Chapter Three
When Kansas was reclaimed for the United States of America, all rebel forces were captured and forced into the U.S. Forces to fight. Sam and Dean Winchester were among the last to be taken and sent to a base off of the dwindling coastline of Florida. Most Americans were under the impression that there wasn't much fighting to be done on foreign soil, so joining the military was a safe thing to do. The U.S. Forces promised starving families that they would be fed if they sent their young and fit to join them for a minimum of two years. As such, about half the population was currently enrolled. The United States of America was glad that the masses solidly believed they were in a time of peace.
Once Sam had been trained in the art of modern medicine and Dean had spent three years in what amounted to a glorified gym, they were deemed fit for duty and shipped off to Russia.
By a stroke of incredible luck, they were stationed in the same place. Perhaps not so incredible, since the U.S. Forces needed as many good men in the location as they could spare. They were at a camp in the northwestern-most region of Russia, and indeed the Asian continent. The middle of nowhere could not have been more accurate. The Winchesters were here for several months building what amounted to a gigantic fort. Dean hated it, mainly because it didn't seem like it would ever stop snowing.
Within the first month, the troops were already spreading rumors of invasion. As it went, word had leaked that this outpost was a gateway into the region of Russia that housed the majority of the world's hybrid population. The United States of America had struck a deal with Russia to get rid of all of them, effectively doing their dirty work. Only a handful of people believed these, however, since America had done nothing but coddle the hybrids since their infancy.
Looking back on that night, Dean couldn't tell you how it went pear shaped so quickly.
Dean and Sam were having a beer in the barracks, enjoying the quiet evening. The past week had kicked their ass hard. They had done more work in the past five days than the past three months combined. Dean was lounging on his bed, beer bottle in hand, one arm behind his head. His eyes were closed and he was humming indistinctly. Sam was sitting on the bed adjacent, just staring into nothing. He was thankful the rest of the troops were in the mess hall drinking; he preferred a quieter atmosphere. Dean, however, just didn't like anyone else. He opened his eyes slowly and sighed, sitting up and swinging his feet off the bed.
"So what do you think, Sammy?" he asked gruffly. Pretty much anything that came out of Dean's mouth was gruff. While he didn't do it on purpose, it put many people on edge with him. Sam had long since worked passed it to see the tones of genuine concern in his brother's voice.
"About what?" Sam asked, entirely aware of what Dean meant. In stark contrast, Sam's voice was lighter, gentler than his brother's. As a kid, he had been scrawny and pale. At the age of sixteen, he shot up faster than lightning. He was now a foot taller than his older brother and just a little less stocky. To his Captain's dismay, Sam had let his brown hair grow past his ears, resulting in a style that caught the attention of most people in the outpost. If he hadn't been the best healer in the place, his head would have been shaved a long time ago.
"Do you think the rumors are true?" Dean asked, looking around for eavesdroppers.
"If they are, you know the plan," Sam replied. "I'm getting the hell out of here." Dean nodded, admiring his brother's courage. Even thinking about deserting a post of the U.S. Forces was punishable by many things, the worst and most common being death. To actually do it was another story. Sam and Dean had thought long and hard about what they would do if their outpost really was just a rallying point for the coming invasion. The brothers had known something was going on with the American government from the beginning; it had been the driving force behind their move to Kansas.
The door to the barracks creaked open, making both men jump. Luckily, it was Jo Harvelle that walked through, carefully shutting the door behind her and creeping up to them. When she sat down next to Sam, they could see her face was pale and her hands were shaking.
"What's wrong, Jo?" Dean asked, setting his beer down on the end table. She was shaking her head, her eyes welling up dangerously. She looked back and forth between the two before bursting into tears. Sam wrapped one of his branch-like arms around her, patting her shoulder. He chanced a strange look at Dean, who just shrugged.
When she had caught her breath and her sobs turned into light tears, Dean handed her a beer, which she accepted gratefully.
"So what happened?" Sam asked. "Is everything okay?" Jo twisted the cap off her drink and downed it easily.
"No," she finally said, wiping her eyes, "you two have to get out of here, you have to leave!" Her voice was increasing with every word and Dean had to hold up a hand to calm her down.
"Just tell us what happened," he said calmly. Sam looked more worried. She drew a deep breath and collected herself before continuing.
"Me and Vakarian were sneaking out of the mess hall to those barracks that no one ever uses," she began. Dean opened his mouth to say something about his thoughts on the particular Private she chose, but was silenced by a look from Sam. "When we looked inside, we saw... Captain Walker and a few of his men were in there already." Immediately, the brothers were on edge.
"What was he doing?" Dean asked.
"He had a hybrid with him," she whispered as if she didn't even believe herself, "he was really small, tied up in the middle of the room. Walker was yelling at him, trying to get the hybrid to tell him where his village was. The hybrid was crying, they couldn't get a word out of him. Walker hit him a few times, but we left right after he pulled out his knife." Dean's face became void of all expression.
"This hybrid," he began, dragging his boots toward him, "how small was he?"
"If I didn't know any better," Jo said, biting her lip, "I'd say he was a child." Dean nodded, his lips set in a tight line. Once his boots were laced, he stood up and headed towards the door.
"Dean, where are you going?" Sam called after him, jumping up quickly and grabbing his boots as well.
"I'm going to find that son of a bitch," Dean started calmly, turning to his brother and Jo, "and I'm going to kill him. Simple as that."
"Don't be an idiot, Dean," Jo snapped, turning to face him, "you know there's nothing you can do to stop Walker."
"So what do I do then?" Dean cried. "You want me to just sit here while he tortures kids?"
"Jo, he's kind of right," Sam added gently, "we have to do something."
"Well you two are outmatched and outnumbered against these guys," Jo sighed, standing up, "so your best option would be to go to whatever village that kid was from and warn them."
Dean and Sam looked at each other for a brief moment before grabbing their packs and filling them with spare clothes and supplies.
"Any idea where this village is?" Dean asked, grabbing several bottles of water.
"Actually," Jo said, pulling something out of her pocket, "on my way here, I made a stop by Walker's office." She unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to Dean, who took it curiously. His eyes widened when he saw that it was a map of the hundred mile radius that surrounded their camp. On it were several areas circled, all to the east of them.
"What are these?" Dean asked, pointing to the circle closest to them, which was only ten miles away.
"Well, I can only guess that Walker already knew the locations of the hybrid villages," Jo said quietly. Dean nodded darkly before shoving the piece of paper into his pocket and threw on his coat.
"Ready to go, Sammy?" he asked his giant of a brother.
"Let's go," he responded.
Checking his clip one last time, Dean stuck his pistol in the back of his pants and opened the door.
"Are you coming with us, Jo?" Dean asked.
"I'm going to stay here," she replied. Before he could protest, she added, "I'll find some others who believe us. I know my mom will and Ash has already talked to me about this. Don't worry. We'll catch up with you." Without another word, she hugged Sam, patted Dean on the shoulder, and sped off back towards her barrack.
The men snuck silently through the camp, thanking their lucky stars that everyone was piss drunk. Once they had passed the main gate, they sped up a little, following an old dirt path that quickly disappeared into the woods in front of them.
Suddenly, Dean stopped, throwing out his arm to catch Sam in the chest.
"Hear that?" he grumbled. Sam cocked his head and listened. Dean raised his gun, training it on a spot in the trees to their right while Sam slowly raised his machete, stepping around Dean to cover him.
A loud crack rang through the cold air and Sam crumpled before hitting the ground. Dean whipped his gun around and shot, hearing a muffled groan in the trees before the guard slumped down dead.
"Sammy!" Dean cried as quietly as he could. He dropped to his knees beside his brother, flipping him over.
"I'm fine," Sam managed to groan. Dean searched his body until he found the wound. He had been shot in the back of the knee. Typical, thought Dean. The U.S. Forces rarely shot to kill when encountered with soldiers going AWOL. They preferred to capture and then put on trial before executing them publicly. This was mainly to humiliate whatever remaining family the soldier had.
A siren began to wail in the direction of the camp and Dean looked up. Quickly, he ripped off his jacket and tied it around Sam's thigh before scooping the giant up and taking off into the woods as fast as his feet would allow.
Dean tried to pace himself while playing a twisted game of hopscotch with the frozen ground and roots below him. Soon enough, he could hear men shouting in the distance behind him. Assuming the men after him were in much better shape than he was and weren't burdened with a behemoth of a man, Dean found a large, fell tree that he slipped Sam and himself into. He crawled further into the hollowed out trunk, dragging Sam along with him. Once they were sufficiently hidden, he tried to catch his breath, placing a hand over Sam's mouth to indicate that now was a good time to be quiet.
Presently, the search party walked by. Dean tensed up involuntarily and squeezed his brother's hand. At this point, Sam was beginning to slip in and out of consciousness. The men in the party were talking quietly to one another. Dean could hear their footsteps around him.
"You fucks better be damn sure you find them or I'll skin you myself."
Dean recognized the voice to belong to Captain Gordon Walker. He swallowed thickly, feeling his heart rate quicken. If Captain Walker found them, Dean wasn't sure they would make it to the trial.
"Hey Cap, I don't think they went this way, look," came a voice. Thank fuck, Dean thought, recognizing the drawl as Ash. Jo must have pushed for him to be on the search party.
"God damn it," he heard Walker mutter, "you're right. Let's get back to camp. We'll find them soon enough on our way to Orlovsky. We can kill them then."
Dean thought he heard something that sounded like an axe being slammed into a tree before the men affirmed and, finally, the footsteps began to fade away. He let his breath out slowly and relaxed.
"Come on, Sam," he whispered, pulling his brother from the tree and into his arms once more.
He began trudging east again, towards what he now knew to be Orlovsky. He had never seen a hybrid before, but knew them to be just as varied as humans, except they all had blue eyes and a set of wings that normally matched their hair color. He tried not to picture the small hybrid child that Walker had been torturing but failed. His mind conjured up a chubby kid with freckles and small reddish wings. He shook his head and began talking to Sam, who had long since passed out.
After about an hour, Dean's arms were almost frozen. The heat his body was radiating from walking was only a small comfort, but it was most likely keeping him from freezing to death. It had begun to snow softly, covering everything in the woods with a fine white powder. Little flurries had attached themselves to his eyelashes and hair. His boots kept slipping in puddles beneath him, soaking through to his socks. He forgot when he could last feel his toes. Slowly, a light began filtering through the trees before him, making him grin like a fool.
"Look, Sammy," he wheezed, "we made it!"
Dean tramped out of the woods, stumbling through the underbrush outside it and almost losing balance on the suddenly even ground. He found himself on the edge of a stone street that was rapidly becoming covered in snow. On the other side of the street were two hybrids, the first ones that Dean had ever seen.
The hybrid on the left was sitting down, a cigarette hanging limply from his lips. His dark eyes were fixed on Dean with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. His light chocolate colored wings hung loosely from his back, the tips drifting along the ground. The hybrid on the right, however, was the one that caused him to question his faith in the human race.
Dean Winchester was not a poetic man. If asked to describe the night sky, he would simply respond with 'dark' or 'why the hell should I do that?'. Immediately, however, he stopped himself from using the word hybrid for this creature, who was instead obviously an angel of the Lord Himself, sent to Dean personally for the sole sake of reaffirming His existence. There was a fire in the man's eyes that burned a bright cerulean, inexplicably visible in the low light coming from the street lamp behind them. His expertly crafted face was set in a scowl, one that was not meant to be unfriendly, but one that was simply there because that's where it ought to be.
Dean Winchester also knew what words were. He wasn't a master of the English language, but he knew enough to get him through the day, or enough to convince a woman to come with him for the evening. Now, he suddenly couldn't find any. The sight of the man's wings simply stole the ground from beneath him. Dean could see them trembling slightly, either from cold or nerves. The feathers trembled slightly, fading from a deep black to just-after-sunset-in-Florida-and-now-it's-time-to-drink-on-the-beach mahogany. The shift made Dean's eyes blur slightly.
Dean fell to his knees before him, Sam unceremoniously rolling out of his arms. The rest of the man was fading quickly. Dean could just make out the outline of a tan trench coat swirling around his legs like a banner. He smiled up at his angel, whose head was now encircled with a golden halo of light from Heaven itself. It was, more logically, from the street lamp behind him, but Dean wanted no truck with logic at the moment. He felt relief coming in waves as the angel suddenly relaxed his predatory pose and looked down at Dean with interest.
"Thank God I made it," he said softly before promptly passing out.
Castiel was still present by Dean's side when Gabriel dropped in early the next morning. He exhaled a breath that he'd been holding in for hours and looked at his friend, a tired smile steadily in place. Castiel was fixing him with a worried look, his bloodshot eyes barely staying open.
"It looks like the kid is gonna be fine," he said quietly. Castiel nodded and wiped his face with both hands.
"But," Gabriel continued and Castiel stopped, his hands partially covering his face, "he was shot right through the kneecap. The whole thing was shattered."
Castiel stared into nothing, letting his hands fall to his lap.
"He won't be able to walk again," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"He might," Gabriel tried to sound reassuring. "I mean, we're not Moscow Medical, but we've certainly had to deal with worse."
When Sam had been carried in by Gabriel the night previous, the young man's knee had been shot clean through. If not for the hasty tourniquet and the cold, he may have lost it. As it stood, the Hospital of Orlovsky had been able to replace the now useless knee cap with a steel one. The small hospital didn't have the technology of Moscow Medical, but at least they still had fantastic painkillers.
Castiel had seen to Dean. Once he had passed out, Gabriel had rushed to collect Sam and cart him off to the hospital. Castiel leaned down on one knee next to Dean and looked at him for a short moment before lifting him gingerly, using his wings to balance the sudden addition of weight. On the trip back to his house, Castiel noted several things. The man was dressed in U.S. Forces gear but was clearly not in any kind of official party. Add the fact that his companion had been shot from behind, Castiel was forced to conclude that the two men had deserted their post and had wandered inadvertently to Orlovsky.
Satisfied with his deduction, Castiel gently deposited Dean into his own bed, fitting him with sheets. The hybrid brought a vial of medicine from his bathroom and slid his hand underneath the man's neck, gingerly forcing it upright. He slowly tipped the contents down Dean's throat and made sure he had swallowed before laying his head back on the pillow. Castiel then sat in a chair beside the bed and did not move until morning.
Gabriel stood and put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"This one will be perfectly fine," he said. "That medicine you gave him will knock out any sickness he may have picked up last night." Castiel nodded, still staring at Dean, and Gabriel walked out.
Dean woke up several hours later. At the first sign of movement, Castiel was on his feet next to him, his hand making its way to Dean's forehead feeling for any sign of fever.
"Where the hell..." Dean struggled to make his voice loud enough. He coughed several times and tried to sit up, but the hybrid pushed him back into the bed.
"How are you feeling?" he asked monotonously. Dean blinked a few times and took in his surroundings. Right in front of him was the ridiculously magnificent creature he was sure he had hallucinated. The backdrop of the room was fuzzy and made him feel sick, so he instead focused on the man. His eyes were narrowed and he was looking at Dean, his brow furrowed with what looked like worry. His wings weren't splayed behind him like they were the night before, either, but they stretched out around the two of them in what looked like a gesture of protection.
"Where's Sammy?" he said, choosing to ignore his own health for the time being. The angel was obviously flustered at the change of subject but kept quiet.
"He's alive," Castiel answered. Dean looked at him.
"'Alive'?" he repeated. "What happened to him?"
Castiel set his lips in a fine line, letting his hand come to rub the side of his face which was already becoming thick with stubble. He had no idea how to engage someone in a decent conversation, let alone tell them that their friend would most likely be unable to walk again.
"Our village hospital repaired what they could," he said, "but it is unlikely he will walk normally without extensive physical therapy."
Dean exhaled heavily, letting his shoulders slump.
"Thank you," he said, "for my brother." Castiel's eyes widened at this. He had been certain that the man would begin to lash out, as most humans did. This human, however, was extending his hand towards Castiel.
"I'm Dean Winchester," he said, flashing the angel with a nearly perfect set of teeth. The angel looked at the proffered hand with interest, unable to discern what Dean was trying to accomplish.
"My name is Castiel Novak," he said, taking Dean's hand carefully, feeling calluses slide against his own rough hands. "I'm the one who carried you here from Perdition." Dean blanched.
"I'm sorry, where?" he asked.
"You collapsed outside a tavern that is named Perdition," Castiel explained. Dean nodded in understanding, unable to fathom why someone would name a bar after something so terrible.
"Well I guess I have to thank you for that, too," he said, slowly sitting up. This time, Castiel didn't try to stop him. There was a note of something undetectable in Dean's voice that the angel couldn't place. This was partially because Castiel had never experienced an actual conversation with a human in his entire life. All of his encounters had been with angry farmers or shopkeepers who were threatening to kill him. Because of this, Castiel had inadvertently pegged all humans as cold hearted and quick to anger, but here was one that was thanking him for basically nothing. Suddenly, a fact from the night before resurfaced in Castiel's mind.
"Your uniform," he said suddenly, making Dean jump. His voice hadn't rose, or even changed for that matter, but it now took on a slight edge. He was sure Dean wouldn't attack him, but being faced with an unknown allegiance made him uncomfortable. His wings retracted and his hands curled into fists. Dean, noticing this, held up his hands slightly.
"Hey, it's cool," he said quickly, "you can trust me, I promise." Castiel seemed to realize his unintentional wariness and relaxed.
"I apologize for my reaction," he mumbled, reddening a little, "I acted out of ignorance." Dean grinned again.
"I hear you," he said amiably. "Hell, I wouldn't trust me either." He sat up straighter, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs. "But hey, listen," he began, "me and my brother Sam came here to warn you guys. We need to get everyone out of this city by tomorrow."
"You expect a thousand of us to be gone within the day?" Castiel asked, raising his eyebrows at the statement.
"Listen, I know it sounds impossible," Dean said, "but we're gonna help you guys, I promise."
"Help us with what?" Castiel asked again. "What are we running from?"
Dean sighed and decided to start over.
"I'm from a camp about ten miles west of here," he started, "last night we found out that our camp's captain has been torturing hybrids to get the location of this village. We think he's planning on wiping out every hybrid village on his way to Novgorod. Which we think he's going to obliterate."
Castiel frowned at this. Novgorod was the biggest settlement of hybrids on the Asian continent. If it were wiped off the map, it would kill hundreds of thousands of hybrids.
"Why do you want to help us?" Castiel asked. Dean choked out a laugh because he couldn't cry in front of the man.
"Why?" Dean repeated before sighing heavily. "I've been fighting with my country's government since the day I was born because they've turned into the sorriest sons of bitches on planet Earth." He looked at the hybrid with pity. "They want to kill you guys because you're different."
"We are not so different from humans," Castiel countered.
"Yeah but you're not as pants-shittingly terrifying as the angels," Dean said, "and they don't like them either." Castiel nodded, unable to dispute this fact. He stood up.
"If what you say is true, then I must inform our Chief," Castiel announced. Dean threw the covers away and swung his legs off the bed, his head spinning. Castiel caught him by the shoulders to steady him. Dean looked up, their faces inches apart. Castiel hastily moved away and grabbed something from beside the dresser.
"You're still too weak to walk without aid," he said, bringing a wooden walking stick to Dean. He took it graciously, nodding his thanks. It was old and worn, carved with intricate markings from top to the bottom, which ended in a strange claw shape.
"What kind of wood is this?" Dean asked, carefully standing up. Castiel looked back from the doorway and smiled sadly.
"It's from a Chosenia tree," he replied. He held the door open for Dean, who hobbled through. Castiel shut the door and together they headed down the street.