When Dean makes his way back into the bunker, he finds Charlie and Sam in the middle of the war room, staring at Chuck. His hair is dripping wet, rivulets running down into his eyes and through a patch of salt, crusted thick on the side of his mouth.
"Uh... everything okay?" he asks, hopping down from the final step.
Sam looks at him with a pinched expression.
"I have no freakin' clue."
"He's been like this for like twenty minutes," Charlie says as Dean comes to a stop beside her.
This, apparently, is staring at the map table and muttering to himself. Whatever he's saying, it's too quiet to hear, and for all Dean knows it might not even be words. He stares at him for a long moment before looking back at his brother.
"Why didn't you come get me?"
"And tell you what?" Sam asks, "Chuck's gone guano and really likes the table?"
"Good point," Dean says, looking the prophet up and down before pointing at his soaked hair, "I'm guessing that's holy water?"
Sam nods.
"It made no difference. Didn't react to salt or iron or silver, either," Sam hesitates, glancing quickly at Dean before fixing his sights back on Chuck, "did you speak to Cas?"
"Yeah. He's heading upstairs in a couple hours."
"Are you o—"
"Any idea what he's saying?" Dean asks, cutting Sam off.
It's not avoidance, he thinks, because there are more important things to worry about right now than how he's feeling. The fact that he wouldn't want to talk about it anyway is irrelevant.
Leaning his ear toward Chuck, he listens to the muttered words.
"Oiad ds vran lit oiad ooanoan ol oiad," Chuck drones, each syllable falling heavy as a stone from his mouth, "g-chis-ge ol iadpil, od gemeganza noasmi nostoah obza."
There's something familiar in the tone, in the cadence of the words, and Dean frowns.
"Enochian?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder, and Sam shrugs.
"Could be."
As he listens, Chuck repeats the same phrases, over and over, and Dean straightens up, looking him over. His eyes are glassy, staring off into some place the rest of them can't see, and Dean waves a hand in front of his eyes. It's about as useless as he expected it to be.
Looking down at the surface of the table, he sees where Chuck's fingers have formed a loose circle, and his stomach sinks.
"Has he been doing that the whole time?"
"What?"
"Pointing right at the middle of the country. Or, y'know," he gestures around the room, "here."
Stepping closer, Sam furrows his brow.
"Crap," he mutters, "yeah. I didn't even notice."
"Well that isn't ominous at all."
"Maybe it's a coincidence?" Charlie says hopefully.
The words have barely left her mouth when there's a heavy thud above them, and Chuck's head snaps up, making her jerk back with a yelp.
"Maybe not," Dean says, staring up at the bunker door as the sound repeats, louder, "anyone order a pizza?"
Chuck hesitates for a second, as though waiting for the walk command to kick in, and heads for the stairs.
"Charlie, stay back," Sam says as he grabs the silver knife from the table, walking after Chuck warily.
"Uhuh," she says, walking right after him.
All three of them keep a safe distance as Chuck slowly ascends the stairs.
His eyes are vacant, feet dragging so heavily it's a wonder he doesn't face-plant. When he gets to the door he fumbles for the lock, pulling it roughly open, letting the light of the bunker spill out into the night.
Dean isn't sure what he was expecting to see on the other side. It sure as hell wasn't this.
"Kevin?"he says, and gets nothing in reply.
He's filthy and ragged, and his face is as blank as Chuck's. In one hand, he holds a fist full of ripe-smelling dirt, and before anyone has a chance to say anything else, he and Chuck push back into the bunker, heading down the stairs, side by side, speaking in tandem. Sam stares after them.
"Uh... guys?" he calls out.
If they hear him, they don't show it.
"Should we be stopping them?" Charlie asks, pressing back against the railing as they pass before loudly adding, "christo."
Nothing happens. Sam and Dean both look at her with raised brows as they follow the prophets.
"Thought it was worth a try," she shrugs.
"We already knew they weren't demons."
"Well, could we just, like... bop them over the head or something?" Charlie suggests, and Dean glances over at her as they descend the final steps into the war room.
"They're not field mice, Charlie."
"I'm open to other suggestions."
Kevin pauses to place the pile of dirt on the map table, and they all watch as he digs into the pockets of his sweater for more. Handful after handful is added until his pockets are empty, and he presses it down, spreading it over the surface in a long line.
"Doing a little gardening?" Dean asks.
As soon as the dirt is in place, Kevin straightens up, and he and Chuck resume walking, up through the library and down the hall, down the stairs and straight to the storage room. It's dark, cramped with all the extra junk from Charlie's room, and without turning on the light they walk right in, weaving through stacked boxes.
Sam flicks the switch, bathing the room in a yellow glow.
"Starting to get kind of nervous, guys," Charlie says quietly, edging her way into the room.
"I told you to stay back."
"Pfft, right."
As they watch, Chuck and Kevin move with slow purpose to pull open crates and drawers. The first thing they take out is a glittering stone about the size of a walnut, and Dean crosses the room to take the label card from the box they took it from.
"The Hope Diamond," he reads, and Sam scrambles through the room to see for himself, pulling the card from Dean's hand, "rude."
"Are you kidding me?"
"What, does that mean something to you?"
"For one thing," Sam says, reading the label closely, "it's meant to be in the Smithsonian—not in our basement. And it's cursed, supposedly, which is probably why it's here."
"Uh, guys?" Charlie says from behind them, and they look up to see Chuck holding the bag full of bones that she'd found a few days ago while Kevin picks up a jar full of crystals.
With the jar and the Hope Diamond clutched in one hand, Kevin walks to the far shelf, opening a glass-lidded display case to take out an ancient blade. Dean recognizes it from weeks ago, from a half-finished attempt at taking inventory of the bunker's many weapons.
"And now they've got a jar of glitter—"
"They're calcite crystals," Charlie reads over Kevin's shoulder.
"—the Spear of Destiny and a skeleton," he finishes, looking between Sam and Charlie with raised hands, "any ideas?"
"Early Halloween?" Sam quips.
"Every day is early Halloween for you," Charlie points out.
Apparently finished raiding the room, Chuck and Kevin shuffle out into the hallway, heading back upstairs, and Dean follows behind with Sam and Charlie. It's not until they reach the war room that Sam speaks again.
"Diamonds are pure carbon," he says thoughtfully to himself, "calcite is near pure calcium."
"You got a subscription to Gemstones Weekly that I don't know about, Sammy?"
Sam ignores him, watching as Chuck and Kevin pile everything onto the edge of the map table before walking to the bookshelf and taking down a vial of holy water. He glances across at Charlie, listing things off on his fingers.
"Carbon, calcium, phosphorous in the bones, hydrogen and oxygen in the water, and that dirt smells a lot like fertilizer, so that's probably nitrogen... Charlie, is it just me, or—"
"Nope, not just you."
"Well it's definitely not me," Dean says, "so someone wanna help a guy out?"
"Those are the six most common elements that make up a human body," Sam says, eyes back on Kevin and Chuck, who are spreading the bones out on the table.
"So, what... you think they're making a dude?"
"Kinda looks like it," Charlie says, "maybe we should reconsider my bop them on the head plan."
"Yeah, but if it's just the ingredients for a person," Dean says, watching as they arrange the ribs, "then what do they need the Spear of Desti—oh, shit."
Frankly, Dean's embarrassed it took him this long to figure it out, but it's been a stressful few hours.
"What?" Sam asks.
"Whose blood was spilled by the Spear of Destiny, Sam?" Dean asks pointedly.
"Oh, crap," Sam says, eyes widening, and it takes Charlie a second to catch on.
When she does, she makes a choked sound, backing away from the table.
"He shall rise," Dean quotes.
"He shall rise," Chuck and Kevin echo, and all three flinch.
"No way," Charlie says, shaking her head emphatically, "here?"
"He shall rise," Chuck and Kevin repeat in reply, and Dean shudders involuntarily when they slip back into Enochian, "Oiad ip torzv."
"Now that's just creepy."
With the bones laid out, the diamond sparkling beneath the ribs like a crystal heart, shards of calcite and droplets of holy water sprinkled from top to bottom, they stop.
"It looks like a 3D Ed Hardy tshirt," Charlie says quietly, pulling a face, and Dean snorts out a laugh beside her.
Sam gives them both a withering look, as if trying to remind them that this is a serious situation, and Dean wipes the smirk off his face. It's not like he doesn't know that things are likely to get pretty damn hairy soon, but if he hadn't learned how to laugh in the face of horrible shit he'd have gone off the deep end years ago.
Kevin takes up the Spear of Destiny, holding it over the bones, but he doesn't put it back down. From the opposite side of the table, Chuck reaches over and grasps it, and with both hands on the hilt, they speak louder.
"Loncho saanir ol saga," they intone in unison, voices echoing through the room as they plunge the blade down, driving it through the surface of the table, "Oiad ip torzv."
For the first time since Kevin arrived, they fall silent. The moment hangs. It's with an audible gasp for air that they snap back to reality, blinking groggily.
Kevin staggers to the side, trembling, and Sam grabs hold of his arms before he can fall.
"Whoa, hey—you alright?"
"Sam?" Kevin asks, looking around the room in a daze which turns into panic, "I'm alive?"
"Why wouldn't you be?"
"I was..." he trails off, looking at Chuck, "I mean, they said it was only temporary, but..."
He shakes his head, blinking as if looking into bright light.
"They didn't say much else," Chuck agrees, sinking into a chair, and Dean holds up his hands.
"Okay, seriously. Anyone feel like sharing with the class?"
"It's a long—"
"Cliff's notes, then," Dean says impatiently.
"I don't know about him," Kevin says, pointing at Chuck, as he sits down opposite him, "but I was... I got... I don't know. Spirited away."
"By who?"
"Angels. They wouldn' tell me their names, or what they wanted... they just said that I was in Heaven but it was temporary, and that when I was returned to Earth, it would all..."
He trails off again, noticing the skeleton on the table.
"It will all come to you," Chuck says dully, his eyes fixed on the bones, "they told me the same thing."
"Then they dropped me in the woods," Kevin adds, staring at the dirt under his fingernails, "and then I walked... I don't even know how long."
"Any idea what you're supposed to do now?" Dean asks, and Kevin presses his lips tightly together as Chuck answers through a nervous gulp.
"Yeah," he says, reaching out toward the blade where it's sticking out of the skeleton and dragging his thumb over the edge, "we need to put the final pieces of God back together. And to do that... to do that, I have to die."
Moving through Heaven is slow. Glacial.
Time seems to slow almost to a stop, dragging out, and Castiel's thoughts feel just as sluggish. It's been years. He's sure of it. Years. He thinks of Earth, of all that he's certain he's missed, and tries to take solace in the thought that if he's right, the Winchesters will be resting in the fields of Heaven now. Even if he takes a thousand years more to get to the Garden, they'll be at peace.
Pressing on, each inch feels like a mile, and the sound of angels is a never-ending roar in his head. It's deafening, the light around him blinding.
The pressure, the heat at his center, burning him from within and without, builds. Builds on and on and on, and he's thought he's reached the zenith more times than should be possible only to feel it increase again. He feels as though he's going to be crushed, obliterated completely. At this point, so long as the tablet were to go with him, he isn't sure he'd mind.
More time passes than he can comprehend, and he tries to remember what he's doing this for. Why he's here. Who the voice in his head—you know I love you, right?—belongs to. It's the only thing that he can hear over the sound of the angels behind him.
It takes him a decade to remember, and another to remember a face; cheeks scattered with as many freckles as the green eyes, sandy hair, a smile—no, a smirk. A grin. The feel of warm hands, gentle hands that have seen too many battles.
"Dean," he says, his voice a raw croak, and somewhere close behind him, he senses the fury of his brothers and sisters.
They try again to snatch at him, but are only buffetted away by the heat of the tablet.
He sees Superi Murus ahead, a wall of shadow shifting, rippling, and remembers his purpose. Beyond it, the Garden awaits him, and he's close. So close.
But there's a dread building in him at the sight of that wall, a deeply-ingrained fear of passing through it, and God isn't there.
He should be. At the crossing He shall rise, the tablet had said, and this was it. This was the crossing, and he was so, so close.
I'm not the Shield, he thinks helplessly, how could I have been so prideful?
There's no holy light, no safety awaiting him, but it's too late to stop. He's come this far. He has to try. Even as he feels his wings being torn apart by flame, his grace clawing uselessly within him, trying desperately to hold him together, he presses on through the pain, through the fear.
It's what is right, he thinks, if nothing else I must do what is right.
The bunker is quiet enough for Dean to hear every pulse of his own heart. Chuck and Kevin have offered no further explanation, and in the drawn out silence, Dean, Sam and Charlie have all been staring at them, waiting for Chucks comment to make sense. Dean finds his voice eventually. He squints at Chuck.
"Come again?"
"I mean... technically it could be either of us," Chuck says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "since we both have a part. But I'll do it, I mean—"
"Back up a second. You both have a part? Of what?"
"Of God," Kevin says quietly, but the words come stilted, like they're threatening to catch in his throat.
Dean sits down heavily, and dimly he registers Sam and Charlie doing the same. With the five of them crowded around the table, it's like the worlds most disturbing family dinner, complete with skeletal centerpiece.
"How do you—what?" Sam manages, and Chuck shrugs.
"He's telling me," he says, tapping on his temple, "I can hear Him."
"Since when?"
"About fifty seconds ago," Chuck says, and Kevin gulps.
"I don't hear anything," Kevin says, tongue darting nervously out over his lips, "but... um. I see... there's... I can see him."
"Where?" Sam asks, looking around as if he thinks he's going to catch a glimpse.
"In my head. It's hard to explain."
"And one of you..."
"Has to die," Chuck says, voice hollow, "we're the last living prophets. The others were all killed before their time, and their... the pieces of God they carried have already rejoined."
"So you're like Holy Horcruxes?" Charlie asks, before hurriedly adding, "not that I'm comparing God to Voldemort, but—"
"He says, kind of, yeah."
"God said 'kind of, yeah'?" Dean asks dubiously, "isn't that a little casual?"
"He's been on a leave of absence," Chuck says vaguely, eyes slipping a little out of focus.
"Oh, well then."
"For the last few millenia, he's been split into thousands of pieces, each one held within the soul of a potential prophet," Chuck says, staring down into the middle distance, and Dean realises he's listening.
Charlie, at his side, fidgets in her seat, staring at Chuck in awe, and Dean pats her shoulder reassuringly. He doubts it does much.
"Every time a prophet died," Chuck goes on, "another part of God passed into the ether and joined the rest. We were born into the final generation, and now... now there's only three parts left. One in the ether, one in Kevin—"
"—and one in Chuck," Kevin says, seamlessly picking up where Chuck left off, the same faraway look in his eyes, "when one of us dies, our piece will join with God's grace in the ether, and then it will—"
"—seek out the final part. God will coalesce within the body of the final prophet—"
"—and only when God is one—"
"—will he be able to give form—"
"—to the vessel prepared for him—"
"—and return to Heaven," Chuck finishes, and shakes his head, letting out a breath, "that felt weird."
"Yeah," Kevin agrees, his face a little pale, forehead damp, "I think I'm gonna hurl."
Chuck doesn't look much better, but he's shaking a little less, and Dean thinks it's the first time he's seen him look so focused.
"You'll be okay," Chuck tells Kevin, before turning to Sam and gesturing toward the silver blade still in his hand, "let's get this over with."
"Whoa, hold on a minute," Dean says, getting to his feet.
"He's right, Chuck," Sam says firmly, "we're not just going to stab you."
Sighing, Chuck leans heavily against the table.
"Either you do it or I do, but I'm thinking you'll have a better shot at... at making it quick."
"I think I'm gonna hurl," Charlie mutters.
The thing is, as much as he wishes there was another way, Dean knows Chuck is right. The tablet had said it, after all; the grace of God shall coalesce. With his light the Word shall know the safety of the Garden.
It sucks, just like this kind of thing always does, but it's got to be one of them. Chuck or Kevin. Dean's just relieved that Chuck is volunteering, because if he and Kevin both refused, they'd all be screwed. He sighs.
"You sure about this?" he asks, and Sam looks at him sharply.
"Dean."
"God has to be there when Cas gets to the Garden," Dean reminds him, and he tries not to think too hard about where Castiel is now, if he's flown yet or if he's still waiting, "if He's not, the tablet's gonna end up in the wrong hands. I don't want to kill Chuck any more than you do, but do you really want to take a risk on the whole planet getting taken out in the blastwave if we don't?"
Reluctantly, Sam agrees, and Chuck actually seems to relax.
"So you'll do it?" he asks, and Dean nods once, holding out his hand for the knife.
"Charlie," he says, feeling the cold silver in his hand, "you might want to clear out for this."
Before she leaves the room, Charlie pulls Chuck into a tight hug.
"It was good to know you," she says quietly, "even if you are kind of a pain in the ass."
"You, too," he says, and she grins through her tears, squeezing him once more before letting go.
As much as he tries not to think about it, Dean has killed a lot of people in his life. Most of them had been monsters with a few monsterous humans thrown in, but though he knows he can physically get the job done, it doesn't make this any easier. If he didn't already hate God, the fact that he's essentially forcing him to do this would do the trick.
Chuck is sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, Kevin at his side, and he's ready. Waiting.
He's oddly calm, and though it makes sense in a way—he know's he's going to Heaven after this, afterall—it's still disturbing. Nobody should look so zen when they're less than five minutes away from being stabbed.
Kevin is nowhere near as collected. About thirty seconds ago he'd reached out and taken hold of Chuck's hand, and Chuck had let him. Shortly after, Kevin had thrown Dean a look as if to challenge him to say something about it. As if he would. Whatever comfort the kid can get right now, he's all for it.
"So," Dean says, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "what's he saying?"
"He's saying—" Kevin pauses, squeezing Chuck's hand, "he's saying it's time."
Dean wants to say something. Apologise for what he's about to do. But there's no words that will make this okay, and Chuck is ready, resigned to it. He settles for briefly squeezing his shoulder as he kneels on the ground in front of him before settling the blade at his chest.
"Are you ready?"
"Oi ol zen," Chuck murmurs to himself before drawing in a breath and letting it out slowly through his nose, "niis oiad gigipah ol oiad olani dlvgar ol."
He nods once, opening his eyes to look at Dean with a weary smile.
"Do it now."
Dean wants to look away. He doesn't want to see the light go out of Chuck's eyes, but it wouldn't be right, he thinks, to not be fully present for this.
As he pushes forward, drives the blade in, he sees his pupils dilate, sees Chuck's mouth fall open, sees blood trickle from his lips when he coughs and jerks, sees his free hand coming up to clutch helplessly, involuntarily at the hilt of the blade buried in his chest.
Setting his jaw, Dean refuses to look away until after Chuck has slumped down against the wall, until his mouth has fallen slack, his eyes clouded. Kevin is breathing heavily, shaking beside him, and Dean think's he's crying until Sam speaks.
"I think it's happening," he says thickly, his voice startling Dean, and with a look over at Kevin he sees something like a white fog, glowing bright, twisting through him.
It's only a couple of seconds before the fog disappears, and then Kevin is standing—no, being pulled to his feet by something unseen. It's as though there's a string attached to the top of his head, and he's being yanked firmly upwards. He moves toward the table.
"Loncho saanir ol saga," he says, looking down at the bones, and his voice sounds all wrong, layered somehow, as if it's not just one but many.
For a moment nothing happens, but then his arms fly out to the sides as light explodes from him, and Dean barely covers his eyes in time. Beneath the ringing sound of grace, he can hear glass shattering in the library. When it's all over, silence descends like a shroud.
He cracks open his eyes, lowering his arm, and sees Kevin crouching by the table with his head in his hands, and standing nearby, Sam already watching him warily, is a man.
At least, Dean's pretty sure he's a man, though he isn't certain he'd be able to describe him if he tried.
"Guys?" Charlie calls cautiously from the other room, "is everyone okay?"
"Yeah," Sam calls back, his eyes never leaving the man at the end of the table, "we're good."
The man is difficult to look at—as though he's a little too bright, a little out of focus, a little not there—and Dean's eyes struggle to make sense of him. The bones are still there on the table, along with everything else, but they seem slightly unfocused, too, like they've lost their essence. The sight is unsettling, and it plants a confusing kind of panic in his chest. But then he looks up, and Dean's fear gives way to anger.
His hands tense at his sides.
"How was the vacation?" he asks coldly.
Sam shoots him a warning look, but Dean can already feel the vitriol rising, and he's powerless against it as he walks right up and drives his fist directly into the man's face.
He doesn't even flinch. In fact, Dean's hand passes clean through him, and he overbalances, falling flat on the floor. All he gets in return for it is a look of pity.
So yeah, maybe trying to break God's nose wasn't the best plan of action, but the way Dean sees it, the guy had it coming. Least he could have done is let the punch connect.
He leans down, touching Kevin's head briefly, and the last remaining Prophet lets out a sob, looking up just in time to see God smile before he disappears.
He doesn't make a sound.
Castiel can't feel his wings any more. Can barely feel his body but for the pressure on it, and if not for the insistent pull of the tablet, he doubts he'd be able to continue.
When the voice comes, a soft susurrus settling in his mind, he is struck by a vivid image of space, of time. The universe around him remains exactly the same, but what had seemed exceedingly bright now appears to be endless velvet dark, stretching out and out on all sides, and in the distance, resplendent as the sun in comparison, he sees it. A light. A mere pinprick, but bright, so bright, and he moves again, more surely, more focused, faster than before.
"Ol g-chis-ge ne oiad ds blans oadriax" the voice says when he nears it, "Ol nenni ol vgear. Ol g-chis-ge ne."
At his center, Castiel feels something give way, and he sees, at last he truly sees. His vessels eyes run, tears running down his cheeks, and they feel like ice against his burning skin.
To behold Him is to weep, he thinks.
God is a shining thing, glowing, effulgent, incandescent, cascading down, edges rippling as oil on water, a figure in the fog. Castiel moves toward him like a moth to a flame.
"Ol g-chis-ge ne," God repeats, drawing him in, and Castiel follows the sound, moves through the burning air and slips out of the dark.
When he reaches the garden, it is bright. Far brighter than anything was before, and as he feels himself distintegrate, feels the tablet inside splinter, pulled apart and reformed in the presence of his Father, he smiles.
A/N - Translations for Enochian in this chapter: "Oiad ds vran lit oiad ooanoan ol Oiad g-chis-ge ol iadpil, od gemeganza noasmi nostoah obza."
They who see with the eye of God are of him, and will be as one "Oiad ip torzv."
God shall arise. "Loncho saanir ol saga, Oiad ip torzv."
All parts made whole, God shall arise. "Oi ol zen. Niis oiad gigipah ol Oiad olani dlvgar ol."
This is my sacrifice. I give myself for the living breath of God." "Loncho saanir ol saga."
All parts made whole. "Ol g-chis-ge ne oiad ds blans oadriax. Ol nenni ol vgear. ol g-chis-ge ne."
You are the shield of heaven. You have strength. You are blessed. ( used as reference for all Enochian dialogue)