Sam knew the instant Amitiel retreated and allowed Mal to retake control. The girl gasped and started to shake, screwing her eyes tightly shut and rocking back and forth, struggling not to hyperventilate.
"Mal?" he asked gently. "Mal, you okay?"
"Gimme a minute," she muttered tightly. She kept rocking for a moment, and then finally opened her eyes. They were light gray, total opposite of Amitiel's storm-dark gaze. "We're really up a creek, aren't we?" she asked bleakly.
"No one's gonna get sacrificed, hear me?" Dean growled. "It's eight hours to Detroit. We can make it in six. Is Ami up for tracking the demons down when we get there?"
The girl closed her eyes briefly, and then nodded. "She says she thinks she can, if she rests from now until then. Ow!" She hissed in pain and looked down at her hands. "I'm just not getting a break, am I?" she asked plaintively.
"I think the first aid kit is still under the seat," Sam told her. She shook her head at him and glared at her blistered palms for a long moment. The scorched, angry flesh began to fade and smooth until there was only a slight redness and swelling. Then she collapsed against the seat again, panting. A thin trickle of blood ran from her nose and she wiped it off onto her jacket sleeve.
"God, this sucks," she muttered, and then laughed humorlessly. She clawed one hand through her pale hair. "You know, two weeks ago the only thing I worried about was midterms and whether or not my boyfriend was gonna break up with me." She laughed again, this time sounding a little manic. "Now I've got angels and demons and whatever the hell you two are and, oh yeah, the Apocalypse!" Her voice had gradually risen in pitch during her speech until it was little more than a dry squeak at the last word.
Dean stared straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. Sam looked everywhere except Mallory, big hands clenching and opening in his lap. Mal slumped against the seat, hitting her head gently against the headrest a couple of times. Then she sighed.
"How do we stop it?" she asked suddenly.
Sam blinked. "What?" he asked ingeniously. He twisted to stare at Mal, who only gazed evenly back at him, her face tight but her eyes steady.
"How do we stop the Apocalypse?" she asked again.
"Oho, there's no 'we' about it," Dean jumped in. "You aren't getting involved."
Mal laughed again, a dry, grim chuckle. "I'm already involved, Dean," she said wearily. "I've got a fallen angel in my head and she's not going anywhere anytime soon. And when she is conscious, the only thing going through her mind is 'help Castiel, help Castiel.'"
"Seriously?" Dean asked, briefly distracted. Mal shrugged.
"He's her brother," she said simply. "But the point is, I'm in this. And I figure the sooner we do something about it, the sooner I can get back to my life. So. What happens next?"
Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out bone-white. "Right now we rescue Cas. Then we figure out the Apocalypse. One thing at a time, sweetheart."
"In the meantime," Sam cut in. "What can you tell us about Belial? What are we gonna be up against?"
She rubbed the side of her nose. "He's not technically a demon," she said with an odd expression. "He's one of the angels who fell with Lucifer during the First War. Twisted and burned into something demonic, but not one of Lucifer's creations. He's considered the lord of strife and pride and a master of manipulation." Mal seemed to struggle for a moment. "His followers are fanatically loyal. They'd die rather than betray their master. I don't think they'll cut and run in the face of a show of strength."
"Great," Dean muttered.
Mal struggled for a moment longer before abruptly going limp. "That's everything Ami could give me. She's exhausted. If she's going to useful at all when we get to Detroit, she needs to rest."
"Okay, just take it easy," Sam said quickly. "Get some sleep or something. We'll wake you up when we get there."
The girl nodded and stretched out over the backseat, her eyes drifting closed almost immediately.
XxxXxxX
The universe was burning.
Blood-red light glinted off swords and armor as winged shapes swooped and tumbled through the smoke. Here and there, an explosion of bright, pure light cut through the ruddy flames. Struggling figures collided in mid-air, cutting, ripping, and tearing.
She folded her wings and threw herself into a spiraling dive, gathering momentum into force as she barreled into her enemy, throwing him off her brother. For a moment they tumbled through space, locked together, neither able to reach their weapons. Then her foe managed to free his sword. There was no room to maneuver, entangled as they were, so she made no effort to dodge the blow. Pain seared through her ribs as the blade drove home. She manifested her own sword and plunged it into her opponent's bicep, forcing him to release his weapon. She pulled away, blade still in her side.
With a low cry of pain, she pulled it out and tossed it away. It spun end over end, flinging drops of blood from its point as it fell. She pumped her wings, driving forward once more. Her enemy kept the strike from landing in his heart, but instead she smote his wing, slicing it nearly from his shoulder. The enemy screamed, long and loud and terrible as he fell, swallowed by the darkness below.
She hung her head and wept for another fallen sibling.
Mallory tore herself free with a gasp. Or, she tried to gasp. Her breath continued to come in even drafts, in and out through her nose. Her limbs stayed where they were when she she tried to move, and her eyelids remained stubbornly closed. Mallory reacted the way any normal human would. She freaked.
"Mallory. Mallory! Please, calm down." It was slightly creepy how Amitiel's voice sounded just like her own, even on the inside. Okay, she'll admit it; it was a lot creepy.
Ami? Mallory panted. What...what was that?
"I am sorry. I never intended for you to see that memory."
Mallory recoiled. That was real? she demanded in horror. She could feel Ami stir slightly, not physically, but that indescribable sensation of having one of the most powerful beings in existence trapped in your skull.
"Yes," Amitiel said at length. "That was real. It...occurred during the First War."
When Lucifer rebelled, Mallory clarified.
"Yes," the angel said again.
Mallory had another quiet freak-out.
"Mallory, please. I need you to remain calm. I cannot focus when you are in this state."
The girl struggled to calm down. It felt incredibly weird to be as keyed-up as she was and not have her heart race. It beat away steadily in her chest, pulsing gently in her ears. Amitiel continued to breathe for the both of them, in and out. It helped.
You...she began. They were your brothers and sisters...and you had to... If she had been in control, she would have started crying.
Amitiel didn't reply for a very long time. "I do not wish to talk about it," she said at long last. Mallory wanted to shiver at the coldness of her tone. Then, much more gently, the angel said, "Go back to sleep, Mallory. I will guard your dreams more closely this time."
Mallory didn't seem to have a choice. A few seconds later, and she was unconscious again.
XxxXxxX
There was rejoicing in Heaven. Thousands upon thousands of voices rang out in flawless harmonies, newborn angels praising their Father. The air was filled with light and wings as the new creations explored their home.
She tumbled into him with a laugh as bright and clear as crystal bells. For a moment they danced together, wild and whirling, wings sweeping out around them. Everything was new, fascinating, perfect. He was full of song and worship, and she was just as beautiful as him. Everything was beautiful.
They stopped dancing long enough to laugh together, loud and breathlessly, clinging to each other in ecstasy. They grinned at each other, still embracing. She spoke first.
"My name is Amitiel!" she told him enthusiastically.
"I am Castiel," he replied, matching her tone.
She grinned wider. "It's good to meet you, brother."
Castiel did not want to regain consciousness. It was not a pleasant experience and he hoped he would not have to repeat it anytime soon. The pain registered almost immediately. He didn't move, not wanting to exacerbate the wounds. He was more-or-less upright, his back against a flat surface. His arms were stretched above his head and bound with cold metal. He could barely touch the ground with the toes of his shoes.
The muscles of his arms and shoulders burned uncomfortably, but it was the pain in his side he was most concerned about. His shirt was wet and clung to his skin. With great reluctance, Castiel opened his eyes.
There were no lights, and no windows, but the darkness didn't hinder him. The room was dark, small, and smelled of gasoline and urine. There was little in it besides Castiel himself and a stool in front of the metal door. Seated on the stool was a demon.
Its host was a man, big and brawny with a shaved head and a dark goatee. Tattoo sleeves covered both arms, which were currently crossed over his chest. Solid black eyes stared unblinkingly at Castiel. The angel met the demon's gaze flatly, forcing the creature to look away. Castiel shifted and gritted his teeth as a fresh jolt of pain stabbed up his side. He looked down.
His coat and suit jacket were gone. His shirt was torn and stained deep red, a particularly large and wet patch over his left side. In the center of the stain protruded the blunt end of a metal spike, carved with anti-angel wards.
That was why he was powerless. That was why he could not control the pain, or break free of his bonds. Why his wings hung limp and useless at his back. He tried to draw in a deep breath. It felt like inhaling fire.
The demon uncrossed his arms and reached backward to pound twice on the door. There came the sound of multiple locks, and the door opened a crack. "He's awake," the demon announced in a rumbling basso. The door closed and locked again. The demon went back to staring at Castiel.
Castiel hung from the chains binding his arms, weak, helpless, and barely able to breath past the spike impaling his lung. He wondered what Dean would say if he was here. Oh, yes. Probably something along the lines of, we're so screwed.
Castiel couldn't help agreeing.