A/N: You guys are the greatest. Thanks for keeping me going. This chapter was kind of hard to come up with, but I tried! I appreciate your feedback!
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke.
Dean never really liked reading. It always seemed like more of a chore than a leisurely pastime to him, and that was part of the reason he was perfectly fine with letting Sam do all of the research when they were out and about all over the country, working jobs. Maybe it was the way books smelled; whenever he picked up a bound volume, no matter whether it happened to be a collection of poems by some dead white guy named Tennyson or an almanac on the occult, there was always a musty smell that wafted up toward his nostrils as he flipped through the pages, a smell that made his nose inadvertently crinkle.
Even though he didn't necessarily like being tucked away in some corner and devouring words as if they were air, he did read. Sometimes- meaning when he couldn't leave it all to Sam or when he had absolutely nothing else to do and was bored out of his mind.
Or when he was at the end of his rope and had no way of knowing how to tie a knot at the end of it, when he had no idea how much longer he could hold on. When he wasn't sure how much longer Castiel could hold out. And so he read.
"…for waging war you need guidance, and for victory many advisors."
He tossed the NIV onto the pew and watched its limp pages flew up a little with the flurry of movement before falling back down to the sides, remaining open. The spine on the volume was cracked and he noted the wrinkled quality of what had once been smooth, pristine sheets. Countless hands had turned the pages of this Bible before, numberless desperate hands had clutched its tattered old covers and kissed trembling lips to the spine, begging for counsel from up above as their salty tears splashed down onto the worn, stained pages.
I'm so not gonna cry, but I could sure use some help down here. Dean cast a skeptical glance up at the ostentatiously decorated upward arch of the ceiling before leaning forward with a heavy sigh, elbows on his knees and head bowed low. Please?
Only silence answered and, frustrated, the hunter got to his feet and approached the altar. Tired green eyes shone out of the darkness, fixing on the image of the crucifix as the leather soles of his beat up boots thumped against the floor, sounding ominously loud in the otherwise silent chapel. Come on, he silently beseeched. Tell me what to do.
No one could understand why he was willing to go so far to save this angel whose face he had never seen, whose real voice was one that he had never been able to hear without collapsing to the ground and bleeding out of his ears. But to Dean Winchester, none of that mattered.
"Dean, you don't have to do this. You heard what Pamela said she saw; there's nothing we can do now. It's out of our hands!"
"I owe it to them to-"
"You don't owe shit to anyone, least of all these angels who don't even care enough to rescue one of their own. Damn it Dean, stop trying to be a hero!"
"But I'm not like them, Sam! I'm not about to let this six days sacrifice bullshit happen to the one who pulled me out of Hell." Emerald eyes met and clashed with brown ones steeled with resolve. Sam's jaw worked as if trying to pry itself apart to speak.
"Just before your contract expired, you told me that I was going to let you go to Hell because there was nothing that I could do. That was then, this is now and I'm telling you right now that you're not going back into the Pit. I won't let you."
The two brothers glared at each other, battling in a silent struggle of will. It was fortunate that there was a table and a couch in between the Winchesters or the situation could've come to blows. "What, are you gonna stop me?" Dean challenged, secretly hoping that his brother would back off, but no such luck. Sam jerked his head sharply in some semblance of a nod, not once breaking the mini-staring contest. After all, he'd learned that 'damn straight I am, and what're you going to do about it?' look from the best.
Dean threw his hands up and pivoted sharply on his heel, grabbing his leather jacket from where it hung over the back of one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table and slammed the door hard on his way out, storming away from the pained expressions of his brother and the man he himself proclaimed to be the closest thing to a father, not wanting to see that look in their eyes, a look that he himself knew all too well but could never bring himself to admit-
Fear.
His knees hit the chapel floor but he barely winced as twin spikes of pain shot up from the joints and radiated up his thighs and Dean inhaled deeply, willing whatever cosmic powers or higher deities existed up there somewhere in the stratosphere to listen, goddamn it, to hear his prayer. His hands were fisted at his sides instead of being folded neatly in his lap because he still wasn't sure what type of protocol had to be followed when asking something from the man upstairs, but his eyes were screwed tightly shut and he was hurling the words upward mentally to whoever was willing to listen and give a reply.
If you're not going to send anyone down there to save him, if all of your soldiers are too busy being bigger picture type guys… then at least give me the chance to repay this debt. Let me do it.
Some humans claimed that pain was physical discomfort or suffering caused by illness or injury, or perhaps it was more along the lines of mental suffering or distress. Suffering was considered by some to be merely an illusion of the senses while others claimed that it was weakness leaving the body. Castiel had no idea which definition or connotation was the most correct when applicable to mortals, but what he was enduring right now… this, this was agony.
What had been offered by the representation of the cross when it had been pressed against his vessel's skin was nothing short of the greatest relief any soul could have ever hoped to find when bound in the depths of the abyss. The angel had been able to sense remnants of the Father's holy presence and blessing in the small crucifix and he held onto the light for as long as he could, letting it warm his soul and tried to fix his mind solely on the grace of the Lord.
Crux sancta sit mihi lux.
The repose did not last long though. Castiel felt hot breath on his face; he involuntarily tensed for he knew the blackness of the twisted creature that stood before him and the darkness clawed at the edges of his grace despite his feeble efforts at defense, almost as tangible as the steel fingers that grabbed his jaw and forced his head up.
"You trying my patience. I'll say it only once more." Alastair punctuated each oily hiss with the tightening of another screw on the rack until the frame itself groaned aloud though the victim stretched out upon it would utter no such cry. "Give. Me. Lucifer's. Vessel."
The demon locked eyes with the angel, a smirk playing over his features. Truth be told, while he was getting just a little impatient with just how slowly the dawns seemed to be approaching, he was having a grand old time with his new toy. It had been years since Hell's Chief Torturer had the pleasure of working to extinguish the holy light within one of his holy counterparts and there was nothing he loved more than watching the steely resolve and hope fading away from those headstrong sapphire blue eyes.
Castiel was consciously aware of the tendons and muscles stretching to their limits within the all too easily breakable frame of his vessel and the angel shut his eyes tightly in indescribable torment against the promises of the immoral and corruption in Alastair's black orbs, choosing blindness over temptation and the fulfillment of his duty as a warrior of the Lord over giving into the servants of the Fallen One.
The angel's whisper was barely audible, like a mere breath of air in the maelstrom of torture happening around him, but it held all the loyalty and staunch faith one word could carry: "Never."
"The Lord hears your prayers, Dean Winchester. And He who is the Creator of all things always pays heed to those who call upon Him."
He started, jumped to his feet and tried to turn at the same time, only to succeed in executing a strange one-hundred and eighty degree hopping motion due to the pins and needles striking his nerves as blood rushed back to his cramped legs. Dean gathered his bearings and turned to face the owner of the quiet, gentle, and almost effeminate sounding voice that nonetheless held a lilting quality that belied the conviction behind the words.
Sitting there on the first pew was a young blonde man in a white business suit with a gold silk tie, gazing steadily back at him as if they were merely chatting about the weather in an abandoned chapel at around eleven at night. He held the Bible that the hunter had previously tossed aside in his slim and deceptively elegant looking hands, thumbing through the well-read pages and Dean couldn't help but remember that the last time he had spoken the words he was about to pose to this new stranger, the receiver of the inquiry had also been interestedly flipping through a book.
"Who are you?"
The reply to his demand was calm. The young man raised his head, a shaft of moonlight casting an unnatural light across his face, giving his youthful features an eerie glowing appearance. "I am Gabriel, messenger of the Lord."
Maybe it was the stress of all that had happened in the last week and all that was still happening, but whatever the reason, Dean's features grew strained, mask-like across his face and he regarded the other with more caution tinged with the gaze of a man spent than actual suspicion and he issued a rather childish ultimatum. "Prove it."
Gabriel stood and that simple action in and of itself seemed to make him seem twice as intimidating. There was a slight frown creasing his brow and he sighed with a piteous shake of his head. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured before opening his mouth and… the Church windows shattered.
Son of a bitch! Dean pressed his palms against his ears but couldn't stop the vibrations that rode the air from assaulting his eardrums as the same high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that had brought him to his knees blasted all around him. When what sounded like white noise finally subsided, he propped himself up against the wooden pew among the fallen shattered glass and glared as best as he could with warm crimson wetness running down his jaw from his ear. "Is that how all of you talk?" he growled.
The angel watched him with an inquisitive tilt of his head. "Yes. Were you not aware?"
He remembered that head tilt signifying insight mixed with confusion but this gaze held no compassion- only cool blankness resided behind a face that was equally blank and he shook his head hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. Forget it. "Gabriel, huh?" Dean picked himself back up slowly since the room was still going in an out of focus and approached the other, still warily keeping his eyes on the man. "And what message do you have for me?"
The smooth, almost porcelain-fine features creased in worry and darkened somewhat. If he didn't know better, Dean would have categorized the downcast expression that crossed Gabriel's face as one of sorrow. "Sex Diluculo ac Hora. Erelong the sixth dawn shalt be upon us and the seal must not be broken. Lucifer must not rise."
"So you guys are going to finally get off your asses and go save him?" He tried to sound annoyed, but couldn't disguise the hope in his voice. It was obvious who the 'him' was, and Gabriel's silver-green eyes flickered to the floor uneasily. Dean felt his gut clench tight. You're shitting me.
Previously dampened irritation was bubbling dangerously to the surface and instead of erupting like a shaken bottle of soda, Dean's teeth clenched tight and his chest tightened. His exhale was a long, strained effort at keeping calm even as something hotter than hellfire shot through his veins. "What's your boss playing at?" he managed to grind out, biting off each and every word. "I read it," he tried to speak steadily but couldn't conceal his increasing fury. His hand shook with the intensity of the feeling as he pointed in accusation at the Bible still lying harmlessly on the pew.
"I read it. I read your boss's oh so holy Word, and it said to 'Rescue those being led away to death; hold back those staggering toward slaughter'. What happened to all that 'Word being a lamp upon my feet and a light unto my path' shit?" he hissed, sounding for all the world like a cornered snake. "If there even is a God, then I'm not convinced he's anything more than a kid with an ant farm who likes to think he's in control."
Gabriel's face was turned away. Was it in shame? Dean couldn't tell.
"None of the Lord's warriors can venture into the realm of the Son of Perdition except at the Father's command." Was the hesitant answer. A pause passed, pregnant with grave implications. "But you can."
Sam glared at the textbook, pencil clenched so tightly within his grasp that it was a wonder the writing instrument hadn't splintered into pieces already. The Latin words were shifting in and out of focus in a haze and at long last he pushed the text away, not caring when it fell to the floor with a noisy thump.
He didn't know what to do. Of course he didn't want Castiel to have to go through such a terrible fate, but logically, there was no other option that any of them could act upon to prevent the seal from breaking. Sure, they were hunters and had more knowledge of the supernatural and upon nearly all matters of the occult, but as far as Sam knew, there was no way to send someone to Hell on a rescue mission.
I didn't even know there was a way to pull a condemned soul out of the Pit until Dean showed up again. The angels had shown no sign of interfering on Castiel's behalf and there was no sane demon powerful enough that would be willing to relinquish the angel; not even Ruby could be of use now. They were flying blind and Sam was ready to reluctantly give up.
Dean however, was unsatisfied with letting come what may, if the argument that had occurred when he'd come back from the Church was any indication. The younger Winchester had never seen the other so distraught and the fear and desperation that was driving him had to be unhealthy. He hardly recognized his brother anymore- and more than anything else, the thought of losing him again struck deep to his core.
With a defeated sigh, Sam pulled the legal pad closer, looking back over the hastily scribbled down translations, blue ink squirming across the landscape of garish yellow embellished with red lines. His gaze traveled over the descriptions of the sacrifice and then flicked up to the clock sitting on top of the fireplace mantel.
11:17 PM.
Dawn was at 6:30 AM.
He slouched down into the couch, sinking back against the cushions and tried to decide what to do with himself, bringing the notepad up close to his face and scanning the barely intelligible words-
-when he suddenly shot upwards and off the couch, banging his shins into the coffee table but not caring, his eyes were too focused on a certain phrase that hadn't caught his attention till now; his eyes were wide and staring, filled with terror and dread at the words he didn't, couldn't believe.
"…and the son of Adam that hast been borne pure but whost drunken of blood most unclean shalt be taken as the new vessel of the Prince of the Earth, and he shalt consume that which shalt be taken from the sacrifice…"
"Sam?"
He turned quickly at the voice which before had been full of lightness, innocence, and yes, purity. A flash of nefariously mischievous hazel eyes, a fall of dark red hair and smile so cold, so conniving that it made even this battle-hardened warrior shudder was all that filled his vision before something that felt like an ice pick stabbing through his forehead with one deep thrust sent him careening backwards, arms flailing wildly, windmill-like as his head crashed against the mantle and Sam fell like a length of timber.
The clock wobbled unsteadily on its stand before pitching forward and crashing down next to the fallen form, its glass face shattering, cogs and gears grinding to a stop and hands jerked askew from the impact.
11:19 PM.
Contrary to popular belief, most people actually don't gape with open mouths but had Dean Winchester's jaw been anymore slack, it would've been nearly touching the floor. He closed his mouth with a sharp click upon the realization of how foolish he must've looked and he cleared his throat once, twice. Trying to speak. "No," he squeaked out, sounding like a dog's deflated chew toy and he swallowed hard. Trying to somehow disprove the angel who stood before him, trying to do something, anything to refute the words he'd just heard.
Unable to speak clearly, he opted for a sharp shake of his head. It's not true. That can't be true. The admonishing look he got in return didn't deter him and Dean only shook his head harder, world spinning around and around. "I don't believe it."
"You have already seen it; how can you deny the truth? In your dreams-"
"Well they were wrong, alright?" Dean interjected harshly, fingers twitching to curl into defensive fists to slam themselves into the nearest tangible object, which just so happened to be this seemingly harmless individual in front of him, telling him what he didn't want to hear. "They were just dreams, now I know that aspirin and scotch aren't so great together."
"Dean Winchester, you were selected by the Almighty himself to carry out the tasks that must be done and to do so you must accept-"
"Sam is NOT going to become Lucifer's vessel, GODDAMN IT!!" This time, Dean's fist did swing wildly, making solid impact with the hard oak of the altar, skin of the knuckles splitting and smearing blood onto the engraved cross there. Silence reigned supreme for a beat. Then, Gabriel's voice broke the stillness: stern, disapproving and without the least bit of pity despite the gravity of his words.
"Your brother has already been taken."
Dean felt the words hitting him like invisible bullets and he staggered backwards, back hitting the altar and sliding down to sit amongst the multicolored glass littering the dusty, unpolished floor- a parody of elegance and depravity. Iron bands were wrapping around his chest in a vice-like grip and squeezing the air out of him; he was getting dizzy and he couldn't breathe- oh God, he couldn't breathe.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale… damn it, Sammy. I'm sorry.
Gabriel watched the man's shoulders shake and stood there impassively as harsh, labored, near convulsive gasps echoed in every corner of the chapel. He had received the Father's command and was now waiting to act upon them. Presently, Dean raised his head and fixed red, swollen but hardened eyes upon the angel who was still there, still looking at him with…expectancy?
"I don't care," the hunter rasped hoarsely, "I don't care if you can't do anything without your God's command, I don't care if you're not supposed to even sneeze without him giving you permission to, I don't give a shit. And I don't care if I'm defying both Heaven and Hell. No more waiting around, no more games, no more praying or operating on faith alone." Dean stood, face set with resolve and vengeance burning in his smoldering eyes. "We're doing this my way now."
The angel nodded his head once. He had received the Father's command and had now been given the order.
"We're doing this my way now."
Six words. Six dawns. Six hours.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell heralded midnight.
The battle was about to begin.
A/N: Sorry for the lateness of this chapter… illness plus tons of work makes for one very sluggish imagination. Hoped all of you liked it!