Chapter 9 Elemental Division
Chambre d'ombres, Pyrenees
The library had been built into the existing cavern, the stone smoothed and polished and shelving built along the straight walls to the high, naturally-domed ceiling. It was a dry cavern and the smell in it was overwhelming from old paper, furniture polish with a hint of lemon and the aromatic scent of burning pear wood in the wide, open hearth to one side.
Penemue glanced around the room. The hunters and scholars of the French order were, on the whole, hardened and cold-eyed. The Qaddiysh had been welcomed cordially enough, he thought, but with some reservation, particularly from the older members. He glanced across the room to Francesca d'Lengue. Thin and sharp-featured and in her early sixties, he guessed, although the dark chestnut hair cut in a smooth pageboy cut and alabaster-fine skin belied that estimate. He saw the years in her eyes. Green-grey and watchful and shadowed by too many memories.
Alain Pentecost was the other surviving senior legacy. Tall, narrow-framed and like Francesca, watchful and calculating, his silver hair was receding from a high forehead and long, narrow face.
The younger hunters, Luc Arente and Marc Barnaud, were perhaps more typical of their type. Luc was dark-haired, over six feet, a powerful frame, dark grey eyes under black brows, a sardonic twist to the full mouth. Marc, a similar height and build, dark blond hair cut short and hazel eyes in an open, square face. Both men were completely straightforward, neither hostile nor friendly, but waiting to see what the Watchers would do first. They reminded him of the Winchesters.
"These are the texts we retrieved from the Vatican," Elena said, gesturing around the boxes and books and manuscripts piled haphazardly over the tables in the long room. "We have been sending our translations – and interpretations – to Kansas," she continued. "Jasper has raised some questions and we would like you to verify the information we've sent if you can?"
"Of course," Penemue said, glancing around at Baraquiel. "What are the problems?"
"The locations the Church has – had – for the first-born of Nintu, for one," Antoinette said, getting up from the end of the table and walking to them. Slender and fair, with a scattering of fine freckles over her face and neck, her hair gleamed titian under the warm overhead lights, her eyes a shadowed grey. "We have Usiku as being locked up in Africa, but Jasper and Katherine both believe that the first vampire was actually imprisoned somewhere in the United States."
"And Raat was supposedly buried in an ancient volcano, somewhere in the Pacific," Jean said truculently. The young man's face was drawn and pale, a result of the grief for a lost companion, Elena had told him, along with a prickly, difficult attitude. "But Jerome tells us that he too is incarcerated somewhere in the Americas."
Shamsiel spoke. "At the time, no people existed in those countries. All the first-born of the goddess Nintu were sealed into geologically stable sites in what is now Canada down to Argentina."
"So these are wrong?" Elena asked, seeing Jean's face spasm.
"Isabeau died for nothing?!" the young man exclaimed at the same time.
Penemue looked at him compassionately. "Some of the details will not be correct, others will be. The task was not for nothing."
Jean turned away and walked from the room. Penemue noticed that none of his companions attempted to follow. Youth had little use for logic or reason in the face of powerful emotion, he thought.
"We need to find the references to the tablets, and to the accursed plane," he said to Elena. "The monster situation will stabilise if we can draw Ninhursag and Nintu back to their prison."
"Stabilise?" Francesca asked coolly from her chair. "Already the populations have doubled, and the human population is declining more rapidly than ever."
"The first-born still need humans to increase their numbers," Alain agreed. "It makes no sense that they would be increasing when what they need is reduced."
"Ninhursag has passed over the world twice now," Michel said from the broad, arched doorway. "Each time fertility and the imperative to reproduce have rocketed out of sight statistically, at least among the animal populations."
Baraquiel looked from him to Elena speculatively. "But you have not seen its effects in the human populations you know of?"
Elena ducked her head and Penemue noticed that Antoinette looked away at the same time. "We have seen a number of small populated enclaves in this area but they have been too afraid for us to communicate with them."
"But you are bearing a child, yes?" Shamsiel asked her directly.
She nodded, glancing at Antoinette. "We both are."
Luc found something else to do in the deeper stacks and Francois grinned at the Watchers. "It was a chaotic couple of weeks," he said with a Gallic shrug.
"I can imagine," Baraquiel said without inflection. "The Americans too will have seen her effects. And any other groups of survivors, no matter how small."
"It doesn't explain why the children of Nintu are increasing now," Alain said shortly. "These children will not be born for months, and it will be years before they can reproduce themselves, even if every woman carried the child to term."
"No," Shamsiel agreed. "There is something that we do not know."
Francesca smiled. "There are vast galaxies of things we do not know."
"Can your table show us concentrations of people?" Penemue asked Michel curiously, gesturing behind him to the room they'd entered through.
The programmer shook his head. "I cannot differentiate between the different carbon-based animated life-forms, not even between a large school of fish and a large herd of deer except by environmental abstraction," he said, shaking his head. "The only truly unique thing that differentiates humanity from anything else is the soul, and I have no possible parameters for measuring that."
Peter walked into the library, holding a sheaf of weather charts in one hand and looking around at the people sitting there. "We leave here the day after tomorrow," he told the Qaddiysh. "We have a good chance of getting past the Azores before the Siberian high moves further west."
US 40 W, Kansas
Inside the cab of the rugged vehicle, the heater was blasting at them and the noise of the engine and the clanking of the tracks was muted – somewhat muted, Sam amended to himself as Dean skirted a hump by the side of the invisible road that might've been a car once, or something else entirely, and the clatter increased with the change of direction.
He turned around in the front seat to look at Elias. "What've we got in the back?"
"Franklin's specials." The auburn-haired hunter grinned at him. "Holy oil, iron caltrops and enough C4 to leave a nice crater wherever they go off."
"They're actually masterpieces." Maggie said indignantly "Tiny but pack a punch those angels are not going to forget. Plus the usual," she added, rolling her eyes slightly. "Stingers, a couple of Stigs, an assortment of mines – all remote detonate – and ammo for everything."
"What Chuck wrote down narrowed the location down to the northern end of the town," Dean said over the noise. "We'll go in on foot first, take a very cautious look around and figure out how best to take them out."
"And if they see us coming?" Sam asked.
"Then we're in big trouble," Elias said with a snort from the back
Dean shrugged, waving a hand at the windshield and the road beyond. Nothing moved in the expanse of white, the snow humped and driven into high, long curves and dunes.
"Would you expect an attack in this?"
Sam looked around. He had no idea how his brother was finding the road, the drifts had levelled parts of the land and created hills were there were none in others. In any other kind of vehicle, it would've been impossible to travel through the heavy snow and the frozen and refrozen ice fields. The susvees were designed for it, though, designed for the ice sheets of Antarctica and the North Pole, designed to be able to find their way across any surface and through most conditions.
He thought of the description Chuck had written about the place. A long, low ranch house on a well-appointed property at the base of a range just north of the town. Three men and a woman, not human, but fallen. Four nephilim – possibly, from the descriptions, and three others. The prophet hadn't detailed what they were, said he hadn't seen them do anything but watch the perimeter and study books in the flashes of his vision. Cambion, Sam wondered uneasily? Cas had said that the Grigori had made a deal with them, some of them at any rate. Half-human, half-demon, and he remembered Jasper's theory of how they were made. And their powers.
Michel had sent another transmission through late in the night. The Qaddiysh were at the French chapter, reviewing the texts from the Vatican vaults. They might be able to clarify details that none of the legacies or scholars had understood. They'd been around long enough, he thought sourly. They had to know something about the Word tablets, about the children of Nintu and why they were spreading out so fast and how they were finding populations of survivors that had eluded the hunters.
Without the tablet, they were relying on Chuck's visions of the future. Father Emilio had been right about that. They needed the tablet to be able to really take the fight to the demonspawn. But finding it … on this plane or the other … that would be a real trick.
Dean glanced in the rear-view mirror at the three sitting behind him. "Get some sleep if you can," he told them, his gaze flicking sideways to his brother. "The weather data we got this morning means we're gonna have to find someplace to pull off tonight, anyway. Then we'll keep going in the morning."
Maggie sighed and stretched as little, turning her head to the back of the seat and closing her eyes. Beside her, Danielle smiled slightly as she heard the older woman's breathing switch almost instantly into the steady, shallow pattern of sleep. How long would it take her to be able to do that, she wondered? Her stomach was fluttering at the thought of what they were heading into, her nerves filled with a low-grade hum since they'd left the keep. She was with the best hunters left in the post-Apocalypse world, she realised, but it wasn't enough to keep her imagination from messing with her. Three years ago, her biggest worry had been that she was failing her major.
Elias nodded and leaned against the window, letting his eyelids drop. In front of him, Sam stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, aware of how impossible it was for him to just go to sleep on this job. He would give his brother some peace of mind by pretending though.
The boxy vehicle crawled along the road, compressing the snow under its weight, the caterpillar tracks gripping through the powder and the ice with equal ease. Dean watched ahead, the shape of the banks, the faint shadows as the dim light moved from one side of the overcast sky to the other, showing him where the road ran under the blanket of snow. Driving was as natural as breathing and his hands lay light on the wheel and controls as he calculated every surface almost automatically.
It was almost dusk when the snow thickened, driving horizontally from the fields to the north of them, the staccato rattle of the granules almost loud enough to drown out the machine. Shadows lay purple across the banks and drifts and he watched through the wipers for anything that would provide some shelter and prevent them from ending up buried for the night.
He went past the long steel shed before seeing it, the snow piled high and in a smooth, curved drift over the top, it looked like just another hill until he glanced back and saw the dark opening in the mirrors. Slowing down, he shifted the gears and backed up, looking down at the bank between the raised surface of the road and the lower ground in front of the shed and easing them down, the tracks slipping a little on the slope but clinging on enough to get them safely to the bottom.
"Where are we?" Sam blinked, thrown around as the susvee crawled across a buried road divider and up another small bank.
"'Crossed into Colorado about ten miles back," Dean said, eyes narrowed as he gauged the power he needed for the bank. "There is, was, a small town somewhere here, but this looks like all that's left."
The vehicle humped its way over what might've been another small fence and settled down as they approached the dark opening.
"Blizzard's here?"
"On its way," Dean said, flicking on the full complement of lights the susvee had to offer, the darkness of the interior of the shed immediately dispelled as the double rows of headlights and spotlights, pointing to the front, sides and rear, lit it up.
"Looks alright," Sam remarked, raising his voice over the clanking as the tracks went from the snow to the light ice covering the dirt inside the shed. Dean nodded to the rifle on the seat between them, slowing down as they approached the far wall.
"No need to take chances," he said, taking the vehicle out of gear but leaving the engine running and the lights on. He tapped the horn and Elias, Maggie and Danielle jerked to wakefulness. "Full check and we'll put down salt and traps at the front," he ordered.
The hunters picked up their ordnance and opened the doors, jumping down and shivering as they went from the warm, snug cab to the minus temperature of the building. The shed was almost empty and Elias and Maggie took the wall where shelving and the remains of a couple of shipping containers could have hidden something as Sam and Danielle checked the rest.
Dean opened the driver's door and jumped down, feeling his boots slip on the thin ice that coated the ground. He walked around to the caboose and opened the rear doors, dragging out the arctic tents and groundsheets. Out of the wind it would be warmer than being either in the vehicle or outside, and they'd be safe enough to light a fire if they could find anything to burn.
Laying down the protection, checking the perimeter, setting everything up, he watched the hunters with him doing their jobs efficiently and quickly. It was standard procedure now, didn't need to be thought about or discussed, everyone knew what they had to do, but the memories of the past were still close enough to feel a moment's amazement at how smoothly they all worked together, and older memories butted in. Sam and him, stopping at a motel, dragging the gear in, salting the windows, cleaning their guns, the small rooms frequently filled with the battling smells of fast food and gun solvent. Tossing a coin for first use of the shower. Never sleeping all the way through because there were too many unknown sounds in the unfamiliar neighbourhoods and cities and towns.
He looked down at the battered coffee pot he'd just put over the flames and sighed. How different would their lives have been if they'd had a fraction of the resources they had now? Would it have changed anything, to have friends, and backup? Or would Hell've just targeted them as Jim and Caleb and his father had been targeted?
Pushing the unanswerable questions aside, he looked up as Elias and Danielle settled themselves on one side of the fire, and Maggie and Sam took the other. "First shift, you two," he said to Elias and Danielle. "Maggie, you're off tonight, Sam and me'll do graveyard."
They nodded without argument, and he watched Maggie dig through the bags of dried and preserved food they'd brought, throwing a selection into an equally battered pot and adding water. There were times he'd've killed for a burger, the long day's driving crashing down on him as he leaned back against the bags of gear behind him, but he'd probably've died of heart disease on that diet, he acknowledged with a faint smile, eyes closing.
"What'd he say about the lines changing?" Dean asked his brother softly.
They sat a foot or two apart, their backs to the fire, watching the open entrance with rifles loosely held over their knees.
"He said that the lines had already been altered and something about my blood having an effect on the closing of the gates," Sam murmured, lifting a shoulder slightly. "He seemed to think that it might change things further."
Dean turned to look at him. "Do you think it would?"
"I don't know," Sam said, shaking his head. "Aside from being more Hell-related, what difference could it make?"
"And he and Father McConnaughey both think that?" Dean pressed, a frown drawing his brows together as he tried to think of what the priests been attempting to manoeuvre his brother into.
"I'm not sure, it was just Emilio there."
"They playing their own game here?" Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw. Both men had had good arguments for searching for the tablet first. It would limit the support the Grigori could get if Hell was shut down before they came into Kansas. The only problem was none of them had any idea where the fucking tablet was.
"I don't think so," Sam said slowly. "I didn't get that impression."
"They know more than what they've told us?"
"That's possible," Sam admitted. "He was talking about Chuck's vision as if there was more to it than we'd seen."
"We'll go over it again when we get back," Dean decided. "And maybe check out the books the good Fathers have been reading – or get one of the others to do it."
Sam nodded. "Background information might explain it."
"Yeah."
The silence between them grew slowly. It was a normal and comfortable silence, a familiar one. Dean felt himself relaxing incrementally, feeling old habits, old reassurances returning very gradually as Sam seemed to be getting back to himself.
"Rufus said Alex was pregnant," Sam said a few minutes later. Dean sighed inwardly as he heard the very faint edge of rebuke in his brother's voice.
"Yeah, I was going to tell you," he said apologetically. "Just ended up being rushed when we got out."
"You alright with that?" Sam asked, turning to look at his brother curiously.
Dean hadn't told him much about what'd happened with Lisa. He knew from Cas and Chuck that she'd been pregnant when the croats had infected her. Knew that his brother'd had to shoot her in front of Ben. Knew that it'd screwed him over for more than a year. Dean hadn't filled in the huge gaps between those few facts, but he could guess at the how and the why of that reticence.
"Yeah," Dean said slowly now. "I think so."
Sam's mouth lifted wryly on one side as he turned to look at him. "You think so?"
"I'm not going to just leave her to handle it alone," Dean told him, flicking a glance his way.
Sam nodded, turning to look back at the featureless black of the shed doorway.
"Ellen said you gave her hell for not looking out for her while you were down in Oklahoma," he said neutrally. "But you know, it wasn't that easy to figure out, Dean."
"Because I shack up with chicks all the time?" Dean asked sarcastically.
"Because none of us knew what you were thinking."
For a moment, Dean didn't respond and Sam wondered if he'd gone too far. He heard his brother's deep exhale, not daring to look around at him.
"Yeah, maybe because I wasn't looking at it real hard," Dean said softly.
Sam did look around then, his brow creasing up in surprise at the admission.
"And are you? Now?"
Dean shifted uncomfortably, staring out at the blackness. He didn't talk about this shit often enough for it to be even remotely easy. The vulnerability, showing someone that vulnerability, always set off alarm bells, even with Sam. Sometimes, especially with Sam. And he couldn't explain what he felt anyway. Not in words.
"It's … uh … yeah," he said tersely. "I'm looking at it."
"Dude … you falling in love?"
He turned to look sourly at his brother. "I'm going to have a look outside."
Sam snorted softly as his brother got up and walked to the doorway.
Litteris Hominae, Kansas
The building was almost silent, Father McConnaughey thought. The low hum of the generators that powered everything, a subliminal sound easily tuned out. The rustle of paper and the occasional grunt from the readers, discovering something new or revising something previously thought. The very soft crackle of the wood burning in the hearth. He looked at the watch on his wrist and smiled derisively at himself. In the wee hours of the morning, he shouldn't be so surprised.
This place had been a revelation to him. The town as well. He'd seen the signs and had tried to convince his parish of them, tried to fight past the way the people had thought he was talking in metaphors and illuminations, not realising that the signs and seals were as real as their mortgages, more real for they presaged a time where financial consideration would be rendered meaningless.
He'd failed. The long-recognised admission brought a soft sigh. He'd been forced to run from his little town, from the people who had been under his guidance, under his protection, to save his skin when the infected had poured through. He would be doing penance for that act for a long time.
People were resilient, and he'd found a few here and there, the small groups joining together under more decisive leaders. None of them had really known what to do, in a world that seemed more nightmare than reality, a world of demons and darkness, of monsters and the inescapable fact that without a place to shelter, without food, they were all going to die.
He'd prayed for help in the wilderness and help had come. They'd been led, like those of old, out of the wild and back to civilisation and the messenger had told him to watch for the men who would change the world yet again, who would be strong enough, and sure enough, to close the gates. When he'd come here and seen Father Emilio, he'd known it was meant. The Jesuit had seen it in him, had seen the messenger's touch on him and had known as well.
Father Emilio had convinced him that the men the messenger had spoken of were here. He agreed with the priest's assessment. The accounts they'd been able to glean from the scholars here, from occasional slips from the hunters who protected the place, confirmed that it had been the older Winchester who'd faced the devil and destroyed him, who had set into motion the next set of lines. Sam had told Emilio that he'd been Lucifer's vessel, and a little of why that had been so and how he'd escaped.
He'd spent the first forty years of his calling working in the libraries of the Church in Rome. Had met Father Emilio there twenty years ago. Had known of what was coming, although it'd been an academic knowledge. He'd not thought that he would see it within his lifetime. Retiring to his home town, he'd seen instead people who found it harder and harder to find their spirituality. To find meaning in the insanely-paced world in which they lived. People who'd become inured to the savagery in the cities and the indifference of their governments and the callous greed of the corporations that paid their salaries. And passion … for life, for the causes of good, for others … passion had been so far diminished in those people he'd wondered privately how they got up every morning.
He scratched at his beard and looked back down at the text in front of him. What Chuck had seen and had written down was a tiny fragment of what had been set in motion with the death of the Fallen One, he knew now. The prophet's visions were invariably tied to the Winchesters and Father Emilio had told him that Dean stood astride a multiple node in the lines, a convergence of possibilities that his actions alone could dictate. The Jesuit wasn't sure why that was, although he believed it had been deliberately arranged so. The order's history of the Winchesters, and the Campbells who formed the other side of the equation, were detailed but mainly speculative. No one, not the Jesuit, not the sole remaining legacy of the order, not the intelligent and shrewd scholars who were labouring to understand the machinations that were becoming more and more apparent, understood exactly how and why the two bloodlines of the Qaddiysh had been required and manipulated to create two brothers with such an impact on the fate of the world.
Father Emilio was convinced that the manipulation had been solely arranged to enable to release of Lucifer, to bring about a perversion of the Paradise foretold. Father McConnaughey was not so sure of that. The demon's access to the family had not been preordained, at least not according to the interviews the order had conducted after the first meeting. And although the blood given to the infant had changed Sam Winchester and allowed access to the power that could break the final seal of the Cage, the factors that had changed their lives, had driven John Winchester into a life of revenge and training his sons to be the warriors they became, that could not have been foreseen, even along the lines. And it evidently had not – Dean Winchester had become the single weapon that had been able to destroy Lucifer.
More than a single conspiracy, he'd suggested to the Jesuit. More than Heaven meddling with destiny and adjusting the consequences of their machinations. Father Emilio had considered that carefully. It was possible, he'd admitted.
In any case, the old priest thought now, there was another branching. With the unsealing of the Word, and the repercussions that had brought, they were no longer facing a single battle.
"Jasper!" Katherine's voice cut through his thoughts and pulled his attention back to the library and those in it. "The Qaddiysh have revised this section."
The old man looked over his glasses across the table to her. "On the possible locations of the first monsters? Yes," he said. "I saw that."
She shook her head. "No, that part I expected," she said. "This is the last section on the text of the prophet."
Jasper frowned and got up, walking around the table to lean over her shoulder and read the pages in front of her.
"The prophet spoke of days of death … and the brightest angel bled out of the world …," he mumbled, stopping and looking at her. "This is the prophecy for Lucifer's death."
"Yes, keep reading," she instructed him tersely.
"And … God would test them. Test them unto death and purify them," he read slowly, brows drawing together as he straightened up, replaying the words in his head.
Father McConnaughey watched him. "It refers to the tablet?"
Jasper looked around to him. "To the Word, I think." He looked down at Katherine. "Is there any more?"
"Not so far, they're still working on the next section," she told him. "Test them unto death – that doesn't sound reassuring."
"It's a fragment, Katie," Jasper said distractedly. "We need a lot more."
Father McConnaughey closed the book he'd been reading and pushed it aside, getting up from the table. He needed to let Emilio know, he thought. They'd believed that either one of the Winchesters could close the gates but that Sam might be the one. The demon blood tied him closer to Hell than his brother. And Chuck's visions had included several clues as to why that might be important.
One week later. Hendaye, France
Of all the bodies of water in the world, the bay he looked out across had one of the worst reputations, Peter thought morosely. Biscay was a large semi-circular bay on the western coast of France. The continental shelf was shallow a hundred miles out from the coast, then plunged into an oceanic trench, and the difference in the underwater heights created turbulence in the seas even when the prevailing on-shore winds were not blowing a gale, which was rare enough.
He looked along the deck of the steel yacht tied to the dock next to him. Forty-five feet long, and cutter-rigged, she had been the most suitable ocean-going vessel they could find. The single mast and two headsails were the most powerful yet simple configuration for a small crew to handle, no matter what the weather.
The sailmaker's yards in the complex had been fortuitously built of steel and stone and brick and the sailmaker had, before his or her untimely death, been meticulous about storing the work, wrapped in plastic and packed into steel and plastic chests. Just as well or their journey would've been over before they'd started, with every sail the yacht had had gone, piles of eyelets and toggles lying on the decks the only clues they'd ever been there.
They'd been here two days, and the electronics and electrics had been replaced, along with the rubber seals for the engine and all the missing gear that had been edible to Baal's plague. The big diesel tanks were full. The water tanks were full. They'd packed their food stores and had replaced the full complement of sails plus spares, lines, wire and tools. They could sail tonight, the tide would turn at two.
Over three thousand miles, taking the lower route from the Azores to Rhode Island. The higher northern route was quicker, but the winter gales and icebergs were a concern in the higher latitudes. The trade winds were well-established and they would make good time with their steady help, laying off south to Bermuda and picking up the Gulf Stream as they got closer to the east coast of the American continent.
"Is everything stowed?" he asked Elena as she came out through the narrow companionway hatch and looked around.
"Yes, we're ready."
"Good, this is conceivably the worst possible place to leave from, but the overland to a better port would've taken longer."
She smiled at him. "It will be you and I for most of this trip," she said, glancing down the companionway to the cabin below. "The Qaddiysh have not had so much experience with the sea."
He shrugged. "That will keep the chain of command short."
Another thought occurred to him. "When are you due, Elena?"
She looked at him in surprise. "Early August, I think."
"You will be alright?" he asked awkwardly, not sure of what he wanted to know. "There are no complications?"
The corners of her mouth tucked in as he looked away uncomfortably. "Yes, I am fine. No morning sickness."
Turning away, Peter nodded and she saw the relief in his face. "Good. Don't need any added worry."
She watched him absently as he walked along the dock to check the lines, reviewing her memories of the previous time she'd been pregnant. There had been no discomfort, no sickness … not even the tiredness after the first few weeks. A stray memory intruded and she ducked her head, the skin of her neck colouring slightly as she remembered one side effect of the middle part of the pregnancy. That wouldn't happen again, she hoped.
Taos, New Mexico
The vehicle came to a stop and Dean turned the engine off, silence dropping over them like a lead shroud. To either side of the narrow ravine, the rocky walls towered against the thick, low cloud, snow clinging to the grey stone, more deeply mantled over the trees that crowded at the narrowest point, swept into a smooth carpet as the walls drew away and a small stream trickled sluggishly along the base of the western side.
"How far are we?" Sam asked, opening his door and dropping down to the ground.
"Four miles from the best prospect," Dean told him, landing on the other side, the rifle slung over one shoulder, Ruby's knife sheathed at the back on his right hip and the automatic tucked into a jacket pocket along with two mags. He looked at Elias and Maggie and gestured to the sharp wall behind them. "That ridge runs behind the property; don't get closer than a half mile. We just want to see where everything is."
The hunters nodded and turned up the ravine, heading for the trees.
"What about us?"
"We'll look from the other side of the access road," Dean said, shutting the door and pushing the keys into his jeans pocket. "Be about a mile from the house but that's as close as I wanna get this time out."
Sam nodded, settling the rifle over his shoulder as he waded through the brushed powder across the narrow road and began the climb up through the broken, crumbling rock.
Everything was still, the thin woods drab in the grey light, no signs of the wildlife that should've been there, Dean noticed uneasily. It was a good indicator that they had the right place, the local animals moving away from an occupied building. He wasn't sure that it was the right explanation, though. The back of his neck had been prickling all day as they'd looked along the mountain ridge in their first very long-distance look, and it was getting stronger as he got closer. The thick, white-splotched camouflage suits were not quite ghillies, but had been sewn with extra pieces of cloth along shoulders and arms and legs, helping to break up their outlines against the patchy background of snow and rock and timber. The cold was penetrating through their layers despite the warmth of the suits and the effort of the climb.
He nodded to Sam as they crested the bank that ran along the other side of the gravelled access road, dropping to their knees and inching up under the cover of the bare and spindly undergrowth, the house and outbuildings now clearly visible through the leafless trees that lined the long drive. They were almost a thousand yards away, and he was confident that they were invisible. Easing the rifle in front of him, he put his eye against the scope, adjusting the focus as the buildings leapt into a much closer view.
It was a big compound. Several large buildings took up the northern side, barns or workshops. The house, long and low, stretched out across the widening valley floor and faced south along its long axis, catching the winter sun on the stone-paved porch that ran from end to end. Lot of windows, he thought, moving the barrel around incrementally. Lot of doors too. A big pile of stacked logs lined nearly a third of the house wall under the cover of the porch roof, and to one side of the house, an untidy heap of logs had been left out in the weather, splitting block in front of it with an axe buried in the top of it. His attention sharpened as a woman came out of a door along the porch and walked slowly along, lighting a cigarette and looking around.
She was tall, he realised, measuring her height by eye against the height of the door behind her. The thick, high-necked sweater fell to her hips, jeans outlining long, slender legs. Pale blonde hair had been drawn into a smooth braid at the back of her head. Civilian, he wondered or one of them? She turned around, a streamer of smoke escaping her lips and he saw her face. Oval. High cheekbones. Large pale eyes. Beautiful. One of them, he decided, unable to pinpoint the reason for the certainty he felt, but sure of it anyway.
Behind her, a man came out, also tall and blond, broad-shoulders half-disguised under the elegantly-cut silk suit, his breath fogging white in the cold and mimicking the cigarette smoke as he spoke to her.
Dean recognised the chiselled features from the photographs the order had in their file on the Thule Society. Dietrich, the name came back to him as he glimpsed the chill, blue-eyed stare through the scope. Very much one of the bad guys.
The man leaned close to the woman and he registered the relationship between them automatically, filing away the attraction and simultaneous distaste that seemed mutual. Something in their body language, some juxtaposition in the arrogance of their positions and the frigidity of the interaction, told him that cruelty was a trait of both, careless and natural. He wouldn't worry about either going down, he thought.
He was aware of the woods around them, aware of his brother lying four feet to his right, Sam's breathing barely audible, aware of the faint breeze that had begun to blow down from the peaks, aware of the dead silence that surrounded them, not even a trace of the conversation he was watching carrying on the almost-still air and over the snow to them.
He didn't have any warning at all.
The stock of the shotgun hit precisely on the nerve centre behind the ear and Dean slumped to the ground, the rifle falling from his hands. Sam was unconscious before he registered the blow to his brother, his gun lying on the thin covering of sodden leaf fall and crystallised snow in front of him.
"Get them down to the house," Draxler said quietly, looking down at the men. "Bring their weapons." He looked around the ridge. "There will be a vehicle, somewhere close by," he said to the boy and girl standing behind him. "Find it and bring it in."
They nodded and reached for each other's hands, disappearing with a faint pop as the air rushed to fill the space they'd been.
Litteris Hominae, Kansas
Mitch came into the library, his face white and pinched as he looked at Jerome. "Chuck's having another vision, I think."
Father Emilio looked at him. "Is he in his office?"
Mitch nodded. The priest looked at the people seated around the table, brow cocked. "One person rather than all, yes?"
"Merrin left a draught, to help him with the pain," Jerome said, gesturing at the hall. "It's in the kitchen."
Mitch nodded again. "I know where it is." He turned and ran down the hall, his footsteps thumping over the carpeted hardwood floor.
"Jerome, you had better call Bobby and Ellen," Jasper said, watching Father Emilio follow the young man out.
"He will sleep and in the morning, he will write it all down," Jerome said heavily. "No need for everyone to lose another night's sleep for no reason."
"We're not focussing on the correct thing anyway," Davis said from his chair by the fire. "It's becoming more apparent that we must retrieve the tablet, and we have no means of even discovering where it might be."
"Chuck might give us more clues this time," Father McConnaughey countered mildly.
"If the tablet has been taken to Hell, there is lore on how to break through to that plane," Katherine added, looking at Davis questioningly. "What changed, Davis?"
"Even if the hunters can stop or slow down the Grigori in New Mexico," Davis said slowly, looking from her to Jerome. "Even if the Qaddiysh can put Ninhursag and Nintu back into their prison, there are people out there, who are being possessed – according to Chuck's vision – and turned into monsters. And the tablet is the only thing that's going to give us a way to stop that from happening."
"Agreed," Jerome said impatiently. "And if we can find a definitive answer to discovering the location of the tablet, we may be able to do something about getting it, but until then …?"
"We've been looking in the wrong places." Davis gestured around the room. "We're not looking for lore but for ritual – for a spell of divination."
"You think that will work?" Katherine stared at him.
Davis looked over at Jerome. "It's what you learned, isn't it? In becoming an initiate? The spells to change things, to alter reality … to find things?"
For a moment, Jerome didn't answer him, looking at the flames cavorting over the burning logs in the hearth. Then he nodded.
"He's right." He pushed himself away from the table and turned his chair, rolling down the ramp to the elevator. "Jasper, can you wake Marla and Oliver? We'll need them."
Father Emilio sat in the chair beside the long sofa, his hands clasped around Chuck's as the convulsions eased and the writer's eyes rolled back in their sockets. "Mitch, the draught, before he loses consciousness completely."
The programmer poured out the measure and handed it to the priest, and he tipped a little between Chuck's lips, relieved as he swallowed automatically, letting the liquid trickle gradually into the prophet's mouth until the cup was empty.
"How long does he usually sleep at this stage?"
Mitch shook his head. "He slept for nine hours, the last time," he said uncertainly.
"I will stay with him if you want to rest, or continue your work," Father Emilio said, glancing at the mounds of paper surrounding the long desk that served as the programmer's workstation.
Mitch nodded, moving back to the desk. "I'm uploading and collating," he muttered, pulling out the chair. "Once it's running, it'll take all night and I can leave it."
The priest nodded and turned back to look at Chuck's face. Colour was returning to the pale skin and the rapid eye movement beneath the closed lids told him that the vision was playing out to the prophet.
See what we need to see, Chuck, he said to himself. We must close Hell before the demons can make any more deals. Before the rest of the Grigori can get here.
The messenger who'd answered Sean's prayers had been plain. The gates had to be closed now – before the current demon king could do anything and while the archdemons were bound and helpless. If they got free, for any reason, the chances of locking the accursed plane would be lost.
Jerome pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. It'd been years since he'd looked at most of the incantation and ritual magic books the library held. Years since he'd needed any but the most simple for the research he'd been doing. Along the long sides of the table, Marla and Oliver, Father McConnaughey, Katherine, Felix, Jasper and Davis were silently bent over their books, skimming through ancient Greek and Latin, through Sumerian and Akkadian cuneiform, through Hebrew and the pictograms of Egypt's earliest writings. Aside from the rustle of the paper, or the clink of the clay tablets on the polished timber table, the room was hushed.
Everything he could remember needed a key, he thought, pulling out the small square of antistatic cloth and polishing the lenses. Something associated with the object sought, or the material it was made of, or of its essence somehow. He couldn't remember ever seeing a divination spell that didn't require one.
As if he'd heard his thoughts, Felix looked up suddenly. "What about a symbol?"
"For the key?"
The old man nodded. "The Word was supposedly written by the Scribe, wasn't it?"
Jerome's eyes narrowed as he put his glasses back on, catching a glimmer of the language professor's idea.
"Mattatron … or Metatron," Jasper said slowly, nodding as he looked from Felix to Jerome. "There should be a sigil for him – his mark, every angel has their own. It would be unique to what he worked on."
"Marla, could you bring the angelology documents from level three, please," Jerome asked and the young woman pushed back her chair and hurried from the room.
"Would he sign the Word with his own sigil?" Katherine asked, her brow creasing.
"It would be proof of the authenticity of the tablet, for the rest of Heaven," Jasper said, looking at her. "Proof that it was actually God's Word."
"What else could it be on?" Davis looked at him.
"It might be on all of the tablets," Jerome said, considering the possibilities. "Could be on anything that God deemed suitable to give to mankind."
"The Ten Commandments?" Father McConnaughey looked up from his book. "The Ark of the Covenant?"
"Possibly," Jerome said, a slight smile crinkling his eyes.
"So we could be looking at dozens of locations?" Katherine asked him.
"Probably not dozens, I should –"
"We will have narrowed the search from the entire globe to a few locations," Jasper said sharply, looking at Katherine and Davis. "That is more progress than we've made to date."
She looked at him coolly. "No need to get your panties in a twist, Jasper."
"What do we need for a spell if we have the symbol to key it with?" Davis interrupted the silent feud between the professors.
"We have everything that's mentioned in most of these spells in the apothecary," Oliver said, gesturing at the books covering the table. "The key is always the most vital ingredient."
Jerome nodded. "Oliver, we'll use the map spell, get the candles and the equipment, we can use the situation table to start with."
"This might not work," Jerome continued, turning to Jasper. "If the scribe did not sign the tablets, we may find nothing."
"Better than sitting here doing nothing, isn't it?" Jasper returned caustically, flicking a glance at Katherine. "As much as I hate to admit to an agreement with him, Davis is right. There are people we need, people humanity needs, who are going to die if we don't move faster."
45º15'52.93 N, 22º29'46.30 W, Atlantic Ocean
Elena stared up at the flapping shreds of canvas that were still attached to the slides on the mast. She turned abruptly and sidled down the side deck, both hands keeping a firm grasp of the grab-rails and rigging as she went as the yacht rolled and pitched through the confused seas under her.
"We'll need to get the damaged slides out first," she told Peter as she slithered over the cockpit coaming and crouched behind the dog-house. She wiped the salt spray from her face as she looked up at him, feeling the drying crystals rasp on her skin. He nodded.
"Penemue," he called down the companionway. "We'll need you and Baraquiel on deck in a moment."
There was a grunting assent from below decks and Elena hid a small smile. The Qaddiysh had helped as much as they could during the height of the storm, but all three had retired to the relative stability of lying flat on the bunks when it was plain that their presence was more of a hindrance than a help. Shamsiel still had a greenish tinge under the dark skin of his face, moaning softly from time to time as the boat dropped from a peak into a trough.
She lowered the door into its slot in the bulkhead, climbing carefully over the sill and raising it behind her as she backed down the steep, narrow steps into the main cabin. Neither Penemue nor Baraquiel had actually succumbed to the mal de mer that had overtaken their brother, but both were bruised from being thrown around in the tight confines of the cabin during the storm and both looked tired.
Moving slowly up the passage to the forward cabin, she spared a grin for both of them. "The wind is backing finally and we will be able to get out of these seas soon. The mainsail is gone, but we have a spare, I'll just need some help to get up the mast."
Penemue nodded, getting to his feet and climbing the steps to the cockpit, Baraquiel following more slowly, both men holding onto the available hand-holds along the narrow passage, having learned the lesson of not keeping a hand for the ship and one for themselves the hard way.
Elena lifted the mattress and the slatted board that lay under it, her fingers finding the bosun's chair unerringly by feel in the dim light and close quarters. She pulled it out and checked the line, recoiling it as she picked up the canvas seat and tucked it under her arm.
The mast was sixty-five feet from the deck and swaying and rolling like a pendulum as the hull canted and dipped over the short, high seas. Looking up at the top, Baraquiel swallowed quickly against the sudden vertigo and dropped his gaze to the deck that was, at least, only moving up and down.
"You're going up there?" Penemue asked disbelievingly, his eyes fixed to the top of the mast, whipping back and forth, circling and figure-eighting in a highly unpredictable fashion.
"You're going to pull me up," Elena confirmed, stepping over the coaming and glancing back over her shoulder. "Harnesses on," she ordered them shortly. "It would be hard to retrieve you if you go over the side."
Peter hid a grin as he watched the Irin drag their harnesses out, clipping lines to the slim metal track that was welded to the coach-house. The job needed finesse to remove the jammed slides, but only muscle to get Elena to where she could work.
At the height of the storm that had kept them in Biscay's seething seas, the wind had gusted heavily, ripping the luff of the sail down along the edge closest to the mast, and most of it had gone into the sea, holding the boat against the waves. They'd cut it free and let it go, but the weight of the water in the cloth had been enormous, all the pressure exerted against the few slides that had remained both in the mast track and attached to the sail. The spare main had its own slides. Elena would know immediately if the slotted track had been damaged.
Under the tiny trysail now, they were keeping head to wind safely enough, waiting for the seas to calm. A day or two of a following wind would see them into the Atlantic proper, away from the bulging coastline of Spain and the strong currents and gales that were a feature of Biscay. Another couple of days and they would pass north of the Azores and then it would be fast sailing to the American coast. If all went well, he amended to himself. They could take the time to dry out the boat and its contents, and get into a routine. The boat carried a sextant and a good chronometer as well as a full set of charts for the north Atlantic. Navigation wouldn't be a problem.
He looked up, seeing Elena retrieve the main halyard block and tie the chair to it, hauling up the line until the chair hung a little below waist height above the deck. She climbed into it and wrapped the tail end around the winch on the mast, handing it to Penemue and, with many gestures, explaining the procedure. The Irin nodded, passing the end of the rope to his brother and taking a hold close to the winch. Elena checked once more that they all understand the signals and nodded, pushing off the wildly swinging mast as the two men hauled her up. She was at the top in moments, legs tightly wrapped around the slimmest section, ignoring the movement of boat and mast as she studied the track and the Irin slowly lowered her, stopping when she called out, resuming at the sharp downward drop of her arm.
A shakedown sail, they'd used to call it, Peter remembered. The boat and her crew had passed the test satisfactorily.
Taos, New Mexico
A cold hard floor under the side of his face.
A grunt of pain behind him.
The click-click of high-heels somewhere in the room.
Dean opened his eyes slightly, his view restricted to floor level. His head was throbbing in time with his pulse, behind his ear; nausea from the head blow turning his stomach over slowly. In his direct eyeline, he could see Sam, still unconscious and lying on his side, his arms as tightly trussed behind him as he could feel his own were.
He closed his eyes, replaying the last memories he had. The thin, silent woods. The two talking on the porch. A shift in the air. Nothing.
He couldn't think of anything that could sneak up on him and Sam without even the slightest of warning. His neck had been prickling all day, he remembered. He couldn't remember if that had gotten stronger before they were hit.
"How did you find us?"
The voice was light, male, thickened with a strong German accent. Dean heard the low grunt again and realised that things were worse than he'd thought. They had the others too.
"How did you find us?"
"He won't talk like this, Baeder." Another voice. Male. German accent. Not as strong.
"The others are awake." A boy's voice, young enough to not have broken yet.
"Thank you, Jesse," Baeder said, the words clipped and without feeling. "Tell Hubertus that we need him."
"Yessir," the boy said, and Dean opened his eyes narrowly again, watching a pair of small sneakers walk past him and around the sofa that blocked most of his view of the room. The kid sounded American, he thought, wondering what the hell he was doing here.
Several minutes later, heavy bootsteps entered the room from the same direction that the kid had gone and Dean narrowed his eyes further, barely slits as he watched a pair of worn, leather mountain climbers boots stop in front of him.
"You wanted me?"
The voice was male and deeper than the other two, an accent there but difficult to place.
"Which one is the leader?" Baeder asked abruptly.
Dean saw the boots turn and take a step toward him, eyes widening in shock as he felt himself lifted one-handed by the collar and dragged to his feet, the man's grip shifting to his shoulder and shoving him forward between the sofa and an armchair toward the two men standing on either side of Elias.
The hunter was sitting in a straight-backed chair, arms and ankles bound tightly with wire. Elias' face was swelling rapidly, raw red scrapes over chin and cheekbone and temple, one eye closed, the other slitted. Worked over only, Dean thought, regaining his balance as he stopped a few feet from them.
"Get him out," Baeder ordered, gesturing to the auburn-haired hunter in the chair and walking toward Dean.
"How did you find us?" he asked, stepping close.
"Lucky guess," Dean said flippantly, looking around the room. Two doors, one just on the edge of his peripheral vision leading into the house. The other a double-glazed French door set leading to the long front porch. The room was big, the furniture over-sized and generously spread out, a fire burning in a massive closed wood-stove in an interior wall. On the other side of the sofa a man and the woman he'd seen earlier stood, both watching silently. Maggie and Danielle were lying behind the second man, both bruised, both breathing. Maggie was staring at him, the side of her mouth swollen and bleeding. One eyelid flickered.
He saw the blow coming from the corner of his eye, telegraphed in the lift of the man's shoulder. The tightly closed fist was meant to hit his mouth, he thought, turning his head a fraction before it connected so that it scraped along his jaw instead, letting his weight drop back onto his right foot and dissipating the power as he rode it. He tasted blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek and dropped his head, spitting it onto the floor as he looked back at Baeder.
"How did you find us?" Baeder repeated in a monotone.
"Googled you," Dean told him, one side of his mouth quirking up insouciantly.
The blow from behind hit his kidney and felt like someone had rammed a tree-trunk into it. He staggered forward, vision sparkling as his nervous system absorbed the information and overloaded momentarily, pain sinking in through his back and down his legs.
Christ, he thought disbelievingly, stay on your fucking feet. A quarter turn of his head as he tried to keep his balance showed the impassive face of the man who'd picked him up, standing behind him. The one who'd picked him one-handed, he corrected himself. He wasn't pretty enough to be a fallen angel. That left one possibility and he felt his confidence sink as he took in the strength and power of the man who was not a man. Not entirely.
Sucking in air, he straightened up as much as he could, turning a little so that his back wasn't to the cambion.
"I will ask you one more time –"
"Don't be ridiculous, Baeder," the other man said lazily. "They won't talk like this."
"Your suggestion, Dietrich?"
Dietrich smiled slowly, walking to Danielle and lifting her easily to her feet, thrusting her forward toward the half-breed.
"It's Winchester, isn't it?" he said conversationally to Dean, the smile lingering. Dean didn't respond, keeping his face expressionless.
"Well, Mr Winchester, we would very much like to know how it is you could find us in this wilderness –" Dietrich said, gesturing slightly to the girl. Draxler stepped forward, his hands closing around her shoulders. Dean forced himself to keep his gaze on Dietrich.
"– with such accuracy," the blond man continued. "If you do not tell us, Mr Draxler here will pull this pretty girl apart. Slowly. You have thirty seconds."
"The Qaddiysh told us," Dean said with a show of reluctance, after ten seconds of taut silence. He let his shoulders drop a little. "We saw them in Jordan."
"The Qaddiysh cannot see us," Baeder spat at him, his face screwing up in fury.
Dean looked at him briefly and turned his gaze back to Dietrich. "They can. They told us they wouldn't get involved but they showed us the location of your base in Utah and they told us you were stuck here, until the passes clear."
He risked a glance at Draxler. The man's face showed no reaction. Danielle's face was white, her eyes wide.
"How else could we possibly have found you?" he asked Dietrich.
Dietrich studied him thoughtfully. "That is an excellent question. You came here to … what? Take us out?"
Dean nodded. "Prevention's better than cure."
"Yes," Dietrich nodded slowly. "Something I believe as well."
He turned sharply from Dean and looked at Draxler. "Take them out and shoot them, leave the bodies for the wolves," he said to the cambion. "Not the girl or the woman," he added as Draxler started to push Danielle toward the porch doors.
Dean saw a flicker of an expression cross Draxler's face as he released Danielle, going to the chair to pull Elias out. The half-breed's jacket gaped a little as he leaned forward and he saw the sub-machinegun in a modified holster under it, swearing inwardly as he realised that whatever move he was going to make, it would have to be now. They would have no chance at all against the cambion and the gun. Dietrich moved behind him, walking toward Danielle and Dean threw himself backward, feeling the other man go down under him, hearing the crack of his skull hitting the hardwood floor. He rolled over and snapped back to his feet, the shoulder-spring taking him close to Sam, who was rolling to his feet, already moving as they ran for the French doors together.
"GET THEM!" Baeder screamed. "KILL THEM!"
The doors were cedar, the light wood splintering under their combined weight and speed, the thick double glass panes falling free and smashing on the stone pavers. Dean felt blood running down the side of his face as he rolled onto his feet, turning hard to the right and seeing his brother doing the same, both pelting along the porch as the crunch of boots on glass sounded behind them.
"Plan?" Sam gasped as they made the corner with two bullets zinging past their ears.
"Stop," Dean snapped, his hands stinging furiously in the cold air, the long sliver of broken glass cutting through his palms. "Turn around."
He felt for his brother's wrists, slicing through the thin plastic wire and feeling Sam turn around behind him, taking the glass from him, pressure as he cut through and freed him.
The fucking susvee was four miles away … the thought disappeared as he turned to look at Sam, following his brother's surprised look across the yard. The susvee was sitting a hundred yards distant, in front of the long machinery shed.
"Get the Stingers and start taking the house down from the other end, I'll get the others," Dean said. He could hear Draxler's boots thundering down the porch toward them and he shoved Sam toward the back corner of the building. "NOW!"
Breaking out left, Dean headed across the yard toward the big barn, his soles slipping a little on the hard-frozen snow. A glance over his shoulder showed Draxler was following him and gaining. There was no sign of his little brother.
Just get him down and get that gun, he told himself as he shot through the partially open sliding doors into the darkness of the barn. He had the feeling that the darkness would work against him but he needed something to keep the half-breed off him as much as possible. One on one wasn't going to give him any advantage.
"You can't get out," Draxler's deep voice was muffled in the interior of the barn, absorbed by the bales of hay and straw that were stacked along the walls. "You cannot beat me."
We'll see, Dean thought, moving as quietly as he could along the wall of stalls. He saw the long shaft and grabbed it, reversing it smoothly and holding it out, the sharp prongs of the pitch fork casting off a faint gleam in the dim snow-reflected light from the doorway.
Gotta gun so all he has to do is shoot you. The thought ran through his mind and he threw himself to one side, the expected bullets whining above him.
"I can see you, human, but you cannot see me," Draxler said, moving more cautiously as Dean ducked backward behind the stacks of hay.
West Keep, Lebanon
The scanner moved slowly over her stomach and Alex looked over at the monitor as Kim angled it this way and that, looking for the best picture.
"Are those –?"
The slender doctor nodded. "Two heartbeats," she said, capturing the image and sending it to the computer. "Twins. Fraternal, I think, not identical."
"How can you tell?" Alex asked, feeling her pulse accelerating.
"One is a little larger than the other," Kim said, peering more closely at the grainy image on the screen. "Not always reliable but in this case, more probable." She captured another image and lifted the scanner from Alex's skin, drying it and setting it down and passing a sterilised cloth to Alex to wipe the gel from her stomach.
"Why?"
"Because of the effect of Ninhursag," Kim answered absently as she called up the files and ran them through the software Mitch had created to get the highest resolution from the pictures. "So far, we're seeing around eighty percent multiple births, and most of them will be the same, a day or two at most difference in conceptions, possibly even different fathers, although I hope not."
"Super-charged fertility clinic on the go," Alex said tiredly, sitting up and thinking of the ramifications of that. "Did you finish the statistical probabilities for Jerome?"
"This morning," Kim said, turning back to her. "Alex, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you. We're really much more worried about the women at either end of the age spectrum, especially the older ones."
"Mmm-hmmm."
"You're perfectly healthy, both babies have strong heartbeats and they look exactly as they should for this stage," Kim said, hitting the print button and retrieving the print out as it hit the tray. "Look, see for yourself."
The picture was still grainy, but she could see them now, the second shot capturing the tiny, curled up children growing in her. Two.
"When do I have to come back?" she asked Kim, handing back the printout.
"No, you can keep that, show it to Dean when he gets back," Kim said, passing it back. "At twenty weeks. We'll be able to see the sex then if they cooperate. Just a routine check."
Alex nodded. "If there was anything wrong, when would you see it?"
Kim sighed and looked up at her. "If there was anything wrong with the babies, we'll see it in the first three months. If anything goes wrong with their environment – you – it could happen at any time. But I seriously doubt anything will. And I mean that."
She added the second copies of the pictures to the file and stood up. "Get dressed, and we'll go over what you can expect in the next few weeks, okay?"
Nodding, Alex slid off the examination table, picking up her shirt and slipping her arms in. It was all very well for Kim to say 'don't worry', she thought dryly. It wasn't so easy not to worry about something she'd never thought she'd experience. The dreams she'd been getting over the last two nights hadn't helped her feel calmer. She couldn't remember them when she woke, just the feelings they left, a tangled mess of fear and aching grief that she couldn't source.
When he was here, she didn't have bad dreams. She had a feeling he didn't either. She couldn't take anything to help her sleep dreamlessly now. He'll be back soon, she told herself, buttoning up her jeans and pulling on her boots.
Taos, New Mexico
Gotta get back to the house, Dean thought, moving faster behind the stack. He dropped as the machinegun chattered furiously, bullets spraying out through the hay bales, rolling hard forward and bringing the pitch fork up as Draxler came around the end and the gun dropped silent.
The half-breed moved with surprising speed, and Dean backed out between the row of bales and the side of the stalls fast, catching sight of the white snow in the gap between the two tall doors as he retreated toward it.
"Do you have any idea of what I am?"
"Sure," Dean said, shifting his weight to his back foot as Draxler closed the space between them. "Half-breed."
Another flicker of some unidentifiable emotion crossed the cambion's face. There were feelings somewhere in there, Dean thought distantly. Well-hidden but there.
For a moment they both stopped, Draxler less than six feet from him, the tines of the fork between them. Then the half-breed moved, a fast feint to the left and back to the right, and Dean drove forward, anticipating the deception, the tines burying themselves deeply into Draxler's chest as he launched his weight behind the tool.
The cambion grunted, hand curling around the haft and holding on as he shifted back, dragging Dean with him before he thought to release the fork. Draxler pulled the tines free, throwing the tool to the floor, and stepped in, one hand whipping toward the man and fingers scraping over his jacket as Dean shifted frantically backward. If the bastard got a hold of him, he knew, it was all over. He turned and raced for the door.
He'd barely cleared it when he felt the blow between his shoulders, knocking him forward onto the churned snow and frozen mud at the entrance. Rolling to the side, he was on his feet as Draxler stepped in. Alright, fuck it. Think. Human and demon. Same nervous system. Same structure. Stronger, tougher, maybe but the weaknesses will be there too.
He dropped into a slight crouch, his attention narrowed down to a tight focus on the other man. Draxler smiled, moving closer, his hands lifted and in front of his chest and Dean jumped, twisting in the air, moving faster than he'd ever moved before, his booted sole smashing the half-breed's right hand back against his chest. The left reached for him and he felt the scrape of the stiffened, steel-hard fingers down the outside of his thigh as he twisted hard and dropped to the ground on his feet and hands, ducking and rolling across the snow to get out of range.
The cambion was looking at him oddly when he rolled to his feet and turned to face him. The fingers of the right-hand were bent and twisted and he saw Draxler look down at it for a moment, letting it drop as he realised he couldn't make it close.
Dean wasn't sure he could pull off the same move twice, but the half-breed gave him an opening when Sam started firing the holy oil missiles at the house, the sharp whistle of the projectile and the explosion dragging Draxler's attention for a fraction of a second and he was in the air again, feeling the crack of bone beneath his feet as they hit the other hand and hammered it between boot and ribs. The cambion was faster this time, one arm hooking around his knee as he twisted aside, a bolt of pain from the twisted joint shooting up through his groin to his back. He lashed out with his other leg, catching Draxler in the side of the face and the half-breed let go, both men falling to the ground as the house behind them was hit with another missile and Dean heard the sound of small-arms fire.
He stood up, feeling the fire in his knee and flexing it slowly, testing it for damage. Wrenched, he decided as he put his weight gingerly over it. Nothing broken.
Draxler rolled onto his side, both hands hanging limply now and stared at him. In the dark eyes, Dean saw a dawning recognition of the idea of defeat. He forced himself to spread his weight evenly over both feet, saw the half-breed hesitate.
The centre of the house exploded and the pressure and heat wave from the blast knocked them both to the ground. Maggie, Dean thought bleakly, throwing his arm over his head as he squinted at the bright flames that licked through the room they'd been held in. That flickering wink had been deliberate.
He got up, turning away from the cambion and running for the house, his knee protesting fiercely as it took his weight from stride to stride. He saw someone stagger out, and accelerated, ignoring the pain. Elias had Danielle over one shoulder, both reddened from the proximity to the fire. He heard the susvee's distinctive engine start up and took the girl from the hunter's shoulder, shifting her weight over his own, and jerking his head toward the vehicle as Sam turned it to pass in front of the house.
As he handed Danielle up to Elias through the open rear door, he glanced back into the raging inferno in the house, seeing figures moving inside against the flames, uncaring of who they were. Grabbing holding of the door, he pulled himself up and inside the cab as Sam gunned the engine and the tracks bit into the snow-covered ground. Draxler staggered past them, his attention fixed on the house.
"What happened?" Dean climbed through the gap between the two front seats, looking back at Elias as he pulled Danielle into a half-sitting position over his legs.
"The woman and Dietrich started in on Danielle and Maggie detonated one of Franklin's bombs," Elias said sharply. "I knew she had it on her, but I couldn't think of a way to use it and get us all out." He looked up, his face slightly illuminated from the dash lights in the front of the cab. "I think the woman in there and the other man were killed. I was on the floor and so was Danielle. Dietrich and Baeder, I don't know."
Dean thought of the figures he'd seen in the fire. Severe burns at best, he hoped. Incineration would be preferable. He looked at Sam's profile as his brother concentrated on the road ahead of them.
"What'd you hit?"
"Took out the end of the house with the first one," Sam said shortly. "Got their vehicles with the second and then just started to work along the house when the centre went up. Figured it was time to go."
"Figured right."
"Can they follow us?" Elias asked from the back.
"Not anytime soon," Sam said over his shoulder. "Not unless they got another way of getting to more vehicles."
"Good."
Dean nodded, leaning back against the seat. "Danielle alright?"
Elias was silent for a moment, then he nodded. "She will be, I think."
Closing his eyes, Dean looked back through the disjointed memories he had of the last two hours. They'd done what they'd come for. The Grigori were stuck there until they could either get reinforcements or until the weather warmed enough to clear the passes. They knew a bit more about the cambion as well. Not enough, but it was a start. They'd lost a valuable hunter …
He dragged in a deep breath, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, feeling the stickiness on the side of his face.
"Straight through?" Sam asked, glancing over at him.
"Yeah," Dean said. "We'll take shifts."
Not a win. Not really, he thought tiredly.
Draxler pulled Baeder out of the room, careful not to touch the bubbling and raw skin on the fallen's right side. Behind him, Dietrich lay in the snow, teeth grinding together as he fought against the pain of the burns that riddled his right side.
The cambion lowered Baeder to the snow and packed it against the burns, the Grigori unconscious and limp now. He knelt beside him when he'd finished, looking at the burning house and the long shed that had held all their vehicles. The hunters had been spectacularly lucky in what they'd achieved, he thought. Perhaps not just lucky, perhaps also clever in their ability to improvise as the situation had dictated. The old woman had been very clever, first in hiding the device and secondly in giving up her life for the others. He couldn't imagine himself – or any of the fallen – doing the same. Was it a strength or a weakness, he wondered?
Two of the nephilim were dead. The other three were alive, one burned. He didn't know where Jesse and Alison were. But they were able to take care of themselves.
For a moment, he remembered the fight with the man. He looked down at his hands. They were still broken and bent but they were healing, as they all healed, immortal if their hearts remained beating in their chests. The man had been fast, he thought. Faster than he'd encountered before. Strong as well. But it had been his strategy that had allowed him to escape, Draxler knew. It had been a long time since he'd needed a strategy with any opponent. That was a weakness on his part, to have underestimated the man. He would not make the mistake again. Winchester, he reminded himself, had defeated Lucifer. A tiny thread of some emotion he didn't know how to characterise filtered through the thoughts.
He would be ready the next time they met, he told himself, ignoring that thread. He would be ready.