"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—which made Father Gregory Talley just that much more grateful to be in the warm coziness of the confessional. The church seemed so much more like a shelter during weather like this, the penetrating stillness and coolness it held throughout much of the week, exchanged for quiet comfort. It was times like this, when despite being the "novice" priest and new to the area, Father Talley felt at home.
"It's been." The man on the other side of the grille hesitated. "Three months since my last confession."
There was another pause, so long that Father Talley half-wondered if the man had left. He was on the kneeler, so he couldn't see the outline of his face. "I'm here to listen," he said encouragingly.
"I never finished my last confession."
Pause.
"And why is that?"
"I killed the priest."
Father Talley's breath caught, and he shivered in spite of the warmth. He didn't know which was more terrifying, the statement itself or that there was only the slightest note of regret in the man's voice. He wondered if the man was a serial killer, and offered up a quiet prayer for protection if he was. He stayed silent, but the man needed no further prompting to continue.
And boy, did he continue. The things he said had Father Talley quaking in his seat, fist in his mouth to keep himself from calling out. He needed to be strong. He needed to—and then something the man said made him speak, despite himself.
"You're a demon!" His own voice made him cringe. If he was Father Yates— the Methuselah of Our Lady of Sorrows—he would have spoken some kind of exorcism immediately, but Father Talley felt he had a right to be surprised. He'd never heard of a demon going to confessional before. He began fumbling around for a crucifix, mourned the fact that the holy water was so far away.
"Yes, I'm a demon," the man sighed, longsuffering. "I applaud your mental acuity. That's not the point. I need absolution."
Father Talley stilled, blinked in bemusement. This was unprecedented. He hadn't ever heard of a demon trying to repent, either.
"…I don't think a few Hail Mary's are going to cover it for you," he said shakily. The man puffed out a breath.
"Well, that brings us to Plan B."
oOo
Sam woke up to holy water being poured on his face.
"What the he—"
Then cleaning fluid.
"Have to run the tests, sorry, Sam. We don't know exactly what ended up happening to you, so. How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I guess. Good. What do you mea—"
He flinched a little as a thin cut was made along his arm. How he and Dean didn't end up scarring like wrist shredders for this, he didn't know.
"Huh."
"What is it?" He sat up, to find Dean staring at his arm like it had grown eyes and started winking suggestively at him.
"Dude. You just went Claire Bennet on me."
"What?"
Dean dropped his arm. "The cut healed."
And it had. No more potential arm-scarring for Sam Winchester, then. His eyes widened.
"Dean, what happe—"
"Let me try something." Castiel had stood up from a chair by the hospital bed, was reaching for Sam's arm with one hand and that was definitely an angel's blade he was holding—
"You don't think?" This from Dean.
"I'm not sure, but—"
"Will somebody explain to me what's going on?"
An awkward silence descended over the room. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, sent a glare in Castiel's direction. "Well, it wasn't really my idea, but…"
Castiel was beaming. "We're very glad that you're feeling well, Sam. I was worried that you wouldn't wake up after we suppressed your immune system for as long as we had."
Well, okay. That was just.
"What he's saying," Dean cut in, "Is that you were in a bad way, Sam. Your, your DNA was changing 'cause of the Trials, and your body was fighting it off. So we, um. Let it happen. But—uh, we don't know exactly what happened 'cause of that."
Sam's mouth fell open. "So what you're saying is, I could have just turned into a monster, and you let it happen?"
"Yes," Castiel said calmly, reaching again for his arm. "You should be grateful to your brother," he admonished quietly, lowering his blade "You'd likely be dead by now if he hadn't decided to do this."
That was Dean, all right. He'd take a soulless Sam over a dead Sam, a crazy Sam over a dead Sam, a sick Sam and a world full of demons over a dead Sam. He really shouldn't be surprised that Dean was okay with monster Sam, too. Maybe they should talk about this. They should definitely talk about this.
"Ah!"
Castiel's blade hurt, in a way unfamiliar to him. He felt a sort of tugging burn travel up his arm, watched as what could only be described as golden goo seeped from the wound.
Dean leaned in closer, glancing at Castiel. "What does this mean, then?"
"I… don't know."
oOo
Crowley had arranged to meet up with Kevin again at Cognoscenti Coffee, partly because it was close to the hotel, but mostly because he hoped a gourmet pourover and a pastry might lessen the Prophet's inclination to kill him. The plan seemed to be working, too, because when Crowley breezed through the entrance he was rather astonished to find the Prophet not glaring at him in that pissed-off honey badger way he had. He still looked angry, but there was an edge of curiosity to it that had Crowley swaggering to the table with a touch more hesitance than before.
"So. You're human now," Kevin said as Crowley slid into the seat across from him. Coupled with his expression, Crowley translated: So. If I stab you in the neck with this dessert fork, you'll definitely die.
"Yes," Crowley smiled, because he was a Salesman once and he knew a smile was usually a good method of waylaying danger. "One hundred percent, bona-fide human."
Kevin nodded, spun his dessert fork around his fingers in a way that was really not menacing at all. "How are you feeling?" Less…?"
"Suzanne Vale?" Crowley shrugged. "Sure, after half an hour or so of crying on a church pew, I was back to my old self."
He watched Kevin's fingers halt, tighten around the dessert fork. He didn't know what the badger expected, though. It wasn't like he was the pinnacle of humanity back before he was a demon. In fact, becoming a demon was the height of his aspirations then, if he remembered correctly. There really wasn't any other reason to sell his soul for a pittance he could have easily taken care of with a spell.
"And you still want to do this. The Trials."
Crowley's smile grew wider. "No, I want to sulk in a monastery. I want to become a Buddhist. I want to help build orphanages in Haiti."
Kevin's nose wrinkled at the sarcasm. "I'm just saying. I've heard that, well, you'll die if you do them."
Crowley figured he should stop eyeing the dessert fork. The badger couldn't be planning to murder him if he was killing himself well enough on his own. "If you think you can depend on the Winchesters to complete the job, you're a better brand of stupid than they are. Remember what happened with the moo—Sam? Nah, I'd say it's safest not to put all your eggs in one basket."
Kevin's lips pursed, and Crowley knew he'd sold him on the idea. "But you aren't worried about dying," the Prophet pressed.
What was he waiting for? Crowley to say he was going on a suicide mission, because he was oh so sorry, and wanted to redeem himself to him? That wasn't true, but Crowley didn't feel like jeopardizing his position by saying so.
"Nah," he said, all bravado. "I hear the Man Upstairs has a thing for bringing back people who have died for The Cause."
oOo
Chuck Shirley, known to the wider world as Carver Edlund, and to more by a different, somewhat shorter name, now bore the alias Eric Snyder. The man nursing a beer next to him on the patio also knew something about false identities.
"Got to say, I'm surprised you brought me back," the man said, squinting ahead at the sunrise on his garish psychedelic-patterned lawn chair, swishing the beer bottle once, twice before bringing it to rest at his side. Beer wasn't really his thing. "Thought Cassie was your favorite."
"Oh, he is," Chuck-Carver-Eric said, because he was honest about these things. "But you're important, too. And I need someone to handle Heaven right now—it's a bit of a mess."
The man snorted. "It's always been a mess up there, ever since—I left for a reason. Don't see why you'd start caring now, anyway."
"Watch your tone," Chuck said mildly, and the man's face soured. "You care—that's why you died, and that's why you're the man for the job. Don't bullshit me about why you left. You grew a pair, now you have to live with the consequences."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You'd think I'd have gotten a reward for that or something. Not get dragged back into—" he gestured his hand at the skies, his point self-evident.
"Once in, you're never out," Chuck said placidly. "Most would consider what I'm giving you a reward. Think of it as a stewardship, if you must—holding down the fort until the heir can take over."
"You mean Cassie."
"Of course."
There was anger glittering behind Gabriel's eyes, but he nodded once, curtly, and disappeared. Chuck settled himself more comfortably in his own lawn chair, took a long pull at his beer, and sighed.
"I've done way too much interfering, lately. Any more and I'll be jumping the shark."
oOo
Ash said it went down like the French Revolution. He seemed to find it all very funny, had even taken to calling everyone 'citizen.' Though it drove Bobby crazy, even he had to admit he sort of had a point.
There was bedlam when the angels disappeared. Not that the constant civil war going on beforehand was necessarily ideal, but with no one monitoring, the souls went nuts. Worse, though, was that with no Joshua pruning the Garden, it grew, overgrown with weeds, uncontrolled into everyone's backyards, morphed into a sort of sadistic Labyrinth. Like the one in the Death Gate Cycle, not that Bobby would ever admit to having read that; it would ruin his reputation. The whole situation reminded Bobby rather unpleasantly of Hell, and he was more than grateful when an army of souls—himself included—stormed the walls of Metatron's little fortress and killed him. It felt like a relief, somehow.
Not that it solved anything.
The Labyrinth continued to grow, twisted more of the souls in Heaven each passing moment. The worst part was that there was no escaping from it. Bobby couldn't find the hole back to Purgatory he'd come through. He'd found Ellen, Jo, Ash and Pamela, but he'd never been able to find Karen. He might not be so afraid of that either, except that souls had begun already to turn on each other, tearing each other apart the same way they'd learned to tear apart Metatron's Grace. It was sickening.
So like with the French Revolution, it ended with royalty returning. The souls who hadn't gone postal were welcoming when Gabriel passed through the not-so-Pearly-anymore Gates, and to give the angel credit, he'd restored order fairly quickly. Meaning, he torched the Labyrinth after an evacuation order, along with most, if not all of the souls that had been twisted irreparably by it.
Perhaps a little over half of Heaven was charred rubble afterwards, but Bobby wasn't concerned with that right then. Their new Steward—or whatever the hell he was calling himself—had made it clear in no uncertain terms that what he desired above all else was to be left alone, and most of the souls had learned to steer clear of him. Not Bobby.
"Bring me back," he told the archangel, because Bobby Singer didn't do please.
Gabriel hardly looked up from the paperwork he was filling out. Apparently running Heaven involved a lot of paperwork; he had a whole team of souls working on it in the floor below. "No."
"What do you mean, no?" Bobby said, incredulous. "I need to be down there, and you—"
"I have never owed you anything, Bobby Singer," Gabriel said, a dark note creeping into his voice. Lately he'd been channeling Wrathful Soldier of God far more than the Trickster Bobby had heard of. It served as a forceful reminder of just how old Gabriel was. "Even if I did, I have paid my dues. Leave."
But Wrathful Soldiers of God never did faze Bobby much. "Listen to me," he said. "They need me down there, they're having to deal with the angels right now and I can help—"
"Your time is finished, Singer," Gabriel said, and his voice shook the walls. He took a deep breath in, looked as if he was trying to control his temper. "Look, I know you're dying to join up with the boys again, but what's going on right now is multidimensional chess—a war on all sides of Heaven, Earth, and Hell—Purgatory will add its two cents before long too, I'm sure. I'm up to my eyes in shit just trying to handle the domestic side of things, here. This should, and will be taken care of first. I will need you, and I will let you know when—and if—it will be advantageous to send you to Earth. You are under my orders. Understand?"
They looked at each other, one weary warrior to another, and Bobby mused on how Dean oversimplified things, making the being before him into just a Trickster, a son sick of his family fighting. Gabriel might be those things, but at that moment what Bobby saw was a general, a creature so old and worn down by history Bobby could scarcely fathom it. "Yes," he said resentfully. He recognized who was the more powerful one here, and he was damned if he didn't know his place when it counted.
"Good," Gabriel said. "I expect you to continue organizing the souls."
Bobby had already been doing that, but it felt wrong somehow, doing it now that he was under orders. Bobby was a leader, the others followed him instinctively, and it scared him a little to know that Gabriel recognized that, was intending to use it for his own purposes. I am my own man, Bobby repeated to himself, as he stormed out of Gabriel's fortress. I'm only collaborating with him. The second something doesn't sit right with me…
Yeah, right, you idjit, he scolded himself. You're taking it up the ass, again.
oOo
"Hold on," Buer said. As the leader of fifty legions of demons, he felt he had the right to make his opinion heard. "We can't just release the Croatoan virus." He looked around, and was relieved to find some of the other demons nodding, including Mantus. Abaddon, however, didn't look too happy with him, and her voice came out like a whiplash.
"Why not?"
"Well," It was difficult to look at her. The ends of her hair were on fire from rage. "It would be too unfocused. We don't know exactly where the angels are at anymore, they're going further underground, so if we spread the Croatoan virus anywhere we feel like willy-nilly, it'll just give them time to quarantine and defend themselves from the virus. There'd be too much warning, the whole attack would fail."
"Then what would you suggest doing, Buer," she said, and he knew he was being put on the spot, but he was equal to the task. He didn't want her to set him on fire, too.
"I think we need to draw them out and then try a more focused attack. The best way we could do that, is to attack something they can't afford to lose, and assuming they're still recruiting, the best way to do that is find some Fallen not already in their army, and attack them, thereby forcing the army into a position where they'd have to defend them."
"I see," Abaddon said. She made an effort to tone down her angry reaction; she felt humiliated, but she couldn't afford to look weak or incompetent in front of her underlings. Even if she was older and more powerful, half were likely already plotting her overthrow. She couldn't drive divides any deeper by reacting unfavorably to a demon with a better plan.
"What—ah, I didn't realize you were so well-schooled in strategy," she said carefully.
"I'm not, really," Buer said, visibly surprised. "It's just, um, I read The Art of War. Um, Crowley, uh, made it required reading. For everyone."
Abaddon's face went completely blank.
"He um, always said that, there's always something to learn from the humans." A good portion of the other demons chorused it with him, and immediately looked embarrassed by it.
Abaddon nodded, gave a few more orders before dismissing everyone. When she was sure she was quite alone, she kicked the conference table, smashing it into splinters.
"Damn you, Crowley," she seethed.
oOo
"So, angel blade, demon blade, but you don't have a problem with Devil's Traps, should we be trying holy fire now, or—?"
"No!" Sam said, maybe a tad too eagerly. Dean gave him a suspicious squint. "Look, Dean, I'm just, I'm tired. We can run more tests tomorrow if you want, I don't care, but can we hold up on it for today? I'm exhausted."
"Sure," Dean shrugged, rolled his shoulders back. "I'm tired too. That drive earlier was friggin' long. Wonder if Cas—"
He looked back, but Castiel had fallen asleep on the armchair, no doubt while Dean was still doing the salt-tests.
"Are you going to...?"
"Nah," Dean said. "I don't want to wake him. Maybe later. If—" He let the sentence hang.
"I'll stay with him."
Dean's eyes flashed back to his. "That's another thing. If it turns out that you can't sleep… now, I'm not saying I think you lost your soul, but that's usually an indicator for something."
"I'll sleep, Dean." He yawned for effect. "Don't go setting up any baby monitors. Relax."
"I can't, Sam. I hope you know I trust you, that I'm not doing any of this because I think— but I don't like not knowing what's going on. It freaks me the hell out."
"I'm still me."
Dean smiled. "I know that. 'Sides, I've gotten used to you having super-powers. All you're missing," his smile grew wicked. "Is the spandex."
Dean's laugh disappeared around the corner, and as it faded, so did Sam's own grin. He waited for a minute before unfolding himself from the sofa, reaching out to shake Castiel's shoulder.
"Cas. Cas, wake up."
Castiel grumbled and squirmed, rubbing his eyes as he attempted to situate himself. Not really the Hunter Wake Up, but he'd get there, someday. "…Sam?"
"Sorry I woke you. I just… I need to ask you something."
Castiel's frown deepened by a fraction, and he struggled to sit up. "What is it?" he grunted, managing to get himself in an upright position. His eyebrows were already knit together, his eyes blinking rapidly as they tried to focus on Sam.
"In the Cage…"
Castiel stiffened.
"When you tried to get me out, I, did I—fight you? What happened down there?"
"Sam, how much do you still remember? Is anything being stirred up by—"
"Just answer me, Cas. I need to know."
It was difficult to read Castiel at the best of times, Sam thought, and tonight was no exception. He seemed to draw in on himself, looking smaller than usual in a room designed to be comfortable and close. Like a fish out of water. He cleared his throat.
"Both you and Dean fought against rescue, yes," he said slowly. "But you must understand… I was stronger than you both. I could have overpowered you easily. I was… There was no reason why I shouldn't have been able to bring out your soul. Michael and Lucifer… I was stronger than them, too. Or I thought I was. I should have been more careful. I'm—" Sorry.
Sam let it hang, relieved to find that for once, he didn't feel anger roiling around his belly, the anger he'd usually rationalize away because he shouldn't feel that way. For once, it was just…absent. And that was good. Even if the other things he was feeling—fear and despair, because just how right was Adam, anyway—weren't so pleasant.
"I know," he said quietly. "And thank you. For trying."
He laid his head back then, and went searching for dreams.
oOo
"…Amelia?"
Amelia jerked, spun on her heel in the middle of the hallway. "I don't have time to talk, Sam. I need to get into surgery now."
"No, you don't. You're dreaming."
She paused. Pinched herself, and shrugged. "I thought when you find out you're dreaming, you're supposed to wake up."
"That happens sometimes, too."
She frowned, settled a hand on her hip, a careless gesture. "So anyway, Dream-Sam, what are you doing here? I made my peace with what happened a long time ago, so as far as introspection goes, you showing up in my dreams now is pretty lame."
Sam started. "You did?"
She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she did so. "Or maybe I just really want to dream about sex," she laughed. "But, yeah. It took a while, but I figured out what was wrong with our relationship. I guess it was actually a good thing you didn't follow through with meeting me, because it wouldn't have worked out."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry, Sam." She took a step closer, put her hand on his arm. "But it would have been unfair of me to stay, because this," she waved at the air between them. "Was never really about you. I guess—I guess I wanted to love you because my husband left me for the army, and you seemed like a deserter. I wanted Don though, not you. It was wrong of me. I don't think I could apologize enough."
Sam pulled his arm away. "I knew you loved Don," he said. "I thought that was something we both understood, losing someone—"
"I didn't lose Don though, not permanently," she said. "And anyway, wasn't that the whole reason you loved me? Without having that loss in common, what did we have? I couldn't help but think, when you lost your brother, you were so aggressive with me, trying to talk about my feelings about Don—I felt like you were just projecting your own onto me. So wasn't our relationship on your end about someone else, too?"
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the alarms went off and he felt Amelia waking up.
He woke up breathing hard on the sofa. "Am I on a Vision Quest?" he said, incredulous.
oOo
"You haven't told your brother." It was an observation that read like an accusation, and made Dean sit up, so he could see Castiel more clearly.
"Problem?" It came out more confrontational than he intended.
"Yes," Castiel huffed. "You put a high premium on honesty, as I remember."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Cas. It's not like I'm not going to tell him. It's just—we have other things to worry about right now, too. What's going on with him, for starters."
"I don't think you will."
"What?"
Suddenly Castiel was very close, his voice a low growl. "I don't think you'll tell Sam what you're doing. Because then you'd have to explain to him how it is you prevented him from completing the Hell Trials, to do this. I think you'll hide it from him, as he tried to hide it from you."
"This is different," Dean said weakly.
Castiel turned away. "How different is it?"
oOo
"I'm going to send you off," Gabriel said, giving Bobby a hard stare. "But not to Earth."
"Where to, then, princess?" Gabriel's eyes narrowed, and Bobby celebrated that, that small victory. He liked being an ornery bastard; it was the foundation of his sense of self-identity.
"You'll be going on a diplomatic mission. If we're going to enter the fray, we're going to need allies—so you'll be touring around, asking those pagan gods still alive if they'll be interested in an alliance."
Bobby's jaw dropped. "And you're asking me to do this? From what I've heard, you're the Poster Boy of paganism—"
"It was Loki the gods accepted, not me." Gabriel grimaced. "Gabriel is not someone they particularly like. Ever since Muhammad and the incident at the Kaaba…" He shuddered. "I'd probably be murdered before ever getting to say my piece. Besides, they like humans. Mostly. Sort of. At any rate, I have complete confidence in you."
Bobby scowled. "And this is better than finding a way to reverse Metatron's spell because…?"
"Because bringing back my siblings in their current state is the equivalent of killing every soul here." He sighed. "The fighting has got to stop, and affairs are too fragile up here to be able to handle it. Whatever's going on on Earth—I've been spoken to of their organization—it's a good thing. If the civil war and power struggles can reach a conclusion on Earth, then we can open the doors and let them in without any danger."
"But if they grow too organized, they'll kick down the door and wreck everything anyway," Bobby pointed out, and Gabriel glared.
"That's why we need these alliances. Hop to, soldier."
oOo
"Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"
Opna looked at the greasy man with sorrowful eyes, and nodded. She rubbed unconsciously at her bow—now a tattoo on her wrist, in a moment a gleaming thing drawn out of the ether, imperceptible to human eyes.
She took aim—her target, three tables over and to the right. The greasy man was still talking—no, shouting something—but nothing could disturb her focus. She pulled the string back, worried her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplated the perfect time to strike.
Then she was bowled over, felt a jagged cut being made along her arm. Before it could close up, another wet wound was pressed to it.
Her scream went on and on.
A/N: Sorry this update took so long! Please believe me when I say I've been very busy. I also feel sort of bad—this chapter is long, but mostly setting up for later storylines.
I am going to need a vote for the next chapter—cupids are going to be making appearance, and I need to decide what a cupid's arrow will make Sam fall in love with! Here are the choices:
His own gorgeous self! There will be much gratuitous hair-stroking, staring at his own reflection, and admiring his own musculature.
The Impala! Because I, for one, would like to see what happens when Dean's beloved car is wrested from him by his own brother.
The cupid who shot him! I imagine that would be an awkward situation for a cupid, might make one of them realize that the unbridled affection they inflict upon others is possibly not the best way to go about making matches.