walked beside Ellie to the top of the shallow bank. They crossed the road and headed inland, turning right when they were several blocks from the river, north to where they'd left the cars.
9.00 a.m. July 5, 2012. Overlook Motel, O'Fallon
Ellie wrapped the towel around herself, and dried off. The cut on the side of her thigh was stinging, but that, some bruising on her back and her messed up palms and forearms seemed to be the extent of her injuries.
Dean was a little worse. Along with the cut on the side of his head, she'd also had to pull out a four-inch piece of glass from his back, where it had hit the shoulder blade and lodged against the bone. He'd cracked three ribs, and broken a finger.
Sam, Carol and Marcus were at the local hospital. Moses, Laney, Garth, Trent and Twist were back in their rooms, a few doors away. None had escaped injury entirely, but the cuts, burns and bruising had all been minor.
Sam had a long cut down the side of his face, and a hole in his leg where a piece of metal had gone into the big muscle of his thigh, missing the femoral artery by less than inch. She'd called the hospital an hour before and he was out of surgery and sleeping.
Carol's multiple cuts and bruising, the lump on her forehead and a fractured wrist had been taken care of in the ER. A possible concussion had kept her under observation until the next day. Her mother was driving out tomorrow.
Marcus had a suspected skull fracture. They'd relieved the swelling in his brain and he'd be in the hospital under observation for another week. Moses' had a mild concussion, dislocated shoulder and twisted knee. Laney'd been thrown into a wall; her face and side black and blue, but with no worse injuries.
Dwight was dead. She still had to call Trish to let her know.
Considering the secondary explosions at the depot had taken out a six block area, she supposed they'd been lucky. None of it felt particularly lucky. Her memories of the night's events had been returning, in fits and starts. Dean had told he'd seen figures coming out of the ground in the warehouse. There'd been nothing in the building to cause the first explosion, but that wouldn't have mattered to the archdemons. She wondered if Lucifer was reconsidering his decision, now that he was powerless, and under their control.
She closed the bathroom door and crossed the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed to towel-dry her hair and look down at the man lying in it.
Dean turned his head toward her, his eyes a bright green, their focus wandering. The pale freckles over his cheeks and nose stood out against the pallor of his skin and under the bright white bandage wrapped around his head.
She'd shaved the hair away from the cut in his head, three inches long but not deep, closed the wound and dressed it. It gave him something of the look of a punk rocker slash hellfire biker, that shaved patch with the thick and twisting purplish line running through it. Had taped his ribs, put three stitches into the incision on his back and straightened his middle finger, taping it to the ring finger. He'd refused to go to the hospital, and had provided his own anaesthetic by drinking half a bottle of whiskey.
"Hey," he slurred, his eyes opening wide then narrowing as he tried to bring her into focus.
"Hey." Leaning over, she kissed him lightly, the corners of her mouth tucking in when his eyes crossed, an attempt to keep her in view that ruined the punk biker look completely.
He was kind of a fun drunk. Very earnest and generous and completely convinced of the importance of the things that occurred to him on a minute-by-minute basis. He took a lot of care articulating what he felt he needed to say, clearly conscious that some of his finer communication skills disappeared with large amounts of alcohol.
"Are you all, uh, in one piece?" he asked, enunciating each word and staring owlishly at the towel. "Uh, under there?"
Experience had taught her that encouraging conversation when he was in this state was a bad idea. She smiled and let the towel drop. "Yeah, all okay."
Slipping into the bed next to him, she rolled over, glad to feel the warmth of his skin. It'd taken a while to get rid of the chill. His hand fumbled up over her hip, creeping around her ribs to cup her breast. Despite his high tolerance for whiskey, he could still get drunk, and as optimistically amorous as any other inclined male who'd had a few too many.
"You should sleep," she said. There were no signs of concussion. He'd claimed it was an especially hard part of his head. The second round of mild painkillers she'd given him would be kicking in any time now. "You need to rest."
"Yeah. Tired. I'm really tired. I really need to sleep." He closed his eyes. "My finger hurts."
"It'll feel better in the morning."
"I'm cold."
She snorted softly. He was radiating heat like a defective reactor. Shifting closer to him, she slid her thigh over his, and rested her arm over his stomach, below his ribs. "Better?"
"Mmmm." He turned his face into her neck, his hand rubbing slowly over her nipple. "We could, uh … you know, fool around."
"We could," she said, smiling at his confidence. "But you need to sleep."
"Mmmm."
9.00 p.m. August 2, 2012. Scotts Mills, Willamette Valley, Oregon
Sam stretched his leg out, one hand kneading the ache in the muscle, the other picking up his beer as he looked around the table and studied the faces of the hunters sitting there.
His brother was talking to Marcus, neither looking happy about the conversation. Dean looked older, he thought. So did Marcus. The lines in their faces were etched more deeply, adding years. Dean's hair was growing back over the cut on the side of his head, but he could see the thin scar through it. Letting out a tired sigh, he thought he probably looked older as well. He felt older. Decades older. The last three weeks had taken their toll on everyone.
Sitting beside his brother, Ellie's gaze was on the windows of the bar, her face expressionless. She'd lost some weight, her eyes and mouth just that little bit too big against the delicacy of her features, sharper now under tightly-drawn skin.
On the other side of the table, Twist's hair and beard were almost all gray and trimmed short. The laid-back sense of humour that'd been a part of his expressions, a part of his character, Sam thought, had gone. The hunter sat next to Tricia, holding her hand in both of his, listening to Trent as the lean man talked about something in a voice too low to be heard clearly.
Putting the beer down, Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, aware he wanted to stare at her, wanted to take her hand and talk to her. He'd tried to several times since she'd flown out from Chicago; first at the hospital in St Louis, then when she'd arrived in Oregon. There hadn't been a lot of time or opportunity to see her alone and he hadn't thought a public conversation was what either of them wanted. Her face was pinched-looking, her expression sombre as she listened to the conversations around her, and the sight was making his chest ache. The loss of her father had left her alone. He wasn't sure why she was here. He didn't think it was a good idea.
Leaning back, he turned his head to look around the small bar. The room was sparsely occupied, the locals keeping to themselves at the L-shaped counter or around the single pool table at the far end. The place was quiet and dim, the small windows at the front of the building mostly obscured by signs or dirt, reminding him of the Harvelle's roadhouse. The hunters had taken over a couple of small tables at the end of the single room, pushing them together, talking in low voices, hunched over their drinks. The heavily-built bar tender had kept their orders coming without asking any questions.
The door opened, and he turned automatically, watching Frank walk in, shake raindrops from his coat as he pulled it off and hung it on the coat rack. The programmer glanced around discreetly, keeping his gaze low enough to avoid eye contact with anyone, and made his way to the bar, ordering a drink before he walked to the tables and took the chair next to Sam.
"So. Another cluster-fuck." The grizzled programmer glowered at the hunters.
Dean nodded. "Yeah."
Frank's mouth thinned out as the bartender brought his drink over to the table. The man glanced questioningly around the group for any other orders, shrugging at the silence and returning to the bar counter.
"What's Plan B?" Frank sipped the clear liquid in his glass. "Is there a Plan B? Or are we all going to crawl away and lick our wounds somewhere safe and dark and quiet?"
Sam winced internally as he saw Twist's face darken.
"Take it easy, Frank," Ellie said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass.
"Take it easy –?"
"Yeah," Dean cut him off. "Take it easy."
Frank glared at him, but sat back, his fist wrapping around his glass.
There wasn't any doubt as to who was in charge, Sam thought, his gaze shifting from the mulish expression on Frank's face to the brief glance that passed between his brother and the red-haired hunter. The fleeting look sent a frisson down his spine. It was familiar. His father and brother had occasionally exchanged looks like that.
He brought his attention back to Ellie as she leaned forward. Most of what she was about to tell the others he'd already heard, at the sprawling rented house they'd been staying in for the last two weeks, but he wanted to hear it again, through the fresh perspectives of those who hadn't.
"Plan B is going to be a two-parter," she said, her gaze moving around the table. "We got some information from Penemue yesterday – and it was confirmed by Castiel this morning. The Others have entered the country, at least a dozen of them. That was also confirmed by Ray this morning, when he ran the B&C checks."
"What's the point?" Marcus asked. "The archdemons've already grabbed the devil."
"The Watcher thinks they're still in the market for some kind of deal," Dean said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "We're a couple of steps closer to a war here – maybe they're hedging their bets?"
Ellie nodded. "Penemue is on his way back, with his brothers, but they'll need some help to deal with them."
"What are 'the Others'?" Tricia asked, glancing from Ellie to Marcus.
"More fallen angels," Frank grated. Ellie shot a quelling look in his direction before nodding to Tricia.
"They chose to fall, to live on earth," she said. "They were in Lucifer's army, when he challenged Heaven, but when the fighting looked like it was going Michael's way, they ran."
"Traitors," Frank muttered, staring into his glass. "Everyone hates 'em."
"They're not as powerful as Penemue or the other Watchers," Ellie continued, ignoring Frank, her gaze shifting from Tricia to Twist and Trent and Garth. "And nowhere near as powerful as Castiel or any of the Host, but though they're mortal now, they were angels, and it's hard to kill them."
"Define 'hard'." Twist leaned toward her.
"You have to cut out their hearts." She made a face. "They'll regenerate otherwise."
"Did Ray get any info on the nephilim?" Marcus asked.
"Not yet," Ellie said. "He's adapting facial-recognition software, but there isn't the same level of perfect symmetry as with the fallen, and it needs a few more tweaks."
"Damnably good argument for regulating the super-model business, isn't it?" Frank interjected.
"What?" Garth blinked at the programmer.
"Frank," Ellie said. "Can you at least try to stay on track?"
"Um, the nephilim?" Tricia asked, her gaze swinging from Marcus to Ellie.
"The nephilim are the offspring between angel and a human," Sam said, leaning toward her, his elbows propped on the table. "Specifically, between a fallen angel, and a human woman. Like the angels, they're not that hard to recognise, although they don't have the perfection that angels have."
He glanced at Ellie, his brow furrowed. "There's, uh, quite a bit of religious lore about them."
She nodded. "There're a number of texts the Church doesn't recognise officially. The mythology of the fallen angels is covered in several of them, Apocryphal and Gnostic."
"'When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them. The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.'" Marcus quoted, shaking his head. "But most of the texts can't make up their minds if the fallen angels were good or bad."
"Well, according to Penemue –"
"Who, in some of those texts is actually named as an accomplice of Yeqon, the leader of the Others –" Frank pointed out.
"– twelve angels were instructed by the Voice of God to fall to earth, to teach humanity and guide them to a better understanding of the world and their place in it," Ellie said, rubbing her fingertips over her brow as she shot a look at Frank.
Marcus shrugged. "Alright. I'll take a direct account over the misinterpreted and mistranslated documents history's given us any day of the week."
Sam agreed silently. Too much of the lore they'd spent their lives relying on was subject to the flaws of perception, of understanding, of those who'd written it. He'd been looking over Ray's framework for Ellie's database for the past two weeks, and still wasn't sure how to get around that weakness in the sources.
"In any case, he said they Fell with their Grace and created constructs – human bodies – from the earth and air and waters – that's why, in appearance, they seem perfect – and they fell in love with human women and had families," Ellie continued, and her gaze seemed to linger on his brother and him for a moment before she added, "He also told me their lines in human genealogy are the only suitable vessels for certain of the angels and for many of the older psychic, hunter and magical families."
Sam's mouth fell open. Dean'd mentioned something, a while ago, about the bloodlines of angels. He couldn't remember the details. "What?"
Her glance was apologetic. "He was pretty clear about it. The lines were essential conduits to Heaven, so it doesn't sound like the beginning of rebellion in Heaven that some of those religious texts claim."
"What about the rest? We're talkin' about more'n twelve here, ain't we?" Twist cut in.
"Yeah," Ellie said. "The Others also took human wives and had children. Originally, there were more than three thousand of them, but God sent a Flood and most were wiped out, along with some of the Watcher lines."
"Not entirely reliable, that plan," Trent muttered.
Dean's mouth quirked humourlessly to one side. "You think?"
"Like the fallen, there are nephilim who want to help humanity and there are those who want to wipe us out," Ellie explained, ignoring the comments. "The nephilim are more powerful than their fathers – all the power of angels, but possessing the souls of humankind. They can't draw on the power of Heaven, the way a full angel can, but they can – kind of – pool their power between them, making a group significantly stronger than the individuals. They also can't be killed without cutting out the heart."
"Uh … I don't want to be the sad-sack Sally here, but is there any good news in this at all?" Garth set his beer carefully down and turned to look around the table, the frustration in his face not really masking the fear underneath. "I mean, you're talking about super-powerful angels, super-powerful half-breeds, super-powerful demons, war on earth … as if we can do something about them? We got our asses kicked bigtime just being in the same location as a bunch of archdemons. I'm not seeing an up side to any of this? We're just … people, y'know?"
Frank snorted. "Up side? Whaddya think this is? A TV series? There's no up side. Here's what happens if we do nothing – the good angels and the bad angels will fight each other until they're all gone and then the devil and Hell will mop up everything else. You think that's a good scenario?"
"What we're doing is making sure Penemue and the Watchers have our help against the Others. They're not expecting resistance and definitely not human help," Ellie said hurriedly, before Frank could aggravate anyone else. "And that brings us to part two of the plan. If we can get Michael out of the Cage, he will lead the Host of Heaven against Hell."
"That all? Just face off a bunch of fallen angels and get into Hell to jail-break an archangel?" Garth muttered, looking at his soda. "Sounds like eighty-twenty to me."
"Yeah, it's long odds." Marcus lifted one brow at him. "But when do we ever get anything else?"
"What're we talkin' about here?" Trent asked. "Who does what?"
His brother leaned toward Ellie, his voice too low to hear. She nodded, and looked around the table again.
"For the moment, that's all we've got," she said. "This is a volunteer-only job. It's not going to be easy and it's not going to be fun. If you're in, grab yourself some accommodation, make sure you've got clean IDs and stay in touch. We'll know more in a day or so."
She got up, pushing her chair back. Dean stood as well, his gaze flicking to Sam.
Catching the glance, Sam nodded, rising to his feet and leaning on the table. "Uh, you got a place to stay?" he asked Tricia. "We've got plenty of room, if you need one?"
She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll be staying with Marcus for a few days." She gave a small shrug, her gaze ducking his. "I'm sorry, Sam – there's a lot – we'll catch up in a little while, okay?"
He nodded and turned away, following Dean and Ellie out of the bar.
11.00 p.m.
"We could make this our base." Dean looked at Ellie as he put another couple of logs onto the fire. They were a couple of thousand feet above sea level and the nights were cool and usually damp, despite the warmth of the days.
"Uh huh," she murmured absently, staring at the laptop open on the low table in front of her.
The big house was a three-month rental, a renovated hunting lodge on the edge of the Santiam State Forest. Four bed, three bath, plenty of room and tucked away out of sight of the road. Polished wooden floors and exposed beams comprised the primary décor, the ultra-modern kitchen and bathrooms disguised with rustic-styled linings and doors. The living area was split-level, divided for lounging and dining, the furniture functional and comfortable. Up the open staircase, the big bedrooms looked across ranges and forest.
It was strongly built, and had been constructed before fashion dictated that every exterior wall have dozens of windows and doors. It would be easy to defend, he thought, looking around.
"Ellie?" He walked to the couch, dropping next to her and picking up his beer.
"Mmm?"
"The house? A base?" He tilted his head to see her profile, recognising the narrow focus. "Ten kids? A few, uh, pets? I could, y'know, get a job as a male stripper at the bar?"
She seemed to catch the last few words, turning and blinking at him. "You want to strip at the bar?"
He grinned, lop-sidedly, just on the side of his face that didn't pull at the cut. "Sure. You don't think I'd be any good at it?"
She shook her head. "Too inhibited."
"I am not."
"Yeah?" Ellie raised a brow. "Give me a preview. Slowly. Stereo's on the shelf."
"Here?" Dean looked around. "Uh, c'mon – what if Sam –?"
"I rest my case."
"I'll reset – rest your –" he started to protest, giving it up when he saw her smile. "Admit it; you just want me all to yourself."
"Okay. I just want you all to myself," she said, the grin widening. "We need to talk to Cas."
"Now?"
"Well, as soon as possible," Ellie said, lifting a hand to rub absently at her temple. "Timetable seems to be getting tighter."
"You okay?"
"Probably not in the general sense of the word," Ellie allowed, leaning back and gesturing around the room vaguely. "Given all this, but yeah, I'm fine. Can you call him?"
"Yeah, I guess," Dean said, getting up and walking over to the windows. "Uh, Castiel. Cas? Got your ears on? We could use your input here. Trying to figure out what to do next?" He closed his eyes, concentrating on the angel. "Dean to Cas?"
He looked up, and Castiel stood in front of the fire, his hair tousled and his vessel sporting a five-o'clock shadow, still wearing the battered and bloodied trenchcoat he'd given back to him months ago. Man, need to get him a new one, he thought distractedly. He couldn't recall seeing the angel look so ragged before.
"You could pray, Dean," the angel said tiredly.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "But this way's more fun."
"I don't have much time." Cas looked from Dean to Ellie. "What do you need to know?"
"What's the situation in Heaven, Cas?" Ellie asked. "Do you have enough angels to take on the horde?"
"With Michael, yes."
"Right." Dean glanced at Ellie and back to the angel. "Can you lift him out? Like you did Sam?"
"That was different." Castiel shook his head. "I was stronger then, Heaven was stronger. Michael is in Adam's physical body, I could – maybe – get him out, but not Adam and his soul as well – and for a war on this plane, he would need his vessel."
Dean turned away. Not a fucking chance, he thought, knowing the angel could probably pluck that sentiment straight from his mind.
"How do we get in? The Cage is at the centre, isn't it? The Ninth level?" Ellie asked. "Can we get in using Moloch's gate?"
"Yes, the Cage is on the ninth level, but no, you cannot enter from this plane lower than the Adoian Baltim. You'll need Azazel's gate or the intermittent one on this country's west coast – it will take you to the fourth level. But I don't know that you'd make it to the Ninth level. Not now."
"Why can't we –?"
"Because you can't," Cas cut him off tersely. "Every plane – everything – has its rules, Dean. Everything is in balance. There are reasons that are not for us to know–"
"Blah blah blah," Dean muttered, throwing himself onto the sofa beside Ellie.
"It's not 'blah blah blah' –" the angel retorted.
"Why not now?" Ellie asked.
"Because the Fallen have Lucifer and his Throne. They have reign over their domain again. Because they are looking for something," Cas said, his brows drawing together.
"Fine," Dean said. "You're coming too, right?"
"No."
Ellie sighed, glancing at Dean. "We'll have to sneak through."
"Sneak?" He gave a strangled laugh. "Through Hell? To the Cage?"
"Once we're there, inside, we can open the Cage with the key, it'll let us out straight to this plane. But yeah, getting in – we can't fight our way through. So it's going to have to be … subtle."
"Subtle. That's hilarious." Looking from Ellie to the angel, he realised neither looked like they were joking. "Subtle?"
Cas shrugged. "She's right. We don't have the force to be able to break him out. And I don't have – I can't access – the power to go in and lift him myself," he said.
"If I go with you, the Fallen will know," he continued. "They're angels. They'll feel me. One or two humans, if you have luck on your side, your souls will go unnoticed. If you can move fast and keep out of sight, you should be able to make it. And yes, with the key, the Cage will open straight to this plane."
This was getting worse by the minute, Dean thought. He'd thought Cas'd been talking about getting their help to get Michael out – not going into Hell to do the whole goddamned job themselves – and the angel was talking to Ellie about this as if she was a given for the suicide mission.
"You're not going," he said to her, shooting a warning glance at Cas.
Her mouth twisted slightly; he wasn't sure if it was at what he'd said or the tone he'd used.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm the only one who's been in Hell enough times to know where I'm going and how to get there."
"Doesn't make any difference –"
"Are we finished? I have pressing business –" Castiel glanced uncomfortably from Ellie to Dean.
"No." Turning away, Ellie waved a hand at her computer. "What about the Others?"
The angel exhaled, his gaze dropping to the floor. "They outnumber the Watchers by ten to one, not counting the half-breeds. They are actively seeking an alliance with Lucifer and the Fallen, in return for their help in defeating the Host."
"Will Lucifer make a deal with them? To secure the surface?"
"I don't know. Possibly." Cas shook his head. "It can't have escaped him he's going to be a puppet in Hell, controlled by those he spent so many centuries torturing. He always was quick to see the main chance."
"What happened to him, Cas? Why did he lose his power?"
"I don't know that either," Cas admitted. "I tried to find out, while he was – inhabiting my vessel – attempting to invade my self. But – the impression I received suggested he doesn't know himself."
That didn't sound good either, Dean thought, watching Ellie glance away, her face thoughtful. He was starting to develop a reaction to that expression, he thought, that look she got when she had an idea she didn't think he'd like.
"Can you contact Penemue, Cas? Tell him where we are?"
"Yes." He nodded "Are you able to assist them?"
"I think so," Ellie said. "It'll depend on what kind of deal they're hoping to get."
"Yes," the angel said. He glanced back at Dean. "I'm sorry not to have been more help to you, but I must go."
The sound of wings and the faint scents of flowers and feathers filled the room for a heartbeat then faded away.
"Sorry isn't really cutting it anymore, Cas," Dean said, getting to his feet and walking to the cupboard at the side of the room. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and tipped an inch into a glass, tipping his head and swallowing it.
Putting the glass back on the sideboard, he turned around, his face expressionless as he looked at Ellie.
"Alright. Lemme have it."
"A series of agonising tugs, or one long, screaming rip?"
"One long rip," he said, making a face at the description.
"We need to get into Hell. Get Michael out. You and me, I think." She got to her feet and walked over to him. "Sam can take Marcus, Trent, Twist and Garth to help Penemue and his brothers. The Others will be looking for a Gate, something big to get leverage for a deal. If they are, I think they'll go to Wyoming, or maybe Bear River, in Utah."
He shook his head. They'd just gotten out of Hell. He wasn't going back in there with her again. "How about me and Sam go to Hell and get Michael out, and you stay here and direct operations with the Watchers and everyone else, without getting involved?"
There was practically zero chance of her agreeing, but he figured if he was negotiating, he'd start with the moon and work his way down.
"Do you know how to get to the Ninth Level? Do you know how to cross Adoian Baltim?"
Staring at her, his frustration started to rise. "I don't even know what you just said."
"Okay, then. So we're clear?"
"No. Hell, no."
There had to be a way, he thought. To get her to back down and give up. He hadn't found anything like that in the six years he'd known her, but that didn't mean he was going to throw in the towel without trying.
"You can draw us a map, you can tell us how to get through whatever it is," he said, hoping he sounded reasonable. "You don't have to be there."
She smiled at him ruefully. "That's a nice idea, but you know as well I do, maps are useless in that plane. I can't explain ahead of time the things that're there. Adoian Baltim – the abyss – the daeva that guard it – the Lake of Fire on its own is going to be just about impossible to cross and it takes a leap of faith –"
"There ya go," he interrupted. "You can tell me about it. Besides, I looked up the levels, when Sam – uh, after Sam jumped. And you haven't been further in than the fourth level."
"From the fourth level, how are you going to get across the abyss?"
"I'll figure it out!"
"And once across, do you know how to get through the fifth level? Past the booby-traps and the mazes?" she persisted. "And how to cross the Lake of Fire? And get through the gate into the seventh level?"
"I'll read up," he said. "The books are …"
His argument fell apart as he realised unhappily he wasn't sure where the hundreds of books he'd collected in Cicero had gone. "I'll find them."
"We'll go in, and you won't need to," she said, stepping close. He looked down into her face as she slid her arms around him, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Besides, if it comes to it, I'd rather die beside you."
"Don't." He closed his eyes at the images that came without warning. How'd it always come down to this? His father. His brother. Now, Ellie. All of 'em dying to throw themselves into the line of fire. "You're not going. There's no way."
"Really?"
The single word was as keen as a knife blade and he glared at her. If it turned into a war of words, he knew who'd come out on top.
"Not going where?"
In the doorway, Sam's gaze swivelled from Ellie to him and back, his brother's expression transforming from mild curiosity to cautious worry as he picked up their vibes. Not that they were all that hard to pick up, he thought.
"Not going to Hell. We can do it, you and me. Ellie's not going," Dean said, looking at Sam.
"Uh –"
"Sam, you'll be helping Penemue and the Watchers," Ellie said, walking back to the sofa and sitting down. "Dean and I can get Michael out of the Cage."
"Ellie, I said no."
"And you can say it again if you want to, it won't change a thing." She tapped a couple of keys on the laptop.
"You know ... uh … I have a thing … in … somewhere … else." Sam turned around and left the room.
"Sam –" Dean watched him go in disbelief. Damned if he'd take Sam's side the next time his brother asked for something, he fumed, swinging back around to look at Ellie.
"Why d'you have to make this so difficult?"
"I'm not the one making it difficult." She stared up at him, her face set. "You don't know anything about the archdemons or what you'll be facing; you don't know where you're going once you get in there or how to get from level to level. And if you think that it would be easier for me sitting here wondering if you're dead down there, then think again."
"Y'know, Sam and me, we've been through some pretty hard stuff –"
She rolled her eyes. "Are you trying to make me nuts?"
"No," he said, his brows pinching up. "I'm trying to make you see reason."
"That's funny," she shot back. "That's what I'm trying to do too!"
"It's not reasonable for you –"
"It's not reasonable for you either," she snapped. "You'll be going through the level you were –"
Abruptly, she stopped, her gaze falling to the laptop.
"Where I … was tortured?" he asked, forcing the words out. It was something he hadn't thought about. "Picked up the razor?"
"Yes."
"I can handle it."
"Not alone – and not with Sam," she said, lifting her head. "With someone you've already told, Dean. Someone you can bear to have see whatever comes back."
Low blow, he thought, turning away. If anything did come back – and after what'd happened on the third level, he couldn't bring himself to discount the possibility – there was no way he wanted his brother to see it. They were still too broken. Sam might try to be comforting, might try to ignore whatever weakness he saw, but he wouldn't forget it.
"Dean, either we go together, or I'll go alone. Those are the only choices you have."
He looked at her, hearing the implacability in her voice. She would go alone if he kept fighting her, he knew it. She knew how to get to a gate before him, get through it and find her way down to the level that held the devil's cage. She would leave him behind.
That scared him more than the thought of her going with him. How did she always manage to box him into a corner? He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe and she resisted his efforts at every opportunity.
"Why?"
"Because it has to be done and we can't walk away. I can't walk away. And I told you, if we don't make it, I'd rather be with you than safe – and alone."
"Yeah, well, I'd be happier if you were alive."
He turned away from her, walking out of the room, a stab of disappointment hitting him when he realised she wasn't going to follow.