Chapter 22 Lost
Great Bend, Kansas. March 29.
The room was dark and warm when Dean opened his eyes, a sideways glance at the lit clock on the nightstand showing he'd woken ten minutes before the alarm. He was on his side, one hand resting lightly on Ellie's hip, and he moved it slowly across her skin, eyes half-closed as his fingertips mapped their position by the location of the familiar ridges and whirls and puckers of her scars.
That was Chicago, he knew, the two long-healed holes on either side of her belly-button. The long, thin ridges on her right side were Alaska. The short, knobbly line on the outside of her thigh was Maine. Vegas. Tennessee. Oregon. He knew the scars and knew what had caused them, knew how it had happened, what the job had been, with nearly all of them. They were a part of her and he knew them as well as he knew how she woke, with a deeply indrawn breath, the small noise she made in the back of her throat when she found something unbelievable, the crease that appeared between her brows when she was thinking through a decision or a plan of action. That she loved clever action films and had a secret weakness for an expensive Swiss chocolate, listened to every kind of music and had perfect pitch but virtually no range when it came to singing. Knew she loved things with history and absorbed knowledge like a sponge, that she didn't care what anyone thought of her except him. Knew those things without thinking about them, as easy as breathing.
He heard her pull in a deep breath, her ribcage lifting under his wrist, and smiled as she rolled over to him, her arms slipping around him, one thigh sliding over his, warm and solid against him. He shifted onto his back and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, breathing in the scent of her, his lips brushing over her temple.
"Alarm's going to go off in about two minutes," he murmured against her skin.
"Mmm." It was barely a sound, just a vibration of her mouth against his collarbone and he closed his eyes, feeling her heartbeat on his ribs, her breath light on his skin.
"Oran wants to do a car chase," he said, carrying the two cups of coffee from the kitchen counter to the table, handing her one on the way.
"Of course he does," Ellie said, looking through her duffel for a dark shirt.
She stood beside the bed, in jeans and a white bra, the grey dawn light coming through the gaps between the curtains tinting her pale skin to silver. Dean watched her as she dragged out a clean shirt and lifted her arms to pull it over head. The scars were hardly visible in the ghostly light, but he could see the outlines of her ribs, the faint curves of her muscles. She was wearing a necklace, a smoky gemstone of some kind on a silver chain, settled just at the top of the valley between her breasts. One of the facets caught the light before the shirt covered it.
"Who does he want to drive the chase car?" Her voice was muffled from the inside of the shirt.
"Idan, or Tagi, I think," he said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee and looking over the weapons laid out on the table. Angel swords, their automatics with extra clips loaded with dum-dums, Ruby's wide, serrated knife and Ellie's longer, finer demon blade. Two close-range projectors and a dozen darts delivering 1 mg of anaesthetic per dose. Guilliame and Vincent had another two, and Carl and Rudy had a pair as well.
"So long as he hits Sariel and makes it look real, they can re-enact Beverly Hills Cop for all I care," she commented, tucking the shirt into her jeans and picking up a lightweight black canvas jacket from the end of the bed.
He snorted at the image. "Used to be me doing all the heavy-duty driving work."
She stopped in the middle of pulling on her jacket and looked at him, one brow raised. "You wouldn't walk away from a crash like that. They will."
"They picked up three cars this morning, anyway," he said, his tone casual, eyes crinkling slightly as he acknowledged the truth of her comment. She walked to the table, zipping up the jacket and glancing over their weapons.
"Good, so we're all set?"
"Yep."
"Did you hear that tapping noise when I started the engine?" Dean asked, leaning back in the driver's seat of the Impala.
They were parked along the edge of Dike Road, nearly four hundred yards from the corner, on a rise that gave them a good view of the road and warehouse. Dean glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. The crash was timed for nine-fifteen.
"Yeah, I've been thinking it wouldn't be a bad idea if you took a month off, after this, and spent some time working on her, getting her back into prime shape," Ellie said, her gaze fixed on the road just visible through the trees, the binoculars pressed against her eyes.
"Not a bad idea," he said, suppressing the unexpected spurt of delight at the thought. "We gonna get enough time for that? What do you want to use as a vehicle if I take her out of service?"
"Sam and Adam should be fit enough soon to cover us for a while," she said. "We could buy something to run around in while you do it."
"It wouldn't be a bad way to introduce John to cars, you know," she added a moment later, lowering the glasses to look at him. "He doesn't have to get hands on, but he'd love to see how it all works."
He nodded. "Yeah. I was eight when I started helping Bobby."
"You were a prodigy," she said with a slight smile. "Bobby told me all about it."
She watched him duck his head slightly and lifted the glasses again.
"Once we're done here, I wouldn't mind a drive up to Sioux Falls, pay my respects," Dean said quietly. Ellie hid her surprise at the request, but he felt it anyway.
"I know," he said with a small shrug. "Just feels like I need to."
"Okay," she said, adjusting the focus on the glasses a little. "We can do that."
In the distance, they heard the whine of an engine being pushed past the red line, and Dean turned to look up the road, eyes narrowing as he tracked the car by the gears and changes in the engine notes.
"One minute," he said and Ellie nodded, watching the gap.
An orange Cutlass roared up the road, fishtailing wildly as it took the gravelled corner too fast, a mustard-coloured Ford right on its tail. Both cars shot past the warehouse and through the trees, Ellie saw a burgundy station wagon coming the other way.
The Cutlass hit the station wagon head on, a deafening shriek of metal followed almost instantly by a muffled explosion that made the trees bend over toward them. The crackle of the fire and shouts of witnesses were overlaid by the high-pitched revving of the Ford's engine as Idan swerved around the wreckage and screamed away. Dean could see the column of flame shooting up into the sky even without the binoculars, followed by roiling clouds of black smoke.
"That looked realistic," he muttered uncomfortably.
"Yeah," Ellie said, grimacing as she lowered the glasses. "Call it in. Response time is supposed to be three to four minutes."
In four minutes the road was filled with vehicles, the police barricading either end, and fire trucks surrounding the inferno of the two cars. An ambulance was parked further away, no doubt anticipating the need for body bags but not care. They watched Guilliame and Vincent slip onto the scene in the anonymous yellow and black fire retardant suits worn by the local fire brigade and Dean started the engine.
"How close do you think we can get?" he asked, shifting into gear and pulling out.
"Not real close. Just behind the trees at the end of the block, and we'll walk from there," Ellie said, leaning forward to put the glasses back on the floor and pick up the small gear bag holding the darts and projectors. Her leather pack lay beside it but she left that there. "Even if we try to move onto that blank wall, there're cameras along the roofline and they can eyeball us, warded or not."
He eased the car down the road and pulled over in the shadows of the trees that lined the corner, turning off the engine. Ellie brushed her fingers over his arm, and he looked through the windshield to see Guilliame and Vincent, now dressed in the full uniform of the fireys, crossing the open stretch of gravel to the warehouse entrance.
"Two minutes?"
He nodded, pulling out his .45 auto and double-checking the mag. "Can you see Carl and Rudy?"
"Yeah." Ellie looked up the road to the half-hidden clearing on the other side of the road. "They're moving."
"Let's do this."
They were taking a chance, Dean thought as they ran across the open ground to the back of the warehouse, meeting Carl and Rudy there, and moving around the corner together, banking on the firstborn focusing on the two men approaching and the spectacular crash up the road, rather than the security cameras on the other side of the building. It was a risk, but one he thought was reasonable, given the dealings he'd had with the nephilim so far. Not so much organised, and easily distracted.
Stopping at the corner, he dropped to the ground, and was watching the hunters approaching the building, when his neck began to prickle. He turned his head, looking around them, a frown drawing his brows together. Beside him, Ellie lifted one brow in a tacit question. He shook his head slightly, getting to his knees, the auto in his hand cocked.
They heard the door opening and the low murmur of voices. Then, in the blink of an eye, four men appeared from nowhere, surrounding them, the one closest to him smiling.
"Ssshh," the vessel said and touched his forehead.
Jurf al Darawish, Jordan. March 29.
Amaros was kneeling beside the bed of a little girl, her mother standing a few feet away, hands clenched tightly together, her face hidden by the dull black cloth of the chadri and burqa, when his brother entered the small, mud-brick hut.
"We have a situation," Araquiel said, his voice low as he looked down at the child. The girl's face was pale, beaded with sweat, her body shaken by tremors every few minutes as infection raged through it.
"A moment," Amaros said and closed his eyes, laying his hand lightly over the child's forehead.
The child's eyes flew open, and she arched up in the narrow cot, her mother whimpering at the sight. Amaros lifted his hand and the girl collapsed, her eyes closing.
"She will rest now," he said to the mother. "The infection is gone but she will be weak, will need sleep and broth and milk."
The woman dropped beside the cot, laying her hand over her daughter's forehead, feeling the cool skin and hearing the steadiness of her breathing. She looked up at the fallen angel, her eyes filling with tears and gratitude.
Amaros smiled and bowed his head, turning and walking from the tiny house. Araquiel leaned on the wall beside the door.
"What kind of situation?" The Watcher asked, turning to walk toward the small town and the well. Araquiel fell into step beside him.
"It would appear Michael has become impatient and taken matters into his own hands," Araquiel said, shrugging as Amaros turned to look at him. "He helped the firstborn to trap the hunters, and he will allow them to open the door—"
"With the Host waiting for them when it does?" Amaros guessed, stopping at the round stone well in the centre of the small square. He dropped the bucket into its cool depth and drew up some water, washing his face and hands.
"Yes," Araquiel confirmed. "Castiel and the others who believe Michael is wrong have been imprisoned. I don't think we can just sit on the fence and watch what happens any longer."
"No." Amaros looked around the square absently. "No, we can't."
"Can you reclaim your power?"
"I don't know," the copper-haired Watcher said, looking at Araquiel. "He is not exactly renowned for changing His mind once something's been decided, you know." He looked down thoughtfully. "But it's been a long, long time since I asked for a favour."
"Then you should have some stored up, yes?"
Amaros smiled. "You really do fit in here, Araquiel. Your faith is astounding."
Great Bend, Kansas. March 30.
Dean struggled toward consciousness, a formless urgency beating at him. He rolled over, his arms pinned behind him, the sharp bite of rope around his wrists, the sting of raw, scraped flesh under it.
Opening his eyes, he saw Rudy lying close by, the red-haired hunter's eyes closed.
"Hey," he said, the word coming out broken and gravelly from a dry throat.
"You 'wake, Dean?"
Carl, he thought disjointedly, behind him, somewhere. He rolled over again, grimacing as the movement brought more pain and a deep ache in one side. Someone had laid the boot into him while he'd been out, he thought, feeling the creak in his ribs.
"Yeah," he said, sighting Carl crumpled against one wall, hardly visible in the dimness of the room. "What happened?"
"You tell me," Carl said, his breath catching as he tried to push himself higher against the wall. "One minute we were alone, waiting to go in, the next there were four guys standing around and they touched us and that was it. I woke up here about fifteen minutes ago."
Angels, Dean thought, closing his eyes in frustration. How wasn't important. Only angels could zap in and out like that and put you out with a touch. Michael. What the hell was going on?
He rocked himself slightly, shifting his weight over his hip and managed to sit upright. Looking around the room, he could see Rudy and Carl near him. Further away, two more men lay in the deeper shadows by the door. "That Guilliame and Vincent?"
Carl nodded. "Yeah."
He twisted around further, unable to see anyone else. "Where's Ellie?"
Carl looked away. "I don't know. She wasn't here when I woke."
Of course not, Dean thought. She was the other half of the key and Maluch would certainly use her for that. He remembered the white light spilling out in his dream and forced those images and thoughts down. Figure out a way to get out. That's what's important now.
He pushed against Rudy's leg with his foot. "Wake up, man."
The hunter stirred, forehead creasing as he opened his eyes. "What happened?"
"Ambush," Dean said sourly. "Angels."
"What?" Rudy looked at him. "I thought the angels wanted to kill the firstborn?"
"Apparently Michael couldn't wait."
"So he's helping them?"
Dean thought of the archangel. "I'm guessing he's got an army hanging around upstairs waiting for the door to open so he can kill them, us and anyone else who gets in his way."
Rudy looked around the room. "Where's Ellie?"
Dean's mouth thinned out, and he shook his head. "Taken to be used as the key, I think."
"How long have we got?"
"I don't know. Can you see my watch?" He turned his back to the hunter, listening as Rudy moved closer to him.
"Shit," Rudy said softly.
"What?"
"It's March 30 now."
The sound of the lock dragged their attention to the door, and Dean felt a surge of anger as Michael walked into the room, the construct he favoured filling the room with light. Behind the archangel, Maluch and Chasina stopped in the doorway, looking around at the hunters.
"Where are the rest of you?" Maluch turned his attention to Dean.
"They're around somewhere," Dean said, hoping like hell they'd been smart enough to hide in the warded cars as soon as the four of them had disappeared. "Hypocritical much, Michael?"
The archangel looked down at him and smiled without a trace of humour. "The firstborn needed my help. I saw no reason not to aid them."
Dean looked at Maluch. "Except when the door opens, your army will be waiting there to kill us all?"
The nephilim's face hardened. "We have amnesty."
Rudy laughed. "From an angel? An archangel? Who are you kidding?"
"If Michael's being such a pal, ask him to open the doorway for you with Gabriel's trumpet," Dean suggested, looking from Maluch to Chasina. He saw doubt in her eyes as they flicked to the archangel. "Did you know Iophiel can do that? Open that old stairway to Heaven with just a few notes?"
"We can open it ourselves." Maluch glared at him and Dean wondered how much trust the firstborn was putting in Michael.
"By killing the humans who make the key," Dean countered. "Wouldn't you rather go to Heaven without innocent blood on your hands?"
"Your wife and your brother's daughter are the two halves of the key, meant to be joined," Chasina said sharply. "Why would they die?"
"Because they're human!" he almost shouted back at her. "They won't survive the power channelled through them."
"Says you," Michael said softly. "And who knows where you come by your information, Winchester."
"From your big brother, Michael." Dean twisted around to stare at him, forcing himself to ignore the stab of pain from his ribs.
"Amaros?" The archangel looked away. "He Fell four thousand years ago."
"Yeah, and I see you're handling it real well," Dean said.
"Don't presume to talk to me about familial relationships, Dean," Michael said coldly. "Yours have not been any better."
"Enough," Maluch said, looking from Dean to Michael in annoyance. He glanced over his shoulder at the four angelic vessels behind them. "You will witness our ascent. Bring them. The Circle is ready."
The centre of the warehouse was empty and open, the concrete floor marked out in hundreds of interlocking and interwoven circles. The scents of myrrh and frankincense, sandalwood and jessamine and mint and sage filled the air from the bowls scattered across the design. Candles flickered and burned at every junction of the finely drawn lines and arcs, in every colour, and gold and silver dust marked out the centres of the circles.
Dean pulled in a deep breath as he saw them, the nephilim and children making a circle in the centre of the maze and lying on the floor in their midst, Ellie and Adrienne, separated by a few feet, both unconscious. He saw a small, deep cut under Ellie's eye, trickling a thin thread of blood.
"Daddy!" Rosie's voice rose shrilly as she saw him, Idra's hand restraining her from moving. On the other side of the circle, he saw John's head rise slowly, green eyes wide with fear. The sight of his son's face, panic-stricken and afraid, was a knife inside of him, twisting savagely. He strained against the ropes that held his arms behind him, sweat beading on his forehead as the nylon creaked under the pressure he was exerting. The prickle of his nerves at the back of his neck was a continuous itching ache now.
The angel holding him forced him to his knees a few yards from the circles; the others pushing Rudy and Carl, Guilliame and Vincent down on the ground as well. Michael and the four angel-filled vessels moved to stand to one side of the room, away from the circle. Maluch and Chasina took their positions in the ring surrounding the centre.
Do something, his mind screamed, and he braced himself to roll forward, shock filling him as if he'd had a transfusion of ice-water when he realised below the neck, he couldn't move a muscle. He swung his head around to look at the archangel and he saw the small smile on Michael's face.
They weren't here to be witnesses, and he'd known that. They were here to be killed when the door opened, and they would be held in place until that happened. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rudy's face redden; the hunter struggling against the same compulsion that was holding him still. Michael's smile grew wider.
The nephilim joined hands, reaching out to take the children's hands in theirs, until the circle was complete and all of them stilled, eyes shut.
Dean watched helplessly as light began to fill the circle, welling up from the floor and following the lines, brightening and shifting colour as it passed from one junction to another, lighting the faces of the firstborn, the children, the angels watching on the edge of the room, the other hunters, flickering and glowing and filling the space. One by one the candles went out as the light reached them and the bowls of herbs and spices ignited, scenting the air with the wreathing pale blue smoke as it twisted and ribboned into patterns above the circles, curling toward the centre and forming solid lines and curves around the Circle of the Nine.
In the middle, Ellie and Adrienne rose from the floor, slowly at first, then more quickly as they were carried around the perimeter of the Circle by the force that held them off the ground. Lit by the eldritch light, Dean saw Ellie's eyes open suddenly, rolled up and only showing the whites; Adrienne's eyes were also open and rolled up, their arms reached out for each other without volition, as they drew closer and closer together in a diminishing, rising spiral. Dean's protests screamed unvoiced inside his head when he saw their fingers touch. Like magnets of opposite polarity, the woman and the child snapped together, Ellie's arms enclosing Adrienne tightly, heart to heart, her head bowed over the child's, and something began to leak from them, spilling out into the room.
It wasn't light he could see with his eyes, Dean thought incoherently, unable to take his gaze from the pair twisting high in the air above the Circle. There were colours in it, but they defied definition, as dark as they were light, more like the colours of oil on water than any other example his mind could come up with as he tried to understand what he was seeing.
A wind stirred the hair of the members of the Circle, blowing thin and cold from otherworldly reaches as the doorway opened. The touch of that icy wind held an acrid, metallic taste that made him gag. Where the two were joined, the wind and the light that wasn't light poured through them, and sometimes he could see them through it, sometimes they were hidden as if by solid darkness. As it got stronger, he blinked, their skeletons visible through the light as if their flesh had become completely transparent…he could see their bones turning to metal and the blood vessels filling up with the iridescent colours that were invisible to the eye but not to the mind.
"NOW!" Maluch screamed.
Both stopped turning and the nine shuddered in unison. Dean stared in disbelief as a real light, vivid and shockingly intense, spread out from the woman and child.
His scream reverberated in his chest but nothing emerged from his throat when their heads tipped back, and the light shifted from Adrienne to Ellie, pulsing in rhythmic beats. The light grew brighter and the pulsing slowed and he realised he couldn't see her anymore, just a blazing glow where she'd been, Adrienne still visible, held in the air by nothing.
The light grew brighter still, and he slitted his eyes, unable to endure the argent brilliance, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Even through closed lids, he saw the light throb once more, and the shadow of Sam's baby daughter falling.
The explosion knocked him backward; the force expanding from the centre of the Circle and tossing nephilim, children, angels and hunters back against the walls as if they were made of paper.
"Emergency, this is Unit Two, we have two men, third-degree burns, multiple contusions, blood loss, shock, on route."
"Roger that, Unit Two, we're prepping surgery now, bring them in on the double," the radio crackled back at Jerry as he glanced at his partner. Steve's face was still waxy pale and sweating. Neither had ever seen two people with so many horrific injuries still living.
"You okay, Steve?" he asked, nervously watching the other man swallowing convulsively. "Don't think about it, man, just let it go. We're nearly there."
Steve nodded, keeping his gorge down by an act of will. He couldn't keep doing this, the nightmares had been bad enough after the three-car crash last year, but the two guys in the back were going to haunt his dreams for months.
The ambulance turned into Miller Street, and he slowed down as they approached the ER entrance, forgetting the speed hump and grimacing as the van lurched over it. There was a thump from the back and he turned wide, miserable eyes on Jerry.
"What was that?"
"I don't know," Jerry answered tersely, looking out the window. "Doc's here, let's get 'em unloaded and go and get a drink."
They climbed out and hurried to the back doors, opening them and securing them before climbing inside.
"What the fuck!?" Jerry looked from one empty gurney to the other in disbelief.
"Where the hell are the patients, Jerry?" The attending leaned in the back, looking at them.
"I have no fucking idea," Jerry said, shaking his head. "They were right here."
"Burns, contusions, blood loss, shock … you telling me they just jumped out?"
"Sir, I don't know what to tell you."
Dean opened his eyes as the glare faded, twisting around to see a glowing doorway, suspended above the floor of the warehouse, filled with a pearlescent light now, not the mind-hurting iridescent coruscations from between the planes, nor the argent brilliance those had become. He could see figures stepping through it, and he tried to focus on the leader, struggling to roll away from them, knowing who they had to be.
Amaros stepped onto the concrete and crouched down, picking up Adrienne and holding her in one arm, the enormous copper-red and nacreous wing that rose from behind his shoulder curving protectively around the child. He lifted his hand and pointed the sword it held at Michael, and the archangel was trapped just as he'd trapped Dean; held frozen against the wall while the four vessels of the other angels vanished.
"What have you done to yourself, Michael?"
"I have held the sanctity of Heaven and guarded the Halls against abominations," Michael shouted, struggling furiously against his brother's invisible grip.
"You have raised yourself in hubris and betrayed every trust given you," Amaros corrected him.
Dean felt the ropes binding him vanish and he rolled to his feet, crossing to Carl and pulling him up. Behind them, the door opened and Sariel walked in, followed by Oran and Idan, Tagi and Sima, Charlie, Marguerite, Red, Steve, Carmen and Jeremy, Michel, Garth, Ginny and Jim. The hunters spread out along the wall, and Sariel walked to Amaros, taking Adrienne from the archangel, and hurrying back to the wall beside the door.
On the floor, the firstborn slowly got to their feet, backing away from the circles when they saw Amaros standing before the doorway and more figures moving half-seen in the streaming light.
Dean walked slowly between Michael and Amaros, scooping Rosie into his arms and lifting John to his feet. Beside them, Marc and Laura got up slowly and followed him back to the hunters. He stood beside Sariel, his eyes narrowed as they searched the room, barely aware of the confrontation between the two archangels.
"You must have known that this—" Amaros gestured vaguely around the room. "—would not go unpunished, Michael."
"You think you are the one to punish me, brother?"
"As you believed you had to be the one to punish Lucifer, Michael."
"You have been a mortal a long time, Amaros," Michael said. "Perhaps you are no longer the strongest of us."
"Perhaps," Amaros agreed readily. He gestured abruptly and Michael's arms fell to his sides, his hand darting immediately to the hilt of his sword.
Behind Amaros, stepping through the light-filled door, more angels emerged. Dean saw Castiel stop to one side of Amaros, the angel's gaze flicking to him briefly and back to Michael, gesturing to those who followed him to take their places along the other walls. The seraphim glowed with their own light, no vessels containing them, only the constructs of their minds, realised as tall, graceful figures of impossible beauty and multi-hued wings, rustling as they moved.
Michael ran straight at Amaros and the warehouse interior rang and echoed with the clash of metal on metal as the two swords met. The first engagement was a flurry of blades, the angels circling each other warily, testing one another for strength and weakness. Michael drove in and was deflected and driven back, Amaros wielding the long sword with a speed the human watchers couldn't hope to register. The two swords flickered and burned as they met and swung, their long blades lit by flames of alabaster and rose, their light reflecting over skin, tinting the shining feathers when wings were spread out and drawn in with each turn and parry, attack and defence.
"All this time, you were just waiting to come back, weren't you, brother?" Michael gasped as he blocked a cut too late, the blade tip drawing blood along his cheekbone. "To reclaim what you said you hadn't wanted."
"No, Michael. I didn't want what you did," Amaros said, his long blade shifting up and down, wreathed in fire like his brother's, effortlessly stopping each of Michael's attacks. "I wanted what I asked for; to be mortal, to teach, to watch over the creations of our Father."
"I don't believe you!" Michael feinted to the right, and spun back, wings lifting for balance as he thrust his sword at his brother's heart.
"I know."
Amaros stepped to the side, his parry carrying the white-flamed blade past him. "And now it is your turn to understand mortality."
He lengthened his stride, overtaking and swinging around behind his brother, the sword lifting and slashing downwards. Michael's scream filled the warehouse as he fell to his knees. Every human, Watcher and nephilim dropped to their knees and pressed their hands tightly over their ears as it went on and on. Blood gushed from the feathered and bony spurs, pooling on the concrete floor. The sound fell away after long moments, fading into nothing and Dean started at the sound of Michael's sword, flames extinguished, clattering onto the floor. The archangel's face was slack with disbelief as he reached over his shoulder, then pulled his hand back, the fingers coated in blood.
"I am not Fallen."
"You will live out your years as a mortal." Amaros stood before him, his sword held lightly in one hand, a single white feather adhering to the end of the blade.
Every particle of energy seemed to run out of Michael, his head dropped forward. Amaros turned to look at the firstborn nephilim.
"You wanted to return to Heaven. Now you can," he said, gesturing to the doorway. "You might not find all that you seek in its halls, but you will not be harmed by any who dwells there...provided you can enter."
Idra and Lazio stepped forward immediately, and the hunters watched them as they passed into the nacreous light. Chasina looked at her father and shook her head, stepping back. Chuma looked at Sariel as well, his face twisting up, the symmetric beauty of his features distorted with his emotions.
"My father," he said, licking his lips nervously. "He still lives?"
Sariel nodded and Chuma turned away, walking to stand beside Chasina and taking the hand she offered him.
Maluch's expression was bitter. "After everything we've been through, everything we've done, you're not going?"
"No," Chasina said, shaking her head. "It might be cowardly, Maluch, but I'll take the life I know." She glanced at her father. "With the family I have."
"A life of mortality amongst monkeys," Maluch sneered, staring at the hunters. "You can have it."
He turned abruptly and stepped into the light…
And stopped, in mid-stride.
Amaros looked at him thoughtfully.
"Why isn't he moving?" Chuma asked, looking from Maluch to the archangel.
"There are some things one must do before one can enter, even when entry is a birthright and the invitation is given."
"Maluch, ask for forgiveness," Chasina called out.
Amaros turned to her, his expression filled with regret. "He cannot hear you."
He glanced back at the figure frozen at the edge of the doorway, caught in between the planes of Heaven and earth. "He cannot die, nor will he live. He will have all the time of eternity to learn that repentance and forgiveness is essential to all creatures."
He turned to the ranks of the seraphim who'd followed him and inclined his head toward the door. The angels walked through Maluch as they returned to Heaven, his outline fading in and out as each passed through, their own outlines becoming indistinct when they disappeared into the gentle light. When the last had disappeared, Amaros lifted his hand, and the doorway closed.
The room returned to its original gloom, and Dean turned to the high windows, frowning as he saw the metallic light outside. "Is that the—?"
"Yes, the eclipse is ending." Castiel nodded. "It's over."
"It's not over." Dean handed Rosie to Cas. "John, stay here with Cas."
"Dean—"
Ignoring the angel following him, he walked from the entrance toward the angels, his gaze raking the interior. Michael got to his feet. Dean stopped in front of the fallen angel, his face stony.
"Where's Ellie?"
The archangel's face was haggard with pain, and it spasmed as he looked at the man in front of him, settling into lines of forced indifference as he shrugged carelessly.
"She was just human."
Rage came without warning, a rage encompassing years of being hunted by the archangel, being lied to and manipulated, losing her when she'd left to protect him from Michael, the angel's inhuman and callous certainty he knew better, the ingratitude and arrogance when he'd faced his brother on the field in a cemetery in Kansas, preparing to kill him, and the utter indifference he showed now.
He swung around, a half-stride back toward Castiel and his hand found the angel sword Castiel still held in one hand, snatching it from the angel. A long stride and he was close to Michael before anyone could move to stop him, driving the tip of the sword under the construct's ribcage and up into the heart, his face inches from Michael's as he stared into the unearthly blue eyes.
"Like you," he snarled, twisting the sword sharply.
Michael's face froze in an expression of shock, then slackened, light filling and glowing deeply inside, flooding out through his wide eyes and open mouth, burning through the construct as Dean pulled the angel sword out and let it fall to the floor. For a moment the light flashed brightly through the room then it died out and dissipated, leaving charred and blackened remains at Dean's feet, the shorn remnants of wings only burned into the cement.
Amaros looked down at his brother, wondering if this was how it was meant to be, Michael's death removing any chance of him stepping back into the mortal life he'd loved. He bowed his head resignedly. Nothing happened that wasn't his Father's Will.
"Where is she?" Dean demanded of Amaros, turning to look at Castiel, then at the hunters lined against the wall. He knew the answer, somewhere inside of him, but he didn't want to face it.
"I told her the power was too great for a human to sustain Dean," Amaros said, his expression filled with compassion. "She drew from me, enough to shield the child, but flesh and blood is not made for the energy of the universe to pass through."
"No." Dean turned away from him, looking around the room again, his eyes searching the shadows and the corners. "No."
Castiel held Rosie in one arm, his hand enfolding John's. There was nothing he could do for Dean, not now, except care for the children. Nothing ever really died, energy returning to energy. But that thought would not comfort the man right now.
Dean walked up and down the long room, quartering it methodically, his eyes scanning the ground, looking for anything that would prove it hadn't happened. Ashes and blood and wax had spilled and smeared over the floor and he'd been over the same ground twice before his eye caught the glinting facet of light on the floor. The smoky crystal on its silver chain was intact and unblemished. He dropped to one knee slowly, reaching out to pick it up. It was the one she'd been wearing. He didn't understand how it could be there.
The sound beside him made him turn and look up. Castiel stood beside him. The compassion in the deep blue eyes was more than he could face, and he looked away, getting to his feet, tucking the pendant into his pocket.
"Sariel is taking the nephilim back to Oregon," Cas said. "The hunters are ready to leave as well."
Dean nodded. By the entrance, Rudy was holding Rosie, Charlie cradling Adrienne, the older children standing beside them. It didn't matter how he felt, he thought, looking at John and Rosie. She'd been right about that. One of them had to be there. Pulling in a deep breath, he looked at Castiel.
"Right."
He followed the angel and took Rosie from the red-haired hunter, taking John's hand automatically.
"I can take them, Dean," Charlie offered, putting her hand on his arm. He looked at her, his face expressionless.
"No."
She flinched back a little at the coldness in his voice, and Dean forced himself to modify his tone.
"I need them with me," he said, relieved when she relaxed, her expression shifting from stiff to understanding. "Are you going back to Oregon?"
"If Rudy doesn't mind driving me," she said. "I can look after Sam's kids."
"Yeah," Rudy said, Marc and Laura's hands in his. "Dean, we'll be right behind you, if you need anything."
Dean nodded in acknowledgement, forgetting the offer almost immediately when he walked out of the room. He couldn't escape the feeling he was deliberately abandoning her, deliberately giving up. His heart contracted in his chest and he slowed, John's fingers tightening around his.
Someone had driven the Impala to the front of the building and he looked at it blankly, opening the back door and watching John settle in and buckle up, putting Rosie down and fastening the lap belt over her.
"Where's Mommy?" she asked, looking past him to the building behind them.
He didn't want to say it out loud. Not yet. Not ever. His throat was closed tight and he was only hanging on by the thinnest thread of control. John was looking at him as well and he saw the knowledge blossom in his son's eyes, tears filling them slowly.
"Mommy's gone, Rosie," John said. "She went with the angels."
"Why?" Rosie looked from John to her father, a small crease appearing between her brows. "She loves us. She wouldn't leave."
"I'll explain later, okay?" Dean said, his voice rough and thick and catching in his throat as the familiar expression registered on him. "Let's—we need to get home."
Getting into the driver's side, he glanced to the passenger seat. In the well below the glovebox, the leather pack lay on the floor. In it, he knew, was her notebook, filled with her handwriting, something else he couldn't look at, couldn't think about. He dragged his gaze back to the parking lot and turned the key, the engine rumbling into life, the stereo coming on and Ramble On playing softly through the speakers. His hand snapped out and hit the stop button, the sudden silence ringing in the closed car.
I-80 W, Wyoming. April 1.
He got as far as Rock Springs before exhaustion settled into his bones and he realised he couldn't see the road or the other traffic properly anymore. The motel was just off the highway and he pulled in, not noticing the Cougar that pulled in behind him.
Getting a room, he drove to the parking slot outside it. He opened the room's door, then picked up the children and carried them inside, both still sound asleep. Taking off their shoes but leaving them dressed, Dean tucked them into one of the queen beds and turned out all but the bathroom light, then went outside to get the gear bag and lock the car.
"Dean?" Rudy walked around the back of the Impala.
"Yeah?" He turned around, frowning slightly at the sight of the other hunter. "Thought you and Charlie were taking shifts?"
"Yeah, we are, just wanted to make sure you're okay." Rudy lifted a shoulder self-consciously.
Dean closed his eyes briefly and looked back at him. "Yeah, look, I'm okay. You need to get Marc and Laura and Adrienne back to Sam and Trish as soon as you possibly can, alright?"
"I don't—"
"I'll be fine," he cut the other man off brusquely. "We'll be fine. Just go home. Get those kids home to their parents."
He turned away without waiting for an answer and unlocked the door to the room, closing it behind him and locking it again. Putting the bag down, he leaned against the door for a long moment, waiting to hear the Cougar's engine start up. Eventually it did, and he listened to it as it pulled out of the lot and headed back to the interstate.
He didn't need anyone hovering around him. Didn't want anyone around. Glancing at John and Rosie, he knew he had to keep it together for them, couldn't afford to let anything out. He didn't want to scare them, didn't want to add to the burdens they were already carrying. He could do it if it was just them, could pretend that Ellie was just somewhere else, and that helped. He couldn't do that with another adult around.
He thought of heading north, going up to Sioux Falls and seeing Bobby's grave, but the thought crushed him and he shook his head, going to the small table and sitting down, staring at the scratched formica surface without seeing it.
He needed sleep. Needed to sleep and forget for a while, but the truth was he was scared to close his eyes and relinquish his armour. He got up and walked back to the bag, picking it up and setting it on the end of the second bed. Unzipping it, he felt around in it, fingers pushing past the weapons and ammunition, past the binoculars and cloth bags and the smooth, ceramic bottle of holy oil. They found what he was looking for in the bottom corner, and he pulled it out, looking at it.
The small plastic bottle was full of pills, the typed label affixed to the side showed an ancient expiry date. Jo had given him the bottle in Duluth, to dull the pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder. He opened the cap and tipped three of the small white pills into his palm, looking at them for a long moment before he tossed into them into his mouth and dry-swallowed them. He put the lid back on and zipped up the bag again, putting it on the floor and tucking the bottle into his jacket pocket. They might dull the pain enough for him to get to sleep and sleep without dreams.
He turned off the lights and stripped down to tee shirt and shorts, pulling back the covers on the second bed tiredly, unsure if the increasing weariness he could feel seeping through him was a result of the pharmaceuticals he'd taken or the aftermath of everything that had happened that day.
Closing his eyes, he didn't try to stop the images that rolled unsought behind his lids. He didn't know how to do this. Didn't know how to let go. He didn't want to let go, he admitted finally to himself as the images began to blur and darkness filled him up.
I-84 W, Idaho. April 2.
Dean stared at the road, ribboning out ahead of him, the flat glare of sunshine bouncing off the near-white concrete spearing into his eyes. He was scarcely aware of the headache that had crept up from the tense muscles at the base of his neck, barely aware of the noises of the two children who sat in the back, playing some quiet game or other, hardly aware of the signs that flashed by as he drove north and west, his destination getting closer and closer and his dread at seeing the house, seeing it without her, rising steadily inside of him.
"What do I do if I lose everyone, Ellie?" he'd asked her, eight years ago in a hotel room with the taste of Blue Label on his tongue and fear squeezing him tightly. "You start again," she'd told him, gently but without pity.
Start again.
His fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles showing white through the skin. That wasn't possible.
He glanced at the dash, the fuel gauge sitting close to empty. Another sign flashed by, advising the exit for Jerome and he changed lanes, glancing at his watch. It was time to stop anyway, get the kids something to eat, let them stretch their legs a little.
Pulling into the parking lot, he looked around at the stores that lined it. Two fast-food places. A diner that had seen better days. A motel on the other side, next to the playground. The gas station. A small convenience store.
Ellie would've gone to the convenience store, he knew. Gotten them a loaf of bread, fresh sandwich fixings, whatever fruit was for sale, made their lunch herself. The knowledge brought a stabbing pain to his chest and he pushed it away, turning into an empty parking space in front of the burger place, and turning off the engine.
Start again.
"No," he murmured to himself as he got out of the car and opened the back door. "I can't."
Don't want to, you mean. The small voice in his head said faintly.
That's right. I don't fucking want to; he snarled back at it, slamming the driver's door shut.
You have to let go.
He ignored that, helping Rosie unbuckle her belt.
The burgers had been alright. Edible. Just. He sat at the picnic table by the small playground and watched Rosie and John on the swings, his palms sweating and his heartbeat erratic and the sound of his breathing ragged over the noises that drifted over from the lot behind him. Held in by the walls in his mind, behind the threadbare control he could still exert, pain was waiting and he could feel it, building up, seeking the cracks and fissures, pressing at him. He didn't want to go back to the big house they'd shared, knowing that everything in it, every single object, the walls and floors and ceilings themselves would drown him in memories and suffocate him in that pain.
It was their home too, he thought, looking at his children, knowing he wouldn't move them elsewhere. They needed as much stability as he could possibly give them now, needed the security of the familiar surroundings, something that hadn't changed in the mess that had become their lives. But it was going to kill him.
They would be home just after dark, if he kept going straight through. He looked around at the motel nearby. Or they could stay here the night, go home in the morning. For a moment, the temptation was overwhelming, and he almost got up to go to the office and get them a room. Then he slumped down again. Putting it off wasn't going to help. He would have to go home sooner or later.
He watched them run around the equipment, John chasing his sister, Rosie shrieking in mock-fear of her brother's tickling fingers. He didn't know how to explain to them what had happened, what it meant. He didn't know how to get the words out, even. He couldn't remember his father telling him until a long time after the fire. He didn't even have a body to burn or bury.
He stood abruptly, shunting those thoughts aside. "John! Rosie! Come on, we're going."
They looked up and ran over straight away, following him obediently to the car, John's hand wrapped around his sister's as they crossed the parking lot. Dean watched his son adjust Rosie's belt carefully then put on his own. The sight brought a visceral agony to his heart. He remembered doing the same thing with Sam, when they'd ridden in the back seat of the black car, their father driving them across country to another town, another motel, another hunt.
Forest Edge, Oregon. April 2.
The car bumped gently over the iron track buried under the ground around the house. Ellie had always let out a slight sigh at that bump, relaxing completely because it meant they were home. Dean's mouth tightened as that memory slipped in.
He pulled up in front of the porch and stopped the engine, turning to look into the back seat at the two sleeping children curled together there. They were home. That was something, he supposed.
"John? Rosie?"
The children stirred a little, John opening his eyes to look blearily at his father. "We there yet?"
Dean nodded. "Come on, unbuckle your sister and you guys can go straight to bed."
They got out of the car and by the time they were inside, they'd regained some energy, possibly with the comfort of the familiar sights and sounds and smells.
"I'm hungry, Dad," John said, heading for the kitchen, Rosie trailing after him. Dean remained standing by the open front door for a moment longer, looking into the house. He walked in and shut the door behind them, keeping his eyes on the floor as he dropped the gear bag, the duffels and the leather backpack by the hall table and followed them.
He made scrambled eggs and toast, watching their heads drooping again when the warm food filled them. He was careful not to look around the room. Catching sight of the planner above the counter as he'd stirred the eggs, every note and reminder had leapt out at him, all of them saying the same thing. Not coming back. Not coming back. All those instructions and appointments would be up to him to keep now, because she wouldn't be there.
Rosie's head dipped as she pushed her egg around the plate and he picked her up, looking at John.
"You done, buddy?"
His son nodded and slipped from the chair, walking out of the kitchen ahead of him and down the hall. They climbed the stairs to the bedrooms and in front of John's room, the little boy stopped suddenly.
"Can I stay in Rosie's room tonight, Dad?"
He nodded. The two of them had been curled up together in the motel bed the previous evening, and he couldn't see the point of denying them whatever comfort they could find in each other now. John darted into his room and came back out with his pyjamas in one hand, turning and walking down to the next bedroom door, pushing it open and going to sit on the edge of Rosie's bed as he pulled off his shoes.
Dean laid Rosie on the bed and found her pyjamas under her pillow, taking off the little girl's shoes and socks and jeans and top and easing her into the soft warm PJs. Her hair caught the light of the bedside lamp, gleaming copper against the white, butterfly-patterned sheets, and he swallowed, shifting his gaze from it quickly and looking at his son.
"Ready?"
John nodded and crawled across the bed to the other side, pulling back the covers as Dean settled Rosie onto her pillow. He drew the covers over them both, kissing them on the forehead as he tucked the quilts around them.
"Dad, I miss Mommy," John said, his voice very quiet as Dean switched off the lamp.
He let out his breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at John's face in the light from the hall.
"I know, I do too," he said, forcing the words past the obstruction in his throat. He heard the sniffle and got up, walking around the bed and sitting down beside John, wrapping his arms around him as the boy shook.
There was no end to this grief. No end to feeling things had changed in a such a way the sunshine would never warm him again, the days and nights were always going to be too long, and his heart was always going to feel as it did now, shattered and torn and beating only out of habit.
Drained. Empty. Exhausted. He'd run from that black dog before. He could do it again.
When John's shudders eased then stopped, Dean looked down, wiping the little boy's face gently with a finger and laying him onto the pillow. His son's eyes were closed, the lids swollen and reddened and for all he knew, his own were the same. He got up and walked around the bed, pulling the door closed behind him.
He walked down the hall to the bedroom automatically, coming to a sudden stop as he reached the door, unable to push it open and go inside.
Everything in there would be a reminder of what was gone. After a moment, he turned away and walked to the bathroom instead, going in and turning on the cold tap over the sink and splashing the water over his face until his skin ached with the cold. He turned off the tap and reached behind the door, the movement arrested as his hand closed around the thick bath towel, his gaze fixed to the pale green silk robe that hung beside it.
There wasn't a place in this house that wasn't going to ambush him like this, he thought bitterly. Nowhere he could go where he wouldn't look up and see something and then have his mind fill with the images of her using it, wearing it, connected to it. He dried his face and hands on the towel and took a step closer to the door, his fingers curling around the silky material. He leaned closer and buried his face in it. At once, her scent enveloped him, and memories rushed in, his hands crushing the robe as he tried to control the past.
Ellie. Talking. Listening. Thinking. In childbirth and under him and beside him as they stalked through the darkness hunting some monster or other. Arguing and agreeing, filled with tension, with laughter, filled with love, with passion, with anger or gentle understanding, with sadness or a fierce determination or the wry humour that had gotten deep into him and caught there. His breath hitched in his chest as he inhaled again.
He lifted the robe from the hook and went out of the bathroom, going downstairs and into the living room. In the cupboard, there was whiskey, and glasses, and he pulled out the bottle and filled a glass, the silk tightly scrunched in one hand. Sitting on the long sofa, he swallowed the amber liquid and held the soft fabric against the side of his face and closed his eyes in the semi-darkness of the big room.
The glass thumped down on the low table as everything he'd been holding back for the last two days trickled out, slowly, a little at a time at first, then faster, stronger, deeper, the anguish starting to tear into him, to claw through his armour, to break through the walls of his mind, leaving him rigid, muscle and tendon and blood and bone locked solid as it ate through him and he couldn't think, could only feel.
