Chapter 12
Wounded Knee is bare and windswept, but not abandoned. From the piece of wood screwed onto the historical information sign changing the title from 'Battle of Wounded Knee' to 'Massacre of Wounded Knee', to the flowers and dream-catchers lovingly placed on the graves of people who had died since then, there are signs that this place is still used, still remembered. Mostly, however, it is empty. There are a few trees and the road cutting across a long view of rolling hills and distant cliffs. It screams of desolation and abandonment, and the stark, hard beauty of the plains.
It's perfect.
Castiel is waiting for them as they pull up in the parking lot of the Visitor's Center. He's holding what looks like a half-full sandbag but Sam knows it's bones from the bodies of people who'd been possessed by demons, who'd died because of those demons. When Bobby had originally translated that section they'd decided not to bother. It would've been beyond difficult to get the ingredients and it was optional anyway. However, that was before they had an angel who volunteered to find, retrieve and clean the bones. He'd also got them the holy oil.
Sam's beginning to see why they'd grown so fond of the angel in the other future (that wasn't going to happen anymore). It's like having their very own super-powered sidekick. Not much could be cooler than that.
Of course sidekicks usually come with attitude.
"Why are we here?" the angel asks before they'd even got out of the car.
"Did you want philosophy, Cas, or the mechanics?" Dean snaps back automatically. "I'm generally considered better with the second than the first."
Sam knows it's just Dean being nervous but it still makes him roll his eyes. "Because this is where the ritual is going to take place."
"The ritual to banish Lilith," Cas says again. As it was in the car, the angel's voice is so carefully devoid of disbelief that it's like shouting. Sam admits that it makes him feel better than he's not the only one who's got doubts.t
"I explained it in the car," Dean says impatiently. "There was a lot of innocent blood at Wounded Knee." He's already going to the trunk to get supplies.
Cas looks into the distance in that weird angel way of his. "One hundred forty-six were killed in the immediate vicinity," he announces. "It lingers," he says in response to their stunned looks.
Sam decides to ignore that comment and continue the explanation. Maybe if he says it enough times he'll believe it'll work the way Dean believes it. "The wall between realms, or whatever, is thinnest where innocent blood was spilled." Cas nods solemnly. "And we want to shove Lilith down as far as she can go so that it takes her another hundred millennia to get back out."
"And this ritual will do that?"
"Well," Sam hedges because he doesn't think it's a good idea to lie to an angel of the Lord. "The Tric—Gabriel's book says it can." He flicks a glance at the only other angel he really knows, in his rumpled suit and messy hair. "Would he… would Gabriel lie about it?"
Blue eyes turn his way. They are empty of emotion and yet more scornful because of it. "He has been lying to his family for three thousand years. Here," Cas hands over the bag he's been holding. "These are the bones you requested. I've crushed them for you so they are ready to use."
"Um, thanks," Sam says as he takes the bag. It's a lot heavier than he thought it would be.
"Hey, Cas," Dean calls from the back of the car. "Any sign of Zachariah or Uriel or any of your other angel pals?"
"I am blocking them for now, but that will not work once you start the ritual. From what you have said, too many forces will be put into motion for me to successfully mask it."
Sam clears his throat. He shoots a quick glance at his brother and is nothing but relieved when Dean gives a tiny nod and hands over the ingredients from the trunk. "You're better at drawing symbols and shit, Sam—Sammy. I'll tell Cas the rest."
Sam doesn't argue, just grabs the supplies and books it over to where Bobby and Ellen and Jo are calculating distances. The long grass is slippery from the weight of half-melted snow, and the wide valley provides no protection from the wind. To Sam's right is Wounded Knee Creek, only recognizable as a creek because there are bushes and trees lining it. Behind and to the left is the hill containing the cemetery and the Memorial. In front of him is another hill. Even from here, Sam can see the large Hotchkiss guns, left in position as a reminder of the Army's power. Four of them were used: four revolving automatic rifles shooting 1.64-inch bullets into a crowd of mostly women and kids and unarmed men.
Jesus, humans are horrible to each other, Sam thinks.
In places like this, he can see the benefit of ending everything, wiping everything clean and starting over. With the bees, maybe. Except they'd probably grow up to be as venal and ignorant and mean as humans are.
At the portable table they set up, Jo is organizing the ingredients for the protections they're going to paint on Dean. Bobby and Ellen are discussing the best location for the main circle. Sam's got nothing to do but haul supplies from the vehicles and brood. He develops a rhythm and lets himself zone out. Back and forth. Back and forth. Occasionally passing Dean as his brother hauls supplies and mutters the words of the incantation. Castiel's nowhere to be seen and all Sam can do is hope that Dean managed to talk him into helping them. The sun is at its highest point by the time the vehicles are just about emptied. He just has one more trip, but when he reaches the Visitor's Center, there's a new vehicle in the parking lot—a truck in even worse shape than Ellen's. It's a single-cab Ford, and it's at least thirty-years old. It was blue once—maybe. Large chunks have rusted away but the rust lays a single color over its patchwork body. Sam looks around but he can't see the owner.
"In my vision, you were much shorter," says a voice from beside him. Sam can't help it: he jumps. "Not much doubt you're the one I'm looking for, though." The stranger tips his chin toward their vehicles. "The cars are distinctive."
Sam looks down and sees a Native American man—he can distinguish tribes in print, but not in person—of about Bobby's age, wearing standard western gear. His hair is braided and his hat has a beaded band with an eagle feather in it. He looks so much like a movie stereotype that Sam wonders if he's real. Sam takes another look around—there's nobody else. "Christo," he says, just to be sure.
The guy gives him a small smile. "Don't worry. I'm not Christian. Makes it hard for one of your devils to take me over."
On the one hand it's reassuring: they don't need any demons showing up unexpectedly. On the other: how the hell does this guy know what they're doing? "Who are you?"
"Whites have always been blind," the man says instead of answering. "For centuries your way has been the only way, the only one allowed. Whites often forget there are other beliefs, other gods, who will be harmed by the Christian Apocalypse."
"You're not Coyote or someone like that, are you?" Because it would be just their luck to run into a real Trickster god here and now.
The man chuckles, low and quiet. "No, not Coyote. I try not to have much to do with him. He can be a dangerous being to know, but there are others who are willing to fight for their world, their people."
"Did you get visited by a spirit?" Sam asks without enthusiasm.
This time the elder laughs out loud. Genuine humor that lifts the dreary air for a moment. "No visits. No ghosts. Nothing that easy to understand." He pauses but the smile doesn't leave his face. "I had a vision. It told me to come here, to explain—to help."
Sam swallows. This is more mystic shit and it makes him nervous. However, considering what's at stake, he's pretty sure he can't refuse. "We'd appreciate it."
Now the smile's more in the eyes than anything. Suddenly, Sam's reminded of Castiel's eyes: filled with ageless wisdom, and a connection with something beyond the physical. The man speaks and Sam blinks out of the moment. "Too much blood was spilled here. The air is filled with sorrow and the end of hope." Sam nods when the man looks at him with his odd, knowing eyes: he can feel it too. "You can use it as a focus for your Christian ritual, but it was Indian blood that was spilled here."
"We mean no disrespect," Sam assures him. "We—" We're trying to save the world, he almost says but, Jesus, that sounds ridiculous and pretentious. The stranger waits as Sam sputters to a stop.
"In this place, if you wish to bend the Earth to a great task, you must honor the Four Quarters."
"The Four Quarters?" Four quarters in a dollar, is all Sam can think.
"Four Directions, if you prefer. Google it. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Oh, and here–" He hands over a bundle of loosely woven grass stalks. "Sweet grass, to purify. Tell your brother to breathe it in deep, bathe in it. It will help protect him in this place."
Sam takes it. "Thank you."
"If what I dreamed is correct, I should be thanking you." The man finally smiles and Sam smiles gratefully back. At least he hopes he looks grateful and not abso-fucking-lutely floored. The stranger tips his hat and walks over to his ancient truck. It starts with a cough and a bounce then it shakes its way back down to the main road.
Sam watches as smoke from burning oil combines with the dust from the pitted access road. He doesn't hear Dean walk up to him. "Who was that?"
Once again, he jumps, startled into uncoolness. Dean smirks, but says nothing, waiting for his response. "I have no idea," Sam says, "but he dreams too."
"Oh great," Dean moans, rolling his eyes. "More mystical shit."
Sam hums agreement, twirling the sweet-smelling stalks in his fingers. He explains the encounter as Dean hauls the last load into the valley. When he asks his brother if they should believe the old guy, Dean grunts and says "Yeah. Didn't Kali say we're not the only religion, and He's not the only God?"
"Kali?" Sam stops and stares at his brother. "Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction."
Dean also stops. He frowns at Sam and then his brow clears. "Oh yeah, you haven't got to that episode yet. Won't get to it…" Then Dean's rubbing his head as if it hurts and Sam knows it's because his brother's finding it hard to keep all their histories straight. He actually stumbles, as if trying to take a stair that doesn't exist where they are.
"What was she like?" he asks to distract Dean from the jumbled up mess in his brain.
"Gabriel said she was 'all hands'." Dean snorts wiggling the fingers on his free hand. Sam just raises his eyebrows and Dean sobers quickly. "Ah, actually, she was scary. And hot. And completely out of my league."
Sam smiles because Dean obviously hit on her and got turned down and squashed flat. They're now close enough to hear Bobby yelling. "That is not the way to find true north!"
"Don't shout at me, Singer," Ellen yells back. "I'm not the one who brought the cheap second-hand surveying equipment."
"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Castiel offers calmly and shuts off the argument. Sam watches as the angel takes five steps to the left then kneels. He places his hands on the ground, one to either side of him, and then lifts all but his pointer fingers. "This is the line to true north."
Ellen and Bobby stand slack-jawed. Jo's smiling. She walks over with her tiny flags and forces them into the ground at the tips of Castiel's fingers.
"You told him?"
Dean runs his hand through his hair making it stand up. Sam realizes that Dean doesn't fuss with his hair anymore. When they first got back together, after Palo Alto, Dean used to spend time tousling it 'just so'. Now he keeps it trimmed and lets it lie wherever. He stopped some time before Hell, Sam thinks, but he can't remember when. "Yeah, I told him."
"And?" Sam prods when Dean shuts up. This is kind of important.
"He needed to check something first."
"Dean, it's kind of an important part of the ritual." Every word is distinct and clear and there's no way for Dean not to know how concerned he is.
"I know, Sam."
"Without an angel, it's not going to work."
"I know," Dean repeats. "But he needed to confirm what I told him before he'll bring anyone here."
"And if it's not how you think?"
Dean gives him a look that says what a crazy idea that is. "Aside from the fact that I am right, he says he'll do it if it's the only way."
"He knows it could kill him?"
Dean chews on his lips and refuses to answer. "It's not going to happen."
Sam stares at his brother who's not looking at him. For whatever reason, the angel has become one of the few people Dean lets in. Sam doesn't need to be psychic wonder boy to know that Dean's only hoping he's telling the truth. He's got as much knowledge on how this'll go as the rest of them. Meaning: they have no fucking clue.
Yeah, think happy thoughts, he tells himself, because wishes do come true. Then he snorts, wishes also turn bad; they turn very, very bad.
Seen from the top of the ridge, the trap looks like a combination of a Solomon's star and the pentagram Colt used as the lock on his door to Hell, with the multi-pointed design enfolded within the simpler five-pointed star. They nearly ran out of the rowan berry paint but, once again, the angel came through.
With the rowan berries at least.
When Sam had asked him about getting an angel to come, Castiel had looked at him with cold eyes and, in an even colder voice, had stated he was working on it. Sam had backed off. Despite some anger management issues, he wasn't stupid.
Around both stars, they added the double circle containing Enochian words of power and protection. That was where they used the ground demon bones, salt and holy oil. Sam had mixed the stuff up and it had been weird and rather disturbing. Like rubbing his hand over fiberglass or one of those ion spheres. He'd stirred it, but he couldn't really say he'd mixed it. In fact, he would swear the only reason the bones and the oil stuck together was the salt. Even now, nearly half an hour later, none of the holy oil had soaked into the fragments. They were as pale and dry-looking as they'd been in the bag.
Weird and really disturbing: heavenly objects didn't like tainted bones. Did that mean he'd never get into Heaven? He'd been possessed. Hell, he has demon blood tainting his bones without possession required. Lucifer's perfect vessel.
Dean said he came back from Hell without his soul…
He still doesn't quite understand how any of it could be real. For one, not having a soul? How had he walked around without one? What kind of person had he become? Not a nice one, since he'd used his brother as bait for whatever had killed him. In the future that isn't going to happen anymore.
Is it too late to become an atheist, he wonders idly.
"Sam, get yer butt down here!" Bobby's voice, trained to project over heavy equipment and gunfire, carries easily to the cemetery where Sam is contemplating some of the possible outcomes to The Plan.
He looks down at the marker, plain except for the feather etched into the stone. "Wherever you are," he whispers to the bones in the grave and through them to the spirit they'd once housed, "please pray for us." Then he turns and walks down the hill to the site. They have a Coleman stove set up on the table and a small pot on top of it. They're warming a mix of asafetida, rosemary, cinnamon, blessed wine and a couple other things, over the flame. It's a cleansing-protective brew that Dean has to drink and it's about the only thing that reconciles Sam to the fact that his brother will be performing the ritual. It smells… bad. Really bad. In fact, it reeks like spiced compost made from sweaty socks.
From the look on his brother's face, Dean is thinking he'd sacrifice one of them to get out of drinking it.
"Are we sure Sam can't do this?" Dean, usually so gung-ho to protect Sam from danger, whines.
"You're the one that Lilith had the contract on," Ellen says. Her voice hitches and she quickly lifts the brush from Dean's cold-bumped skin. "You've got the connection."
"You've eaten worse things," Jo says. She, too, is concentrating extremely hard on painting the protective symbols on Dean's skin. From the color on her cheeks she's enjoying it a lot more than Ellen.
"She's right," Sam joins in. "Some of the stuff I saw you and Ash eat was probably a new life form, just waiting to be discovered. You're definitely the best man for the job."
Dean glares at him. "Coward."
Sam smiles, trying to maintain the teasing mood. Except Sam does want to be the one facing down Lilith, sending her back to the deepest, darkest, most isolated part of Hell so that it takes until the sun cools for her to claw her way up to shouting distance of the surface. He wants to see her face, contorted in despair and helpless anger, and laugh as she'd laughed at him while the Hellhounds tore Dean apart. Everything in him yearns to be able to say "No. This time I'm doing the dangerous stuff and Dean's staying safe." But he can't. Because they're right. He may hate her and she may want to use him, but that's not a connection. At least not enough of one for this.
He pushes down the anger once more.
"It's not cowardly to like my stomach lining to remain free of holes," Sam manages to joke. Feeble, but still valid. "I found out what that guy meant about 'honoring the Four Quarters'," he says to head off any more complaints about who had to do what. "Most Native American belief systems divided the world into four. If you look at them, medicine wheels and dream catchers, all usually start with a circle divided that way."
"Makes sense," Jo comments and Bobby grunts agreement.
"They matched up stages of the day to the stages of life and assigned them to certain quarters," he reads from his notes. "East is the beginning, of course—rising sun and all that. There are words but, really, the important thing is to give thanks for the warmth of the sun and for the new day. To pray for the power of knowledge."
"Sounds like your spot, geek-boy," Dean says awkwardly. He's smiling and it's a little lop-sided like his teasing. Sam's about to say something sharp back then he realizes that Dean's trying. He's trying to be the big brother Sam remembers, so they can be brothers the way they'd been before deals and Hell, before ghosts and Ruby. He's trying to fix it just like he always does.
He swallows back the angry retort. "Well I am a shining example of manhood," he says instead.
"Modest, too," Jo giggles at him.
Sam smiles back, his best imitation of Dean's 'charming the pants off a mark' grin. "All part of my allure."
"Can I throw up now?" Bobby asks.
"Just don't mess up the paint," Ellen answers. "I don't want to do this again." She squints at the drawing Bobby's holding up and frowns. "You know there was a reason I ran a bar. I am not now, and never will be, a Suzie-Q-homemaker type. I don't make curtains or crochet tablecloths, and I never painted pretty little clouds or rainbows anywhere."
"You want me to do it?" Bobby offers.
Ellen huffs, "No. I just want to whine about it. That way I'll fit in better."
Dean protests and is told to stop talking and hold still. It's light and comfortable and nothing like how Dean described the hours before they got ready to go after Lucifer with the Colt in that other life. Sam finds it reassuring as if, because this is changed, they'll change the rest of it too.
At least, he hopes they can change the rest of it.
"We should honor south next. South marks the sun at its highest point and represents the spirit of earth and the power of life, peace and renewal. Face south and give thanks for the gift of life on this moist earth. You're supposed to pray for the power to grow and for peace in the world."
"Kind of the whole idea behind this exercise, ain't it?" Ellen snorts. "Singer, hold that damn piece of paper up higher." Bobby rolls his eyes, but lifts the paper obediently.
Sam's smiling as he reads his notes. "West is the spirit of water. Huh, weird." He stops.
"What is?" Jo asks.
"Well it says West is the source of darkness," he explains. "Which is weird because that's where the sun travels to."
Dean looks up from where he's studying the actual words of the ritual. "What else does it say?"
Sam hadn't actually read the pages, just copied it all down. He skims through it now. "West is the power of change, the place of dreams, introspection, and the unknown."
"Fear of the unknown, fear of the dark," Dean says and it makes sense.
"It's also purity and strength. When you face west, you're supposed to give thanks for the water of life. Pray for purity and strength. Pray for self-awareness, self-understanding," Sam finishes. "The final direction is north, obviously. It represents the spirit of the wind as well as the wisdom and experience gained over time, whether it was earned during the day or the whole lifetime. Face north and give thanks for the great, white, cleansing wind. Pray for the wisdom of experience."
"If you live that long," Bobby mutters.
Sam doesn't want to hear that so he ignores it, pretends Bobby never said it. It's too close to what Dean had talked about. "There are colors that go with each direction, but I'm not sure how to work them into the ritual. Actually," he admits with a rueful chuckle, "I'm not sure how to work any of this into the Trickster's ritual."
"Oh, that's easy," Jo says absently.
She's kneeling and painting protections on Dean's feet. If this wasn't so important—and if her mother weren't standing right there—Sam would be having thoughts that were vaguely pornographic (he's always liked Jo) but this is that important and Ellen is right there, so Sam confines himself to a more pertinent question: "How is it easy?"
"Well, we're Dean's anchors, right? Four anchors, four directions. We'll do the honoring before Dean starts his incantation."
She's right; it's easy.
"Who's taking which direction?" Dean asks, looking up from the slip of paper on which Bobby wrote the words to the ritual and that Dean is still trying to memorize.
"Well, I'm East," Jo says. "Youngest person here."
"By that logic, Bobby's North, since he's the oldest and all." Sam's sure he kept his smile hidden but Bobby makes a face at him and mutters "idjit". It actually feels nice to be insulted and that just makes him smile for real. This is going to work; they're going to figure it out.
God, he hopes they figure it out.
It only takes them a bit to decide on Ellen as South since the nurturing earth is often associated with a mother figure and she's the only female parent here. "Stereotyping," she mutters in disgust. They carefully don't snicker.
That leaves West for Sam. It fits well enough since he's the thinker of the bunch ("over-thinker" is Dean's caustic comment) plus so much of his life has been hidden from him for so long. They decide against using food as the offering ("We got cheap beer and old jerky," Dean says, "maybe some stale Cheetos.") It's Jo who thinks of wearing something in the color that matches their direction and so it's a scramble to find something. West and North are no trouble since black and white are plentiful in all their wardrobes, but finding red for Jo makes Ellen blush even as she opens her duffle. Sam and Bobby politely ignore the fact that their friend apparently has red underwear with her, but Dean grins and calls her "awesome".
The hardest item to find is yellow. Sam used to have a shirt with yellow bits but it's been used as a grease rag so often the yellow is hard to find. Plus it stinks and Ellen refuses to touch it. Bobby finally digs out an old Caterpillar cap he'd gotten years ago and had tossed into the back of his Chevelle.
"Can't I just put it in my back pocket?" she asks, turning the bright yellow monstrosity in her hands.
Jo takes it and puts it on her mother's head, bill backwards. "There. Now you're pimping."
The men carefully don't laugh.
"Are we finally ready?" Ellen's voice is dry, dry, dry.
"Not even," Dean replies. His voice is tight and his face is pale and Sam knows he's more nervous about this than he's willing to let people know. Like the rest of them, he swallows down his nerves and gets ready to do what needs to be done.
"Where's the angel?" Bobby asks as they move to where the circles are drawn.
"He'll be here," Dean answers lightly.
Ellen frowns at him. "You sure about that?"
"It's about the only thing I am sure about in this whole mess."
They break apart to assume their positions—Dean hopping delicately on his bare feet over the lines laid on the old grass, careful not to disturb anything. It would be funny if it weren't so serious.
They stand facing the center which is the lowest point of the circles. Dean's in position on his spot in the north arm of the pentacle. He's barefoot and shirtless, and covered with protections painted dusty red on his skin. It looks like Dean's freckles got together and decided to party, Sam thinks, and kind of wishes he could take a picture to tease him with later, because they're totally going to survive this and have the kind of relationship where they can tease each other without running into all kinds of hidden triggers and sore spots and, yeah, he really needs to focus here.
There's no signal, no waiting for the second hand to reach the top, just Jo nodding to them and turning to face east.
"We give thanks for the warmth of the sun after cold times, and we welcome this day and the days ahead. Give us the power of knowledge and the ability to use it wisely and well."
It's not exactly the same as what Sam found but perhaps it's more fitting in this situation.
Ellen's prayer follows seamlessly. "We give thanks for the gift of living on this Earth. We pray for the power and time to grow. We ask for peace for all the creatures that belong on the Earth." Sam nearly laughs at Ellen's version. It's a small, but salient, change considering they're facing off against demons and angels.
It's his turn.
"We thank the Earth for the water that sustains us. We ask for purity and strength of purpose, and enough self-awareness to know what our true purpose is." Oddly, he feels a thrum in his bones, as if someone had played the lowest note in the register. Huh.
"We give thanks for the cleansing wind," Bobby's voice brings him back to the world around him. "We ask that it sweep away the dust and debris in our lives to make room for the knowledge of ourselves and others that experience brings."
There isn't a sudden wind, the sun isn't dramatically covered by previously non-existent clouds—there's not even a trilling bird or shrieking hawk. It would be a letdown except that part of Sam doesn't expect this to work. Which is stupid and possibly self-destructive, but it's true. He wants to kill Lilith even if it means Dean doesn't get his 'apple-pie life'. Maybe especially…
God, he's a petty, selfish bastard.
Dean's voice picks up after Bobby's. "Lilith, filomena humanus. Me commandum, tu obeyum." Sam has to grit his teeth against the wrongness of the incantation. "Comen tu circumcircus."
Dog Latin. Why the hell had the angel picked dog Latin, which isn't even Latin at all, really. Maybe, like Dean said, it's another way for the archangel to thumb his nose at his uptight brethren.
"Lilith, filomena Deus. Nomen tu potentum tu. Lungimur nos fates," Dean continues, stumbling a little over the nonsense words. The ritual itself makes sense in English. In English, and just about any other real language, the words would have dignity and power and grace—for the most part.
"Lilith, filomena inferna," Dean pauses. Maybe he feels as stupid saying them as Sam feels hearing them. "Emergo, emergo, quo est tu."
It translates roughly as 'come out, come out, wherever you are', and is one of the reasons Sam doesn't believe the spell will work. Trickster or not, that phrase has no place in a serious summoning.
Dean throws the match in the bowl containing the dittany of Crete and lilac mix. It catches right away and fizzles and smokes and smells kind of pleasant, but nothing happens and Sam feels a satisfaction that he knows is petty and unjustified, but he was right; he'd been right all along. This whole banishment thing was a stupid idea.
In the background, Dean is going through the incantation for the second time.
"Emergo, emergo, quo est tu," Dean says and he lights the second bowl filled with sandalwood and yew. It also catches right away, and fizzles and smokes, and smells nice. Sam holds his breath. Then the air chills and the wind picks up.
But that doesn't necessarily mean anything; after all, it is November in South Dakota. The wind blows chilly all the time…
The third time Dean completes the incantation and lights the bowl there's no mistaking the effect. Clouds form, winds blow, and the air temperature drops to near freezing; there's even a distant roll of thunder. He shuts his eyes because, yeah, it's a little over the top, but it's still a little scary—it actually worked. His heart thumps, his limbs tingle and he can't seem to catch his breath. They're actually doing this, he tells himself. They're banishing Lilith.
When he opens his eyes again, a slim blond woman is standing in the devil's trap they'd drawn inside the pentagram. It's the same one that had threatened him in Kripke's Hollow. Lilith must have gone back and reclaimed the body.
"You've got to be kidding me," she says and her voice drips with the same contempt that Sam remembers from before. The anger surges, filling him, making his skin feel too small, his bones too tight. He wants to kill her. No, not just kill her: crush her, reduce her body to rubble and her demon soul to ash. He vibrates with the desire—the need—to punish her. Forget the stupid ritual. Forget the Apocalypse. Those aren't real. Real was Dean looking at him so scared but trying to be brave, trying to be his big brother. Real was watching Dean get torn, shredded, by Hell Hounds. That she'd let in…
He'd been helpless then; he isn't helpless now.
He lifts his foot, in preparation for his attack. This time, he thinks, she can't escape.
Then the air behind him compresses and he smells ozone and citrus, and hears the beating of large wings. "What is going on?" asks a voice that, in its way, is just as contemptuous of the humans as Lilith's. The angels have arrived.
"It is as I've told you," Castiel responds. "Dean and his brother have discovered a ritual that will banish Lilith."
"Banish her?" Uriel repeats.
Lilith laughs. "Banish me? Oh puh-leeze. Do you honestly think this'll work? On me?"
"It is ridiculous," Uriel echoes with a sneer. "Talking apes playing with things they don't understand. What do they think they'll accomplish with this farce?"
"Dean will stop the Apocalypse," Castiel argues calmly. "Just as he was destined to do."
"Dean Winchester." There's more than contempt in the angel's voice, more than disdain in his dark eyes. There's anger and hatred enough to condemn the whole human race.
Dean ignores him, ignores them both, as he lays out the final items for the ritual. "Lilith, child of Lucifer, do you believe in your cause?" he asks formally.
"Are you serious?" she sneered.
"Lilith, child of Lucifer, you will answer," he orders. "Do you believe?"
Sam can see it when the compulsion grabs her; she stiffens, choking. Behind him Castiel is asking Uriel the same question. "You know I believe in doing what's right, Castiel," the angel answers. He's not sneering, not where they can see, but it's in his voice.
"I do know that, Uriel," Castiel's voice is, as always, solemn and rather sad.
Uriel shrugs, dismissing his blue-eyed companion. He turns back to face the circle where Dean is forcing the answer he needs from the demon who killed him less than a year ago. The angel is frowning angrily and Sam realizes he's going to break the circle and stop the ritual—probably killing Dean in the process—and he's torn between killing Lilith or protecting his brother.
He needn't have worried. The large angel shifts his balance but that's all he manages before Castiel flickers, moving too fast for Sam to track. One instant he was there, the next he's grabbed Uriel's arm and is twisting his hand up and out. "I'm sorry, my brother," Castiel says.
"No!" Uriel shouts outraged, "You are going to undo everything." He tries to duck but Castiel moves with him, tightening his hold.
"I am also doing what I believe." He sidesteps, turning, and somehow the much larger 'specialist' is on the ground. Castiel is kneeling on Uriel's back, pinning him.
"Castiel, think about this. Do you know who you are disobeying with your actions?"
"I am obeying our Father," is Castiel's determined response. He forces Uriel's open hand over the line of holy oil and ground demon bones. A long length of silver flashes—Castiel's blade—and Uriel cries out in pain and anger and a frustrated knowledge that he's failed. Nearly half the sword's length is buried in the earth, stabbed through the larger angel's hand. A blue-white glow seeps out of the wound and the blade shimmers delicately.
Then the circle ignites.
Blue-white, like the grace of the angel that is powering it, the flames have no heat but Sam can feel it under his skin, like a just-fading charley-horse. It makes his teeth hurt.
"You bastard," Lilith shouts.
Dean ignores her and starts the next part of the ritual.
"Lilith, prima conjuga. Ego commandare." Sam almost hears the thrum that makes his lungs shiver.
"What is that you're saying?" she taunts even as she fights against the ritual's hold. "I mean, we always knew you were the stupid one, but you'd think, after all this time, you could manage basic Latin."
Sam wants to punch her for that: Dean is not stupid. He proves it by ignoring her taunts.
"Domum ingressus, desidera tu," he says calmly and clearly. He'd spent a lot of time learning the stupid not-Latin and it's paying off now. It's another thing that's different about his brother: he doesn't always jump in blind. Although, Sam's not sure if the change is because of Hell, or being stabbed or visiting ghosts. Whatever. It's a good change to see in a hunter. If they're going to continue hunting.
Which Dean says he isn't. Damn it!
Sam can see that Lilith's fighting the incantation. She's twisting, her fingers flexing into claws, and her eyes are solid white. Her hair is floating around her in an almost-living ball, which is actually freakier than the eyes. There are sweat stains under her arms and along her spine so he knows it's taking a lot out of her. Her suffering makes him happy and he doesn't care how far from the angels that takes him. Then he looks at Dean and sees his brother's sweat-slick skin and the lines of strain on his face and it takes some of the shine off the feeling of triumph. Then he takes another, closer look, and he's not sure it is sweat making Dean's skin wet.
Sam squints, peering intently at his brother's side. Is it…
It is. Fucker.
The wound's opened up again. If Dean starts to bleed heavily, it'll wipe out some of the protective symbols and Dean will be dragged down to Hell with Lilith, if he lasts long enough to actually send her there. Sam knows his brother is a stubborn, determined son of a bitch, but he's not sure that will be enough.
"Domum, ubi cogitare. Domum, ubi canere."
He's so intent on Dean that Sam doesn't notice Castiel moving to the south-east section of the circle. The angel lines himself up to the point of the pentacle, slices his hand and places it carefully on the already glowing circle. "Power freely given," he chants.
The results are spectacular. The blue-white light flares then runs into the central pentacle where it changes to a red-white glow that matches the rowan berries they'd mashed to make the ink. It lowers to a modest knee-high, but the strength of it is making Sam's bones vibrate and he has to swallow to equalize the pressure on his ears, which is so bad it feels as if he's climbed Everest in an instant.
It's not helped by the noise that Uriel, on the ground beside him, starts making. It's a sound so high-pitched and piercing that it could shatter cement, let alone glass. This is the sound Dean described hearing at the isolated gas station after he pulled himself out of his coffin, the one that destroyed the hotel room in Pontiac. This is the angel's true voice.
He wants to fall down and curl into a protective ball around his head. Instead, Sam plants his feet. There's no fucking way they're losing because he can't handle a little pain.
"Domum, ubi amare, silensi por tu."
He can still hear Dean—which is freaking amazing—but he can't see his brother anymore. There's a shape he knows is his brother, a broad-shouldered form that's limned in the glow from the circles, but he can't see Dean. He has no way of knowing if he's still bleeding, if he's in pain, or if he's looking at a frozen Popsicle in the shape of his brother.
The noise and the pressure run through his bones and his blood. He's panting, like he's just run twenty miles—while being chased by Black Dogs. He feels warm wetness on his upper lip and knows he's bleeding.
Grow a pair, he growls at himself. Just one line left.
"Lilith, prima daemon," his brother says firmly. "Accelerato infernato."
They're not real words, not even close to being real Latin, but they work. The light from the circle bends, dipping toward the devil's trap where Lilith is silently screaming. The ground itself is twisting, dipping down like a gravity well in space and time—a black hole forming right under her feet. Uriel's whine increases in pitch until Sam feels blood running from his ears, too.
The hole pulls the light down into it, so that he can see Dean. He can see how his brother's braced against the pull of the black hole thingy even though Sam can't feel anything. There's a breeze out here, but nothing like what's making Dean's jeans ripple and flap. He's actually swaying because the wind inside the circle's so strong. He's got an arm clamped over the wound in his side and Sam swears, if they make it out of this alive, he's dragging Dean into the nearest hospital for proper care.
Suddenly, Lilith's scream is audible and Sam's gaze whips towards her—his enemy, his nemesis—afraid she's figured out a way to escape. She hasn't. Her body is being stretched, legs pulled down into the hole and it looks like a kid playing with chewing gum. From the waist down Lilith is pencil thin; from waist to neck there's distortion—the first signs of what's to come—but from the neck up, her whole head, her face, there's no change, no blurring—nothing to hide that fact that this is hurting the demon. She's pulled and stretched and she screams and screams.
Good.
He should check on Ellen and Bobby, see how they're doing but he can't take his eyes off Lilith. The demon inside her is pulsating with light and it's like watching the special effects in a science fiction movie. She's getting thinner and longer. Her arms are in the hole up to her elbows and her chin is beginning to elongate. It must be affecting her vocal cords because her scream dies out even though her mouth is still open.
Then she's gone.
It's a blink-and-you've-missed-it moment, and Sam almost lurches forward thinking that she did, in fact, manage to escape at the last moment, but no. It's just that she's been sucked down into whatever Hell the ritual opened for her. From his position slightly above the circles, Sam can see the hole closing, becoming shallower until—with an almost audible snap—the topsoil is flung back into place. The force of it pushes the light back out and it whips around inside the circle. Sam actually sees it impact the sides of the outer circle, can imagine the sound it would've made if light were capable of creating sound. The circle stops the force from escaping so he and Bobby, Ellen and Jo are safe from the kickback.
Dean isn't.
Dean is trapped inside the circles with all that returned power and energy. Sam watches helplessly as his brother is finally plucked off his feet. He's flung up and up, two full body lengths—three—into the air before he hits the outer edge. There's no sound of impact unless he counts Dean's grunt and the crunch of bone that Sam thinks might be his brother's collarbone. That's not the worst of it, though, because the wind dies while Dean's still in the air, and with nothing keeping him aloft, he falls straight down.
Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks helplessly as he watches his brother fall the equivalent of two stories.
"Cas! Cas!" he calls, not really certain why he's calling on the angel, but Castiel looks up, sees Dean falling, and flings out a hand as if he can stop it.
He can't. Castiel's whiter than the light that's still flowing through the outer circle and throwing his hand up like that just makes him overbalance. He falls forward and his hands go out to catch himself, off the line of holy oil and demon bones. The light falls to half-brightness as Dean lands with a sickening crunch.
"Shit!" Sam yells. He steps forward without thinking and hits what remains of the shield.
"Damn it," he practically shouts, then he steps sideways until he can kick Uriel's hand off the line. There's a final flash before the light runs out of the circle. The big angel doesn't move from where Sam kicked him. He might be dead but Sam doesn't care. He hasn't really pulled his gaze from where his brother's lying motionless on the hard ground. He can't see any blood coming out of Dean's mouth, but the knife wound has definitely opened again, and that's providing enough blood for two or three cheap horror movies.
'Goddamn stupid freaking supernatural knife!' he curses soundlessly, as if it's the knife's fault that Dean has a wound that won't heal properly. He runs across the circles, heedless of the carefully drawn lines. They've served their purpose and avoiding them would slow him down. He's already ripping his shirt off as he slides in beside his brother.
Fuck, he's so pale.
"Dean," he calls as he presses the shirt to the cut. It's bleeding thick and lazy and Sam tries to see it as a good sign, and he would, except it matches the beating of Dean's heart.
"Dean. Don't do this to me, man," he says and it's a prayer. "We won. Dean, we won. Lilith's gone. The Apocalypse is over. You can't leave me now."
Not again, not again, not again. It echoes in his brain, drowning out whatever Bobby or Ellen might be saying.
This is what he's been afraid of. All those times that Dean had talked about getting out, quitting hunting, it had been this: being left behind, alone. Like those months he'd spent in the Trickster's world or when Dean had actually been in Hell and it had been just him. He'd had no anchor, nothing to remind him that he wasn't only anger and power.
"God, Dean," he whispers as he bends over his brother's body. He's checking for injuries, barely even aware that he's doing it. Collarbone's definitely gone. Can't tell if there's a spinal injury. Breathing is shallow but not wet.
He can't do this without his brother, not and still be Sam, the very human hunter and little brother to Dean's pain-in-the-ass older brother. And he knows suddenly that Dean provides the foundation for his humanity, and he knows what he's afraid of. He's afraid, if Dean leaves him for Lisa and the white picket fence, that maybe he won't be there for Sam anymore and then Sam will somehow become the soulless robo-killer of Dean's future without having to go to Hell first.
But that's stupid. Dean wouldn't abandon him, not anymore. Maybe he wouldn't be all Sam's but Sam could learn to live with that. He could learn to share.
"Don't leave me again," he whispers into his brother's ear, but there's no one to hear him.