Chapter 20 The Key to Heaven
Forest Edge, Oregon
It's in the bloodlines. The police assume the driver burned to death. No one's heard from her, not since you saw her in Manhattan. The light that had drained the colour from everything, shattering the glass and the bricks and the structure. Crowley's mirror, and the image it reflected back to him. Blood, seeping into the ground, the grinding rumble of a stone gate opening. I mean, she died. She went into the light in order to talk to God. Did you know they were looking for her? The cold sensation of life being pulled out of him through his soul. Designs painted in blood, painful to look at. The glint of the Fallen's knife as the collar was cut free.
Dean twisted around, his eyes screwed tightly shut, brows drawn tightly together as he tried to escape from the images filling the dream. Somewhere he knew he was dreaming, knew he was in his bed, in the big corner bedroom in the house in Oregon, overlooking the valley. He tried to find his way back to there, but the images surrounded him, pressing against him, clinging to him like cobwebs and the harder he fought to be free of them, the more closely they wrapped around him.
Red eyes and marble skin. Bruising around her neck, deep and livid. The burst of colour over the black rocks in the flashlight's glare, copper-coloured hair and bright red blood. An unmoving body in a hallway, not a mark but the black line burned deep into her flesh. No one knows what happens to people who are mistakenly cut from the weave of Fate before they die. It's in the bloodlines.
He saw a long room, maybe a warehouse, shadowed at the corners. To one side, there was a man, not really a man, something more, light shining from him. The nephilim stood in a circle. One raised a long blade, the edge gleaming in the light of the man. He saw a movement from the corner of his eye, felt the scream rushing up his throat, his body frozen in shock at the too-familiar figure. From the centre of the circle, light exploded outwards, the concussion throwing everyone to the floor.
It's in the bloodlines.
He sat up, chest heaving as if all the air in the room had gone. He looked right and dragged in a deep breath as he saw her shape under the covers, short hair bright against the pillows in the pale silver light that slanted across the bed. Ellie turned over and opened her eyes, looking up at him.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing, just—it's okay, go back to sleep."
"Nightmare?" She rubbed her eyes and propped herself on her elbow, the drowsiness vanishing as worry filled her face.
Dean sighed, lying back against the pillows. He rubbed a hand over his face and wiped the sweat off it on the side of the mattress. "Not really, weird dream," he hedged.
She shifted toward him, her hand running over his chest. He knew she felt the damp there as well.
"Had you pretty agitated for just weird," she said in a mild tone.
"I'll get dried off." He pushed back the covers and slid his legs out, not sure what to tell her. I had a dream that recapped every single time I lost you? How did that help either of them? Anyone? In the bloodlines. That wasn't a help either. He knew about their bloodlines. Lucifer had needed them. The firstborn needed them. That wasn't news.
He got to his feet and walked to the ensuite, closing the door, and flicking on the light. At the sink, he turned on the cold tap, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it over his face and neck, letting it run through his hair. The cold helped to distance the whole thing, push it back into the shadowed recesses and let him think again.
Was it just the responsibility thing, he wondered, staring at himself in the mirror. Some of those times he'd actually been there and there hadn't been a goddamned thing he could've done about it. The other times, when he hadn't…he wished he had, but he still didn't think he could've changed anything. Uriel's intervention had happened before he'd even believed in angels.
He pulled the towel from the rail and dried himself off. Had it been a—a reminder of some sort? Or a warning? He didn't need any reminders for those times, those feelings. He knew how deep that fear ran in him and how bad the pain would be.
The last fragment of the dream, before he'd pulled himself free, that'd been different. That hadn't been a memory, not of his, not even a memory of her telling him one of hers. It'd been new.
He leaned on the sink, trying to remember it now, the details of it. It'd been the Circle, he was pretty sure of that. Had the man leaking light been an arch? Michael? He'd seen Michael without a vessel twice before; in Kansas when Hell had risen and in Rome. He hadn't been able to see the light-filled man clearly enough to recognise the archangel's construct he remembered from those times.
In the dream, he thought it'd been Maluch, standing in the centre, holding something and Ellie had run past him. And then? What the hell'd happened then? He couldn't remember. He'd woken, he thought, at that point.
Turning off the light, he opened the door and walked back to the bed. Lying on her side, Ellie was looking at him, her face shadowed, one hand propped under her cheek. He slid under the covers, the sheet chilly under his skin.
Putting his arms around her, he pulled her closer, and she wrapped her arms around him, her lips travelling up his neck in small, gentle kisses that demanded nothing of him, were her unspoken reassurances that she was there, that he wasn't alone, that she loved him.
A deep shiver ran through him. Not a premonition, he thought savagely, his arms tightening around her. Just a fucking dream, nothing to worry about. He bent his head, his lips seeking hers. All those times, when he'd thought she was dead, thought he'd lost her, he hadn't…she was here, warm and alive. He deepened the kiss, ignoring the thread of desperation that infused it.
"So, when do the arcs make their entrance?" Laney looked at Dean from over the rim of her cup. The kitchen table was still half-covered with the remains of breakfast, but the children had gone out and Ellie was moving around the room efficiently, collecting dirty dishes, rinsing everything and stacking the dishwasher. He watched her obliquely, while he drank his coffee.
At the hunter's question, Dean shifted his gaze reluctantly to Laney and shrugged. "You'll have to ask Baraquiel. He's running this part of the show."
He shot a sideways glance at the sink, relief taking the edge from the slowly growing sense that if he left Ellie alone, if he couldn't see her or touch her, she might…somehow…disappear. It wasn't a rational thought, and he struggled against it, knowing she'd already felt it in him, seen it in him, not asking about it, not yet, but she would, if he didn't keep it under some sort of control.
He'd woken with a faint feeling of misgiving. By the time he'd showered and dressed, it'd escalated to a feeling of unease. The only thing that subdued it was seeing her. Brushing his fingertips against her when they passed each other. Pressing his knee against hers when she sat down beside him, her hands cradling a coffee, her eyes flicking briefly to him then moving to Laney.
Resisting the impulse to move his chair closer to her, feeling as if he was already telegraphing his feelings around the entire room, a feeling reinforced by the narrow-eyed thoughtful look he was getting from the small, blonde hunter, Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably and fixed his gaze on the black liquid in his cup.
"In a couple of days, I think," Ellie said to Laney, sipping her coffee. "Why?"
"Are we going to be there? See them packed off upstairs?" Laney asked, looking around as Greg came and flashing him a quick smile.
"You want to get close to that nest of vipers again?" Greg's brows drew together as he looked at his partner. "I'd pass."
"I've been working my butt off the last few months hunting them down," Laney scowled at him. "Damned right I want to see the end of it!"
He smiled at her. "Bloodthirsty, aren't we?"
She laughed and made a face. "Yeah, I might be, just a little."
Dean watched Ellie smile, turning his head a little, wondering if it looked natural.
"Besides, I haven't seen an archangel; don't you think that's somethin' to tell the grandkids?" Laney asked as Greg walked to the pot and poured himself a coffee.
"They're not that inspiring," Ellie told her, her gaze shifting to the door as Carl and Rudy came in, both men looking tired.
"Coffee's on the counter," she said, getting up. "I'll make you some breakfast."
"I'll help," Dean added, getting up and going to the fridge, ignoring the sudden beat of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
"Who aren't that inspiring?" Rudy asked, yawning as he filled a cup and took it to the table.
"Archangels, apparently," Laney answered, one brow lifting as she looked at him. "You boys have a session after I hit the hay, or what?"
"Just not done catching up, sweetheart. It's been a helluva week," he said, swallowing half his coffee. "Ellie tells me you got a couple of girls, Laney."
The kitchen filled again with the smell of cooking bacon, eggs, pancakes and toast, the murmur of conversation surrounding the table, the soft whirr of the coffee grinder as Ellie ground more beans and refilled the filter machine. Dean broke the eggs into the hot pan, laid out the bacon on the broiler, his actions automatic, his attention elsewhere.
"C'mon, Ellie, are we going to this shindig or not?" Laney asked, raising her voice. Dean turned from the stove to catch his wife's response.
Looking out the window, Ellie shrugged. "You can ask Baraquiel yourself. He's on his way over."
The red-haired Watcher came into the kitchen a few moments later, and Ellie passed him a cup of coffee as he sat down at the table, looking around at the hunters.
"Michael and Iophiel will be at the house in Lovelock the day after tomorrow," he said without preamble. He turned to Dean and Ellie. "I would like some hunters to be with us there."
"Why?" Dean's uneasiness rose several notches at the request.
"A show of strength isn't likely to impress Michael," Ellie said to the Watcher, her expression filled with doubt.
"No, but a lot of witnesses might temper his emotions," Baraquiel replied, long fingers curling around the warm cup as he looked at her. "He might be more inclined to act rashly if there are none."
"Well, I'm in," Laney interjected, pushing her empty plate to one side. "I want to see them gone."
Baraquiel glanced at her and nodded. "The more we can have, standing at our backs, the stronger our position will be."
He looked back to Dean. "I would feel better if you, Adam and Sam were there also."
Dean felt a flutter of anxiety and clamped down on it. "Why?"
"Michael is not always rational and forebearing in the matter of angel behaviour. But he is not unjust. He knows what your family have paid already, knows where Castiel's loyalties lie, knows that you hold a strong line in the weaving of Destiny. I think—" He hesitated for a moment, glancing at Ellie. "—I think he will stop and consider the ramifications of any course of action if you and your brothers are there to witness it."
He might be right about that, Dean thought. He'd thwarted the archangel's plans enough times to maybe make him think about what he was going to do, instead of just doing it. He didn't want to leave, and under no circumstances did he want Ellie or John or Rosie anywhere near the house in Lovelock. But of the two choices, the first was likely to be more manageable.
"Ellie doesn't go," Dean said, his chest tightening as he said the words.
An oddly potent silence fell in the room at the pronouncement. Ellie sat, hands curled around her mug, her gaze on the table. The attention of the Watcher and hunters was on her, plainly wondering what her reaction would be. Dean wondered that as well…the last time he'd tried to make a decision like this for her, he'd been forced into backing out of it.
She lifted her head and nodded. "I need to be here."
Dean let out his held breath, catching the glances exchanged between Laney and Rudy, then Carl got up, collecting the fresh load of empty dishes and carrying them to the sink, and Baraquiel stood as well, finishing his coffee.
"We'll leave on Tuesday evening," he said.
"I'll tell Adam and Sam," Dean said, and the Watcher turned and left.
"I should go and loosen up, haven't done any training for a while," Laney said to Greg. He nodded, his gaze sliding to Carl and Rudy at the end of the table.
"Yeah, got weapons that need cleaning," Rudy added, getting up as the others did. "I leave my gear in your truck, Carl?"
The kitchen emptied and Ellie sipped her coffee, letting the silence between them stretch out.
Dean sighed. "All right. The dream—it had something to do with you and the Circle. And I think Michael was in it."
Lifting her gaze, she asked, "You're worried it was a premonition?"
"I don't know," he said, his voice sharp with frustration. "I don't want to take the chance."
"That's fair enough," she said.
He waited for the next question. The obvious question. But she stood up, walking to the sink with her cup and rinsing it out.
"John and Rosie wanted to show you something this morning," she said, looking out through the window down to the cold, bare garden where the children were playing some kind of game with a ball.
He got up and walked to her, standing behind her and looking out over her shoulder. She hadn't asked why he hadn't told her. He felt a space, widening between them, and wondered if he was causing it. She hadn't asked why he wouldn't leave her alone, either. She gave him time, as a general rule. Time to figure things out on his own. Time to understand himself. She would only ask if she saw him floundering. He was floundering, he thought dourly. But maybe he was hiding that well enough.
He ducked his head and kissed the side of her neck, arms closing loosely around her, a trembling sensation filling him as the thought flashed through his mind of not being able to do this, of losing her.
"Daddy, watch!" Rosie insisted, turning from him to look hard at the ball that lay on the ground in front of her.
Dean obeyed the command, startling as it wobbled on the flattened grass, then roll, slowly at first, gathering speed as it headed across the grass for his son. John gave his father a delighted grin and then stared at the ball, and the ball turned away from him, rolling toward Laura. One by one, the children pushed the ball around their circle with their minds and Dean swallowed, glancing at Sara and Leah, who stood next to him. The expressions of the two girls were identical—unalloyed admiration. But kids were happy to believe in anything, he thought uncomfortably.
"How, uh—" He began when the ball stopped in the centre of the circle, but Laura cut him off.
"We're not finished, Uncle Dean, watch this," she said, holding her hands out to either side. Rosie took her right hand and closed her fingers around the hand of the little boy to her left; Marc reached for John's hand and the circle was closed. Dean's stomach dropped as the ball spun on its axis in the centre, much more controlled now, faster and faster, rising from the ground straight up in the air, over the children's heads, finally spinning so fast he couldn't see the painted lines on it anymore.
The four children stood completely still, eyes closed, concentrating on the ball and each other. There was a sudden, loud popping sound and Marc's face fell, the ball slowing down, an empty bladder with a gaping hole in one side. It sank through the air, falling the last couple of feet to the ground with a dispirited thud.
"Sorry," Marc said, opening his eyes and looking guiltily around the circle at the other children. "I pushed too hard."
"S'okay, Marc," John said quickly, releasing his hand and bending over to pick up the empty skin. "Rosie can fix it."
He handed it to his sister and she looked at it for a long moment, her face screwed up in concentration. Dean watched in disbelief as the split in the side drew itself together, and the plastic skin melted along the join smoothly, sealing up the hole.
"That's so awesome," Sara said, walking forward and taking the ball from her. "Can you fill it up with air again?"
In her hands, the ball inflated slowly and she giggled as it tipped from side to side against her palms. "It tickles!"
John looked up his father, his smile faltering slightly as he saw the expression on Dean's face. "Uh, Dad?"
Dean looked at the ball in Laney's daughter's hands, tight and round and full again, and realised all six children were looking at him. He schooled his expression into something more reassuring, he hoped, and nodded.
"Has Mom seen what you can, uh, do? Or Uncle Sammy?"
John shook his head. "We wanted to show you first," he said uncertainly.
That had probably seemed like a good idea at the time, Dean thought unhappily. Ellie or even Sam would've taken the display more matter-of-factly than he could. He looked at his son.
"Uh, well you should show them, as soon as possible," he said, trying again for a smile. Judging from their expressions, it wasn't a particularly convincing one.
"Look," he added, crouching down to look at John at the same eye-level. "This stuff…I'm just not used to it, you know? Took me by surprise."
"Is it okay?" John asked worriedly. "That we can do it?"
"Yeah, it's okay, John." He wasn't sure if it was or not, but the fact remained that they could do it, and together, they were more powerful, more controlled than individually. He had no idea what that meant either, only that it reminded him uncomfortably of the firstborn, far stronger together than apart.
He leaned close to John, dropping a kiss on his hair, and stood up. "Let's find Mom, see what she thinks, okay?"
"Yeah," John agreed. He turned to his cousins. "Marc, Laura, find your Dad, and we'll find Mom, and we can show them together."
Dean hid a smile at the take-charge tone in his son's voice, watching as the kids scattered. He wished Sara and Leah hadn't seen it. He wasn't sure what other hunters would think of the children's abilities. They hadn't told anyone who didn't live here, wasn't a part of them.
"Well?" He looked at Ellie apprehensively, wondering what she thought of it. "What do you think?"
The children had showed Ellie, Sam and Trish the same thing as they'd showed him, the demonstration stopping when the sky had darkened and sleet had begun to fall. Ellie and Trish had given the children lunch and sent them upstairs to watch TV as the weather outside worsened. In the big living room, the four of them sat in front of the fire, Sam and Trish on one sofa, Dean and Ellie on the other.
Ellie glanced at Sam and Trish, and shrugged lightly. "Most psychics begin to develop their abilities as young children, then unless they're trained and encouraged, the process stops for a while, re-emerging at puberty. So, from that point of view, it's all pretty normal—"
"This isn't really 'normal', Ellie," Dean said, shaking his head.
Trish smiled at him. "It is, really. I mean it's not common, but it's not something outside of the humanity either."
"Anyway," Ellie said, looking at his expression. "Acting together, in meta-concert, that's a bit different. Most children are still quite egocentric at this age and apparently that's the opposite of being able to sublimate the self and let others into your mind." She got up, walking to the log basket beside the fire and tossing another log on. "But our kids have never been very egocentric anyway, too much experience of seeing us working together, maybe. I don't know."
Dean looked at her, frowning. "When do…psychics learn to use that…um, technique…normally?"
"Late teens, early adulthood is the usual time," she said, walking back to the sofa and sitting next to him. "The timing is off, no question. But that might have something to do with what's happening with the firstborn as well."
Sam leaned forward, his brow creasing up. "How?"
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's just that it's come on suddenly, at the wrong age. And last week, none of them could manifest any psychokinetic ability."
She felt Dean's deeply indrawn breath behind her shoulder and sighed inwardly. He was already anxious about something, she thought. Something to do with her and the dream he'd had. Having this dumped on top was not going to help.
She wondered if she should keep letting him stew over this stuff, or force the situation. She'd felt the need in him, when he touched her, or kissed her, seen him watching her, as if he felt she was going to disappear if he took his eyes off her for a moment. The irony of his reactions to the psychic abilities of their children was still lost on him, since he hadn't yet accepted he showed flashes of those abilities from time to time himself, writing them off as instinct or some version of refined experience.
"So whatever's going on, it's escalating?"
She nodded, glancing at Sam to confirm.
"Yeah. Marc and Laura—we were working on element control last week, I thought it'd be easier with water or fire than with something more solid, but they really didn't have much success with either," Sam agreed, leaning back and putting his arm around Trish's shoulder.
"You know, Rosie's primary ability was the psychometry," Ellie turned her head to look at Dean. "That she was getting quite skilled at, but none of the more active abilities."
"There was a long split in the skin of that ball," Dean said, looking down at her. "She closed it up, kind of melted the plastic back together. What do you call that?"
Ellie frowned. "Without seeing that for myself, I'm not sure. It could psychokinesis, or pyrokinesis, or creativity, or a combination. Was there heat in the ball when she was doing it?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, I wasn't that close."
"Frank rang before you came over, said he and Adam'll be back tomorrow," Sam said. "He wouldn't say much over the phone but he's found something about the firstborn. Something to do with the bloodlines and the children."
Ellie nodded and leaned back against Dean. "I'll talk to the Watchers tomorrow. Chaz was going to say something, when you were still chasing after the nephilim in the cars, but Baraquiel stopped him…or overrode him. They know something more than what they've told us."
Candlelight burned steadily around the bedroom, pools of gold over the furniture and the bed, over their skin and hair, leaving indigo shadows where the warm light didn't reach. The bedspread and quilts were bunched at the foot of the bed, cascading off the edge and spilling onto the floor. He was achingly, almost unbearably, aroused, but he couldn't move any faster, couldn't make himself hurry, the deep-seated need to feel everything, taste and smell and see and hear…everything, slowing him down and making him tremble uncontrollably as he moved.
He watched her hands close into fists, her indrawn breath harsh and low, and felt another throb reverberate through him, the breath he dragged in whistling in his throat.
Catching her hands, rolling over and drawing her over him, he sat up as she faced him, her mouth soft against his neck, finding the places that reached along his nervous system, that pierced him. He tipped his head forward as another shudder vibrated through him, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. He needed to be close. Closer. Nothing separating them. No division of skin or mind or heart or soul. Closer.
Much closer.
She moved her hips, lifting herself until he could feel her dripping on him, his head tipping back, eyes opening wide, watching her, closing involuntarily with a deep groan as she rocked down him, rocked him inside her molten softness, gentle ripples gripping, purring up him. Flashpoint and he didn't want that glorious hot liquid spread of pleasure through him, not yet, his arms pulling her tightly against him, filling himself with her scent, her taste, trying to hold back, to make the closeness that he needed last.
Closer.
Everything was pulsing in the same time, in time with his heartbeat, with hers, the rush of blood through their bodies, the beat of the song that was singing them. Arousal had been so slow, so delicately incremental, it'd felt like he'd never have to stop…but it was gaining momentum all on its own, and he couldn't hear anything except that beat in his body, couldn't feel anything but the sensations that were seeping, trickling, rushing, roaring through his nerves and muscles, his breath taken in tiny gasps, and Ellie moaned, closing around him, muscles twitching and spasming and clutching along him so tightly he couldn't hold on. He buried his face against her, light-headed, blind and deaf and dumb, her helpless moans vibrating against his jaw and cheekbone, jacking him higher, until he had nothing else left, was wrung out, spent, empty.
His heart was beating at a normal rate again. He could breathe in and out without feeling like each breath was going to be his last. He couldn't let go of her. When she lifted her head slowly and looked at him, he felt himself shake, and he couldn't stop it.
"What is it?" she whispered, her arm around him, her hand light against the side of his face.
"I don't want to lose you," he said, knowing it didn't make sense, not knowing what else to say. It was riding him, that fear, he couldn't keep it down, couldn't pretend he couldn't feel it.
She was silent for a long moment, her eyes looking into his, and he realised it felt exactly like when he'd been a kid. His father had never been able to lie to him about what had been out there either, never been able to say unequivocally that it was okay, that nothing would get them, that there was nothing to fear. There were things to fear, a lot of them, and Ellie couldn't pretend any more than he could, couldn't say, you won't, I'll be fine. Even if she had, the reassurance would've been so hollow as to be meaningless and they'd told each other they wouldn't waste time, their time, with platitudes and things that weren't true.
"Tell me about the dream," she said instead, and he closed his eyes.
"At first it was just images…memories, you know?" he said slowly. "Then it was images but not the things I'd seen, just the things I'd imagined. Every time you disappeared, or died, or were near death, or were gone."
She nodded slightly. "Did it seem…structured, Dean? Linear?"
He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Yeah, I guess. How'd you know that?"
"I don't think that was a dream," she said. "I think someone was trying to send you a message."
He shook his head. "When Cas and Anna walked into my dreams, they were—it was like this, just sitting there talking to them."
She smiled a little. "They weren't trying to manipulate you, though, were they?"
"No," he said. Well, Anna had been, but he hadn't realised it at the time. "Not really. They just had information and they couldn't get through any other way. You think this is Michael? Trying to get me to stay away or something?"
"Trying to make you think that you'll lose what's important to you if you don't, maybe."
He felt a shiver run down his spine. The archangel had managed to bullseye that, he thought wearily. "So it wasn't—it was made up? What I saw?"
"I don't know," Ellie tipped her head forward, her cheek lying against his. "Enough truth to add verisimilitude? Enough threat to make you think twice about getting involved? Make it seem like a sure thing, this time?"
He exhaled. "I thought—I thought I was losing it," he admitted. "It's always there, you know, in the back of my mind. But this was loud, in my thoughts all the fucking time."
She nodded. "Yeah, I saw."
He smiled at the rueful tone in her voice. "Scary?"
She laughed against his neck, the brush of her mouth on his skin sending a shiver through him. "Not really, just…hard to understand. This is something we've faced, dealt with. It's always a possibility, there's no getting around that, but we don't give it much air time."
No, they didn't. He'd worked his ass off to make sure that those thoughts didn't get much oxygen, period.
"Not to, uh, get off track, or sound unromantic, but uh, a little anxiety makes for some interesting loving," he said softly. He felt her shake slightly in his arms, realised she was laughing silently.
"What?"
Sleet rattled against the glass of the windows, the leaden skies filled the kitchen with a dull light, and Ellie flicked on the lights to brighten the room a little as she carried Frank's coffee from the counter to the table, sitting down opposite him.
"What did you find?"
"Ah," Frank said, sipping his coffee and looking from her to Dean. "To begin with, those texts were crap, I'm not sure they were originals."
"Frank," Dean said warningly. Frank sighed and shrugged, glancing at Adam.
"All right. The info we found was in a Greek bible, one of the early untranslated versions. Probably heretical, actually," he said. "It referred to the book of Enoch, which itself is pretty much useless, and to another, earlier work, author unknown. Took a bit of tracking down, but we found a copy of that one in San Francisco, specialist bookstore down in Market—"
"Frank, the book?" Ellie interrupted impatiently.
"You can read it yourselves, we brought it along, but the gist was that all the nine original bloodlines held a part of a key, a key to Heaven," he continued, unperturbed.
"All nine?"
He nodded. "The Circle was for the strongest, not necessarily the firstborn. It's just that at the time, the firstborn were the strongest, for some reason. But none of them ever had children of their own."
Ellie's eyes widened a little. "Dammit, that's right."
"Why is that important?" Dean looked at her.
"Because all the lines, all the descendants of the lines of the Watchers come from the secondborn and later generations, not from those seven," she said slowly, staring at Frank. "How does that affect the power?"
"According to the text, the generations were diluted by continuing on, until they reached a certain point—and that's a destiny thing, by the way, not any natural genetic order kind of thing, because what's passed along in an angelic sense isn't really genetic—and then they became stronger again."
"So Marc and Laura and Adrienne—" Trish said.
"And John and Rosie—they're the first generation that is really strong again?" Ellie finished the sentence.
"No. Dean and Sam—and you—and—" He looked over at Tricia. "—you, were the first generation that were really strong again, strong enough to replace the children that were lost, I think. I don't know if your children are stronger, although the manifestation of the psychic abilities does seem to speak to that."
"We're not—there's nothing powerful about me and Sam," Dean protested.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "When Sam was born, he was so powerful in Azazel's line that the demon nurtured and guided him through the first twenty-two years of his life." He looked at Sam. "And you manifested the psychic abilities, didn't you?"
"Not until I was an adult," Sam said, looking at Dean. "Not like our kids."
"Probably because the firstborn were scattered across the planet when you were growing up, Azazel keeping them busy on different tasks they didn't even know they were doing for him," Frank said, his tone caustic. "This time, this last year, has been the first time all the firstborn have been together in over two thousand years. And that being together changes something, sets off another destiny switch—and speeds up the development of the generation closest to them in strength."
"How do you know that?"
"It's in the text. I don't know who wrote this, and some of it is vague, unless you have the background information but it's all there. Azazel went off the rails when his daughter was executed," Frank said, gesturing to the book Adam held. "He knew all of this, he fell with his Grace, with God's blessing, just like the others did, and was committed to the evolution of humanity until the Council made the choice."
"Now, you and Adam, you're both from Araquiel's line, which leaves you out of the picture. Sam, and Ellie, though … and all the children … that's a different matter."
Dean looked at Ellie. Perhaps Michael's warning had more truth in it than he'd realised. He squashed the flutter of anxiety that rose with the thought, turning as Rudy came into the kitchen, followed by Carl, Laney and Greg and Baraquiel.
"How was LA, Frank?" Laney looked at him and sat down next to Ellie. "You having a pow-wow without us now?"
"Smoggy. Overcrowded. Noisy," Frank muttered, picking up his coffee and drinking.
"Just catching up on the lore," Ellie said, with a careless shrug. "Apparently all the lines held a part of the key that's needed by the firstborn to open the doorway to Heaven," she added, looking pointedly at Baraquiel.
The Watcher sat down next to Adam and sighed. "Ellie, without the key from Amaros and Azazel, they cannot open the doorway."
"Then how are you going to open it to let them see that they were wrong when Michael shows up?" Sam frowned at him.
"Iophiel can use Gabriel's trumpet to open it from this plane, which I hope he will once he and Michael have been…convinced sufficiently to see the sense of it," Baraquiel explained patiently. He turned back to Ellie. "I haven't been keeping this from you out of spite, Ellie. There was no reason to worry about it."
"Except it seems that Ellie holds a part of that key, and so does Sam. And our children," Trish said accusingly, staring at him.
"The firstborn didn't know it was Araquiel who founded the Winchester line," Baraquiel argued mildly.
"No, but they do now," Dean said, gesturing around the table. "Cas said that Maluch told him they knew it was Ellie and the kids they needed, not me."
"And now they are safely contained," the Watcher countered. "And they will remain so."
Dean exhaled gustily, looking away. The Watcher had obviously prepared for this conversation. He could see they might not want all their secrets revealed, the hunters didn't tell them everything either, but this one had been kind of central to the job in hand.
"It's a seven-hour drive down to Lovelock," Sam said, his gaze moving from Dean to Baraquiel. "When do you want to go?"
"At noon," Baraquiel replied, looking to Dean for confirmation.
"Yeah, we'll sack out in the town, go to the house early in the morning," Dean agreed, looking at his watch. He glanced around the table at the hunters, then let his gaze rest on the Watcher. "I know this is all supposed to be over now, but we're packing for the worst case scenario, just in case."
Sam and Adam nodded, Laney glancing at Greg and nodding as well. Baraquiel looked around at the determination on their faces. They'd had too many close calls with the firstborn nephilim to even consider that things would go smoothly just because the archangels would be there.
"All right. But you are primarily there as witnesses," he said to Dean. "We have the leverage over Michael and it will work."
"What leverage?" Ellie asked, her voice equally quiet. "What exactly is going to make Michael agree to your idea?"
"His Father's commands, Ellie," Baraquiel answered. "Scribed by Mattara. Michael and Iophiel will have no choice but to obey."
"Can we see it?" Frank leaned across the table, looking at the Watcher.
"You will not be able to transcribe it for your database, Frank," Baraquiel said. "But yes."
He reached into his jacket, drawing out something heavy and small and rectangular, wrapped in layers of chamois and silk. Setting it on the table, he carefully unfolded the materials that covered the stone tablet, leaning back as the hunters all leaned forward.
The Word of God. Apparently, Dean thought. The writing—or symbols—engraved into the stone were nothing like he'd ever seen, not Enochian, at least not the little he knew of it. They shimmered and blurred as he tried to focus harder on them and he looked away after a moment, feeling a headache starting between his eyes.
Laney reached out a finger to touch the stone and Baraquiel's voice was loud in the silence, his hand flashing up to stop her.
"No! You may not touch it."
She withdrew her hand, looking at him in surprise. "Sorry, just curious."
"Yeah, well, darlin' look at what that did to the cat," Greg admonished, looking at the Watcher. "We'll leave it well enough alone."
Frank pulled down his glasses, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and replacing them. Baraquiel watched the gesture with a faint smile.
"You cannot read it, Frank. It will hurt your mind if you attempt to memorise it."
"Why?"
"Because it was not meant for humans," the Watcher said simply. "Even the seraphim, even the archangels can only glimpse the meanings, not study them."
He wrapped the stone up again, tucking it back into his inside jacket pocket and looked around with a deep sigh. "The entity you refer to as God, that we know as our Father…He is not of you or us. You were not made in his image, but from a minute fraction of his Being. There are no meeting places between you and He, except in the part of you called your souls. And even there, the communication is limited."
"So all the prophets and visionaries and disciples—who were they getting their info from?" Rudy looked at the Watcher.
"From us, mostly. From the seraphim from time to time. From the Voice of God in very special cases."
"Like Moses?" Frank looked at him. "The burning bush was Mattara?"
"Just so," Baraquiel inclined his head and got to his feet. "I'll see you at noon."
There was a silence around the kitchen table for a moment after he'd left. Laney looked at Ellie, one brow raised questioningly.
"Will Michael respect that thing?"
Ellie shrugged. "He should. He was always the most obedient of the arcs, the most powerful."
"Oh yeah, that was something else we found out and meant to tell you," Frank said, glancing apologetically at Laney. "In this book, it says that Amaros was the number-one son of God, back before he Fell. So he's Michael's big brother."
Ellie rubbed her forehead with the inside of her wrist. "Lucifer said something about that, that Amaros had been more powerful than Michael."
"I don't know how that affects anything," Frank said with a shrug. "Just thought it was an interesting piece of information."
She smiled at him wryly. "Okay."
Dean shut the trunk of the Impala as Adam stood on the porch with Ellie.
"I'll watch his back," he said, with an awkward smile, as if aware it might sound a bit ridiculous.
"Thanks," she said, looking at him seriously. "And make sure he watches yours."
His answering smile was more natural, and he walked down the steps as Dean walked up them, getting into the back seat. Sam was bringing Trish and the kids up, they would stay together in the house for the duration.
She looked up at Dean as he stopped in front of her, raising his hand to push back a stray strand of hair absently from her forehead.
"Piece of cake, right?" he said, looking into her eyes. She nodded, mouth lifting in a half-smile.
"Easy as pie."
He bent his head and kissed her, pulling her close, her arms slipping around his neck. He'd said goodbye to the kids already, leaving them curled up in various chairs in the big playroom upstairs, watching a movie. Behind him, he heard Sam's car pull up behind the black car and the excited voices of Marc and Laura as they got closer.
"Don't be long," Ellie said as he broke the kiss. He caught her hand, and kissed the palm, shaking his head.
"Be just a little while," he promised.
For a second, he just looked at her, memorising every detail he could, then he turned around as Trish came up the steps, holding Adrienne, and kissed her cheek in passing, going down to the Impala as Sam got into the passenger side of the black car.
Trish stopped beside Ellie and they watched the car pull slowly out of the drive, tyres kicking back gravel as they passed through the gate and onto the road. Behind them, Rudy and Carl followed in Carl's pickup, brought back from Norridgewock by Katherine, and Laney and Greg trundled out after them in her black truck, the rumbling engines echoing from the rising hillside for a few minutes then fading away.
Trish turned for the door and Ellie followed her inside, closing and locking it behind her. Twist, Steve and Red would be over by dinner time, the three men would stay in the house, taking shifts watching over them.
"Have you heard from Soleil?" Trish asked as she walked down the hall to the living room, Marc and Laura having already disappeared upstairs to join the other kids.
"Callie's improving," Ellie said, increasing her stride to catch up. "She hopes she'll be able to have the second operation at the end of the week, and then it'll be about another week before she can her home."
"Poor girl."
Ellie nodded. Callie's injuries hadn't even been from a fight. Just another diversion by the nephilim to slow the hunters following them. The psychological injuries would be harder to heal than the physical ones.
"Trent and Kath gone back to stay with them?"
"Yeah, they'll drive them home, when Callie's ready," Ellie said, building up the fire on the hearth and dropping onto the long sofa. She felt anxious but she couldn't work out why. Baraquiel would have his witnesses, eight hunters, the four Watchers and three nephilim. It should be enough to dissuade Michael from doing anything too impulsive.
"Why did Rudy stay on here? It's not really his fight, is it?" Trish settled Adrienne on the soft rug with the basket of toys Ellie kept for her niece and little Henry when they came to visit. Both women watched for a moment as Adrienne held out both hands and several of the soft toys rose obediently in the air, the little girl laughing as she clapped her hands and they fell to the floor. Neither felt uncomfortable by the display, but both recognised that Adrienne was going to be difficult to train in her gifts. Her power grew daily and she hadn't reached the Terrible Twos quite yet. When she exercised her will against those of her parents and her siblings, it would be a tricky exercise to avoid confrontations.
"He told Dean his father is a Watcher. Didn't say which one though. So, I guess it is his fight, in one way," Ellie answered belatedly, leaning back against the corner of the sofa.
"A Watcher? Didn't Baraquiel know which one?"
"We don't have photographs of the Watchers, they seem to screw up the cameras when you try to take them, and Rudy didn't want to talk about it," she said. "He hated angels and their children even when I first met him. It doesn't seem to have improved."
"He does have red hair," Trish noted, flicking a look at Ellie.
She smiled at the reference. "A lot of the Watchers do. Baraquiel and Amaros, Gadriel did as well, Talya's his daughter."
"God, I really don't want Sam to have to tell Rudy that he killed his father," Trish said, paling slightly as she remembered the battle in Wyoming that had started with her husband pulling Samuel Colt's gun from his belt and shooting the leader of the Others.
"No," Ellie sighed. "I don't think it'll come up. Rudy's not interested."
Trish nodded, looking down at Adrienne again. "Ellie, do you think…if the firstborn leave, if they're allowed to return to Heaven—" She looked up at the other woman. "—will all these abilities, fade away? Disappear?"
Ellie watched Adrienne for a moment. "I don't think so, Trish. They might have gone from latent to operant because the firstborn came together, but I don't think that's controlling them now."
US-20 E, Oregon
Dean drove east, the stereo playing softly in the car, Sam and Adam discussing something or other over the back of the seat between them. He wondered why Michael—or any of the angels for that matter—would want him to stay out of this. He didn't think Baraquiel's insistence that witnesses would make the archangel more careful of what he did held that much water. Michael only bowed to another's will when he'd had absolutely no other choice.
Adam laughed from the back seat and Dean flicked a look back at his brothers, the corner of his mouth tugging in a very slight smile as he saw the similarities amidst all the differences between them. His brothers. Now there was another freaky thought, to go along with all the others. He had more family now than he'd ever had in his life…a wife and son and daughter, brothers, sister-in-law and nieces and nephew, cousins. The last time he'd acquired a bunch of family in a hurry, he hadn't trusted it, hadn't trusted them. In that case, he'd been right not to. The family he had now…he trusted them all. It was a feeling he couldn't take out and look at too often, because it made him wonder about God and destiny and all the things that had had to happen for it to be possible. But when he did, the feeling filled him deeply.
He pulled off at Burns, stopping at the gas station, filling up and grabbing drinks, swapping with Sam. Adam's brows shot up as he opened the back door, gesturing over the roof to the passenger front door for his half-brother.
"You sure?" Adam asked, glancing at Sam. Dean smiled.
"Yeah, I didn't get much sleep last night; I'll stretch out and catch some. Wake me at Winnemucca." He got into the back seat and stretched out along the seat, the car's generous six foot interior width making it perfect for him. Less so for Sam, of course. But it wasn't Sammy's car. He rolled up the blanket they kept in the back seat and tucked it under his head, closing his eyes.
Sam slid into the driver's seat and started the car, and Adam got in on the passenger side, both doors closing at the same time. He could feel both of their gazes resting on him for a long moment as the engine rumbled, then the car started moving and he let his thoughts go.
Lovelock, Nevada
The Cadillac Inn was very surprised to have fifteen people come in and book rooms in one night.
Fiona Burgess, trainee manager, was on her own for the first time since she'd started working for the motel last week, and she watched nervously as they pulled in out front of the office, coming inside in two's and three's, asking for single kings, double queens, half the things she'd learned over the last week forgotten as she sorted through keys, credit cards and cash. It'd had been a very quiet night until they'd arrived, the motel was almost empty and she managed to find them a block of rooms together, at the back of the motel. Convention, the first couple had said, taking the keys for a single king and driving round the back in a big black truck. Convention, the tall, red-haired man with the face of an angel had told her, taking keys for four queens and two single kings, the black four-wheel drive rumbling around the back followed by the grey one. Convention, the dark-haired man had said, green eyes glinting with amusement as he picked up keys for three single kings and a double queen, the deeply throbbing engine of a black sedan leading the pair of pickups around the back. Ten rooms gone in the space of twenty-five minutes. She carefully wrote down all the details and tucked the credit card receipts into the till, not realising until she sat down that she'd missed her favourite TV show entirely.
Dean opened the trunk, passing a couple of the khaki duffle bags to Sam and Adam and taking the black canvas bag out for himself. He closed the trunk and locked the car and walked to the blue-painted door of his room, unlocking it and looking around. For once, they'd managed to find a motel without a penchant for motif décor. The walls and ceiling were white, the carpet a flecked beige, the bedspread that covered the king-sized bed was a plain dark blue. No cowboys, not even Cadillacs, surprisingly. No disco balls or tulips or cattle horns or sailing ships or any of the thousands of themes he'd been forced to look at it over the years. Dumping the gear bag on the end of the bed, he unzipped it and pulled out the weapons and ammunition it carried, checking over each piece and making sure they were clean and loaded and safetied. The only thing that could kill an angel was an angel sword. He had three, acquired in the years when Heaven was openly in civil war and saved for a special occasion. Like this one.
There was a sharp knock on the door and he walked to it, opening it to see Sam and Adam standing there.
"There's a restaurant attached to this place," Sam said, gesturing over his shoulder. "You want to get something to eat? The others have already headed over there."
Dean nodded. "I'll meet you there."
He closed the door as they left and finished packing away his ordnance. The nerves of the back of his neck were prickling, very faintly. Going to a showdown between archangels and fallen angels and the seven who'd caused them so much trouble and pain over the last year was a good enough reason for it, he guessed. He pulled out his cell anyway, dialling home and listening to it ring. Ellie picked up after the second ring.
"Hey, everything okay?" Her voice was low and he closed his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah, just got to Lovelock," he said.
"Feeling like you're heading into the Last Supper?"
He smiled. It was exactly how he felt and he hadn't been able to nail it so precisely for himself. "Yeah, pretty much."
"Any more bad feelings?"
"No. Not really," he said, his brows drawing together a little. "You?"
"Formless anxiety, mostly," she said. "Nothing concrete."
"No, me either."
"Just … watch everyone tomorrow, Dean." He could hear the edge in her voice now.
"I will."
"I mean it," she insisted.
"I know." He dragged in a deep breath. "I gotta go, Ellie. I'll see you tomorrow night, okay?"
"Yeah. Yes. Okay."
In the silences between the words there were all the things they felt but didn't want to say. Couldn't say. It was asking for trouble. And they both knew them anyway. Ellie hung up and Dean looked at his phone, letting out his breath.
He stood up and put the cell back in his pocket, grabbing the keys and his wallet and turning off the overhead light, leaving the beside lamp on. He closed and locked the door and crossed the parking lot to the restaurant. Did doing what they did create these feelings of longing and ache and wanting nothing more than to get in the car and go home? Or would he feel the same way, working a nine-to-five job as a grease-monkey in Ordinaryville?
Pulling the door to the restaurant open, he frowned as he noticed the Watchers sitting at a small table on their own, away from the hunters. Idan, Tagi and Sima were at the big table, listening and talking and eating, confident of their inclusion in the group, each of them experienced now with their business. Perhaps that's why Baraquiel had chosen to isolate himself and his peers. No matter what happened tomorrow, the Watchers were the fathers of the firstborn, and the hunters had been hunting them for a long time now. Laney was still angry about Eddie, on Soleil's behalf, he knew. Rudy had his own reasons for not trusting them. He nodded to Sam as he walked to the larger table, pulling out a chair and sitting down between Adam and Laney.
Laney leaned close to him. "The Watchers too good to eat with us grunts?"
Dean looked at her sharply. "Don't, okay? We're not here to fight each other. Tomorrow, they might see their kids killed. Don't blame them for not wanting to hear you talking about doing just that."
She pulled away as if he'd slapped her, and he rubbed his hand over his face tiredly. That'd come out a bit stronger than he'd intended.
"Sorry," he said, watching her face. "I don't want misunderstandings."
Laney nodded and turned away. He shifted his gaze over her head to Greg. The older man lifted a brow slightly, one eye closing in acknowledgement.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, Greg was good for Laney, a calming influence on her volatile emotions, he thought. She was a person who did everything at full-throttle, and while that worked for a lot of things, it could backfire on occasion as well. He'd spent a few days with her after that crazy haunting in Michigan, and he'd left her earlier than he'd planned because he'd needed quiet and she couldn't give him that.
Looking over at the Watcher's table, he knew Ellie would've understood this. Would've gone over to them and spoken to them, would've made Laney understand, and Rudy understand, that tomorrow would be testing the fallen in a way they hadn't been tested in a long time. He missed her with a sharp, fierce ache.
He looked up as a waitress appeared beside him and pushed aside his thoughts, ordering his food and a beer.
They parked the cars nose out, in a staggered line close to the road, the drive and gravelled turnaround filled with long, thin shadows stretched out to the west. Castiel let them in, the angel's face stiff with tension as he greeted the Watchers and looked over the hunters.
In the living room, the wall of east-facing floor-to-ceiling windows let in the pale, early sunshine, washing out the brightness of the fire that ringed the two groups of nephilim. Dean studied them as he entered. Collectively, they were obviously not human. Tall and perfectly formed, uniformly beautiful in a way that didn't really exist in humanity, with its asymmetrical features and flaws, the firstborn stared back, their fear hidden behind a façade of indifference.
The room was very crowded when everyone was inside, hunters lining the walls, the Watchers closer to the circles, the angel facing east, head bowed in prayer.
"You're going to kill us?" Chuma said to his father, his lip curled up in a sneer that didn't quite cover the fear in the dark eyes.
Chazaquiel shook his head. "No, we're not."
Baraquiel stepped forward, past him. "We hope to give you what you want, Chuma," he said, looking around at them, his gaze resting on Idra for a moment. "A doorway to Heaven."
Idra looked at his father and snorted in disbelief. "You're lying."
The red-haired Watcher shook his head. "The Council was wrong. We were wrong; to think that what we did could change the lines of Destiny. We couldn't foresee clearly enough."
"So after all we've done, you're just going to open the way and let us go?" Maluch's voice was sharp. "How? Why?"
"Iophiel can open the way," Shamsiel said, his voice deep and quiet. "As to why…you want to see where you came from, where we came from. That's understandable. I do not think you'll like it, but if you'd come to us from the first, we could have shown you and saved the bloodshed and suffering you've caused."
"We didn't cause it, Father," Lazio said bitterly. "It wasn't by our choice."
Baraquiel looked at the nephilim tiredly. "It was your choice, Lazio. You chose the actions to regain Heaven. Chose your path to that end. Do not pretend that no responsibility touches you, no blame falls on you, or you won't be able to enter Heaven though the door stands widely open."
Lazio dropped his gaze, turning away. Maluch looked at the Watcher with narrowed eyes.
"So that is how you intend to defeat our aim? Offer the door and watch as we are banned from entrance?"
"Every soul is admitted to Heaven if they have repented of their sins and asked for forgiveness, Maluch," Sariel said. "You have souls. All you need to do is repent and ask for absolution and you will be able to enter."
Maluch scowled at him.
Watching them, Dean wondered which of the seven would not be able to do that. Truly repent of what they'd done. He hadn't considered the necessary requirements for what they wanted before. Like them, he realised, he'd viewed their quest in a military sense. But of course Heaven had other security measures.
"And if we don't? Repent of our sins and ask for forgiveness?" Chasina looked at her father.
"Then you will stand trapped between the planes until the end of time," Sariel answered, looking at his daughter with pity. She stared back at him.
"Why didn't you tell us? About the sacrifice, about the Council, about all of it?"
Sariel glanced at Baraquiel uncomfortably. "It was decided by all of us, Chasina. We are the Council. We thought the doorway had been closed forever, for us. And for you."
"Your decisions changed the world, father," Idra said angrily.
Baraquiel nodded. "Yes. At the time, the risk was deemed to be acceptable. None of us saw all the consequences."
Azazel, Dean thought suddenly. They were talking about Yellow Eyes. The decision the Watchers had made had changed the world. Had changed the fallen angel and driven him on a quest to bring about the suffering and ruination he'd felt to the entire world. Raising his army. Raising Lucifer. He drew in a deep breath.
Castiel raised his head and turned around, haloed by the sunshine behind him. "Michael comes."
At first, it seemed like the sunlight had gotten stronger, flooding in through the windows and filling the room with the reflections from the pale walls and floor and ceiling. Then the colour of the light changed.
The hunters and nephilim turned away from the brightening glow beside the angel, throwing their arms over their faces and screwing their eyes shut as tightly as possible. Even through that, the light kept strengthening, filling the room ferociously, accompanied by a sound that wasn't quite in the range of human senses but above them, piercing their minds and oscillating on a frequency that made teeth and bones ache sharply. Then it was gone. The light was fading away and Dean lowered his arm, squinting into the glow surrounding Castiel, his breath catching as he made out the figures standing to either side of the angel.
He'd seen the archangel in his brother, in the Cage on the Ninth Level of Hell. Adam's flesh and bones had barely been able to contain the essence of Michael; he'd been taller, broader, his features altered subtly to the angelic perfection, his irises deepened in colour. In Kansas, and in Rome, the angel had not worn a vessel, had been in what Cas had explained was a construct, a representation of what the angel looked like within the boundaries and framework of the earthly plane. He recognised the construct standing in front of him now. Tall and broad-shouldered, immense wings folded in tight behind him, the rows of feathers ranging from pearl to silver as they progressed down the length of the wings. Long, black hair and unearthly blue eyes. The face, with its wide cheekbones and sculpted features, framed by a short-cut beard. He watched the archangel's gaze move around the room, stopping on him for a moment, the morning-glory eyes narrowing for a moment.
Disappointed he hadn't been scared off, Dean wondered? That momentary look confirmed Ellie's theory, at least, he thought. The arc had been fucking around in his head, trying to make him back off. He felt a flash of anger and dampened it down.
On Castiel's left, another archangel stood, his gaze moving more slowly around the room, a golden trumpet of a simple, archaic design held in one hand, the other resting lightly on the hilt of the sword belted at his hip. Iophiel, Dean guessed, the archangel tasked with taking over as the Angel of Death after Gabriel had been killed by Lucifer. He was also tall and broad, his colouring almost entirely opposite to Michael, silver-white hair and very dark eyes, honey-gold skin contrasting with the dark wings that were folded behind him, the feathers black along the edges, shading to a deep, smoke grey at the ends.
"The abominations who want to enter Heaven." Michael's voice was deep and mellifluous, with an odd drawling inflection that flavoured every word with a languid amusement.
The archangel returned his gaze to Dean. "And the Winchesters. Again. I would've thought you'd be in that nice little house up the mountain from Bend, looking after your family, Dean, keeping them safe?"
Dean felt a stab of anger at the angel's careless reference to his home, hiding it as he stared at Michael. "Don't you have better things to do than screw around in people's dreams?"
"I do," Michael took a step forward. "I was hoping you would stay out of this."
"I like to see the job get done," Dean said, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug. "And you already know Ellie isn't a soft target, don't you?"
The archangel scowled at him. "Indeed."
He turned away and looked at Baraquiel coldly. "Your children are an affront to our Father's Will, Baraquiel."
The Watcher drew the tablet from his pocket, peeling off the cloth wrappings and handing the stone to Michael. "Our Father thought differently, Michael."
Taking the stone gingerly, Michael looked down at it, his eyes on the writing. Iophiel walked up beside him, looking at the tablet, then turning to look at Baraquiel.
"Where did you get this?" he said, the light tenor of his voice strained with emotion.
"From me."
The voice, a butter-smooth baritone a shade deeper than Michael's, came from the hall, and everyone in the room turned to look at the tall, copper-haired Watcher who stood there, smiling pleasantly at the archangels. Behind him, another Watcher, dark-haired, stood.
"Amaros," Michael said softly, looking at him. "Betraying us again?"
Amaros' smile widened as he walked into the room, past the Watchers and hunters. "Michael, I've never betrayed Heaven, or you."
"Leaving us was a betrayal," Michael ground out, staring at his brother.
"We did what we were asked to do," the dark-haired Watcher said quietly, following Amaros. "We followed our orders, Michael."
"You Fell, Araquiel!" Iophiel said, anger and fear mingled in his voice. "You Fell and brought the First War upon us."
"The First War was not the result of our Falling, but of the arrogance of Lucifer—and of the Eighth Choir," Baraquiel countered evenly. "You cannot rewrite history to suit yourselves."
Michael ignored him, staring at Amaros. "You might have been the most powerful once, brother, but no longer."
"Michael, will you go against your Father's command?" he asked, looking down at the tablet in the archangel's hand. "Is that what you've become? So riddled by jealousy you cannot obey now?"
Dean saw Michael's finger tighten on the stone, bones and tendons standing out, and his hand slid beneath his jacket. He flicked a look at Sam and Adam, standing on the other side of the room. Sam's eyes met his and his brother gave a small nod, his hand reaching for the angel sword in his jacket.
If Michael was going to fight, then the Watchers would have backup, Dean thought coldly.
"Our Father gave his Blessing to us, Michael, to us and our children to help humanity. It was an order, and we obeyed it, gladly, willingly," Amaros spoke softly, seeing the hair-trigger tension in his brother, the rage and fear that filled him.
For a moment, Dean thought the Watcher might've gotten through to the archangel. Michael looked down at the stone tablet in his hand and his shoulders slumped.
Then his head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Then He left! And you left! And Lucifer defied me!"
He flung the tablet down and it hit the tiled floor, smashing into pieces. The earthly plane flexed sickeningly, the room, the air, the light bulging in and out.
"Kill them!" Michael screamed at Iophiel, drawing his sword and lunging for Amaros. Iophiel raised his hand and the fires surrounding the nephilim vanished, the angel who wore the mantle of Death spinning around and drawing his sword as he charged for Kitra, standing closest to the edge, his sword plunging through her chest, burning with a brilliant argentine light as it destroyed her heart.
Dean yanked the angel sword from his jacket, as Amaros drew his own, his blade meeting Michael's with a high-pitched shriek and an explosion of light.
The hunters pulled their weapons, firing continuously at the firstborn as the room filled with light and shadow, with the clash of metal and the thunder of gunfire. Laney dodged Idra but couldn't avoid Maluch in time, the man picking her up as she fired into his chest at point-blank range, and throwing her into the ceiling, her neck snapping instantly with the impact. Behind her, Greg screamed, emptying a clip into the nephilim as he ran for him, not seeing Lazio appear beside him, Shamsiel's son raising the submachine gun he carried and pulling the trigger, the bullets stitching a line of black holes through the man, bringing him down.
Sam and Adam swung the angel swords as they ran for the nephilim, Sam driving the point through Maluch's side, desperately angling it upward as the man turned for him. Maluch threw him across the room and through the windows, sweeping a hand on the turn, the edge of it hitting Adam's side as he fought with Chuma.
Behind him, Dean thrust the tip of the sword into his ribs, ducking as the blow missed the nephilim's heart by an inch, and Maluch spun around, pulling the sword from his grip with the speed of the turn, the man's arm hitting him like a sledgehammer and sending him into the wall. Rudy, Carl and Charlie were firing at Idra, the nephilim down on his knees as the bullets riddled his body, then Chuma and Lazio turned to them, and the submachine gun sprayed its rounds over them.
"To me," Maluch bellowed, and the nephilim ran. Iophiel leapt across the body of the woman and thrust his sword into the back of Reuma as she tried to reach the others. She fell in front of him as the five nephilim joined hands. The room shuddered with the force of the concussive blast, throwing everyone to the floor as the nephilim disappeared.
Another flash of light, purest white, strobed the room as Michael and Iophiel vanished, and Dean rolled to his feet, blinking as he looked around. Michael, Iophiel and Cas were gone. On the wall, dark red blood dripped from the sigil that had been drawn, a handprint visible in the blood in the centre. Cas had banished them all, he realised.
Turning around, he saw his brothers, lying against the wall. He hurried to them, relieved when he felt Sam's pulse beating strongly, saw Adam's chest rising and falling. Sam had taken a hit under the lung, on his right side, and another through the shoulder. Adam had a long shallow furrow along his scalp, and a hole in his leg, outside through and through. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, ripping the sleeve off and tying it tightly around the hole in Adam's leg, then leaned forward, his ear pressed against Sam's chest, listening for the telltale gurgling in his lungs, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn't hear it.
"Oh, shit, no."
He looked around, seeing Carl kneeling beside Laney, his fingers resting against her neck. Carl looked up at him, shaking his head.
"Can you heal them?" Dean looked at Amaros. "Bring them back?"
Amaros shook his head. "We can heal, but not bring back, Dean."
"Where are the firstborn?" He looked around at the Watchers. Baraquiel and Chazaquiel were both bleeding freely from wounds. Between them, on the floor, Shamsiel lay unmoving. "How could they get out when that arc killed two of them?"
Araquiel knelt beside the body of Reuma. His daughter was dead, the archangel's sword had pierced her heart and destroyed it. He lifted her hand, looking at the knotted scar that ran up from the palm onto her wrist. "They formed a blood bond, giving each other the strength of the Seven, even if all were not there."
"So they're full-blood angel strong now?"
"Stronger than even than that," Amaros said, resting his hand on Araquiel's shoulder as the Watcher leaned forward and closed Reuma's eyes.
"How much stronger?" Dean asked, sure he didn't want to know the answer.
"I don't know," Amaros answered, moving around the room to look at the others. He touched the wounds of Baraquiel, the bleeding slowing and stopping, the flesh drawing together. It was not the same as the touch of an angel who could still draw on the power of Heaven. The wounds were deep and would take time to heal properly. It would keep them alive though.
"Where'd they go?" Dean asked again, looking at Baraquiel, uneasiness growing in him, a prickle in the nerves at the back of his neck beginning.
"They have their plan, Dean. They will have gone to get what they need." The Watcher winced as he got to his feet.
"Home?" Dean stared at him.
"They still need the bloodlines of Amaros and Azazel," Araquiel stood up and looked at him. "And now they will also need my descendents and Penemue's," he added, gesturing at the bodies of the nephilim on the floor.
"That's the kids," Dean muttered, half to himself. He looked around. "Rudy, you're coming with me. Carl, you and Charlie, stay here with the Watchers, get everyone healed up—" He glanced at Amaros, who nodded. "Take care of them and bring 'em back when they can travel."
He turned away and started to run as he hit the hallway. If the firstborn could teleport, he was going to be too late anyway, way too late. He couldn't think of that, not now. He heard Rudy behind him, and got into the Impala, starting the engine and pulling out as Rudy closed the passenger door.
Forest Edge, Oregon
The black car roared up the road, rocks clanging against the bash plates underneath as Dean swung them through the gates at the end. He killed the engine and got out, slowing slightly as he saw the front door open, Sam's car gone, legs lying still in the hallway.
"Would they still be here?" Rudy whispered as he followed him up the porch steps.
"I doubt it," Dean said, gesturing behind him. "They took Sam's car."
He looked down at Red, who lay sprawled across the floor next to the front door. His face and neck were half-covered in blood. Dean knelt beside him, ignoring the sledging of his heart against his ribs as he pressed two fingers against the side of the man's neck. A pulse beat there strongly, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. Looking more closely at the blood, he could see it'd come from Red's eyes, from his nose and mouth and ears. He thumbed up an eyelid, watching the pupil contract as the light hit it.
"Out cold," he said, and gestured around vaguely. "Check for the others."
He walked fast down the hall, glancing into the living room as he passed it, seeing Garth and Frank lying on the floor in there, their faces similarly covered in blood. He checked the kitchen, and turned around, heading for the basement door. At the bottom of the stairs, Steve was in a crumpled heap, a wide scrape on his forehead showing he'd probably fallen down the steps when he'd lost consciousness. He found Ellie and Trish lying in front of the open panic room door, both bloodied, but both breathing, their heartbeats strong.
Inside, Tamsin lay on the cot, her arms wrapped around her son, both of them unconscious, blood drying on their faces.
He walked back to Ellie and lifted her shoulders, sliding his leg under her to support her head. He wiped the blood off her face, looking up as Rudy came down the stairs.
"Everyone's alive, but unconscious," the hunter said as he crossed the room. "Twist and Talya are upstairs. They must have hit them with something that put pressure on the skull cavities, all of them bled from the ears, eyes and nose."
Dean nodded disinterestedly. "Our kids are gone. That's all they came for."
"How'd they find the place?" Rudy asked, stopping near him uncertainly.
"Michael told them enough," Dean said, looking down as Ellie moved slightly. He watched her eyes open, her hand lifting to the side of her head.
"You okay?" he asked her. She looked at him, and her eyes widened suddenly.
"John? Rosie?"
He kept his arm around her as she sat up, memory crashing back at the sight of Tricia lying on the floor next to her, the open door of the panic room beyond, turning back to him, wanting a different answer to the one in his eyes.
He shook his head, pulling her close as she shook, walling off his emotions and thoughts as he held her, her tears soaking into his shirt. Michael had been right, he thought bitterly. He should've been here.
