~ Leith, Scotland, 1723 ~
Everything was dark. Ghostly clouds drifted over the moon, momentarily dulling its brightness. Inside a cozy home by the sea, a young man packed his bag. He grabbed a canteen and took a swig.
Suddenly, a great clatter arose. His door began to shudder, as if rocked by an exterior force, faint light filling the edges and illuminating the dim room. He stared in fascinated horror.
The door crashed open. "What's that, you say?" a woman called out. She wore a black leather jacket, and her auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. "'Come in'? Don't mind if I do." Of its own accord, the door swung shut.
"Who are ye?" the young man cried, his eyes blown wide with fear. "What do ye want?"
"I'm a friend of the family," she told him. "And I want you."
"I have no idea who ye are. And you'll be takin' yer leave now, thank you."
"Yes. You're packing," she noticed, eyes landing on his bag. "Sailing for the colonies. I know all about it." She stepped towards him, her feet clicking against the wooden floorboards. "Change of plans." She reached for his face.
The door opened, and another man walked in. He halted upon seeing them. "Oh. What's this, then? Are we havin' a party?"
The woman only laughed. "Yes. A farewell party." She flung out her hand, and the man went flying, slamming into the far wall with an audible crunch. He choked.
The young man watched on in shock. He crossed himself.
Turning back to him, the woman began to chant in a foreign language. As she did so, a sigil on the door lit up with an orange glow, growing brighter and brighter until it filled the room with white.
~ Present Day ~
"... and a seagull landed on her hand and started flapping and distracted her while another seagull swooped in," an angel was telling his friends, swishing around a glass.
"I can't tell you how great it feels to finally have a night off, right guys?" another angel, Ezra, interjected, strolling up the them. The group went quiet, looking up at him in awkward silence.
Deciding to pay him no attention, the first angel continued, "uh, this other seagull—"
"Get away from all the pressure, you know?" Ezra added.
"A-Anyways, so, no one had any pizza after that—"
"Course, I can't really complain," Ezra said. "Being, uh, handpicked by the big man himself. I'm not really supposed to talk about it." He chuckled a bit. The others pursed their lips and glared at him. "Cause it's Metatron."
"What about Metatron?" the first angel asked.
"Well, uh, he's come to depend on me," Ezra boasted. "So you know, we're uh, tight." He pulled out a chair and sat down, uninvited. "And I have to say, I've come to appreciate the met-man's vision."
"His vision?" the first angel scoffed. "He threw us all out of Heaven!"
"No, no, no," Ezra said, grinning. "Big picture. He's giving the place a makeover, bringing back the chosen few, starting with the uh, the chosen chosen few. If you know what I mean."
Off to the side, several more angels glowered at him.
Later that night, Ezra strolled off by himself down the street, heading down a dark alleyway with all the confidence in the world. As he moved towards the exit, a sudden figure emerged from the around the corner. He stopped. Farther back, another angel lurked in the shadows.
Suddenly, he was surrounded by the angels from the bar. They grabbed him and dragged him away, chaining him up and restraining him to a chair in a room by himself. There he waited, alone, until eventually, one of his siblings stepped into the area.
"These are dangerous times," the angel told him. "You have to be careful what you say. You never know who might be listening."
"I said nothing," Ezra defended.
"Oh, you said plenty," the other replied. His lips tugged into a smirk. "Apparently, you felt the need to discuss your relationship with Metatron—his strategies, privileged information."
"No!" Ezra exclaimed.
"You speak that freely, and there are consequences. As you're about to find out."
Ezra shook his head in a panic, exhaling sharply. Outside the room, footsteps echoed eerily. "Is that... him?"
"It is." The angel stepped aside.
Through the doorway, tall man with a trench coat and deepest blue eyes entered.
The Impala rumbled to a halt.
As he jumped out of the car, Dean asked, "this is the address?"
"Yeah," Sam replied.
At the door, there was a sign that read "DO NOT ENTER; AUTHORIZED EMPLOYEES ONLY; CENTRAL MUNICIPAL POWER CORP." Before Dean could even knock, the door swung open, startling the Winchesters.
"If you'll follow me, the commander will see you now," an angel told them.
"The commander?" Dean whispered in confusion.
The angel glanced back, waited until they were following, and then led them down the hallway.
They entered a room bustling with activity. One wall was covered in a massive map of roads and little red dots, and like a massive art project, angels stood on ladders and steps to reach the wall. Bulletin boards were filled up with pins and photos and helpful information. Files and papers and computers littered the numerous desks, and angels were busy sorting and tucking away these pages. Screens with Metatron's face on them were prevalent, and it was not uncommon to see one angel suddenly haul away another in chains.
The Winchesters trailed behind the angel up to a separate room, where Castiel was working on something with his back turned. The room was filled with black-and-white photos, books, and other knick knacks.
The angel knocked on the doorframe. "Sir."
Castiel turned around. His face split into a wide smile upon seeing them, and he quickly wrapped Dean in a hug. When they separated, Cas hugged Sam too. Cas glanced over at the angel, who remained standing by the door.
"Um... dismissed," Cas told him.
The angel walked off.
"He can be a little stuffy."
"So, commander?" Dean questioned, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, not my idea," Cas admitted. "They had no leader, and they insisted on following me."
"Yeah, no, we get it," Dean said. "You're a rockstar."
Cas gave a flattered smile, then returned to business. "Bartholomew is dead. Malachi was murdered by Gadreel, and with Metatron as powerful as he is now, I needed to do something."
Sam walked over to the window and pushed aside the blinds. "So this war between angels is really gonna happen, huh?"
"Not if I can find a diplomatic option for getting rid of Metatron," Cas said.
"Good luck with that," Dean muttered.
"Dean," Cas urged. "This angel-on-angel violence—it has to end. Someone has to say 'enough'."
"And that someone is you?" Sam asked. He released the blinds.
"That brings me to why you're here. We have a prisoner. It's an angel from Metatron's inner circle. I need to know what they're planning, but so far, he's revealed nothing."
"So, you're done with the rough stuff, and you want us to be your goons?" Dean asked, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, you've had success at these situations before," Cas said, looking more and more nervous as did so, like the two of them would refuse to help. "If you don't want to do it, I understand."
"Who says I don't wanna do it?" Dean replied. He didn't smile, but something in his eyes gleamed.
Sam frowned. His eagerness didn't go unnoticed by the youngest Winchester. Unwittingly, Sam's eyes drifted to the mark covered by his sleeve.
~ Cleveland, Ohio ~
"So, here's the thing, boys and girls," Crowley addressed a table of demons, at which he was the head. "We have a crisis. Admittedly, a crisis of my own making. In my extended absence, where I handled sensitive matters of state, Abbadon made inroads into my following, creating chaos. So I look to you, my trusted advisors, to restore confidence, to soothe those jangled nerves. Spread the word—the king is back, and the kingdom is once again on sound footing. So, all those with me, say 'yo!'"
Silence. After only a moment, it became awkward, as each of the demons looked down at the table or to the ground instead of him. Crowley stared at them with increasing incredulity.
"Yo!" a woman called out behind him. Standing in the doorway, Abbadon cracked a mocking grin. "I mean, I'm literally with you, not with you with you."
Crowley turned back to his demons, a snarl curving his lips. He hissed, "you betrayed me! No one in the history of torture's been tortured with torture like the torture you'll be tortured with!"
"Relax, everyone," Abbadon told them. "You just did the new queen a solid. You are sitting at the popular kids' table." She stepped forward; Crowley did the same. "Now, Crowley, let's talk turkey. I know you helped the Winchesters get their hands on the first blade, yes?" She took a seat and picked up a drink. Her blood red nails clinked against glass. "And I'm also hearing that one of them also has the Mark of Cain—all bad news, since the blade is the one thing that can bring about my-"
"Utter destruction," Crowley finished.
Abbadon chuckled. "To be indelicate. But here's the thing, pet—same goes for you. And once I'm gone, who do you think's next on those cute boys' list?" Crowley looked away. "That's right. So let's get real. Join me in taking out the Winchesters and that ridiculous blade, and then we'll deal with each other."
With a long sigh, Crowley said, "to be clear... I'll not be joining you, ever. Except at your death scene, where I shall burst into song. Goodbye. You have no hold over me." He turned to walk away.
"Oh, no?" Abbadon snapped her fingers.
From a nearby room stumbled a boy. He wore strange, outdated clothes, and his black hair was a rumpled mess atop his head. He gazed around in shock.
"Gavin, honey, say hello to daddy."
Crowley stared at his son. "How did you-"
"I know a spell or two, Crowley," Abbadon told him.
A huff escaped Crowley. His gestured at the other, incredulous. "Are you mad? This is your big card? The boy and I loathe each other. I made it clear in the past—I don't care what happens to the little bugger."
"No," Abbadon murmured. "But that was before, wasn't it? See, I know all about your little problem—bingeing on blood. Going right to the edge of being human, all those human feelings."
Crowley shook his head. "I'm clean."
"And I'm willing to bet that there's a smidgen of humanity in there somewhere," Abbadon continued.
"Not a chance."
Abbadon smiled and held out her hand. Gavin let out a groan. His hands flew to his face as his eyes began to bleed, crimson liquid pouring down his cheeks.
"I'm blind!" Gavin cried, scrabbling at his eyes with desperate fingers. His groans turned to gasps, then sobs, then screams of pain and fright. "Help! I beg you-!"
Crowley only watched detachedly. "You know, these ghoulish party tricks don't impress. Seen worse, done worse."
"No, please..." Gavin whimpered. Abbadon's cruel smile grew. Gavin collapsed to his knees, crying hoarsely. Blood soaked through his fingers.
"You're playing a weak hand, red!" Crowley snapped. He could not take his eyes away from his son.
A twitch of a wrist. The tightening of a fist. Gavin shrieked his suffering. The carpet turned red.
"I beg ye!" Gavin sobbed.
"You've made your point," Crowley told her. He flinched at Gavin's terrified moans. "Now stop."
Abbadon relaxed her hand. Her smile was a sharp, dangerous thing. "Sure."
"You're wasting your time," Ezra said. "I have nothing to say."
"We disagree," Dean replied.
"There's no use torturing me. I am a trained commando. It won't work."
Dean circled around the front, tracing his fingers down the metal of the angel blade. "Wow. Well, you just asked me to dance." He grabbed Ezra by the throat and lifted the blade.
"Dean!" Sam protested. He gave his brother a look. When they were out of hearing range from Ezra, Sam said, "he won't be telling us anything dead." He glanced over at Ezra. An idea came to him. His tone shifted to a taunt. "Besides, you know, I'm really starting to realize that he probably doesn't know anything. He's probably just pretending at the bar. Most likely, he's a nobody. I mean, do the math. Ezra here is one of Metatron's elite posse?" Sam scoffed, hoping Dean would catch on. "Really? One of Metatron's most trusted is, uh, is hanging out at bars, blabbing about the boss. Does that make any sense?"
Dean smiled a bit, realizing Sam's plan, and shook his head mockingly. "Well, only if Metatron is purposely surrounding himself with losers."
"Exactly, right?" Sam laughed.
"Yeah."
"What's this guy even doing here?"
"He's a wannabe. I mean, if he was a key player, he would be up in Heaven with Metatron where all the action is."
"Exactly."
Ezra's expression became more and more indignant as they spoke. "What if I'm a decoy?" The brothers gave him incredulous looks. "Or in deep cover?"
Sam fell into another bout of laughter. Dean nodded and smiled in a way one might for a little kid.
"It's- uh, it's pathetic." Sam chuckled.
"Mm, probably hasn't even been in Heaven, not since the Fall," Dean added.
"Of course not!"
"Yes I have," Ezra protested.
"Buddy, the gates are sealed," Sam jeered. "No one can get in."
"Who said anything about gates?" Ezra blurted, frantic to be validated. "You don't need gates when you have a private portal."
The brothers shared a look.
"Right," Sam scoffed. "If there was a doorway on earth, the angels would've sensed it."
"Yeah, you can't hide something like that," Dean agreed.
"No, you can if it moves around from place to place," Ezra told them arrogantly. "If it's wherever the boss wants it to be."
"Ye are not my father," Gavin hissed, still clutching the rag he used to clean up the bloody mess around his eyes. He strode around where Abbadon was seated and glowered at Crowley. "My father was Fergus MacLeod, a simple tailor. A drunk, a monster."
"Sounds about right," Abbadon piped up.
"He looked nothing like ye," Gavin continued. "And I buried 'im."
"A lot can change in 291 years," Crowley replied evenly.
A pause. "What?" Gavin breathed.
Crowley reached over and removed the lampshade, leaving only a glowing bulb. He flicked it off, raised an eyebrow at his son, then flicked it on again. Gavin blinked. He stepped forward, bewildered, and touched the bulb.
"Can ye cook a pigeon on it?" Gavin asked after a moment.
"Not terribly quick, is he?" Abbadon mused. She waved a hand, and the curtains pulled to the side. The windows unlatched and swung open.
"Holy mother of God!" Gavin exclaimed. He ran to the balcony and gazed out at the twinkling city. Honking cars and echoing chatter filled his ears, all strange and unusual. "We're amongst the stars!" He whirled around. "Are we in Heaven, then? Ye must be angels!"
"Wow," the demons said in unison.
"I see. I got it." Sam's voice threatened to break trying to contain his amusement. "So, you heard a rumor about Metatron's 'secret portal' and you decided to run with it?"
"It's not a rumor," Ezra snapped. "He showed me."
"I get it," Dean scoffed. "He's a fan."
"A fan, yeah."
"You're a fan," Dean said, addressing Ezra directly. "Just cause you're hot for Metatron, or Beiber, or Beckham..."
"...just cause you know everything about them doesn't mean that you actually know them." Sam grinned widely. "Or that they even know you exist."
"That's cold, Sammy."
"I'm just saying, man."
As they laughed, Ezra told them, "I was interviewed personally by Metatron for a key post."
"Yeah? Oh, wow, well, then maybe you can tell me why you weren't at your key post and you were hanging down here instead." As Ezra's silence stretched on, Sam's smile grew larger.
"That blows," Dean muttered. "He got passed over."
"Yeah."
"I-I was a finalist," Ezra insisted.
"Oh, man," Sam groaned. "To get so close and then get kicked downstairs. It sucks to be you."
Dean whistled pityingly.
"Hardly anybody was chosen!" Ezra cried. "And ground forces is still a very important assignment. It was an honor to have even been considered for the squad."
"What 'squad', there is no squad," Dean said.
"Yeah, says you," Ezra snapped. "It's a highly guarded secret."
"And what would you be doing, exactly?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.
Ezra opened his mouth, then stopped. Whatever he meant to say seemed to die on his tongue. Dean held a hand to his ear, tilting his head expectantly.
"No?"
Sam's chuckle turned from mocking to straight-up insulting. "Wait a second, just—please, uh, clarify this for me. You desperately wanted this job, but you didn't know what it was?"
Ezra pursed his lips. "Well, until you were chosen, the exact nature of the mission was kept a secret."
"Wow."
"Wow."
"And hardly anyone was chosen," he added.
The Winchesters closed the door to his cell behind them, both chuckling.
"Dim bulb," Dean remarked. "No wonder he got bumped."
"Yeah." Sam locked the door. "'Ground forces'? 'Elite secret squad'? What's Metatron gearing up for?"
"I don't know. Why don't we shove somebody through the backdoor of Heaven and find out? Oh wait, no. It's portable and can't be found."
Sam sighed.
"Ye sold yer soul?" Gavin exclaimed. "Sold it?! For an extra three inches of willy?!"
"Priorities change," Crowley offered weakly. "I wasn't the bon vivant that I am now." At Gavin's confused look, he said, "I'll simplify—my soul did a stint in Hell where it became demonized. Then I had to possess another person so I could traffic with the living. Any of this sticking?"
"I-I-I can't be consorting with a demon!" Gavin cried.
"Not just any demon," Crowley corrected. "I'm the King—the King of Hell!"
Gavin threw his arms up.
"And there you were, worried the old man wouldn't amount to much." Crowley smiled. Gavin stared at him.
An angel locked the door behind her, then headed to Ezra's cell to check on him. She reached the door and unlocked it.
Ezra was dead. Blood stained his shirt and face, surrounding a prominent blade wound. She stopped in her tracks.
After Castiel was informed of the murder, he now stood in the room from earlier with Sam and Dean, arms crossed over his chest.
"It's unbelievable," Sam huffed. "I mean, he was fine when we left him."
"I barely touched the guy," Dean added.
"Still shackled, no weapon," Sam continued. "It wasn't suicide."
"No," Cas agreed. His expression was grim. "This was an angel kill."
The brothers exchanged a look, then Dean said, "okay. Well, I'm gonna say it: maybe your operation's been hacked. You know, Metatron's got someone on the inside."
"I was sure everyone here was loyal," Cas murmured, shaking his head. "Finally united by a common cause."
"Well, that's the problem," said Dean. "See, you don't think anybody's lying. I think everybody's lying."
Cas met his gaze, eyebrows pinched together.
"It's a gift." Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "Let's do some nosin' around." He stood and exited the room. Sam went to follow him, but Cas called him back.
"You have a moment?" Cas asked.
"Yeah. What?" Sam replied warily.
"I wanted to ask you about Gadreel, the time he possessed you."
Sam stiffened. He looked away, gritting his teeth. "It's not really something I like to-"
"Sam, please," Cas urged.
Sam sighed a bit. His gaze darted around the room. The feeling of his grip on reality being yanked away from him, his vision blacking out, the sound of Kevin's screaming reaching his ears. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "He didn't possess me completely—more like, we, uh, shared housing. I was still me."
"Did you ever sense a presence?"
"I don't really know what I felt," Sam muttered. He didn't like to think about the way Gadreel made him feel; wrong, unsettled, like something wasn't exactly right or he couldn't get entirely comfortable no matter what he was doing. "I mean, maybe that I wasn't completely alone."
"Did you ever feel threatened?" Cas asked.
Sam's eyebrows furrowed. Looking back on it... "No. More that he... wasn't at rest, l-like he had unfinished business. Now that we know more about him, I-I'd say he felt misunderstood."
"But not- not a danger, not hostile," Cas said.
"No." Sam bowed his head. "I was wrong, obviously. He killed Kevin."
Cas pressed his lips together, nodding slightly. Sam returned the gesture, then left, his steps quick and uneven as if he couldn't wait to be free of the conversation.
"'Why do I hate ye'?"
Crowley lowered his newspaper, the poster image of disinterest. "I mean, I beat you, starved you, came home drunk, beat you some more, woke up hungover, and, yeah, I beat you. In all fairness, I didn't really have any role models. My mother was a witch."
"I grew up thinkin'—knowin' I was nothin'," Gavin snapped. "Less than nothin'! Ye worked me harder than the horse! Ye never let me go to school. To this day, I can't read!"
"It's overrated," Crowley told him, while reading the news. He got to his feet. "Most of Europe couldn't read. You want to read?" He reached out and touched Gavin's forehead. The boy flinched. "Read."
Gavin snatched the newspaper from him and lowered his gaze to the print. "Some buccaneers beat the saints? Can this be?"
Crowley stared at him.
"I can read," Gavin realized. He gasped.
"King of Hell," Crowley repeated. "Plenty of perks."
Despite himself, Gavin smiled. "So... if yer a king... that would make me... prince?"
"And you say I've never given you anything. A title!"
"And if I were to accept ye as my father," Gavin continued, "ye could keep me from eternally burning in Hell? No matter my sins?"
"You're negotiating with me?" Crowley smiled proudly and chuckled. "That's my boy."
"This might work out," said Gavin. He sank into a seat, still grinning. "For the first time in my entire life, I can see possibilities, a future... just as soon as ye take me back to my own time and I can board that ship for the New World."
Crowley opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more. "Uh, about that ship..."
"What about the ship?"
A pause. Crowley pressed his lips together. "It's not important. You can tell Abbadon I'm ready for that chat," he added, addressing the demon near the door.
Castiel sat in the middle of a green, misty forest, watching his brother approach from across the clearing. The space was heavy with the scent of petrichor, and the rocks he was sitting on were chilly and damp. The soil beneath his feet was soft.
"Thank you for coming," Cas greeted. He rose to his feet. "And thank you for coming alone."
Gadreel halted a few paces before him. He stood less than an inch taller than Cas, making it easy to maintain eye contact. "I've seen you through Sam Winchester's eyes, and he trusts you. You have a reputation for honor."
"In some circles," Cas said. "As for reputations, yours precedes you."
"What happened in the Garden was not my doing," Gadreel snapped, suddenly on the defensive.
"I know you feel misunderstood," Cas told him. "And you're eager to redeem yourself and maybe more."
"You refer to my support of Metatron's campaign to rebuild Heaven?"
"Your support?" Cas questioned. "You've recruited for him. You've killed for him. And I know you truly believe it's for the greater good, but you've placed your faith in the wrong master."
"You don't know him," Gadreel replied stiffly.
"I know him too well, Gadreel!" Cas exclaimed. "I made the same mistake, and it led to the Fall."
"Which led to my second chance," Gadreel said.
"This is about more than just you."
"Castiel, are you suggesting I change loyalties?" Gadreel asked.
"I'm suggesting you reclaim your original loyalty—to the Heaven and mission we were made to serve."
"I thought that was exactly what I was doing," Gadreel said.
"You've been deceived," Cas told him after a moment. "And as bad as you've had it, all those centuries locked away, it will be much worse under Metatron."
Suddenly, Gadreel's eyes shifted to something over Cas' shoulder. He shouted a warning, "Castiel!"
Cas' blade slipped into his hand. He whirled around and caught the attacking angel before he could land a blow. Behind him, Gadreel was engaged in similar combat. Together, the two, along with their guards, fought off the other angels and killed them, sending white light flaming out of their eyes and mouths as they paid the ultimate price for their ambush.
"Give me your hand. That's it."
Dean sat alone in one of the various offices, staring at the wall and desperately trying to ignore the burning in his arm.
-Magnus pressing the First Blade into his hand
the Mark lighting up with excitement as it pulsed and glowed, reunited with its weapon
the overwhelming satisfaction when he finally killed the bastard
chopped off his head with the Blade, fitting-
His hand flew to his sleeve, tugging it back, baring the Mark to the air.
-Sam telling him, urging him "drop the blade, Dean"
the power churning inside of him, burning him up from within
"Dean."
The room warped and twisted around him. The shadows swarming in the corners bore over him.
-something buzzing in the distance, his arm, the Mark, it must be-
"Dean!"
"Dean." Sam clapped his hands together. Dean jolted to attention. By the look on Sam's face, he'd been calling his name for a while. "What's wrong with you? Do you hear your phone?"
His phone. His phone was sitting on the table, ringing. Dean answered it with shaking fingers. "It's about time. Where the hell have you been?"
"I told you I'd be in touch when I'd found Abbadon," Crowley replied smoothly. "Well... I'm in touch."
"Where are you?"
"First things first. I'll give you the location of the First Blade. You two fetch it, I'll keep her in my sights, and then we'll remove her from the payroll for good." Back at the hotel, Crowley glanced up at Abbadon, who nodded in approval of his words.
Later that night, the Winchesters arrived at the shadowy St. Anthony's Cemetery, much to their collective dislike. Together, they dug up the coffin that Crowley described to them, then eased open the lid.
"Oh, come on, Crowley!" Sam exclaimed, grimacing at the body inside. The First Blade was nowhere to be seen. "You really, uh, have to hide the Blade in a corpse? Not- Not with a corpse, but in a corpse?"
"I gotta say, it's not the first place I'd look," Dean said. "Alright, here we go." He moved to reach for the corpse.
Something in the shadows growled. Sam stiffened.
"Dean?" Sam fixed his gaze on the dark treeline. "Do you hear that?"
Dean straightened. He, too, looked in the same direction. The growling grew louder.
"I'm guessing hellhound," Dean breathed. The growling morphed into a vicious bark. Dean stepped back. "Go. Go!"
The brothers whirled around and sprinted towards the church. The hellhound raced after them, invisible save for the dirt flying out in chunks behind it. When they reached the gates, they angled their bodies and slammed into the bars together, successfully breaking inside. They shoved the gates back in place right before the hellhound reached them; Sam slid a metal bar into place to hold them shut.
"Hel-lo?" Crowley answered, his voice infuriatingly amused.
"Dammit, Crowley, the grave is guarded!" Dean shouted over the barking hellhound.
"That's absurd."
"A hellhound!" Dean cried, indignant.
"No, no, she was collected."
"The hell she was!"
"Guys!" Sam shouted. He was struggling to hold the gates shut and the hellhound at bay. "Guys!"
"Time was, no one would dare disobey the king," Crowley continued nonchalantly.
"I'm gonna put you on speaker," Dean told him. He held out the phone towards the raging demonic beast.
"Juliet?" Crowley called. "It's papa. Stand down."
The hellhound went quiet. The rattling died down. A low whine came from the animal, but otherwise, it backed off. Panting heavily, Sam leaned against the gates, eyes wide.
"You're welcome."
The furious demon-dog now gone, Sam and Dean headed back to the grave. Dean scowled in the direction of the church. Both knelt beside the coffin. Dean sliced away the shirt, where they found a row of stitches covering the Blade, which Dean cut through.
"Alright," Dean said. "Goin' in."
Before he could even roll up his sleeve, Sam touched his arm.
"Hey, you know what, maybe, uh... maybe I should do this." Sam's expression was pleading.
"Sam, it's fine. I-I can safely grab it without... you know..." Dean trailed off, breaking down under Sam's puppy eyes. He leaned back, allowing Sam to reach for the body.
Sam sucked in a quick breath, then plunged his hand into the corpse. The blood and organs slipping around and squishing beneath his fingers made him gag. Grunting and wrinkling his nose in disgust, Sam eventually freed the First Blade from inside; the bone was coated in nasty, sticky fluids.
"Well, let's go kill a Knight of Hell, huh?" Dean offered, smiling.
"Yeah," Sam groaned. He waved the Blade, dislodging a few pieces of internal bits. "Ugh."
"What are ye talkin' about?" Gavin snapped. He stood in the doorway of a bedroom, glaring at his father. "Of course I'm boardin' the ship when I go back! I want to go back to my life!"
"It's not a good idea," Crowley insisted.
"I'm goin' to the Colonies. I'm workin' my way across. I've given my word!"
"Gavin, listen to your father. I know what's-"
Gavin slammed the door and locked it.
"-best for you," Crowley finished with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes. "Kids." Suddenly, his phone began to ring. He flipped it open. "Squirrel. I hope you were nice to your father."
"What? Shut up. Look, we got the Blade."
"You do? Well, you need to get it here at once. Cleveland, Humboldt Hotel. Penthouse, of course. When you get here, I'll take you to Abbadon. I'll draw her out, and then you can skewer the ignorant hag." He glanced back at said ignorant hag, who gave him a reproachful look. He mouthed 'just selling it' at her.
"Alright, we're on our way."
"Oh, and Dean, you need to get a move on. It's a good day's drive from Poughkeepsie."
"What are you talking about? We're not even near there."
Crowley internally screamed at Dean's obliviousness. "Yeah, like I said, you need to leave Poughkeepsie right away." Then he hung up, desperately hoping his message was received.
"So, we good?" Sam asked, when Dean lowered the phone.
Dean fixed his gaze on the road. Crowley never said something without it meaning another. There was no way 'Poughkeepsie' was an accident.
Instead of informing Sam immediately, he said: "Yeah."
Back at the hotel, Crowley slipped his phone into his pocket.
"Nice," Abbadon praised. Then she narrowed her eyes. "But here's the thing—you've been plotting with those boys for some time now. When they get here, it'll be you, the Winchesters, the First Blade, and little old me in one place." She rose from where she was leaning. She reached into a nearby drawer. "Now, I don't mind stiff odds, but, let's be reasonable." She pulled out a gun, cocked it, and shot Crowley in the shoulder.
He stumbled and collapsed into a chair, clutching his wound. "Ah! 'Ave you lost your mind?!"
"Little trick I learned from Henry Winchester." Abbadon chuckled. She strode over to him, smirking. "He pulled the same stunt on me. I had a devil's trap carved in the bullet. You're not seriously damaged, just... powerless."
"I had nothing to do with it," Gadreel insisted. "I never would have agreed to meet if I thought concealed assassins were going to try and attack you. I hope you know that."
They were now in the center of a bustling city, disguised in an alleyway. Castiel stood a safe distance away, now on edge from the attempt on his life.
"Why are you telling me this?" Cas asked warily. He watched Gadreel take a few steps forward; in return, he moved back.
"Even though you and I are on opposite sides in this situation, I believe there must be honor, even in matters of war." Gadreel spoke earnestly and with passion.
"But what happened—doesn't it prove my point about Metatron?" Cas said. "You met with me in good faith, but he lied, and he used you to get at me."
"Castiel—"
"Just as poor judgement undid you all those centuries ago," Cas told him sadly, "your mistaken trust in Metatron will bring you down again."
"I gave him my word. Do you expect me to come make war on him?"
"No. Not at all. I want you to stay right where you are," Cas said. "Just give me reports on what Metatron is planning and when he will strike."
Gadreel shook his head a bit. "And the honor we were speaking of?"
"Obviously, Metatron has someone inside my camp. It's how he knew we were meeting. Just fighting fire with fire." Cas stepped back, lips pressed into a tight line, then turned away. "Consider my offer."
~ Humboldt Hotel ~
The Winchesters stepped out of the Impala and onto the curb. Sam held the First Blade—wrapped in cloth—in his hands. They both looked up at the hotel; it was tall, covered in windows, and no less extravagant than they expected of Crowley.
"Alright, let's do this," Sam said.
"Wait, wait, hold on a sec." Dean scanned the building. "We should give this place a once-over before we go up there."
"Okay. Why?"
"Crowley said he thought he saw some demons headed down to the basement," Dean told him. "He'd have checked it out himself, but if word got back to Abbadon that he'd been seen..."
"When did he say all this?" Sam asked, frowning.
"On the phone. Look, it might mean that she knows that he's here, okay? So why don't you check out the basement? I'll take a look on the main floor." Then he grabbed the First Blade and took off down the street, not allowing Sam to protest or question him.
Once he made it to the top floor, Dean pushed open a set of double doors, stepping cautiously into the lavishly decorated suite.
"Hello, Dean," Crowley greeted. He was sitting in a plush armchair near the fire, head tilted back. A slight grimace twisted his features. "Love the crazy bloodlust in your eyes."
Dean gripped the Blade tighter. He tapped the tip against his chest questioningly, seeing Crowley clutching his shoulder.
"Let's not waste time. I'll take you to Abbadon," Crowley said. "It's not far." His eyes flicked to the side.
Dean whirled around and stabbed an attacking demon in the chest, satisfaction welling up inside him at the sight of the reddish glow that signified his death. He wrenched the Blade free, sending the corpse crashing into a mirror.
Suddenly, an invisible force slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and pinning him roughly to the wall. He grunted in pain.
A low chuckle drew his attention. Abbadon strolled into view, smiling.
"A boy and his blade," she mused. "And still not match for the new queen." She held out her hand, and Dean let out a groan, the glass behind him crackling. "So, first... you'll die. Painfully. And the Crowley will watch his son die—"
Crowley's eyes went wide.
"—ditto," Abbadon said. "And then the King himself. And Blade destroyed. That's quite a to-do list."
Dean looked down at the First Blade in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he slowly, painstakingly, lifted his arm from the wall, despite Abbadon's hold on him. The Mark lit up orange beneath his sleeve. Abbadon narrowed her eyes and pushed back at him—it had no effect. Dean dropped to the floor, free. Now looking slightly nervous, Abbadon flung out her other hand, causing Dean to stumble, but he did not fall. He took one step forward; then another. A furious wind swirled around the room, shoving at him and tousling his hair, but the Mark continued to glow and he continued to fight against her power. A lamp toppled off the desk.
Abbadon marched forward and shoved at him. He lost his grip and tumbled back, hitting the wall once more. She laughed.
The First Blade had fallen to the ground. Dean reached for it, but Abbadon was too strong. She splayed her fingers, and he choked, her power shredding at his insides. She kept laughing, oblivious to the concentrated stare he was fixing on the Blade. The wind kicked up to a howl. On the floor, the Blade twitched. It shifted along the ground. It began to clatter violently, still inching across the floor, closer and closer to Dean's outstretched hand.
All at once, the Blade lifted into the air and landed in his palm.
The Mark burned.
Abbadon's lips twisted into a snarl.
Sam lunged into the room, just in time to see Dean charge at Abbadon. He thrust the Blade forward—it buried itself in her stomach. She cried out. A fiery orange glow lit up around the wound, casting eerie light over Dean's dark expression as his momentum lifted her off her feet, bright light flickering beneath her skin. Abbadon roared; yellow light flamed in her eyes and engulfed the room in terrible, blinding, searing glow, her skin burning from the cursed power of the First Blade.
The light went out. Dean yanked the now-bloodied Blade out and stabbed her again, and again, and again, mutilating her corpse with animalistic fervor, manic hatred gleaming in his summer green eyes.
"Dean!" Sam cried.
Panting raggedly, Dean continued to tear apart her body, her blood soaking his hands and face and Sam's pleas falling on deaf ears.
"Dean! Stop!" Sam begged.
Dean lifted the Blade to stab her again, but paused briefly at Sam's words.
"You can stop," Sam urged.
Silence. Dean's face was splattered with blood. He stared at Sam for a long moment, his eyes not really focused on anything. His hands trembling, he dropped the First Blade and gazed down at his crimson skin. The Mark's glow vanished.
Crowley wiggled the knife in his wound. "You could at least—ah!—help me with this."
Sam wrapped up the First Blade in a long strip of cloth. "We didn't kill you, Crowley, even though it would've been very easy. Isn't that enough?"
"You owe me," Crowley muttered. "Do I get no credit for warning you this was a trap?"
Frowning, Sam tilted his head in confusion.
"'Poughkeepsie'? Ring a bell?"
Dean lowered his gaze as Sam stared at him. Crowley glanced between them. At Sam's expression, he chuckled a bit.
"I sense drama~" he sing-songed.
"I just still can't get over the fact that Crowley has a son," Dean said, changing the subject. "How's he doing, by the way?"
"Ow!" Crowley exclaimed. He popped out the bullet and set it on the table with a clink. "How do you think?"
"You get that he's gotta go back, right?" Dean clarified, "to his own time?"
Crowley scowled. "If the lad goes back, his destiny is to board a ship bound for America. That ship went down in a storm. All hands were lost. He had one chance in this world to change his life. You want that to all end in tragedy?"
"Well, I don't know what to tell you," Dean said. "Them's the rules. He goes back."
"The lore all says the same thing," Sam told him, his voice kinder than Dean's. "You change any one thing in the past, the ripple effect impacts everything that follows."
"Please," Crowley snapped. "No one bends the rules like you two bend the rules. He's one misfit kid. He impacts no one."
"You don't bend that rule, okay? You don't." Sam sighed at Crowley's pleading expression. "We'll take him back to the bunker, figure out the spell. That's the way it's gotta be."
"Can I at least say goodbye?" Crowley asked. At Sam's nod, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to Gavin, who was sitting on a bed with his head in his hands. Crowley glanced back at them. "I'll cheer the day when the last trace of humanity leaves me. Feelings." He shuddered. As soon as he was inside the bedroom, the doors swung shut.
The brothers ran over and unlocked them.
Crowley and Gavin were gone.
"Dammit, Crowley!" Dean yelled.
"The ship went down?" Gavin let out a long sigh. "Well, that's a good fit with the rest of my life."
"Mustn't snivel, Gavin," Crowley told him. "It might fit the old life. This one could be different."
"I don't know the first thing about the twenty-first century!" Gavin exclaimed.
"You'll be fine. Just avoid cheap whiskey and cheap hookers." Crowley grimaced. "Look at me. Getting all fatherly."
A pause. "So this is goodbye, then?" Gavin asked.
"Yes. Forever. Unless, of course, I catch you smoking, in which case I'll smack you stupid."
Gavin chuckled. He raised his head and met Crowley's gaze. "Goodbye, then. And thank you... father." He opened his arms as if for a hug.
"Whoa, whoa, easy," Crowley warned, stepping back. He held up a hand. "As you were." Gavin's face fell. "Goodbye, Gavin. Oh, uh, don't go mentioning that whole 'Prince of Hell' thing. Doesn't play too well in most circles."
And then he was gone, and Gavin was alone.
"I didn't tell you about the warning because I knew exactly what you would do. You would make sure that you were right alongside me going in that room."
Sam stared at him incredulously. "You mean like we always do? Because we're actually partners in this and we watch each other's backs?"
"I don't expect you to understand," Dean said.
"Try me," Sam spat.
Dean glanced over at him for the first time. There was a long pause before he spoke. "First time I touched that blade... I knew. I knew that I wouldn't be stopped. I knew I would take down Abbadon and anything else if I had to. And it wasn't a hero thing, you know, it wasn't... It was just calm. I knew. And I had to go it alone, Sammy."
Despite wanting to scream in frustration, Sam only scoffed. "Oh, of course. So it was just another time where you had to protect me."
"You could've gotten nabbed by Abbadon, and she could've bargained her way out," Dean argued. "We couldn't afford to screw this up."
Sam shook his head and looked away. He was always the weakness, always the screw-up in these situations. He didn't voice this. "Look... I'm glad it worked out, okay? I am. And I'm glad the Blade gives you strength or calm or whatever, but Dean, I gotta say... I'm starting to think the Blade is doing something else, too."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"I don't know, like, something to you. Look, I'm thinking until we know for sure that we're gonna kill off Crowley, why don't we store the Blade somewhere distant?" Sam suggested. "Lock it up somewhere safe? Okay?"
Dean paused for less than a second.
"No."