Chapter 18 The Straits of Fear
Heaven
Castiel looked around the light-filled room resignedly. It didn't look like a prison, but it was. He'd been here for nine weeks, as the humans counted time, long enough to know that whatever had happened in the settlements was long over, and long enough to know that either Dean or Sam or both would probably have begun the trials.
His return to Heaven had been confusing, Gabriel disappearing in search of Michael, and three of the seraphim who served Raguel escorting him here, asking him to wait for the commander. He'd waited for some time before he'd decided to try and find Michael himself. And it had been then that he'd realised he was in a prison. No door marred the smooth walls. He could not reach out to his brothers, in mind or heart or body. He was, in fact, stuck.
Most of his time here had been spent in meditation, trying to separate the facts from the rumours, from the half-truths and outright lies he'd been told. It had become clear to him that Raphael may have been leading the rebels but he was not the only architect of the conspiracy to change the rule of Heaven. He wondered vaguely who had been hiding more deeply in the shadows, content to direct without showing themselves. There were not many who had the power and the motivation to manoeuvre the Divine plane into the chaos in which it was now enveloped. Only the archangels could control the lower ranks. Only the archangels could hope to contend Michael's command of the Host. And there were only four of the seven remaining.
He blinked and looked up as a rustle of wings announced his visitor.
"Castiel, my deepest apologies," the angel who stood before him said, the tenor voice inflected with a regret that Cas doubted was real.
He got to his feet, looking at the construct of Camael. Tall and well-built as they all were, with long hair, the colour of burnished wheat, flowing over shoulders and between the rose-tinted grey wings. The archangel had been … promoted, Castiel decided, for lack of a better description … to the Voice of God when Metatron had fled Heaven, and had taken his duties seriously for two millennium.
"Camael, what's going on?" the angel said, stepping closer. "Where is Michael? I was told he needed to see me – weeks ago! By whose orders have I been –"
"Michael has been putting down the rebel faction, Castiel," Camael said, one hand lifting and gesturing vaguely. "After Raphael's death, they united and attempted to take over, it was only the strength of the Host that kept the Pillars in place. He has been in a state of meditation since the rout, seeking answers from our Father."
"And Gabriel?"
"Gabriel in on the lower plane," the archangel told him, his wings shivering restlessly. "The Grigori have risen in Asia and Europe, they have been using a spell to raise the dead."
"Raise the dead?" Cas frowned at him. "For what purpose?"
"They are trying to build an army, we believe," Camael said, his face expressionless. "Raguel needs to speak to you, he asks that you be patient – he will not be long, but this –" He gestured at the walls of the room. "– is necessary, until he can get here."
"Necessary?"
"The rebels know that you have helped the humans, Castiel," Camael said quietly. "You are in danger every moment you are in Heaven – they have sworn to kill you."
Castiel studied the archangel's face. Angels did not lie. Except when they did. He'd spent a lot of time with the Winchesters, had learned something from Dean's ability to tell a liar when faced with one.
"So this prison, it's for my safety?" he asked, without emphasis.
"Precisely. To keep you safe," Camael agreed. "It won't be much longer, I can promise you that." He turned away. "Raguel did need to know if you can tell us the locations for the human settlements?"
"You can't find them?"
The archangel shook his head. "They are hidden now. Raguel is worried that if they need help we won't be able to find them to provide assistance in time."
Cas opened his mouth automatically, obediently, to give the locations of the keeps in Kansas and camps in Michigan and hesitated. "I do not have those locations, Camael," he said instead, looking into the other's eyes as the arch turned to look at him.
"Really?"
Cas shrugged. "I find the Winchesters when they pray for assistance, otherwise their location is hidden to me as well."
He watched the archangel turn away again, the shifting grey feathers of the huge wings resettling in an unconscious gesture he found reminiscent of a feline's tail twitching, restlessly.
"Do you know what is happening on the lower plane, Camael?"
The question appeared to surprise the angel, and Cas sighed inwardly. Curiosity was not a thing of angels, not usually. Friendship wasn't really either.
"To the humans, you mean?" Camael asked, one dark gold brow rising at the seraphim's nod.
"The settlements were overrun by the army controlled by the demon," he said briskly. "I believe they took some hostages and the prophet and the stone. The humans pursued them but failed to recover the prophet."
Cas felt his heart sink. "What happened?"
"The Grigori killed the hostages and escaped," Camael said, a faint crease marring the perfect brow. "The Winchesters did continue the pursuit, and have completed the first trial. I'm not sure how, but the demon king and the fallen with him were also killed. I believe they have retrieved the prophet and stone now."
"What about the creation forces?"
"One has been recaptured. The other is still free," Camael said shortly, his head tilted to one side as he heard the summons. "I have to leave, Castiel, I will send word soon."
Cas felt the soft rush of air past him as the archangel disappeared. Dean and Sam had been busy, he thought, a little flush of guilt at leaving them alone in their time of need spreading through him. He wondered which hostages had been taken and what effect had had on the brothers. Dean would regret any death on their behalf, he knew, but some would wound more deeply than others.
He turned his thoughts to what the archangel had said … and had not said.
West Keep, Kansas. May 17, 2013.
The Impala crawled through the gates as people gathered around, Chuck's eyes screwing up tight as he tried to make out the narrow road through the sparks and spears of light that were blinding him. The migraine was heavy and thick in his head, every sound drilling into him, the light too bright, and his stomach clenching and spasming with every bump on the road.
"Chuck!" Rufus veered aside as the car hopped toward him. "Christ, stop!"
He reached the driver's door and yanked it open, stamping a foot on the brake and stalling the engine as Chuck toppled sideways into Sam, his eyes rolled back and showing only white.
"Get Merrin and Bob, now!" Rufus yelled at the crowd, looking back into the car's interior. Sam was out cold, leaning against the passenger door; in the back seat, Dean was also out, his face and arms criss-crossed by cuts and slashes and bruising rising in a rainbow of dark colours over all that Rufus could see of him. What the fuck had happened to them?
"Fred, open the passenger door, you and Franklin take Sam out and up to Ward Two," Merrin's cold, crisp voice said behind him and he turned, breathing a sigh of relief as she took complete control. "Vince, you and Peter get Dean out – carefully," she added as she saw the blood-soaked blanket pulled over him. She looked through the driver's door at the writer and nodded to herself.
"Elias, can you take Chuck up? He's out but it looks like one of his migraines, I can't see any other injuries. He can go into the office."
The auburn-haired hunter nodded and leaned past her, surprisingly gentle as he extracted Chuck from the seat and lifted him out, Nate behind him to take the prophet's feet and legs.
"I'll move the car," Rufus said to no one in particular as the three men were carried up to the keep and the crowd began to dissipate.
Bob lifted Dean's eyelid, the small penlight flashing across the eyes from side to side as he noted the pupil response. "He's deep," he said to Merrin. "I'll need some help with the exam."
"Sam's burning up," the nurse said abruptly, her brows drawn together. "I have to get back there, Marla's with him but he's presenting SV tach and I need to get his heart back to a steady rhythm."
"I can help," Zoe said from the doorway. "Candy striped through two years, I can do the dirty work."
"You're hired," Bob said wearily, nodding at Merrin as she left. "Get his feet, we'll cut everything off once he's on the table."
Zoe nodded, lifting as the doctor did, Dean moved from the gurney to the padded table in the one smooth action.
Bob's breath left his chest in a sharp exhale as he cut the shirt free and looked down at Dean's chest. "Christ, what happened?"
"Those are whip cuts," Elias said from behind him, straightening up from the doorway and walking to the table.
Cutting up the outside seam of the jeans, Zoe glanced over her shoulder at the hunter and back to the torn up chest. "The shoulder wound isn't."
"No," Bob said as he eased the dressing off. "That's an animal bite."
"He goin' to be alright, doc?" Elias asked.
Bob looked at him in surprise. He'd only been working with the hunters for a few months, but no matter what the injuries were, none of them ever seemed to feel that they were life-threatening.
"Yes, if we can keep him quiet, he'll recover."
"With the use of that arm?"
Bob turned to look down at the shoulder, suddenly understanding the man's concern. "I think so."
"You need help with anything?" Elias asked him, flicking a glance at Zoe.
"No, we'll manage," Bob said, seeing the glance. "Check with Merrin though, we're short-handed right now."
"Right."
He left the room and Bob turned to watch Zoe cut through the seam of the jeans over the hip. He saw the bloodied mess under the cloth and swallowed suddenly. "Zoe, get hot water and the antibacterial soap, gauze and cloths, would you?"
She stopped cutting and looked at him. "I'm almost finished –"
"I'll finish the cutting," he cut her off, gesturing sharp to the door. "And tell Merrin I need broad-spec antibiotics, an IV bag of morphine and another of D5 1/2NS, and her help in about five minutes."
"Sure," she said, turning for the door.
Merrin came in four minutes later, glanced past Bob to Dean and told Zoe to go and keep an eye on Chuck.
When the door had closed, she moved beside Bob, looking clinically over the unconscious body in front of her as she set up the bags and laid out the tray.
Bob glanced at her. "You don't look surprised."
"I worked in the Middle East for a few years," she said neutrally. "Saw a lot of this. How's the BP?"
"Not too bad," Bob said. "I don't think blood loss is the problem. I want to keep him out completely for a few days."
She smiled wryly. "I can tell you now that Dean has a very high threshold for pain, but we'll keep him under for a while."
Picking up the warm saline, she began to clean away the dried and crusted blood, working her way up from mid-thigh gently as Bob sluiced out the shoulder and looked at the collarbone.
May 22, 2013
The darkness thinned out, little by little and he became aware of his surroundings, turning slowly as he looked around. The mountains towered along the horizon, peak after peak, grey and blue and purple, capped with snow and sheltering what remained of the city that nestled at the foot of the ranges. Familiarity tugged at him, but he could see only a handful of buildings in the thick woods that had grown up along the slopes of the foothills and none sparked a positive identification. Behind him, the sun was rising and a wide plain stretched out, tall grass bowing and shivering in the vagrant breeze. He looked at the north eastern sky, brows drawing together as he saw a black line along the edge, growing wider and deeper as he watched …
… the noise registered slowly, a deep thud-thud and he looked around, searching for the source, feeling the sound through the soles of his boots, in the marrow of his bones. Marching, he thought suddenly. That was the sound of thousands of feet, marching in unison. An army. He looked at the mountains and back to the plain, unable to see anything but the fields and woods, and the clouds, getting closer, casting a dark shadow over the land beneath them …
… he staggered back as a man appeared in front of him, tall and narrow-shouldered, a long black coat cut with a wide skirt that swung out as he turned. White-blond hair swirled out with the motion, gathered at the nape of the man's neck and pale grey eyes, so pale he thought at first the irises weren't there, staring at him coldly. The man laughed and raised a short-handled whip, dozens of thongs curling and twisting as he drew it back and Dean leapt backward as they whistled toward him, not far enough, the pain of the hardened and knotted ends cutting into his bare skin. He looked down, seeing the red lines patterned over him and felt a black rage filling him …
… he was kneeling, his knees stabbed by the sharp-pointed gravel, trying not to see the sightless stare, eyeballs coated thinly in dust that hid the colour of the irises, trying not to believe what he'd known when the first shot had cracked through the air, he jerked backward as the eyes blinked, the dust washed out by tears, unable to bear the sight, unable to just drop her onto the gravel, a shiver reaching right through him, his hands shaking as she kept blinking, and her eyes focussed on him …
… the vampire leaned over him, mouth bright red against the ebony skin, his blood, he knew, dripping back down onto him – do you want to live? – he shook his head, feeling his strength ebbing out of him as the head dipped and pain screeched through him, blood pulled from the artery, his heart beating faster – do you want to live? – he screamed, the sound ripping through his throat and mind and soul as he drove the blade through the vampire's neck and wrenched at it, severing the head, cold blood pouring over him, filling his eyes as he pushed the body off him …
… the pain wasn't stopping and he stumbled forward, the fallen angel lifting a knife and bringing it down, over and over into the swollen abdomen of the woman lying in front of him, single blue-grey turning to him and the misshapen mouth hissing – does it hurt now? Can you feel it, Winchester? And it did, writhing through him, clawing and biting and gnawing, too much pain and no overload – was he dead? – he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger – stop! Stop it! I don't want to feel! I don't want to feel anything! Ever!
Dean snapped awake, the painkiller flowing through his bloodstream unable to keep him under through the pain that riddled his body, unable to keep the dreams locked up. He dragged in a deep breath, freezing into immobility as a biting wave of acid flooded through him, the blood draining from his face, leaving the bruises standing out like rotten blooms, mottling his skin.
"Dean," a high, gentle voice beside him and warmth around his hand, enclosed in two others, smaller, holding his tightly.
The pain ebbed away gradually and he opened his eyes, narrowing them again immediately at the too-bright light. A soft bed under him, though it didn't stop the fierce jabs and bites and grinding ache in his back; soft sheets pulled over him, but still he could feel the smooth fabric catching on his skin, on the scabs and stitches and dressings, tearing at him. He let his eyes open a little wider as they adjusted to the light, seeing a vaguely-familiar face beside him, warm café-au-lait skin and dark brown eyes, looking at him, worried now.
"Zoe?" he asked, his voice unrecognisable through a throat of glass and sand and shrapnel. His mouth and tongue were coated in something dead, he thought, swallowing painfully as his stomach rolled.
"Don't talk," she said, squeezing his hand and releasing it gently, turning to the nightstand to get a glass of water with a straw. He felt the scabs over his face pull at his skin as he tried to frown at the incongruity of the gesture.
"Just drink a little at a time," she instructed him, holding the straw next to his mouth, guiding it in. "You've been out for a few days and on some pretty serious painkillers."
The water was ice-cold and he felt his tongue and mouth and throat swelling with it, the taste washed away, the nausea subsiding a little.
"Do you have a lot of pain?" she asked when he pulled back from the straw. "You shouldn't even be awake yet."
"Wh-at ha-ppened?" he croaked at her, wincing as an incautious attempt to move pulled at … everything.
"You don't remember?"
He felt her take his hand in hers again and his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her, the gesture too personal, the indecisiveness of her answer bringing irritation.
"Get … the … doc," he managed to grate out, his eyes darkening with the rancid bite of pain in his shoulder as he pulled his hand away.
"Dean, it's alright," she said, looking down at his hand. "It's going to be okay."
The words stirred a tenuous memory and he felt a doubling sensation, reliving a mixture of relief and confusion, of longing and doubt. It flickered briefly in his mind and faded away, too amorphous to keep hold of.
Closing his eyes, he braced himself and cleared his throat, turning cautiously to look back at her. "Get the doc," he told her again, his voice more like he remembered and the warning in it clear.
She hesitated, then nodded, getting up and going to the door and he tried to relax the tension that had knotted up in his shoulder, sending flashes of pain down through his chest and up into his neck.
Bob Malley walked in a minute later, looking at the sweat that sheened his patient's face. Zoe came in behind and walked around the bed to pick up a soft cloth, leaning over to wipe it away. Bob saw Dean jerk away, face screwing up with the pain the movement caused and he caught Zoe's hand.
"Leave it," he told her. "See if Merrin needs a hand with anything, please."
She dropped the cloth back in the basin of water and walked out with a stiff-backed rigidity that was apparent to both men.
"What the hell …?" Dean said, looking at Malley.
"She's been a little … protective … of you, since Chuck got you back," Bob said apologetically, closing the door and dragging a chair to the bedside.
Dean digested that in silence. He didn't know what to make of it.
"Pain's pretty bad?" the doctor asked, leaning toward the IV and adjusting the flow slightly.
"You could say that," Dean grunted. "How long have I been here?"
"Four days."
"What?"
Bob turned at the shock in his voice and smiled. "You were worked over pretty hard, Dean. Between that and whatever got your shoulder, you're lucky to be here at all."
Memories surfaced and he turned away from them. He'd need more time before he could look at them without the associated physical sensations rising as well.
"Where's Sam?"
"Sam's fine, he's at the order," Bob said, walking around the bed and wringing out the cloth, wiping Dean's face and neck clinically as he looked carefully at the cuts and bruising. "The burning sensations have been recurring, but he says that the effects are diminishing now."
And that was pure bullshit, Dean thought, eyes half-closing as Malley drew back the covers gently and he felt the cooler air brush over his skin.
"Couldn't do much about modesty, I'm afraid," Bob said prosaically. "Too much damage all over and I didn't want anything to rub."
"What about his heart?" Dean ignored the doctor's scrutiny of his wounds and focussed on his brother.
"It's fine," Bob said, lifting the dressing over the bullet wound and looking at it closely. "You really are a fast healer."
"What do you think is causing the – uh, temperature fluctuations in Sam?" Dean pressed.
"Temperature fluctuations? That's one way to put it, I suppose," Bob said, drawing the covers back up with a dry smile. "Sam thinks that the contract with God is burning the demon blood out of him."
Dean blinked.
"He told you?"
"Told me as much as I needed to know," Bob confirmed with a slight shrug. "What's happening to him isn't anywhere on the scale of normal. Father Emilio and I agreed that, given the circumstances, he'd be better off at the order, with those who understand what's happening to him taking care of him."
"But he's okay?"
"No," Bob shook his head. "No more than you are. He's alive and I believe that he'll survive. He's in enormous pain when it happens, and I've given them some medications to help with that, although I think he's doing better on what Oliver has made up for him."
He sat down again, gesturing to Dean's shoulder. "You, on the other hand, are going to lose the use of your right arm unless you give it the time to heal properly."
Dean looked at him, chewing on the corner of his lower lip as he weighed the likelihood of Malley being right.
Seeing his doubt, Bob clarified. "It was a devil of a job to get the collarbone realigned, Dean. You were hung by your wrists?" He paused as Dean nodded unwillingly. "It pulled everything out. I'm not a hundred percent sure it's all back correctly, but I can't do anything else with it until the ends rejoin. Then we can see if it's straight and if not, rebreak and reset it."
"Collarbone – even a crooked one – isn't going to fuck up my arm, doc," Dean told him acerbically.
"No," Malley agreed. "But the muscles behind and around your shoulder were repeatedly torn and pulled apart. They are not going to heal up right unless they have enough rest. There's no infection, but to be honest, I've never seen such a mess. I've drawn everything back together as much as possible, and you're still pretty young, young enough to heal well, if you give it a chance."
Dean looked away. "Might not be up to me."
"It'll have to be up to you – or you better start learning to do everything with your left hand."
"How long?"
"A few weeks," Bob told him, getting to his feet and looking at the drip. "Are you feeling more comfortable?"
"No." Dean scowled at the wall, thinking of what could happen in a few weeks without him around. "Yeah," he added, seeing the doctor's expression. "I'm – uh, hungry."
"Good," Bob said. "I'll get someone to bring something up."
May 24, 2013
What we do here is rewire the mind, Alastair said conversationally to Dean as he stood beside the demon and they both looked at the man stretched out on the rack in front of them. For some, the boundary between pain and pleasure is thin to begin with. For others, it takes longer. He felt the demon's speculative gaze on him and kept his gaze fixed on the victim.
The memory surfaced in conjunction with the deep ache of his body. The swelling had gone down, mostly. He was black and blue from shoulders to thighs, front and back, and nothing worked particularly well. The drip was gone, the pleasant, floating feeling too addictive psychologically, never mind physically. He wanted to be able to think, needed to be able to think. Needed to be able to shut down some thoughts as well.
Looking out through the deep, narrow embrasure at the cloudless sky he could see, Dean realised that the memory hadn't frightened him, hadn't brought with it the old fluxing wash of pain and shame and guilt. The only thing you did was try to stop the pain.
Maybe she'd been right, he thought, the inward flinch at the memory of her voice, her words, familiar and fleeting. In the Grigori's half-frozen face, he'd seen enjoyment, pleasure, mingled with the rage, with the frustration that had been taken out on him. He'd thought … he'd felt … for a long time, that he'd felt that too, but seeing it in someone else, he realised that wasn't the truth. Not the whole truth, at least. You're not a monster, Dean. You never have been. If you'd truly enjoyed it, why would you feel so ashamed by what you did now?
He closed his eyes, wishing suddenly for the detached and uncaring relief of the morphine, the bright, sharp yearning that filled him hurting worse than anything he felt physically, bringing the memories that tore through him more agonisingly than those he had of Hell.
The door opened and he registered the sound, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he forced it all away, eyelids screwed tight with effort of pushing it all back down where he couldn't feel it, where it couldn't keep aching.
"Bacon today," Zoe's voice was cheerful and high. "Eggs, too."
Pulling in a deep breath, ignoring the various stabs and bolts of pain the movement brought, he opened his eyes and tried to look enthusiastic.
"Thanks."
She set the tray on the bed, picking up the cutlery and starting to cut up the food. Malley had taped and strapped the right shoulder down firmly, his arm held in a sling to keep movement to a bare minimum. He could feed himself if the pieces were small enough to get into his mouth.
"You want some help?" she asked him, handing him the fork. He shook his head as he stabbed a piece of bacon, driving the tines through a cut-up section of egg and toast as well.
She made him uneasy, he realised, keeping his gaze on the food and trying to ignore his awareness of her watching him eat. Anyone would have made him uncomfortable in this situation, but he felt her constant attention on him, and there was something else, something that he couldn't get to come to the surface, some memory just out of reach.
After a couple of mouthfuls, he looked up at her. "Why aren't you working with the others?"
She knew what he meant. She was a hunter, in training, but nonetheless, a hunter.
"Merrin's got a full ward and all her nurses are spread around the county, checking on the pregnancies," she told him, getting up as she registered the faint but underlying hostility. She walked around the room, a little aimlessly, straightening the covers, refilling the water jug on the nightstand. "She needed someone to help out with you because Rudy and Adam are still under full time care as well."
He accepted the explanation with reservations, looking back at the plate to stab more food. "Yeah, well, you can tell her that I'm okay to look after myself now."
Zoe turned to look at him, pushing back her thick, dark hair. "You're not, you know," she said softly, coming back to the bedside. "You need someone to look after you."
Debating the advisability of opening this can of worms, he hesitated and stared at the plate beside him. She sat on the bed, leaning over and his gaze snapped up as her hand brushed down his cheek.
"What's going on?" he asked, pulling back from the touch sharply, the fork clattering loudly on the china as he dropped it.
"You don't remember?" she asked, smiling a little. "You were pretty out of it, but you–"
The door opened and Father Emilio looked in. Dean saw him take in the situation and felt a wash of relief when the Jesuit stepped into the room and Zoe shifted back on the bed, away from him.
"Sorry," Father Emilio said, his expression neutral. "I can come back later if you are busy?"
"No," Dean said quickly, glancing down and picking up the fork, stabbing the last few pieces of food together and stuffing the load into his mouth as he put the fork back on the plate. He tucked the food into his cheek and looked back at the priest. "Now's good."
He heard the impatient huff from the woman beside him as she picked up the plate and fork and got off the bed. Out of it, he thought distractedly. When had he been out of it? He sighed inwardly. The last few weeks, quite a few times.
The priest opened the door wide and stood aside to let Zoe leave, then turned and closed the door behind her. He glanced back at Dean.
"How are you feeling?"
Dean swallowed the mouthful and inched himself toward the glass on the nightstand. "Not great. You got any info on what's going on?"
"Plenty," Father Emilio said, walking around the bed and picking up the glass to hand to him. "Not all good, you understand."
"Thrill me."
"Oliver has extracted a sufficient quantity of Cerberus' blood from your clothes and Sam's to provide entry and exit to Hell," Father Emilio said, dragging the chair across and sitting down.
"Okay, good," Dean said, wondering what the Jesuit was reluctant to talk about. "How's Sam? What about the … attacks, or whatever they are?"
"They are still going on, not as frequently now," the priest said. "He is having difficulty sleeping. And eating."
Dean's brows drew together. "But he's getting some, right?"
"Some," Father Emilio agreed reservedly. "He believes that he is being purged of the taint in his blood."
Dean looked at him, wondering how many people Sam'd told. "Yeah, but that – uh – that's a good thing, isn't it?"
For a moment, Father Emilio didn't answer, and Dean felt his stomach drop, the food in it uncomfortably heavy.
"Yes," the Jesuit said, firmly. "Yes, I believe it to be a good thing."
"Alright." Dean watched him, realising he didn't know want to know anything else. "What about Chuck?"
"Chuck had another vision," Father Emilio told him. "This one we cannot place."
"What do you mean?"
"It was fragmented, like the visions he had of you in Hell," Emilio said carefully. "Not a progression, but a series of images, of scenes."
"Describing what?"
"He saw an army –"
"Christ, not another one," Dean groaned, turning away. "Come on!"
The Jesuit's mouth twisted up to one side wryly. "This army was on a vast plain, the mountains behind them –"
Dean blinked at the familiarity of that image, losing the next few words as the priest kept talking.
"– then he saw a lake, he said, of lava or magma, filling an enormous stone cavern, and an entity that was shrouded in black cloth," Father Emilio continued, not noticing Dean's withdrawal. "We believe that the third trial will be to kill an archdemon."
"Kill an archdemon," Dean repeated slowly. "With what?"
"Lucifer's sword."
"That Sam has to get out of the cage?"
"Yes."
"Peachy."
The Jesuit snorted softly. "There's more."
"Naturally," Dean agreed, resignation filling his voice. "There's always more."
"There is a possibility that the conspiracy in Heaven was not stopped with Raphael's death," Father Emilio said.
"Yeah, well, figured that since Cas hasn't been back," Dean said, looking away.
"Dean, I would like your permission to take the notes Alex left in your home," Father Emilio asked, watching the hunter's face. "She was very thorough in her analysis and there may be more she saw that she didn't have a chance to tell us."
Take her notes, the words dropped into him. He felt anger stirring, far down, at the idea.
"Sure, get what you need," he said, forcing himself to keep that anger where it was, looking away.
"I'm sorry," Father Emilio said. "We need all the information we can find."
Dean shook his head slightly. "It's alright," he said brusquely, pushing aside the images that came to him of the priest going through the apartment, looking, touching, removing. "I don't –"
He stopped, uncertain of what he'd about to say.
The Jesuit looked at him, his face expressionless but a deeper understanding in the dark brown eyes. "You're not ready to let go, that's understandable."
Dean looked him unwillingly. "I don't think that's it."
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know," he said, the doubt that lurked behind everything darkening his eyes.
"Perhaps, for now, you can't afford the distraction of grief?" Father Emilio suggested diffidently.
"Yeah, maybe."
He didn't know if that was it. He couldn't look at any of it without the rage coming back. "I thought, uh, when I killed them, it would go."
The Jesuit studied him carefully. "Avenging her?"
"Yeah."
"But it hasn't?" the priest asked, coming to understand a little more of the enigmatic man lying in the bed beside him. "The anger is still there?"
"Yeah."
The silence stretched out between them, Father Emilio watching Dean withdraw again, his face shuttered and his gaze dropping. He thought of what he knew of the man, what he'd been told, what he'd seen for himself, what Sam had told him.
"The pain of betrayal wounds the soul, Dean," he said softly. "It cannot be understood and therefore takes the longest to heal."
He drew in a deep breath, getting to his feet. "You made a deal and you thought things would be safe, she would be safe, but nothing is safe, not forever, not guaranteed. Perhaps that is why the anger remains?"
Dean heard him leave the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He didn't think that was it, either. It didn't matter, not really, he realised tiredly. The job was still there, the sons of bitches who'd brought it all on, still there. He thought he'd be the one, but it was going to be Sam, and all that was left for him to do was to make sure, make certain, that his brother got the chance to finish what he'd started, whether it killed him or not.
Litteris Hominae, Kansas
In the quiet of the library, Jerome winced as he drew in a deep breath, resettling his glasses on his nose. The wound would take a long time to heal, he thought, a little annoyed at the inconvenience of it. He could barely remember now how grateful he'd been that he'd woken up at all.
Katherine cleared her throat, on the other side and down the table a few chairs, looking up at Baraquiel.
"When Lucifer fell, his army had been defeated," she said without preamble, the Qaddiysh turning belatedly to her as he realised she was addressing him. He nodded.
"His … lieutenants were shorn of their wings and fell into the abyss with him?" she continued, her gaze sharpening as she saw she had his attention. "But the rest, those surviving angels who were not cast down – what happened to them?"
"Those who did not desert before the end were taken back to Heaven," Baraquiel told her mildly. "They served their penance and made atonement under the watch of Raguel."
Jasper frowned. "The archangel?"
Baraquiel nodded. "Raguel is second in command of the Host, his purview is order and justice, for angel and human."
"Alright," Katherine said, looking back at the typed pages of the demonologies in front of her. "But none were demonified, as the archdemons were?"
"No," Baraquiel said, frowning as he tried to follow her thoughts. "What have you found?"
"There is a reference here to an angel who became a demon, and an angel who controls demons," she said, her voice a little acerbic. "It's not clear who it's referring to and I was wondering if the –"
"The angel who became a demon was Azazel," Baraquiel interrupted gently. "He Fell with us, at God's request, to teach humanity. He – he lost his child, sometime after we'd settled in the south. It changed him. He went to the Grigori, and he never returned. He orchestrated a massacre, a great wave of deaths in the north and opened a gate, and Lucifer demanded that he be sent to Hell rather than killed outright. God agreed."
"And the angel who controls demons?" Jasper asked, elbow on the table and chin cupped in his hand.
"Kokabiel," Penemue said, walking out between the stacks with an armful of books. "You met him in Jordan, Jasper."
A flash of an older face, perfectly sculpted but etched with aeons of experience, and knowledge in the long, narrow amber eyes, filled the scholar's mind and he nodded.
"Kokabiel was the liaison between Heaven and Hell, in the old days," Baraquiel said, the colloquialism coming easily. "He controlled two hundred and fifty seven thousand demons, could call on them, direct them with his will to undertake work for Heaven as it was required."
Elena's brows shot up. "What would Heaven need with demons?"
Penemue sat down at the table between her and Peter, his face creasing in a dry smile. "Our Father's wrath would be expressed, from time to time, against the primitive impulses of mankind. Sometimes sending a horde of demons was more effective than using the angels."
"What is the reference, Katherine?" Baraquiel asked.
"I'm not sure what to make of it, to be frank," she said, looking at the page. "It seems to be a prophecy of some kind, but not one written by a human – this is included in the history of Hell."
"Even demons have their seers," Penemue said, shrugging slightly. "Most of the so-called prophecies originating in Hell were Lucifer's, not so much prophecy as wishful thinking."
"What does it say?" Baraquiel threw a quelling look at the dark-haired Irin.
"In the times of the last days, in the times of the end of our time in the acid and flame, the angels will call and we will rise again, to march out of the abyss against human and angel, to the Last Battle, and we will be legion, led by the Faithless and given power over the living and the dead."
She looked at him. "Faithless?"
Baraquiel shook his head. "It is what the demons call the Grigori –"
"What the archdemons called the Grigori," Penemue corrected him. "Betrayers and traitors of Lucifer."
"This refers to the time that humanity will no longer have need of Heaven and Hell?" Jasper looked at them. "When the gates were supposed to be closed because of that?"
Penemue nodded. "The Last Battle – there is a vaguely similar story in Heaven, of the angels descending to meet the demons in a war. It was written into the history more or less as a footnote as there didn't seem to be that much purpose for such a war. It was always thought that the Penitent would be human."
"A diversion, perhaps?" Peter looked at him. "Surely the demons wouldn't be standing still while the gates were closed on them forever?"
"Perhaps," Penemue said with a shrug.
"What does it mean – power over the living and the dead?" Jerome looked down the table at him.
"I don't know," Baraquiel answered, his gaze flicking sideways to his brother.
At the end of the table, Father Emilio looked at Father McConnaughey, one brow raised. Chuck's vision of the army was beginning to make more sense.
"Baraquiel, perhaps you could explain simply the structure of Heaven?" Father Emilio asked, forestalling what he knew the older priest wanted to ask.
"The structure?" Baraquiel turned to him, one brow raised quizzically. "You know the structure, Emilio."
"Humour me," the Jesuit said, dark eyes holding a faint amusement. "We have seen the deaths of Uriel and Raphael, but there were seven archangels in Heaven, and each had their task – what now do they do?"
"The seven," Baraquiel said slowly, looking at Penemue for a moment then back to the priest. "They were Michael and Gabriel, Uriel and Raphael, Raguel, Sariel and Camael."
"Michael commands the Host, he leads the seraphim, oldest of the seven," Penemue said. "Gabriel is the angel of vengeance, the weapon of God and the guardian of the planes. Raphael was the teacher, once. Uriel was second in command to Gabriel, as Raguel is to Michael. Sariel –" he stopped, looking down at the table.
"Sariel Fell, with us," Baraquiel said. "He is in Jordan, mortal now."
"And Camael?"
"Camael took over the role of Voice and Scribe, when Metatron fled," Penemue said. "He spoke to God, passed on his instructions, kept the histories, and the library."
"So there are only four left?" Katherine looked at the Qaddiysh, wondering how important that was and why the Jesuit had felt it necessary to bring that out.
"Yes."
"Chuck saw an army of demons, marching east," Father McConnaughey said, looking at them. "Is there a chance that the army in the vision is the army that Katherine has mentioned?"
"There is a chance," Penemue said, turning to him. "But Crowley is dead, and the archdemons have been loosed from whatever spell he used to bind them. It is not the time for them, for the end –"
"But it is," Father McConnaughey said, leaning forward. "The messenger was clear on that, the gates had to be closed before the archdemons could get free – what if this is why? To prevent them from raising an army to finish what Heaven seems to have set in motion?"
"We haven't found a way to close the gates without closing Hell itself," Jerome interjected thoughtfully. "It must be on the tablet, somewhere, but Chuck hasn't come across it yet. And it provides sufficient motivation to bring a war to this plane, doesn't it?"
Father Emilio leaned against the desk, looking down at his friend. Father McConnaughey was flicking through the books the order possessed on Heaven, the angelologies and non-canonical texts, the piles divided to either side of him into those he'd been through and those he hadn't.
"Did Jerome send the request to the other chapters?" Father McConnaughey asked without looking up, the pages rustling as he turned them quickly.
The Jesuit nodded tiredly. He would have to sleep soon, but before that he wanted to speak to Sam. "Yes, they're all looking for any reference to the demon's prophecy or to any mention of an army of demons."
"You believe we're being manipulated," the older priest said quietly, flicking over the pages as he scanned the few pictures that had been painted and drawn of some of the seraphim who'd been seen on this plane.
"I am afraid that is the explanation," Father Emilio admitted. "The disappearance of the Winchesters' angel friend – the timing of everything that has happened in the past three months, Sean, there are no coincidences, this you know too well."
"I saw an angel," the priest said stubbornly. "I do realise that under the circumstances my faith was renewed in that moment, but still, Emilio, it was an angel."
"And as we have seen, and heard, and read, that does not preclude mischief or evil or wrong-doing," the Jesuit argued mildly.
The soft flicking of pages ceased as the Irish priest stared down at the book in front of him. "That's him," he breathed, his finger resting lightly beside a reproduction of an oil painting on the page.
Father Emilio walked around the desk, leaning over to look at the painting.
The artist had captured the subject well, on a hilltop with a darkening sky behind him, great rose-tinted grey wings stretched out to either side of the tall form, long, pale, wheaten gold hair streaming out. The angel wore robes of white, belted at the waist with a golden cord and a short, bright blade hanging from the knots. Looking down at the caption, the priest read – Camael, delivering God's judgement on Gomorrah.
"That's the messenger you saw?"
"Yes," Father McConnaughey nodded, staring at the picture worriedly. "Why would an archangel come to help an old man and less than a hundred survivors?"
He looked up at Father Emilio. "Why would he tell me about the gates?"
The Jesuit shook his head. "I don't know, Sean."
Strawberry Peak, Utah
Mid-May and still the wind that whistled down from the peaks to the north and teased among the valleys, was cold enough to chill lager on an outdoor table, Harrer thought as he walked up the flagged path toward the main building, pulling the collar of his coat higher around his ears.
Alongside the path, yellow and blue, purple, white and pale pink wildflowers were blooming, pushing through the soil and competing with the short grass. The Grigori ignored the shy display, climbing the short, wide flight of steps to the building's deep porch and pushing through the front doors. Shedding his heavy coat in the warmth of the big hall, Harrer quickened his pace as he walked through the wide doorway into what had been a restaurant and bar, before the virus had wiped out clientele and management in a cleansing sweep. Now the room, with its high cathedral ceiling and elegantly long, modern chandeliers, walls panelled in a warm, golden timber and polished parquetry hardwood floor, held several long tables, a half-dozen clusters of plush, comfortable club sofas and armchairs with occasional tables nestling beside them, and the curving polished oak bar, with its Native American artwork of running horses behind it, the only reminder of its past.
"Karl, we've been waiting."
Harrer nodded apologetically to the man standing in front of the huge stone hearth, taking a proffered glass of brandy from a chained woman waiting with the tray and sitting down in an empty chair.
"There was a problem with the secondary set of generators," he said, by way of explanation as he sipped the fragrant liquid, his gaze almost, but not quite, meeting the eerily pale eyes watching him. "Some fool didn't lag the pipes correctly and they froze last night."
The man standing by the fire blinked slowly at him. Tall and wide-shouldered, with long, white-blonde hair that framed a thin, pale face, the contrast with the immaculately-tailored black silk suit he wore was startling, as if he were a ghost or a being that didn't belong in the real world of colour. The thin-lipped mouth drew back in a reptilian smile as he nodded and turned away, and Harrer felt the tension in his neck and chest ease slightly.
In theory, they were all brothers, all equals, deserters from the dream of the Morning Star, valuing their necks above loyalty, above honour and principle, but the reality, of course, was that there was no equality between them, no bond that gave any immunity from any other. And none of them would make an enemy of Zekeial, known for the last eighty years as Julius Lehmann, their de facto leader through wars and prosperity. Not if it could be avoided.
"Eric and Dietrich are gone," Julius said, looking at the five sitting around him. "They underestimated their adversary and overestimated their ally." He turned to the man seated to his right. "Peyotr, could you give us a brief summation?"
The dark-haired Grigori rose awkwardly from the overstuffed chair, holding a clipboard with a thick sheaf of papers fastened to it. He had taken over the body of the Russian Bolshevik in 1915, and he still found the too-wide shoulders and too-broad chest to be a monumental irritation when it came to moving around.
"We also lost Hubertus, Ariana and Joaquin in the attack on the demon's quarters in Massachusetts," he began, deep voice thickly accented, eyes skimming down his notes. "The boy did not know the details of what had happened, unfortunately, he left as soon as he perceived that he could not feel Hubertus in the house or on this plane any longer. He did not feel the half-breed's death, however, and it seems likely that the men have imprisoned him in the mirror, which Eric and Dietrich had in their possession." He flicked a glance around the others. "These losses, combined with the loss of Raphael, means that our plans will be set back by at least two months."
"Why did we not receive –?" Haushofer leaned forward on the long sofa.
"Questions later, Karl," Lehmann said coolly, and Haushofer sat back, dropping his gaze.
"The death of Crowley released the Three," Peyotr continued. "Hell is closed to us as a resource and as a means to begin the Second War. And since the men now have both prophet and Word, we will have to press our brethren on the Divine plane that much harder. There is now only one way we can gain control of sufficient numbers of demons to prevent the closing of the gates and regain the tablet."
Glancing at Julius, Peyotr hesitated. "With the dead, we have vessels for less than six thousand at this time," he said slowly. "We need the boy to find more, at least another four before we will be able ensure a resounding victory over the humans, enough to force Michael into leading the Host down here."
Julius stared at him consideringly. "Send the boy and the next youngest, the girl. How many can they bring back to us?"
"Any number," Peyotr said, relief evident in his face. "The boy has mastered his gifts."
"Before you send him out, I want that mirror."
"We cannot reverse the spell –" Peyotr began, and Lehmann waved his hand impatiently, cutting him off.
"No, not yet," he said sharply. "But we will. And I want it here."
"Of course," Peyotr agreed stiffly, looking down at his notes. "The problem of reacquiring the tablet, and the prophet to translate it, remains. Another siege situation will reduce our numbers much faster than theirs and it is not to our advantage to slaughter the small populations we have left."
"No," Julius agreed readily. "No, we will leave that task to our reluctant guest."
"The binding spell is not complete," Gottfried warned him. "We need to wait for the births –"
"We have enough time for that," Julius said confidently. "We have sufficient women for the ritual?"
"Yes, now we have nine," Gottfried confirmed. "The blood we're drawing will keep him sustained until it's time."
"And the gun, Julius?" Harrer said, glancing at the others. "It killed Eric and Dietrich, killed the king of the accursed plane and the nephilim – it will kill the cambion as easily. What are we doing about that?"
"The demon underestimated the men involved," Julius said, turning to look at Harrer absently "As did our brothers. That was a mistake that we will not make."
"What information do we have on them?" Gottfried asked, leaning back in the corner of the sofa. "The lines of Araquiel and Azazel were not the primaries, at least not for the lines. Only for Michael and Lucifer. And even then, only as their vessels."
"We are waiting for that information," Peyotr told him. "The current Scribe does not have it."
"What makes you think that it even exists? Metatron may not have written it down," Haushofer said, staring at him. "He took the tablets to the Qaddiysh – they will be easier to break!"
"It will be written down and the prophet will be able to read it," Julius said quellingly. "Patience, Karl. We have waited a long time for these times; we are not going to act without due consideration and lose sight of the end now."
Jesse stood close to the girl who was only three years his senior. Feeling his nervousness, Sabrine slipped her arm around him, ducking her head to whisper a reassurance in his ear as they listened to Felice's instructions. Returning to the house was not something he wanted to do. He was relieved when the older cambion woman told him he would go with the girl beside him.
"You must find every single piece, Jesse," Felice said carefully, leaning over a little to look into his eyes. "We can restore the mirror, but only if every piece is there. Bring it here and then you and Sabrine will have another task."
There was nothing but their own care to prevent either of them from being drawn into the enchanted glass themselves. He swallowed slightly and nodded, feeling the girl's hand curl around his. A faint pop as the air rushed to fill the spaces they'd been, stirring the edges of the curtains of the room, was the only sound to mark their departure.
The basement was long and narrow and frigidly cold, stone and metal and damp rising from the bedrock beneath the foundations. To one side, iron bars were set into the ceilings and floors, each as thick as a man's wrist, spelled and engraved with sigils of binding, of deflection and death, dividing the length of the room into small, square cells on one side. In the cell at the far end, the creature stood, chained from ankle to neck, the bright metal links wound through with hawthorn and vervain, binding him to the stone pillar that supported the floors above. Behind him, on a high gantry, the body dripped its blood down a plastic tube that terminated in his neck. Dark skin gleaming slightly in the dim light, pale, golden eyes unblinking as he watched the line of women walk past. Their chains clanked on the stone floor as they shuffled along, not quite well fed enough for both mother and the children they carried, bellies distended, growing every day, he thought.
He'd heard of the spell, centuries ago, in what had been a wilderness of ice and wind, a long way to the north and west of this continent. An abomination of black magic, of sacrifice and a perversion of the forces that had created all life. It would bind him, he knew, in invisible chains that he would never escape, tied by a blood bond that even his dark Mother would not be able to sever. For the moment, they were only feeding him the women's blood and he could feel his strength returning, the effects of the herbs and silver and lifeless blood diminishing in power a little more each day. He would not have a particularly wide window to work with. And so far, there had been no opportunity to use the powers that he was not known for.
The unfamiliar face caught his attention and he stared at the woman, her head bowed as she moved with the others. They had made the nine finally, he realised, his face expressionless as he watched her walk down to the table where the blood was drawn for him. No more time now, no more than a month or two at most. Six men had been brought to the cell, barely half-conscious as the sorcerer had cut open the vein in his wrist and held it above their open mouths. He wasn't sure where they'd been taken, but he would have to find them and take them with him when he went.
Litteris Hominae, Kansas
Take a deep breath, Sammy, we're going down to the bottom, find the treasure, Dean said, grinning at him, dark hair seal-slicked with the salt water, nose red and peeling from the endless sunshine that summer in Jersey and then he'd disappeared, under the water's surface, dragging Sam with him, down into the cool jade-green depths. He'd belatedly snatched a mouthful of air before he was pulled under, it's Sam! Sam! Sam! pounding through his head as he felt his lungs begin to ache, his eyes stinging when he opened them, seeing his brother head down and reaching for the smooth, sandy seabed. Dean! It's Sam! Dean, I can't breathe!
The hand locked around his wrist changed and he looked down, a bony claw curled around his arm now and a blackened skull twisted back to look at him, exposed jaws in a gruesome grin, a crab swimming out of the empty eye sockets. Got a deep breath, Sammy? We're going down, all the way to the Cage!
Sam opened his mouth to scream, and the water rushed in, filling his mouth and throat, filling his lungs, it's Sam! Sam! ricocheting around his mind as darkness wrapped around him and consciousness fled.
"Sam!"
He sat up, arm swinging out at the touch on his skin, eyes wide and staring.
"Sam, it's okay, just a dream," Marla said from beside the bed. "You're awake now."
His heart was jackhammering against his ribs, hands and feet prickling and burning, the skin dry and reddened, the heat reaching up over his wrists and forearms, up his ankles and into his calves.
"Water," he grunted, looking around the shadowy room wildly. Marla picked up the bottle sitting on the nightstand and thrust it into his hand, and he lifted it, tipping his head back and swallowing the cold liquid in great, desperate gulps. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not. The burning flickered and faded, receding slowly as he finished the bottle, leaving a residue of sweat over his skin where it had been.
"Thanks," he said, handing her the empty bottle and leaning back against the bedhead, both hands sweeping upward over his face and into his hair. The dream had started as a memory, the summer they'd spent on the Jersey shore while their father had been laid up with injuries. Dean teaching him to swim because it'd been so hot there was nothing else they could do. What it'd turned into … he wasn't so sure about that. The voice of the skull had sounded like Lucifer.
Marla handed him a towel, cool and moist and he took it gratefully, wiping his neck and face, eyes closing at the relief of the damp cloth against his skin.
"Are you hungry?" she asked him, and he opened his eyes to look at her, shaking his head.
"No," he said, a little tersely. "Maybe later."
He'd been here for five days, he thought, and rest was doing nothing for him. He hadn't eaten in the last two days, since the last meal had somehow turned to carrion in his mouth while he'd been chewing. He'd slept perhaps five hours over the time, waking from dreams that seemed to follow the consistent pattern, starting out as memories, good memories, and turn into something else.
"How's Chuck doing?" he asked, pushing the covers back and swinging his legs off the bed.
"That's what I came up to tell you, he's found more details about the gates," she said, standing as he did, her eyes dark with worry. "Sam, you should try to rest –"
"I've been resting, Marla," he said, his tone softening as he looked down at her. "It's not doing any good – and I might as well be doing something useful."
She'd been there with him, looking after him, and he couldn't pretend that wasn't a relief, a soothing balm against the pain that wormed through him almost constantly since he'd read the spell. In the stillness of the night, her hands had held his, and her voice, warm and gentle, had kept him tethered to the real world, letting him break free of the visions and nightmares that were haunting him whether he was asleep or awake. It had been a long time – a very long time – since someone had looked at him the way she did, not seeing the vessel of Lucifer, or the man with the demon blood, but just the man. It had been a long time since anyone had offered comfort and peace.
He offered her a rueful, one-sided grin and turned away, reaching for his jeans and pulling them on quickly. He couldn't let the tentative feelings go any further. He'd made a contract with God, and he wouldn't be coming back. There wouldn't be an afterward.
"What in particular about the gates?"
Matching the matter-of-fact shift in his tone, she walked to the door of the room, leaning against the frame as she waited for him. "Jerome says that Chuck has found the locations."
He saw her smile as his head snapped up to look at her. "Seriously?"
She nodded. "There are ten on this continent and another thirty around the world. The locations are specific – apparently nine of them were only able to be used by the Fallen, the others were opened by someone else."
"Opened?"
"The tablet said that on the sites of great atrocities, of massacre and where the blood of many innocents has been spilled, a crack into the lower plane opens in protest."
As remembered and read-about events filled his mind, Sam began to get an inkling of where at least some of the gates were.
"What else?"
"Spells for controlling the lesser hierarchies, rituals for binding the levels, incantations to open the gates of the nine," Jerome said, looking down at the pile of loosely bound papers in front of him. "Talismans and guards for moving unseen, the laws under which the accursed plane must operate, the histories of the Fallen and of the first human souls that Lucifer was given."
He looked up at Sam with a humourless smile. "Nightmare reading."
Shrugging that off, Sam leaned across the table. "Where's the closest gate we can open?"
"Sioux Falls," Marla told him, spreading out a map that had been marked with the locations of the gates in the United States across the table. "It was Azazel's gate."
Lifting a brow, Sam looked back at Jerome. "He wasn't one of the nine."
"No, but most of the top tier had their own gates," Jerome explained. "They can't enter or leave by any other."
"Anything to stop them from using their mind mojo?" Dean asked from the doorway, limping up the steps and walking to the table. "The telekinesis and mind games?"
"Several spells and two of the talismans are designed to protect against that," Jerome confirmed, his brows drawing together as he looked at the hunter. "Should you be here?"
His arm was still in the sling, and under the fading and yellowing bruises, Dean's face was pale, freckles standing out over nose and cheeks. He looked at the legacy for a moment then turned to Sam without answering.
"You alright?"
"I'll live," Sam said shortly, looking pointedly at his brother's arm. "You look like hell."
"Thanks," Dean said, his crooked smile not reaching his eyes as he eased himself into a chair at the table. "So, full blueprints of how to get in there and nail those fuckers?"
"Pretty much," Sam agreed, looking back at the text in front of him. "Enough to make getting down the cage and back again a possibility."
"When do we go?"
Sam lifted his head and looked at his brother. "As soon as you can use your right hand," he said, the challenge very faint along the edge of his voice.
"A week or two then."
He snorted. "Yeah, right."
Ignoring that, Dean looked at Jerome. "Have we got what we need to open that gate in Sioux Falls?"
"Yes, the store-rooms have every item that's required," the scholar said, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he looked at Dean. "Once the gate is opened, the blood of Cerberus will allow entry through the cliffs."
"How long to make whatever talismans or wards to get through?"
"Franklin took a copy of the instructions last night," Jerome told him. "He thought a week, maybe ten days, to make the moulds and work out the temperatures needed for the alloys."
"This was in yesterday's transcriptions, Sam," Marla said, moving around the table to Sam and holding out a couple of typed pages. "We think it's a new vision, fragments only, that came through while Chuck was transcribing."
Sam took them and started reading and Dean looked at her curiously. "Where is Chuck?"
"He's in his office with Mitch and Deirdre," Marla said, gesturing to the hallway. "He hasn't been constantly plugged in, the way he was before, and whenever he comes out of it, he can sleep on the couch with someone around to look after him all the time."
"He handling it okay?"
She gave him a dry look. "Not really."
"Dean."
They both turned to see Peter walk into the room, followed by Elena and Penemue.
"You missed her?"
"And the vampire," Peter said, dropping into the chair beside him. "But we found something else."
Marla watched the brothers as Peter told Dean about the Grigori base, and Sam focussed on the fragments of Chuck's latest vision, interleaved with a very vague account of sealing every gate without shutting the plane's entries. Of all three Winchester men, she found the oldest to be the most difficult to understand, or even come to the beginnings of understanding. Adam was simple, he was young and still labouring under his self-made burden of growing up without a father, the resentments still those of a child, denied something he wanted. Much of that immaturity had been purged from him over the last six months,, she knew, and when she'd seen him at the keep last week, he'd seemed older, more aware of others. She thought that Jerome was hoping Adam would return to the order, perhaps show an interest in becoming a legacy, since it seemed more and more likely that Sam would not be able to continue his work there and Dean showed little interest in either his history with them or in settling to a scholar's life.
Sam, she thought, was not simple, but he was not as deliberately evasive as his older brother. He'd told her a little of his past, and she knew the choices he'd made, the decisions he regretted with all his heart. She also saw the deeply hidden streak of fatalism that all three brothers seemed to share, unknowingly on Adam's part, and she thought, Sam's, but Dean obviously aware of it. She'd wondered if that was why the leader accepted every load laid on him, almost without noticing.
Watching Sam from under her eyelashes, she thought that Sam was also coming to accept that the load he had to carry was inescapable. He was, in some ways, looking forward to the trials, and in some ways, glad for the pain of the process he believed was a purification of the demonic blood from his veins. She wasn't sure if he'd accepted and understood what had driven him along the path he'd taken yet, or if he was using what was happening to him now as a substitute for searching for that understanding, but she could see that no matter how agonising his torment became, there was still something inside of him that relished the pain, as some monks in the past had relished their self-inflicted agonies to prove to themselves that they were worthy of God's love. It was something she couldn't say to him, not now, not yet. Some time he would be ready to hear it, and then, she felt sure, he would understand what she meant.
Dean Winchester was different. He'd accepted his load, his pain and his mistakes and did nothing to mitigate them. A fighter, she thought, listening to him argue with Peter and the Qaddiysh, his deep voice raised a little. She had watched him with Alex, when they'd been here before the attack, and she'd thought then, especially in the last few days, that he had trusted no one else in the same way. Even with his brother, she sensed that the leader held a lot back, kept himself apart. And also with Rufus and Bobby and Ellen, there was always a sense that they knew a part of him, but not all, that he would never allow anyone to know all of him. Except that it had seemed, to her, that he had with the woman who had been carrying his children. She closed her eyes briefly, recalling the last evening she'd seen them together as they'd left the order, the way he'd looked at her, the protectiveness that had flowed naturally from him, surrounding her, but hesitantly, as if he'd never looked after someone quite like that before, hadn't felt quite that way with anyone before.
Opening her eyes, she looked at his profile, and realised that the shell she'd seen when she'd first met him, before the battle in Atlanta and the destruction of Chitaqua, had returned to shield him. And it was harder. Thicker. Stronger. She realised she hadn't seen a single expression reach to his eyes in the last few weeks. They remained cold and calculating no matter who he was talking to – or what he was talking about.
"Anything on the cambion come out of that tablet yet?"
"Just what we already knew," Jerome said, watching Dean's expression as the younger man looked away, jaw tightening. "The stones and the mirror."
"We can't attack them front on," Peter said worriedly, watching the hunter as well. "There are five of them there, and their offspring, and at least six cambion, possibly more. We wouldn't be able to get the slaves clear without risking them and us in the attempt."
For a long moment, Dean stared across the table, eyes hooded and thoughtful, then he nodded slowly. "Can Michel keep an eye on them? Now he's got a location?"
"Yes," Jerome said, feeling a thread of relief as he saw Dean relinquish the idea of killing everyone in the camp to get the fallen angels. It was a strategic decision but the wrong one, he thought. And he hadn't yet seen the hunter make a wrong choice. Except the one to trust the angel. "I sent him the location and he's modified the signature files to correlate with the three distinct energy frequencies they picked up via the defence satellite."
"What about Michigan?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand over his face. "Any word?"
"Not so far," Peter said. "Bobby and Rufus have been waiting."
May 30, 2013. West Keep, Kansas
He couldn't drive. The inability to do what came most naturally to him was unbelievably aggravating. Dean sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, his eyes fixed to the road ahead, the steady action of the wipers clearing the sheeting rain from the glass and bisecting his view, his face hard.
Beside him, hands curled lightly around the leather-covered wheel, Rufus slid a sideways glance at him.
"You alright?"
"Fine," Dean snapped automatically, then dragged in a breath and turned to look at him. Nothing that gone on in the last couple of weeks had anything to do with the man sitting beside him, and he trusted Rufus with the car, at least. "What'd Liev say, about the new design for the walls?"
"He was happy," Rufus told him. "Should be able to get them incorporated as soon as the outer wall is finished."
"Did he need help?"
"No, said he could manage."
"What's going on?" Dean asked reluctantly. He'd gone down to see the builder, and Liev had hustled him out of the construction zone as if he'd had a particularly contagious dose of the clap. Franklin's apprentice, Tony, had been the same way, and he'd seen the expressions on the faces of Franklin's new recruits, watching him doubtfully as he'd left.
"Seems like your temporary nurse was feeling a bit scorned," Rufus said uncomfortably. Dean looked at him, one brow lifted.
"Like which fury Hell hath no?"
The older hunter snorted. "Yeah, like that."
"She go to Tawas?"
"Yeah, she's gone," Rufus said, dragging in a deep breath. "Gave everyone she ran into a detailed account of her opinion of you before she went."
Dean rolled his eyes. "So?"
"You want this straight or am I get gonna get an eyeful of your fist if I don't sugar-coat it?"
"Come on."
"Between how you were before you left, and the detailed descriptions she passed around about what'd been done– what happened in Mass," he checked himself with an inward grimace. "There're a lot of people who aren't sure they're so willing to follow you," Rufus finished heavily. "Merrin told me that some assholes are talking about elections."
Dean's mouth lifted at one side. "To run interference on the Grigori and help Sam close the gates of Hell? Bring 'em on, I'll vote for whatever sap puts his hand up for that!"
"This isn't funny, Dean."
"Sure it is! This is fucking hilarious, man," Dean said, closing his eyes and leaning back in the seat. "Vote for someone else to take this load – fuck! Why the hell didn't I think of that? Months ago?"
"Like it or not, we need these people," Rufus insisted, flicking a glance at him. "And they need us –"
"No," Dean said abruptly, his amusement vanishing as he turned his head to look out through the window. "They don't need us. They don't need me."
Lightning Oak Keep, Kansas
Dean sat hunched in the armchair in front of the fire, vaguely aware of the rain still streaming down the glass of the narrow windows in the south wall, of Rufus and Bobby and Ellen's low conversation on the other side of the room, of the insistent throb in his shoulder with the tension that filled him.
"What the hell are they thinking?!" Ellen exclaimed, her voice rising in indignation.
"They're not thinking, really," Bobby said, glancing at the still figure near the hearth. "Just reacting, like always."
"We can't let this happen, Rufus," she said, dropping her voice as she took in Bobby's look. "This is insane."
The flames danced over the logs, twisting and bowing and flaring out hypnotically, and Dean tuned out their voices. It would be a good thing, if the keeps took over their own management, he thought remotely. It would let him do his job without having to think about everyone's welfare, without the load of their safety resting solely on him. That would be a good thing.
He'd never been fired from a job in his life – had left dozens, of his accord – but had never been told he wasn't fit for whatever he'd shown up to do. The thought kept circling in his mind. He knew he wasn't fit for it, not any more. He couldn't get on top of the rage that seeped out continuously, in his sleep, in his waking hours; couldn't direct it away from the people around him, couldn't be bothered with the effort of doing that. The confrontation with Zoe, after the priest had left, could've been handled better but he hadn't thought of that at the time, and that elusive memory had returned and the combination of grief and the betrayal of his own vulnerability and the rage had blown it all up.
Rufus and Bobby thought it'd been an overreaction, he knew. The rest of the keep as well, most likely. Another overreaction in the man who'd been pushed too far. His mouth twitched humourlessly. That was the truth, at least. He'd been pushed way too far. An involuntary shiver raced up his spine. Way too far.
Ellen walked over to the fire, sitting down in the chair opposite him, Rufus and Bobby trailing along behind her.
"We're not going to let this happen, Dean," she said, arranging herself awkwardly as she stared at him.
"Who're they looking at?" he asked Rufus.
"Uh, I think Russell is looking likely," Rufus said, scratching at his jaw and lifting a brow at Bobby.
"The teacher?" Dean frowned, trying to remember the tall, mild man. He'd helped save the kids in Chitaqua when the planes had come. That was the only solid memory he had of the guy.
Bobby nodded. "He's … uh, been doing some lobbying."
That image brought a scowl to Dean's face. "Nuh-uh, Liev or Jackson," he said sharply. "Happy to leave it to either one of them, but no one who wants the job gets it. We're not heading down that road again."
Ellen glanced up at Bobby. "Merrin would probably be able to help us swing that," she said slowly. "But, Dean, this is – with everything that's going on –"
Dean looked at her. "Ellen, that's exactly why this isn't a bad thing. We're up to our necks in problems – hunter problems – and looking after the population as well – it's a distraction we can do without. I'm okay – I'm happy – to leave that to someone else, provided that they've got the sense to do the job right."
Rufus blinked. It was all true. He hadn't thought that Dean would ever feel that way, though. Be able to step back and hand over to anyone else. His brows drew together slightly as he opened his mouth.
"Why?"
The question brought a grin, one that didn't reach the younger man's eyes. As usual. "Hell, Rufus, we've got the end of the world sitting on our doorstep again. You think it's not a relief to leave the paperwork to someone else?"
He leaned forward in the chair. "All that crap Chuck's been spouting from the tablet, that'll protect the keeps and the farms," he said, looking from Rufus to Bobby to Ellen. "It'll give us the weapons we need to go after the source. Sam's going to do the second trial the second we've got those talismans from Frank, and I've got to go with him."
He gave them a moment to absorb that, glancing back at the fire. "It means that someone else has to go hunting for Nintu, and it looks like we've got at least two, but probably more, of the alpha monsters loose and shaking things up. Crowley might be dead, but there're three archdemons down in Hell, and who-the-fucks-knows-what going on in Heaven." He shrugged carefully, using his left shoulder only. "That's enough for us, don't you think?"
"Sure, but –" Bobby started to say, and Dean shook his head.
"No," he said, cutting him off. "What's the story in Michigan?"
Lago d'Orta, Italy
Luc shifted minutely again, feeling the water streaming over the rock he was lying on soaking into him steadily. "What are we doing here again?" he murmured to the man prone beside him.
"Watching the lake," Marc said softly, his hand shielding the binoculars he stared through from the steady drizzle. "Michel got new signature keys from the Utah location. The Grigori moved to Switzerland four days ago." He glanced around at the dark-haired hunter. "And we're keeping you of Antoinette's way so that she doesn't kill you before your children are born," he added with a grin.
Luc ignored that. He couldn't help himself, he thought defensively. Having successfully avoided any emotional entanglements for the last twenty-four years, he'd been astonished at the change in his emotions the minute the redhead had told him. Suddenly he was worried about her, about the pregnancy, about everything. Her irritation with him had grown proportionately.
"Did we find anything on them in the files?"
"Didn't you read the damned files when Francesca gave them to you?" Marc asked, his voice sharpening in exasperation. "Antoinette is supposed to the one forgetting things, not you."
"Merde," Luc said, his voice low and harsh as his hands tightened their grip on the glasses he held. "What the fuck is that?"
Looking back down to the narrow strip of road on the other side of the wide body of water, Marc refocussed the glasses on the movement the other hunter had seen emerge from the forest.
They leapt out at him, in far too much detail through the lenses of the glasses and he swallowed as he scanned the road, the estimate ticking upwards in his head. More than a hundred, more than a thousand, he realised as they kept walking out of the forest that covered the slopes of the mountains, their gait more of a shambling than a march but their purpose unmistakable even so.
People, he supposed. But not living. The skin slipped from them, sagging in folds of shiny grey meat, hair straggling in clumps that barely adhered to the scalps and here and there he saw the white gleam of bone through the rotting flesh. Their eyes were sunken deep within the sockets, their clothes fluttering and dragging in shreds around the pouchy and malformed bodies.
"Are they dead?" Luc asked, the binoculars pressed hard against his face.
"I think so," Marc answered him distractedly. "Zombies, perhaps."
"Marc, there're over a thousand, no one can raise zombies like that –"
"But someone has," Marc cut him off, lowering his glasses and rolling onto his side. "Pack up, we've got to get back."